b'\nP[~h 1541 \n\n\n\n\nNo \n\n\n\n1541 \n\n\n\nLIBRARY \n\n\n\nDEPARTMENT OF STATE. \n\n\n\nAlcove, \nShelf,. _ \n\n\n\nEXCHANOR. \n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\'^ \n\n\n\nLibrary of Congress. \n\nSHELF ^)JU-L1L.-I^.^ \n\n\n\nOTI \n\n\n\n<^.rr^UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. \n\n\'^h^ 9-167 \xe2\x96\xa0 r \n\n\n\n\n.x^- \n\n\n\nC q \n\n\n\nELEMENTS \n\n\\ \n\n\n\nOF \n\n\n\nMENTAL PHILOSOPHY, \n\n\n\nABRIDGED AND DESIGNED AS A \n\n\n\nTEXT BOOK \n\n\n\nACADEMIES AND HIGH SCHOOLS. \n\n\n\n\n\n\nBY THOMAS C. UPHAM, \n\nPROFESSOR OF MENTAL AND MORAL PHILOSOPHY AND INSTRUCTER \nOF HEBREW IN BOWDOIN COLLEGE. \n\n\n\ns:j)irli HHition. \n\n\n\nBOSTON: \n\nrUBLISHED BY WILLIAM HYDE, & CO. \n\nM DCCC XXXII. \n\nI \n\n\n\n\n\n\nEntered, according to the Act of Congress, in the year A.D. 18S2, by \nThomas C. Upham, ib the Clerk\'s office of the DistricOcourl of Maine. \n\n\n\n\nJPRES5 OF J. GRIFFIN, BRUNSVVICi: \n\n\n\n\n\n\nPREFACE. \n\n\n\nThe present work has been prepared in the hope ofpromo- \nting a more general acquaijitance with an important depart- \nment of science. As it is designed chiefly for those who are \nyoungs and are in a course of education, it lays claim to no \nother merit, than what might ordinarily be expected in a \ntext-book, founded on the inquiries of many valuable writers. \nGuided by their researches, it endeavours to give a con- \ndensed, but impartial view of Mental Philosophy, so far as its \nprinciples are understood at the present time ; and the writer \nhas learnt from a number of esteemed instructers of youth,that \nhis design is approved by them. He is by no means insensible \nto this favourable sentiment ; and if the present work should \nprove to be the means of awakening an increased interest in \nmental science, he will feel himself amply rewarded for what- \never trouble it may have occasioned. \n\nThe Philosophy of the Mind has grown up like other scien- \nces from small beginnings. Many propositions, coming too in \nmany instances from able writers, have been thrown aside ; \ntruth has been sifted out from the mass of errour, until at last a \ngreat number of important principles is ascertained. But \nwhile it is exceedingly necessary, that our youth should be \nmade acquainted with these principles, it is impossible, that \nthey should go through with all the complicated discussions, \nwhich have been held in respect to them. Many of the \nbooks, in which these discussions are contained, have be- \ncome exceedingly rare ; and if they were not so, no small \nnumber of students, who are now in the course of as thor- \nough an education as our country afibrds, would not be able \nto purchase them. And besides, by placing before the stu" \n\n\n\n4 PREFACE. \n\ndent a mass of crude and conflicting statements, his mind be- \ncomes perplexed. To be able to resolve such a mass into \nits elements, and to separate truth from errour, implies an \nacquaintance with the laws of the intellect, and a degree of \nmental discipline,which he is not yet supposed to have acquir- \ned ; and hence, instead of obtaining much important knowl- \nedge, he becomes distrustful of every thing. \n\nJN\'ow these evils, saying nothing of the loss of time atten- \ndant on such a course, are to be remedied in the same way \nas in other sciences. In other departments of learning, in- \ngenious men discuss points of difficulty ; conflicting argu- \nments are accumulated, until the preponderance on one side \nis such, that the question in debate is considered settled. \nOthers employ themselves in collecting facts, in classifying \nthem, and in deducing general principles; and when ail this is \ndone, the important truths of the science,- collected from such \na variety of sources and suitably arranged and expressed, \nare laid before the student, in order that he may become ac- \nquainted with them. Very seldom any one thinks it advisa- \nble, that the pupil, in the course of an education limited to a \nvery few years, should be obliged to attempt an acquaint- \nance with every scientific tract and book, whether of great- \ner or less value. It is neither desirable nor possible, that he \nshould be able to consult all the Memoirs of Institutes and of \nRoyal Societies ; and still less to read the multitude of half- \nformed suggestions,which are either struck out in the momen- \ntary heat of debate, or are developed from all quarters in the \nnatural progress of the mind. It belongs rather to professional \nmen and to public instructers, to engage in this minute and la- \nborious examination,and to present those whom they instruct \nwith the results of their inquiries. It may indeed be desirable \nto give them some knowledge of the history of a science,and \nto point out such authors as are particularly worthy of being \nconsulted by those, whose inclination and opportunities jus- \ntify more particular investigations. But this is all, that is \neither demanded, or can be profitable in the ordinary course \nof education. And this is what is attempted to be done in \nthe present work. \n\nIt has been my desire and endeavour, as was intimated at \nthe beginning of these remarks,to give a concise,but correct \nview of the prominent principles in Mental Philosophy, so \niar as they seemed at present to be settled. The statement of \n\n\n\nPREFACE. " 5 \n\nthese principles is attended with a perspicuous summary of \nthe facts and argujpents, on which they are based ; together \nwith occasional remarks on the objections, which have been \nmade from time to time. In selecting facts in confirmation \nof the principles laid down, I have sought those, which not \nonly had a relation to the point in hand, but which promised \na degree of interest for young minds. Simplicity and uni- \nformity of style has been aimed at, although in a few instan- \nces the statements of the writers referred to have been ad- \nmitted with only slight variations, when it was thought they \nhad been peculiarly happy in them. As my sole object was \nthe good of young men, [ did not feel at liberty to prejudice \nthe general design, by rejecting the facts, arguments, and in \nsome cases even the expressions of others. ^ \n\nTHOMAS C, UPHAM, \n\nBowDOiN College, Maine. \n\n\n\nTHIRD ABRIDGED EDITION. \n\nGreat pains have been taken with this nev^ edition. The \nmore important improvemeii|s, contained in the larger v^^ork \nin two volumes, have been introduced into this. Teachers \nwill find it, in some respects, essentially altered from any \nformer impression ; and this may occasion a temporary \ninconvenience, as different editions cannot be used in the \nsame class. But it is hoped they will be willing to overlook \nthis, in consideration of the decided improvements, which \nthey may expect to meet with in various parts of the work. \nIn a treatise embracing such a multiplicity of topics, it \nit could hardly be expected,that the first attempts would be \nso successful as to leave nothing for further and more exact \ninquiry. \n\nNovEMB, 1832. \n\n\n\nCOJ^TEIS^TSo \n\n\n\nINTRODUCTION. \n\nChap. 1\xe2\x80\x94 utility of mental \nphilosophy. \n\nSECT. \n\nObjects of this science and objec- \ntions against it 1 \n\nIts supposed practical inutility 2 \n\nIts supposed practical inutility an- \nswered . ^ \n\nMental Philosophy tends to grati- \nfy a reasonable curiosity 4 \n\nFurther grounds for this view 5 \n\nMental Philosophy teaches us \nwhere to limit our inquiries 6 \n\nRemarks of Mr. Locke on this \npoint. \' \n\nHelps us in the correction of men- \ntal errours 8 \n\nIs a help to those, who have the \ncharge of early education 9 \n\nHas a connection with other de- \npartments of science \'_ 10 \n\nMental science is a guide in our \nintercourse with men 1 1 \n\nIllustrates the nature and wisdom \nof the Creator 12 \n\nOf the mental efforts necessary in \' \nthis study 13 \n\nII. \xe2\x80\x94 IMPLIED OR. PRIMARY TRUTHS. \n\nImportance of certain preliminary \nstatements in mental philosophy 14 \n\nNature of sucii preliminary state- \nments 15 \n\nOf the name or designation given \nthem 16 \n\nPrimary truth of personal exist- \nence 17 \n\nOccasions of the origin of the idea \n\n\n\nor belief of personal existence 18 \n\nPrimary truth of personal iden- \ntity 19 \n\nPteasons for regarding this a pri- \nmary truth 20 \n\nOf the existence of matter 21 \n\nThere are original and authorita- \ntive grounds of belief 22 \n\nPrimary truths having relation to \nthe reasoning power 23 \n\nNo beginning or change of exisf- \nence without a cause 24 \n\nOccasionsof the origin of the pri- \nmary truth of effects and causes 25 \n\nMatter and mind have uniform \nand fixed laws 26 \n\nThis primary truth not founded \non reasoning 27 \n\nOf the distinction between prima- \nry and ultimate truths 28 \n\nPART FIRST. \n\nLAWS OF THE MIND. \n\n\n\nChap. I.- \n\n\n\n-IMMATERIALITY OF THE \nMIND. \n\n\n\nOf certain frivolous inquiries con- \ncerning the nature of the mind 29 \n\nOrigin & application of the terms, \nmaterial and immaterial SO \n\nDifference between mind and mat- \nter shown from language. SI \n\nTheir different nature evinced by \ntheir respective properties \' 32 \n\nThe material quality of divisibility \nnot existing in the mind S3 \n\nOpinions of Buffier on the soul\'s in- \ndivisibility 34 \n\n\n\nCONTENTS. \n\n\n\nThe soul\'s immateriality indicated \nby the feeling of identity 35 \n\nThe material docli ine makes man \nan automaton or machine 36 \n\nNo exact correspondence between \nthe mental and the bodily state 37 \n\nEvidence of this want of exact cor- \nrespondence 38 \n\nComparative state of the mind and \nbody in dreaming 39 \n\nThe great works of genius an evi- \ndence of immateriality 40 \n\nOf the immortality of the soul 41 \n\nRemarks of Addison on the soul\'s \nimmortality 42 \n\nChap. II. \xe2\x80\x94 Lfws of the mind I^- \n\nGENERAL. \n\nExistence of laws even in material \n\nobjects \' \xe2\x96\xa0 43 \n\nObjection from the apparent disor- \nders in nature. , 44 \nRemarks of Montesquieu on laws 45 \nOf laws in relation to the mind. 46 \nMental laws may be divided into \n\ntwo classes 47 \n\nDistinction between the susceptibil- \nities and the laws of the mind 48 \n\nChap. III. \xe2\x80\x94 laws that limit the \nMirfD. \n\nEvidence of the general fact of the \nmind\'s being limited. 49 \n\nObjection to this inquiry from the \nincompleteness of the mind\'s his- \ntory 50 \n\nThe mind limited as to its knowledge \nof the essence or interiour nature \nof things 51 \n\nOur knowledge of the nature of mind \nitself limited 52 \n\nRemarks on the extent of this limi- \ntation 53 \n\nOur knowledge of matter in certain \nrespects limited 54 \n\nOur ignorance of the reciprocal con- \nnection of mind and matter 55 \n\nIllustrated in the case of voluntary- \naction 56 \n\nFurther illustrations of our igno- \nrance in respect to this connec- \ntion 57 \n\nOf space as a boundary of intellec- . \ntual effort \' 58 \n\nOf the relation of time to our men- \n\n\n\ntal conceptions 59 \n\nMystery of human freedom as co- \nexistent with the Divine pres- \ncience 60 \n\nLimits of the mind indicated by the \nterms, infinity, eternity, &c. 61 \n\nOf restraints resulting from ulti- \nmate fiicts of the mind 62 \n\nThe sentient part, as well as the \nintellect has limits 63 \n\nMental limitations implied in \nman\'sinferiority to his Creator 64 \n\nChap. IY \xe2\x80\x94 laws of belief. \n(I) co^-scIous^\xe2\x80\xa2ESS. \n\nNature and degrees of belief 65 \nOf ihe objects of belief 66 \n\nOfthe laws of belief 67 \n\nConsciousnescs a law of belief 68 \nOf what is to be understood by \n\nConsciousness 69 \n\nConsciousness properly a complex \n\nstate ofthe mind 70 \n\nOfthe proper objects or subjects of \n\nconsciousness 71 \n\nThe objects of consciousness wholly- \ninternal and mental 72 \nThe belief from consciousness of th& \nmost decided and highest kind 73- \n\nChap. V \xe2\x80\x94 laws of belief. \n(li) the senses. \n\nGeneral statement as to the confi- \ndence placed in the senses 74 \n\nThe belief arising f>om the senses \nmay be considered in two res- \npects 7S \n\nObjection to reposing confidence in \nthe senses 76 \n\nThe senses imperfect rather than \nfallacious 77 \n\nSome alleged mistakes ofthe sen- \nses owing to want of care 78 \n\nOf mistakes in judging of themo- \ntion of objects 79 \n\nOf mistakes as to the distances and \nmagnitude of objects 80 \n\nThe senses liable to be diseased Si \n\nOur knowledge of the material \nworld from the senses 82 \n\nCorrectness of their testimony in \nthis respect \' 83 \n\nThe senses as much grounds of be- \nlief as other parts of our con- \nstitution 84 \n\n\n\nCONTENTS. \n\n\n\nOpinions of Locke on the testimo- \nny of the senses 85 \n\nChap. VI \xe2\x80\x94 laws of belief. \n\n(Ill) TESTIMONY. \n\nOf testimony and the general fact \ncf its influencing belief 86 \n\nOf the various explanations of the \norigin of confidence in testimo- \nny _ 87 \n\nConnection of a reliance on testi- \nmony with a disposition to utter \nthe truth 88 \n\nThis reliance greatly confirmed by \nexperience 89 \n\nObjections to our reliance on testi- \nmony 90 \n\nFurther remarks on this objec- \ntion 91 \n\nChap. VIl \xe2\x80\x94 laws of belief. \n\n(IV) MEMORY. \n\nAll men place a reliance on mem- \nory 92 \n\nLimitations of our reliance on \nmemory 93 \n\nOrigin of men\'s reliance on mem- \nory 94 \n\nMemory the occasion of belief far- \nther than what is actually re- \nmembered 95 \n\nChap. VIII \xe2\x80\x94 laws of belief. \n\n(V) RELATIVE SUGGESTION and \n\nreasoning. \n\nMeaning of Relative Suggestion \n\nand its connection with belief 96 \nClasses of relations and intuitive \n\nperceptions of relation 97 \n\nOf the intuitive perceptions called \n\naxioms 98 \n\nOf reasoning as a ground of belief 99 \nEvidence that men confide in the \n\nresults of reasoning 100 \n\nChap. IX \xe2\x80\x94 laws of association. \n(I) primary laws. \n\nMeaning of association and extent \nof its applications 101 \n\nOf the term Association and its \ngeneral laws 102 \n\nResemblance the first general law \nof association 103 \n\nResemblance in every particular \n\n\n\nnot necessary 104 \n\nOf resemblance in the effects pro- \nduced 105 \n\nContrast the second general or \nprimary law 106 \n\nContiguity the third general or \nprimary law 107 \n\nCause and effect the fourth prim- \nary law 108 \n\nChap. X \xe2\x80\x94 laws of association. \n(II) secondary laws. \n\nOf secondary laws and their con- \nnection wdth the primary 109 \n\nOf the influence of the lapse of \ntime 110 \n\nSecondary law of rejJbtition or \nhabit 111 \n\nOf the secondary law of co-exis- \ntentemotion 112 \n\nOriginal difference in the mental \nconstitution 113 \n\nThe foregoing law as applicable to \nthe intellect 114 \n\nOf associations suggested by pres- \nent objects of perception 115 \n\nCauses of increased vividness in the \nforegoing instances 1 1 6 \n\n\n\nCpIAP . XI. \xe2\x80\x94 LAW \n\n\n\nof kabit. \n\n\n\nGeneral view of the law of habit \n\nand of its application 1 17 \n\nIllustrations of the law of habit 118 \n\nApplication of this law to feelings -- \n\nor em.otions 119 \n\nChap. XII \xe2\x80\x94 simplicity and com- \nplexness of mental states. \n\nOrigin of the distinction of mental \nstates as simple and complex 120 \n\nOf the general nature of simple and \nmental states 121 \n\nSinjple mental states not suscepti- \nble of definition , 122 \n\nMeans of obtaining a knowledge of \nour simple notions 123 \n\nOrigin of complex notions and their \nrelation to simple 124 \n\nOf the precise sense in which com- \nplex ness is to be understood 125 \n\nIllustrations of analysis as applied \nto the mind 126 \n\nChap. XUI \xe2\x80\x94 general classifica- \ntion. \n\n\n\nCONTENTS. \n\n\n\nThe mental states divided into \nthe intellectual and sentient 127 \n\nEvidence in favour of this classifi- \ncation from what we observe in \nmen generally 128 \n\nThis classification frequently re- \ncognized in writers 129 \n\nLanguages referred to in proof of \nthis generic arrangement 130 \n\nThe nature of this classification a \nmatter of consciousness 131 \n\nOf the different names given \nto it 132 \n\nClassification of the intellectual \nstates of the mind 133 \n\nPART SECOND. \n\nINTELLECTUAL STATES OF \nTHE MIND. \n\nCLASS FIRST. \n\nINTELLECTUAL STATES OF INTE?.- \nKAL ORIGII\\\\ \n\nORIGIN OF KNOWLEDGE IN GSN.- \nERAL. \n\nOf the mind considered in itself 134 \n\nConnection of the mind with the \nm.aterial world 135 \n\nOf the origin or beginnings of \nknowledge 136 \n\nOur first knowledge in general of \na m.aterial or external origin 137 \n\nFurther proof of the beginnings of \nknowledge from external cau- \nses 138 \n\nThe same subject further illustra- \nted 139 \n\nOf connatural or innate knowl- \nedge _ 140 \n\nThe doctrine of innate knowledge \nnot susceptible of proof 141 \n\nThe discussion of this subject su- \nperseded and unnecessary 142 \n\nFurther remarks on the rise of \nknowledge by means of the \nsenses 142 \n\nChap. II \xe2\x80\x94 ^sensatioj? and per- \nception. \n\nSensation a simple mental state \n\noriginating in\'the senses 143 \n\nAll sensation is prooerly and tru- \n2 \n\n\n\nly in the mind 144 \n\nSensations are not i images or re- \nsemblances &c. of objects 145 \nThe connection between the \nmental and physical change \nnot capable of explanation 146 \nOf the meaning of perception 147 \nOf the primary and secondary \n\nqualities of matter 148 \n\nOf the secondary qualities of \n\nmatter 149 \n\nOf the nature of mental powers \nor faculties 150 \n\n\n\nChap. Ill \xe2\x80\x94 the senses of smell \nAND taste. \n\nNature and importance of the \nsenses as asource of knowledge 151 \n\nOf the connection of the brain with \nsensation and perception 152 \n\nOrder in which the senses are to \nbe considered 153 \n\nOf the sense and sensations of \nsmell 154 \n\nOf perceptions of smell in distinc- \ntion from sensations 155 \n\nOf the sense and the sensations \nof taste 156 \n\nDesign and uses of the senses of \nsmell and taste 157 \n\n\n\nChap. IV \xe2\x80\x94 the sense gp\' \n\nHEARING. \n\nOrgan of the sense of hearing 158- \n\nNature of sonorous bodies and the \nmedium of the communication of \nsound f59 \n\nVarieties of the sensation of \nsound 1 60 \n\nManner in which we- learn the \nplace of sounds 161 \n\nApplication of these viev\\^s to the \nart of ventriloquism 162 \n\nUses of hearing and its connec- \ntion v;ith oral language 163 \n\n\n\nChap. V \n\n\n\n-THE SENSE CF TOUCH. \n\n\n\nOf ibe sense of touch &. the sen- \nsations in general 164 \n\nThe idea of externality or outness \nsuggested by the sense of \ntouch 165 \n\nThe idea of externality or outness \n\n\n\nCONTENTS. \n\n\n\nfurther considered 166 \n\nOrigin of the notions of extension \nand of the former figure of bod- \nies 167 \n\nOn the sensations of heat and \ncold 168 \n\nOn the sensations of hardness \nand softness 169 \n\nOf certain indefinite feeHngs \nsometimes ascribed to the \ntouch 170 \n\nRelation between the sensation \nand what is outwardly signifi- \ned 171 \n\nChap. VI^ \xe2\x80\x94 the sense of sight. \n\nOf the organ of sight and the uses \nor benefits of that sense 172 \n\nStatement of the mode or process \nin visual perception 173 \n\nOf the original and acquired "per- \nceptions of sight 174 \n\nThe idea of extension not origin- \nally from sight 175 \n\nOf the knowledge of the figure of \nbodies by the sight 176 \n\nMeasurements of magnitude by \nthee^\'e 177 \n\nOf objects seen in the mist and of \nthe sun and moon in the hori- \nzon 178 \n\nOf the estimation of distance bv \nsight 179 \n\nOf the estimation of distance when \nunaided by intermediate ob- \njects 180 \n\nOf the senses considered as a foun- \ndation of belief and knowledge 181 \n\nIllustration of the subject of the \npreceding section 182 \n\nChap. VII \xe2\x80\x94 haeits of sensation \n\nAND PERCEPTION. \n\nOf the law. of habit in general and \n\nits applications 183 \n\nOfhabit in relation to the smell 184 \nOf habit in relation to the taste 185 \nOf habit in relation to the hear- \ning 186 \nApplication ofhabit to the touch 187 \nHabits considered in relation to \n\nthe sight 188 \n\nSensations may possess a relative, \nas well as positive increase of \npower J 89 \n\nWhether the mind can attend to \n\n\n\nmore than one object at a time 190 \nOn attending at the same time to \n\ndifferent parts of music 191 \n\nThe principle considered in refer- \nence to the outlines and forms \nof objects 192 \n\nNotice of some facts which fa- \nvour the above doctrine 193 \n\nChap VIII \xe2\x80\x94 mdscular habits. \n\nInstances in proof of the existence \noi\' muscular habits 194 \n\nConside>ed by some writers to be \ninvoluntary 195 \n\nObjections to the doctrine of invol- \nuntary muscular habits 196 \n\nChap. IX \xe2\x80\x94 conceptions . \n\nMeaning of conceptions and how \nthey diflfer from certain other \nstates of the mind 197 \n\nOf conceptions of objects of sight 198 \n\nOf the influence of habit on our \nconceptions 199 \n\nOf the subserviency of our con- \nceptions to description 200 \n\nOf conceptions attended with a \nmomentary belief 201 \n\nConceptions which are joined with \npeiceptions 202 \n\nOf our conceptions at tragical \nrepresentations 203 \n\nApplication of these principles to \ndiversities in the mental charac- \nter of individuals 204 \n\nChap. X \xe2\x80\x94 casual associations. \n\nAssociation sometimes misleads \nour judgments 205 \n\nCasual association in respect to \nthe place of our sensation 206 \n\nConnection of our ideas of exten- \nsion and time 207 \n\nOf high and lownotesin music 208 \n\nConnection of the ideas of exten- \nsion and colour 209 \n\nWhether there be heat in fire \n&c. 210 \n\nWhether there be meaning in \nwords ? 21 1 \n\nBenefit of examining such connec- \ntions of thought 212 \n\nPower of the will over mental as- \nsociations 213 \n\nAssociations controlled by an indi- \n\n\n\nCONTENTS. \n\n\n\nn \n\n\n\nrect voluntary power \n\n\n\n214 \n\n\n\nChap. XI \xe2\x80\x94 complex notions of \n\nEXTERNAL ORIGIN. \n\nOf simplicity and complexness of \nmental states in general 215 \n\nInstances of simple ideas from \nthe senses 216 \n\nOf objects contemplated as \nwholes 217 \n\nComplex notions preceded by \nsimple ones 21 S \n\nImperfections of our complex na- \ntions of external objects 219 \n\nOf what are to be understood by \nchimerical ideas \' 220 \n\nOf the introduction of such no- \ntions in early life 221 \n\nChap. XII \xe2\x80\x94 Abstraction. \n\nAbstraction implied in the analy- \nsis of our complex notions 222 \n\nInstances of particular abstract \nideas ^ 223 \n\nMental process in separating or \nabstracting them 224 \n\nOf generalizations of particular \nabstract ideas 225 \n\nOf the importance and uses of ab- \nstraction 226 \n\nChap. XIII \xe2\x80\x94 general abstract \n\nIDEAS. \n\nGeneral abstract notions the same \nwith genera and species 227 \n\nProcess in classification or the \xe2\x80\xa2 \nforming of genera and species 228 \n\nEarly classification sometime in- \ncorrect 229 \n\nIllustrations of our first classifica- \ntions from the Savages of Wa- \nteeoo 230 \n\nOf the nature of general abstract \nideas 231 \n\nObjections sometimes made to the \nexistence of general notions 232 \n\nOf the power of general abstrac- \ntion in connection with num- \nbers, &c. 233 \n\nOf general abstract truths or prin- \nciples 234 \n\nOf the speculations of philosophers \nand others 235 \n\n\n\nChap. XIV \xe2\x80\x94 of attention. \n\nOf the general nature of atten- \ntion 236 \n\nOf different degrees of attention 237 \n\nDependence of memory on atten- \ntion 238 \n\nOf exercising attention in , read- \ning, &c. 240 \n\nAlleged inability to command the \nattention 241 \n\nChap. XV \xe2\x80\x94 dreaming. \n\nDefinition of dreams and the pre- \nvalence of them 242 \n\nConnection of dreams with our \nwaking thoughts 243 \n\nDreams are often caused by our \nsensations \' 244 \n\nExplanation of the incoherency \nof dreams. (1st cause.) 245 \n\nSecond cause of the incoherency \nof dreams 246 \n\nApparent reality of dreams. (1st \ncause) 247 \n\nApparent reality of dreams. (2d \ncause) 248 \n\nOf our estimation of time in \ndreaming 249 \n\nOf the senses sinking to sleep in \nsuccession 250 \n\nGeneral remarks on cases of som- \nnambulism 251 \n\nExplanation of cases of somnam- \nbulism 252 \n\nPART SECOND. \n\nINTELLECTUAL STATES OF \nTHE MIND. \n\n\n\nCLASS SECOND. \n\nINTELLECTUAL STATES OF INTER- \nNAL ORIGIN. \n\nChap. I \xe2\x80\x94 of internal origin op \n\nKNOWLEDGE. \n\nThe soul has fountains of know- \nledge within 253 \n\nDeclaration of Mr. Locke, that \nthe soul has knowledge in it- \nself 254 \n\nOpinions of Dr. Cud worth on \nthe general subject of inter- \nnal knowledge 255 \n\n\n\nn \n\n\n\nCONTENTS. \n\n\n\nFurther remarks of the same \nwriter on this subject 256 \n\nKnowledge begins in the senses, \nbut has internal accessions 257 \n\nInstances of notions, which have \nan internal origin 258 \n\nChap. II \xe2\x80\x94 suggestion. \n\nImport of the term su52;gestion \nand its application in Reid and \nStewart 259 \n\nIdeas of existence, mind, self- \nexistence, and personal iden- \ntity 260 \n\nOf the nature of unity and the \norigin of that notion 261 \n\nNature of succession, and origin \nof the idea of succession 262 \n\nOrigin of the notion of duration 263 \n\nOf time and its measurements, \nand of eternity 264 \n\nMarks or characteristics of time 265 \n\nThe idea of space not of exter- \nnal origin 266 \n\nThe idea of space has its origin \nin suggestion 267 \n\nCharacteristic marks of the no- \ntion of space 268 \n\nOf the origin of the idea of pow- \ner 569 \n\nNotion of an original or first \nantecedent 270 \n\nChap. Ill \xe2\x80\x94 consciousness. \n\nConsciousness the second source \nof internal knowledge; its na- \n"ture 271 \n\nObjections to Locke\'s Essay con- \ncerning Human Understand- \ning 272 \n\nOpinions of Mr. Stewart on this \nsubject 273 \n\nInstances of notions originating \nfrom consciousness 274 \n\nChap. IV \xe2\x80\x94 relative suggestion. \n\n,0f the susceptibility of perceiv- \ning or feeling relations 275 \n\nOccasions on which feelings of \n\nlation may arise 276 \n\nvOfthe use of correlative terms 277 \n\nOf the relations of identity and \ndiversity 278 \n\n-P.f the relations of identity and \ndiversity called axioms 279 \n\n\n\n[II.] Relation of fitness or unfit- \nness 280 \n\n[III.] Relations of degree, and \nnames expressive of them 281 \n\nRelations of degree sometimes \nexist in adjectives of the posi- \ntive form 282 \n\n[IV.]Of relations of proportion 283 \n\n[V.] Of relations of place or po- \nsitions 284 \n\n[V!.] Of relations of time 285 \n\n[VII.] Of relations of possessictn 286 \n\n[VIII.] Of relation of cause and \neffect 287 \n\nInstances of complex terms!in- \nvolving the relation of cause \nand etiect 288 \n\nConnection of relative suggestion \nor judgment with reasoning 289 \n\nChap. V \xe2\x80\x94 memory. \n\nIntellectual knowledge not limi- \nted in its origin to one source \nor one power 290 \n\nExplanations in respect to the \nfaculiy of memory 291 \n\nOf the differences in the strength \nof memory 292 \n\nOf the effects of disease on the \nmemory 293 \n\nMemory of the uneducated 294 \n\nMemory of men of philosophical \nminds 296 \n\nOf the memory of the aged 297 \n\nMemory of persons ofa rich im- \nagination 298 \n\nOn the compatibility of strong \nmemory and good judgment 299 \n\nIntentional memory or recollec- \ntion \' SOO \n\nInstance illustrative of thepre- \n. ceding 301 \n\nMarks ofa good memory 302 \n\nDirections or rules for the im- \nprovement of the memory S03 \n\nChap. VI\xe2\x80\x94 duration of memory. \n\nRestoration of thoughts and \nfeelings, supposed to be en- \ntirely forgotten 304 \n\nMental action quickened by in- \nfluence on the body 305 \n\nOther instances of quickened \nmental actif)n and of a resto- \nration of thoughts 306 \n\nEffect on the memory of a se- \n\n\n\nCONTENTS. \n\n\n\n13 \n\n\n\nvere attack of fever \' 307 \n\nIllustrations of these views from \n\nColeridge 308 \n\nApplication of the principles of \n\nthis chapter to education 309 \nConnection of this doctrine with \nthe final judgment and a fu- \nture life 310 \n\nChap. VII \xe2\x80\x94 Reasoning. \n\nThe reasoning power a source \nof new ideas 311 \n\nOf the object and excellency \nof reasoning 312 \n\nDefinition of reasoning, and of \npropositions 313 \n\nProcess of the mind in all cases \nof reasoning 314 \n\nGrounds of the select! on of 31 5 \n\npropositions 316 \n\nOf the difference in the powers \nof reasoning 317 \n\nOf habits of reasoning 317 \n\nOf limitations of the power of \nreasoning S18 \n\nOf reasoning connected with \nlanguage or expression \' 319 \n\nChap. VIII \xe2\x80\x94 demonstrative \n\nPcEASONING. \n\nOf the subjects of demonstra- \ntive reasoning 320 \n\nUse of definitions & axioms in \ndemonstrative reasoning 321 \n\nThe opposite of demonstrative \nreasoning absurd 322 \n\nDemonstrative reasonings do \nnot admit of different degrees \nof belief 323 \n\nor the nature of demonstrative \ncertainty 324 \n\nOf the use of diagrams in dem- \nonstrations 325 \n\nOf signs in general as connected \nwith reasoning 326 \n\nOf the influence of demonstra- \ntive reasoning on the men- \ntal character 327 \n\nFurther considerations on the \ninfluence of demonstrative \nreasoning 323 \n\nChap. IX \xe2\x80\x94 moral, reasoning. \n\nOf the subjects and im^)ortance \nof moral reasoninof. \' 329 \n\n\n\nOf the nature of moral certainty 330 \nOf reasoning from analogy S31 \n\nCaution to be used in reasoning \n\nfrom analogy 332 \n\nOf reasoning from induction 333 \nOf combined and accumulated \n\narguments 834 \n\nChap X. \xe2\x80\x94 practical directions \n\nIN REASONING. \n\nPractical rules in reasoning re- \nquired by the frequency of \nits applications 335 \n\n[I] Of being influenced by a de- \nsire of the truth 336 \n\n[[I] Care to be used, in correct- \nly stating the subject of inqui- \nry and discussion 337 \n\n[III] Consider the kind of evi- \ndence applicable to the sub- \nject 338 \n\n[IV.] On excluding all unmean- \ning propositions 33^ \n\n[V.] Avoid the introduction of \ncommon-place propositions 340 \n\n[VI.] Reject the aid of false ar- \nguments or sophisms 341 \n\n[VIII] On the sophism of esti- \nmating actions and character \nfi\'ora the circumstance of suc- \ncess merely 342 \n\n[IX.] On the use of equivocal \nterms and phrases 343 \n\n[X.] Of adherence to our opin- \nions 344 \n\nEffects of debating for victory \ninstead of truth 345 \n\nCkap.XI \xe2\x80\x94 OF imagination. \n\nDefinition of the power of imag- \nination 346 \n\nThe creatiolns of imagination \nnot entirely voluntary 347 \n\nOf iajaginations not attended \nwith desire 348 \n\nOf imaginations attended with \ndesire 349 \n\nFurther illustrations of the \nsame subject S50 \n\nRemarks from the writings of \nDr. Reid 351 \n\nGrounds of the preference of \none conception to another 352 \n\nMental process in the forma- \ntion of Milton\'s imaginary \nparadise " 353 \n\n\n\n14 \n\n\n\nCONTENTS. \n\n\n\nWorks of imagination give differ- \nent degrees of pleasure 354 \nOn the utility of the faculty of \n\nthe imagination 355 \n\nOf the importance of the imag- \nination in connection with \nthe reasoning power 356 \n\nOf misconceptions by means of \n\nthe imagination _ 357 \n\nExplanation of the above rais- \nin representations of the imagin- \nation 358 \n\nChap. XII \xe2\x80\x94 origin of prejudices. \n\nOf the meaning of prejudices 359 \nOf preiudices in favour of our \n\nyouth * 360 \n\nOf prejudices of home and coun- \ntry \nProfessional prejudices \nPrejudices of sects and parties \nPrejudices of authority \nPrejudices of personal friend- \nships and dislikes ^ 365 \nPrejudices of custom or fashion 366 \nCorrectives of fashionable preju- \ndices 367 \nOf guarding against prejudices \nin early education 368 \n\nPART THIRD. \n\nSENTIENT STATES OF THE \nMIND. \n\n\n\n361 \n362 \n363 \n964 \n\n\n\nCLASS FIRST. \n\n\n\nemotions. \n\n\n\nChap. I \xe2\x80\x94 emotions of beauty. \n\nOf the sentient states of the \nmind in general 369 \n\nOf the general division of the \n\n\'\' sentient states of the mind in- \nto emotions, desires, &c. _ 370 \n\nExplanations and characteris- \ntics of emotions of beauty 371 \n\nOf what is meant by beautiful \nobjects 372 \n\nResults of constantly referring \nemotions of beauty to the \noutward cause 373 \n\nExtensive application of the \nterm beauiy 374 \n\nAll objects not equally fitted to \n\n\n\nexcite emotions of beauty 875 \n\nA susceptibility of emotions of \nbeauty an ultimate principle \nof our constitution 376 \n\nRemarks on the beauty of \nforms 377 \n\nOf the original beauty of colour 378 \n\nOf sounds oonsidered as a \nsource 379 \n\nOf emotion as an element of \nbeauty 380 \n\nOf intellectual and moral ob- \njects as a source of the beau- \ntiful 381 \n\nObjects may become beautiful \nby association merely ^ 382 \n\nFurther illustrations of associa- \nted feelings 383 \n\nChap. II \xe2\x80\x94 of associated beauty. \n\nChap. Ill \xe2\x80\x94 emotions of sublim- \nity. \n\nChap. IV.\xe2\x80\x94 emotions of the lu- \ndicrous. \n\nChap. V \xe2\x80\x94 moral emotions, con \n\nSCIENCE. \n\n\n\nCLASS SECOND, \n\nDESIRES. \n\nChap. I \xe2\x80\x94 instincts. \n\nChap. II \xe2\x80\x94 appetjites. \n\nChap. Ill \xe2\x80\x94 propensities. \n\nChap. IV \xe2\x80\x94 ths affections or \npassions. \n\n\n\nCLASS JTHIRD. \n\nfeelings of obligation. \n\nChap.I \xe2\x80\x94 nature of obligatory \n\nfeelings. \n\nChap. II\xe2\x80\x94 origin of feelings of \n\nobligation. \n\nChap. Ill \xe2\x80\x94 nature or right or \nvirtue. \n\n\n\nMENTAL PHILOSOPHY, \n\n\n\n\xe2\x96\xa0# \n\n\n\nINTRODUCTION. \n\nCHAPTER FIRST. \n\ntJTILITY OF MENTAL PHILOSOPHY. \n\n\xc2\xa7.1. Objects of this science and objections against it. \n\n]?Ian is not a simple, but a combined or complex ex- \nistence, made up of mind and matter. It belongs to men- \ntal Philosophy to make inquiries into his mental part, into \nthat characteristic element in his formation, which thinks \nand combines, which feels and wills, hates and loves. And \nas mind is higher than matter, a less gross and more ex- \ncellent existence, it might be supposed, that the study of it \nwould be pursued v\xc2\xbbith the greatest alacrity and delight. \n\nNor has this supposition been altogether disappointed ; \nthe study of the intellect and of the passions ha^ never, in \nany stage of society, been wholly neglected ; and yet some \nobjections have been made to this pursuit, which, although \nmore specious than solid, have lessened the ardour, to \nwhich it is entitled. \n\n\xc2\xa7.2. lis supposed practical inutility. \n\nAmong other objections, not sufficiently weighty to ex- \nact an examination at present, it has someiimes been said, \nand with some degree of plausibility, tlrat Mental Philoso- \n\n\n\n18 UTILITY OF \n\nphy is practically useless. \xe2\x80\x94 In studying this department of \nscience, we are supposed in the erroneous opinion, which \nhas been mentioned, to learn in a scientific form only what \nwe have previously learnt from nature ; we acquire noth- \ning new, and the time, therefore, which is occupied in this \npursuit, is misspent. \n\n, All persons, however ignorant, know what it is, to \nthink, to imagine, to feel, to perceive, to exercise belief. \nAll persons know the fact, without being formally taught \nit, that memory depends on attention. When asked, why \nthey have forgotten things, whieh occurred yesterday or \nlast week in their presence, they think it a sufficient answer \nto say, that they did not attend to them. All classes of men \nare practically acquainted with the great principle of asso- \nciation. The uneducated groom, who feeds his horses to \nthe sound of the drum and bugle, as a preparatory training \nfor* military service, discovers a knowledge of it not less \nthan the philosopher. The vast multitude, with scarcely \na single exception, understand the complexity and strength \nof the passions ; the power, and the aids, and the practice \nof reasoning. \n\nFrom some facts of this kind, which may safely be ad- \nmitted to exist to a certain extent, the opinion has arisen \nof the practical inutility of studying Mental Philosophy as \na science. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 3. Its supposed practicalinutility anst^red. \n\nIf, however, such facts as these be admitted to be aval- \nid objection in application to this study, the same objection \nevidently exists to the study of other sciences, for instance, \nNatural Philosophy. It is remarked of savagfes, that they \ngain an eminence before they throw theii\' missile weapons, \nin order by the aid of such a position to increase theTuo- \nmentum of what is thrown. They do this without any \nscientific knowledge of the accelerating force of gravity. \nThe sailor, who has perhaps never seen a mathematical \ndiagram, practically understands, as is evident from the \nmode in which he handles the ropes of the vessel, the com- \nposition and resolution of forces. In a multitude of in- \n\n\n\nMENTAL PHILOSOPHY. 19 \n\nstances, we act on principles, which are explained and \ndemonstrated in some of the branches of Natural Philoso- \nphy. We act on them, while we are altogether ignorant \nof the science. But no one, it is presumed, will consider \n\' this a good excuse for making no philosophical and syste- \nmatic inquiries into that department of knowledge. \n\nBut without contenting ourselves with the answer, \nwhich has now been given to the objection, that the study, \nupon which we are entering, is of no practical profit, \nsome remarks will be made, more directly and positively \nshowing its beneficial results. \n\n\xc2\xa7.4. Mental Philosophy tends to gratify a reasonable curiosity. \n\nIf it were true, that the practical good results of a pros- \necution of this science are exceedingly inconsiderable, it \nmight, nevertheless, be properly studied, because a natural \nand reasonable curiosity is in this way gratified. The bot- \nanist examines the seed of a plant and its mode of germina- \ntion, the root and the qualities by which it is fitted to act \nas an organ of nutrition and support, the structure of the \nstem, and the form of the leaves. The mineralogist in- \nquires into the properties, the constituent joarts, and the \nrelations of the various mineral masses, which enter into \nthe formation of the earth\'s surface. And whatever opin- \nion may exist as to the amount of practical benefit result- \ning from inquiries into these departments of science, they \nare justly considered as exceedingly commendable, and as \nsuitable to the inquisitive turn of an intellectual being. \nIn other words, the constitution of the mind itself, which \nin its very nature is restless and inquisitive, is regarded as \na pledge of the propriety of such inquiries, independently \nof their subserviency to the indirect increase of human \nhappiness. ^ \n\nBut it is certainly not too much to say, that the soul \nof man presents a nobler subject of examination, than the \ninanimate masses of matter beneath his feet, or the flow- \ners, that open and bloom around him. In whatever points \nwe may hereafter compare them, we shall have frequent \noccasion to observe, that spirit possesses the preeminence \n\n\n\n20 . UTILITY OF \n\nover that, wliicli is immaterial. Matter and mind are ut- \nterly different in their nature : although in making the \nremark here, we anticipate the views, by which it is au- \nthorized. Our experience teaches us, that the former is \ncompounded and separable into parts ; but we know the \nlatter to be simple and inseparable. Being inseparable, it is \nnot subject to the change of dissolution, but continues un- \naltered in its nature amid the rapid decays of material ex- \nistence. And what is a further mark of its superior claims \non our attention, the -mind is subject to a law of increase ; \nit is not stationary, but is always advancing, always \nstrengthening its susceptibilities of knowledge, \n\n\xc2\xa7.5. Further grounds for this view. \n\nThe remark last made is worthy of particular consid- \neration. \xe2\x80\x94 Look at man in tiie beo^inninor of his existence. \nThe thoughts and feelings of the infant mind are few in- \ndeed, but it is able, in the creative expansion of its pow- \ners, to multiply them both in their simple and complex \nforms, to an immeasurable extent. \xe2\x80\x94 In various ways does \nthis appear ; in every thing, which admits of the applica- \ntion of mind ;* in the arts, sciences, and social order. \n\nWriters say, that man is born in society, and it is true, \nthat he is so. But what is his situation in the introducto- \nry period of his life ! If he be an object of love, he is also \nan object of solicitude and pity ; he is utterl}^ under the \ndirection of another, unable at first to guide hi? own foot- \nsteps. But in a few years, such has been the growth of \nhis intellect, that lie, who but yesterday could not govern \nhimself, tomorrow enacts the constitution and laws of em- \npires ; he, who but yesterday knew no social principle \nbut that of simple dependence on his mother, tomorrow \ncomprehends the philosophy of Montesquieu, and has be- \ncome the guide and legislator of the world. \n\nNor is this growth of mind, this wonderful expansion \nof the intellect limited to any one class of objects to the \nexclusion of others. \xe2\x80\x94 Mark the childhood of man in his \nearliee;t inquiries into nature. At first he is filled with as- \ntonishment at beholding the clustering beams of light,that \n\n\n\nMENTAL PHILOSOPHY. fil \n\nare reflected from a piece of metal. Pleased but not sat- \nisfied, as tlie mind acquires strength, he traces the direc- \ntion and the rapidity of its progress from planet^to plan- \net, till he finds its source in the sun, whose form, and mag- \nnitude, and revolution he is able to estimate. At first, too \nfeeble of judgment for the simple operation of combining \nsyllables into words, he shortly reads the Principia of New- \ntoh, and interprets from the evanescent aspects and facts \nof nature the hidden and immutable laws, by which she is \n\ngoverned. Such being the nature of the human mind, \n\nso vastly capacious in its progress, though weak indeed in \nits be-dnning, it is, in itself considered, a most rational and \nworthy object of exanunation. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 6. Mental Philosophy teaches us where to limit our inquiries. \n\nBut there is another view of the mind, necessary to be \ntaken, which is somewhat different from the foregoing, al- \nthough equally true. \xe2\x80\x94 That the human mind possesses a \nnatural energy and is rapidly progressive is certain ; but \nit is not less so, that it has its boundaries. And here we \n,find another of the good results of a knowledge of Mental \nPhilosophy, that we are taught by it to limit our inquiries \nto those subjects, to the investigation of which our capa- \ncities are equal and are adapted. \n\nThe- Supreme Being is an all pervadicig mind, a princi- \nple of life, that has an existence in all places and in all \nspace, and whose intelligence is like his omnipresence, ac- \nquainted with all things. But man, his creature, is made \nwith an inferiour capacity ; he knows only in part, and it \nis but reasonable to suppose, that there are many things, \nwhich he will never be able to know. But, although it \nbe justly admitted, that man is subordinate to the Supreme \nBeing and is infinitely inferiour to Him, his Maker has \nkindly given him aspirations after knowledge, with the \npower of satisfying, in some measure and under certain \nlimitations, such aspirations. If, therefore, man be a being, \nformed to know, and there be, moreover, certain restric- \ntions, placed upon the capacity of knowledge, it is highly \n\n\n\n22 UTILITY OF \n\nimportant to ascertain the limitations, whatever they may \nbe,, which are imposed. Nor is this always an easy thing \nto be determined. There is oftentimes a difficulty in as- \ncertaininoj precisely tlie boundary, which runs between the \npossibility and the impossibility of knowledge, but when- \never it is ascertained, there is an indirect increase of men- \ntal ability by means of the withdrawment of the mind \nfrom unprofitable pursuits, in which there is an expense, of \neffort without any remuneration. \n\nThe necessity of ascertaining what things come within \nthe reach of our powers and what do not, was a thought \nwhich laid the foundation of Mr. Locke\'s Essay on the \nHuman Understanding. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 7 . Remarks of Mr, Locke on this point. \n\n" Were it fit to trouble thee with the history of this \nEssay (he remarks in the Epistle to the reader) I should \ntell thee, that hve or six friends meeting at ;iiy chamber \nand discoursing on a subject very remote from this, found \nthemselves quickly at a stand by the difficulties, that arose \non every side. After we had awhile puzzled ourselves \nwithout coming any nearer a resolution of those doubts, \nwhich perplexed us, it came into my thoughts, that we \ntook a wrong course, and that before w^e set ourselves up- \non inquiries of that nature, it tv^as necessary to examine \nour own abilities, and see what objects our understandings \nwere or were not fitted to deal with. This I proposed to \nthe company, who all readily assented, and thereupon it \nwas agreed, that this should be our first inquiry." \n\nSuch were the sentiments on this subject of a man, who \nhas probably contributed more largely than any other in- \ndividual to help us to the correct understanding of the \nmind; and whose writings, such is their singular origin- \nality and acuteness, can hardly be too strongly recom- \nmended for perusal. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 8. Helps us in the correction of mental errours, \n\nA third advantage, resulting from the study of the Phi- \nlosophy of the Mind, is, that it teaches us in many cases \n\n\n\nMENTAL PHILOSOPHY. 2S \n\nto correct whatever deficiencies or errours may exist in \nour mental constitution. \n\nIn our present state of imperfection, while we are found \nto experience various kinds of bodily evils, we are not ex- \nempt from those of the mind ; and we know not, that it \ncan any more excite surprise, that some people exhibit \nmental distortions, than it can, that we daily see not only \nthe healthy and the well-formed, but the maimed, the \nhalt, and the blind. If then it be asked, how are these \nvarious mental defects to be remedied, the answer is obvi- \nous, that we should act in regard to the mind as we do in \npromoting the restoration of the body ; we should commit \nthe business of ascertaining a remedy to those, who are in \nsome good degree acquainted with the subject and with \nthe nature of the disease. A physician, altogether igno- \nrant of the anatomy and physiology of the human system, \nwould be poorly fitted to restore a fractured limb, or sub- \ndue the ravages of a fever. But if knowledge be necessary, \nin order to heal the weakness of the body and restore it to \nits proper soundness and beauty, it is not less important \nin the restoration of analogous evils in the mental consti- \ntution. \n\nIn looking round to see, whose minds are disordered, \nand whose are in a sound and healtJiy condition, we notice, \nfor example, that some persons are troubled with a very \nweak memory. We have a very candid confession on this \npoint in the writings of Montaigne. He informs us, that \nhe did not trust to his memory. \'\' I am forced (says he) \nto call my servants by the names of their employments, or \nof the countries where they were born, for I can hardly \nremember their proper names ; and if I should live long, \nI question whether I should remember my own name." \nIt appears, however, from his acquaintance with the prin- \nciples of the ancient philosophers ihai he liad not much \nreason to complain, except of his own inattention to this \nvaluable m.ental susceptibility. He remembered princi- \nples ; he could keep in recollection the outlines of the sci- \nences, but could not so well remember insulated facts, \nespecially if they related to the occurrences of common \n\n\n\n24 UTILITY OF \n\nlife. This peculiarity in the operations of the memory is \nnot unfrequeiitly found among men of letters, especially if \nthey possess a vivid imagination. But it must be consid- \nered a mental defect ; one, which it is not only important \nto understand, but to try to remedy. \n\nMontaigne is. a strikincr instance of failure in one of \nthe varieties of memory, and others fail equally in the \npower of reasoning, that is, in forming judgments or con- \nclusions by combining together a number of consecutive \npropositions. x\\nd this happens from a variety of causes, \nas from weakness of attention, or the influence of prejudi- \nces, or an ignorance of the nature and sources of evidence, \nor from other causes, which may be guarded against and \ncontrolled. In other cases the mind is thrown into con- \nfusion in consequence of such exceeding vividness in the \nconceptions, as to l(^d one to mistake the mere objects of \nthought for real external objects. And again we have \nthe still more formidable evils of idiocy in its various \nforms of origin, and of partial and total insanity. \n\nSince then it must be admitted, that there are diseases \nand distortions of the mind no less than of the body, and \nthat we, cannot expect a restoration from those evils with- \nout an intimate acquaintance with the state and tendencies \nof our intellectual. and, sentient powers, such an acquain- \ntance becomes exceedingly desirable. \n\n\xc2\xa7.9. Is a help to those, who have the charge of early education. \n\nThis study, in the fourth place, furnishes many very val- \nuable hints to those, who have the charge of early educa- \ntion. It is well known that children and youth adopt al- \nmost implicitly the manners and opinions of those, under \nwhom they happen in Providence to be placed, or with \nwhom they much associate, whether they be parents, in- \nstructors, or others. \n\nLet it, therefore, be remembered, that passions both \ngood and evil may then rise up and gain strength, which \nit v\\ill afterwards be found difficult to subdue. Intellectu- \nal operations may at that period be guided and invigora- \n\n\n\nMENTAL PHILOSOPHY. 25 \n\nted, which, if then neglected, can never be called forth \nto any effective purpose in after life. Associations and \nhabits of various kinds may then be formed, which will \ndefy all subsequent attempts at a removal, and will follow \nthe subjects of them down to the grave. In a word, the \nsoul may be trained, in no small degree, either to truth or \nfalsehood, to virtue or vice, to activity or sluggishness, to \nglory or infamy. \n\nWhen we take these things into view, and w hen we \nfurther recollect the frequency of cliaracteristic, if not \noriginal differences in intellectual power and inclination, \nno one certainly can be considered properly qualified for \nthe o-reat undertaking of a teacher of youth, who has not \nformed a systematic and philosophic acquaintance with \nthe principles of the mind. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 10. Has a connection with other departments of science. \n\nIt is to be considered in the fifth place, that this depart- \nment of science has an intimate connection with others, \nwhich are of great importance ; and this connection may \nbe regarded as increasing the urgency of attending to it. \n\nFor instance, Mental philosophy has an intimate \nconnection with Moral. In the latter science we bring un- \nder consideration injuries, benefits, the nature and obliga- \ntion of contracts, and the various duties of men ; but such \ninquiries w^ould be exceedingly fruitless without a thor- \nough acquaintance with the emotions and passions, and \nwith other modifications^ both siaiple and complex, of the \nmental principle. \n\nThe philosophy of the mind has also a close connec- \ntion with the most important applications of Criticism and \nTaste. It would not be possible to give any rational ac- \ncount of the excellencies or defects of a poem, painting, \nedifice, or other work of art, without a knowledge of it. \nFor, although \\\\q often call such works beautiful and sub- \nlime, it is certain, that they cannot possess the qualities \nof beauty or sublimity, independently of our mental frame, \nand we never apply those epithets to them, except it be \nwith reference to certain feelings excited within us. \n\n\n\n26 UTILITY OF \n\nAgain, Mental philosophy is closely connected with \nthe science and practice of Oratory. We sometimes hear \nthe science of the mind designated as the philosophy of \nhuman nature, andnothing certainly ismore common than \nthe remark, that a knowledge of human nature is essential \nto the orator. With how much greater directness and \nstrength he applies his powers of reasoning, when he un- \nderstands the principles, on which the mind operates in \nevery reasoning process ! With how much greater con- \nfidence he attacks prejudices, and rouses or allays the pas- \nsions, when he has thoroughly meditated the passions, and \nthe various influences, by which our judgments are bi- \nassed ! \n\nIt will be found also on examination, that the philoso- \nphy of mind^hasa real relation, either direct or indirect, to \nvarious other departments of knowledge. Indeed, so far \nas it examines primary propositions, and the grounds and \ninstruments of belief, it may justly be considered as lay- \ning the foundation of all sciences and knowledge what- \never. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 11. Mental science is a guide in our intercourse with men. \n\nAnd let it be further noticed, in c6nnection with this \nsubject, that our intercourse with men, in the ordinary \nconcerns and enjoyments of life, is truly and properly an \nintercourse with minds. In order to render tins inter- \ncourse agreeable and profitable, it is necessary to be ac- \nquainted with the laws of the mind. It is undoubtedly \nthe duty of every man, to increase, as far as lays in his \npower, the sum of human happiness ; but without such \nacquaintance he will often touch unadvisedly some train \nof thought, some secret feeling, some casual connection, \nthat will produce deep unhappiness. But if he combine \nwith a benevolent disposition ^a suitable knowledge \nof our mental nature, his touch, like that of the skil- \nful musician, will extract from those, with whom he min- \ngles in the intercourse of life, the concord of just thoughts \nand kindly feelings,which is the most pleasing of alf earth- \nly harmonies. \n\n\n\nMENTAL PHILOSOPHY. 27 \n\nBut there is another point, on which men have been \nmost unjust and cruel to each other, and in respect to \nwhich they will find in mental philosophy a clear intima- \ntion of their errour, and an implied and stern rebuke of \ntheir injustice ; we have reference to the hostility of those, \n-who happen to embrace different opinions. Many unfor- \ntunate men have been exiled and out-cast from society ; \nmany have been thrown into dungeons ; many Iiave been \nbroken upon the rack ; many have died by the fire and fa- \nmine and the sword ; merely because they did not believe \nas those, who possessed the power thus to oppress them. \nBut the philosophy of mind teaches us, that belief has \nits laws ; that there is no necessary connection between \nsuffering and a change of opinion ; and it whispers in the \nears of those, who have the wisdom to understand it, that \nthe only rebukes should be evidence ; the only engines of \ntorture, arguments ; and the only persecution and war- \nfare, the zealous communication of knowledge. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 12. Illustrates the nature and wisdom of the Creator, \n\nBut we leave these and all other considerations, tend- \ning to show the utility of the science of the human mind, \nwith the single reflection further, that it helps to illustrate \nthe nature and wisdom of the Infinite Mind. \n\nL \xe2\x80\x94 It throws light on the nature of the Supreme Being. \nAll those ideas, which we form of God, are only new ap- \nplications and extensions of certain ideas, which we pre- \nviously form in respect to ourselves. The soul, approach- \ning in its nature nearer to him than any thing else, which \nis the direct subject of our knowledge, is, in some sort, \nthe medium, by which we mount up, and are able to form \ntrue conceptions of the nature of the universal Author. \nHence, in studying mind even on the limited theatre of \nhumanity we are indirectly studying the Supreme Being, \nsince God is the original, indispensable, and all-pervading \nmind, and no analogy even in the slightest degree can be \npointed out between his nature, and that of any thing \nelse on earth. Accordingly we find universally in na- \ntions, where the intellect is degraded, God is degraded \n\n\n\n33 UTILITY OF \n\nalso ; where there are no powers of abstraction,every thing \nassumes a massive and material form ; where there is no \nthorough contemplation of the divinity within, i;hcre is \nno true knowledge of the Divinity without. And these \ndegraded men ^re so in love with their grovelling and un- \nintelligent conceptions, that they will show you the spir- \nituality of the Omniscience, reduced to a visible form, and \ncased up in the broidered work of Egypt, the gold of \nTyre, and the feathers of the South Sea Islands. \n\nII. The knowledge of the human mind is not only the \nbasis of true conceptions of the nature of the Divine Mind, \nbut it affords also the most striking exemplification of some \nof his attributes, particularly his wisdom. \n\nWe are frequently referred in theological writings to \nthe works of creation, as a proof of the Creator\'s wisdom; \nand the remark has been made, not without reason, that \nthe " stars teach as well as shine. ^\'\' But of all those created \nthings, which come within the reach of our direct exam- \nination, the human mind is that principle, which evinces \nthe most wonderful construction, which discloses the most \nastonishing movements. There is much to excite our ad- \nmiration of the Divine foresight in the harmonious move- \nments of the planetary orbs, in the rapidity of light, in the \nprocess of vegetation ; but still greater cause for it in the \nprinciple of thought, in the inexpressible quickness of its \noperations, in the harmony of its laws, and in the great- \nness of its researches. How striking are the powers of \nthat intellect, which, although it have a local habitation, is \nable to look out from the place of its immediate residence, \nto pursue its researches among those remote worlds, which \njourney in the vault of heaven, and to converse both with \nthe ages past and to come ! \n\nIt ought not to be expected that w^e should be intimate- \nly acquainted with a principle possessing such striking \npowers, without some reverential feelings towards Him, \nwho is the author of it. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 13. Of the mental efforts necessary in this study. \n\nJn concluding these remarks on the utility of the Phi- \n\n\n\nMENTAL PHILOSOPHY. 29 \n\nlosophy of the Mind, it ought not to be concealed, that our \nearly intellectual habits present an obstacle to the easy and \nready prosecution of it. We are so formed, that we nat- \nurally give our attention first to external things. The va- \nrieties of color and sound, the pleasures of taste and touch \nare continually giving us new intimations, and drawing \nthe soul incessantly out of itself to the contemplation of \nthe exteriour causes of the perceptions and emotions, by \nwhich it is agitated. Hence, when we are called to look \nwithin, and as the Arabians sometimes say. Ho sliut the win- \ndoicSj in order that the house may be light,\'\' we find it to be a \nprocess, to which we are unaccustomed, and, therefore, \ndifficult. \n\nAlthough the direct,mental efi\'orts be not greater in this, \nthan in some other departments of science, it is, in conse- \nquence of the circumstance just mentioned, exceedingly \npainful to some, and certainly requires patience and reso- \nlution in all. And perhaps this is one cause of the unfa- \nvorable reception, which this department of knowledge \nhas often met with. \n\nBut the advantages attending it are so numerous, it is \nto be hoped, they will overcome any disinclination to the \nnecessary mental exertion. The fruits of the earth are \npurchased by the sweat of the brow, and it has never been \nordered that the reverse of this shall take place in the \nmatters of knowledge, and that the fruits of science shall \nbe reaped by the hands of idleness. No man has ever be- \ncome learned without toil ; and let it be remembered, if \nthere be many obstacles in the acquisition of any particu- \nlar science, that he. who overcomes a multiplication of \ndifficulties, deserves greater honour than he, who contends \nonlv with a few. \n\n\n\nCHAPTER SECOND. \n\n\n\nIMPLIED OR PRIMARY TRUTHS. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 14. Importance of certain preliminary statements in mental \nphilosophy. \n\nIt is often highly important, in the investigation of a \ndepartment of science, to state, at the commencement of \nsuch investigation, what things are to be considered as pre- \nliminary and taken for granted, and what are not. If this \nprecaution had always been observed, which, where there \nis any room for mistake or misapprehension, seems so rea- \nsonable, many useless disputes would have been avoided, \nand the paths to knowledge would have been rendered \nmore direct and easy, instead of being prolonged and per- \nplexed. \n\nIt is impossible to proceed with inquiries in the sci- \nence of MENTAL PHiLOsoPHF, as it will be found to be in \nalmost every other, without a proper understanding of \nthose fundamental principles, which are necessarily invol- \nved in what follows. And it will, accordingly, be the ob- \nject of this chapter to endeavour to ascertain them ; keep- \ning in mind always, that much circumspection is requisite, \nlest there should be any unnecessary assumptions. The \nelementary truths, which we have reference to, are few in \nnumber, and nothing at least shall be assumed, merely to \navoid the trouble of investigation. \n\n\xc2\xa7.15. JSature of such preliminary statements. \n\nThose preliminary principles, which may be found \nnecessary to be admitted as the antecedents and condi- \n\n\n\nPRIMARY TRUTHS. 31 \n\ntions of all subsequent inquiries, will be called, for the sake \nof distinction and convenience, primary truths. \xe2\x80\x94 But \nwhat are these ? Or how do we know them ? \n\nAccording to the view of this subject, taken by Buf- \njfier, Avho has expressly written upon it, and is approved \nin what he says by Stewart and other metaphysical wri- \nters, they are such, and such only, as can neither be proved, \nnor refuted by other propositions of greater perspicuity. \nAnd this is not only a succinct, but a satisfactory account \nof them, since, if.there were other propositions, into which \nthey could be resolved, and by means of which they could \nbe made clearer, then they could no longer be regarded as \nprimary, but those other clearer propositions would have \nthat character. \n\nBut it may be asked again, are there any propositions \nof this kind ? Are there any so clear, that the great \ninstrument of human reasoning cannot render them more \nperspicuous ? Can there not be a complete action of the \nhuman mind in all its parts without the laying down of \nany antecedent truths whatever, as auxiliaries in its efforts \nafter knowledge? \xe2\x80\x94 The answer to such questions, howev- \ner formidable they may at iirst appear, is not far off; it is \nfurnished by the nature of reasoning, and by every day\'s \nexperience. Every man, who investigates at all, often \nexperiences doubts in his inquiries. He accordingly en- \ndeavours to render the propositions, which are of this \ncharacter, clearer by argument. He goes on from step to \nstep, from one proposition to another ; but, unless he at \nlast finds some truth utterly too clear to be rendered more \nso by reasoning, he must evidently proceed, adding de- \nduction to deduction without end. Reasoning is in fact a \nsuccession of relations ; but there can be no feeling of re- \nlations, where there is but one object of contemplation; \nsomething, therefore, must, from the nature of the case \nbe assumed. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 16. Of the name or designation given them. \n\nThe mode of expression, which is employed to indi- \ncate the propositions, which are under consideration, is not \n\n\n\nS^ IMPLIED OR \n\nKovel ; but is made use of by a number of judicious wri- \nters. They are called primary truths ; and without \ndoubt the phraseology is good. Such propositions are \ntermed, in the first place, truths, since they are forced \nupon us, as it were, by our very constitution. They \nexist as surely as the mind exists, where they have their \nbirth-place ; they as certainly and as strongly control the \nconvictions of men, as the demonstrations of geometry ; \nand not of one man merely, or any particular set of men, \nbut of all mankind ; for the few, who pretend to reject \nthem in speculation, constantly retract and deny such re~ \njection of them in their practice. And yet they are not \nthe result of calculation ; they are not the deductions of \nreasoning ; but rather the natural and unfailing concomi- \ntants of humanity. \n\nWith sufficient reason also, are the propositions in \nquestion called primary ; because, as would seem to fol- \nlow from the very definition of them, they are the propo- \nsitions, into which all reasoning ultimately resolves itself, \nand are necessarily involved and implied in the various \ninvestigations, of which the mind is capable, whether they \nrelate to the great subject before us, or to others. As has \nbeen remarked, there cannot possibly be a process of rea- \nsoning, without some first priciple or admitted truth, \nfrom which to start. \n\n\xc2\xa7.17. Primary triiih of personal existence. \n\nThe PRIMARY TRUTH, which we are naturally led to \nconsider first, is that of the reality and certainty of our \npersonal existence. The proposition, that we exist, is a sort \nof corner stone to every thing else ; the foundation of our \nknowledge ; the place and the basis, from which the edi- \nfice must rise. This fundamental truth we admit. \n\nThe celebrated Des Cartes, as if he could by a mere vo- \nlition suspend the unalterable dictates of nature, formed \nthe singular resolution, not to believe his own existence, \nuntil he could prove it. Tie seemed to forget that there \narc grounds of belief, antecedent to reasoning, and equally \n\n\n\nPRIMARY TRUTHS. S3 \n\nauthoritative. \xe2\x80\x94 He accordingly reasoned thus ; cogito, ergo \nswrij I think, therefore, I exist. \n\nBuffiermaiies the remark in respect to such sceptical \npersons, that, if they doubt of every thing, it must still \nremain true, that they exist, as they cannot even doubt \nwithout existing. At any rate Des Cartes wis as near the \ntruth, when he laid down the premises, as when he drew \nthe conclusion. His argument, however conclusive he \nmight deem it, evidently involves a petitio principii or \nbegging of the question. The Latin word cogito, which \nis not only a verb but includes the pronoun of the first \nperson, and undeniably embraces both subject and predi- \ncate, is equivalent, to make the least of it, to the proposi- \ntion, lama thinking being; and ergo sum may be literal- \nly interpreted, therefore, I am in being. His premises had \nalready implied, that he existed as a thinking being, and it \nis these very premises, which he employs in proof of his \nexistence. The acuteness, which has been generally, and \nwithout doubt justly attributed to Des Cartes, evidently \nfailed him in this instance. His argument was unsuccess- \nful, and no one, who has attempted to prove the same \npoint, has succeeded any better. \n\nThis being the case, it is necessary to take ground al- \ntogether different from that, which has been chosen by Des \nCartes and his followers, and not to risk the defence of a \nprinciple so important, where it clearly can never be sus- \ntained. We regard, therefore, the proposition, that we \nEXIST, a primary truth ; in other words, it is a proposition, \nantecedent to reasoning, but which, notwithstanding, fully \nand perfectly secures our belief. Nothing, which comes \nwithin the reach of the human mind, is more clearly de- \nfined to its. perception, more thoroughly controlling and \noperative, and more raised above cavils and scepticism, \nwhether rational or irrational, than this. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 18. Occasions of the origin of the idea or belief of \npersonal existence. \n\nk It remains,\' however, a distinct subject of inquiry. Un- \nder what circumstances this elementary belief arises ? \xe2\x80\x94 \n\n\n\nS4 IMPLIED OR \n\nAnd in answer to this inquiry we may say with abundant \nconfidence, if it be not the earliest, it is at least among the \nearliest notions, which the mind is capable of forming. A \nkind Providence has not conceded to a feeling, so essen- \ntial to our whole mental history, a dilatory, and late ap- \npearance. But that same providence has given a place as \nwell as a time, an occasion as well as a period of its for- \nmation ; and although it may be impossible for us ever to \nascertain that occasion with certainty, we may at least \nconjecture. \n\nWe look, therefore, in our meditations on this topic, \nat man in his first existence. We see him called forth \nfrom a state, where th\'ere was neither form nor knowledge, \nneither light nor motion, neither mind nor matter ; en- \ndowed with such capabilities of thought and action, both \ninternal and external, as his Creator saw fit to give. Thus \nbrought into being, and thus fitted up for his destined \nsphere, we will suppose, that some external object is for \nthe first time presented to the senses. The result of this \nis, that, there is an impression made on the senses; and \nthen at once there is a change in the mind, a new thought, \na new feeling. Although, as already suggested, there is \nroom for different conjectures here, there is much reason \nto believe, that this is the true occasion of the origin of \nthe belief in question.* The first internal expepieuce, the \nearliest thought or feeling is immediately followed by the \nnotion of personal or self existence, as the subject of this \nnew thought or feeling. And this idea or conviction, of \n\n\n\n* The view, which is here given, is the same that is proposed by \nReid and Stevirart, whose opinions on any point of mental philosophy \nare entitled to great weight. The latter writer informs us, in the In- \ntroduction to his Philosophy of the Human mind, thai every man is \nimpressed with an irresistible conviction, that all his sensations, \nthoughts, and feeUngs belong to one and the same being, which he calls \nhimself. And again in Chapter first of the same Work, he gives us \nto understand, that a person, having a particular sensation for the first \ntime, acquires the knowledge of two facts at once ; that of the exis- \ntence of the sensatign, and that of his own existence as a sentiftit \nbeing. \n\n\n\nPRIMARY TRUTHS. 85 \n\npersonal existence, which arises at this very early period, \nis continually suggested and confirmed in the course of the \nsuccessive duties, and enjoyments, and sufferings of life. \n\nSuch has commonly been supposed to be the origin of \nthe belief in question. We may as well suppose it to come \ninto being in connection with the first act of the mind, as \nwith any subsequent act ; although with less distinctness \nand strength, than afterwards. But whether this account \nof the origin of the notion of our personal existence be the \ntrue one or not, we may still hold to the fact of the belief \nitself, as something beyond doubt. We may also regard \nit as necessarily resulting from our mental constllution, and \nas wholly inseparable from our being. \n\nMalebranche in his Search after Truth speaks much in \ncommendation of what he has termed the spirit of doubt- \ning. But then he bestows this commendation with such \nlimitations as will prevent those evils, which result from \ntoo freely giving up to a sceptical spirit. \n\n" To doubt (says he) with judgment and reason, is not \nso smaH a thing as people imagine, for here it may be said, \nthat there\'s a great difference between doubting and doubt- \ning. We doubt through passion and brutality, through \nblindness and malice, and, lastly, through fancy, and only \nbecause we would doubt. But we doubt also with pru- \ndence and caution, with wisdom and penetration of mind. \nAcademics and atheists doubt upon the first grounds, true \nphilosophers on the second. The first is a doubt of dark- \nness, which does not.conduct us into the light, but always \nremoves us from it." (B. I. ch. 20;) \n\nWe may remark in conformity \\yith this distinction of \nMalebranche, that the doubting of those over-scrupulous \ninquirers, who demand a formal proof of their own exis- \ntence, is of that kind, to which he so justly objects. Scep- \nticism on that subject is truly a doubt of darkness, which \ndoes not conduct us into the light, but always removes us \nfrom it. \n\n<\xc2\xa7 . 1 9 . Primary truth of personal identity . \n\nThe second of those preliminary truths, which we \n\n\n\nS6 IMPLIED OR \n\n\xe2\x80\xa2 \nterm primary, is the proposition of.our Personal Identity, \n\n\xe2\x80\x94If the consideration of our personal existence naturally \ncome first in the order of time, that of the truth now be- \nfore us is not secondary in point of importance. We can- \nnot dispense with either, without unsettling the grounds \nof inquiry and belief, and barring the access to all knowl- \nedge whatever. \n\nIdentity is Synonymous with sameness, and is the \nname of a simple state of mind. \'Although, therefore, its \nmeaning is as clear as that of other simple ideas, and eve- \nry body is supposed to understand it, it is not sus- \nceptible of definition. The term is applied to various ob- \njects, and among others to men. The word personal \nimplies Self, and personal identity is, therefore, the iden- \ntity of ourselves. But the term self is complex, embracing \nboth mind and matter, and hence we are led to consider \nthe distinct notions of mental and bodily identity. \n\nI. Mental identity ; \xe2\x80\x94 By this phrase we express the \ncontinuance and (Tneness of the thinking principle merely. \nThe soul of man is truly an unit. It is not like inatter \nseparable into parts ; no one being ever conscious of a \nwant of oneness in thought and feeling. It may bring, \nfrom time to time, new susceptibilities into action ; but \nits essence is unchangeable. That, which constitutes it a \nthinking and sentient principle, in distinction from that, \nwhich is unthinking and insentient, never deserts it, nev- \ner ceases to exist, never becomes other than what it orig- \ninally was. \xe2\x80\xa2 \n\nII. Bodily identity ; \xe2\x80\x94 By these expressions we mean \nthe sameness of the bo^iily shape and organization. This \nis the only meaning we can attach to them, since the ma- \nterials, whicli compose our bodily systems, are constantly \nchanging. The body is not an unit in the same sense the \nsoul is. It was a saying of Seneca, that no maij bathes \ntwice in the same river ; and still we call it the same, \nalthough the water within its banks is constantly passing \navyay. And in like manner we ascribe identity to the hu- \nman body, although it is subject to constant changes, meati- \n\n\n\nPRIMARY .TRUTHS. 37 \n\ning by the expressions, as just remarked, merely the same- \nness of shape and organization. \n\nIII. Personal identity ; \xe2\x80\x94 This form of expression is \nmore general than either of those, which have been men- \ntioned. It has reference to both mind and matter, as we \nfind them combined together in that complex existence, \nwhich we term man or person. It is equivalent to what \nis conveyed by the two phrases of mental identity, and \nbodily identity. But it is evident we cannot easily sepa- \nrate the two, when speaking of men. And accordingly, \nwhen it is said, that any one is conscious of, knows, or \nhas a certainty of his personal identity, it is meant to be \nasserted, that he is conscious of having formerly possessed \nthe powers of an organized, animated, and rational being, \nand that he still possesses those powers. He knows, that \nhe is a human being now, and that he was a human being \nyesterday, or last week, or last year. \xe2\x80\x94 There is no mys- \ntery in this. It is so plain, no one is likely to misunder- \nstand it, although we admit our inability to give a defini- \ntion of identity. \n\n\xc2\xa7.20. Reasons for regarding this a primary truth. \n\nIf personal identity be a primary truth^ it is antecedent \nto argument, and is independent of it. \xe2\x80\x94 What grounds are \nthere, then, for regarding it as such ? \n\nIn the FIRST place, the mere fact, that it is constantly \nimplied in those conclusions, which we form in respect to \nthe future from the past, and universally in our daily \nactions, is of itself a decisive reason for reckoning it a- \nmong the original and essential intimations of the human \nintellect. Oh any other hypothesis we are quite unable \nto account for that practical recognition of it in the pur- \nsuits of men, which is at once so early, so evident, and so \nuniversal . \n\nThe farmer, for instance, who looks abroad on his \ncultivated fields, knows that he is the same person, who \ntwenty years before entered the forest with an axe on his \nshoulder, and felled the first tree. The aged soldier, who \nrecounts at his fireside the battles of his youth, never once \n\n\n\n38 IMPLIED OR \n\ndoubts tliat he ^ats himself the witness of those sanguin- \nary scenes, which he delights to relate. It is altogether \nuseless to attempt either to disprove or to confirna to \nthem a proposition which they believe and know, not from \nthe testimony of others or from reasoning, but from the \ninteriour and authoritative suggestion of their very nature; \nand which, it is sufficiently evident, can never be eradi- \ncated from their belief and knowledge, until that nature \nis changed. \n\nA SECOND circumstance in favour of regardinop the \nnotion of personal identity, as an admitted or primary \ntruth, is, that men cannot prove it by argument if they \nwould ; and if they do not take it for granted, must for- \never be without it. Tiie propriety of this remark will \n\nappear \'on examination. There evidently can be no \n\nargument, properly so called, unless there be a succession \nof distinct propositions. From such a succession of prop- \nositions, no conclusion can be drawn by any one, unless \nhe be willing to trust to the evidence of memory. But \nmemory involves a notion of the time past, and whoever \nadmits, that he has the power of memory, in however \nsmall a degree, virtually admits, that he has existed the \nsame at some former period, as at present. \n\nThe considerations, which we have now particularly \nin view, and which are greatly worthy of attention in con- \nnection with the principle under examination, may with a \nlittle variation of terms be stated thus. \n\nRemembrance, without the admission of our personal \nidentity, is clearly an impossibility. But there can be no \nprocess of reasoning without men)ory. This is evident, \nbecause arguments are made up of propositions, which are \nsuccessive to each other, not only in order,\' but in point of \ntime. It follows, then, tlyit there can be no argument \nwhatever, or on any subject, without the admission of -our \nidentity, as a point from which to start. What then will" it \navail to attempt to reason either for or against the views, \nwhich are here maintained, since in every argument which \nis employed, there is necessarily an admission of the very \n. thing, which is the subject of inquiry. \n\n\n\nPRIMARY TRUTHS. 39 \n\n\xc2\xa7.21. Of the existence of matter. \n\nIn assuming the truth of self existence and of personal \nidentity, it will be observed, that there has necessarily \nbeen an admission of the existence both of mind and mat- \nter. As both are employed in the formation or constitu- \ntion of man in his present state^ it is not easy to admit the \nexistence of one, and deny that of the other. We natur- \nally and necessarily think of ourselves not as mind only, \nbut as material. \n\nAnd accordingly, in whatever follows, the true and ac- \ntual existence of botli is nowhere doubted. But this ad- \nmission, it should be added, does r)ot preclude inquiries \nhereafter into the grounds of our belief in both cases. \nThe evidence of consciousness and of the senses in partic- \nular will afford occasion for such inquiries. \n\nEvidently some elementary principles must be granted ; \notherwise we can never advance. But when we have once \nstarted, and have made progress, we n^iay then return ; \nexamine, under new points of view, the successive steps, \nwhich have been taken ; and inspect and try the sound- \nness o*f those primary propositions at the foundation of the \nwhole. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 22. There are original and authoritative grounds of belief \n\nSupposing men actually to exist, and to be conscious \nof the continuance and sameness of their existence, we \nare next to enter into the interiour of their constitution, \nand to inquire after such elements of intelligence, and ac- \ntion, as are to be found there. The next proposition, \ntherefore, which is to be laid down as fundamental and \nas preliminary to all reasoning, is, that there are in men \n\nCERTAIN ORIGINAL AND AUTHORITATIVE GROUNDS OF BE- \nLIEF. \n\nNothing is better known, than that there is a certain \n\xe2\x80\xa2\' state of the mind, which is expressed by the term, belief. \nAs we find all men acting in reference to it, it is not neces- \nsary to enter into any verbal explanation. Nor would \nit be possible by such explanation to increase the clearness \n\n\n\n40 IMPLIED OR \n\nof that notion, which every one is already supposed to \n\nentertain. -Of this belief, we take it for granted, and \n\nhold it to be in the strictest sense true, that there are orig- \ninal and authoritative grounds or sources ; meaning by \nthe term original^ that these grounds or sources arer invol- \nved in the nature of the mind itself, and meaning by \nthe term, authoritative, that this belief is not a mere mat- \nter of chance or choice, but naturally and necessarily \nresults from our mental constitution, and is binding \nupon us. \n\nSometimes we can trace the state of the mind, which \nwe term belief, to an affection of the senses, sometimes to \nconsciousness, sometimes to that quick, internal perception, \nwhich is termed intuition, and at others to human testi- \nmony. In all th\'ese cases, however, the explanation, which \nwe attempt to give, is limited to a statement of the circum- \nstances, in which the belief arises. But the fact, that be- \nlief arises under these circumstances, is ultimate, is a pri^ \nmary law ; and Ipeing such, it no more admits of explan- \nation, than does the mere feeling itself. And further, \n\nthis belief may exist as really, and may control us as \nstrongly, when we are unable to give a particulafr and \nan accurate account of the circumstances, in which it may \narise, as at other times. We find ourselves continually \ncompelled to act upon it, when the only possible an- \nswer we can give, is that we are human beings, or that \nwe believe, because we find it impossible to do otherwise. \n\nMany v/riters have clearly seen, and defended the ne- \ncessity of the assumption, which has now been made. \nMr. Stewart among others has expressed the opinion, \n(Hist. Disser. Pt. I. \xc2\xa7. II,) that there is involved in ev- \nery appeal to the intellectual powers in proof of their own \ncredibility, the sophism of reasoning in a circle or peti- \nTio PRiNciPU ; and expressly adds, that, unless this credi- \nbility be assumed as unquestionable, the further exercise of \nhuman reason is altogether nugatory. \n\n\xc2\xa7.23. Primary truths having relation, to the reasoning power, \n\nMan may be sure of the fact of his existence and of its \n\n\n\nPRIMARY TRUTHS. * 41 \n\npermanency ; he may be possessed of grounds of belief to \na certain extent, such .as have been mentioned ; and still \nwe may suppose him incapable of reasoning. His knowl- \nedge would be greatly limited, it is true, without that no^ \nble faculty, but he would know something ; his concious- \nness \'would teach him his own existence; his senses \nconvey to him intimations of external origin ; the testi- \nmony of others furnish various facts, that had come with- \nin their observation. But happily man is not limited to \nthe scanty knowledge, which would come in by these \nsources alone ^ he can compare as well as experience ; and \ncan deduce conclusions. \n\nBut there is this worthy of notice, that the reasoning , \npower, although it exists in man, and is a source of belief \nand a foundation of knowledge, is necessarily built up- \non principles, which are either known or assumed. \xe2\x80\x94 \nThis is seen in the most common and ordinary cases of \nthe exercise of this susceptibility. And it will be found \nalso on\' examination, that one assumption may be resolved \ninto another, and again into another, until we arrive at \ncertain ultimate truths, which are at the foundation of all \nreasoning whatever. It is important, therefore, to inquire, \nwhat general assumptions, having particular reference to \nthe reasoning power and absolutely essential to its action, \nare to be made. \xe2\x80\x94 And these will be found to be two in \nnumber ; one having special relation to the past, and the \nother to the future. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 24. JVb beginning or change of existence without a cause. \n\nThe one, which has a relation to the past, and is the \nfoundation of all reasonings, having a reference to any pe- \nriod antecedent to the present moment, may be stated as \nfollows ; that there is no beginning or change of existence \nwithout a cause. \xe2\x80\x94 ^This principle, like others which have \nbeen mentioned, we may well suppose to be universally ad- \nmitted. When any new event takes place, men at once in- \nquire the cause ; as if it could not poseibly have ha|>pen- \ned without some effective antecedent. \n\nAnd such being the general and unwavering reception \n\n\n\n42 \xe2\x80\xa2 IMPLIED OR \n\nof the principle before us, it would seem to follow clearly, \nthat there are grounds for it in the human constitution. \nA re-liance on any principle whatever, so firm and general \nas is here exhibited, is not likely to be accidental. And \nwhen We inquire what these grounds are, we shall not fail \nto come to the conclusion, that the proposition in question \nis supported by an original intimation or feeling, which \nis utterly inseparable from our mental nature, and which \nis made knovvn to us by consciousness alone. \n\nBut some will ask, Is it certain, that we cannot arrive \nat this truth by a process of reasoning ? \xe2\x80\x94 And in rieference \nto this inquil\'y, we see no ground for dissenting from the \nfollowing remarks of Dr. Reid, which will appear the \nbetter founded, the more they are examined. Speaking \non this subject, he says, " I am afraid, we shall find the \nproof by direct reasoning extremely difficult, if not alto- \ngether impossible. I know of only three or four argu- \nments, that have been urged by philosophers, in the way \nof abstract reasoning, to prove, that things, which begin to \nexist, must have a cause. One is offered by Mr. Hobbes, \nanother by Dr. Samuel Clarke, another by Mr. Locke. \nMr. Hume in his Treatise of Human Nature has examin- \ned them all ; and, in my opinion, has showji, that they \ntake for granted the thing to be proved ; a kind of false \nreasoning, which men are very apt to fall into, when they \nattempt to prove what is self-evident."^ \n\nThe feeling or belief, therefore, which is implied in the \nproposition, that there is no beginning or change of exis- \ntence without a cause, is an original one, directly resulting \nfrom our nature. Still it is in our power to give some \naccount of the circumstances, in which it arises. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 25. Occasions of the origin of the primary truth of ef- \nJects and causes. \n\nThe mind embraces the elementary truth, which we \nare \'considering, at a very early period. Looking round \nupon nature, which we are led to do more or less from the \ncommeticement of our being,\xc2\xbbwe find every thing in mo- \n\n*Reicl\'s Intellectual Powers, Essay VI. \n\n\n\nPRIMARY TRUTHS. 4S \n\ntion. Non-existence is converted into life; and new forms \nare imparted to what existed before- The human mind, \nwhich is essentially active and curious, constantly con- \ntemplates the various phenomena, which come under its \nnotice ; observing not \'only the events and appearances \nthemselves, but their order in point of time, their suc- \ncession. And it is led in this way to form the belief, (not \nby deduction but from its o\\^i active nature,) that every \nnew existence and every change of existence are preceded by \nsomething, without which they could not have happened. \n\nUndoubtedly the notion, as in many other cases, is \ncomparatively weak at first, but it rapidly acquires unal- \nterable growth and strength ; so much so that the mind \napplies it without hesitation to every act, to every event, \nand to every finite being. And thus a foundation is laid \nfor numberless conclusions, having a relation to whatever \nhas happened in time past. It is true, that the verbal \nproposition, by which our belief in this case is expr-essed, \nis not always, nor even generally brought forward and \nstated in our reasonings on the- past, but it is always im- \nplied. \n\nThis primary truth is an exceedingly important one. \nBy its aid the human mind retains a control over the ages \nthat are gone, and subordinates them to its own purposes. \nIt is susceptible in particular of a moral and religious appli- \ncation. Let this great principle be given us, and we are \nable to track the succession Of sequences upward, advan- \ncing from one\' step to another, until we find all things \nmeeting together in one self-^xietent and unchangeable \nhead and fountain of being. But there it stops. The \nprinciple will not apply to God, since He differs from eve- \nry thing else, which is the object of thought, in being an \nexistence equally without change and without beginning. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 26. Matter and mind have uniform and fixed laws. \n\nIt is ftecessary to assume also particularly in connection \nwith the reasoning power, that matter and mind have uni~ \nform and permanent laws. \n\nThis assumption, as well as the preceding, is accordant \n\n\n\n44. IMPLIED OR \n\nwith the common belief of mankind. All men believe, \nthat the setting sun will ariseagain at the appointed hour ; \nthat the decaying plants of autumn will revive in spring, \nthat the tides of ocean will continue to heave as in times \npast, and the streams and rivers to flow in their courses. \nIf they doubted, they would not live and act, as they are \nnow seen to do . \n\nThis belief in the uniformity \xc2\xa7ind permanency of the \nlaws of nature does not arise at \'once ; but has its birth at \nfirst in some particular instance ; then in others, till it be- \ncomes of universal application. In the first, instance the \nfeeling in question, which y^e express in various ways by \n\xe2\x80\xa2the terms, anticipation, faith, expectation, belief, and the \nlike, is weak and vacillating ; but it gradually acquires \nsti\'ength and distinctness. And yet this feeling, so imporr \ntant in its appliciations, is the pure work of nature ; it is \nnot taught men, but is produced within them; the necessa- \nry and infallible product and growth of our mental being ; \na sort of unalienable gift of the Almighty to every man, \nwoman, and child : arising in the soul with as much cer- \ntainty and as little mystery as the notions, expressed by \nthe words, power, wisdom, truth, ordev, or other elemen- \ntary states of the mind. It is true, it is an expectation \nor belief, directed to a particualr object, and, therefore, is \nnot easily susceptible of being expressed by a single term, \nas in the case of the ideas just referred to ; but the circum- \nstance of its being expressed by a circumlocution does not \nrender the feeling itself less distinct or real than others. \xe2\x80\x94 \nAs, therefore, the strong faith, which men entertain, in \nthe continuance of the laws of creation, is .the natural and \ndecisive offspring of that mental constitution, which God \nhas given us, there is good ground for assuming the truth \nof that, to which this faith relates, and%to regard it as a \nprinciple in future inquiries, that matter and mind are gov- \nerned by uniform laws. \n\nIt may be further added, that it is not necessary to call \nthe belief, which is at the foundation of this assumption, \neither an intuitive perception or an instinct, as some have \njclone, but merely a thought, an idea, a state of the mind ; \n\n\n\nPRIMARY TRUTHS. 45 \n\nsince the oiUy difference between this, and expectation or \nbelief in other cases, results from the nature of the object, \ntowards which it is directed, and the occasionsj on which \nit arises ; and does not concern the nature of the feeling it- \nself. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 27. This primary truth not founded on reasoning. \n\n\' But perhaps it is again objected, that we can arrive at \nthe great truth under consideration without assuming it as \nsomething ultimate, as something resulting from our consti- \ntution ; and that nothing more is wanting in order to arrive \nat it, than a train of reasoning. \xe2\x80\x94 The sun, it is said, rose \nto-day, therefore he will rise to-morrow : Food nourished \nme to day, therefore it will do the same to-morrow ; \nThe fire burnt me once, therefore it will again. \n\nBut it demands no uncommon sagacity to perceive, \nthat something is here wanting, and that a link in the \nchain of thought must be supplied, in order to make it \ncohere. The mere naked fact, that the sun rose to-day, \nwithout any thing else being connected with it affords not \nthe least ground for the inference, that it will rise again ; \nand the same may be said of all similar instances. Now \nthe link, which is wanting in order to bind together the \nbeginning and the end in such arguments as have been re- \nferred to, is the precise assumption, which has been made, \nand which is held to be as reasonable as it is necessary, \nbecause if is founded on an acknowledged, universal, and \nelementary feeling of our nature. And we may here af- \nfirm wdth perfect confidence, that, without making this \nassumption, the power of reasoning cannot deduce a sin- \ngle general inference, cannot arrive at so much as one gen- \neral conclusion either in matter or mind. \n\nBut the moment we make the assumption, a vast foun- \ndation of knowledge is laid. Grant us this, (to which we \nare fully entitled by virtue of that elementary belief, which \nthe Author of our being has uniformly called forth in the \nhuman mind in his appointed way,) that nature is uniform \nin her laws ; then give us the fact, that food nourished us \nto-day, or that the sun rose to-day, or any other fact of \n\n\n\n46 IMPLIED OR \n\nthe kind, and it follows with readiness and cei\'tainty, that \n\nwhat has once been will be again. The principle pf the \n\npermanency and uniformity of the laws of nature is some- \nthing antecedent to reasoning and not subsequent to it ; \nsomething beyond reasoning and not dependent on it ; \none of its substantial and magnificent columns. \n\nRemark. The above mentioned primary truth and \nthat of the preceding section are in fact the same. They \nare different only in being the two great ai>d equal sections \nof a principle, which has no limits but those of the uni- \nverse and eternity. In other words, one of them has ex- \nclusive relation to the past ; the other to the future ; the \nformer to that which has been, and the latter to that which \nwill be. And hence as the human mind cannot readily \ncontemplate them under one point of view, they are for \nthat reason considered separately. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 28. Of the distinction heticeen primary and ultimate truths. \n\nSuch propositions or truths, as are here called prima- \nry, are sometimes spoken- of as ultimate ; nor is this last \nepithet improperly applied to them. But there seems, \nnevertheless, good reason for proposing the following dis- \ntinction, viz. Primary truths may be always regarded as \nultimate, but not all ultimate truths are primary. Prima- \nry truths are such as are necessarily implied in the mere \nfact of the existence of the mind and of its operations, par- \nticularly those of reasoning ; and being not only the ne- \ncessary, but among the earliest products of the under- \nstanding, may also properly be called ultimate. But we \nalso apply the epithet, ultimate, to those general truths, \nfacts, or laws in our intellectual economy, which are as- \ncertained by the examination and comparison of many \nparticulars, and which are supposed to be unsusceptible of \nany further generalization. \n\nFor instance, when the rays of light reach the retina of \nthe eye, and inscribe upon it the picture of some external \nobject, there immediately follows that state of the mind, \nwhich we call sight or visual perception. \' Wh^n the men- \ntal exercises of whatever kind are frequently repeated, we \n\n\n\nPRIMARY TRUTHS. 47 \n\nfind the general result, that they acquire facility or strength. \n\xe2\x80\x94 Again, when we behold certain appearances in the ex- \nternal world, such as green ftelds, "enriched with rivulets, \nand ornamented with flowers and trees, there immediate- \nly exists within us that pleasurable feeling, which is term- \ned an emotion of beauty. Supposing ourselves to have \n\ncome in such cases as these, as Mr. Locke says, "to the \nlength of our tether," and to be incapable of making any \nfurther analysis, we call such truths, facts, or laws, ultimate. \nFor the existence of these ultimate truths or laws we can \ngive no other reason than this, that we are so formed-, and \nthat they are permanent and original characteristics of the \nmind. All the inquiries, which we are hereafter to make, \nwill continually imply the ejcistence of such ultimate or \noriginal laws, and it will be one great object to ascertain \n\nwhat are truly such. But as the actual knowledge of \n\nthese general facts is not an absolute prerequisite to the \nconduct of life, and in particular as it is not necessarily^ \nantecedent to the exercise of the reasoning faculty, we \ncannot call them primary in the same sense, in which that \nterm has been applied to certain iaqts in our constitution \nalready mentioned. \n\n\n\nmm\'^A^ wm^^L\'^^^wm"^, \n\n\n\nPART FIRST. \n\n\n\nIMMATERIALITY \n\n\n\nAND \n\n\n\nGENERAL LAWS OF THE MIND. \n\n\n\nCHAPTER FIRST. \n\n\n\nIMMATERIALITY OF THE MIND. \n\n\xc2\xa7.29. Of certain frivolous inquiries concerning the nature of \n\nmind. \n\nHaving briefly disposed of those topics, which may \nproperly be deemed auxiliary and introductory to the main \ninquiry, we are now ready to enter more directly and de- \ncisively into the consideration of our mental being. All \nmen may well be supposed desirous of learning, as far forth \nas possible, the true and exact nature and state of the \nsoul ; and without question it is altogether proper to at- \ntempt to satisfy this desire. But it becomes necessary, in \nentering into this somewhat difficult subject, to intimate at \nthe outset the importance of guarding against an undue \ntendency to speculation, and of excluding such topics as \nevidently do not admit of any satisfactory results. It was \nthe fault of the Schoolmen to indulge in such unfathoma- \nble discussions ; and the unfavorable decision, which sub- \nsequent ages have pronounced on their laborious efforts, \nshould remain a warning to others. It is perhaps neces- \nsary to mention some of the speculations, which are here \nI\'eferred to, in order that each one may judge for himself \nof the probable utility of entering into them . Ahiong oth- \ner things they are understood to have attempted, with \nmuch ostentation and with no small effort of inquiry, to \nascertain the mode of the soul\'s existence ; the distinction \nbetween its existence and its essence ; whether its essence \n\n\n\n62 IMMATERIALITY OF THE MIND. \n\nmight subsist, when it had no actual existence ; and what \nare the qualities of the soul, considered as a non-entity. \n\nIt requires no deep reflection to conjecture the folly of \nthese inquiries, and of others of not much greater reason- \nableness and importance ; and if it were otherwise, the \npoint must now be considered as sufficiently settled by the \nliterary history of the Grecian sects, and particularly of \nthe Scholastic ages. There are, however, other points, \nconnected with the nature of the soul, which we might be \nculpable in declining to consider ; and in particular that of \nits immateriality. This is a subject, which for various \nreasons cannot wisely be dispensed with. We ought not \nto exalt our nature, at the expense of the truth ; but noth- \ning less than the truth at least should ever induce us to as- \nsign to it a low and degrading estimate. If it be true, as \nAddison with his usual felicity has remarked, that one of \nthe best springs of generous and worthy actions is the hav- \ning generous and worthy thoughts of ourselves, then sure- \nly, whether the soul be formed of matter or not, is a great \ninquiry. \n\n\xc2\xa7.30. Origin and application cfthe terms, material and im- \nmaterial. \n\nIf we cannot assert directly and positively what the \nmind is,we may at least approximate to a more intimate ac- \nquaintance with it, by attempting to evince, and illustrate \nits immateriality. But this term itself, and its opposite \nare first to be inquired into. \n\nThe words material and immaterial are relative ; \nbeing founded on the observation of the presence, or of \nthe absence of certain qualities. \n\nWhy do we call a piece of wood or of iron material ? \nIt is because we notice in them certain qualities, such as \nextension, divisibility, impenetrability, and colour. And \nin whatever other bodies we observe the presence of these \nqualities, we there apply the term. The term immate- \nrial, therefore, by the established use of the language and \nits own nature, it being in its etymology the opposite of \n\n\n\nIMMATERIALITY OF THE MIND. 53 \n\nthe other, can be applied only in those cases, where these \nqualities are not found. \n\nHence we assert the mind to be immaterial, because in \nall oar knowledii^e of it we have noticed an ntter absence \nof those qualities, which are acknowledged to be the \nground of the application of the opposite epithet. The \nsoul undoubtedly has its qualities or properties ; but not \nthose, which have been spoken of. Whatever we have \nbeen conscious of and have observed within us, our thought, \nour feeling, remembrance, and passion are evidently and \nutterly diverse from what is understood to be included \nunder the term materiality. \n\nSuch is the origin of these two terms, and the ground \nof the distinction between them. And thus explained, \nthey can hardly fail to be understood. We may, therefore, \nnow proceed to state the evidence of the actual existence \nof that distinction between mind and matter, which is ob- \nviously implied in every application of them. In other \nwords, we are to attempt to show, that the soul is not \nmatter, and that thought and feeling are not the result \nof material organization. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 31. Difference between mind and matter shown jrom \nlanguage. \n\nIs it a fact, that the being or existence, called the soul, \nis distinct and different from that existence, which we call \nMATTER?\xe2\x80\x94 We have already remarked on the propriety of \nsometimes referring to the structure of languages, in order \nto illustrate our mental nature ; and in respect to the ques- \ntion now before us, we are warranted in saying, that Lan- \nguage in general is one proof of such a disfinction. In the \nlast section, we saw the use of certain terms in our own \nlanguage, and the grounds of it. All other languages, as \nas well as our own, have names and epithets, distinctly ex- \npressive of the two existences in question. This circum- \nstance, when we consider, that the dialects of men are on- \nly their thoughts and feelings embodied as it were, may \n|)e regarded as a decisive proof, that the great body of \n\n\n\n54 IMMATERIALITY OF THE MIND. \n\nmankind believe in both, and of course believe in a well \nfounded distinction between them. \n\nThat such is the belief of men generally, as clearly evin- \nced by the structure of languages and in various other \nways, will not probably be denied. It is a matter too ev- \nident to permit us to anticipate a denial. When there- \nfore, we take into view that there are grounds of belief \nfixed deeply and originally in our constitution, and that, \n. in their general operation, they must be expected to lead \nto truth, and not to error, we are unable to harbour the \nopposition, that men are deceived and led astray in this \nopinion ; that they so generally and almost universally \nbelieve in the existence of what in point of fact does not \nexist. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 22 Their different nature evinced by their respective \nproperties. \n\nAgain, the distinction between mind and matter is shown \nby the difference in the qualities and properties, which \nmen agree in ascribing to them respectively. \xe2\x80\x94 The prop- \nerties of matter are extension, hardness, figure, solidity, \nand the like. The properties of mind are thought, feel- \ning, volition, reasoning, the passions. The phenomena, \nexhibited by matter and mind, are not only different in \ntheir own naure, but are addressed to different parts of \nour constitution. We obtain a knowledge of material \nproperties, so far as it is direct and immediate, by means \nof the senses ; but all our direct knowledge of the nature \nof the mental phenomena is acquired by consciousness. \n\nEvery one knows that the phenomena in question are \nnot identical. *rhere is no sameness or similitude, for in- \nstancy, in what we express by the terms hardness and de- \nsire, solidity and hatred, imagination and extension. Hold- \ning it to be unphilosophical to ascribe attributes so different \nto the same subject, we conclude the subjects of them are \nnot the same. And accordingly we call the subjects of \none class of phenomena Mind, and that of the other Mat- \nter. \xe2\x80\x94 But there is one of the properties of matter, which, \n\n\n\nIMMATERIALITY OF THE MIND. 55 \n\nconsidered as applicable to mind, is worthy of a more \nparticular examination. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 33. The material quality of divisibility not existing in \nthe mind. \n\nThat^ there is an essential and permanent distinction \nbetween mind and matter, seems to follow in particular \nfrom an examination of that particular quality, expressed \nby the word, divisibility. All matter is divisible. How- \never small we may imagine any particle to be, we must \nstill suppose it to have a top and bottom, a right and left \nside ; and therefore, to admit of being divided into dif- \nferent parts. All extension, which is acknowledged to be \none of the primary qualities of matter, implies divisibil- \nity- \n\nNow if divisibility and extension be not ascribed to \nthe mind, all, that is contended for, is virtually conceded. \nBut if, on the other hand, either or both of these qualities, \nfar they reciprocally involve each other, belong to the \nmind, then the following difficulty arises. \xe2\x80\x94 If the mind it- \nself be susceptible of division, as all matter is, then still \nmore its thoughts and feelings may be thus divided. But \nthis is contrary to all our consciousness ; and conscious- \nness is the only means or instrument, which we can di- \nrectly employ in obtaining a knowledge of the mind. No \nman is ever conscious of a half, or a quarter, or a third \nof a hope, joy, sorrow, remembrance, or volition. In \ndeed if the soul were separable into parts, one part might \nbe filled with joy, and another with sorrow at the same \ntime ; one part might be occupied with a mathematical \ndemonstration, and another in framing a poem or a ro- \nmance. \n\nWe may possess, at different times, different mental \nstates both in kind and degree ; but, however our feel- \nings, when occuring at successive and different periods, \nmay differ from each other in these respects, our conscious- \nness never fails to ascribe to them individually an unity or \noneness. And the unity, which we ascribe to the attri- \nbutes or acts of the mind, still more we ascribe to the mind \n\n\n\n56 IMMATERIALITY OF THE MIND. \n\nitself. It is the whole soul, and not a moiety or fraction \nof it, which is the subject of its various feelings. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 34 . Opinions of Buffer on the souVs indivisibility. \n\nThe sentiments of Bufiier on this topic are so well ex- \npressed, and come from a writer of so much wisdomj that- \nthey seem to be suitably inserted in this place. \xe2\x80\x94 " I can- \nnot, he says, without a degree of folly imagine, that my \nbeing or what I call me can be divided ; for, were it pos- \nsible that this me could be divided in two, it would then \nbe me and not me at the same time : it would be so, as it is \nsupposed ; and would not be so, since each of the two par- \nties must then become independent of the other : one \nmight think, and the other not ; that is to say, I might \nthink and not think at the same time ; which destroys ev- \nery idea of me and of myself. \n\n\'* Besides, this we, and all other beings similar to this \nme, in whom unity is necessarily conceived, and where \nJ cannot suppose any division without destroying their \nvery essence, and every idea I can entertain of them, is \nwhat I call an immaterial or spiritual being ; so that, by \ndestroying its unity, you destroy its entire essence, and ev- \nery idea of its existence. Divide a thought, a soul, or a \nmind in two, and you have no longer either thought, soul, \nmind ? This indivisibility* is, moreover, evident to me \nby the interior sense of what I am ; and, by the efficacy \nof the same sentiment, I likewise learn that what I call me \nis not properly what I call my body, as this body may be \ndivided both from me, and in itself ; whereas, with regard \nto me, I cannot be divided from myself." \n\n\xc2\xa7. 35. The souVs immateriality indicated by the feeling of \nidentity. \n\nThere is another somewhat striking consideration, \nwhich may aid in evincing the immateriality of the soul. \nIt is well known that the materials, of which the human \nbody is composed, is constantly changing. The whole \nbodily system repeatedly undergoes in the course of the \nordinary term of man\'s life, a complete renovation, and \n\n\n\nimmatp:riality of the mind. 57 \n\nyet we ])ossess, during the whole of this period and amid \nthese utter changes of the bodily part, a conciousness of \nthe permanency, as well as of the unity of the mind. \n" This fact, remarks Mr. Stewart, is \'surely not a little \nfavourable to the supposition of mind being a principle \nessentially distinct from matter, and capable of existing \nwhen its connection with the body is dissolved. \n\nTruly if the soul, like the body, were made up of par- \nticles of matter, and the particlcps w^ere in this case as in \nthe other, always changing, we should be continually rov- \ning, as an old writer expresses it, and sliding away from \nourselves, and should soon forget what we once were. \nThe new soul, that entered into the same place, would not \nnecessarily enter into the possession of the feelings, con- \nsciousness, and knowledge of that, which had gone. And \nhence we rightly infer, from an identity in these respects? \nthe identity or continued existence of the subject, to which \nsuch feelings, consciousness, and knowledge belong. And \nas there is not alike identity or continued existence of the \nmaterial part, we may infer again, that the soul is distinct \nfrom matter. \n\n\xc2\xa7. S6. The material doctrine makes man an automaton or \nmachine. \n\nThe doctrine, that thought is the result of material \norganization, and that the soul is not distinct from the body, \nis liable also to this no small objection, that it makes the \nsoul truly and literally a machine. If what we term mind \nbe in truth matter, it is of course under the same influ- \nences. But matter, iu all its movements and combinations, \nis known to be subject to a strict and inflexible direction, \nthe origin of which is exteriour to itself. The material \nuniverse is truly an automaton, experiencing through all \ntime the same series of. motions, in obedience to &ome \nhigh and authoritative intelligence ; and is so entirely sub- \nject to iixed laws, that we can express in mathematical \nformulas not only the state of large bodies, but of a drop \nof water or of a ray of light ; estimating minutely ex- \ntension and quantity, force, velocity, and resistance. \n\n\n\n^3 IMMATERIALITY OF THE MIND. \n\nIt is not thus with the human mind. That the mind \nhas its laws h true ; but it knows what those laws are ; \nwhereas matter does not. This makes a great difference. \nMatter yields a blind and unconscious obedience ; but the \nmind is able to exercise a foresight ; to place itself in new \nsituations ; to subjeet itself to new influences, and thus \ncontrol in a measure its own laws. In a word, mind is free; \nwe have the best evidence of it, that of our consciousness. \nMatter is a slave ; we learn that from all our observation \nof it. It does not turn to the right or left ; it does not \ndo this or that as it chooses ; but the subject of an over- \npowering allotment, it is borne onward to the appointed \nmark by an inflexible destiny. \xe2\x80\x94 If these views be correct, \nwe see here a new reason for not confounding and identi- \nfying these two existences. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 37. JVb exact correspondence between the mental and the \nbodily state. \n\nThe train of thought in the last section naturally leads \nus to remark further, that there is an absence of that pre- \ncise correspondence between the mental and bodily state, \nwhich would evidently follow from the admission of ma- \nterialism. Those, who make thought and feeling the re- \nsult of material organization, commonly locate that or- \nganization in the brain. It is there the great mental ex- \nercises, in the phraseology of materialists, are secreted, or \nare developed, or are brought out in some other myste- \nrious way, by means of purely physical combination and \naction. Hence, such is the fixed and unalterable nature of \nmatter and its results, if the brain be destroyed, the soul \nmust be destroyed also ; if the brain be injured, the soul is \nproportionally injured; if the material action be disturbed, \nthere must be an exactly corresponding disturbance of the \nmental action. The state of the mind, on a fair interpreta- \ntion of this doctrine, is not less dependent on that of the \nbody, than the complicated motions of the planetary sys- \ntem are on the law of gravitation. But this view, wheth- \ner we assign the residence of the soul to the brain or to \nany other part of the bodily system, does not appear to be \n\n\n\nIMMATERIALITY OF THE MIND. 59 \n\naccordant with fact. It is not only far from being appro- \nved and borne out, but it is directly contradicted by well \nattested experience in a multitude of cases. \n\n38. \xc2\xa7. Evidence of this want of exact correspondence. \n\nWe are desirous not to be misapprehended here. We \nreadily grant, that the mind, in our present state of exis- \ntence, has a connection with the physical system, and par- \nticularly with the brain. It is, moreover, obviously a \nnatural consequence of this, that when the body is injur- \ned, the mental power and action are in some degree affect- \ned ; and this we find to be agreeable to the facts, that \ncome within our observation. But it is to be particular- \nly noticed, that the results are just such as might be ex- \npected from a mere connection of being ; and are evident- \nly not such as might be anticipated from an identity of \nbeing. \n\nIn the latter case the material part could never be af- \nfected, whether for good or evil, without a result precise- \nly corresponding in the mind. But in point of fact this \nis not the case. The body is not unfrequently injured, \nwhen the mind is not so ; and on the other hand the soul \nsometimes apjpears to be almost entirely prostrated, when \nthe body is in a sound and active state. How many per- \nsons have been mutilated in battle in every possible \nway, short of an utter destruction of animal life, and yet \nhave discovered at such times a more than common great- \nness of mental power! How often, when the body is not \nonly partially weakened, but is resolving at the hour of \ndeath into its original elements, and possesses not a single \ncapability entire,, the mind, remaining in undiminished \nstrength, puts forth the energy and beauty of past days ! \n\nWe are now speaking of injuries to our corporeal \npart and of bodily debility in general, but if we look to \nto the brain in particular, that supposed strong tower and \nfortress of the materialists, we shall find ourselves fuily \nwarranted in an extension of these views there. Accord- \ning to their system the soul, (that is, what the matei^ial- \nists call the soul or what they substitute for it,) possesses \n\n\n\n60 IMMATERIALITY OF THE MIND. \n\nnot merely a bodily habitation, but a fixed and local habita- \ntion in some selected part of the body and they are under- \nstood to be agreed upon the brain, as the particular place \nof its residence. But the objection to their views, which \nin its general form has already been made, exists here in \nfull strength. If that organization, which they hold to re- \nsult in thought and fueling, have its abode in the brain, it \nmust be diffused through the whole of that organ, or lim- \nited to some particular part. But it appears from an ex- \ntensive collection of well authenticated facts, that every \npart of the brain has been injured, and almost every part \nabsolutely removed, but without permanently affecting the \nintellectual and sentient powers. \' \'Every part of that struc- \nture, says Dr. Ferriar in a learned Memoir, the statements \nof which have not, as far as we know, been controverted, \nhas been deeply injured or totally destroyed, without im- \npeding or changing any part of the process of thought." \nHe remarks again, after bringing forward a multitude of \nundoubted facts as follows ; " On reviewing the whole of \nthis evidence, I am disposed to conclude, that as no part \nof the brain appears essentially necessary to the existence \nof the intellectual faculties, and as the whole of its visible \nstructure has been materially changed, without affecting \nthe exercise of those faculties, something more than the \ndiscernible organization must be requisite to produce the \nphenomena of thinking.\' \n\n\xc2\xa7.39. Comparative state of the mind and body in dreaming. \n\nThe views of the two preceding sections receive some \nconfirmation from the comparative state of the mind and \nbody in dreaming. \xe2\x80\x94 In sound sleep the senses sink into a \nstate of utter and unconscious sluggishness ; the inlet to \nevery thing external, as far as we can judge, is shut up ; the \nthe muscles become powerless, and every thing in the body \nhas the appearance of death. It is true, the soul appears \n\n\n\n* See the Argument against the doctrine of Materialism, address- \ned to Thomas Cooper, Esq. by Dr. John Ferriar, and published in \nthe 4th volume of Memoirs of the Manchester Philosophical Society. \n\n\n\nIMMATERIALITY OF THE MIND. 61 \n\nfor tlie most part to be fallen to a like state of imbecility ; \nbut this is not the case in its dreams, which are known to \ntake up no small portion of the hours of sleep. At such \ntimes it does not appear to stand in need of the same re- \npose with the body ; otherwise it would seek, and pos- \nsess it. Nor is its action to be considered an inefficient \nand sluggish one ; which might afford ground for the con- \njecture, that the half awakened body had partially liber- \nated and revived the fettered and extinguished mind. On \nthe contrary, when the powers of the body are utterly \nsuspended, the soul is often exceedingly on the alert ; it \nrapidly passes from subject to subject, attended sometimes \nwith sad, and sometimes with raised and joyful affec- \ntions. \n\nBut this is not all ; often in the hours of sleep the in- \ntellect exhibits an increased invention, a quickened and \nmore exalted energy in all its pow^ers. Many writers have \nremarked, that the conclusions of abstruse investigations \nhave been suggested to them at such times. Not a few \nwould conclude themselves persons of genius, if they could \npronounce the arguments and the harangues in the awak- \nened soberness of the morning, which they had framed in \nthe visions of the night. So frequent and well known is \nthis quickened mental action, that a certain writer has \nventured to assert, with as much truth at least as is com- \nmonly found in antitheses, that the ligation of sense is the \nliberty of reason.* \n\n\xc2\xa7. 40. The great works of genius an evidence of immateriality. \n\nBut there is one more train of reflection, ,whiGh may \nhelp to throw light on this subject. It is not enough, if \n\n\n\n* This view of the soul has been taken by various writers. Ad- \ndison, who entertained ennobhng- sentiments of pur nature, has \ndwelt upon it at some length. He often touches on other topics, \nconnected with the exercises of the soul ; but he does it with such \nexceeding ease and grace ; we enter so readily into the train of his \nreflections ; that we are apt to allow him less originality and depth, \n\nthan he merits. See Numbers of the Spectator Hi, 487, 554, \n\n593, &c. \n\n\n\n62 IMMATERIALITY O\'F THE MIND. \n\nwe would fully understand its nature, to contemplate the \nsoul merely in seasons of bodily prostration and sickness, \nin suffering, and in the hour of death. However capable \nthe mind may be of discovering the greatness of its pow- \ners under these pressures and disadvantages, it would be \ntoo much to expect at such times a continued effort and \nelevation. And yet it is only a continuance of elevated \neffort, which can secure the highest results. When the \nsenses are unclosed, when the powers of the physical \nsystem are unchained throughout, and are healthy and \nactive, the human mind may be expected with fuller con- \nfidence to erect those vast creations, which we cannot but \nregard as an evidence of its purely spiritual nature. Re- \nsults so ennobling are not congenial with what we know \nof matter. It is almost as revoltinop to our feelinors as \nour understanding ; to refer those works, which have \nstood the test of ages, to no higher origin, than what Mr. \nHume calls a little agitation of the brain, and others would \ncall, with but little difference of meaning, a secretion or \ndevelopement either of the brain, or of organization in \nsome other material part. \n\nAmong the numerous efforts, which are now referred \nto, it is difficult to make a selection. Many of them will \noccur of themselves. Standing forth, amid the succes- \nsions of time, a monumental mark, they have as yet never \n\nfailed to attract the gaze and wonder of men. What \n\nframed the demonstrations of Euclid.\'^ The mind. Where \nwas the authorship of the political institutions of Solon and \nLycurgus, and of that still greater effort of political wis- \ndom the American Constitution.\'\' In the mind. Was it \nthe body or the soul of Homer, the intellect or the brain \nof the blind old bard, that infused the breath of immortal- \nity into the Iliad and Odyssey ? What gave birth to the \nvast and perfect combinations of The Jerusalem Delivered, \nthe Fairy Queen, and the Paradise Lost ? Where shall we \nlook for the origin of the Philippics of the Ancients, or in \nlater times of the speeches of Fox, and of the orations of \nBossuet? \n\nIn thes3 cases, and in all others, where human genius \n\n\n\nIMMATERIALITY OF THE MIND. 63 \n\nhas triumphed in like manner, there is one short answer ; \nman has an intelligent soul ; man possesses an active and \ncreative mind ; in the words of Holy Writ, there is in \nman a spirit, and the inspiration of the Almighty hath giv- \nen understanding. Such we suppose to be the answer \n\nof mankind, of common sense, and of human\' nature, as \nwell as of the Bible. It is an answer, which matter would \nnever give, and which is itself a proof of the spirituality \nand nobleness it asserts. Giving ourselves up to the influ- \nence of the vast conceptions, embodied in the works and \ninstitutions of human genius, we find it as difficult to at- \ntribute them to a purely material cause as, it is to adopt \nthe theory of the atheist, and ascribe the beautiful and \ncomplicated machinery of the universe to a fortuitous con- \ncurrence of atoms. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 41 . Of the immortality of the soul. \n\nWith the subject of the immaterial nature of the soul, \nthat of its immortality is closely connected. We are, \ntherefore, naturally led to present a few suggestions on \nthis last topic, although it will not be necessary to enter in- \nto it with much minuteness. \xe2\x80\x94 We suppose the soul to be \nimmortal, or in other w^ords to have its existence continu- \ned beyond the present life,because it is immaterial . Those, \nwho hold that thought and feeling are in some way the \ndirect result of material organization, admit, that the soul, \nor rather what they speak of as the soul, dies with the \nbody; and certainly they would be inconsistent with them- \nselves, if they did not do so. Their theory by their own \nadmission imperiously requires, that man\'s noble and ca- \npacious intellect shall dissolve and scatter itself in the \nashes of the grave ; lost and annihilated, until it shall be \ncreated anew, if that should ever happen. But the oppo- \nsite system, which we have endeavored to show to be \nthe true one, holds out a different view of the destiny of \nour spiritual nature. It is true, the immortal existence of \nthe soul does not follow with absolute certainty from the \nmere fact of its immateriality ; but it is at least rendered \nin some degree probable. Certainly we have no direct \n\n\n\n64 IMMATERIALITY OF TliE MIND. \n\nevidence of the discontinuance of the soul\'s existence, as \nwe have of that oT the body. What takes place at death \nis only a removal of the soubs action from our notice, but \nnot, as far as we know, a cessation and utter extinction of \nit. The supposition, therefore, is a reasonable one, that \nthe soul will continue to exist, merely because it exists at \npresent, inasmuch as its immaterial nature does not require \nthe suspension of its existence at death, and as we have at \n\nleast no direct evidence of such an event. Death, in the \n\nlanguage of Mr. Stev\\art, only lifts up the veil, which con- \nceals from our eyes the invisible world. It annihilates the \nmaterial universe to our senses, and prepares our minds for \nsome new and unknown state of being. \n\nIn the second place, considering man, as he is, to be a \nmoral and accountable being, we feel as if his destiny were \nnot fulfilled in the present life. It would unsettle all our \nhopes, trust, and happiness, if we did not believe in a great \nmoral plan, the completion of which is as certain as the \npermanency of the omniscient Being, from whom it origi- \nnated. But its completion in the present state is by no \nmeans evident ; vice and virtue are here conflicting ; and \nthe eye of moral arid religious faith looks anxiously for- \nward to some future allotment, where the one shall meet \nits rebuke, and the other be crowned v/ith its reward. \nOar present situation, considered in amoral point of view, \nstrongly suggests, and even demands for the soul an here- \nafter. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 42. Remarks of Addison on the souVs immortality. \n\nFurthermore there is something in the expanding and \nprogressive nature of the soul, which strongly favors the \nsupposition of its future and even unlimited duration. \nThis important thought we find dwelt upon in the writ- \nings of Addison in the following terms. " How can it \n\nenter into the thoughts of man, that the soul, which is ca- \npable of such immense perfection, and of receiving new \nimprovements to all eternity, shall fall away into nothing \nalmost as soon as it is created ? Are such abilities made \nfor no purpose ? A brute arrives at a point of perfection \n\n\n\nIMMATERIALITY OF THE MIND, 6& \n\nthat he can never pass : in a few years he has all the en- \ndowments he is capable of; and were he to live ten thou- \nsand more, would be the same thing he is at present. \nWere a human soul thus at a stand in her accomplishments, \nwere her faculties to be full blown, and incapable of far- \nther enlargements, I could imagine it might fall away in- \nsensibly, and drop at once into a state of annihilation. But \ncan we believe a thinking being, that is in a perpetual pro- \ngress of improvements, and travelling on from perfection \nto perfection, after having just looked abroad into the \nworks of its Creator, and made a few discoveries of his \ninfinite goodness, wisdom, and power, must perish at her \nfirst setting. out, and in the very beginning of her inquir- \nies ? " (Spectator, No. 111.) \n\nBut after all we must rest as to this point chiefly on \nRevelation. It is possible by various arguments to render \nthe immortality of the soul in a high degree probable, but \nwe do not profess to prove it beyond question ; for there \nis nothing necessarily and in its own nature eternal but God \nhimself. The permanency of \'created things does not de- \npend necessarily on their being material or immaterial, but \non the will of their Creator. If every star shines, and \nevery flower blooms by the will of God; it is not the less \ntrue, that every soul lives by the same will. We might, \ntherefore, remain in some degree of doubt on the subject \nof the soul\'s immortality, did not the scriptures convert \nour hopes and expectations into certainty. We are told, \nthat life and immortality, (which is only a Hebraistic \nmode of expression for immortality of life,) are brought to \nlight in the Gospel. \n\n\n\nCHAPTER SECOND. \n\n\n\nLAWS OF THE MIND IN GENERAL. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 43. Existence of laws even in material objects. \n\nIf it should be said in respect to the main argument of \nthe preceding chapter, that after all it is merely negative, \nand only assures us what the mind is not, without telling \nus what it is, we readily assent to this suggestion. And \nwe take this opportunity to repeat, what has been before \nintimated, our anxiety to avoid all inquiries, which may \nbe either obviously frivolous in themselves, or which will \nnecessarily, and from their very nature, elude the most \ncareful search. That the mind is an existence, altogether \ndistinct from what we term matter, was an accessible ques- \ntion, presenting a fair prospect of a satisfactory solution ; \nbut what the essence of the mind is, or what the mind is \nin itself, one man knows as much as another, all being \nequally ignorant. But it does not follow, because we are \nignorant of our mental nature in some respects, we .are, \ntherefore, ignorant in all. On the contrary, if we are un- \nable to penetrate into the interiour nature of the soul, we \ncan, nevertheless, mark its operations, its growth, its re- \nsults, and can distinctly point out some of the various \nlaws by which it is governed. It is this last topic, to \nwhich we are next to proceed. It seems proper, howev- \ner, before examining hiAVS in their connection with and \nin their goverwiment of the mental action, briefly to con- \nsider them in. their more obvious and general applica- \ntions. \n\n\n\nLAWS OF THE MIND IN GENERAL. 67 \n\nIt requires but a slight examination of those works, \nwhich the Creator has so abundantly spread around us, \nin order to satisfy ourselves, that every thing in nature \nhas its rules. The motion, expansion, increase, diminu- \ntion, and position of objects, and whatever else we ex- \npress when we speak of the changes they undergo, are \ncontrolled by determinate principles. There does not \nappear to be any exception, whatever objects we may turn \nour inquiries to. We see the truth of what has been said, \neven when we direct our attention to those parts of crea- \ntion, which make the least approach to life, symmetry, \nand beauty. There is a regularity discoverable in the \ncomposition and formation of rocks, and in their posi- \ntion ; and the same unchangeable rule, that holds the im- \nmense sun in his orbit, prescribes and sustains the condi- \ntion of the minute particles of air and water. In such \nother natural objects, as approach more nearly to symme- \ntry and life, we witness increased indications of order ; \nfor instance in the growth of plants and trees ; in the sep- \naration of the moisture, that is taken from the earth, and \nits distribution to the trunk .and rind, to the leaves, flow- \ners, and branches. But nothing more than this subjec- \ntion to some fixed rule, this regular order, is meant, when \nwe use the term Law, and whien we speak in particular of \nthe laws of nature. \n\nNor is this state of things otherwise than might be an- \nticipated. That there should be an arrangement and or- \nderly condition even of material things seems inevitably \nto result from the mere fact of the existence of a Creator, \nto whom they owe their origin. That higher and eifec- \ntive existence, which we denominate God, implies, in its \nvery elements, a pervading inspection, a sleepless and in- \nscrutable superintendence, w^hich looks upwards and down- \nward, within and around, wherever there is aught of time \nor space, of visible or invisible, of material or immate- \nrial. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 44. Objection from the apparent disorders in nature. \n\nIt is sometimes objected to this view of the connection \n\n\n\n68 LAWS OF THE MIND IN GENiCiiAi.. \n\nand order of nature, that many things happen by chance ; \nand it must undoubtedly be admitted, that such, in many \ncases is the appearance. Nevertheless this appearance is \nowing rather to the feebleness of our discerning powers, \nthan to any thing actually existing in the objects, towards \nwhich these powers are directed. In other words, it is to \nbe ascribed rather to the imperfections of the mind, than \nto the irregularities of nature. \n\nThe correctness of this solution of the difficulty in \nquestion may be inferred from the fact, that events, both \nnatural and moral, which appear accidental and matters of \nchance to one, are perceived by another, who has more \ninformation, to be subjected to the orderly influence of \nlaws. The man of science, merely in consequence of his \ndifferent mental position, often takes a very different view \nof the same object from the man, who is without scientific \nknowledge ; and what, in this respect, is true of individ- \nuals, compared with each other, may^equally well be said \nof the men of any particular age, compared with the men \nof a succeeding age. An ignorant generation will see mys- \ntery and danger, where an enlightened one will find nei- \nther. In the present age of the world an eclipse of the \nheavenly bodies is noticed without dismay, because it is \nregarded as one of the settled and permanent adjustments \nof nature ; but Tacitus has informed us, what surprise, \nwhat doubt, and horror such an event could inspire in the \ndays of Tiberius. A comet appeared in 1456 ; it was a \nperiod of great ignorance ; every man looked on his neigh- \nbour with fear and astonishment, as if this strange sign in \nthe heavens foreboded some great convulsion, some wreck \nof matter, or some subversion of empires. \xe2\x80\x94 But it so hap- \npened, that, in a subsequent age, this fearful visitant was care- \nfully watched and noted by the English astronomer Halley. \nBy means of his observations he not only proved, that it \nrevolved round the sun, but was able to show its identity \nwith the comets of 1531, 1607, and 1682 ; and of course \nthat the period of its revolution was about seventy five \nyears. He accordingly predicted, that it would return in \n1753 or the beginning of 1759, which proved true. \xe2\x80\x94 Since \n\n\n\nLAWS OF THE MIND. IN GENERAL. 69 \n\nthat time, the fears, that were, connected with the appear- \nance of these luminaries, no longer exist ; men look upon \nthem with different eyes ; they regard them. as permanent \nparts in the great arrangement and constitution of created \nthings ; not as the causes of terror and grief, but rather \nas the indications and proofs of infinite wisdom and \npower. \n\nAnd then extending this train of thought yet further, \nif we mount upward from the intelligent being, which we \ndenominate man, to those higher intelligences, which we \nknow to exist with only an imperfect l^nowledge of the \nmode of their existence, how many of the secrets of na- \nture may we suppose cleared up to them, which, yet re- \nmain mysterious to us ! The obscurity, that rests on cre- \nation, diminishes more and more, as it is exposed to \nthe investigation of minds of a higher and a higher grade, \nuntil we arrive at the mind of Omniscience, that embraces \nit with a glance, and every where beholds order, and truth, \nand harmony. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 45. Remarks of Montesquieu on laws. \n\nThese views do not profess to be novel ; it is of more \nimportance that they be found, true ; and it is some indi- \ncation, that they are so, that similar sentiments, and ex- \npressed with the characteristic terseness and vivacity of \nthat distinguished author, are found in the writings of \nMontesquieu. The passage is a fitting introduction to a \nWork, which with much reason is thought to have exert- \ned an influence on Political, hardly inferiour to that of \nLocke\'s Essay on Mental Philosophy. \n\n" Laws, in their most general signification, are the \nnecessary relations arising from the nature of things. In \nthis sense all beings have their laws, the Deity his laws, \nthe material world its law\'s, the intelligences superiour to \nman their laws, the beasts their laws, man his laws. \n\nThey who assert, that a blind fatality produced the vari- \nous effects we behold in this world, talk very absurdly ; for can \nany thing be more unreasonable than to pretend that a \nblind fatality could be productive of intelligent Beings } \n\n\n\n70 LAWS OF THE MIND IN GENERAL. \n\nThere is then a primitive reason ; and laws are the re- \nlations subsisting between it and different beings, arid the \nrelations of these to one another, \n\nGod is related to the universe as creator and preserver; \nthe laws by which he created all things, are those by which \nhe preserves them. He acts according to these rules, be- \ncause he knows them ; he knows them, because he made \nthem ; and he made them, because they are relative to his \nwisdom and power. \n\nSince we observe that the world, though formed by \nthe motion of matter, and void of understanding, subsists \nthrough so long a succession of ages, its motions must cer- \ntainly be directed by- invariable laws : and could we im- \nagine another world, it must also have constant rules, or \nit would inevitably perish." \n\n\xc2\xa7. 46. Of laws in relation to the mind. \n\nThe remarks on the subject of laws, which have thus \nfar been made, are of a general nature, although illustra- \nted hitherto by particular reference to the material world. \n\nIf it be true, that matter has its laws, still more \nshould we suppose, that the mind has ; if every vapour in \nthe atmosphere moves in relation to some general princi- \nple, it might naturally be expected, that all mental acts \nalso have their time, their condition, and their limits. \nAnd this conjecture is in various ways amply supported. \nIt could not long escape the notice of the inquisitive \ndisposition of men, that, whatever might be the fact in \nother things, there are rules and laws of conduct ; certain \ngeneral principles, by which the intercourse and duties of \nmen are regulated in all situations. The earliest of these, \nand such as were most general and necessarily antecedent \nto civil society, have been sought out, and embodied un- \nder the head of Natural Law. Then came the forma- \ntion of the body Politic, and with it such new enactments \nas were suited to this new order of things ; for man, wheth- \ner alone or with others, has never existed nor is he able to \nexist without the guidance of some fixed principles. \n\nThe laws, which we now refer to, may be called in \n\n\n\nLAWS OF THE MIND IN GENERAL. 71 \n\nsome sense exterior, inasmuch as they have special rela- \ntion to the duties of mankind, and their external conduct \nin general. But when, at a subsequent period, men turn- \ned their attention from the outward to the inward, they \nwere not long in clearly discovering the marks of an in- \nteriour uniformity and order ; they detected in every men- \ntal state a complete history, its beginning and progress, its \nrelations and end; and thus gradually became assured of a \nset of subjective laws, giving guidance and support to the \n\nmind itself. And it is these, which we are now more \n\nparticularly to attend to. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 47. Jllental laws may be divided into two classes. \n\n. The term Law, when applied to our mental nature, \nis merely a designation or statement of those circumstan- \nces, according to which the general action of the mind, \nand blie more definite exercise of its particular susceptibil- \nities are regulated. \xe2\x80\x94 If we are right in giving this account \nof mental laws, they naturally, although they may some- \ntimes approximate and even run into each other, resolve \nthemselves into two classes. \n\nThe first class are those, included in the first clause of \nthe above definition, viz. such as restrict and limit the gen- \neral action of the mind.\xe2\x80\x94 We find, w^hen we resolve our \ncomplex states of mind into their parts, that we at last ar- \nrive at certain elementary thoughts, beyond W\'hich we \ncannot proceed ; the nature of the mind itself will not per- \nmit it to go further. All those ultimate truths also, which \nwe come upon at almost every step in the mind\'s history, \nand which we are equally unable to explain and to analyze \nfurther, are to be reckoned among the permanently res- \ntrictive laws of our spiritual being. The same may be \nsaid of whatever can be ascertained to be necessary and \nexclusive conditions of the mind\'s action in the whole pro- \ngress of its inquiries, such as the well known and indis- \npensable conditions of time and space. \n\nThe second class are those, which regulate in particu- \nlar the separate susceptibilities of the mind ; such, for ex- \nample, as sustain and limit the associating principle, belief. \n\n\n\n72 LAWS OF THE MIND IN GENERAL. \n\nand reasoning. \xe2\x80\x94 The first class relate to the mind in gen- \neral, the second to its parts ; the first teach us, how far we \ncan go, the second, under what circumstances we can reach \nthe goal, which it is permitted to aim at ; but the nature \nof both will more fully appear in our subsequent inquiries. \n\n48. \xc2\xa7. Distinction between the susceptibilities and the laws \nof the mind. \n\nIt may conduce to the better understanding of this gen- \neral subject and of its numerous applications, to point out \nhere particularly the distinction between laws and suscep- \ntibilities. Although they haA^e sometimes been confound- \ned together, it has been owing to mere inadvertence, since \na distinction so clearly exists between them. This differ- \nence may be illustrated in the case of mental association. \n\nThe fact, that one state of mind is succeeded by anoth- \ner, that one idea calls up another, indicates a mental pow- \ner or susceptibility ; while the circumstances, whether \nmore or less general, under which the exercise of this sus- \nceptibility is regulated, are more commonly and properly \ntermed laws. The former mode of expression indicates \nthat inherent energy, sometimes known as the power or \nfaculty of association, which pervades and charact-erizes \nour mental nature ; the latter indicates the particular lim- \nits, within which this form of the soul\'s power is restrain- \ned and governed. \n\nAgain, what we term belief is undoubtedly a distinct \nstate of the mind, and of course implies the mental power \nor susceptibility of believing. But is is a matter sufficient- \nly well known, that this power is not exerted at all times, \nand under all circumstances ; in other words, one state of \nthings is followed bv belief, while another is not. Now \nLAWS OF BELIEF, in distinction from the power oi* suscep- \ntibility, are only general statements of those circumstances \nor perhaps more properly of those occasions, in which be- \nlief is found necessarily, and, as it were, from our very \nconstitution to exist. \n\n\n\nCHAPTER THIRD. \n\n\n\nLAWS THAT LIMIT THE MIND. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 49. Evidence of the general fact of the minors being limited. \n\nWe shall first consider the mind in those respects, in \nwhich its general action appears to be naturally and per- \nmanently limited. That there are such natural limitations \nand obstructions in the progress of knowledge, it is pre- \nsumed, will not be doubted. Every one must be con- \nscious of this, in some degree for himself; feeling, as we \ndo, from time to time the struggles within us, repressed \nand driven back by the embankments of our nature, like \nthe imprisoned bird, that beats the bars of its cage, and \nseeks flight in vain. As might be expected also, all lan- \nguages bear Avitness to this restricted intellectual ability ; \nfor we never fail to find in them abundance of such terms \nas these, unknowable, inconceivable, incomprehensi- \nble, IGNORANT, FOOLISH, and the like. Now we may be \nassured, that men would not have invented terms of this \ndescription, and in such numbers, unless they had been \nsatisfied of the existence of a sound and ample cause for \nthem. But it is not necessary to debate at length a point, \non which there can hardly be supposed to be a difference \nof opinion. \n\nBelieving, therefore, although there may be no end to \nthe mind\'s journey in the practicable and allotted direc- \ntion, that the pathways of knowledge are hedged up by \nimpassible" barriers in various places on the right hand and \n10 \n\n\n\n74 LAWS THAT LIMIT THE MIND. \n\nleft, it will be the object of the present chapter to ascertain \nsome of these limitations. And it may be added here, \nthat this is the precise topic, referred to in a former sec- \ntion, whieh Mr. Locke thought of so much practical im- \nportance, and which first led him to direct his powerful \nintellect to the systematic study of human nature. We \nenter, therefore, into this discussion with the twofold en- \ncouragement of its own obvious utility, and of that philo- \nsopher\'s weighty authority. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 50. Objection to this inquiry from the incompleteness of the \nmind^s history. \n\nNevertheless we are not ignorant of the objection, \nwhich is soiuetimes made even by those, who would be \ndisposed to admit the general correctness of what has been \nsaid, to entering at all into this subject : viz. that it is too \nearly a period in the mind\'s history to determine what are \nits boundaries, and what are not. The mind, it is said \nwith truth, is essentially active and inquisitive ; its own \nnature forbids its remaining stationary, but compels it, as \nit were, to make constant advances even on the present \ntheatre of being ; and hence it is contended, we are utter- \nly unable to foresee what depths it may fathom, what \nheights it may ascend, and what limits it may pass in fu- \nture times. Tliat there is some weight in this objection, \ncannot be denied ; but when rightly considered, it is valid \nonly in part. It may justly require us to be cautious in \nour investigations, but should not compel us to give them \nup altogether. \n\nWe do not find, that objections of this sort deterred \nLocke from undertaking this inquiry. How affecting it \nis, to hear a man of such vast capacity, compared with \nthe intellects of other men, acknowledging with the ut- \nmost simplicity and sincerity his mental weakness ! \'\' He, \nthat knows any thing, knows this in the first place, that \nhe need not seek long for instances of his ignorance. The \nmeanest and most obvious things, that come in^ our way,* \nhave dark sides, that the quickest sight cannot penetrate \ninto. The clearest and most enlarged understandings of \n\n\n\nLAWS THAT LIMIT THE MIND. 75 \n\nthinking men find themselves puzzled and at a loss in eve- \nry particle of matter." \n\nThe distinguished metaphysician, who expresses him- \nself in this humble way, ever sought the truth with the \ngreatest earnestness ; and what he noticed without, com- \nbined with what he felt within, sufficiently satisfied him, \nthat some obstacles in the way of the mind\'s progress, al- \nthough many might in the course of time be overcome, \nwould remain insurmountable. Nor has the progress of \nknowledge since his time shown that conclusion to be a \nmistaken one. On the contrary, the history of mental \nefforts in all past ages, from the beginning to the present \nperiod, have tended to confirm his opinion of the mind\'s \nrestricted power, and have shown, in some few instances \nat least, how far we may advance, and where our exertions \nare brought to a stand.* \n\n\xc2\xa7. 5l. The mind limited as to its knowledge of the essence \nor interiour nature of things. \n\nWe may sometimes find ourselves unable to describe \nthe laws, which restrict the general action and progress of \nthe mind, with so much precision as. we can those, which \nhave relation to its particular susceptibilities ; but there \n\n\n\n* The whole fourth book of Mr. Locke\'s Essay relates to grounds \nof belief and the limits of our capacities. There is some reason to \nbelieve also, from the account which he gives of the way, in which \nhe was led in these inquiries, that this book was the first written by \nhim. On this subject, Mr. Stewart, in his Historical Dissertation, \n(Pt. II, \xc2\xa7. 1,) has the following interesting remarks \xe2\x80\x94 " On com- \nparing the Essay on Human Understanding with the foregoing ac- \ncount of its origin and progress, it is curious to observe, that it is \nthe fourth\' and last book alone, which bears directly on the author\'s \nprincipal object. In this book, it is further remarkable, that there \nare few, if any, references to the preceding parts of the Sssay ; in- \nsomuch that it might have been published separately, without being- \nless intelligible than it is. Hence, it seems not unreasonable to \nconjecture , that it was the first part of the work in the or^er of \ncomposition, and that it contains those leading and fuadament^ \nthoughts which offered themselves to the author\'s mind, when he \nfirst began to reflect on the friendly conversation, which gave lise \n\n\n\n16 LAWS TH^T LIMIT THE MIND. \n\nare good grounds for saying in general terms, that the \nmind is in some way permanently limited as to its knowl- \nedge of the essence of objects. The word essence is un- \nderstood to express that interiour, but imperceptible con- \nstitution of things, which is the foundation of the various \nproperties and qualities that are perceived ; in other words, \nthat particular constitution, which all existences must be \nsupposed to have in themselves, independently of any \nthing and every thing oxternal. But Vv^hatever this may \nbe, either in the spiritual or material w^orld, no man \nknows it, no man understands it. \n\nA person may look on the outside of a watch or \nclock, and the visible part, the face and hands may indi- \ncate to him what was intended, viz. the hour and minute \nof the day. But although he may clearly apprehend \nthis, he may be altogether ignorant of the internal and in- \nvisible mechanism, on which the external and visible re- \nsult depends. And so in the material world we know the \noutward and sensible, while we are altogether shut out \nfrom that unsearchable eilicacy, on which the external \nagency depends ; and in the immaterial world we know \nthe properties and qualities, while we are ignorant of that \n\n\n\nto his philosophical researches. The inquiries in the first and sec- \nond books, which are of a much more ahstract, as well as scholas- \ntic nature, than the sequel of the work, probably opened gradually \non the author\'s mind, in proportion as he studied his subject with a \ncloser and more continued attention. They relate chiefly to the \norigin and to the technical classification of our ideas, frequently \nbranching out into collateral, and sometimes into digressive, discus- \nsions, without much regard to method or connection. The third \nbook, (by far the most important of the whole,) where the nature, \nthe use, and the abuse of language are so clearly and happily illus- \ntrated, seems, from Locke\'s own account, to have been a sort of af- \nter-thougJjf; and the tw^o excellent chapters on the Association of \nIdeas and on Enthusiasm (the former of which has contributed, as \nmuch as any thing else in Locke\'s writings, to the subsequent prog- \nress of Metaphysical philosophy) were printed, for the first time, in \nihQ fourth edition of the Essay." \n\n\n\nLAWS THAT LIMIT THE MIND. 77 \n\nsubjective entity, without which qualities and properties \ncould not exist. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 53, Our knowledge of the nature of mind itself limited. \n\nSome particulars will help to illustrate and establish \nwhat has been remarked. \xe2\x80\x94 In the first place, with the na- \nture of the mind itself, which is the instrument and foun- \ndation of all other knowledge, men possess but an imper- \nfect and limited acquaintance ; nor have we reason to sup- \npose that it will ever be essentially otherwise than it is at \npresent. That the mind exists is a truth ; this simple fact is \na vnatter of undoubted knowledge ; but the mode or na- \nture of its existence; that interiour vitality, which consti- \ntutes the true mental being in distinction not only from ma- \nterial being, but also from its own attributes and qualities. is \nwhat men have never been able fully to comprehend, and \nprobably never will. \n\nIn proof of the correctness of this sentiment, reference \nmight safely be made again to consciousness, to each one\'s \ninward and personally deep conviction of ignorance on \nthis subject. Not that consciousness makes a positive dec- \nlaration of this ignorance, but it very clearly implies it, \nby its acknowledged inability to make us acquainted with \nany thing further than the mere qualities and operations \nof the mind. The schoolmen also mi\xc2\xab^ht here be brought \nto our recollectioujwho long attempted, with all the force \nof their acute and disputatious intellects, to break down \nthis barrier of knowledge, but without success. And \nwithout impropriety, we might refer likewise to the re- \nmarks, which are so commonly, and every where made, \nthat the mind is not a direct subject of contemplation, \nthat what is called its essence can never be found out, and \nthat we know nothing of it in itself. Remarks of this \nkind are not made so frequently without grounds for them; \nthey are founded in the general experience, and of course \nare valuable, considered as an expression of that experi- \nence. \n\nThis view, it is important to be kept in recollection, is \nnot exclusive ; we assert our ignorance of the mind in \n\n\n\n78 LAWS THAT LIMIT THE MIND. \n\nsome respects, bat not in all. Onr knowledge embraces a \ncertain extent, but is unable to go beyond. \n\n\xc2\xa7.53. Remarks on the extent of this limitation. \n\nTo prevent misapprehensions, thereforejit seems proper \nto point out some of the particulars, in which actual knowl- \nedge in respect to the mind, is supposed to exist. \n\n(1) Men universally experience certain internal feel- \nings and operations, such as perceiving, belief, volition, \nimagining, and comparing ; and so far as the mere exis- \ntence of these mental states is concerned, they have knowl- \nedge. They know the fact of their taking place,and know \nthem also, as we shall have occasion to see, in their rela- \ntions. (2) These feelings give occasion for the addition- \nal and altogether distinct notion of mind. It seems to be \na well settled sentiment, that, without such mental states \nas have been referred to, the latter notion could never ex- \nist ; that, without the actual experience of intelligence and \nemotion, men could never form the\' idea of an intelligent \nand sentient being. And so far, therefore, as the mere \noccasions of forming the idea of mind, and the mere exis- \ntence of the idea, which they give rise to, are concerned, we \nmay suppose ourselves to possess knowledge. \xe2\x80\x94 (3) Subse- \nquently, but almost immediately, we experience another \noriginal state of mind, that of the relative suggestion of \nappropriation or possession. That is to say, we feel the \nideas, which were the occasions of the additional notion \nof mind, to belong to this latter idea ; the relative sugges- \ntion, the origin of which is inseparable from our constitu- \ntion, indissclubly binds the two together as subject and \nattribute. And so far also we have knowledge. \xe2\x80\x94 We may \ngo further in our inquiries into the mind, and say with cer- \ntainty what it is not ; for instance that it is not material, \nsince we have never been able to observe and detect in it \nthe qualities and operations of matter. Nor is it necessa- \nry to assert, that these are all the particulars, in which \nwe may obtain direct and positive knowledge. \n\nBut after all, when we return to the main question of \nwhat the mind is in itself, of what the mind is, consider-^ \n\n\n\nLAWS THAT LIMIT THE MIND. 79 \n\ned as separate from its qualities and operations, and any \nmere attendant circumstances, it is then we cannot avoid \nfeeling our utter inability to penetrate the pale of its inte- \nriour nature. We contemplate it in the outer temple, but \nthe veil excludes us from the shrine. Ao^ain and a^ain \nwe return to the examination of this high and mysterious \nthought, but it still remains simple, inseparablcj and inde- \nfinable ; and however long and intently we may revolve it \nfor the purpose of breaking up its simplicity, and knowing \nmore of its hidden and invisible essence, it will ever set \nour efforts at defiance. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 54. Our knowledge oj matter in certain r\'espects limited. \n\nIf we turn from n^nd ,to matter, to the knowledge \nof which some may suppose we possess a mor^ obvious \nand easy access, we shall find our efforts circumscribed by \nlike limits. We are able to advance to a certain extent in \nour inquiries, but there we find ourselves compelled to \nstop. \n\nWhen, for example, a piece of wood, or any other of \nthose material bodies, by which we are surrounded, is pre- \nsented to any one for his examination, there are some \nthings in this material substance, which may be known, \nand others, which cannot. Its colour, its hardness or soft- \nness, its extension are subjects, upon which he can inform \nhimself, can reason, can arrive at knowledge. He opens \nhis eye ; an impression is made cm the organ of vision, \nand he has the idea of colour. By means of the applica- \ntion of his hand to the wood, he learns the penetrability \nor impenetrability, the softness or hardness of the mass, \nwhich he holds. By moving his hand from one point to \nanother in the mass, he is informed of the continuity or ex- \ntension of its parts. But when he pushes his inquiries be- \nneath the surface of this body, when he attempts to be- \ncome acquainted not only with its qualities, but with that \nsupposed something, in which those qualities are often im- \nagined to inhere, and, in a word, expends his efforts, in \nobedience to this unprofitable determination, in learning \nwhat matter is^ independently of its properties, he then \n\n\n\n80 LAWS THAT LIMIT THE MIND. \n\nstumbles on a boundary, which cannot be passed, and seeks \nfor knowledge wliere by their very constitution men are \nnot permitted to know. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 55. Our ignorance of the reciprocal connection of mind and \n\nmatter. \n\nIf we find both mind and matter incomprehensible to \na certain extent, we might naturally anticipate no less mys- \ntery in their connection with each other, in their recipro- \ncal action and influence. The fact of such a connection, \nand the extent to which it exists, have already been brief- \nly remarked on. When the mind is strongly affected, the \nbody is for the most part affected also ; and on the other \nhand, when the body is either vigo-rous with health or de- \npressed with sickness, the mind generally exhibits a sym- \npathetic vigor of depression. If this be not uniformly \nand always the case, it certainly is in a great number of \ninstances. \n\nor the truth of the general fact, with those exceptions \nand modifications made in the last chapter, \'there can be \nno doubt ; but of the mode of the fact, of the manner of \nthis connection, it is not within the powers of the human \nmind to conceive ; for it is to be observed, it is not the \noperation of matter on matter, nor of mind on mind,which \nmight be supposed to be something coming more readily \nv/ithin the range of our comprehension; but the opera- \ntion on each other of existences, utterly distinct ; notpos- \nsessing, as far as can be judged, a single attribute in com- \nmon. \n\n\xc2\xa7.56. Illustrated in the case of loluntary action. \n\nWhat has now been said, it will be noticed, relates to \nthe general connection of mind and matter, the general re- \nciprocation of influence ; but this striking law of our na- \nture shows itself constantly, and in particular instances. \n\nWe might refer, in particular, to all cases of voluntary \nexertion. Puttinor forth that act of the mind, which we \ncall volition, we move a hand, a finger, a foot ; mind puts \n\n\n\nLAWS THAT LIMIT THE MIND. 81 \n\nmatter in motion ; the material is controlled by the im- \nmaterial ; but common as it is, it is not incomprehensible. \n\nWe might refer again, for a like instance of the con- \nnection we are considering and of our ignorance of the \nway in which it is effected, to every act of the Sujjreme \nBeing. In the highest and truest sense God is mind, a \ntruly spiritual existence. The hands and feet and eyes, \nwhich are ascribed to Him in Scripture, are expressions, \naccommodated to man\'s limited views. He created all \nthings. A desire, a mere volition gave birth to light and \nair, to earth and water, to the earth and all it contains. \nWe admit the fact, but can give no explanation ; we live \nand move in the midst of the great result, but we know \nnot how it was achieved. \n\nThe instances, which have now been mentioned, may \nbe thought by some to be too diverse fjom each other in \ndegree, if not in kind, to illustrate the same principle ; \nbut we are not singular in bringing them together for this \npurpose. In point of mystery, Mr Locke seems to place \nthe dependence of bodily action on volition on the same \nfooting with the wonder and inconceivableness of Creation \nitself. His expressions are these. \xe2\x80\x94 "My right hand writes, \nwhile my left hand is still. What causes rest in one, and \nmotion in the other ? Nothing but my will, a thought of \nmy mind; my thought only changing, my right hand \nrests, and the left hand moves. This is matter of fact, \nwhich cannot be denied. Explain this and make it intel- \nligible, and then the next step will be to understand Crea- \ntion." \n\n\xc2\xa7.57. Further illustrations of our ignorance in respect to this \nconnection. \n\nBut this is not all. The influence we are speaking of, \neven in its more particular and definite exhibitions, is not \nall on one side. If it be true, that mind can govern mat- \nter, that the immaterial can shape that which is material \nto its own ways and purposes, it is not less so, that matter \npossesses a degree of control over the mind ; the visible and \ntangible is capable of exerting a power on that, which can \n11 \n\n\n\n82 LAWS THAT LIMIT THE MIND. \n\nbe approached neither by sight nor touch. And if the ex- \nertion of influence in the former case is mysterious, it is \nequally so in the latter. It is impossible for any man to \ntell on the one hand, why a new state of mind should in \nany case cause a new state of matter ; or on the other, why \na new state or disposition of matter should cause a new \nstate of mind, as we find to be the fact in whatever we have \nto do with the material world. Two obvious instances \nwill sufiice to suggest others. \n\nI, \xe2\x80\x94 The rays of light are reflected from the various ob- \njects around us, and if they are only permitted to reach \nthe retina of the eye, which is the end of their journey, \nhow many pleasing appearances the mind becomes pos- \nsessed of, and which it would not have had, were it not \nfor the presence of a few material and very minute par- \nticles! There is at once spread out and displayed, as it \nwere, in the soul all the diversities of the most delightful \nlandscapes, the undulations of hill and valley, expanses \nand partial glimpses of water, reaches of forest of various \nform and hue, interspersed with cottages and cultivated \nplaces. Who could have imagined, that the soul of man \nwould be so suddenly roused up to embrace such compli- \ncated and pleasing views at the mere presence and bidding \nof a few rays of light, the smallest and apparently most in- \nefficient things in nature! Still more, who can point to \nthe cause, or explain the method of it? Who can tell the \nmode of intercourse between those rays and the mind, ex- \ncept only the Being, who frames and knows all things? \n\nII, \xe2\x80\x94 When the air is put in motion by musical instru- \nments of whatever kind, how the whole soul is affected \nand filled with new sensations ! How it languishes also \nwith grief, or rejoices with hope, or glows with patriotic \nemotion! The action of these undulations of air not only \nfills the soul with present sensation and feeling, but opens \nup new trains of thought and emotion by association, and \ncombines the thought and feeling of the past with the pres- \nent. \n\n" How soft the music ofthose village bells, \n" It\'alling at intervals upon the ear. \n\n\n\nI \n\n\n\nLAWS THAT LIMIT THE MIND. 83 \n\n" With easy force it opens all the cells \n\n" Where memory slept. Wherever 1 have heard \n\n" A kindred melody, the scene recurs, \n\n" And with it all its pleasures and its pains. " \n\n^. 58. Of space as a boundary of intellectual efforts. \n\nFurthermore, we find the action of our mental powers, \nwhen occupied in particular in gaining a knowledge of \nmaterial things, to be restricted and limited by space. \n\nWhat space is, it is not necessary to undertake to say, \nbecause no person is without as clear a knowledge of it, \nas can possibly be given by any form of words. But one \nthing seems to be certain, little as we know of what goes \nunder that name, that it bounds and shuts up all that part \nof our knowledge at least, which relates to matter. As \nfar as our direct and positive experience is concerned, ev- \nery one is prepared to admit, that his acquaintance with \nmaterial objects is circumscribed in this manner. But we \nmay go farther ; we may make the appeal with confidence \nto the general experience, and aver on the ground of that \nexperience, that it is impossible for men to form even a \nconception of the existence of matter independently of \nspace. \n\nIn some respects also, space limits our conceptions of \nMIND. As long as we consider mind immaterial, we do \nnot of course regard it as occupying space in the material \nsense ; nor in any sense, of which language, which dis- \ncovers the materiality of its origin in its whole structure, \ncan convey any adequate notion. But however this may \nbe, when we inquire for the mere fact, it is undoubtedly \nout of our power to conceive of either matter or mind \nexisting out of space. \n\nIt has already been remarked, that the Supreme Being \nis an immaterial or spiritual existence, and it may be ob- \njected here, that this view tends to circumscribe and res- \ntrict the divine nature. But this objection is founded on \na mistake. It is true our conceptions are bounded by \nspace ; the human mind in its highest flights cannot ex- \ntend itself beyond its limits ; but we are not prepared to \nsay, that the actual existence of God is limited by our con- \n\n\n\n84 LAWS THAT LIMIT THE MIND. \n\nceptions. On the contrary we may suppose him to exist \nand act in regions far beyond the furthest excursions of \nall inferior intelligences, in hidden apartments and unex- \nplored tracts of the universe, where the widest and most \nuntiring range of thought in men and even in angels has \nfailed to penetrate. \xe2\x80\x94 On this subject all language fails ; all \nimagination comes short ; in the words of Holy Writ ap- \nplied to another case, Eye hath not seen^ nor ear heard^ nor \nhath it entered into the heart of man to conceive. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 59. Of the relation of time to our mental conceptions. \n\nTime also is another of those limits, which seems to \nhave been imposed from the begining on men\'s faculties. \n\nAs time is different from space, so the relations, which \nexistences of whatever Idnd have to it, are different. But \nwithout at present entering into the subject either of its \nnature or relations, w^e may lay down the general propo- \nsition, that we know nothing, and can conceive of noth- \ning, where time is not. What we express by the word \nEternity is only another name for time never completed ; \nand consequently clearly intimates the limited compass of \nour understandincrs. \n\no \n\nIt is possible, the same objection may be made here as \nin respect to space, that this doctrine tends in some way to \nlimit the natural existence of the Supreme Being. Bat \nthis is a misapprehension. It does not limit the Divine \nnature, but only asserts, when applied to the Supreme \nBeing, the limitation of our conceptions of his nature. \n\nMr. Locke once made the unadvised and hasty asser- \ntion, that external bodies operate upon us by impulse, and \nnothing else. Afterwards, he said with the candour \ncharacteristic of truly great minds, although he could \nconceive of no other way of their operation, yet it was \ntoo bold a presumption to limit God\'s power in this point \nby his own narrow conceptions. So in the present case, \nwe may truly say, we cannot conceive of God\'s existing \nabstractly from time, or out of time, but it would be too \nbold a presumption in us to limit the Divine nature by \nour own narrow and bounded views. In point of fact \n\n\n\nLAWS THAT LIMIT THE MIND. 85 \n\nboth time and space, which exceed the comprehension \nof the human mind, and consequently place a limit on all \nits efforts, dwindle into the very smallest compass, in com- \nparison with the unlimited expansion apd ubiquity of the \nSupreme Being. With him there is, properly speaking, \nno such thing as time ; it is lost and extinguished in the \nunfathomable recesses of an ever present eternity ; expres- \nsions, which, although as good perhaps as we can select, \nevidently intimate our ignorance of what we attempt to \nconvey. The Scriptures expressly and repeatedly take this \nview. " With the Lord, (says an Apostle,) one day is as a \nthousand years and a thousand years as one day." \n\nAlthough it may be humiliating to our pride, to find \nthat our minds are so bounded and shut up, to learn that \nthe utmost compass of our own knowledge and existence \nforms but a mere point amid the vast, unmeasured, and \nunmeasurable circumference of God\'s knowledge and ex- \nistence, still we cannot wisely and consistently reject the \ngreat truth itself. The ablest and wisest men Iiave receiv- \ned it, and in some instances it has had a partial effect of \na very beneficial kind, inspiring an increased degree of \nhumility and caution, and a feeling of forbearance and \ncandour. \xe2\x80\x94 True,the poet Gray represents the mighty mind \nof Milton as having scaled the limits we have been con- \ntemplating, ihe flaming bounds, as he calls them. \n\nBut this is only the license and fiction of a poet. If \nthat should ever happen, which he has so sublimely im- \nagined, and men should ever break through the walls of \nspace and time, which God has erected between himself \nand inferior intelligences, we might well anticipate the \nresult, which the same glowing fancy has indicated ; \n\n" They saw, but blasted with excess of light, \n" Closed their eyes in endless night." \n\n\xc2\xa7. 60. Mystery of human freedom as coexistent with the \nDivine prescience. \n\nWhether we look within or without, to the world of \nmatter or of mind, instances in illustration of our subject \nwill by no means be wanting. If there be a degree of \n\n\n\n86 LAWS THAT LIMIT THE MIND. \n\nmystery even in the smallest particle of matter, sufficient \nto baffle our inquiries, then we may reasonably expect to \nbe frequently put back and baffled in the very intricate \nsubject of the mind and its relations. Accordingly we \nfind various inquiries in the philosophy of the mind, \nwhich have hitherto eluded all efforts at a satisfactory so- \nlution of them ; and many things render it not improba- \nble, that they ever will. \xe2\x80\x94 One of these difficult topics, \nstated in a few words, is the consistency of man\'s freedom \nwith the Divine prescience ; but as it is a topic, which has \nbeen much debated, and on which an opinion should not \nbe lightly hazarded, it seems proper to remark, that it is \nbrought in here, merely for the purpose of illustration. \n\nVarious considerations and trains of argument are \nthought to have established these two distinct points, viz. \nthe foreknowledge of God and the entire freedom of hu- \nman actions. In the view of very many persons, both \npropositions are susceptible of being clearly and satisfac- \ntorily established. But another question immediately pre- \nsents itself, which, by the admission of all parties, is not \nso easily disposed of. The consistency of the Divine pre- \nscience, which is supposed necessarily to imply an antece- \ndent and perfect superintendence as its basis, with man\'s \nunshackled freedom, has hitherto been found a knot, a \npuzzle, which the greatest minds have found themselves \nunable to resolve. \n\nWhat shall we say here ? Have we arrived in this \ninstance at a limit, which we cannot pass ? Are we called \nupon to believe without being able to explain ? Are we \nrequired distinctly to admit our inability to solve every \nthing ? \xe2\x80\x94 If such be our apprehension of the state of this \nquestion, then surely it becomes us in this and in all simi- \nlar cases, to submit cheerfully to what we have grounds \nfor conceiving to be an ultimate restriction, an inevitable \nignorance. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 61. Limits of the nmkdindicated by the terms , infinity , \neternity^ &c. \n\nAgain the limited nature of the human mind will be \n\n\n\nLAWS THAT LIMIT TKE MIND. 87 \n\nfound to discover itself in the use of such terms as these, \neternity, infinity, universe, omniscience, incomprehensi- \nbility, &c. \xe2\x80\x94 We never can fully understand what is meant \nto be expressed by the word omniscience, so long as we \nknow not all things ourselves. We bear it on our tongues, \nit is true, and apply it to the Supreme Being ; but every \none knows and feels, that it falls vastly short of the mark. \n\nWe speak of the universe, which means the whole ; \nbut it is impossible for us to form an idea of the whole, \napplicable to all existences, which shall perfectly and neces- \nsarily exclude any existence beyond its boundaries. No \nman\'s mind can limit space even in conception, however \ntrue it maybe, that all our conceptions are limited by that; \nand wherever there is space, there either is, or may be \nexistence. Therefore, when we speak of the universe, we \nhardly know what we speak of ; it is something great, \nmysterious, and in part at least utterly undefinable, which \nthe mind struggles after, but without the power to grasp \nit. \xe2\x80\x94 The terms, infinity, eternity, and the like imply, that \nthe ideas, intended to be expressed by them, are imperfect ; \nthat there is something in them beyond the mind\'s reach; \nand of course that the eiforts of the mind, when made in the \ndirection indicated by them, are bounded and kept back \nby some fixed law. \n\nIt may be further added, that, in all truly simple \nideas, we have reached a boundary, which we cannot \npass. We cannot resolve them into others ; we cannot \ndetect in them any subordinate parts ; we cannot define \nthem ; we must leave them as they are. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 62. Of restraints resulting from ultimate facts of the mind. \n\nWe encounter restraints also ; in other words, we have \ngone as far as the powers of our minds will permit, when- \never we have ascertained any ultimate facts or truths of \nour mental constitution. It is possible we may sometimes \nsuppose ourselves to have arrived at ultimate principles, \nwhen we have not ; but on the supposition that we have \ntruly reached them, it is certain we can go no further. \n\n\n\n88 LAWS THAT LIMIT THE MIND. \n\nOut of the multitude of instances, that will present them- \nselves, a few will suffice to illustrate this. \n\nI, \xe2\x80\x94 The nature of perception, by means of which \nwe become acquainted with external objects, is such, there \ncan be no knowledge from this source, unless the external \nobject be present in the first instance. However great we \nsuppose its energies to be, the mind is here evidently re- \nstricted. It can have no sensations of sight without the \npresence of a visible object, no sensations of touch with- \nout the presence of a tangible object, no sensations of hear- \ning without something audible. \n\nII, \xe2\x80\x94 The mind finds itself restricted likewise in those \nsubsequent conceptions of objects, which have once been \nperceived. The existence of such conceptions depends \non the exercise of association ; and the action of associa- \ntion is known to be governed by fixed aud inflexible laws, \nthe operation of which we cannot suspend and alter, ex- \ncept only indirectly and imperfectly. \n\nIll, \xe2\x80\x94 We cannot call up thoughts?, as w^e shall hereafter \nhave opportunity to notice, by mere direct volition ; and \nhence in all cases of reasoning and imagination, we find \nourselves subject to the restraint occasioned by this ina- \nbility. \xe2\x80\x94 It is the same in various other instances. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 63. The sentient part^ as icell as the intellect has limits. \n\nThere are boundaries also, although we may not be \nable to indicate them with equal clearness, in the sentient \npart of man. These restrictions undoubtedly diflfer from \nthose, which have been considered, in not being impas- \nsible ; but it is certain, that this can never take place, \nthat these boundaries can never be transgressed, without \nthe most unhappy consequences. The passions, for in- \nstance, have their due limits, and if it be possible, as we \nknow it to be so from too frequent experience, for them to \nbe exceeded, still it is always attended with an interrup- \ntion of the general adjustment of the mind. If a man be \nexceedingly angry, the susceptibilities of the memory and \nof the judgment, and other powers will be disturbed ; if \n\n\n\nLAWS THAT LIMIT THE xMlND. 89 \n\nhe be animated with very strong fears or joys, the result \nwill the same. \n\nAnd what is a striking evidence, that the whole soul \nof man, the sentient part as well as the intellect, has its \ndefinite arrangement and limits, is, that, whenever the pas- \nsions of whatever kind are indulged to a very great ex- \ntent, they not only cause a temporary interruption of the \njust action of the mind, but may produce a permanent and \ntotal disorganization. Let them put forth their full pow- \ner for any length of time, and the mind is torn, as it \nwere, from its basis ; there is felt and witnessed a wreck \nof the spiritual fabric, a prostration of its strength, a dis- \ntortion of its symmetry, a blotting out of its magnificence. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 64. Mental limitations implied in man\'s infcrionty to his \nCreator. \n\nIt is not necessary at present to pursue this general top- \nic further, than merely to add the remark, that, while we \nshall find much in our mental structure to enhance our ad- \nmiration, there will be something also to check the feeling \nof pride. What has been said in the course of this Chap- \nter is sufficient perhaps to lead us to anticipate this. Much \nthere will be undoubtedly, as we go on in our inquiries, to \nmake us think well and highly of the mind and to encour- \nage mental efforts, but from time to time there will be \nfound something, which it is hardly less important to be \nacquainted with, to qualify this favourable estimation, and \nto restrain an overweening confidence. \n\nAnd let us here pause and ask, can it be otherwise ? \nOught it to be otherwise, when we consider man\'s origin, \nthe fewness of his days, his foundation in the dust ? True, \nman is great and noble, compared with much, that lives, \nand flourishes, and perishes around him ; but then how his \ngreatness is diminished, when compared with much, that \nlives and flourishes above him ! If there were with him, as \nwith his Creator, neither beginning of years, nor beginning \nof knowledge, the case would be different. But since he \nbegan to know, as it were, but yesterday, and has only \n12 \n\n\n\n90 LAWS THAT LIMIT THE MIND. \n\nsuch means of knowledge as have been given him, why \nshould he be ashamed of his ignorance, or complain that \nevery effort is not successful, that every wish is not grati- \nfied ! \n\nIt is the necessary result of the relation he sustains to his \nCreator,that his mental powers are circumscribed. The Au- \nthor of the mind could not have made it without limits, \nwithout its allotted boundaries, unless he had disrobed him- \nself of the attribute of omniscience, and conferred it upon \nthe creature ; unless he had made man the source and \ncentre of all foresight and all knowledge, and been wil- \nling to assign to himself a subordinate and inferiour \nstation. \n\nLet us not then do violence to our moral, as well as \nour intellectual being, by striving after that, which is for- \nbidden ; by forgetting the weakness of our nature ; by \nrejecting the salutary consideration, that the excellence of \nman is but imperfection, and the wisdom of man but fol- \nly in comparison with God. \n\n\n\nCHAPTER FOURTH. \n\n\n\nLAWS OF BELIEF. (I) CONSCIOUSNESS. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 65. Mature and degrees of belief. \n\nHaving considered laws, so far as is necessary at pres- \nent, as limiting and controlling the action of the mind in \ngeneral, we now come to that second class, which was \nspoken of, viz. those, which have relation to the particu- \nlar and subordinate susceptibilities of the mind, and of \nthese, we shall first examine the laws of belief. \n\nAs to the nature of what is called Belief, when we use \nthe term to express the result in distinction from the sus- \nceptibility, not much can perhaps be said more than this, \nthat it is a simple idea, a simple intellectual state, with \nwhich we become acquainted, in the phraseology of Mr. \nLocke from reflection, or more precisely by means of \nthat internal intimation, called Consciousness. Not being \na complex, but an uncompounded feeling, it does not ad- \nmit of definition ; and yet all are supposed to have a \nknowledge both of its existence, and of its general nature, \nas far at least as a knowledge of our elementary notions is \nattainable in any case. \n\nAs it is a simple idea, belief is always the same in \nkind ; but it admits of different degrees. We determine \nthese differences of strength in the feeling by means of \nthat same internal consciousness, which assures us of the \nexistence of the mere feeling itself. In other words, we \n\n\n\n92 LAWS OF BELIEF. \n\nare conscious of, or feel our belief to be sometimes weak- \ner, and at other times stronger. \n\nTo these different degrees of this mental state, we give \ndifferent names ; a low degree is termed presumption ; a \nhigher degree, probability ; and the highest possible be- \nlief is termed certainty. When the mind is in tliat \n\nstate, denominated Certainty, we are generally said to \nknow the thing, to which this very strong belief relates. \nBut when we use knowledge and certainty as synonymous, \nwhich is no doubt frequently done, we should remember, \nthat the highest possible belief is sometimes caused by im- \nperfect or false evidence, and of course that we may some- \ntimes find ourselves indulging the very strongest belief of \nwhat does not actually exist. \n\n\xc2\xa7. Qj. Of the objects of belief. \n\nTt i:^ obvious, that the exercise of belief implies an ob- \nject or something believed, not less so, than that the put- \nting forth of memory implies something remembered. \nAnything, which can be framed into a proposition, and is \nsusceptible of the application of any of the forms of evi- \ndence whatever, may be an object of belief either in a \nhigher or less degree. And hence there are so many \nthings in nature, in the conduct of men, and in the pur- \nsuits and relations of life, coming within the limits of this \nstatement, we shall decline attempting an enumeration of \nthem, and merely say with Dr. Reid, that the objects of \nbelief are all things, whatever they may be, which are \nbelieved.* \n\n\xc2\xa7.67. Of the laws of belief \n\nIf it be clear, that any part of our mental nature has \nits laws, (and after what has been said, no doubt can be \nthought to exist on that point,) it cannot fail to occur, \nthat the power of belief is as likely as any thing else in \nthe mind to be restricted and sustained in this manner. If \nit were otherwise, if belief could arise without reference \nto any fixed principles, men would shortly find themselves \n\n"Reid\'s Intellectual Powers ofMan, Essay II. \n\n\n\n(I) CONSCIOUSNESS. 93 \n\nin a singular and unheard of condition ; the foundations \nof all foresight and precaution, of all the common inter- \ncourse of life, of all society and government would be ef- \nfectually undermined. A moment\'s consideration of what \na state we should be in, in the defect of all fixed principles, \noperating as the origin and guidance of our opinions, \nmust satisfy any one, that belief has its laws. \n\nAccordingly our Creator has kindly attended to this \nimportant part of our mental economy, and has so order- \ned things within and without us, that there is no want of \ncircumstances, which sustain a determinate and effective \nrelation to this susceptibility. \n\nIt is a great and undoubted principle, that all things in \nthe universe, coming within the range and cognizance of \nthe soul, whether material or immaterial, visible or invis- \nible, have an influence on it ; in other words, that there is \nan universal law of belief. But this great principle, in \nconsequence of the objects, which are cap\'able of affecting \nthe mind, being presented to it in different ways or un- \nder different forms, may be resolved into subordinate \nones, and may accordingly be contemplated in parts or \nsections. It is on this ground, that we are able to use the \nplural, and to speak of laws of belief, the law of Con- \nsciousness, the law of the Senses, the law of Testimony, \nand the like. \n\n\xc2\xa7.68. Consciousness a law af belief. \n\nBefore entering into the examination of the separate \ngrounds of belief just referred to, it is proper to observe, \nit is not deemed necessary to make a distinct account of \nthose original intimations, which seem to flow out neces- \nsarily from the mere fact of the mind\'s existence and ac- \ntive nature, such as the notion of mind, identity, self, or \nperson, &c. Highly important as these elementary thoughts \nare, and controlling, as they constantly do, our belief; still \nit is to be remembered, they are comparatively few in \nnumber, and have already been in part attended to under \nthe head of Primary Truths. \n\nOf those elementary laws, therefore, which are appli- \n\n\n\n94 LAWS OF BELIEF. \n\ncaple to belief, the first we shall consider is that of con- \nsciousness. We find no doubts expressed, that what we \ncall by that name is the occasion of giving rise to, and of \nregulating our opinions and convictions within certain \nlimits. \n\nThM portion of belief and knowIedgCj which has par- \nticular relation to the mental states, to our internal and \nspiritual qualities and operations, is generally referred by \nwriters to^\'the exercise of this law, as the ground of its ori- \ngin. Nothing is more frequent than such language as this, \nthat we possess by this means a knowledge of this or that \ninternal feeling, a knowledge of this or that mental quali- \nty, an acquaintance with the different emotions, and pas- \nsions, with volition, reasoning and the like. \n\nHowever suitable such language is, and however well \nfounded the doctrine implied in it, it may still be impor- \ntant to inquire somewhat at length. What is to be under- \nistood by the particular term consciousness? Unless we \ndo this, as the word is often employed without much pre- \ncision, we shall from time to time be aware of an indis- \ntinctness and confusion, arising from this neglect.\' \n\n\xc2\xa7.69. Of what is to be understood by Consciousness. \n\nBut before we can come to a satisfactory conclusion as \nto what is to be understood by the term we are looking in- \nto, two remarks are to be made. \n\nFirst ; the idea of mind, of that permanent something, \nwhich thinks and feels in distinction from mere thought \nand feeling, is antecedent to consciousness. In the chap- \nter on Primary Truths, which professedly treated of such \nelementary thoughts and views as are the early and neces- \nsary results of our internal constitution, it was seen, that, \nimmediately on the taking place of the first mental expe- \nrience, the notion or idea of mind arises ; that is to say, \nthe idea of that distinct sentient existence, which is always \nimplied, when we speak of ourselves. At any rate, wheth- \ner this idea be immediately consequent on^the first mental \nexercise or not, it arises at so early a period as to lay the \nfoundation of that mental state we are considering. It \n\n\n\n(1) CONSCIOUSNESS. 95 \n\nwill be found an useless attempt to conceive of any such \nthing as consciousness, without implying in it the antece- \ndent notion of mind or self-existence. \n\nSecond ; another observation to be attended to, is, \nthat conciousness is not a susceptibility or power of the \nmind. It seems impossible to consider it in that light, \nwithout abandoning every consistent notion of it at once. \nNor will writers of authority be found in general so to \nregard it, if we take suitable pains to collect and com- \npare the various expressions they employ. It may in- \ndeed be admitted, that Avhat is termed consciousness, \nthough not a susceptibility itself, implies the exercise of \none, that of judgment or relative suggestion ; but there \nis no less evidence of its being as truly different from that \nparticular power, the exercise of which is acknowledged \nto be implied in it, as cause is from effect. \n\n\xc2\xa7 . 70. Consciousness properly a complex slate of the mind. \n\nBut if consciousness be not a power or susceptibility^ \n(terms, which in their application to the mind are em- \nployed as expressing essentially the same thing,) what are \nwe then to understand by it ? \xe2\x80\x94 And the answer is, that it \nmay be described, w*ith the nearest approach to a correct \nnotion of it, as merely a complex state of mind embra- \ncing at least the three following distinct notions ; viz. (1) \nthe idea of self or of personal existence, expressed in \nEnglish by the words self, myself, and the personal \npronoun I ; (2) some quality or state or operation of the \nmind, whatever it may be ; and (3) a relative perception \nof possession, appropriation, or belonging to. A person \nsays for instance, I am conscious of gratitude. In this \ninstance, which may be taken as representative of many \nothers, the idea of self or of personal existence is ex- \npressed by the prououti I ; there is a different mental feel- \ning, and expressed by its appropriate term, that of the af- \nfection of GRATITUDE ; the phrase, conscious of, express- \nes the feeling of relation, which instantaneously and ne- \ncessarily recognizes the affection of gratitude as the attri- \nbute or property of the subject of the proposition. \xe2\x80\x94 \xe2\x96\xba \n\n\n\nS6 LAWS OF BELIEF. \n\nConsciousness, therefore, involving a relative idea, can \nnever exist without at least two others ; and any propo- \nsition, expresssive of consciousness, is necessarily expres- \nsive of a complex, and not of a simple state of mind. \n\nIt may be objected here, that this makes consciousness \na mental law, and a mental state at the same time. True; \nbut what is a law of belief ? Only the existence of those \ngeneral circumstances, in which belief necessarily arises ; \nand of course there is no incompatibility in its so being. \nAnd in point of fact it will be found, that every case of \nconsciousness, whether it embrace a greater or less num- \nber of simple ideas, furnishes occasion for belief, and is \ninfallibly accompanied by it. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 71. Of the proper objects or subjects of consciousness. \n\nAs there are some things, to which consciousness, as \nthe term is usually employed, relates, and others, to which \nit does not, it is proper to consider it in this respect in \nparticular. As to those thoughts, which may have aris- \nen, or those emotions, which may have agitated us in times \npast, we cannot with propriety be said to be conscious of \nthem at the present moment ; although we may be con- \nscious of that present state of mind, which we term the \nrecollection of them ; that is to say, of other feelings of \nthe sartie kind, and having relation to a particular antece- \ndent occasion. \n\nAgain, consciousness has no direct connection with \nsuch objects, whether material or immaterial, as exist at \nthe present time, but are external to the mind, or in other \nwords have an existence independent of it. It has rela- \ntion only to things in the mind, as we sometimes say ; or \nmore definitely to states of the mind. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 72 . The objects of consciousness, wholly internal and \nmental. \n\nAs the remark at the close of the last section has re- \nlation both to material and immaterial existences, it \nseems proper to consider it distinctly in these two res- \npects. \n\n\n\n(1) CONSCIOUSNESS. 97 \n\nI, \xe2\x80\x94 We are not, strictly speaking, conscious of any \nmaterial existence whatever ; of the earth we tread, of \nthe food that nourishes us, of the clothes that protect, or \nof any thing else of the like nature, with which we are \nconversant. In accordance, however, with the view \nwhich has been given of this subject, w^e can rightly as- \nsert our consciousness of the effects they produce within \nus, of the sensations of taste, of heat and cold, of resis- \ntance and extension, of hardness and softness, and the \nlike. Our consciousness does not, in strictness of speech, \nhold a direct relation to thfe existence of the material \nworld in any form, whether- particular or general ; that is \nto say, we are not directly conscious of such existence, \nbut only of that state of mind, which we term a firm \nbelief or knowledge of it. \xe2\x80\xa2 \n\nII,\xe2\x80\x94 -This view holds also in respect to immaterial \nthings, even the mind itself, as we have had occasion al- \nready to see. We are not directly conscious, using the \nterm in the manner which has been explained, of the exis- \ntence even of our own mind, but merely of its qualities \nand operations, and of that firm belief or knowledge of \nits existence, necessarily attendant on those operations. \n^\'According to the common doctrRie, (says Mr. Stewart, \nPhilos. Essays, I, ch. I,) of our best philosophers, it is \nby the evidence of consciousness we are assured that we \nourselves exist. The proposition, however, w^ien thus \nstated, is not accurately true ; for our own existence is not \na direct or immediate object of consciousness, in the strict \nand logical meaning of that term. We are conscious of \nsensation, thought, desire, volition ; but we are not con- \nscious of the existence of mind itself ; nor would it be \npossible for us to arrive at the knowledge of it (supposing \nus to be created in the full possession of all the intellectu- \nal copacifc that belong to human nature) if no impres- \nsion were ever to be made on our external senses. The \nmoment that, in consequence of such an impression, a \nsensation is excited, we learn two facts at once ;\xe2\x80\x94 the ex- \nistence, of the sensation, and our own existence as sentient \nbeings : in other words, the verv first exercise of my con- \n13 \' \xe2\x80\xa2 \n\n\n\n9S LAWS OF BELIEF. \n\nsciousness necessarily implies a belief, not only of the \npresent existence of what is felt, but of the present exis- \ntence of that which feels and thinks ; or (to employ plain- \ner language) the present existence of that being, which I \ndenote by the words /and myself. Of these facts, howev- \ner, it is the former alone of which we can properly be \nsaid to be conscious, agreeably to the rigorous interpreta- \ntion of the expression. The latter is made known to us \nby a suggestion of the understanding consequent on the sen- \nsation, but so intimately connected with it, that it is not \nsurprising that our belief of fcoth should be generally re- \nferred to the same origin." \n\nIn the same way we are not said to be conscious of \nany higher spiritual beings, although we may be conscious \nof a firm belief, that such exists We are not conscious of \nGod and of his existence; although we are so, as all \nmen of the least moral and religious tendencies of mind \nwill readily and gratefully acknowledge, of the idea or no- \ntion of a Supreme Author, and of the unalterable belief \nof his existence.^ \n\n\xc2\xa7. 73. The belief from consciousness of the most decided ^ \na\xc2\xa7d highest kind. \n\nConsciousness is not only a law of our belief, but it \nundoubtedly is one of the most authoritative and decisive ; \nin other words, the belief, attendant on the exercise of it, \nis of the highest kind. It appears to be utterly out of our \npower to avoid believing beyond a doubt, that the mind \nexperiences certain sensations, or has "Certain thoughts, or \nputs forth particular intellectual operations, whenever in \npoint of fact that is the case. We may be asked for the \n\n\n\n* The views here expressed may be supposed to hold good also in \nrespect to all abstractions whatever^ w.hich have a real and objec- \ntive existence. Accordingly we are not conscious of space and \nlime, on the common supposition of their possessing a distinct and real \nentity, although we are of the ideas of them, or of those new states of \nmind, which exist, when sptice and time are the objects of contem- \nplation. \n\n\n\n(1) CONSCIOUSNESS. 99 \n\nreason of this belief, but we have none to give, except that \nit is the resiilt of an ultimate and controlling principle of \nour nature ; and hence that nothing can ever prevent the \nconvictions, resulting from this source, and nothing can \ndivest us of them. \n\nHow often men retire within their own bosoms, shut- \nting up the outward senses, and pleasing themselves with \nthe soul\'s inward contemplations, with new trains of \nthought, with many past remembrances, with melancholy \nor joyful affections ! Now it would be not only as easy, \nbiit as rational, to disbelieve the existence of the soul it- \nself, as to disbelieve the existence of these rich* and varied \nexperiences, of which it is the subject. In, fact, neither \nthe one, nor the other is possible ; nor has the whole his- \ntory of the mind made known any instances, that have \neven the appearance of being kt variance with this view, \nexcept a few cases of undoubted insanity. A man may \nreason against consciousness as a ground and a law of be- \niief, either for the sake of amusing himself or of puzzling \nothers, but when he. not only reasons against it as such, \nbut seriously and sincerely rejects it, it becomes quite an- \notljier concern, and such an one has by common consent \nbroken loose from the authority of his nature, and is truly \nand emphatically beside himself. It will be impossible \nto find a resting-place, where such a mind can fix itself \nand repose ; the best established truths and the wildest \nand most extravagant notions will stand nearly an equal \nchance of being either rejected or received ;\xe2\x80\xa2 fancy and \nfact will be confounded and mingled together ; and the \nwhole mind become a chaos like that of the world when \nit was without form and void. \n\n\n\nCHAPTER FIFTH. \n\n\n\nLAWS OF BELIEF. (II) THE SENSES. \n\n\xc2\xa7.74. General statement as to the confidence placed in \ntke senses. \n\nThe second law of belief, which it falls to us to con- \nsider, is that of the senses. In speaking of the senses in \nthis light, what we mean to say in respect to them isj \nthat the feelings, to which they give rise, are, by our very \nconstitution, the occasion of belief, or are attended by it. \nIn this sense they are a law. * \n\nThis statement, it will be noticed, involves and takes \nfor granted tlie truth of the proposition, that belief and \nsensations go together. Nor is this, assumption made \nwithout abundant evidence to support it. It "must without \nmuch inquiry be clear to all,that the convictions and actions \nof men are daily controlled by the senses. As a general \nstatement, it is undoubtedly true, that in the judgments, \nwhich "we constantly form of human conduct, and of the \nexistence, forms, properties, and relations of the material \nworld, no one refuses them his confidence. \n\nWhat better evidence can there be of the cocrectness \nof this statement, than the accordant sentiment and declar- \nation of the great mass of mankind ! On this point the \nfeelings, conduct, and sayings of men are prompt and \ncoincident. \n\nWhen one man states to anothe;- a report of what has \nhappened at some time, the hearer yields to him a great- \n\n\n\nLAAVS OF BELIEF. (II) THE SENSES. 101 \n\ner or less degree of credence according to circumstances. \nBut if the narrator asserts, that he saw or heard it with \nhis own eyes or ears, that the affair actually carae under \nthe cognizance of his own senses, everybody deems such an \nassertion enough ; it is not thought important to inquire \nfarther. But certainly if men believe in their neighbours \nfor this cause, they would believe in themselves for the \nsame cause ; if they rely without hesitation on- the sight \nand hearing of others, not less would they rely on their \nown. \n\n. \xe2\x80\xa2\xe2\x80\xa2 \' \n\n\xc2\xa7. \'7$. The belief arising from the senses may be consider- \ned in two respects. \n\nBut it is necessary, in order to have a correct concep- \ntion of this subject, to make a more particular statement. \n\nIt will readily occur, that what we term the senses. \nwithout delaying to give a specific explanation of them \nhere, are merely forms of bodily organization ; they are \nin themselves utterly exclusive of any thing of an intellec- \ntual kind ; and therefore, are to be regarded only as the \ninstrument or medium of new m,ental states. Having \npremised this, we are prepared to remark further, that, \nby the constitution of our natures, e.very affection of the \nsenses, whether from a material or any other cause, is fol- \nlowed by a corresponding affection or state of the mind. \nThe belief, therefore, of which the senses are the law \nand the occasion, may be considered in two respects. \n\nIn the first place there is a belief attendant on the new \nfeelings, which are thus occasioned, and which has par- \nticular reference to those feelings ; we believe them to \nexist ; and, as they are the direct subjects of our conscious- \nness, there is neither doubt nor disagreement in this par- \nticular., From the nature of the case, all our sensations \nmust be precisely such, both in kind and intensity, as we \nfeel them to be. It is the actual feeling, and nothing \nelse, which constitutes the sensation ; and it bears a dif- \nferent name from a multitude of other feelings, not so \nmuch in consequence of a difference in itself, as in its im- \nmediate cause or antecedent. \n\n\n\n102 LAWS OF BELIEF. \n\nIn the second place there is a belief also, and per- \nhaps not less strong and decisive, which has relation \nnot to the mere feelings themselves, but to external obr \njects. It is this in particular, which we have reference to, \nwhen we speak of the senses as a law of belief. The new \nfeelings,*following an affection of the senses, are in sohie \nsense the occasions, on which the active and curious mind \nmoves out of the world of its own spiritual and im- \nmaterial existence, and becomes acquainted with matter. \nIt is somewhat here as in the reading of a book. When \nwe read, nothing but "certain marliS or lines, and arrang- \ned in a particular order, ai;e directly presented to our sen- \nses ; but we find them connected with new states of mind \nutterly distinct from the\' direct impression they make. \nA piece of paper, written upon with these inky delinea- \ntions, becomes to the soul a sign of the most various and \nexalted ideas ; and in like manner, in the permanent or- \ndering of our mental nature, it is found to be the case, \nthat certain new affections of the mind, provided they are \ncaused by means of the senses, become the signs of vari- \nous existences, which are wholly diverse from the feelings \nthemselves. We experience the feelings, which all admit \nto be in themselves neit\'her archetypes nor resemblances \nof any thing whatever, which is external to the soul ; and \nthen at once we become acquainted with a vast multitude \nof objects, that would otherwise have remained unknown \nto us ; with trees and fields and waters, with the melody \nof birds and the sounds of the elements, with the sun and \nmoon and stars of the firmanent, and with all the forms \nand beauties and glories of creation. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 7G. Objection to reposing confidence in the senses. \n\nAs has been remarked, the objects, of which oyr sen- \nsations are in this way the. signs, are attended with be- \nlief. On the authority of such feelings as are immediate- \nly consequent on an affection of the senses, all mankind, if \nthe evidence of their general conduct and of their ex- \npress declarations is to be regarded, believe in those ob- \njects, as having a distinct and real existence, as having \n\n\n\n(II) THE SENSES.\' 103 \n\nforms, properties, and relations. Nevertheless without \ndenyino-the fact of this general reliance on the senses as a \nground of belief, an objection has been made to its being \nwell placed. The objection, stated in a few words, is \nthis ; That our senses sometimes deceive us, and lead us \ninto mistakes. \n\nIn support of the objection, such instances as the fol- \nlowing are brought forward. Thesunand moon ap- \npear to the spectator on the earth\'s surface to be a foot \nor two in diameter, and little more than half a mile high ; \na strSit stick, thrust into the water, appears to us crooked, \nas seen by the eye in that position ; a square tower at a \ndis.tance is mistaken for a round one ; a piece of ice for a \nstone ; a brass coin for a gold one. Nor are such mis- \ntakes to be ascribed solely to the sense of sight ; they are \nnot unfrequently committed, when we rely, on the inti- \nmations of the taste and smell, the touch and hearing. \n\nVarious facts of the above kind have been brought \nforward to discredit the senses, and to prevent a reliance \non them. It is not necessary to extend the enumeration of \nthem, as these will serve for a specimen of the whole. \nIt may be proper to add, however, that we are reminded \nalso of our dreams, and of the acknowledged, fact, that \nwhatever is the subject of them often appears as wellde- \nfmed to our perceptions as what takes place, when we are \nawake ; and yet there is nothing actually seen or heard. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 77. The senses imperfect rather than fallacious. \n\nThat there are some apparent grounds for the objec- \ntion, which has been made to a full reliance on tbe testis \nmony of the senses, it is not necessary to deny. Never- \ntheless the great mass of the alledged fallacie;^ originating \nfrom this cause, not^vithstanding the perplexities they \nhave occasioned Malebranche and his predecessors and \nfollowers in the same path, admit of a satisfactory ex- \nplanation. \n\nBut before entering into particulars, it is requisite to \nmake the general remark, that the senses are more prop- \n\n\n\n104 LA.WS OF BELIEF. \n\nerly imperfect than fallacious ; and that they lead us as- \ntray, not so much by their own direct action, as in conse- \nquence of our expecting too much of them. Now if we \nkeep this in view, and moderate and chasten our expec- \ntations by thfe evidently limited nature of the senses, we \nshall find less to complain of. \n\nAmong other things should it be kept in mind, that \neach sense .acts in .its own allotted sphere, and can be aux- \niliary to the enlargement of our knowledge only within \nthe limits of that sphere. Accordingly, in order to a \ncorrect result in any particular case, there may some- \ntimes be need of a combined action : there may be need \nof the testimony of other senses. In many cases, where \nwe suppose ourselves to be led into. mistakes by the sense \nof sight, we may obtain a more correctestimation by call- \ning in the aid of the touch. And we are permitted, and \nwe may say, required, to carry out and complete the inti- \nmations of the senses by the deductions of reasoning. \nIf the bodily eye alone be unable to give us a correct \nidea of the sun and moon, the eye of the mind may right- \nly be called in to its assistance. By this means we cannot \nonly indicate the size of those bodies, but mark out the \npath of their motion ; and thus not only seeing those \nthings, which actually exist, but those, which are to be \nhereafter, we can predict their position and appearance, \nbefore that position and those appearances happen. \n\n\xc2\xa7.78. Some alkdged mistakes\'of the senses owing to. \nwant 0^ care. \n\nIf t|j.e- course, pointed out in the last section, were al- \nways followed, the mistakes we are exposed to woidd be \nless frequent: But even when we refer to all the senses, \nand combine with this reference the*deductions of reason- \ning, we may still err from want of care. Beyond all \nquestion some of the mistakes, ascribed to the senses, are \nowing topremature inferences from them ; to a want of \ncaution, discrimination, and full inquiry. \n\nThis particular subject is illustrated as follo-ws by Dr. \n\n\n\n(II) THE SENSES. 105 \n\nReid. \xe2\x80\x94 "Many things called the deceptions of the senses \nare only conclusions rashly drawn from the testimony of \nthe senses. In these cases the testimony of the senses is \ntrue, but we rashly draw a conclusion from it, which does \nnot necessarily follow. We are disposed to impute our \nerrors rather to false information than to inconclusive \nreasoning, and to blame our s\'enses for the wrong conclu- \nsions we draw from their testimony. \n\n" Thus, when a man has taken a counterfeit guinea for \na true one, he says his senses deceived him ; but he lays \nthe blame where it ought not to be laid: for we may ask \nhim, did your senses give a false testimony of the colour, \nor of the figure, or of the impression ? No. But this is \nall that they testified and this they testified truly. From \nthese premises you concluded that it was a true guinea, \nbut this conclusion does not follow ; you erred therefore, \nnot by relying upon the testimony of sense, but by judg- \ning rashly from its testimony. Not only are your senses \ninnocent of this error, but it is only by their information \nthat it can be discovered. If you consult them properly, \nthey will inform you that what you took for a guinea is \nbase metal, or is deficient in weight, and this can only be \nknown by the testimony of sense. \n\n*\' I remember to have met with a man who thought the \nargument used by Protestants against the Popish doctrine \nof transubstantiation, from the testimony of our senses, \ninconclusive ; because, said he, instances may be given \nwhere several of our senses may deceive us: how do we \nknow then that there may not be cases wherein they all \ndeceive us, and no sense is left to detect the fallacy ? I \nbegged of him to know an instance wherein several of \nour senses deceive us. I take, said he, a piece of soft turf, \nI cut it into the shape of an apple ; with the essence of \napples, I give it the the smell of an apple ; andvvith paint, I \ncan give it the skin and color of an apple. Here then is \na body, which if you judge by your eye, by your touch, \nor by your smell, is an apple. \n\n\'-\'\xe2\x96\xa0 To this I would answer, that no one of our senses de- \nceives us in this case. My sight and touch testify that it \n14 \n\n\n\n106 LAWS OF BELIEF. \n\nhas the shape and colour of an apple: this is true. The \nsense of smelling testifies that it has the smell of an apple: \nthis is likewise true, and is no deception. Where then \nlies the deception? It is evident it lies in this, that because \nthis body has some qualities belonging to an apple, I con- . \nelude that it is an apple. This is a fallacy, not of the sen- \nses, but of inconclusive reasoning. "* \n\n\xc2\xa7.79. Of mistakes in judging of the motion of objects. \n\n" Many false judgments, (continues the same judicious \nwriter,) that are accounted deceptions of sense, arise from \nour mistaking relative motion for real or absolute motion. \nThese can be no deceptions of sense, because by our senses \nwe perceive only the relative motions of the bodies ; and it \nis by reasoning that we infer the real from the relative \nwhich we perceive. A little reflection may satisfy us of \nthis. \n\n" It was before observed, that we perceive extension to \nbe one sensible quality of bodies, and thence are necessa- \nrily led to conceive space, though space, be of itself no \nobject of sense. When a body is removed out of its \nplace, the space which it filled remains empty till it is \nfilled by some other body, and would remain if it should \nnever be filled. Before any body existed, the space which \nbodies now occupy was empty space, capable of receiving \nbodies, for no body can exist where there is no space to \ncontain it. There is space therefore wherever bodies ex- \nist, or can exist. \n\n\'\' Hence it is evident that space can have no limits. It \nis no less evident that it is immovable. Bodies placed in \nit are movable, but the place where they were cannot be \nmoved ; and we can as easily conceive a thing to be mov- \ned fram itself, as one part of space brought nearer to, or \nremoved further from another. \n\n"This space, therefore, which is unlimited and im- \nmovable, is called by philosophers absolute space. Ab- \nsolute, or real motion, is a change of place in absolute \nspace. \n\n*Reid\'s Intellectual Powers of Man, Essay II. \n\n\n\n(11) THE SENSES. 107 \n\n"Our senses do not testify the absolute motion or abso- \nlute rest of any body. When one body removes from \nanother this may be discerned by the senses ; but whether \nany body keeps the same part of absolute space, we do \nnot perceive by our senses. When one body seems to re- \nmove from another, we can infer with certainty that there \nis absohite motion, but wiiether in the one or the other, \nor partly in both is not discerned by sense. \n\n*\'0f all the prejudices which philosophy contradicts, I \nbelieve there is none so general as that the earth keeps its \nplace unmoved. This opinion seems to be universal, till \nit is corrected by instruction, or by philosophical specula- \ntion. Those who have any tincture of education are not \nnow in danger of being held by it, but they find at first a \nreluctance to believe that there are antipodes ; that the \nearth is spherical, and turns round on its axis every day, and \nround the sun every year. They can recollect the time \nwhen reason struggled with prejudice upon these points, \nand prevailed at length, but not without some effort. \n\n*\' The cause of a prejudice so very general is not un- \nworthy of investigation. But that is not our present bu- \nsiness. It is sufficient to observe, that it cannot justly be \ncalled a fallacy of sense ; because our senses testify only \nthe change of the situation of one body in relation to other \nbodies, and not its change of situation in absolute space. \nIt is only the relative motion of bodies that we perceive, \nand that we perceive truly. It is the province of reason \nand philosophy, from the relative motions which we per- \nceive, to collect the real and absolute motions which pro- \nduce them. \n\n" All motion must be estimated from some point or \nplace, which is supposed to be at rest. We perceive not \nthe points of absolute space from which real and absolute \nmotions must be reckoned : and there are obvious reasons \nthat lead mankind in the state of ignorance, to make the \nearth the fixed place from which they may estimate the \nvarious motions they perceive. The custom of doing \nthis from infancy, and of using constantly a language \nwhich supposes the earth to be at rest, may perhaps \n\n\n\niOS LAWS OF BELIEF. \n\nbe the cause of the general prejudice in favor of this \nopinion. \n\n" Thus it appears, that if we distinguish accurately be- \ntween what our senses really and naturally testify, and \nthe conclusions which we draw from their testimony, by \nreasoning, we shall find many of the errors, called falla- \ncies of the senses, to be no fallacy of the senses, but rash \njudgments, which are not to be imputed to our senses." \n\n\xc2\xa7.80. Of mistakes as to the distances and magnitude of \nobjects. \n\nOne class of the fallacies by means of the senses is \nmade up of those errourswe commit in our perceptions of \nthe distance of objects. Our sight, it is said, often rep- \nresents objects to be near which are distant, and objects \nto be distant, which are near. That we often form erro- \nneous judgments as to the distance of objects is true ; but \nit is a mistaken sentiment, which ascribes these erroneous \nopinions exclusively to the misrepresentations of the sight, \nor of any other sense. The subject of distance will \nshortly come up again ; and we shall therefore antici- \npate it only so far as to remark, that the perception of dis- \ntance is not an original act of the sight, but is something \nacquired. We are not properly said to see distance, but \nrather to judge of distance by sight ; and hence the data, \nfurnished by that sense, may be right, and still the con- \nclusions deduced from them be wrong. \n\nII, \xe2\x80\x94 Another class of errours are those of magnitude. \nThe notions, which we form on that subject also, are ac- \nquired, and not original. We judge objects to be great \nor small in comparison with ourselves or with one anoth- \ner ; and not in consequence of any thing, which is di- \nrectly and immediately perceived in the objects them- \nselves. We might call many objects small, which hap- \npened to be of the size of a particular diamond, and yet not \ninconsistently speak of the diamond itself as a very large \none; and this for the simple reason, that our notions of \nlarge and small are not absolute but relative, and are for- \nmed by repeated acts of comparison. If there were but \none object in creation beside ourselves, and if we could \n\n\n\n(11) THE SENSES. 109 \n\nnot reason from ourselves to that object, we could not pos- \nsibly form any notion of its magnitude as distinct from \nthe mere idea of extension. It is very clear our senses \ncould not of themselves authorize us to speak of such an \nobject as large or small. Nor could it be done by reason- \ning, inasmuch as there are supposed to be no other objects, \nwith which to compare it. \xe2\x80\x94 These few remarks, the cor- \nrectness of which may more fully appear hereafter, will \nsuffice to evince, that such mistakes, as may exist in regard \nto the distance and magnitude of objects, are not exclusive- \nly attributable to the senses. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 81. The senses liable to be diseased. \n\nThere is one respect, however, in which it is perhaps \ntrue, that we can speak with propriety of deceptions, ari- \nsing from the cause now under consideration. The body \nas a whole being liable to be diseased, the senses as a part \nof the physical system are of course not exempted from \nthis liability. As a mere question of fact, it cannot be \ndeemed a matter of doubt, that the senses are often phys- \nically disordered ; and at such times all persons are liable \nto be led astray by them. What is sweet to persons or- \ndinarily, may appear bitter to one with a diseased palate ; \nwhat is white to the mass of mankind may appear of a \nyellow hue to one, whose organ of sight is diseased ; \nthe physical condition of the sense of touch may be so \nperverted as to lead the diseased person to imagine he is \nmade of glass or feathers instead of flesh and blood. \n\nBut it is surely enough to say, in respect to cases of \nthis kind, that such is the condition of humanity, the \ncommon allotment, stamped both upon body and mind, \nand on all their powers ; and he, who knows it not, has, \nin great likelihood, studied more carefully the powers \nand excellencies, than the infirmities of human nature. \n\nWhat principle in our mental constitution is not liable \nto be perverted ? What susceptibility is not liable to find \nits action suspended ? What strength is there, that may \nnot be weakened? Or what beauty that may not be de- \nformed ? In all our conduct we rely, and very correctly. \n\n\n\nI \n\n110 LAWS OF BELIEF. \n\non the MEMORY, but the laws, which sustain that inestima- \nble faculty, will sometimes grow w^eary, inconstant, and \ntreacherous. We rely with equal readiness on the reason- \ning power ; no one doubts, that its conclusions are a \nground of belief. But what is reasoning, when uttered in \nthe ravings of a madman, or when drawing its conclusions \nin a lunatic asylum ? \n\nIt follows, therefore, if the senses deceive us in the case \nwe are now attending to, the fault, if such it is to be con- \nsidered, is not an exclusive one. It belongs to other parts \nof our nature also, not excepting its noblest and most ef- \nficient characteristics. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 82. Our knowledge of the material world from the senses. \n\nIt will be noticed, that, in what has been said, we have \ntaken for granted the actual existence of an external ma- \nterial world ; and we may add here, that it is by means \nof the senses we have a knowledge of such existence. It \nwould have been premature to have adverted particularly \nto this subject, without first noticing and disposing of the \nobjection, that the senses are not entitled to our reliance. \nFrom what has been brought forward, it clearly appears, \nthat the position of their leading us astray does not hold \ngood when we separate the proper objects of them from \nwhat are not, and when we guide and carry out the inti- \nmations of one sense by the aids of the others and of the \nreasoning power. - \n\nIn respect to Vae topic now especially to be consider- \ned, it may perhaps be said with confidence, that no man, \nwho employs the senses at all, can doubt of the real exis- \ntence of an external, material creation. All external na- \nture is operating upon us from the very moment of our \nbirth ; and giving origin, consistency, and strength to this \nbelief. The resistance, which bodies present to the touch, \nwhen that sense is impressed upon them by the agency of \nthe muscles, probably gives occasion for the distinct and \nessential idea of externality ; and with this idea tlie sen- \nses soon enable us to associate others, as extension, colour, \nform, and all material qualities and properties. In this \n\n\n\n(II) THE SENSES. Ill \n\nway we become acquainted^vith the whole outward world, \nw^hicli, we are now prepared to assert explicitly, has an \nactual and independent existence. \n\nBut a new train of thoughts arises here. It may be \nsaid that the mere fact of our having ideas of externality, \nextension, colour, and the like, does not necessarily in- \nvolve and imply the true and actual existence of those \nthings, which they represent, or of which they are suppo- \nsed and believed to be the effect. In other words we \nmay possess certain internal affections, and attribute them \nto something external and material as their cause ; and we \nmay truly and sincerely believe the reality of such a \ncause, while in point of fact it does not exist ; and conse- \nquently, our conviction of a truly existing material world \nmay be a self imposition and delusion. On this view \nof our exclusion from any satisfactory knowledge of a \nmaterial world, which is not so singular as not to have \nhad some acute advocates, a few remarks are to be of- \nfered. \n\n\xc2\xa7 . 83 . Correctness of their testimony in this respect. \n\nThe first remark, which we have to make, concerns \nthe mere fact of belief. We have already made the dec- \nlaration with confidence, that no man, who makes use of \nthe senses at all, can doubt of the reality of external ma- \nterial things. It is no presumption to assert, that the be- \nlief of the reality of an external cause of our sensations \njs universal. This is the common feeling, the common \nlanguage of all mankind. \n\nThose, who deny the propriety of relying on the evi- \ndence of the senses for the existence of the material \nworld, and who deny such existence, should explain this \nbelief. That such a belief exists, cannot be denied ; that \nIt is a false belief, an unfounded conviction, ought not to \nbe lightly asserted. It wars too much, as even a slight ex- \namination would suffice to show, wdth the sentiments of \nman\'s moral and religious constitution. \n\nIt is to be acknowledged with gratitude, that the \ngreat mass of mankind fully believe in the existence of \n\n\n\n112 LAWS OF BELIEF. \n\nthe Deity, a being of perfect truth as well as benevolence. \nBut to create man so that he should be irresistibly led to \nbelieve in tKe existence of a material world, when it did \nnot exist, to create him with high capacities of thought, \nfeeling, and action, and then to surround him with mere \nillusive and imaginary appearances, does not agree with \nthat notion of God, which we are wont to entertain. Mr. \nStewart, in speaking of the metaphysical inquiries of \nDes Cartes, observes, that his reasonings led him to con- \nclude, that God cannot possibly be supposed to deceive \nhis creatures ; and, therefore, that the intimations of our \nsenses and the decisions of our reason are to be trusted to \nwith entire confidence, wherever they afford us clear and \ndistinct ideas of their respective objects. \n\nIn the second place, it will undoubtedly be admitted \nthat the sensations, which have been spoken of, have an \nexistence. This existence is wholly internal ; but still the \nsimple fact remains that they exist ; our consciousness \nmost decisively teaches us so. But it has been laid down \nas a primary truth, a first principle, that there is no be- \nginning or change of existence without a cause. This is \nan elementary principle, placed as far above all objection \nand scepticism as any one can be, and eminently prelimi- \nnary to the full exercise of reasoning. \n\nAnd where then is the cause of these internal effects .\'* \nWhat man, who denies the existence of the material \nworld, is able to indicate the origin of these results ? If, \nyielding to the suggestions of our nature and the requi- \nsitions of our belief, we seek for a cause external to our- \nselves, we find a satisfactory explanation ; otherwise we \nmay expect to find none of any kind. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 84. The senses as much grounds of belief as other parts \n\' of our constitution. \n\nFurthermore, it must be admitted, as has already been \nparticularly stated and shown, that there are certain orig- \ninal sources or grounds of belief in our constitution. To \nsay otherwise would be to loosen and destroy the founda- \ntion of all knowledge, whether that knowledge concern- \n\n\n\n(U) \'Vl\\K SENSKS. 113 \n\ned iiKittor or mind. But what evidence is there, that \nthere are such original sources of belief, or that any one \nthino- iu particular is the foundation of such belief more \nthan any other thing ? The answer is our own internal \nconsciousness and conviction, and this merely ; we are \nconscious of belief, and are able to trace it to the occasions \nwhich give it rise. \n\nNow if we carefully examine our minds, we shall find, \nthat the intimations from the senses as effectually cause \nbelief, as any other source of evidence whatever. Our \nconsciousness, our internal conviction tells us that our \nbelief is as decisively regulated by the perceptions, dijri- \nved through the senses, as by our intuitive or inductive \nperceptions; and that they are as much a ground of knowl- \nedoe. We assert this with confidence ; therefore, if the \nsenses are not a ground of belief and knowledge, the \nway is fairly open for unlimited scepticism on all subjects. \nIt will in tills case be impossible to fix upon any thing \nw^hatever, which is to be received as evidence, and men must \ngive up all knowledge of intellect as well as matter, and \nwill be at once released from all moral obligation. \n\n, \xc2\xa7. 85. Opinicns of Locke on the testimony of the senses. \n\nAs the satisfactory understan. ling of this subject\' is of \nmuch practical importance, we shall clo.^e what has been \nsaid upon it by some passages from Locke, Avhose clearness \nof apprehension never fails him, and w\'ho has the advan- \ntage of [)roposing his opiniOi.s in a diction, though some- \nwhat antiquated, yet free, plain, and energetic, \xe2\x80\x94 \'\'If af- \nter all this, (he says in the Fourth Book of his Essay,) \nany one will be so skeptical as to distrust his senses, and \nto affirm that all we see and hear, feel and taste, think \nand do, during our v/hole being, is but the series and de- \nluding appearances of a long dream, whereof there is no \nreality ; and therefore will cjuestion the existence of all \nthings, or our knowledge of any tiling ; I most desire \nhim to consider, that, if all be a dream, then he doth but \ndream that he makes the rpiestion ; and so it is not much \nmatter that a v^aking man should answer liim. But yet, \n15 \n\n\n\n114 LAWS OF BELIEF. (II) THE SENSES. \n\nif he pleases, he may dream that I make him this answer, \nthat the certainty of things existing in rermn nalura^ when \nwe have the testimony of our senses for it, is not only as \ngreat as our frame can attain to, but as our condition \nneeds. For our faculties being suited not to tlie full ex- \ntent of being, nor to a perfect, clear, comprehensive \nknowledge of things, free from all doubt and scruple ; \nbut to the preservation of us, in whom they are, and ac- \ncommodated to the use of life ; they serve to our pur- \npose well enough, if they will but give us certain notice \nof those things which are convenient or inconvenient to \nus. For he that sees a candle burning, and hath experi- \nmented the force of its flame, by putting his finger in it, \nwill little doubt that this is something existing without \nhim, which does him harm, and puts him to great pain ; \nwhich is assurance enough, when no man requires greater \ncertainty to govern his actions by than what is as certain \nas his actions themselves. And if our dreamer pleases to \ntry whether the glowing heat of a glass furnace be barely \na wandering imagination in a drowsy man\'s fancy ; by put- \nting his hand into it he may perhaps be wakened into a \ncertainty greater than he could wish, that it is something \nmore than bare imagination. So that this evidence is as \ngreat.as we can desire, being as certain to us as our pleas- \nure or pain, i. e. happiness or misery ; beyond which we \nhave no concernment, either of knowing or being. Such \nan assurance of the existence of things without us is sufii- \ncient to direct us in the attaining the good, and avoid- \ning the evil, which is caused by them ; which is the im- \nportant concernment we have of being made acquainted \nwith them." \n\n\n\nCHAPTER SIXTH. \n\n\n\nLaws OF BELIEF. (Ill) TESTIMONY. \n\n\xc2\xa7.S6. Of tesUmoiiy and the general fact of its influencing \n\nbelief \n\nWe shall next consider human testimony. By this \nis commonly meant the report of men concerning what \nhas fallen under their personal observation. And this \nforms a third law or ground of Belief. \n\nAs to the fact, that men readily receive the testimony \nof their fellow beings, and that such testimony influences \ntheir belief and conduct, it cannot be denied. If a person \nshould seriously deny the truth of a well attested state- \nment in history, or question the well attested existence of \na distant nation or city, merely because the evidence hap- \npened to be that of human testimony, it would be thought \ntruly strange and unaccountable. \n\nAnd surely if it were otherwise, if there were not this \nprompt and confiding reliance on testimony, a state of \nthings would be presented very different from what actu- \nally exists. Without a general confidence in what men \nassert, every one\'s knowledge of events and facts would \nbe limited to those only, of which he himself had been \na personal witness. In this case no American, who \nhad not been a traveller, could believe, that there is \nsuch a city as London ; and no Englishman in a like \nsituation could believe, that there is such a city as \nRome ; and no person whatever has any ground for be- \n\n\n\nLAWS OF BELIEF. HG \n\nlieviiio", that sue!), men as Hamiibai and Caesar liave ever \nexisted. \n\nWith the great mass of mankind the exclusion of tes- \ntimony as a ground of belief would be the means of de- \npriving them of the greater part of what they now know. \nThe vast world would be only what they themselves see, \nan oRBis TERRARUM, bouuded by the narrow range of \ntheir native hills ; the renowned men and deeds of the \nworld would be summed up in "the persons and acts of \nthe private circle of their acquaintances ; myriads of hu- \nman beings, tribes and nations of men, uncounted abodes \nof life and numberless works of genius would virtually \npass away and be lost. Their condition would be less fa- \nvourable than that of Virgil\'s shepherd, who believed in \nthe existence of the Imperial City, the reports of which \nhad reached him in his solitudes, and only mistook in \ncomparing great things with small, and in supposing it to \nbe like those humble villages of Mantua, where he had \ntended his flocks. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 87. Of the various explanations! of the origin of confi- \ndence in testimony. \n\nAdmitting the fact, that men place great confidence in \ntestimony, and that without such confidence one principal \nsource of knowledge would be shut up, a question never- \ntheless arises here, What is the ground of this reliance ? \nIn some points of view this inquiry is probably of less \nimportance than the mere question of the fact ; still the \nsubject cannot be wholly neglected, consistently with the \ndesire of.giving a succinct viev/ at least of the mind in all \nits parts. \n\nIt is j)roper to remark first, however, that the credence \nor reliance in question exhibits itself at a date earlier than \nany period our recollection goes back to ; and, therefore, \nit is impossible to explain the grounds of it with abso- \nlute certainty. That provision has in some way been \nmade for a belief in the declarations of our fellow beings, \n>s a fact ; and that it takes elFect very early in life, is a fact \n\n\n\n(lli) TESTIMONY. 117 \n\nalso ; but further than this; we can only offer explanations \nmore or less probable. \n\nHaving made this remark, we are prepared to observe, \nthat a number of explanations, as might be expected, and \ndiffering more or less from each other^ have been given. \nOne is, that credence in testimony is natural or constitu- \ntional ; in other words is an elementary and original ten- \ndency of our being. The advocates of this opinion main- \ntain, that the very nature of our mental constitution, in- \ndependently of the suggestions of reasoning and experi- \nence, leads us to believe what men assert. We are so con- \nstituted, that the very first sound of the human voice, \nwhich reaches ns, calls into action a disposition on our \npart to admit the truth of whatever intelligence it con- \nveys. \n\nIn support of this view, which has in its favor the- \nnames of Reid and Campbell among others, reference i& \nmade to what we observe in children. In the earliest pe- \nriod of life, as soon as the first gleams of intelligence are. \nvisible, they look with hope and fondness to those, who, \nsupport them ; there seems to be no doubt, no suspicion, \nno want of confidence. This strong reliance discovers \nitself from time to time, as they advance towards youth ; \nand, in the whole of the early part of oiir existence, is so \ndistinct, strong, and operative, that men have given to it \na specific name, in order to distinguish it from the more \nchastened credence of riper years. We speak of the cau- \ntion and the convictions of ;iianhood, and of the simplicity \nand CREDULITY of children. \n\nIt is further contended, that the principle of a natural \nreliance on the declarations of our fellow beings is invol- \nved in, and is indispensable to the propensity, v/hich all \nphilosophers admit man to have for society. This pro- \npensity will not be passed by without remark at some fu- \nture time. It will suffice to observe here, that man is \nborn in society, and is never out of it ; society is his ele- \nment ; and a state of nature in the literal sense of the \nterms is only imaginary. When we thihk, therefore, of \nthe wise Being, from whom man comes^ and who cannot \n\n\n\nIIS LAWS OF BELIEF. \n\nbe supposed to have placed him in his present situation \nwithout foresight and intention, we naturally conclude, \nthat he is, and ever was designed for society, and that he \nis made meet for his destination. \n\nBut what is implied in a meetness for living together ? \nWhat is requisite to preserve the bond, that binds in one \nfamilies, and neighbourhoods, and states ? . Among other \nthings, very evidently the principle in question ; a confi- \ndence in men, a reliance on their statements. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 88. Connection of a reliance on testimony with a disposi- \ntion to utter the truth. \n\nAnother explanation of the origin of the principle of \ncredence, and somewhat different, has been given. The \ntrain of thought is this. \xe2\x80\x94 It requii\'es but a little examina- \ntion of ourselves to become satisfied, that it is according \nto the nature of men to speak the truth. Every person \nmust be supposed to feel, that lying is not accordant with \nthe original principles of his being ; that every falsehood \nhe tells degrades and diminishes him in his own eyes ; \nthat truth is the natural and appropriate result of the mind. \nThis conviction is one of the earliest we have ? but there \nis another not less early, and perhaps still more so in its \norigin, viz. our belief in the uniformity of the laws of \nnature. \n\nCombining these two together, we are able to gener- \nalize, as it were, our own character. Sustained by the \nprimary truth which has just been referred to, we are led \nto conclude, that what is humanity in ourselves is human \nnature in all, in whom we perceive the same outward like- \nness ; in other words we promptly and unfailingly recog- \nnize in our own love of veracity a distinctive feature in \nthe mental character of our fellow beings. Under these \ncircumstances a reliance on human testimony is unavoida- \nble. And it may be added, that this reliance, supposing \nit to have the origin, which has now been stated, exists \nand operates at a period so early as to answer all the pur- \nposes requisite in" the forming and support of society. \n\n\n\n(Ill) TESTIMONY. 119 \n\n\xc2\xa7.89. This reliance greatly confirmed by experience. \n\nOthers again ascribe the origin of the credence, which \nwe give to testimony, to experience ; that is to say, to our \nobservation of a conformity in the reports of men to the \nfacts alledged by them. Men make assertions ; we find them \nto be true, and in this way we learn or acquire a confidence. \nBut the difficulty is in reconciling this explanation with \nthe very early period of life, in which the cre\'dence in \nquestion is known, in a greater or less degree, to manifest \nitself. \n\nBut whether this explanation of the origin of our \nreliance on testimony be admissible or not ; it is certain, \nthat experience or observation has much to do in strength- \nening it. At a period further back than we can now re- \nmember, we heard declarations, which our experience but \nseldom, and perhaps never found to be untrue. The truth \nwas poured into our ears by the voice of affection ; it be- \ncame associated with parental love ; as we look back we \nfind it interwoven with all our earliest recollections, and \ninseparable from whatever we enjoyed, honoured, and \nreverenced. \xe2\x80\xa2 \n\nIf, therefore, r;iliance on men\'s testimony be truly a \nplant, naturally springing up in the soil of the human \nheart, it will be found to be nourished and sustained not \nonly bv experience, but by the influence of the most sa- \ncred remembrances. \n\n\xc2\xa7. \xc2\xa30. Objections to our reliance on testimony. \n\nAfter all it may be inquired, whatever may be the \nfact of our reliance on testimony or of the origin of the \nsame, whether this reliance be justly and properly placed.\'\' \nAnd in support of this inquiry, it may no doubt be assert- \ned as an undeniable fact, that we are liable to be led into \nmistakes by the statements of our fellow men. This ob- \njection to the views, which have been given, merits some \nattention ; and the answer to it may be summed up in two \nparticulars. \n\nFir:-;t : the proportion of cases of deception, com- \n\n\n\n120 LAWS OF BELIEF. \n\npared with those where we are not deceived, is very \nsmall. Few persons are perhaps fully aware, to what ex- \ntent, and in what numberless instances we rely upon the \ninform.ation and the assertions of others. " Every hour \nof our lives, (says Dr. Paley, Moral Philos. Bk. III. ch. \nV.) we trust to, and depend upon others; and it is im- \npossible to stir a step, or, what is worse, to sit still a mo- \nment, without such trust and dependence. I am now \nwriting at my ease, not doubting, (or rather never dis- \ntrusting, and therefore, never thinking about it,) but that \nthe butcher v/ill send in the joint of meat, which I order- \ned ; that his servant will bring it, that my cook will dress \nit; that my footman will serve it up; and that I shall \nfind it upon the table at one o\'clock. Yet have I nothing \nfor all this but the promise of the butcher, and the implied \npromise of his servant and mine. And the same holds of \nthe most important, as well as the most familiar occurren- \nces of social life." \n\nBut are vvc WTong in relying on the declarations^ both \nimplied and express, in such cases as this, and in others \nsimilar ? Certainly not. We may be deceived and dis- \nappointed sometimes, but not often, in comparison with \nthe whole number of cases where v/e place reliance. \nMen are naturally disposed to speak tlie truth ; it is much \neasier than to speak what is not true, for truth is at hand, \nbut the practice of prevarication and mis-statement re- \nquires labour, and invention, besides conflicting with the \ngeneral estimate of human character, and jarring violent- \nly upon every honourable sentiment within us. So capa- \nble is this view of being sustained, that even those men, \nwho have brought upon themselves the infamy of being \nconsidered liars, probably utter the truth an hundred \ntimes, where they utter a falsehood once. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 91 . Further remarks on this objection. \n\nSecond ; Admitting, that wc are liable to be led astray \nby means of testimony, still it is in our power, and is our \nduty to take suitable precautions against this liability, as \nin other cases. The eirours, into which we are some- \n\n\n\n(Ill) TESTIMONY. 121 \n\ntimes led from tins source, are analagous to those, into \nwhich wc are sometimes betrayed by means of the senses, \nand which, as they were found to be owing more to our \nown carelessness and haste than any thing else, were not \nthought sufficient to reject the senses from being consider- \ned grounds of belief and knowledge. In neither case are \nwe exposed to errours without the means of guarding \nagainst them ; and in respect to human testimony in par- \nticular we are by no means required to place implicit \nconfidence in it, without a regard to the circumstances \nunder which it is given, and the character and opportuni- \nties of the person who gives it. Every one knows, that \nthere are in himself tendencies and principles, which, in \ncertain circumstances^ may be brought in conflict with \nthe more ennobling principle of truth ; and that he is li- \nable to errour, even when he supposes himself to be seek- \ning the truth, from the mere want of labor and care. \nAnd we may make use of this experience in judging of \nthe testimony of others, since we may reasonably suspect \nin them the existence of similar tendencies, and similar \nwant of circumspection. It is, therefore, consistent with \nany suitable degree\'of reliance on testimony to satisfy our- \nselves, whether the pei^son, who testifies, possessed ample \nmeans of information ; whether he made use of those \nmeans ; and whether he may not* be under the influence \nof interest or passion. \n\n\n\nU \n\n\n\nCHAPTER SEVEiNTH, \n\n\n\nLAWS OF BELIEF. (iV) MEMORY. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 92. ^11 men place a reliance on memory. \n\nIn addition to the grounds of belief, which are to be \nfound in consciousness, the senses, and testimony, we find \nanother original occasion or law of the same in the Memo- \nry. \xe2\x80\x94 In our goings from place to place, and from one \nscene of action to another, in our meetings and conversa- \ntions with men, ard in our multiplied labours and relaxa- \ntions, joys and sufferings, we see , and iiear and do what \nwill perhaps afterwards never come within the range of \nour experience. When we subsequently act upon what has \nthus been once under the examination of the senses, or has \nin any other way come within our direct personal experi- \nence, we indicate our reliance on the remembrance. The \nthing itself has passed away ; but the remembrance of it \nremains ; and with the remembrance an unwavering be- \nlief, that the object of it once was. So far as we are con- \nfident, that the original perceptions are correctly reported \nin the remembrance, the latter controls our belief and ac- \ntions not less certainly than those perceptions. \n\nSays Dr. Beattie in some remarks on this subject, "The \nevidence of memory commands our belief as effectually as \nthe evideiv^e of sense. I cannot possibly doubt, with re- \ngard to any of my transactions of yesterday which I now \nremember, whether I performed them or not. That I din- \ned to day, and was in bed last night, is as certain to me, \n\n\n\nLAWS OF BELIEF. ([V) MEMOUY. 123 \n\nas that I at present see the colour of this paper. If\' we \nhad no memory, knowledge and experience would be \nimpossible ; and if we had any tendency to distrust our \nmemory, knowledge and experience would be of as little \nuse in directing our conduct and sentiments, as our dreams \nnow are. Sometimes we doubt, whether in a particular \ncase we exert memory or imagination ; and our belief is \nsuspended accordingly: but no sooner do we become \nconscious, that w^e remember, than conviction instantly \ntakes place ; we say, I am certain it was so, for now I re- \nmember I was an eye witne ;s. \'"* \n\n\xc2\xa7. 9 3. Limitations of our reliance on memory. \n\nIt will be observed, that there is an express limitation \nof this general view in the remarks of the foregoing \nsection. It is only when we have no reason to doubt \nof our original experiences being correctly reported in \nthe remembrances,that our reliance on them is of the \nhighest kind. It is the same here as in respect to the sen- \nses and testimony ; we confidently rely on the memory, \nbut are not exempt from some degree of exposure to er- \nrour from it ; although as in those cases, it is an expo- \nsure, which we are able to guard against with suitable \ncare and pains. \n\nIn what way, and in what particulars this caution and \npains are to be exerted, it is not necessary minutely to detail \nhere. One thing, however, seems to be in general certain, \nthat we are not led into errour by means of the memory \nignorantly, and without the ability to guard against it. \nEvery man knows from a species of internal feeling, or \nat least is able to satisfy himself in some way, whether \nthere be grounds for doubting his memory in any par- \nticular case or not. If it bie the fact that he finds reason \nfor suspecting its reports, his reliance will either be di- \nminished in proportion to this suspicion, or he will take \nmeans, if he be able to, to remove the grounds of such \nsuspicion. \n\n\xe2\x80\xa2*Beattie^s Essay on Truth, Pt. I, Ch. II, \xc2\xa7. 4. \n\n\n\n124 LAWS OF BELIEF. \n\nIt cannot reasonably be anticipated, that any objection \nwill be made to the doctrine of a reliance on memory, \nwith the limitation which has now been mentioned. \nWithout such reliance, our situation would be no better \nat least, than if we had been framed with an utter inabili- \nty to rely on Testimony ; we could hardly sustain an ex- \nistence ; we certainly could not derive any thing in aid of \nthat existence from the experience of the past. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 94. Origin oj merCs reliance on memory. \n\nThere remains, however, another inquiry. What is \nthe^origin of this confident reliance ? What are the grounds \nof it? And the reply here is, as in many other cases ; it \nis our nature, our mental constitution, the will and ordi- \nnance of the Being who created us. Whatever maybe \nsaid on the subject, there must be, and there are certain \n.original grounds, certain fundamental laws of belief, \nwhich, in every analysis of our knowledge, are fixed and \npermanent boundaries, beyond which we cannot proceed. \nAnd reliance on memory is one of them. \n\nIt cannot be said of this reliance, that it depends on \nexperience, for the simple reason, that we cannot reason \nfrom experience, without first implying, and resorting to \nconfidence in memory. The assumption of memory as a \nground and law of belief is necessarily antecedent to all \ndeduction. Nothing remains, therefore, but to repeat, \nthat reliance on memory is a law of our nature, an ulti- \nmate principle and tendency of our mental being. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 95. Memory the occasion of belief farther than lohat is \nactually remembered. \n\n\'There remains, however, a remark, relating to anoth- \n,,\xe2\x82\xacr topic connected with the memory, which is worthy of \nsome attention, viz. That memory is an indirect ground \nof belief farther than what is actually remembered. If \nthis remark be not obvious at first, it may be made so by \n.some brief considerations. \n\nWhatever may be the cause of it, it is very well known \nithat a great portion of our knowledge exists in the shape \n\n\n\n(IV) MEMORY. 125 \n\nof general principles. To these principles we were orig- \ninally led by trains of thought more or less long and in- \ntricate. But as in these trains of thought it was the re- \nsults of them we chiefly sought after, it naturally happen- \ned, that the antecedent reflections and arguments were \nsoon forgotten ; and the conclusions only or general prin- \nciples remained. It is the fact, however, that when we \nrecal such general truths as control our belief and convic- \ntion, we at the same time believe, that facts and arguments, \nhaving a definite relation to these results, formerly exists \ned, and were contemplated by the mind, although they \nhave now irretrievably faded from our recollection. \n\nFor instance, in demonstrative reasoning, a man has \nproved to his entire conviction and satisfaction, that the \nthree angles of a triangle are equal to two right angles ; \nor in moral reasoning, has proved to equal satisfaction, \nthat it is the duty of men to fulfil their promises. In \nthese and similar cases, he subsequently not only relies on \nthe remembrance of his having experienced a deep con- \nviction of the general truth at a particular time, but the \nremembered conviction is the occasion of originating in \nhim a firm reliance on what he does not remember, \nviz, on facts, comparisons, and arguments, which are now \nknown to the mind only by the abstract conception of their \nantecedent existence, and of their suitableness, what- \nsever they might have been, to produce such conviction. \n\n\n\nCHAPTER EIGHTH. \n\n\n\nLAWS OF BELIEF. \n(V) RELATIVE SUGGESTION AND REASONING. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 96. Meaning of Relative Suggestion and its connection \nwith belief. \n\nAnother ground or law of belief of such a nature, \nas to be entitled to a distinct consideration, is relative \nSUGGESTION. By this phrase, which has of late received \na definite application in Mental Philosophy, is expressed \nthe power or susceptibility, by means of which we per- \nceive the relations of objects. What relations them- \nselves are, it is unnecessary to attempt to define ; no mere \nform of words can render the conception of them clear- \ner to any person\'s comprehension, than it is already sup- \nposed to be. All, that needs be asserted, is the mere \nstatement of the fact, that, when the mind contemplates \ntwo or more objects, we naturally put forth other per- \nceptions or feelings ; we cannot avoid doing it. For in- \nstance, we feel or perceive such objects to be the same or \ndifferent, like or unlike, equal or unequal, cause or effect, \nwhole or part, attribute or subject, &c. \n\nThese new feeling\'s, as well as the direct perceptions \nof the objects, to which they relate, are occasions of be- \nlief. We not only believe the existence of the feelings \nthemselves, but find ourselves unable to resist and exclude \nthe belief of the actual existence and truth of that, to \nwhich they correspond. To employ a phraseology, which \n\n\n\nLAWS OF BELIEF. 127 \n\nseems to be coming into use, we believe in the objective \nreality of relations as well as in the subjective feelings, \nwhich interpret their existence and character to the mind. \nThe relations of things, it is true, are not objects, direct- \nly addressed to the external senses ; as we cannot directly \nsee them, nor hear them, nor feel them, they seem com- \nparatively obscure ; and yet we are so constituted, that \nthe cognizance of them is utterly inseparable from those \nperceptions, which we have both by means of the senses, \nand in any other way ; they are perceivable by the mind, \nand are undoubtedly, in some important sense, real sub- \njects of contemplation and knowledge. It is in this \n\nway, that relative suggestion, the name of the suscep- \ntil^ility, by means of which we become acquainted with \nrelations, is a law of belief. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 97. Classes of relations and intuitive perceptions \n\noj relation. \n\nThe relations, which we are able to discover on a care- \nful contemplation of objects, are almost innumerable, but \nattempts have been made, multiplied as they are, to re- \nduce thQm to certain classes ; for instance, to the general \nclasses of Coexistence and Succession, and these again \nto the subordinate classes of position, resemblance or differ- \nence, degree, proportion, and the like. \n\nBut it is^not necessary to enter into that inquiry here \nany further than to say, that some relations are more \nreadily perceived than others. The mind may hesitate, \nin some cases, in perceiving or feeling the relation of cause \nand effect, of proportion, cf subject and attribute j but \nthis is not the case in general with those of agreement or \ndisaorreement, similitude or dissimilitude. The mind is so \nprompt in perceiving these relations, in ascertaining the \n\xe2\x80\xa2agreement or difference, the identity or diversity of ob- \njects, that its perceptions in such cases are frequently dis- \ntinguished by a distinctive-name, and are termed intui- \ntive. There is no delay, no perplexity in perceiving, that \nred is not white, or that a square is not a circle, but the \nmind has a knowledge of the relations here at once, and \n\n\n\n12S LAWS OF BELIEF. \n\nwithout the intervention and help of any other ideas. \n\nMr. Locke happily remarks in respect to perceptions of \n\nthis sort, that like bright sunshine they force themselves \n\nimmediately to be perceived, as soon as ever the mind \n\nturns its vievi^ in the direction of them, and leave no room \n\nfor hesitation and doubt. \n\n. * \n\n^. 98. Of the intuitive perceptions called axioms. \n\nIt is proper to remark here, that certain intuitive per- \nceptions, when without reference to particular cases they \nare considered in the abstract, and are embodied in words, \nare termed axioms ; such as The whole is greater than a \npart ; Things equal to the same are equal to one anoth- \ner ; From equals take away equals, and the remainders \nare equal. \n\nIt must be evident to every one, that if the mind had \nbeen so constituted as to be incapable of putting forth the \nfeelings implied in axioms, there could have been no math- \nemalical deduction and demonstration. It is the power of \nRelative Suggestion, exerted in originating these intuitive \nperceptions, which enables the mind in the abstract sci- \nences to go on from step to step, till it arrives at last at the \nmost remote and difficult conclusions. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 99. Of reasoning as a ground oj belief . \n\nWhat has just been said leads us to remark further ij^ \ngeneral terms, that all Reasoning, both Moral and Demon- \nstrative, and in whatever form it exists, is a law of belief. \nBut it is proper to observe, by way of explaining the in- \ntroduction of this subject in this particular connection, \nthat every train of reasoning implies, and involves a se- \nries of felt or perceived relations. These, feelings of rela- \ntion may be regarded as the links, which bind together \nsuch separate perceptions, facts, or truths, as come with- \nin the range of the subject reasoned upon, and without \nwhich they would inevitably remain in their original \nstate of insulated and unavailable propositions. Truth is \nadded to truth, feeling arises successive to feeling, until we \narrive at the conclusion, which invariably fixes our belief \n\n\n\n(V) RELATIVE SUGGESTION AND REASONING. 129 \n\nThe conclusion is properly a mere feeling of relation ; but \nit is one, wiiich could not have existed without the pre- \nceding steps, without a succession of propositions; and \nin that point of view, Reasoning may properly be consid- \nered a ground of belief, distinct from Relative Sugges- \ntion. \n\nWhen, however, we assert, that the conclusions, dedu- \nced from a process of reasoning, invariably influence our \nbelief, we should partictdarly keep in mind heie^ that be- \nlief m:iy exiit in very various degrees. When the suc- \ncessive feelings, which we have in a train of reasoning, \nare all intuitive, and the propositions, with which we \ncommenced, were certain, or weie assun ed as such, be- \nlief is of course of the higliest kind. And this is always \nthe case in deinonstratioiis ; for there we always begin \neitlier with kr.own or assumed truths, and as the proposi- \ntions compared together are entirely abstract, there seems \nto be no room ^(xv doubt or mistake. But in moral rea- \nsoning, although the mental process is the same, the con- \nclusion is not necessarily true ; the propositions contem- \nplated are in general of a different < haracter from what \nwe find in demonstrative reasoning ; and the conclu- \nsion will vary from mere presumption to absolute cer- \ntainty according to the nature of tiie facts laid before the \nmind. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 100. Evidence that men confide in the results of reasoning. \n\nBut is it a fact, that Reasoning necessarily controls our \nconvictions in any case .\'\' What evidence is there, that \nour belief, in a greater or less degree, is naturally dej)end- \nent on its conclusions.^ \xe2\x80\x94 If we can suppose such a que.\'^tion \nto be seriously put, a prompt and satisfactory answer is to \nbe found in the general, and in individual experience. No \nman has it in his power to refuse obedience to the deci- \nsions of reasoning ; nor does he ever do it, except from \nan inability to embrace at once, and to balance the succes- \nsive steps of the process. On this point it is useless to de- \nlay ; a few words will be enough. \n\nIf this principle^ that reason is liaturally \xc2\xa3tted tx) cause \nIT \n\n\n\n130 LAWS OF BELIEF. (V) REASONING. \n\nand control belief, be not true, we may sit down and \nread Euclid\'s Elements and Newton\'s Principia, and after \nall reject every conclusion, to which they come ; we may \nstudy the profound orations of the great ancient orators, \nand still entertain the idea, that Philip\'s character was \nnot dangerous to Greece, nor that of Cataline to the Ro- \nman republic; we may read the speeches of the classic \nnames of the British Parliament, without a recognition of \nthe base and iniquitous abomination of the Slave trade ; \nin a word vv^e shall act rightfully and consistently in defa- \ncing the diagrams of mathematicians, in destroying the \ncharters of scientific corporations, in shutting the halls \nof justice, and in disbanding the legislative as>embly. \n\nIndependently of the consequent belief, the power of rea- \nsoning loses its value, and is gone forever: Where there \nis no reasoning, there is of course no deliberation, no \neloquence, no knowledge of any kind, except what is di- \nrectly and intuitively possessed. \n\n\n\nCHAPTER NINTH. \n\n\n\nLAWS OF ASSOCIATION, (i) PRIMARY L.\\WS. \n\n^. 1 01. Meaning of association and extent of its appli- \ncations. \n\nOur thoughts and feelings follow each other in a \nregular train. Of this statement no one \xc2\xabeecls any other \nproof, than his individual experience. We all know, not \nonly that our minds are susceptible of new states, but \nwhat is more, that this capability of new states is not for- \ntuitous, but has its laws. Therefore, we not only say, \nthat our thoughts and feelings succeed each other, but \nthat this antecedence and sequence is in a regular train. \nTo this regular and established consecution of the states \nof the mind we give the name of mental association. \n\nAnd it is proper to suggest here, that this part of our \nconstitution is worthy of the most attentive consideration. \nAlthough at present all we have to cfo is to consider its \ngeneral nature and its laws, many portions of our subse- \nquent inquiries will help to illustrate its particular appli- \ncations, its extent, and power. It exerts its influence on \nalmost every thought ; it binds its efficacy on almost eve- \nry emotion. Whatever the time or place, the period of \nlife, the allotment of rank or degradation, of joy or suf- \nfering, of sad solitude or bustling notoriety, it makes no. \ndifference; it never fails to found its empire, and to put \nforth its supremacy, v/herever there is an intellect to con- \ntemplate, and a heart to feel. "When I was travelling \n\n\n\n182 LAWS OF ASSOCIATION \n\nthrough the wilds of America, (says the eloquent Chat- \neaubriand,) I was not a little surprized to hear, thnt I had \na countryman established as a resident, at &ome distance in \nthe woods. I visited hiin with eagerrjcss, and found him \nemployed in pointing some stakes at the door of his hut. \nHe cast a look towards me which was cold enough, and \ncontinued his work, but the moment I addressed him in \nFrench, he started at tlie recollection of hi.^ country, and \nthe big tear stood in his eye. These well known accents \nsuddenly roused in the heart of the old rnan, all the sen- \nsations of his infancy. In youth we little regret the \npleasures of our first years ; but the further we advance \ninto life the more interesting to us becomes the recollec- \ntion of them ; for then every one of our days presents a \nsad subject of comparison."* \n\n\xc2\xa7 . 102. Of the term ^Association and its general laws . \n\nThe term, association, is perhaps preferable to any \nother. It may, with no little appearauce of reason, be \nobjected to the word, suggestion, which has sometimes \nbeen employed, that it seems to imj)ly a positive power \nor efficiency of the precedi g state of the mind in produc- \ning the subsequent. But of the existence of such an efH- \nciency we have no evidence. All that we know is the \nfact, that our thoughts and feelings, under certain circum- \nstances. aj)pear together and keep each other com})any ; \xe2\x80\x94 \nAnd this is what is understood to be expressed, and is all, \njthat is expressed, by the lerm association. \n\nBy the Laws of association, we mean no other than the \ngeneral designation of those circumstances, under which \nthe regular consecution of mental states, which has been \nmentioned, occurs. The following may be mentioned as \niimong the prim-ary, or more important of those laws, al- \nthough it is not necessary to take upon us to assert cither \nthat the enumeration is cofiiplete, or that some better ar- \nrangement of them might not be proposed, viz., resem- \nblance, contrast, contiguity in time and place, and \n,CAUSE and effect. \n, * Chateaubria^id\'s recollections of Iialy, England, and America. \n\n\n\n(I) PRIMARY LAWS. 1S3 \n\n\xc2\xa7, 103. Resemblance Ihe first general law of associaticn. \n\nNew trains of ideas and new emotions are occasioned \nby resem!)lance ; but when we say, that they are occa- \nsioned in this way, all that is meant is, that there is a new \nstate of mind, immediately subsequent to tiie perception \nof tlie resembling object. Of the efficient cause of this \nnew state of mind under these circumstances, we can only \nsay, the Creitor of the soul has seen fit to appoint this \ncoimeclion iii its operations, without our being able, or \ndeeming it necesssaryto give any further explanation. A \ntraveller, wandering in a foreign land, finds himself in the \ncourse of his sojournings in the mid^t of aspects of na- \nture not unlike those, where he has formerly resided, and \nthe fact of this resemblance becomes the antecedent to \nnew states of mind. There is distinctly brought before \nhim the scenery, which he has left, his own woods, his \n\nwaters, and his home. Tiie em})eror Napoleon, who^-e \n\npresent cares might be supposed to have broken the chain \nof tliought and feeling, that bound him to the past, is \nsaid to hive once expressed himself thus. " List Sunday \nevening, in the general silence of nature, I was walking in \nthese grounds, {of M.dmaism.) The soun.l of the church- \nbell of Rael fell upon my ear, and renewed all the im- \npressions of my youth. I was profoundly afFected, such \nis the po ver of early associations and habit ; and I con- \nsidered, if such was the case with me, what must be the \neffect of such recollections upon the more simple and cred- \nulous vulgar ,?"* \n\nThe result is the sanie in any other case, whenever \nthere is a resemblance between what we now experience, \nand what we have previously experienced. We have \nbeen acquainted, for instance, at some former period with \na person, whose features appeared to us to possess some \npeculiarity, a breadth and openness of the foreliead, an un- \ncommon expression of the eye, or some other striking mark; \n\xe2\x80\x94 to day we meet a stranger in the crowd, by which \nwe are surrounded, whose features are of a somewhat \n\n\xe2\x99\xa6Scott\'s Life of Napoleon, vol. iii. ch. xxsiv. \n\n\n\n134 LAWS OF ASSOCIATION. \n\nsimilar cast, and the resemblance at once vividly suggests \nthe likeness of our old acquaintance. \n\n\xe2\x80\xa2\xc2\xa7 104. Resemblance in every particular not necessary. \n\nIt is not necessary, that the RESEMBLANCE should be \ncomplete in every particular, in order to its being a prin- \nciple or law of association. It so happens, (to use an illus- \ntration of Brown,*) that we see a painted portrait of a fe- \nmale countenance, which is adorned with a ruff of a pecu- \nliar breadth and display ; and we are, in consequence, im- \nmediately reminded of queen Elizabeth. Not because \nthere is any resemblance between the features before us \nand those of the English sovereign, but because in all the \npainted representations, which we have seen of her, she is \nuniformly set oif with this peculiarity of dress, with a rnff \nlike that, which we now see. Here the resemblance be- \ntween the suggesting thing and that, which is suggested, \nis. not a complete resemblance, does not exist in all the \nparticulars, in which they may be compared together, but \nis limited to apart of the dress. \n\nThat a single resembling circumstance, (and perhaps \none of no great importance,) should so readily suggest the \ncomplete conception of another object or scene, which is \nmade up of a great variety of parts, seems to admit of some \nexplanation in this way. We take, for example, an indi- \nvidual ;\xe2\x80\x94 -the idea, which we form of the individual is a \ncomplex one, made up of the forehead, eyes, lips, hair, \ngeneral figure, dress, &c. These separate, subordinate \nideas, when combined together and viewed as a whole, \nhave a near analogy to any of our ideas, which are com- \npounded, and are capable of being resolved into elements \nmore simple. When, therefore, we witness a ruff of a \nsize and decoration more than ordinary, we are at once \nreminded of that ornament in the habiliments of the Bri- \ntish queen ; and this on the ground of resemblance. \xe2\x80\x94 \nBut this article in the decorations of her person is the \nfoundation of only one part of a very complex state of \nmind, which embraces the features and the general ap- \npearance. As there has been a long continued co-exist- \n\n\xe2\x80\xa2 Brown\'s Philosophy of the Human Mind, Lect. xxxv. \n\n\n\n(I) PRIMARY LAWS. 135 \n\nence of those separate parts, which make up this com- \nplex state, the recurrence to the mind of one part or of \none idea is necessarily attended with the recurrence of all \nthe others. They sustain the relation of near friends ; they \nform a group, and do not easily and willingly admit of a \nseparation. The pririciple, which maintains in the rela- \ntion of co-existence such states of the mind, as may be \nconsidered as grouped together, is the same with that, \nwhich so steadily and permanently combines the parts of \nw^hat Mr. Locke calls mixed modes or other complex \nideaS; and is no less effectual in its operation. \n\n\xc2\xa7. i05. Of resemblance in the effects produced. \n\nResemblance operates, as an associating principle, not \nonly when there is a likeness or similarity in the things \nthemselves, but also when there is a resemblance in the \neffects, which are produced upon the mind. \n\nThe ocean, when greatly agitated by the winds, and \nthreatening every moment to overwhelm us, produces in \nthe mind an emotion, similar to that, which is caused by \nthe presence of an angry man, who is able to do us harm. \nAnd in consequence of this similarity in the effects produ- \nced, they reciprocally bring each other to our recollec- \ntion. \n\nDark w\'oods, hanging over the brow of a mountain, \ncause in us a feeling of awe and wonder, like that, which \nwe feel, when we behold, approaching us, some aged per- \nson, whose form is venerable for his years, and whose name \nis renowned for wisdom and justice. It is in reference to \nthis view of the principle, on which we are remarking, that \nthe following comparison is introduced in Akenside\'s \nPleasures of the Imagination. \n\n" Mark the sable woods, \n\n\n\n" That shade sublime yon mountairx\'s nodding brow ; \n\n" With what religious awe the solemn scene \n\n\'^ Commands your steps ! As if thexeverend form \n\n" or Minos or of Numa should forsake \n\n" The Elysian seats, and down the embowering glade \n\n" Move to your pausing eye.-\' \n\nAs we are so constituted, that ail nature produces in \n\n\n\n136 LAWS OF ASSOCIATION. \n\nus certain effects, causes certain emotions, similar to those, \nwhich are caused in us in our intercourse with our fellow- \nbeings, it so happens that, in virtue of this fact, the natur- \nral world becomes living, animated, cpeiative. The ocean \nis in anger : i\\ie sky smiles ; the dif[ frowns ; the aged \nwoods are v\xe2\x82\xaci:erable ; the earth and its poductions are \nno longer a dead mas-, but have an existence, a soul, an \nagency. \n\nWe see here the foundation of metaphorical language ; \nand it is here, that we are lo look for the principles, by \nwhich we are to determine the propriety or impropriety of \nits use. \n\nIn every metaphor there is some analogy or resem- \nblance ; it is a comparison or iimile in its mos;t concise \nform. There is an examination instituted; and circum- \nstances of similitude are detected ; not however, by a \nlong and laborious process, but in a single w^ord. Hence \nit is the language of strong emotion ; and as such, is pe- \nculiarly the language of uncivilized nations, and, in gen- \neral of the most spirited parts of the poetry of those, \nthat are civilized. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 105. Contrast the second general or primary law. \n\nContrast is another law or principle, by which our \nsuccessive mental states are suggested ; or in other terms, \nwhen there are two objects, or events, or situations of a \ncharacter precisely opposite, the idea or conception of \none is immediately followed by that of the other. When \nthe discourse is of the pa/ace of the king, how often are \nwe reminded, in the same breath, of the cottage of the pea- \nsant ! And thus wealth and poverty, the cradle and the \ngravCj hope and despair, are found in public speeches \nand in declamations from the pulpit almost always going \ntogether and keeping each other\'s company. The truth is, \nthey are connected together in our thoughts by a distinct \nand operative principle ; they accompany each other, not \nbecause there is any resemblance in the things thus associa- \nted, but in consequence of their very marked contrariety. \nDarkness reminds of light, heat of cold, friendship of en- \n\n\n\n(I) PRIMARY LAWS. 137 \n\nmity ; the sight of the conqueror is associated with the \nmemory of the conquered, and wlien- beholding men of \ndeformed and dwarfish appearance, we are at once led to \ntliink of tliose of erect figure or of Patagonian size. Con- \ntrast, then, is no less a principle or law of association, \nthan resemblance itself. \n\nThose writers, who succeed in giving a natural delin- \neation of human action and suffering, furnish illustrations \nof the operation of this principle. In one of those inter- \nesting sketches, which acquaint us with the wants, captiv- \nities, and sufferings of tlie early settlers of this country, \nthere is the following instance of association by contrast. \xe2\x80\x94 \n" As I lifted the unsavoury morsel, says the afEicted sub- \nject of the Narrative, with a trembling hand to my m-outh, \nI cast my thoughts back a few days to a time, when from \na board plentifully spread in my own house, I ate my food \nwith a merry heart. The wooden spoon dropped from \nmy feeble grasp. The contrast was too affecting. " \'-\xe2\x80\xa2 \n\nScott remarks of certain unhappy Italians, who were \namong the victims of Napoleon\'s dreadful retreat from \nRussia, being overcome by extreme fatigue, exposure, \nand the severity of the cold, that their thoughts, when \nperishing so miserably, must have been on their own mild \nclimate and delicious country. \n\nCount Lemaistre\'s touching story, entitled, from the \nscene of its incidents, the lepkr o? Aost, illustrates the \neffects of the principle of association now^ under consid- \' \neratioa. Like all persons infected with the leprosy, the \nsubject of the disease is represented as an object of dread \nno less than of pity to others, and while he is an outcast \nfrom the society of men, he is a loathsome spectacle even \nto himself. But what is thee )ndition of his mind ^ What \nare the subjects of his thoughts ? The tendencies of his \nintellectual nature prevent his thinking of his wretchedness \nalone. His extreme misery aggravates itself by suggest- \ning scenes of ideal happiness, and his mind revels in a \nparadise of delights, merely to give greater intensity to \niiis actual woes by contrasting them with imaginary bliss, \n\n* Narrative of the Captivity, &.c. of Mrs. Johnson. \nIB \n\n\n\n138 tAWS OF ASSOCIATION. \n\n\xe2\x80\x94 "I represent to myself continually (says the Leper) so- \ncieties of sincere and virtuous friends ; families, blessed \nwith health, fortune, and harmony. I imagine, I see \nthem walk in groves, greener and fresher than these, the \nshade of which makes my poor happiness ; brightened by \na sun more brilliant than that, which sheds its beams on \nm\xe2\x82\xac ; \xe2\x80\x94 And their destiny seems to me as much more \nworthy of envy in proportion as my own is the more \nmiserable. " \n\n\xc2\xa7, 107. Contiguity the third general or primary law. \n\nThose thoughts and feelings, which have been connect- \ned together by nearness of time and place, are readily- \nsuggested by each other ; and, consequently, contiguity in \nthose respects is rightly reckoned, as another and third \nprimary law of our mental associations. When we think of \nPalestine, for instance, we very readily and naturally \nthink of the Jewish nation, of the patriarchs, of the proph- \nets, of the Savior, and of the apostles, because Palestine \nwas their place of residence, and the theatre of their ac- \ntions. So tliat this is evidently an instance, where the \nsuggestions are chiefly regulated hy proximity of place. \nWhen a variety of acts and events have happened nearly \nat the same period, whether in the same place or not, one \nis not thought of witliout the other being closely associa- \nted with it, owing to proximity of time. If therefore, \nthe particular event of the crucifixion of the Savior be \nmentioned, we are necessarily led to think of various \nother events, which occurred about the same period, \nsuch as the treacherous conspiracy of Judas, the denial \nof Peter, the conduct of the Roman soldiery, the rending \nof the veil of the temple, and the temporary obscuration \nof the sun. \n\nThe mention of Egypt suggests, the Nile, the Pyramids, \nCaasar, Cleopatra, Che battle of Aboukir. The naming of \nthe AMERICAN REVOLUTION immediately fills the mind with \nrecollections of Washington, Greene, and many of their \nassociates, whose fortune it was to enlist their exertions \nin behalf of freedom in the same country and at the same \nperiod. \n\n\n\n(I) PRIMARY LAWS. 139 \n\nThe following passage from captain King\'s contiiiuation \nof Cook\'s last voyage furnishes a remarkable example of \nthe operations of this principle ; \xe2\x80\x94 " While we were at din- \nner in this miserable hut, on the banks of the river, \nAwatska, and the guests of a people, with whose existence \nwe had before been scarce acquainted, and at the extrem- \nity of the habitable globe, a solitary, Iialf-v/orn, pewter \nspoon, whose shape was familiar to us, attracted our at- \ntention ; and on examination, we found it stamped on the \nback with the v/ord, London. I cannot pass over this \ncircumstance in silence out of gratitude for the many \npleasant thoughts, the anxious hopes, and tender remem- \nbrances it excited in us. Those, who have experienced \nthe effects, that long absence, and extreme distance from \ntheir native country produce in the mind, will readily \nconceive the pleasure such a trifling incident can give. " \nThe beauty of this illustration consists not so much in \nthe city or place having been suggested in consequence of \ntheir seeing its name impressed on the pewter spoon, al- \nthough this may be supposed to have happened on the \nprinciple of contiguity, as in the circumstance, that such \na multitude of other pleasing recollections thronged around \nthe memory of that place. When they thought of Lon- \ndon, they thought of their homes ; they thought of the in- \nmates of those homes ; they thought of a thousand inci- \ndents which they had there witnessed ; a striking illustra- \ntion of the degree of importance, which may be accumu- \nlated on the most trivial circumstance, when that circum- \nstance can be made to connect itself effectually with any \ngeneral principles of our mental constitution. \n\nThat, which we have set down, as the third primary \nlaw of mental association, is more extensive in its influence \nthan any others. It has been remarked with truth, that \nproximity in time and place forms the whole calendar of \nthe great mass of mankind. They pay but little attention \nto the arbitrary eras of chronology ; but date events by \neach other, and speak of what happened at the time of \nsome dark day, some great eclipse, some war or rev- \nolution, or when one neighbour built a house, or anoth- \ner\'s was destroyed. \n\n\n\nHO LAWS 0^ ASSOCIATION. \n\n\xc2\xa7 . 1 08 . Came and effect the fourth primary law . \n\nThere are certain facfs or events, which hold to each \nother the relation of invariable antecedence and sequence. \nThat fact or event, to which some other one sustains the \nrelation of constant antecedence, is in general called an ej- \n\'feet; \xe2\x80\x94 And that fact or event, to waici some other on 3 \nholds the relation of invariable sequence, has in general \nthe name of a cause. Now there may be no resemblance \nin the things, which reciprocally bear this relation, there \nmay be no contrariety, and it is by no \'means necessary, \nthat there should be contiguity in time or place, as the \nmeaning of the term, contiguity, is commonly understood. \nThere may be cause and effect without any one or all \nof these circumstances. But it is a fact, which is known \nto every one\'s experience, that when we think of the \ncause in any particular instance, we naturally think of the \neffect, and, on the contrary, the knowledge or recollection \nof the eifect brings to mind the cause ; \xe2\x80\x94 And in view of \nthis well known and general experience, there is good rea^ \nson for reckoning cause and effect among the primary \nprinciples of our mental associations. What we here un^ \nderstand by principles or laws will be recollected viz. The \ngeneral designation of those circumstances, under wliich \nthe regular consecution of mental states occurs. \n\nIt is on the principle of cause and effect, that when we \nsee a surgical instrument, or any engine of torture, we have \nan idea of the pain, which they are fitted to occasion, and \nfor a moment are tempted to imagine, that we ourselves are \npartially the subjects of it. The sight of a wound, in- \nflicted however long before, suggests to us the instrument, \nby which it was made. When we witness any of our fel- \nlow beings in distress, we naturally think of the particular \ncause of it, if we know what it is ; and if we are ignorant, \nwe make it a subject of inquiry. When we have good \nneyvs to communicate,we please ourselves with the thought \nof the joy, which it will occasion, and the bearer of afflic- \ntive tidings cannot but anticipate the grief, which the \nannunciation of them will produce. \n\n\n\nCHAPTER TENTH. \n\n\n\nLAWS OF ASSOCIATION. (II) SECONDARY LAWS. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 109. Of secondary laws and their connection with the \nprimary. \n\nThe subject of Association is not exhausted in the \nenumeration and explanation of its Laws, which has thus \nfar been given. Besides the primary laws, which have \nfallen under our consideration, there are certain marked \nand prominent circumstances, which are found to exert^, \nin a greater or less degree, a modifying and controlling \ninfluence over the more general principles. As this influ- \nence is of a permanent character, and not merely accidenr \ntal and temporary, the grounds or sources of it are called,. \nby way of distinction, secondary laws. \n\nThese, which we are now to consider, will probably \nappear at first sight to be more numerous than they are \nin fact. It is undoubtedly somewhat difiicult to make \nout a just and unalterable designation of them. Never- \ntheless it is believed, that, on a careful examination, their \nmultiplicity will be lessened, and that they will be found \nto be but four in number ; viz, lapse of time, degree of \ncoexistent feeling*, repetition or habit, and original or con- \nstitutional difierence in character. \n\nIt must at once be obvious, that these principles, al- \nthough holding a subordinate rank, give an increased \nrange and power to the primary lav/s. It is not to be in- \n\n\n\n142 LAWS OF ASSOCIATION. \n\nferred from the epithet, by which they are distingnishedy \nthat they are, therefore, of a very minor, and inconsider- \nable importance. On the contrary human nature without \nthem, as far as we are capable of judging, would have as- \nsumed a sort of fixed and inflexible form, instead of pre- \nsenting those pleasing, and almost endless diversities it now \ndoes.\xe2\x80\x94 The primary laws are the great national roads, \nalonsf which the mind holds its course; the secondary \nare those cross roads, that intersect them from time to \ntime, and thus afford an entrance into, and a communi- \ncation with the surrounding country ; and yet all have a \nconnection with each other ; and with all their turnings \nand intersections, concur at last in the ultimate destina- \ntion. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 110. Of the influence of the lapse of time. \n\nThe first of the secondary laws, which we shall \nconsider, is lapse of time. Stated more particularly \nthe law is this ; Our trains of thought anH emotion are \nmore or less strongly connected and likely to be restor- \ned, according as the lapse of time has been greater \nor less. \n\nPerhaps no lapse of time, however great, will utterly \nbreak the chain of human thought, and cause an entire in- \nability of restoring our former experiences ; but it appears \nevident from observation, as far so as observation renders \nevident in almost any case, that every additional moment \nof intervening time weakens, if it do not break and sun- \nder the bond, that connects the present with the past, and \ndiminishes the probability of such a restoration. We re- \nmember many incidents, even of a trifling nature, which \noccurred to day, or the present week, while those of yes- \nterday or of last week are forgotten But if the increas- \ned period of montl]^ and years throws itself between the \npresent time and the date of our past experiences, our an- \ncient joys, regrets, and suflerings, then how unfrequent is \ntheir recurrence, and how weak and shadowy they ap- \npear ! Increase the lapse of time a little further, and \na dark cloud rests on that portion of our history ; less \n\n\n\n(II) SECONDARY LAWS. 143 \n\nsubstantial than a dream, it utterly eludes our search, and \nbecomes to us as if it had never been. \n\nThere is, however, an apparent exception to this law, \nwhich should be mentioned. The associated feelings of \nold men, which were formed in their youth and the ear- \nly part of manhood, are more readily revived than those \nof later origin. On this state of things in old men, two \nremarks are to be be made. \n\nThe first is, that the law under consideration fully, and \nunfailingly maintains itself in the case of aged persons^ \nwhenever the time is not extended far back. Events, \nwhich happened but a few hours before, are remembered, \nwhile there is an utter forgetfulness of those, which hap- \npened a few weeks or even days before. So far as this, \nthe law operates in old men precisely as in others. The \nsecond remark is, that the failure of its operation in res- \npect to the events of youth is caused not by an actual ina- \nbility in the secondary law before us, to blot out and dimin- \nish here as in other cases, but by the greater power of the \ncombined action of two other laws, viz. Co-existent \nfeeling, and Repetition or habit. Our early life, as a gen- \neral statement, was the most deeply interesting, and is \nthe most frequently recurred to ; and in this way its re- \ncollections become so incorporated with the mind as to \nhold a sort of precedence over our more recent experi- \nences, and thrust them from their proper place. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 111. Secondary law of repetition or habit. \n\nAnother secondary law is repetition ; in other wordsj \nsuccessions of thought are the more readily suggested in \nproportion as they are the more frequently renewed. If \nwe experience a feeling once, and only once, we iifid it \ndifficult to recall it after it has gone from us, but repeat- \ned experience increases the probability of its recurring. \nEvery schoolboy, who is required to commit to memory, \nputs this law to the test and proves it. Having read a \nsentence a number of times, he finds himself able to re- \npeat it out of book, v/hich he could not do with merely \nreadinjy it once. \n\n\n\n144 LAWS OF ASSOCIATION. \n\nThe operation of this law is seen constantly in particular \narts and professions. If men be especially trained up to \ncertain trades, arts, and sciences, their associations on those \nparticular subjects and on every thing connected with \nthem, are found to be prompt and decisive. We can but \nseldom detect any hesitancy or mistake within the circle, \nwhere their minds have been accustomed to operate, be- \ncause every thought and process have been recalled and \nrepeated thousands of times. With almost every thing \nithey see or hear there is a train of reflection, connecting \nit with their peculiar calling, and bringing it within the \nbeaten and consecrated circle. They seem unable to free \nthemselves from an influence, which has grown with their \ngrowth, and strengthened with their strength. Every \nhour, unless they guard against it, hastens the process, \nwhich threatens to cut them oflf, and insulate them from \nthe great interests of humanity, and to make them wholly \nprofessional. \n\nIt is proper to add, that the result of repetition, which \nis indicated here, is not limited to association. This is \nonly one of the numerous applications of the great law \nOF HABIT, which will soon be separately considered. \n\n^. 112. Of the secondary law of co-existent emotion. \n\nA third secondary law is co-existent emotion. \xe2\x80\x94 It \nmay be stated in other words as follows ; The probability, \nthat our mental states will be recalled by the general laws \nwill in part depend on the depth of feeling, the degree \nof interest, which accompanied the original experience of \nthem. \n\nWhy are bright objects more readily recalled than \nfaint or obscure ? It is not merely because they occupied \nmore distinctly our perception, but because they more \nengaged our attention and interested us, the natural conse- \nquence of that greater distinctness. Why do those events \nin our personal history, which were accompanied with \ngreat joys and sorrows, stand out like pyramids in our \npast life, distinct to the eye, and immovable in their posi- \ntion, while others have been swept away, and cannot .be \n\n\n\n(II) SECONDARY LAWS. 145 \n\nfound ? Merely because there were joy and sorrow in \nthe one case, and not at all, or only in a slight degree, in \nthe other ; because the sentient part of our nature com- \nbined itself with the intellectual ; the heart gave activity \nand vigour to the understanding. \n\nWe learn from a revered and ancient Book, that the \nJews could not forget JeruLalem, the Holy City, the \ngates of Zion, that they loved so well. And why not ? \nHow did it happen that in their Captivity they sat down \nby the rivers of Babylon, vv\'cpt when they remembered \nZion, and hung their harps on the willows ? It was^ be- \ncause the features of Jerusalem were not mere outlines, \naddressed to the cold, unquickened perception ; but every \nlineament was wreathed with love ; every gate and street \nand dwelling-place and temple waxed bright and beauti- \nful in the midst of pure and pleasant recollections ; the \nHoly city was not a mere abstraction of the head ; its \nimage was pictured and written on the heart. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 113. Original difference in the mental constitution. \n\nThe fourth and last secondary law of association is \n\nORIGINAL DIFFERENCE IN THE MENTAL CONSTITUTION. \n\nThis Law, it will be noticed, is expressed in the most gen- \neral terms ; and is to be considered, therefore, as applica- \nble both to the intellectual and the sentient part of m-^n. \nIt requires accordingly to be contemplated in two distinct \npoints of view. \n\nThe law under consideration holds good, in the first \nplace, in respect to original differences of emotion or feel- \ning, or as it is more commonly expressed, of disposition. \nIt will help to make us understood, if we allude briefly, in \nthis part of the subject, to two diiferent classes of persons. \nOne of the descriptions of men, which we have now in \nview, is composed of those, for such are undoubtedly to \nbe found, who are of a pensive and melancholy turn. \nFrom their earliest life they have sliown a fondness for \nseclusion, in order that they miglit either comfnune with \nthe secrets of their own hearts, or hold intercourse, undis- \nturbed by others, with whatever of impressiveness and \n\n\n\n146 LAWS OF ASSOCIATION. \n\nsublimity is to be found in the works of nature. The \nother class are naturally of a lively and cheerful tempera- \nment. If they delight in nature, it is not in solitude, but \nin the company of others. While they seldom throw op- \nen their hearts for the admission of troubled thoughts, \nthey oppose no obstacles to\' the entrance of the sweet beams \nof peace and joy and hope. \n\nNow it is beyond question that the primary laws of \nassociation are influenced by the constitutional tendencies, \nmanifest in these two classes of persons ; that is to say, \nin the minds of two individuals, the one of a cheerful, the \nother of a melancholy or gloomy disposition, the trains \nof thought will be very different. This difference is fine- \nly illustrated in those beautiful poems of Milton, l\'alle- \nGRo and iL PENSEROso. L\'allegro or the cheerful man \nfmds pleasure and cheerfulness in every object, which he \nbeholds ; \xe2\x80\x94 The great sun puts on his amber light, the \nmower whets his scythe, the milk-maid sings, \n\n"And every shepherd tells his tale \n"Under the hawthorn in the dale. \n\nBut the man of melancholy disposition, il penseroso, \nchooses the evening for his walk, as most suitable to the \ntemper of his mind ; he listens from some lonely hillock \nto the distant curfew, and loves to hear the song- of that \n"sweet bird, \n\nThat shun\'st the noise of folly, \n\n"Most musical, most melancholy. \n\nFurther ;\xe2\x80\x94 Our trains of suggested thoughts will be \nmodified by those temporary feelings, which may be re- \ngarded, as exceptions to the more general character of our \ndispositions. The cheerful man is not ahv^ays cheerful, \nnor is the melancholy man at all times equally sober and \ncontemplative. They are known to exchange characters \nfor short periods, sometimes in consequence of good or \nill health, or of happy or adverse fortune, and sometimes \nfor causes \'which cannot be easily explained. So that our \nmental states will be found to follow each other, with a \nsuccession, varying not only with the general character of \n\n\n\n(11) SECONDARY LAWS. 147 \n\nour temper and dispositions, but with the transitory emo- \ntions of the day or hour. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 114. The foregoing law as applicable to the intellect. \n\nThe law of original difference in the mental constitu- \ntion is applicable, in the second place, to the intellect, \nproperly and distinctively so called ; in other words to \nthe comparing, judging, and reasoning part of the soul. \nThere is a difference in men in this respect, as well as in \ntheir feelings and dispositions, although it is perceptible in \ndifferent degrees, and in some cases hardly perceptible at \nall. One person, for instance, has from childhood ex- \nhibited a remarkable command of the relations and com- \nbinations of numbers ; another exhibits in like manner an \nuncommon perception of uses, adaptations, and powers, as \nthey are brought together, and set to work in the mechan- \nic arts ; another has the power of generalizing in an un- \ncommon degree, and having obtained possession of a prin- \nciple in a particular case, which may appear to others \nperfectly and irretrievably insulated, he at once extends it \nto hundreds, and thousands of other cases. \n\nIt is perhaps unnecessary to delay here, for the pur- \npose of confirming what has now been said, by a refer- \nence to the history of individuals. A slight acquaintance \nwith literary history will show, that diversities of intel- \nlect, such as have been alluded to, have been frequent. \nSuch diversities are undoubtedly to be considered as im- \nplied in all instances of genius. When we are told, that \none man has a genius for mathematics, another for poet- \nry, that the genius of one lays in politics, and of another \nin the mechanic arts, we naturally inquire, What genius \nis? Nor are we able to learn, that it is anything more \nthan the constitutional difference we have been consider- \ning, combined perhaps with a strong curiosity ; in other \nwords, it is essentially and chiefly a natural tendency and \nquickness in forming associations on the principles of re- \nsemblance, of contrast, and of cause and effect. The his- \ntory of the human mind does not authorize us to expect \nof men, whose associations are originally and prevailingly \n\n\n\n148 Lx\\WS OF ASSOCIATION. \n\nformed on the law of mere contiguity in time ar.d place, \nwhich seems to be the case with a great portion of man- \nkind, that they will add new beauties to literature or nev/ \ntruths to science. How often had the husbandman seen \nthe apple fall to the ground without even asking for the- \ncause ? But when Newton saw the fall of an apple, he \nnot only asked for the cause, but having conjectured it, \nat once applied it to every thing in like circumstances \naround him, to all the descending bodies on the earth\'s \nsurface. Here was a mind, not merely great by toil, but \nconstitutionally great and inventive. How much more so \nthen, when he lifted up the principle of gravitation from \nthe surface of the earth to the stars of heaven, and show- \ned its universality, and proved, that the furthest and migh- \ntiest planet is governed in the same way as the smallest \nparticle of dust beneath our feet ! \n\nAll the laws of association may properly be given here \nin a condensed view. The primary or general laws are \nRESEMBLANCE, CONTRAST, CONTIGUITY lu time and placc, \nand CAUSE and effect. Those circumstances, which are \nfound particularly to modify and control the action of \nthese, are termed secondary laws, and are as follows, \nLapse of time, Repetition or habit, Co-existent feeling, \nand Constitutional difference in mental character. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 115. Of associations suggested by present objects of \nperception. \n\nThere remains another point of view, in which it \nseems proper, that the subject of association should be \ncontemplated, before we leave it. \xe2\x80\x94 Associated thoughts \nand emotions, when made to pass through the mind by \nsome sound, which the ear has caught, by some object, \nwhich has met the eye, or any present object of percep- \ntion whatever, are peculiarly vivid and strong. Associa- \ntions, which do not admit of any of our present perceptions \nas a part of the associated train, cannot but impress us, as \nbeing in some measure airy and unsubstantial, however \ndistinct. We deeply fee!, that they are part of the expe- \nriences of departed days and which, in departing from \n\n\n\n(II) SECONDARY LAWS. 149 \n\nus, have become almost, as if they had never been. But \nlet them partake of onr present experience, and of what we \nnow feel and iinow to exist, and they seem to gain new \nstrength ; the remembrances are not only distinct, but \nwhat was airy and unsuTDstantial fades away, and they \nhave life, and power, and form. \n\nHow often in the wanderings of life, are we led by \nsome apparently accidental train of thought to the recol- \nlection of the residence of our early years and of the inci- \ndents, which then occurred ! The associations are inter- \nesting, but we find it difficult to make them permanent, \nand they are comparatively faint. But let there be con- \nnected with the train of thought the present sound of \nsome musical instrument, which we then used to hear, \nand of our favorite tune, and it will be found, that the \nreality of the tune blends itself with the airy conceptions \nof the mind, and, while we kindle with an illusive rap- \nture, the whole seems to be real. Some illustrations may \ntend to make these statements more clear, and to confirm \nthem . \n\nIs is related in one of the published Lectures of Dr, \nRush, that an old native African was permitted by his mas- \nter a number of years since, to go from home in order \nto see a lion, that was conducted as a show through the \nstate of New Jersey. He no sooner saw him, than he \nwas so transported with joy, as to express his emotions \nby jumping, dancing, and loud acclamations, notwith- \nstanding the torpid habits of mind and body, superindu- \nced by half a century of slavery. He had known that \nanimal, wdien a boy in his native country, and the sight \nof him suddenly revived the memory of his early en- \njoyments, his native land, his home, his associates, and \nhis freedom. \n\nThere is in the same writer another interesting in- \nstance of the power of association, in which he himself \nhad a part, and which will be given in his own words. \xe2\x80\x94 \n" During the time I passed at a country-school, in Cecil \nCounty, in Maryland, I often went on a holiday, with my \nschoolmates, to see an eagle\'s nest, upon the summit of a \n\n\n\n150 LAWS OF ASSOCIATION. \n\ndead tree in the neighbourhood of the school, during the \ntime of the incubation of that bird. The daughter of \nthe farmer, in whose field this tree stood, and with whom \nI became acquainted, married, and settled in this city about \nforty years ago. In our occasional interviews, we now \nand then spoke of the innocent haunts and rural pleas- \nures of our youth, and, among other things, of the ea- \ngle\'s nest in her father\'s field. A few years ago I was \ncalled to visit this woman, when she was in the lowest \nstage of a typhus fever. Upon entering her room, I \ncaught her eye, and, with a cheerful tone of voice, said \nonly, \' The eaglets nest.\'\' She seized my hand, without be- \ning able to speak, and discovered strong emotions of \npleasure in her countenance, probably from a sudden asso- \nciation of all her early domestic connections and enjoy- \nments with the words I had uttered. From that time \nshe began to recover. She is now living, and seldom \nfails, when we meet, to salute me with the echo of the \'ea- \ngle\'s nest.\' " \n\n\xc2\xa7. 116. Causes of increased vividness in the foregoing \ninstances. \n\nFrom such illustrations it would seem to be sufficient- \nly clear, that, whenever associated thoughts and emotions \nare connected with any present perceptions, they are pe- \nculiarly strong and vivid. They steal into all the secret \nchambers of the soul, and seemingly by some magic pow- \ner impart a deep intensity to its feelings, and give to the \nfleeting world of memory the stability of real existence. \nThere are two causes, why such associated feelings should \npossess more than ordinary strength and vividness. \n\xc2\xbb (l) The particular train of thought and feeling, which \nis excited in the mind, continues longer than in other ca- \nses, in consequence of the greater permanency and fixed- \nness of the present objects of perception, which either \nsuggested the train or make a part of it. So long as the \nlion was permitted to remain in the sight of the aged Af- \nrican, so long without interruption was the -series of de- \nlightful thoughts kept up within him. The bright ima- \nges, which threw him into such raptures, and awoke stu- \n\n\n\n(II) SECONDARY LAWS. 151 \n\npidity itself, were not fleeting away with every breath,but \nremained permanent. \n\nThe sick lady of Philadelphia saw the physician, with \nwhom she had been acquainted in the early part of life. \nBy the mention of the eagle\'s nest, he vividly recalled the \nscenes of tliose young days. But it was the presence of \nthe person, whose observation had given rise to the train \nof association, which contributed chiefly to keep it so \nlong in her thoughts. Had it occurred merely from \nsome accidental direction of her own mind, without any \npresent object, which had made a part of it, no doubt \nher sufferings or other circumstances would soon have \nbanished it. \n\n(2) The second cause of the increased vividness of as- \nsociations, suggested by a present object of perception or \ncombined with it, is this, viz. The reality of the thing \nperceived is communicated in the illusion of the moment \nto the thing suggested. The trees of the desert were the \nhiding place of the lion, when the African saw him in \nearly life ; and now after the lapse of so many years, he \nimagines, that, in the quickened eye of his mind he be- \nholds the forests of his native soil, because he has before \nhim the proud and powerful animal, that crouched under \ntheir shade. And the presence of the monarch of the \nforest gives a reality not only to woods and deserts ; but \nby a communication of that, which exists to that, which \nis merely suggested, the whole group of his early experi- \nences of whatever kind, so far as they are recalled, virtu- \nally acquire a like truth and reality. \n\nThese remarks may be properly applied to explain a \nrecent strong manifestation of feeling in a whole people. \nThe citizens of the United States have a multitude of \npatriotic associations, connected with their revolutionary \nwar. But those associations, owing to length of time, \nwere by degreed growing dim on the minds of the aged, \nand made a still more diminished impression on those of \nthe young. In the years eighteen hundred twenty-four \nand five, La Fayette, the only surviving revolutionary \n\n* Rush\'s LntTodtictory Lectures, xi. \n\n\n\n152 LAWS OF ASSOCIATION. \n\nofficer of the grade of major-general came from France \non a visit to this countryto see once more the people, for \nwhom he had fought in his youth. All classes flocked to \nbehold him, and to grasp his hand. Npthing could ex- \nceed the deep feeling, which existed from one part of the \nrepublic to the other. But it was not the individual \nmerely, however strongly the people were attached to \nhim, that awoke such a happy and lofty enthusiasm. All \nthe events and all the characters of the revolution exist to \nthe present generation in associated states of the mind, \nand, as La fayette had long formed a part in those ideal \nassociations, when we were so fortunate, as to see him \nwith our own eyes and touch him with our own hands, \nthe Revolution seemed in a new sense to be real, and \nall its scenes were embodied before us. All his associates \nin suffering and danger, all the renowned names that once \nfought by his side, wer\xc2\xa9 concentred in himself. The re- \nality of the living seemed to spread itself into the shad- \nowy images of the dead ; and thus the presence of this \ndistinguished individual created not only a virtual re-exis- \ntence, but a virtual presence for those revolutionary wor- \nthies, who are destined to maintain a cherished and per- \nmanent resting-place in the hearts of American citizens. \nIt is in this deep and fond illusion, that we are, in part at \nleast, to seek for the cause of the overwhelming emotion, \nwhfch w^as exhibited. \n\nIn all the cases, which have been mentioned, the asso- \nciated feelings were intensely powerful ; a multitude \nof other instances, occurring indeed every day, illustrate \nthe same idea, that they are strong and vivid in an unusu- \nal degree, when suggested by, or combined with a present \nobject of perception. The two circumstances, which have \nbeen mentioned, seem to be the most obvious and sat- \nisfactory reasons, which can be given in explanation of \nthe fact. \xe2\x80\xa2 \n\n\n\nCHAPTER ELEVENTH. \n\n\n\nLAW OF HABIT. \n\n\n\n\xc2\xa7. 117. General view of the law of habit and of its \napplication . \n\nThere is another great law of the mind, distinct from \nthose which have been mentioned, which requires in this \nconnection a separate and particular consideration, tliat of \nHabit. This important law of our constitution may be \nstated in general terms as follows ; That the mental action \nacquires facility and strength from repetition or practice. The \nfact, that the facility and the increase of strength, implied \nin HABIT, is owing to mere repetition, or what is more \nfrequently termed practice, we learn, as we do other facts \nand principles in relation to the mind, from the observa- \ntion of men around us, and from our own personal expe- \nrience. And as it has hitherto been found impracticable to \nresolve it into any general fact or principle more element- \nary, it may be justly regarded as somethmg ultimate and \nessential in our nature. \n\nThe term Habit, by the use of language, indicates the \nfacility and strength, acquired in the way which has been \nmentioned, including both the result and the manner of, \nit. As the law of Jiabit has reference to the whole mind \nof man, the application of the term, wliich expresses it, \nis of course very extensive. We apply it to the dexteri- \nty of workmen in the different manual arts, to the rapidi- \nty of the accountant, to the coup d\'csil or eye-glance of \n^0 \n\n\n\n154 LAW OF HA#IT. \n\nthe military engineer, to the tact and fluency of the ex- \ntemporaneous speaker, and in other like instances. We \n\napply it also in cases, v/here the mere exercise of emotion \nand desire is concerned ; to the avaricious man\'s love of \nwealth, the ambitious man\'s passion for distinction, the \nwakeful suspicions of the jealous, and the confirmed \nand substantial benevolence of the philanthropist. \n\nIt is remarkable, that the law under consideration \nholds good in respect to the body, as well as the mind. \nIn the mechanical arts and in all cases, where there is a \ncorporeal, as well as mental effort, the effect of practice \nwill be found to extend to both. Not only the acts of \nthe mind are quickened and strengthened, but all those \nmuscles, which are at such times employed, become stron- \nger and more obedient to the will. Indeed the submis- \nsion of the muscular effort to the volition is oftentimes \nrendered so prompt by habit, that we are unable distinct- \nly to recollect any exercise of volition, previous to the ac- \ntive and muscular exertion. It is habit, which causes \nthat peculiarity of attitude and motion, so easily discov- \nerable in most persons, termed their gait ; it is habit also, \nwhich has impressed on the muscles, immediately connect- \ned with the organs of speech, that fixed and precise form \nof action, which in different individuals gives rise, in part \nat least, to characteristic peculiarities of voice. The hab- \nit in the cases just mentioned is both bodily and mental, \nand has become so strong, that it is hardly possible to coun- \nteract it for any length of time. \xe2\x80\x94 But it will be necessary \nin the remainder of this chapter to limit our considera- \ntions chiefly to Habit, considered as a law of our mental \nnature. \n\n\xc2\xa7, 118. Illustrations of the law of habit. \n\nThere will be occasion in almost every part of this \nWork, to illustrate and confirm this law. We shall \nscarcely advance a step in any part of our inquiries, with- \nout being called upon to contemplate increased evidence \nof its extent and power. It seems proper, however, to \nintroduce in this place some further instances in illustra- \n\n\n\nLA \n\n\n\n^I^F HABIT. 155 \n\n\n\ntion of its existence and nature ; remarking at the same \ntime that we discuss the subject here only in part and \nimperfectly, as we should otherwise anticipate remarks, \nwhich will more suitably offer themselves on subsequent \noccasions. \n\nIf a person, for instance, make it a practice to recall \nwords which have a similar sound, this particular form \nof association will by degrees be so strengthened, that in \nthe end it will be by no means difficult to secure the re- \ncurrence of such words. This is the true explanation of \nthe power of rhyming. It is well known, that most per- \nsons, whether they posess poetical genius or not, may ac- \nquire this power, by continuing for a length of time their \nsearch after words of a like termination. But this case of \nincreased facility of association answers to the alleged re- \nsult of the law under consideration ; and is an instance, \nand at the same time an illustration, and proof of habit. \n\nAgain, if a public speaker have fixed in his mind cer- \ntain permanent principles, which are to guide him in the \ndivision and subdivision of his discourse, he acquires by \npractice a readiness in respect to them, and immediately \napplies them to every subject of debate. By means of \nthe habit which he has formed, he is not only enabled to \nresolve a subject into suitable parts, but to pass without \nhesitation or danger of mistake from one part of it to an- \nother ; whereas a person, who has not formed this habit \nis perpetually at a loss ; he advances and retreats, goes \nover the ground again and again, and involves himself in \ninextricable confusion. \n\nBut take an instance of a little different kind, which, \nhowever, not less clearly shows what results may be ex- \npected from practice. "I sometimes amuse myself, \n\n[says Dr. Priestly,] with playing on a flute, which I did \nnot learn very early, so that I have a perfect remembrance, \nthat I exerted an express voluntary power every time that \nI covered any particular hole with my finger. But though \nI am no great proficient on the instrument, there are some \ntunes which I now very often play without ever attending \nto my fingers, or explicitly to the tune. I have even \n\n\n\n156 LAW OF HABIT. \n\nplayed in concert, and, as I was informed, perfectly in \ntune, when I have been so absent, that, except at the be- \nginning,- I did not recollect that I had been playing at all." \n\nIn this case it was necessary to establish an association \nbetween certain positions of the fingers and the emission \nof certain sounds, indicated by the musical notes. The \nunion thus formed was at first both weak, and slow and \nlingering in its results. It gradually acquired strength \nand facility by repetition ; that is, a habit of association \nwas formed. \n\nBut there may be not only a habit of association, such \nas is evident in the instances, which have been now men- \ntioned ; the results of this law are found also in sensation \nand perception, in im.agination and reasoning, and in other \nparts of our purely intellectual nature, as we shall be led \nto see in the progress of our inquiries. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 119. Application of this law to feelings or emotions. \n\nThe existence of the same great law of our nature may \nbe detected also in the operations of the emotions and pas- \nsions. An unfavourable suspicion is indulged by one \n\nindividual in respect to another ; this suspicion, instead of \nbeing effectually examined and checked, is permitted to \nreturn ; it often arises, and is found to gain strength from \nthe mere repetition, until it is converted, by the iiccession \nof strength it has received, into positive dislike, and some- \ntimes into hatred. The feeling of benevolence is sub- \njected to the same general law. If this feeling be expos- \ned to a continued system of repression, it becomes so brok- \nen down and weakened, that at last objects of suffering \nentirely cease to affect us. Bat on the contrary, if it be \nindulged, it will gain strength ; it will become more and \nmore ready and effective in its operation. \xe2\x80\x94 The case] of \nthe philanthropic Howard may be regarded as a proof of \nthis. The feeling of benevolence was undoubtedly strong, \nwhen he first set out on his great and noble employment of \nvisiting prisons and prisoners. But the record of his life \nis believed to justify the assertion, that the feeling \nincreased by repetition, that it grew brighter and bright- \n\n\n\nLAW OF HABIT. I57 \n\ner, more and more intense, until, like the fire of the \n. Vestals, it burnt perpetually in his bosom. \n\nIt is happy for us, in the inquiries of mental philoso- \nphy, if we can confirm what inquisitive men have been \nable to discover in their closets by an insight into the men- \ntal history of common life; by a reference to the experi- \nences, habits, and prejudices of those, who make no pre- \ntensions to skill in books. Nor are confirmations of the \nprinciples of this science less valuable, when they are o-iv- \nen by scholars, whose calling it is to write upon other \nsubjects, but who at times let fall an incidental testimony \nin respect to them. Thus in a work of the first President \nAdams is the following passage, which confirms the views \nof this section ; " The pasgions are all unlimited ; na- \nture has left them so ; if they could be bounded, they \nwould be extinct , and there is no doubt they are of in- \ndispensible importance in the present system. They cer- \ntainly increase too, by exercise, like the body ; the love \nof gold grows faster than the heap of acquisition ; the \nlove of praise increases by every gratification, till it stings \nlike an adder and bites like a serpent, till the man is mis- \nerable every moment he does not snuff the incense ; am- \nbition strengthens at every advance, and at last takes pos- \nsession of the whole soul so absolutely, that the man sees \nnothing in the world of importance to others, or himseff, \nbut in his object."* \n\n*Aclam\'s Defence of the Constitutions of the United States, VoL \nL p, 129\xe2\x80\x94 Phiiad. Ed. \n\n\n\ni I \n\ni \n\n\n\nCHAPTER TWELFTH \n\n\n\nSIMPLICITY AND COMPLEXNESS OF MENTAL \nSTATES. \n\n^. 120. Origin of the distinction of mental states as simple \nand complex. \n\nBefore leaving the subject of those more general \nlaws by which the action of the mind is so essentially- \nsustained and guided, there remains one topic further to \nbe briefly examined : it is the existence of our mental \n\nstates as Simple and Complex. This subject, which has \n\nbeen more than once already alluded to, and which will \nhereafter be frequently made the basis of remarks, holds a \nprominent place in the writings of Mr. Locke. He early \nintroduces it into the Essay on the Understanding, and \nseems to recur to it with peculiar pleasure ; frequently sep- \narating thought and feeling into their elementary parts, \nbalancing one state of mind with another, and estimating \ntheir comparative value. It cannot, therefore, be passed \nby without some examination, and perhaps.no opportu- \nnity will present itself more favorable on all accounts \nthan the present. And in truth, if the views which are \nto be maintained on this subject be correct, it is no misap- \nplication of language, although it may have the appear- \nance of being an uncommon phraseology, to speak of \nthe principle involved in them, as a law of our mental \nnature. \n\nOn entering into this subject, the first inquiry is, \nWhether the consideration of our mental states as simple \n\n\n\nSIMPLE AND COMPLEX MENTAL STATES. 159 \n\nand complex is a just and a proper one ? And in reference \nlo this inquiry, it is an obvious remark, that, in looking \nat our thoughts and feelings, as they continually pass un- \nder the review of our internal observation, we readily \nperceive, that tliey are not of equal worth ; we do not \nassign to them the same estimate ; one* state of mind is \nfound to be expressive of one thing only, and that thing, \nwhatever it is, is precise, and definite, and inseparable ; \nwhile another state of mind is found to be expressive of, \nand virtually equal to many others. And hence* we are \nled not only with the utmost propriety, but even by a \nsort of necessity, to make a division of the whole body \nof our mental affections into the two classes of simple and \nCOMPLEX. Nature herself makes the division ; it is one \nof those characteristics, which gives to the mind, in part \nat least, its greatness ; one of those elements of power, \nwithout which the soul could not be what it is, and with- \nout a knowledge of which it is difficult to possess a full \nand correct understanding of it in other respects. \n\n<^. 121, Of the general nature of simple mental states. \n\nWe shall first offer some remarks on those mental \nstates, which are simple, and shall aim to give an under- \nstanding of their nature, so far as can be expected on a \nsubject, the clearness of which depends more on a refer- \nence to our own personal consiousness, than on the teach- \nings of others. \n\nLet it be noticed then in the first place, that a simple \nidea cannot be separated into parts. \xe2\x80\x94 It is clearly im- \nplied in the very distinction between simplicity and com- \nplexity, considered in relation to the states of the mind, \nthat there can be no such separation, no such division. \nIt is emphatically true of our simple ideas and emotions, \nwhether the remark will hold good of any thing else or \nnot, that they are one and indivisible. Whenever you \ncan detect in them more than one element, they at once \nlose their character of simplicity and become complex, \nhowever they may have previously appeared. Insepara- \nbleness* consequently is their striking characteristic ; and \n\n\n\n160 SIMPLICITY AND COMPLEXNESS. \n\nit may be added, that they are not only inseparable in them- \nselvesj but are separate from every thing else. There is \nnothing, which can stand as a substitute for them where \nthey are, or represent them where they are not; they are in- \ndependent unities, constituted exclusively by the mind it- \nself, having a specific and positive character, but neverthe- \nless known only in themselves. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 122. Simple mental states not susceptible of definition. \n\nLet it be observed, in the second place, that our simple \nnotions cannot be defined. \xe2\x80\x94 This view of them follows \nnecessarily from what has been said of their oneness and \ninseparableness, compared with what is universally un- \nderstood, by defining. In respect to definitions it is jin- \ndoubtedly true, that we sometimes use synonymous words \nfor the same thing, and give it the name of defining, but \nit is not properly such. It is expected in defining, and is \nimplied in the meaning of the term itself, that the sub- \nject will be made clearer, but this is never done directly \nby the use of synonymous terms, and oftentimes is not \ndone by them in any way. \n\nIn every legitimate definition, the idea, which is to be \ndefined, is to be separated, as far as may be thought ne- \ncessary, into its subordinate parts ; and these parts are to \nbe presented to the mind for its examination, instead of \nthe original notion, into which they entered. This pro- \ncess must be gone through in every instance of accurate \ndefining ; this is the general and authorized view of defi- \nnition ; and it is not easy to see, in what else it can well \nconsist. \n\nBut this process will not apply to our simple thoughts \nand feelings, because if there be any such thing as sim- \nple mental states, they are characterized by inseparable- \nness and oneness. And, furthermore, if we define ideas \nby employing other ideas, we must count upon meeting \nat last witii such as shall be ultimate, and will reject all \nverbal explantion ; otherwise we can never come to an \nend in the process. \xe2\x80\x94 So that the simple mental afiec- \ntions are not only imdefinable in themselves ; but, if tlicre \n\n\n\nOF MENTAL STM^ES. 161 \n\nwere no such elementary states of mind, there could be no \ndefining in any other case ; it would be merely analysis \nupon analysis, a process without completion, and a labour \nwithout end ; leaving the subject in as much darkness as \nwhen it was begun. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 123. Means oj obtaining a knowledge of our simple \n\nnotions. \n\nAlthough nothing is more clearly settled in Mental \nPhilosophy, than the existence of simple ideas, character- \nized by their inseparableness and unity, and that they are \nof course undefinable, the objection is sometimes made, \nthat this doctrine leaves that part of our knowledge in \ngreat obscurity. As we are utterly unable to make them \nany clearer by definition, and by merely using other \nwords, some persons may profess not to understand what \nis meant by the terms, extension, solidity, heat, cold, red, \nsweet, unity, desire, pleasure, existence, power, and other \n\nnames of our simple thoughts and feelings. If there is \n\na difficulty here, it will be likely to remain so ; we must \ntake our nature as it is, in all its essential and original fea- \ntures, and are unable to alter it. But the truth is, there \nis no difficulty ; as a general statement, the simple- mental \nstates are more clear and definite to our comprehension \nthan others, notwithstanding their undefinableness. They \nare the direct oJfFspring of nature, and it is not often that \nshe leaves her own work unformed, darkened, and indefi- \nnite. \n\nIn those few instances, however, (for such may per- \nhaps be found,) where there happens to be a degreee of \nmental obscurity, resting on them, we are able to assist the \nconceptions of others, by a statement of the circumstan- \nces, as far as possible, under which the simple idea exists. \nAnd having done this, we can merely refer them to their \nown senses, their own consciousness and personal experi- \nence, as the only teacher, from which they can expect to \nreceive any tolerable satisfaction. Simple ideas and feel- \nings derive both their existence and cliaracter from the \nconstitution of the mind itself ; in the event and issue of \n21 \n\n\n\n162 SIMPLICITY AND COMPLEXNESS \n\ntheir inquiries, the mind alone, as it comes under their \nown inspection, can tell them, what they are. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 124. Ori^n of complex notions and their relation to simple. \n\nOur simple notions, which we have thus endeavoured \nto explain, were probably first in origin. There are rea- \nsons for considering them as antecedent in point of time \nto our complex mental states, although in many cases it \nmay not be easy to trace the progress of the mind from \nthe one to the other. The complex notions of external \nmaterial objects embrace the separate and simple notions \nof extension, hardness, colour, taste, and others. As these \nelementary parts evidently have their origin in distinct \nand separate senses, it is but reasonable to suppose, that \nthey possess a simple, before they are combined together \nin a complex existence. Simple ideas, therefore, may \njustly be regarded as antecedent in point of time to those, \nwhich are complex, and as laying the foundation of them. \n\nHence we see, that it is sufficiently near the truth, and \nthat it is not improper, to speak of our complex ideas, as \nderived from, or made up of simple ideas. This is the \nwell known language of Mr. Locke on this subject ; and \nwhen we consider how much foundation there is for it in \nthe constitution and operations of the human mind, there \nis good reason for retaining it. \n\nAlthough purely simple ideas and emotions are few in \nJiumber, vast multitudes of a complex nature are formed \nfrom them. The ability, which the mind possesses of \noriginating complex thoughts and feelings from elementa- \nry ones, may be compared to our power of uniting to- \ngether the letters of the alphabet in the formation of sylla- \nbles and words. \n\n^. 125. Of the precise sense in which complexness is to be \nunderstood. \n\nBut while we distinctly assert the frequent complex- \nness of the mental affections, it should be particularly kept \nin mind, that they are not to be regarded in the light of a \nmaterial compound, where the parts, although it may \n\n\n\nOF MENTAL STATES. 163 \n\nsometimes appear to be otherwise, necessarily possess no \nhigher unity than that of juxtaposition, and of course can \nbe literally separated from each other, and then put to- \ngether again. There is nothing of this kind ; neither put- \nting together, nor taking asunder, in this literal and ma- \nterial sense. But if our thoughts and feelings are not made \nup of others, and are not complex, in the material sense of \nthe expressions, what t-hen constitutes their complexness ? \nThis inquiry gives occasion for the important remark, \nthat complexness in relation to the mind is not literal, but \nvirtual only. What we term a complex feeling is in itself \ntruly simple, but at the same time is equal to many oth- \ners and is complex only in that sense. Thought after \nthought, and emotion following emotion, passes through \nthe mind ; and as they are called forth by the operation \nof the laws of association, many of them necessarily have \nrelation to the same object. Then there follows a new \nstate of mind, which is the result of thosp previous feel- \nings, and is complex in the sense already explained. That \nis to say, it is felt by us to possess a virtual equality to \nthose separate antecedent thoughts and emotions. Our \nsimple feelings are like streams coming from different \nmountains, but meeting and mingling together at last in \nthe common centre of some intermediate lake ; the tribu- \ntary fountains are no longer separable ; but have disap-. \npeared, and become merged and confounded in the bosom \nof their common resting place. Or they may be likened to \nthe cents and dimes of the American coinage, tens and hun- \ndreds of which are represented by a single eagle ; and yet \nthe eagle is not divided into a hundred or thousand parts, \nbut has as much unity as the numerous pieces, for which \nit stands. \n\nThe language,which expresses the composition and com- \nplexity of thought, is, therefore, to be regarded as wholly \nmetaphorical, when applied to the mind, and is not to be \ntaken in its literal meaning. We are under the necessity \nof employing in this case, as in others, language which has \na material origin, but we shall not be led astray by it, if \nwe carefully attend to what has been said, and endeavour \n\n\n\n164 SIMPLICITY AND COMPLEXNESS \n\nto aid our conception of it by a reference to our internal \nexperience. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 126. Illustrations of analysis as applied to the mind. \n\nThe subject of the preceding section will be the better \nunderstood by the consideration of Analysis as applicable \nto the mind. As we do not coinbine literally, so we do \nnot untie or separate literally ; as\'there is no literal com= \nplexness, so there is no literal resolution or analysis of it- \nNevertheless we have a meaning, when we speak of analy- \nzing our thoughts and feelings. And what is it ? What \nare we to understand by the term analysis ? \n\nAlthough this subject is not without difficulty, both in \nthe conception, and in the expression of it, it is suscepti- \nble of some degree of illustration. \xe2\x80\x94 It will be remembered, \nthat there may be analysis of material bodies. The chem- \nist analyzes, when he takes a piece of glass which appears \nto be one substance, and finds, that it is not one, but is \nseparable into silicious and alkaline matter. He takes \nother bodies and separates them in the like manner ; and \nwhenever he does this, the process is rightly called analysis. \n\nNow we apply the same term to the mind ; but the \nthing expressed by it, the process gone through, is not the \nsame. All we can say is, there is something like thiso \nWe do not resolve and separate a complex thought, as we \ndo a piece of glass or other material body into its parts ; \nwe are utterly unable to do it, if we should seriously make \nthe attempt ; every mental state is in itself and in fact \nsimple and indivisible, and is complex only virtually. \nComplex notions are the results, rather than the com- \npounds of former feeling ; and though not literally made \nup of parts, have the relation to them, which any material \nwhole has to the elements composing it ; and in that par- \nticular sense may be said to comprehend or embrace the \nsubordinate notions. Mental analysis accordingly con- \ncerns merely this relation. We perform such an analysis, \nwhen, by the aid of our reflection and consciousness, we \narc able to indicate those separate and subordinate feel- \nings, to which, in our conception " it, the complex men- \ntal state is virtually equal \n\n\n\nOF MENTAL STATES. 165 \n\nThe term government, for instance, expresses a com- \nplex feeling; we may make this feeling, which is in fact on- \nly one, although it is virtually more than one, a subject of \ncontemplation , and we are said to analyze it, when we \nare able to indicate those separate and more elementary \nnotions, without the existence and antecedence of which, \nit could not have been formed by the mind. We do not \nliterally take the complex state in pieces, but we designate \nother states of mind which, every one\'s knowledge of the \norigin of thought convinces him, must have preceded it, \nsuch as the ideas of power, right, obligation, command^ \nand the relative notions of superiour and inferiour. \n\n\n\nCHAPTER THIRTEENTH, \n\n\n\nGENERAL CLASSIFICATION. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 127. The mental states divided into intellectual and \nsentient. \n\nWhat has hitherto been said has aided in preparing \nthe way for the consideration of the mental acts, exerci- \nses, or states. And with the consideration of this topic, \nis necessarily\' connected the examination of the suscepti- \nbilities or powers, to which they owe their origin, or with \nthe action of which they are intimately combined. This \nis a vast subject, beset with many perplexities, but which, \nit is hoped, will be rendered more easy and simple, by \nhaving taken out from it, and considered separately the \ntopics, which have hitherto come under our notice. \n\nOne cause of perplexity in the inquiries, on which we \nare next to enter, is, that our mental states often closely re- \nsemble each other in their characteristics, or are much in- \ntermingled in other ways and for other causes, and that \nhence it is often difficult to separate and class them. But \nit is obviously impossible to consider them in the mass, \nfor that would lead to utter confusion ; it is impossible \nalso to consider them individually, for that would be la- \nbour without end ; there must be a classification of some \nkind either more or less general. With this object, there- \nfore, in view, we make the various exercises of the mind \n^he subject of our contemplation, and the result of this \n\n\n\nGENERAL CLASSIFICATION. 167 \n\nexamination, is, that we find them susceptible of a gen- \neric arrangement, the outlines of which, whatever may \nbe true in respect to its details, have been universally de- \ntected. The arrangement to which we refer, is that of \nthe division of the mental states into Intellectual and \nSentient. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 128. Evidence in favour of this classification from \nwhat we observe in men generxdly. \n\nWe find some evidence of the propriety of this gener- \nal arrangement, of this partitioning, if we may so speak, \nof our mental nature, in the conduct and characters of \nmen, as they pass under our observation. The classifica- \ntion in question is not merely to be found in books ; it is \nnot the work of mere scholars ; but it is clearly recogni- \nzed in the language and conduct of men generally. Those \nmen without education, who merely express what they \nfeel, without any formal attempt at analyzing their feel- \nings, have observed, and detected, and asserted it. How \ncommon it is for them to refer to occasions, where in \ntheir own method of expressing it, their understandings \nwere convinced, but their hearts were not affected ! And \ndo they not unconsciously indicate in such language the \nline of demarcation, which the Creator of the mind has \ndrawn between its intellectual and sentient nature ? Nor \nis this remark of trifling consequence. It is no small evi- \ndence of the existence of the generic distinction under \nconsideration, when we find it acknowledged by the un- \nlettered, as well as by the mere scholar. The elements of \nhuman nature were not given stintedly and by measure ; \nthey were not apportioned out to those, on whom the \nfavours of rank and learning happened to be conferred, io \nthe exclusion of the poor and ignorant, but beam in every \nhuman countenance, and speak even in the language of the \noutcast and degraded slave. \n\nBut there are other men, who furnish a lesson on this \nsubject. If we look among those, who are allowedly \npossessed of the highest intellectual attainments and cul- \nture, we shall not unfrequently observe in two men a per- \n\n\n\n166 GENERAL CLASSIFICATION \n\nfeet likeness in the intellect, but an utter discrepancy in the \nheart. Both possess clearness of perception, resources of \nknowledge, eminent powers of reasoning, and all in equal \ndegree. What then ? The heart of the one, (^the sentience, \nif it were allowed so to speak,) is all kindness, truth, and \njustice ; he is an Aristides, a Washington, earnestly seeking \nto do good, and incapable of intentionally doing wrong ; \nwhile that of the other is the den and loathsome lodging \nplace for envy, falsehood, cruelty, deceit, and every evil \nthing. \n\nLook at the individuals who compose Congresses and \nParliaments, and other select and established congrega- \ntions of great men ; take the measurement of their know- \nledge, the guage of their intellectual invention ; and many \nwill be found, showing the ^same compass, and bearing an \nequality of impress. Then turn from the intellect, and \nlook into that better and higher sanctuary of the soul, \nwhich is the residence of the feeling, the hope, the de- \nsire, the moral sentiment, and it will require no remarka- \nble gift of perception to discover a difference in those, \nwho in the other respect were essentially equal. One is \nendeavouring to crush the powerless, another is too high- \nminded to bruise a broken reed ; one acts wholly for him- \nself, another for his country ; one feels for his country \nand that is all, another adds to his love of country the \nlove of mankind ; one will sell his vote for two farthings, \nanother will sooner part with his right hand or right eye, \nthan break his agreement with his honour and con- \nscience. \n\nNow we feel at liberty to build up a conclusion in \nview of these facts. We deem ourselves warranted in de- \nducing the inference, that there is in man\'s mind a com- \nbination of nature. Something is meant when we use the \nword UNDERSTANDING in distinction from the heart. \nThere is a sentient, as well as an intellectual constitution ; \nthere are cognitive powers, and there arc susceptibilities of \nemotion. \n\n\n\nGENERAL CLASSIFICATION. 369 \n\n\xc2\xa7. 129. This classification frequently recognized in writers. \n\nAlthough on this subject we have looked to the unlet- \ntered multitude, and men of business and action first, we \nare by no means to exclude mere men of letters, and to \nhold their testimony, in whatev^er way it maybe given, \nas unimportant. Literary writers of eminence for the most \npart clearly recognize, either directly or indirectly, the \ngeneric arrangement, which has been proposed. It is \nperhaps unnecessary to make the remark, that Locke, al- \nthough he did not limit himself to one class of subjects, \ntook for his principle and prominent topic the intellect ; \nthe title page of his great work intimates this ; it reads. An \nEssay concerning Human Understanding; but Ed wards, who \nwas animated with the hope of seeing men brought nearer \nto their Creator, selected the higher part of iiuman nature \nas the great object of his inquiries, and treated of the \nWdl and the Affections. Mr. Stewart professedly extend- \ned his inquiries, and at some length, to both parts of our \nconstitution. He alludes in very clear terms to tlie dis- \ntinction between them in the introduction of his Philoso- \nphy of the Active and Moral Powers. \xe2\x80\xa2\' In my formtr \n\nwork on the Human Mind (he remarks) I confined my at- \ntention almost exclusively to Man, considered as an Intel- \nlectual being ] and attempted an analysis of those faculties \nand powers, which compose that part of his nature com- \nmonly called his intellect or his understanding.\'\'^ \n\nBut it is not to professed writers on these subjects, \nthat we would refer in this case ; the distinction is made \nby authors, who cannot be supposed to have ever studied \nthe mind as a science. The Roman Historian indcates it, \nwhen he informs us, that Mutius Scagvola purposely con- \nsumed his hand in the fire, and meanwhile exhibited \noutwardly as little sensibility to suffering, as if his intel- \nlect were separated frbm the power of feeling, (quam \nquum velut alienato ab sensu torreret animo.) It is indi- \ncated also by a later historian of the same great nation, \nwhen he says of Cataline, (fuit magna vi animi, sed inge- \nnio malo pravoque,) that he possessed a vigorous intellect. \n\n\n\nno GENERAL CLASSIFICATION. \n\nbut in his disposition was evil and depraved. And we \nmight ask, What historian or poet, of any age or people, \nhas given a faithful sketch of man for any length of time, \nwithout being compelled to recognize the same distinc- \ntion, in what they so uniformly inform us of the strivings \nof the judgment against the passions, and of the passions \nagainst the judgment ? \n\n\xc2\xa7. 13,0. Languages referred to in proof of this generic \narrangement. \n\nIt is further worthy of notice, that there is a multi- \ntude of words in the various dialects of men, which have \na relation to the arrangement before us. In our own lan- \nguage, when the discourse relates to our sentient constitu- \ntion, we employ the terms, feelings, emotions, desires, \npassions, affections, inclinations, and the like ; but when \nit relates to the Understanding, we employ another set of \nwords, viz, perceptions, thoughts, notions, ideas, intellec- \ntual states, &c. It is true, there are other terms of a \n\nmore general nature, (as when we speak of the states, acts, \nor exercises of the mind,) which are applied to both clas- \nses indiscriminately, but those, which have been mention- \ned, are commonly restricted in their application, and are \nnot, as a general statement, interchanged with each other. \n\nWell may we conclude, therefore, inasmuch as lan- \nguage is designed by the framers of it to be a sort of repre- \nsentative of the mind, that the great distinction, which \nhas now been laid down, is well founded. The existence \nof these distinct classes of terms, which were not framed \nwithout an object, and without an adequate reason, can- \nnot be accounted for, except on the ground, that there is \na corresponding distinction in the mind\'s acts. And if \nthere be a distinction in the acts or exercises, there is of \ncourse a distinction in the mind itself, a twofold na- \nture, the outlines of which, we again venture to assert, \nwill not fail to discover themselves in every individual, \nin whom the elements of humanity exist in so high a \ndegree as to render him an object of notice at all. \n\nOn any other grounds, what shall we make of the ex- \n\n\n\nGENERAL CLASSIFICATION, 171 \n\npressions, which have been already referred to in eminent \nwriters ? What shall we say, (to take a single instance out \nof the multitude, that might be brought together,) of the \nfollowing language of a learned critic,* in relation to a \nspeech of Mr. Fox in Parliament, on the great question of \nthe Slave Trade :\xe2\x80\x94 " It is among the happiest productions \nof a rapid and vigorous intellect, called into action \nsuddenly by the warmth of an honest and noble heart. \nThe FEELING seems all intellect; the intellect all \n\nFEELING." \n\n\xc2\xa7 . 1 3 i . The nature of this classification a matter of con- \nsciousness. \n\nThe classification, which we are considering, is the \nmore important, because it is founded, not in the mere \ncircumstances attending the origin of the mental states, \nbut in the nature of the states themselves. We feel, we \nknow them to be different. But when we are required \nto state with precision what the actual difference is be- \ntween these two classes of the exercises of the soul, it can- \nnot be denied, that the question is more readily proposed, \nthan answered. A man may believe and know himself, \n(it is very often the case,) what he may find it difficult to \ncommunicate, and explain to others. An inability to set \nforth in words the nature of any particular acts of the \nsoul is not a proof, that those exercises do not exist, or \nthat the condition of one state of the mind does not differ \nfrom that of another. \n\nOn the contrary it may be answered in this case, as in \nothers, that every person knows from his consciousness, \nthat great and ultimate guide which Providence has giv- \nen men, that there is not only a difference, but a radical \nand essential difference between the two classes. \n\nNo one, for instance, can be supposed to be insensible of \nthis diversity in the mental states, expressed by the \nterms, truth, belief, certainty, order, equality, and the like, \nand those, expressed by the terms, pleasure, pain, hope, \n\n* Edin. Review on Clarkson\'s History of the Abolitioa of the \nSlave Trade, July 1808. \n\n\n\n173 GENERAL CLASSIFICATION. \n\ndesire,, love, Sic, We refer, therefore, on this point to \neacb o;ie s internal experienc\'e, to hii own consciousness. \n\n*v Every ni.in, [says Gondilhic, ^irigin of Knowledge, \nPt. :\xe2\x96\xa0. CM. I,] is coasciouj of hh lliouglit ; he distinguishes \nit perfectly from every tiling else ; iie even distinguishes \none tlior.ght frojn another ; and that is sufficient. If we \ngo any further, we stray from a point, which\' we appre- \nhend so clearl)^, that it can never lead us into errour.\'\' \n\n\xc2\xa7. 1S2. Of the different names giie 11 to it. \n\nIt remains to he remarked further, that the explicit \nand scientific statement of this classification is hy no means \nnew; on the contrary, in its essential features, it has re- \npeatedly made a formal appearance under various names. \nSome of these designations will be briefly referred to. \n\nI, Cognitive and Motive. A long time since, it \n\nwas proposed, particularly by Mr. liobhes, to employ \nthese two words, as ex[>ressive of the general division \nunder consideration. Undoubtedly the epithet coGxM- \nTiVE, whether w^e consult its etymology or its meaning as \nestablished by use, is sufficiently applicable to that part of \nour mental nature, which regards the mere origin of \nknowledge, as perception, judgment, reasoning, &c. The \nterm motive, as indicative of the other part of our men- \ntal constitut on, was i)rObably adopted on the ground, that \nour emotions, desires, and passions are particularly con- \nnected with movement or action. This nomenclature \nseems not, however, to have been generally adopted. \n\n\'\xe2\x80\xa2 The terms cognitke and motive^ [^\'^y^ Mr. Stewart, \nElements, Pt. II,] were long ago proposed for tlie same \npurj)0\xc2\xa3e by Hobbes ; but they never appear to have come \ninto general use, and are indeed liable to obvious ob- \njections." \n\nII, The Understanding and Will. The generic \n\nclassification, which we have been considering, has made \nits appearance also under these names. We have already \nhad occasion to refer to Locke and Edwards ; those dis- \ntinijuished writers not only recognized the classification \nin question, and made it the basis of the particular direc- \n\n\n\nGENTIRAL CLASSIFICATION. 17S \n\ntion of their great efforts, but frequently employed this \nphras;:!o!ogy as expressive of it. Uiider the term Under- \nstanding was incUided the whole intellectual, the thinking \nand reasoning part of our nature. By tlie Will seems to \nhave been meant that ability, in whatever way it .night \nexhil.\'it itself, which u as sup])bsed to he necessary in bring- \ning the mental constitution into action ;\' it was the mind\'s \nimpelling and coistrolling prin"ci})le ; something wliich \nmoved and governed it. To determine precisely, howev- \ner, wiiat feijlings and operations belonged to the one and \nwhat belonged to the other was by no means a matter \nwell settled, but of no small doubt and contention. The \ndesiornation of the arrangement by these names has conse- \nquentiy fallen into comparative discredit. The word \nUf^derstanding, howev^er, is still employed in its original \nextent, as synonymous with intellect ; the word Will^ with \na much restricted signification. \n\nIll, Intellectual and Active Powers. For the epi- \nthet MOTIVE proposed by Hobbes, the term Active has \nbeen substituted by some modern writers, partfcularly \nReid and Stewart. This epithet, like that for which it \nwas substituted, was probably introduced on the ground, \nthat the sentient part of our nature is immediately and par- \nticularly connected with motion, effort, or action. It is prob- \nably not meant to be intimated by those who adopt this \ndesiiuation, that the feelings and powers, included under it, \npossess in themselves moYe activity than others, but are \nactive in the sense of being particidarly connected with, \nand leading to action; wliicli is undoubtedly the truth. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 1.33. Classification of the intellectual states of the mind. \n\nFor the reasons, which have been given, we find our- \nselves authorized, in the first place, in considering the \nstates, exercises, or acts of the mind, ("for these terms, the \nmost general we can employ, will apply to both classes,) \nunder the two general heads of Intellectual and Sentient. \nOur intellectual states of mind, together with their cor- \nresponding susceptibilities and powers, will first come un- \nder consideration. On looking attentively, however, at \n\n\n\n174 GENERAL CLASSIFICATION. \n\nthe intellectual part of our nature, we readily discover, \nthat the results, which are to be attributed to it, are sus- \nceptible of a subordinate classification, viz, into intellec- \ntual STATES of External, and those of Internal origin. \n\nIt is pres umed, that on a little examination this distinc- \ntion will be sufficiently obvious. If the mind were insu- \nlated and cut off from the outward world, or if there \nwere no such outward world, could we feel, or see, or \nhear ? All those mental affections,which we express,when \nwe speak of the diversities of taste and touch, of sound \nand sight, are utterly dependent on the existence and pres- \nence of something, which is exteriour to the intellect it- \nself. But this cannot be said of what is expressed by the \nwords, truth, falsehood, opinion, intelligence, cause, obli- \ngation, effect and numerous creations of the intellect of a \nlike kind. \n\nIt is worthy of rem^ark, that the subordinate classifica- \ntion, which is now proposed to be made, did not escape, in \nits essential characteristics, the notice of very ancient \nwriters. "We have the authority of Cudworth,* that \nthose intellectual states, which have an internal origin, bore \namong the Greeks the name of noemata, thoughts or intel- \nlections ; while those of external origin were called \nAiSTHEMATA, sensations. Although this classifiation, the \ngrounds of which cannot fail readily to present themselves, \nhas been recognized and sanctioned, in some form or other, \nby numerous writers on the human mind, some future op- \nportunity will be found more fully to explain and defend \nit ; the objections, which have been made, will not be \noverlooked ; and it will be readily perceived, that we \nshall be the better prepared for this proposed explanation, \nafter having considered the relation, which the mind sus- \ntains to the external world by means of the senses, and an- \nalyzed the knowledge, which has its origin in that source. \n\n* Cudworth\'s Immutable Morality, Bk. IV. ch. 1. \n\n\n\nPART SECOND. \n\n\n\nINTELLECTUAL STATES OF THE MIND. \n\n\n\nCLASS FIRST, \n\n\n\nINTELLECTUAL STATES OF EXTERNAL ORIGIN. \n\n\n\nCHAPTER FIRST. \n\n\n\nORIGIN OF KNOWLEDGE IN GENERAL. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 131. Of the mind considered in itself. \n\nHaving arrived at this point in our inquiries, where \nwe are to start forth on a new track, it is natural to cast a \nglance back on the road we have gone over ; and it is no \nexaggeration to say, that we have found grounds of admi- \nration and encouragement in what has fallen under our no- \ntice. We have seen undoubted proof of the greatness of \nthe mind, of the variety of its elementary resources, and of \nits essential excellence ; and yet we have only gone round \nit like casual visiters ; we have merely seen the outlines \nand boundaries ; we have counted the towers and bul- \nwarks at a distance ; and can hardly say, that we have \nopened the gates, and entered into the inner part of the \ncity. \n\nThe mind of man may be contemplated in itself. As \na matter of speculation, such a view of it will do no \nharm ; although in point of fact, the mind never was, \nand never can be separated from the relations it sustains \nto every part of the universe, and to the great Creator of \nthe Universe. As a mere matter of speculation however, \nwe may direct our attention to it, considered as separate \nfrom every thing, else ; and there will be found to be \nsomething pleasing and exalting in such contemplations. \nIf we suppose its powers to be in their strength and ac- \n23 \n\n\n\n173 \n\n\n\nORIGIN OF KNOWLEDGE IN GENERAL. \n\n\n\ntivity, and at the same time exclude the consideration of \nevery thing exteriour, which might be imagined to be the \ncause of this activity, the mind has the appearance of be- \ning a self-supplying, and original energy. It seems to us \nlike the sun in the heavens, a perpetual fountain-head of \nillumination, streaming outward in every direction, and \noverflowing all things with brightness. \n\nPlato among the ancients, and Malebranche among the \nmoderns seem to have been pleased with taking this view; \nthose peculiar traits of thought, which are ascribed to \nthem, may be accounted for in part on the ground of a \ngreat retirement into themselves, and a predominant love \nof interiour inspection. And certainly to a serious and \ncontemplative mind, there is something peculiarly fascina- \nting in this course. When men are sick of th^ world \nwithout, as they often find occasion to be, there is alv/ays \na world within, in which they can seclude themselves. \nIn the indulgence of this inward retirement, they hav\'e an \nopportunity not only to search out the mind\'s hidden \ntreajjures of thought, emotion, and energy, but to contem- \nplate also the marks and signatures of that divine and \nmore glorious Intelligence from whom it came. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 135. Connection oj the mind with the material icorld. \n\nBut after all, the speculations referred to in the last sec- \ntion will be likely to lead us astray, and to give a distort- \ned view of the mind, if they are pursued too far, or are \nnot limited, and guarded with sufficient care. An entire \nseparation of the soul and its action from every thing \nelse is merely a supposition, an hypothesis, which is not \nrealized in our present state of being. What the soul will \nbe in a future state of existencs is of course another in- \nquiry. It is possible, that it may be disburdened, more \nthan it is in this life, of connections and dependencies, and \nwill possess more freedom and energy ; but it seems to be \nour appropriate business at present to examine it, as we \nfind it here. \n\nWhatever Providence may have in reserve for us in a \nfuture state, it is obvious, that in our present existence it \n\n\n\nORIGIN OF KNOWLEDGE IN GENERAL. 179 \n\nhas designed, and established an intimate connection be- \ntween tlie soul, and the material world. We have a wit- \nness of this in the mere fact of the existence of an exter- \nnal creation. Was all this visible creation made for \nnought ? Are the flowers not only of the wilderness, but \nof the cultivated place, formed merely to waste their \nsweetness on the desert air ? Are those harmonical sounds \nand ravishing touches, that come forth from animate and \ninanimate nature, uttered, and breathed out in vain ? Can \nwe permit ourselves to suppose, that the symmetry of \nform, every where existing in the outward world, the rela- \ntions and aptitudes, the beauties of proportion, and the \ndecorations of colours exist without any object ? And yet \nthis must be so, if there be no connection between the \nsoul of man and outward objects. What would be pro- \nportion, what would be colour, what would be harmony \nof sound without the soul, to which they are addressed, \nand from which they are acknowledged to derive their \nefficacy ? Where there is no soul, where there is a \ndeprivation and want of the conscious spirit, there is no \nsight, no hearing, no touch, no sense of beauty. Ev- \nery thing depends on the mind ; the senses are merely the \nmedium of communication, the conditions and helps of the \nperceptions, and not the perceptions themselves. \n\nWith such considerations w^e justify what has been \nsaid that Providence designed, and established an inti- \nmate connection between the soul, and the material \nworld. \n\nAnd there is another train of thought, which leads to \nthe same conclusion. On any other supposition than the \nexistence of such a connection, we cannot account for \nthat nice and costly apparatus of the nerves and organs of \nsense, with which wjd are furnished. Although we be- \nhold on every side abundant marks of the Creator\'s good- \nness, we may safely say, he does nothing in vain. The \nquestion then immediately recurs. What is the meaning \nof the expenditure of the Divine goodness in the forma- \ntion of the eye, in the windings and ingenious construc- \ntion of the ear, and in the diffusion of the sense of \n\n\n\n180 ORIGIN OF KNOWLEDGE IN GENERAL. \n\ntouch ? We cannot give a satisfactory answer to this \nquestion, except on the ground, that there is a designed \nand established connection between the mind, and the \nmaterial world. If we admit the existence of this connec- \ntion, every thing is at once explained. \n\n\xc2\xa7.136. Of the origin or beginnings of knowledge. \n\nThe Creator, therefore, established the relation between \nmind and matter ; and it is a striking and important fact, \nthat, in this connection of the mental and material world, \nwe are probably to look for the commencement of the \nmind\'s activity, and for the beginnings of knowledge. \nThe soul considered, in its relationship to external nature, \nmay be compared to a stringed instrument. Regarded in \nitself, it is an invisible existence, having the capacity and \nelements of harmony. The nerves, the eye, and the sen- \nses generally are the chords and artificial frarne-work, \nwhich God has woven round its unseen and unsearchable \nessence. This living and curious instrument, which was \nbefore voiceless and silent, sends forth its sounds of har- \nmony, as soon as it is swept by outward influences. But \nthis, it will be noticed, is a general statement ; the mean- \ning may not be perfectly obvious, and it will be necessary \nto descend to some particulars. \n\nThere are certain elementary notions, which seem to be \ninvolved in, and inseparable from our very existence, such \nas self, identity, &c. The supposition would be highly \nunreasonable, that we can exist for any length of time \nwithout possessing them. It is certain, that these notions \nare among the earliest, which men form ; and yet cautious \nand judicious inquirers into the mind have expressed the \nopinion, that even these do not arise, except subsequently \nto an impression on the organs of sense. \n\nSpeaking of a being, whom, for the sake of illustra- \ntion, he supposes to be possessed of merely the two senses \nof hearing and smelling, Mr. Stewart makes this remark. \n\xe2\x80\x94 " Let us suppose then a particular sensation to be exci- \nted in the mind of such a being. The moment this hap- \npens he must necessarily acquire the knowledge of two \n\n\n\nORIGIN OF KNOWLEDGE IN GENERAL. ]81 \n\nfacts at once ; tliat of the existence of the sensation, and \ntliat of his oion existence^ as a sentient being."* This lan- \nguage clearly implies, that the notions of existence and of \nperson or self are attendant upon, and subsequent to an af- \nfection of the mind, caused by an impression on the sen- \nses. In his Essays he still more clearly and decisively \nadvances the opinion, that the, mind is originally brought \ninto action through the medium of the senses, and that \n\nhuman knowledge has its origin in this v^^ay. "All our \n\nsimple notions, (he says, Essay III,) or, in other words, \nall the primary elements of our knowledge are either pre- \nsented to the mind immediately by the powers of con- \nsciousness and perception, or they are gradually unfolded \nin the exercise of the various faculties, which characterize \nthe human understanding. According to this view of the \nsubject, the sum total of our knowledge may undoubted- \nly be said to originate in sensation, inasmuch as it is by im- \npressions from without, that consciousness is first awak- \nened, and the different faculties of the understanding put \nin action."! \n\nPerhaps this subject, however, will always remain in \nsome degree of doubt ; and we have merely to say, that of \nthe various opinions, which have been advanced in respect \nto it, we give the preference to that which has been refer- \nred to, as supported by Stewart, De Gerando, and other \njudicious writers, without any disposition to assert its \ninfallibility. The mind appears at its creation to be mere- \nly an existence, involving certain principles, and endued \nwith certain powers, but dependent for the first and orig- \ninal developement of those principles and the exercise of \nthose powers on the condition of an outward impression. \nBut after it has once been brought into action, it finds \nnew sources of thought and feeling in itself. \n\n^-Philosophy of the Human Mind, Vol. I, ch. 1. See also \xc2\xa7.\xc2\xa7. 17, 18 \nof this. Work. \n\nfViews, similar to those of Mr. Stewart, are maintained by De \nGerando in a memoir, entitled De la Generation des Connoisances \nHumaines. \n\n\n\n182 ORIGIN OF KOWLEDGE IN GENERAL. \n\n\xc2\xa7. ]37. Our first knowledge in general of a material or \nexternal origin. \n\nIf we know not how a single leaf is formed, and are \nbaffled) when we attempt to explain the growth even of \na blade of grass, it is not surprising, that we should fail of \nabsolute certainty in explaining the first cause of the \nmind\'s action, and the history of the first feeling, to which \nit gives birth. But whatever mav\'be true of the first men- \ntal exercise, whether its existence be dependent on the \ncondition of some external impression on the senses or not, \nit may be shown beyond doubt, that during the early pe- \nriod of life the connection of the mind with the materi- \nal world is particularly close, and that far the greater por- \ntion of its acts and feelings can be traced to that \nsource. \n\nI, \xe2\x80\x94 What has been said will, in the first place, be \nfound agreeable to each one\'s individual experience. If \nwe look back to the early periods of life, we discover not \nmerely, that our ideas are then comparatively few in num- \nber, but that far the greater proportion of them are sug- \ngested by external objects. They are forced upon us by \nour immediate wants ; they have relation to what w^e \nourselves see, or hear, or touch ; and only a small pro- \nportion are internal and abstract. As we advance in years, \nsusceptibilities and powers of the mind are brought into \nexercise, which have a less intimate connection with things \nexternal ; and thoughts from within are more rapidly \nmultiplied, than from without. We have in some meas- \nure exhausted that which is external, and as the mind, \nawakened to a love of knowledge and a consciousness of \nits powers, has at last been brought fully into action, by \nmeans of repeated afiections of the senses, a new world, \n(as yet in some degree a terra incognita,) projects itself \nupon our attention, where we are called upon to push \nour researches, and gratify our curiosity. \xe2\x80\x94 This is the \ngeneral experience, the testimony, which each bne can give \nfor himself. \n\nJn the second place, what has been said finds con\xc2\xa3r- \n\n\n\nORIGIN OF KNOWLEDGE IN GENERAL. 183 \n\nmatioji in what we observe of the progress of the mind \nin infants and children generally. The course of things, \nwhich we observe in them agrees with what our person- \nal consciousness and remembrance, as far back as it goes, \nenables us to testify with no little confidence in our own \ncase. No one can observe the operations of the mind in \ninfants and children, without being led to believe, that \nthe creator has instituted a connection between the mind \nand the materal world, and that the greater portion \nof our early knowledge is from an outward source. \n\nTo the infant its nursery is the world. The first \nideas of the human race are its particular conceptions of \nits nurse and mother ; and the origin and history of all \nits notions may be traced to its animal wants, to the light \nthat breaks in from its window, and to the few objects in \nthe immediate neighborhood of the cradle and hearth. \nWhen it has become a few years of age, there are other \nsources of information, other fountains of thought, but \nthey are still external and material. The child then learns \nthe topography of his native village ; he explores the \nmargin of its river, ascends its flowering hills, and pene- \ntrates the seclusion of its vallies. Uis mind is full of ac- \ntivity ; new and exalting views crowd upon his percep- \ntions ; he beholds, and hears, and handles ; he wonders, \nand is delighted. And it is not till after he has grasped \nthe elem.ents of knowledge, Vt^hich the outward world \ngives, that he retires within himself, compares, reasons, \nand seeks for causes and effects. \n\nIt is in accordance with what has now been stated of \nthe tendencies of mind in children, that we generally find \nthem instructed by means of sensible objects, or by pic- \ntures of such objects. When their teachers make an ab- \nstract statement to them of an action or event, they do \nnot understand it ; they listen to it with an appearance of \nconfusion and vacancy, for the process is undoubtedly \nagainst nature. But show them the objects themselves, \nor a faithful picture of them, and interpret your abstract \nexpressions by a reference to the object or picture, and \nthey are observed to learn with rapidity and pleasure. \n\n\n\n184 \n\n\n\nORIGIN OF KNOWLEDGE IN GENERAL. \n\n\n\nThe tiine has not yet arrived for the springing up and \ngrowth of thoughts of an internal and abstract origin. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 138. Fiiiher proof of the beginnings of knowledge from \nexternal causes. \n\nIn the third place, the history of language is a strong \nproof of the correctness of the position, that the mind is \nfirst brought into action by means of the senses, and ac- \nquires its earliest knowledge from that source. At first \nwords are few in number, corresponding to the limited \nextent of ideas. The vocabulary of savage tribes, (those \nfor example which inhabit the American continent,) is in \ngeneral exceedingly limited. The growth of a language \ncorresponds to the growth of mind ; it extends itself by \nthe increased number and power of its words, nearly in \nexact correspondence with the multiplication and the in- \ncreased complexity of thought. Now the history of all \nlanguages teaches us, that words, which were invented \nand brought into use one after another in the gradual way \njust mentioned, were first employed to express external \nobjects, and afterwards were used to express thoughts of \ninternal origin. It is an evidence of the correctness of \nthis remark, that the words of a language are found to \nvary with the scenery, climate, and natural productions, \nto which those who speak it have been accustomed. If \nlanguage were framed in the first instance to express \nthoughts of internal instead of external origin, the grounds \nof variationiwould be different. \n\nSome writer remarks, that among the Bosch uanas of \nSouth Africa, who live in a parched and arid country, the \nword PULO, which literally signifies r\xc2\xabw, is the only term \nthey have to express a blessing or blessings. But there \nmay be blessings internal as well as external, goods and \njoys of the mind, as well as of the body ; still in the lan- \nguage of these Africans, it is all rain ; the blessings of hope \nand peace, and friendship, and submission, and all other \nmodes of intellectual and sentient good, are nothing but \nrain. \n\nThere are ihousands of instances of this kind. Al - \n\n\n\nORIGIN OF KNOWLEDGE IN GENERAL. 185 \n\nmost all the words in every language, expressive of the \nsusceptibilities and operations of the mind, may be clearly \nshown to have had an external origin and a[)plication, be- \nfore they were applied to the mind. To imagine in its \nliteral signification implies the forming of a picture ; to \nIMPRESS conveys the idea of leaving a stamp or mark, as \nthe seal leaves its exact likeness or stamp on wax ; to re- \nflect literally means to turn back, to go over the ground \nagain ; &c. These words cannot be applied to the mind \nin the literal sense ; the nature of the mind will not ad- \nmit of such an application ; the inference theiefore is, \nthat they first had an external application. Now if it \nbe an established truth, that all language has a primary \nreference to external objects, and that there is no term, \nexpressive of mental acts, which was not originally ex- \npressive of something material, the conclusion would \nseem to be a fair one, that the part of our knowledge, \nwhich has its rise by means of the senses, is, as a gener- \nal statement, first in origin. And the more so, when we \ncombine with these views the considerations, which have \nbeen previously advanced. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 139. The same subject further illustrated. \n\nAnd, in the fourth place, it is not too much to say, \nthat all the observations, which have been made on per- \nsons wlio from their birth, or at any subsequent period, \nhave been deprived of any of the senses, and all the extra- \nordinary facts, which have come to knowledge, having a \nbearing on this inquiry go strongly in favour of the \n\nviews which have been given. -It appears, for instance, \n\nfrom the observations, Vrdiich have been made in regard \nto persons, who have been deaf until a particular period, \nand then have been restored to the power of hearing, \nthat they have never previously had those ideas, which \nnaturally come in by that sense. If a person has been \nborn blind the result is the same ; or if having the sense \nof sight, it has so happened, that he has never seen any \ncolours of a particular description. In the one case, he \nhas no ideas of colours at all, and in the other, only of \n24 \n\n\n\n186 \n\n\n\nORIGIN OF KNOWLEDGE IN GENERAL. \n\n\n\nthose colours which he has seen. \xe2\x80\x94 It maybe said perhaps, \nthat this is what might be expected, and merely proves the \nsenses to be a source of knowledge, without necessarily \ninvolving the priority of that knowledge to what has an \ninternal origin. But then observe the persons referred to \na little further, and it will be found, as a general statement, \nthat the powers of their mind have not been unfolded ; \nthey lay wrapt up in a great measure in their original \ndarkness ; no inward light springs up to compensate for \nthe absence of that, which in ofher cases bursts in from the \noutward world. This circumstance evidently tends to \nconfirm the principle we are endeavoring to illustrate. \n\nOf those extraordinary instances, to which we allu- \nded, as having thrown some light on the history of our in- \ntellectual acquisitions, is the account, which is given in the \nMemoirs of the French Academy of Sciences for the year \n1703, of a deaf and dumb young man in the city of Char- \ntres. At the age of three and twenty, it so happened, to \nthe great surprise of the whole town, that he was sudden- \nly restored to the sense of hearing, and in a short time he \nacquired the use of language. Deprived for so long a pe- \nriod of a sense, which in importance ranks with the sight \nand the touch, unable to hold communion with his fellow \nbeings by means of oral or written language, and not par- \nticularly compelled, as he had every care taken of him \nby his friends and relations, to bring his faculties into ex- \nercise, the powers of his mind remained without having \nopportunity to unfold themselves. Being examined by \nsome men of discernment, it was found that he had no \nidea of a God, of a soul, of the moral merit or demerit \nof human actions, and what might seem to be yet more \nremarkable, he knew not what it was to die ; the agonies \nof dissolution, the grief of friends, and the ceremonies \nof interment being to him inexplicable mysteries. \n\nHere w^e see how much knowledge a person was deprived \nof, merely by his wanting the single sense of hearing ; \na proof that the senses were designed by our Creator \nto be the first source of knowledge, and that without \n\n\n\nORIGIN OF KNOWLEDGE IN GENERAL. 187 \n\nthem the faculties of the soul would never become opera- \ntive. \n\nBut this is not the only instance of this sort, which in- \ngenious men have noticed and recorded. In the Trans- \nactions of the Royal Society at Edinburgh, (Vol. vii. Pt, \n].,) is a Memoir communicated by Dugald Stewart, \nwhich gives an account of James Mitchell, a boy born \ndeaf and bUnd. The history of this lad, who labored un- \nder the uncommon affliction of this double deprivation, \nillustrates and confirms all, that has been above stated. \nHe made what use he could of the only senses which he \npossessed, those of touch, taste, and smell, and gained from \nthem a number of ideas. It was a proof of the diligence \nwith which he employed the limited means, which were \ngiven him, that he had by the sense of touch thoroughly \nexplored the ground in the neighborhood of the house, \nwhere he lived, for hundreds of yards. But deprived of \nsight, of hearing, arid of intercourse by speech, it was \nvery evident to those, who observed him, as might be ex- \npected, that his knowledge was in amount exceedingly \nsmall. He was destitute of those perceptions, which are \nappropriate to the particular senses, of which he was de- \nprived ; and also of many other notions of an internal \norigin, which would undoubtedly have arisen, if the \npowers of the mind had previously been rendered fully \noperative by means of those assistances, which it usually re- \nceives from the bodily organs. Such instances as these, \n\nhowever they may at first apj^ear, are extremely impor* \ntant. They furnish us with an appeal, not to mere specu- \nlations, but to fact. And it is only by checking undue \nspeculation and by continually recurring to facts, that \nour progress in this science will become sure, rapid, and \ndelightful.* \n\n\n\n*The statements concerning- the young man of Chartres are partic- \nularly examined in Condiilac\'s Essay on the origin of Knovvledg-e at \nSection fourth of Part first. The interesting Memoir of Stewart has \nrecently been repuhlished in the third volume of his Eilements of the \nPhilosophy of the Human Mind. \n\n\n\n183 ORIGIN OF KNOWLEDGE IN GENERAL. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 140. Of connatural or innate k.iowledge. \n\nThe considerations of this chapter naturally bring us \nupon the question of innate or connatural knowledge. It \nwas formerly maintained by certain writers, that there \nare in the minds of men ideas and propositions, which are \nnot acquired or taught at any time, or in any way, but \nfire coetaneous v/ith the existence of the mind itself, be- \ning wrought into, and inseparable from it. It was main- \ntained that they are limited to no one class, neither to \nthe rich nor the poor, neither to the learned nor the ig- \nnorant, to no clime and to no country, but all participate \nin them alike. These propositions and ideas, being coe- \ntaneous with the existence of the soul, and being there es- \ntablished at the commencement of its existence by the or- \ndinance of the Deity, were regarded as the first princr- \nples of knowledge, and as the rules, by which men were \nto be guided in all their reasonings about natural and mor- \nal subjects. \n\nFrom these innate and original propositions the follow- \ning may be selected as specimens of the whole; \xe2\x80\x94 (I) Of the \nnatural kind. The whole is greater than a part ; What- \never is, is ; It is impossible for the same thing to be and \nnot to be at the same time and in the same sense. \xe2\x80\x94 (2) Of \nthe moral kind, Parents must be honored; Injury must \n\nnot be done ; Contracts should be fulfilled, &c. (3) Of \n\nthe religious kind. There is a God ; God is to be worship- \nped ; God will approve virtue and punish vice. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 141. The doctrine of innate knowledge not susceptible of proof. \n\nIt will not be deemed necessary to spend much time on \nthis subject, or to enter into any length of investigation. \nThere is an utter absence of all satisfactory evidence, that \nthere is in men any amount of knowledge whatever, an- \nswering to this description. The prominent argument, \nbrought forward by the supporters of this doctrine, was \nthis, that all mankind, without exception, and from the \nearliest period of our being able to form an acquaintance \niwith their minds,exhibit a knowledge of ideas and proposi- \n\n\n\nORIGIN OF KNOWLEDGE IN GENERAL. 189 \n\ntions of this kind ^and that this universal knowledge of them \ncannot be accounted for, except on the ground of their \nbeing coetaneous with the mind\'s existence, and originally \nimplanted in it. Now if we admit that all men are ac- \nquainted with them and assent to them, this by no means \nproves them innate, so long as we can account for thii ac- \nquaintance and this assent in some other way. It is grnnt- \ned by all, that the mind exists, that it is capable of action, \nand that it possesses the power or the ability of acquiring \nknowledge. If, therefore, in the exercise of this ability,, \nwhich all admit it to have, we can come to the knowl- \nedge of what are called innate or connatural ideas and. \npropositions, it is unnecessary to assign to them anoth^ \ner origin, in support of which no positive proof can be \nbrought. \n\nBut the truth is, that all men are not acquainted with \nthe ideas and propositions in question, and especially do \nnot exhibit such an acquaintance from the first dawn of \ntheir knowledge as would be the case if they were con- \nnatural in the mind. The supposed fact, on which this \nargument is founded, is a mere assumption ; it has never \nbeen confirmed by candid and careful inquiry, which \nought to be done, before it is made use of as proof, nor \nis it susceptible of such confirmation. \n\nEvery enumeration of innate propositions embraces \nthe following. That all men have a notion of a God ; \nand undoubtedly if there be any one, which has a claim \nto universality and early developement, it is this. But \nin point of fact we know, that all men are not acquainted \nwith this notion ; the testimony of travellers among un- \ncivilized nations has been given again and again, that there \nis not such an universal acquaintance ; but on the contrary \nwhole tribes of men in different parts of the world are \nfound to be destitute of it. There is also a class o\xc2\xa3 unfor- \ntunate persons to be found in civilized and christian na- \ntions, (we have the reference to the deaf and dumb, those \nin the situation of the young man of Chartres,) w^ho wull \nthrow light on this subject, if men will but take the pains \nto examine those, who have in no way received reli- \n\n\n\n190 ORIGIN OF KNOWLEDGE IN GENERAL \n\ngious instruction. There is reason to believe, that in many \ncases they will be found utterly without a knowledge of \ntheir Creator. \n\nMassieu was the son of a poor shepherd in the neigh- \nbourhood of Bourdeaux. Destitute from birth of the \nsense of hearing, and as a natural consequence, of the \npower of speech, he grew up, and knew barely enough to \nenable him to watch his father\'s flock in the fields. Al- \nthough his capacity was afterwards fully proved to be of \nthe most comprehensive and splendid character, as it was \nnot then drawn out and brought into action, he appeared \nin early life to be little above an idiot. In this situation \nhe was takeo under the care of the benevolent Sicard, who \nwas able after great labor and ingenuity, to quicken by de- \ngrees the slumbering power of thought into developement \nand activity. Did his instructer suppose, that Massieu \nwas acquainted with the notion of a God ? \xe2\x80\x94 Far from it ; \nhe had abundant evidence to the contrary; nor did he \neven undertake to teach him that vast idea for some time. \nHe directed his attention at fii^st to knowledge more obvi- \nous and accessible in its origin ; he led him, in perfect \nconsistency with what is required by the nature and laws \nof the mind, by easy steps from one degree of knowledge \nto another, till he supposed him capable of embracing \nthe glorious conception of a First Cause. Then he con- \ntrived to arouse his attention and anxiety; he introduced \nhim to a train of thought, which would naturally bring \nhim to the desired result ; he had previously taught him \nthe relation of cause and effect ; and on this occasion he \nshowed him his watch, and by signs gave him to under- \nstand that it implied a designer and maker ; and tlie \nsame of a picture, a piece of statuary, a book, a building, \nand other objects, indicative of design. Then he held \nup before him a chain, showing him how one link was \nconnected with and dependent on another ; in this way \nlie introduced into the mind of Massieu the complex no- \ntion of a mutual dependence and concatenation of causes. \nAt last the full idea, the conception of a primary, self-ex- \nistent and self-energetic cause, the notion of a God came, \n\n\n\nOPJGIN OF KNOWLEDGE IN GENERAL. 191 \n\nlike light from heaven, into his astonished and rejoicing \nsouL He trembled, says his historian, he was deeply af- \nfected, prostrated himself, and gave signs of reverence \nand adoration. And wh^n he arose, he uttered by signs \nalso, for he had no other language, these beautiful words, \nwhich his instructer declared he should never forget. Ah ! \nLet me go to my father, to my mother, to my brothers, to \ntell them of a God ; they know him not.* \n\nSuch facts and instances settle this question ; they \nprove, that the doctrine of inborn and connatural knowl- \nedge is unfounded ; and may we not add, that they are in \nperfect accordance with a v.^ell known passage of the \nApostle Paul ; The invisible tilings of God, from the creation \nof the world, are clearly seen, heing understood by the things that \nare made, even his eternal power and Godhead. \n\n^. 142. The discussion of this subject superseded and \nunnecessary. \n\nIt is an additional reason for not entering with more \nfulness and particularity into this inquiry, that the doctrine \nof innate or connatural knowledge has been frequently \ndiscussed at length and refuted ; particularly by Gassen- \ndi and Locke, and more recvintly by De Gerando. This \nbeing the case, and public sentiment at the same time de- \ncidedly rejecting it, it cannot be supposed that every wri- \nter on the human mind is called upon to introduce the \nsubject anew, to go over the train of argument, and slay a \nvictim already thrice slain. Let us ask. Are we called up- \non at the present day to consider and refute every wild \nnotion, which has ever been proposed ? On that ground \nwe should not stop here ; we must follow Locke further, \nand undertake a confutation of the doctrine of Male- \nbranche, that we see all things in God ; we must follow \nReid in his laboured and conclusive overthrow of the long \nestablished opinion, that we know nothing of the material \nworld, except by means of iilmy images or pictures, actu- \nally thrown off from outward objects, and lodged in the \n\n* See the work ofSicard, entitled Cours D\' Instruction d\'un Sourd- \nMuet de Naissance, Chap. XXV. \n\n\n\n192 ORIGIN OF KNOWLEDGE IN GENERAL. \n\nsensorium. But such a course will be purposely avoided ; \nit would be alike toilsome and unsatisfactory ; it would be \nas unreasonable as to require from every author in Natu- \nral Philosophy a new confutation of the Alchemists, and \nto exact from every modern astronomer a like renewed \ndiscomlilure of long since exploded theories of the heav- \nenly motions. Mr. Locke himself seems willing to admit, \nthat the discussion does not naturally and necessarily make \napart of Mental Philosophy ; and gives us clearly to un- \nderstand that it holds so conspicuous a place in his essay, \nmerely from the accidental circumstance of the preva- \nlence in his own time of the errour, which he confuted. \nAccordingly when he prepared an abstract or abridgement \nof that work for Le Clare\'s B\'tbliotheque Universelle, he \nomitted the whole of the Book on Innate Ideas. \n\nFurthermore, the whole system of Mr. Locke, (and \nthe same may be said of the views of Reid, Stewart, De \nGerando, and B^own, who cannot be considered in the \nprominent outlines of their doctrines as essentially differ- \ning from him,) is an indirect, but conclusive argument \nagainst connatural knowledge. If the principles, which they \nadvance, be right, the doctrine of innate knowledge is \nof course wrong, and requires no direct refutation. \n\nThe farmer sees the corn full c^rown and waving: in his \nfield ; but he knows it would not have been there, had he \nnot scattered the seed ; it has not become what it is, whol- \nly independent of an external agency. And if the mind, \nlike the earth, possesses a natural fertility and capacitv of \nproducing, still the results, of which it is capable, can \nas little be realized, except on certain conditions, as the \nearth can give out the waving cornfield without the pre- \nvious planting of the seed. Something is requisite to \nbring the mind into action, and to keep it in action ; it \nrequires the operation of influences from within and with- \nout, the atmosphere, the genial rains and the gentle \nbreezes, as well as its own internal laws and powers of \ngrowth ; and then the tender plant of thought comes \nforth ; it grows high and shoots out its branches ; it is \nclothed with leaves, and beautified with flowers, and iu \ni^ue season bears the ripe fruit. \n\n\n\nORIGIN OF KNOWLEDGE IN GENERAL. 193 \n\n\xc2\xa7. T42. Further remarks on the rise of knowledge by means \nof the senses.- \n\nConsidering it, therefore, as settled, that there is no \nconnatural knowledge, Ave recuiwith increased coiifideiice \nto the principle, which has been laid down in this cliaptei*, \nthat tiie mind is first brought into action by the intermedia- \ntion of the senses, and that the greater part of its earliest \nknowledge is from an external source. The consid- \nerations, that have been adduced in support of this doc- \ntrine, are obvious and weighty ; they account with much \nprobability for the very beginnings of thought nnd feeling, \nand are entirely decisive of the character of our early ac- \nquisitions in general. The subject, however, is stil open \nto reflection and if it were needful, riiight be placed in \nother lights. \n\nLet us then Kuppo:^e a man erttirely cot off fiOkU all \noutward material iinpressions, or what is the same thing, \nwith his senses entirely closed. It is very obvious, and \nthe instances already brought forward clearly prove, that \nhe would be entirely deprived of that vast amount of \nknowledge, which has an iinmediate connection with the \nsemses. But this is not all ; there are other ideas, whose \nconnection wath the senses are less immediate, of which he \nwould not fail to be deprived, by being placed in the cir- \ncumstances supposed. Even if he should possess the idea \nof existence, and of himself a- a thinking and sentient be- \ning, (although we cannot well imagine hov/ this fhould be, \nindependently of some impression on the senses,) fctill we \nhave no reason to believe that he would know any thing \nof space, of motion, of succession, of duration, of the \nplace of objects, of time, &c. \n\nNow it will be noticed, that these are elementary \nthoughts of great importance ; such as are rightly consid- \nered essential to the appropriate action of the mind, and \nto its advancement in knowledge. What could he \nknotv of time, without a knowledge of day and night, \nthe rising and setting sun, the changes of the seasons, or \n\nsome other of its measurements ! What could he know \n\n^3 \n\n\n\n194 ORIGIN OF KNOWLEDGE IN GENERAL. \n\nof motion, while utterly unable to form the idea of place! \nAnd what could he know of place without the aid of the sen- \nses ! And under such circumstances,what reasoning would \nhe be capable of, further than to form the single proposi- \ntion, that his feelings whatever they might be, belonged \nto himself! \n\nLook at the subject as we will, we must at last come to \nthe conclusion, that the connection of the mind with the \nmaterial world by means of the senses is the basis, to a \ngreat extent at least, of our early mental history, and the \nonly key, that can unlock its explanation. A sketch of \nthat part of the mind\'s history, without a reference to its \nrelation to matter, would infallibly be foimd vague, im- \nperfect, and false. \xe2\x80\x94 Let it suffice then to add here, that man \nis what he is in fact, and what he is designed to be in the \npresent life, only by means of this connection. He can- \nnot free himself from it, if he would ; and if he should \nsucceed in the attempt, it would only result in self pros- \ntration and imbecility. The forms of matter, operating \nthrough the senses, press, as it were, on the soul\'s secret \npower of harmony, and it sends forth the answer of its \nthought and feeling. The material creation,where Provi- \ndence has fixed our dwelling place, and this earthly tene- \nment of our bodies form the first scene of the mind\'s de- \nvelopement, the first theatre of its exercises, where it puts \nforth and enacts the incipient part in the great drama of \nits struggles, growth, and triumphs. \n\n\n\nCHAPTER SECOND. \n\n\n\nSENSATION AND PERCEPTION. \n\n9. 143. Sensation a simple mental state originating in the \nsenses. \n\nIn tracing the history of that portion of human \nthought, which is of external origin, we have frequent \noccasion to make use of the words Sensation and Percep- \ntion. The term sensation is not of so general a nature \nas to include every variety of mental state, but is limited \nto such as answer to a particular description. It does not \nappear, that the usage of language would forbid our speak- \ning of the feelings of warmth and coldness and hardness^ \nas well as o\xc2\xa3 the feelings of love and benevolence and anger, \nbut it would clearly forbid our using the t^rm SEitsATioN \nwith an application equally extensive. Its application is \nnot only limited, but is fixed with a considerable degree of \nprecision. \n\nSensation, being a simple act or state of the mind, is \nunsusceptible of definition ; and this is one of its charac- \nteristics. As this alone, however ,would not separate it from \nmany other mental states, it has this peculiarity to distin- \nguish it, that it is immediately successive to a change in \nsome organ of sense, or at least to a bodily change of \nsome kind. But it is evident, that in respect to numerous \nother feelings this statement does not hold good. They \nare immediately subsequent, not to bodily impressions, but \nto other states of the soul itself. Hence it is, that while \n\n\n\n196 SENSATION AND PERCEPTION. \n\nwe speak of the sensations of heat and cold, hardness, ex- \ntension, and the like, we do not commonly appiy this \nterm to joy and sorrow, hatred and love, and other emo- \ntions and passions. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 144. Jill sensation is properly and truly in the mind. \n\nSensation is often regarded as something having a po- \nsition, and as taking place in the body, and particularly \nin the organ of sense. The sensation of touch, as we \nseem to imagine, is in the hand, which is the organ of \ntouch, and is not truly internal ; the hearing is in the ear, \nanct the vision in the eye, and not in the soul. But it will \nat once occur, that this supposition, however widely and \ngenerally it may be made, is altogether at variance with \nthose essential notions, which we have found it necessary \nto form of matter. If the matter of the hand, of the eye, \nor ear can have feeling in any degree whatev^er, there is \nno difficulty in the supposition, that the matter of the \nbrain, or any other material substance can put forth the \nexercises and functions of thought. But after what has \nbeen already said on the subject of the mind\'s immaterial- \nity, tills supposition is altogether inadmissible. All we \ncan say with truth and on good grounds is, that the or- \ngans of sense ai*e accessory to sensation and necessary to \nit, bvit the sensation or feeling itself is wholly in the mind. \nHo V often it is sail] the eye isea^? ; but the proper lan- \n^(u.\'^e is thes ul sees, for the eye i^" ouiy tne organ, instru- \nmerjt, or miaisler of the soul in visual perceptions. \n\n\'A inan, (says Or Reid,) cannot seethe satellites of Ju- \npiter hut by a telescope. Does he conclude from this, \nthat it is the telescope, that sees those stars ? By no means; \nsuch a conclusion would be absur 1. It is no less absurd \nto conclude, that it is the eye that sees, or the ear that \nhears. The telescope is an artificial organ of sight, Jput it \nsees not. Th ^ eye is a natural organ of sight, by which \nwe see ; but the natui al organ sees as little as the arti- \njificial. \' \n\nAmong other things, illustrative of the correctness of \nvwhat has been said, there is this consideration also. The \n\n\n\nSENSATION AND PERCEPTION. 197 \n\nopinion, that sensation is in the organ or some other mate- \nrial part and^not in the^\'soul, is inconsistent with the funda- \nmental and indisputable doctrine] of mental identity. \n*\' When I say,\' I see, I hear, I feel, (says the same judi- \ndious author,) this implies, that it is one and the same \nself, that performs all these operations. And as it would \nbe absurd to say that my memory, another man\'s imagi- \nnation, and a third man\'s reason may make one individual \nintelligent being ; it would be equally absurd to say, that \none piece of matter seeing, another hearing, and a third \nfeeling, may make one and the same percipient being."* \n\nAlthough the opinion, that sensation is^notjn the mind \nbut in the body, is unfounded, it is perhaps not surpri- \nsing, that such a belief should have arisen. If the hand \nbe palsied, there is no sensation of touch ; if the ear be \nstopped, there is no sensation of hearing ; if the eye be \nclosed, there is no vision ; hence it happens that when we \nhave these sensations, we are led to think of the organ or \npart of the bodily system, with the origin of which they \nare connected. When we feel a pain arising from an ex- \nternal cajse, it is a natura\', and often a useful curiosity, \nwhich endeavours to learn the particular place in the body, \nwhich is affected. This, which we are generally able to \nascertain, always arrests our attention more or .less. In \nthis way we gradually form a very strong association ; and \nalmost unconsciously transfer the place of the inward sensa- \ntion to that outward part, with which we have so frequent- \nly connected it in our thoughts. Although this is clearly \na mere follacy, the circumstance of its being a plausible \nand tenacious one renders it the more necessary to guard \nagainst it. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 145. Sensations are not images or resemblances \xc2\xab^c. \nof objects. \n\nr But while we are careful to assign sensations their true \nplace in the mind, and to look upon what is outward in \nthe body as merely the antecedents or causes of them, it \n\n* Reid\'s Intellectual Powers, Essay II. \n\n\n\n198 SENSATION AND PERCEPTION. \n\nis a matter^of some consequence to guard against a danger \ndirectly the reverse of that, which has been remarked \non. We are apt to transfer to the sensation, considered \nas existing in the mind, some of those qualities, which be- \nlong to the external object. But in point of fact our \nsensations are by no means copies, pictures, or images of \noutward objects ; nor are they representations of them in \nany material sense whatever ; nor do they possess any of \ntheir .qualities. \n\nIt is true, we often think it otherwise ; constantly oc- \ncupied with external objects, when in the act of contempla- \ntion we retire within the mind, we unwarily carry with us \nthe form and qualities of matter, and stamp its likeness on \nthe thought itself. But the thought, whatever it may by \nthe constitution of our nature be the sign of, has no form, \nand presents no image analogous to what are outwardly \nobjects of touch and sight ; nor has it form or image in \nany sense, which w6 can conceive of. When, there- \nfore, we have an idea of some object as round, we \nare not to infer from the existence of the quality in \nthe outward object, that the mental state is possessed of \nthe same quality ; when w^e think of any thing as extend- \ned, it is not to be supposed, that the thought itself has ex- \ntension ; when we behold and admire the varieties of col- \nour, we are not at liberty to indulge the presumption, \nthat the inward feelings are painted over, and radiant \nwith corresponding hues. There is nothing of the kind, \nand the admission of such a principle would lead to a \nmultitude of errours. \n\nThis subject is illustrated in the following manner by \nDr. Reid, whom we have already had repeated occasion \nto refer to on the subject before us. \xe2\x80\x94 \'dressing my hand \nwith force against the table, I feel pain, and I feel the table \nto be hard. The pain is a sensation of the mind, and \nthere is nothing that resembles it in the table. The hard- \nness is in the table, nor is there any thing, resembling it \nin the mind. Feeling is applied to both ; but in a differ- \nent sense ; being a word common to the act of sensation, \nand to that of perceiving by the sense of touch. \n\n\n\n\n\n\nSENSATION AND PERCEPTION. 19<: \n\n" I touch the table gently with my hand, and I feel it \nto be smooth, hard, and cold. These are qualities of the \ntable perceived by touch ; but I perceive them by means \nof a sensation which indicates them. This sensation \nnot being painful, I commonly give no attention to it. \nIt carries my thought immediately to the thing signi- \nfied by it, and is itself forgotten, as if it had never been ; \nbut by repeating it and turning my attention to it, and \nabstracting my thought from the thing signified by it, I \nfind it to be merely a sensation, and that it has no simili- \ntude to the hardness, smoothness, or coldness of the table \nwhich are signified By it. \n\n\'\' It is indeed difficult, at first, to disjoin things in our \nattention which have always been conjoined, and to make \nthat an object of reflection which never was so before ; \nbut some pains and practice will overcome this difficulty \nin those, who have got the habit of reflecting on the ope- \nrations of their own minds."* \n\n\xc2\xa7. 146. The connection^ between the mental and physical \nchange not capable of explanation. \n\nExternal bodies operate on the senses, before there is \nany aflfection of the mind, but it is not easy to say what \nthe precise character and extent of this operation is. We \nknow that some object capable of affecting the organ \nmust be applied to it in some way either directly or mdi- \nrectly, and it is a matter of knowledge also, that some \nchaHge.inthe organ actually takes place ; but further than \nthis, we are involved in uncertainty. All we can under- \ntake to do at present is the mere statement of the facts, \nviz, the application of an external body, and some change \nin consequence of it in the organ of sense*. \n\nSubsequently to the change in the organ, either at its \nextremity and outward developement or in the brain, \nwith which it is connected, and of which it may be con- \nsidered as making a part, a change in the mind or a new \nstate of the mind immediately takes place. Here also we \n\n*Reid\'s Intellectual Powers, Essav II. \n\n\n\n300 SENSATION AND PERCEPTION. \n\nare limited to the mere statement of fact. We here \ntouch upon one of those boundaries of the intellect, \nwhich men are probably not destined to pass in the pres- \nent life. We find ourselves unable to resolve and explain \nthe connection between mind and matter in this case, as \nwe do in all others. All we know, and all we can state \nwith confidence is, that a mental affection is immediate- \nly subsequent to an affection or change, which is physi- \ncal. Such is our nature, and such the appointment of \nHim who ordered it. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 147. Of the meaning and nature of perception. \n\nWe next come to the subject of perception, which is \nintimately connected with that of sensation. This term \nlike many others admits of considerable latitude in its ap- \nplication. In common language we are not only said to \nhave the power of perceiving outward objects, but also \nof perceiving the agreement or disagreement in the acts \nof the mind itself. Accordingly we perceive a tree in the \nforest or a ship at sea, and we also perceive, that the \nwhole is greater than a part, and that the three angks of a \ntriangle are equal to two right angles. But what we have \nto say here does not concern internal perception, but \nmerely that which relates to objects exteriour to the \nmind. \n\nPerception, using the term in its application to out- \nward objects, differs from sensation, as a whole does from \na part ; it embraces more. It may be defined, therefore, \nan affection or state of the mind, which is immediate- \nly successive to certain affections of the organs of sense, \nand which is referred by us to something external as its \ncause. \n\nIt will be recollected, that the term sensation, when \napplied to the mind, expresses merely the state of the \nmind, without reference to any thing external, which \nmight be the cause of it, and that it is the name of a truly \nsimple feeling. Perception on the contrary is the name \nof a complex mental state, including not merely the in- \nternal affection of the mind, but also a reference to the \n\n\n\n\xe2\x96\xa0 \n\n\n\nSENSATION AND PERCEPTION. 201 \n\nexteriour cause. Sensation is wholly within ; but Per- \nception carries us, as it were, out of ourselves, and makes \nus acquainted with the world around us. It is especially \nby means of this last power, that material nature, in all \nits varieties of form and beauty, is brought within the \nrange of our inspection. If we had but sensation alone, \nthere would still be form and fragrance, and colour, and \nharmony of sound, but it \\vould seem to be wholly in- \nward. The mind would then become not merely what \nLeibnitz supposed it to be, a mirror of the universe ; it \nwould be the universe itself ; we could know no other \nworld, no other form of being. Perception prevents the \npossibility of such a mistake ; it undeceives and dissipates \nthe flattering notion, that all tilings are in the soul ; it \nleads us to other existences^ and in particular to the knowl- \nedge of the vast and complicated fabric of the material \ncreation. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 148. Of the \'primary and secondary qualities of matter. \n\nFrom what has been said, it will be noticed, that sen^ \nsATioif implies the existence of an external material world \nas its cause, and that perception implies the same exis- \ntence both as cause and object. As, therefore, the materi- \nal world comes now so directly and closely under con- \nsideration, it seems proper briefly to revert to that sub- \nject. It is hardly necessary to repeat the sentiment, which \nhas already been proposed and insisted on, that we are \naltogether ignorant of the subjective "or real. essence of \nmatter. Our knowledge embraces merely its qualities or \nproperties, and nothing more. Without proposing to en- \nter into a minute examination of them, it will be proper \nto recall to recollection here, that the qualities of material \nbodies have been ranked by writers under the two hervds \nof Primary and Secondary. \n\nThe PRIMARY QUALITIES are known by being e:;sential \n\nto the existence of all bodies. They are extension, fi:{ure, \n\ndivisibility, and solidity ; and some writers have included \n\nmotion. They are. called priiiarf tor the reason already \n\n2\'j . \n\n\n\n202 SENSATION AND PERCEPTION. \n\ndistinctly referred to, that all men embrace them in the \nnotions, which they form of matter, and that they are \nessential to its existence. All bodies have extension, \nall bodies have figure, all are capable of division, all pos- \nsess the attribute of solidity. \n\nBy SOLIDITY in bodies, (perhaps some would prefer the \nterm resistance,) is to be understood that quality, by \nwhich a body hinders the approach of others, between \nwhich it is interposed. In this sense even water, and all \nother fluids are solid. If particles of water could be \nprevented from separating, they w^ouid oppose so great \nresistance, that it would be impossible for any two bodies, . \nbetween which they might be, to come in contact. This \nwas shown in an experiment, which was once made at \nFlorence. A quantity of water was inclosed in a gold \nball, which on the most violent pressure could not be made \nto fill the internal cavity, until the water inside was forced \nthrough the pores. \n\nThere is reason also for that part of the arrangement, \nwhich includes divisibility. We cannot conceive of a \nparticle so small as not to be susceptible of division. And \nto that small particle must belong not only divisibility, but \nthe qualities of solidity, extension,, and figure. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 149. Of the secondary qualities of maiier. \n\nThe SECONDARY qualities of bodies are of two kinds ; \n(1 ) Those, which have relation to the perceiving and sen- \ntient mind ; (2) Those, which have relation to other \nbodies. \n\nUnder the first class are to be included sound^colour,taste, \nsmell, hardness and softness, heat and cold, roughness and \nsmoothness. &c. When we say of a body it has sound, \nwe imply in this remark, that it possesses qualities, \nwhich will cause certain \'eflfects in the mind; the term \nsound being applicable by the use of language both to \nthe qualities of the external object, and to the effect pro- \nduced within. When we say it has colour, we always \nmake a like reference to the mind, "which beholds and \n\n\n\nSENSATION AND PERCEPTION. 203 \n\ncontemplates it ; and U is the same of the otIieV seconda- \nry qualities of this description. \n\nThe other class of secondary qualities, (or properties \nas they are not unfrequentl}^ termed,) those which have \nrelation to other material bodies, are exceedingly various \nand numerous. The material substance, which in rela- \ntion to the mind possesses the qualities of sound and \ncolour, may possess also in relation to other bodies the \nqualities or properties of malleability, fusibility, solubility, \npermeability, and the like. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 150. Of the nature of mental powers or faculties. \n\nWe have spoken of Perception as a power of the \nmind, as well as a mental state or act. This is owing to \nthe imperfection of language. The same term, at least \nin the English language, signifies both the result, and the \ncorresponding power ; and oftentimes there is nothing but \nthe connection to determine which is meant. But we \nhave recurred to this subject here, merely for the purpose \nof suggesting the importance of keeping in recollection, that \nmental powers, (what are otherwise called faculties and \nnot unfrequently susceptibilities,) are not distinct from \nthe mind itself. They are only the ability of the mind \nto act in a particular way. We apply the term also in \nother cases ; we speak of the power or faculty .of the \n\nMEMORY, of REASONING, of IMAGINATION, &C. \' Such ex- \npressions are found in all languages, and cannot well be \navoided. They are brief, and, on the whole, convenient \nrepresentations of the various ways, in which the soul is \ncapable of acting, or exerting itself. \n\nBut while we keep in recollection, that powers or \nfaculties are only the ability of the mind to act in a partic- \nular w^ay, it is further to be noticed, that in most cases \nwhat are so called are complex in their nature ; they are \nmade up in their results of various simple feelings, and \nimply the exercise of more than one simple susceptibility. \nIt is proper, therefore, to analyze them, and to become ac- \nquainted with their parts ; otherwise our notions will \nbe confused, and often erroneous. Still we cannot \n\n\n\n204 SENSATION AND PERCEPTION.. \n\nwholly lay asicle the expressions, which use and* the \nwants of men have introduced ; nor is this necessary, \nif we will but take the pains to explain the true na- \nture of the operations, and \xc2\xa9f that ability of the mind, \nwhich they profess to represent. If philosophers should \nundertake to introduce a whole new system of terms, (and. \nthe credit is due to Kant that there is not wanting a nota- \nble instance of this in modern times,) still it would be \nnecessary to employ the old ones, in order to make them \nunderstood by mankind generally. As a general rule it \nis better to employ the common and acknowledged \nphraseology, only taking care to limit and explain it so \nfar as it may be liable to misapprehension in consequence \nof a new and scientific application. " It looks too much \nlike affectation, (says Locke, speaking of these forms of \nspeech,) wholly to lay them by; and philosophy itself, \nthough it likes not a gaudy dress, yet when it appears \nin public, must have so much complacency, as to be \nclothed in the ordinary fashion and language of the \ncountry, so far as it can consist with triith and perspi- \ncuity^" \n\n\n\nCHAPTER THIRD. \n\n\n\nTHE SENSES OF SMELL AND TASTE. \n\n\xc2\xa7. \\S[/ J^ature and importance of the senses as a source \nof knowledge. \n\nIt is desirable to keep clearly in the mind the precise \nrelation of the senses to the origin, progress, and amount \nof our knowledge, and to possess if possible a correct \nunderstanding of their true value. In a certain sense the \npossession of the bodily organs, with which we are fur- \nnished) is not essential and pre-requisite to the possession \nof that knowledge, which we are accustomed i6 ascribe to \nthem. There is nothing unwarrantable and unreasonable \nin the supposition, that the knowledge, which we now \nhave by their means, might have been possessed without \ntheir aid, either immediately, or in some way altogether \ndifferent. Their use and indispensableness in the acquisi- \ntion of a certain portion of what men are permitted to \nknow, is a matter of arrangement and appointment on \nthe part of our Maker. It is undoubtedly an evidence of \nthe correctness of this remark, that the Supreme Being \nhas a full acquaintance with all those outward objects, \nwhich present themselves to our notice, without being in- \ndebted to any material instrumentality and mediation. \nHe perceives in another way, or rather all knowledge is \n\n\n\n206 THE SENSES OF SMELL AND TASTE. \n\ninherent in, and originally and unalterably essential to \nhimself. \xe2\x80\xa2 \n\nIt is not so, as we have reason to believe, with any \nother beings, and certainly not with man. Although a \ngreat part of his knowledge relates to material things, he \nis so formed, and his constitution is so ordered, that he is \nwholly dependent for it on the senses. \xe2\x80\x94 Deprive him of \nthe ear, and all nature becomes voiceless and silent ; de- \nprive him of the eye, and the sun and moon withdraw \ntheir light, and the universe becomes darkenecTlike sack- \ncloth ; deprive him of the sense of touch, and he is then \nentirely insulated, and as much cut off from all com- \nmunication with others, as if he were the only being in \nexistence. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 152. Of the connection of the brain with sensation and \nperception. \n\nIt may perhaps be asked. Whether these views are in- \ntended to exclude the brain, as having a connection with \nthe senses in the results, which are here ascribed to them ? \nAnd this inquiry leads us to observe, (what has been \nbefore alluded to,) that the brain is a prominent organ in \nthe material part of the process of sensation and of exter- \nnal perception. The senses evidently cannot be separated \nfrom the nervous system. But the substance, which is \nfound in the nerves, excepting the coat in which it is en- \nveloped, is the same as in the brain, being of the same \nsoft and fibrous texture, and in continuity with it. As a \ngeneral statement, when the brain has been in any way \ninjured, the inward sensation, which would otherwise be \ndistinct on the presence of an external body, is imperfect. \nAlso if the nerve be injured, or if its continuity be distur- \nbed by the pressure of a tight ligature, the effect is the \nsame ; a circumstance which goes to confirm the alleged \nidentity of substance in the two. \n\nThe brain, therefore, and whatever of the same sub- \nstance in continuity with it, particularly the nerves, con- \nstitute the sensorial organ^ which, in the subordinate or- \ngans of taste, smell, sight, touch, and hearing presents it- \n\n\n\nTHE SENSES OF SMELL AND TASTE. 207 \n\nself under different modifications to external objects. \nOn this organ, the sensorial^ as thus explained, an impres- \nsion must be made, before there can be sensation and per- \nception. \n\nAn impression, for instance ^ is made on that part of the \nsensorial organ called the auditory nerve, and a state of \nmind immediately succeeds, which is variously termed, \naccording to the vievr in which it is contemplated, ei- \nther the sensation, or the perception of sound. \n\nAn impression is made by the rays of light on that ex- \npansion of the optic nerve, which forms what is called \nthe RETINA of the eye, and the intellectual principle is im- \nmediately brought into that new position, which is term- \ned visual perception or a perception of sight. \n\nThe hand is impressed on a body of an uneven and \nrough surface, and imniediately consequent on this appli- \ncatiorfand pressure, is that state of mind, which is termed \na sensation or perception of roughness. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 153. Order in which the senses are to be considered. \n\nIn considering those ideas, which we become posses- \nsed of by means of the senses, it is natural to begin with \nthat sense, which will cause tis the least difficulty in the \nanalysis of its results ; and to proceed to others succes- \nsively, as we find them increasing in importance. It may \nnot be altogether easy to apply this principle with strict- \nness, but it\'will answer all the purpose, for which it is \nhere introduced, if we consider the senses in the follow- \ning order, the smell, taste, hearing, touch, and sight. \n\nThe mind holds a communication with the material \nworld by means of the sense of smelling. All animal and \nvegetable bodies, (and the same will probably hold good \nof other bodies, though generally in a less degree,) are \ncontinually sending out effluvia of great subtility. These \nsmall particles are rapidly and widely scattered abroad in \nthe neighbourhood of the body, from ^o\'hich they pro- \nceed. No sentient being can come within the circum- \nference, occupied by these continually moving and vol- \natile atoms, without experiencing effects from it. \n\n\n\n203 THE SENSES OF SMELL AND TASTE: \n\n\xc2\xa7. 1 51. Of tht sense and sensations oj smell. \n\nThe medium, througli which we have the sensation \nand perceptions of smell, is the organ which is termed the \nolfactory nerve, situated principally in the nostrils, but \npartly in some continuous cavities. When some odorifer- \nous particles, sent from external objects, affect this organ, \nthere is a certain state of mind produced, which varies \nwith the nature of the odoriferous bodies. But we can no \nmore infer from the sensation itself merely, that there ex- \nists any necessary connection between the smell and the \nexternal objects, than that there exists a connection be- \ntween the emotions of joy and sorrow and the same ob- \njects. It might indeed be suggested to us by the change \nin our mental states, that there must be some cause or \nantecedent to the change, but this suggestion would be far \nfrom implying the necessity of a corporeal cause. \n\nHow then does it happen, that we are not merely sen- \nsible of the particular sensation, but refer it at once to \nsome external object, to the rose or the honeysuckle ? In \nanswer it may be remarked, if we had always been desti- \ntute of the senses of sight and touch, this reference never \ncould have been made, but having been furnished with \nthem by the beneficent Author of our being, we make \nthis reference by experience. When we have ^ seen the \nrose, when Ave have been near to it and handled it, we \nhave uniformly been conscious of that state of mind, \nwhich we term a sensation of smell. When we have \ncome into the neighbourhood of the honeysuckle, or when \nit has been gathered ^nd presented to us, we have been rc- \niidinded of its fragrance. And thus, having learnt by ex- \nperience, that the presence of the odoriferous body is al- \nways, attended with the sensations of smell, we form the \nJiabit of attributing the sensations to that body as their \ncause. \n\n\xc2\xa7. I5lj. Of perceptions of smell in distinction from sensations. \n\nThe m^ental reference, spoken of in the last section, is \n\n\n\nTHE SENSES OP SMELL AND TASTE. 209- \n\nmade with almost as much promptness, as if it were \nnecessarily involved in the sensation itself. It is at least \nso rapid that we find ourselves utterly unable to mark the \nmind\'s progress from the inward feeling to the conception \nof the outward cause. Nor is this inability surprizing, \nwhen we consider, that we have repeated this process, \nboth in this and in analogous cases, from our earliest \nchildhood. No object has ever been present to us, capa- \nble of operating on the senses, where this process has not \nbeen gone through. The result of this long-continued and \nfrequent repetition has been an astonishing quickness in \nthe mental action ; so much so that the mind leaps out- \nward with the rapidity of lightning, to be present withy \nand to comprehend the causes of the feeling within. \n\nThis vieW, it will be seen, helps in illustrating the \nnature, of perception, as distinguished from sensation. \nThe outlines of that distinction have already been given ; \nand every one of the senses, as well as that now under \nconsideration, will furnish proofs and illustrations of it. \nAccordingly when we are said to perceive the smell, or to \nhave perceptions of the smell of a body, the rapid \nprocess, which has been described, is gone through, \n^nd the three things, which were involved in the defi- \nnition of Perception already given, are supposed to exist ; \n(1) The presence of the odoriferous body and the \naffection of its appropriate organ ; (2) The change or sen- \nsation iu the mind ; and (3) The reference of the sensa- \ntion to the external body as its cause. \n\n\xc2\xa7.156. Of the sense and the sensations of taste. \n\nThe tongue, which is covered with numerous nervous \npapillae, forms essentially the organ of taste ; although \nthe papillae are found scattered in other parts of the cavi- \nty of the mouth. The application of any sapid body to \nthis organ immediately causes in it a cha\'ige or affection ; \nand that is at once followed by a mental affection or a nev/ \nstate of the mind. In this way we have the sensations \nand perceptions, to which we give the names, sweet, bit- \nter, sour, acrid, &c. \n27 \n\n\n\n210 \n\n\n\nTHE SENSES OF SMELL AND TASTE. \n\n\n\nHaving experienced the inward sensation, the affections \nof the mind are then referred by us to something exter- \nnal as their cause. We do not however always, nor even \ngenerally distinguish the\' qualities, which constitute this \ncause, by separate and appropriate designations ; but ex- \npress them by the names, that are employed for the in- \nternal feeling, viz, sweetness, bitterness, sourness, &c. \nThis reference of what is internally experienced to its \nexternal cause, is very rapidly made ; so that we at once \nsay of one apple it is sweet, and of another, it is sour. \nStill it is to be kept in mind, that in point of fact, it is sub- \nsequent, both in the order of nature and of time, to the mere \nsensation ; although we may not be able, in consequence \nof its rapidity, to mark distinctly the progress of the \nmental action from the one to the other. As in the case \nof smells, which have already been remarked upon, the \nreference is the result of our former experience. We say \nof one body it is sweet, and of another, it is sour, be- \ncause we have ever observed, that the mental states, indi- \ncated by those terms, have always existed in connection \nwith the presence of those bodies. \n\nWhenever, therefore, we say of any bodies, that they \nare sweet, bitter, sour, or apply any other epithets, ex-** \npressive of sapid qualities, we mean to be understood to \nsay, that such bodies are fitted in the constitution of things \nto cause in the mind the sensations of sweetness, bitter- \nness, and sourness, or other sensations, expressed by de- \nnominations of taste. Or, in other words, that they are \nthe established antecedents of such mental states, as there \nis, further than this, no necessary connection between \nthem-. \n\n\n\n\xc2\xa7. 157. Design and uses of the senses of smell and taste. \n\nIt is not unprofitable to delay oftentimes, and contem- \nplate the designs and uses, which nature has in view in her \nworks. Although the sense of smell may appear, (and per- \nhaps with sufficient reason,) to be of less importance, than \nthe other senses, and other parts of the animal economy, \nit is not without its ends. There is evidently design in \n\n\n\nTHE SENSES OF SMELL AND TASTE. 211 \n\nthe position of the organ in reference to the effluvia, which \nare the direct subjects of its action, it being placed in the \ninside of a canal, where the, air is continually forced in \nand out with every breath we draw. The organ is pre- \ncisely adapted, both in its nature and its place, to its ap- \npointed medium of communication with other bodies ; nor \nis this the only mark of design attending it. T^is.sense is \nfrequently a source of gratification ; and although it is less \nkeen and powerful in men than in many inferiour animcds, \nit still has power enough to afford much assistance in this \nrespect, *that it often warns us of the presence of objects, \nwhich experience has found to be injurious to us. The \nremark has been justly made, that the senses both of taste \nand smell are of great use in distinguishing bodies, that \ncannot be distinguished by our other senses. They are pe- \nculiarly quick and exact in their judgments, especially in \ndiscerning, before we can ascertain it in any other way, the \nbeginning and progress of those changes, which all bodies \nare constantly undergoing. \n\nBut in both of these senses design and utility are dis- \ncoverable in reference to food in particular. While the \nsense of smell guards the entrance of tlie canal for breath- \ning, the sense of taste has its station at the entrance of the \nalimentary canal. Hence the food, which we consume, \nundergoes the scrutiny of both ; an intentional and benev- \nolent provision for protecting men and the animal crea- \ntion generally against the introduction of what would be \nnoxious to them. \n\n\n\nCHAPTER FOURTH. \n\n\n\nTHE SENSE OF HEARING. \n\n\n\n\xc2\xa7. 158. Organ of the sense of hearing. \n\nFollowing the order, which has been proposed, we \nare next to consider the sense of hearing. And in pro- \nceeding to the consideration of this subject, the remark \nis a very obvious one, that v/e should be unable to hear, \nif we had not a sense designed for and appropriate to that \nresult. The air, when put strongly in motion, is distinct- \nly perceived by the touch ; but no impression, which it \ncould make on that sense, would cause that interna\'l feel- \ning, which is termed a sensation of sound. Our Creator \ntherefore has taken care, that these sensations shall have \ntheir own organ ; and it is obviously one of precise and \nelaborate workmanship. The ear is designedly planted \nin a position, where with the greatest ease it takes cogni- \nzance of whatever is going on in the contiguous atmos- \nphere. When we examine it externally, we not only find \nit thus favorably situated, but presenting a hollowed \nand capacious surface, so formed as to grasp and gather in \nthe undulations of air, continually floating and in motion \naround it. Without, however, delaying to give a minute \ndescription of the internal construction of the ear, which \nbelongs rather to the physiologist, it will answer our \npresent piirj^ose merely to add, that these undulations are \nconducted by it through varioHS windings, till they are \n\n\n\nTHE SENSE OF HEARING. 2lS \n\nbrought in a state of concentration, as it were, against the \nmembrane, called the tympanum. It is worthy of notice, \nthat on the internal surface of this membrane, (the drum \nas it is popularly called,) there is a nerve spread out in a \nmanner analogous to the expansion of the optic nerve at \nthe bottom of the eye. Whether this nervous expansion \nbe indispensably necessary to the result or not, it is certain \nthat a pressure upon or affection of the tympanum by the \nexternal air is followed by a new state of the mind, known \nnsJthe sensation or perception of sound. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 159. J^ature oj sonorous bodies and the medium of the \ncommunication oJ sgund. \n\nWhen we leave the bodily organ, and looking outward \ninquire still further for the origin of the sensations, which \nwe have by means of the ear, we find them attributable \nultimately to the presence and influence of the substan- \nces around us. Those undulations of air, which impinge \nupon the tympanum, and without which there is no sen- \nsation of s.ound, are caused by the vibrations or oscilla- \ntions of the particles of certain bodies. The material \nsubstances which have this quality are termed sonorous, \nas wood, brass, iron, &c ; but it exists in different bodies \nin very various degrees. \n\nThe quality of sonorousness, therefore, in any sub- \nstance is properly a. susceptibility of motion among its \nown parts. When it is forcibly struck, Ihis motion ex- \nists first in itself, and is afterwards communicated to the \ncircumambient air. The movement of the air, which is \nthus caused, is *again communicated, like the concentric \nwaves of water agitated by a stone thrown into it, to oth- \ner portions successively, till it reaches the ear. \n\nThe air accordingly is the medium of communication \nbetween the sonorous body, and the tympanum of the \near. It is true, that many solid bodies are good conduc- \ntors of sound as well as the atmosphere, but as portions of \nair, through which the vibratory motion must of course \npass, are in \'all cases interposed between that organ and \nthe sounding body, it is not necessary to dwell upon them \n\n\n\n214 \n\n\n\nTHE SENSE OF HEARING. \n\n\n\nhere. It is sufficient for our present purpose merely to \nunderstand, that there is in every sounding body in the \nfirst place a vibratory motion among its own particles \nfrom some cause or other ; that this vibration or undula- \ntion is communicated from the sounding body to the \nair and from one portion of air to another, till it reaches \nthe organ of hearing. Why the internal sensation should \nat once follow the completion of this process is another \ninquiry, which we do not undertake to explain. We have \nbefore us the antecedent and the consequent, the affection \nof the organ of hearing by an outward impulse, and the \nnew mental state within ; but the reason of this invariable \nconnection in two things, that are entirely distinct and \ndifferent, is a matter beyond our limited comprehension. \n\n*\xc2\xa7. 160. Varieties of the sensation of sound. \n\nThe sensations, which we thus become possessed of \nby the hearing, are far more numerous than the words and \nthe forms of speech, having relation to them in different \nlanguages, would lead us to suppose. It will help to il- \nlustrate this subject, if we recur a moment to the sense of \ntASTE. The remark has somewhere been made to this ef- \nfect, and probably with much truth, that if a person were \nto examine five hundred different wines, he would hardly \nfind two of them of precisely the same flavour. The di- \nversity is almost endless, although there is no language, \nwhich distinguishes each variety of taste by a separate \nname. It is the same in respect to the sensations of sound. \nThese sensations exhibit the greatest varietv, although \ntheir differences are too minute to be se*parately and dis- \ntinctly represented by language. \n\nThese views will appear the le\'ss objectionable, wlien \nit is remembered, that sounds differ from each other both \nin the tone, and in the strength of the tone. It is remark- \ned by Dr. Reid, that five hundred variations of tone may \nbe perceived by the ear, also an equal number of varia- \ntions in the strength of the tone ; making, as he express- \nly informs us, by a- combination of the tones and of the \n\n\n\nTHE SENSE OF HEARING. 215 \n\ndegrees of strength, more than twenty thousand simple \nsounds differing either in tone or strength. \n\nIn a perfect tone, a great many undulations of elastic air \nare required, which must be of equal duration and extent, \nand follovvT each other with perfect regularity. Each un- \ndulation is- made up of the advance and retreat of innu- \nmerable particles, whose motions are all uniform in direc- \ntion* force, and time. Accordingly there will be varieties \nalso and shades of difference in the same tone, arising from \nthe position and manner of striking the sonorous body, \nfrom the constitution of the elastic medium, and from the \nstate of the organ of hearing. \n\nDifferent instruments, such as a flute, a violin, and a \nbass-viol may all sound the same tone, and }\'et be easily \ndistinguishable. A considerable number of hui^ian voices \nmay sound the same note, and with equal strength, and \nyet there will be some difference. The same voice, while \nit maintains the proper distinctions of sound, m^ay yet be \nvaried many ways by sickness or healtli, youth or age, \nor any other alterations in our bodily condition, to which \nwe are incident. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 161. \'Manner in uhich ice learn the r^Iace of sounds. \n\nm \n\nIt is a fact particularly worthy of notice in respect to \nsounds, that we should not know, previous to all experi- \nence on the subject, v/Iiether the sound came from the right \nor left, from above or beiow, from a smaller or greater \ndistance. xind this will appear the less surprizing, when \nwe remember, that the undulations of air are always \nchanged from their original direction by the channels and \nthe windings, of the ear, before they strike the tympanum. \nAbundant facts confirm this statement. \n\nDr. Reid mentions, thjit once, as he was lying in bed, \nhaving been put into a fright, he heard his own heart beat. \nHe took it to be some one knocking at the door, and arose, \nand opened the door oflener than once before he discover- \ned, that the sound was in his own breast. Some traveller \nhas related, that when he first heard the roaring of a lion \nin a desert wilderness, not seeing t\'he animal, he\' did not \n\n\n\n216 THE SENSE OF HEARING. \n\nknow on what side to apprehend danger, as the sound \nseemed to him to proceed from the ground, and to en- \nclose a circle, of which he and his companions stood in \nthe centre. \n\nIt is by custom or experience, that we learn to distin- \nguish the state of things, and, in some measure also, their \nnature, by means of their sound. It is thus that we \nlearn, that one noise is in a contiguous room, that* an- \nother is above our heads, and another is in the street. \nAnd what seems to bean evidence of this is, that when \nwe are in a strange place, after all our experience, \nwe very frequently find ourselves mistaken in these res- \npects. \n\nIf a man born deaf were suddenly made to hear, he \nwould proJ)ably consider his first sensations of sound as \noriginating wholly within himself. But in process of time \nwe learn not only to refer the origin of sounds to a posi- \ntion above or below, to the right or left ; but to connect \neach particular sound with a particular external cause, re- \nferring one to a bell as its appropriate external cause, an- \nother to a flute, another to a trumpet. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 162. Application of these views to the art of ventriloquism. \n\n\xe2\x80\xa2 \n\nWe are naturally led to mak^ a few remarks here in \nexplanation of ventriloquism, a well known art, by which \npersons can so modify their voice, as to make it appear \nto their audience to proceed from different objects, dis- \ntances, .and directions, The great requisite on the part \nof the ventriloquist is to be able to mimic sounds ; and he \nwill be likely to succeed nearly in proportion to his skill \nin this particular. The secret then ofhis acoustic decep- \ntions, supposing him to be capable of exact imitation, will \nbe sufficiently understood by referring to the statement \nmaintained in the preceding section, viz. That previous \nto experience, we are unable to refer sounds to any partic- \nular external cause. \n\nThe sound itself never gives us any direct and imme- \ndiate indication of the place, distance, or direction of \nthe sonorous body. It is only by experience, it is only \n\n\n\nOF THE SENSE OF HEARING. 217 \n\nby the association of place with sound, that the latter \nbecomes an indication of the former. Now supposing \nthe ventriloquist to possess a delicate ear, which is im- \nplied in his ability to mimic sounds, he soon learns by \ncareful observation the difference, which change of place \ncauses in the same sound. Having in this way ascertained \nthe particular modulation of sound, which, in accordance \nwith the experience of men and the associations they have \nformed, are appropriate to any particular distances, direc- \ntion, or object, it is evident, whenever he exactly or very \nnearly imitates such modulations, that the sounds must \nappear to his audience to come from such distance, ob- \nject, or direction* \n\nOne part of the art, however, consists in controlling \nthe attention of persons present, and in directing that at- \ntention to some particular place by a remark, motion, or \nsome other method. If, for instance, the sound is to \ncome from under a tumbler or hat, the performer finds it \nimportant to have their attention directed to that particular \nobject, which affords an opportunity for the exercise of all \nthose associations, which they have formed with any sound \ncoming from a very confined place. All, then, that re- \nmains for him to do, is, to give his voice a dull modula- \ntion and on a low key, which we know from our \nexperience to be the character of confined sounds. Then \nthere seems to be a voice speaking under a tumbler or hat; \nand if any person should either intentionally or uninten- \ntionally, lift these articles up, the ventriloquist imr^edi\' \nately utters himself more freely like a person who had \nbeen very much confined,\' on being re-admitted into the \nfree and open air. It is also necessary, when his face is \ntowards his auditors, that he should make use chiefly of \nthe muscles of the throat ; an outward and visible mov- \ning of the lips would muck weaken the deception. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 1G3. Uses of hearing and its connection with oral language. \n\nAlthough, as in the cases just mentioned, the artifices \nof men may sometimes impose upon this organ and lead \nits decisions astray, it is one, in the ordinary calls for its \n\n23 \n\n\n\n218 THE SENSE OF HEARING. \n\nexercise, of exceeding value. One of the distinguished \nbenefits of the sense of hearing is, that, in consequence of \nit, we are enabled to hold intercourse with each other by \nmeans of spoken language, v/ithout which the advance- \nment of the human mind must have inevitably been very \nlimited. It is by means of speech, that we express our \nfeelings to the little company of our neighbours and our \nown family ; and without it this pleasant and che\'ering in- \ntercourse must be almost entirely suspended. Not limited \nin its beneficial results to families and neighbourhoods, it \nhas been made the medium of the transmission of thought \nfrom age to age, from generation to generation. So \nthat in one age has been concentrated the result of all the \nresearches, the combination of the wisdom of all the pre- \nceding. \n\n" There is without all doubt," it has been observed, \n" a chain of the thoughts of human kind, from the ori- \ngin of the world down to the moment at which we exist, \na chain not less universal than that of the generation of \nevery being, that lives. Ages have exerted their influence \non ages ; nations on nations ; truths on errours ; crrours \non truths." \n\nWhether oral language was an original invention of \nman, or whether in the first instance it was a power \nbestowed upon him by his Creator and coeval with the \nhuman race, the ear must in either case have been the \nprimary recipient. \xe2\x80\x94 The faculty of speech so necessary \nand so beneficial could not have existed, either by inven- \ntion or by communication, without the sense of hearing. \nAnd hence it happens, that all those, who are born deaf, \nare without speech. Their inability to speak is not in \ngeneral the result of a defect in the organs of speech, but \nbecause they cannot hear others, and thus imitate the \nsounds they utter. \n\n\n\nCHAPTER FIFTH. \n\n\n\nTHE SENSE OF TOUCH. \n\n\n\n\xc2\xa7. 164. Of the seme of touch and the sensations in general. \n\nWe are next to consider the sense of touch. The \nprincipal organ of this sense is the hand, aUhough it is not \nlimited to that part of our frame, but H diffused over the \nwhole body. The hand principally arrests our attention \nas the organ of this sense, because being furnished with \nvarious articulations, it is easily moveable by the muscles, \nand can readily adopt itself to the various changes of form \nin the objects, to which it is applied. \n\nThe senses, which have hitherto been examined, are \nmore simple and uniform in their results than that of the \ntouch. By the ear we merely possess that sensation, \nwhich we denominate hearing ; we have the knowledge \nof sounds, and that is all. By the palate we acquire a \nknowledge of tastes, and by the sense of smelling w\xc2\xab be- \ncome acquainted with the odours of bodies. The knowl- \nedge,which is directly acquired by all these senses, is lim- \nited to the qualities, which have been mentioned. By the \nsense of touch, on the contrary, we become acquainted \nnot with one merely, but with a variety of qualities, \nsuch as the following, heat and cold, hardness and soft- \nness, roughness and smoothness, figure, solidity or resis- \ntance,, extension, and perhaps motion ; and in particular it \ngives occasion for the origin of the antecedent and more \ngeneral notion of externality. \n\n\n\n220 \n\n\n\nTHE SENSE OF TOUCH. \n\n\n\n\xc2\xa7. 165. The idea of externality or outness suggested by the \nsense of touch. \n\nIf man were possessed of the sense of smell alone, it \nwould be found, that the earliest elements of his knowl- \nedge consisted exclusively in sensations of odours. Ac- \ncording however as these sensations were agreeable or \ndisagreeable, he would acquire the additional ideas of \npleasure and pain. And having experienced pleasurfe and \npain, we may suppose, that this would subsequently give \nrise to the notions of desire and aversion. But if he had \nno other sense, all these feelings would seem to him to \nbe internal, to be mere emanations from the soul itself ; \nand he would be incapable of referring them to an exter- \nnal cause. \n\nIf he were possessed of the sense of hearing alone, the \nresult would be similar ; his existence would then seem to \nconsist of harmony, as in the other case it would be made \nup of fragrance ; nor indeed by the aid of merely both \nthese senses combined, would he be able to form an idea of \nexternality or outness. \n\nBut this idea is a most important one ; it is the connec- \nting thought, which introduces us to an acquaintance with \na new form of existence, diiferent from that interiour \nexistence^ which we variously call by the names, spirit, \nmind, or soul. This first idea arises in the mind by means \nof the sense of touch. \n\nAll the senses, not excluding the smell and the taste, \nwhich are the least important in a mere intellectual point \nof view, have their share in bringing the mind into action; \nthey are the primitive sources of thought and of emotion. \nThe mind becomes, in consequence of the aids of the \nother senses, (supposing ourselves to be as yet without \nthe sense of touch, or at least as not having applied it to \nany body by means of a muscular effort,) full of activity \nand fruitfulness, although its acts are at first wholly in- \nternal. It compares, abstracts, reasons, chooses, wills ; \nand meeting with no obstacle, it finds every thing easy, \nand a source of pleasure. But after a time it chooses^ \n\n\n\nTHE SENSE OF TOUCH. 221 \n\nto move the limbs in this direction or that ; it chooses \nto press the hand through this bright or that fragrant \nbody ; and its volition is checked, its desire is counterac- \nted, the wonted series of thoughts is disturbed and brok- \nen ; but without even the interval of a momentary pause \nof wonder, there arises vividly in the soul a new thought, \na new feeling, which we call the idea ,of externality or \noutness. It is the sense of touch whith impinges, under \nthe ordering of the muscular effort, upon the obstacle \nthat is thrown across the direction of our volition ; and \nnone other of the senses admits of this peculiar applica- \ntion. It is thus the means of breaking up the previous con- \nnection and tendency of thought, and gives occasion for \nthe rise of a new idea. And this idea, arising without \ndoubt under these circumstances, becomes associated \nwith all those notions, which we subsequently form of \nmatter. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 166. The idea of externality or outness Jurther considered. \n\nAs this notion is one of much importance, and gives a \nnew character to the great mass of our knowledge by \ndiscovering and establishing a multitude of new relations, \nit is right to delay upon it a moment longer. The circum- \nstances, which have been stated, are properly its occasion. \nWhenever those circumstances exist, the mind from its \nown activity at once brings up or suggests it ; the moment \nwe come against a resisting object, whether sooner or \nlater, there is a new state of mind, the new feeling in ques- \ntion. This feeling is a definite one, and like all our sim- \nple notions has a nature and character of its own ; al- \nthough in consequence of its being simple, we cannot \nmake its precise nature known by means of words merely. \nBut that there is such an idea, and that it has such a distinc- \ntive character is evinced, not only by every man\'s con- \nsciousness, but by his actions, and by all languages and \ndialects. It is a matter of course, that it is evinced by con- \nsciousness, unless some person can be found firmly believ- \ning, that all possible existences are shut up and incorpora- \n\n\n\n222 THE SENSE OF TOUCH. \n\nted within his own existence. This is evident, because \nthe mere supposition of any thing outward, whatever its \ncharacter or in whatever degree, necessarily involves the \nidea of externality. \n\nIt is not less clearly evinced by men\'s actions, unless \nsome person can be found, whose actions are predicated \nand directed on the basis of the non-existence of the mate- \nrial world. Ari*d gn this point reference might be^made \nalso to all languages. There is probably not a human \ndialect, that is destitute of what we call in the English \ntongue OUTNESS by a word of Saxon, and at other times \nEXTERNALITY by a word of Latin origin. But it is unrea- \nsonable to suppose, that the framers of language would \nhave so generally agreed in forming a term for a mental \nstate which does not generally exist. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 167. Origin of the notions of extension and of the form \nor figure oj bodies. \n\nThe idea of extension has its origin by means of the \nsense of touch. When the touch is applied to bodies, \nwhere in the intermediate parts there is a continuity of \nthe same substance, we necessarily form that notion. It is \nnot however to be imagined, that Extension, as it exists \noutwardly and the corresponding notion in the mind actu- \nally resemble each other. So far from any imitation and \ncopying from one to the other,, or resemblance in any \nway, there is a radical and utter diversity. As to outward, \nmaterial extension, it is not necessary to attend to it here ; \nour business at present is with the corresponding inward \nfeeling. Nor will it be necessary to delay even upon that; \nthe more we multiply words upon it, the more obscure it \nbecomes. As it is a simple idea we cannot resolve it into \nothers, and in that way make it clearer by defining it. \nWe must refer in this case, as in others like it, to each \none\'s personal experience. It will be better understood \nin that way, than by any form of words. \n\nThe notion of extension is intimately connected with, \nand may be considered in some sort the foundation of \nthat of the form or figure of bodies. Dr. Brown some- \n\n\n\nTHE SENSE OF TOUCH. 223 \n\nwhere calls the Form of bodies their relation to each oth- \n\xe2\x80\xa2 er in space. This is thought to afford matter for reflec- \ntion ; but when we consider that space, whatever it may \nbe objectively or outwardly, exists in the mind as a sim- \nple notion, and that the particular relation here spoken of \nis not pointed out, the remark may not be found to throw \nmuch light on the subject. Still we do not suppose, that \nany one is ignorant of what form is ; men must be sup- \nposed to know that, if they are thought to know any \nthing. All that is meant to be asserted here is, that the \nidea of extension is antecedent, in the order of nature, to \nthat of form ; and that the latter could not exist without \nthe other ; but that both nevertheless are simple, and both \nare to be ascribed to the sense of touch. \n\n\xc2\xa7. .168. On the sensations of heat and cold. \n\nAmong the feelings, which are usually classed with the \nintimations of the sense under consideration, are those, \nwhich are connected with changes in the temperature of \nour bodies. Some writers, it is true, have been inclined \nto dissent from this arrangement, and have hazarded an \nopinion, that they ought not to be ascribed to the sense of \nTOUCH ; but Dr. Reid on the contrary, who gave to our \nsensations the most careful and patient attention, has deci- \ndedly assigned to them this origin. Among other remark \nhe has expressed himself on this subject to this effect. \n\n\'\xe2\x80\xa2J- The words heat and cold, (he remarks. Inquiry in- \nto the Human Mind, Chap. V.) have each of them two \nsignifications ; they sometimes signify certain sensations \nof the mind, which can have no existence when they are \nnot felt, nor can exist any where but in the mind or sen- \ntient being ; but more frequently they signify a quality in \nbodies, which, by the laws of nature, occasions the sensa- \ntions of heat and cold in us: a quality which, though con- \nnected by custom so closely with the sensation, that we \ncannot without difficulty separate them ; yet hath not the \nleast resemblance to it, and may continue to exist when \nthere is no sensation at all. \n\n" The sensations of heat and cold are perfectly knownj\xc2\xbb \n\n\n\n224 \n\n\n\nTHE SENSE OF TOUCH. \n\n\n\n\n\n\nfor they neither are, nor can be, any thing else than what \nwe feel them to be ; but the qualities in bodies, which we^ \ncall heat and coM, are unknown. They are only conceiv- \ned by us, as unknown causes or occasions of the sensa- \ntions, to which we give the same names. But though \ncommon gense says nothing of the nature of these quali- \nties, it plainly dictates the existence of them ; and to de- \nny that there can be heat or cold when they are not felt, \nis an absurdity too gross to merit confutation. For what \ncould be more absurd, than, to say, that the thermometer \ncannot rise or fall, unless some person, be present, or that \nthe coast of Guinea would be as cold as Nova Zembla, if \nit had no inhabitants. \n\n\'\' It is the business of philosophers to investigate by \nproper experiments and induction, what heat and cold are \nin bodies. And whether they make heat a particular el- \nement diffused through nature, and accumulated in the \nheated body, or whether they make it a certain vibration \nof the parts of the heated body ; whether they deter- \nmine that heat and cold are contrary qualities, as the sen- \nsations undoubtedly are contrary, or that heat only is \na quality, and cold its privation : these questions are with- \nin,the province of philosophy; for common sense says noth- \ning on the one side or the other. \n\n" But whatever be the nature of that quality in bodies \nwhich we call heat, we certainly know this, that it cannot \nin the least resemble the sensation of heat. It is no less \nabsurd to suppose a likeness between the sensation and the \nquality, than it would be to suppose, that the pain of the \ngout resembles a square or a triangle. The simplest man \nthat halh common sense, does not imagine the sensatioa \nof heat, or any thing that resembles that sensation, to be \nin the fire. He only imagines, that. there is something in \nthe fire, which makes him and other sentient beings feel \nheat. Yet as the name of heat, in common language, more \nfrequently and more properly signifies this unknown some- \nthing in the fire, than the sensation occasioned by it, he \njustly laughs at the philosopher, who denies that there is \n\n\n\nTHE SENSE OF TOUCH. 225 \n\nany heat in the fire, and thinks that he speaks contrary to \ncommon sense." \n\n\xc2\xa7. 1G9. On the sensations of hardness and softness. \n\n^\' Let us next consider, (continues the same writer,) \nHARDNESS AND SOFTNESS ; by which words we always un- \nderstand real properties or qualities of bodies of which \nwe have a distinct conception. \n\n" When the parts of a body adhere so firmly that it can- \nnot easily be made to change its figure, we call it hard ; \nwhen its parts are easily displaced, we call it soft. This \nis the notion which all mankind have of hardness and \nsoftness : they are neither sensations, nor like any sensa- \ntion ; they were real qualities before they were perceived \nby touch, and continue to be so when they are not \nperceived ; for if any man will affirm, that diamonds \nw^ere not hard till they were handled, who would reason \nwith him ? \n\n" There\'is, no doubt, a sensation by which we perceive \na body to be hard or soft. This sensation of hardness \nmay easily be had, by pressing one\'s hand against a ta- \nble, and attending to the feeling that ensues, setting aside, \nas much as- possible, all thought of the table and its quali- \nties, or of any external thing. But it is one thing to \nhave the sensation, and another to attend to it and make it \na distinct object of reflection. The first is very easy ; the \nlast in most cases extremely difficult. \xe2\x80\xa2 \n\n*\' We are so accustomed to use the sensation as a sign, \nand to pass immediately to the hardness signified, that, as \nfar as appears, it was never made an object of thought, ei- \nther by the vulgar, or by philosophers ; nor has it a name \nin any language. There is no sensation more distinct, or \nmore frequent ; yet it is never attended to, but passes \nthrough the mind instantaneously, and serves only to in- \ntroduce that quality in bodies, which, by a law of our \nconstitution, it suggests. \n\nThere are indeed some cases, wherein it is no difficult \nmatter to attend to the sensation occasioned by the hard- \nness of a body ; for instance, when it is so violent as to \n29 \n\n\n\n226 THE SENSE OF TOUCH. \n\noccasion considerable pain: then nature calls upon lis to \nattend to it ; and then we acknowledge that it is a mere \nsensation^and can only be in a sentient being. If a man runs \n.Jiis head with violence against a pillar, I appeal to him \nwhether the pain he feels resembles the hardness of the \nstone ; or if he can conceive any thing like what he feels \nto be in an inanimate piece of matter. \n\n" The attention of the mind is \' here entirely turned \ntoward the painful feeling ; and, to speak in the common \nlanguage of mankind, he feels nothing in the stone, but \nfeels a violent pain in his head. It is quite otherw ise \nwhen he leans his head gently against the pillar ; for then \nhe will tell you that he feels nothing in his head, but feels \nhardness in the stone. Hath he not a sensation in this \ncase as well as in the other ? Undoubtedly he hath ; \nbut it is a sensation which nature intended only as a sign \nof something in the stone ; and, accordingly, he instantly \nfixes his attention upon the thing signified ; and cannot, \nwithout great difficulty, attend so much to the sensation \nas to be persuaded, that there is any such thing distinct \nfrom the hardness it signifies. \n\n"But however difficult it may be to attend to this fu- \ngitive sensation, to stop its rapid progress, and to disjoin \nit from the external quality and hardness, in whose shadow \nit is apt immediately to hide itself : this is what a phi- \nlosopher by pains and practice must attain, otherwise it \nwill be impossible for him to reason justly upon this sub- \nject, or even to understand what is here advanced. For \nthe last apj)eal, in subjects of this nature, must be to what \na man feels or perceives in his own mind." \n\n^. 170. Ofcerlain indefinite feelings sometimes ascribed \nto the touch. \n\nIn connection with these views on the sensations of \ntouch, it is proper to remark, that certain feelings have \nbeen ascribed to that sense, which are probably of a \ncharacter too indefinite, to admit of a positive and un- \ndoubted classification. Although they clearly have their \n\n\n\nTHE SENSE OF TOUCH. 227 \n\nplace, in the general arrangement which has been laid \ndown, with the states of mind which we are now consid- \nering ; that is to say, are rather of an external and mate- \nrial, than of an internal origin ; still they do not so evi* \ndently admit of an assignment to a particular sense. \nThose sensations to which we now refer, (if it be proper \nto use the term in application to them,) appear to have \ntheir origin in the human S3^stem considered as a whole, \nmade up of bones, flesh, muscles, the senses, &c. rather \nthan to be susceptible of being traced to any particular \npart. Of this description are the feelings expressed by \nthe terms, uneasiness, weariness, weakness, sickness, and \nthose of an opposite character, as ease, hilarity, health, \nvigour, &c. \n\nSimilar views will be found to apply, in part at least, \nto the sensations, which we express by the terms Hurs^sER \nand THIRST. These appear to be con^plex in their nature, \nincluding a feeling of uneasiness, combined with a desire \nto relieve that uneasiness. When we say that these views \nwill apply in part to hunger and thirst, the design is to \nlimit the application of them to the element of uneasiness. \nThis elementary feeling undoubtedly has its origin in the \nbodily system, and therefore comes in this case under the \ngeneral class of notions of an external origin ; but still \nit is not easy to say, that it should be arranged with our tac- \ntual feelings, which has sometimes been done. Every one \nmust be conscious, it is thought, that the feeling of hun- \nger does not greatly resemHe the sensations of hardness \nand softness, roughness or smoothness or other sensations, \n\nwhich are usually ascribed to the touch. The cause \n\nof that peculiar state of the nerves of the stomach, which \nis antecedent to the uneasy feeling, involved in what is \ntermed hunger, has been a subject of difference of opinion, \nand does not appear to be well understood. If we were \nfully acquainted with Ihis, we m.ight perhaps be less at a \nloss where to arrange the feeling in question. \n\n\n\n223 THE SENSE OF TOUCH. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 171. Relalion between the sensation and what is out- \nwardly signified. \n\n^ We here return a moment to the subject of the rela- \ntion between the internal sensation and the outward ob- \nject ; and again repeat, that the mental state and the cor- \nresponding outward object are altogether diverse. This \nview holds good in the case of the secondary, as well as \nof the primary qualities of matter. Whether we speak \nof extension or resistance, or heat, or colour, or rough- \nness, there are in all cases alike, two things, the internal \naffection and the outward quality ; but they are utterly \ndistinct, totally without likeness to each other. But how \nit happens that one thing, which is totally different from \nanother, can nevertheless give us a knowledge of that, \nfrom which it differs, it would be a waste of time to at- \ntempt to explain. Our knowledge is undoubtedly limi- \nted to the mere fact. \n\nThis is one of those difficult, but decisive points in \nmentyVL philosophy, of which it is essential to possess a \nprecise and correct understanding. The letters, which \ncover over the page of a book, are a very different thing \nfrom the thought, and the combinations of thought, which \nthey stand for. The accountant\'s columns of numerals \nare not identical with the quantities and their relations, \nwhich they represent. And so in regard to the mind ; all \nits acts are of one kind, and what they stand for is of anoth- \ner. The mind, in all its feelings and operations, is govern- \ned by its own laws, and characterizes its efforts by the es- \nsential elements of its own nature. Nothing, which is \nseen or heard, nothing which is the subject of taste or \ntouch or any other sense, nothing material, which can be \nimagined to exist in any place or in any form, can furnish \nthe least positive disclosure either of its intrinisic nature \nor of the mode of its action. \n\nWhat then is the relation between the sensation and \nthe outward obj\'ect, between the perception and the thing \nperceived ? Evidently that of the sign and the thing sig^ \npified. And as in a multitude of cases, the sign may \n\n\n\nTHE SENSE OF TOUCH. " 229 \n\ngive a knowledge of its object without any other grounds \nof such knowledge than mere institution or appointment, \nso it is in this. The mind, maintaining its appropriate^ \naction, and utterly rejecting the intervention of all ima- \nges and visible representations, except what are outward \nand material and totally distinct from itself both in place \nand nature, is notwithstanding susceptible of the knowl- \nedge of things exteriour, and can form an acquaintance \nwith the universe of matter. \n\nA misapprehension in this respect, the mistaken suppo- \nsition of the .mind\'s either receiving actual filmy images \nfrom external objects, or being itself transformed into the \nlikeness of such images, has been in times past the source \nof much confusion and contention. But that opin^ion, \nhowever prevalent it may have been once, is mere hy- \npothesis ; it has not the slightest well-founded evidence in \nits favour. Still we can reject it wholly from our belief, \nand from all influence on our belief, only by guarding \nagainst early associations, by a rigid self-inspection, and \nby carefully separating the material and the immaterial^ \nthe qualities of mind and of matter. \n\n\n\nCHAPTER SIXTH. \n\n\n\nTHE SENSE OF SIGHT. \n\n\n\n\xc2\xa7. 172. Of the organ of sight and the uses or benefits of \nthat sense. \n\nOf those instruments of externaf perception, with \nwhich a benevolent Providence has favoured us, a high \nrank must be given to the sense of seeing. If we were \nrestricted in the process of acquiring knowledge to the in- \nformations of the touch merely, how many embarrassments \nwould attend our progress, and how slow it would prove ! \nHaving ever possessed sight, it would be many years before \nthe most acute and active person could form an idea of a \nmountain or even of a large edifice. But by the ad- \nditional help of the sense of seeing, he not only observes \nthe figure of large buildings, but is in a moment possessed \nof all the beauties of a wide and variegated landscape. \n\nThe organ of this sense is the eye. On a slight exam- \nination the eye is found to be a sort of telescope, having \nits distinct parts, and discovering throughout the most ex- \nquisite construction. The medium, on which this org^in \nacts, are rays of light, every-where diffused, and always \nadvancing, if they meet with no opposition, in direct \nlines. The eye like all the other senses not only receives \nexternally the medium, on which it acts ; but carries \nthe rays of light into itself; and on principles purely sci- \nentific refracts and combines them anew. \n\nIt does not however fall within our plan to give a mi- \n\n\n\nTHE SENSE OF SIGHT. 231 \n\nnute description of the eye, which belongs rather to the \nanatomist ; but such a description, with the statement of \nthe uses of the different parts of the organ must be to a \ncandid and reflecting mind a most powerful argument in \nproof of the existence and goodness of the Supreme Be- \nincr. How wonderful among other things is the adapta- \ntion of the rays of light to the eye ? If these rays were \nnot of a texture extremely small, they would cause much \npain to the organ of vision, into which they so rapidly \npass. If they were not capable of exciting within us U^e \nsensations of colour, we should be deprived of much of \nthat high satisfaction, which we now take in beholding \nsurrounding objects ; showing forth, wherever they are \nto be found, the greatest variety and the utmost richness \nof tints. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 173. Statement of the mode or process in visual perception* \n\nIn the process of vision, the rays of light, coming \nfrom various objects and in various directions, strike in \nthe first place on the pellucid or transparent part of the \nball of the eye. \n\nIf they were to continue passing on precisely in the \nsame direction, they would produce merely one mingled \nand indistinct expanse of colour. In their progress how- \never through the chrystaline humour, they are refracted \nor bent from. their former direction, and are distributed to \ncertain focal points on the retina, which is a white, fibrous \nexpansion of the optic nerve. \n\nThe rays of light, coming from objects in the field of \nvision, whether it be more or less extensive, as soon as \nthey have been distributed on their distinct portions of \nthe retina, and have formed an image there, are immedi- \nately followed by the sensation or perception, which iS \ntermed sight. The image, which is thus pictured on the \nretina, is the last step, which we are able to designate in \nthe material part of the process in visual perception ; the \nmental state follows, but it is not in our power to trace, \neven in the smallest degree, any physical connection be- \ntween the optical image and the corresponding state of \n\n\n\n232 \n\n\n\nTHE SENSE OF SIGHT, \n\n\n\nthe mind. All that we can say in this case is, that we \n\nsuppose them to hold to each other the relation of ante- \ncedent and consequent by an ultimate law of our consti- \ntution. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 174. Of the original and acquired perceptions oj sight. \n\nIn speaking of those sensations and perceptions, the \norigin of which is generally attributed to the sense of sight, \nit is necessary to make a distinction between those, which \nare original, and those which are acquired. Nothing \nis properly original with the sense of sight but the sensa- \ntions of colours, as red, blue, white, yellow, &c. Tiiese \nsensations, (or perceptions, as they are otherwise called, \nwhen the internal feeling is combined with a reference to \nthe external cause,) are exceedingly numerous. In this \nrespect the intimations of the sense of sight stand on the \nsame footing with those of the taste and hearing ; although \ndistinctive names, in consequence of the difficulty of ac- \ncurately separating and drawing the line between each, \nat-e given only in a few cases. All tl\\,e sensations of colour \nare original v/ith the sight ; and are not to be ascribed to \nany other sense. \n\nA part however of that knowledge, which we attri- \nbute to the sight, and which has the appearance of being \nimmediate and original in that sense, is not so. Some of \nits alleged perceptions are properly the results of sensa- \ntions, combined not only with the usual reference to an exter- \nnal cause, but with various other acts of the judgment. In \nsome cases the combination of the acts of the judgment \nwith the visual sensation is carried so far, that there is a \nsort of transfer to the sight of the knowledge, which has \nbeen obtained from some other source. And not unfre-- \nquently, in consequence of a long and tenacious associa- \ntion, we are apt to look upon the knowledge thus acquij-- \ned, as truly original with the seeing power. This will \nsuffice perhaps as a statement of the general fact, while \nthe brief examination of a few instances will Jielp to the \nmorethorough understanding of those acquired perceptions \nof the sight, which are here referred to. \n\n\n\nTHE SENSE OF SIGHT. 233 \n\n*5.. 175. The idea of extension not originally from sight. \n\nIt is well known that there is nothing more common \nthan for a ptjrson to say, that he sees the length or breadth \nof any external object ; that he sees its extent, &c. These \nexpressions appear to imply, (and undoubtedly are so un- \nderstood,) that extension is a direct object of sight. \nThere is no question, that such is the common sentiment, \nand that the outlines and surface of bodies, which they per- \nmanently expand, are supposed to be truly seen. An opin- \nion different from this might even incur the charge of \ngreat absurdity. \n\nBut properly the notion of extension, as we have al- \nready seen, has its origin in the sense of touch. Being a \nsimple and elementary thought, it is not susceptible of \ndefinition ; nor, when we consider it as existing outwardly \nand materially, can we make it a matter of description \nwithout running into the confusion of using synonymous \nwords. But whatever it is, (and certainly there can be \nneither ignorance nor disagreement on that point, how- \never much language may fail of conveying our knowl- \nedge of it,) it is not to be ascribed to the sight. \n\nThe notion of extension is closely connected with ex- \nternality. It is not possible to form the idea of extension \nfrom mere consciousness, or a reflection on what takes \nplace within us. But making a muscular eifort, and thus \napplying the touch to some resisting body, we first have \nthe notion of outness ; and either from the same applica- \ntion of that sense, or when we have repeated it continu- \nously on the same surface, we have the additional notion \nof its being extended or spread, out. If a man were fixed \nimmovably in one place, capable of smelling, tasting, \nhearing, and seeing, but without tactual impressions orig- \ninating from a resisting body, he would never possess a \nknowledge of either. Having first gained that knowl- \nedge from the touch in the way just mentioned, he learns \nin time what appearance extended bodies, which are of \ncourse coloured, make to the eye. At a very early peri- \nod, having ascertained that all coloured bodies are spread \n30 \n\n\n\n234 THE SENSE OF SIGHT. \n\n^ out or extended, he invariably associates the idea of ex- \ntension with that coloured appearance. Hence he virtu- \nally and practically transfers the knowledge obtained by \none sense to another ; and even after a time imagines ex- \ntension to be a direct object of sight, when in fact what is \nseen is only a sign of it and merely suggests it. An af- \nfection of the sense of touch is the true and original occa- \nsion of the origin of this notion ;. and it becomes an idea \nof sight only by acquisition or transference. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 176. Of the knowledge of the figure of bodies by the siglit. \n\nViews similar to those, which have been already ad- \nvanced, will evidently apply to the figure of bodies. We \nacquire a knowledge of the figure or form of bodies \noriginally by the sense of touch. But it cannot be doubt- \ned, that this knowledge is often confidently attributed to \nthe sense of sight as well as the touch. Although there is \nreason to believe, that men labour under a mistake in this, \nit is not strange, when we trace back our mental history \nto its earlier periods, that such a misapprehension should \nexist. \n\nA solid body presents to the eye nothing but a certain \ndisposition of colours and light. We may imagine our- \nselves to see the prominencies or cavities in such bodies, \nwhen in truth we see only the light or the shade, occa- \nsioned by them. This light and shade, Iiowever, we learn \nby experience to consider as the sign of a certain solid \nfigure. \n\nA proof of the truth of this statement is, that a pain- \nter by carefully imitating the distribution of light and \nshade, which he sees in objects, will make his work very \nnaturally and exactly represent not only the general out- \nline of a body, but its prominencies, depressions, and \nother irregularities. And yet his delineation, which \nby the distribution of light and shade gives such various \nrepresentations, is on a smooth and plain surface. \n\nIt was a problem submitted by Mr. Molyneux to Mr. \nLocke, whether a blind man, who has learnt the differ- \nence between a cube and a sphere by the touch, can, on \n\n\n\nTHE SENSE OF SIGHT. 535 \n\nbeing suddenly restored to sight, distinguish between \nthem, and tell, which is the sphere and which is the cube, \nby the aid of what may be called his new sense merely ? \nArid the answer of Mr. Locke was in agreement with the \nopinion of Molyneux himself, that he cannot. The blind \nman knows what impressions the cube and sphere make \non the organ oi touchy and by that sense is able to distin- \nguish between them ; but as he is ignorant what impres- \nsion they will make on the organ of sight, he is not able \nby the latter sense alone to tell, which is the round body, \nand which is the cubic. \n\nIt was remarked, that solid bodies present to the eye \nnothing but a certain disposition of light and colours. \xe2\x80\x94 \nIt seems to follow from this, that the first idea, which will \nbe conveyed to the mind on seeing a globe will be that of \na circle, variously shadowed with different degrees of \nlight. This imperfect idea is corrected in this way. \nCombining the suggestions of the sense of touch with those \nof sight, we learn by greater experience what kind of ap- \npearance solid convex bodies will make to us. That ap- \npearance becomes to the mind the sign of the presence of \na globe ; so that we have an idea of a round body by a \nvery rapid mental correction,whereas the notion first con- \nveyed to the mind is truly that of apl#ie, circular surfoce, \non which there is a variety in the dispositions of light and \nshade. It is an evidence of the correctness of this state- \nment, that in paintings plane surfaces, variously shaded, \nrepresent convex bodies and with great truth and exact- \nness. \n\nIt appears then, that extension and figure are origin- \nally perceived, not by sight, but by touch. We do not \njudge of them by sight, until we have learnt by our expe- \nrience, that certain visible appearances always accompany \nand signify the existence of extension, and of figure. \nThis knowledge we acquire at a very early period in \nlife, so much so, that we lose in a great measure the \nmemory both of its commencement and progress. \n\n\n\n236 \n\n\n\nTHE SENSE OF SIGHT. \n\n\n\n\n\xc2\xa7. 177. Measurements of magnitude by the eye. \n\nWhat has been said naturally leads us to the consider- \nation of MA.GNITUDE. This is a general term for Exten- \nsion when we conceive of it not only as limited or bound- \ned, but as related to, and compared with other objects. \nAlthough we make use of the eye in judging of it, it is to \nbe kept in mind, that the knowledge of magnitude is not \nan original intimation of the sight, but is^at first acquired \nby the aid of touch. So well known is this, that it has \nbeen common to consider Magnitude under the two heads \nof tangible or real, and visible or apparent ; the tangible \nmagnitude being always the same, but the visible varying \nwith the distance of the object. A man of six feet stature \nis always that height, whether he be a mile distant, or \nhalf a mile, or near at hand ; the change of place mak- \ning no change in his real or tangible magnitude. But \nthe visible or apparent magnitude of this man may be six \nfeet or not one foot, as we view him present with us and \nimmediately in our neighborhood, or at two miles\' dis- \ntance ; for his magnitude appears to our eye greater or \n\nless, according as he is more or less removed. Hence \n\nthe general principle, that of two objects equally distant, \nthat, which has the greatest visible magnitude, Is supposed \nto have the greatest tangible magnitude. \n\nAmono^ the multitude of instances, which mi^^ht be \nadduced in illustration of this principle, the following \nstatement to be found in the seventh number of the Edin- \nburgh Journal of Science, is a striking one. In examin- \ning a dioramic representation of the inside of Rochester \ncathedral, which produced the finest effect from the en- \ntire exclusion of all extraneous light and of all objects, \nexcepting those on the picture itself, the writer of the \nstatement referred to was struck with an appearance of \ndistortion in the perspective, which he ascribed to the \ncanvass not hanging vertically. Upon mentioning this to \nthe gentleman, who exhibited the picture, he offered to \nwalk in front of it, and strike its surface with the palm of \njiis hand, to show that the canvass was freely suspended. \n\n\n\nTHE SENSE OF SIGHT. 237 \n\nUpon doing this, a very remarkable deception, or illusion \nrather, took place. As his hand passed along, it gradually \nbecame larger and larger, till it reached the middle, \nwhen it became enormously larg?. It then diminished, \ntill it reached the other end of the canvass. \n\nAs the hand moved towards the middle of the picture, \nit touched the parts of the picture more and more remote \nfrom the eye of the observer ; and consequently the mind \nreferred the hand and the object in contact with it to the \nsame remote distance ; and consequently gave it a fic- \ntitious magnitude, corresponding with the visible figure it \npresented, combined with the supposition of its being \nplaced at a distance. (See Edin. Journ. of Science, No. \nVII, p. 90, and Art. Science, Edin. Ency.) \n\n\xc2\xa7. 178. Of objects seen in the mist and of the sun and moon \nin the horizon. \n\nIn accordance w^ith the above mentioned principle it \nhappens, that objects, seen by a person in a mist, seem \nlarger than the life. Their faint appearance rapidly con- \nveys to the mind the idea of being considerably removed \nalthough they are actually near to us. And the mind im- \nmediately draws the conclusion, (so rapidly as to seem a \nsimple and original perception,) that the object, having \nthe same visible or apparent magnitude, and yet supposed \nto be at a considerable distance, is greater than other ob- \njects of the same class. So that it is chiefly the view of \nthe mind, a lav/ or habit of the intellect, which in this \nparticular case gives a fictitious expansion to bodies ; al- \nthough it is possible, that the result may in part be attrib- \nuted to a difference in the refraction of the rays of light, \ncaused by their passing through a denser and less uniform \nmedium than usual. \n\nThese remarks naturally remind us of the well known \nfact, that the sun and moon seem larger in the horizon \nthan in the meridian. Two reasons may be given for \nthis appearance ; and perhaps ordinarily they are combin- \ned together. \xe2\x80\x94 (.1) The horizon may seem more distant \nthan the zenith, in consequence of intervening objects. \n\n\n\n233 THE SENSE OF SIGHT. \n\nWe measure the distance of objects in part by means of \nthose that are scattered along between, and any expanse of \nsurface, where there are no such intervening objects, ap- \npears to us of less extent than it actually is. Now if the \nrays of light form precisely the same image in the eye, but \nthe source of them is supposed to be further off in the \nhorizon than in the zenith, such have been our mental \nhabits that the object in the horizon will probably appear \nthe largest. \xe2\x80\x94 (2) Another reason of the enlarged appear- \nance of the sun and moon in the horizon is, that the rays \n\' from them fall on the body of the atmosphere obliquely, \nand of course are reflected downwards towards the \nbeholder, and subtend a larger angle at his eye. Hence, \nas we always see objects in the direction of the ray just \nbefore it enters the eye, if we follow the rays back in the \nprecise direction of their approach, they will present to \nthe eye the outlines of a larger object as their source, \nthan they would if they had not been refracted. \xe2\x80\x94 When \nthe atmosphere is not clear, but unusual masses of vapour \nare accumulated in it, whether immediately around us or \nany where else in the direction of the rays, the refraction \nis increased, and the object proportionally enlarged. This \ncircumstance helps to explain the fact of the enlargement \njiot being uniform, but sometimes greater and at others \nless. It may be added, that, on a principle practically the \nsame with that of refraction, there will be an increased \nenlargement, when the disc of the sun or moon is seen \nthrough distant woods ; the rays being separated and \nIiST!Hf\' , turned out of their course by the trunks and branches. \n\n\n\n\xe2\x80\xa2\'ffl \n\n\n\n\xc2\xa7. 179. Of the estimation of distance by sight. \n\nWe are next led to the consideration of distances as \nmade known and ascertained by the sight. By the dis- \ntance of objects, when we use the term in reference to \nourselves, we mean the space, which is interposed between \nthose objects and our own position. It might be objected, \nthat space interposed is only a synonymous expression for \nthe thing to be defined. Nevertheless no one can be sup- \nposed to be ignorant of what is meant. Even blind men \n\n\n\nTHE SENSE OF SIGHT.. 239 \n\nhave a notion of distance, and can measure it by the \ntouch, or by walking forward until they meet the distant \nobject. \n\nThe perception of distance by the sight is an acquired \nand not an original perception ; although the latter was \nuniversally supposed to be the fact, until comparatively \na recent period. \n\nAll objects in the first instance appear to touch the \neye ; but our experience has corrected so many of the rep- \nresentations of the senses before the period, which we \nare yet able to retrace by the memory, that we cannot \nprove this by a reference to our own childhood and in- \nfancy. It appears, however, from the statement of the \ncases of persons born blind on the sudden restoration of \ntheir sight. \n\n"When he first saw, (says Cheselden, the anatomist, \nwhen giving an account of a young man, whom he had \nrestored to sight, by couching for the cataract,) he was so \nfar from making any judgment about distance, that he \nthought all objects touched his eye, as he expressed \nit, as what he felt did his skin ; and thought no ob- \nject so agreeable as those, which were smooth and \nregular, although he could form no judgment of their \nshape or guess what it was in any object, that was plea- \nsino^ to him." \n\nThis anatomist has further informed us, that he has \nbrought to sight several others, who had no remembrance \nof ever having seen ; and that they all gave the same ac- \ncount of their learning to see, as they called it, as the \nyoung man already mentioned, although not in so many \nparticulars ; and that they all had this in common, that \nhaving never had occasion to move their eyes, they \nknew not how to do it, and, at first, could not at all \ndirect them to a particular object ; but in time they ac- \nquired that faculty though by slow degrees. \n\nBlind persons when at first restored to sight, are una- \nble to estimate the distance of objects by that sense, but \nsoon observing, that certain changes in the visible appear- \nance of bodies always accompany a change of distance, \n\n\n\n240. \n\n\n\nTHE SENSE OF SIGHT. \n\n\n\n\n\nthey fall upon a method of estimating distance by the \nvisible appearance. And it would no doubt be found, if \nit could be particularly examined into, that all mankind \ncome to possess the power of estimating the distances of \nobjects by sight in the same way. When a body is re- \nmoved from us and placed at a considerable distance, it \nbecomes smaller in its visible appearance, its colours are \nless lively, and its outlines less distinct ; and we may ex- \npect to find various intermediate objects, more or fewer \nin number corresponding with the increase of the distance, \nshowing themselves between the receding object and the \nspectator. And hence it is, that a certain visible appear- \nance conves to be the sign of a certain distance. \n\nHistorical and landscape painters are enabled to turn \nthese facts to great account in their delineations. By \nmeans of dimness of colour, indistinctness of outline, and \nthe partial interposition of other objects, they are enabled \napparently to throw back to a very considerable distance \nfrom the eye those objects, which they wish to appear re-^ \nmote. While other objects, that are intended to appear \nnear, are painted vivid in colour, large in size, distinct in \noutline, and are separated from the eye of the spectator \nby few or no intermediate objects. \n\n\xc2\xa7.180. Of the estimation of distance when unaided by interme- \ndiate objects. \n\nAs we depend in no small degree upon intermediate \nobjects in forming our notions of distance, it results, that \nwe are often much perplexed by the absence of such ob- \njects. Accordingly we find, that people frequently mis- \ntake, when they attempt to estimate by the eye the length \nor width of unoccupied plains and marshes, generally ma- \nking the extent less than it really is. For the same rea- \nson they misjudge of the width of a river, estimating its \nwidth at half or three quarters of a mile at the most, when \nit is perhaps not less than double that distance. The \nsame holds true of other bodies of water ; and of all other \nthings, which are seen by us in a horizontal position, and \nunder similar circumstances. \n\n\n\nTHE SENSE OF SIGHT. 241 \n\nWe mistake in the same way also in estimating the \nheight of steeples, and of other bodies, that are perpendic- \niilar, and not on a level with the eye, provided the height \nbe considerable. As the upper parts of the steeple out- \ntop the surrounding buildings, and there are no contiguous \nobjects with which to compare it, any measurement taken \nby the eye must be inaccurate, but is generally less than \nthe truth. \n\nHence perhaps it is, that a man on the top of a steeple \nappears smaller to those below, than the same man would \nseem to the same person, and at the same distance on level \nground. A man on the earth\'s surface, placed at the \nsame distance, would probably appear nearly of his ac- \ntual size. As we have been in the habit of measuring^ \nhorizontal distances by the eye, we can readily form a \nnearly accurate opinion, whether a person be at an hun- \ndred feet distance, or more or less ; and the mind imme- \ndiately makes an allowance for this distance, and corrects \nthe first visual representation of the size of the person so \nrapidly that we do not remember it. But having never \nbeen in the habit of measuring perpendicular distances, the \nmind i;^ at a loss, and fails to make that correction, which \nit would readily, and, as it were, intuitively make in the \ncase of objects on level ground. The mistake therefore \nof his supposed nearness, combined with this perplexity, \ncauses the comparative littleness of the man on the steeple. \nThe fixed stars, when viewed by the eye, all appear to \nbe alike indefinitely and equally distant. Being scattered \nover the whole sky, they make every part of it seem like \nthemselves at an indefinite and equal distance, and, there- \nfore contribute to give the whole sky the appearance of \nthe inside of a sphere. Moreover, the horizon seems to \nthe eye to be further ofi\'than the zenith ; because between \nus and the former there lie many things, as fields, hills, \nand waters, which we know to occupy a great space ; \nwhereas between us and the zenith there are no consider- \nable things of known dimensions. And, therefore, the \nheavens appear like the segment of a sphere, and less than \n\na hemisphere, in the centre of which we seem to stand. \xe2\x80\x94 \n31 \n\n\n\noio THE SENSE OF SIGHT. \n\nAnd the wider our prospect is, the greater will the sphere \nappear to be and the less the segment. \n\nIn connection with what has been said, we are led to \nmaliethis further remark, that a change in the purity of \nthe air will perplex in some measure tho^^e ideas of dis- \ntance which we receive from sight. Bishop Berkeley re- \nmarks while travelling in Italy and Sicily, he noticed, that \ncities and palaces, seen at a great distance, appeared near- \ner to him by several miles than they actually were. The \ncause of this he very correctly supposed to be the purity \nof the ItaHan and Sicilian air, which gave to objects at a \ndistance a degree of brightness and distinctness, which, in \nthe less clear and pure atmosphere of his native country, \ncould be observed only in those towns and separate edifi- \nces, which were near. At home he had learnt to estimate \nthe distance of objects by their appearance ; but his con- \nclusions failed him, when they came to be applied to ob- \njects in countries, where the air was so much clearer. \n\niVnd the same thing has been noticed by other travellers, \nwho have been placed in the like circumstances. \n\n\xc2\xa7 . 181. Of the senses considered as a foundation of belief \nand knowledge. \n\nIt may be proper to recur here to the subject of the \nsenses, considered as one of the great sources of belief \nand knowledge. This is a topic of so much importance \nas to justify repeated efforts to place it on a right founda- \ntion and to do away objections. It may be asserted with- \nout fear of contradiction, that we find in the daily conduct \nof men abundant evidence, that the senses are the founda- \ntion, to a great extent, of their opinions, reasonings, and \nactions. That objections have been made to a reliance \non the testimony of the senses is true ; and we have al- \nready endeavored to answer them, and place their futili- \nty in the true light. But in connection with the view, \nwhich has now been taken of the senses, v/e are especially \nprepared to express anew the sentiments, expressed in a \nformer section on this subject, that each of theseH>ses has \nits allotted sphere, its appropriate acts and rcsponsibiliticij. \n\n\n\nTHE SENSE OF SIGHT. 543 \n\nThis is an important idea in making up a proper estima- \ntion of the senses, considered as a source of belief. \n\nThe imperfect examination of the senses, which we \nhave just gone through, evinces the truth of this remark. \nIt is the business, the appropriate function of the sense of \nsmelling to give us a knowledge of the odours of bodies. \nWhen we have these sensations, we may be led from some \nprinciple of the mind to look for the cause of them, but \nnothing more. We do not learn from it what that cause \nis. It is not pretended, that this sense alone can give us \nthe notion of an external, odoriferous body. The sense \nof taste is equally limited with that of smell, but both, as \nfar as they go, are grounds of knowledge, and do not de- \nceive. It might no doubt be said, that they may be dis- \neased, and thus mislead us ; but the remarks of this sec- \ntion go on the supposition, that the senses are in a sound \n\nstate. When we come to the sense of hearing, we find, \n\nthat the perceptions of sound have in part an acquired \ncharacter. The reference of a particular sound to a par- \nticular external cause always implies the previous exercise \nof the sense of touch, also the exercise of that principle \nof the mind, which is termed association, and of an act \nof the judgment. But hearing, when in a sound state, is \nalways a ground of belief and knowledge, as far as the \nmere sensation of sound is concerned ; and so far can be \nmost certainly trusted. \n\nIt is the appropriate business of the sense of sight, \nagainst the testimony of which so many objections have \nbeen made, to render us acquainted with the colours of \nbodies. To say, therefore, that it leads us into errours \nin respect to solidity, extension, size, direction, or dis- \ntance, is but very little, or rather nothing to the purpose. \nThese are acquired perceptions, and have their origin m \nanother sense, that of touch. The visual sensations are \nin these cases mere signs of the . knowledge, which we \nhave from another source. When therefore we separate \nwhat belongs to the sight from what belongs to the touch, \nand distinguish between them, it is impossible to fix the \ncharge of misrepresentation upon either. \n\n\n\n244 \n\n\n\nTHE SENSE OF SIGHT. \n\n\n\nAnd hence on the question, Whether our senses mis- \nlead us, we are always to consider, to which of the senses \nthe particular ideas under review appropriately belong. \nAnd in all cases when we are searching after truth, it be- \ncomes us to call in the aid of all the senses, and not to \nconsult one to the entire omission of the others. They \nall make parts of one great and wonderful system, and \ncannot be safely separated. When they are in a sound \nstate, when the ideas, of which they are the origin, are \nproperly discriminated, and further, when the intimations \nof one sense are aided by those of another and by the gui- \ndance of the reasoning power, which clearly ought not to \nbe excluded, we may then confidently expect to be led by \nthem into the truth, so far as our Creator designed, that \nit should be made known to us. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 182. Illustrations oj the subject of the preceding section. \n\nThe views of the last section admit of some ilhistra- \ntion in respect to the sun and moon. Those heavenly \nbodies, as they come under the cognizance of the sight, \nappear to be very small, but in point of fact are known \nto be very large. Still in this very instance, (although \nthis is one of the cases most frequently referred to by \nthe expositors of the alleged weakness and errours of \nthe senses,) it cannot be shown, that there is any deception \npractised upon us by that sense. It has sufficiently ap- \npeared, that extension, figure, the magnitude, and the dis- \ntance of bodies are not direct objects of sight, and that \nour notions of them are not oiiginal in that sense, but are \nacquired. While therefore we have a direct acquaintance \nwith colours by means of sight, it happens that, in estima- \nting the distance of objects by the same sense, we are ob- \nliged to call in the aid of the intimations of the touch, and \nto make use also of comparison and judgment. And \nhence Ave are able to fix on this general principle, that \nthe apparent magnitude of an object will vary with its \ndistance. \n\nIt is clear, therefore, that there is no deception prac- \ntised upon us. Wlicn .by such calculations as we are able \nito make, we have ascertained the distance of the sun and \n\n\n\nTHE SENSE OF SIGHT. 245 \n\nmoon, then every one is satisfied, that their apparent mag- \nnitude or their appearance to the eye is just such as it \nshould be ; and that the eye gives to us precisely the \nsame representation as in any other instance of visible ob- \njects presented to it. It gives such a view of the object \nas it Avas designed to give ; and teaches us here the same \nas it teaches us constantly. \n\nThere are many instances, where the subject might be \nplaced in the true light, and where it would clearly ap- \npear, how far our knowledge from the senses extends, and \nin what respects we must derive knowledge from some \nother source. It is well known, (to take an illustration \nnot unfrequeatly referred to by writers,) that the vibra- \ntions of a pendulum are affected by its geographical posi- \ntion, the latitude where it is. Before this fact was as- \ncertained, a person, might readily have employed a pendu- \num of a given length as a measure of comparative dura- \ntion at two distant points on the globe\'s surface. And \nwhen he had done this, he might have been disposed to \ndeclare on the authoriy of his senses and personal obser- \nvation, that two portions of time, measured in different \nlatitudes, were the same, although they were in fact dif- \nferent. \n\nBut here comes the question. Are his senses to blame \nfor this mistake ? Not at all. The testimony of the sen- \nses and of observation, as far as it went, was correct. \nThe mistake is evidently to be attributed to erroneous de- \nduction. The conclusion was bottomed on the great and \nundoubted principle in reasoning, that the laws of nature \nare uniform. But then there were various assumptions in \nthis particular case, viz, that the earth is circular and not \na spheroid, that the same quantiy of the attractive force \nof the earth operates on the pendulum at every point on \nthe earth\'s surface. Sic, Here is the foundation of the mis- \ntake ; in certain facts precipitately assumed as grounds of \nreasoning, and in the deductions from f them, and not in \n\nthe senses. Such instances, which might be multiplied \n\nto almost any extent, tend to confirm the doctrine, that \nthe senses are justly regarded as an elementary law of \nbelief, and that they are foundations of real knowledge. \n\n\n\nCHAPTER SEVENTH, \n\n\n\nHABITS OF SENSATION AND PERCEPTION. \n\n\n\n\xc2\xa7. 183. Of the law of habit in general and its applications. \n\nIn almost every step of the mind\'s history we find ap- \nplications of the Law of Habit, the outlines of which \nhave already been treated of. The general principle, laid \ndown as involved in that Law, was this, that the repetition \nof any act, whether mental or bodily, increases the tenden- \ncy to and the facility of that act. Of course it is a very dif- \nferent thing from mere Association, with which Dr. Brown \nseems to have confounded it. So far from being identical \nwi-th association, the latter is linder certain circumstances \ngreatly controlled and directed by it ; a fact, which clear- \nly implies a distinction in the two. \n\nAnd it may be necessary to recall to mind here, that \nthere is a difference, not only in this but in all cases, be- \ntween a LAW of the mind, and its susceptibilities, al- \nthough sometimes the same name is given to both. (See \n\xc2\xa7. 47.) Habit accordingly is not to be regarded in the light \nof a mental power, but rather as a general principle or \nfact, applicable to the action of such powers as the mind \npossesses. It extends in its operation, as has been intima- \nted, not only to tlie cognitive part of our nature, but to \nthe heart ; to the emotions and passions as well as the \nthoucrhts and intellections ; to the whole mind and even to \n\n\n\nHA^TS OF SENSATION AND PERCEPTION. 247 \n\nthe body. As we pass along from the consideration of \nthe mind as influenced by outward objects to the consid- \neration of it, as influenced by its own inward acts, and \nfrom the intellectual to the sentient, or as it is sometimes \ntermed, the active part of our constitution, we shall find \nevidence of this. And the discovery will unfold views oi \nhuman nature of the most practical kind, without coming \nshort of the highest degree of interest. In the present \nconnection we are to consider Habit in its relation to sen- \nsation and PERCEPTION ; in other words as applicable to \nthe mental acts, considered as caused by outvv^ard objects \nthrough the medium of the senses. \n\n\xc2\xa7. Ic4. Of habit in relation to the smell. \n\nWe shall consider the application of the principle to \nthe senses in the same order that has already been observ- \ned. In the first place, there are habits of Smell. This \n\nsense like the others is susceptible of cultivation. As there \nare some persons, v/hose power of distinguishing the dif- \nference of two or more colours is feeble ; so there are \nsome, who are doubtful and perplexed in like manner in \nthe discrimination of odours. And as the inability may \nbe overcome in some measure in the former case, so it \nmay be in the latter. The fact, that the powers of which \nthe smell is capable are not more frequently brought out \nand quickened is owing to the circumstance, that it is not \nordinarily needed. It sometimes happens, however, that \nmen are compelled to make an uncommon use of it, when \nby a defect in the other senses they are left without the \nordinary helps to knowledge. It is then we see the ef- \nfects of the law of Habit. It is stated in Mr. Stewart\'s \nAccount of James Mitchell, who was deaf, sightless, and \nspeechless, and of course strongly induced by his unfor- \ntunate situation to make much use of the sense we are \nconsidering, that his smell would immediately and invari- \nably inform him of the presence of a stranger, and direct \nto the place where he might be ; and it is repeatedly as- \nserted, that this sense had become in him extremely \na^ute. \n\n\n\n248 HABITS OF SENSATION AND PERCEPTION. \n\n\n\n\nIn an interesting account of a deaf, dumb, anH blind \ngirl in tbe Hartford Asylum recently published, statements \nare made on this subject of a similar purport. \xe2\x80\x94 "It has \nbeen observed (says the writer) of persons, who are de- \nprived of a particular sense, that additional quickness, or \nvigour seems to be bestowed on those which remain. \nThus blind persons are often distinguished by peculiar ex- \nquisiteness of touch, and the deaf and dumb, who gain all \ntheir knowledge through the eye, concentrate, as it were, \ntheir whole souls in that channel of observation. With \nher whose eye, ear, and tongue are alike dead, the capa- \nbilities both of touch and smell are exceedingly heightened. \nEspecially the latter seems almost to have acquired the \nproperties of a new sense, and to transcend the sagacity \neven of a spaniel." \xe2\x80\x94 Such is the influence of habit on the \nintimations of the sense under consideration. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 185. Of habit in relation to the taste. \n\nThe same law is applicable to the Taste. We see the \nresults of tlie frequent exercise of this sense in the quick- \nness, which the dealer in wines discovers in distinguisli- \ninff the flavour of one wine from that of another. It is \nno secret also what a wonderful perception of this kind \nprofessed epicures acquire. If it were not a law of our \nnature, that our sensations become acute and discrimina^ \nting by repeated exercise, how many reputations of cooks \nand confectioners would have been saved ; and how many \ngrave discussions over the birds of the air and the fishes \nof the sea would have fallen to the ground for lack of ar- \ngument ! \n\nAnother practical view of this subject, however, pre- \nsents itself here. The sensations, which we experience \nin this and other like cases, not only acquire by rep- \netition greater niceness and discrimination, but in- \ncreased strength ; (and perhaps the increased strength \nis in all instances the foundation of the greater power \nof discrimination.) On this topic we have a wide and \nmelancholy source of illustration. The bibber of wine \nand the drinker of ardent spirits readily acknowledge^ \n\n\n\nHABITS OF SENSATION AND PERCEPTION, U9 \n\nthat the sensation was at first only moderately pleasino-, \nand perhaps in the very slightest degree. Every time \nthey carried the intoxicating potion to their lips, the sen- \nsation grew more pleasing, and the desire for it waxed \nstronger. Perhaps they were not aware that this process \nwas going on in virtue of a great law of humanity ; but \nthey do not pretend to deny the fact. They might indeed \nhave suspected at an early period, that chains were gath- \nering around them, whatever might be the cause ; but \nwhat objection had they to be bound with links of flowers; \ndelightful while they lasted, and easily broken when ne- \ncessary! But here was the mistake. Link was added to \nlink ; chain was woven with chain, till he who boasted \nof his strength, was at last made sensible of his weak- \nness, and found himself a prisoner, a captive, a deformed^ \naltered, and degraded slave. \n\nThere is a three-fold operation. The sensation of \ntaste acquires an enhanced degree of pleasantness ; the \nfeeling of uneasiness is increased in a corresponding meas- \nure, when the sensation is not indulged by drinking ; and \nthe desire, which is necessarily attendant on the uneasy \nfeeling, becomes in like manner more and more impera- \ntive. To alleviate the uneasy feeling and this importu- \nnate desire, the unhappy man goes again to his cups, and \nwith a shaking hand pours down the delicious poison. \nWhat then ? He has added a new link to his chain ; at \nevery repetition it grows heavier and heavier ; till that, \nwhicli at first he bore lightly and cheerfully, now presses \nhim like a coat of iron, and galls like fetters of steel. \nThere is a great and fearful law of his nature bearing him \ndown to destruction. Every indulgence is the addition \nof a new weight to what was before placed upon him, \nthus lessening the probability of escape, and accelerating \nhis gloomy, fearful, and interminable sinking. We do not \nmean to say, that he is the subject of an implacable desti- \nny, and cannot help himself. But it would seem, that he \ncan help himself only in this way ; by a prompt, absolute;^ \nand entire suspension of the practice in all its forms, which \nhas led him into this extremity. But few however have \n\n\n\n\n250 HABITS OF SENSATION AND PERCEPTION. \n\nthe resolution to do this ; the multitude make a few un- \nwilling and feeble eiforts, and resign themselves to the \nhorrors of their fate. \n\nSome years since there was a pamphlet published in \nEngland, entitled the Confessions of a Drunkard. Tlie \nstatements made in it are asserted on good authority to be \nauthentic. And what does the writer say ? \xe2\x80\x94 " Of my \ncondition there is no hope that it should ever change ; the \nwaters have gone over me ; but out of the black depths \ncould I be heard, I would cry out to all those who have \nbut set a foot in the perilous flood. Could the youth to \nwhom the flavour of his first wine is delicious as the open- \ning scenes of life, or the entering upon some newly dis- \ncovered paradise, look into my desolation, and be made \nto understand what a dreary thing it is, when a man shall \nfeel himself going dow^n a precipice with open eyes and a \npassive will, \xe2\x80\x94 to see his destruction, and have no power \nto stop it, and yet to feel it all the way emanating from \nhimself; to perceive all goodness emptied out of him, and \nyet not be able to forget a time when it was otherwise ; to \nbear about the piteous spectacle of his own self ruins : \xe2\x80\x94 \ncould he see my fevered eye, feverish with last night\'s \ndrinking, and feverishly looking for this night\'s repetition \nof the folly ; could he feel the body of the deatli out of \nwhich I cry hourly, with feebler and feebler outcry, to be \ndelivered ^it were enough to make him dash the spark- \nling beverage to the earth in all the pride of its mantling \ntemptation."^ \n\n\xc2\xa7. ISG. Of habit in relation to the hearing. \n\nThere is undoubtedly a natural diflerence in the quick- \nness and discrimination of hearing. This sense is more \nacute in some than in others ; but in those, who possess it \nin much natural excellence, it is susceptible of a high de- \ngree of cultivation. Musicians are a proof of this, whose \nsensibility to the melody and concord of sweet sounds \ncontinually increases with the practice of their art. \n\nThis increase of sensibility in the perceptions of hearing \n\n* London Quarterly Review, Vol. XXVII, p. 120. \n\n\n\nHABITS OF SENSATION AND PERCEPTION. 251 \n\nis especially marked and evident, when uncommon causes \nhave operated to secure such practice. And this i$ the \nstate of tilings with the Blind . The readers of Sir Walter \nScott may not have forgotten the blind fiddler, who fig- \nures so conspicuously with verse and harp in Red Gaunt- \nlet ; a character sufficiently extraordinarvj but by no \nmeans an improbable exaggeration. The blind necessarily \nrely much more than others on the sense of hearing. By \nconstant practice they increase the accuracy and power of \nits perceptions. Shut out from the beauties that are seen, \nthey please themselves with what is heard, and greedily \ndrink in the soul of song. Accordingly music is made by \nthem not only a solace, but a business and a means of \nsupport ; and in the institutions for the Blind this is con- \nsidered an important department of instruction. \n\nMany particular instances on record and well authen- \nticated confirm the general statement, that the ear may be \ntrained to habits, and that thus the sensations of sound \nmay come to us with new power and m.eaning. It is re- \nlated of a celebrated blind man of Puiseaux in France, \nthat he could determine the quantity of fluid in vessels by \nthe sound it produced while running from one vessel into \nanother. Any person may ascertain the presence and ap- \nproach of another without seeing him by the mere sound \nof his voice; but there have been blind men, v. ho were \ncapable in consequence of being obliged from the lack of \nsight to rely much on the hearing, of ascertaining the same \nthing from the sound of their tread. Dr. Saunderson, who \nbecame blind so early as not to remember having seen, \nwhen happening in any new place, as a room, piazza, \npavement, court, and the like, gave it a character by \nmeans of the sound and echo from his feet, and in that \nway Vv^as able to identify pretty exactly the place, and as- \nsure himself of his position afterwards. A writer in the \n. First Volume of the Manchester Philosophical Memoirs, \nwho is our authority also for the statement just made, \nspeaks of a certain blind man in that city as follows ; \xe2\x80\x94 \'T \nliad an opportunity of repeatedly observing the peculiar \nmanner, in which he arranged his ideas, and acquired \n\n\n\n252 HABITS OF SENSATION AND PERCEPTION. \n\nhis information. Whenever he was introdiiceil into com- \npany, I remarked that he continued some time silent. The \nsound directed him to judge of the dimensions of the \nroom ; and the different voices, of the number of persons \nthat were present. His distinction in these respects was \nvery accurate ; and his memory so retentive, that he was \nseldom mistaken. I have known him instantly recognize \na person, on first hearing him, though more than two \nyears had elapsed since the time of their last meeting. He \ndetermined pretty nearly the stature of those he was con- \nversing with, by the direction of their voices ; and he \nmade tolerable conjectures respecting their tempers and \ndispositions, by the manner in which they conducted their \nconversation." \n\n\xc2\xa7. 187. Application of hahit to the touch. \n\nThe sense of touch like the others may be exceedingly \nimproved by habit. The more we are obliged to call it \ninto use, the more attention we pay to its intimations. By \nthe frequent repetition therefore under such circum- \nstances, these sensations not only acquire increased intense- \nness in themselves ; but particularly so in reference to \nour notice and remembrance of them. But it is desirable \nto cpnfirni this, as it is all other principles from time to \ntime laid down, by an appeal to facts, and by careful in- \nductions from them. \n\nDiderot relates of the blind man of Puiseaux men- \n:tioned in the former section, that he was capable of judg- \ning of his distance from the fire-place by the degree of \nheat, and of his approach to any solid bodies by the ac- \ntion or pulse of the air upon his face. The same thing is \nrecorded of many other persons in a similar situation ; and \nit may be regarded, as a point well established, that blind \npeople, who are unable to see the large and heavy bodies \npresenting themselves in their way as they walk about, \ngenerally estimate their approach to them by means of the \nincreased resistance of the atmosphere. A blind person, \nowing to the increased accuracy of his remaining senses, \nespecially of the touch, would be betler trusted to go \n\n\n\nHABITS OF SENSATION AND PERCEPTION. 253 \n\nthrou,2:li the various apartments of a house in the dark- \nness of inidnight, than one possessed of the sense of seeing \nwithout any artificial light to guide him. \n\n., In the celebrated Dr. Saunderson, who lost his sight in \nvery early *yo^th, and remained blind through life, al- \nthough he occupied the professorship of mathematics in \nthe English University of Cambridge, the touch acquired \nsuch accuteness, that he could distinguish, by merely let- \nting them pass through his fingers, spurious coins, which \nwere so well executed as to deceive even skilful judges \nwho could see.f \n\nThe caseof aMr. John Metcalf, otherwise called Blind \nJack, which is particularly dwelt upon by the author of \nthe Article in the Memoirs just referred to, is a striking \none. The writer stated, that he became blind at an early \nperiod ; but notwithstanding, followed the profession of \na waggoner and occasionally of a guide in intricate roads, \nduring the night, or ^hen the tracks were covered with \nsnow. At length he became a projector and surveyor of \nhighways in difficult and mountainous districts ; an em- \nployment, for which one would naturally suppose a blind \nman to be but indifferently qualified. But he was found \nto answer all the expectations of his employers, and most \nof the roads over the peak in Derbyshire in England were \naltered by his directions. Says the person, who gives this \naccount of Blind Jack, " I have several times met this man \nwith the assistance of along staff traversing the roads, \nascending precipices, exploring vallies, and investigating \ntheir several extents, forms, and situations, so as to answer \nhis designs in the best manner." \n\nIn the interesting Schools for the Blind, which have \nbeen established in various parts of Europe, the pupils \nread by means of the fingers. They very soon learn by \nthe touch to distinguish one letter from another,which are \nmade separately for that purpose of wood, metals, or oth- \n^r materials. The printed sheets which they use are con- \nformed to their method of studying them. The types \nare much larger than those ordinarily used in printing ; \n\nt Memoirs of Manchester Philos. Society, Vol. I. p. 164. \n\n\n\n254 HABITS OF SENSATION AND PERCEPTION. \n\nthe paper is very thick, and being put upon the types \nwhile wet, and powerfully pressed, the letters on it are con- \nsequently misef?, and appear in relief. The pupils havinc \nbefore learnt to distinguish one letter from another, and \nalso to combine them into syllables and word\'s, are able \nafter a time to pass their fingers along the words and sen- \ntences of these printed sheets, and ascertain their meanino- \nwith a good degree of rapidity. \n\nPerhaps it may occasion some surprise, when we add, \nthat men may not only read by the touch, but may even \nfind a substitute for the hearing in that sense. Persons, \nwho were entirely deaf, have in some instances discovered \na perception of the proportion and harmony of sounds. \n\n"It will scarcely be credited (says an English writer, \nspeaking of one in that situation,) that a person thus cir- \ncumstanced should be fond of mudc ; but this was the \nfact in the case of Mr. Arrowsmith. He was at a gentle- \nman\'s glee club, of which 1 was president at that time, \nand as the glees were sung, he would place himself near \nsome article of wooden furniture, or a partition, door, or \nwindow shutter, and would fix the extreme end of his \nfinger nails, which he kept rather long, upon the edge of \nsome projecting part of the wood, and there remain until \nthe piece under performance was finished, all the while \nexpressing by the most significant gestures, the pleasure \nhe experienced from the perception of musical sounds. He \nwas not so much pleased with a solo, as with a pretty full \nclash of harmony; and if the music was not very good, or, \nI should rather say, if it was not correctly executed, he would \nshow no sensation of pleasure. But the most extraordi- \nnary circumstance in this case is, that he was most evi- \ndently delighted with those passages, in which the com- \nposer displajred his science in modulating the different \nkeys. When such passages happened to be executed with \nprecision, he could scarcely repress tiie emotions of pleas- \nure which he received within any bounds ; for the de- \nlight he evinced seemed to border on extacy."* \n\n* London Quarterly Review, Vol. XXVI, p. 404. \n\n\n\nHABITS OF SENSATION \'AND PERCEPTION. 255 \n\n\xc2\xa7. 1 88. Habits considered in relation to the sight. \n\nThe law of liabit affects the sight also. By a course of \ntraining this sense seems l^o acquire new power. The \nlength and acuteness of vision in the mariner, who has \nlong traversed the ocean, has been often referred to. \nThere are numerous instances to the same effect, oc- \ncasioned by the situations in which men are placed, and \nthe calls for the frequent exercise of that sense. The al- \nmost intuitive vision of the skilful engineer is beyond \ndoubt in most cases merely a habit. He has so often fixed \nhis eye upon those features in a country, which have a re- \nlation to his peculiar calling, that he instantly detects the \nbearing of a military position, its susceptibility of defence, \nits facilities of approach and retreat, &c. \n\nNo man is born without the sense of touch, but many \nare born without the sense of hearing; and whenever \nthis is the case, we are entitled to look for habits of sight. \nPersons under such circumstances naturally and necessari- \nly rely much on the visual sense, whatevei* aids may be \nhad by them from the touch. Hence habits ; and these \nimply increased quickness and power, wherever they ex- \nist. It is a matter of common remark, that the keenness \nof visual observation in the deaf and dumb is strikingly \nincreased by their peculiar circumstances. Shut out from \nthe intercourse of speech, they read the minds of men in \ntheir movements, gestures, and countenances. They \nnotice\' with astonishing quickness, and apparently without \nany effort, a thousand things, which escape the regards of \nothers. This fact is undoubtedly the foundation of the \nchief encouragement, which men have to . attempt the \ninstruction of that numerous and unfortunate class of their \nfellow beings. They can form an opinion of what another \nsays to them by the motion of the lips; and sometimes even \nwith a great degree of accuracy. That this last however is \ncommon, it is not necessary to assert ; that it is possible, \nwe have the testimony of well autheiiticated facts. In \none of his letters. Bishop Burnet mentions to this effect the \ncase of a young lady of Geneva. \'\' At two years old \n\n\n\n256 HABITS OF SENSATION AND PERCEPTION. \n\n\n\n(he says) it was perceived, that she had lost her hearing, \nand ever since, though she hears great noises, yet hears \nnothing of what is said to her : but by observing the mo- \ntion of the lips and mouths of others, she acquired so \nmany words, that out of these she lias formed a sort of \njargon in which she can hold conversation, whole days, \nwith those who can speak her language. She knows \nnothing of what is said to her, unless she sees the motion \nof their lips that speak to her : one thing will appear the \nstrangest part of the whole narrative. She has a sister \nwith whom she has practised her language more than with \nany body else, and in the night, by laying her hands on \nher sister\'s mouth, she can perceive by that what she says, \nand so can discourse with her in the dark." (London \nQuarterly Review, Vol. xxiv. p. 399.) \n\nSuch are \'the views, which have been opened to us, in \nconsidering the law of habit in connection with the sen- \nses ; and we may venture to say with confidence, that \nthey are exceedingly worthy of notice. There are two \nsuggestions, which they are especially fitted to call up. \nThey evince the striking powers of the human mind, its \nirrepressible energies, which no obstacles can bear down. \nThey evince also the benevolence of our Creator, who \nopens in the hour of misery new sources of comfort, and \ncompensates for what we have not, by increasing the pow- \ner and value of what we have. \n\n\n\n\xc2\xa7. 189. Sensations may possess a relative^ as well as positive \nincrease of power. \n\nThere remains a remark of some importance to be \nmade in connection with the general principle, which has \nbeen brought forward, and as in some measure auxiliary \nto it ; for it will help to explain the more striking instan- \nces of habits, if any should imagine, that the fact of mere \nrepetition is not sufficient to account for them. Our sensa- \ntions and perceptions may acquire not only a direct and \npositive, but a relative and virtual increase of power. \n. This remark is thus explained. We shall hereafter \nsec tlic truth of an important principle to this,\'cficct, that \n\n\n\nHABITS OF SENSATION AND PERCEPTION. 257 \n\nthere will be a weakness of remembrance iii any particular \ncase in proportion to the want of interest in it. Now hun- \ndreds and thousands of our sensations and perceptions are \nnot remeaibered, because we take no interest in them. \nOf course they are the same, relatively to our amount of \nknowledge and our practice, as if they had never existed \nat all. But when we are placed in some novel situation, \nor w^hen in particular we are deprived of any one of the \nsenses, the pressure of our necessities creates that interest, \nwhich was wanting before. Then we delay upon, and \nmark, and remember, and interpret a multitude of evan- \nescent intimations, which were formerly neglected. They \nthus acquire a very considerable relative povver and val- \nue. And in order to make out a satisfactory explanation \nof some instances of habits, it is perhaps necessary, that \nthis relative increase should be added to the direct and \npositive augmentation of vigour and quickness, result- \ning from mere repetition or exercise. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 190. Whether the mind can attend to more than one object at \nthe same time. \n\nIn connection with what has been said in this chapter, \nwe are in some degree prepared to consider the question, \nWhether the. mind can attend to more than one thing at \none and the same instant ? The cjuestion can perhaps be \nstated more clearly thus ; Whether the mind can attend at \none and the same instant to objects, which we can attend \nto separately ?-The question, when proposed as here, with- \nout any limitation, hardly admits a discussion. If a rose \nis presented to us, we can handle it ; w^e can inhale its fra- \ngrance, and behold its colours at the same moment. The "\xe2\x96\xa0 \nmind exists in the states of seeing, smelling, and feeling at \nonce ; that is to say, it is in a complex state. Whereas if \nthe question, as above stated, were answered in the nega- \ntive, complexity in the states of the mind would be an im- \npossibility. \n\nBut the question may be further simplified, and propo- \nsed thus ; viz. Whether we can, by means of one and the same \nsense, simultaueously notice and attend to more than one \no3 \n\n\n\n258 HABITS OF SENSATION AND PERCEPTION. \n\nobject, which objects that sense is capable of attending to \nseparately ? \xe2\x80\x94 When the question is modified and stated in \nthis way, it seems to be the general sentiment, that the \nmind notices only one thing at a time. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 191. On allending at the same time to different parts of \nmusic. \n\nBut there are certain facts, which at first sight contra- \ndict this doctrine, however generally it may have been en- \ntertained. For instance, it is the opinion with very ma- \nny persons, that, in a concert of music, a good ear can at- \ntend to different parts at the same time, and feel the full \nefiect of the harmony. It is not denied, that they are fully \nable to feel the effect of the harmony ; and it is also ad- \nmitted, that they appear to attend to the different parts, \nwhich combine to\' form that harmony, at one and the same \ninstant. Bui this appearance, (for we conceive it to be \nmerely such,) is to be thus explained. \n\nIt has appeared in the course of this chapter, that our \nsensations and external perceptions are susceptible of being \nstrengthened and quickened. By various examples it has \nbeen seen, that they can be brought to an astonishing, degree \nboth of acuteness and rapidity of exercise. We may \'sup- \npose, therefore, that a habit has been formed in the case \nunder consideration, and that the mind passes from one part \nof the music to the other with such quickness, as to give us \nno perception of an interval of time. The operation is so \nrapid, and the attention so slight, that there is no remem- \nbrance, and we are unable to recal the mental acts. Hence \nwe shall seem to be attending to all the parts at once. I\'he \n\xc2\xbb apparent result will be the same, as if this were actually \nthe fact. But as this mere appearance may be otherwise \nsatisfactorily explained, it is not necessary to admit the \ndoctrine of originally coexistent perceptions of distinct and \nseparate sounds. \n\nNor is this all. It is to be remembered, that, in the \ncase under consideration, one sense only, the sense of hear, \ning, is employed. And it is a natural inquiry, if it can at- \n\n\n\nHABITS OF SENSATION AND PERCEPTION. 259 \n\ntend to more than one object at once, which it is capable \nof attending to separately^ why may it not attend to three, \nfive, twenty, or more? An objection certainly arises here; \nand furthermore, the opinion, that the mind can simulta- \nneously attend to separate objects by means of a sino-le \nsense, strikes at the root of what there is abundant reason \nto consider a great and fixed law of our nature ; viz. That \nthe first intimarions from the separate senses are simple, \nare uncompounded. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 192. The principle considered in reference to the outlines \nand forms of objects. \n\nThe inquiry, which has just been attended to, may be \nconsidered in reference to the outlines and forms of bodies. \nIn discussing the subject of attention, Mr. Stewart, in con- \nnection with his views on that subject, introduces some \nremarks in respect to vision. He makes this supposition, \nThat the eye is fixed in -a particular position, and the pic- \nture of an object is painted, on the retina. \' He then starts \nthis inquiry ; Does the mind perceive the complete figure \nof the object at once, or is this perception the result of the \nvarious perceptions we have of the different points in the \n\noutline ? He holds the opinion, that the perception is \n\nthe result of our perceptions of the dioerent points in the- \noiitline, v/hich he adopts as naturally consequent on such \nviews, as the following ; the outline of every body is \nmade up of points or smallest visible portions ; no tvv^o of \nthese points can be in precisely the same direction ; there- \nfore, every point by itself constitutes just as distinct an \nobject of attention to the mind, as if it were separated by \nsome interval of empty space from all other points. The \nconclusion, therefore, is, as every body is made up of \nparts, and as the perception of the figure of the whole \nobject implies a knowledge of the relative situation of \nthe different parts with respect to each other, that such \nperception is the result of a number of different acts of \n\nattention. \n\nBut if we adopt this ingenious explanation of Mr. \nStewart, it is incumbent upon us to show how it happens, \n\n\n\n260 HABITS OF SENSATION AND PERCEPTION. \n\nthat we appear to see the object at once ? The answer \nis that the acts of perception are performed with such \nrapidity, that the eiTect with respect to us is the same, as \nif it were instantaneous. A habit, has been formed ; the \nglance of the mind, in the highest exercise of that habit ^ \nis indescribably quick ; there is no remembrance ; time is \nvirtually annihilated ; and separate moments are to our \napprehension of them crowded into one. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 193, J^otice of some facts which favour the above doctrine. \n\nThere are various facts, which go to confirm Mr. \nStewart\'s doctrine as to the \'mode of the perception of \n\nexternal objects. When we look for the first time on \n\nany object, which is diversified with gaudy colours, the \nmind is evidently perplexed with the variety of percep- \nsions which arise ; the view is indistinct, which would not \nbe the case, if there were only one, and that an immedi- \nate perception. And even in paintings, which are of a \nmore laudable execution, the effects at the first percep- \ntion will be similar.- \xe2\x80\x94 ^But there is another fact, which \ncomes still more directly to the present point. We find, \nthat we do not have as distinct an idea, at the first glance, \nof a figure of an hundred sides, as we do of a triangle or \nsquare. But we evidently should, if the perception of \nvisible figure were the immediate consequence of the pic- \nture on the retina, and not the combined result of the sep- \narate perceptions of the points in the outline. Whenever \nthe figure is very simple, the process of the mind is so \nvery rapid, that the perception seems to be instantaneous. \nBut when the sides are multiplied beyond a certain num- \nber, the interval of time necessary for these different acts \nof attention becomes perceptible. We are then distinctly \nconscious, that the mind labours from one part of the ob- \nject to another, and that some time elapses before we grasp \nit as a whole. \n\n\n\nCHAPTER SEVENTH. \n\n\n\nMUSCULxiR HABITS. \n\n\n\n\xc2\xa7. 194. Instances in proof of the existence of muscular habits. \n\nFrom habits, considered as affecting the senses, the \ntransition is easy to muscular habits. On this subject there- \nfore we shall now offer a few remarks. \xe2\x80\x94 Of the fact, that \nsuch habits exist, it is presumed no doubt can be general- \nly entertained. Muscular habits may be detected in the \ngait and in the speech of men generally ; they are found \nV. ith specific characteristics in particular classes of men ; \nevery mechanic forms them, and they vary in their as- \npect with his particular business. Hence the enlarged and \npowerful neck of the porter, the strong and brawny \narm of the blacksmith, and the particular habitudes of all \ntheir movements. \n\nBut we will not delay on this part of the subject any \nfarther than to point out a familiar instance of it. It is \none of the most general kind, is of the most common oc- \ncurrence, and yet perhaps has not often been made the \n\nsubject of particular attention. Every man\'s hand \n\nwriting is an instance, and a proof of Muscular habit. In \nacquiring that art, the muscles have undergone a complete \nsystem of instruction. That instruction and training they \npractically and most punctually regard ever afterwards ; \n50 much so that we can tell a man\'s writing, to which we \n\n\n\n262 \n\n\n\nMU&CULAR HABITS. \n\n\n\nare accustoQied, almost as\' readily as we recognize the man \nhimself when we see him. \xe2\x80\x94 But this subject is introduced \nhere, although the train of thought naturally led to it, not \nso much for its own sake, as in consequence of its connec- \ntion with Volition. \' \n\n\xc2\xa7. 195. Considered by some loriters to be involuntary. \n\nIt seems to have been the opinion of some writers, \n\'(among others of Drs. Reid and Hartley,) that bodily or \nmuscular habits operate in many cases without design and \nvolition on the part of the person who has formed them ; \nand that as they are without any attendant thought, with- \nout any preceding mental operation, such bodily acts are \nto be considered as purely mechanical or automatic. They \nendeavour to explain and confirm their views by the in- \nstance of a person, learning to play on the harpsichord. \nWhen a person first begins to learn, it is admitted by all, \nthat there is an express act of volition, preceding every \nmotion of the fingers. By degrees the motions appear to \ncling to each other mechanically ; we are no longer con- \nscious of volitions, preceding and governing them. In \nother words there is nothing left but the motions ; there \njs no act of the mind ; the performance, admirable as it \nis, has the same character and the same merit with that of \nthe action of a well-contrived machine. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 196. Objections to the doctrine.of involuntary muscular \nhabits. * \n\nIn replying to these views, it may be safely admitted, \nthat, in playing the harpsichord and some other musi- \ncal instruments, we have not always a distinct remem- \nbrance of volitions, and consequently the muscular effort \nhas sometimes the appearance of being independent of \nthe will. But this mere appearance is not sufiicient \nto command our assent to the doctrine advanced by \nthese writers, until tiie four following objections be set \naside. \n\n(1) The supposition, that the acts in question are au- \ntomatic, is unnecessary. If it- be true, as we have repeat- \n\n\n\nMUSCULAR HABITS. 263- \n\nedlv seen so much occasion to believe, that Habit is a gen- \neral law of our nature, then it may be regarded as appli- \ncable not only to the muscular efforts, but to the preced- \ning volitions themselves. It is implied in this view, (suppo- \nsing it to be a correct one,) that such volitions may be \nvery rapid, so as scarcely to arrest our attention a moment. \nNow the natural result of such slight attention will be, \nthat they will exist and pass away without being remem- \nbered. These considerations are sufficient to explain the \nmere appearance, which is admitted to exist, but which \nReid and Hartly attempt to explain by an utter denial of \nthe putting forth of volitions at all. But if this be the \ncase, then the supposition, that the acts in question are \nautomatic and involuntary, is an unnecessary one. \n\n(2) The most rapid performers are able, when they \nplease, to play so slowly, that they can distinctly observe \nevery act of the will in the various movements of the \nfmgers. And when they have checked their motions so \nas to be able to observe the separate acts of volition, they \ncan afterwards so accelerate tho^e motions, and of course \nso diminish the power, (or what may be regarded as the \nsame thing, the time of attending to them,) that they can- \nnot recal the accompanying volitions. This is the ration- \nal and obvious supposition, that there is not an exclusion \nof volitions, but an inability to recollect them, on account \nof the slight degree of attention. Any other view neces- \nsarily implies an inexplicable jumble of voluntary and in- \nvoluntary actions in the same performance. \n\n(3.) If there be no volitions, the action must be strict- \nly and truly automatic ; that is, it must, from the nature \nof the case, be the motion of a machine. It must always \ngo on invariably in the same track, without turning to \nthe right hand or to the left. If this be the case in play- \ning the harpsichord, which is by no means probable,, it is \ncertainly not in some other instances of habits. It must \nbe supposed, that there is as much rapidity of volition put . \nforth by the rope dancer, the equilibrist, the equestrian \nactor of the circus, &c. as by the player on the harpsichord. \nNow if it be admitted, that the o/dinary steps of the sin- \n\n\n\n264 \n\n\n\nMUSCULAR HABITS. \n\n\n\ngular and surprising feats they perform are familiar to \nthem, still the process is evidently not an invariable one. \nIt may be pronounced impossible for them to perform ex- \nperiments, v^hich agree in every particular with preced- \ning experiments. They are necessarily governed in their \nvolitions and mbvements by a variety of circumstances, \nwhich arise on every particular occasion, and which \ncould not be foreseen. Hence the muscular movements in \nthese cases, being controlled by the will, are not mechani- \ncal ; and as we have abundant reason to believe them often \nnot less rapid in the performance, than the muscular move- \nments are in playing the harpsichord, why should we con- \nsider these last mechanical and not voluntary ? \n\n(4) If the hypothesis of Reid and Hartley be true, \nthen there is some general tendency or principle in our \nnature, by which actions originally voluntary are convert- \ned into mechanical actions. Nor will it be ea?y to gho\\V, \nwhy this principle should not extend further than mere \nbodilv movements. It will be the result of this tendency \nto wrest all those powers which it reaches, whether bodi- \nly or mental, from the control of the will. In other words, \nwhen we consider the extent of its application, and its \nwonderful results, wherever it applies, we must conclude, \nthat this principle will infallibly make men machines, \nmere automatons, before theyhave lived out half their \nf]r^ys. \xe2\x80\x94 Such are some of the objections to the doctrine^ \nthat muscular habits are involuntary. \n\n\n\nCHAPTER NINTH. \n\n\n\nCONCEPTIONS. \n\n\n\n\xc2\xa7. 197. Meaning of conceptions and how they differ from certain \nother states of the mind. \n\nWe are now led, as we advance in the general sub- \nject of intellectual states of exter^"al origin, to contem- \nplate the mind in another view, viz, as employed in giv- \ning rise to what are usually termed conceptions. With- \nout professing to propose a definition in all respects unex- \nceptionable, we are entitled to say in general terms, that \nthis name is given to any re-existing sensations whatever, \nwhich the mind has felt at some former period, and to the \nnotions, which we frame of absent objects of perception. \nWhenever we have conceptions, our sensations and per- \nceptions are replaced, as Shakspeare expresses it, in the \n**mind\'s eye," without our at all considering at what time, \nor in what place they first originated. In other words, \nthey are revived and recalled, and nothing more. \n\nUsing therefore the term conceptions to express a class of \nmental states, and in accordance with the general plan, \nhaving particular reference in our remarks here to such as \nare of external origin, it may aid in the better understand- \ning of their distinctive character, if we mention more \nparticularly, how they differ both from sensations and \nperceptions, and also from remembrances, with which last \nsome may imagine them to be essentially the same. \n34 \n\n\n\n:Go \n\n\n\nCONCEPTIONS. \n\n\n\nI, \xe2\x80\x94 Conceptions diifer from the ordinary sensations and \nperceptions in this respect, that both their causes and their \nobjects are absent. When the rose, the hoiieysuckle, or \nother odoriferous body is presented to us, the effect, which \nfollows in the mind, is termed a sensation. When we \nafterwards think of that sensation, (as we sometimes ex- \npress it,) when the sensation is recalled even thoiigli vei-y \nimperfectly, without the object which originally caused it \nbeing present, it then becomes, by the use of language, \na conception. And it is tiie same in any instance of per- \nception. When, in strictness of. speech, we are said \nto perceive any thing, as a tree, a building, or a moun- \ntain, the objects of our perceptions are in all cases before \nui!. But we may form conceptions of them, that may be \nrecalled and exist in the mind\'s e^/e, however remote they \nmay be in fact, both in time and place. \n\nII,\xe2\x80\x94 They differ also from remembrances or ideas of \nmemory. We take no account of the period, when those \nsubjects, which laid the foundation of them were present ; \nwdiereas in every act of the memory there is combined \nwith the conception a notion oi tlie past. Hence as those \nstates of mind, which we call conceptions, possess these \ndistinctive marks, they are well entitled to a separate \nname. \n\nConceptions being merely mental states or acts of a \nparticular kind are regulated by the general laws of tht; \nintellect; and make their appearance and disappearance \non the principles of association. Those principles have \n\nbeen explained in a former chapter. Whenever at any \n\ntime we may use the phrase \'\' power of conception" or \n"faculty of conception," nothing more is to be under- \nstood by such expressions than this, that there is in the \nmind a susceptibility of feelings or ideas possessing the \nmarks, which we have ascribed to this class. \n\n^. 198. Of concepiicns of objects of sight. \n\nOne of the striking fc\\cts in regard to our conceptions \nis, that we can far more easily conceive of the objects of \nsome seiises than of others. Suppose a person to have \n\n\n\nCONCEPTIONS. 267 \n\ntravelled abroad, andtohave seen among the achievements \nof human effort St. Peter\'s church, the Vatican, and the \nPyramids, or to have visited among nature\'s still great- \ner works the cataract of Niagara and the falls of St. An- \nthony, or any other interesting object of sight ; it is well \nknown, that the mind of this person afterwards even for \nmany years very readily forms a conception of those ob- \njects. Such ideas are so easily and so distinctly recalled, \nthat it is hprdly too much to say of them, that they seem \nto exist as permanent pictures in the mind. It is quits \ndifferent with a particular sound, which we have forjner- \nly Iieard, and with a particular taste, or any pleasant or \npainful sensations of the touch, which we have formerly \nexperienced. When the original perceptions have in these \nlast cases departed^ we find that the ideas do not readily \nexist again in the absence of tlieir appropriate objects, and \nnever with the.distiiTctness, which they possessed at firs?. \nIdeas of visible objects, therefore, are more readily re- \ncalled, or we can more easily form conceptions of such \nobjects, than we can of the objects of the other senses. \xe2\x80\x94 \nThis peculiarity in the case of visible objects may be thus \npartially explained. \n\nVisible objects or rather the outlines of them are com- \nplex ; that is, ^they are made up of a great number \nof points or very small portions. Hence the conception, \nwhich we form of such an object as a v*diole, is aided by \nthe principles of association. The reason is obvious. As \nevery original perception of a visible object is compound, \nmade up of many parts, whenever we subsequentl}\'\' have a \nconception of it, the process is the sasiie ; v/e have a con- \nception of a part of the object, and the principles of asso- \nciation help us in conceiving of the other parts. Associa- \ntion connects the parts together ; it presents them to the \nmind in their proper arrangement, and helps to sustain \nthem there. \n\nWe are not equally aided by the laws of association in \nforming our conceptions of the objects of the other sen- \nses. When we think of some sound, or taste, or touch, \nthe object of our conception is either a single detached \n\n\n\n268 \n\n\n\nCONCEPTIONS. \n\n\n\nsensation, or a series of sensations. In every siich detacli- \ned sound, or taste, or sensation of touch, whether we con- \nsider it at its first origin or when it is subsequently recalled, \nthere is not of course that association of the parts, which \nwe suppose to exist in every visual perception, and which \nmust exist also in every conception of objects of sight, \nwhich subsequently takes place. Accordingly our concep- \ntions of the latter objects arise more readily, and are more \ndistinct than of the others. \xe2\x80\x94 There is a greater readiness \nand distinctness also, when there is a series of sensations and \nperceptions, for the visual conceptions are aided by asso- \nciation both in time and place, but the others only in time. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 199. Of the influence of habit on our conceptions. \n\nIt is another circumstance worthy of notice in regard \nto conceptions, that the power of forming them depends \n\nin some measure on habit. A few instances will help \n\nto illustrate the statement, that what is termed Habit may \nextend to the susceptibility of conceptions ; and the first \nto be given will be of conceptions of sounds. Our con- \nceptions of sounds are in general very indistinct, as appear- \ned in the last section. But a person may acquire the pow- \ner of amusing himself with reading written music. Hav- \ning frequently associated the sounds with the notes, he has \nat last such a strong conception of the sound that he ex- \nperiences, by merely reading the notes, a very sensible \npleasure. It is for the same reason, viz, because our as- \nsociations are strengthened by habit, that readers may en- \njoy the harmony of poetical numbers without at all ar- \nticulating the words. In both cases they truly hear noth- \ning, but there is a virtual melody in the mind. \n\nThat our power of forming conceptions is strengthen- \ned by habit is capable of being further illustrated from the \nsight. A person, who has been accustomed to drawing, \nretains a much more perfect notion of a building, land- \nscape, or other visible object, than one who has not. A \nportrait painter, or any person, who has been in the prac- \ntice of drawing such sketches, can trace the outlines of \njthe human form with very great ease ; it requires hardly \n\n\n\nCONCEPTIONS. 269 \n\nmore effort from them than to write their names. \xe2\x80\x94 This \npoint may also be illustrated by the difference, which \nwe sometimes notice in people in their conceptions of col- \nours. Some are fully sensible of the difference between \ntwo colours when they are presented to them, but cannot \nwith confidence give names to these colours when they see \nthem apart, and may even confound the one with the oth- \ner. Their original sensations or perceptions are supposed \nto be equally distinct with those of other persons ; but \ntheir subsequent conception of the colours is far from be- \nin o- so. This defect arises partly at least from want of \npractice, that is, from their not having formed a habit. \nThe persons, who exhibit this weakness of conception, \nhave not been compelled by their situation, nor by mere \ninclination, to distinguish and to name colours so^muchas \nis common. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 200. Of the subserviency of our conceptions to description. \n\nIt is highly favorable to the talent for lively descrip- \ntion, when a person\'s conceptions are readily suggested \nand are distinct. Even such an one\'s common conversa- \ntion differs from that of those, whose conceptions arise \nmore slowly, and are more faint. One man, whether in \nconversation or in written description, seems to place the \nobject, which he would give us an idea of, directly^be- \nfore us ; it is represented distinctly and to the life. Anoth- \ner, although not wanting in a command of language, is \nconfused and embarrassed amid-a multitude of particulars, \nwhich, in consequence of the feebleness of his conceptions, \nhe finds himself but half acquainted with ; and he, there- \nfore, gives us but a very imperfect notion of the thing \nwhich he would describe. \n\nIt has been by some supposed, that a person might \ngive a happier description of an edifice, of a landscape, or \nother object, from the conception than from the actual \nperception of it. The perfection of a description does not \nalways consist in a minute specification of circumstances ; \nin general the description is better, when there is a judi- \ncious selection of them. The best rule for making the se- \n\n\n\n270 \n\n\n\nCONCEPTIONS. \n\n\n\n\nlection is, to attend to the particulars, that make the deep- \nest impression on our own minds, or, what is the same \nthing, that most readily and distinctly take a place in our \nconceptions. \xe2\x80\x94 When the object is actually before us, it is \nextremely difficult to compare the impressions, which dif- \nferent circumstances produce. When we afterwards con- \nceive of the object, we possess merely the outline of it ; \nbut it is an outline made up of the most striking circum- \nstances. Those circumstances, it is true, will not impress \nail persons alike, but will somewhat vary with the degree \nof their taste. But when with a correct and delicate \ntaste any one combines lively conceptions, and gives a des- \ncription from those conceptions, he can hardly fail to suc- \nceed in it. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 201 . Of conceptions attended with a momentary belief. \n\nOur conceptions are sometimes attended with belief; \nwhen they are very lively, we are apt to ascribe to them \na real outward existence, or believe in them. We do not \nundertake to assert, that the belief is permanent ; but a \nnumber of facts strongly lead to the conclusion, that it \nhas a momentary existence. \n\n(i) A painter, in drawing the features, and bodily form \nof an absent friend, may have so strong a conception, so \nvivid a mental picture, as to believe for a moment that his \nfriend is before him. After carefully recalling his thoughts \nat such times and reflecting upon them, almost every pain- \nter is ready to say, that he has experienced some illusions \nof this kind. It is true, the illusion is very short, because \nthe intensity of conception, Avhich is the foundation of it, \ncan never be kept up long when the mind is in a sound \nstate. Such intense conceptions are unnatural. And, fur- \nther all the surrounding objects of perception, which no \none can altogether disregard for any length of time, every \nnow and then check the illusion and terminate it. \n\n{2) When a blow is aimed at any one, although in sport, \nand he fully knows it to be so, he forms so vivid a con- \nception of what might possibly be the effect, that his be- \nlief is for a moment controlled, and he unavoidably shrinks \n\n\n\nCONCEPTIONS. 271 \n\nback from it. Again, place a person on the battlements \n\nof a high tower; his reason tells him he is in no danger; he \nknows he is in none. But after all he is unable to look \ndown from the battlements without fear ; his conceptions \nare so exceedingly vivid as to induce a momentary belief \nof danger in opposition to all his reasonings. \n\n(3) When we are in pain from having struck our foot \nagainst a stone, or when pain is suddenly caused in us by \nany other inanimate object, we are apt to vent a momen- \ntary rage upon it. That is to say, our belief is so affec- \nted for an instant, that we ascribe to it an accountable \nexistence, and would punish it accordingly. It was an im- \npulse of human nature, (though doubtless a singular exhi- \nbition of it,) when Xerxes, falling into a transport of \nrage with the Hellespont for having broken up and wash- \ned away his bridge, ordered it to be beaten with three \nhundred stripes^ It is on the principle of our vivid con- \nceptions being attended with belief, that poets so often as- \ncribe life, and agency, and intention to the rains and winds, \nto storms, and thunder, and lightning. How natural are \nthe expressions of King Lear, overv/helmed with the in- \ngratitude of his daughters, and standing with his old head \nbared to the pelting tempest ! \n\n" Nor rain, wind, thunder, fire are my daughters, \n" I tax not you, ye elements, with unkindness ; \n" I never gave you kingdoms, called you children." \n\n(4) There are persons, who are entirely convinced of \nthe folly of the popular belief of ghosts and other nightly \napparitions, but who cannot be persuaded to sleep in a \nroom alone, nor go alone into a room in the dark. When- \never they happen out at night, they are constantly looking \non every side ; their quickened conceptions behold ima- \nges, which never had any existence except in their own \nminds, and they are the subjects of continual disquiet and \neven terror. \n\n" It was my misfortune, (says Dr.Priestly,) to have the \nidea\' of darkness, and the ideas of invisible malignant \nspirits and apparitions very closely connected in my in- \nfancy ; and to this day, notv/ithstanding I believe nothing \n\n\n\n272 \n\n\n\nCONCEPTIONS. \n\n\n\nof those invisible powers, and consequently of their con- \nnection with darkness, or any thing else, I cannot be per- \nfectly easy in every kind of situation in the dark, though \nI am sensible I gain ground upon this prejudice continu- \nally." \n\nIn all such cases we see the influence of the prejudices \nof the nursery. Persons, who are thus afflicted, were \ntaught in early childhood to form conceptions of ghosts, \nhobgoblins, and unearthly spirits ; and the habit still con- \ntinues. It is true, when they listen to their reasonings and \nphilosophy, they may well say that they do not believe in \nsuch things. But the effect of their philosophy is merely \nto check their belief; not in one case in a thousand is the \nbelief entirely overcome. Every little while, in all soli- \ntary places, and especially in the dark, it returns and when \nbanished returns again ; otherwise we cannot give an ex- \nplanation of the conduct of these persons. \n\n\xc2\xa7 . 202 . Conceptions which are joined with perceptions. \n\nThe belief in our mere conceptions is the more evident \nand striking, whenever they are at any time joined with \nour perceptions. \xe2\x80\x94 A person walking in a field, (to take a \nfamiliar instance and which every one will understand,) in \na thick foggy morning, perceives something, no matter \nwhat it is ; but he believes it to be a man, and does not \ndoubt it. In other words, he truly perceives some object, \nand, inadditon to that perception, has a mental conception \nof a man, attended with belief. When he has advanced a \na few feet further, all at once he perceives, that what he \nconceived to be a man is merely a stump with a few large \nstones piled on its top. He perceived at first, as plainly \nor but little short of it, that it was a stump, as in a mo- \nment afterwards ; there were the whole time very nearly \nthe same visible form and the same dimensions in his eye. \nBut whatever he had in his eye, he certainly had in his \nmind the conception of a man, which overruled and annull- \ned the natural efiects of the visual perception ; the concep- \ntion being associated with a present visible object acquir- \ned peculiar strength and permanency, so much so that he \n\n\n\nCONCEPTIONS. 273 \n\ntruly and firmly believed, that a human being was before \nhim. But the conception has departed ; the present ob- \nject of perception has taken its place, and it is now impos- \nsible for him to conjure up the phantom, the reality of \nwhich he but just now had no doubt of. \n\nIn his Voyage of Discovery to the Arctic Regions, \nCapt. Ross mentions an incident, illustrative of the power \nand fruitfulness of our conceptions, when upheld by the \nactual presence of objects. It will be recollected, that the \nimmense masses of ice, which are found floating in the po- \nlar seas, often display a variety of the most brilliant hues< \nSpeaking of one of these ice-bergs as they are called, which \nhe early fell in with, and which was about forty feet high \nand a thousand feet long, \'^ imagination, he says, painted \nit in many grotesque figures ; at one time it looked some- \nthing like a white lion and horse rampant, which the quick \nfancy of sailors, in their harmless fondness for omens, nat- \nurally enough shaped into the lion and unicorn of the \nking\'s arms, and they were delighted accordingly with \nthe good luck it seemed to augur." \n\nBut it is mmecessary to resort to books for illustrations \nof this topic. Multitudes of persons have a conceptive \nfacility of creations, which is often troublesome and per- \nplexing ; especially in uncommon situations, and in the \nnight. And in all cases this tendency is greatly strength- \nened, whenever it can lay hold of objects, the outlines of \nwhich it can pervert to its own purposes. \n\nMany a person has waked up in the night and has firmly \nbelieved, that he saw a form clothed in white, standing in an \nerect position at some part of the room, but in a moment \nafter the imaginary visitant has vanished, and there is \nnothing left but the reflection of the moonbeams on the \nwall. \n\nIn all cases of this kind, where the conceptions are \nupheld, as it were, by present objects of perception, and \nreceive a sort of permanency from them, nothing is better \nknown, than that we often exercise a strong and unhesi- \ntating belief. These instances, therefore, can properly be \nS5 \n\n\n\n274 \n\n\n\nCONCEPTIONS. \n\n\n\n\n"i 1 \n\n\n\nconsidered as illustrating and confirming the views in the \npreceding section. \n\n<5. 203. Of our conceptions at tragical representations. \n\nThese observations suggest an explanation, at least in \npart, of the effects, which are produced on the mind by- \nexhibitions of fictitious distress. In the representation of \ntragedies, it must be admitted, that there is a general con- \nviction of the whole being but a fiction. But, although \npersons enter the theatre with this general conviction, it \ndoes not always remain with them the whole time. At \ncertain passages in the poet peculiarly interesting, and at \ncertain exhibitions of powerful and well-timed efi\'ort in \nthe actor, this general impression, that all is a fiction, fails. \nThe feelings of the spectator may be said to rush into the \nscenes ; he mingles in the events ; carried away and lost, \nhe for a moment believes all to be real, and the tears gush \nat the catastrophe which he witnesses. The explanation, \ntherefore, of the emotions felt at the exhibition of a trag- \nedy, such as indignation, pity, and abhorrence, is, that at \ncertain parts of the exhibition we have a momentary be- \nlief in the reality of the events, which are represented. \nAnd after the illustrations which have been given, such a \nbelief cannot be considered impossible. The same ex- \nplanation will apply to the emotions, which follow our \nreading of tragedies when alone, or any other natural and \naffecting descriptions. In the world of conceptions, which \nthe genius of the writer conjures up, we are transported \nout of the world of real existence, and for a while fully \nbelieve in the reality of what is only an incantation. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 204 Application oj these principles to diversities in the \nmental character of individuals. \n\nIt is a remark sometimes made, that the sanguine are \napt to believe and assert what they hope ; and the timo- \nrous what they fear. This rAnark implies, and is found- \ned in part on what every one knows, that there arc diver- \nsities in the mental character of different individuals. \nSome are constitutionally fearful ; every obstacle assumes \n\n\n\nCONCEPTIONS. 275 \n\nan undue importance, and every terror is magnified. \nOthers are confident, fearless, ardent. Both of these \nclasses of persons are known to commit frequent mistakes \nin judging of those things, which are future, and which \nhave any connection with their respective mentaf charac- \nteristics. \n\nThe remarks, which were made in the three last sec- \ntions, will help us to an explanation in this thing. As \n\nto what is called belief, it is presumed no one can be ig- \nnorant of it, although it would be futile to attempt to ex- \nplain it by words. It is, however, important to remark, \nthat belief is regulated and controlled, not by direct voli- \ntion, but by the nature of the circumstances, which are \nplaced before the mind. But it has been already suffi- \nciently shown, that belief is in a measure under the con- \ntrol of our conceptions, when they are very vivid. It is \nalso undoubtedly true, that vividness of conceptions is al- \nways attended with a strong feeling of pleasure, or of de- \nsire, or of some other kind. But it is implied in the mental \ncharacters of the persons, on whom we are remarking, \nthat their feelings are strong, though opposite ; in the one \ncase, confident and ardent ; in the other, dejected and \ntimid. \n\nHence their conceptions will be strong. To the one, \nall difficulties and dangers will be magnified ; to the oth- \ner, the glory and the fruition of success. And as these \ndistorted conceptions necessarily control more or less their \nbelief, it will follow, that perfect reliance is not to be pla- \nced on their opinions, when they are directly connected \neither v/ith their hopes or their fears. Nor will such dis- \ntrust always imply an unfavorable opinion of the recti- \ntude of their intentions. (See, in connection with this \n\nsubject, Reid\'s Essays on the Intellectual Powers, IV. ; \nStewart\'s Elements, Ch. III. ; Brown\'s Lectures, XLI ; \nPriestley\'sExamination of Reid, Sect. VIIL; Kaime\'s Ele- \nments of Criticism, Chap. II., k,c.) \n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER TENTH. \n\n\n\nCASUAL ASSOCIATIONS. \n\n\n\n\n\n\xc2\xa7. 205. Association sometimes misleads our judgments . \n\nIt is necessary in this part of the history of the inindy \nto refer again particularly to the great law of Association. \nThere are some cases, where tlie power of association so \nmisleads us, that we cannot easily form a correct judgment \nof the true nature of things. Every object of thought, \nin order to be fully understood, ought to be so much in \nour power, that we may examine it separately from all \nother objects. Whenever, therefore, it happens from any \ncircumstances, that the power of association so combines \none object of thought with another, that the object \ncannot readily be looked at and examined by itself, it \nso far has the effect to perplex and hinder correct judg- \nment. \n\nIt will be found, when we look into our minds, that \nthere exist a few associations or combinations of thought \nof this kind, which are obstinate and almost invincible. \nTo explain the origin, and to correct the erroneous ten- \ndencies of all such connections of thought, although the \nnumber of such as we have now in view cannot be large, \nwould occupy us too long. The examination of a few \nsomewhat striking instances will not only throw light on \nthe philosophy of the mind in general, but will be of some \npractical benefit. Other instances of casual associa- \n\n\n\nCASUAL ASSOCIATIONS. 277 \n\nTioN, which have a less degree of strength, and exert a \nless considerable influence in disturbing the just exercise \nof the intellect, will require some examination hereafter. \nThe whole subject of Prejudices, which has a conspicu- \nous place in every practical system of Mental Philosophy, \nis necessarily taken up in a great degree with such cases. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 203. Casual association in respect to the place of sen- \nsensation. \n\nOne of the casual associations of that extreme kind, \nwhich we have now especial reference to, concerns the \n\nplace, or rather the supposed place of sensation. All \n\nsensation, it will not be forgotten, is in the mind. What- \never is inanimate or material can of course have no feel- \ning. Nevertheless if a wound be inflicted on the hand or \nfoot, we seem to experience the sensation of pain in that \nparticular place. When we merely bring the hand in con- \ntact with a warm or cold body, we even then assign a lo- \ncal habitation to the subsequent feeling, and it clearly \nseems to be, not in the mind, but in the hand. \n\nThis reference of the sensation to the outward organ \nand place, instead of thinking of it as existing in the soul, \nis the result of an early and strong association. As the \nwound in the hand for instance is the cause of the painful \nfeeling, the consequence is, that the sensation, and the \nplace whence it arose constantly go together in our \nthoughts. The result of this connection, which has been \nrepeated and continued from our youth up, is that we \nfind it extremely difficult in later life to separate them, \neven with the greatest efl*ort. So difficult is it, that a sol- \ndier, whose aj\'m or leg has been amputated, still speaks of \nfeeling pain in those limbs, though they are now perhaps \nburied in the earth or the depths of the sea. \n\nAlthough we are liable in these cases to be led into a \nmistake, if we do not guard against it with care, it is per- \nhaps an obvious remark, that the foundation of this lia- \nbility to errour is laid in our constitution for beneficent \nends. It is not ordinarily so important in a practical point \nof view, that we should attend to the internal feeling, as \n\n\n\n278 \n\n\n\nCASUAL ASSOCIATIONS. \n\n\n\nto the external part which is affected. An injury in the \nexternal senses, the muscles, or the limbs, if it be not at- \ntended to, soon affects other parts of the body and even \nlife itself. Hence Providence has put us in the way to \nform this strong and almost unconquerable mental habit, \nin order to secure protection, where it seems to be most \nurgently and frequently needed. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 201. Connection of our ideas of extension and time. \n\nIf we examine carefully our notions of Time, we shall \nfind here also a casual association of long continuance \nand of great strength. It is believed to be the fact, that \nTime, as it exists in the apprehensions of most persons, is \nregarded as something extended. It is not necessary to \ndelay here, to undertake a definition of time, to show what \nit is in the abstract, or to give a history of the notion \nwhich we form of it. Taking it for granted, that every \none knows what is meant when we use that term, we \nmerely assert here, that for some cause or other it is ex- \nceedingly difficult to think of it, except in the light of a \nmodification of extension. The correctness of this \nremark may not perhaps appear perfectly obvious at first ; \nbut the expressions, which we apply to intervals of dura- \ntion, are an evidence of its truth. \n\nWe say before such a time or after such a time, the \nsame as before or after any material object ; we speak of \na long or a short time with no more hesitation than of a \nlong or short distance, of a long or short bridge, or rail- \nway, or any other object of extension. We utter our- \nselves precisely in the same way we should do, if we were \ncertain of having detected some real analogy between the \ntwo, between length and shortness in material substances, \nand what are called length and shortness in time. But it \nis not too much to say, that there is no such analogy, no \nsuch similitude ; nor is it worth while to anticipate, that \nwe shall ever be able to detect such analogy or similitude, \nuntil we can in practice apply the measures offset, ells, \nroods, &c. to hours, and days, and weeks. How then can \nit be accounted for, that we apply terms, nearly in the \n\n\n\nCASUAL ASSOCIATIONS. 279 \n\nsame way, as if this were the case, and as if such meas- \nurements could be made ? \n\nThe strong association of these ideas has most proba- \nbly arisen in this manner, viz. from our constantly meas- \nuring one of these quantities by the other. It is the com- \nmon method to measure time by motion, and motion is \nmeasured by extension. In an hour the hand of a clock \nmoves over a certain space ; in two hours over double the \n\nspace, and so on. No doubt it is convenient to apply \n\nthe terms "long" and "short," "before" and "after," and \nothers similar, to time. We could not well dispense with \nthem. But it ought to be remembered, if we would have \nright notions of things, that the application of those ex- \npressions has arisen from the mode in which we measure \ntime, and that time and extension are essentially distinct \nin their nature. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 203. Of high and low notes in music. \n\nWe speak of high and low in reference to notes in \nmusic, the same as of the high or low position of material \nbodies. There is supposed to be some analogy between \nthe relation, which the notes in the scale of music bear \nto each other, and the relation of superiority and inferior- \nity in the position of bodies of matter. But it is impossi- \nble to prove the existence of such analogy, however gen- \nerally it may have been supposed ; and the supposition \nitself of its existence has no doubt arisen from a casual \nassociation of ideas, which has acquired strength by \nlapse of time and by repetition. \n\nA proof of this association of ideas being purely accident- \nal is that an association, the very reverse of this, was once \nprevalent. \xe2\x80\x94 It is remarked in the preface to Gregory\'s \nedition to Euclid\'s works, that the more ancient Greek \nwriters considered the grave sounds as high, and the acute \nones as low. The present mode of speaking on the sub- \nject is of more recent origin ; but at what time and in \nwhat way it was introduced cannot be asserted with con- \nfidence. In the preface just referred to, it is, however, \nobserved, that the ancient Greek custom of looking upon \n\n\n\n280 \n\n\n\nCASUAL ASSOCIATIONS. \n\n\n\nthe grave sounds as high and the acute as low, precisely \nthe reverse of what is now common, continued down until \nthe time of Boethius. It has been conjectured with some \ningenuity, that this connection or association of thought \namong the Greeks and Romans, for it was equally preva- \nlent among both, might have been owing to the construc- \ntion of their musical instruments. The string, which \nsounded the grave or what we call the low tone, it has \nbeen supposed, was placed highest, and that, which gave \nthe shrill or acute, had the lowest place. If this conjec- \nture could be ascertained to be well founded, it would \nstrikingly show, from what very slight causes strong and \npermanent associations often arise. It is hardly necessary \nto observe, that it is important to examine the origin and \nprogress of such associations, in order that we may correct \nthose erroneous and illusive notions, which will be found \nto be built upon them. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 209. Connection of the ideas of extension and colour. \n\nThere is no necessary connection between colour, as \nthe term is commonly employed by philosophers, and \nextension. The word colour properly denotes a sensa- \ntion in the mind ; the word extension, the quality of an \nexternal material object. There is, therefore, no more \nnatural connection, and no more analogy between the two, \nthan there is between pain and solidity. And yet it so \nhappens that we never have the sensation or idea of col- \nour without at the same time associating extension with it; \nwe find them, however diiferent they may be in their na- \nture, inseparable in our thoughts. This strong associa- \ntion is formed in consequence of our always perceiving \nextension at the very time, in which the sensation of col- \nour is excited in the mind. The perception of the one, \nand the sensation of the other have been so lonor simulta- \nneous, that we have been gradually drawn into the belief, \nthat, on the one hand, all colour has extension, and on the \nother, all extension has colour. But what we call colour \nbeing merely a state of the mind, it is not possible, that it \nshould with propriety be predicated of any external mate- \n\n\n\nCASUAL ASSOCIATIONS. 281 \n\nrial substances. Nor is it less evident, if colour be mere- \nJy a sensation or state of the mindj that matter can exist, \nand does exist without it. \n\nBut what has been said will not satisfy all the queries, \nwhich may be started on this point, unless we remark also \non the ambiguity in the word colour. The view, which \nhas been taken of the connection between colour and ex- \ntension, is founded on the supposition, that colour denotes \na sensation of the mind, and that merely. It seems to be \nsupposed by some writers, that the word colour has two \nmeanings, and that it is thus generally understood ; \xe2\x80\x94 ( 1 ) It \ndenotes that disposition, or arrangement, or whatever it \nmay be, in the particles of matter, which not only causes \nthe rays of light to be reflected, but to be reflected in dif- \nferent ways ; \xe2\x80\x94 -(2) It denotes that mental sensation, which , \nfollows, when the rays have reached the retina of the eye. \nWhen people use the term with this diversity of significa- \ntion they can say with truth, that external bodies have \ncolour, and also that colour is a sensation of the mind. It \nmay be said also in the first sense of the term, which has \nbeen mentioned, that colour has extension, because parti- \ncles of matter have extension. But it. is not altogether \nevident, that people generally make this distinction, al- \nthough some may. There is great reason to think, that \nthey commonly mean by the term the flpj9eamnce of colour \nor the sensation in the mind ; and they no doubt in gener- \nal regard this appearance or sensation, as belonging to ex- \nternal objects, as being in some sense a part of those ob- \njects, and as having extension. How erroneous this sup- \nposition is, has already appeared ! \n\n\xc2\xa7. 210. Whether there be heat in fire, tj-c. \n\nThe questions, Whether there be heat in fire, coldness \nin snow, sweetness in sugar, and the like, seem well suited \nto the inquisitive and nicely discriminating spirit of the \nScholastic ages. Alihough well adapted . to exercise \nthe ingenuity of the Schools, they are far from being with* \nout some importance in tlie more practical philosophy of \nS6 \n\n\n\n282 Casual associations. \n\nlater times. If these questions concern merely the mattei;]|| \nof fact, if the inquiry be. What do people think on these \npoints ? It admits of different answers. But this is of \nless consequence to be known, than to know what is the \ntrue view of this subject. \n\nThe following, there is much reason to think, is \nthe view, which should be taken. If by heat, cold, and \ntaste in bodies, \\Ye merely mean, that there is this or that \ndisposition or motion or attraction in the particles, then it \nmust clearly be granted, that fire is hot, that snow is cold, \nand sugar is sweet. But if by heat is understood what \none feels on the application of fire to the limbs, or if by \nsweetness is understood the sensation of taste, when a sap- \nid body is applied to the tongue, &c. then fire has no heat, \nsugar no sweetness, and snow is not cold. These. states \nof the mind can never be transformed into any thing \nmaterial and external. The heat or the cold which I \nfeel, and the different kinds of tastes are sensations in the \nsoul and nothing else. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 21] . Whether there be meaning in words 7 \n\nWe say in our common discourse, that there is mean- \ning in words, that there is meaning in the printed page of \nan author ; and the language is perhaps sufficiently cor- \nrect for those occasions, on which it is ordinarily employ- \ned. We do not deem it necessary to object to the com- \nmon mode of speaking in this particular instance, nor to \nundertake to propose any thing better. But there is here \nan association of ideas, similar, both in its nature and its \neffects, to that existing between extension and colour al- \nready remarked upon. \n\nWhen objects external to us are presented to the sense \nof sight, there is immediately the sensation of some colour. \nThis sensation we have been so long in the habit of refer- \nring to the external object, that we speak and act, as if \nthe colour were truly in that object and not in ourselves ; \nin the language of D\'Alembert, as if the sensations were \ntransported out of the mind and spread over the material \nsubstance. And it is not until we take some time to re- \n\n\n\nCASUAL ASSOCIATIONS. 283 \n\nfleet, and until we institute a careful examination, that we \nbecome satisfied of our errour. \n\nIn the same way when we look upon the page of an au- \nthor we say it has meaning, or that it is full of thought ; \nwhereas in truth, in consequence of a long continued and \nobstinate association, of which we are hardly sensible our- \nselves, we transport the meaning or thought out of our- \nselves and spread it upon that page. The thought or \nmeaning is in ourselves, but is placed by us, through the \nmeans of a casual but very strong association, in the writ- \nten marks which are before us. All the power, which the \nwords have, results from convention, or, what is the same \nthing, exists in consequence of certain intellectual habits, \nformed in reference to those words. It is these habits, \nformed in reference to them, it is this mental correspond- \nence, which gives these characters all their value ; and \nwithout the mind, which answers to and which interprets \nthem, they could be considered as nothing more than mere \nblack strokes drawn upon white paper, and essentially dif- \nfering in nothing from the zigzag and unmeaning delinea- \ntions of a schoolboy on the sand. As all the beautiful \nvariety of colours do not and cannot have an existence \nwithout the mind, which has sensations of them or per- \nceives them, so words are useless, are unmeaning, are noth- \ning without the interpretations of an intellect, that has \nbeen trained up so as to correspond to them. By associa- \ntion, therefore, we refer the meaning to the written \ncharacters or words, when in truth it is in the mind, and \nthere alone. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 212. Benefit of examining such connections of thought. \n\nIt is of great importance to us to be able to separate \nideas, which our situation and habits may have inti- \nmately combined together. To a person who has this \npower in a considerable degree, v/e readily give the cred- \nit of possessing a clear and discriminating judgment. \nAnd this mental characteristic is of great consequence \nnot only in pursuing the study of intellectual philosophy, \nbut in the conduct of life. It is in particular directly sub- \n\n\n\n284 \n\n\n\nCASUAL ASSOCIATIONS. \n\n\n\n\nservient to the power of reasoning, since all processes \nof reasoning are made up of successive propositions, the \ncomparison of which implies the exercise of judgment. \nThe associations of thought, which have been mentioned \nin this chapter, are so intimate or rather almost indis- \nsoluble, that they try and discipline the mind in this \nrespect,\xe2\x80\x94 they teach it to discriminate. They are wor- \nthy to be examined, therefore, and to be understood, not \nonly for the immediate pleasure, which they aiford in the \ndiscovery of our errours ; but also because they have \nthe effect of training up one\'s powers to some good pur- \npose. Let a person be accustomed to making such dis- \ncriminations as are implied in fully understanding the \ninstances in this chapter, and he acquires a readiness, \nwhich is not easily outwitted ; he trains himself to such \n.a quickness of perception in finding out what truly be- \nlongs to an object and what does not, as will not al- \nlow him to be imposed upon by that confusion of ideas, \nwhich in so many cases distorts the judgments of the \nmultitude. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 213. Power of the inll over mental associations. \n\nIn view of what has been said in this and in for- \nmer chapters, the inquiry naturally arises, What is \nthe degree of influence, which we are able to exercise \nby mere will or volition over associated trains of thought ? \nThe answer to be given to this inquiry is, that we have no \ndirect influence or power over them ; \xe2\x80\x94 there is a constant \ntrain of ideas, but their succession, their coming and de- \nparting depends on causes beyond our immediate volunta- \nry control. The truth of the general statement, that we \ncannot produce or call up an idea by a mere direct act \nof the will, and that, consequently, trains of ideas are not \ndirectly under its control, cannot but appear quite evident \non a little reflection. We never can will the existence of \n. any thing without knowing what it is which we will or \nchoose. This requires no further prOof than is contained \nin the proposition itself. Therefore, the expressions, to \nwill to have a certain thought or train of thought, \n\n\n\n. iUjO \n\n\n\nCASUAL ASSOCIATIONS. 285 \n\nclearly imply the present existence of that thought or \ntrain; and, \'consequently, there can be no such thing \nas calling up and directing our thoughts by immediate \nvolition. \n\nTo this view of want of direct voluntary power over \nour associated ideas and to the argument in support of it, \nthose mental efforts, which we term recollection or inten- \ntional memory, have been brought up as an answer. In \ncases of intentional memory it will be said, an object or \nevent is remembered, or in other words, an idea or train \nof ideas is called up, by mere volition or choice. To this \nobjection we make this reply. It is evident, before we \nattempt or make a formal effort to remember the partic- \nular circumstances of an event, that the event itself in gen- \neral must have been the object of our attention. There \nis some particular thing in all cases of intentional remem- \nbrance, w^hich we wish to call to mind, although we \nare totally unable to state what it is ; but we know, that \nit is somehow connected with some general event, which \nwe already have in memory. Now by revolving in nrind \nthe great facts or outlines of that event, it so happens, \nthat the particular circumstance, which we were in \nsearch of, is called up. But certainly no one can say \nthat this is done by a direct volition ; \xe2\x80\x94 so far from it, \nthat nothing more is wanting to explain it, than the com- \nmon principles of association. This statement is illustra- \nted, w4ienever, in reciting an extract which we had com- \nmitted to memory, we are at a loss for the beginning of \na particular sentence. In such a case we naturally repeat \na number of times the concluding words of the preced- \ning sentence, and very soon we recall the sentence, \nwhich was lost ; not, however, by direct volition, but by \nassociation. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 214. Associations controlled hy an indirect voluntary \npower. \n\nBut we would not be understood to say, that the \nwill possesses no influence whatever over our trains of \nthought ; its influence is very considerable, although it is \n\n\n\n286 \n\n\n\nCASUAL ASSOCIATIONS. \n\n\n\n\nnot as we have seen, immediate and direct. (1) We \n\nhave, in the first place, the power of checking or delay- \ning the succession of ideas. This power is always found \nto exist, when the direction of the mind towards a par- \nticular subject is attended with a feeling of desire or \ninterest. We are not, indeed, enabled by our power \nin this respect either directly to call up or to banish \nany one or any number of our thoughts. But the conse- \nquence is, a variety of trains of thought are suggested,which \nwould not have been suggested, had it not been for \nthe circumstance of the original train being delayed. \nThus, in the course of our mental associations, the narrie \nof Sir Isaac Newton occurs ; \xe2\x80\x94 we experience a strong \nemotion of interest ; aided by this interest, we check \nthe current of our thoughts at that name, and we feel \nand are conscious, that we have w^ithin us the ability \nto do so. While we delay upon it, a variety of series \nof ideas occurs. At (fne moment we think of eminent \nmathematicians and astronomers, for he himself was one ; \nat another, we think of those cotemporaries, who were \nhis particular friends, whatever their rank in science, be- \ncause they lived at the same time ; a moment after, our \nminds dwell upon some striking incidents in his life or \nsome marked features in his social or intellectual char- \nacter ; \xe2\x80\x94 and again, we may\'be led to think, almost in the \nsame instant, of some proposition or demonstration, \nwhich had once exercised his patience and skill. In \nconsequence of delaying a few moments on the name or \nrather on the general idea of the man, these different \ntrains of thought are presented ; and we can evidently fix \nour minds upon one of these subjects if we choose, or \nhave a desire to, and dismiss the others. This is one way, \nin which by choice or volition* we are able to exercise a \nconsiderable indirect power over our associations. \n\n(2) We acquire, in the second place, great power over \nour associations by habit ; and as no man ordinarily forms \nsuch habit without choosing to form it, we have here \nanother instance of the indirect power of volition. By \nthe term Habit, when it is applied to our mental opera- \n\n\n\nCASUAL ASSOCIATIONS. 287 \n\ntions, we mean in particular that facility or readiness,, \nwhich they acquire by being frequently repeated. The \nconsequence of repetition or frequent practice is, that cer- \ntain associations are soon very much strengthened, or that \na facility in them is acquired. \n\nStriking instances of the effect of repetition have been \ngiven in the course of this chapter, although it might per- \nhaps be said in respect to these,that they were forced up- \non us by our particular situation, rather than brought \nabout by positive desire or choice. But there are other \ninstances, to whieh this remark is not eq^ually applicable. \n\nIt is a well known fact, that almost any person may \n\nbecome a punster or rhymer by taking the pains to form \na habit, that is, by increasing the facility of certain asso- \nciations by frequent repetition. By punning we under- \nstand the power of readily summoning up, on a particular \noccasion, a number of words different from each other in \nmeaning, but resembling each other more or less in \n\nsound. That facility of association, which is acquired \n\nby frequent repetition and which is commonly expressed \nby the word habit, (as when we say of a person that he \nhas formed a habit of expression,) is the great secret of \nfluencj\'\' in extemporaneous speaking. The extemporane-^ \nous speaker must, indeed, have ideas ; no modification of \nassociation whatever can supply the place of them. But \nhis ability to arrange them in some suitable order and to \nexpress them in words without previous care and effort, is \nthe result, in a great measure, of habits of association flow- \ning from his own choice and determination. \xe2\x80\x94 (See Stew- \nart\'s Elements, Vol. I. ch. vi. pt. 2 ; Historical Disser- \ntation, Pt. I. \xc2\xa7. II. CH. 2 ; Brown\'s Lectures, xli, xlii,. \nXLIX. &c.) \n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER ELEVENTH. \n\n\n\n\n\nCOMPLEX NOTIONS OF EXTERNAL ORIGIN. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 215. Of simplicity and complexness of mental states in \ngeneral \n\nBefore leaving that portion of our knowledge, \nwhich has an external origin, it is necessary to examine it \nin relation to the principle or law of Simplicity and \nComplexness, which was formerly considered. We find \non examination, that our mental states do not possess the \nsame value, but oftentimes one is virtually equal to many \nothers; and hence w^e are able to resolve the whole mass of \nthem into the two general classes of Simple and Complex. \nIt may seem surprising, that one mental- state, which has \na perfect unity and simplicity in itself, should still embrace \ntwo, three, or any number of others; but such is undoubt- \nedly the fact. Let us fix our attention upon whatever \ncomplex notion or feeling we please to, and we shall find \nit susceptible of being examined under this view ; we may \nconsider it in its whole or in its parts, in its comprelien- \nsion or its elements. \n\nAnd it may be added here, that in a practical point of \nview, the ability to do this, and the habit of doing it are \nof much importance. In early life, and in all the stages \nof education, the practice of mental analysis, in its appli- \ncation to particular thoughts and feelings, should undoubt- \n\n\n\nCOMPLEX NOTIONS OF EXTERNAL ORIGIN. 289 \n\nediy be kept up. It will in the end aid much in clearness \nof perception, and in the training up of a prompt and ac- \ncurate judgment, if no word, expressive of a complex \nmental state, is permitted to be used without a proper \nunderstanding of what is involved in it. \xe2\x80\x94 Looking there- \nfore at those sensations and notions, which the mind has \naccess to through the direct medium of the senses, we find \nthem either simple or complex. There is not a single feel- \ning, not a single idea, which is not comprehended in this \narrangement, and does not belong to one of these two \nclasses. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 216. Instances of simple ideas from the senses. \n\nIt is proper, before looking at those notions which are \ncomplex, to refer to some of those which are simple ; as \neven the brief consideration of the latter will help to throw \nlight on the former. \xe2\x80\x94 Among the simple ideas, (sensations \nperhaps is here the more appropriate term,) which we , \nbecome possessed of by means of the senses, are all the \nvarieties of colour, as red, white, yellow, green, &c., re- \nceived by the sense of sight. Under the head of simple no- \ntions are to be included also the original intimations of the \ntouch, as resistance, extension, hardness, and softness, &c. \nThe character of simplicity is to be ascribed in like man- \nner to the. original sensations of sound, received by the \nsense of hearing ; and to those of the smell and the taste. \n\nThese elementary notions are conformed to the general \nview, which has been given in a former chapter of our \nuncompounded feelings, viz, They are not capable of a sep- \naration into parts and of being resolved into other ele- \nments, and as a consequence of this are not susceptible of \nbeing made clearer by definition. Neverthele?]s.they are \nnot obscure and mysterious, and can well do without any \nlaboured exposition. They are just what nature made and \ndesigned them to be, distinct and definite, as a general \nstatement, both in themselves, and to men\'s comprehen- \nsion of them. \n\nWhen we make this statement, with the limitation of its \n\nbeing true and applicable in general, we have reference to \n31 \n\n\n\n290 COMPLEX NOTIONS \n\nthose cases,where one sensation borders upon and runs into \nanother, and where the human mind undoubtedly finds its \napprehension of them somewhat indistinct. There are many- \nsimple sensations, answering to this description, to which \nwe give no names ; the prominent diversities only are \nmarked in that way, to the neglect of those, which ap- \nproximate, and partially mingle in with other diversities. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 217. Of objects contemplated as wholes. \n\nBut what we term our simple notions are representative \nonly of the parts of objects. In point of fact, however, those \nexternal objects, which come under our notice, are present- \ned to us as wholes, and as such, (whatever may have been the \noriginal process leading to that result,) we very early con- \ntemplate them. \xe2\x80\x94 Take for instance a loadstone. In their \nprdinary and common thoughts upon it, men undoubted- \nly contemplate it as a whole ; the state of mind, which \nhas reference to it, embraces it as such. This complex \nnotion, like all others which are complex, is virtually equal \nto a number of others of a more elementary character. \n\nHence, when we are called upon to give an account of \nthe loadstone, we caii return no other answer than by an \nenumeration of its elements. It is something, which has \nweight, colour, hardness, friability, power to draw iron, \nand whatever eke we discover in it. \n\nWe use the term gold. This is a complex term, and \nimplies a complexity in the corresponding mjental state. \nBut if we use the word gold, or any other synonymous \nword, in the hearing of a man -who has neither seen that \nsubstance, nor had it explained to him, he will not under- \nstand what is meant to be conveyed. We must enter into \nan analysis ; and show, that it is a combination of the \nqualities of yellowness, great weight, fusibility, ductility, \n&c.\' We look upward to the sun in the heavens. But what \nshould we know of that great aggregate, if we could not \ncontemplate it in the elements of form and extension, of \nbrightness and heat, of roundness and regularity of motion? \n\xe2\x80\xa2 \xe2\x80\x94 All the ideas, therefore, which we form of external ob- \njects considered as wholes, are complex ; and all such com- \nplex notions are composed of thpse which are simple. \n\n\n\nOF EXTERNAL ORIGIN. 291 \n\n\'^. 5 18. Complex notions preceded by simple. ones. \n\nIt would seem from what has been thus far stated, that \nthere is in the class of mental states now under considera- \ntion an internal or mental complexity, corresponding to \nthe complexity in the external object. But it is not to be \nthought, that we arrive at this ultimate complexity of \nmental state by a single act, by an undivided and insepara- \nble movement of the mind, although, such is the rapidity \nof the process, it may in some cases seem to be so. On \nthe contrary, every simple\' idea, involved in, and forming \na part of the compound, so far as we have any distinct \nconception of the compounded idea, passes under a rapid \nreview, and the complex state of the mind is the result of \nthis rapid review. We cannot, for instance, have the \ncomplex notion of a man, of iron, of loadstone, of a tree, \n&c. without having first, at some time, subjected, each \nsimple element, of which such objects are made up, to a \nseparate examination. \n\nThis glance of the mind at the various simple notions is \nperformed indeed with such extreme quickness, (at least \ngenerally so,) that the successive steps of it are not recol- \nlected ; but this, when we consider the rapidity of the \nmind\'s ope/ations in other instances, is no sufficient objec- \ntion to the statement, which has been made. \n\nThe process in the formation of complex ideas goes on \nfrom step to step, from one simple or elementary part to \nanother, but when the examination is completed, the ulti- \nmate state of the mind, which the completion of the pro- \ncess implies, is not to be considered as in any degree want- \ning in unity or oneness. It is, in itself considered, as \nmuch one and indivisible as any one of those states of mind \nwhich we know to be simple. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 219. Imperfections of our complex notions of external \nobjects. \n\nAlthough the mind of man is to be regarded, in the \ngreat ordering and constitution of things, as in some im- \nportant sense the representative of the material universe, \n\n\n\n292 \n\n\n\nCOMPLEX NOTIONS \n\n\n\nit must still be acknowledfred to be a very imperfect one. \nIt is as true in nature, as it is in religion, that we know only \nin part. Men have no doubt been always advancing in \nknowledge, but wlien we compare our present acquisi- \ntions with our former ignorance, we may well anticipate, \nIhat the progress of the future will lay the foundation of \nanother comparison, not so flattering to the present gener- \nation. This vaew will not only apply to knowledge in \nthe mass ; but will hold good, on a smaller scale, of every \n\ncomplex notion which we form. Take for instance the \n\ncomplex idea of Gold. The tljought is understood to be \nthe representative of the thing. But is it in this case a \ntrue one ? If we should admit it to be so as far as it goe?, \nstill it is evidently not a full or perfect one ; nor can we \nregard it as sucli Vv^ithout suifering ourselves to be led into \nerrour. In the complicated notion, to which men agree in \ngiving that name, we combine the simple idea of yellow- \nness, weight\', hardness, malleability, and perhaps others ; \nbut it is only reasonable to suppose, that no person com- \nbines, in his coriception of it, all its properties. \n\nPhilosophy may boast of her achievements ; but na- \nture has not revealed all her secrets yet. Can any man \nexplain the mode of the connection between mind and mat- \nter ?\' That is a secret not yet cleared up. Can any man \nassert positively what that cohesion or attraction is, which \nholds together the parts of gold, iron, and other material \nbodies ? That is a subject also, on which nature has re- \nserved to herself something further to say. One body \nimpinging upon another puts it in motion ; and in our \nwisdom we give it a name ; we call it motion by impulse. \nBut can any man tell, what motion is ? Still more can he \npoint out, how motion passes from one body to another \nwhen the particles of those bodies come in contact, if in- \ndeed there can be any actual contact ? Such are the \n\ndoubts, that press upon us, wherever we turn our eyes. \nBut this is not said to discourage inquiry. The first step \nin laying a good and broad foundation is to be fully seu- \npible of our ignorance, and of the mind\'s limits. \n\n\n\nOF EXTERNAL ORIGIN. 293 \n\n\xc2\xa7. 220. Of what are to he understood by cliimericalideas. \n\nMr. Locke somewhere speaks of certain notions, which \nthe mind is capable of framing and to which it ascribes \nan external and material existence, as chimerical, in op- \nposition to those which are real. Although the consider- \nation of the notions thus designated may be deemed more \nimportant in a practical, than a purely philosophical point \nof view, the subject is evidently deserving some attention. \nWhen an idea is a real or well-founded one, it has some- \nthing precisely corresponding to it in nature, at least so \nfar as it is understood to be representative of any thing. \nBut when the mind so brings together and combines its \nperceptions as to form something of which nature pre- \nsents no corresponding reality, then such notion or feel- \ning is spoken of as chimerical. If, for instance, a person \nwere known to have an idea of a body, yellow, or of some \nother colour, malleable, fixed, possessing in a word\'all the \nqualities of iron or of gold with this difference only, of its \nbeing lighter than water, it would be what we term a \nchimerical idea. That is ; it would have nothing corres- \nponding to it in the nature of things. \xe2\x80\x94 And a similar"^re- \nmark will apply to a multitude of other instances, which \nare to be found every where in the religious mythology, \nand the early tre^ditions of nations. There is the centaur, \na fabulous animal, partly man and partly horse ; the \nDRAGON, an immense serpent, furnished with wings, and \ncapable of making its way through the atmosphere, by their \naid ; the hipogriff, an imaginary steed, having the pov/- \ner also of performing asrial j()urne3^s ; saying nothing \nof magical swords, enchant\'ed castles and islands, &c. \n\nSuch chimeras, framed in the days of ignorance, have \nbeen too numerous ; and not unfrequently the belief in \nthem has been fostered and transmitted in the riper ages \nof the human understanding. Happily for us, on whom, \nin the language of Scripture, the ends of the world \nhave come, in the. abundance and operation of real causes, \nwe are not obliged to resort to imaginary ones. There \nare grand agencies at work in nature, of which the mind \n\n\n\n294 \n\n\n\nCOMPLEX NOTIONS \n\n\n\nof man in its childhood never conceived. There are not \nonly causes enough, but their agency is sufficiently stri- \nking to gratify all our wonder, without violating the \nstrictness of truth, or overstepping the bounds of real- \nity. \n\n\xc2\xa7.221. Of the introduction of such notions Jn early life. \n\nThe views of the last section are of some practical \nconsequence in training up the young mind. If causes \nexist in the soul itself, which, under an unwise direction, \nwill result in fals6 or chi\'merical notions, we may.find here \na practical rule in Education. The mind in early life \nshould be carefully trained up to the knowledge of things \nas they are ; and not to an aquaintance with mere sup- \npositions, or with things as they are not. While the young \nmind by the mere aid of that instrumentality, which the \nauthor of nature has furnished, is constantly storing up \nimportant thoughts, it also receives false ideas from vari- \nous sources. These erroneous intimations are not neces- \nsarily to b^ attributed to the imperfection of the senses, \nor to any thing originally in the constitution. There is no \nlack of \'sources of errour, without casting such imputar \ntions on the original tendencies of the mind. While nature \nat a very early period is rapidly carrying on the process of \nmental developement and instruction, too frequently her \nsuggestions, instead of being aided, are counteracted or \nmisrepresented by parents or domestics. \n\nIn support of this remark, it is merely requisite to re- \nfer to the numerous false notions, which children are led \nto entertain in respect to the existence of ghosts and other \nimaginary beings. It cannot be pretended, that such no- \ntions are the result of the mental powers in their legiti- \nmate exercise ; on the contrary they are engrafted upon \nthem by an extraneous and evil agency ,which thus, either \nthoughtlessly or maliciously, perA^erts the commendable \nfears, and hopes, and devotional impulses of the soul. It is \ntrue undoubtedly, that many systems of superstition, \nmany mythological codes of the most venerable antiquity, \nand with them their thousand chimeras, have passed \n\n\n\nOF EXTERNAL ORIGIN. 295 \n\naway. But all is not yet gone ; spectres and aerial visi- \ntants, and enchantments still haunt the nursery. But there \nis certainly no want of true and important notions, which \ncan be made an excuse for the introduction of such absurd \nand unfounded ones ; and it ought to be made a great ob- \nject to keep the mind as free from them as possible. \n\n\' The greater heed is to be given to this direction, be- \ncause permanently evil consequences are found to result \nfrom the neglect of it. We have the experience and tes- \ntimony of many judicious persons, that the introduction \nof ideas of ghosts, &c. in early life ever afterwards ren- \nders one incapable of enduring darkness or solitude with- \nout great disquietude. \n\n\n\nCHAPTER TWELFTH. \n\n\n\nABSTRACTION. \n\n\n\n\xc2\xa7. 222. Abstraction implied in the analysis of ow com- \nplex notions. \n\nThe remarks, which have heen made, in the course \nof the foregoing\'chapter, on the analysis and examination \nof our Complex Intellectual states, naturally lead to the \nconsideration of another subject in some respects intimate- \nly connected with that topic. When we have once form- \ned a complex notion, (no matter at what period, in what \n\n.way, or of what kind,) it often happens that we wish, for \nreasons already given\', to examine more particularly some \nof its parts* Very frequency this is absolutely necessary \nto the full understanding of it. Although undoubtedly its \n\n\'elementary parts once came under review, that time is now \nlong past ; it has become important to institute a new in- \nspection, to take each simple notion involved in it, and ex- \namine it by itself. And this is done by means of the pro- \ncess of Abstraction, and in no other way. . \n\nBy the aid of that process, our complex notions, how- \never comprehensive they may be, are susceptible, if one \nmay be allowed so to speak, of being taken to pieces, and \nthe elementary parts may be abstracted or separated from \neach other ; that is, they are made subjects of considera- \ntion apart from other ideas, with which they are ordina- \nrily found to be associated. And hence, whenever this is \n\n\n\nABSTRACTION. 297 \n\nthe case in respect to the states of the mind, they are some- \ntimes called ABsiYRACTioKs, and still more frequently are \nknown by the name of abstract ideas. \n\nFor the purpose of distinctness in what we have to \nsay, they may be divided into the two classes of Particu- \nlar and General ; that is to say, in some cases the abstrac- \ntion relates only to a single idea or element, in others it \n\nincludes more. General Abstract Ideas, (or the notions \n\nwhich we form of Genera and Species.) will form a dis- \ntinct subject of consideration. \n\n^. 223. Instances of particular abstract ideas. \n\nWe shall proceed, therefore, to remark here on Partic- \nular abstractions. Of this class the notions, which we \nform of the different kinds of colours, may be regarded \nas instances. For example we hold in our hand a rose ; \nit has extension, colour, form, fragrance. The mind is*^ \nso deeply occupied with the colour, as almost v/hollyto \nneglect the other qualities. This is a species of abstrac- \ntion, altliough perhaps an imperfect one, because when an \nobject is before us, it is difficult, in our most attentive \nconsideration of any particular quality or property, to \nwithdraw the mind wholly from the others. When, on \nthe contrary, any absent object of perception occurs to us, \nw^hen we think of or form a conception* of it, our thoughts \nwill readily fix upon the colour of such object, and make \nthat the subject of consideration, without particularly re- \ngarding its other qualities,, sucli a-3 weight, hardness, taste, \nform, &c. We may also distinguish in any body, (either \nwhen present or still more perfectly when absent,) its so- \nlidity from its extension, or we may direct our attention \nto its weight, or its length, or breadth, or thickness, and \nmake any one of these a distinct object in our thoughts. \n\nAnd hence, as it is a well known fact, that the proper- \nties of any body may be separated in the view and exami- \nnation of the mind, however closely they may be connect- \ned in their appropriate subjects, we may lay down this \nstatement in respect to the states of mind before us \' viz. \nWhen any quality or attribute of an object, which, does \n\n\n\n298 \n\n\n\nABSTRACTION. \n\n\n\nnot exist by itself, but in a state of combination, is detach- \ned by our minds from it\'s customary associates, and is con- \nsidered separately, the notion we form of it becoin^s a \n\nparticular abstract idea. The distinctive mark of this \n\nclass is, that the abstraction is limited to one quality. It \nshould perhaps be particularly added, that the abstrac- \ntion or separation may exist mentally, when it cannot take \nplace in the object itself. For instance, the size, the fig- \nure, length, breadth, colour, &c. of a building may each \nof them be made subjects of separate mental consideration, \nalthough there can be no real or actual separation of \nthese things in the building itself. If there be any one \nof these properties, there must necessarily be all. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 224. Mental process in separating or alstf acting them. \n\nThe manner of expressing ourselves on the subject of \nour abstract notions, to which we have been accustomed, \nis apt to create and cherish a belief in the existence of a \nseparate mental faculty, adapted solely to this particular \npurpose. But the doctrine of a power or faculty of ab- \nstraction, which is exclusive of other mental susceptibili- \nties, and is employed solely for this purpose, does not ap- \npear to be well founded. It will convey an impression \nnearer the truth to speak of the process, rather than the \n\npower of abstraction.- The following statement will be \n\nsufucient to show, how those of the first class, or particu- \nlar abstract ideas are formed. \n\nAlthough our earliest notions, whether they arise from \nthe senses or are of an internal origin, are simple, existing \nin an independent and separate state, yet those simple \nthoughts are very soon found to unite together with a con- \nsiderable degree of permanency, and out of them are \nformed complex states of mind. Many are in this way \ncombined together in one, and the question is, how this \ncombination is to be loosened, and the elementary parts \nare to be extracted from their present complexity ? \n\nId answer it may be said, that, in every case of separ- \nating a particular abstract idea, there must necessarily be \na co-existcut feeling of interest, choice, or desire. With- \n\n\n\nABSTRACTION. 299 \n\nout such feeling it is evident there can be no abstraction. \nThis feeling must concern the previous complex state of \nthe mind when viewed in one resp8ct5rather than another; \nor what is the same thing, it will concern one part of the \ncomplex idea rather than another. So that we may truly \nand justly be said to have a desire to consider or examine \nsome part of the complex idea more particularly, than the \nothers. When the mind is in this high degree directed to \nany particular part of a complex notion we find it to be the \nfoctj that ths principle of association, or whatever un- \nknown principle it is, which keeps the other parts in their \nstate of virtual union with it, ceases in a corresponding \ndegree to operate and to maintain that union ; the other \nparts rapidly fall off and disappear, and the particular \nquality, towards which the mind was especially directed, \nremains the sole subject of consideration. That is to say, \nit is abstracted or becomes an abstract idea. \xe2\x80\x94 If far exam- \nple we have in mind the complex notion of an object, a \nhouse, tree, plant, flower, and the like, but have a desire \nor interest in reference to the colour, mingling in with \nthis complex notion, the consequence is, that the quality \nof colour will soon occupy our whole regard, and the \nother qualities will disappear, and no more be thought of- \nIf we desire to examine the weight or extension of an ob- \nject, the result will be\' the same ; in other words, the ex- \ntension, weight, colour, &c. will be abstracted. \n\nThis, in the formation of particular abstract ideas, \nseems to be the process of the mind and nothing more ; \nviz. The co-existence of a feeling of desire or choice in \nrespect to some particular part of any complex notion,and \nthe consequent detention of the part, towards which an in- \nterest is felt, and the disappearance of the other parts. \n\nSuch is the activity of the mind, and in so many \n\nways it views the " images of things," that this striking \nprocess of detaching, and examining, and changing the \nparts of our complex notions, is almost constantly going \non. And after the mind has thus shifted its position, and \nhas been now in this state, and now in that, as if playfully \nto show its wonderful readiness in diminishing itself to a \n\n\n\nsoo \n\n\n\nABSTRACTION. \n\n\n\npart of its previous complexity, it seems as readily to swell \nback again, if we may be allowed in such figurative ex- \npressions, to its former dimensions, and often exii^ts the \nsame as before the process of abstraction commenced. \n\n\xc2\xa7 . 225 . Of generalizations of particular abstract ideas. \n\nThe terms generalizing and generalization are \noften found applied to the states of mind under consider- \nation. When we \'have made any quality of a body a dis- \ntinct and separate subject of attention, we may further re- \ngard it as belonging to one or more objects, according as \nwe find such to be the fact or otherwise. What is-diief- \nly meant therefore, when v/e speak of the generalizing of \nthis class of abstract notions, is that, in our experience of \nthings, we observe them to be common to many subjects. \nWe find whiteness to be a quality of snow, of chalk, of \nmilk, and of other bodies; and whenever with the simple \nabstract notion of whiteness we connect in our thoughts \nthe additional circumstance of its not being limited to one \nbody but the property of many, the term may be said to \nbe generalized. And this seems to be all, that can be prop- \nerly understood by generalization, when applied to the \nstates of mind now before us. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 22Q. Of the importance and uses of abstraction. \n\nThe power of Abstraction, as it has sometimes been \ncalled, is by no means an unimportant one, even when \nlimited to the separation of the particular or simple ele- \nments of thought. *^\'A carpenter, (says Kames,* speak- \ning of the great utility of abstraction,) considers a log of \nwood with regard to hardness, firmness, colour, and tex- \nture ; a philosopher, neglecting these properties, makes \nthe log undergo a chemical analysis, and examines its \ntaste, its smell, and component principles ; the geometri- \ncian confines his reasoning to the figure, the length, breadth, \nand thickness ; in general, every artist, abstracting from \n\xc2\xa3i\\\\ other properties, confines his observations io those, \n\n* Elements of Criticism, Vol. TIT. A]ipcndix. \n\n\n\nabstraction; soi \n\nwhich have a more immediate connection with his pro- \nfession." \n\nBesides its well-known uses in the various forms of \nreas6ning, (particularly demonstrative reasoning,) abstrac- \ntion is sreatlv subservient to the exertions of a creative \nimagination, as they appear in painting, architecture, poe- \ntry, and the other fine and liberal arts. \n\nThe poet and the painter are supplied with their ma- \nterials from experience ; without having received ideas \nfrom some source they never could have practised their \nart. But if they do not restrict themselves to. mere imita- \ntion, they must combine and modify the ideas which they \nhave, so as to be able to form new creations of their ow^n. \nBut every such exertion of their powers presupposes the \nexercise of abstraction in decomposing and separating ac- \ntual conceptions, and in forming them anew. \n\nFrom how many delightful forms in nature, and how \nmany ideal temples contemplated for a long time in the \nmind\'s eye, must the genius, that planned the famous Par- \nthenon, have abstracted every form of beauty, and excel- \nlence of proportion ! From how many forests of harmo- \nny both seen and imagined, and fields of bloom, and riv- \ners and waterfalls, must the mind, that conceived the Gar- \nden of Paradise Lost; have drawn each sound, that is en- \nchanting to the ear, and colour, that is pleasant to the \nsight \\ \n\n\n\nCHAPTER THIRTEENTH. \n\n\n\nGENERAL ABSTRACT IDEAS. \n\n,7. General abstract notions the same with genera and \nspecies. \n\nWe proceed, in connection with the remarks of the last \nchapter^ to the consideration of general abstract ideas ; \na subject of no little interest, and which has frequently \nbeen thought to be attended with no small difficulty. \n\nGeneral Abstract notions are not only different, in con- \nsequence of embracing a greater number of elementary \nparts, from those which are particular, but are also sus- \nceptible of being distinguished from the great body of our \n\nother complex notions. The idea for example, which \n\nwe form of any individual, of John, Peter, or James, is \nevidently a complex one, but it is not necessarily a general \none. The notion, which we frame of a particular horse, \n01\' of a particular tree is likewise a complex idea, but not \na general one. There will be found to be a clear distinc- \ntion between them, although it may not be perfectly obvi- \nous at first. General abstract ideas are our notions of \nthe classes of objects, that is, of Genera and Species. \nThey are expressed by general names, without, in most \ncases, any defining or limitation, as when we use the \n\nwords ANIMAL, MAN, HORSE, BIRD, SHEEP, FISH, THEE, not \n\nto express any one in particular of these various classes, \nbut animals, men, horses, &c. in general. \n\n\n\nGENERAL ABSTRACT IDEAS. 303 \n\n\xc2\xa7. 228. Process in classification or the forming of genera \nand species. \n\nNow if our general abstract ideas, so far as they re- \nlate to external objects, are truly notions of species and \nGENERA, it will aid us in the better understanding of thena, \nif we briefly consider, how species and genera are formed. \nMen certainly find no great practical difficulty in making \nthese classifications, for we find that they are made in \nnumberless instances, and at a very early period of life. \nThey are evidently governed in the process by definite \nand uniform mental tendencies ; and though they some- \ntimes make mistakes, such mistakes are neither frequent \nnor permanent, and besides are generally owing to partial \nand incidental causes. \n\nWhat then is the process in classification ? \xe2\x80\x94 It is obvi- \nous, in the first place, that no classification can be made \nwithout considering two or more objects together. A \nnumber of objects, therefore, are first presented to us for \nour observation and inquiry, which are to be examined \nfirst in themselves, and then in comparison with each oth- \ner. We will take a familiar scene to illustrate what takes \nplace. \n\nWe suppose ourselves to stand on the bank of a naviga- \ngable river ; we behold the flowing of its waters, the cliifs \nthat overhang it, the trees that line its shore, the boats \nand boatmen on its bosom, the flocks and herds, that press \ndown to drink from its waves. With such a scene before \nus, it is to be expected, that the mind will rapidly make \neach, and all of these th\xc2\xab subjects of its contemplation ; \nnor does it pursue this contemplation and inquiry far, \nwithout perceiving certain relations of agreement or dif- \nference. Certain objects before it are felt to be essentially \nalike, and others to be essentially different ; and hence \nthey are not all arranged in one class, but a discrimination \nis made, and different classes arc formed. The flocks and \nherds are formed into their respective classes. The tall \nand leafy bodies on the river\'s bank, alt]iougli they differ \nfrom each other in some respects, are yet found to agree \n\n\n\n304 GENERAL ABSTRACT IDEAS. \n\nin so many others, that they are arranged together in an- \nother class, and called by the general name of tree. The \nliving, moving, and reasoning beings, that propel the \nboats on its waters, form another class, and are called man. \nAnd there is the same process, and the same result in \nrespect to all other bodies coming within t,he range of our \nobservation. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 229. Early classifications sometimes incorrect. \n\nIt has been stated, that, in making these classifications, \nmen are governed by definite and unifom mental tenden- \ncies; still it m.ust be acknowledged, that mistakes are some- \ntimes committed, especially in the early periods of society, \nand in all cases where the opportunities of examination and \ncomparison are imperfect. * When man first opens his eye \non nature, (and in the infancy of our race, he finds himself \na novice, wherever he goes,) objects so numerous, so vari- \nous in kind, so novel and interesting, crowd upon his at- \ntention ; that, attempting to direct himself to all at the \nsame time, he looses sight of their specifical differences, and \nblends them together, more than a calm and accurate ex- \namination would justify. And hence it is not to be won- \ndered at, that our earliest classifications, the primitive \ngenera and species, are sometimes incorrectly made. \n\nSubsequently, when knowledge has been in some meas- \nure amassed, and reasoning and observation have been \nbrought to a greater maturity, these errours are attended \nto ; individuals are rejected from species, where they do \nnot properly belong, and species from genera. The most \nsavage and ignorant tribes will in due season correct their \nmistakes, and be led into the truth. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 230. Illustraticns of our first classifications from tJie \nSavages of Wateeoo. \n\nWe are naturally led to introduce an incident here, \nwhich throws some liglit on this part of our subject. \nThe English navigator. Cook, in going from New Zealand \nto the Friendly Islands, lighted on an Island, called \nWateeoo. *\' The inhabitants (he says) were afraid to \n\n\n\nGENERAL ABSTRACT IDEAS. 305 \n\ncome near our cows and horses, nor did they form the \nleast conception of their nature. But the sheep and goats \ndid not surpass the limits of their ideas, for they gave us \nto understand, they knew them to be birds.\'\'\'\' \n\nCaptain Cook informs us, that these people were ac- \nquainted with only three sorts of animals, viz. dogs, hogs, \nand birds. \xe2\x80\x94 Having never before seen any such animals as a \ncow or a horse, they beheld their great size and formidable \naspect with admiration ; filled with fear, they could not be \ninduced to approach, and knew not what to call or think \nof them. They noticed the goats and the sheep, and \nclearly saw, that they were different from the dogs and \nhogs, with which they had been acquainted. But how \n,did it happen, that they called them birds } \n\nThere is no nation so rude and uncivilized, as not to have \nformed a few classifications, and not to possess a few gen- \neral terms. Having noticed a variety of birds in their \nwaters and forests, the people of Wateeoo had undoubt- \nedly found it necessary before this period to assign some \ngeneral name or appellative to the flying animal, expres- \nsive of those resemblances, which evidently pervade the \nwhole class. They called them, we will suppose, birds. \nKnowing there was a great variety of them, and that they \n\\^ere of different sizes, they not unnaturally applied the \nsame term to the sheep and goats of the English. They \nknew not but there mi^ht be some new class of birds, \nwhich they had not hitherto noticed ; and they saw no \ninsuperable objection, in the size of the sheep and goats, to \nthis disposition of them, whatever other objection they \nmight subsequently have found. \n\nBut they could clearly have no thoughts of this kind \nin respect to cows and horses ; and as to hogs and dogs \nthey had no generic term for them, having never known \nmore than one variety or class, and having never been led \nto suspect, that there was or could be any other. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 231 . Of the nature of general abstract ideas. \n\nThe notions, which are thus formed in all cases of \nclassification, are commonlv known, in the Treatises hav- \n\xc2\xa39" \n\n\n\nS06 GENERAL ABSTRACT IDEAS. \n\ning relation to these subjects, as General Abstract ideas. \nAnd they are no less numerous than the multiplied varie- \nties of objects, which are found to exist every where \naround us. It is thus, that we form the general notions \nof animal and of all the subordinate species of animals ; \nof tree and its numerous varieties ; of earths, and miner- \nals, and whatever else is capable of being arranged into \nclasses. \n\nWe may apply these views not only to natural objects, \nbut to forms and relations of a verv different character. \nThe word Triangle is the name of a general abstract idea. \nGreat exceptions howxver have been taken to certain in- \ncautious expressions of Mr. Locke on this point. He as- \nserts, that it requires some pains and skill to form the \ngeneral idea of a triangle, and gives the following reason ; \n" for it must be neither oblique, nor rectangle, neither \nequilateral, equicrural, nor scalenon, but all and none of \nthese at once," &c. This language is undoubtedly open \nto criticism, and in truth has not failed to receive a full \nshare. The correct view seems to be this. The word tri- \nangle is not only the name of a class, but of a very gen- \neral class ; it is the name of a Genus, embracing all those \nfigures, which agree in the circumstance of being bound- \ned by three straight lines meeting one another so as to fonii \nthree angles. A figure having any other form, (in other \nwords not exhibiting a resemblance or similarity in this \nrespect,) is excluded from the Genus ; but it is still so \nextensive, taken in the sense just now mentioned, as to in- \nclude all figures whatever of that name. Now there \n\nare embraced within the genus, as in numerous other ca- \nses, subordinate classes, which are distinguished by their \nappropriate names, viz, the class of acute-angled triangles, \nthat of right-angled triangles, of obtuse-angled triangles,&c. \n\nBut it is to be noticed, that the general idea, what- \never objects it may be founded upon, does not embrace \nevery particular, which makes a part of such objects. \nWhen we look at a number of men, we find them all dif- \nfering in some respects, in height, size, colour, tone of the \nvoice, and in other particulars. The mind fixes only up- \n\n\n\nGENERAL ABSTRACT IDEAS. 807 \n\non those traits or properties, .with which it can combine \nthe notion of resemblance ; that is to say, those traits, \nqualities, or properties, in which the individuals are per- \nceived to be like, or to resemble each other. The com- \nplex mental state, which embraces these qualities and \nproperties, and nothing more, (with the exception of the \nsuperadded notion of other bodies having resembling \nqualities,) is a General Abstract idea. \n\nAnd hence the name. Such notions are called ab- \nstract, because, while embracing many individuals in \ncertain respects, they detach and leave out altogether a \nvariety of particulars, in which those individuals disa- \ngree. If there were not this discrimination and leaving \nout of certain parts, we never could consider these no- \ntions, regarded as wholes, as otherwise than individual \nor particular.\xe2\x80\x94 -They are called general, because, in Con- \nsequence of the discrimination and selection v/hich has \njust been mentioned, they embrace such qualities and prop- \nerties as exist not in one merely, but in many. \n\nThe difference, therefore, between the complex notion, \nwhich we form of any particular object, and the general \ncomplex feeling now under consideratiofi is truly this ; \nthe latter combines together fewer particulars, but unites \nwith such, as it does combine together, the additional no- \ntion of resemblance, which implies as its basis the compar- \nison of a number of objects, and is perhaps the distin- \nguishing circumstance- Hence it must be allowed, that \n\nthere is no outward object precisely corresponding to the \nGENERAL NOTION, which v/o form. The mind takes into \nview only a division or part of any one object, combining \nAvith this select view the notion of other objects, and the \nrelation of resemblance, in respect to such division or \npart. \n\nIf it should be asked, By virtue of what principle is \nthis discovery of a resembling relation made ? The answer \nis, (and it is the only one, which C2^n be given,) that there \nis in the mind an original tendency or susceptibility, by \nmeans of which, whenever we perceive different objects \ntogether,we are instantly, without the intervention of any \n\n\n\nSOS GENERAL ABSTRACT IDEAS. \n\nother mental process, sensible of their relation in certain \nrespects. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 232. Objection sometimes made to the existence of gener- \nal notions. \n\nIt should not, however, be objected, as is sometimes \ndone, that we can have no such general notion at all, \nbecause there is nothing outward, which it precisely cor- \nresponds to. Such an objection, although it appears to \nhave been frequently made, goes too far ; it would seem \neven to lead to the conclusion, that we can have no com- \nplex idea of any kind, neither particular nor general. It \ncannot be pretended, that even our notions of particular \nobjects correspond precisely to those objects ; the ideas, \nwhich we form of a particular house, tree, or plant, or \nany other individual object, are often erroneous in some \nrespects, and probably always imperfect. But they are \nnot, for that reason, to be regarded as false and chimerical, \nand to be rejected as having no foundation in nature. \n\nWe will suppose ourselves to have been acquainted in \nformer years with a particular elm ; we have looked up- \non it a thousand times ; and it is familiar to us as anv of \nour most cherished remembrances. At this great distance \nof time and place we form an idea, a conception, a notion \nof it, but it cannot be presumed to be a perfect or complete \none. It cannot be pretended, that we have a notion \nnot only of the trunk, but of every leaf and of the form of \novery leaf, of every branch and its intertwinings with ev- \nery other branch ; that it exists in our minds precisely, \nand in every respect, the same as it exists on the spot, \nwhere it grows. If therefore general abstract ideas are \nto be rejected, because they embrace only parts of those \nobjects, which are ranked under them, we must on the \nsame grounds reject and deny also our complex notions of \nindividual objects ; but this probably no one is prepared \nto do. \n\nTake another obvious illustration in reproof of the \nobjection, that, because general abstract ideas are j)urely \njmental, and have no outward and corresponding reality, \nthev therefore do not exist. \xe2\x80\x94 We have an idea of God. We \n\n\n\nGENERAL ABSTRACT IDEAS. S09 \n\npresume to say, that it will be readily admitted, that we \nhave such a notion ; not manj\'- men are without it, even \namong the most degraded Savages. But evidently the \nsame objection might be raised against the existence of any \nsuch idea, as has been raised against the existence of gen- \neral abstractions. If general abstract ideas are not out- \nwardly represented, so that of the Supreme Being, which \nis particular though complex, is also not outwardly repre- \nsented ; it is impossible, that it should be so. There is \nnothing we behold in heaven, or on earth, or under the \nearth, that is like Him. If every object in the universe \nwere transformed into so many letters of light, to set forth \nhis attributes and glory, they could not do it. Still we \nhave the idea of God ; and it has as real an existence as \nthe mind has itself. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 233. Of the power of general abstraction in connection with \nnumbers, ^\'C \n\nThe ability, which the mind possesses of forming gen- \neral abstract ideas, is of much practical importance ; but \nwhether it be the characteristical attribute of a rational na- \nture or not, as some have supposed, it is not necessary now \nto inquire. It is not easy to estimate the increase of pow- \ner, which is thus given to the action of the human mind, \nparticularly in reasoning. By means of general abstract \npropositions, we are able to state volumes in a few senten- \nces ; that is to say, the truths, stated and illustrated in a few \ngeneral propositions, would fill volumes in their particular \napplications. But it is enough here to refer to a single \ncircumstance in illustration of the uses of this power. \n\nWithout the ability of forming general notions, we \nshould not be able to number, even in the smallest degree. \nBefore we can consider objects as forming a multitude, or \nare able to number them, it seems necessary to be able to \napply to them a common name. This we cannot do, until \nwe have reduced them to a genus ; and the formation of a \ngenus implies the power, (or process rather,) of abstraction. \nConsequently, we should be unable without such power \nto number. \xe2\x80\x94 How great then is the practical importance \n\n\n\nSIO GENERAL ABSTRACT IDEAS. \n\nof that intellectual process, by which general abstractions \nare formed ! \xe2\x80\x94 Without the ability to number, we should \nbe at loss in all investigations where this ability is requir- \ned ; without the power to classify, all our speculations \nmust be be limited to particulars, and we should be capable \nof no general reasoning. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 234. Of general abstract truths or principles. \n\nThere are not only general abstract ideas, but abstract \ntruths or principles also of a general nature, which are \ndeserving of some attention, especially in a practical point \nof view. Although enough has perhaps already been said \nto show the importance of abstraction, it may yet be de- \nsirable to have a more full view of its applications. \n\nThe process, in forming general truths or principles of \nan abstract nature, seems to be this. We must begin un- \ndoubtedly with the examination and study of particulars ; \nwith individual objects and characters, and with insulated \nevents. We subsequently confirm the truth of whatever \nhas been ascertained in such inquiry, by an observation of \nother like bodies and events. We proceed from one indi- \nvidual to another, till no doubt remains. \n\nHaving in this way arrived at some general fact or \nprinciple, we thenceforward throw aside the consideration \nof the particular objects on which it is founded, and make \nit alone, exclusively and abstractly, the subject of our \nmental contemplations. We repeat this process again and \nagain, till the mind,instead of being wholly taken up with a \nmultitude of particulars, is stored with truths of a general \nkind. These truths it subsequently combines in trains of \nreasoning, compares together and deduces from them \nothers of still wider application. And the number of such \ngeneral truths is the greater, because, in ascertaining them \nwe are not restricted to our own personal experience in \nrespect to the individuals coming under examination, but \nmay often safely avail ourselves of that of others. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 235. OJ the speculations of philosophers and others. \n\nWhat has been said leads us to observe, that there is a \n\n\n\nGENERAL ABSTRACT IDEAS. 311 \n\ncharacteristical diiFerence between the speculations of men \nof philosophic minds and those of the common mass of \npeople, which is worthy of some notice. The diiFerence \nbetween the two is not so much, that philosophers are ac- \ncustomed to carry on processes of reasoning to a greater \nextent, as this, that they are more in the habit of emplov- \niiig general abstract ideas and general terms, and that, con- \nsequently, the conclusions which they form are more com- \nprehensive. Nor are their general reasonings, although the \nconclusions at which they arrive seem in their particular \napplications to indicate wonderful fertility of invention, \nso difficult in the performance as is apt to be supposed. They \nhave so often and so long looked at general ideas and gen- \neral propositions, have been so accustomed, as one may \nsay, to contemplate the general nature of things, divested \nof all superfluous and all specific circumstances, that they \nhave formed a habit ; and the operation is performed with- \nout difficulty. It requires in such persons no greater intel- \nlectual effort, than would be necessary in skilfully mana- \nging the details of ordinary business. \n\nThe speculations of the great bulk of mankind differ \nfrom those of philosophers in being, both in the subjects \nof them and in their results, particular. They discover \nan inability to enlarge their view to universal propositions, \nwhich embrace a great number of individuals. They may \npossess the power of mere argument, of comparing propo- \nsitions together which concern particulars, and deducing \ninferences from them to a great degree ; but when they \nattempt to contemplate general propositions, their minds \nare perplexed, and the conclusions, which are drawn from \nthem, appear obscure,however clearly the previous process \nof reasoning may have been expressed. And this restrict- \nedness and particularity of intellectual action may be even \nsuperinduced on minds, that were . originally not wanting \nin breadth of survey, or had at least the advantages of ed- \nucation. \n\n\n\nCHAPTER FOURTEENTH. \n\n\n\nOF ATTENTION. \n\n\n\n\xc2\xa7. 2SQ. Of the general nature of attention. \n\nWithout considering it necessary to speak of atten- \ntion as a separate intellectual power or faculty, as some \nmay be inclined to do, it seems to be sufficient to say, that \nATTENTION expresses the state of the mind, when it is stead- \nily directed, for a length of time, to some object of\' sense \nor intellect, exclusive of other objects. When we say, \nthat any external object, or any subject of thought, which \nis purely internal, receives attention, it seems to be the \nfact, as far as we are able to determine, that the mind is \noccupied with the subject of its attention, whatever it is, \nfor a certain period, and that all other things are for the \ntime being, shut out. In other Avords, the grasp, which \nthe mind fixes upon the object of its comtemplations, is \nan undivided, an unbroken one. \n\nBut it is natural to inquire. How this differs from the \ndirection of the mind to a subject in any other case ? Since \nin all instances, the mind, for the time being, is in one state \nmerely ; it always embraces one subject or part of a sub- \nject, exchisive of others. ^The answer to be given to \n\nthis inquiry is, that in attention the direction of the mind \nto a particular subject, or, (what is the same thing,) its \ncontinuance in a particular state or series of states, is ac- \ncompanied with a feeling of preference, desire, or interest; \n\n\n\nOF ATTENTION. 313 \n\nwhich feeling of desire is the cause of that continuance. \nSo that in all cases of attention, the act of the mind is a \ncomplex one, involving two things, (1) The mere thought \nor series of thoughts, (2) The accompanying emotion of \ninterest, which prevents that continual change in the \nthought, which would otherwise happen. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 237. Of different degrees of attention. \n\nIn agreement with this view of the subject, we often \nspeak of attention greiit or small, as existing in a very \nhigh or a very slight degree. When the view of the mind \nis only momentary, and is unaccompanied, as it generally \nis at such times, with any force of emotion ; then ihe at- \ntention is said to be slight. When it bends itself upon a \nthought or series of thoughts with earnestness, and for a \nconsiderable length of time, and refuses to attend to any \nthing else ; then the attention is said to be intense. \n\nWe commonly judge at first of the ilegree of attention \nto a subject from the length of time, during which the \nmind is occupied with it. But when we look a little fur- \nther, it will be found, that the time will generally depend \nupon the strength and permanency of the attendant emo- \ntion of interest. And hence both the time and the degree \nof feeling are to be regarded in our estimate of the pow- \ner of attention in any particular case ; the former being \nthe result, and, in some sense, a measure of the latter. \n\nOf instances of people, who are able to give but slight \nattention to any subject of thought, who cannot bring \ntheir ^ minds to it with steadiness and power, we every \nwhere find multitudes ; and there are some instances \nwhere this ability has been possessed in such a high degree \nas to be worthy of notice. There have been mathemati- \ncians, who could investigate the most complicated prob- \nlems amid every variety and character of disturbance. \' It \nwas said of Julias Caesar, that, while writing a despatch, \nhe could at the same time dictate four others to his secre- \ntaries, and if he did not write himself, could dictate sev- \nen letters at once. The same thing is asserted also of the \nemperor Napoleon, who had a wonderful capability of di- \n40 \n\n\n\n314 OF ATTENTION. \n\nreeling his whole mental energy to whatever came before \nhim.* \n\nThe chess-player Philidor could direct three games of \nchess at the same time, of one of which only he required \nocular inspection,\xc2\xbbthe moves of the other two being an- \nnounced to him by an assistant. The moves of the chess- \nmen formed the subject, about which his thoughts were \nemployed, and such was the intensity\' of interest, that the \nmind found no difficulty in dwelling upon it to the ex- \nclusion of other subjects, and for a considerable length of \ntime. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 2S8. Dependence of memory on attention. \n\nThere seems to be no fact in mental philosophy more \nclearly established than this, that memory depends on at- \ntention ; that is, where attention is very slight, remem- \nbrance is w^eak, and where attention is intense, remem- \nbrance continues longer. The following statement of Mr. \nHobbes, in his political treatise of the Leviathan, will tend \nto illustrate this fact. He says, he was once in compa- \nny, where the conversation turned on the English civil \nwar. A person abruptly asked, in the course of the con- \nversation, What was the value of a Roman denarius ? \nSuch a question, so remote from the general direction of \nthe conversation, had the appearance not only of great ab- \nruptness, but of impertinence. Mr. Hobbes says, that, \non a little reflection, he was able to trace the train of \nthought, which suggested the question. The original \nsubject of discourse naturally introduced the history of \nking Charles ; the king naturally suggested the treache- \nry of those, who surrendered him up to his enemies ; the \ntreachery of these persons readily introduced to the mind \nthe treachery of Judas Iscariot ; the conduct of Judas was \nassociated with the thirty pieces of silver, and as the Ro- \nmans occupied Judea at the time of the crucifixion of the \nSaviour, the pieces of silver were associated with the Ro- \nman denarii. All these trains of thought passed through \nthe mind of the person,, who asked the question, in a \n\' Segur\'s Histofy ofthc Expedition to Russia, Bk. VII, c u. 13. \n\n\n\nOF ATTENTION. SI 5 \n\n\xe2\x80\xa2 \n\ntwinkling ; and with good reason Mr. Stewart, in remark- \ning on this anecdote, thinks it not improbable, that he \nwould himself have been unable readily to state the train \n\nof ideas, which led to the unexpected inquirj^ Every \n\none is able to detect analogous facts in his own mental ex- \nperiences. We unexpectedly find ourselves reflecting on \na subject, to which- we must have been conducted by a \nlong concatenation of thought. But the preceding series, \nwhich conducted to the present subject of our meditations, \noccupied our attention for so short a time, that no foun- \ndation was laid for the memory, and it has irretrievably \nvanished. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 239. Further iUvMrcdions of the dependence of memory on \nattention. \n\nThere are other fgfcts perhaps of a still more obvious \nand satisfactory nature, which confirm the principle un- \nder consideration. In the course of a single day persons, \nwho are in the habit of wunking, will close their eyelids \nperhaps thousands of times, and as often as they close \nthem will place themselves in utter darkness. Probably, \nthey are conscious at the time both of closing their eye- \nlids and of being in the dark, but as their attention is \nchiefly taken up with other things, they have entirely for- \ngotten it. \n\n(2) Let a person be much engaged in conversation, or \noccupied with any very interesting speculation, and the \nclock will strike in the room where he is, apparently with- \nout his having any knowledge of it. He hears the clock \nstrike as much as at any other time, but, not attending to \nthe perception of sound and having his thoughts* directed \nanother way, he immediately forgets. \n\n(3) In the occupations of the day, when toils, and tu- \nmults, and cares are pressing us on every side, a thousand \nthings escape our notice ; they appear to be neither seen \nnor heard, nor to affect us in any way whatever. But at \nthe stillness of evening, when toils are quieted, and there \nis a general pause in nature, we seem to be endued with a \nnew sense, and the slightest sound attracts our attention, \nShakspeare has marked even this. \n\n\n\n316 \n\n\n\nOF ATTENTION. \n\n\n\nV( I \n\n\n\n" The crow doth sing as sweetly as the lark \n" When neither is attended ; and, I think, \n" The nightingale, if she should sing by day, \n" When every goose is cackling, would he thought \n" No better a musician than the wren." \n\nIt is on the same principle, that people, dwelling in \nthe vicinity of waterfalls, do not appear to notice the \nsound. The residents in the neighbourliood even of the \ngreat Cataract of Niagara are not seriously disturbed by \nit, although it is an unbroken, interminable thunder to all \n\nothers. The reason in all these cases is the same, as \n\nhas already been given. There is no attention, and no \nremembrance, and of course virtually no perception. \n\n(4) Whenever we read a book, we do not observe the \nwords merely as a whole, but every letter of which they \nare made up, and even the minute parts of these letters. \nBut it is merely a glance ; it does not for any length of time \noccupy cur attention ; we immediately forget, and with \ngreat difficulty persuade ourselves, that we have truly \nperceived the letters of the word. The fact, that every \nletter is in ordinary cases observed by us, may be prov\'ed \nby leaving out a letter of the word, or by substituting oth- \ners of a similar form. We readily in reading detect such \nomissions or substitutions. \n\n(5) An expert accountant can sum up, almost witli a \nsingle glance of the eye, a long column of figures. The \noperation is performed almost instantaneously, and yet he \nascertains the sum of the whole with unerring certainty. \nIt is impossible, that he should learn the sum without \nnoticing every figure in the whole column, and without \nallowing each its proper worth ; but the attention to them \nwas so very slight, that he is unable to remember this dis^ \ntinct notice. \n\nMany facts of this kind evidently show, as we think, \nthat memory depends upon attention or rather upon a con- \ntinuance of attention, and varies with that continuance. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 240. Of exercising attention in reading, ^\'-c. \n\nJf attention, as we have seen, be requisite to memory, \n\n\n\nOF ATTENTION. 317 \n\nthen we are furnished with a practical rule of considera- \nble importance. The rule is, Not to give a hasty and care- \nless reading of authors, but to read them with a suitable \ndegree of deliberation and thought. \xe2\x80\x94 It is the fault of some \npersons, that they are too quickly weary, that they skip \nfrom one author to another, and from one sort of knowl- \nedge to another. It is true, there are many things to be \nknown ; we would not have a person limit himself entirely \nto one science, but it is highly important, that he should \nguard against that rapid and careless transition from sub- \nject to subject, Vv^hich has been mentioned. \n\nIf we be asked the reason of this direction, v^e find a \ngood and satisfactory one in the fact referred to at the \nhead of this section, that there cannot be memory with- \nout attention, or rather that the power of memory will \nvary with the degree of attention . By yielding to the de- \nsire of becoming acquainted with a greater variety of de- \npartments of knowledge, than the understanding is able \nto master, and, as a necessary consequence, by bestowing \nupon each of them only a very slight attention, we remain \nessentially ignorant of the whole. \n\nThe person, who pursues such a course, finds himself \nunable to recal what he has been over ; he has a great \nmany half-formed notions floating in his mind, but these \nare so ill shaped and so little under his control as to be but \nlittle better than actual ignorance. This is one evil result, \nof reading authors and of going over sciences in the \ncareless way which has been specified, that the knowl- \nedge thus acquired, if it can be called knowledge, is .of \nvery little practical benefit, in Consequence of being so \npoorly digested, and so little under control. \n\nBut there is another and perhaps more serious evil. \nThis practice greatly disqualifies one for all intellectual \npursuits. To store the mind with new ideas is only a part \nof education. It is at least a matter of equal importance, \nto impart to all the mental powers a suitable discipline, to \nexercise those that are strong, to strengthen tiiose that are \nweak, and to maintain among all pf them a suitable bal- \nance. An attentive and thorough examination of subjects \n\n\n\n318 OF .ATTENTION. \n\nis a training up of the mind in both these respects. It fur- \nnishes it with that species of knowledge, which is most \nvaluable, because it is not mixed up with errours ; and \nmyreover, gives a strength and consistency to the whole \nstructure of the intellect. Whereas, when the mind is \nlong left at liberty to wander from object to object, with- \nout being called to account and subjected to the rules of \nsalutary discipline, it entirely loses at last the ability to \ndwell upon the subjects of itsthoughts, and to examine \nthem. And when this power is once lost, there is but lit- \ntle ground to expect any solid attainments. \n\n\xc2\xa7.241. Alleged inability to coimnand the attention. \n\nWe are aware that those, who are required to follow \nthe directions above given as to a close and thorough ex- \namination of subjects, will sometimes complain, that they \nfind a great obstacle in their inability to fix their attention. \nThey are not wanting in ability to comprehend, but find \nit difficult to retain the mind in one position so long, as to \nenable them to connect together ai^the parts of a subject, \nand duly estimate their various bearings. When this in- \ntellectual defect exists, it becomes a new reason for that \nthorough examination of subjects, which has been above \nrecommended. It has probably been caused by a neglect \nof such strictness of examination, ^nd by a too rapid and \ncareless transition from one subject to another. \n\nAttention, it will be recollected, expresses the state \nof the mind, when it is steadily directed for some time, \nwhether longer or shorter, to sOme object of sense or in- \ntellect, exclusive of other objects. All other objects are \nshut out ; and when this exclusion of every thing else con- \ntinues for some time, the attention is said to be intense. \n\nNow it is well known, that such an exclusive direc- \ntion of the mind cannot exist for any long period, without \nbeing accompanied with a feeling of desire or interest. In \nthe greatest intellectual exertions, not the mere powers of \njudging, of aostracting, and of reasoning, are concerned ; \nthere will also .be a species of excitement of the feelings. \nAnd it will be found, that no feeling will effectually con- \n\n\n\nOF ATTENTION. 319 \n\nfine the minds of men in scientific pursuits, but a love of \nthe truth. \n\nMr. Locke thought, that the person, who should find \nout a remedy for the wandering of thoughts, would do \ngreat service to the studious and contemplative part of \nmankind.. We know of no other remedy, than the one \njust mentioned, a love of the truth, a desire to know the \nnature and relations of thiDgs,merely for the sake of knowl- \nedge. It is true, that a conviction of duty will do much ; \nambition and interest may possibly do more ; but when \nthe mind is led to deep investigations by these views mere- \nly, it is a tiresome process, and after all is ineffectual. \nNothing byt a love of the truth for its own sake will per- \nmanently keep off the intrusions of foreign thoughts, and \nsecure a certainty of success. The excellency, therefore, \nof knowledge, considered merely *as suited to the intellect- \nual nature of man, and as indicative of the character of \nthat Being, who is the true source of all knowledge and \nthe fashioner of all intellect, cannot be too frequently im- \npressed. \n\nThe person, who is capable of strictly fixing his atten- \ntion, will have a great advantage over others. Of two \npersons, who seem naturally to have equal parts, the one, \nwho possesses this characteristic, will greatly excel. So \nthat it is hardly too much to say, that it may become a \nsort of substitute for genius itself. \n\n\n\nCHAPTER FIFTEENTH. \n\n\n\nDREAMING. \n\n\n\n\xc2\xa7. 242. Definition of ctreams and the prevalence of them. \n\nAmong numerous other subjects in mental pliilosophy, \n\xe2\x80\xa2\\vliich claim their share of attention, that of Dreaming is \nentitled to its place ; nor can we be certain, that any oth- \ner will be found more appropriate to it than the present, \nespecially when we consider, hovtr closely it is connected \nin all its forms with our sensations and conceptions. And \nwhat are Dreams ? It approaches perhaps sufficiently near \nto a correct general description to say, that they are our \nmental states and operations while w^ are asleep. But the \nparticular view^, which are to be taken in the examination \nof this subject, will not fail to throw light on this general \nstatement. \n\nThe mental states and exercises, which go under this \nname, have ever excited much interest. It is undoubtedly \none reason of the attention, which the subject of our dreams \nhas ever elicited among all classes of people, that they are \nso prevalent ; it being very difficult, if not impossible, to \nfind a person, who has not had more or less of this expe- \nrience. Mr. Locke, however, tells us of an individual, \nwho never dreamed till the twenty sixth year of his age, \nwhen he happened to have a fever, and theh dreamed for \nthe first time. Plutarch also mentions one Cleon, a friend \nof his, who lived to an advanced age, and yet had never \n\n\n\nDREAMING. S21 \n\ndreamed once in his life, and remarks, that he had heard \nthe same thing reported of Thrasymedcs. \n\nUndoubtedly these persons dreamed very seldom, as \nwe find that some dream much more than others ; but it \nis possible, that they may have dreamed at some times? \nand entirely forgotten it. So that if cannot with certainty \nbe inferred from such instances as these, that there are any, \nwho are entirely exempt from dreaming. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 243. Connection of dreams loilh our waking thoughts. \n\nIn giving an explanation of dreams, our attention is \nfirst arre-tei by the circumstance, that they have an inti- \nmate relationship with our waking thoughts. The great \nbody of our Avaking experiences appear in the form\' of \ntrains of associations ; and these trains of associated ideas, \nin greater or less continuity, and with greater or less va- \nriation, continue when we are asleep. Many facts show \nthis. \n\nCondorcet, (a name famous in the history of France,) \ntold some one, that while he was engaged in abstruse and \nprofound calculations, he was frequently obliged to leave \nthem in an unfinished state, in order to retire to rest ; and \nthat the remaining steps and the conclusion of his calcula- \ntions have more than once presented themselves in his \n\ndreams. Franklin also has^made the remark, that the \n\nbearings and results of political events, which had caused \nhim much trouble while awake, were not unfrequently \n\nunfolded to him in dreaming. " In my sleepless nights, \n\nand in my dreams., (says Fouche, when fleeing into Italy \nin consecjence of certain alleged political heresies,) I im- \nagined myself surrounded by executioners, and seemed, \nas if I beheld, in the native country of Dante, the inexo- \nrable vision of his infernal gates. "^ \n\nIt seems clearly to follow from such statements as \nthese, which are confirmed by the experience of almost \nevery person, that our dreams are fashioned from the ma- \n\n* Memoirs of Fouche, duke d\'Otranto, minister of the General \nPolice of France, p. 267. \n41 \n\n\n\n\n322 DREAMING. \n\nterials of the thoughts which we have while awake ; in \nother w^ords they will, in a great degree, he merely the \nrepetition of our customary and prevailing associations- \n\n\xc2\xa7. 244. Dreams are often caused by our sensations. \n\nBut while we are to look for the materials of our \ndreams in thoughts which had previously existed, we fur- \nther find that they are\' not beyond the influence of those \nslight bodily sensations, of which v\xc2\xbb^e are susceptible even \nin hours of sleep. These sensations, slight as they are, \nare the means of introducing one set of associations rather \nthan another. \n\nDugald Stewart relates an incident, which maybe con- \nsidered an evidence of this, that a person, with whom he \nwas acquainted, had occasion, in consequence of an indis- \nposition, to apply a bottle of hot water to his feet when \nhe went to bed, and the consequence was, that he dreamed \nhe was making a journey to the top of mount ^Etna, and \nthat he found the heat of the ground almost insupportable. \nThere was once a gentleman in the English army, who \nwas so susceptible of audible impressions, w\xc2\xabhile he was \nasleep, that his companions could make him dream\'of what \nthey pleased. Once, in particular, they made liim go \nthrough the whole process of a duel, from the preliminary \narrangements to the firing of the pistol, which they put \ninto his hand for that purpose, and which, when it explo- \nded, waked him. \n\nA cause of dreams closely allied to the above is the \nvariety of sensations, which we experience from the stom- \nach, viscera, &c. Persons, for instance, who have been \n\nfor a long time deprived of food, or have received it only \nin small quantities, hardly enough to preserve life, will be \nlikely to have dreams, in sonae way or other directly rela- \nting to their condition. Baron Trenck relates, that being \nalmost dead with hunger, when confined in his dun<:eon, \nhis dreams every night presented to him the well filled \nand luxurious tables of Berlin, from which, as they were \npresented before him, he imagined he was about to relieve \nhia hunger. " The night had far advanced, (says Irving, \n\n\n\n\xe2\x96\xa0 \n\n\n\nDREAMING. 323 \n\nspeaking of the voyage of Menclez to Hispaniola,) but \nthose, whose turn it was to take repose, were unable to \nsleep from the intensity of their thirst ; or if they slept, " \nit was but to be tantalized with dreams of cool fountains \nand running brooks." \n\nThe state of health also has considerable influence, not \nonly in producing dreams, but in giving them a particular \ncharacter. The remark has been made by medical men, \nthat acute diseases, particularly fevers, are often preceded, \nand indicated by disagreeable and oppressive dreams. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 245. Explanation of the incoherency of dreams. {\\st cause.) \n\nThere is frequently much of wildness, inconsistency, \nand contradiction in our dreams. The mind passes very \nrapidly from one object to another ; strange <ind singular \nincidents occur. If our dreams be truly the repetition of \nour waking thoughts, it may well be inquired, How this \nwildness and inconsistency happen ? \n\nThe explanation of this peculiarity resolves itself into \n\ntwo parts.- Tha first ground or cause of it is, that our \n\ndreams ftre not subjected, like our waking thoughts, to \nthe control and regulation of surounding objects. While \nwe are awake, our trains of thought are kept uniform and \ncoherent by the influence of such objects, which continu- \nally remind us of our situation, character, and duties ; and \nwhich keep in check any tendenqy to reverie. But in \nsleep the senses are closed ; the soul is accordingly in a \ngreat measure excluded from the material world, and is \nthus deprived of the salutary regulating influence from \nthat source. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 245. Second cause of the incoherency of dreams. \n\nIn the second place, when we are asleep, our associa- \nted trains of thought are no longer under the control of \nthe mental power or susceptibility, which we term the \nWILL. We do not mean to say, that the operations of that \nsusceptibility are suspended at such times, and that voli- \ntions have no existence. On the contrary, there is sufli- \ncient evidence of the continuance of its exercises in some \n\n\n\nS24 DREAMING. \n\ndegree; since volitions, must have made apart of the orig- \ninal trains of thought, which are repeated in dreaming ; \nand furthermore, we are often as conscious of exercising \nor putting forth volitions when dreaming as of any other \nmental acts, for instance imagining, remembering, assent- \ning, or reasoning. When we dream that we are attack- \ned by an enemy sword in hand, but happen as we suppose \nin our dreaming experiences, to be furnished in self-de- \nfence with an instrument of the same kind, we dream, that \nwe will to exert it for our own safety and against our an- \ntagonist, and we as truly in this case put forth tlie mental \nexercise which we term volition^ as, in any other, we exer- \ncise remembrance, or imagine, or reason in our sleep. \n\nAdmitting that the power or susceptibility of willing \ncontinues to "act in sleep, it is quite evident, that the voli- \ntions, which are put forth by it have ceased to exercise \ntheir customary influence in respect to our mental opera- \ntions. But here it will be said, that the will is unable ta \nexercise a direct influence over the successions of thought, \neven when we are awake. This point has been already ex- \namined sufiiciently. (See \xc2\xa7.214.) The conclusion, at which \nwe there arrived, was, that, although we have no direct, \nwe have an indirect power over the successions of thought, \nwhich is very considerable ; for instance, by means of a \nfeeling of desire or interest we fix our attention upon some \nparticular part of any general subject, which has been \nsuggested, and thus give a new direction to the whole train \nof mental operations. Although this power, which we \nthus exercise, is indirect, we justly consider it a voluntary \npower, and attrib-jte it to the faculty of the will. But the \nmoment we are soundly asleep, this influence ceases, and \nhence in connection with the other cause above mention- \ned, arise the wildness, incoherency, and contradictions, \nwhich exist. \n\nA person while he is awake has his thoughts, (admit- \nting to the full extent the power which is commonly as- \ncribed to association,) under such government, and is able, \nby the indirect influence of volitions, so to direct them, as \nto brincr them in the end to some conclusion, which he \n\n\n\nDREAMING. 32S \n\nforesees, and which he wishes to arrive at. But in dream- \ning, as all directing and governing influence, both inter- \nnal and external, is at an end, our associations seem to be \ndriven forward, much like a ship at sea without a rudder, \nwherever it may happen. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 247. Apparent reality of dreams. {\\st cause,) \n\nWhen objects are presented to us in dreams, we look \nupon them as real ; and events, and combinations and se- \nries of events appear the same. We feel the same interest \nand resort to the same expedients, as in the perplexities or \nenjoyments of real life. When persons are introduced, \nas forming a part in the transactions of our dreams, we see \nthem clearly in their living attitudes and stature ; we con- \nverse with them, and hear them speak, and behold them \nmove, as if actually present. \n\nOne reason of this greater vividness of our dreaming con- \nceptions and of our firm belief in their reality seems to \nbe this. The subjects, upon which okr thoughts are then \nemployed occupy the mind exclusively. We can form \na clearer conception of an object with our eyes shut, than \nwe can with them open, as any one will be convinced on \nmaking the experiment ; and the liveliness of the concep- \ntion will increase in proportion, as we can suspend the ex- \nercise of the other senses. In sound sleep, not only the \nsight, but the other senses also may be said to be closed ; \nand the attention is not continually diverted by the multi- \ntude of objects, which arrest the hearing and touch, when \nwe are awake. \n\nIt is, therefore, a most natural supposition, that our con- \nceptions must at such times be extremely vivid and \ndistinct. At \xc2\xa7. 202, we particularly remarked upon con- \nceptions of those ideas, which we have of absent objects \nof perception, which possess this vividness of character. \nAnd it there appeared, that they might be attended with \na momentary belief even when we are awake. But as con- \nceptions exist in the mind when we are asleep in a much \nhigher degree distinct and vivid, what was in the former \ncase a momentary, becomes in the latter a permanent be- \n\n\n\n326 DREAMING. \n\nlief- Hence every thing has the appearance of reality ; \nand the mere thoughts of the mind are virtually transform- \ned into persons, and varieties of situation, and events, \nwhich are regarded by us in precisely the same light as \nthe persons, and situations, and events of our every day\'s \nexperience. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 248. Apparent reality of dreams. {2d cause.) \n\nA second circumstance, which goes to account for \nthe fact that our dreaming conceptions have the ap- \npearance of reality is, that they are not susceptible of be- \ning controlled, either directly or indirectly, by mere vo- \nlition.^ We are so formed as almost invariably to asso- \nciate reality with whatever objects of perception continue \nto produce in us the same effects, A hard or soft body, \nor any substance of a particular colour, or taste, or smell, \nare always, when presented to our senses, folio-wed by cer- \ntain states of mind essentially the same ; and we yield the \nmost ready and firm belief in the existence of such ob- \njects. In a word, we are disposed from our very constitu- \ntion to believe in the existence of objects of perception, \nthe perceptions of which do not depend, on the will, but \nwhich we find to be followed by certain states of the mind, \n\nwhether we choose it or not. But it is to be recollected, \n\nthat our dreaming thoughts are mere conceptions ; our \nsenses being closed and shut up, and external objects not \nbeing presented to thejn. This is true. But if we con- \nclude in favor of the real existence of objects of percep- \ntion, because they produce in us sensations independently \nof our volitions, it is but natural to suppose, that we \nshall believe in the reality of our conceptions also, when- \never they are in like manner beyond our voluntary con- \ntrol. They are both merely states of the mind ; and if \nbelief always attends our perceptions, wherever we find \nthem to be independent of our choice, there is no reason, \nwhy conceptions, which are ideas of absent objects of per- \nception, should not be attended with a like belief under \nthe same circumstances.\xe2\x80\x94 And essentially the same cir- \ncumstances exist in dreaming ; that is, a train of concep- \n\n\n\nDREAMING. 327 \n\ntions arise in the mind,, and we are conscious at such \ntimes of being unable to exercise any direction or control \nwhatever over them. They exist, whether we will it or \nnot ; and we regard them as real. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 249. Of our estimate of time in dreamin^. \n\nOur estimate of time in dreaming differs from that \nwhen awake. Events, v/hich would take whole days or \na longer time in the performance, are dreamt in a few \nmoments. So wonderful is this compression of a multi- \ntude of transactions into the very shortest period,that when \nwe are accidentally awakened by the jarri^ig of a door, \nwhich is opened into a room where we are sleeping, we \nsometimes dream of depredations by thieves, or destruc- \ntion by fire, in the very instant of our awaking. Our \n\ndreams will not unfrequently go through all the particu- \nlars of a passage of the Alps, or of a military expedition to \nMoscow, or of a circumnavigation of the globe, or of oth- \ner, long and perilous undertakings, in a less number of \nhours, than it took weeks, or months, or even years in the \nactual performance of them. We go from land to land, \nand from city to city, and into desert places ; we expe- \nrience transitions from joy to sorrow, and from poverty \nto wealth ; Vv^e are occupied in the scenes and transac- \ntions of many long months; and then our slumbers are \nscattered, and, behold, they are the doings of a single, \nwatch of the night ! \n\nThis striking circumstance in the history of our dreams \nis generally explained by supposing, that our thoughts, as \nthey successively occupy the mind, are more rapid, than \nwhile we are awake. But their rapidity is at all times very \ngreat ; so much so, that, in a fev/ morjients, crowds of \nideas pass through the mind, which it would take a long \ntime to utter, and a far longer time would it take to per- \nform all the transactions which they concern. This ex- \nplanation, therefore, is not satisfactory, for our thoughts \nare oftentimes equally rapid in our waking moments. \n\nThe true reason, we apprehend is to be found in thos6 \npreceding sections, which took under examination the \n\n\n\n328 DREAMING. \n\napparent reality of dreams. Our conceptions in dreaming \nare considered by us real ; every thought is an action ; \nevery idea is an event ; and successive states of mind are \nsuccessive actions and successive events. He, who in his \nsleep has the conception of all the particulars of a milita- \nry expedition to Moscow, or of a circumnavigation of the \nglobe, seems to himself to have actually experienced all \nthe various and multiplied fortunes of the one and the \nother. Hence what appears to be the real time in dreams, \nbut is only the apparent time, will not be that, which is \nsufficient for the mere thought, but that, Avhichis neces- \nsary for the successive actions. \n\n" Something perfectly analogous to this may be re- \nmarked (says Mr. Stew^art) in the perceptions we obtain \nby the sense of sight.* When I look into a shew-box, \nwhere the deception is imperfect, I see orly a set of paltry \ndaubings of a few inches in diameter ; but if the repre- \nsensation be executed with so much skill, as to convey to \nme the idea of a distant prospect, every object before me \nswells in its dimensions, in proportion to the extent of \nspace, which I conceive it to occupy, and what seemed \nbefore to be shut w^ithin the limits of a small w^ooden \nframe, is magnified, in my apprehension, to an immense \nlandscape of woods, rivers, and mountains." \n\n250. Of the senses sinking to sleep in succession. \n\nIt is true as a general statement, that in sleep the mind \nceases to retain its customary power over the muscular \nmovements of the system ; and all the senses also are at \nsuch times locked up, and no longer perform their usual \noffices. The effect upon the senses is such, that it seems \nto be proper to speak of them as individually going to \nsleep, and awaking from sleep. It remains, therefore, to \nbe observed, that there is some considerable reason to \n\nsuppose, that the senses fall asleep in succession. For \n\na detailed explanation and proof of this singular fact ref- \nerence must be had to Cullen, and particularly to Cabanis, \na French writer on subjects of this nature ; but the con- \n\n* Stewart\'s Elements, Chapter on Dreaming. \n\n\n\nDREAMING. 829 \n\nelusions, at which they arrive on this particular pointy \nmay be here, stated.* \n\nThe sight, in consequence of the protection of the eye- \nlids, ceases to receive impressions first, while all the \nother senses preserve their sensibility entire ; and may, \ntherefore, be said to be first in falling asleep. The sense \nof taste, according to the above v\xc2\xbbTiters, is the next,jvhich \nloses its susceptibility of impressions, and then the sense \nof smelling. The hearing is the next in order, and last of \nall comes the sense of touch. \n\nFurthermore, the senses are thought to sleep with dif- \nferent degrees of profoundness. The senses of taste and \nsmelling awake the last ; the sight with more difficulty \nthan the hearing, and the touch the easiest of all. Some- \ntimes a very considerable noise does not awake a person, \nbut if the soles of his feet are tickled in the slightest degree, \nhe starts up immediately. \n\nSimilar remarks are made by the writers above refer* \nred to, on the muscles. Those, which move the arms and \nlegs, cease to act when sleep is approaching, sooner than \nthose, which sustain the head ; and the latter before those, \nwhich support the back. And here it is proper to no- \ntice an exception to the general statement at the com- \nmencement of this section, that the mind in sleep ceases to \nretain its power over the muscles. Some persons can \nsleep standing, or walking, or riding on horseback : with \nsuch we cannot well avoid the supposition, that the volun- \ntary power over the muscles is in some way retained and \nexercised in sleep. These statements are particularly im- \nportant in connection with the facts of somnambulism ; \nonly admit, that the susceptibility of the senses, and the \npower of the muscles may remain even in part while we \nare asleep, and we can account for them. We know, that \nthis is not the case in a vast majority of instances, but that \nit does sometimes happen, is a point, which seems at last \nto be sufficiently well established. \n\n* Rapports du Physique et du Moral De L\'Honime, Mem. x, \n\n- \' 42 \xe2\x96\xa0 \n\n\n\nS30 DREAMING. \n\n\xc2\xa7, 251 . General remarks on cases of somnambulism. \nWith the general subject of dreaming, that of somnambu- \nlism is naturally and intimately connected. Somnambulists \nare persons, who are capable of walking and of other vol- \nuntary actions while asleep. Some of the facts in respect \n\nto them are these. The senses are in general closed, and \n\nare npt susceptible of being affected by outward objects, \nmuch the same as in ordinary sleep; with some slight ex- \neeptions, however, hereafter to be mentioned. Hence the \nsomnambulist goes from place to place, and performs other \nvoluntary actions without the use of vision; and yet in some \ncases he has his eyes open, but is still unable to see. Do- \ning the works of day at unseasonable hours, he piles up his \nwood at midnight jOr yokes hi\xc2\xbb oxen, or ploughs his field, \nor goes to mill, and all the while is as profoundly asleep as \nany of his neighbors ; until he falls over some obstacle at \nhis feet, or rides against a tree, or is in some other way \nbrought to his recollection. He is not certain of walkino- \nin safe places, but may sometimes be found on the roof of \nhouses or on the edge of precipices, but evidently with an \nutter insensibility to terrour. He is a sort of automatic \nmachine that is carried about from place to place, but with- \nout feeling, vision, hearing, or other exercises of the senses; \nand still more without calculation, or any thing, which \nmay be truly called reasoning ; always excepting such cal- \nculation and reasoning as may be found in dreams. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 252. Explanation of cases of somnambulism. \n\nBut the inquiry now is. How can these things happen.-^ \nHow can men act and move in this way in slerp, which, \nin all ordinary cases, implies a deprivation of the mus- \ncular power, as well as the closure of the senses. The \n\nexplanation, so far as it presents itself at first, is this, viz, \n(1) The somnambulist is in all cases dreaming, and we \nmay suppose in general, that the dream is one, which \n\ngreatly interests him* (2) Those volitions, which are \n\na part of his dreams, retain their power over the muscles, \nwhich is not the fact in the sleep and the dreaming of the \ngreat body of people. \n\n\n\nDREAMING. 3S1 \n\nConsequently, whatever the somnambulist dreams is not \nonly real in the mind, as in all other dreamers, but his \nability to exercise his muscles enables him to give it a re- \nality in action. Whether he dream of writing a letter, of \nvisiting a neighbour\'s house, of thrashing his grain, or \nploughing his field, his muscles are faithful to his vivid \nmental conceptions, which we may suppose in all cases \nclosely connected with his customary labours and experi- \nences, and carry him pretty\' safely through the operation, \nhowever sightless may be his eye, or dull his other sen- \nses. \n\nThese are the views, which first present themselves in \nthe way of explanation. But the inquiry again arises. \nHow it happens, whi^e, in most cases, both senses and mus- \ncles lose their power, in these on the contrary, the mus- \ncles- are active, while the senses alone are asleep f In \n\nreference to this inquiry, it must be acknowledged, that it \nis involved at present in some uncertainty, although there \nis much reason to anticipate, that it may hereafter receive \nlight from further investigations and knowledge of the \nnervous system and functions. There is a set of nerves, \nparticularly connected with respiration, which appear to \nhave nothing to do with sensation and with muscular ac- \ntion. There is another set, which are known to possess a \ndirect and important connection with sensation and the \nmuscles. These last are separable into distinct filaments, \nhaving separate functions ; some being connected with \nsensation merely, and others with volition and muscular \nmotion. In sensation the impression, made by some exter- \nnal body, exists at first in the external part of the organ of \nsense, and is propagated along one class of filaments to the \nbrain. . In volition and voluntary muscular movement,the \npower of action, as far as the body is concerned, seems to \nbe the reverse, commencing in the brain, and being propa- \ngated along other and appropriate nervous filaments to the \ndifferent parts of the system. And these last-mentioned, \nin (trder to cause muscular action, require continuity and \nsoundness not less than those, connected with sensation. \nHence it sometimes happens, that in diseases of the ner- \n\n\n\n332 DREAMING. \n\nvous system, the power of sensation is, in a great measure, \nJost, while that of motion fully remains. If the interesting \nand recently developed facts now referred to should, on \nfurther examination, be fully established, they will evi- \ndently help to explain the difficulty under consi deration . \nCauses unknown to us may operate, through their appro- \npriate nervous filaments, to keep the muscles awake, with- \nout disturbing the repose and inactivity of the senses. \n\nFurther ; We are not to forget here a remark on the \nsleep of the senses, a subject already briefly alluded to, \nand which is an exception to the general statement then \nmade in regard to them. Both in somnambulism and in \nordinary cases of dreaming the senses are not always en- \ntirely locked up ; many observations clearly show, that it \nis possible for the mind to be accessible through them, \nand that a new direction may be given in this way to a \nperson\'s dreams without awaking him. Hence somnam- \nbulists may sometimes have very slight visual perceptions; \nthey may in some slight measure be guided by sensations \nof touch ; all the senses may be affected in a small degree \nby their appropriate objects, or this may be the case with \nsome and not with others, without effectually disturbing \ntheir sleep. These facts will be found to help in explain- \ning any peculiar circumstances, which may be thought \nnot to come within the reach of the general explanation, \nwhich has been given. \n\n\n\nPART- SECOND. \n\n\n\nINTELLECTUAL STATES OF THE MIND, \n\n\n\nCLASS SECOND. \n\n\n\nINTELLECTUAL STATES OF INTERNAL ORIGIN. \n\n\n\nCHAPTER FIRST. \n\n\n\nOF INTERNAL ORIGIN OF KNOWLEDGE. - \n\n\xc2\xa7. ^5S. The soul has fountains of knowledge within. \n\nWe have tfaced the history of the mind thus Jfar \nwith continued and increased satisfaction, because we have \nbeen guided solely by well authenticated facts,without the \nleast desire of exciting wonder by exaggeration, and with \nno other feeling than that of knowing the truth. With \ncautious endeavours not to trespass upon those limits, \nwhich the Creator himself has set to our inquiries, we \nhave seen the mind placed in the position of a necessary \nconnection with the material world through the medium of \nthe senses, and in this way awakened into life, activity, \nand power. Dumb matter seems to have been designed \nand appointed by Providence as the handmaid and niirse \nof the mind in the days of its infancy ; and for that pur- \npose to have been endued with form, and fragrance, and \ncolour the most various and delightful. Material eyes \nwere given to the soul, that it might see ; and material \nhands, that it might handle ; and hearing, that it might \nhear ; but the time shall come, when these outward and \nbodily helps shall be taken away, and it will see, as it were, \nface to face, and not as in a glass darkly. Even before, \nthe body is put off, and the senses are entirely closed up, \nthe spiritual eye begins to open, and the spiritual touch to \n\n\n\n336 INTERNAL ORIGIN. \n\nfeel ; in other words the soul finds knowledge in itself, \nwhich neither sight, nor touch, nor hearing, nor any ot^er \nsense, nor any outward forms of matter could give- \nHowever interesting and fruitful may have been the train \nof investigation, which has already been before us, it is to \nbe remembered, that we have hitherto seen the mind un- \nfolding its susceptibilities only in connection with external \nimpressions on the senses. A ilew view is to be taken \nof it. \n\n"The natural progress of all true learning, (says the au- \nthor of Hermes, )is from sense to intellect." Beginning with \nthe senses, and first considering the sensations and ideas \nwhich we ther^ receive, we are next to enter more exclu- \nsively into the mind itself, and shall there discover a new \nand prolific source of knowledge. And in thus doing, it is \na satisfaction to know, that we are treading essentially in \nthe steps of Mr. Locke, whose general doctrine undoubt- \nedly is, that a part of our ideas only maybe traced to the \nsenses, and that the origin of others is to be sought whol- \nly in the intellect itself. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 254. Declaration of Mr. Locke, that the soul has knowl- \nedge in itself. \n\nAfter alluding to the senses as one great source of knowl- \nedge, " the other fountain, (says Locke,) from which ex- \nperience furnisheth the understanding with ideas, is the \nperception of the operations of our own minds within us, \nas it is employed about the ideas it. has got ; which opera- \ntions, when the soul comes to reflect on and consider, do \nfurnish the understanding with another set of ideas, which \ncould not be had from things without, and such are per- \nception, thinking, doubting, believing, reasoning, know- \ning, willing, and all the different actings of our own minds, \nwhich we being conscious of, and observing in ourselves, \ndo from these receive into our understandings ideas as \ndistinct, as we do from bodies afiecting our senses. This \nsource of ideas every man has wholly in himself. And \nthough it be not sense, as having nothing to do with ex- \nternal objects, yet it is very like it, and might properly \n\n\n\nOF KNOWMLDGE. 337 \n\nenouffh be called internal sense. But as I call the oth- \ner sensation, so I call this Reflection ; the ideas it affords \nbeing such only as the mind gets by reflecting on its own \nojierations within itself." \n\nIt is perhaps necessary to remark here, that we intro- \nduce this passage from Mr. Locke, merely in support of \nthe general doctrine, without wishing to intimate a full \napprobation of the manner, in which he has applied it in \nits details. What we say now concerns the general ques- \ntion ; and in reference to that question, the passage just \nreferred to is undoubtedly weighty in itself, as well as in \nconsequence of the great fame and acknowledged dis- \ncernment of its author. It would seem to be the doctrine \nof Mr. Locke, that our knowledge begins v/ith sensation ; \nthat impressions, made on the bodily system, are the first \noccasions of bringing the mind into action, so far as we \ncan judge. Nor is it necessary to make any objection to \nthis view ; it is very reasonable, and pains have already \nbeen taken to show, that it is clearly worthy of the utmost \nregard. But it does not follov/ from this, (and the pas- \nsage just quoted shows, that Mr. Locke did not suppose it \nthus to follow,) that the sensation is the only source of \nknowledge. There is undeniably something distinct from \nsensation ; thoughts, which have an interiour origin, and \ncannot be represented by any thing external ; principles, \nso far from being directly dependent on sensation, that \nthey control, compare, appreciate, judge of it. \n\n^. 255. Opinions of Dr. Cudworlh on the general subject of \n\ninternal knowled:^e. \n\nWe may properly introduce here a quotation or two \nfrom another great authority, nearly contemporaneous with \nMr. Locke, that of Dr. Cudworth, a name which is ac- \nknowledged to rank deservedly high among those, which \nare most closely associated with exalted wisdom and vir- \ntue. Let us however be again reminded, that our whole \nobject here is to establish the general position, that there \nis knowledge of a purely internal, as well as of an exter- \nnal oricrin ; and that, therefore, a reference to writers for \n43 \n\n\n\n3SS \n\n\n\nINTERNAL OHIGIN \n\n\n\n\nthat purpose does not necessarily involve an approbation \nof, or a responsibility for their opinions any farther than \n\nthey relate to the particular object in view. The post- \n\nhumous Avork, from which these extracts are made, is \nunderstood to have been written in reply to Mr. Hobbes, \nAvho held the opinion, that all our thoughts of whatever \nkind are only either direct, or transformed and modified \nsensations. And therefore the statements made in it, be- \ning called forth under such circumstances, must be suppo- \nsed to liave been carefully meditated, and on that ground, \namong others, are entitled to much weight. \n\n"That oftentimes, says Cudworth,* there is more ta- \nken notice of and perceived by the mind, both in the sen- \nsible objects themselves, and by occasion of them, than \nwas impressed from them, or passively received by sense; \nwhich therefore must needs proceed from some inward \nactive principle in that which perceives, I shall make it \nfurther appear by some other instances. \n\n"For, first, let a brute and a man at the same time be \nmade spectators of one and the same artificial state, pic- \nture, or landskip ; here the brute will passively receive \nall that is impressed from the outward object upon sense \nby local motion, as well as the man, all the several colours \nand figures of it ; and yet the man will presently perceive \nsomething in this statue or picture, which the brute takes \nno notice of at all, viz. beauty, and pulchritude, and sym- \nmetry, besides the liveliness of the effigies and pourtrait- \nure. The eye of the brute being every jot as good a glass \nor mirror, and perhaps endued with a more perspicacious \nsense or power of passive perception, than that of aman. \n\n"Or again, let both a man and a brute at the same time \nhear the same musical airs, the brute will only be sensible \nof noise and sounds ; but the man will also perceive har- \nmony in them, and be very much delighted with it ; nay, \neven enthusiastically transported by it. Wherefore the. \nbrute perceiving all the sounds, as well as the man, but \nnothing of the harmony, the difference must needs arise \n\n\n\n^hnmiitable Morality; Book IV, Chap. II. \xc2\xa7. 14. \n\n\n\nOF KNOWLEDGE. 339 \n\nfrom some inward active principle or anticipation in the \nman, which tlie brute hath not.\'\' \n\n\xc2\xa7. 253. Further remarks of the same writer on this subject. \n\n" But I shall yet further illustrate this business, (says \nthis eloquent writer near the conclusion of the same chap- \nter,) that the mind may actively comprehend more in the \noutward objects of sense, and by occasion of them, than \nis passively received and impressed from them, by anoth- \ner instance. Suppose a learned written or printejl volume \nheld before the eye of a brute-creature or illiterate per- \nson ; either of them will passively receive all that is im- \npressed upon sense from those delineations ; to whom \nthere will be nothing but several scrawls or lines of ink \ndrawn upon white paper. But if a man, that hath inward \nanticipations of learning in him, look upon them he will \nimmediately have another comprehension of them than \nthat of sense, and a strange scene of thoughts presently \nrepresented to his mind from them ; he will see heaven, \nearth, sun, moon and stars, comets, meteors, elements, in \nthose inky delineations ; he will read profound theorems \nof philosophy, geometry, astronomy in them, learn a \ngreat deal of new knowledge from them that he never un- \nderstood before, and thereby justly admire the wisdom of \nthe composer of them. Not that all this was passively \nstamped upon his soul by sense from those characters ; \n(for sense, as I said before, can perceive nothing here but \ninky scrawls and the intelligent reader Avill many times \ncorrect, his copy, finding erratas in it ;) but because his \nmind was before furnished with certain inward anticipa- \ntions, that such characters signify the elements of certain \nsounds, those sounds certain notions or cogitations of \nthe mind ; and because he hath an active power of exci- \nting any such cogitations within himself, he reads in those \nsensible delineations, the passive stamps or prints of an- \nother man\'s wisdom or knowledge upon them, and also \nlearns knowledge and instruction from them, not as infu- \nsed into his mind from those sensible characters, but by \nreason of those hints and significations thereby proposed \n\n\n\n340 INTERNAL ORIGIN \n\nto it, accidentally kindled, awakenej:! and excited in it : \nfor all, but the phantasms of black inky strokes and fig- \nures, arises from the inward activity of his own mind. \nWherefore this instance in itself shews, how the activity of \nthe mind may comprehend more in and from sensible ob- \njects, than is passively imprinted by them upon sense." \n\n\xc2\xa7. 257. Knowledge begins in the senses, hut has internal \naccessions. \n\nIn order to have a clear understanding of the particu- \nlar topic before us, let us briefly advert to certain gener- \nal views already more or less attended to, having a conec- \ntion with it. In making the human soul a subject of in- \nquiry, it is an obvious consideration, that a distinction \nmay be drawn between the soul contemplated in itself, \narid its acts, or states, or the knowledge which it possesses. \nThe inquiry, therefore naturally arises, Under what cir- \ncumstances the acquisition of knowledge begins? \n\nNow this is the very question, which has already been \nconsidered ; nor can it be deemed necessary to repeat here \nthe considerations, which have been brought up in refer- \nence to it. It is enough to express our continued reliance \non the general experience and testimony of mankind, so \nfar as it is possible to ascertain them on a subject of so \nmuch difficulty, that the beginnings of thought and feel- \nino" and knowledge are immediately subsequent to certain \naffections of those bodily organs, which we call the sen- \nses. In other words, were it not for impressions on the \nsenses, which may be traced to objects external to them, \nour mental capabilities, whatever they may be, would \nhave remained folded up in all probability, and have nev- \ner been redeemed from a state of fruitless inaction. \n\nHence the process, which is implied in the perception \nof external things, or what is commonly termed by Mr. \nLocke sensation^ may justly be considered the occasion or \nthe introductory step to all our knowledge. But it does \nnot follov/ from this, nor is it by any means true, that the \nwhole amount of it in its ultimate progress is to be ascrib- \ned directly to the same source. All that can be said with \n\n\n\nOF KNOWLEDGE. 341 \n\ntruth, is, that the mind receives the earliest parts of its \nideas by means of the senses, and that, in consequence of \nhaving received these elementary thoughts, all its powers \nbecome rapidly and fully operative. \n\nAnd here we come to the second great source of \nknowledge. The powers of the mind being thus fairly \nbrought into exercise, its various operations then furnish \nus with another set of notions, which- by way of distin- \nguishing them from those received through the direct me- \ndiation of the senses, may be called, in the language of Mr. \nLocke, ideas of reflection, or, to use a phraseology em- \nbracing all possible cases, ideas of internal origin. \n\nThese two sources of human thought the Internal and \nExternal, however they may have been confounded by \nthe writers last alluded to, are entirely distinct. The \nideas, which arise in the mind, solely from the fact of the \nprevious existence of certain mental operations, could not \nhave been suggested by any thing, which takes place in \nthe external world, independently of those operations. \nOf this class, some instances, with illustrations of the \nsame, may properly be mentioned here. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 258. Instances of notions^ which have an internal origin. \n\nAmong other notions, which are to be ascribed to the \nsecond great source, are those, expressed by the terms, \nthinking, doubting, believing, and certainty. \xe2\x80\x94 It is a mat- \nter of internal observation, (that is, of consciousness or of \nreflection, which are synonymous with internal observa- \ntion,) that the mind does not and cannot for any length of \ntime remain inactive. Hence there is occasion given for \nthe origin of that idea, which we denominate thinking. \nThe notion which we thus call, is framed by the mind \nunder these circumstances ; the name is given, and nobody \nis ignorant as to what is meant. But then it is to be mark- \ned that its origin is wholly internal ; it is not an object of \ntouch, or taste, or sight ; it is to be ascribed to the mind \nitself alone and to its inherent activity, unaided by the sen- \nses or by any thing operating upon them. \n\nAgain, in the examination of some topic, which is \n\n\n\n342 INTERNAL ORIGIN. \n\nproposed for discussion, a proposition is stated with little \nor no evidence attending it, and the mind, in reference to \nthat proposition, is brought into a position, to which we \ngive the name o( doubting. It is by no means easy, or rath- \ner it is impossible, to trace this idea directly to the senses. \nAll we can say of it, is, that it has its origin within, and \nnecessarily exists immediately subsequent to certain other \nmental states, of which we are conscious. \n\nBut then in this very instance, if the evidence be con- \nsiderably increased, the mental estimation, which we form, \nis altered in regard it, and to this new state of the mind \nwe give the name of belief or believing. And in case the \nevidence of the proposition is of a higher and more deci- \nded character, there then arises another state of the mind, \nwhich we denominate certainty. \n\nThe ideas of virtue and vice, of justice and injustice, of \norder, proportion, similitude, truth, wisdom, obligation, \nsuccession, cause, effect, and many others, have a like ori- \ngin ; at least there are none of them to be ascribed direct- \nly and exclusively to the senses. \xe2\x80\x94 It is cheerfully granted, \nthat, in determining this point, it is proper to refer to the \ncommon experience of mankind, and to rely upon it. But \nit is believed in all these instances, (certainly in the most \nof them,) such a reference will be amply decisive. \n\nLet it then be left to the candid internal examination of \neach individual, to determine. Whether a distinction be \nnot rightly drawn between th^ origin of these ideas, and \nthat of those, which we attribute to the senses, such as \nred, blue, sweet, fragrant, bitter, hard, extended, &c.? On \nthis question, it is thought, that in general there can be \nbut one answer, although some minds of superior order \nhave from time to time been betrayed into errour on this \nsubject through the* love of excessive simplification. \n\nHence it is distinctly to be kept in mind, that there are \ntwo sources of thought and knowledffe. An affection of \nthe senses by means of external objects is the immediate \noccasion of one portion ; the constitution of the mind and \nits operations are the occasions or source of the other. \nThe one source is called External ; the other Internal, \n\n\n\nCHAPTER SECOND; \n\n\n\nSUGGESTION. \n\n\n\n\xc2\xa7. 259. Import of the term suggestion and its application in \nReid and Stewart. \n\nSome of the cases of thought and knowledge, which \nthe mind becomes possessed of in itself, with\'out the di- \nrect aid of the senses, are to be ascribed to Suggestion. \nThis word, in its application here, is used merely to ex- \npress a simple, but important fact, viz, That the mind, by- \nits own activity and vigour, gives rise to certain thoughts. \nWithout any mixture of hypothesis, or any qualifying in- \ntimation whatever, it gives the fact, and that is all. The \nuse of this word, as applicable to the origin of a portion \nof human knowledge, is distinctly proposed by Dr. Reid. \nIn his Inquiry into the Human Mind, (Chap. ii. \xc2\xa7. 7,) he \nspeaks of certain notions, (for instance, those of existence, \nmind, person, &c,) as the "judgments of nature, judg- \nments not got by comparing ideas, and perceiving agree- \nments and disagreements, but immediately in spired by our \nconstitution." Pursuing this train of thought, he further \nremarks ; "It is incumbent on those, who think that \nthese are not natural principles, [that is, notions called \nforth within us, independently of reasoning,] to show \nhow we can otherwise get the notion of mind, and its \nfaculties. Again, immediately after, he ascribes those no- \ntions, which cannot be attributed directly to the senses \n\n\n\n344 SUGGESTION. \n\non the one hand, nor to the reasoning power on the oth- \ner, to an internal or mental suggestion as follows. \xe2\x80\x94 ^^^I \nbeg leave to make use of the word suggestion, because \nI know not one more proper, to express a power of the \nmind which seems entirely to have escaped the notice of \nphilosophers, and to which we owe many of our simple \nnotions which are neither impressions nor ideas, as well \nas many original principles of belief. I shall endeavour \nto illustrate, by an example, what I understand by this \nword. We all know that a certain kind of sound suggests \nimmediately to the mind, a coach passing in the street ; \nand not only produces the imagination, but the belief, \nthat a coach is passing. Yet there is here no comparing \nof ideas no perception of agreements or disagreements, \nto produce this belief : nor is there the least similitude be- \ntween the sound we hear, and the coach we imagine and \nbelieve to be passing. \n\n"It is true that this suggestion is not natural and orig- \ninal ; it is the result of experience and habit. But I think \nit appears, from what hath been said, that there are natur- \nal suggestions ; particularly, that sensation suggests the \nnotion of present existence, and the belief that what we \nperceive or feel, does now exist ; that memory suggests \nthe^notion of past existence, and the belief that what we \nremember did exist in time past ; and that our sensations \nand thoughts do also suggest the notion of a mind, and \nthe belief of its existence, and of its relation to our thoughts. \nBy a like natural principle it is, that a beginning of exis- \ntence, or any change in nature suggests to us the notion \nof a cause, and compels our belief of its existence. And \nin like manner, as shall be shown when we come to the \nsense of touch, certain sensations of touch, by the consti- \ntution of our nature, suggest to us extension, solidity, and \nmotion, which are nowise like to sensations, although they \n\nhave hitherto been confounded with tliem." We find \n\nsimilar sentiments of this learned and cautious writer in \nvarious other places. \n\nMr. Stewart also in his Philosophical Essays, speaks \npf certain mental phenomena, as attendant upon the obr \n\n\n\nSUGGESTION, 345 \n\njects of our consciousness, and as suggested by them. \nThe notions of time, number, motion, memory, sameness, \npersonal identity, present existence, &c. he ascribes nei- \nther to the external world on the one hand, nor to the in- \nternal mental operations, of which we are conscious on \nthe other ; except so far as they are the occasions, on \nwhich the mind brings them out, or suggests them from \nits own inherent energy. Of the notion of duration for \ninstance, he would say, I do not see it, nor hear it, nor \nfeel it, nor become acquainted with it by means of any \nother of the senses ; nor am I conscious of it, as I am of \nbeIieving,reasoning, and imagining, &c. but it is suggested \nby the mind itself; it is an intimation absolutely essential \nto the mind\'s nature and action. \n\nIt will be noticed that Dr. Reid has not limited the use \nof the word suggestion, exclusively to those cases, which \nare purely internal. Nor was this necessary. Those ca- \nses, however, where suggestion is brought into exercise by \noccasions chiefly external, (as for instance, in forming the \nnotion of outness or externality,) are few in number, and \nnaturally and almost necessarily come up for considera- \ntion in treating of the separate senses. As a general state- \nment, the occasions of its exercise are either wholly of an \ninteriour nature, or with only a slight mixture of outward \ncircumstances. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 260. Ideas of existence^ mind^ self -existence j and person- \nal identity. \n\nWe shall now mention a few ideas, which have this \norigin, without undertaking to give a complete enumera- \ntion of them. \n\nI- \xe2\x80\x94 Existence. Among the various notions, the ori- \ngin of which naturally requires to be considered under \nthe head of Suggestion, is that of existence. What exis- \ntence is in itself, (that is to say independently of any ex- \nistent being,) it would be useless to inquire. Using the \nword as expressive of a mental state, it is the name of a \npurely simple idea, and cannot be defined. The history \nof its rise is briefly this. Such is our nature, that we \n*44 \n\n\n\n\n346 SUGGESTION. \n\ncannot exist, without having the notion of existence. Its \norio\'in is inseDarable from the mere fact, that we have \nthought, feeling, and judgment. \n\nII, \xe2\x80\x94 Mind. The origin of the notion of mind is simi- \nlar to that of existence. Neither of them can be strictly \nand properly referred to the senses. We do not see the \nmind, noris it an object of touch, nor of any other sense. \nNor, on the other hand, is the notion of mind a direct ob- \nject of the memory, or of reasoning,* or of imagination. \nThe notion arises naturally, or is suggested from the mere \nfact, that the mind actually exists and is susceptible of \nvarious feelings and operations. \n\nIll, \xe2\x80\x94 Similar remarks will apply to the notions, (wheth- \ner we consider them as simple or complex,) of self-exis- \ntence and PERSONAL identity. At the very earliest peri- \nod tliey flow out, as it were, from the mind itself ; not re- \nsulting from any prolonged and laborious process,but freely \nand spontaneously suggested by it. This is so true, that \nno one is able to designate either the precise time, cr the \nprecise circumstances, under which they originate ; for \nthey spring into being under all circumstances. We can- \nnot look, or touch, or breathe, or move, or think without \nthem. These are riches of our mental nature too essen- \ntial and important to be withheld, or to be given only on \nrare and doubtful occasions ; but are spread abroad in all \ntime and place, in all action and feeling. (See, in con- \nnection with this section, \xc2\xa7. \xc2\xa7. 17, 18, 19.) \n\n\xc2\xa7. 261. Of the nature of unity and the origin of that notion. \n\nAnother important notion, properly entitled to a con- \nsideration here, is that of unity. We shall decline at- \ntempting to explain the nature of unity, for the simple \nreason that nothing is more easy to be understood ; every \nchild knows what is meant by One. And how can we ex- \nplain it, if we would ? We can explain a hundred by re- \nsolving it into its parts ; we can explain fifty or a score \nby making alike separation of the whole number into the \nsubordinate portions,of which it is made up ; but when we \narrive at unity, we must stop, and can go no further. \n\n\n\nSUGGESTION, 347 \n\nIt is true attempts have been made to define it, but \nlike many other such attempts, they have proved futile. \nUnity has been called a thing indivisible in itself^ and divided \nfrom every thing else. But this makes us no wiser. Is it \nany thing more than to say, that the unity of an object is \nits indivisibility ? Or in other words that its unity is its \nunity ^ \n\nAs the idea of unity is one of the simplest, so it is one \nof the earliest notions which men have. It originates in \nthe same Avay, and very nearly at the same time with the \nnotions of existence, self-existence, personal identity, and \nthe like. When a man has a notion of himself, he evident- \nly does not think of himself as two, three, or a dozen \nmen, but as one. As soon as he is able to think of himself \nas distinct from his neighbour, as soon as he is in no dan- \nger of mingling and confounding his own identity with \nthat of the multitude around him, so soon does he form \nthe notion of unity. It exists as distinct in his mind, as \nthe idea of his own existence does ; and arises there im- \nmediately successive to that idea, because it is impossible, \nin the nature of things, that he should have a notion of \nhimself as a twofold or divided person. \n\nUnity is the fundamental element of all enumeration. \nBy the repetition or adding of this element, we are able to \nform numbers to any extent. These numbers may be com- \nbined among themselves, and employed merely as expres- \nsive of mutual relation ; or we may apply them, if we \nchoose, to all external objects whatever, to which we \nare able to give a common name. \xe2\x80\x94 ^(See \xc2\xa7. 2SS.). \n\n\xc2\xa7. 262. JVature of succession^ and origin of the idea of \nsuccession. \n\nAnother of those conceptions, which naturally offer \nthemselves to our notice here, is that of succession. This \nterm, (when we inquire what succession is in itself,) is \none of general application, expressive of a mode of exis- \ntence rather than of existence itself ; and in its applica- \ntion to mind in particular, expressive of a condition of \nthe mind\'s action, but not of the action itself, which that \n\n\n\n^48 SUGGESTION. \n\ncondition regulates. It is certainly a fact too well known \nto require comment, that our minds exist at different pe- \nriods in successive states ; that our tlioughts and feelings, \nin obedience to a permanent law, follow each other in a \ntrain. This is the simple fact. And the fact of such suc- \ncession, whenever it takes place, forms the occasion, on \nwhich the notion or idea of succession is suggested to the \nmind. Being a simple mental state, it is not susceptible \nof definition ; yet every man possesses it, and every one is \nrightly supposed to understand its nature. \n\nAccordingly it is not necessary to refer the origin of \nthis idea to any thing external.\' It is certain, that the \nsense of smell cannot directly give us the idea of succes- \nsion, nor the sense of taste, nor of touch. And we well \nknow, that the deaf and dumb possess it, not less than \nothers. The blind also, who have never seen the face of \nheaven, nor beiield that sun and moon, which meas- \nure out for us days and months and years, have \nthe notion of succession. They feel, they think, they \nI\'eason, at least in some small degree, like other men ; and \nit is impossible, that they should be without it. The ori- \ngin, therefore, of this notion is within ; it is the unfailing \nresult of the inward operation to call it forth, however \ntrue it may be that it is subsequently applied to outward \nobjects and events. \n\n* \xc2\xa7.263. Origin of the notion of duration. \n\nThere is usually understood to be a distinction be- \ntween th^ idea of succession, and that of duration, though \nneither can be defined. The idea of succession is suppo- \nsed to be antecedent in point of time to that of duration ; \n(we speak now of succession and duration relatively to \nour conception of them, and not in themselves considered. ) \nDuration must be supposed to exist antecedently to succes- \nsion in the order of nature ; but succession is the form, in \nwhich it is made to apply to men ; and is, therefore, nat- \nurally the occasion, on which the idea of it arises in men\'s \nminds. Having the notion of succession, and that of per- \nsonal or self-existence, a foundation is laid for the addi- \n\n\n\nSUGGESTION. 349 \n\ntional conception of permanency or duration ; in other \nwords, it naturally arises in the mind, or is suggested, un- \nder these circumstances. \n\nAs we cannot, according to this view of its origin, have \nthe notion of duration .without succession, hence it hap- \npens, that we know nothing of duration when we \nare perfectly asleep, because we are not then conscious \nof those intellectual changes which are involved in \nsuccession. If a person could sleep with a perfect sus- \npension of all his mental operations from this time un- \ntil the resurrection, the whole of that period would \nappear to him as nothing. Ten thousand years passed un- \nder such circumstances would be less than a few days or \neven hours. \n\nThat the notion of succession is antecedent to, and is \nessential to that of duration, is in some measure proved \nby various facts. There is for example, in the Proceed- \nings of the French Royal Academy of Sciences in 1719, a \nstatement to the following effect. There was in Lau- \nsanne a nobleman, who, as he was giving orders to a ser- \nvant, suddenly lost his speech and all his senses. Differ- \nent remedies were tried, but for a very considerable time \nwithout effect. For six months he appeared to be in a \ndeep sleep, unconscious of every thing. At the.end of \nthat period, however, resort having been had to certain \nsurgical operations, he was suddenly restored to his \n\'%peech, and the exercise of his understanding. When he \nrecovered, the servant, to whom he had been giving or- \nders, happening to be in the room, he asked him if he had \ndone what he had ordered him to, not being sensible, that \nany interval, except perhaps a very short one, had elap- \nsed during his illness."^ \n\n\xc2\xa7. 264. Of time and its measurements J and of eternity. \n\nWhen duration is estimated or measured, we then call \nit Time. Such measurements, as every one is aware, are \nmade by means of certain natural, or artificial motions. \n\n*The Academy received this statement from Crousaz, Mathemati- \ncal Professor at Lausanne, and author of a Treatise on Logic, &c. \n\n\n\n350 SUGGESTION. \n\nThe annual revolution of the sun marks off the portion of \nduration, which we call a year ; the revolution of the \nmoon marks off another portion, which we call a month ; \nthe diurnal revolution of the sun gives us the period of a \nDAY ; the movements of the hands over the face of a \nclock or watch give the diminished durations of hours and \nminutes. This is time, which differs from duration, only \nin the circumstance of its being measured. \n\nWhat we call Eternity is only a modified or imperfect \ntime, or rather time not completed. We look back over \nthe months and days and years of our former existence ; \nwe look forward and onward, and behold ages crowding \non ages, and time springing from time. And in this way \nwe are forcibly led to think of time unfinished, of time \nprogressive but never completed ; and to this complex \nnotion we give the name of Eternity. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 265. Marks or characteristics of time. \n\nTo this notice of the origin of the notion of time, it will \nnot be improper to add, as it is one of great importance, \nsome of its marks or characteristics. \n\nI, \xe2\x80\x94 Time, (meaning by the term duration as existing \nin succession, and as susceptible of being measured,) is \nstrictly and properly predicable only of finite beings, and \nnot of the Supreme Being. It is evident, that, in its ap- \nplication to the human mind, time becomes a law or fixed \ncondition of the mental action, a restriction placed upon \nit, a sort of veil, which would hide knowledge from us, \nwere it not that it is drawn up gradually, and lets it in by \ndegrees. But it is equally evident there can be no law of \nthis nature restricting the Divine Mind. Those multiplied \nfacts and events, which are brought one after another be- \nfore the minds of men, in consequence of their limited \nmental constitution, are spread out at once before the Di- \nvine Mind, as on a map. Whether past, present, or future, \nthey are embraced and comprehended in a single glance. \nIn this respect there is not the slightest analogy between \nthe Supreme Mind, and the hiinds of men. \n\nII, \xe2\x80\x94 Time is not susceptible of any visible or outward \n\n\n\nSUGGESTION. 351 \n\nrepresentation, as might be expected, if its origin had \nbeen external instead of internal. It is true, we apply lan- \nguage to time, which would imply, if strictly interpreted, \nthat it has extension or length. We speak of a long, or short \ntime, &c. But this is owing partly to certain casual asso- \nciations, and partly to the imperfection of language, and \nnot to any thing in the nature of time itself. \n\nIll, \xe2\x80\x94 Time, as it exists in our mental apprehension and \nin its relation to the intellect, is inseparable from events. \nWhatever event has taken place, whether it be the desola- \ntion of a province by an earthquake, or the fighting of a \nbattle, or the forming of a political constitution, or v/hat- \never else, although we are ignorant of the hour, the day, \nor the month, we cannot possibly conceive of them, inde- \npendently of time. This is a fixed, immutable, and ulti- \nmate condition of all^our perceptions, so far as they regard \nevents. \n\nIV, \xe2\x80\x94 Time, in its specific and appropriate nature, is in- \ndestructible, while the human soul remains the same it \nnow does. It is not within the limits of human capa- \nbility to contemplate events as the Supreme Being does, \nat once and simultaneously ; but it can be done in succes- \nsion alone ; nor have we reason to suppose that it will ev- \ner be otherwise. It is true, the Angel shall at last appear, \nstanding on the land and the sea, and shall swear, that \ntime shall be no longer ; yet the time, which the angel of \nthe Apocalypse is destined thus to abolish, is only that, \nwhich is measured by these stars, this moon, and the rev- \nolutions of this earth. As long as the human soul exists, \nin whatever part of the universe, there must at least be, not \nonly duration, but duration as existing in succession, un- \nless the nature of the soul be fundamentally changed. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 266. The idea of space not of external origin. \n\nAnother of those notions, the origin of which we pro- \npose to consider under the head of Suggestion, is the idea \nof SPACE. Perhaps it will be asked, why Vv^e have dis- \nregarded in this instance the authority and example of \nMr. Locke, w^ho has ranked it with the notions of Exter- \n\n\n\n352 SUGGESTION. \n\nnal origin, or in his own phraseology, with those which \ncome into the mind by the way of sensation. And cer- \ntainly it might be expected, that we should assent to that \nancient arrangement, if it could be definitely shown to us, \nwhich of the senses it is to be ascribed to. But it is obvi- \nous, that this cannot easily be done. \n\nIf it were of external origin, if it could properly be said \nto come into the mind by the way of sensation, we should \nbe able to make such a reference of it. But let us inquire. \nIt will evidently not be pretended, that the notion of \nspace is to be ascribed to the senses of taste, of smell, or \nof hearing. And can it be ascribed to the sense of touch? \nIs it a matter of feeling ? A single consideration will sug- \ngest a satisfactory answer. It will certainly be acknowl- \nedged that we can have no knowledge by the sense of \ntouch, (with the single exception perhaps of the ideas of \nheat and cold, which are sometimes ascribed to it,) of any \nthing which does not present some resistance. The de- \ngree of resistance may greatly vary, but there will be al- \nways some. But no one will undertake to say, that resis- \ntance is a quality of space, or enters in any way into his \nnotion of it- \n\nNor are there less obvious objections to regarding it \nas a direct object of sight. The sense of sight gives us \nno direct knowledge of any thing but of colours ; all oth- \ner visual perceptions are original in the sense of touch, and \naj\'e made the property of the sight by transference. No \none certainly ever speaks of space as red, or white, or of \nany other colour, or conceives of it as such. \n\nThere is another consideration, adverse to ascribing the \nidea of space to the senses, applicable equally to the sight \nand the touch. Every thing coming within the cognizance \nof those two senses, (with the exception already alluded \nto,) has form, limits, bounds, place, &c. But the \'idea, to \nwhich we are now attending, is utterly exclusive of every \nthing of this nature ; it is not susceptible of circumscrip- \ntion and figure. So far from it, when we escape beyond \nthe succession of circumscribed and insulated objects, we \nhave but just entered within its empire. If we let the \n\n\n\nSUGGESTION. S53 \n\nmind range forth beyond the forms immediately surround- \nino- us, beyond the world itself, beyond all the systems of \nworlds in the universe ; if we stand in our conception on \nthe verge of the remotest star and look downward and \nupward ; it is then the idea of space rushes upon the mind \n\nwith a power before unknown. These considerations \n\nclearly lead to the conclusion, that the notion of space is \nnot susceptible of being ascribed directly to sensation in \nany of its forms, and is not, in the proper sense of the \nterms, of external origin. It may perhaps be maintained, \nthat we shal! find an adequate account of its origin, if we \ncombine the aid of abstraction with sensation. It is ad- \nmitted, that by the sense of touch we have a knowledge of \nthe extension of bodies, which includes, when it is con- \ntemplated under difFereot views, length, breadth, height \n&c. But still it does not appear, liov/ abstraction, applied \nto extension, or any thing included in extension, can give \nus space. It is evident, that the abstract notion, which \nwe form of the length of a body, is different from the \none in question. And if we abstract height or breadth, \nthese also come short of giving us space. If we could ab- \nstract height, length, and breadth at once, and then com- \nbine them together, we should not- even then have space, \nbut on the contrary a solid body. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 267. The idea of space has its crighi in suggestion. \n\nWhat then shall we say of the origin of the notion of \nspace ? When pressed on this point, we have but one ans- \nwer to give ; it is the natural offspring of the mind ; it is \na creation of the soul, v^^holly inseparable from its elemen- \ntary constitution and action ; an intimation, coming from \nan interiour and original impulse. Tiie opinion of Cou- \nsin, (not to mention that of others of like import,) close- \nly approximates to this statement. \n\nAfter criticising upon Locke, as Mr. Stewart had \ndone before him, and asserting the futility of pretending \nto derive this notion directly from the senses, he adds \n45 \n\n\n\n354 SUGGESTION. \n\nas follows ; "t^w contraire, Videe d\'\' espace ncus est donnee^ d \nV occasion de V idee de corps, par la pensee^ Ventendement^ V es- \nprit ^ la raison, enfin par une puissance autre que la sensation.^\'\'* \n\nIt remains to be aclded, that, while we cannot directly \nrefer the notion in question to the senses, we cannot even \nstate with certainty any particular occasion on which it \narises, for w^e have the notion at a period further back \nthan we can remember. On this point, however, it is un- \ndoubtedly true, that w^e may advance opinions more or \nless probable. It is, for instance, a supposition not alto- \ngether w^orthless, that motion may have been the original \noccasion of the rise of this idea. At an early period we \nmoved the hand, either to grasp something removed at a \nlittle distance, or in the mere playful exercise of the mus- \ncles, or perhaps we transferred the whole body from one \nposition to another ; and it is at least no impossibility, \nthat on such an occasion the idea of space may have been \ncalled forth in the soul. \n\nBut there is another supposition, still more entitled to \nnotice, the one referred to in the above quotation from \nCousin. Our acquaintance with external bodies,by means of \nthe senses, may have been the occasion of its rise, although \nthe senses themselves are not its direct source. It is cer- \ntain, that we cannot contemplate any body whatever, an \napple, a rose, a tree, a house, without always finding the \nidea of space a ready and necessary concomitant. We \ncannot conceive of a body, which is no where. So that \nwe may at least date the origin of the idea of space as \nearly as our acquaintance with any external body what- \never. In other words it is a gift of the mind, made sim- \nultaneously with its earliest external perceptions. \n\n\xc2\xa7.268. Characteristicmarksof the notion of space. \n\nWhat has been said has prepared the way for the bet- \nter understanding of the characteristic marks of space, as \nit exists in the mind\'s view of it. Of these marks there \nare four, wrhich will help to distinguish it. \n\n*L\'Histoire de la Philosophie, Tome 11, Dix-septieme Legnn. \n\n\n\nSUGGESTION. 355 \n\nI, \xe2\x80\x94 Like duration or time, space is not capable of \nbeing visibly represented. The. remarks, wlii^h have al- \nready been madsj clearly evince this. Nothing can be \nvisibly represented, which does not come within the di- \nrect range and cognizance of the senses, as space does not. \n\nII, \xe2\x80\x94 It has no form nor limits. This miglit perhaps \nbe considered as naturallv resultinor from the character- \nStic first mentioned. And besides we may safely appeal \nhere to general experience, and assert without hesitation, \nthat no man limits space in his conception of it, nor is it \neven in his power so to do. \n\nIll, \xe2\x80\x94 It is absolute and necessary. We speak of a thing \nas absolute, which is not dependent on another, and is un- \nalterable. This is not the case with any thing whatever, \nwhich we become acquainted uith by means of the direct \nagency of the senses. All such bodies are constantly \nchanging, and there is no difficulty in the supposition, that \nthey may all be struck out of existence. But it is impos- \nsible for us to associate the idea of non-existence with \nspace. It is unalterably the same. But there is evidently \nnothing unalterable, which is not naturally and necessarily \nso. It is on this ground therefore, that we assign to space \nthe characteristic of being absolute and necessary. \n\nIV, \xe2\x80\x94 A fourth characteristic is, that it is the condition \nof the existence of all bodies; that is to say, it is impossible \nfor us to conceive of a body without associating the notion \nof space with it. We are so constituted, that what we \nunderstand by space is utterly inseparable from eX\'^ery \nthing outward, which has outlines and form. So that we \nmay truly say of space, that it is the condition of the ex- \nistence of all bodies, at least relatively to ourselves. And \nhence, as it is internally conceived of, it becomes a great \nlaw of the mind, modifying and limiting all its outward \nperceptions. (See \xc2\xa7. \xc2\xa7. 57, 8.) \n\n\xc2\xa7. 269. Of the origin of the idea of power. \n\nUnder the head of Suggestion the idea of power prop- \nperlybelongs. Every man has this notion; every one feels \n\n\n\nS56 SUGGESTION. \n\ntoo, that there is a corresponding reality ; and we may \nundoubtedly add, that every one knows, although there \nis a great original fountain of power, that he has a portion \nof it in his own bosom, and in his own arm. There is a \nvast unseen power, which has reared the mountains, which \nrolls the ocean, which propels the sun in his course, and \nholds the stars in their orbits; but man too has power in the \nhumble sphere, which Providence has allotted him ; and \nis not left desolate. This is a simple statement of the fact. \nPower goes hand in hand with existence, intelligence, and \naccountability, and they are alike scattered through the \nUniverse. \n\nBut the question here is, not what power is in \nitself, nor whether man possesses power in fact, but how \nthe notion of power arises in the human mind ? Before \nanswering this question, the reuiark is to be made, that \npower is an attribute of mind and not of matter. Mat- \nter may be the medium, through which the operations of \npower are exhibitedVbut it has no power in itself. Hence \nwe are led to observe, that thenotion of power originates, \nin the first instance, in mind, and not in what we see in \nmatter. \n\nPerh^)s this remark may be liable to misapprehen- \nsion ; and, therefore, it seems necessary to offer some ex- \nplanation. The mind, having power, exercises it in rea- \nsoning, consulting, forming plans for the future, &c ; and \nparticularly in the putting forth of volition. We will to lift \nahand or foot, and the result immediately follows; we will to \ngo from one place to another, and we immediately put our \ndetermination into execution ; we will to complete some \nprojected undertaking, and the deed is consequent on the \nvolition. x\\nd we behold in others what we experience \nin ourselves. Paul said to the impotent man of Lystra, \nStand upright on thy feet, and he leaped and walked. \nThe Savior said, Lazarus, come forth, and he arose from \nthe dead. In the beginning the world was in darkness ; \nGod said, Let there be ligfit, and light was. \n\n\n\nSUGGESTION. 357 \n\nOn such occasions we may suppose, that the idea of \npower arises in the mind. It is suggested by the mind \nitself ; and such is our mental nature, that it cannot be \notherwise. \n\nBut we are perhaps called upon to give a definition or \nverbal explanation of the notion of power. The reply is, \nthat the idea, which the mind forms of it, is a simple and \nuncompounded one. It can be resolved into no subordi- \nnate elements, and therefore stands on the same footing \nwith our other .simple notions. It would be as unavailing \nto attempt to explain it by a mere combination of v/ords, \nas it would to give a verbal definition of the simple sensa- \ntions of taste, of hearing, and of sight. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 2T0. JSTotion of an criginal or first antecedent. \n\nThe only other notion we shall mention under the \npresent head, is that of original antecedence. It will per- \nhaps be said, that this notion arises by experience ; but \nexperience properly concerns only the circumstances, \nwhich lead to it and under which it arises, and not the \nmental cause itself. Let us, for example, suppose a person \nentirely separated from the reskof the world, dwelling in \nsome distant island, with no means of mental culture but \nsu^h as nature herself affords, furnished, as it were, only \nwith the senses, and with the variety of objects around \nhim, fitted to operate upon them. As he walks abroad in \nhis insulated domain, he finds its shores worn away, and \nhe ^t once discovers the antecedent in the motion of the \nocean\'s waves against it. He beholds the prostration of \nthe neighbouring forest, and he detects the antecedent in \nthe- strong arm of the whirlwind. He sees the grass \ngrow, and the trees put forth their buds and leaves, and \nthe flowers open, and he finds the forerunner of these de- \nlightful effects in the warmth and the shov/ers of the sum- \nmer. But his mind is not satisfied with this ; he asks, or \nrather his nature within liim asks. Who guided the ocean? \nVVho gave strength to the whirlwind ? And thus the \nmind will inevitably go on from events to their precur- \nsors, from antecedent to antecedent. \n\n\n\n353 SUGGESTION. \n\nNo man stops short of this. What would be the thoughts \nof our supposed solitary islander, will be found to be the \nthoughts of all. We ourselves, as well as others, behold \nthe world covered with brightness ; but, instead of sitting \nsupinely and ignorantly in its beams," we never fail to look \nfor the forerunner, and we find it in the luminaries of the \nsun and moon, and in tiiose smaller fountains of effulgence, \nwhich are opened in various parts of the visible heavens. \nAnd then we imagine ourselves standing in the midst of \none of those orbs, and the inquiry again arises, Who sup- \nplies these fountains ? Where is the antecedent power, \nthat kindled up these piles of heavenly radiance ^ \xe2\x80\x94 The \nmind itself, therefore, suggests the notion of something \nwhich goes before, of an antecedent, under every combi- \nnation of circumstances ; and not only believes, that there \nmust have been such, but seeks for it. The event, the \nfact, whatever takes place in nature, calls for its \'antece- \ndent, as "deep calls unto deep." It is a voice, if we may \nagain be permitted in a Scriptural allusion, which is \n" gone out through all the earth, and its words to the \nend of the world." But there is a time when the cry is \nsilent ; a limit, beyond whkji the inquiry cannot be push- \ned ; and we must at length stop at an original and neces- \nsary antecedent, with which all succession begins, and on \nwhich all events are dependent. \n\nHence we say, that the notion of original antecedence, \nin particular, is a matter of suggestion. It does not have \nits origin in the senses. It evidently does not come with- \nin the range of consciousness, because it is something, \nwhich, from its very nature, we are not, and cannot be \nconscious of. It is not the result of relative suggestion \nsince there is nothing compared together ; the mind has \narrived at a point where it can go no further, and as \nthere are no objects of comparison, there are of course \nno feelings of relation. And furthermore it is not the re- \nsult of reasoning, since there is evidently no reasoning ap- \nplicable to it, which does not take for granted, that there \nis^no beginning nor change of existence without a cause. \n\n\n\nSUGGESTION. 359 \n\nThat there must be an original antecedent (when combi- \nned with the notion of power, the^great first cause of all \nthings,) without which subsequent effects and events could \nnot have taken place, must undoubtedly be assumed ; for \nthe* chain of reasoning, although it may go on from an- \ntecedent to antecedent, from cause to cause, must stop \nsomewhere ; evidently no human strength can carry it up- \nward to that, which is infinitely removed ; but that myste- \nrious first cause must condescend to come down and meet \nit. And it has come. Reasoning does not frame this notion; \nnevertheless it exists, and with no small degree of dis- \ntinctness and strength, being necessarily called forth in \nthe soul by means of that primitive or original suggestion, \nwhich we have been considering. We shall pur- \nsue, in this place, this particular source of our knowl- \nedge no further. But in leaving it, we would not be un- \nderstood to intimate, that the notions of existence, mind, \nself-existence, personal identy, unity, succession, dura- \ntion, time, space, power, and original antecedence are \nall, which suggestion furnishes. No doubt, on a careful \nexamination, various others may be found. \n\n\n\nCHAPTER THIRD. \n\n\n\nCONSCIOUSNESS. \n\n\n\n\xc2\xa7. 271. Consciousness the second source of internal knoicIecJge ; \nits nature. \n\nThe second source of that knowledge, which, in \ndistinction from sensations and external perceptions, is \ndenominated Internal, is consciousness. So numerous are \nthe ideas from this source, constantly forcing themselves on \nour attention and modifying the whole mental action,that it \nwas considered justly entitled to be ranked among the laws \nof belief. Although that was a view of consciousness, alto- \ngether different from what we propose to take at present, \nwe found occasion at that time to remark particularly on \nits nature. Nor is it necessary in that respect, to do more \nthan repeat essentially what has already been said. Con- \nsciousness is a term, appropriated to express objects, which \nbelong to the mind itself, and which do not, and cannot ex- \nist independently of some mind. Imagining and reason- \ning are terms, expressive of real objects of thought ; but \nevidently they cannot be supposed to exist, independently \nof some mind, which imagines and reasons. Hence, in the \nchapter just referred to, (\xc2\xa7.69,) consciousness was des- \ncribed as embracing in itself the three following distinct \nnotions at least; viz., (1) the idea of self or of personal \nexistence, expressed in English by the words self, myself, \nand the personal pronoun I ; (2) some quality, state, or \n\n\n\nCONSCIOUSNESS. 361 \n\noperation of the mind, whatever it may be ; and (3) a rel- \native perception of possession, appropriation, or belonging \nto. For instance, a person says, I am conscious of love, \nOR OF ANGER, OR OF PENITENCE. Herc the Idea of SELF or \nof personal existence is expressed by the pronoun I; there is a \ndiiferent mental state and expressed by its appropriate term, \nthat of the affection ofANGERj&c; the phrase, conscious of, \nexpresses the feeling of relation, which instantaneously and \nnecessarily recognizes the passion of anger as the attribute \nor property of the subject of the proposition. And in this \ncase, as in all others where we apply the term under con- \nsideration, consciousness does not properly fextend to any \nthing, which has an existence, extraneous to tiie con- \nscious subject or soul itself. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 212. Objections to Locke\'\' s Essaij concerning Human \n\nUnderstanding. \n\nIt is proper to remark here, that the term reflection, \nas used by Mr. Locke in his book on Human Understanding, \nhas been generally understood, (v/hether justly or not,) as \nsynonymous with Consciousness, as here explained. That \nwriter held, as is well known, that the origin of human \nknowledge is two-fold, External and Internal ; attribu- \nting all external knowledge to sensation, and all internal \nknowledge to reflection. Supposing therefore, that he \nmeant by the term reflection, what is meant at the pres- \nent day by consciousness, his commentators and critics \nhave found a difficulty in explaining the origin of those \nnotions among others, which were ascribed in the last \nchapter to suggestion. Writers, who are in general pro- \nfessed followers of Mr. Locke, and of whose candour it \nwould be highly uncharitable to doubt, appear to agree in \nopinion, that his valuable Essay is defective in this respect. \nAnd it can hardly be doubted, that this is a point, in which \nit is chiefly assailable, viz, in maintaining the doctrine, \nthat all our internal knowledge is from reflection, under- \nstanding the term as synonymous with consciousness. \xe2\x80\xa2 A \nfew quotations will help .to shqw the opinions of res- \npectable writers on this subject. \n\nDr. Reid, in his Third Es^av o;: lii :::tLilL;,:L;.J Fow- \n46 \n\n\n\n162 \n\n\n\nCONSCIOUSNESS. \n\n\n\n\ners, has this passage. \'\'Mr. Locke says,that by reflection he \nwould be understood to mean the notice ^widch the mind takes of \nits operations and of the raanner of them. This,I think, we com- \nmonly call Consciousness; from whicli indeed we derive all \nthe notions we have of the operations of our own minds; and \nlie often speaks of the operations of our own minds, as the \nonly objects of reflection. \xe2\x80\x94 When reflection is taken in this \nconfined sense, to say, that all our ideas are ideas either of \nsensation or reflection, is to say that every thing we can \nconceive is either some object of sense or some operation \nof our own minds, which is far from being true." \n\nDr. Price, in his Review of the Principal Questions and \nDifficulties in Morals, remarks as follows. \'\xe2\x96\xa0\' Sensation and \nreflection have been commonly reckoned the sources of all \nour ideas ; and Mr. Locke has taken no small pains to \nprove this. How much soever, on the whole, I admire \nhis excellent Essay, I cannot think him sufficiently clear or \nexplicit on this head. It is hard to determine exactly what \nhe meant by sensation and reflection. If by the former we \nunderstand the effects arising from impressions made on \nour minds by external objects, andby the latter, f/ieno/icef/ie \nmind takes of its own operations ; it will be impossible to de- \nrive some of the most important of our ideas from them.\'\' \n\n\xc2\xa7. 273. Opinions oj Mr. Stewart on this subject. \n\nMr. Stewart in the course of the First of his Philosoph- \nical Essays, which is entitled. On Locke\'s account of \n\nTHE SOURCES OF HUMAN KNOWLEDGE, shoWS at SOmC length, \n\nthat we cannot explain the origin of the notions of self, of \npersonal identity, causation, time, number, &c.,on the doc- \ntrine of Mr. Locke, as it is generally understood ; and that \nthey must be regarded as necessarily arising in the human \nunderstanding in the exercise of its different faculties. \nSpeaking on the subject of Mr. Locke\'s plan in his Ele- \nments of the Philosophy of the Human Mind, (Chap. I ; \xc2\xa7, \n4,) he remarks as follows, " These two sources, according \nto him, furnish us with all our simple ideas, and the only \npower which the mind possesses over them, is to perform \ncertain operations, in the way of composition, abstraction, \n\n\n\nCONSCIOUSNESS. 363 \n\ngeneralization, &c. on the materials, wlilcli it thus collects \nin the (fturse of its experience. The laudable desire of \nMr. Locke, to introduce precision and perspicuity into \nmetaphysical speculations, and his anxiety to guard against \nerrour in general, naturally prepossessed him in favour of \na doctrine, which, when compared with those of his prede- \ncessors, was intelligible and simple, andwiiich by suggest- \ning a metliod, apparently easy and palpable, of analyzing \nour knowledge into its elementary principles, seemed to \nfurnish an antidote against those prejudices, which had \nbeen favored by the hypothesis of innate ideas. It is now a \nconsiderable time since this fundamental principle of Mr. \nLocke\'s system began to lose its authority in England." \n\nIn these passages, (and others of a like purport migiit \neasily be brought together, if it were deemed necessary,) \nwe see more fully the reason, why it was thought requisite \nto assign some of those elementary ideas, which come un- \nder the general head of Internal Origin, to suggestion. \nThey evidently cannot be assigned to consciousness, with- \nout introducing perplexity and confusion into this latter \nsubject. But having attended to those notions, (compara- \ntively few in number but very important,) which are fur- \nnished us by an original or primitive intimation of our na- \nture, CONSCIOUSNESS, Considered as a new and distinct \nsource of internal knowledge, naturally has the next claim \non our notice. It is on these grounds, that the subject oc- \ncupies its present place. \n\n<^. 274. Instancesof notions originating from consciousness. \n\nIt would be no easy task to point out the numerous no- \ntions, coming within the range and cognizance of con- \nsciousness ; nor is there any special reason, why this should \nbe attempted. A few instances will suffice to show, how \nfruitful a source of experience and of knowledge this is. \n\nI, \xe2\x80\x94 All the forms and shades of belief are matters of con- \nsciousness. We are so constituted, that the mind necesga- \nrily yields its assent, in a greater or less degree, when evi- \ndence is presented. These degrees of assent are exceeding- \nly various and multiplied, although only a few of them \n\n\n\nf \n364 . CONSCIOUSNESS. \n\nare expressed by select and appropriate names ; nor does \nit appear to be necessary for the ends of society, or \nfor any other purpose, that it should be otherwise. Some \nof them are as follows ; doubting, assenting, presumption, \nbelieving, probability, high probability, certainty, &c. \n\n11, \xe2\x80\x94 The names of all intellectual powers and operations \nare expressive of the subjects of our consciousness. A- \nmong others, the terms, thinking, attending, remembering, \ncomparing, judging, abstracting, reasoning, imagining, &c. \n\nIll, \xe2\x80\x94 Consciousness includes likewise all our emotions, \n^every thing coming within the range of the sentient part \nof our nature,) as the emotions of the beautiful, the grand, \nthe sublime, the ludicrous ; the feelings of pleasure and \npain, of desire and aversion ; of hope and joy, of despon- \ndency and sadness, and a multitude of others. \n\nIV, \xe2\x80\x94 Here also originates our acquaintance with the \ncomplex emotions or passions. A man bestows a benefit \nupon us, and we are conscious of a new complex feeling, \nwhich we call gratitude. Another person does us an injury, \nand we are conscious of another and distinct feeling, which \nwe call ANGER. In other words, we feel, we know, that \nthe passion exists, and that it belongs to ourselves ; and it \nis the same of distrust, jealousy, peevishness, hatred, re- \nvenge, friendship, sympathy, love, &c. \n\nV; \xe2\x80\x94 All the moral and religious emotions and affections \nbelong here ; such as approval, disapproval, remorse, \nhumility, repentance, religious faith, forgiveness, benevo- \nlence, the sense of dependence, adoration. When we \n\nconsider, that the mind is constantly in action, that, in all \nour intercourse with our fellow-beings, friends, family, \ncountrymen, and enemies, new and exceedingly diversi- \nfied feelings are called forth, that every new scene in na- \nture, and every new combination of events have their ap- \npropriate results in the mind, it will be readily conjectured, \nthat this enumeration might be carried to a much greater \nextent. What has been said will serve to indicate some of \nthe prominent sources for self-inquiry on this subject. \n\n\n\nCHAPTER FOURTH. \n\n\n\nRELATIVE SUGGESTION. \n\n\xc2\xa7. S75. Of the susceptibility of perceiving or feeling rela- \ntions. \n\nIt is not inconsistent with the usage of our language to \nsay, that the mind brings its thoughts together, and pla- \nces them side by side, and compares\' them. Such are \nnearly the expressions of Mr. Locke, who speaks of the \nmind\'s bringing one thing to and\'setting it by another, and \ncarrying its view from one to the other. And such is the \nimperfect nature of all arbitrary signs,that this phraseology \nwill probably continue to be employed, although without \nsome attention it will be likely to lead into errour. Such \nexpressions are evidently of material origin, and cannot \nbe rightly interpreted without taking that circumstance \ninto consideration. When it is said that our thoughts are \nbrought together, that they are placed side by side and \nthe like, probably nothing more can be meant than this, \nthat they are immediately successiveto each other. And \nwhen it is further said, that we compare them, the mean- \ning is, that we perceive or feel their relation to each other \nin certain respects. \n\nThe mind, therefore,\'has an original susceptibility or \npower, answering to ^this result; which is sometimes \nknown as its power of relative suggestion, and at other \ntimes, the same thing is expressed by the term judgment, \n\n\n\n366 RELxlTIVE SUGGESTION. \n\nalthough the latter term is not limited in its use to the ex- \npression of this feeling.^ We arrive here, therefore, at \n\nan ultimate fact in our mental nature. The human intel- \nlect is so constituted, that, when it perceives different ob- \njects together, or has immediately successive conceptions \nof any absentfobjects of perception, their mutual relations \nare immediately felt by it. It considers them as equal or \nunequal, like or unlike, as having the same or diiferent \ncauses or ends, and in various other respects. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 27G. Occasions on which feelings of relation may arise. \n\nThe occasions, on which feelings of relation may arise, \nare almost innumerable. It would certainly be no easv \ntask to specify them all. Any of the ideas, which the \nmind is able to frame, may either directly or indirectly, \nlay the foundation of other ideas of relation, since they \nmay in general be compared together ; or if they cannot \nthemselves be readily placed side by side,\' may be made \nthe means of bringing others into comparison. But those \nideas, which are of an external origin, are representative \nof objects and their qualities ; and hence we may speak of \nthe relations of things no less, than of the relations of \nthought. And such relations are every where discover- \nable. \n\nWe behold the flowers of the field, and one is fairer \nthan another ; we hear many voices, and one is louder or \nsofter than another ; we taste the fruits of the earth, and \none flavour is more pleasant than another. But these dif- \n\n\n\n* The word judgment is sometimes used as expressive of the re- \nsult of a train of reasoning, and as synonymous with conclusion or \nopinion. But not unfrequently it is employed with a more restricted \nimport, and as synonymous with relative suggestion. The following \n\npassage of Brown supports this remark. "With the susceptibility \n\nof relative suggestion, the faculty oi^ judgment, as that term is com- \nmonly employed,may be considered as nearly synonymous; and I have \naccordingly used it as synonymous in treating of the diiferent rela- \ntions, that have come under oitr review." Philosophy of the Human \nMind, Lect. 51. \n\n\n\nRELATIVE SUGGESTION. 367 \n\nferences of sound and brightness and taste could never be \nknown to us without the power of perceiving relations. \n\nAgain, we see a fellow being ; and as we make him the \nsubject of our thoughts, we at first think of him only as \na man. But then he may at th&same time be a father, a \nbrother, a son, a citizen, a legislator ; these terms express \nideas of relation. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 277. OJ the use of correlative terms. \n\nCorrelative terms are such terms, as are used to express \ncorresponding ideas of relation. They suggest the rela- \ntions with great readiness, and by means of them the mind \ncan be more steadily, and longer, and with less pain, fix- \ned upon the ideas, of which they are expressive. The \nwords father and son, legislator and constituent, brother \nand sister, husband. and wife, and others of this class, as \nsoon as they are named, at once carry our thoughts be- \nyond the persons, who are the subjects of these relations, \nto the relations ; themselves. Wherever, therefore, there \nare correlative terms, the relations may be expected to be \nclear to the mind. \xe2\x80\xa2 \n\nThe word, citizen, is a relative term; but there being \nno correlative word, expressing a precisely corresponding \nrelation, w^e find it, more difficult to form a ready concep- \ntion of the thing signified, than of subject, which has the \ncorrelatives, ruler and governor. \n\n\xc2\xa7.278. Of the relations of identity and diversity. \n\nThe first class of ideas of relationjwhich we shall pro- \nceed to consider, are those of identity and diversity. \n\nSuch is the nature of our minds, that no two objects can \nbe placed before us essentially unlike, without our having \na perception of this diiference. When, on the other hand, \nthere is an actual sameness in objects contemplated by us, \nthe mind perceives or is sensible of their identity. It is \nnot meant by this, that we are never liable to mistake ; that \nthe mind never confounds what is different, nor separates \nwhat is the same ; our object here is merely to state the \ngeneral fact. \n\n\n\n368 RELATIVE SUGGESTION. \n\nTwo pieces of paper are placed before us, the one white \nand the other red; and we at once perceive, without delay- \ning to form comparisons and to reason upon it, that the \ncolours are not the same. We immediately and necessarily \nperceive a difference between a square and a circle,a triangle \nand a parallelogram, the tree and the turf from which it \nsprings upwardja house arid the neighbouring hill, a horse \nand his rider. \n\nWhatever may be the appearance of this elementary \nfeeling at first sight, it is undoubtedly one of great practic- \nal importance. It has its place in all forms of reasoning, \nas the train of arguments proceeds from step to step ; and \nin Demonstrative reasoning in particular, it is evident, \nthat without it we should be unable to combine together \nthe plainest propositions. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 279. Of the, relations of identity and diversity called \naxioms. \n\nThe remark at the close of the last section will be bet- \nter understood, on a little further explanation. The state- \nment was,that without the^elative feelino-g of identity and \nDIVERSITY, (otherwise called relations of agreement and \nDISAGREEMENT,) WO should be incapable of demonstrative \nreasoning. Such reasoning, as is well known, is carried on \nby the help of axioms. And we accordingly never fail to find \na number of axioms placed at the head of geometrical, and \nother treatises of a like nature, such as the following ; \nThings equal to the same are equal to one another; If equals \nbe added to equals, the wholes are equal ; The whole is \ngreater than a part; Things,whichare double of the same, \nare equal to one another ; Things which.are halves of the \nsame, are equal to one another ; Magnitudes, which co- \nincide with one another, (that is, which exactly fill the \nsame space,) are equal to one another, &c. \n\nIt will be admitted, (and we shall see it perhaps more \nclearly, when we again have occasion to revert to this \nsubject,) that demonstrative reasoning implies a constant \nreference to such axioms ; that its advancement througl \nthe successive series of propositions is by means of their ait*\' \n\n\n\nnil \n\n\n\nRELATIVE SUGGESTION. 360 \n\nBut it is too evident to require remark, that these axioms \nare nothing more than particular instances of the relative \nfeeling of identity and diversity, expressed in words. It is \nthe feelings of agreement and disagreement, actually arising \niwthe mind, and not the mere verbal expression of them, \nwhich forms the true cement and bond of the successive \nlinks, and imparts consistency and strength to the whole \nchain. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 280. (II.) Relations of fitness or unfitness^ \n\nThe second class, (although it may be remarked here, \nit is of but little practical consequence in what order they \nare arranged,) are the relations of fitness or unfitness. \nOr they may be otherwise termed relations of suitableness \nor unsuitableness, congruity or incongruity. The feeling \nof the relation of fitness or unfitness arises, as every one\'s \nrecollection will not fail to inform him, on a multitude of \noccasions. Coming, for the first time, into the neighbor- \nhood of a well-constructed temple or other public edifice, \nwe at once make it the subject of our inspection and ex- \namination. With a glance of the eye, we bring the height, \nand breadth, and length, and local situation of the build- \ning under review. We attentively consider the windows, \nand doors, and vestibule ; the size, formation, number, and \nposition of the columns ; the place and character of the or- \nnamental parts, and we cannot avoid exercising the feeling \nof fitness, suitableness, or congruity. -In external nature ev- \nerything has the character of fitness. If the human mind \never disapproves of the forms and correspondencies of ob- \njects, it is because it passes a judgment on a partial knowl- \nedge of them, and without waiting to understand all the \nsubordinate parts. But in respect to the imitative combi- \nnations of human genius, there is by no means an equal \nperfection of foresight and excellence of execution ; so that \nsometimes we have the feeling of fitness and approve ; \nwhile at other times, and more frequently, we are sensible \nof an incongruity, and cannot withhold our disapproba- \ntion. \n\n47 \n\n\n\nS70 RELATIVE SUGGESTION. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 281. (in.) Relations of degree, and names expressive of them. \n\nAnother class of those intellectual perceptions, which \nare to be ascribed to relative suggestion, may properly \nenough be termed relations of Degree. Such feelings of \nrelation are found to exist in respect to all such objects, as \nare capable of being considered as composed of parts, and \nas susceptible, in some respects, of different degrees. \n\nWe look, for instance, at two men ; they are both tall; \nbut we at once perceive and assert, that one is taller than \nthe other. We taste two apples ; they are boih sweet ; \nbut we say that one is sweeter than another. That is to \nsay, we discover, in addition to the mere perception of the \nman and the apple, a relation, a difference in the objects in \ncertain respects. \n\nThere are terms, in all languages, employed in the ex- \npression of such relations. In English a reference to the \nparticular relation is often combined in the same term, which \nexpresses the quality. All the words of the comparative \nand superlative degrees, formed by merely altering the \ntermination of the positive, are of this description, as \nwhiter, sweeter, wiser, larger, smaller, nobler, kinder, \ntruest, falsest, holiest, and a multitude of others. In oth- \ner cases, (and probably the greater number,) the epithet, \nexpressive of the quality, is combined with the adverbs \nmore and most, less and least. But certainly we should not use \nsuch terms, if we were not possessed of the power of rel- \native suggestion. We should ever be unable to say of one. \napple, thrt it is sweeter than another, or of one man, that he \nis taller than another, without considering them in certain \ndefinite respects, and without perceiving certain relations. \nSo that, if we had no knowledge of any other than relations \nof Degree, we should abundantly see the importance of the \nmental susceptibility under review, considered as a source \nof words, and of gramatical forms in language. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 2S2. Relations of degree sometimes exist in adjectives of \nthe positive form. \n\nAlthoufl^Ii relations of degree are discoverable more \nfrequently in comparative and superlative adjectives than \n\n\n\nRELATIVE SUGGESTION. 371 \n\nany where else, they may sometimes be detected also in ab- \nstract nouns, v/hich have the appearance of being entirely \npositive, and not unfrequently in adjectives of the positive \nform. \xe2\x80\x94 Let it be considered, as one instance among many \nothers, what we mean, when we say of a person, He is an \nAGED man. Although the epithet has the positive form, \nwe always tacitly compare the age of the subject of it with \nthat of others, of people in general, and place the partic- \nular number of years, to which he may have attained, \nby the side of that period, which we are in the habit of \nregarding as the ordinary term of man\'s pilgrimage. \xe2\x80\x94 It is \nthe same, when we say of any person, that he is young. \nHe is then, by a tacit mental reference, considered as fall- \ning far short, of an assumed period, an approximation to \nwhich gives. to another person the reputation of age. \n\nBuffier, whose remarks are generally entitled to great \nweight, happily illustrates this subject as follows.^ \n\nIf we should, for example, never have seen or heard \nof any hill or mountain of greater height than a quarter \nof a miJe, as might happen to some of the inhabitants of \nthe Low Countries, a mountain a mile high would ap- \npear a considerable one to such people ; but this moun- \ntain would be looked upon as inconsiderable and trifling \nto the people of the Alps, who are accustomed to see \nmountains of much greater height. This example is so \nstriking, that there is no necessity for any other to make \nus sensible of the nature of relations that are founded on \nan arbitrary idea, formed either by accident and occasion, \nor by our own fancy ; as if I should take it into my head, \nwithout any foundation, that pearls are generally an inch \nin diameter, I must in that case, look upon all the pearls \nwe have in France as very small. \n\n"What has been here said of greatness is manifestly \napplicable to all the other qualities of long, broadj happy., \nunhappy^ convenient^ inconvenient^ easy, difficult, rich, poor, \ngood, bad, excellent, and many others of a similar nature, \nthat have no determinate sense, but by a relation founded \n\n* First Truths of Pere Buffier, Part ii, Chap, xxviii. \n\n\n\n372 RELATIVE SUGGESTION. \n\non an arbitrary and accidental idea formed within our own \nminds. A man thought himself miserable in having a \nslight head ache : being afterwards seized with a giddiness \nand violent swimming in the head, the first reflection that \noccurred to him was, hoio happy he was when he had only his \nfirst head-aohe. We here se6 that the arbitrary idea, on \nwhich the comparsion and relation are founded, changes \nthe signification, and in a manner the nature, of the qual- \nities of happy and miserable.\'\'^ \n\n\xc2\xa7. 233. (IV) Of relations of proportion. \n\nAmong other relations are those of proportion, which \nare peculiar in being felt only on the presence of three or \nmore objects of thought. They are discoverable particu- \nlarly in the comparison of numbers, as no one proceeds far \nin numerical combinations without a knowledge of them. \nOn examining the numbers tw^a, three, four, twenty, twen- \nty seven, thirty two, nine, five, eight, and sixteen, we feel \ncertain relations existing among them ; they assume a new \naspect, a new power in the mental view. We feel, (and we \ncan assert, in reference to that feeling,) that three is to nine \nas nine to twenty seven ; that two is to eight as eight to \nthirty two ; that four is to five as sixteen to twenty, &c. \n\nAnd when we have once felt or perceived such relation \nactually existing between any one number and others, we \never afterwards regard it as a property inseparable from \nthat number, although the property had remain- \ned unknown to us, until we had compared it with \nothers \xe2\x80\x94 All this is nothing more than what we do \nin respect to all the subjects of our knowledge. There \nare many properties of external bodies, which were not \nknown to us at first, but as soon as they are discovered, \nthey are of course embraced in the general notion, which \nwe form of such bodies, and are considered as making a \npart of it. It is the same in respect to numbers. If, on \ncomparing them with each other, we perceive certain re- \nlations never discovered before, those relations ever after- \nwards make a part of them. \n\n\n\nRELATIVE SUGGESTION. 373 \n\n\xc2\xa7. 2S4. (V.) Of relations of pla\'x or position. \n\nOther feelings of relation arise, when we contemplate \nthe place or position of objects. Our minds are so consti- \ntuted, that such feelings are the necessaiy results of our con- \ntemplations of the outward objects, by which we are sur- \nrounded. Perhaps we are asked, What we mean by po- \nsition or place ? Without professing to give a confident \nanswer, since it is undoubtedly difiicult by any mere form \nof words fully to explain it, we have good grounds for say- \ning that we cannot conceive of any body as having place, \nwithout comparing it with some other bodies. If, therefore, \nhaving two bodies fixed, or which maintain the same rela- \ntive position, we can compare a third body with them, the \nthird body can then be said to have place or position. \n\nThis may be illustrated by the chess-men placed on the \nchess-board. We say, the men are in the same place, al- \nthough the board may have been removed from one room \nto another. We use this language, because we consider \nthe men only in relation to each oth^r and the parts of the \nboard, and not in relation to the room or parts of the \nroom \n\nAgain, a portrait is suspended in the cabin of a ship pf \nwar ; the captain points to it, and says to a bystander, that \nit has been precisely in the same place these seven years. \nWhereas in point of fact it has passed from Europe to Af- \nrica, from Africa to America, and perhaps round the whole \nworld. Still the speaker uttered no falshood, because he \nspoke of the portrait, (and was so understood to speak of \nit,) in relation to the ship and particularly the cabin ; and \nnot in relation to the parts of the world, which the ship \nhad visited. \xe2\x80\x94 Such instances show that place is relative. \n\nHence we may clearly have an idea of the place or po- \nsition of all the different parts of the universe, considered \nseparately, because they may be compared with other \nparts ; although we are unable to form any idea of the \nplace or position of the universe considered as a whole, be- \ncause we have then no other body, with which we can \ncompare if. If it were possible for us to know all worlds \n\n\n\n374 RELATIVE SUGGESTION. \n\nand things at once, to comprehend the universe with a \nglance, we could not assert, with all our knowledge of it, \nthat is here, or there, or yonder, or tell, where it would \nbe. \n\nBut if place express a relative notion, then it follows, \nthat all words, which involve or imply the place or posi- \ntion of an object, are of a similar character. Such are the \nwords high and low, superiour and inferiour, (whe.n used \nin respect to the position of objects,) near and distant, \nabove and beneath, further, nearer, hither, yonder, here, \nthere,where, beyond, within, around, without, and the like. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 285. (VI.) Of relations of time. \n\nAnother source of relative perceptions or feelings is \nTIME. Time holds nearly the same relation to duration, \nas position does to space. The position or place of objects \nis but space marked out and limited ; time, in like manner, \nis duration, set off into distinct periods ; and as our notions \nof the place of bodies are relative, so also are our csncep- \ntions of events considered as happening in time. It is \ntrue, that the notions of duration and space are in them- \nselves original and absolute, but when they are in any way \nlimited, and events are thereby contemplated in reference \nto them under the new forms of place and time, certain \nnew conceptions arise, which are relative. \n\nAll time is contemplated under the aspects of past, pres- \nent, or future. We are able chiefly in consequence of the \nrevolutions of the heavenly bodies,to form a distinct notion \nof portions of time, a day, a month, a year, &c ; we can \ncontemplate events, not only as existing at present but as \nfuture or past. But always when we think or speak of \nevents in time, (in other words when we speak of the dale \nof events,) there, is a comparison, and a feeling of relation. \n\nW^hat, therefore, is the import of our language, when \nive say, the independence of the North American colonies \n\nwas declared, July 4tli, 1776. The meaning of these \n\nexpressions may be thus illustrated. W^e assume the pres- \nent year, 1830, as a given period and reckon back to the \n\n\n\nRELATIVE SUGGESTION. 375 \n\nyear, owe, which coincides with the birth of the Saviour ; \nthen the year, 1776 expresses the distance between these \ntwo extremes, viz. one, and eighteen hundred, thirty. \nThis seems to be all we learn, when we say, the Independ- \nence of the United States was declared at the period above \nmentioned. \n\nWe mean the same thing, and convey the same idea, \nwhether we say that the Saviour was born in the year,0NE5 \nof the Christian era, or, in the year, 4004, from the crea- \ntion of the world. But in the last case, the year 4004, ex- \npresses the distance between these two extremes, viz, the \nbeginning of the world, and the. present time; while, in \nthe first instance, the event itself forms the beginning of \nthe series. So that all dates appear to be properly class- \ned under ideas of relation ; and also all names whatever, \nwhich are in any way, expressive of the time of events, as \na second, a minute, day, week, hour, month, year, cycle, \nyesterday, to-morrow, to-day, &c. \n\n\xc2\xa7, 286. (VII.) Of relations of possession. \n\nAnother class of relations may be called relations of pos- \nsession. Every one knows, that not unfrequently, in \n\nhis examination of objects, there arises anewfeeling,which \nis distinct from, and independent of the mere conceptions \nof the objects themselves ; and which, as it differs from \nother feelings of relation, may be termed the relation of \npossession, or belonging to. This is one of the earliest \nfeelings, which human beings exercise. V^henwe see the \nsmall child grasping its top and rattle with joy, and dis- \nputing the claims of another to share in them, we may \nknow that he has formed the notion of possession. It is \nnot only formed in early life, but experience fully shows, \nthat it loses neither activity nor strength by the lapse of \nyears. \n\nThe application of relative perception in this particular \nform is abundantly extensive ; and we find here a fruitful \nsource of words. The whole class of possessive pronouns, \nwhich are to be found in all languages, have their origin \nhere ; such as MiffE, thine, your, his, her, &c. The re- \n\n\n\n376 RELATIVE SUGGESTION. \n\nlation of possession is embodied also in the Genitive case \nof the Greeks, Latins, Germans, and whatever other lan- \nguages express relations in the same way ; in the construct \nstate of nouns in the Hebrew and the other cognate dialects; \nand in the preposition of, which is the substitute for the \ngenitive termination in English, and the articles de, du, \nde\'l, and de la in French. \n\nThe verbs to be in English,EssE in Latin, etre in French, \n(and the same may undoubtly be said of the correspond- \ning verb of existence in all languages,) are often employ- \ned to express the relation of possession or belonging to. \nTo say that the rose is red or the orange yellow is as much \nas to say, that the qualities of yellowness and redness are \nthe possession of, or belong to the rose and orange, But \nit will be observed, that the relation is not indicated by \nthe name of the subject, nor by the epithet expressive of \nits quality, but by the verb, which connects the subject \nand predicate. And similar remarks will apply to many \nother verbs. \n\nThis class of relations is involved in many complex \nterms, which imply definite qualities and affections of \nmind, as friend, enemy, lover, hater, adorer, worshipper. \nThese terms not only indicate certain individuals, to whom \nthey are applied, but assert the existence of certain mental \naffections as their characteristics, and as belonging to them. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 287..[VIIL) Of relations of cause and effect. \n\nThere are relations also of Cause and Effect. We will \nnot delay here to explain the origin of the notions of cause \nand effect any further than to say, that the notion of cause, \nas it first exists in the mind, includes nothing more than \ninvariable antecedence. When the antecedence to the \nevent, or the sequence of whatever kind, is our own voli- \ntion, we have the new idea of power. The idea of inva- \nriable antecedence, therefore, which of course supposes \nsome sequence, when it was combined with that of power, \nconstitutes the full notion of cause. When the sequence is \nfound invariably to follow, and its existence cannot be as- \ncribed to any thing else, it is called the effect. \n\n\n\nI \n\n\n\nRELATIVE SUGGESTION. 377 \n\nCause andeifect, therefore, have certahily a relation to \neach other; it is thus that they exist in the view of the mind \nand in the nature of things, however true it may be, that \nmen are unable to trace any physical connection between \nthem. We cannot conceive of a cause, if we exclude from \nthe list of our ideas the correlative notion of effect, nor, \non the other hand, do we call any thing an effect with- \nout a reference to some antecedent. These two notions, \ntherefore, involve or imply the existence of each other ; \nthat is, are relative. \n\nIf, in our notice of outward objects, we examine par- \nticular instances of cause and effect, we shall discover \ngrounds of the correctness of this view. No one is igno- \nrant that men usually, give the name of events, of occur- \nrences, or facts, to those things,which from time to time \nfall under their notice, when they are considered in them- \nselves. They are the mere facts, the mere events, and \nnothing more. But when in the course of their further \nexperience, such events are found to have certain invaria- \nble forerunners, they cease to apply these terms, and \ncall them, in reference to their antecedents, effects. And \nin like manner the antecedents are called causes, not \nin themselves considered, but in reference to what invaria- \nbly comes after. \xe2\x80\x94 In this explanation it is obviously unne- \ncessary, independently of what has already been said on the \nsubject, to take into consideration what we understand \nby Power, wdiicli we know and feel to be scattered \nthrough the universe; showing itself not only in the \nmovements and efforts of men, but in every blooming \nflower, and twinkling star, and in all the works of nature, \nwithout which there can be neither cause nor effect, nei- \nther antecedence nor sequence, neither strength of harmo- \nny nor stability of action. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 283. Instances of complex terms involving the relation of \ncause and effect. \n\nThe simple relative feeling of cause and effect can of \ncourse only exist in such cases of cause and effect as come \nwithin the knowledge and cognizance of the mind\xc2\xbb \n\n48 \n\n\n\n378 RELATIVE SUGGESTION. \n\nThis simple feeling, like most other simple states of mind, \nhas but one name, (viz. that of cause and effect,) although \narising on innumerable occasions. The relation, however, \nis embodied in a multitude of names which are expressive \nof complex objects, such as printer, sculptor, warrior, po- \net, manufacturer, painter, &c. \n\nThis may be thus illustrated. When we look at any in- \nteresting piece of statuary, the sight of it naturally suggests \nits author. But when our mind is thus directed from \nthe statue to the sculptor, it is evident that we do not \nthink of him as we do of a thousand others, but we com- \nbine with the conception of the individual a reference to \nwhat he has done. We unite with the mere complex no- \ntion of man that of cause, and this combination evident- \nly alters its character, making it relative instead of abso- \nlute. \n\nIn like manner when we look at a fine portrait or his- \ntorical painting, we are naturally reminded of the artist, \nwhose ingenuity has been displayed in its proportions and \ncolouring. But the word painter,which we apply to him, \nexpresses not merely the man, but comprises the addition- \nal notion of the relation of cause,which he holds to the in- \nteresting picture before us. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 289. Connection of relative suggestion or judgment with \nreasoning. \n\nIt may be profitable to notice here the connection, \nwhich relative suggsstion has with reasoning in general. \nFeelings of relation, (or elementary judgments, as they may \nperhaps properly be called,) are, in some respects, to a \ntrain of reasoning, what parts are to the whole. But they \nevidently do not of themselves include all the parts in a \ntrain of reasoning, and are distinguished by this peculiari- \nty, that their office, in a great measure, is to connect to- \ngether other subordinate parts in the train. In the combina- \ntions of numbers, and in the various applications of demon- \nstrative reasoning, the relations of proportion and the rela- \ntions of IDENTITY and DIVERSITY, (othcrwisc called of agree- \nment and disagreement.) find a conspicuous place. Moral \n\n\n\nRELATIVE SUGGESTION. 379 \n\nreasoning embraces all kinds of relations, tliose of degree \ntime, place, fitness and unfitness, possession, and cause \nand effect, as well of agreement and disagreement\', and of \nproportion. Relative feelings, sometimes of one kind and \nsometimes of another, continually unfold themselves, as \nthe mind advances in an argument. \n\nAlthough in reasoning there are elements besides feel- \nings of relation, it is evident that it (ftinnot advance inde- \npendently of their aid. Facts may be accumulated, having \nclose and decisive relations to the points to be proved, but \nthey can never be so bound together as to result in any \nconclusion, without a perception or feeling of those rela- \ntions. So that in some respects, the senses, consciousness, \noriginal suggestion, memory, testimony, &c, may be re- \ngarded as the handmaids, of relative suggestion ; the for- \nmer furnishing the facts, and the latter rendering them \navailable. \n\n\n\nCHAPTER FIFTH . \n\n\n\nMEMORY. \n\n^90. Internal knowledge not limited in its origin to one \nsource or one power. \n\nHowever it may be regarded as a trite remark, that \nthe memory has an intimate connection with the origin of \nknowledge, it probably is an indisputable one ; although \nsome may see reason for annexing the qualification, that it \nis less directly a source of ideas in itself, than in its vari- \nous connections with other mental susceptibilities. We \ncannot form abstract notions, independently of the aid of \n;the memory; we can neither exercise the power of reason- \ning nor of imagination without it ; it may even be consid- \nered as implied in, or at least essential to the notion of \npersonal identity. And how is it possible, therefore, not \nto regard it as, either directly or indirectly, one of the \nsources of internal knowledge.\'\' \xe2\x80\x94 The ways, in which \nknowledge is let into the mind, are more numerous, than \nwould probably be supposed on a slight or cursory inspec- \ntion ; and it befits us, therefore, to be cautious of limiting \nits growth and expansion to one cause, to any fixed and \nexclusive mode of action, and to any single combination of \ncircumstances. Such a limitation would seem to imply a \ndisregard of the general experience on the subject, and a \nforgetfulness also, that the human soul is the result of di- \nvine workmanship, that its existence is beyond the direct \ncogi.izance of the senses^ that it sustains a multitude of re- \n\n\n\nMEMORY. \' 331 \n\nlations, is controlled by uncounted influences, and is sus- \nceptible of unlimited developement. \n\nSo far, therefore, from saying with Mr. Locke, that \nconsciousness is the only source of internal knowledge, (if \nsuch be truly his doctrine, as it is generally understood to \nbe,) we should not only add the sources of primitive and \nrelative suggestion, but should increase the number with \nevery inward susceptibility, and with every specific diver- \nsity of interior mental action, the memory, reasoning, im- \nagination, &c. These are all sources of new ideas. But \nin proceeding to consider them, it is proper to remark, \nthat our attention will be more taken up with the faculties \nthemselves and their action, than with their immediate \nresults on the increase of knowledge. And accordingly, in \nnext proceeding to investigate the memory, we wish to \nknow what the memory is, its diversified character in dif- \nferent individuals, the causes of this diversity, the means of \nimproving it. &c. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 291. Explanations in respect to the faculty of memory. \n\nMemory is that power or susceptibility of the mind, \nfrom which arise those conceptions, which are modified \nby the relation of past time. It is not a simple, but com- \nplex state of the intellectual principle, implying (1) a \nconception of the object, (2) the relation of priority in its \nexistence. That is, we not only have a conception of the \nobject, but this conception\'s attended with the conviction, \nthat it underwent the examination of our senses, or was \nperceived by us at some former period. \n\nWhen we imagine, that we stand in the midst of a for- \nest, or on the top of a mountain, but remain safe all the \nwhile at our own fireside, these pleasing ideas of woods, \nand of skies painted over us, and of plains under our feet, \nare mere conceptions. But when with these insulated con- \nceptions, we connect the relation of time ; and they gleam \nupon our souls, as the woods, plains,and mountains of our \nyouthful days ; then those intellectual states, which were \nbefore mere conceptions, become remembrances. And \nthe susceptibility, which the mind possesses of these latter \ncomplex states, is what usually goes under the name of \nthe power or faculty of memory. \n\n\n\n382 MEMORY. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 292. Of the differences in the strength of memory. \n\nThe susceptibility of remembrances is the common pri- \nvilege of all, and generally speaking, it is possessed in \nnearly equal degrees. To each one there is given a suffi- \ncient readiness in this respect ; lii^ ability to remember is \nsuch as to answer all the ordinary purposes of life. But, \nalthough there is in general a nearly equal distribution of \nthis power, we find a few instances of great weakness, and \nother instances of great strength of memory. \n\nIt is related of the Roman orator, Hortensius, by Sene- \nca, that after sitting a whole day at a public sale, he gave \nan account from memory, in the evening, of all things sold, \nwith the prices and the names of the purchasers, and that \nthis account, when compared with what had been taken in \nwriting by a notary, was found to be exact in every par- \nticular. \n\nThe following is an instance of strength of memory \nsomewhat remarkable. An Englishman, at a certain time, \ncame to Frederic the Great of Prussia, for the express pur- \npose of giving him an exhibition of his power of recollec- \ntion. Frederic sent for Voltaire, who read to his majesty \na pretty long poem,which he had just finished. The Eng- \nlishman was present, and was in such a position, that he \ncould hear every word of the poem ; but was concealed \nfrom Voltaire\'s notice. After the reading of the poem \n\xe2\x80\xa2was finished, Frederic observed to the author, that the \nproduction could not be an original one ; as there was a \nforeign gentleman present, who could recite every word of \ndt. Voltaire listened with amazement to the stranger, as \nhe repeated, word for word, the poem,which he had been \nat so much pains in composing ; and giving way to a mo- \nmentary freak of passion, he tore the manuscript in pieces. \nA statement, being made to him of the circumstances, mit- \nigated his anger, and he was very willing to do penance for \nthe suddenness of his passion by copying down the work \nfrom a second repetition of it by the stranger, who was \nable to go through with it, as before. \n\nA great number of instances of this dejscription are \nfound in the records of various individuals,but they must be \n\n\n\nMEMORY. 383 \n\nconsidered as exceptions to the general features of the \nhuman mind, the existence of which cannot be explained \non any known principles. As no one can tell, why one \noak on the mountains is tall and large, while its neighbour, \non the same soil and of the same description of trees, re- \nmains stinted and dwarfish ; so we find ourselves unable \nto give any philosophic explanation of such instances as \nhave been mentioned. \n\nBut there are also weak memories, so much so as to be \nproperly considered exceptions to the generally equal dis- \ntribution of this mental susceptibility. Individuals can be \nfound, from whose memory truths have passed away almost \nthe moment after they have been acquired ; and who, in \nthe management of the common concerns of life, discover \na forgetfulness extremely unfortunate and perplexing. In- \nstances of this kind are indeed not so frequently found \nrecorded as of an opposite description ; because it is more \npleasing and satisfactory to the literary annalist to record \nthe excellencies, than the defects of the mind. \n\n, \xc2\xa7. 293. 0/ the effects of disease on the memory. \n\nSome writers have attempted to explain the phenome- \nna of memory by supposed changes wrought in the cere- \nbral substance ; but without assenting to any such hy- \npothesis, it is proper to remark, that it seems to be \nwell established, that there is a connection of some kind \nbetween the mind and body. We rightly and fairly infer, \nthat there is such a connection,because there are a multitude \nof facts, which can be explained on no other supposition ; \nbut in what way, or to what extent it exists, it would be \nworse than futile to assert with the limited knowledge \n\nwe at present possess. The general truth, however, \n\nthat there is a connection of some sort between the mind \nand body, and consequently, a reciprocal influence, is con- \nfirmed, besides other sources of evidence, by some facts \nin respect to the memory.\xe2\x80\x94 I have read, (says Dr. Beattie,) \nof a person, who falling from the top of a house, forgot all \nhis acquaintances, and even the foces of his own mmily ; \nand of a learned author, who, on receiving a blow on the \n\n\n\n381 MEMORY. \n\nhead by a folio dropping from its shelf, lost all his learn- \ning, and was obliged to study the alphabet the second time. \nHe further remarks, that he was himself acquainted with a \nclergyman, who was attacked with a fit of apoplexy. Af- \nter his recovery, he was found to have forgotten all the \ntransactions of the four years immediately preceding, but \nremembered as well as ever what had happened before \nthat period. The newspapers, which were printed during \nthe period mentioned, were read with interest, and afford- \ned him a great deal of amusement, being perfectly new. \xe2\x80\x94 \nThucydides, in his account of the plague of Athens, makes \nmention of some persons, who survived that disease ; but \ntheir bodily sufferings had affected their mental constitu- \ntion, so that they had no recollection of their own former \nhistory, had forgotten their friends, and every thing else. \nFrom many instances of this kind, and from others, \nwhich go to prove, that the state of the mind, on the other \nhand, often has a very perceptible effect on the bodily \nfunctions, it may justly be inferred, that there is a connec- \ntion existing between the mind and the body, and that a \nreciprocal influence is exercised. But what that precise \nconnection is ; whether it be limited, on the part of the \nbody, to the brain ; on what it depends ; in what ways it \nis modified ; are inquiries, which cannot be satisfactorily \nanswered at present, whatever hypothesis may be propo- \nsed. Why a fever, or an attack of apoplexy, or a remo- \nval of a part of the brain, or an inordinate pressure of it^ \nwhich are effects on the body, should affect the mind, a \nspiritual substance, which is supposed to be essentially \ndifterent from matter, no one is able to say. \xe2\x80\x94 The fact, \nhowever, that such a reciprocal connection exists, suggests \na reason for a due degree of attention to the physical sys- \ntem. The importance of a healthy and vigorous consti- \ntution of the body, as being very nearly connected with a \ncorresponding health and vigour of the intellectual princi- \nple, should ever be remembered by those in the pursuit of \nknowledge. \n\n^. 204. Memory of the uneducated. \n\nThere is a peculiarity in the memories of uneducated \n\n\n\nMEMORY. 38^ \n\npeople, of mechanics, farmers, day-labourers, and of all \nothers, who, from tlie pressure of tlieir particular callings \nmay have had but little means of mental culture. This \npeculiarity is seen in their great readiness in the recollec- \ntion of places, times, arrangements in dress and in buildings, \nlocal incidents, &c. In their narrations they will be found to \nspecify the time of events ; not only the year, but th\xc2\xa9 \nmonth, and day, and in their description of persons and \nplaces are not less particular. This trait in the mental \ncharacter of this class of people seems to have arrested the \nnotice of Shakspeare. \n\nMrs. Quickly in reminding Sir John Falstaff of his \npromise of marriage, discovers her readiness of recollec- \ntion in the specification of the great variety of circumstan- \nces, under which the promise was made. Thou didsi \n\nswear to me an a pdrcel-gilt goblet j sitting in my Dolphin cham- \nber, at the round tabUy by a sea-coal fire, on Wednesday in \nWhitsun week, when the prince broke thy head for likening him \nto a singing man oj TVindsor, <|\'C. The coachman in Cor- \nnelius Scriblerus gives an account of what he had seen in \nBear-garden ; \xe2\x80\x94 Two men fought a prize ; one was a fair man, \na sergeant in the guards ; the other black, a butcher ; the serjeant \nhad red trousers, the butcher blue ; they fought upon a stage about \nfour o^clock, and the serjeant wounded the butcher in the leg. \n\nThe explanation of this peculiarity of memory in com- \nmon people is this. It will be kept in mind, that our \n\nremembrances are merely conceptions, modified by rela- \ntions of past time. Removing then the modification of \npast time, and the remaining element of our remembrances \nwill be conceptions. Our conceptions cannot be called up \nby a mere voluntary effort, because to will the exist- \nence of a conception necessarily implies the actual ex- \nistence of the conception already in the mind. Our con- \nceptions, therefore, arise in the mind on the principles of \nassociation. We come, then, directly to the fact which \nexplains that peculiarity or characteristic of memory, of \nwhich we are speaking. \n\nThe knowledge, which is possessed by persons of very \nsmall education, will be found to be connected together \n49 \n\n\n\n336 MEMORY. \n\nby the most obvious and easy principles of association ; \nfor instance, contiguity in place and time. These people \nhave been very much, we may say chiefly, in the pracUce \nof associating those things, which happened at the same \ntime, or were proximate in position, it may be thought, \nthat mere time and place are very unimportant relations, \nbut however that may be, they most strongly seize the \nnotice of persons of small education ; and by means of \nthem their overflowing multitude of remembrances is \nkept in place. Having by almost constant exercise great- \nly strengthened the tendency to those associations, which \nexist in consequence of mere contiguity, they can very \nreadily tell you, not only the precise place^ where any \nthing has happened, but almost every thing, which has \nhappened in the immediate neighborhood ; not only the \niimej when the event occurred, but many other things, \nwhich occurred about the same period. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 296. Memory of men oj philosophical minds. \n\nFrom speaking of the power of remembrance in the \nuneducated, we naturally turn to persons of a reflecting, \nand philosophic mental character. It has often been re- \nmarked of such, that they discover a want of readiness of \nrecollection. The servant in the family of the philoso- \npher will be likely to know much liiore about the fields, \nand fences, and cattle of the neighbours ; will be more \nminutely acquainted with their individual dress, and man- \nners, and habits, than the philosopher himself. More than \nthis, he has an iiptness, an ability at remembering things \nof this nature, which his philosophic master evidently does \n\nnot possess. Again, we suppose a battle to have been \n\nfought ; persons of limited intellectual culture will tell \nyou the precise day of the month, the exact number of \ntroops, the names of the regiments, the amount of killed \nand wounded, and many trifling incidents of individuals, \nwhether solemn or ludicrous, which are fitted subsequent- \nly to enliven the narrations of the fireside. But the phi- \nlosopher, who has read the same accounts, does not re- \nmember these particulars, and finds it a very diflicult thing \n\n\n\nMEMORY. 387 \n\nto do it. But we perceive, that his mind has been profit- \nably employed in reflections on the causes of the battle., \non various striking developements of human character in \nits heat and bustle, and on its effects upon tlie happiness \nor misery of families and nations. \n\nMany have imagined, that the memory of the unedu- \ncated, because it deals so mucli in miniits particulars, is \nintrinsically stronger, than of others. It is, no doubt, to \nthe multitude a more imposing species of memory, and ad- \nmirably answers tlie purpose of those, in whom it appears. \nBut mere contiguity in time and place, which is almost \nthe sole principle that binds together events in the recollec- \ntion of such persons, is of but small consequence in the \nestimation of the philosopher. He looks more deeply into \nthe nature of things ; their mere outward and incidental \ncircumstances do not particularly arrest his attention ; and \nconsequently his knowledge is connected together by less \nobvious and ready, but more important principles, such \nas analogy, contrast, and cause and effect. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 297. Of the memory of the aged. \n\nA defect of memory is often noticed in persons, who \nare advanced in years. Very few retain those powers of \nrecollection, which they possessed in early days. "Age, \nsays Ossian, is now on my tongue, and my soul has failed ; \nmemory fails on my mind." \xe2\x80\x94 The failure of this mental \nsusceptibility in the aged seems to be owing to two causes, \nviz. the impaired state of the organs of perception, and a \ndefect of attention. \n\n\'(1 ) Their organs of external perception are impaired. \nWe find it difficult, in consequence of the failure of \ntheir sense of hearing, to converse with people, advanced \nin years, and it requires a great effort, both on our part \nand theirs, to make them understand what we say. The \nmost conclusive arguments, and flashes of wit, and rich \nstrains of music have in a great measure ceased to excite \nin them any interest. \xe2\x80\x94 There is a like failure of the sense \nof seeing also. They no longer take pleasure in the de- \nlightful aspects of creation. The waving forest, and the \n\n\n\nS8S MEMORY. \n\ngay beams of the sun, although they have not ceased to \nliave charms for others, have but little or none for them. \n\n(2) The second cause of- ihe loeakness of memory^ oj lohich \n\nold people complain, is a defect of attention. That mental \n\nexercise, to which we give the name of attention, always \nimplies desire, an emotion of interest ; and without an \nemotion of this description^ it cannot exist. But the world, \n(including in the term what is beautiful in nature, and \nwhat is important in the duties and callings of life.) has at \nlast ceased to excite the emotions, which it formerly awa- \nkened. The aged are like the prisoner, released in the \nperiod of the French revolution, from the Bastille ; they \nfind themselves, as it were, in a new creation, which pass- \nes before them with great indistinctness, and with which \nthey feel but little sympathy. And why should it be \nthought unnatural, that they should neglect in some meas- \nure that scene of things, which has already learnt to forget \nand to neglect them ? As their organs of external percep- \ntion have failed them, and there has also been a defect of \nattention, the memory, as a natural consequence, has be- \ncome powerless and broken. \n\nIt should, however, be remarked here, that, notwith- \nstanding what has been said, aged people often recal, with \ngreat readiness and precision, the feelings and the incidents \nof their youth. As when a man, who has been greatly \nprospered, but who at last meets with sudden and disas- \ntrous I\'everses of fortune, finds, in this new state of things, \nhis obsequious attendants fleeing away and turning against \nhim, while only a few early friends remain unmoved in \nevil and good report ; so early feelings and early associa- \ntions appear to cling with a faithful fondness to the shat- \ntered intellects of the aged. The old soldier, who had a \nshare in the American Revolution, will sit down by his \nfireside and describe with great particularity the scenes, \nwhere he toiled and bled, and yet be quite unable to give \nan account of the incidents of the preceding week. \n\nThe explanation of this trait in the mentc^J aspects of \n\nthe aged seems to be this. As a general statement, our \n\nearly feelings and our early associations are the strongest. \n\n\n\nMEMORY. 389 \n\nThat they should be so is not strange, since we have then \nentered on a state of things, which, in its essential fea- \ntures, is new, and which, in all its diversities of duty, and \npleasure, and danger, attracts, and excites us by continual \nnovelty. Who can forget the plaihffwhere he wandered \nin early life? Who can erase from his recollection the \nassociates of those days of wonder, activity, and hope ? \nWho can obliterate from his heart his toils, and his suffer- \nings, and his joys, all of which assumed a peculiar emphasis \nand importance, being connected with future prospects^ \n\nthe adversities and the successes of after life ? These \n\nthings remain, while others vanish. Such feelings, so \ndeeply fixed in the mind, and bound together and made \npermanent by the strength of a mutual association, are \nfrequently recalled ; they recur to the soul in the activity \nand bustle of life, and in those more favoured moments, \nwhen it is given up to silent and solemn meditations. The \neffect of this frequent recurrence can easily be imagined- \nThe early impressions, which are the subjects of such re- \ncurrence, become in time, if one may be allowed the ex- \npression a part of the mind itself ; they seem to be woven \ninto its existence. Hence old men, who have no eye \nand no hearing for the events, that are passing around \nthem, repeat, with the greatest animation, the stories of \nscenes, and actions, and friendships of fifty years ago. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 298. Memory of persons of a rich imagination. \n\nIt is a remark of Dr. Watts, that a fine genius is often \nfound to have a feeble memory. By a fine genius he \nprobably understood what we commonly mean by a person \nof a rich imagination ; that is, one, who is furnished with \na rich store of images, has readiness in the perception of \ntheir congruity or incongruity with each other, and of \ncourse has great power in the formation of various new \ncombinations. \n\nSuch a person finds a luxuriance of wealth in himself. \nHe is continually and happily entertained with the new \npictures, which his imagination creates. Hence he does \nnot so much entertain himself with outward events ; many \n\n\n\n390 MEMORY. \n\nfacts, which are particularly noticed and retained by oth- \ners, pass by hirn unregarded ; and, therefore, quickly es- \ncape from his remembrance. Montaigne (\xc2\xa7. 8.) seems to \nhave been a person of this description ; acquainted with \nthe general principles of the sciences, possessing an exu- \nberance of intellectual riches, but utterly incapable of re- \nmembering dates, times, places, and the numerous mat- \nters-of fact of every day\'s occurrence. \n\nWeakness of memory in persons of a rich imagination \nis discovered also in their reading of books. The reason \nof it seems to be a too great confidence in their own abili- \nty. Conscious of their own resources, they are tempted to \nperuse books in a hasty and careless manner, and without \ndue attention. The result of this careless manner, both in \nrespect to events and the sentiments of authors, is that they \nare but imperfectly known at first, and are very speedily \nforgotten. -This will not appear strange, in connection \nwith the remark at \xc2\xa7 238, on the connection existing be- \ntween memory and attention. The weakness of memory, \ntherefore, in persons of rich imagination is not constitution- \nal and permanent, but a matter of mere accident ; and, for \nthis reason, the more discreditable. When such persons \nhave habitually taken an interest in the common affairs of \nlife, they are found to remember their details, however \nunpoetical ; and in their reading of authors nothing seems \nto be wanting but interest and attention, in order to secure \nthem from the reproach, under which they are thought to \nlabour. \n\n\xc2\xa7.299. On the compatibility of strong memory and good judg- \nment. \n\nBy JUDGMENTS we understand here nothing more \nthan the opinions, which we form in view of evidence ; in \nother words, they are the results or conclusions of moral \nreasoning. By a person oi good judgment, we accordingly \nmean one, who examines subjects with caution, and whose \nresults founded on such examination, for the most part \nprove correct. That persons may possess, in a very high \ndegree, the susceptibility of memory, and still be incapa- \n\n\n\nMEMORY. 391 \n\nble of correct moral reasoning or of exhibiting any other \nindications of a well judging mind, is a fact well known. \nThere have even been idiots, who certainly could present \nno claims to the character-of judging well, that have, nev- \nertheless, been remarkable for memory. Such are, in- \ndeed, instances of an extreme kind ; \xe2\x80\x94 but there are not \nwanting many other cases, where strong memories have \nbeen found united with feeble judgment. On this fact it \nmay be remarked, as follows. \n\nThe connection between a strong memory and a weak \njudgment, it may be said without any hesitation, is not \nnecessary, but merely accidental ; that is, is not the con- \nstitution of nature, but in general the result of circumstan- \nces. As it is an accidental state of things, and not any \nthing essential and permanent in our mental structure, we \nmust look for its appropriate cause in erroneous mental \n\ndiscipline. It may well be supposed, that those, wha \n\npossess strong memories, are not insensible of their excel- \nlence in this respect ; and the approbation, which they \nhave received in consequence of it, encourages them to \ntreasure up a dry collection of all facts, which will, in any \nw^ay, bear repetition. Dates, genealogies, local incidents, \ntraditional anecdotes, are all seized, and retained with pe- \nculiar avidity. But too much intent upon the mere dates \nand names of things, such persons fail to inquire into their \ntrue nature; they neglect other and more important forms \nof mental discipline ; and thus justly sustain the reputa- \ntion of possessing a showy rather than discriminating and \nsound knowledge. In instances of this description, the \nrelations, by which the suggested trains of thought are as- \nsociated, are the more slight and obvious ones, such as of \ntime, place, &c. But there are some exceptions to this \nunwise course ; individuals may be found, who, with an \nastonishing ability to recal the most unimportant inci- \ndents of daily occurrence, as well as the dry details of \nhistorical facts, combine the far more enviable ability of \ndiscriminating the true differences of things, of combining \nmeans for the attainment of ends, and of rightly estima- \n\n\n\n392 MEMORY. \n\nting evidence in its various applications; which are among \nthe characteristics of men of sound judgment. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 300. Intentional memory or recollection. \n\nThe definition of memory, which has been given, is, \nthat it is the power or susceptibility of the mind, from \nwhich arise those conceptions, which are modified by the \nrelation of past time. This definition necessarily resolves \nmemory in good part into association. It is, therefore, to \nbe here observed, that our trains of associated thouo^ht are \nnot voluntary ; that is, are not directly under the control \nof the WILL. They come and depart, without it being \npossible for us to exercise any thing more, than an indirect \ngovernment over them. (See \xc2\xa7. 213.) It follows from \nthese facts, that oiir remembrances also are not voluntary; \nor, in other words, it is impossible for us to remember in \nconsequence of merely choosing to remember. To will \nor to choose to remember any thing implies, that the \nthing in question is already in the mind ; and hence there \nis not only an impossibility resulting from the nature of \nthe mind, but also an absurdity, in the idea of calling up \nthought by volition. Our chief power, therefore, in \nquickening and strengthening the memory, will be found \nto consist in our skill in applying and modifying the vari- \nous prinibiples or laws of association. And this brings us \nto a consideration of what is called intentional memory \nor RECOLLECTION ; a subject, which was partly illustrated \nin the section above referred to. \n\nWhenever we put forth an exercise of intentional mem- \nory, or make a formal attempt to remember some circum- \nstance, it is evident, that the event in general, of which \nthe circumstance when recalled will be found to be a part, \nmust have previously been an object of attention. That \nis, we remember the great outlines of some story, but can- \nnot, in the first instance, give a complete account of it, \nwhich we wish to do. We make an efifort to recal the cir- \ncumstances not remembered in two ways. We may, in \n\nthe first place, form diiferent suppositions, and see, which \nagrees best ^Yith the general outlines ; the general features \n\n\n\nMEMORY. 39S \n\nor outlines of the subject^being detained before us, with \na considerable degree of i>crinanency, by means of some \nfeeling of desire or interest. This method of restoring \nthoughts is rather an inference of reasoning, than a genu- \nine exercise of memory. \n\nWe may in the second place^ merely delay upon those \nthoughts, which we already hold possession of; and re- \nvolve them in our minds ; until, aided by some principle \nof association, we are able to lay hold of the particular \nideas, for which we were searching. Thus when we en- \ndeavour to recite what we had previously committed to \nmemory, but are at a loss for a particular passage ; we \nrepeat, a number of times, the concluding words of the \npreceding sentence. In this way, the sentence, w^hicli w^as \nforgotten, is very frequently recalled. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 301. Instance illustrative of the iJvcceding. \n\nWe had occasion, in a former section, to mention the \ncase of an individual, who, in consequence of an attack of \napoplexy, forgot all the transactions of the four years im- \nmediately preceding. It is further to be observed here, \nthat the same individual recovered by degrees all he had \nlost ; so as after a while to have nearly or quite as full a \nremembrance of that peripd, as others. In this instance \nthe power of the principles of association appears to have \nbeen at first completely prostrated by the disease, without \nany prospect of their being again brought into action, ex- \ncept by some assistance afforded them. This assistance, \nno doubt, was reading and conversation. By reading \nold newspapers and by conversation, he, from time to time, \nfell upon ideas, which he had not only been possessed of \nbefore, but which had been associated with other ideas, \nforming originally distinct and condensed trains of thought. \n\nAnd thus whole series were restored. Other series \n\nagain were recovered by applying the methods of inten- \ntional RECOLLECTION ; that is, by forming suppositions \nand comparing thein with the ideas already recovered, or \nby continually revolving in mind such trains as were restor- \n\n50 \n\n\n\n394 MEMORY. \n\ned, and thus rousing up others. Such, we can hardly \ndoubt to have been, in the main, the process, by which the \nperson, of whom we are speaking, recovered the knowl- \nedge he had lost. \n\nThese views, in addition to what has now been said, \nmay be illustrated also by what we sometimes observe in \nold men. Question them as to the events of early life ; \nand at times they will be unable to give any answer what- \never. But whenever you mention some prominent inci- \ndent of their young days, or perhaps some friend, on whom \nmany associations have gathered, it will often be found, \nthat their memory revives, and that they are able to state \nmany things, in respect to which they were previously \nsilent. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 303. Marks of a good memory. \n\nThe great purpose, to which the faculty of memory is \nsubservient, is, to enable us to retain the knowledge, which \nwe have from our experiences, for future use. The prom- \ninent marks of a good memory, therefore, are these two, \nviz. Tenacity in retaining ideas, and readiness in bring- \ning them forward on necessary occasions. \n\nFirst ; of tenacity or power of retaining ideas. \xe2\x80\x94 The \nimpressions, which are made on some minds, are durable. \nThey are like channels worn away in stone, and names en- \ngraven in monumental marble, which defy the operation of \nthe ordinary causes of decay, and withstand even the defa- \ncing touch of time. But other memories, which at first \nseemed to grasp as much, are destitute of this power of re- \ntention . The inscriptions, made upon them, are like char- \nacters written on the sand, which the first breath of wind \ncovers over, and like figures on a bank of snow, which the \nsun smiles upon, and melts. The inferiority of the latter \ndescription of memory to the former must be obvious ; so \nmuch so as to solicit no comment. A memory, whose \npowder of retaining is greatly diminished, of course loses a \ngreat part of its value. \n\nSecond ; of readiness or facility in bringing forward \n\n\n\nMEMORY. 395 \n\nwhat is remembered. \xe2\x80\x94 Some personsj who cannot be sup- \nposed to be deficient in tenacity of remembrance, appear to \nfail, in a confident and prompt command of what they re- \nmember. Some mistalte has been committed in the ar- \nrangement of their knowledge ; there has been some defect \nin the mental discipline ; or for some other cause, whatev- \ner it may be, they often discover perplexity, and remem- \nber, as if they remembered not. Their knowledge, al- \nthough they have it in possession, does not come prompt- \nly forth at their bidding, like the soldiers of the believing \nCenturion, who said to one, Go, and he goeth, and to an- \nother. Come, and he cometh. It is the opposite ; calls \nwithout answers, requistions without obedience. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 303. Directions or rules for the improvement of the memory. \n\nFor the purpose of securing the most efficient action of \nthis inestimable faculty, and particularly that tenacity and \nreadiness, which have been spoken of, the following di- \nrections maybe found worthy of attention. \n\n(I,) \xe2\x80\x94 Jfever be satisfied with a partial or half acquaintance \n\nwith things. There is no less a tendency to intellectual, \n\nthan to bodily inactivity ; students, in order to avoid in- \ntellectual toil, are too much inclined to pass on in a hur- \nried and careless manner. This is injurious to the memo- \nry. " Nothing (says Dugald Stewart,) has such a tendency \nto weaken, not only the powers of invention, but the intel- \nlectual powers in general, as a habit of extensive and various \nreading without reflection." Always make it a rule fully \nto understand what is gone over. Those, who are deter- \nmined to grapple with the subject in hand, whatever may \nbe its nature, and to become master of it, soon feel a great\' \ninterest ; truths, which were at first obscure become clear \nand familiar. The consequence of this increased clearness \nand interest is an increase of attention ; and the natural \nresult of this is, that the truths are very strongly fixed in \nthe memory. A perpetual vacillation between the hon- \nours and toils of science is a species of " halting between \ntwo opinions," that is not less injurious in learning, than in \nreligion. \n\n\n\n396 . MEMORY. \n\n(II,) \xe2\x80\x94 We are to refer our knowledge^ as much as possible^ to \n\ngeneral principles. To refer our knowledge to general \n\nprinciples is to classify it ; and this is perhaps the best \nmode of classification. If a lawyer or merchant were to \nthrow all their papers together promiscuously, they could \nnot calculate on much readiness in finding what they \nmight at any time want. If a man of letters were to re- \ncord in a common place book all the ideas and facts, \nwhich occurred to him, without any method, he wouldex- \nperience th.e greatest difficulty in applying them to use. \nIt is the same with a memory, where there is no classifica- \ntion. Whoever fixes upon some general principle, wheth- \ner political, literary, or philosophical, and collects facts in \nillustration of it, will find no difficulty in remembering \nthem, however numerous ; when without such general \nprinciples the recollection of them would have been ex- \ntremely burdensome. \n\n(Ill,) \xe2\x80\x94 Consider the nature of the study ^ and make use of \nthose helps J which are thus afforded. This rule may be illus- \ntrated by the mention of some department of science. \nThus, in acquiring a knowledge of geography, the study is \nto be pursued, as much as possible, with the aid of good \nglobes, charts, and maps. It requires a great effort of \nmemory, and generally an unsuccessful one, to recollect \nthe relative extent and situation of places, the numerous \nphysical and political divisionsof the earth, from the book. \nThe advantages of studying geography with maps, globes, \n&c. are two. (1) \xe2\x80\x94 The form, relative situation, and extent \nof countries become, in this case, ideas, or rather conceptions \nof sight ; such conceptions (\xc2\xa7. 198.) are very vivid, and \nare more easily recalled lo remembrance, than others. \n\n(2) Our remembrances are assisted by the law of conti- \nguity in place, (\xc2\xa7. 107,) which is known to be one of the \nmost efficient aids. When we have once, \'from having a \nmap or globe before us, formed an acquaintance with the \ngeneral visible appearance of an island, a gulf, an ocean, \nor a continent, nothing is more easy than to remember \nthe subordinate divisions or parts. Whenever we have \nexamined, and fixed in our minds the general app<*arance \n\n\n\nMEMORY. 397 \n\nor outlines of a particular country, we do not easily forget \nthe situation of those countries, which are contiguous. \n\nWe find another illustration of this rule in the reading \nof history. There is such a multitude of facts in histor- \nical writings, that to endeavour to remember them all is \nfruitless ; and if it could be done, would be of very small \nadvantage. Hence, in reading the history of any country, \nfix upon two or three of the most interesting epochs ; make \nthem the subject of particular attention ; learn the spirit \nof the age, and the private life and fortunes of prominent \nindividuals; in a word, study these periods not only as an- \nnalists, but as philosophers. When they are thus studied, \nthe mind can hardly fail to retain them ; they will be a sort \nof landmarks ; and all the other events in the history of \nthe country, before and afterwards, will naturally arrange \nthemselves in reference to them. The memory will strong- \nly seize the prominent periods, in consequence of the great \ninterest felt in them ; and the less important parts of the \nhistory of the country will be likely to be retained, so \nfar as is necessary, by the aid of the principle of contiguity, \nand without giving them great attention. Further, his- \ntorical charts or genealogical trees of history are of some \nassistance for a similar reason, that maps, globes, &c. are \nin geography. \n\nThis rule for strengthening the memory will apply also \n\nto the more abstract sciences. " In every science, (says \n\nStewart, Elements, ch. vi, \xc2\xa7. 3,) the ideas, about which \nit is peculiarly conversant, are connected together by some \nassociating principle ; in one science, for instance, by asso- \nciations founded on the relation of cause and effect ; in \nanother, by the associations founded on the necessary rela- \ntions of mathematical truths." \n\n(IV,) \xe2\x80\x94 The order J in which things are laid up in the memory \nshould he the order of nature. \xe2\x80\x94 In nature every thing has its ap- \npropriate place, connections, & relations. Nothing is insula- \nted, and wholly cut off, as it were, from every thing else; \nbut whatever exists or takes place falls naturally into its \nallotted position within the great sphere of creation and \nevents, flence the rule, that knowledge, as far forth as \n\n\n\n398 MEMORY. \n\npossible, should exist mentally or subjectively in the same \norder as the corresponding objective reality exists. The \nlaws of the mind will be found in their operation to act in \nharmony with the laws of external nature. They are, in \nsome sense, the counterparts of each other. We might il- \nlustrate the benefits of the application of this rule by re- \nferring to almost any well digested scientific article, his- \ntorical narration, poem, &c. But perhaps its full import \nwill be more readily understood by an instance of its ut- \nter violation. \n\nA person was one day boasting, in the presence of Foote \nthe comedian, of the wonderful facility, with which he \ncould commit any thing to memory, when the modern Ar- \nistophanes said he would write down a dozen lines in \nprose, which he could not commit to memory in as many \nminutes. The man of great memory accepted the chal- \nlenge ; a wager was laid, and Foote produced the follow- \ning.\xe2\x80\x94 "So she went into the garden to cut a cabbage-leaf \nto make an apple pie ; and at the same time a great she- \nbear, coming up the street, pops its head into the shop. \nWhat, no soap? So he died,and she very imprudently mar- \nried the barber ; and there were present the Piciniunies, \nandthe Joblillies, and the Garyulies, and the grand Panjan- \ndrum himself, with the little round button at the top ; and \nthey all fell to playing catch as catch can,till the gunpowder \nran out of the heels of their boots." \xe2\x80\x94 The story adds, that \nFoote won the wager. And it is very evident, that state- \nments of this description, utterly disregarding the order of \nnature and events, must defy, if carried to any great \nlength, the strongest memory. \n\n(V,) \xe2\x80\x94 The memory may be strengthened by exercise. \xe2\x80\x94 Our \nminds, when left to sloth and inactivity, lose all their vig- \nour ; but when they are kept in exercise, and, after per- \nforming what was before them, are tasked with new requi- \nsitions, it is not easy to assign limits to their ability. This \nseems to be a general and ultimate law of our nature. \nIt is applicable equally to every original susceptibility, \nand to every combination of mental action. In repeated \ninstances we have had occasion to refer to its results, both \n\n\n\nMEMORY. 399 \n\non the body and the mind. The power of perception is \nfound to acquire strength and acuteness by exercise. \nThere are habits of conception and of association, as well \nas of perception ; and we shall be able to detect the exis- \ntence and operation of the same great principle, when we \ncome to speak of reasoning, imagination, &c. As this \nprinciple applies equally to the memory, we are able to \nsecure its beneficial results, by practising that repetition \nor exercise, on which they are founded. \n\n\n\nCHAPTER SIXTH, \n\n\n\nDURATION OF MEMORY. \n\n\n\n\xc2\xa7. 304. Restoration oj thoughts and feelings, supposed to be en- \ntirely forgotten. \n\nBefore quitting tHe subject of memory, there is anoth- \ner point of view\'j not wholly wanting in interest, in which \nit is susceptible of being considered ; and that is the per- \nmanency or duration of its power to call up its past expe- \nriences. It is said to have been an opinion of Lord Bacon, \nthat no thoughts are lost, that they continue virtually to \nexist, and that the soul possesses within itself laws, which, \nwhenever fully brought into action, will be found capable \nof producing the prompt and perfect restoration of the \ncollected acts and feelings of its whole past existence. \n\nThis opinion, which other able writers have fallen in \nwith, is clearly worthy of examination, especially when \nwe consider, that it has a practical bearing, and involves \nimportant moral and religious consequences. Some one \nwill perhaps inquire, is it possible, is it in the nature of \nthings, that we should be able to recall the million of lit- \ntle acts and feelings, which have transpired in the wiiolc \ncourse of our lives ? Let such an inquirer be induced to \nconsider, in the first place, that the memory has its fixed \nlaws, in virtue of which the mental exercises are recalled ; \nand that there can be found no direct and satisfactory \nproof of such laws ever wholly ceasing to exist. That \n\n\n\nDURATION OF MEMORY. 491 \n\nthe operation of those laws appears to be weakened, and \nis in fact weakened, by lapse of time, is admitted; but \nwhile the frequency, promptness, and strength of their ac- \ntion may be diminished in any assignable degree, the \nlaws themselves yet remain. This is the view of the \nsubjeci, which at first obviously and plainly presents it- \nself; and we may venture to add, is recommended by \ncommon experience. \n\nIt is known to every one, that thoughts and feelings \nsometimes unexpectedly recur, which had slumbered in \nforgetfulness for years. Days and months and years have \nrolled on ; new scenes and situations occupy us ; and all \nwe felt and saw and experienced in those former days \nand years appears to be clothed in impenetrable darkness .<^ \nBut suddenly some unexpected event, the sight of a water- \nfall, of a forest, of a house, a peculiarly pleasant or gloomy \nday, a mere change of countenance, a word, almost any \nthing we can imagine, arouses the soul, and gives a new \nand vigorous turn to its meditations. At such a moment \nwe are astonished at the novel revelations which are made, \nthe recollections which are called forth, the resurrection \nof withered hopes and perished sorrows, of scenes and \ncompanionships, that seemed to be utterly lost. \n\n" Lulled in the countless chambers of the brain, \n" Our thoughts are linked by many a hidden chain, \n" Awake but one, and lo what myriads rise ! \n" Each stamps its image, as the other flies. \n\nThis is perhaps a faint exhibition of that perfect res- \ntoration of thought, which Bacon and other philosophic \nminds have supposed to be possible. But, if the state- \nment be correct, it is undoubtedly one circumstance \namong others in support of that sentiment, although of \nsubordinate v/eight. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 305. Mental action quickened by influence on the body. \n\nThe ability of the mind to restore its past experiences \ndepends, in some degree, on the state of the physic- \nal system. In the preceding chapter it was stated, (and \n\n51 \n\n\n\n\n402 DURATION OF MEMORY. \n\nsome facts were referred to in proof of it,) that there is a \nconnection existing between the mind and the body, and \nthat a reciprocal influence is exercised. It is undoubted- \nly true, that the mental action is ordinarily increased or \ndiminished, according as the body is more or less affected. \nAnd may not the exercise of the laws of memory be quick- \nened, as well as the action of other powers? While it is \nadmited, that an influence on the body exerts an influence \non the mind, m.ay it not be true, that this general influence \nsometimes takes the particular shape of exciting the recol- \nlection, and of restoring long-past events ? \n\nThere are various facts, having a bearing on this inqui- \nry, and which seem to show, that such suggestions are \n\xe2\x80\xa2not wholly destitute of foundation. \n\nIt appears from the statements of persons, who have \nbeen on the point of drowning, but have been rescued \nfrom that situation, that the operations of their minds were \npeculiarly quickened. In this wonderful activity of the \nmental principle, the whole past life, with its thousand \nmii:ute incidents, has almost simultaneously passed before \nthem, and been viewed as in a mirror. Scenes and \nsituations long gone by, and associates not seen for years, \nand perhaps buried and dissolved in the grave, came rush- \ning in upon the field of intellectual vision, in all the activity \nand distinctness of real existence. \n\nIf such be the general experience in cases of this kind, it \nconfirms a number of important views ; placing beyond \ndoubt, that there is a connection between the mind and \nbody ; that the mental operation is susceptible of being \nquickened ; and that such increase of action may be attri- \nbutable, in part at least, to an influence on the body. The \nproximate cause of the great acceleration of the intellectual \nacts, in cases of drowning, appears to be, (as will be found \nto be the fact in many other similar cases^) an affection of \nthe brain. That is to say ; in consequence of the suspen- \nsion of respiration, the blood is prevented from readily \ncirculating through the lungs, and hence becomes accumu- \nlated in the brain. It would seejn, that the blood is \n\n\n\n1 \n\n\n\nDURATION OF MEMORY. 403 \n\nnever thrown into the brain in iiniisua] quantities^ without \nbeing attended with unusual mental affections. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 306. Other instances of quickened menial action and of a \nrestoration of thoughts. \n\nThe doctrine, which has been proposed, that i\\\\Q men- \ntal action may be quickened, and Uiat there may be a res- \ntoration or remembrance of all former thoughts and feel- \nings, is undoubtedly to be received or rejected in view of \nfacts. The only question in this case as in others is. What \nis truth } And how are we to arrive at the truth? \n\nIf the facts, which have been referred to, be not enough \nto enable one to form an opinion, there are others of a like \ntendency, and in a less uncertain form. A powerful dis- \nease, while at some times it prostrates the mind, at others \nimparts to it a more intense action. The following passage \nfrom a recent w^ork, (although the cause of the mental ex- \ncitement, in the instance mentioned in it, is not stated,) may \nproperly be appealed to in this connection. \xe2\x80\x94 " Past feel- \nings, even should they be those of our earliest moments of \ninfancy, never cease to be under the influence of the law of \nassociation, and they are constantly liable to. be Renova- \nted, even to the latest period of life, although they may \nbe in so faint a state as not to be the object of consciousness. \n\nIt is evident then, that a cause of mental excitement may \nso act upon a sequence of extremely faint feelings, as to \nrender ideas, of which the mind had long been previously \nunconscious, vivid objects of consciousness. Thus it is re- \ncorded of a female in France, that while she was subjected \nto such an influence, the memory of the Armorican lan- \nguage, which she had lost since she was a child, suddenly \nreturned."* \n\n\xc2\xa7. 307. Effect on the memory of a severe attack of fever. \n\nWe may add here the following account of the mental \naffections of an intelligent American traveller. He was \ntravelling in the state of Illinois, and suffered the common \nlot of visitants from other climates, in being taken down \n\n* Hibbert\'s Philosophy of Apparitions, Pt, IV, ch. 5. \n\n\n\n404 \n\n\n\nDURATION OF MEMORY. \n\n\n\nwith a bilious fever. \xe2\x80\x94 \'\' I am aware, he remarks, that ev- \nery sufferer in this way is apt to think his own case extra- \nordinary. My physicians agreed with all who saw me, \nthat my case was so. As very few live to record the is- \nsue of a sickness like mine, and as you have requested me, \nand as I have promised to be particular, I will relate some \nof the circumstances of this disease. And it is in my view \ndesirable in the bitter agony of such diseases, that more of \nthe symptoms, sensations, and sufferings should be record- \ned than have been ; and that others, in similar predica- \nments, may know, that some before them have had suffer- \nino"s like theirs, and have survived them. \n\nI had had a fever before, and had risen and been dress- \ned every day. But in this, with the first day I was pros- \ntrated to infantine weakness, and felt with its first attack, \nthat it was a thing very different from what I had yet ex- \nperienced. Paroxysms of derangement occurred the third \nday, and this was to me a new state of mind. That state \nof disease, in which partial derangement is mixed with a \nconsciousness generally sound, and a sensibility prenatu- \nrally excited, I should suppose the most distressing of all \nits fornH. At the same time that I was unable to recog- \nnize my friends, I was informed, that my memory was more \nthan ordinarily exact 8f retentive^ and that I repeated ichole passa- \nges in the different languages ^which Ikneiv^with entire accuracy. I \nrecited, without losing or misplacing a loovd^ a passage of poetry., \nwhich I could not so repeat, after I had recovered my health,\'^\'\' \n\n&fC,\\ \n\n\xc2\xa7. 303. Illustrations of these views from Coleridge. \n\nAn opinion favourable to the doctrine of the durabili- \nty of memory and the ultimate restoration of thought and \nfeeling, is expressed in theBioGRAPHiA Literaria of S.T. \nColeridge, in an article on the Laws of association. In con- \nfirmation of it, the writer introduces a statement of cer- \ntain facts, which became known to him in a tour in Ger- \nmany in 1798, to the following effect. \n\nt Flint\'s recoUectioos ofthe Valley of the Mississippi, Letter 14. \n\n\n\nDURATION OF MEMORY. 405 \n\nIn a Catholic town of Germany, a young woman of \nfour or fi^e and twenty, who could neither read nor write, \nwas seize! with a nervous fever, during which she was in- \ncessantly talking Greek, Latin, and Hebrew, with much \npomp and distinctness of enunciation. The case attracted \nmuch attention, and many sentences, which she uttered, \nbeing takm down by some learned persons present, were \nfound to 36 coherent and intelligible, each for itself, but \nvith little or no connection with each other. Of the He- \nbrew only a small portion could be traced to the Bible ; \nthe lemainder was that form of Hebrew, which is usually \ncallec Rabbinic. Ignorant, and simple, and harmless, as \nthis pung woman was known to be, no one suspected any \ndecejion ; and no explanation could for a long time be \ngivei^ although inquiries were made for that purpose, in \ndiffei^t families, where she had resided, as a servant. \n\nTrough the zeal, however, and philosophical spirit of \na yoiig physician, all the necessary information was in \nthe ej\\ obtained. The woman was of poor parents, and \nat nin^ears of age had been kindly taken to be brought \nup byn old Protestant minister, who lived at some dis- \ntance. He was a very learned man ; being not only a \ngreat lebraist, but acquainted also with Rabbinical wri- \ntings, ^e Greek and Latin Fathers, &c. The passages? \nwhichiad been taken down in the delirious ravings of the \nyoungwoman were found by the physician precisely to \nagree ith passages in some books in those languages, \nwhich lad formerly belonged to him. But these facts \nwere i^t a full explanation of the case. It appeared on \nfurthemquiry, that the patriarchal protestant had been \nin the Kbit for many years of walking up and down a pas- \nsage of his house, into which the kitchen door opened, \nand to jad to himself with a loud voice, out of his fa- \nvourite >ooks. This attracted the notice of the poor and \nignorantdomestic, whom he had taken into his family ; \nthe passjges made an impression on her memory ; and \nalthough probably for a long time beyond the reach of \nher recollection when in health, they were at last vividly \nrestored, and were uttered in the way above-mentioned. \n\n\n\n406 DURATION OF MEMORY. \n\nin consequence of the feverish state of the physical system ; \nparticularly of the brain. \n\nFrom this instance, and from several othei-s of the \nsame kind, which Mr. Coleridge asserts can be brcught up, \nhe is inclined to educe the following positions ot inferen- \nces. (1) Our thoughts may, for an indefinite lime, ex- \nist in the same order, in which they existed o("iginally, \nand in a latent or imperceptible state. (2) Aj a fever- \nish state of the brain, (and of course any other peculiari- \nty in the bodily condition,) cannot create thought itself \nnor make any approximation to it, but can only oprate \nas an excitement or quickener to the intellectual pind- \nple ; it is, therefore, probable, that all thoughts ae, in \nthemselves, imperishable. (3) In order greatly 3 in- \ncrease the power of the intellect, he supposes it woid re- \nquire only a different organization of its material fcom- \n\npaniment. (4) And, therefore, he concludes thbook \n\n\xc2\xa9f final judgment, which, the Scriptures inform us*villat \nthe last day be presented before the individuals of le hu- \nman race, may be no other, than the investmeiit)f the \nsoul with a celestial instead of a terrestrial body ; ad that \nthis may be sufiicient to restore the perfect recordof the \nmultitude of its past experiences. He supposes, t may \nbe altogether consistent with the nature of a livin| spirit, \nthat heaven and earth should sooner pass away, tin that \na single act, or thought, should be loosened and esctual- \nly struck off from the great chain of its operatios. \xe2\x80\x94 In \ngiving these conclusions, the exact language of thwriter \nhas not been followed, but the statement madcwill be \nfound to give what clearly seems to have been h mean- \ning. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 303. Jlpplication of the principles of this chapier to eucation. \n\nWhether the considerations, which have been n\'ought \nforward, lead satisfactorily to the conclusions of t:e dura- \nbility of memory and of the possible restoratioi of all \nmental exercises, must of course be submitted o each \none\'s private judgment. But on the supposition, that \nthey do, it must occur to every one, that certain practical \n\n\n\nDURATION OF MEMORY. 407 \n\napplications closely connect themselves with this subject. \xe2\x80\x94 \nThe principle in question has, among other things, a bear- \ning 3n the education of the young ; furnishing a new rea- \nson for the utmost circumspection in conducting it. The \ntern education, in application to the human mind, is ve- \nry (Xtensive ; it includes the example and advice of parents, \nanc the influence of associates, as well as more direct and \nfornal instruction. Now if the doctrine under consider- \naticn be true, it follows that a single remark of a profli- \ngat\xc2\xab and injurious tendency, made by a parent or some \nothtr person in the presence of a child, though forgotten \nandieglected at the time, maybe suddenly and vividly re- \ncalhd some twenty, thirty, or even forty years after. It \nma^ be restored to the mind by a m.ultitude qf unforeseen \ncir;umstances, and even those of the most trifling kind ; \nani even at the late period, when the voice, that uttered it, \nis ilent in the grave, may exert a most pernicious influ- \nene. It may lead to unkindness ; it may be seized and \nchirished as a justification of secret moral and religious \ndelnquencies; it may prompt to a violation of public laws; \nant in a multitude of ways conduct to sin, to ignominy, \nanc wretchedness. Great care, therefore, ought to be ta- \nkennotto utter unadvised, false, and evil sentiments in the \nheading of the young, in the vain expectation that they wil^ \ndo .10 hurt, because they will be speedily and irrecoverably \nlos:. \n\nAnd for the same reason, great care and pains should \nbe taken to introduce truth into the mind, and all correct \nmoral and religious principles. Suitably impress on the \nmind of a child, the existence of a God and his parental \nauthority ; teach the pure and benevolent outlines of the \nRedeemer\'s character, and the great truths and hopes of \nthe Gospel ; and these instructions form essential links in \nthe grand chain of memory, which no change of circum- \nstances, nor lapse of time, nor combination of power can \never wholly strike out. They have their place assigned \nthem ; and though they may be concealed, they cannot be \nobliterated. Perhaps in the hour of temptation to crime, \nthey come forth like forms and voices from the dead, and \n\n\n\n408 \n\n\n\nDURATION OF MEMORY. \n\n\n\n\nwith more than their original freshness and power ; per- \nhaps in the hour of misfortune, in the prison-house, dc in \nthe land of banishment, they pay their visitations, ^nd \nimpart consolation, which nothing else could have |up- \nplied ; they come with the angel tones of parental re- \nproof and love, and preserve the purity, and check the des- \npondency of the soul. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 310. Connection of this doctrine with the final judgmal \nand a future life. \n\nThere remains one remark more, of a practical na- \nture, to be made. The views, which have been pro- \nposed in respect to the ultimate restoration of all meUal \nexperiences, ^nay be regarded as in accordance with the \nDivine Word. It may be safely affirmed, that no meital \nprinciple, which, on a fair interpretation, is laid downiin \nthat sacred book, will be found to be at varianx^e wih \nthe common experience of mankind. The doctrine of \nthe Bible, in respect to a future judgment, may well be \nsupposed to involve considerations, relative to man\'s n- \ntellectual and moral condition. In various passages, he \nScriptures plainly and explicitly teach, that the Saviour in \nthe last day shall judge the world, and that all shall be \njudged according to the deeds done in the body, whetjier \nthey be good, or whether they be evil. But an objection \nhas sometimes been raised of this sort, that we can ncTcr \nfeel the justice of that decision without a knowledge of our \nwhole past life, on which it is founded, and that this is \nimpossible. It was probably this objection, that Mr. \nColeridge had in view, when he proposed the opinion,that \nthe clothing of the soul with a celestial, instead of a terres- \ntrial body, would be sufficient to restore the perfect record \nof its past experiences. \n\nIn reference to this objection to the scriptural doctrine \nof a final judgment, the remark naturally presents itself, \nthat it seems to derive its plausibility chiefly from an im- \nperfect view of the constitution of the human mind. It is \nthought, that we cannot be conscious of our whole past \nlife, because it is utterly forgotten, and is, thcreforc,wholly \n\n\n\nDURATION OF MEMORY. 409 \n\nirrecoverable. But the truth seems to be, that nothing is \nloholly forgotten ; the probability, that we shall be able to \nrecall our past thoughts, may be greatly diminished, but it \ndoes not become wholly extinct. The power of remin- \niscence slumbers, but does not die. At the judgment-day, \nwe are entirely at liberty to suppose from what we know \nof the mind, that it will awake, and will clearly present \nbefore us the perfect form and representation of the past ; \nso that each one shall read for himself his own sentence, \nand be satisfied of its justice. \n\nWe may venture to assert, that there is not only noth- \ning in the nature of the human mind adverse to this sup- \nposition ; but on the contrary, that the various facts,which \nhave been referred to, are much in its favour. They \nshow not merely that there is a possibility of all our past \nexperiences being recalled, but also that there is no want of \ncauses, by which what is possible may be converted in- \nto reality. And if that be the case, it is not necessary \nto suppose, as many people appear to do, that the multi- \ntude of our good and evil thoughts can be preserved and \nultimately brought out, only by being laid up in the \nmemory of the Supreme Being. The human mind itself \nis a safe repository. The soul of every man is a world in \nitself, complete in all its parts, in all its laws, and powers, \nand experiences ; which nothing but the command of Jts \nCreator can permanently sever, and annihilate. \n\n\n\nCHAPTER SEVENTH. \n\n\n\nREASONING. \n\n\n\n\xc2\xa7. 3il. The reasoning power a source of neio ideas. \n\nWe are next to consider the reasoning power, which \nis also one of the distinct sources of internal knowledge. \nFor our knowledge of this faculty itself, we are in- \ndebted to Consciousness, as was remarked at \xc2\xa7. 274. "The \nnames of all intellectual powers and operations are expres- \nsive of the subjects of our consciousness. Among oth- \ners; the terms, thinking, attending, remembering, com- \nparing, judging, abstracting, reasoning, imagining, &c." \nAlthough, therefore, we may say with no want of proprie- \nty, that consciousness gives us a knowledge of the mental \nacts involved in any process of reasoning, yet that process \nis of itself a source of new views, of new ideas, of new \nknowledge. \n\nNor is this a novel doctrine. It was proposed by some \nof the Greek philosophers ; it was advocated by the learn- \ned Cudworth ; and has been proposed and maintained by \nmore recent writers both in France and England. A per- \nson proves, for instance, by a train of reasoning, that the \nvertical or opposite angles are equal, when two strait lines \ncross each other. Now in this case, the train of reasoning \nevidently gives rise to the notion of equality. It is true, \nthat we may have this notion or feeling, when there are \nonly two objects compared together, and when there is \n\n\n\nREASONING. 411 \n\nnothing more than a simple act of judgment or relative \nsuo-o-estion. But we have it also, when there are com- \nbined acts of judgment ; that is to say, when there is a \nprocess of reasoning. \xe2\x80\x94 Mr. Stewart5(Philos. Essays, First, \nCh. Ill,) has this remark ; ^\'What Locke calls agreements \nand disagreements, are, in many instances, simple ideas,of \nwhich no analysis can be given ; and of which tfie origin \nmust, therefore, be referred to reason, according to Locke\'s \nown doctrine." \xe2\x80\x94 Nor are other weighty authorities want- \ning. De Gera-udo, {Be la Generation des Connoissances^) after \nholding up to view, that the Judgment or relative suggestion \nis a distinct source of knowledge, expressly adds ; " The \nreasoning faculty also serves to enrich us with ideas ; for \nthere are many relations so complicated or remote, that \none act of judgment is not sufficient to discover them. A \nseries of judgments or process of reasoning is therefore ne- \ncessary." \n\nBut we would not be understood to limit the results of \nreasoning, considered as a distinct source of knov/ledge, to \na few simple conceptions. It brings to light the great \nprinciples and hidden truths of nature ; it gives grand and \ncomprehensive views, which could not otherwise be ob- \ntained ; and invests men, and external things, and events, \nin their origin and in their consequences, with a new char- \nacter. \n\nThis subject, however, cannot be pursued here at great \nlength. On the contrary, it is to be remarked here as in re- \nspect to the memory,that our attention will be more taken up \nwith the faculty itself and its action, than with a consider- \nation of its immediate results on the increase of knowledge. \n\n\xc2\xa7.312. Of the object and excellency of reasoning. \n\nIt is one of the traits, (perhaps we are not at liberty to \nsay with some persons, it is one of the evils,) of our nature, \nthat we cannot always perceive the truth intuitively, and \nat once. In many cases we can approach it only by a con- \ncatenation of thought ; by a progress, oftentimes slow and \ntoilsome, from one step to another. The power of reason- \ning, therefore, appears to have been given us, in compas\xc2\xab \n\n\n\n412 REASONmO. \n\nsion to oar weakness, that we may acquire knowledge, \nwhicli otherwise would not be within our reach. \n\nThe excellency of reason is a fruitful subject of reoiark, \nas undoubtedly it ought to be a rich and permanent source \nof gratitude. Its value is particularly discoverable in \ntwo things, vizj its flexibility and its growth or expan- \nsion. When we speak of the flexibility of the reason- \ning power, we mean to intimate the facility and perfect \nfitness, with which it can apply itself to the numerous and \nalmost infinitely varied subjects of our knowledge. This \nremark is perhaps susceptible of illustration, by a slight \nreference to the instincts of the lower animals. Such in- \nstincts, according to the usual understanding of their na- \nture, imply an original and invariable tendency to do cer- \ntain things, without previous forethought and deliberation. \nThere are often many specific instincts in the same animal; \none perhaps has relation to the season of the year and the \ntime of migration ; another has relation to the nourish- \nment and care of its young ; another to the formation of \nits cell, nest, &c. But whatever the particular form of \nthe instinct, it secures its object promptly, and without \nmistake. Accordingly it has been observed, that a bird, \nwhich has always been confined in a cage, will build,when \nsuitable materials are furnished it, a nest precisely similar \nto those of its own kind in the woods. It places with the \ngreatest ingenuity the sticks, leaves^ and clay of its frail \ndwelling, without going through a long process of previ- \nous training, and without incurring a debt to others for \ntheir assistance. But the instinct, in this and other analo- \ngous cases, is limited to its one definite object ; it discov- \ners an utter inflexibility, neither varying the mode of its \naction, nor extending its range so as to include other ob- \njects. \n\nIt is not so with reason. It applies itself to almost ev- \nery thing. It is not easy to designate and limit the vast \nnumber of objects in nature, in events, and individual con- \nduct, where it furnishes its aid, and secures the most \nbeneficial results. It is an instrument equally fitted to in- \nvestigate the growth of a plant and the formation of a \n\n\n\nREASONING. 413 \n\nworld ; to regulate the concerns of a single family and to \nadminister the affairs of an empire. \n\nThe excellency of the reasoning power is seen also in \nits expansion and growth. Instinct appears to be full and \nperfect at the very first opportunity of its exercise, but \nthere are no such restricted bounds to reasoning;. Though \nweak at first, it is endlessly progressive. It is seen dis- \ntinctly at work in the child, that frames his miniature house \nof small sticks and blocks ; and in the architect, whose \nscientific views and exquisite labours have resulted in \nforming edifices, that attract a nation\'s admiration. But \nhow feeble in the one case ! And how advanced and ex- \npanded in the other! \xe2\x80\x94 -It increases in growth and expansion, \nas the years\'of man roll on ; nor have we reason to sup- \npose that even tJeath itself will stay its progress, or di- \nminish its efficiency. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 313. Definition of reasoni7ig, and oj propositions. \n\nReasoning may be defined the mental process or opera- \ntion, whereby we deduce conclusions from two or more \npropositions premised. \xe2\x80\x94 A train of reasoning may be re- \ngarded, therefore, as a whole ; and as such it is made up \nof separate and subordinate parts. These elementary parts \nare usually termed propositions ; and before we can pro- \nceed with advantage in the further consideration of rea- \nsoning, it is necessary to go into a brief explanation of \nthem. \n\nA PROPOSITION has been defined to be a verbal repre- \nsentation of some perception, act, or affection of the mind. \n\xe2\x80\x94 Accordingly when we speak of a Proposition, we are \nusually understood to mean some mental perception or \ncombination of perceptions, expressed and laid out before \nus in words. Although such seems to be the ordinary \nmeaning of the term, we may admit the possibility of \npropositions existing wholly in the mind, without being \nexpressed in words. Mr. Locke expressly speaks \nof mental propositions, or those states of mind, \nwhere two or more ideas are combined together, pre- \n\n\n\n\n\n\n414 REASONING. \n\nvious to their being embodied and set forth in the forms of \nlanguage. \n\nThe parts of the proposition are,\xe2\x80\x94 (1) The suEJECT,or \nthatjconcerning which something is either asserted, or de- \nnied, commanded, or inquired ; (2) The predicate, or \nthat, which is asserted, denied, commanded, or inquired \nconcerning the subject ; (3) The copula, by which the \ntwo other parts are connected. \xe2\x80\x94 In these two propositions \nCaesar was brave. \nMen are fallible. \n\nMen and Caesar are the subjects ; fallible and brave are \nthe predicates ; .are and was are the copulas. \n\nPropositions have been divided,\xe2\x80\x94 (1) Into simple or \nthose, whose subject and predicate are composed of sinfyle \nwords, as in this. \n\nBenevolence is commendable ; \n\n(2) Into COMPLEX, or those, where the subject and pred- \nicate consist of a number of words, as in this, \n\nfaithfulness in religion is followed by peace of mind; \n\n(3) Into MODAL, where the copula is qualified by some \nword or words, representing the manner or possibility of \nthe agreement or discrepancy between the subject and \npredicate, as in these, \n\nMen of learning can exert influence ; \nWars may sometimes be just. \nPropositions, more or less involved, are necessary \nparts in every process of reasoning. They may be com- \n, pared to the separate and disjointed blocks of marble,which \nare destined to enter into the formation of some edifice. \nThe completed process of reasoning is^the edifice ; the pro- \npositions are the materials. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 314. Process of the mind in all cases of reasoning. \n\nLeaving the consideration of its subordinate parts or \nelements, we are further to consider the general nature of \nreasoning ; in other words, we are to examine the charac- \nter of the complex mental process, involved in that term. \nThe definition given of reasoning, it will be remembered, \nwas, That it is the mental process, by which we deduce \n\n\n\nREASONING. 415 \n\na conclusion from two or more propositions premised. \nHence there will be in ev6ry such process a succession of \npropositions, never less than two, and often a much greater \nnumber. The propositions often follow each other with \nmiich regularity ; and hence not unfrequently we con- \nsider the arrangement of them as entirely arbitrary. But \nthis is a mistaken supposition. It is true, when a number \nof ideas are presented nearly at the same time, the mind \nputs forth a volition, or exercises choice, in selecting one \nidea in preference to another. But the ideas, from which \nthe choice is made, and without the presence of v/hich it \ncould not be made, are not caused by volition, and, there- \nfore, mere arbitrary creations ; but are suggested by the \nlaws of association. \n\nAs an illustration we will suppose an argument on the \njustice and expediency of capital punishments in ordinary \ncases. The disputant first denies in general terms the \nright, which social combinations have assumed of capi- \ntally punishing offences of a slight nature. But before \nconsidering the cases he has particularly in view, he re- \nmarks on the right of capital punishment for murder; and \nadmits, that the principle of self defence gives such a right. \nHe then takes up the case of stealing, and contends, that \nwe have no right to punish the thief with death, because \nno such right is given by the laws of nature ; for, before \nthe formation of the civil compact, the institution of prop- \nerty was not known. He then considers the nature of \ncivil society, and contends, that, in the formation of the \nsocial compact, no such extraordinary power, as that of \nputting to death for stealing or other crimes of similar ag- \ngravation, could have been implied in that compact, be- \ncause it never was possessed by those, who formed it ; &c. \n\nHere is an argument, made up of a number of proposi- \ntion, and carried on, as may be supposed, to very consid- \nerable length. And in this argument, as in all others, ev- \nery proposition is, in the first instance, suggested by the \nlaws of association ; it is not at all a matter of arbitrary \nvolition. The disputant first states the inquiry in general \nterms; he then considers the particular case of murder; \n\n\n\n416 REASONING. \n\nthe crime of theft is next considered ; and this is examined, \nfirst, in reference to natural law, and, afterwards, in ref- \nerence to civil law. \xe2\x80\x94 And this consecution of propositions \ntakes place precisely the same, as when the sight of a stran- \nger in the crowd suggests the image of an old friend, and \nthe friend suggests the village of his residence, and the vil- \nlage suggests an ancient ruin in its neighbourhood, and the \nruin suggests heroes and battles of other days. \xe2\x80\x94 It is true, \nthat other propositions may have been suggested at the \nsame time, and the disputant may have had his choice be- \ntween them, but this was all the direct power, which he \npossessed ; and even that in strictness of speech, can hardly \nbe called direct. \n\n\xc2\xa7.315. Grounds of the se lection of propositi07is. \n\nA number of propositions are presented to the mind by \nthe principles of association ; the person, who carries on \nthe process of reasoning, makes his selection among them. \nBut it is reasonable to inquire, How it happens, that there \nis such a suitableness or agreement in the propositions, as \nthey are successively adopted into the train of reasoning ? \nAnd this seems to be no other than to inquire into the cir- \ncumstances, under which the choice of them is made, or \nthe grounds of the selection. \n\nLet it be considered, then, that in all arguments, wheth- \ner moral or demonstrative, there is some general subject, \non which the evidence is made to bear ; there is some point \nin particular to be examined. In reference to these gener- \nal outlines, we have a prevailing and permanent desire. \nThis desire is not only a great help in giving quickness and \nstrength to the laws of association ; but exercises also a ve- \nry considerable indirect influence in giving an appropri- \nate character to the thoughts, which are suggested by those \nlaws. Hence the great body of the propositions, which \nare at such times brought up, will be found to have great- \ner or less reference to the general subject. " These are all \nvery rapidly compared by the mind with those outlines, \nin regard to which its feelings of desire are exercised, or \nwith what we usually term the point to be proved. --Ucie the \n\n\n\nREASONING. 417 \n\nmind, in the exercise of that susceptibility of feelings of re- \nlation, which we have already seen it to possess, immedi- \nately discovers the suitableness or want of suitableness, the. \nagreement or want of agreement of the propositions pre- \nsented to it, to the general subject. This perception of suit- \nableness, which is one of those relative feelings, of which \nthe mind is from its very nature held to be susceptible, \nexists as an ultimate fact in our mental constitution. All, \nthat can profitably be said in relation to it, is the mere \nstatement of the fact, and of the circumstances, under \nwhich it isfoundto exist. Those propositions, which are \njudged by the mind, in the exercise of that capacity which \nits Creator has given it, to be agreeable to the general sub- \nject or point to be proved, are permitted by it to enter in, \nas continuous parts of the argument. And in this way a \nseries of propositions rises up, all having reference to one \nultimate purpose, regular, appropriate, and in their issue \nlaying the foundation of the different degrees of assent. \xe2\x80\x94 \nThis explanation will apply not only to the supposed argu- \nment in the last section, which is an instance of moral rea- \nsoninor but \'vvill hold good essentially of all other instances \nof whatever kind. The difference in the various kinds of \nreasoning consists less in the mental process, than in the \nnature of the subjects compared together, and in the con- \nditions attending them. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 316. Of differences in the 2)01067\' of reasoning. \n\nThe faculty of reasoning exists in different individu- \nals, in very different degrees. There is the same diversi- \nty here, which is found to exist in respect to every other \nmental susceptibility and mental process. In some per- \nsons it is not even powerful enough to meet the ordinary \nexigencies of life, and hardly rescues its possessor from \nthe imputation of idiocy ; in others it elevates human na- \nture, and bestows extraordinary grasp and penetration. \nAnd between the extremes of extraordinary expansion and \nmarked imbecility, there are multitudes of distinct grades, \nalmost every possible variety. \n\nThis difference depends on various causes. (1) It \n\n5S \n\n\n\n418 REASONING. \n\nwill depend, in the first place, on the amount of knowl- \nedge, which the reasoner possesses. No man can perma- \n. nently sustain the reputation of great ability in argument, \nwithout having previously secured a large fund of knowl- \nedge as its basis. And we may add that no man can rea- \nson well on any given subject, unless he has especially \nprepared himself in reference to that subject. Ail reason- \ning implies a comparison of ideas; or more properly a \ncomparison of propositions, or of facts stated in proposi- \ntions. Of course, \\\\^here there is no knowledge on any \ngiven subject, where there is no accumulation of facts, \nthere can be no possibility of reasoning ; and where the \nknowledge is much limited, the plausibility and power of \nthe argument will be proportionally diminished. \n\nThat many speak on subjects, which are proposed to \nthem, without having made any preparation, cannot be \ndenied ; but there is a vast difference between noisy, in- \ncoherent declamation, and a well-wrought argument, made \nup of suitable propositions, following each other with a \ndirect and satisfactory reference to the conclusion. In ev- \nery case of reasoning, the mind passes successively along \nthe various topics, involved in the argument ; and in so \ndoing is governed by the principles of association, as we \nhave already had occasion to notice. But what opportu- \nnity can there possibly be for the operation of these prin- \nciples, when the mind is called to fasten itself upon a sub- \nject and to decide upon that subject, without any knowl- \nedge of those circumstances, which may be directly em- \nbraced in it, or of its relations, and tendencies ? \n\n(2) The power of reasoning will depend, in the sec- \nond place, on the power of attention and memory. \n\nThere are some persons, who seem to have no com- \nmand of the ATTENTION. Every thing interests them \nslightly, and nothing in a high degree. They are anima- \nted by no strong feeling ; and enter ihto no subject, re- \nquiring long-continued and abstract investigation, with a \nsuitable intensity of ardour. A defective remembrance \nof the numerous facts and propositions, which come un- \nder review, is the natural consequence of this. And this \n\n\n\nREASONING. 419 \n\nnecessarily implies a perplexed and diminished power of \nratiocination. \n\n(3) A third ground of difference is div^ersity in the suscep- \ntibility of feeling relations. The remark has already been \nmade, (\xc2\xa7. 2S9,) that facts may be accumulated, having \nclose and decisive relations to the points to be proved, but \nthat they can never be so bound together as to result in \nany conclusion, without a perception or feeling of those \nrelations. But it is well known, whatever it may be ow- \ning to, that the relations of objects are much more readi- \nly and clearly perceiv^ed by some than by others. As, \ntherefore, every train of reasoning implies a succession or \nseries of relative perceptions, a defect in the power of \nrelative suggestion necessarily implies a defect in the rea- \nsoning power. And on the other hand, a great quickness \nand clearness, in the perceptions of relations is necessarily \nattended, (other things being equal,) with an augmented \nefficiency of reasoning. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 317. Of habits of reasoning . \n\nBut whatever may be the mental traits, that render, in \nparticular cases, the reasoning power more or less efficient, \nits efficacy will undoubtedly depend, in a great degree, on \n\nHabit. The effect of frequent practice, resulting in \n\nwhat is termed a habit, is often witnessed in those, who \nfollow any mechanic calling, where we find that what was \nonce done with difficulty comes in time to be done with \ngreat ease and readiness. The muscles of such persons \nseem to move with a kind of instinctive facility and accu- - \nracy in the performance of those works, to which they \nhave been for a long time addicted. \n\nThere is a similar effect of frequent practice in the \nincrease of quickness and facility in our mental opera- \ntions ; and certainly as much so in those, which are im- \nplied in reasoning as in any others. If, for instance, a \nperson has never been in the habit of going through geo- \nmetrical demonstrations, he finds his mind very slowly \nand with difficulty advancing from one step to another ; \nwhile on the other hand, a person, who has so often prac- \n\n\n\n420 ^ REASONING. \n\ntised this species of argumentation, as to have formed a \nhabit, advances forward from one part of the train of \nreasoning to another with great rapidity and delight. \nAnd the result is the same in any process of moral reason- \ning. In the prosecution of any argument of a moral na- \nture, there is necessarily a mental perception of the con- \ngruity of its several parts, or of the agreement of the suc- \nceeding proposition with that which went before. The \ndegree of readiness in bringing together propositions, and \nin putting forth such perceptions, will greatly depend on \nthe degree of practice. \n\n, \xc2\xa7. 318. Of limitations of the poioer of reasoning. \n\nWe shall prosecute these general views of the subject of \nreasoning with the further remark, wdiich has perhaps al- \nready suggested itself, that this faculty is essentially and \npermanently circumscribed and limited in certain respects. \nFrom the statements, which have been made, it appears, \nthat the great law of association is directly and very ef- \nfectively concerned in every process of this kind. It is \nto this law we are indebted for the introduction of propo- \nsitions, having a bearing upon the subject of inquiry and \ndebate, and suitable to the occasion.. We are no more \nable by a mere act of volition to secure the existence of \napplicable and conclusive points in any given argument, \nthan by mere volition to give creation to our thoughts in \nthe first instance. \n\nPersons, therefore, of the most gifted intellect are held \nin check, and are restrained by the ultimate principles of \ntheir mental constitution. These are boundaries, which \nthey cannot pass ; and men, wdio are capable of the great- \nest efforts in framing arguments, will be no less sensible of \nthis truth, when they carefully examine the course of \ntheir thoughts, than others. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 319. Of reasoning in connection ivith language or expression. \n\nThere is often a want of correspondence between the \npurely mental process in reasoning and the outward verbal \nexpression of it. When persons are called upon to state \n\n\n\nREASONING. 421 \n\nf \n\ntheir arguments suddenly and in public debate, they often \ncommit errours, which are at variance with the prevalent \nopinion of their good sense and mental ability. This is \nparticularly true of men, who are chiefly engaged in the or- \ndinary business of life, or are in any situation where there \nis a constant call for action. The conclusions, at which such \npersons arrive, may be supposed to be generally correct, \nbut they frequently find themselves unable to state clearly \nand correctly to others the process of reasoning, by which \n\nthey arrived at them. Oliver Cromwell, the famous \n\nEnglish Protector, is said to have been a person, \nto whom this etatement would well apply. The compli- \ncated incidents of his life, and the perplexities of his situa- \ntion, and his great success sufficiently evince, that he pos- \nsessed a clear insight into events, and was in no respects \ndeficient in understanding ; but when he attempted to ex- \npress his opinions in the presence of others, and to explain \nhimself on questions of policy, he was confused and ob- \nscure. His mind readily insinuated itself into the intrica- \ncies of a subject, and while he could assert with confidence^ \nthat he had arrived at a satisfactory conclusion, he could \nnot so readily describe either the direction he had taken, \nor tiie involutions of ttie journey. \xe2\x80\x94 "All accounts,says Mr. \nHume, agree in ascribing to Cromwell a tiresome, dark, \nunintelligible elocution, even when he had no intention to \ndisguise his meaning ; yet no man\'s actions were ever, in \nsuch a variety of different cases, more decisive and judi- \ncious," \n\nSuch instances are not unfrequent. Mr. Stewart \nsomewhere mentions the case of an English officer,a friend \nof Lord Mansfield, who had been appointed to the govern- \nment of Jamaica. The officer expressed some doubts of \nhis competency to preside in the court of chancery. \nMansfield assured him, that he would not find the difficul- \nty so great as he imagined, "Trust, said he, to your \n\nown good sense in forming your opinions, but beware cff \nstating the grounds of your judgments. The judgments \nwill probably be right ; the arguments will infallibly be \n\n\n\n\n422 REASONING. \n\nThe perplexity, which is so often experienced by men \nengaged in active life, in giving a prompt and correct verbal \nexpression to the internal trains of thought, is probably \nowing in part to a want of practice of that kind, and in \npart to certain mental habits, which they have been led, \nfrom their situation, to form and strengthen. In a thou- \nsand emergencies they have been obliged to act with \nquickness, and at the same time with caution ; in \nother words, to examine subjects, and to do it with \nexpedition. In this way they have acquired ex- \nceeding readiness in all their mental acts. The conse- \nquence of this isjthat the numerous minute circumstances, \ninvolved more or less in all subjects of difficult inquiry, \nare passed in review with such rapidity, and are made in \nso very small a degree the objects of separate attention, \nthat they vanish, and are forgotten. Hence these persons, \nalthough the conclusion to which thay have come be sat- \nisfactory, are unable to state to others all the subordinate \nsteps in the argument. Every thing has once been dis- \ntinctly and fairly before their own minds, although with \nthat great rapidity, which is always implied in a habit ; \nbut their argument, as stated in words, owing to their ina- \nbility to arrest and embody all the evanescent processes of \n^houghtj appears to others defective and confused . \n\n\n\nCHAPTER EIGHTH, \n\n\n\nDEMONSTRATIVE REASONING. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 320. Of the subjects of demonstrative reasoning. \n\nIn the remarks, which have hitherto been made, the \nsubject of reasoning has been taken up in the most general \npoint of view. The considerations, that have been propo- \nsed, are applicable, in the main, to reasoning in all its \nforms. But it is necessary, in order to possess a more full \nand satisfactory conception of this subject, to examine it \nunder the two prominent heads of Moral and Demonstra- \ntive. \n\nThere are various particulars, in which moral and de- \nmonstrative reasoning differ from each other ; and the con- \nsideration of which will suggest more fully their distinc- \ntive nature. Among other things, demonstrative reasoning \ndiffers from any other species of reasoning in the subjects, \nabout which it is employed. The subjects are abstract \nideas, and the necessary relations among them. Those \nideas or thoughts are called abstract, which are represen- \ntative of such qualities and properties in objects as can be \ndistinctly examined by the mind separate from other qual- \nities and properties, with which they are commonly united. \nAnd there may be reckoned, as coming within this class \nof subjects, the properties of numbers and of geometrical \nfigures ; also extension, duration, weight, velocity, forces, \n\n\n\n424 DEMONSTRATIVE REASONING. \n\n&c., so far as they are susceptible of being accurately ex- \npressed by numbers, or other mathematical signs. But \nthe subjects of moral reasoning, upon which we are to re- \nmark hereafter more particularly, are matters of fact, in- \ncluding their connection with other facts, whether con- \nstant or variable, and all attendant circumstances. \xe2\x80\x94 That \nthe exterior angle of a triangle is equal to both the interi- \nor and opposite angles, is a truth, which comes within the \nprovince of demonstration. That Homer was the author \nof the Iliad, that Xerxes invaded Greece, &c. are inquiries, \nbelonging to moral reasoning. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 321 . Use of definitions and axioms in demonstrative reasoning. \n\nIn every process of reasoning there must be at the com- \nmencement of it something to be proved ; there must also \nbe somethings either known, or taken for granted as such, \nwdth which the comparison of the propositions begins. \nThe preliminary truths in demonstrative reasonings are in- \nvolved in such definitions as are found in all mathemati_ \ncal treatises. It is impossible to give a demonstration of \nthe properties of a circle, parabola, ellipse, or other math- \nematical figure, without first having given a definition of \nthem. Definitions, therefore, are the facts assumed, the \nFIRST PRINCIPLES in demonstrative reasoning, from which \nby means of the subsequent steps the conclusion is deri- \nved. We find something entirely similar in respect to \n\nsubjects, which admit of the application of a different form \nof reasoning. Thus in Natural Philosophy, the general \nfacts in relation to the gravity and elasticity of the air \nmay be considered as first principles. From these princi- \nples in Physics are deduced, as consequences, the suspen- \nsion of the mercury in the barometer, and its fall, when \ncarried up to an eminence. \n\nWe must not forget here the use of axioms in the dem- \nonstrations of mathematics. Axioms are certain self-evi- \ndent propositions, or propositions, the truth of which is \ndiscovered by intuition, such as the following ; ^\'Things, \nequal to the same, are equal to one another ;" From equals \ntake away equals, and equals remain." We generally find \n\n\n\nDEMONSTRATIVE REASONING. . 423 \n\na number of them prefixed to treatises of geometry, and it \nlias been a mistaken supposition, which has long pre- \nvailed, that they are at the foundation of geometrical, and \nof all other demonstrative reasoning. But axioms, taken \nby themselves, lead to no conclusions. With their assis- \ntance alone, it cannot be denied, that the truth involved \nin propositions susceptible of demonstrationj would have \nbeen beyond our reach. (See \xc2\xa7. 279.) \n\nBut axioms are by no means without their use, although \ntheir nature may have been misunderstood. They are \nproperly and originally intuitive perceptions of the truth, \nand whether they be expressed in words, as we generally \nfind them, or not, is of but little consequence, except as a \nmatter of convenience to beginners, and in giving instruc- \ntion. But those intuitive perceptions, which are always \nimplied in them, are essential helps ; and if by their aid \nalone we should be unable to complete a demonstration, \nwe should be equally unable without them. We begin \nwith definitions ; we compare together successively a num- \nber of propositions ; and these intuitive perceptions of \ntheir agreement or disagreement, to which, when express- \ned in wordsj we give the name of axioms, attend us at \nevery step. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 322. The opposites of demonstrative reasoning absurd. \n\nIn demonstrations we consider only one side of a ques- \ntion ; it is not necessary to do any thing more than this. \nThe first principles in the reasoning are given ; they are \nnot only supposed to-be certain, but they are assumed as \nsuch ; these are followed by a number of propositions in \nsuccession, all of which are compared together ; if the con- \nclusion be a demonstrative one, then there has been a \nclear perception of certainty at every step in the train. \nWhatever may be urged against an argument thus con- \nducted is of no consequence ; the opposite of it will al- \nways imply some fallacy. Thus, the proposition, that*the \nthree angles of a triangle are not ecjual to two right angles, \nand other propositions, which are the opposite of what has \nbeen demonstrated, will always be found to be false, and \n54 \n\n\n\n\xe2\x96\xa042 6 DEMONSTRATIVE REASONING. \n\nalso to involve an absurdity ; that is, are inconsistent with, \nand contradictory to themselves. \n\nBat it is not so in Moral Reasoning. And here, there- \nfore, we find a marked distinction between the two great \nforms of ratiocination. We may arrive at a conclusion on \na moral subject with a great degree of certainty ; not a \ndoubt may be left in the mind ; and yet the opposite of \n\n* that conclusion may be altogether within the limits of pos- \nsibility. "We have, for instance, the most satisfactory evi- \ndence, that the sun rose to-day, but the opposite might have \n\nliheen true without any inconsistency or contradiction, viz, \nThat the sun did not rise. But on a thorough examina- \ntion of a demonstrative process, we shall find ourselves \nunable to admit even the possibility of the opposite. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 323. Demonstrative reasonings do not admit of different \ndegrees of belief. \n\nWhen our thoughts are employed upon subjects, which \ncome within the province of moral reasoning, we yield dif- \nferent degrees of assent ; v^e form opinions more or less \nprobable. Sometimes our belief is of the lowest kind ; \nnothing more than mere presumption. New evidence \ngives it new strength ; and it may go on from one degree \nof strength to another, till all doubt is excluded, and all \n\n\xe2\x80\xa2 possibility of mistake shut out. \n\nIt is different in demonstrations ; the assent, which we \nyield, is at all times of the highest kind, and is never sus- \nceptible of beingvregarded as more or less. In short, all \n\ndemonstrations are certain. But a question first arises, \n\nWhat is certainty ? (See \xc2\xa7. 64.) And again. What in par- \nticular do we understand by that certainty, which is ascri- \nbed to the conclusions, to which we are conducted in any \nprocess of demonstrative reasoning ? \n\n\xc2\xa7. 324. Of the nature of demonstrative certainty. \n\nIn proceeding to answer this inquiry, it is again to be \nobserved, that in demonstrative reasonings we always be- \ngin with certain first principles or truths, either known, \nor taken for granted ; and these hold the first place, or are \n\n\n\nDEMONSTRATIVE REASONING. 427 \n\nthe foundation of that series of propositions, over which \nthe mind successively passes, until it rests in the conclu- \nsion. In mathematics the first principles, of v/nich we \nhere speak, are the definitions. \n\nWe begin, therefore, with what is acknowledged by all \nto be true or certain. At every step there is an intuitive \nperception of the agreement or disagreement of the propo- \nsitions, which are compared together. Consequently, \nhowever far we may advance in the comparison of them, \n:here is no possibility of falling short of that degree of as- \nsent with which it is acknowledged, that the series com- \nmenced. So that demonstrative certainty may be judg- \ned to amount to this. Whenever we arrive at the last step \nor the conclusion of a series of propositions, the mind in \neffect intuitively perceives the relation, whether it be the \nagreement or disagreement, coincidence or want of coinci- \ndence, between the last step or the conclusion, and the \nconditions involved in the propositions at the commence- \nment of the series ; and, therefore, demonstrative certainty \nis virtually the same as the certainty of intuition. Al- \nthough it arises on a different occasion, and is, therefore, \nentitled to a separate consideration, there is no difference \nin the degree of the belief. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 325. Of the use of diagrams in demonstrations. \n\nMr. Locke has advanced the opinion, that moral sub- \njects are no less susceptible of demonstration, than math- \nematical. However this may be, we are certainly more \nfrequently required to practice this species of reasoning in \nthe mathematics, than any where else ; and in conducting \nthe process, nothing is more common, than to make use \nof various kinds of figures or diagrams. \xe2\x80\x94 The proper use \nof diagrams, of a square, circle, triangle, or other figure, \nwhich we delineate before us, is to assist the mind in keep- \ning its ideas distinct, and to help in comparing them to- \ngether with readiness and correctness. They are a sort of \nauxiliaries, brought in to the help of our intellectual infirm- \nities, but are not absolutely necessary ; since demonstra- \ntive reasoning, wherever it may be found, resembles any \n\n\n\n42S \n\n\n\nDEMONSTRATIVE REASONING. \n\n\n\n\n\nother kind of reasoning, in this most important respect, viz. \nin being a comparison of onr ideas. \n\nIn proof that artificial diagrams are only auxiliaries, \nand are not essentially necessary in demonstrations, it may \nbe remarked, that they are necessarily all of them imper- \nfect. It is not within the capability of the wit and the \npower of man to frame a perfect circle, or a perfect trian- \ngle, or any other figure, which is perfect. We might ar- \ngue this from our general knowledge of the imperfection \nof the senses ; and we may almost regard it as a matter, \ndetermined by experiment of the senses themselves, aided \nby optical instruments. " There never was (says Cud- \nworth,) a strait line, triangle, or circle, that we saw in all \nour lives, that was mathematically exact, but even sense it- \nself, at least by the help of microscopes, might plainly dis- \ncover much uneveness, ruggedness, flexuosity, angulosity, \nirregularity, and deformity in them.\'\'\'^ \n\nOur reasonings, therefore, and our conclusions will not \napply to the figures before us, but merely to an imagined \nperfect figure. The mind can not only originate a figure \ninternally and subjectively, but can ascribe to it the attri- \nbute of perfection. And a verbal statement of the proper- \nties of this imagined perfect figure is what we understand \nby a DEFINITION, the use of which in this kind of reasoning \nin particular has already been mentioned. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 326. Of signs in general as connected ivith reasoning. \n\nThe statements in the last section will appear the less \nexceptionable, when it is recollected, that in all cases rea- \nsoning is purely a mental process. From beginning to end, \nit is a succession of feelings. Neither mathematical signs, \nnor words constitute the process, but are only its atten- \ndants and auxiliaries. We can reason without diagrams \nor other signs employed in mathematics, the same as an \ninfant reasons, before it has learnt artificial language. \n\nWhen the infant has once put his finger in the fire, he \navoids the repetition of the experiment, reasoning in this \nway, that there is a resemblance between one flame and \njanother, and that what has once caused him pain, will bo \n\n\n\n*T realise concerning\' Immutable Morality, Bk. IV, Ch. S. \n\n\n\nDEMONSTRATIVE REASONING. 429 \n\nJikely under the same circumstances to cause the same \nsensation. When the infant sees before him some slitter- \ning toy, he reaches his hand towards it, and is evidently \ninduced to do so by a thought of this kind, that the acqui- \nsition of the object will soon follow the effort of the hand, \nas it has a similar effort previously made. ^Here is rea- \nsoning without words ; it is purely internal ; nevertheless \nno one will presume to say, that words are not great helps \nin reasoning. And thus in demonstrative reasoning, al- \nthough diagrams, and numerical and [algebraic signs are \nassistances, they do not constitute the process ; nor can it \nbe even said, that they are indispensably essential to it. \n"Some geometricians, (says Buffier, First Truths, Pt. I, \nCh. 6,) are led into a palpable errour, in imagining that \nthings demonstrated by Geometry exist, out of their \nthought, exactly similar to the demonstration formed of \nthem in their mind. They must be quickly sensible of \ntheir mistake, if they will but reflect a moment on the \nperfect globe, the imaginary properties of which are de- \nmonstrated in Geometry, though the thing itself has no \nreal existence in nature. Geometry shews nothing of the \nexistence of things, but only what they are, supposing them \nto exist really such as they are conceived by the mind. \nAnd indeed, were all created things existing annihilated, \ngeometry would not lose a single point of its demonstra- \ntion ; the circle would still remain a round figure, of \nwhich all the points of circumference would be equally \ndistant from the centre." \n\n\xc2\xa7. 327. Of the influence of demonstrative reasoning on the \nmental character. \n\nA considerable skill in demonstrative reasoning is on a \nnumber of accounts desirable, although it cannot be de- \nnied, that very frequent practice and great readiness in it \nis not always favorable ; so that it seems proper briefly \nto mention the effects, both propitious and unpropitious, \non the mental character. \n\n(1) A frequency of practice in demonstrative reasoning \ngreatly aids in giving one a ready command of his atten- \n\n\n\n430 \n\n\n\nDEMONSTRATIVE REASONING. \n\n\n\n\n\ntion. \xe2\x80\x94 In this species of reasoning, the propositions follow \neach other in such regular order and so closely, and so \ngreat is the importance of perceiving the agreement or \ndisagreement of each succeeding one with that, which \ngoes before ; that a careless, linfixed, and dissipated state \nof the mind\'seems to be utterly inconsistent Avith carrying \non such a process with any sort of success to the conclu- \nsion. As, therefore, the strictest attention is here so high- \nly necessary, the more a person subjects himself to this dis- \ncipline, the more ready and efficient will be the particular \napplication of the mind, to which we give that name. And \nwe often find distinguished individuals in politicaKlife and \nin the practice of the law, who are desirous of holding \ntheir mental powers in the most prompt and systematic \nobedience, imposing on themselves exercises in geometry \nand algebra for this purpose. \n\n(11) This mode of reasoning accustoms one to care \n\nand discrimination in the examination of subjects. In all \n\ndiscussions, where the object is to find out the truth, it is \nnecessary to take asunder all the parts, having relation to \nthe general subject, and bestow upon them a share of our \nconsideration. And in general we fiiid no people more \ndisposed to do this than mathematicians ; they are not \nfond of reasoning as Mr. Locke expresses it, in the lump, \nbut are for going into particulars, for allowing every thing \nits due weight and nothing more, and for resolutely throw- \ning out of the estimate all propositions, which are not di- \nrectly and truly to the point. \xe2\x80\x94 It must further be said, as \na general remark closely connected wi^h what h&s just \nbeen observed, that those departm\'ents of science, which \nrequire demonstrative reasoning, are promotive of a char- \nacteristic of great value, \xe2\x80\x94 a love of the truth. \n\n(Ill) Demonstrative reasoning gives to the mind a great- \ner grasp or comprehension. This result, it is true, will \nnot be experienced in the case of those, who have merely \nexercised themselves, in the study of a few select demon- \nstrations ; it implies a familiarity of the mind with long \nand complicated trains of deductions. A thorough math- \nematician, who has made it a business to exercise himself \n\n\n\nDEMONSTBATIVE REASONING. 431 \n\nin this method of reasoning, can hardly have been other- \nwise than sensible of that intellectual comprehension, or \nlength and breadth of survey, which we have in view ; \nsince one demonstration is often connected with another, \nmuch in the same way as the subordinate parts of separate \ndemonstrations are connected with each other ; and he, \ntherefore, finds it necessary, if he would go on with satis- \nfaction and pleasure, to gather up and retain, in the grasp \nof his mind, all the general and subordinate propositions \nof a long treatise. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 328. Further considerations on the influence of demon- \nstrative reasoning. \n\nBut on the other hand, there are some results of a very \ngreat attention to sciences, which require the exclusive ap- \nplication of demonstrative reasoning, of a less favourable \nkind. \n\n(I) It has been thought among other things, that this \nform of reasoning, when carried to a great length, has a \ntendency to render the mind mechanical. That is, while \nit increases its ability of acting in a given way, it dimin- \nishes the power of invention, and prevents its striking out \ninto a new path, different from that, which it has been in \nthe habit of going over. And hence it is, that men of the \nstrictest virtue and the most powerful intellect have some- \ntimes discovered an unexpected weakness, and made ex- \ntraordinary mistakes, when placed in certain new situa- \ntions. We may illustrate our meaning by a single in- \nstance, although perhaps not one of the strongest kind. \nThe celebrated Turgot, who combined the purest moral \nsentiments with the rarest intellectual endowments, was \nwhat may be termed a mathematical politician. History \nhas recorded the result. When the king of France call- \ned him to direct the political concerns of the French em- \npire, he decidedly failed, where half the talents and in- \ntegrity had firmly held the helm amid political tempests. \nThat great and virtuous mind, when called away from \nthe abstractions of science to deal with the realities of life \nand mankind, which prejudice and passion, weakness and \n\n\n\n432 \n\n\n\nDEMONSTRATIVE REASONING \n\n\n\npower, interest and suffering presented before him, found \ntoo late, that we cannot estimate the intellect as we can \nestimate the arc of a circle, and that the calculus, which \ncan measure the flight and eccentricities of the stars, may \nnot succeed in ascertaining the momentum and the obli- \nquities of human nature. \n\n(II) An exclusive culture of demonstrative rea^soning \nnourishes a spirit of scepticism ; or perhaps we may say, \ndiminishes the power of belief. The exclusive mathema- \ntician has been accustomed to yield his assent to demon- \nstration only ; audit is but natural, that he should find \nsome difficulty in being satisfied with any lower degree of \nevidence. This disposition to doubt will be, in some mea- \nsure, experienced, even in the transition from pure tomix- \ned mathematics ; at least there will be an absence of that \nfull and delighted satisfaction, which had hitherto been \nenjoyed. Still more will it be felt, when he is called upon \nto judge of events, and duties, and actions of common \nlife, which do not admit of the application of demonstra- \ntion. In a word, it has been supposed to unfit the \n\nmind in a considerable degree for accurate discriminations \nas to moral evidence on all subjects whatever, where that \nspecies of evidence is alone admissible ; and also for fair \nand correct judgments in matters of taste. \n\nSuch, on the whole, being the result of an exclusive \nattention to sciences, which admit of demonstration alone, \na restricted pursuit of them is all, that can be safely re- \ncommended. In making this remark, however, it is not \nmeant, that we would absolutely set limits to the prose- \ncution of them, but would only propose, that other \nmodes of mental discipline should be prosecuted at the \nsame time. Those who ajm at a perfect education, will \nnot ^\'canton out to themselves a little Goshen in the in- \ntellectual world," which is to receive all their labours, \nand leave the rest of the vast field of the mind to neg- \nlect, but will bestow a suitable share of culture on every \npart of it. \n\n\n\nCHAPTER NINTH \n\n\n\nMORAL REASONING. \n\n\n\n\xc2\xa7. 329. Of the subjects and- importance oj moral reasoning , \n\nMoral reasoning, which is the second great division \nor kind of reasoning, concerns opinions, actions, events \n&c.; embracing in general those subjects, which do not \ncome within the province of demonstrative reasoning. \nThe subjects, to which it relates, are often briefly expressed \nby saying, that they are matters of fact ; nor would this de- \nfinition, concise as it is, be likely to give an erroneous idea \n\nof them.- Skill in this kind of reasoning is of great use \n\nin the formation of opinions concerning the duties, and the \ngeneral conduct of life. Some may be apt to think, that \nthose, who have been most practised in demonstrative rea- \nsoning, can find no difficulty in adapting their intellectual \nhabits to matters of mere probability. This opinion is not \naltogether well founded, as we have seen in the preceding \nchapter. Although that species of reasoning has a favour- \nable result in giving persons a command over the attention, \nand in some other respects, whenever exclusively employed \nit has the effect in some degree to disqualify them for a cor- \nrect judgment on those various subjects, which properly \n\nbelono[ to moral reasoninor. The last, therefore, which \n\nhas its distinctive name from the primary signification of \nthe Latin MORES, viz. manners, customsy &c. requires a sep-" \n\narute cansideration. \n55 \n\n\n\n\'\xe2\x84\xa2 \n\n\n\n434 MORAL REASONING. \n\n\xc2\xa7., 3oO. Of the nature of moral certainty. \n\nMoral reasoning causes in us different degrees of as- \nsent, and in this respect differs from demonstrative. In \ndemoristration there is not only an immediate perception \nof the relation of the propositions compared together; but \nin consequence of their abstract and determinate nature, \nthere is also a knowledge or absolute certainty of their \nagreement and disagreement. In moral reasoning the case \n\nis somewhat different. In both kinds we begin with \n\ncertain propositions, which are either known or regarded \nas such. In both there is a series of propositions succes- \n\'sively compared. But in moral reasoning, in consequence \nof the propositions not being abstract and fixed, and there- \nfore often uncertain, the agreement or disagreement a- \nmdng them is in general not said to be known, but presum- \ned ; and this presumption may be more or less, admitting a \ngreat variety of degrees. \' While, therefore, one mode of \nreasoning is attended with knowledge ; the other can \nproperly be said to produce in most cases only judgment \n\nor opinion. But the probability of such judgment or \n\nopinion may sometimes arise so high, as to exclude all \nreasonable doubt. And hence we then speak, as if we \npossessed certainty in respect to subjects, which admit \nmerely of the application of moral reasoning. Although \nit is possible, that there may be- some difference between \nthe belief attendant on* demonstration, and that produced \nby the highest probability, the effect on our feelings is at \nany rate essentially the same. A man, who should doubt \nthe existence of the cities of London and Pekin, although \nhe has no other evidence of it than that of testimony, \nwould be considered hardly less singular and unreasonable, \nthan one, who might take it irito his head to doubt of the \npropositions of Euclid. It is this very high degree of \nprobability, which we term moral certainty, \n\n\xc2\xa7. 3Sl. Of reasoning from analogy. \n\nMoral reasoning admits of some subordinate divisions; \nand of these, the first to be mentioned is reasoning from \nanalogy. \xe2\x80\x94 The word, analogy, is used with some vagueness, \n\n\n\nMORAL REASONING. 435 \n\nbut in general denotes a resemblance, either, greater or \nless. \xe2\x80\x94 Having observed a consistency and uniformity in \ntlve operations of the physical world, we are naturally led \nto presume, that things of the same nature will be affected \nin the same way, and will produce the same effects ; and \nalso that the same or similar effects are to be attributed to \nlike causes. Analogical reasoning, tfierefore, is that \nmental process, by which unknown truths or conclusions \nare inferred from the resemblances of thin<rs. \n\nThe argument, by which Sir Isaac Newton establishes \nthe truth of universal gravitation,isof this sort. He proves, \nthat the planets in their revolutions are deflected towards \nthe sun in a manner precisely similar to the deflection of \nthe earth towards the same luminary ; and also that there \nis a similar deflection of the moon towards the earth, and \nof a body projected obliquely at the earth\'s surface towards \nthe earth\'s centre. Hencie he infers by analogy, that all \nthese deflections originate from the same cause, or are \ngoverned by one and the same law, viz. the power of grav- \nitation. \n\nThis method of reasoning is applicable to the inquiry, \nWhether the planets are inhabited; and furnishes the sole \nground for the indulgence of such a supposition. We ob- \nserve a resemblance in certain respects between Mars, Ju- \npiter, Saturn, and other planets, and the earth. They all \nrevolve around the sun, as the earth does, ar^d all derive \nlig-ht from thp^t source. Several of them are ascertained \nto revolve on. their axis, and, consequently, must have a \nsuccession of day and night. Some of them have moons, \nand all are subject to the law of gravitation. From these \nvarious similitudes we draw the conclusion by analogy, \nthat those planets must be inhabited, like the earth. \n\nThere are a variety of subjects,both speculative and prac- \ntical, in respect to which we may reason in this way ; and \nsometimeswith considerable satisfaction.And among others, \nthis method of reasoning finds a place in the arguments of \npersons in the practice (ff the law. An attorney, for instance, \nadvocates a case, which does not fall within the provisions \n\n\n\n\n\n\n436 \n\n\n\nMORAL REASONING. \n\n\n\nof existing. statutes, and for which he finds in his authori- \nties no exact precedent. He is^therefore, under the neces- \nsity of ascertaining, as far as possible, the analogy or je- \nsemblance between this case and others, which ai\'e given, \nand have been decided upon. And he has here a favour- \nable opportunity for the exhibition of his research and dis- \ncrimination. A considerable part of the argumentation \n\namong pleaders at the bar is employed in urging various \nanalogies of this sort. It is the business of the court in \nsuch instances to adjust and compare them together, and \nallow them their due weight. In doing this their discern- \nment and integrity are called into exercise ; for sometimes \na small circumstance, and perhaps one, which the pleader \nhas labored to involve in obscurity, will disclose an essen- \ntial distinction between the case in hand, and that on the \nfile of precedents, to which it has been likened. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 332. Caution to he used in reasoning from analogy. \n\nThe last remark leads us to observe, that much care is \nnecessary in arguments drawn from this source, especially \nin scientific investigations ; and they are in all cases to be \nreceived with some degree of distrust. The ancient anat- \nomists are an instance of precipitate reasoning from analo- \ngy. Being hindered by certain superstitions from dissect- \ning the bodies of men, they endeavoured to obtain the in- \nformation they wanted, by the dissection of those animals, \nwhose internal structure was supposed to come nearest \nto that of the human body. In this way they were \nled into a variety of mistakes, which have been detected \nby later anatomists. It does not follow, because things re- \nsemble each other in a number of particulars, that this re- \nsemblance will be found in all others ; and we are, there- \nfore, always to consider ourselves in danger of pushing \nthe supposition of similitude too far. \n\nThe proper use of analogical reasoning seems to be, in \nall scientific inquiries, to illustrate and confirm truths, \nwhich are susceptible of proof from other sources of evi- \ndence. A happy instance of this use of it is the work of \n\n\n\nMORAL REASONING. 437 \n\nBishop Butler, entitled, "T/ie analogy of Religion^ natural \n\nand revealed^ to the Constitution and Course of nature.\'\'\'\' It \n\nis not the object of the writer to prove the truth of reli- \ngion, either natural or revealed, but to answer some ob- \njections, which may be brought against its principles. \nAnd this he does by proving, that the same objections ex- \nist to the providence of God in the natural world. There \nis an analogy or resemblance in the two ; and if the ob- \njections, which are brought, will reject him from the au- \nthorship of what we term religion, either natural or re- \nvealed, they will dethrone him also from all direction in \nthe ordinary economy of nature. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 333. Of reasoning hy induction. \n\nWe now come to another method of moral reasoning, \nviz. by induction. Inductive reasoning is the inferring of \ngeneral truths from particular facts, .that have fallen un- \nder our observation. Our experience teaches us, that na- \nture is governed by uniform laws ; and we have a firm \nexpectation, (whether it be an original principle of our \nconstitution or whatever may be the origin of it,) that \nevents will happen in future, as we have seen them hap- \npen in times past. With this state of mind, we are pre- \npared to deduce inferences by induction. \n\nWhen a property has been found in a number of sub- \njects of the same kind, and nothing of a contradictory na- \nture appears, we have the strongest expectation of finding \nthe same property in all the individuals of the same class ; \nin other words, we come to the conclusion that the prop- \nerty is a general one. Accordingly, we apply a magnet \nto several pieces of iron ; we find in every instance a \nstrong attraction taking place ; and we conclude, although \nwe have made the experiment with only a small number \nof the masses of iron actually in existence, that it is a \nproperty of iron to be thus affected by that substance, or \nthat all iron is susceptible of magnetical attraction. This \nis a conclusion drawn by induction. \n\nThe belief, which attends a well conducted process of \n\n\n\n438 \n\n\n\nMORAL REASONING. \n\n\n\ninductive reasoning, bears a decided character ; it is mor- \nal probability of the highest kind, or what is sometimes \ntermed moral certainty ; and is at least found to be suffi- \ncient for all practical purposes. We obtain all the gener- \nal truths, relating to the properties and laws of material \nobjects in this way. \n\nAnd we thus not only acquire*a knowledge of the gen- \neral nature of material objects, but apply the same induc- \ntive process also in the investigation of law^s, which gov- \nern the operations of the mind. It is by experience or \nobserving what takes place in a number of individuals, \nthat we are able to infer the general law of association, \nviz.. When two or more ideas have existed in the mind in \nimmediate succession, they are afterwards found to be \nmutually suggested by each other. It is the same in ascer- \ntaining other general laws. \n\nThe method of induction, which is recommended by \nLord Bacon, a-s one of the most important aids in the \nsearch after truth, is employed not only in ascertaining \nthe general facts both of physical and intellectual nature, \nbut is employed also in the formation of such practical \nrules and maxims, as are of use in the common concerns of \nlife. \n\n\xc2\xa7, 334. Of combined olr accumulated argument$. \n\nWhen a proposition in geometry is given to be demon- \nstrated, it sometimes happens that two or more solutions \nmay be offered, leading to the same end. The theorem \nor the problem is one and the same, as also the conclusion; \nbut there may be more than one train of reasoning, more \nthan one series of intermediate steps, connecting the prop- \nosition, which is to be investigated, with the result. But \nas the conclusion in each of these different cases is certain, \nit does not strengthen it, although it may gratify curiosi- \nty, to resort to a different and additional process. \n\nIt is not thus in moral reasoning. The great difference \nbetween the two kinds of reasoning, ais before observed, \nis not so much in the mental process, as in the subjects, \nabout which they are employed. Now as the subjects in \n\n\n\nMORAL REASONING. 439 \n\nmoral feasoning are not of a purely abstract nature, and \nare therefore often attended with uncertainty, our belief, \nwhen we arrive at the conclusion, is not always of the \nhighest kind. More frequently it is some inferiour de- \ngree of probability. Hence in any moral inquiry the more \nnumerous the series of arguments, which terminates in a \nparticular conclusion, the stronger will be our belief in \nthe truth of that conclusion. \n\nThus we may suppose a question to arise,Whether the \nRomans occupied the island of Great Britain at some pe- \nriod previous to the Saxon conquest ^ In reference to this \ninquiry a number of independent arguments may be \nbrought forward; (1) The testimony of the Roman his- \ntorians; (2) The remains of buildings, roads, and en- \ncampments, which indicate a Roman origin ; (3) The \ncoins, urns, \xc2\xabfec. which have been discovered. \xe2\x80\x94 ^Although \nthese arguments are independent of each other, they all \nbear upon the same conclusion ; and being combined to- \ngether, they very essentially increase the strength of our \nbelief. \n\n\n\nCHAPTER TENTH. \n\n\n\nPRACTICAL DIRECTIONS IN REASONING. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 335. Practical rules in reasoning required by the frequen- \ncy of its applications. \n\nVarious directions have been given by writers on \nLogic, (which it may be remarked here, is only another \nname for whatever concerns the nature, kinds, and appli- \ncations of reasoning,) the object of which is to secure the \nmore prompt, accurate, and efficient use of the reasoning \npower. It is but natural to suppose, that some of these \ndialectical rules are greater, and others of less value. \nSuch *is appeared to be of the least questionable impor- \ntance are brought together, and explained in this chapter ; \nnor will* this occasion any surprize, when it is recollected, \nthat it has been the object of this Work throughout, not \nonly to ascertain what the mental o|5erations are, but by \npractical suggestions from time to time, to promote what \nis of a good, and prevent what is of a hurtful tendency \nin such operations. \n\nThe directions now referred to have of course a more \nintimate connection with Mofal, than with Demonstrative \nreasoning ; but this is a circumstance, which enhances, \nrather than diminis^hes their worth. The occasions, which \nadmit and require the application of moral reasoning, be- \ning inseparable from the most common occurrences and \n\n\n\n-^PRACTICAL DIRECTIONS IN REASONING. 441 \n\nexigencies of life, are miicli more numerous, than those \nof demonstrative reasoning. It is undoubtedly one great \nobject of reasoning, (particularly of moral reasoning,) \nnot only to discover truth for ourselves, but to communi- \ncate it to others ; in other words, to produce in the minds \nof others the conviction, which exists in our own. It is \nunnecessary to attempt to show, how often occasions, sui- \ntable to such an object, occur ; and still less to indicate by \nany formal statements, how much the importance of the \nreasoning power is increased by such frequency of its ap- \nplications. There are not unfrequently formal and vigo- \nrous discussions, not only in the common intercourse and \nin relation to the common business of life, but they are \nopened and maintained in the schools of learning, in \ncourts of justice, in literary and philosophical societies, in \necclesiastical councils, and among the advocates of adverse \nsystems in morals, politics, and religion. Especially do \nlegislative assemblies, which, in later times, have so rapid- \nly multiplied, afford frequent opportunities for the eiforts \nof the honest dialectician. He has there great motives, \noperating upon him, and calling him to put forth the no- \nblest powers of argument ; such as the establishment of \njustice, the protection of the oppressed, the preservation \nof freedom, a nation\'s welfare, growth, and glory. Rea- \nsoning is the great instrument, which is wielded in these \nconflicts ; and we are persuaded, that any suggestions, \nwhich may tend to regulate its exercise and secure its ap- \npropriate results, will be acceptable. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 2S6. (1) Of being influenced by a desire of the truth. \n\nThe first direction in relation to reasoning, which will \nbe given, concerns the feelings, with which it is proper \nto be animated. In all questions, which admit of dis- \ncussion, and on which we find ourselves at variance with \nthe opinions of others, we are to make truth our object. \nA desire of the truth is the first qualification in such in- \nquiries. Guided by this internal light, the inquirer will \nfind his path consistent amid all its windings, and though \n56 \n\n\n\n442 PHACTICAL DIRECTIONS /* \n\nit may pass through dark sliades and rough declivities, \nterminating at last in green fields and pleasant streams, \nwhere he shall be crowned with quietness and with hon- \nour. \n\nThe opposite of a desire of the truth is a wish to de- \ncide the subject of dispute in one way rather than anoth- \ner. The foundation of such a preference of one result to \nanother are in general the prejudices of interest and pas- \nsion ; and these are the great enemies of truth. Whenev- \ner we are under their influence, we form a diiFerent esti- \nmation of testimony anel of other sources of evidence \nfrom what we should do under other circumstances- ; \nand at such times they can hardly fail to lead us to false \nresults. \n\nWe have an illustration of the effects of a disputatious \nspirit, unconnected with any desire of the truth, among \nthe Schoolmen. No persons seem to have been more skil- \nled in the technical forms of argument. To dispute \nwith readiness and skill was considered among them a part \nof education so valuable, that all possible pains were ta- \nken in securing this mental accomplishment. But the ac- \nquisition of truth did not form any prominent part of \ntheir plan. The subjects, about which they debated, \nwere frivolous ; and the spirit, which animated them, \nexceedingly captious and disingenuous. The testimony of \nJohn of Salisbury, a learned man of the Scholastic ages, \nconfirms this. He visited Paris, in the year 1137, and \nattended upon the lectures of the famous Abelard and \nother masters, and made great advancements in learn- \ning. A Lumber of years afterwards he returned to the \nplace of his early studies, in order to confer with his for- \nmer associates, who yet remained there, on the topics, on \nwhich they had been used to converse. \n\n" I found them (says he) the same men, in the same \nplace ; nor had they advanced a single step towards resolv- \ning our ancient questions, nor added a single proposition, \nhowever small, to their stock of knowledge. Whence I \ninferred, what indeed it w^as easy to collect, that dialectic \n\n\n\nIN REASONING. 443 \n\nstudies, however useful they may be when connected with \nother branches of learning, are in themselves barren and \nuseless." It may be briefly added, that the above men- \ntioned rule is important to be observed on all occasions of \nreasoning whatever, but particularly in public debate ; \nbecause, in addition to the influence of general interest and \npassion already alluded to, the presence of others and the \nlove of victory over an opponent too often induce men to \nforget or to disreo^ard the claims, which truth is always \nentitled to enforce. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 337. (II.) Cam to be used in correctly stating the subject of \ninquiry and discussion. \n\nAnother rule in the prosecution of an argument is, that the \nquestion under debate is to be fairly and correctly stated. \nReljdng solely on the justice of our cause, and animated \nby a desire of the truth, we should be unwilling to allow \nany artifice here. \xe2\x80\x94 The matter in controversy may be sta- \nted in such a way as to include, in the very enunciation of \nit, something taken for granted, which must necessarily \nlead to a decision in favour of one of the opponents. But \nthis amounts to begging the question, a species of fallacy or \nsophism, upon which we shall again have occasion to re- \nmark. Sometimes the subject of discussion is stated \n\nso carelessly, that the true point at issue is wholly left out. \nIt may be proper, therefore, in many cases to adopt the \npractice of special pleaders, and first to ascertain all the \npoints, in which the opponents agree, and those in which \xe2\x80\xa2 \nthey differ. And then they can hardly fail of directing \ntheir arguments, to what is truly the subject of contention. \nIn order that there may not be a possibility of misun- \nderstanding here, dialecticians should aim to have clear \nideas of every thing stated in the question which, has an \nintimate connection with the point at issue. That is, sub- \nordinate parts of the question, and even particular words \nare to be examined. If the statement affirm or deny any \nthing in regard to the qualities or properties of material \nbodies, it is incumbent upon us to possess as clear ideas \n\n\n\n444 \n\n\n\nPRACTICxiL DIRECTIONS \n\n\n\nas possible, both of the object in general, and of those \nproperties or qualities in particular. Similar remarks will \napply to other subjects of inquiry of whatever kind. \n\nAs an illustration of these directions, we will suppose, \nthat the point in dispute is. Whether civil government \noriginates. in all cases from the people \'\' Here it is neces- \nsary to understand what is meant by the word government; \nthat is, whether it is meant to include in the term all the \ndifferent kinds of public authority, such as absolute, mon- \narchical, and aristocratical, as well as republican, and to \ngive it the most general meaning. The reason of this is, \nthat some might be inclined to say, that purely absolute \ngovernments, such as that of the Ottoman Porte, are \nno governments at all, but merely usurpations or tyranny, \nand, therefore, ought to be excluded from the inquiry. \nThe meaning of the word, originate, is also to be looked \ninto. We are to know what constitutes a beginning or \norigin in this case ; and particularly whether the term, as \nhere used, implies and admits the validity of a tacit agree- \nment, or not. In the inquiry, it will necessarily be ad- \nmitted, that many governments exist without any written \nor express agreement on the part of the people ; and still \nit may be urgently contended, that they have originated by \nvirtue of a tacit agreement, provided it be granted, that \nthere is any such thing as a tacit agreement, which is bind- \ning, and which, therefore, can be a ground of existence \nor origin. -The taking of such precautions would of- \nten have prevented great waste of words, as well as undue \nindulgence of irritable feelings ; and would have often led \nmore directly and surely to the discovery of truth. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 338. (Ill) Consider the kind of evidence applicable to the \nsubject. \n\nAs one subject clearly admits of the application of \none species of evidence, while another as clearly requires \nevidence of a different kind, we are thence enabled to lay \ndown this rule, viz.. We are to consider what kind of ev- \nidence is appropriate to the question under discussion. \n\nWhen the inquiry is one of a purely abstract nature \n\n\n\nIN REASONING. \xe2\x96\xa0 445 \n\nand all the propositions, involved in the reasoning, are of \nthe same kind then we have the evidence of intuition or \nintuitive perception ; and the conclusion, for reasons al- \nready mentioned, is certain. \n\nIn the examination of the properties of material bo- \ndies, we depend originally on the evidence of the senses ; \nwhich gives a character and strength to our belief accord- \ning to the circumstances, under which the objects are \npresented to them. In judging of those facts in the con- \nduct of men, u\'hich have not come under our own obser- \nvation, v/e rely on testimony. This source of belief \ncauses probability in a greater or less degree, according as \nthe testimony is from one or more, given by a person, \nwho understands the subject, to which it relates, or not, \n&c. \xe2\x80\x94 And again, some subjects admit of the evidence of \ninduction, and in respect to others we have no other aids, \nthan the less authoritative reasonings from analogy. In \nother cases, the evidence is wholly made up of various in- \ncidental circumstances, which are found to have relation \nto the subject in hand, and which affect the belief in dif- \nferent degrees and for various causes. \n\nAnd hence as the sources of belief, as well as the belief \nitself, have an intimate connection with the subject before \nus, they ought to be taken into consideration. The evi- \ndence should be appropriate to the question. But if the \nquestion admit of more than one kind of evidence, then all \nare entitled to their due weight. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 339. (IV.) On excluding all unmeaning propositions. \n\nDeeply interested in the subject of discussion, and \nbent not so much upon putting down your opponent as the \ndiscovery of the truth, avoid the introduction of propo- \nsitions, which are destitute of meaning. A proposition is \nin general said to be without meaning when it is so stated \nthat all the information, it gives as a whole, is already \ncontained in one of the parts, viz., the subject. \n\nThe first class, answering to this view, may be termed \nIDENTICAL PROPOSITIONS. \xe2\x80\x94 The proposition, whatever is, \nIS, may be given as an instance. When examined, it will \n\n\n\n446 \n\n\n\nPRACTICAL DIRECTIONS \n\n\n\nbe found to teach us nothitig ; and although it was in the \ntimes of the Scholastic philosophy, employed as an axiom, \nand thought to be of much consequence in aiding as a me- \ndium in argument, the proof which it brings, in any case \nwhatever, amounts to no more than this, that the same \nword may with certainty be predicated of itself. When \nwe say that man is man, or that blue is blue, we receive \nas much information and as valuable, as when we say, \nthat whatever is, is ; that is, we know no more afterwards \nthan we did before the enunciation of the proposition. \nThe same of all, which belong to this class. \n\nThere is a second class of unmeaning propositions, \nslightly differing in form, from the above, but are the \nsame in substance, viz., Those, where a part only of \n\nTHE COMPLEX IDEA IS PREDICATED OF THE WHOLE. \n\nHence to this class belong all those, where the genus is \npredicated of the species ; when for instance, it is said, \nthat lead is a metal. If we know the meaning of the \nterm, lead, which is the subject of the proposition, we of \ncourse know, that it is a metal. The propositions, that \ngold is yellow, and that man is rational, are of this kind. \nWe are supposed to know the meaning of the separate \nterms of these propositions ; one of these terms is the \nsubject ; and this evidently involves and implies the mean- \ning of the proposition, taken as a whole. When, on the \ncontrary we are told, that man has a notion of God, or \nthat man is cast into sleep by opium, we then learn some- \nthing, since the ideas here expressed are not contained in \n\nthe word, man. When a single word is employed with \n\nvagueness and inconsistency, it is rightly considered to be \na proper subject of criticism, and may fairly be objected \nto ; and the same liberty, and for the same reasons, may \nproperly be taken with unmeaning propositions, which \nhave the appearance of carrying us onward in the investi- \ngation of a subject, but which, when truly estimated, leave \nus no wiser, than before we heard them. \n\n\n\nIN REASONING. 447 \n\n\xc2\xa7. 340. (V.) Avoid the introduction of acknowledged and \ncommon-place propositions. \n\nThere is anotlier rule, relating to the practice of rea- \nsoning, which is of a like nature with the last mention- \ned viz. Not to burden the argument with acknowledged \n\nand common-place propositions. The common feelings \n\nand experience of mankind have so firmly established \nmany things as true, that the great mass would no more \nthink of controverting them, than would the geometri- \ncian of questioning the truth of axioms. These proposi- \ntions differ from those, considered in the last section, \nin having meaning, and perhaps important meaning. \nBut it ought not to be forgotten, that we are suppo- \nsed to reason with those, v/ho have had some expe- \nrience and possess a share of common sense ; and v/ho \nneed not to be reminded of truths, however significant, \nwhich are already as familiar to them as the letters of \ntheir mother tongue. If the question depend directly upon \nsuch truths, then there is no " need of discussion ; and if \nit do not, then it is certainly a prejudice to our cause to \nlet them take up our attention, while there are other \npoints of moment more closely connected with its issue. \nA studious enumeration and arrangement of common-place \nstatements offends the hearer or reader, because it intimates, \nthat we consider them more ignorant, than they will be \nwilling to admit ; and besides, it causes fatigue and list- \nlessness. But a worthy and powerful dialectician, while \nhe sedulously seeks the truth, is ahvays found to observe \ntwo things ; first, to keep down all feelings of disgust and \nprejudice in the minds of his opponents and others; and sec- \nond, to preserve their attention interested and fully alive. \nThis last can be done only by presenting the select and \nprominent views of a subject, by investing them with \nevery appropriate attraction, and urging them home by \nawakened and constant appeals. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 341. (VI.) Reject the aid of false arguments or sophisms. \n\nThere is a species of false reasonino^, which we call a \n\n\n\n448 \n\n\n\nPRACTICAL DIRECTIONS \n\n\n\nSOPHISM. A sophism is an argument, which contains some \nsecret fallacy, mider the general appearance of correct- \nness. The aid of such arguments, which are intended to \ndeceive, and are inconsistent with a love of the truth, \nshould be rejected. \n\n(1) Ignoratio ELENCHi, or misapprehension of the \nquestion, is one instance of the sophism. It exists, when \nthe arguments advanced do not truly apply to the point \nin debate. Let it be supposed, that some person has \nfounded a literary institution. The question is, Whether \nhe be a man of learning, a sholar ? It is argued, that he \nis, in consequence of having founded a seminary for scien- \ntific purposes. Here we may deny the connection be- \ntween the premises and the conclusion, although the argu- \nment is somewhat specious ; because we know it to be the \nfact, that many men of but small information have been \nthe patrons of science. That is, an argument is applied, \nwhich, it is supposed, would not have been brought for- \nward, if there had been a proper understanding of the im- \nport and spirit of the question, and of what was justly ap- \nplicable to it. \n\n(2) Petitio pkincipii, or begging of the question, is \nanother instance of sophism. This sophism is found, \nwhenever the disputant offers, in proof of a proposition, \nthe proposition itself in other words. The following has \nbeen given as an instance of this fallacy in reasoning ; \xe2\x80\x94 A \nperson attempts to prove, that God is eternal, by asserting, \nthat his existence is without beginning and without end. \nHere the proof,which is offered,and the proposition itself, \nwhich is to be proved, are essentially the same. \xe2\x80\x94 When \nwe are told, that opium causes sleep, because it has a sopo- \nrific quality, or that grass grows by means of its vegeta- \ntive power, the same thing is repeated in other terms. \xe2\x80\x94 \nThis fallacy is very frequently practised ; and a little care \nin detecting it would spoil many a fine saying, and deface \n\nmany a elaborate argument. What is called arguing \n\nin a circle is a species of sophism very nearly related to \nthe above. It consists in making two propsitions recip^ \nrocally prove each other. \n\n\n\nIN REASONING. 449 \n\n(3) NoN CAUSA PKo CAUSA, Or the assignation of a false \ncause. \xe2\x80\x94 People are unwilling to be thought ignorant ; \nrather than be thought so, they will inipose on the credu- \nlity of their felldw men, and sometimes on themselves, by \nassigning false causes of events. Nothing is more com- \nmon, than this sophism among illiterate people ; pride is \nnot diminished by deficiency of learning, and such people, \ntherefore, must gratify it by assigning such causes of events \nas they find nearest at hand. Hence, when the appear- \nance of a comet is followed by famine or a war, they are \ndisposed to consider it as the causeof those calamities. If \na person have committed some flagrant crime, and shortly \nafter suffer some heavy distress, it is no uncommon thing \nto hear the former assigned, as the direct and the sole \ncause of the latter. \xe2\x80\x94 This was the fallacy, which historians \nhave ascribed to the Indiai>s of Paraguay, who supposed \nthe baptismal ceremony to be the cause of death, because \nthe Jesuit missionaries, whenever opportunity offered, ad- \nministered it to dying infants, and to adults in the last stage \nof disease. \n\n(4) Another species of sophistry is called fallacia \n\nAcciDENTis. We fall into this kind of false reasoning, \n\nwhenever we give an opinion concerning the general na- \nture of a thing from some accidental circumstance. Thus, \nthe Christian religion has been made the pretext for per- \nsecutions, and has in conquence been the source of much \nsuffering ; but it is a sophism to conclude, that it is, on the \nwhole, not a great good to the human race, because it has \nbeen attended with this perversion. Again, if a medecine \nhave operated in a particular case unfavourably, or in \nanother case, have operated very favourably, the univer- \nsal rejection or reception of it, in consequence of the fa- \nvourable or unfavourable result in a* particular instance, \nwould be a hasty and fallacious induction of essentially \nthe same sort. That is, the general nature of the thing \nis estimated from a circumstance, which may be wholly \naccidental. \n\n57 \n\n\n\n450 PRACTICAL DIRECTIONS \n\n\xc2\xa7. 342 (^11-) On the- sophism of estimating actions and char- \nacter from the circumstance of success merely. \n\nThe foregoing are some of the fallacies in reasoning, \nwhich have found a place in writers on Logic. To these \nmight be added the fallacy or sophism, to which men are \nobviously so prone, of judging favourably of the charac- \nters and the deeds of others, from the mere circumstance \nof success. Those actions, which have a decidedly suc- \ncessfid termination, are almost always applauded, and are \nlooked upon as the result of great intellectual forecast; while \n"not less frequently actions, that have an unsuccessful issue, \nare not only stigmatized as evil in themselves, but as indica- \nting in their projector a flighty and ill-balanced mind. \xe2\x80\x94 \nThe fallacy, hovv^everjdoes not consist in taking the issues or \nresults into consideration, which are undoubtedly entitled \nto their due place in estimating the actions and characters \nof men, but in too much limiting our view of things, and \nforming a favourable or unfavourable judgment from the \nmere circumstance of good or ill success alone. \n\nWhile there is no sophism, more calculated to lead as- \ntray and perplex, there is none more common than this ; \nso much so, that it has almost passed into a proverb, that \na hero must not only be brave, hut fortunate . . Hence it is, \nthat Alexander is called the Great, because he gained vic- \ntories, and overran kingdoms ; while Charles XII of Swe- \nden, who tiie most nearly resembles him in the character- \nistics of bravery, perseverance, and chimerical ambition, \nbut had his projects cut short at the fatal battle of Pultowa, \nis called a madman. \n\n"Machiavel has justly animadverted, (says Dr. Johnson) \non the different notice taken by all succeeding times, of \nthe two great projectors, Cataline and Caesar. Both form- \ned the same project, and intended to raise themselves to" \npower by subverting the commonwealth. They pursued \ntheir design perhaps with equal abilities and equal virtue; \nbut Cataline perished in the field, and C^sar returned from \nPharsalia with unlimited authority ; and from that time, \nevery monarch of the earth has thought himself honoured \n\n\n\nIN REASONING. ^ 451 \n\nby a comparison with Caesar ; and Gataline has never been \nmentioned, but that his name might be applied to traitors \nand incendiaries." \n\nIn the same Essay* he happily illustrates ^this subject \nby a reference to the discovery of America, in the fol- \nlowing terms. \xe2\x80\x94 "When Colambus had engaged king Fer- \ndinand, in the discovery of the other hemisphere, the sai- \nlors, with whom he embarked in the expedition, had so \nlittle confidence in their commander, that after having \nbeen long at sea looking for coasts, which they never ex- \npected to find, they raised a general mutiny,and demanded \nto return. He found means to sooth them into a permis- \nsion to continue the same course three days longer, and \non the evening of the third day descried land. Had the \nimpatience of his crew denied him a few hours of the time \nrequested, what had been his fate but to have come back \nwith the infamy of a vain projector, who had betrayed \nthe king\'s credulity to useless expenses, and risked his life \nin seeking countries that had no existence? how would \nthose that had rejected his proposals^have triumphed in their \nacuteness ; and when would his name have been mentioned, \nbut with the makers of portable gold and malleable glass?" \n\n\xc2\xa7. 343. (VIII.) On the use of equivocal terms and phrases. \n\nIt is a further direction of much practical importance, \nthat the reasoner should be careful, in the use of lan- \nguage, to express every thing with plainness aad precision; \nand especially never attempt to prejudice the cause of \ntruth, and snatch a surreptitious victory by the use of an \nequivocal phraseology. No man of an enlarged and \ncultivated mind can be ignorant, that multitudes of \nwords in every language admit of diversities of signi- \nfication. There are to be found also in all languages \nmany words, which sometimes agree w^ith each other, and \nsometimes differ in signification, according to the connec- \ntion in which they appear, and their particular application. \nThere is, therefore, undoubtedly an opportunity, if any \nshould be disposed to embrace it, of emphying equivocal \nterms, equivocal phrases, and perplexed and mysterious \n\xe2\x96\xa0- See the Adventurer. No 99. \n\n\n\n\n452 PRACTICAL DIRECTIONS \n\ncombinations of speech, and thus hiding themselves from \nthe penetrating light of trutli, under cover of a mist of their \nown raising. \n\nNo man, whose sole object is truth and justice,will resort \nto such a discreditable subterfuge. If in reasoning he \nfinds himself inadvertently employing words of an equiv- \nocal signification, it will be a first care with him to guard \nagainst the misapprehensions, likely to result from that \nsource. He v\xc2\xbb^ili explain so precisely the sense, in v^hich \nhe uses the doubtful terms as to leave no probability of cav- \nilling and mistake. \n\nAnd besides the invaluable reputation of a man of hon- \nour and justice, he will in this way realize results in res- \npect to his own intellectual character of the most berieficial \nnature. The practice of verbal criticism, as it has been \ncalled, (that is, of discriminating readily and accurately \nthe meaning of words,) will result in a habit, giving to the \ndialectician a vast power over his opponent, who has not \nbeen trained to the making of such nice discriminations. \nThere will be a keenness of intellectual perception, which, \nwhile it helps to untie the perplexities of language, at the \nsame time resolves the perplexities of thought ; separating \nmeaning from meaning, and dividing truth from falsehood \nin those cases, where at first sight it appeared to be impos- \nsible. But it is a power, which cannot be possessed without \na laborious acquaintance with the purest writers and the \nablest reasonersin a language ; together with a systematic \nand philosophic study of its origin, idioms, and general \nforms. And while it may be employed to the most bene- \nficial purposes, it is far too formidable to be entrusted in \nthe management of any one, who is not under the influence \nof that moral rectitude and that love of the truth, which \nhave been so repeatedly insisted on. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 344. (IX.) Of adherence to our opinions. \n\nWhenever the rules laid down have been followed, and \nconclusions have been formed with a careful and candid \nregard to the evidence presented, those opinions are to be \nasserted and maintained with a due degree of confidence. \nIt would evince an unjustifiable weakness to be driven \n\n\n\nIN REASONING. 453 \n\nfrom oar honest convictions by the effrontery, or even by \nthe upright, though misguided zeal of an opponent. Ndt \nthat a person is to set himself up for infallible, and to \nsuppose that new accessions of evidence are impossible, or \nthat it is an impossibility for him to have new views of the \nevidence already examined. But a suitable degree of sta- \nbility is necessary in order to be respected and useful; and, \nin the case suppo^^ed, such stability can be exhibited with- \nout incurring the charge, which is sometimes thrown out, \nof dofforedness and intolerance. \n\nIt is further to be observed, that we are not always to \nrelinquish judgments, which have been formed in the way \npointed out, when objections are afterwards raised, which \nwe cannot immediately answer. The person thus attack- \ned can, with good reason, argue in this way ; I have once \nexamined this subject carefully and candidly ; the evidence, \nboth in its particulars and in its multitude of bearings, has \nhad its weight ; many minute and evanescent circumstan- \nces were taken into view by the mind, which have now- \nvanished from my recollection ; I, therefore, do not feel at \nliberty to alter an opinion thus formed, in consequence of \nan objection now brought up, which^ I am unable to an- \nswer, but choose to adhere to my present judgment, until \nthe whole subject, including this objection, can be re-ex- \namined. \'This reasoning would inmost cases be correct, \n\nand would be entirely consistent with that love of truth \nand openness to conviction, which ought ever to be main- \ntained. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 34.5. Effects of debating for victory instead of truth. \n\nBy way of suppporting the remarks under the first \nrule, we here introduce the subject of contending for vic- \ntory merely. He, who contends with this object, takes \nevery advantage of his opponent, which can subserve his \nown purpose. For instance, he will demand a species of \nproof or a degree of proof, which the subject in dispute does \nnot admit; he gives, if possible, a false sense to the words \nand statements, employed by the other side ; he questions \nfacts, which he himfelf fully believes and every body \nelse, in the expectation that the opposite party is not \n\n\n\n454 PRACTICAL DIRECTIONS IN REASONING. \n\nfurnished with direct and positive evidence of them. In a \nword wherever an opening presents, he takes the utmost \nadvantage of his opponent, however much against his \ndwn internal convictions of right and justice. \n\nSuch a course, to say nothing of its moral turpitude, \neffectually unsettles that part of our mental economy, \nwhich concerns the grounds and laws of belief. The \npractice of inventing cunningly devised objections against \narguments, known to be sound, necessarily impairs the in- \nfluence, which such arguments ought ever to exert over \nus. Hence the remark has been made with justice, that \npersons, who addict themselves to this practice, frequent- \nly end in becoming sceptics. They have so often perplexed, \nand apparently overthrown what they felt to be true, \nthey at last question the existence of any fixed grounds of \nbelief in the human constitution, and begin to doubt of \nevery thing. \n\nThis effect, even when there is an undoubted regard \nfor the truth, will be found to follow from habits of ar- \ndent disputation, unless there be a frequent recurrence to \nthe original principles of the mind, which relate to the \nnature and laws of belief. The learned Chillingworth is \nan instance. The consequences, to which the training up \nof his vast powers to the sole art of disputation finally \nled, are stated by Clarendon. \xe2\x80\x94 \'^Mr. Chillingworth had \nspent all his younger time in disputations and had arrived \nat so great a mastery, that he was inferiour to no man in \nthose skirmishes ; but he had with his notable perfection \nin this exercise, contracted such an irresolution and hab- \nit of doubting, that by degrees he grew confident of noth- \ning." \n\n\'^Neither the books of his adversaries nor any of their \npersons, though he was acquainted with the best of both, \nhad ever made great impression on him. All his doubts \ngrew but of himself, when he assisted his scruples with \nall the strength of his own reason ; and was then too \nhard for himself. But finding as little quiet and repose \nin those victories, lie quickly recovered by a new appeal \nto his own judgment ; so that he was in truth, in all his \nsallies and retreats, his own convert." \n\n\n\nCHAPTER ELEVENTH. \n\n\n\nOF IMAGINATION. \n\nSA6. Definition of the poicer of imagination. \n\nImagination is a complex exercise of the rnind, by \nmeans of which various conceptions are combined togeth- \ner, so as to form new wholes. The conceptions have prop- \nerly enough been regarded as the materials, from which \nthe new creations are made ; but it is not until after the \nexistence of those mental states, which are implied in im- \nagination, that they are fixed upon, detained, and brought \nout from their state of singleness into happy and beautiful \ncombinations. \n\nOur conceptions have been compared to shapeless \nstones, as they exist in the quarry, which " require little \nmore than mechanic labour to convert them into common \ndwellings, but that rise into palaces and temples only at \nthe command of architectural genius." That rude, and \nlittle more than mechanic effort, which converts the shape- \nless stones of the quarry into common dwellings, may \njustly be considered, when divested of its metaphorical as- \npect, a correct representation of this mental property, as \nit exists among the great mass of mankind ; while\' the ar- \nchitectural genius, which creates palaces and temples, is \nthe well-furnished and sublime imagination of poets, paint- \ners, orators, &c. \n\n\n\n45af OF IMAGINATION. \n\nImaginatioo is a complex mental operation ; implyint^ \nthe exercise of the power of association in fornishino- those \nconceptions, which are combined together ; also the ex- \nercise of that susceptibility, by which we perceive the re- \nlations of things, known as the power of relative sugges- \ntion. Nor is this all that is necessary, as will hereafter \nmore fully appear. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 347. The creations of imagination not entirely voluntary. \n\nThe opinion, that even persons of the most ready im- \nagination can foriti\'new imaginary creationSjVi^henever they \nchoose, by a mere volition, however widely it may have \nprevailed, cannot be maintained. To will or to exercise \na volition, always implies a mental determination, a choice. \nIn accordance with the common opinion, we will suppose, \nthat a person wills, or chooses, to imagine an ocean of \nmelted brass, or an immense body of liquid matter, which \nhas that appearance. The statement itself evidently in- \nvolves a contradiction. It is certainly impossible for a \nperson to will to imagine any thing, since that precise \nthing, v/hich he wills to imagine, must alread.y be in his \nmirid at the time of such volition. He wills for instance \nto imagine a sea of melted brass ; but of what meaning or \nwhat utility is this volition, when he has already imag- \nined the very thing, which this language seems to antici- \npate as future ? Whatever a person wills, or rather pro- \nfesses to will to imagine, he has already imagined ; and \nconsequently, there can be no such thing as entirely vol- \nuntary imaginations. \n\n\xc2\xa7. S43. Of imaginations net attended icith desire. \n\nThe creations, which we form by means of the power \nof imagination, are of two kindsthose attended with desire, \nand those which are not. It is the latter kind, which we \n\nspeak of in this section. There is hardly any mind so \n\nwantin-g in intellectual wealth as not to find clusters of as- \nsociated conceptions, groups of images often arising in \nitself. They seem to come upon us, as it were, unbidden; \nand to combine themselves in a variety of proportions, pre- \n\n\n\nOP IMAGINATION. 457 \n\nsenting new, and perhaps grotesque figures. But, al- \nthough this varied presentation of floating imagery have \nthe appearance of occupying the mind in an accidental \nmanner, it all arises, and is regulated by the laws of asso- \nciation. No image whatever occurs, which has not some \nconnection with the state of the mind, which preceded it. \nIn using these expressions however, we would not be un- \nderstood to imply, by the connection asserted, any thing \nmore than this, that one intellectual state, in certain given \ncircumstances, follows another, agreeably to an original \nlaw or principle of our constitution established by its Ma- \nker. But although we truly have here instances of the \nexercise of imagination, it is not of the higher and effec- \ntive kind, which gives birth to the creations of poetry, and \npainting, and other fine arts. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 349. Of imaginations attended with desire. \n\nWhile there are some combinations, the result of im- \nagination, which are formed without any accompanying \nemotion of desire, there are some, where desire, or inten- \ntion of some sort clearly exists. It is of cases of this last \nmentioned kind that we are accustomed to think, when \nwith those intellectual susceptibilities and states, to which, \nconsidered conjointly, we give the name of imagination, \nwe associate the idea of effective power or the ability to \ncreate. It is this frame of mind, which exists in every \nattempt at composition in prose and verse, where the sub- \nject admits of lively images and appeals to the passions. \n\nIt may assist us in understanding this species of imagina- \ntion, if we endeavour to examine the intellectual opera- \ntions of one,who makes a formal effort in writing, wheth- \ner the production be of a poetic or other kind. \n\nA person cannot ordinarily be supposed to sit down to \nwrite on any occasion whatever,without having some gen- \neral idea of the subject to be written upon already in the \nmind. He, accordingly, commences the task before him \nwith the expectation and the desire of developing the sub- \nject more or less fully, of giving to it not only a greater \ncontinuity and a better arrangement, but an increased in- \n53 \n\n\n\n458 \n\n\n\nOF IMAGINATION. \n\n\n\n\nterest in every respect. And it may be the case, that ma- \nny circumstances, indirectly relative to the effort of com- \nposition, such as the anticipated approbation or disappro- \nbation of the public, have an affect greatly to fix and in- \ncrease the emotion of interest or desire. The feeling of de- \nsire,when compared with some other emotions, is found to \npossess a superiour degree of permanency. And as, in the \ninstance which we are now considering, the desire or feel- \ning of interest is intimately connected with the general \nconception of the subject before the mind, the effect of \nthis connection is a communication of the permanency, \n.originally belonging solely to the desire, to the general \nidea or outlines of the subject, which the writer is to treat \nof. The conception, therefore, of those outlines loses in \nthis way the fleeting and ever varying nature of other \nconceptions, and becomes fixed. The lineaments of the \nanticipated treatise remain in their length, breadth, and \nproportions, permanently held up to the writer\'s view. \n\nSpontaneous conceptions continue, in the mean while, \nto arise in the mind, on the common principles of associa- \ntion ; but as the general outline of the subject remains \nfixed, they all have a greater or less relation to it. And \npartaking in some measure of the permanency of the out- \nline, to which they have relation, the writer has an oppor- \ntunity to approve some and to reject others, according as \nthey impress him as being suitable or unsuitable to the na- \nture of the subject. Those, which affect him with emo- \ntions of pleasure, on account of their perceived fitness for \nthe subject, are retained and committed to writing, while \nothers, which do not thus affect and interest him,soon fade \naway altogether. \n\nWhoever carefully notices the operations of his own \nmind, when he makes an effort at composition, will proba- \nbly be well satisfied, that this account of the intellectual \nprocess is very near the truth. \n\nIt will be recollected, therefore, that the exercise of \nimagination in the composition of any theme, which ad- \nmits of it, is not the exertion of merely a single intellec- \ntual ability. It is the developement of various feelings. \n\n\n\nOF IMAGINATION. 459 \n\nlaws, and susceptibilities ; of desire, of the principle \nor law of association, and of judgment or relative sug- \ngestion, in consequence of which a feeling of relative fit- \nness or unfitness arises on the contemplation of the con- \nceptions, which have spontaneously presented themselves, \n\n\xc2\xa7. 350. Farther illustrations of the same subject. \n\nWe first think of some subject. With the original \nthought or design of the subject, there is a co-existent de- \nsire to investigate it, to adorn it, to present it to the exam- \ninadon of others. The effect of this desire is to keep the \ngeneral subject in mind ; and, as the natural consequence \nof the power of association, various conceptions arise, in \nsome way or other related to the general subject. Of some \nof these conceptions we approve in consequence of their \nperceived fitness to the end in view, while we reject oth- \ners on account of the absence of this requisite quality of \nagreeableness or fitness. \n\nFor the*sake of convenience and brevity we give the \nname of imagination to this complex state or series of \nstates of the mind. It is iniportant to possess a single term, \nexpressive of the complex intellectual process ; otherwise, \nas we so frequently have occasion to refer to it in common \nconversation, we should be subjected, if not properly to a \ncircumlocution) at least to an unnecessary multiplication \nof words. But while we find it so much for our conven- \nience to make use of this term, we should be careful and \nnot impose upon ourselves, by ever remembering, that it \nis the name, nevertheless, not of an original and indepen- \ndent faculty, which of itself accomplishes all, that has been \nmentioned, but of a complex state or of a series of states \nof the mind. A single further remark may be added in \nillustration of the process of the mind in literary compo- \nsition. It has been seen to how great a degree efibrts of \nthis kind depend on the laws of association. When, there- \nfore, a person, has sat down to write, it may be expected, \nthat he has furnished himself with pen and paper, and that \nhejias books around him. The presence of these and oth- \ner things, subordinate to the writer\'s general undertaking. \n\n\n\n460 OF IMAGINATION. \n\nconstantly reminds him by the operation of the same laws, \nof the subject before him, and recalls his attention, if he \ndiscover any disposition to wander from it. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 351. Remarks from the writings of Dr. Reid. \n\nDr. Reid (essay i/. cli. 4.) gives the following graph- \nical statement of the selection, which is made by the wri- \nter from the variety of his constantly arising and departing \nconceptions. \n\n\'\'We seem to treat the thoughts, that present them- \nselves to the fancy in^crowds, as a great man treats those \n(courtiers) that attend his levee. They are all ambitious \nof his attention. He goes round the circle, bestowing a \nbow upon one, a smile upon another ; asks a short ques- \ntion of a third,while a fourth is honoured with a particular \nconference ; and the greater part have no particular mark \nof attention but go as they came. It is true, he can give \nno mark^of his attention to those, who were not there ; but \nhe lias a sufficient number for making, a choice and dis- \ntinction." \n\n\xc2\xa7. 352. Grounds of the preference of one conception to an- \nother. \n\nA question after all arises, on what principle is the \nmind enabled to ascertain that congruity, or incongruity, \nfitness or unfitness, agreeably to which it makes the selec- \ntion from its various conceptions. The fact is admitted, \nthat the intellectual principle is successively in a series of \ndifferent states, or, in other words, that there are succes- \nsive conceptions or images, but the inquiry still remains, \nwhy is one image in the group thought or known to be \nmore worthy than any other image, or why are any \ntwo images combined together in preference to any two \nothers ? \n\nThe answer is, it is owing to no secondary law,but io an \ninstantaneous and original suggestion of fitness or unfitness. \nThose conceptions, which by means of this original pow- \ner of perceiving the relations of things, are found to \nbe suitable to the general outlines of the subject, are de- \n\n\n\nOF IMAGINATION. 461 \n\ntained. Those images, which are perceived to possess \na peculiar congriiity and fitness^for each other, are united \ntogether, forming new and more beautiful compounds. \nWhile others, although no directly voluntary power is \nexercised over either class, are neglected, and soon become \nextinct. But no account of this vivid feeling of approval \nor disapproval, of this very rapid perception of the mutu- \nal congruity of the images for each other or for the gener- \nal conception of the subject, can be given, other than this, \nthat with such a power the original author of our intellec- \ntual susceptibilities has been pleased to form us. This is \nour nature ; here we find one of the elements of our intel- \nlectual efficiency ; without it we might still be intellectual \nbeings, but it v/ould be with the loss both of the reasoning \npower and of the imagination. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 353. Mental process in the formation of Milton^ s imaginary \nparadise. \n\nWhat has been said can perhaps be made plainer, by \nconsidering in what way Milton must have proceeded, in \nforming his happy description of the garden of Eden. \nHe had formed, in the first place, some general outlines of \nthe subject ; and as it was one, which greatly interested \nhis feelings, the interest, which was felt, tended to keep \nthe outlines steadily before him. Then the principles of \nassociation, which are ever at work, brought up a great \nvariety of conceptions, having a relation of some kind to \nthose general features ; such as conceptions of rocks, and \nwoods, and rivers, and green leaves, and golden fruit. \n\nThe next step was the exercise of that power,which we \nliave of perceiving relations, which we sometimes denom- \ninate the judgment, but more appropriately the suscepti- \nbility or power of relative suggestion. By means of this \nhe was at once able to determine, whether the conceptions, \nwhich were suggested, were suitable"to the general design \nof the description and to each other, and whether they \nwould have, when combined together to form one picture, \na pleasing effect. Accordingly those, which were judged \nmost suitable, were combined together as parts of the irn \n\n\n\n\n4m OF IMAGINATION. \n\naginary creation, and were detained and fixed by means \nof that feeIin<T of interest, which was at first excercised to- \nwards the more prominent outlines merely; while others \nspeedily disappeared from the mind. And thus arose an \nimaginary landscape, glowing with a greater variety and \nrichness of beauty, more interesting and perfect in every \nrespect, than we can ever expect to find realized in nature. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 354. Works of imagination give different degrees of \npleasure. \n\nDifferent persons receive different degrees of pleasure \nfrom works of imagination. The fact is well known. \nSomething may be said in explanation of it, in reference \nto poetry ; which is one of the creations of the power, \nwe arie considering. And the same explanation will apply \n\nin part to other efforts of the imagination. -Although \n\npoetry is generally looked upon to be a useful and pleas- \ning art, we find,^that all have not the same relish for its \nbeauties. The pleasure, which is felt by a reader of poet- \nry will in general depend upon two circumstances, (1) \nthe conformity of his experience to the things described; \n(i) the liveliness of his own imagination. \n\nThe pleasure received will depend, in the first place, \non the conformity of the reader\'s experience to the things \n\ndescribed. Accordingly, if the scene of a poem be laid \n\nwithin the limits of a commercial city,if it deal chiefly in \nthe description of the habits of the people residing there ; \nand of their various turns of fortune, it will excite but \ncomparatively little interest in those, who have been \nbrought up wholly amid retired and rural scenes. And \nwhen, on the other hand, the scene of it is laid in the \ncountry, when it deals in the toils, and sorrows, and joys of \ncountry life, it excites comparatively little interest in those, \nwho have never had any actual experience of that kind. \nBurn\'s Cotter\'s Saturday Night is an admirable poem ; but \nit is exceedingly more pleasing to those, who can clearly \nperceive, from what they have themselves seen and heard \nand felt, its accurate conformity to nature, than to those, \nwho cannot. \n\n\n\nOF IMAGINATION. 463 \n\nThe pleasure which is felt by a reader of poetry, will \ndepend also in part on the liveliness of his own imagina- \ntion. In poems the different parts are only imperfectly \n\nfilled up ; some describe more minutely than others ; but \nthe most minute describers only trace the outlines. These \nremain, therefore, to be filled up by the reader. But the \nability to do this is found in very different degrees in dif- \nferent persons ; some very rapidly and admirably finish \nthe picture, and others do not. The latter, consequently, \nremain, in a considerable degree, unaffected, and perhaps \ncondemn the poem as deficient in interest ; while the for- \nmer read it with great feeling and pleasure. This state- \nment accounts for the fact, that the same poem gives to \ndifferent persons different degrees of satisfaction ; and aU \nso, inasmuch as it requires in all cases some power of im- \nagination in the reader, explains the circumstance, that so \nmany appear to be utterly destitute of any relish for the \nbeauties of the poetic art. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 255. On the utility of ihefaeuVy of the imagination. \n\nWe have proceeded thus far in endeavouring to ex- \nplain the nature of imagination ; and we here turn aside \nfrom this general subject, for the purpose of remarking on \nthe utility of this power. And this appears to be necessa- \nry, since there are many,who seem disposed to prejudice \nits claims, in that respect ; they warmly recommend the \ncareful culture of the memory, the judgment, and the \nreasoning power, but look coldly and suspiciously on \nthe imagination, and would mther encourage a neglect of \nit. But there is ground for apprehending, that a neglect \nof this noble faculty in any person, who aspires to a full \ndevelopement and growth of the mind, cannot be justified \neither by considerations drawn from the nature of the mind \nitself, or by the practical results of such a course. \n\nIn speaking on the utilty of the imagination, it is cer- \ntainly a very natural reflecftion, that the Creator had some \ndesign or purpose in furnishing men with it, since we find \nuniversal] v, that he does nothincr in vain. And what de- \nsign could he possibly have,.if he did not intend that it \n\n\n\n464 OF IMAGINATION. \n\nshould be employed, that it should be rendered active, \nand trained up with a suitable degree of culture ? But if \nwe are thus forced upon the conclusion, that this faculty \nwas designed to be rendered active, we must further sup- \npose, that its exercise was designed to promote some use- \nful purpose. And such, although it has sometimes been \nperverted, has been the general result. \n\nNo where is the power of imagination seen to better \nadvantage than in the Prophets of the Old Testament. \nIf it be said that those venerable writers were inspired, \nit will still remain true, that this was the faculty of the \nmind, which inspiration especially honoured by the use, \nwhich was made of it. And how many monuments may \nevery civilized nation boast of, in painting, architecture, \nand sculpture, as well as in poetry, where the imagination, \nin contributing to the national glory, has at the same time \ncontributed to the national happiness! Many an hour it \nhas beguiled by the new situations it has depicted, and \nthe new views of human nature it has disclosed ; \nmany a pang of the heart it has subdued, for who \ncan indulge in the reminiscence of his own humble \nsorrows, when plunged in the mysteries and the woes, of \nthe Hamlet and the King Lear ; it has cherished many a \ngood resolution, and subtending, as it were, a new and \nwider horizon around the intellectual being, has filled the \nsoul with higher conceptions, and inspired it with higher \nhopes. Conscious of its immortal destiny, "and struggling \nagainst th\xc2\xa9 bounds that limit it, the fouI enters with joy \ninto those new and lofty creations, w^hich it is the prerog- \native of the imagination to form; and they seem to it a con- \ngenial residence. Such are the views, which obviously \npresent themselves on the slightest consideration of this \nsubject ; and it is not strange therefore, that we find in \nthe writings of Mr. Addison, who was not easily led astray \non question^ of this nature, such sentiments as the follow- \ning.- "A man of polite imagination is led into a great \n\nmany pleasures, that the vulgar are not capable of receiv- \ning. He can converse with a picture, and find an agreea- \nble companion in a statue. . He meets with a secret re- \n\n\n\nOF IMAGINATION. 465 \n\nfreshment in a description, and often feels a greater satis- \nfaction in the prospects of fields and meadows than another \ndoes in the possession. It gives him, indeed, a kind of \nproperty in every thing he sees, and makes the most rude, \nuncultivated parts of nature administer to his pleasures ; \nso that he looks upon the world, as it were, in another \nlight, and discovers in it a multitude of charms that con- \nceal themselves from the generality of mankind." \n\n\xc2\xa7. S56. Of the importance of the imagination in connection with \nthe reasoning power. \n\nIn remarking on the subject of the utility of the im- \nagination, there is one important point of view, in which \nit is capable of being considered ; that of the relation of \nthe imagination to the other intellectual powers. And, \namong other things, there is obviously ground for the re- \nmark, that a vigorous and well-disciplined imagination may \nbe made subservient to promptness, and clearness, and suc- \ncess in reasoning. The remark is made, it wi!l be noticed, \non the supposition of the imagination being well disciplin- \ned, which implies, that it is under suitable control ; other- \nwise it will rather encumber and perplex, than afford aid. \n\xe2\x80\xa2 Take, for instance, two persons, one of whom has culti- \nvated the reasoning power, exclusive of the imagination. \nWe will suppose him to possess very deservedly the repu- \ntation of an able and weighty dialectician ; but it will be \nobvious to the slightest observation, that there is, in one \nrespect, a defect and failure ; there is an evident want of \nselection and vivacity in the details of his argument. He \ncannot readily appreciate the relation which the hearer\'s \nmind sustains to the facts, which he wishes to present ; and \naccordingly with much expense of patience on their part, \nhe laboriously and very scrupulously takes up and exam- \nines every thing, which can come within his grasp, and \nbestows upon every thing nearly an equal share of \nattention. And hence it is, that many persons, who are \nacknowledged to be learned, diligent, and even success- \nful in argument, at the same time sustain the reputation, \n69 \xe2\x96\xa0 \n\n\n\n46G OF IMAGINATION. \n\nwhich is by no means an enviable one, of being dull, tire- \nsome, and uninteresting. \n\nLet us now .look a moment at another person, who is \nnot only a man of great powers of ratiocination,but has cul- \ntivated his imagination, and has it under prompt and judi- \ncious command. He casts his eye rapidly over the whole \nfield of argument, however extensive it may be ; and im- \nmediately perceives what- facts are necessary to be stated, \nand what are not ; what are of prominent, and what of sub- \nordinate importance ; what will be easily understood and \npossess an interest, and what will be difficult to be appre- \nciated, and will also lose its due value from a want of attrac- \ntion. And he does this on the same principle, and in virtue \nof the same mental training, which enables the painter, \narchitect, sculptor, and poet,to present the outlines of grand \nand beautiful creations in their respective arts. There is \na suitableness in the different parts of the train of reasoning; \na correspondence of one part to another ; a great and com- \nbined effect, enhanced by every suitable decoration, and \nundiminished by any misplaced excrescence, which un- \ndoubtedly implies a perfection of the imagination, in some \ndegree, kindred with that, which projected the group \nof the -Laocoon, crowned the hills of Greece with statues \nand temples, and lives in the works of renowned poets. \nThe debater, who combines the highest results of reasoning \nwith the highest results of the imagination, throws the \nlight of his own splendid conceptions around the radi- \nance of truth ; so that brightness shines in the midst of \nbrightness, like the angel of the Apocalypse in the sun. \n\n\xc2\xa7. o57. Of miscGnceptiGns by means of the imagination. \n\nBut while it is safe to admit, that th^ imagination may \nbe made subservient to valuable purposes, it is no less \ntrue, that it may sometimes mislead us. The following \nare instances among others, where this is the result. \n\nOur admiration of the great may be reckoned a preju- \ndice of the imagination. We are apt to suppose them \npossessed of personal attractions, and of the highest hap- \npiness; and not only .this, to invest them with every wor- \n\n\n\nOF IMAGINATION. 467 \n\nthy moral attribute. \'-The misfortunes, (says a late wri- \nter,) of Mary, Queen of S3ots, and of her descendant, \nPrince Charles Edward, commanded the sympathy, the \nlove^ and the enthusiasm of millions. In the cause of \nthese princes, how many have joyfully sacrificed life, \nthough neither of them was worthy or capable of reio-n- \ning ! How many labour still to blot out every stain from \ntheir memory! And yet every individual, in the circle \nof his own private friends and acquaintances, can un- \ndoubtedly find many persons mo-re distinguished for vir- \ntue, for good principles, for integrity of character, than \nthe prince for whom he is willing to lay down his life.; \nbut a friend) a private man, is invested with none of tho^e \nattributes, always dazzling but often false, which are cal- \nculated to strike the imagination."\' \n\nOur imaginations mislead us also in respect to war, \nwhenever we contemplate it at a distance, and do not feel \nits effects at our own fire-sides and homes. We delight to \ndwell upon the idea of mighty power, which it suggests ; \nwe recall to memory the homage and plaudits, which have \nbeen given to the brave ; we combine together concep- \ntions of all, that is stirring in music, and brilliant in equi- \npage. In a word, it is a kindling imagination, seizing upon \nsome imposing circumstances, that leads multitudes into \ndeplorable mistakes as to the character of that great \nscourge of the human race. Again ; the power of im- \nagination often gives a wrong colouring to future life. It \nis here. as in some prospects in natural scenery, \n\'Tis distance lends enchantment to the view. \nWhatever may be our present evils\', we imagine there is \ngood to come. We rush forward in the pursuit of it, like \nchildren, who set out with spirited emulation, expecting \nto grasp in their hands the splendours of the rainbow, that \nappears to them to rest upon the neighboring hills. \n\n^. 353. Explanationof the above misrepresentations of the imag- \nination. \n\nBut how happens it, that this faculty so often misleads \nus ? What explanation can be given ? \n\n\n\n468 OF IMAGINATION. \n\nThe answer is, that the mind turns away with a natur- \nal aversion fro mi whatever causes it pain or uneasiness ; de- \nlighting to dwell on the elements of beauty and sublimity, \nand in general on all scenes, which exite in it pleasant \nemotions. As there is, therefore, more or less in all ac- \ntual situations, which causes dissatisfaction, we shall al- \nways find, in every condition, in which we are placed, \nsomethinc^ which detracts from what we imao^ine to be \nthe sum of happiness. The evils, which are around us \nand near us, we must know ; our situation forbids an at- \ntempt at the concealment of them. Every day forces \nthe lesson of human adversity on our attention. But \nwhen we look abroad from the reality, which exists at \nhome, from the cares and sorrows, which are ever near at \nhand, to other scenes and prospects, we do not think of \ntrial and disappointment, because we are not obliged to. \nWe fix our attention upon those circumstances, which ap- \npear most favourable and interesting; and, consequently, \nknow nothing of the uneasiness and misery, which actu- \nally exist in the imaginary paradise of our creation. \xe2\x80\x94 For \ninstance, we are apt to associate, as has been remarked, \nwith persons in very high stations in life, the ideas of un- \nalloyed happiness, of moral excellence, of manliness and \nbeauty of form ; but v/hile men in the most exalted sta- \ntions have no less a share than others of bodily deformi- \nties and suffering, they have still greater . anxieties ; their \nhours of sorrow are often more numerous than those of \nany other class of persons. It v/as well inquired by King \nHenry in Shakspeare, \n\n"What infinite heart\'s ease must kings neglect, \n\n" That private men enjoy? \n\n" And what have kings, that privates have not too, \n" Save ceremony, save general ceremony? \n\nAnd under the direction of the same mental tendency, \nby which we are led to mark the elevations without noti- \ncing the depressions of the great men of the earth, we are \nled also to see the sublimities and hide from our sight the \ndegradations and miseries of war, to behold the sunshine \nof the future, but no clouds. \n\n\n\nCHAPTER TWELFTH. \n\n\n\nORIGIN OF PREJUDICES. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 359. Of the meaning of prejudices . \n\nIn forming our judgments or opinions of things, we \nare led to take into consideration a variety of facts and \ncircumstances, which are applicable to the particular sub- \njects under consideration, and are fitted to influence the \nmind m the formation of such opinions. The circumstan- \nces and facts, which are thus fitted to influence our belief, \nin consequence of giving new views in respect to the sub- \njects before us, are commonly termed evidence. But it \nis well known, that the full and natural force of evidence is \noften interrupted and weakened by the operation of vari- \nous, causes. Besides the agency of other causes, by \nmeans of which the judgment is led into errour, \nthere are some in the mind itself; particularly casual, \nbut strong associations arising there of various sorts, \nand under various aspects. The term prejudices, as it is \ncommonly employed, embraces the greater number of \nthese grounds or causes of erroneous judgments. \n\nPrejudices, therefore, to which we are now to attend, \nare judgments or opinions, which are formed without a \nsuitable regard to the evidence, properly pertaining to \nthem ; whenever, for example, sources of evidence, which \nare within our reach, are overlooked ; or when the facts \n\n\n\n470 \n\n\n\nORIGIN OF PREJUDICES. \n\n\n\n\n\nand incidental circumstances, constituting the evidence, \nare allowed to have too great or too little influence. A \nmind, which discovers a tendency thus to overlook or \nmisapply grounds of evidence, is called a prejudiced \nmind. \n\nA greater or less degree of importance will be attached \nto this subject, according as we attach a greater or less de- \ngree of value to the possession of correct and enlightened \nopinions. None can consider it unimportant ; many will \njustly regard it, as of the very highest importance. It is \nthe object of this chapter to point out some of the princi- \npal sources of prejudices. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 360. Of prejudices in favour of our youth. \n\nMany of those opinions, which we form of the scenes, \nand events, and characters of our youthful days, are preju- \ndices. As we look back and frame an estimation of that \nearly period, the associates of our childhood and youth \nseem to us to have been without a crime ; in those happy \ndays the interests of parents were never at v^\'iance with \nthose of their children ; masters sought the good of their \ndependants ; the poor were welcome sharers in the abun- \ndance of the rich ; magistrates were virtuous; the religious \nteachers were eminently holy men. Alas! for these evils \ndays of our manhood and old age, in which there is such \nrottenness in all civil institutions, which recent times have \nestablished ; such corruption in every new set of magis- \ntrates ; and such depravity in the great mass of the peo- \nple! The causes of this apparent disparity between the \nworld, as it exists now, and formerly, are briefly these. \n\nIn the morning of life every thing is rrew ; our atten- \ntion is arrested by a multitude of novel objects, and the \nmind is filled with delight. Happy ourselves, we imagine \nthat, with few exceptions, all others are not less so ; and \nwhile our own hearts are conscious of innocence, we are \nexempt from any suspicion of crime in others. In a word, \nwe suppose all the world to be happy, all the world to be \ninnocent and just, because we are conscious of the existence \nof rectitude and truth and innocence in ourselves, and are \n\n\n\nORIGIN OF PREJUDICES. 471 \n\ntoo inexperienced^to be aware of the frequency of their ab- \nsence from the great mass of mankind. As we grow up, \ncares multiply, bodily infirmities increase ; we more often \nsee collisions of interest, hollow professions, deceptive ex- \npedients, and intriguing arts of all kinds ; and what is \nworse, we discover in our own breasts more of distrust, \njealousy, passion, and other evils, than have been develop- \ned in our earlier days. \n\nThe true solution then is this ; We attribute to one \nthing what belongs to another. We ascribe to the great \nmass of mankind, changes which have only taken place in \n\nourselves. The world appears to us differently from \n\nwhat it did when we were young, not because it has itself \nessentially altered, (which can never be supposed to have \nhappened in a single life of man ;) but because we, as in- \ndividuals, have become more acquainted with its true \ncharacter, and are made more sensibly to feel the pressure \nof its many ills. And it is for such reasons as these un- \ndoubtedly, that old men so often appear to be strangers in \nthe midst of every thing that is present, and to live only \nin the world that is past. \n\nIn the adventures of Gil Bias, a work which cannot be \ndenied to possess the merit of an intimate knowledge of \nhuman nature, we are introduced- to the company of \n\ntwo old men, Count d\'Asumar, and Signor Pacheco. \n\n"Count d\' Asumar, far from concealing his grey hairs, \nsupported himself on a cane, and seemed to glory in his \nold age. Signor Pacheco, (said he, as he came in,) I am \ncome to dine with you. You are -very welcome, Count, \n(answered my master.) Meanwhile, having embraced \none another, they sat down, and entered into conversation, \ntill such time as dinner was ready. The discourse turned \nfirst upon a bull-feast, which had been celebrated a few \ndays before ; and as they mentioned the cavaliers, who \nhad shewn the greatest vigour and address, the old Count, \nlike another Nestor, v/ho, from talking of the present, \nalways took occasion to praise the past, said, v/ith a sigh; \n\'Alas, I see no men now-a-days comparable to those! have \nknown heretofore; and the tournaments are not performed \n\n\n\n472 ORIGIN OF PREJUDICES. \n\nwith half the magnificence that they were when I was a \nyoung man.\' \xe2\x80\x94 I laughed within myself at the prejudice of \nhonest Signor d\'Asumar, who did not confine it to tour- \nnaments only ; but I remember, when the dessert was set \nupon the table, seeing some fine peaches served up he ob- \nserved, In my time the peaches were much larger than \n\nthey are at present ; nature degenerates every day. At \n\nthat rate, (said Don Gonzales, smiling,) the peaches of Ad- \nam\'s time must have been wonderfully large." \n\n\xc2\xa7.\'361. Of prejudices of home and country. \' \n\nThere are prejudices in favour of one\'s native country \nand of the village, where he may happen to have been \nbrought up, and to live. And this prejudice in favour of \none\'s own residence and nation is too often attended with \na contempt and dislike of tho&e, who have their origin \nelsewhere. It is notorious, that two of the most powerful \nand well informed nations on earth, the French and Eng- \nlish, have for a long series of years affected to despise, and \nhave most certainly hated each other. The French and \nSpaniards, who also are near neighbours to each othei\\ \nhave hardly been on better terms. The Italians, flattered \nby the eminent success of some of their countrymen in the \narts, term the Germans blockheads ; while the Germans \nget their satisfaction by bestowing the same appellation \non the Swiss. Even the poor and ignorant Gr^enlander \nhas his grounds of triumph ; and amid his rocks and \nsnows fondly imagines, that there is no home, no freedom \nlike his. \n\nDifferent explanations may be given of the origin of \nthis strong attachment to our nation and the place of our \nresidence; and of the contempt, which is often entertained, \nfor others. Whatever explanation may be adopted, the \nexistence of such feelings is well known, and their influ- \nence in perplexing our judgments of men and things \nextensively felt. This is seen in the criticisms, which are \nmade by the authors of one nation on the productions in \nliterature and the arts of another. With the Englishman, \nMontesquieu is superficial and dull ; with the Frenchman, \n\n\n\nORIGIN OF PREJUDICES. 473 \n\nNewton dwindles down to a mere almanack-maker ; in \none country a writer is extolled on account of the place of \nhis birth, and in another is decried and put down for the \n\nsame reason. It is important to all to be aware of the \n\ntendency to form erroneous opinions in consequence of \nthese predilections and antipathies. A mind well balan- \nced, and anxious to know the truth and to do equal and \nexact justice to all, will carefully guard against it. \n\n\xc2\xa7. SQ2. Professional prejudices. \n\nSome erroneous opinions may be attributed to men\'s \nprofessions or callings in life. A little self-examination \nwill convince us, that our feelings are apt to be unduly en- \nlisted in favour of those, who are practising the same arts, \npursuing the same studies, engaged in the same calling of \nwhatever kind. When at anytime it falls to us to discrim- \ninate between such and persons of another art or calling ; \nto determine which has the greatest merit, or is the deep- \nest in crime, there is no small difficulty in becoming en- \ntirely divested of this feeling. It continually rises up, \nev^en when we seem to be unconscious of it ; it gives a \nnew aspect to the facts, which coine under examination; \nit secretly but almost infallibly perplexes the decisions of \nmen, who have the reputation of candour, and who would \nbe offended at the imputation of intended injustice. \n\nThe causes of prejudices, arising from particular pro- \nfessions in life, are undoubtedly much the same, as those \nwhich are at the bottom of the partial sentiments, which \npeople entertain of their own home and country. There \nis something in our constitution, which leads us to feel a \ndeep interest iu those, with whom we are much associa- \nted, whose toils are the same, who have the same hope to \nstimulate, and the same opposition to encounter. Be- \nsides, our own selfish feelings are at work. Our honour, \nand consequently, our respectability are in some degree in- \nvolved in that of the profession. As that rises or falls, \nindividuals experience something of the elevation or de- \npression. \n\nUnder this class of prejudices may be reckoned those, \n60 \n\n\n\n474 ORIGIN OF PREJUDICES. \n\nresulting from that contraction and halting of the mind? \nwhich is often siiperindnced by an exclusive attentiors to \none class of subjects or to one train of thought. When \na man, who has been taught in one science only, and \nwhose mental operations have consequently been always \nrunning in one track, ventures out of it, and attempts to \njudge on other subjects, nothing is more common than for \nsuch an one to judge wrong. It is no easy matter for him \nto seize on the true distinctions of things beyond his par- \nticular sphere of knowledge ; and he mistakes not only in \nrespect to the nature of the things themselves, of which \nhe is to judge, but also as to the nature and rules of the \nevidence applicable to them. An eminent mathemati- \ncian is said to have attempted to ascertain by calculation \nthe ratio, in which the evidence of facts must decrease . in \nthe course of time, and to have fixed the period, when the \nevidence of the facts, on which Christianity is founded, \nshall become extinct, and when, in conse:|ueDce, all reli- \ngious faith must he banished from the earth. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 363. Prejudices of sects and parties. \n\nIn religious sects, and in political or other parties, \nprejudices are still stronger, than those of particular arts \nand professions. In sects and parties there is a conflict of \nopinions, and not of trades ; a rivalship of principles, and \nnot of mere labour and merchandize. It is, therefore, an \nactive, an aspiring competition. Too restless to lie dor- \nmant, it is introduced in high-ways, and workshops, and \nprivate and public assemblies ; too ambitious to be easily \novercome, it continually renews and perpetuates the con- \niiict. The prejudices, therefore, of sects and parties have \nall the elements of professional prejudices, embittered by \nconstant exercise. They convulse nations ; they disturb \nthe peace of neighbourhoods ; they break asulider the \nstrong ties of family and kindred. \n\nThe history of every republic, not excepting our own, \naffords abundant instances of the putting forth of these \nvirulent and ungenerous tendencies. We do not mean to \n\n\n\nORIGIN OF PREJUDICES. 475 \n\nsay that a man cannot belong to a party without being \nprejudiced; however difficult it may be, to be placed in that \nsituation without beins^ tinctured with those feelings. But \nwherever they actually exist, they deaden every honourable \nsentiment ; they perplex evey noble principle. Nothing \ncan be clearer evidence of this, than that we continually be- \nhold men of exalted patriotism, and of every way unsul- \nlied character, traduced by unfounded imputations and \ncharges ; and which are known to be so by those political \nopponents, who njake them. And it is a still more striking \nillustration of the strength of party prejudices, that we \niind a political measures, advocated or opposed by the \n; .me men, as they happen to be in or out of office ; or as \nthe measures in question happen to be advocated or op- \nposed by the members cff the other party. As if men, \nand not measures ; as if places without regard to princi- \nples, were to be the sole subject of inquiry. \n\nThe prejudices of sects have been no less violent \nthan those of political parties, as may be learnt from \nthe hostility, which is yet exercised among them, and \nfrom the history of former persecutions and martyrdoms. \nEven philosophy has not been exempt ; different scien- \ntific systems have had their parties for and against ; and \nthe serious and dignified pretensions of philosophic in- \nquiry have not always preserved them from virulent con- \ntentions, which were not merely discreditable to science, \nbut to human nature. We are told in the histories of \nphilosophical opinions, that the controversies between \ntho Realists and Nominalists ran so high, as to end \nnot only in verbal disputes, but in blows. An eye-witness \nassures us, that the combatants might be seen, not only \nengaging with fists, but with clubs and swords, and that \nmany were wounded, and some killed. Not a very suita- \nble way, one would imagine, of deciding an abstract," \nmetaphysical question. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 304. Prejudices of authority. \n\nMen often adopt erroneous opinions merely because \nthey are proposed by writers of great name. The writings \no^ Aristotle were upheld as chief authorities for a number \n\n\n\n476 ORIGIN OF PREJUDICES. \n\nof centuries in Europa, and no more was necessary in sup- \nport of any controverted opinions, than to cite sonaethinty \nfavourable from them. The followers of Des Cartes receiv- \ned hardly less implicitly the philosophical creed of that new \nmaster of science ; not so much because they had investi- \ngated, and were convinced in view of the evidence before \nthem, as because Des Cartes had said it. There have been \nteachers in religion, also in politics and other subordinate \ndepartments of science, who have had their followers for \nno better reason. Such prejudices have been a great hinder- \nance to free discussion and the progress of knowledge. \n\nThe influence of authority in giving a direction to peo- \nple\'s opinions is ix)t limited to persons, who can truly make \npretensions to some superiour wisdom; it is also frequently \nexercised by mere riches, titles, and outwardjsplendour. \nThis is often seen in republican states, where the people have \nthe right of choosing their rulers, and of expressing their \nopinions on a variety of public questions. It is well, if \nnot more than half of the people in any of the smaller cor- \nporations do not, in giving their suffrages, fall in with the \nsentiments, however absurd they may be, of a few individ- \nuals, who have no other claim to influence, than what their \ngreater afiluerice gives them. But this is a very unreason- \nable prejudice. The poorer classes of the community, de- \nprived of the adventitious aids of wealth, should set a prop- \ner value on personal character, and let it .clearly appear \nin all cases, where they are at all capable of judging, that \nthey have understandings, and possess and value freedom. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 3^5. Prejudices of personal friendships and dislikes. \n\nIf man were to choose a state of apathy and indifler- \nence, he would be unable to obtain it, at least permanent- \nly ; it would be refused to him by the very elements, the \noriginal laws of his nature. He is destined not only to \nact but to feel ; and his feelings in respect to others will \nvary, according as he has been more or less in their com- \npany, as he has received from them greater or less favours \nor injuries. Hence]he]has his sympathies and his dislikes, \nhis favourable and unfavourable sentiments, his friends and \n\n\n\nORIGIN OF PREJUDICES. 477 \n\nhis opposers. And here we have another source of prej- \nudices. It is so well understood as to have become a com- \nmon saying, that it is a difficult matter to judge^with per- \nfect impartiality, either of friends or foes. A question ari- \nses, we will suppose concerning the merit or demerit, the \nright or wrong in the conduct of a friend ; of one, in whose \nfavour our sympathies are strongly enlisted. In the delib- \neration upon the facts before us,which we attempt to hold, \nhe mind is continually interrupted by the remembrance \nof those kind acts and excellent qualities, which have laid \nthe foundation of our favourable partialities. They come \nbefore the eye of the judgment ; we attempt to remove \nthem, and they return again ; they interrupt and cloud \n:he clearness of its perceptions. And hence, our judg- \nments prove to be wrongs \n\nWe experience the same difficulty in forming a just \nestimate of the character and conduct of those, for whom \n\nwe entertain a personal dislike. \xe2\x80\x94There is a continual \n\nsuggestion of acts and of qualities, which are the founda- \ntions of that dislike. The effect of this is partly to divert \nthe mind from the question properly before it, and partly \nto diffuse over it a misrepresentation, v/hich has its origin \nsolely in our own feelings of antipathy. Our dislike inter- \nposes itself, as in the other case, between the thing to be \njudged of, and the susceptibility of judging, and renders \nthe mind unable to perceive so clearly the true merits of \nthe question, as it otherwise would. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 366. Prejudices of custom or Jashion. \n\nThe practices of different nations, and the prevailing \nnotions in respect to them, differ from each other; nor are \n\nthose of the same nation the same at different periods. \n\nThe modes of salutation in France are different from those \nof Russia ; and those of both nations are different from \nthe forms, which are commonly received in Oriental coun- \ntries. There is no less diversity among nations in the fash- \nions of dress, than in the methods of civility, and of polite \nintercourse. The dress of a Turk or of a Chinese w^ould \nmake but an ill figure on an Englishman ; and the English- \n\n\n\n478 ORIGIN OF PREJUDICES. \n\nman himself would reject with contempt the obsolete and \n\nneglected fashion of his own ancestors. The authori- \n\nty of fashions extends also to political and religious cere- \n,monies, to the regulation and management of domestic af. \nfairs, and to methods of education. No two nations are \nalike in all these respects ; and hardly one age, or one \nyear agrees with another. \n\nWe find in the authority of fashion or custom a fruit- \nful source of limited and erroneous judgments. Each na- \ntion passes its censure on the customs, that prevail abroad, \nbut are not adopted at home ; each age ridicules the prac- \ntices of a preceding age, that have since become obsolete. \nWe have great reason for considering these limited and \npremature judgments prejudices. We see no grounds, \nwhy one nation, especially where there is nearly an equal \ndegree of mental improvement, should set itself up as an \ninfallible judge of propriety and impropriety in the cus- \ntoms and ceremonies of another nation. But the falla- \ncy consists not merely in ignorantly censuring others. The \ngreat body of people are found to be not more unanimous \nin censuring the opinions and fashions of other ages and \nnations, than they are, in blindly and implicitly adopting \nthose of their own, however trivial or absurd they may be. \nThey do, as they see others do ; this method they have \nfollowed from their youth up,without exercising their own \njudgment ; and in this way custom has become to them a \n^ second nature.\' \n\n\xc2\xa7. 367. Correctives of fashionable prejudices . \n\nSomething may perhaps be proposed to alleviate that \ntyranny of fashion, which has now been spoken of. \n\n" Three things, (says Watts,) are to be considered, in \n\norder to deliver our understandings fi^om this dans^er and \nslavery. \n\n(1.) That the greatest part of the civil customs of any \nparticular nation or age spring from humour rather than \nreason. Sometimes the humor of the prince prevails, \nand sometimes the humor of the people. It is either the \n\n\n\nORIGIN OF PP.EJUDfCES. 479 \n\ngreat or the many, who dictate the fashion, and these have \nnot always the highest reason on their side. \n\n(2.) Consider also that the customs of the same nations \nin differen\'t ages, the customs of different nations in the \nsame age, and the customs of different towns and villages \nin the same nation are very various and contrary to each \nother. The fashionable learning, language, sentiments, \nand rules of politeness, differ greatly in different countries \nand ages of mankind ; but truth and reason are of a more \nuniform and steady nature, aod do not change with the \nfashion. Upon this account, to cure the prepossessions \nwhich arise from custom, it is of excellent use to travel \nand see the customs of various countries and to read the \ntravels of other men, and the history of past ages, that ev- \nery thing may not seem strange and uncouth, which is not \n; ractised within the limits of our own parish, or in the \niiarrow space of our own life-time. \n\n[2.) Consider yet again, how often we ourselves have \nchanged our opinions concerning the decency, proprietyj \nor congruity of several modes or practices in the world, \nespecially if we have lived to the age of thirty or forty \nCustom or fashion, even in all its changes, has been ready \nto have some degree of ascendency over our understand- \nings, and what at one time seemed decent, appears obso- \nlete and disagreeable afterwards, when th@ fashion chan- \nges. Let us learn, therefore, to abstract as much as pos- \nsible from custom and fashion, when we would pass a \njudgment concerning the real value and intrinsic nature \nof things.\'\' \n\n\xc2\xa7. 3G8. Of guarding against prejudices in early education. \n\nWe conclude the subject of prejudices, which assumes \nsuch a variety of forms, and is not even yet fully exhaust- \ned, with one or two practical remarks, naturally flowing \nfrom it, on the education of the young. If the human mind \nbe expo*sedto the many undue influences, which have been \nmentioned, it is certainly an obvious consideration, that \ngreat pains should bc taken in training up the young. \n\n\n\n480 \n\n\n\nORIGIN OF PREJUDICES. \n\n\n\nFalse notions take root in the mind at an early period ; \nand often, before they are supposed to be planted, have \ngained strength and permanency. A superstitious belief \nin the agency of spiritual beings in the dark, which is early \nreceived, is only one of the many false notions, with \nwhich the mind is then liable to be impressed, by \nmeans of a wrong intellectual culture. A whole host of \nerrours, to which we have found ourselves exposed in con- \nsequence of various influences operating upon us, may have \ntheir origin at the same time ; even errours of a moral, \npolitical, and religious nature. Individuals can sometimes \nstate,\'as far back as their memory can reach, circumstances, \n(perhaps an accidental remark, perhaps an unimportant \nreligious ceremony,) which have had a permanent influ- \nence. \n\nPrejudices so numerous and tenacious >are introduced \ninto the mind in childhood, that it requires much pains and \ntime in after life to unlearn the false notions, to which we \nhave been accustomed to render an implicit belief. The \nstruggle against the influence, which they have acquired \nover us, will be found to be a severe one ; and oftentimes, \nit is quite unsuccessful. Many persons, who have been \nfully a^vare of the extent and evil nature of the tendencies, \nwhich were given to their minds in early life,have desired \nto counteract and annul their influence, and have made ef- \nforts to that purpose, but wdthout effect. The seeds, that \nWere sown in the nursery, and had borne their fruits in \nyouth, had taken too deep root to be eradicated in the \nfulness of years. The hue of the mind, whether it be a \ntint of beauty or deformity, has contracted the unchange- \nableness of the Ethiopian\'s skin and of the leopard\'s \n\nspots. We infer,- therefore, that it is a part of all \n\nright education, and the duty of all, who are engaged \nin instructing young minds, not only to guard against \nthe admission of any thing other than the truth, but also \nto suard against all such influences of whatever kind a^ \nare unfavourable to the apprehension and reception of it. \n\n\n\nPART THIRD. \n\n\n\nSENTIENT STATES OF THE MIND. \n\n\n\nCLASS FIRST. \n\n\n\nEMOTIONS. \n\n\n\n01 \n\n\n\nCHAPTER FIRST. \n\n\n\nEMOTIONS OF BEAUTY. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 369. Of the sentient states of the mind in general. \n\nHaving, in the second Part of this Work, com- \npleted, in a very considerable degree, what was neces- \nsary to be said on the intellect, it is now time to enter \non the consideration of that part of our nature, which \nis sometimes denominated the heart, in distinction from \nthe pure understanding or intellectual part of man. \n\nThe obvious and acknowledged grounds of distinction \nbetween these two parts of our mental constitution have \nbeen explained in another place, (chap, xiii. Part I ;) and \nit will not perhaps be thought necessary to resume the \nconsideration of them here. We may safely appeal to the \nterms used in all languages, to the speculations of philoso- \nphers, and to each one\'s consciousness in confirmation of \nthe principle, that such a distinction is v,ell founded, and \nhas a reality in nature. The topics, accordingly, which \nwe are now about to enter upon, have their specific char- \nacter, and relate to the emotions, desires, volitions, feel- \nings of obligation, &c ; all of which states of mind, \nwhether they appear under a simple or a complex form, \nmay be considered as included under the epithet sm^ien^ \n\n\n\n434 EMOTIONS OF BEAUTY. \n\nWe do not ordinarily apply that epithet to the mere \nperceptions and deductions of the understanding ; but un- \nder the general head of Sensibility or sentience, (if that \nterm v/ere allowable by the established usage of the lan- \nguage,) is included every thing, which involves some de- \ngree of feelin<^. \xe2\x80\x94 And it may be asserted without hesita- \ntion, that subjects of this kind present very high claims to \nour notice. If man had been made of intellect only ; if \nhe could merely have perceived, compared, associated, \nand reasoned, v^\'ithout a single desire, without a solitary \nemotion, without sorrow for suffering or sympathy in joy ; \nif he had been all head and no heart ; the human soul \n"\xc2\xab.vould have shown a depressed and different aspect, com- \npared with what it does at present. It was this part of \nhuman nature, which Socrates particularly titrned his \nthoughts to ; and on account of which he was pronounced \nby the Oracle the wisest of all men living. In these in- \nquiries we are let into the secrets of men\'s actions, for \niiere we find the causes, that render them restless and in- \nquisitive, that prompt to efforts both good and evil, and \nmake the wide world a theatre, where vice and virtue, \nhope and fear, and joy and suffering mingle in perpetual \nconflict, \n\n\xc2\xa7. S70. Of the general division of the sentient states of the \nmind into emotions^ desires, ^-c. \n\nWe no sooner carefully direct our attention to the sen- \ntient states of the mind, to the feelings in distinction from \nthe thoughts and intellections, than we find them suscep- \ntible of being arranged into the four general classes of emo- \ntions, DESIRES, FEELINGS OF OBLIGATION, and VOLITIONS. \n\nThese various species of feeling sometimes closely approx- \nimate, and may even mingle together, forming a new and \ncomplex one ; and yet our consciousness is able to distin- \nguish them from each other. \n\nWhen we come to feelings of obligation and volitions, \n?t will be proper to say something on their distinctive na- \nture. But as the two other classes are first considered, it is \nan inquiry more naturally arising here, What is the distinc- \n\n\n\nEMOTIONS OF BEAUTY. 495 \n\ntion between Emotions and Desires ? \xe2\x80\x94 As the original \nfeelings, expressed by both of these terms, are sim- \nple, it would be of no availjo attempt to define them ; \nnor do we profess to ascertain the difference between \nthem in this way. We can learn this difference by \nour own internal examination and by consciousness \nalone ; nor can any form of mere words illustrate to our \ncomprehension either their nature or their distinction, in- \ndependently of such internal experience, excepting per- \nhaps in the single circumstance, that emotions are instan- \ntaneous, while there is apparently a greater permanency \nin desires. These last continue the same as when they \nfirst arose, so long as the objects, towards which they are \ndirected, are the same ; while the emotions are in general \n\nmore transitory. But even this distinction, which we \n\nare able to understand, without having recourse to our \nconsciousness of the feelings themselves, may fail at times; \nat least apparently so. It is not unfrequently the case, that \nobjects, which are fitted to call forth emotions, remain be- \nfore the mind a considerable period, and that emotions, \nmingling with those that went before, arise in succession \nto emotions, and with such rapidity as to give them \nall, though many in number, an appearance of actual same- \nness, continuity, and permanency. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 371. Explanations and characteristics of emotions of beauty. \n\nIt is presumed, that no one is ignorant of what is meant, \nvhen we speak of a melancholy emotion, of a cheerful \n:-motion, of emotions of pain, of pity, of wonder, of \ncheerfulness, of approval and the like. Among other \nfeelings of this nature are those, which have particular re- \nlation to objects external to the mind, such as emotions of \nbeauty, grandeur, and sublimity. In/the present chap- \nter our attention will be particularly directed to those of \n\nBEAUTY. \n\nOf the emotions of beauty it wilj be as difficult to give a \ndefinition, so as to make them clearer to any one\'s com- \nprehension than they already are, as to define the simple \n\n\n\n486 EMOTIONS OF BEAUTY. \n\nsensations of colour, sound, or taste. We find in them, \nhowever, these two marks or characteristics. \n\n(1) The emotion of beauty, in the iirst place, is always \na pleasing ane. We never give the name to one, which is \npainful, or to any feeling of disgust. Whenever, there- \nfore, we speak of an emotion of beauty, we imply, in the \nuse of the terms, some degree of satisfaction or pleasure. \nAll persons, the illiterate as well as the scientific, use the \nphrase with this import. (2) We never speak of emo- \ntions of beauty, to whatever degree may be our experience \nof inward satisfaction; without referring such emotions to \nsomething external. The same emotion, which is called \nsatisfaction or delight of mind, when it is wholly and ex- \nclusively internal, we find to be termed an emotion of \nbeauty, if we are able to refer it to something without, \nand spread its charms around any external object. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 372. Of what is meant by beautiful objects. \n\nThere are a great variety of material objects, whicli \n\xc2\xabxcite the emotion of beauty ; that is, when the objects are \npresented, this emotion in a greater or less degree, (for \nthe emotion itself is susceptible of many varieties,) imme- \ndiately exists. But it is a common saying, and probably \nwill be deemed a just one, that material objects have nei- \nther beauty nor deformity in themselves ; neither value \nnor want of it, independently of their applications and re- \nsults. All bodies of matter are mere assemblages of par- \nticles, and the different arrangment of those particles \nconstitutes the sole difference between one object and an- \nother. The ashes, that are mouldering in the tomb, do \nnot differ from the living form o f man in the materials, \nbut only in disposition and in symmetry. In themselves \nconsidered, therefore, all bodies of matter are without \nbeauty ; the fairest creations of architecture, and the dust, \non which they are erected, are alike in that respect ; all \nare originally destitute of that interest, which we denomi- \nnate beauty. \n\nThe beauty of objects being something not in the na- \nture of the things themselvesjalthough we constantly speak \n\n\n\nEMOTIONS OF BEAUTY. 487 \n\nof them as possessing that quality, it is necessary to enter \n\ninto some explanation.\' Whenever certain objects are \n\npresented to us, there is a feeling of pleasure, in a \nhigher or less degree. This feeling, which is termed an \nemotion of beauty, does not exist, it will readily be ad- \nmitted, in the object, which cannot be supposed to be sus- \nceptible of it, but in the mind which contemplates the ob" \nject. And here we have the solution of the point, on \nwhich we are remarking. \n\nWe have from earliest childhood been in the habit of \nreferring this mental emotion, of which no inanimate ob- \nject can possibly be susceptible, to external objects, as its \nantecedent. We have made this reference for so long a \ntime, and so frequently, that at- last, in consequence of a \nvery tenacious association, the object itself seems to us to \nbe invested with delight, and to beam out with a sort of \nmental radiance ; that is, to have qualities, which can tru- \nly and properly exist only in the mind. Such objects are \ntermed by us beautiful objects. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 373. Results of constantly referring emotions of beauty to the \noutward cause. \n\nThe result of this strong and early disposition, to refer \nthe emotions within us to those external objects, which are \nthe antecedents to them, is, that all material creation is \nclothed over again. There is a beauty in the sun ; there \nis a beauty in the moon walking in brightness, and in \nthe attendant stars ; there is a beauty in the woods and \nwaters ; and blossom, and flo\\Yer, and,fruit are all invest- \ned with the same transferred or reflected splendour. \nBut annul the emotions of the mind, which throws back \nits own inward light on the objects around it ; and the sun \nwill become dark, and the moon v/ill withhold its shining, \nand the flower will be no more delightful, than the sod, \nfrom whose mouldering bosom it springs up. \n\nBut we do not wish to be misunderstood here. It is \nadmitted, on the supposition of all intelligence and feeling \nbeinff abolished, that the material world would still con- \ntinue to be the same in itself, bu^ it would realize and la- \n\n\n\n488 EMOTIONS- OF BEAUTY. \n\nmerit, (if inanimate nature could be supposed to be capable \nof feeling in any case^) the loss of the correlative and in- \nterpreting mind. There would be the same substance, \nthe same outlines and forms, and the same qualities ; but \nthese forms and qualities would not have the same import, \nthe same signiiicancy. It must be evident, that sounds of \nharmony and discordance, though different in themselves, \ndo not differ in their effects, when both are wasted on the \ndesert air. Nor is there any such difference in forms of \nbeauty and deformity, as would lay a foundation for the \napplication of those terms, where there is no eye to be- \nhold, and no heart to rejoice in them. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 374. Extensive application of the term beauty. \n\nEmotions of beauty are felt, and perhaps in a higher \ndegree than any where else, in the contemplation of objects \nof sight, of woods, waters, azure skies, cultivated fields, \nand particularly of the human form. But they are not \nlimited to these ; emotions, which not only bear the same \nname, but are analogous in kind, exist also on the contem- \nplation of many other things. \n\nThe sentiment or feeling of beauty exists, when we are \nfollowing out a happy train of reasoning ; and hence the \nmathematician, who certainly has a delightful feeling, an- \nalogous to what v/e experience in contemplating many \nworks of nature, speaks of a beautiful theorem. \n\nThe connoisseur in music applies the term beautiful to \na favourite air ; the lover of poetry speaks of a beautiful \nsong ; and the painter discovers beauty in the design, and \nin the colouring of his pictures. \xc2\xa5/e apply the term, beauty, \nto experiments in the different departments of physics ; \nespecially when the experiment is simple, and results in \ndeciding a point, which has occasioned doubt and dispute. \n\nAlso, in the contemplation of moral actions, we find \nthe same feelings. The approbation, which we yield, \nwhen the poor are relieved, and the weak are defended, \nand the vicious are reclaimed, and any other deeds of vir- \ntue are done, is always attended with a delightful move- \nment of the heart. --\xe2\x80\x94- So lliat all nature, taking the word \n\n\n\nEMOTIONS OF BEAUTY. 4S9 \n\nin a wide sense, is the province of beauty ; the intellectu- \nal, and the moral, as well as the material world. There \nis such an analogy, such a resemblance in the feelings in \nall these cases, that, if the term beauty ho. proper to ex- \npress one, it is no less appropriate to all. It is in truth \nconstituted a common name^ expressive of a variety of emo- \ntions, arising on different occasions, but always pleasing, \nand varying rather in the occasions of their origin and in \nde^^ree, than in tlieir real nature. \n\nIn particular, they agree in their nature as to this,-we \nrefer all the emotions, which come under the denomina- \ntion of beauty, to the objects, whatever they may be, \nwhich are found immediately and constantly to precede \nthem. The charm of the mind, which exists solely in \nourselves, seems to flow out and. to spread itself over the \nseverest labours of intellect, over the creations of the ar- \nchitect, over the fictions of the imagination, over virtu- \npus moral actions, and whatever else we call beautiful, no \nless than upon those forms of material nature, which fill \nus with delight. \n\n\xc2\xa7. ^Ib. All objects not equally fitted to excite emotions of \nbeauty. \n\nFrom what has been said, it- must be evident, that \nthere is a correspondence between the mind and the out- \nward objects, which are addressed to it. This has al- \nready been clearly seen in respect to the sensations and \nexternal perceptions ; and it is not less evident in respect \nto that part of our nature, which we are now attending \nto. The mind, and the external world, and the external \ncircumstances of our situation in general are reciprocally \nsuited to each other. Hence, when we ascribe the quality \nof beauty to any object, we have reference to this mutual \nadaptation. An object is ordinarily called beautiful, when \nit has agreeable qualities; in other w^ords, when it is the \ncause or antecedent of the emotion of beauty. \n\nBut no one can be ignorant, that not all objects cause \nthe emotions ; and of those which do, some have this \npower in a greater, and some in a less degree. This brincrs \n62 "* \n\n\n\n490 EMOTIONS OF BEAUTY. \n\nus to a very important inquiry. It is no unreasonable curi- \nosity, which wishes to know, why the effect is so limited, \napd why all objects are not embraced in it ? Why dif- \nferent objects cause the same emotion in different degrees? \nAnd why the same objects produced! diversity of emotions \nin different individuals, and even in the same individual \nat different times ? \n\n\xc2\xa7. o76. A susceptibility of emotions of beauty an ultimate prin- \nciple of our constitution. \n\nIn answering these questions, something must be taken \nfor granted, there must be some starting point ; otherwise \nall that can be said, will be involved in inextricable con- \nfusion. That is, we must take for granted, that the mind \nhas an original susceptibility of such emotions. Nor can \nwe suppose, there can be any objection to a concession, \nwhich is warranted by the most general experience. We \nall know, that we are cteated with this susceptibility, be- \ncause we are all conscious of having had those emotions, \nwhich are attributed to it. And if we are asked. How, or \nwhy it is, that the susceptibility at the bottom of these \nfeelings exists, we can only say, that such was the will of \nthe Being, who created the mind ; and that this is one of \nthe original or ultimate elements of our nature. \n\nAlthough the mind, therefore, is originally susceptible \nof emotions, as every one knows ; still it is no less evident \nfrom the general arrangements we behold, both in physical \nand in intellectual nature, that these emotions have their \nfixed causes or antecedents. We have seen, that these \ncauses are not limited to one class or kind ; but are to be \nfound under various circumstances ; in the exercises of \nreasoning, in the fanciful creations of poetry, in musical \nairs, in the experiments of physics, in the forms of materi- \nal existence, and the like. /Vs a general statement, these \nobjects cannot be presented to the mind, and the mind be \nunmoved by it ; it contemplates them, and it necessarily \nhas a feeling of delight of a greater or less degree of \nstrength. \n\nIn asserting, that this is correct as a general statement, \n\n\n\n, EMOTIONS OF BEAUTY. 491 \n\nit is implied, that some objects do not originally cause \nthese emotions. And hence we are led to enter into more \nparticular inquiries. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 37T. Remarks on the beauty of forms. \xe2\x80\xa2 \n\nIn making that selection of those objects, and qualities \nof objects, which we suppose to be fitted, in the original \nconstitution of things, to cause within us pleasing emo- \ntions of themselves, independently of any extraneous aid, \nwe cannot profess to speak with certainty. The appeal is \nto the general experience of men ; and all we can do, is, \nto give, as far as it seems to have been ascertained, the \nesults of that experience. Beginning, therefore, with \nmaterial objects, we are justified by general experience in \nsaying, that certain dispositions or forms of matter arc \nbeautiful ; for instance, the circle. \n\nWe rarely look upon a winding or serpentine form, \nwithout experiencing a feeling of pleasure ; and on seeing \na circle, this pleasure is heightened. Hence Hogarth, in \nhis Analysis of Beauty, expressly lays it down, that those \nlines, which have most variety in themselves, contribute \nmuch towards the production of beauty, and that the most \nbeautiful line, by which a surface can be bounded, i^s the \nwaving or serpentine, or that which constantly, but imper- \nceptibly deviates from the straight line. This, which we \nfrequently find in shells, flowers, and other pleasing nat- \nural productions, he calls the line of beauty. And was \nnot Hogarth right in the opinion, that there is at least a \ndegree of beauty in such \'outlines, whether they are the \nmost beautiful or not? Refer it to any man\'s experience, \nand let him say, when he gathers on the seashore wreathed \nand variegated shells, or beholds through distant meadows \nthe winding stream, or pauses in pathless woods to gaze \non the flowing features of the rose, does he not at once \nfeel within him a spontaneous movement of delight ? Is \nnot the object, which is directly before him, in itself a \nsource of this feeling ? Although he- may have a super- \nadded pleasure from some other source, as we shall have \noccasion to see ; still, considering the subject particularly \n\n\n\n492 EMOTIONS OF BEAUTY. \n\nin reference to the object before him, may not the true \nphilosophy be summed up in the single assertion, that he \nsees, and feels ; that he beholds, and admires. It results, \ntherefore, from the common experience of mankind, that \nobjects, which are circular, or approach that form, or ex- \nhibit an irregular, but serpentine outline, have a degree of \nbeauty. What can be imagined more beautiful than the \narch of the rainbow, stretching over our heads from \nthe rising of the sun to its \'going down, even if nothing \nbut the form and the outline were presented to our vis- \nion, without the unrivalled splendour of its colours? The \ndark blue hemisphere of the visible sky is a beautiful ob- \nject, although it undoubtedly becomes more so, when \nfrom time to time the golden companies of stars gleam \nupward from its unsearchable depths. \n\nThere remains, howeverj this explanatory remark. \xe2\x80\x94 \nWe have much reason to believe, that the emotion will \nbe stronger in all cases, in proportion as the beautiful ob- \nject is distinctly and immediately embraced by the mind. \nPerhaps it may be said with some good reason, that the \nsquare form has a degree of beauty, as well as the circle ; \nalthough it cannot be doubted, that it has less. And it is \nmatter of inquiry, whether the difference in this respect \nis owing so much to the original power of the forms \nthemselves, as to the circumstance just alluded to ; in \nother words, whether it be not owing to the fact, that the \ncircle, beint^ more simple, makes a more direct, entire, and \npowerful impression ; whereas the attention is divided \namong the sides and angles of a square. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 378. Of the original beauty of colour. \n\nWe experience what may be termed an original emo- \ntion, which is pleasing, in beholding colours. We are \nable merely to allude to abundant sources in proof of this, \nwithout entering, at the present time, into a full exposi- \ntion of them. \n\n(1) The pleasure, which results from the mere behold- \ning of colours, may be observed in very early life. It is \n^n consequence of this pleasing emotion, that the infant so \n\n\n\nEMOTIONS OF BEAUTY. 493 \n\nearly directs its eyes towards the Iight5that breaks in from \nthe window, or which reaches the sense of vision from any \nother source. It is pleasing to see with what evident ex- \ntacy, the child rushes from flower to flower, and com- \npares their brilliancy. Casting his eyes abroad in the pur- \nsuit of objects, that are richly variegated, he pauses to \ngaze with admiration on every tree, that is most profuse- \nly loaded with blossoms, or that is burdened with fruit of \nthe deepest red and yellow. It is because he is attracted \nwith the brightness of its wings, that he pursues the but- \nterfly with a labour so unwearied, or suspends his sport to \nwatch the wayward movements of the humming bird. \n\n(2) The same results are found also, very strikingly \nand generally, among all savage tribes. Not unfrequently \nthe untutored sons of the forest forget the ardour of the \nchace in their speculations on the wild roses by the wayside. \nSeeing how beautiful the fish of their lakes and riv- \ners_, and the bird of their forests, and the forest tree itself \nis rendered by colours, they commit the mistake of at- \ntempting to render their own bodies more beautiful by \nartificial hues. They value whatever dress they may \nhave, in proportion to the gaudiness of its colours ; they \nweave rich and variegated plumes into the hair ; and as \nthey conjectured from his scarlet dress,that Columbus was \nthe Captain of the Spaniards, so they are wont to intimate \nand express their own rank and dignity by the splendour \nof their equipments. \n\nAnd the same trait, which had been so often noticed \nin Savages, may be observed also, though in a less degree, \namong the uneducated classes in civilized communities. \nIn persons of refinement, the original tendency to receive \npleasing emotions from the contemplation of colours seems \nto have, in a measure, lost its power, in consequence of \nthe developement of tendencies to receive pleasure from \nother causes. \n\n(3) We have another proof in persons, who have been \nblind from birth, but in after life have been restored by \ncouching, or some other way. " I have couched, (says \n\nWardrop, speaking of James Mitchell,) one of his eyes \n\n\n\n494 EMOTIONS OP BEAUTY. \n\nsuccessfolly ; and he is much amused with the visible \nworld, though he mistrusts information, gained by that \navenue. One day I got him a new and gaudy suit of \nclothes, which delighted him beyond description. It v/as \nthe most interesting scene of sensual gratification I ever \nbeheld."* \n\n\xc2\xa7. 379. Of sounds \'considered as a source of beauty. \n\nWe next inquire into the application of these principles \nin respect to sounds. And here also we have reason to \nbelieve, that they hold good ; that certain sounds are \npleasing of themselves ; and are hence, agreejably to views \nalready expressed, termed beautiful. Examine, for in- \nstance, musical sounds. It is true, that in different na- \ntions, we find different casts or styles of music ; but not- \nwithstanding this, certain successions of sounds, viz. those, \nwhich have certain mathematical proportions in their \ntimes of vibration, are alone pleasing. As, therefore, not \nall series of sounds are beautiful^ but only those of a par- \nticular character, and these are every where found to ex- \ncite emotions of beauty without exception ; the presump- \ntion is, that they possess this power originally ; they please \nus because the mind is so formed, that it cannot be oth- \nerwise. It is possible, that the emotion may be small, \nbut it undoubtedly has an existence in some degree, and \ncan be accounted for in no other way. \n\nSo true is this, and so obvious to every one\'s notice; \nthat we can hardly be expected to attempt a confirmation \nof it by an appeal to any facts in particular. If it were \nnecessary, well established facts would not be wanting. \nHow many instances might be pointed out, like that of \nthe Spaniards when they first came to America. In their \ntraffic with the native inhabitants, the latter frequently \npurchased of them small bells ; and it is asserted, that \nwhen they hung them on their persons, and heard their \nclear musical sounds, responding to their movements as \n\n* As quoted by Mr. Stewart in hia account; of Mitchell, Vol. III., \nof the Elements of the Philosophy of the Mind. \n\n\n\nJSMOTIONS OF BEAUTY. 495 \n\nthey danced, they were filled, with extacy; nothing could \nexceed their wild delight. It is further related of one of \nthe Jesuit missionaries at a later period, that once coming \ninto the company of certain ignorant and fierce Indians, \nhe met with a rude and menacing reception, which fore- \nboded no very favourable termination. As it was not his \ndesign, however, to enter into any contention, if it could \npossibly be avoided, he immediately commenced playing \non a stringed instrument ; their feelings were softened \nat once, and the evil spirit of jealousy ^nd anger, which \nthey exhibited on his first approach to them, fled from \ntheir minds.* \n\nIt is not necessary in this inquiry to look solely to high- \nly civilized life, to the productions of the great masters of \nmusical compositions, to companies of the most skilful \nperformers, who on set and great occasions extract such \nstrong admiration by " dulcet symphonies and voices \nsweet ;" we wish rather to interrogate human nature in its \nrude estate, and we shall find it giving but one answer. \nLet some wandering musician suddenly take up his quar- \nters in ^country village, and enact the Orpheus even on \na hand-organ, if it be one of tolerable excellence of con- \nstruction ; and as the swell of harmony sweeps along the \nstreet, it comes \\vith a power, which reminds one of the \nmarvels of ancient fable ; the faces of those, who stand \nin the corners of the streets, are directed towards the \nsound ; groups of children leave their sports and emulous- \nly rush to the spot ; delighted countenances cluster at the \nwindows ; the din of conversation and the noisy activity \nof business is hushed, and the very trees seem to nod with \napprobation. Such is the potency of music ; such is the \ncharm of sweet sounds, coming forth not under the most \nfavourable circumstances, to sooth and control, to refine \nand exalt and govern human passion. \n\n*See Irving\'s Life and Voyages of Cokimbu?, Chap, ix, London \nQuarterly Review, Vol. xxvi, p, 287. \n\n\n\n496 EMOTIONS OF BEAUTY. \n\n4. 380. Of motion as an element of beauty . \n\nMotion has usually been reckoned an element of beau- \nty, and very justly. A forest, or a field of grain, gently \n\nwaved by the wind, affects us pleasantly. The motion of \na winding river pleases ; and this, not only because the \nriver is serpentine, but because it is never at rest. We \nare delighted with the motion of a ship, as it cleaves the \nsea under full sail. We look on, as it moves like a thing \nof life, and are pleased without being able to control our \nfeelings, or to tell, whj^ they exist. And the waves too \naround it, which a*re continually approaching and depart- \ning, and curling upward in huge masses, ancl then break- \ning asunder into fragments of every shape, present a much \nmore pleasing appearance, than they would, if profoundly \nquiet and stagnant. \n\nWith what happy enthusiasm we behold the foaming \ncascade, as it breaks out from the summit of the mountain, \nand dashes downward to its base! With what pleasing \nsatisfaction, we gaze upon a column of smoke, ascending \nfrom a cottage in a wood ;^\xe2\x80\x94 a trait in outward *enery, \nwhich landscape painters, who must certainly be account- \ned good judges of what is beautiful in the aspects of ex- \nternal nature, are exceedingly fond of introducing. It \nmay be said in this case, we are -aware, that the pleasure, \narising from beholding the ascending smoke of the cot- \ntage, is caused by the favourite suggestions, which are \nconnected with it, of rural seclusion, peace, and abun- \ndance. But there is much reason to believe, that the \nfeeling would be to some extent the same, if it were known \nto ascend from the uncomfortable wigwam of the Savas^e, \nfrom an accidental conflagration, or from the fires of a \n\nwandering horde of gypsies. And if motion, on the \n\nlimited scale, on which we are accustomed tb view it, be \nbeautiful, how great v*^ould be the expansion and extacy of \nour feelings, if we conkl be placed on some pinnacle of the \nuniverse, and behold beneath us the worlds, suns, and sys- \ntems of infinite space, with endless progress and perfect \n\n\n\nEMOTIONS OF BEAUTY. 497 \n\nregularity, "wheeling unshaken through the void im- \nmense." \n\n\xc2\xa7. 381. Of intellectual and moral objects as a source oj the \nbeautijul. \n\nBut we are not to suppose, that there is nothing but mat- \nter, and its relations^ and its accessories of rest, motion, \nand sound, which are the foundations of the beautiful. The \nv/orld of mind also, so far as it can be brought before our \ncontemplation, calls forth similar emotions. \xe2\x80\x94 ^The hu- \nman countenance is a beautiful object ; nature has deci- \ndedly given that characteF to the curving outline of the \nlips and forehead, the ger.tle illuminations of the eye, and \nthe tints of the cheeks, but they convey ideas of mind ; \nthey may be regarded as natural indications and signs of \nthe soul, which is lodged behind them; and although the \nhuman countenance is pleasing of itself, the thought and \nfeeling and amiability, of which it is significant, are plea- \nsing also. We may perhaps illustrate our meaning by an- \nother instance. If we fix our . attention upon two men, \nwhoseoutward appearance is the same, but one of them is \nfar more distinguished than the other for clearness of per- \nception, extent of knowledge, and allth^ essentials of true \nwisdom, we certainly look upon him with a higher de- \ngree of complacency. And this complacency is greatly \nheightened, if we can add to these intellectual qualities \ncertain qualities of the heart or of the moral character-such \nas a strong love of truth, justice, and benevolence. \n\nIt is true, that in the present life intellectual and mor- \nal objects are brought before our contemplation only in a \ncomparatively small degree, surrounded and almost en- \ncumbered, as v^e are, with material things ; but they are, \nnevertheless, proper objects of knowledge, and are among \nthe great sources of beauty. There is no object of con- \ntemplation more pleasing or even enrapturing than the \nSupreme Being ; but it) contemplating the Deity, we \ndo not contemplate an outward and accessible pic- \nture, or a statue of wood and stone, but merely a com- \nplex internal conception, which embraces certain intel- \n63\' \n\n\n\n498 EMOTIONS OF BEAUTY. \n\nlectual and moral qualities and powers, and excludes ev- \nery thing of a purely material kind. Now when we \ndwell upon the parts of this great and glorious concep- \ntion, and follow them out into the length and breadth, \nand height and depth of infinite wisdom, of infinite be- \nnevolence, of omnipotence and justice unsearchable, and \nof other attributes, which are merged together and as- \nsimilated in this great sun of moral perfection, we find \nsuch a splendour, and such a fitness in them, that we can- \nnot but be filled with delight ; like the disciples, that \nwere travelling to Emmaus, when we think upon these \nthings, our heart burns within us. \n\n\n\nCHAPTER SECOND. \n\n\n\nOF ASSOCIATED BEAUTY. \n\n\n\n\xc2\xa7. 382. Objects may become beautiful by association merely. \n\nThere is another view to be taken of this interesting \nsubject. While some of the forms, of which matter is \nsusceptible, are pleasing of themselves and originally, \nwhile we are unable to behold bright colours, and to lis- \nten to certain sounds, and to gaze upon particular expres- \nsions of the countenance, and to contemplate high intel- \nlectual and moral excellence, without emotions, in a great- \ner or less degree delightful ; it must be admitted, that, in \nthe course of our experience, we find a variety of objects,that \nseem^as they are presented to us, to be unattended with any \nemotion whatever ; objects, that are perfectly indifferent.. \nAnd yet these objects, however wanting in beauty to the \ngreat mass of men,- are found to be invested, in the minds \nof some, with a charm, allowedly not their own. These \nobjects, which previously excited no feelings of beauty, \nmay become beautiful to us in consequence of the associa- \ntions, which we attach to them. That is to say, when \nthe objects are beheld, certain former pleasing feelings, \npeculiar to ourselves, are recalled. \n\n\n\n\xe2\x80\xa2 \n\n\n\n500 OF ASSOCIATED BEAUTY. \n\nThe lustre of a spring morning, the radiance of a sum- \nmer evening may of themselves excite in us a pleasing \netnotion ; but as our busy imagination, taking advantage \nof the images of delight, which are before us, is ever at \nwork and constantly forming new images, there is, in com- \nbination with the original emotion of beauty, a superadded \ndelight. And if, in these instances, only a part of the \nbeauty is to be ascribed to association, there are some oth- \ners, where the whole is to be considered, as derived from \nthat source. \n\nNumerous instances can be given of the power of as- \nsociation, not only in heightening the actual charms of \nobjects, but in spreading a sort of delegated lustre around \nthose, that were entirely uniiiterestiDg before. Why does \nyon decaying house appear beautiful to me, which is in- \ndifferent to another ? Why are the desolate fields around \nit clothed with delight, while others see in them nothing, \nthat is pleasant ? It is, because that house formerly de- \ntained me, as one of its inmates, at its fireside, and those \nfields were the scenes of many youthful sports. When I \nnow behold them, after so long a time, the joyous emo- \ntions, which the remembrances of my early days call up \nwithin me, are, by the power of association, thrown \naround the objects, which are the cause of the remem- \nbrances. \n\n\xc2\xa7. o83. Further illustrations of associated feelings. \n\nHe, who travels through a well-cultivated country \ntowm, cannot but be pleased with the varioils objects, \nwhich he beholds ; the neat and comfortable dwellings ; \nthe meadows, that are peopled with flocks, and with herds \nof cattle ; the fields of grain, intermingled with reaches \nof thick and dark forest. The whole. scene is a beautiful \none ; the emotion we suppose to be partly original; a per- \nson on being restored to sight by couching for the catar- \nact, and having had no opportunity to form associations \nwith it, would witness it for the first time wdth delight. \nBut a greater part of the pleasure is owing to the associ- \nated feelings, which arise, on beholding such a Ecene ; \n\n\n\nOF ASSOCIATED BEAUTY. 501 \n\nthese dwellings are the abode of man ; these fields are \nthe place of his labours, and amply reward him for his \ntoil]; here are contentment, the interchange of heartfelt \njoys, and "ancient truth." \n\nThose, who have travelled over places, that have been \nsignalized by memorable events, will not suspect us of at- \ntributing too great a share of our emotions to association. \nIt is true that in a country so new as America, we are un- \nable to point so frequently, as an European might do, to \nplaces, that have witnessed the gallantry and patriotism \nof ancient times. But there are some such consecrated \nspots. With whatever emotions the traveller may pass \nup the banks of the Hudson, he cannot but find his feel- \nings much more deeply arrested at Stillwater and at Sar- \natoga, the scenes of memorable battles with the armies of \nEngland and of the surrender of Burgoyne, than at any \nother places. It was there, that brave men died ; it \nwas there, that an infant people threv/ defiance at a power- \nful enemy, and gave sanguinary proof of their determina- \ntion to be free. A thousand recollections have gathered \nupon such places, and the heart overflows with feeling al \nbeholding them. \n\nThe powerful feeling, which here exists, whether we \ncall it an emotion of beauty, or sublimity, or give it a \nname, expressive of some intermediate grade, is essential- \nly the same with that, which is caused in the bosom of \nthe traveller, when he looks for the first time upon the \nhills of the city of Rome. There are o.her cities of great- \ner extent, and washed by nobler rivers, than the one, \nwhich is before him ; but upon no others has he ever ga- \nzed with such intensity of feeling. He beholds v/liat was \nonce the mistress of the world ; he looks upon the ancient \ndwelling place of Brutus, of Cicero, and of the Caesars. \nThe imagination is at once peopled with whatever was \nnoble in the character, and great in the achievements of \nthat extraordinary nation ; and there is a strength, a full- \nness of emotion, which, without these stirring remem- \nbrances, would be very sensibly diminished. \n\n\n\n502 OF ASSOCIATED BEAUTY. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 384. Instances of national association. \n\nTlie iniliience of association in rousing up, and in o-iv- \ning strength to particular classes of emotions, may be \nstrikingly seen in some national instances. -Every coun- \ntry has its favourite tunes. These excite a much stronger \nfeeling.in the native inhabitants, than in strangers. The \neffect on the Swiss soldiers of the Ranz des Vaches, their \nnational air, whenever they have happened to hear it in \nforeign lands, has often been mentioned. So great was \nthis effect, that it was found necessary in Prance, to for- \nbid its being played in the Swiss corps in the employment \nof the French government. The powerful effect of this \nsong cannot be supposed to be owing to any peculiar \nmerits in the composition ; but to the pleasing recollec- \ntions, which it ever vividly brings up in the minds of the \nSwiss, of mountain life, of freedom, and domestic pleas- \nures. \n\nThe English have a. popular tune, called |Belleisle \nMarch.. Its popularity is said to have been owing to the \ncircumstance, that it was played when the English army \nmarched into Belleisle, and to its consequent association \nwith remembrances of war and of conquest. And it will \nbe found true of all national airs, that they have a charm \nfor \'the natives of the country, in consequence of the re- \ncollections connected with them, which they do not pos- \nsess for the inhabitants of other countries. \n\nWe have albundant illustrations of the same fact in res- \npect to colours. The purple colour has acquired an ex- \npression or character of dignity, in consequence of having \nbeen the common colour of the dress of kings ; amono- \nthe Chinese, however, yellow is the most dignified colour, \nand evidently for no other reason, than because yellow is \nthat, which is allotted to the royal family. In many coua.. \ntries, black. is expressive of gravity, and is used particu- \nlarly in seasons of distress and mourning ; and white is a \ncheerful colour. But among the Chinese white is gloomy, \nbecause it is the dress of mourners ; and \'in Spain and \' \n\n\n\nOF ASSOCIATED BEAUTY. 503 \n\namong tlie Venetians black has a cheerful expression, in \nconsequence of its being worn by the great. \n\nMany other illustrations to the same purpose might be \nbrought forward. The effect of association is not unfre- \nquentiy such as to suppress entirely and throw out the \noriginal character of an bbject, and* substitute a new one \nin its stead. Who has not felt, both in man and woman, \nthat a single crime, that even one unhappy deed of mean- \nness or dishonour is capable of throwiiig a darkness and \ndistortion over the charms of the most perfect form.? The \nglory seems to have departed : and no effort of reasoning \nor of imagination can fully restore it. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 385. Differences of original susceptibility of this emotion. \n\nSupposing it to be true, that we possess an original \nsusceptibility of emotions of beauty, independently of \nassociation and of considerations of mere utility, it seems, \nhowever, to be the fact, that this susceptibility is found \nexisting in different degrees in different persons. Let the \nsame beautiful objects be presented to two persons, and \none will be Immd not only to be affected, but ravished, \nas it were, with feelings of beauty ; while the other will \nhave the same kind of emotions, but in a very diminished \ndegree.\xe2\x80\x94 A great degree of susceptibility of emotions of \nbeauty is usually termed sensibility. \n\n\xe2\x80\xa2The differences of men in this respect may justly be \nthought, where we cannot account for it by any thing in \ntheir education or mental culture, to be constitutional. \nNor is it more strange, that men should be differently af- \nfected by the same beautiful objects, in consequence of some \ndifference of constitution, than that they should constitu- \ntionally have different passions; that one should be choler- \nic, another of a peaceable turn ; that one should be mild \nand yielding another inflexible. \n\n\xc2\xa7, 386. Summary of views in regard to the beautiful. \n\nAs the subject of emotions of beauty is one of no small \ndifficulty, it may be of advantage to give here a brief sum- \nmary of some of the prominent views in respect to it. \n\n\n\n504 OF ASSOCIATED BEAUTY. \n\n(1) Of emotions of beauty it is difficult to give a defi- \nnition, but we notice in them two marks or characteris- \ntics ; \xe2\x80\x94 They imply first, a degree of pleasure, and 2dly, \nare always referred by us to an external object. \n\n(2) No objects are beautiful of themselves, and\'inde- \npendently of the soul\', which contemplates them, (unless \nperhaps reasoi) should be found for^making an exception \nin favour of purely intellectual and moral objects,) but \nnevertheless they appear to have a degree of splendour or \nbeauty in consequence of our having reflected back upon \nthem, constantly, and from a very early period, the feel- \nings, which exist in our own minds. \n\n(3) The feeling, which we term an emotion of beauty, \nis not limited to natural scenery, but may be caused by \nworks of art, by creations of the imagination, by the se- \nverest efforts of reasoning, and by the various forms of \nintellectual and moral nature, so far as they can be pre- \nsented to the mind. On all these the mind may reflect \nback the lustre of its own emotions, and mai^e them beam \nout with a species of splendour, whether ther^be any orig- \ninally in the objects or not ; and this is don^n the same \nmanner, as when we diffuse our sensations of colour, \nwhich are merely affections of the mind, over the objects, \nwhich we call red, white, yellow, &c. \n\n(4) There is in the mind an original susceptibility of \nemotions in general, and of those of beauty in particular ; \nand not only this, some objects are found, \'in the constitu- \ntion of things, to be followed by these feelings of beauty, \nwhile others are not ; and such objects are spoken of as \nbeing originally beautiful. That is, when the object- is \npresented to the mind, it is of itself followed by emotions \nof beauty, without being aided by the influence of acces- \nsory and contingent circumstances. \n\n(5) Without pretending to certainty in fixing upon \nthose objects, to which, what is termed original or prima- \nry beauty may be ascribed, there appears to be no small \nreason, in attributing it to certain forms, to sounds of a \nparticular character, to bright colours, and to intellectual \nand moral excellence in general. \n\n\n\nOF ASSOCIATED BEAUTY. 505 \n\n(6) Many objects, wliich cannot be considered beauti- \nful of themselves, become such by being associated with \na variety of former pleasing and enlivening recollections ; \nand such, as possess beauty of themselves, may augment \nthe pleasing emotions from the same cause. Also much \nof the difference of opinion, which exists as to what ob- \njects are beautiful, and what are not, is to be ascribed to \nassociation. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 3S7. Of picturesque beauty. \n\nWe apply the term picturesque to whatever objects \ncause in us emotions of beauty^ in which the beauty does \nnot consist in a single circumstance ])y itself, but in a \nconsiderable number, in a happy state of combination. \nThe meanlno; of the term is analogous to the signification \nof some others of a like termination, which are derived \nto us from the Italian through the medium of the French. \nMr. Stewart remarks of the word, arahesquCy that it ex- \npresses something in the style of the Arabians ; moresque^ \nsomething irf the style of the Moors ; and grotesque^ some- \nthing which bears a resemblance to certain whimsical \ndelineations in a grotto or subterranean apartment at \nRome. In like manner, picturesque^ originally implied \nwhat is done in the style and spirit of a painter, who or- \ndinarily places before us an object made up of a number \nof circumstances, in such a state of combination as to give \npleasure. \n\nThe epithet may be applied to paintings, to natural \nscenery, poetical descriptions, &c. The following des- \ncription from Thompson, which assembles together some \nof the circumstances, attending the cold, frosty nights of \nwinter, is highly picturesque. \n\n" Loud rings the frozen earth and hard reflects \n"A double noise ; while, at his evening watch, \n"The village dog deters the nightly thief; \n\'\xe2\x80\xa2\'The heifer lows ; the distant waterfall \n"Swells in the breeze ; and with the hasty tread \n"Of traveller, the hollow sounding plain \n"Shakes from alar." \n\xe2\x80\xa2 . 64 \n\n\n\nCHAPTER THIRD. \n\n\n\nEMOTIONS OF SUBLIMITY. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 388. Connection behoeen beauty and sublimity. \n\nThose emotionsj which we designate as sublime, are \na class of feelings, which have much. in common with emo- \ntions of beauty ; they do not differ so much in nature or \nkind, as in degree. When we examine the feelings, which \ngo under these two designations, we readily perceive, that \nthey have a progression ; that there are numerous degrees \nin point of intensity ; but the emotion, although more viv- \nid in one case than the other, and mingled with some for- \neign elements, is for the most part essentially the same. \nSo that it is, by no means, impossible to trace a connec- \ntion even between the fainter feelings of beauty, and the \nmost overwhelming emotions of the sublime. \n\nThis progression of our feelings from one, that is gen- \ntle and pleasant, to one, that is powerful and even painful, \nhas been happily illustrated in the case of a person, who is \nsupposed to behold a river at its first rise in the mountains, \nand to follow it, as it winds and enlarges in the subjacent \nplains, and to behold it at last losing itself in the expanse \nof the ocean. For a time the feelings, which are excited \nwithin him, as he gazes on the prospect, are what are \ntermed emotions of beauty. As the small stream, which \nhad hitherto played in the uplands and amid foliage, that \n\n\n\nEMOTIONS OF SUBLIMITY. 507 \n\nalmost hid it from his view, increases, its waters, separates \nits banks to a great distance from each other, and becomes \nthe majestic river, his feelings are of a more powerful \nkind. We often, by way of distinction, speak of the feel- \nings existing under such circumstances, as emotions of \ngrandeur. At last it expands and disappears in the im- \nmensity of the ocean : the vast, illimitable world of bil- \nlows flashes in the sight. Then the emotion, widening \nand strengthening with the magnitude and energy of the \nobjects, which accompany it, becomes sublime. Emo- \ntions of sublimity, therefore, chiefly differ, at least in \nmost instances, from those of beauty in being more vivid \nand powerful. \n\n\xc2\xa7 . 389. Occasions of emotions of sublimity. \xe2\x80\x94 Vast extent and \n\nheight. \n\nAs the nature of sublime emotions \xe2\x80\xa2 is a matter of each \none\'s individual consciousness, and cannot be made per- \nfectly clear to the comprehension of others by any mere \ndescription or definition, it will aid in the better under- \nstanding of them, if we mention some of the occasions \non which they arise. \xe2\x80\x94 \xe2\x80\x94 Among other occasions, this emo- \ntion is*found to exist, whenever it happens, that we have \nour attention called to objects of vast extent. According- \nly mountains of great altitude, the celestial vault, when \nseen from high summits, vast plains, beheld from a com- \nmanding position, the ocean, &c.. affect us with sublime \nemotions. \n\nThe ancients were in the habit of throwing together \nheaps of stones in commemoration of individuals or of \nsome great events. The contemplation of such an heap, \nif it were one of small magnitude, would not be attended \nwith sublime emotions ; but probably it would become \nsuch in some decree, if it were increased to the size of an \nEgyptian pyramid. So that we may regard mere expan- \nsion or enlargement, whether we find it in the works of \nnature or art, an element of the sublime. \n\nMere height, independently of considerations of ex- \npansion or extent; appears also to constitute an occasion \n\n\n\n508 EMOTIONS OF SUBLIMITY. \n\nof the sublime. Every one has experienced this, when \nstanding at the base of a very steep and lofty cliff, hill, or \nmountain. Travellers have often spoken of the sublime \nemotion, occasioned by viewing the celebrated Natural \nBridge in Virginia, from the bottom of the deep ravine, \nover which it is thrown. This bridge is a single solid \nrock, about sixty feet broad, ninety feet long, and forty \nthick. It is suspended over the head of the spectator, \nwho views it from the bottom of the narrow glen, at the \nelevation of two hundred and thirty feet ; an immense \nheight for such an object. It is not in human nature to \nbehold vfithout strong feeling such a vast vault of solid \nlime-stone, springing lightly into the blue upper air, and \nremaining thus outstreched, as if it were the arm of the \nAlmighty himself, silent, unchangeable, and eternal. \n\nWhen we are placed on the summit of any high ob- \nject, and look downward, the effect on the mind is nearly \nthe same. The sailor on the wide ocean, when in the \nsolitary watches of the night he casts his eye upward to \nthe lofty illumined sky, has a sublime emotion ; and he \nfeels the same strong sentiment stirring within him, when \na moment afterwards he thinks of the vast, unfathomable \nabyss beneath him, over which he is suspended by the \nfrail plank of his vessel. No one can read Shakspeare\'s \ndescription of Dover Cliffs, without feeling that there is a \nsublimity in the depths beneath, as well as in the heights \nabove. \n\n\xe2\x80\x94 : "How fearful \n\n"^And dizzy \'tis, to cast one\'s eyes so low ! ? \n\n"The crows and choughs, that wing the midway air, \n"Show scarce so gross as beetles. Half-way down \n"Hangg one, that gathers samphire, dreadful trade i \n" Methinks he seems no bigger than his head. \n\'\'The fishermen, that walk upon the beach, \n"Appear like mice ; and yon tall anchoring bark \n"Diminished to her boat ; her boat a buoy, \n"Almost too small for sight. The murmuring surge, \n"That on the unnumbered idle pebbles chafes, \n"Cannot be heard so high. I\'ll look no more; \n\n\n\nEMOTIONS OF SUBLIMITY. 509 \n\n\xe2\x96\xa0^\'Lest my brain turn, and the deficient sight \n"Topple down headlong-. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 390. Indications of power attended by sublime emotions. \n\nWe also experience emotions of sublimity in the con- \ntemplation of all objects, which indicate great exertions \nof power; even when we have but very confused notions \nof that energy, which we know to be somehow put forth. \nNothing can be more sublime, than a volcano throwing \nout from its bosom, clouds, and burning stones, and im- \nmense rivers of lava. An earthquake is sublime, when \nthe strength of some invisible hand upturns the strong \nfoundations both of art and nature. The ocean, greatly \nagitated with a storm, and tossing the largest navies, as if \nin sport, possesses an increase of sublimity, on account of \nthe more striking indications of power, which it at such \na time gives. The shock of large armies also, with the \npower to take away the life, which nothing but a greater \npower can give, is sublime. But in all these instances, as \nin most others, the sublime emotion cannot be ascribed \nsolely to one cause ; something is to be attributed to vast \nextent ; something to the original effect of the brilliancy \nor darkness of colours ; and something to feelings of dread \nand danger. \n\nWe often experience emotions of sublimity in witness- \ning objects, that move with very great swiftness. This is \none source of the feelings, which we have at beholding \nbodies of water rushing violently down a cataract. For \nthe same reason, the hurricane, that hastens onward with \nirresistible velocity, and lays waste whatever it meets, is \nsublime. And here also we find a cause of part of that \nsublime emotion, which men have often felt on seeing at a \ndistance the electric fluid, darting from the cloud to the \nearth ; and at witnessing the flight of a meteor. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 391. Relation of the trait of sublimity to the emotions within, \n\n\xe2\x96\xa0* \n\nBut natural objects ar^e not sublime, any more than \nthey are beautiful in themselves ; in both cases, it is the \nmind of man and that alone, which gives them the sub- \n\n\n\n510 EMOTIONS OF SUBLIMITY. \n\nlimity they seem to possess of their own nature. It is \ntrue, all objects have certain inseparable characteristics or \nqualities, which exist independently of all other objects \nwhether material or mental ; but then on the other hand, \nthese characteristics or qualities exhibit anew appearance, \nand possess a new efficacy with the establishment of every \nnew relation. And it is no less true^ that there is a fixed \nand established relation between material objects and the \nmind of man ; they are, in an important sense, made for \neach other ; there is a striking correspondence between \nthem. \n\nThe hurricane, the cataract, the lightning, when resolved \ninto their elements, are only a number of contiguous atoms. \nAnd yet it seems to be unalterably fixed in the constitution \nof things, that we cannot behold them without strong \nfeeling. The emotions, which we feel, are diffused by us \nover the objects, that are their cause or more properly are \nantecedent to them ; and this diffusion will be found to be \nall, that constitutes their sublimity. When we speak of \nthe summits of the Alps, of the ocean, of a meteor, \nof the cataract of \xe2\x80\xa2 Niagara, of Vesuvius in flames, or \nother objects in nature as being sublime, the epithet is evi- \ndently applied in reference to those feelings, which the \nobjects excite within us. It cannot be presumed; that we \nshould call them thus, if they were perfectly indifferent \nto us. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 392. Sublime objects have some elements of beauty. \n\nWe have seen, that a regular progression may, in most \ninstances, be traced from the beautiful to the sublime. It \nseems, therefore, to follow, that instances of the sublime \nwill, on the removal of some circumstances, possess more \nor less of the beautiful. And this, on examination, will \nbe found to be generally the case. Take, as an example, \nthe shock of powerful armies, which is confessedly a sub- \nlime scene. We have only to remove the circumstance \nof slaughter ; and at once the regular order of the troops, \ntheir splendid dress and rapid movements, together with \nthe floating of banners and the sound of music, are ex- \n\n\n\nEMOTIONS OF SUBLIMITY. 511 \n\nceedingly picturesque and beautiful ; nothing more so. \nAnd all this is none the less beautiful, when thousands are \nfalling and dying in actual contest ; although the painful \nemotion, consequent on witnessing a scene of slaughter, so \nmuch overpowers the sense of the beautiful, that it appears \neven not to have an existence. If the engagement between \nthe armies should be without the accompaniments of mil- \nitary dress, and without order, and without strains of mu- \nsic, but a mere struggle between man and man, with such \narms as came readiest int\xc2\xa9 their power, the scene, howev- \ner destructive, would be any thing rather than sublime. \n\nDiminish the force of the whirlwind to that of the \n\ngentle breeze, and as it playfully sweeps by us,we feel that \nemotion of pleasure, which is an element of the beauti- \nful. And so when the mighty cataract is dwindled down \nto the cascade, we shall discover, that the tumultuous \nemotions of the sublime are converted into the gentler \nfeelings of beauty. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 393. Of the original or primary sublimity .of objects. \n\nIf there be a connection between the beautiful and \nsublime, if beauty, grandeur, and sublimity are only names \nfor various emotions, not so much differing in kind, as in \ndegree ; essentially the same views, which were advanced \nin respect to beauty, will hold here. It will follow, that \nif the contemplation of some objects is attended with emo- \ntions of beauty, independently of associated feelings ; or, \nin other words, if they have a primary or original beauty, \nthat there are .objects also originally sublime. Hence we \nmay conclude, that whatever has great height, or great \ndepth, or vast extent, or other attributes of the sublime, \nwill be able to excite in us emotions of sublimity of them- \nselves, independently of the subordinate or secondary aid, \narising from any connected feelings. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 394. Proofs of the original sublimity of objects. \n\nIt may be inferred, that there is sucli primary or orig- \ninal sublimity, not only in view of the connection, which \nhas been stated to exist between the beautiful and sub- \n\n\n\n512 EMOTIONS OF SUBLIMITY. \n\nHme, but because it is no doubt agreeable to the common \nexperience of men. But investing the proposition, (where \nundoubtedly it ought to rest,) on experience, we must in- \nquire, as in former chapters, into the feelings of the \nyoung- And this, for the obvious reason, that, when per- \nsons are somewhat advanced in age, it is difficult to sepa- \nrate the primary from the secondary or associated sublim- \nity. They have then become inextricably mingled togeth- \ner. Now take a child, and place him suddenly on the \n\nshore of the ocean^ or in full sight of darkly wooded \nmountains of great altitude, or before the clouds and fires \nand thunders of volcanoes ; and, in most cases, he will be \nfilled with sublime emotions ; his mind will swell at the \nperception ; it will heave to and fro, like the ocean itself \nin a tempest. His eye, his countenance, his gestures will \n\xe2\x80\xa2 indicate a power of internal feeling, which the limited \nlanguage he can command is unable to express. This \nmay well be stated as a fact, because it has been frequently \nnoticed by those, who are competent to observe. \n\nAgain, if a person can succeed in conveying to a child \nby means of words sublime ideas of whatever kind, similar \nemotions will be found to exist, although generally in a \nless degree, than when the objects are directly presented \nto the senses. By way of confirming this, a statement of \nthe younger Lord Lyttleton, who seems- to have been nat- \nurally a person of much sensibility, may be appealed to. \n" Of all the poets (says that writer) who have graced an- \ncient times, or delighted the latter ages, Milton is my fa- \nvourite. I was quite a boy, when, in reading Paradise \nLost, I was so forcibly struck with a passage, that I laid \ndown the book with some violence on the table, and took \nan hasty turn to the other end of the room. Your curiosity \nmay naturally expect to be gratified with the passage in \nquestion. I quote it, therefore," for your reflection and \namusement." \n\n" He spake ; and to confirm his words, out-ilevv \n" Millions of llaming swords, drawn from the thighs \n" Ofanighty Cherubim ; the sudden blaze \n" Far round illumined Hell.* \n\n\'Lettersof the late Lord Lyttleton, i^xvi. \xe2\x80\xa2 \n\n\n\nEMOTIONS OF SUBLIMITY. 513 \n\n\n\n\xc2\xa7, 395. Influence of associaUon on emotions of sublimity. \n\nGranting, that the sublime emotion is in part original, \nstill a great share of it is to be attributed to association. \nAs an illustration, we may refer to the effects of sounds. \nWhen a sound suggests ideas of danger, as the report of \nartillery, and the howling of a storm ; when it calls up \nrecollections of mighty power, as the fall of a cataract, \nand the rumbling of an earthquake, the emotion of sub- \nlimity, which we feel, is greatly increased by such sug- \ngestions. Few simple sounds are thought to have more \nof sublimity, than the report of a cannon ; but how dif- \nferent, how much greater the strength of feeling, than on \nother occasions, whenever we hear it coming to us from \nthe fields of actual conflict ! Many sounds, which are in \nthemselves inconsiderable, and are not much different \nfrom many others, to which we do not attach the charac- \nter of sublimity, become highly sublime by association. \nThere is frequently a low feeble sound, preceding the \ncoming of a storm, which has this character. \n\n"Along- the woods, along the moorish fens, \n"Sighs the sad genius of the coming storm, \n"\'Resounding long in fancy\'s listening ear, \n\n\xe2\x80\xa2 , Thompson\'s Winter. \n\nIt is sometimes the case, that people, whose sensibili- \nties are much alive to thunder, mistake for it some com- \nmon sounds, such as the noise of a carriage, or the rum- \nbling of a cart. While they are under this mistake, they \nfeel these sounds as sublime ; because they associate with \nthem all those ideas of danger and of mighty power, \nwhich they customarily associate with thunder. The \nhoot of the owl at midnight is sublime chiefly by associa- \ntion ; also the scream of the eagle, heard amid rocks and \ndeserts. The latter is particularly expressive of fierce \nand lonely independence ; and both are connected in our \nremembrance with some striking poetical passages. \n65 \n\n\n\n514 EMOTIONS OF SUBLIMITY. \n\n\n\n\xc2\xa7 . \xc2\xa3 95 . Furtk er illuslrcdions of sub llmiiy from association , \n\nThe same results will be found to hold good in other \ncases. Tlie sigiit of brokeo and heavy masses of dark \ncloiids, drivei] about by the wind, is sublime. But how \nmtjch more fruitful of emotion to tbose, who, in the days \nof Fingal and Ossiaii, saw tlifem, in their piercing imagin- \nations, peopled with the ghosts of the dead ; with the as- \nsemblies of those, whose renown had continued to live \n\nlong after their bodies had mouldered ! " Temora\'s \n\nwoods shook with the blast of the inconstant wind. A \ncloud gathered in the west. A red star looked from be- \nhind its edge. I stood in the wood alone ; I saw a ghost \non the darkened air ; his stride extended from hill to hill. \nHis shield was dim on his side. It was the son of Semo."* \nA view of the Egyptian pyramids animates us with sub- \nlime emotions; it is impossible to behold such vast efforts of \nhuman power, and be unmoved ; but the strength of these \nfeelings is increased by means of the solemn recollection^ \nthat they have stood unshakeujwhile successive generations \nhave fipurished and perished at their feet, and by their \nbeing connected with many ideas of ancient magnificence, \nof unknown kings, and with numerous incidents in the \nhistory of a people, once famous for opulence and the arts, \nbut now no longer an independent nation. Mount Sinai \nin Arabia Petraea is a rocky pile of considerable altitude, \nand like other summits must have always excited some \nemotion in those, who beheld it ; but when it is seen by a \nChristian traveller, the sublime emotion is greatly increa- \nsed by the recollection of the important place, which this \nsummit holds in the history of the Jews, and of its conse- \nquent connection with the belief and the hopes of all those^ \nwho embrace the religion of the Saviour. \n\n* Ossian^ Epic Pocmof Temora, Bk. 1. \n\n\n\nCBAPTER FOURTI-L \n\n\n\nEMOTIONS OF THE LUDICROUS. \n\n\xc2\xa7. S26. General nature of emotions of the ludicrous. \n\nIn prosecuting the general subject of emotions, we are \nnext to consider another well known class, which are of a \ncharacter somewhat peculiar, viz. emotions of the ludicrous. \n\nIt is difficult to give a precise definition of this feeling, \nalthough the same may be said of it, as in respect to emo- \ntions of beauty, that it is a pleasant or delightful one. \nBut the pleasure, which we experience, receives a peculiar \nmodification, and one which cannot be fully conveyed in \nwords, in consequence of our perception of some incon- \ngruity in the person or thing, which is the cause of it. \n\nIn this case, as in many other inquiries in mental phi- \nlosophy, we are obliged to rely chiefly on our own con- \nsciousness, and our knowledge of what takes place in our- \nselves. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 397. Occasions of emotions of the ludicrous. \n\nIt may, however, assist us in the better understanding \nof them, if we say something of the occasions, on which \nthe emotions of the ludicrous are generally found to arise. \nAnd among other things it "is exceedingly clear, that this \nfeeling is never experienced, except when we notice some- \nthing, either in thoughts, or in outward objects and ac- \ntions, which is unexpected and uncommon. That is to \n\n\n\n516 EMOTIONS OF THE LUDICROUS. \n\nsay, whenever this emotion is felt, there is always an un- \nexpected discovery by us of some new relations. But \n\nthen it must be observed, that the feeling in question does \nnot necessarily exist in consequence of the discovery of \nsuch new relations merely. Something more is necessary, \nas may be very readily seen. \n\nThus, we are sometimes, in the physical sciences, pre- \nsented with unexpected and novel combinations of the \nproperties and qualities of bodies. But whenever we dis- \ncover in those sciences relations in objects, which were \nnot only unknown, but unsuspected, we find no emotion \nof ludicrousness, although we are very pleasantly sur- \nprised. Again, similies, metaphors, and other like fig- \nures of speech imply in general some new and unexpect- \ned relations of ideas. It is this trait in them, which gives \nthem their chief force. But when em,ployed in serious \ncompositions, they are of a character far from being lu- \ndicrous. \n\nHence we infer, that emotions of ludricrousness do not \nexist on the discovery of new and unexpected relations, \nunless there is at the same time a perception, or supposed \nperception of some incongruity or unsuitableness. Such \nperception of unsuitableness may be expected to give to \nthe whole emotion a new and specific character, which \nevery one is acquainted with from his own experience, but \nwhich, as before intimated, it is difficult to express in \nwords. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 398. Of what is to be understood by wit. \n\nThe subject of emotions of the ludicrous is closely con- \nnected with what is termed Wit. This last named sub- \nject, therefore, which it is of some importance to under- \nstand, naturally proposes itself for consideration in this \nplace. In regard to wit, as the term is generally under- \nstood at the present time, there is ground to apprehend, \nthat an emotion of the ludicrous is always, in a greater or \njess degree, experienced in every instance of it. \n\nThis being the case, we are led to give this definition, \nviz., Wit consists in suddenly presenting to the mind an \n\n\n\nWIT AND HUMOUR. 517 \n\nassemblage of related ideas of such a kind as to occasion \n\nfeelings of the ludicrous. This is done in a variety of \n\nways ; and among others in the two following. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 399. Ofioit as it consists in burlesque or in debasing objects. \n\nThe first method, which wit employs in exciting the \nfeeling of the ludicrous, is, by debasing those , things, \nwhich are grand and imposing ; especially those, which \nhave an appearance of greater weight and gravity and \nsplendour, than they are truly entitled to. Descriptions \nof this sort are termed burlesque. \n\nAn attempt to lesson what is truly and confessedly se- \nrious and important, has in general an unpleasant effect, \nvery different from that which is caused by true wit. \nAnd yet it is the case, that objects and actions truly great \nand sublime may sometimes be so coupled with other ob- \njects, or be represented in such new circumstances as to \nexcite very different feelings from what they would oth- \nerwise. Among the various sayings of the great Emperor \nNapoleon, none is more true, than his very appropriate \nremark to the Abbe de Pradt, at the time of his secret \nflight on a sledge through Poland and Prussia, that there \nis but a single step from the sublime to the ridiculous. \n\nIn the practice of burlesque, as on all other occasions \nof wit, there is a sudden and uncommon assemblage of re- \nlated ideas. Sometimes this assemblage is made by means \nof a formal comparison. Take as an instance the follow- \ning comparison from Hudibras ; \n\n"And nov/ had Phoebus in the lap \n"Of Thetis taken out his nap ; \n"And, hke a lobster boiled, the morn \n\'\'From black to red began to turn. \n\nWe find illustrations of burlesque also in those in- \nstances, where objects of real dignity and importance are \ncoupled with things mean and contemptible, although \nthere is no direct and formal comparison made. As in \nthis instance from the above mentioned book ; \n\n\n\n518 WIT AND HUMOUR. \n\n\n\n"For when the restless Greeks sat down \\ \n\n"So manj^ years before Troy-town, \n"And were renowned, as Homer writes, \n"For well-soaled boots, no less than fights. \n\nIn these instances we have related ideas. In the first, \nthere is undoubtedly an analogy between a lobster and the \nmorning, in the particular of its turning from dark to red, \nbut however real it may be, it strikes every one, as a sin- \ngular and unexpected resemblance. In the other passage, \nit is not clear, that Butler has done any thing more than \nHomer in associating the renown of the Greeks with their \nboots, as well as their valour. But to us of the present \nday the connection of ideas is hardly less uncommon, and \nsingular, not to say incongruous, than in the former. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 400. Of iDit when employed in aggrandizing objects. \n\nThe second method which wit employs in exciting \nemotions of the ludicrous is by aggrandizing objects,w"hich \nare in themselves inconsiderable. This species of wit may \nbe suitably termed mock majestic or mock-heroic. While \nthe former kind delights in low expressions, this is the re- \nverse, and chooses learned words, and sonorous combina- \ntions. In the following spirited passage of Pope, the wri- \nter compares dunces to gods, and Grub-street to heaven. \n\n"As Berecynthia, while her offspring vie \n"In homage to the mother of the sky, \n, "Surveys around her in the blest abode \n"An hundred sons, and every son a god 3 \n"Not with les^ glory mighty Dulness crowned, \n"Shall take through Grub-street her triumphant round ; \n"And her Parnassus glancing o\'er at once, \n"Behold a hundred sons, and each a dunce. \n\nIn this division of wit are to be included those instan- \nces, where grave and weighty reflections are made upon \nmere trifles. In this case as in others, the ideas are in \nsome respects related, or have something in common ; but \nthe grouping of them is so curious and unexpected, that \n\n\n\nEMOTIONS OF THE LUDICROUS. 519 \n\nwe cannot observe it without considerable emotion. \n\n"My galligaskins, that have long withstood \n"The winter\'s fury and encroaching frosts, \n"By time subdued, (what will not time subdue !) \n"An horrid chasm disclose. \n\nIt may be proper to make the remark in this place, \nwhich is applicable to wit in all its forms, that many say- \nings, which would otherwise have appeared to us witty, \nlose no small share of their intendecl effect, whenever \nwe are led to suspect, that they were premeditated. \nHence an observation or allusion, which would be well \nreceived in conversation, would often be insipid in print ; \nand it is for the same reason, that we receive more pleas- \nure from a witty repartee, than a witty attack. Our sur- \nprise at the sudden developement of intellectual acuteness \nis much greater at such times. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 401 . Of other methods oj exciting emotions of the ludicrous. \n\nBut it is not to be supposed, that wit is limited to the \nmethods of assembling together incongruous ideas, which \nhave just been referred to. A person of genuine wit will \nexcite emotions of the ludicrous in a thousand ways, and \nwhich wall be so diverse from each other, that it will be \nfound exceedingly difficult to subject them to any rules. \nIt would be difficult, for instance, to bring within any es- \ntablished classification of the specific sources of wit, many \npassages of the poet Butler. In the first Canto of \nhis poem of Hudibras, we have a particular account of \nthe hero\'s horse ; in which the myi^qy very singularly \ncompares the animal to a Spaniard i^ majesty and delib- \neration of gait, and in some other respects to the celebra- \nted horse of Caesar as follows \xe2\x80\x94 \n\n"He was well stay\'d, and in his gai\\ \n"Preserved a grave, majestic state. \n"At spur or switch no more he skipt, \n"Or mended pace, than Spaniard whipt 3 \n"And yet so fiery he would bound. \n\n\n\n520 WIT AND HUMOUR. \n\n" As if he grieved to touch the ground. \n\n\'^ That Ccesar\'s horse, who, as fame goes, \n\n" Had corns upon his feet and toes, \n\n" Was not by half so tender hooft, \n\n" Or trod upon the ground so soft ; \n\n" And as that beast would kneel and stoop, \n\n" (Some write) to take his rider up, \n\n" So Hudibras\'s, (\'tis well known) \n\n" Would do the same, to set him do^vn. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 4G2. Of the character and Gccasions of humour. \n\nClosely connected with the general subject of ludicrous \nemotions and of wit, is that of Humour. It is well \nknown, that we often apply the terms, humour and humorous \nto descriptions of a particular character whether written, \nor given in conversation ; and which may be explained \nas follows. \n\nIt so happens that w^e frequently find among men what \nseems to us a disproportion in their passions ; for instance, \nwhen they are noisy and violent, but not durable. "W^e \nfind inconsistencies, contradictions, and disproportions in \ntheir actions. They have their foibles, (hardly any one \nis without them,) such as self-conceit, caprice, foolish \npartialities, jealousies, &c. Such incongruities in feeling \nand action cause an emotion of surprise, like an unexpec- \nted combination of ideas in wit. Observing them as w^e \ndo in connection with the acknowledged high traits and \nresponsibilities of human nature, we can no more refrain \nfrom an emotion of the ludicrous, than we caa on seeing \na gentleman of fine dothes and high dignity making a \nfalse step, and tumbling into a gutter. A person, who \ncan seize upon these specialities in temper and conduct, \nand set them forth i" a lively and exact manner, is called \na man of humor^ ; and his descriptions are termed hu- \nmorous descriptions. See CampbeWs Philosophy of \n\nRhetoric^ Bk /? ch. Ill: Beaitie on Laughter and Ludicrous \nCompositiov-) 4\'C. \n\n\n\nCHAPTER FIFTH. \n\n\n\nMORAL EMOTIONS. CONSCIENCE. \n\n\n\n\xc2\xa7. 403. Of the accountableness or moral nature of man. \n\nMan is accountable to his Creator ; for accountable- \nness implies a superior, and evidently the highest claims \nto superintendence and government exist in the Supreme \nBeing. When he does right, he is approved ; when he \ndoes wrong, he is condemned. To say that he is a mor- \nal being, is in effect the same as to say, that he is accoun- \ntable, or that he is capable of doing right or wrong. It \nis in this respect he clearly differs, (and the degree of dif- \nference is great in itself and incalculable in its results,) \nfrom tlie forms of life around him, from the beast of the \nfield, and from the bird of heaven. His accountableness \ngives him a new character ; it imparts to his natural exis- \ntence, which he has in common with the brutes, a super- \nadded and nobler existence, which he has in common with \nangels. \n\nIt is necessarily involved and implied in the moral \n\ncharacter of man, that some things are right and others \n\nwrong, that some are good and others evil. Moral good \n\nand evil are also expressed by the terms, merit and de- \n\n66 \n\n\n\n522 MORAL EMOTIONS. \n\nmerit, virtue and vice, good and ill desert, and many oili- \ner terms of a like import, which are to be found in all lan- \nguages. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 404. Immulability of moral distinctions. \n\nBetw^een moral merit and demerit, between virtue and \nvice, there is a real, permanent, and immutable distinction. \nThat is, whatever actions are generally approved \nby men can never be otherwise than approved by \nthem, while tfieir mental constitution remains the same, \nas at present. On the other hand, whatever actions are \ngenerally disapproved, can never be otherwise, while the \nsame constitution remains. Vice can never become vir- \ntue ; virtue can never become vice. Good can never be- \ncome evil, nor evil become good ; though virtue may \n\ntake the place of vice, and good of evil. And even \n\nif man\'s constitution should be changed, and the na- \nture of his moral emotions be altered, the permanent \ndistinction of right and wrong would not necessarily be \nannulled. But this view of the subject will be more par- \nticularly considered in a future chapter. \n\n\xc2\xa7\xe2\x80\xa2 405. Of the existence of a moral susceptibihiliiy or con- \nscience. \n\nOn carefully examining the mental constitution, we \nare soon led to perceive that there is in man a moral sus- \nceptibility or conscience. If there be original feelings of \napproval or disapproval, sanctioning Vv^hen we do right, \nand condemning when we do wrong, there must of course \nbe something in the internal constitution, corresponding \nto such results. There must be something in the mind, \nfrom which they proceed. \n\nThe effect of this susceptibility in reference to our- \nselves is, we are conscious, according as we act one way \nor another, of an internal sanctioning or condemnation, \napproval or disapproval. Its effect, wdien we are not in \naction ourselves, but are noticing the conduct of others, \nis the sam.e ; at sometimes we approve, at others condemn. \nWhereas if we were destitute of this susceptibility, (other- \n\n\n\nCONSCIENCE. 523 \n\nwise called co?fsciENCE,) this very conduct and these \nvery agents, which have now a moral character so deci- \nded, would appear to us utterly indifferent. This suscep- \ntibility, therefore, is in one sense the great source of moral \ndistinctions of right and wrong, of merit and demerit, \nof virtue and vice. That is to say, if we were destitute \nof the susceptibility, it would be utterly beyond our pow- \ner to ascertain these important distinctions. The distinc- \ntions might exist, but it would seem beyond our ability to \nbecome acquainted with them. Our conscience is the \nmeans or instrument, which God \'has given us to ascer- \ntain the morality of actions, to know good from evil, the \nright from the wrong. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 406 . Of the various opinions respecting the ground of \nmoral obligation. \n\nIt is not to be concealed, however, that there has been \na want of uniformity on this whole subject. Different \nwriters have explained in different ways both the ultimate \nsource and the developement of moral distinctions. Hence \nthey have necessarily been divided as to the ground of \nmoral obligation. One ascribes it to the moral fitness of \nthings ; another finds it ih the decisions of reason ; anoth- \ner in expediency, and in the promotion of the public \ngood ; another in Revelation. But after hearing these \nand other solutions of the ground of moral obligation, \nthe question still returns, why does the regard for the pub- \nlic good, or a belief in Revelation, or the conclusions of \nreason render it right for me to do a particular action and \nwrong not to ? \n\nWhen such a question is put to us, we find ourselves \ndriven back upon the feelings of our own hearts. Our \nCreator, in forming us with a susceptibility of emotions \nof approval or disapproval, has furnished us with a guide \nin the discharge of our duties to Him, to our fellow be- \nings, to ourselves. Without this susceptibility, this in- \nward feeling, this coNsqiENCE, men would experience no \nregret and compunction even in disobeying the express \ncommands of God himself. Without the susceptibility of \n\n\n\n524 MORAL EMOTIONS. \n\nmoral emotions, it would be all the same, whether they \nreo;arded or disrecrarded the most aifectino[ calls of char- \nity and of the public good. Without this, benevolent in- \ntercourse would cease ; religious homage would be at \nat an end ; the bonds of society would be loosed and dis- \nsolved. \n\nThe true source, then, of moral obligation is in the \nnatural impulses of the human breast, in a man\'s own \nconscience. . It is in this, that we find the origin of the \nmultitude of moral motives, that are continually stirring \nup men to worthy and exalted enterprises. This is the \nlaw v/hich governs them ; and as it is inseparable from \nthat nature, of which the Supreme Being is the author, it \nis the law of God. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 407. Considerations in favour oj the existence and authority \nof conscience. \n\nWe shall now endeavour to state some of the consid- \nerations, which sustain the doctrine of the existence and \nauthority of conscience, without professing, however, to \n^nter into minuteness of detail, or to place them in all the \npoints of view of which they are susceptible. \n\nI, \xe2\x80\x94 We may assert with confidence, in the first place, \nthat we have proof of the existence and of the authorita- \ntive nature of conscience in ourselves. We know from \nour own consciousness, that when we do certain actions, \nwe are approved within. There is a voice in the soul, \nwhich whispers its approbation. On the other hand, \nwhen we do certain other actions of an opposite charac- \nter, we are as distinctly reproved by this internal monitor. \nIt would be deemed a strange and singular thing to find a \nman, who should openly and freely confess, that he has \nno conscience. Such a confession would disgrace him in \nhis own eyes, not less than in those of the whole commu- \nnity, who would consider such a person unworthy of the \nname of man, and a dishonour to human nature. \n\nLet the most depraved man, when some favourable \nopportunity has presented itself, unlawfully take the prop- \nerty of another, and let him even be assured in himself of \n\n\n\nCONSCIENCE. 525 \n\nthe impossibility of a discovery, and he will inevitably \nfeel degraded, guilty, and unhappy. This is the law of \nour nature ; the destiLy which our consciousness assures \nus God has stamped upon our souls. \n\nIt is no small encouragement to find, that this source \nof argument on the present subject is appealed to by a , \nwriter, who deservedly enjoys the reputation not only of \ngreat learning and remarkable acuteness of mind, but also \n\nof great fairness and candour. " There is a principle \n\nof reflection in men, (says Bishop Butler in his Sermons \non Human nature,) by which they distinguish between, \napprove and disapprove their own actions. We are plain- \nly constituted such sort of creatures as to reflect upon our \nown nature. The mind can take a view of what passes \nwithin itself, its propensions, aversions, passions, affec- \ntions, as respecting such objects, and in such degrees ; \nand of the several actions consequent thereupon.. In this \nsurvey it approves of one and disapproves of another, \nand towards a third is affected in neither of these ways, \nbut is quite indifferent. Tiiis principle in man, by which \nhe approves or disapproves his heart, temper, and actions, \nis conscience ; for this is the strict sense of the word, \nthough sometimes it is used so as to take in more. And \nthat this faculty tends to restrain men from doing mischief \nto each other, and leads them to do good, is too manifest \nto need being insisted upon." \n\nII. \xe2\x80\x94 In the second place, the existence of a conscience \nis taken for granted in our general intercource with our \nfellow men. We make our agreements and bargains with \nthem, as if they had a conscience; we converse with them, \nand rejoice with them, and weep with them, as if they had \na conscience ; and in our more formal addresses and ex- \nhortations, we always take the same thing for granted. \nHow many customers would a tradesman have, how long \nwould any person be admitted into good company, how \nmany public and responsible duties would any citizen \nwhatever be called to fulfil, if it were known, or even \nsuspected, that they had no conscience ! \n\nWe shall feel more fully the force of the facts we have \n\n\n\n526 MORAL EMOTIONS. \n\nHOW in view; if we consider the mode of address, which \nis usually employed, when a person wishes to persuade \nmen to pursue a certain course. He appeals at first to \ntheir interest ; he tells them of the various advantages \nwhich would attend the course he proposes ; but he re- \nserves, as his last and most efficacious argument, an appeal \nto their sense of duty. If every other consideration is \nfound to fail, the orator assures them of his perfect per- \nsuasion, that they will not so disgrace themselves in the \neyes of the whole world as to refuse obedience to the \ncalls of conscience. He calls upon conscience to speak \nout on this important occasion, and he knows full well, if \nthat voice of God and nature implanted in the human \nbosom, can be made to utter itself, there will no longer \nbe occasion for his own humble efforts. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 408. Further views on tJie existence and authority of conscience. \n\nin, \xe2\x80\x94 If it were otlierwise, if there were no conscience \nand no original moral sentiments in men, the fact would \nbe unaccountable, that terms are to be found in all lan- \nguages expressive of moral distinctions and sentiments, \nand of a moral power. The ancients were accustomed to \nspeak of the sensus recti et honesti, and to distinguish \nthe HONESTUM, in particular, as a principle of action, from \nthe UTILE ; and corresponding terms, and like distinctions \nare to be found in all modern tongues. And this is what \nwould naturally be expected, on the supposition, that the \nfoundation of such terms and distinctions is actually laid \nin the human constitution, and not otherwise. The prob- \nability, therefore, is, that the conscience, which is incor- \nporated into all languages, has its origin in the conscience \nactually and originally incorporated into the human soul. \n\nIV, \xe2\x80\x94 It may be remarked further, that the operation \nof the passions of anger and gratitude often implies the ex- \nistence of a moral sense. If we suffei- an injury, we are \nangry ; if we receive a benefit we are grateful ; but if \nsoon after we discover, on the one hand that the injury \nwas wholly accidental, and on the other, that our benefac- \ntor was governed by selfish motives, not seeking our good \n\n\n\nCONSCIENCE. 527 \n\nbut his own, both our anger and our gratitude cease. \nBut it does not appear, how this could be, if we had not \nthe power of making moral distinctions. The actual \nbenefit and injury remain the ^ame as they were at first ; \nbut the moral sense requires us to place a new and far \ndifferent estimation on the authors of them. \n\nV, \xe2\x80\x94 Again, all ages and all nations have come forth \nwith their warmest commendation of certain actions, re- \ncorded in history ; and solely on account of the high \nmoral traits in the principal actors. If it could be ascer- \ntained in any way, that Leonidas and his companions bled \nat the pass of Thermopyles, from a selfish desire of fame, \nand not from a sense of duty, the glory of that great ac- \ntion would be blasted at once. \n\nTake a case from Roman history still more directly \nto our present purpose. The Roman Regulus was a pris- \noner at Carthage. The Carthaginians sent him to Rome, \nin order to procure a peace. He no sooner arrived at his \nnative city, than, contrary to the hopes and expectations \nof the Carthaginians, he advised and urged the Romans to \ncontinue the war. Some persons, when he had seen fit \nto take this course, proposed to him not to return, as the \nmost distressing results would be likely to follow. Reg- \nulus replied ; "Though I am well acquainted with the tor- \ntures, which await me at Carthage, I prefer them to an \nact, which would cover me with infamy in my tomb. It is \nmy duty to return, and for all else let the gods provide." \nHe accordingly went back, and was put to death with \nunheard of sufferings. \n\nThis high-minded act of the noble Roman lias been \napplauded by the whole human race, although nothing \ncould be more unwise under the existing circumstances, if \nthere were no such thing as conscience and conscientious \nobligations. \n\nVI,- We may go further and add, that all moral writers, \nfrom the days of Plato and Cicero to the present time, and \nthat all merely literary writers, especially the great trage- \ndians, have proceeded in the execution of their admirable \nworks, with a few exceptions, on the supposition, that \n\n\n\n528 MORAL EMOTIONS, \n\nthere are grounds of moral obligation in the human \nbreast. It is with a reference to this principle, that they \nhave proposed their plans of conduct, that they have ut- \ntered their most ennobling sentiments, that they have \nmade their most affecting appeals, and secured most effec- \ntually the admiration of men. If there be no such thing \nas a conscience, then it may be said emphatically of the \ngreat Roman orator, that he darkened counsel by words \nwithout knowledge; in that case some of the most exal- \nted sentiments of Shakspeare, are utterly unsound and \ninappropriate ; and the fine moral passages of Milton and \nSpenser, of Cowper and Akenside can claim no higher \npraise than that of sounding rhapsodies, signifying noth- \n\nWe will not insist here on the circumstance, that mor- \nal sentiments clearly discover themselves at a very early \nperiod of life ; a fact of which the author of the Minstrel \nhas made such admirable use. Certain it is, that whenev- \ner stories of marked injustice, cruelty, and ingratitude, \nare told to children, in such a way a3 to be clearly un- \nderstood, they at once exhibit, not only by their words, \nbut by looks and gestures, the most decided feelings of \napprobation or disapprobation. The single re- \nmark remains to be made, that we find ourselves sus- \ntained in the views, which have been proposed, by the \nHoly Scriptures. The Apostle Paul, whose testimony, \nindependently of his inspiration, is exceedingly valuable, \n\nplainly teaches them. When the Gentiles^ lohich have not \n\nthe laiD, do hy nature the things contained in the laio, these^having \nnot the laio, are a law unto themselves ; which shew the work of \nthe law written in their hearts, their conscience also bearing wit- \nness, and their thoughts the meanwhile accusing^ or else excusing \none another.. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 409. Conscience sometimes perverted by passion. \n\nWe arrive, therefore, at the conclusion, that man has \na moral susceptibility. At the same time we cannot deny, \nthat its action is sometimes blunted and perverted. It ac- \ncordingly seems to be necessary that we should briefly state \n\n\n\nCONSCIENCE. 529 \n\nunder what circumstances, or from what causes, this per- \nversion takes place. \xe2\x80\x94 And in the first place, the due exer- \ncise of conscience or the moral susceptibility may be per- \nverted, when a person is under the influence of violent \npassions. \n\nThe moral emotion, which under other circumstances \nwould have arisen, has failed to arise in the present in- \nstance, because the soul is intensely and wholly taken up \nwith another species of feeling. But after the present pas- \nsion has subsided, the power of moral judgment returns ; \nthe person, who has been the subject of such violence of \nfeeling, looks with horror on the deeds, which he has \ncommitted. So that the original susceptibility, which has \nbeen contended for, cannot justly be said to cease to ex- \nist in this instance; although its due exercise is pre- \nvented by the accidental circumstance of inordinate pas- \nsion. \n\nFurther ; those, who imagine, that there are no per- \nmanent moral distinctions, because they are not regard- \ned in moments of extreme passion, would do well to con- \nsider, that at such times persons are unable rightly to ap- \nprehend any truths whatever. A murderer, when draw- \ning the blade from the bosom of his victim, probably \ncould not tell the quotient of sixteen divided by four, or \nany other simple results in numbers; but certainly his in- \nability to perceive them under such circumstances does \nnot annul numerical powers and distinctions, nor prove \nthe absolute want of a power to perceive them. Why then \nshould the same inability take away moral distinctions, or \nprove the absolute absence of a moral susceptibility ? \n\n\xc2\xa7. 410. Complexity in actions a source of confusion in our \nmoral judgments. \n\nA second reason, why men, although they are under \nthe guidance of an original susceptibility, do not always \nform the same judgments of actions, is to be found in \n\ntheir complexity. ^Actions, in a moral view, are \n\n67 \n\n\n\n530 MORAL EMOTIONS. \n\nnothing of themselves, independently of the agent* \nIn forming moral judgments, therefore, we are to look at \nthe agent ; and we are to regard him not only as willing \nand bringing to pass certain effects, but we are to consid- \ner him also as the subject of certain desires and intentions; \nand we are unable rightly to estimate these, without ta- \nkinop into view various attendant circumtances. In some \n\no \n\ncases the intention is obvious ; and in these the judgment \nis readily formed. But in other cases the results are com- \nplex ; they are a mixture of good and evil ; and hence \narises a difficulty in ascertaining the true intention and de- \nsign of the agent. \n\nWhen different individuals, therefore, are called upon \nto judge of an instance of this kindjthey will be not unlike- \nly to give their attention to different circumstances, or \nthey may have different views of the same circumstances, \nconsidered as indications of feeling and intention. This \nbeing the case, the judgments, which they will pass, will \nin effect be pronounced upon different things, inasmuch \nas they w^ill have such difference of views. Hence in a \nmultitude of actions, there will be sufficient reason for \na diversity of moral sentiments, where by superficial ob- \nservers a perfect uniformity may have been expected. \n\nThese remarks throw some light upon the supposed \napprobation of theft among the Spartans. This people \nwere trained up by their political institutions to regard \nproperty as of little value ; .their lands were equally di- \nvided ; they ate at public tables ; and the great end of all \ntheir civil regulations was to render the citizens athletic, \nactive, patient, and brave. Every thing else was consid- \nered subordinate. The permission, which was given to \nthe Spartan lads to steal, was a part of the public regula- \ntions. It was a sort of tax, which the citizens voluntarily \nimposed upon themselves,in order to encourage vigilance, \nendurance, and address in the younger part of the com- \nmunity ; and hence, when they were detected immediately \nafter the theft, they were severely punished for deficiency \nof skill. Accordingly the theft, which was permitted and \n\n\n\nCONSCIENCS. 531 \n\napproved by the Spartans, was a very different thing froui \nwhat goes under that name with us. The mere act \nmay have been the same, bat there was no correspondence \nin the results and attendant circumstances, and in the de- \ngree of evil intention. Similar inquiries in other in- \nstances will go far in explaining many apparent deviations \nfrom the permanent distinctions between vice and virtue, , \nand will reduce the number of cases of supposed want of \nuniformity in moral sentiments. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 411. Influence of early associations on moral judgments. \n\nOur moral judgments, in the third place, are some- \ntimes perplexed and perverted by means of early associa- \ntions. The principle of association does not operate \n\nupon the moral capacity directly ; it operates indirectly, \nwith considerable influence. When a particular action is \nto be judged of, it calls up in the mind of different indi- \nviduals, different\' and distinct series of accessory circum- \nstances. This difference in the tendencies of the associa- \nting principle can hardly fail to have considerable effect \nin modifying the sentiment of approbation or disapproba- \ntion resulting from the consideration of any particular \naction. \n\nAccordingly when vices are committedby near friends, \nby a brother, or a parent, they do not excite in us such \nabhorrence, as in other cases. Our prepossessions in fa- \nvour of the persons, who have committed the crime, sug- \ngest a thousand circumstances, which seem to us to alle- \nviate its aggravation. We frame for them a multitude of \nplausible excuses, which we should not have thought of \ndoing, had it not been for\'the endearments and intercourse \n\nof our previous connection. Savage life also gives us \n\nan illustration of the views now expressed. Owing to \nthe peculiar situation of those in that state and the conse- \nquent early associations, a factitious and exaggerated im- \nportance is attached to mere courage ; and gentleness, \nequanimity, and benevolence, are, as virtues,proportiona- \nbly depressed. \n\n\n\n532 \n\n\n\nMORAL EMOTIONS. \n\n\n\n\xc2\xa7. 412. Of the relation of the reasoning power to conscience. \n\nThe opinion has sometimes been advanced, that our \nmoral judgments are the results of reasoning. It is not \nsurprising on the whole that this mistake, which is a very \nserious and prejudicial one, should have been committed, \nwhen we consider, how close the relation is, which reason \nsustains to conscience. This subject is worthy of our at- \ntention. \n\nIn the first place, reasoning is purely an intellectual \nprocess ; consisting of successive propositions arranged \ntogether, and a succession of relative suggestions or per- \nceptions, but involving nothing which is properly called \nan emotion. Our moral sentiments are emotions ; and \nprobably every one can say with confidence that he is \nconscious of a difference in the moral feelings of approval \nand disapproval, and the mere intellectual perceptions of \nagreeement, and disagreement, which are characteristic of \nreasoning. Our consciousness assures us, that they are \ntruly diverse in their nature ; and cannot be interchanged \nwith each other. The moral feeling is one thing ; and \nthe intellectual perception or suggestion involved in rea- \nsoning is another. \n\nAnd yet it must be admitted, that reasoning has very \nmuch to do with the decisions of conscience. For instance, \nwhen one man is alleged to have put another to death, \nwe find the conscience ready to discharge the duty, which \nthe author of our nature has assigned it ; but not unfre- \nquently its decisions are arrested and postponed, in order \nto give time for the inquiries and conclusions of the rea- \nsoning power. Such inquiries inform us perhaps, that \nthe murder was premeditated and committed in cold \nblood; and in view of this fact, conscience immediately \npasses its decision. Perhaj)s our inquiries inform us, that \nthe murder was committed under the reception of unrea- \nsonable injuries and the influence of excited passion ; and \nconscience here as in the other case, condemns the crimi- \nnal, but with a mitigated sentence. It may be, that we \n\n\n\nCONSCIENCE. 533 \n\nlearn from our inquiries, which of course always imply \nthe exercise of the reasoning power, that the murder was \ncommitted at dead of night, in the necessary defence of \nthe criminal\'s own life, his home, and his family ; and the \ncircumstances may be so peculiar, that conscience, instead \nof condemning, may approve the action. \n\nConscience, therefore, however distinct the two may \nbe in themselves, is aided and supported by reason. The \nreasoning power, which is not unfrequently lauded as the \nglory of man, is the servitor and hand-maid of the con- \nscience ; and the decisions of the latter will vary in exact \nproportion with the new facts and the" new views, which \nare presented by the former. In the constitution of \nthings they are destined to go together ; and while con- \nscience is most justly characterized as the propitious and \nguiding light of the soul, it must undoubtedly be admit- \nted, th-at it is the agency of reason, which feeds and sus- \ntains its lustre. \n\nIt is in consequence of this close connection and the im- \nportant assistance rendered to conscience by reason, that \nthey have sometimes been confounded together. But it is \nvery essential to right views of the mind, that this erro- \nneous notion should be corrected, and that the relation, \nexisting between these two distinct parts of our mental \nnature, should be fully understood. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 413. Of enlightening the conscience. \n\nIt clearly follows from the views which have been ta- \nken,Hhat the moral susceptibility will operate with the \ngreater readiness and efficiency, in proportion as the \nknowledge of ourselves and of our relations to other beings \nis increased. And the knowledge to be acquired with \n\nthis end may be stated in some particulars. (I) As the \n\nBeing, who gave us life, has given us conscience, and, con- \nsequently, could not intend, that conscience should act in \nopposition to himself, it seems to be an indispensable \nduty, that men should be acquainted with his character. \n\n\n\n534 MORAL EMOTIONS. \n\nHis character is made known to us in those works, of \nwhich He is the author, and in the Scriptures. If we \nhave right views of the Supreme Being, and of the re- \nlation, which we sustain to Him, our conscience will \ninfallibly approve what he has enjoined, and disapprove \n\nwhat he has forbidden. (2) Inasmuch as it results \n\nfrom the relation, which we sustain to the Supreme Be- \ning, that correct decisions of conscience are not, and \ncannot be at variance with his laws, but will agree \nwith them, whenever they are made known, it follows5that \nall should be made acquainted with the moral and reli- \ngious precepts, which he has communicated to us. To \nevery mind, that has proper views of the self-existfence of \nGod and our dependance upon Him, it will be enough \nto justify any action, that He has said it. The mere dis- \nclosure of his will cannot but render, in all cases, an ac- \ntion approved in the sight of conscience, whateve\'r may \nbe our ignorance of the consequences connected with it. \nHence, in order to prevent erroneous decisions of con- \nscience, it is exceedingly important, we should know not \nonly what God is in himself, but eve^-y thing, which he \nhas expressly commanded. \n\n(3) As all duties, which truly result from the relations \nwe sustain to our felloV beings, are expressions of the will \nof God, who is the Creator of all around us as well as of \nourselves, we should earnestly inquire what those rela- \ntions and duties are. We are to inquire what duties \ndevolve upon us in respect to oiir immediate circle, to the \npoor and the sick, to our neighbourhood, and to socie- \nty in general. Our feelings in respect to the perform- \nance of such studies cannot be so clear and vivid, if we \nexclude the Supreme Being from our consideration of \nthem, as they would otherwise be. A knowledge of the \nwill of God, from whatever other source it is obtained, \nwill tend to guide and strengthen the inward moral feeling. \n(4) Since the decisions of conscience are often ex- \nceedingly perverted by the undue influence of passion, \nmen should both guard against the recurrence of passion- \n\n\n\nCONSCIENCE. \xe2\x80\xa2 535 \n\nate feelings in general ; and when at any time they have \nreason to suspect themselves of being under the influence \nof such passion, the decision on the merits or demerits of \nany particular action ought to be put off to a more favour-\' \nable .period. Nor are we less to guard against prejudices, \n\xe2\x80\x94 the prejudices in favour of friends, and against those, \nwhom we may imagine to have injured us ; the prejudices \nof sects, political parties, &c ; for they often give the mind \na wrong view of the action, upon which it is to judge. \nAlso when actions are complex, either in themselves or \ntheir results, the greater care is requisite in properly esti- \nmating them. \n\n\n\nPART THIUD. \n\n\n\nSENTIENT STATES OF THE MIND. \n\n\n\nCLASS SECOJVD, \n\n\n\nDESIRES. \n\n\n\n68 \n\n\n\nCHAPTER FIRST. \n\n\n\nINSTINCTS. \n\n\xc2\xa7.412. Of the instincts of man compared with those of the \ninferiour animals. \n\nIn proceeding to examine that part of our sentient \nconstitution, which is comprehended under the general \n\nname of Desires, we naturally begin with instincts. It is \n\ngenerally conceded, that there are in our nature some \nstrong and invariable tendencies to do certain things,with- \nout previous forethought and deliberation, which bear \nthat name. The actions of men are not always governed \nby feelings founded on reasoning, but are sometimes \nprompted by quick and decisive impulses, which set them- \nselves in array, before reason has time to operate. It is \nfrom this circumstance that these mental tendencies or \ndesires are termed instinctive ; a word, which implies in \nits original meaning a movement or action, whether men- \ntal or bodily, without reflection and foresight. \n\nAlthough such instinctive tendencies are undoubtedly \nfound in men, it must be admitted, that they are less fre- \nquent, and in general less effective, than in the lower ani- \nmals. And in truth, it could not be expected to be other- \nwise, when we remember, that the brute creaton are \nwholly destitute of the powers of reasoning and of ab- \nstraction, or at most possess them only in a small degree. \nThe provident oversight of the Supreme Being, without \nwhose notice not a sparrow falleth to the ground, has met \n\n\n\n540 INSTINCTS. \n\nthis deficiency by endowing them with instincts, the mo^t \nvarious in kind, and strikingly adapted to the exigencies \nof their situation. We find the proofs of this remark in \nthe nests of birds, in the ball of the silk w^orin, in the \nhouse of the beaver, in the return and flight of birds at \ntheir appointed seasons, and in a multitude of other in- \nstances. \n\n\xc2\xa7.413. Of the nature of the instincts of brute animals. \n\nSo abundantly has the great Father of all things pro- \nvided "by means of their instincts, for the preservation and \nenjoyment of the inferiour animals, that they even, in \nsome respects, seem to have the advantage over man. with \nall his high and excellent capacities. In the early periods \nof the human race, men looked abroad upon the great \nocean with timidity ; theylaunched their frail vessels, and \ndirected their course by the sun and stars ; but with all \ntheir care and wisdom they w^ere often baffled, and obli- \nged to put back again into the place of their departure, \nor ran perhapsiupon some unknown shore. But flocks of \nmigratory birds are frequently seen navigating the bound- \nless fields of air, passing wide tracts of unknow^n land \nand water, and returning again at the set time and with \nscarcely making a mistake, or w^andering a league from \ntheir course ; and yet they are without any histories of \nformer voyages, without chart and compass ; nor do they \nread the way of their ilighlt in the bright letters of Orion \nand Pleiades. , \n\nThis is only one. of the facts or classes of facts, which \nillustrate this subject ; but it shows very clearly the un- \nerring guidance, the fixed and definite adaption lo a \nparticular end, w^hich is the characteristic of instincts. \n\n\'\' Who bade the stork CoIuAibus-like. explore \n"Heavens not his own, and worlds unknown before:\' \n"Who calls the council, states the certain da}?-, \n"Who forms the phalanx, and who points the wa}- ? \n\nThe ways, in which this unerring tendency, this di- \nvine guidance shows itself, are almost innumerable. The \nphilosopher Galen once took ^a kid from its dead mother \n\n\n\n% \nINSTINCTS. 541 \n\nby dissection, ^nd before it had tasted any food, brought \nit into a certain room, having many vessels full, some of \nwine, some of oil, some of honey, some of milk, or some \nother liquor, and many others, filled with the different \nsorts of grain and iruit ; and there laid it. After a little \ntime the embryon had acquired strength enough to get \nup on its feet ; and it was with sentiments of strong admi- \nration that the spectators saw it advance towards the li- \nquors, fruit, and grain, which were placed round the \nroom, and having smelt all of them, at last sup the milk \nalone. About two months afterwards, the tender sprouts \nof plants and shrubs were brought to it, and after smel- \nling all of them and tasting some, it began to eat of sucfe \nas are the usual food of goats. \n\nThe cells, constructed by the united efforts of a hive \nof bees, have often been referred to, as illustrating the na- \nture of instincts.- " It is a curious mathematical prob- \nlem, says Dr. Reid, at what precise angle the three planes, \nwhich compose the bottom of a cell in a honey-comb, \nought to meet in order to make the greatest saving, or the \nleast expense of material and labour. This is one of those \nproblems belonging to the higher parts of mathematics, \nwhich are called problems o\xc2\xa3 maxima and minima. \' It has \nbeen resolved by some mathematicians, particularly by \nthe ingenious Mr. Maclaurin, by a iiuxionary calculation, \nwhich is to be found in the Transactions of the Royal So- \nciety of London. He has determined precisely the angle \nrequired ; and he found by the most, exact mensuration \nthe subject could admit, that it is the very angle; in which \nthe three planes in the bottom of the cell of a honey-comb \ndo actually meet. \n\nShall we ask here, who taught the bee the properties of \nsolids, and to resolve problems of maxima and minima ? \nWe need not say that bees know none of these things. \nThey work most geometrically, without any knowledge \nof geometry ; somewhat like a child, who, by turning the \nhandle of an organ, makes gootl music without any \nknowledge of music. The art is not in the child, but in \nhim who made the organ. In like manner, when a bee \n\n\n\n542 INSTINCTS. \n\nmakes its comb so geometrically, the geometry is not in \nthe bee, but in the great geometrician who made the bee, \nand made all things in number, weight, and measm-e." \n\n\xc2\xa7. 414. Instincts susceptible of slight modifications. \n\nWe usually speak of the instincts of animals as jfixed \nand inflexible ; and they undoubtedly are so, in a consid- \nerable degree- Of this inflexibility, or fixed and particu- \nlar direction, which is appropriate to them, a multitude of \nfacts might be brought as proof.* Mr. Stewart, speaking \nof a blind old beaver, that had been taken and kept for a \nnuml^er of years in a pond by itself, asserts, that the ani- \nmal showed no inconsiderable degree of sagacity and me- \nchanical contrivance in accomplishing particular ends ; \nbut these ends were in no respects subservient to its ac- \ncommodation or comfort in its actual situation, although \nmanifestly parts of those systematic instincts, which belong \nto it in its social state. The animal seemed, he further \nobserves, like a solitary wheel of a machine, which ex- \nhibits in its teeth marks of a reference to other wheels, \nwith which it was intended to co-operate. \n\nIt must be admitted, however, whatever may be the \ncorrectness of this general view, that instincts are not al- \nways found in a pure and unmixed state, but are suscepti- \nble of being modified from observation and experience. \nThe consequence is, that the naturally invariable tenden- \ncy of the instinct is frequently checked and controlled ; and* \nit acquires, in that way, an appearance of flexibility, which \ndoes" not belong to it in its pure state. Hence there is \noften seen in old animals a cunning and sagacity, which \nis not discoverable in those that are young ; a diiference, \nwhich could not exist, if both old and young were gov- \nerned, in all cases, by an unmixed instinct. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 415. Instances of instincts in the human mind. \n\nBut it is not our design to enter particularly into the \nsubject ofthe instincts of animals in this place, although this \ntopic is undoubtedly one of exceeding interest both to the \nphilosopher and the Christian. Such inquiries are too \n\n\n\nINSTINCTS. 543 \n\ndir^ne and remote from our main object, which has par- \nticular, if not exclusive reference to the economy of hu- \nman nature. There are certain instinctive tendencies in \nman, as well as thi inferiour animals; but they are few \nin number ; and compared with the other parts of his na- \nture, are of subordinate importance. Some of them will \nnow be referred to. \n\nI, \xe2\x80\x94 The action of respiration is thought to imply the \nexistence of an instinct. We cannot suppose that the in- \nfant at its birth has learnt the importance of this act by \nreasoning upon it ; and he is as ignorant of the internal \nmachinery, which is put in operation, as he is of its im- \nportant uses. And yet he puts the whole machinery into \naction at the very moment of coming into existence, and \nwith such regularity ^nd success, that we cannot well ac- \ncount for it, except on the ground of an instinctive im- \npulse. \n\nII \xe2\x80\x94 ^"By the same kind, of principle, (says Dr. Reid, \nEssays on the Active Powers, in, chap. 2,) a new born \nchild when the stomach is emptied,and nature has brought \nmilk into the mother\'s breast, sucks and swallows its food \nas perfectly as if it knew the principles of that operation^ \nand had got the habit of working according to them. \n\n"Sucking and swallowing are very complex operations- \nAnatomists describe about thirty pair of muscles, that must \nbe enaployed in every draught. Of those muscles, every \none must be served by its proper nerve, and can make no \nexertion but by some influence communicated by the \nnerve. The exertion of all those muscles and nerves is not \nsimultaneous. They must succeed each other in a certain \norder, and their order is no less necessary than the exer- \ntion itself. \xe2\x80\x94 This regular train of operations is carried on, \naccording to the nicest rules of art, by the infant, who has \nneither art, nor science, ncr experience, nor habit. \n\n"That the infant feels the uneasy sensation of hunger \nI admit ; and that it sucks no longer than till this sensa- \ntion be removed. But who informed it, that this uneasy \nsensation might be removed, or by. what means ? That it \n\n\n\n544 INSTINCTS. \n\nknows nothing of this is evident, for it will as readily \nsuck a linger, or a bit of stick, as the nipple." \n\nHi, \xe2\x80\x94 The efforts, which men make for self-preserva- \ntion, appear to be in part of an instinctive kind. If a man \nis in danger of falling from unexpectedly losing his bal- \nance, we say with much propriety, that the instantaneous \neffort he makes to recover his position is instinctive. If \na person is unexpectedly and suddenly plunged into a riv- \ner, the first convulsive struggle, which he makes for his \nsafety, seems to be of the same kind. His reasoning. pow- \ners may soon come to his aid, and direct his further meas- \nures for his preservation ; but his first efforts are evident- \nly made on another principle. When a violent blow is \naimed at one, he instinctively shrinks back, although he \nknew beforehand, it would be aimed in sport, and al- \nthough his reason told him, there was no danger. We \nalways instinctively close the eyelids, when any thing sud- \ndenly approaches them. Dr. Reid asserts that he has seen \nthis tried upon a wager, which a man was to gain if he \ncould keep his eyes open, while another aimed a stroke at \nthem in jest. When we are placed on the summit of a \nhigh tower, or on the edge of a precipice, although we \nare perfectly assured of our safety by the reasoning pow- \ner, the instinct of self preservation is constantly suggesting \nother precautions. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 416. Further instances of instincts in men. \n\nIV, \xe2\x80\x94 There is also a species of resentment, which may \nproperly be called instinctive. Deliberate resentment im- \nplies the exercise of reason, and is excited only by inten- \ntional injury. Instinctive resentment, on the other hand, \noperates, whether the injury be intentional or not ; and \nprecisely as it does in the lower animals. \n\nWhenever we experience pain which is caused by \nsome external object, this feeling arises in the mind with \na greater or less degree of power, and prompts us to retal- \niate on the cause of it.- A child, for instance, stumbles \n\nover a stone or stick of wood, and hurts himself, and un- \nder the impulse of instinctive resentment violently beats \n\n\n\nINSTINCTS. 545 \n\nthe unconscious cause of its suffering. Savages, when \nthey have been struck by an arrow in battle, have been \nknown to tear it from the wound, break, and bite it with \ntheir teeth, and dash\'^t on the ground, as if the original \ndesign and impetus of destruction were in the arrow it- \nself. All persons of strong passions in particular show the \nexistence and workings of this instinct, when they wreak \ntheir vengeance, as they often do, on inanimate objects, by \nbeating or clashing them to pieces. \n\nV, \xe2\x80\x94 There is undoubtedly danger of carrying the doc- \ntrine of the instinctive tendencies of the human mind too \nfar, but we may consider ourselves safe in adding to those, \nwhich hav^e been mentioned, the power of interpreting \nnatural signs. Whenever we see the outward signs of \nrage, pity, grief, joy, or hatred, we are able immediately \nto interpret them. It is abundantly evident, that children, \nat a very early period, read and decypher, in the looks \nand gestures of their parents, the emotions and passions, \nwhether of a good or evil kind, with which they are agi- \ntated. \n\nIt must be admitted, that the power of interpreting \nnatural signs depends in part on experience and on deduc- \ntions drawn from that experience ; but the power is evi- \ndently in some degree instinctive. Often when we see, \nboth in children and in older persons, the strong outward \nmanifestations of grief,. when we are at the same time assur- \ned, that there is but little of suffering in fact, we find our- \nselves very sensibly affected. So when we see an actor \non the stage, with distorted countenance and accents \nof deep grief, the outward signs carry a m,omentary con- \nviction and a momentary pang to our own hearts, in spite \nof the admonitions of reason ; a circumstance which can- \nnot well be accounted for, except on the ground, that \nthese signs speak to us with a natural power ; that is to \nsay, are instinctively interpreted. \n\n\n\n69 \n\n\n\nCHAPTER SECOND. \n\n\n\nAPPETITES. \n\n\n\n\xc2\xa7. 417. OJ the general nature and characteristics of the ap- \npetites. \n\nUnder the general head of Desires, the subject of \nAPPETITES seems next to propose itself for consideration. \nBut as it is one of limited extent, and of subordinate im- \nportance in a metaphysical point of view, only a few re- \nmarks will be necessary. The arrangement , which brings \nthe subject forward for discussion in this place, Avill re- \ncommend itself on a very little attention . The prominent \nappetites are those of hunger and thirst ; but the appe- \ntite of hunger is nothing more than the desire for food ; \nthe appetite of thirst is a desire for drink. \n\nNevertheless they appear to be sufficiently distinguish- \ned from the other desires. They are not, like the instincts, \nalways gratified in a certain fixed and particular manner ; \nihor are they like them, in being wholly independent of \nthe reasoning power. On the contrary, they may be res- \ntrained and regulated in some degree; and when it is oth- \nerwise, their demands may be quieted in various ways. \n\nBut without dwelling upon such considerations, the \nstatem.ent has been made with much appearance of reason, \nthat they are characterized by these three things; \xe2\x80\x94 (1) \nThey take their rise from t!ie body, and are common to \n\n\n\nAPPETITES. 547 \' \n\nmen with the brntes. \xe2\x80\x94 (2)They are not constant in their \noperation, but occasional. \xe2\x80\x94 (3)They are accompanied \nwith an uneasy sensation. \n\nIt may be remarked here, that the feeling of uneasiness \nnow referred to appears always to precede the desire or \nappetite, and to be essential to it. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 418. The appetites necessary to our presentation, and not \norig-nally of a selfish character. \n\nAlthough our appetites do not present much of inter- \nest, considered as parts of oivr mental economy, they have \ntheir important uses, in connection with the laws and re- \nquirements of our physical nature. ^\'The appetites of \n\nhunger and thirst, says Stewart, were intended for the \npreservation of the individual ; and without them reason \nwould have been insufficient for this important purpose. \nSuppose, for example, that the appetite of hunger had \nbeen no part of our constitution, reason and experience \nmight have satisfied us of the necessitv of food to our \npreservation, but how should we have been able, without \nan implanted principle, to ascertain, according to the \nvarying state of our animal economy, the proper seasons \nfor eating, or the quantity of food that is salutary to the \nbody? The lower animals not only receive this informa- \ntion from nature, but are, moreover, directed by instinct \nto the particular sort of food that it is proper for them to \nuse in health and in sickness. The senses of taste and \nsmell, in the savage state of our species, are subservient, \nat least in some degree, to the same purpose. \n\n"Our appetites can, with no propriety, be called selfish, \nfor they are directed to their respective objects as ulti- \nmate ends, and they must all have operated, in the first in- \nstance^ prior to any experience of the pleasure arising from \ntheir gratification. After this experience indeed, the de- \nsire of enjoyment will naturally come to be combined \nwith the appetite ; and it may sometimes lead us to stim- \nulate or provoke the appetite with a view to the pleasure, \nwhich is to result from indulging it. Imagination, too, \nand the association of ideas, together with the social af- \n\n\n\n548 APPETITES. \n\nfectioD, and sometimes the moral faculty, lend their aid, \nand all conspire together in forming a complex passion, in \nwhich the animal appetite is only one ingredient. In \nproportion as this passion is gratified^ its influence over \nthe conduct becomes the more irresistible, (for all the ac- \ntive determinations of oiir nature are strengthened by \nhabit,) till at last we struggle in vain against its tyranny. \nA man so enslaved by his animal appetites exhibits hu- \nmanity in one of its most miserable and contemptible \nforms." \n\n\xc2\xa7. 419. Of the prevalence and origin of appetites for intox- \nicating drugs. \n\nThere are not only natural appetites, but artificial or \nacquired ones. It is no uncommon thing to find persons, \nwho have formed an appetite for ardent spirits, for to- \nbacco, for opium, and intoxicating drugs of various kinds. \nIt is a matter of common remark, that the appetite for in- \nebriating liquors in particular is very prevalent, especially \namong Savage tribes. \xe2\x80\x94 And it may be proper briefly to \nexplain the origin of such appetites. \n\nSuch drags and liquors, as have been referred to, have \nthe power of stimulating the nervous system ; and by \nmeans of this excitement they cause a degree of pleasure. \nThis pleasurable excitement is soon followed by a corres- \nponding degree of languor and depression, to obtain re- \nlief from which resort is again had to the intoxicating \ndraught or drug. This results not only in a restoration, \nbut an exhilaration of spirits ; which is again followed by \ndepression and distress. And thus resort is had time af- \nter time to the strong drink, the tobacco, the opium, or \nwhatever it is which intoxicates, until an appetite is form- \ned so strong as to subdue, lead captive, and brutalize the \nsubject of it. So that the only way to avoid the forming \nof such a habit, after the first erroneous step has been ta- \nken, is quietly to endure the subsequent unhappiness at- \ntendant on the pleasurable excitement of intoxication, till \n\n*Stewart\'s Philosophy of the Moral and Active Powers^ Bk. I, \nChap. I. \n\n\n\nAPPETITES. 549 \n\nthe system has time to recover itself, and to throw off its \nwrechedness by its own efforts. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 420. Of occasional desires for action and repose. \n\nOur occasional desires for action and repose are, in \nsome respects allied to our appetites. Although it has so \nhappened, that these desires have not been marked by a \nseparate and specific name, they may justly claim, as parts \nof our mental nature, some attention. Mr. Stewart re- \nmarks, that they have the three characteristics of the ap- \npetites, and proceeds to speak of them as follows. \n\n" They are common, too, to man and to the lower \nanimals, and they operate, in our own species in the most \ninfant state of the individual. In general, every animal \nwe know is prompted by an instinctive impulse to take \nthat degree of exercise which is salutary to the body, \nand is prevented from passing the bounds of moderation \nby that languor and desire of repose, which are the conse- \nquences of continued exertion. \n\n\'\' There is something also very similar to this with res- \npect to the mind. We are impelled by nature to the ex- \nercise of its different faculties, and we are warned, \nwhen we are in danger of overstraining them, by a \nconsciousness of fatigue. After we are exhausted by \na long course of application to business, how delightful \nare the first moments of indolence and repose ! che bella \ncosa di far niente ! We are apt to imagine that no induce- \nment shall again lead us to engage in the bustle of the \nworld ; but, after a short respite from our labours, our \nintellectual vigor returns; the mind rouses from its leth- \nargy like a giant from his sleep, and we feel ourselves \nurged by an irresistible impulse to return to our duties as \nmembers of society." \n\n\n\nCHAPTER THIRD. \n\n\n\nPROPENSITIES. \n\n\n\n\xc2\xa7. 42 1. General remarks on the nature of prGpensities. \n\nAs we pursue these inquiries, we meet with certain \nDesires, which are different from any we have hitherto \nattended to ; and which accordingly require a distinct \nconsideration. As they are neither instincts, nor appetites, \nnor affections, as the latter term is commonly employed, \nwe shall find a convenience in designating them as Pro- \npensities. Among these are curiosity or the desire of \nknowledge, sociability or the desire of society, emulation \nor the desire of superiority, the desire of esteem, the pro- \npensity to imitate, &c. \n\nAlthough they have not the fixed and definite charac- \nter of instincts, nor that close connection with bodily un- \neasiness, which is characteristic of the appetites, it is dif- \nficult to state definitely what thos^ marks are, by which \nthese propensities are distinguished and known. It is \ntrue, that they are to be regarded as simple desires, hav- \ning a particular, though not very definite direction ; but \nit must be admitted, that this does not give a very spe- \ncific notion of them. It seems, therefore^ to be necessary \nto ascertain their nature from general statements, and \nfrom the various facts, which, in making such statements, \nwill be alluded to. \n\n\n\nPROPENSITIES. 551 \n\n\xc2\xa7. 422. Of curiosity or the desire of knowledge. \n\nThere is ample reason for believing, that the princi- \nple of curiosity or the desire of knowledge is one of the \nelements and original characteristics of our mental consti- \ntution. Although it must be acknowledged, that this \nprinciple exists in very various degrees, from the weak- \nest form of life and activity to almost irrepressible strength, \nyet a person utterly without cariosity would be deemed \nalmost as strange and anomalous, as a person without sen- \nsation. If curiosity be not natural to man, then it follows \nthat the human mind is naturally indifferent to the ohjects, \nthat are presented to it, and to the discovery of truth ; \nand that its progress in knowledge is unattended with sat- \nisfaction ; a state of things, w^hich certainly could not be \nexpected, and is not warranted by facts. In what school \nof philosophy was it ever taught, that the human mind, \nwith this unbounded mental and material universe around \nit, adorned throughout and brilliant with truth, has no \nnatural desire to possess and enjoy this beauty and radi- \nance of knowled\xc2\xab;e, but is equally well contented with the \nglooms of ignorance! \n\nWe see the operation of this principle every where. \nWhen any thing unexpected and strange takes place, the \nattention of all persons is immediately directed towards \nit ; it is not a matter of indifference, but all are anxious to \nascertain the cause. Without the aids of this strong de- \nsire, how few persons would be found, who would be \nwilling to explore the intricacies of science, or search the \nlabyrinths of history ! And what an accession would \nthere be to the multitude of volumes, that remain unopen- \ned and untouched upon the shelves, where they are depos- \nited ! \n\nThere is at least one class of writers, whose prospects \nof being read depend, in a great measure, on the workings \nof this principle ; we refer to novelists and writers of \nromance. However commonplace may be their concep- \ntions, and however uninteresting their style, if they lay \nthe plan of their novel or romance with so much skill as \n\n\n\n652 \n\n\n\nPROPENSITIES. \n\n\n\nstrongly to excite the curiosity, they can command read- \ners. And this undoubtedly is the whole secret of success \nin a multitude of cases. \n\nIn further proof of the existence of this propensity, it \nmay be proper to refer to the whole class of the Deaf and \nDumb, and to those unfortunate individualsjwho are blind, \nas well as deaf and dumb. These persons almost uniform- \nly give the most striking indications of a desire to learn ; \nit seems to glow in their countenance, to inspire their ges- \ntures, and to urge them on, with a sort of violence, in \ntheir inquiries. Certainly if the principle of curiosity \ndid not exist in great strength, they would be entirely \novercome by the multitude of discouragements, with which \nthey are encompassed. \n\nBut it is unnecessary to dwell upon these general con- \nsiderations, or to refer to extraordinary instances, when \nwe constantly witness in all infants and children the most \nample proofs of the existence of this principle. It seems \nto be their life ; it keeps them constantly in motion ; from \nmorn till night it furnishes new excitements to activity, \nand new sources of enjoyment. \n\n" In the pleased infant see its power expand, \n" When first the coral fills kis little hand ; \n" Throned in his mother\'s lap, it dries each tear, \n" As her sweet legend falls upon his ear ; \n" Next it assails him in his top\'s strange hum, \n" Breathes in his whistle, echoes in his drum ; \n" Each gilded toy, that doting love bestows, \n" He longs to break and every spring expose. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 423. Propensity to imitation or the desire of doing as \nothers do. \n\nAnother of the original propensities of the human \nmind is the principal of imitation, or the desire of doing \nas we see others do. We find the evidence of the exis- \ntence of such a principle every where around us. \n\nI, \xe2\x80\x94 If this propensity be not natural, it will be difficult \nto account for what every one must have noticed in infan- \ncy and childhood. And we take this occasion to remark. \n\n\n\nPROPENSITIES. 559 \n\nthat, on this whole subject, we shall refer particularly to \nthe early periods of life. That is a time, when human \nnature will be likely to show itself in its true features. \nAnd in respect to the principle now before us, it is cer- \ntain, that children are early found to observe with care \nw^hat others do, and to attempt doing the like. They are \ngreatly aided by this propensity in learning to utter ar- \nticulate sounds. It is not without long continued efforts, \nin which they are evidently sustained by the mere pleas- \nure of imitation, that they acquire the use of oral lan- \nguage. \n\nAt a little later period of life, after having learnt to \narticulate and having become old enough to take apart in \njuvenile sp )rts, we find the same propensity at work. \nWith the animation and formidable airs of jockeys, \nthey bestride a stick for a horse, and try equestrian ex- \nperiments ; they conduct their small and frail carriages \nthrough courts and streets, and journey w^ith their rude \nsledges from one hill-top to another . Ever busily engaged, \nthey frame houses, build fortifications, erect water-works, \nand lay out gardens in miniature. They shoulder a cane \nfor a musket ; practice a measured step and fierce look ; \nand become soldiers, as well as gardeners and architects, \nbefore they are men. \n\nII, \xe2\x80\x94 But the operation of this propensity is not limited to \nchildren ; men also do as their fathers have done before \nthem ; it often requires no small degree of moral courage \nto deviate from the line of precedents. Whether right \nor wrong, we feel a degree of safety, so long as we tread \nin the pal h of others. * \n\nThis is shown in the most solemn transactions, partic- \nularly in judicial decisions. Seldom does the judge ap- \npeal to original principles of right, and build his decis- \nion on the immutable will of the Supreme Being,as it is re- \nvealed in the moral sentiments of all mankind, if he must do \nit in the violation of a precedent. Indeed the whole admin- \nistration of justice according to the forms of the Common \nLawisa most remarkable proof ofthe existence of this pro- \npensity. Those judicial proceedures were originally found- \n\n\n\n560 PROPENSITIES. \n\ned upon the principle before us ; and although they have \never been supported by various considerations of their safe- \nty and vi^isdom, tliey still derive their stability from it in \na great measure. If we could expel from the human \nbosom the principle of imitation, there would be far \nless efficacy attached to many of the opinions and decrees \nand doings of our ancestors, than there is at present. \nBut undoubtedly for sufficient reasons, it is wisely order- \ned that such an expulsion is imposible. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 42 0. Of sociability or the natural desire of society. \n\nThe next propensity, which we shall examine, is the \ndesire of union in civil societies, and of social intercourse \nin general. If any principle whatever in relation to the \nhuman mind is susceptible of being ascertained and estab- \nlished by an appeal to facts, it is, that the desire of society \nis natural to man. The following considerations will help \nto show the justness of this remark. \n\nI, \xe2\x80\x94 The existence of such a propensity is proved, in the \nfirst place, like those of curiosity and imitation, by what \nwe notice in the early periods of life. No one is ignorant, \nthat infants and very young children exhibit a strong at- \ntachment to their parents and others who tend upon them, \nand a desire for their company and uneasiness at their ab- \nsence. When left alone, even for a very short time, they \ndiscover a great degree of unhappiness, which may some- \ntimes be ascribed to fear, but more often to the mere sense \nof loneliness, and the desire for society. \n\nWhen other infants and children are brought into their \ncompany, vi\'hom they have never seen before, this pro- \npensity is at once shown in their smiles, their animated \ngestures, and sparkling eyes. And when they are old \nenough to go out and play in the streets, we find them al- \nmost always in groups. Their sports, their wanderings in \nfields and forests, their excursions in fishing and hunting, \na:reall made in companies ; and the privilege of amusing \nthemselves in these ways, t)n the condition of not being \nallowed the attendance of others, would be deemed scarce- \nly better than a punishment. \n\n\n\nPROPENSITIES. 561 \n\nII, \xe2\x80\x94 This propensity is very strongly shown also in \nmen grown up. It is true, that, finding greater resources \nin themselves, they support retirement and solitude better \nthan children ; but it is very evident, that man\'s proper ele- \nment, (and that in which he alone dan be happy,) is society, \nin some shape and in some degree. Hence the frequency \nof family meetings, of convivial parties, of religious, lit- \nerary, and political assemblies, which constantly occur in \nall communities throughout the world, and which seem \nto be almost as necessary to men as the air they breathe, \nor their daily food. \n\nSome may perhaps be disposed to speak of these things \nas resulting from, or at least connected wuth the comforts \nand conveniences of civilized life. But this explanation \nis by no means sufficient. Il does not appear, that the so- \ncial principle exhibits itself any where more strongly than \namong groups of wandering gypsies, in the tents of stern \nand restless Arabs, in the wigwams and hunting par- \nties of American Savages, or the cheerless abodes of the \npoor and desolate Esquimaux. \n\nIll, \xe2\x80\x94 We may also find a proof of the existence of this \nstrong desire in all cases of confinement in prisons and of \nexile. If the social propensity were not natural to us, \nit is unaccountable, that exclusion, in any of these ways, \nfrom the intercourse of former friendships, should be at- \ntended with such unspeakable wretchedness. Even the \nstern and inflexible Coriolanus, for whom all the forms \nof danger and even of death seem to have had no terrors, \ncould not endure his protracted banishment from Rome \nwithout bitter complaint, Multo miserius seni exilium esse. \n\nIV, \xe2\x80\x94 Facts can be brought to show, that the desire of \nsociety is so inseparable from man\'s nature and so strong, \nthat, if men are entirely excluded from the company of \ntheir fellow men, they will be glad to make themselves \nthe companions of sheep, dogs, horses, goats, mice, spi- \nders, any thing whatever, which has life and motion. \n\nOur limits will not permit us to multiply instances in \nproof of v/hat is now said. A single incident will suflice. \nMr. Stewart, in illustrating this very subject, makes the \n\n\n\n562 \n\n\n\nPROPENSITIES. \n\n\n\nfollowing statement. \n\n\n\nThe count cle Lauzun was con. \n\n\n\nfined by Louis XIV for nine years in the castle of Pignerol, \nin a small room where no light could enter but from a \nchink in the roof. In this solitude he attached himself to \na spider, and contrived for some time to amuse himself \nwith attempting to tame it, with catching flies for its sup- \nport, and with superintending the progress of its web. \nThe jailor discovered his amusement, and killed the spi- \nder ; and the count used afterwards to declare, that the \npang he felt on tlie occasion could be compared only to \n\nthat of a mother for the loss of a child." We hold it \n\nto be quite certain, that such considerations and facts as \nhave been brought forward, and which might be multi- \nplied to almost any extent, cannot be satisfactorily explain- \ned, except on the ground, that the love of society is orig- \ninally implanted in man\'s bosom, and that he is exceeding- \nly unhappy without it. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 427. Of emulation or the desire of superiority. \n\nAmong other mental tendencies, coming within the \ncatalogue of propensities, we may reckon emulation or \nthe desire of superiority. Without undertaking to define \nthe feeling of emulation, which cannot effectually be done \non account of its entire simplicity, it is perhaps necessary \nto distinguish it from envy. It is true, that the passion of \nenvy involves the desire of superiority, and so far is the \nsame as emulation ; but it differs in this, that it is accom- \npanied with a feeling of ill will towards all competitors, \nfrom which the feeling of pure emulation is free. It can \nnot be denied, however, that envy often follows in the \ntrain of emulation ; and this is probably the reason of \ntheir being so often confounded together, and spoken of, \nas if they were one. \n\nIt is believed, that no one will require any length of \nargument to prove the existence of the principle of emula- \ntion. The whole world is its theatre ; and there is not a \ncountry, nor canton, nor town, nor family, where its ef- \nfects may not be seen ; all are eagerly rushing for*- \nward, dissatisfied with their present situation ; and they \n\n\n\nPROPENSITIES. 563 \n\nseldom witness any attainment, either in themselves, or in \nothers, beyond which they are not anxious to advance. \n\nThis principle has its important uses ; no one can \ndoubt, that it aids very essentially in keeping the powers \nof men in suitable activity. We sometimes see individ- \nuals of distinguished talents, who hold the same place in \npublic estimation, contending with all the powers of their \nminds for the mastery over each other, and yet maintain- \ning a mutual respect and sincere friendship. But it cannot \nbe denied, that the spirit of kind and generous rivalry \nis too apt to annul all the good effects that might be ex- \npected from it, by degenerating after a time into the most \nhateful form of hostility, or by acquiring such intensity \nas to overwhelm and expel every other principle of ac- \ntion. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 428. Of the. natural desire of esteem. \n\nAnother distinct and important propensity is the desire \n\nof esteem. ^In proof of the natural and original existence \n\nof this principle in the human mind, we are at liberty to \nappeal, as in the case of all the other propensities, to \nwhat we notice in the beginnings of life and the first de- \nvelopements of the mental nature. Before children are \ncapable of knowing the advantages ; which result from the \ngood opinion of others, they are evidently mortified at \nexpressions of neglect or contempt, and as evidently plea- \nsed with expressions of regard and approbation. As it \nis impossible satisfactorily to account for this state of \nthings, on the ground of its being the result of reasoning, \nexperience, or interest, the only explanation left, is, that \nthis desire is a part of the connatural and essential furni- \nture of the mind. \n\nIIj \xe2\x80\x94 We may remark further, that the desire of es- \nteem is found to exist very extensively and strongly, in \nthe more advanced periods of life. If we look at the \nhistory of nations and of individuals, how many men do \nwe find, who have been willing to sacrifice their life, \nrather than forfeit the favourable opinion of others! \nWhen they have lost all besides, their health, their for- \n\n\n\n564 PROPENSITIES. \n\ntune, and friends, they cling with fondness to their good \nname ; they point triumphantly to their unsullied reputa- \ntion, as a consolation in their present adversities, and the \npledge of better things in time to come. This is espe- \ncially true of those periods in the history of nations, when \nthe original sentiments and traits of the people have not \nbeen corrupted by the introduction of the arts of luxury \nand refinement. \n\nIll, \xe2\x80\x94 It is an additional proof in favour of the natural \norigin of this propensity, that it operates strongly in ref- \nerence to the future. We not only Avish to secure the \ngood opinion of others at the present time, and in refer- \nence to present objects, but are desirous, that it should be \npermanent, whether we shall be in a situation directly to \nexperience any good effects from it, or not. Even after \nwe are dead, although we shall be utterly separated both \nfrom the applauses and the reprobations of men, still we \nwish to be held in respectful and honourable remembrance. \nFully convinced as we are, that no human voice shall ev- \ner penetrate and disturb the silence of our tombs, the \nthought would be exceedingly distressing to us, if we an- \nticipated, that our memories would be calumniated. We \nmay attempt to reason on the folly of such feelings, but \nwe find it impossible to annul the principles planted with- \nin us, and to stifle the voice of nature speaking in the \nbreast. \n\nThe operation of this principle, when kept within its \ndue and appropriate limits, is favourable to human happi- \nness. It begins to operate at a very early period of life, \nJong before the moral principles have been fully brought \nout and established ; and it essentially promotes a decency \nand propriety of deportment, and stimulates to exertion. \nNevertheless, we are to guard with care against ma- \nking the opinion of others the sole and ultimate rule of \nour conduct. Temporary impulses, and peculiar local \ncircumstances may operate to produce a state of pub- \nlic sentiment, to which a good man cannot conscientious- \nly conform. In all cases, where moral principles are in- \nvolved, there is another part of our nature to be consult- \n\n\n\nPROPENSITES. 565 \n\ned. In the dictates of an enlightened Conscience, we \nfind a code, to which not only the outward actions, but \nthe appetites, propensities, and affections are all amenable, \nand which infallibly prescribes the limits of their just ex- \nercise. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 429. Of th^ desire of possession. \n\nMany things in man, and in the situation of objects \naround him tend to inculcate upon him the fact, that he \nhas in some sense an independent existence, that he is an \nagent, that he has powers, duties, and responsibilities. He \nis not long in learning also, that creation is made for his \nuse ; that, in the scale of being,human nature is preeminent, \nwhile brute aud physical nature is subordinate ; and that, \nill the constitution and ordering of things, a variety of ob- \njects are placed more or less directly under his own control. \nUnder these circumstances the idea of possession is early \ndeveloped,and with it a corresponding pleasure and desire. \nThere is no difference of opinion in relation to the simple \nfact, that the desire of possession discloses itself at an early \nperiod, and with no small strength. And when we con- \nsider its universality, without limitation to any particular \nclass or regard to any particular situation in life, we may \nwell speak of it as natural. In other words, (which will \nexplain the epithet natural, when applied in this way,) the \nconstitution of man, operated upon by the circumstances \nin which he is placed, inevitably tends to this result. \nWe suppose it will not be deemed necessary to occupy time \non this subject, any further than to refer in general terms, \nas in other analogous cases, to childhood and youth, in il- \nlustration and proof what \'has been said. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 430. Of the desire of power. \n\nThe love of power has commonly been reckoned \namong the original Propensities. There are certainly \nmany things in favour of this opinion. The train of \nthought, by which it is supported, will be understood from \nthe following passage of Mr. Stewart. \n\n\'\'The infant, while still on the breast, delights in ex- \n\n\n\n566 PROPENSITIES. \n\nerting its little strength on every object it meets with, and \nis mortified, when any accident convinces it of its own im- \nbecility. The pastimes of the boy are, almost without \nexception, such as suggest to him the idea of his power. \nWhen he throws a stone, or shoots an arrow, he is pleased \nwith being able to produce an effect at a distance from \nhimself ; and, while he measures with his eye the ampli- \ntude or range of his missile weapon, contemplates with \nsatisfaction the extent to which his power has reached, \nit is on a similar principle that he loves to bring his \nstrength into comparison with that of his fellows, and to \nenjoy the consciousness of superior prowess. Nor need \nwe search in the malevolent dispositions of our nature for \nany other motive to the apparent acts of cruelty which \nhe sometimes exercise? over the inferior animals, \xe2\x80\x94 thesuf* \nferings of the animal, in such case, either entirely esca- \nping his notice, or being overlooked in that state of pleas- \nurable triumph, which the wanton abuse of power commu- \nnicates to a weak and unreflecting judgment. The active \nsports of the youth captivate his fancy by suggesting sim- \nilar ideas, \xe2\x80\x94 of strength of body, of force of mind, of con- \ntempt of hardship and of danger. And accordingly such \nare the occupations in which Virgil, with a characteristi- \ncal propriety, employs his young Ascanius. \n\n" At peur Ascanius mediis in vallibus acri \n\n" Gaudet equo ; jamque hos cursu, jam preeterit illos ; \n\n" Spumantemque dari pecora inter inertia votis \n\n\'\xe2\x80\xa2 Optataprum, autfulvum descendere raonte leonem. \n\n"As we advance in years, and as our animal powers \nlose their activity and vigour, we gradually aim at extend- \ning our influence over others by the superiority of for- \ntune and station, or by the still more flatering superiority \nof intellectual endowments, by the force of our under- \nstanding, by the extent of our information, by the arts of \npersuasion, or the accomplishments of address. What \nbut the idea of power pleases the orator in managing the \nreins of an assembled multitude, when he silences the rea- \nson of others by superior ingenuity, bends to his purposes \n\n\n\nPROPENSITIES. 561 \n\ntheir desires and passions, and, without the aid of force, \nor the splendor of rank, becomes the arbiter of the fate \nof nations!"* \n\n\xc2\xa7.431. Of the desire of happiness. \n\nWe shall not attempt to explore this part of our sentient \nnature any further than to add, that the desire of enjoy- \nment or happiness is a part of our mental constitution. No \none will presume to assert, that the desire of suffering is \nnatural ; that we ordinarily rejoice in the prospect of com- \ning woes, and endure them with gladness of heart. Nor \nare there satisfactory grounds for the opinion, that enjoy- \nment and suffering are indifferent to the human mind ; \nand that there is no choice to be had between them. Such \na supposition would be contrary to the common experi- \nence and the most obvious facts. On the contrary, our \nown consciousness, and what we witness in others, effectu- \nally teach us, that the desire of happiness is as natural as \nthat of knowledge or of society, and even hardly less so, \nthan it is to desire food and drink, when we experience \nthe uneasy sensations of hanger and thirst. \n\nUnder the instigation and guidance of this strong pro- \npensity, men fill their granaries in anticipation of a day \nof want, prepare raiment and houses, resort to medicines \nin seasons of sickness, and take other measures for the \nprolonging of life, health, and comfort. It is kindly pro- \nvided that they are not left, in taking precautions subser- \nvient to their preservation and well-being, to the sugges- \ntions and the law of reason alone, but are guided and kept \nin action by this decisive and permanent principle. And \nit is proper to add, that this desire operates not only in \nreference to the outward and bodily comforts, but also in \nrelation to inward consolations, the inspirations and sola- \nces of religion in the present life, and the anticipated pos- \nsession\' of that more glorious happiness, which religious \nfaith attaches to a future state of existence. \n\n^Philosophy of the Moral and Active Powers, Chap. 11, 4. \n71 \n\n\n\nCHAPTER FOURTH. \n\n\n\nTHE AFFECTIONS OR PASSIONS. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 432. JVature and general division of the affections. \n\nUnder the general head of Desires, it seems proper to \ninclude the Affections, or passions; although the latter are \ncomplex, and not simple states of mind. The feeling of \ndesire, however, makes a characteristic and prominent \npart of them. The term affections is used, therefore, to de- \nnote a state of mind, of which some simple emotion is \nalways a part, but which differs from any single simple \nemotion, in being combined with some form of that state \nof the mind called desire. \'^As to every sort of passion, \n(saj^s Kaimes* who uses the word passions as synonymous \nwith affections,) we find no more in the composition but \nan emotion pleasant or painful, accompanied with desire." \n\xe2\x80\x94 It may properly be added here, that, in consequence \nof this complexity, the passions have a character of per- \nmanency, which is not found to belong to any separate \nemotions. \n\nThe Affections might conveniently be divided into \nthree classes ; the Benevolent, or those which consult the \ngood and happiness of others; the Selfish, or those which \nchiefly consult our own preservation and pleasure ; and \nthe Malevolent, or those which imply a feeling of ill-will, \nand a desire of injury to others. We merely refer, how- \n\n* Elements of Criticism, Part I, Ch. 2. \n\n\n\nAFFECTIONS OR PASSIONS. 56S \n\never, to these distinctions, the recollection of which may \nperhaps aid in the clearer understanding of the subject, \nand in the correct application of epithets; but Avithout de- \nsigning, or considering it necessary to make them partic- \nularly prominent. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 433, Of the affection of love. \n\nIn going into an examination of this subject we shall \nfirst consider the affection or passion of love; (it may \nbe remarked here that we employ the terms affections and \npassions as of essentially the same import.) There are ma- \nny modifications or degrees of this passion ; the mere pre- \nference of regard and esteem, the warmer glow of friend- \nship, and the increased feeling of devoted attachment. \nThere are not only differences in degree, the passion itself \nseems to be modified and to be invested with a different as- \npect according to the circumstances, in which it is found to \noperate. The love, wdiich we feel for our friends, is dif- \nferent from that, which we feel for a parent or brother ; \nand both are different from that, which we feel for our \ncountry. But it is impossible to convey in words the \nprecise-distinctions, which may justly be thought to exist \nboth in kind and degree. Sach an attempt would only \ninvolve the subject in greater confusion. \n\nThe passion under consideration is a complex one, and \nwe may discover in it at least two elements; viz., an emo- \ntion of vivid delight in the contemplation of the object, \nand a desire of good to that object. Hence there will al- \nways be found in the object some quality, either some ex- \ncellence in the form, or in the intellect, or in the moral \ntraits, or in all combined, which is capable of exciting a \npleasurable emotion. There is a pleasing emotion, ante- \ncedent to the desire of good to the object, which causes it; \nbut this happy feeling continues to exist, and to mingle \nwith the subsequent kind desire. And there may be sup- \nposed to be a constant action and reaction, \xe2\x80\x94 the desire of \ngood increasing the strength of the pleasurable emotion, \nand the mere fqeling of delight enhancing the benevolent \ndesire. When the kind desire, which is one of the ele- \n\n\n\n664 AFFECTIONS OR PASSIONS. . \n\nments of love, is not excited merely in consequence of our \nhaving experienced the antecedent pleasurable emotion, \nbut in consequence of regarding that pleasurable emotion, \nas indicative of qualities, to v^^hich the unalterable voice \nof nature proii&unces, that our affectioiis may be justly \ngiven, it is then a pure and exalting feeling. As to how \nfar this purity of feeling exists, there may undoubtedly \nbe a difference of opinion ; but just so far as it does, there \nis a glow of the heart, analogous to the devotional feelings \nof a higher and happier state of being. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 434. Of sympathy. \n\nSympathy^by the common use of lajiguages, implies an \ninterest in the welfare of others, and maybe considered in \ntwo respects, being either an interest in their joy, or an \ninterest in their sorrow. The sympathetic man falls in \nwith the requisition of Scripture, rejoicing with those, who \nrejoice, and weeping with those, who weep. His heart \nkindles up v/ith happiness at beholding the happy, and he \n\nsheds the tear for the miserable. But that sympathy, \n\nwhich rejoices with the rejoicing, is only one of the forms \nof love. In an analysis of our passions, it is entitled to no \nseparate place. Like love it is a feeling of delight, com- \nbined with benevolent desires towards the object of it. \nIt is only the sympathy for sorrow, which can have a dis- \ntinct consideration in the list of our passions. \n\nSome have thought, that sympathy for sorrow is only a \nmodification of love ; but we may discover a difference \nbetween them. We can sympathize in the griefs of those, \nin whom we are able to discern no pleasing qualilies, and \neven with those, who are positive objects of hatred. We \nleave it to the feelings of any one to determine, Whether,if \nhe saw even his enemy perishing with hunger in a dungeon, \nor his limbs broken on the rack, he would not harbour a \nrelenting emotion, and be glad at his rescue.^ If so, sym- \npathy for grief is different from love, for we may sympa- \nthize with those, whom we do not, and cannot love ; and \nconsequently, is to be considered a distinct passion. \n\n\n\nAFFECTIONS OR PASSIONS. 565 \n\n\xc2\xa7. 435. Of gratitude. \n\nThe afFection of gratitude also, which we are next \nto consider, approaches in its character to the more gen- \neral passion of love. Like the last named passion, it in- \ncludes an emotion of pleasure or delight, combined with a \ndesire of good or a benevolent feeling towards the object \nof it. But we never give the name of gratitude to this \ncombination of pleasing and benevolent feeling, except \nit arises in reference to some benefit or benefits conferred, \n\nNo small part of that strong feeling, which is exercised \n\nby children toward parents, is that species of love, which \nis termed gratitude. They think of them, not only a& \npossessing many qualities, which are estimable and lovely \nin themselves ; but as fond and unwearied benefactors. \nThey cannot behold, without having their feelings strongly \nmoved, their earnest disposition to relieve their sufferings, \nto supply their wants, to enhance their enjoyments. \n\nDifferent individuals exhibit considerable diversity in \nthe exercise of grateful emotions. Some receive the fa- \nvours heaped upon them without exhibiting any visible re- \nturns of benevolent regard ; others are incapable of a \npassive reception of benefits, and are strongly affected, \nwhenever they are conferred. This difference is probably \nowing in part to original diversities of constitution ; and \nis partly to be ascribed to different views of the characters \nand duties of men, or to other adventitious circumstances. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 436. Of the parental affection. \n\nIf there be any affection whatever, which is entitled \nto be considered a natural affection, it is that, which is \nentertained by parents for their children. Commencing \nat the birth of its beloved object, it does not merely main- \ntain its original vigour and freshness, but increases them. \nIn all the vicissitudes of life, amid all suffering and dis- \nhonour and ingratitude, it remains a sacred and imperish- \nable monument of the wisdom and goodness of the beings \nwho has implanted it. Can it be thought necessary to \nenter into a formal proof of the existence of an affection. \n\n\n\n566 \n\n\n\nAFFECTIONS OR PASSIONS. \n\n\n\nwhich is predominant in all classes of society from the \nthrone to the cottage ? Where can the parent be found so \nbrutal as not to recognize its sway ? Where especially is \nthe mother, who is unwilling to make any sacrifice for \nher child, even that of life itself? In the year 1807, a \nBritish ship took fire in the straits of Bosphorus. \nAmong the multitude on board of her was an unfortunate \nmother with her infant child. She had no care for her- \nself ; she made no effort to escape ; but committing her \nchild to the protection of an officer, calmly awaited her \ndestiny, consoled and sustained by the hope, that her \noffspring might possibly live. Amidst the exertions \nof the officer, which were necessary in such an \nemergency, the infant dropped into the sea. The unhap- \npy mother*, as soon as she had discovered what had hap- \npened, plunged from the vessel\'s side, as if to preserve it, \nand sinking in the billows, was seen no more.^ \n\nThis case, affecting as it is, is not mentioned as a solitary \none. It may be considered as only a fair exemplification \nof the disinterestedness and strength of that exalted pas- \nsion. Amid scenes of depravity, which shock every hon- \nourable sentiment, and evince the extinguishment of all \nother ennobling principles, this is still found, and sheds \nits cheering light on the darkness around it. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 437. Further remarks on the parental affection. \n\nIn asserting, that the parental affection necessarily and \nnaturally arises under its appropriate circumstances, we \nare not ignorant, that a different view has sometimes \nbeen taken, and that its existence has been attributed \nsolely to reason. In other words it has been maintained, \nthat parents cherish their offspring with great care and \nfondness, because a very little reflection and examination \ncannot fail to teach them, that it is both their interest and \ntheir duty so to do. In answer to this view, we propose \n\nthe following considerations. 1, This explanation does \n\nnot seem to meet fully the facts in the case. Not in one \n\n* Illustrationis of the Passions, Vol. I, p. 1,48. \n\n\n\nAFFECTIONS OR PASSIONS. 567 \n\ncase in a thousand and perhaps never, does the parental \naffection present the aspect of mere preference or choice, \nfounded on prudential considerations. That passion, \nwhich cannot arise till subsequently to the long and calm \ndeductions of reason, will be likely to exhiBit a want of \nfervour and intensity, not at all corresponding to the \nheated and quenchless flame of parental love. And be- \nsides, reason would make distinctions. Reason would re- \nquire some parents to love their children, because they are \nhealthy and active, and well formed and beautiful ; and \non like grounds, would impose on others a diminution of \ntheir affection, because their children are sickly and maim- \ned, and destitute of personal charms. But the slightest \nexamination into facts will assure us, that parental love \ndoes not graduate itself on these principles. Every pa- \nrent loves his diseased and deformed child, who will al- \nways be a tax on his time and property and patience, with \nas much ardour as those that are not so ; and perhaps \nin most cases with greater intensity. \n\nHe can sympathize with the feelings of the celebrated \nBunyan, when about to be thrown into prison, who deep- \nly lamented his separation from his family, as the pulling \nthe flesh from the bones ; "especially my poor blind \nchild, who lay nearer my heart than all besides. Oh, the \nthoughts of the hardships I thought my poor blind one \nmight undergo would break my heart to pieces ! Poor \nchild; thought I, what sorrow art ,thou like to have for \nthy portion in this world ! Thou must be beaten ; must \nbeg ; suffer hunger, cold, nakedness, & a thousand calam- \nities, though I cannot now endure the wind should blow \nupon thee ! "* \n\nII, -There is another difficulty in the proposed explan- \nation. If the parental affection be founded on reason, then \nit would seem to follow, that the strength of the affection \nwill be proportioned to the developement and strength \nof the reasoning power. A man of great powers of \nreasoning, who can estimate fully all the benefits con- \n\n^Southey\'s Ed. of Pilgrim\'s Progress, p. hx. \n\n\n\n568 AFFECTIONS OR PASSIONS. \n\nnected with the filial and parental relation, will love his \noffspring more than another ; and civilized nations will \nhave stronger parental attachments than savage nations. \nBut neither of these is true ; no such line as this can be \ndrawn ; on the contrary it can be satisfactorily shown, that \nthe affection exists with peculiar strength among the poor, \nthe ignorant, and the savage. \n\n\xe2\x80\xa2Go into the gloomy and unvisited forests of America ; \nenter the wigwam of the most untutored Indian, whose \nwalls are perhaps darkened with the reeking memorials \nof conquered enemies, and you will see even there the in- \nvincible workings of nature, the ardent and quenchless out- \nbreakings of parental tenderness ; you will not fail to dis- \ncover, that his children are the joy and pride even of the \nfierce Savage, and that for them he is willing to toil, and \nsuffer, and even to die. Go to ignorant, wretched and \nbarbarian Africa, to the shores of the Tschad & the Quorra, \nand nature is still the same ; the linger of God is written \nupon the heart. Whenever you meet with mothers, who \nhave lost a child, you see them bearing about wooden fig- \nures, the rude but sacred imitations of their lifeless off- \nspring. Nothing can induce them to part with these lit- \ntle memorials, consecrated to their sorrow and their love. \nThey carry them about for an indefinite time. Whenever \nthey stop to take refreshment, a small portion of their \nfood is invariably presented to the lips of these images \xc2\xa9f \nthe dead.* What a striking testimony have we here, that \nthis strong passion exists in all climes and countries, and \namong all classes, however debased by ignorance and su- \nperstition. \n\nIll, \xe2\x80\x94 If reasoning be the foundation of the j^arental af- \nfection in men, we should naturally be led to give the same \nexplanation of its origin in brute animals. But, although \nthe passion exists among them with equal strength, no \none thinks of applying the proposed explanation there. \nNow if the existence of an original principle, operating \nindependently of reason, be necessary in brute animals, \n\n* Lander\'s Journal of an Expedition in Africaj Vol. 1. pp. 120,5. \n\n\n\nAFFECTIONS OF PASSIONS. 569 \n\nthere seems to be a like necessity for its exigter.ce in the \nhuman race. This must be obvious when we consider, \nthat the wants, which the passion is calculated to meet, \nare of the most urgent and pressing kind, and that the hu- \nman race could not be perpetuated without It. The hu- \nman infant is more helpless and dependent than the young \nof the brute animal ; and this helplessness and dependence \ncontinue for a longer time. If it be said that human rea- \nson is far higher than that of the lower animals, it will not * \nbe pretended, that it is high enough to meet the extreme \nexigency of the present case. It is not at all to be credi- \nted that mere reasoning, that cold and calculating deduc- \ntion could support the untiring watchfulness and patience \nand labour, incident to the parental relation, without the \naid of an original principle deeply rooted in the heart, \nand always ready for action. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 438. Of the selfish affection or passion oj pride. \n\nIn considering what may be termed the selsish affec- \ntions, our attention is naturally given to that of Pride. This \npassion like all others has an object ; and the object is a \nconsciousness or belief of some superiority in ourselves. \nThe complex affection, called forth in view of this actual, \nor supposed superiority, involves a pleasing emotion, ac- \ncompanied with a desire, that others should be sensible of \nthat excellence or eminency which we possess over them. \nIt ought to be added, \'that the desire of the proud person \nto make his superiority known, is limited by personal con- \nsiderations, and has no higher object than his own gratifi- \ncation. When the passion, in its true and appropriate \nform, exists, it cannot possibly be identified with any- \nthing great or ennobling. \n\nThere are many modifications of this, no less than of the \nother passions. When it is very officious, and makes an \nostentatious display of those circumstances,in which it im- \nagines its superiority to consist, it is termed vanity. \nWhen it discovers itself, not so much in the display of the \ncircumstances of its superiority as in a contempt, and in \n72 \n\n\n\n570 AFFECTIONS OR PASSIONS. \n\nsneering disparagements of the inferiour qualities of oth- \ners, it is termed haughtiness or arrogance. \n\nThe passion of pride is not limited to the possession of \nany one object or quality, or to any single circumstance \nor combination of circumstances. One is proud of his \nancestry, another of his riches, and a third of the beauty of \nhis dress or person. It is the same feeling in the states- \nman, and the jockey ; in the leader of armies and the hun- \nter of hares and foxes ; in the possessor of the princely \npalace, and of the well v/rought cane or snuff-box. \n\nSome have thought, that many good results, connected \nwith human enterprize and efforts, may be justly ascribed \nto the influence of this passion. On the other hand, it has \nbeen maintained, that there are other principles of action \nof a more generous and ennobling kind, which might ac- \ncomplish, and ought to accomplish all, which has been \nattributed to this. Certainly a little reflection, a little in- \nsight into our origin, infirmities, and wants, would tend to \ndiminish the degree of it, if nothing more. \'\'If we could \ntrace our descents, (says Seneca,) we should find all \nslaves to come from princes, and princes from slaves. \nTo be proud of knowledge is to be blind in the light ; \nto be proud of virtue, is to poison ourselves with the anti- \ndote ; to be proud of authority, is to make our rise our \ndownfall." \n\n\xc2\xa7. 4\xc2\xa39. Of fear: \n\nThe affection or passion of fear always implies, and is \nfounded on the conviction of some danger. It according- \nly involves a simple emotion of pain, caused by an object \nwhich we anticipate will be injurious to us, attended with \na desire of avoiding such object or its injurious effects. \n\nIt cannot be doubted, that this passion is implanted in \nman for wise and good purposes ; but we, nevertheless, \nproperly call it a selfish passion, since it has reference al- \nmost exclusively to our own preservation. And not un- \nfrequently this trait is so predominant, that it impels men \nto sacrifice their own kindred and friends. \n\nThe strength or intensity of fear will be in proportion \n\n\n\nAFFECTIONS OR PASSIONS. 571 \n\nto the apprehended evil. There is a difference of origin- \nal susceptibility of this passion in different persons ; and \nthe amount of apprehended evil will, consequently, vary \nwith the quickness of such susceptibility. But whatever \ncauses may increase or diminish the opinion of the degree \nof evil, which threatens, there will be a correspondence \nbetween the opinion, which is formed of it, and the fear- \nful passion. \n\nWhen this passion is extreme, it prevents the due \nexercise of the moral susceptibility, and interrupts correct \njudgment of any kind whatever. It is a feeling of great \npower, and one that will not bear to be trifled with. It \nmay serve as a profitable hhit, to remark, that there have \nbeen instances of persons thrown into a fright suddenly, \nand perhaps in mere sport, which has immediately resulted \nin a most distressing and permanent mental disorganiza- \ntion. In (;ases, where the anticipated evil is very great, \n\nand there is no hope of avoiding it in any way, the mind \nexists in that state, which is called despair. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 440. Of the passion oj ha- red. \n\nThe passion of hatred, which may properly be term- \ned -a Malevolent one, is the opposite to that of love. \nAnd as the latter was found to be complex, the former also \nmay be separated into opposite, though analogous ele- \nments, viz. an emotion of pain, and a desire of injury to \nthe object or cause of the painful feeling. For a correct \nnotion, however, of this passion, as well as of its opposite, \nwe must resort to our own experience. Some have main- \ntained, that the malevolent affections, in the present \ncondition of the world, are necessary and commendable ; \nthat without them frauds and oppressions would come \nboldly forth into the great community of mankind. It \ncannot be denied, that a spirit of watchfulness and of ret- \nribution is necessary ; but it is not so evident that there \nis need of malevolence. The Supreme Being is a sover- \neign, who does not grant impunity to sin ; but he is rep- \nresented as correcting with the feelings of a parent, and as \n\n\n\n572 AFFECTIONS OR PASSIONS. \n\nanxious for the good of those, who have subjected them- \nselves to his chastisements. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 44*. Of anger. \n\nThe passion of anger does not appear to differ essen- \ntially in its nature from that of hatred. When the painful \nemotion, and the desire of evil to the object of it, which \nare implied in hatred, arise suddenly and violently on the \nreception, or supposed reception of some injury, or from \nsome other cause, if any can be imagined, the state of the \nmind is then called anger. That is to say, we suppose, \nanger is essentially the same with hatred, and differs from \nthe ordinary forms of that passion chiefly in the circum- \nstance oi" great suddenness and violence. \'When the \n\npassion of anger is protracted, awaiting in all its power \nfor some more favourable opportunity to show itself, it \nbecomes revenge. We speak of such a state of the soul \nas revengeful. \n\nThs precept of St. Paul, \'\' Be ye angry, and sin not, " \n(Eph. IV. 2).,) reminds us, that this passion is liable to ex- \nceed due limits, and also that we ought to cherish such \nconsiderations, as are likely to check and properly control \n\nits iafiuence When we are angry, we should consider, \n\nin tlic iirai place, that we may have mistaken the motives \nof the person, whom we imagine to have injured us. Per- \nhaps the oversight or crime,which we alledge against him, \nwas mere inadvertance. And it is possible, that his inten- \ntions were favourable towards us, instead of being, as we \nsuppose, of a contrary character. (2) We shoidd con- \nsider, secondly, tliat the indulgence of this passion on \nslight occasions renders us contemptible m the sight of all \naround us ; it excites no pity, nothing but feelings of \nscorn ; and, therefore, instead of being a punishment to \nthe cause or supposed cause of the affront, only increases \n\nour own misery. (3) Let it be remembered. also, that \n\nwhen the mind is much agitated by this passion, it is in- \ncapable of correct judgment; actions, considered as the \nindications of feeling and character, do not appear in their \n\n\n\nAFFECTrONS OR PASSIONS. 573 \n\ntrue light ; and the moral susceptibility is overborne and \nrendered useless. The saying of Socrates to his servant? \n" I would beat you, if I were not angry," although utter- \ned by a Heathen, is not unworthy of the Christian philos- \nophy. \n\n(4) There is another consideration, which ought to \nprevent the indulgence of this passion, and to allay its ef- \nfects ; It is, that all have offended against the Supreme \nBeing, and stand in "need of pardon from Him. Every \none, who knows his own heart, must see, and feel himself \nto be a transgressor. How pitiful is it, then, for man to \ntalk largely of satisfaction and revenge, when he is every \nmoment dependent on the clemency and forgiveness of a \nBein^, whom he has disoheved and disrecrarded ! \n\nThere is a species of anger, termed peevishness or \nFRETFQLNEss, which oTteii interrupts the peace and happi- \nness of life. It diiiers-from ordinary anger in being exci- \nted by very trifling circumstances, and in a strange facili- \nty of inflicting its effects on every body, and every thing \nwithin its reach. The peevish man has met with some \ntrifling disappointment, (it matters but little what it is,) \nand the serenity of whole days is disturbed ; no smiles \nare to be seen ; every thing, whether animate or inan- \nmate, rational or irrational, is out of place, and falls under \n\nthe rebuke of this fretful being. Genuine anger is like \n\na thunder shower, that comes dark and heavily, but leaves \na clear sky afterwards. But peevishness is like an ob- \nscure, drizzling fog ; it is less violent, and lasts longer. In \ngeneral, it is more unreasonable and unjust, than violent \nanser, and would certainlv be more disagreeable, were it \nnot often, in consequence of being so disproportioned to \nits cause, irresistibly ludicrous. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 443. Of jealousy. \n\nJealousy involves a painful emotion, caused by some \nobject of love, and attended with a desire of evil towards \n\nthat object The circumstance, which characterizes this \n\npassion and constitutes its peculiar trait, is, that all its bit- \nterness and hostility are inflicted on some one, whom the \n\n\n\n574 AFFECTIONS OR PASSIONS. \n\njealous person loves. The feeling of suspicious rivalship, \nwhich often exists between candidates for fame and power, \nis sometimes called jealousy on account of its analogy to \n\nthis passion. There are various degrees of jealousy, \n\nfrom the fornis of mere distrust and watchful suspicion, to \nits highest paroxysms. In general the strength of the pas- \nsion will be found to be in proportion to the value, which \nis attached to the object of it ; and is perhaps more fre- \nquently found in persons, who have a large share of pride, \nthan in others. Such, in consequence of the habitual be- \nlief of their own superiority, are likely to notice many tri- \nfling inadvertencies, and to treasure them up as a proof \nof intended neglect, which would not have been observed \nby others, and certainly were exempt from any evil in- \ntention. \n\nThe person under the influence of this passion is inca- \npable of forming a correct juBgment of the conduct of \nthe individual, who is the object of it ; he observes every \nthing and gives it the worst interpretation ; and circum- \nstances, which, in another state of the mind, would have \nbeen tokens of itmocence, are converted into proof of \nguilt. xVlthough poetry, it is certainly no fiction ; \n\n\n\n-"Trifles, light as air. \n\n\n\n"Are to the jealous confirmations strong, \n"As proofs of holy writ. \n\nIt may be remarked of this passion, that it is at times \nexceedingly violent. At one moment the mind is animated \nwith all the feelings of kindness ; the next, it is transported \nwith the strongest workings of hatred, and then it is sud- \ndenly overwhelmed with contrition. Continually vacillat- \ning between the extremes of love and hatred, it knows no \nrest ; it would gladly bring destruction on the object, \nwhom it dreads to lose more than any other, and whom \n\nat times it loves more than any other. See Cogan\'s \n\nTreatise on the Passions, and Brown, Lect. lx. lxv. \n\n\n\nPART THIRD. \n\n\n\nSENTIENT STATES OF THE MIND. \n\n\n\nCLASS THIRD, \n\n\n\nFEELINGS OF OBLIGATION, \n\n\n\nCHAPTER FIRST. \n\n\n\nNATURE OF OBLIGATORY FEELINGS. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 443. The existence of these feelings evinced by con- \nsciousness. \n\nUnder the general head of the Sentient part of our \nconstitution,we next proceed to consider a very important \nclass of mental states, which, for the want of a single term \nexpressive of them, we shall call feelings or sentiments of ob- \nligation. We cannot doubt of its being readily admitted^ \nthat these feelings belong to the Sentient constitution, in \ndistinction from the Intellectual. It may be safely asserted \non the testimony of consciousness, that they are different \nfrom the mere acts of the understanding, from mere \nthought, from mere intellectual perceptions. Independ- \nently of the intimations of consciousness in this particular, \nwhich of themselves decisively indicate the propriety of \nthis arrangement, they have this important characteristic \nin common with other developements of the sentient na- \nture, that they are most intimately and effectively con- \nnected with action. It must be obvious, that all intellec- \ntual states of the mind are inefficient in this respect, ex- \ncept so far as they arouse to action by the circuitous pro- \n73 \n\n\n\n578 NATURE OF OBLIGATORY FEELINGS. \n\ncess of operating tIiroii<^Ii the emotions, desires, voli- \ntions. Sic. \n\nOur first inquiry, although it v/ill perhaps be consider- \ned an unnecessary waste oTtime, has relation to the actual \nand distinct existence of obligatory feelings. The exis- \ntence of feelings of this description, is evinced, in the first \nplace, by o.ur own consciousness. We might safely appeal \nto the internal conviction and the recollections of any \nman whatever, and ask, whether there have not been peri- \nods in the course of his life, in which he has experienced \na new and authoritative ttate of mind ; a peculiar, but \nundefinable species of mental enforcement, which required \nhim to perform some particular act, and to avoid doing \nsome other act, even when his interests and his desires \nseemed to be averse to the requisition thus made upon \nhim ? And if so, we have here an instance of moral obli- \ngation, a feeling or sentiment of duty, the precise thing \nwhich is meant; when we say we onght to do, or ought not, \nto do. \n\nTake a common, and simple illustration. A person, in \npassing along the streets, saw an old man sitting by the \nway side, who bore about hisn the most convincing marks \nof want, wretchedness, and sincerity in his applications \nfor relief ; he gave him bread, clothing, and money, con- \nscious that it was done, not in view of any personal interest \nor gratification, or of any selfish object wliatever, but un- \nder the impulse and guidance of this peculiar enforcement \n\xe2\x80\xa2within ; and if so, he then and there had a distinct know- \nledge of the moral sentiment or reeling under considera- \ntion. And this knowledge was from consciousness. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 444. Further proof from the conduct of men. \n\nThe existence of feelings of obligation is further shown \nby the general conduct of men. \xe2\x80\x94 It cannot be denied, \nthat other motives, distinct from convictions of duty, \noften operate upon them. Their desires, hopes, fears, \nsympathies, their present and future interests all have an \neffect. But it woidd certainly argue an evil opinion of \nhuman nature altogether unwarranted, to maintain, that \n\n\n\nNATURE OF OBLIGATORY FEELINGS. 579 \n\nthey are never governed by motives of a more exalted \nkind. In a multitade of cases they are found to perform \nAvhat is incumbent upon them, in opposition to their fears, \nin opposition to their sympathies, and their apparent in- \nterests. Different persons will undoubtedly estimate the \namount of interested motives as greater or l^ss, according \nas a greater ar less portion of the good or evil of human \nnature has come within their own cognizance ; but it is \nimpossible, after a cautious and candid review of the \nprinciples of human action, to exclude entirely the elements \nof uprightness and honour. If there is any truth in histo- \nty, there have always been found, even in the most cor- \nrupt periods of society, upright and honourable men. \nAnd if we are at liberty to infer men\'s character from \ntheir actions, as assuredly we are, we may assert with con- \nfidence, that there are such at the present time. But a \nman of true uprightness and honour is one, who acts from \nthe sentiment of duty, the feeling of moral obligation ^ \nin distinction from motives of an inferior kind. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 445. Further proof from language and literature. \n\nThe existence of obligatory feelings is fur.lier proved, \nnot only by each one\'s consciousness, and by the conduct \nof men generally, but by language and literature. In \nmost lancruages and probably in all, there are terms ex- \npressive of obligation or a sense of duty. No account \ncould be given of the progress of society, and of the situ- \nation and conduct of. individuals without making use of \nsuch terms. If the words rectitude, crime, uprightness, \nvirtue, merit, vice, demerit, right, wrong, ought, obliga- \ntion, duty, and others of like import were struck out \nfrom the English tongue, (and the same might be said of \nother lancruages,) it would at once be found unequal to \nthe expression of the phenomena, which are constantly \noccurring in the affairs of men. Now as these terms \noccur, it is rational to suppose, that they intimate some- \nthing-, that they have a meaning, that they express a reali- \nty. But it does not appear, how this can be said of them. \n\n\n\n530 \n\n\n\nNATURE OF OBLIGATORY FEELINGS. \n\n\n\nunless we admit the actual existence of obligatory feel \n\n\n\nTurning oar attention from single words and phra- \nses, if we enter into an examination of the literature \n\nof a language, we shall come to the same result. A \n\ngreat portion of every nation\'s literature is employed in \ngiving expression and emphasis to moral principles and \nsentiments. They find a conspicuous place in the most \nValuable speculations, not of professed moralists merely, \nbut of historians, poets, orators, legislators, &c. But \ntheir frequent introduction would seem to be altogether \nmisplaced, unsuitable, and unmeaning, if there were no \nreal and permanent distinction between virtue and vice, \nbetween the sacred requisitions of duty and those of mere \npersonal interest. One of the Roman historians* very hap- \npily remarks of the elder Cato, that he never performed \nan upright action, in order that he might have the appear- \nance of being an upright person in the view of men, but \nbecause he could not do otherwise ; (qui nunquam recte fecit, \nut facere videretur, -sed quia aliter facere non poterat.) \nEvery one, who is familiar with the characteristic traits of \nCato, will assent to the justness of the remark ; but still it \nwould be nugatory and unmeaning, without the existence \nof original principles, involving an internal and moral \nobligation. If any one will take the pains to peruse the \nwritings of Tacitus in particular, he will fully see the \nbearing of these observations. That celebrated historian \nsketches, in colours dark and terrible, the pictures of cru- \nelty and selfishness, treachery and deceit, but at the same \ntime he diff\'uses over the nether horrors of flame and \nsmoke the sunlike radiance of benevolence, patriotism, and \ntruth. Now if you strike out from the human breast \nthe emotions of approval and disapproval, and those \nfeelings of obligation, which are subsequently built upon \nthem, you necessarily strike out, not only from Tacitus, \nbut from almost all historians of acknowledged merit, the \nmost eloquent and ennobling passages ; every thing in \n\n* Paterculus. \n\n\n\n^ NATURE OF OBLIGATORY FEELINGS 531 \n\nfact, which places truth in opposition to falsehood, and \ncontrasts meanness and sellism v*^ith justice, rectitude, and \nhonour. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 446. Further proof from the necessity of these fedlngs. \n\nAnd in connection with the observations which have \nbeen brought forward, we may further ask, what would \nmen be, or what would society be, without this basis of \nmoral obligation ? There must be somewhere a founda- \ntion of duty. It does not appear, how the bond, which \nunites neighbourhoods and states, can be maintained with \nany degree of strength, without something of this kind. \nAnnihilate this part of our constitution, and would not \nsociety be dissolved? Would not violence and wrath \nand utter confusion immediately succeed ? The sympa- \nthies and the selfish interests of Our nature might do some- \nthing by way of diminishing these evil results, but could \nnot wholly prevent them. With the dislocation of the \ngreat controlling principles, v/hich regulate the action of \nthe moral world, there would soon be an utter confusion \nin the movements of society, and all the unspeakable evils, \nattendant on such a state of things. \n\nWe are aware it can be said, that we have the feelings \nof approval and disapproval, which are of a moral nature. \nThis is true. By means of those feelings we are enabled \nto pronounce a speedy decision on the merit or demerit of \nthe conduct of others ; but of themselves they seem to \nhave no controlling power over our own actions. It is unde- \nniably necessary, when we consider the various relations \nwe sustain to other accountable beings, that we should be \nable to pass a judgment on them. And it appears equally \nnecessary,when we consider our own nature and destinies, \nthat there should be moral principles within us, regulating \nour own conduct. Undoubtedly the two classes of feeling \nare closely connected ; emotions of approval and disap- \nproval are antecedent to, and are the foundation of feelings \nof obligation ; but the fact of their close connection does \nnot prove their identity. Both exist and both are neces-^ \n\n\n\n\n\n\n5S2 NATURE OF OBLIGATORY FEELINGS. \n\nsarv. With the one class alone, we might pass a right \ndecision on\' others, but vvoiikl be liable constantly to go \nwrong ourselves. With the other class alone, v/e should go \nright ourselves, but could have no knowledge of right and \nwrong in others. So that the absence of either, particu- \nlarly of feelings of obligation, would have a disastrous \nbearing on the conduct of men, and on the various inter- \nests of society. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 447. Feelings of ohligation simple and no\' susceptible of de~ \n\nfinilmi. \n\nIn view of what has been said we assert with confidence, \nthat the feelings in question exist. In looking into their \nnature, although we do not flatter ourselves with being \nable, by a mere verbal statement, to give a satisfactory \nnotion of them, we would direct the attention to some \ncharacteristic marks. And the first observation to be \nmade is, that these states of mind are simple. We cannot \nresolve them into parts, as we can any complex state of \nmind, . And as a necessary consequence of this, they are \nnot susceptible of definition. Still we cannot admit, that \nthis simplicity and the consequent inability to define them \nrenders men ignorant of their nature. It is true, that the \nman, who has never experienced the sentiment of obliga- \ntion in his o^vn bosom, can have no better means of know- \ning it from the descriptions of others, than the blind man \ncan have for understanding the nature of the colours of \nthe rainbow. But such a case is hardly a supposable one; \namong all the tribes of men and amid all the varieties of \nhuman degradation, it will probably not be found to exist; \nand we may therefore say with confidence, that every \nman knows what the feeling of obligation is, not less than \nhe knows what the feeling o^ joy, of sorrow, and of ap- \nproval is. In other words, men have as ready and clear \nan idea of it, as of any other simple notion or feeling. \n\n\xc2\xa7.448. They are susceptible of different degrees. \n\nIn obtaining this knowledge, Iiowever,which evidently \ncannijt be secured to us by any mere process defining, \n\n\n\nNATURE OB^ OBLIGATORY FEELINGS. 583 \n\nwe must consult our consciousness. We are required to \nturn the mind inward on itself, and to scrutinize the pro- \ncess of interiour operation, on the "various occasions of \nendurance, trial, and action, which so often intersect the \npaths of life. The same consciousness, which gives us a \nknowledge of the existence of the feeling; and of its g-ener- \nal nature, assures us furthermore, thet it exists in various \ndegrees. This fact may be illustrated by remarks former- \nly made in reference to another state of mind. The word \nlieliefis the name of a simple mental state; but no one \ndoubts, that belief exists in different degrees, which we \nexpress by a number of terms, such as presumption, prob- \nability, high probability, and certainty. la like manner, \nthe feeling of obligation may evidently exist in various \ndegrees ; and- we often express this variety of aegrees by \ndifferent terms and phrases, such as moral inducement, \nslight or strong inducement, imperfect obligation, perfect \nobligation, &c. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 449. Of thei?^ aiUhoritaiive and enforcing nature. \n\nIt may be remarked further in respect to obligatory \nfeelings, that they always imply action, somethino- to be \ndone. And again they never exist, except in those cases, \nwhere not only action, but effective action is possible, or is \nsupposed to be so. We never feel under moral obligation \nto do any thing, vvdiich we are convinced at the same time is \nbeyond our power. It is v/itliin these limits the feel i no- \narises ; and while we cannot define il, we are able to inti- \n\xe2\x80\xa2mate, though som.ewhat imperfectly, another characteris- \ntic. % What we mean will be understood by a reference to \nthe words enforcement, constraint, or compulsion. Every \none is conscious, that there is somethhig in the nature of \nfeelings of moral obligation, approaching to the character \nof enforcement or compulsion ; yet not by any means in \nthe material sense of those terms. There is no enforce- \nment,analogous to that which may be applied to the body, \nand which may be made irresistible. \n\nThe apostle Paul says, " the love of Christ constraineth \nus." What is the meaning of this ? Merely that the mer- \n\n\n\n534 \n\n\n\nNATURE OF OBLIGATORY FEELINGS. \n\n\n\ncy of Christ, exhibited in the salvation of men, excited \nsuch a sentiment of obligation, that they found in theniselves \na great unwillingness to resist its suggestions, and were \ndetermined to go forth, proclaiming that mercy, and ur- \nging all men to accept it. And it is in reference to this \nstate of things we so frequently assert, that we are bound, \nthat we are obliged, or even that we are compelled to pur- \nsue a particular course in preference to another course ; \nexpressions, which, in their original import, intimate the \nexistence of a feeling, which is fitted by its very nature \nstrongly to control oar volition. But, although these ex- \npressions point to this trait of the feeling, tbej do it but \nimperfectly and indistinctly, and consciousness alone can \ngive a full understanding of it. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 450. Feelings\\f obligation differ from those of mere ap- \nprwal and disapproval. \n\nIt is possible tbiit the question may be started why we \ndo not class these feelings with Emotions, particularly \nthose of a moral kind. And recognizing the propriety of \navoiding an increase of clas:es, where it is not obviously \ncalled for, we do not decline answering the question. \xe2\x80\x94 We \nhave not classed the mental states under examination wdih \nEmotions, in the first place, because they do not appear to \nbe of that transitory nature, which seems to be character- \nistic of all emotions. Ordinarily they do not dart into \nthe soul with tlie same rapidity, shining up, and then disap- \npearing like the sudden lightning in the clouds ; but ta- \nking their position more slowly and gradually, they remain \nlike the sun bright aad permanent. In the course of an \nhour a person may experience hundreds and even thou- \nsands of emotions of joy or grief, of beauty or sublimity, \nand various other kinds. They come and go, return and \ndepart again in constant succession and with very frequent \nchanges ; but it probably will not be pretended, that the \nfeelings of duty, which, are destined to govern man\'s con- \nduct, and which constitute his most important principles \nof action, are of such a rapid, variant, and evanescent na- \nture. A man feels the sentiment of duty now, and it is \n\n\n\nNATURE OF OBLIGATORY FEELINGS. 585 \n\nreasonable to anticipate, unless the facts, presented to his \nmind, shall essentially alter, that he will feel the same to- \nmorrow, next week, next month, and next year. He may \nas well think of altering and f)lienating the nature of the \nsoul itself, as of eradicating these feelings, when they have \nonce taken root, so long as the objects, to which they re- \nlate, remain the same in the mind\'s view. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 451. Further considerations on the same subject. \n\nA second reason for not classing feelings of obligation \nwith emotions, particularly moral ones, is the fact, that \nobligatory sentiments have special reference to the future. \nMoral emotions are of a peculiar kind ; they have a \ncharacter of their own, wHich is ascertained by coli- \nsciousness ; but they merely pronounce upon the charac- \nter of objects and action^, that are either past or present ; \nupon the right or wrong of what has actually taken place \nin time past, or is taking place at the present moment ; \nwith the single exception of hypothetical cases, which are \nbrought before the mind for a moral judgment to be past up- \non them. But even in these cases, as far as the action of the \nmoral sense is concerned, the objects of contemplation are \nin effect present. *rhe conscience passes its judgment up- \non the objects in themselves considered ; and that is all. \nIt goes no further. \n\nBut it clearly seems to be different with the feelings \nunder consideration. The states of mind, involving obli- \ngation and duty, have reference to the future ; to some- \nthing, which is either to be performed, or the performance \nof which is to be avoided. They bind us to what is to \ncome. They can have no possible existence, except in \nconnection with what is to be done, either in the inward \nfeeling or the outward effort. The past is merged in \neternity, and no longer furnishes a place for action. Obli- \ngation and duty cannot reach it, and it is given over to ret- \nribution. \n\nAnother and third important circumstance to be taken \ninto view, in making out the distinction under our notice, \nis, that the sentiments or feelings, of obligation are alvi^ays \n74 \n\n\n\n586 NATURE OF OBLIGATORY FEELINGS. \n\nsubsequent in point of time to moral emotions ; and cannot \npossibly exist, unless preceded by them. The statement is \nsusceptible of illustration in tliis way. Some complicated \nstate of things, involvinor moral considerations, is j)resented \nbefore us ; we inquire and examine into it ; emotions of \napproval or disapproval then arise. And this is all that \ntakes place, if we ourselves have,inno way whatever, any \ndirect and active concern, eiher present or future. But \nif it be otherwise, the moral emotions are immediately \nsucceeded by a distinct and imperative feeling, the senti- \nment of obligation, which binds us, as if it were the voice \nof God speaking in the soul, to act or not to act, to do \nor not to do, to favour or to op])ose. How common a \nthing it is for a person to* say, that he feels no moral \nobligation to do a thing, because he does not ap- \nprove it ; or on the contrary, that, approving any \nproposed course, he feels under obligation to pursue \nit ; language, which undoubtedly means (something, \nand which implies a distinction between the mere \nmoral emotion and the feeling of obligation ; and which \ntends to j)rovethe prevalence of the common belief, that \nobligation is subsequent to, and dependent on approval \n\nor disapproval. On looking at th*e subject in these \n\npoints of vieWi we cannot come to the conclusion to rank \nfeelings of obligation with moral emotions, or with any- \nother emotions ; but are induced to assign them a distinct \nplace. But it is not surprising on the whole, that moral \nemotions are often confounded with them, when we con- \nsider the invariable connection between the two just spo- \nken of, and when also Ave consider the imperfection of \nlanguage, which not unfrequently applies the same \nterms to both classes of mental states. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 453. Feelings of obligation d\'ffer from desires. \n\nF<.r the reasons which have now been stated, feelincrs \nof obligation are not classed with Emotions. We are \nnext asked perhaps, why they are not classed under the \ngeneral head of Desires. And in answering this question, \nwe say in the fikst place, that consciousness clearly points \n\n\n\nNATURE OF OBLIGATORY FEELINGS. 587 \n\nout a difference. It is believed, that few matters come \nwitliifi the reacli and cognizance of consciousness, which \ncan be more readily decided upon, than the difference \nbetween our desires and our feelings of obiigatien. We \nadmit, that, in the particular of their fixedness or perma- \nnency and also of their relation to the future, the latter \nclosely approach to the characteristics of the former ; and \nyet a little internal examination will detect a distinction \nbetween them, which is marked and lasting. \n\n(2) We may not only consult our own consciousness \nin this matter, but may derive information from a notice \nof the outward conduct of men. In speaking of men\'s \nconduct, we not unfrequently make a distinction ; and we \nattribute it sometimes to the mere influence of their de- \nsires or wishes, and at other times to the predominance of \na sense of duty, which is only another name for a senti- \nment or impulse within, which is morally obligatory. \nBut there would evidently be no propriety in this distinc- \ntion, if desire and feelings of duty were the same thing ; \nand it would certainly be premature and unjust to charge \nmen with universally making such a distinction, when \nthere are no grounds for it. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 453. Further considerations on this subject. \n\n(3) If there is not a fixed, permanent, and radical dis- \ntinction between desires and feelings of obligation, then \nthere is an utter failure of any basis of morality, either in \nfact or in theory. It will readily be conceded, that mor- \nality implies a will, a power of choice and determination. \nBut the conscience does not reach the Will directly. \nThose emotions of moral approval or disapproval, \nwhich are properly ascribed to Conscience, operate \non the will through feelings of obligation ; that is, \nthey are always succeeded by the latter feelings, before \nmen are led to action. All other emotions operate through \nthe Desires. So that the will,4in making up its determina- \ntions, takes immediate cognizance of only two classes of \nmental states, viz. Desires and Feelings of obligation. \nBut brute animals have all the desires, that men have ; we \n\n\n\n588 NATURE OF OBLIGATORY FEELINGS. \n\nmea^ all those modifications of feeling, which have been \nclassed under that general head, viz. instincts, appetites, \npropensities, the varioui* forms of affection, as hatred, love, \nthe parental affection, &c. But still, being evidently des- \ntitute of all feelings of obligation, we never speak or think \nof them as possessing a moral character. We never ap- \nplaud them for doing their duty, nor punish them for \nneglecting its performance. Our treatment of them pro- \nceeds on altogether different principles. And it w^ould be \nthe same with men, if they were wholly destitute of feelings \nof moral obligation, and had no motives of action but the \nvarious forms of desire. They could never, in that case, \nbe considered morally accountable. They would be \nwithout reward, when they w^nt right ; and without re-, \nbuke, when they went wrong. \n\n\n\nCHAPTER SECOND. \n\n\n\nORIGIN OF FEELINGS OF OBLIGATION. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 454. Feelings of obligation not Jounded primarily on law \nor command. \n\n\xe2\x80\xa2 \nIn what has been said so far, we have attempted to es- \ntablish, in the first place, that there is such a thing as the \nfeeling of obligation ; and in the second place, to show, \nso far as it can be done by words, what its nature is. \nAnother inquiry proposes itself, viz, What is the origin or \nfoundation of the feeling of obligation ? What is its ba- \nsis ? On w^hat occasion does it necessarily arise? \n\nIn pursuing this inquiry, the first remark- to be made \nis, that the feeling of obligation is not founded primarily \nand originally on Law ; that is, on any thing commanded \nor ordered. In other words, the mere direction or\'or- \ndering by any Being, however powerful he may be, does \nnot of itself constitute right, and of course does not neces- \nsarily furnish a basis for the feeling of obligation, on \nthe part of those, to whom such direction or order is giv- \nen. Men live constantly under the operation and influ- \nence of law in some shape or other ; and of law too, \nwhich is effective and irresistible. But does any one feel, \nor any one suppose, that law and right are necessarily \nsynonymous -^ Take the simplest possible case. The \ncommands of parents are a law to children and \nyouth ; but in some cases undoubtedly these children and \n\n\n\n590 ORIGIN OF FEELINGS OF OBLIGATION. \n\nyouth feel with very good reason, that the commands of \ntheir parents are not right but wrong, and when they obey \nunder such circumstances, they do it, not from a convic- \ntion of obligation or duty, but from an apprehension of \nthe consequences of disobedience. \n\nAgain, the laws of the land are a rule of action; the \nsubjects of a civil government do not ordinarily deem it \nexpedient to resist them ; and yet how often in conversa- \ntion they pronounce one law to be just, & another unjust, \none to be right, and another to be wrong. A man \nwould be considered exceedingly and even foolishly char- \nitable, who should pronounce every enactment of the ci- \nvil government just and righteous, merely because it hap- \npened to be an enactment, a peremptory order, or law. \nIf the mere power to command and control necessarily \nlays a foundation of the obligation to obey, it would be \nimpossible to justify resistance to any civil government, \nhowever tyrannical and cruel it might be. \n\nAnd we might extend these views, (and we would hope \nwithout incurring the charge of irreverence^) even to the \nDivine Law. While w^e most readily admit, that the Di- \nvine Law is perfectly right and good, we do not hesitate \nto deny, that this moral perfection is based on the mere \nfact, that the Divine Law proceeds from a being, who \ncommands what he pleases, and can enforce his com- \nmands. It certainly cannot require much reflection to \nunderstand the inadmissibility of such a view. It is ad- \nmitted, that God is just and right in his commands, but \nif his character should change and he should \'become \nfierce and cruel, the mere fact of his commanding a cruel \naction could never secure a cheerful obedience from men, \nwhile they remain the same as at present. There would \nevidently be a violent opposition and conflict between his \ncommands and the suggestions of our moral nature. To- \nday God coinmands us to relieve the poor and sujffering, \nand we feel it to be right ; to-morrow he changes his \ncharacter, and commands us to afllict the afflicted, and \nto pluck the bread from the hungry ; but if man felt the \nmoral correctness of the other, as he would do,, he could \n\n\n\nORIGIN OF FEELINGS OF OBLIGAiTlON. 59.1 \n\nnot possibly feel the moral correctness of this. The latter \ncommand, though enforced with almighty power, could \nnot fail to look dark, cloudy, and diabolical. Although \nit should be asserted with due reverence and caution, it is \nundoubtedly the fact that the mind of man may sit in judg- \nment, not only on himself and his fellow men, but on his \nCreator also. God himself,who formed the human mind, \nhas decided and chosen, that men should have this power. \nAnd in proof of what has been said, how often does that \nolorious Beinor appeal to men in his own Scriptures and \ninvite them to sit in judgment on his own doings ! " Oh, \nmy people, what have I done unto thee ? And wherein \nhave I wearied thee ? testify against me." \'^ Come now, \nand let us reason together, saith the Lord" Such is the \nlanguage, in which the most exalted of beings condescends \nto address the children of men. And again He says in a \ntone of authority and rebuke, " Yet ye say, the way of \nthe Lord is noi equal. Hear now, Oh house of Israel, is \nnot my way equal ? Are not your w^ays unequal : "\'^ \nHe then goes on to state the great principles of his moral \ngovernment, his punishment of the wicked and his pres- \nervation of the righteous, and appeals to them as judges, \nwhether he is not just. Such language evidently ap- \npears to be unmeaning, unless we suppose there is in man \na power of judgment, a susceptibility of moral emotions and \nof feelings of obligation. It is an important consideration, \nthat these powers are thus solemnly recognized by God \nhimself,\' who is the author of them. He has not only ap- \npealed to their decisions in the present life ; but on a \nmore solemn occasion yet to come, at the last great day, \nthe sentence will be passed by every cleL\'nquent himself, \nand he will stand condemned by his own conscience. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 455. Further illuslrations oj the same subject. \n\nWe may perhaps receive some little illustration of this \nsubject from the case of the Atheist. The doctrine, which \nwe are controveiting, is simply this, \xe2\x80\x94 the foimdation of \nfeelings of moral obligation is command or law ; and as \n\n* Ezekiel 18th, 29. Micah 6th, 3. Isaiah 1st, 18. \n\n\n\n592 \n\n\n\nORIGIN OF FEELINGS OF OBLIGATION. \n\n\n\nthe will of God is paramount to all other command or \nlaw, we are to look to that will for the ultimate ground \nand source of the sentiment of obligation \xe2\x80\x94 But do we not \nfind a difficulty here in this fact, that the atheist, who \nknows no God, and of course no will of God, still has \nthe sentiment or feeling of duty, as well as other men. \nIt would be essentially unjust and false, to assert, that the \natheist is destitute of conscience, or exempt from moral \nobligation. On the contrary he feels himself, in a multi- \ntude of instances, to be morally bound, as we may clearly \nlearn both from his own acknowledgements and from his \nconduct, which evinces, that he is often subject to a mo- \nral control. It is true, that he has contrived, by a per- \nversion of intellect, virtually to banish God from his own \nCreation, where his existence and glories are so clearly \ndisplayed; but he has not been able, by any contrivance oi\' \neffort whatever, to destroy in his own bosom the senti- \nments of right and wrong, and amiul the immutability of \nmoral distinctions. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 453. Moral obligaiion not dependent on the results of \nactions. \n\nAgain, the source of moral obligation is not founded in \na perception of the good or evil results of actions. \xe2\x80\x94 There \nis no doubt of its being a common doctrine, that whatever \naction is attended with ultimate happiness is right ; and \nthat whatever action is attended with ultimate evil \nor misery, is wrong. That this may be the fact is not de- \nnied. On the contrary, it is undoubtedly true, that there \nis an estal3lished and unshaken coincidence between right \nand happiness, between wrong and misery. Nevertheless \nit is not true, that the sense of obligation is founded neces- \nsarily on the antecedent perception of such coincidence. \nA few remarks will help to show this. \n\n(1) The human mind is so limited in its range, that it \ncannot easily estimate all the consequences of actions, and \nis liable to constant mistakes whenever it makes the at- \ntempt. The process would often prove along and perplex- \ning one, when perhaps, in many cases, a prompt and im- \n\n\n\nORIGIN OF FEELINGS OF OBLIGATION. 593 \n\nmediate decision would be requisite. (2) This doctrine \n\nis not exteiisive enough, as it would not embrace and lay \nthe foundation of moral conduct in all classes of men. \nThere are some men, who do not believe in a fu- \nture state ; and there are thousands and hundreds \nof thousands, including those who live in heathen as \nwell as in Christian lands, who, if they believe in a \nfuture existence, do not believe in a future retribution. \nOf course, if, injudgingof the morality of actions, they are \ngoverned solely by their good or evil results, their rule of \nright must be the good or happiness of the present state \nof being ; and they themselves must be the judges of what \nthis happiness consists in. Their rule of action, therefore, \nnecessarily resolves itself into the expediencies of this short \nlife. But it must be very evident, that the injfluence of \nsuch a system would be evil beyond expression. It would \nsoon involve the whole world in iniquity, confusion, and \nturmoil. And how unreasonable it is to suppose, since it \nis allowed, that no man is exempt from the discharge of his \nduty, that God should have made such feeble and defec- \ntive provision for impulses and obligations of a moral \nnature. \n\n(3) Good and evil results of actions may be regarded \nin the light of rewards and punishments. But certainly it \nseems evident, that rewards and punishments, so far from \nconstituting obligation, presuppose it as already existing. \n" Rewards and punishments, says an able and cautious wri- \nter, suppose in the very idea of them, moral obligation, \nand are founded upon it. They do not make it, but en- \nforce it, or furnish additional motives to comply with it. \nThey are the sanctions of virtue, and not its efficients. \nA reward supposes something done to deserve it, or a con- \nformity to obligations subsisting previously to it ; and punish- \nment is always inflicted on account of some breach of ob- \nligation. Were we under no obligations, antecedently \nto the proposal of rewards and punishments, and inde- \npendently of them, it would be very absurd to propose \n75 \n\n\n\n694 \n\n\n\nORIGIN OF FEELINGS OF OBLIGATION. \n\n\n\nthem, and a contradiction to suppose us subjects capable \nof them." * \n\n\xc2\xa7. 457. Feelings of obligation founded en the acts of the con- \nscience . \n\nIn view, therefore, of what has been said, we come to \nthe conclusion, that the feelings of obligation, as no other \nbasis of them is discoverable, are founded on the dictates \nof an enlightened coNsciENCE ; and that they iind their \norigin no where else. In other words.in the economy of the \nmind, the emotions of approval and disapproval, which are \nappropriately attributed to the conscience, precede, and lay \nthe foundation of feelings of a morally obligatory nature. \nAnd as the constitution of the mind lays itself open in \nthis respect, we cannot fail to see how perfect and admi- \nrable it is. The senses furnish knowledge, in the iirst in- \nstance ; then the reasoning power is brought into action; \nmoral emotions arise in view of the various objects, that \nare brought before the contemplation of the intellect ; \nand these last, occupying a high and sacred place in the inte- \nriour of our nature, are followed by feelings of obligation, \nwhich, finding a still more elevated position in the sanctua- \nry of the mind, constitute the noblest and often the most effi- \ncacious motive,that can be presented to the human volition. \nWhat a combination of powers, operating harmoniously \nin their support and guidance of each other ; and secur- \ning the intelligence, freedom, accountability, and virtue of \nman! And with what propriety can the doctrine of \nScripture be asserted and enforced, that man, by means \nof the principles of his own constitution, is a law to him- \nself ; being fully furnished, by the operation of his various \nsusceptibilities, vv^ith the grounds of approval & disappro- \nval, of condemnation and acquital, of degradation and \nglory ! \n\n* Price\'s Review of Questions in Morals, 2d Lond. Ed. p, 178. \n\n\n\nCHAPTER THIRD. \n\n\n\nNATURE OF RIGHT OR VIRTUE. \n\n\n\n\xc2\xa7. 458, Origin of ideas of right and wrong. \n\nHaving emotions of moral approval and disapproval, \nand feelings of obligation following from them, a founda- \ntion is therebv laid for the oriorin of those abstract con- \nceptions or ideas, which are denominated right and \nwrong ; and are otherwise expressed by such terms as rec- \ntitude and guilt, virtue and vice. It is hardly necessary \nto sugo:est, that these abstract ideas do not in themselves\' \ninvolve any thing like emotion, or desire, or any other \nmodification of mere sensibility. The notions, which \nmen form of right and its opposite, are purely intellectual; \nthey are the creations of the Understanding ; and are en- \ntirely different from any sentient states of the mind, al- \nthough there is a close connection in this particular, that \nthe various moral feelino^s furnish the occasions of their \nexistence. More properly belonging to the kead than the \nheart, to the Intellect than the Sensibility, they are intro- \nduced here, merely in consequence of this close and essen- \ntial connection. Although they are properly regarded \nas the spontaneous and original creations of the intellect, \nin the exercise of its power of Suggestion, it is very ob- \nvious, that they never could have existed, independently \nof the antecedent existence of moral emotions and feelings \nof obligation. \n\n\n\n596 \n\n\n\nNATURE OF EIGHT OR VIRTUE. \n\n\n\nHow is it possible, that a being, who has never experi- \nenced in himself any moral approbation or disapprobation \nof the conduct of others, and has never felt the impulse \nof amoral obligation regulating his own conduct, should \nknow any thing of virtue? That high idea, which \nseems placed in the midst of the mind\'s choicest thoughts \nas a luminous point of attraction and guidance, must \nbe altogether beyond his reach. It is the emotions and \ndictates of conscience, therefore, and the kindred feelings \nof obligation, which lay a broad and deep foundation for \nthe notions of rectitude and iniquity, virtue and vice; \nand it may be added, that no man living is without them. \nIf it be true,as it undoubtedly is, that they are the sponta- \nneous and primitive creations of the understanding or intel- \nlectual constitution of man, like the notions of existence, \nidentity, duration, intelligence, design, power, &c, it is \nequally clear, that the foundation or occasion of them is \nto be sought in our sentient nature. And this circum- \nstance will sufficiently explain, why the examination of \nthem was not attempted in a former part of the work, but \nwas deferred till the present time. \n\n\xc2\xa7.459. Of the nature of these ideas. \n\nThe ideas of right and wrong, (what we otherwise ex- \npress by the terms virtue and vice,) are simple, and like \nall other simple ideas are undeiinable. It is true that va- \nrious attempts at a definition have been made^ but it is no \nexaggeration to say, that they neither silence inquiry, nor \ngive satisfaction. But we are not necessarily ignorant of \ntheir nature, because that nature is not susceptible of being \nmade knowA by a mere verbal expression. We have the \nsame methods of ascertaining that nature, as we have in \na multitude of other analogous cases ; the appeal to inter- \nnal examination, the inward feeling, the testimony of con- \nsciousness. If a man knows what red or white is; what \nsweet or sour or bitter is ; what power or benevolence \nor intelligence or hope or sorrow is ; he may possess a \nknowledge in the same way, and in the same degree, of \n\n\n\nNATURE OF RIGHT OR VIRTUE. 597 \n\nwhat right or wrong is. They stand essentially upon the \nsame footing ; beyond definition, but still fully ascertain- \ned by each one\'s own experience and consciousness. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 460. Of the immutable distinction between them. \n\nIf we have the ideas of right and wrong,and these ideas \nare simple, then right and wrong exist. The human mind, \nin its unbiassed action, and especially in the product of \nelementary and fundamental truths, may be fully relied \non. Simple and elementary ideas are never chimerical; \nthey always have their counterpart; that is to say, some- \nthing really corresponding to them. There is as much \nevidence of the existence of right and wrong, as there is \nof the reality of benevolence, truth, wisdom, or goodness. \nThe mind itself ascertains the nature, and proves the exis- \ntence in all these cases. \n\nAscertaining in this way the reality of right and wrong, \nor what we conceive to be the same thing, of virtue and \nvice, we are now prepared to assert, that there is a fixed \nand immutable difference between them. As the mind, \nwhich originates these notions, assigns to each a distinc- \ntive character, it necessarily recognizes and establish- \nes the fact of this difference. For if there is a differ- \nence in the mental conceptions, and those conceptions \nare not falsities, then there is necessarily a differ- \nence in the things or objects themselves, of which the \nconceptions are representative. If it be certain, that \nthere can be no simple ideas, without something corres- \nponding to them, it is equally certain, that they are not \ninterchangeable. Whatever we perceive or feel to ex- \nist, which is elementary and simple, we never can per- \nceive or feel to exist otherwise than it is. Accordingly if \nwe perceite objects to be different from each other at the \npresent time, we never can conceive^ while that difference \nremains, of their being identical. \n\nA change in what is simple is either by diminution, \nwhich is necessarily a blotting out or annihilation of the \nthing itself ; or by combination, which either, on the one \n\n\n\n598 T^fATURE OF FdGHT OR VIRTUE. \n\nhand, results in some new object, or on the other, leaves \nthe elementary parts the same as ever. If then the ideas \nof right and wrong have an original and distinctive char- \nacter and are simple, is it possible that we should conceive \nof their being identified, any more than we can conceive \nof the identity of red and white, of bitter and sweet, of a \nsquare and a circle^ of a triangle and a hexagon, or of \nany other things in nature, which have permanent and \ndistinctive traits. It is with confidence, therefore, that \nwe assert the immutability of moral distinctions, the \ndifference between moral right and wrong, virtue and \nvice, rectitude and crime. It is not possible for the hu- \nman mind to form a conception of the opposite ; that is to \nsay, the identification or interchange of their nature. \nWhatever, therefore, is right to-day, is right to-morrow, \nnext day, next year, and forever ; and whatever is wa\'ong, \ncontinues to be so through all time and all eternity. \n\n\xc2\xa7. 461. Views of Dr. Price on the immutability of moral dis- \ntinctions. \n\n"Right and wrong, (says a learned writer, whom we \nhave already had occasipn io refer to,) denote what \nactions are. Now whatever any thing is, that it is \nnot by will, or decree, or power, but by nature and necessi- \nty. Whatever a triangle or circle is, that it is unchangea- \nbly and eternally. It depends upon no will or power,wheth- \ner the three angles of a triangle and two right ones shall \nbe equal ; v/hether the periphery of a circle and its diame- \nter shall be incommensurable ; or whether matter shall be \ndivisible, moveable, passive, and inert. Every object of the \nunderstanding has an indivisible and invariable essence ; \nfrom whence arise its properties, and numberless truths \nconcerning it. And the command, which Omnipotence \nhas over things, is not to alter their abstract natures, or \nto destroy necessary truth ; for this is contradictory, and \nwould infer the destruction of all reason, wisdom, and \nknowledge. But the true idea of Omnipotence is an ab- \nsolute command over all particular., external existences, to \ncreate or destroy them, or produce any possible changes \n\n\n\nNATURE OF RIGHT OR VIRTUE. ^99 \n\namong them. The natures of things then being immu- \ntable, whatever we suppose the natures of actions to be, \nthat^hey must be immutably. If they are indifferent, \nthis indifference is itself immutable, and there neither is \nnor can be any one thing that, in reality, we ought to \ndo rather than another. The same is to be said of right \nand wrong, moral good and evil, as far as they express \nreal characters o\xc2\xa3 actions . They must immutably, and ne- \ncessarily, belong to those actions, of which ihey are truly \naffirmed. \n\nNo will, therefore, can render any thing good and ob- \nligatory, which was not so antecedently, and from eter- \nnity ; or any action right, that is not so in itself; meaning \nby action, here, not the bare external effect produced ; but \nthe ultimate principle or rule of conduct, or the determi- \nnation of a reasonable being, considered as accompanied \nwith and arising from the perception of some motives \nand reasons, and intended for some end." * \n\n\xc2\xa7. 462. Further Hluslratlcits of the same subject. \n\n\xe2\x96\xa0 Another valuable writer of our own country expresses \nhis views, , on this important subject, as follows, f \n\n"The rectitude of actions does not depend on their pro- \nceeding from one being or another ; but on their coinci- \ndence with the immutable principles of virtue. Almost \nall men think, with good reason, that they speak honour- \nably of the Supreme Being, when they say, that all his \nmeasures are taken because they are right. Now this \nlanguage implies, that there is, independent of all will, \nsuch a thino^ as rio^ht and wrong. If I sav of the vernal \nforest, it is green, or of the sun, it is lummous.j I assert noth-. \ning, unless I affix some ideas to those epithets. \n\nThe immutable principles of morality necessarily result, \nwe believe, from the nature of things, and from the rela- \ntion, which they have one to another. As God is the au- \nthor of all things, the relation, subsisting between them, \nmay be considered as depending on Him. But \n\n* Price\'s Review of Moral Questions, p. 37. f President \nAppleton\'s Addresses, p. 103. \n\n\n\n600 \n\n\n\nNATURE OF RIGHT OR VIRTUE, \n\n\n\nwhile objects continue, in all respects, as they are, \nno change can be produced in their relations. A fig- \nure, which is now a square, may be turned into a circle. \nBut while it continues a square, it must have the relations \nof such a figure. Now, it is just as absurd to ascribe to \nDeity the power of changing vice into virtue, or virtue \ninto vice, as to speak of his giving to a globe, so continu- \ning, the properties and relations of a cu\'je ; or to speak \nof hi\xc2\xab making a whole, which is less than the sum of all \nits parts." \n\n\xc2\xa7. 463. RiglUand wrong involve a standard or rule of action. \n\nIt follows, therefore, that the doctrine of eternal and \nnecessary right and wrong, virtue and vice, involves the \nultimate and paramount rule of human actions. If there is \nsuch a thing as immutable right, it is impossible, that the \ncharacter of human actions should be indifferent. There \nis a law held over them, expansive as creation, and last- \ning as eternity. It is not an object of the senses, but of \nthe mind. ^We cannot see it, nor touch it ; we cannot de- \nfine its shape, nor designate its locality. And thus it is \nlike the Deity himself, present but invisible ; silent but al- \nways operative; emanating from the centre of the universe, \nbut pervading its utmost limits. But shall we say, that \nwe grope about in darkness, and cannot find it ? It is \nnot so. The feeling of obligation tells us when and where \nto approach it ; and conscience, the vicegerent of the Dei- \nty in the heart, blesses every coincidence with its smile,and \nreproves every delinquency with its frown. Let us never \nimagine, that the law of rectitude, that the authority of \nvirtue is a great way off, because we cannot behold it. The \nair we breathe is not more diffusive, and not more pres- \nent. The powerful language of Scripture will apply here. \n" Say not in thine heart, who shall ascend into heaven, to \nbring it down from above, or who shall descend into the \ndeep to bririgit up from the dead ; the word is nigh thee, \neven in thy mouth, and in thy heart." \n\n\n\nDeacidified using the Bookkeeper proc: \nNeutralizing agent: Magnestum Oxide \nTreatment Date: August 2004 \n\nPreservationTechnologies \n\nA WORLD LEADER IN PAPER PRESERVATION \n\n1 1 1 Thomson Park Drive \nCranberry Township. PA 16066 \n(724)779-2111 \n\n\n\nLIBRARY OF CONGRESS \n\n\n\n\n012 825 673 8 \n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n'