b'\nGlass. \n\n\n\nBook \n\n\n\nSILMH^Hri^l \n\n\n\nOF \n\n\n\nModern Materialism \n\n\n\nINCULCATING THE IDEA OF A FUTURE. STATE, IN WHICH ALL \nWILL BE MORE HATPY, UNDER WHATEVER CIRCUM- \nSTANCES THEY MAY BE PLACED, THAN IP THEY \nEXPERIENCED NO MISERY IN THIS LIFE. \n\n\n\nBY \n\n\n\nCHARLES KJVOWLTOIV, M. D, \n\n\n\n^\' They who would advance in knowledge, and not deceive and \nswell themselves with a little arlicHhued air, sfjould lay down this \nas a fundamental rule, not to tnke words for things, nor suppose \nthat names in books signify real entities in nature, till they can \nframe clear and distinct inens ofthost^ f^ntities." Locke. \n\n\n\nADAMS, MASS.; \n\nPRINTED FOR THE AUTHOR, BY A. OAKEY. \n1829. \n\n\n\n\xe2\x96\xa0s.^\'^\'\'^\'\' \n^^l.\'-\'\\ \n\n\n\nDISTRICT OF MASSACHUSETTS, to wit : \n\nDistrict Clehk\'s Office. \n\nBe it remembered, That on th<? thirteenth dby of Jaai^ary, \nA |). ISi^J^, in the fiay ihirii year of the indf\'pendenre of the Uni- \nted States of America. CHAHiiKs Ksowlton, of the said District, \nhas deposited in this office the title of a book, the right whereof he \nclaims as author and pr^iprietor, in the words following, to wit : \n\n\'\' Elements of l>fodern M?iterialism : inculcating the idea of a \nfuture state, in which all wi.l be more happy, under whatever cir- \ncumstances t/i^y may be placed, than if they experienced no misery \nin this life. By Cli<\xc2\xbbrles Knowllon. M. D. \n\n*\xe2\x80\xa2 They who would advance iji knowledge, and not deceive and \nswell themselves with a little articulated air, should lay down this \nas a fundamental rule, not to take words for things, nor suppose \nthat names in books signify r\xc2\xab al entities in nature, till they can \nframe clear and distinct ideas of those entities. \xe2\x80\x94 Locke." \n\nIn conformity to the act of the Congress of the United States, \nentitled " An act for the encouragement of learning, by securing the \ncopies of maps, charts and books, to the authors and proprietors of \nsuch copies, during the times ther^iu mentioned :" and also to \nan act entitled " An act supplemMitary to an act, entitled, An \naci for the encouragement of learning, by securing the copies of \nmaps, charts and book^s to the authors and proprietors of such co- \npies during the tim\'^s therein mentioned ; and extending the bene- \nfits thereof to the arts of designing, engraving and etching historical \nand other prints. \n\nJNO. W. DAVIS, \nClerk of Ihe District of Massachusells. \n\n\n\nT\xc2\xa9 \n\n\n\nTHE FRZXSNSS OF THUTR AVD INTBXXECU \n\nTHIS WORK \n\n\n\nIS \n\n\n\nDEDICATED: \n\nAs the strongest effort of a feeble pen, to brush away the scho* \nlasMC mist that has so long enveloped the intellectual phe- \nnomena, and served to foster many important errors \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nB\xc2\xa5 THE AUTHOR. \n\n\n\nPage 27, 11th line from bottom, read ^\'wliat is, would be,^*&c. \n*\' 34; I6th \'* *\' top, before th(^ word thing, insert 5\xc2\xabme. \n*\' 50, 5th *^ " top, Tor \xc2\xbb\' Organical," read Organic^ \n" 58, 8th \'\xe2\x80\xa2 " bottom, for \'^ by witches," read con- \n\ncprninif Witches. \n" 70, 14th " " top, for " ever knowing,\'* read even \n\nknowings \n" 91, 2nd " " bottom, for \xe2\x80\xa2\' or abdomen," read and \n\nabdomen. \n" 144, last line for \'^ Page lOi \'\' read Pa^e 122. \n" 168, 14tb iine from top. for *\xe2\x80\xa2 page 44 " read pas^e 41. \n*\xe2\x96\xa0 193, I5th * *\' bottom, r^ad " ideas o/" extension." \n" 195 last line, for <\' others," read orders. \n** 295. 3d line from bottom, strike out the word "to" before \n\nthe word constitute. \n*\' 304, 12th line from bottom, strikeout the word John, \n" 318, 7th "\' *\' bottom, strike out ihe word r^ol. \n<\xc2\xab 370, 2d " <\' top, read " the brain as the fiddler \'\' \n** 373, (which in a ie\\v copies i? paged 337,) 15th line from \n\nt(\xc2\xbbp, leave out the word in. \n" 374, 14th line from bottom, read, " will no( occur." \n"393, 8th\'\' " top, after the word /a///?, put a comma \n\nin room of the period. \nBesides the above, there a hw other errors, which the reader will \nfind no difficulty in correcting. \n\n\n\n0:^ At page 28, the author has marfe some remarks concerning \nthe word nature, thai will not bear criiiivsing : it must be aiimitted \nthat the word has more than one meming " The universe of \nopinion " would be a very odd exfjres-ion. \n\nAlso, at page 70, in the last pHragraph, there appears to be a \nblunder, which the nutbor fears the reader will not be able to cor- \nrect. He considers the faculty of man to communicate his ideas by \nsign?, an ncquired hcuhy ; but he is not able to acquire this facul- \nty f.\'er^nisr his vocal org;ms are better tlian those of a horse, but \nbecause he possesses imnds, and a beller brainy than a horse. \n\n\n\nCONTENTS, \n\n\n\n\nPreface, \nCHAP. I. \n\n\n\nPage, \n\n\n\nWhich IS the most rational supposition, that \na being exists lohich never eommenced ex- \nistence, or that a being commenced exis- \n\ntence zvithout an antecedent F 9 \n\nII.\xe2\x80\x94 On Matter, 15 \n\nIII. \xe2\x80\x94 On the Universe, Power, Cause, Effect, ^c. 19 \nV. \xe2\x80\x94 On Deity, and the Relation which subsists \nbe\'ween the Creator and the Events of \n\nthe Universe, - - - - 29 \n\nV. \xe2\x80\x94 On Action or Change, - - . 41 \n\nVI. \xe2\x80\x94 On Union \xe2\x80\x94 Mechanical, Chemical, and yj-^ \n\nOrganic, ----- 50 \n\nVII.\xe2\x80\x94 On Vegetables^ - - - 59 \n\nVI 11. \xe2\x80\x94 General Remarks concerning Animals, 63 \n\nIX. \xe2\x80\x94 On the jSfervous System, - - - 73 \n\nX. \xe2\x80\x94 On the Muscular System, - - - 88 \nXI. \xe2\x80\x94 On the Relation rvhich subsists betweeii the \n\nMuscular and Nervous Systems, - 117 \n\nXII. \xe2\x80\x94 On Sensation and Perception, - 168 \n\nXIII. \xe2\x80\x94 On Ideas and Sensorial Tendencies, 188 \n\nXIV. \xe2\x80\x94 On Remembering, - - - 209 \n\nXV. \xe2\x80\x94 On Imagining, - - - - 213 \n\nXV\\.\xe2\x80\x94 On Signs, 216 \n\nXYU.\xe2\x80\x94 On Judging, - - - - 238 \n\nXYUL\xe2\x80\x94 On Belief, - ... 257 \n\nXIX.~0\xc2\xab Knowledge, . - _ - 270 \n\nXX. \xe2\x80\x94 On Personal Identity, * - - 275 \n\nXXI.\xe2\x80\x94 On. Volition, - . - - 285 \n\nXXU. \xe2\x80\x94 On the Passions, - - - 309 \n\nXXUL^On Religion, - - - - 321 \n\n\n\nvi. CONTENTS. \n\nQHAP. XXIV. \xe2\x80\x94 On Phenomena referred to Instinct^ 332 \nXXV. -On Sleep, - - . . 341 \n\nXXVI. \xe2\x80\x94 On Dreaming, Somnambulism and \n\nSommloquism, - - - 345 \n\nXXVII.\xe2\x80\x94 On Insanity, - - - - 365 \n\nXXY\\\\\\,\xe2\x80\x94On Idiotism, - - - - 367 \n\nXXIX.\xe2\x80\x94 On Death and Dying, - - 370 \n\nXXX. \xe2\x80\x94 An Attempt to show that Materialism is \nas consistent with Christianity as Im- \nmaterialism, - - - - 377 \n\nXXXI.\xe2\x80\x94 On a Future State, - - - 397 \n\nXXXIl. \xe2\x80\x94 On Human Happiness, Good and \n\nEvil, Morality, ^c. - - 403 \n\nXXXIII. \xe2\x80\x94 A Brief Sketch of the Opinions of \nseveral Ancient and Modern Phi- \nlosophers concerning the Consti- \ntution and Phenomena of Man: \nGiven partly for the purpose of \nshowing that the Hypothesis of \nSoul gave rise, to the sceptical phi- \nlosophy 0/ Berkley and Hume, 418 \n\nXXXIV.\xe2\x80\x94 .^ Refutation of Professor Sfewart^s \nArgument for the existence of Soul \nor Mind, - - - . 426 \n\nXXXV. \xe2\x80\x94 Professor Lawrence\'^s Lecture on the \n\nFunctions oj the brain, - 432 \n\nXXXVI.\xe2\x80\x94 Some of the difficulties that attend \nthe Hypothesis of Soul, but do not \nattend the doctrine of Materialism^ 441 \n\nConclusion, - - * - - - - 446 \n\n\n\nPnSPAOE. \n\n\n\nI am out at last, in the condilion you see me. My author has \nhad to conieod with iDany difficulties in bringing rae forth ; afld he \nWf^uld have me su^gest to you, that it" the circunntaiires under which \nhf has composed me, wtre known, they would be considered as \nsuffi ient apology for many minor errors But for his attempting \nto write under such circim)stances. he can offer n(\xc2\xbbthin^ better than \nhis conviction that he is able to throw consideiable light upon sev- \neral very important and very interesting subjects \xe2\x80\x94 He firmly be- \nlieves that the leading principles which 1 contain, are true ; and \nthat by the diffusion of truth, the happiness of the human family \nwill in the end be promoted. He is awaie however, that many \npersons strangely ground their hopes of a future state, in the exist- \nence of a thing which I shall convince you has no being in nature ; \na thing which almost all philosop\'iers who maintain its existence, \nadmit to be unextended, and consequently not a millionth part as \nlarge as a pin\'s head ; \xe2\x80\x94 a thing which ttiey call Soul or iMind, but \nwhich is not declared in the Word of God to be immortal, and the \nceaseloss existence of which \xe2\x80\x94 admitting it to be such a feeling, \nthinking thing as maintained \xe2\x80\x94 is inconsistent with the doctrine of \nresurrection, as set forth in the Christian Scriptures. Such per- \nsons \xe2\x80\x94 though they rnay have their curiosity gratified by perusing \nme \xe2\x80\x94 will not be pleased with the sentiments which 1 contain ; un- \nless I succeed in convincing them that iheir future existence in a \nstate of consciousness, does not at all depend on the existence of \nthis unextended tliiui; Bui this 1 may be able to do ; for by show- \ning what personal identily does in truth consist in, I shall remove \nthe difficulties that have been supposed to allerui the dociriue of a \nfuture state, if the doctrine of MATtRlALI^]M be admitted. \n\nAs " The proper study of uankind is man," and as a knowledge \nof himself is the most usetul knowhdge he can acquire- that is, the \nmost conducive to his happitiess \xe2\x80\x94 it is intended that I be sluded \n(for I am. not written merely to please the taste) by all classes of \nreaders ; consequently I am not exactly the same thing I should \nhave been, had I been designed for any one class in particular. \nAnd while men of science, and especially medical men, will find \nmany facts already known to them ; the less learned will tneet \nwith a few technical terms with which they ^re unacquainted But \nI may, perhaps, be lound interesting thnmghout, even to medical \n\n\n\nviii. PREFACE. \n\ngendemen ; for thpse facts are brought forward and arranged with \na (l^\'siiin to establish the important inferences my fiuihor has drawn \nfrooj ihfm. And as to technical terms, in altnost all cases they are \nso brought in, that jihe reader will know their meaning as soon as he \ncomes to them. \n\nAs it is believed that I contain a new system of notions, \xe2\x80\x94 that \nmy merits may not be wrongly appreciated, it is my nuthor\'s ur- \ngent request tha? the reader either put me aside at once, or read \nnie throuiih attentively, asid in order, from beginning to end \xe2\x80\x94 If \nray eleventh chapter be tbund rather tedious, it is necessary that it \nbe attentively read, to the ritjht understanding of what follows. \n\nThat my author might " begin at the beginning," and that he \nmight have a fit opportunity to adv mce a few ideas for the consid- \neration of those who love to tlsmk ; he has inserted my first chap- \nter : though he cannot see as it has any connexion with my lead- \ning principles. \n\nExceptiuij what i^ contained in three or four chapters, I contain \nvery littie th^t is taken from other books Nor has my author en- \ndeavored to exhaust any of the various subjects of which he has \ntreated \xe2\x80\x94 Hh \' as made truth his pole star, and steered right ahead, \nlaying down his principles, and explaining the phenomena of man \nup \'U the-e principles vv;thout tuniingto the right or left to favcror \noppose any sect or party ; if he have done either, it is because it \ncame in his way. \n\nHe does not ?ay he presents me to an enlightened, imparhal, \nand intprpjud\'ced public, by whose decision I must stand or /all 5 \nfor there is no sucli public in existence. \n\nIt is expected the critics will fall to nibbling my .soft parts \xe2\x80\x94 of \nM\'hich 1 possess a pretty good share - bui my author will never be \ntroubled for this, should it be found that they aie unable to destroy \nmy bones. \n\nMams f January 2^ih, 1829. \n\n\n\nOF \n\nMODERN MATERIALSM. \n\n\n\nCHAPTER I. \n\nWhich is (he most ralonal supposilion, thai a being fxisls which \nnever commenced txistence, or that a being commenced exist\' \nence rvilhout an antecedent ? \n\nThe sentiment, that a being exists which never commenced \nexistence, or, what is the same thmg, mai a uemg (exists which \nhas existed from all eternity, appears to us to favor atheism ; \nfor, if one being exist which never commenced existence, why \nnot another \xe2\x80\x94 why not the universe ? It weighs nothing, says \nthe atheist, in the eye of reason, to say the universe appears \nto man as though it were organized by an Almighty Designer; \n/or the maker of a thing must be superior to the thing made ; \nand if there be a Maker oftheuniverse^ there can be no doubt \nbut that if such Maker were minutely examined by man, man \nwould discover such indications of wisdom and design, that it \nwould be more difficult for him to admit that such Maker was \niiot caused or co[istructed by a pre-existing Designer, than to \nadmit (hat ihe universe was not caused or constructed by a \nDesigner. But no one will contend for an infinite series of \nMakers ;.and if, continues the atheist, what would, if viewtd, \nbe indications of design, are no proof of a designer in the one \ncase, they are not in the other ; and as such indications are \nthe only evidence we have of the existence of a Designer of \nthe universe, we, as rational beings, contend there is no God# \n\n\n\nWe 3o nnt srrrpf>\xc2\xabp \\he existence of anytieTng of whfcTi ihtrh \nis no ev.deiice, when such supposition, if admitied, so far from \ndiminishing, would only increase a difficulty which is at best \nBifficienlly grt at. Surely, if a superior being may have ex* \nisied from all eternity, an inferior may have existed from all \neternity ;\xe2\x80\x94 if a great God, sufKciently mighty to make a world, \n5nay have ex\'Sted from all eternity, of course without begin. \nring and without cause, such world may have existed from \nall eternity, without beginning, without cause. \n\nSuch being the argument!^ which atheists may advance, on \nihv supposition that a bemg exists which never commenced \nexistence ; we, as firm believers in the existence of an intelli* \ngent Creator of <he unr verse, shall endeavor to show that it i9 \nmore rptmn^l to suODOse th.i o K.I.a ^^n.^o.o..4 ..Utence \niv.thout an antecedent, than to suppose that a bemg existB \nfyhinh never began to exist. \n\nIt wiH be admitted that a man can no more conceive 0(9, \nteing existing from all eternity, in the common sense of the \nword ett rnity, than he can conceive of space extending so fap \nthat there is no conceivable space beyond. Let us think back \ne? far as we pleae^e, in spite of us it will seem as though every \nbeing, agent, or entity, which does exist, must some time op \nOther have commem ed existence. We may verbally admit \nthat a being has existed from all eternity ; but still, this/ro7\xc2\xbb \nall tte.rniiy will seem to us as from some very distant period \nOF commencement. It gives a close thinker no satisfaction \nto tell him that a being has tx.sted \'rom all eternity: he caa \nhave no such notion as these words are intended, and perhaps \n8.ij>posed, to convey ; and he is more and more convinced of \nthis, the more he eiidfca\\( r^ to form such notion. \n\nLei us say that eteruity is co-extensive with time, and that \ntioi^ iS tuat pan 01 Uurauou m wiiich a bting lias tt&isted. Wg^ \n\n\n\nn \n\nHiafl thus liare a sort of fixed point, orsfarffnsf p^are ? STift \n#an saj that the Deity has existed during all eienuly. \n\nNow it follows, according to our use of the woid time, that \nprior to the commencement of time, nothing was \xe2\x80\x94 neitheP \nmatter, nov laws of nature. It had not been decreed that no \neffect shall take place without cause, \xe2\x80\x94 it was not then a law \nof nature that every event shah be preceded by some othep \n\xe2\x82\xacvent ; that no being sh^U exist except it be caused to \nexist, and this too in a certain way. Hence it was just as \nlikely that a being should commeur*^ ^Kistence as otherwaysj \nthere was no reason why a bein^ shouM comfrence cxistenr\xc2\xae \nand no reason why a being should not \xe2\x80\x94 nt>thn)ii to raus\xc2\xbb to \nbe, or to prevent from being, and a being commenced exist* \net>ce. Now this being, whatever it migh.^ he, was all-power- \nfiil, considering the relation in which it stood ; foj indeed., as \nnothing else existed, it stood rn relation with nothing \xe2\x80\xa2. no lavf \nor power existed to oppose or be opposed, and it mis;ht as \nwell be one thing as another, hideed, it is not unreasonable \nto suppose ihat this being underwent, as we may say^fortui* \n^ws changes \xe2\x80\x94 pt* iliaps many millions of them\xe2\x80\x94 before it be\xc2\xbb \nc\xc2\xbbme a thmking Being. But after th<s, He decreed : hence- \nforth NOTHING SHALL BE EXCkPT AT MV Pi.EASURB ; and it \n\nwas and ever has been so. For the decree of fhts Bemg was, \nand the decree of any other being under the same circumst *n* \n\xc2\xbbts would have been, sutiicient to dt- termine any thing. (It \ntakes but little to turn the scale when there is no weij^ht ia \nthe other end.) \n\nGod now willed a universe into existence,* and Order was \n\n*u , ^ \xe2\x96\xa0 . \n\n*lt was a dogniH of hII ihe ancient s hools of pliiIosi\xc2\xbbphy. that \nmatter could not be created oui ot itnthms:^ hy niiy pt-wer whuiever, \nand snch is !he opinion of surne nKxIein pil\'sopheis VVV shall \nHut euter lutu auj luug Uiscubiiiuu ol iin<> ^utbiiua ^ w\xc2\xab b\xc2\xabU\xc2\xabY^ \n\n\n\n12 \n\n\xe2\x80\xa2svas the second decree of Heaven : it was decree^i that noth- \ning shall act until it be acted on, and the same antecedents \nshall be invariably succeeded by the same consequents, under \nthe same circumstances. This was the law of order. Elec- \ntricity now sprung forth and prevaded all thmgs. This is the \nmain-spring of the universe, which the Deity caused to be \xe2\x80\x94 \nit is the essential cause of all actions or changes, \xe2\x80\x94 it is the ma- \nterial life of a material world. \n\nNow it was in heaven decreed that no being shall com* \nxnence existence without cause and that like antecedents shall \nbe invariaby succeedecl by like consequents, under the same \ncircumstances, before any nrtan existed. Consequently no \nman ever saw a being commence existence without cause ; \ninstead of this, man sees that certain agents acting under cer- \ntain circumstances, are invariably succeeded by certain ac- \ntions or changes of certain other agents ; and this gives rise \nto the belief \xe2\x80\x94 and to the language by which we express \n\nli that agents or bodies possess intrinsick /jozwsr^ of prod uring \n\nchanges in each other, and that nothing can and (forgettmg \nthat the laws ol nature were totally dJfFerent before there \n\n\n\nhowever, that on a full consideration of the subject, it will appear \nthat we may as well admit that matter might commence existence, \nas to admit many other things which no one denies. To say that \nmatter was created out of nothing, is to state the simple fact that \nmailer commenced existence, in rather bad language To create \nout o/\' irresistibly conveys the idea of to create oul of soimething, \nand the expresson to create oul of nothing seems to involve a con- \ntradiction, besides being an expression of that which is inconceiva- \nble Let us say that the Deity willed it, and matter immediately \ncommenced existence. Here are two events between which there \nis no intHrvening event, and we say we cannot conceive how or why \nthe subsequent event followed the antecedent ; but it will be made \nto =sppear, in the course cf this work, that in every case in which \nQr\\^ t\'vent immediaiely succeeds another we cannpt conceive how \n\xc2\xaer why. \n\n\n\n13 \n\nwere any laws of nature) never could commence existence, \nexcept it be caused to exist by something which possesses the \npower of causing it to exist. \n\nBut suppose the laws of nature, and consequently man\'i! \nexperience, had been intirely different ; suppose that no man \never saw any event preceded or succeeded by another par* \nticiilar event more than ohce ; suppose it were a very com-r. \nmon and every-day thing to see men. machines, rocks, trees^ \n^rc. springing at once into existence, even in a vacuum, un- \nder all sorts of circumstances or no circumstance at all] to \nsee heavy bodies rise into the air without {"orce at one time \nbut not at another, though under the same circumstances ; to \nsee precisely the same kind of oil mix with water at one time, \nthough noi at another; in short, suppose all events took place \nwithout any order or regularity, would any one think that \nevery ev^ni must be preceded by some other event, that one \nbody has the power of producing a change in another body^ \nand that nothing can commence existence, unless something \npreviously exist which has the power of causing it to exist? \nWe think not, \xe2\x80\x94 we think if the events of nature never had \noccurred in some kind of order, we never should have heard \nany thing about poaoer, cause, \xc2\xab^ed, &c. We think also, that \nmen might then very readily admit, that a being may conri- \nini lice existence, or might have commenced existence, al- \nthough nothing exist prior to such commencement, of course^ \nw. oiit an antecedent. \n\nPerhaps, reader, you will say, that if the laws of nature \n"were totally different from what they now are, we may well \nsuppose that events might occur without being preceded by- \nother events in any way connected with them. Well, if you \nadmit this, you accede to the sentiment we are endeavoring \nto maintain ; for before there were any nature or laws \xc2\xa9f fla- \n\n\n\n14 \n\nti]re,t!icre could not have been any such laws of nafare ^ \ntJiere now are. \n\nIt appears, then, (to tlie writer at least,) that the difficulty \nwhich one experiences in admitting that a heing might com- \nmence existence without an aiitecedent, is owing to a sort </f \nprejudice which he acquires bv witnessing events as they oc\xc2\xbb \ncur, since it has been decreed th^t the same antecedents shall \nbe followed by the same corisequents, and decreed also, that \nnothing shall exist except it be caused to exist. The conclu* \naion IS : It is more rational to suppose that a being should \ncommence existence vt fthout an anecedent, than that a being \nexists whic/i never had a beginning. \n\nThe reader will not suppose that we consider what we have \nbeen saying as any argument against atheism ; for the atheist \nmay grant our conclusion, but still tell us, it does not follow \nbut that it is just as probable that the universe commenced \nexistence without an antecedent, as that a Designer of the \nUniverse thus commenced existence. \xe2\x80\x94 Our arguments againsi \natheism, are to be found in the fourth chapter of this work. \n\nShould any one pretend it is irreverent to say of the Deity, \nthat, thon^h he is self-exisung, i. e. not created, caused, op \npreceded, he, in some remote period of duration, commenced \nexistence; we should ask, zohy so ? We can see nolhi?!g ob\xc2\xab \njectFonable in such doctrine. It does not follow that the \npower and goodness of the Deity are diffe rer>t from what they \nare supposed to be, by those who make the ambiguous asser* \ntn)n, that the Deity has existedyVom all eternity. It does not \nfollow that the relation between the Deity and the universe \nand the relation between men and their Maker, and betwt en \n\xc2\xabach other, is not the same as if we suppose the Deity never \nbegan to be. Nor does it follow that (he Deity will ever \n\xc2\xab\xc2\xababe to be ; uo mortal mau can oiTer any reabou why the i)\xc2\xab^ \n\n\n\nIt \n\n\n\n^ plionid ev^f e^n^e to be, on the siippo?ff!on tf\xc2\xbbaf lie \xe2\x80\xa2nte \nbegan to be, that cannot be given against his ceaseless exists \n%rice, ou the supposiliou that he never commenced existeccei \n\n\n\nCHAPTER IL \n\nOn Matter. \n\nWe define matter, a combination of properties. Tt follows, \n\xc2\xa9ccnrding to this detinition of matter, that space^ or what is \nsometimes called empty space is not matter, as was contend- \ned ft) Des Cartes, for space consists of but one suigle proper^ \nIj\', to wit, extension. \n\nWe know that much has been said about the essence of \nmatter. Many philosophers speak of it, ev^n at the present \n^ay, as though it were something distinct from the properties \n\xc2\xa9f matter, not something which these properties constitute^ but \nsomething which is "" the permanent exhibiter" of ihese pro-^ \nperti^s. We are gravely told, that we are irresistibly led te \nascribe these properties to such essence or permanent subject, \n** by the very constitution of our nature.\'^ But the present \nl^riter is rather unfortui.ate, for the constitution of his nature^ \n(if he can divine what this is,) does not lead him to ascribe \nthe properties of matter to something besides what they con- \nStitute ; but the construction of our language compels him t\xc2\xa9 \nlipeak as though he consid^^red the properties of matter, or the \nBfiaterial properties, as l)eloiiging to something which they do \nnot constitute. He speaks of the properties of matter, and \nof matter possessing properties, just as he speaks of the stu- \ndents of a university, the father of a child, and of a man pos* \ngessing a house ; but he supposes that one combinatioji of \nl^roperii^s eoubiituies Qim kmU vr torm of mdiier^ ani>th\xc2\xab^ \n\n\n\nii^mbinatlon another kind, snd so on ; \xe2\x80\x94 ^he would not be uti- \nderstood to suppose that the properties of matter are proper- \nties of any thing besides what they constitute. \n\nWe need resort to no long reasoning processes to convince \none that the essence of matter is a name without a thing ; eve- \nry man will admit, afier a very little thinking, that f all the \nproperties which constitute any body, or if you please, of any \nbody, be taken away, nothing will remain. Take from any \nbody (he property of extention,of impenetrability, of attrac- \ntion, and every other properly which may he present, and \nwhat, pray, will remain? \xe2\x80\x94 He that asserts that matter itself , \nas some say, or the essence of matter, as others say, is one \nthing, and the properties of matter something else, asserts a \nsheer and inconceivable hypothesis, in support of which he \ncan bring nothing at all. \n\nIf, then, combinations ot properties constitute the materia! \nworld by which we are suriounded, and of which we are a \npart the question may be asked, ivhat is a property ? A prop- \ni&rty, singly considered, is the most unique thing in nature, \nand does not, of course, admit of being defined. Every body \nmust learn what a property is, by experience ; \xe2\x80\x94 who can \ndefine sweet to a man who never could taste? white to a man \ntirho never could see ? and solidity toe man who never could \nfeel? \n\nWe cannot say what is the least number of properties, ex- \nisting together ; or, in other words, there may be some forms \nof matter in nature consisting of fewer properties than any \nform we are acquainted with. Extension and impenetrabi lity \nfinitfd, would constitute what all men would willingly call \ninatter; but it is pretty certain that these properties are ne- \nV\'er united in nature, without other properties being present; \nSb, again, there may be in existence (as we wiii admit) com* \n\n\n\n17 \n\nbinati\xc2\xabns of properties, f. e. kinds of matter, in which exten- \nsion and impenetrability are not liolh present. \n\nWho is it that brings together three or four words, and says, \nthat when those properties which :hese words signify exist to- \ngether, what they constitute shall be called matter; and when \none or more of these properties are wanting, what stHI exists \nshall not be called matter ? It is a human being. We are all \nhuman beings ; and as it is man who has invented the word \nmatter to denote substances possessing f^ertain properties, \nwhy may not men enlarge the meanu,g of the word, so as to \nGomprehend those substances or existences now called spiri- \ntual, provided it is tit to do so? Do you say ihat those beings \nwhich are called material, and those which are called spintu- \nal, are essentially ditTerent ? But what do you mean by essen- \ntially different ? To have nothing in common, you answer. \nThey have something in common : both classes of substan- \nces are combinations of properties. \xe2\x80\x94 Did the man ever exist \nwho believed that spirits consist of only one property ? Spirits \nare generally spoken of as being expended, visible, and move- \nable botiies ; and in olden times they used to have wings, ride \nin chariots, &;c. The moderns know nothitig about spirits ; \nand it is probable they never would have thought of such \nthings were it not for what has been handed down from men \n\xc2\xa9f ancient times, whose active brains were not dogged by an \noverstock of scientific knowledge. Had the ancients known \nas much as the moderns about the laws and properties of mat- \nter, \xe2\x80\x94 had they been as well acquainted with the nature of the \natmospheric air, and many other invisible, intangible, and yet \n57za/ena/ bodies ; it is probable they never would have invent- \ned, !iever would have had any use for, the word spirit ; nor \never believed in the existence of any thing which is not ma* \nterial. Nay, we very much doubt if any ancient ever did be- \n\n\n\n15 \n\nlieve in the existence of any thing immaterial, in the sense im \nwhich the word immaterial is now understood.* \n\nWe know not how recently the word immaterial has been \ninvented ; we beheve, however, the word is not to be found \nin the bible. And thanks to close thinkers, if any body \never meant anything by it, men have been compelled to ad\' \nmit, that whatever is immaterial is unextended / And one \nmight have reasonably expected that all who know enough to \nkeep out of fire and water, would cease to talk, gravely^ about \na BEING that is unextended ! \xe2\x80\x94 What sort of machinery is it, \nthat is in such continual operation as to keep alive the most \npalpable absurdities ? \n\nAlthough we have admitted that there may he substances \nin existence that do not possess the two properties of exten- \nsion and impenetrabihty, we are far from believing that there \nare such ; \xe2\x80\x94 if there be, we must suppose that they consist of \nmore than one property, and are, of course, whatwe should \ncall material. Barely to the expression, material spirits^ we \nhave no more objections, than to the expression material \nstones y but a? professed searchers after truth, we cannot ad- \nmit the existence of any thing until we have some other evi- \ndence of it, than merely, that a name is provided for it, if it do \nindeed exist. The opinions of men of ancient times concern- \ning the nature of things, can have but very little weight with \nphilosophers of the present day, since such great discoveries \nconcerning the laws and properties of matter have, in modern \ntimes, been made, and so many ancient errors detected. \n\nThe road to truth has been very much obstructed by old \nthingless names, got into use by the ancients ; and it is, at the \n\n\n\n* The Latin spiritns, from spiro * to brei^he,\' is the original of \nour spirit, pnd means merely * breath,\' which is as truly matter as \nthe earth on which we tread. \n\n\n\nid \n\n\n\npresent time, no trifling and unimportant U^k, to show what \nwords are insignificant, and to determine the precise things \nwhich other words ought to be used to signify.. \n\n\n\nCHAPTER 111. \n\nOn the Universe^ Power, Cause, Effect, ^c* \n\nBy the word universe, we mean every thing that was crea- \nted by an Almighty Designer. We do not consider space as \na real entity or agent ; we do not think it pro|)er to gay tha^ \nspace was created. With us, it is unconceivable that an agent \nshould exist which never commenced existence ; but with us, \nit is equally inconceivable that space should not have existed \n(if it be proper to speak of the existence of that which is not a \nbeing.) from eternity. Neither do we consider the Designer of \nthe universe as a part of the universe, but as something dis- \ntinct from it : we say that the word universe ought to be used \nto signify every thing that was created, and we say, further- \nmore, every thing which was created, is matter. \n\nNow when any body of matter acts, this body may be call- \ned the agent of such action ; and the action itself may be call* \ned an event. If an ultimate atom of matter act, this atom is, \nalso, the agent of such action, and the action as truly an event \nas any other, although our senses may be too imperfect to \nperceive either the atom or the action ; or, in other words, to \nperceive either the atom (at rest) or the atom acting ; for the \naction of an agent is nothing other than, nothing distinct from, \nthe agent acting, any more than a property of a body is some- \nthing distinct from the body. \n\nEvents do not occur promiscuously ; but it is a universal \nfact, or iam of nature^ that such event as is succeeded by a \n\n\n\nm \n\ncerfain other event at one time, is at all times succeeded bj \n\nthe same event, circumstances being the same. \n\nWe must now show what we mean by circumstances \xc2\xbb The \nword circumstatices, is a convenient word which we often use \nto den(\xc2\xbbteall those preceding events which we do not wish t\xc2\xa9 \nbe at the trouble of enumeratnig ; \xe2\x80\x94 we need not add, that we \nalso use it to denote conditions, for (his is implied, since the \nsame cham of antecedent events gives rise to ihe same condi- \ntions. No body is ever in a condition, except it be put in such \ncondition ; and this putting any thing in a condition is an \nevent ; therefore, if the circumstances be the same, if the pre- \nceding events be the same, the present conditions will be the \nsame. Hence, to say the word circumstances means prece- \ndi/tg events, i<s as much as to say it mediUs preceding events and \npresent conditions* \n\nNow the universal fact, or law of nature, that like ante- \ncedents are hivariably succeeded by like consequents, under \nthe same circumstances, has given rise to the words Power, \nCause, and Effect. Men have found that a certain action, \nor change, of the body A, is immediately, and under the same \ncircumstances^ invariably succeeded by a certain action of the \nbodv B, but that an action of X, although X be brought in \ncontact with B, is not followed by such change or action of \nB. Such exj erience has given rise to the sentiments, (and to \nthe language to express them,) that the action of A is the \ncause of the action of B ; that the action of B is the effect of \nsuch cause ; and that A possesses a something [a power] which \nenables it to produce (hoth bad terms) a change or action of \nB, and which X does not possess. \n\n0( cause and effect we shall treat more fully presently. As \nto the word po7ver. there can be no harm in using it as above, \nif it be rightly understood, if it give rise to no false notions. \nBy iha power of A, to produce a change of B, nothing more \n\n\n\n21 \n\nought to be meant than the simple (>\\ci, thai under certain cir- \ncuriHlflnces, a rertaiu change of A is immediate ly ahcl invaria" \nhly succeeded by a ceriaiii change of B. If a mai\xc2\xbb suppose \nthat the power of any body be something distinct irom, and \nsomething more than such body, then is lie deceived by lan- \nguage, and led to believe in the existence of a non-enu(y. \n\nk power of a body, instead of being distuict from, or more \nthan such body, is a part of such body, in the same sense that \na property of a certain kmd ot matter is a part of such nvrUer, \nTake away, or destroy any properly, or power, of any body, \nand it is no longer the same body, logically speaking, in- \ndeed, if there be any difference between a power and a prop- \nerty of a body, it must be a very nice and not essentinl one. \nWe must make it ourselves, by saying that a body poss^^s^es \na power, when we find that \\t produces certain changes in oth- \ner bodies ; and that a body possesses a properly,, when we fiiid \nthat it not only produces changes in other bodies, but suffers \nchanges from the action of other bodies. \n\nBut if there be no more real distinction between a power \nand a property, than this, seme may wonder why we should \nsay, as above, that, by the power r,f the body A to produce a \nchange in the body B, nothing more ought to be meant than \nthat, under certain circumstances, a certain change or action \nof A is immediately and invariably succeeded by a certain \nchange of B. But this wonder will cease when we consider \nclosely the only reason we have, m any case, for saying a bo- \ndy possesses a property. It will be found that the ouJy rea- \nson i?, because the body may produce a change in some otiier \nbody, or sufTer a change in itself from ihe action of aonie oth- \ner body. \n\nSome will see, at once, that this assertion is true ; others \n-will wonder at it, and ask what change in any other body, a \npiece of j^old, iaid away in a box, produces, that leada us t\xc2\xa9 \n\n\n\n2\xe2\x82\xac \n\nsay it is extended, yellow, and heavy* But it mast be remem- \nbered, that gold would be to mankind nothing at all, if no piece \nof gold ever acted upon any of the senses of any man ; and, \ncertainly, in such case, no man would have any reason to say \nthat gold is extended, yellow, and heavy. And as to the par- \nticular piece of gold laid away in a box, he that knows nolh* \ning about this piece of gold, cannot say that this piece of gold \nis extended, &;c. But some one has seen and felt this piece \nof gold, \xe2\x80\x94 then this piece of gold produced some change in that \nwhich sees and feels ; and on this account, whoever saw and \nfelt the gold, has reason to say it is extended, yellow, &:c. \n\nWe do not say but that trees, stones, kc, would have had \nthe same properties that they now have, if no sentient bemg \nhad ever existed ; but the only reason we have for saying \nthat bodies possess properties, is, because they produce or \nsuffer changes. \n\nPerhaps one thing that serves to make many think there is \nmore difference between a pozoer and a property than what \nthere really is, is this : v\xc2\xbb^e give properties particular names? \nbut we do not powers. We say of a muscle, it has the pow- \ner of contracting, and we say it has the property of contract- \ning : this property we give the nanr.e of contractility^ and \nspeak of the property of contractility ; but the power of con* \ntractility is an expression not in use. \n\nFrom what has been said, it appears that in metaphysical \ndisquisitions, we might very well dispense with the wordpozy- \n\xe2\x82\xacr ; for we cannot give it any more meaning than we give the \n\xe2\x96\xa0word properly ; and the reasons we have for saying a body \npossesses a power, are no more than the reasons we have for \nsaying it possesses a property. \n\nA power is neither an agent nor an action, an agent at rest^ \nnor an agent acting ; but merely to express the simple fact, \nthat, under certain circumstances, a certain change of A is im- \n\n\n\nas \n\nmediately and invariably succeeded by a certain change o\xc2\xa3 \nD ; in less words than these, we use the wordpotoer, and say \nthat A has the power of producing a change in B. But it \nwould be as philosophically correct to say A has the property \nofproducing a change in B. \n\nIt may be asked whi/ a certain change of A is immediately \nand invariably succeeded by a certain change of B, under \ncertain circumstances ? To this question, the only and the \nsufficient answer that can be given, is, such is the fact; or \nsuch is the law of nature ; or such is the will of the Great \nArchitect. Th^ two fifst ansv/ers differ only in sound, and \nthe last is like either of them, unless it be supposed that the \nGreat Architect wills (and of course thinks of) the change of \nB to follow immediately after the change of A, or did will \nthese particular changes to occur in this very order, at some \nformer period. \n\nIt must be remembered, that in those cases in which it is \nknown and admitted that two events occur in immediate con- \nnection, none but boys will attempt to explain why the subse- \nquent event follows the antecedent. To explain the connec- \ntion between any two events, is nothing more nor less than to \npoint out intervening events, and the order in which they oc- \ncur; but in case one event immediatdy follow another, there \nare no intervening evtnts to be pointed out, of course, no ex- \nplanation to be given. \n\nTo illustrate what we have here said, suppose a man strikes \na ball, and the ball moves ; now if it be asked wh} his striking \nthe ball is. followed by a motion of the ball, no explanation \ncan be given, and no answer can be given, except that such is \nthe fact, or law of nature. But if the ball move on and knock \ndown a pin, and it be asked why his striking the ball is follow- \ned by the fall of the pin, the answer, the explanation is, be- \ncause the belli moved on and hit the pin. Here you see there \n\n\n\n24 \n\nis an Intervening event (the motion of the ball) to be pointed \nout, Hiid of course some explanation to be gwen. \n\nBut in some instances in which one event succeeds anoth- \ner, it is not easy to determine whether they occur in imme- \ndiate connection or not ; hence a man may sometimes at- \ntempt to explain the connection between two events when \nthere is no explanation to be given ; a man too who would \nnot think of attempting to show why one event follows anoth\xc2\xbb \ner. knoicing that they occur in immediate succession. We \nbelieve, however, it more frequently happens that men think \nthat they have arrived at ultimate facts or laws of nature, \nwhen a further analysis might be made, if they only knew all \nthat is to be known. \n\nWhen a man has discovered to a certainty what events in- \ntervene between two obvious and well known events, and io \nwhat order these intervening events occur, he may state what \nhe has discovered ; and such statement is an explanation of \nthe connection between the two obvious events : it is telling \nzvhy the first obvious event is followed by the second, in one \nsense of the word why. It is also telling what he knozus^ and \nis mere history. Whereas, when a man does not absolute !y \nknow what events intervene between two obvious events, but \nknows of facts which render it probable that certain events \ndo intervene ; he may state what he supposes these events \nare, and the order in which he supposes they occur ; and this \nstatement is an explanation of the connection between the \ntwo events; but itis hypothetical, or indeed ao hypothesis,\xe2\x80\x94 \nan hypothesis supported by facts. But -.fa man suppose the \nexistence of events, or agents, when there are no facts but what \nmay be as well explained without supposing such events to oc- \ncur, or such agents to exist, as with, \xe2\x80\x94 why, his suppposition \nis a groundless hypothesis, or more properly, a whim. \n\nBy general consent, the word phenomenon is now used ia \n\n\n\nsuch a broad *^ense, that we should not much extend its meau^ \ning, were we to say a phenomenon \'s o y known occurrence \nor event. Using the word in this sense, we should &\xc2\xbb> that, \nto explain a phenomenon, is to point out the agent which acts, \nthe action of which constitutes the phenomenon, and to point \nout those events which invariably precede it, or are essential \nto its occurrence. \xe2\x80\x94 A feeling is a phenomenon or event which \nwe know takes place ; it is an action of that which feels ; and \nto explain this phenomenon, is to show what feels, whe- \nther the nervous system or some agent distinct from it, and \nto show what gives rise to \xe2\x80\x94 what events must precede this \xe2\x80\x94 \nfeeling. All explanalions of {he phenomenon of feeling must \nbe hypothetical, for the action [the agent actingi which con- \nstitutes a feeling, is not an object of sense ; we cannot look \ninto the animal system and see it feelings as we can look into \nsome pieces o( mechanical machinery and see the parts mov- \ning, and the order in which these parts act one upon another \nor one after the other. However, the supposition (hat the \nnervous system feels, may be so well supported by facts, that \nthose who know these facts, can no more doubt, as we think, \nthat this supposition is correct, than the astronomer can doubt \nthe supposition that the earth turns on its own axis. \n\nTo explain phenomena, then, is to show what agents act, \nand the order in which they act. This is all. When it is \nknown that one event immediately succeeds another, it would \nbe even more absurd to ask why ? than to ask what hydrogen \nis composed of. \n\nNow it is evident, that to show correctly the order in which \nthe events of any chain or sequence occur, we must point \nout all the events of such chain ; for if we do not point out \nall the links of this chain, we leave out some one or mo-\'e \nJinkSj and this brings two links together, which, m nature, do \n\n4 \n\n\n\nnot come together. Suppose the events A, B, C, D, to oc- \ncur in the order in which the^e letters, their representatives, \nhere stand, and that after D a more obvious and remarkable \nevent occurs, which we call a phenomenon, and represent by \nE, \xe2\x80\x94 now if you be requested to explain the connection be- \ntween the event E and the event A, or as some might perhaps \nsay, to show how the event A gives rise to the event E, or to \nexplain the phenomenon E. you have nothing to do but to \npoint out the intervening events in the order in which they \noccur. If you do this correctly, you will sa\\ the eveci B \noccurs immediately after A, C immediately after B. D after \nC, and then E. But if you do not discover C, you bring B \nand D together, which is not the order m which they occur in \nnature. \n\nWhat is a cause, and what an effect ? It is obvious, that in \nany one chain or succession of events, no one event can im-. \nwif\'c??rtfe/?/ precedt any more than one of the other events, nor \nsucceed any more than one of them. Now that event which \nimmediately precedes another event, is the true and philoso \nphical caust of such other event, and such other event is the \ntrue and philosophical tffeci of such cause. However, in fa- \nmiliar discourse we often say that one thing is the cause of \nanother, when indeed several events \xe2\x80\x94 even known events \xe2\x80\x94 \nintervene between the two which we mention, as cause and \neflect. \n\nA cause is generally defined to be an event which is imme- \ndiately, and under the same circumstances, invariably suc- \nceeded by a certain other event. This is a very good defini- \ntion of a cause, but we believe it is father redundant ; for \nthat event which is immediately follow eo by a certaai other \nevent, is always followed by \\\\\\t same event, under the same \ncircumstances j of course, immediate antecedents are also in* \n\n\n\n27 \n\nvariable antecedents, under the same circumstances, and ma}? \nbe uiiderstood as such. \n\nThe term final cause^ is a bad one, as it does noi at firsl ex- \ncite such ideas as intended ; a person who has learnt the mean- \ning of the word final, and the common meaning of the word \ncause, might look at these two words standing together, and \nfist his brains a fortnight before such ideas would occur as the \nterm final cause is intended to excite, or more properly sug- \ngest. A tinal cause is the purpose, end, or design for which \nany thing is formed. \n\nIt is a universal fact or law of nature, that like causes or \nantecedents, as they are sometimes called, are always follow- \ned by like consequents or effects, circumstances being the \nsame. The application of a spark to gunpowder is an event \nwhii h is followed by the explosion of the powder, (which is \nanother event,) at all times and places ; ]provided the powder \nbe good, dry, &;c. which being good, dr), &c.are what come \nunder the denomination of circumstances. \n\nNow it is by experiencing this uniformity in the succession \nof events that we are enabled to predict what will be, by \nknowing what is or has been. If events took place without \nany kind of order, then zo/ia/ would be no sign of what will be ^ \nand we may further add, if events took place thus, the words \npower cause^ and effect would never have been invented. \n\nTo discover the constitution o( any body or agent, is not on- \nly to discover what material elements it is composed of. but \nto discover its relation with other bodies. ; that is, to discover \nwhat changes it may produce in other bodies, and what chan- \nges it may suffer b3 the presence of other bodies. When we \ndisco. er these, we discover its powers and susceptibilities, or \nin one word, its properties. Now it appears to us, that the \nanly proper objects of physical inquiry may be expressed in \n\n\n\n28 \n\nthese few words, \xe2\x80\x94 fo discover tlie constifntion of agents anl \nthe order in wh ch they act, one after another. \n\nWhat is nature ? Ignorance has given nse to nnany thingless \nnames, and these names have so longconsiituted a part ot our \nlanguage, that it is almost impossible to converse without us- \ning them ; but so long as we use them, we ought to acknow- \nledge that they mean nothing, or else use them to denote \nsomething that has, perchance, got a more appropriate name, \nand show distinctly what this something is. We had betier \ngive one thing two or three names, than to suppose that two \nor rhree things exist, wh on/> one exists. Js\'ature is not the \nGod of nature ; but it is a word which means nothing, unless \nit means the same as the word universe. This bemg the on- \nly intelligible meaning (of course the only meaning, for what- \never is unintelligible with us, nea* h nothing with us,) which \nthe wora can have, it follows that whatever is natural is\'uni- \n\\ersal. The nature of opium, that is, the natural qualities of \nopinm, aie universal qualities of opium; ihey are quaijties \nthat beioig to \xe2\x80\x94 and indeed constitute a part of \xe2\x80\x94 opium, when- \never and wherever opium is to be found ; therelbie we say \nthey are essential to it, and ii\\^\\\\ body which does not pos- \nsess these qualities is not opium. A natural event is an event \nof the universe ; \xe2\x80\x94 it is an action of some part er parts of ihe \nuniverse \xe2\x80\x94 entirely so, and independently such j ii is not an \naction of some part of the universe caused, connected with, or \nimmediately preceded by an act of Divinity. If it were, it \nwould not be a natural event ; for although it be an action of \na part of nature, it would be caused bj an immediate aci of \nnature\'s God, and would be what we call a miracle. All \nthose productions called artificial, are truly natural ; we on- \nly use the word artificial to show that they were produced by \nthe u.teivei\'tion of iiie al operatif>ns of ;hat natural crea- \n\nture, man, or some other natural, thinking being. \n\n\n\n29 \n\n" Law of nature." \xe2\x80\x94 Does this expression mean anything? \nWe wili tell jou, reader, what we think of this expression. It \nis an expression, often convenient, which means nothing more \nthan the expression universal fad ^ that is, a fact whicli hods \nuniversally. It is a fact that, under the same circumstances, \nlike antecedents are followed by like consequents. Tiiis fact \nholds true universally -, it is not so at one time or in one place, \nand not in another ; it is so throughout the globe, and as we \nbelieve, throughout the universe: it is a law of nature. A \nlaw of nature is nut an entity or being of any kind and to say \nthat iavvs) of nature ^orern, is to speak figurativt ly. The im- \nmaterialiststell us that the laws of mind, or the laws of nature \nwhich govern the mind, or the operations of the mind, are to- \ntally ditTerent from the laws of matter. But admittmg the \nexistence of mind, they can only mean that the mind may act \nwithout being influenced by impulse, attraction. &c. Let us \nnot be bewildered atid led astray by the ambiguous and sense- \nlesi- phrases of the iminaterialists. No doubt some things can \nwiih truth be said concerning the actsojis of the nervous sys- \nteni which cannot with truth be said concerning the actions \nof inorganic bodies. \n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV. \n\nOn Deity., and the Relation cohich subsists between the Creator \n- and the Events of the Universe, \n\nOur notions are, that the Author of nature is an Almighty, \nintelligent Being, consisting of more than one property, atid \nheiict material ; \'hat hr lias sonu definite place of existence, \nana no more exists in two places at a time, than any oihci on^ \n\n\n\n3\xc2\xae \n\nbeing; that he organized the universe, either out of anrjor- \nphous matter which previously came into being withosit an \nantecedent, or else spoke the word, and a world arose ; the \nmatter thereof not previously existing. Jn either case, we \nbeheve the Great Architect so organized the universe, thai it \ncontinues in harmonious operation without any further exer- \ntions on his part, \xe2\x80\x94 without his immediate agency. Hence, \nalthough the Supreme is the first cause of all that we behold, \nhe is not, as we maintain, the immediate cause of any natural \nevent. But if human eye ever witnessed an unnatural event, \nsuch event was a miracle, and was immediately preceded or \ncaused by an act of the Detty. \n\nWe do not believe the Deity ever intended, or thought of \nevery particular event which has and will take place ; for \nthis would be to believe that he intended or thought of every \nmotion of every grain of saiid, of every motion of every leaf, \nof every thought of every brain, of every action of every in- \nsect ; in short, of every action of every agent which ever ex- \nisted, or ever will exist. \n\nBut we do believe that, at the time he organized the uni- \nverse, he did intend, and of course think of, some of the more \nimportant events which have and will occur. He intended \nthat the heavenly bodies should revolve as they do. and con- \nsequently that there should be cold seasons and warm \xe2\x80\x94 seed \ntime and harvest ; that animals should propa5<ate their spe- \ncies, \xe2\x80\x94 that plants should bring forth seed, each after its own \nkind ; \xe2\x80\x94 that all men should die ; \xe2\x80\x94 that the nervous system \nshould feel and think, &;c. &:c. Nevertheless, we do not be- \nlieve that any event, important or trifling, ever did occur \nwhich the Deity intended should not occur. \n\nWe believe that in organizinir Ihe universe, the Deify had \ncertain important objects in view ; and that he so organized \n\n\n\n3i \n\nit as to fulfil these objects or designs. And although many \ntrifl\'no- events o cur, by virtue of this organization, which \nWere not thought of at the tinne, still we do pot believe that \nthey occur contrary to <he good pleasure of the Almighty: \ncertainly not contrary to his permission ; and we should think \nthat an Almighty Being would not permit events to occur \nwhich displease [make unhappy] him. At any rate, if, in this \nstupendous machine, \xe2\x80\x94 the universe, \xe2\x80\x94 any events occur which \ndisplease the Creator, it would be blasphemy for man to talk \nof blame and culpability ; for certainly the fault, if there be \none, is not in the pot, but the potter. \n\nI know that mankind have ever been a proud race of ani- \nmals ; and although they daily see other classes of animals \nsuffering pain, sickness and death, men got it into their heads, \nthousands of years ago, that the Deity never intended, and \nis displeased at, whatever gives rise to human misery ; or in \nother words, at whatever they call evil. But as events did \noccur which these ancient men called evil, they put their head \nto work to account for the origin of this evil, and the result \nwas, a hideous world of fallen angels, devils, and evil spirits, \nall of them enemies of God, warring against him to obtain hu- \nman souls !! \n\nBut I am wandering from my subject ; I did not purpose to \ntreat of devils, but to offer my notions relative to the Deity, \nand the relation which subsists between h\'m and the events of \nthe universe. Some of these notions I have already advan- \nced, and I now proceed to offer some of my reasonings in fa- \nvor of them. \n\n1 have expressed the opinion that Nature\'s God is an Al- \nmighty Designer. He is Almighty, inasmuch as there is none \nsuperior to him, and he may have just what agents exist, and \njust what events occur, he pleases. B_y wiling il, he may \ncreate a new world or annihilate an old one, \xe2\x80\x94 at least, 1 will \n\n\n\n3\xc2\xa3 \n\nliot deny that he can annihilate matter. But-it is not within \nthe hmits of possibilities for any being to cause the same thing \nto exist and not to exist at the same time, or to cause one and \nthe same being to be in two separate places at the same time. \n\nI saj he is a Designer, because there is, to me, incontrover- \ntible evidence of design in the natural productions which I \nbehold. When 1 examine the several partsof the hnman sys- \ntem, \xe2\x80\x94 as the muscles, the ear, the eye ; and when I consider \nthe powers of human beings to move, to sense, to think, and \nto propagate their species, I can but believe that the first man \nand woman were organized by a power who intended \nthat they should move, see, feel, think, and propagate their \nspecies. \n\nI may indeed be told, that if I discover indications of an in- \ntelligent Designer in natural productions, I had as good say \nthese productions came by chance, (that is, without cause,) \nas to suppose the existence of a Maker ; for the maker of a \nthing must be superior to the thing made ; and the more pow- \nerful and knowing a being is, the more difficult is it for us to \nudmit, that such being should exist without cause ; and we \nmust ultimately arrive at a bemg which does exist without \ncause, let us suppose as many Makers as we please. \n\nBut I would reply: First. The heavenly bodies are but \nparts of one system, \xe2\x80\x94 the universe. These parts bear such \nrelations to each other, as we have good reason to believe, that \nthere would be great irregularity and confusion in the\xc2\xbbr move- \nments if any of *hem should be annihilated or misplaced | \nhence we may say that it is. and was at first, essentially neces- \nsary to the regularity in the movements of these bodies, that \nthey all exist at one time as they now do. Now chance is \nnothing, and a nothing in one region of space can\'t know what \na nothing in a distant region is about ; hence, to prevent con- \nfusion, and to bring the universe into its present state, ont in- \n\n\n\n33 \n\ndividual nothin\xc2\xab; must have knocked the zohole universe into \nbeinji at one blow ! ! If nothing made one pan of the universe \nat one time, and afterwards found out that it did not go well, \nand then made another part, to complete the system, \xe2\x80\x94 this \nnothing or chance (I care not which you call it,) must have \nbeen a very strange nothing; for to ^^jindouV\'^ supposes \nthought \xe2\x80\x94 a thought implies the existence of something which \nthinks \xe2\x80\x94 and a thinking something, but for which the universe \nhad not been organized, is the Deity. Second. If things ever \ncame by chance, i. e. without cause, and there be no control- \nler superior to man, things may still come by chance, \xe2\x80\x94 why \nnot ? If a man and a woman ever came into existence without \ncause, vvhy do not men and women pop into existence with- \nout cause now-adays ? No man can be so big a fool as to believe \nand assert, that some time or othf^r a man decreed that no \nmen or women commence existence without cause, and that \nthis is the reason why men and women do not thus commence \nexistence now-adavs. Man is not the sort for this, \xe2\x80\x94 we must \nhave something different \xe2\x80\x94 something superior. We know \nthat man cannot have things exist or not exist, as he may will \nor wish. \n\nDo you tell me, atheist, that the laws of nature prevent \nmen and women from coming into existence without cause, \nnowadays ? Aye, and what are your laws ofriature ? Be they \nany thing more or less than simple facts ? If they be. show \nthorn to me, and I will show you a God. I do not wish to be \nput off by empty talk ; but I will not be particular about \nnames. If your laws of nature are beings whirh control \nevents, which cause the existence of some things and prevent \nthe existence of others, and which organized the tirst beings of \nthe human race m such manner that they could see. hear, \nthink, walk and propagate their species, you may call them \nby j\'our favorite name, but I will call them God. But if they \n\n\n\n34 \n\nhe nothing but fact\xc2\xab, ie]] me, if you please, that the simple fact \nthat men and women do not come into existence without \ncause now-adajs, is the reason they do not thus come into ex- \nistence, and I may perhaps beheve you, if my brain should \never be disordered. \n\nThe third notion which I have advanced, relative to the \nDeity, is, that he is material. In sayitjg this. I oidy mean \nthat he possesse.*, or rather consists of, more than one proper- \nty. It appears to us that a being, an auent, or entity, which \nis unextended, is just no being at all. Think, reader, do but \nthHik,ifyon can, of a being that is of no extent. The smal- \nlest mote that may be seen by the most powerful microscope, \nis more than ten hundred thousand million times as large as \nsuch a being! Gracious! It is as great a perversion of lan- \nguage to say that a being exists which is unextended, as to \nsay that the thing can be and not be, at the same time. \n\nNo man can ever have an idea of a being\' which is unex- \ntended. But (his, the immaterialists will tell me, proves no- \nthing. Well, grant it, if they will have it so ; but I will tell \nthem in my turn, that their stating that there may be an, un- \nextended being, proves nothing, \xe2\x80\x94 only that they are labor- \ning to support some rotten cap.se. It is contrary to scripture \nto say the De?ty is unextended ; the scriptures no where tell \nus a word about unextended beings ; \xe2\x80\x94 there is nothing in them \nthat favors modern immaterialism But stop, am 1 not beat- \ning against the wind ? Have any philosophers ever pretend- \ned that the Deity is unextended ? I do not know that they \nhave expressly ; but it is generally held that the Deity is im- \nmaterial, and modern immaterialists hold that whatever is im- \nmaterial, is unextended. I wish the immaterialists would \nclear up this matter. \xe2\x80\x94 If the Deity consist of extension only, \nhe is nothing but space ; hence we sny he is material. \n\nMy fourth uoliou is, that the Deity has some deiinite place \n\n\n\n35 \n\nof existence, and no more exists in two places at <he s?ime \ntime, that! any other one being. To say the Deity exists in \ntwo places at the same time, is in reality as much as to say \nthere are two Deities, or at least, that the Deity is not oae \nBeino;, but two separate beings. However, when I say a be- \ning exists in a place, I mean by this place ^ all fhaf room which \nthe being, as one continuous body, occupies. I should say \nthe atmosphere of this earth exists in one place only, admit- \nting it to be one continuous body. I should say that a house \nexists in a place, but tf there were two separate bodies in the \nhouse, I should say that one is one place, and the other in \nanother place. But from what I have now said, it does not \nfollow but that a part of the Deity may be in Europe, while \nanother part is in America; but these parts must be united \ntogether by intermediate parts, or else they are in reality two \nbeings. \n\nI ay the earth is in one place, and the moon in another ; now \nwould it not be polytheism to assert that the Deity exists in \nboth these places at the same time? The Deity \\s the whole \nDtMty, and if //le Deity exist in the earth, then the whole Dnly \nexists in the eanh ; and if the whole Deity exi.st iii theear\'ih, \nand the whole Deity exist in the moon, at the same time, then \nwe have two Deities ; \xe2\x80\x94 not the same Deity in two places at \ndiiferent times, but two Deities in ditferent places at the siime \ntime. T se Deity then does not ( x\xc2\xbbsl in two places at tlie \nsa.ne time ; but this is not rta_)iiiy: he does noi till all space 5 \xe2\x80\x94 \nby the bye, however, if he did fill all space, there would !>e \nno space to fill, for where matter is, space is not : matter ni;\\y \nbe surrounded b) space, but space and matter cannot be in \nthe same place at the same time. Space is the negative of \nmatter. \n\nNow if. to maintain that the Deity is not in two or wore pla- \nces at the same time^ is not the same a^^ to maintain that no \n\n\n\npari of him is everj/ where present^ T will no^ proceed io main- \ntairi this last ; that is, to maintain that the Dcitj is not ofsuch \nvast dimensions, that, go where you will, some part of him \nwill always be there. \n\nThe doctrine that the De\'ty exists every where, not only \nvirtually but substantially, is of modern origin. There are \nhundreds of passage.^ in scripture which speak of the Deity \nas a Being of determinate dimensions, to one which speaks \nof him as a Being who fills inmiensity or all space. And ifin \na few instances the scriptures speak of the Deity as though he \n"Were of unlimited dimensions, (it is impossible to conceive \nany limits to space.) we have no reason to regard these few \npassages as any other than figurative expressions : we have \nDO reason to suppose the writers of them would be understood \nto suf)pose that the D(Mty is so large that if there were less \nspace than there is, there would not be room for the Deity to \nexist as he now is. No \xe2\x80\x94 they would only be understood to \njnean that the Deity can behold all his creation ; that, though \nseated on his throne in heaven, he knows full well what is go* \njng on in everv part of Ids stupendous machine, the universe. \n\nI know that philosophers of old hr.ve held that "the uni- \nverse is an emanation or extension of the essence of the Crea- \ntor." But what is this "\' essence of the Creator V and \nwherein does an emanation of a material world from the es- \nsence of the Creator, dififer from an absolute creation by the \nCreator? Did this essence contain all the matter that now \nexists ? if it did. it was a very gross essence ; if it did not, \nthere must have been an absolute creation. But waving the \nfurther consideration of this matter, I proceed to slate, \xe2\x80\x94 the \ncreated universe is something distinct from the Creator, or it \nis not. If it be, let its dimensions be what they may, it does \nnot follow that its creator must be of equal dimensions ; but \nif the universe be nothing distinct from its Creator, then the \n\n\n\n37 \n\nCreator and the thing created, are bnt one thing ; or rather* \nthere is no Creator. \xe2\x80\x94 Poets have sung : \n" Jupiter is the air ; \nJupiter is the earth ; \nJupiter is the heaven : \nAll is Jupiter." \n\nBut what is this but a freak of a poet\'s brain, or downright \natheism? *\' All is Jupiter !" The heavens, the earth, the sun, \nmoon and stars, and all that in them or about them is, are Ju- \npiter. I am a part of Jupiter, and you are another part. \xe2\x80\x94 \nLet us not be deceived by empty talk ; \xe2\x80\x94 when one thing is \ncalled by several names, let us not so err as to suppose that \neach name has a peculiar thing of its own : Jupiter is some- \nthing distinct from the universe, (as I have defined it,) or else \nJupiierh a name without a thing. God, the Creator, is some* \nthing distinct from the universe created, or there is no Crea- \ntor jior world created ; but a world by chance. \n\nIt appears, then, that all true ai.d real Deists of ancient \ntimes, did not hold that the D.-ity exists every where, substan- \ntially as wtll as virtually ; and this doctrine, as I iiave said, \nis of modern origin. \n\nBut the authority of the bible, and the opinions of ancient \nDeists, are not all I have to offer against the absolute omni- \npresence of God. \n\nThe notion is unfounded, ridiculous and degrading. It \narose from faithlessness in God\'s omnipotence. Thinkmg it \nimpossible for God to sit on his throne m heaven, and kno^ \nwhat is going on in every part of his machine ; thinking, al- \nso, that God is too powerless an architect to organize the uiTi- \nverse in such a manner that all things may go on in it as har- \nmoniously as they do without his looking to it \xe2\x80\x94 ,without his \nimmediate agency, \xe2\x80\x94 somebody, I do not know who, advanced \ntho notiou that God is every where present, upholding and \n\n\n\n38 \n\nfevoTvinsj the heavenly bodies, shooting forth vegetables, caus- \nintJ ai)imals to be. operating upon the human heart, Szc, &c. \n\nBit only ttjink wlint an irreverent notion this is. *\' God is \nevery where present;" that is, God is not only where space \notherwise would be, but God is in every mess of matter. The \nalmosphere is one n^ess or body of matter ; God is in this. \nEa( h individual stone is another body of matter; God is in \nevwy one of these : \xe2\x80\x94 I say God. This is impossible, unless \nthere be millions and millions of Gods : I can only mean a \npart of God* And if there be such a devil as is talked of, \n\n\n\nLet us examine the full extent and bearing of eve- \nry doctrine, entirely unsupported by farts, before we^give it \ncredence. \n\nAs to the dimensions of that Being who " created man af- \nter h\'s own image," 1 cannot say ; i>ut the God of the Old \nTestament is represented to be very much of the size and \nshape of a man ; and the same we find to be the case with \nhis Son, so frequently mentiOiicd in the New. Judgiitg from \nthese data, the Author of nature very much resembles the hu- \nman species in \xc2\xabhape ai-d size ! \n\nMy fifth notion is, that God has so organized the universe, \nthnt all parts of it \xe2\x80\x94 all agents, go on acting in the same har- \nmonious order in which they do, Without any further exerf ions \non his part ; or if you do not like the word exertions, without \na?iy further concern or willing ^ and, of course, ihat he is not \nthe immediate cause of aiiv natural event though he is the \nj^r.\xc2\xab/ cause of all, \xe2\x80\x94 if it be proper to call that a cause which is \nnot immediatelij followed by what we call the effect. \n\nThis notion appears to me much more rat onal and di^nify^ \n%ng, if I may so say, than the notion that the Deity is the im- \nmediate cause of natural events. Were we to adopt this last \nnotion, several s(ranj^e and irreverent conclusions must neces- \nsaiiiy follow. Wc mual coaciude that the Deity cuald not so \n\n\n\n39 \n\norganize the universe as to have it go on as it doe?, indepen\'H- \nently of h\'.mself, which would be much the mopt simple a ,d \ndirect way of bringing about events ; or we must conciufle, \ncontrary lo all our notions of nature\'s simplicity, that he did \nnot choose to; but rather chose to be contmually in exf -t se \nto make water run down hill, to make it thunder, to m t;:e \nthe fire snap, to make the brain tlnnk, to make the earth re- \nvolve, to make one man kill another, &c. <Sz;c. \n\n1 have here mentioned events, some of which men w^ouKl \ncall important ; some, they would call trifling, and oise, ihey \nwould call evil. But I should hope that in these enhghtei.td \ndays, no man can be found who will he so irrational as to as- \nscribe natural events to more than one source ; \xe2\x80\x94 no man who \nwill ascribe some to the laws of nature \xe2\x80\x94 some to the imnie- \ndiate agency of the Deity, and some to the devil. But I trust \nthat every well informed man who questions, what is the \ntruth ? and not, what will it be to my interest to maintain ? will \neither say there is no main- spring \xe2\x80\x94 no motive principle in na- \nture \xe2\x80\x94 every thing being a dead mstrument, which never \nmoves except the Deity lay his hands upon it; or else say- \nthat all created things were so made, at tirst, as to act as i\\\\i y \ndo, independent of the Creator. If he say the latter, he will \nmeet with no difficulties but what proud man has created. \xe2\x80\x94 \nBut if he say that God wills ever particular event at the tine \nit occurs, he will meet whth insuperable d fficulties. Not to \nsay a word about representing the Deity as a poor Architect, \nand a slave to his own creation, he will be forced to admit, \n(what he cannot believe,) that there are millions and millions \nof Div tie wil!\xc2\xab, orelse that one Divine will, may will millions \nand millions of billions of trillions of particular and distant \nevents, at the same identical instant. \n\nif God were the immediate producer of events, why all this \nnice orgdiiizatioa ia inau and other animals ? could he not, \n\n\n\n4Q \n\nwere He <o attend to it, make an inorganic statue of clay \nthri^k, move, and propagate its species ? Do you tell me it \nwas God\'s good pleasure to bring about his ends by certain \nmeans ? This is just what 1 say. That men might be contin- \nually coming in/o existence without His being continually en- \ngaged in making them, He organized a man and a woman in \nsuch a manner that they could propagate their species. That \nmen might think without His continual exertions, He made \nthe tirst man with a nervous system ; and now, d\'ye see, as \nsoon as this nervous system becomes, by any means, impair- \ned, thinking ceases, or goes on irregularly. But I suppose \nthat by an immediate and direct effort of the Deity, thinking \nmight go on in a man, if he had a poor nervous system, or evea \nnone at all. \n\nNted I use anymore words to convince every rational and \nduiattrt^ted man, that God takes no part whatever in the pro- \nduction of natural events? \n\nBut it may be asked, if supernatural events or miracles \nhave not, and do still occur, on or about this little globe of \nour*^ ? We replv, that it is fai from us to deny the power of \nthe Deity to interrupt the ordinary course of nature, and of \nbeing himself tlie immediatf antecedent or cause of events \nthat would not follow natural antecedents ; neither would we \ndeny that men have existed who, being ignorant of the laws \nand properties of natter, witnessed phenomena which they \ncould not explain, and which they ascribed to the immfdiate \nagency of the Deity, the devil, or of witches. But I thiiik it \nan important question that must interest every man, and ought \nnot to be settled without the most impartial examination of all \nthat can be said on both sides of it : \xe2\x80\x94 Which is the most ra- \ntional supposition, that a man should live three days in a \nwhale\'s belly, walk uuhuit through a fiery furnace, raise the \n\n\n\n41 \n\n\n\ndead, &;c. &c. or that one, two, or half a dozen men should \ntell a lie ? \n\n\n\nCHAPTER V, \n\nOn Action or Change,, \n\nIt will be admitted on all hands, that no event or change, of \nany kind whatever, can take place without action : \xe2\x80\x94 not a \nsensation or a thought can occur without an action of that \nwhich senses and thinks. True, it is difficult for us to con- \nceive how a few rays of light falling upon the retinae of one\'s \neyes, can excite a change in his optic nerves and brain, and, \nas some would add, in his soul or mind ; but we do know, if \nwe know any thing, that we see objects, when we are in such \nrelations with them that they may reflect light upon our eyes, \nand we cannot otherwise than believe that this seeing is an \naction of that which sees. \n\nIf, then, no change can take place without action, nor any \naction without change, we may consider change and action as \nconvertible terms. For sound\'s sake, we may sometimes use \nthe one and sometimes the other. \n\nNow an action is nothing other than an agent acting, and \nas there are wide differences between agents, as it respects \nsize, properties and relations with each other ; and moreover, \nas we believe there are two classes of actions essentially dif- \nferent from each other,* we shall attempt to give a classitica- \ntion of actions or changes. \n\n* The reader may be surprised to hear me speak of an esspntial \ndifference between actions ; but dnes he not believe that those ac- \ntions which constitute thinking, are essential^ different frnm my \nactions \xc2\xa9t inorganic bodies ? He may admit that they aie, but stil! \n\n6 \n\n\n\n42 \n\nWere we to class actions according to their essentia! differ- \n-ences, we should have two divisions only. One division \nwould comprehend all those actions which constitute sensing \nand thinking, or if you please, sensations and thoughts ; and \nwe should call them sentient &r c\xc2\xa9nscienl actions. This kind \n\xc2\xa9factions is invariably confined to the nervous system. \n\nThe other division would comprehend all other ac ions in \nthe universe ; and we should call them insentient or incon\' \nscient actions, in contradistinction to conscient actions. \n\nBut we proceed to make an arrangement of actions accord- \ning to the agents which act. Hence our first division is into \n\xc2\xab \xe2\x96\xa0 \xe2\x80\x94 \xe2\x80\x94 __ \xe2\x80\x94 \xe2\x80\x94 \xe2\x80\x94 ^\xe2\x80\x94 \xe2\x80\x94 \xe2\x80\x94 _\xe2\x80\x94 ^^__\xc2\xab___^^,\xc2\xab \n\ninsist on it, that an acfion of any agent whatever, can be nothing \nother than a change of place, or whut is the snnie thing, change of \nrelation with some other agent or being ; and that when we say \nt)ne action is essentially different from another, we can mean noth- \ning more than that the agents which ac are essentially different \nfrom each other Well, supposing we grant this ; then the ques- \ntion is : Was it the determination ol the Great Architect that ac- \ntions of a material organ should constitnte what we call thinking, \nor ih It actions of some immaterial thing should constitute thinking? \n\nIf we admit the existence of this immaterial thing, we can no \nmore conceive that an action of it is -dtiy thing other than a change \nof place or of relation with something else than we can conceive \nthat an action (\xc2\xbbf some part of the brain is any thing other than a \nchange of relation with some other part \xe2\x80\x94 (We are here speaking \nof very minute \'* parts of the brain.") \xe2\x80\x94 Should it be said that this \nimmaterial rhtng does not change its place, or it*? relation with any \np rt of the brain when it thinks ; but that its parts change their re- \nlations with each oth\' r ; I should reply, that immaterialists hold \ntiiat this immaterial thing (mind or soul) has no parts ; and 1 should \nsay. furthermore, that admitting it to have parts, we can no more \nconceive how a change of relation among these paits should consti- \ntute ihinking, than we can how a change of relati\xc2\xabjn between the \nthing itself, and some part ot the brain, should constitute think ng ; \nor than we can, how an action of a material organ, the brain, should \nconstitnte thinking. \n\nP^^hapsyoa, reader, (whom I take to be an immaterialist ) have \nStill someth;ng more to offer. You may say thai,\xe2\x80\x94 admitting there \nis no great impropriety in speaking of an essential difference be-* \ntweeu actions^ if we mean mure particularly that there is an es^m* \n\n\n\n43 \n\niocomotive or hodily actions and atomic actions* Locomotive \naction appertains to bodies, or perceptible cofnbinatioijs of at- \noms which move as a whole, or in other words, the atoms of \nmatter which compose the body do not change their relations \nwith each other, but all move one way \xe2\x80\x94 the body itself, moves \nas one thing only. \xe2\x80\x94 All the atoms which compose the body \nchange their relation with some other separate body, but, as \nI have said, not with each othep. \n\nThe other division comprehends all those actions in which \nthe atoms of any body change their relations with each other. \n\nOf atomic actions we have three orders i^ \xe2\x80\x94 the actions of at- \noms which compose gaseons bodies ; \xe2\x80\x94 the actions of atoms \n\xe2\x80\xa2 \xc2\xab\xe2\x96\xa0 \xe2\x96\xa0 < " I \xe2\x96\xa0 \xe2\x96\xa0 I ... .11 1 \n\ntiid diff^^reuce between the agents which act 5 srill there is such a \nwide difference between thinking, and the actions which take place \nout of the skull, that we must suppose there i& a wider difference \nbetween the agent which thinks, and agents out of the skull, than \nthere is between the brain and aa;ents out of the skull ; inferring \nfrom hence, that there is somv thinkuig^ agent in a man\'s head be- \nsides the brain. But. sir, you must know that the nervous sys- \ntem, of which the braiia is a part, is very essentially difFerent. from \nany thing to be found out of the animal system ; and moreover, \nthat the physiologist cm bring \xc2\xab host of incts which show most con- \nclusivHly, that il is the brain which thinks, whatever may be s id \nto the contrary noiwithstanding. \n\nFinally, let no man think to argue against materialism, by telling \nme ihat it is inconceivable how an action of the brain should be \nwaat we call a thought, notion, or idea, until he can show me horo \na is that an action of an immaterid thing should be a thought -^ \nShould he attempt to Jo this, he will soon find himself compelled \nlosay,-\xe2\x80\x94 it was the will of God Almighty that it should be so. \xe2\x80\x94 . \nWhich is just the same answer that I must give to the question,-\xe2\x80\x94 \nHow is it that an action of the brain should constitute a thought ? \n\nThe question, What is it that thinks 1 is not to be determined \nby conceivables or inconceivables ; if it were, it would certainly be \ndetermined at once, that it is the brain which thinks 5 for it is 1 ot \nonly as conceivable that actions of the brain should constitute \nthinking, as that actions of an immaterial., unex tended ! thing should \ncon^ititute thinking ; but xhe pxisletic^ oi ?his immaterial thing ig \ninconceivable, whereas it requires no ver^/ great stretch of one^ \ni\xc2\xbbiihr Xii admit ibait a braia ousts ( \n\n\n\n44 \n\nwhich compose h\'qiiid hodies, and ihe actions of those which \nconstitute solid bodies. If we naust distinguish these tijree \ndivisions of actions by particular appellations, we can think \nof none but the following bungling ones, viz. Gaseous Atom- \nic Actions, Liquid Atomic Actions, and Textural Actions. \n\nThe order of textural actions we will divide into three ge- \nnera. The first genus comprehending the atomic actions of \nelastic bodies ; the second, the atomic actions of contractile \nbodies, and the third, the atomic actions of sensible bodies, \n[the nervous organs.] Let us say a few words in this place \nabout these different bodies or textures. \n\nThe elastic texture is to be found in the kingdom of inor- \nganic matter, and in the kingdom of organized beings. The* \nmainspring of a watch is elastic ; every bough in the woods \nis elastic ; a piece of cartilage is elastic. But what is elasti- \ncity, or, in other vy^ords, when and why do we say a body is \nelastic ? Answer : When the particles or atoms of matter \nwhich compos^ any body are forced from their relaiions with \neach other, by kiechamcal force, and stiil retain a tendency \xe2\x80\x94 \na manifest tendency to return to their former relations, the \nbody which they compose is said to be elastic, or (for sound\'s \nsake,) to possess elasticity. \n\nAs to the contracile texture, it is to be found only in or- \nganized bodies, both vegetable and animal. It is not very \nmanifest in ihe vegetable kingdom. We find it in the sensi- \ntive plant, and have good reason to suppose that it exists in \nthe circulating vessels of all plants. It is very manifest in \nanimals, and constitutes the principal part of those organs \ncalled muscles. \xe2\x80\x94 But what is contractility, or in other words, \nwhen and why do we say a body is contractile? \n\nAnswer: When the atoms which compose any body ap- \nproarh each other more closely tn any one direction, o the \napphcation of a stimulus^ we say such body is coatractiie, or \n\n\n\n45 \n\npossesses contractility \xe2\x80\xa2 and ths approaching of atoms \xe2\x80\x94 this \nshortening of the bod} \xe2\x80\x94 is called contraction. But wirat is \na stimulus ? \n\nWhen any agent excites [when the application of any agent \nis follozved by^ a contraction of a muscle \xe2\x80\x94 not b) mechamcal \nforce, but by virtue of the organization of the muscle \xe2\x80\x94 such \nagent is called a stimulus. \n\nSome men call those agents which excite co tscient actions \nof the nervous system, stimuli ; thus they speak of ihe shmu- \nlus of light, the siimulus of sound, &c Butihereis no neces- \nsity for, b)it some impropriety in, using the word in (his double \nsense. Those agents which excite conscient actions may be \ncalled excitants. \n\nAs to the sensible texture, it is to be found ouly in the ner- \nvous system ; but we would not be understood to say that \nevery part oi t\\\\e nervous system is sensible, nor would we \nsay that only conscient aclsons occur in ihe nervous system. \nOn the contrary, we believe thai two otht r kuids o( actions \ntake place in that system of organs which is called by the com- \nprehensive term, aeivous system. One of these knid of ac- \ntions we call the secretory actions^ and the other, the motive ac- \ntions ; but as it is probable that the secretory action is au ac- \ntion of the contractile texture, and as we caunot speak of the \nmotive actions of ihe brain to advantage in this part of the \nwork, we did not think it expedient to mention but three gene- \nra of textural actions. \n\nBut what is sensibility, or in other words, why ;Jo we say \nthe nervous sy^fem is sensible? Answer: Because sentient \nactions may be excited in it, by impressions upon the senses. \n\nFurther than this we say not, in this place, as senssbiiity, \nand -entienl or conscient actions, will be fully treated of in \nother u >rts of this work. \n\nWe have now sketched a classification of changes or ac- \n\n\n\n4a \n\nt\'ions, which we know is not perfect; hut sufficiently so, i& \nanswer our present designs. \n\nThe question now occurs, \xe2\x80\x94 What is the principle hut (ot \nwhich created agents would not act ? Does the Deity contin- \nuall}? move one great wheel in the universe, which wheel \nmoves a second, and this a third, and so on, giving rise to ev^- \nerj action of every agent which acts at all ? Or did the Dei- \nty, when he created grosser matter, add thereunto a main- \nSjiring, which is the moving principle of nature ? We believe \nin the mainspring, \xe2\x80\x94 and query : What is it ? and did any \nman ever see or feel it ? \n\nMany a man has both seen and felt it, and called it electri- \ncity. But for electricity, we believe that other forms of mat\'< \nter would never move, being otherwise constituted as thejr \n\xc2\xbbow are. \n\nWe shall not attempt to point out the connection between \neh^ctricity and all the various kinds of actions which are \nikuovvn to occur. Nor shall we ask why electricity canses \none body to attract another ; for this, we believe, would be \nto question about an ultimate fact, of which, as of all other \nultimate facts, there is no explanation to be given. \n\nW^e may briefly state, however, that were it not for the \nprinciple of attraction, matter would not unite with matter* \nAnimals, of course, would not exist, except they were every \none organized by the immediate fiat of the Deity ; and then, \nthe physiologist has good reason to suppose that they could \nnot move without the continual exercise of divine influence \ntowards them. And if it can be shown that the actions of an- \nimals are dependent on this active principle, there will be no \ngreat difliculty in tracing all changes to the same source. \n\nBut 1 have a conjecture relative to electricity which I wiH \nventure to throw out. It is well known that caloric, or the \nmatter of UcaV exists in two very different states,\xe2\x80\x94 in that of \n\n\n\n47 \n\ni^eedom, when It is capable of prodncinj^ in animpl^ tlie sen- \nsation of heat and of expanding almost all bodies ; and that of \ncombination, in which it ceases to be cognizable by our sen- \nses or by the thermometer. In the former case, it is called \nfrte or uncombined caloric ; in the latter, latent^ or combined \ncaloric. \n\nThis hee caloric has a tendency to an equilibrium, so that \nliot and cold bodies placed near to each other, even in a vacu- \num, soon become of the same temperature, as may be prov- \ned by applying the bulb of the thermometer to each. They \nwill each expand, and of course raise, the mercury to the \nsame degree. It is known too, that all bodies do not conduct \ncaloric with the same facility. Another fact is, that bodies \nmay part with i\\\\e\\v free caloric without suffering a^ y altera* \ntion in their properties, temperature excepted; but not so \nwith respect to that caloric which is in-imately combined with \nthem, and which may be called their natural share. This \nnatural share is an essential constituent of such bodies, and \nif it be taken from them, they are no longer tlie same bodies, \ninasmuch as they suffer some change in their physical or \nehcmical properties. \n\nNow I conjecture that electricity exists in two states, as \nwell as caloric, \xe2\x80\x94 in one state it may be said to be free, or ex* \ncitable ; it is this free electricity that is collected by an elec- \ntric machine, from surrounding bodies, without producing any \nchange in their physical or chemical properties. To be sure, \nas the temperature of a bodv is altered by parting with its \niree caloric, so by taking free electricity from any body, yoa \nmay alter its relation with another body, as it respects remote \nor bodily attraction ; but you do not alter its chemical affini- \nties nor the cohesive attraction of its constituent atoms. It \nmay be said too, of electricity, as of caloric, that all bodies do \nnot conduct it with the same facility ; and lurthermore, that \n\n\n\nfree electricity, like free caloric, has a tendency to anequili- \nbriun-. \n\nIll ihe other sUUe \\\\\\ which electricity exists, it is intimate- \nly coinhined with bodies, of which it is indeed an essential \npart, and cannot betaken from them without a change\' of their \nphysical or chemical properties ; \xe2\x80\x94 they are no longer (he \nsame bodies, after parting with this, their inherent electricity. \nEiechicty existii^g in this slate, may be called latent or^o^ec?. \n\nNow as latent caloric may be set free, so may electricity \nbe set tree, and it is set free by the galvanic battery ; \xe2\x80\x94 the \nplates and liquids, or moist substances, which compose the \nbattery, suffering some change in their physical or chemical \nproperties at the time. I shall maintain also, that it is set \nfree by the nervous system, and constitutes the nervous fluid; \nthe blood at the same time suffering some change in its phy- \nsical or chemical properties by circulating through the ner- \nvous system. But as it is accumulated and conducted by or- \nganized bodies, it is not to be wondered at, if it do not appear \nto be in all respects the same kind of fluid that is accumulated \nby the galvanic battery. \xe2\x80\x94 We do not believe there are any \nelementar} substances in man or any other animal which do \nnot exist in the world around them. \n\nI will here remark, that 1 am far from being convinced that \nthe weight of bodies of all kinds, is the same in proportion to \nthe quantity of gross matter which ihey contain, or in other \nWords, in proportion to their density. \n\nMatter attracts matter, \xe2\x80\x94 the earth attracts all bodies to- \nwards it, in a line passing its centre : thererefore we say that \nbodies on or near the surface of the earth, are heavy. But I \nbelieve that some kinds of matter are more forcibly attracted \nby the earth than others, and hence that the difference in \nweight between a cubic in\xc2\xab h o^ gold and a cubic inch of sieel \ndoes not depend altogether on the dilierence between the \n\n\n\n49 \n\nquantities of matter which they contain. I believe so, firstj \nb( cause a cubic itjch of steel appears to contain more than \nabodt one third as much matter as a cubic mch of gold \xe2\x80\x94 and \na cubic inch of ice, or of hard, solid wood, appears to contain \nmore than one twentieth a? much matter as a cubic in- h of \ngold ; \xe2\x80\x94 a cubic inch of cork appears to contain more than one \neiiihtieth as much matter as a cubic inch of gold. Second i \nWe know that the chemical attraction of all kinds of matter is \nnot Hie same ; and we suppose that chemical attraction and \nthe attraction of gravitation, both depend upon one principle. \nThird : I know of no fact that proves that an ultimate atom \nof gold, or we\'ll say of platinum, (as a body of this is of great- \ner specific gravity than any other body,) is not heavier than \nan ultimate atom ofs iver, or of any other kind of matter. I \nknow of a fact which has been thought to prove that the ulti- \nmate atoms of all kinds of matter are of the same weight, ad- \nmitting them to be of the same size. The fact is this \xe2\x80\x94 " Gold \nmay, by being dissolved in nitro-muriatic acid, and having \nits solution transferred to ether, be made to remain equally \nsuspended in eYery part of this ether, which is the lightest of \nall visible fluids." \n\nBut we know that in a minute particle of matter, there is \ninfinitely more surface in proportion to the quantity of matter \nwhich the particle contains, than in a larger body : we know \ntoo, that liquids possess some degree of adhesive attraction. \nSome portion of water (and undoubtedly of ether, until it evap- \norates,) will adhere to the sides of a glass or gold vessel whjch \nstands upright. Now we believe that by virtue of this adhe- \nsiveness, ether may buoy up minute particles of gold which \npreseiit a very large surface to be acted upon, in proportion \nto the quantity of matter which th\xc2\xab\' pariirles contain; and \nthus we account for this fact, which frees us from the necessi- \n\n\n\n50 \n\n\n\nty of admitting that a piece of gold contains nearly three \ntimes as much matter as an equally large piece of the finest \nand most compact steel. \n\n\n\nCHAPTER VL \n\nOn Union \xe2\x80\x94 Mechanical, Chemical, and OrganicaL \n\nMatter unites with matter in three different ways \xe2\x80\x94 mechan \nically, chemically, and organically. These three kinds or \nmodes of union are essentially different from each other. This \nwe infer from the fact, that chemical union gives rise to pro- \nperties which mechanical union does not, and organic union \ngives rise to properties which never arise from mechanical or \nchemical union. But in every case, certain things are neces- \nsary, in order that matter may unite with matter. That mat- \nter may unite mechanically, the several quantities must be \nbrought in contact \xe2\x80\xa2, that chemical union may take place, the \nseveral ingredients must not only be brought together, but \nthey must be in dissimilar electric states, and one or more of \nthem must, in almost all cases, be either in a gaseous or fluid \nstate ; \xe2\x80\x94 that matter may unite organically, organized bodies \nmust previously exist. \xe2\x80\x94 We say, that as tire gives rise to tire, \nwhere fuel is present, so does organization give rise to organ- \nization, where food and other necessaries are not wanting. \n\nIt I be asked how the first oiganized beings of each distinct \nspecies came into existence, 1 answer, \xe2\x80\x94 God made them. \n\nTo instance a case in which mechanical union gives rise to \nwhat we call a mechan ca! property : \xe2\x80\x94 take water and gum \nar^ibic, put tiiem lo-etber, and viscidity will arise, which is a \nmechanical properly that did not before exist, either in the \nwater or Uitj inabie aulJ&iaiiCe, ^uuidiabic. \xe2\x80\x94 ]^y the chemical \n\n\n\n51 \n\nunion of sulphur and the elements of wafer, we have acidity \nand several other chemical properties which did not before \nexist, either in the sulphur, the oxygen, or the hydrogen. \xe2\x80\x94 \nThe compound arising from this union is considered more \nimportant than the one arising from the mechanical union of \nwater and gum arabic ; hence a particular name is assigned to \nit. It is called sulphuric acid, or oil of vitriol. \n\nBy the organic union of phosphorus, sulphur, lime, soda, \nchlorine,oxygen, carbon, hydrogen, azote, electricity, and sev- \neral other elements, we have physiological or vital properties \nwhich did not before exist in either of the separate elements. \n\nWe wish it to be remembered, that we do not suppose fhat \nby union something more exists, but somethtng diffeuenTj \nand hence something new. \n\nThe most important, or at least the best known, physiolog- \nical properties that result from organic union, are sensibility \nand contractility : the first a property of the nervous system ; \nthe last, a property of the muscular system. \n\nNow the only reason we have in any case for saying a body \npossesses a property, is because it may produce a change in \nsome other body, or suffer a change in itself from the action \nof some other body. We do not suppose that sensibility is \nany thing distinct from the nervous system, or any thing su- \nperadded to it, any more than we suppose that acidity is \nsomething distinct from vinegar or the oil of vitriol ; but we \nsay the nervous system is sensible or (meaning nothing more) \npossesses sensibility, because cons cient^ \'dctions may be excited \nin it by impressions upon the senses. \n\n* One reason, among others, for preferring the word conscient to \nthe word sentient, is because the word s\xc2\xbb^ntient has been applied to \nactions ot the nerves, \xe2\x80\x94 even the nerves of i\'eeling, \xe2\x80\x94 oi:iv ; \xe2\x80\x94 but we \nmean by coascieiii actions, certain actions of the nerves and braiOj \none or both. \n\n\n\n52 \n\nBut what good reapon the immatenalists have to say the \nnervous system possesses sensibility, 1 cannot divine ; for \ntheir ^\' soul" or mind which they talk much, but know noth- \ning about, might be acted upon by impressions upon the sen- \nses, if the nervous system possessed no property different \nfrom a piece of catgut, for aught any one can say to the con- \ntrary. They cannot say but that their naked soul, s^uck on \nto the end of a stick of timber, would hear the scratch of a pin \non the other end, as readily as when an ear, an auditory \nnerve, and a part of a brain, intervene between the soul and \nthe timber ; yet no man would say a stick of timber possess- \nes sensibility. According to the immatenalists, it is not the \nnervous system that senses and thinks, but some immaterial \nIhftig seated in the brain ; \xe2\x80\x94 why, then, in the name of reason, \ndo they say the nervous system possesses sensibility ? \n\nf know that immatenalists have made a sentence by putting \ntogether certain ambiguous words in a certain order, which \nthty call an argument against materialism. Some of them \nsay, \xe2\x80\x94 It is impossible to cont:eive how mfe//?^t?7ce can arise \nfrom any union or motion of unintelligent atoms ; \xe2\x80\x94 others say, \nit is impossible to conceive how sensibiliiy can arise from any \nmotion or union of insensible atoms. \n\nAs to intelligence, I believe that the meaning of the word \nis so far from being generally agreed on, that if five ijundred \npersons were to give each his own definition, no two would \ndefine it precisely alike, I believe that, as the word is gene- \nrally used, it means nothing at all. or else means the same as \nthe word knowledge ; and I believe a man\'s knowledge is no- \nthing other ihan his sensorial tendencies. Hence a man may \nhave knowledge or intelligence when he is asleep; that is, \nwhen be does not think. Now it is much more conceivable \nthat a materia! ory; ui should have tendencies to act certain \nactions, than it is that an unextended or immaterial thing \n\n\n\nahoiilfl have such tendencies. \xe2\x80\x94 The reader will discover what \nwe mtsia by sensorial tendencies, in another part of this \nwork ; and he will then see ihat the nfiateriaiisl does not \nmauitain that intelligenee arises from any combniation ot uuin- \ntt 11 igent atoms. \n\nAs to sensibility, it is just as conceivable that this physio- \nlogical property should arise from the organic union of insen- \nsible atoms, as it is that acidity, or any other chemical pro- \nperty, should arise from the chemical union of materials that \nwere not acid prior losuch union. And I may with ail con- \nfidence add, that we have as much evidence, and the same \nkiiid of reason for saying, that the nervous system is sensible, \nas we have for saying that vinegar is sour. \n\nit is astonishing that any man acquainted with chemistry, \nshould be so inconsiderate or so hardy, as to assert, thai it is \nimpossible for sensibility to arise from any union of insensible \natoms. The truth is, false notions got abroad thousands of \nyears ago, and gave rise to language which has continued ev- \ner since, and whicii can but serve to perpetuate such notions. \nThe expression, " sensibility o/" the nervous sysiem,\'- carries \nwith it the idea ofsometiiing more than \xe2\x80\x94 of something distinct \nfrom \xe2\x80\x94 the nervous system ; and it is exceedingly difficuie to \nadmit that something more can arise from any union of mate- \nrial elements. \n\nAs we are now upon the subject of organic union, we may \nrenark, that it is less permanent tha;. eithci mech;i < or \nclemical union. Substances mechanically or chemicaiiy uni- \nted, may remain a great length of iime without undergoing \nany change. Putty is formed by the nsechanical union of oil \nand an earthy substance ; blue vitriol is a chemical union of sul- \nphuric acid with copper: \xe2\x80\x94 both these substances may be pre- \nserved from cha.ige an indetisute period. But in organized \nbodies, it is generally believed that inteniai changes are con- \n\n\n\n54 \n\ntinually taking place, \xe2\x80\x94 -particles of matter being united with, \nand constituting a part of the body at one time, and at anoth- \ner, taken up and carried out of the body : so that a certain \nman of to day, will not be precisely the same man to-morrow, \nas it respects the particles of matter of which he is composed. \nThe addition of atoms which enter into the constitution of \norganized bodies, is called nutrition j their removal is effect- \ned by a process called absorption. When the nutrition ex- \nceeds the absorption, the body is said to gioio ; when the ab- \nsorption exceeds the nutrition, it is said to pine. \n\nFurthermore, \xe2\x80\x94 the peculiar properties of organized bodies \nor beings, depend on such nice proportions and arrangements \nof material elements, \xe2\x80\x94 some of which are invisible \xe2\x80\x94 that \nthese properties may be annulled by changes in such bodies ; \n\xe2\x80\xa2which changes cannot be delected by the senses. Thus the \nnervous system shall be no longer in such a condition that \nconscient actions can be excited in it by impressions upon the \nsenses, i. e. it sha!l become insensible ; and yet it shall appear \nlike a nervous system that is in a condition to act. The nice \norganization of a muscle, on which its contractility depends, \nmay no longer exist, yet it shall look very much like a muscle \nin a condition to act, and shall still be called an organized bo- \ndy ; but there is none of that organization there, which I \nspeak of, for the m.ost part, in this work. \n\nI have said that the nervous system may cease to think and \nfee!, and yet appear like a nervous system that is in a con- \ndition to act. In this point, I may be disputed by the medi- \ncal faculty, and I doubt myself whethej this ever can be, or at \nleast ever has been ; \xe2\x80\x94 we do not very often see the nervous \nsystem when it is in a condition to act ; if we did, w^e might \nperhaps find that it looks as much different ^vhen it is dead, \nas the countenance does. \n\nThere is this incontrovertible fact : Xo man ever dies with- \n\n\n\n55 \n\nout previously suffering an important change in some one or \nmore of his organs* \n\nA man does not die because his " soul" flies away from \nhim ! The truth is, a man is ahve, as we express it, when his \norgans are in a condition to act, and when they are not, he is \ndead. This is all. A man never dies until his organs suffer \na change ; if he did, it would be some little shadow of evi- \ndence of the existence of souls. If to die, is to have a soul fly \noff from the body, it is passing strange that in millions of in- \nstances it never once flies off when the body is in health. \n\nAgain : Organized bodies having suffered such a change \nthat their physiological properties no longer exist, \xe2\x80\x94 they, \nsooner or later, according to their composition and their situ- \nation as to heat and moisture, undergo other changes which \nare more obvious^ but not so important, as the first changes. \nThese more obvious changes, which take place in bodies that \nhave by previous changes lost their physiological properties, \nare chemical changes. \n\nThat vegetables and animals, after suffering such a change \nin their organization that their physiological properties no \nlonger exist, soon undergo chemical changes, is a fact which \nsome have brought forward as evidence of the existence of a \nlife, vital spark, or vital principle, \xe2\x80\x94 meaning by this life, not a \ncondition of a body, but a real independent being. Their \ntalk is something as follows : \xe2\x80\x94 So long as the life of an animal \nremains in the animal, it controls the lazvs ! of chemical action 5 \nbut when th^s vital spark flies away from the organized body, \nthen the lav/s of chemical action which have heretofore been \ncontrolled by it, exercise their wonted authority ; and chemi- \ncal changes commence. Now all this talk appears to me like \nso much nonsense \xe2\x80\x94 it is worse than absurd, for it is calcula- \nted to make some men think erroneously.\xe2\x80\x94 The truth is sim- \nply this : an organized body is a combination of material ele- \n\n\n\n5& \n\nments, comliincd and arranged in a peculiar manner, and in \nnice proportions. So long as it is duly supplied with food, \nwarmth, air, \xc2\xabSjc. it may continue to be an organized being \xe2\x80\x94 \nto be what is called a living and healthy body. But if, from \nany cause whatever, even its own wear and tear, this healthy \ncondition be in some degree changed, the properties and ac- \ntions of the organized body are impaired ; if changed in a still \ngreater degree, these properties and actions are not only ex- \ntinct, but the body suffers further changes which it would \nnot, had it not suffered previous changes. \n\nWhy certain proportions of certain material elements uni- \nted in a peculiar manner, should not undergo such chemical \nchaf)ge? as they would t^^ere one or more of these materials \nabsent, or present in som<^ other proportion ; or as they would \nif some other material should be added to them, \xe2\x80\x94 i can as \nwell tell, and no better, as 1 can why a little salt added to \nfresh meat should preve.?t the meat from suffering such chem- \nical changes that it otherwise would. \n\n1 may remark, that chemical changes do go on in organiz- \ned beings very frequently, before such beings are said to be \ndead. Now if there be a \'\'vital spark" in animals which \n" controls the laws of chemical action," (what an ambiguous \nexrression!) why do these chemical chancres ever take place \nbefore this mighty power quits the body ? The simple fact is : \nthtsvitril spark is nothing more nr less than orgaiiization, and \nis of course something essentially different from what is lo be \nfound in the kingdom of inorganic matter. \xe2\x80\x94 It would be ab- \nsurd to speak of organic ur\xc2\xbbion, and then say it is nothuig es- \nsentially different from chemical or mechanical union. \n\nIt may be well to observe in this place, that the immaterial \nphilosophers do not mean the same thing by the word life, \nth:U ihey I\'o by the wnrd soul. By the terms sou!, mnid, \nperceptive principle, or immortal spirit, they mean an imma- \n\n\n\n5? \n\nterial thing which is superadded to the organized bodf, and \nwhich thinks, feels and moves the hody while it is ahve, flies \naway when the body dies, and senses and thinks, one or bothj \nindependent of the body. Whereas, by the terms life, vital \nspark, vital principle, generative principle, or "unknown \npower," (as Magendie calls it,) they do not mean any thinking \nthing ; but an innmaterial thing, but for which organized bo- \ndies would not be generated \xe2\x80\x94 would not grow \xe2\x80\x94 would not be \nkept in decent order as a tenement for the soul. \n\nAccording to these philosophers, a vegetable has a life, and \nan animal a life and a soul. It is to be remembered, they \nhold that the life and the soul are two real entities \xe2\x80\x94 two \nagents which may act, may do something ; and which are es- \nsentially diiFerent from any material agent, being even uneX\' \ntended. \n\nNow whoever believes in the existence of souls, is an ini" \nmaterialist, whether he believe m the existence of lives or \nnot ; and whoever believes in the existence of lives, is a vital- \nist, whether he believe in the existence of souls or not. \n\nit may be worth our time to inquire why the belief in the \nexistence of souls and lives, was ever so very general as it \nformerly has been ; and even as it is at the present time \namong those who are but little acquainted with the anatomy \nand physiology of vegetables and animals. \n\nWe have shown, that as chemical combination is a peculiar \nmode of union which gives rise to properties that do not re- \nsult from any other mode of union so is organization a pecu- \nliar mode of union whsch gives rise to propers ies peculiar to \nitself. Owing to these properties, organized bodies exhibit \nphenomena which inorganic bodes do not. Men witness \nthese phenomena, and are led to think that they must bt? re- \nferred to something which is not to b( found in inorgaiuc \n\nmatter, as in truth they must. And ia ancient timesj when \n\n8 \n\n\n\ni\\ien had a mean opinion of matter, chemistry not having \ntaught them that by its union, all the peculiar properties of \ncompound bodies arise, this something wat> supposed to be \nsome immaterial or spiritual agent, which enters organized \nbodies, and dodges out again ; leaving them an inert and /j/*e- \n/c55 mass of matter, destitute of all vital properties. \n\nThis notion, we may easily suppose, would be very gene- \nral ; for it was not the result of an abstruse speculation of one \nman, but it arose from witnessing phenomena which were \npresent to all men. It was an opinion which the book of na- \nture \xe2\x80\x94 an universal hook\xe2\x80\x94seemefi to declare. This notion \nhaving become general, gave rise to language which has ever \nsince served to strengthen and perpetuate it. And when we \nconsider that men are too cowardly or too lazy to search into \nthe truth of what every body believes \xe2\x80\x94 what nature at first \nsight seems to declare \xe2\x80\x94 what they have been taught from \ntheir childhood, by parent, priest and primer\xe2\x80\x94 what the \nlanguage of all nations seems to confirm : \xe2\x80\x94 when we consider \nalso, that the phenomena which first gave rise to the notion, \nare still every where present, and are even brought forward \nas proofs of its correctness \xe2\x80\x94 it is not very marvellous that this \nstrange notion, not less groundless than those formerly enter- \ntained by witches, should be as prevalent as it ever has been. \n\nNevertheless, an opinion is nothing the truer for being gen- \neral or ancient. The time was when all men thought falsely, \nso far as they thought at all, concerning the movements of the \nheavenly bodies ; \xe2\x80\x94 they took things to be as they appear to \nbe. And it is one principal object of this work to show that \nall men who did not believe that man is constituted entirely of \nmatter, do not believe things to be as they actually are in na- \nture. \n\n\n\nm \n\n\n\nCHAPTER VII. \n\nOn Vegetables. \n\nVegetables are itisensible organized bodies : \xe2\x80\x94 they are in- \nsensible, because they have no nervous system. \n\nTheir origin is not fortuitous ; but they arise from seeds, \nroots or shps which are bodies organized by a parent stock. \nBy virtue of this organization, they possess certain physiolog- \nical properties, so that v^hen heat and moisture are present, \nthey begin to germinate, and if surrounded by such food as \nthev have an affinity for. they take it up, and by internal ac- \ntions which can never be known to man except by their ef- \nfects, this food becomes assimilated to the embrio plant, which \nbeing thus enlarged, its plumule shoots up from the surface \nof the soil, giving rise to the trunk and branches ; while the \nrostel shoots deeper into the soil, giving rise to what we call \nthe roots. \n\nStones are said to grow ; but stones, and all other inorga- \nnic bodies which may be said to grow, grow by juxta-positioa \nof particles ; that is, the particles adhere to the outside ; \xe2\x80\x94 \nthey do not enter into or pass by any part of the body to \nwhich they are about to be added. But with organized bo- \ndies it is not so. We presume that in all instances in which \na particle of matter is united with an organized body, such \nparticle first passes h) some other particles which are already \nunited with the body, constituting a part of it. \n\nIn what way the vessels of plants circulate their juices, it \nis not fully determined. The supposition, however, that \nthese circulating vessels are contractile, best enables us to \naccount for all the phenomena connected with the circula- \n\n\n\n60 \n\ntion of their fluids. Still, so far as 1 know, the opinion that \nthe sides of the vessels attract the fluids, that extremity of ihe \nvessel towards which the fluid flows, attracting with the great- \nest force, is far from heing proved erroneous. Perhaps the \nfluids are circulated partlj by attraction and partly by con- \ntraction. For my own part, i have.no very positive opinion \nabout the matter, except I ronfidentl}\' believe that the phe- \nnomena of vegetables, as well as of animals, are the effects of \nmaterial causes\xe2\x80\x94 that there are no agents or operative beings \nin either but what are material. And I would furthermore \nmaintain, that when I ascribe the peculiar properties of veg- \netables to organization, i give just as much an explanation of \nthem, as he does who says they depend on a life or a vital \nprinciple. And there is this in my favor : we know there is \nsuch a thing as organization\xe2\x80\x94 such a thing as material ele- \nxnejits united organically ; but we have not the least evidence \nof the existence of a life. The hypothesis of life, also, gives \nrise to many difficulties \xe2\x80\x94 many unanswerable questions that \ncannot be asked, upon the supposition that vegetables are \nconstituted entirely of matter : as we will now proceed to \n\nshow. \n\nThe life of a vegetable being an entity distinct from the \nmatter of a vegetable, from whence comes it, and where, and \nonly where, does it reside ? Does the life of each little shrub \nand plant come directly from the hand of God ? And if so, \ndid he create a life for every particular plant which ever has \nor ever will exist, at the time he " created all thmgs?" or is \nhe continually emanating fire-new lives for vegetables as they \nspring up ! Does the life of a vegetable ever exist any where \nbut in the vegetable ? He that says it does, ought to be able \nto show some reason for his saying so. If it do not, what be- \ncomes of the life of a vegetable which dies-\xe2\x80\x94 a vegetable from \n\n\n\n01 \n\nwhich the " vital spark" flies away ?^^ Does it straightway \ndodge oif\'into some oiher vej^etabie ? When a man clears live \nacres of liis wood-iot, do the trees on (he remaining five acres \ntake a start all at once, and grow faster, or discover auy oth- \ner signs of having received a new life. \n\nTo say that you destroy the life of a vegetable when you \ndestroy its organization, would be saying what a cautious vi- \ntalist will not readily admit ; for this would argue ti)at the life \nof a vegetable depends on its organization, instead of its or- \nganization being caused, modified, aiid maintained by its life; \nwhich would be taking away the supposed evidences of its \nexistence. \n\nNevertheless, this is the most rational method the vitalists \ncan suggest for getting rid of their lives of organized benjgs \nwhen they die ; therefore we will grant it \xe2\x80\x94 we will grant, \nwhatever destroys the organization of a vegetable or an ani- \nmal, destroys its life : \xe2\x80\x94 and then say :\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nAs there are no lives flying off from plants or animals when \nthey die, and as it is ver} diflicult to admit that the God of \nthousands- of worlds \xc2\xabs continually making new lives for the \nnumberless plants and animals that are continually springing \nforth; and furthermore, as the lives of trees and men exist \nonly in trees and men. (taking this last for granted, until there \nbe some evidence to the contrary,) the question arises : from \nwhence come the lives of new or young plants and animals, \nbut from the seeds from which they spring\' But it will not \nanswer to admit that a vegetable derives its life from the seed \nfrom which it springs ; for according to this supposition, we \nare driven to one of two pitiful alternatives : we must either \nadmit that an apple seed, six thousand years ago, contained as \n\n* Whatever i m^.y s-iy relative to the life of ve;^elables, will ap- \nply with equdi force agumst the life of amiiiulsj man cot excepted. \n\n\n\nm \n\nmuch life, or as many lives, as a]I the apple trees and apple \nserds that h^ve ever onginated, either direct))\' oi indirectly, \nfrom this seed ; or else we must admit, that when any seed \nbegins (o^rrow, new hfe begins to he generated. But it would \nbo a fata) thing to vitalism to admit that life or lives are gen- \nerated by the propagation or growth of vegetables or animals ; \nfor this would be making life to depend on organization, in- \nstead of organization on life. \n\nFinally, to give the vitalists every possible chance to sup- \nport their doctrine, let us make one more supposition, and \nthe most rational of all that can be suggested. Let us sup- \npose that at the time the Deity \'\' created all things,\'\' he crea- \nted one universal vegetable life, which pervades the air and \nthe soil, from which vegetables draw their support, \xe2\x80\x94 not a \ndistsnct life for every species of vegetables ; for since there \nare thousands of species, this would be multiplying the ma- \nchinery by which nature works her ends, to an unwarrantable \ndecree. \n\nThe vitalists, then, cannot do better than to say, that one \nuniversal principle was created for organized beings, or else \none for vegetables and one for animals. \n\nI would now ask, how one and the same vital principle \nshnij cause one seed to become an oak and another a thistle ? \nOh, say the vitalists, this is owing to the nature of the seeds \nthemselves. \xe2\x80\x94 Very good. But what do you mean by nature \nof seeds ? The vital principle is out of the question \xe2\x80\x94 there is \nbut one \xe2\x80\x94it must of course be the same in all seeds : T repeat \nthe question, \xe2\x80\x94 What do you mean by nature of seeds ? Do \nyou not mean their make or constitution ? Do you not mean \ntheir organization ? I think this question must be answered \nin the affirmative. If so, it follows of course that it is diflfer- \nence of orgasiization that gives rise to all the differences be- \ntweea vegetables. This being made out, 1 care for nothing \n\n\n\n63 \n\nmore ; but those who choose to fire away their powder and \nshot in defence of an insignificant, brain-begotten vital princi- \nple, which is not capable of effecting any difference betweea \norganized beings, still have the liberty to do so. But I shall \nsay that the word hfe, hke the word soul, is a name without a \nthing. \n\n\n\n\xe2\x96\xa000- \n\n\n\nCHAPTER VIII. \n\nGeneral Remarks concerning Animals, \n\nAn animal is a sensible, organized body.t \n\nT\'hs I consider a correct definition of an animal, and T shall \nadhere to it. But there are some instances in which it is dif- \nficult to determine whether a being be sensible or not, and of \ncourse to determine whether it be an animal or not. The \nreasons of thi\'? difficulty I will here attempt to show. \n\nAll the higher orders of animals, and perhaps all beings \n\n\xe2\x80\xa2j- Being convinced of the importance of a correct nomenclature \nin the science of physiology, (which, in \\X^ broadest sense inchules \nall I understand by metaphysics,) I regret that the word sensible, \nas well as the word sensibility, has been used in different senses It \nhas been used in the technical or physiological sense, as i have \nhere used it, denoting a cons\xc2\xab ieni being, or a being in which sensa- \ntions may be excited by inipressious upon its organs ; it has also \nbeen used in a popular sense, as when it is said of one who can dis- \ncern nice relations, and think ot nil that relates to a subject, he is a \nsensihfe raan. And when we say of a person on whom impres- \nsions produce more thnn an ordinary ^^f^ect \xe2\x80\x94 a person whose finer \nfee ings or soci d passions are easily excited, he is a person of great \nsensibilily : we do not use the word in its strictest ph^/siological \nsense. \n\nThe reader will find that in this work the words sensible and \nsensibility will sehicu, if ever, be used in any oiliur ihaii their \ntechnical siguificaiiuns. \n\n\n\n64 \n\nthat are truly ?imm^h, possess a nervous system consisting of \ntwo parts, which, though materially connected, subserve two \ndistinct purposes. The one part performs the functions of \nsending and thinking ; it is also instrumental in the production \no^ voluntary motions ; but the other part has no direct share \nin the production of the conscient phenomena, being wholly \nsubservient in the production of involuntary actions, as the \nactions of the circulating vessels and the alimentary canal. \n\nThese actions are vital actions, or in other words, they are \nactions of contractile organs ;* but they do not necessarily \nsuppose the existence of feeling or volition ; that is,, they may \nbe, and indeed are performed without either. To distinguish \nthese two parts of the nervous system from each other, the \nformer has been termed ihe nervous system of animal life ^ \nthe latter, the 7iervous sysitm oj organic life. It is not to be. \nsupposed, however, that these two systems are distinct from \neach other in any other respect than that of the offices whch \nthey fulfil. On the contrary, there are many nerves passing \nfrom the one to the other, and so incorporating them that those \norgans which receive their nerves from the organic system, \nundoubtedly receive along with them a few fibres from the \nanimal or feeling system -, and on this account these organs \nmay be the seat of pain, when in a morbid state. But these \nfew fibres from the animal system of nerves, do not appear to \nbe necessary to enable these organs to perform their ordinary \nfunctions ; for the actions of these organs are not directly nor \ngenerally controlled by the thoughts or sensations going on in \nthe nervous system of animal life ; nor are their actions ordi- \nnarily accompanied with any sensation. It appears that this \nconnection between the two systems of nerves is designed, not \nfor ordinary, but for extraordinary purposes. By virtue of it, \ninflammations and other diseases of the heart, stomach, bow- \nels, liver, &c. cannot go on to a final termination wiihout pro- \n\n\n\nm \n\nducing pain ; hence, by warning the individual of his danger, \nit may often be removed. By it, also, a man\'s passions may \nbe expressed in his countenance, in a way which we shall at- \ntempt to point out in the course of this work. \n\nNow as there is, in the higher orders of animals, such a \nthing as a nervous structure ; such a thing as contraction ; \nand such a thing as important and obvious vital actions zoith- \nout any sensation, thinking, or volition ; so there may be be- \nings of an inferior order which possess no nervous system of \nanimal life, and of course are never the subjects of any con- \nsciousness ; but which may nevertheless possess a nervous \ntexture, an organic nervous system, and a power of acting \xe2\x80\x94 \ntheir actions being caused and controlled, not by thoughts, \nnot byconscient actions of a brain \xe2\x80\x94 but by material stimuli, \nas are the actions of one\'s heart. Hence we may see or-ganir \nized automatons, possessing something that appears like a \nnervous texture, and yet not be sure that it is a sensible be- \ning \xe2\x80\x94 not be sure that it is an animal. \n\nHere then lies one great difficulty in determining, in some \ncases, whether an organized being be an animal or not. Ano- \nther difficulty arises from the fact that an impression whirh \nmay excite a feeling, and a visible, aiid perhaps -voluntary \nmotion in one organized being, may excite in another organ- \nized being a visible motion without exciting any feeling: \xe2\x80\x94 \nwe cannot see that action which constitutes a feeling ; and if \nyou touch a polypus, and the polypus contract, you do not \nknow whether the impression which you make, acts directly \nas a stimulus on the contractile fibre, or whether it gives rise \nto the contraction through the medium of a zoill^ as immate- \nrialists would express it. The existence of the contractile \ntexture in any being is no proof of the existence of a sensible \ntexture in thesan>e being. \n\nIf there be any organized automatous beings, which pos- \n9 \n\n\n\n66 \n\nsess any^part supposed to answer the purpose of a nervous \nsystem of organized life, but which are never the subjects of \nany consciousness, I would neither call them vegetables nor \naninnals, but zoophiles* \n\nWe desire to avoid any difficulties that might arise from \nnot strictly adhering to our own definitions of terms. It mat- \nters not with us what materials a being is organized out of; \nwhat its mode of existence may be ; or in what way it may \npropagate its species : if it do not possess the physiological \nproperty, sensibility^ we say it is not an animal. \n\nSome writers have laid down sensibility and locomotive \npower as the peculiar characteristics of an animal ; but pre- \nsentl} they find that some beings are able to move, in which \nno traces of a nervous system can be found, and which dis- \ncover no signs of feeling ; others they find, which they call \nplants, but which discover signs of sensibibility. They are \nnow very much put lo their stumps, to draw a line of distinc- \ntion between animals and vegetables, But if these men \nwojid only adhere even to their own definition of animal, they \nwould find less difficulty than they do. histead of this, they \ndefine an animal u\\ one place, and perhaps in the next line \ntell you that this definition will not hold good, because some \nother thing quite different is also an animal. I will here in- \nsert a passage to the point, from Good\'s Book of Nature. \n\n" Yet if we hence lay down consciousness or sensation and \nlocomotion as the two characteristics of animal life, we shall \nBoon find our definition untenable, for while the Linnean class \nof worrris affords instarces, in perhaps every one of its orders, \no{ animals destitute of loconsotion, and evincing no mark of \nconsciousr-.ess or sensation, there are various species oi plants \nthat are strictly locomotive, and that discover a mueh nearer \napproach to a sensitive faculty." \n\nIn this sentence Dr. Good has done as much as to say, \xe2\x80\x94 if \n\n\n\n67 \n\nwe call a sensible, self-moving being, an animal, we shall find \nour definition untenable; for there are many animals which \nhave no locomotive power, and evince no mark of sensibility, \nas well as some plants which are locomotive and discover \nsigns of sensibility. Now this is much the same as ifl should \ndefine water, by saying it is a tasteless ai\'d colourless fluid, \nand then say this definition is untenable, for a sour and reddish \nfluid [vinegar] is water. Surely, if we define an animal a \nsensible, self-moving being, then no being is an animal which \nis not sensible aijd automatous, let it be called a worm, a \nwatch, or what you please. \n\nAs to the stuff that animals are made of, it may be stated \nthat there is nothing to be found in them but what is to be \nfound out of them. We find that they are organized \'* out of \nthe ground," or " the dust of the ground," as stated in Gene- \nsis, chap. 2, V. 7, 19. \n\nAnimal substances are analyzed, at the present day, in such \na manner that it seems impossible for any thing to be lost, and \nwe find that those animals which are not of the lowest orders, \nare constituted of the following elementary substances : phos- \nphorus, sulphur, carbon, iron, magnesium, calciunn, sodium, \nmanganese, potasium, sllicsum, alumium, chlorine, oxygen, \nhjdrogen, axote, caloric, light and electricity. \n\nThere is nothing to be found in man that is not to be found \nin other animals. \n\nIt has been a question with physiologists whether the blood, \nwhile circulating in a living animal, is a living substance or \nnot ; hut this is the same as to inquire whether it be organized \nor not. For m} own part, 1 believe the materials of the \nblood are united organically. \n\nThe process by which organized beings give rise to organ- \nized bodies, has been considered as very mysterious. But \nwhen and why is there any propriety in saying any thing is \n\n\n\nea \n\nihysterious ? If we clo not say it is mysterious that one body \nin motion puts another in motion by striking against it, then \nthere is no propriety in our saying it is mysterious that any \none event follows another, in case the event immediately fol- \nlow ; and if we expunge from the catalogue of mysteries, all \ncases in which one event immediately follows another, there \nwill be no cases in which there is any propriety in talking of \nmystery, but those in which we suppose there are intervening \nevents between two obvious events ; which intervening events \nwe cannot discover to our satisfaction. Whether, in the pro- \ncess of generation, there be any more events which we are \ntinacquainted with, than there are in the processes of nutri- \ntion, volition, of absorption, no man can say. But if there \nbe, they are events brought about by virtue of organization ; \nand instead of racking our brains in conjecturing what they \nare. we say that the first male and female of each species of \nanimals were organized by the Deity in such a manner as to \nbe able to propagate their species ; and if they were able to \npropagate their species, they were able to give rise to other \nanimals like themselves, which, of course, were able to pro- \npagate their species in their turn, and so on, one generation \ngiving rise to another, to the present time. \n\nWe ought not to look upon a germ or embryo as any thing \ndistinct frctm the [)arent body with which it is intimately uni- \nted, but as a part of such parent body. To be sure, it is in \ntime to be separated from the body of which it is a part, by a \nnatural process instead of an artificial one ; but it is none the \nless a part of the parent body, so long as united with it on this \naccount, than the hair on one\'s head, or one\'s own heart. A \npart (an ovum) of the female becomes developed, or in other \nwords, grows so as to become a foetus, because all the parts \nconcerned are excited into action by a peculiar kind of stim- \ntilus y but this is no more vvondtrful than that any other part \n\n\n\nshould grow when duly furnished with nutritive matter. And \nI may add \xe2\x80\x94 he who says generation is effected by the influence \nor operations of a " nisus formaiivus which vivifies and shapes \nthe hitherto shapeless spermatic matter," as Blumenbach has \nsaid,, no more explains to us the process, than another one \ndoes, who says the whole process is accomphshed by material \norgans, which, by virtue of their organization, have the pow- \ner of accomphshing it.* \\ \n\nAs to the natural or original superiority of man over other \nanimals, we may stale in a few words in what it consists : it \nconsists in having hands and a better brain, \xe2\x80\x94 All the conscient \nphenomena may be divided into two classes, sensing and think- \ning. To sense, is to have a sensation, that is, to have a con- \nstient action of a nerve and the brain ; to think, is to have a \nconscient action of the brain alone. Judging or reasoning, \nremembering and imagining, are but modes of thinking : m- \ndeed we can scarcely call them-^ifferent modes, for as it re\xc2\xbb \nspects what goes on m the head, there is no essential differ- \nence between remembering, judging, imagining, and simply \nthinking. When a man is said to remember, imagine, &;c, \nnothing other occurs in the brain than one thought [one con- \nscient action of the brain] after another ; but because these \nthoughts may occur in different orders, because they may re- \nlate to different subjects, and because of other things which I \ncannot here mention to advantage, \xe2\x80\x94 the terms remembering, \n\n\n\n* It may be remarked, that, by virtue o/ organization, means \nas much, and no mure, as, by virtue oj those properties or powers \nwhich, arise from or^anizafion. \n\nWhat, tor instance, can be the difference between saying the ner- \nvous .system feels by virtue of its organization, or the nervous sys- \ntem is so orscanized as to be able to feel, or, sensibility arises,from. \nthe organic tmion of matter as it occurs in the nervous system^ \nand Oil account of Us fjeifsibidfy, the nervous system may feel ?~^ \nSound excepted, there is no difference. \n\n\n\n70 \n\njudgins^, imaG:ining, Szc. have got into use. Nevertheless, we \nare not to suppose that any more than one single thought oc- \ncurs in a man\'s head at the same identical instant ; and as to \ndouble, or compound, or complex thoughts or ideas, there are \nno such things. Now all modes of thinking, if such they n^ay \nbe called, evidently go on in all animals, from a man down to \na mouse, and even several grades lower. But (hey do not go \non in the same degree o^ efficiency ^ if 1 may use the best poor \nterm I can think of, in the lower orders of animals, that they \ndo in man \xe2\x80\x94 owing to their not having the knowledge, i. e, \nthe sensoi\'ial tendencies of a man, \n\nI know it is very fashionable with the w??/eaifAerec? izpccZs^ \nto extol human reason as a divine endowment, peculiar to \ntheir own species ; but so far from their ever knowing what \nit is, 1 very much doubt if two out of a thousand would define \nit precisely alike. I am sure 1 should give the word reason \na definition altogether different from the sense in which it ap- \npears to be generally used. \n\nWe have not enumerated the faculty of communicating \nideas hy signs, that is, by articulate sounds and marks on pa- \nper, as a natural endowment of man which gives him superi- \nority over other animals ; for as (he vocal organs of other an- \nimals, and of the deaf and dumb of the human species, appear \nto be as perfect as those of any men, we have good reason to \nsuppose that if a man had the brain of a horse in his skull, he \ncould no more articulate than a horse ; and if he could not, \nand had also the anterior hoofed extremities of a horse instead \nof arms and hands \xe2\x80\x94 why, then, if a// men had always been so \nformed, we should have had no more language than horses \nhave. Hence we see that the natural superiority of man does \nnot, even in part, consist in the acquired faculty of communi- \ncating ideas. \n\nI know that some have advanced the very irrational notion; \n\n\n\n7i \n\nthat man first received his language directly from heaven ; \nbut its origin can be very satisfactorily accounted tor, without \nsuch a supposition as this. The hand is what has enabled \nmen to bring their language to the present state of perfection. \n\nAmong our remarks relative to animals in general, we may \nstate, that the intellectual or conscient functions of the brain, \nare performed in a manner more or less perfect, according to \nits natural make and cc^iiditon. We say, according to its con- \ndition, for the brain of the same individual is not at ail times \nin the same condition or state. It is not in such a state in \ninfancy and old age as in middle life ; and like all other parts \nof the body, it is liable to be diseased. \n\nAs to original make, the brains of individuals who belong \nto the same species, widely diflfer. Some men, for instance, \nhave a good large plump brain, as indicated by a high fore- \nhead, standing well forward, the temples being full and distant. \nA person with such a head, you might take for a natural ge- \nnius without much risk of mistake, if you only knew that the \ninternal organization of his brain is good, and is not envel- \noped by uncommonly thick skull and membranes ; but as \nsome brains are, as we may say, phlegmatic, and not ver) ac- \ntive \xe2\x80\x94 not easily and readily acquiring strong sensorial leiiden- \ncies by exercise ; and as others may be enveloped in uncom- \nmonl}\' thick skull and membranes, a large head, even on a \nsmall body, is not a sure indication of natural superiority as \nto thinking abilities. So on the other hand, a man\'s head \nmay be rather narrow, from temple to temple \xe2\x80\x94 his forehead \nmaybe low, and soon receding back, and his eyes, instead of \nbeing sunk, as it were, into his head, may be nearly as nigh \nto }ou as the superciliary ridges of his os frontis which arch \nover them ; s ill such a headed man ma} \'\' know something;" \nbut as a general rule, you may conclude there is no great share \nof original susccptibilily in such a looking head. \n\n\n\nAs to the condition of the brain, it is never altered from a \nstate of health without a corresponding alteration in its abili- \nty to think. In infancy it is softer, and in old age it is nnore \ndry and rigid than in middle age ; and at these two periods it \n\'performs its functions as imperfectly or feebly as do the oth- \ner organs of the system at these periods. Diseases, injuries, \nand spirituous liquors, disenable it for performing its intellec- \ntual functions at all, or cause it to act very feebly and irregu- \nlarly \xe2\x80\x94 as we see in cases of asphyxia, apoplexy, hydrocepha- \nlus, ebriety, compressed brain from depression of a part of the \nskull, &:c. The brain (and consequently is functions,) is \nalso under the influence of sex and climate, as are the other \norgans of the system. Finally, we may lay down the po- \nsition (which, if disputed, can never be refuted,) that we have \njust the same kind of evidence that sensing and thinking are \nfunctions of the nervous system, as we have that the secretion \nof bile is a function of the liver, or the secretion of urine a \nfunction of the kidnies. And there would be just as much \nsense and propriety in my saying the bile is secreted by a bil- \niary agent distinct from the liver, as (here is in immaterialists \nsaying that thinking is performed by a soul, mind, or thinking \nagent distinct from the brain. Nor do immaterialists better \nthe matter by acknowledgiiig, as some of them have, that it is \nas much a function of the brain to think, as it is of the liver to \nsecrete bile, provided they add \xe2\x80\x94 the brain is enabled to per- \nform this function by the superaddition of a " percipient prin- \nciple." \xe2\x80\x94 A distinct agent is a distinct agent, call it by what \nname you please, whether mind, soul, percipient principle, \nor something else. If immaterialists say that the brain is en- \nabled to think by means of a percipient principle superadded, \nI will say the liver is enabled to secrete bile by means of a \nbile- secreting principle superadded, and then ask them how \n(his sounds. \n\n\n\n78 \n\nAs I design to establish the principles of materiah\'sm, by \ngiving a satisfactory explanation of the conscient phenomena \nof man in health and disease, upon these principles \xe2\x80\x94 I shall \nnot attempt to point out the differences in the size, shape and \ncomplication of the nervous organs in different species of an- \nimals, showing, as others have already done, that these differ- \nences are exact criteria of the differences in their thinking \nabilities. 1 will here remark, however, that as the thinking \nabilities of man are superior to those of any other species of \nanimals, so is his brain larger, in proportion to the amount of \nnervous elongations that proceed from it, than the brain of any \nother species of animaL \n\n\n\n\'00- \n\n\n\nCHAPTER IXe \n\nOn the Nervous System* \n\nThe nervous system consists of several parts between which \nthere are obvious marks of distinction ; but we consider them \nas parts of one system, because they are not entirely separa- \nted by the intervention of any thing that is not of the nervous \ntexture. Different parts of the nervous system perform dif- \nferent functions ; hence the reader will not be surprised to \nhear us speak of the organs of the nervous system. Indeed, \ncustom justifies us in speaking of too nervous systems in the \nsame animal \xe2\x80\x94 a nervous system of animal life, and a nervous \nsystem of organic life, as an ingenious French physiologist has \ncalled them. \n\nThe Nervous System of Animal Life consists of the brain \nwhich fills the skull -, the spinal marrow \xe2\x80\x94 or more properly, \nspinal cord\xe2\x80\x94which extends from the biain through the whole \n\n10 \n\n\n\n74 \n\nlength of the vertebral column ; and all the nerves which pro\xc2\xbb \nceed from the brain and spinal cord. These nerves are dis- \ntributed more or less plentifully to every part of the body in \nwhich a sensation may be excited. \n\nThe brain is a pulp;y body of very irregular figure, having \na number of projections and depressions, corresponding part- \nly with ihe iriegularities of (he skull, and partly produced by \nconvolutions and cavities in the brain itself. Scarcely any \nthing is known with respect to the use of these projections \nand depressions ; therefore we shall not give a particular de- \nscription of them ; nor shall we describe the membranes \nwhich envelop the brain and dip into its fissures \xe2\x80\x94 some of \nthem entering and lining what are called ihe cavities of the \nbrain. But it is necessary to remark, that what 1 have here \ncalled the brain, is generally described as consisting of four \nprincipal divisions, called cerebrum, cerebellum, pons f^arolii, \nand mt\'dulla oblongata. \n\nThe ceiebrum completely fills the upper part of the cavity \nof the cranium or skull, being several times larger than the \nother three parts collectively. It is divided into two equal \nparts, called hemispherp.s, which are t^eparated vertically by \nihefalx, a membrane which dips down from the skull. This \nvertical separation does not extend through the whole depth \nof the cerebrum in its central part, but it divides it complete- \nly before and behind. The under surface of each hemisphere \nis divided into three lohes^ an anterior, middle, and posterior. \nThe cerebrum, and the cerebellum also, consists of two sub- \nstances of different colours and consistence ; one of which is \nfor the most part exterior to the other. The exterior sub- \nstance is of a light brown colour, very vascular, more soft \nthan the inner, and has a glandular appearance when exam- \nined by the microscope : it is called the cineritious or cortical \nsubstance. The lower and central portion of the cerebrum \n\n\n\n75 \n\nis white, and in man is large r in proportion to the cortical \nsubstance, than in other animals. In the foetus it is less abun- \ndant in proportion to the cortical substance, than in the adult. \nIt is called the medullary substance. \n\nI mention these dsflferent substances of the brain, because \nas, in the same species of animals, hke structures have like \nappearances, and perform hke functions, it may be inferred \nfrom this fart alone that the cortical and m( dullary portions \nof the brain perform dtfFerent functions ; \xe2\x80\x94 and we have good \nreason to suppose that the cortical secretes a subtile fluid, \nbut is not sensible while conscient actions take place in the \nmedullary portion. Take an animal and slice otf portions of \nthe corticrJ part of its brain, and it will exhibit no signs of \npain, nor will you destroy its ability to thmk and move ; but \nwhen you get pretty well down into the medullary part, you \nproduce pain and contractions of the voluntary muscles, and \n\nfinally destroy the animuPe ability- to tUiiih arxd move, that iSj \n\nkill it. \n\nBelow the cerebrum and cerebellum, we find \\\\\\q pons va- \nrolii^ which is formi d by processes from the cerebrum and \ncerebellum. From this part the mtdulla oblongata proceeds \ndownwards and backwards under the cerebellum. The me- \ndulla oblongata soon reaches a large hole an inch nr two pos- \nterior to the centre of (he base of the skull, called theybm- \nmen magnum of the occipital bone. As soon as the medulla \noblongata passes this forarnen, it enters the spinal canal, and \ntakes the name of spinal cord, or spinal marrow.* \n\n* " The most -triking character of tb^^ humai) brain is the pr<\xc2\xbbdigi- \nous d<\'vel()[jefuent ot the cerebral h\' nnspiieres, tu which no animal, \nwliatever ratio its whole encep\'riHlou [the whole conieuts of its \ncranium] may bear to its body, afi\'.irtls any parailt^l. \n\n\'* It is also the ntost pert\'ecl in the nundier and aevelopement of \nits pjirts ; none being tound in tniy animal which man has not 5 \nwhile stverai oi ihobe iuuiid in mau art either itductd In SiZe, or \n\n\n\n7G^ \n\nProm the lower part of the brain proceed nine pairs of \nnerves, most of them from the medulla oblongata, some from \nthe cerebrum, but none from the cerebellum. These nerves \nare white cords, consisting mostly of medullary matter ; and \nit is impossible for the anatomist to trace them to one com- \nmon centre or point in the brain ; but there can be no doubt \nbut that they all have a connexion with that part of the brain \nwhich we shall call the sensorium, when we get to the chap- \nter on sensation. To enumerate these nerves in order, com- \nmencing with the most anterior : \xe2\x80\x94 The first pair are the ol- \nfactory nerves ; they proceed to the organ of smelling, and are \ndistributed to the membrane which lines the nasal cavities, \ncalled the Schneiderian n\'.embrane. Tney are so organized \nthat odours, by coming in contact with this membrane, excite \nsuch conscient action in them, and consequently in the brain, \nas constitutes the sensation called smelling. \n\n\n\ndeficient, in various animals. Hence it has been said, that by ta. \nkiiig away or diminishing, or changing proportions, you might \nform, from the human brain, that of any animal ; while, on the \ncontrary, there is none from which you could in like manner con- \nstruct the brain of a man. \n\n" It approaches the most nearly the spherical form. That the \nnerves are the smallest in man in proportion to the brain, has been \nalready pointed ont ; the brain diminishes, and the nerves increase \nfrom man downwards, in the scale of animals. In the fetus and \nchild the nerves are proportionally larger than in the adult. The \nassertion that the human brain has the largest cerebrum in propor- \ntion to the cerebellum, doei= not seem correct. It has, however, the \nlargest crebrum in propertion to the medulla oblongata and spinal \ncord, with the single and indeed singular exception of the dolphin. \n\n** In the animals mentioned below, the weight of the cerebuUum is \nto that of the cerebrum as follows : \xe2\x80\x94 \n\n\n\njVlan, \n\n\n1\xe2\x80\x949 \n\n\nJDog, \n\n\n1\xe2\x80\x948 \n\n\nfiorse, \n\n\n1\xe2\x80\x947 \n\n\nHare, \n\n\n1\xe2\x80\x946 \n\n\n\nMole, 1\xe2\x80\x944 1-5 \n\nBaboon, 1 \xe2\x80\x94 7 \n\nSheep, 1 \xe2\x80\x94 5 \n\nMouse, 1 \xe2\x80\x94 2 \n\n\n\nCow, 1\xe2\x80\x949 \n\nWild Boar, 1\xe2\x80\x947 \n\nBeaver, 1 \xe2\x80\x94 3 \n\nRat, 1 -3 1-2 \n\n\n\nLawrence\'s Lectures on Zoology , 6fC. \n\n\n\n77 \n\nBehind the olfactory nerves are the optic. These are the \nnerves of vision. They pass through holes in the back part \nof the sockets of the eyes, and through the thick strong coat \nof the eye ball. Here they expand each into a semi-transpa- \nrent, pulpy nnembrane, called retina. Rays of light passing \nthrough the anterior transparent coat, and through the hu- \nmors of the eye-ball, fall upon the retina and excite that con- \nscient action in the optic nerves and brain which constitutes \nseeing. \n\nThe optic nerves in passing from their origin to the eyes, \nrun towards each other, and either cross each other so that \nthe one which arises from the right side of the brain, goes to \nthe left eye, and vice versa ; or else having united with each \nother without any interchange of fibres, they again recede, \neach nerve forming in its course to the eye an obtuse angle. \nAnatomists are not agreed as to the nature of this union ; but \nthere are pathological facts which favor the opinion that they \ncross each other. \xe2\x80\x94 In many instances in which the vision of \none eye has been destroyed by some disease or injuiy of the \nbrain, or of an optic nerve before its union with its fellow, \nsuch disease or ii\'jury has been found by dissection to be on \nthe side opposite the affected eye. \n\nThe third pair of nerves are distributed to the muscles \nwhich are attached to the eye-ball, and roll it upwards and \ndownwards, inwards and outwards. \n\nThe, fourth pair of nerves are so small that they appear like \nsewing thread. They are exclusively appropriated to a small \nmuscle of the eye. \n\n\'Ihejifth pair of nerves are the largest nerves that arise \nfrom the brain ; they have a very extensive distribution \nabout the scalp, face and mouth \xe2\x80\x94 going to muscles, mem- \nbranes, glands, skill, &c. It is important to mention that the \nimmediate organ ot taste is a branch ot the filth pair of nerves. \n\n\n\n78 \n\nThis branch, which is distributed to the tongue, is called the \nlingual or gustatory nerve. An anatomist of Rome, Colum= \nbus I think his name was, once had an opportunity to dissect \na man who never had any power of tasting \xe2\x80\x94 all foods and \ndrinks exciting no other sensation in his mouth than that of \nfeeling. The gustatory nerve was found wanting. \n\nWe here see, in the case of the fifth pair of nerves, that \nbranches of one and the same nerve are the immediate organs \nof two different kinds of sensations, tasting and feeling, \nHence we have reason to suppose, that it is diiference in the \norganization of the organic extremities of nerves, that enables \none nerve to be excited by one class of agents, and another \nonly by agents altogether ditferent. \n\nThe sixth pair of nerves are small, and pass to certain mus- \ncles of the eye ; but before they reach the eye they send ofTa \nsmall twig, which, being joined b} another small twig from a \nbranch of the fifth pair, passes out of the skull through the ca- \nnal which admits the carotid artery, and unites with the up- \nper extremity of the upper cervical ganglion, which ganglion \nis a nervous body belonging to the nervous system of organic \nlife. \n\nWe may consider the upper end of this ganglion as one ex- \ntremity of the organic nervous system, and these twigs from \nthe fifth and sixth pairs constitute one of the several commu- \nnications between i\\\\e animal and organic systems. \n\nThe seventh pair of nerves comprises two distinct cords on \neach side, which have very different destinations ; and liave, \ntherefore, been considered, by several anatomists as different \nnerves. One of these nerves is appropriated to the interior \nof the ear, and is the proper auditory nerve. The other is \nprincipally spent upon the face, and has been called theya- \ncial ; I hey are, however, more frequently called the seventh \npair J owing, 1 suppose, to their passing from the brain nearly \n\n\n\nin contact, and their nnaking their exit from ihe cavity of the \ncranium, through one foramen. But there is a ^reat dilFer- \nence in their texture ; hence one is called the portio dura, or \nhard portion, and the other ;9or/zo mollis, or soft portion. It \nis the portio mollis that is the essential organ of hearing. It \nterminates in a pulpy expansion on the internal surface of cer- \ntain sacs and canals, which constitute parts of what is called \nthe internal ear. \n\nTo give a particular description of the apparatus of hear- \ning, would be to enter into one of the most diiiicult parts of \nanatomy. We might say a great deal, and then not be un- \nderstood but by those already acquainted with this apparatus. \nBut it is necessary that we define the names of certain agents \nand actions concerned in the production of hearing. \n\nA sound is a vibratory motion impressed on the particles of \nbodies by percussion, or any other cause. When the parti- \ncles of any body have thus been put in action, they communi- \ncate it to the elastic bodies which surround them ; these act \nin the same manner, and thus the vibratory motion is commu- \nnicated, oftentimes, to a great distance. Elastic bodies alone, \ngenerally speaking, are capable of suffering that vibratory mo- \ntion of their particles which constitutes sound. If these vi- \nbrations are not equal to thirty in a second, they will not give \nrise to that action in the auditory nerves and brain which con- \nstitutes hearing, or in other words, they do not constitute \nsound, according to our dull organs. Some have used the \nword sound, not only to denote the cause of hearing, but the \nsensation itself; but this use of the word is improper, and has \ngiven rise to disputes about such questions as this : when a \ntree falls in the wilderness, is there any sounJ if there be no \nanimal within miles of the tree? \n\nNow the use of the external ear, or what is commonly cal- \nled the ear, is to collect the sonorous vibrations of the air, and \n\n\n\nso \n\ndirect them into the meatus audit orius externus^ which is a ca^ \nual leading to the memhrana tympani, which is a tense, thin, \ncircular membrane, stretched across the inner extremity of \nthe external meatus, forming a complete partition between \nthis canal and the tympanum, which is acavit} that constitutes \nwhat anatomists call the middle ear. Across this cavity is \nextended a chain of very small bones, one end of which chain \nis attached to (he centre of the membrana tympani, the other \nend to the membrane which closes the foramen ovale. Pass \nthis membrane, and you are in the vestibulum, which is a cen- \ntral cavity or point, where all the other cavities of the internal \near communicate. These cavities are lined with a pulpy ex- \npansion of the auditory nerve, and are filled with a limpid flu- \nid, called the fluid ot Cotunnus. \n\nNow when vibrations of elastic bodies, such as the air and \nliquids, make impressions upon the membrana tympani, an ac- \ntion is communicated to the chain of bones, as well as to the \nair in the tympanum ; (for the tympanum receives airthrough \na tube reaching from the back part of the mouth ;) this chaia \nof bones transfers the action to the membrane that closes the \nforamen ovale, and this again to the fluid of Cotunnus, and this \nto the auditory nerve, and this again to the brain; and thus is \nthat action excited which constitutes the sensation called \nhearing. \n\nThe eighth pair of nerves is often called the par vagum, on \naccount of its very extensive distribution. This nerve sends \nbranches to the muscles which constitute, in part, the organs \nof respiration and voice ; it also sends important branches to \nthe nervous system of organic life \xe2\x80\x94 branches which assist \nnerves of this system in forming net-works or plexuses, as they \nare called ; which are nervous cords uniting with each other \nin all directions, leaving little spaces or meshes between. \nFrom the plexuses, which branches of the eight pair of nerves \n\n\n\n8! \n\nassist in forming, nerves proceed to the lungs, heart, and stem* \nach. On this account the powers of these organs to perfornn \nthfeir functions may be impaired or even destroyed by tying \nor dividing the eighth pair of nerves in the neck; and it is \npartly on this account, too, that these organs, particularly the \nheart and stomach, may be influenced as they are by the pas- \nsions. \n\nWhen we say that the power of the heart, lungs and stonx* \nach, may be destroyed by dividing the eighth pair of nerves, \nit must not be supposed that this division destroys these pow- \ners directly and immediately ; but it must be remembered, \nthat the powers of the heart, lungs, stomach, and also of the \nmuscles of respiration, and even of the voice, have such de- \npendences on each other, that when one power is impaired, \nanother suffers on this account, and then another, and so on, \nuntil you get round to the first impaired organ, each imper- \nfection mutually increasing each. \xe2\x80\x94 Surely, to divide the \neighth part of nerves can have no direct influence on the mus- \ncles of the lower extremities ; yet if this division occasion \ndeath, we must admit that it has a very great influence on \nthese muscles in the end. No important organ in the animal \nsystem can be impaired, without having more or less influ- \nence, direct or indirect, on all the others. However, we do \nsuppose that the division of the eighth pair of nerves has a di- \nrect influence on the heart, lungs, stomach, and many of the \nmuscles of respiration and voice ; but yet, if the functions of \nthese organs were independent of each other, this influence is \nnot such as to destroy life, or even to destroy the functionSj \nor more properly, the powers of owe of the^e organs. \n\nThe ninth pair of nerves is chiefly distributed to the mus- \ncles about the neck and mouth. \n\nThirty pairs of nerves, proceeding from the spinal cord, and \n\nof course belonging to the nervous system of aaimal life, are \n\nil \n\n\n\n82 \n\nfiot yel\' noticed. To give a particular clescription of the sev- \neral plexuses formed by these nerves ; to point out the par- \ntic\'ilar parts to which they are distributed ; or even to name \nall these nerves, is not necessary on the present occasion. \n\nWe must state,\' however, that they send several twigs to \nthe nervous system of organic life, and, putting aside those \nparts which receive nerves directly from the brain, these spi- \nnal nerves go to all parts of the body endowed zuiih feeling or \nvoluntary motion;^ but they do not go directly nor plentifully \nto all organs which possess any degree of sensibility or con- \ntractile power, as we shall see when we come to treat of the \nnervous system of organic life. \n\nAmong the parts entirely destitute of sensibility, we may \nreckon the bones, cartilages, and tendons, to mention no oth- \ner. These parts are destitute of nerves ; and it is on this ac- \ncount that no conscient action\xe2\x80\x94 no feeling \xe2\x80\x94 can be excited in \nthem ; you may pinch, pull, cut, or burn them, without pro- \nducing pain or any other sensation, if you do it without ma- \nking any impression on the neighboring parts which are sen- \nsible. It has been said that when these parts are inflamed \nthey are painful ; but some, if not all, of the most learned mo- \ndern physiologists, consider this opinion erroneous. The \ntruth is, (as they believe,) when these parts are diseased, they \nirritate the nerves of ihe surrounding parts, and thus give rise \nto the pain. Should any fact ever prove that these parts, \nwhen iriflamed, are the actual seats of sensations, then it would \nprove that they receive nerves, either by way of the coats of \nthe nutritive vessels which enter them, or else nerves so very \n\n* I trust the reader is already aware of the imprecision of the \nabove expression in italics ; but such is our present language that I \nmust use it, to avoid much circumlocution. A feeling and a volun- \ntary motion are both aciions ; and it is bad enough to be under the \nnecessity of saying a part is endowed with power ; but it is worse \nStill, to say ol a part, it is endowed with an action* \n\n\n\n8B \n\nsmall, and of colour so like that of the parts themselves, as \nnot to be discovered by our seiises ; and we should be under \nthe necessity of admitting that inflammation of these parts may \nso affect their nerves, that conscient actions may be excited \nin them. \n\nSome circumstances connected with the anatomy of the \nbrain yet remain to be noticed ; one is, the great quantity of \nblood transmitted to it by the arteries. Haller concluded \nthat one fifih ot the blood of the whole system went to the \nhead, although the weight of the human brain is not more than \none-fortieth of that of the whole body ; but admitting the \nbrain to receive only one-tenth of the blood, this will be a ve- \nry great over-proportion. The great quantity of blood re- \nceived by the brain is one evidence that this organ performs \nvery iniportant functions ; and as those organs which secrete \nfluids, and which are called glands, receive large proportions \nof blood, we have additional reason for supposing that one \nfunction of that complicated organ, the brain, is to secrete a \nnervous fluid \xe2\x80\x94 we believe, as we have said, that it is the cin- \neritious part of the brain which secretes this fluid. \n\nAnother circumstance is, that the brain has no lymphatic \nabsorbent vessels, at least, no such vessels can be discovered, \neven with the aid of a microscope \xe2\x80\xa2, and considering the size \nof the brain, and the great quantity of blood which it receives, \nwe should expect iis absorbents, if it had any, would be pret- \nty large. But as this fact has some relation with the pheno- \nmena of remembering, we shall advert to it in another place. \n\nAs to the chemical and physical properties of the nervous \nmatter, they are obviously peculiar to itself, unlike what we \nmeet with in any other of the constituents of the body ; but \nwherever il is to be found, it exhibits nearly the same proper- \nties. It is generally agreed that the medullary part of the \nbraiu is fibrous, and that these fibres are placed in such a di^ \n\n\n\nrection as to converge towards the base of the brain. It aj^- \npears from the microscopical observations of several physiol- \nogists, that these fibres are chainfe of globules, connected to- \ngether by a peculiar glutinous substance. \n\nA fibrous structure is discovered in the spinal cord, though \nless distinct than in the brain. The fibrous structure of the \nnerves of animal life is very obvious ; but the ultimate ner- \nvous filament is not supposed to be a chain of globules, like \nthat of the brain, but a cylindrical canal, containing a viscid \npulpy matter. With respect to the nerves of organic life, and \nthe branches of the eighth pair from the head, (which branch- \nes, after assisting in forming a plexus, go to involuntary mus- \ncles without entering a ganglion,) the disposition of their fibres \ndiffers from that of the other nerves. These fibres, instead \nof being straight and parallel, are irregularly connected with \neach other and twisted together. \n\nAs to the use of the nervous system of animal life, it is \nnot our intention to say much in this place. But it may be \nwell to just glance at some of the effects which arise from \ncertain experiments, diseases and injuries. \n\nBy dividing or compressing, as by a ligature, the nerves \ngoing to any part or organ, you destroy the power of such or- \ngan to sense. Tie the olfactory, optic, auditory and gustato- \nrv nerves, and you disenable the animal to smell, see, hear, \nand taste. Tie all the other nerves from the brain and spinal \ncoid, or instead of tying these last, tie the cord as soon as it \nissues from the foramen magnum, and you destroy, as we may \nsay, the sensibility of every part of the body ; and not only \nso, hut you completely disenable the animal to move. \xe2\x80\x94 If the \nanimal might still think, not a muscle could he contract ; of \ncourse, not a member could he move, though he zmll to \nmove them ever so greatly. \n\nWere it possible for an infant to be born and to grow to the \n\n\n\n8d \n\nsize of an adult, with a ligature, or something to the same ef- \nfect, around every nervous elongation that proceeds from the \nbrain, such being would never be the subject of any sensation, \nthought, or ennotion \xe2\x80\x94 in a word, would never be the subject \nof any naore consciousness than a block of marble ; and, let \nhis muscles be ever so good, he would no more possess the \npower of locomotion than any other body you can mention. \n\nThis is no speculation \xe2\x80\x94 it is plain matter of fact, as every \nphysiologist well knows ;\xe2\x80\x94 he is as certani of it as the astron- \nomer is that the earth turns on its own axis. \n\nIf, by any means, the lower and central part of the brain be \ncompressed, all consciousness ceases unul such pressure be \nremoved. If the spinal cord be compressed in its course, all \nparts receiving nerves that issue from below this spot, can no \nlonger feel nor be moved by the will. \n\nWe have said that a great proportion of the upper part of \nthe bram may be removed witl;out immediately atlecting the \nanimal\'s ability to think and move ; but it is not so with the \nlower and medullary part. And the lower down you get, the \nmore mischief to these powers do you do; but yet it is pro- \nper to mention that this lower part of the brain will suffer ve- \nry gradual changes, in what may be called its mechanical or \nphysical organization, without affecting its functions so much \nas the effects of sudden changes would lead us to expect. \n\nThe fact is, whatever operates suddenly on organized bo- \ndies, affects their nice internal, physiological organization \nmore, in proportion to the effecls produced on its ph} sical or \nmechanical structure, than causes which operate gradually \xe2\x80\x94 - \ngiving the organ, as we may say, some chance to accommo- \ndate itself to the change. Now it is this nzce, internal^ physio- \n/ogzca/ organization, that is the waj hje, soitl^ diiid pod^er o\xc2\xa3 \norganized bodies. \xe2\x80\x94 It matters htlie wiiut shape or condition \n\n\n\n86; \n\nyou may force an organized body into, provided you do not \ninjure its internal organization. \n\nThe Nervous System ofOrganic Life consists of two chains \nof ganglions situated within the body, one on each side of the \nspinal column ; and of the infinite number of small nerves \nwhich proceed from these ganglions. \n\nThe ganglions are little reddish or greyish bodies, of a tex- \nture which has nothing in common with that of the cerebral \nsubstance, being rather spungy than pulpy. These bodies, \nas well as the nerves which issue from them, possess but a ve- \nry low degree of sensibility. Bichat has shown that they may \nbe powerfully irritated in a living animal without the animal \nexhibiting signs of suifering ; but if you irritate a nerve from \nthe brain or spinal cord, the animal instantly cries out and \nstruggles. I think it more than probable that what little de- \ngree of sensibility the organic system possesses, is owing to \nthe many twigs which it receives from the animal system. \n\nIt must be remembered that the nerves of any organ are \nwhat enable the organ to sense,* and although it is a common \nway of speaking, to say of such organ, it is sensible, still it is \nsensible inasmuch as it possesses sensible nerves ; and it is no \nmore sensible than the nerves which it possesses. Hence the \nlungs, heart, stomach, liver, spleen, bowels, in short, all those \norgans which receive the principal part of their nerves from \nthe organic system, possess but a low degree of sensibility, es- \npecially in a healthy state. We do not feel the blood pour \ninto the heart ; we do not feel the contents of the bowels \nmoving downwards ; we do not feel any of the healthy actions \n\n* To feel, is to hai^e only one of the five kinds of sensations, but \ni9 sense, is to have any senisation : hence, in some cases, the latter \nterm is far preferable to the former. \xe2\x80\x94 We say there are five species \nof seusalions. \n\n\n\n87 \n\n\xc2\xabf those organs contained in the two grieat cavities of the bo- \ndy \xe2\x80\x94 the thorax^ which is above the diaphragm or midrifT, and \nthe abdomen^ which is below the diaphragm. \n\nThe ganghons strung along on each side of the spine, from \nthe upper part of the neck to the lower part of the pelvis, are \nunited with each other directly by a nervous cord that pro- \nceeds straight along, from one ganglion to another. P^ach \nganglion gives off several nerves, and these nerves, proceed- \ning from the ganglions on each side of the spine, form several \nimportant plexuses ; and from these plexuses proceed nerves \nto the thoracic and abdominal viscera. And although seve- \nral of the viscera, as the heart, stomach and bowels, are mus- \ncular organs, they cannot be excited into action or stopped, \nby any thinking going on in the head, or, to use the more \nconvenient, but less correct language of the schools, these \nmuscular organs are not under the control of the will ; hence \nthey are called involuntary muscles. \n\nThe ganglions, like the brain, are supplied with a large \nproportion of blood, and I believe their office is, not to unite \nnervous fluids commg from different quarters of the nervous \nsystem of animal life \xe2\x80\x94 a thing which might as well be effect- \ned by a plexus \xe2\x80\x94 but to secrete a nerVous fluid. Concerning \nthis matter we shall say more, when we come to treat of the \nrelation between the nervous and muscular systems. \n\n\n\nCHAPTER X. \n\nOn the Muscular Si/stem, \n\nWe have already said that the contractile texture is the \nmost important texture in those organs called muscles or \nmuscular ; we have also shown that we mean by contractile \ntexture, a texture that may be excited to contract by a stim- \nulus. \'^ We think it proper to call every organ in the animal \nsystem, which possesses the contractile texture, a muscular \norgan, whether custom approve of our doing so or not. \xe2\x80\x94 \nHence, to determine whether an organ be muscular or not, \nwe do not pick it to pieces, and squint at it with our poor \neyes, to see ifwe can discover good large red fibres ; but we \nquery whether or no it contract on the application of a stim- \nulus. Should the organ be so minute, so situated, or its con- \ntractions so trifling, that we cannot discover its contrac- \ntions with our senses, we consult reason. \xe2\x80\x94 Should there be \nseveral facts which may better be accounted for by supposing \nsuch organ to contract, than in any other way ; and if there \nbe no one fact to prove that such organ does 7iot contract, \nwe conclude that it contracts, and of course, call it a muscu- \nlar organ. \n\nIn man, and in all the higher orders of animals, there are \ntwo muscular systems, differing essentially from each other in \nform, in texture, in the nature of the stimuli by which they \nare excited into action, and in the functions which they per- \nform. \n\nThe muscles of one system are under the control of the \nwill, and are called voluntary muscles, or musclts of animal \n\ntm III II I I \xc2\xbb I II . \xe2\x96\xa0 11 I I \xc2\xbb\xe2\x96\xa0 I II I \n\n* See pages 44 \xe2\x80\x94 45. \n\n\n\n89 \n\nlife^ and we may sometimes call them the solid muscles. The \nmuscles of the other system are not under the control of the \nwill, and are called involuntary, hollow, or organic muscles. \n\nThe Voluntarij Muscles^ by their contractions, give rise to \nall those actions which a man may perform or not perform, as \nhe chooses. They are not immediately concerned in the cir- \nculation of any matter, either fluid, pultaceous, nutritive, or \nexcrementitious ; hence they are not immediately concerned \nin the growth and nutrition of the body : they are immediate- \nly concerned in procuring the materials for this nutrition ; \nbut the muscles of organic life work upon these materials and \ndistribute them to every part of the body. As it is by the \naid of the system of voluntary muscles that we act upon sur- \nrounding bodies, and even express our thoughts and sensations \nto our fellow beings, or in other words, as it is by this systena \nof muscles that we maintain a relation with the world around, \nit may with propriety be called the \'muscular system of r da- \nlion, \xe2\x80\x94 an appellation already given it by the French physiol- \nogists. \n\nThis system of muscles, including its vessels, (which in- \ndeed are little muscular organs of the organic system,) is of \nmore considerable size than any other system of organs in the \nanimal economy. Besides the numerous regions that these \nmuscles fill, they are generally spread out under the skin, and \nprotect, like it, the adjacent parts, and like it, can bear the \naction of external bodies without the fatal consequences that \nwould arise from a lesion of the deeper seated organs which \nthey defend. \n\nFrom the external form of these muscles, they may be di- \nvided into long, broad and short. The long ones occupy in \ngeneral the limbs ; they are situated in a sort of fibrous gut- \nter which retains them powerfully, so that when they contract, \n\nthey do not displace themselves as they otherwise would. \n\n12 \n\n\n\n90 \n\nThey are in general much thicker in their middle than at \ntheir extremities ; this arises from the abundance of fleshy fi- \nbres at this part, which fleshy fibres are the proper muscular \nor contractile fibres. As you proceed towards the ends of \nthese muscles, the contractile fibres become less numerous, \nuntil, in many instances, they wholly disappear ; and what \nekes out the muscle and attaches it to the bone, is a strong, \ncompact, white cord, which is of a nature altogether different \nfrom the middle or belly of the muscle. \n\nThis cord is destitute of sensibility and contractility, two \nimportant physiological properties, both of which are possess- \ned by the belly of the muscle. \xe2\x80\x94 It takes no active part in the \nproduction of motion, and when separately considered, we \ncall it 2t. tendon^ and should never think of calling it a part of \na muscle, were it not for the inconvenience that would arise \nin describing the muscles, if we did not consider them as in- \ncluding this part. \n\nIn some instances the tendon of a muscle is longer than the \nfleshy or contractile part. \n\nThe long muscles almost always have both of their ends \nattached to bones ; and in all such instances, they pass by an \narticulation \xe2\x80\x94 \xc2\xa3an articulation is ihe union of one bone with \nanother] \xe2\x80\x94 an articulation, too, which admits of a motion be- \ntween the bones articulated. This is what we should expect, \nknowing that the use of these muscles is, by their contraction, \nto move one bone upon another, and thus to produce ihe mo- \ntions of the body. Now when a muscle contracts, it does \nnot move both bones to which it is attached, but it moves \none bone upon the other ; and in speaking of the attachments \nof a muscle, we say it arises from that bone which generally \nremains stationary when the muscle contracts, and that it is \ninserted into the bone which it moves. \n\nI may here remark, if you divide a muscle in a living ani- \n\n\n\n91 \n\nmal, or an animal thai has heen but a short time dead, the \ndivided ends will retract from each other, \xe2\x80\x94 the limb to which \nthe muscle is attached being in its natural extended position. \nThis retraction is owing to the organization of the contractile \npart ofthe muscle, and not to that of its tendinous part. There \nare several facts relative to this retraction of the ends of a di- \nvided muscle, worthy of notice, jf the animal be in a weak \nand sickly state when the muscle is divided, the retraction \nwill not be so great as if the animal were strong and healthy. \nAnd in case the animal have recently died, the retraction will \nbe infinitely less if its death were occasioned by a stroke of \nlightning ; by a diffusible and active poison, as prusic acid 5 \nor by any cause that instantly destroys the secretion of nervous \njiuid^ than if occasioned by some other cause. \n\nOwing to the above mentioned facts, some physiologists \nhave ascribed to muscles a physiological property which we \nhave not mentioned, and which they called tone, or tonicity* \nAnd it must be admitted, that if the extended state of a mus- \ncle be its natural state, the retraction which we have mention- \ned is not one of those facts which lead us to say a body is elas- \ntic or possesses elasticity \xe2\x80\x94 see p. 44. Consequently this re- \ntraction must be ascribed to a property peculiar to organized \nbeings, that is, a physiological or vital property. But mstead \nof giving muscles a peculiar property besides their contractil- \nity, on accoimt of this retraction of its divided ends. I would \nattribute it to that organization on which their contractility \ndepends, and say it is a manifestation of contractility without \na stimulus. \n\nThe broad voluntary muscles occupy in general the parie- \ntes or walls of the cavities of the animal system, as those of \nthe thorax or abdomen. They form in part these parietes, \ndefend the internal organs, and at the same time, by their mo- \n\n\n\n92 \n\ntions assist their functions. Their thickness is not great, \nmost of thenn appearing like muscular membranes. \n\nThe short muscles are those in which the three dimensions \nare nearly equal, having a thickness in proportion to their \nwidth and length. They are generally found in places in \n\xe2\x96\xa0which much power is required, and but small extent of mo- \ntion permitted. \n\nThe muscles which we have been speaking of are each en- \nclosed in a sort of membraneous sheath, and for the most \npart are separated from each other to some little distance by \nthe interposition of cellular membrane \xe2\x80\x94 the many little cells \nof which are sometimes filled with fat. But more than this, \nthe muscles themselves are formed of bundles of fibies called \nlacerti, each of which is also enclosed in a sheath of mem- \nbrane ; these lacerti are also divisible into still smaller bun- \ndles, and these again into smaller, apparently without any li- \nmit, \xe2\x80\x94 each bundle still having a very delicate membrane of \nits own. \n\nPhysiologists suppose, however, that there is an ultimate \nmuscular fibre, w^hich has its own nervous twig and its own \ncapillary, nutritive vessel ; and much speculation about the \nnature of this fibre has been offered. But at present we will \nspeak of such fibres, or rather bundles of fibres, as may be \ndistinguished by the naked eye. \n\nIn some muscles, even very long ones, the fibres run the \nwhole length of the fleshy mass ; but in other cases they have \nan oblique direction forming what are called penniform mus- \ncles. In such cases there is a membrane in the body of the \nmuscle to which the fibres are attached. \n\n,Bichat says, that *\' Every muscular fibre runs its course \nwithout bifurcating or dividing in any manner." He says, \ntoo, that " All the fibres of the voluntary muscles are straight, \nthose of the sphincters excepted*" Yet when a muscle is lib- \n\n\n\n93 \n\nerated from its attachments, it may contract so as to give its \nfibres a wave-like appearance. \n\nMuch more force is required to rupture living than dead \nmuscular fibres, or in other words, when an animal is in that \ncondition called living, the particles of matter which consti- \ntute its muscular fibres adhere together in a much greater de- \ngree than when such animal is dead. But this is not the case \nwith the fibrous textures ; to which class of textures belong \nthe tendons of which we have been speaking. \n\nThis fact relative to the difference of strength in the living \nand dead muscular fibres, ! consider as one among very ma- \nny others tending to show that the muscular system, during a \nstale of health, is as constantly receiving a fluid from the ner- \nvous system as from the sanguineous. \n\nWith respect to blood vessels, there are no organs so \nplentifiilly supplied with them as the muscles, excepting some \nof the viscera. The arteries are distributed among the fibres \nin numerous branches, which divide and subdivide with so \nmuch minuteness, as at length to become no longer visible. \nThe capillary veins are equally as numerous as the arteries, \nbut the marner in which the arteries are connected with the \nveins, is not accurately ascertained. \n\nThe apparatus of nerves which is sent to the muscles, is \nvery considerable ; and especially to those whsch are under \nthe control of the will, being greater, in proportion to their \nsize, than to any other part of the body, except the organs of \nthe senses. \n\nAs to the size and nature of the ultimate muscular Jibre, or \nthat fibre which cannot be divided without a breach of sub- \nstance, the microscopical anatomists do not agree. Leeuwen- \nhoek supposed that many thousands of them united to form \none visible fibre. Sir A. Carlisle describes the ultimate fibre \nas a solid cvluider, the covering of which is a reticuiaied \n\n\n\n94 \n\nmembrane, and the contained part a pulpy substance regu- \nlarly granulated, and of very little cohesive power when dead. \nBauer makes out that it is about 1-2000 of an inch in diam- \neter ; some have considered it as straight, some as zig-zag or \nwaved, some as knotted, some as being solid and others as \nhollow, while others consider it as jointed, consisting of a \nnumber of parts connected together like a row of beads. \n\nAnother opinion was, that it is entirely composed of ves- \nsels, either possessing some peculiar arrangement or consist- \ningofthe small branches of arteries. Another opinion zeal- \nously defended by Cullen, was, that the muscular fibres are \ncontinuous with those of the nerves ;^that Ihcy are in fact \nnerves under a different structure, &c. &c. But all these \nconjectures do not help us in the least to explain the pheno- \nmena of contraction ; and I only advance them to show that \nlearned men of renown have suffered themselves to advance \nnotions that are not in themselves plausible, and if true, do \nnot help us to explain any thing. \n\nWe have already said that if the nerves going to a volunta- \nry muscle be divided or compressed, in any part of their \ncourse from the brain to the muscle,^\' the will has no more \npower over the muscle until the nerves be restored to their \nnatural state again. Wc may here add, that if the arteries \nbe tied so that no blood can go to the muscles, or the veins \ntied so that the blood cannot return from them, their contrac- \ntility is soon extinct. \n\nWe believe that the nerves going to the voluntary muscles \nanswer two purposes, not to say any thmg about feeling. \xe2\x80\x94 \nOne purpose is the same as that which the nerves of the in- \n\n\n\n* So far as it respects this, and the like operations, the spi- \nnal cord may be considered as one great nervous trunk, giving off \nbranches t\xc2\xa9 the parts, to which we commonly say it gives off nerves. \n\n\n\n95- \n\nvoluntary muscles fulfil, to wit : convey something to theai \nwhich intimately unites with them, and assists in making out \nthat organization on which their contractility \xe2\x80\x94 their proper- \nty of being excited to contract \xe2\x80\x94 depends. The other pur- \npose is to communicate to them whatever it is that is the im- \nmediate cause of their contractions. \n\nMany attempts have been made to explain the phenomena \nof muscular contractions, that is, to point out the changes or \nevents which precede it, and the order in which these events \noccur; but it is not necessar) to the accomplishment of any \nof my present designs, to lay these attempts before the read- \ner. 1 shall advance my own notions m the next chapter. \n\nOne remarkable circumstance respecting muscular con-, \ntraction is, that after a stimulus has been applied forsome time, \nthe contraction ceases, although the stimulus continues to be \napplied. Tlrs is observed in all experiments upon muscles, \nwith either mechanical or chemical agents ; it likewise takes \nplace in all natural operations of the system, and is to be ob- \nserved in a remarkable degree in the voluntary muscles. In \nperforming any voluntary act which we strongly desire to \nperform, we find ourselves unable to persevere in the action \nbeyond a certain length of time, even if our lives depended \non such perseverance. But merely by resting for a certain \ntime, we may be again able to commence the action, espe- \ncially if the system be well nourished. Respecting this cir- \neumstance, I know of no facts that prove conclusively \nwhether the muscles lose their power to contract by their \ncontinued exercise, or whether the failure is ov^ing to a lacl^ \nof that which causes them to contract ; or we will say, a lack \nof stimulus, be the nature of this stimulus what it may. \n\nRespecting the relaxation of muscles, it is generally con- \nsidered as merely a passive effect, and I believe this opinion \nTs correct so far as it respects the voluntary muscles, but not \n\n\n\n96 \n\nso as it respects the hollow or involuntary. And when one \nconsiders all the circumstances which relate to these two clas- \nses of muscles, it does appear to me that he can find no diil- \ncuhy in admitting that what we call the relaxation of one set, \nis different in its nature from what we call the relaxation of \nthe other set. \n\nfn the case of the voluntary muscles, their constituent par- \nticles have, at all times, a tendency to approach each other \nmore closely than they do in their ordinary state of being, as \nis proved by what takes place when we divide a muscle which \nis not liberated from its attachments ; but owing to circum- \nstances, this tendency of its particles must be increased be- \n.fore they can approach each other more closely. Now what \nare these circumstances ? Why, the muscles are attached to \nthe bones at both ends, which bones cannot be moved with- \nout some force ; but more than this, the voluntary muscles \nhave their antagonist muscles, which, as we may say, are con- \ntinually pulling the contrary way. But when the cerebral stim- \nulus shoots along down into a certain set of muscles, it gives \ntheir particles so strong a tendency to approach each other, \nthat they do so, notwithstanding the powers which they must \novercome in doing so ; but as soon as the cerebral stimulus \nceases to operate, these powers (the antagonist muscles, the \nweight of some parts and the elasticity of others,) bring the \ncontracted muscles back again to their former state of relax- \nation ; hence this relaxation is a passive effect. It is not \nbrought about by the inherent powers of the muscles which \nrelax, but by other powers. \n\nBut mark the circumstances of the hollow muscles, for in- \nstance the heart. The situation of this hollow muscle is such \nthat the constituent particles of its contractile fibres may at all \ntimes approach each other as closely as they are disposed to. \nThe fibres of this organ are not generally on the stretch ; \xe2\x80\x94 >\xe2\x96\xa0\' \n\n\n\n97 \n\ntake the heart out of the body and empty out all the fluids \nwhich it may contain, and its fibres will not shorten ; in oth- \ner words, the heart will not approach the state which it is in \nwhen contracted, as the solid muscles will when liberated \nfrom their attachments. Cut a gash in the heart, and the cut \nsurfaces will not recede like the cut extremities of solid mus- \ncles. \n\nFrom these and other facts which might be adduced, it is \nevident that the heart is so organized that it has a tendency \nto remain in that state, which is called the dilated or relaxed \nstate. Its constituent particles do not want, if I may so say, \nto be any nearer each other than they are when the heart is \ndilated ; on the contrary, they are disposed to be as distant \nfrom each other as they are when the heart is in this state : \xe2\x80\x94 - \nthis is their natural state of coaptation. Nevertheless, such \nis the relation between the fibres of the heart and the blood, \nthat when the blood comes into the heart, it causes the con- \nstituent particles of the heart\'\'s contractile fibres to approach \neach other more closely ; or in other words, causes the heart \nto contract. This contraction forces the blood out of the \nheart, that is, removes the agent which caused the contrac- \ntion. This being done, the constituent particles of the heart \nrecede to their former wonted relations, as they have a strong \ntendency to do. Hence we see that what is called the relax- \nation or diastole of the heart, is not a passive event ; it is \ndone by the heart\'s own powers, and it would require a force \nto prevent it, instead of its being caused by the operation of \na distinct agent. And instead of saying the blood pours into \nthe heart and dilates it, we ought to say the heart dilates and \nsucks in the blood. But, as we have shown, it is altogether \ndifferent with the voluntary muscles \xe2\x80\x94 the muscles which \nhave antagonists; the particles of these muscles cannot enjoy \n\nthe privilege of being in as close contact as they are dispos\xc2\xabsd \n\n13 \n\n\n\n98 \n\nte be, except they be enabled, by times, by the cerebral stitnr \ntilus ; but as soon as this fugitive cause ceases to operate, \nthey are drawn asunder even further than they are disposed to \nbe, and the muscle is said to be relaxed. \n\nTliis, then, is the conclusion : \xe2\x80\x94 The heart in a living state \nis disposed to be dilated, and the blood must act upon it to \nbring it out of this state ; but when the blood is removed, the \nheart resumes its dilated state with some considerable force, \nand of its own inherent tendency ; as would a caoutchouc \n"bag or bottle, after being compressed in on all sides. Yet I \ndo not think it strictly proper to say the heart is elastic or pos- \nsesses elasticity on account of its dilating itself after suffering \ncontraction : 1 think it would not be proper, because we ap- \nply the word elastic to those bodies, the particles of which \nhave a manifest tendency to resume their former relations af- \nter being displaced by mechanical force ; and every body \nwho knows what mechanical force is, and what the heart is, \nknows that the heart is not caused to contract by such force. \nIf I must say the heart possesses a property, because, after \ncontracting it dilates as it does, (and I have just as good rea- \nson to say so, as 1 have to say vinegar possesses the property \nof acidity,) 1 would rather name this property extensibility \nthan elasticity. And we should say that the distinction be- \ntween extensibility and elasticity is vqtv obvious \xe2\x80\x94 extensibil- \nity being invariably confined to the contractile organs, and \nmanifesting itself after the operation of a stimulus ; whereas \nelasticity invariably manifests itself after the operation of a \nmechanical force. Stop, \xe2\x80\x94 this moment it occurs to me that \nthere is an objection to this use of the word extensibility : \xe2\x80\x94 it \nhas been used to denote the ability of being extended, where- \nas I have used it to denote the faculty of an organ to extend \nitself. \xe2\x80\x94 What if we should use the words active and passive to \ndistinguish these two kinds of extensibility, \xe2\x80\x94 saying that when \n\n\n\n99 \n\nan organ has the faculty of extending itself, it possesses active \nextensibility ; but when it barely admits of being extended \nby a distinct agent, it possesses passive extensibilit) ? \n\nIn support of the above speculations, it nnay be remarkedj \nthat by grasping the heart of a bullock which is so detached \nthat it cannot be caused to dilate by the rushing in of the \nblood, a man cannot prevent its dilatation, as I rerr.ember to \nhave read somewhere in Bichat\'s System of General Anato- \nmy, And furthermore, we cannot give a satisfactory explan- \nation of the circulation of the venous blood, but by supposing \nthe heart to dilate by virtue of its own organization, and to \nsuck it up. But this is not the place to speak of the proper- \nties and functions \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nOf the Involuntary Muscles. These muscles, like the vol- \nuntary, are far from being entirely composed of the contrac- \ntile texture ; but we shall not notice particularly the less im-f \nportant textures of which they are in part constituted. \n\nThey constitute a system of organs which agree with each \nother in being hollow, in being excited to contract by theit \ncontents, and (with the exception of a few, more immediate- \nly concerned in generation,) in being wholly subservient to \nthe growth and well being of the individual of which they are \na part. \n\nThis system comprises the alimentary canal, (with the ex- \nception of its extremities, the muscles of which receive nerves \nfrom the animal system, and of course are under the control \nof the will,) the heart, and the infinite number of contractile \nvessels concerned in the circulation of the blood, in nutrition, \nsecretion, exhalation, and perhaps absorption; it includes \nalso the uterus, the bladder, in short, every vessel, whether \ntubulated or spheroidal, which is excited to contract by its \ncontents. \n\nOf these organs we must take more particular notice; that \n\n\n\n100 \n\nwe mny know more of the an\'md system, and be better pre- \npared for explaining many of its interesting phenomena. \n\nBesides the two extremities above mentioned, the ahmen- \ntary canal consists of an cesophagus, a stomach, and an intes- \ntine ; which last is about six times the length of the system, \n[head, body, and lower limbs ;] and having particular names \napplied to particular parts of it, we often speak of intestines \nas though there were more than one in the same animal. \n\nThe oesophagus extends from the mouth to the stomach 5 \nit is that part which is vulgarly called the meat-pipe. When \nit is empty, its sides collapse, so as to be in contact, or nearly \nso ; but like the stomach and intestines, it possesses no small \ndegree of passive extensibility ; it has, like the intestines, two \nsets of muscular fibres, circular and longitudinal; the food \npassing from the mouth to the stomach excites such an action \nof these fibres as assists in propelling it along ;\xe2\x80\xa2 \xe2\x80\x94 it is not car- \nried along solely by its own weight : if the oesophagus pos- \nsessed no propelling power, a few mouthfuls swallowed by a \nman lying horizontally, or with his head lowest, would not \nreach his stomach. \n\nAs soon as the oesophagus passes out of the thorax into the \nabdomen, it ends, that is to say, the alimentary canal sudden- \nly widens out at this place, and presently contracts again so \nas to form a sac with two openings. This sac is what anato- \nmists call stomach, and is quite a different organ, and lies in a \nsomewhat lower region than what many people appear to \nthink when they lay their hands upon the anterior part of \nthe thorax, and speak of a weakness of the stomach, of pain \nin the stomach, &c. \n\nThe superior orifice of the stomach, or that which leads \nto the oesophagus, is called the cardiac orifice ; the inferior, \nleading to the intestines, is called pylorus or pyloric orifice. \nICach of these orifices is surrounded with a considerable \n\n\n\n101 \n\nquantity of muscular or contractile fibres, in such a rnartJter \nas to form sphincters, which may close their orifices com- \npletely. It is by means of its sphincter that the pylorus is \nclosed so as to retain the food in the stomach until \\t has un- \ndergone due changes. We shall presently notice an inter- \nesting fact relative to the action of the pylorus. \n\nWhen the stomach is empty it is collapsed ; when full, it \napproaches the conical form, though considerably curved. \nThat extremity towards the cardiac oritice is the largest, and \nlies towards the left side ; the lesser or pyloric extremity is a \nlittle to the right of the centre of the body ; as the stomach \nlies obliquely across the body, inclining a little downwards \nfrom left to right, the pyloric extremity is somewhat lower \nthan the cardiac extremity. \n\nThe stomach is capable of being extended by our foods \nand drinks so as to contain from two to six pints, and in some \nrare cases, much more : instances of Limosis Hxptrns or in- \nsatiable craving for food, are given, in which a boy only \ntwelve years of age has taken in six successive days 384 \npounds avoirdupois of foods and drinks ; \xe2\x80\x94 in which a lady has \ndevoured fourteen hundred herrings at a meal,* <Sz;c. &;c. \n\nIt is probable that in such cases as these, some of the food \nbegins to pass out of the stomach into the intestines before the \nperson has done his baiting ; but in common cases the food \nis retained in the stomach an hour or two before the pylorus \nsuffers it to pass into the bowels. \n\nThe stomach, as well as the intestines, consists of three la- \nminae or membraneous coats besides its muscular. One of \nthese coats performs such important offices, that we must \ntake notice of it. It is the internal coat, and is called the \nmucous or villous coat ; it is continuous with the internal or \n\n* See Good\'s \xc2\xab* Study of Medicine," vol. 1, p. 73. \n\n\n\n102 \n\nmucous coat of the oesophagus and intestines, and like them \npossesses an apparatus for secreting a bland viscid fluid called \nmucus ; but it is of a different structure from the mucous coat \nof these organs, and possesses an apparatus for secreting a \nfluid of great solvent powers, c^Wed gastric fluid. This fluid, \nthough destitute of any remarkable sensible qualities, has the \npower of producing great changes on the materials taken into \nthe stomach. It has frequently been known to dissolve the \ncoats of the stomach itself, in cases where healthy pei sons \nhave been suddenly killed, as by accident, whose stomachs \ncontained a portion of this fluid in a high state of perfection, \nwithout any materials in the stomach for it to work upon. It \nis very generally admitted among medical men, that the pre- \nsence of this fluid in the stomach without materials for it to \nmix with;i is the cause of the sensation of hunger. Hunger \nmay be relieved by taking this fluid from the stomach by- \nmeans of an elastic tube introduced down the oesophagus. \n\nIn cases of inordinate appetite for food, this fluid may be \nmore abundant, or of a more active nature than in health, or \nwhat in many cases appears more probable, the mucus of the \nstomach which is calculated to defend its surface from the ac- \ntion of the gastric fluid, may be deficient. \n\nWhatever affects the secretion of this fluid, so as to impair \nits quality or diminish its quantity, injures the appetite ; hence \nwe shall be able to show, in the course of this work, how \ncertain passions take off the appetite, or interrupt the proper \ndigestion of a meal of victuals already down. \xe2\x80\x94 It will be re- \nmembered that the stomach receives some of its nerves more \ndirectly from the brain (han any other abdominal organ. \n\nLike all organs which perform important functions, and \nespecially all organs which secrete a fluid, the stomach re- \nceives a large proportion of blood. \n\nThe fuuctioa of the stomach is to convert the food int\xc2\xa9 \n\n\n\n103 \n\nViytne^ and to propel it into the intestines. The chyme is \ngenerally described as beingahonnogeneous, pultaceous, grey- \nish substance ; but its properties depend nnuch on the kind \nof aliment, and on the condition of the stomach as being \nhealthy or unhealthy. \n\nThe stomach converts the food into chyme by means of its \ngastric fluid, and it propels the chyme into the bowels by \nmeans of its muscular coat ; the action of this coat also as- \nsists the gastric juice in coming in contact with the materials \nin the stomach, by moving the chyme onward, out of its way, \ntowards the pyloric orifice, as fast as it is formed. \n\nIf any indigestible substance, as a piece of metal, present \nitself at the pyloric orifice for a passage into the bowels, it is \nnot at first permitted to pass, for it excites a contraction of \nthe sphincter of this orifice- \xe2\x80\x94 this contraction not being con= \nfined to the orifice alone, bat extendir^g along towards the \ncardiac extremity, the indigestible substance is worked back \nagain, for the intent, as it were, of undergoing still longer the \naction of the gastric fluid. Some time afler this a contraction \nagain commences at the cardiac extremity, and again works \nthe substance along towards the pylorus, but it is perhaps \nagain thrown back as before ; but after soliciting a passage \nseveral times, it is at length permitted to pass the pylorus, al- \nthough it have sufifered no essential change by lying so long \nin the stomach. This curious fact we cannot explain, but \nby referring it to the influence of habiL We say that in time \nthe pyloiic orifice becomes so habituated to the stimulus of \nthe indigestible substance, that it does not excite it to con- \ntract to so great a degree as at first, and hence it is permitted \nto pass. Some other phenomena occur in the animal sys- \ntem, analogous to this. \n\nAbout twelve inches of the upper extremity of the intes* \ntine \xe2\x80\x94 the extremity that is connected with the stomach at its \n\n\n\ni04 \n\npyloric orifice\xe2\x80\x94 is called duodenum. The diameter of this \nportion is much larger than the diameter oHhe jejunum or the \nileum^ the two next portions in order. A duct from the liver \ncalled the hepatic duct, and a duct from the gall bladder call- \ned the cystic duct, unite and form (he ductus choledocus com* \nmunis ; this common duct, and a duct from the pancreas, open \ninto the duodenum by one common orifice. Bile is convey- \ned into this intestine by the common bile duct, and a fluid \nanalogous to the saliva or spittle, by the pancreatic duct. \n\nThe pancreas is a long, tapering, glandular body, of a dull \nwhite color, tinged with red, andextending transversely across \nthe upper and back part of the abdomen ; \xe2\x80\x94 it is that part \nwhich is commonl^^ called the sweet-bread ; \xe2\x80\x94 it secretes the \npancreatic fluid. \n\nThe chyme having passed from the stomach into the duo- \ndenum, is here united with the bile and the pancreatic fluid, \nand is converted, much of it, into a fluid much resembling \nmilk, called chyle ; what is not converted into chyle is of no \nuse in the animal economy, and is called excrementitious mat- \nter. This matter, together with the chyle, is propelled by \nthe peristaltic motion of the duodenum into the jejunum, \nwhere much of the chyle is taken up by the thousands of mi- \nnute vessels that open on the inner surface of this intestine. \nThese minute vessels are called lacteals \xe2\x80\x94 We shall speak of \nthem presently. But all the chyle is not taken up by the lac- \nteals that open on the inner surface of the jejunum, for the \nperistaltic motion that commences in the duodenum, or even \nin the stomach, continues downward, through the whole ex- \ntent of the bowels, or nearly so, and by it much of the chyle \nis hurried on, as it were, from the jejunum into the ileum, \nwhere it is taken up by other lacteals opening into this \nintestine \xe2\x80\xa2, but the excrementitious matter is propelled into \nthe large intestines, viz. the coecum, the colon and the rectum. \n\n\n\nThe peristaltic motion of the intestines is effected by a \neontraction of those contractile fibres which form their mus- \ncular coat ; and these fibres are excited to contract by the \nmatter contained by the intestines ; hence such matter may \nbe called their stimulus. In a healthy state this contraction \ncommences in the upper extremity of the intestinal canal, and \nproceeds gradually downwards. It is of such a nature that \nthe diameter of the canal is very much lessened wherever it \nexists ; but it exists only in a small extent of the canal at one \ntime ; for relaxation follows close after contraction. We \nhave reason to suppose that the contraction is so great, in \nsome instances, as to bring the sides of the canal nearly or \nquite in contact ; for although some of the intestines, as the \ncolon, make such turns that whatever passes them must be \nforced perpendicularly up, against its own gravity, still quick- \nsilver is thus forced up, as is proved by its having passed from \nthe mouth through the body. \n\nAmong the involuntary contractile organs, T think we may* \nclass the absorbents. It is true we can discover no such look- \ning fibres in the absorbent vessels as we can in most muscu- \nlar organs ; but we do not determine whether an organ be \nmuscular by its appearance, but by its properties : if it may \nbe excited to contract by a stimulus, we call it muscular ; for \nit is evident that it possesses more or less contractile fibres. \nNow it is certain that the absorbent vessels circulate their \ncontents, and the most rational supposition is, that they do it \nin part at least by contraction. \n\nTwo classes of vessels, not to mention certain glands, com* \npose what is commonly called the absorbent system. The \nlacteals above mentioned constitute one class ; the vessels \nthat constitute the other class are called lymphatics, \n\nh is generally believed that every organ in the system \n\npossesses lymphatic vessels, though none have been discover- \n\n14 \n\n\n\n106 \n\ned in the brain, notwithstanding they have been much sought \n.after. Their proper function is a disputed question ; for \nexperinnents prove, and some pathological facts seem to show \nthat the veins may absorb liquids^ and if the veins canabsorb,- \nof what use are the lymphatics ? \n\nI conjecture it is the proper function of the lymphatics to \nto eat down, as it were, and carry off the solid parts of the \nbody, which parts are continually recruited by another set of \nvessels, which may be called nutritive vessels, but which, in \nfact, are exceedingly minute branches of the arterial system. \n\nI know of no facts tending to show that the lymphatics do \nnot perform this office, nor ofany facts proving that the veins \ndo perform it ; and we can but believe that the lymphatics \nhave some peculiar office to perform \xe2\x80\x94 an office which can- \nnot, under the present arrangement, or nature of things, be \nperformed by the veins. \n\nAlmost all physiologists admit that all parts of the body are \ncontinually undergoing changes, the old matter being remov- \ned and new deposited, so that the atoms which composed the \nbody called G.W. in 1 775, were none of them present, perhaps, \nin the body still called G. W. in 1790. But it may hereafter \nbe admitted that the brain suffers no such changes. \n\nThe lymphatics from the lower extremities, and the lacteals \nfrom the jejunum and ileum, unite into one common duct, in \nthe abdomen ; this duct passes along up from the abdomen, \nvery near the spine, to the upper part of the thorax, and opens \ninto the left subclavian vein, pouring into the sanguineous sys- \ntem both lympli and chyle, mixed together. Other lymphat- \nic vessels from the superior extremities, and from those parts \nof the head which are exterior to the brain, open into the \nright and left subclavian veins. \n\nThe lymph we consider as the old worn out matter of the \nsystem ; the chyle as the nutritive matter, to supply the place \n\n\n\n107 \n\nof the old. After entering the veins, both kinds of mattec \nsoon reach the heart, mixed with the blood. \n\nThe heart is a hollow muscular organ, of a conical form, \nenclosed in a membraneous sac, called pericardium^ and is \nsituated pretty near the centre of the thorax. It is placed \nobliquely in the body, so that its base presents backward and \nto the right, and its apex forward and to the left. Its cavity \nis partitioned into four apartments, two of which are called \nauricles, and the other two, ventricles \xe2\x80\x94 the auricles form the \nbase of the cone and receive the blood from the veins ; the \nventricles form the body and apex, and force the blood into \nthe arteries. \xe2\x80\x94 We say that one auricle and one ventricle be* \nlong to the right side of the heart, and the other auricle and \nventricle to the left side. The walls of the heart, particular- \nly around the ventricles, are very thick and powerful, being \ncomposed almost entirely of contractile fibres which cross \neach other in various directions. \n\nTwo great veins, called vencB caves, which bring blood from \nevery part of the body, open into the right auricle, from \nal)ove and from below ; the right auricle opens into the right \nventricle, and from the right ventricle arises the pulmonary \nartery, which passes to the lungs. The pulmonary veins^ \nwhich bring back the blood from the lungs, open into the left \nauricle ; this auricle opens into the left ventricle, and from \nthis ventricle proceeds the great artery, called the aorta^ \nwhich carries blood to every part of the body. \n\nAt the instant the right auricle contracts, the right ventricle \ndilates, and not only lets in the blood, but, as we believe, sucks \nit in from the right auricle j but there is a valve so situated \nover the aperture by which the blood enters the ventricle; \nthat when the ventricle contracts, this valve shuts down, and \nthe blood, instead of passing back into the auricle, is forced \nup into the pulmonary artery -, but this artery is also furnish- \n\n\n\n108 \n\ned with valves at its origin, so situated that, although they suf- \nfer the blood to pass into the artery, they will not permit it \nto return into the ventricle, when it again dilates, and when \nthe artery contracts upon it, pushing it along into its branch- \nes. The pulmonary artery divides and subdivides into innu- \nmerable minute branches, which ramify in the delicate mem- \nbranes which form the air cells of the lungs. \xe2\x80\x94 Concerning \nthese air cells, we must say a few words in this place. \n\nWhat are called the lunj^s, are two bodies of minute cells, \nif we may so say, \xe2\x80\x94 one body is called the right lung, the other \nthe left ; in shape they somewhat resemble the hoofs of an \nox : the heart is situated between them, but they are united \nabove the heart. These minute cells are formed by very \nthin membranes, and they communicate with each other in \nsuch a manner that the air coming down the trachea or wind- \npipe during inspiration, may find its way into every one of \nthem. These are the air cells. They are far from being \nentirely emptied by expiration ; but the air generally remain- \ning in the lungs is estimated at about 2000 cubic inches, and \nthe quantity drawn in and forced out by each inspiration and \nexpiration, is estimated at about 300 cubic inches. The air \nin the cells keeps them expanded, or in other words, keeps \ntheir parietes stretched out in such a manner that the vessels \nof these parietes, which are very numerous, circulate their \nfluids with much more facility than they otherwise would. \xe2\x80\x94 \nOften the venous blood becomes so collected about the right \nside of the heart as to give rise to a slight sensation, which \nmay be relieved by deep inspirations or by yawning ; for in \nthis way much air is inhaled \xe2\x80\x94 the air cells are expanded, \nand the circulation of the blood through the lungs facilitated. \nBut this is far from being the important use of the air in the \nlungs. \n\nThe air consists of 21 parts of oxygen and 79 of nitrogen \n\n\n\n109 \n\nchemically united ; there is also mixed with it considerable \naqueous vapour, and a small proportion of carbonic acid gas ; \nthe proportion of this acid is variable, but generally one hun- \ndred parts of air contain one of the acid. \n\nThe oxygen is so essential to the existence of animals, that \nthey die when deprived of it but for a few minutes. Conse- \nquently, by being breathed, the air suffers a change, not only \nin its chemical composition, but in the materials which are \nmixed with it : instead of consisting of 21 parts of oxygen, \n79 of nitrogen, one of carbonic acid, and some aqueous va- \npour, the expired air contains 18 or 19 parts of oxygen, 3 or \n4 of carbonic acid, and a great quantity of vapour, called pul- \nmonary transpiration \xe2\x80\x94 the proportion of nitrogen remaining \nnearly the same. In some instances of hard drinkers, this \npulmonary transpiration becomes so loaded with alcoholic \nmatter that it is inflammable ; in such cases the individual \nhad better be careful about breathing into a candle, unless he \nwishes to have his thorax blown to pieces. \n\nNow the venous blood which is found not only in the veins, \nbut in the right auricle and ventricle of the heart, and in the \npulmonary artery, is of a brown red colour, but when it passes \nthrough the minute branches of the pulmonary artery which \nramify in the thin membranes which form the air cells, it suf- \nfers great changes \xe2\x80\x94 it assumes a bright scarlet colour ; its \nodour becomes more sensible, its taste more distinct ; its \ntemperature rises about one degree; a part of its serum or \nmore aqueous portion passes olf, constituting a part of the \npulmonary transpiration, and its tendency to coagulate aug- \nments. The venous blood havitig suffered these changes, be- \ncomes arterial blood. That these changes are produced by \nthe operation of the oxjgen of the air, is manifest, from \nthe fact, that if there be any other gas in the lungs, or if \nthe air be not suitably renewed, these changes do not take \n\n\n\n110 \n\nplace. Blood exposed to air or to (he action of pure oxjgen \ngas, out of the body, suffers a like change of colour. Indeed, \nif jou put venous blood into a moist bladder, and plunge it in- \nto oxygen g?is, it becomes scarlet all over its surface. \xe2\x80\xa2 Hence \nwe need not wonder that the very delicate vascular walls \nwhich, in the lung?, separate the blood from the air, are no \nobstacle to the changes of the blood which the air produces. \nBut it may be inquired how the oxygen produces these chan- \nges in the venous blood. Ch.emists are not agreed upon this \npoint. Some think that it combines directly with the blood ; \nothers that it removes from the blood a certain quraitity of \ncarbon ; and there are others again, who are inclined to be- \nlieve that both these effects take place. \n\nWhen the nervous blood is changed into arterial, in the \nlungs, it docs not immediately pass into arteries, but into mi- \nnute venous branches, which collect into four trunks, called \npulmonary veins* These four veins convey the blood to the \nleft auricle of the heart ; when the left ventricle dilates, it re- \nceives the blood from the auricle ; but the aperture by which \nit receives it is furnished with a valve, so that when the ven- \ntricle contracts, the biood is not forced back into the auricle, \nbut into the aoita, which is the great artery that, by its innu- \nmerable branches, conveys blood to every part of the body. \n\nThis great arfery, togethei with its branches, forms what is \ncommonly called the arterial system, for the objects accom- \nplished by this system of vessels are altogether different from \nthe object accomplished by the pulmonary artery. This last \ndoes not carry any thing to the lungsfor their growth or main- \ntenance ; its office is to carry the blood to the lungs that it \nmy ut^dergo the changes above mentioned. The substance \nof the lungs receives its proper arteries from the common \naortic arterial system, by which it is nourished, as docs every \nother part of the body. \n\n\n\nill \n\nWhen the branches of the aorta become as small as hairs, \nand even some of them so much smaller as to be invisible to \nthe naked eye, they are called capillary vessels. Such mi- \nnute branches of veins may also be called capillary vessels. \nHence, not to say a word about the lymphatics and lacleals, \nwe have too grand divisions of capillary vessels \xe2\x80\x94 those of the \narterial and those of the venous system. \n\nAs (he aorta divides into branches, its capacity increases, \nthat is, the calibres of all the branches into which any branch \nor trunk may divide, taken togetlier, exceed the calibre of \nsuch branch or trunk. The same holds true wiijii respect to \nthe veins. Hence we may cotrpare the sanguineons system \nto a cone, the apex of which is the heart, and the base of \nwhich is composed of the arterial and venous capillaries, or, \nindeed, if we reckon (as we ought) the pulmonary artery and \nveins as constiti!ting a part of the sanguineous system, we \nmay compare it to two cones, the apexes of which meet at \nthe heart. \n\nIt is to be remembered, too, that the smaller the branches, \nthe greater the proportion of contractile or muscular fibres \nwhich enter into their structure; this is so much the case, \nthat we may suppose that the amount of muscular fibres pos- \nsessed by the arterial and venous capillaries, equals, perhaps \nfar exceeds, the quantity of muscular fibres possessed by the \nheart, and consequently that the muscular power of the capil- \nlaries, collectively, equals or exceeds that of the heart. \n\nThis supposition, not destitute of support derived from ex- \namining the vessels, as John Hunter has shown, will assist us \nin explaining several phenomena, manifested in many diseas- \nes and during the existence of the passions,\' as we shall see in \nthe course of this woik. \n\nIt is admitted on all hands that the arterial capillaries ter- \nminate in dijTereat ways \xe2\x80\x94 sOime of them lerminate in the ca- \n\n\n\n112 \n\npiliary veins ; some on the surfaces ofnnennhranes, as (he skin,^ \nthe inner or mucous membrane of the alimentary canal and \nurinary passages ; and on the surface of the several serous \nmembranes ; some terminate in the secretory glands, as the \nsalivary glands, the liver, kidnies, pancreas, &;c. ; others, \nagain, we must suppose to terminate in the parts in which \nthey deposit the materials of which the parts are formed, and \nby which they are kept in repair. \n\nAs to our being able to determine, by inspection, where the \narterial capillaries terminate, and where the venal capillaries \ncommence, we cannot ; but we may say that so long as the \nfluids continue to move from the hearty they are in the arte- \nries ; but when they make such turns as to approach the heart, \nthey are in the veins. \n\nAll the arterial capillaries that do not terminate in veins, \nmay be called secreting vessels, because they all sort out, as \nit were, certain materials from the blood. What are com- \nmonly called nutritive vessels, secrete from the blood the ma- \nterials of which our organs are formed. Other vessels se- \ncrete materials from the blood which are no longer of any \nuse in the animal economy ; such are the materials of the \nurine and perspirable matter ; others again secrete fluids \nwhich serve important purposes in the animal economy,\xe2\x80\x94 the \nbile, the gastric fluid, and many others that might be men- \ntioned, are of this description. \xe2\x80\x94 It is true, we talk about the \nglands secreting ; we say the liver s<^cretes bile, the kidnies \nurine, the salivary glands saliva or spittle, &;c. iSzc. This way \nof speaking is sufliciently correct for all common purposes ; \nbut the physiologist tells you that certain capillary vessels \nbelonging to these glands, are the immediate organs of secre- \ntion. We do not suppose any of the venal capillaries secreie. \nHowever, many veins from the bowels unite m one trunk \nwhich enters the liver and there branches out again, and we \n\n\n\n113 \n\nhave some reason to suppose that these branches secrete some \npart of the bile ; but admitting that they do so, these branch- \nes in the iiver have more of the appearance of arteries than \nof veins, and we would sooner call them arteries than admit \nthat veins secrete. \n\nAs some capillaries secrete one kind of fluid, and some \nanother, and as they all secrete their fluids from one common \nfountain, the blood, \xe2\x80\x94 the phenomena of secretion have given \nrise to much speculation. It has not only been a question \nhow any one set of vessels secrete any one particular kind of \nfluid, but wherein different sets of vessels differ, so as to be \nable to secrete different kinds of fluids. I shall not notice \nall these speculations, but proceed to offer what 1 consider \nthe most rational hypothesis concerning secretion. \n\n1 might advance this hypothesis to better advantage after \ntreating of (he relation between the nervous and muscular \nsystems ; for I must here take certain positions as granted \nwhich I shall labor to support in treating of this relation :\xe2\x80\x94 \nnevertheless, I shall offer the hypothesis in this place. \n\n1 hold that all secreting vessels may be excited to contract \nby their contents, and of course possess the property of con- \ntractility, and may be called contractile or muscular organs. \nBut in order that they may be contractile, they must receive \nsomething, by way of their nerves, from the nervous system ; \nwhich something is an invisible fluid, whether you call it \nsuch, or whether you call it \'"nervous energy" or" nervous \ninfluence." 1 hold, too, that different vessels are differently \ntempered \xe2\x80\x94 that they receive different proportions of nervous \nenergy ; and partly or v^holly on this account their contrac- \ntility is diffierent, that is, the same materials will not excite \nthe same degree of contraction in all of them. \n\nAgain \xe2\x80\x94 different materials will not excite the same degree \nof action in the samt vessels ; hence we know that different \n\n\n\n114 \n\nKnaterials, or, if you please, different stimuli, possess dtirerent \nstimulating qualities, and for conveiiience sake, we shall call \nthe stimulating quality of a stimulus, its stimahility, \xe2\x80\x94 Be it \nremembered, then, that the stimulus o( any hollow muscular \norgan is the matter which such organ contains, but stimability \nis a property of such matter or stimulus.* \n\nWe have seen that the contents of the alimentary canal ex- \ncite in it a sort of contraction by which they are moved along; \nwe have seen that some indigestible substances in the stom- \nach excite such a contraction of the pylorus as prevents their \npassing this orifice, and we might have added, that some sub- \nstances excite such a contraction of the intestines as to pre- \nvent their passage, giving rise to a species of colic which may \nbe called constrictive, or spasmodic colic. Now we suppose \nthat something analogous takes place in those little hollow \nmuscular organs called the capillaries \xe2\x80\x94 we suppose that, in \norder that these vessels may circulate any materials, there \nmust be a certain due relation betvveen the contractihty of \nthe vessels and the stimability of such materials. \n\nIf the stimability be too high for the contractility, or, what \nis the same thing, if the contractility be lOO low for the stim- \nability, a sort of constrictive spasm will be excited in the \nvessels, which will prevent the materials from passing ; and \n\n*I trust the reader will not be led to think that we make new \nihiifs^s when we only invent new words to express relations between \nagents. A vessel and the material which it contains, are two \najients ; and because the material gives rise to an action of the ves- \nsel, we say the material possesses a property of exciting this ac- \ntion, and the vessel possesses a property of being e>. cited \xe2\x80\x94 we -ay \nthat one possesses stimability. the other cofilractiliiy ; bnt altho\' \nour lang\'iage would seem 1o imply thnt stimnbility and contractihty \nare something distinct from the agents which are siid to possess \nthem, still it is not so \xe2\x80\x94 they Hre, in fact, when we come to the nice- \nty of the case, nothing but u ords of relation. Yet what a mighty \nfuss has been made in ihe world about a few thin^less names ! \n\n\n\n115 \n\nsuch material, in order to get along, nnust take some other \nYo\\ite \xe2\x80\x94 some other vascular branch \xe2\x80\x94 which is so tempered as \nto receive it and be duly excited by it. If it have already \npassed by such other vessel, it may be worked back by the \nvessel in which it is, to the branching otF of such vessel, as \nthe stomach works back indigestible substances from the py- \nlorus ; or it may, after much teasing, gain admittance along \nthe vessel in which it is, the vessel becoming habituated to it, \nas the pylorus becomes habituated to the stimulus of indiges- \ntible substances in the stoma( h ; or it may be removed by \nabsorbents ; or, lastly, it may prove a more permanent ob- \nstruction, giving rise to disease. On the other hand \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nIf the stimability be too low for the contractility, or what \nis the same thing, if tlie contractility be too high for the stim- \nability. a propelling action will not be excited. \xe2\x80\x94 What then \nbecomes of the material ? Why, it may be absorbed by some \nminute absorbent, penetrating the walls of the vessel ; or it \nmay be puslied on by the vis a tergo of the heart and arteries \nuntil it come to the opening of some branch capable of re- \nceiving it, and of being duly excited by it ; or, thirdly, it may \nbe pushed through ^he whole length of the secretory vessel, \nand constitute a bland, aqueous part of the secretion, which \nwill soon be removed by neighboring absorbents ; or, fourth- \nly, it may clog up the vessel, giving rise to another kind of ob- \nstruction. \n\nOf these four mayhes. I think the third the most plausi- \nble : we say the vis a tergo of the heart and arteries may push \nalong materials in remote vessels, which materials are not \ncapable of exciting a propelling action of the vessels ; \xe2\x80\x94 this \nmay be granted ; but if there were no such vis a tergo, these \nmaterials might, perhaps, be worked along, mixed with other \nmaterials capable of exciting an action of the vessels ; hence, \nas sonu- n>.\'/d materials may, in cue way and another, get \n\n\n\n116 \n\nworked along through vessels not calculated to circulate \nthem, and thus constitute a part of a secreted fluid, I am in- \nclined to think that the sole use of those absorbents which \nopen into cavities that contain secreted fluids, is to remove \nthose parts of the fluid that are secreted, as we may say, by \naccident. \n\nWe would not maintain that each secreting capillary of \nany organ secretes some o^ all the kinds of materials that en- \nter into the secreted fluid of such organ ; that is, v/e would \nnot maintain that each secreting capillary of the liver, for in- \nstance, secretes a portion of perfect bile, but that one vessel \nsecretes one constituent principle of bile, another another \nprinciple, and so on, and that these different principles com- \ning together, unite according to their chemical afiinities, and \nform the bile. \n\nIf we say that each vessel pours out a portion of perfect \nhile, we must admit such bile is lormed before it is poured \nout, and it would be more difficult to offer any plausible con- \njecture how it is formed in individual vessels, than to ad- \nadmit that different vessels secrete different principles, which, \ncoming toaether in little cavities, unite according to their \nchemical affinities. \n\nAccording to the view of secretion now offered, we see \nwhy one set of vessels secrete one kind of fluid, and another \nanother kind ; it is not because their calibres are diflferent, \nand the particles of matter, secreted by different vessels, are \nof different sizes, so as just to fit the calibres of the vessels by \nwhich they are secreted ; but it is because different sets of \nvessels are endowed, as we may say, with different degrees of \ncontractility, and hence are excited into due action by differ- \nent materials. From this vieiv of secretion we also not only \nsee the use of the nerves of the minute vessels, but we shall be \nenabled to show how secretion is influenced by affections of \n\n\n\n117 \n\nthe nervous system ; how anger promotes the secretion of \nbile, how fear gives rise to the secretion of a large quantity of \na limpid urine, &c. &c. \n\nWe have now given a brief, and consequently, imperfect \nsketch of the anatomy arid functions of the involuntary mus- \ncular system. It will be remembered, that what we call the \nmuscles of this system are hollow^ contractile organs ; that \nthey are not under the control of the will \xe2\x80\x94 not excited to \ncontract by the cerebral stimulus, but that their natural stimu- \nlus is their contents ; that they do not, like the voluntary \nmuscles, receive their nerves directly from the nervous sys- \ntem of animal life, but from the nervous system of organic \nlife ; that they are endowed with but a very law degree of \nsensibility, and that they arc organs, not o( relation, h\\it ol \ngrowth and nutrition. \n\n\n\nCHAPTER XL \n\nOn the Relation -which subsists bctzoeen the Muscular and J^er- \n-vous Systems. \n\nWe are now about to enter upon a subject which has inter- \nested physiologists more, perhaps, than any other one, and \nwhich is of more importance than one would at first appre- \nhend. It is relative to a point which the learned Dr. Bos- \ntock says may be stated thus : \xe2\x80\x94 " When a stimulant acts up- \non a muscular fibre, so as to produce contraction, does it act \nimmediately upon the fibre itself, or does it always act through \nthe intervention of a nerve ? The nerves are the organs of \nsensation ; when, therefore, a muscle receives the impression \nof a stimulant, is not th\'s impression always, in the first in- \n\n\n\nUS \n\nstance, r(^reivecl upon the nervous matter distributed through \nthe nnuircle, and the impression then transferred from the \nneive to ihe muscular fibre ?" \n\nTo sa}\' that the stimulant or impression acts immediatelt/ \nupon the muscular fibre, would be the same, according to for- \nmer writers, as to answer the following question in the affir- \nmative : \xe2\x80\x94 Is the power of the muscular system independent \nof the nervous system ? But to say that stimulants always \nact upon the muscular fibres through the intervention of their \nnerves, would be the same, according to these writers, as to \nsay that the power of the muscular system is dependent on the \nnervous system. \n\nFrom wh\xc2\xbbt is here said, we learn what those who have \nmeddled with this subject, mean by the question, \xe2\x80\x94 Is the \npower, i. e. the contractility of the muscular system, inde- \ndependent of the nervous system ? They mean, \xe2\x80\x94 Does a \nstimulant, when it produces contraction, always act directly \nupon the muscular fibre, or iiidirectlij, as through the medium \nof nerves ? \n\nNow the question w^hich we shall put, and the negative \nside of which we shall endeavor to establish, we shall put in \nthe sam& words, to wit : !s the power ofthe muscular system \nindependent of tl^e nervous system ? Still this is not the ques- \ntion about which physiologists have written so much, for we \ndo not mean the same by it that they do by theirs, though \nasked in the same words. We do not mean to ask in what \nway a stimulus excites a contraction ; whethei it act directly \nupon {\'ac texture which contracts, or through the medium of \nnerves, and of course indirectly ; but we mean by our ques- \ntion this : \xe2\x80\x94 Do not themuffcles receive something from the ner- \nvous system by way of their nerves, as they do from the san- \nguineons system by way of their arteries \xe2\x80\x94 ivhich something is \nesstutial in making out and sustaining that organization on \n\n\n\n119 \n\nwhich their ahility to contract depends ? We have Paid that we \nshall endeavor to establish the negative of this question, that \nis, that the}^ do receive something from the nervous system, or \nwhat is the same thing, that their power is not independent \nof the nervous system. \n\nIt appears that physiologists have been unable to settle the \nquestion, \xe2\x80\x94 Is the power of the muscular system independent \nof the nervous system ? because this question has been asked \nand understood in a wrong sense \xe2\x80\x94 in such a sense that if we \nanswer it in the affirmative or in the negative, we do not \nstate the truth of the matter, for as it respects one part of the \nmuscular system, (the vohiniary,) stimulants do act upon the \nmuscular fibres through the intervention of nerves ; but as it \nrespects the involuntary part, they act immediately upon the \nmuscuiai fibres. It seems, also, that they would inquire \nwhether nerves are in all cases necessary to muscular contrac- \ntion ; and that they take it for granted, that if they be, they \nact in a certain way ; but on thinking over f^jcts, some physi- \nologists conclude that they do not act in this certain way, and \nof course conclude that nerves are not necessary to muscular \ncontraction in all cases. 1 say it seems that physiologists \nwould inquire thus ; but nothing is more obvious than that \nnerves are always necessary in the production of voluntary \ncontractions. Hence some physiologists have inquired whe- \nther nerves are necessary to contractility^ which is quite a dif- \nferent thing from contraction : contractility is a property^ \nand may exist without contraction, which is an action. \n\nBut how does this question comport with what Bostock \nsays is the grand question at issue ? He says (and I believe he \nstates the question in the sense in which it is understood even \nby those who query whether conlraciility is independent of \nthe nervous system,) that the question is this : \'\' When a stim- \nulant acts upon a muscular fibre bO as to produce contraction. \n\n\n\n120 \n\ndoes it act immediately upon the fibre itself, or does it always \nact through the intervention of a nerve ?" Is this questioning \nwhether contractility is independent of the nervous system ? \nMay not a muscular iibre be contractile, and may it not re- \nceive something from the nervous system which enables it to \nbe so, even if a stimulant act immediately upon the muscular \nfibre ? If it may, then contractility may be dependent on the \nnervous system, although a stimulus act immediately upon the \nmuscular fibre. \n\nThe truth is, those who inquire whether contractility^ and \nnot contraction, is independent of the nervous system, would \nbe understood to inquire whether a stimulant acts immediately \nupon the muscular fibre, when it excites contraction. Of \ncourse, if you prove that it does, then you prove to these \nphysiologists that contractility is independent of the nervous \nsystem ; but if you prove that it always acts through the in- \ntervention of a nerve, then you prove to. these physiologists \nthat contractihty is dependent on the nervous system. \n\nNow, as we have said, our question, though asked in the \nsame words, is altogether different from this. When we ask \nwhether contractility is independent of the nervous system, \nwe do not query whether a stimulant always acts immediately \nupon the muscular fibre in exciting contraction, and not \nthrough the intervention of a nerve ; but we query whether \nmuscular fibres receive sometliing from the nervous system \nby w^ay of their nerves, as they do from the sanguineous sys- \ntem by way of their arteries, which is essential in making out \nand maintaining that organization on which their ability to \ncontract depends. Thai they do, is what we shall endeavor \nto prove. \n\nWe need not labor to show that all contractile organs, in \nsentient organized beings, are well supplied with nerves. But \nit is doubtful whether the involuntarv muscles receive more \n\n\n\ndr less than tne voluntary, in proportion to the quantify of \ntheir muscular fibres, and the force with which they contract. \nShould it be proved that the voluntary receive the most, in \nproportion to their power and quantity of muscular tibres, \nwe might suppose that this arrangement is necessary, because, \nnot only the power of the voluntary muscles is dependent on \nthe nervous system, but their stimulus comes from this systenn \nby way of nerves, whereas the stimulus of the involuntary or \nhollow muscles, is their contents. \n\nWe need not labor to show that the nervous organs, the \nbrain, spinal cord, &:c. from which the nerves proceed, are \nsecreting organs, ht all probability^ and that the nerves con- \nduct otF whatever they secrete. Nor need we labor to make \nphysiologists believe that ail natural parts of any magnitude \nin the animal economy are of some use. They will not deny \nbut that the nerves going to the involuntary muscles, as the \nheart and circulating vessels, the stomach and bowels, are of \nsome use. But as these muscles are not under the control of \nthe will \xe2\x80\x94 as they are not excited to contract by a stimulus \nbrought to them by their nerves, their stimulus being their \ncontents, of what use are the nerves going to these muscles ? \n\nThis is what we believe : We believe that the muscular \nsystem, that is, the whole muscular system, the voluntary part \nas well as the involuntary, is continually receiving something \nfrom the nervous system by way of its nerv^es, as it is from \nthe sanguineous system by way of its arteries, which is essen- \ntially necessary in making out and in maintaining that organ- \nization on which their contractility depends. This being the \ncase, the use of the nerves to the heart, &c. is obvious. \n\nThat which the nervous glands secrete, and which the \n\nnerves are pretty much continually conveying to the muscles, \n\nwe call the nervous Jimd ; but shall not at present query \n\nabout its nature. \n\n16 \n\n\n\nWe do liot suppose, however, but that when a muscle is \nODce organized so as to be contractile, it may remain contrac- \ntile for a short time, after its connexion with the nervous \nand sanguineous system, one or both is destroyed. There is \nnothing strange in this, and we marvel not at all to see a vol- \nuntary or involuntary muscle contract, on the application of \na stimulus, even hours after separation from the body ; and \nits doing so no more proves that contractility is independent \nof the nervous or sanguineous system, than a store of nuts re- \nmaining after the squirrel is dead, proves that it was not ac- \ncumulated by the squirrel. Nay, nor so much so : the store \nof nuts will remain indefinitely, after the squirrel is dead, \nthough no special pains be taken to preserve it ; but contrac- \ntility will not remain long after the nervous or sanguineous \nsystem is destroyed, take what pains you can to preserve it. \nNevertheless, whatever interrupts the regular tiow of the \nnervous or sanguineous fluids to the muscles, affects^ but not \ninstantly destroys^ their contractilitj^ Hence what are com- \nmonly called the passions, may influence the powers and ac- \ntions of the involuntary and voluntary muscles, in a way which \nwe shall presently point out. \n\nI know that Dr. Philip, in his " Experimental Inquiry into \nthe Laws of the Vital Functions," relates an experiment \nwhich he thinks shows that the contractility which a muscle \nretains after being separated from the nervous system, is not \nowing to the nervous " influence," as he calls it, which it re- \nceived prior to the separation. Philip wished to make this \nout, for he was writing a book to prove that contractility is \nan inherent property of the muscular (ibre, and of course not \ndependent on the nervous system. But it appears very clear \nto us, that the experiment shows no such thing ; indeed, al- \nthough his principles are quite difTerent from ours, stii), be- \nlieving our principles correct, we should expect, a priori, the \n\n\n\n123 \n\nvery phenomenon which he considers as evidence of fhe cor- \nrectness of his principles. Such are the errors we are hable \nto fall into by not thinking of all that relates to any question \nconcerning which v/e judge. We shall soon advert to this \nexperiment. \n\nAs we maintain that the nervous system secretes a fluid \nwhich flows, Vv^ith the exception of casual interruptions, con- \ntinually to the muscles, and assists in making out that organi- \nzation on which their contractility depends, it may he proper \nfor us to state what parts of the nervous system secrete this \nfluid, and from what parts of it the voluntary and involuntary \nmuscles receive their respective supphes. \n\nThe brain, the spinal marn .w, and the ganglions, are the \nparts which we suppose secrete the fluid ; and it is from the \ntwo former portions that the voluntary muscles receive their \nportion ; but it is highly probable that some of the fluid re- \nceived by the involuntary muscles is secreted by the brain \nand spinal marrow, and some of it by the ganglions, or *\' little \nbrains," as they are sometimes called, of the nervous system \nof organic life. \n\nSome physiologists are not disposed to admit that these \nganglions secrete any fluid ; but they have quite as much of \nthe glandular appearance as the brain or spinal marrow ; \nthey are well supplied with arterial blood, and. what is a still \nmore important consideration, as we descend the scale of an- \nimal beings, we find that the ganglionic system bears a great- \ner and greater proportion to the animal nervous system ; \xe2\x80\x94 \nindeed, in some organized beings, zoophites, perhaps, this \nsystem alone is to be found, their being neither brain nor \nspinal marrow. Even in the frog tliis system is of so much \nmore comparative importance than in man, that one may \nhve, that is, its heart may continue to beat, for nine hours or \nmore after its brain and spinal marrow are destroyed ; but we \n\n\n\n124 \n\nj>Tes\xc2\xbbime the heart of a man would not continue to beat nine \nminutes after his brain and spinal marrow sliould be destroy- \ned. These facts, together with many others that might be \nadduced, not to mention the consideration that the ganglions \nmust undoubtedly perform some office, have led me to con- \nclude that they secrete a portion of nervous fluid. True, \nsome have thought that their office is to unite the nervous \nfluids coming from the brain and the different parts of the spi- \nnal marrow ; but such an object as this might be fulfilled just \nas well merely by a plexus, for aught we can see ; and more \nthan this, the ganglions give off more nerves than come to \nthem from the brain and spinal marrow. Indeed, we are not \nsure but it would be as correct to say that the spinal marrow \narjd brain receive nerves from the ganghons, as to say that \nthe ganglions receive them from these organs. \n\nLet us now consider, more particularly, the relation which \nsubsists between the nervous system and the voluntary mus- \ncles. \n\nJf these muscles are almost continually receiving from the \nnervous system a flow of flu\'d which is essentially necessary \nin making out and maintaining that organization on which \ntheir power to contract depends, as many facts seem to \nshow that they do, then we can find no difficulty in admitting \nthat although their contractility may eventually be destroyed \nby dividing their nerves, still this contractility may remain, \nfor a time, after their connexion with the nervous system is \ndestroyed. I know of no fact, with the exception of one, \nwhich has been supposed to prove that voluntary muscles do \nnot receive something by way of their nerves which is essen- \ntial to their contractility ; this fact is the result of an experi- \nment which was made by Dr. Philip, and which we referred \nto a page or two back. \n\nImmediately after having shown that the contractility of the \n\n\n\n125 \n\nyoluntary muscles may be " exhausted," as the common ex- \npression is, by stimuli operating upon them by way of their \nnerves \xe2\x80\x94 stimuh which are applied to the brain or spinal mar- \nrow, \xe2\x80\x94 he relates to us an experiment which he supposes \nproves that these muscles do not receive any thing from the \nnervous system on which their contractility depends. We \nwill state the experiment in his own words, as well as some \nof his remarks relating to it. \n\n" Experiment 32. All the nerves supplying one of the hin- \nder limbs of a frog were divided, so that they became com- \npletely paralytic* The skin was removed from the muscles \nof the leg, and salt sprinkled upon them, which being renew- \ned from time to time, excited contractions in them for twelve, \nminutes ; at the end of which time they were found no longer \ncapable of being excited. The corresponding muscles of the \nother limb, in which the nerves were entire, and of which \nconsequently the animal had a perfect command, were then \nlaid bare, and the salt sprinkled to them in the same manner. \nIn Len minutes they ceased to contract, and the animal had \nlost the command of them. The nerves of this limb were \nnow divided, as those of the other had been, but the excitabil- \nity [contractility] of the muscles to which the salt had been \napplied, was gone : its application excited no contraction in \nthem. It sometimes happens that iJoMle the nerves of the limbs \nare entire^ the voluntary efforts of the anirw^d prevent the cow \niractions usually excited by the application of the salt. * * * \n\n\'\' It is remarkable, that m this experiment, the excitability \nof the muscles whose nerves were entire, was soonest exhaust- \ned." \n\n* Not paralytic because their contractilify was destroyed, t^ut \nbecause the Vojf could not contract them hiiii\'^ell\' \xe2\x80\x94 h\xc2\xbb rau-e lliey \ncould not be excited by the stiaiulus of the wUl^ as the ejipres- \nsiou is. \n\n\n\n126 \n\nNow what does Dr. Philip infer (rom this experiment? \nWhy, he infe-s that the contractility of the muscular system, \nso far from being dependent on the nervous system, or ner- \nvous " influence," is exhausted by it ; because, thinks he, if \nthe contractility be dependent on the nervous influence, it \nought to hold out longest, under the application of the salt, in \nthose muscles whose nerves were entire; instead of which it \nwas in those ?r.uscles soonest exhausted. But our reasoning \nis this: we say that the nervous fluid and the stimulus of the \nwill, or the cerebral stimulus, are two things ; that the first \nflows more or less continually to the muscles, and assists in \nmaking out ihat organization on which their contractility de- \npends ; and that the cerebral stimulus may exhaust this con- \ntractility by exciting contractions. Consequently the con- \ntractility of those muscles whose nerves were entire, was \nsoonest exhausted, because they were subjected to the opera- \ntion of two stimuli at the same time \xe2\x80\x94 the stimulus of the salt \nand the cerebral stimulus ; whereas those whose nerves were \ndivided, were wrought upon only by the stimulus of the salt. \n\nThat the muscles whose nerves were entire, were wrought \nupon by the ceVebral stimulus, vi^e are led to believe, not only \nfrom the consideration that an animal would endeavor to \nmove its limb when salt is put upon its bare muscles, but from \nDr. Philip\'s statement, \xe2\x80\x94 " It sometimes happens that while \nthe nerves of the limb are entire, the voluntanj efforts of the \nanimal prevent," &c. \n\nIt is said that after a muscle vt^hich is separated from the \nbody, has been excited to contract by a mechanical or chemi- \ncal stimulus, until it can be excited to contract no longer, it \nmay, after being suffered to rest, be excited again by the san<e \nstimulus ; and this fact has been thought to favor, though not \nto prove correct, the opinion that contractility is independe\'nt \nftf the nervous system. But admitting that such is the fact, \n\n\n\n127 \n\nit is quite\'as difficult for the Hallerian to account for it as for \nthe neurologist, perliaps more so.* \n\nThe neurologist may say that the muscular fibres have a \nnatural capacity for nervous fluid, which fluid is, in all proba- \nbility, the electric fluid, or some modification of it ; and \nwhen, by the operation of stimulants, they are deprived of \nthat portion for which they have an inherent afilinity, if they \ncannot be supplied by the nervous system, they will attract \nit from the air or other surrounding substances, and thus be- \ncome again contractile. Or he may deny that the muscles \nfail to contract for want of nervous fluid, and say what the \nHallerian must say, that by frequently repeated applications \nof a stimulus, the relation which the particles of the fibres have \na tendency to maintain among themselves is destroyed, and \nthat these particles require some time to arrange themselves in \ntheirform.er order, so that the fibres may be again contractile. \nWhen water freezes, we suppose that its particles enter into \nsome new arrangement-, but if you keep stirring the water so \nas to give its particles no time to do this, it does not so readi- \nly become ice. Nothing is more evident than if it were pos- \nsible to keep every individual particle of water changing its \nrelations with other particles, the water must remain liquid, \nlet it be ever so cold \xe2\x80\x94 its particles must have some time to \narrange themselves so as to form ice. \n\nThis last method of accounting for the fact, that after a \nmuscle, separated from the body, is exhausted, it will, if per- \nmitted to rest, become again, in some small degree, contrac- \ntile, appears to me much the most rational. Indeed, I am \n\n* As Haller (who was the greatest physiologist that flourished \nabout the mindle of the last century ) was the first who maintainedj \nwith any deiiree of plausibility, that the power of the inu?cular sys- \ntem is independent of the nervous system, those who have since \nadopted ihe same opinion are called Htllerians ; those who niain- \ntam the opposite opinion are called Neurologists. \n\n\n\ninclined to maintain, that in all cases in which a muscle is said \nto become exhausted, it does not part with any one of its prin- \nciples, oxygen, Rzoie^ nervous Jluid^ or any other ; but that \nby exercise that nice organization on which its contractility \ndepends, sntfers an alteration \xe2\x80\x94 a sort of mechanical altera- \ntion, as we may say, among its particles. And we may sup- \npose that in the living system the lymphatics assist in restor- \ning this nice organization by taking up the misplaced particles, \nwhile otl;er particles are placed where they ought to be, by \nthe nutritive capillaries. \n\nMany facts will occur to the physiologist in favor of this \nopinion. We talk about the old worn out matter of the sys- \ntem ; but suppose a muscle to be well organized \xe2\x80\x94 to be very \ncontractile, how in the name of common sense can this con- \ntractility be destroyed, so long as every individual atom of \nmatter of which the muscle is composed, retains its precise \nplace and relation with the other atoms. The thing is im\' \npossible. \n\nHow, too, when you destroy (we will not say exhaust) the \ncontractility of the muscles of a limb, merely by touching the \nend of a nerve that goes to these muscles, with a wire\xe2\x80\x94 1 say, \nhow do you destroy the contractiliiy by such means ? Do you \ntake any thing from the muscle, or do you communicate any- \nthing but an action to it \xe2\x80\x94 do you attract the nervous fluid \nfrom it, or do yon convey electricity to it ? 1 once entertain- \ned such notions, but 1 found that by touching the nerves go- \ning to the muscles of a frog\'s hinder limbs, with a piece of \nglass, long, clean and dry, I excited as strong contractions as \nwhen 1 touched them with njy pen-knife or any other con- \nductor of electricity. Indeed, if the nervous fluid intimately \nunite with the other material elements of which the muscular \nfibre is organized, as we suppose it does, it is notyVet, and \n\n\n\n\xe2\x80\xa2129 \n\ncantjof be tal<en from it without giving rise to an alteration m- \nsome ofils physical properties, say its cohesiveness. \n\nMatter Is immortal/ At least, matter never wears out ; \xe2\x80\x94 - \nthere is just as much matter now as there ever was ; and \nwhen we talk about the worn-out matter of the system, we \nmean the misplaced matter \xe2\x80\x94 misplaced by exercise \xe2\x80\x94 by the \nsystem\'s own "wear and tear." Avid the office of the ab-* \nsorbents is to remove the misplaced matter of our organs. \nObserve, no chemical changes can take place among the con- \nstituent particles of organs without such particles changing \ntheir places or relations with each other. Observe, too, the \nn>ore you exercise the more sire the absorbents quickened, \nand the more nourishment do you require. \n\nAre not the absorbents pritjcipally f(Hjnd opening into \nthose cavities or upon those surfaces where secreted fluids \nare pointed out, and in those organs winch are liable to suffer \ndisplacement of particles while performing their functions ? \nAre they not abundant in the contractile part of a muscle ? \nbui can you find even any in a tendon or a bone ? Certainly, \nthey are not so plentiful in these last mentioned parts, and \nwe see why their office is not so much requiied. Finailyj \nwe may venture to lay it down as a prirscipSe, that when the \ncontractility of muscles is destroyed by exercise, it is because \nthat nice organization on wfiich their contractility depends \nsuifers a derangement, and not because any one of their ele- \nmentary principles is exhausted or displaced, more than \nanother. \n\nWe have now been laboring, for a few pages, to remove \nwhat have appeared to some as objections to the opmion, \nthat the involuutary muscles receive something from the ner- \nvous system, but for which they would not be contractile. \nBut it may be asked if this opinion is to be considered as es- \ntablished when it can be shown that there are no fucis oppos- \n\n17 \n\n\n\n1^0 \n\ned fo it ? It may be replied, that if this be done, physiologists \nwill admit the opinion as correct, for they know of many con- \nsiderations which are directly in favor of it, as well as many \nditiicuhies that attend the opposite opinion. Some of these \nconsiderations we will advance in this place. \n\nWhen the muscles about one side of the mouth are para- \nlytic, the muscles of ihe opposite side draw the lips towards \nthe sound side. This paralysis is generally, perhaps always, \ncaused by some misaflfection of that part of the nervous sys- \ntem from which, or by which, the palsied muscles receive \ntheir nervous fluid, when they receive it at all. It may he \nsaid that this fact does not prove that these muscles have lost \ntheir contractility, but only their tone. But this would he \nsaying something which is not proved, nor can it be proved, \nbut by applying mechanical or chemical stimuli to the pal- \nsied muscles, and finding them contractile ; whereas it is ve- \nry difficult for the physiologist to admit that a muscle may \nlose its tone, or cohesiveiiess, and still be contractile. That \nthe muscles should be found contractile, even in those cases \nof apoplexy in which all power of volition is absent, we won- \nder not at all. In these cases, volition is lost, not because \nthe nervous fluid ceases to be secreted, but because the dis- \nease of the brain prevents the cerebral stimulus (be this stim- \nulus a fluid or an action,) from being communicated to the \nmuscles. No voluntary contraction can take place without \nthe cerebral stimulus. \n\nNor do we doubt that in many cases, even of longstanding, \nof paralysis of the muscles which receive nerves from the \nspinal marrow, they may be found contractile on the applica- \ncation of stimuli : an aflfeclion of the brain or even of nerves \nmay prevent the communication of the cerebral stimulus, \nbut not the secretion and flow of the nervous fluid. But in \nthe case of the paralysis of the muscles of one side of the face, \n\n\n\n131 \n\nin which the antagonist niuscles of the sound side keep the \nmouth constant!}\' drawn towards this side, we are very confi- \ndent that these muscles would be found to possess htile or no \ncontr ctrlitj. \n\nAnother consideration is, that many affections of the ner- \nvous system, among which we may reckon some of the pas- \nsions, evidently weaken or otherwise affect the muscles them- \nselves, and not the power by which they are excited. Iq \ncases of death by lightning, the muscles are found to have \nlost their contractility. Perhaps this is to be accounted for, \nby supposing that the shock of lightning so deranges the ner- \nvous system as to destroy at once the nerv^ous secretion ; \nwhereas, in death from ordinary causes, the nervous secre- \ntion may goon for a time, after the cessation of the conscient \nand motive actions of the nervous system. \n\nAgain \xe2\x80\x94 it is admitted by those who maintain that contrac- \ntility is independent of the nervous system, that the nervous \nfluid has an important part to perform in the production of \nsecreted fluids. Now can there be any such thing as growth \nor nutrition without secretion ? Is it not strictly correct to \nsay that the nutritive capillaries secrete the materials of which \nthe\'muscles are formed ? and can we suppose that the ner- \nvous influence is essential to the secretion of fluids, and not \nto the growth or organization of the solids ? Is not the em- \nbryo furmslied with nervous influence from the maternal sys- \ntem, until it have a nervous system of its own ? Do not the \nmuscles of a youth\'s limb cease to grow after the nerves go- \ning to them are destroyed, or perhaps only injured by dis- \nease or accident ? in short, do we not have abundant reason \nto believe that the nutrition, growth, or organization of a \nmuscle, is immediately dependent on the nervous system ? \nIf this be admitted, it would be a mere play upon words to \nsay that contractility is not immediately dependent on the \n\n\n\n1 32 \n\nnervous system. Need I repeat (hat the contractility of a \nmuscle is nothing distinct from the muscle itself, although our \nlanguage vvou.\'d seem to represent that it is ? For a muscle to \nbe organized in a certain manner, or to be contractiie, or to \npossess contractility, are all one and the same thing. If you \' \nmerely compress an organ, you affect its organization ; and,, \nnothing is more true than that there never is an alteration of \nproperly without an alteration of organization. \n\nIt is well known that whatever affects the nervous system \nin any great degree, affects the coniraction of the voluntary \nmuscles ; but the Hallerians assert that in these cases, the \naffection of the nervous system does not produce this effect \nby increasing or diminishing their coyitraciiliiy^ but by increas- \ning, diminishing, accelerating, retarding, or in some way or \nother affecting the cerebral stimulus ; and they demand of \nihe neurologists to prove that it is not so. \n\nNow this is not so easily proved, directly and conclusive- \nly, in the case of the volvntary muscles, as in that of the in- \nvoluntary. But if it should appear, as \\ think it will, that \nthe nerves of the involuntary muscles do not, at any time, con- \nvey any thin^ to them which excites them, but are at all times \nconveying something to then) which serves to render them \nexcitable or contractile ; 1 say, if this should appear to be the \nfact, it will be a very rational inference that the voluntary \nmuscles, also, receive something from the nervous system, \n"which renders them contractile. Hence, I think it will ap- \npear still more evident, before we get through this chapter, \nthat the contractility of the voluntary muscles is dependent \non the nervous system, than it now does ; although we may \nnot labor directly in support of this point. \n\nOf the cerebral stimulus. Concerning the nature of what \nwe have called the cerebral stimulus, we have thought not a \nlittle. The time was when we supposed it to be of the same \n\n\n\n133 \n\nnature as the nervous fluid : we supposed that (he nervoujS \nfluid flowing into and uniting with the particles of the muscu- \nJar fihre, gives these particles a disposition to approach each \nother more closely than what the attachments of the muscles \nwill admit of; but th^t, when these particles receive an addi- \ntional flow of this fluid, reserved in the brain for the purpose \n(which reserved portion we denominated the cerebral stimu- \nlus,) theii disposition to approach each other is so rnucii in- \ncreased that they do so, notwithstanding the powers they must \novercome in so doing ; \xe2\x80\x94 this approaching together of the \nparticles of the muscular fibres, constituting muscular con- \ntraction. \n\nWe entertained this opinion relative to the cerebral stimu- \nlus, while writing the cliapteron the muscular system, a\xc2\xab njay \nbe inferred from a [e.w words there dropped : bu( although it \nappeared to us more plausible thsn any other notion th.jt we \nhave ever seen advanced relative to volunlary contractiunj \nsl\'ll we were not eiitirely satisfied with it : it naturally gave \nrise to many diflicuit questions. We were therefore led to \nreflect more maturely upon the subject, and the facts that \nhave occurred to us, have brought us to the conclusion, that \nthe voluntary muL-cles are not excited to contract by any ner- \nvous fluid or " infl.ience," as some rail it, hrough^ to ihem hy \ntheir nerves ; and, consequently, that the term cerebral slim- \nidus, is no more the oame of an agent than the word sensation \nor the word motion. \n\nWe suppose that wh.en any one contracts his riniscles vol- \nuntarily, din action, not a fluid \xe2\x80\x94 not an agent, proceeds alo-g \nthe nerves from the biain to the muscles. We will now ad- \nvance some of our reasons for supposing so. \n\nFirst. It is just as conceivable how a conscicnt action of the \nirain, that is, a thought, should excite [be immed\'ate\'v suc- \nceeded by] a motive action of the brain, and that thib action \n\n\n\n134 \n\nshould continue along down some nervous tract into the mus- \ncles, and be immediately followed by a contraction of the \nmuscles, as it is how a conscient action of the brain, or a zvit- \niing^ if you please, should throw or let off, or cause to be left \noff, a portion of fluid which, keepir^g its right course, goes to \nthe muscles, and causes them to contract. \n\nSecond. We knoW that by irritating the lower part of the \nbrain, or the spinal marrow, or the nerves going to certain \nmuscles, with any hard substance, as a wire or bit of glass, \nwe excite contractions. We can excite as many contractions \nby irritating the nerves that go to certain muscles, as we can \nby irritating the spinal marrow from which the nerves pro- \nceed. Now what fluid do we throw upon, or cause to be \nthrown upon, the muscles, in these cases? Doyou say that \nwe cause a fluid contained by the brain, the spinal marrow \nand the nerves, to move along into the muscles ? I say, prove \nyour assertion, and sljow us why you cannot excite more con- \ntractions in the same muscles, when you irritate the brain or \nthe spinal marrow, than you can merely by irritating the \nnerves \xe2\x80\x94 the brain and spinal marrov\\^, with all their supposed \nstimulus, being removed. \n\nThird. If a man apply his ear to the end of a sound stick \nof timber, supported from the ground, (it matters little how \nlarge or long the stick may be.) while another person very \nslightly scratches the other end as with a pin, the man who \napplies his ear will instantly hear the scratching. This he \nwill do, let him apply his ear to whnt part of the end of the \nlog he may. Now what are we to suppose in this case ? Can \nwe do otherwise than admit that a very slight degree of me- \nchanical force gives rise to an action throughout the whole \nstick of timber ? It either must excite an action among the \nparticles that compose the solid matter of the stick, causing \nthem, of course, to change their relatious, aiore or less, with \n\n\n\n135 \n\n\xc2\xabarb other ; or it must excite an action of the air which the \npores of the stick mav be supposed to contain. Some might \nat first think il most probable that the scratching excites an \naction of the air only ; but we have sufficient reason lo con- \nclude, notwithstanding, that the atoms of matter which com- \npose the stick itself, are put in action. \n\nThis fact shows us what an exceedingly slight degree of \nmechanical force is required to excite atomic actions through- \nout solid bodies ; and it enables us to admit that a certain \nchange in some part of the brain may be followed, as an ef- \nfect, by a change or action of some other part, and this again \nby a change all along down a nerve into a muscle, and then \nbe followed by a contraction of the muscle. \n\nIt is maintained, and generally, perhaps universally, ad- \nmitted by philosophers, that the grosser atoms of the most \ndense, hard and compact bodies, do not absolutely touch \neach other, but that space, or some very subtile fluid, as ca- \nloric or electricity, intervenes. And this opinion appears to \nbe countenanced by the fact, that in many bodies atomic ac- \ntions may be excited without much more mechanical force \nbeing communicated to the body than what would seem ne- \ncessary to move one of its separate particles. \n\nIt appears that what we call a body of matter, is a little \nworld of atoms, and that, in many instances, if you commu- \nnicate force enough to one or more of these atoms to move \nthem, these atoms communicate it to others, and so on, some- \nthing as bodies act upon bodies. This being the case, we \nneed not marvel that such slight force is necessary to excite \natomic actions in some bodies. \n\nNow we cannot tell by the appearances of bodies, whether \ntheir atoms be so arratiged that they will communicate ac- \ntions among themselves or not ? nor indeed do we know but \nthat an imperceptible atomic action takes place in all bodies \n\n\n\nwhen any thina" tourhps them. Iffacfs seem to shou\'- that an \natomic action lake? place in any body, it becomes us to admit \nth:it it does, although we might judge from the appearances \nof such bodies, that it would not. \n\nWho would judge, on looking upon a stick of timber, th;^t \nan atomic action may be excited throughout its whole extent, \nmerely bv a very slight scratch of a common dressing pin ? \nWho would jud^e. on examining the optic nerves and brain, \nth it an atomic action may be excited in them by a few rays \nof light falluig upon (he retii^.as ? Who would judge that an \ninconceivably slight action of the brain may give rise to an \naction all along down the spinal marrow ? Yet such appear \nto be the facts. Howeve\'\', in order that atomic actions may \ntake place in bodies, it is necessary that the atoms be in cer- \ntain relations with each other; if they be too far apart or too \nnear together, these actions will not take place, at least, not \nexactly as thpy otherwise would. If you crack a bell, it will \nnot sound as before ; divide the nerve? going to a voluntary \nmuscle, and the atomic action of the uppei- portion will not \ncontinue on into the loner portion ; hence the muscle is no \nlonger under the control of the will. On the other hand, if \nyou compress a nerve so as to bring its atoms ?oo near to- \ngether, you interrupt the atomic actions of the nerve., and in \nthis wi^y destroy volition. Nevertheless, if I mistake not, \nthere are some pathological facts which see n to show that \ntiip nervous fluid may pass along a. divided nerve, if the divi- \nded ends be in apparent contact.* \n\n\n\n^ Sinrp wri\'iiig Jhn ab\'ve. I have (iisrovpred the follovi\'in^ pas- \nsare if* Bostofk\'s Phyi^iolojTv, vol. f, p \'iOi. " Does in>t thecurioris \nffict ivhi.h hHs been rstahlishecl in the iate controversy respf^ct-tig \nthn efiVct of\'diviijins^ ihf eit\'^hth p^ir of nerves, that the nervous iii- \nflueiice may Up tr^nsmitred n\\or\\o a divider! nerve, even when the \npans are ontfuurtli of au inch asuuder, afford a direct argument \n\n\n\n137 \n\nIt must he remembered, that when one event immediat.ly \nfollows another, we cannot explain how or zohy ; for, to ex- \nplain the connexion between two events, or to explain why \none event follows another, is but to point out intervening \nevents, showing in what order these intervening events oc- \ncur. But when two events occur in immediate succession, \nthere are no intervening events to he pointed out, and we can \nonly say that the one follows the other, because such is the \nlaw of nature. Supposing the moving body A strike against \nthe body B, and put B in motion \xe2\x80\x94 we cannot explain why A \nshould put B in motion by striking against it ; but if B move \non and knock down the body C, and it be asked why the mo- \ntion of A is followed by the falling of C, the answer, the ex- \nplanation, is, because A put B in motion, and B struck C. \nHere we see that between the motion of A, which is one \nevent, and the motion of C, which is another event, there is \nan intervening event, the motion of B, to be pointed out ; of \ncourse an explanatory answer to the question, why is the n\xc2\xbbo- \ntion of A followed by the fall ot C ? may be given. So if a \ncertain action of the brain be immediately succeeded by an- \n\nagaiiisi the idea of this iiitiiieiice depending upcni the pHssage of a \nsubtile fluid P See Quart Joiirn. v. xi p. ,\'325 and v. xi. p 17." \n\nWe may rennark, that it has no\xc2\xab been shown that the cfrebml \nstimulus may pass along a divided nerve ; but that the power of \nthe stomach to digest \xe2\x80\x94 to secrete a prope-r gastric fluid \xe2\x80\x94 is destroy- \ned by dividing the nerves which gf> to it, and placing the divided \nends at considerable distance from each other ; but thatif ihe di- \nvided ends are p!a< ed not over one fourth of an inch asunder, this \npower is n< t destroyed. We may furthermore remark, tha\' this \nfact is an argument for, and not against the idea, that the tirrvous \nit\'Jlue.ure (not the cerebral stimulus,) is a fluid instead of an ac- \ntion. \xe2\x80\x94 We have good reason to suppose that the nervous influence \nor fluid, is the electric, or some nutdification of it ; and we know \nthat the electric fluid will pass along a divided conductor, if ti)e di- \nvided ends be one-tourth ot an inch asuruJer ; but as Bostock says, \nthe solution of continuity of a nerve, " must cert, inl^ jMit an eflec- \ntual barrier to the propagation of the vibratory or oscillatory action. \n\n16 \n\n\n\n155 \n\n\xe2\x99\xa6thcr action of the brain, we cannot explain why j antMf sfti \naction of the brain be immediaiely follovied by an action of a \nnerve, as its effect, we cannot explain why ; and if a certain \naction of a nerve be imnnediately succeeded by a contraction \nof the muscle to which it is distributed, we cannot explain \nwhy. And if any one ask why ? he shows at once that he \ndoes not suppose these actions to follow in immediate suc- \ncession, but that there are some intervening events to be \nsought after. But if it be a^ked why a certain action .of the \nbrain is followed by a contraction of a muscle, we can say \nthat the action of the brain gives rise to an action ofa nerve, \nand the action of the nerve exrife? an action of the muscle. \nThis would be explairsing the phenomenon or contraction, as \n%\\ell as the present state of our knowledge enables us to do ; \nand it is, perhaps, as complete an explanation as we give to \nthe question, why is the motion of A succeeded by the fall of \nC? \n\nIt is true (hat in ca?es of muscular contraction, there is, as \nive may say, a generation of force ; but this is owing to the \ncontractility of the muscle. Were there no such generation \nof force, we should have no reason to say a muscle is con- \ntractile, nor should we call that a stimulus, which mi^ht force \nthe ends ofa muscle nearer to each othfr, anymore than we \ncall that a stimulus which may force the ends ofa piece of \ncaoutchouc nearer to each other. \n\nWe do not suppose that nerves vibrate when they commu- \nnicate actions from one part to another, any more than v^e \nsuppose that a stick of timber vibrates when one end is slight- \nly scratched with a pin ; but that the particles or atoms of \nthe nerves change more or less their relations with each oth- \ner. We prefer calling this action of the atoms an atomic ac- \nHon, to calling it a vibratory action, for we would express no \nconjecture of the way and manner in which the atoms act. \n\n\n\n139 \n\nwhether they move to and fro, up and down, or turn on their- \nown axis. \n\nFourth. Most of those who apparently believe that an agent \npasses from the brain to the muscles in case of vohintary \ncontraction, suppose this agent to be the common electric flu- \nid, or sorrje modiliciition of it. Now it is well known that the \nelectric and galvanic fluids pass through the most compact* \nbodies with quite as much focihty as the more porous ; bu6 \nonly compress a nerve a little, and the muscle to which the \nnerve is distributed cannot be excited by the will. This fact \nfavors the opinion that it is an action, and not an agent, that \npasses from the brain to the muscles when voluntary contrac- \ntions are excited ; for this compression is much more likely \nto arrest an imperceptible atomic action of the nervous trunk \nthan to arrest a fluid anj thing like the electric. And should \nthe experiment he tried, we doubt not but that it would be \nfound that the electric or galvanic fluid will pass a compres- \nsed or divided nerve as readily as cue that ig not divided od \ncompressed. \n\nFifth. After the brain and upper part of the spinal marrow \nhave been removed or destroyed, you may, by woundmg the \nmuscles of one of the hinder limbs of the animal, excite con- \ntractions of the muscles of the other hinder limb. In thit \ncase it appears to us much more reasonable to suppose that \nyou excite an action of the nerves of the muscles which you \nwound, and that this action runs along up the nerves into the \nspinal marrow, and from thence down the nerves of the other \nlimb, than it does to suppose that you cause any portion of \nfluid to run up the iierves of one limb and down the nerves \nof the other. U is no uncommon thing for a nervous action \nto continue up some nervous tract and excite an action in, or \ncommunicate an action to, some other nervous tract which \nmay run either up or down. Some instances of what physi- \n\n\n\ncians call sympathy, are to be accounted for in this way.\xe2\x80\x94 \nWhen muscles are contractile, all that seems necessary to \ncause them to contract, is a certain action (no matter by what \nmeans excited.) of the nerves that go to them. Thoughts and \nsensations are as far from being esstntiallij necessary to mus- \ncular contraction, as a galvanic trough. \n\nIt is well known that the eleclric and galvanic fluids are the \nbest chemical (or perhaps we may as well say mechanical) \nagents that we can use for exciting contractions of the volun- \ntary muscles. This fact is one that I thought of when 1 con- \ncluded that the cerebral stimulus is a fluid ; but it only proves \nthat the electric and galvanic fluids are powerful excitants of \nthat action of the nerves which is excited by certain conscient \nactions of the brain, and by many chemical and mechanical \nagents. \n\nPerhaps mechanical and chemical agents may excite con- \ntractions by operating directly upon the muscular fibre ; we \ncan only say we knoio that they may excite contractions by \noperating through the medium of nerves. \n\nThe reader will remember that the question, whether or no \nthese agents ever excite contractions by operating directly \ntipon the muscular fibre, is the one about which physiologists \nhave disputed so much ; supposing all the while, that they \nwere disputing whether the contractility or power of the \nmuscular system is independent of the nervous system. \n\nSixth. We cannot believe that any invisible fluid or " in- \nfluence" passes into the very texture of the involuntary mus- \ncles, and causes them to contract, when they are excited, as \nTve say, by their cot)tents. \n\nThe preceding are some of the considerations which lead \nus to conclude that the cerebral stimulus is not a fluid, but an \naction. \n\nWhether the nerves going to the voluntary muscles contain \n\n\n\n!41 \n\na fluid which does not move along in them, when these mus- \ncles are excited to contract ; but which is the immediate seat \nof the atomic actions about which we have been speaking, \nwe would not stop to inquire. For, if they do, such fixed \nfluid is as much a part of the nerve itself, as any other, and \nthe question no more concerns us, than it does whether the \nnerves contain any sulphur, azote, oxygen, or any other par* \nticular material. We may remark, however, that there is \nnothing in favor of the opinion that the nerves possess any \nsuch fixed fluid, which is the medium by which actions are \ntransmitted from the brain to the muscles. \n\nIf the cerebral stimulus be nothing other than an action of \nthe nervous system, we may be asked why we give the action \nthis name ? We answer, it is for coiivenience sake\xe2\x80\x94 the only- \nreason we have forgiving any thing a name. It is conveniesit \nto have a name to distinguish that which is (he cause o^vol- \nuntary contractions from those agents or actions which are \ncauses of involuntary contractions. And as the immediate \nand invariable antecedent, or cause o{ voluntary coniractions^ \n(we do not say contractions of voluntary muscles,) is a nervous \naction which undoubtedly commences in the brain \xe2\x80\x94 perhaps \nin that part of it called cerebrum ; and as all physiologists \nagree to call every thing a stimulus which excites muscular \ncontractions, we call the cause of voluntary contractions the \ncerebral stimulus. \n\nIt must be remembered that we do not say the nervous \nsystem is sensibe because those actions take place in it which \nimmediately and invariably precede voluntary contractions. \nWe suppose that two kmds of actions, essentially different \nfrom each other, take place in ihe nervons system \xe2\x80\x94 conscicnt \nactions and motive actions ; and that the conscient actions \nconstitute our sensations and thoughts, whereas the motive \nactions, though often excited by the conscientj may occur \n\n\n\nU-2 \n\n"Without any ronsciousnes?; whatever. These are the actions \ntvhich immediately precede voluntary contraf.tioiis. \n\nIt is true, a sensation generally attends voluntary contrac- \ntions, but we consider this a consequence of the contraction, \nand not a necessary or invariable antecedent. \xe2\x80\x94 We suppose \nthat the motive actions of ihe nervous system give rise to mus- \ncular contractions, and as there are sentient nerves in or \nabout the muscles, the contractions excite conscient actions \nin such sentient nerves. The muscles would contract if \nthere were no sentient nerves distributed to them. \n\nI would add, in this place, that all (he spinal nerves have \na double origin, a posterior and anterior root, and that, by di- \nrect experiment, it is proved that the muscles to which these \nnerves are sent, are rendered paralytic and insensible respect- \nively, according as the anterior or posterior roots are divided. \nHence it is proved that the voluntary muscles receive two \nkinds of nervous fibrils, motive and sentient. The motive \nnerves communicate actions from the brain to the muscles \nwhich are the immediate and ijivariable antecedents ofvol- \nlantary contractions. The sentient are those in which con- \nscient actions are excited by impressions upon their organic \nextremities. \n\nWe now proceed to a more particalar consideration of the \nrelation which subsists between the involuntary muscles and \nthe nervous system. \n\nOur opinion is that, like the voluntary, the involuntary mus- \ncles receive a fluid from the nervous system which is one \nthing essential to that organization, which is but another word \nfor their power, or contractility. \n\nThe following are some of the principal considerations di- \nrectly in favor of this opinion. \n\nFiist. T e involuntary muscles are well supplied with \nj^erves which must be sui)posed to have some oliice to per- \n\n\n\n140 \n\nform in the ordinary operations of the animal macliinp ; and \nit is pretty clear that they do not communicate a stimuhis to \nthese muscles, for these muscles are not under the control \ncf the will, hut are excited hy their contents. \n\nSecond. It is probable that the brain, spinal marrow and \nganglions, secrete a fluid which is conducted off by the nerves, \nbiit which is not a stimulus, either to the voluntary or invol- \nuntary muscles. \n\nThird. Affections of the nervous system influence the in- \nvoluntary, as well as voluntary muscles, as indicated by aa \nalteration of their actions. Every body knows how the ac- \ntion of the heart, for instance, is influenced by the passions. \n\nFourth. By destroying the coruiection between these mus- \ncles and the nervous system, you destroy, though ndt instant- \nly, their contractility. \n\nFifth. Secretion is undoubtedly a function of minute mus- \ncular organs, and this function is destroyed in proportion as \n)ou destroy the connection between their organs and the \nnervous glands, or in proportion as you destroy these glands \nthemselves. \n\nSixth. It is proved that what goes from the nervous system \nto the stomach and enables its capillary vessels to secrete the \ngastric fluid, is not an action, and as we know it is not a solid \nnor a liquid, it must of course be a fluid. \n\nLastly. We know of no fact opposed to this opinion. \n\nWe know, however that physiologists have disputed wheth-^ \n@r nerves, or nervous influence, are essentially necessary to \nmuscular contraction, thinking all the time that they were \ndisputing w\'lether muscular cvniractiliiy is independent of \nthe nervous system. To such physiologists there are some \nfacts which appear to be opposed to the opinion that the \npower of the muscular system is dependent on the nervous \nsystem : and there may be some facts which will appear, t* \n\n\n\n144 \n\nsome, to be opposed to our opinion of the relation between \nthe involuntary muacles and the nervuus system. But \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nThe fact that muscles remain in some degree contractile, \nfor some time after separated from the nervous system, does \nnot militate against our opinion in the least, as we have be- \nfore said.* \n\nThe fact that foetuses have been born with hearts beating, \nbut without a brain or spinal marrow, weighs very little in- \ndeed against us, until two things be shown : first, that such \nfoetuses have no nervous system of organic life ; second, that \nthe foetus, which is as much a part of the maternal system as \nany other, until separated from it, does not receive a nervous \nfluid from this system \xe2\x80\x94 Pretty certain it is, notwithstanding \nall that has been said to the contrary, that some of the marks \nand deformities of foetuses are caused by affections of the \nmother\'s nervous system ; and this fact is no more inexplica- \nble than the fact that children often resemble their parents, \nor the fact that animals propagate their own species instead \nof some other species. \xe2\x80\x94 By the by, I wonder some of our \nprofound thinkers have not denied that animals propagate \ntheir species, for the good reason that they cannot explain \nthe fact! \n\nThe fact that the involuntary muscles are not very sensi- \nble, argues nothing against our opinion ; it only shows that \nthey possess but few sentient nerves. It is rather in favor of \nour opinion, for if they were very sensible, it might, with the \nmore propriety, be said that the u.^e of their nerves is to ren- \nder them sensible. \n\nThe fact that the contractile texture is to be found in some \nzoophiles and some vegetables, in which no traces of a ner- \nvous system can be seen, proves nothing, only *\' that the \n\n^ Seepage 101. \n\n\n\n145 \n\ngreat Aulnor or ii?iv.ire is the lord, and not the slave, of his \nown laws." The question is not, what may 6e, but what i& ; \nthe question is not whether a contractile texture may be or- \nganized without the intervention of a nervous system ; but \nwhether, in animals (in which, for good and wise purposes, \nthe several parts are so intimately united that what affects \none part affects another,) this texture is organized and kept \nin repair without the intervention of the nervous system. \n\nDr. Philip, a writer well known to gentlemen of the medi- \ncal profession, has performed many experiments on rabbits \nand frogs, to determine the relation which subsists between \nthe nervous and muscular systems, and the ultimate conclu- \nsion to which he arrives, is, that the power of voluntary and \ninvoluntary muscles is independent of the nervous system ; \nbut that these muscles may be influenced through, or by, the \nnervous system. \n\nNow we know that the voluntary muscles are under the \ndirect influence of the nervous system; it is from this systenn \nthat they derive their stimulus ; and it is conceivable (though \nnot probable) that the voluntary muscles may be independ- \nent of the nervous system, as respects their power, and yet be \ninfluenced tlirough this system. But as to the involuntary \nmuscles, which are excited by their contents, which are not \nunder the control of the will, and which cannot be excited to \ncontract by mechanical or chemical agents applied to their \nnerves, it is very diflicult to admit that they are independent \nof the nervous system, and yet influenced through it. It is \nwhat no man will admit, if the facts which led Dr. Philip to \nthis conclusion can be rationally accounted for upon some \nother principle. \n\nDr. Philip himself appears to have been aware of this diffi- \nculty. After relating two sets of experiments, the first of \n\nwhich he thinks " proves that the power of the heart and ves- \n\n19 \n\n\n\nHe \n\nsels of circulation is independent of the brain and spinal mar- \nrow ; and the second, \'\' (hat the action of the heart and ves- \nsels of circulation may be influenced by agents applied either \nto the brain or spinal marrow,\'*\' \xe2\x80\x94 he remark^ : \xe2\x80\x94 \n\n" If it be said that the results of these experiments imply \na contradic*ior\\, that we cannot suppose the power of the \nheart and vessels to be wholly independent of ihe brain and \nspinal marrow, and yet influenced by stimuli applied to them, \nthe reply is, such are the facts, of the truth of which any one \nmay easily sali-fy himself. \n\n*\' On a closer ( xamination of the phenomena of the ner- \nvous system, we shall find other similar difficultfes."* \n\nWe will endeavor to show how unsatisfactory is the con- \nclusion, that (he involuntary muscles are independent of, buf \nmay be influenced through, the nervous system. \n\nFirst, The power of these muscles being independent of \nthe nervous system, and the\'w usual, if not the\\r only, stimulus \nbeing also independent of this sys(em, we would ask, how \ntheir actions can be infliienced by affections of the nervous \nsystem ? How, for instance, can fear increase the ac(ion of \nthe heart ? Does it stimulate the heart, extraordinarily, by \nexciting an action which thrills along (he nerves into the \nheart ? Does it cause a portion of nervous fluid to be thrown \nupon the heart ? It would appear that Dr. Philip supposes a \nportion of fluid, or " influence,\'\' as he calls it, is thrown up- \non the heart. But if the nerves which go to the heart are \ncapable of conducting oif the nervous fluid, during the exist- \nence of fear, what prevents the fluid from flowing to the heart \nat any time ? We presume (hat Dr. Phlip would not admit \nthat the nervous fluid is continually flowing to the heart, for, \naccording to his principles, it can, in ordinary cases, have \nnothing to do after arriving; there. \n\n* Philip\'s \xc2\xab iuquiry into the Ldws," 6cc. p. 92. \n\n\n\n147 \n\nSecond. It is admitted on all hands, that the proper stim- \nulus of the heart is the blood ; now can we adcnit that the \nheart or Siny other muscular organ has two natural stimuli, so \ndiiFerent as the blojd and nervous fluid apparently are^ \xe2\x80\x94 stim- \nuli, too, which excite only one and the same kind of action ? \n\nThird. If that action constituting fear may throw a por- \ntion of nervous fluid upon the heart, why may not that action \nwhich constitutes a willing, do the same. Dr. Philip has at- \ntempted to show why the involiuitary muscles, are involunta- \nry ; but what he says appears to us to amount to no more \nthan this : \xe2\x80\x94 The voluntary muscliis are involuntary because \nthey are involuntary. \n\nFourth. According to Philip\'s conclusion, about which we \nare now speaking, the grand q lestion which weighs so heavily \nagainst the opinion of the independent power of the heart, \ndoes not appear to be satisfactorily answered. Of what use \nare the nerves of the heart ? This is the question, and Dr. \nPhilip finds no use for thern except on extraordinary occ^a- \nsions, except during the existence nf tho. passions. His \nwords are : \xe2\x80\x94 \'\'The heart is supplied with nerves, and sub- \nject to the influence of the passions, because, although inde- \npendent of the nervous system it is capable of being influen- \nced through it."* \n\nThis is the sum and substance of all he has to ofTer in any- \nplace in answer to the question, of what use are the nerves of \nthe heart ? But is this satisfactory ? The sense of the sen- \ntence may be expressed as follows : \n\nThe heart is independent of the nervous system ; but is \nsubject to the influence of the passions, because it is supplied \nwith nerves. \n\nThe clause, "it is capable of being influenced through it," \n\n*Fhilip\'s "luquiry," p. Uh \n\n\n\n148 \n\ni. e. through the nervous system, may be omitted without any \ninjury to the sense of the sentence ; for if the heart be " sub- \nject to the influence of the passions," it must of course be \n" capable of being influenced through the nervous system.-\' \nAnd we may further add, that the passions are the only in- \nstances in which the nerves of the heart perform any func- \ntion, according to Dr. Philip. \n\nIt is true that the action of the heart may be influenced \nby mechanical or chemical stimuli applied to the nervous \nsystem ; but no one will pretend that it is ?i function of the \nDerves of the heart, to influence its action, in these cases. \n\nOn the whole, Dr. Phihp tells us that the heart is influen- \nced by the passions, because it is supplied with nerves ; but \nlie does not show that the nerves of the heart are of any use \nbut to subject this organ to the influence of the passions. As \nto there being any use in this, so far as we can see, there is \nr\\o\\)e at all : \xe2\x80\x94 it appears to be one of those incidental circum- \nstances which, in many instances, occur under the present \norder of nature, and which men call evil. \n\nFurthermore, it is contrary to all reason and analogy to \nsuppose that we have organs which perform no office in the \nordmary operations ofoursystems \xe2\x80\x94 organs, too, which, when \nthey do perform their supposed functions, bring about nothing \nnew, but only accelerate or retard accustomed actions, which \nare frequently accelerated or retarded by other means. \xe2\x80\x94 It \nis well known that the action of the heart is increased by ex- \nercise as well as by the passions ; but who would think of as- \ncribing the increased action of the heart, in this case, to any \naction of the nerves of the heart ? Is it not owing to an in- \ncreased flow of blood towards the heart, or to some obstruc- \ntion (in the lungs) to the free circulation of the blood from \nthe lungs \xe2\x80\x94 one or both ? \n\nPassing strange it must be, that the heart and muscular \n\n\n\n149 \n\ncoat of the intestines are supplied with nerves, that a man \nmay have a httle bit of a palpitation, or a little bit of a diar- \nrhoea in case he chance to be fiightened ! \n\nWe have now offered several considerations in favor of the \nopinion that the contractility of the involuntary muscles is \ndependent on the nervous system. We have also endeavor* \ned to remove what might appear to some as objections to this \nopinion ; and we have shown how ui. satisfactory is the con* \nelusion, that the involuntary muscles are independent of, but \nmay be influenced through, the nervous system. \n\nWe now proceed to show in what way the action of the heart \nand other invnluntiiry muscular orgar^s may be influenced by \nthe passions ; admitting that the contractility of these organs \nis dependent on the nervous system, and that they receive no \nSTIMULUS byway of their nerves. \n\nWe suppose that the nervous glands secrete a fluid which \nflows to a// the involuntary muscular organs \xe2\x80\x94 not excepting \nthe minutest capillary vessels ; and that the contractility of \nthese organs depends on this nervous fluid. Hence whatever \ninterrupts the secretion of the nervous fluid, lowers, as we may \nsay, the contractility of these organs. This being done, the \nstimability of their contents proves too high for their con- \ntractility ; they are stimulated by such contents to a higher \ndegree than they can bear without increased action ; (we all \nknow that a frequent pulse is a sign of weakness) ; the capil- \nlaries are excited to contract, (and the sum of all their capa- \ncities is very great) ; this contraction of the capillaries forces \nthe fluids upon the heart, aud thus we have a triple cause for \nthe increased action of the heart ; first, an increased discrep- \nancy between its contractility and the stimability of the \nblood ; second, an increased quantity of blood (its proper \nstimulus) forced upon it by the contraction of the ca[)illaries5 \ntvhich may, with much propriety, be called the heart-s autag- \n\n\n\n150 \n\nonist ; third, obsfruciion to the free circulation of the blood, \nthrough the lungs, out of the heart\'s way, ** as a body may \nsay." \n\nBut what, it is time to ask, suppresses the secretion of the \nnervous fluid, in the sound state of the system, and thus de- \nstroys the proper balance between the contractility of the cir- \nculating vessels and the stimability of their contents ? We an- \nswer, the passions, or at least, some of the passions. Fear, \nfor instance, is a peculiar, intense, conscient action of the \nbrain, which is incompatible, as we may say, with ;he secre- \ntory action of this organ, and as the several parts of the ner- \nvous system act in conciirrenrR, fppr, by suppressing the se- \ncretory action of the brain, suppresses it throughout the \nwhole nervons system. Hence, in case of fear, the man is \nweak, his countenance is pale, his heart flutters, and often \nmuch limpid urine is secreted. \n\nMuch limpid urine is secreted, because the contractility of \nthe secreting capillaries of the kidnies is brought down to a \ndue relation v\\ith the stimability of such urinary matter. The \ncountenance is pale, because (he contractility of many of the \ncapillaries of the face, which usually admit the red globules \nof the blood, is so much reduced, that these globules prove \ntoo stimulating for them \xe2\x80\x94 they cause the vessels to contract \nupon them, and shut tliem out. \n\nAnger, on the other hand, is a peculiar, intensf , conscient \naction of the nervous system, which appears to increase the \ni>ervous secretion. There is no sense of weakness about a \nman in anger ; the contractility of his capillary vessels is so \nraised that matty of them stand in due relation with the red \nblood, which, before, circulated only colourless fluids ; hence \nthe countenance is flushed in ariger ; but we presume that \nthe action of the heart is never increased immediately and di- \nrectly by this passion alone. Yet we may find, peihaps, that \n\n\n\n151 \n\nin most ca^es of anger, the action of the heart is somewhat \nacceierated ; but we may find that in these cases, the action \nof the heart was quickened by some cause, previous to the \nanger, or that it is increased by exercise during the anger, or, \nwhat is still more probable, we may find that fear, or some \nsuch like passion, accompanies the anger. Men when angry \noften think of taking revenge, but ihey f par the consequen- \nces \xe2\x80\x94 they ftar to grapple ; they turn pale and tremble ; \nthen, undoubtedly, the heart flutters. \n\nIn order to prove that anger, alone, does, in a direct man- \nner,, accelerate the action of the heart, it must be shown that \nthis unmingled passion excites the heart independent of the \nexercise of him in whom the anger occurs. We all know \nthat a man sitting still, with a calm circulation, may have \nthe action of his heart accelerated by some noise, or visible \nobject, which may excite sudden and intense fear, or fright, \nas it is sometimes called ; but I am inclined to think that the \naction of the heart is never accelerated by pure anger, under \nsuch circumstances. \n\nBut supposing it should be found that the unmingled pas- \nsion, anger, may accelerate the action of the heart in as di- \nrect a manner as the passion called fear ; it would not de- \nstroy our hypothesis to its lowest foundation. \xe2\x80\x94 We say that \nthe contractility is increased^ diminiffhed^ lowered, Szc, but we \nuse these terms for the want of better. It would be as well, \nperhaps, not to spin out our hypothesis any fiirther than to \nsay \xe2\x80\x94 the passions influence the actions of the circulating or- \ngans, by destroying the due relation, or proper balance, be- \ntween their contractility and the stimability of their contents. \n\nThis view of ihc subject reconciles many ditticulties ; it \nshows us how the heart, the countenance, the secretions, &:c. \nmay be influenced by the passions, although the hollow mus- \ncles are not under the control of the will\xe2\x80\x94 although they re- \n\n\n\n252 \n\nceive no stimulushy way of the nervous system. But Philip \nhas not shown, satisfactorily, how this can be \xe2\x80\x94 he has not \neven shown, satisfactorily, why the involuntary muscles are \ninvoluntary. He says : \xe2\x80\x94 \n\n" We can surely be at no loss to account for the action of \nthese muscles being involuntary, when we know that they are \nall exposed to the constant or constantly renewed action of \nstimuli, over which the will has no power. Besides, the ac- \ntion of these muscles produces no sensible effect. We will \nto move a limb, not to excite a muscle. We wish to handle, \nfor example, and on trial find that we can move our fingers ; \nbut what act of volition can we perform through the medium \nof the heart or blood vessels ? If we had no wish to handle, \nthe muscles of the fingers of course would never become sub- \nject to the will. It deserves to be remarked, that the will in^ \nfiuences the ret turn and bladder, the only internal organs \nwhich can assist in accomplishing an end desired.""^ \n\nWe here see that Dr. Philip gives us two reasons for the \nhollow muscles being involuntary; first, \'\' they are exposed \nto the constant or constantly renewed action of stimuli^ over \nwhich the will has no power." Second \xe2\x80\x94 \'\' the action of \nthese muscles produces no sensible effect." Let us first ex- \namine his first reason. \n\nThe hollow muscles are involuntary, because " they are all \nexposed to the constant or constantly renewed action of stim- \nuli, over which the will has no power." This is as much as \nto say : the will has no power over the 5//ww/t of the hollow \nmuscles ; therefore, it has no power over the muscles them- \nselves. This being true, we might expect that if a man\'s \nstomach, heari, blood vessels, &c. should only be empty at \nany time, every thing else remaiiting the same, he might con- \n\n* Inquiry, p. 1j8. \n\n\n\n153 \n\ntract them at pleasure I for \xe2\x80\x94 Philip\'s second reason is a false \nstatement. It is this : " The action of these organs produces \nno sensible efTect." \n\nWe all know that the action of the heart does produce a \n" sensible effect," in the common sense of the expression ; \nbut it may be said, that the Doctor would attach some pecu- \nliar meaning to the expression. Hence it is necessary to ex- \namine attentively what follows the expression in the place it \nis used. On doing this we find, that if the Doctor would at- \ntach any peculiar meaning to the expression, " sensible ef" \nfeet," he would be understood to mean the same by it as by \n" an end desired." \n\nBut suppose I wish my pulse to beat 130 strokes in a min- \nute, or only 30 strokes in the same length of time, that my phy- \nsician may think me a very sick man, requiring his best atten- \ntion \xe2\x80\x94 would not this be " an end desired ?" And could I ac- \ncomplish it, would it not be a " sensible effect ?" as strictly \nso as any other? \n\n" We will," says the Doctor, Mo move a limb, and not to \nexcite a muscle." But why this talk ? \xe2\x80\x94 If an anatomist \nshould will to contract his or^fcw/am om muscle, instead of \nwilhng to pucker his lips, could he not do it ? But in this \ncase the wish would be " to excite a muscle," and not \'* to \nmove a limb." \n\nThe Doctor say? \xe2\x80\x94 " If we had no wish to handle, the mus- \ncles of the fingers of course would never become subject to \nthe will." Does the Doctor mean by this as much as to say, \nthe make of a man depends upon the wishes he may chance \nto have after he is made ! \n\nFinally, the Doctor\'s reasons for the heart and blood ves- \nsels being involuntary, amount to this : \xe2\x80\x94 We can perform no \nact of volition, that is, no voluntary act, With ihu heart or \n\n"20 \n\n\n\n154 \n\nblood vessels, because, forsooth, " what act of volition can wc \npel form by the heart or blood vessels?" \n\nBut it nvAy be asked, fvhat reasons zue have to offer for the \ninvoluntary nnuscles being irivoluntary ? Two or three verj \nrational, yea, very probable, sup[)ositions nnav be offered. \n\nWe may suppose that ihe nerves of these organs do not, \nlike nerves of the voluntary muscles, have that direct connex- \nion with the seiisorium [that part of the brain which thinks,] \nwhich is necessary in order that motive actions may be exci-^ \nted in them, by conscient actions of this part of the brain. \n\nSecond, Anatomists know that (heparvagum and all other \nnerves distributed to the hollow muscles, \'\' differ from the \nother nerves in the disposition of their fibres, which, instead \nof being straight and parallel, are irregularly connected to \neach other and twisted together,"* Hence it is probable \nthat they are not in themselves capable of communicating \nsuch actions from the brain to the muscles, as the nerves of \nthe voluntary muscles are. We know that we cannot cause \nthe hollow muscles to contract by irritating, by mechanical \nor chemical agents, the nerves which go to them. \n\nThird. The organization of the hollow muscles is sufficient- \nly different from that of the voluntary, to account for their not \nbeing excitable by the same means, Tiie voluntary muscles \nare excited by the cerebral stimulus ; the heart is excited by \nthe blood ; and if the cerebral stimulus should be communi- \ncated to -he heat, and a contraction of the heart should not \nfollow, we should no more wonder than we should rf the vol- \nuntary muscles should contract on having a few ounces of \nblood poured upon them. \n\nWe have now shown in what way we suppose the passions \nitifluence the actions of the hollow muscular organs, and why \n\n\'^ Bostock\'is Physiology, vol. 1, p. Ib9 j Boston edit. 1825, \n\n\n\n155 \n\nthese organs cannot be excited by those conscient actions of \nthe brnin which constitute what we call a desire, or willing. \nBut something more must be said in defence of the opinion, \nthat the passions influence the action of the heart, &lc, in the \nway and manner vYhich we have pointed out. \n\nPerhaps, in point of weight, the first seeming objection to \nthis opinion that may be brought, is the short space of time \nthat passes between the commencement of the passioo and \nits apparent influence on the hollow muscles. We have \nmaintained that the nervous influence enters into the organi- \nzation of the muscular fibre, and is one of its essential princi- \nples, as much so, as any thing brought to it by the arteries ; \nand that the muscular fibre being once organized so as to be \ncontractile, may, as we know, remain, in some degree, con- \ntractile even for hours after separated from the nervous sys- \ntem. Now if the ordinary actions of the minute vessels and \nother muscular organs, are so dependeiit on a punctilious sup- \nply of nervou* fluid, that these actions are altered when this \nsupply is withheld for a few moments ; some, may wonder \nthat these organs remain at all contractile, for hours, after \ncut off from this supply. \xe2\x80\x94 We will now endeavor to remove \nall doubts arising from this score. \n\nIn the first place, a man does not turn pale, and the action \nof his heart is not accelerated the iiistant the passion fear, for \ninstance, is excited. \xe2\x80\x94 Fright is an intense fear, suddenly and \nunexpectedly excited. Now I know (for I have thought to \nnotice immediately the occasion,) that I am often frightened, \nand the fright is all over, without any increased action of the \nheart. But it may be said that such persons as are called \nnervous, feel a sort of thrilling sensation throughout the sys- \ntem the very instant they are frightened, and that many a \n<^ue experiences this sensation when a horse trips which he if \n\n\n\n156 \n\nriding, and which he has learnt by experience is apt to stum- \nble. \n\nThis we grant, but this instant sensation does not prove \nthat the person instantly turns pale, or that the action of his \nheart is instantly accelerated ; nor does it in any degree prove \nthat in other cases of passion, the action of the heart, &c. is \naltered by means of a conscicnt action extending along cer- \ntain nervous tracts. Consciousness (by which I mean as much \nas any one does by thoughts and sensations,) has nothing to \ndo with muscular contraction, as its immediate cause or ante- \ncedent, \xe2\x80\x94 not, indeed, in case of voluntary contraction. That \nconscient action of the brain called a willing, is not the imme- \ndiate antecedent of voluntary contractions ; but this conscient \naction excites a motive action of the nervous system, and this \nis the immediate antecedent of voluntar)\' contractions. All \nthis will appear more clearly in the chapter on Volition, \n\nBut after all, it must be admitted that in many cases the ac- \ntion of the heart is very soon altered after the commencement \nof a passion. And we are now about to offer some consid- \nerations tending to reconcile this fact, with the fact that mus- \ncular organs often remain m some degree contractile, even \nfor hours after they cannot be supposed to receive any ner- \nvous fluid from the brain and spinal marrow. \n\nThe reader must remember, that in man the brain bears \na greater proportion to the rest of the nervous system, than \nin any other animal ; and that as we descend the scale of ani- \nmal beings, the braiij becomes, as we may say, of less and less \nconsequence. In rabbits, and particularly in frogs, so great \na proportionof the nervous fluid, which their hollow muscles \nreceive, is secreted by the ganglions (as we suppose) that \nthese muscles will remain contractile much longer after the \nbrain and spinal marrow are destroyed, than they would in \nman after the destruction of the brain and spinal marrow. \n\n\n\n157 \n\nIn the esse of frogs, Dr. Philip has shown, that after the \nbrain and spinal marrow are destroyed, the capillary vessels \nremain contractile, so as to circulate their contents, " many \nminutes f and that the heart generally remains contractile \nan hour or two. But in man we doubt if the heart or capil- \nlary vessels would continue to act one minute after being \ntreated as the frogs were treated. We presume that if the \nbrain and spinal marrow of a man were destroyed, his mus- \ncular organs would not be found to be contractile so long af- \nter, as they are after death from strangulation, or some other \ncause which may not prevent the nervous secretion from go- \ning on, a little, after what we call death. In some instances, \nfear so completely suppresses the nervous system, and keeps \nit locked up, as it were, for such a lei^.gth of time, as to de- \nstroy life ; m such cases it is found that the muscles have \nlost, or quickly lose, all contractile power. Be it remem- \nbered, also, that according to our principles, the passions in- \nfluence the action of the heart cJiicjiij through the medium of \nthe capillary vessels ; and as the contractile texture of these \nvessels is exceedingly delicate, we need not wonder that a \nmomentary increase or momentary suspension of the nervous \nsecretion, so destroys the proper balar^e between the con- \ntractility of these vessels and the stimabihty of their contents, \nas to cause an alteration of their actions. Finally, when we \nconsider all the differences between a bull frog and a man, \nwe need not wonder that in the latter, the passions may, in a \nfew seconds of time, influence the capillar} vessels, and con- \nsequently the heart, m the way we have supposed ; although \na frog\'s heart may remain contractile a few hours, and his \ncapillary vessels \'^ a few minutes," after the bram and spina! \nmarrow are destroyed. \n\nI am aware that Dr. Philip has performed certain experi- \n\n\n\n158 \n\nments, the results of which I must show to be reconcilable \nwith the principles 1 have been endeavoring to nnaintain. \n\nWith mallets, knives, wires, and hot pokers, he has crush- \ned, mangled, pierced and singed ihe brain and spinal marrow \nof rabbits and frogs, and has also poured u[)on them spirits of \nwine, laudanum, and infusions of tobacco. And what were \nthe general results ? Why, the more he injured the nervous \nsystem \xe2\x80\x94 the more he slashed it, and the more alcohol he \npoured upon it, so much the more he quickened the action of \nthe heart. Hence the Doctor supposed, that by these means \nhe stimulated the heart ; whert^as, we suppose he deranged \nthe nervous secretion \xe2\x80\x94 impaired the contractility of the heart \nand blood vessels, and caused the heart to heat more fre- \nquently, in much the same way that fear does. The spirits of \nwine did not excite the heart in the same wa} that they do \nwhen drunk : in this case, it may excite the nervous secre- \ntion somewhat, (perhaps, however, by exciting the circula- \ntion,) but it enters mto ihe blood and raises its stimability \nmore than it raises the contractility of the heart ; and in this \nway gives rise to an increased^ action of the heart. "^ When \n\n* Mageudie informs\' us, in his " Summary of Pliysioiogy," p. \n257, that by opening thf thorafic dtirt where it forms a junction \nwi h the left subclnvian vein we shall find that the ch>le is poured \nout rather slowly, and of course the rnpiuity with which it runs \nak)ng the duct is not very great This m.iy lead some to think that \nspirits, wh n dnmk, do not get into the circulating system so soon \nas we find the action of the heart to be accelerated. On this I have \nto remark, that by opening^ the thoracic duct as Magendie did, \nyou destroy the i(,fl;ience of thf heart\'s sucti-m on the motion of \nthe chyle ; and asain, [ would ask if any one has found out how \nquickly the heart is influenced afier drinking spirits, the man re- \nmaining so still as not to accelerate its action hy exercise P \n\nWe do not deny but that spirits may make an impression upoa \nthe nerves of \'he stomach, and give rise to a chaui^e in one\'s feel- \nings \xe2\x80\x94 perhaps increase the nervous secretion, before they reach the \ncirculating system ; but we are inclined to think that the actiou of \nthe heart is not acctietated until tliey enter iiie circuktion. \n\n\n\n159 \n\nthe contractility of a mairs heart is reduced by disease, a \nspirituous potation accelerates its action more than when its \ncontractility is in a high state, as in health. \n\nWhen Philip crushed the brain with a hanrinier, he gave \nthe nervous system such a shock as completely to arrest, for \na time, the nervous secretion. This so reduced the power of \nthe heart and the contracvility of the capillaries, that the ca- \npillaries could not withstand the stimulation of their contents \n\xe2\x80\x94 they were excited into a sort of constrictive !?pasm, by which \nmeans the blood wassocrouded into the enfeebled heart, that \nit could not contract so as to free itself of its load ; yet its \ndisposition to contract was great, that is, the discrepancy be- \ntween its contractility and the stimability of its contents, was \ngreat. But presently the shock of the nervous system passes \noff \xe2\x80\x94 the contractility of the heart and capillaries begins to be \nrestored \xe2\x80\x94 the capillaries give more room for the blood \xe2\x80\x94 the \nheart begins to struggle ; and finally, for a time, again sup- \nports the circulation, though more feebly than before the \nbrain was crushed. Now what does Dr. Philip conclude \nfrom this ? He concludes that so far from the power of the \nheart being dependent on the nervous system it may, of its \nown self, recover its power, " precisely as a muscle of volun- \ntary motion will by rest recover its excitability, although all \nits nerves are divided." Surely ! tl is is explaining a mystery, \nmerely by comparing it with a greater, which greater he no^ \nwhere attempts to explain. \n\nNow we do not think the two cases are alike. It is natu- \nral for a voluntary muscle to contract but a few times in im- \nmediate succession ; but it is natural for the heart to contract \nonce a second or oftener, cori/mwa% ; the heart is notya- \nt gued, when it stops after the crushing of the brain; and if \nthe power of the heart and circulating vessels be in de- \n\n\n\n16^ \n\npendent of the nervous system, we wish the Doctor would \njust show u.^ why it ceases to act after crushing the brain. \n\nDr. Phihp found that he did not stop the action of the heart \nbj removing the brain or spinal marrow, as he did by crush- \ning tliese organs ; but zu/?^, he does not explain. \xe2\x80\x94 We will at- \ntempt it. You cannot remove the brain and spinal marrow \nwithout some loss of blood ; this prevents the heart from be- \ning so completely overloaded that it cannot act. True, Philip \nsometimes contrived it, so as to 5/1?)? off a frog\'s head without \nmuch loss of blood ; but then, he left the spinal marrow and \nthe ganglions which, with the nerves, form the chief part of \na frog\'s nervous system ; and in snipping off the head, which, \nby the by, contains a pretty good share of the blood of the an- \nimal, he did not give the nervous system such a shock, as \nwhen he crushed the brain. \n\nDr. Philip found that when he mangled the brain but little, \nor poured alcohol upon only a small part of it, he altered the \naction of the heart little or none. This fact he does not ex- \nplain \xe2\x80\x94 he only refers it to a law which he is endeavoring to \nestablish ; but we suppose it is because he did not destroy \nthe nervous secretion to any great degree. He found, also, \nthat his application to the outer parts of the brain did not \ncause any contraction of the voluntary muscles ; but that \nwhen he got down to the lower part of the brain, where the \nconscient actions go on, he did. Why ? Because he then got \ndown to, and excited motive actions in, that part of the brain \nin which the motive actions are excited by the " will," as the \nexpression is. \n\nAgain\xe2\x80\x94 Dr. Philip states that when he took out the back \npart of the brain, and afterwards poured alcohol upon the \nanterior part; he found the action of the heart as much quick- \nened as if he had left the nervous system entire. Why so ? \nWhy, 1 suspect he did the nervous system as much injury, and \n\n\n\n161 \n\nderanged the nervous secretion as much, as if he had not ta- \nken out any part of the brain. Should he tell me that the ac- \ntion of the heart was not increased until he applied the alco- \nhol, I should begin to think it is pretty queer if you may catch \na frog and fall to mangling it, without exciting an increased \naction of the heart, \xe2\x80\x94 1 should think that frogs are so unlike \nmen, that experiments made on them will never give us much \ncorrect information concerning the economy of human be- \nings. \n\nAnother fact which Or. Philip does not explain, but which, \nso far from causing us to wonder, is what our principles would \nlead us, a priori^ to expect, is this : A transverse division of \nthe\'spinal marrow renders the voluntary muscles below, par- \nalytic, (in one sense of the word,) but does not influence the \npowers or actions of the hollow muscles. Need we show \nwhy this is ? Does not the reader sec that the division of the \nspinal marrow prevents the communication of the motive ac- \ntions of the brain to the muscles below, but that it does not \nin the least destroy the nervous secretion, either in the parts \nabove or below the division ? \n\nDr. Philip has shown that liquid preparations of opium and \ntobacco applied to the nervous system, cause the heart to \nbeat less frequently. This fact led him to make a statement \nwhich appears to us quite irrational. \n\nOn reviewmgthe inferences from his experiments, he says, \n(p. 234) : " The nervous influence is capable of acting as a \nstimulus both to the heart and vessels of circulation." And \nin the lines next immediatelv following, he says : ^\' Tiie ner- \nvous influence is capable of acting as a sedative bo<h to the \nheart and vessels of circulation, even to such a degree as ta \ndestroy their power." He then refers us to the experiments \nwhich lead him to this conclusion, and on turning to them we \n\nfind them to be the experiments in which the Jwmmer, the \n\n21 \n\n\n\n1G2 \n\n\xc2\xa9pium, and the tobacco, suppressed or i eiaided the action of \nthe heart. \xe2\x80\x94 I wonder if the Doctor supposes that hammers \nand opium operate on the same principle ! \xe2\x80\x94 We do not sup- \npose the nervous influence, directly, either accelerates or re- \ntards the action of the heart, but if it did either, it would ap- \npear irrational to suppose it does both. \n\nNow although Dr. Philip has given us no explanation of \nthe fact, that preparations of opium and tobacco, applied to \nthe nervous system, cause the heart to beat less frequently ; \nstill, in offering opinions opposed to his, it may be thought \nincumbent on us to explain all things ; therefore, we shall, at \nleast, attempt to explain this fact. But in confirmation of \nwhat we have said about the detrimental action of alcohol on \nthe nervous system, and of what we are about to say concern- \ning the modus operandi of opium, kc, ; we will first quote a \npassage from Philip. \n\n" Mr. Hastings had found, that immersing the hind legs of \na frog in tincture of opium, [laudanum] in less than a minute, \ndeprives it of sensibility. This does not arise from any ac- \ntion of the opium; a watery solution of opium, we found, \nhowever strong, does not produce the effect. It is immedi- \nately produced by simple spirit of wine, aiid arises from the \naction of the spirit on the nerves of the part to which it is ap- \nplied. It is remarkable, that if siiiiple spirit ofvt/ine is used, \nthe animal expresses severe pain ; if tincture of opium, very \nlittle." \n\nFrom this passage we learn that alcohol makes such rack- \ning work with the delicate nervous texture, even when not \napplied immediately to it, as to destroy\' its sensibility, where- \nas opium does not. Knowing this, wc may the more readily \nadmit that alcohol, applied to the nervous glands, may de- \nrange the nervous secretion, and yet, that liquid preparations \n\n\n\n1G3 \n\nof opium and tobacco may /;ro???o^e it, \\Yhich is the position \nthat we shall maintain. \n\nWe suppose that opiunn is a real and powerful promoter, \nnot of muscular contractions, but of the nervous secretion, \nand that when laudanum is applied to a considerable part of \nthe nervous system, and the animal gets a little over the shock \nof the operation, it moderates the action of the heart as fol- \nlows : \xe2\x80\x94 It increases the nervous secretion, whereby it raises \nthe contractility of the heart and circulating vessels, and this, \nso far as it respects the relation between the contractility of \nthese organs and the stimability of their contents, is equiva- \nlent to diminishing such stimability. This speculation being \nadmitted, we see in ivhat zvai/ preparations of opium and to- \nbacco, applied to the nervous system, moderate the action of \nthe heart ; we see, also, in v\xc2\xbb^hat v/ay opium, given to living \nanimals, produces a full, slow pulse. This slow pulse is not, \nin fact, a sedative effect of the opium, considered in relation \nto its action on the nervous system ; but it is a sedative ef- \nfect, considered in relation to its influence on the heart, pro- \nvided we insist on calling every thing a sedative which mod- \nerates the action of this organ. \n\nThe real sedative effects of opium do not follow its being \ntaken into the stomach, until twelve or fourteen hours after \xe2\x80\x94 - \nthen the patient begins to feel weak, faint, &c. \xe2\x80\x94 then it is that \nthe nervous system is resting from its high action. True, \nopium may raise the contractility of the capillary vessels so \nthat many of them may admit red blood, which, before^ did \nnot I hence so much blood may be permitted to rush into the \nbrain as to produce some impediment to the recurrence and \noccurrence of its conscient actions; so we see, that in this \nway opium may induce sleep ; and yet it may be all the time \npromoting the nervous secretion. \xe2\x80\x94 Surely, there is a wide \ndifference between the modus operandi of opium and hum* \n\n\n\n164 \n\nmtrs upon the nervous system ; although fhe one may mod- \nerate the action of the heart, and the other destroy it. \n\nRemarks. \xe2\x80\x94 It appears to us that very many writers have en- \ntertained an erroneous notioi. relative to the actions of muscu- \nlar organs : it seems as though they have reasoned something \nlike this : A dead organ acts not at all \xe2\x80\x94 a living organ acts \nsome ; hence the more life, the more action, and the reverse, \nthe more action, the more life or power. But this sort of \nmathematical reasoning will not hold in the present case, cer- \ntainly not as it respects the heart. For a frequent, quick \npulse, we are to look to the sickly and enervated 5 for a slow, \nfull pulse, to the hardy yeomanrj^ The physician knows \nthat those causes which appear to be calculated to injure the \nnervous secretion, predispose to spasmodic action?; and he \nwill find, on reviewing all tl^e facts any way related to the \nsubject, that the following is a universal fact, or law of the an- \nimal economy, if you please to call it such, viz. The lower \nthe contractility of a muscle (until it get to a very reduced \npoint.) the less able is it to withstand the action of a stimulus, \nor in other words, the more is it excited by the same agent. \nNevertheless, we must make a distinction between a frequent, \nquick, and easily excited action of a muscular organ, and a \nforcible action ; also, between the disposition of an organ \nto act, and its power to act. For mstance, the stimability of \nthe blood remainmg the same, you may increase the disposi- \ntion of the heart to act, pretty much in the same ratio you di- \nminish its power or contractilitj\'. \n\nIt is true we sometimes meet with a slow pulse in a debili- \ntated subject ; but this slowness is not owing to the atonic \nstate of the circulating organs. It is owing to the reduced \nstimability of their contents. This stimability is brought so \nnear to a level with the contractility of the organs, that it ex- \ncites them but moderately. Give such patient a glass of \n\n\n\n165 \n\nspirits, or a little stimulating food, ancl you will quicken his \npulse much more than you would by the same means were \nhe well. \n\nIn some diseases the contractility of the circulating organs \nis so much reduced, that the capillary vessels cannot, as wc \nmay say, p\xc2\xabiie^//^ bear the stimulation of their contents ; a \nsort of constrictive spasm is excited in them ; they press the \nfluids upon, or rather into, the enfeebled heart ; the surface \nis pale, and the pulse is slow and struggling. Draw a little \nblood and you remove some of the heart\'s load, enabling it to \nact more freely ; hence you raise the frequency of the pulse \nto the healthy standard. But if you bleed copiously, you \ntake from the nervous system that which is necessary to main- \ntain its secretion ; hence you lower the contractility of the \ncirculating organs to a greater degree than what the disease \nhas done, and the heart flutters, and may soon cease to \nbeat. In such case, nothing will save the patient but \nthe prompt administration of such medicines as will promote \nand maintain the nervous secretion ; \xe2\x80\x94 opium, in regularly re- \npealed doses, is perhaps the very best. \n\nWhen a robust man is taken down with a common inflam- \nmatory fever, you will find that sonae cause has raised the \nstimability of his fluids, (spirits may do this, or cold may do i \nby suppressing the perspiration,) or else that some cause haj \nlowered the contractility of his circulating organs, increasing \ntheir disposition to act. Therefore, in such patient you tine \na frequent and forcible pulse. Bleed him, and give him dilu- \nent drinks, and you bring down the stimability of the fluid tc \na proper relation with the contractility of the organs which \ncontain them ; and thus you moderate the action of the heart. \nBut bleed him very copiously, and you take away that which \nis necessary to support the nervous secretion, and thus you \ncause the heart to flutter. Give a little opium, and you pro^ \n\n\n\n166 \n\niiiote the nervous secretion^ and again calm the action of the \nheart. \n\nWe might fill pages with pathological evidence in favor oi \nour opinion of the relation between the nervous and muscular \nsystems. But we must proceed to recapitulate the more im- \nportant principles already advanced; for it is necessary that \nthe reader remember them, as they will enable us to explain \nthe phenomena of the passions, and many other interesting \nphenomena ; by doing which we shall remove much of that \nmystery which has hung over the phenomena of man ; \n^nd we shall show immaterialists, that with all their imagma- \nry machinery, they cannot begin with the materialists in ex- \nplaining the phenomena of man. \xe2\x80\x94 Oh for the time when man- \nkind will be no longer deceived by mere verbosity ! \n\nSome of the more important principles which we have been \nlaboring to maintain, in this chapter, are the following : \n\n1. That the contractility of the whole muscular system is \ndependent on a nervous fluid. \n\n2. That the immediate antecedent or cause of the contrac- \ntions of the voluntary muscles, is an action of the nervous sys- \ntem, which action we, for convenience sake, call the cerebral \nstimulus. But so much of this action as takes place in the \nbrain, we call a motive action, in contradistinction to the con- \nscieni actions of the brain. \n\n3. That the onlij stimulus of the hollow muscles, is their \ncontents. \n\n4. That the passions influence the actions of these organs, \nby destroying the proper balance between their contractility \nand the stimability of their contents. \n\nd. That by diminishing the contractility of a muscle, you \nrender it more irritable, in the good old pathological sense of \nthe term; but less powerful \xe2\x80\x94 for the peculiar joorcer of a mus- \ncle is nothing other than its contractility. \n\n\n\nia7 \n\nConcerning the nature of the nervous fluid, we shall say but \nfew words. Many are already acquainted with the evidence \nin favor of its being the electric fluid, or some modification of \nit ; those who are not, I must refer to Philip\'s " Inquiry into \nthe Laws of the Vital Functions. \'- \n\nI will just offer tv/o or three considerations v/hich. with the \nevidence alluded to, convince mc that the nervous fluid is \nthe electric fluid, o^ more probably, that peculiar modificatioii \nof it called the galvanic. First. There are no elements in \nman that do not exist out of the animal system. No man will \nhave the hardihood to deny this. Now if we had full lrl)crlj \nto imagine every thing without provir.g any thing, we could \nnot imagine any agent by v/hich we could any better explain \ncertain phenomena connected with muscular action, than we \nnow can, by supposing the eleciric fluid to be concerned in \nthe production of these phenomena. \n\nSuppose we admit for the moment, that the nervous fluid \nis something essentially different from the galvanic, and sup- \npose we give it the name of life ; and if you please, v/e will \nsuppose another agent, totally different from any thing we \nhave any knowledge of, and give it tiie name of soul,"~now I \nask the reader, if there is a single phenomenon of man which \nhe can any more explain, or any better explain, these things \nadmitted, than he can without supposing the existence of any \nunknown substances. Strange it is that men should think to \nexplain the known by (he unknown, and strange it is, that men \nshould think they explain phenomena, when they only refec \nthem to some brain- begotten agent. \n\nSecond. Chemists can bring many facts in I\'avor of the \nopinion that bodies have each a certain capacity for electri- \neity as well as for caloric, and that when they yield any share \nof their fixed electricity, they suffer some change, even in \ntheir physical properties ; hence, when substances suffer such \n\n\n\n168 \n\nchanges as (hey do, during the processes of digestion, circula- \ntion, (Sic. we ma) easily suppose that some ot them yield a \nportion of their fixed electricity to ihose curious galvanic \nbatteries, the nervous glands. \n\nAnimal heat undoubtedly arises from a change of capacity \nfor caloric, which materials undergo during the changes that \nare continually going on in the system. It is more than pro- \nbable that the electric or nervous fluid has an important part \nto perform in the production of these changes, consequently \nin the production of animal heat. \n\nWe are now about to treat of the conscient phenomena of \nman ; but before the reader proceeds any further, we v.^ish he \nvrould return to, and read, the two first pages of the chapter on \nUnion, and also the note at page 44. \n\n\n\n\'00- \n\n\n\nCHAPTER XII. \n\nOn Sensation and Perception, \n\nThe five senses have sometimes been called the external \nsenses, in contradistinction to the internal senses, a class of \nbeings (not very harmless,) begotten by the well organized \nbrain of Mr. Locke. We, however, do not speak of the ex- \nternal senses, but of the senses ; and mean by them, those or- \ngans upon which impressions immediately operate in exciting \nconscient actions of the nervous system. As to the internal \nsenses, they are none of our machinery. \n\nIt must be remembered, that the nerves are the essential \nparts of every sense ; no organ is an organ of sense, or a sen- \nsible org^an, unless it possess a sentient nerve. \n\nIf we have not, we must now inform the reader, that, by \n\n\n\n169 \n\nphysiologists, the two cytremities of each nerve or nervous \ntract, are distiiiguisb? \', bj\' the names cerebral and organic \xe2\x80\x94 \xe2\x80\xa2 \nthe first being connected Wi^h (he brain, and the other with \nthe sensible organs. \n\nNow the nerves are of a diiferent make at their organic \n(and undoubtedly at their cerebral) extremities, from what \nthey are between the brain and their organic extremities ; \xe2\x80\x94 - \nat least, we know it is so with the optic and auditory nerves 5 \nand not only analogy, but very many phenomena, lead s to \nconclude it is so, with all other sentient nerves, \'idecd^ we \nmay add, that microscopical observers pretend to lell us that \nthe nerves of the tongue, skin, &;c. terminate in minute emi- \nnences, which they call nervous papillce. \n\nWe have somewhere said, that a sensation is a conscient \naction of a nerve and the brain \xe2\x80\x94 the action of the brain being \none which is immediately excited by the nervous action. \xe2\x80\x94 \nThis definition is concise, and sufficiently correct for the \noccasion on which we used it ; but we shall now treat of sen- \nsation more fully, and, as soon as we get ready, show more \nprecisely what it consists in. ,^^-~- \n\nSensations are generally excited by impressions. By an \nimpression, we mean any agent acting upon any organ so as \nto excite a conscient action of the nervous system \xe2\x80\x94 all parts \nconcerned, being in a healthy state. \n\nAn impression never reaches the brain. It does not pro- \nceed along a nerve any more than a man proceeds along a \ncord, when, by touching some part of it, he causes it to vi- \nbrate throughout its whole length. It is the action which \nthe impression excites, that proceeds along the nerve ; and \nif this action continue on so as to excite an action of the \nbrain, it cannot be said, strictly, that the brain receives the \nimpression, nor, indeed, that the impressiot) excites the brain ; \nfor it is not the immediate antecedent of the cerebral action. \n\n\n\n170 \n\nBut it is the nervous action that excites the cerebral action. \nYet, when we do not attempt to speak with precision, we \nmay speak of impressions exciting the brain, of impressions \npassing to the biain, <SiC. ; but our meaning will now be un- \nderstood. \n\nBetween the brain and the nerves there is this important \ndifference : when a conscient action has been excited one or \nmore times in the brain, there is produced in it such a \ntendency to act after the same manner again, that it may thus \nact without the re-application of the im.pression to the senses \n\xe2\x96\xa0which tirst excited the action ; but in the nerves this reac- \ntion, or action without impression, seldom takes place \xe2\x80\x94 it \ntakes place so seldomly, that when it does occur, it is consid- \nered a morbid action. The brain, then, is much more influ- \nenced by habit than the nerves. \n\nNow the results of experiments, and the effects of diseases \nand accidents, prove conclusively that conscient actions of \nthe brain are not actions of the whole brain, but only of the \nlower and central part of it ; the precise part is not fully de- \ntermined. But that part of the brain which does take on this \nkind of action, we call the sensorium commune. This is that \npart of the brain which thinks, that is, acts without impres- \nsion. In this part only one conscient action occurs in the \nsame identical instant. This is admitted on all hands, at \nleast, it is admitted on all hands, that whatever thinks, thinks \nbut one thought at a time. \n\nWe now take the liberty to say, that the nerves from all \nIhe senses extend into the brain so as to reach the sensorium \ncommune. But in saying this, w^e would not be understood \nto maintain, that if our means of dissection were more per- \nfect, we could trace nervous cords to the sensorium com- \nmune, (though, indeed, this may be the fact,) but we would \nh;jve the reader understand, that, for convenience sake, we \n\n\n\n171 \n\nalter a little the common import of the word nerve^ so as to \ninclude all parts of the nervous system in which a conscient \naction may be excited, the sensonum excepted. Perhaps we \ninclude some part that is commonly considered as a part of \nthe brain itself, and which we, as anatomists, should describe \nas such \xe2\x80\x94 perhaps we do not. Therefore, as it will he very \nconvenient, in treating of the conscient phenomena, to give \nthe name of nerve to the whole tract of nervous matter pro- \nceeding from a sensible organ to the sensorium, we take the \nliberty to do so. \n\nFrom what we have now said, is is evident that we do not \npretend to determine what is sensoriu\'i\xc2\xbb and what is nerve, \nby any obvious marks of distinction between them. But we \nsay that the sensonum and the sentient nerves constitute the \nonly parts of the animal system in which conscient actions \nmay be excited ; and that the sensorium is the one individual \npart which easily acquires a habit of acting without impres- \nsion, and which does not act two actions at the same time, \nany more than one body exists in two places at the same time- \nHaving premised thus much, we are now ready to state, that \na sensation is a conscient action of the or^-anic and cerebral \nextremities of a nerve \xe2\x80\x94 let the action commence in whichi \nextremity it may. But in thus stating what constitutes a sen- \nsation, we do not say but that if a conscient action be excited \nin the frw?i/i\'of a nerve and in its cerebral exrremity, we should \nhave a sensation. \xe2\x80\x94 Every one knows that a blow on a certain \npart of the elbow joint, may excite a conscient action in the \ntrunk of the ulnar nerve, constituting (widi the action in the \nhead) a peculiar pain. \n\nIn ordinary cases, however, sensations are excited by im- \npressions upon the organic extremities of nerves ; and when \nthe action excited by the impression continues on, not onij \nto, but vito, the sensorium, then we have a perception. \n\n\n\n172 \n\nThis, then, is our meaning of the word perceptioii. It is \nsomething more than a sensation or a thought. \n\nA sensation is a conscient action of the two extremities of \na nerve ; a perception is a conscient action of the two extrem- \nities of a nerve and the sensorium ; a thought, or idea, is this \nsame action of the sensorium alone. \n\nSuppose a clock to be in a room where a man is playing at \nchess \xe2\x80\x94 the clock strikes and excites a conscient action of the \nman\'s auditory nerves. This much constitutes a sensation. \nNow if the sensorium have such a strong disposition to think \nabout the game, that the action of the auditory nerves does \nnot, in the least, change the actions going on in it, then, of \ncourse, the man keeps thinking right on, just as he would if \nthe clock had not struck, and the striking of tiie clock excites \nin him, not a perception, but a sensation. Ask him if he heard \nthe clock strike, and he will tell you no. But why does not \nthe man remember, as the expression is, that the clock has \nstruck ? \'Tis obvious \xe2\x80\x94 the clock excited no action in that \npart of the brain which reacts without impression \xe2\x80\x94 no action \nof the sensorium. \n\nNevertheless, I am inclined to think that the cases are ra- \nther rare in which the actions of the sensorium continue on, \nwhen an impression is made upon the senses, just as they \nwould if no such impression had been made. I think it much \nmore frequently happens that the impression excites an action \nof the sensorium; but owing to its being, as we may say, so \nmuch engaged about something q lite foreign to the impres- \nsing agent, the action of the sensorium which the impression \nexcites, does not call on, call up, excite, or cause to occur, \nany other conscient action of the sensorium in any way rela- \nted to it ; and on this account it will not readily occur again, \n(without the re-application of the impression,) as no thought \nor conscient action of the sensorium readily occurs, or, more \n\n\n\n173 \n\nproperly, recurs^ except it have previously occurred in con- \nnexion with some other thoughts, in some way or other rela- \nted to it. Indeed, we shall show, that mere!) to have recur \nany (me action of the sensorium relative to any one thing, \ndoes not constitute a remembering, but merely an individual \nthought, notion, idea, or (if the action be one that was origi- \nnally excited by way of the optic nerves, it is often called \na) conception. \n\nTo remember any thing, is to have more than one conscient \naction of the sensorium relative to this thing. \xe2\x80\x94 No doubt the \nchess-player might have a notion of the striking of a clock, \nbut this would not constitute a remembering that a certain \nclock struck at a certain time. \n\nSome may be led to maintain that there never is such a \nthing as a sensation without a perception \xe2\x80\x94 such a thing as a \nsensation without an aot of that which thinks, and which we \npay is the sensorium. For if there be such a thing as a sen- \nsation without perception, then the sensorium is left free to \nthink about any thing it has tendencies to ; and if it should \nbe decided that a man may be the subject of one or more sen- \nsations and of thoughts, at the same time \xe2\x80\x94 why, such decision \nwould be a death-blow to modern immaterialism. For it is \nadmitted on ail hands, that one unextended, and consequent- \nly indivisible, thing cannot be the subject, or more properly, \nthe agent, of two acts at the same identical instant. Indeed, \nnothing can be more absurd than to assert that it can \xe2\x80\x94 I say \nassert, for the thing cannot be believed or conceived \xe2\x80\x94 it is \ninconceivable. \n\nBut facts are stubborn things ; and it is a fact that a man \nmay have two or more sensations at the same identical in- \nstant ; and not only so, but he may have one, two or more \nsensations at the same identical instant that he is thinking of \nsomething, even quite foreign to either of them. A man may \n\n\n\n174 \n\nsee a candle, (or any other object,) hear a noise, and have \nthe toothache at the same identical instant ; or he may see a \ncandle, hear a story, and think of the character? and places \nmentioned, or of other characters and places ever sodistant, all \nat the same identical instant ; but he cannot think about the \ncandle, and the characters mentioned in the story, at the same \nidentical instant. If the action of the optic nerves excited \nby the candle, excite a corresponding action of the sensori- \num, then the man has a perception of the candle ; and if this \naction of the sensorium call up other actions relative to \xe2\x80\x94 \nsuggest other thoughts relative to \xe2\x80\x94 the candle, as, what ajine \nlight that candle gives, what mis chief inight be done by applying \nit to a cask of gunpowder^ &;c., &;r. then, to use the, at pre- \nsent, convenient language of the schoolmen, the man attends \nio^ OT pays attention to, the candle. But so long as the ac- \ntions of the sensorium relate to the candle, there is excited in \nthe man, not perceptions, but only sensations, by him who is \ntelling the story. \n\nTo deny that a man may be the subject of two or more sen- \nsations, or of sensations and thoughts, at the same fime, is to \nassert, that when a man hears, he instantly turns blind, his \neyes being wide open in broad daylight, and when he sees he \ninstantly turns deaf, and when he thinks of absent objects, \npast events, mathematical problems, &c. he is the subject of \nno sensation whatever. \xe2\x80\x94 What an easy matter to cure the \ngout, according to such a doctrine ! \n\nA man carmot think away the pain of the gout, though he \nmay think of something quite foreign to it, duiing its continu- \nance. Should it be said, that at the terrible moment when \nthe cold wrenching iron is about to be applied to a painful \ntooth, the pain ceases ; we shall reply : it is not because \nthere was no pain, absolutely, in the tooth before \xe2\x80\x94 because \nthere was, before, no conscient action except in the sensori- \n\n\n\n175 \n\num ; but because the intense actions of the sensorium, the \ndread^ produce such a change in the system, and of course in \nthe nerve of the tooth, that the irritating cause which previ- \nously excited a pain in it, cannot now excite this peculiar \nconscient action. \n\nCast your eyes, reader, upon any object that nnay be be- \nfore you \xe2\x80\x94 the rays of light reflected from the object ftil! upon \nthe organic extremity of your optic nerve, and excite a con- \nscient action in this and the cerebral extremity, (this is a sen- \nsation^) perhaps in your sensorium, constituting a perception \nof the object \xe2\x80\xa2, now make a noise with the heel of your shoe, \nstill, keeping your eyes upon the object, and observe if you \ndo not hear the noise without the least alteration of your view \nof the object, at the instant you hear it\xe2\x80\x94 Now shut your eyes \nand make the same noise, observing if it appear any way dif- \nferent from before. Now stop \xe2\x80\x94 keep your eyes shut, and\' \ntry to have an idea of the object and of the heel of your shoe, \nor try to have, at the same instant, an idea of any two things \nso situated that a man could not see them both at one single \nview, and see if it is not impossible. \n\nIf you grant these things, 1 may almost venture to put you \ndown as a materialist without ceremony. If you fiod itdiffi- \nf.ult to satisfy yourself that you do not have a distinct idea of \nthe object and of the heel of your shoe at the same instant, still \nyou will tind no difficulty in satisfying yourself that you may \nhave two or more distinct sensations at the same time ; and \nif you know what the immaterialists hold to, and can see the \nforce of arguments, I may still put you down as a materialist \nconvinced, if not a materialist confessed. \n\nYou certainly will find it very difficult to determine by di- \nrect experiment that you cannot have two thoughts (different \nthoughts, of course,) at the same instant ; for this very deter- \nmining^ observing^ noticing, Szc, supposes an action of that \n\n\n\n176 \n\nwhich thinks, and when this action occurs, no other act or \nthought can occur ; hence this very difficulty is evidence that \nyou cannot have but one thought, idea, notion, or conscient \naction of the sens^orium at the same instant. If we could \nthink 7vhat we think, how we think, &c. at the very instant \nwe think, then every man, learned or unlearned, might as ea- \nsily tell what goes on in his head when he reasons, imagines, \n&c. as he may now satisfy himself that he may have two sen- \nsations at a time, or as easily as he can tell how a machine \noperates, every part of which is open to his view. But the \nvery instant a man observes what goes on in his head when he \njudges, &LC. thai very instant does the judging process cease. \n\nWe know that two or more sensations, or thoughts and sen- \nsations, existing simultaneously, constitute a " complex state \nof the mind,^\'\' according to the late professor Brown ofEdin- \nburg, whose speculations concerning the intellectual or con- \nscient phenomena, are, for the most part, less absurd than \nthose of any other immaterialist with which we are acquain- \nted. \n\nBut this "mind\'\'\' of professor Brown, is one single, unex- \ntended, indivisible being, capable of existing in only one state \nat the same time, and of course, all our sensations, thoughts, \nand " emotions," are but so many simple states of the mind. \nWhen I see a candle, my mijid is in one state, according to Dr. \nBrown, if 1 hear, feel, taste or smell nothing at the time ; so if \nI hear, niy mind is in another state, whether I see any thing \nor not. These two states are essentially different from each \nother, as every one will readily grant, provided they occur at \ndifferent times. Now 1 ask if they are any the less so, when \nthey occur simultaneously. On trying the experiment as \nabove requested, did not the reader find that a seeing and a \nhearing are two sensations, as distinctly different from each \nother, when ihey existed simultaneou&ly, as when they exist- \n\n\n\n, 177 \n\ned separately ? Surely he did, unless he be constituted entire- \nly different fronr] myself. Now I ask if ihis single fact alone \ndoes not destroy the very foundation of Brown\'s fine spun \nspeculations ? Would he attempt to get along by using the \nword complex ? telling us that although a man may see and \nhear at the same time, arid although these two sensations are \nas distinctly different from each other as when they occur at \ndifferent times, still the man\'s mind is not in two states, but \nin one " simple," \'\' complex" state ! \n\nSuppo\'^e that one were to maintain that even an extended \nbody, as of wax, (which may exist as a sphere at onetime, and \nas a cube at another,) may exist in such a state as to consti- \ntitute both a sphere and a cube at the same time, and yet be \none body \xe2\x80\x94 would he expect to render his proposition true, or \nto make people believe him, merely by making use of the \nword complex ? saying, when it exists as a sphere and a cube \nat the same time, it does not exist in two states, but in a com- \nflex state ? \n\nIf a certain state of the mind constitute a certain hearing \xe2\x80\x94 \nas by Brown maintained \xe2\x80\x94 then such state of the mind and \nsuch hearing arc the same thing : the existence of the mind \nin such state, is essential to the existence of such hearing: \xe2\x80\x94 \' \nthe hearing can never be, except the miisd be in such state ; \nand the mind cannot be in such state without the hearing ex- \nisting. And if a certain state of the mind constitute a certaiu \nseeing, then precisely the same state of tlie mind is alivays. \nand essentially necessary to the existence of the same seeing. \nNow, a certain hearing and a certain seeing, either of which \nmay exist separately, may both exist at the same identical in- \nstant. It follows, then, as clearly and as irresistibly as de- \nmonstration, that this " mind" consists of parts, and, conse- \nquently is extended ; and that when a man hear.., [x part of \nhis mind acts or exists in a certain state ; bat wLe.t he comes \n\n23 \n\n\n\ni78 \n\nio see as well QlH hear, another part of his mind isbrong^nt iufo \naction : and when he thinks at the same time he sees and \nhears, (and 1 am as certain I can do this as 1 am that 1 exist.) \nthen three parts of his mind act, or exist in certain states. \xe2\x80\x94 \nAct they must, for a chavge of slate siippo-^es action. \n\nThis fact, that a man may think, hear, see, &c. at the same \ninstant, is a fact which very well agrees with what we be- \nlieve to be the truth. But it completely overthrows \xe2\x80\x94 we \nsay it dogmatically, for we feel it \xe2\x80\x94 this single fact alone com- \npletely overthrows modern im.materialism. \n\nAll chat Brown has written does not touch the case \xe2\x80\x94 does \nnot reconcile this fact with his fundamental principles. What \nhe has written about simple and complex states of the mind, \nwhen brought over to the side of materia!i>m, can relate only \nto the phenomena of the sensorium. True, on being asked \nwhat state the mind is in when a man thinks, hears, sees, S^c, \nat one time, he would undoubiedly say, it is in a complex \nstate : we cannot conceive what else he could say. But he \ngenerally means (indeed, although we have read his whole \nwork on the philosophy of the mind, we cannot turn to a pas- \nsage which shows that he does not always mean) by a com\' \nplex state ofthemind,a simple state m which the mind wo^ld \nnot have existed had it not previously existed in certain other \nstates \xe2\x80\x94 a state too, which is seemingly equivalent to these \npreceding states ; bearing much the same relation to them \nthat one body bears to the elements of which it is composed. \nSee some of his own words. \n\n*\' The mind, it must be allowed, is absolutely simple in all \nits states ; ever} state or affection of it must, therefore, be ab- \nsolutely simple ; but in certain cases in which a feeling is the \nresult of other feelings preceding it, it is its very nature to ap* \npear to involve the union of those preceding feelings ; and to \ndistinguish the separate sensationsj or thoughts, or emotions. \n\n\n\n17\xc2\xa7 \n\nof which, on rcHeclion, it thus seems to be comprehensive, is \nto perform an intellectual process, which, though not a real \nanalysis, is an analysis at least relatively to our conception* \nIt may still, indeed, be said with truth, that the different feel- \nings. \xe2\x80\x94 the t<tates or affections of the mind which we term \ncomplex^ \xe2\x80\x94 are absolutely simple and indivisible, as much as \nthe feelings or affections of the mind which we term simple. \nOf this there can be no doubt. But the complexity with \nwhich alone we are concerned is not absolute, hut relative, \xe2\x80\x94 - \na seeming complexity, which is involved in the very feeling of \nrelation of ever) sort."*" \n\nFrom this passage we learn that Brown means by a com- \nplex state of the mind, a state absolutely simple and indivisi- \nble, but a state which is " the result of otlier preceding feel- \nings." We learn, too, that Brown does not use the word \n*\' feeling" exclusively to denote one of the five species of sen* \nsation, but uses it to denote any thought, emotion, or affec- \ntion. \n\nNow admitting Brown\'s leading principles (o be correct, in \nhis meaning of the expression complex state of the mind, as \nabove expressed, he does not comprehend those cases in which \nmen see, hear, and even think, at the same time ; for ia \nthose cases the state of the mind is not indivisible, in any \nsense in which we can speak of the divisibility or indivisi- \nbility of a state. The state which constitutes the hearing, is \nindependent of the state which constitutes the seeing, and the \nstate which constitutes the seeing, is independent of the state \nwhich constitutes the hearing. This is certain, for these two \nsensations may exist separately. Therefore, when a man \nsees and hears at the same instant, his mind is not in an indi- \n\n*" Lectures on the Philosophy of the Human Mind," vol. l.p. \n122. \n\n\n\n180 \n\nvisible state, or rather, his mind is not an iiulivisible thing, \nbut consists of parts, and is consequently extended. \n\nShould the imniatenaiists remodel their doctrine, and \nsend it abroad under an extended form, we should tell them, if \ntheir mind be exteiided, it is nothing but so much space, un- \nless it possesses some other property ; and if it do possess \nsome other property, then it is a conbination of prope7\'iies, i. e. \nit is matter. Yet we should not expect to refute iheir doc- \ntrine in this ^vay, but in the way in which we expected to re- \nfute immaterialism at the time we commenced this work ; \nthat is, by giving a more rational explanation of the phenome- \nna of man, without supposing the existence of any mind, than \nhas ever been given by those who have admitted its exist- \nence ; showing, also, the many insuperable difficulties that \nattend the immaterial hypothesis, asid calling on its advocates \nto show us one glimpse of evidence in favor of it. \n\nWe have said that ordinary sensations consist in a conscient \naction of the organic and cerebral extremities of a nerve. \nBut what, it may be asked, do we mean by an extraordinary \nsensation ? We mean sensations whych consist, in part, of a \nconscient action of a trurdc of a nerve. In ordinary sensa- \ntions, there is no conscient action of the trunk of a nerve ; \nif there were, when a hot iroti is applied to one\'s hand, there \nwould be a feeling excited, not only in the hand, but all along \nup the arm. \n\nNow if the nerves distributed to any part, be compressed \nor divided any where in their course from such part to the \nsensorium, no sensation is caused by impressions made on \nsuch part. This fact seems to prove, that m case of sensa- \ntion, someihin<r passes along the nerves from the part upon \nwhich an impression is made to the head. \n\nNow, what is it that passes along the trunk of a nerve in \ncase of sea&ation ? is it an action, or is it a fluid ? We believe \n\n\n\n181 \n\nit is an action ; and the reader will be very apt to believe so too, \nif he believe what we have said concerning the cerebral sijni- \nulus. But is this action of the same nature with that wliich \nimnnediately precedes vokmtary contractions, except it runs \ntowards, instead of from the brain ? and what oanae shall we \ngive it ? \n\nConcerning the first question, we can go so far as to say, \nthat this action and that which immediately precedes a vol- \nuntary contraction, agree in one respect, in that of being in- \nconscient : further than this, we cannot say. \n\nAs to naming it,\xe2\x80\x94 since it will l)e convenient to distinguish \nit from the cerebral stimulus, as also from the conscient actions \nof the nervous system, \xe2\x80\x94 we will call it a nervous action. \n\nShould any one be so little acquainted with tfie nature. of \norganized beings, as to w^onder why a conscient action does \nnot always occur in the trunk of a nerve in case of sensation, \nsince it appears that by much force (as a blow ou the elbow \njoint,) this kind of action may be excited in the trunk of a \nnerve, we will do away this wonder. \n\nIt must be remembered that the property of an organ is \nnothing distinct from the organ itself; liiat these properties \nare, in fact, mere Vvords of relation. Because a certain part \nsuffers certain chariges under certain circumstances, vve say \nit has a certain properly ; and as parts differently organized \ndo not suffer the same chai^ges under the same circumstances, \nit becomes necessary for us to say, they possess ditferent pro- \nperties, or one common property in diflerent degrees, as we \nthink most proper \xe2\x80\x94 most convenient. And as the trunks of \nnerves are not organized like their extremities, a stronger \nimpression is required to excite a eoiiscient action in themj \nthan in the extremities; henre we say, the trunks of nerves \npossess a lower degree of sensibility than Iheir extrenuties. \nThis we prove by the same fact which causes us to say it, \xe2\x80\x94 \n\n\n\n182 \n\nthe fact, that it requires a stronger impression to excite a con- \n3cient action in them, than in the extremities. \n\nWe will now adduce a fact or two, which seems to bhoWj \nthat when impressions are made upon the trunks of nerves so \nas to excite a conscient action in the part upon which the im- \npression is made, or even so as only to excite a nervous action \nin this part, this nervous action extends down the nerve as well \nas up. When a strong impression is made upon the trunk of \nthe ulnar nerve in the elbow joint, a conscient action is ex- \ncited in this part of the nerve, and a nervous action in the \nparts continuous, and as there is excited a peculiar feeling in \nthe hand and fingers, we suppose the nervous action contin- \nues down the ulnar nerve as well as up, and excites a con- \nscient action in its extremities, these being more sensible \nthan its larger branches. A disease in the vicinity of a ner- \nvous trunk may excite a nervous, but not a conscient, action in \nit. This action may extend down to the extremities of such \nnerve, and in theee more sensible parts excite a conscient \naction. Hence a man having a disease of the hip joint, which \ndisease is confined to parts nearly or quite insensible, there \nshall be no pain, or nearly none, in the hip ; but the disease \nmaking an impression upon the trunks of those nerves which \nare distributed to parts below, there may be a pain in these \nlower parts, causing the patient, and possibly the physician, \nto believe that the real seat of the disease is in these parts. \n\nIf I am not mistaken, it has been maintained that in reality \nall sensations exist only in the head ; or to express the senti- \nment in our own language, that there is no conscient action \nexcept in the brain. Consequently, when a man has the \ngout, or the tooth-ache, there is no pain, absolutely, in the \ndiseased part: he may think that there is, but \'tis all a no- \ntion ; the pain is absolutely in the head where the soul is, and \nthis deluded thine refers it to the diseased part. What sort \n\n\n\n183 \n\n*f a thing a pain is, tiiat the part (that iinextendedpart ! called \nsou],) in which it exists, may refer it to a part in which it does \nnot exist, I do not stop to inquire, but proceed to remark, that \nthis strange doctrine, which men of common sense (a term \nwhJch passes very smootlily if we do not attempt to define it,) \nwill never admit, necessarily follows from the doctrine of \nmind. The philosopher takes it for granled \xe2\x80\x94 for there is no \nevidence of it \xe2\x80\x94 that there is a soul or mind in man, which \nthinks and feels ; this soul he places in the brain ; and then \nsays, " as nothing can act where it is not, any more Ihan when \nit IS not," (which is very true,) all thinking and feeling must \ngo on in the head. \n\nYou need not be surprised if you hear such philosopher say \nof a person, " he imagines a thousand strange feelings.\'\' But \nunless the word imagine be used in some other sense than its \nusual one, such talk is absurd. Unless to imagine a feeling \nmean the same as to experience a feeling, the cause of which \nis not obvious, then it is as absurd to say a man imagines a \nfeeling, as to say he feels as though he feels, which can only \nmean he feels. If these " strange feelings" may be cured by \ncheerful company, good news, fright, or by any thing which \nexcites new conscient actions of the nervous system, it is not \nproved that they are not real \xe2\x80\x94 it is only proved that they \narise from such causes that they may be cured by such means. \nCertainly, there is no such thing as an unreal feeling, any \nmore than an unreal coughing, or an unreal motion of any \nkind. It sometimes happens that a conscient action com- \nmences in the sensorium, and extends down certain nervous \ntracts, constituting what some call an emotion, and what we \nshall call a sensorial passion ; and it may be that some of \nthose feelings called imaginary, consist of conscient actions \nwhich commence in the sensorium ; consequently, as we \nshould suppose, may be cured, or for the time removed, by \n\n\n\n184 \n\nany th\'mg which may excite a new train of ideas, a new traia \nof sensorial actions. \n\nWhen we say that every sensation is a real sensation, and \nsupposes a conscient Fiction of a nprve in which the sensation \nexists, or as some would say, seems to exist, we are aware it \nmay be said, that after a person has had a limb amputated, he \noften thinks he experiences a sensation in the amputated \npart. But we account for the fact as follows : \xe2\x80\x94 A pain in \nthe left foot, for instance, is a disagreeable sensation, a disa- \ngreeable conscient action, commencing in the nerves of this \nfo6t, and by the intervention of a nervous action, giving rise \nto a conscient action of the cerebral extremity of such nerves \n\xe2\x80\x94 perhaps of the sensorium ; if so, it becomes a painful per- \nception, or pain perceived. This action of the sensorium \n(which, when it occurs without the sensation, constitutes a \nthought,) may be foilovred by other sensorial actions [other \nthoughts] related to it ; and if so, then ihe person attends to, \nor thinks about the pain of his foot ; and his thoughts may be \nsuch as may be expressed by these words : " pain in my left \nfoot \xe2\x80\x94 my left foot \xe2\x80\x94 down \'m\\ my left foot," &c. Now let his \nleft foot be amputated \xe2\x80\x94 afterwards a conscient action com- \nmences in the stump, and is immediately succeeded by a ner- \nvous action extending up to the brain in the samt nervous tract \nthat formerly conveyed actions from the left loot. Getting \nup to the brain, a conscient action of ihe cerebral extremity \nof this tract and of the sensorium is excited. This action of \nthe sensorium suggests, or, if you please, is followed by, those \nactions [thoughts] which formerly occurred on the sensorium \nbeing excited by an action of ihe cerebral extremity of this \ntract \xe2\x80\x94 to \xc2\xbbvil, those actions or thouglits which may be ex- \npressed by \xe2\x80\x94 \'\' pain in my left foot \xe2\x80\x94 left foot \xe2\x80\x94 down in my \nleft foot," &c. This we contend is all that constitutes a sen- \nsation in the amputated left foot. \n\n\n\n186 \n\nWe suppose that those who tell of experiencing a sensation \nin an amputated part, have frequently and recently experien- \nced a sensation in such part, and thought much about the \npart ; and after the part is removed, some irritating cause, \noperating upon the same nervous tract which before connect- \ned this part with the brain, gives rise to a conscient action \nof the cerebral extremity of this tract, and of the sensorium, \nwhich action of the sensorium is associated with ideas rela- \ntive to the removed part ; and that all this constitutes what \npasses for a sensation in such removed part. But let the \nperson consider, for a moment, that he now possesses no such \npart, and he will tell you, if honest, that he does not absolutely \nexperience precisely the same consciousness that he did before \nthe part was amputated ; but that it seems to him, somehow \nor other, as though there was a sort of feeling somewhere in \nthat quarter. \n\nA perception consists in a conscient action of the organic \nand cerebral extremities of a nerve [a sensation] and a corres- \nponding action of the sensorium. We now proceed to show \nwhat we mean by a corresponding action of the sensorium. \nIt is that action of the sensorium which immediately succeeds \na conscient action of the cerebral extremity of a nerve \xe2\x80\x94 im- \nmediately succeeds a sensation \xe2\x80\x94 not by virtue of a tendency \nof the sensorium to act such action, but as the effect of the \nconscient action of the nerve. It is a conscient action of the \nsensorium which, together with the sensation that immediate- \nly excites it, constitutes a perception, {t is an action which \nis excited in every person\'s sensoiium on the same impres- \nsion being made upon his senses, provided the impression ex* \ncite a perception, and not merely a sensation. Conscient \nactions of the sensorium are continually taking place when \nthe person is awake ; and in this state, too, there is perhaps \n\nalways an impression operating upon some one of his senses. \n\n24 \n\n\n\n18G- \n\nexciting a sensation ; which sensation must of course be ira- \nmediately succeeded by some action of the sensorium ; but if \nthe action of the sensorium be one that occurs by virtue of one \nof its tendencies, and not one that is excited by the sensation \n\xe2\x80\x94 not an action that corresponds with the sensation \xe2\x80\x94 then it \nis not a perception that takes place in the man, but a sensation \nand a thought. \n\nThe sensorial actions or thoughts which follow a certain \nperception\xe2\x80\x94 but neither of which constitutes any part of a \nperception at the time it occurs \xe2\x80\x94 may be very different in \ndifferent persons. The reason of this is, because different \nmen possess different sensorial tendencies \xe2\x80\x94 as will appear \nmore clearly hereafter. \n\nI must be permitted to dwell a little upon the subject of \nperception, even if I repeat very nearly the same sentiments \nover and over again ; fori wish to have the reader think just \nas I do concerning it. \n\nThere is no such thing as a perfect perception without a \nsensation, but as we use the word perception, there may be a \nperception without attention ; this we say is possible in the \nnature of things \xe2\x80\x94 it is conceivable. But I think that when a \nman has a perception of any object, he generally attends to it \nmore or less\xc2\xbb \xe2\x80\x94 A thought or an idea is an action of that which \nthinks and which we say is the sensorium. Now, al\'hough \nan action of the sensorium that is immediately excited by a \nsensation, is not what I call a thought zohen it is thus excited, \nbut a part of a perception ; (yet it is a thought when it recurs \nwithout the sensation ;) still it may be followed by other ac- \ntions of the sensorium which are related to it, and of course \nrelated to the object which excites the perception ; and if it \nbe so, then the person thinks about the object or attends to it. \nAnd to attend to any thing iw^i the same as to pay attention to \nit ; and attention consists in nothing other than attending \n\n\n\n187 \n\nto or pacing attention* Th\xe2\x82\xac faculty of attention can only \nmean that but for which a man would not attend \xe2\x80\x94 would not \nattend to his perceptions, or what is the same thing in other \nwords, would not attend to the objects which excite his per- \nceptions. Now this something but for which a man would \nnot attend to \xe2\x80\x94 would not think about \xe2\x80\x94 an object perceived, \nis his sensorial tendencies ; which tendencies are nothing \noriginal in his constitution, but something ac^mVeJ, and some- \nthing which he never possesses until after he has perceived \n\xe2\x80\x94 as we shall presently proceed to show. \n\n1 am inclined to think that the organic and cerebral ex- \ntremities of ihe optic and auditory nerves, are so near to each \nolher, that a conscient action of the sensorium, together with \na corresponding action of onli/ the cerebral extremity of ore \nof these nerves, is a consciousness so nearly like that of a \nperfect perception, that one who is not in the habit of attend- \ning to his perceptions might mistake it for a perfect percep- \ntion \xe2\x80\x94 mistake it, I say, that is, he might talk, act and believe, \njust as though it were a perfect perception. For illustration, \na certain man is before your open eyes \xe2\x80\x94 rays of light are re- \nflected from him, and strike upon the organic extremity of \nyour optic nerves in such a manner as to excite a certain \nconscient action in the organic and cerebral extremities of \nyour optic nerves, and in your sensorium. This is di perfect \nperception of the man. At another time, your brain being \nin a morbid state, not only this action of your sensorium may \narise, but it may immediately give rise to the action of the \ncerebral extremity of your optic nerves ; which action of the \nsensorium and the cerebral extremity of your optic nerves is \na consciousness so nearly like a perfect perception of said \nman, that you would say the man or bis ghost is before you. \nYou would say you have something more than a mere idea or \nconception of the man. You would believe him to be pr^- \n\n\n\n188 \n\nsent until, putting forth your hands, you could not feel him ; \nor until something else should cause you to believe that you \nexperience a \'^ delusion of the senses." \n\nThe reader is already aware that we use the word sensa- \ntion as a sort of generic term, including five species, as sei^ng, \nhearing, feeling. &c. ; which last mentioned species hsts sev- \neral varieties, as hunger, thirst, &c. Now we have as n^any \ndifferent species of perceptions and ideas, as we have of sensa- \ntions. We may have perceptions by way of the optic, audi- \ntory, olfactory, and gustatory nerves, and by way of the \nnerves of feeling ; which last are very widely distributed, go- \ning not only to the skin, but to many mternal parts. And as \nthat action of the sensorium which, existing together with the \nsensation which immediately excites it, constitutes a part of \na perception, does, when it occurs independent of such sen- \nsation, constitute a thought or idea, we see that we have five \nsorts of ideas, as well as five sorts of sensations and percep- \ntions. But metaphysical writers have generally very little \nregarded only one sort of our perceptions and ideas, and these \nare our opfical ideas and perceptions. In the present work, \nmost of our observations relative to perceptions and ideas, \n\xe2\x96\xa0will be confiiied to those which come by way of the eye and \nthe ear, or, if you please, by way of the optic and auditory \nnerves. But as we shall often have occasion to distinguish \nthese two sorts of perceptions and ideas from each other, we \npropose to call those which come by way of the optic nerves, \noptical perceptions and ideas, and those which come by way \nof the auditory nerves, audial perceptions and ideas. \n\n\n\n189 \n\nCHAPTER XIII. \n\nOn Ideas, and Sensorial Tendencies. \n\nExcepting sensations and perceptions, all the conscient or \nintellectual phenonnena of man consist in nothing other than \nin having conscient actions of the sensorium, one after anoth- \ner. And ail these actions are such as have some time or oth- \ner been excited by impressions upon the senses, or sentient \nnerves. When they were first excited, (and at all times \nwhen they are immediately re-excited by a sensation, or, if \nyou please, by an impression upon the senses,) each one con- \nstituted an essejitial part of a perception ; but when any one \nof these actions of ihe sensorium occurs without being imme- \ndiately excited by a corresponding action of a nerve \xe2\x80\x94 when \nit does not constitute a part of a perception \xe2\x80\x94 then it consti- \ntutes what we call a thought, or idea. \n\nBut why does the sensorium react without the reapplica- \nlion of the impression to the senses, which first excited the \naction ? This is a question about an ultimate fact, and of \ncourse admits of no explanation. We know that it is a law of \nthe animal economy, that when an action has beeri excited \none or more times in a nervous or muscular organ, such or- \ngan is more or less disposed to act after the same manner \nagain. It is on this account we say animals are influenced by \nhabit; and on this account we might say animals possess the \nproperty o(habiliti/, with the same propriety that we say -they \npossess sensibility, or any other property which arises from \norganization. \n\n!Now there is not, perhaps, in the whole kingdom of organ- \nized beings, any animal, organ, or part of an organ, which is \nmore influenced by habit, or in other words, possesses a great- \n\n\n\n190 \n\ner degree ofhability, than that part of the human brain which \nis called the sensorium. This is so much or so rpadily influ* \nenced by habit, that when a conscient action has been exci- \nted in it one or more times by an impression upon the sen- \nses, it acquires such a strong disposition or tendency to act af- \nter the same manner again, that it does thus act without the \nreapplication of the impression to the senses, which first exci- . \nted the action. \n\nWe now proceed to maintain one of the important posi- \ntions laid down in the first paragraph of this chapter, which \nis, in amount, this : No man ever has an idea which is not in \nthe first instance excited by an impression upon one of his \nsenses. \n\nOf the truth of this position wo are most firmly convinced ; \nyet, owing to the abstruse nature of the subject, and more es- \npecially to the language which we must use in treating of it, \nwe shall not be able to convince our readers of its truth with- \nout some effort on their part. They must remember in what \nsense we use certain important words, especially the word \nidea, and as they read along, they must frequently " turn their \nthoughts inward," as Locke would say, and attempt the dif- \nficult task of determining if what we say be true or false. \n\nWe begin by telling the reader, that with the exception of \nthe ideas of words, (which ideas he never much regarded,) \nhe never had a quarter so many ideas as he thinks he has \xe2\x80\x94 \nwe mean veal ideas, and not substituted ideas. He may have \nideas \xe2\x80\x94 real ideas \xe2\x80\x94 of things which have impressed his senses; \nand he may call these ideas, ideas of things which he has \nnever seen, felt, tasted, &c. ; but they are only substituted \nideas of such things. If he never saw London, he cannot \nhave an idea of that place, though he may have read ever so \nmuch about it. To be sure, he may have what he calls an \nidea of London, but his idea of London is only a substituteil \n\n\n\n191 \n\none. He has seen a populous city where houses stand thick, \nwhere glittering spires extend into the air, and where there \nare streets thronged with men, horses, carriages, &c. ; of \nthis citj he may have a real idea, and when he reads of Lon- \ndon, this idea may recur, and he may call it an idea of Lon> \ndon. But if he should be carried to London while sleeping, \nhe might be much at a loss in determining what place he is \nin ; whereas, if carried to a place of which he may have a \nreal idea, he would know on waking what place he is in* \n\nShould you tell me, reader, that you have never seen Lon- \ndon, but that you have an idea of that place which is differ- \nent from any idea of any city you have seen \xe2\x80\x94 that what you \ncall your idea of London, is an idea of a larger city than the \nlargest you have ever seen, 1 should suspect that you have \nnever been much in the habit of " turning your thoughts in- \nward," and that, as like as any way, you have no idea of any \ncity at the time you say so. Think closely, I trust you will \nhave the luck to satisfy yourself that you cannot have one \ndistinct and instantaneous idea of a bigger cluster of build- \nings than (he biggest you have ever seen. But you may have \nan idea of one cluster, and then of another to the right or left \nof it, and then of a third, and so on, and when you get through \nyou may say you have had an idea of a very large city. Yet \nwe will venture to tell you that you never did have one dis- \ntinct, and consequently, instantaneous idea, real or substitu- \nted, of a larger cluster of buildings than you have ever seen at \none single view. \n\nNow if we admit that you may have ideas of objects which \nyou have never seen, you must remember that you do not \nhave what we call real ideas of such objects, and that by call- \ning a real idea of one thing, an idea of another thing, you do \nnot increase your store of ideas. You will remember, too, \nthat the number of ideas which you may have, never can ex- \n\n\n\n192 \n\nceed as we maintain, the number of sensorial tendencies you \npossess, which tendencies are all acquired by the exercise of \nyour senses. \n\nYon cannot have an idea, not even a substituted idea, of \na golden mountain. You may talk about such a thing and you \nmay have an idea of a large hill, for you have seen one ; but to \nhave an instantaneous idea of a large hill all over yellow, you \ncannot. I once thought that I could, but I am now satisfied \nthat my ideal rnountain all over yelloro is not larger than the \nlargest yellow, convex or globular body I have ever seen. If \nyou have any doubts whether you can have an idea of a hill \nsome miles in circumference all over yellow, make the attempt, \nand then have an idea of a yellow ball a few inches in diame- \nter, and see how much more distinct and satisfactory is your \nidea of the yellow ball than of the yellow mountain, \xe2\x80\x94 think of \nthe blossom of a dandelion on the side of a large hill, and ex- \ntend if you can. this yellowness all over the mountain, so as to \nhave one distinct idea or thinking view of all the sides of a \nyellow mountain. I trust you will find that you have first an \nidea of one part of the mountain, and then of another, and \nthat you cannot have an idea of a larger yellow surface, than \nthe largest yellow surface you have ever seen. \n\nPutting colour aside, I doubt if you can have an idea o^ all \nthe sides of a ojountain, at the same instant. You may, in- \ndeed, have an idea of all the sides of an eminence at one in*- \nstant ; but on second thought, this eminence, instead of being \na rough hi)], miles over, is about as smooth and about as large \nas an upturned potash kettle. \n\nCan a man have an idea of something before him and of \nsomething behmd him, at the same instant? 1 cannot, and \nthe good reason is, I never saw something before me and \nsomething behind me at the same instant. But although I \ncannot have an instantaneous idea of a man before me and a \n\n\n\n193 \n\nman behind me, yet I can have an idea of a great nunnber o\xc2\xa3 \nmen standing so that I could see them at a single g!ance ; for \nbefore now 1 have seen at one glance, many men standing \nthus. \n\nCan a man have any idea of the things (not of the words) \nhonor, glory, pride, industry, soul, belief, truth, sensibility, \nthe, therefore, yes, and thousands of such like things, if things \nthey may be called ? To be sure a man may have w^hat he \ncalls an idea of honor, for instance, but putting aside the idea \nof the name, or v/ord, what is it ? Can he even satisfy him- \nself ? \n\nFor my own part, an optical or audial perception of the \nword honor, is not invariably followed by any one idea which \nI can call my idea of h^nor ; but an optical or audial per- \nception of the word cozo is generally followed by one idea, \nwinch I may in truth call my idea of the thing cow. I would \nnot say my idea of the thing cow, is a four-leged idea, posses- \nsing two white horns, and a bag with four teats ; neither \nwould I say my idea of an extended object is an extended \nidea \xe2\x80\x94 by the by, no man ever had an idea of extension ; he \nmay have ideas extended objects, but strictly speaking no \nidea of extension, \xe2\x80\x94 what passes for an idea of space, is a sub- \nstituted idea, it is that sensorial action which is excited wheu \na man looks off mto the air. An idea is nothing more nor \nless than a conscient action of the sensonum, occurring with- \nout the sensation which first excited it, and which may ex- \ncite it again, though whenever it be excited by its sensation, \nit is not then an idea, but a part of a perception. In the sense \nin which I use the word idea, I have no idea of honor \xe2\x80\x94 nay \noptical and audial ideas of the word itself excepted. An idea \nis one idea, and one idea is one conscient action of the senso- \nrium ; it is an action which was originally excited by one \n\nsensation \xe2\x80\x94 bv one impression. Several sensorial aciious oc^ \n\n25 \n\n\n\n194 \n\nctirring together, that is in immediate ?ncre?\xc2\xabion, ron?titnte \nwhat is called an idea of honor; b\xc2\xab]t (his is using the word in \nits popular sense, we should say ilwy constitute a notion of \nhonor. \n\nWe would say that a man may have a notion of honor, of \nglory, of goodness, of charity, and s\xc2\xbb\'ch hke thin^less names, \nbut these notions are composed, as it were, of s( veral ideas or \nsensorial actions. Hence uilTt rent men may have ditFerent \nnotions of honor, g?ory, charity &c. So far as I tan deter- \nmine, my notion of honor generally co,)sisis of ideas of a man \nequipped in the style of our highest military officers, upon an \nelegant horse, at the head of a body of armed men. Never- \ntheless those ideas which arise wiien I see or hear the word \nhonor, and which constitute the notion of honor I then have, \nare not always the san^e, but depend somewhat on the other \nl^ords whicli I see or hear in connexion witti the word honor, \n\nA man\'s idea of an action is but an idea of an age^it act- \ning; and the same may be said with respect to his idea of an \nevent. \xe2\x80\x94 An event is nothing other than one or more agents \nacting ; and putting aside both the optical atid audial idea of \nthe word, a man has lio other idea of an event than that of \none or more agents acting. \n\nWhen a man goes to church and hears what his preacher \nhas to say, let him cease paying attention, and instantly con- \nsider what thoughts have been running through his brain \xe2\x80\xa2, he \nwill find (hat he has had noth\'ng but a (bain of real or substi- \ntuted (mostly substituted) ideas, of real or supposed entities ; \nhe will find, that as much as may have been said about heav- \nen. Deity, glory, spirit, charity. &c. &:c. he has had no idea \nof any thing which he has never witnessed. \n\nFinally, if any man will point out to us any idea which he \ncan have, and which he sup[)Oses he did not acquire, direcihj^ \nby way of his senses, we will engage to show him that such \n\n\n\n195 \n\nidea is, in fnrt, nothing other than a niimher of simple and \nreal i(Jea^. occurring in close succession, and is more proper- \nly a sentinjent, opinion, or notion^ than an idea ; or else that \nit is merely a substituted idea, as is that man\'s idea of Lon- \ndon who has never seen that city. \n\nThe truth is, as a (ew material elements combined together \nin different ways arjd proportions, constitute the infinite va- \nriety of material bodies winch we behold ; so the few ideas \nwhich a man may have (1 do not say has, for a man never has \nbut one idea at a time,) by occurring, different numbers in \ndifferent orders, conetilutt- all his o()inions, rememberings, \njudgings, imaginii\'gs, Sic. And we will just add in this place^ \nthat the succession of one\'s ideas is not regulated by any \n" willing" principle existing in one\'s head ; but they occur \naccording to their relations with each otlier, and according \nto the strength of iheir respective \xe2\x80\xa2ensorial tendencies. \xe2\x80\x94 An \nidea is a conscient action of the sensorium, and the stronger \nthe disposition ortendencj of the sensorium to act any action, \nthe more likely is this action to occur. \n\nBut if our ideas, after excepting ideas of words, are so very \nfew, it may be asked why we have so many words, it being \ngenerally admitted that words are bu^t signs or representatives \nof ideas. Perhaps sev^^ral reasons might be given, but it \nseems to us that the two following are the principal ones : \xe2\x80\x94 \nFirst, because our ideas, what few we have, iDay occur in dif- \nferent orders or relations with each other, conslitutiiig differ- \nent sentiments ; second because we substitute an idea of one \nthing for an idea of another thing, perhaps for a third or fourth, \nand so on \xe2\x80\x94 and thus we have what we call ideas of thousands \nof things which we never saw, and which, perhaps, never ex- \nisted. \n\nFinally, the brain is a very active organ, and when one is \nawake, thouglits are occurring in all sorts of others, and we \n\n\n\n19G \n\ncannof let our fellow beings know what goes on in our heads, \nwithout using more words than what we have ideas, if we ex- \ncept our ideas of the words themselves. \n\nAssociation of Ideas. The sensorium not only has tenden- \ncies to act individual actions, but it is disposed to act, in im- \nmediate succession, those actions that are, in some way or \nother, related, especially those that are related in respect to \nthe time in which they have before occurred, or been exci- \nted. If two ideas have occurred in immediate connexion, \nthey have occurred at the same time, according to the com- \nmon manner of speaking; and in this respect, if in no other, \nthey are related. \n\nWhen we talk about a man\'s thoughts, ideas, or sensorial \nactions being related, we use convenient language ; but lan- \nguage that is not so strictly correct as language that might be \ninvented. \xe2\x80\x94 Since the sensorium acts but one action at the \nsame instant, strictly speaking, these actions, directly and of \nthemselves, can no more be related, than one thing which \ndoes exist, can be related to a thing which does not exist, or \nwhat is the same thing, no more than a thing which does ex- \nist can be related to nothing. However, we shall still con- \ntinue to speak of relations between a man\'s ideas, and shall \nnow endeavor to show in what respect ideas are related, so \nas to run together or associate in families, or trains. \n\nFirst. They are related in respect to time. When two or \nmore actions or ideas have occurred in connexion, they have \noccurred nearly in the same time ; and the sensorium is \nmore or less disposed to act after the same manner again, \nthat is, to act these actions in connexion again : it is more \ndisposed to do this, than it is to act in connexion those actions \nwhich never }\'et occurred in connexion, other things being \nequal. All actions or ideas that have occurred in immediate \nsuccession are said to be related, as to time. \n\n\n\n197 \n\nSecond. When objects are in any way related, our ideas \nof these objects are related. A giant is a very large man, a \ndwarf a very small man : they are both men of wicommon \nsize; in this respect they are related. And when a man \nsees or thinks of a dwarf, he may soon think of a verj\' large \nm^in ; he may think, Jioid much smaller this w.an is than some \nof the large 7nen rue read of, \n\nA man\'s portrait has some resemblance to the man him- \nself; in this respect they are related -, and a sight or thought \nof the portrait is very likely to be followed by an idea of the \nman. Objects of a similar appearance excite similar actions \nof the sensorium ; and it is not strange that the sensorium \nshould act similar actions in connexion, instead of dissimilar, \nail other things being equal. The sensorium has many strong \ntendencies to act, and when it is in a good condition to act, \nsome action or other is continually taking place ; but when \nit becomes tired, as the expression is, it ceases to act, and \nbecomes recruited by sleep. \n\nThose ideas which are related on account of some relation \nbetween their objects, may be said to be related by way of \ntheir objects ; and we cannot see as there would be any im- \npropriety in calling (his sort of relaiion between ideas, o^bjec- \ntive relation. \n\nAs some objects are related by way of their names, ihe \nwritten or spoken name of one object may be followed by an \nidea of another object, though this name and this object are \nas dissimilar as boots and hutter. The word hook may he \nsucceeded by an idea not only of the word but of ilie thn.g \nbook. \n\nWhen a man acquires two or more sensorial tendencies in \nthe s^me place, 1 do not think these tendencies or their cor- \nresponding actions arc related, barely on account of his hav- \ning acquired them in the same place. To be sure, liiey may \n\n\n\n198 \n\nbe related, Vuf it is because they xrere acquired at the same \ntime. Or if lime intervene \xe2\x80\x94 if the man acquire one tenden- \ncy on one day, ai.d remaining in the same place, acquire an- \nother ter.dency on arsother day, these tendencies are hnked \ntogether, as it were, by intervening tendencies, that is, by ten- \ndencies acquired between the two days. \n\nNevertheless, a man nray be in a certain place, and there \nsee a carriage turn over ; but this carriage is not all he sees ; \nhe sees something which ren\xc2\xbbains there for \\ears ; and all he \nsees at a single glance, excites but one action of his sensori- \num ; and when the m^ni leturns to the place years after, he \nmay, for aught we kr>ow, think of the carriage, not solely be- \ncause he saw it at the time he saw the place, but because a \npart of the scene wtnch excited th.s one action still remains, \nand is enough to re -excite, or call up, this one action which \ninrludes, as we may say, an idea of the carriage. \n\nPeshaps it will be said that we have now done as good as to \ngive up what we have just been contending for, viz. that sen- \nsorial tendencies acquired in the same place are none the \nmore related, barely on this account ; but we believe that \nwe have not. The second view of the place does not call \nup, immediately and directly, an idea of the carriage alone, \nbut it excites an action, which is much hke that excited by \nthe first view ; the sensorial action excited by the first view \nof course recurs, and includes, as w^e may say, an idea of the \ncarriage \xe2\x80\x94 in other words, the second sight of the place does \nnot suggest an idea of the carriage alone, but an idea which in- \ncludes an idea of the carriage. This, however, is a nice dis- \ntinction between matters and things, and we have written \nthis, and the precedi\'ig paragraph, chiefly for the purpose of \nshowing what may be said, being all the while prett) posi- \ntive that the second view of the place calls up the idea of \nthe carriage, solely because the man had previously seen the \n\n\n\n199 \n\nplace and the carnage at the same time. To enable our read- \ners the better to decide concerning this matter, we put the \nfollowing question : \n\nSuppose a man goes to a certain strange place, and there \nacquirers a sensorial tendency by seeing a very deformed man ; \nthis tendency he retains, but every other one acqtiired at the \nplace soon dies avvav, so that he can have no notion of the \nplace, the name of the m>>n, nor of any thing which he wit- \nnessed at the place, the bare conception of the deformed maa \nexcepted. Now let the man go to the sa\'ue place again, and \nacquire one more tendency, and only one which he retains ; \nthe man has now two sensorial tendencies acquired at the \nsame place. Btit do you think they are any more likely to \nbecome operative together \xe2\x80\x94 do)ou think their corresponding \nactions or ideas are any more likely to occur in connexioa \non this account ? If you answer no, then you decide that ideas \nare none the more related and none the more apt to occur Iq \nconnexion, barely becanse they were excited when the maa \nwas in the same place ; and that if such ideas are disposed to \nrun together, it is owing to some other cause. \n\nPutting aside all things w.thout the skull, and going into the \nsensorium, we shall find but two kinds of relations between its \ntendencies, objective and timal.^ \n\nIt IS true, that two or more tendencies may be equally \nstrong ; in this respect they agree; h\\\\{ they are not on this \naccount related, A man may have an hundred sensorial ten- \ndencies of equal strength ; hut if the tenth become operative, \nthe corresponding action of the eleventh is no more likely to \nfollow than that of the ihirtieth, fortieth, or any other, provi- \n\n*We can offer no apology for using ihese two words, only that \nthey a[)ppar lo be very C(\xc2\xbbnvenieut The na ler CHim<\xc2\xbbt mistuke \ntheir njeauii.g When ideas are related because ihey have occur- \nred together one or more linT^s, their relation i^ limat ; when re- \nlated by way of their objects, their relation is objeciive. \n\n\n\n200 \n\n^Icd there be no relation between these hundred tendencies, \nexs:ept \\he\\r beinq of equal strength. \n\nSuppose all (he sensorial tende\'icies which a man possesses \nwere of equal strength, but there is nothing of what we call \nrelation between them ; then his thoughts would occur pro- \nmiscuously \xe2\x80\x94 ^the particular thought, A, would just as likely \nbe succeeded by the ihougtit L, F, X, or any other thought, \nas by the thought B, or any other particular thought. But \nwhen we say sensorial tendencies are not re\'ated, merely on \naccount of their agreeing as to strength, it must not be sup- \nposed that the succession of a man\'s thoughts is no ways influ- \nenced by the strer.gth of his tendencies ; for, putting aside \nimpressions u[)()n the senses, the succession of a man\'s \nthoughts is governed by two things only, and strength of ten- \ndencies is one of them : their relations with each other is the \no\'her. \xe2\x80\x94 Let us suppose there are three thoughts. A, B, C, \nequally related, (related by way of their tendencies.) but that \nthe strength of their respective tendeiicies is different, that of \nA being equal to 2, as we will say ; that of B equal to 3, and \nthat of C equal to 4- Now if any thing suggest the thought \nAj the thought C will immediately foilow in preference to the \nthought B, because, although no more closely related to the \nthought A than is the thought B, there is a stroiiger tendency \nof the sensorium to thiidc fhis thought, or to act this action, \nthan there is to act that action which constitutes the thonghi B. \n\nif the sensorium were not disposed to think those thoughts \nin connection which are in some way or other related, or \nrather, if our thoughts were not related (for indeed, we should \nnot say our thoug\'its are related onsy that we find they occur \nin some ki id of order) we should not be intelligent beings, \xe2\x80\x94 \nwe mi^hi be sentient, preceptive, ana even thinking heings ; \nbut oar thinking would consist in harino; incoiigrnous thoughts \noccur, without -dMy kind of order.\xe2\x80\x94 The sensorium having a \n\n\n\n201 \n\nfew tendencies stronger than the rest, these tendencies, only, \nwould be continually giving rise to actions just as it happens. \nIt is owing to the disposition of the sensorium to act those \nactions in connexion, which it has previously acted thus, that \nwe are enabled to make use of language, or signs. The writ- \nten or spoken word, Johriy may excite a notion of a man, a \ncertain man because that sensorial action which constitutes \n(in part) di perception of the word John, has before been excit- \ned, or has before occurred, in connexion with the sensorial \naction which constitutes, in part, a perception of a man, a \ncertain man. If these two sensorial actions were not dispos- \ned to occur in connexion the seeing or hearing of the word \nJohn, might be immediately succeeded by a notion of a trian- \ngle, or of any thing else you may please to mention. \n\nWere it not for this disposition of the sensorium, neither of \nthose modes of thinking which we call, remembering, judging, \nand imagining, would be found in us. We should have no \nsubstituted ideas. The word London would not call up an \nidea of a cluster of buildings. We should be as much below \nbeasts in point of intelligence as beasts are now below us\xe2\x80\x94 \xe2\x80\xa2 \nWhen we get through with the intellectual phenomena the \nreader will be prepared to agree with us, when we say, it is \nprobable that so far as the functions of the sensorium alone \nare concerned, beasts differ from men in the strength or per- \nfeet ion (neither word suits us) of their associating principle, \nby which ambiguous expression we mean, the disposition or \ntendency of the sensorium to think those thoughts in connex- \nion, which are in any way related. \n\nThis disposition of the sensorium is also a sourse of pleasure \nas well as of pain to us. We have painful and pleasurable \nthoughts, as well as painful and pleasurable sensations ; that \nis, we have conscient actions of the sensorium alone which. \n\nwe call painful or pleasurable, as ttie case may be, as well as \n\n26 \n\n\n\n202 \n\nactions of the nerves and the sensorium, or of the Rerve& \naloue, which we call pleasurable or painful. Besides these \nactions of the sensorium we have many of an intermediate \nnature, which we may call neutral, as to pleasure or pain, \nsince, of themselves ihey constitute neither the one nor the \nother. Now if a. pleasurable or painful action occur ip con- \nnexion with one of these neutral actions, a timal relation is \nformed between them, and all that may afterwards be neces* \nsary, to produce the painful or pleasurable action or thought, \nis to excite the neutral action. \n\nSome neutral thoughts may be related both to pleasurable \nand painful, or if you please, agreeable and disagreeable \nones ; and when such neutral thoughts are excited or sug- \ngested, the agreeable and disagreeable ones may succeed so \nintermingled, as to constitute emotions which, taken as a \nwhole, one can scarcely call agreeable or disagreeable. \n\nThere is a cane which \\ have often seen or thought of, at \nthe same time I have seen or thought of my friend, \xe2\x80\x94 my friend \nis now dead, and when 1 see or think of the cane sorrowful \nthoughts relative to my friend and his death occur. There \nis a lady whose company has pleased me much ; and whatev- \ner excites a notion of this lady gives rise to agreeable thoughts, \nor recollections, I care not which you call them, since every \nbody knows that by giving one thing two names, you do not \nmake two things of one. \n\n]t is ill manners to cause to occur, disagreeable thoughts or \nemotions, in any one in company with you ; hence, owing to \nthe disposition of the sensorium, to think those thoughts in \ncownexion which are any way related, it is ill manners to men- \ntion any thing which has any relation to a subject which any \none prtsenl cannot think of but with disagreeable emotions. \n\nA man of thought and civility, in company with a lady who \nhas been unfortunate, or with a person whose near relative \n\n\n\n20S \n\nhas been hung for a heinous crime, will never say or do any \nthing, in any way calcuhleii to cali up an idea of her misfor* \ntune, or any thing calculated toexcite an idea ofihe halter or \neven of hemp. \n\nOwmgto this disposition of the brain, al^o, it may be con- \nsidered slanderous for one man to say of another, *\'he ought \nto be carried out of town upon two chips !\'\' \n\nA knowledge of the sensorial tendencies shows the house- \nkeeper that tio woman can be called neat who sets a tilth/ \nmess of matter by the side of any kind of food, even if it be \nknown that nothing can be communicated from the filthy \nmess to the food ; for whoever sees these twj things in the \nsame place, sees them at the same time, and hence acquires a \ntendency to think of them at the same time, and it is not agree- \nable to think of (ilthy matter when one is eating. \n\nIt does not appear very strange to us, that actions of the \nsensorium. which are somewhat alike, (alike, I say, for like \nimpressions \xe2\x80\x94 like objects, to appearance, excite like actions,) \nshould occur in connexion ; and not at all strange that the \nsensorium should be disposed to act in connexion those ac- \ntions which it has previously acted in connexion ; for this \nfact appears to be much akin to many other facts with which \nwe are familiar. Still the fact admits of no explanation. To \nrefer it to the influence of habit, is not to explain it \xe2\x80\x94 to refer \nit to a law of the animal economy, is not to explain it ; \xe2\x80\x94 this \nlaw is only an ultimate, inexplicable, and general fact, of \nwhich the fact in question is an instance. And if we call any \nthing mysterious, this fact is mysterious ; it is just as mysteri- \nous, and no more so, as it is that one body in motion should \nput another in motion by striking against it. But what we \nwould more particularly impress at this time, is this ; That \nthought which is immediately succeeded by another thought, \nis as much a cause of the occurrence of this other thought, as \n\n\n\n204 \n\nthe motion of one body is the cause of the motion of another \nbody against which it strikes. \n\nIt is sometimes said that one thought suggests another, is \nthe occasion of another, &c. ; this is all well enough ; it is \nbut saying in other word?, that one thought is the cause of \nanother. A thought is an act of that which thinks, be it what \nit may ; it is an event ; \xe2\x80\x94 but we have no events without cau- \nses since the Deity organized the universe, and every event \n(every thought, of course,) which does occur, must as neces- \nsarily occur as an effect must follow its cause. This is a fact \nwhich the immateriahst cannot deny, admitting his fundamen- \ntal principles to be true ; unless he first refute the principle, \nunrversally admitted, that there are no events without causes. \nThe sensorial tendencies are strengthened by intensity, and \nhy repetition of actions \xe2\x80\x94 We believe that actions of thesen- \nsorium may be of different degrees of intensity, as well as the \nactions of other agents, and the more intense any action of the \nsensorium may be, the stronger tendency does it produce to- \nwards its recurrence. As to frequency of action or repeti- \ntion of action, every body knows that the more frequently, or \nthe more times, be thinks any thought, or chain of thoughts, \nthe more apt is he to think such thojights again. \n\nThe sensorial tendencies mav be weakened or even de- \nstroyed by whatever may impair the healthy condition of the \nbrain. Diseases, accidents, intemperance, and old age, may \ndo this, and are said to v^^eaken, impair, or destroy the "" me- \nmory." \n\nBut it is not to be forgotten, that there is a wide diiference \nbetween weakening or destroying the sensorial tendencies, \narid choking them. \xe2\x80\x94 A man receives an injury of\' his head ; \nsome piece of bone or some effusion of blood compresses the \nbrain, (consequently the sensorium,) so that the thoughts or \n\xe2\x82\xaconscieut actions of the sensorium cannot take place ; the \n\n\n\n205 \n\nman is in a comatose or sleeping state, and for the time being \nhe is dead as to all perception or thinking as he ever will be ; \nbut after a time, either by an artificial or natural process, \nthis pressure is removed, and the brain begms to think again, \nand to think the same thoughts too, and the sanre chains or \ntrains of thoughts that it did before the injury. This proves \nthat the sensorial tendencies were not destroyed by the inju- \nry, but only choked or counteracted ; \xe2\x80\x94 the sensorium was so \ncompressed that it could not act, though it still possessed its \ntendencies to act. \n\nIn some instances, an injury of the brain is partly but not \nentirely removed. In such cases the man may see, but not \nhear, or may hear and not see ; he may be insane, that is, his \nthoughts may occur in odd, unnatural relations, or he may not \nbe able to think at all until his sensorium have acquired new \ntendencies. If we mistake not, there are instances on re- \ncord of persons recovering (in part) from diseases and inju- \nries, who could not think a single thought until they had ac- \nquired new tendencies by impressions upon the senses, and \nyet succeed very well in acquiring a new education. In \nsuch cases we should be pretty positive that ail old tenden- \ncies were destroyed, were it not for the fact, that old tenden- \ncies have been choked by some lurking clog in the brain, for \nyears, and yet become operative after such clog is removed. \n\nWe have somewhere read of a man who learnt two langua- \nges, and being taken sick, he couid not, on recovery, recol- \nlect but one of them for several years ; but at length he be- \ngan to have notions of the words of the other language, and \nthese notions were succeeded by notions or ideas of the \nthings which these words represented, or in other words, the \nman began to remember the other language. Now the rea- \nson why the man, on recovery, could remember oue language \nand not the other, was undoubtedly this : \xe2\x80\x94 The tendencies \n\n\n\nf06 \n\nrelative to the language which he could recollect, were \nstronger than the tendencies relative to fhe other language j \nand all the tendencies of his sensorium were so far choked, \nobstructed, or counteracted, (neither word exactly suits,) that \nthe weaker could not give rise to actions. \n\nA fall, a blow upon the head, or a fright, sometinnes removes \nthe lurking clog in one\'s brain, enabling it to perform all its \nintellectual functions as before it received any injury. \n\nThere are many facts which seem to show that the brain \nmay suffer a greater degree of injury in what we may call its \nphysical organization, without destroying its functions, if \nsuch injury be produced gradually, than it may if the same \napparent injury be produced suddenly. \n\nAs to oli age, it is probable thai it operates, not so much \nby destroying old tendencies as by disenabling the brain for \nacquiring new ones ; for those tendencies which were acquir- \ned in youth, and which have been strengthened by repetition \nof action through a long series of years, may become opera- \ntive, when the impressions of yesterday produced such weak \ntendencies ; that thej will not become operative to-da}^, on \nany occasion whatever, short of the reapplication of the im- \npressions, and then, indeed, it is not the tendencies of the \nsensorium that give rise to the sensorial actions, but the im- \npressions which excited these same actions yesterday. \n\nThe sensorial tendencies are nothing distinct from that \npart of the brain which we call the sensorium. If the senso- \nrium be removed or destroyed, these tendencies go along with \nit. When all the tendencies produced by witnessing an event \nare annihilated, the person can no longer recollect the event. \n\nNow it is generally supposed that all parts of our bodies \nundergo changes, the old matter of the system being very \ngradually taken up by absorbents, and new matter as gradual- \nly deposited in its stead j so that in the course of seven, ten. \n\n\n\n207 \n\n\xe2\x80\xa2p fiffeen yeari, (no one pretends to state the time exactly,) \nthe old matter of one\'s system is all changed for new. \n\nIf this supposition be correct, it follows that none of the \nparticles of matter which composed my sensorinm fifteea \nyears ago, constitute any part of it at the pre.-?ent time ; but I \ncan remember events which I witnessed more than fifteen \nyears ago. Some may think this fact argues against our \nprinciples, but we think not. \n\nWe will admit, for the present, that the sensorium under- \ngoes such changes as to be constituted entirely of new matter \nas often as once in seven years ; \xe2\x80\x94 we shall be under the ne- \ncessity of making no irrational suppositions to reconcile the \nfact, that an old man may remember the events of his youth, \nwith our principles. All that is necessary to produce a ten- \ndency of the sensorium to act any action, is to have this ac- \ntion occur one or more times ; no matter by what means or \nin what way it is caused to occur. Now suppose the senso- \nrium have a tendency to act a certain action, and now sup- \npose again, that a few of the particles which enter its struc- \nture are removed ; \xe2\x80\x94 the tendency to act this action is not de- \nstroyed \xe2\x80\x94 to say the most, it is only weakened, and the action \nmay again recur, renewing the strength of the tendency to- \nwards its recurrence ; and in this way the tendencies of the \nsensorium may be kept good, although the old particles of \nwhich it is organized are gradually changed for others. \n\nThe fact that an old man may remember an event of his \nyouth, argues nothing against our principles, until two things \nbe established. First, that the sensorium does undergo such \nchanges as we have admitted, as often, we will say, as once \nin seven years. Second, that during these seven years \n(or we will even say three of them,) the old man who remem- \nbers an event of his youth, did not think of this event. \n\nBut neither of these things can ever be proved, and, in\xc2\xab \n\n\n\n208 \n\ndeed, there is ao( the feast shadow of evidence in favor of one \nof them, and very little in favor of the other. There is no \nevidence that a man does not think of those events of his \nyouth which he remembers when old, as often as once eve- \nry three years from the period of his youth to that of his \nold age. \n\nNot a day passes in which we do not think of hundreds of \nevents without being able, at night, to say that we have or \nhave not thought of such events. A man may think of an \nev^nt of his youlh a thousand times a year, and not be able \nto say at the year\'s end, that he has thought of it once\xc2\xbb He \nis not likely to remember that he has thought of it, unless he \nthought of it on some momentous occasion, as for instance, \nwhen one of his old friends and playmates called on him, and \ntalked over the scenes which they witnessed while young. \n\nAs to thesensorium undergoing such changes as are brought \nabout by the processes of absorption and nutrition, there is no \nproof of it. \n\nThe reader knows that lymphatic absorbents are found \nin most, if not all, parts of the body, except the brain, and \nthese absorbents are supposed to take up and carry oflfthe old \nmaterials of our organs. Now the chief evidence (if evi- \ndence it may be called) in favour of the brain having lymphat- \nic abs\'orbeats, is merely analogical \xe2\x80\x94 most parts of the body \npossess surh absorbents, and it is infered that the brain does. \nBut the acutest anatomists of every age that has gone before \nus, with all their nice instruments and magnifying glasses, \nhave not been able to discover a single lymphatic vessel of \nthe brain ; and as the brain is a large viscus which receives \na great proportion of blood, and as its lymphatic absorbents \n(if it had any) would probably be collected into considerable \ntrunks so as to pass out at souie ot the few outleib of the skuli j \n\n\n\n209 \n\nthis inability to discover any proper absorbents of the brain, \nis very strong evidence that the brain has no such absorbents* \nIt is true that the veins may, and do absorb liquids from va- \nrious parts of the l)ody ; \xe2\x80\x94 the veins of the brain may absorb \nwater from the ventricles. The veins may absorb adventi- \ntious fluids applied to a wounded surface, or even to the \nsound integuments ; at least, we will admit so much; but \nthere is not a single fact, pathological or experimental, that \ntends to show that the veins eat down, as it were, and carry \noff the solid fabric of our bodies\xe2\x80\x94 Tliis is undoubtedly a pe- \nculiar function of the lymphatics. The brain never pines \naway during sickness. \n\n\n\n-00- \n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIV. \n\nOn Rcmemherins;* \n\nTo have conscient actions of the sensorium recur without \nimpressions, is to think, and to think is essentially the same \nas to remember. \n\nTo remember any thing, is to think more than one thought \nrelative to this thing. \n\nI see a man ; this supposes one action of my sensorium, \n(that is, if my seeing is not a mere sensation, but a percep- \ntion) ; I think of his name, his home, his father, his occupa- \ntion, he\', ; this suppo.-ses olher actions of my sensorium. \nSometime after, in a distant land, this man again presents \nhimself before my eyes, and excites the same single action of \nmy sensorium that was excited when I before savv the man- \nexcites that action which, if it recur without impression, \n\nthat is, when the man is absent, constitutes what the school- \n\n27 \n\n\n\n210 \n\nmen call a cofiception of the man ; but to hnve this arfif>n eX\' \ncited, is not (o remeniher the man. The man says to me, \n" my name is Bartlett ;" hdt if the action excited in my brain \nby his pronouncing this wcrd, not the action excited hy seeing \nthe man. do not call up some other action, such as constitutes \na notion of his Imme, or of his father, or ofsomethin"; else re- \nlative to him, it cannot properly be said tliat I renr ember the \nman. So, on the other liand, if a certain man\'s name he John, \nit cannot properly be said that I remember this man\'s name, \nwhen I merely have occur that sensorial act on which is ex- \ncited when I see. or that which is excited when I hear, the \nword John, l^bis would be but to have an optica! or audial \nidea of the word ; but to remember ihis masi\'s natne, these \nideas must be connected with others, such as an idea of \nthis man ; of some place in which 1 have seen him. &;c. \n\nTo remember an event which I have witnessed, I must have \nsomething more than merely an idea of an agent acting \xe2\x80\x94 - \nmerely this would be nothing more than a conception. I \nmust have an idea of the place in which the event occurred, \natd of myself being there. But to remember an event which \nI have heard of, it is not necessary that I have a notion of my* \nself being at the place wheie the event is said to have trans- \npired. \n\n1 do not think it is essential to the remembering of a past \nevent, that I have what is called a \'\' sense of the past ;" yet \n\xe2\x80\xa2when one remembers an event which he has witnessed, cer- \ntain conscient actions of the sensorium will always occur, \nwhich constitute what we call a sense of the past ; and we \nshall presently attempt to show what tlsese actions are, or in \nother words, by what impressions they are excited. \n\nIt is true, that in order to remember the tirne in which a \nparticular event took place, one must have something more \nthan notions of agents acting, and of places. Suppose an \n\n\n\n" 211 \n\nevent happened on the lOih of June, 1824 ; in order to re- \nmember this particular tinne. one must have a notion of a day \nand of the marks or words, 10th of June, 1824, \n\nAs to what constitutes a notion of a day, (not of the word. \nday,) so far as I can judge, when 1 have a notion of the sun in \nthe east, over my head, in the west, and of going to breakfast, \ndinner, (fee. 1 have what 1 call a notion of a day. Neverthe- \nless, 1 presume that deferent actions of the sensorium, at dif- \nferent times, constitute what goes for a notion of a day. \xe2\x80\x94 When \nI endeavor to determine what constitutes my notion of a day, \nputting aside ail ideas of the word, I find that it is something \nthat comes and goes pretty quiik ; and I am not sure as it is, \nin these cases, any more than one action ofm^ sensorium, \xe2\x80\x94 \nperhaps that action which is excited when I go out in the \nmorning and take a glance at things around \xe2\x80\x94 the arched heav- \nens, the sun in the ea>t, and the terrestrial objects that may \nfall within m} sphere of vision. \n\n1 generally have a peculiar idea of an afternoon. It is that \naction of my sensorium which has been many times excited, \nwhen I have been in my father\'s west room, and seen the sun \nshining in at the windows. \xe2\x80\x94 When I undertake to determine \nwhat is my idea of an afternoon, I find that this action or idea \nalways occurs ; and i cannot find that I have any other idea \nwhich can be more properly called an idea of an afternoon \nthan this ; therefore I call this my idea of an afternoon. Per- \nhaps some will determine that their idea of an afternoon, is an \nidea of that part of the arching heavens which extends from \nthe meridian to the western horizon. But as for our having \nany thing but a substituted idea or notion of an afteinoon, or \nof any thing else that has never excited an action in our \nbrains, we cannot. \n\nBut what constitutes a " sense of the past ?" When a man \nremembers an event w hich he witnessed I ast fall, he has a s nse \n\n\n\n212 \n\nof past ; now what constitutes this sense ? It is certain ac- \ntions of the sensorium that have been excited since last fall ; \nsuch, for instance, as constitute notions of a winter or spring. \nOne\'s notion of a winter consists of such actions as are exci- \nted by looking at white fields, by seeing cutters run by \xe2\x80\x94 bj\' \nhearing sleigh bells, &;c. \n\nIf a man witness an event and instantly become perfectly \nsenseless, and remain so, I don\'t care if you say, ten thousand \nyears, and then come instantly into the same thinking state in \nwhich he was the instaMl before he became senseless, he will \ntell you that he saw this event, but an instant ago j be will \nhave no sense of any time having passed, from the moment \nhe saw the event, to the moment he tells you so. This will \nhe admitted, and it is proof that when a man remembers an \nevent which he has seen and has a sense of past, this sense \nconsists in having recur at the time, certain sensorial actions \nth. t have occurred between his witnessing the event, and his \nremembering it. \n\nPerhaps it may be determined that we have not mention- \ned every thing which must take place in one\'s head to con- \nstitute a remembering a man, a remembering an event, &c. \nBut if we have said enough to show that our definition of re- \nmem6erm^ is correct, we care for nothing more. We think \nwe are advancing new principles, but do not pretend to fol- \nlow out all the fine-spun speculations that may be connected \nwith these principles. We only aim to convince that we are \nright in the main. \n\n\n\n213 \n\nCHAPTER XV. \n\nOn Imagining, \n\nWe are too apt to think that every word must have some \npeculiar meaning. The word, imagination and the word \nimagining, are so incorporated, as we may say, into our lan- \nguage that we cannot conveniently do without them ; and it \nwould appear rather presumptuous in any one to say that they \nmean nothing. Yet we will venture to say this, with respect \nto the word imagination ; and as to the word, imagining, it \nwill puzzle any one to give it a satisfactory dttinition. It can \nmean nothing more than a mode of thinking which is not esseii- \ntiallij different fiom any other mode. When a man imagines, \nnothing more can take place in his sensorium, than one con- \nscient action after another, (it is admitted on all liands that \nwhatever thinks, thinks but one thought at a time,) and this \nis what takes place when a man thinks, or remembers, or \njudges. \n\nWe would have every reader endeavour to determine for \nhimself, what goes on in his head when he does that which he \ncalls imagining. He will probably find that he has nothing \nbut real or substituted ideas of things, one after another ; but \nhe may find that a very great proportion of his ideas are sub- \nstituted ; and perhaps we cannot define imagining in a less \nobjectionable way than by saying it consists in substituting \nideas. But there are objections to this definition, as well as \nto every one that we can think of, one objection is this : \xe2\x80\x94 \nWe often substitute ideas when it would not generally he said \nthat we imagine. To avoid this, we must alter the common \nmeaning of the word, (if any body know what this is,) and \nsay that whenever a man substitutes an idea of one thing for \n\n\n\n214 \n\nan idea of another, be imagines. Let ns now see what goes \non in the sensoriutn when a man substitutes one idea for \nanother. \n\nWe begin by remarking that every substituted idea is, in \nitselt", a real idea ; it is a real actiorj of the sensorium excit- \ned by sonje object, which action constitutes a real idea oithis \nobject, but when this jdea occurs in connexion with an idea \nof the name of some other object, it becomes a substituted \nidea of such other object, and is not a real idea of such ob- \nject, and yet it is a real idea. J have seen a cluster of build- \nings ; of course I can have a real idea of this cluster of build- \nings ; and if this idea occur when I read of London or when I \nthink of the name, Londouj I have a substituted idea of Lon- \ndon. \n\nAVhen I say that, I substitute one idea for another^ T use \nsuch language as I am obliged to \xe2\x80\x94 it is the language of a false \nphilosophy, and is calculated to deceive. The reader must \nkiiow from wliat has been said, that /, as a free agent, do \nnothing, \xe2\x80\x94 / don\'t " will" an idea, / don\'t substitute one idea \nfor another ; but rather, an idea of one thaig occurs in me, \nin connexion with an idea of Xhename of another thing; and \nthis is all that constitutes a substituting of an idea of one thing \nfor an idea of another thing \xe2\x80\x94 this is all tliat constitutes an \nimagining how thie otlier thirjg looks. Our metaphysical \nvocabulary is full of nonsensical words and expressions. Let \nevery man \'^ turn his thoughts inward" and not be deceived. \n\nA man may say that he can imagine a horse standing upon \nthe top of a houst.^ altliough he never saw such a sight. Let \nus examine this matter. \n\nIn the tirst place we may put aside the word imagine, with- \nout any prejudice to the sense of the sentence, and say : \xe2\x80\x94 \n*\'he can have an idea o( a horse standing upon the top of a \nhouse." Now if this man have any knack at examining his \n\n\n\n215 \n\nidea?, be will find that he does not have an idea of a horsey \nat the same instaot he has an idea of the louse. He may \nhave one single instantaneous idea cf something large at the \nboliom and little at the top, for he has seen manj such things, \nhe has seen houses with chimnies exierjding out above the \nroof, and he has seen several other things upon the top of \nhouses ; but he cannot have a real, and of course distinct^ \nidea of a horse upon the top of a house and such idea of the \nhouse at the sanne tinrie. However it is the easiest thing in \nthe world, to taik and write about a horse upon the top of \na house, and while a man is doing this he has time to have \nreal and distinct ideas of a good many things. But this talk- \ning and writing are something more than what goes on in the \nbrain, \xe2\x80\x94 we are o.nly endeavouring to show what goes on in a \nman\'s sensorium when he is said to imagine. And we do not \nhesitate to give it as our opinion, that when a man has what \nhe calls an idea of a horse upon the top of a house, no individ- \nual action of his sensorium occurs, which has not, sometime \nor other, been excited by an impression upon the senses. \n\nPerhaps some may say that imagining consists in discover- \ning new relations between things ; but by this expression they \ncan mean nothing more than that ihe imagining person thinks \nof some relation between things which no one ever thought of \nbefore \xe2\x80\x94 the relation itself is as old as those that were thought \nof years before. 1 never thought of any relation between a \nhomely girl and a blacksmidi\'s leather apron, until somebody \nsaid they both keep the sparks off. Now he that tirst thought \nthis, discovered a new relation^ as the expression is, between \na homely girl and a blacksmith\'s leather apron \xe2\x80\x94 he imagined. \nBut what took place in his sensorium ? Surely, no new ac- \ntion, no new thought ; but old actions in a new ordfsr. This \nis all. And these actions did not take place in this order, be- \ncause the man willed them to, (surely no man can will a \n\n\n\n216 \n\nthoupjht until he know what thought to wi^\', ^nd by this time \nthe thought is already present,) but because his sensorial ten- \ndencies were such as to give rise to them in this order. \n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVI. \n\nOn Signs^ \n\nBy signs, we here mean such motions, marks, noises, and \nbodies, as excite in us ideas of something besides themselves.* \n\nThis is the best ^ne/iletiuitjon of signs that we can give ; \nbut it may be said, in opposition to this definition, thai if, ia \nany man, at any time, the word dun give rise to an idea of \nthe thing gun, then, according to this definition, the word dun \nis, in this instance, a sign of the thing gun. This we cannot \ndeny ; but the mark or word duji does not generally excite, \nand is not generally intended to exnte, the idea of a gun ; \ntherefore we do not call the word dun, a sign of the thing \ngun. Yet the word dun is a sign \xe2\x80\x94 it is the sign of a written \nor verbal request to a man to pay a debt. \n\nThe motions which we had referrence to, above, are, for \nthe most part, those of a person\'s head, lips, eye-hds, and su- \nperior extremities. The marks, chiefly those which we see \nupon paper, whether let ers, words, arithmetical fig^re^, or \nhieroglyphicks. Tiie noists, such as one makes when he \ntalks. And ihe bodies, carved images or any other bodies \nthat are used as representatives of something besides them- \nselves. \n\n*VVesomeiimps speak of idfasa-! b\'ing excited, but it is not strict- \nly c<rr ct ; sensatinns and perceptions are excited, but ideas are \ncalleU up or suggesltd. \n\n\n\n217 \n\nIn treating of signs, we shall chiefly confine our rennarka id \nwords written or spoken. We scarcely need (ell the reader, \nthat bv written words we not only mean words made by a \npen, bat printed words. \n\nWe shall first attempt (o show hozo or why it is that words \nexcite, or more properly, call up, ideas of things distinct from \n"themselves, and even absent from him, in whom such ideas \noccur. After this we shall show in what way we suppose \nwords first got into use \xe2\x80\x94 in what way Adam aiid Eve came \nby their language. \n\nThe reader knows already, that with us a thought, idea, and \na conscient action, or simply an action of the sensorium, are \nall synonymous terms or expressions. He knows, too, that \nthe sensorium is disposed to, or in other words, does think \nthose thoughts in connexion, which are in some way or other, \nrelated ; and furthermore, that nothing relates thoughts more \nclosely, than their occurring in connexion, that is, in imme- \ndiate succession. \n\nNow if ! hear the word, ratile-hox.^ at the time the thing, \nrattle-box, is presented to my view, two actions are excited \nin my head, one by hearing the word and one by seeing the \nthing ; and as these actions are excited in connexion, noth^ \ningmore may afterwards be necessary to call up that senso- \nrial action which constitutes an idea of the thmg than Ihe noise \nor sound, which is made by pronouncing the word. So on \nthe other hand, nothing more is wanting to call up that audial \naction of the sensorium which was excited by this sound, than \na sight of the thing rattle-box. Again: The written word \nrattle-box is as much a visible thing or object as the box it- \nself, and if this word be pointed out to me, at a time when I \n\n*I shall frequently usp the expit-ssion \' he^r -a word," instead of \n"hear a wurd pronounced," as it is shorter and mure convenient, \n\n28 \n\n\n\n218 \n\nhear it pronounced, on optical action of my sensorlnm rs ex- \ncited in connexion with an audial, which optical action is dif- \nferent from the one excited when I saw the thing rattle-box. \nAnd it may now be said that mj sensorium possesses three rat\' \ntie-box-tendencies, which are very closely related. One ten- \ndeiicy is to act that action which constitutes an fdea of th6 \nthing rattle-box ; anothei tendency is to act that action which \nconstitutes an audial idea of the word rattie-box ; and the third \nis a tendency to act that action which constitutes an oplical \nidea of the word rattle-box \xe2\x80\x94 an idea, thought, conception, or \nthinking view^ of the marks, rattle box, as they here stand. \n\nThe first tendency is related to the second, and by wai^ of \nthe sexond, to the third, inasmuch as, by supposition, i nev\xc2\xab f \nsail\' the word rattle-box, until 1 had heard the word and seeij \nthe thing rattle-box. \n\nNow as these three tendencies are related, when either \nof them gives rise to its action, the other two may instantly \ndo the same ; hence an impression which excites, or a thought \nwhich suggests that sensorial action which constih.ites, in the \nfirst case, a part of a perception^ and in the latter, an idea of \na rattle-box, may cause to occur two other sensorial actions \nrelative to a rattle-box ; the one such as is excited by hearings \nthe other, such as is excited by seeing, the ti^orr^ rattle-box. \nSo on the other hand, whatever may cause to occur, either of \nthe\xc2\xabe two sensorial actions, may be followed by an idea of \nthe thing rattle-box. \n\nFrom what has now been ?aid, we see that if A be a sign of \nB, then is B, also a sign of A ; and if B is a sign of C, then \nis A an indirect sign of C. The thing ox is a sign of the word \nox, as well as this word, a sign of the thing ox. that is, in the \nbroad sense of the word sign; but as the thing ox, is not \ngenerally intended to represent the word ox, it is not a sign \nof this word, in the restricted sense in vyhich we generally \n\n\n\n219 \n\niise the word sign. Tf the thing ox be a sign of a yoke, then \nis the word ox, an indirect sign of a yoke. \n\nAny one thing becomes the sign of another, in the broad \nsense of the word, when these two things have often excited \nactions of (he sensoriurn, at the same time ; or when these \ntwo things have often been thought of, at the same time. \nHence it is easy to see and admit, that what is a sign of one \nthing to one man may not be a sign of the same thing to ano- \nther man. \n\n1 may have sometime dog a certain well, in doing which I \nused a pick-axe, day after day, and tho\'t of the pick-axe and \nthe Weil together, time after time, so that now I cannot see, \nhear of, or think of, a pick-axe without having an idea of this \nwell. \n\nThere is not, perhaps, a man in this country who, if he \nwere to plough up a tomahawk, would not instantly think of \nIiidians ; but there may be thousands of men in other parts of \nthe world who would not instantly think of Indians on seeing \na tomahawk. If there be not. it is only because there are no \npeople who have not ihouglit of a tomahawk and Indians, at \nthe same time. \n\nThe same word may at different times be a sign of different \nthings, to the same person ; this is owing to its connexion with \nother words, and to several other circumstances, that might \nbe mentioned. If a man should say to me, \'" Do you recollect \nthat John whom you saw at York ?" I should have an idea of \nlarge, dark cornplexioned man; but if he should say, *\'Do \nyou recollect that John who made your boots ?" 1 should have \nan idea of a short, light complexioned, blue-eyed fellow.. \n\nWe scarcely need mention that signs call up sensorial ac- \ntions only, and not nerrous actions \xe2\x80\x94 thoughts, and not sensa* \ntions. If they called up, or re-excited nervous actions, then \nthe sight or sound of the word Gout^ would produce excriici- \n\n\n\n2^ \n\nating pain in the great toe of him who has had the gout ! The \nreader will be careful that lie do not here misunderstand us. \nWhen we say that signs do not recall nervous actions ; when \nwe say the sight or sound of the word gout does not re-excite \nthat nervous action which constitutes the pain of gout, we do \nDot mean that this sight or sound excites no action of the op- \ntic or auditory nerves, as the case may be. Altho\' a view of \nthe word ox does not excite that action of the optic nerves \nwhich is excited when we see an ox, we do not say it excites \nno action of the optic nerves. \n\nAs we much more frequently hear words than see them, we \nbelieve that the optical action of the sensorium which is ex- \ncited by seeing a word, and which occurring alone [without a \nsensation] constitutes a conception of a word, never occurs \nwithout being immediatdy succeeded hy that audial action of \nthe sensorium, which is excited when we hear this word spok- \nen. Yet when we hear words spoken, as in common dis- \ncourse, we seldom have conceptions of these words \xe2\x80\x94 seldom \nthink how they look on paper : the sound of each word excites \nits own peculiar action of the auditory nerves (perhaps of the \nsensorium also, constituting a perception) and this action is \nfollowed liy an action of the sensorium which constitutes a no- \ntion of some object, and not by an action which constitutes a \nconception of such word written on paper. We think that no \nperson will find much difficulty in satisfying himself, that the \nOpinions we have here advanced, are true. \n\nHe will find that when he reads to himself, making no noise \nwith his lips, he has audial ideas of the words which he looks \nat : he will find that when he reads along and comes to the \nword John, he does not experience the same that he does \nwhen he hears this word\xe2\x80\x94no, not So ; but he will find \nthat he experiences the same that he does when he has \nwhat he calls an idea of the voice of one whom he has \n\n\n\n221 \n\nbeard speak the word John, He will find that what he expe* \nriencps does not more widely differ from a hearing of the woM \nJohn, than his optical idea or conception of John himself \nditfers from a seting of John. He wil* find, also, that the aw \ndial actions of the sensorium which take place in hitrj while \nperusiiig a book, are immediately^ and of coarse very instanta* \niieousiy succeeded by optical notions of objects naentioaed in \nthe book. \n\nBut every person may find that when he listens to hirn \n\\vho is telhng a story, he does not generally have conceptions \nof the words which the story teller uses ; hut that all his con- \nceptions are of objects mentioned or suggested by the story \nteller ; which conceptions may be real or substituted. \n\nWe lay it down, then, as a general fact, that the seeing of \na word is almost invariably succeeded by that sensorial aitioa \nwhich constitutes, an idea of the sound of such word ; but \nthat the hearing of a word is not generally succeeded by llint \nsensorial action which constitutes a conception of it. Why \nit is so, we do not certainly know, but guess it is this ; When \nwe first went to school, and began to learn our letters, and to \nread and spell, we seldom saw a word without hearing it pro^ \nnounced at the time; and furthermore, no word was then a \nsign of a thir!g to us, until we had heard it pronounced ; but \nbefore, during, and after our first going to school, we have \nvery frequently ticard words pronounced, and at the same \ntime seen the things of which they are names, when we did \nnot see these WDrds. \n\nWe are now about to offer an opinion, which may at first \nappear irrational, but which we believe will, sometime or \nother, be generally admitted as true. It is this : \n\nAVhen a person who is familiar to ith the words^ reads a book \nor hears a siory, perceptions are very rarely excited in hsm. \n\nThe reader must have a correct notion of what we mean \n\n\n\n.9 \'?\xe2\x96\xa0?>\xe2\x80\xa2 \n\n\n\nby a perception. He must conceive of the sensorium as nu \nactive little organ, situated somewhere about the centre of \nthe brain, possessing many tendencies to act, and continually \nat 1^, wheti the man is awake; and that it is the organ which \nthinks. He must remember, too, that five kinds of nerves \nextend to, and unite with, this organ ; that an action of any \none of these nerves ig a sensation, and that if this same kind \nof nervous action continue along into the sensorium, then we \nhave a perception ; but if this particular nervous action. in\xc2\xb0 \nstead of continuing along into the sensorium, only continue \nup to it, and cause the sensorium to act some other action, \nvhicb it otherwise would not, we do not have a perception, \nhnt a sensation and a thought. \n\nFor a more particular illustration, if I look at the word \nJohn^ an action will be excited in my optic nerves, which we \ncall an optical action, and 1 shall have a sensation, a seeing of \nthis word, if this optical action extend no further; but if it \ncontinue along into the sensorium, then I shall have a percep* \nlion, an optical perception, of the word John, If this optical \naction, instead of continuing into the sensorium, only extend \nup to it, and the sensorium, on this occasion, owing to its \ntendencies, take on that action which constitutes an audial \nidea of the word John, 1 do not have a perception of the word \nJohn ; but I have a sensation and a thought. Now we be- \nlieve that this is what frequently, if not generally, takes place \nwhen one is reading a book which much interests him, and \nwhich is written in an easy style and familiar language. He \ndont attend to the words themselves ; he dont think of them ; \nhis sensorium is continually and uninterruptedly thinkitig \nabout something else : it appears to act, as we may say, ac- \ncording to the knocks which it receives upon the outside, and \nnot according to any gentlemen which come into the house. \nYet when this reading man comes across a new and singular \n\n\n\n223 \n\nword, or a wor3 printed in large capitals, be has a perception \nof siich word, and may, therefore, have a conception of it \nwhen he ge\'s through with the page and closes the book. \n\nHowever, it is a mere matter of judgment whether, when \none reads an interesting book, every word excites its own pe- \nculiar action of the sensorium, and always must remain so 5 \nfor the instant we attempt to determine the question by ob- \nserving what goes on in ourselves, that very instant shall we \nhave perceptiojis, and not sensations of words, or at least, that \nvery instant do actions cease to go on in our brains, as they \ndid before. And we must confess that we are nowise sure \nthat one has audial ideas of words when he peruses a book, \nexcept wben he stops to consider whether he has or not, and \neven then, some may perhaps decide that they have, and oth- \ners that they have not. \n\nBut if we caiuiot determine whether a man al-wajB perceives \nwords when he reads, except by considering [thinking of] \nfacts, it may be asked what facts we think of when we come \nto the conclu?ion that he does not. Some of the facts, oi\' \nmore properly considerations, are the following : \n\nFirst. We know it is not impossible nor uncommon for a \nman to think and sense at the same instant 5 \xe2\x80\x94 we know that \nwe can see an object, hear a noise, and think of something \nquite foreign to either of them, at the same instant ;\xe2\x80\x94 if we \ndont know this, then we dont know that we exist. \n\nSecond. When perceptions of words have been instantly \nsucceeded by ideas of objects, many times, it is not difficult \nto admit that these ideas may be caused to occur by mere \nsensations of such words ; and if we admit this, then we have \nthe sensorium free to think of objects, without being every \nmoment interrupted when one peruses a book. And it frees \nus from the necessity of adrnitting that the sensorium acts so \nexceedingly hvely as it does upoa the supposition, that wheit \n\n\n\nSS4 \n\none reads and under?tinds an author, every word of the au- \nthor must be/^^rc^zrec/ before it can suggest an idea of a thinf^. \n\nHowever, there are m;in)\' words which are not the signs of \nanv particular entities, and when a person reads a string of \nsuch words, a great proportion of his sensorial actions are \nmere audial ideas, or ideas of sounds, and a large share of \nthe rennainder, substituted, instead of real ideas. If the sight \nof the words the, on, yps. truth, honor, gratitude, &lc, excite \nany thing but mere audial ideas, such otlier ideas must be \nsuch as we call substituted ; for, surely, there are no such \nthings as the, on, truth, &;c. in existence ; and it would be \nabs\'jrd to say a man can have a real idea of a thing which \nnever existed ; we might as well say a man has been to Jin- \ngo, when there is not, and never was, any Jingo for a man to \ngoto. \n\nAs we have now been showing why it is that a perception \nor a thought of one thing may call up a thought of another \nthing, or in other words, why one thing may be, to us, a sign \nof another, it is a fit place to oifer a few remarks concerning \nbrutes. We believe that, so Jar as the sensorium alone is \nm)ncerned, the chief, if not the only reason, why brutes can- \nrot use one thmg as the sign of another, is because this organ \nin them does not acquire sufficiently strong tendencies to act, \n\' in immediate succession, tht)se actions which it has previously \nacted in such succession ; or, to use more convenient, but \nfigurative language, because their suggesting principle \\^ sd \nVieak, \n\nBut although the sensorial tendencie? of a brute may not \nmuch the more readily become operative together, merely \non account of their corresponding actions having before oc* \ncurred in immediate succession ; still it does not follow that \ntheir tendencies to individual actions ar^; uot as strong af \nl^ose of men* \n\n\n\n225 \n\nBut\' whefhpr a brute\'s sensorial tenrloncjes do os readily \nbecome as strong as those of nien,* it is very difficult to \ndetermine ; for if the sensorial tendencies of a brute, to indi- \nvidual actions, should be as strong as those of men, still they \nmij^ht not become operative on such slight occasions, as those \nof men, owing to the weakness of the brute\'s suggesting prin- \nciple. \n\nThat brutes possess a suggesting principle, or in more cor- \nrect language, that those sensorial actions which have occur- \ned in close succession, in them, are more or less disposed to \n.occur so again, is true bejond a doubt. Many an old experi- \nenced ox has been known to loll on a cold winter\'s morning, OQ \nseeing the yoke about to be put upoii his neck ; but why does \nthe ox loll ? It is not because he is warm, but because? Ihe \nsight of the yoke &c. excites, or more properly su^gtsls, for- \nmer ideas. It causes him to think of his labouring in the \nfield or on the road, and to think that his master has often \nceased to drive him when he has breathed quick and short, \nand suffered his tongue to hang out. \n\nIt is true that the ox\'s sensorial actions on this occasion, \nare quite ddferenl from ihc actions that would be excited by \nhearing or seeing the words winch we have used in stating \nwhat the ox thinks ; but tiiesc worclo are such as we are un- \nder the necessity of usiiig. \n\nThere are some men who are already aware that we should \nbe very far from being stich rational, intelligent, and conver- \nsive beings. as we now are, if o ir suggesting principle were \n\n*To und<^rsfnnd tlie exprt^ssion, \'as readily become as st lony n% \nthose of mail." let the reader suppose that an icliun of the sensori- \num of a bnite and of a mn), is excited ;>r su^^l^sied, in eac!r. jost \nS!X times ; now if, after this, one sensoriom is just as much dis- \nposed to act this sensorial n< ti(\xc2\xbbn -a^Wh fjs the other, then we sny \nthe sensorium of the brute, as VfAidi.\'y acquires u strong leudeucy \nas the sensorium of the man. \n\n29 \n\n\n\n2^6\' \n\non^ya little more deffectlve than what i< now is. Snrli mei \nsee, alreHdy, how a httle diiference ir. this principle may give \nrise to the striking differttnces hcSween a i>tiipid fellow and a \nman of ui^ or a man of judgmeiit. Such men, loo. are now \nready to admit that Ihe original difference between the intel- \nlectual powers of Adam, and the brutes around him. might \nbe almost, perhaps altogether, owinii; to the diliercnce be- \ntween his and ihv\\r sirggfsiii.g prwriple ; by which short and \nconvenient expression, 1 tra-t 1 j^hail not be understood to \nmean ariv thing more than the disposition of the brain to \ntliink in connexion tho.-e tho^i^hts which are in any way re- \nlated ; and by this disposition, we mean nothing more ihaa \nsimply the fact, that ihe brain does thir.U such liiouahts ia \nconriexion. Should there be any who canrjot concejve how \na little diiferrence in the suggeslmg principle should be one \nof the grand, origirm!, or as we may sa) , fundamental, causes \nof the intellectual dstference between a man of wit and a stu- \npid fellow, or betweeii a man and a bea^^f ; the} will, per- \nhaps, be enabled to do so, by reading the chd{)ter on Judg- \ning, to which I hey will s-oon come. \n\nIt is generally said that words are marks, signs, or repre- \nsentatives of idea;-. This sayiiig has not been strictly exam- \nined. Coticerning it much might be said. We shall merely \nremark that : \xe2\x80\x94 Ma ly words are more properly the signs of \nobjects, actions, q lalities, and of relations between these \nthings, than they are of ideas ; that mai\xc2\xaby other words are \nnot the signs of any thing, putting aside the ideas of these \nwords themselves \xe2\x80\x94 the word. Soul, we f|ass among this nunn- \nber. And on the whole, as we use words more particularly \nfor the purpose of making our fellow beings think of some- \nthing besides our ideas (which, by the by, are things that no \nman can have aii idea of) and as they answer the purpose for \nTvhich they are used, we conclude that there is no ^reat pro- \n\n\n\n2^7 \n\npiiety in saving:, without any reservr-, that word^* are the signs \nof ideas. They are more properly sig\'is of things without \nthe skull. \n\nWe now proceed to offer a supposition of the way and \nmanner m wh\'ch Adtrn and Eve came hy their language, \nand to otfer a few r<*(n;irks concerning the way in which chil- \ndren acquire a use of rhe signs, the words, already in use. \n\nSuppose that the fir-t time AJam saw Eve, he met her \nwith a large red apple in his hand : Eve had eaten ^uch \nlooking apples, and found that they were pleasa^it ; she there- \nfore wishes to obtam tliis one : She approaches Adam, and \nputs out her hand to lake it froin him. Adam seeing he is \nabout to lose his apple, withdraws his hand. Eve, at first, \nknows not that this m )tion has any particular meaning 5 but \nafter making several attempts to take t!ie apple, and finding \nthat Adam always withdraws it from her, she is led to think \nthat Adam intends not to let her hive the apple. She, how- \never, makes one more attempt ; Adam now withdraws his \nhand, holding the apple, and at the same time makes a rioise \nwith his vocal organs. Tnis noise is at first an insignificant \nsound to Eve ; b it again attempting to take the apple, or \nsomething else, and finding that this sound always attends the \nact of refusal, she at length thinks, as a child ivould, that Ad- \nam would have her to understand by the noise, the same that \nhe does by the gesture. To satisfy herself as to this, she \nagain attempts to take the apple ; Adam only makes the \nnoise ; Eve is not yet satisfied ; Adam sees she is not, by her \nstill persisting ; he therefore speaks louder, perhaps repeat* \nhis sound, and at the same time repulses Eve. By this time \nEve is satisfied that Adam means by his sound the same that \nwe now express by these words \xe2\x80\x94 i^ou shall not have it. \n\nPresently Eve fi ids someihmg which Adam wishes to ob- \ntain, lie approaches Eve as Eve had approached him 5 but \n\n\n\n228 \n\nEve makes the same noise that Adam did ; and Adam knows \nfull well what she means by it ; he knows tliat she means the \nsame that he did. Thej^ are now agreed as to (he use of one \nsouud ; and this may aid them in acquiring the use ofothers. \nAdam and Eve now walk about together, and when they \ncome to a tree, rock, brook, or any other object, one points \nat it, and at the same time makes a noise, which noise, of \ncourse, becomes to them a sign of such object. \xe2\x80\x94 The object \nexxites one action of the sensorium. the sound or noise an- \nother ; and these two actions having been excited together, \nall that is necessary to suggest an idea of the object, whea \nabsent from it, is to make the noise. \n\nAt one time Adam jumps over a log. and at the same time \nmakes a certain noise. Mete is an action, an event, and a \nsi^n to denote this action, and henceforth, this noise may be \nfollowed by an idea of the event. \n\nSuppose, now, that Adam and Eve had pen, ink and paper, \nor what would answer the purposes of these materials, Ad im \nmakes a mark, but to Eve it has no meaning, until Adam, \npointing at it, m.ikes a noise; it is now to Eve a sign of this \nnoise ; and if the noise be the same which Adam made when \nbe pointed out a tree, it is also a sign of a tree, and of course, \nof the same use io Adam and Eve that the mark tiile now is \nto us. In thif. way could Adam and Eve go on and form, for \nthemselves, a sort of language, which might, as we can easily \nperceive, be improved by succeeding generations, so as to \nbecome as perfect as any language now is. \n\nIf this supposition of the way and manner in which our first \nparents acv\'^uired a use of signs be correct, we see that they \nwere enabled (odo -^o, because tbnt when two or more actions \nare excited in the sensorium at the same tnne, it becomes dis- \nposed to act these actions in close successio,) ; hence, if one \nof Ihcin be excited or suggeated, the others imcuediately fol- \n\n\n\n229 \n\nlow. Now let us suppose that our sen^oria or sensorinrns \nhad been organized a little diiferent, so that they would not \nacquir<; ativ disposition to act two or more actions in close \nsuccession, merely by having these actions excited at the \nsame lime. What stupid and defenceless creatures we shou!d \nhave been ! Even if our ideas of similar looking objects h id \nstill suggested each otlier as they now do. we could have had \nno signs that would have been of much use to us ; we could \nhave had no language. The discoveries of one generation, if \nindeed they could make any, could not be recorded, or in any \nway handed down from generation to generation ; our race \ncould make no improvements m any thing, the hundreth gen- \neration being no wiser than the hrst, aiid instead of bringing \nevery other species of animal under ou= subjection, we should \nhave been a defenceless prey to every beast of equal strength \nand better claws than ourselves. It is tra\'y wonderful how \nmuch depends on a little, m the works of nature. \n\nIfweobser/e what takes place in children we shall find \nthat they obtain a use of signs much in the same way that we \nhave supposed Adam and Eve did. To pass over what takes \nplace in the nursery for {he three or four fi;st years of the child\'s \nhfe, let us follow the little urchin to school. Here the teach- \ner calls him to him, takes his pen-knife, points to the first let- \nter of the alphabet, leils hmi to look at it, and sounds in liis \nears, .^, lie then points out B, and souiids this letter; ai>d \nthus the teacher proceeds with all the letters, commanding \nthe little fellow to make the isame sounds that he does. I\'his \ntask the teacher performs many times, before such tenden- \ncies are produced in the chiid\'^ sensonum, that an opticil \nidea of the letters, may occiir witlioit impression and be con- \nnected With those audial accions of Vae sensorium which are \nin the first place excited by tne piununcicition of these let- \nters. \n\n\n\n230 \n\nWhen a child is learning the letters of the alphahet, two \nIcindsofHC i !;is are excited in his sensorium ; one by way of \nthe optic nerves, the other bv way of the auditory ; the lirst, \nas the reader knows, we call optical actions of the sensorium, \nto distinguish them froio the latter, which we call audial \'ac \ntions of the sensorium. Now when a child has thoroughly \nlearnt a letter, the optical action of this (by which I rnean,ex- \ncitedhy this) letter will be .mmediately succeeded by the au- \ndial action of this letter; or the audial action wiii (perhaps) \nbe immediately succeeded by \\\\\\v. optical, shouki the audial \nchance to occur first. It m aters not whetiier She optical or \nthe audial actio-) be excited or suggested, in either case the \none will be followed by the otiier. \n\nThe child having le:;riit the letters of the alj>habet, the \nteacher turns to words. Lpt us suppose him to turn to the \nword MAN ; wfjat does the teacher do, and what goes on in the \nchild"\'s head when he is said to learn to read the word man ? \n\nThe teacher points to the tir>st letter and says : What is \nthat ? The child says, M. What is that ? A. What is that ? \nK. "Very we!!," says the teacher, "pronounce it," But \nthe child knows not what the teacher rueans by "pronounce \nit ;" however, it sounds to hrn like a command to do some \nthing, and he looks the teacher in the face, to know what, \nTlte teacher now pronounces the word, and the child soon \nlearn? what he means by "pronounce." He will now tell oj0f \nthe letters and pronounce the word. After a time, the teach- \ner shuts the book, and tells the child to spell man. But the \nchild knows not the meaning of the word *\'spell," and must \nlearn it in the same way that he learnt the meaning of the \nword pronounce. After this the child can spell man, for the \naction excited in his sensorium when Ihe teacher puts out \nthe word to him to spell, suggests a notion of the three let- \nters MAN, standing together, and to spell man, he has nothing \n\n\n\n231 \n\nto do, but to tell off these three letter as he sees them in his \n^\'mind\'s eye,\'\' and then say, ma-i, as fie has often done he- \nfore, immediately after telling off (he three letters m a s. \n\nFrom this we see, that the action of the sensijrium, excited \nby way of the auditory nerves, when a word is put out to \nspell, calls up that action of the sen^orium which has before \nbeen excited by seeing such word ; just as the sight of a word \ncalls up that audial action of the sensoriutn which has beea \nexcited by hearing such word j)roao!inced. \n\nOur little urchin has now learnt his letters and learnt to \nread and spell the word man ; but jf this is all that he has \nlearnt concerning this word, then it is to him, no sign of a being \nwhich talks, laughs, and walks upright, upon two legs, and \nit never will be until such being be pointed out to him, at the \nsame time he is told, \'\'this is a man;" or, until he be toid \n^\'that was a man which you saw pass by just now ;" or, until \nhe have learnt the meaning of the words, talk^ laugh, walk \nupright^ two legs^ &r. and found by a dictionary that a man \nis a being that talks, laughs, and walks upright upon two \nlegs." \n\nBefore closing this chapter, it may be well to say a little \nconcerning the origin of the word 507//; in doing which we \nshall give the reader a clue for accounting for the origin of \nmany thingless names. \n\nTo be brief, we will at once say, that men learnt by expe- \nrience (\'he only way, in the bread sense of the term, that they \ncome to know any thing) that there is an essential difference \nbetween animals and inorganic bodies ; and a wide, if not an \nessential difference between men and other animals. Now it \nis the same thing in different words expre\'^sed, for a man to \nlearn that there is an essential difference between two things, \nas it is, to learn that there is something in one of these things, \nwhich there is not in the other. Aad having learnt that there \n\n\n\n232 \n\nis something in a man w] ich there is not in a block, or any \noihcr inorganic body, it is the easiest tiling in the world to \ngive this something a nanne ; hence the name soul, or mmd, \nto denote a somsethmg in man which is not to be found in a \nblock, i^nd as every man learns that there is somiething in \nman and other aninr^als, which does not exist in any othei be- \nings, it is not at all strasige that men should so generally be- \nlieve in the existence of a soul, or of souls, as they have for- \nmerly done ; for having learnt that this something exists, all \nthat was necessary for them to do, that they might be said to \nbeheve in the existence of a sou!, was to consent to use this \nV\'ord as the name of the peculiar something, which eveiy bo- \ndy knew to exist in the animal kingdom. So far, so good ; \nbut presentlj men begin to speculare about the nature of this \nsomething, this soul ; and instead of considering it the ner- \nvous system^ possessing properties by virtue of its organiza- \ntion, and tendencies acquired by exercise, \xe2\x80\x94 -they considered \nit as something; superadded to, and dislinct from, the brain \nand nerves. Then comes the error \xe2\x80\x94 ihen comes the whim, \nor hypothesis without a shadow of evidence. And as there \nwas not, in ancient days, one man in ten hundred thousand, \nwho was not too lazy or too ignorant to examine, into the \ntruth of this wh^m, and ex[)Ose its falsity, it is not strange that \nit was so generally believed that the peculiar something, the \nsoul, which exists in animals, is something distinct from the \nirsnterial body which we behold. And as this belief has given \nr\'se to language which can but serve to aid and perpetuate \nit, among people who do not examine the subject ; and as it \nis incorporated with almost all religious creeds, in support of \nwhich creeds, millions are yearly expended ; and as every \nman must now, as formerly, be convinced that there is a pe- \nculiar something within the skull which is not to be found out \nof i\', \xe2\x80\x94 it is far fiom being astonishing that so many do, even \n\n\n\n2S\xe2\x82\xac . \n\nin the present enlightened age, helieve in the existence of \nsouls or minds, as distinct thin;];s from the animal system. \n\nAs every body knows that there is something peculiar in \nanimals, and as this something is said, by those who pass for \nlearned, to be a being distinct from the body \xe2\x80\x94 to be a soul ; \nit is as natural for the unlearned to believe in the existence of \na soul, as it is for them to believe that the earth stands still, \nwhile the sun moves round the earth. And as astronomy \nalone has taught us the motions of the heavenly bodies, so \nmust physiology alone, teach us the constitution of man ; \xe2\x80\x94 \nneither the one nor the other is to be learnt in any book writ- \nten by the ancients. And as materialism must, and will be \nestablished, the prudent religionist will no more think of op- \nposing it with his Bible, or his Koran, than he does of oppo- \nsing the present system of astronomy by the same book \xe2\x80\x94 it \nwould be like brit^ging an egs; against a rock. As christians, \nwe would no sooner admit that materialism is opposed to \nChristianity, than we would admit that Christianity is false. \n\nAs to showing how we come to have an idea of a soul, we \nshall leave the task to such notrible brains as that of Mr. \nLocke, (who has charged us not to believe in the existence of \nthings of which we cannot form distinct ideas,) since we know \n(hat, putting aside our optical and audial ideas of the word it- \nself, an idea of a soul never yet existed ia our heads. \n\n\n\n\xe2\x96\xa000- \n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVII. \n\nOn Judging, \n\nThat the reader may at once know the most important pe- \nsitions which we are about to maiutaiu iii this chapter, we \n\nao \n\n\n\n234 \n\nhere stafe them, Thpy are the two following : \xe2\x80\x94 Fir^t, That \njudging consists in nothing other than in t[)inking over all \nthoughts (that chance to occur) relative to the subject or \nquestion concerning vthich we are said to judge. Secoiid, \nThat to "\' compare one idea with another," is an absurd ex- \npression, and means nothing, unless it mean the same as, to \nhare these idpos occvr iu- immediate succession^ \n\nToere is a penknife slampfd with the figures 1776^. One \nman believes this penknife was made in the \\ear 1776. This \nis his opinion, because he has seen nsanj articles wl)ich were \nstamped with the figures denoting the year in which he knew \ntl ej were made. Another man judges that it was not made \nin the year 1776, because, lirst, it is now 1828, and penknives \nare generally sold, as d worri out or lost, in less than tifty-two \nyears from the time they are made. Second \xe2\x80\x94 the year 1776 \nWas an impoitatit year with the Unrted States of An>erica, as \ntheir independence was that year declared, and to keep it iti \nrenriembrarjce, the Am.erican!? stamp, even at the present day, \nmany articles which they manufacture, wnh the figures 1776. \nThird \xe2\x80\x94 this per-knife, not being well finished, appears to be \nof American manuta( (ure. \n\nFlere we see that two men have judged difFerenlly, have \ncome to diflerent conclusions, as the expression is, concern- \ning the age of a penknife, or the time when it was made. The \nreason why th\xc2\xbb^y come to diiferent conclusions is obvious ; it \nis because diflerent fhouglits relative to the subject occur to \nthem. The grana question now is, what goes on in either \nman\'s brain ? Does a. y thing more or less occur than th s : \nI\'he sensoiiun) ihirks over tliose, thoughts relative to he sub- \nject, to the thinking of which it has tendencies sufficieni\'y \nstrong to b( come operative on the 0( ca-ion ? Let no man \nbe deceived by ambiguous words, or the authority of great \nmen j let him leaituiber thai his opinioii cOiiCerning this \n\n\n\n235 \n\nmattpr. is as good as that of a learned professor of Glasgow \nor of Edinburg. The field is before him; he can examine \nfor himself; let him turn his thoughts inward, as Locke \nwould say, and decide whether, when he judges concerning \nany subject, any thifsg more or le:?s occurs in him, than all \nthe thoughts relative to the subject which may chance lo oc- \ncur. \n\nIf any one say that any thing more occur, we hope he will \nbe so very obhging as to inform us what it is ; but in doii.g \nthis, let him beware that he make no tatements which \nwill not stand the test of inqiiry ; and be so good as to ex- \npress himself in plain and definite terms, and not suppose a \nterm is definite because it is very common, because it is fa- \nmiliar to every one. \n\nWc will venture to offer it as an opinion, that if precisely \nthe san>e thoughts occur, it makes no more odds, as it re- \nspects the conclusion, in what order they occur, than it does \nin what order you add together the figures of a single column, \nas it respects the amount \xe2\x80\x94 whether you say that 7 and 3 is \n10, and 4 is 14, and 5 is 19 ; or that 5 and 3 is 8, and 7 is 15, \nand 4 is 19, or whether you think these numbers over Iq \nsome other order. If we take the example of the man who \njudged that the penknife above mentioied was not made in \nthe year 1776, what odds can it make in his conclusion, whe- \nther his thoughts occur to him in the order above expressed, \nor whether he first think that such lookmg knives are made \nb} Americans, that the Americans, even now-a-days, stamp \nmany things which they make, with the figures 1776, and that \npenknives are generally sold, and lost or worn out, in less \nthan fifty-two years ; or whether these thoughts occur in sonie \nother order ? \n\nIt may perhaps be said, in opposition to this opinion, that \nit often happens that one man makes ceflain &luleuieiits to \n\n\n\n236^ \n\n^anothert who does not understand him, who does not con- \nclude that what the man states is true ; and yet these same \nstatements being made to hmi in a different order, he then \nunderstands and beheves. But it never must be forgotten, \nthat when you state any thing to a man, and he judges whe- \nther, what you tell him, be true or false, he thinks over a great \nmany more thoughts than those marked by the words which \nyou speak j and it is quite likely that by stating facts or false- \nhoods to a man in one order, you may not cause tlie same \nthoughts to occur in his sensorium, that you would had you \nstated the same facts or falsehoods in some othei order. So \nwe are still inclined to the opinion, that all men come to the \nsame conclusion on thinking over the same thoughts, let these \nthoughts occur in what order they may. \n\nBat although it is not essential as to the conclusion, in what \norder the facts of data are thought of, or if you rather, in \nwhat order ones thoughts occur ; still it is probable that dif- \nferent men\'s sensoriums are disposed to think over the facts \nrelative to any subject, pretty much in the same order. This \narisfs from the nature of things \xe2\x80\x94 from the way and order in \nwhich these facts were made known to them \xe2\x80\x94 there is some \nsimilarity between the courses by which men acquire their \nknowledge or sensorial tendencies, relative to matters and \nthings. \n\nIt is important, however, to correct judging, that the senso- \nrium have tendencies to think of all the important data that \nhave any relation to the subject or question, cogitated about j \nor in other words, it is important that the man have a pretty \nperfect knowledge of what relates to the subject under con- \nsideration. With respect to the knife before mentioned, one \nman judged that it was made in the year 1 776, because it had \nthese ti^ures upon it, and because he had seen many articles \nwhich he kaew were stamped with ti^^u res, denoting the year \n\n\n\n237 \n\nin which they were made ; but his conclusion would have, \nbeen difft^rent, had his sensorium thought : \xe2\x80\x94 I. is now fiftj \ntwo years since 1770, and kmves are generally disposed of ia \nless lime than this : \xe2\x80\x94 many articles manufiictuied by the \namericans since 1776, are stamped with tliese tii^ures, &c. &:c. \nBut as we will suppose, the^re were no sensorial tendencies in \nhim, to think thus, he being entirely ignorant of the declara- \ntion of American I\'.idependence, the liability of penknives to \nbe lost or destroyed, &;c. &:c. \n\nIf a man\'s sensorial tendencies relative to any subject or \nquestion, be, some of them, so weak as not to give rise to their \nrespective actions when the man is called upon for his opin- \nion concerning such subject or question, his conclusion which \nhe will give, will be the same as though he had no such ten- \ndencies ; for a man\'s tendencies avail him nothing except \nthey give rise to action. An ignorant man\'s opinion or \nconclusion, concerning any question, is as likely to be cor- \nrect, as the judgment ot him wlio does not think, let his sen* \nsorium be ever so full of tendencies or knowledge. \n\nAlthough we say it is a matter of little if any importance, \nin what order one\'s thoughts occur, as it respects theconclu^ \nsion ; we do not mean that it is a matter of indifference \nwhether all the thoughts relative to a subject, occur in a cow \nnected order, or whether incGngnious thoughts are here and \nthere intermixed ; that is, thoughts that have no relation to \nthe subject under consideration. On the contrary, we be- \nlieve that if a judging process be any thiiig dilFerent, as we \nthink it is, from what may be called simple apprehension, or \nsimple, every day thinking, it consists in thinking over all \nthoughts that may occur concerning a qu -stion, in a connect- \ned order, it mattering little in what order a^ to priority or pos- \nteiiority, if it oidy be a connected order. \n\nNevertheless, in stating those facts and considerationi,, \n\n\n\n238 \n\nwb\'rh Imve led u? to a certain concJu^ion, we generally pre- \nfer some one arrangement to another ; bat this arises from \nthe fact, that by different arrangements of the same words \nand sentences, we may suggest different thoughts in others. \nYv\'e endeavor to arrange our remarks in such order that \nthe true force and meaning of one may not fail of being un- \nderstood for want of some knowledge that ought to have pre- \nviously been given. It wiii never answer to begin in the mid- \ndle of a story, unless we suppose our reader or hearer to be \nalready acquainted with the first part. \n\nAnd if there be any difference between judging and reason- \ning^, the difference is this : \xe2\x80\x94 When we reason we not only \njudge, not only think over thoughts relative to a question, \nbat we express our thoughts in an order, and for the purpose \nof convincing others. But in admitting ths difference, still \nit is essentially the same to reason as to judge, i<o far as it re- \nspects what goes on in the brain, bnting its motive actions. \n\nIt appears to us that the oidy consideration which any one \nwill even think of bringirsg forward in opposition to the opin- \nion that when a man judges, it matters little in what order his \nthoughts occur, is this: if different men knowing the same \nfacts concerning any opinion, undertake to convince others \nthat this opinion is true, or th it it is filse, they begin and \nbring forward these facts, much in the same order. But this \ndoes not convince us ; on the contra r}, we fifid, so far as we \ncan determine, that when we judge concerning any subject, \nour thoughts occur, as we may say, all about, just as it hap- \npens. They occur much faster than we could express thenn \nby speech or by pen and it\xc2\xbbk, and in such an order as we \nshould not think of espressing them to others. \n\nWe are aware that metaphysical writers have said much \nabout comparing ideas, as though judgintj consisted in com- \nparing ideas oae with another, and clearly distinguishing any \n\n\n\n239 \n\ndifference thnt m^v exist between them ; but all this talk is \nnonsei\'se, \xe2\x80\x94 it is worse, \xe2\x80\x94 it is absiird. \n\nWe think that immaterialists have but two different noHons \nconcerning the nature of idea> ; the one that an idea is some- \nthin\xc2\xab" distinct from the nr^ind ; the other, that an idea is \'d stale \nof the mind. Now it is granted on all hruuls, that the m nd \ncan exist but in one state at a time, or, coiisidering an idea as \nsomething distinct from the mjnd, that there can be but one \nidea in the " mind\'s presesce chamber," at (he same time. \xe2\x80\x94 \xe2\x80\xa2 \nTo be sure, some speak of a " store of ideas," but these very- \npersons tliemselves krjow not what ihey mean, nor does a -y \none else, unlcbs they meais the sensor\'al tendencies. \xe2\x80\x94 N\'^body \nbelieves that we can have but one thought, idta^ or act of \nthat which thinks at the san^e identical instant. It is certain, \nalso, that every idea is (in itself considered, and not consid- \nered in relation to somethi )g else, or as the schoolmen wou\'d \nsay, abstractedhj considered,) a rtal idea, and must either ex- \nist or not exist ;, and as only one idea exisfs at one time, no \nother idea exists at (he sasne i\\me. Now, in the name ol \ncommon sense, how does one *itate of (he mind compare to- \ngether two other states (hat do not exist ? or how does one \nidea compare together two other ide is that do not exist ? of \nhow does one act of that which thniks, compase together two \noiher acts that do not exist ? or how does one state, idea, or \nact compare itstlf w.ih another state, idea, or act, which does \nnot exist, or what is tiie sauiC thn>g, compare itself witii no- \nthing ? \n\nIf we admit, for the sake of argument, that a man may be \ngaid to cc^Vipare two ideas, in any common aceeptation of the \nword compare, we must adaiit th;jt tins comparing is an act \nof that which compares \xe2\x80\x94 of that which ihiiiks ; and jfan ac- \ntion of that which thinks be not a thought, pray what is a \ntiiought ? lie that sajb il is a state, oi the uniiu, must ako ad- \n\n\n\n2^40 \n\nmit that it is an act of the mind\xe2\x80\x94 must admit that when the \nmind is acting one action, it is in one state, and when it is \nacting a difTerent action, it is in another state, and so on. He \nwill not be so absurd as to saj that, during the existence ofall \nour thoughts, (he mind is in an inactive state \xe2\x80\x94 that to change \nstates, to act, does not constitute a thought, but that to be in \na state, to be inactive, constitutes a thought. \xe2\x80\x94 Can an unex- \ntended mind, a mind which has no parts, be in as many differ^ \nent inactive stales as we have difTerent thoughts ! \n\nIfthen the very act of comparing be a thought, as truly as \nany other act of that which thinks, what, pray, does compar- \ning thoughts \xe2\x80\x94 what, pray, does judging \xe2\x80\x94 consist in, but in \nhaving actions (or thoughts) one after another, of that which \nthinks ? \n\nBut the truth is, when a man is sa\'d (very improperly) to \ncompare two thoughts together, and to be sensible of a differ^ \nence between them, no third thought intervenes. To have two \ndifferent thoughts in immediate succession, is to be sensible \nof a difference between them. This is the very nature of \nthoughts. If we could not say that we are sensible of a dif- \nference between two thoughts, then these two thoughts would \nbe alike ; they would, to all intents and purposes, be but one \nthought occurring twice. When we say we are sensible of \nthe diflference between thoughts, we use such language (bad, \nto be sure) as we are obliged to ; but we must not be de- \nceived ; we must not suppose that this being sensible^ suppo- \nses any third act of the sensorium, or, as the immaterialists \nwould say, of the mind. If I have an idea or conception of \na sheep, and this idea be immediately succeeded 4ay an idea \nof a horse, I do not liave to compare these two ideas together, \nbefore 1 am sensible of a ditTereuce between them. An idea \nof a sheep and an idea of a horse are two (hflferenl ideas, and \n1 no sooner have them in close succession, than I am sensible \n\n\n\n241 \n\nof a difference between them, as the expression is. No in- \ntervening action of my sensorium takes place ; there is, in- \ndeed, no separate or third act, for the expression / 1 am sen- \nsible" to signify. \n\nHowever, by altering the common meaning of words, you \ncan make out any tiling you please; you can make out that \nthree times ten is not thirty, if you alter the common meaning \nof the word thirty, and say it is equal to seven times five ; and \nin thisvvay you can make oul, that when a man judges, he \nnot only compares together things that exist without the head, \nbut ideas with ideas. And as it is a common way of speaking, \nto say of a man, he compares ideas, compares one thmg with \nanother, &;c. when he judges, it may, perhaps, be as well not \nto discard this form\'of speech, but to show what the word com" \nfare must, in truth, signify, in the various instances in which \na man is said to compare. \n\nIf we compare two bodies that are present for examination, \nin order to be sensible whether they differ in appearance ^ the \nact of comparing consists in nothing other than in viewing \nthese bodies on all sides ; and if there be any difference of \nappearance between them, we are immediately sensible of it, \nwithout any subsequent action of or re-aotion of the sensori- \num. Objects that are different in appearance excite different \nactions in the optic nerves and sensorium \xe2\x80\x94 excite different \nperceptions \xe2\x80\xa2, and a sense of difference between our percep- \ntions, as between our thoughts, supposes nothmg more than \nthat these perceptions are different \xe2\x80\x94 if there be no sense of \ndifference between two perceptions, then tllese perceptions \nare, in truth, one perception occurring twice. To be sensi- \nble of a difference of appearance between a hat and an ink\'- \nstand, a man has nothing more to do, than to look at them, \nor to look at the one, at the time he has a notion of the other, \n\nor to have an idea (not a sight) of both, at the same time. But \n\n31 \n\n\n\n242 \n\nif a man have an idea of an inkstand to-day, and not an idea \nof a hat nnt\'l some time after, it cannot be said that he has a \nsense of the dflR rence between an inkstand and a hat \xe2\x80\x94 the \nvery essence of comparing two ideas and of being sensible of \na dilTerence between them, consisting in having theee two \nideas occur in immediate succession. \n\nTf a man is to judge whether there be any difference be- \ntween two sounds, he has onl\\ to hsten ; if the sounds be dit- \nferent, they will excite, in him different perceptions; and this \n13 as much as to sjiay ihe man will be sensible of a ditferetice \nbetween the sounds. \n\nTo beser.sible whether two bodies differ in weight we have \nonly to handle them, to heft them ; if they be sensibly differ- \nent we shall be sensible of it, without any further comparmg. \nIt appears, then, from what we have been saying, that to be \nsensible of any sensible difference between perceptible bodies, \nnothing more is wanting than to have sn.ch bodies act upon our \nsenses in close succession. \n\nHowever, if we are called upon to say Iwzd much any two \nthings differ from each other, then sornelhing nsore is necessa- \nry than nierely to suffer them to act upon our senses. If a \ncubic inch of gold and a two-inch cu])e of gold be placed be- \nfore a mar), and the man be requested to say how much the \none will weigh more than the olher ; in order to answer cor- \nrectly, a little thinking mu>t go on in the man\'s head. Hav- \ning learned thai both pieces are of the same quality, he must \nthink : \xe2\x80\x94 A two inch cube is a body two inches long, two inch- \nes broad, and tw\xc2\xab \'inches thick, all its angles being right an- \ngles, and if the upper half be cut off, and either half be divid- \ned in the middle of its length, and cross-divided in the middle \nof its breadth, it will be cut into four equal pieces, each of \nwhich will be a cubic inch, and if one half contain four cubic \ninches, the other half must contain four cubic inches ; and as \n\n\n\n243 \n\ntwice four is eight, a two inch cube of gold contains as much, \nwei-^hs as tiuicli, and is woith as much as i i^ht cubic incbes. \nWe do not sa}\' tbal he wiio is already a nnatbennatician, must \nthink over ail these pait culars before he comes to a correct \nconclusion concerning the relative weights of these two pieces \nof gold : \xe2\x80\x94 1 he tutoriwg of his brain may have been such a? to \noive it a ready tendency to think at once : \xe2\x80\x94 A two inch cube \nof gold is eight times as large as a cubic inch, and of course \nwill weigh, and is worth eight times as much. \n\nHe that judges of the relative quantities of these two pieces \nof gold, is said to compare them together ; but what, we ask, \ndoes he more or less than think over, in a connected order, \nthose thoughts or those data, or those facts, (it matters not \nwhich you say) that relate to the subject ? \n\nhi the above case, the facts which lead to the conclusion \nthat a two inch cnbe of gold is worth ei^ht times as much as \na cubic inch, are, as the expression is, self-evident \xe2\x80\x94 there is \nno dispute about them, men are universally agreed as to the \nmeaning ol each word used ; hence if the judger think oi all \nof them, and not use any word in some new sense, the conclu- \nsion which he comes to, and which he expresses, must be of \nthe same certain and indisputable nature. But if there he \nsome error in the data \xe2\x80\x94 if the judger take that for true, which \nis not true ; and if lliere he not two errors that shall counter- \nbalance each other, the conclusion must certainly be false. \n\nSuppose a man who does not know what a two inch cube \nis. were requested to say what the difference is between an \ninch cube and a two inch cube ; he might think : An inch ;s \none inch, two is twice one, and hence a two inch cube is \ntwice as much as an inch cube. Here would be an error of \nthe judger ; it would be an error to think that a two inch cuue \nbears the same relation to an inch cube, that two bears to \nene. it matters not what the cause of the error be, whether \n\n\n\nS44- \n\nit be owing to so much perfect ignorance, or to a slip of the \nman\'s seiisorium ; or, to speak in inteiiigible language, whe* \nther it be owing to a toant of those sensorial tendencies which \ngive rise to such thoughts (not to mention others) as we ex- \npress by these words : \xe2\x80\x94 A cube is a body of six eq la! sides, \nwhich join or meet at right angles ; or whether it be owing to \nthe weakness of these teijdencies, so that the man thinks as he \nwould if he had them not. \xe2\x80\x94 As we have said, an ignorant \nman\'s opinion is as likely to be correct, as the opinion of him \nwho does not think. \n\nJn all cases in which a man thinks erroneous data, the con- \nclusion must be false, unless the errors be such as exactly to \ncountt ract, or counterbalance each other. \n\nFor illustration, suppose a man is to judge how long it will \ntake a liorse to travel from Templeton to Boston. The da- \nta are : It is scvcnfij-two miles from Templeton to Boston ; a \nhorse can travel six nnles an hour : \xe2\x80\x94 the conclusion is, it will \ntake a horse twelve hours to travel from Templeton to Boston. \nBut this conclusion, (hough correct according to the data, is \nin reality en( neons, because one of the data is erroneous ; \xe2\x80\x94 \nit is but sixty miles frosr* Templeton to Boston. Yet as we \nhave said, two errors may be of such a n ture as to counter- \nact each other, and the conclusion may still be correct. Ifj \nin the above case, tlie man had not only thought that it is \nseventy-two miles from Templeton to Boston, but had thought \nthat six is contained in seventy-two just ten times, his conclu- \nsion would have been, that a horse, travelling at the rate of \nsix miles per hour, will go from Tem[)leton to Boston in ten \nhours, which, indeed, is the (ruth of the matter. \n\nAs it is more important to determine what judgijig or rea- \nsoning consists in, than some of our readers, perhaps, may \nthink, we will adduce one more case in which it may as pro- \nperly be said that a man comes to a new conclusion byjudg- \n\n\n\n245 \n\ning, reasoning, or by connparing ideas with ideas, as in anj \nother. \n\nA man who believes in U^ee agency, goes to bed where no \nimpression? are made upon his senses, and thiidis \xe2\x80\x94 " Well, \nanother day is gone, and what good thing have 1 done to-day ? \nNone at all. 1 ought to have wrought in the field ; I have \nsome corn which I wish was hoed ; but my desire to go aiid \nsee the shows was greater than mv desire to go to hoeing, so \nI went to see the shows. When there, I wished to keep my \nmoney, hut my desire for a glass of spirits was greater, so I \ntook a glass ; then that ugly devil called me a (hief and a liar \n\xe2\x80\x94 it made me so mad that I could not keep my hands off of \nhim ; I struck him and he struck me ; and now my face is \nblack and blue from his blows. Could I help all this ? I \ncould now ; I have leartit sofnethiug to-day ; 1 am not in all \nrespects the same person that I was yesterday or this morn- \ning. I can go to hoeing to-morrow morning, and even ad- \nvise others not to go to see the shows, and there spend their \nmoney ; but the question is, could I, in the morning, taking \nme as 1 was,.and not taking me as I should have been had I \nhad a different mind or different desires, have done otherwise \nthan I did ? I cannot see as 1 could, for it is a law of nature, \nconsequently a stutborn law, thai every man act according \nto his predominant desire \xe2\x80\x94 that he do that (possible act) \nwhich, on the whole, he chooses, or what is the same thmg, \nhas the strongest desire to do. Now all thoughts, all desires, \nare the children of two parents oi^ly, orgaiuzatioii and educa- \ntion, and our education depends on the impressions that are \nmade upon our senses. These two things are the parents of \nall our thoughts and sensations ; and nothing is wantmg but \na \\iU\\e penetration^ as the expression is, to convince any one \nthat a man has no more absolute control over the impressions \nmade upon his senses, than he has over his original organiza- \n\n\n\n24G \n\ntion.\xe2\x80\x94 Trnc, a mr\\n may think \xe2\x80\x94 I will not go to that house of \nwickedness zvhcre I shall see so much vice \xe2\x80\x94 whei\'e such peccant \ndesire will be excited in me; and so not go. Bit should he \nthink so, these very thoughts owe their existence to sensorial \ntendencies produced by former impressions ; therefore we \nshall find, by tracing every sensation, thought and emotion to \nits tirst origin, that nothing is more true than that man is tirst \nacted upon and then acts accordingly ; and that every im- \npression which is made upon his senses, must as necessarily \nbe made, as any other elfect must fjllow its cause. This \nbeing true, is a man a (ree agent ? I have always been taught \nthat a man is a free agent ; and on thinking but httle about \nit, it has appeared to me that it must be so : I will novy com- \npare the evidences or arguments for and against tiiis ques- \ntion, that I may see which class best accords with what I \nknow to be ficts. \n\n" Well, then, in the 6\'st place, from my own experience, I \nam led to believe, and every body believes, and indeed it is a \nfact, that there is no event without a cause ; that nothing \nacts nor ceases to act, uiitil it is caused to act, or caused to \nrest ; hence every thought and every oi\'uev event which does \noccur, must as p-ecessarily occur as an effect must follow its \ncause ; for indeed it is nothing short of an effect of a cause, \nJNow the assertion that man is a free agent, is diametrically/ \nopposed to this fact. To be a (ree agent, is to be somethnig \nthat can act without being acted upon \xe2\x80\x94 somethmg in v^hicli \nactions occur without a cause. To be sure, a man may do \nas he pleases, chooses, or has a mind to ; but this is saying \nnothing at all in favor of a man\'s {ree agency. Does he \nchoose to do this or that without a cause ? if he do, then we \nhave eve. its without causes 5 if not, then man is not a free \nagent. Free agency, I begin to think, is a peculiar attribute \nof ihe Omnipolent. However, let me examine what may be \n\n\n\n24t \n\nsaid OP the oilier s\'cte of the question. -- \n\n, \'-^- Well, I can\'t Uiiiik ot an} thing that \n\ncan be said, which has the appearance of being in favor of \nthe doctrine of free agency, except that God Almighty will \ndamn men to all eternity if they don\'t do so and so, and that a \nman may do as he pleases, chooses, or has a " mind to." As \nto the first, I never heard God Almighty say that he should \ndamn any one (o all eternity ; of course, it must be with me \na matter ofjudgment whether he ever did.^ Now I have no \ndoubt but that he will do so, if he said he should ; but I \nshould not judge that he will damn any man eternally, when \nlie never did any thing without a cause \xe2\x80\x94 never d\'d any thing \nbut v^hat he must as necessarily do. as gunpowder must bura \nwhen fire is communicated to it. \n\n" As to saymg that a nfian may do as he pleases, chooses, de- \nsires, wif^hcs, or has a mind to, the whole means nothing more \nthan that a man may have a greater desire to do one thing \nthan to do another, and may (must) act according to the pre- \ndominant desiie. But as 1 was just now thinking, this is say- \ning nott\'ing in favor of nsan\'s free agency; for these desires, \nlike every thing < Ise, must occur, whenever they are caused ; \nand to say that a man has control over his desires, is as truly \n\n* Lxceptiiig self-evident proposltioiis, and what we witness our- \nselves, ever^ diinji is a nuitler of ji-dgiiiMit If len men come to \nme iuid lell me that there is a cow ia n\xc2\xbby j^arden, J should no doifbt \nbelieve them, and proceed to drive her out. Bat why do I beheve \nthem ? it is not because of my thing self-evident in the nature of \ntlie statement\'; but because it is most likely \xe2\x80\x94 it much more fre- \nquently happens, as I have loutid by experience, that a cow j/ets \ninn* one\'s garden, than that ten men, or even one man, go to an- \noilnr and tell hnn \'hat there ir: a cow in his ganlen when theie is \nDot. If i knew such men tube a "^ei o( Iviuj;, tiickish fellows, dis- \nposed to put Ufion niH, and \xc2\xab\' my garden weie fenced all around \nwith a strung fence seven feet hii^h, and if 1 had jusi come out of it, \naid locked the ot ly gale aiid had the key in my pocket, 1 should \nnot beiitve that iheie is any cow in ai^ gardta. \n\n\n\n248 \n\nthough not as ohviously absurd, as lo say that a man has con- \ntrol over his original organization \xe2\x80\x94 as to say a male might \nhave been born a female, or might have grovvn to be a female \nafter he was born, the power being uilhin himself, and the \nlaws of nature being subject to such power. \n\n"A man has no absolute control over his desires, and none \nbut the shortsighted will say it. To be sure, a man may de- \nsire to go to a house of lewdness, and there -hall be no mecha- \nnical impediment to his going, and yei he does not go ; but he \nthat says that such man curbs or controls his desires, does not \nspeak philosophically. The truth is, the man thinks over \n(not by the \'\'will," but the tendencies of hjs sensorium are \nsuch that he thinks over) all the bad ronsequetices of going, \nsuch as disease, self reproach, loss of character, loss of money, \nperhaps of life \xe2\x80\x94 he thinks how probable it is thai some of \nthese evils vvill at\'end his going ; and oa the whole, ab.hough \nhis desire to go to said house be great, his desire to avoid the \nconsequences of going is still greater, and so, instead of curb- \ning or controlling his desires, he only acts agreeable to the \nstrongest, as every body else does ; for such is the law of vo- \nlition. \n\n" It appears, then, that it is more agreeable with what T know \nto be a fact, [that there are no events without causes^) to say \nthat man is not a free agent, than to say that he is; therefore \nI say that man is not a free agent." \n\nWe have now supposed a case in which a man retires to his \nbed, where no impressions of importance are made upon his \nsenses, and by mere cof^itation comes to a new conclusion con- \ncerning free agency. In this case it may as truly be said that \nthe man judges, reasons, or comparts ideas with ideas, as in \nany other. But what goes on in his head ? It appears to us most \nclearly, that all this judging, r-easoning, or comparing of ideas, \nconsists in nothing more or less than in having ideas relative \n\n\n\n^46 \n\nto the question, (Ideas, which are of course disposecl to run \ntogether, for inasmuc h as they relate to the subject they are \nrelated to each other,) occur, one afier anolher. And if, by \ncomparing ideas \\he schoolmen mean having ideas occur in. \nclose succession^ there is some (ruth in the expression ; but if \nthey do not mean this, we must continue to say, (hat they talk \nnonsense, until (hey show us, disJinctly, what they do mean. \nFrom what has been said, it a[)pears, that those who talk \nabout a judging, a reasoning, a guessing, or an intuitive " prin- \nciple," meaning by such principle, something superadded to \nthat which thinks, talk about that which has no existence. \n\nWhen any thing is reported to an assembly of men, some may \nthink the report is true, and some that it is not. In such case it \nwould be no uncommon way of speaking, to say that each man \nforms his opinion, by comparing the report with his former \nknowledge ; and different men lorm ditferent opinions, because \nthey are men of ditfeient knowledge. Such language as this, \nthough tigurative, is not absurd, it means something. Suppose \nthat Asa reports that Ben, of Coik, has murdered David of \nthat place. One man thinks this report is true; because he \nknows that such reports are generally true ; because he has \nbeen told that Ben, the muroc rer, is a vicious drunken ft\'lh w \nand very quarrelsome ; because he has been led to believe \nthat Asa, the reporter, wdl not lie or tell marvellous things \nmerely to excite notice, &c &c. But another man thinks \nthe report is false ; because he knows (hat Asa is a liar; be- \ncause he knows that Ben, notwithstanding what has been said \nof him, is a peaceable arid sober man ; because he has \nlately been at Cork, is well acqurtinled there, and knows of \nno such inhabitant in town as D,iv\\d, \n\nIn the above case, it may be sa^d that the men compare \nwhat they hear with wiiat they know, (it matters not whether \n\n32 \n\n\n\n250 \n\nthey have heen taught falsely or ^riily, it is know to them,) \nand being men of different knowledge, they come to difft^r- \nent conclusions. But this comparing consists in nothing other \nthan thinking over one thought after another. \n\nBut when men on hearing the same statements, conclude, \nsome of them, that the thing stated is false, and others that it \nis true, it would be unmeaning, or at least, unphilosophical, \nto say that they do so because they are men of different \'"judg- \nments.-\' It would, also, be incorrect to say that they come \nto different conclusions on thinking over the same fact> or \ndata. \n\nIn the first place, a man\'\'s \'* judgment" can mean nothing \nother than his opinion, belief, or conclusion; and to say that \nmen believe differently, or have different opinions concerning \nany matter, because they are men of different judgments, \nTvould be as nonsensical as to say that they have ditleivnt \nopinions, because they have different opinions. As to saving \nthey form different conclusions from the same data, this is \nfalse ; unless we use the word data in a certain restricted \nsense :\xe2\x80\x94 they do not come to different conclusions on think- \ning over the same thoughts. It must never be forgotten, that \nthe statements narrated to any one in any story or bit of news, \nare very far from being all that such one thinks of in case he \njudge whether the main stor}^ be true or false. Every impor- \ntant consideration, relative to the subject, is likely to occur ; \nand every thing which has any bearing upon the subject, and \nV\'hich the juJger thinks of, may, in the broad sense of the \nV ord, be considered as data to &u< h judger. We believe that \nall men, on thinking the same thoughts, on thinking of the \nsame facts, always come to the same conclusion. \n\nWe have said that judging consists in thinking of every thing \nwhich relates to the subject, in a coimected order ; but we \nwould be understood, that this is important to correct judg- \n\n\n\n251 \n\ning. Whoever comes to a conclusion in this way, will never \nentertain a different, unless falsehoods have been or shall be \nimposed on him for Hicts. We are far from saying that a \nJinn cannot judge concerning any question unless he be ac- \nquainted with all the facts of importance that relate to the \nquestion. But we would say that the more any man knows \nconcerning any question, the more likely is his opinion con- \ncerning this question to he correct. When a man thinks of \nevery thing he knows concerning any question, in a clear and \nuninterrupted order, he judges as well as he ever can con- \ncerning this question, until he knows more relative to it. \n\nIt may be asked if men generally think of every particular \nfact that relates to a question, before they come to have that \nconsciousness which we call a belief, opinion, conclusion, or \nconviction, concerning this question \xe2\x80\x94 before they feel a con- \nviction that the negative or atfirmative of such question is \ntrue ? We answer, no. \n\nMen often feel satisfied as to the truth or falsity of any thing \nstated to them, the moment they hear it ; and it is too fre- \nquently the case that they utter their opinion, and blindly in- \nsist on its being correct, before they have been at the pains of \nthinking over every thing that relates to it. The reason they \nfeel satisfied so instantly, is this : they have previously thought \nof many facts relative to the subject, and in this way have ar- \nrived to certain conclusions ; these conclusions they, of \ncourse, hold to be true; (for this is only saying in other \nwords, that they arrive to such conclusions \xe2\x80\xa2,) they hold them \nas principles by which the truth of other sayings are to be \ntested j and to test them they have only to think them in con- \nnexion with such principles. If the sayings agree with these \nprinciples, they are immediately sensible of it, on thinking of \nthem in connexion with the principles; so if they disagree^ \nthey are immediately sensible of it. For illustration *, It ic \n\n\n\n252 \n\nwith me an ultimate conclusion, a fundamental principle, that. \nthe brain thinks ; but this coturlusion is the resuU of many \nyears\' study, hi arriving at it, 1 may have thought over tive \nthousand particular facts which have some relation to it ; in \nthis way I may have first arrived to several minor conclusions, \nsuch as, \xe2\x80\x94 Thinking goes on it thi\' head \xe2\x80\x94 Whatever affects the \nlower ceiUral purt of the brain, affects orie\'\'s powers to think \xe2\x80\x94 \n\xe2\x96\xa0Animals luhose brams are less perfectly devtloped, possess in- \nferior thinking abilities, ^"c. ^ c. And as a variety of particu- \nlar facts may have led to these minor conclusions, so iheise \nminor conclusions may have led to the grand conclusion, \xe2\x80\x94 \nthe brain thinks. Now if any one tcil me that an immaterial \nthing lodged in one\'s brain, thinks, 1 no sooner hear him than \nI am sensible that what he says does not accord with what is \nwith me a fact or principle ; hence I can inslanti}\' say that \nwhat the man tells me is false. \n\nAgain. It may be asked, if a man\'s conclusion may not be \ncorrect, if, while he is thijiking over llie facts that relate to a \nquestion, he chaticc to thiiik, here and there, many thoughts \nwhich are foreign to the question? We answer, I\'o; but it \nwill be said, how often does it happen that while a man is \njudging he is interrupted by questions and the like, which ex- \ncite thoughts foreign to the subject under cnnsideration ; and \n}et the man arrive to a correct conclusion! All this wegrant, \nbut the truth is, after being interrupted in his cogitations, the \nman begins anew, and thinks all the particular facts over again, \nor else he had, previous to beir.g interrupted, summed up, as \nit were, all these particulars into a few minor conclusions, so \nthat after, he has only to thitik of these conclusions in one sm- \ngle and uniiiierrnnted gl-tnce, to come to the same conclusion \nthat he would if he had riot been interrupted. Hence a man \nmay cog tate half au hour upon some question and not come \nto a final delerminaliou ; (our metaphysical vocabulary coil- \n\n\n\n25$ \n\ntains a surplu? of word?; ;) at this instant he may be interrupt- \ned, and afterwards come to a final judgment, in five minutes. \n\nIt appears to us pretty clear th;it in order to jud^^e correctly \nconcerning any subject, a man must think of every thing that \nhas any important bearing on the subject, in one single, and \nuninterrupted train, or else he must have the numerous indi- \nvidual facts sunmted up into mii.or conclusions, and must think \nover these conclusions in a like uninterrupted succession. \nWere it not necessary to think every important thought or \nfact, then a man migiit be ignorant of an important fact, and \nyet form just as corrccc a conclusion ; and if he could do this, \nwe should, indeed, cease to call the fact important, as it re- \nspects the conclusioji. We are led lo think that aU the im- \nportant particular facts (or their equivalents) concerning any \nsubject, or question, must occur in an uniideri^upted order to \nconstitute a judging process, not only from finding (so far as \nwe can determine by \'\' turning our thoughts inward") that \nthis is what takes place in us when we judge; but from the \nfollowing consideralions, \n\nF.rst. That which thuiks can think but one thought at a \ntime, and if a man be caused to stop in the middle of a traia \nof thoughts relative to a question, and to think something \nquite foreign to this question ; then his train is divided into \ntvvo parts; one part of which is past and gone, and the other \npart of which is still to come. Now if the first part, or some \nconclusion arrived at by thinking over the first part, do not \nagain recur in connexion with the latter; it seems to us as \nthough the man\'s conclusion must be the same as if the first \npart had never occurred at all \xe2\x80\x94 must be the same as if the \nman were so ignorant as not to know the facts which he \nthought of in the first part of the train. \n\nSecoiid. If we grant, as we do, fhat what is called a judg- \ning or reasoning process is dificreiit from wliat is ordinarily \n\n\n\n254 \n\ngoing on in our heads ; W would puzzle us exceedingly to tell \nwhat this difference consists in, if we did not say it consists in \nthinking over every thing related to the subject concerning \nV ha h we judge, in a connected order. To think oferery thing \nin a disconnected order, would not constitute a judging; if it \nwould, one might think of one thing relative to a certain sub- \nject to-day, of another thing to-morrow, and so on, untilin the \ncourse of a week or fortnight he may have thought of every \nthing relative to the subject, and then be said to have judged \nconcerning it ; although he may have not thought of two things \nrelative! the subject, in connexion. \n\nThird. If a man, while reading a book, think of this, that, \nand the other Ihing which does not relate to the subject be\xc2\xab \nfore him, he does not obtain the author\'s meaning, and in or- \nder to do tfiis, must read I he page or sentence over again. \n\nWhat is necessary to constitute a good judger ? Several \nthi?)gs are necessary to constJtute a good judger. We will \nnotice thret\' or four. \n\nFirst. It IS necessary that the brain be a moderately active \none ; that is, a brain in which one action, or one thought, \nproves the occasion of another which is pretty nearly related \nto ft ; and not a brain which thinks one thought after another, \nwhich thoughts bear only vevy slight and unimportant rela- \ntions to each other. If the brain be too active, or, to speak \nfigiirately, if the suggesting principle be too active, thoughts \nare liable to occur when the man is judging, which bear only \nsome obscure and unimportant relation to each other. Such \na br^in, instead of thinking over in a connected order, all \nthonglns that have any important bearing upon the question \nunder consideration, would skip off, as it were, to some other \ns ibject ; hence incongruous thoughts would, here and there, \nhe popping into existence, dividing the true judging train into \nseverai pa^s. But such thinking as this woaid not constitute \n\n\n\n2o& \n\na clear and distinct view oi a subject. \xe2\x80\x94 Instead of not think- \ning enosigh. such a brain thiaks too much. \n\nOn the other hand, if the biam be not active enough, ma\xc2\xab \nny impor\'ant thoughts may not occur, aUhough these thoughts \nbe such as have before occurred in the same brain ; and on \ntins account the conclusion may be as different from what it \notherwise would bave been, as a chemical compound from \nwhat it would have been, had many elements entered into it. \nwhich did not. \xe2\x80\x94 VVils have very active brains ; reasoners, \nmo ierately active ones ; and blockheads, very dull brains. \n\nSecond. To be a good judger, it is necessary that the brain, \nor more strictly, the sensorium, possess such tendencies that, \non (he occasion, it will think all, or at least a great proportion \nof the thoughts that have any bearing upon the subject judg- \ned of. In other words, knowledge is necessary to a good \njudger. It is a bad thing to have the sensorium possess false \ntt-ndencies \xe2\x80\x94 tendencies to think of things ditlerently from \nwhat they actually are in nature ; as if. for instance, one had \nbeen taught, and of course had tendencies to think, what we \nwould express by these words: Gunpowder, if Sjwn, will \ncome up and bear a new crop of gunpozuder. \n\nThird. It is necessary that the sensorial tendencies be suf- \nficiently strong to become operative on the occasion. The \nse.isoriutn may be well orgafiized \xe2\x80\x94 may be naturally active \nesiough, and mwy possess a good number of tendencies ; but \nowing to its having acted but few times, these tendencies may \nbe so weak as not to become operative when they ought to ; \nthat is, the thoughts corresponding to these tendencies wdl \nnor occur, thougii naturaiiy related to other ttiougi.tj which \ndo occur. \n\nWe sometimes hear it said thit a man\'s judgment is warp- \ned by prejudice. We admit \\\\\\ .i there is >ome meaning ia \nthis ambiguous eXi^ressiOu, and Wili briiig a case m whtch ifc \n\n\n\n25& \n\ninnybe said that a man\'s judgment is warped by pre]\'ndice ; \nin donig which we shall give our views of the nature of this \nprejudice. Suppose the passion of love to h^ive been excited \nin a man by a lady of fine acco;npli\xc2\xabhin(MUs, and in whose \ncompany he has enjoyed m^ny pleasurable emotions \xe2\x80\x94 sup- \npose him now to travel untn some distant land, and there see \na similar looking lady, of whose character he knows nothing : \nthis lady, owing to the disposition of his sensorium to act in \nconnexion those actions which are related, re-excites many \nof those pleasurable emotions which the man experienced \nwhile in company with the other lady. He would, oti this ac- \ncount, be favorably disposed towards her; and if he were \nnow told of any crime vvh^ch she had done, he would not so \nreadily believe it, or, at least, if he did believe it. (as he \nwould if he thought over the same thou^^hts as others who be- \nlieved it,) he would look upon it, as we may say, with a for- \ngiving temper \xe2\x80\x94 he would th^nk v\\hether or no she weie not \nplaced under peculiar circumstances, and acted from better \nmotives than is generally snp[)osed. The deed would not ap- \npear so heinous to him \xe2\x80\x94 would not excite such a lively sense \nof disapprobation as though she had never awakened any \npleasurable emotions in him.. The reason is liiis : even now \nthe thoughts of the evil deed are niingleii withihe [deasnrable \nemotions, so that what he now exj>er;enres is not pleasurable \nemotions, purely, nor purely a sense of disapprobation. \n\nWhen a man v/i!l not hear or read arguments against doc- \ntrines which he believes, or when convinced of his errors, he \nwill not own it; we would not speak so favorably of him as \nto say he is prejudiced ; we would sav he is a wilful old hy- \npocrite, determined to adere to his opinions, false or true; \nand professing to believe that which he does not. Surely, if \na man profess to believe that a great proportion of mankind \nwill be forever miserable in a future slate, because a woinaa \n\n\n\n257 \n\neat an apple some thousand years ago, when hp does not be- \nlieve so, why not call him a hypocrite, and say to hira, \'^ wo \nunto thee ?" \n\nWe are now about to enter on a subject which is render- \ned rather abstruse by the laugunge which relates to it, \nand which has so long been in fanailiar use, that we catinot \nconveniently avoid using it. Tiie infl lence of language over \none\'s opinions, is almost inconceivabie. Even those who \nare aware of this fact, and strive to rid themselves of this in- \nfl jence, are often most strangely bimded by it. We are per- \npetually haui\xc2\xbbted with the notion that every name must mean \nsome thing, and that words and expressions which are, ia \nthemselves, quite ditferent, must mean something quite differ- \nent. \n\n\n\n\xe2\x96\xa000- \n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVIII. \n\nOn Belief. \n\nBefore we attempt to define belief, or rather, before we at* \ntempt to show what takes place in a man\'s head when he is \nsaid to believe; we must say a little concerning the meaning \nof certain other words and expressions. \n\nWe consider the expressions \xe2\x80\x94 To think \xe2\x80\x94 to think thoughts \n^-to think of things-\xe2\x80\x94 nwd to think over fads, or testimonies, \nas synonimous expressions, or so nearly synonimous thai we \nshall leave it to more acute thinkers to point.out the differ- \nence between them, if they think it worth while to puzz!e \ntheir heads about it. And we hold that to think, means the \nsame thing as to have thoughts occur f and ihe reader already \n\nknows, that we consider a ihoughi, and a conscient action of \n\n3:^ \n\n\n\n258 \n\nMie sensorium, as one and the skme thing. By incongruous \nthoughts, (an expression we shall soon have occasion to use) \nwe nnean such thoughts as we should exjiress by what we call- \ned, contrary terms or statements. Peter testifies that Johii \nKendall was at his house last Saturday evening at eight o\'- \nclock ; Goodell testifies that he lives twenty miles from Pe- \nter\'s and that said John Kendall was at his house last Satur- \nday evening at eight o\'clock, and that he stayed there all night. \nThese two evidences excite in us, incongruous thoughts\xe2\x80\x94- \ntheir te\'stimonies are iiicongrucus, and they are incongruous \nevidences. \n\nThere are two species of belief, sensorial or rational belief, \nand nervous or seutierst belief. \n\nRational belief is that consciousness which exists when a \nman thinks over congruous thoughts or testimonies. If the \nthoughts be perfectly congruous \xe2\x80\x94 be all bearing one way, \nthe belief may be said to be of the highest degree; but\'if \nthere be any disagreement, or isicongruity between one\'s \nthoughts, relative to a particular subject or question, his be- \nlief relative to this subject or question, will be of a lower de- \ngree. If the evidences for and against any question exactly \ncounterbalance each other there is no belief as to this ques- \ntion \xe2\x80\x94 the man does not feel any conviction., as the expression \nis, that an affirmative or a negative answer to this question \nwould be the true one. \n\nNow comes the rub. \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nWe lay down the following positions as indisputable : \xe2\x80\x94 that \nwhatever thniks. can think but one thought at a time \xe2\x80\x94 that a \nthought is an act of that which thinks \xe2\x80\x94 and that putting aside \nsensations, consciousness does not exist when that which thinks \nis inactive, flence it follows, that when a nian thinks he is \nnot conscious, and when he is conscious he does not think, or \nelse, that, to think, and to be conscious, are one and the same \n\n\n\n259 \n\nthing ; consciousness being, ofcourse, aVord alniosf superflu.- \n\xc2\xa9U8, and calculated to puzzle the philosopher and deceive \nthose who " take words for things aud suppose that nannes in \nbooks signify real entities in nature." No one, we think, qan \nhesitate, for a moment, which to say \xe2\x80\x94 he will say that to think \nis to be conscious. \n\nThus much we have said, that the reader may the bettef \nunderstand and admit what we are about to sa> concerning \nbelief. We do not suppose that the word belief signifies any \nparticular act of that which thinks \xe2\x80\x94 any act which always \noccurs when a man beheves, let him believe what he may ; \nbut we suppose that, to THiNK over congruous thoughts, \nIS TO BfciLiEVE. Hence a man may have as many beliefs as \nhe may think over trains of congruous thoughts, relative to \nthe innumerable subjects and questiuus with which naankmd \nare concerned. \n\nA man can have no idea of belief, except of the word itself, \nnor. can he say that vrhen he believes he always experiences \nsome particular feeling or consciousness. But this he can \nsay, to believe a thing and not to believe it, are not one and \nthe same thing; and tliis is prjstty much all he can say about \nit, if he be no metaphysician. If he turn his thoughts inward, \nand attempt to satisfy himself by observation, zohat it is, to be- \nlieve, he gets no satisfaction \xe2\x80\x94 he cannot find that any thing \nmore or less takes place within, than ideas of objects, sounds, \nflavors, &;c. one after another. It is not an easy matter t& \ndetermine by direct observation wliat constitutes believing. \n\nEvery man would always believe the shortest statement that \ncan be made concerning any thing, if this statement contained \nwithin itself no contradiction, and if the statement ,did not \nsuggest any further thoughts relative to the same thing. If a \nman should step in, and say to me, thert is a cow in your gar- \nden, 1 should certainly believe him if nothing farther should \n\n\n\n\xe2\x80\xa260 \n\noccur to me concerning the matter : \xe2\x80\x94 I do believe him the ve- \nry instant I hear him, and may this ii^stant start to drive her \nout; but the next itistant some thought ma) occur to me, \nwhich is inconsistent with this statement, and this instant my \nbehef is weakened if not destroyed. If 1 think that my gar- \nden is so fenced that no cow can gel into it except through the \ngate, that I was just now in my garden, looked all over it, and \nthtre was no cow in it then, and that when I came out 1 lock- \ned ihe only gate, put, and still have, the key in my pocket ; I \nmay even believe in a high degree, that there is no cow in my \ngarden, so turn about and come back. \n\nThe reason why we believe that four and four are eight, \nand that the three angles of a triangle are equal to two right \nangles, is because we think over no incongruous thoughts con- \ncerning these things. It is universally agreed that the name \n\xc2\xa9f that sum which is equal to twice four, shall be eight j but \nsuppose that a child were told by one, that four and four are \neleven, by another that four and four are six, and by a third \nthat four and four are eight ; would he believe that four and. \nfour are eight? Surd) he would, as the expression is, have \ndovbta about it. \n\nIf two men should tell him that four and four are six to one \nthat tells him that four and four are eight, he would, other \nthings being equal,* beheve in a low degree,! that four and \n\n* *\' Other things bein^ tqi)al " \xe2\x80\x94 IVItnl things? The principal \none is the chi\'d\'s coiifiience in his instructors Hut what is one\'s \ncofifi/iericf in a thinjj. and how does he come l)y \\\\ ? One\'s confi- \ndence in any \'hing. or concerning any \'hnig, is the same a\xc2\xab his be- \nlie! in such thino. or concernnig such thing ; Hnd in the case of the \nch Id, he is us confident that one ol his teachers tells him the truth \nas that the other does, provided he have never tound that either of \nth^^m tol \xe2\x99\xa6 him anv thing false, and that he know both are equalh re- \nputed by others for veracity, &\xc2\xab\' &c. \n\nt There are all drg\xc2\xbbees of h^^liel from the highest conviction to \nthe meiesi conjecture. We hdve uui yel agreed upou leiois tu axr- \n\n\n\n261 \n\nfonr are pix. Iflbe world were disputing abo!it the mp\'aning \nof the word n\'g-Z/^rt/Jg^e, some saying it is an angle ofSOde* \ngrees, some, that it is an angle of 90 deiirees, and others that it \nis an angle of 45 degrees, &( \xe2\x80\xa2 &c. ; then one migfit not heheve \nthat the three angles of a triangle are equal to two right an- \ngles. It is true that this dispute and uncertainty about the \nmeaning of one or more words, would not alter the absolute \nnature or relation of ans^les ; but it would cause some to make \nstatetneuts concerning them which others would not believe. \nDisputes and disagreements give rise io uncertainty ^ hj \nwhich term we mean a low degree of belief, or even neutral- \nity of opinion. \xe2\x80\x94 When a man is neuter as to his opinion con- \ncerning a!)v question, it is comtnon to hear him say, " I \nscarcely know what to believe about the matttr." \n\nOur intuitive belief of, or relative to, mathematical axioms, \nis owing to the umversality of agreement among men as to \nthe meaning of the terms of the mathematical sciences, and \nto the unchangeableness of the relations between numbers, \nangles, &c. in tb.emselves considered. If twelve cubic inch \nblorks, placed side by side, extend a certain distance, wiiich \ndistance we call a foot, the same number of like blocks, pla- \nced in like manner, will always extend the same distance ; \nwhether we do or do not use the same word to denote this \ndistance, and the same v^ord to denote this number of blocks. \nHence we say the relation between this distance and this \nnumber of blocks, is unalterable. But the relations between \nmany things in nature suffer changes, some of which are un- \nknown, and others of which we have no terms to express ; \nand more than this, when speaking of these relations, differ- \nent men often use dffeient terms to express the same idea\xc2\xa9 \n\npress precisely, ^he several riegr*\'es of belief. The word opihian^ \ngeiuMiilly joiiveys a iioiiou ot a tlegttt\' oi btliti auiutwiiul betwt\xc2\xabn \nGODJectuie uud cuuviciiou. \n\n\n\n262 \n\n0r pentJmenfs ; hence arise uncertainty and disputes concero- \niijg\' these things. \n\nThe reason why every body beheves that the same antece- \ndents vYJil, under the same circumstanre&i, always be follow- \ned bj the same consequents, is because they never knew hke \nantecedents he followed by unlike consequents, under the \nsame circumstance^?. Had men frequently, or even once, \nseen a candle continue to burn when dipped iiito water, they \nwould afterwards, on being asked if they believe that a can- \ndle will be extiuguished when dipped into water, think that \nthey have seen it continue to burn in such case ; consequent- \nly their belief that it will be extinguished, would not be of \nthe highest degree. \xe2\x80\x94 Instead of thinkmg over congruous \nthoughts relative to the question, they would think what may \nbe expressed thus : Candles have been extinguished by dip- \nping into water\xe2\x80\x94 candles have not been extinguished by dip- \nping into water. \n\nSuppose that a man has found by his own experience, as \nwell as ly the testimony ofotliers, that a candle just as (re- \nquejitly continues to burn when dipped into water, as to go \nout, he would have no belief, one way or tfie other, about the \nquestion \xe2\x80\x94 Will this candle go out if I dip it into water ? He \nwould be opinion neuter as to this question. Still he might \nsffi/, he believes it will go out, or that it will continue to burn.\' \n\xe2\x80\x94 People often express opinions, and sometimes adhere to \nthose of " Mr. Leadtheflock," when they have none. \n\nShould a mar) have learnt that catidles more frequently go \nout wlicn dipped into water than otherwise, he would have \nsome degree of belief that a candle will now go out if dipped \ninto the water; asid this degree would be below tirm convic- \ntion, in proportion to the number of times that (as he has \nlearnt) a candle does not go out, to tie lUinber that it does, \nwhen dipped ado water 5 in otiier words, the more frequent- \n\n\n\n263 \n\nly (as he ba? learnt) that a candle continnes to hqrn \'wlien \ndipped into water, the less would be his beJief that a ch .die \nwill go out on being dipped into water. \xe2\x80\x94 The events which \ntake place within the skull occur according to law ana order, \nas mach as those that occur without ; and every man, learn- \ned or unlearned, would say so, if he could but think hozv he \nthinks at tSie same time he thinks \xe2\x80\x94 lie would hid that in the \nskull the same antecedents are always followed by the saoie \nconsequent?, nnder the same circumstances. \n\nA man\'s belief dependt> as much on tlje facts which are told, \nor which occur to hmi \xe2\x80\x94 depends as much on the thoughts \nwhich he thinks, as the properties of a chemical compound \ndepend on the kinds and proportions of elements that enter \ninto it ; and as a neutral salt may be rendered decidedly acid, \nor decidedly alkaline, by the addition of a little more acid, or \na little more alkali, so a man being opinion neiter, as to any \nquestion, for instance, "\' Is the body of Morgan found V may, \nby a httle newspaper report, be made to believe one thing to- \nday and by an opposite report be made to believe the con- \ntrary to-morrovv. And we may here add, a man\'s belief is \nnothirjg distinct from the thoughts wiiich he thinks, any more \nthan the propertsesof a body are something distinct Aom such \nbody. As these properties constitute the body, so do the \nthoughts which one thnd<s constitutt his belief \xe2\x80\x94 to ihink over \ncongruous thoughts is to believe. Yet our language, in spite \nof our teeth, conveys the sentiment tliat the properties of a 60- \ndi/ are something djstinct from, or something besides the body \nitself^ and that a man\'s behef or conclusion concerning any \nthnig, is something besides the thoughts, relative to sac^ \nthing, which he thinks over, in coml\\g to such conclusion. \nBut we must remember, that a m;\xc2\xabn does not come to a conclu- \nsion^ except in a peculiar sense of the expressiou ; his con- \nclusion goes along wilii him, if we may so say, and ake/a ac- \n\n\n\n254 \n\neordin^ fo the thoughts which occur to him ; and when he \nhas thought over ail fhe thou^^hts rel.itiv^e to a qaestioii, his \nConcUisiou may be dilFerent troin what it wis before he had \nthought hut a part ; aiid this last, this uitimale, coiichision, is \nwhat is geoerally called the coik lu^ion. \n\nBut after all that we can say, unices the reader have the \nrack of distiuguishiiig between things and sounds, he will be \nhaunted with the sentimeiit that a man\'s belief, conclusion, \nopinion, ronviction, judgment, &c. &c, is somethmg distinct \nfrom the thoughts which lead to this belief; {or we must use \nthe very languao^e which is so calculated to deceive. \n\nEvery rational or sensorial belief supposes a judging pro- \ncess, however short it \'oay be; but in saying this, we mean \ni)y the expression Jwjig-ui^ process^ a thinking over in close or- \nder a chain of thougiits relative to a subject or question, whe- \nther these thoughts be incongruous or not, Bnt if we mis- \ntake not, men would generally understand by \'\xe2\x96\xa0^ julg\'nis; pro* \nCcss^ only a process in which one thinks over incongruous \nthoughts; and would say that the m ui "^ weighs or compares \nthe facts on both sides of ihe queston, atnl decides according- \nly," &c. &;c. In our sense of the expression, we hold that \nevery intuitive belief, supposes a judging process \xe2\x80\x94 supposes \nthe thinking over of certain congruons thoughts. \n\nBut althou-h every sensorial oelief supposes ajud^ing pro- \ncess, still every judgijig process does not coastilaie a belief; \nfor if the oppo\xc2\xab>ing thongh.s or teslimonies exactly neutralize \nor counterbalance each other, the man is opinion neuter. \nBut if a man be opinion neuter as to any qiiestion. and still be \ncalled upon to give a decision, one way or the other, he can \ndo it, haphazard, in word and act ; but he is not the subject \nof that consciousness which congruous thoughls constitute. \n\nShould anyone be disponed to maintain (hat to think over \na chaiii of congruous thoughts, is not to believe, will he be so \n\n\n\n265 \n\ngood as to show what it is to believe ; and why it is that the \nverb to believe conveys no idea but what may be conveyed \nby the verb to think? In all cases the verb to thiak rnay be so \nused as to convey the same sense as the verb to believe. \n\nWhat we have said in the fore part of this chapter concern- \ning consciousness, may be said concerning belief. If to be- \nlieve and to think certain thoughts in a certain order, be not \nthe same, then a man cannot believe the instant he thinks, nor \nthink the instant he believes. \n\nSensitive Belief, To believe is natural. A man believes \nevery thing to be as his senses testify, if he think of nothing \nopposed to such testimony. He believes the testimony of one \nsense, if this testimony be nol coiHradicted by some fact pre- \nviously known to him, or by the testimony of another sense. \n\nIf a man\'s optic nerves should act as they do when he looks \nat another man, though no other man be present (;i thing that \noften happens in dreaming and delirium) he would believe \nthat another man is present ; but should he put forth his hands \nand feel for this man, and feel nothing, there would be a con- \ntradiction between his senses, and hence no sensitive belief; \nfor should the man at length believe that no such man is pre- \nsent, his belief would be of the rational species, it would be \nthe result (as language compels us to say) of a judging process \ninasmuch as the man would think over several thoughts, su( h, \nperhaps, as may be expressed thus : \xe2\x80\x94 " 1 have heard it said \nthat a man\'s optic nerves sometimes act as though he were \nlooking at a particular object, though no such object be pre- \nsent; and in such case the man as much believes tlie object \nis present as though it really were; but I never knew that: \nthe sense of feeling ever so deceived. And as my head has \nbeen disordered for several days, my eyes rather weak wsihal, \n1 guess I have not actually seen any man here; but my tyes \n\nhave deceived me." \n\n34 \n\n\n\n266 \n\nShould a man\'s auditory nerves chance to act as they do \nwhen one is in the room talking with hun, he would beheve \nsome one to be present, hut on looking round and seeing no \none present, nor any possible chance for one to escape so in- \nstantly, such belief would no longer exist, for there would be \na contradiction between his senses ; and as the ear more fre- \nquently deceives than the eye, knowing this, he might, and \nprobably would, even btlieve that no man is or just lias been \nin his room* \n\nIf the sense of vision and the sense of feeling should both \ntestify that an object is present, we believe that all the world \ncould not convince the person that no such object is. present. \n\nIt is not to be supposed that when a man has experienced \nan action of one sense, another sense can testify so as to pre- \nvent a belief of the man that he has experienced something. \nIf a man\'s optic nerves should act as when he looks at another \nman, although no other man be present, he believes he sees \nsuch other man ; but if the sense of feeling testify that no man \nis present, ?/iw belief will be destroyed, but the man will still \nbelieve that he lias experienced something, either a real of \nfalse seeing. \xe2\x80\x94 A seeing without impression is a false seeing. \n\nOne sense cannot testify that another sense has not acted ; \nit can only testify that it has acted falsely. \n\nThe sense of feeling does, perhaps, less seldom act without \ninipression, less seldom deceive^ than aiiy other ; hen^ e, when \nthis sense contradicts such senses as it can contradict, particu-^ \nlarly that of vision, the man believes things to be as thisbense \ntestifies. \n\nThe reason why a man believes his senses in preference to \n?ill other kinds of testimony, is because they so seldom testify \nfalsely in proportion to the number of times they testify cor- \nrectly \xe2\x80\x94 in proportion to the number of times that they agree. \nIf it were as seldom that a man hears a false report, \xe2\x80\x94 if it were \n\n\n\n267 \n\nas impossible for a man to tell a falsehood, as it is for the sense \nof vision to testify that an object is present, when the hand \ncan feel no such object, every man would then believe a re- \nport as readily as be believes his own senses. Several ficts \ngo to prove this statement. \n\nIf, owing to disease, any sense have deceived a man a (ew \ntimes, (which deception a sane man discovers by the aid of \nhis other senses, and by a judging process,) be does not im- \nplicitly crfidit this sense ; he would sooner believe the testi- \nmony of his friends. If, in a man who has been a few times \ndeceived by his eyes, a candle should excite the same actions \nthat two candles do in a healthy man, he would say : \xe2\x80\x94 \'\' It \nseems to me that there are two candles, but I am not certain, \nmy eyes sometimes deceive mc." \n\nWhen men see objects, a mountain, for instance, which ap- \npear but five miles off, they do not have a high degree of be- \nlief that they are but five miles off, because they know that \nby measurement, objects have often been found to be farther \noff than the eye testifies them to be. A medicine or an arti\xc2\xab \ncle of food may taste bitter to a sick man ; but if his attend- \nants tell him that it is not, in its nature, bitter, he believes \nthat it is not, even if it be something that he never tasted of \nwhile in healih. For he believes, or by argument can be \nmade to believe, that an article of food or medicine may taste \nbitter to a sick man, though it does not to others. These \nfacts, and some others that might be adduced, tend to show \nthat the reason why a man so readily believes his senses^ as the \nexpression is, is because they so seldom testify falsely, so sel- \ndom contradict each other, in proportion to the number of \ntimes that they agree. \n\nAs a sense may testify falsely, it may be asked how we can \nknow that all our senses do not, at all times, testify falsely ; \nhow we can know that any of the external objects really \xe2\x82\xacx^ \n\n\n\n268 \n\nlit, that appear to exist ? We answer, that of the exlsfenre of \nexternal things we can have no higher testimony than that of \nthe senses ; but when the senses do not disagree, their testi- \nmony is such that no man can disbelieve them if he would^ \nany more than water can run up hill. \xe2\x80\x94 No one can alter the \nimmutable laws of belief. \n\nLest the reader should fail of getting our precise notions \nConcerning sensitive belief, being deceived by the expression, \na, man believes the testimony of his senses^ and other like ex- \npressions which we are obliged to use, \xe2\x80\x94 we will here observe, \nthat we suppose, that to perceive an object^ means as much as \nto believe such object exists, or. lo have a belief that such object \nexists, \xe2\x80\x94 By using different words to express something that \ngoes on in the head, we do not alter this somothing which \ngoes on in the head. This remark we consider important, \nand wish it might be remembered ; for it is language which \ngot into use in days of ignorance, that, more than any thing \nelse, causes men to think that something very mysterious \ngoes on within the skull. The time will come, however, \nwhen it will be generally admitted, that nothing more or less \noccurs, than conscient actions which are, or have been exci- \nted by impressions upon the senses, ^ \xe2\x80\x94 speaking with reference \nto the conscient or intellectual phenomena only. \n\nFrom what haS been advanced in this work, thus far, we \nsee that a man is no more culpnhle or meritorious for believ- \ning whatever he does believe, than Water is for running down \nhill. Every thing takes place according to (he immutable \nJaws of nature, and whatever thinks, is as much under the \ncontrol of these laws, as water or any thing else. And we \nmay here observe, that nothing is more absurd and abusive, \nnolhing more clearly indicates a want of penetration, or a \nnarrow, seltish, sectarian spirit, and disregard for truth, than \nto coudemn any one for his belief. It is abourd, because a \n\n\n\n269 \n\nman\'s belief cannot "be altered except by facts and arguments ; \ndegrading epithets, unfriendly treatment, or appaling threats, \ncannot change a man\'s behef \xe2\x80\x94 the laws of behef will not ad- \nmit of it. It is abusive, because it is punii^hing a man for \nwhat* he does not do with evil intentions, when such punish- \nment can have no good effect. It indicates a want of pene- \ntration, for any one who knows that no events take place \nwithout causes, (and who doii\'t know this ?) must be short- \nsighted indeed, not to see that one event as necessarily takes \nplace as another, whether it occur within or without the hu- \nman skull ; and that one man is no more to blame for his be- \nlief, whatever it may be, than another. It indicates a narrow, \nselfish, sectarian spirit, ai\'.d disregard for truth, because we \nnever see it in well informed men, who do not so much care \nwhat truth is. as to knoio v/hat it is. \n\nBut although we say it is absurd and abusive to condemn a \nman for his opinions, v/e do not say it is so to applaud or \ncondemn a man for his good or bad deeds. The reason is \nobvious : By applauding or condemning men for their deeds, \nyou may greatly influence their coiduct ; \xe2\x80\x94 this applauding \nand condemning ore links in the chain of causes which regu- \nlate human actions ; but facts and arguments are the only ef- \nfectual weapons with which you can attack a man\'s opinions ; \nand no other ever ought to be used for the purpose. \xe2\x80\x94 Let ev- \nery man stand or fall by his good or bad coaduct towards his \nfellow beings. \n\n\n\ni^7t \n\nCHAPTER XIX. \n\nOn Knowledge. \n\nAs we frequently bear a man\'s knowledge spoken of ag^ \nthough i^ were something distinct from what stands up in his \nlibrary \xe2\x80\x94 something which he carries about in his head ; and \nas no one that we know of, has ever clearly defined the \nword, we have concluded to give the word a place in our met- \naphysical vocabalary, and devote a short chapter to the con- \nsideration of it. \n\nAll the sensorial tendencies possessed by one man constl* \ntate the man\'s knowledge. The word does not signify all the \ntendencies that ever have existed in what is called the same \nman; for in time some of the sensorial tendencies undoubt- \nedly become entirely extinct, and the man can no more think \nthose thoughts which these tendencies once enabled him to \nthink, than if these tendencies had never been produced ; he \nis therefore as ignorant, perhaps, concerning the things to \nwhich these lost tendencies related, as if he had never learnt \nany thing about them. We say perhaps, because a man may \nlose part of his knowledge concerning a particular subject \nor event, but not the whole of it, and of course not be as ig- \nnorant concerning such subject or event, as though he had \nnever learnt any thing concerning it. On the other hand, a \nman\'s knowledge comprehends all his sensorial tendencies \nthat do exist, even if some of these tendencies do not become \noperative, do not give rise to action or thought, on a desired \noccasion. Thus a man may wish to think, or think of, anoth- \ner man\'s name, but cannot at the time, and still he may be \nsatd to know the man\'s name, since there still exists a ten- \ndency of his sensorium to think it, as will be proved, shouU \n\n\n\n27i \n\nhe think it on another occasion, without having seen it er \nheard it spoken, from the time he wished to ihink it, to the \ntime he does think it. \n\nEver)\' diifeient impression may excite a different action m \none\'s nerves and brain, prodacing, of course, a new sensorial \ntendency, more or less stron^^. Hence there are, as it were^ \nno limits to the knowledge which a man may acquire, for the \nnumber of different impressions that may be made upon his \nsenses is infinite. Nor is tliis all. \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nWe may divide the sensorial tendencies into two classes ; \none class comprehending the tendencies to act individual ac* \ntions, or, if you please, to thmk individual thoughts ; the other \nclass comprehending tendencies to think these thoughts in \ncertain orders \xe2\x80\x94 to thmk them over, one after another, ac- \ncording to certain relations which may subsist between them. \nThe first class of tendencies are all produced by impressions \nupon the senses ; the others, more or less of them, may arise \nfrom mere cogitation. Hence there is a certain kind of \nknowledge which the sensoriam may be said to acquire by its \nown exercise, without the immediate agency of nerves. The \nfirst tendencies may be caWed primitive tendencies, or tenden- \neiesfrom impressions ; the second, secondary^ or relative ten- \ndencies^ or tendencies from cogitation. The reader already \nknows that the first sort of tendencies give rise to thiose ac- \ntions which constitute what we call ideas. Many ofthe secon- \ndary tendencies are tendencies to think over in connexioOj \ncertain congruous ideas, constituting what may, properly \nenough, be called a sentiment. \n\nFor illustration \xe2\x80\x94 1 think, 1 believe, or, it is an opinion or \nsentiment of mine, that calomel and opium zoill cure infiamma- \niion. Now it must be that several ideas occurring together \nconstitute this sentiment ; \xe2\x80\x94 it cannot be any one idea, in the \nsense in which we use the word idea ; but why do they occur \n\n\n\n272 \n\ntogether ? Is it not because that whatever thinks, is disposed \nto think them thus ? \xe2\x80\x94 I now purpose to inquire what -deas oc- \ncurring together, constitute this sentiment ; and wh) they \nconstitute what is as properly called a belief -ds^i sentmient. \n\nBy an observation made in two or three separate places in \nthis work, the reader might learn, if his own efforts did not \nconvince him, that it is not a very easy matter for me to de- \ntermine what are my own ideas that generally occur, when I \nthink what 1 express by these words: \xe2\x80\x94 Calomel and opium \nwill cure irtjlammation / and much less can ! tiske it upon me \nto say what ideas occurnng in otiiers, constitute this senti- \nment. But before I speak for m}seif, 1 will venture to say \nthis much for others, at different times dslferent ideas may oc- \ncur and constitute what they call a tliinking, or opinion, that \ncalomel and opium zoill cure injlammation. Now for myself. \nFor several days, whenever I chanced to think of it, I have been \ntrying to catch myself in the very act of thinking calomel and \nopium will cure inflammation, aiid so fn* as 1 can determine I \nfind that sometimes I have ideas of a white powder, a mass of \nopium, and the luritten word inflammation ; sometimes optical \nnotions of all the important words in the sentence \xe2\x80\x94 the great \nround O to the left of the little p, appears very conspicuous \nto my " minds eye." At otlier times 1 have ideas ol calomel \nand opium, and of a red spot somewhere upon a man, fading \naway ; that is, growing less red, and the extent of it diminish- \ning \xe2\x80\x94 the edges gathering in like the edges of that moist sur- \nface which one makes when he breathes upo i a polished ra- \nzor, thinking to determine ?n this way whether the razor be \nproperly tempered. This idea of a red surface fading away, \n1 think answers very well to the clause cure inflammation^ \nSometimes ! have ideas of one of these saddle-bags men in a \nhouse at the bed side of a patierit. wih some small white pills \nlying upon a table or candie aLai.d. Such are some of the \n\n\n\n273 \n\nideas which T find I have when I endeavor to determine what \nideas constitute the sentiment, that calomel and opium mil \neure inflammation.^ But the same fact may be expressed in \nother words, as follows : \xe2\x80\x94 A man has a red, swollen, painfu- \nface, foul tongue, quick pulse \xe2\x80\x94 in short, an inflammation of the \nface ; the phj^sician gives him calomel and opium ; these symp- \ntoms disappear \xe2\x80\x94 such instances frequently happen \xe2\x80\x94 if no \nmedicine be given it has been found that such inflammations \ngenerally termii/ate fatally. Ail this is much as to say, calo- \nmel and opium cure iriflammations, and to think over these \nfacts, is to think that calomel and opium cure inflammations. \nBut why does this thinking constitute a belief that calomel and \nopium cure inflammations? It is because the thoughts are \ncongruous \xe2\x80\x94 ihey are not connected with other thoughts that \nwould be expressed by contrarj\' terms \xe2\x80\x94 the man does not \nthink of any fact opposed to the factor proposition, that calo- \nmel and opium cure inflammation. It is true, he may think of \npatients that died with inflammation, who took calomel and \nopium ; but this is not opposed to the proposition that, calo- \nmel and opium cure inflammation \xe2\x80\x94 it is only opposed to the \nposition that calomel and opium always cure inflammation, a \nposition which no man believes. \n\nThere may be some disagreement among men about the \nuse of the word sentiment ; \xe2\x80\x94 some may use it in such a broad \nsense as to include all the grand ultimate conclusions to \nwhich a man may arrive ; but it would be convenient if there \nwere some term universally agreed on, to denote those minor \n\n\n\n* Since (he above was put in type, I Hmvp become satisfied \nthnt xUose audial actions excued in my seHsorinm, (not in my audi- \ntory nerves and sensorium,) when I hear it said that calomel and \nopiutn ni\'l cure itflainmalion, are anjong the sensorial actions \nthat con-titiite thn sentiment expressed by \xe2\x80\x94 calumel and ojnum \nwill curt inftammalion. \n\n35 \n\n\n\n274 \n\neonclusions or principles, which occur to an old, learned \nthinker when he is said to generalize. \n\nKnowledge, then, is of two kinds, primitive and secondary. \nThe first is acquired by the direct exercise of the senses ; \nthe secondary arises from that exercise of the sensorium to \nwhich primitive knowledge gives rise. \n\nThe more we investiisjate the intellectual phenomena, the \nmore firmly are we convinced that the mystery which is so \ngenerally supposed to hang about them, is chiefly owing to the \nlanguage to which false notions long ago gave rise, and which, \nmore or less of it, we are still under the necessity of using. \xe2\x80\x94 \nWe speak of a man\'s belief, faith, judgments, sentiments, con= \nelusions, doctrines and principles, which words are in them- \nselves as different from each other, as the words stone and \nsteam ; and one can scarcely believe that, so far as it re- \nspects any thing which exists or goes on in the head, all these \nwords mean one and the same thing. When we speak shout \ncomparing ideas, and distinguishing^ differences between them, \none is naturally led to suppose that we mean something more \nthan merely having these ideas occur in immediate succession. \nWhen we say a man substitutes an idea of one thing for an \nidea of another, one would not suppose that this substituting \nconsists in nothing other than in. having an idea of one thing, \nin connexion with an idea of the name of another thing. \nAnd when we say a man believes the testimony of his senses, \nwho at first thought, would suppose that, to have perceptions, \nmeans as much ? But Itt the reader lay aside all language \nand, disregarding the speculations of others, consider what \ngoes on in his own head. He will find, that, putting aside \nperceptions and sensations, nothing more at any time occurs \nthan ideas of objects (among which are written words) sounds \nflavors, odors, and feelings, one after another. \n\nWhat of mystery concerning the intellectual phenomena^ \n\n\n\n275 \n\n15 not owing to our present bad language, is owing to our be- \ning unable to observe what goes on in us, when we remember, \njudge, &c. at the very ijistant we remember or judge : all \nthings without continue to exist the same, when we examine \nthem, as when we do not examine them, but the moment a \nman undertakes to examine a judging process, that very mo\xc2\xab \nment does the judging process cease, or go on differently \nfrom what it does when a man is not paying attention to it. \nIt is not mysterious that sensibility should arise from the or- \nganic union of insensible atoms, or that a sensation or per- \nception should be excited in the nervous system when it \npossesses sensibility. If it be, then every thing in nature \nis mysterious ; it is mysterious that acidity should arise from \nthe chemical union of non-acid atoms, and that a liquid pos- \nsessing the property of acidity should change a vegetable \nblue color to red ; and mysterious that one body sbouiii \nmove an other by impulse. \n\n\n\n-GO- \n\n\n\nCHAPTER XX. \n\nOn Personal Identity. \n\nThe word, identity means sameness ; and the term, person- \nal identity, means same person. But almost every body in \nnature is continually sutfering some kind of change : a piece \nof gold wrapped in dry paper and laid away in a tight box is \ncontinually undergoing a change of relation with the heavenly \nbodies, and with every thing that moves upon the face of the \nglobe. When even an individual particle of matter is added \ntoo or taken from any body, such body suffers a change, \xe2\x80\x94 it \nsuffers a change even when a few of its own particles change \n\n\n\n276 \n\ntheir relations with ef^ch other. It follows, then, that there \nare but few if any bodies in existence to day, which are, in \nthe niost strict and absolute sense of the term, the snme bod- \nies that existed yesterday. But notwithstanding this, nnen \nsay of bodies that exist to day, they are the same bodies which \nexisted five, ten, tifty or an hundred years ago, unless these \nbodies have undergone very great, perhaps we may shy,> total \nchanges. Therefore when we inquire whether a body which \nexists to day, be the same body which existed yesterday, we \ndo not so much regard the changes which it may have under- \ngone since yesterday, as the changes which it has not under- \ngone ; and yet men have not agreed what changes any body \nmust not undergo, that it may still be called the same body. \nBut it will generally be admitted that John Brown who is the \nJlrst son of a certain Caleb Brown, is the sa7ne man that was \ncalled John Brown and that bore this peculiar relation to said \nCaleb Brown ten years ago, let him have undergone what \nchanges he may since that time. If this be admitted, it fol- \nlows, that all that is necesssary, m order that a man who exists \nto day may be to the world around the same man that existed \nten years ago, is, that he be known to the world around, as the \nman who bore a certain peculiar relation to something else, \nten years ago, \xe2\x80\x94 a relation which no other being but this \ncould or ever can bear to this same something else. \n\nBut the grand question, relative to persona! identity, about \nwhich philosophers have been so much puzzled, is not what \nconstitutes the same man to the world around : there is no \nmore difficulty about this than there is about what constitutes \nthe same tree, house, or jacknife. The grand question is, \nwhat constitutes the same man as it respects himself \xe2\x80\x94 what \nconstitutes the same thinking man ? By which we mean \nmuch the same that Professor Brown does by " mental iden- \niitij,\'^\'* We answer at once : \xe2\x80\x94 the same sensorial tendencies. \n\n\n\n277 \n\nThe proof is clear. Take from my brain or sensorium its \npresent tendencies, and I should think not at all ; but give it \nthe tendencies of Jolin Bmwn\'s brain, and I should then \nthink, believe, remember, jud^e, imagine, &c. precisely as \nJohn Brown now does or may think, believe, <fec. 1 should \nbelieve that my name is John Broivn^ my father\'\' s name is Ca- \nleb Brown^ I am his first son^ I was born at Troy, where my \nfather now lives, \xe2\x80\x94 thai farm which I own in J\\\'\'assau ought to \nbrins, me 5000 dollars \xe2\x80\x94 / once stole a turkey of a man in GilL \nIn short, 1 should (hink of every thing, and believe every \nthing, just as John Brown now thinks and believes, or may \nbelieve ; and nothing is more clear than that I should be John \nBrown, so far as it respects the thinking man, to all intents \nand purposes. \n\nSuppose, now, that John Brown knows me, my family, my \nbouse, &:c. and suppose that I receive, not his tendencies, but \ntendencies precisely like his, while abed and asleep at home : \nwhen I awake, 1 begin to think precisely as the other John \nBrown would had he been brought in his sleep and put in my \nplace. [ should, on looking around., thirik that I had slept \nvery soundly, and that while sleeping, some trickish fellow- \nhad taken me out of my [John Brown\'s] house, and put me \nto bed in C. K\'s house along with his wife. I should laugh \nat the trick, hut retaining my [C. K\'s.] present looks, this \nwife would wonder v/hat I was laughing at. [should enter \ninto such conversation with her, that she would be satisfied \nthat I was either crazy, or else had a peculiar faculty of talk- \ning as though I were somebody besides C. K. But 1, on the \nother hand, should be surprised that she should take me to \nbe C. K. and not John Brown. She might, perhaps, say to \nme : look in the glass, and you will see that you are the same \nC. K. that you was yesterday. Should I then look in the \nglassj I should be exceedingly astonished ; for 1 should find \n\n\n\n27% \n\nth^t *riy ^ook? h\'^ undergone such a change that 1 now look \nprecisely Iske C. K, , (for by supposition, John Brown knows \nhow I [C. K.] look; but notwithstanding this, the world \ncould no more convince me that J am not John Brown, than \nir can \xe2\x80\xa2 ow coiivince me that I am not Charles Knowlton. I \nshould know that I am John Brown, every thing else to the \ncontrary notwithstanding. 1 should soon bt; making towards \nmy home, from whence 1 was brought, (by some supernatural \npower, probably, smce nothing short of such could have so \nchanged my looks,) and if, on arriving there, the other John \nBiown should be at home, a warm contention would soon \naiise about rights and propert} ; T should own to him that he \nlooks just as I did before my looks were changed, but tell him \nthat I did not expect he would think to claim my wife, my \nchildren, and my property, on this account. Some might \nconsider me crazy in respect to this one thing, \xe2\x80\x94 taking my \nsplf to be John Brow/?, --although I might appear as rational \nin every other respect, as any other man ; but many, (ifthey \nwere immaterialists,) and especially the other John Brown, \nwould take me to be Charles Knowlton, inhabited by another \nsup^\'ViKtlural si\'iRsT ; \'or this John Brown would find that I \ncould tell him of every place he ever had been in, of every \ndeed he had ever done, and of every thought and intention of \nhis \'* heart," just as ueil as he could tell them himself. \xe2\x80\x94 I \neven doubt if he would not give up his whole estate to me, if \n1 i )sisted on hi\xc2\xab doing so, as i probably should, knowing that it \nall belonged to me. \n\nBut if ^lother John Brown, instead of retaining his old sen- \nsorial tendencies, should loose them all, and receive C. K\'s \non the same|night that C K. receives his, then the new John \nBiovvn on go:t)g to his honrx , would probably meet the \nnew C. K. goin,4to his home", \xe2\x80\x94 both equally astonished at \nhaving beea carried off ia the nighi, and ul having their looks \n\n\n\n27S \n\nso changed. The world would take both fo he insane, hut \nboth would be as confident that they are not, as any man is \nthat he is not insane ; and there would be no contentions \nbetween them, about property and privileges. \n\nLet us suppose that I, Ch<irles Knowlton, not only swop \nsensorial tendencies with John Brown, but that my body be \nso remodelled as to look precisely like John Browii, and John \nBrown so remodelled as to look like me. I should then be \nconverted into John Brown, and the present John Brown \nwould beconse Charles Knowlton, not only as it respects the \nthinking man, but as it respects the zoorld around, or the world\'s \nman. Hence we see that the particles of matter which com- \npose a man, have nothing to do with his identity, in any im* \nportant sense of the term ; and at the driy of resurrection, or \nrather of reorganization, it will mitter not wh^t particles of \nmatter we shall be composed of, any more than it now con- \ncerns us whether our bodies are comooseJ of the matter of \nthe bread, meat, butter and cheese of Vermont, or of the fi^h, \nrice, and fruits of a southern climate. All that will be neces- \nsary to constitute the same man, to all intents and purposes, \nwril be to have the same looking body organized out o{ any \nmatter, possessing the same sensorial tendencies. \n\nAs a man may undergo great changes in his looks, and still \nbe the same man to the world around, so m^y he undergo \ngreU changes in his sensorial tendencies, and still be the \nsame man. to himself ;\xe2\x80\x94 he may forget much, [outgrow many \ntendencies] and he may learn much, [acquire many new ten- \ndencies,] and still know, believe, or be conscious that he is \nthe ^ame man. \n\nWe would not undertake to determine what tendencies \nmust be retained in order to give ri^e to those thoughts which \nconstitute one\'s belief that he is the sanse man; we think, \nhowever, Ihat they are very few ; perhaps no more than \n\n\n\n280 \n\nenough to give ri?e to a remembering of his name, of his pa- \nren\xc2\xbbs, and of some one thing that he has done. \n\nIt may be asked, if it be not naturally possible for two per- \nsons to acquire precisely the same tendencies, and of course \nbe precisely alike as it respects themselves. We answer, no. \nIf two children be organized precisely alike, and born at the \nsame time and place, and called by the same name, it would \nbe impossible for rhem to acquire the same sensorial tenden- \ncies ; for they could not both he in the same place, and in the \nsame relation to each other and thitigs around at all times; \nhence, precisely the same impressions could not be made \nupon the r senses at the same time, and merely on this ac- \ncount, they mav in time become quite different men as it re- \nspects the suogeslin^ principle, which term 1 ihink 1 may now \nuse, without hj^ms;; mi\'^understood. \n\nAfter nil tliat we have said about sensorial tendencies, it \nmay be said that their existence is purely hypothetical. We \ngrant it. \xe2\x80\x94 so is thedi irnal revolution of the earth hypotheti- \ncal. We are not immediately conscious of any motion of \nihQ earth ; but (he siipposition that it does move enables us \nto explain ma?iy astroimmical pheiiomena ; and the supposi- \ntion of the sensorial tendencies enables us to explain many \nphysioloi^ical or coii-cieut phenomena ; and there is nothing \nopposed to either supposition. There is a great d fference be- \ntween a supposition which enables us to explain many phe- \nnomena, and one which affords no such aid. hut on the con- \ntrary rend-rs such })heno\'nena ten times more complicated, \ntrysterious, aud incomprehensible. If such supposition be \nnot directly contradicted by any one fact, still it is contradict- \ned, \xe2\x80\x94 it is contradicted by the simplicity of nature, arid the \nsoundest principles of philosophy. \n\nWe cannot close this chapter without adverting to the \n\n\n\n281 \n\nspeculation- of professor Brown concerning personal identi- \niy ; or as lie choo-es to term it, mental identiiy. He admits \nthai tjje exprc5sio[), sarac man, is geiierally considered to \nmean something more than same mind ; he says, however, \nbut iittle oouceroiiig corporeal identity, or the identity of a \nman to the world around ; but he writes aboijt fifty, full, oc- \ntavo pages to establish his notions concerning mental iuenti* \nt\\ : a fact which, of it-cif, argues mnch agiinst his opinions. \nHis most imp jrtant posiiious concerning mental identity, are \nthe two following: \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nFir>t. Mentai identify consists \\n the *\'unity and sameness \nof that whirh thuiks and eels," independent of all theeiidless \nvariety of its transitu states or f^hanges \xe2\x80\x94 indej)endent of all \nthoughts and sensations.\'\'^ Second. A man\'s heh(f\\h^i he \nis the same man, "arises from a Iciw of thoiighi^^\'^ which law- \nis \'\xe2\x80\xa2 a pri?iciple ofintnitive belief; \xe2\x80\x94 as it were, an internal \nnever-ceasing voice from the Creator and preserver of our \nbeino; \xe2\x80\x94 an internal revelation froin on high, \xe2\x80\x94 too imporiant \nto be left to the casual discovery of reason." ! ! | \n\nWe see that according to professor Brown, personal, or \nmental identity, consists in that which tnakes no ditference \nbetween men \xe2\x80\x94 in that which ()f it exist) is the same in all \nm.en, for aught any one can say to the contrary. He [)laces \nit in an indivisible, unextended (no-) thing; for such is wiiathe \nmeans by "\' th\'diuhich thinks and J eels f\'\' \xe2\x80\x94 he places it in such \nthmg. independent of all the st<ttes it may chance to be in, in- \nde|)ei)deiit of all thoughts, fceiing\'^, and hviief^-. H\' nce it fol- \nlows that if John Browi^, mentioned a few pages back, should \nbe this night aimdnlated, and I siiould be carried lo, and put in \nhi< hod with !n\\ body ^d remodeiied as to io(>k precisely like \n\n\'" \xe2\x96\xa0 ill- \xe2\x80\xa2\xe2\x80\xa2PiniDHopii) ui tilt iiuuiaii lUiiidj" vol. 1, p. Ib^, P.iii- \nad< ij.ii.t b^dii ir/^4 \n\n1 oce pages idv^jUud iQ3. lb. \n\n36 \n\n\n\n282 \n\nsaid John Brown, and wy itndencies to think, my store of latent \nideas ^\'\'\'^ (i^any body can tell what a latent idea is, and how \nthey can be stored away in an unextended mind,) or my \nknowledge (if the immaterialists can tell us what knowledge \nis) so changed that I ?honld think, believe &c. precisely as \nthe present John Brown does or would, \xe2\x80\x94 of course, as firmly \nbelieve myself (o be John Brown as he now does, still I \nshould be the same thissking, the same 7?2e//Jfl/ Charles Knowl- \nton that I now am ! This is what I say would be the case, ac- \ncording to professor Brown\'s doctrine ; for the same mind \n(the thing in which he places my identity) which he supposes \nto have been in me, when an infant, and when asleep, would \nstill be in me, and constitute the very me, myself. \n\nConcerning Professor Browii\'s second position, that " The \nfee/i\'e/\'of identiiy of self, as the one permanent subject of the \ntransient feehngs remembered by us, arises from a law of \nihovghl,\'\'\'^ it appears unnecessary to say much. \n\n1 presume it will be admitted that a law of thought is a law \nof nature, and a uisiversal law ; but I may observe that there \nis no law of thought in me, which gives rise to \'* the belief of \nthe identity of \xc2\xa7eif, as one permanent subject of the transient \nfeelings remembered by me." To be sure, 1 believe that I \nam the same man that did a certain act, felt a certain pain, \nor came to a certain conclusion, at some former period : but \nI believe it, in the common sense of the word same \xe2\x80\x94 in that \nsense in which 1 use it, when I say, \xe2\x80\x94 Llie horse in my stable \nis the same that I bought four years ago. I do not believe \nthat 1 am one permanent subject of the thoughts and actions, \nsaid to be the thoughts and actions of Charles Knowlton. \xe2\x80\x94 \nBy the pronouns /, me, arid myselj. I always mean that visi- \nble, extended being called Charles Knowlton. 1 never have, \nin using these woid-, the least reference to an unextended \nthmg in my brain, which ihiiig nomaacaii ever have any idea \n\n\n\n283 \n\nof. Ifour present bad language sometime\' le^ivps m? under \nthe necessiiy of using the pronouns /, myself^ &c. as though \nthev meant sometiiing distinct froin ihe Charles Kiowlion bo-- \ndy^ still I do not mean so. Neither do I have reference to my \nsensorium, any more than atiy other part of my body, unless I \nspecify this part, or speak in particular reference to it. \xe2\x80\x94 \nWiien in comtnon conversation, 1 say I w liked to Troy, i do \nnot mean, more especially, that my legs walked to Troy; \nand when I say I think, 1 do not mean, more especially, my \nsensoriuin thinks, unless I atn upon some metaphysical sub- \nject. But although, by the pronouns I, me, and myself, I \nmean an extended being, still, if a part of this being should \nbe removed, the part which retained the sensorium would \nstill call itself, /. mijself, 6iC, What more convenient language \ncould it use ? Now I believe that the being called Charles \nKnowlton, that is, I, myself, is, like every thing else in nature, \ncontinually undergoing changes, and is not a permanent sub- \nject. But until we have a dsfforent language, and until I have \ndifferent sensorial tendencies. I shall continue to call myself, \nand believe myself to be, the same Charles Knowlton that \ndid certain things ten years ago. -^-Certain tendencies of my \nsensorium give rise to such thoughts as constitute such belief; \nbut why, in any case, con^^ruous thoughts occurring together \nconstitute a belief, 1 can as well tell, and no better, as I caa \nwhy oxygen and hydrogen chemically united in certain pro- \nportions, constitute water. You may say (hat such is a law \nof thought, or a law of nature, or, what is the same thing, that \nit IS one of those ultimate aiid universal facts, of which there \nis no explanation to be given, and of which none but the igno- \nrant will ask for an explanation. \n\nNow when Brown says that a man\'s belief of his identity \narises from a law of thought, and says no more than this, \nwe do not objeci to the expression ; but it is the same law of \n\n\n\n284 \n\nthonght, on account of which, we believe i\\\\?t four and four \nare equal to eight; that a candle will cease to burn when \nyou dip it into water ; the same law^ of thought, from which \narises a lower degree of belief (hai there will be some snow \nnext w\'lnter, and from which arises a still lower dej;ree of he- \nlief, that we shall have some rain within three weeks. There \nis not a particular law of belief for every pariicnlnr hehcf \nwhich we have \xe2\x80\x94 there is but one law of i)ehef : (hose beliefs \ncalled intuitive arc such as ihcj are, because they coi:S4st of \nthoughts that are /?e;yec//i/ congruous ; there is riOt a single \ncontradictory thouglU united with them ; they relate to things \nconcerning wiiich there is liOt the least coiitradiclion of any \n\xe2\x80\xa2kind. \n\nWe may further remark, concerning Professor Brow?;\'s \nspeculations, thai, according to liis test of identity, ice and \ncaloric are precisely the same thing as the steam made out of \nthis ice and caloric ; ar^d certain bodies of oxygen, hydro- \ngen, and sulpfnir, are the same thing as the oil of vitriol tliat \nmay afterwards be made out of Ihem, tiiey being the same \nsubstance existing in a diirerent state. So. too, a ball of wax, \nand the image of a man made out of this wax. are the same \nthing. Rather a strange perversion of language this, to say \nno more. \n\nFrom what has been said in this and the preceding chap- \nter, it appears that what constitutes a man\'s knowledge, is \nIhe same as that which constitutes his identity, as n\' res\'pec/^ \nhimself. \xe2\x80\x94 tiiat to be the same thinking man, is to be a man of \nthe same kr;owledge. But the whole of that which consti- \ntutes imcard identity is not concerned in giving rise to one\'s \nbelief that lie is the saine man to-day tliat did a certain deed \nyesterday. Hence a man\'s knowledge may increase or de- \ncrease (if he do not lose a certain part of it,) and his belief of \n\n\n\n285 \n\nhis identity remain the same, it being neither increased ordi- \nmr!!-hed. \n\nNo one will think to olvert to our doclrine of identify, by \nsaying we place it in sometturi^ii; ntjich does not pf nrmMesi\'ly \nreniiii} the same absohitely. To say Ihis, would bt; io S|)e Ic \nin commendaliori of it, since we ivnow that the ini:er, or think- \ning (jvan, iiiidergoes even greater changes, from iuiaiicy to \nmanhood, thari the outer, or world^s nmn. \n\nShould we be aslced why we say of a thir^g to dr^y. it ?> the \nSAME thai it zcas yesterday., when it has suffered son^c cw^u.^ \nSince yesteriiay, we should answer, \xe2\x80\x94 it is for C(.n\\ eniencc \nsake. If aieii would not af\xe2\x80\x9eTee to use (he word same except \nin its n^o?i ab^oluto sense, they would not only b.ave V(uy ht- \ntie use for it, but the world could not ho d a dictionur) big \ne?\'.ough to contain a nnme for every diffcr-ent body wdnrh has \nhceii,\'s, and will !)e in existence, if \\^f ?}jouid s^:y, tlse ir.staiit \nany body sutfers the least degree of change, it is no ioi ^er \nthesame^ but a {!if\\re/<i I od}\\ \xe2\x80\x94 Ifaii} rran will show us any \nth ;5g wlsich ?uii\'jrs no ciiHiige, will show us absoiue idd!!.;}, \na:id make such a dictio lary, to bo n, we will aj^iee noi io say \nof any thing to-day, it i-^ the sa ize it was ycbtcrJay, provided \nit iiave undergone the least change. \n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXI. \n\nOn Volition. \n\nThat the reader may come to iliia subject, prepared to \njudge correctly cf the opinions we are about to aUvatice, st is \nnecessary that he have a sincere Iqve of tlae simple truth of \nnature 5 and that he have no iutcrcst in tije mjsienous and \n\n\n\n286 \n\ncomplicated dogma?! oftheKcbools. That he free himself as \nmuohas possible from tlie indueiice ofotir very ohjeciionable \nla>i^ii.k i,e, fO as nol to be deceived !>j such as the writer may \nbe under the necessity of using. He must have correct no- \ntions of caise and eflect,\xe2\x80\x94 he must remember that a cause \nis nothing more ihnn an event which is immediatclij and inva- \nTfnhly followed by a certain o;her event, under the same cir- \ncnms^las ce?, \xe2\x80\x94 and indeed we often u.^e the word when it can- \nnot be sai(i lo mean so murh as this, unless we give the word \nevent,, a broader meaning than \'^an agent acting ;\'\' \xe2\x80\x94 but he \nmust not sii[)pose that iha succeeding event never does and \nnever can occur, except it be immediately preceded by one \nad the same event : \xe2\x80\x94 The body A may strike the body B, \naiid this body may move a certain distance in a certain di- \nrection. This is an event cau^ed (immediately preceded) \nhy the stroke of ihe body, A ; but the body X may be brought \npretty near ihe body B, and by attraction cause it to move \nthe same distance and in the same direction that it did when \nimpulsed by tlie body A, Here then, are two like events, or \nthe same event occurring twice, from different causes. It is \nnecessary, also, that the reader be aware, that it is just as \nnatural for matter to act be it in what state it may, as it is \nfor it not to act ; \xe2\x80\x94 that, being at rest, it never moves or acts \nwithout cajse, aisd being in actiori, it never rests or ceases \nto act without cau\xc2\xabe. An internal action going on in any \norgan, no more ceases to go on without some cause for its ceas- \ning, than acaiinon ball ceases to move without a cause, after \nbeir^g forced from the mouth of a cannon : \xe2\x80\x94 some change, \nsome wear and tear, must take place in the organ, from its \nown action ; or some alteration in the kind and quantity of \nfl\'iids flowiiig to and from the organ, mu^t take place ; op \nsome other action must take place in tho same precise organ, \nor bome organ connecied wiih it, whtch must, according to \n\n\n\n287 \n\niJu laws ofnalure, be followed by a cessation of the action \nwhich ceases. \n\nIn treating of the relation between the nervous and muscu- \nlar systems, ^^e come to the conclusioi] that the immediate \nantecedent or cause of voluntary contractions, is an action \ncommencing in the brain and extending along the nerves into \nthe voluntary muscles. This action of (he nervous system is \nan unconscioys action, and we call it ihe motive action of the \nnervous system. \n\nWe are of opitiioi that this action does not commence in \nthe sensorium, or that pari of the hrain in winch co.iscic.nt \nactions occur; but iti a coiitiguous part \xe2\x80\x94 perhaps in the ce- \nrebral extremilies of tiervous iibrils, of a different organization \nthan those which take on conscient actions ; and is excited, \ncaused, or more properl}, is immediately [)r( ceded bv certain \nconscient actions of the sensorium, just as an) other etfect is \nimmediately preceded by its cause. \n\nTiie relation between the conscient actiot}S of the sensori- \num, and the motive actions of the hraii., may be illustrated \nby the relation wliich subsists between a master and his ser- \nvant. The master and the servant may act independent of \neach other ; yet when the master corfimands, do this \xe2\x80\x94 do that \n\xe2\x80\x94 goon \xe2\x80\x94 stop-, the servant obeys ; but the master is not con- \ntrolled by the servant. So the conscient ai d motive actions \nmay even commence, and continue, independent of each oth- \ner ; yet the motive actions (unless they are unruly, as in epi- \nlepsy, tetanus, &c.) commence, vary, and stop at the com- \nmand of the conscient actions ; that is, <hey commence, vary, \nand stop, according to those conscient actions of the senso- \nrium which occur. But the motive actions do not govern \nthe conscient actions, that is, it is not a fact, a universal fact, \nor law, that when euch and such motive actions occur, such \n\n\n\n288 \n\nand <uch conscient actions or thoughts follow as n necessary \nco<\'!>equence. \n\nAgain, a? the .servant mny he set io work hy the niaster, and \nafterwards coPitinue to work independent of the master, in the \nsame way as direcred. until again dictated hy the master, or \nij\'jiii exhausted \xe2\x80\x94 at which time lie can work no more it\'com- \nmanded ever so urgentSy ; \xe2\x80\x94 so the motive actions, having \nbeen excited hy the conscient actions, may continue to oo oa \nas\'at nv^t, iadepcndent o^ \\he conscient actions, ujitil varied or \nstopped by the conscient actions, or until some change, sonjc \n^vear and tear, takes place in the brain, inconsistent with \ntheir fnrllier continuanre. at which time a man may desire to \nmove ever so much, hut he cannot. \n\nFor further illustration : \xe2\x80\x94 Ceriain conscient actions or \nthouy;ht5 occur in me, which cons-titute a desire to walk to \nthe bridge,\'^\' \xe2\x80\x94 ^certain motive actions of the brain immedi- \nalely set in, (as it is a law of volition that they should.) and \ncertain muscu\'ar coiitractions immediattly follow, and I \nwalk alon-;;, step afler step, as I set out, witiiout any further \nthinking about it. \xe2\x80\x94 1 go trudging along in the smiie pace, cog- \nit;uing about some s;jb;ect, as foreign to my walking as any \ntil\';!).\', can he; but the usouient I quicken nriy suq), turi) my \ncrjurse, or s!op, you ma) ks-ow that a thought has occurred \nrelative to my walking \xe2\x80\x94 >ou nsay know thai liie masier has \ngiveii a liew conunand to the servant, \n\nA\'thr>u9:!) the conscieiit and motive actions of ihf brain are \n\n\n\n^ We s!:-i!i inv;!!i;)biv ("ih tUn^-- coosciPiU aci^\'iis vvhiili uk!)!\'^- \ndiatfiv piec(\'Hp \\\\)r iinilivp juii-.aiv, (whici! umUivp ..vj \\\'S )itni!\'(ii- \nand> precfd \xe2\x80\xa2 V\')lui!t.uv cnirrHtious or tni\'ii\' as ) a df it ; bat \nlike hdiet*, th.s df siiv m.^y be ot\' a hi*:!) or low deurt\'\'\'. h ir.^^y. m \nniauv mstaarcs he of siicb l<uv dtgree as ij^t fo ("on^iinin^ siif h \nCitusri\'Mi^iK\'ss as wi>u!d a^neral\'y be cdlk\'d de^\'irf \xe2\x80\x94 Wt- n-as be \npeiinillcd U) have a Imi\'ita^e to express t)Mr -eiiiimeii! \'. if i la- at \nthe expunge ot\' coining a lew new v>ordi>. and uUeiing a Itw old \nones.\' \' \xe2\x96\xa0 \n\n\n\nes^enfialfi/ (VffereDf. "iiiW there is a ?trk\'n^\' ana\'^oj^y !>etwe6fe \nthe uitiinate facts ihat relate to them. The conscient action\xc2\xa9 \nmust, in the lirst place, be excited by impression? npon the \nseii?e\xc2\xab, after i\\us (ht y ma) recur on certain occasions without \nthe reapphcalion of ihe im^ ressions which first excited them, \nor they may be re-excited b) the same impressions ; so the \nmotive actions must, in the first place, be excited or caused^ \nand afterwards they may recur on certain occasions without \nbeing immediately preceded by that which first caused thenu \nAnd as the conscient actions of the sensonum may be excited \nby various impressions ihroijgh the medum of at least fi a \nmodifications of nerves, so the motiv^e actions may be excit\xc2\xbb d \nby diiFerent causes, that i-, they nja> be the consequents of lisf*- \nferent antecedents. The ordinary antecedents of the motive \nactions are the ronpcient actions of the sensonum ; next to \nthe-e are actions commencing in various parts of th( body, \nand extending to the brain, some of which are conscient and \nothers unconscient. Other cau^es of ihe motive actions of the \nbrain we would express by the rather loose but convt nien\xc2\xa3 \nphrase of morbid afftctions of the brain itself, as lii some ca* \nses of epilepsy, \n\nBut the motive actions of the brain must be excited mmi\'^ \nmore times, by the cause whiclj first excites them, than the \nconscient actions, before such a lendency to their recurrence \nis produced that they may recur on what we call occations^ \nA man need see an elepharit but very few times, before the ac- \ntion of his sensorium^ excited by seeing xhe elephant, may re- \ncur when thee!e{)hant is absent \xe2\x80\x94 before the man may have a \nreal idea of the elephant ; but when a child begins to walk, or \na man begins to dance, the const ient actions must excite the \nmotive a great many limes, before tlie child can walk, or the \nmaj\xc2\xbb dance, without thinking anything about it. \n\nWe will now show what we mean by occasions, as above \n\n37 \n\n\n\n190 \n\nused. When one thought succeeds another on arcotint of \nsome relation between them, we say that the thought whi( h \nprecedes, is the occasion ofthe thought which succerds. W\xc2\xab!(i \nrespect to the motive actions, we cannot, in (ew words, show \ndistinctly what we mean, when we say that they occur on \noccasions : we must suppose a case \xe2\x80\x94 Sfippor^e that I hH\\6 \nperformed a dozen different actions in immediate succession, \na thousand times or more ; now if a desire excite that motive \naction of the brain tha* corresponds to the first of this dozcQ \nactions, and then I think of sonjething quite foreign to these \nactions, the remaining eleven may still follow ; and if so, we \nshould say that one motive action ofthe brain is the occasion \n\xc2\xa9f that other which immediately succeeds it. \n\nWhen we say that one thought, or one motive action ofthe \nbrain, is the occasion of another, we do not mean that such \nthoughts and such actions are not, as truly and as really, cau^ \nses of the thoughts and actions which succeed them, as im- \npressions upon the senses are causes of sensations and per- \nceptions. But these causes or antecedents are different from \nthe antecedents of these thoughts and actions, iht first time or \ntimes they occurred ^ on this account, and for sound\'s sake, \nwe call them occasions. Indeed, considering the notions gen- \nerally annexed to the word cituse^ and to the word occasion^ \nwe think it would always be more correct to say that one \nevent is the occasion of another, than to say that oiie event is \nthe cause of another. \n\nOne grand reason why men 50 generally believe tliat all \nthe motions of their voluntary organs, even the most fannjiar, \nare excited by cof>scient actions, or to use a common, but ve- \nyy mischievous word, by the " to///," is undoubtedl} this : \nAll motions which we perform when we are exper menting \nwith ourselves, to determine whether they W so or not, cer- \ntainly are thus excited ; of course, instead of coming directly \n\n\n\n2n \n\nat the truth 5n this way, our experimenting only serves io, \n.confirm us iu error. Bat let a man who is trudging onward^ \nirui^ing Oil his wordly plots, stop of a sudden, and think whe- \nther he have been willing, desiring, or thinking something re\xc2\xab \nlative to, every step which he hss taken for miles back. \n\nIt would be absurd to say that he has, but was not conscious \nof It at the time, for to will is but to think, and to think is to \nbe conscious \xe2\x80\x94 to say that a man wills or desires any thmg, \nand IS not conscious of it at the time, is a downright contra- \ndiction. Av.d as for sa) ing that a man wills every step which \nhe takes, whsle thinking of something quHe foreign to his \nwalking, hui cannot afterwards remember it, it would be say* \nssig someihing which no man can ever prove to be true, bat \nwhich we have the foilovving good reasons for believing to be \nfalse. \n\nFirst. It is strange indeed, if certain thoughts or conscient \nactions do occur several thousand times wi\'hin an hour or \ntwo, and cannot recur at the end of this time, so coni.ected \nT^iih other thoughts, as altogether to constitute a reihember- \ning (hat these certain thoughts have occured within this time- \nstrange, I say, since it so often happens that a conscient ac \ntion of the sensormm, having occurred two or three times to* \nday, may recur a week hence without impression. \n\nSecoiid. When conscient actions do actually excite motive \nones, we can remember it ; \xe2\x80\x94 we must add, sometimes, and not \nadd always,^ \xe2\x80\x94 lest it be said that we beg the question. But \nthis every man will own, when he performs any new or un- \ncommon act, or even when he quickens his pace while walk* \ning, he can afterwards remember that bethought somethnig \nabout it \xe2\x80\x94 that he willed it, and well may he wonder that he \ncannot remember that he willed his most common actions, if \nbe do indeed will them all. \n\nTaiid. Phiiofiophei\'g of every class admit that wbiitever \n\n\n\n292 \n\nihinks can Jhink but one thought or act hnt one action at a \ntime ; neither can they do oiherws^e than admit, that to wsil, \nas the expression is, is to (liiuk, as much as to guess, to judj^e, \nor to cogitate: \xe2\x80\x94 they must admit, that wilhrsg sup|;oses an \nait, or actions of that which thinks. Now as a vvaiki ,g maa \nis all the time putting one leg before the other, whtrt \'S (he \ntime for him to lay plot?, and judge aboutmaiters and thhigs, \nif every step must be preceded by a certa n act of that vviiich \nIa>s plots and judges ? How is it that a man w rites, and rea- \nsous within himself at the same tmie, if boih these processes \nsuppose different trains of actions of that wliich thinks hut \n\xc2\xa9ne thought or act? but one action at a Ximv ? IVe say that \nwhen a reasoning map is writir^g, every particular letter \nv,hich he makes is not imnitdiateiy preceded by a particular \ndesire or willing to make nuch letter ; but this is what we sup- \npose takes place : \xe2\x80\x94 we suppose that when a man tirst learns \nto write, first begins to make letters, he has a particular \nthought, will, or desire, to make each and every letter whn li \nhe does make ; aiid that when he first begins to write words, \nbe attends to the writing of each word. But after long prac- \ntice, his zoriting machine gats so liabituated to writing the let- \nters of words in a proper order, that it needs only one touch \nof his thinking part to put it in motion, and it will write a \nwhole word while this tj?ini iiig part is engaged in a reasoning \nprocess.* After still longer practice in writing, the thinking \npart may think over a whole sentence, and giving the wriii g \npart one rommai d to ^^ rite i^, it is done, even if the master \n\n* Besides other evidence of the above opinion, the following may \nbe mentioned : Wh\xc2\xab^n a man is in the habit of writii g a word \nTir<>ng. he will continue to wiite it wrong, i/7ip do not a/lend to ity \natter he knows that he is in such habit ; \xe2\x80\x94 he will continue to do so \nuntil he gets in the habit of writing it cnrrectl}\'. Many and many \na tin\xc2\xbbe has the present wriltf written lire word doctrines, doclnngs^ \n^fter be knew belter. \n\n\n\n29 S \n\nturn away to some other business, as he often doe^, after he \n\nhn^i set tise walking machine in 0[\'erai!O4 .- Ac( oidii-^ to \n\nthe [)rinci[jlesof itnrnaterfahsm, it cahuot !)c liiat a nian u:!ls, \naiid judges or ima;i;ine>, at the satiR titiie ; if wiinn^ and jih; >\xe2\x80\xa2- \nitii^ are uot !he same tiling. Aiid we, even we, do ?;oi heiit ve \ntliai he does, although our leading pnncipies are as d>tFv rent \nfiOMi Iho-eof imnialenahsnn as sruth is fronj error ; maS would \nHiore easily admit of liie suppo>!ilion that a man may will or \ndes:re at (he same time lha< t^ome other inte!!ecludi proctss \nib going on, Bui to return. \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nFourth. The motions of the ribs Rnd diaphragm (orff;v.s \nconcerned in brealliing.) niay be ar< elerated, retardiO, o: for \na i.mesupprei?sed, by a uessre ; hence the diHj)J.rH^m, and (he \niTiuscles that elevate th,e ribs, may as \\\\roya ri\\ be called v(.l- \nUntary as an} other ; but in s si\'epaig ^ta(e. (we do .uol .-aj \na dreaming state,) a sUite in vvhnh it would be a xoiuta (o s;.v \nth;tt conscient actions of the sensorium occur, wf continue \nto breaih. Now if ihe motive actions of the brain occui in \nsleep, without being immediately preceded by ct,n,scient ac- \ntio.ns, why may they not do so in a waking state I \n\nWhy should it be difficult (or men to adunt iisat the motive \nactions of the brain may occur, or rasiser rt cur. on occasions, \ni. e. vvithout being preceded by ihe same aiilecedents vvjjk h \npreceded them when they tirst occurred ; smce tfie} naibt \nand will admit that the conscient actioiis do thus occur ? \n\nWe have now been endeavoring to show that llio motive \nactions immediately succeed some of the conscent actons of \nthe sensorium, (which actions, to distinguish them (rom o*h- \ners, we say constitute desires or wilJUig^,) as subsecjuems or \netfects of such actions ; and furthermoie, thai ihe niolive ac- \ntions may, after much practice, recur on occasions, as well as \nthe con\'^cient. Bit ever} conscient action or thought is not \nsucceeded by a motive actiou \xe2\x80\x94 we aie lioi aiwajs moving \n\n\n\n^hen we are thinking ; and the question now is : What coa- \narient actions do the motive ones follow ; or, as we will put it, \nwhen do they follow ? It may be said that when a man is at a \ntavern, and those thoughts occur in him which constitute a \ndesire to go home, he gets up and goes home. This is very \nplain and satisfactory ; but if the man also have a desire to \nstay and hear the end of a story, what then ? \xe2\x80\x94 We proceed \nto answer this que.\'^tion. We suppose that there is some cause, \nin every case, for a man to be doing whatever he is doing, \nwhether he be sitting, standing, walking, or whatever else \nyou may mention ; and such cause is either mechanical force, \nor a desi re of his own. We hold, too, that whatever a man be \ndoing, this will he continue to do, until there be some cause \nfor his ccasijig, either that he get tired out, or stopped by me- \nchanical force, or until he have a greater desire to do some- \nthing else, than to do what he is doing. If a man have a de- \nsire to do one thing, and a desire to do another thing, both \nwhich things he cannot do, or cannot do at the same time, \nhe acts agreeable to the predominant desire ; but if the two \ndesires exactly equal, counterbalance, or neutralize each other, \nhe at\'ts according to neither, except one of the desires be to \ndo, or keep doing what he is doing ; in this case he keeps do- \ning so. These are ultimate and universal facts, or laws of \nvolition ; and tliere is no mystery about them, unless it be \nmysterious that a ball should not move when impulsed by two \nequal and opposite forces, or with one force which is equal, \nhut not superior to the force by which it is attracted to the \nspot where it lies. If, then, the man at a tavern have a great- \ner desire to stay and hear the end of a story, than he has \\o \ngo home, he sta)s and hears the story ; or if his desire to go \nhome equals, and no more, his desire to hear the story through, \nhe stays and hears it through. \n\nSome may think that they can bring objections to the doc* \n\n\n\n20a \n\ntrine, tb^f nothing but physical forre ever eanses a xoell mas \nio perform any motion, any contraction of his voluntary mus- \ncles, which he does not desire or choose to do ; (hey may say \nthat the criminal who loves life, walks of himself to the gal- \nIow^5, yet his desire to he hung can not exceed his desire to \nwalk. But all such objections are only seeming ones : the \ntruth is, thecrimmal cannot have his choice, to cease to wa\'k \ntowards the gallows or to he hung, and he knows it. It is for \nhim to choose whether like a man he will walk to the gallows, \nor whether, like an ohstinate fellow, he will be carried to the \ngallows, and his greater de ire, i. e. his choice, is to walk. In- \ndeed, when physical force propels a man, it is not the man \nthat acts, but he is acted upon, and it would be philosophic \ncally correct to say, that a well man never performs any act \nor motion, which he does not choose or desire to perform\xe2\x80\x94 \ncertain habitual movements, excepted ; arid these never oc\xc2\xbb \ncur contrary to a wish of his, at the time. A man may be \nplaced in circumstances which he would not, and \'of course, \ndo things, voluntarily, which he would not, were it not for \nsuch circumstances ; but wliatever he does do he does fioin \nchoice, we may say. a necessary choice, if he do it in pref- \nferrence to suffering the unavoidable consequences of not do- \ning it. We have not a dozen laws of volition \xe2\x80\x94 they arc but \nfew ; \xe2\x80\x94 the most important one is. that a man do that (possi- \nble act) which he has an uncounterbalanced desire to do. To \nhave such desire, is to choo?e, to please, to determine, to \nwill, to " have a mind," to do the thing liesired. We may ob- \nserve, however, that according to the co\'nmon acceptation of \nterms, io will is to have thoughts which immediately precede \nthe motive actions of the brain, whereas, to determine do \na thing tomorrow, is to liave such thoughts occur as to com \nStitute a conviction that, if notiiiiig uiuxpected turn up, it \nwiil be your pleasure, or choictj to do ttie thing tonionow. \n\n\n\n296 \n\nIt is a thing whirb, owing to circiimsffince? you tliink of, you \ndo Dol Ivdsv a gr< aUr desire lo do jiozo than you have to do \ngomelhi.\'ig else incOiasistent with ihe thing you delernuiie to \ndo to morrow. \n\nShould any one assert that a willing consists in something \nfnore than in having: certain ideas occur, one after another, * \njet him obrerve as we!! as he can. what goes on in himself, let \nhim be tHrefii! Uiat he is not himself \xc2\xabieceived, and that he \ndo not attempt to deceive 01 h^rs, by empty sounds ; and \nthen let hia^ teil us what it is. To be sure, when we come \nto treat <if the passions, we shall mantain that they consist ia \nsomething more than conscient actions of the sensorium, and \nadmit th.al what is coinmonlif called desire, may consist in \nsomething more than conscient actions of the sensormm alone. \nBut although this will do very well for us, since we maintain \nthat thuikiui^ and sensing are not functions of an unextended \nthing ; we h^ve a curiosity to know what the immaterialists \nWill tell us (hat wiU\'ing consists in, if it he not essentially the \nttie same as thinking, \xe2\x80\x94 which, by tiie by, we suppose to be \nthe same as, to have ttioughts, and to have thoughts the same \nas- to have ideas. They wont tell us, will they, that their un- \nextended thing has part\xc2\xab,\xe2\x80\x94 -a thirdcing part and a willing part ; \naid that a man may think and will at the same time, and yet \nthinking and willing are not the same thing? If they do, we \ntrust they will he so good as to show us why an act of the will- \ninsc part can, and an act of the thinkin;^ part cannot, be imme- \ndiately succeeded by motive actions of the brain and nerves, \nor if they please, by contraction<^ of the muscles. Perhaps \nthey ma^ tell us that it is so, because such are the laws of na-^ \nture, and that they can tell us no more about it. Very good, \nbut may it not just as easily and rather cheaper be a law of \nJialure, f^r certain motive actions of the brain to set in, ori \nthe occurrence of certain thou^jhti ? ISlow we kaow thai w\xc2\xab \n\n\n\n297 \n\nhave thoughts and of course, a thinking part, but we have \nno evidence at all, that we have any willing part, besides the \nthinking part ; we cannot discover in any of our willings that \nwe have any thing besides sensations and thoughts. Anti if \nsimple truth had preceded complicated error, and we had \nnever heard any thing about the ^^\xe2\x96\xa0wiW and the many other \npowers 2.ndfucidties of the Soul, (all thingless, and the second \nand third very ambiguous names,) we never should have \nthought any thing, more or less, about volition than this : \xe2\x80\x94 \non the occurrence of certain sensations and thoughts, or cer- \ntain thoughts alone, certain motions of the body immediately \nfollow. \n\nAs we maintain that not more than one sensorial desire \ncan exist in the same man, at one and the same instant, and \nas it is clear, that, in this instant, the desire which does exist, \ncannot be equalled or counterbalanced by an opposite de- \nsire ; it may be asked why, the moment a man has any de- \nsire to do a thing, the motive actions of the brain do not set in \nand the man start to do this thing ? \n\nIn answer to this question, we offer the following conjec- \nture : We suppose that thoughts succeed thoughts, a little \nmore quickly than motive actions succeed thoughts. HencCj \nif conscient actions, constitutmg a desire, be iramediately suc- \nceeded by such as cnostitute an opposite desire, there is no \ntime for the motive actions to set in so as to give rise to mus- \ncular contractions ; but if one desire be not immediately sue* \nseeded by an opposing thought, the motive actions do set in. \nBut we know from what we have experienced in ourselves, \nthat after a man has set out to do a thing, a " second thought\'" \nsometimes stops him quicker than a cannon ball would do. \n\nDifferent desires give rise to different motions ; this will be \nadmitted on all hands, for it is but saying, in ihe language of \nthe schools, that a man\'s will govern^ his actionb ;\xe2\x80\x94it is iQ \n\n\n\n298 \n\nstate an ultimate fact, or law of nature, or volition, and none \nbut those who disbelieve this, will talk about explaining it. \nWe don\'t hear anj one talk about explaining laws of nature : \nto explain her phenomena, is to explain every thing to be ex- \nplained. The Deity himself cannot explain a law of nature \nin the sense in which the word explain ought to be used by \nmen. \n\nWhen two different desires which are exactly equal, imme- \ndiately succeed each other, the man may be said to be choice- \nne-uter^ but when there be but one desire, or when one desire \nis more than equalled by another, he may be said to be \nchoice-absolute, \n\nA man seldom remains choice-neuter for any length of \ntime ; for as the sensorium is continually thinking, some \nthought is apt to occur, which is sufficient to turn the scale, \nalready on the balance : when this is done, the man is choice- \nabsolute, and the motive actions set in. \n\nNinety. nine times out of a hundred, the thought which \nturns the scale, or the desire which gives rise to action, when \nnot counteracted by an opposing thought, is so trrfling,* that \none can hardly say what induced him to do so and so, and \nwill very readily say, \'\xe2\x80\xa2 1 might have done otherwise if I had \nhad a mind to." This we grant, objecting only to the lan- \nguage used. If the conscient actions of his sensorium had \nbeen difFerer.t, his actions would have been different ; but as \nit was, his actions were as much necessary consequents of \ntheir antecedents, as other effects are necessary consequents \nof their antecedents. \n\nHowever much the short-sighted, and those who have an \n\n* A thongfht may be said to be hijlhi^, when it does not relate \nto any thing of importance \xe2\x80\x94 does not relate to any thing which, if \nit do or do not occur, or do or do not exist, can make but very little \n\xc2\xa9dds in the happiness or misery of him iu whom the thought occurs. \n\n\n\n299 \n\ninterest in choking truth, may talk and scribble, the fact is as \nstubborn and unalterabie as the laws of nature, that whatever \na nnan has done, he could luA otherwise than do, and his do- \ning so, is absolute proof that he, as he was, under all the cir- \ncumstan( es of the case, could not do otherwise than he did. \nIf a man do not do a thing, it is proved that lie might not, \nnay, could not do this thing at the time. \xe2\x80\x94 To say that a man \nmight have done so and so, if he had desired, chose, or had a \n" mind to," is to say nothing at all in favor of the doctrine.of \nfree agency, or ajiainst the doctrine of necessity. So may \nwater run up hill, zfsufficient force be given it, \xe2\x80\x94 so may gun- \npowder not explode on the application of a spark, if it be \nwell drenched with water ; nay, water must run up hill, and \ngunpowder cannot explode, under tliese circumstances. In \nall cases where the antecedents are ditFerent, the consequents \nnot only may, but must, be different ; for such are the laws \nof nature. \n\nThe sequences of nature are linked together, if we may use \na figurative expression, by an indissoluble bond : the same \nantecedents must, under the same circumstances, be followed \nby the same consequents ; and every individual act or event, \nwhether it occur without or wiihin the human skull, is the \nconsequent of an antecedent, or in older language, the effect \nof a cause. It is one of the links in the chain of events that \nconstitute the phenomena of nature. \n\nWe hardly know what to say of a man who admits that \nthere are no events without causes ; that a cause is that \nwhich must, from the nature of things, be followed by an ef- \nfect"; and then sa}s that man is a free agent. He might as \nwell admit that two times and twice are synonjmous terms, \xe2\x80\x94 \nthat twice four are equal to eight, and then say that two times \nfour are not equal to eight. \n\nSome may say that this doctrine, if generally believed, \n\n\n\n300 \n\nwould have a bad effect on society, and that (bey " would \nnot believe it if they knew it is true ?" But my dear reader, \nyou cannot help believing it. The laws of belief are the \nsame with you as with me ; you may not own that you be- \nlieve it ; you may even assert that you do not, and attempt \nto argue against it ; but (o assert, or to argue, is not to believe \nor disbelieve. But how do you know that the state of soci- \nety would be worse than it now is \xe2\x80\x94 how do you know that \nthere would be less human\' happiness, or more human mise- \nry in the world, than there now is, if the doctrine of necessity \nshould be universally believed ? Have you any reason to sup- \npose that a general knowledge of truth will increase the sum \nof human misery as much as it will increase the sum of hu- \nman happiness ? To be sure, owing to the present state of \nmankind \xe2\x80\x94 owing to the errors which at present prevail \xe2\x80\x94 the \ndiffusion of truth and the consequent eradication of error \nmight give rise to some upturnings and overhaulings w^hich \nwould disturb the peace and comfort of many an ant\'s nest; \nand we might expect a mighty fuss and stir among them. \xe2\x80\x94 \nBut we have no reason to suppose but that great good would \nresult to mankind, as one great family, from the diifusion of \ntruth ; and like good surgeons who produce a little tempora- \nry pain by probing and washing an old sore, to bring about a \ncure, every philanthropist ought to persevere in gradually \nand tenderly eradicating ignorance, error, and all their evil \nprogeny. Knowingly, we ought to w^ound no one\'s feelings \nuselessly. But w^hen argument may be aided by giving an \nabsurdity a good setting off] 1 tliink we are justifiable in do- \ning it. \n\nFew appear to be sensible of the degree to which the hap- \npiness of the human family might probably be increased, if a \nfew million of dollars, and the labor of a (ew thousand men, \nshould be yearly expended in diffusing truth, and promoting \n\n\n\n301 \n\nsound morality, \xe2\x80\x94 the machinery for choking truth and diffus- \ning error, being at the same time motionless. Men would \nsoon begin to believe alike ; for truth is one universal thing, \nand all who are taught the whole truth and nothing but the \ntruth, must believe alike. \n\nWars between nations, wars between church and people, \nwars between neighbors, and wars within one\'s own breast, \nwo\'jld soon cease to exist on account of difference of opinion. \nMerit or demerit would no longer consist in believing or dii- \nbelieving any thing, and the expression \'\'he that believeth \nnot, shall be damned," would not be understood. But vir- \ntue would coijsist in increasing the sum of human happiness, \nand diminishing the sum of human misery. Societies would \nbe formed for the diffusion of philosophical truth, and the \npromotion of real virtue ; and he that detected errors or de- \nveloped truths would be as good as his neighbor, whose \nbrains might be a little more phlegmatick. Different and \nmore effectual inducements would be held forth for men to do \ngood, and refrain iVom doing evil ; \xe2\x80\x94 if any one did society an \ninjury he would be degraded, with compassion \xe2\x80\x94 he would not \nbe held up for professing to believe that one and three are sy- \nnonymous terms, and the like o\' that. But if he reformed, \nas manifested, not by word, but by deed, he would be again \nrestored to society and publicly applauded. And what is a \nvery important consideration, the incalculable amount of hu- \nman misery which consists in the "\'horrors of death !" and \nthe fears of "an eternal hell fire !" would be blown away, as \nchaff before the wind. \n\nWe should here close this chapter, were it not for the erro- \nneous notions entertained by many, concerning the succes- \nsion of a man\'s thoughts. There are many who \xe2\x80\x94 to use their \nown expressions\xe2\x80\x94 believe that a man\'s thoughts are uudet \n\n\n\n802 \n\nthe confrolf of his \'\' will ;" that he may, and in many instan- \nces o\'lght *\'{o banish thoughts from his mind." &c. &;c. \n\nPerhaps there is no other subject under heaven, concern- \ning which men so generally entertain erroneous views, \nwhich views may so easily be shown to be erroneous, as they \ndo concerning this. Men find that they can think as they \nthink, and not only so, but if they please they can think of this, \nthat, and Hother subject ; hence they very readily and mcon- \nsiderately assent to tlie position, that a man may think as he \n\'\'has a mind to ;" and suppose that this is as much as to say, \na man\'s thoughts are under the conrrole of his will. But this \ndoctrine will not stand the test of inquiry. What is the \nZvill ? \xe2\x80\x94 Jjftt ns prorf*f>d upon the principles of iramaterialism, \nand ask, candidly^ what is the will ? is it any thing distinct \nfrom the mind and the brain ? No. Is it a part of the brain ? \nNo. Is it a part of the mind? No; for that which is unex- \ntended has no parts. Is it ^faculty of the mind ? It is gener- \nally so considered. It appears then that a faculty of an un- \nextended thing which is known to exist only by its faculties, \nis no part of such thing! But what is a faculty of the mind ? \n\n\' hem \xe2\x80\x94 hem Weil,\xe2\x80\x94 it is nothing but a/act. \n\nIt is a fact that on the occurrence of certain thoughts, certain \nmuscular contractions immediately follow ; it is a fact that \non the occurrence of certain thoughts, certain other thoughts \nsucceed \xe2\x80\xa2, when a man, for instance, thinks he will think about \nheaven, he thinks more about heaven. It is because of these \nfacts that we say the mind has the faculty of causing the vol- \nuntary muscles to contract, and of causing its own self to \nthink about this, that, and the other thing ; this faculty we \ncall the rcill. Well, M?\\ Lnmaterialisi, since you spake as a \nphilosopher, and not as a poet, or an orator before a popular \nassembly, we must tell you that we object to your language, \nin the strongest terms. It is calculated to deceivCj \xe2\x80\x94 it is ol\xc2\xabl \n\n\n\n303 \n\nlanguage got fen into use, in days of ignorance ; and is calcur \nlated to keep alive the very notions that gave rise to it : the \nword zwiV/ is generally understood to mean something existing \nin the head besides di fact ! However if su\'^h language is in \nsuch general use, that it is better, for the present, to use it, \nthan to invent a substitute, we permit you to use it. But we \nmust ask you what causes the will [the fact !] to act ? We \nsuppose you will grant that every willing is an act of that \nwhich wills \xe2\x80\xa2, but tliere are no events without causes, no gaps \nin the great chain of events, and we do not see but that you \nmust suppose another will, to cause your old one to act, and \nso go on, supposing wills^ one atop of another, until you get \nto heaven, the Great First Source of all events ! ! \n\nImmaterialist, \xe2\x80\x94 1 must confess this is rather difficult ground \nto maintain \xe2\x80\x94 more so than I ever befoje thought. I have \nheard so much about \'\' the will,*\' about a man \'\' controlling \nhis thoughts," and so much of censure when a man chances \nto believe differently from his neighbor!?, that I never dreamt \nbut that there is a will in a man\'s head, that makes his thoughts \ncome and go at pleasure, free and absolute pleasure ; and \nthat a man in whom this something does not cause good \nthoughts to occur, but suffers evil ones to occur, is to blame ; \nand in some instances deserves to have his body tied up to a \nstake, and made to smart most wretchedly, by having a fire \nbuilt about it ! \xe2\x80\x94 But I will take the ground of the late pro- \nfessor Brown of Edinburg. He was an immaterialist, and an \nacute reasoner too, though not quite so orthodox as I could \nwish ; but as 1 am drawn into company where J mnsi reason^ \nI will take such ground as I can defend without giving up the \ncapitoL^\' Brown maintains that all our sensations, thoughts, \nand emotions \xe2\x80\x94 in a word, all oar intellectual phenomena, are \n\n* The doctrine of soul, as something distinct from the brain. \n\n\n\n304 \n\nstates of an unextended and indivisible mind ; and that this \nmind can exist in but one state at a time. Of course, to willy \ndoes not suppose the existence of any thing but the mind in a \ncertain state ; and to will a motion of one of our members, is \nto have the mind in such a certain state as it is, immediately \nanterior to such muscular contractions as produce the mo- \ntion ; \xe2\x80\x94 to will a thought, is but to have the mind in a certain \nstate immediately anterior to its existing in such state as con- \nstitutes the thought. Does this sense of the expression, to \nwill a thought, suit you any better ? \n\nWe, \xe2\x80\x94 To be sure, this is not so absurd as to say, a fact cau- \nses thoughts to exist, and prevents the existence of thoughts \nwhich have no being; but the question before us does not re- \nlate altogether to the fitness of expressions : the main ques- \ntion is, whether there be any thing like free and independent \nagency in the succession of a man\'s thoughts ; whether every \nthought which does occur, must not as necessarily occur, as \npain must follow the application of a red hot iron to the skin \nof a living and healthy man ; in short, whether it be, or be \nnot, the effect of a cause ? And to establish such free agency, \nwe should as soon have thought of your referring to any other \nauthority as to that of John Brown. Although Brown \nwas not a professed materialist nor necessarifin, he has done \nmore, perhap?, than any other one man towards establishing \nmaterialism and other important truths. Locke did consid- \nerable, by banishing the world of innate ideas. Every man \nwho dispels any of the metaphysical darkness of the schools, \nfurthers the cause of materialism, whether he designs to or \nnot. But to the point. It must be granted, that according \nto the principles of Biown, the mind changes states as fre- \nquently as we have different sensations, thoughts and emo- \ntions ; and to change state supposes action ; and an action is \nam event, whether the agent acting be discernible or not. \xe2\x80\x94 \xe2\x96\xa0 \n\n\n\ni \n\n\n\n305 \n\nNow, where are jou : A certain state of the mind (a state \n\\vhich constitutes a desire, zvill, or loilUng^) is immediately \nsucceeded by a certain other state, constituting a thought ; \nbut what caused the mind to exist in the ^/-.sl state ? \xe2\x80\x94 no \nevents without causes \xe2\x80\x94 no gaps in the everlasting chain of \nevents \xe2\x80\x94 what will made the mind will, to think the thought ? \n\nImmaterialist, \xe2\x80\x94 Reason is a dangerous thing ; it ought not \nto he exercised in the present case ; \xe2\x80\x94 we may reason away \nall the exalted sentiments concerning human nature, and \nmake a man a mere -organized machine, who is no more abso- \nlutely culpable for any thing he does, in the eyes of his Maker, \nthan a cotton factorv ; destrojing, thus, the fundamental pria- \nciples of that wholesome morality which is productive of so \nmuch human happiness, I know that when I am deter- \nmined to think of any subject, [ can and do think of it, and \nwhen I choose to think of some other subject, I can [do] \nthink of it ; and this is all I mean by saying my thoughts are \nunder the control of my will. \xe2\x80\x94 I\'il hear no more of your mis- \nchievous philosophy ; I am satisfied with my own opinions, \nand 1 leave you to enjoy yours, \xe2\x80\x94 May God have mercy on \nyour souls ! \n\nWe. \xe2\x80\x94 That man is no numskull \xe2\x80\x94 he feels the force of ar- \nguments ; but he is either too proud to admit that he is wiser \nto-day than he was yesterday, or else he has some selfish mo- \ntives in keeping alive ancient absurdities. He appears to be \nalarmed at our reasoning away the fundamental principles of \nthat sound morahty which is productive of so much hum^n \nhappiness ; but he has too much good sense to suppose, for a \nmoment, but that more good than evil will result, in tlie end, \nto mankind, as one great family, from the diffusion of truth. \nHe has not, however, and never will have, se.se enough to \nreason away the laws of nature, or what is equally difficult, \n\nfe) refute the doctrine of necesssity. \n\n33 \n\n\n\nHe says that when he is determined to, or chooses to think \nof any subject, he can [does] think of such subject ; and that \nthis is all he means by saying his thoughts are under the con- \ntrol of his will. But if this be all he mean, we admit that his \nthoughts are under the control of his will ; and it argues ex- \nactly as much in favor of man\'s free agency, and consequent- \nly against the doctrine of necessity, as to say, that when fire \nis applied to gunpowder, the gunpowder can [does] explode. \nLet us saj, for instance, that a man is determined to think of \nheaven. This language suffers nothing in sense by render- \ning it thus: \xe2\x80\x94 the man thinks he will ihmk of or about heaven. \nBut is there no cause for his thinking he will think thus ? If \nhe ci^st back a little, he will tind that these thoughts were \npreceded by other thoughts, in some way or other, related to \nthem, and these, again, by others, and so on. He will see \nthat, considering his sensorial tendencies and the laws of \nthought, every thought which does in him occur, must as ne- \ncessarily occur, as an unconfined body must move when \nstruck by a heavier body swiftly moving. \n\nA man having got so far as lo think he will think of heaven, \nalready/ thinks of heaven ; and as all thoughts relative to \nheaven are related to each other, we should expect, according \nto the principles which we have said regulate the succession \nof thoughts, that he would think more about heaven, than \nmerely to think he will think of heaven. \n\nWe see that it argues nothing to say a man may think as \nbe pleases, chooses, or " has a mind to ;" and besides, the \nexpression is very nonserjsical, as much so as to say, a man \nmay think as he thinks ; for lo please, choose, or have a mind \nto, is but to think. \n\nIf there be a wiU\'m a man\'s head, which may control bis \nthoughts, in the sense in which these two words are geneially \nunderstood, why, when a man is tired and worn down t)} the \n\n\n\n367 \n\ntoils and anxietips of the clay, does he not stop his thoughts 2 \nHe would (hen be in a refreshing sleep. Why, like a fool, \ndoes hetumhieand think half the night, anxiously desiring to \ngo to sleep ? Surely, it must be a very strange and powerless \ncontroller to put into such an active organ as the brain, that \ncannot stop its actions. \n\nWhy, if a man may zoill his thoughts, does he not always \nthink of a man\'s name when he wi \xe2\x80\x94 desires it ? If you do \nthink of a man\'s name on a desired occasion, it occurs to you \nin this way : Some ideas, more or less remotely related to the \nidea of the man\'s name, are, in some way or other, caused io \noccur ; \xe2\x80\x94 the fact that you desire to thirik of his name, is proof \nthat some such ideas have occurred : the desire, as it is cal- \nled, consists of some such ideas ; and as ideas that are related \nare apt to suggest each other, it is clear on what principle the \nidea of the man\'s name occurs to you. \n\nBut why all this talk to prove that the actions of that which \nthinks, are not controlled by \xe2\x80\x94 the actions of that which thinks, \nwhen it may be done by one short argument ? The very ex- \npression, will a thought implies a contradiction. Who caa \nwill a thmg until he have an idea of what to will ? But the \ninstant a man have an idea of what thought to will, that very \ninstant is the thought already present \xe2\x80\x94 it has occurred accor- \nding to the principles which we have mentioned in several \nparts of this work. \n\nWe must here be permitted to offer a few remarks, which, \nhowever, relate more particularly to what we have said in the \nfore part of this chapter, than to what we have just been ad- \nvancing. \n\nWe have said, that on the occurrence of certain conscient \nactions of the sensorium, certain motive actions of the braia \nand nerves immediately set in, and certain muscular contrac* \ntipns immediately follow. The^e consc4eat actioas we call \n\n\n\n308 \n\ndesires, merely to distinguish them from con?cient actions of \nthe sensorium that are not immediately succeeded by motive \nactions. In doing this, however, we use the word desire, in \na sense somewhat pecuhar, for there may or may not be, that \nconsciousness which is generally called desire. These de- \nsires we call thoughts, also, for we call every conscient ac- \ntion of the sensorium alone, a thought. Should the reader \nask why we do not use (he word will\'m the instances in which \nwe use the word desire, we answer, because we fear the con- \nsequences of using this word ; we think it would be more apt \nto suggest erroneous notions than the word desire. \n\nPerhaps the reader may find more diifcufty than we do in \nadmitting that it is a thought which, through the medium of \nthe motive actions of the nervous system, gives rise to volun- \ntary contractions. If he do, it is because he does not have \nthe same notion of a thought that we do : he m:4y own that a \na;?7/m^ supposes consciousness, but does not kie\\ right in call- \ning it a thought, or thinking ; and (or this very good reason, \nhe calls it a willing and erer has done so. But he must re- \ninemDer that, in many cases, words which are quite different \nin themselves mean the same thing in reality. \n\nIf a man would have just such notions as we do, concern- \ning thoughts or ideas, and concerning volition ; he must put \naside all preconceited notions ; must look right into a man\'s \nhead, and there Sf^e the sensorium near the centre of the brain, \nwith nerves running up to it from all parts of the body, and \nsee it acting one action after another, (calling each one \nof these actions, a thought or idea) and see that when a \ncertain action of the sensorium occurs, a motive action com- \nmences in a certain nervous tract and runs down into a mus- \ncle, and a contraction of the muscle immediately follows. \nShould any one a<\xc2\xbbk why one conscient action of the sensori- \num is succeeded by a certain motive action of the aervou^ \n\n\n\n^09 \n\nsystem, in preference fo another ; we would af^k him why \nevents out of the skull, occur in any kind of order, \xe2\x80\x94 why ihe \nevent B, instead of the event L, X, G, or any other event, \nimmediately succeeds the event A. \n\nWe may, perhaps be told, that, notwithstanding all we have \nsaid, the existence of the motive actions of the nervous sys- \ntem, is not a fact known, but an hypothesis \xe2\x80\x94 we grant it. We \nare not immediately sensible of their existence \xe2\x80\x94 they are not \nobjects of sense ; but the diurnal revolution of the earth is \nalso an hypothesis. The supposed exiitence of the motjve ac- \ntions of the nervous system enables the physiologist to explain \nthe phenomena of volition, and many phenomena which he \nwitnesses in disease and while experimenting upon animals, \neven after their death 5 as much as the supposed diurnal \nrevolution of the earth, enables the astronomer to explain \ncertain astronomical phenomena. We know of no well as- \ncertained fact thai tends to disprove either of these supposi- \ntions. \n\n\n\n\xe2\x96\xa000- \n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXII. \n\nOn ihe Passions, \n\nThe passions consist of thoughts and natural sensations, not \nimmediately excited by agents exterior to the body. Some \nof them consist of copscient actions that commence in (lie \nnerves and extend to the sensorium, others consist of con- \nscient actions that commence in the sensorium and extt nd \ndown the nerves. The former we propose to denominaie \nthe organic passions ; the latter, the sensorial passions. \n\nWe say the passions consist of thoughts and natural sen- \nsations, not Decause we suppose there is any thin^ in nature \n\n\n\n310 \n\n^hich is not, ptrlcllj speaking, truly natural ; but to exclude \nfrom our definition of the passions, all those s^ensations which \narise from morbid staies of the system, as the tooth-ache, the \nbelly-ache, the pain of the gout, &c. &c. \n\nThe definition of passion, which we have given, is, we \nthink more philosophically correct than any other that ran \nbe given. The only objection to it, is, the word has not gen- \nerally been used in so broad a sense ; for according to this \ndefinition it may be contended that even the pains of a nat- \nural labor must be considered as constituting one of the organ- \nic passions, and it would require a good deal of metaphysical \nsubtlety to make it appear that they do not. \n\nAs we do not generally know. precis eli/^ by what and how, \nthe organic passions are excited, we shall take the liberty \nto say they are excited by, or arise from, states of the \norgans. When the stomach contains a quantity of heal- \nthy gastric fluid, and no food, it is in such state that hun- \n^er arises ; \xe2\x80\x94 when the organs subservient to generation are \nin a state of plenitude, or in an irritable state, the venereal \npassion often arises without what may be called an exciting \ncause. \n\nThe sensorial passions may, also, be said to be owing to \nthe s/a/e\xc2\xab of our organs, and especially to the state of the \nsensorium. The actions which constitute the sensorial pas- \nsions, we say, commence in the sensorium ; if a man become \nangry on account of what he sees, hears, or feels, we do not \nsay, the anger commenced in the eye, ear, or shin \xe2\x80\x94 the ac- \ntions of the optic, auditory or cutaneous nerves constitute no \npart of the anger. And as no anger would arise on the oc- \ncurrence of these sensations, if the sensorium were destitute \nof tendencies, it may trulv be said, that the sensorial passions \nare more especially owing to the state of the sensorium, than \nto the state of any other part of the system. But if it were \n\n\n\nsn \n\npossible for two persons to possess sensorial tendencies pre< \ncisely alike, in kind, number, strength, relation, in short, m \nevery possible respect ; we believe that one of these persons \nmi}^ht bt\'come angry on seeing, hearing, or feeling, what the \nother might see, hear, or feel and not become angry. We \nare led to this opinion by the fact, (hat the same man does \nnot, at different times, become angry on what would be ad- \nmitted to be equally vexing ; and yet we cannot suppose this \ndifference of susceptibility to anger is owing to atiy change \nthat has taken place in his sensorial tendencies. What would \nvex the weary laborer at eve, he may with patience bear, \nafter a recruiting night\'s sleep ; \xe2\x80\x94 what would be taken in \ngood humour by the man who has just taken his dram, may \nthe next hour make him mad. It appears, then, that so far \nas the sensorial passions are depending on .v^i/es of our or- \ngans, they are not owing altogether to the sensorial tenden- \ncies, thoiigh fhese are essential to their existence ; it appears, \nalso, that when the nervous system is in such state as it is, af- \nter exhaustion from fatigue, muscular or sensorial, or from \nhigh stimulation, it more readily takes on such actions as \nconstitute anger, (and the same might be said of some other \npassions,) than at other times. \n\nAccording to our views, a man is never in a passion, or \nmore properly, a passion is never in man, when there is no \nconscient action of a nerve. Actions of the sensorium alone, \nmay be more or less vivid, w^e admit ; but when vivid, they \nalone constitute nothing more than what we would call vivid \nthinking, \xe2\x80\x94 A man\'s thoughts may be distinct and numerous, \nbut they do not, of themselves, constitute a passion. \n\nThe organic passions are often called appetites ^ the sen- \nsorial, especially the fainter ones, are often called emotions. \nIn most instances of the sensorial passions^ the nervous ac- \ntions are confined to the nerves about the epigastrium, or that \n\n\n\n\'312 \n\nupper and middle region of the abdomen, wbich includes the \n" pit of ihe stomach ;" but in some instances, as gamesters \nwell know, the nervous actions thrill down the back, even m- \nto the extremities. \n\nWhen any thing is first told to us, which does not accord \nwith what we have been in ^he habit of believing, it at first \nappears to us irrational ; but on more mature consider- \nation we often think of some fact which we admit as such, \nbut which we must admit to be equally inexplicable with the \nthing told us ; this thing then ceases to appear so strange and \nirrational as before we thought of such fact. Men have been \nso mnch in the habit of thinking that conscient actions com- \nmence in the organic extremities of nerves, and extend to^^ \nwards the brain, that when it is said they sometime* com- \nmence in the brain and extend down the nerves, it, at first \nthought, seems irrational ; but when they consider that thej \ncannot explain the fact that an action commences in the or- \nganic extremities of nerves, and extends towards the brain, \nand that they admit it because there are well known facts that \ncannot be explained without admitting it \xe2\x80\x94 because that facts \nseem to prove it ; then they more readily admit that an ac- \ntion may commence in the brain and extend down a nerve. \nAnd they will admit it, if facts be adduced which appear, to \nihem, to show that it is so. \n\nNow the fact, that, on the occurrence of thoughts relative \nto pne\'s well being, sensations without impressions often fol- \nlow, (and follow too so instantly, that we must suppose them \nthe immediate consequents of the sensorial actions,) appears \nto prove that conscient actions may commence in the brain \nand run down the nervous prolongations connected with it. \n\xe2\x80\x94 It seems to be useless to say any thing to show that the \nsensations or emotions of which we are speaking, are trulr \nsubseguent to the thoughts of the head. \n\n\n\n31cJ \n\nHaving shown whfit we mean by (he passions, we now pro\xc2\xab \ngeed to offer a [tw words concerning some of their cfft\'Cts, on \nthe individual in whom they occur. Although some have \nfound it easier to deny the existence of a nervous fluid secre- \nted by the nervous glands, than to prove it, still its existence \nis admitted by most physiologists, and will we think, in time, \nbe admitted by all. Those who admit the reality of this se- \ncretion, will not deny that some of the passions increase, and \nothers diminish it. By admitting this, and admitting its u-e \nto be what we have supposed, in the chapter on the relation \nbetween the nervous and muscular systems, tliey can ftad no \ndifficulty in showing in what way some of the passions give \nrise to a flushed face, a sparkling eye, a strong nrm. and an in- \ncreased secretion of bile ; while others give rise to a pale \nface, a fluttering heart, a trembling knee, a diarrhoea, an in- \ncreased secretion of limpid urine, &c. &c.* \n\nAlthough we suppose that, in cases of emotion, a nervous \naction extends /"rom the brain ; still we are of the opinion that, \nin all those cases in which there is any paleness of the counte- \nnance, the sensation in the epigastric region is in part owing \nto the pressure of fluids in this quarter. We will not stay to \nadvance all the considerations in favor of this opinion, \xe2\x80\x94 only \nthe few following : When the fluids strike in from the surHice, \nas indicated by pale shrunken features, there must be an unu- \nsual pressure about the heart and lungs \xe2\x80\x94 a pressure which in \nsome diseases is very great, and undoubtedly gives rise to (he \noppressive feeling which medical men term anxiety. Second, \nA little ill luck, or bad news is much more apt to produce \na disagreeable feeling about the epigastrium and breast wlien \nthe contracldity of the muscuiar system (including the capil- \nlaries of the lungs) is so low that the biood gets through the \n\n^\' See pages 14d, 150, 151. \n\n40 \n\n\n\n314 \n\nlungs with more difficulty than usual ; and, third, a deep in- \nspiralioii, ora vawn,either of which is calculated to faciHlale \nthe passage of the blood through the lungs and relieve conges- \ntions of iLe venous blood, relieves for the time that disagreea- \nble, oppressive feeling which a man experiences when he \nthinks of things which he beheves will (and consequently do, \nat the time) diminish his happiness. \n\nAlthough we hold that a passion supposes an action of a \nnerve, we are not prepared to say that some conscient actions \nof the sensorium. alone, are not more agreeable than others \xe2\x80\x94 \nsome thoughts more agreeable than others ; but to ask, xohij ? \nwould be like asking why oxygen is different from hydrogen. \nNo expianadon can be given, and no answer can be given, ex- \ncept we say. such is the fact, such is the very nature ofthem ; \nor something like this. Neither could any man tell another \nwhat is an agreeable thought, if this other never experienced \none him^e]f. \n\nIt has been a question why one thing pleases us, and another \ndispleases us, \xe2\x80\x94 why one thing excites such a consciousness \nin us that we call it pleasant, or beautiful, and another thing. \nthat we call it unpleasaitt, homely or ugly. Now we suppose \nthat in some instaiices this question is a very proper one, as \nsomething of the why and wherefore may be said of it ^ but \nin other instances it must be considered as a question relative \nto an uUnnate fact ; and when we are satisfied that any thing \nis an ultimate fact, it would be as foolish to ask lohy is it so:^ \nas it would to ask, why is liydrogen su^h sort of substance as \nit is ? We believe that some agents immediateli/ and invaria- \nhly excite agreeable conscient actioas in all nervous systems \norganized alike. If so, it is an ultimate tact, or law, that \nsuch agents excite such actions in such nervous systems : \nand to distinguish them from other ageuts they may be said to \n\n\n\n315 \n\nbe naiurally agreeable, good, pleasant, or beautiful, in relation \nto those beings which possess such nervous systems. \n\nBut there are some things that give rise to agreeable con- \nsciousness in one man, but not another; and in the same man \nat one period of hfe. though not in a former period. In this \ncase, the question, n)hy ? is a proper one to be asked, for some \nanswer \xe2\x80\x94 some explanation can undoubtedly be given : it \nmust be owing to circumstances, and to point out these cir- \ncumstances is to explaifj luhy, U a certain piece of dress \ngive rise to stich consciousness in me, that I call it handsome, \nand in another man, such consciousness that he call it homely ; \nwe must suppose that either in the one case or the other, llie \nagreeable or disagreeable consciousness is not an action nnme- \ndiately excited^ but an action suggested by means of the piece \nof dress; for it is probable tliatail men are organized so near \nalike, tfiat what irnmediatelij and of itself excites an agreeable \nconsciousness in one does so in all, and may be said to be na^ \nturally agreeable. Perhaps neither the agreeable conscious- \nness of me nor the disagreeable consciousness of the other \nman, is an action excited by the piece of dre^s, but in both \ncases an action suggested \xe2\x80\x94 perhaps men iti general would say \nthat the piece ofdre^s is inditferent as to beauty or ugliness. \nIt is owing to difference of sensorial tendencies that one thing \ngives rise to an agreeable consciousness in one man and not in \naijother \xe2\x80\x94 that one man calls one thing agreeable which ano- \nther man calls disagreeable. \n\nSuppose a man to be, or to have been, in love, as the ex- \npression is, with a lady who wears, or did wear, a particular \np\'iece of dress ; suppose <hat the man have enjoyed mar y \nagreeable emotions at the same time he saw this piece of \ndress; then the action im riediately excited by seeing this \npiece of dress, has occurred many times in connexion with \nthose that constitute the agreeable emotions, aud of course \n\n\n\n3ie \n\n4h\'*re fs prodnced in bis nervous system a tendency to the re* \nCJrrence of these actions in connexion ; hence it follows, \nthat when a man sees a like looking piece of dress, be it \nwhere or upon whom it m^.}, it exciies an action of his ner- \nvous system, which calls up or suggests the agreeable emo- \ntions, and he is led to say this piece of dress looks zvell, altho\' \nit is not the immediate cause of (hat wh!( h leads h\'\\m to say so, \n\nJf this piece of dress he not naturally handsome, and an- \nolher man have frequently seen it at the same time he has \nexperienced unpleasant emotions, and seen it on!y at such \ntimes, then it will call up unpleasant emotions iri such man, \nand he will say it is a homely looking thing. Tlie fact (hat \nnauseating drugs taken with spirits create a disgust agairist \nsuch spirits, is to be explained by referring to the suggesting \nprinciple. \n\nAs the notions of many concerning love, are rather unsatis- \nfacSory, and the notions of some concerning conscience, are \nrather ridiculous, we shall dwell a little on these two pas- \nsio.is, before closing this chapter. And first, of Love. \xe2\x80\x94 We \ndo not call the venereal appetite the passion of love ; \xe2\x80\x94 the \npassion of love is one of the sensorial passions, but the pecu- \nliai 1 >ve of one sex for another, arises from the venereal ap- \npetite. A mail loves what he regards as a cause of happiness \nin him, (and the gratification of any organic passion is so \nmurh happiness, though often called pleasure,) and the dif- \nferent sexes may be a cause of a peruhar happiness in each \nother, on accourU of the venereal appetite ; hence the pecu- \nliar love of a person of the one sex for a person of the other \nsex. But men may love each other, and men may love wo- \niDen, because they rrgaid them as causes of other happiness \nin them than that which consists in the gratification of an or- \nganic passion. Such love, to distinguish it from the sexual \nlove, may be called social love j and it is the sexual and so* \n\n\n\nS17 \n\n4iial love conrjiiinerl, "that constitute that romponnd affection \nwhich binds hearts witba nnore lasting cement than the sexual \nlove alone ; and wh^ch. when disappointed, render? the per-, \nson more lastnii^iy miserable. Beauty of person, and even of \ndress, favors the passion of love ; for whatever is naturally \nbeautiful, imniediaiely and invariably excites agreeable con- \nsciousness in all persons \xe2\x80\x94 this consciousness is so much \nhappiness, and we love what is tons a cause of happiness. \n\nThe appetitti which causes us to iove a thing, is not the \nlove of such thing, \xe2\x80\x94 the tirsl is an organic, the last a sensorial \npassion. \n\nOf Conscitnce. It is an ultimate fact, or law of the ner- \nvous system, that on the occurrence of certain conscient ac- \ntions of the sensorium, certain coriscient actions of the nerves, \nimmediately follow. These actions of the nerves, together \nwith the actions of the sensorium, constitute, as we have said, \nthe sensorial passions, which are often called, not improper- \nly, emotions. The actions of the nerves alone may be called \ninternal, retrogade sensations, ^ \xe2\x80\x94 internal^ to distinguish them \nfrom sensations excited by agents exterior to the body ; retro- \ngrade^ to distinguish them from the sensations which consti- \ntute (in pari) the organic passions, which sejisations consist of \nconscient actions that run towards, instead of from, the brain. \n\nWhat thoughts or conscient actions of the sensorium are \nthus succeeded by internal, retrograde sensations, we can say \nno more particularly, than that they are thoughts which re- \nlate to the happiness or misery of ourselves or other sentient \nbeing?. All thoughts about future misery, be; this miser) ex- \npected at what period it may, are of this nature. A man w ho \nmeets with a little ill luck, or hears a little news which caus- \nes him to think of, and expect, a diminution of his happiness, \nor an increase of his misery, experiences, especially if he be \nin a weak and exhausted state, aud above ail, if exhausud bj \n\n\n\n318 \n\n\'d\'ebauch, a disagreeable sensation in the breast and epigastric \nregion. If he have been led to do any thing or even think \nabout doing any thing which calls up ideas of misery \xe2\x80\x94 any \nthing which he has been taught to believe he shall be punish- \ned for in a future state \xe2\x80\x94 the same kind of sensation arises. \nThat this sensation is the same in kind as that which arises \nwhen a man thijiks of the bad conditions he expects to be in, \nto-morrow, next week or next year, no one will doubt, after \npaying so much attention to it as the present writer has done ; \nbut if it should be granted that it is not, it would not follovF \nthat conscience is not as much a passion as joy. \n\nThe notions entertained, or at least expressed, concerning \nconscience, are whimsical enough : It has been talked about, \nas though it were a \'\'divine voice" (if any one can tell what \nthis is) either slipped into us about the time we were begotten, \nor else coming directly lo us from heaven just before, at the \ntime, or soon after we do any thing which the book of nature, \nor a paper book has taught us to believe we ought not to do. \nAnd the "dictates of conscience*\' [conscience itself] have \nbeen talked of as though they were " the strivings of the Holy \nSpirit ;" but by the by it is a spirit which, in nine cases out of \nten, a glass of grog will banish fr-om one\'s stomach, until the \nstimulating effects of the grog are over, but which will then \nreturn, more troublesome than before, if the system be not, \nin the mean time, recruited by rest and nourishing food. \n\nWe do not maintain that the passion conscience, is no sign \nthat the person in whom it occurs is not a person of principle, as \nthe expression is, but the reverse, \xe2\x80\x94 it is the most sure sit^n he \ncan have that he is a man of principle \xe2\x80\x94 it is certain evidence. \nBut it is not the least shadow of evidence that his principles \nare true. It is evidence only that he believes them lo be true, \nwhich belief is what constitutes him a man of principle.* \xe2\x80\x94 \n\n* We have here used ihe word principle in a loose aud faniiiiar \n\n\n\n319 \n\n\xc2\xa9nly make a child believe it wicked to whistle, that it displeas- \nes God, and that he will siifFer eternal, never-ending^ torments \nin an unquenchable hell fire, for whistling ; such child, should \nhe chance to whistle, would experience the same compunc- \ntious feelings that many good boys now do, when in a moment \nof excitement they incautiously swear, or take the Lord\'s name \nin vain. Yet for all this, it might be as innocent to whistle, in \nthe views of the Almighty, as every body now supposes itto be. \n\nThe law of conscience is, that it arise whenever a man con- \ntemplates an act of his which he belie ^\'es is wrung. We \nthink, hovyever that it is more intense and partakes of the \nnature of fear in case the man believe he shall suffer for do- \ning such act. Be this as it may, the existence of conscience \nin any man, on a certain occasion, depends on what the man \nhas been made to believe, be it truth or falsehood. And as a \nman\'s belief, opinions, views, sentiments, or whatever you \nplease to call them, may undergo changes, we see v/hy it is \nthat a m.an may do an act at one period of his life, without \nsuch compunclious feelings as arose at a former period, on \ndoing the same act. We see, too, why men of different na- \ntions, and different men of the same nation, do not feel re- \nmorse alike, on doing the same deeds, though ihey may be \nmen of a similar weak and nervous constitution. \n\nNevertheless, it is freely admitted, that what seems wrong \nto one, would, if known, very generally be pronounced wrong \nby all men. Tliis however is very easily accounted for. It \n\nsense \xe2\x80\x94 in that sense in u-hicli it is used when it is said that a man \nwho believes such religious dortrines as are generally believed^ \nand believes in the fitness and utility of such rules ot conduct as \nare generally believed right and useful, is a man ot principle But \nstrictly speaking, every man is a man of principle, who holds to \nany rule of conduct, or believes any thmg concerning theological \nsubjects : to be without principle, is to be opinion-neuter as to all \nmoral and religious creeds. \n\n\n\n320 \' \n\nis because nature h^? taught men what they ought to do to- \nwards each other ; aad nature is a universal school-mistress^ \nteaching all men the same le\xc2\xab5son. \n\nA man need not resort to any paper book, to learn that he \ndoes not want his person or pioperty injured, nor to leara \nthat his fellow beings are much like himself; neither does \nhe stand in need of any philosophical speculations to con- \nvince him that his ft;l!ow beings do not want to be injured in \nperson or property. Nature teaches him this, and this is as \nmuch (we believe the same,) as to teach him that it is wrong \nto injure his fellow beings. If he do injure them, a sense of \ndisapprobation arises ; and if he believe he shall suffer for so \ndoing, this sense of disapprobation partakes somewhat of the \nnature of fear, and is called conscience, or the " dictates of \nconscience," if the man believe his suffering will be in a fu- \nture world. \n\nIt is an object of moral philosophy to point out the conse- \nquences of such and such courses of conduct, which conse- \nquences are so remote as not to be readily seen by every \none. \xe2\x80\x94 As soon as ar.y man is convinced that any deed, or \nany course of conduct, is productive of more human misery \nthan happiness, he is convinced that it is wrong. And we \nbelieve that to be convinced of the one, is precisely the same \nthing as to be convinced of the other. When we say a thing \nis wrong, what are our ideas of this wrong, except such as con- \nstitute a conviction that the thing, be it a disposition, design, \ndeed, or course of conduct, is immediately or remotely pro- \nductive of more human misery than happiness ? \n\nAs to regarding conscience, or what is the same thing, the \n" dictates of conscience," as any principle^ or the operation \nof any principle, within us, except the mere/\'i\'c/ that on the \noccurrence of certain sensorial actions, certain internal, re- \ntrogade sensations arise ; we should as soon think of regard- \n\n\n\n3\xc2\xa71 \n\nmg the pain which arises when a barefooted boy strikes his \ntoe against a stone, as the \'\' voice of a Divinity within him," \nwarning him not to strike his naked toes against a stone \nagain ! \xe2\x80\x94 But the world is full of strange notions, and the more \nabsurd and mysterious they are, the more obstinately do the \nignorant adhere to them. \xe2\x80\x94 Conscience is one of the passions \nwhich, like all other passions, influences our conduct. It \narises when we think of deeds whicli we have doue, just as \nsorrow arises when we think of losses we iiave sustained. \n\n\n\n\xe2\x96\xa000- \n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXIIL \n\nOn Rttigion, \n\nThe word religion, is used in quite d fferent senses, Ac- \ncording to one very common use of the word, religion is an \naffection of the human system. In this sense of the word, it \nbelongs to the physiologist, or, if you please, metaphysicmn, \nto examine into the nature and causes of religion ; asjd it is \nthe more necessary that he do so, because most persons, even \nin this enlightened age, appear to be mtich in the dark con- \ncerning this matter. Indeed, the liotions thai havt been ex- \npressed concerning it, are such as to excite emotions in every \nwell informed man. h has been sa?d that religion is caused \nby, or consists in, (we scarcely know wiiich to say,) being \nborn again of water and the Spirit, \xe2\x80\x94 an ex\'pression so very \nambiguous, that if any one totally unacquainted with all reii- \nigious notions, should ask i{ i\\\\]^ being born again of wattr and \nthe. Spiril, consists ni being brought lo life wiih rum a!*d \nwater, we shoaM nc^tthirik it stninge. AgJiti. \xc2\xabt has been \n\nsaid, that no man has religion until he iiavc c\\peneiiccd a \n\n41 \n\n\n\nS22 \n\nchange of heart ; hv which it is not meant, however, thi\\^ he \nriiust have his thorax opened and hi^ siaiwrii} or cojjgtMntal \nheart taken out, and a new one put in it^ pla<e. At oiht-r \nt\xc2\xbbme\xc2\xab, religion wa? spo!.:en of as tho\'},;h it were canned !>v. or \nconsisted in^ certain operations of the Holy Guost or the Spi\' \nHi of I he Lord. \n\nBut to speak truly and inten^gibly, the religion ofuh-cji \nWe are treatiiig \xe2\x80\x94 often called the religion of the heart \xe2\x80\x94 is no- \nthing more nor less than a sensoi-.a! [)assion ; that is, <\'on- \nsciei\xc2\xbbt actions of nerves preceded by co iscient actions of (he \nsensoruirn as a rause. A share of the consCienl actions ol the \ngcnsoiium ^\\hich give rise to these actions of the nerves, are \nsui.h as constitute thoughts concerning religious doctrines, \noccurring in such order \xe2\x80\x94 so (rti^e tmm iihternrxture ofo[)po- \nsinc; or contradictory tiioughts \xe2\x80\x94 as to con-tilutc a belief that \nS\'j( h religious doctrines are true. ticnce we see that a be- \nliej\'in religi<i)s doctrines is essential io. and inoeed consti- \ntutes a part of, the relig\'on of which we are speaking. \n\nHaving shown what inward rehgioii is, we pix)ceed to treat \nof its causes arul efllcts. \n\nMaiikind are iiow too much enlightened to mistake mysti- \nfication for explanation, or attribute eliects to .^uj rrnatural \ncauses, when riatural causes, amply \xe2\x80\xa2uthc ent to account ior \nthfm, may be pointed out. Sometlung I\'ke a thousand y^rs \nago. of course during the dark age, it is said \xe2\x80\x94 however in- \ncredible it may a{)peartomen of this enlighteiicd age\xe2\x80\x94 that \nmen attributed llieir inward religion to special operations of \ntli<\' Holy Ghost upon the heart! and some, if history be true, \neven virtually a^scrted that this Being \xe2\x80\x94 often spoken of as \nthough he were nothing less than the Creator of the universe \n\xe2\x80\x94entered the human system and dwelt for a time at least, all \nabout in or between the ihoraric and abdominal viscera, \xe2\x80\x94 \nand that religious tmoiioiis were caused by tins a^ent. Jfao \n\n\n\n328 \n\n*^ awakeninir"\' or *\' reviviT\' took p\'aco, fhe\xc2\xab?e men offhei^ark \naiie tisej] to jttribtite it to " outpourings of ihe S^ i.\':i," au\'l \nteii of the Lord paviriij; them ,\\ special visit. B\xc2\xabit these no- \ntions now re\'ruiri m history as inonuments ofanceut ;s;no- \nraJir.e, asitl uw<i are Jeft fj\'ee, so far as it respects Ipgril pu i- \nis\'irneut\'J, to \xc2\xab^e sr\'\'h out tiie true carises of all known eveu\'s. \nC )!tseq>en!iv thev h sve found ihat inward rehgioa is effe^la- \nateti in ihe foilowiug manner. \n\nChihiren are presented with books which teach them that \nth?" first man and woman ate an apple or \xe2\x80\xa2^ome su*^h thing, ia \nconspq sence of which the whole humas) lace are total!} de- \npraved, and d(\';-?erve not only to earn thcThread by the sweat \nof their i)row, to endure much m\'^-ery in ih;s life, and (he \npains of dyiiig, but to he eternally wretched after the} are \ndead ! That Ihe antlior of nature, in his uifi nle goodness and \nmere}, caused a ch Id to be brought fbith by a woman who \nhad not known her husbaiid \xe2\x80\x94 a child who, by Jhe by, was as \nOld as his. Father. That this child havir.g become a mm, \nwas by men unjustly executed ; but came to hfe again, thi-ee \ndays after, and ascended up into hea\\en, (for heaven is above \nus, if) the day tnne.) That Oii account of the>e things man- \nkind wil! not be eter .ally miserable after they die. merel} be- \ncause of the apple aifor; buL still, on account of this, their \nnatures are so very corrupt, that is. they have su*^\\\\ sirong \np issmns or propens ties fordoing those things which they \nought not to do, and are so hltle dispo-^ed to do the things \nwhich they ought to do, that they cannot or <lo not (it \nmakes no odds which you say) refrain from doing many ev\xc2\xbbl \ndeeds, for doing even one of which they deserve to be etc r- \nntliy damned, and indeed will be ; unless, before (hey die \nthey are sorry for doing such deeds ; and furthermore, pro- \nfe^"> to b< live such things as we are now stating, and many oth- \ners equdiiy ruiiuual^ lo i>e true. But d they are thus sorry, \n\n\n\nand thus profess, instead of being eternally wretched, they \nwill be eternally and most exquisitely happy. \n\nAfter nnore pains are taken to make children, and young \npersons (who have not yet sufhcieiit knowledge to reason cor- \nrectly) believe the things, than would be necessary to cause \nthem to believe the most romantic story that ever found its \nway into books ; many of them do believe them in rather a \nlow degree. And they think that after accomplishing cer- \ntain worldly objects, and indulging a little more in those \nthings for which they have a wicked (but natural) propensity, \nthey must attend to the repenting part. \n\nWhile they are in this stale striving perhaps to render their \nf ilow beings more happy, of whatever sect or denomination \nthey may be, they meet with one or more persons who under- \ntake to convert their mere cold belief in religious doctrines \xe2\x80\x94 \nwhich is at best little better than mere morality\xe2\x80\x94into real ef- \nective religion, a religion that will move the tongue. For this \npurpose a consciousness a little lower down than the brain, \nmust be rxcited, \xe2\x80\x94 there must be an emotion, hi effecting this, \nsosne are more skilled than others. The means by which \nthey operate, are various, depe/iding sojncwhat on circum- \nstances. For the most part, ibey are well calculated to eC- \nfeci the object in view, though not uniformly successful. If \nthey think ihtir subjects are not properly prepared for a real \ngetter-up of revivals, that is, their belief in the religious doc- \ntrines is not of a sufficiently high degree, their fir?t object is, \nthough a little out of (heir favorite line of business \xe2\x80\x94 to in- \ncrease such belief. This being done, they aiui to impress \ntheir subjects with the imminent danger they are in of ^\'losing \ntheir souls," and being eternally wretched in hell tire (a ter- \nrible place for an unextended tlnng) Vvhere there will be \nweeping and wiiiling and gnashinf; o t^eth \xe2\x80\x94 among the devils, \n\xe2\x96\xa07)robabl^,for the soul has no iceth, Tut-y tell Ihem that ihej \n\n\n\n325 \n\nknow not but that (hey will be called io the bar of God tJu\xc2\xa3 \nvery nighi \xe2\x80\x94 and perhaps give a history of some poor feilow \nrepenting with all speed, but could not possibly get through \nbefore the angel of death (what\'s that ?) flew away with the \nonly thing he had to repent with \xe2\x80\x94 adding, that if this repeiit- \ning apparatus should contiiiue its operations on its way thuher, \nor after it arrived at its journey\'s end, it will avail nolhnig : it \nmust all be done while it is in the braifi, or it is of no use. \xe2\x80\x94 \nThey tell them that noro is the time, the accepted tune, and \nif they do not repent now^ and turn to God, he may turn a \ndeaf ear to ail their cries, as soon as to-morrow : fur lie has \nlong been knocking ai the \'* door of their hearts /" and they \nwould not open nato him. \n\nBy such sort of sentiments as these, delivered in a solemn \nand itnpressive manner, aided by the rhignig of bells, by sing- \ning, by instrumental music, and such other means as are calcu- \nlated to arouse the nervous system, every one who firmly be- \nlieves that the impenitent wicked will be forever wretched in \na future state, and believes tjimself to be Oiie of such wicked, \nhas his feelings wrought U|)on. [le is sorry and fearful for \nthe corruption of his nature, and the many wicked deeds he \n1) is done 5 and the more of these, thr^ more sorry \\^ he. It is \nnow that con^cient actions of his nerves arise ;-\xe2\x80\x94 it is now lliat \nhe repents \xe2\x80\xa2, \xe2\x80\x94 it is now that he is in the sorrowing stage of re- \nligion. After remainitig ir) (liis stage for a longer or shorter \ntime \xe2\x80\x94 in acute ca^es, not ovtr a few days \xe2\x80\x94 he is told, or per- \nhaps it occurs to him, that tie is already repentirig, or has re- \npented ; and, of course, There is not only a pros[)ect of his \nescaping the eternal wrath of an angry God^ bui of his enjoy- \ning eternal felicity \xe2\x80\x94 yes, eternal felictti/. Oil! \\\\hat~a pleas- \nii.g thought ; \xe2\x80\x94 he now begins to feel better ; \xe2\x80\x94 his thouglits \nare dilFerent ; and of course, the disagreeable feelings ot ins \nbreast are gone. Jddt,cd, if he be very ausctptibie of vivid \n\n\n\n326 \n\nemotions, (as the yo\'in^, feeble, nnd eflem\'nfil-e sre the mo?t \nlikely to be,) and be surrouiided by new fnend.-. to who^e \ndoctrines he has bef ome a convert, and wjio saluie him with \nall the fervent aiieciion of brolht^r^ aid feilow laborer?; in \none gioriou* c uise, he is wot :\\ mnve ihinkiug mAW, bnt a joy- \nfi}i man. []\\< breast is alive wifb a new passioij ; \xe2\x80\x94 be is not \nnow the repenting child of ^orro%v, \xe2\x80\x94 the sta^^e of op|He>-*ion \nhas passed off, \xe2\x80\x94 he is one of ihe most happy oeings on eartji ; \nhe tastes of paradise below. He has made his peace wfth \nGod, and professes rehgiou. (another thing to be glad of,) \nhe thinks tluit no one srho has no? experienced fhe like, \ncan know his joys. He thinks that iiolhing false or r.ar!!)!y \ncould give him such bhss ; and would that ail would repeM,t \nof their sins, and be a brother of his, on the Lord\'s side. He \nis enthusiastic ; and ifyou express any doubts as to the tJ urh \nof the doctrines whicli he so tirmly believes, and is .>o bap^.y \nin believing, since he has been led to believe that he sliaii be \ninfinitely happy, he pitses vou ; \xe2\x80\x94 or if }ou go so far as lo ad- \nvance arguments which bear hard again^-t^ such doctrines, \nmay be offended at you, and even secretly endeavor to in- \njure you in your lawful occupations. He is not now equally \nkind and ctiaritable to persons of all denominatior)s ; for \nlie has taken sities in a cause, in promoting which he \nbelieves (for so he has been taught.) he is doing God\'s \nservice ; and in which he may have a wordly interest, aiid, \nbemg still human, ii pride in promotif.g. Consequently those \nwho are of his sect are to be encouraged, aiid those who are \nnot, put down. \n\nNow it is this chano;e in one\'s thoughts and feelings con- \ncernng religious matters, that constitutes what is !?ometnrtes \ncalled a \'* new birth," gometimes " gettifig religion^\'\'\'\' and at \nothers, " a change of heart." \n\nU IS vveh kiiOWii to cvcFj oue at all atquaialed wi.h the \n\n\n\nanim^! e^\'^nomv, that the expression, chan^p of heart, as u?ed \nbv reii-^!oriisis, is as figiiraJive. though nol qu;te so amoigij- \no-is. MS the expressiovi, bom again ofwiler aid the S/nrit.\xe2\x80\x94 \nT\'ii\' hearL is a thick (n:iseiilar organ, situated in the chest, \nan i co.itaiiiin^ four apartmeiits. Its function is to assist in \ncircu!atii>; ihe hlood, by which it is excited to act. It pos- \nse^j-cs a much lower degree of -eiisibdity than the skiu, and \nis nt^ver the seat of any feehng except il be in a diseased \ns\'ate. Ih action is ofte i accelerated during the passions, \nprobably in the manner we have explained in the course of \nthis work ; but it has no more to do with a man\'s thoughts \nand feelings than his lusigs ; and we have no more reason to \nsu{)pos^ it is ever the seat or habitation of any good or evil \nspirit, than we have to believe there are such beings in exist- \nence as witches. It is less liable to change than almost any \nQiher important organ, and everv change of it is a disea>e, re- \nquiring medicine. Bit the heart is in the neighborhood of \ntho!^e nerves which take on consc.eiit actions diiringthe sen- \nsorial passions, and as it is often infl.ience<l by these passioi^^, \nit IS not strange that the ancients regarded it as the seat of \nsome of ihem, as well as of good and evil spirits, \xe2\x80\x94 a mistake \nwliich gave rise to language that is still in use with those who \nprefer ainb\'gnous to plain matter-of-fact language. \n\nThere are some who seem to regard their religious joy \nnot only as the effect of some supernatural agency, but even \nas evidence of the divine oiigin of the religious doctrines \nwhich the} believe ; but these we think are mistaken notions. \nIndeed, if every person who firmly believes the doctrines of \nthe christian religion, who has repented of his sins, and made \na profess. on, should nol be as happy as any person ever was, \nit would be something so unnatural that no philosopher could \naccount for it. What ! a man believe that he is a sure can- \ndidate for eternal and consummate happinefSj and not be \n\n\n\n328 \n\ntransported almost fo mndness. All the happiness of the old- \nest man that ever lived is as nothing compared ^ith such a \nsum of happiness a\xc2\xab; this ; yei how oflen do we see men al- \nmost frantic with joy on meeting with a httle good lack, which \nthej know can be a cause ofhappinesss to them, but a few \nshort and uncertain years ? Surely, if there be any mystery \nconcerning the religious joy of penitent and professed believ- \ners of the doctrines of the christian religion, it is because \nthey are not much more happy than they are. We should \nthink they would sink into perfect apathy as to the things of \nthis world, and anxiously await the hour of death. We can- \nnot account for their love of life, and their sorrow^ under \nwordiy misfortunes, but by supposing that their belief in fu- \nture bliss is not of the highest degree. \n\nAs to religious joy being any evidence of the truth or divine \norigin of Christianity, it certainly is not. if a poor man should \npurchase a ticket, and afterwards be informed that it has \ndrawn 20,000 dollars, in such a manner that he would firmly \nbelieTc it, his joy would be just as much evidence that he has \ndrawn this sum, as religious joy is, that the religious doctrines \nare true, or of divine origin. In neither case is the joy any \nevidence of any thing, more or less, than that the m^nbelieves \n\xe2\x80\x94 no evidence at all that what he believes is true. If the \npoor man firmly believe that he has drawn 20,000 dollars, his \njoy is the same whether in reality he have or have not. \n\nNeither is the fact that learned men of well organized \nbrains, believe in the christian religion, the least shadow^ of \nevidence of its truth or divine origin. \xe2\x80\x94 We are no novel read- \ners, but we presume there is no fiction extant but w^hat would \nbe believed by as many enlightened men as beheve in the \nchristian religion, had it been published in the same age of \nthe v/orld, and as many millions of treasure, and the labor of \nas many millions of educated men been expended in its cause. \n\n\n\n\xe2\x96\xa0329 \n\nas have been expended in the cause of Christianity, since its \nfirst introduction into the world. \n\nOne grand reason why so many believe in the christian re- \nligion, is this ; They are not only taught to believe it, hefore \nthey are old enough to reason, but they are at this tender age \ndeeply impressed with the idea that thej ought to believe it, \nand thai they will be eternally wretched afier they die if they \ndo not believe it : consequently they think that they are not \nOnly juslitiable, but even praiseworthy, in reading^every thing \nthat has been written in favor of it, and rejecting, without \nreading, every thing that has been written against it. And \nthis delusion is not a little encouraged in rnaturer years by \nthose influential persons who have a pecuniary interest in the \ncause of religion. 0,)ly let all persons come to the &ge of \nreason before they are made acquainted with any religious \nnotions more than what they draw from the book of nature ; \nafterwards present them with the brble, together with all that \nhas been or can be written, both for and against it ; and let \nas many persons, under equally favorable circumstances, be \nemployed to convince them that Christianity is not divine, \nand the general scheme of it not true, as there are to con- \nvince them to the contrary ; then might the preponderance \nof either party be considered as some small evidence in fa- \nvor of its principles. ^ \n\nBut when we consider how much time and treasure, as \nwell as blood, have been expended in the cause of Christiani- \nty ; the smallness ot the proportion ofmanknid which truly \nbelieve in it, seems to argue much against its truth and d!vni\xc2\xb0 \nity. Only about one fifth of the human family are caiicd \nchristians, and as much as one half of this one tifth are not \nbelievers in christiaiiity ; and not more than one of a rh\'U- \nsand that do believe in i<, ever as fully exa turned what has \n\nbeea written against it, as what has been written in defence \n\n42 \n\n\n\n339 \n\nof it ; and nine fepths of the one ten thousandth part of the \nh\'lman Timily who have thus examined, had some selfish mo- \ntives in maintaining it. Finafly, we think it would be diffi- \ncult to produce a single isis^ance of a per^son believing in the \nchristian religion, who examined into its negative Side, before \nhe were deeply impressed with the idea that it is true and sa- \ncred. \xe2\x80\x94 Where are our deistical schools and colleges, openly \nand professedly such ? where our deistical presses ? where \nour deistical teachers, all over the country, calling the people \ntogether every seventh day, or of\'ener, to impress them with \ntheir doctrines ? Where the numberless deistical books, \ntracts, and weekly papers, thickly scattered abroad, so as to \nbe in every man\'s house ? They are not to be found. Oidy \nlet deism and Christianity be on an equal footing as to all these \nthings, and then see which is most easily maintained amot^g \nthe multitude. \xe2\x80\x94 Let a century pass away, and again see if \nthe number of enlightened < hrist ans so exceeds the number \nof enlightened deists, that any one would think of regarding it \nas any evidence of the divine origin of Christianity. \n\nIf we represent by one, the means that have been opera- \nting in the cause of deism in the United Slates since the land- \ning of our fore-tathers at Piymnulh ; the means thai have \noperated m the cau.-e of christianit) in these states since that \ntime, may be represented by 100.000. Yet it is probable that \nthe number of intelligf^nt Hiid contirmed deists at present in \nthe Un?kd States, is, to the number of enlightened and con- \nfirmed christians, a( least, as one to ten. Accordingly, a cer- \ntain amount of effort in tlje cause of deism has given rise to \n10.000 true and enlighteaed deists; wheicasan equal amount \nof effort, in the cause of chnstiamty, has given rise to only \none such christian.* \n\n* In speakinyr of enli jlUftied chistiH\'is us in the tf\\t. we d<\xc2\xbb not \nmtau 10 be uuderstoou tlicil tliey are eiili^lueiiea iu rei>pecl to the \n\n\n\n331 \n\nSurely, we need not suppose that Christianity has the least \ndivinity about it, or that those who believe in it are weak- \nheaded, to account for its success. \xe2\x80\x94 There is no doctrine un* \nder heaven, false or true, but what would be as widely diflfus- \ned and as long maintained, if it had been introduced eighteen \nhundred years ago, and as much effort been made in its be- \nhalf, as has been made in the cause of Christianity foreighteeo \nhundred years past. \n\nWe have now treated of the nature and causes of the" re- \nligion ofihe heart, \xe2\x96\xa0" \xe2\x80\x94 more properly, the religioii of the ner- \nvous system. In doing this, we have laid down what we con- \nsider the general scheme of the christian religion, in plain \nE\'jglish.t But no friend of uuth will censure us for this ; for \nwhatever is not true ought not to be believed, and whatever \nis true, so far from s^utfering by being stated in plain, matter- \nof-fact language, will even stand the test of argument. \xe2\x80\x94 All \ndoctrines in which the unlearned as well as learned, have a \ndeep interest, ought, as much as possible, to be stripped of all \nfigurative and ambiguous expressions, and exhibited in their \ntrue colours. Error is an ei! whi( h is sometimes suffered \nto exist among the multitude, merely because it is dressed up \nin such a style that they cannot .<t e it. Furthermore, all im- \nportant doctrines ought to be most scrupulously tested by- \nreason, for this is the only way in which we can det(Tmine \nwhat is true and what is false, exreptirig those cases in which \n\nreligion which they profess ; lor most of them hnve not eAamintcl \ninto its negative side ; and no man can be said to be eidijihiefied \ncoficerning any ques\'ion until he be Hcquainied Willi what can be \nsaid b \'th for and against it. \n\nt There is so much dispute and contention in the world about, \nn^hat IS christiantfij 7 thai we do not fnesume to decide what ir is ; \nbut we think ive have sketched the outline of what the luoal pitva* \nlent sect of rehgioniais iu christeuduui Gull chrisii unity. \n\n\n\n332 \n\nWe can have the evidence of our senses. \xe2\x80\x94 If anv body know \nof any other way, we wis^h he would point it out. \n\nI do not presujne to say for a certainty, but that the origi-. \nnal organization of my brain is such, and such the impres- \nsions that have been made upon my seiises, that my sentiments \nconcerning all religioDS, pretending to divine origin, are quite \nerroneous. I ao not use the expression I know, to express \nany of my convictions that are the result of a long and com-, \nplicated judging process. In all these cases I can, with pro- \npriety, only say 7 believe ; for every conviction which is the \nresult of a judging process, depends on the facts which we \nthink over; and \xc2\xabo man can ever be certain that he knows\xe2\x80\x94 \nor in a judging process concerning any question, thinks over \xe2\x80\x94 \xe2\x80\xa2 \nall the facts that relate to the question. Because a man sees \nas far as he can see, it would be presumption in him to say \nthat no one sees any farther, or that there is nothing to be \nseen beyond what he sees. \n\nI will further remark, that 1 consider every man\'s belief \xe2\x80\x94 \nbe what it mny \xe2\x80\x94 as the necessary result ofcertam causes ; \nand I s^hoiild about as soon think of condemning a man for \nbeing born with only one arm, as for be\'ievnig whatever he \ndoes believe, or foriiot believing as i believe. \n\n\n\n\xe2\x96\xa000- \n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXiV. \n\nOn Phenomena, referred to Instinct, \n\nThe organic passions ofien lead animals, especially young \nonf^s, to perform many actions hef )re they have learnt, by ex- \nperience or otherwise, win t .er what they do will be to their \ngood, ill the eud, or mji, ^\\i\\. it go happens that the Great \n\n\n\n333 \n\nDesigner has caused them to be so organized that they are \nseldom pushed on by these passions to do any thing which is \nnot subservient to their own individual good, or to the propa- \ngation and well being of their species. It is on this account \nthat these instinctive actions, as tiiej are called, have greatly \npuzzled philosophers, and led them to conjure up many \nstrange notiuns concerning them. \n\nOne [Des Carte.-] is led to maintain that brutes possess no \npeculiar or physiological properties, but are mere mechanical \n(not physiologically organized) machiiies ; and of course are \nnever the subjects of sensation or a thought, however much \ntht^y may appear to enjoy pleasure and endure pain. Ac- \ncording to this doctrine, all instinctive actions must be mere- \nly mechanical, and the young mammalian is drawn to the \nbreast of its mother, 1 suppose, by the scent of the udder, a \nscent however that is not smelt hy the young animal. An- \nother [Darwin] maintains that it thinks over a train of \nthoughts relative to the subject, and comes to the conclusioni \nthat it will be well tor him lo lay hold of its mother\'s teats \nand suck a little. A third [Cudworth] holds that \'\' an active \nand plastic nature !" exists throughout the world independent \nof\'\' pure mind" or pure matter, and that matter is solely ren- \ndered visible and endowed with manifest properties by a un- \nion with this plastic nature. Such one conceive* "that all \ninstinctive powers migtit be resolved into the operation of this \nplastic nature."\'^ \n\nWhat a power is, that it may be " resolved into an opera- \ntion,\'\'^ we leave for close thinkers to determine ; but if this \n" plastic nature" be that vihich renders pure matter visible, \nand be also the cause of instinctive actions, we would ask, \n(since Good has suggested the iden,) why all visible mat\'er, \n\n*bee " (juod\'s Buukui iSaiure/\' Vul. 1, p. 5^-7, iio&lou \xc2\xabiUit. 18^6. \n\n\n\n334 \n\nCfnorofqrized as wel! as organized, does not, now and then at \nlea\xc2\xabt, exhibit irjstmctive phenomena. \n\nA foiirth [Cuvier] asserts that \'\' the understanding may \nhnve ide is without the aid of the senses ; two thirds of the \nbrute creation are moved by ideas which they do not owe to \ntheir sensations, but which flow immediately from tiieir brain. \n1 sti;)ct constitutes this order of phenomena : it is composed \no^ideas truly itiiiate, in which the fcenses have never had the \ng!T);. I\'est share." \n\nV/hat the understanding is, and where it comes from \xe2\x80\x94 \nwhat iouiite ideas it possesses \xe2\x80\x94 how it holds them, or where \nt!i? V are parked away \xe2\x80\x94 what ideas are, that they may Jlozo \nimmedialet) fjom the brain \xe2\x80\x94 what sort of itjstinct it is that is \ncomposed of innate ideas, at the same time it constitutes an or- \nder of |)henomefia \xe2\x80\x94 how the ideas of the understanding flow- \ning immediately from the brain^ can move two thirds of the \nbrute creation, and not the other third, are questions which \ntlje materialist feels himself under no obligations to answer \xe2\x80\x94 \nhe fonsiders the whole talk perfect nonsense. \n\nThe learned Dr. Good appears not to have been satisfied \nwith either of tie above doctrines concerning instinctive ac- \n^\'ons; a.d by regarding many phenomena as instinctive, \n, wliH h the above mentioned authors did not regard as such, \nhe finds nod ffictilly in making it appear that they cannot all \nbe accounted forufion the principles of either. Accordingly \nhe begs the candid attention ofihe audience to which he is \ndelivering a lecture, wiiile he presents lo them a new view of \nthe subject. \n\nTiiat he may not build upon sand, but have his speculations \nbased upon a rock, sure and steadfast, he first proceeds to \npsove the existence of a " principle oflife,^"^ This he does by \nshowing that there are essential difTerences between organi- \nsed and uuor^aiiized beii^g^ 5 which diiFereiices must, qf \n\n\n\n335\' \n\neoftrsfi, he owing to the siipeiaddition of a princ\'ple r^fT,fe f\xc2\xa9 \nthe former. He sa3s he does not know exactly what Ih.g \nprinciple of hfe is, \xe2\x80\x94 that s> m " have thought it caloric, >onr)e \noxygen, and some electricity ; but he its nature what it m;>r \nit is a \'\' controlhng and identifying power" to be traceJ " <fi \nevery orgai^ized system, whetht r animal or vegetable, and in \nevery pari of such system, whether solid or fliiid." He novv \ntells us {\'\' B>ok of Nature," vol. 1, p. 38 i,) that \'\' the agency \nby which it [pnncipie of lift] operates is that which we de\xc2\xab \nnominate or should deiiominate instincf" \xe2\x80\x94 \'\'or to s\' cak \nsomevvhat m -re precisely, instinct is the operation of the liv- \ning principle, whenever manifestly directing ils operatioiis lo \nWm health, [)reservation, or reproduction of a living fram( , or \nany part of such frame." At page 388, the same book, he \nsays, "\xe2\x80\xa2 instinct may be d< tined the openition of the principle \noforganized life by the exercise of certain natura powers di- \nrected to the present or future good of the individual." \n\nNow it appears to ns that the Doctor has thrown no light \nat all upon those phenomena of orgyjjized beings called in- \nstinctive. Had he shown us satl^iaclolli) what instinct isg \nthis would ijot be to explain the phenomena called instinc- \ntive. \xe2\x80\x94 To make it appear that sonu. unknown thing exislSj, \nand to give it a name, is not to explain those phenomena that \nare rejerrtd to this unknown thmg ; but the Doctor has not \neven shown us, satisfactorily, what instinct is. His prnmple \nof life is a hrain-begotteu tiling, leaving no being in rebi tj ; \nand the" certaiii natural powers" by which it operates (aa \nbe nothing besides the principle iiself, aiid the same rna^ i^e \nsaid of its operation ; yet the sum and substance of whal he \nhas told us about inslmct, is, that ii is (his \'\' operation." \n\nWe grant that under the pre^ent state of our knowie\xc2\xabige, it \nmay be ditficult to give a satisfactory expianain.n oi msluic- \ntive actious j but this is sure : he that says organued being\xc2\xae \n\n\n\n336 \n\nact as they do, under the circumstances Ihey are placed, be- \ncause they are organized as they are, gives as complete an \nexplanation ofal) their action*, as he that refers these actions \nto unknown entities. What is the difference, so far as it re- \nspects the mere explanation of an action, whether we say it \nis an action of an organ which is organized so as to act thus, \nunder the circumstances of the case ; or whether we say it is \nan action of an organ which is enabled to act thus, by the su- \npernddition of an immaterial principle ? Or, what is the dit"- \nfere.ice, whether we say the conscient phenomena of animals \nare action\'s of organs, or say they are actions of a soul, a life, \na will, an instinct, &c. Sic, ? To be sure, in the one case \nwe refp?^ these phenomena or actions to real beings, of which \na man ma\\ have some idea, in the other case, to brain-begot- \nten nonentities, of which a man can have no idea ; but so far \nas it respects any \xe2\x82\xaca;;?/arzauWi of these phenomena, there is no \ndifference except in sound : only give these organs the names \nof soul, will, life, instict, &:c. and there would not be even this \ndifference. \n\nAltho\' we do not profess to be able to give a complete and \nsatisfactory explanation of instinctive phenomena; still we \ncannot close this chapter without offering a few more senti- \nments concerning them, than we have in the fore part of it. \n\nWe suppose that (he organic passions, which, by the by, may \nbe called appetites, desires, longings, hankerings, and perhaps \nwe may add, propensities, are the springs that give rise to in- \nstinctive actions. This being grunted, the fo: lowing questions \narise. First. Why do animals ignorant of consequences, s\xc2\xa9 \nseldom do any thmg which is not subservient to their well be- \ning ? Second. As anorganic passioii is not a muscular action, \nbut a cause, more or less remote, oi muscular actions ; what \nevents take place in the system between therse of an organic \npassion and the muscular coutractiOiis that must and do take \n\n\n\n3S7 \n\nplace in gratifjingsucb passion; or in other words, in what \nway do the organic passions give rise to muscular actions ? \n\nIn answer to the first question, we say that animals are so or- \nganized that they have no natural appetites or propensities to \ndo any thing which is not for theirgood ; and not being led to \ndo any thing because they judge it will be to theirgood, (as \nthey often are after acquiring many sensorial tendencies, and \nhence often do wrong, for they often judge erroneously,) they \nseldom do any thing which is not to their good. \n\nThe second question is the most difficult to answer ; but in \nour attempts to answer it, we may derive some aid from the \nfacts, if facts they be, pointed out in the chapter on volition. \n\nThose organic passions which give rise to instinctive actions \nwe will, for the present, call hankerings for something \xe2\x80\x94 not \nhankerings for any particular thing which the young animal \nhas any idea of before he have seen it \xe2\x80\x94 but a hankering for \nsomething, or if you please, a hankering. The young duck \nhatched by a hen has a hankering for something, and the new- \nborn calf has a hankering for something; but suppose them \nboth at the side of a pond, the one with its foster-mother the \nhen, the other with its natural mother a cow ; the hankering of \nthe duck will cause it to rush into the water, while the han- \nkering of the calf will cause it to lay hold of the cow\'s teats \nand suck. Now why this difference ? Why does not the calf \nrush into the water, and the duck attempt to suck the cow? \nWe cannot say the duck\'s hankering is a desire to go into the \nwater, and that this is the reason it goes into the water; for a \ndesire to go into the water supposes an idea of water, but by \nsupposition, the duck has no idea of water. We believe it \nis an ultimate fact that whatever will gratify an inward long- \ning of a young animal, looks good as soon as he sees it, feels \ngood as soon as he feels it, and. tastes good as soon he tastes \n\nit, without having previously learned that it will promote \n\n43 \n\n\n\n338 \n\nits health or mal^e it grow; and that the duck goes into the \nwater because its organic passions are such that the water \nlooks good, or seems desirable ; and that the calf lays hold of \nthe cow\'s teats for similar reasons. \n\nBut an animal to have a hankering, and to see Something \nbefore, is not to lay hold of such thing \xe2\x80\x94 to lay hold supposes \nmotions, supposes muscular contractions, supposes motive ac- \ntions of the nervous system : now what governs, as we may \nsay, these motive actions ? Are they immediately antecedenled \nor caused by the <"onscient actions that constitute the hanker- \nings ? or are they immediately anlecedented by the actions \nexcited by the things that appear good, desirable or inviting? \nor do they set in, on the co-exi.\xc2\xabtence of both these s-ensations? \nThe duck m\xc2\xaby have its hankering for something, but seeing \nno water may stay by the side of its tnother the hen, which \nnever goes into the water ; and again, the duck having been \nin the water sufTers such a change in its system, that for the \ntime benig, has no such hankering, but a desire to return to \nits mother on the land, and so goes to its mother, and does \nnot immediately go into the water again, although it still sees \nthe water. Such being the facts, it would appear that in the \ncase of the duck, the hankering and the goodly looking thing. \nhave each a share in giving rise to its movements. \n\nBut it may be said that migrating birds and fish steer off \ncertain courses to certain places which they never saw ; and \nthis too perhaps without being guided by any that have seen \nsuch places ; and to such birds and fish these places do not \nlook desirable or pleasant ; for they neither see them nor \nhave an idea of them. Now what causes these birds and fish \nto steer off these courses as they do ? We suppose it is the \nmere pleasure,--the mere feeling of fitness or right which \nthey experience in doing so; and we suppose if they turn out \nof these courses, they do not feel weh, do not feel right. \xe2\x80\x94 \n\n\n\n339 \n\nsuppose that a young duck hatched by a hen, on a dry plain, \nwould steer otFsome straij^ht course until it came to water, if \nits orgnnic passions were such that it would experience a plea- \nsurable and proper feeling merely in doing so. \n\nWe supj)ose that migrating birds and fish steer off to oth- \ner regions at certain tunes o\' year, because at such times o\' \nyear such changes take place in their inward teeiings, and in \nthe weather, that they feel better in doing so, than in staying \nwhere they are. Young animals act from the feelings of the \nmoment, and not from any long-headed calculations about fu- \nture consequences ; and they do that which is right because \nthere is nothing to cause them to do otherwise, and there are \nno effects without causes. \n\nMen may draw some confirmation of what we have said \nconcerning instinctive phenomena, by considering what they \nexperience in themselves. We have supposed that instinctive \nactions are such as the organic passions lead animals to per- \nform without knowing, and consequently without thinking \nabout or regarding, the consequences of such actions ; now do \nnot organic passions often lead men to perform actions, not be- \ncause they expect any future good to arise from performing \nthem, but because of the pleasure they experience in perform- \ning them ? Do they not oflen act without paying any regard to \nor even thinking about future consequences, and even in some \ncases in which they believe the future consequences will be bad, \nrather than good ? Think of the venereal appetite. In ninety- \nnine cases of a Inindred, we consider these movements as strictly \ninstinctive, and not performed because, by a chain of reasoning, \nthe man or woman has come to a conclusion that it will be to \nhis or her future well being. Nature spurs them on as she \ndoes the young mammalian to suck. \n\nAgain. Does not a man know that a lady looks peculiarly \ngood, desirable, or inviting, on account of a peculiar organic \n\n\n\n340 \n\npassion of hb ? and does he not know that when this passion is \ngratified, hi* mere sexual love is abated ; but that it returns \nagain, ms the passion returns? And I would put this question: \nSuppose a man have been brought up to the age of 20, with- \nout ever having seen a woman or learned any thing con- \ncerning one, and }etso brought up as not fo fear to approach \nany heing. Now let him loose among women and all sorts of \nanimals \xe2\x80\x94 let not a word be said, or an indicative motion be \nmade ; (we will have the women naked if you please ;) do you \nnot suppose the women would seem to him more agreeable, \nfitting and desirable than any of the other living beings about \nhim ? Would he not associate with them, in preference to any \nof thfi ntheranimals \'/ If you admit these questions, why would \nyou not admit that water looks desirable to an untaught duck, \nand that he rushes into it, not because he has learnt by expe- \nrience that it will pe to his good, but because of some organic \npassion ? \n\nIf the immaterialists are not satisfied with our speculations \nconcerning instinctive phenomena, (we do not say concern- \ning instinct, for there is no such thing,) may they offer some- \nthing better: remembering all the while, that we do not cal- \nculate to he deceived by empty talk, and led to suppose that \nthey explain things when they only mystify them. \n\n\n\n341 \n\nCHAPTER XXV. \n\nOh Sleep, \n\nAccording to our views, nothing is easier than to define \nsleep. It is that state of a living animal, in which no con- \nscient actions occur. Indeed, we nnay leave out the word \nliving, for in truth a dead animal is just no animal at all ; \nand such are the sentiments of those who say of a man who \nhas died, he no longer exists. \n\nBut although we can have no doubts that a sleeping state \nis a state in which neither sensations (of course not percep- \ntions) or thoughts occur, -till some questions may arise con- \ncerning sleep ; as, does a man ever sleep ? if he do, what cau- \nses operate in bringing him into a sleeping stale ? and how do \nthese causes operate in bringing about the ultimate effect ? \n\nThere are but i^\\Y, perhaps not any, who will not readily \nadmit that they do sometimes sleep, according to our defini- \ntion of the term ; but putting aside one\'s own belief about \nthe matter, it is not so easy to prove, by argument, that a \nman ever sleeps, as some may at first think. However, he \nthat asserts that a man never sleeps, asserts that of which \nthere is not any evidence \xe2\x80\x94 there is nothing to favor the opin- \nion that a man never sleeps ; his continuing to breathe, we \nconsider as no evidence of such opinion. But there are some \nconsiderations in favor of the opinion that a man often sleeps, \nand they naay have some weight with those who may be dis- \nposed to maintain that a man\'s belief that he sometimes sleeps, \nis no proof that he believes correctly. \n\nIt must be, and is admitted, even by immaterialists, that \nthinking supposes some kind of exercise of the brain ;* and \n\n^Abernetby, the latest raedicai writer whose love ol popularity \n\n\n\n\xe2\x80\xa2 342 \n\nevery studious man is as sensible that this exercise wearies \nhis brain as he is that walking wearies hi^ lower limbs. He \nknows too, that during those hours in which he is not awake, \nand in which he does not dream as he can rememher^ this wea- \nriness of his brain, like the weariness of his limbs, goes oti\'; \nbut when he does dream, as he can remember, he is sensible \nthat the weariness of his brain does not pass off, as when he \ndoes not dream. Finally, there is much evidence in favor, \nif not absolute proof of the opinion, that a man often sleeps 4 \nand until something more than we can now think of, can be \nbrought in favor of the opinion that a man never sleeps, it \nwill be a principle with us, that a man sleeps dnring that time \nwhich seems a perfect blank to him, and during which he \ndreamt not, as he can remember. \n\nThe causes of sleep are muscular, or even mere sensorial, \nexercise ; narcotics ; and compression of the brain. \n\nBy exercise, the sensorium, or we may say, the whole ner- \nvous system^ suffers such a change that it is not in such good \ncondition to act \xe2\x80\x94 is not so disposed to act, as before such ex- \nercise, other things being equal. Hence stronger or more in- \nteresting impressions, or stronger sensorial tendencies, are \nnecessary to keep a man awake after exercise, than before ; \nhence, too, a man retiring from noise to a soft couch, and clo- \nsing his eyes, sooner ceases to think and sense, after having \nstudied or toiled all day, than he does on placing himself in a \nsimilar situation when not tired. \n\nWe may say that exercise is a predisposing cause of sleep, \nand the avoiding of impressions a more immediate cause. To \ngo to sleep, is to have all couscient actions cease. We do \n\nhas given hira courage to advocate the doctrine of immaterialism, \nhas" admitted the assertion that (he brain is as much an organ of \nSt lisation and thought, as the liver and stomach are organs for the \nsecretion of bile and gastric fluid.\'* \n\n\n\nMS \n\nuot believe that in ordinary cases, the conscient actions ef \nth brain are stopped by any accumulation ot blood within the \nbrain. There is no need of such a supposition to account for \nordiiiary or healthy sleep. We do not see why, when the \nbrain is not in a good condition to act, and strong impressions \nare avoided, it should not cease to act until it suffer a change \nof condition, or until stronger impressions are made upon \ngome of the sentient nerves. \xe2\x80\x94 Because the sensorial tenden- \ncies are sufficient to keep up an action of the brain when it is \nin a good condition to act, it does not follow that they may \nkeep up such actions under other circumstances. \n\nBut there is some reason to suppose that narcotics induce \nsleep by causing the vessels of the brain to become more dis- \ntended with blood, hereby obstructing the actions of the sen- \nsorium. It may be, however, that they atFect the condition \nof the brain, so as to cause sleep in some other way. This \nis certain, after full doses of opium are taken, the vessels of \nthe head become more full. By turning to page 163, the \nreader will find our notions concerning the modus operandi of \nopium in producing sleep. We wish the immaterialists would \ntell us how they suppose opium operates in stopping the ac- \ntions of their unextended soul, or prevents it from changing \n" states." \xe2\x80\x94 An unextended thing can never be squeezed or \nobstructed in any of its actions : we suspect, too, that it pos- \nsesses no chemical affinities. \n\nThat nnorbid sleep is sometimes caused by compression, \nthere can be no doubt. A pice of skull driven in upon the \nbrain, or an accumulation of blood as in apoplexy, or of wa- \nter, as in hydrocephalus, stops the conscient actions of the \nbrain in this way ; and when no conscient action of the brain \ncan be excited, (meaning by brain all the nervous matter with- \nin the skull,) no sensation can be excited ; for the co-existence \n\n\n\n344 \n\nof a conscient action of the organic and cerebral extremities \nof a nerve is as essential to a sensation as two toDgs put to- \ngether are to a pair 6^ tongs. \n\nBefore closing this chapter, a few vyords may be offered \nconcerning some of the causes that may prevent sleep. It is \nquite conceivable and even probable that a morbid action of \nthe minute vessels of the brain, especially that part of it which \nwe call the sensorium, may prevent the conscient actions of \nthe sensorium from ceasmg, may cause a morbid watchfulness. \nThe physician often tinds great difficulty in causing his pa- \ntients to sleep in such diseases as are attended v,^ith an excit- \ned action of the vessels of the brain \xe2\x80\x94 excited, as he has good \nreason to believe from other considerations than merely that \nhis patient cannot sleep. With that disease peculiar to hard \ndrinkers, known by the name of Delirium Tremens, or Brain \nFever, it is not uncommon for patients to pass three or four \ndays and nights in succession without sleeping. \n\nAnother cause of watchfulness may be exceedingly strong \nsensorial tendencies. \xe2\x80\x94 Whatever appears to us to have an \nimportant influence on our happiness, interests us greatly, \nand whatever interests us greatly, gives rise to very strong \nsensorial tendencies ; either because we think much about it, \nor because our thoughts relative to this thing are very in- \ntense. Now when the sensorium is strongly disposed to think \nabout any thing, the man will sometimes lie tumbling and \nthinking half the night, in spite of all his " willing" to go to \nsleep. When any painful disease exists ; when the brain is in \na rested state; or excited by tea, spirits, &c. it is difficult go^ \ning to sleep. \n\nFor the purpose of further illustrating and confirming the \nmetaphysical, or more properly, physiological principles, we \nhave already advanced ; and with the view of dispelling some \n\n\n\n345 \n\n\n\nof the d?irkness which hangs over several interesting suhjeclSj \nwe now proreed to treat of some of the nnorbid actions and \nconditions of the nervous system. \n\n\n\n\xe2\x96\xa000- \n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXVI. \n\nOn Dreaming^ Somnambulism, and Somnamloquism, \n\nMan exists in three states, a sleeping, a dreaming and a wak- \nins; state. The dreaming state though essentially different \nfrom either of the other two, partakes more of the nature of \nthe waking than the sleeping state. \n\nAlthough it is very common for persons to dream, we class \ndreaming among the morbid actions of the nervous syslem; \nand chiefly for the three following reasons : First. Diseased \npersons are more apt to dream than well ones. Second, We \ncannot see that dreaming is subservient to the well beir.g of \nthe individual who dreams, as all healthy actions are. Third, \nWe suppose that in dreaming, conscient actions sometimes \ncommence in the sensorium and extend into the nerves, as \nthey probably do in delirium, which last affection is univer- \nsally admitted to be a morbid one. \n\nThere is no difficulty in pointing out an obvious distinction \nbetween a sleeping, and a dreaming or a waking state ; but \nto determine the precise nature of the difference between a \ndreaming and a waking state, appears to be rather more diffi- \ncult. And although it will be admitted that in most cases \nthere is a wide, nay, an essential difference between (hesc \ntwo states; yet, for a short time, a man sometimes exists in \nsuch a state that he scarcely knows whether to consider it a \ndreaming or a waking state. \n\nU \n\n\n\n346 \n\nWe believe that in a dreaming state, either the organic ex- \ntremities of the nerves, or tlie parts exterior to them, are in \nsuch a state that impressions do not so readily excite conscient \nctJons in them as in a waking slate; we behevc also that the \nsensorium is not in so active a stale as in waking hours. But \nboth of these thii\'iu;s together do not constitute all the differ- \nences between a dreaniiug and a wakini^^ state \xe2\x80\x94 there is some- \nthing more, bur this somethiiig mort may be owing to the tor- \npor of the senses. \n\nWe believe, as the rer^der knows, that conscient actions \nsometimes commence in tiie sensorium and extend into the \nnerves: now this is what we suppose takes place when a man \ndreams of seemg objects, hearing noises. &:c. We believe \nthat when a man dre^ims of seeing any object, be has some- \nthing more than an idea or conception of such object \xe2\x80\x94 we \nbelieve that the same, or very nearly the same, conscient ac- \ntions take place in him that woukl were he, when awake, to \nlook at such otiject. In short, we believe that when a man \ndreams he very of en has \xe2\x80\x94 what we will for the present call \xe2\x80\x94 \nperceptions without impressions; and that rhJs constitutes \nanother ditFerence beUveen a dreaming ?^i\\d n waking ^ or if \nyou please, between a dreaming and a wakn\'g state. But \nconscient actions may esteiid from the sensornjm into the \nnerves when a man is dreaming though not when he is awake, \nhaca^Jise the senses are in a torpid state. It must be admil ted \nthat only one action can take pi^ce in the same part at the \nsame time; and it is not unreasonable to suppose that when \nthe senses are in such condi\'ion as to be easil}\' excited by sur- \nrounding impressions, these impressions excite the sentient \nnerves more stroiiglv than the llmughts can excite them. \nHence in a healthv waki-g man, we have no (perceptions with- \nout -mpressioiis ; (not considerui^ ^ia^e^ of organs as impres- \nsions.) \n\n\n\n347 \n\nCurious questions now arise : \xe2\x80\x94 When a man dreams of hear- \ning noises, seeing objects, &c. do the conscient ac! ions which \nextend from the sensorinm into the nerves, exiead to theoigan- \nic extremities ofthe nerves, or only into their cerebral extremi- \nties ? And if they extend only into the cerebral extremities, \nwhat shall we say they constitute ? \xe2\x80\x94 ll^ is clear that they con- \nstitute neither a sensation or a perception, according to our \ndefinitions of these terms, and yet they are somethmg more \nthan a thought. \n\nOur views concerning these questions are rather complica- \nied j but we will labor to express them as clearly as we can. \nWe are inclined to believe that conscient actions very fre- \nquently extend from the sensorium into the cerebral extrem- \nities of the nerves iii dreaming, but rarely so far as to the or- \nganic extremities. Li the former case we would say these \nactions constitute imperfect retrograde perceptions ; in the \nlatter, perfect retrogade perceptions. Now wsth respect to \nthe optic und auditory nerves, their organic and cerebral ex- \ntremities are so near to each ether, that an imperfect optical \nor audia! perception may be so nearly hke a perfect one, as to \ninfluence a man\'s conduct the same as a perfect one. If so, \na man on awakening, after having had an imperfect percep- \ntion of his friend, would say (for to saij is to conduct, as much \nas to run, stab, or perform any other muscular action.) " I \nhave dreamed of seeing my friend, and it seemed the same to \nme as though I had really seen him." \n\nBut with respect to those nerves, the organic extremities \nof which are more distant from the cerehral, we believe that \na conscient action of the sensoriutn and of the cerebral ex- \ntremity of one of these nerves, would not constitute a seeming \nso like that consisiing of a conscient action oi\' both extrennties \nof such nerve and the sensorium, that the man would say they \nare the same. Therefore, as we seldom have perfect per- \n\n\n\n348 \n\nceptions while dreaming, it seldom seems to us as though we \n\nexperience feelings in dista-ii narts of our bodies, cr \'\\n other \nword*, we seldom have feelings in distant parts of our bodies, \nwhich feehngs are cAusf-D by the actions of the sensonum. \nIt IS true, we m;ij dream of seeing a red hot iron, or a piece \nof ice. and of laying our hands upon them, (for all this would \nbe hut to have conscient actioiis of the sensorium and the \nopiic nerves,) but on awakening we should not say it seemed \nto us as though >he iron buriied us, or the ice made our hands \nache with the cold. We ourselves have dreamed of holding \nour hands in a fire, but we were never burned in such cases\xe2\x80\x94 \nwe never smarted at the time, or awoke as we should jf fire \nhad actually been applied to our hands. But we have dream- \ned of seeing objects, [have had imperfect optical percep\'mns \nof objects when not awake.] and our consciousness was so very \nnear like a perfect seeing of such objects, that at this moujent \nwe should say. precisely the same actions took place in us, \nthat would were we to look ai such objects when awake ; \nwere it not for certain pathological facts. "* \n\nThat we have something more than ideas of objects when \nwe 566 them in our dreams, we no more doubt than we do \nthat we ever dream.\xe2\x80\x94 Every man must know that there is an \nessenti\'^ I d\'fference betweei a sensation and an idea ; that \nthey do not dilf* r oijly in degree, and if any one doubt his \nhaving any thuig more than pretty vivid ideas of objects when \nhe sees them in h-s dreaming hours, we would request him to \n\n* It IS said that a ter a jnan has hiid the organic extremities of \nhis optic nervH- d j.rroyed, he still dreams of seeing ol^jects as be- \nfore. And a young man rendered pt-rlecUy blind by a disease \nwhich undoubteiliy -itfecied his optic nerves in some pnrt of iheir \ncourse from the ensodum to the retinas tells n.ie tliaf lie sti! sees \nobjeris in his dreanis, as belo/e lie met willi this Itiineniable mis- \nfoMuoe. \n\n\n\n349 \n\npav attention to his dreanns, when he dreams, or as soon as be \nawakes.* \n\nAs lo audial perceptions while dreaming, we believe that \nwe frequently have imperfect ones, and sometimes perfect \nones ; and that ihe latter are ihose which cause us to awake \nas suddenly as though the perception were a natural one\xe2\x80\x94 as \nthough it were excited by an impression. \n\nAs to those perceptions which consist, in part, of actions \nof nerves of feeling, we believe there are many men, and \nso^ne women, who might testify that they have, while dream- \ning, ex[)erie!iced such perceptions ; attended too with other \nsensible phenonieiia which convir.ce them that there is no \nmistake ahoiit the matter. But there may be some dispute \nwhether these perceptious commence in the seasorium, or \nthe genital organs, \xe2\x80\x94 We are of tlie opinion thai they some- \ntimes commence in tiie one, and sometimes in the other. \n\nWe have said ihat the sensor, urn is less active in a dream- \ning than in a vvakiug state. By this, we mean it is not so \nmuch disposed to act, a .d its actions are less mtense th;in in \na waking state ; but many say tlieir thoughts or ideas are \nmore distinct or vivid when dreaming than when awake ; \nand such persons may be disposed to maiiitain that whatever \nthinks is more active during dream ng than durnig waking \nhours. Such persons, we beheve, mistake weak or imper- \n\n\n\n* [f is not so absurd ti> request onn to attend to his dreams while \ndreammg, as some may thinly : owing to out desire to deteroine \nwhat takes plaro in us when we dream we have often dreamed \nal)\')ut (uir dreams and >.)ti>fied ourselves Mt tlie time, that wii< n we \nse(^ objects or hear noises lu our die; ins, we have .snmeitrm<i more \nthan optical or audi.d itieas oi sncii olijects or noises. [low much \nweiL^hl waking men in general may place in their dreaming conclu- \nsions, we know not ; but our requt^sting them to attend to their \ndreiims while dreaming, may be a cause ot their doing so 5 antt by- \ndoing so, they may be satisfied at tlie time, that they have some- \nthing more than mere ideas. \n\n\n\n35@ \n\n\xe2\x82\xacect perceptions for vivid ideas. Perhaps, bv closing our \neyes when awa!:c, we may have more dlsiiact ideas of absent \nobjects than when Ihey are open, and this too for obvious \nreaspns ; but when a man is dreaming, we believe that the \ncoriscient actions of his sensorium, and nerves too, are less \nintense, and those of the sensorium less numerous, than when \naw;ike. \n\nIt has been said that in dreaming hours, our thoughts occur \nin very unnatural relations, and that we imagine many strange \nand unnatural things ; and yet it is generally admitted that \ntheir succession is governed by the same principles as when \nawake. Now if their succession be governed by the same \npriiiciples as when awake, and they do la fact occur in odd \nrelalioris, we do not see how the immaterialists can account \nfor the fact. If they assert that these principles are any thing \nbesides ultitnate facts or laws of thought \xe2\x80\x94 whsch, by the by, \nare as truly law^ of nature as any other ultimate and univer- \nsal facts \xe2\x80\x94 we call on them to prove the assertion ; but if they \nadrnst that they are lioihing more, we ask if these principles, \nthese laws of nature, are out of tune^ -when a man dreams ^ \nand if not, we ask the cause of his thoughts occurring inuQ- \nSiatural relations. \n\nThe materialist, however, is not much puzzled by the phe- \nnomena of dreaming: he supposes that if our ideas, when \nawake, shouid become perceptions \xe2\x80\x94 that if our sensorial ac- \niions should be atterided with corresponding actions of the \noptic and auditory nerves \xe2\x80\x94 we should hear noises, see strange \nobjects, and be in as maFjy different and distant places in a mi- \nnute, as when we dreaiia ; our ideas or sensorial actions oc- \n\xe2\x80\xa2curring in the sam.e naiural order that they now do, when we \nare awake. If the optical and audial ideas which I shall \nhave while writing the following paragraph, should, at the \ntime they occur, be attended with nervous actions, so as \n\n\n\n351 \n\nto become optical and audial perceptions^ I should Crs really \nas when 1 dream,) ^ee as many strange things, be in as pnrwj \ndistant places, and coTiverse with as many absent friends, in a \nminute, as i did in my la^c iiijzht\'^o dream. \n\nThousands of soldiers on Deerfield Plains \xe2\x80\x94 Shotdder armSy \ncries out that tall officer with a fong red and white fealhrr in \nhis hat \xe2\x80\x94 Ah, here\'s (he city of Troy \xe2\x80\x94 What a noble block of \nbuildings that \xe2\x80\x94 Res^lly, fr\'.end JoT>.es, I am [if:;!it glad to see \nyou here at Brighton again \xe2\x80\x94 did you thrust your (i?t down a \nwild boar\'s throat and puii oi-^ his Hver and lights ? No. but \nI rode through She air ;ir; ride a if^rbej-\'s ,\xc2\xabhip< d pole, and saw \nthe clouds bur!sin<2: with a birje 11 irric, assd a mi^lsly snappij\'g^ \nthere was~Come along here ; do you see that monstrous ox, \nwith a ram\'s head slicking ->ut just behird his udder ! \n\nWhile writing the above eeM<e?iCe I had ideas of distant \nplaces, unnatural tilings, abst-nl frierids, and ofsou/.v^s ; and if \nmy ideas liad l)een peifect or impe? feet perrepti^nji | should \nhave experienced some thing very sinnlar to what a dreamn g \nman experiences ; y(^t no one will coajterid thii tny tiiouihts \ndid not occur accordi?;g to the same |ir;nc!ples liiat if.ev do at \nother times; or contend \'hat it is an^ more st*ange tliat tliej \nshould occur as they did, than it ss tliai ai idea of. s(/ir///6 should \nbe followed by ideas of a sick mas , coughmg and spitting. \n\nBut notwithstandtng what we hiue said, we ad\xc2\xabnit that a \nman\'s; dreaming thougtits njay ofteii occur in smgular rela- \ntions, and we should not be at a loss to accourit for their do- \ning so. We may suppose that as tlie sensori .\'m is not in a \nvery active condition during dreaming , many of its tendencies \nmay be too weak to give rise to actions ; hence instead of \nthinking over all the thoughts that usuaMy constitute a certain \ntrain, some of these thoughts may not occur, mny be left out, \nas it -vere ; and of course, those that do occur, occur iu a new \nand singular relation. \n\n\n\n332 \n\nIt sometimes happens that when a man is not awake, those \nmotive actions ofhis brain which j)recede the contractions of \nthe muscles of locomotion and voice, will not set in, on the \noccurrence of certain sensorial actions, as the) do when the \nman is awake. In such case the man may urgently desire to \nspeak, or move his limbs or body, but cannot \xe2\x80\x94 his muscles \ndo not contract. He has the Incubus or nightmare. We \nare inclined to believe that in some rare cases, even those \nmotive actions of the brain which precede the contractions of \nthe muscles of respirdion, cease, and the person dies without \nmoving a limb. We well recollect a death which we conjec- \nture was caused in this way. It was the death of an elderly \ngentleman who had not been threatened with any kind of tits, \nnor suspected of having any disease of ihc bloodvessel*. He \ndied in bed ; and from all appearance, it was evident that he \ndied Without moving a limb. Query. If in such cases, the cir-^ \nculation should cease the instant tiie respiration ceases, would \nsuch changes take place in the system as to render it mipos- \nsible to excite it into action again, so quic kly as when the \nheart continues to beat, and thus gives rise to accumulations \nof venous blood? \n\nAt other times those motive actions of the brain which pre- \ncede the contractions of the muscles of loco-motion and voice, \ndo as readily set in on the occurrence of certain sensorial ac- \ntions, as when the person is awake. In such case the person \ntalks, walks, and performs marjy otlier muscular actions. It \nis not generally the case, however, that the same person talks \nand walks in his dreaming hours; and indeed, sleep talking \nand sleep walking are considered as diiferent affections, aud \nare furnished with different wan es,\xe2\x80\x94somnamloquism for the \nformer, and somnambulism ^oviho. latter; but they are not es-\' \nsentially different, pathologically considered. \n\nIn some instances the somnambulist\'s eyes are wide open ; \n\n\n\n35S \n\nand it is probable that bis optic nerves are ia as excitable a \ncondition as when his other senses are nol in a torpid state, \nas when he is awake. If so, he has natural and perfect per- \nceptions, he sees as distinct!}\' as a waking man does with the \nsame degree of light. At other times his eyes are closedj \nand he goes about from place to place as a man in \nthe dfirk, or as a blind mari, and sometimes meets with acci- \ndeats. Those who are fond of the marvellous do not tell us of \nthe accidenis which somnambulists meet with, in their blind \nexcursions ; but these accidenis occur so frequently that most \nmen are acquainted with particular instances. We have ma- \nny zoonderful accounts, or many accounts of the wondtv/ul da- \nings^ of somnambulists; hut they have not puzzled philoso- \nphers so much as ihe somniloq\'jisls. The latter often utter \nlong discourses, particularly religious discourses, when alone \nor when closely surrounded by many persons, and with greater \nfluency than they probably would, were they awake* If ques- \ntions are put to them, they often give rational answers ; and \nwhat is perhaps still more difficult to account for, they cannot \nremember, after they awake, that they dreamed or uttered \nany thing \xe2\x80\x94 provided we may rely on their testimony. \n\nWe suppose that somniloquists cannot generally remem- \nber their dreams, because they consist of ideas only.-\xe2\x80\x94 AmaR \nnever remembers his mere ideas. We remember our per \nceptions, that is, we rememder what vvg have secn^ heard, &c. \nBut to have an idea occur to us to-day, is not to remember that \nit occurred to us last night, or at any other particular time. \nIdeas may occur to us to-day, which are not new to us, and \nwhich we do not consider as such ; but to remember that they \noccuired to us at a particular time, we must have an idea of \nourselves in a place at a certain time, must have ideas of the \nthings that were around us at that time, and must think that \n\nthis idea occurred to us when we were in such place. When a \n\n45 \n\n\n\n\xe2\x80\xa2354 \n\nmm remembers a dream, he remembers or thinks of, what he \nsaw^ heard, &c. when he was not awake. A man maj have \nthousands of mere ideas when not awake, but if he have \nno perceptions, he cannot say, when awake, that these ideas \noccurred to hmi when he was not awake : Milhons of ideas \noccur to the waking man every day, and at night he may not \nbe able to say, with ceriamty that one of them has occur- \nred to him this day. The reader will remember that in the \nchapter on sleep, we came to the conclusion that we often lie \nhours together without having any ideas, not so much from \nthe consideration that we cannot remember, after we awake, \nthat any ideas occurred to us during these hours, as from oth- \ner considerations. \n\nBut we shall be told that somniloquists do somelimes have \nperceptions ; that they give rational answers to questions, and \nundoubtedly hear and regard, such questions. This we must \ngrant; but they do not have such perceptions as enable them \nto say in the morning, that they had these perceptions the night \nprevious. Ask them if they ever heard or thought of such ques- \ntion as you know was put to them last night, ana they may \ntell you yes, but cannot say whether it was last night, yester- \nday, or a year ago. \n\nIf this way of accounting for the fact, that somniloquists \nare often, nay, generally, unable to remember that they dream- \ned at the time that bystanders heard them talk, be not satisfac- \ntory to all, we shall not thing it strange. We are not, our- \nselves, entirely satisfied with it; but under the present state \nof our ignorance we cannot account for it in a more plausible \nway. We assume what we cannot prove, and what some \nmay not be disposed to grant ; and that is, that the dreams \nwhich somniloquists cannot remember, are not like the \ndreams which men do remember, but consist of mere ideas \nwith a few scattering perceptions. \n\n\n\n355 \n\nSlioulcl the remarks of the present writer be thought wor^ \nthy of notice, the assertion, that we never remember our \nideafs, may give rise to ingenious discussions; and if so, \nwe doubt not that it will be determined that we do not re- \nmember an idea, in the sense we remember a thunder showcfj \ner any other event that takes place without. \n\nThat a man should readih hear when not awake, is not \nmore strange, than that one sense should be less torpid, at the \ntime others are more torpid. \n\nThe reason whv somniloquists sometimes talk more flu- \nently than they would were they awake, is this, their train of \nideas relative to the subject concerning which they talk, is not \ninterrupted by such discordant ideas or sensorial actions, as \nwould occur were they awake. When a waking man con- \nverses with others on any subject, he thinks what words are \nmost proper for him to use; thmks how his hearers will be \npleased with what he says ; thinks what they will think of his \nperson and jestures; in short, he has many perceptions and \nideas which prevent the regular, connected flow of ideas rela* \nlive to the subject he is talking about; and hence does not \nconverse with the ease and fluency that he would were he ia \nthe condition of a somniloquist. We are all of us acquaint* \ned with men who undoubtedly think finely in theii studies; \nbut who, when they attempt to speak in public, make ver/ \nbad work of it. A man cannot speak in public, flippantly \nand to tile purpose, until he be regardless about what words \nhe uses, regardless about what his hearers will think : he nnust \nthink right on about his subject, and nothing but his subject. \n\nAs to the immediate caw^e^ of dreams, they may be divided \ninto two t lasses, sensorial and nervous. The sensorial caus- \nes are nothing more nor less than the sensorial tendencies ; the \nnervous are such states of organs, and such impressions, as \ngive rise to actions of our nerves. \n\n\n\n356 \n\nThere are many causes which serve to bring the nervous \nsystem into that weak, ticklish state tvhich medical men call \nirritable ^ all such causes may be coiisidered as predisposmg \ncauses of dreams. Affectioiis oC the digestive organs; mental, \nor more properly sensorial agitations, and hard drinkiug are \nof lhi> kind. \n\nWhen a weary man first goes to sleep, his nervous system is \nnot in a fjjvorabie condition to act ; but after sleeping some \ntime, his nervous system becomes recruited, aud as the sen- \nsorsum is disposed to act \xe2\x80\x94 as it has many ai^d strong tenden- \ncies lo act, it wiii set to work of its own accord, if it be not \nset to work by some nervous action. Every thing else being \neq\'59!, the stronger sensorial tesidencies give rise to actions in \npreference to the weaker, and as we are strongly disposed \nto ih-nk about such subjects as we have recently thought much \nabout, our sensorial dreams (speaking with reference to their \ncause) generally relate to such subjects as have lately engag- \ned our aitentioii during our waking hours. \n\nWhen dreams are caused by states of organs, or by im- \npressions, they generally liave some relation to such organs, \nor to the innpreBsing agents. Thus, if a bottle of hot water \nat the feet be the impressing agent, the person may dream of \nmaking a journey to the (op of Mount iEtna and of finding \nthe heat of the ground almost insupportable ; if a blister ap- \nplied to the head, the person may dream of being scalped by a \nparty of Indians. The bladder and seminal vessels being re- \nplete with their respective fluids, give rise to dreams having \nsome relation to these organs. A full stomach, obstructing a \nfree motion of the diaphragm, causes an accumulation of blood \nabout the heart aud lungs, and in this way gives rise to a sense \nof weight or load at the breast; and the person dreams of a \n*\' huge and hideous spectre, t^rannicailv squatted upon the \nchest, and striving to take away the breath." \n\n\n\n357 \n\nPersons often start suddenly as they are about going to sleep. \n\nHow are we to account for this ? We conjecture that the per- \nson\'s ideas become perceptions at this tnstant, and seeing li\'im- \nself Ml trouble tile motive actions of the brajii set in ; (or the \nnervous system is not yet entirely cahned down into an inac- \ntive slate ; hut if it were, ihe motive actions would not thus set \nin and cause the man to awake ; instead of tliis. lie would lie m \na troubled diea.n, desiii.ig to move, but unable to do so. \n\nWe have expre.^s\'ed the opinion that, a heaUhy waking man \nhas CO perceptions without impressions, (as in dreaming,) be- \ncause surrounding impression? nold tiie mastery over the sen- \nsonurn in exciting ihe sentient nerves.* Now, in certain \nmorbid stales of the system this is not the case; but the \nwaking man sees specires or apparitions, and hears them \ntalk ; and tliis is as much as to say, he sees and liears \nwhat does not exiat \xe2\x80\x94 sees and hears without impres- \nsions. Philosophers have not agreed on an^ name for the \nafFeciion in which a person sees and hears, when awake \nwithout impressions, and is at the same time so far from being \ncrazy as to re^^ard the whole a delusion, or the eiiects of a \nmorbid state of the body, requiring pliysic, leeclies and blis- \nters. It is an affection difierent from that commonl_) called \ndeiirium ; for in this last the thoughts occur in irregular, un- \nnatural relations \xe2\x80\x94 the sugiicsi\'mg principle is out of lune, eras \nsome would say, " the judgment is disordered." However, \nthoe false perceptions of a waking man have generally been \nconsidered as " ireaks" of that htlle unruly wanderer calied \n\n* This way of accounting tor the fact that a heullhy waking n?an \nhas ISO perceptions \\vitht)ijt inipressioua, uoes no\' app\xc2\xab^ar entirely \nsatisf.ictory to us. At some tuture period some new sentiipent con- \ncerning the matter may be advanced. \xe2\x80\x94 Perhaps it .way be hinted \nthat when we are awake the seiiboriuin is so active thacoui ih< oghts \ndo not s/ick by us long enouch to give rise to correspoiidiag ac- \ntions of the cerebral extremities ol nerves. \n\n\n\n^50 \n\nthe *\' imagination." \xe2\x80\x94 We propose io denominate the affection \nWe are now speaking of, day-dreaming. \n\nWe have recently met with the history of a case of day- \ndreaming in the New-Enland Galaxy, which was copied into \nthat paper from the Western M(3nthly Review. The editor \nof this review finds the story in a work which is entitled \n" Eertsley on the Human Mind," a work which is said \nto be a compendium of all that has heretofore been written \nupon the subject of the human mind. This story is the more \ninteresting as it was originally given by the subject of the af- \nfection, who was evidently a man of observation, and not un-^ \nacquainted with metaphysical subjects. We here give the \nstory entire, as the editor of the Galaxy has taken it from the \nabove mentioned Review. \n\n\' M. Nicolai, a member of the Royal Society of Berlin, \nsome iime sifice presented to that institution, a memoir on the \nsubject of a complaint with which he was affected ; and one \nof tiie singular consequerices of which was the representation \nof various spectres or apparitions. M. Nicolai for some \nyears had been subject to a congestion in the head, and was \nb\'ooded frequently for it by leeches. After a detailed ac- \ncount of his henlth, on which he grounds much medical, as \nwell as psycological reasoning, he gives the following interest- \ning narrative. \n\n\xe2\x80\xa2 hi the first two months of the year 1791, I was much af- \nfected m my mind by several incidents of a very disagreeable \nnature ; and on the 24th of February, a circumstance occur- \nred wh\'ch irritated me extremely. At ten o\'clock in the fore*- \nnoon, my wife and jusother person came to console me ; I was \nin a violent perturbation of mind, owing to a series of inci- \ndeuTs wiwch had altogether wounded my moral feelinji^\', and \nfrom which [ ?-w opo\'>ibiiity of relief, when suddenly I ob- \nservtd at the distance \xc2\xa9f ten paces from me^ a figure, ibe fig- \n\n\n\nS6^ \n\nute of a deceased person. I pointed at it, and asked my wife \nwhether she did not see it. She said nothing, bui bemg \nmuch alarmed, she endeavored to compose me, and sent for \nthe physician. The figure remained some seven or eight \nminutes, and at length I became a little more calm ; and a^ I \nwas extremely exhausted, ! soon after fell into a troubled kind \nof slumber, which lasted for about half an hour. Tsie vision \nwas ascribed to the great agitation of mind in which I had \nbeen, and it was supposed that I should have nothing more \nto apprehend from that cause ; but the violent aflfection hav- \ning put my nerves into an unusual state, from this arose other \nconsequences, which require a more detailed de^scription. \n\n^ In the afternoon, a little after four o\'clock, the figure \nwhich I had seen in the morning again a[)peared. I was \nalone when it happened ; a circumstance which, as may be \neasily conceived, could not be very agreeable. I went there- \nfore to the apartment of my wife, to whom I related it. But \nthither also the figure pursued me. Sometimes it was pre- \nsent, sometimes it vanished ; but when seen it was always \nthe same standing figure. A little after six o\'clock, several \nstalking figures also appeared ; but they had no connexion \nwith the standing figure. I can assign no reason for this ap- \nparition, than that, though much more composed in my mind^ \nI had not been able so entirely to forget the cause of such \ndeep and distressing vexation, and had reflected on the con- \nsequences of it, in order, if possible, to avoid them ; and that \nthis happened three hours after dnuier, at the time when the \ndigestion first begins. \n\n\' At length I became more composed, with respect to the \ndisagreeable incident which had given rise to the first appa- \nrition, but though I had used very excellent niedicmes, and \nfound myself in other respects perfectly well, yet the appari- \ntions did not diminish j on the contrary, they rather increas- \n\n\n\n360 \n\ned in number, and were transformed in the most extraordina- \nry maimer. \n\n\' After I had recovered from the first impression of terror, , \nI liever feit myself particularly agitated by these apparitions, \nas I considered them to be really the extraordinary consequences \nof indisposition. On the coiiirarv, I en<^e;jvored as much as \npossible to preserve my composure of miid, that I might re- \nmain disiinctly cosiscious of what passed within me. I ob- \nserved these phantoms with great accuracy, and very often \nreflected on my previous thoughts, with a vievv to discover \nsome law in the association of ideas, by which exactly those \nor other figures might present themselves to the imagination. \nSometimes 1 thought I had made a discovery, especially in \nthe latter part of my visions ; but on the whole, I coufd trace \nno connexion which the various figures, that thus appeared \nand disappeared to my sight, had with my state of mfnd, or \nwith my employment and the other thoughts wdiich engaged \nmy attention. After frequent accurate observations on the \nsubject, having fairly proved and maturely considered it, I \ncould form no other conclusion than that when the nervous \nsystem is weak, and at the sfime time too much excited, or \nrather deranged, similar figures may appear m^wcA a manner \nas if they were actually seen and heard ^ for these visioris in my \ncase, were not the consequence of any known law of reason, \nof ihe imagination, or other usual association of idea ; and \nsuch also is the case with other men, as far as we can reason \nfrom the (ew examples we know. \n\n\' The figure of the deceased person never appeared to me \nafter this dreadful day ; but several other figures showed \nthemselves afterwards very distinctly ; sometimes such as I \nknew, mostly hovv ever of persons I did not know ; and among \nthose known to me. were the semblance of both living and \ndeceased persons, but mostly the former ; and 1 made the ob- \n\n\n\n36i \n\nservation, that acquaintances with whonn I (^aily conversed \nnever appeared to me as phantoms ; but always such as \nwere at a distance. When these apparitions had continued \nsome weeks, and I could regard them with the greatest com- \nposure, I afterwards endeavored at mj own pleasure to call \nforth phantoms of several acquaintances, whom I, for that \nreasoa, represented to my imagmation in the most lively man- \nner, but m vain ; for however accurately I pictured to my \nmind (he figures of such persons, 1 never once could succeed \nin my desire of seemg them externally, thoui^h 1 had some \nshort time before seen them as phantom^, and rhey had, per- \nhaps, afterwards unexpectedly presented themselves to me in \nevery case involuntarily, as if thev had beeri presented ex- \nternally, like the phenomena in nature ; though- they certainly \nhad their origin internalbj ; at the same time I zoas always able \nio distinguish, with the greatest precision^ phantoms from phe- \nnomena. Indeed I never once erred in this, as 1 was gen- \nerally calm and seif-cellected on the occasion. I knew ex- \ntremely well when it only appeared to me th-^t the door was \nopened and a phantom entered, and when the door really was \nopened: and any perso.i came in. \n\n\' It is also to be noted, that these figures appeared to me at \nall times, and under the nost different circumstances, equally \ndistinct and clear. Whether 1 was alone or in company, by \nbroad daylight, or in the nij^ht time ; in my own, or in my \nneighbor\'s house ; only when 1 svas a^ another person\'s house \nthey were less frequent ; and when 1 walked the street, they \nvery seldom appeared. When I shut my eyes, sometimes \nthe figures disappeared ; sometimes the) remained even af- \nter I closed them. K they vanished in the former case, on \nopening my eyes again, nearly the same figures appeared \nwhich I had before seen. \n\n* I sometimes conversed with my physician and my wife, \n\nd6 \n\n\n\n362 \n\nconcerning the phantom?; which at the time hovered around \nme ; for in general the form? appeared ofieaer \\n motion than \nat rest. They did not alwajs continue present ; they fre- \nquently left me altogether, and ag;iia appeared for a short \ntime or a longer spare of t me. singly or more at once, hut in \ngeneral several appeared together. For the most part, I saw \nhuman figures of both sexes ; they com\'nonly passed to and \nfro as if they had no connexion with each other, like people \nat a fair when all is bustle, sometimes they appeared to have \nbusiness with one another. Once or twice I \xc2\xabaw among them \npersons on horseback, and dog-^ and bird^^ ; these figures all \nappeared to me in their natural size, as distinctly as if they \nhad existed in real life, wish the several tints on the uncover- \ned parts of the body, and with all theditlcrent kinds of colours \nof clothes. But I thmk, however, that the colors were some- \nwhat paler than they are in nature. \n\n\' None of these figures had any distinguishing characters ; \ntbey were neither terrible, ludicrous or repulsive ; most of \nthem were ordinary in their appearaare ; some were even \nagreeable. \n\n\' On the whole, the longer I continued in this state, the \nmore did the number of the ph\'^ntasms increase, and the ap- \nparitions become more (Tequent. About four weeks after, \nI began to hear them speak ; but for the most part they ad- \ndressed themselves to me, and endeavored to console me in \nmy gi\xc2\xabef, winch sti!) left deep traces In my misid. This speak- \ning \\ heard most frequently whei) alone, though I sometimes \nheard it in company, Uitennixed with the conversation of real \npersons ; frequently in single phrases only, but sometimes \neven in connected discourse. \n\n\'Though at this time I enjoyed rather a good state of \nhealth, both iu body and y}:vo(\\,. aod hnd become so very fa- \nmiliar with these phantoms, that at last they did not excite \n\n\n\n363 \n\nthe least cl!sa!;yref^al)1e emotion, but on the contrary, afforded \nme frequent subjects for amusement and mTlh ; yet as the \ndisorder greatly increased, and the (igures appeared to me \nfor whole days together, and even during the night ; if! hap^ \npened to be awakt;, I hvd recourse to several medicines, and \nwas at last again obliged to apply leeches. \n\n\' This was performed on the 20th of April, at eleven \no\'clock in the forenoon, I was alone with the surgeon ; but \nduring the operation the room swarmed with human forms of \nevery description, wh?ch crowded fast on one another; this \ncontinued till half past four o\'clock, when the digestion com- \nmences. 1 then observed that the figures began to move \nslowly ; soon afterwards the colours became gradually paler, \nand every seven minutes ihey lost more and more of their in- \ntensity, without any alteration in the distinct figure of the ap- \nparitions. At half past six o\'clock all the figures were entire- \nly white, and moved very little, yet the forms appeared per- \nfectly distinct ; by degrees they became visibly less plain, \nwithout decreasing in number, as had often formerly been the \ncase. The figures did not move off, neither did they vanish, \nwhich had also usually happened on former occasions. In \nthis instaiice ihey dissolved immediately in air; of some, \neven whole pieces remained for a length of time, which also \nby degrees were lost to the eye. At about eight o\'clock there \ndid not remain a vestige of any of them, and I have never \nsince experienced any appearance of the kind. Twice or \nthrice smce that time I have felt a propensity, if I may be so \nallowed to express myself, or a sensation as if 1 saw some- \nthing, which in a moment again was gone. I was even sur- \nprised by this sensation whilst writing the present account, \nhaving in order to render it tnore accurate, perused the pa- \npers of 1791, and recalled to my memory all the circumstan- \n\n\n\nSG4 \n\nCCS of that time. So little are we sometimes, even in the \ngreatest composure of mind, masters of our imaginations.\' \n\nThose clauses wh\'ch we have italicised in the foregoing \nnarrative, are peculiarly interesting to us, as they are expres- \nsions offacts and opinions which coincide with our views. \xe2\x80\x94 \nLet us consider them separately and in order. \n\nFirst. M. Nicolai regarded the opparitions which he saw, \nas no apparition? at all \xe2\x80\x94 no beings, material or immaterial ; \nbut *\' the extraordinary consequences of indisposition ;" orm \nother word?*, morbid actions of that which thinks and senses, \nthe nervous system. \n\nSecond. After maturely considering the subject, M. Nico- \nlai came to the conclusion, " that when the nervous system \nis weak, and at the same time too much excited, or rather de- \nranged, similar figures may appear in such manner as if actw \nally seen and heard ,*" or as we should express it : When the \nnervous system is in an irritable state and much excited, such \nactions of the optic and auditory nerves may occur v/ith im- \npressions as would be excited were the man to see and hear \nactual beings. \n\nThe I\'/izrc/ clause in italics is especially worthy of notice, as \nit goes to refute the vulgar not ons concerning the " souls" or \n** ghosts" of deceased persons. All who are so little acquaint- \ned with the animal economy as to believe in the existence of \nthese brain-begotten nonentities, admit that when the unex- \ntended soul, or the extended ghost, (both the same thing \xe2\x80\x94 at \nleast, the immaterialists have not informed us to the contra- \nry ) quits the body \xe2\x80\x94 quits it because its organization has suf- \nfer< d derangemeiit \xe2\x80\x94 Ihe body (i\xc2\xbbot the man^ for the immate- \nrialists place personal identity in the sameness of that uuex* \ntended thing wbjch thinks.) dies ; but M, Nicolai saw the \nlouls, ghosts, apparitions, \xc2\xa9r ptiantoms ** o/*6u/A lAe livin* \n\xc2\xbbnd the dead,\'\'^ \n\n\n\nthe fourth clause favors the opinion which we ventured to \ngive (before we saw the above narrative) concerriin^ our per- \nceptions in night-dreaming ; and (hat is, that these percep- \ntions are for the most part imperfect^ that is, they ilo not sup- \npose an action of the organic extremities of nerves ; and jet \nour optical and audial ones are so nearly hke perfect ones, as \nto i;;fiuence a man\'s coriduct much the same as perfect Oi:es, \nor m other words, as to be mistaken for perfect ones, Al- \nthough M. Nicholai\'s morbid perceptions were almost exactly \nlike natural or^es \xe2\x80\x94 although they were certainly somethmg \nessentially different from mere ideas or conceptions^ still, be- \nini^ awake aiid rational, he \'* was always able to distit.giiish, \nwnh the greatest precision, phantoms from phenomena;" and \nwe have no reason to suppose that he did so by re\xc2\xabiortingto \nthe testimony of the sense of feeling \xe2\x80\x94 by putting forth his \nharid^ to feel the phaiitoms in the places where they appear- \ned to be. \n\nIf the present chapter on dreaming have the effect of doing \naway the absurd notions so generally entertained concernmg. \ndreams, apparitions, ghosts, hobgoblins, and the iike, we shall \nDot think it useless. \n\n\n\n-00- \n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXVIl. \n\nOn Insanity \xc2\xbb \n\nWe treat of insanity in a physiological point of view ; we \nhave nothing to say of its causes or treatment ; our obicct is \nto pomt out its nature. If the reader do not remember what \njudging consists in, according to our views, we would hare \n\n\n\n366- \n\niiif-n return fd the seventeenth chapter of this work, before he \np r o c (:. c u s a n y f^i rt h e r . \n\nIt is not probable that a case ever did or will occur in \n\\?h5ch three of tfie live seisse? testified fa]se>v concerning one \nthing ; but if the eve, the ear, and the hand, should testify to \nany person tliat an eaemy is present, threatening him. when \nthere is not, such person would undoubtedly believfi that such \nperson is presi^nt. and ail the world could nc^t change his be- \nlief; of course, his conduct would be so influenced by his \nfalse perceptioi^s, that all sane persons would pronounce him \ninsane, respecting this enemy, if nothing more. We see, \nthen, ih;it a case of insanity Irom false perceptions is supposa- \nbh, Bui thu case of M. Nicolai shows that when the thoughts \noccur in a natural order \xe2\x80\x94 when the suggesting jj/tticiple is in \norder^ a man m.\\y have false optical and audial perceptions, \ngrid yet. so far from being insane, reason on all subjects as \nsoiodSy as the soundest philosopher. Th-.s then is essential \nto insanity \xe2\x80\x94 tht suggesting principle must be out of order \'y or in \nplain matte.^-of fact language, the sensorium must act helter- \nskelter, first one thought and theii another, without any pro- \nper Oracr or relation. \n\nWheii the nervous system is in such state that the sensori- \num acts thus, iha schoolmen would say, the judgment is dis- \nordered ; and furthermore, when the nervous system is in \nsuch state, false perceptions are apt to ars^e ; when Ihese oc- \ncur, they would say, the perception is disoidered, or the man \nis (hlrrious. \n\nAccording to our views, dehrium is not essential to insani- \nty ; but, although a case of insanity from mere false percep- \ntions, is supposable^ insanity is essential to delirium. A certain \nvariety of insanity is delirium, or delirium is a frequent at- \ntendant on insanity. The mere false perceptions which do \nin reahty occur in a waking man whose thoughts occur in a \n\n\n\n\xe2\x80\xa2367 \n\nce^ular. natural order, do not constitute delirium \xe2\x80\x94 they con- \nstitu\'e what we call day-dreaming. \n\nIf the reader be not satij^fied with this short chapter on in- \nsanity, he may find a deal of learned nonsense concerning the \nsubject, in various medical and metaphysical bo9ks. \n\n\n\n\xe2\x96\xa0000- \n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXVIII. \n\nOn Idiotism. \n\nAs the intellectual powers of different species of animals are \nmore or less perfect, accordingly as their braujs are more or \nless developed ; so the irite\'slec\'ual powers of different indi- \nviduals of the same species correspond, in perfection, wsth \nthe perfection of their brains ^ and one may decide with much \ncertainty whether a man be a gefuus or a fool, merely by view- \ning his head. If the individual possess a full, high forehead, \nand other part? of the head in natural proportions, it is pretty \ncertain that he is not a natural, that is, congmital, fool ; and \nhighly probable that he is a man of good natural parts ; ye.t \nhe may not be reputed as a man of talents, for although the \nsensorium be ever so fuily developed aiid well organized, it \ncannot thirdc without tendencies. Knowledge is as essential \nto intellectual superiority as a good bram ; but a good bram \nwill acquire knowledge with greater f4ciiity than a poor \none. However, a full, high forehead, and a {arga faciei an- \ngU,^ are not sure indications of a good sensorium ; for the \n\n* >upposino; a skull to be observed in profile, in the position \nwhich it would have when the occipital coiulyles are at rest in the \narficulir h(til\'.uvs of tjie atlas, in tlie ert^ct iltitude of ti!e ho y. and \nneither inclined backwards nor forwards^ \xe2\x80\x94 a line dniwn horn the \n\n\n\nS68 \n\n\xc2\xa7kull and the membranes which envelope the brain may be \nunusually thick; or (he outer and insensible partofthe cere- \nbral mass may be uncommonly great in proportion to the sen- \nsible part \xe2\x80\x94 of which part the sensorium constitutes a share; \nor the sensible part, though suffirientlv large, may be poorlv \norganized,\xe2\x80\x94 it may be too dry and stiff, or too soft and phleg- \nmatic, or it may be in divers other morbid conditions. \n\nA low forehead soon sloping backwards, with flat temples \nnot \\ery dfsjant, indicate a deficiency of that part of the braia \nwhich is so influenced by exercise as to acquire a habit of net- \ning without impression, Yet, as in the above case, these out- \nward appearances are not sure indications of an imperfection \nof the sensorium. But in most, perhaps all, cases ofcongeni- \n\ngreatest projection of the forehead to that of the upper m xillary \nbone^ fuHows the flirec\'ion of the face, and is railed thejaciaj titte - \nthe angle wfuch tj;jis forms with a second line, contitiued horizon- \ntally backwarcJs, is the fadGt nyiirle.\'AvA measures the relative pro- \nnnnence of theja \xe2\x80\xa2 s and forehead. -Tlje facial angle in the human \nsubject Viirie- from fi5\xc2\xb0 to 85^, spe:^king of the adult ; for in the \nchild it readies *^0\xc2\xb0 The G\'-eciai\' srfisis represented their legis-r \nlators, sages, and poets, with a f rial angle of yu\xc2\xb0 ; and th ir he- \nroes and gods, with an anj^le of 100\xc2\xb0. \n\nTlse following is a statement of the angle in certain animals, ta- \nken by drawing a line parallel to the floor of the nostrils and an- \nother frtmi the greatest pron)inence of the alveoli lo the convexity \nof the cranium, without regarding the outline* of the nose and face. \nYonng orangutang, - - 67\' ( Probably l\xc2\xab^ss by ^^ or tO** \nSap>ji)u, - - - - ^5"" \\ in the adult animal. \nGuenon, - - - - 57 \n\nMandrill, - - - 42\xe2\x80\x9430 \n\n\n\nCoati, - - - \n\n\n. \n\n\n28 \n\n\nP\xc2\xab\xc2\xbblerat, - \n\n\n. \n\n\n31 \n\n\nMastiff- line drawn from outer \n\n\n\n\nsurface of cranium, \n\n\n\n\n41 \n\n\ninner, \n\n\n\n\n30 \n\n\nHare, \n\n\n\n\n30 \n\n\nRam, - _ , \n\n\n\n\n30 \n\n\nHorse, \n\n\n\n\n23 \n\n\n\nLawrbkce\'s Lectures, p. 147-8-9- \n\n\n\ntal idiotism, the forehead is low and narrow, indicating a con- \ntracted sensorium. \xe2\x80\x94 Parents who are naturally idiotic, that \nis, idiotic from original make of their thinking organ, are as li- \nable to have idiotic offspring, as they are to have offspring \nwhich resemble them in features ; for like organized animals \nbeget like organized offspring ; and as the organs are, so are \ntheir functions. \n\nThe more remote causes of idiotism, when not congenital, \nare habilual inebriety, excessive and enervating pleasures, vi- \nolent passions, injudicious management in ecphronia, [insan- \nity] and especially an excessive use of the lancet. To which \nsome add, the suppression of accustomed discharges, and the \ndrinking of human blood. But in all cases the immediate \ncause is some misaffection of the brain ; and in a great ma- \njority of cases this morbid affection is manifest to the senses \nof the anatomist. Sometimes the brain is softer than natu- \nral, but more frequently harder and denser ; sometimes poly- \npous and even bony concretions are discovered. \n\n" In idiotism," says Dr. Good, " there is no memory, no \nlanguage, no reason." But " the idiot has all the animal ia- \nstints, and some of the passions." How it is that idiots may \nhave organic and even sensorial passions, and yet " no mem- \nory, no language, no reason," the materialist finds no diffi- \nculty in showing ; as those who have perused this work thus \nfar, must be prepared to admit. But why idiots should have \npoorer souls than other human beings, rather puzzles us \xe2\x80\x94 \nperhaps it is because their brains are so badly organized they \ndo not deserve better. We wish (he immaterialists would \nclear up this matter. It will not satisfy us, for them to com- \npare the brain to a fiddle, and the soul to a fiddler, and tell \nus that when the fiddle is out of tune, the best musician can- \nnot play a good tune upon it, for we know that impressions \n\nare what play upon the brain j and besides, the immaterialists \n\n47 \n\n\n\n370 \n\n\n\nare, in many instances, under the necessity of regarding the \nsoul as the tiddie and the brain as the tiddle : they must ad- \nmit that there is no music, no ideas, until the brain plays up- \non the soul. But more of this in another place. \n\n\n\n\xe2\x96\xa0000- \n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXIX. \n\nOn Death and Dying. \n\nWhen all actions of the nervous an4 muscular systems \ncease, the person dies ; and if the system have suffered such \nderangement that these actions, or even those of the nervous \nsystem alone, cannot, by any haunai means, be excised again, \nthe person is absolutely dead, \xe2\x80\x94 dead in the common sense of \nthe word. That a man may be dead in the common sense \nof the word, it is not necessary that his muacular organs have \nundergone such change m their physiological organization \nthat no contractions can by any means be excited in them. \nOtherwise the criminal is not "dead, dead," whose volunta* \nry muscles may be excited to contract by galvanism ; nor the \nsenseless bullock whose blood is let out, but whose heart con- \ntinues to act. \n\nIf a case should occur in which all muscular actions, even \nthose of the minutest capillaries, should cease, and the con- \nscient actions of the nervous system continue, the person \nwould appPMr to be dead ; \xe2\x80\x94 he would be speechless, pulse- \nless, motionless, and probably, " pale as death." But if by- \nstanders knew that he continued to think and sense, or even \nthink, they would not say such person is dead ; this, howev- \ner, they could not know ; and the person would be dead to \nthe bystanders, but not dead as it respects hnnself. Where- \n\n\n\n371 \n\nas every person is dead, for the time being, as it respects \nhimself, whenever the ccnscient actions of his nervous system \ncease. In every case of asphyxy from drowning, hanging, in- \nhaling irrespirable gases, from lightning a\xc2\xabd intense cold ; \nand in every case of compressed brain in which conscient ac- \ntions do not occur from strength of sensorial tendencies, and \ncannot be excited by impressions upon the senses ; and we \nmay add, in every case of natural sleep, \xe2\x80\x94 the person is dead, \nfor the time being, so far as it respects himself, whatever may \nbe the muscular actions that take place. \n\nSleep, eilSier morbid or natural, is a temporary death, as \nit respects the individual who sleeps \xe2\x80\x94 he is none the less \ndead to himself, for the time being, because he may think \nand sense again before his body is decomposed. What would \noften prove to be only a temporary death, if proper means \nwere used to bring the nervons system again into an active \nstate, proves a sleep to the hour of reorganization or resurrec- \ntion, merely for want of a surgeon with his instruments, or \neven a pair of bellows to bring the soul back again into the \nbrain ! Death, a thing often personified, is not an old dry- \nbones walking to and fro the earth, and up and down in it, \nstriking sick folks ; but merely a dead state of organized be- \nings. \n\nAfter the animal system has undergone such changes that \nits physiological proportie> no longer exist, or in other words, \nafter it has undergone such changes that it cannot be excited \n"into action by natural means, it soon undergoes still further \nchanges, called chemical ; but it is no more mysterious that \nit does so, than that a barrel of beer should turn sour, after \nundergoing the process of fermentation, and sutFering some \nother slight changes. The expression, that life, or the laws \nof the vital principle, control the laws of chemistry or of \nchemical actions, if not so much mere nonsense, is at least a \n\n\n\n372 \n\nyery figurative expression, which we trust will no more de- \nceive ever weak heads. \n\nDying, though often spoken of as an act, is more properly \nthe cessation of vital actions ; and the imnicdiaie cause of \ndying is not the cessation of vital actions, for this is dying; \nand the same thing cannot be both the cause and the thing \ncaused: the immediate cause of dying is, in every instance^ \nsome change in the condition of nervous system. This change \nis generally apparent on dissection, though not always, for the \nnervous system may suffer some change in its nice, physio- \nlogical organization, which destroys its sensibility ; and \nyet not be cognizable by the imperfect senses of the anato- \nmist. But when this change of the nervous system is not ob- \nvious, and often when it is, a change in some other important \norgan, or in the fluids of the system, may be discovered. These \nchanges are often considered as causes of the death ; but \nthey are to be classed among the remote causes : they are \nnot the immediate cause of the conscient actions ceasing. \n\nIn the few instances \xe2\x80\x94 if any there be \xe2\x80\x94 in which it may \nbe said that persons die of old age, the changes which take \nplace in their systems, are very gradual ; but they are none \nthe less real on this account. You can no more make a phy- \nsician believe that death ever takes place without some mor- \nbid change of the system, as its cause, than you can make him \nbelieve that fire will not burn h-m. But the immaterial the- \nologists have not yet decided, tha? I know of, whether a man \ndies because the soul quits the body, or whether he dies be- \ncause the body is disordered, and the soul flies off\' because the \nbody is dead. Should they ever seriously consider this mat- \nter, ihey will find themselves compelled to admit \xe2\x80\x94 if they re- \ngard the evidence which the book of nature furnishes \xe2\x80\x94 that a \nderangement of the system is the cause of every death. Were \nit a fact, that mea quite as frequently die instantly, without \n\n\n\n337 \n\nany derangement of the system, as otherwise, it wou^d be \nsome small evidence in favor of immaterialism. Nor have \nthe immaterialists yet informed us what becomes of the soul, \nand what it is about, during those hours, days, and even weeks \n(if reports be true) in which the body is dead as it respects \nitself, and apparently dead to by-standers \xe2\x80\x94 after which time, \nhowever, it is brought again into a thinking condition, by na- \ntural means. Should they tell us that, during this time, the \nsoul remains inactive within the body ; we should be induced \nto ask several other questions, to which they must give ration- \nal answers, before their doctrines will be rendered as clear and \nsatisfactory as the doctrines of the materialist. We would not \ninsist on their informing us by what means we can ever know \nwhen the soul has quit the body ; but we would ask them why \nthe soul does not continue to think and sense even in if the bo- \ndy be deranged : \xe2\x80\x94 we suppose they will contend that it thinks \nand senses after it quits the body ; (if it do not, it is a matter \nof indifFerence whether it go to heaven or hell \xe2\x80\x94 it is the sheer- \nest little nothing that ever did exist ;) now if it may thiiik and \nsense v^ithout any body at all, why may it not think when in a \ndisordered body ? Is the unextended thing squeezed! or other- \nwise obstructed in its operations ? If it be, why does it not \xe2\x80\x94 \nbeing intelligent \xe2\x80\x94 quit the clayey tabernacle, and himt its way \nback \xe2\x80\x94 for 1 am sure there is nothing in my head that knows \nthe way \xe2\x80\x94 to the celestial abodes ? But should the imma- \nterialists tell us that in case of asphyxy, the soul quits the bo- \ndy ; we should like to know how inflating the lungs, warming \nand rubbing the body, applying volatiles to the nostrils fee*, \nbring it back again. \xe2\x80\x94 Oh, ye men of mysteries, clear up these \ndifficulties, or the groundless hypothesis which gives rise to \nthem, will not much longer be believed by men of sound braias. \n^he pains of death are undoubtedly much less iha.i most \npersons have been led to beheve. To die, is to go to sleep ; \n\n\n\n374 \n\nand we doubt not that most persons who live to the age of \npuberty, undergo ^eiifold nnore misery in thinking ot death, \nthan in the simple act of dying; nay, tenfold more misery \nthan they would, did they but enteriani correct views con- \ncerning this change. \xe2\x80\x94 Error, of whatever descriptiooj inva- \nriably gives rise to more human misery than happiness: it is \nthe bane of human felicity \xe2\x80\x94 the black devil of the earth. Me- \nthinks I can see that the doctrine of soul, or we will say, the \nignorance of men concerning the constitution of organized be- \nings, has been the root of more human misery than would be \nendured, if every human being now living, were put to death \nby hours of excruciating torture ; and yet it has been grave- \nly asked, what good can result from diffusing the principles \nof materialism, admitting them to be true ! \n\nIn all cases of dying, the individual sufTers no pain after \nthe sensibility of his nervous system is destroyed ; for after \nthis, there is neither sensation nor thought. We say, no \nthought, for we have every reason to believe that when the \nsensorium has suffered such change that conscient actions \ncannot be excited in it, such actions will occur merely by \nvirtue of its tendencies. Novv the sensibility of the nervous \nsystem is often destroyed without much, and sometimes with- \nout any, previous pain. Those who are struck dead by a \nstroke of lightning, those who are decapitated with one blow \nof the axe, and those who are instantly destroyed by a crush \nof the brain, experience no pain at all, in passing from a state \nof life to a dead state. One moment\'s expectation of being \nthus destroyed, far exceeds in misery the pain during the act. \nThose who faint away, on having a little blood taken from the \narm, or on any other occasion, have already endured all the \nmisery they ever would in this world, did thej not again re- \nvive. Th^se who die of fevers, and most other diseases, suf- \nfer their gi\'eatest pain, as a general thing, hours, or even \n\n\n\n375 \n\ndays, before they expire. The sensibility of their nervous \nsystem bt^comes gradually dinrunished, their pains become \nless and less acute under the same exciting cause ; and at the \nmoment when their friends think them in the greatest distress, \nthey are more at ease than they have been for days previous : \ntheir disease, as far as it respects their feelings, begins to act \nupon them like an opiate. Indeed, many are already dead, \nas it respects themselves, when ignorant bystanders are much \nthe most to be pitied, not for the loss of their friend, but for \ntheir sympathising anguish. Those diseases which destroy \nlife without immediately affecting the condition of the nervous \nsystem, give rise to more pain than those that do affect this \nsystem, so as to impair its sensibility. The most painful \ndeaths which human beings inflict on each other^ are produ- \nced by the rack and the faggot. The halter is not so cruel as \neither of these, but more savage than the axe. Horror and \npain considered, it seems to us as though we should choose a \nnarcotic to either. \n\nWe think that most persons have been led to regard dying \nas a much more painful change than it generally is, tirst, be- \ncause they have found by what they have experienced in \nthemselves and seen in others, that sentient beings often strug- \ngle when in distress \xe2\x80\xa2, hence struggling is to them a sign, an \ninvariable sign, of distress. But we may remark, that strug- \ngles are very far from being invariable signs of distress ; mus- \ncular action and consciousness are two distinct things, often \nexisting separately ; and we have abundance of reason to be- \nlieve, that in a great proportion of cases, those struggles of a \ndying man which are so distressing to behold, are as entirely \nindependent of consciousness, as the struggles of the recently \ndecapitated fowl. A second reason why most persons are led \nto regard dying as a very painful change, is, because they \nknow that men often endure great pain without dying, and, \n\n\n\n370 \n\nforgetting that like causes produce like effects cnly under sim- \nilar circumstances, they infer that life cannot be destroyed \nwithout still greater pain. Third, because they believe that \nthere is sonnething in man, which is the subject of as vivid \nconsciousness when he is dying, and alnnost dead, as when he \nis in health. \n\nMost persons, and especially young persons, desire to live, \nand this is as much as to say, they desire not to die ; but the \nhorrors of death, which render a considerable portion of the \nmajority of men\'s lives much less happy than they otherwise \nwould be, are not owing to this desire to live. Nor do they \nconsist but in part in dread of the pains of death : they consist \nmostly in doleful ideas of a future slate, fear of endless and \nmost desperate punishments, &c. but if this share of human \nmisery be thought a blessing to mankind, we may thank igno- \nrance and her big baby superstition for it. The materiahst, \nwho has been so fortunate as not to have his reason shackled, \nlooks on death with much more composure than any one else, \nexcepting a very small proportion of mankind who have been \nlead to believe, confidently, that they shall be extremely hap- \npy in a future state. \n\nThe materialist who has studied the book of nature, and \ndrawn his conclusions from it, regarding the books of men as \nerroneous in all points in which they do not agree with it^ \nsays to himself: If a body be organized at some future period, \npossessing the same sensorial tendencies which 1 possess, / of \ncourse, shall again exist. And if I do, I shall neither be ex- \ntremely happy nor extremely miserable. The same mer- \nciful and unchangeable God, who governs now, will gov- \nern then, and we have no reason to suppose that his \nlaws w ill he altered. He will not, with a vengeance, punish, \nfor deeds done in this life, any being who was involuntarily \nborn into the world, with passions to spur him to actien, and \n\n\n\n377 \n\n50 circumstanced Ihat there was a cause for every action of \nhis, whether muscular or nervous. But as in this life if 1 stray \nfrom the path of rectitude, there will always be sometliing to \nprick ; and the more I go astray, the more miserable shall I \nbe. \n\nBut if I donot exist in a future state, T shall not care a straw ; \nfor when I am dead, I shall not exist; and it is absurd to sup- \npose that a being will care, which does not exist. When the \nbody, which the construction of our languat^e compels me to \nspeak of as though it were something besides myself, calling \nit my hody^ is in the grave ; there will be no thinking /, oiFia \nsome other region, thinking about the cold grave, and anxious- \nly awating the day of resurrection. No ; my thoughts of an- \nnihilation are far from being horrible to me \xe2\x80\x94 they are not \nblended with the strange notion of caring about it, after I am \ndead; and 1 have never been cajoled into the belief that I \nshall be extremely happy hereafter, like one who may have \nbeen led to believe thac he deserves, and will indeed draw, a \nlargesum, because he has bought a ticket. Consequently my \nreason goes abroad without meeting with information which \nblasts my fondestj^zrme^/ expectations. \n\n\n\n\xe2\x96\xa000- \n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXX. \n\nAil .Attempt to show that Materialism is as consistent zoith Chris- \ntianity as Jmmaterialism, \n\nWe presume to state in terms unqualified, that whoever \nmaintains that Christianity is opposed to materialism, virtual- \nly maintains that Christianity is opposed to truth. Christian*- \n\n48 \n\n\n\n378 \n\nity must accord wi<h materialism or she caPxnot have a pass- \nage ; for truth will go when lie once gets under weigh. \n\nWhether it be possible to reconcile either materialism or \nimmaterialism with Christianity, we cannot with certainty say, \nuntil the diverse religious sects professing Christianity agree \namong themselves what Christianity consists in, and inform us \nof their decision. However, we can proceed to show, that, - \naccording to our views of christianitj, materialism is as con- \nsistent with it as immaterialism. \n\nAccording to our views, the sentiment that whatever thinks \nand senses is something distinct from the nervous system, and \nmay sense and think independent of it, is not essentia! to Chris- \ntianity. This being the case, certain doctrines, of which this \nsentiment is not one, may constitule Christianity; and who- \never believes in these doctrines may be a christian, though at \nthe same time a materialist. And again, according to our \nviews, the idea that the bible writers were inspired with a pre- \nternatural share of scientific knowledge, as of Astronomy, \nAnatomy, Physiology, &c., is not essential to Christianity. \n\nNow if it be admitted that neither of these sentiments or \ndoctrines, are essential to Christianity, th<it4^hey constitute no \nessential part of it ; then are materialism and christinity com- \npatible. For, admitting it is the nervous system, which sens- \nes and thinks, it does not follow from this but that every chris- \ntian doctrine, may be true. \n\nBut if the doctrine of soul be essential to Christianity, so \nthat there is no Christianity without it ; then it is as evident \nthat Christianity is faSse as that the earth turns on its own ax- \nis. And if the idea that the bible writers were ins[)ired with \ntrue knowledge concerning physical subjects, (and the consti- \ntution of man and other animals is or*e of thest ,) be essential \nto Christianity \\ then shall we prove that Christianity is false, \n\n\n\n379 \n\nwhen we prove that these writers were not thus inspired ; as \nwe now proceed to do. \n\n\'\' And God made the firmament and divided the waters \nwhich were under the firmameJjt from the waters which were \nabove the firmanient. And God called the firmament heaven* \nAnd God said, Let the waters under the heaven be gathered \ntogether into one place, and let the dry land appear." \xe2\x80\x94 Gen, \nch. 1st, V. 7, 8, 9, \'\' And God created two great lights, and \nthe stars also^ and set ihem in the firmament of heaven,\'\'"\' \xe2\x80\x94 Gen. \nch. 1st, V. 16, 17. \'^ And the windows of heaven were open- \ned, and the rain was upon the earth fortj days and forty \nnights." \xe2\x80\x94 Gen. ch. 7, v. 11, 12. \'\' And the windows of heav- \nen were stopped, and the rain from her.ven was restrained." \n\xe2\x80\x94 Gen. ch. 8, v. 2. These passages show clearly that who- \never wrote the book of Genesis, believed that the blue and \nseemingly arched canopy over our heads, is the firmament of \nheaven ; arid that the sun, moon and stars, are all equi-dis- \ntant from the earth, or at least, that they are all set in this \narchirig canopy, they being all " set in the firmament of heav- \nen," which divides the waters, &c. This is an opinion which \nchildren and all persons ignorant of astronomy would natu- \nrally entertain. It is clear, also, that this writer believed \nthat when it rains, or at least, when it rained in the time of \nthe flood, the windows of heaven were opened, and the wa- \nter " above the firmament" ran down \xe2\x80\x94 large streams being \nbroken into drops, no doubt, by falling so great a distance. \n\nNow it is certain that these notions about the firmament ; \nabout the sun, moon and stars being set in the firmament ; \nabout the windows of heaven which are windows of the fir- \nmament, (for " God called the firmament heaven ;") about \nthe water above the firmament, that is, up in heaven, where \nthe God or Gods of the old and new testaaients dwell ; about \n\n\n\n380 \n\nthe rain, &:c. &c. are hhc ; and of course the writer that en- \ntertained them did not receive them bv inspiration. \n\nPerhaps it will be said that ihis writer^\' expressed himself \nin figurative language, and that we do not know but that he \nthought correctlv. Very well, we will then say, and with \nquite as good reason, that whoever has spoken ofa^ow/in \nthe bible, spoke figuratively ; and we have no more reason \nto suppose he believed the word means any thuig distinct \nfrom the nervous system, than we have that this writer be- \nlieved the firmament of heaven and the windows thereof, to \nbe real beings. \n\nIn the ninth chapter, thirteenth verse, of Genesis, we read \n" I will set my bow in the cloud, and it shall be for a token of \na covenant between me and the earth." \n\nBefore we offer any remarks concerning this passage, we \nwould observe, it is impossible for us to believe (and who is \nto blame for it,) that the Author of worlds on worlds, ever \ndescended in a cloud of fire, smoke, or any other vehicle, to \nthis earth, and conversed with a man ! What should w^e think \nof any man nowadays, if he should gravely assert that he had \nbeen up to the top of Mount Tom and seen and conversed \nwith God Almighty ? Why is it that men will sooner believe \na whole string of big stories than a single one ? If Moses ever \nsaw and heard what his unknown historian has declared that \nhe did, it is much more rational to suppose that actions oc- \ncurred in his optic and auditory nerves wiihout impressions, \nthan that the Deity ever paid liim a visit and conversed with \nhim. From whnt we know of the G6d of nature, he bnngs \nabout his ends by the most simple means ; and if he be un- \n\n* We say this writpr, for it is altogether unknown by whom the \nbook of Genesis and the tour followiitf,\' books were written; con- \nvinced AP ,ire that ih.-y were not written by Moses. See Paine\'s \nA^e of Kedsou, Second Part. \n\n\n\n381 \n\nchangeable, as the book of nature declares, and we believe, it \nis but reasonable to suppose he always did so. \n\nFrom the passage last quoted from Genesis, and from oth- \ners immediately connected with it, it is evident that the writer \nconsidered the rainbow as a thing that made its appearance \nfor the first time, after the tlood, as a token of a covenant, fee, \nwhereas it is a natural phenomenon which must always occur \nwhen rays of light from the sun are reflected by drops of rain \nin a particular manner ; and which must necessarily have ta- \nken place, the unalterable laws of nature being such, before \nthe flood as well as now. \n\nWhat we read in the tenth chapter of Joshua, twelfth and \nthirteenth verses, about the sun and moon standing still \xe2\x80\x94 tak\' \nen in connection with other passages in the the bible which \nspeak of the earth as standing on pillows, \xe2\x80\x94 shows clearly \nthat the bible writers, some of them at least, were so very ig- \nnorant of astronomy as to believe that the sun and nioon move \nround the earth, instead of the earth turning round on its own \naxis. \n\nAnother erroneous notion entertained by the bible writers, \nis of a physiological nature \xe2\x80\x94 it relates to the constitution of \nman ; it is the notion that man consists of fnateriai organs and \nan inconceivable something else superadded, a something that \nscuds out of him when his organs cease to act, and steers off, \nor by angles is carried off, to heaven ; and enjoys pleasure and \nendures pain independent of the body. \n\nIt is true that with the exception of man, (he writers of the \nOld and New. Testaments, seldom had occasion to discover \ntheir opinions concerning the nature of things ; but from what \nlittle they have said concerning natural objects, it is evident \nthat they knew no more about them than thousands of other \nukju of their age ; it is evident they were not inspired \nwith a knowledge of the nature and constitution of organic or \n\n\n\n382 \n\ninorganic bodies. Consequently, if the opinion that they \nwere, be essential to Christianity then is rhristianity false. \nBut if it be admitted that they were not thus inspired, ail they \nhave written about souls amounts to no more than if the same \nhad been written by any other man of their age. To enquire \nwhether a man has a sou! or not is to inquire into the constitu- \ntion of man ; and this is a subject that belongs to that branch \nof physics called physiology. Strange indeed it is, very \nstrange, if the opinions of divines concerning the constitution \nof man, are to be regarded in preference to the opinions of \nphysicians. \n\nIt may be asked if Christ did not often speak as though man \npossesses a soul. We grant that those who have written ac- \ncounts of his birth, death, and doings, have written that he did. \nBut what then ? was Christ born into this world, to teach men \nphysiology? Admitting that he, though the son of a carpen- \nter\'s wife, knew every thing and could do almost any thing, it \ndoes not follo^v that he must work a miracle in every man\'s \nbrain to convince him that he has no soul, or convince h?m so \nby a long reasoning process. Before the science of chemis- \ntry had taught men that new combinations give rise to new \nproperties it would have required an octavo volume of great- \ner size than this, to convince them that they are composed \nentirely of matter. It was an object of Jesus to make \nmen believe certain doctrines which he delivered unto them; \nand it would have operated much against him, to have con- \ntradicted an opinion so firmly and universally believed, as \nwas the opinion that each man has a soul in his head : unless \nhe convinced the people that this opinion is erroneous : a \nthing which he could not do, short of working a miracle in \nevery man\'s brain, or of a long reasoning process. \n\nNow as it was not an object of Jesus to teach men what \nthey are made of, but to teach them their duty towards their \n\n\n\n38S \n\nMaker and towards each other ; and to teach them that they \nwill come to life at some future period, and be punished or \nrewarded according to their behaviour before they die; in- \nstead of contradicting their opinions concerning ihesr consti- \ntution, he spoke to his hearers in the same language that they \nused; he could not otherwise converse with them. Hence \naccording to Matthew, chap, x, v. 28, he said \'\' Fear not tberei \nwhich kill the body but are not able to kill the soul, but rather \nfesr him which (s able to destroy both soul and body in hell." \nBut had all his hearers been materialists \xe2\x80\x94 none of the lan- \nguage of immateriahsm bemg in use \xe2\x80\x94 we may well suppose \nhe would have said : Fear not them who are able to kill the \nbody only; but rather fear him who is able to destroy thy \npresent existence, and render the future miserable. \n\nMatthew was undoubtedly an immaterialist ; but Luke \nwrites more like a materialist. Luke informs us thai Christ \nsaid : *\' I say unto you, my friends, Be not afraid of them that \nkill the body, and after that have no more that ihey can do : \nbut I will forewarn you whom you shall fear : Fear him, which \nafter he hath killed, hath power to cast into hell ; yea, I say \nunto you, fear him." Not a word is here said about a soul ; \nbut that Luke here had reference to the same saying of Jesus, \nthat Matthew had in the passage we have quoted from his \ntenth chapter, no one can doubt, after comparing together this \nchapter of Matthew and the twelfth chapter of Luke. \n\nWe do not know that Luke was a materialist ; but he does \nnot appear to have been very friendly to the word soul. la \nthe whole of his book containing 24 chapters, it occurs in \nonly four instances ; and in only one of these does it appear \nthat Jesus used it, in an expression strictly his own. In the \nfirst instance, chap. 1, v. 46, it occurs in an expression of Ma- \nry \xe2\x80\x94 " And Mary said, My soul doth magnify the Lord." A \nvery figurative expression this. What ! a woman\'s soul mag- \n\n\n\n384 \n\nnify God Almighty ? Surelj, it can mean nothing more than \nthat she rejoiced and felt thai.kful because the " Lord had re- \ngarded her low estate." In the second instance, chap. 10, \nV. 27, a lawyer tells Jesus, " It is written in the law, Thou \nshalt love the Lord thy God, with all thy heart, and with all \nihy soul^ and with all thy strength, and with all thy mind," \nThis strong but figurative passage means nothing more than, \nyou shall love the Lord as much as you can ; and we defy \nany man, be he a necessarian or not, to love him less. In \nthe twelfth chapter it is written that Jesus spake a parable ; \nand in this parable it is represented that a rich man addressed \nhis soul, saying, " Soul, thou hast much good laid up for ma- \nny years ; take thine ease, eat, drink, and be merry." \'\' And \nGod said unto him. Thou fool, this night thy soul shall be re- \nquired of thee." But what sort of thing did this man take \nhis soul to be, when he tells it to eat, drink, &c. ? Surely, no- \nthing more nor less than his person, his visible extended per- \nson, including of cocrse both eating and drinking organs, \xe2\x80\x94 \nBut as to the expression, " This night shall thy sou! be re- \nquired of thee," it means nothing more nor less than, this \nnight shall thy life be required of thee ; and this means noth- \ning more than, you shall this night die, that is, your organs \nshall cease to act. This is the third instance in which the \nword soul is used in Luke. The fourth instance occurs in \nthe xxi. chap, and 19th verse : " In your patience, possess \nyour souls." Here it is represented that Jesus used the word \nin an expression strictly his own. But from this passage we \nhave just as much reason to infer that a marl\'s patience is some- \nthing distinct from his body, as that his soul is. The expres- \nsion is so very ambiguous, that we scarcely venture to offer \nan opinion as to the sense in which it ought to be understood \n\xe2\x80\x94 it would have been less so, had it been, in your souls pos- \nsess your patience. However, considering what goes before \n\n\n\n385 \n\nand after it, we are inclined to think it ought to be understood \nas follows : In ail the trials and perplexities you may meet \nwith, keep cool and collected ; or, have patience, so as not \nto be discouraged and vexed, so as not to be dispossessed of \nyour intellectual powers, by the difficulties you may meet \nwith. \xe2\x80\x94 Surely, if the writings of Luke had been the only ones \nof Christ\'s historians that were voted genuine, and we had \nnever seen those of the other Evangelists, we should have had \nno reason to suppose that Jesus was an immaterialist tVom \nany thing he said concerning souls. Admitting that Jesus of- \nten spoke of a soul, it is no sort of evidence that he believed \nit to be any thing distinct from the body. Scarcely a day \npasses but that materialists use the word soul or mind as \nthough it were something distinct from the body, or at least, \nas though it were something besides the body ; and if, twenty \nyears hence, their conversation should be written in a book, \nit would be just as much evidence to future generations that \nthese materialists were immateriahsts, as the few clauses in \nthe New Testament which represent that Jesus spoke of a \nsoul, are that he believed m the existence of a feeling think- \ning thing that scuds away from a man when he dies. \n\nPerhaps it may be said that there are sayings of Jesus \nwhich favor immaterialism, although they contain nothing \nexpress concerning souls. According to Luke, he said to \none of the malefactors who was put to death with him : " Ve- \nrily I say unto thee, to-day shalt thou be with me in para- \ndise." But what are we to understand by this ? Do not the \npronouns I, me, and myself, mean the same thing ? and did \nnot Jesus, by paradise, here mean heaven, the place to which \nit is said he ascended, the place where his Father and the an- \ngels dwell ? The first question must be answered in the athr- \nmative, and if the second be not, we wi^Ji our learned divines \n\nwould inform us something about this paradise. But if par- \n\n49 \n\n\n\n380 \n\nadise be heaven, the place where it is represented that tlie \nGod of the bible dwells ; then Christ did not go to paradise \nfor several da}\'s after he was crucified. For after he came \nto life, he appeared to his disciples, and said unto them,^ " Be- \nhold nay hands and my feet, that it is 1 myself, handle me \nand see ; for a spirit hath not flesh and bones, as ye see me \nhave.\'- This much to show that Jesus did not consider him- \nself as consisting in something which has not flesh and bones. \n(Genuine materialism this.) Now according to John, chap. \nXX. V. 27, Jesus said to Mary, " 1 am not yet ascended to my \nFather;" and this was several days after he was crucified. \nFrom all this, it appears that the malefactor, soul nor body, \ncould not be in paradise with Jesus the same day, as it respects \ntime, that he was put to death 5 for Jesus himself was not \nthere. However, the christian materialist finds no difficulty \nin getting along with this : he says that when a man dies, he \ndoes indeed die ; of course, if he he in the grave ten thousand \nyears, it is no time at all to him \xe2\x80\xa2,- \xe2\x80\x94 every man passes from \nthis life to the future in the twinkling of an eye as it respects \nhimself, though millions of years may elapse between his \ndeath and reorganization. Consequently the malefactor will \nbe in paradise the day he died, as it respects himself, should \nbe not be there for thousands of years to come. \n\nWhat Jesus said in a parable concerning the rich man and \nLazarus, has been considered by some as favoring immateri- \nahsm. But the rich man died and was buried, and m hell he \nlifted up his eyes and saw Lazarus in Abraham\'s bosom ; and \ncried out to Abraham to let Lazarus come and dip his fingers \nin water, and cool his tongue. Now in the name of common \nsense, how comes it that an unexl ended soul has eyes and a \ntongue in hell ? and why did not the old fellow help himself \nto water if it were handy ? and bow large must Abraham\'s \nbosom be to hold Lazarus ? We should think the immaterial- \n\n\n\n387 \n\nists had belter keep this passage in the back ground, if they \ndo not wish to be puzzled. Will they tell us that when the \nsoul quits the body and goes to heaven or hell, it becomes ex- \ntended, and has the parts of a man ? Let them say so ; but \nthis would be nothing more nor less than creating a material \nman out of an immaterial \xe2\x80\x94 nolhing ! \xe2\x80\x94 The christian material- \nist may admit, if he pleases, that when men die, men of like \nsensorial tendencies are uistantly \xe2\x80\x94 as it respects time \xe2\x80\x94 or- \nganized in some distant region ; but why, then, the \'* resur- \nrection of the dead^^\'\' which is certainly the most important, \nand we should think an essential doctrine of Christianity ? Is \nthere going to be two sets of human beings precisely alike ? \nMethinks there would be much contention if they should ever \nget together ; and perhaps some mistakes among the men and \nwomen ! \n\nImmediately after noticing the third instance in which the \nword soul occurs in Luke, we meant to have remarked that \nthe same Greek word which is translated soul in the New \nTestament, is, in as much as thirty instances in this Testa- \nment, translated life. \n\nThus much have we written to show that materialism is \nconsistent with Christianity, We shall now proceed to show \nthat immaterialism is not consistent with Christianity ; after \nwhich we trust all will be convinced that materialism is at \nleast as consistent with Christianity as immaterialism. \n\nAs intimated in the fore part of this chapter, we shall not \ndecide dogmatically what Christianity is ; for this would be \nto decide a question concerning which the different sects cal- \nling themselves christians, are at war. It would be to decide \na question in which we do not feel at all interested : \xe2\x80\x94 we can \nonly say, we wish those doctrines the least success which \nmake men the worst neighbors and citizens. We proceed \naccording to our own nations of Christianity, \n\n\n\n388 \n\nAccording to our views, the doctrine of ihe resurrection of \nthe dead h the rnn ;l important, and an essential doctrine of \nChristianity. Williout this resurrection we hold there is no \nfuture existence \xe2\x80\x94 no future rewards and punishments. Con- \nsequently, whoever does not helic ve in this, is not strictly a \nchristian, though he may be a virtuous man. \xe2\x80\x94 There were \nmany virtuous men before the christian era ; perhaps more in \nproportion to the whole human family and their unenlighten- \ned state than there now are. \n\nJNow if the doctrine of the resurrection of the dead, be es- \nsential to Christianity, then is immateriahsm, or the doctrine \nof soul, altogether at variance with Christianity. For accor- \nding to this doctrine, the man never dies ; that thinking, feel- \ning being which constitutes the man \xe2\x80\x94 that being, in the same- \nness of which the immatcrialists place personal identity, never \ndies. To be sui-e it quits its old material tenement, but this \nis nothing but changing its place. Therefore the many passa- \nges in the New Testament which speak of a man dying, and \nof his resurrection from the dead \xe2\x80\x94 an exemplification of \nwhich we have in the death and resurrection of Jesus \xe2\x80\x94 are \ndiametrically opposed to immaterialism. \n\nIs not death spoken of as a sleep, that is an unconscious state ? \nBut acccording; to immaterialism, the man is not in an uncon- \nscious state after the material machiiie ceases to bieathe ; un- \nless it be admitted that the soul is unconscious after it quits the \nbody; but if the soul be in an unconscious state from the time \nit quits the body to the re-organization thereof, we wish to \nknow for what reason any religious sect contends for its exis- \ntence. An unconscious, unextended thing must be the sheer- \nest ht.\'le nothing that ever did exist \xe2\x80\x94 quite too insignificant \nfor men to contend about. If 1 have a soul which can neither \nthink nor sense independent of the body, then let my body be \nwell off, and 1 care not what becomes of my soul. \n\n\n\n. , 339 \n\nAgain. Do the scriptures inform us of any place for dead \nmen, or, if you please, for men after they get out of their \nbodies, except heaven^ hell, and the grave ? Now if men do \nnot in fact die, but only scud away from the machines by \nwhich they have operated, and in the top part of which they \nhave dwelt ; they must go to heaverj or hell (or aught we kiio^ \nto the contrary. But i[ all go to heaven, then many wicked \nare in heaven, and will remain there perhaps for thousands of \nyears to conne ; but if all go to hell, then many righteous men \nare in helL tYieve to remain until the day of resurrection and \njudgment. But if they arc sorted out as they fly away from \ntheir machines, why the lina! day of judgment that is spoken \nof? nnd vs\'hy are all the wicked men called out of hell, united \nwith their old machines, and sent back to hell again ? Poor \nmachines ! 1 pity you ; you are not to blame for any thing you \nhave ever done \xe2\x80\x94 ^you only obeyed the commands of your con- \ntroller. \xe2\x80\x94 Again, if the soul rr;ay be conscious independent of \nthe body, it may be the subject of rewards and punishments ; \nand for what purpose is the body re-organized ? The God of \nnature brings about his ends by the cheapest means; and ac- \ncording to the doctrine of soui we can see no use for the body \nin the celestial regions, unless it be to sing hymns with \xe2\x80\x94 no \nconnubial bliss there, at least with those that die old bachel- \nlors! Surely, the doctrine of soul, and the doctrine of ihe re- \nsurrection of the dead, and a day of judgment \xe2\x80\x94 a day when \nall shall be judged, and sentenced to their future abodes, are \naltogether at variance : they cannot be made to harmonize. \nBut not so with materialism and the doctrine of resurrection, \nand one day of judgment for all men. The materialist says \nthat all men appear at the bar of God, the moment they die, \nas it respects tkemsthes ; and yet although men die at dif- \nferent periods of time, they all appear at the bar of God on \none and the same day rr? it respects time. He says the body \n\n\n\n39Q \n\nmust be re-organized because there is no future existence \nwithout it; and it is the body that is punished and rewarded, \nfor it is the body that acted\xe2\x80\x94acted as independently as any \nthing can that is governed by the laws of nature. He says \nthe body may be organized out of any matter, for all that is \nnecessary to constitute the same person, to all intents and \npurposes, is to have the same looking body, posses^slng the \nsame sensorial tendencies. \n\nIt is a little curious that materialists must be cried down \nhy some christians, when they maintain the only doctrine con- \ncerning the constitution of man, that can be made to harmo- \nnize with Christianity. \n\nChristiani!y is not to be proved or disproved by our deci- \nsion concerning th^ nature of that which thinks, unless the \ndoctrine of soul he essential to Christianity. The present writer \nwas a firm materialist years before he disbelieved so many \nof the christian doctrines, that it would be hypocrisy in him \nto pretend to believe in Christianity. But he now feels the \nsame moral obligations towards his fellow creatures that he \never did, and is much more happy in his thoughts concern- \ning death and a future existence, than formerly. \xe2\x80\x94 Oh truth ! \nThou art fair and lovely ; there is symmetry in all thy parts ; \nand he that knows thee, is not cold and hot, hot and cold, \nalternately \\ \xe2\x80\x94 he is not distressed with fears and doubts at \none time, and flushed with expectations of unnatural joys at \nanother. Thou causest peace in one\'s own breast, peace in \nneighborhoods, and peace between nations. Blood may be \nshed in the cause of the adversary ; but thou wilt ultimately \ncor.quer with no other weapon than the pen ! \n\nBrfore closing this chapter, we make some extracts from a \npamphlet which we have recently received, entitled \'\' The \nScsiiPTURK Doctrine of Materialism." It is written by a \nmasterly pen ; but the author is to be reprehended by every \n\n\n\n391 \n\nfriend of (ruth and intellectual freedonn, for not putting his \nname to it. In making these extracts, we shall not add any \nwords of our own except in brackets, and the authors own \nwords will not appear in the form of quotations, that the read- \ner may the more easily understand what words are his, and \nwhat the words of writers from whom he makes extracts. \n\nAfter this, can it be said, tha^ the separate existence of an \nimmortal soul is the doctrine of Christ ? I am lost in utter as- \ntonishment at the presumptuous hardihood that can state this \ndoctrine as an essential article of the christian faith ! at the \nimpudent intolerance that can cry down a man\'s character \nand standing in society \xe2\x80\x94 can interdict him like the banished \nof old, from tire, water and shelter \xe2\x80\x94 because examining Scrip- \nture tor himself, he cannot conscientiously accept as divine \ntruth, the metaphysical reveries of Caivinistic theology ! \n\nThe question is not, is there any text in the bible that seems \nto countenance the notion of a soul, (for the bible was trans- \nlated by persons who took that doctrine for granted;) \xe2\x80\x94 the \nquestion is, what is the general tenor of the doctrine on the \nsubject laid down by Jesus Christ : does Ae countenance it? \nThe apostles wrote and spoke ver) tiguratively, and frequent- \nly in conformity and allusion to the previous notions of those \nthey were addressmg. To establish the doctrine of a soul as \na Christian doctrine, do not refer me to a few texts that seem \nto countenance it ; you must shew it me plainly, clearly, and \nundoubtedly laid down, explained, and urged by Christ him- \nself: and that I think cannot be done from the Evangelists. \nAll else is evidence so inferior as to have little weight on the \nquestion. \n\nAll persons conversant with the Scripture, know, that the \nvarious and discordant tenets of metaphysical Christianity are \nfounded, asserted, and denied on <he license of (igurative ex- \npression used by the apostles, and principally by St. Paul. \nIn this war of words 1 desire to take no part, and 1 therefore \nappeal exclusively to the gospels. \n\nOf the opinions of the ancient fathers, \n\nI am not possessed of the means of examining and referring \nto the original works of the fathers, as they are called. 1 \nmust therefore be content with referring to some sunuiiary. \nSuch a one Dr. Priestly has given ; but J am aware his an- \n\n\n\no92 \n\nthority m;iy be objected to. Lewis Ellis Dupin and Lard- \nner have not attended to this subject as a separate Question, \nand Lardners quotations are very partial. The only author \nof repute who has examined all the writings oCthe Christian \nfathers with this view, is Beausobre, in his history of Mani* \ncheisiii : an aut\'nor universally regarded as among the fairest \nand best qualified of modern days. He too is cited by Priest- \nly, by Rees, and o,ihers. \n\nTo avoid aU reasonable objection, I referred to the article \nImmaterialism in the larger French Encjclopedie, manifestly \nwritten by one who is not a materialist. 1 translate briefly \nfrom that article\'; stating however that his representation \nwill coincide with that of iVL Beausobre. \n\n" Some moderns suspect that as Athanagoras admitted a \nspirit in the formation of the universe, he was acquainted with \nspirituality, and did not adniiit a corporeal Deity, like almost \nall the other philosophers. Bat by the word spirit {pneuma) \nthe Greeks and Romans equally understood a subtile matter, \nextremely dilated, intelligent indeed, but extended, and con- \nsisting of parts. I51 elFect, how can they believe that the \nGreek philosophers had any idea of a substance purely spiri- \ntual, when it IS clear that all the primitive fathers of tlie church \nmade even God Almighty corporeal ; and their doctrine was \nperpetuated in the Greek church even to later times, and was \nnever renounced by the Roman church till the time of St. \nAugustiije," (about six hundred years after Christ.) \n\nThe author of the article proceeds, b}- means of quotations \nfrom their works, to show that the following fathers were \nmalerialists, viz. Origen^ whom Jerom reproaches for his no- \ntion th^t God himself was material ; Tertullian, who wro\'e a \nbook De Anima expressly to prove the mortality and materi- \nality of the human soul ; Arnobius ; St. Justin; Tatian ; St. \nClement of Alexandria ; Lactantius; St. Hilarius-; St. Greg- \nory Nazianzenus ; St. Gregory Nyssenus ; St. Ambrose ; \nCassian; and tinally John of Thessalouica, who, at theSev- \nenth Council, pronounced it as an opinion traditionally de- \nlivered by St. Athanasiiis, St. Basil, \'.\\m\\ St. Meihodiu*, that \nneither angels, demons, nor human souls, were disengaged \nfrom matter. The writer forgot l\\Ielito, bishop of Sardis ; \nbut here is a list quite long enough. It proves nothing, ex- \ncept that in the early ages of the Christian church, and for \nnear six hundred years. Materialism was not heresy, but quite \n\n\n\n39S \n\notherwise. Indeed, St. Austin says, that he himself was foi \na long time of this opinion ; owing to his difficulty of conceiv- \ning the pure spirituahty of God himself. \xe2\x80\x94 Are these metaphy- \nsics of any use or value to a Christian, on the one side or the \nother ? I consider them as vain speculations, unproductive of \npractical benefit. \n\nThe Apostles\' Creed of uncertain composition, but ancient, \nrequires us to hoid an essential article of the Christian faith. \nWhat ? the resurrection of the soul ? No. " the resurrection \nof the body, and the life everlasting." Amen. \n\nThat the doctrine of the non-existence of a separate immaterial \nSnul^ distinct from the human body, and disjoined from it at \ndeaths is a doctrine published and avowed by dignitaries of \nthe church of England, \n\nI apply this to the well meaning, but not well instructed \nportion of my fellow citizens. I am not about to prove my \npoint by an appeal to the bench of bishops. But 1 say that \ndoctrine is ijot Atheism, Deism, or Infidelity, which some of \nthe bench of bishops avow, which others doubt about, and \nwhich none complain of as heretjca! or dangerous. \n\nDr. Edmund Law, Arch Deacon of Carlisle, Master of Pe- \nter\'s College in the Uiiiversity of Cambridge, (a seminary for \nfinishing the educatiotj of young men.) wrote a treatise on the \nnature and end. of death. To the third edition of this work, \nnow before me, publi>hed in 1775, he added an appendix oq \nthe meaning of the original words, translated 50w/ and spirit \nin the Holy Scriptures; showing that no part of the bible \ngave countenance to the doctrine of a separate soul, orof aa \nintermediate state of being beiween d^ath and judgment. He \n^refers to Bishop Sherlock, the Rev, Mr. T.^ylor of Norwich} \nand Mr. Haller, in the following close to that appendix. \n\nExtract Jrom the Appendix to Considerations on the Theory \nof Religion^ by Edmund. Law. D. D. Archdeacon of Carlisle^ \nand Master of St, Peterh College, Cambridge, third edition, \n1755. I4^ith an Appendix concerning the use of the word Soid \nin Holy Scripture^ and the state of death there described. \n\n*\' The intent of this appendix, containing an examination \nof all the meanings that the words translated SOUL, in the \nOld or New Testameat, appears to have, is to show that the \n\n50 \n\n\n\nS04 \n\ndoctrine of a separate immaterial, immortal soul, is not a \nChDstiHM doctrine : lha< it is not fairly dediK ihle from tlie \nChristian Scriptures , and it is contrary to their general ten- \nor." Dr. Law, after thissummar} . goes on to sa), page 39S: \n\'\' \'I\'his maj ^ervc for a specimen of such texts as are usually \nalleged on the other side oflhe question ; (viz. by the Imma- \ntenahst.^.) all of which, will 1 beheve, appear even fi^om these \nshort remarks upon them, to be either quite foreign to the \npoint, or purely figurative ; or lastly, capable of a clear and \nCfisy s^olution on the principles above mentioned. Nor can \nsuch ever fairly he opposed to the constant obvious tenor of \nthe sacred writirtgs, and that number of plain express passa-* \nges already cited." . . . page 400. Give me leave, says Dr. \nLaw. to subjoin (he sentiments of a very pious and worthy \nperson, eminently skilled in Scripture language, the Rev. Mr. \nTaylor, of Norwich, who is, pleased to write as follows : " I \nhave parused your papers, &;c. They comprehend two \npoujts ; one point upon the nature of the human soul or spirit. \nso far as revelation gives us any light ; the other concerning the \nstate to 7vhich death reduces us. From the collectior) of Scrip- \ntures under the first of these pomts, I think it appears, that no \nman can prove from Scripture that the human soul is a prin- \nciple which lives, and acts^ and thinks, independent of the \n\nbody Whatever (he metaphysical nature, essence, or \n\nsubstance of the soul may be, (wh>ch is altogether unknown \nto us,) it is demonstratively certain that its existence, both in \nthe manner and duration of it, must be wholly dependent on \nthe will and pleasure of God. God must appoint its connec- \ntion with and dependence on an) other suh,<\xc2\xabtance, both m its \noperations, powers and duration. Ail arguments therefore \nfor the natural immortality of the soul, taken from the nature \nof its substance or essence, as if it must exist and act separate \nfrom the body, because it is of such a suh>*(ance, &:c. are man- \nifestly vam. if indeed we do find any thing in the faculties \nand operations oflhe mind to which we are conscious, that \ndol\'n show it is the will of God, we should exist in a future \nstale, those arguiTjents wdl stand good. But we can never \nprove thai the soul of man is of such a nature that it can and \nmust exist, live, thitsk, act, and enjoy, &c. separate from, and \nindependent of the body. Ail our present experience shows \nthe contrary. The operations of the mind depend constant- \nly and invariably upon the state of the body, of the brain in \n\n\n\n395 \n\nparticular. If some dying persons have a lively use of their \nrational farultics to the very last, it !s because death has in- \nvaded some other part, and the brain remains sound and vig- \norous. But what is the sense of REVELATION ? Vou have \ngiven a noble rollectiou of texts, that shew it very clearly. \nThe subject yields many practical remarks, and the warmest \nand strongest excitements to piety." \n\nAfter this extr;ict from Mr. Taylor\'s letter. Dr. Law closes \nhis appendix in these words : \'\' But it might look hke beg:<ing \nthe question, should 1 draw out all these in form, together \nwith the consequences of this doctrine in regard to either Pa- \npist or Deist, till the doctrine itself, so lojig decried by the \none, and so often disgraced by the other, shall appear free \nfrom the prejudices attending il, and be at last understood to \nhave a fair foundation in Scripture, by which we Protestants \nprocess to be determined : and when we have duly examined \nthem, may possibly discersi that the natural immortality of the \nhuman mind is neither necessarily connected with, nor to a Chris\' \niian any proper proof of , a future state of rewards and punish\' \nments.\'\'\'\' \n\nAfter this Dr. Law was raised to the see of Carlisle. \n\nDr. Watson, Bishop of Landnlf pnblished a collection of \ntracts for the use of young clergymen. The following is aa \nextract from his preface. \n\nExtraet from a preface to a collection of Theological Tracts, \nby Richard Watson, D. D. Bishop of Lnndaff. and Regius Pro- \nftt>sor of Divinitii in the University of Cambridge^ 1785. De- \ndicated to the Queen* \n\nPage 1 4. 1 5, \xe2\x80\x94 \'\' Want of genuine moderation towards those \nwho differ from us in religious opniions, seems to be the most \nunaccountable thing in the world. Any man who ha* any \nreligion at all, feels withm himself stronger motive to judge \nright, than you can possibly suggest to him : aud if he judi^es \nwrong, what is fhat to you ? To his own niaster he staiideth \nor falhjth : his wron^ judgment, if it atfect hi^ ovfn salvation, \ncannot affect your;; ! For, in the words of TertuHian, nee alii \nohesi aut prodest alterius religio. .... Shll you will proba- \nbly rejom, there must beman\\ truth* in the Christian religion, \nconterning which no one oujht tohesdate, inasmuch as with- \nout a belief HI them, he cauaol be reputed a Christian \xe2\x80\x94 re- \n\n\n\n39G \n\npate<I? by wTiom ? by Je\xc2\xabus Christ his Lord and God. or by \nyon ? R;^sh exposito; ^ of points of doubttiii disputation ; ui- \ntolerent fabricators of metaph}f.ira5 creeds, and inconij^^ruous \nsystems oi theojogy ! Df^ yon undertpke to measure the ex- \ntent ofany man\'s underslaiiding except yonr own ; to esti- \nmate the strensj^h and orjgin of his habits of thinking \xe2\x80\xa2, to ap- \npreciate his merit or demerit in the use of the talent that God \nhas given him, so unerringly, as to pronounce that the behef \nof this or that doctrine is necessary to his salvation ?" \n\n.... Pa^e 16. \xe2\x80\x94 " But there are subjects on which the \nacademicorum may be admitted, 1 apprehend without injur- \ning the foundations of our religion. Such are the questions \nwhich relate to the power of evil spirits to suspend the laws \nof nature, or to actuate the minds of men ; to the materiality \nor immatermlity of the human soul, to the state of the dead be- \nfore the general resurrection, the resurrection of the same body, \nthe duration of future punishments, and many others of the \nsamekind,^^ \n\nIt may be remarked that even materialists of former times \nappear to have had a vague notion of somethiiig in a man\'s \nhead, which may properly enough be called soul. But mo- \ndern materialists know of nothing which the word soul can, \nwith the least propriety, be used to signify ; and knowing that \nthe use of thingless naincs as though they were not such, only \nserves lo keep alive erroneous notions, they make no use of \nthe word soul. \xe2\x80\x94 They discard it as so much old trumpery in- \nvented in ancient days, of no other use than to blind men\'s \neyes, when they are searching after truth. Men are strange- \nly (ieceived bv words ; they do not seem to regard the pre- \ncept of Locke, "not to fake words for things, nor suppose \nthat names in books signify real entities in nature, till d.ey \ncan ftam^ clear and a, id distinct ideas of those entities." If \nwe cotiid only once get rid of the metaphysical language now \nin use. there *vou!d be no more mystery about the functions \nof a man\'s head, thaik there is about the operations of a cot- \ntou factory. \n\n\n\n397 \n\nBut so far as it respects future existence \xe2\x80\x94 so far as it re- \nspects all religious doctrines, nnaterialisnn is materialsni. whe- \nther we use the word soul or not. And so far as it respects \nreligious doctrines, that imniaterialist who should maintain \nthat the soul is in an unconscious state when separated from \nthe bod) , is on the same footing with ihe materialist. \n\n\n\n\'00- \n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXI. \n\nOn a Future State. \n\nIt is with diffidence we broach the subject before us. It is \ntouching an interesting question, the negative or affirmative of \nwhich, can neither be proved or disproved by any evidence \nthat man can draw from the book of nature.*^ \n\nThose who firmly believe that the bible is the word of God, \nbe them materialists or immalerialists, can want no further \n\n* As we have sp\xc2\xab)ken v( the Book of Nature and of Good\'s \nBoQK op Nature, ill this work; it mav be well enough to show \ndistinctly what we meun by the Book op Nature. We do not \nmean a paper book, written by Dr. M son Good, nor any other \npaper book, but the universe \xe2\x80\x94 the created nniverse whos^* author is \nGod. It is this book w ic!) teaches ns the power and goodness of \nGod ; it is this book which teaches all ajjes -^nd nations the same \nlessons J it is tliis book which teaches us aM ihe physical fa\'^ts tiiat \nwe know. These are the fiicts which we think over in connection \nwith haman statements, when we are said to judge or reason con- \ncerning such statemenis ; and whatever we find to disagree with \nthese facts appoais to us irrational, i e. we do not believe it.\xe2\x80\x94 And \nwe are just fools enough not to be hypocrites \xe2\x80\x94 we openly ivow our \nopinions though they may differ from the opinions of those who ex- \namine only one side of a question. \n\nfrom what we ha- e now said, the reader may discover a simila-. \nrity of meaning lu the two following expressions \xe2\x80\x94 What reason \nteaches us\xe2\x80\x94 What the book nature teaches us. \n\n\n\n398 \n\nassurance of a future existence than what they have in the \nNew Testannent. The doctrine of resurrection is thereia \ndearly and expressly avowed ; and if any one want any fur- \nther evidence of a future existence than what he has in this \ntestament, it is clear that he does not firmly believe in the \nchristian religion. Yet there are soma who would be glad to \nfind evidence of this pleasing doctrine in the book of nature. \nAnd as there can be no harm in believing in a future slate, \neven if there never will be any such itaie, provided such be- \nlief do not prove a cause of less happiness or more misery in \nthis life than we should otherwise experietice, we shall glean \nwhat evidence we can from the book of nature in favor of it. \n\nPerhaps we shall remove doubts and fears concerning a fu- \nture state, as much by showing there is no evidence against \nsuch state, as by advancing all the arguments we can in favor \nof it. Thai then will be our first object. \n\n\xe2\x80\x94 \xe2\x96\xa0 Really, we know not what to say \xe2\x80\x94 we seem \n\nto lack ideas ; we caimot think of any thing which any man \nis short-sighted enough to bring fisr^vard as an argument against \na future state of existesice. We think we have shown cor- \nrectly and satisfactorily what personal identity consists in; \nand if we have, such difficulties as might arise before it was \nsatisfactorily shown what [>ersonal identity consists in, will not \nnow be urged. According to our views it is of no consequence \nwhat becomes of the matter which composes our bodies at the \ntime we die. it matters not if the same identical matter com- \npose a thousand human bodies in succession, at the time they \ndie. We say all that is necessary to constitute the same per- \nson, to all intents and purposes, is a like looking body, w^ith \nlike sensorial tendencies, organized out o{any matter. And no \none who believes in a God, will doubt his power to re-organ- \nJze, or to organize such bodies at some future period. \n\nThai like looking men with like sensorial tendencies as those \n\n\n\n29d \n\nthat died at some former period have not yet been re-organ- \nized, is no evidence that such men will not be re-organized \nat some future period ; bu( if men who died at some former pe- \nriod, had yet been re-organized to our ceitain knowledge, it \nwould be some evidence to us, that other dead men will be re- \norganized. However, the lack of this evidence for a future \nexistence, is no evidence against it. Suppose a man should be \nborn in the summer, possessing as good a share of knowledge as \nany other man, except what is acquired by experiencing the \nchanges of seasons ; would such man, in a few days or weeks, \njudge from what he had experienced that there will be a win- \nter? would he judge there will be short days, long nights, \nfreezing weather and snow upon the ground? He certainly \nwould not\xe2\x80\x94 judgifig only from what he had witnessed \xe2\x80\x94 put- \nting human testimony aside \xe2\x80\x94 he would say there will be only \nwarm days, longer than the nights, and the surface of the \nearth will be covered with green vegetables. Yet his having \nnever experienced a winter and his judging there will never be \nsuch a season, would be no evidence that there will be no win- \nter. So our having never witnessed a re organization of per- \nsons who formerly existed, and all our lack of belief that men \nwill be re-organized, are no son of evidence that they never \nwill be. \n\nTen, fifty, or an hundred thousand years, compared with \neternity, are as a moment compared with an age. The world \nis yet in its infancy ; it has but just began to be ; but a small \npart of it is yet brought into a state of cultivation ; men have \nnot yet arrived to the highest degree of perfection that their \npresent natures admit of; they are grossly ignorant and su- \nperstitious compared with what they will be in a few centu- \nries after intellectual freedom is obtained. These things con- \nsidered, we are very far from having any reason to suppose \nthat men would be re-organized and an end to the changeable \n\n\n\nstate of things would be put, by this time, if it were the inteii \ntion of the Almighty that they ever will be. \n\nNow if there be no evidence against a future state ; and ii \nwe were to admit that there is no evidence in favor of it, the \nquestion as to our future existence would conrie under the \ncomnnon head of, // may be so, er. // may not. It would be a \nquestion concerning which we must be opinion-neuter, (here \nbeing no evidence /or nor against. But if any evidence in \nfavor of a future state can be adduced, then have we so much \nreason to beheve in a future state. That some such evidence \ncan be gleaned from the book of nature, we shall now attempt \nto show. \n\nWe find that every thing \xe2\x80\x94 unless we except man \xe2\x80\x94 appears \nto be formed for something beyond its present existence, for \nsome other purpose than merely that it may exist. By means \nof the heavenly bodies, the sun, earth, &c. vegetables exist ; \nvegetables give support to animals ; one animal is subservi- \nent to another, this to another, and so on, up to man. Now \nare we to say that man who is buried ssx feet below the sur- \nface of the earth, is an exception to this rule ?* and are we to \nsuppose that the existence of man in this life, is (he highest \nand ultimate object of God ? Is the God of nature a God that \nis so far pleased vyith the groans, the toys, the songs and sup- \nplications of mortal men, that these are the ultimate objects \nfor which he created and suffers to exist, the stupendous uni- \nverse ? We can see no higher objects if the present existence \nof man be his last. \n\n\n\n* Should it be said that there is notbing in the nature of things \nwhich requires ihnt man "jhould be buried to such a depth as not to \nenrich the soil, or be lood for other animals : and if he were not \nthus buried, he, like all other beinjjs, would answer some purpose \nbeyond his present existence ; it niiirht be replied that he would \nthen answer no purpose superior to present human existence. \n\n\n\n401 \n\nA?;ain, bow many infants die which answer no purpose hut \nto briMi^ sorrow to their parents. \xe2\x80\x94 Should it be said ihat they \nare brought forth, and t[iey die, as the necessdry consequent \nces of the present nature of things, and that God has no par- \nticular designs in their birth or death, \xe2\x80\x94 the question may be \nasked, why is the present nature of things such that human \nbeings must experience much affliction ? Can we suppose \nthat an Almighty Being suffers the nature of things to be such \nthat there must necessarily be much human misery, merely \nfor sake of this misery ? Or does th\'S misery have some con- \nnexion with a future state ? It is said that nothing is in vain 5 \nand IS not this misery suffered to be, thai men may know in \na future state what misery is, and thereby be more happy un- \nder the same circumstances than if they had no notion of such \na thing as misery ? is it not rational to suppose that God, who \nis the cause of men being born into this world under such cir\xc2\xbb \ncumstances that there is a cause for every one of their ac- \ntions, ultimately intends the happiness of all , and that one of \nhis W3ys of bringing about this happiness, or, if you please, of \nincreasing it, is to first teach men what misery is \xe2\x80\x94 teach \nthem by experience, the only way in which they can be \ntaught ? \n\nThat God may be equally good to all men, a future exist- \nence seems to be necessary : we think it must be admitted \nthat some men experience more misery in proportion to their \nhappiness in this life, than others. We do not believe \nthat man has any claims on the Almighty for a future and \nhappy state of existence, for any thing he does in this life. \nSo on the other hand, we do not believe that man deserves a \nfuture state of misery for any thmg he does in ih\'s life; but \nthat God may be equall) good towards all men \xe2\x80\x94 that all men \nmay enjoy equal shares of happuiess in proportiou to their \nshares of misery, a future existence is necessary. \n\n\n\n402 \n\nThe vast superiority of man over the brute creation, and \nbis capability of improvement in knowledge and virtue, ap\xc2\xbb \npear to us to argue a little in favor of his future existence. \n\nAnother consideration which may have some weight with \none who is not an atheist, is the wonderful display of God\'s \nsovereignty which a reorganization of all human beings that \never did or will die, would be. One can scarcely picture to \nhimself the greatness of such a thing. It would be an occa- \nsion of a thousand fold more astonishment and heartfelt \ngratitude than the creation of the universe ; for at that time \nwe may suppose there were but few to wonder and rejoice. \nIt would most firmly convince every one that there is a God. \nOnly conceive of millions of millions of human beings, of all \nages, tongues and nations\xe2\x80\x94 parents and children, brotherSy \nsisters and friends, at one time commg to life, and beholding \neach other ! We should then behold the men of former ages^ \nconcerning whom we have read with so much interest ; should \nbe iiiformed of the important events that had occurred since \nour death ; and should find that the God of nature did not \ncreate man merely to see him squirm in this world of tail and \npain. Then should we (infidels) be overjoyed in finding that \nwe were not to depart from our friends into regions of endless \ntorments, and being the more happy on being thus disappoint- \ned, we should see that the God of goodness suffered Adam\'s \nchildren to scare one another with hcU-Jire and damnation, \nfor the same purpose that he suffered other causes of misery \nto exist I Then should we love and praise God with all our \npowers\xe2\x80\x94 then should we be in the kingdom of heaven, every \none of us, altogether, with great rejoicing and thankfulness of \nheart ! \xe2\x80\x94 Ah, yes : the God thai made the universe had some \nhigher object ia view, than a short and sorrowful existence of \n\n\n\n40.3 \n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXn. \n\nOn Human Happiness^ Good and Evil, Morality, ^c: \n\nHuman happiness consists in agreeable conscient actions \nof the nervous system of human beings, \xe2\x80\x94 be these actions, \nactions of the organic and cerebral extremities of the nerves \nalone ; or of nerves and the sensorium together ; or of the \nsensorium alone. When these actions take place only in \nthe organic and cerebral extremities of nerves, they consti- \ntute agreeable sensatio7is ; when they take place in nerves \nand the sensorium together, they constitute agreeable percep- \ntions ; and when they take place in the sensorium alone, they \nconstitute agreeable thoughts. \n\nThat portion of happiness which consists in agreeable sen- \nsations and perceptions, is generally called pleasure. As \nall sensations and perceptions are a higher degree of conscious- \nness than mere sensorial actions or thoughts ; that portion \nof happiness called pleasure is more vivid than mere senso- \nrial happiness. But in proportion as it is more vivid, its du- \nration is more transient ; for it is attended with a greater \nwear and tear of the system, which wear and tear not only \ndisenables the system for being the subject of agreeable con- \nscient actions, but often gives rise to conscient actions of a \ndifferent and opposite nature, constituting misery. \xe2\x80\x94 Nervous \nhappiness or pleasure is like the flash of shavings ; but senso- \nrial happiness, like the burning of coal, is less vivid and more \npermanent. \n\nThe CAUSES of happiness may be divided into two classes, \nimmediate and remote. The immediate causes are impres- \nsions upon the senses and sensorial tendencies ; the latter are \ncauses of sensorial happiness, the former of nervous happiness, \nor pleasure. The remote causes of happiness are very nu- \nmerous and varied : whatever conduces to our health is of \nthis class; and what people mean by honor, wealth, power, \n&:c., belongs to this class of causes ; though, indeed, we are \nnot so happy in possessing these things as we are in the act of \nobtaining them. \n\nIt is often asserted, and has been maintained by philoso- \nphers, that God is almighty ; and that h\xe2\x82\xac wills the happinees \n\n\n\n4M \n\nof mankind. But adnnitting there is any human misery\xe2\x80\x94 an^ \nthere is certaitily an incalculable amount of it \xe2\x80\x94 to unsophis- \nticated common sense one of these opinions concerning the \nDefty mnst be erroneous ; or at least the assertion, that he \nwills the happiness of mankind must be taken in a ceriain \nlimited sense: we must understand by it, that he wills such \nhappiness of mankind as they actually experience, and \xc2\xbb!ot \nperfect, unminj^led happiness. It would be highly absurd, if \nnol a contradiction in terms, to say that things are not as an \nAimighty Being wishes tliem to be. \n\nJust so certain hs there is any such thing as hiiman misery, \njust so certain the Deity is not almighty, or does not will the \nperfect happiness of triankind. It avails nothing to say man \nis as happy as he can be Usider the present nature of thmgs ; \nfor an almighty Being who is the Author of nature might have \nhad the nature of things ditferent \xe2\x80\x94 might have decreed that \nno disagreeable action take place in a man\'s nervous system \n\xe2\x80\x94 or may still have it ditferent. As little does it avail to \nsay that mari is a free aajerit, and brings nis misery upon him- \nself; tor mail is not a ^vqq age\\it. unless a^^tions occur in his \nhead and muscles without causes ; and adm:ttmg him to be a \nfree agent, we couid only say he brings his misery upon him- \nself because his nature is such \xe2\x80\x94 which nature an Almighty \nBeing may change or nughl have caused to be different. It \namounts to nothing to imagine a devil itito existence, and say \nthat he is the author of human misery ; for a!i Almighty Be- \ning may destroy even a real devil, or might have prevented \nhis existence at all. The means that proud man has invent- \ned, to reconcile the seniiment of God\'s ornntpotence with the \nsentiment of his wiliifig (he perfect hippiness of mankind, \nare truly laughable\xe2\x80\x94 as much so as one\'s getting into a basket \nand *rymg to lift himself up. \n\nWe hold that the D ity is Almsghty, but does not will the \nperfect happiness of mmkind. AkJ instead of virtually main- \ntainiug that he is not Almighty, and imagining enemies of hig \ninto existence who, notwithstandin*i all his pains to subdue \nthem, are still frustrating his noble designs with great success, \nwe thank him for our present existence which, notwithstand- \ning all our present pains and expectations of a better after this, \nis so dear to us th it we are exceedingly loth to part with it, \n4nd we hold that our present misery is intended as a means of \n\n\n\n405 \n\nrendering up wore bappy in a future stnfe than we otherwise \nshouid hf, uiKit r flu- same circumstaiicefj. \n\nWhere is the evidence (hat the present slate of things is \nnot as God wills or wishes it to be \xe2\x80\x94 where is the evidence \nIhat he wishes our perfect happiriess ? Archdeacon Paiey \ntells us, that :~ \n\n\'\' When God created the human species, either he wished \ntherr happiness, or he wished their misery, or he was inditfe- \nrent and unconcerned about both. \n\n\'\' If he had wished our misery, he might have made sure of \nhis purpose, by torming ou- senses to be so many sores and \npains to us, as they are now instruments of gratitication and \nenjo}ment ; or by placnig us amidst ob eels so ill suited to our \nperceptions, as to have contmually offended us, instead of \nrmnsterug to our refrcslmieiit and deiight. He might have \nHjade. tor example, every thing we tasted bitter, every thing \nwe saw ioa1h^o^>e; evei} thnig we touched a sting; every \nsmell a stent h ; and every sound a discord. \n\n" If he had t>een inditlerent about our happiness or misery, \nwe must impute to oui 5^:000 fortune (as all design by th>s sup- \nposition is excluded) both the capacity of our senses to re- \nceive pleasure, and the supply oi external objects fitted to \nproduce it. \n\n\'\'But either of these (and still more both of them) being \ntoo much to be attributed to accident, notliing remains but the \nfirst suposition. that God, when he created the human spe- \ncies, wished their happiness ; and made for them the provi- \nsion which he has made, with tliat view, and for that purpose. \n\n\'" The same argument may be proposed \\n diiFerent terms, \nthus: Contrivaiice proves design; and the predominant ten- \ndency of the contrivante indicates the disposition of the de- \nsigner. The world abounds with contrivances ; and all the \ncontrivances which we are acquamted with, are directed 10 \nbeneficial purposes. Evil, no doubt, exists; but is never, \nthat we can perceive, the object of contrivance. Teeti) are \ncontrived to eat, not to ache ; their aching now and tlien is \nincidental to ttse contrivance, [)erhaps inseparable from n ; \nor even, if vou wdl, let it be called a detect in \'he (oniii- \nvance; but it is not the object of it. I\'his is a distincuon \nwhifh well deserves to be attended to. In describing imple- \nments of husbandry, you woiiid hardly say of the sickle, ihat \nit IS made to cut the reaper\'s lingers, Itiougli, Irona the con- \n\n\n\n406 \n\nstructlon of the instniment, and the manner of using it, this \nmischief often happens. But if you had occasion to describe \ninstruments of torture or execution, this, you would say, is to \ndislocate the joints ; this to break the bones ; this to scorch the \nsoles of the feet. Here pain and misery are the very objects of \nthe contrivance. Now nothing of this sort is to be found in the \nworks of nature. We never discover a train of contrivance \nto bring about an evil purpose. No anatomist ever discov- \nered a system of organization calculated to produce pain and \ndisease ; or, in explaining the parts of the human body, ever \nsaid, this is to irritate ; this to inflame ; this duct is to con- \nvey the gravel to the kidneys ; this gland to secrete the hu- \nmour which forms the ^out* If by chance he come at a part \nof which he knows not the use, the most he can say is, that it \nis useless ; no one ever suspects that it is put there to incom- \nmode, to annoy, or to torment. Since then God hath called \nforth his consummate wisdom to contrive and provide for our \nhappiness, and the world appears to have been constituted \nwith this design at first, so long as this constitution is uphold- \nen by him, we must in reason suppose the same design to con- \ntinue." \n\nBut we are not altogether satisfied with the learned Doc- \ntor\'s reasoning. When he speaks of our happiness and misery \nin the first sentence of the preceding quotation, we wish he \nhad informed us whether, when God created the human spe- \ncies, he wished them to be ^o/\xc2\xab% happy or totally miserable ; \nor only as happy as we are and as miserable as we are. If \nthis last be his meaning, we can agree with him, \xe2\x80\x94 we can ad- \nmit that when God created the human species, he intended \nthem to be both happy and miserable, alternately as we are. \nBut if he mean perfect happiness and perfect misery, then we \nhave two things to say. First, as we are somewhat happy \nand somewhat miserable, "God hath called forth his consum- \nmate wisdom to contrive and provide for our happiness" in \nvain ; \xe2\x80\x94 he is not almighty, he cannot accomplish even his \nown wishes and designs. Second, this sentence of Paley, \nthough advanced as if it were a self evident proposition, is \nvery far from being such. Jf God neither wished our perfect \nhappiness, nor perfect misery, it does not follow that he " was \nindifferent and unconcerned about both." We might as well \nsay of a grey piece of cloth, the maker of it wished it white, \nor he wished it black, or he was indifferent and unconcerned \n\n\n\n407 \n\n&l>out either. We should not say this \xe2\x80\x94 we should say he \nwished it not white, and he wished it not black, but he wished \nit grey. Just so we say of our present state, it is grey, and is \njust what i\\\\Q Almighty wished it to be when he " called forth \nhis consummate wisdom" in creating the universe, of which \nman is a part. \n\nPaley remarks that the world abounds with contrivances, \nbut among the whole there is not one contrivance of nature\'s \nGod for the express purpose of producing misery ; and this \nhe thinks is sufficient evidence that God wills thefhappiness \nof mankind. But Paley does not seem to come to the point \nconcernirjg this matter. \xe2\x80\x94 All misery is confined to the ner- \nvous system : it is a disagreeable consciousness \xe2\x80\x94 a disagree- \nable conscient action of the brain, or of the brain and nerves \ntogether; and the question is, did he who is the Author of \nour being, and of all things around, so constitute the nervous \nsystem that disagreeable conscient actions may be excited in \nit; and has he created ar)y things which are capable of exci- \nting the^e actions ? if so, ilieri he is the author of our misery \nin the same sense he is the author of our happiness. There \nmay be more things which give us pleasurfe, than there are \nthat give us pain \xe2\x80\x94 though few if any things are created ex- \npressly and exclusively for either \xe2\x80\x94 and man may be the sub- \nject of much more happiness th.^n misery ; but there is noth- \ning under heaven which argues that God wished the perfect \nhappiness ,of mankind. On the contrary, we have sufficient \nreasoji to believe that he is able to render us perfectly happy, \nand to accomplish every thing he wishes to, notwithstanding \nall the braui-begoiten devils that be. \xe2\x80\x94 We shall show present- \nly why many deists and believers in a supernatural religion \nare so loth to admit that He. wlio is the Author of our naturCj \nand of all things around, is the Author of our misery, in the \nsame sense he is the Author of our happiness. \n\nThe words Good and \xc2\xa3ri7, like all other words, are of hu~ \nman invention. They are both general terms. Every thing \nwhich is productive of human happiness, is good ; every thing \nwhich is productive of human misery, is evil. All things are \ngood or evil, according to circumstatices ; or in other words^ \nwhat is good \xe2\x80\x94 what is productive of happiness \xe2\x80\x94 on one oc- \ncasion, may be evil \xe2\x80\x94 may be productive of misery \xe2\x80\x94 on anoth- \ner. Perhaps there is nothing under heaven that is invariably \n\n\n\n4GS \n\ngood or invariably and purely evil, under all circumstances \nheiice it is corrnnon to shj of a thing, il is i^ood in \\t^ plare. or \nit is ;40od, it you make proper use of it. But if it be believed \nthat a thing m the long run and hroad 7\'un. is productive of \nmore happiness than misery, it is called good, thouii^h under \nsome particular c\'rcum^r.Hnces it may be productive of some \nconsiderable misery. So if a thing be productive of some \nhappiness, hut much more misery, it is pronounced evil. No \none would think of calling the sun a bad or evil thing because \nit sometimes burns one\'s skin, or parches the ground in a \ndrought : but distilled spirits are generally and justly account- \ned evil, for they are the cause of more human misery than \nhappiness. \n\nVice and Virtue are words which we propose to use in a \nmore limited sense than tlie words ijood and evil. We con- \nsider virlue and vice as bearing ihe same relation to ijood and \nevil, that pleasure bears to happiness. Virtue and vice con- \nstitute only a part of good and evil. They consist in those \nactions of men which are productive of happiness and misery. \n\nThe word virtue, then, is a general term comprehending \nall those human actions which tend to human happiness, \neither by actually giving rise to it, in those cases in which it \ncould hardly be said the person is either happy or miserable, \nor by relieving misery when it exists, or by preventing its ex- \nistence. And the word vice is a general term, comprehend- \ning all those human actions which tend to human misery, or \nindeed wantoii misery of any sentient being. \n\nSuch being the meaning- which we atini h to the words good \nand evil, virtue and vice, or virtuous and vicious \\ we sec vvhy \nmany are loth to admit that God is the amiioi of our miseiy \nin the same sense he is the author of our happiness. It seems \nto he the same as raying that God is evil or vicious ; but we \nmust remember that almost every thing produces both hap- \npiness and misery \xe2\x80\x94 the same thing hein^igood in one particu- \nlar instance, tiiough not in another. Consequently there is a \ngood in the particular, and a good on the whole. Whatever in \nthe long run and broad run is productive of more happiness \nthan misery, must be, and is, pronounced good ; although it \nmay be the cause of some, even much, misery. It follows, \nthen, that if there be more happiness than misery among cre- \nated beings, the Author of them is really and \xc2\xabb>oluteiy good, \nand not evil, any more than the sun, which, though it parch \n\n\n\n409 \n\nthe ground in a drought, and for a few days in the summer \nrender those in a southern climate uncomfortable, is essential \nto our existejice and all that we enjoy. \n\nThe author of our heing is ^ood and almighty, notwith- \nstanding he has been so very good to us, that some proud fel- \nlows took it into their heads that he never intended, and is dis- \npleased at, whatever is productive of human misery ; and \nhave degraded his character \xe2\x80\x94 as it respects his power \xe2\x80\x94 by \nimagining enemies of his into existence (o account for this \nmisery, which enemies are rnntinually frustrating the designs \nand wishes of the ALMIGHTY ; notwithstanding, with much \nado, he has succeeded m getting the immaterial beings \\\\\\Xo \nchains ! Away with these absurdities, and let us embrace the \nsolid truths which reason di<^covers. \xe2\x80\x94 We need not fear of \nrepresenting the Deity in a more degrading point of view than \nhe has been represented. \xe2\x80\x94 When we come to know that our \nmisery in this life is only intended to render us more happy \nin a future, we shall have reason to exclaim, the goodness of \nGod is past all conception. \n\nAs many things are productive of such a mixture of happi\xc2\xbb \nness and misery, that it is not always clear whether m the end \nthey give rise to more of the one than the other, we must of- \nten reason [think over fact>] to determine whether a thing is \nproductive of more happiness than misery ; hence arises the \nscience of ethics or morality. Those who are extensively \nacquainted with the nature and relations of things, and are \nable to discover the distant consequences of certam courses \nof conduct, may discover consequences ofcertain actions or \nprinciples of action which other men do not learn from the \nhook of nature. Hencci some men may teach others in some \ncases, what is productive of more happmess than misery, or \nmore misery than happiness \xe2\x80\x94 may convince them what !& \nvirtuous and what is vicious, when they would otherwise be \nin doubt or mistaken. \n\nBut no man, however learned, has ever existed in a future \nstate, or knows that any course of conduct in this world of \ncauses and effects, will have any influence on our future hap- \npiness. He may speculate about this matter, and so far as his \nspeculations appear reasonable, so far wdl men believe ; for \nto believe in a low degree and to have a thing appear reasona- \nhie. are the same thing : \xe2\x80\x94 what appears probable or certain to \nany one, he believes m still higher degrees , and what one \n\n52 \n\n\n\n410 \n\nknoios^ he believes in the highest possible degree. But a man \ncannot bring any book of human authorship, informirig us of \na connexion between our conduct here and our happiness \nhereafter, which is anj more to be depended on than a book \nwhich may be written nowadays ; for there are men now hv- \ning who can see as far into the consequences of human ac- \ntions as any man that ever hved. \n\n[f any man bring forward a book whereby to regulate our \nconduct, and pretend that it is of divine origin, he must first \nprove this, before he can expect we shall regard it with bhnd \nfaith \xe2\x80\x94 faith not founded on reason and evidence. We know \nthere are three or four books in the world which have been \nbrought forward with such pretensions ; but there is nothing \nto substantiate the divine origin of either of these books, ex- \ncept their own con(ents. If on examining these books we \ndiscover any thing supernatural in them \xe2\x80\x94 any marks of divin- \nity in them \xe2\x80\x94 we must suppose that they originated from a \nsource superior to the natural creature man \\ but if we dis- \ncover nothing supernatural in them \xe2\x80\x94 nothing but what may \nbe of human origin, then we have no evidence that they are \nof divine authority.\xe2\x80\x94 The earth, and every thing else which \nwe know that man could not make, we consider a production \nof nature\'s God ; but we never believe that God has any im- \nmediate agency in the production ofany thuig which man may \nmake, unless we except these books. We know that these \nbooks relate miracles ; and miracles are supernatural events ; \nbut the relation of an event is nothing supernatural, be the \nevent what it may. Neither is it supernatural or uncommon \nfor men to be deceived, or to relate falsehoods knowingly. \nThere are no miracles in any book, but merely the relation \nof miracles ; and in determining whether a relation of a mir- \naf le be true or false, we know of no surer and better rule, \nthan to inquire with ourselves, which is the most rational sup- \nposition \xe2\x80\x94 which the most frequently happens \xe2\x80\x94 that men are \ndeceived or he intentionally or that events occur contrary to \nthe laws of nalure. \xe2\x80\x94 If the Book of Nature tell us one \nthing, and a paper book the contrary, then one or the other \nniosl be false ; and as God is the Author of the Book of Na- \nture, we cannot hesitaie to say the paper book is false and \nnot of divine origin, unless we can believe that the Deity tells \nUs one thing iu his universal book, aad the contrary in a book \n\n\n\n4U \n\nwhich is known but to a small part of the human beings that \nhave been, are, and will be. \n\nNow as it is not known that our conduct in this hfe, will \nhave any influence on our happiness hereafter, we th nk it \nproper to consider morahty and religion as two distinct things \n\xe2\x80\x94 the one as having relation to our happiness in this life, the \nother as consisting of doctrines and speculations concerning \nour future existence. Religion may concur with morality, or \ninclude it, as one thing includes another ; but still they are dis- \nstinct things, and a man may be moral if not religious, and re- \nhgious (according to our deiinition of religion) if not moral. \nHe may believe and profess to believe certam doctrines, opi- \nnions, statements, &c. ; and yet he may not act in conformity \nto those prmciples v/hich are, or are believed to be, productive \nof happines^i in this life. If religion be nothing but morality, \nthen Js it nothing better or worse than morality ; but if it \nbe something besides morality, then is it something distinct \nfrom it. \n\nAccording to these views, if it be a religions doctrine that \ncertain courses in this life are necessary to our happiness in \nthe future ; then, as the future will be infinitely longer in du- \nration than the present, whoever believes such doctrine acts \nconsistent with his belief in pursuing such courses and in striv- \ning to have others pursue them, even if he sacrifice all world- \nly enjoyments and render all around him unhappy in doing so\xc2\xbb \nThe glormus end he has in view justifies the means. It is \npurchasing a pearl of great worth, without any thing like aa \nequivalent \xe2\x80\x94 he mortifies the flesh to be sure, but then it is to \nensure the everlasting happiness of the \'\' soul,\'\' which is as \ngreat a reward as the most selfish man could ask. \n\nBut the mere moral man aims at the happiness of the hu- \nman family (including himself of course) in this hfe ; and do- \ning what he can to render his own days long and happy, as \nwell as those of his fellow creatures, he trusts, unconcernedly, \nthat He who is the author of nature and his present happi- \nness, and he who cannot punish his creatures but for some \ngood purpose, will deal mercifully with him in a future state \nof existence. But to return to the consideration of virtue. \n\nWe have said that virtue consists in those actions of human \nbeings which tend to human happiness. Perhaps it ivill be \nsaid that human actions may be productive of happiness al- \nthough the actor or agent did not act with the intention of \n\n\n\n412 \n\nproducing such effect, but perhaps even with the intention \nofproduciiig j);4!n : awd if so, we cannot cal} his action virtuous. \nConsequenll}\' in givnig a definition of virtue, we ought to in- \nclude intentions as well as actions. But what is an intention \nbut an action of that which iniends \xe2\x80\x94 what is it but an action \nor actions of (hat which thinks \xe2\x80\x94 what is it but actions of the \nsensoriuin ? In saying that virtue consists m actions of human \nbeings that are productive of happiness, we would be under- \nstood to include actions of the nervous system as well as mus- \ncular. The muscular actions of anj man are not generally \nthe immediate cause of happiness in others, and his nervous \nactions \xe2\x80\x94 his intentions\xe2\x80\x94 are one link more remote in the \nchain of causes that give rise to happiness in others, than his \nmuscular actions ; but still they are as truly actions of him as \nthe motions of his limbs: they are actions which operate in \nproducing the effect [happiness] through the mediani of his \nmuscles. \n\nPerhaps it will be furthor objected to our defiriition of vir- \ntue, that a mai.\'s actions may prove a cause of mi-ery in oth- \ners, though he intended noihing but happiness. To this we \nVJ^ould reply :\xe2\x80\x94 We do not dv?termine whether a thing be good \nor virtuous, by the elfects it may have in some few particular \ncases; we take into consideration \\{^ getter al tendency \xe2\x80\x94 we \nconsider what effects such a thing gfinero/Zy produces. Con- \nsequently if a man\'s intentions be such as are generally pro- \nductive of happiness, we call them virtuous, although on ac- \ncount of some unffireseen circumstance they be productive of \nthe reverse, m some particular case. If a man intend to ren- \nder A fellow heing hi^ppy, his intention is such as generally \nhas this etfect, and is, therefore, a virtuous intention. So on \nthe other hand, if a man intend to render a fellow being mi- \nserable, his intention is vicsous although it may prove a cause \nof mo misery, hut much hap >iness, even in this fellow being. \nC<^ isequently. in determining whether a man\'s intentions be \nvirtuous or vicious in any case in which he acts, we do not so \nmuch r^^gard the consequencer of his action, as the circum- \nst;iv.j es under winch he acts. If these circumstances be such \nas to lead us to believe that he intended happiness, and not \nmisery, we say his intentious \\\\ere virtuous, and himself me- \nritor\'ous. \n\nTii\'^so actions of hutnan heings which are productive of \ntiore hdppiiiess than misery, are traiy and absolutely virta- \n\n\n\n413 \n\nous, and these actions constitute virtue ; but ov*^ing to circum- \nstances which give rise to a diifererice of education, in the \nwidest sense of the term, men in all ages and countries may \nnot wholly agree as to what is productive of more happiness \nthan misery \xe2\x80\x94 may not wholly agree as to what is virtuous and \nwhat is vicious. Hence in some places a man may be consi- \ndered meritorious for doing that which in other places he \nwould be condemnc^d for doing; and he may feel that he does \nright \xe2\x80\x94 may feel a sense of approbation in doing what otiiers \nwould feel remorse or disapprobation in doing. \n\nHowever, men in all parts of the world believe very nearly \nalike as to what is virtuous and whal is vicious \xe2\x80\x94 what it is \nright for them to do, and what it is wror\xc2\xbbg for them to do. \n7\'his is the case, because all men are chii lly taught what it is \nright and wliat it is wrong for them to do, by one and the same \nuniversal book the book of nature. Paper books are not ne- \ncessary to teach them what actions of others are necessary to \nproduce happiness or misery in themselves; nor to (each \nthem that men are very nearly alike as to what render? them \nhappy or miserable. It is only in a few instances that, by \npointing out the remote consequences of certain actions or \nprinciples of coiiduct, some men may teach others what is \nproductive of more happiness than misery, or more misery \nthan happiness \xe2\x80\x94 what is right and what is wrong for them to \ndo \xe2\x80\x94 what is virtuous aud what is vicious \xe2\x80\x94 what they ought to \ndo and what they ought not to do. \n\nWe hold that what a man ougJit to do, il is right for him to \ndo, and what it is right for him to do, it is virtuous in him to \ndo ; and what is virtuous is productive of happiness, the grand \nobject of all human beings. \n\nThe question now arises, why ought men to do that which \nis productive of happiness. The answer is, because it is \nproductive of happiness. This is the answer whn h must \nultimately be given, let us give as many other answers before \nwe are compelled to give this, as we can devise. Tiiose who \nbelieve in a future state of rewards and punishments \xe2\x80\x94 and in- \ndeed those who do not \xe2\x80\x94 may say that we ought to practice vir- \ntue, ought to do that which is productive of happiness, be- \ncause it is the will of God that we do so ; but why ought we \no obey the will of God ? Because we shall be happy here or \nlereafter, if we do, and miserable if we do not. This is the \nnost cogent answer that can be given to the question, why \n\n\n\n414 \n\not3gbt we to obey the will of God ? But in this case, the high- \nest inducement to perform a certain deed \xe2\x80\x94 that which renders \nit obligatory on us to perform it \xe2\x80\x94 is the consequent happiness. \n\nShould any one presume to say, that the Almighty is pleas- \ned at some of our actions, and displeased at others, and that \nwe ought to perform certain actions because they please the \nAlmighty ; then happiness would be the end and inducement \nof performing such actions : the happiness however would be \nthat of the Deity \xe2\x80\x94 derstical happiness, instead of human. But \nwe can hardly bring ourselves to say that the happiness of the \nAlmighty is at all dependent on the dependent worms of his \ncreation. \n\nWe do not believe in acts of disinterested benevolence ; \xe2\x80\x94 \nwe believe it would be contrary to the laws of volition for a \nman to do a voluntary act which he does not desire to do ; and \nto grnUty a desire is to gratify self. Those who maintfxin \nthat we often do acts of kiridness without any seitish motive, \nrely much on the fact that we often fly to the relief of a fel- \nlow creature in distress before we have had time to reflect on \nthe good that will result to us from doing so. But the advo- \ncates of the selfish system may reply, that the succession of \nthoughts is so rapid, that it is impossible for any to say, with \ncertainty, that we ever fly to the relief of any one on seeing \nhim in distress, before we have had time to think over several \nthoughts. They may say, also, that we have previously \nfound out that it gives us pleasure to help one in distress \xe2\x80\x94 \nthat it causes such one tofeel grateful towards us, and we feel \nwell in knowing that one ieels grateful towards us. Conse- \nquently when we see a person in distress, there is no more need \nof our stopping to consider whether it will be conducive to \nour happiness to hel}) him, than there is of our stopping to \nconsider whether we had better exert ourselves to prevent \nour falling into the fire, when we are in danger of it. Again, \nit may be said, that owing to the principle of association, it \ngives us disagreeable consciousness to see a fellow being ia \ndistress; and by giving him relief we relieve this disagreea- \nble consciousness, that is, render ourselves more happy, or if \njou please, less miserable. \n\nWe do not say that we always think of self, any more than \nwe think of the king of England, when we fly to the reliet of \nanother; but we say that if we were every way just as happy \nin not relieving the distresses of a fellow being as in relieving \n\n\n\n415 \n\nit, we should have no desire to relieve it ; and that we never \ndo a voluntary act which we have no desire to do. \xe2\x80\x94 If to \nmaintain this be to maintain a selfish system of morality, then \nwe maintain such system. \n\nBut although we do not believe in acts of disinterested be- \nnevolence, (u?ing these terms in a strict philosophical seoae,) \nstill we would not say it is right for a man to perform a cer- \niain action \xe2\x80\x94 that he ought to perform it \xe2\x80\x94 that it is virtuous \nin him to perform it ; because by performing it he increases \nhis oion happiness solely ; and especially if he increase it at \nthe expense of another\'s happiness. But we say an action is \nvirtuous \xe2\x80\x94 is an action which the agent ought to perform \xe2\x80\x94 is \nan action, for performing which the agent is meritorious, when \nin the long run and broad run it increases the sum of human \nhappiness more than it iticreases the sum of human misery. \n\nPerhaps ii will be asked if a man ought to do an act which \nrenders himself less happy, provided by doing so he render \ntwo or more as much more happy as he does himself less. \nTo this we answer, he is under no higher obligation to do so, \nthan he is to practice virtue. We should not call him vi- \ncious \xe2\x80\x94 we should not call him a producer of misery \xe2\x80\x94 if he did \nnot perform such act ; but he would be virtuous if he did. As \nit happens, the nature of things is such that a man very sel- \ndom renders himself less happy by rendering others more so, \nprovided he act with the intention of doing what he thinks is \nright \xe2\x80\x94 what he thinks will be productive of more happiness \nthan misery in the long run and broad run, A man may rea- \nder a highwayman more happy by assisting him to escape jus- \ntice, and may bring misery upon himself by doing so ; but he \ndoes not do what he thinks is right when he does this; that \nis, if he know the highwayman to be such ; but if he do nol;, \nlaw does not require him to be punished for the act. \xe2\x80\x94 Let us \noffer a few moie remarks concerning disinterested benev- \nolence. \n\nAlthough to gratify a desire is to gratify self, and although \nwe do not do any voluntary act which we do not desire to do, \n(except it be from habit, which by the by we never shouid ac- \nquire i| we never acted, and never should act in the first \nplace -it we had no desire to act,) still different men may do \nsimilar acts from different motives \xe2\x80\x94 if indeed it be proper to \ncall acts similar, when the motives are different, \xe2\x80\x94 One may \nact with a view of receiving a recompense which he dots not \n\n\n\n416 \n\nderive from within, but a recompense at (he expense of him \nwhom he assists : if he do not expect ready cash, he may ex- \npect some good turn from him sometime or other, and would \nDot assist him on any other principle. Another may do a \nlike act, not with a view of receiving any pay in those things \nwhich men love to keep, as money, goods, privileges. &c. ; \nbut with a view o^ causing one or more to feel grateful to- \nwards him \xe2\x80\x94 to think well of him \xe2\x80\x94 or to prevent the misery \nhe would experience in not acting. Such one performs an \nact which has much more the appearance of disinterestedness \nthan the act of him who acts with the view of receiving a re- \ncompense in those things which men toil and fight for ; but \nit IS not an act which the agent has no interest in performing. \nThis is a world in which we are all in pursuit of happiness ; \nand that we may not hinder but help each other along, we are \nso constsiuted that we experience a disagreeable conscious- \nness wheriever we do that which, by the book of nature or \notherwise, ue are taught to believe is opposed to the general \nhappiness of mankind ; and so constituted as to experience \nan agreeable consciousness whenever we do that which we \nbelieve has a reverse tendency. And as we believe those \nactions for which the agent claims no recompense, in those \nthings which men toil for and love to keep, are productive of \nmore happiness than those which are sold for an equivalent \nin those things which men toil and fight for ; we experience \na more distinctly agreeable consciousness in contemplating \nsuch actions, than in contemplating those tor which the agent \nclaims a recompense in those things which men are loth to \npart with. Such actions as the former, we call acts of be- \nnevolence ; but as we have said, they are not acts in which \nthe agent has no interest, and consequently not acts of dis- \ninterested benevolence. \n\nWe do not say that any part of us is constituted expressly \nand solely for the intent that we may experience a disagreea- \nble or an agreeable consriousiiess whenever we contemplate \nthose actions of ourselves or others which we believe would \nbe, are. or have been, productive of miser) or happiness. We \nsay that our constitution being such as it is, such conscious- \nness is one of the many elfects that are to be traced to such \nconstitution. \n\nAn action is witnessed by us, or described to us ; it is an \naction which ue know to be, or believe to be, productive of \n\n\n\n417 \n\nhappiness ; the circumstances relating to it are such that we \nbelieve the a^ent intended this haj)pipess ; aad an emotsoQ \narises in us, which we call a sense ofapprobation towards the \nagent. But why does it arise, and what is the nature ofit ? \nIs it the immdiate effect of witnessing or hearing ofsuch ac- \ntion, and does it arise in all men on witnessnig or hearing of \nsuch action ? Or does something intervene between witnes- \nsing the action and the existence of the emotion, which inter- \nvening something may he ditFerent in dilferent men, and per- \nhaps wholly wanting in some ? The emotion would not arise \nwere it not for those laws of the nervous system \xe2\x80\x94 those ulti- \nmate facts relative to the nervous system \xe2\x80\x94 on which our oth- \ner emotions depend. Were it not diat tho^e actions of the \nsensorium which are in some way related, orcur in connex- \nion, and likewise that on the occurrence of certain sensorial \nactions, conscjent actions of nerves in or about the epigas- \ntric region arise, such emotion would not ari-e on witnessmg \nthe action. The mere optical perception of one person mur- \ndering another, is no more disagreeable than tiie mere optical \nperception of one person kissing anotiiet. If a man conid be \nproduced with a well organizi\'d system, but entirely destitute \nof sensorial tendencies, the sight of one person murdering \nanother would no more excite a disagreeable emotion in him \nthan the sight of one person ki^smg another, or oric person \nwrestling with another. It would not even suggest a single \nthought ; it would excite an optical perception, and produce \na sensorial tendency \xe2\x80\x94 this wguid be all. \n\nBut owing to what we acquire by experience, to wit, our \nknowledge, our sensorial tendencies \xe2\x80\x94 which, by <he by, may \nbe, nay are, ditFerent in ditFerent men \xe2\x80\x94 the optica! perception \nof one person murdering another, may be followed by such \nconscient actions of the sensorium and of nerves, as consti- \ntute a disagreeable emotion ; and this emotion, together with \nthe idea of the agent who intentionally kills, constitutes what \nwe call a sense of disapprobation towards such agent. \n\nSome have used the word virtue to aenote only those ac- \ntions whicii, when contemplated, give rise to a sense of appro- \nbation \xe2\x80\xa2, but according to this use of the word, an ^ctiosi is \nvirtuous or not virtuous, depending upon the knowledge and \n?i\xe2\x82\xacr-:oii2ness of those by whom it is contemplated. \n\n53 \n\n\n\n418 \n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXIIl. \n\n\n\nA Brtef Sketch of the Opinions of several Ancient and Modem \nPhilosophers^ concennng the Com, titution and Phenomena of \nMan : Given partly for the purpose of showing that the Hy- \npothesis of Son! gave rise to the Sceptical Philosophy of \nBerkley and Hume, \n\nI do not know that any ancient philosopher ever ques- \ntioned the existence of something which the word soul may \n\xe2\x96\xa0with propriety be used to signify : it appears that ai) took the \nexisteiiCe of some such thing for granted. But they thought \ndiiferently concerning its nature, and speculated not a iittle \nconcerning the way and manner in which it is affected by ex- \nternal objects. Some maintained that it is of a spiritual, and \nothers that it is of a material nature. Those who held that it \nis material, disputed to which of the four elements it belongs ; \nwhether to earth, air, tire, or water. Some held that it con- \nsists in part ot all these elements ; and that ii perceives earth \nby the earthly part ; water by the watery part ; and fire, bj \nthe tiery part of the soul. \n\n^\' The most spiritual and sublime notion," says Dr. Reid, \n" concerning the nature of the soul, to be met wiih among \nthe ancierjt philosophers, I concesve to be that of the Plato- \nnists. who heid that it is made of ihat celestial and inconnp- \ntibJe matter of which the fixed stars were made, and there- \nfore has a natural tendency to rejoin its proper element.\'" \n\nFrom this it appears that the mos! " spiritual" notion of \nthe ancient philoso])her.s concerning the nature of the soul, \nis, that it is made, of \'\' matter !" as.d of matter loo, as gross \nperhaps as that of which this earth is formed, \n\n\'" It must be obvious," says Dr. Good, in his Book of Na- \nture, vol. 2, \'\' t! at there never is, nor can be, any direct com- \nmunication between the mind and the external objects the \nmmd perceives, which are usually, indeed, at some distance \nfrom the sense that gives notice of them. Thus, in looking \nat a tree, it is the eye alone that really beholds the tree, \nwhile the mind only receives a notion of its presence, by \nsome means or other, from the visual organ. What then is \nthe medium by which such communication is made, which in \n\n\n\n419 \n\nduces the mindj seated as it is in vsome undeveloped part of \nthe brain, to have a correspondent perception of the form, \nsize, colour, smelJ, and even distance of oi)jects with the sen- \nses which are seated on the surface of the body ; andwhich, \nat the same time it conveys this mformation, produces such \nan additional effect that the miijd is ai)le at its option to re- \nvive the perception, or call up aii exact notion or tdea of \nthese qualities at a distant period, or when the objects them- \nselves are no longer present ?" \n\n" The principal systems that were started among the phi- \nlosophers of Greece to explain the orifgin and value of human \nknowledge, were those of Plato, of Aristotle, of Epicurus, \nand of the sceptics, especially Pyrrho and Ar<"esiUs ; and the \nprincipal systems to which they have ^ven birlh in laier \ntimes, are those of Des Cartes, Locke, Berl^ley, Hume, Hart- \nley, Kant, and the ScoltKsh school of Common Sense, at the \nhead ot which we are to place Dr. Reid. \n\n" I had occasion to observe, in our first series of lectures, \nthat it was a dogma common to many of the Greek schools, \nthat matter, though essentially elertjal, is also, in its primal \nand simple slate, essentially amorpiious, or destitute of all \nform and quality whatever ; [we can as readily admit that \nsuch matter is eterjial, as that nothing is eternal ;] and 1 fur- \nther reinarked, that the gro ind-work of this dogma consisted \nin a belief that form and quality are the cotitrivance of an in- \ntetiigent agent; while matter, though essentially eternal, is \nessentially unmteiligent. Matter, therefore, it was contcnd- \n\xe2\x80\xa2ed. cannot possibly assume one mode of form rather than \nanother mode ; for if it were capable of assuming any kind, \nit must have been capable of assuming every kiud, and of \ncourse of exhibiting intelligent effects without any intelligent \ncause. \n\n" Form, then, according to the Platonic schools, in which \nthis was principally taught, existing distinct from matter by \nthe mere will of the Great First Cause, presented itself, from \nall eternity, to his wisdom or logos, in every possible variety; \nor, in other words, under an infinite multiplicity of incorpo- \nreal or intellectual patterns, exemplars, or archetypes, to \nwhich the founder of this school gave the name o^ ideas ; a \nterm that has descended without any mischief into the popu- \nlar language of our own day ; but which, in the hands of ihe \nschoolmen, and various other theorists, has not uufrequently \n\n\n\n420 \n\nbeen productive of cGjregioiis errors and abuses. By the \nunion of ^hese in ciieclaa! archetypes with the whole, or any \nporlion ofpnmary or incorporeal matter, matter immediately \nbecome? ejnbodied, assumes palpable forms, correspondent \nWfth the archetypes united with it, and is rendered an object \nof sjerception to the external senses ; the mind, or intelligent \npnrniple, however, \xe2\x80\x94 which is an emanation from the great \ninti.\'.;lr,\',ent cause, \xe2\x80\x94 neve?^ perceiving any thing more than the \nintellectual or formative ideas of objects as they are presented \nio the senses ^ and reasoning concerning them by those ideas \nalone." \n\n" The only essential variation from this hypothesis which \nAristotle appears to have intruded mto his own, consists in \nhis having clothed, \'f I may be allowed the expression, the \nnnked ideas of Plato, with the actual qualities of the objects \nperceived ; his doctrine bein^i;, that the sense, on perceiving \nor being excited by an external object, conveys to the mind \na real resemblance of it ; which, however, though possessing \nform, colour, and other qualities of matter, is not matter it- \nself, but an insubstarjtial miage, like the picture in a mirror; \na\xc2\xab though the mind itself were a kind of mirror, and had a \npower of reflecting (he image of whatever object is present- \ned to the exteriial senses. This insubstantial image or pic- \nture, in order to dislmguish it from the intellectual pattern or \nidea of Plato he denominated a phantasm,,\'^^ \n\n"" Ej\'icurus concurred m the doctrine that the mind per- \nceives serjsible objects by means of sensible images ; but he \nconteiided that those images are as strictly material as the \nobjerts fi\'om which l.hey eminafe ; and that, if we allow them \nto pos-ess material quaK\'f\'es, we must necessarily allow them \nat the same time to iiossess the substance to which such qual- \nities appertain. E\'>?cii!us, therefore, believed the percep- \ntions of the muKl to be real and substantial effigies, and to \nthe-^e etti;4!es he ^j^ave ihe name of sPhCits. in contradistinc- \ntion to Jhe insubstantial phantasms of Ari\'^totle. and the in- \ntellectual or formative \\i,Eas of Pla<o. He maintained that \nall external objects are perpetually throwing off fine alternate \nwaves of d fiTrre\'if jflivours, odous, colours, shapes, and other \nqualities ; whieh. by sirik-ng against tlieir appropriate senses, \nexci e in iho se.ses themselves a perception of the qualities \nand : resc\' ce of !he pareiit o!>iect ; and are immediately con- \nTejed by the scutifcut channel to the chamber of the mind, or \n\n\n\n421 \n\nsensory^ without any injury to their texture : in the same \nmanner as heat, light, and magnetism pervade solid suDstari- \nces, and still retain their integrity." \n\n\xe2\x80\xa2\' With Aristotle and Epicurus Des Cartes contended that \nthe mind perceives external ohjects by images or resembian- \nces presented to it : these images he called, after Plato, ideas ; \nthoiiiih iie neither acceded to the meaning of this term as \ngiven by Plato, nor allowed with Ari\xc2\xabtoi!e or Epicurus that \nthey proceed from the objecfs themsehes, and are trans- \nmitted to the mind through the channel of the senses ; so that \nthe precise signification he atta*ched to this term is not clear." \nHe contended, \'\'that the mind has a large stock of ideas \xc2\xa9f \nits own, implanted by the hand of nature, and not derived \nfrom the world around us : ideas, theretore, that are strictly \ninnate, and may be found on being ^^earched tor, though other- \nwise not necessarily preser.t to (he mind\'s contemplation." \n\nAs to Mr. Locke, strange as it may appear to those con- \nversant with his writings, it has been contended by some that \nhe did not considpr an idea as any thing distinct from the mind ; \nbut we think Dr. Reid was correct ni classing Locke wilh fhe \nideal philosophers. The passages quoted from Locke, by \nDr. Thomas Brown, in his Philosophy of the Human Mind, \nto show that Locke d:d not consider ideas as any thing dis- \ntinct from the mind, appear to us \\o prove no such thing ; es- \npecially when we consider that, according to Locke, the mind \nai birtti is as destitute of ideas as an unwritten sheet of paper \nis destitute of words ; that the nnnd receives ideas by \nthe senses, their proper inlets ;* that it compares them, com- \npounds them, splits them up, trims ofl\' their excrescences and \nstores them away for future use. \'* To ask," savs Locke, \n" at what time a man has tirst any ideas, is to ask when he be- \ngins to perceive ; having ideas and perception being ihe same \nthing." From this passage it appears that perception is hav \n\n* " Methinks," sa);s Locke. *\' the understauding is not much un- \nlike a closet, wholly shut from lieht, wilh only some litde opetjing \nleft to let in external visible resemblaiires or ideas of thint^s without. \nWould the pictures coming into such a dark room but stay th<-re, \nand lie so orderly as to be found upon ccrasion, it vv<ti!ld very much \nreseiuble the understandaig ot a man, in reference t<^ all the objects \nof siglit, and tht^ ideas of them." \xe2\x80\x94 Human Undersiatidingj Book \nii. chap. 1 J,6 n. \n\n\n\n4^2 \n\ni7ig ideas ; but il does not appear that ideas are nothing dis- \ntinct from the innid. What is perception ? Why, it is having \nideas, which are things that a new-born babe possesseb not \nthough it possesses a mind or soul. \n\nThe fo]iowing passage of Locke seem^- more than anj other \nto favor the opinion that he did not consider an idea as any \nthnjg distinct from the mind. \n\n" The other way of retention, is the power to revive again \nin our minds those idea?, which after imprinting have disap- \npeared, or have been as il were laid aside out of sight ; and \nthis we do, when we conceive heat or light, yellow or sweet, \nthe object being removed. This is memory, which is, as it \nwere, the store-house of our ideas. For the narrow mind of \nman not being capable of having many ideas under view and \nconsideration at once, it was necessary to have a repository \nto lay up those ideas, which at another time it might have use \nof. But our ideas being nothing but actual perceptions ia \nthe mind, \\_alias. our perceptions being nothing but ideas ac- \ntual ly in the mind J luhich cease to he any thing ivheii there is \nno perception of thtm^ th s laying up of our ideas in the repo- \nsitory of tiie memory, sigiiincs no more but this, that the mind \nhas a power in many cases to revive perceptions, which it has \nonce had, with this additional perception annexed to them, \nthat it has had them before. And in this sense it is, that our \nideas are said to be in our memories, whenindeed they are ac- \ntually no zohere^ but only there is an ability in the mind when \nit will to revive them again, and as it were paint them anew \non itself, though some with more, some with less difficulty ; \nsome more hvely, and others more obscurely." \n\nOn the whole, it appears to us that Locke considered ideas \nas something distinct from the mind \xe2\x80\x94 if not pictures or images \nof things \xe2\x80\x94 something which we acquire by way of our senses \nor by ^\' reflection ;" but still whenthey are not perceived, \nwhen they are " laid aside as it were out of sight," and not \n" under view and consideration," they are something so unlike \nideas in the mindh- presence chamber, that they cannot properly \nbe called ideas ; for an idea, as he has defined it, is "whatever a \nman observes and is conscious to himself he has in his mind ;" \nconsequently as ideas " they are no where," \xe2\x80\x94 \'\'ideas ceasing \nto be any thing (to the man that possesses them) when they \nare not perceived.\'^\'\' \n\nAt any rate, if Locke did not consider ideas as something \n\n\n\n423 \n\ndistinct from the mind, his Essay on Human Understanding \nis a l\xc2\xbbook o( metaphors, and in a ph?\'oso|jhical poiijl of view^ \nby no means worthy of the praises that have been bestowed \nupon it. \n\n\'\' Is not," says Sir Isaac Newton. " the sensorium of animals \nthe place where llie sentient substance is present : and to which \nsensible species of things are brought, through the nerves and \nbraifi, that there they may be perceived by the mind present \nin Ihat place?" And says Dr. Clark, in one of his letters to \nLeibnitz \xe2\x80\x94 "\' Without being present to the images of things \nperceived, the sou! could not possibly perceive them. A Hy- \ning substance can only there perceive, where it is present. \nNothing can any more act, or be acted upon 7uhere it is not \npresent than it can when it is not present3" Says Dr. Por- \ntersfield \xe2\x80\x94 *\' How body acts upon mind or mind upon body, I \nknow uot ; but this I am very certain of, ihat nothmg can act, \nor be acted upon, where it is not; and therefore, our mind \ncan never perceive any thing but its own proper moditica- \ntions, and the various states of the sensorium, to which it is \npresent : so that it is not the external sun and moon which are \nin ihe heavens, whidvh our mind perceives, but only their \nimage yr representation, impressed upon (he seiisonum. How \nthe soul of a seeing man sees these images, or how it receives \nthose ideas, from f\xc2\xabuch agitations tu \\hr sensorium, I know not ^ \nbut I am sure it can never perceive the exiera! bodies them- \nselves, to which it is not present." "* The slightest philoso- \nphy," savs Mr. Hume, " teaches us, that liothing can ever be \npresent to the mind, but an image or perception ; and that the \nsenses are only the inlets through winch tliese images are con- \nveyed; without being able to produce any immediate inter- \ncourse between the mind and the object. The table which \nwe se<i seems to dmiinish, as we remove farther from it : but \nthe real table wliich exists independeijt of us, suffers no alter- \nation : it was therefore nothing but its image which was pre- \nsent to the mind. Thes^e are the obvious dictates of reason." \n\'^The mind," says Monboddo, \'\'is not where the body is, when \nit perceives what is distant from the body, either in tmie or \nplace; because nothing can act but when and zuhere it is\xc2\xab \nNow, the mmd acts when it perceives. The mind therefore, \nof every animal who has memory or imagination, acts, and of \nconsequence exists, when and where t^e body is not ; for it \nperceives objccis distant from the bouy, both in time and \n\n\n\n424 \n\nplace.\'\' \xe2\x80\x94 "I suppose," says Malebranche, \'\xe2\x80\xa2\' that every one \nwill grant that we perceive not externa! objects inrjrnediately \nand of themselves. We see the sun, the stars, and an infinity \nof objects without us; and it is not at all proiiable tbat, upon \nsuch occasioris. the soul sallies oul of the body, in order to be \npresent to the objects perceived. Sfie sees thenn not therefore \nby themseives : and the imnDediate object of the mind is liot the \nthing perceived, but sonnelhing that is intimately united to the \nsoul ; and it is that which I call an idea : so that by the word \nidea. 1 understand nothing else here but that which is nearest \nto the mind when we perceive any object. It ought to be \ncarefully observed, that, in order to the mind\'s perceiving any \nobject, It is absolutely necessary that the idea of that object \nbe actually preseiit to it. Of this, it is impossible to doubt. \nThe things which the soul perceives are of two kinds. They \nare either in the !?ou!, [wonder how things can be in an unex- \ntended thing,] or they are without the soul. Ttiose that are \nin the soul, are its own thoughts; that is to say, all its dif- \nferent modifications. The soul has no need of idea? to per- \nceive these thmgs. But with regard to things without the \nsoul, we cannot ])erceive tj^m but by means of ideas.\'"* \n\nFrom what has been advanced in this chapter, the reader \nnot only learns to what difficult questions and wild notions, \nthe hypothesis of sou! has given rise ; but he is prepared to \nsee in what way this hypothesis has given rise to the sceptical \nphilosophy of BrTkley and Hume. In the first jdace there \nis a soul in a man\'s head, w^hich perceives and thinks; the \nquestion now arises \xe2\x80\x94 How can the soul perceive objects ex- \nterior to the body, and in many instances quite distant trom it ? \n\'^ Nothing can act where it is not, any more than w hen it is not. \nNow the soul acts when it perceives ;" and it is excited to act \nby tbat which it perceives. Of course, it must either sally out \nof the brain to the object ; or the object must enter the head \nto be present to the soul in the brain ; or something must pass \nfrom the object into the brain to be present to the soul. But \nit is quite unlikely that a man\'s soul fiies away to the sun in \nthe east, when lie sees the sun, and the next instant \xe2\x80\x94 the man \nturning round \xe2\x80\x94 flies away to the mountain in the west,; and \nit is also rather difficult to admit that the sun itsc\'f enters the \n\n* The quotations in the foregoini^ par^gr.iph. may all be found \nin Stewart\'s Phiiosopby of the Human Mind, pages 46, 47, 48. \n\n\n\n425 \n\nbrain, for to say nothing of its size, and the velocity with \nwhich it must move, it cannot be in but one brain at a time \xe2\x80\x94 \nyet millions may see the sun at the same instant ; consequent- \nly the necessary conclusion is, that when the soul perceives \nan object, something passes from the object into the brain, to \nbe present to the soul \xe2\x80\x94 a something which by different philo- \nsophers has been called by the different names of idea, phan- \ntasm, species, image, and impression. But by whatever name \nit be called, it is that which is present to the soul when it per- \nceives ; and indeed it is the only thing that the soul does per- \nceive ; though for convenience sake, we say we perceive the \nobject which ^ives it off. \n\nThus we see that the hypothesis of soul gave rise to the \nhypothesis of ideas or images, as things distinct from the per- \nceiving soul and tbe external objects said to be perceived. \nNow says Mr. Hume, we have no evidence at all, and \nnever can have any, that any thing more exists than the per- \nceiving thing, and the images or impressions perceived. We \ntalk about the sun, moon, and other objects without us, but \nwe can have no evidence that there are any such things \xe2\x80\x94 \nwe do not see them, we do not feel them \xe2\x80\x94 the seeing, feeling \nthing perceives nothing but images or impressions, which may \n\xe2\x80\x94 for aught any one can say to the contrary \xe2\x80\x94 exist indepen- \ndent of any thing more gross and substantial ; and it is quite \nbeneath a philosopher to admit the existence of any thing of \nwhich there is no evidence. Indeed, Mr. Hume did not \nstop here ; but so far as I can learn from other authors, his \ntrain of reasoning proceeded thus : \xe2\x80\x94 As to the existence of \nmatter or body, it is entirely out of the question, it is what no \nreasonable man or philosopher can possibly think of contend- \ning for. There is nothing in nature but mind and perceptions \nof mind \xe2\x80\x94 perceptions diversified, indeed, by being sometimes \nstronger, and sometimes weaker, and which may on this ac- \ncount be properly distinguished by the names of impressions \nand ideas. But how do we know that there is any mind \xe2\x80\x94 - \nbow do we know that there is any thing but impressions and \nideas ? This is the utmost we can know, and even this we can- \nnot know to a certainty : for no body but fools will pretend \ncertainly to know or believe any thing. These ideas and \nimpressions follow each other, and are therefore conjoined; \nbut we have no proof that there is any necessary ^orn^exion \nbetween them. They are a " bundle of perceptions" that sue- \n\n44 \n\n\n\n426 \n\ncecd earh other with inconceivable rapidit}\', and are in pei\' \npetiial flux; and hence I invs^if of to day. am no more I \nmysell of to-morrow, than I am Nebuchadnezzar or Cleopa- \ntra. See Good\'s Book of Nature, voi. 2, p. 246. \n\n\n\n\xe2\x96\xa0oo- \n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXIV. \n\nA Refutation of Prof esso?\' Stewart\'^ s Argument for the existence \nof Soul or Mind*^ \n\n" The notions we annex to the words matter and mind, as \nis well remarked by Dr. Reid, are merely relative. If I am \nasked what I mean by matter, I can oniy explain myself by \nsaying it is that which h extended, figured, coloured, movea- \nble, hard, soft, rough or smooth, hot or cold \xe2\x80\x94 that is, 1 can \ndefine it in no other way than by enumerating its sensible \nqualities. Jt is not matter or body which 1 perceive by my \nsenses ; [so said Mr, Hume !] but only extension, figure, co- \nlour, and certain other qualities, which the constitution of my \nnature [rather an ambiguous expression] leads me <o refer to \nsomeihfng that is extended, figured and coloured. The case \nis precisely the same with respecl to mind. We arc not im- \nmediately conscious of its existence ; but we are conscious \not sensation, thought and voJitioir ; operations which imply \nthe existence of something whi\'.h feels, thinks, and wills. \nEvery man too, is impressed wiih an irresistible conviction \nthat all these sensations, thought!! aiid volitions, belong to one \nand the same being, to that being which he calls himsrif ; a \nbeing which he is led, hy \\\\\\v. constilntion of his nature, to con- \nsider as something digtirct from his t)ody, and not liable \nto be impaired by the loss or mutdation of any of his organs. \n\n* Having never seen Dr. Reid\'s Essi<y on the Aciive Powers of \nIVfan. I know not whether this aryiment for the exisienre Ot\'mind \ncueht to he credited to him, or to professor Stewart ; hut this 1 \nconsider of little co is\' quence - nof rei>ard;ng[ the ar^umenr as cre- \nditable to anv philosopher. 1 find it ill Stewart\'s Philosophy of \nthe Human Mind, p. 10. \n\n\n\n427 \n\n" From these considerations, it appears ihat we have the \nsame evidence of the existence of miud, that we have of the \nexistence of matter, \xe2\x80\x94 nay, if there be any ditference between \nthe two cases, that we have stronger evidence for it, inas- \nmuth as the one [ilie mind] is sug^^e&ted to us by the svljects \nof our consciousness, and tiie other merely by the objects of \nour i^jcrceptiofis.\'\' \n\nWell, reader, what do yon think ? Yon mn?t know that al- \nmost all men whose opmiojis conceriniig the subject are of \nm\'lch weight, (! mean physologists.) are decidedly of the \nopinion that there is no such mnid in existence as Stewart \nspeaks of ; and yet of the two, it is rather more evident that \nthere is, than that there is any thing withoni our skulls,\xe2\x80\x94 we \nare taught eio hy the constitution of our naturts. \n\nIt appears very clear to me, that when profpssor vStewart \nwrote the foregoing passages, he did not think of every thmg \nthai relates to the subject ; or else he was endeavoring \xe2\x80\x94 and \nknowingly too \xe2\x80\x94 to support a feeble cause by sophistry. He \nis all wrong, \xe2\x80\x94 so completely so, I scarcely know where to \nbegfii wsth him. \n\nI defi.ie matter, a comhinaiion of ^ properties : \xe2\x80\x94 take from \nany kind of maiter, the property of extension and impenetra- \nbility, and every othei property that may he present, and no- \ntljmg would remain. And he that asserts that matter is some \niinknowji thing distinct from the properties winch it is said to \npossess, asserts that, in support of which there is not the least \nshadow of evidence, \xe2\x80\x94 we defy him to bring the least little. \nBut Stewart says that he can detir.e matter in no other way, \nthan by saying it is that which is exiended. figured, coloured, \nmoveable, hard, sot\'t, &:c. Well, then, let us take this defi- \nnition of ;natter \xe2\x80\x94 let it be remembered that whatever is ex- \ntended, figured, moveable. &:c. is matter. Now Stewart ad- \nmits that he can perceive extension, figure, colour, hardness, \n&c. by his senses, and yet says he cannot perceive matter !* \nIs not this \xe2\x80\x94 1 seriously ask \xe2\x80\x94 is not this a mere quibble ? Yea, \nto be sure, the existence of a soul to be proved by a quibble. \nBerause the grammatical construction of our language is such \n\n* Accordmii to ilii* doctrine, the proposition, a stone, is mailer^ \nmid ma\'i pHVceii e.s a stone, is a fulse one Either a man does not \npptceive a sione, or else a stone is not matter\xe2\x80\x94 a strange perversion \nof language this, to say no .nore. \n\n\n\n428 \n\nthat we cannot speak of the properties of matter^ without \nspeaking as though these properties belong to something be- \nsides what they constitute; it is taken for granted that this \nsomething has a real existence ; and by it the existence of a \nsoul is to be demonstrated even more plainly than the nose \nupon your face. We are told \xe2\x80\x94 what we flatly deny, and \nchallenge the asserter to prove \xe2\x80\x94 that this something, this \n" essence of matter." or \'* matter itself," does really exist, \nalthough we can neither see, hear, feel, taste, or smell it ; cr- \ngo^ a soul exists, although we can neither see, hear, feel, taste \nor smell it ! A fii)e way of reasor)ing this, for those who cry \nout against hypotheses and begging questions. 1 might as \nwell say, giants exist, although no man ever saw or felt a \ngiant ; therefore Tom Thumbs exist. \n\nLet us examine the professor\'s reasoning, bit by bit. \xe2\x80\x94 " We \nare not," says he, " immediately conscious of the existence \nof mind, but we are conscious of the existence of something \nwhich feels, thinks, and wills." Granted. " Every man \ntoo, is impressed with an irresistible conviction that all these \nsensations, thoughts, and volitions, belong to one and the same \nbeing." Granted. "To a being which he calls himself." \nGranted. " A being which he is led, by the constitution of \nhis nature^ to consider as something distinct from his body." \nFalse. \'\' And not liable to be impaired by the loss or mutj- \nlation of Gr?iy of his organs." False. \n\nStewart may speak for himself, and I will speak for myself* \nFor my own part, T am not led by the constitution of my na- \nture, to consider that being which 1 call myself as something \ndistinct from my body ; and I have a \'* shrewd suspicion" that \nfny readers will say the same for themselves. If so, it will \nappear that the constitution of Stewart\'\' s nature is rather an \nodd one. \n\nAs to myself being impaired by the loss or mutilation of \nany of my organs," I grant that the loss of my toes or my \nears would not destroy my personal identity, or my belief \nthat I am the same man that did a certain deed ten years \nago ; but I have a very shrewd suspicion that that part of me \nwhich thinks, that part in which my inward identity is to be \nfound, would be very much impaired if my brain should be \ncrushed. \n\nBefore T proceed any farther, it is best to show what Stew- \nart means by the word soul or the word mind, (as all philoso- \n\n\n\n429 \n\nphers, so far as I know, mean the same thing by either word,) \nfor it sometimes happen? that when a reasoner finds that he \ncannot go forward, he attempts to back out, by altering the \nmeaning of a word. Stewart means by the word mind or \nsoul, an immaterial thinking thing-wlwch exists independent \nof the body, though in the body while it is alive ; and which \nmay fly away and think independent of the body, of course \nafter the body is dead. He does not say explicitly that it is \nextended or unextended \xe2\x80\x94 \'\'whether it be seated in the brain, \nor spread over the body by diffusion ;" but as immaterialists \ngenerally admit that the mind is unextended. and located in \nthe brain, and as Stewart does not advance a different opin- \nion, we may fairly conclude that he considered the mind as \nunexpended and seated m the brain."* \n\nShould a man say that, whatever thinks is mind \xe2\x80\x94 why, in \nthis way, he could show that mind exists ; and m this way he \nmight make out that every name has its thing. He may \nsay (hat the word giant is not a name without a thing, but that \ngiants exist. I may dispute him,af)d after much disputation, \nhe may end the controversy by saying he means by giant, a \nman about six feet in height, who weighs about 160 pounds. \nWhen by argument, I compel my antagonist to use a word in \na different sense from what he did at the commencement, I \nconsider him as vanquished. \xe2\x80\x94 The mind is a thinking thing \nwhich has a being independent of the body, or there is no \nmind. To say (hat the mind is the brain or the sensorium, or \nthe sensorial tendencies, or the conscient actions of the ner- \nvous system, is to force on us an old word which has been us- \ned as the name of a thing which does not exist, and to beg of \nus to admit that it means something, when there is nothing \nfor it to be the name of, \xe2\x80\x94 nothing but what has got other and \nmore appropriate names. \n\nStewart says, that of the two, we have stronger evidence of \nthe existence of mind, than of the existence of matter, inas- \nmuch as the former is suiyjgested to us by the subjects of tur \nconsciousness ; and the latter merely by the objects of our per^ \n\n* In Stewart\'s Philosophy of the Human Mind, p. 47, he makes \nthe following remark \xe2\x80\x94 \'\' This phrase of \' the soul bfinw present \nto the images of external objects,\' has been used by mnny philoso- \nphers, since the rime of Des Cartes ; evidently from a desire to \navoid the absurdity of supposing images of extension and figure \ncan exist in an uncxUnded mind.\'* \n\n\n\n430 \n\nceptions. This is as much a? to say. the existence of mind is \n. sutigesied to n? !>y tlie suh^ects of our consciosisn\xc2\xab^ss ; where- \nas we have no evidence of ihe existence of a horse, for in- \nstance, hut mere!} that we see, feel, and often iiear, a hoise ! \\ \n\nI will not a( present fakfe into cotisideration ^he expression, \n\'* subjects of our consciousness;" hut recnark that Steward \nao[>ears to have considered con\'^csousiiess as ahsohne proof ol \nthe existence of mind; that is, of an immaterial thinkwig thing \nwhich exists i independent of the hody. But what is con- \nsciousness ? A co.nscient action of the two extremities o* a \nnerve, is cot>scious>;ess ; or a coiiscient action of tlie senso- \nrium, alone, is consciousness \xe2\x80\x94 to sense, to perceive, or to \nthink, is to he consc]ou> : there is no consciousness, when a \nmail neither sees, hears, feels, tastes, srneiN. nor thirdcs. Now \nin the name of truth, 1 most humbly ask if the simple act of \nthinking anj thought, seeing any object, feels n-g any hodj. &;c. ; \ndoes inform us what thinks ? \xe2\x80\x94 inform us to such a degree of \ntertainty, that we can rio more doubt, that an immaferial, in- \ndependent mind think>?, than we can doubt the existence of a \nhorse when we see and feel a hoise ! \n\nBy knowing the effects of diseases and injuries of the brain, \nand of divers experiments on the nervous system \xe2\x80\x94 in short, \nby what knowledge ( have of the animal economy, and of \nthings in general, 1 am convinced that the brain thiidii?; \nbut by the simple act of thinking any thought, or experien- \ncing any sensation, 1 cannoi tor my life deiermme the precise \npart of it which thmks. My conscionsnej^s does not inform \none whether it be the medulla oblo7igata, the thalami nervorum \noplicorum^ the pineal gland, or some other particular part. \nB<it my reason tells me \xe2\x80\x94 that is, by thinking over certain \nharmonizing facts relitive to the subject, I believe \xe2\x80\x94 that \nthifjking goes on somewhere in the lower and central part of \nthe brain. \n\nHad Stewart defined mind \xe2\x80\x94 rvhatever it. be that thinks, oris \nconscious, then consciousness would have been the same evi- \ndence of the existence of mind, thaf he has supposed it to be. \nBut as Stewart and other immaterialists consider the mind as \nsome immaterial thinking thmg, -distinct from the body, con- \nsciousness or thinking is not the least whit of evidence of the \nexistence of any such mind, and of course, no evidence of the \nexistence of any mind. \n\nAs to the existence of mind being suggested to us by the \n\n\n\n431 \n\nsuhjects of our Consciousness^ I would inquire what are the \nsubjects of our cousciousness ? When a man thinks, what, I \nask, is the subject of his const^iousness ? fs it the sensorium or \nthe man who is conscious ; oris it the action of the sensonum \nwhich constitutes the consciousness; or is it the external ob- \nject which tirst excited (hfs action? \n\nExcepting these three things. 1 defy any man to show that \nit can be anything at all. Nosv we cannot suppose that \nStewart beheved that a man\'s hrain is the subject of his con- \nsciousness for ^^5 brain is one subject, but Stewart speaks of \nsubjects. Ifwe say that the conscient action of the brain is \nthe subject of the man\'s consciousness, then t[\xc2\xabe same thing \nnot only constitutes consciousness, but is the suhjtct of con- \nsciousness. Fmaiiy, if there be any meaning in the expres- \nsion " subjects of our consciousness." these subjects must be \nthings which we think of, or think about, and these are the \nprecise things tha are the "objects of our perceptions," in \nalmost all cases. And I must confess that a stone, or any \ntliJifr else which I think about, goes as far in convincing Qie \nthat I have a soul or mind, as the simple act of thinki g. \n\nIn this place 1 may notice jm anecdote which 1 once saw \nin the Boston Recorder \xe2\x80\x94 an anecdote in which there is no- \nthing solid but something specious \xe2\x80\x94 though I have reason to \nthink that some short-sighted persons ihought it contained an \nirrefragable repartee, l can on\'y relate it as 1 can remember \nit. It was in substance as follows: \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nA physician asked a methodist preacher if he ever saw a \nsoul? Nj. Did you ever hear a siou! ? No. Did )ou ever \ntaste a soul? No. Did you ever smell a soul? No. Did \nyou ever feel a soul? Yes. Well, says the physician, there \nare four evidences against one that there is no soul. Satd \nthe preacher m his turn. Did you ever see a pain ? No. Did \nyou ever hear a pain ? No. Did you ever taste a pain ? No. \nDid you ever smell a pain ? No. Did you ever feel a pain? \nYes. Well, says the preacher there aie four evidences \nagainst one that there is no pain, yet you know there is {.iain, \nand I know there is a soul. \n\nWe here see thai the oreacher commits the same blunder \nthat Stewart has done ; he not only takts consciousness, as \nproof that consciousness exists \xe2\x80\x94 a thing that no man will de- \nny, but he makes consciousness a proof that a sou! (-xists, \nwhen it is not the least whit of evidence of any such thing. \n\n\n\n432 \n\nWe clo not ie)] fbe preacher that he did not know that some- \nthing feels, thinks. &:r. ; but that he did not know whether \nthis something be a nnaterial organ or an immaterial thing of \nwhich no man can ever have any idea. \n\n\n\n\xe2\x96\xa0000- \n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXV. \n\nProfessor Lawrence^s Lecture on the Functions of the Brain \n\nAs the opinions of Professor Lawrence concerning the con- \nstitution of man, are \xe2\x80\x94 with the exception of other physiolo- \ngists \xe2\x80\x94 of mote weight than the opinions of all the world be- \nsides ; we think his lecture on the functions of the brain can- \nnot fail of being highly interesting to most of our readers. \nTherefore we shall give it in his own words, without addition \nor substraction : \xe2\x80\x94 it stands in no need of comment. \n\n" There would be little inducement to compare together \nthe various animal structures, to follow any apparatus thro\' \nthe whole animal series, unless the structure were a measure \nand criterion of the function. Just in the same proportion \nas organization is reduced, life is reduced ; exactly as the \norganic parts are diminished in number and simplified, the \nvital phenomena become fewer and more simple : and each \nfunction ends, when the respective organ ceases. This is \ntrue throughout zoology; there is no exception in behalf of \nany vital manifestations. \n\n" The same kind of facts, the same reasoning, the same sort \nof evidence altogether, which show digestion to be the func- \ntion of the alimentary canal, the motion of the muscles, and \nvarious secretions of their respective glands, prove that sen- \nsation, perception, memory, judgment, reasoning, thought \xe2\x80\x94 \nin a word, all the manifestations called mental or intellectual, \n-^are the animal functions of their appropriate organic appa- \nratus, the central organ of the nerv ous system. No difficulty \nDor obscurity belongs to the latter case, which does not equal- \nly affect all the former instances : no kind of evidence con- \niiects the hvmg processes with the material instruments in the \n\n\n\n433 \n\n\xc2\xa9iie which does not apply just as clearly and forcibly to the \nother. \n\n" Shall I be told that thought is inconsistent with matter 5 \nthat we cannot conceive how medullary subslance can per- \nceive, remember, judge, reason ? I acknowledge that we are \nentirely ignorant how the parts of the brain accomplish these \npurposes \xe2\x80\x94 as we are how the liver secretes bile, how the mus- \ncles contract, or how any other living purpose is eifected ;-\xe2\x80\x94 \nas we are how heavy bodies are attracted to the earth, how \niron is drawn to the magnet, or how two salts decompose \neach other. Experience is. in all these cases, our sole, if not \nsufficient instructress : and the constant conjunction of phe- \nnomena, as exhibited in her lessons is the sole ground for af- \nfirming a necessary connexion between them. If we go be- \nyond this, and come to inquire the maimer how, the mecha- \nnism by which these things are effected, we shall fiitd every \nthing around us equally mysterious, equally incomprehensi- \nble \xe2\x80\x94 from the stone which falls to the earth, to the comet \ntraversing the heavens, \xe2\x80\x94 from the Ihread attracted by amber \nor sealing wax, to the revolutions of planets in their orbits, \xe2\x80\x94 \nfrom the formation of a mag^jjot in putrid flesh, or a mite in \ncheese, to the production of a Newton or a Franklin. \n\n" in opposition to these views, it has been contended that \nthought is not an act of the brain, but of an immaterial sub- \nstance, residing in or connected with it. This large and cu- \nrious structure, which, in the human subject, receives one \nfifth of all the blood sent out from the heart, which is so pe- \nculiarly and,delicately organized, nicely enveloped in sucres- \nsive membranes, and securely lodged in a solid bony case, is \nleft almost without an office, being barely allowed to be ca- \npable of sensation. It has, indeed, the easiest lot in the ani- \nmal economy : it is better fed, clothed and lodged than any \nother part, and has less to do. But its office \xe2\x80\x94 only one re- \nmove above a sinecure \xe2\x80\x94 is not a very honorable one : it <s a \nkind of porter, entrusted to open the door, and introduce \nnew comers to the master of the house, v\\ ho takes on hiniself \nthe entire charge of receiving, entertaining, and employmg \nthem. \n\n\'\' Let us survey the natural history of the human mind, \xe2\x80\x94 \nits rise, progress, various fates, and decay ; and then judge \nwhether these accord best with the hvpotliesis of an immale- \nlial agent, or with the plain dictates of common sense, and \n\n55. \n\n\n\n434 \n\nIbe analop^y of every other organ and function throughout the \nboiinnless ex\'ent of liviisg beings. \n\n"\' Yon must bnng to this physiological question a sincere \nan\xc2\xab1 earnest love of truth ; disiDissiog from }oijrminf)s all the \nprejudices and alarms which have been so indusliiously con- \nnected tMtti it. If you enter on the inquiry m ihc S}>irit of \nthe bigot and |>ar(i>an, suffering a f loud of fears and hopes, \ndesires aid h> t riiion. to hang ai(Mind your understandiiigs, you \n^dl never discern objects citsirly ; the ir colours shapes, di- \nmensions, will be confused, distoifed. arid obscured b\\ the in- \ntellectua! mist. Our busniess is, to mqmre what is (rue ; \nnot what is the finest theory ; riol what will supply the be\xc2\xa3t \ntopics of pretty compositioi^ and eloquent dec lamatfon, ad- \ndressed to the prejudices, the passions, and \xc2\xabhe ignorance of \nour hearers. We need not L\'\\r the result of investigation. \nTruth is like a native rustic beauty ; mos^ loveiy when una- \ndorned arid seen in the open Isght of day. Your fi-e hypoth- \neses and specious theories are hke the unforturiale females \n^^\'ho supply the want or loss of native charms, aud repair the \nbreacltes of age or disease, by paint, tinery, asid decorations ; \nwh\'ch can only be exhibited in the glaring ligl t , tht art ti- \ncial atmosphere, and the unnatural stenery of the theatre or \nsaloon. Whenever it is thoroughly discussed, truth will not \nfail to corne hke tried gold from the tire. Like Ajax, it re- \nquires nothing but day-light and fair play. \n\n" Reason and free inqusry are the only etiVctual antidotes \nof error. Give them full scope, and they will t][)hold the \ntruth, b} bringing false opinions, and all the spurious otlspr ng \nof ignorance, prejudice, and self in\'erest, btfore the severe \ntribimal, and subjecling them lo the test of close investiga- \ntion. Error alone needs artiticial support: Irullj can stand \nby itself. \n\n" Sir Everard Home, with the assistance oi Mr. Bauer aud \nbis microscope has shown us a man eight cia}s old fron^ the \ntime of conception, \xe2\x80\x94 nbout as broad and a htile longerlhan \na pin\'s head. He satisti( d hrnself ihat the brain of this hn- \nmunculus was discernible. Could the insmattrial mind have \nbeen coni\xc2\xbbected with it at this tiuie ? or was the tenement \ntoo small even for so etherial a lodger ? At the full period of \nutero-gestation it is still d tficult to trace any vestige of mind ; \nand the believers in its separate existence have left us qtnte \nin the dark on the precise time at which ihe spiriiual guest \n\n\n\n435 \n\narrives in bis corporeal dwelling, the interesting and impor- \ntant moment of amHi^amHlion or coinbiiiiition oj the earthly \ndu^t and ttie etherial es^senre. The Roman Catholic church \nhas cut the knot, which no one else could untie ; and has de- \ncided that the little mortal, on its pas^agc^ into thss world of \ntrouble, has a soul (o be saved ; it accordingly directs and \nauthorizes mKiwives. in cases of ditiicult labor, where the \ndeath of the infant is appreiie.ided, to baptise it by means of \na sNringe introduced into the vagina, and thus to save it from \nperdition ! ! ! \n\n*\' Tiiev whose scruples are not quite set at rest by the above \nmentioned decision of the church, nor by being told thaT the \nmiod has not yet taken up its quarters in the brain, endeavor \nto account for the entire absence of mental phenomena at the \ntime of birth, by the senses antj brain not havnig been yet \ncalled into action by the impressions of external objects. \n\n"* These orji,ans oegin to be exerosed hs \'^oon as the child \nis born : and a fa/nt glimmering of msid is dnnly perceived \nin the course of the tirst moniljs of existence : but it is as \nweak and infantile as the bodj^, \n\n\'\' A>^ the senses acquire their powers, and the cerebral jel- \nly becomes tinner, the mind gradually strengthens ; slowly \nadvances, with the body, ihroiigh childhood to puberty ; and \nbecomes adult when the devetopement of the frarie is com- \nplete ; it is, moreover, male or female, according to the sex \nof the body. In the perfect period of organization, the mind \nis seen in the plenitude of its powers ; but this state of full \nvigor is short in duration, boih for the intellect and the cor- \nporeal fabric. Tae wear and tear of the latter is evidenced \nin its mental movements: with the decline of orgmizatiori \nthe mind decays ; it becomes decrepit with the body ; and \nboth are at the same time extinguished by death. \n\n\'* What do we infer from this succession of phenomena ? \nthe existence and action of a principle entirely distinct from \nbody ? or. a close analogy to the history of all other organs \nand functions ? \n\n\'\' The number and kind of the intellectual phenomena in \ndifferent animals correspond closely to (he degree oldevei- \nopement of the bram. The mind of the Negro and Hotten- \ntot, of the Calmuck and the Canb, is inferior to that of the \nEuiopean ; and their organization is also less p(;rfect. The \nlarge cranium and high forehead of the orang-utaug lift him \n\n\n\n436 \n\nabove his brother monkey? ; but <he developement of hii \ncerebral hemit^pheres anci ii.-, mental manifestations are both \nequally below those of the Negro. The gradation of organ- \nization and of mind passes through the monkey, dog. elephant, \nhorse, to other quadrupeds ; thence to birds, reptiles, and \nfishes ; and so on to the lowest links of the animal chain. \n\n"\xe2\x96\xa0 li) ascending these steps of one ladder, following in regu- \nlar succession at equal intervals, where shall we find the \nboundary of unassisted organization ? Where place the begin- \nning of the immaterial adjuact? hi that view which assimi- \nlates the functions of the brain to those of other organic parts, \nth\'s case has no difficulty. As the structure of ihe brain is \nmore exquisite, perfect, and complex, its functions ought to \nbe proportionally so. It is no slight proof of the doctrine \nnow enforced, that the fact is actually thus : that the mental \npowers of brutes, so far as we can see, are proportional to \ntheir organization. \n\n*\' We cannot deny to animals all participation in rational \nendowments, without shutting our eyes to the most obvious \nfacts ; to indications of reasoning which the unprejudiced ob- \nservation of mankind has not failed to recognise and appre- \nciate. Without adverting to the well known instances of \ncomparison, judgment, and sagacity in the elephant, the dog, \nand many other animals, let us read the character drawn by \nHumboldt of the South American mules : \' When the mules \nfeel themselves in danger, they stop, taming iheir head^ to \nthe right and to tlie left. The motion of their ears seems to \nindicate that they reflect on the decision they ought to take. \nTheir resolution is slow, but always just if it be free; that is \nto sav, if it be not crossed or hastened by the imprudence of \nthe traveller. It is on the frightful roads of the Andes, dur- \ning long journies of six or seven months, across mountains \nfurrowed by torrents, that ihe intelligence of horses and beasts \nof burthen displays itself in an astonishing manner. Thus \nthe mountaineers are heard to say, I will not give you the \nmule whose stej) is the easiest, but him who reasons the best.\' \nIf the intellectual phenomena of man require an immaterial \nprinciple superadded to the brain, we m ist equally concede \nit to those more rational anitnals which exhibit manifestations \ndiffering from some of the human only in decree. If we grant \nit to these we cannot refuse it to the next in order, and so on \nin successioa to the whole series ; to the oyster, the sea aue-; \n\n\n\n437 \n\nmone, the polype, ihe microscopic animalcules. Is anyone \nprepared to admit ihe existence of iminaterial principles in all \nthese cases? If not he must equally reject it in man. \n\n\'* It is admitted that an ideot with a mal-formed brain, has \nno mind : that the sagacious dog, and half-reasonable ele- \nphant do not require any thing to be superadded to their brain : \nit is allowed that a dog or elephant excels inferior animals, \nin consequence of possessing a more perfect cerebral struc- \nture ; it js strongly suspected that a Newton or a Shakspeare \nexcels other mortals only by a more ample developement \nof the anterior cerebral lobes ; by having an extra inch of \nbrain in the right place ; yet the immHterialists will not con- \ncede Ihe obvious corollary of all these admissions, viz. that \nthe mind of man is merely that more perfect exhibition of \nmental phenomena which the more complete developement \nof the brain would lead us to expect ; and still perplex us with \nthe gratuitous difficulty of their immaterial hypothesis.\xe2\x80\x94 \nThought (it is positively and dogmatically asserted) cannot \nbe an act of matter. Yet no feeling, no thought, no intellec- \ntual operation, has ever been seen except in conjunction with \na brain ; and living matter is acknowledged by mo-t persons \nto be capable of what makes the nearest possible approach to \nthinking. The strongest advocate for nnmaterialism seek$ \nno further than the body for his es[)lanation of all the vital \nprocesses of muscular contractiosi, nutrition, secretion, &g., \noperations quite as diiFerent from any affection ofinorgaiiC \nsubstance, as reasoning or thought: he will even allow the \nbrain to be capable of scjisation. \n\n\'\' Who knows the capabslities of matter so perfectly, as to \nbe able to say, that it can see, hear, smell, taste, and feel, but \ncannot possibly reflect, imagine, judge ? Who has appreciat- \ned them so exactly, as to be able to decide that it can exe- \ncute the mental functior<s of an elephant, a dog, or an ourang- \noutang, but cannot perform those of a Negro or a Hottentot? \nTo say that a thing of mereK negative properties, that is, aa \nimmaterial substance, which is neither evidenced by any di- \nrect testimony, nor by any indirect proof from its effects, \ndoes exist and can think, is quite consistent in those who de- \nny thought to animal structures, where we see it going on \nevery day ! \n\n" If the mental processes be not the funtions of the brain, \nwhat IS its office? In animals which possess only a smaii part \n\n\n\n438 \n\nof <he human rerehml structure, sensation exists, and In many \ncase^ JS mote arnU ihan in man : what employment shall we \nfijid for all <hat fnan possesses over and above this portion \xe2\x80\x94 \nfor the large and prodij^ioiisly developed human hernispliere? \'-. \nAre we to believe that these serve only to round the figure oi \nthe organ, or to fill the craniuin \'? \n\n\'\' ft is necessary for you to form clear opinions on this sub- \nject, as it has immediate lefereitce to an important branch ot \npathology. They who cojisider the mental operations as acts \nof an immaterial beini{, and thus disconnect the sound state \nof the mind from ord:anizalion, act very consistently in dis- \njoining insanity also from the corj)oreal structure, and in re- \npre*;en<^ing it as a disease not of the brain, but of the mind. \nThus we come to disease of an immaterial being! for which, \nsuitably enoui^h, moral Irearment has been recommended. \n\n\xe2\x80\xa2\' I tirmly beheve, 0[) the contrary, thai the various forms \nof insanity \xe2\x80\x94 th;>t all the aifectfons comprehended under the \n\'general terms of mental derangement \xe2\x80\x94 are only evidences of \ncerebral affe-ctions, dij^ordered manifestations of those organs \nwhose healthy action produces the plienomena called men- \ntal ; in short, symptoms of diseased bran). \n\n\'" These symptoms have the same relation to the brain, as \nvomiting, itidigestion, heart burn, to the stomach; cough, \nasthma, to the lungs ; or aisy other deranged functions to their \ncorrespondent organs, \n\n" If the biliary secretion be increased, diminished, sus- \npended, or altered, we have no hesitation in referring to chan- \nges in the condition of the hver, as the imnjediate cause of \nthese phenomena. We explain the state ot" respiration, whe- \nther slow, hurried, impeded by cough, spastn, &c. by the va- \nrious conditions of the lungs and otht^r parts concerned in \nbreathing. These explanations are deemed perfectly satis- \nfactory. \n\n*\' What should we think of a person who told us that the \norgans liave nothing to do with the business; that cholera, \njaundice, hepatitis, are diseases of an immaterial hepatic be- \ning; that asthma, cough, consumption, are atfections of a sub- \ntile pulmonary matter ; or that in both cases the disorder \nis not in bodily organs, but in a vital principle? If such a \nstatement would be deemed too absurd for any serious com- \nment in the derangement of the liver, lungs, and other organ- \nic pails, how can it be received m the brain ? \n\n\n\n439 \n\n"The very persons who use this langnagje of diseases of \nthe mind, speak and reason correctly respecting the other af- \nfectiotis of the hrain. When it is conapressed hy a piece of \nbone, or etfused blood or seruna, and when all intellectual \nphenonaena are more or le\xc2\xabs completely suspe;:ded, they do \nnot say that the mind is squeezed. tha( the immatena! prin- \nciple suffers pressure. For the ravines of delirujin and phren- \nzv. the excitation and subsequent stupor of mtoxication, ihey \nfind ail adequate explanatioh m the slate ot the ( cebral Cir- \nculation, without fancying that the mind is deliriou>, mad, or \ndrur)k. \n\n\'\' In these cases the seat of the disease, the cause of the \nsymptoms, is too obvious to e>cape notice. In many forms \nof insanity, the atfeciion of the cerebral organization is less \nstroniJjly marked, slower in its progress, but {generally ver> re- \ncognizable, and abundantlv sufficient to explain the diseased \nmanifestation,-- -to afford a material orgnnic canst- for the \nphenomena \xe2\x80\x94 for the augmented or diminished energy, or the \naltered nature of the various feelings and intellectual facul- \nties. \n\n" I have examined after death the heads of many insane \npersons, and have hardly seen a single brain which did not \nexhibii obvious marks of disease ; in recent ca>es, loaded ves- \nsels, increased serous secretions: in all instances of longer \nduration, unequivocal signs of present or past increased ac- \ntion : blood vessels apparently more numerous, membranes \nthickened and opaque, depositions of coagulabie l)m| >h fonn- \ning adhesions or adventitious membranes, watery effuMons, \neven abscesses : add to ihis. the insane ofien become para- \nlytic, or are suddenly cut off by apoplexy. \n\n" Sometimes, indeed, the mental phenomena are disturbed \nwithout any visible deviation from the lieahhv structure of \nthe brain : as digestion or biliary secretion may be unpaired \nor alteied without any recognizable change of slructure in \nthe stomach or liver. The brain, lil^e oth( r parfs of this \ncomplicated machine, may be diseased synripathetically ; and \nwe see it recover. \n\n" Thus we find the brain, like other parts, subject to what \nis called functional disorder^ but, aithough we cannot actu- \nally demonstrate the tact, we no more doubt that the material \ncause of the symptoms or external siijns of disease is in ihss \norgan, than we do that impaired biliary secieiion has its \n\n\n\n440- \n\nsource in the liver, or faulty digestion in the stomach. The\' \nbrain does not often r.ome under the inspection of the anato- \nmist, in such cases of functional disorder; and lam convin- \nced, from my own experience, that very few heads of persons \nd)ing deranged will be examined after death, without show- \ning diseased structure, or evident signs of increased vascular \nactivity. \n\n" The effect of medical treatment completely corroborates \nthese views. Indeed, they who talk of and l)elievein diseas- \nes of the mind, are too wjse to put their trust in mental reme- \ndies. Arguments, syllogisms, discourses, sermons, have nev- \ner yet restored any patient ; the moral pharmacopceia is \nquite inefficient ; and no real benefit can be conferred with- \nout vigorous medica! treatment, which is as efficacious as in \nthe diseases of any other organ. \n\n" In thus drawing your attention to the physiology of the\' \nbrain, I have been influenced not merely by the intrinsic in- \nterests and importance of the subject, but by a wi*h to exem- \nplify (he aid which human and comparative anatomy and \nphysiology are capable of affi^rding each other, and to show \nhow the data furnished by both tend to illustrate pathology. \nI have purposely avoided noticing those considerations of the \ntendeticy of certain physiological doctrines, winch have some- \ntimes been industriously mixed up with these disquisitions. \nIn defence of a weak cause, and in failure of direct arguments, \nappeals to the passions and prejudices have been indulged ; \nattempts have been made to fix public odium on the support- \ners of this or that opinion ; and direct charges of bad motives \nand injurious consequences have been reintorced by all the \narts of misrepresentation, insinuation, and inuendo. \n\n" To discover truth, and to represent it in the clearest and \nmost intelligent manner, seem to me the only proper objects \nof physiological, or indeed of any other inquiries. Free dis- \ncussion is the surest way, not only to disclose and strengthen \nwhat is true, but to detect and expose what is fallacious. Let \nus not then pay so bad a com{)!iment to truth, as to use in its \ndefence foul blows and unlawtui weapons. Its adversaries, if \nit has any, will be despatched soon enough without the aid of \nthe stiletto and (he bowl. \n\nThe argument against the expediency of divulging an opin- \nion, although it may be true, from the possibility of its being \nperverted, has been so much hackneyed, so often employed \n\n\n\n441 \n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXVI. \n\n\n\nSome of the Difficulties that attend the Hypothesis of Soul, \nbut do not attend the Doctrine of Materialism. \n\nOne of the greatest absurdities ever admitted by men, is \nthe existence of an unextended being. It is astonishing that \nany man of common sense, should give his assent to such \na whim. We should think that before any man would ad- \nmit the existence of an unextended being, he would disregard \nall facts, \xe2\x80\x94 abandon all reasoning, and boldly assert that the \nsoul is extended. Yet it appears that philosophers have \nnot done this ; but have regarded the difficulties that attend \nthe idea of the soul being extended, and freely admitted that \nit has neither parts nor extension. But passing by this diffi- \nculty, vye would ask where the soul comes from ? \xe2\x80\x94 Oh, from \nthe celestial regions, to be sure. Well, then, is it a part of \nthe immaterial Deity himself\xe2\x80\x94 who by the by we must sup- \npose to be unextended and destitute of parts ; for if the want \nof the property of extension be essential to the immateriality \nof one being, it must be to another \xe2\x80\x94 or is it something made \nby the Deity ? And if the latter, w^ere all souls made at the \ntime the Deity created all thmgs, or are souls made as there \nis a demand for them ? \xe2\x80\x94 -which demand is sometimes greater, \nand sometimes less, as we may well suppose, \xe2\x80\x94 depending al- \ntogether on the accidents that befall certain individuals ! But \nif all souls were made at the time the Deity creaied ail things, \nwhat are they about before they enter human bodies ? It is \nprobable that they can think before they enter the body ; if \nthey cannot, what reason have we to suppose that they can \nafter they fly away from it ? If our souls did think before they \nentered our bodies, they cannot remember that they did, now \nthey are in our bodies ; and if our souls cannot remember in \nthe body wdiat they thought out of it, why should we suppose \nthat after they get out of it, they can remember what they \nthought while in it ? And if, after the soul gets out of the bo- \ndy, it cannot remember what it thought while in the body, \nwhy should it be rewarded or punished for what it made the \nbody do ? It wouH be like punishing Sam for the deeds of \nThomas ; or like punishing a man for deeds which he can \nhave no idea of ever doing. Again, how can hell-iire, or any \nother agent, operate upon an unextended thing so as to re- \nward it or punish it ? Do you tell me that there is no reward- \n\n56 \n\n\n\n442- \n\nii]g or punishing until after the body is reorganized ? Why,^ \nthen, all this fuss and contention with reiicrionists about the \nexistence of souls, since our future happiness, after all, de- \npends on the reorganization of the body ? \n\nAre all souls originally alike ? If you say so, (hen you give \norganization nearly as much credit as the materialist contends \nfor ; since it is difference of organization that makes all the \ndifference between a Newton and an idiot, or a Newton \nand a fiea."^\' If not alike, we cannot suppose it is a matter \nof indifference what soul enters this or that infant\'s l.rain ; \nand the question arises : whaf sorts out and directs the pro- \nper souls to the right brains, \xe2\x80\x94 the male souls to the male \nbrains, and the female souls to the female brains ; the Hot- \ntentot souls to the Hottentot brains ; and the European souls \nto the European brains ? Do you say that God directs tliem ? \nPraj, what are your notions of the relation that subsists be- \ntween the Creator and the events of the universe ? Did not \nGod so organize the universe that all natural events take \nplace by virtue of this organization \xe2\x80\x94 though God is the first \ncause of all things, is he the immediate cause of any natural \nevent ? docs the fire snap, does water run down hill, docs the \nbrain think, because the Deity is continually exercising his \ninfluence to produce these events ? \xe2\x80\x94 is God, as it were, a \nslave to his own creation ? or, like a skilful artist, did he not \nso organize this wonderful machine, the universe, that it con- \ntinues in harmonious operation without his immediate ngen- \nGy ; and will thus continue, until it be stopped by the same \npower that created it? Any other supposition but this last, \nwould be absurd and degrading. Now the generation and^ \ngrowth of the material body, are natural events \xe2\x80\x94 tht:y are \nnot miracles \xe2\x80\x94 we can trace their connexion with other natu- \n\n* Abernethy, in his very unsuccessful crusade against his brother \nprofessor a materialist, not only admits that the brain is as much \nan organ of thought, as the liver and stomach are organs for the se- \ncretion of bile and gastric juice, but s*3\'s : \xe2\x80\x94 \'\xe2\x80\xa2 It seems to me more \nreasonable to suppose that whatever is percepive [meaning his \npercipierif principle, which is but another nHme for soul,] may be \nvariously atierted by means of vital actions transmitted throt^gh a \ndiversity of organization, than to suppose that such variety dej)ends \nupon original differences in the nature of rhe percipient principle." \nSee his Reflections on Gall and Spurzheim\'s System of Physiogno- \nmy and Phrenology, P 75. to be found in the second volume of liis \nSurgical and Physiological works. \n\n\n\n443 \n\nTal events. But between the generation of a homunculus. \nand the starting \xc2\xa9r a sou] from the celestial reg.ons, we can \ntrace no counexioi). \xe2\x80\x94 The soul JS!jtartecl and directed hy the \nimmediate agency of the Dtiity, and of course, this event is a \nmiracle. And a perfect and entire man, accordina; to the im- \nmaterial hypothesis, is not altogether a natural production ; \nbut he is brought into being, partly by natural operations, \nand partly by nuracle ! \n\nAfter the soul is snugly nested in the brain, what does it \ndo? Answer, it perceives, thinks, judges, &;c. Now beasts, \nbirds, fish, and insects, perceive, and almost all of them evi- \ndently think ; and to think is essentially the same, as we \nhave shown, as to judge, reason, &c. \xe2\x80\x94 judgmg is but a mode \nof thinking ; and animals judge differesitiy, because they pos- \nsess diiferent sensorial tendencies. Now what will you do \nwith the souls of beasts, tish, and msects ? If the soul be ne- \ncessarily, and in its very nature immortal, then ail souls must \ncontinue to live, (if any body can tell what the life of a soul \nconsists in,) whether in the body or out. But if the soul be \nnot naturally immortal \xe2\x80\x94 and we have not even scripture tes- \ntimony tiiat it is \xe2\x80\x94 what reason has it for flattering itself that \nit will exist and be conscious after the body is dead, any more \nthan the body has for believing that it will exist in a future \nstate \xe2\x80\x94 which body has the assurance of scripture, at least, \nthat it will be reorganized. \n\nHow does the soul seated in the brain, perceive objects ex- \nterior to the body, and in many instances quite distant frona \nit ? You have already seen that some supposed that the soul \nquits the body, and flies to the object ; and others, that some \nimage, species, or phantasm, flies from the object and enters \nthe brain, to be present to the soul : which last supposition \nis the branch that gave rise to the sceptical philosophy of \nBerkley and Hume. But if it should be said that when a \nman sees, (to say nothing of other perceptions,) rays of light \nexcite an action in his optic nerves and brain, and this action \nof the brain excites an action or change (no matter which \nword you use,) of the unextended soul \xe2\x80\x94 yes, an \xc2\xabch"rm of an \nimexiendcd soul !- and that this action constitutes the seeing ; \nI would ask why we should not say that the actions of the \noptic nerves and brain constitute the seeing, and not suppose \nthe existence of an inconceivable somethmg of which there \nis no evidence, \xe2\x80\x94 It is just as conceivable that an action of aB \n\n\n\n444 \n\norgan constitutes a sensation or a thought, as that an aciion \nof something else consl; lutes a thougiit. \n\nAgain, how does a thing which possesses no parts, sec, hear, \nand think, at the same time ? Diiferent parts of an extended \nthing, may exist in diiferent states, or take on different ac- \ntions, at the same time; but if a certain state or action of an \nunextended thing be essential to the existence of a certain \nsensation, and another state or action, to the existence of a \ncertain other sensation ; then it is absolately impossible for \nthis unextended thing to be at one time in such state as (o \nconstitute both these sensations : but we can sec, Iiear, feel, \nand even think, at the same time. \xe2\x80\x94 Remember what is said \nin the chapter on sensation and perception. \n\nFurthermore, if an unextended soul, seated in ihe head, be \nthat which is conscious, how does consciousness or feeling \xe2\x80\x94 \nwhich is generally a much higiicr degree of consciousness \nthan mere thinking \xe2\x80\x94 exist in the foot, or any other member; \nand this too even while thinking is going on in the head>? No- \nthing can be conscious where it is not, any more than 7Dhen it \nis not ; now we know that we often experience feelings in \ndifferent parts of our bodies at times when the soul cannot be \nin such parts; for thinking is at the time going on in our heads; \nand not only this, but an unextended thing cannot be in two \ndifferent parts of our bodies \xe2\x80\x94 to say nothing of the head \xe2\x80\x94 at \nthe same time. Should any one have the hardihood to as- \nsert that the soul extends throughout all nervous iamifications \nthat lake on conscient actions, or in other words, possess sen- \nsibility; 1 would just ask him to imagine what a queer shaped \nthiiig it is, and how it would look, if by some chemical agent \nthe nervous system should be dissolved, and the soul at the \nsame time be endowed with the power of reflecting light. \nMethinks it would look somewhat like a snarled skein of \nyarn, or a horse\'s tail that needed combing. I would ask. \ntoo, wdiat becomes of that part of the soul which is cut off \nwhen a man has a leg amputated! and what makes the soul \ngrow, so as to keep pace with the growth and extension of \nnervous system ? \n\nThe immaterialists have not informed us at what period \nthe soul enters the brain; but those of modern times main- \ntain that when it does enter, it is as destitute of ideas as an \nunwritten sheet of paper is of words ; (and for my own part I \ncannot conceive how an unextended thing can ever contain \nor possess ideas, or any thing that can give rise to ideas ;) but \n\n\n\n445 \n\npresently the brain begins to act upon it \xe2\x80\x94 now it is that it \nbegitis to perceive, to have ideas, and to think ; and now it is \nthat thej regard the soul as a fiddle, and the brain as the tid- \ndler that plays upon it \xe2\x80\x94 the perceptions, thoughts, &c., con- \nstituting the music. Bat after a time the child becomes a \nman, and the man becomes insane; the physician now pro- \nceeds to bleed, blister, physic, and salivate, just as he does in \nother bodily diseases ; and finally cures the insanity ; or, the \nman dying, an obvious disease of his brain is discovered. The \nimmaterialist now begins to reason. The soul, thinks he, is \nan immaterial, indivisible, imfnortai thing; now can we sup- \npose that such a thing is ever sick ? or can we suppose that a \nsick soul, if there ever were such a thing, is to be cured by \ncalomel, jaiap, and blistering plasters? No, this would be ab- \nsurd \xe2\x80\x94 an immortal soul is never sick \xe2\x80\x94 tlie truth is, the brain \nis the instrument by which the soul operates; and when the \ninstrument is out of order, the best musician in the world \ncannot play upon it so as to make harmonious music. Thus \nwe see that at one time the immaterialists tell us that the \nbrain plays upon the soul, at another, that the soul plays up- \non the brain \xe2\x80\x94 first one is the fiddle and then the other, just as \nthe d\'.fliculties attending the immaterial hypothesis seem to \nrequire i^\'" \n\n* Dr. John x\\rmstroi]g, in his work on Fever, says, page 360, \n361," It might be shown by familiar facts, that the brain is the \nprincipal organ through wliich the operations of the mind are per- \nformed ; and it does not, as many have supposed, necessarily m- \nvolve the doctrine of materialism to affirm, that certain disorders of \nthat organ are capable of disturbing those operations. If the most \nskillfiil musician in the world were placed before an unstrung and \nbroken instrument he could not produce the harmony which he was \naccustomed to when the instrument was perfect ; nay, on the con- \ntrary, the sound would be discordant; and yet it would be mani- \nfestly most illogical to conclude, from such an effect, that the pow- \ners of the musician were impaired, since they merely appear to be \nso from the imperfection of the instrument. Now, what the instru- \nment is to the musician, the brain may be to the mind, for aught \nwe know to the contrary : and to pursue the figure, as the musi- \ncian has an existence distinct from the instrument, so the mind may \nhave an existence dislinct from that of the brain ; f<^r in truth we \nhave no proof whatever, of mind being a property dependent \nupon any arrangement of matter." It evidently never came into \nArmstrong\'s head that there is no such thing as mind. Had he \nsaid, we have no proof that a man\'s ability to think, is dependent \n\n\n\n44G \n\nNow, reader, as we have got through with the argumentative part \n^f this work, if you please, we\'ll have a i!t!!e chitchat together, \nand I will then leave you to your own cogitations. 1 presun\xc2\xbbe you \nhave been interested in perusing this work, or you would not have \narrived to this place. I cannot believe you have used me so un- \nfairly as to tumble over the leaves, n-ading a little here and a little \nthere, with no other view than to find something to refute or con- \ndemn ; if you have, fire away ! but be careful that you do not \nshoot at a shadow\xe2\x80\x94many a time has an author been combatted, \nbecause he was not atienfively read and rightly understood. But \nif you are a lover of truth, (as all profess to be,) and have been in- \nterested in perusing this wo.k, because you believed I was doing \nsomething to further the caiise of it ; you will be pleased, Ithink, \nto know a little more about me. and how I came to be such an in- \nfidel as lanj. \xe2\x80\x94 Now then you shall have a little bit of my history. \nAs it respects the \'\' inner man," 1 am a sort of self-made creature, \nnot yet 29 years of age. I suppose my books would excite more \nnotice, were 1 some big professor, with a head of grey hairs upon \ntny shoulders ; but as I have all along endeavored to tell you the \ntruth, boldli/, I do not intend to alter my hand now, for any pecu- \nniary consideration. At Templeton, this state, (Mass.) 1 was \nborn and bred o farmer. My parents are still living. They never \n\xe2\x80\xa2enjoyed any advantages for acquiring knowledge, though I believe \nthey possess pretty well organized brains. They brought me up in \nthe \'\' fear of, the Lord," and, with much adoj taught me the West- \nminster Catechism, for I was a confounded dull scholar until 14 or \n15 years of age After this period I made some proficiency in fig- \nures and the English grammar, considering my opportunities ; for \nI worked like a good fellow on the farm, at least 9 months in the \n\non any arrangement or combination of matter, I could contradict \nhim flatly, for we have just as much proof that it does, as we have \nthat gold is yellow, heavy, and ductile. At page 362, he says, \n" Maddess is indeed an awful malady, and might at first sight con- \nvey the impression, that mind itself is liable to the changes and \n<lecay of oar material structure, but it surely onl}? shows the inti- \nmate connexion it has with matter : for I have seen no case of this \ndistase in ivhich there were not previously the most distinct evi- \ndence of some disorder in the brain to which the madness might be \nvejhrrpd (u a consequence.^\'\' i adduce this last quotation as evi- \ndencej if further evidence be needed, that it is the brain that thinks. \nAs to Dr, Armstrong, comparing the brain to a fiddle or any \nother musical instrument, we have no objections, but it is very \nstrange that he should not be aware, that itis played upon by the \nimpressions made upon our senses. \n\n\n\n447 \n\nyear, until 17 or }o years of age. From this age to tliat of 21V \nmy health was such that J could noi labor. During this lime I \nspent nearly three months in an academy, where I studied the \nmathematics and the English language } and I [lever studied any \nother language under the tuition of an) one, witii the exception of \nDr. Charles \\dams, of Keene, N. H. Being under hi? care as a \npatient for a few weeks, he spent a few hours, during this time, in \nhearing my lei^sons? in the Latin grammar. A short time before i \nwas 21,1 married. My father in law, Mr Richard Stuart, of Win- \nchendon, Mass. possessed Paine\'s Age ofReason, and spoke highly \nof ir ; but I rared not a fig for it \xe2\x80\x94 did not read it : 1 supposed it a \nbad book, and its author a very wicked man. Mr, Stuart, too, was, \nand still is, a materialist in reality ; but in those days I knew not \nwhat materialism is\xe2\x80\x94 f remember asking him one day what he \nsupposed becomes of tiie soul v.\'hen a person dies : he gave nie no \nanswer but this : \xe2\x80\x94 What becomes of the blaze of a candle when \nyou blow it out ? Soon after 21 years of age, I began to study med- \nicine, under very unpropiiious circumstances, first with Dr. Chijrles \nWilder of Templeton ; then with Dr. Stephen Batchelier of Koy- \nalston : and lastly v.\'ith Dr. Amos Tv\xc2\xbb?itchell of Keene, N. H. \xe2\x80\x94 in \nthe mean time attending two courses of medical lectures at Hano- \nver, where I received the degree of M. D. 1824. While with Dr. \nBatcheller, I read Bichat\'s works. This author maintains that \nsome of the passions have their seat in ih*^* thoracic and abdominal \nviscera, \xe2\x80\x94 a doctrine with winch I v\\\'as not satisfied. Here I began \nto cogitate concerning the constitution and phenomena of .man. \nSo far as I can remember, 1 had a notion something like this : \xe2\x80\x94 \nThat the soul or mind is nothing that comes fr(\xc2\xbbm the celestial re- \ngions \xe2\x80\xa2 but something which the br tin forms, or to which it gives \nrise, as the liver does to bile ; that ideas come by way of the sen- \nses; and when they are in the mind, they are real ideas, or rather, \nthe mind sees them or is conscious of their existence; but they soon< \ndodge out into some part of the brain ; but may be brought back \nagain into the mind by the memory. I believ< d that the passions \nmust have their seat in the nervous system, and that every man \nwould believe so too, if it could be showii how th^y influence the \naction of the heart, the secretion of bile, &c. upon this supposition. \nThis 1 thought I could do ; therefore I concluded to write my \ngraduating thesis on the passions. Before I undertook to write this \nthesis, matters so turned out, that I was safely lodged in Worcester \njail, for the no less heinous crime than that of being instrumental \n(as was supposed) in depriving a parcel of worms of their dinner. \nHere I was without books, excepting Good\'s Study of Medicine. \nAt the time of entering the jail, where I ri-mained two months, I \nfirmly believed in the existence of souls, and although 1 supposed \nthena to be formed by the brain, I believed that they may exist in- \n\n\n\n443 \n\ndependent of it, as biie may exist intlependent of the liver. I be- \nlieved that something which I can call myself, wid exist in a slate \nof consciousness^ immediately as it respects time, after Ciiarles \nKnowlton dies. I did not kn^w that any man ever doubted the \nexistence of soul ? I knew there were, or had been, materialists in \nthe world; but I supposed they held, that the soul is \'\xe2\x96\xa0 formed of \nthe finest, lightest, smoothest, and most moveable material elements, \nand hence exquisitely etherialized and voIatiUi " Strnnge as it may \nappear, I did not understand from Good\'s remarks concerning Pro- \nfessor Lawrence\'s hypothesis, in the proem to the third volume of \nbis Study of Medicine, that Lawrence disbelieved the real existence \nof soul or mind. Under these circumstances I began to write my \nthesis on the passions ; I soon met with insurmountable difficulties \n\xe2\x80\x94 the soul appeared to be much in my way. At last thinks I, as I \nlay on my couch one night, what if I should put the soul entirely \naside for the present \xe2\x80\x94 say that an Miction of the brain is a thought, \nand an action of the brain and a nerve together, a sensation ; and \nsee how we can explain matters and things upon this supposition? \nGood George ! how things were altered -every thing was now plain \nand easy; the very facts which before puzzled me, now helped me. \nI lived light and regularly, took no stimulus, my brain was in an \nexcellent thinking condition ; and 1 soon hit upon several of the \nmore important pririciples of this work I supposed I had made a \nnew discovery ; yet I could hardly believe that / had hit upon a \ntruth which thousands of learned searchers had faileu to discover. \nBut having never sot hold of any work written by a materialist, un- \ntil within ten months from the present time; it is not two years \nsince I was satisfied that any one ever believed there is no sucii \nthing as a mind (either material or immaterial) distinct from the \nbrain. \n\nThere is scarcely a sentence of mine in this work, but what I \nhave composed within the last 12 months, and under circumstances \nthat would prevent most men from sleeping. For the last four \nmonths, instead of correcting its errors, a- I ought to have done, I \nhave been almost wholly employed in other business. I never ob- \ntained Lawrence\'s work, until the present was chiefly written; nor \nBrown\'s Philosophy, until about fourteen months ago \xe2\x80\x94 Brown \nhelped me to langu ige, but I cannot say but that my notions con- \ncerning power, cause, and effect, were much the same before I read \nhis work as now. \n\nI mention these things to show that I did not receive my opi- \nnions by inoculation ; but that they are the natural and irresistible \nconclusions to which the physical facts known to me, give rise. \n\nP. S\xc2\xbb It was >4 months ago, that out of mere cariosity, T obtain- \ned the hadhook I have mentioned : 1 shall only add, 1 was very \nmuch disappointed in the work. \n\n\n\n\\\\ \n\n\n\nDeacidified using the Bookkeeper process. \nNeutralizing agent: Magnesium 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\n'