"* «F o ^ A- : •/ # .< . . '^A <° -> " . v ... ^ ^ .* ^ -^ ' -S -^ 8 , A • s > <^V ^ ■i* s. x° °-. '/ ^ £<; / <- V '"+# -; '+ A\ ■ ELEMENTARY SKETCHES MORAL PHILOSOPHY, DELIVERED AT THE ROYAL INSTITUTION, IN THE YEARS 1804, 1805, and 1806. BY THE LATE rev. sydneyIsmith, m.a NEW YORK: HARPER & BROTHERS, PUBLISHERS, 329 doubts of the e ence of matter ? who doubts of his own personal identity ? or of his consciousness ? or of the general credibility of memory ? Men talk on such subjects : ostentation, or because such wire-drawn speculation^ an agreeable exercise to them ; but they are perpetuallv recalled by the necessary bne e sub- jects. Errors, to be dangerous, must have a great deal of truth mingled with them ; it is only from this alii • that they can ever obtain an extensive circulation : from pure extravagance, and genuine, onmingled : hood, the world never has. and never can sustain any mischief. It is not in our power to believe all that we please ; our belief is modified and restrained bv the nature of our faculties, and by the constitution of the objects by which we are surrounded. We may be", any thing for a moment, but we shall soon be lashed out of our impertinence, by hard and stubborn realities. A great philosopher may sit in his study, and deny the existence of matter ; but if lie take a walk in th INTRODUCTORY LECTURE, 17 he must take care to leave his theory behind him. Pyrrho said there was no such thing as pain ; and he saw no proof that there were such things as carts, and wagons ; and he refused to get out of their way : but Pyrrho had, fortunately for him, three or four stout slaves, who followed their master, without following his doctrine ; and whenever they saw one of these ideal machines approaching, took him up by the arms and legs, and, without attempting to controvert his arguments, put him down in a place of safety. If you will build an error upon some foundation of truth, you may effect your object; you may divert a little rivulet from the great stream of nature, and train it cautiously, and obliquely, away ; but if you place yourself in the very depth of her almighty channel, and combat with her eternal streams, you will be swept off without ruffling the smoothness, or impeding the vigor, of her course. With respect to skepticism on subjects of natural and revealed religion, I can really see no connection between such species of doubts, and an investigation into the structure of the human mind. Thus much is true, that out of a certain number of men who exercise their un- derstanding vigorously, and the same number who do not exercise it at all, we shall have many more dissen- tients to any thing established by evidence, among the first class, than the second. Among a hundred plough- men, we should not find one skeptic ; among the same number of men of very cultivated faculties, we should probably find some who entertained captious and frivo- lous doubts against religion ; but then there is no more probability that this science should produce such men, than any other science, which compels us to a rigorous exercise of all the powers of the mind : the objection seems to be against exercising the faculties altogether, not against exercising them in this particular manner ; but surely it is a sad way to cure the excesses of the human mind, by benumbing it ; and a very narrow view of the resources of art, to suppose there is no other remedy for the irregular action of any part, than by its destruction. I might do here what I have done before in speaking of the extravagance of some reasoners upon 18 INTRODUCTORY LECTURE. these subjects, — institute a parallel between the tendency to religious skepticism, produced by this science, and many others ; a much wiser and better man than I, however, shall do it for me. In speaking of the decline of materialism, Mr. Dugald Stewart says :* " There has certainly been, since the time of Descartes, a continual, and, on the whole, a very remarkable approach to the inductive plan of studying human nature. We may trace this in the writings even of those who profess to consider thought merely as an agitation of the brain. In the writings of Helvetius and of Hume, both of whom, although they may occasionally have expressed them- selves in an unguarded manner concerning the nature of mind, have, in their most useful and practical disquisi- tions, been prevented, by their own good sense, from blending any theory with respect to the causes of the intellectual phenomena with the history of facts, or the investigation of general laws. The authors who form the most conspicuous exceptions to this gradual progress, consist chiefly of men whose errors may be easily ac- counted for, by the prejudices connected with their circumscribed habits of observation and inquiry; — of physiologists, accustomed to attend to that part alone of the human frame which the knife of the anatomist can lay open ; — or of chemists, who enter on the analysis of thought, fresh from the decompositions of the laboratory ; carrying into the theory of mind itself (what Bacon ex- pressively calls) the smoke and tarnish of the furnace.'' But what are we to do ? If the enemies of religion de- rive subtilty and acuteness from this pursuit, ought not their own weapons to be turned against them ? and ought not some to study for defense, if others do for the purposes of aggression ? When the old anarch Hobbes came out to destroy the foundations of morals, who en- tered the lists against him ? Not a man afraid of meta- physics, not a man who had become skeptical as he had become learned, but Ralph Cudworth. Doctor oi Divinity —a man who had learned much from reading the errors of the human mind, and from deep meditation its nature: * Life of Reid, p Bl l«Q* INTRODUCTORY LECTURE. 19 ! • i who made use of those errors to avoid them, and derived ij from that meditation principles too broad and too deep I to be shaken : such a man was gained to the cause of j morality, and religion, by these sciences. These sci- ences certainly made no infidel of Bishop Warburton, j as Chubb, Morgan, Tindal, and half a dozen others found | to their cost. Tucker, the author of " The Light of | Nature," was no skeptic, Locke was no skeptic, Hartley j was no skeptic, nor was Lord Verulam. Malebranche j and Arnauld were both of them exceedingly pious men. | We none of us can believe that Dr. Paley has exercised | his mind upon intellectual philosophy in vain. The j fruits of it in him, are sound sense delivered so perspic- I uously that a man may profit by it, and a child may comprehend it : solid decision, not anticipated by inso lence, but earned by fair argument \ manly piety, un- adulterated by superstition, and never disgraced by cant. The child that is unborn will thank that man for his labors.* I have already quoted too many names, but I must not omit one which would alone have been sufficient to have shown that there is no necessary connection be- tween skepticism and the philosophy of the human mind ; I mean Bishop Butler. To his sermons we are indebted for the complete overthrow of the selfish system ; and to his " Analogy," for the most noble and surprising defense of revealed religion, perhaps, which has ever yet been made of any system whatever. But there is no occasion * Sir James Mackintosh says, in his introductory Law lecture (p. 32): — " The same reason will excuse me for passing over in silence the works of many philosophers and moralists, to whom, in the course of my pro- posed lectures, I shall owe and confess the greatest obligations ; and it might perhaps deliver me from the necessity of speaking of Dr. Paley, if I were not desirous of this public opportunity of professing my gratitude for the instruction and pleasure which I have received from that excel- lent writer, who possesses, in so eminent a degree, those invaluable quali- ties of a moralist — good sense, caution, sobriety, and perpetual reference to convenience and practice ; and who certainly is thought less original than he really is, merely because his taste and modesty have led him to disdain the ostentation of novelty, and because he generally employs more art to blend his own arguments with the body of received opinions (so as that they are scarce to be distinguished), than other men, in the pursuit of a transient popularity, have exerted to disguise the most miserable commonplaces in the shape of paradox," 20 INTRODUCTORY LECTURE. to prop this argument up by great names. The school of natural religion is the contemplation of nature ; the ancient anatomist who was an atheist, was converted by the study of the human body : he thought it impossible that so many admirable contrivances should exist, with- out an intelligent cause ; — and if men can become reli- gious from looking at an entrail, or a nerve, can they be taught atheism from analyzing the structure of the human mind ? Are not the affections and passions which shake the very entrails of man, and the thoughts and feelings which dart along those nerves, more indicative of a God than the vile perishing instruments themselves ? Can you remember the nourishment which springs up in the breast of a mother, and forget the feelings which spring up in her heart ? If God made the blood of man, did he not make that feeling, which summons the blood to his face, and makes it the sign of guilt and of shame? You may show me a human hand, expatiate upon the singular contrivance of its sinews, and bones ; how admirable, how useful, for all the purposes of grasp, and flexure : / will show you, in return, the mind, receiving her tribute from the senses ; — comparing, reflecting, compounding, dividing, abstracting ; — the passions soothing, aspirin?, exciting, till the whole icorld falls under the dominion of man ; evincing that in his mind the Creator has reared up the noblest emblem of his wisdom, and his power. The philosophy of the human mind is no school for infi- delity, but it excites the warmest feelings of piety, and defends them with the soundest reason. One of the great impediments attendant upon this branch of knowledge is the natural and original dirfieulty of reflecting upon the operations of our own minds. It is much more easy, for instance, to think of the parts an intricate machine, than of any act of memory, judg- ment, or imagination. We may attribute this to the necessity we are under of attending to objects o( sense, from our earliest infancy. 'We are under no necessity of attending with great carefulness and precision to the operations of our minds; but we must examine, over and over again, with extreme care, the ideas of our sei> s, for the mere purposes of security, and existeiv INTRODUCTORY LECTURE. 21 gives us a familiarity with one set of ideas, that we have had no opportunity of acquiring in the other; and makes this species of study very difficult, and very painful. Perhaps no habit would ever render it as easy to attend to the manner in which our mind acts, as to attend to those notions we have gathered from the eye, and the ear, and the touch. Providence, intending man for a life of greater activity than contemplation, has placed this impediment to the free exercise of thought, and made use of the pain which generally accompanies profound meditation, as a check and barrier to human power. Another difficulty which attends this study, is the metaphorical nature of its language. Mankind first give names to the objects of sense which surround them, — to the sun, the wind, the rain, the mountains, woods, and sea ; and having established this nomenclature, they call the mind, and its faculties, by the name of some object to which they appear to bear a resemblance. For the soul, they have generally taken the name of the most subtile and invisible fluid w T ith which they were acquainted ; and, accordingly, in a great variety of languages it is signified by the same word which signifies wind, or breath.* The misfortune is, that this borrowed language insen- sibly betrays us into false notions of the human under- standing, from which we find it rather difficult to disentangle ourselves. For instance, we talk about recollecting a place as if we had gathered together the * " It may lead us a little toward the original of all our notions and knowledge, if we remark how great a dependence our words have on common sensible ideas, and how those which are made use of to stand for actions and notions quite removed from sense, have their rise from thence, and from obvious, sensible ideas, are transferred to more abstruse signifi- cations, and made to stand for ideas, that come not under the cognizance of our senses ; v. g., to imagine, apprehend, comprehend, adhere, conceive, instill, disgust, disturbance, tranquillity, <&c, are all words taken from the operations of sensible things, and applied to certain modes of thinking. J Spirit, in its primary signification, is breath ; — angel, a messenger : and I doubt not, but, if we could trace them to their sources, we should find, in all languages, the names, which stand for things that fall under our senses, I to have had their first rise from sensible ideas." — Locke, book iii. chap, i, paragraph 5, p. 190. 22 INTRODUCTORY LECTURE. ideas of the parlor, and the drawing-room, and the grass-plot, which lay dispersed in different parts of the brain, and put them into the order in which they really exist. This is what the word seems to suggest, and what, I fancy, many people actually suppose to take place in their understandings ; whereas the real fact is (as I shall show in some future lecture at full length), that one idea of the whole train first presents itself to our mind, and after we have made every effort to dwell upon, and retain this, the others follow of their own ac- cord, without any power of ours, exactly in the order in which they had been previously observed. It would, however, be extremely curious and useful, to collect, in a great variety of languages, all the similitudes which mankind have hit upon, for the operations and divisions of the faculties of the mind. Such a long, extensive, and authentic record of human opinions upon these subjects, might give birth to many interesting speculations, and throw some light upon questions which have long been the opprobrium of this science. Some very considerable men are accustomed to hold very strong and sanguine language respecting the important discoveries which are to be made in Moral Philosophy, from a close attention to facts ; and by that method of induction which has been so invaluably em- ployed in Natural Philosophy : but then this appears to be the difference ; — that Natural Philosophy is directed to subjects with which we are little or imperfectly ac- quainted ; Moral Philosophy investigates faculties we have always exercised, and passions we have always felt. Chemistry, for instance, is perpetually bringing to light fresh existences ; four or five new metals have been discovered within as many years, of the existence of which no human being could have had any suspicion ; but no man, that I know of, pretends to discover four or five new passions, neither can any thing very new be discovered of those passions and faculties with which mankind are already familiar. We are, in natural philos- ophy, perpetually making discoveries of new properties in bodies, with whose existence we have been acquainted for centuries : Sir James Hall has just discovered that INTRODUCTORY LECTURE. 23 lime can be melted by carbonic acid ; — but who hopes that he can discover any new flux for avarice ? or any improved method of judging, and comparing ? We have have had no occasion to busy ourselves with the chro- mian or Titanian metal ; but we have commonly em- ployed our minds for twenty or thirty years, before we begin to speculate upon them. There may, indeed, be speculative discoveries made with respect to the human mind ; for instance, Mr. Dugald Stewart contends that attention should be classed among our faculties. Now if attention be a faculty, it is certainly a discovery, for nobody had ever so classed it before Mr. Stewart : but whether it be so, or only a mode of other faculties, it is of no consequence in practice ; for nobody has ever been ignorant of the importance and efficacy of attention, whether it be one thing, or whether it be the other. So with that notion of the Rev. Mr. Gay's, that all our passions are explicable upon the principle of asso- ciation ; if this opinion be true, it is a discovery, and a curious one. But then it affords no practical rule, for mankind are too much acquainted with practical rules to allow of such pure novelty as would constitute dis- covery. Of the uses of this science of Moral Philosophy one is*— the vigor and acuteness, which it is apt to com- municate to the faculties. The slow and cautious pace of mathematics is not fit for the rough road of life ; it teaches no habits which will be of use to us when we come to march in good earnest : it will not do, when men come to real business, to be calling for axioms, and definitions, and to admit nothing without full proof, and perfect deduction ; we must decide sometimes upon the slightest evidence, catch the faintest surmise, and get to the end of an affair before a mathematical head could decide about its commencement. I am not comparing the general value of the two sciences, but merely their value as preparatory exercises for the mind ; and there, it appears to me that the science of Moral Philosophy is much better calculated to form intellectual habits, useful in real life. The subtilties about mind and matter, 24 INTRODUCTORY LECTURE. cause and effect, perception and sensation, may be for- gotten; but the power of nice discrimination, of arresting and examining the most subtile and evanescent ideas, and of striking rapidly, and boldly, into the faintest track of analogy ; to see where it leads, and what it will pro- duce ; an emancipation from the tyranny of words, an undaunted intrepidity to push opinions up to their first causes ; — all these virtues remain, in the dexterous poli- tician, the acute advocate, and the unerring judge. I have said that no practical discoveries can be made in Moral Philosophy, because I think the word discovery implies so much originality, and novelty, that I can hardly suppose they will be met with in a subject with which mankind are so familiar. But then opinions may be discoveries to the individual, which are not discov- eries to the world at large. It may be of incalcuable advantage to me. at an early period of life. t<> guard my understanding from the pernicious effects of association : though those effects can not now be pointed out for the first time ; I might have learned something about association without the aid of this science, by the mere intercourse of life, but I should not have learned that lesson so early, and so well. I am no longer left to gather this important law of my nature from accidental and disconnected remark, but it is brought fully and luminously before me ; — I see that one man differ- from another in the rank and nobleness of his understanding, in proportion as he counteracts this intellectual attrac- tion of cohesion; I become permanently, and vigilantly, suspicious of this principle in my own mind : and when called upon, in the great occasions ot life, to think, and to act, I separate my judgment from the mere accidents of my life, and decide, not according to the casualties of my fortune, but the unbiased dictates of my reason : without this science. I might have had a general, and faint suspicion — with it, I have a rooted and operative conviction — of the errors to which my understand!] exposed. If it be useful to our talents, and virtue - turn the mind inwardly upon itself and to attentively the facts relative to our passions and facu this is the value, and this the object. o\ Moral Philosophy. INTRODUCTORY LECTURE. 25 It teaches, for the conduct of the understanding, a variety of delicate rules which can result only from such sort of meditation ; and it gradually subjects the most impetuous feelings to patient examination and wise con- trol : it inures the youthful mind to intellectual difficulty, and to enterprise in thinking ; and makes it as keen as an eagle, and as unwearied as the wing of an angel. In looking round the region of spirit, from the mind of the brute and the reptile, to the sublimest exertions of the human understanding, this philosophy lays deep the foundations of a fervent and grateful piety, for those intellectual riches which have been dealt out to us with no scanty measure. With sensation alone, we might have possessed the earth, as it is possessed by the lowest order of beings : but we have talents which bend all the laws of nature to our service ; memory for the past, providence for the future, — senses which mingle pleasure with intelligence, the surprise of novelty, the boundless energy of imagination, accuracy in comparing, and severity in judging ; an original affection, which binds us together in society ; a swiftness to pity ; a fear of shame ; a love of esteem ; a detestation of all that is cruel, mean, and unjust. All these things Moral Philoso- phy observes, and, observing, adores the Being from whence they proceed. LECTURE II. HISTORY OF MORAL PHILOSOPHY. I purpose to give, in this lecture, a succinct history of opinions, both in the intellectual and active divisions of Moral Philosophy ; from the formation of the great schools in Greece to the present time. Of the principles from which the obligations to virtue proceed, most sects have given an account which is at least intelligible, however each particular persuas may vary from that which precedes it : but the specula- tions of many of the ancients on the human understand- ing, are so confused, and so purely hypothetical, that their greatest admirers are not agreed upon their mean- ing ; and whenever we can procure a plain statement of their doctrines, all other modes of refuting them appear to be wholly superfluous. m Whoever is fond of picking up little bits of wisdom, in great heaps of folly, and of seeing Moral Philosophy and common sense beaming through the gross darkness of polytheism, and poetical fiction, may sit down and trace this science from Zoroaster the Chaldean. Belus the Assyrian, and Berosus, who taught the Chaldean learning to the Greeks. He will find a very pleasant obscurity in all that we know of the opinions of Zoroaster, of the Persian Magi, Hystaspes. and Hostanes. Of those celebrated men Cadmus, and Sanchoniathon. and poor Moschus the Phoenician, so heartily abused bv Dr. Cud- worth, he may pick up some acute remarks of Thcut. or Thoth, the founder of Egyptian wisdom, anil philosophize with Abaris, Anacharsis. Toxaris. and Zamolxis. the learned Scythians. Passing by all these gallant iientle- men (for whose company I confess I have no very ereat HISTORY OF MORAL PHILOSOPHY. 27 relish), I shall descend at once upon Athens, where philosophy, as Milton says, came down from heaven to the low-roofed house of Socrates. .. . . . . " from whose mouth issued forth Mellifluous streams that watered all the schools Of Academics old and new ; with those Surnamed Peripatetics, and the sect Epicurean, and the Stoic severe." The morality of Socrates was reared upon the basis of religion. The principles of virtuous conduct which are common to all mankind, are, according to this wise and good man, laws of God ; and the argument by which he supports this opinion is, that no man departs from these principles with impunity. " It is frequently possi- ble," says he, " for men to screen themselves from the penalty of human laws, but no man can be unjust or ungrateful without suffering for his crime — hence I con- clude that these laws must have proceeded from a more excellent legislator than man." Socrates taught that true felicity is not to be derived from external possessions, but from wisdom ; which consists in the knowledge and practice of virtue ; — that the cultivation of virtuous manners is necessarily attended with pleasure as well as profit ; — that the honest man alone, is happy ; — and that it is absurd to attempt to separate things which are in their nature so united as virtue and interest. Socrates was, in truth, not very fond of subtile and refined speculations ; and upon the intellectual part of our nature, little or nothing of his opinions is recorded. If we may infer any thing from the clearness and sim- plicity of his opinions on moral subjects, and from the bent which his genius had received for the useful and the practical, he would certainly have laid a strong foundation for rational metaphysics- The slight sketch I have given of his moral doctrines contains nothing very new or very brilliant, but comprehends those moral doctrines which every person of education has been accustomed to hear from his childhood ; — but two thou- sand years ago they were great discoveries, — two thou- sand years since, common sense was not invented. If Orpheus, or Linus, or any of those melodious moralists, 28 LECTURE II. sung, in bad verses, such advice as a grand-mamma would now give to a child of six years old, he was thought to be inspired by the gods, and statues and altars were erected to his memory. In Hesiod there is a very grave exhortation to mankind to wash their faces : and I have discovered a very strong analogy between the precepts of Pythagoras and Mrs. Trimmer ; — both think that a son ought to obey his father, and both are clear that a good man is better than a bad one. Therefore, to measure aright this extraordinary man, we must remember the period at which he lived ; that he was the first who called the attention of mankind from the perni- cious subtilties which engaged and perplexed their wandering understandings to the practical rules of life ; — he was the great father and inventor of common sense, as Ceres was of the plow, and Bacchus of intoxication. First he taught his cotemporaries that they did not k. what they pretended to know ; then he showed them that they knew nothing ; then he told them what thev ought to know. Lastly, to sum up the praise of S remember that two thousand years ago, while men were worshiping the stones on which they trod, and insects which crawled beneath their feet ; — two thou- years ago, with the bowl of poison in his* hand. Socrates said, " 1 am persuaded that my death, which is now just coming, will conduct me into the presence of who are the most righteous governors, and into the society of just and good men ; and I derive confidence from the hope that something of man remains after death, and that the condition of good men will then be much better than that of the bad." Soon after this he covered him- self up with his cloak and expired. From the Socratic school sprang the Cyrenaic. the Eliac, the Megarie. the Academic, and the Cynic. Of all these I shall notice only the Academic, because all the rest are of very inferior note. Of all the disciples o( Socrates. Plato, though he calls himself the least, was certainly the most celebrated. Afl long as philosophy continued to be studied among the Greeks and Romans, his doctrines were taught, and his name revered. Even to the present day his writ HISTORY OP MORAL PHILOSOPHY. 29 give a tinge to the language and speculations of philos- ophy and theology. Of the majestic beauty of Plato's style, it is almost impossible to convey an adequate idea. He keeps the understanding up to a high pitch of enthu- siasm longer than any existing writer ; and, in reading Plato, zeal and animation seem rather to be the regular feelings than the casual effervescence of the mind. He appears almost disdaining the mutability and imperfection of the earth on which he treads, to be drawing down fire from heaven, and to be seeking among the gods above, for the permanent, the beautiful, and the grand ! In contrasting the vigor and the magnitude of his concep- tions with the extravagance of his philosophical tenets, it is almost impossible to avoid wishing that he had con- fined himself to the practice of eloquence ; and, in this way giving range and expansion to the mind which was struggling within him, had become one of those famous orators who " Wielded at will that fierce democratie, Shook th' arsenal, and fulmin'd over Greece To Macedon and Artaxerxes' throne." After having said so much of his language, I am afraid I must proceed to his philosophy ; observing always, that, in stating it, I do not always pretend to understand it, and do not even engage to defend it. In comparing the very few marks of sobriety and discretion with the splendor of his genius, I have often exclaimed as Prince Henry did about Falstaff's bill, — " Oh, monstrous ! but one halfpennyworth of bread to this intolerable deal of sack !" His notion was, that the principles out of which the world was composed were three in number, — the subject matter of things, their specific essences, and the sensible objects themselves. These last, he conceived to have no probable or durable existence, but to be always in a state of fluctuation : — but then there were certain ever- lasting patterns and copies, from which every thing had been made, and which he denominated their specific essences. For instance, the individual rose which I smell at this instant, or a particular pony upon which I cast my eye, are objects of sense which have no durable 30 LECTURE ir. existence ; — the individual idea I have of them this mo- ment is not numerically the same as the idea which I had the moment before ; just as the river which I now is not the same river which I passed half an hour before, because the individual water in which I trod has glided away : therefore these appearances of the rose, and the pony, are of very little importance ; but there is somewhere or other an eternal pony, and an eternal rose, after the pattern of which one and the other h created. The same with actions as with things. If Plato had seen one person make a bow to another would have said that the particular bow was a mere visible species ; but there was an unchanging bow which had existed from all eternity, and which was the model and archetype and specific essence of all other b But, says Plato, all things in this world are individuals. We see this man. and thai man. and the other i but a man — the general notion of a man — we do not. and can not gain from our senses : ti existed in some previous state, where we nave these notions of universal natures. In childhood, wl human creatures are governed by the feelings body, these general ideas are forgotten: but in pro tion as reason assumes the reins of empire il to mind these eternal exemplars, of which our mxd ing had before taken notice in a previ ence. Thus, to form general idea of memory: — and in this manner Plato atten overcome a difficulty which, two thous ward, drove Malebranche to a theory equally extr gant, was too hard for Mr. Locke, and was" settled, at last, by the extraordinary acui Berkeley. Plato's ideas o\ virtue were these : he divided the soul into three different natures — reason, or t! power, the passions founded on pride and resent;. or the irascible part ot our nature: and the which have pleasure for their object, and which commonly call by the name of appetites. Virtue cording to this system, then exhibited herself when i of these three faculties ot the mind confined itself I proper office, without attempting to encroach upon that HISTORY OF MORAL PHILOSOPHY. 31 of any other; — when reason directed, and passion obeyed ; and when each passion performed its proper duty easily, and without reluctance. Of this system it may be shortly remarked, that it is generally good as far as it goes, but that it does not go far enough ; for if you tell me that prudence and propriety are the test of virtue, I ask you why are they the test of virtue ? If you can give me no reason, why do you call them so ? and if you can, the system does not reach the foundation of morals, or afford me the ultimate reason why one action is better than another. The school of Plato long continued famous, but passed through several changes ; on account of which it was distinguished into the old, the middle, and the new Academy. The old Academy consisted of those fol- lowers of Plato who taught his doctrine without cor- ruption. It was the doctrine of the new Academy (founded by Carneades) that the senses, the understand- ing, and the imagination, frequently deceive us, and therefore can not be infallible judges of truth ; but that, from the impressions which we perceive to be produced on the mind by means of the senses, we infer appearances of truth, or probabilities : these impressions Carneades called phantasies or images. He maintained that they do not always correspond to the real nature of things ; and that there is no infallible method of determining when they are' true or false. Nevertheless, with respect to the conduct of life and the pursuit of happiness, Car- neades held, that probable appearances are a sufficient guide, because it is unreasonable not to allow some de- gree of credit to those witnesses who commonly give a true report. Of probabilities Carneades made the following scale r — The lowest degree was, where the mind, in the casual occurrence of any single image, perceived in it nothing contrary to nature or truth. The second was, when the circumstances by which that image was accompanied afforded no appearance of inconsistency or incongruity which might lead us to suspect the truth of the sensa- tion : as, for instance, if I think I see a horse, the cir- cumstance of his appearing at the same time to be 32 LECTURE LI. grazing in a meadow is an additional corroboration of the truth of the sensation ; but if I think I see a horse upon the top of a house, the circumstances which accompany this idea of the horse, ought to go some way to convince me I am mad, or dreaming. The last point in the scale of probabilities I can really hardly distin- guish from the second ; it seems only a longer and more serious pause, a more cautious and minute examination of the evidence of the senses ; — and thus much of the philosophy of the new Academy (stripped of the magis- terial and ostentatious garb in which all the Grecian schools tricked out their theories) seems to be good plain sense. All knowledge founded upon the evidence of the senses is, and can be, strictly speaking, nothing more than probable evidence. The mathematics alone afford us certain evidence. The shades of difference between the middle Academy and the new are so slight, and the sketch I am attempt- ing to give must necessarily be so very summary, that I shall pass over this first ramification of the Platonic school to the philosophy of Aristotle ; humbly imploring the forgiveness of those disciples of Arcesilaus, and favorers of the middle Academy, who may happen to be present this day at the Institution. Whoever is fond of the biographical art, as a rej tory of the actions and the fortunes of great men. may enjoy an agreeable specimen of its certainty in the life of Aristotle. Some writers say he was a Jew ; others, that he got all his information from a Jew, that he kept an apothecary's shop, and was an atheist : others say. on the contrary, that he did not keep an apothecary's shop, and that he was a Trinitarian. Some say he respected the religion of his country ; others that he offered sacri- fices to his wife, and made hymns in favor of his father- in-law. Some are of opinion he was poisoned by the priests ; others are clear that he died of vexation, because he could not discover the causes of the ebb and llow in the Euiipus. We now care or know so little about Aristotle, that Mr. Fielding, in one of his novels, says, "Aristotle is not such a fool as many people believe. who never read a syllable of his works**' HISTORY OP MORAL PHILOSOPHY. 33 Before the Reformation, his morals used to be read to the people in some of the churches of Germany, instead of the Scriptures ; his philosophy had an exclusive monopoly granted to it by the parliament of Paris, who forbade the use of any other in France ; and the Presi- dent De Thou informs us, that Paul de Foix, one of the most learned and elegant men of his time, in passing through Ferrara, refused to see the famous Patricius, or to meet him at any third house, because he disbelieved in some of the doctrines of Aristotle. Certainly the two human beings who have had the greatest influence upon the understandings of mankind have been Aristotle and Lord Bacon. To Lord Bacon we are indebted for an almost daily extension of our knowledge of the laws of nature in the outward world ; and the same modest and cautious spirit of inquiry extended to Moral Philosophy, will probably at last give us clear, intelligible ideas of our spiritual nature. Every succeeding year is an additional confirmation to us that we are traveling in the true path of knowledge ; and as it brings in fresh tributes of science for the increase of human happiness, it extorts from us fresh tributes of praise to the guide and father of true philosophy. To the understanding of Aristotle, equally vast, perhaps, and equally original, we are indebted for fifteen hundred years of quibbling and ignorance ; in which the earth fell under the tyranny of words, and philosophers quarreled with one another, like drunken men in dark rooms who hate peace without knowing why they fight, or seeing how to take aim. Professors were multiplied without the world becoming wiser ; and volumes of Aristotelian philosophy were written which, if piled one upon another, would have equaled the Tower of Babel in height, and far exceeded it in confusion. Such are the obligations we owe to the mighty Stagirite ; for that he was of very mighty under- standing, the broad circumference and the deep root of his philosophy most lamentably evince. His treatises on Government, on Rhetoric, on Poetry, are still highly valued. I have been speaking of him as a natural philosopher, as a metaphysician, and as a logician. I would refer those who are great sticklers for Aristotle's 34 LECTURE II. various treatises on morals to Grotius's critique on them in his treatise on Peace and War, and to Barbeyrac's preface to Puffendorf. Of his experiments Lord Bacon says, that, of all the ancient philosophers, Aristotle was the greatest enemy to experimental philosophy ; for he first of all laid down a theory in his own mind, and then distorted his experiments to support it. In his treatise on Government there are some very enormous and atrocious doctrines. Aristotle held, that all sensible objects were made up of two principles, both of which he calls equally sub- stances, — the matter, and the specific essence. He was not obliged to hold, like Plato, that those principles existed prior in order of time to the objects which they afterward composed. They were prior, he said, in nature, but not in time (according to a distinction which was of use to him upon many other occasions). He distinguished also between actual and potential existence : by the first, understanding what is commonly meant by existence, or reality ; by the second, the bare possibility of existence. Neither the material essence of body could, according to him, exist actually without being determined by some specific essence to some particular class of being, nor any specific essence without being embodied in some portion of matter. Each of these two principles, however, could exist potentially in a separate state. That matter existed potentially which, being endowed with a particular form, could be brought into actual existence ; and that form existed potentially which, by being embodied in a particular portion of matter, could in the same manner be called forth into the class of complete realities. What difference there is between the potential existence of Aristotle, and the separate essences of Plato, and what foundation there i< in reality either for the one or the other, I confess myself wholly at a loss to comprehend. Virtue, according to this philosopher, consists in the habit of mediocrity according to right reason. Even- particular virtue, according to him, lies in a medium between two opposite vices : oi which the one offends from being too much, the other from being too little HISTORY OF MORAL PHILOSOPHY. 35 affected by a particular species of objects. Thus, the virtue of fortitude lies in the middle between the oppo- site extremes of cowardice and rashness ; of which the one offends from being too much, the other too little affected by the objects of fear. And magnanimity, in the same manner, is a sort of medium estimation of our own dignity, equally removed from the extremes of arrogance and pusillanimity. Aristotle, when he made virtue to consist in practical habits, had it probably in view to oppose the doctrine of Plato, who seems to have been of opinion that just sentiments, and reasonable judgments, concerning what was fit to be done or avoided, were alone sufficient to constitute the most perfect virtue. Virtue, according to Plato, might be considered as a sort of science ; and no man, he thought, could see clearly what was right and wrong, and not act accordingly. Aristotle, on the contrary, was of opinion, that no conviction of the understanding could get the better of inveterate habits ; and that good morals arose not from knowledge, but from action. Next comes the Stoic sect, whose founder was Zeno.* Zeno was born at Cyprus, and was the son of a mer- chant, who, having frequent occasion in his mercantile capacity to visit Athens, bought for his son several of the writings of the most eminent Socratic philosophers. These he read with great avidity, and from their perusal laid the foundation of his philosophical fame. In the course of his mercantile pursuits he freighted a ship for Athens, with a very valuable cargo of Phoenician purple, which he completely lost by shipwreck on the coast, near the Piraeus. A very acute man, who found himself in a state of sudden and complete poverty at Athens, would naturally enough think of turning philosopher, both as by its doctrines it inspired him with some consolation for the loss of his Phoenician purple, and by its profits * According to Zeno, the founder of the Stoical doctrine, every animal was by nature recommended to its own care ; and was endowed with the principle of self-love, that it might endeavor to preserve, not only its ex- istence, but all the different parts of its nature, in the best and most per- fect state of which they were capable. — Adam Smith's Theory of Moral Sentiments, vol. ii. part vii. sect. ii. 36 LECTURE II. afforded him some chance of subsistence without it. After attending various masters of the Cynic school, which was then in high reputation, he put forth his own system of opinions, upon which was formed the Stoic school, one of the most considerable in ancient Greece. The opinions of the Stoics upon the intellectual part of our nature, were either the same as, or very nearly allied to, those of Plato and Aristotle ; though they were often disguised in very different langnage. The accounts of the morality of the Stoics I shall read to you from the very beautiful epitome which Dr. Adam Smith has given of their doctrines in the second volume of his " Theory of Moral Sentiments" (p. 186). 4; The self- love of man embraced, if I ma so, his body and all its different members, his mind and all its different facul- ties and powers, and desired the preservation mid main- tenance of them all in their best and most perfect condi- tion. Whatever tended to support this state of existence was, therefore, by nature pointed out to him as fit to be chosen ; and whatever tended to destroy it as fit to be rejected. Thus health, strength, agility, and ease of body, as well as the external conveniences which could promote these — wealth, power, honors, the respect and esteem of those we live with — were naturally pointed out to us as things eligible, and of which the }• was preferable to the want. On the other hand, sick infirmity, unwieldiness, pain of body, as well as all the external inconveniences which tend to occasion or I on any of them — poverty, the want o\ authority, the contempt or hatred of those we live with — were, in the same manner, pointed out to us as things t-> he shui and avoided. In each of those two opposite classes of objects, there were some which appeared to be more the objects either of choice or rejection than others in the same class. Thus, in the first class, health appeared evidently preferable to strength, and strength to agility : reputation to power, and power to riches. And thus. too, in the second class, sickness was more to be avoided than unwieldiness o( body, ignominy than poverty. poverty than the loss of power. Virtue, and the priety of conduct, consisted in choosing and rejecting all HISTORY OF MORAL PHILOSOPHY. 37 different objects and circumstances according as they were by nature rendered more or less the objects of choice or rejection ; in selecting always from among the several objects of choice presented to us that which was most to be chosen when we could not obtain them all ; in selecting, too, out of the several objects of rejection offered to us, that which was least to be avoided when it was not in our power to avoid them all. By choosing and rejecting with this just and accurate discernment, by thus bestowing upon every object the precise degree of attention it deserved, according to the place which it held in this natural scale of things, we maintained, according to the Stoics, that perfect rectitude of conduct which constituted the essence of virtue. This was what they called to live consistently, to live according to nature, and to obey those laws and directions which nature, or the Author of Nature, had prescribed for our conduct." From the philosophy of the Stoics I shall proceed to one of a very different complexion, the sect of Epicurus. Epicurus was the son of a schoolmaster and a woman who gained her livelihood by curing diseases' by magic, driving away ghosts, and performing other services equally marvelous. The circumstance which first turned his attention to philosophy is said to have been, that, on reading the works of Hesiod, he consulted his master upon the meaning of the word chaos. The peda- gogue, unable to solve the point, instead of scourging him for asking too difficult a question, as is commonly the custom, referred him to the philosophers for an explanation. To the philosophers, as soon as an oppor- tunity offered, he had recourse for more information than he could gain from schoolmasters, and acquired all he could glean from Pamphilus a Platonist, Nausiphanes a Pythagorean, and Pyrrho the Skeptic. He was at Athens also a student, while Xenocrates taught in the Academy, and Theophrastus in the Lyceum. When Cicero therefore calls him a self-taught philosopher, we are not to understand by that expression that he was never instructed in the tenets of other masters, but that his system of philosophy was the result of his own reflec- 38 LECTURE II. tions, after comparing the doctrines of other sects. In the thirty-second year of his age, he opened a school at Mytilene. Not satisfied, however, with the narrow sphere of philosophical fame which this obscure situation afforded him, he repaired to Athens, purchased a pleasant garden, where he took up his residence and taught his philosophy ; — and hence his disciples were called the philosophers of the garden. The friendship of the Epicurean sect is described by Cicero, in his treatise " De Finibus," as unexampled in the history of human attachments ; and Valerius Maximus relates a memora- ble example of friendship between Polycrates and Hip- poclides, two disciples of this sect. It is impossible, however, to receive these accounts without some sort of mistrust. A set of graminivorous metaphysicians, living together in a garden, and employing their whole time in acts of benevolence toward each other, carries with it such an air of romance, that 1 am afraid it must be con- siderably lowered, and rendered more I >re it can be brought down to the standard of credibility and the probabilities of real life. At least we may be tolera- bly sure, that if half a dozen metaphysicians, such as metaphysicians are in these modern days, were to live in a garden in Battersea or Kew. that their friendship would not be of very long duration ; and their learned labors would probably be interrupted by the same re: s which prevented Reaumur's spiders from spinning; — they fabricated a very beautiful and subtile thread, hut, unfortunately, they were so extremely fond oi 6ghl that it was impossible to keep them together in the - and others ignorant of it ; — the difference between them is in those intimate associations of sensation which one has formed and the other not. I can see out at sea as well as a sailor; but he pronounces that object to be a three-decked ship in which I can neither distinguish mast, or deck, or any thing else. We both see precisely the same thing, — a brown mass of a certain magnitude. It was to him. when first he went to sea. a brown lump also; long experience has taught him. that this is the appearance of a man-of-war. 1 have had no experience. and it ia to me only a simple sensation, /see only the object; / the thing I. There are. in the case of vision, a prodigious variety of sensations which we suppose ourselves to derive from the eye, and which are, in fact, derived from the touch. It will appear very singular to those who have never reflected on these sub- jects, when 1 say. that we can neither see the distance of any objects, nor their size, nor their figure; and yet thet\ i is nothing which science has more clearly proved. The eye originally sees nothing but color and" surface. A man born blind and suddenly restored to sight v. not have the least conception of the distance of obj all objects, whether far or near, would appear to to hi- This was long im i be the fact, and was afterward proved to be st>. in the memorable of the young man who was couched by Cheselden. He actually made this mistake, and conceived the pic: on the opposite wall to be qui; - I • his eye. 1: eye can see nothing but color and surface, why should the alteration oi color and surface give the ide tanoe? A color half as bright, and a surface half as great, do not necessarily imply a distance proportion- ally greater. We might have been so constituted as ON THE POWERS OF EXTERNAL PERCEPTION. 69 that an object should have become fainter the nearer it approached. The fact is, we have determined by ex- perience that these signs to the eye, of fainter color and diminished surface, are inseparably connected with dis- tance, and that bodies are nearer to the touch when they are brighter to the eye : therefore the moment we see brightness we think of proximity, and so imagine we see that a thing is near ; and the moment the color be- comes confused we think of remoteness, and so imagine we see that a thing is remote. It is by rendering color more languid and confused, that painters can represent objects at a very different distance upon the same flat canvas. The mere diminution of the magnitude of an object would not have the effect of making it appear at a greater distance. For if, in a cattle piece, the artist were to make one cow ten times as little as all the rest, the animal would by no means appear ten times as dis- tant from the eye, but would be taken for a calf in the foreground instead of a cow in the distant scenery. Dr. Reid quotes a very curious observation made by Bishop Berkeley in his travels through Italy and Sicily, which, by the by, I rather believe he performed on foot. He observed that, in those countries, cities and palaces seen at a great distance appeared to him nearer by several miles than they really were ; and he very judi- ciously imputed it to this cause, — that the purity of that air gave to very distant objects a degree of brightness and distinctness which, in the grosser air of his own country, belonged only to those which are near. It would be curious to know whether Italians are apt to make the reverse of the bishop's observation in this country, and to ascertain what the apparent distance is, according to their estimation, from London to Kensing- ton, during a thick fog in this pleasant month of Decem- ber. This mode of discovering distance by the distinct- ness or indistinctness of color, is the reason why we mistake the size of objects in a fog. A little gentleman who understands optics, may always be sure to enjoy a temporary elevation in a fog ; and by walking out in that state of the weather, will be quite certain of being taken for a man six feet high ; for the indistinctness of color 70 LECTURE IV. first makes us consider him to be at a much greater distance than he really is, and then a man who appears so big at the supposed distance of 300 yards, we can not but judge to be one of the tallest and most robust of men. Secondly, another mode in which we determine the distance of objects, is by changing the form of the eye. Nature has given us the power of adapting this organ to certain distances by contracting one set of muscles, and to other distances by contracting another set. As to the manner in which this is done, anatomists are not agreed ; but whatever be the manner, it is cer- tain that young people have commonly the power of adapting their eyes to all distances of the object, from six or seven inches to fifteen or sixteen feet, so as to have perfect and distinct vision at any distance within these limits. Now, place an object at the distance of six inches from the eye, and gradually remove it to six- teen or seventeen feet, you will find that all the muscles of the eye are employed all that time in altering the shape of the eye, and accommodating it to different distances ; so that, by long experience, the efforts I am compelled to make in order to see at these different dis- tances become themselves the signs of these distances ; and if any person were wounded in these muscles about the eye, so as to disturb his usual efforts to obtain dis- tinct vision, he would lose his guide of distance, and become unable to see as well as before, though precisely the same appearances would be presented to his eye. A third mode by which we acquire the notion of dis- tance is, the inclination of the eyes toward each other. A line drawn through the center of the eye to the retina, and produced beyond it, is called the axis of the eye ; and it is plain that the inclination of these lines toward each other must vary as the distance of the ob- jects varies toward which they are directed. Of this inclination we are not conscious ; but we are conscious of the effort employed in making it ; and this effort, as well as the others of which I have been last speaking, becomes the sign of the distance of objects. It is for this reason that those who have lost the sight oi^ one eye are apt, even within arm's length, to make mistakes in ON THE POWERS OF EXTERNAL PERCEPTION. 71 the distance of objects which are easily avoided by those who see with two eyes ; though, after some time, in persons blind of one eye, this inclination of the axes ceases to be a criterion of distance, and these mistakes are avoided. This inclination of the optic axes is the principal obstacle to complete deception in the art of painting. The coloring (one mode by which we deter- mine distance) may be perfect, and may give us the notion of an object being at the distance of many miles ; but, unfortunately, the figure of the eye, and the incli- nation of the axes, are set for the distance of two or three yards (the real space between the eye and the picture), so that the mind, wanting one of its signs of dis- tance, is far from being completely deceived. In order to remove this defect, connoisseurs in painting look at a picture with one eye, through a tube, which excludes the view of all other objects. By this means, the incli- nation of the eyes toward each other (one method by which we judge of the deception) is prevented. Dr. Reid proposes, as an improvement, this method, — that, the aperture of the tube next the eye should be as small as a pin-hole ; because then the other mode of judging of distances, the conformation of the eye, is avoided, and we have no means left of judging of the distances but the light and the color, which are in the power of the painter. When the optic axes are, on account of the great distance of objects, nearly parallel, so that to look at an object still more distant requires no fresh effort, our power of judging of distances entirely ceases. This is the reason why the sun, moon, planets, and fixed stars appear to be all at the same distance, as if they touched the concave surface of a great sphere. The sphere itself is at that distance beyond which all objects affect the eye in the same manner. Another mode in which we determine the distance of objects is by referring them to those intervening objects whose distance is known. We are so much accustomed to measure with our eye the ground which we travel, and to compare the judgments of distance formed by sight with our experience or information, that we learn by degrees in this manner to form a more accurate 72 LECTURE IV. judgment of the distance of terrestrial objects than we could do by any of the means above mentioned. It is for want of some intervening objects that it is so diffi cult to measure distances by the eye up in the air. out at sea, or on extensive plains. This mode of estimating distance accounts for the superior apparent magnitude of the moon in the horizon : for, first, its distance seems greater on account of the known distance of the terres- trial objects that intervene ; and where the visible magnitude is the same, the real magnitude of objects is always determined to be in proportion to the distance. The proof of this being the real solution of the diffi- culty is, that if the horizontal moon be viewed through a tube which excludes all terrestrial objects, its appear- ance is preciselv the same as at any other time. The last method by which we determine the distance of objects is by their visible magnitude. By experience, I know what figure a man or any other known object makes to my eye at the distance of ten feet ; I perceive the gradual diminution of this visible figure at the dis- tance of twenty, forty, one hundred feet, till it vanish altogether : hence a certain visible magnitude of a known object becomes the sign of a certain determinate dis- tance, and carries along with it the conception and be- lief of that distance. I shall say nothing here of the moral method of meas- uring distances ; — the distance from home to school, in the days of our youth, being generally double the dis- tance from school to home : and so forth with all other passions which quicken or retard the feeling of time. It is just the same with the cubical magnitudes of bodies. We think we see that a body is thick and round: it is quite certain that we see neither the one nor the other, for the eye can see nothing but plain surf but then we learn from experience that certain different appearances of light or shade upon plain surfaces are constantly connected with those feelings of bodies which wo call round and thick. Just in the same manner it is probable that the notions which the ear h: - nee and position are entirely the result of experience ; and that a person deaf from his birth, and suddenlv cured ON THE POWERS OF EXTERNAL PERCEPTION. 73 would be quite ignorant from what quarter, and from what distance, sound originated. Thus we see that the senses soon learn to lay aside their own homely and barren language, and to speak in a more elegant and universal dialect ; and we see that man, endowed with the senses he now is, and deprived of the power of con- necting their notices together by indissoluble associa- tions, would have risen very little above the rank of the lower animals. All the labors of the human mind point and tend toward the same process which has been carried on in our early infancy with respect to associated sensation, — so to connect together, by copious induction, the sign with the tiling signified, that the one may suggest the other with the certainty and velocity of sensation. The phenomena of double vision and inverted images I must, for fear of protracting my lecture too long, en- tirely pass over ; referring those whose curiosity may be excited on these subjects to Bishop Berkeley's Essay on Vision, Dr. Porterfield on the Eye, Dr. Wells's Essay on Vision, and Dr. Reid's admirable first work on the Human Mind. To prove, in some measure, how much of our sight is original, and how much acquired, and to illustrate therefore a great deal of what I have said throughout this lecture, I shall read to you the famous case of a young man born blind, and suddenly restored to his sight by undergoing the operation of couching. A you ^2; gentleman, who was born with two cata- racts upon >ach of his eyes, was, in 1728, couched by Mr. Cheselden, and by that means for the first time made to see distinctly. " At first," says the operator, " he could bear but very little light, and the things he saw he thought extremely large ; but upon seeing things larger, those first seen he conceived less, never being able to imagine any lines beyond the bounds he saw. The room he was in, he said, he knew to be but part of the house, yet he could not conceive that the whole house would look bigger. " Though we say of this gentleman that he was blind, as we do of all people who have ripe cataracts, yet they D 74 LECTURE IV. are never so blind from that cause but that they can dis- cern day from night, and, for the most part, in a strong light, distinguish black, white, and scarlet : but they can not perceive the shape of any thing ; for the light by which these perceptions are made, being let in obliquely through the aqueous humor, or the anterior surface of the crystaline humor, by which the rays can not be brought into a focus upon the retina, they can discern in no other manner than a sound eye can through a glass of broken jelly, where a great variety of surfaces so dif- ferently refract the light, that the several distinct pencils of rays can not be collected by the eye into their proper foci ; wherefore the shape of an object in such a case can not be discerned at all, though the color may : and thus it was with this young gentleman, who, though he knew those colors asunder, in a good light, yet, when he saw them after hewaf couched the faint ideas he had of them before, were not sufficient for him to know them by afterward ; and therefore he did not think them the same which he had before known by those names. •■ When he first saw. he was so far from making any judgment about distances, that he thought all objects whatever touched his eyes (as he expressed it), as what he felt did his skin : and thought no objects so agreeable as those which were smooth and regular, though he could form no judgment of their shape, or gu it was in any object that was pleasing to him. He knew not the shape of any thing, nor any one thing from another, how- ever different in shape ov magnitude ; but upon being told what things were whose form he before knew from feelinn. he would carefully observe that he might know them again; but having too many objects to learn at once, he forgot many of them, and (as he said) at first learned to know, and again forget, a thousand thing a day. One particular only, though it may appear tri- lling, I will relate. Having often forgot which was the cat and which the doir. he was ashamed to ask ; but catching the cat (which he knew by feeling), he was ob- served to look at her steadfastly, and then, setting her down. said. "So. Puss! I shall know you another time.' " We thought he soon knew what pictures represented ON THE POWERS OF EXTERNAL PERCEPTION. 75 which were shown him ; but we found afterward we were mistaken, for, about two months after he was couched, he discovered at once they represented solid bodies, when to that time he considered them only as party-colored planes, or surfaces diversified with variety of paints : but even then, he was no less surprised, — ex- pecting the pictures would feel like the things they repre- sented; and was amazed when he found those parts which, by their light and shadow, appeared now round and uneven, felt only flat like the rest, — and asked which was the lying sense, feeling or seeing. "In a year after seeing, the young gentleman being carried upon Epsom Downs, and observing a large prospect, he was exceedingly delighted with it, and called it a new kind of seeing." FRAGMENT OF LECTURE V. OX COXCEPTIOX. * * * * * before the mind can gaze upon the scene with any portion of tran- quillity and composure. This mistake of conception for sensation is also the best key to the phenomena observed in madness. A madman has the conception of all the pageantry of a court, and 80 may any man in his the difference is, the one knows it to be only a creation of his mind, the other really believes he sees dukes, and marquises, and all the splendor of a real court If he is not very far gone, he pays some attention to the objects of sense about him, and tells you that he is confined in this sorry situation by the perfidy and rebellion of his subjects. As the disease further advances, he totally neglects the objects of his sense- : — does not see that he sleeps on straw and is chained down, but abend himself wholly to the creations of his mind, and riots in everv extravagance of thought. This, though by far the most common species of insanity, is not the only one. There are some persons quite rational in their percep- tions, who are considered as deranged only from a morbid association of ideas ; as in the instance of the patient mentioned in Mr. Haslam's book, who persevered in a vegetable diet because, he said, roast and boiled meat felt the most exquisite pain while any person was devouring them. The mistaking of conceptions for sensations appears also to be the proper explanation of what passes in our minds during sleep. To consider sleep aright, we must divide it into stages. In profound sleep, there is no ON CONCEPTION. 77 evidence that we think at all. When we have been exhausted with great fatigue or acute pain, we often lie motionless for hours, without the smallest recollection that a single idea has passed through our minds: the periods of sleeping and waking appear to be consecutive instants of time. In this state of sleep it seems as if every operation of the mind were entirely suspended ; and in the instance of those who have taken quantities of opium, or become drowsy from long journeys over snow, it seems to have a great tendency to death. We frequently dream in our sleep without recollecting the slightest feature of our dreams when we wake. It would appear at first, that processes of thought which have made such faint impressions on the memory must have been the slightest and most disconnected of all dreams ; and yet the most rational and systematic dreamers — those who walk in their sleep — have seldom or ever the most distant recollection that they have been dreaming at all. In the common state of sleep, where we dream with- out stirring, or, at least, without walking about, there seems to be, first, a great diminution of the power of the will over the body, but by no means a total suspension of that power : for a person much agitated in his dreams can cry out, and therefore subject the organs of speech to his will ; or he can toss about his hands and feet, and so subject those parts of his body to his will ; but, how- ever, the influence of the will upon the body, though not wholly suspended, is certainly considerably weakened. In this sort of sleep it is still less suspended over the mind, for a man makes a bargain in his dreams, and examines the terms of the bargain, and dwells upon one part of it with some accuracy; he argues in his sleep, not merely repeating, as has been said, arguments which have occurred to him in his waking hours, but inventing new ones, with some pains and attention. I mention these circumstances in opposition to those who have contended that the influence of the will is entirely suspended in sleep. I should think diminished would be a better word, — for suspended it certainly is not in the body, and still less so in the mind ; though its power 78 FRAGMENT OF LECTUPvE V. is incomparably less than in our waking hours. But the most striking phenomenon in our sleep is that which I have shown to take place in madness — the confusion between our sensations and conceptions. I may think when I am awake of a chariot drawn by tigers ; but I know then, it is merely a thought. When I am in a revery, I am in a confused state between doubt and belief of its existence. When I am asleep, I take this thought for a reality ; and as our sensations follow one another in a regular and established order, and our con- ceptions are very loosely connected together, this is the reason of all the absurdity and incongruity of our dreams. Indeed, sense and nonsense, congruity and in- congruity, are only determined by the outer world ; and we consider our conceptions to be wild or rational only as they correspond with it. According as sleep is more or less perfect, sensations do or do not produce an effect upon the mind, exactly the same as in revery or in madness. A person may., in some cases, sleep so soundly, that the firing a pistol close to his ear will not rouse him ; — at other times the slightest sensation of light or noise will rouse him. A sort of intermediate state between these two is that where the sensation comes to the mind in so imperfect a state, that it produces some effect upon the current of conceptions without correcting them. If there is a window left open, and the cold air blows in, the sufferer may think himself on the top of Mount Caucasus, buried in the snow ; or the cat making a noise shall immediately transport him in imagination to the Opera. The most singular phenomenon respecting sleep is somnambulism, or walking in the sleep. The instances are innumerable of men who have walked along the ridges of houses in their sleep; have got up. dressed themselves, taken pen. ink, and paper, have written very rationally and connectedly, and acted precisely as they would have done had they been awake. Out o{ this mass ot' histories I shall make a short extract from a well-authenticated one. reported by a Physical Society at Lausanne. It is the case of Devaux. a lad about thirteen years of ao;e, who lived in the town of Vevav. ON CONCEPTION. 79 He did not walk in his sleep every nignt, but "passed sometimes six or seven weeks, without a fit of somnam- bulism. Before the fit begins he utters broken words, sits up in his bed, abruptly begins to talk with more ; coherence, then rises, and goes wherever the nature of his dream prompts him. Having risen one night with the intention of eating grapes, he left the house, went through the town, and passed on to a vineyard, where he expected good cheer. He was followed by several persons, who kept at a distance from him, one of whom fired a pistol, the noise of which immediately awoke him, and he fell down in a fit. Once he was observed dressing himself in the dark. His clothes were on a large table mixed with those of some other persons. At last a light was brought : he separated the clothes and dressed himself with sufficient precision. Another time he got out of bed and finished a piece of writing, in order, as he said, to please his master. It consisted of three kinds of writing, text, half-text, and small writing, each of them performed with the proper pen. He drew, in the corner of the same paper, the figure of a hat. He then asked for a penknife, to take out a blot of ink which he had made between two letters ; and he erased it without injuring either. Lastly, he made some calcu- lations with great accuracy. Now, in this case of Devaux's, and in all such cases of somnambulism, there is an approach to the awaking state of the mind : they afford an intermediate step between sleep and vigilance, and differ only from mad- ness in the time of their duration. For in somnambu- lism the will has recovered great part of its dominion over the body and mind which it had lost in perfect sleep ; for we see that a somnambulist walks about, and thinks, and reasons, and acts, with a great share of precision. The difference between a somnambulist and a man awake, is, that the first distinguishes between his sensations and perceptions only in part, the latter en- tirely. Devaux got up and wrote a copy for his master, — he saw the pen and ink, and the writing, and various other things, as plainly as if he had been awake ; but he did not attend to the appearance of the room, the beds, 80 FRAGMENT OF LECTURE V. m and the faces about him ; he most probably thought he was in school, with his school-fellows about him, and so far he was under the influence of his conceptions. This is just the case with innumerable madmen we see in Bedlam. Somnambulism continued would, so far as I can see, differ nothing from madness. Dreaming differs from madness only in the diminution of the power of the will ; excepting that there are very few madmen in Bedlam so mad as a dreamer. There seems also to be a certain connection between the augmented power of conception and the diminished power of will ; so that a man becomes, in sleeping, motionless, exactly as he becomes mad, and regains his power of moving as he re- gains his power of moving for a rational purpose. This happens, luckily enough for dreamers, who would other- wise infallibly break their limbs every time they dreamed ; and for the somnambulist, who, when he can move about. has acquired a considerable share of reason : so that we may perceive, if these observations be true, the following phenomena to take place, exactly in proportion as the outward senses lose their power, and the conceptions acquire a greater vigor than is natural to them : — revery, absence, somnambulism, madness, arid sleep ; and by reversing the scale, the conceptions gradually lose their force, and the sensations gain it. A similar mistake is often seen to take place between the ideas of memory and those of conception ; they are in many instances confounded together. Children are often detected in falsehoods which evidently originate from this cause : they have not learned to distinguish between their memory and their conception, and there- fore believe they have seen and heard things which they have only fancied. In the same manner, very old men. approaching to their second infancy, are apt to confound what they have only conceived, with what they have remembered ; and for this cause to become somewhat unintelligible to those who converse with them. Nature has probably made a strong original difference between our sensations and conceptions ; hut whatever the original difference may be. it is considerably strength- ened by habit. Every year we live, till our facu ON CONCEPTION. 81 decline, the difference becomes more and more consider- able, and is, of course, much less remarkable in infancy than in manhood. This I take to be the reason why children can amuse themselves so well and so long with dolls, and talk to them as if they were alive : not that I suppose the deception is ever perfect, but that their con- ceptions approaching much nearer to their sensations, communicate more of the interest of real life. As the child gets older, and the difference between these two classes of ideas more wide, the wooden darling is tossed aside, because the conception has become a more lan- guid and uninteresting representative of reality. There seems to be a regular process carried on in the mind throughout its whole existence, by which ideas of memory are converted into ideas of conception. If a poet writes two or three hundred verses, very many of the combinations of words, perhaps whole verses, will be faithful copies of what he has once remembered, and which, divested of all the marks of their origin, have re- appeared to the writer as productions of his own brain. In the same manner, in a fancy landscape, or in grounds laid out by a man of taste, many of the combinations are in all probability copies of real scenes, which the person who introduced them could once have referred to some particular spot, but have now become his own property, from an inability to discover their former master, — like domestic animals which run away into the woods, and belong to whoever can catch them. I shall mention only one more fact respecting concep- tion, and it is a curious one, for which no reason can be given but that such is the constitution of our nature ; — I mean, the great facility we all exhibit of conceiving the impressions of one sense better than those of another. It is, for instance, much easier to conceive any sight, than to conceive a taste, or a smell, or a feeling, or a sound. Sight is indeed so much the favorite and im- pressive sense, that almost the whole language of meta- physics is borrowed from it. Let any person attempt to conceive the smell or the taste of a melon, — they will find their conceptions of those sensations extremely faint ; 82 FRAGMENT OP LECTURE V. but they will without difficulty form a clear conception of its figure and color. To epitomize then the tedious account I have given of this class of ideas, we must remember the threefold divi- sion of ideas with which I began — ideas of the outward senses, ideas we conceive in our mind, and ideas we re- member. We must recollect that when ideas of the senses are little heeded, and the conceptions of the mind acquire the force of realities, then we are said to be absent, or to be in a revery, or we are under the in- fluence of great passions, or asleep, or somnambulists, or madmen. There is less difference between ideas of sense and conceptions in our infancy than in our mature age, when the difference is widened by experience ; and this difference again becomes less, when the effects of experience are lost in extreme old age. We conceive some objects of sense better than others. Men differ in their power of lively conception, but more in their habits of attention ; but conception is in all men much strengthened by habit. Lastly, ideas of memory fade away, and appear in a renovated shape, as the mere creatures of the brain. These are the faint and imperfect notices of the great operations which are passing within us : the practical inference from them is, while we give vigor, extent, and variety to our concep- tions, by cultivating an ardent curiosity for knowledge, to repress their dangerous vivacity by a cool and steady appeal to the realities of life ; to cherish this reproductive faculty, as the source of eloquence, poetry, and wit ; but so to cherish it that we will govern it, and even exact from it a ready obedience to the natural majesty of truth. He who can thus manage his mind has two worlds before him instead of one : he can contemplate and act ; and. dispelling the vision of a rich and creative mind, can come down into the world of realities to observe with steadfastness, and to act with consistency. FRAGMENT OF LECTURE VI. ON MEMORY. * * . * * * He obtains all the convenience which he does obtain by the reference of individual transactions to certain general heads ; and thus, by knowing only the nature of any transaction he wishes to refer to, and by seeking for it under its appro- priate division, it is found with facility and dispatch. Mr. Stewart conceives (and, as it appears to me, with great justice) that the decay of memory observable in old men, proceeds as frequently from the very little in- terest they take in what is passing around them, as in any bodily decay by which their powers of mind are weakened : — " In so far as this decay of memory which old age brings along with it, is a necessary consequence of a physical change in the constitution, or a necessary consequence of a diminution of sensibility, it is the part of a wise man to submit cheerfully to the lot of his nature. But it is not unreasonable to think, that some- thing may be done by our own efforts, to obviate the in- conveniences which commonly result from it. "If individuals who, in the early part of life, have weak memories, are sometimes able to remedy this de- fect by a greater attention to arrangement in their trans- actions, and to classification among their ideas, than is necessary to the bulk of mankind, might it not be possi- ble, in the same way, to ward off, at least to a certain degree, the encroachments which time makes on this faculty ? The few old men who continue in the active scenes of life to the last moment, it has often been re- marked, complain, in general, much less of a want of 84 FRAGMENT OF LECTURE VI. recollection than their cotemporaries. This is undoubt- edly owing, partly, to the effect which the pursuits of business must necessarily have in keeping alive the power of attention. But it is probably owing also to new habits of arrangement, which the mind gradually and insensibly forms from the experience of its growing infirmities. The apparent revival of memory in old men, after a temporary decline (which is a case that happens not unfrequently) seems to favor this supposition. " One old man I have, myself, had the good fortune to know, who, after a long, an active, and an honorable life, having begun to feel some of the usual effects of ad- vanced years, has been able to find resources in his own sagacity, against most of the inconveniences with which they are commonly attended ; and who, by watching his gradual decline with the cool eye of an indifferent ob- server, and employing his ingenuity to retard its prog- ress, has converted even the infirmities of age into a source of philosophical amusement."* I believe that this old gentleman was Dr. Reid ; and he certainly is a memorable instance of a victory gained over the infirmities of age. I have heard, from a friend of his, that at the age of seventy he was as keen and eager about the then new discoveries of chemistry as if he had been just beginning his career of science. Such facts appear to me to be of the greatest importance, as they evince what may be done by a noble effort of reso- lution. A modern writer, who at one time made some noise, says, that it is men's own faults if thev die ; that dying is a mere trick, which may be avoided with a little resolution. I can not quite go so far as this, but I am convinced, that it is for a long time in every man's power to determine whether he will be old or not. The outward marks of age we are all of us verv willing to de- fer; forgetting that we may wear the inward bloom of youth with true dignity and grace, and be ready to learn, and eager to give pleasure to others, to the latest moment of our existence. In the same manner, memory may be wonderfully * Stewart's Elements of Philosophy, chap, vi p. 416. ON MEMORY. 85 strengthened by referring single facts and observations to one simple principle ; and by these means we can either remember the principle by remembering the fact, or the fact by remembering the principle. It is very common to hear people complain that they can not remember what they read ; and the reason is very obvious, — that they are perpetually admitting into their minds a string of insulated events without arranging them with any method, which may be instrumental to their reproduction. Let us take a few instances of this. The first shall be in history, and in the history of re- ligion. I believe the rule which all wise and moderate men adopt, with respect to toleration, at present, is this — that no man ought to undergo persecution for his re- ligious opinions, if they have not a tendency to disturb the public peace : that point secured, the rest is left to discussion only ; and every man must adjust his faith as his understanding enlightens, and his conscience governs him, without the fear of human punishment. An igno- rance of this wise and simple rule, and of the proper limits of human interference, is a key to all the bloody and atrocious persecutions which for three hundred years desolated Europe. Again, nobody now thinks that Providence perpetually and immediately interferes to punish vice — that if any man, for instance, commits a murder this night, Providence will work a miracle to dis- cover it ; but the rude idea of religion in all barbarous ages is, that Divine justice is like human justice, and that guilt is immediately overtaken by punishment. This mistake may be traced in the legal institutions of almost all barbarous people, and is the principle to which in- numerable separate facts may be referred at all periods of the world. It is, of course, the origin of the corsenet, of the ordeal, of the ^vdgog among the Greeks, the judicial tournament in the days of chivalry, and of the trial by red water on the coast of Africa. France has fallen un- der the dominion of a single man, so did Rome, so have innumerable free countries. The cause, in many in- stances, has been precisely the same — that anarchy which has been produced by the licentiousness of the people, and which has rendered them an easy prey to the 86 FRAGMENT OF LECTURE VI. first ambitious man who could ingratiate himself with the army. Such examples are very trite, and what might occur to any one ; I only mention them to illus- trate the importance of philosophical arrangement to memory, and to show how much more likely facts are to reappear when we want them, if we have clustered numbers of them together as illustrative of a simple prin- ciple, than if they are promiscuously scattered through the understanding without any such connecting tie. The most striking instance of it is botany. What but the most precise and rigorous classification could possibly enable a botanist to remember one thousandth part of the plants which at present he can remember with unerr- ing certainty ? A considerable degree of importance has been attached by some writers on education to the scheme of artificial memory ; the general intention of which is, not to impress the thing to be remembered directly upon the memory, but to impress something easier than the original matter, which, by arbitrary association, shall recall it to the mind. Thus, the Battle of Hastings in the year life. What is the meaning of the year life ? Why, / stands for 1, i for 0, /for 6, and e for 6 ; and so we have the year 1066 : and by extending this idea we may put numbers into whole lines, and convey a system of chronology in a sort of poem. Another plan is, to keep in mind a house, with the apartments of which we are minutely acquainted, and, in speaking, to arrange our subject according to a preconcerted association, between the division of the matter and the house. This was a very common custom among the speakers of antiquity, though at present it seems to be quite disused I confess, myself, I have no very high opinion of these inventions : the expression of facts in verse, as is done in those doggerel rhymes by which we remember the days of the month, appears to be the best of them : but. in general, the remedy is much worse than the disease, and the difficulty less difficult than the assistance which is to overcome it. They accustom the mind to light and foolish associations, which have no foundation in nature : they convey an exaggerated notion of the difficulty of ON MEMORY. 87 rememWcTkg, when such inventions are resorted to to effect it, — increase the disgust which such difficulties are apt to inspire, — weaken that confidence in the strength of memory, and the intense habits of labor founded upon that confidence, which breed up a race of great scholars, and carry men through the most intricate and extended inquiries. Upon nearly the same principles there can, I should think, be very little doubt, of the bad effects of habitually writing down those facts and events which we wish to remember ; — they are taken down for future considera- tion, and consequently receive very little present con- sideration. From a conviction that our knowledge can be thus easily recalled, it is never systematically arranged or deeply engraved ; we atone for the passive indolence of the mind by the mechanical labor of the hands, and write a volume without remembering a line. The de- sirable and the useful thing is, that we should carry our knowledge about with us, as we carry our health about with us ; that the one should be exhibited in the alacrity of our actions, and the other proved by the vigor of our thoughts. I would as soon call a man healthy who had a physician's prescription in his pocket, which he could take and recover from, as I would say that a man had knowledge who had no other proof of it to afford, than a pile of closely-written commonplace books. Every body knows the importance of exercising the memory ; and it seems to be very useful to carry it to the extent of getting select passages by heart ; — it insensibly adds to the riches and the copiousness of fancy, and communicates, perhaps, a habit of attentive reading. This practice is carried to a prodigious extent in our public schools, and furnishes men with materials for w T it and imagination through the whole of their lives. At the same time this practice is not without its danger, and that a very considerable one. He who trusts to what he can produce of other men's imagination is apt to lose the flower and freshness of his own, and gradually to sacrifice the vigor and originality of his mind. There is a homely old English proverb, that an ounce of mother is worth a pound of clergy ; and I confess, from my 88 FRAGMENT OF LECTURE VI. own feelings, I like better a very common production which seems to be the natural growth of the soil, than that exotic luxuriance which art has cherished, and which harmonizes so badly with every thing which surrounds it. But the great secret above all others for remembering, is, to work the mind up to a certain pitch of enthusiasm * # * * * * # FRAGMENT OF LECTURE VII. ON IMAGINATION. # # # These are conceptions. If 1 gather together in my mind various implements of war, and create out of them the picture of that armor in which I clothe the hero of my poem, this is an act of imagina- tion; so that imagination involves conception, though it is not involved by it. * # # # # # # # their respective arts to any high degree of excellence without a con- siderable share of the faculty of imagination, and to them have the efforts of this faculty commonly been confined ; but there appear to be various exertions of mind perfectly similar to these, and to which we never think of applying the same word. For instance, in mechanical invention, no one would ever think of saying that Mr. Bramah had displayed a great deal of imagination in his patent locks, or that there was any poetry in a steam engine ; and yet the process in one and the other composition does not seem to be very dissimilar. Mr. Gray, in speaking of Mars, gives to his lance the epithet of thirsty, — ■ " On Thracia's hill the Lord of War Shall curb the fury of his car, And drop his thirsty lance at thy command." Now let us see how this epithet of thirsty got into the mind of Mr. Gray. Perhaps he stole it (I believe he did) ; but if he did, we have only to reflect how it got into the mind of the person whose original property it was. But let us suppose it to have been Mr. Gray's own. By what process did he acquire it ? He began 90 FRAGMENT OF LECTURE VII. thinking about lances, and all the common notions attached to that of a lance rushed into his mind, — bloody, fierce, cruel, thick, thin, murderous, rapid, brazen, iron, them." notion of wit. — that it co - sts in putting those ideas get her with quickness and variety wherein can be found any resemblance or congruity, in order to excite p lire in the mind. — is a little too comprehensive, for it comprehends both eloquence and poetry. In the first place, we must exclude the idea of their being put to- gether quickly, as this part of the definition applies only to colloquial wit. The M Avare" and the " Tartuffe Moliere, would be witty even though we knew each of those plays hail taken the author a year to com; But as tor the resemblance and congruity, there is a re- semblance and congruity in the well-known picture Mr. * Work*, vol. i | ON WIT AND HUMOK. 117 Burke has drawn of the Queen of France ; but nobody can with any propriety call it witty without degrading it. The fact is, that the combinations of ideas in which there is resemblance and congruity, will as often produce the sublime and the beautiful, as well as the witty ; — a cir- cumstance to which Mr. Locke does not appear to have attended, in the very short and cursory notice he has taken of wit. Addison's papers in the " Spectator" on this subject are more dedicated to the establishment of a good taste in wit, than to an analysis of its nature. He adds to this definition, by way of explanation, that it must be such a resemblance as excites delight and surprise in the reader ; but this still leaves the account of wit as it found it, without discriminating the witty from the sub- lime and the beautiful, for many sublime and beautiful passages in poetry entirely correspond with this defini- tion of wit. " He scarce had ceas'd, when the superior Fiend Was moving toward the shore : his ponderous shield, Ethereal temper, massy, large, and round, Behind him cast ; the broad circumference Hung on his shoulders like the moon, whose orb Through optic glass the Tuscan artist views At evening from the top of Fesole, Or in Valdarno, to descry new lands, Rivers, or mountains, in her spotty globe. His spear — to equal which the tallest pine Hewn on Norwegian hills, to be the mast Of some great ammiral, were but a wand — He walk'd with to support uneasy steps Over the burning marie." In this picture there certainly is an assemblage of very grand and very beautiful images, exciting delight and sur- prise, and gathered together expressly for their resem- blance ; yet no effect can be more distinct from the feel- ing of wit than the effect produced by these lines. " Wit," says Johnson, " may be more rigorously and philosophically considered as a kind of concordia discors — a combination of dissimilar images, or discovery of occult resemblances in things apparently unlike ;" but if this be true, then the discovery of the resemblance between diamond and charcoal, between acidification 118 LECTUfiE X. and combustion, are pure pieces of wit, and full of the most ingenious and exalted pleasantry. It is very little worth while to stop to examine what Lord Karnes has said upon the subject of wit and humor: he has said so very little, and that little in so very hasty a manner, that there is no occasion to delay the progress of the investigation by dwelling on his opinions. The best account in our language of wit and humor (as far as I know) is to be found in the first volume of Campbell's Philosophy of Rhetoric. I say the best, though I must take the liberty of saying that there appears to me to be very material defects in it. In the first place he seems to make precisely the same mistake which all the other definers and describers of wit have done. " Wit," he says, " is that which excites agreeable surprise in the mind, by the strange assemblage of re- lated images presented to it." Now, this account of wit, as I have before remarked more than once, is too extensive, and includes the sublime and the beautiful. He then adds, that "wit effects its objects three ways: first, in debasing things pompous ; next in aggrandizing things mean ; thirdly, by setting ordinary objects (by means not only remote, but apparently contrary) in a particular and uncommon point of view." If this three- fold division be meant as a distinguishing criterion of the operations of wit, it fails ; for eloquence effects all these three objects as well as wit : and if it be meant as an ex- haustive analysis of modes of wit, it is extremely incom- plete ; for wit may find similitudes for, and relations be- tween, great objects without debasing them, and do the same with little objects without exalting them. I may find a hundred ingenious points of resemblance between a black beetle and a birchen broom, without adding much dignity either to the insect or the instrument. I mention these objections to Dr. Campbell's Essay because it is my duty to discriminate, though I repeat again, that, as tar as I know, and upon the whole, it is the best account of these subjects extant in the English language. Now to begin at the beginning of this discussion, it is plain that wit concerns itself with the relations which ON WIT AND HUMOR. 119 subsist between our ideas : and the first observation which occurs to any man turning his attention to this subject is, that it can not, of course, concern itself with all the relations which subsist between all our ideas ; for then every proposition would be witty ; — The rain wets me through, — Butter is spread upon bread, — would be propositions replete with mirth ; and the moment the mind observed the plastic and diffusible nature of butter, and the excellence of bread as a substratum, it would become enchanted with this flash of facetiousness. Therefore, the first limit to be affixed to that observation of relations, which produces the feeling of wit, is, that they must be relations which excite surprise. If you tell me that all men must die, I am very little struck with what you say, because it is not an assertion very remarkable for its novelty ; but if you were to say that man was like a time-glass, — that both must run out, and both render up their dust, I should listen to you with more attention, because I should feel something like sur- prise at the sudden relation you had struck out between two such apparently dissimilar ideas as a man and a time-glass. Surprise is so essential an ingredient of wit, that no wit will bear repetition ; — at least the original electrical feeling produced by any piece of wit can never be re- newed. There is a sober sort of approbation succeeds at hearing it the second time, which is as different from its original rapid, pungent volatility, as a bottle of champagne that has been open three days is, from one that has at that very instant emerged from the darkness of the cellar. To hear that the top of Mont Blanc is like an umbrella, though the relation be new to me, is not sufficient to excite surprise ; the idea is so very ob- vious, it is so much within the reach of the most ordinary understandings, that I can derive no sort of pleasure from the comparison. The relation discovered, must be some- thing remote from all the common tracks and sheep-walks made in the mind ; it must not be a comparison of color with color, and figure with figure, or any comparison which, though individually new, is specifically stale, and to which the mind has been in the habit of making man} 120 LECTURE X. similar ; but it must be something removed from com- mon apprehension, distant from the ordinary haunts of thought, — things which are never brought together in the common events of life, and in which the mind has dis- covered relations by its own subtilty and quickness. Now, then, the point we have arrived at, at present, in building up our definition of wit, is, that it is the discovery of those relations in ideas which are calculated to excite surprise. But a great deal must be taken away from this account of wit before it is sufficiently accurate ; for, in the first place, there must be no feeling or conviction of the utility of the relation so discovered. If vou go to see a large cotton-mill, the manner in which the large water-wheel below, works the little parts of the machinery seven stories high, the relation which one hears to another, is extremely surprising to a person unaccustomed to mechanics ; but, instead of feeling as you feel at a piece of wit, you are absorbed in the con- templation of the utility and importai such rela- tions. — there is a sort of rational approbation mingled with your surprise, which makes the whole feeling very different from that of wit. At the same time, if we attend very accurately to our feeli shall perceive that the discovery of any surprising relation whatever, produces some slight sensation of wit. When first the manner in which a steam-ei ._ and shut- own valves is explained to me. or when 1 at firsl perceive the ingenious and complicated contrivai my piece of machinery, the surprise that 1 feel at the these connections has always something in it which resembles the feeling oi wit. though that soon extinguished by others in' a very different nature. Children, who view the different parts o[ a machine not so much with any notions oi' its utility, feel something still more like the sensation of wit when first they ceive the eifect which one part produces upon another. Show a child of six years old. that, by moving the treadle o( a knife-grinder's machine, you make the large wheel turn round, or that by pressing the spring of a repeal _ watch you make the watch strike, and you probably raise up a feeling in the child's mind pr milar to ON WIT AND HUMOR. 121 that of wit. There is a mode of teaching children geography by disjointed parts of a wooden map, which they fit together. I have no doubt that the child, in finding the kingdom or republic which fits into a great hole in the wooden sea, feels exactly the sensation of wit. Every one must remember that fitting the inviting pro- jection of Crim Tartary into the Black Sea was one of the greatest delights of their childhood ; and almost all children are sure to scream with pleasure at the dis- covery. The relation between ideas which excite surprise, in order to be witty, must not excite any feeling of the beautiful. "The good* man," says a Hindoo epigram, " goes not upon enmity, but rewards w r ith kindness the very being who injures him. So the sandal-wood, while it is felling, imparts to the edge of the axe its aromatic flavor." Now here is a relation which would be witty if it were not beautiful : the relation discovered betwixt the falling sandal- wood, and the returning good for evil, is a new relation which excites surprise , but the mere surprise at the relation, is swallowed up by the con- templation of the moral beauty of the thought, which throws the mind into a more solemn and elevated mood than is compatible with the feeling of wit. It would not be a difficult thing to do (and if the limits of my lecture allowed I would, do it) to select from Cowley and Waller a suite of passages, in order to show the effect of the beautiful in destroying the feeling of wit, and vice versa. First, I would take a passage purely witty, in which the mind merely contemplated the singular and surprising relation of the ideas ; next, a passage where the admixture of some beautiful senti- ment, — the excitation of some slight moral feeling, — arrested the mind from the contemplation of the relation between the ideas ; then, a passage in which the beauti- ful overpowered still more the facetious, till, at last, it was totally destroyed. If the relation between the ideas, to produce wjt, must not be mingled with the beautiful, still less mustUhey be so with the sublime. In that beautiful passage in Mr. Campbell's poem of " Lochiel," the wizard repeats these F 122 LECTURE X. verses, — which were in every one's mouth when first the poem was written : — " Lochiel ! Lochiel ! though my eyes I should seal, Man can not keep secret what God would reveal 'Tis the sunset of life gives me mystical lore, And the coming events cast their shadows before. 1 " Now this comparison of the dark uncertain sort of pre- science of future events implied by the gift of second sight, and the notice of an approaching solid body by the previous approach of its shadow, contains a new and striking relation ; but it is not witty \ nor would it ever have been considered as witty,, if expressed in a more concise manner, and with the rapidity of conversation, because it inspires feelings of a much higher cast than those of wit, and, instead of suffering the mind to dwell upon the mere relation of ideas, fills it with a sort of mysterious awe, and gives an air of sublimity to the fabulous power of prediction. Every oue knows the Latin line on the miracle at the marriage-supper in Cana of Galilee, — on the conversion of water into wine. The poet says, " The modest water saw its God, and llush'd F Now, in my mind, that sublimity which some persons discover in this passage is destroyed by its wit : it appears to me witty, and not sublime. I have no great feelings excited by it. and can perfectly well stop to consider the mere relation of ideas. I hope I need not add, that the line, if it produce the effect of a witty con- ceit, and not of a sublime image, is perfectly misplaced and irreverent : the intent, however, of the poet, was un- doubtedly to be serious. In the same manner, whenever the mind is not left to the mere surprise excited by the relation of ideas, but when that relation excites any powerful emotion — as those of the sublime and beautiful, or any high passion — as anger or pity, or any train of reflections upon the utility of the relations, the feeling of wit is always diminished or destroyed. It seems to be occasioned bv those relations o( ideas which ON WIT AND HUMOR. 123 surprise, and surprise alone. Whenever relations excite any other strong feeling as well as surprise, the wit is either destroyed, diminished, or the two co-existent feel- ings of wit and the other emotion may, by careful reflec- tion, be distinguished from each other. I may be very wrong (for these subjects are extremely difficult), but I know no single passage in any author which is at once beautiful and witty, or sublime and witty. I know innumerable passages which are intended to be beautiful or sublime, and which are merely witty ; and I know many passages in which the relation of ideas is very new and surprising, and which are not wdtty because they are beautiful and sublime. Lastly, when the effect of wit is heightened by strong sense and useful truth, we may perceive in the mind what part of the pleasure arises from the mere relation of ideas, what from the utility of the precept ; and many instances might be produced, where the importance and utility of the thing said, prevents the mind from contemplating the mere relation, and considering it as wit. For example : in that apoph- thegm of Rochefoucault, that hypocrisy is a homage which vice renders to virtue, the image is witty, but all attention to the mere wit is swallowed up in the justness and value of the observation. So that I think I have some color for saying, that wit is produced by those relations between ideas which excite surprise, and sur- prise only. Observe, 1 am only defining the causes of a certain feeling in the mind called wit ; — I can no more define the feeling itself, than I can define the flavor of venison. We all seem to partake of one and the other, with a very great degree of satisfaction ; but why each feeling is what it is, and nothing else, I am sure I can not pretend to determine. Louis XIV. was exceedingly molested by the solicita- tions of a general officer at the levee, and cried out, loud enough to be overheard, " That gentleman is the most troublesome officer in the whole army." " Your Majes- ty's enemies have said the same thing more than once/' was the answer. The wit of this answer consists in the sudden relation discovered in his assent to the King's ?* vective and his own defense. By admitting the K. 124 LECTURE X. observation, he seems, at first sight, to be subscribing to the imputation against him ; whereas, in reality, he effaces it by this very means. A sudden relation is dis- covered where none was suspected. Voltaire, in speak- ing of the effect of epithets in weakening style, said, that the adjectives were the greatest enemies of the substan- tives, though they agreed in gender, number, and in cases. Here, again, it is very obvious that a relation is discovered which, upon first observation, does not appear to exist. These instances may be multiplied to any ex- tent. A gentleman at Paris, who lived very unhappily with his wife, used, for twenty years together, to pass his evenings at the house of another lady, who was very agreeable, and drew together a pleasant society. His wife died ; and his friends all advised him to marry the lady in whose society he had found so much pleasure. He said, no, he certainly should not, for that if he mar- ried her, he should not know where to spend his evenings. Here we are suddenly surprised with the idea that the method proposed of securing his comfort may possibly prove the most effectual method of destroying it. At least, to enjoy the pleasantry of the reply, we view it through his mode of thinking, who had not been very fortunate in the connection established by his first mar- riage. I have, in consequence of the definition I have printed of wit in the cards of the Institution, passed one of the most polemical weeks that ever I remember to have spent in my life. I think, however, that if my words are understood in their fair sense, I am not wrong. I have said, surprising relation between ideas, — not between facts. The difference is very great. A man may tell me he sees a fiery meteor on the surface of the sea: he has no merit in the discovery, — it is no extraordinary act of mind in him, — any one who has eyes can ascertain this relation of facts as well, if it really exist ; but to discover a surprising relation in ideas, is an act of power in the discoverer, in which, if his wit be good, he exceeds the greater part of mankind : so that the very terms I have adopted, imply comparison and superiority of mind. The discovery of any relation of ideas exciting pure surprise involves the notion of such superiority, and enhances ON WIT AND HUMOR. 125 the surprise. To discover relations between facts ex- citing pure surprise, involves the notion of no such superiority ; for any man could ascertain that a calf had two heads if it had two heads : therefore, I again repeat, let any man show me that which is an acknowledged proof of wit, and I believe I could analyze the pleasure experienced from it into surprise, partly occasioned by the unexpected relation established, partly by the dis- play of talent in discovering it ; and, putting this posi- tion synthetically, I would say, whenever there is a superior act of intelligence in discovering a relation between ideas, which relation excites surprise and no other high emotion, the mind will have the feeling of wit. Why is it not witty to find a gold watch and seals hanging upon a hedge ? Because it is a mere re- lation of facts discovered without any effort of mind, and not (as I have said in my definition) a relation of ideas. Why is it not witty to discover the relation between the moon and the tides ? Because it raises other notions than those of mere surprise. Why are not all the extravagant relations in Garagantua witty ? Because they are merely odd and extravagant ; and mere oddity and extravagance is too easy to excite sur- prise. Why is it witty, in one of Addison's plays, where the undertaker reproves one of his mourners for laughing at a funeral, and says to him, " You rascal, you ! I have been raising your wages for these two years past upon condition that you should appear more sorrow- ful, and the higher wages you receive the happier you look !" Here is a relation between ideas the discovery of which implies superior intelligence, and excites no other emotion than surprise. It is imagined that wit is a sort of inexplicable visita- tion, that it comes and goes with the rapidity of light- ning, and that it is quite as unattainable as beauty or just proportion. I am so much of a contrary way of thinking, that I am convinced a man might sit down as systematically, and as successfully, to the study of wit, as he might to the study of mathematics : and I would answer for it, that, by giving up only six hours a day to being witty, he should come on prodigiously before mid- 126 LECTURE X. summer, so that his friends should hardly know him again. For what is there to hinder the mind from grad- ually acquiring a habit of attending to the lighter rela- tions of ideas in which wit consists ? Punning grows upon every body, and punning is the wit of words. I do not mean to say that it is so easy to acquire a habit of discovering new relations in ideas as in words, but the difficulty is not so much greater as to render it insuper- able to habit. One man is unquestionably much better calculated for it by nature than another : but association, which gradually makes a bad speaker a good one, might give a man wit who had it not, if any man chose to be so absurd as to sit down to acquire it. I have mentioned puns. They are, I believe, what I have denominated them — the wit of words. They are exactly the same to words which* wit is to ideas, and consist in the sudden discovery of relations in language. A pun, to be perfect in its kind, should contain two dis- tinct meanings ; the one common and obvious ; the other, more remote : and in the notice which the mind takes of the relation between these two sets of words, and in the surprise which that relation excites, the pleas- ure of a pun consists. Miss Hamilton, in her book on Education, mentions the instance of a boy so very neg- lectful, that he could never be brought to read the word patriarchs ; but whenever he met with it he alwavs pronounced it partridges. A friend of the writer ob- served to her, that it could hardly be considered as a mere piece of negligence, for it appeared to him that the boy, in calling them partridges, was making game of the patriarchs. Now here are two distinct meanings con- tained in the same phrase : for to make game of the patriarchs is to laugh at them ; or to make game of them is, by a very extravagant and laughable sort of ignorance of words, to rank them among pheasants, partridges, and other such delicacies, which the law takes under its protection and calls game: and the whole pleasure derived from this pun consists in the sudden discovery that two such different meanings are referable to one form of expression. I have very little to say about puns ; they are in very bad repute, and so ON WIT AND HUMOR. 127 they ought to be. The wit of language is so miserably inferior to the wit of ideas, that it is very deservedly driven out of good company. Sometimes, indeed, a pun makes its appearance which seems for a moment to redeem its species ; but we must not be deceived by them : it is a radically bad race of wit. By unremitting persecution, it has been at last got under, and driven into cloisters, — from whence it must never again be suffered to emerge into the light of the world. One in- valuable blessing produced by the banishment of pun- ning is, an immediate reduction of the number of wits. It is a wit of so low an order, and in which some sort of progress is so easily made, that the number of those endowed with the gift of wit would be nearly equal to those endowed with the gift of speech. The condition of putting together ideas in order to be witty operates much in the same salutary manner as the condition of finding rhymes in poetry ; — it reduces the number of performers to those who have vigor enough to over- come incipient difficulties, and makes a sort of provision that that which need not be done at all, should be done well whenever it is done. For we may observe, that mankind are always more fastidious about that which is pleasing, than they are about that which is useful. A commonplace piece of morality is much more easily pardoned than a commonplace piece of poetry or of wit ; because it is absolutely necessary for the well-being of society that the rules of morality should be frequently re- peated and enforced ; and though in any individual instance the thing may be badly done, the sacred neces- sity of the practice itself, atones in some degree for the individual failure : but as there is no absolute necessity that men should be either wits or poets, we are less in- clined to tolerate their mediocrity in superfluities. If a' man have ordinary chairs and tables, no one notices it ; but if he stick vulgar, gaudy pictures on his walls, which he need not have at all, every one laughs at him for his folly. The wit of irony consists in the surprise excited by the discovery of that relation wich exists between the apparent praise and the real blame; or, if it be good 128 LECTURE X. natured irony, between the apparent blame and the real praise. I shall quote a noble specimen of irony from the preface of " Killing no Murder ;" — "TO HIS HIGHNESS OLIVER CROMWELL. " May it please your Highness, " How I have spent some hours of the leisure your Highness has been pleased to give me, this following paper will give your Highness an account. How you will please to interpret it, 1 can not tell ; but I can with confidence say, my intention in it is, to procure your Highness that justice nobody yet does you, and to let the people see, the longer they defer it, the greater injury they do both themselves and you. To your Highness justly belongs the honor of dying for the people : and it can not choose but be an unspeakable consolation to you in the last moments of your life, to consider, with how much benefit to the world you are like to leave it. It is then only, my Lord, the titles you now usurp will be truly yours. You will then be indeed the deliverer of your country, and free it from a bondage little inferior to that from which Moses delivered his. You will then be that true reformer which you would now be thought ; re- ligion shall be then restored, liberty asserted, and parlia- ments have those privileges they have sought for. We shall then hope that other laws will have place beside those of the sword, and that justice shall be otherwise de- fined than the will and pleasure of the strongest : and we shall then hope men will keep oaths again, and not have the necessity of being false and perfidious to preserve themselves, and be like their ruler. All this we ! from your Highness's happy expiration, who are the father of your country ; for while you live, we can call nothing ours, and it is from your death that we hope for our inheritances. Let this consideration arm and fortify your Highness's mind against the fears of death, and the terrors of your evil conscience, — that the good you will do by your death, will somewhat balance the evils of your life. And if, in the black catalogue of high uo factors, few can be found that have lived more to the ON WIT AND HUMOR. 129 affliction and disturbance of mankind, than your High- ness has done ; yet your greatest enemies will not deny, that there are likewise as few that have expired more to the universal benefit of mankind, than your Highness is like to do. To hasten this great good, is the chief end of my writing this paper ; and if it have the effects I hope it will, your Highness will quickly be out of the reach of men's malice, and your enemies will only be able to wound you in your memory, which strokes you will not feel. That your Highness may be speedily in this secu- rity, is the universal wish of your grateful country ; this is the desire and prayers of the good and of the bad, and, it may be, is the only thing wherein all sects and factions do agree in their devotion, and it is our only common prayer! But among all that put in their request and supplication for your Highness's speedy deliverance from all earthly troubles, none is more assiduous nor more fer- vent than he, that, with the rest of the nation, hath the honor to be (may it please your Highness), " Your Highness's present slave and vassal." Now, through the whole of this passage, there is an-ap- parent praise of the person to whom it is addressed, and a real censure of that person. The surprise excited by this union of visible eulogium and real satire constitutes the pleasure we receive from the passage. A sarcasm (which is another species of wit) generally consists in the obliquity of the invective. It must not be direct assertion, but something established by infer- ence and analogy ; — something which the mind does not at first perceive, but in the discovery of which it experi- ences the pleasure of surprise. A true sarcasm is like a sword-stick, — it appears, at first sight, to be much more innocent than it really is, till, all of a sudden, there leaps something out of it — sharp, and deadly, and incisive — which makes you tremble and recoil. I have insisted, in the beginning of my lecture, on the great power of the ridiculous over the opinions of man- kind ; including in that term wit, humor, and every other feeling which has laughter for its distinguishing charac- teristic. # 130 LECTURE X. I know of no principle which it is of more importance to fix in the minds of young people than that of the most determined resistance to the encroachments of ridicule. Give up to the world, and to the ridicule with which the world enforces its dominion, every trifling question of manner and appearance : it is to toss courage and firm- ness to the winds, to combat with the mass upon such subjects as these. But learn from the earliest days to inure your principles against the perils of ridicule : you can no more exercise your reason, if you live in the con- stant dread of laughter, than you can enjoy your life, if you are in the constant terror of death. If you think it right to differ from the times, and to make a stand for any valuable point of morals, do it, however rustic, how- ever antiquated, however pedantic it may appear ; — do it, not for insolence, but seriously and grandly, — as a man who wore a soul of his own in his bosom, and did not wait till it was breathed into him by the breath of fashion. Let men call you mean, if you know you are just ; hypocritical, if you are honestly religious ; pusillan- imous, if you feel that you are firm : resistance soon con- verts unprincipled wit into sincere respect ; and no after time can tear from those feelings which every man car- ries within him who has made a noble and successful ex- ertion in a virtuous cause. LECTURE XI ON WIT AND HUMOR— PART II. Hobbes defines laughter to be " a sudden glory, arising from a sudden conception of some eminency in ourselves, by comparison with infirmity of others, or our own former infirmity." By infirmity he must mean, I pre- sume, marked and decided inferiority, whether acciden- tal and momentary, or natural and permanent. He can not, of course, mean by it, what we usually denomi- nate infirmity of body or mind ; for it must be obvious, at the first moment, that humor has a much wider range than this. If we were to see a little man walking in the streets with a hat half as big as an umbrella, we should laugh ; and that laughter certainly could not be ascribed to the infirmities either of his body or mind : for his diminutive figure, without his disproportionate hat, I shall suppose by hypothesis, to be such as would excite no laughter at all ; — and, indeed, an extraordinary large man, with a hat such as is worn by boys of twelve years old, would be an object quite as ludicrous. Taking, therefore, the language of Hobbes to mean the sudden discovery of any inferiority, it will be very easy to show that such is not the explanation of that laughter excited by humor : for I may discover suddenly that a person has lost half-a-crown, — or, that his tooth aches, — or, that his house is not so well built, or his coat not so well made, as mine; and yet none of these discoveries give me the slightest sensation of the humor- ous. If it be suggested that these proofs of inferiority are very slight, the theory of Hobbes is still more weakened, by recurring to greater instances of inferiori- ty : for the sudden information that any one of my J 32 LECTURE XL acquaintance has broken his leg, or is completely ruined in his fortunes, has decidedly very little of humor in it ; — at least it is not very customary to be thrown into paroxysms of laughter by such sort of intelligence. It is clear, then, that there are many instances of the sudden discovery of inferiorities and infirmities in others, which excite no laughter; and, therefore, pride is not the explanation of laughter excited by the humorous. It is true, the object of laughter is always inferior to us ; but then the converse is not true, — that every one who is inferior to us is an object of laughter : therefore, as some inferiority is ridiculous, and other inferiority not ridicu- lous, w r e must, in order to explain the nature of the humorous, endeavor to discover the discriminating cause. This discriminating cause is incongruity, or the con- junction of objects and circumstances not usually com- bined, — and the conjunction of which is either useless, or what in the common estimation of men would be considered as rather troublesome, and not to be desired. To see a young officer of eighteen years of age come into company in full uniform, and with such a wig as is worn by grave and respectable clergymen advanced in years, would make every body laugh, because it certainly is a very unusual combination of objects, and such as would not atone for its novelty by any particular purpose of utility to which it was subservient. It is a complete instance of incongruity. Add ten years to the age of this incongruous officer, the incongruity would be very faintly diminished ; — make him ei^htv years of a^e. and a celebrated military character of the last reign, and the incongruity almost entirely vanishes : I am not sure that we should not be rather more disposed to respect the peculiarity than to laugh at it. As you increase the incongruity, you increase the humor ; as you diminish it, you diminish the humor. If a tradesman of a corpulent and respectable appearance, with habiliments somewhat ostentatious, were to slide down gently into the mud. ami dedecorate a pea-green coat, I am afraid we should all have the barbarity to laugh. If his hat and wig, like treacherous servants, were to desert their falling master, it certainly would not diminish our propensity to laugh ; ON WIT AND HUMOK. 133 but if he were to fall into a violent passion, and abuse every body about him, nobody could possibly resist the incongruity of a pea-green tradesman, very respectable, sitting in the mud, and threatening all the passers-by with the effects of his wrath. Here, every incident heightens the humor of the scene: — the gayety of his tunic, the general respectability of his appearance, the rills of muddy water which trickle down his cheeks, and the harmless violence of his rage ! But if, instead of this, we were to observe a dustman falling into the mud, it would hardly attract any attention, because the opposi- tion of ideas is so trifling, and the incongruity so slight. Surprise is as essential to humor as it is to wit. In going into a foreign country for the first time, we are exceedingly struck with the absurd appearance of some of the ordinary characters we meet with : a very short time, however, completely reconciles us to the phenomena of French abbes and French postilions, and all the variety of figures so remote from those we are accus- tomed to, and which surprise us so much at our first ac- quaintance with that country. I do not mean to say, either of one class of the ridiculous or of the other, that perfect novelty is absolutely a necessary ingredient to the production of any degree of pleasure, but that the pleasure arising from humor diminishes, as the surprise diminishes ; — it is less at the second exhibition of any piece of humor than at the first, less at the third than the second, till at last it becomes trite and disgusting. A piece of humor will, however, always bear repetition much better than a piece of wit; because, as humor depends in some degree on manner, there will probably always be in that manner, something sufficiently different from what it was before, to prevent the disagreeable effects of complete sameness. If I say a good thing to- day, and repeat it again to-morrow in another company, the flash of to-day is as much like the flash of to-morrow as the flash of one musket is like the flash of another ; but if I tell a humorous story, there are a thousand little diversities in my voice, manner, language, and gestures, which make it rather a different thing from what it was 134 LECTURE XI. before, and infuse a tinge of novelty into the repeated narrative. It is by no means, however, sufficient, to say of humor, that it is incongruity which excites surprise ; — the same limits are necessary here w T hich I have before affixed to wit, — it must excite surprise, and nothing but surprise ; for the moment it calls into action any other high and impetuous emotion, all sense of the humorous is imme- diately at an end. For, to return again to our friend dressed in green, whom we left in the mud, — suppose, instead of a common, innocent tumble, he had experienced a very severe fall, and we discovered that he had broken a limb; our laughter is immediately extinguished, and converted into a lively feeling of compassion. The incongruity is precisely as great as it was before ; but as it has excited another feeling not compatible with the ridiculous, all mixture of the humorous is at end. The sense of the humorous is as incompatible with tenderness and respect as with compassion. Xo man would laugh to see a little child fall ; and he would be shocked to see such an accident happen to an old man, or a woman, or to his father ! It is an odd case to put, but I should like to know if any man living could have laughed if he had seen Sir Isaac Newton rolling in the mud ? I believe that not only Senior Wranglers and Senior Optimi would have run to his assistance, but that dustmen, and carmen, and coal-heavers would have run and picked him up, and set him to rights. It is a beautiful thing to observe the boundaries which nature has affixed to the ridiculous, and to notice how soon it is swallowed up by the more illustrious feelings of our minds. Where is the heart so hard that could bear to see the awkward resources and contrivances of the poor turned into ridicule ? Who could laugh at the fractured, ruined body of a soldier? Who is so wicked as to amuse himself with the infirmities of extreme old age ? or to find subject for humor in the weakness of a perishing, dissolving body ? Who is there that does not feel himself disposed to overlook the little peculiarities of the truly great and wise, and to throw a veil over that ridicule which they have redeemed by the magnitude ON WIT AND HUMOR. 135 of their talents, and the splendor of their virtues ? Who ever thinks of turning into ridicule our great and ardent hope of a world to come ? Whenever the man of humor meddles with these things, he is astonished to find, that in all the great feelings of their nature the mass of mankind always think and act aright ; — that they are ready enough to laugh, — but that they are quite as ready to drive away with indignation and contempt, the light fool who comes with the feather of wit to crumble the bulwarks of truth, and to beat down the Temples of God ! So, then, this turns out to be the nature of humor : that it is incongruity which creates surprise, and only surprise. Try the most notorious and classical instances of humor by this rule, and you will find it succeed. If you find incongruities which create surprise and are not humorous, it is always, I believe, because they are ac- companied with some other feeling, — emotion, or an interesting train of thought, beside surprise. Find an incongruity which creates surprise, and surprise only, and, if it be not humorous, I am, what I very often am, completely wrong ; and this theory is, what theories very often are, unfounded in fact. Most men, I observe, are of opinion that humor is entirely confined to character; — and if you choose to confine the word humor to those instances of the ridicu- lous which are excited by character, you may do so if you please, — this is not worth contending. All that I wish to show is, that this species of feeling is produced by something beside character ; and if you allow it to be the same feeling, I am satisfied, and you may call it by what name you please. One of the most laughable scenes I ever saw in my life was, the complete overturn- ing of a very large table, with all the dinner upon it, — which I believe one or two gentlemen in this room re- member as well as myself. What of character is there in seeing a roasted turkey sprawling on the floor ? or ducks lying in different parts of the room, covered with trembling fragments of jelly ? It is impossible to avoid laughing at such absurdities, because the incongruities they involve are so very great ; though they have no more to do with character than they have with chemistry. 136 LECTURE XI. A thousand little circumstances happen every day which excite violent laughter, but have no sort of reference to character. The laughter is excited by throwing inani- mate objects into strange and incongruous positions. Now, I am quite unable, by attending to what passes in my own mind, to say, that these classes of sensations are not alike : they may differ in degree, for the incon- gruous observed of things living, is always more striking than the incongruous observed in things inanimate ; but there is an incongruous not observable in character, which produces the feeling of humor. Having thus endeavored to ascertain the nature of humor, I come next to the various classes and divisions of the ridiculous which have no affinity with humor. Buffoonery is voluntary incongruity. To play the buffoon, is to counterfeit some peculiarity incongruous enough to excite laughter: not incongruities of mind, for this is a humor of a higher class, and constitutes comic acting; but incongruities of body, — imitating a drunken man, or a clown, or a person with a hunched back, or puffing out the cheeks as the lower sort of comic actors do upon the stage. Buffoonery is general in its imitations ; mimicry is particular, and seizes on the incongruous in individual characters. I think we must say, that mimicry is always employed upon de- fects : a good voice, a gentleman-like appearance, and rational, agreeable manners, can never be the subject of mimicry ; — they may be exactly represented and imi- tated, but nobody would call this mimicry, as the word always means the representation of defects. Parody is the adaptation of the same thoughts to other subjects. Burlesque is that species of parody, or adaptation of thoughts to other subjects, which is intended to make the original ridiculous. Pope has parodied several Odes of Horace ; Johnson has parodied Juvenal ; Cervantes has burlesqued the old romances. A bull, — which must by no means be passed over in this recapitulation of the family of wit and humor, — a bull is exactly the counterpart of a witticism : for as wit discovers real relations that are not apparent, bulls admit apparent relations that are not real. The pleasure ON WIT AND HUMOR. 137 arising from bulls, proceeds from our surprise at sud- denly discovering two things to be dissimilar in which a resemblance might have been suspected. The same doctrine will apply to wit and bulls in action. Practical wit discovers connection or relation between actions, in which duller understandings discover none ; and practi- cal bulls originate from an apparent relation between two actions which more correct understandings immedi- ately perceive to have none at all. In the late rebellion in Ireland, the rebels, who had conceived a high degree of indignation against some great banker, passed a reso- lution that they would burn his notes ; — which they accordingly did, with great assiduity ; forgetting, that in burning his notes they were destroying his debts, and that for every note which went into the flames, a cor- respondent value went into the banker's pocket. A gentleman, in speaking of a nobleman's wife, of great rank and fortune, lamented very much that she had no children. A medical gentleman who was present ob- served, that to have no children was a great misfortune, but he thought he had remarked it was hereditary in some families. Take any instance of this branch of the ridiculous, and you will always find an apparent relation of ideas leading to a complete inconsistency. I hardly know whether quaintness belongs to this subject, and the-'word is now used so loosely that it is no very easy matter to determine at what it points. I think it means an attention to petty excellences in style, an over-scrupulous and affected delicacy of expression ; and that quaint humor, is humor in this peculiar garb. Good caricature is the humorous addressed to the eye. It represents you as doing something which it would be extremely incongruous and absurd in you to do ; but it adds the effects of mimicry to those of humor, laying hold of personal defects and peculiarities, and aggravat- ing them in a very high degree. I shall say nothing of charades, and such sorts of un- pardonable trumpery : if charades are made at all, they should be made without benefit of clergy, the offender should instantly be hurried off to execution, and be cut off in the middle of his dullness, without being allowed 138 LECTURE XI. to explain to the executioner why his first is like his second, or what is the resemblance between his fourth and his ninth. Incongruities, which excite laughter, generally pro- duce a feeling of contempt for the person at whom we laugh. I do not know that I can state an instance of the humorous in persons, where the person laughing does not feel himself superior to the person laughed at, — whether that sense of the humorous be excited by an accidental incongruity of situation, or by a permanent incongruity interwoven in the character. Remember, I am not speaking of persons laughed with, but of per- sons laughed at: and in all such cases the laugher is. in his own estimation, the superior man ; the person laughed at, the inferior : at the same time, contempt accompanied by laughter, is always mitigated by laughter, which seems to diminish hatred, as perspiration dimin- ishes heat. Laughing contempt is by no means the strongest con- tempt ; whenever contempt increases to a very high degree, it becomes serious, and all laughter ceases. Contempt verges upon anger, and the humorous is at an end. A very foolish, insignificant man, may (jive him- self airs of great importance in society, and provoke laughter ; but the laughter by no means goes on in- creasing with the incongruity, for at Ust a degree of contempt ensues, which is rather painful than agreeable; and so painful, as to put an end to laughter, and chase away the humorous. The ridiculous is not so much opposed to the proper and the decent, as to that which is very proper and very decent. There is a propriety so unusual, that it obtains positive praise whenever it is observed ; there is a fainter sense of propriety, just sufficient to guard a man from observation, but for which he obtains neither blame nor praise. There is a deficiency of propriety so great, that it. is universally ridiculous. Take it in language : — my mode of expressing myself may be so happy and so ac- curate, I may throw my ideas into such agreeable com- binations of words, that I may derive a considerable share of reputation from my style, either in talking or in ON WIT AND HUMOR. 139 writing ; or my language may be just so mediocre, as to escape all attention ; or so bad, and so full of incongrui- ties, that it may be laughed at. Now the last of these, which is so bad as to excite the powerful emotion of laughter, is to be opposed and contrasted, in all specula- tions upon this subject, to that which is so excellent as to excite a strong feeling of approbation. I mention this, in order to show that nature acts as much by re- wards as by punishments ; and that men are as much allured to do that which is fit and decent, by the love of each other's approbation, as they are by the fear of each other's laughter and disapprobation. Laughter is, to many men, worse than death. Innumerable duels have been fought to prevent the pangs of ridicule, and to re- venge them; and there are very few who would not rather be hated than be laughed at. The effects of this feeling, entertained in a rational and moderate degree, are, to render men dependent upon each other's judg- ment, and to lay the basis of that propriety and decorum upon which the pleasure and happiness of our intercourse are founded. In Bedlam (where there is no fear of the ridiculous), within ten yards one man is singing, another reciting, and another sleeping ; a young man is dressed like an old one, and an old one as if he were 3 r oung ; there is that universal s#fishness, which of course must predom- inate where every human being is utterly indifferent to the censure or praise of the other. In polished society, the dread of being ridiculous, models every word and gesture into propriety, and produces an exquisite atten- tion to the feelings and opinions of others ; it is the great cure of extravagance, folly, and impertinence ; it curbs the sallies of eccentricity, it recalls the attention of mankind to the one uniform standard of reason and common sense. It has often been remarked, that wit never excites laughter, and that humor does. This is putting the mat- ter in rather too strong a light. The laughter is not so long and so loud in wit as it is in humor, but there is cer- tainly a faint approach to the same bodily affection. Nature seems to have intended that we should have been 140 LECTURE XI. affected by both, in a similar manner, but not in the same degree. I do not pretend to give any reason for this fact ; except, perhaps, it be this, that humor is in general longer than wit : in a piece of wit there is but a single flash of surprise and pleasure ; in a piece of humor, as in Don Quixote's battle with the mills, one impression fol- lows quick upon another, the mind is thrown into an atti- tude of pleasing surprise by the first occurrence of the idea, and then all the other touches of humor act one on another with a compound force and accumulated impres- sion, till at last the convulsion of laughter ensues ; — and it is a confirmation of this idea, that the tranquil smile with which wit is received, is soon disturbed and roused into something more disorderly, when there is much re- duplication of wit ; when it comes out, as it does in some men, flash after flash, with a brisk multiplication of sur- prises, a continued irritability, — where one nerve no sooner ceases to vibrate than another is struck, and the mind is kept in a constant agitation of pleasure. In cases like this, I have very often seen wit produce loud and convulsive laughter ; and am inclined to believe, that the different effects of humor and wit, in this respect, are a good deal to be attributed to the continuity of one, and the brevity of the other; to which, perhaps, may be added, that wit excites more admiration than humor, — a feeling by no means favorable to laughter. Wit and humor, though the first consists in discover- ing connection, the latter in discovering incongruity, are closely and nearly related to each other. The respect- ive feelings both depend upon surprise, are both incom- patible with serious and important ideas, and both com- municate the same sort of pleasure to the understanding. A man who gives the reins to his wit, may repress his humor as undignified ; the one may be rooted out by design and attention ; but they seem, where no pains of this kind have been taken, to spring up naturally in the same soil, and to be plants of the same tribe and family. The ingenious and philosophical Dr. Millar, o( Glasgow, has a very interesting speculation of the different effects of civilization on wit and humor, the progress of which he conceives to have a direct tendency to encourage wit, ON WIT AND HUMOR. 141 and to diminish humor. It is so very well done, and so clever, that I shall, I am sure, be excused for reading it:— " The higher advances of civilization and refinement, contributed not only to explode the ludicrous pastimes which had been the delight of a former age, but even to weaken the propensity to every species of humorous ex- hibition. Although humor be commonly productive of more merriment than wit, it seldom procures to the pos- sessor the same degree of respect. To show in a strong light the follies, the defects, and the improprieties of man- kind, they must be exhibited with peculiar coloring. To excite strong ridicule, the picture must be changed, and the features, though like, must be exaggerated. The man who, in conversation, aims at the display of his tal- ents, must endeavor to represent with peculiar heighten- ing the tone, the aspect, the gesture, the deportment of the person whom he ridicules. To paint folly, he must, for the time, appear foolish. To exhibit oddity and ab- surdity, he must himself become odd and absurd. There is, in this attempt, something low and buffoonish ; and a degree of that meanness which appeared in the person thus exposed, is likely, by a natural association, to re- main with his representative. The latter is beheld in the light of a player, who degrades himself for our enter- tainment, and whom nothing but the highest excellence in his profession can save from our contempt. " But though the circumstances and manners of a pol- ished nation are adverse to the cultivation of humor, they are peculiarly calculated to promote the circulation and improvement of wit. The entertainment arising from the latter, has no connection with those humiliating circumstances which are inseparable from the former ; but is derived from such occasional exertions of the fancy, as may be consistent with the utmost elegance and correctness. The man of wit has no occasion to personate folly, or to become the temporary butt of that ridicule which he means to excite. He assumes no gro- tesque attitude, he employs no buffoonish expression, nor appears in any character but his own. Unlike the man of humor, he is never prolix or tedious, but, passing with 142 LECTURE XI. rapidity from one object to another, selects from the group whatever suits his purpose. He sees with quick- ness those happy assemblages, those unexpected opposi- tions and resemblances, with which the imagination is delighted and surprised, and by a sudden glance he di- rects the attention to that electrical point of contact by which the enlivening stroke is communicated."* I admire this very much, for, whether true or not, it is very interesting and ingenious ; but I confess I am not quite convinced by it, nor can I easily concede that the effect of civilization is to diminish and check the humor- ous. There are many circumstances in a civilized coun- try, which, on the contrary, go directly to the encourage- ment of humor. Dr. Millar himself, mentions one of very considerable importance. To this cause may be added, that there are a greater number of minds in a civ- ilized state, capable of seizing the finer inconsistencies in character, and relishing that humor which they excite ; there are a thousand little traits of the humorous, which a man of fine and cultivated understanding perceives, which are utterly lost upon grosser faculties ; but an of civilization is an age in which the number of line and cultivated understandings is the greatest, and in which, therefore, for these reasons, the field of humor is en- larged. It is unfair to take the stage as a proof, and to ask why we have not Molieres and Shakspeares starting up at every period ! The preceding age lias gleaned all the twenty or thirty characters of strong and extrav; ._ humor which lie upon the surface of society ; not be- cause it had greater talents for humor, but merely be- cause it teas the preceding age. The blustering captain, — the inebriated and witty rake, — the obese alderman. — the squire in London, — slaving poets, homicide phy- sicians, chambermaids, valets, and duennas, — are all gone ; employed by dramatic writers who had the first of the market. These characters can not be reintro- duced on the stage; they are worn out there; but they exist in real life, and of course must exist, while men are what they ever have been. * Millar's Historical View of the- English GovernmeL ON WIT AND HUMOR. 143 Another reason which would induce me to suspect that Professor Millar is wrong in supposing that, humor decays in a civilized age, is, that in a civilized age the number of idle people is so immensely augmented, and, of course., the demand for every thing amusing consider- ably increased. There are several meanings included under the term civilization ; it means, having better cups and saucers than we had a century or two centuries ago; better laws, better manners ; and it means, also, having nothing to do, — and those who have nothing to do, must either be amused, or expire with gaping. For this rea- son an amusing and entertaining man, who has humor, appears to me to be in high request in a civilized coun- try. I allow that his humor, to be well received, must be of a very different complexion from what would pass current in more barbarous times ; it must ba the humor of the mind, not the humor of the body. It must be de- void of every shade of buffoonery and grimace, and managed with a great degree of delicacy and skill. Civ- ilization improves the humor, but I can hardly allow that it diminishes it : in spite of all Professor Millar has said, I am strongly inclined to think there will be more hu- mor, more agreeable railleiy, and more facetious remark, displayed between seven and ten o'clock this evening, in the innumerable dinners which are to be eaten by civil- ized people in this vast city, than ten months could have produced in the reigns of Queen Elizabeth or Henry the Seventh. On the very face of the proposition there is indeed something which it is difficult to digest. The effect of civilization is, to avert mankind from the contemplation of a great part of their own nature : they observe incon- gruities better in a state of barbarism, or half barbarism ; and in proportion as they are elegant, acute, and learned, they become dull and careless observers of some of the most stilting phenomena of the human mind. I wish, after all I have said about wit and humor, I could satisfy myself of their good effects upon the char- acter and disposition ; but I am convinced the probable tendency of both is, to corrupt the understanding and the heart, I am not speaking of wit where it is kept 144 LECTURE XI. down by more serious qualities of mind, and thrown into the background of the picture ; but where it stands out boldly and emphatically, and is evidently the master quality in any particular mind. Professed wits, thoush they are generally courted for the amusement they afford, Hre seldom respected for the qualities they possess. The habit of seeing things in a witty point of view, increases, and makes incursions from its own proper regions, upon principles and opinions which are ever held sacred by the wise and good. A witty man is a dramatic per- former ; in process of time, he can no more exist without applause, than he can exist without air ; if his audience be small, or if they are inattentive, or if a new wit defrauds him of any portion of his admiration, it is all over with him, — he sickens, and is extinguished. The applauses of the theater on which he performs are so essential to him that he must obtain them at the ex- pense of decency, friendship, and good feeling. It must always be probable, too, that a mere wit is a person of light and frivolous understand ing. His business is not to discover relations of ideas that are useful, and have a real influence upon life, but to discover the more trilling relations which are only amusing : he never looks at things with the naked eye of common sense, but is always gazing at the world through a Claude Lorraine glass, — discovering a thousand appearances which are created only by the instrument of inspection, and cover- ing every object with factitious and unnatural colors. In short, the character of a sure wit it is impossible to consider ;is very amiable, very respectable, or very - So far the world, in judging of wit where it has swal- lowed up all other qualities, judge aright ; but I doubt if they are sufficiently indulgent to this faculty where it exists in a lesser degree, and as one out of many other in- gredients of the understanding. There is an association in men's minds between dullness and wisdom, amuse- ment and folly, which has a very powerful influence in decision upon character, and is not overcome without considerable difficulty. The reason is. that the out, signs of a dull man and a wise man are the same, and so are the outward sisms of a frivolous man and a witty ON WIT AND HUMOR. 145 man ; and we are not to expect that the majority will be disposed to look to much more than the outward sign. I believe the fact to be, that wit is very seldom the only eminent quality which resides in the mind of any man ; it is commonly accompanied by many other talents of every description, and ought to be considered as a strong evidence of a fertile and superior understanding. Al- most all the great poets, orators, and statesmen of all times, have been witty. Caesar, Alexander, Aristotle, Descartes, and Lord Bacon, were witty men ; so were Cicero, Shakspeare, Demosthenes, Boileau, Pope, Dryden, Fontenelle, Jonson, Waller, Cowley, Solon, Socrates, Dr. Johnson, and almost every man who has made a dis- tinguished figure in the House of Commons. I have talked of the danger of wit : I do not mean by that to enter into commonplace declamation against faculties because they are dangerous ; — wit is dangerous, elo- quence is dangerous, a talent for observation is danger- ous, every thing is dangerous that has efficacy and vigor for its characteristics ; nothing is safe but mediocrity. The business is, in conducting the understanding well, to risk something ; to aim at uniting things that are com- monly incompatible. The meaning of an extraordinary man is, that he is eight men, not one man ; that he has as much wit as if he had no sense, and as much sense as if he had no wit ; that his conduct is as judicious as if he were the dullest of human beings, and his imagination as brilliant as if he were irretrievably ruined. But when wit is combined with sense and information ; when it is softened by benevolence, and restrained by strong prin- ciple ; when it is in the hands of a man w T ho can use it and despise it, w r ho can be witty and something much tetter than witty, who loves honor, justice, decency, good nature, morality, and religion, ten thousand times better than wit ; — wit is then a beautiful and delightful part of our nature. There is no more interesting spec-'' tacle than to see the effects of wit upon the different characters of men ; than to observe it expanding caution, relaxing dignity, unfreezing coldness, — teaching age, and care, and pain, to smile, — extorting reluctant gleams of pleasure from melancholy, and charming even the pangs G 146 LECTURE XI. of grief. It is pleasant to observe how it penetrates through the coldness and awkwardness of society, grad- ually bringing men nearer together, and, like the com- bined force of wine and oil, giving every man a glad heart and a shining countenance. Genuine and innocent wit like this, is surely the flavor of the mind ! Man could direct his ways by plain reason, and support his life by tasteless food ; but God has given us wit, and flavor, and brightness, and laughter, and perfumed, to enliven the days of man's pilgrimage, and to " charm his pained steps over the burning marie." LECTURE XII. ON TASTE. All language which concerns the mind is borrowed from language which respects material objects. The mind itself is called breath, wind, air, in almost all the languages of the world. Apprehension, comprehen- sion, understanding, perception, are all metaphors taken from the human body, or from substance of some sort or another. The reason is plain : the attention of man is first called powerfully to outer objects ; they are the first observed and the first named, they make the basis of all languages ; and then, when men can turn their attention inwardly upon themselves, and want words for new ideas, they naturally borrow them from already existing language, and are determined in their choice by some fanciful analogy between the object of mind, and the ob- ject of body. This is exactly the case with taste. There are certain feelings of the mind which take place upon the perception of certain objects, or the contemplation of certain actions, which men have chosen to compare to the sensations of the palate upon the application of certain flavors. There is no reason, that I know of, why they should compare them to sensations excited by taste, rather than by smell or by touch. The feeling of beauty, excited by the view of a pleasant landscape, no more resembles any flavor which the palate can taste, than it resembles a soft and smooth object which the hand can touch : one metaphor has established itself, the other has not. We have begun, though of late years, to use the word tact ; we say of such a man that he has a good tact in manners, that he has a fine tact, exactly as we would say he has a good taste. We might, in 148 LECTURE XII. familiar style, extend the metaphor to the sense of smell- ing, and say of a man that he had a good nose for the ridiculous. Taste, then, is a metaphorical expression ; and it is a mere word of classification, including several distinct feelings of the mind, exactly as the primary taste includes several distinct feelings of the body. It includes the feeling of beauty in all its very numerous meanings, the feeling of novelty, the feeling of grandeur, the feeling of sublimity, the feeling of propriety, and perhaps many others, which, in a subsequent part of my lecture, I shall take pains to enumerate. Precisely in the same manner, the natural taste in- cludes the taste of sweet, sour, hot, cold, moist, savory, and many others, which are so pleasantly exemplified every day in this great town; so that, when we use the word taste, we must recollect that there is no single feeling of the mind which has obtained that name, but that it is a classifying, comprehensive icord, embracing a great number of distinct feelings. But why have we called all these feelings bv the name of taste ? and why have we denied the appellation of taste to other feelings of the mind ? This is a very important question in the discussion, and I will endeavor to answer it hereafter ; at present I pass it by for the sake of order and arrange- ment. It is very clear why we call all the various feel- ings of the palate by the name of taste, — simply because they originate from the same bodily organ, the palate : and this analogy has given rise to a very strange sort of language, — of the organ of taste; — as if there were any separate quarter of the mind set apart for the generation of these fealings. All that we know about the matter, is this : men have chosen to take a metaphor from the body, and apply it to the mind ; they have chosen, for reasons hereafter to be conjectured, and from some re- mote resemblance, to class some feelings under the ap- pellation of taste, others not. This is the plain history ot the fact ; further than this, is all metaphorical fallacy : and as for any separate organ of taste, there is either no meaning to the expression, or, if there be. it is impossible to ascertain the fact winch the expression implies. ON TASTE. 149 I shall now endeavor to state the various feelings which have been classed under this appellation, and the extent to which practice has extended and applied the metaphor of taste. It matters not which of the feelings I state first, and I do not think I shall give much offence by beginning with that of beauty. I do not mean to analyze the feeling of the beautiful (that I reserve for a separate lecture), but merely to state it as one of those feelings of the mind to which the metaphor of taste is applied. To talk first of the simplest and most uncompounded kinds of beauty. We say that gay colors are beautiful ; that all children, or those muscular and robust children called savages, have a taste for beautiful colors, for smooth surfaces, for har- monious sounds, and for regular figures. We say of such a man, meaning to pay him a high compliment, that he has a good taste in the beauty of the person ; of another, that he has a fine taste in architecture, meaning by the expression, that he feels the beauties of architec- ture : in short, wherever we use the word beauty with any degree of strictness, we almost always refer it to the general class of taste. There is a lax usage of the word beautiful, which implies any thing that is agreeable or convenient. I have heard country gentlemen talk of a beautiful scenting-day ; and Mrs. Glasse talks of a beautiful receipt for curing a ham ; but this is evidently an analogical, and even a violent, usage of the word. It is used to the sublime. We say of such a man, "He h*as not taste enough to relish the sublimity of the description ;" or, " Such sublime scenery is quite to his taste." The metaphor of taste has never been much extended to novelty, though there are forms of language in which it would not be improper to apply it. " Such continued novelty is not to my taste ;" — " I go into different socie- ties, because I have a strong relish for novelty." How- ever, the word does not seem so well placed here, and does not satisfy the ear so cleverly as in the preceding instances ; and perhaps for this reason the word taste is most frequently and emphatically applied, both in its original, and in its figurative sense, in cases of some diffi- 150 LECTURE XII. culty. If a man were to discover that vinegar was sour, we should give him no great credit for his natural taste. If any man were to discover the true language of nature and of feeling in this little poem of Mrs. Opie's, he would gain no credit for his metaphorical taste, be- cause the beauties of it are too striking for a moment's hesitation : " Go, youth beloved ! in distant glades, New friends, new hopes, new joys to find ! Yet sometimes deign, midst fairer maids, To think on her thouleav'st behind. Thy lore, thy fate, dear youth, to share, Must never be my happy lot ; But thou may'st grant this humble prayer, — Forget me not, forget me not ! " Yet should the thought of my distress Too painful to thy feelings be, Heed not the wish I now express, Nor ever deign to think of me. But oh ! if grief thy steps attend, If want, if sickness, be thy lot, And thou require a soothing friend, Forget me not, forget me not !"* For this very reason, the word taste has not been ap- plied so often to novelty ; because whether a thing be novel or not, is no question of critical inquiry, but of plain fact, which one man can answer to with as much satisfaction as another. It is certainly applied to ridicule. Dr. Gerard classes the pleasures of imitation under the head of taste, for it must be remembered there is pleasure arising from mere imitation, whether the original be agreeable or not. We should be much pleased to see an accurate picture of the greatest beauty now living ; and we should not be displeased to see the picture oi rat or a weasel: the mere imitation itself, abstracted from all other considerations, gives pleasure ; but though this pleasure very much resembles those which are said to be pleasures of taste, and though it ought, pern from such resemblance, to be so classed, yet I doubt very much if it ever has been, or if custom has extended the * Edinburgh .Review, i. 116 ■ ON TASTE. 151 metaphor to this sensation. Could we say of a man, who from frequently gazing on portraits had become a good judge of their resemblance to the original, that he had a good taste in imitation ? We might say he had a good taste in portraits ; meaning by that, that he could judge of their spirit, their grace, and their beauty : but I much question if we should refer his accuracy, in judging of the mere resemblance, to the class of tastes ; though, as I have before said, I can see no sort of reason why we do not. Harmony, which Dr. Gerard enumerates as a separate object of taste, appears to me to rank under the two preceding heads of sublimity and beauty. Propriety, the same author has omitted, though it clearly is one of the feelings referred to taste. A person observant of proprieties, is said to have a good taste in manners ; and any impropriety in any character of a play, or a poem, is imputed to bad taste, — the discovery of it, to critical taste. In the lighter parts of morals, we may, perhaps, use the metaphor of taste ; but in the greater virtues and vices, certainly not. If a man were to kill the minister and church-wardens of his parish, nobody would accuse him of want of taste. The Scythians always ate their grandfathers ; they behaved very respectfully to them for a long time, but as soon as their grandfathers became old and troublesome, and began to tell long stories, they immediately eat them : nothing could be more improper, and even disrespectful, than dining off such near and venerable relations ; yet we could not with any propriety accuse them of bad taste in morals. Neither is the word taste used in subjects of pure reasoning. We could not say, that he who discovered an error in a mathematical problem had a good taste for reasoning; that he who made the error had a bad taste ; — to find that 12 times 12 is 144, is not a business of taste. Neither can we use the word taste with respect to very useful inventions. We could not say that Bolton and Watt exhibited a great deal of taste in the improvements they made upon the steam-engine ; nor could we say that Archimedes exhibited a fine taste in the machines 152 LECTURE XII. he invented for dashing to pieces the Roman galleys, and knocking out the brains of the Roman soldiers. Some of these things appear too important for the application of that word ; others, too certain. It seems to have been intended that the metaphor should apply to feelings connected with pleasure and pain, not with duties and crimes - r with the superfluous, the lighter, and more luxurious sensations of the mind, not with those which become the subjects of approbation and disapprobation ; not with those parts of knowledge which are reducible to proof and demonstration, but in those which are shaded with doubt, and rest only on the basis of opinion. In order to see the tendency and spirit of the metaphor, try to misapply it in one or two instances, and observe what sort of feelings and objections the misapplication suggests. Suppose any body were to talk to you of the bad taste of a mother who had murdered her child, what would your answer be ? " Do you call that by the light name of taste, on which the dearest interests of mankind depend ? Is the feeling which a mother has for her child to be classed with the love of splendid colors, accurate imita- tion, and judicious description ? Is there the same doubt which hangs upon both ? Are the great rules of morals referable to no other and more certain proofs than those which decide upon the novel, the beautiful, and the sublime ?" These are the feelings and objections which naturally pass through every man's mind, and evince the conceptions he has gradually formed of the limits and province of taste. There is another consideration, perhaps, which has contributed to affix the limits of this metaphor. When we ascribe good or bad taste to any one. it is most com- monly for doing or feeling something, where he was at full liberty to have done or said the contrary. We are not apt to impute the excellence, or the defect, where there is no fair exertion of the will. We may say of a lady that she walks in good taste, but not that she tumbles down in good taste. We could not say that a lady fainted away in good taste, though I think we might speak of a good and bad taste in blushing. For* the same reason, we can not talk of the bad taste of deep ON TASTE. 153 melancholy or despair, or the bad taste of being very short and very ugly ; because it is presumed that all men and women would be cheerful, tall, and beautiful, if they could. Natural tastes are sometimes so plain and strong, that they are immediately pronounced upon by every body. The most determined skeptic, if you catch him in a moment of candor, would allow that a good ripe peach was sweet. We say that a man recognizes this plain, indisputable fact by his taste, though he exercises no reasoning powers, and employs no reflection in arriving at the determination. So in the plainest and most undoubted examples of intellectual taste. If he were struck with some of the sublimest traits of Mrs. Siddons' acting, or if he was enchanted with the first view of Juan Fernandez, we should still refer these impressions to the class of tastes, even though they had cost him no effort in the acquisition, and though the feelings followed in all human beings as directly as any one fact can follow another in the various works of nature. We should call the detection of good or bad flavor, made by repeated efforts and close attention, an act of taste ; and in the same manner the detection of beauty or deformity in intellectual taste, with whatever degree of labor and reflection effected. If, from natural superiority of that organ, any man could discover flavor, insensible to common palates, we of course should refer his power, however extraordinary, to taste. Or if, by long practice, he had acquired the same rapid precision, we should still refer it to the same bodily organ. So in the intellectual taste, whether the feeling follow immediately upon the perception, whether it be preceded by critical investiga- tion, whether it be unusually delicate and true, either from natural talents or long habit, the feeling is always referred to taste, which is a general word for that affec- tion of the mind existing in any degree, and proceeding from any cause. I lay the greater stress upon this observation, because I perceive in many persons who speculate upon these subjects, a disposition only to allow the use of the word in cases where there is a critical, active exertion of the mind, and an effort to 154 LECTURE XII. discriminate ; whereas it is undoubtedly used also, in those cases where the mind is merely passive, and where the feeling of beauty would be strongly excited in any human being, without the smallest effort to judge between conflicting sensations. The subject of taste has given rise to a very curious controversy; — whether every feeling of taste depends upon accidental association, or whether, by the original constitution of nature, it is connected with any par- ticular object of sense, it is admitted on all hands that the feeling of beauty and sublimity very frequently, and even in a great majority of instances, depends upon mere association.^ For one instance : — in the estimation of Europeans, part of the beauty of a face is the color of the cheek ; not that there is something in that partic- ular position of red color, which, I believe, is of itself beautiful, — but habit has connected it also with the idea of health. An Indian requires that his wife's face should be of the color of good marketable sea-coal ; another tribe is enamored of deep orange ; and a cheek of copper is irresistible to a lourth. Every color is agreeable, in each of these instances, which is connected with the idea of youth and beauty ; the beauty is not in the color itself, but in the notions which the color summons up. Instances of this source of our ideas of the beautiful are innumerable, and universally admitted. The question is, Is there any object which originally, and of itself, ex- cites that feeling ? The very newest and the most fashionable philosophy says. No. The Rev. Mr. Alison, in his very beautiful work oh Taste, says no, — and says no. as he says every thing, with great modesty, and great ingenuity ; but though he is a very agreeable writer, and one of the best of men, I have very great doubts if he is right in his system. "In the first place.*' says Mr. Alison, ' ; every feeling of beauty and sublimity is an emotion. Now mere matter is unfitted to produce any kind of emotion.''' If.this be true, it settles the question : it is only upon the supposition that mere matter can produce emotion, that the opposite opinion has ever been advanced: it is precisely the thing to be proved. It appears to me very singular to say, that mere matter ON TASTE. 155 can never produce emotion upon the senses, and that we can only apply to it the expressions of sensation and perception. The theory of this school is, that Provi- dence has created a great number of objects which it intends you should see, hear, feel, taste, and smell, with- out caring a single breath whether you exercised your senses upon them or not ; that all the primary impulses of the mind must be mere intelligences, unaccompanied by any emotion of pleasure; that pleasure might be added to them afterward, by pure accident, but that originally, and according to the scheme of nature, the senses were the channels of intelligence, never the sources of gratification. This doctrine was certainly never conceived in a land of luxury. I should like to try a Scotch gentleman, upon his first arrival in this country, with the taste of ripe fruit, and leave him to judge after that, whether nature had confined the senses to such dry and ungracious occupations, as whether mere matter could produce emotion. Such doctrines may do very well in the chambers of a northern meta- physician, but they are untenable in the light of the world ; they are refuted, nobly refuted, twenty times in a year, at Fishmongers' Hall. If you deny that matter can produce emotion, judge on these civic occasions, of the power of gusts, and relishes, and flavors ! Look at men when (as Bishop Taylor says) they are " gathered round the eels of Syene, and the oysters of Lucrinus, and when the Lesbian and Chian wines descend through the limbec of the tongue and larynx ; when they receive the juice of fishes, and the marrow of the laborious ox, and the tender lard of Apulian swine, and the condited stomach of the scarus :" — is this nothing but mere sen- sation ? is there no emotion, no panting, no wheezing, no deglutition ? is this the calm acquisition of intelli- gence, and the quiet office ascribed to the senses ? — or is it a proof that Nature has infused into her original creations, the power of gratifying that sense which dis- tinguishes them, and to every atom of matter has added an atom of joy ? That there are some tastes originally agreeable, I think can hardly be denied ; and that Nature has origi- 156 LECTURE XII. nally, and independently of all associations, made some sounds more agreeable than others, seems to me, I con- fess, equally clear. I can never believe that any man could sit in a pensive mood listening to the sharpening of a saw, and think it as naturally agreeable, and as plaintive, as the song of a linnet ; and I should very much suspect that philosophy, which teaches that the odor of superannuated Cheshire cheese, is, by the con- stitution of nature, and antecedent to all connection of other ideas, as agreeable as that smell with which the flowers of the field thank Heaven for the gentle rains, or as the fragrance of the spring when we inhale from alar "the milk-white thorn that scents the evening gale."' One circumstance, which appears to have led to these conclusions, is the example of those same sensations which are sometimes ludicrous, sometimes sublime. sometimes fearful, according to the ideas with which they are associated. For instance, the sound of a trum- pet suggests the dreadful idea of a battle, and of the approach of armed men ; but to all men brought up at Queen's College, Oxford, it must be associated with eat- ing and drinking, for they are always called to dinner by sound of trumpet : and I have a little daughter at home, who, if she heard the sound of a trumpet, would run to the window, expecting to see the puppet-show of Punch, which is carried about the streets. So with a hiss : a hiss is either foolish, or tremendous, or sublime. The hissing of a pancake is absurd : the first faint hiss that arises from the extremity of the pit on the evening of a new play, sinks the soul of the author within him, and makes him curse himself and his Thalia ; the hissing of a cobra di capello is sublime. — it is the whisper of death ! But all these instances prove nothing ; for we are not denying that there are many sounds, tastes, and sights, which nature has made so indifferent, that asso- ciation may make them any thing. It is very true what Mr. Alison says, i- that there are many sensations uni- versally called sublime, which association may make otherwise."* This is true enough, but it is not to the purpose. I admit readily, that a fortuitous connection * Alison on Taste, p. 139. ON TASTE. 157 of thought can make it otherwise than sublime ; but the question is, Did it receive from nature the character of sublime ? does any thing receive from nature the char- acter of sublime, or the character of beautiful? and would anything perpetually display, and constantly pre- serve, such character, if no accident intervened to raise up a contrary association ? Certainty on such subjects can not be attained ; but I, for one, strongly believe in the affirmative of the question, — that Nature speaks to the mind of man immediately in beautiful and sublime language ; that she astonishes him with magnitude, appals him with darkness, cheers him with splendor, soothes him with harmony, captivates him with emotion, enchants him with fame; she never intended man should walk among her flowers, and her fields, and her streams, unmoved ; nor did she rear the strength of the hills in vain, or mean that we should look with a stupid heart on the wild glory of the torrent, bursting from the dark- ness of the forest, and dashing over the crumbling rock. I would as soon deny hardness, or softness, or figure, to be qualities of matter, as I would deny beauty or sublimity to belong to its qualities. Every man is as good a judge of a question like this, as the ablest metaphysician. Walk in the fields in one of the mornings of May, and if you carry with you a mind unpolluted with harm, watch how it is impressed. You are delighted with the beauty of colors ; are not those colors beautiful ? You breathe vegetable fragrance ; is not that fragrance grateful ? You see the sun rising from behind a mountain, and the heavens painted with light ; is not that renewal of the light of the morning sublime? You reject all obvious reasons, and say that these things are beautiful and sublime because the acci- dents of life have made them so ; — I say they are beau- tiful and sublime, because God has made them so ! that it is the original, indelible character impressed upon them by Him, who has opened these sources of simple pleasure, to calm, perhaps, the perturbations of sense, and to make us love that joy which is purchased without giving pain to another man's heart, and without entailing reproach upon our own. 158 LECTURE XII. There is one other question, before I conclude this subject, on which I wish to say something ; a question like a German chancery suit, which is handed down from father to son as a matter of course, and the de- cision of which no man ever dreams of as a possible event. Some late traveler in Germany speaks of a suit in the imperial chamber of Wetzlar, which had been pending 170 years. The cause came on for a first hear- ing as he passed through the country ; the result he did not hear, as the Teutonic Master of the Rolls took time to consider. In the same manner, the world is always taking time to consider about the standard of taste. Is there any standard of taste, and what is it ? This is the question that has been discussed and re-dis- cussed from time immemorial, and in which question I suppose I have little to add to those who have so often handled it before me. As I have before said, taste is a general term for a great number of distinct feelings : if there be no standard for approbation and disappro- bation in these feelings, which are the constituent ele- ments of taste, there is no standard for taste ; but if a good and a bad can be asserted of these feelings with any degree of certainty, then there is a standard of taste. Let us try it in one of the departments of taste, the beautiful ; and then the question will be, is there any standard of the beautiful ? Now, if a delirious virtuoso were to purchase one of those sign-paintings in which King Charles the Second, seated on the oak-tree, announces the dispensation of beer and other uncourtly refreshments, and if he were to pronounce it more beau- tiful than Mr. Troward's noble picture by Leonardo da Vinci,* — so long as he thinks it is so, it unquestionably is so to him. There can be no doubt but that he is the standard of taste to himself, because, when he calls the thing beautiful, he only means to say that it excites in him that emotion, of the real existence of which lie of course can be the only judge. But will this same sign- post appear beautiful toothers*? and to whom? and to * This picture of the Logo? was in the possession of Mr. Troward when this lecture was delivered: it is now iu the collection of Mr. Miles, of Leigh Court, near Bristol. ON TASTE. 159 how many must it appear to be so, before you call it absolutely beautiful ? To the mob, to all human beings, or only to the enlightened few ? I answer to this, that the judges differ just according to the difficulty of the subject : there are some questions of the beautiful so very simple, for the decision of which such very little understanding is required, and where the experience of all men is so much upon a level, that in those, the mass of mankind are certainly the proper referees. Are splendid colors more beautiful than dull colors ? Is a soft surface more agreeable than a hard surface ? In such simple questions of beauty as this, the most ordi- nary understanding is as good as the best. But when you come to the complicated meaning of the word beauty, adopted in the phrase of " a beautiful poem," or " a beautiful picture," — when the subject is to be under- stood, the selection decided on, comparison with other rival efforts made, — a laborer from the streets can be no judge of such excellences as these, and therefore his opinion can form no part of that standard to which 1 refer the decision in this species of beauty ; for we must take along with us, that as the word taste is merely a general expression for several distinct feelings, so the term beauty, itself involves no small number of distinct feelings which have received this common appellation. If, then, the species of beauty be stated, and a standard required for its excellences and defects, I determine it by voting, by no means admitting universal suffrage, but requiring that a man shall have forty shillings a year in common sense, and have paid the usual taxes of labor, attention, observation, and so on. But, to drop the metaphor, these are the ingredients which must enter into the composition of any mind which can be allowed to decide upon any species of beauty. In the first place there must be an absence of all prejudice and party spirit, because, though this may inspire the feeling of beauty, as well as any other cause, still it is a very ephemeral cause of that feeling ; and in speaking of the standard of beauty, we do not mean only that which will be judged beautiful to-day, but that which will be judged beautiful for ages to come. Then we must re- 160 LECTURE XII. member, that the word beautiful always implies some comparison. The prose of Bunyan is agreeable to me till 1 have read that of Dryden ; Dryden's, till I am fa- miliarized to the works of Addison. The arrantest daub in painting may appear agreeable to me, till I have seen the masters in the Flemish school ; and I cease to ad- mire these latter when I am become acquainted with the great Italian pictures. The very term beautiful implies something superior to common effects ; and therefore we require in a judge of the beautiful, that from experience he should have ascertained what is a common effect, what not. A man who has seen very few pictures, is a bad judge of any single picture, be- cause, though he can tell whether he is pleased or not, he can not tell whether he is pleased more or less than he should be by pictures in general. Therefore, in ad- dition to candor, a judge of the beautiful must have experience ; — and he must also have delicacy of feeling: a man may reason himself out of this feeling of beauty, or reason himself into it ; but, after all, the thing is a matter of feeling, and there are some men of such me- tallic nerves, and blunt entrails, that Milton could never have written them into sublimity, or Michael Angelo painted them into emotion : of course they can be no judges of the beautiful, any more than the blind can de- termine upon the diversity of colors. Wherever, then, the standard of any species of beauty is required, we may safely say it rests in the opinion of candid men, of men who have had experience in that department of beauty, who have feeling for it, and who have competent understandings to judge of the design and reasoning, which are always the highest and most excellent of all beauties. Such men, where they are to be found, form the standard in every department of beauty, and in every ingredient of taste. How such critics are to be found, is another question : that they exist, no man doubts ; and their joint inlluence ultimately prevails, and gives the law to public opinion. But I hear some men asking where they are to be found ? and who they are ? with a sort of exultation, as if there were any wit, or talent, or importance, in the question. They are to be ON TASTE. 161 found in Dover Street, Albemarle Street, Berkeley Square, the Temple ; anywhere wherever reading, thinking men, who have seen a great deal of the world, are to be found. I myself could mention the names of twenty persons, whose opinions influence the public taste in this town ; and then, when opinions are settled here, those opinions go down by the mail-coach, to regulate all mat- ters of taste for the provinces. The progress of good taste, however, though it is certain and irresistible, is slow. Mistaken pleasantry, false ornament, and affected conceit, perish by the dis- criminating hand of time, that lifts up from the dust of oblivion, the grand and simple efforts of genius. Title, rank, prejudice, party, artifice, and a thousand disturbing forces, are always at work to confer unmerited fame ; but every recurring year contributes its remedy to these infringements on justice and good sense. The breath of living acclamation can not reach the ages which are to come : the judges and the judged are no more ; passion is extinguished ; party is forgotten : and the mild yet inflexible decisions of taste, will receive nothing, as the price of praise, but the solid exertions of superior talent. Justice is pleasant, even when she destroys. It is a grateful homage to common sense, to see those produc- tions hastening to that oblivion, in their progress to which they should never have been retarded. But it is much more pleasant ta witness the power of taste in the work of preservation and lasting praise ; — to think that, in these fleeting and evanescent feelings of the beautiful and the sublime, men have discovered something as fixed and as positive, as if they were measuring the flow of the tides, or weighing the stones on which they tread ; — to think that there lives not, in the civilized world, a being who knows he has a mind, and who knows not that Virgil and Homer have written, that Raffaelle has paint- ed, and that Tully has spoken. Intrenched in these ever- lasting bulwarks against barbarism, Taste points out to the races of men, as they spring up in the order of time, on what path they shall guide the labors of the human spirit. Here she is safe ; hence she never can be driven, 162 LECTURE XII. while one atom of matter clings to another, and till man, with all his wonderful system of feeling and thought, is called away to Him who is the great Author of all that is beautiful, and al? that is sublime, and all that is good! LECTURE XIII ON THE BEAUTIFUL. The three next lectures which I propose to deliver in this place, will be on the same subject as that with which I am at present engaged {the Beautiful). I have found it quite impossible to compress this very ample subject into a less space ; and even with such limits I have been compelled to pass over many topics of discussion with a brevity very ill suited to their importance, and little fa- vorable to perspicuity. I mention the length to which I intend to carry this discussion, lest any one should con- ceive, after I had finished this lecture, that I had done with the subject, and consequently had treated it very je- junely and imperfectly : that I shall treat it imperfectly enough at last, I can easily believe ; but still I prefer to be judged after I am heard, rather than before. The best evidence we can procure of the resemblance of our feelings, is by language. When men give one common name to very dissimilar objects, it is most prob- able that they give it because these objects, though ap- parently dissimilar, produce effects upon the mind which materially resemble each other : therefore, the mode in which I propose to examine the nature of the beautiful, is, first, to state the fact with respect to language, the various classes of objects and occasions where a person understanding his own language thoroughly, and apply- ing it properly, would use the expression of beautiful. In the first place, it is applied to the simplest sensa- tions of sight, as color, figure, and so forth; it is applied to sounds, either simple or compound ; but, I believe, neither to touch, taste, nor smell. We should not say that the feeling of velvet, or the taste of sugar, or the 164 LECTURE XIII. smell of a rose, was beautiful : the latter instance, how- ever, is rather doubtful; if the expression be not already legitimated, I think we may say it will be so very soon. We apply the expression to the face of nature, to land- scape, to personal appearance, to animals, to poetry, painting, sculpture, and all the fine arts which are called mimetic, and represent animate or inanimate nature. We apply it to several moral feelings of the mind, to architecture, and to invention in machinery. These are, I fancy, the principal subjects which justify the ap- plication of the word. There is one usage of the word to which I shall not refer in the subsequent discussion, because it is evident- ly used in a figurative sense ; as when we say that any thing which is good, is beautiful : and in this sense we should say that Milton's description of the falling an was beautiful, though in strictness it is suhl/mc, and not beautiful : — " Him tin? Almighty Power Ilurl'il headlong flaming from the ethereal sky, With hideous ruin and combustion, down To bottomless perdition ; there t<> dwell In adamantine chains and penal fire, Who durst defy the Omnipotent Nine times the space that m y and night To mortal men. he with his horrid en Lay vanquished, rolling in the fiery gulf, mounded, though immortal: But his doom • v'd him to more wrath ; for now the thought Both of lost happiness, and lasting pain, Torments him ; round ho x':.. That witnessed huge affliction and dismay Mixt with obdurate pride :. . ' hate At once, as far as angels, ben, he The dismal situation waste and wild: A dungeon horrible on all sides round, As one great furnace flam'd ; yet from those flame* No light ; hut rather darkness visible Serv'd only to diseov woe. >W, doleful shades, where peace An 1 rest can never dwell; hope never comes That comes to all ; but torture without end Still urges, and a fiery deluge, fed With ever-burning sulphur uneousurnd." But the word beautiful, as a general word for excellence, is a part of that practice in language, which, where there ON THE BEAUTIFUL. 165 are many qualities, or many things, puts one of the most conspicuous, to stand for the whole. Thus, virtue, which originally signifies personal courage, has become a gen- eral name for all good qualities. England is the general name for all the three branches of the empire ; and the beautiful has become a general term for all the various excellences in poetry. Having, then, ascertained the facts respecting the ap- plication of the term beauty, there are two things which remain to be done, — to ascertain the causes, in each re- spective instance, which excite the feeling of the beauti- ful in my mind ; and next, to discover whether these va- rious examples of this feeling, which are called by a common name, do, in fact, possess a common nature : for if I can point out the cause or causes of this emotion, or class of emotions, and ascertain its nature, or their na- tures, I see nothing else which I have to do. A very great ambiguity has arisen in all language, from the confusion which has been made between the causes which act upon the mind, and the affections of the mind itself. In hardness or softness, there ought to be one word to signify that cause, which impresses the mind in that particular manner, and another for the im- pression itself. So in beauty, the same word expresses the emotion of the mind, and the cause of that emotion : it is absolutely necessary, in order to arrive at any defi- nite opinions on this subject, to specify to ourselves and others, in which of these two senses we are making use of the term ; and, to follow my own advice, I use the term beauty always as a feeling of the mind. When I say that such an object is beautiful, I mean that it has in itself the power of exciting in my mind that particular feel- ing. It does all very well in popular language, where no great precision is wanted, to say that a landscape is beau- tiful ; or the expression may stand where men know how to translate it into common sense : but in strictness the feeling only can be in my mind ; — the causes which ex- cite that feeling, whatever they be, are in the landscape ; all the effects which these causes can produce, are in me. Emotion can not reside upon the banks of rivers, or be green with the grass, flexible with the boughs, and pearly 166 LECTURE XIII. with the dew : the causes of this particular emotion may be in matter ; the thing itself can not. I hear some men contend that beauty, in strictness, only means personal beauty, or beauty of landscape ; and that when applied to such objects as an ox, or an inven- tion, as in a steam-engine, it is merely a metaphor. Now a metaphor is nothing but a short simile, and a simile is a resemblance ; and why, I should be glad to know, is one feeling of the mind, by general consent, said to resemble another feeling of the mind, if, in fact, there is no resemblance between them ? If it be used meta- phorically, it is the clearest proof that mankind have felt a resemblance, which has guided them in the application of the metaphor. When you compare an object of sense, to a feeling of mind, as pity to a balsam, or the feeling of anger to a storm, it is very obvious that such metaphors are derived from those faint analogies which are conve- nient enough for poetry, but utterly unsuitable to phi- losophy. But where mankind, or great numbers of mankind, have agreed to call two mere feelings by the same name, or, as other persons would say, to use one metaphorically for the other, it is a pretty clear proof that these two feelings do very strongly resemble other. First, it is necessary to observe that the term beauty, to whatever object it is applied, is applied only to that which is very superior to other objects of the same species. Suppose an average appearance in human countenances, the term beauty is applied only where that average is very far exceeded ; it is as emphatical on one side of the middle point, as ugly is on the other. — both point at extremes. So in poetry ; a beautiful poem is one very superior to the common merit of poetry : a beautiful invention in mechanics is one in which much more than ordinary ingenuity is displayed. It is always a term of the superlative degree, implying comparison, and an opinion of pre-eminence, the result of that com- parison. I shall set out, after these premises, with reasserting my opinion, advanced in the last lecture, that beauty an original quality of matter : not that all matter has it ON THE BEAUTIFUL. 167 any more than all matter has hardness ; but that some matter has it, as some matter has hardness. As I said a great deal about it in my last lecture, I shall not ex- patiate further on this subject at present, but assume the principle, and reason upon it. Though I contend that there is an original beauty of matter, I do not by any means lay much stress upon it, or compare it with that feeling of the beautiful which matter excites when associated with some agreeable quality of mind. I believe a clear red, passing through a beautiful white color, is of itself beautiful ; but it is certainly more beautiful when it becomes the sign of health, and we learn habitually to consider it as such. The lively green that the herbage assumes after rain, is of itself agreeable to the eye, but it is infinitely more agreeable when that color becomes the sign of plenty, of freshness, of liberty, of boundless range, and innocent enjoyment, and all the pleasures of mind we associate with the idea of the country. " For what are all The forms which brute, unconscious matter wears, — Greatness of bulk, or symmetry of parts ? Not reaching to the heart, soon feeble grows The superficial impulse ; dull their charms, And satiate soon, and pall the languid eye. ISTot so the moral species, nor the powers Of genius and design ; the ambitious mind There sees herself: by these congenial forms Touch'd and awaken'd, with intenser act She bends each nerve, and meditates well pleas'd Her features in the mirror. For, of all The inhabitants of earth, to man alone Creative Wisdom gave to lift his eye To Truth's eternal measures ; thence to frame The sacred laws of action and of will, Discerning justice from unequal deeds, And temperance from folly."* I shall begin the analysis of the beautiful with music, a subject which I can not pass over, but in which I must beg for great indulgence, because it is impossible for any one to be more completely ignorant of that art than I am. Let us take the plainest instance, simple melody, or * Akenside's " Pleasures of Imagination," line 526. 168 LECTURE XIII. an air sung by the human voice ; why do we call this combination of sounds beautiful, and what is the cause of the striking and beautiful emotion we derive from it ? [n the first place, because each single sound of which the air is composed is beautiful, — that is, it is beautiful if the voice be good ; for I should suppose that any air sung by a wretched voice, or performed upon such an instru- ment as the bagpipe, could not with any propriety be denominated beautiful ; it may become so from associa- tion, but it requires the aid of association to make it so. We may say this air, sung by a good voice, or performed upon a good instrument, would be beautiful ; but this is only describing what other sounds would be, not saying what these are. Therefore, a simple air, sung by a good voice, is beautiful for one reason, because each particular sound of which it is composed is beautiful ; and the pleasure is of course immensely increased, from the variation and contrast of these sounds. " And ever, against eating cares, Lap me in soft Lvdian airs, * * -::• -::- g In notes, with many a winding bout Of linked sweetness long draw out, With wanton heed aud giddy cunning : The melting voice through mazes running, Untwisting all the chains that tie The hidden soul of harmony." Melody is not only beautiful from its variety of ori- ginally beautiful sounds, but from its originally beautiful combinations. Some two notes joined together are naturally agreeable, others naturally disagreeable : at least, it is the commonly received opinion that concords are pleasant, discords unpleasant, from the constitution of our organs of hearing. Whether this be the fact, and whether concords here are concords the world through, I can not take upon me to determine ; but, however this be, the fact is indisputable, that very unpracticed ears are delighted with some combinations of sounds, and that this pleasure must be considered as another additional cause of the beauty of music. Rhythm, or number in music, is a copious source of variety and uniformity ; ON THE BEAUTIFUL. 169 every piece of regular music is, as every one knows, supposed to be divided into small portions, separated in writing by a cross line, called a bar, which, whether they contain more or fewer sounds, are all equal in respect of time. In this way the rhythm is a source of uniformity, which pleases by suggesting the agreeable ideas of regularity, and, still more, by rendering the music in- telligible. But the principal cause of the beauty of music is, that it can be translated into feelings of the mind. Let a simple air be sung by a pleasing voice, not in words, but in articulate sounds, — as it is quick, or as it is solemn, as it is high or low, we immediately connect it with some feeling ; because experience has taught us that some of our passions are expressed in a solemn measure and low tone, others in quick measure and with an elevation of voice. If any one were for the first time to hear the tune of " Farewell to Lochaber," without words, there could, I should think, be little doubt but that he would associate it with some calm, melancholy emotion : nor could any person imagine that such a tune as that of "Dainty Davy," was intended to express profound and inconsolable grief. In these airs, we immediately associate with them some feeling of mind, and from this association their beauty is principally derived. " The objects, therefore, which produce such sensations, though in themselves not the immediate signs of such interesting or affecting qualities, yet, in conse- quence of this resemblance, become gradually expressive of them ; and, if not always, yet at those times, at least, when we are under the dominion of any emotion, serve to bring to our minds the images of all those affecting or interesting qualities, which we have been accustomed to suppose they resemble. How extensive this source of association is, may easily be observed in the extent of such kinds of figurative expression in every language."* Nothing can be more just and philosophical than these opinions of Mr. Alison and Dr. Beattie. Music itself can express only classes of feelings ; it can express only melancholy, not any particular instance or action of melancholy. The tune of " Lochaber/' which I have * Alison, p. 185. H 170 LECTURE XIII. before alluded to, expresses the pathetic in general ; lan- guage only can tell us that it is that particular instance of the pathetic, where a poor soldier takes leave of his native land, Lochaber, and his wife Jean, with a feeling that he shall see them no more : — '• Borne on rough seas to a far distant shore, I'll maybe return to Lochaber no more !" Therefore, the principal cause of the beauty of melody is, that as we hear the air, we not only translate it into human feelings, but, remembering the words connected with it, we summon up the particular exemplification of that feeling ; w r e think of the poor soldier who is never to see again his wife and his children in Lochaber ; we love his affection for that spot where he has spent many blithesome days, and we are touched with his misery. Whenever we hear an air to which we know no words, it can inspire only general emotion, and the comparative effect is feeble ; when poetry applies the general emotion to particular instances, musical expression has attained its maximum of effect. It is said that the " Pastorale " of Corelli was intended for an imitation of the song of angels hovering above the fields of Bethlehem, and gradually soaring up to heaven ; it is impossible, how- ever, that the music itself can convey any such expres- sion, — it can convey only the feelings of solemnity. o( rapture, of enthusiasm ; imagination must do the rest. If another name were given to this piece o( music, and it were supposed to relate to a much less awful event, its effects, though still powerful, would be very con- siderably diminished. Such appear to me to be the causes of that feelin_ the beautiful excited by simple melody. The more complicated beauty of harmony is easiest explained by denying that it has any beauty ; the music often praised by professors and connoisseurs has often no other merit than that of difficulty overcome, which excites the feel- ing of wonder, not of beauty : the mass of hearers, who can not estimate the difficulty, can not participates the admiration ; they can derive no other gratification from it than the mere animal pleasure of beautiful sounds, which. ON THE BEAUTIFUL. 171 when they are devoid of moral expression, soon fatigue and disgust : and the parts of a long concerto which give uni- versal pleasure are precisely those which do excite some feeling, which express either what is gay, or the strong pas- sions, or a pleasing melancholy. See the effects of a long piece of music at a public concert. The orchestra are breathless with attention, jumping into major and minor keys, executing figures, and fiddling with the most ecstatic precision. In the midst of all this wonderful science, the audience are gaping, lolling, talking, staring about, and half devoured with ennui. On a sudden there springs up a lively little air, expressive of some natural feeling, though in point of science not worth a halfpenny : the audience all spring up, every head nods, every foot beats time, and every heart also ; an universal smile breaks out on every face ; the carriage is not ordered ; and every one agrees that music is the most delightful rational entertainment that the human mind can possibly enjoy. In the same manner the astonishing execution of some great singers has in it very little of the beautiful ; it is mere difficulty overcome, like rope-dancing and tumbling ; and such difficulties overcome (as I have before said) do not ex- cite the feeling of the beautiful, but of the wonderful. Independently of these causes of pleasure in music, it may be aided by innumerable associations. It may be national music ; it may record some great exploit of my countrymen, as the " Belleisle March ;" it may be the " Ranz des Vaches ;" and innumerable other causes may aid its effects. In very loud music, as the organ, or in the assemblage of many instruments, an immediate phy- sical effect is produced upon the body, independent of any feeling of .the mind. I have seen one or two people so nervous, that they could not liear an organ without crying ; and every body remembers the innumerable in- stances of fainting and weeping at the commemoration in the Abbey, merely from the effect produced upon the nerves by sound. So that, to sum up all the causes I have alledged of the beautiful in music, we may say it proceeds from an original power in sound to create that feeling, either in its simplest state, or in those instances of its combinations which we call concords ; that that 172 LECTURE XIII. feeling of beautiful may be aided by our admiration of the skill displayed in harmony, as one agreeable feeling always aids and increases another; — but that the prin- cipal cause of beauty in music, is the facility with which it is associated with feeling, from its resemblance to the tones in which feelings are expressed ; and that these feelings are made specific by the ministration of poetry, from the combination of which with music, great part of the power of the latter is derived. Passing from the beauty judged of by the ear, to that which falls under the province of sight, I can not (as I have^before said) agree with those who would consider all colors as originally equally pleasing to the eye. I admit, association can make any color agreeable, or any disagreeable : but I contend, that, antecedent to all association, the eye delights in one color more than another ; that it passes over some with indifference, and receives exquisite delight from others. Fling among some common pebbles a Bristol stone, or some bits of colored glass ; present them to a child of two years old, which will he seize upon first ? When Captain Cook first broached his caro-o of beads anions: the savages. and bought a large hog for a couple of beads, which were not worth the decimal of a farthing. — what asso- ciation can it be imagined the savages had formed with the various colors which proved so alluring to their eyes? The association, philosophers would tell us, that they liked blue, because it was the color of the sky : white, because it was the color of the day. But why did they like faint yellow ? why orange color ? why deep purple ? and why would they have rejected un- glazed beads, as dull as this green baize,. or of a color as insipid as that of a common stone ? It seems so very strange to me, that men should doubt any more of the gluttony of the eye than of the gluttony of the mouth. As the palate feasts upon savory and sweet, the ear feasts upon melody, and the eye gorges upon light and color till it aches with pleasure. With respect to the beauty o\ forms. I am much more inclined to agree that there is no original beauty of form ; but that it entirely depends on association. For ON THE BEAUTIFUL. 173 the superior pleasure I receive from bright and trans- parent colors, to that of which I am conscious in looking at those which are dull and opaque, I can give no reason. It appears to me an original fact, that the perception of this color should be followed by the emotion of beauty. But I can not say the same of forms : I certainly prefer one form to another, but then I think I can always give some reason for the preference. We must divide forms into those which are simple, and those which are compounded of many other forms ; and it appears to me the following causes may be stated of that feeling of the beautiful, excited by the forms of objects. Any form which excites the idea of smoothness, or faint resistance to the touch, is beautiful ; except where such notion of smoothness is accidentally united with any unpleasing notion. " On the whole," says Mr. Burke, " if such parts in human bodies as are found proportioned, were Hkewise constantly found beautiful, — as they certainly are not ; or if they were so situated, as that a pleasure might flow from the comparison, — which they seldom are ; or if any assignable proportions were found, either in plants or animals, which were always attended with beauty, — which never was the case ; or if, where parts were well adapted to their purposes, they were constantly beau- tiful, and when no use appeared, there was no beauty, — which is contrary to all experience ; we might conclude that beauty consisted in proportion or utility. But since, in all respects, the case is quite otherwise, we may be satisfied that beauty does not depend on these, let it owe its origin to what else it will."* The form of a solid globe of glass would be much more beautiful than if its surface were broken into inequalities, because it would be much more agreeable to the touch. Is, then, the smoothness of trees cut into a round form, more beautiful than their natural irregularity and rough- ness ? No, certainly not ; it gives an idea of restraint and injury to the tree, which is painful. Is the smooth- ness of a swelled face beautiful ? No, it gives the idea * Burke, p. 230. 174 LECTURE XIII. of disease. Here are disagreeable associations connected with the appearance of smoothness ; but any single ob- ject, considered by itself, is considered as more beautiful when smooth than when rough, except where (as I have said before) the roughness is the sign of a pleasant, or the smoothness of an unpleasant, quality. The forms of regular figures are agreeable, from the relations observed between the parts. The mind takes some pleasure in noticing that one side of a square is precisely like the other ; that one angle is exactly of the same magnitude as its diagonal. All forms which are regular are much more distinctly comprehended, and easily retained, than any irregular form ; because the accurate observation of one or two parts often leads to the knowledge of the whole. Thus, from a side, and solid angle, we have the whole regular solid ; the meas- ure of one side gives the whole square, one radius the whole circle, two diameters an oval, one ordinate and abscissa the parabola; and so on in more complex figures, which have any regularity, they can easily be determined and known in every part from a few data : whereas it might cost a man half his life to remember the form of the first pebble he picked up in the streets, so as to re- produce it at pleasure. Is, then, that form always agree- able in single objects which is regular ? Is a square nose agreeable ? or a head tapering off to a cone beau- tiful ? No ; they are both monstrous. Is a square tree upon espaliers more beautiful than a tree left to itself? No; it gives you an idea of restraint and confinement. Does, then, a square house give you an idea of restraint and confinement? Xo. by no means; you do not ex- pect wildness in walls, and luxuriancy in buttresses: no man is so fond of the picturesque that he raises part of his drawing-room floor into hillocks, and depresses the rest into glens and valleys : the approach from the door to the table is not by any spiral and circuitous progi but the servant enters, and, with the most unpicturesque straightness, deposits what he has to leave. The regu- larity of the figures, instead of the notion o\ restraint, conveys the notion of comfort in the use. and of skill and economy in the building. Walls have no natural ON THE BEAUTIFUL. 175 disposition to assume one form more than another : trees have. Those forms are beautiful which are associated with agreeable ends; as strength, and health, and activity. Strength, however, is a quality in animals, which may be so easily turned to our destruction, that it requires to be joined with the notion of utility, to legitimate the usage of the word beautiful. The form of a rhinoceros indicates that he is as strong as a village, yet no one calls him beautiful. The form of an ox, or a cart-horse, which indicates strength supereminently above other animals of the same sort, is called beautiful — not by him whose mind has not been impressed with a strong asso- ciation between the form and the useful quality ; but as breeders, and men curious in cattle, do not scruple to apply to forms indicative of useful qualities the appella- tion of beauty. However, I will discuss this more at length, when I come to consider the question syntheti- cally, and to show (what I believe to be true), that any surprising adaptation of means to ends, immediately excites the feeling of the beautiful, except where asso- ciation intervenes to prevent it. Forms which excite the notion of swiftness, are com- monly beautiful; or of a mixture of swiftness and strength. The greater part of our associations respect- ing beautiful forms, are taken from our own species. We find magnitude and strength of form, united with good qualities, which excite respect rather than affection ; and with bad ones, which excite fear rather than pity: with courage, perseverance, and intrepidity ; with vio- lence, harshness, and oppression. Experience, on the contrary, teaches us that delicacy of form is united with gentleness and benevolence, which are the objects of affection ; and with indecision, timidity, and fluctuation, which are the objects of compassion. This, if I mistake not, is the origin of that association in favor of delicacy of form, and of the application to it of the term beau- tiful: and of course, when the association is once estab- lished, it is extended to those inanimate objects from whence it would never have originated ; for I can not conceive that the delicacy of a flower, by which is prin- 176 LECTURE XIII. cipally meant its fragility, the facility with which any exterior violence can destroy it, can of itself be any cause of our deeming it beautiful, — unless our experience of moral beings had previously taught us to associate with the emblem of outward weakness, a thousand beau- tiful feelings of pity, gratitude, kindness, and other the best and fairest emotions of the mind. LECTURE XIV. ON THE BEAUTIFUL.— PART II. " All the objects which are exhibited to our view by Nature," says Sir Joshua Reynolds, " upon close exam- ination will be found to have their blemishes and defects. The most beautiful forms have something about them like weakness, minuteness, or imperfection. But it is not every eye that perceives these blemishes ; it must be an eye long used to the contemplation and comparison of these forms, and which, by a long habit of observing what any set of objects of the same kind have in common, has ac- quired the power of discerning what each wants in par- ticular. This long, laborious comparison, should be the first study of the painter who aims at the greatest style. By this means he acquires a just idea of beautiful forms ; he corrects Nature by herself, her imperfect state by her more perfect. His eye being enabled to distinguish the accidental deficiencies, excrescences, and deformities of things, from their general figures, he makes out an ab- stract idea of their forms, more perfect than any one original : and, what may seem a paradox, he learns to design naturally, by drawing his figures unlike to any one object. This idea of the perfect state of nature, which the -artist calls the ideal beauty, is the great lead- ing principle by which works of genius are conducted. By this, Phidias acquired his fame ; he wrought upon a sober principle what has so much excited the enthusiasm of the world ; and by this method you who have cour- rage to tread the same path, may acquire equal reputa- tion. '' This is the idea which has acquired, and which seems to have a right to, the epithet of divine ; as it may H* 178 LECTURE XIV. be said to preside, like a supreme judge, over all the productions of nature, appearing to be possessed of the will and intention of the Creator, as far as they regard the external form of living beings. When a man once possesses this idea in its perfection, there is no danger but that he will be sufficiently warmed by it himself, and be able to warm and ravish every one else. " Thus it is from a reiterated experience, and a close comparison of the objects of nature, that an artist be- comes possessed of the idea of that central form, if I may so express it. from which every deviation is deformity. But the investigation of this form, I grant, is painful ; and I know but of one method of shortening the road ; — that is, by a careful study of the works of the ancient sculptors, who, being indefatigable in the school of nature, have left models of that perfect form behind them, which an artist would prefer as supremely beautiful, who had spent his whole life in that single contemplation. But if industry carried them thus far, may not you also hope for the same reward from the same labor ? We have the same school opened to us that was opened to them, for Nature denies her instructions to none who desire to become her pupils." Every body must perceive that in this opinion of Sir Joshua's there is a great deal of ingenuity as well as justice : and, in order to ascertain the effect of custom on the beauty of forms. I begin with stating, that where the customary figure of animals is very materially de- viated from, there we have alwavs a sense of deformity and disgust. I carefully avoid mentioning those parts of animals where a deviation from the customary figure woula imply disease and weakness, and prevent the animal from acting as Nature intended it should. A crooked spine gives us the very opposite notions to the beautiful, not merely because it is contrary to the cus- tomary figure of the animal, but because experience has taught us to associate it with the notions o( disease and' imbecility of body. But. in order to show the effect of custom upon the beautiful, take a chin, which is of no use at all. A chin ending in a very sharp angle would be perfect deformity. A man whose chin terminated in a ON THE BEAUTIFUL. 179 point, would be under the immediate necessity of retiring to America ; he would be a perfect horror : and for no other reason that I can possibly see, but that Nature has shown no intention of making such a chin, — we have never been accustomed to see such chins. Nature, we are quite certain, did not intend that the chin should be brought to a perfect angle, nor that it should be per- fectly circular, and therefore either of these extremes is a deformity. Now, something considerably removed from the perfect circle and the perfect angle, is the chin we have been most accustomed to see, and which, for that reason, we most approve of. Within certain limits, one chin is as common as another, and as handsome as another : there are degrees of tendency to the circle and the angle, which we can at once pronounce to be ugly ; but there is a middle region of some extent, where all approximations to these two figures are equally common and equally handsome. The only objection to this doc- trine of the central form, is, that it has been pushed too far; it has been urged that there is an exact middle point between the two extremes, which is the perfection of beauty, and to which nature is perpetually tending. This attempt at such very precise and minute discovery in the subject of beauty, appears to me to give a fanciful air to the whole doctrine, and to do injustice to the real truth it contains. In the construction of every form, Nature takes a certain range : to ascertain the ordinary limits of her range, is practical, rational, and useful ; to aim at greater precision, and to speak as if you knew the very prototype at which Nature was always aiming, and from which she was always deviating on one side or the other, is to cheat yourself with your own metaphors, and to substitute illusion for plain fact. Within certain limits, every tendency to the circle or the angle, are equally removed from deformity, because they are equally common, and they are (all other things being equal) equally beautiful. Of course I mean this only to apply where the expression is equal, and where mere historical association does not interfere to disturb the justice of the conclusions. The Grecian face is not common : I hardly know what a Grecian face is, but I 180 LECTURE XIV. am told by those who have studied these matters, that there are some parts of it, — the length, 1 fancy, between the nose and the lip, — which are extremely uncommon, and very rarely to be met with in Europe. This is very probable ; but it is mere association. If the elegant arts had been transmitted to us from the Chinese instead of the Greeks, that singular piece of deformity, a Chinese nose, would very probably have been held in high es- timation. Now what I have said about forms amounts to this : — Forms are beautiful which are associated with the notion of smoothness of touch, which are regular, which give the notion of delicacy, or recall any of a particular class of feelings of mind. What that par- ticular class is, I shall attempt hereafter to specify. So far I have attempted to show, that the contrary to that, which is the customary form of any species, is deformity. But is the customary form itself beautiful ? does it create the opposite to disgust ? I am strongly inclined to think it does not ; that the mere common- ness of any form does not give the notion of beauty : — it prevents the notion of deformity, but does not give the notion of beauty, for beauty itself is always un- common. Mr. Burke says, " If I am not mistaken, a great deal of the prejudice in favor of proportion has arisen, not so much from the observations of any certain measures found in beautiful bodies, as from a wrong idea of the relation which deformity bears to beauty, to which it has been considered as the opposite : on this principle it was concluded, that where the causes of deformity were removed, beauty must naturally and necessarily be in- troduced. This, I believe, is a mistake; for deformity is opposed, not to beauty, but to the complete common form. If one of the legs of a man be found shorter than the other, the man is deformed, because there is some- thing wanting to complete the whole idea we form ot a man : and this has the same etiect in natural faults, as maiming and mutilation produce from accidents. So if the back be humped, the man is deformed, because his back has an unusual figure, and what carries with it the idea of some misfortune : so if a man's neck be consider- ON THE BEAUTIFUL. 181 ably longer or shorter than usual, we say he is deformed in that part, because men are not commonly made in that manner. But surely every hour's experience may convince us, that a man may have his legs of an equal length, and resembling each other in all respects, and his neck of a just size, and his back quite straight, without having at the same time the least perceivable beauty. Indeed, beauty is so far from belonging to the idea of custom, that, in reality, what affects us in that manner, is extremely rare and uncommon. The beautiful strikes us as much by its novelty, as the deformed itself/'*' Custom has precisely the same effect upon our ideas of relative magnitude or proportion, as on our ideas of figure. There is a certain breadth of the mouth, in pro- portion to the breadth of the whole face, which is mon- strous ; another opposite proportion equally monstrous. There is a certain middle limit, within which all propor- tions are equally removed from deformity. Mr. Burke contends, and in my humble opinion with great success, that proportion is never of itself the original cause of beauty. It is the cause of beauty, as it is an indication of strength and utility in buildings, of swiftness in ani- mals, of any feeling morally beautiful ; and it is agree- able, as it is customary in animals, or the proof of the absence of deformity ; but no proportion of itself, and without one of these reasons, ever pleases. No man would contend Nature ever intended that 6 to 2, or 9 to 14, are perfection : that the moment a monkey could be discovered and brought to light, the length of whose ear was precisely the cube root of the length of his tail, that he ought to be set up as a model of perfect conformation to the whole simious tribe. Certain proportions are beautiful, as they indicate skill, swiftness, convenience, strength, or historical association ; and then philosophers copy these proportions, and determine that they must be originally and abstractedly beautiful, — applying that to the sign, which is only true of the thing indicated by the sign. Custom has also the same effect upon magnitudes. Tall and short mean only unusual. The excellence of * Burke, p, 221. 182 LECTURE XIV. stature would lie within those limits where one height was equally common with another, were it not for the idea of utility which intervenes and overcomes the slight deviation from that which is most common. For in- stance : I believe there are many more Englishmen between 5 feet 6 and 5 feet 9, than there are between 5 feet 9 and 6 feet; but I believe Mr. Flaxman, in making a statue of a beautiful young man, would rather choose between the last proportion than the first.. — because, though the deviation from custom would be greater, it would be compensated for by the superior notions of strength and energy it would convey. But every sculptor would undoubtedly take the commonest proportion between the nose and the chin he could dis cover, because no superior pleasure would be gained by deviating from that proportion. Mr. Burke has a notion that things, to be beautiful, must be small, — that small- ness is one cause of beauty. This, I confess, I can not agree to. Little is a term of affection, but not a term of beauty : where the stature is small, we are rather in- clined to use some less powerful word than beautiful, as pretty. There is a certain feeling of admiration, a faint tinge of awe, connected with personal beauty, which, if not diminished, is certainly not assisted, by smallness. If smallness were one cause of beauty, we should have remarked it in the great mass of amatory poetry, which has been accumulating since the beginning of the world : the lover would have told his mistress, from time imme- morial, that she was so short that she could walk under his arm ; that she weighed less by -20 or 30 pounds than any other beauty in the neighborhood ; that lie solemnly believed her only to be five feet ; and he would have diminished her down by elegant adulation, to think as lowly of herself as possible. I think if the poetical gen- tlemen who attend the Institution will recollect, they will rather find, when they speak of stature at all. that their adulation runs in an opposite channel ; and that, though they may speak of grand stately figures, they never allude to those remarkable only for weighing very little, and being shorter and thinner than the average of the human race. ON THE BEAUTIFUL. 183 Having now gone through the various effects of mag- nitude, proportion, and figure, on beauty, I think I have said enough to explain the causes of the most remarkable sort of beauty, the beauty of the human face. I shall first take a very beautiful female face, entirely without expression, — why do we call that face beautiful ? Take twenty other faces, all devoid of expression ; why do we denominate the one beautiful, the others not? The beautiful face is a most uncommon assemblage of com- mon figures, common proportions, common magnitudes, and common relations. Take all the other twenty, — the first has features too large, that is, larger than is common ; the second violates proportion, that is, the customary proportion between the length of the forehead and the length of the chin is violated ; in a third, the figure of the mouth is extraordinary, it is not the average custom- ary figure of mouths. In the beautiful face alone, there is not a single deviation from custom : the figure of every feature is the average figure ; the magnitude the average magnitude ; the proportion each part bears to the other, the customary proportion. The only thing which is not average, and not customary, is the extra- ordinary assemblage of averages and common standards in one single face: that whereas all human faces deviate from the custom of Nature in some of their magnitudes, figures, and proportions, she has assembled, in this single face, one and all her models for every separate feature ; and indulged the eye of man, unused to excellence, with the spectacle of that which is without spot, blemish, or objection. Now mind what .we have to add to this bare assemblage of proportions, figures, and magnitudes : in the first place we add to it smoothness, a great cause of beauty ; then beautiful colors, which are also the signs of health, youth, and delicacy of feeling. It shall aJso express goodness, compassion, gentleness, an obliging spirit, and a mild wisdom ; and, putting all these power- ful causes together, I think I have said enough to explain the effects which personal beauty produces on the des- tinies of man. *' These, when the Spartan queen approach'd the tower, In secret own'd resistless beauty's power : 184 LECTURE XIV. They cried, ' !N"o wonder such celestial charms 1 For nine long rears had set the -world in arms ; "Wltat winning graces, "what majestic mien ! She looks a goddess, and she moves a queen ! : " These are the causes which made all the old senators of Troy exclaim, at the sight of Helen, that the Trojans and the well-booted Greeks were by no means to blame for having endured such griefs so long a time for such a beautiful lady. All the beauty of motion I should suspect to be the re- sult of association. Motion is either quick or slow, di- rect or circuitous, uniform or irregular. Sometimes quick motion is not beautiful, from the association it ex- cites of violent resistance to the touch ; in other in- stances there is a want of variety, both in direct motion and in slow motion, which is tiresome. All motion which gives us the notion of ease, is beautiful ; of re- straint, is painful. All movements in human creatures, which express any feeling of mind which itself would be called beautiful, is as beautiful as the thine it signifies. The motion of a rivulet is beautiful from its variety ; of a balloon, from its ease ; and the apparent absence of effort of a sailing kite, from the same reason ; of a man of war moving slowly, for the same reason. Grace is either the beauty of motion, or the beauty of posture. Graceful motion is motion without difficulty or embarrassment; or that which, from experience, we know to be connected with ingenious modesty, a desire to increase the happiness of others, or any beautiful moral feeling. A person walks up a Ions: room, ob- served by a great number of individuals, and pays his re- spects as a gentleman ought to do : — why is he grace- ful ? Because every movement of his body inspires you with some pleasing feeling ; he has the tree and unem- barrassed use of his limbs; his motions do not indicate forward boldness, or irrational timidity ; — the outward signs perpetually indicate agreeable qualities. The same explanation applies to grace of posture and attitude : that is a graceful attitude which indicates an absence of- restraint ; and facility, which is the sign of agreeable qualities of mind : apart from such indications, one atti- ON THE BEAUTIFUL. 185 tude I should conceive to be quite as graceful as an- other. Mr. Burke has a long dissertation respecting the effect of utility or fitness, as a cause of beauty : he determines that it is not a cause of beauty, but I can not think this decision conformable with matter of fact. I took occa- sion to observe, in my last lecture, that the term beauty implied comparison, and that it was a term of the super- lative degree. Now certainly, mere utility, unaccom- panied by surprise, does never excite the feeling of beauty. There is nothing more useful than a plow, an axe, or a hammer, but nobody calls them beautiful ; but whenever utility is promoted by a surprising adaptation of means to ends, there the feeling of the beautiful is al- ways excited, unless counteracted by some accidental association. " Why," says Mr. Burke, " upon this prin- ciple of utility, the wedge-like snout of a sow, with its tough cartilage at the end, the little sunk eyes, and the whole make of the head, so well adapted to its offices of digging and rooting, would be extremely beautiful." The great bag hanging to the bill of a pelican, a thing highly useful to this animal, would be likewise as beau- tiful in our eyes. In the first place, the pig is an animal degraded by all sorts of dirty associations, and therefore the instance is rather unfair: the bag of the pelican raises up, also, some association of disease ; and this is the notion both the one and the other excites in common minds. But the anatomist, who has examined the struc- ture of these parts carefully, and knows how they are composed, how moved, how connected with the rest of the body, is immediately struck with the feeling of the beautiful, and does not hesitate to denominate both the one and the other a beautiful provision of nature. In the same manner all the instances Mr. Burke quotes are easy to be answered, — porcupines and hedgehogs are well provided by nature with means of defense; but any thing associated with the idea of pain, wounds, and contention, is disagreeable. For the same reason, all the inventions of war, bombs, mines, cannon, — though they are useful, and excite surprise if they have not been often seen, — are never considered as beautiful, from the dreadful ideas 186 LECTURE XIV. with which they are connected. But I think it would be difficult to find any thing useful, done by a surprising adaptation of means to end, which would not be called beautiful. How beautiful is the adaptation of the con- densible nature of steam, to overcome the greatest ob- stacles in mechanics ! or that adaptation of the elastic power of air, to produce a continued stream in the en- gines employed for fires ! What is more useful than a saucepan ? nothing. — but the adaptation of means to the end excites no surprise. But what if a man were to in- vent a new and better kind of snuffers, effecting his ob- ject by a very striking method, — would that be beautiful ? "Probably not ; the end proposed is so trifling, that we should rather feel a sort of contempt for the man who had lavished his talent upon such an object ; though it is very possible that the great ingenuity of the means may sanctify an object otherwise unimportant. Argand's lamp certainly deserves the appellation of a beautiful in- vention. Go to the Duke of Bedford's piggery at YVo- burn, and you will see a breed of pigs with legs so short, that their stomachs trail upon the ground : a breed of animals entombed in their own fat, overwhelmed with prosperity, success, and farina. No animal could sibly be so disgusting if it were not useful ; but a breed- er, who has accurately attended to the small quantity of food it requires to swell this pig out to such extraordinary dimensions, — the astonishing genius it displays for obes- ity. — and the laudable propensity of the flesh to desert the cheap regions of the body, and to agglomerate on those parts which are worth ninepence a pound. — such an observer of its utility does not scruple to call these otherwise hideous quadrupeds, a beautiful race of pigs. It is asked if perfection is the cause of beauty ? Before the question is asked, it may be as well to determine what is meant by perfection ? It often means the super- lative of any thing. Perfect strength must mean the greatest strength that that species, or any other spe is accustomed to exhibit. Such strength would give no notion of beauty, nor would perfect swiftness : but rather of the sublime : less perfect swiftness would be much more likely to inspire us with the notion of the beautiful. ON THE BEAUTIFUL. 187 What notion of beauty could perfect justice impart, or perfect courage ? Perfect symmetry is the symmetry which is the most oeautiful, which I have before referred to custom ; I see no reason whatever for considering perfection as a cause of beauty. Variety is another very strong cause of beauty ; and this is the reason why we are so fond of natural objects, and is the cause of the great bustle made about nature. I have no doubt but that (all other things being equal) a regular figure is more beautiful than an irregular fig- ure, and that the principal reason why we are like the strange figures presented to us in a forest, among the boughs of the trees, or in a field by the irregular lay of the ground, is the perpetual gratification of this passion for variety which it affords. I went for the first time in my life, some years ago, to stay at a very grand and beautiful place in the country, where the grounds are said to be laid out with consummate taste. For the first three or four days I was perfectly enchanted ; it seemed something so much better than nature, that I really be- gan to wish the earth had been laid out according to the latest principles of improvement, and that the whole face of nature wore a little more the appearance of a park. In three days' time I was tired to death ; a thistle, a net- tle, a heap of dead bushes, any thing that wore the ap- pearance of accident and want of intention, was quite a relief. I used to escape from the made grounds, and walk upon an adjacent goose-common, where the cart- ruts, gravel-pits, bumps, irregularities, coarse ungentle- manlike grass, and all the varieties produced by neglect, were a thousand times more gratifying than the mo- notony of beauties the result of design, and crowded into narrow confines with a luxuriance and abundance utter- ly unknown to nature. When we speak of a beautiful landscape, we include under that term a vast variety of sensations, — the beauty of colors, of smells, and of sounds. It would be difficult to look at milch cattle without thinking of the fragrance of their milk, — or at hay in the haymaking season, without enjoying in imagination its delightful smell. a88 lecture xiv. " As one who long in populous city pent, Where houses thick and sewers annoy the air, Forth issuing on a summer's morn to breathe Among the pleasant Tillages and farms Adjoin'd, from each thing met conceives delight ; The smell of grain, or tedded grass, or kine, Or dairy, each rural sight, each rural sound ; If chance, with nymph-like step, fa*ir virgin pass, What pleasing seern'd, for her now pleases more ; She most, and in her look sums all delight." To the beauty of sounds, smells, and- colors, is to be added the beauty of variety, the notion of liberty, of health, of innocence, the association of a childhood passed in the country, of the happy days every man has spent there, — all that Virgil has written, and Claude painted, of the country, — the beautiful exertions of the highest minds to make that fairer which God has made so fair, — all these feelings go to make up the beauty of land- scape, and give birth, by their united force, to that calm pleasure which has been felt in every age by those who have raised their minds above the struggles of passion, and the emotions of sense. Then every man, in looking at a landscape, paints to himself that scene of imaginary felicity he likes best ; a merchant looks at an asylum from the toils of business ; a mother marks out a healthy and sheltered spot for her children ; an improver plants ; a poet feels; an old man builds himself a retired cottage, and gradually wears away his remaining days amid the health and quiet of the fields. A landscape is every thing to every body: it is one person's property as well as another's ; it gratifies every man's desire, and fills up every man's heart. The beauties of architecture I should conceive to be referable to the beauties of utility, of regularity, of del- icacy, and of association. Why is the west window of the cathedral at York beautiful ? Let us endeavor to follow what passes in the mind, in looking "at this cele- brated piece of architecture. It is, in the first place. Gothic, and there is an association in favor of Gothic architecture ; we have heard it is beautiful, and are pre- pared to admire it. The stone-work is very light, and therefore does not obstruct the passage of the sun's ON THE BEAUTIFUL. 189 rays ; nor does it give us the idea of labor uselessly employed, but, on the contrary, the idea of delicacy, which I have before stated to be a cause of beauty. It is full of regular figures, neatly cut, which it is not easy to make of stone. The whole is a regular figure, and bears a just proportion to the size of the building. As to ther different orders of architecture, it is quite impossi- ble to assent to the observations of those who would contend that their proportions are absolutely beautiful, — that nature has made these proportions originally a cause of that feeling, independent of any utility to which those proportions may be subservient, and of any asso- ciation with which they may be connected. The common sense of the business appears to me to be this : — I see a pillar ; I conceive it, as erected, to support something. I know the nature of stone, and its strength. If the proportions are so managed that I conceive the thing to be supported, will fall, it gives me the idea of weakness and frailty, which is unpleasant : if they are such as to indicate a much greater degree of strength than is wanted, then I am equally disgusted. Between these two extremes, all proportions are naturally of equal beauty ; the rest is done by Pericles, Miltiades, the battle of Thermopylse, and all the military and literary glory of the Greeks. There is an excellent chapter in Mr. Alison's book, upon the orders of architecture, in which he, to my mind, sets this matter in the clearest point of view, and shows that in this instance, as well as in all others, the pleasure arising from the proportions of the orders, is to be referred to the utility of those propor- tions, or to the associations which they excite. " The proportions of these orders," says Mr. Alison, " it is to be remembered, are distinct subjects of beauty from the ornaments with which they are embellished, from the magnificence with which they are executed, from the purposes of elegance they are intended to serve, or the scenes of grandeur they are destined to adorn. It is in such scenes, however, and with such additions, that we are accustomed to observe them : and while we feel the effect of all these accidental associations, we are seldom willing to examine what are the causes of the 190 LECTURE XIV. complex emotions we feel ; and readily attribute to the nature of the architecture itself, the whole pleasure which we enjoy. " But, beside these, there are other associations we have with these forms, that still more powerfully serve to command our admiration, for they are the Grecian orders : they derive their origin from those time's, and were the ornaments of those countries, which are most hallowed in our imaginations ; and it is difficult for us to see them, even in their modern copies, without feeling them operate upon our minds as relics of those polished nations where they first arose, and of that greater people by whom they were afterward borrowed. " While this species of architecture is attended with so many and so pleasing associations, it is difficult, even for a man of reflection, to distinguish between the different sources of his emotion ; or, in the moments in which this delight is felt, to ascertain what is the exact portion of his pleasure which is to be attributed to these propor- tions alone. And two different causes combine to lead us to attribute to the style of architecture itself, the beauty which arises from many other associations. " In the first place, while it is under our eye, this architecture itself is the great object of our regard, and the central object of all these associations It is the material sign, in fact, of all the various affecting qualities which are connected with it : and it disposes us in this. as in every other case, to attribute to the sign, the effect which is produced by the qualities signified. " When we reflect, upon the other hand, in our calmer moments, upon the source of our emotion, another motive arises to induce us to consider these proportions as the sole, or the principal, cause of our pleasure : for these proportions are the only qualities of the object which are perfectly or accurately ascertained. They have received the assent of all ages since their discovery ; they are the acknowledged objects of beauty ; and, having thus got possession of one undoubted principle. our natural love of system induces us to ascribe the whole of the effect to this principle alone, and easily ON THE BEAUTIFUL. 191 satisfies our minds, by saving us the trouble of a long and tedious investigation. '•' That this cause has had its full effect in this case, will, I believe, appear very evident to those who attend to the enthusiasm with which, in general, the writers on architecture speak of the beauty of proportion, and compare it with the common sentiments of men, upon the subject of this beauty. Both these causes conspire to mislead our judgment in this point, and to induce us to attribute to one quality, in such objects, that beauty which, in truth, results from many united qualities. " # In my next lecture I shall conclude this subject of the beautiful, and sum up all that I have said upon it. If any man feel himself inclined to think that I have pushed this subject of the beautiful too far, and that its importance does not merit such long discussion, I would desire him to reflect upon the immense effect which it produces on human life. What are half the crimes in the world committed for ? What brings into action the best virtues ? The desire of possessing. Of possessing what ? — not mere money, but every species of the beau- tiful which money can purchase. A man lies hid in a little, dirty, smoky room for twenty years of his life, and sums up as many columns of figures as would reach round half the earth, if they were laid at length ; — he gets rich ; what does he do with his riches ? He buys a large, well-proportioned house : in the arrangement of his furniture, he gratifies himself with all the beauty which splendid colors, regular figures, and smooth surfaces, can convey ; he has the beauties of variety and association in his grounds ; the cup out of which he drinks his tea is adorned with beautiful figures ; the chair in which he sits is covered with smooth, shining leather ; his table-cloth is of the most beautiful damask ; mirrors reflect the lights from every quarter of the room ; pictures of the best masters feed his eye with all the beauties of imitation. A million of human creatures are employed in this country in ministering to this feeling of the beautiful. It is only a barbarous, ignorant people that can ever be occupied by the necessaries of life alone. * Alison, pp, 387-369. 192 LECTURE XIV. If to eat, and to drink, and to be warm, were the onlv passions of our minds, we should all be what the lowest of us all are at this day. The love of the beautiful calls man to fresh exertions, and awakens him to a more noble life ; and the glory of it is, that as painters imitate, and poets sing, and statuaries carve, and architects rear up the gorgeous trophies of their skill, — as every thing becomes beautiful, and orderly, and magnificent, — the activity of the mind rises to still greater, and to better objects. The principles of justice are sought out; the powers of the ruler, and the rights of the subject, are fixed ; man advances to the enjoyment of rational liberty, and to the establishment of those great moral laws, which God has written in our hearts, to regulate the destinies of the world. LECTURE XV. OS THE BEAUTIFUL.— PART IIL I wish, for the completion of the subject on which I have been engaged, to consider what causes produce the feeling of the beautiful in poetry. I must observe here, as I observed before, that there is a lax and general usage of the word beautiful, to which I am not now referring. We might say of Milton's Paradise Lost, that it is a beautiful poem, though its characteristic is rather grandeur and sublimity, than beauty. It is a general term, standing for every species of excellence ; but I am speaking now of that which is properly beau- tiful, as distinguished from what is sublime or excellent in any other kind. The first reason, then, why poetry is beautiful, is, be- cause it describes natural objects, or moral feelings, which are themselves beautiful. For an example, I will read to you a beautiful sonnet of Dr. Leyden's upon the Sabbath morning, which has never been printed : — " With silent awe I hail the sacred morn, Which slowly wakes while all the fields are still ; A soothing calm on every breeze is borne, A graver murmur gurgles from the rill, And Echo answers softer from the hill, And softer sings the linnet from the thorn, The skylark warbles in a tone less shrill. Hail, light serene ! hail, sacred Sabbath morn ! The rooks float silent by, in airy drove ; The sun, a placid yellow luster shows ; The gales, that lately sigh'd along the grove, Have hush'd their downy wings in dead repose ; The hov'ring rack of clouds forget to move : — So smiled the day when the first morn arose 1" 194 LECTURE XV. Now, there is not a single image introduced into this very beautiful sonnet, which is not of itself beautiful ; the soothing calm of the breeze, the noise of the rill, the song of the linnet, the hovering rack of clouds, and the airy drove of rooks floating by, are all objects that would be beautiful in nature, and of course are so in poetry. The notion that the whole appearance of the world is more calm and composed on the Sabbath, and that its sanctity is felt in the whole creation, is unusually beau- tiful and poetical. There is a pleasure in imitation, — this is exactly a picture of what a beautiful placid morn- ing is, and we are delighted to see it so well repre- sented. There is also a certain degree of pleasure from the measure of the poetry, — from the recurrence of certain cadences at certain intervals ; — this makes the distinc- tion between the language of prose and poetry. Xow, in which of these two passages are the sounds most agreeably arranged : — " The master saw the madness rising, took notice of his glowing cheeks and his ardent eyes, and, while he defied heaven and earth, changed his own hand, and checked the pride of Alexander. He chose a mournful song, in order to infuse into him soft pity ; he sung of Darius, a very great and good man," — and so on. " The master saw the madness rise ; His glowing cheeks, his ardent eyes ; And, while he Heaven and Earth defied, Changed his hand, and check' d his pride. He chose a mournful muse Soft pity to infuse : He sung Darius great and good, By too severe a fate, Fallen, fallen, fallen, fallen, Fallen from his high estate, And welt'ring in his blood ; Deserted, at his utmost need, By those his former bounty fed : On the bare earth exposed he lies, With not a friend to close his eyes. With downcast looks the joyless victor sate, Revolving in his alter'd soul The various turns of Chance below ; And, now and then, a sigh he stole ; And tears began to flow." ON THE BEAUTIFUL. 195 Now, the ideas are precisely the same in the iwo ar- rangements of sounds ; but I think no one can doubt of the superior pleasure of that order of sounds, in which there appears to be arrangement and design. Part of the pleasure proceeds also from the rhymes. Children will go on for ten minutes together, repeating a rhyme, merely delighted with the sameness of the sound : so will mad people. I have seen laborers and common' people in the country, quite delighted with the accidental discovery of a rhyme ; it has appeared to have very much the same effect upon them as wit. I mention these things very cursorily, because they are connected with my subject of the beautiful, though they are facts of great curiosity, and which may lead to very interest- ing speculations, which I have no doubt they will do, in the very able hands in which they are at present placed by the managers of this Institution. To these causes may be added a strong admiration of the skill of the poet, whether exemplified in his selection of words, or his choice of the most striking objects and incidents in description. These, I apprehend to be the causes which excite the feeling of the beautiful in poetry, where the subject itself is beautiful. But what is the reason that poetry is called beautiful, where the subject is quite the reverse ? There might be a very beautiful description of the flat, dreary fens of Holland, which are themselves as far from being beautiful as any natural scenery can be. Now, here is a passage out of Thom- son, in which there is not a single image naturally beau- tiful, and yet the whole passage certainly must be so called : — " When o'er this world, by equinoctial rains Flooded immense, looks out the joyless sun, And draws the copious stream ; from swampy fens, Where putrefaction into life ferments, And breathes destructive myriads ; or from woods, Impenetrable shades, recesses foul, In vapors rank and blue corruption wrapt, Whose gloomy horrors yet no desperate foot, Has ever dared to pierce — then, wasteful, forth Walks the dire power of pestilent disease. A thousand hideous fiends her course attend, Sick nature blasting, and to heartless woe, 196 LECTURE XV. And feeble desolation, casting down * The towering "hopes and all the pride of man. Such as, of late, at Cartagena quench'd The British fire. You, gallant Yernon, saw The miserable scene ; you, pitying, saw- To infant weakness sunk the warrior's arm ; Saw the deep racking pang, the ghastly form. The lip pale quivering, and the beamless eye No more with ardor bright; you heard the groans Of agoni ing ships, from shore to shore ; Heard, nightly plung'd amid the sullen waves, The frequent corse — while on each other fix'd, In sad presage, the blank assistants seem'd Silent, to ask, whom fate would next demand."* The question is, why is such an extraordinary assem- blage of unbeautiful images beautiful ? In the first place, the mention or description of putrefaction, stag- nation of air, and consequent plague, is of course not so disgusting or horrible as the reality : the obstacles to DO the feeling of the beautiful are immensely overcome, in comparison to that degree of force which they would possess if these things were seen and felt instead of read. Then there is a certain pleasure of security in reading the description of dange/, or of comfort in reading the description of disgust. T think we should all be conscious of the feeling of security, in reading Thomson's celebrated description of a snow-storm, and of the father perishing while his chiljfren are looking out for him and demanding their sire. Add to all this, the same causes of the beautiful which exist in beautiful subjects, — the meter, the cadence, ichoice of language, and admiration of skill, — and their united force will ex- plain the reason why poetry is .beautiful, when the sub- ject, in nature, would be jniich "otherwise ; though, I suppose (all other things being equal), the more beauti- ful the subject, the more beautiful the poem. This also is to be said, that some passions, though painful when very strong, are agiwable when weaker. Ijjwould be horrible to be staying at a house on a snowy night, where there was every reason to believe that the husband would perish on his road home over a bleak common ; and nothing could be more dreadful than to * Summer, ver. 1026-1051. ON THE BEAUTIFUL. 197 see the agony of the mother and the children. But poetical snow is so much less dangerous than real snow, and poetical wives and children always excite our com- passion so much less than wives and children devoid of all rhyme and meter, and composed of prosaic flesh and blood, that the degree of compassion excited is rather pleasing than painful. The beautiful in painting seems to be quite referable to the same causes, — the pleasures of imitation, the reflex pleasure of natural beauty, the pleasure of skill ; and where the subject itself is not beautiful, there, re- flected horror is less intense than real or original horror, and a certain pleasure is enjoyed from the consciousness that we are exempt from the evil we behold. Throughout the whole of my lectures on the beauti- ful, in my explanation of the beauty of exterior objects, I have thought it sufficient to trace their connection with feelings of the mind, which have received that ap- pellation. It therefore becomes necessary I should state what those feelings are. To class feelings with the same precision with which it is possible to arrange earths, and stone, and minerals, is a degree of order in these mat- ters, which the most ardent metaphysician, unassisted by lunacy, will of course never attempt to attain. The similarity of feelings is not a truth which it is possible to prove ; it must be left to every man's inward reflec- tion to determine, and to his candor to confess ; and, after all, opinions upon such subjects must always fall far short of that clearness of conviction, which is easily obtained upon physical subjects. The emotions of the mind may be divided into pain- ful and pleasing, and the pleasing into calm emotions and tumultuous emotions ; and the beautiful, I believe, com- prehends almost every calm emotion of pleasure. I am using old and well-established phrases, when I speak of calm and tumultuous emotions, and (which is rather a bold thing to say in the language adopted for the phe- nomena of mind) I really believe they have some mean- ing. The names have evidently been derived from the outward bodily signs of the two kinds of emotion ; and no one can doubt, but that what passes in the mind on such 198 LECTURE XV. occasions, is just as different as what appears in the face and actions, which are the indications of the mind. The joy of a washerwoman who has just got the £20,000 prize in the lottery, and the joy of a sensible, worthy man, who has just succeeded in rescuing a family from distress, are both feelings of pleasure; but while the one is dancing in frantic rapture round her tubs, the signs by which the other indicates his satisfaction are char- acteristic of nothing but tranquillity and peace. If, then, the beautiful in feeling includes every calm emotion of pleasure, it must of course comprehend con- tent, — health leading to serenity of body and mind ; not when it breaks out into violence of action (the ab- sence of restraint). It must include innocence, affection, and even esteem, as well as benevolence: it also in- cludes ingenuity mingled with utility, or the surprising adaptation of means to useful ends ; and a long catalogue of feelings, which are pleasing as well as calm. These seem to be the characteristics which have governed men in their usage of this term. Xo feeling which excites pain can be beautiful. There is nothing beautiful in envy, hatred, or malice, in. cruelty and oppression; but when we see a man bearing testimony to the merit of his rival, that is beautiful ; when real injuries are rapidly forgiven, that is beautiful. When any human being. who has power and influence to defend his oppressions, is as just and considerate to the feelings of others, as if he were poor and defenseless, M(// is eminently beautiful, and gives to every human being who beholds it, the purest emotion of joy. I have said a great deal about prospect and landscape ; I will mention an action or two, which appear to me to convey as distinct a feeling of the beautiful, as any landscape whatever. A London merchant, who, I believe, is still alive, while he was staying in the country with a friend, hnppened to men- tion that he intended, the next year, to buy a ticket in the lottery ; his friend desired he would buy one for him at the same time, which of course was very willingly agreed to. The conversation dropped, the ticket never arrived, and the whole affair was entirely forgotten. when the country gentleman received information that ON THE BEAUTIFUL. 199 the ticket purchased for him by his friend, had come up a prize of £20,000. Upon his arrival in London, he inquired of his friend where he had put the ticket, and why he had not informed him that it was purchased. " I bought them both the same day, mine and your ticket, and I flung them both into a drawer of my bureau, and I never thought of them afterward." " But how do you distinguish one ticket from the other ? and why am I the holder of the fortunate ticket, more than you ?" " Why, at the time I put them into the drawer, I put a little mark in ink upon the ticket which I re- solved should be yours ; and upon re-opening the drawer, I found that the one so marked was* the fortunate ticket." Now this action appears to me perfectly beautiful ; it is le beau ideal in morals, and gives that calm, yet deep emotion of pleasure, which every one so easily receives from the beauty of the exterior world. There is a very pretty story which I shall read to you, and which, to my mind, is a complete instance of the beautiful in morals. " At the siege of Namur by the Allies, there were in the ranks of the company commanded by Captain Pin- sent, in Colonel Frederick Hamilton's regiment, one Unnion, a corporal, and one Valentine, a private sentinel. There happened between these two men a dispute about a matter of love, which, upon some aggravations, grew to an irreconcilable hatred. Unnion, being the officer of Valentine, took all opportunities even to strike his rival, and profess his spite and revenge which moved him to it ; the sentinel bore it without resistance, but frequently said he would die to be revenged of that tyrant. They had spent whole months thus, one injuring, the. other complaining; when, in the midst of this rage toward each other, they were commanded upon the attack of the castle, where the corporal received a shot in the thigh and fell. The French pressing on, and he expecti% to be trampled to death, called out to his enemy, ' Ah, Valentine, can you leave me here ?' Valen- tine immediately ran back, and, in the midst of a thick fire of the French, took the corporal upon his back, and brought him through all that danger as far as the Abbey 200 LECTURE XV. of Salsine, where a cannon-ball took off his head : his body fell under his enemy whom he was carrying off. Unnion immediately forgot his wound, rose up, tearing his hair, and then threw himself upon the bleeding car- cass, crying, ' Ah, Valentine ! was it for me. who have so barbarously used thee, that thou hast died! I will not live after thee/ He was not by any means to be forced from the body, but was removed with it bleeding in his arms, and attended with tears by all their com- rades who knew their enmity. When he was brought to a tent, his wounds were dressed by force ; but the next day, still calling upon Valentine, and lamenting his cruelties to him, he died in the pangs of remorse and despair. " It may be a question among men of noble sentiment, whether of these unfortunate persons had the greater soul — he that was so generous as to venture his life for his enemy, or he who could not survive the man who died in laying upon him such an obligation ?"* These are the beautiful feelings which lie hidden in every man's heart, which alone make life worth having. and prevent us from looking upon the world as a den of wild beasts, thirsting for each other's blood. There are some feelings that are always beautiful, such as content and benevolence ; there are others that appear to be beautiful, exactly according to the degree in which they are felt, or to the other feelings with which they are mingled. We compassionate a man who has broken both his legs, but the feeling is accompanied with too much pain, and is far too tumultuous, to be called beautiful. I should compassionate two young people who were just married, and who, after their marriage, had expe- rienced a loss of fortune that reduced them to embar- rassments ; but this feeling of compassion, being much less violent and tumultuous, approaches much nearer to the beautiful. All description in poetry, or imMtion in painting, of any degree of compassion, would be so much less powerful than the real observation of it in nature, that it might convey the feeling of the beautiful. The * Tatler, No. V. p. 18. ON THE BEAUTIFUL. 201 real compassion we should have felt for Lady Randolph deploring the loss of her son, if there had been a real Lady Randolph, would have been a feeling much too violent for the beautiful ; but, lowered and diminished by the imperfect deception of imitation, or the refrig- erating medium of description, it is brought to the stan- dard which renders it compatible with that feeling. It appears also, that those feelings which are the reverse of beautiful may, in poetry and in painting, be rendered compatible with it, by being softened and lowered from that intense effect they produce in real nature, — by being joined with harmonious sounds, conveyed in metrical language, — by exciting admiration of skill, and gratifying that pleasure which results from accurate imitation. I consider mere imitation, rather as an auxiliary to the feeling of the beautiful, than as sufficient to produce it of itself. Mere imitation is agreeable, but I question if it ever excites, alone, the feeling of the beautiful. Could the most accurate drawing of a rat, or a weasel, ever be beautiful ? — or, if it be contended that these are animals which excite disgusting associations, could the accurate drawing of a block of Portland stone, or of mahogany, ever be beautiful ? If mere imitation can excite the feeling of beauty, these subjects, well imitated, ought to come up to that character, which I hardly think they ever could. Thus, then, I have, with some pains to myself (and I am afraid with much more to my audience), gone through this subject of the beautiful ; a subject certainly of great difficulty, and on which probable opinion must be ex- pected, rather than certain conviction. To silence opposition on such a subject, is of course impossible : every man, in discussing it, must fling himself upon the candor of his audience, and, instead of defying their objections, request them to assist him in overcoming them. One method of trying the justice of what I have said respecting the beautiful, will be, to see what is meant by the opposite expression of ugliness. An ugly face is a face which is not smooth, nor of a clear, transparent color ; which expresses unpleasant passions, and where • i* 202 LECTURE XV. the magnitudes, proportions, and figures, are very un- customary. An ugly landscape is one devoid of variety, of beautiful color ; and which excites feelings of dreari- ness, coldness, and disease, rather than of warmth, health, and enjoyment. An ugly animal is one, in the con- formation of which, the custom of nature is violated, or which excites the associations of sloth, gluttony, inutility, and malice, rather than the opposite of all these qualities. If pigs did not make such excellent hams, they would be the most detestable of all animals on the face of the earth ; and, accordingly, all nations that do not eat them, hate them : they are only restored to favor upon condi- tion of being dressed for dinner. Ugly buildings, are buildings in which the figures are not regular, nor the divisions convenient, nor the propor- tions such as are associated with durability, or elegance, or any pleasant impression. In ugly music, if I may use the expression, the sound is not in itself pleasing, and it conveys no pleasing association. In short, we shall al- ways find, that in using this word, which is the exact contrary to beauty, we shall always be influenced by the absence of those causes, from which I, and many others before me, have stated the feeling of the beautiful to proceed. The sum, then, of what I have said on these subjects is, that there is a mere beauty of matter. — or rather I should say a feeling of the mind, occasioned by certain qualities of matter, to which we have given the name of the beautiful ; and other feelings of the mind, not occasioned by the intervention of any thing mate- rial, which are found to resemble the first class, and have received the same name. How it comes about that large masses of green or blue light should produce any effects similar to those which are produced by be- nevolence, — that there should be such an analogy between content and smoothness, between any material and any moral beauty — I can not take upon me to determine : but that consent among mankind so to consider them, evinced by the language of many countries, is an evi- dence that there is some real foundation in nature for the resemblance. The emotion produced by both, is calm and gentle : both are pleasing : both lose "their char- ON THE BEAUTIFUL. 203 acter of the beautiful, the moment that they hurry the mind into any tumultuous sensation, or afflict it with any degree of pain. What was the intention of Providence, in creating this affinity between our minds and the planet on which we dwell, it would be rash, perhaps, to conjec- ture. The effects of it, however, I can not help thinking, are often very perceptible. The mind, composed by the beauty of natural objects, is brought into that state, in which the beautiful in morals spontaneously rises up to its notice, and, amid the fragrance and verdure of the earth, is still more refreshed by the feeling of the mild and amiable virtues. In the stillness of an evening in the summer, when every sense is gratified by the beau- ties of the creation, we have all felt the kindred beauties of the mind ; w r e have all felt disposed to forgiveness on such moments, to pity, to kindness, to be gracious and merciful to every created being ; we have felt ourselves drawn toward virtue by some invisible power, and be- trayed into the gentlest and happiest tenor of mind. If the very form and color of things have a tendency to guide the mind of man to rectitude of thought, and pro- priety of action, it is a new proof of the goodness of Providence, and gives fresh dignity to that class of feel- ings which have hitherto been considered to exist for pleasure alone. " For as old Memnon's image, long renown'd By fabling Nilus, to the quivering touch Of Titan's ray, with each repulsive string Consenting, sounded through the warbling air Unbidden strains ; even so did Nature's hand To certain species of external things, Attune the finer organs of the mind : So the glad impulse of congenial powers, Or of sweet sounds, or fair-proportion'd form, The grace of motion, or the bloom of light, Thrills through Imagination's tender frame, From nerve to nerve : all naked and alive They catch the spreading rays ; till now the soul At length discloses every tuneful spring, To that harmonious movement from without Responsive. Then the inexpressive strain Diffuses its enchantment : Fancy dreams Of sacred fountains and Elysian groves, And vales of bliss : the intellectual power Bends from his awful throne a wondering ear 204 LECTURE XV. And smiles : the passions, gently sooth'd a\ray, Sinks to divine repose, and love and joy Alone are waking ; love and joy, serene As airs that fan the summer."* There is another class of objects — the picturesque — - which have given rise to various controversies between some very ingenious gentlemen ; and which have, from the elegance of the subject, and the very pleasing man- ner in which it has been discussed, attracted a consider- able share of attention. Mr. Gilpin defines picturesque objects to be those which please from some quality capable of being illus- trated in painting, or such objects as are proper for painting. Mr. Price attempts to show that the pictur- esque has a character no less separate and distinct, than either the sublime, or the beautiful ; and quite as much independent of the art of painting. The characteristics of the beautiful, are smoothness and gradual variation ; those of the picturesque, directly the reverse, — rough- ness, and sudden variation. A temple of Grecian archi- tecture in its smooth state, is beautiful ; in its ruin, is picturesque. Symmetry, which, in works of art, accords with the beautiful, is in the same degree adverse to the picturesque. Many old buildings, such as hovels, cot- tages, mills, ragged insides of old barns and stables, when- ever they have any peculiar effect of light, form, tint, or shadow, are eminently picturesque ; though they have not a pretension to be called either grand or beautiful. Smooth water is beautiful, rough water picturesque. The smooth young ash, the fresh tender beech, are beau- tiful; the rugged old oak, and knotty whych-elm. pic- turesque. In animals, the same distinction prevails. The ass is more picturesque than the horse. Of horse?, the wild forester, with his rough coat, his mane, and tail ragged and uneven, or the worn-out cart-horse, with his staring bones, are the most picturesque. The pictur- esque abhors sleekness, plumpness, smoothness, and con- vexitv, in animals. Among our own species, beggars, gipsys, and all such rough, tattered figures as are mere- ly picturesque, bear a close analogy, in all the qualities * Akenside's Pleasures of Imagination book 1. ON THE BEAUTIFUL. 205 that make them so, to old hovels and mills, to the wild forest horse, and other objects of the same kind. " If we ascend/' adds Mr. Price, '• to the highest order of created beings, as painted by the grandest of our poets, they, in their state of glory and happiness, raise no ideas but those of beauty and sublimity. The picturesque (as in earthly objects) only shows itself when they are in a state of ruin ; when shadows have obscured their original brightness, and that uniform, though angelic, ex- pression of pure love and joy, has been destroyed by a variety of warring passions. ' Darken'd so, yet shone Above them all the Archangel ; but his face Deep scars of thunder had entrench'd, and care Sat on his faded cheek, and under brows Of dauntless courage and considerate pride Waiting revenge ; cruel his eye, but cast Signs of remorse and passion.' "* Mr. Price then goes on to show, that these two char- acters of the picturesque and beautiful, are perfectly dis- tinguishable in painting and in grounds. He traces it in color ; and maintains that there is a picturesque in taste and in smell. One principal effect of smoothness, according to Mr. Burke and Mr. Price, the essential characteristic of beauty, is, that it gives an appear- ance of quiet and repose to all objects ; roughness, on the contrary, a spirit and animation. Hence, where there is a want of smoothness, there will be a want of repose ; and where there is no roughness, there is a want of spirit and stimulus. Picturesqueness, therefore, appears in this theory to hold a station between beauty and sublimity ; and, on that account, to be more fre- quently and happily blended with them both, than they are with each other ; it is, however, distinct from either. It is not the beautiful, because it is founded on qualities totally opposite to the beautiful — on roughness, and sudden variation ; on that of age, and even of decay. It is not the sublime, because it has nothing to do with greatness of dimensions, and is found in the smallest as well as the largest objects ; it inspires no feelings of # Price on the Picturesque, p. 71. 206 LECTURE XIV. awe and terror, like the sublime : the picturesque loves boundaries, — infinity is one of the efficient causes of the sublime. Lastly : uniformity, which is so great an enemy to the picturesque, is not only compatible with the sublime, but often the cause of it. Concerning the elegance with w T hich this dissertation on the picturesque is expressed, and the ingenuity with which it is con- ceived, there can, I should think, be but one opinion ; it is not often, in such difficult investigations, that per- spicuity, acuteness, good taste, and admirable writing, are so eminently united. But, however, it is not quite so easy to determine upon the real truth and justice which the system contains. One thing seems quite clear, that Mr. Price has chosen a very bad word for the class of feelings which he conceives himself to have dis- covered ; nor does he, in my humble opinion, at all justify it, by what he says of its etymology. The word will naturally be taken by every body for that which is fit to make a good picture ; and so, according to the genius of our language, it ought to be taken ; and one of the most considerable difficulties Mr. Price's theory will have to encounter, will be that of affixing any other meaning to this expression of the picturesque. With respect to the theory itself, the first question seems to be, Is there any class of objects, to be distinguished by any assignable circumstances, which inspire the mind with a common feeling ? This, Mr. Price has, I think, proved clearly enough. All the objects he has men- tioned — the old horse, the jackass, the mill, the beggar — do arrest the attention, and arrest it in a similar manner ; and not merely with a reference to the art of painting, for a person wholly unacquainted with pictures, hut who had leisure to contemplate the appearances of natural objects, would probably notice these, which I have mentioned, and refer them to one class, from the similar manner in which they affected his mind. They nil rouse the mind agreeably, and provoke instant atten- tion. After the first sensation is over, the different objects lead the mind into a different set of feelings, according to the particular nature of each object ; but there is I think one common sensation thev excite at ON THE BEAUTIFUL. 207 first, which establishes a common nature, and justifies the classification of Mr. Price. These are very difficult subjects to speculate upon, and not quite as important as they are difficult ; but I should rather think it might be the very faintest feeling of grandeur or sublimity which Mr. Price distinguishes under the appellation of picturesque. Sudden variation, for instance, in a great scale, is most commonly either grand or sublime ; it sets all the faculties up in arms, and communicates that feel- ing of faint danger, which is so necessary an ingredient to the sublime. To come upon a sudden on a yawning abyss, unless the danger be imminent, is sublime. The sudden variation from the hill country of Gloucester- shire to the Yale of Severn, as observed from Birdlip, or Frowcester Hill, is strikingly sublime. You travel for twenty or five-and-twenty miles over one of the most unfortunate, desolate countries under heaven, divided by stone walls, and abandoned to screaming kites and larcenous crows ; after traveling really twenty, and to appearance ninety miles, over this region of stone and sorrow, life begins to be a burden, and you wish to perish. At the very moment when you are taking this melan- choly view of human affairs, and hating the postilion, and blaming the horses, there bursts upon your view, with all its towers, forests, and streams, the deep and shaded Vale of Severn. Sterility and nakedness are thrown in the background : as far as the eye can reach, all is comfort, opulence, product, and beauty ; now it is an ancient city, or a fair castle rising out of the forests, and now the beautiful Severn is noticed winding among the cultivated fields, and the cheerful habitations of men. The train of mournful impressions is quite effaced, and you descend rapidly into a vale of plenty, with a heart full of wonder and delight. Now the effect produced by sudden variation on a great scale, impresses itself, perhaps, on the mind, and is not forgotten on lesser occasions ; and what Mr. Price calls the picturesque may be the faintest state of this feeling, which requires nothing but greater dimensions to exalt itself into the real sublime. I only mention this as a very frivolous conjec- ture, upon a very unimportant subject, which I bring for- ward without reflection, and part with without difficulty. LECTURE XVI OX THE SUBLDIE. I mean by the sublime, as I meant by the beautiful, a feeling of mind ; though, of course, a very different feel- ing. It is a feeling of pleasure, but of exalted tremulous pleasure, bordering on the very confines of pain ; and driving before it every calm thought, and every regu- lated feeling. It is the feeling which men experience when they behold marvelous scenes of nature ; or when they see great actions performed. Such feelings as come on the top of exceeding high mountains ; or the hour before a battle ; or when a man of great power, and of an unyielding spirit, is pleading before some august tri- bunal against the accusations of his enemies. These are the hours of sublimity, when all low and little passions are swallowed up by an overwhelming feeling ; when the mind towers and springs above its common limits, breaks out into larger dimensions, and swells into a nobler and grander nature. It is necessary here to notice the opinions of Dr. Reid and Mr. Alison, upon the subject of the sublime, which I think may be very fairly expressed by this short quotation from the former of these gentlemen: — "'When we consider matter as an inert, extended, divisible, and movable substance, there seems to be nothing in these qualities which we can call grand; and when we ascribe grandeur to any portion of matter, however modified, may it not borrow this quality from something intellectual, of which it is the effect, or sign, or instrument, or to which it bears some analogy ; or, perhaps, because it produces in the mind an emotion that has some resemblance to that admira- tion, which truly grand objects raise ? ON THE SUBLIME. 209 " Upon the whole, I humbly apprehend, that true grandeur is such a degree of excellence as is fit to raise an enthusiastic admiration ; that this grandeur is found originally and properly in qualities of the mind ; that it is discerned in objects of sense, only by reflection, as the light we perceive in the moon and planets is, truly, the light of the sun ; and that those who look for grandeur in mere matter, seek the living among the dead. " If this be a mistake, it ought at least to be granted, that the grandeur which we perceive in qualities of mind, ought to have a different name from that which belongs properly to the objects of sense, as they are very different in their nature, and produce very different emotions in the mind of the spectator."* Upon the justice of these observations every one must determine for themselves. When I look upon a forest, I confess I am quite unconscious of any qualities of mind, which excite in me the feelings by which I am then possessed ; nor can I, upon mature reflection, find that any other feelings are excited in me but wonder and terror : nor can I admit that the sublimity excited by matter, or by qualities of mind, should have different names, because I firmly believe that the two feelings do very much resemble each other ; and if that be the case, their similarity of name indicates their affinity, and in- troduces something like classification into such a dark and mysterious subject as the feelings of the mind. I have said so much in my Lectures on the Beautiful, against referring that feeling to moral qualities alone, and the arguments would be so precisely the same for this feeling of the sublime, that I forbear going over them again. " The first cause of this feeling," says Mr. Burke, " is obscurity. ' In thoughts from the visions of the night, when deep sleep falleth upon men, fear came upon me, and trembling ; which made all my bones to shake : then, a spirit passed before my eyes ; the hair of my flesh stood up ! it stood still, but I could not discern the form thereof : an image was before mine eyes ! there was silence, and I heard a voice ! Shall mortal man be more * Reid's Essays on the Powers of the Mind. 210 LECTURE XVI. just than God?'" Now, throughout the whole of this description, as Mr. Burke very justly observes, there is an obscurity which fills the mind with terror (such terror, I mean, as is excited by description:) every thing is half obscure : it takes place in a dream. The appari- tion is half seen, — it has no determinate form. There is space and verge enough for every horror that the most fruitful imagination can suggest ; there are no limits to the conception of the dreadful : no man's fancy could paint any thing positive, so terrific, as every man's fancy, in this instance, is left to paint for itself. Obscurity here seems to operate in the production of the sublime, as it is a medium of terror ; for whatever else be added to it, terror seems in one shape or another, or in some degree or another, to be essential to the sub- Lime. The degree that each individual can bear of terror, without destroying the feeling of the sublime, must of course depend upon the force of every man's blood, and the strength of his nerves. I have heard of a clergyman so extremely fond of the sublime, that he procured admission into the foremost parallels at the siege of Valenciennes, in order to contemplate the firing from the batteries of the town the more distinctly: such a situation, I should have thought, would have been a little too sublime for Longinus himself, and evinces certainly a disregard for personal danger, with which the generality of the world, in their enjoyment of this high feeling, can not keep pace. Mere terror, even in that moderated degree of which I am speaking, does not produce the sublime by itself ; for if an angry man flourishes a loaded pistol near me, in all directions, and exhibits a very careless manage- ment of that interesting machine, I have fear in a certain degree, without a particle of sublimity. If a cow shows some slight disposition to run at me as I am crossing a field, I am frightened, but my mind experiences nothing of the sublime. If I am attended by a bad apothecary in an illness, I am excessively frightened, but he never appears to me in the light of a sublime apothecary. Fear, therefore, commonly enters into the feeling of the sublime os an ingredient ; or rather. I should say. is an ON THE SUBLIME. 211 ingredient of the cause of that feeling ; though it can not excite it by itself. But some men tell you it is not fear which is the ingredient, but awe ; but is not fear an ingredient of awe? — for what is awe, but fear and admiration mingled together ; both existing, perhaps, in a less degree, than they are to be met with in the sub- lime ? But if the feeling of awe be not of the family of fear, I am quite ignorant both of its genealogy and nature. A mixture of wonder and terror almost always excites the feeling of the sublime, Extraordinary power gene- rally excites the feeling of the sublime by these means, — by mixing wonder with terror. A person who has never seen any thing of the kind but a little boat, would think a sloop of eighty tons a goodly and somewhat of a grand object, if all her sails were set, and she were going gallantly before the wind ; but a first-rate man-of-war would sail over such a sloop, and send her to the bottom, without any person on board the man-of-war perceiving that they had encountered any obstacle. Such power is wonderful and terrible, — therefore, sublime. Every body possessed of power is an object either of awe or sublimity, from a justice of peace up to the Emperor Aurungzebe — an object quite as stupendous as the Alps. He had thirty-five millions of revenue, in a country where the products of the earth are, at least, six times as cheap as in England : his empire extended over twenty- five degrees of latitude, and as many of longitude : he had put to death above twenty millions of people. I should like to know the man who could have looked at Aurungzebe without feeling him to the end of his limbs, and in every hair of his head ! Such emperors are more sublime than cataracts. I think any man would have shivered more at the sight of Aurungzebe, than at the sight of the two rivers which meet at the Blue Moun- tains, in America, and, bursting through the whole breadth of the rocks, roll their victorious and united waters to the Eastern Sea. Homer represents the horses of Juno as leaping at one bound across the horizon : " For as a shepherd, from some point on high, O'er the wide main extends his boundless eye, — 212 • LECTURE XVI. Through such a space of air, with thund'ring sound, At' one long leap, the immortal coursers bound !" Power is here the cause of the sublime ; and Longinus observes of this thought, that if the steeds of the deity were to take a second leap, the world itself would want room for it. I must beg leave to mention here, that wonder is not always mingled with fear ; and that fear is by no means the necessary consequence of wonder. I may be living in Portuguese America, and find a diamond as big as a hen's egg ; — here is wonder, but nothing like fear. Count Borrilowski excites a sufficient degree of wonder, but a feeling as distinct from fear as any feeling can be. Magnitude is a cause of the sublime, as it excites a mixture of wonder and terror. The great horse, now to be seen for a shilling, is not sublime, because it is so exceedingly tame, and even stupid, that it does not excite the smallest degree of danger. A bull of the size of this animal would be an object of sublimity, because it would excite feelings both of wonder and fear. Magnitudes may be considered either as relative to the species of the thing itself, or relative to all other things. Any object of unusual magnitude for its spe- cies, accompanied by danger, would have a strong ten- dency to excite some feeling of the sublime. The largest snake ever seen in this country, might have some chance of exciting the feeling of sublimity, though a middling- sized one certainly would not. We call this object large, because it is large for its own species ; though, going through all the chain of magnitudes, from a mountain to a grain of dust, we could hardly call such a snake a large object. Magnitude in height — as a very lofty mountain — would excite the sublime, from mingling wonder with terror. In looking down from a lofty place, every one is aware of the terror mingled with the won- der. In looking up to a lofty place, the terror is more faint, but still it may be distinctly recognized. The word we commonly use to express our feelings on such occa- sions, is awe ; but such awe is most probably nothing but a distant conception of the personal danger we ON THE SUBLIME. 213 should experience if we were upon the height at which we are looking, if we were to slip from it, and be pre- cipitated to the bottom. Silence is sublime to those who are unaccustomed to it, after a long residence in London. The profound silence of the country is quite affecting and impressive : — " all the air a solemn stillness holds !" The solitude of a Gothic cathedral, or that which reigns throughout an extensive ruin — as at Tintern and Fountain's Abbey, — are very sublime. That such scenes of solitude and silence excite wonder in those little ac- customed to them, there can be no doubt ; but that faint tinge of danger is also discoverable in them which is so common an ingredient of the sublime : they remind us, however distantly, of our weak and unprotected state, and bring with them a faint and obscure image of death and danger. i & v " Tis n the general pulse Of life stood still, and nature made a pause — An awful pause ! prophetic of her end." Infinity, perhaps, raises the idea of the sublime, by mixing the wonderful with terror : at least, I think there is a distinct impression of fear, produced by the notion of infinity; and certainly there is one of wonder. Im- mensity of any kind excites the notion of power, and the distant sense of fear. Look at a little green grass-plat before a house ; nothing can be more insignificant : magnify it into a field ; you are not struck with it : let it be a smooth, uniform, boundless plain, stretching on every side further than the eye can reach, and it be- comes a sublime object. How vast must be the power that has arranged such a mass of matter ! where does it lead to ? what ends it ? how dreadful it would be to cross it in a storm ! how impossible to procure assist- ance ! how remote from every human being ! — these are the notions which pass rapidly through the mind, and impress it in the awful manner of which we are all con- scious on such occasions. Wonder, in itself, is a pleasing passion ; fear is not ; 214 LECTURE XVI. and as the sublime inclines more to one or the other, it assumes different shades of character. Sometimes it borders more upon delight, from the very faint tinge of fear which is mingled with it ; at others, it approaches much nearer to mere terror. There is in this descrip- tion of the sublime, by Mr. Brydonne, as much delight as is well compatible with it : — " After contemplating these objects for some time, we set off, and soon after arrived at the foot of the great crater of the mountain. This is of an exact conical figure, and rises equally on all sides. It is composed solely of ashes and other burnt materials, discharged from the mouth of the volcano, which is in its center. This conical mountain is of a very great size ; its circumfer- ence can not be less than ten miles. Here we took a second rest, as the greatest part of our fatigue remained. We found this mountain excessively steep ; and although it had appeared black, yet it was likewise covered with snow, but the surface (luckily for us) was spread over with a pretty thick layer of ashes, thrown out from the crater. Had it not been for this, we never should have been able to get to the top, as the snow was every- where frozen hard and solid, from the piercing cold of the air. " In about an hour's climbing, we arrived at a place where there was no snow, and where a warm and comfortable vapor issued from the mountain ; which induced us to make another halt. From this spot it was only about 300 yards to the highest summit of the mountain, where we arrived in full time to see the most wonderful and most sublime sight in nature. " But here description must ever fall short ; for no imagination has dared to form an idea of so glorious and so magnificent a scene. Neither is there on the surface of this globe, any one point that unites so many awful and sublime objects. The immense elevation from the surface of the earth, drawn as it were to a single point, without any neighboring mountain for the senses and the imagination to rest upon, and recover from their as- tonishment in their way down to the world : this point or pinnacle, raised on the brink of a bottomless gulf, ON THE SUBLIME. 215 as old as the world, often discharging rivers of fire, and throwing out burning rocks, with a noise that shakes the whole island : add to this, the unbounded extent of the prospect, comprehending the greatest diversity and the most beautiful scenery in nature ; with the rising sun, advancing in the east, to illuminate the wondrous scene. " The whole atmosphere by degrees kindled up, and showed dimly and faintly the boundless prospect around. Both sea and land looked dark and confused, as if only emerging from their original chaos, and light and dark- ness seemed still undivided ; till the morning by degrees advancing, completed the separation. The stars are ex- tinguished, and the shades disappear. The forests, which but now seemed black and bottomless gulfs, from whence no ray was reflected to show their form or color, appear a new creation rising to the sight ; catch- ing life and beauty from every increasing beam. The scene still enlarges, and the horizon seems to widen and expand itself on all sides ; till the sun, like the great Creator, appears in the east, and with its plastic ray completes the mighty scene ! All appears enchant- ment ; and it is with difficulty we can believe we are still on earth. The senses, unaccustomed to the sub- limity of such a scene, are bewildered and confounded ; and it is not till after some time, that they are capable of separating and judging of the objects that compose it. The body of the sun is seen rising from the ocean, im- mense tracts both of sea and land intervening ; the islands of Lipari, Panari, Alicudi, Stromboli, and Vol- cano, with their smoking summits, appear under your feet ; and you look down on the whole of Sicily as on a map ; and can trace every river through all its windings, from its source -to its mouth. The view is absolutely boundless on every side ; nor is there any one ob- ject, within the circle of vision, to interrupt it ; so that the sight is everywhere lost in the immensity : and I am persuaded it is only from the imperfection of our organs, that the coasts of Africa, and of Greece, are not dis- covered, as they are certainly above the horizon."* * Brydonne, vol. i. p. 200. 216 LECTURE XVI. This description, by Sir William Hamilton, of the eruption of Vesuvius, is of a totally opposite character ; and the sublimity of it is almost entirely destroyed by the horrors'it contains : — " In an instant," he says, " a fountain of liquid fire began to rise, and, gradually increasing, rose to the amazing height of 10,000 feet, and upward: the black- est smoke accompanied the red-hot, transparent, and liquid lava, interrupting its splendid brightness here and there, by patches of the darkest hue. Within these clouds of smoke, at the very moment they broke out, pale electrical fire was seen playing about in oblique lines. The wind, though gentle, was sufficient to carry these blasts of smoke out of the column of fire, and a collection of them by degrees formed a black and ex- tensive curtain behind it, while other parts of the sky were clear, and the stars entirely bright. All this time, the miserable inhabitants of Ottajano were involved in the utmost distress and danger, by the showers of stones which fell upon them. Many of the inhabitants flew to the churches, and others were preparing to quit the town, when a sudden and violent report was heard, and pres- ently fell a vast shower of stones and large pieces of scoriae, some of which were of the diameter of seven or eight feet, and must have weighed, before they fell, above one hundred pounds. In an instant, the town, and country about it. was on fire in many places. To add to the horror of the scene, incessant volcanic light- ning was rushing about the black cloud that surrounded them, and the sulphureous smell would scarcely allow them to draw their breath. In this dreadful situation they remained about twenty-five minutes, when the vol- canic storm ceased at once ; and Vesuvius remained sullen and silent." The sublimitv of the first of these descriptions ap- proaches the confines of the beautiful ; — in the last. o( the horrible. We must take great care, in the selection ot sublime objects, not to choose those which are too horrible ; or which remind us too intimately of dang because, as the sublime always implies some mixture of pleasure, strong compassion and violent horror entirely ON THE SUBLIME. 217 destroy it. " All sounds," says Mr. Alison, " in general are sublime, which are associated with the idea of dan- ger ; — the howling of a storm, the murmuring of an earthquake, the report of artillery. All sounds/' he adds, ** in the same manner, are sublime, which are associated with the idea of deep melancholy, — as the tolling of the passing bell." Now, I confess I do not call either the murmuring of an earthquake, or the howling of a storm, or the report of artillery, or the tolling of a passing bell, sublime sounds, but merely horrible sounds ; they are so devoid of every mixture of pleasure, that they excite nothing but fear or compassion, according as we our- selves, or others, are most nearly affected by them ; they are sublime in poetry or in description, but in real nature they are dreadful, and nothing else. In description, al- most any thing, however dreadful, may be made sublime by the prodigious mitigation of the real horror, which is always remarkable when the passions are excited at second-hand. As I have before traced a connection between that feeling of the beautiful, excited by the in- tervention of matter, and that w r hich presents itself to the mind from the contemplation of moral qualities, it is equally easy, in this stronger and more marked feeling of the sublime, to trace a similar resemblance. All those qualities of mind which excite wonder, and any portion of fear, — even that very subdued species of it we call respect, — raise an elevated sentiment in the mind, pre- cisely similar to the sublime of natural objects. Im- mense courage, whether active or passive, is easily sub- lime. " In the midst of this dreadful fire and carnage," says Voltaire, speaking of the battle of Fontenoy, " the English officers were seen, with the same coolness they would have displayed on the parade, leveling the mus- kets of the soldiers with their canes, in order that they might fire with due precision." The death of General Wolfe is quite sublime, from the love of life being so en- tirely swallowed up in the love of glory. " Toward the end of the battle, he received a new wound in the breast; he was immediately conveyed behind the rear rank, and laid upon the ground. Soon after, a shout was heard, and one of the officers who stood by him exclaimed, K 218 LECTURE XVI. ' How they run !' The dying hero asked, with some emotion, ' Who run ?' ' The enemy/ replied the officer, ' they give way everywhere/ ' Now, God be praised/ says Wolfe, ' I shall die happy P He then turned on his side, closed his eyes, and expired." Firmness and constancy of purpose, that withstands all solicitation, and, in spite of all dangers, goes on straightly to its object, is very often sublime. The res- olution of St. Paul, in going up to Jerusalem, where he has the firmest conviction that he shall undergo every species of persecution, quite comes within this descrip- tion of feeling. "What mean ye to weep and to break my heart ? I am ready, not to be bound only, but to die, at Jerusalem, for the name of Jesus. I know that ye all, before whom I have preached the kingdom of God, shall see my face no more ! Wherefore I take you to record this day, that I am pure from the blood of all men. I have coveted no man's silver, or gold, or ap- parel. Ye yourselves know, that these hands have ministered unto my necessities, and unto them which were with me ; and now it is witnessed in every city through which I pass, that bonds and afflictions await me at Jerusalem ; but not one of these things move me, neither count I my life dear to myself, so that I might finish my course with joy, and the ministry which I have received, to testify the gospel of the grace of God/' There is something exceedingly majestic in the steadi- ness with which the Apostle points out the single object of his life, and the unquenchable courage with which he walks toward it. "I know 1 shall die, but I have a greater object than life, — the zeal of a high duty. Situation allows some men to think of safety ; I not only must not consult it, but I must go where I know it will be most exposed. I must hold out my hands for chains. and my body for stripes, and my soul for misery. I am ready to do it all!'' These are the feelings by which alone bold truths have been told to the world : by which the bondage of falsehood has been broken, and the chains of slavery snapped asunder ! It is in vain to talk of men numerically ; if the passions of a man are exalted to a summit like this, he is a thousand men ! If all the ON THE SUBLIME. 219 feebleness and fluctuation of his nature are shamed away, you must not pretend to calculate upon his efforts. Under the influence of sublime feelings, sometimes liberty, sometimes religious men, have sprung up from the dust, to shiver the oldest dominions ; to toss to the ground the highest despots ; to astonish ages to come with the im- mensity, and power, and grandeur of human feelings. In all desperate situations, these are the feelings which must rescue us : when prudence is mute, when reason is baffled, when all the ordinary resources of discretion are exhausted and dried up, — there is no safety but in heroic passions, no hope but in sublime men. There is no other hope for Europe at this moment, but that high and om- nipotent vengeance, which demands years of cruelty and oppression, in order that it may be lighted up in the hearts of a whole people ; but which, when it does break out into action, is so rapid and so terrible, that it resenv bles more the judgments of God than the deeds of men. Men are very apt to be sublime when they speak of themselves, and give vent to those great passions which the important events of life engender. The speech which Logan, the Indian chief, made to Lord Dunmore, in the year 1775, is full of sublimity. Though he was a great friend to the English, his wife and all his children were murdered by them : this unworthy return excited his vengeance ; he took up the hatchet, and signalized himself against the whites. In a decisive battle, how- ever, which was fought upon the great Kanhaway, the Indians were defeated, and sued for peace ; and this was the speech made by Logan, which is so fine that its authenticity has been questioned, but it is now establish- ed beyond a doubt, by the testimony of Mr. Jefferson. " I appeal to any white man to say, if ever he entered Logan's cabin hungry, and he gave him not meat ? if ever he came cold, and naked, and he clothed him not ? During the course of the long last bloody war, Logan remained idle in his cabin, an advocate for peace. Such was my love for the whites, that my countrymen pointed as I passed, and said, 'Logan is the friend of white men.' I had even thought to have lived with you, but for the injuries of one man. Colonel Cressop, the last spring, in 220 LECTURE XVI. cold blood, and unprovoked, murdered all the relations of Logan ; not sparing even my women and children : there runs not a drop of my blood in the veins of any living creature ! This called on me for revenge : I have sought it. I have killed many ! I have fully glutted my vengeance. For my country, I rejoice at the beams of peace ; but do not harbor a thought that mine is the joy of fear : Logan never felt fear: he will not turn on his heel to save his life. Who is there to mourn for Logan ? not one !" I am going to say rather an odd thing, but I can not help thinking that the severe and rigid economy of a man in distress, lias something in it very sublime, espe- cially if it be endured for any length of time serenely and in silence. I remember a very striking instance of it in a young man, since dead ; he was the son of a coun- try curate, who had got him a berth on board a man-of- war, as midshipman. The poor curate made a great ef- fort for his son ; fitted him out well with clothes, and gave him £50 in money. The first week, the poor boy lost his chest, clothes, money, and every thing he had in the world. The ship sailed for a foreign station; and his loss w T as without remedy. He immediately quitted his mess, ceased to associate with the other midshipmen, who were the sons of gentlemen; and for five ye without mentioning it to his parents — who he knew could not assist him. — or without borrowing a farthing from any human being, without a single murmur or com- plaint, did that poor lad endure the most abject and de- grading poverty, at a period of lite when the feelings are most alive to ridicule, and the appetites most prone to indulgence. Now, 1 confess 1 am a mighty advocate lor the sublimity oi' such long and patient endurance. If you can make the world stare and look on, there, you have vanity, or compassion, to support you ; but to bury all your wretchedness in your own mind, — to resolve that you will have no man's pity, while you have one effort left to procure his respect, — to harbor no mean thought in the midst of abject poverty, but. at the very time you are surrounded by circumstances oi humility and depression, to found a spirit o( modest independ- ON THE SUBLTME. 221 ence upon the consciousness of having always acted well ; — this is a sublime, which, though it is found in the shade and retirement of life, ought to be held up to the praises of men, and to be looked upon as a noble model for imitation. The confidence which very great men have in them- selves, partakes of this feeling. There is something ex- tremely grand and imposing in their firm reliance upon their own genius ; and what in common men would be the height of presumption, is in them, not only tolerated, but vehemently and justly admired. Such is the answer of Alexander to Parmenio ; — Caesar to the Pilot ; — Ma- rius to the man who saw him sitting on the ruins of Carthage. There is a very sublime piece of insolence, which Homer has put into the mouth of Achilles. He has seized upon Lycaon, and is going to put him to death. The young man prays to him, in the most hum- ble and supplicating manner, to spare his life. " Wretch!" says Achilles, " do you fear to die ? do you complain of death ? Look at me ! how beautiful, how vast, how brave am I ! — even / must perish ! A hero was my father, a goddess produced me, and yet the hour will come, be it morning, or evening, or noon, when even I must fall by the arrow or the spear \" Lucullus, when he marched up to Tigranocerta, had an army of 300,000 men to attack. What was the conduct of Lucullus ? He did not go about to his officers and say, " Do you think I had better attack them ? or what do you think about it ? I have really a great mind to do so." His army and his officers were disconcerted with their num- bers. Lucullus, the very moment he glanced at their position, exclaimed, " We have them!" It happened to be on one of those days which the Romans had marked out in their calendar as unfortunate, because it had formerly been memorable by defeats. They re- quested him to consider this well, and not to hazard a battle on such a day. " I will put it among the fortunate days," said he, and immediately ordered them to march. A hundred thousand barbarians fell in the battle ; with the loss of five Romans killed, and a hundred wounded. The calm resignation to inevitable fate, equally re- 222 LECTURE XVI. moved from insolence and fear, and which is so peculiar to great minds, is to be classed among the sublimer feel- ings of our nature. In this manner Socrates drank the poison ; the three hundred perished at the Straits of Greece ; so died the Chancellor More on the scaffold, and the great Lord Falkland in the field ; and in the same manner, the memorable Lord Strafford pleaded before his enemies : " And now, my lords," he says, " I thank God I have been (by his blessing) sufficiently in- structed in the extreme vanity of all temporary enjoy- ments, compared to the importance of our eternal dura- tion; and so, my lords, even so, with all humility, and all tranquillity of mind, I submit clearly and freely to your judgments ; and whether that righteous doom shall be to life or death, I shall repose myself, full of gratitude and confidence, in the arms of the great Author of my existence." " Certainly," says Whitelock (with his usual candor,) " never any man acted such a part on such a theater, with more wisdom, constancy, and eloquence ; with greater reason, judgment, and temper ; and with a bet- ter grace in all his words and actions, — than did this great and excellent person : and he moved the hearts of all his auditors (some few excepted) to pity and re- morse." All these men, in their different walks of life, as warriors, or as statesmen, seemed, at the approach of their destiny, to have enveloped themselves in their own greatness : and to have been" lifted up above us, by a kind of serenity to which we should feel it impossible, in similar situations, to attain. I have been thus diffuse upon the subject of the sub- lime in morals, because it is of all things the most in- spiring and useful, to contemplate the best models of our own species, and to know what those limits are, to which our nature really does extend : and one of the great ad- vantages of that classical education in which we are trained in this country, is, that it sets before us so many examples of sublimity in action, and of sublimity in thought. It is impossible for us. in the rirst and most ardent years of life, to read the great actions of the two ON THE SUBLIME. 223 greatest nations in the world, so beautifully related, with- out catching, ourselves, some taste for greatness, and a love for that glory which is gained by doing greater and better things than other men. And though the state of order and discipline into which the world is brought, does not enable a man frequently to do such things, as every day produced in the fierce and eventful democ- raties of Greece and Rome, yet, to love that which is great, is the best security for hating that which is little ; the best cure for envy ; the safest antidote for revenge ; the surest pledge for the abhorrence of malice ; the noblest incitement to love truth, and manly independ- ence, and honorable labor, — -to glory in spotless inno- cence, and build up the system of life upon the rock of integrity. It is the greatest and first use of history, to show us the sublime in morals, and to tell us what great men have done in perilous seasons. Such beings, and such actions, dignify our nature, and breathe into us a virtuous pride which is the parent of every good. Wherever you meet with them in the page of history, read them, mark them, and learn from them how to live, and how to die ! for the object of common men, is only to live. The object of such men as I have spoken of, was to live grandly, and in favor with their own difficult spirits : to live, if in war, glorio&sly : if in peace, usefully, justly, and freely 1 1 LECTURE XVII. ON THE FACULTIES OF ANIMALS, AS COMPARED WITH THOSE OF MEN. I confess I treat on this subject with some degree of apprehension and reluctance ; because, I should be very sorry to do injustice to the poor brutes, who have no professors to revenge their cause by lecturing on our faculties : and at the same time I know there is a very strong anthropical party, who view all eulogiums on the brute creation with a very considerable degree of sus- picion; and look upon every compliment which is paid to the ape, as high treason to the dignity of man. There may, perhaps, be more of rashness and ill-fated security in my opinion, than of magnanimity or libe- rality ; but I confess I feel myself so much at my ease about the superiority of mankind, — I have such a marked and decided contempt for the understanding of every baboon I have yet seen. — I feel so sure that the blue ape without a tail will never rival us in poetry, painting, and music, — that I see no reason whatever, why justice may not be done to the few fragments of soul, and tatters of understanding, which they may really possess. I have sometimes, perhaps, felt a little uneasy at Exeter 'Change, from- contrasting the monkeys with the 'prentice- who are teasing them ; but a few pages of Locke, or a few lines of Milton, have always restored me to tran- quillity, and convinced me that the superiority of man had nothing to fear. Philosophers have been much puzzled about the essen- tial characteristics of brutes, by which they may be distinguished from men. Some define a brute to be an animal that never laughs, or an animal incapable of FACULTIES OF ANIMALS AND OF MEN. 225 laughter : some say they are mute animals. The Peri- patetics allowed them a sensitive power, but denied them a rational one. The Platonists allowed them rea- son and understanding ; though in a degree less pure, and less refined, than that of men. Lactantius allows them every thing which men have, except a sense of religion : and some skeptics have gone so far as to say they have this also. Descartes maintained that brutes are mere inanimate machines, absolutely destitute, not only of all reason, but of all thought and reflection ; and that all their actions are only consequences of the exquisite mechanism of their bodies. This system, how- ever, is much older than Descartes ; it was borrowed by him from Gomez Pereira, a Spanish physician, who employed thirty years in composing a treatise on this subject, which he very affectionately called by the name of his father and mother — " Antoniana Margarita." Systems and theories, however, differ very materially in their importance, according to the parent who ushers them into the w T orld, and the obscurity or notoriety of the name to which they happen to be connected. Poor Gomez was so far from having opponents, that he had not even readers : his theory, in the hands of Descartes, excited a controversy which reached from one end of Europe to the other : many, who maintained the oppo- site hypothesis to Descartes, contended that brutes are endowed with a 'soul, essentially inferior to that of man ; and to this soul some have impiously allowed immor- tality. But the most curious of all opinions, respecting the understanding of beasts, is that advanced by Pere Bougeant, a Jesuit, in a work entitled " Philosophical Amusement on the Language of Beasts." In this book he contends, that each animal is inhabited by a separate and distinct devil ; that not only this was the case with respect to cats, which have long been known to be very favorite residences of familiar spirits, but that a peculiar devil swam with every turbot, grazed with every ox, soared with every lark, dived with every duck, and was roasted with every chicken. The most common notion now prevalent, with respect to animals, is, that they are guided by instinct ; that the 226 LECTURE XVII. discriminating circumstance between the minds of ani- mals and of men is, that the former do what they do from instinct, the latter from reason. Xow, the question is, is there any meaning to the word instinct ? what is that meaning ? and what is the distinction between in- stinct and reason ? If I desire to do a certain thing, adopt certain means to effect it, and have a clear and precise notion that those means are directly subservient to that end, — there I act from reason ; but, if I adopt means subservient to the end, and am uniformly found to do so, and am not in the least degree conscious that these means are subservient to the end, — there I certainly do act from some principle very different from reason ; and to which principle, it is as convenient to give the name of instinct, as any other name. If I build a house for my family, and lay it out into different apartments, separating it horizontally with floors, and give the obvious principles on which I have done so, — here is plainly an invention of meaning, and an application of previous experience, which any body would call by the name of reason ; but if I am detected making folding doors to the drawing-room, putting up snug shelves in the butler's pantry, and making the whole house as convenient as possible, and it is quite plain at the same time that I have no possible motive to alledge icluj I have done these things, that I am quite ignorant folding doors are pleasant at routs, and shelves eminently useful to butlers, for the more orderly and decorous arrangement of glass ware, — there, it is very plain I am not constituted as other men are : that I am not applying previous experience to new cases, — not arguing that what ha,s happened before, will happen again ; but that I am generically different from all others of my species, and that my mind is not the mind of man. Bees, it is well known, construct their combs with small cells on both sides, fit for holding their store of honey, and for receiv- ing their young. There are only three possible figures of the cells, which can make them all equal and similar, without any useless interstices : these are. the equilateral triangle, the square, and the regular hexagon. It is well known to mathematicians, that there is not a fourth FACULTIES OF ANIMALS AND OF MEN. 227 way possible, in which a plane may be cut into little spaces, that shall be equal, similar, and regular, without leaving any interstices. Of the three, the hexagon is the most proper both for conveniency and strength ; and accordingly, bees — as if they were acquainted with these things — make all their cells regular hexagons. As the combs have cells on both sides, the cells may either be exactly opposite, having partition against partition, — or the bottom of a cell may rest upon the partitions, between the cells, on the other side ; which will serve as a buttress to strengthen it. The last way is the best for strength; accordingly, the bottom of each cell rests against the point where three partitions meet on the other side, which gives it all the strength possible. The bottom of a cell may either be one plane perpendicular to the side partitions, or it may be composed of several planes meeting in a solid angle in the middle point. It is only in one of these two ways, that all the cells can be similar without losing room ; and, for the same intention, the planes of which the bottom is composed — if there be more than one — must be exactly three in number, and neither more nor less. It has been demonstrated also, that by making the bottom to consist of three planes meeting in a point, there is a saving of materials and labor, — by no means inconsiderable. The bees, as if acquainted with the principles of solid geometry, follow them most accurately : the bottom of each cell being composed of three planes, which make obtuse angles with the side partitions, and with one another, and meet in a point in the middle of the bottom ; the three angles of this bottom, being supported by three partitions on the other side of the comb, and the point of it by the common intersection of those three partitions. One instance more of the mathematical skill displayed in the structure of a honeycomb deserves to be men- tioned. It is a curious mathematical problem, at what precise angle the three planes which compose the bottom of a cell ought to meet, in order to make the greatest possible saving, or the least expense of materials and labor. This is one of those problems belonging to the higher parts of mathematics, which are called problems 228 LECTUEE XVII. of maxima and minima. It has been resolved by some mathematicians, particularly by Mr. Maclaurin, bv a fluxionary calculation, which is to be found in the ninth volume of the " Transactions of the Royal Society of London.'" He has determined precisely the angle re- quired ; and he found by the most exact mensuration the subject could admit, that it is the very angle in which the three planes in the bottom of the cell of a honey- comb do actually meet. How is all this to be explained? Imitation it certainly is not ; for, after every old bee has been killed, you may take the honeycomb and hatch a new swarm of bees, that can not possibly have had any communication with, or instruction from, The parents. The young of every animal — though they have never seen the dam, — will do exactly as all their species have done before them. A brood of young ducks, hatched under a hen, take to the water in spite of the remon- strances and terrors of their spurious parent. All the great habitudes of every species of animals, have repeat- edly been proved to be independent of imitation. I re- member Mr. Stewart, in his ,; Lectures,"' quotes an experiment of this kind, made by Sir James Hall of Edinburgh, who has distinguished himself so much by his very important experiments upon the chemistr mineralogy. Sir James hatched some chickens in an oven : within a few minutes after the shell was broken, a spider was turned loose before this 'very youthful brood ; — the destroyer of flies had hardly proceeded a few inches before he was descried by one of these oven- born chickens, and, at one peck of his bill, immediately devoured. This certainly was not imitation. A female goat, very near delivery, died : Galen cut out the young •kid. and placed before it a bundle of hay, a bunch of fruit, and a pan pf milk ; the young kid smelt to them all very attentively, and then began to lap the milk. This was not imitation. And what is commonly and rightly called instinct, can not be explained away, under the notion of its being imitation. Nor can it be mere accident : because, though it is not impossible that one swarm of bees might adopt these figures and measure- ments, without knowing their importance, it is not to be FACULTIES OF ANIMALS AND OF MEN. 229 believed that mere accident can uniformly produce such extraordinary effects. The warmest admirers of honey, and the greatest friends to bees, will never, I presume, contend that the young swarm, who begin making honey three or four months after they are born, and im- mediately construct these mathematical cells, should have gained their geometrical knowledge as we gain ours, and in three months' time outstrip Mr. Maclaurin in mathematics as much as they did in making honey. It would take a senior wrangler at Cambridge ten hours a day, for three years together, to know enough mathe- matics for the calculation of these problems, with which not only every queen bee, but every under-graduate grub, is acquainted the moment it is born A few more instances of a principle of action among animals, which can not be reason, — and I have done upon this part of the subject. If you shake caterpillars off a tree in every direction, they instantly turn round and climb up, though they had never formerly been on the surface of the ground. This is a very striking instance of instinct. The caterpillar finds its food, and is nourished, upon the tree, and not upon the ground ; but surely the caterpillar can never tell that such an exertion is necessary to its salvation ; and therefore, it acts not from rational motives, but from blind impulse. Ants and beavers lay up maga- zines. Where do they get their knowledge that it will not be so easy to collect food in rainy weather as it is in the summer? Men and women know these things, be- cause their grandpapas and grandmammas have told them so ; ants, hatched from the egg artificially, or birds hatch- ed in this manner, have all this knowledge by intuition, without the smallest communication with any of their relations. Now, observe what the solitary wasp does ; she digs several holes in the sand, in each of which she deposits an egg, though she certainly knows not that an animal is deposited in that egg, — and still less that this animal must be nourished with other animals. She collects a few green flies, rolls them up neatly in sepa- rate parcels (like Bologna sausages), and stuffs one parcel into each hole where an egg is deposited. When the wasp- worm is hatched, it finds a store of provisions 230 LECTURE XVII. ready made ; and what is most curious, the quantity- allotted to each is exactly sufficient to support it, till it attains the period of wasphood, and can provide for itself. This instinct of the parent wasp is the more re- markable, as it does not feed upon flesh itself. Here the little creature has never seen its parent ; for, by the time it is born, the parent is always e^ten by sparrows : and yet, without the slightest education, or previous ex- perience, it does every thing that the parent did before it. Now the objectors to the doctrine of instinct may say what they please, but young tailors have no intuitive mode of making pantaloons; — a new-born mercer can not measure diaper ; — Xature teaches a cook's daughter nothing about sippets. All these things require with us seven years' apprenticeship ; but insects are like Moliere's persons of quality, — they know every thing (as Moliere says), without having learned any thing. " Lesgensde qualite savent tout, sans avoir rien appris."' The most strenuous objector to these histories of the singular and untaught instincts of animals, is the Cointe de Buffon ; and he has been particularly severe upon bees, whose reputation for architecture and" civil economy he has attempted entirely to overthrow. Of Maclaurin's discovery of the angle, he takes no notice, and returns no answer to it ; neither does he condescend to notice the particular manner in which the comb is placed back to back. His observations upon the hexagonal form of the cell, appears to me, I confess, for so great a man. very singular. " The hexagonal form of the cells of the bee, which have been the subject of so much admiration, furnish an additional proof of the stupidity of these in- jects. This figure, though extremely regular, is nothing but a mechanical result, which is often exhibited in the rudest productions of nature. Crystals, and several other stones, as well as particular salts, constantly assume this figure. The small scales in the skin of the roussete. or great Ternate bat. are hexagonal, because each scale when growing obstructs the progress of its neighbor, and tends to occupy as much space as possible. We likewise find these hexagons in the second stomachs oi some ruminating animals ; in certain seeds, capsules, and FACULTIES OF ANIMALS AND OF MEN. 231 flowers. If we fill a vessel with cylindrical grain, and, after filling up the interstices with water, shut it close up, and boil the water, all these cylinders will become hexagonal columns. The reason is obvious, and purely mechanical. Each cylindrical grain tends, by its swell- ing, to occupy as much space as possible in the limited dimensions of the hive : and therefore, as the bodies of the bees are cylindrical, they must necessarily make their cells hexagonal, from the reciprocal obstruction they give to each other." In the case of the boiled grain, the vessel is close ; but the comb, I fancy, in common bee-hives, by no means extends itself through the whole dimensions of the straw hut ; therefore, there is no pressure on the outside : neither do I see how there is any pressure from within, because the cell is made before the young bee is put in it, and the very first plan and groundwork of each cell is the hexagon, long before the pressure of body in the old bee can effect it. Besides, it really seems quite ludicrous to suppose, that such extraordinary regularity can be produced by the accidental pushing and scram- bling of ten thousand insects, working one at one moment at this cell, then flying off to a cowslip, then going to another cell, then appointed to digest wax for the public good. Make the slightest inequality in the pushing, let one bee neglect to scramble for a single instant, or let one be scraping away while the other is adding, and the whole regularity is immediately destroyed, without the possibility of restoring it. And if they did push and scramble with this wonderful meter and rhythm, instead of destroying the wonder of the insect, it would be increasing it. If there be any necessary connection between the hexagon and this origin of its formation, why do not wasps and ants deposit their nests in hex- agons as perfect ? or why does not the insect that works the coral ? The real fact seems to be, that Nature has originally determined, with scrupulous precision, how every animal shall breed and build ; and has confined them to a particular shape, as much as to a particular position. The wasp takes one form, the bee another, the chaffinch another, the robin-redbreast another. Na- 232 LECTURE XVII. ture has chosen that some animals should be more accurate and fine in their habits ; others, more careless, lax, and inattentive. Upon some, she seems to have bestowed vast attention : and to have sketched out others in a moment, and turned them adrift. The house- fly skims about, perches upon a window or a nose, break- fasts and sups with you, lays his eggs upon your white cotton stockings, runs into the first hole in the wall when it is cold, and perishes with as much unconcern as he lives. The bees (as is commonly said of them, and as is strictly true) do live together in a city, with a com- mon object. It has pleased their Maker, that their food should be prepared with considerable labor and art ; and their houses constructed with the greatest attention to durability and convenience. What is there in all this, that should make Buffon so angry or skeptical ? Can not He who made man, make a miracle one thousand times less miraculous than man ? If He have implanted in our nature one or two stimuli which are sufficient, in the progress of life, gradually to unfold the soul that lies hidden within us, why may He not have given to another class of animals a great step at first, if He resolved that that should be the only progress they ever were to make in their momentary existence ? But there is no use in putting questions why Providence may not have done this, or done that. Providence has done it! There are the bees, and there the comb ; — there are the niters, and there is the floor, and there is Colin Maclauritf with his angle! and get rid of it how you can: and if yea are determined to get rid of it, you had better account for the formation of a hive in some more sensible man- ner, than the pushing and scrambling of Buflbn. When I call that principle upon which the bees or any other animals proceed to their labors, the principle of instinct, I only mean to say it is not a principle of reason. How- ever the knowledge is gained. -it is not gained as our knowledge is gained. It is not gained by experience, or imitation, for I have cited cases of birds and bees that have never seen nest, or cell. — who have made one and the other, as if they were perfectly acquainted with them. It can not be invention, or the adaptation of means to FACULTIES OF ANIMALS AND OF MEN. 233 ends ; because, as the animal works before he knows what event is going to happen, he can not know what the end is, to which he is accommodating the means : and if he be actuated by any other principle than these, the generation of ideas in animals is (contrary to the doctrine of Condillac) very different from the generation of ideas in men. All the wonderful instincts of animals, which, in my humble opinion, are proved beyond a doubt, and the belief in which has not decreased with the increase of science and investigation, — all these instincts are given them only for the combination or preservation of their species. If they had not these instincts, they would be swept off the earth in an instant. This bee, that under- stands architecture, so well, is as stupid as a pebble- stone, out of his own particular business of making honey ; and, with all his talents, he only exists that boys may eat his labors, and poets sing about them. Ut pueris placeas et declamatiofias. A peasant girl of ten years old, puts the whole republic to death with a little smoke ; their palaces are turned into candles, and every clergy- man's wife makes mead-wine of the honey ; and there is an end of the glory and wisdom of the bees ! Whereas, man has talents that have no sort of reference to his existence ; and without which, his species might remain upon earth in the same safety as if they had them not. The bee works at that particular angle which saves most time and labor ; and the boasted edifice he is con- structing is only for his egg : but Somerset House, and Blenheim, and the Louvre, have nothing to do with breeding. Epic poems, and Apollo Belvideres, and Venus de Medicis, have nothing to do with living and eating. We might have discovered pig-nuts without the Royal Society, and gathered acorns without reason- ing about curves of the ninth order. The immense superfluity of talent given to man, which has no bearing upon animal life, which has nothing to do with the mere preservation of existence, is one very distinguishing cir- cumstance in this comparison. There is no other animal but man to whom mind appears to be given for any other purpose than the preservation of body. 234 LECTURE XVII. If I am right in explaining the meaning of instinct, as distinguished from reason, and right in saying that ani- mals are guided by it, a question very naturally arises, how far men are guided by it themselves. It is a ques- tion of great difficulty and subtilty, which it would be very tedious to investigate with the attention its intricacy would require. When Locke so successfully attacked the doctrine of innate ideas, and innate principles of speculative truth, he was thought by many to have over- turned all innate principles whatever ; to have divested the human mind of every passion, affection, and instinct, and to have left in it nothing but the powers of memory, sensation, and intellect. Hence arose many philosophers at home and abroad, who maintained, upon the principles of Locke, that in the human mind there are no instincts, but that every thing which had usually been called by that name is resolvable into association and habit. This doctrine was attacked by Lord Shaftesbury, who intro- duced into the theory of mind, as faculties derived from nature, a sense of beauty, a sense of honor, and a sense of ridicule ; and these he considered as the test of a spec- ulative truth and moral rectitude. His lordship's prin- ciples were in part adopted by Professor Hutchinson, of Glasgow, who published a system of moral philosophy, founded upon a sense of instinct, to which he gave the name of the moral sense ; and the undoubted merit of his book procured him many followers. It being now sup- posed that the human mind was endowed with instinct- ive principles of action, a sect of very lazy philosophers arose, who found it convenient to refer every phenom- enon to a separate instinct. Immediately we had the fighting instinct, the loving instinct, the educating in- stinct, the hoarding instinct, the cheating instinct, and even the sneezing instinct. The most able refute? of these instincts is Dr. Priestley ; who maintains, with the earliest disciples of Locke, that we have from nature no innate sense of truth. — that even the action ol sucking in new-born infants is to be accounted for upon principles of mechanism. The question is a very difficult one, and I rather decline entering into a long dissertation upon suckling, in this Institution ; but I believe Dr. Hartley is FACULTIES OF ANIMALS AND OF MEN. 235 in the right, and that it would not be easy to show any clear case of instinct among men ; and that children suckle first mechanically, then receive pleasure from it, then associate the action with the pleasure, and then do it from appetite. There is an extremely good article upon the subject of instinct in the Scotch Encyclopaedia, in which Dr. Reid is very justly censured for the con- fusion he has made, in treating of the doctrine of instinct. If a man swallow his food, all the requisite motions of nerves and muscles take place in their proper order, though the man neither knows, nor wills, any thing about them. Breathing, according to the Doctor, de- pends upon instinct. When a man is tumbling off his horse, and makes an effort to recover himself, he regains his saddle by instinct, according to Dr. Reid. Breathing, with due submission to Dr. Reid, is a mere case of mechanism, with which the mind has nothing to do. If you recover yourself when you fall, your motion depends upon mere habit and association ; the muscles that act in swallowing, are, according to the Hartleian theory, and in all probability, moved first mechanically, then by volition. How it comes about, that the will can ever move any part of the body, — that mind can ever act upon matter, — is another question. That phenomenon is common to almost every description of animate beings ; but it is a great abuse of terms to call it by the name of instinct. Actions performed with a view to accomplish a certain end, are rational. Actions performed without the spontaneity of the agent, are automatic. Actions regularly performed without a view to the consequences they produce, are instinctive. Upon these distinctions, every discussion upon human and animal faculties must be grounded. One of the best attacks made upon the doctrine of in- stinct, is by Dr. Darwin : but he fights too much against common experience, to combat with much success. One of Dr. Darwin's objections to this doctrine of instinct is, that the instincts of animals bend to circumstances, which, if they were arbitrary admonitions of nature, they would not do. Our domestic birds, that are plentifully supplied through the year with their adapted food, and 236 LECTURE XVII. are covered by houses from the inclemency of the weather, lay their eggs at any season ; which evinces that the spring of the year is not pointed out to them, says Dr. Darwin, by a necessary instinct. Now I con- fess, to me, this fact points precisely to an opposite inference. What is the instinct ? To hatch their young at a season of the year when the weather is mild, and when food is plenty. Nature knows nothing about the Golden Letter ; she never looks into the almanac, and is quite ignorant when Easter falls ; but she prompts the bird to hatch her young, by those different feelings of body, which copious food, and genial warmth, produce. They are the feelings which precede the instinctive ac- tion : and if you make perpetual spring to the animal all the year round, similar feelings produce similar instincts ; and, instead of refuting the supposition that the animal is under the influence of instinct, powerfully confirm it. Dr. Darwin's mistake proceeds from this : he supposes Nature intended birds to hatch in April or May ; where- as. Nature intended they should hatch when they are warm, and well fed ; which, in a state of nature, tljey are in those months ; but which, when protected by man. in order that they may be eaten, they are at all times. It would be just as rational to say, that Nature did not in- tend the production of green peas to depend upon the humid warmth of the spring, because the humid warmth of the spring is counterfeited in hot-houses, and a dish of peas is produced in December, to the astonishment of ordinary understandings, and to the endless glory of the lady at whose table they are displayed. In the same manner the rabbit digs a burrow in his wild state. In his tame state, he spares himself that trouble. But to this, which delights Dr. Darwin so very highly, I have two answers : a tame rabbit, in all proba- bility, does not burrow in the earth, because he is shut up in a deal box. and kept in a garret : and if he refuse to burrow, though turned out. the explanation o{ this change in his instincts is accounted for precisely upon the same principles as the last. Nature does not at once put the animal upon making a burrow : but it impels it to do that thing by some previous feeling ot body or mind, FACULTIES OF ANIMALS AND OF MEN. 237 by hunger, by cold, by fear, or by the change of feelings in the body, when about to produce its young. You change the feelings which by the law of nature precede the action, and then the action is not performed. You may very likely discover some moral affection, or some change in the body, which precedes all instinctive mo- tions ; but the difficulty is still as great as it was before. Why does cold make the rabbit dig a burrow ? Why does warmth induce the bird to build a nest after that ancient model of nests which it has never seen ? Such things do not occur in our species. We must, therefore, find for them some other appellation than that of reason, by which all our actions are swayed. The most curious instance of a change of instinct is mentioned by Darwin. The bees carried over to Bar- badoes and the Western Isles, ceased to lay up any honey after the first year ; as they found it not useful to them. They found the weather so fine and materials for making honey so plentiful, that they quitted their grave, prudent, and mercantile character, became exceedingly profligate and debauched, eat up their capital, resolved to work no more, and amused themselves by flying about the sugar-houses, and stinging the blacks. The fact is, that by putting animals in different situations, you may change, and even reverse, any of their original propensi- ties. Spallanzani brought up an eagle upon bread and milk, and fed a dove on raw beef. The circumstances by which an animal is surrounded, impel him to do so and so, by the changes they produce in his body and mind. Alter those circumstances, and he no longer does as he did before. This, instead of disproving the existence of an instinct, only points out the causes on which it depends. Many actions of animals have been mistaken for instinctive, which are not so ; or, rather, the object for which they act has been mistaken. It is supposed that ants lay up their magazines against the winter: "but ants," says Buffbn, "are torpid in the win- ter, and don't eat at all ; therefore, what is the use of their magazines ?" Why, this is the use of their maga- zines ; that there come often enough, before the season of their torpor, three or four rainy days, when they can 238 LECTURE XVII. not venture out to get any food, and then their mag- azine is of importance. Besides, the Count should have told us whether they do not revive again before the provisions on which they subsist ; if they do, there is another reason why they should have a stock in hand. Neither does it disprove the existence of instinct, be- cause the instinct is sometimes not so fine and so mi- nute as might have been expected, or was supposed. " The provisions of the ant, of the field-mouse, and of the bee," says Buffon, " are discovered to be only use- less and disproportioned masses, collected without any view to futurity ; ana the minute and particular laws of their pretended foresight are reduced to the general and real law of feeling." All that this objection amounts to is, that Nature has not impelled these animals to col- lect a certain quantity avoirdupois ; that they are taught to collect, and that the impulse only operates within gross limits, but still with sufficient precision for the preservation of the animal. So the instinct of a bird to sit upon eggs exists, though it is given very grossly, for it will sit upon a chalk-stone like an ecre. The instinct is to foster, with the heat of its body, that which it pro- duces. In the absence of the bird, you put in that which resembles its production ; the bird has no other mode of judging, but by the eye. — the eye is deceived. This only proves that the instinct is gross, not that it does not exist. But while 1 am talking about the instincts of ducks and rabbits, a certain instinct, very valuable in a professor, admonishes me that I am tiring my audience, and that it is time to pat an end to my lecture. The enemies of moral philosophy may. perhaps, say this feel- ing is experience, and not instinct : however, be it what it may. 1 shall obey it, and conclude the subject at our next meeting. LECTURE XVIII. ON THE FACULTIES OF BEASTS. Before I proceed upon the body of this lecture, I wish to state, by anticipation, the doctrines it will contain ; and this I shall do very shortly, reserving the proof for its proper place. Animals are not mere machines, like clocks and watches. It is a very dangerous doctrine to assert, that so much apparent choice and deliberation can exist in mere matter. If they are not merely mate- rial (like machines of human invention), they must be a composition of mind and matter. There are observable in the minds of brutes, faint traces and rudiments of the human faculties. This position has been maintained by Reid, Locke, Hartley, Stewart, and all the best writers on these subjects. If man were a solitary animal, like a lion or a bear, he would not be so superior to all ani- mals as he is. If he had the hoof of oxen instead of hands, he would not be so superior : neither would he, if he had less perfect organs of speech ; nor if his life were confined to a very few years, instead of being ex- tended to seventy. But all these things will not do by any means alone, as the degraders of human nature have said ; for there are some animals, which very nearly possess all these advantages, and yet are perfectly con- temptible, when compared even to the lowest of men. But the great source of man's superiority is, the immense and immeasurable disproportion of those faculties, of which Nature has given the mere rudiments to brutes ;, that this disproportion has made man a speculative ani- mal, even where his mere existence is not concerned ; that it has made him a progressive animal ; that it has made him a religious animal : and that upon that mere 240 LECTURE XVIII. superiority, and on the very principle that the chain of mind and spirit terminates here with man, the best and the most irrefragable arguments for the immortality of the soul are founded, which natural religion can afford : that, independent of revelation, it would be impossible not to perceive that man is the object of the creation, and that he, and he alone, is reserved for another and a better state of existence. These are my principles, in which if any man here present differ from me, I trust at least he will have the kindness and the politeness to hear me. . . e . There is another circumstance, very decisive ot tlie nature of instinct, and which goes strongly to show it is something very different from reason. I mean the uni- formity of actions in animals. The bees now build ex- actly as they built in the time of Homer ; the bear is as ioriorant of good manners as he was two thousand years p°ast • and the baboon is still as unable to read and write, as persons of honor and quality were in the time of Queen Elizabeth. Of the improvements made by the insect tribe, we can not speak with much certainty : and the advocates for the perfectibility of animals, tell us, it is impossible that ants' nests may be laid out with much greater regularity than they used to be, and that experience may have "taught them many methods of draining off water, and preventing the growth ot ears of barley. It certainly may, but we have no sort ot proof that it does; and the analogy of all large ani- mals whose economv we are perfectly acquainted with,' and can easily" observe, is against the supposi- tion. Neither is it from any lack of inconveniences, nor any extraordinary contentedness with their situ- ation that any species of animals remains in such a state of sameness. The wolf often kills twenty times as much as he wants ; and if he could hit upon any means of preserving his superfluous plunder, he would not per- ish of hunger so often as he does. To lay traps for the hunters, and to eat them as they were caught, would be far preferable to all those animals who are the cause, and the contents, oi traps themselves. Animals, like men. are goaded by wants and sufferings ; but. contrary ON THE FACULTIES OF BEASTS. 241 to the nature of men, they do not overcome, but endure them. The flesh of the savage was originally as strong a temptation to the bear, as the flesh of the bear was to the savage. The wants of the one impelled him to in- vention ; the other retained his original stupidity, in spite of his wants. There are some few and inconsiderable instances of tribes of animals making some slight change in their habits, to adapt themselves to any new situation in which they may be placed ; but these changes are very little ameliorative of their condition, and by no means go to destroy the supposition of their being di- rected in many instances by a mere instinct. This sameness of habits in animals does not demonstrate that they are not guided by reason, but it renders it in the highest degree improbable that they should be. It is not quite impossible, that animals resolving to build a nest, should for two thousand years build precisely in the same manner, and that this structure should be equally resorted to, by those who have, and who have not, seen the model of the nest ; — it is not impossible, but it is so contrary to all former experience, that it certainly gives us no relief from the pain of being forced to believe in instinct. But the Chinese are stationary, and so are the Hindoos; — they are now exactly what they were twenty centuries ago. Certainly they are : but, then, they are so from religious prejudice, transmitted from parent to child ; and if it can be proved (which it can not), that bees and ants only gain their habits from old bees and ants, I admit the whole question of instinct is very ma- terially changed : but the fact is the reverse ; and if the fact were the reverse also with the Chinese, — if a young Chinese, brought out of his own country very young, were, without ever having seen another Chinese, to be- gin at the age of five or six to eat rice with two sticks, to clothe himself in blue and nankeen, and adore the great idol Foo, we must call this sameness the sameness of instinct ; but as he does these foolish things because he lives with other Chinese, it is the sameness proceed- ing from imitation, and strengthened, as we happen to know it to be, by religious association. I have thus far attempted to prove that brutes are guided by some prin- 242 LECTUKE XVIII. ciple, which is not the principle of reason. There is another philosophy that degrades them merely to the state of machines. The great Descartes looked upon a brute as a mere machine, that could no more help acting as it does act, and was no more conscious of how it acts, than the Androides, or the chess-playing machine. All that the arguments brought forward by Descartes, go to prove, are, that such a case is possible ; — that they may be so many machines, not that they are so, — that it in- volves no contradiction to call them machines ; which every one who understands any thing of reasoning, would willingly grant : but, observe, when we have no means of subjecting our question to the direct evidence of the senses, or to mathematical demonstration, we must re- sort to analogy ; without which, one conjecture is quite as probable as another. We get from the observation of ourselves, the notion both of voluntary and involun- tary motion. We are conscious that when we choose to put one leg before another we can do so. If we tum- ble out of bed, we are conscious we fall to the ground without the smallest intention of so doing, but that we are overruled by a power we can not resist. Now, hav- ing gained the knowledge of these two principles, from what passes within ourselves, we proceed to apply it. with as much attention as possible, to similarity of cir- cumstances. A person sees another man, made to all appearance like himself; he does not think him, per- haps, quite so good looking, but it is the same sort of animal ; and when he sees him walk. — presuming that like effects are produced by like causes, — he believes that he is not moved by any principle of mechanism, but that the gentleman walks because he chooses to walk : but the same person puts his foot upon a stone, and falls on a sudden, flat upon his face ; that, says the observer, must be involuntary motion, because I have experienced the same myself upon similar occasions. In the same manner, he perceives a horse running after his food, playing with other horses, avoiding pain and seeking pleasure. Upon the same principle, jhat similar effects are produced by similar causes, he determines that the horse has sensation, and consciousness, and will : still ON THE FACULTIES OF BEASTS. 243 determining the matter by a reference to his own pre- vious experience, which, whether it be a good or a bad guide, is the only one that can possibly be resorted to in such conjectures. By a reference to the same principle, we believe that a stone, let loose from the hand, does not fall to the ground by choice, but by necessity ; and be- tween the two clear and extreme points, of motion pro- duced by external agency, and motion produced by will, delicate cases must occur, where the opposite analogies are so equally balanced, that it is impossible to determine whether the subject thinks or not. For instance, does the sensitive plant think, when it contracts its leaves upon being touched ? does it really feel danger or pain ? or is it a mere involuntary contraction, such as takes place in the human body when a nerve is stimulated ? When a plant in a dark cellar turns round to drink in a ray of light let in, is this the action of a reasoning being, that knows what is its proper food, and seeks it ? or is it a mere case of chemical action, in which there is no interference of the will ? Opposite analogies seem to be so balanced in these kinds of questions, that it is very difficult to resolve them : but to comparison alone we can resort for it ; and comparison shows us, that animals can not possibly gain some of their knowledge as we gain ours ; and it makes it also probable, that they do gain a very considerable part precisely as we do. Before I proceed to speak of the faculties of animals, I wish to anticipate an objection which has been made to my use of the word faculty. Some friends of mine have asked me, whether animals had the religious faculty ; and whether I mean to say, in stating they had the rudi- ments of our faculties, that they had the rudiments of this faculty also. Such sort of questions evince, more than any thing else, the necessity of a little candor and moderation on these topics, and of proceeding to ex- planation, before we proceed to blame. I never before heard religion called a faculty : a knowledge of religion is acquired by our faculties, and it is the highest proof of the degree in which we possess them ; but if the power is to be confounded with the object of that power, — if all those things that we acquire by means of our 244 LECTURE XVIII. faculties are to be called our faculties, — then, navigation, commerce, and agriculture are faculties ! Any man is perfectly free to use the word in this sense if he pleases ; only let it not be made an objection to me, that I have not followed such an example, and that I have used words as they always hitherto have been used. I shall now proceed to the specification of my authorities.* Respecting the faculties of animals, I shall translate from " Lettres sur les Animaux," by Bailly, two anec- dotes respecting brutes, which Mr. Stewart quotes in his " Elements of the Philosophy of the Human Mind." "A friend of mine," says Mr, Bailly, ' ; a man of un- derstanding and strict veracity, related to me these two facts, of which he was an eye-witness. He had a very intelligent ape. to whom he amused himself by giv- ing walnuts, of which the animal was extremely fond. One day, he placed them at such a distance from the ape, that the animal, restrained by his chain, could not reach them : alter many useless efforts to indulge him- self in his favorite delicacy, he happened to see a servant pass by with a napkin under his arm ; he immediately seized hold of it, whisked it out beyond his arm, to beat the nuts within his reach, and so obtained possession of them. His mode of breaking the walnut was a fresh proof of his inventive powers ; he placed the walnut upon the ground, let a great stone fall upon it, and so got at its contents. One day, the ground on which he had placed the walnut was so much softer than usual, that, instead of breaking the walnut, the ape only drove it into the earth : what does the animal do ? he takes up a tile, places the walnut upon it. and then lets the stone fall, while the walnut is in this position." Admitting these facts to be true. — and they appear to be well authenticated. — it is impossible to deny that there passed in the mind of this animal, all that custom- ary process of invention that would take place in our own minds, when we were engaged in similar under- takings. If a man were to drop his hat in the water, and by means of a stick to get it out again, he would * Locke, pp. 59, 60. 01, 213, 330; Hartley, 217 ; Reid, 111. ON THE FACULTIES OF BEASTS. 245 have done much the same sort of thing as this animal did. When Mr. Bramah invents his patent locks, I can tell him what passes in his mind : he first pauses in- tensely upon the idea of what he wishes to accomplish, — an outside ward or wards, that revolve with the key, or some of the mysteries of locksmithery : after he has paused some time, all the ideas anywise related to this first idea, flock into his mind, and among these, he dis- covers some relation which one bears to the other, that he did not know before, and which will lead to the end he has in view. Exactly so Condillac's ape : his object w T as to obtain the walnut ; he dwelt upon that idea ; a thousand related ideas occurred to his mind ; he put out one foot, then another ; laid himself down upon his back, to lengthen the extent of his foot as much as possi- ble ; and then, when he was dwelling upon these ideas, the relation that subsisted between the napkin and the attainment of the nut, rushed across his mind, and he availed himself of it : and precisely by the same process of understanding he made use of the tile, to lay over the soft earth. When an old greyhound that has been accustomed to follow the hare fairly, begins to run cun- ning, or when two greyhounds are in pursuit of a hare, and one of them runs to a gap in the hedge, which it had known before, and through which it is probable the hare will pass, — in what does this latter greyhound differ, in his way of acting and reasoning, from an old sportsman, who is too lazy to follow the hounds outright, and* cuts across to save time and labor ? I have reason to believe that somebody is lost in a snow storm ; — I mark the track of his feet, distinguishing it carefully from .other footsteps ; all of a sudden I lose the track, — what does common sense point out to me to do ? I go all round in a circle, at the very spot where the signs were first deficient, to see if I can recover the thread of my pursuit. A little boy, whom I have with me, is per- petually mistaking every mark he sees for the true one, and calling out he has found it ; I pay no sort of atten- tion to what he says, for I know that he is young and volatile, and I continue the search myself; but if I hear the voice of a trusty servant at a distance, exclaiming 246 LECTURE XVIII. that he has rediscovered the track, I immediately repair to the spot, with a strong belief that it will turn out to be the fact : and it is so. Xow, during all this time, have I not been exercising my reasoning ? have I not been applying my previous experience to the new cases before me ? and could not the reasons upon which I have acted, be drawn out into so many syllogisms ? And do not hounds in the pursuit of their game, con- duct themselves in a manner similar to this ? They go on straightforward as far as the scent lasts ; when it fails them, they cast round in a circle to recover it. The old hounds pay not the smallest attention to the yelping of the young ones : they know they are not to be trusted ; but the moment an old experienced hound gives tongue, the whole pack resort to him, without the least hesita- tion, and consider their object as gained. I confess I am quite at a loss to decide what difference there is be- tween the faculties employed on both these occasions. A hunted stag will return again upon the line it has been running, then give three or four strong bounds, scarcely touching the ground, and make off in a lateral direction : sometimes he will run in among other deer and cattle, and endeavor to elude the sagacity of the dogs by these means ; at other times he will hide himself up to the nose in reeds and water. All this implies a vast deal of previous observation, a fund of experience, and a ready application of that experience to new e The artifices of a gentleman pursued by bailiffs, and the artifices of an animal pursued for his life, are the same thing, — call them by what name you please. Of all animals, the most surprising stories are told of the docility of elephants. The black people, who have the care of them, often go away, leaving them chained to a slake, and place near them their young children, as if under their care : the elephant allows the little creatures to crawl as far as its trunk can reach, and then gently takes the young master up, and places him more within his own control. Every one knows the old story of the tailor and the elephant, which, if it be not true, at lea*t shows the opinion the Orientals, who know the animal well, entertain of his sagacity. An eastern tailor to the court ON THE FACULTIES OF BEASTS. 247 was making a magnificent doublet for a bashaw of nine tails, and covering it, after the manner of eastern doub- lets with gold, silver, and every species of metallic magnifi- cence. As he was busying himself on this momentous occasion, there passed by, to the pools of water, one of the royal elephants, about the size of a broad- wheeled wagon, rich in ivory teeth, and shaking with its ponder- ous tread, the tailor's shop to its remotest thimble. As he passed near the window, the elephant happened to look in ; the tailor lifted up his eyes, perceived the pro- boscis of the elephant near him, and, being seized with a fit of facetiousness, pricked the animal with his needle : the mass of matter immediately retired, stalked away to the pool, filled his trunk full of muddy water, and, return- ing to the shop, overwhelmed the artisan and his doublet with the dirty effects of his vengeance. Instances of memory in animals, and of the most tenacious memory, are endless. If an animal obey the voice of his master, or love the hand that feeds him, it is association. In what way can a sheep or a dog find his way back thirty or forty miles, over a country he has passed but once, through by-paths and over extensive downs ? What is all this but the most acute attention, and the most accurate memory ? A dog, to do this, must have paid the most accurate attention to cart-ruts, little hillocks, single shrubs, and the minutest marks which guide him in his course. Almost all animals are very diligent ob- servers of places, and know them by a thousand criteria which we do not observe, and which, from the extent of horizon we comprehend in our view, we have no occa- sion to observe. It must be from that same habit of observation, common to all animals, and from the same necessity they are under of observing attentively, that American Indians are able to find their way across the woods, in the very surprising manner mentioned by Mr. Weld, in his very sensible, judicious, and impartial Travels in America. They will penetrate through a wood of many leagues in extent, which they have not passed for twenty years before, without deviating a single step from their former track : the fact is, they are com- pelled (like animals), from a consideration of their 248 LECTURE XVIII. safety, to observe with the closest attention, — and whatever is observed closely, is remembered tenaciously. Animals profit by experience, as we do, — not so mack, but in the same manner. All old animals are much more cunning, with much more difficulty caught in traps, and hunted with dogs, than young animals : an old wolf, or an old fox, will walk round a trap twenty times, examining every circumstance with the utmost attention : and those who deceive them, are only enabled to do so by every possible care and circumspection. They have abstract ideas, exactly as we have abstract ideas. When a huntsman w r hips a hare out of its* form, he sees only an individual object ; but he knows that this individual animal has qualities and properties com- mon to a whole species ; and the greyhound that pur- sues that particular hare, — be it little or be it big, — knows that it has properties common to all other ani- mals, — that it is quick, cunning, and good to eat : in the same manner, a dog that lives in a town, meets sometimes a man in a yellow coat, sometimes in a green one, sometimes a tall man, sometimes a short man. but he knows they are all men ; each man excites in him nearly the same idea from the qualities he possesses, in common with all other men, and in spite of his own in- dividual peculiarities. Locke says that animals have no universal ideas ; that they do not abstract : but, then'. Locke was mistaken in supposing that men had uni- versal ideas. Bishop Berkeley has demonstrated. — and his demonstration is universally agreed to by every one, — that it is nonsense to talk about universal ideas : that there are no such things as universal ideas ; and that what we have called universal ideas are nothing but par- ticular ones, accompanied with the notion that they are common to a species. Then, again, for the affections of animals. They grieve, rejoice, play, are ennuied, as we are : feel anger, as we do; parental affection, and personal attachment. There are stories in Smellie's u Natural Philosophy." and well authenticated, of a very serious attachment that subsisted between a dunghill-cock and a horse, who happened to be kept in the same paddock together. ON THE FACULTIES OP BEASTS. 249 Every body has seen the lapdog and the lioness in the Tower ; and I believe a lamb also has been kept in the Tower with the lions. In short, every body has innu- merable stories to tell of the affections of animals ; and the difficulty is, rather to abridge than to multiply them. Now, if I am right in stating that animals have the same sort of faculties as man, the question immediately occurs of the origin of that distinction and superiority which man has gained over all other animated beings. One cause of that superiority I conceive to be, his lon- gevity : without it, that accumulation of experience in action, and of knowledge in speculation, could not have existed ; and though man would still have been the first of all animals, the difference between him and others would have been less considerable than it now is. The wisdom of a man is made up of what he observes, and what others observe for him ; and of course the sum of what he can acquire must principally depend upon the time in which he can acquire it. All that we add to our knowledge is not an increase, by that exact proportion, of all we possess ; because we lose some things, as we gain others ; but upon the whole, while the body and mind remain healthy, an active man increases in intelli- gence, and consequently in power. If we Jived seven hundred years instead of seventy, we should write better epic poems, build better houses, and invent more com- plicated mechanism, than we do now. I should question very much if Mr. Milne could build a bridge so well as a gentleman who had engaged in that occupation for seven centuries : and if I had had only two hundred years' experience in lecturing on moral philosophy, I am well convinced I should do it a little better than I now do. On the contrary, how diminutive and absurd all the efforts of man would have been, if the duration of his life had only been twenty years, and if he had died of old age just at the period when every human being begins to suspect that he is the wisest and most extra- ordinary person that ever did exist ! I think it is Hel- vetius who says, he is quite certain we only owe our superiority over the ourang-outangs to the greater length of life conceded to us ; and that, if our life had been as 250 LECTURE XVIII. short as theirs, they would have totally defeated us in the competition for nuts and ripe blackberries. I can hardly agree to this extravagant statement ; but I think, in a life of twenty years the efforts of the human mind would have been so considerably lowered, that we might probably have thought Helvetius a good philosopher, and admired his skeptical absurdities as some of the greatest efforts of the human understanding. Sir Richard Blackmore would have been our greatest poet ; our wit would have been Dutch ; our faith, French ; the Hotten- tots would have given us the model for manners, and the Turks for government ; 'and we might probably have been -such miserable reasoners respecting the sacred truths of religion, that we should have thought they wanted the support of a puny and childish jealousy of the poor beasts that perish. His gregarious nature is another cause of man's superiority over all other animals. A lion lies under a hole in a rock ; and if any other lion happen to pass by, they fight. Now, whoever gets a habit of lying under a hole in a rock, and fighting with every gentleman who passes near him, can not possibly make any progress. Every man's understanding and acquirements, how great and extensive soever they may appear, are made up from the contributions of his friends and companions. You spend your morning in learning from Hume what happened at particular periods of your own history : you dine where some man tells you what he has observed in the East Indies, and another dis- courses of brown sugar and Jamaica. It is from these perpetual rills of knowledge, that you refresh yourself and become strong and healthy as you are. If lions would consort together, and growl out the observations they have made, about killing sheep and shepherds, the most likely places for catching a calf grazing, and so forth, they could not fail to improve ; because they would be actuated by such a wide range of observation, and operating by the joint force of so many minds. It may be said, that the gregarious spirit in man. may proc from his wisdom ; and not his wisdom from his gre- garious spirit. This I should doubt. It appears to be an original principle in some animals, and not in others : ON THE FACULTIES OF BEASTS. 251 and is a quality given to some to better their condition, as swiftness or strength is given to others. The tiger lives alone, — bulls and cows do not ; yet, a tiger is as wise an animal as a bull. A wild boar lives with the herd till he comes of age, which he does at three years, and then quits the herd and lives alone. There is a solitary species of bee, and there is a gregarious bee. Whether an animal should herd or not, seems to be as much a provision of nature, as whether it should crawl, creep, or fly. A third method, in which man gains the dominion over other animals, is by the structure of his body, and the mechanism of his hands. Suppose, w r ith all our understanding, it had pleased Providence to make us like lobsters, or to imprison us in shells like crayfish, I very much question if the monkeys would not have converted us into sauce ; nor can I conceive any possible method, by which such a fate could have been averted. Suppose man, with the same faculties, the same body, and the hands and feet of an ox, — what then would have been his fate ? Anaxagoras is represented by ancient authors as maintaining that man owes all his superiority in wis- dom and knowledge to the structure of his hands. That hands will not do every thing, is very plain, because monkeys have hands, and make no use of them for any purpose of ameliorating their condition. All that can be said of the hand is, that it is a very exquisite tool, — but a tool does not make an artist ; it is a means by which an artist carries his conceptions into execution, — but his conceptions do not depend upon his tools. There can be no doubt, however, but that the destiny of man, and the extent of his faculties have been very consider- ably influenced by this mechanism of the hand. The first thing to be done in the progress of civilization, is to mitigate the physical inconveniences by which man is surrounded : this can not be done without smelting the metals, breaking up the surface of the earth, and doing innumerable things, which, without as perfect an organ as the hand, could not be done. Without the hand, man would not have fused metals ; without the fusion of metals, he would never have got very far above the 252 LECTURE XVIII. pressure of immediate want ; and consequently his facul ties would not have been what they now are. Neither is it simply by securing to him the free and uninterrupted exercise of his faculties, that the instruments — his hands — have invented, have improved his understanding ; but those instruments have opened to his observation new and unlimited fields of knowledge, which have re-excited those faculties by the strongest stimulus of curiosity, and improved them by exercise. Accident, perhaps, first gave the notion of glass : there was some talent in ascer- taining the precise circumstances upon which the first observed appearances depended ; but to what infinite talent has this discovery contributed ! how much curi- osity has it excited! what powerful understandings it has called into action ! how it has widened the materials of human knowledge, and guided the mind of man to the most abstruse speculations ! Then,' again, man owes something to his size and strength. If he had been only two feet high, he could not possibly have subdued the earth, and roasted and boiled animated nature in the way he now does. Some- thing he owes also to the number and perfection of his senses; because, though there may be some one animal which excels him in each particular sense, there are few who enjoy all their senses in such perfection. This is all very well : these (which I have stated) are clearly conspiring causes; but they will not do alone, as the enemies to man have absurdly contended. The ape has hands as good, and stature as great, and is as fond of society, and his senses are as acute as ours ; and yet. the ape has certainly hitherto taken no very surprising part in the political revolutions of the earth. — done very little for science, — and seems, with the exception of a few atheists, and metaphysicians, to be held in very little honor by any body. The fact seems to be. that though almost every quality of mind we possess, can be traced in some trifling degree in brutes, yet that degree, com- pared with the extent in which the same quality is ob- servable in man, is very low and inconsiderable, instance, we can not say that animals are devoid of cu- riosity, but they have a very slight degree of curiosity : ON THE FACULTIES OP BEASTS. 253 f they imitate, but they imitate very slightly in comparison with men ; they can not imitate any thing very difficult ; and many of them hardly imitate at all : they abstract, but they can not make such compound abstractions as men do ; they have no such compounded abstractions as city, prudence, fortitude, parliament, and justice : they reason, but their reasonings are very short and very ob- vious : they invent, but their inventions are extremely easy, and not above the reach of a human idiot. The story I quoted from Bailly, about the ape and the wal- nuts, is one of the most extraordinary I ever read ; but what a wretched limit of intellect does it imply, to be cited as an instance of extraordinary sagacity ! But all the faculties which every animal possesses, are given him for the mere purposes of existence. When his life is endangered, when his young are to be secured, and his prey entrapped, he develops the limited re- sources of his nature; for every thing else he has no talents at all; nor has any animal ever betrayed the slightest disposition to knowledge, — except as knowledge gratified immediately his hunger, or as would immediate- ly have secured his life. Whereas, man is so far from being influenced only by the moment which is passing over his head, that he looks back to centuries past for the guide of his actions, and to centuries to come for their motive. In fact, nothing can be more weak, and mistaken than to suppose that the doctrine of the immor- tality of the soul, depends upon making brutes mere machines, or denying to them the mere outlines of our faculties. To talk of God being the soul of brutes, is the worst and most profane degradation of divine power. To suppose that He who regulates the rolling of the planets, and the return of seasons, by general laws, inter- feres, by a special act of his power, to make a bird fly, and an insect flutter, — to suppose that a gaudy moth can not expand its wings to the breeze, or a lark unfold its plumage to the sun, without the special mandate of that God who fixes incipient passions in the human heart, and leaves them to produce a Borgia to scourge mankind, or a Newton to instruct them, — is not piety, or science, but a most pernicious substitution of degrad- 254 LECTURE XVIII. ing conjectures, from an ignorant apprehension of the consequences of admitting plain facts. In the name of common sense, what have men to fear from allowing to beasts their miserable and contemptible pittance of facul- ties ? What can those men have read of the immortality of the soul? what can they think of the strength of those arguments on which it is founded, if they believe it requires the aid of such contemptible and boyish jeal- ousy of the lower order of beings ? what must they feel within themselves, to conceive such arguments ? what notion must they communicate to others of the fullness, and sufficiency, and strength of those powers, when they stand quibbling and trembling at every faint semblance of reason, which a beast exhibits in searching for water and flesh, and eluding the spear of the hunter? The enemies of the soul's immortality I do not fear ; I know- how often they have been vanquished before ; and I am quite sure that they will be overthrown airain with a mighty overthrow, as often as they do appear. But I confess I have some considerable dread of the indiscreet friends of religion. I tremble at that respectable imbe- cility which shuffles away the plainest truths, and thinks the strongest of all causes wants the weakest of all aids. I shudder at the consequences of fixing the great proofs of religion upon any other basis, than that of the widest investigation, and most honest statement of facts. I al- low such nervous and timid friends to religion to be the best and most pious of men; but a bad defender of re- ligion is so much the most pernicious person in the whole community, that 1 most humbly hope such friends will evince their zeal for religion, by ceasing to defend it ; and remember that not every man is qualified to be the advocate of a cause in which the mediocrity of his un- derstanding may possibly compromise the dearest and most affecting interests oi society. What have the shadow and mockery of faculties, given to beasts, to do with the immortality of the soul 'r Have beasts any gen- eral fear of annihilation ? have they any love of fame ? do their small degrees oi faculties ever give them any feelings of this nature? are their minds perpetually es- caping into futurity? have they any love of posthumous ON THE FACULTIES OF BEASTS. ' 255 fame ? have they any knowledge of God ? have they ever reached, in their conceptions, the slightest traces of a hereafter? can they form the notion of duty and ac- countability ? is it any violation of any one of the moral attributes of the Deity, to suppose that they go back to their dust, and that we do not ? Is it no reason to say, that, because they partake in the slightest degree of our nature, they are entitled to all the privileges of our na- ture ; — because, upon that principle, if we partake of the nature of any higher order of spirits, we ought to be them, and not ourselves ; and they ought to be some higher order still, and so on. And if it be inconsistent to suppose a difference in duration, then also it is to sup- pose a difference in degree, of mind ; and then every human being has a right to complain that he is not a Newton. To conclude : Such truths want not such aids. The weakest and the most absurd arguments ever used against religion, have been the attempts to compare brutes with men ; and the weakest answer to these arguments have been, the jealousies which men have exhibited of brutes. As facts are fairly stated, and boldly brought forward, the more all investigation goes to establish the ancient opinion of man, before it was confirmed by revealed religion, — that brutes are of this world only ; that man is imprisoned here only for a season, — to take a better or a worse hereafter, as he deserves it. This old truth is the fountain of all good- ness, and justice, and kindness among men : may we all feel it intimately, obey it perpetually, and profit by it eternally ! LECTURE XIX. ON THE CONDUCT OF THE UNDERSTANDING.— PART II. I concluded my last course with a Lecture upon the Conduct of the Understanding* (which I intended, as I do this, merely for the instruction of young people) ; but as such a subject could not, of course, be exhausted in any single discussion, I reserved the conclusion of it for the present period. As it does not. appear to me very material to observe any order with respect to this subject, I shall merely state the observations it suggests, as they occur to my mind, without attempting to arrange them. It would be" a very curious question to agitate, how far understanding is transmitted from parent to child ; and within what limits it can be improved by culture : whether all men are bom equal, with respect to their understanding ; or, whether there is an original diversity antecedent to all invitation and instruction. The analogy of animals is in favor of the transmissibility of mind. Some ill-tempered horses constantly breed ill-tempered colts; and the foal never has seen the sire. — therefore. in this, there can be no imitation. If the eggs of a wild duck are hatched under a tame duck, the young brood will be much wilder than any common brood of poultry : if they are kept all their lives in a farm-yard, and treated kindly, and fed well, their eggs hatched under another bird produce a much tamer race. What is the difference of suspicion and fear observable in the two broods, but a direct transmission of mind, without the possible intervention of anv imitation or teaching ? However, Page 95. ON THE CONDUCT OF THE UNDERSTANDING. 257 whether mind be trans mitted, or whether it be affected afterward by the earliest circumstances of our lives, certainly the fact is, that at the very earliest periods of our existence, the strongest differences are observable between one individual and another ; which difference no subsequent art and attention can ever after destroy. One of the rarest sort of understandings we meet with in the world, among the numerous diversities which are produced, is an understanding fairly and impartially open to the reception of truth, coming in any shape, and from any quarter ; and it will be of considerable use, in a discussion on the conduct of the understanding, to consider what those causes are, which render this sort of understanding so very rare. One of these causes, and the first I shall mention, is indolence. Repose is agreeable to the human mind ; and decision is repose. A man has made up his opinions ; he does not choose to be disturbed ; and he is much more thankful to the man who confirms him in his errors, and leaves him alone, than he is to the man who refutes him, or who instructs* him at the expense of his tranquillity. Again : oui vanity is compromised by our opinions ; we have ex- pressed them, and they must be maintained : the object is, not to know the truth, but to avoid the shame of appearing to have been ignorant of it. Words are an amazing barrier to the reception of truth. It is^a most inestimable habit in the conduct of the understanding, before men put their solemn sanction to any opinion,- — before war, before peace, before expa- triation, and all the great events of life, — that men should ask themselves whether or not the words by which their conduct has been influenced, have really any meaning ; and if so, whether they have the meaning, in such instances, intended to be affixed to them. Defini- tion of words has been commonly called a mere exercise of grammarians ; but when we come to consider the innumerable murders, proscriptions, massacres, and tor- tures, which men have inflicted on each other from mistaking the meaning of words, the exercise of defini- tion certainly begins to assume rather a more dignified aspect. 258 LECTURE XIX. Then comes association as another disturber. A man has heard such opinions very often ; or, " I have heard them when I. was young; and therefore, they must be ight ;" — " I hate all Dissenters," or " all Roman Cath- lics ;" — or, " I can not endure Americans ;" — and such other shocking opinions, upon which men act all their lives, — and act very badly, and furiously, and very ignorantly, merely because such opinions have been instilled into their earliest infancy, and because they have never had the power of separating two ideas which mere accident first associated together. The cure for this confined and narrow species of understanding, is to see many things and many men ; to taste of the sweet- ness of truth in science, and to cultivate a love of it ; to have the words, liberality, candor, knowledge, often in your mouth, and at length they will get into your heart ; to ask the reason of things, and find the nieaning of words ; to hear patiently any one who confirms what you thought before, or who refutes it ; to propose to yourself in life the same object, as the law proposes in the examination of evidence, — to get at the truth, and nothing but the truth. Without study, no man can ever do any thing with his understanding. But in spite of all that has been said about the sweets of study, it is a sort of luxury, like the taste for olives and coffee — not natural, very hard to be acquired, and very easily lost. Very few persons begin to study from the love of knowledge, or the desire of doincr crood ; though these are^he motives with which they ought to begin: but they begin from the shame of inferiority, and better motives come after- ward. One of the best methods oi" rendering study agreeable is to live with able men, and to sutler all those pangs of inferiority, which the want of knowledge always in- flicts. Nothing short of some such powerful motive, can drive a young person, in the full possession of health and bodily activity, to such an unnatural and such an unobvious mode of passing his life as study. But this is the way that intellectual greatness often begins. The trophies of Miltiades drive away sleep. A young man sees the honor in which knowledge is held by his fellow- ON THE CONDUCT OF THE UNDERSTANDING. 259 creatures ; and he surrenders every present gratification, that he may gain them. The honor in which living genius is held, the trophies by which it is adorned after life, it receives and enjoys from the feelings of men, — not from their sense of duty : but men never obey this feeling, without discharging the first of all duties ; with- out securing the rise and growth of genius, and increas- ing the dignity of our nature, by enlarging the dominion of mind. No eminent man was ever yet rewarded in vain ; no breath of praise was ever idly lavished upon him ; it has never yet been idle and foolish to rear up splendid monuments to his name : the rumor of these things impels young minds to the noblest exertions, cre- ates in them an empire over present passions, inures them to the severest toils, determines them to live only for the use of others, and leave a great and lasting me- morial behind them. Beside the shame of inferiority, and the love of repu- tation, curiosity is a passion very favorable to the love of study ; and a passion very susceptible of increase by cultivation. Sound travels so many feet in a second ; and light travels so many feet in a second. Nothing more probable : but you do not care how light and sound travel. Very likely : but make yourself care ; get up, shake yourself well, pretend to care, make believe to care, and very soon you will care, and care so much, that you will sit for hours thinking about light and sound, and be extremely angry with any one who interrupts you in your pursuits ; and tolerate no other conversation but about light and sound ; and catch yourself plaguing every body to death who approaches you, with the dis- cussion of these subjects. I am sure that a man ought to read as he would grasp a nettle : — do it lightly, and you get molested ; grasp it with all your strength, and you feel none of its asperities. There is nothing so hor- rible as languid study ; when you sit looking at the clock, wishing the time was over, or that somebody would call on you and put you out of your misery. The only way to read with any efficacy, is to read so heartily, that dinner-time comes two hours* before you -expect it. To sit with your Livy before you, and hear the geese 260 LECTURE XIX. cackling that saved the capitol ; and to see with your own eyes the Carthaginian sutlers gathering up the rings of the Roman knights after the battle of Cannae, and heaping them into bushels ; and to be so intimately present at the actions you are reading of, that when any- body knocks at the door, it will take you two or three seconds to determine whether you are in your own study, or in the plains of Lombardy, looking at Hannibal's weather-beaten face, and admiring the splendor of his single eye; — this is the only kind of study which is not tiresome ; and almost the only kind which is not useless : this is the knowledge which gets into the system, and which a man carries about and uses like his limbs, with- out perceiving that it is extraneous, weighty, or incon- venient. To study successfully, the body must be healthy, the mind at ease, and time managed with great economy. Persons who study many hours in the day. should, per- haps, have two separate pursuits going on at the same time, — one for one part of the day, and the other for the other ; and these of as opposite a nature as possible, — as Euclid and Ariosto ; Locke and Homer ; Hartley on Man, and Voyages round the Globe ; that the mind may be refreshed by change, and all the bad effects of lassi- tude avoided. There is one piece of advice, in a life of study, which I think no one will object to ; and that is, every now and then to be completely idle, — to do nothing at all : indeed, this part of a life of study is com- monly considered as so decidedly superior to the rest. that it has" almost obtained an exclusive preference over those other parts of the system, with which I wish to see it connected. It has often been asked whether a man should study at stated intervals, or as the fit seizes him, and as lie finds himself disposed to study. To this I answer, that where a man can trust himself, rules are superfluous. If his inclinations lead him to a fair share of exertion, he had much better trust to his inclinations alone : where they do not, they must be controlled by rules. It is just the same with sleep ; and with every thing else. Sleep as much as you please, if your inclination lead you only ON THE CONDUCT OF THE UNDERSTANDING. 261 to sleep as much as is convenient ; if not, make rules. The system in every thing ought to be, — do as you please — so long as you please to do what is right. Upon these principles, every man must see how far he may trust to his inclinations, before he takes away their natural lib- erty. I confess, however, it has never fallen to my lot to see many persons who could be trusted ; and the method, I believe, in which most great men have gone to work, is by regular and systematic industry. A little hard thinking will supply the place of a great deal of reading ; and an hour or two spent in this man- ner sometimes lead you to conclusions, which it would require a volume to establish. The mind advances in its train of thought, as a restive colt proceeds on the road in which you wish to guide him ; he is always running to one side or the other, and deviating from the proper path, to which it is your affair to bring him back. I have asked several men what passes in their minds when they are thinking ; and I never could find any man who could think for two minutes together. Every body has seemed to admit that it was a perpetual deviation from a particular path, and a perpetual return to it ; which, im- perfect as the operation is, is the only method in which we can operate with our minds to carry on any process of thought. It takes some time to throw the mind into an attitude of thought, or into any attitude ; though the power of doing this, and, in general, of thinking, is amaz- ingly increased by habit. We acquire, at length, a greater command over our associations, and are better enabled to pursue one object, unmoved by all the other thoughts which cross it in every direction. One of the best modes of improving in the art of thinking, is, to think over some subject, before you read upon it ; and then to observe, after what manner it has occurred to the mind of some great master. You will then observe whether you have been too rash or too timid ; what you have omitted, and in what you have exceeded ; and by this process you w T ill insensibly catch a great manner of viewing a question. It is right in study, not only to think when any extraordinary inci- dent provokes you to think, but from time to time to 262 LECTURE XIX. review what has passed ; to dwell upon it, and to see what trains of thought voluntarily present themselves to your mind. It is a most superior habit of some minds, to refer all the particular truths which strike them, to other truths more general : so that their knowl- edge is beautifully methodized : and the general truth at any time suggests all the particular exemplifications ; or any particular exemplification, at once leads to the general truth. This kind of understanding has an im- mense and decided superiority over those confused heads in which one fact is piled upon another, without the least attempt at classification and arrangement. Some men always read with a pen in their hand, and commit to paper any new thought which strikes them ; others trust to chance for its reappearance. Which of these is "the best method in the conduct of the understanding, must, I should suppose, depend a great deal upon the particular understanding in question. Some men can do nothing without preparation ; others, little with it : some are fountains, some reservoirs. My very humble and limited experience goes to convince me, that it is a very useless practice ; that men seldom read again what they have committed to paper, nor remember what they have so committed one iota the better for their additional trouble : on the contrary, I believe it has a direct ten- dency to destroy the promptitude and tenacity of memory, by diminishing the vigor of present attention, and seducing the mind to depend upon future reference : at least, such is the effect I have uniformly found it to produce upon myself; and the same remark has been frequently made to me by other persons, of their own habits of study. I am by no means contending against the utility and expediency of writing ; on the contrary. I am convinced there can be no very great accuracy of mind without it. I am only animadverting upon that exaggerated use of it, which disunites the mind from the body ; renders the understanding no longer portable, but leaves a man's wit and talents neatly written out in his commonplace book, and safely locked up in the bottom drawer of his bureau. This is the abuse oi writing. The use of it, I presume, is, to give perspicuity and ac- ON THE CONDUCT OF THE UNDERSTANDING. 263 curacy : to fix a habitation for, and to confer a name upon, our ideas, so that they may be considered and re- considered themselves, and in their arrangement. Every man is extremely liable to be deceived in his reflections till he has habituated himself to putting his thoughts upon paper, and perceived from such a process, how often propositions that appeared before such development to be almost demonstrable, have vanished into nonsense when a clearer, light has been thrown upon them. I should presume, also, that much writing must teach a good order and method in the disposition of our reason- ings ; because the connection of any one part with the whole, will be made so much more evident than it can be before it is put into visible signs. Writing, also, must teach a much more accurate use of language. In con- versation, any language almost will do ; that is, great indulgence is extended to the language of talkers, because a talker is at hand to explain himself, and his looks and gestures are a sort of comment upon his words, and help to interpret them : but as a writer has no such auxiliary language to communicate his ideas, and no power of re- explaining them when once clothed in language, he has nothing to depend upon but a steady and careful use of terms. The advantage conversation has over all the other modes of improving the mind, is, that it is more natural and more interesting. A book has no eyes, and ears, and feelings ; the best are apt every now and then to become a little languid : whereas a living book walks about, and varies his conversation and manner, and pre- vents you from going to sleep. There is certainly a great evil in this, as well as a good ; for the interest be- tween a man and his living folio, becomes sometimes a little too keen, and in the competition for victory they become a little too animated toward, and sometimes ex- asperated against, each other : whereas a man and his book generally keep the peace with tolerable success ; and if they disagree, the man shuts his book, and tosses it into a corner of the room, which it might not be quite so safe or easy to do with a living folio. It is an incon- venience in a book, that you can not ask questions ; there 264 LECTURE XIX. is no explanation : and a man is less guarded in conver- sation than in a book, and tells you with more honesty the little niceties and exceptions of his opinions ; whereas in a book, as his opinions are canvassed where they can not be explained and defended, he often overstates a point for fear of being misunderstood ; but then, on the contrary, almost every man talks a great deal better in his books, with more sense, more information, and more reflection, than he can possibly do in his conversation, because lie has more time. There are few good listeners in the world who make all the use that they might make, of the understandings of others, in the conduct of their own. The use made of this great instrument of conversation is the display of superiority, not the gaining of those materials on which superiority may rightfully and justly be founded. Every man takes a different view of a question as he is influ- enced by constitution, circumstances, age, and a thou- sand other peculiarities; and no individual ingenuity can sift and examine a subject with as much variety and success, as the minds of many men, put in motion by many causes, and affected by an endless variety of acci- dents. Nothing, in my humble opinion, would bring an understanding so forward, as this habit of ascertaining and weighing the opinions of others ; — a point in which almost all men of abilities are deficient ; whose first im- pulse, if they are young, is too often to contradict ; or, if the manners of the world have cured them of that, to listen only with attentive ears, but with most obdurate and unconquerable entrails. I may be very wrong, and probably am so. but, in the whole course of my life, I do not know that I ever saw a man of considerable under- standing respect the understandings of others as much as he might have done for his own improvement, and as it was just that he should do. I touched a little, in my last Lecture, upon that habit of contradicting, into which young men. — and young men of ability in particular. — are apt to fall : and which is a habit extremely injurious to the powers of the under- standing. I would recommend to such young men. an intellectual regimen, o( which I myself, in an earlier I ON THE CONDUCT OF THE UNDERSTANDING. 265 period of life, have felt the advantage : and that is, to assent to the two first propositions that they hear every- day ; and not only to assent to them, but, if they can, to improve and embellish them ; and to make the speaker a little more in love with his own opinion than he was before. When they have a little got over the bitterness of assenting, they may then gradually increase the num- ber of assents, and so go on as their constitution will bear it ; and I have little doubt that, in time, this will effect a complete and perfect cure. It is a great thing toward making right judgments, if a man know what allowance to make for himself; and what discount should habitually be given to his opinions, according as he is old or young, French or English, clergyman or layman, rich or poor, torpid or fiery, healthy or ill, sorrowful or gay. All these various cir- cumstances are perpetually communicating to the objects about them, a color which is not their true color : whereas, wisdom is of no age, nation, profession, or temperament ; and is neither sorrowful nor sad. A man must have some particular qualities, and be affected by some particular circumstances ; but the object is, to discover what they are, and habitually to allow T for them. There is one circumstance I would preach up, morn- ing, noon, and night, to young persons, for the manage- ment of their understanding. Whatever you are from nature, keep to it ; never desert your own line of talent. If Providence only intended you to write posies for rings, or mottoes for twelfth- cakes, keep to posies and mottoes : a good motto for a twelfth-cake is more respectable than a villainous epic poem in twelve books. Be what nature intended you for, and you will succeed ; be any thing else, and you will be ten thousand times worse than nothing. If black and white men live together, the consequence is, that, unless great care be taken, they quarrel and fight. There is nearly as strong a disposition in men of opposite minds to despise each other. A grave man can not conceive what is the use of a wit in society ; a person who takes a strong common-sense view of a sub- ject, is for pushing out by the head and shoulders an " M 266 LECTURE XIX. ingenious theorist, who catches at the lightest and faint- est analogies ; and another man, who scents the ridic- ulous from afar, will hold no commerce with him who tastes exquisitely the fine feelings of the heart, and is alive to nothing else : whereas talent is talent, and mind is mind, in all its branches ! Wit gives to life one of its best flavors ; common sense leads to immediate action, and gives society its daily motion ; large and compre- hensive views, its annual rotation ; ridicule chastises folly and impudence, and keeps men in their proper sphere ; subtilty seizes hold of the fine threads of truth ; analogy darts away to the most sublime discoveries; feeling paints all the exquisite passions of man's soul, and rewards him by a thousand inward visitations for the sorrows that come from without. God made it all ! It is all good ! We must despise no sort of talent : they all have their separate duties and uses ; all, the happiness of man for their object : they all improve, exalt, and gladden life. Caution, though it must be considered as something very different from talent, is no mean aid to every spe- cies of talent. As some men are so skillful in economy, that they will do as much with a hundred pounds as an- other will do with two, so there is a species of men, who have a wonderful management of their understandings, and will make as great a show, and enjoy as much con- sideration, with a certain quantity of understanding, as others will do with the double of their portion : and this by watching times and persons ; by taking strong posi- tions, and never fighting but from the vantage-ground, and with great disparity of numbers ; in short, by risking nothing, and by a perpetual and systematic attention to the security of reputation. Such rigid economy, — be- laying out every shilling at compound interest, — very often accumulates a large stock of fame, where the ori- ginal capital has been very inconsiderable; and, of course, may command any degree of opulence, where it sets out from great beginnings, and is united with real genius. For the want of this caution, there is an habitual levity sometimes fixed upon the minds of able men, and a certain manner of viewing and discussing all questions ON THE CONDUCT OF THE UNDERSTANDING. 267 in a frivolous, mocking manner, as if they had looked through all human knowledge, and found in it nothing but what they could easily master, and were entitled to despise. Of all mistakes the greatest, to live and to think life of no consequence ; to fritter away the powers of the understanding, merely to make others believe that you possess them in a more eminent degree ; and gradu- ally to diminish your interest in human affairs, from an affected air of superiority, to which neither yourself nor any human being can possibly be entitled. It is a beau- tiful mark of a healthy and right understanding, when a man is serious and attentive to all great questions ; when you observe him, with modesty and attention, adding gradually to his conviction and knowledge on such topics ; not repulsed by his own previous mistakes, not disgusted by the mistakes of others, but in spite of vio- lence and error, believing that there is, somewhere or other, moderation and truth, — and that to seek that truth with diligence, with seriousness, and with con- stancy, is one of the highest and best objects for which a man can live. Some men get early disgusted with the task of im- provement, and the cultivation of the mind, from some excesses which they have committed, and mistakes into which they have been betrayed, at the beginning of life. They abuse the whole art of navigation because they have stuck upon a shoal ; whereas, the business is, to refit, careen, and set out a second time. The naviga- tion is very difficult ; few of us get through it at first, without some rubs and losses, — which the world are al- ways ready enough to forgive, where they are honestly confessed, and diligently repaired. It would, indeed, be a piteous case, if a young man were pinioned down through life to the first nonsense he happens to write or talk ; and the world are, to do them justice, sufficiently ready to release them from such obligation : but what j they do not forgive is, that juvenile enthusiasm and error, , which ends in mature profligacy ; which begins with i mistaking what is right, and ends with denying that | there is any thing right at all ; which leaps from partial | confidence to universal skepticism ; which says, " there 268 le:ture xix. is no such thing as true religion and rational liberty, be- cause I have been a furious zealot, or a seditious dema- gogue." Such men should be taught that wickedness is never an atonement for mistake ; and they should be held out as a lesson to the } T oung, that unless they are content to form their opinions modestly, they will too often be induced to abandon them entirely. There is something extremely fascinating in quick- ness ; and most men are desirous of appearing quick. The great rule for becoming so, is, by not attempting to appear quicker than you really are ; by resolving to understand yourself and others, and to know what you mean, and what they mean, before you speak or answer. Every man must submit to be slow before he is quick ; and insignificant before he is important. The too early struggle against the pain of obscurity, corrupts no small share of understandings. Well and happily has that man conducted his understanding, who has learned to derive from the exercise of it, regular occupation and rational delight ; who, after having overcome the first pain of application, and acquired a habit of looking in- wardly upon his own mind, perceives that every day is multiplying the relations, confirming the accuracy, and augmenting the number of his ideas ; who feels that he is rising in the scale of intellectual beings, gathering new strength with every new difficulty which he subdues, and enjoying to-day as his pleasure, that which yesterday he labored at as his toil. There are many consolations in the mind of such a man, which no common life can ever afford ; and many enjoyments which it has not to give! It is not the mere cry of moralists, and the flourish of rhetoricians ; but it is noble to seek truth, and it is beau- tiful to find it. It is the ancient feeling of the human heart, — that knowledge is better than riches ; and it is deeply and sacredly true ! To mark the course of hu- man passions as they have flowed on in the ages that are past ; to see why nations have risen, and why they have fallen; to speak of heat, and light, and winds ; to know what man has discovered in the heavens above, and in the earth beneath ; to hear the chemist unfold the marvelous properties that the Creator has locked up ON THE CONDUCT OF THE UNDERSTANDING. 269 m a speck of earth ; to be told that there are worlds so distant from our sun, that the quickness of light travel ing from the world's creation, has never yet reached us , to wander in the creations of poetry, and grow warm again, with that eloquence which swayed the democracies of the old world ; to go up with great reasoners to the First Cause of all, and to perceive in the midst of all this dissolution and decay, and cruel separation, that there is one thing unchangeable, indestructible, and everlasting ; — it is worth while in the days of our youth to strive hard for this great discipline ; to pass sleepless nights for it, to give up to it laborious days ; to spurn for it present pleasures ; to endure for it afflicting poverty ; to wade for it through darkness, and sorrow, and contempt, as the great spirits of the world have done in all ages and all times. I appeal to the experience of any man who is in the habit of exercising his mind vigorously and well, whether there is not a satisfaction in it, which tells him he has been acting up to one of the great objects of his existence ? The end of nature has been answered : his faculties have done that, which they were created to do, — not languidly occupied upon trifles, — not enervated by sensual gratification, but exercised in that toil which is so congenial to their nature, and so worthy of their strength. A life of knowledge is not often a life of •injury and crime. Whom does such a man oppress ? with whose happiness does he interfere ? whom does his ambition destroy, and whom does his fraud deceive ? In the pursuit of science he injures no man, and in the acquisition he does good to all. A man who dedicates his life to knowledge, becomes habituated to pleasure which carries with it no reproach : and there is one security that he will never love that pleasure which is paid for by anguish of heart, — his pleasures are all cheap, all dignified, and all innocent ; and, as far as any human being can expect permanence in this changing scene, he has secured a happiness which no malignity of fortune can ever take away, but which must cleave to him while he lives, — ameliorating every good, and diminishing every evil, of his existence. With these reflections, 270 LECTURE XIX. therefore, upon the conduct of the understanding, I close my Lectures, and with them the Institution, for the present year : but, before I do so, I wish to say a few words respecting this latter subject. Another institution has now risen up in the eastern part of this metropolis ; and there appears to be a very strong desire to do all that can be done for the increase of public institutions, by the foundation of libraries, and by lectures given to persons of both sexes. I allow myself to be no very impartial judge in such questions ; but still I must take the liberty of expressing my astonishment, that sensible and reflecting men should seriously call in question the value and importance of such sort of establishments. If a man come here with his mind thoroughly stored, and his habits completely formed, and complain that he learns little or nothing ; his complaint may be very true, but it applies to all other places of education, as well as to this. Such a man has got beyond what the aid of others can do for him ; and must depend upon himself. Then, again, it is asked what are the great and mighty effects upon the manners of the age, that such institutions are to produce? Great and mighty effects, none; but gradual and gentle effects, effects worth producing, sufficient to justify the expense and trouble bestowed upon institutions. It is, surely, not unfair to suppose that, of the numbers resorting to this Institution, some have felt a zeal for science, which they might not other- wise have felt ; that this zeal may, in some instances,* have furnished rational amusement to a whole life : in others, be productive of deep knowledge, and important discovery. Is it nothing to inflame young minds? is it nothing to please them with science, and to convey to them the first suspicion, that exquisite pleasure is to be derived from the mere occupations of the mind ? Is it nothing to get science generally talked of though it may not be profoundly discussed ; and knowledge widely honored, though it may not be greedily pursued ? I can not consider that man as a very attentive observer of human nature, who does not believe, that by all the conversation and occupation which this Institution lias occasioned, much talent has been awakened, much ON THE CONDUCT OF THE UNDERSTANDING. 271 curiosity for knowledge excited, the dominion of perilous idleness abridged, and the sum of laudable exertions increased. It is the greatest of all mistakes, to do nothing because you can only do little : but there are men who are always clamoring for immediate and stupendous effects, and think that virtue and knowledge are to be increased as a tower or a temple are to be in- creased, where the growth of its magnitude can be measured from day to day, and you can not approach it without perceiving a fresh pillar, or admiring an added pinnacle. "But, then, such institutions increase the number of smatterers." To be sure they do ! And is it not one of the most desirable of all things that they should be increased ? If you plant 50,000 oaks in five acres, have you. not a better chance of fine trees than when you only plant 10,000 in one acre ? Has the pro- duction of eggs ever yet been considered as unfavorable to the growth of chickens ? or has any reasoner yet contended, that in any country where boys and girls are very numerous, men and women must be very scarce ? Every one, in every art and science, is of course, at first, nothing but a smatterer. Of these, some can not ad- vance from stupidity, others will not advance from idle- ness ; some get in the wrong road from error, some quit the right from affectation ; a few only reach the destined point, — but, of course, the number of these last will be directly and immediately in the proportion of those who started for the race. In short, I have no manner of doubt, if these institutions conduct themselves with as much judgment as they have hitherto done, — if they provide able and upright men to read lectures in this place ; and if those men do, without countenancing any narrow and illiberal opinions, and without lending them- selves to childish jealousies and groundless alarms, display at all times an honest zeal for sound knowledge, rational freedom, and manly piety, — I see no reason why this Institution may not prosper, and be considered as a valuable addition to the public establishments of this country. That such may be its fate, is my most sincere desire, and ardent prayer : and with these wishes for its 272 LECTURE XIX. prosperity, and with my hearty thanks to this elegant and accomplished audience, for the attention with which I have been heard, I conclude my Lectures : wishing to you all, every possible happiness till we meet again. LECTURE XX. ON THE ACTIVE POWERS OF THE MIND. DIVISIONS OF THE ACTIVE POWERS INTO APPETITES, DESIRES, AND AFFEC- TIONS. OF WHAT IS MEANT BY THE TERM " PASSION." OF THE ORIGIN OF OUR PASSIONS. THE APPLICATION OF DR. HARTLEY'S THEORY TO THE PASSIONS. SOME REMARKS ON THE IMPERFECTIONS AND BEAUTIES OF THAT THEORY. I have had the pleasure of reading here two sets of Lectures, — the one upon the Understanding, the other upon Taste. I come now to the consideration of the Active Powers of the Mind, or those principles of our nature which impel us to action. The distinction between the intellectual and the active powers, or the understanding and the will, is one of very great antiquity ; far anterior, I fancy, to the time of Aristotle : and it appears to be one of the most convenient divisions, for arranging the complicated powers of the human mind. The two popular terms which express this division are head and heart ; it being very natural that men, in their speculations concerning the connection of body and mind, should suppose that particular parts of the mind were more particularly associated with particular parts of the body. I need scarcely say that the notion is quite fanciful ; — that it would be quite as philosophical to say of an able man that he had a good liver, or to praise a virtuous man for the soundness of his lungs, as it would be to speak of the head of the one, or the heart of the other. I mention this bodily distinction, not from any idea of the justice of the hypothesis it involves, but merely to show r that the common notions of man- kind have always gone along w 7 ith this distinction of the powers of the mind, into those which are intellectual and those which are active. 274 LECTURE XX. This science of mental philosophy has often been represented as vague and unsatisfactory. It certainly is not capable of that precision which many others are ; but its most skeptical enemies would not pretend to confound an idea with a feeling. Nobody would pre- tend to say that the mind is affected in the same manner by hard, soft, green, or blue, as it is by anger, shame, hatred, and love. Every one feels the necessity of dividing the two classes, and naturally conceives that they are subjected to very different laws. It is not im- possible, perhaps, that we might possess every intel- lectual faculty we now have, without feeling the influence of one single appetite, desire, or affection. Constituted as we now are, there are moments in our existence, when the soul of passion seems to be entirely laid to sleep, and when outward objects are noticed by the understanding without producing the slightest determination of the will : and there are opposite states of tempest and con- vulsion, when the passions confound the understanding in all its operations, and make it a false and faithless observer of the world without. In old age, in melan- choly, and in sickness, the mind appears to be diseased, from the decay of all its active powers. In madness they all exist in excess. The great variety in human character, — that astonishing difference between us, which leaves one man in the little field where he was born, and drives another out to command armies and senates. — this difference principally depends upon the different de- grees of curiosity and imitation in each, upon the empire which fear and anger exercise over them : upon how they love, and how they hate ; upon the nature and de- gree of all those active powers, which go to make up the constitution of their minds. The active principles of our nature are divided by Mr. Stewart and Dr. Reid into appetites, desires, affec- tions, self-love, and the moral faculty. They call those feelings appetites which take their rise from the body. — such as hunger and thirst, which operate periodically after certain intervals, and cease only for a time, upon the attainment of a particular object. They mean by desires, those feelings which do not take their rise from ON THE ACTIVE POWERS OF THE MIND. 275 the body ; which do not operate periodically, and do not eease upon the attainment of a particular object. The most remaikable active principles belonging to this class, they consider to be the desire of knowledge, or curiosity, the desire of society, the desire of power, anu the desire of superiority, or the principle of emulation. Under the title of affections, they comprehend all those active principles whose direct and ultimate object is the com- munication of joy or pain to our fellow-creatures. Ac- cording to this definition, resentment, revenge, hatred, belong to the class of our affections, as well as gratitude or pity. When I explain what they mean by self-love, and the moral faculty, I must do it at full length. This division of the active powers I shall in general adept, and propose to begin with the affections. The popular word for affections in their highest degree, is passion ; and the objection to using it, is, that it only means the excess of the feeling : for instance, we could not say that a man experienced the passion of anger who felt a calm indignation at a serious injury he had received; we should only think ourselves justifiable, in applying the term passion if he were transported be- yond all bounds if his reason were almost vanquished, and if the bodily signs of that passion were visible in his appearance. However, if I should hereafter use the common term passion, instead of the more accurate term affection,! beg to be understood to mean any degree of a feeling, however great or small. Emotion will be found to mean a short and transient fit of passion : however, I shall use it synonymously with the words passion and affection ; or, if I do not, I shall say so. It must be allowed, I suppose, that, in strictness, noth- ing can be meant by the passion, but the mere feeling of mind. I am under the influence of violent rage from some sudden and serious injury which I have experi- enced ; but the quick respiration, the red cheek, the frowning eyebrow, and the fixed eye, are not the affection of anger, — they are only the signs which that affection of anger produces on my body. In the same manner, I have a distinct impression of the person who has injured me ; he appears almost to be standing before me : I 276 LECTURE XX. know also that I have been assassinated in reputation, or ruined in fortune : but all these ideas are not the pas- sion of anger : they are the causes of that passion, but not the passion itself. Again, I have the strongest desire to inflict an exemplary punishment upon the person who has done me this injury : — this is the affection or passion of resentment ; the consequence of anger, but by no means anger itself. In the same manner, a child loves its mother. The mother is the cause, which excites the affection of love in the mind of the child. The affection may possibly excite the child to do all the good in his power to his mother ; — these are its consequences ; the affection it- self is distinct from either : therefore^ in speaking of passions and affections, it should be remembered we are merely speaking of certain feelings of the mind, which it is impossible to define. You may state the causes of such feelings, and their consequences ; but it is as impos- sible to define them, as it is to define sour, sweet, and savory. Men call the particular feeling annexed to shame, by one name ; the particular feeling annexed to anger, by another. They are only believed to be the same in different individuals, because they proceed from the same causes, and produce the same effects. It ap- pears to me of some consequence to remember this ; and to separate, in all discussions upon these very diffi- cult subjects, the pure affection of mind, from what gives it birth, and from what it induces men to do when it is produced. The first question which arises in the consideration of human passions, is their origin. Concerning what pas- sions we do actually possess, there can be no dispute : but the question is, respecting their origin. With how many passions and desires are we born ? is there any such original principle in our nature as a desire of power, a desire of society, a desire of esteem ; or, are all these feelings. — whose existence in the mature man no one doubts, — capable of being resolved into any more simple principles? The same with the passions : are»men born with the original capacity of feeling gratitude for good. and resentment for evil ? or can it be shown what the ON THE ACTIVE POWERS OF THE MIND. 277 history of these feelings is ; can their origin be traced, and their progress be clearly shown ? The former opinions are entertained at present by the school of Reid, in Scotland ; were taught by Hutcheson ; and were, I fancy, the commonly received opinions on the subject before the time of Hartley. *The disciples of this school may differ a little in their enumeration of the original active principles of our nature, — but they all agree that they are numerous ; that no account can be given of their origin ; that they are there, because such is the constitu- tion of our nature; that it is an ultimate fact, and can not be reasoned upon. For instance, Dr. Reid would say, that " the passion of resentment is an original passion, im- planted by Providence in the breast of all men for the purposes of self-preservation." Dr. Hartley would say, " the passion is there, and Providence intended it for self-preservation ; but it was not placed originally in the human mind : provision, and very wise and very curious provision, is made, that it should uniformly spring up there ; but it is not an original, inexplicable impulse. I can show you the period when it does not exist ; I can explain to you by what means it is generated ; I can trace it throughout all its gradations, up to the perfect life and entire development of the passion." This is about the state of the question between Reid and Hart- ley, respecting the origin of the active powers. I shall now give some short account of the progress and nature of Dr. Hartley's opinions. Every body here present knows what is meant by the association of ideas. When two ideas have, by any ac- cident, been joined together frequently in the understand- ing, the one idea has, ever after, the strongest tendency to bring back the other : for instance, the celebrated Descartes was very much in love with a lady who squinted ; he had so associated that passion with obliqui- ty of vision, that he declares, to the latest hour of his life he could never see a lady with a cast in her eye, without experiencing the most lively emotions. In the same manner, to take the most trite of all instances, the ideas of spirits and of darkness, are so strongly united together in our infancy, that it becomes an exceedingly 278 LECTURE XX. difficult thing to separate them in mature age. There is no reason upon earth, why twelve o'clock in the mid- dle of the day, or why dinner-time, should not be the proper season for ghosts, instead of the middle of the night. It has pleased anility to make another arrange- ment ; and now, as I have said before, the two ideas of darkness and supernatural agency are so firmly united together, that it is frequently almost impossible to sep- arate them. This is what is meant by the principle of association : and this principle was, I believe, first noticed by Locke ; but he had recourse to it only to ex- plain those sympathies and antipathies which he calls un- natural, in distinction from those which he says are born with us ; and nothing can be more imperfect than his notions concerning the nature, cause, and effects, of the principle. Afterward, Mr. Gay, a clergyman in the West of England, endeavored to show the possibility of deducing all our passions and affections from association, in a dis- sertation prefixed to Bishop Law's translation of King's " Origin of Evil :*' but he supposed the love of happiness to be an original and implanted principle : and that the passions and affections were deducible only from sup- posing sensible and rational creatures dependent upon each other for their happiness. It was upon hearing of Mr. Gay's opinion, that Dr. Hartley turned his thonghts upon the subject; and at length, after giving the closest attention to it, in a course of several years, it appeared to him very probable, not only that all our intellectual pleasures and pains, but that all the phenomena of mem- ory, imagination, volition, reasoning, and every other mental affection and operation, are only different modes or cases of the associations of ideas : so that nothing necessary to make any man whatever he is. than a ca- pacity of feeling pleasure and pain, anil the principle of association. These are the simple rudiments and begin- nings of our nature ; these are the fountains of sorrow and of joy ; from hence come all the passions which gladden, and all which embitter life. Hence come "The radiant smiles of Joy. the applauding hand* Of Admiration ; hence the bitter shower ON THE ACTIVE POWERS OF THE MIND. 279 That sorrow sheds upon a brother's grave ; Hence the dumb palsy of nocturnal Fear, And those consuming fires that gnaw the heart Of panting Indignation." Such is the celebrated theory of Dr. Hartley ; in which I have totally passed over his doctrine of vibrations, be- cause, as every body knows, it is very foolish, and no way connected with the valuable part of his system. I shall now give two or three specimens of the man- ner in which the various active powers are traced up to simple pleasure and pain, guided by association ; and I will begin with one of the passions, — the passion of fear. Ask any one, whence comes the passion of fear ? and he will tell you it is an original passion of our nature : at the same time it is evident to observation, that a child is wholly unacquainted with fear till he has received some hurt. If fear were coeval with birth ; or a capacity of being afraid, implanted in us independently of all experi- ence, a child of four months old would be afraid of the flame of a candle, the first moment he saw it, — he would shrink from a viper, and be frightened into fits at the sight of a loaded pistol. Try a child of that age with a lighted candle ; he is so far from having any notion of fear, that his first effort is to grasp it : when he has been once burned, and suffered pain, the passion of fear — which is nothing more, in its early state, than the expectation of pain — is immediately formed. Put the candle to him again : he has now associated two ideas, — the light of the flame, and the pain of his body ; the appearance of the flame, therefore, immediately gives him the notion that he is going to suffer, — and this feeling is what we call fear. In the same manner, a child learns to be afraid of sharp weapons, of animals that bite and scratch, and of all the common objects of juvenile terror ; and, per- ceiving into how many inconveniences he is betrayed by his ignorance, falls into a general apprehension of all striking and unknown objects, because he can not ap- preciate the degree of mischief to be expected from them. This, I confess, appears to me a plain and true history of the passion of fear. If it were an original passion, the sight of a dagger would as immediately produce fear in 280 LECTURE XX. a young child, as the touch of ice would produce cold in him : but before he can experience this passion, it is necessary he should suffer pain ; and it is necessary that the object which has inflicted the pain should again be presented to him, in order to recall the feeling which has been associated to it. I observe, what those persons stand out for the most, who are the most conversant with children, is the fear of falling which they express, even though they have never fallen. But does it not seem rather capricious and singular, that, among all the innumerable perils by which children are surrounded, the fear of falling should be the only one against which they have any instinctive warn- ing ? A child will eat poison if it be sweet ; set himself on fire, play with gunpowder, swallow needles, run into any kind of mischief, from which he has suffered no previous pain ; and amid these ten thousand avenues to destruction, we believe that the only one he is warned not to approach, is that which would break his arm or his leg, or give him a great blow on the head. So that the child may be burned, poisoned, stabbed, cut, mangled, or any thing else, provided he is not bruised. But what is the meaning of a child being afraid instinctively ? If he is afraid of an object, he must, I suppose, have an idea of that object. Is he, then, born with the ideas of lire, of boiling water, of sjiarp-pointed weapons, of medical gentlemen, and all other objects which can do him harm ; — or, if Locke has driven us out of these anti- quated notions, shall we suppose, that he has no previous acquaintance with them ; but that when they are per- ceived for the first time, ttye passion of fear immediately takes place ? Is a child, then, startled by a brass blun- derbuss the first time he sees it ? M But this is not a natural object :" true ; but is he. then, startled by arse- nic, any more than with powdered sugar ? To what do these instinctive terrors extend ? It appears to me. I confess, quite impossible to make common sense of any supposition but that of Hartley, which says, that pain is the teacher of fear. Before pain there is no fear ; and when that passion exists, however great the distance. ON THE ACTIVE POWERS OF THE MIND. 281 and however circuitous the course, there is the fountain- head from which it sprang. I will now consider two of the most important princi- ples of our nature, — the desire of doing harm to others, and the desire of doing good ; — resentment and benevo- lence. It will be curious to observe how far they fall into this doctrine of association. A young child, soon after his birth, has not the least desire to do good or harm to any one ; he has no such passions : and it is our business to explain how he gets them. The food he eats or drinks gives him pleasure ; but observing, in process of time, that the nurse is always present when he re- ceives his food, the sight of the nurse gives him pleasure, because it reminds him of his food ; yet in process of time the idea of the food is obliterated, and the sight of the nurse gives him pleasure, and, without the interve- ning idea that she is useful to him, he loves her immedi- ately after his appetite of hunger is satisfied, as well as before : his passion for her, which first proceeded from an interested motive, becomes quite disinterested ; and he loves her without the slightest reference to the ad- vantages she procures him. This is the origin of his love for his nurse: and then, as all kindred ideas are very easily associated together, he proceeds from loving her to desiring her good ; for, perceiving that other peo- ple like what he likes, it is very natural, that the idea of his own gratification in eating, should suggest the idea of the nurse's gratification ; and that he should offer her a little morsel of his apple or his cake, or any puerile luxury which he happens to be enjoying. The associa- tion is easy to be comprehended, and seems perfectly natural. Besides, a child begins very early to associate his own advantage with benevolence. Cake, and com- mendation, the parent of cake, are lavished upon the child who shows a disposition to please others. Cuffs, and frowns, and hard words, are the portion of a selfish and a malevolent child : he begins with loving benevo- lence for the advantage it affords him, and ends with loving it for itself: he is not born with love of any thing, but merely with the capacity of feeling pleasure ; which he first feels for the milk, then for the mother, because 282 LECTURE XX. she gives him the milk, then for her own sake : then, as she makes him happy, association gives him the idea of making her happy ; and he gains so much by benevo- lence, that he loves it first for the advantages it affords, then for itself. Reverse all this, and you will have the history and progress of the malevolent passions. A young child hates nobody. If you were to pinch or scratch him, he would feel pain ; if you did it often, he would associate the idea of you with the idea of pain, and would hate you, first, on account of the ideas you suggested, then hate you plainly and simply without any cause. After he had learned by observation, that you were similarly constituted with himself, he would be led to associate your painful feelings with his own ; and thus a foundation of malevolence toward you would be laid. Again : a child is deterred from doing any thing by threats and by pain ; and he perceives that other per- sons are deterred by similar means ; he therefore asso- ciates these ideas with prevention ; threatens and beats whoever contradicts him ; and cherishes resentment as a means of gratifying his will, and effecting whatever object he has in view. It is quite impossible that a child can be born with any feeling of resentment. He can never tell that the way to prevent another child from beating him, is to beat that child again ; it would be an enormous thing that he who does not yet know black from scarlet, should be acquainted with the dominion which pain has over the mind, and make use of it to ac- complish his purposes ; and yet. such is the opinion that they adopt, who consider this passion as innate, and coe- val with our existence. I have said that the child first associates with his mother the idea of food, and loves her in consequence of this association : then loves her from disinterested motives, without any association at all : and I have said that he hates his tormentor, first, from associating pain- ful ideas with his appearance : and then hates him with- out any association at all. This leads me to the men- tion of a very general, and very important law of asso- ciation : and that is this ; — the medium idea by which two others are associated, is always at length destroyed. ON THE ACTIVE POWERS OF THE MIND. 283 and the two others coalesce, and make the association : for instance, whatever we love for its uses, we love for itself. A man begins to love his horse because he car- ries him well out hunting : he ends with loving the horse without the slightest reference to his utility ; and keeps him when he is blind and lame, with as much at- tention as in the vigor of his youth. Here, the middle term (if I may use the expression), which united together the two ideas of horse and affection, was utility : that middle term was effaced ; and the affection remains for the horse, when all notion of utility is completely at an end. The middle term here is like a cramp or a screw put upon two pieces of wood, just glued together, ■ — it serves to keep them together at first, but can be re- moved with perfect safety, when the cement is solid, and the union complete. I remember once seeing an advertisement in the pa- pers, with which I was much struck ; and which I will take the liberty of reading : — " Lost, in the Temple Cof- fee House, and supposed to be taken away by mistake, an oaken stick, which has supported its master not only over the greatest part of Europe, but has been his com- panion in his journeys over the inhospitable deserts of Africa ; whoever will restore it to the waiter, will confer a very serious obligation on the advertiser ; or, if that be any object, shall receive a recompense very much above the value of the article restored." Now, here is a man who buys a sixpenny stick, because it is useful ; and totally forget'ting the trifling causes which first made his stick of any consequence, speaks of it with warmth and affection ; calls it his companion ; and would hardly have changed it, perhaps, for the gold stick which is car- ried before the king. But the best and strongest exam- ple of this, and of the customary progress of association, is in the passion of avarice. A child only loves a guinea because it shines ; and, as it is equally splendid, he loves a gilt button as well. In after-life, he begins to love wealth, because it affords him the comforts of existence ; and then loves it so well, that he denies himself the com- mon comforts of life to increase it. The uniting idea is so totally forgotten, that it is completely sacrificed to the 284 LECTURE XX. ideas which it unites. Two friends unite against the person to whose introduction they are indebted for their knowledge of each other ; exclude him their society, and ruin him by their combination. I might, upon the same principle, proceed to explain a vast variety of passions and desires, which are all commonly spoken of as original principles of our nature. For instance : nothing appears to me more decided and indisputable, than that men are not born with any love of power, any love of society, or any love of esteem ; all these feelings, — which we all experience so strongly, — have all sprung from pleasure, pain, and association ; and are entirely explicable upon that system. But, if I were to sk> through with them, I should merelv be tread- ing over the same ground I have passed already : the prin- ciple once understood, there is no great difficulty in making the application to particular cases. I beg leave again to observe, — and I request the par- ticular attention of my hearers to it. — that the only dif- ference between the friends of this doctrine of associa- tion, and their antagonists, is, respecting the o?-igi?i of all these feelings and passions. Respecting their exist- ence, there is none. Every one agrees that there is a love of parents, a love of country, a desire of esteem, and a desire of knowledge : the only question is, respect- ing their origin. Are they primitive ? Can no account be given of their causes ? or from what are they de- rived ? They say, in tracing up a river |o its source, we find it bursting out from innumerable streams. We say. this is very true ; but you stop short too soon, you don't look far enough ; we can show you your numerous fountains distinctly terminating in one. — the plain, an- cient, and undoubted source of the stream. The admi- rable simplicity of this doctrine ought certainly to rec- ommend it to universal attention : as, independent ot' other considerations, it wears the face of that simplicity in causes, and variety in effects, which we discover n every other part of nature " In human work?, though labored on vrith pain. A thousand movements scarce one purpose gain : ON THE ACTIVE POWERS OF THE MIND. 285 In God's, one single can its end produce ; Yet serves to second, too, some other use." I\or let any man imagine that the power and goodness of Providence is diminished in the estimation of man, by that philosophy which teaches that we come into the world void of all passions, and acquire them by these simple means. Is it wiser and greater to move every planet by a fresh power, or to guide them all in their spheres b}^ the simple principle of gravity ? Did Newton degrade our notions of Providence when he discovered one great law presiding over heaven and earth ? Did Locke diminish our admiration of the human mind, and of Him who made it, when he showed us how all its infinite variety of ideas grow out of mere sensation and reflection ? To show us that a variety of movements in a machine all proceed from one and the same original power, is to show us that that machine has been con- ceived clearly and grandly ; for imbecility, and want of resources, are shown by calling in a vast variety of powers to produce one plain effect. But opulence of thought, and immensity of mind, are shown by producing an infinite variety of effects, from one simple cause. Providence did not originally implant in men a love of esteem, or a love of knowledge ; but Providence im- planted that capacity of feeling pleasure and pain, and that facility of association, which as infallibly produce the love of esteem and knowledge, as if they had been original feelings of the mind. But what says Dr. Reid and his school ? — That Prov- idence, which moves all the heavenly bodies by one simple cause ; — that Providence, which darts the blood of man through a million vessels by the contraction of one single organ ; — that Providence, always so simple and so grand, is in the fabrication of the mind, alone complicated and confused, arranging without order, and planning without art. What was the first command ? Not " let there be colors ?" not " let the herb be green, and the heavens be blue:" but, "let there be light!" and forthwith there was every variety of color! So with us ; the first mandate was not, " let man be affected 286 LECTURE XX. with auger and gratitude," but " let man feel ;" and then, matter let loose upon him, with all its malignities, and all its pleasures, roused up in him his good and his bad passions, and made him as he is, — the best and the worst of created beings. I have heard it said, as an objection against this theory, that there is a neatness in it, an arrondissement, which gives it a great appearance of quackery and imposture. This is very likely ; but I am not contending that the theory looks as if it were true, but merely that it is true. At the same time, there is a great deal of merit in the observation ; for discoveries in general, especially upon such very intricate subjects, are more ragged, uneven, and incomplete ; there is here a little light, and there a great deal of darkness ; in one place you make a great inroad, and then you are stopped by impenetrable bar- riers : but here is one master-key which opens every bolt and barrier ; a philosophy which explains even- thing, and leaves the whole subject at rest forever. All these are certainly presumptive evidences against the theory ; but if it perform all that it promise, those pre- sumptive evidences are, of course, honorably repelled. I beg leave, however, before I conclude this lecture, to repeat again and again, that I by no means undertake to burthen myself with the ichole of Dr. Hartley's theory. The vibrations, 'every one laughs at. The doctrines of necessity, which he has chosen to add on to it, I have nothing to do with : the subject is improper for this place ; and the whole question, rightly considered, more a question of words, than of any thing else. The great principle of Hartley, which I am exclusively endeavoring to maintain, is this. — that all the passions are derived from pleasure and pain, guided by associa- tion. For that opinion I am responsible, and for no other. I now take leave of it with saying, that, in my very confined and inconsiderable attention to such sort of subjects, I have felt a security and a satisfaction in this system, which I never did in any other : every day convinces me more and more, that it is a discovery of vast importance ; fresh facts arrange themselves under it; it solves new difficulties ; and as it remains longer ON THE ACTIVE POWERS OF THE MIND. 287 in the mind, it increases in durability and improves in strength. " Love, Hope, and Joy, — fair Pleasure's smiling train ; Hate, Fear, and Grief, — the family of Pain : These, mix'd with art, and to due bounds confin'd, Make and maintain the pleasures of the mind ; The lights and shades, whose well-accorded strife Gives all its strength and color to our life." LECTURE XXI OX THE EVIL AFFECTIOXS. OF THE MALEVOLENT AND UNPLEASANT PASSIONS \ THEY ARE ALL DERIVED FROM PAIN, GUIDED BY ASSOCIATION. OF THE GENERATION OF RESENT- MENT, AND THE RESTRAINTS IMPOSED UPON IT BY EDUCATION. OF MAL- ICE, FEAR, SHAME, AND THE PAIN OF INACTIVITY. There have been almost as many different arrancre- ments of the passions, as there have been writers who have treated on the subject. Some writers have placed them in contrast to each other, as Hope and Fear, Joy and Sorrow. Some have considered them as they are personal, relative, or social ; some according to their influ- ence at different periods of life; others, as they relate to past, present, or future time. The academicians ad- vanced, that the principal passions were Fear. Hope, Joy, and Grief. They included Aversion and Despair under the passion of Grief; Hope, Fortitude, and Answer under Desire. Dr. Hartley has arranged the passions under five grateful and five ungrateful ones: the grateful ones are, Love, Desire, Hope, Joy. and Pleasing Recol- lection ; the ungrateful ones. Hatred, Aversion. Fear, Grief and Displeasing Recollection. Dr. Watts and Mr. Grove have both followed different arrangements, which I will not detain you by stating: whoever is de- sirous of seeing them at length, may consult Dr. Cogan'a book on the Passions, who has also proposed and followed an arrangement of his own. Conceiving that we are born merely with a capacity oi feeling pleasure and pain, and that from this capacity, directed by association, all the affections of our nature spring, it appears to me that the plainest and most nat- ural arrangement will be. to divide the affections accord- r^ ON THE EVIL AFFECTIONS. 289 ing to their origin, as they are derived from the one or the other of these great principles of our nature, and as they belong to the family of pleasure or of pain. I shall begin with those affections of the mind which are formed by painful associations ; premising, that I by no means intend to pursue this subject as far as it would lead me, or to enter into very minute and accurate dis- tinctions, because such an analysis would be excessively tedious, and would better become a professed treatise on the passions, than a course of Lectures on Moral Philosophy. All ungrateful passions are the sensation of evil : but it may be evil long passed (for the remembrance of which we have no name) ; or it may be present evil, either of body or mind, and from different causes, as pain, grief, and fear ; or it may be the apprehension of evil to come, which is fear. From the sensations of evil, comes the desire of inflicting it, or malevolence. Hence anger, jealousy, malice, envy, and all the train of bad passions, which are all compounded of the same principles, — dis- pleasure, and a desire of displeasing ; or, in more com- mon words, hatred and revenge. So that all the vices of our nature come from remembering evil, feeling it, an- ticipating it, and inflicting it (the consequence of these three preceding states). The difference between grief and pain is, that we apply the expression of grief to those uneasy sensations which have not the body for their immediate cause; pain, to those which have. The loss of reputation oc- casions grief; the loss of a limb, pain. Grief is that uneasy state of mind which proceeds from the loss of some good, or the presence of some evil. A singular circumstance respecting grief, is, that there is not always, in the suffering person, a very ready dispo- sition to get rid of his sorrow : he clings to the remem- brance of it ; gathers round about him every thing which can recall the idea of what he has lost ; and appears to derive his principal consolation from those trains of ideas which an indifferent person would consider as best cal- culated to exasperate his affliction. The reason of this, I take to be, that it is pleasant to be pitied, pleasant even N 290 LECTURE XXI. to think how we should be pitied, if the world were well acquainted with all the minute circumstances of our loss, — with all the fine ties and endearments which bound us to the object of our affections. We are fond of rep- resenting ourselves to our own fancies as objects of the most profound and universal sympathy. Death never took away such a father, such a husband, or such a son ; we dwell upon our misfortunes, and magnify them., till we derive a sort of consolation from reflecting on that exquisite pity to which we are entitled, and which we should receive if the whole extent of our calamity were as well known to others as to ourselves. We dwell upon our affliction, however, not merely from the sym- pathy to which it appears to entitle us, but because in that train of ideas there are many that give an immedi- ate relief of pleasure, which, though purchased dearly by the subsequent pain to which they expose us, are still resorted to for that immediate pleasure. For in- stance, a man reduced to sudden poverty, may take some pleasure in thinking a moment on the luxuries which he has been accustomed to enjoy : he pays dearly enough for such reflections, when he is forced to perceive what his present state is ; but still the train of thought has been pleasant for the moment, — it has given him some im- mediate relief, and therefore he has indulged it. i: Grief," says Constance, — " Grief fills the room up of my absent child, Lies in his bed, walks up and down with me ; Puts on his pretty looks, repeats his words, Remembers me of all his gracious parte, Stuffs out his vacant garments with his form." These two causes appear to me to explain the singular phenomenon, that sorrow should ever be pleasant, and justify the usual poetical expression of the luxury of grief. Grief, it should be observed, seems to be a general term for all sensations of evil when that sensation has not a specific name. That sensation of evil which proceeds from the loss of esteem, has a specific name : it is called shame. Most ON THE EVIL AFFECTIONS. 291 of the other sensations of evil, — as that which proceeds from the loss of friends, or the loss of fortune, or from frustrated ambition, — pass under the common and in- clusive name of grief; though there is no reason that I know of, why that uneasiness which proceeds from the loss of power, should not have a specific name as well as that which proceeds from the loss of esteem. Grief produces resentment or not, according as it is accompanied with the notion of its being occasioned by a voluntary and rational agent. For instance, a young boy walks under an old, ruinous building ; a stone falls on his head, and he is killed : in this case you feel no- thing but pure affliction : — but you learn immediately after, that some wicked and malicious person has pushed down fhis stone upon the child's head, and killed him : here grief is immediately followed by resentment ; and you are actuated by the strongest and most irresistible motives to do all possible harm to the murderer of your son. So that resentment is always preceded by uneasy sensations of the body, that we call pain ; or of the mind, which we call grief; though grief and pain do not al- # ways produce resentment. It will be curious to investi- gate the origin and progress of this difference, and to decide how it is, that precisely the same degree of grief does sometimes produce violent resentment, sometimes not. As I stated in the last Lecture, it is quite impossible to suppose that a child is born with all those compound notions which enter into the word resentment ; for, ob- serve all the knowledge which this implies : first, you suppose the child of a month old, or a day old, to know that my hand guided the pin with which I pricked him ; next, that I can guide my hand where I please ; next, that I feel pain as he does, and that he has a right to inflict the same pain as I have inflicted upon him. There is not the slightest evidence that the child has any one of all these ideas ; and I would just as soon be- lieve that a child just born could say the three first books of Ariosto by heart, as that he is born with any such wisdom. He learns by experience, that other human creatures feel pleasure and pain as well as himself; that 292 LECTURE XXI. they are allured by pleasure to do him good, and by pain intimidated from doing him harm. Hence the origin of his benevolence and his resentment ; of his desire to do harm, or to do good, to his fellow-creatures. A young child of seven or eight months old, if you take him awav from any object that attracts his attention, will cry, ex- press great grief, and all that agitation of body, and im- patience of mind, which is frequently occasioned by grief; but there is not the slightest appearance of resent- ment. It never appears to occur to a child of that age, that you are the cause of this privation ; that you can feel pain, and that therefore he will inflict it. It is long after this period, that he acquires this very compound idea ; and he acquires it, as he acquires the power of knowing black from white, and tall from short, — by observation. It may appear very extraordinary that there should be such a prodigious tendency in after-life to connect grief with resentment, when they were not originally connected together by nature. But I think the doctrine ^>f acquired perceptions, must convince any man how much the work of association is like an original impres- sion of nature ; and how impossible it is to distinguish the laminae put together by association, from those which were originally solid and continuous. Besides, too, all similar passions naturally generate each other, as we shall see hereafter ; and there is a very strong resemblance in the effects of grief, pain, and resentment ; and, having once been joined together, the one has the strongest possible disposition to produce the other. I am not speaking of the highest-refined London grief. — the grief of civilization and softness ; but the grief of a savage and a child. The grief of nature in its first stage is a violent, impatient, irritating passion, very much resembling anger. The natural effect of grief and pain is, to cry out as loud as possible, and to kick and sprawl in all possible directions : and I believe, if people would do so much more than they do, they would be all the better for it. The sitting on monuments smiling, and the green and yellow melancholy, is quite a subsequent business, entirely the result of education. ON THE EVIL AFFECTIONS. 293 Having acquired the feeling of resentment, the child is, of course, very unlearned at first in the application of it ; he has not yet learned what objects have life and feeling, what not ; and at the age of two years, when thrown into a violent rage, it is not impossible but that he will beat the chair upon which he has knocked his head, or the table that has thrown him down, as vehe- mently as if they were capable of suffering from his malevolence. In a very little time he learns the folly of this ; distinguishes between objects that feel, and objects that do not ; and is more learned and skillful in directing the effusions of his wrath. After he has learned to direct his resentment only against objects that have life and feeling, education limits the confines of his resent- ment still more, by infusing in his mind the idea of justice ; by instructing him that he must not resent unless the injury has been done intentionally, — unless he who has been guilty of it, has done it without any fair and lawful pretext ; and that after all, where it can not be forgiven with propriety, it must be punished with moderation. So that education teaches us at last to support a large class of griefs without gratifying the propensity to resentment ; and confines the gratification of that passion to where the injury has been inflicted by a rational being, intentionally and unjustly. There still exists, however, through life, the strongest disposition to connect together grief, pain, and resentment ; and it requires the strongest and steadiest appeal to the princi- ples of justice to keep it down. We often kick a stock or a stone, over which we have stumbled, from the mere habit we have acquired of associating resentment with pain.. We feel a sort of resentment against the person who brings us bad news. Zinzis Khan cut off the head of one of his favorites for venturing to inform him of a partial defeat his troops had sustained. The raising up of the passion of resentment, causes an immediate diver- sion of the passion of grief ; and therefore, the feeling of resentment in cases of grief, seems to be sought after, in some badly constituted minds, as a sort of relief. Sup- pose any person were to purchase a piece of painted glass for three or four hundred pounds ; it is discovered 294 LECTURE XXI. to have fallen down, and is broken to pieces ; — the dis- position of resentment to follow displeasure is so great, that I am afraid it would be some relief to find that this had been knocked down by a careless servant ; and that the master would not be very well pleased with his servant, who could give him such an account of the business as precluded the master from all possibility of scolding. A child is rarely deformed, or rarely dies, by the hand of nature ; but, according to the parent, the nurse has mismanaged it, or the physician destroyed it by his ignorance. Men in violent pain are excessively irascible, very strongly disposed to quarrel and find fault. A gamester, who has lost a thousand pounds, comes home, and relieves his uneasiness by quarreling with his wife and children, and abusing his servants. All these are instances of the strong disposition of man- kind to associate together grief and resentment ; in these instances, the disposition is so strongly evinced that it entirely overpowers all sense of justice. Contempt is that painful emotion which a human being excites in you, by his degrading qualities or con- duct. Contempt only diminishes resentment, in those injuries which depend upon the character of the person who inflicts them. A libel may be written by a man so infamous, that all the severe things he has said are rendered harmless by the name which is subscribed to them ; here, my resentment is less, because the grief I feel, is so much less, from having been traduced by such a man : but if the same man were to set my house on fire, or assault me with a large stick, the general con- temptibility of his character would certainly have very little effect in diminishing my resentment. Contempt diminishes resentment by diminishing danger — the cause of resentment. Peevishment is resentment, excited by trifles. Envo- is resentment, excited by superiority. — not by all su- periority, but by that to which you think you are fairly entitled : for a plowman does not envy a king : but he envies another plowman who has a shilling a week more than he has. Malice is pure malevolence; a desire to inflict injury without a cause; an abstract love of ON THE EVIL AFFECTIONS. 295 doing mischief; — at least, so it is commonly said to be : but there can hardly be any such passion ; it must be a desire of doing mischief for some very slight and foolish cause. I don't like the cut of a man's coat, or the make of his face ; or, he talks too quick, or too slow, or some other such absurd and childish reason, — which makes me his enemy, and inclines me to do him harm. Sulkiness, is anger half subdued by fear. Jealousy, is another modification of anger ; — the causes of which, I believe, there is no occasion I should explain. Cruelty, is rather a habit than a passion: it will easily appear, however, that it is the genuine and necessary offspring of anger, often indulged and gratified. It is most apt to arise in proud, selfish, and timorous persons, who con- ceive highly of their own merits, and of the consequent injustice of all offenses committed against them; and who have an exquisite feeling and apprehension in respect of private gratification and uneasiness. Mon- tesquieu has made this remark : he says, that all persons accustomed to the implicit gratification of the will, are very apt to be cruel. Fear, is the apprehension of future evil. Habit dimin- ishes fear, when it raises up contrary associations ; and increases it, when it confirms the first associations. A soldier, who has often escaped, begins to disunite the two ideas of dying and fighting ; he connects also with fighting, a sense of duty, and a love of glory. Habit, I should think, would increase the sensation of fear, in a person who had undergone two or three painful opera- tions, and was about to submit to another. A man works in a gunpowder-mill every day of his life, with the utmost sang froid, which you would not be very much pleased to enter for half an hour: you have associated with the manufactory, nothing but the accidents you have heard it is exposed to ; he has associated with it, the numberless days he has passed there in perfect securi- ty. For the same reason, a sailor-boy stands unconcerned upon the mast ; a mason upon a ladder ; and a miner descends by his single rope. Their associations are altered by experience ; therefore, in estimating the degree in which human creatures are under the influence of this 296 LECTURE XXI. passion, we must always remember their previous habits. A woman conceives, early in life, such dreadful notions of war, and all the instruments of war, that no degree of maternal tenderness, probably, would induce her to take a sword and pistol, and go and fight ; but in the time of a public plague, she would despise her own life, nurse her sick husband, or her children, and expose herself to death, as boldly as any grenadier. In the late attack upon Egypt, our soldiers behaved with the most distin- guished courage ; but a physician did what, I suppose, no soldier in the whole army would have dared to have done ; — he slept for three nights in the sheets of a patient who had died of the plague ! If the question had been to encounter noisy, riotous death, he probably could not have done it ; but where pus and miasma were concerned, he appears to have been a perfect hero. Fear, is the most contagious of all the passions ; and the reason is obvious enough why it becomes so : it is much more likely that the cause of your fear should concern me, more than the cause of any other of your passions If I see you very angry, it is not probable, unless we happen to be intimately connected, that the cause of your anger would prove to be a cause of mine ; but if I see you dreadfully frightened, it immediately occurs to me, that I am implicated in the same cause of fear : — you have discovered that the play-house in which we are both sitting, is on fire ; you have seen an enraged bull, running in the streets : I am not easy for an instant, till I have discovered the cause of your terror, and satisfied myself, that it does not concern us both. The passion of fear, in its ordinary state, is a vibration of the mind, between the expectation of good, and the expectation of evil; in which contest., however, the ex- pectation of evil preponderates. The moment all h is banished, and nothing remains but despair (the ex- pectation of certain evil), the passion assumes a new form; — very often that of the most furious resentment. A rat is a very timid animal, with respect to men : but get a rat into a corner, where all possibility of escape is precluded, and a rat will fly at you like a tiger. The in- stances are innumerable of the heroic exploits performed ON THE EVIL AFFECTIONS. 297 by small bodies of troops, whose fears, despair has con- verted into resentment. In cases where there is no room for resentment, — as in shipwreck, — despair produces va- rious species of insanity, stupor, and delirium, while the sailors are only afraid ; that is, while there is a mixture of two passions, they work, and do all they can for their safety. The moment there is no more hope, — so impos- sible is it for the ordinary mass of human beings to look steadily at great and certain evil, that many jump over- board and drown themselves ; some are quite stupefied ; others completely raving mad. A great propensity to fear is, I should imagine, capa- ble of some degree of cure. The living with brave men, would certainly go a great way to diminish this passion of fear ; — as all our qualities of mind, whether good or bad, are highly contagious. To put ourselves in situa- tions where we must act before many witnesses, operates as a check upon fear, by raising up contrary passions, of the dread of shame. It very often happens, in cases of danger, that some one present, is more under the in- fluence of this passion than ourselves, and that this ex- ample, instead of increasing our fear, produces the con- trary effect, — of diminishing it : we become ashamed of our companion's weakness ; then of our own. Vanity induces us, also, to make a display of our superiority ; and, by this effort, the fear is diminished. Fear is re- peatedly overcome by affection, and compassion. A mother would run away from a dog, if her child was not with her ; but she faces him very boldly when her fears are excited for another. A sudden cry of distress will induce a man, very often, to do what no regard for his own safety could possibly impel him to perform. Suspicion, clearly belongs to the family of fear : it is that, passion applied to the motives and intentions of hu- man creatures. For instance, we should not call a man suspicious who was extremely careful of his health ; and who was always believing, when he walked out, that it was going to thunder, or rain ; but we should call that person suspicious, who believed that every person with whom he lived, was laying plots to defraud and deceive him. Fear, is certainly a strong predisposing cause to N # 298 LECTURE XXI. suspicion. It is highly probable that a suspicious man is naturally a timid man ; though the converse is not equally probable, — that a timid person should be sus- picious. Women are timid, but not suspicious ; — much the contrary. The particular kind of grief we feel for the loss of reputation, is called shame ; the aversion occasioned by which feeling, — the desire to escape it, — is, perhaps, the most powerful of all the passions. The most curious offspring of shame, is shyness ; — a word always used, I fancy, in a bad sense, to signify misplaced shame ; for a person who felt only diffident, exactly in proportion as he ought, would never be called shy. But a shy person feels more shame, than it is graceful, or proper, he should feel ; generally, either from ignorance or pride. A young man, in making his first entrance into society, is so ignorant as to imagine he is the object of universal attention ; and that every thing he does is subject to the most rigid criticism. Of course, under such a supposi- tion, he is shy and embarrassed : he regains his ease, as he becomes aware of his insignificance. An excessive jealousy of reputation, is the very frequent parent of shyness, and makes us all afraid of saying and doing, what we might say and do, with the utmost propriety and grace. We are afraid of hazarding any thing ; and the game stands still, because no man will venture any stake : whereas, the object of living together, is not se- curity only, but enjoyment. Both objects are promoted by a moderate dread of shame ; both destroyed by that passion, when it amounts to shyness ; — for a shy person not only feels pain, and gives pain ; but. what is worse, he incurs blame, for a want of that rational and manly confidence, which is so useful to those who possess it. and so pleasant to those who witness it. I am severe against shyness, because it looks like a virtue without being a virtue : and because it gives us false notions ot what the real virtue is. I admit that it is sometimes an affair of body, rather than of mind ; that where a person wishes to say what he knows will be received with favor, he can not command himself enough to do it. But this is merely the effect of habit, where the cause that ON THE EVIL AFFECTIONS. 299 created the habit has for a moment ceased. When the feelings respecting shame are disciplined by good sense, and commerce with the world, to a fair medium, the body will soon learn to obey the decisions of the under standing. Nor let any young man imagine (however it may flat ter the vanity of those who perceive it),«that there can be any thing worthy of a man, in faltering, and tripping, and stammering, and looking like a fool, and acting like a clown. A silly college pedant believes that this high- est of all the virtues, consists in the shame of the body ; in losing the ease and possession of a gentleman ; in turn- ing red ; and tumbling down ; in saying this thing, when you mean that ; in overturning every body within your reach, out of pure-bashfulness ; and in a general stupid- ity and ungainliness, and confusion of limb, and thought, ,and motion. But that dread of shame, which virtue and wisdom teach, is, to act so, from the cradle to the tomb, that no man can cast upon you the shadow of reproach ; not to swerve on this side for wealth, or on that side for favor ; but to go on speaking truly, and acting justly : no man's oppressor, and no man's sycophant and slave. This is the shame of the soul ; and these are the blushes of the inward man ; which are worth all the distortions of the body, and all the crimson of the face. I come now to the pain of inactivity, or ennui. All young animals have a great pleasure in motion ; and when they have moved for a long time, they have a great pleasure in remaining at rest. In the one feeling, na- ture secures the activity of animals, and distinguishes them from the vegetable and the mineral kingdom ; by the other, prevents that activity from destroying them. When the mind entertains no desire nor aversion strong enough to induce us to act, either with the body, or by thinking, we are ennuied, and in a state bordering upon the greatest misery. The solitary imprisonment recom mended by Howard, has, I fancy, been given up, from its having driven several persons to insanity. The ab- sence of desire and aversion, or which includes them both, motive, destroyed their reason. A man much given to speculation might have supported himself, per 300 LECTUEE XXI. haps, in such a situation ; or a mind fertile in inventing occupations ; but it is such a strain upon human nature, that none but its choicest and strongest materials can support it Baron Trenck, in his dreadful imprisonment, took to engraving pewter pots, which, I believe, was his sole occupation before he began to contrive his escape. Count Saxe, in his solitary cell, formed a strict friend- ship with a large spider, provided it with flies and gnats, and every dainty that was on the wing ; and had so far familiarized the creature to him, that it would crawl upon his hand with the most perfect security, and come out of its hiding-place upon a noise which the count was accustomed to make. It is added, that the jailer, when he perceived the amusement which the count derived from the spider, killed it ! Count Rumford availed himself, in a very ingenious manner, of the pain of ennui. He compelled all the new-comers in his school to sit quite idle, and do nothing." The misery they felt from remaining entirely without occupation, operated as the strongest stimulus in them, to desire work; and they received his permission to la- bor in the manufactory, as a liberation from the most painful feelings they had ever experienced. ''I have already mentioned," says the Count, " that those chil- dren who were too young to work, were placed upon seats, built round the hall, where other children worked. This was done in order to inspire them with a desire to do that, which other children, apparently more favored, more caressed, and more praised than themselves. permitted to do; and of which, they were obliged to be idle spectators: and this had the desired etlect. As nothing is so tedious to a child as being obliged to sit still in the same place for a considerable time ; ami as the work which the other more favored children were engaged in was light and easy, and appeared rather amusing than otherwise (being the spinning o^ hemp and flax, with small light wheels, turned with the foot), these children who were obliged to be spectators oi this busy and entertaining scene, became so very uneasy in their situations, and so jealous of those who were per- mitted to be more active, that they frequently solicited, ON THE EVIL AFFECTIONS. 301 with the greatest importunity, to be allowed to work ; and often cried most heartily, if this favor was not in- stantly granted them. How sweet these tears were to me, can easily be imagined ; and I always found that the joy they showed upon being permitted to descend from their benches, and mix with the working children below, was equal to the solicitude with which they had de- manded that favor." It is remarkable, when the body requires rest, the mind is very easily amused : after severe toil in hunting, or war, savages will remain whole days in a state of in- activity. Any thing which occupies the mind agreeably, or disagreeably, is an antidote to ennui : severe pain is not compatible with it. There is a story of a very re- spectable tradesman, who had retired from business, and who confessed to a friend of his, that the happiest month in the year to him, was the month, in which his fit of the gout came on. He was so totally unable to fill up his time, that even the occupation afforded by pain was a relief to him. There is no word in our language to signify the re- membrance of evil that is past, as there is to signify the anticipation of the evil which is to come ; no word con- trasted to this meaning of fear : probably because the recollection of pain, is not very painful, as being con- trasted with present ease ; and because such recollec- tion produces no events, and leads to nothing ; whereas, fear — the anticipation of evil — is a very remarkable passion, and immediately leads to a state of activity. Remorse is not the recollection of any past grief, but the sensation of present grief, for past faults now irreme- diable. It appears, then, from this enumeration of the ungrate- ful passions, which lead men to act from feelings of aver- sion, that they are all referable to the memory of evil, the actual sensation, the future anticipation of it, or the resentment which any one of these notions is apt to ex- cite. The remembrance of past evils, produces melan- choly : the sensation of present evils, if they be referred to the body, pain ; if to the mind, grief. Envy, hatred, and malice, are all modifications of resentment, differing 302 LECTURE XXI. in the causes which have excited that resentment, as well as in the degree in which it is entertained. Shame is that particular species of grief, which proceeds from losing the esteem of our fellow-creatures ; fear, the an- ticipation of future evils. This is the catalogue of hu- man miseries and pains ; and it is plain why they have been added to our nature. By the miseries of the body, man is controlled within his proper sphere, and learns what manner of life it was intended he should lead : fear and suspicion are given to guard him from harm : re- sentment, to punish those who inflict it ; and by punish- ment, to deter them. By the pain of inactivity, we are driven to exertion ; — by the dread of shame, to labor for esteem. But all these pregnant and productive feelings are poured into the heart of man, not with any thing that has the air of human moderation, — not with a measure that looks like precision and adjustment, — but wildly, lav- ishly, and in excess. Providence only impels : it makes us start up from the earth, and do something ; but whether that something shall be good or evil, is the ar- duous decision which that Providence has left to us. You can not sit quietly till the torch is held up to your cottage, and the dagger to your throat : if you could, this scene of things would not long be what it now is. The solemn feeling which rises up in you at such times, is as much the work of God, as the splendor of the light- ning is His work ; but that feeling may degenerate into the fury of a savage, or be disciplined into the rational opposition of a wise and a good man. You must be af- fected by the distinctions of your fellow-creatures, — you can not help it ; but you may envy those distinctions, or you may emulate them. The dread of shame may enervate you for every manly exertion, or be the vigi- lant guardian of purity and innocence. In a strong mind, fear grows up into cautious sagacity ; grief, into amiable tenderness. Without the noble toil of moral education, the one is abject cowardice, the other eternal gloom ; therefore, there is the good, and there is the evil! Everyman's destiny is in his own hands. Na- ture has given us those beginnings, which are the ele- ments of the foulest vices, and the seeds o( every sweet ON THE EVIL AFFECTIONS. 303 and immortal virtue : but though Nature has given you the liberty to choose, she has terrified you by her punish- ments, and lured you by her rewards, to choose aright ; for she has not only taken care that envy, and coward- ice, and melancholy, and revenge, shall carry with them their own curse, — but she has rewarded emulation, courage, patience, cheerfulness, and dignity, with that feeling of calm pleasure, which makes it the highest act. of human wisdom to labor for their attainment. LECTURE XXII ON THE BENEVOLENT AFFECTIONS. OF THE AGREEABLE AND BENEVOLENT AFFECTIONS, AND THEIR ORIGIN. OF THE NATURAL SIGNS OF THE PASSIONS. OF THE AFFINITY BETWEEN THE PASSIONS. OF THE EFFECT OF CONTRARY PASSIONS ON EACH OTHER. In my last Lecture, I treated on such of the active powers as had the evil of others for their object ; or were characterized by the pain which they inflicted on him, in whose mind they were observed. I come now to an opposite set of agents, — those which have the good of others for their object, or are characterized by the pleasure which they impart to that person, in whom they are observable. I am aware this division of the prin- ciples of our nature, which lead us to action, is not per- fectly accurate ; but it is accurate enough for that very general view which I propose to take of them, and which I believe is all that could be tolerated in a Lecture of this nature. The origin of these benevolent affections. I should explain exactly after the same manner as their oppo- site, — the malevolent feelings : the one proceed from pain, guided by association ; the other, from pleasure, guided by association. To trace them up to this orgin. would be merely to repeat my last Lecture over again, with the alteration of a single word — pleasure for pain : and therefore I shall pass it over, presuming that I have sufficiently explained myself on that subject. The pleasing and benevolent affections ot our nature, may be dirided into the memory o( past good ; the en- joyment of present good : the anticipation oi future good ; and benevolence, or a desire to do good to others. ON THE BENEVOLENT AFFECTIONS. 305 The memory of past good, and the memory of past evil, are both without a specific name in our language ; though it should seem, that they require one, as much as hope or fear, — to which, in point of time, they are contrasted. We all know that present happiness is very materially affected by happiness in prospect : but, per- haps, it is not enough urged as a motive for benev- olence. Mankind are always happier for having been happy ; so that if you make them happy now, you make them happy twenty years hence by the memory of it. A childhood passed with a due mixture of rational indul- gence, under fond and wise parents, diffuses over the whole of life, a feeling of calm pleasure ; and, in extreme old age, is the very last remembrance which time can erase from the mind of man. No enjoyment, however inconsiderable, is confined to the present moment. A man is the happier for life, from having made once an agreeable tour, or lived for any length of time with pleasant people, or enjoyed any considerable interval of innocent pleasure : and it is most probably the recollec- tion of their past pleasures, which contributes to render old men so inattentive to the scenes before them ; and carries them back to a world that is past, and to scenes never to be renewed again. The recollection of pleasures that are past, is tinged with a certain degree of melancholy, — as every survey we take of distant periods of time always is. This gives it its peculiar characteristic, and distinguishes it from the animated sensations of present enjoyment : but still, such recollections is always one of the favorite occupa- tions of the human mind ; and, to many dispositions, the most fruitful source of happiness. In the passion of fear there is always a mixed ex- pectation of good and evil ; but the evil preponderates. When all expectation of good ceases, the feeling which takes place is that of despair. In hope, the expectation of good preponderates. But there is no name for that feeling, when all expectation of evil ceases, and the good appears certain ; — this is the opposite of despair. Upon this tendency to look forward to future happiness, or 306 LECTURE XXII. back upon happiness past, is founded a very obvious distinction in human character : — contemplative men, of a poetical cast, who are always looking with a kind of fond enthusiasm upon the past, and contrasting it with the prospect which lies open before them ; and bustling active men of the world, whose face is always turned the way they are going, — in whose mind the memory of the past has very little share, but who look keenly forward in the game of life, with all the eagerness of the most sanguine hope. For my part, I must confess my- self rather an admirer of the active school, and no great friend to that pleasant but disqualifying melancholy, which makes a man believe he has extracted all the pleasure and enjoyment from human life, before he has passed half through it, — that no grass is green, except the grass where he played when he was a boy, — and that all the pleasures of which a man of genuine feeling and taste partakes, ought, like the wine he drinks, to be fif- teen or twenty years old. So far as the contemplation of the past does not go to put us out of conceit with the future, it is wise : when it does, it is the idleness of genius and feeling ; but it is idleness, and is a corruption which comes from those imperfect moralists, the poets, who are ever disposed to chant mankind out of the vigorous cheerfulness of hope, and to infuse, in its stead. a feeling of past happiness ; which, however calm and beautiful it may appear, is injurious when it softens and unstrings the mind, and renders it useless for the struggles of life. The different degrees of present enjoyment are signi- fied by a vast variety of expressions : from complacency and satisfaction, to the most exalted rapture. The general term for the desire to do good to others, is — benevolence. The most common causes of benevolence are love, gratitude, and compassion : these are very ancient subjects, and it is not very easy to say any thing new upon them ; but there is another source of benevo- lence, which is not so commonly adverted to. nor so frequently discussed, — I mean the benevolence excited by power, and by wealth ; not proceeding from any idea of profiting by the power or w r ealth of others, but a dis- ON THE BENEVOLENT AFFECTIONS. 307 interested, impartial admiration of power and wealth, and a high degree of benevolence excited toward the rich, the great, and the fortunate. The operations of envy are very limited ; we merely envy those immedi- ately above us, — whose advantages might possibly have been ours : but the splendor placed entirely out of our reach, we admire with the fondest enthusiasm. "When," says Adam Smith, "we consider the con- dition of the great, in those delusive colors in which the imagination is apt to paint it, it seems to be almost the abstract idea of a perfect and happy state. It is the very state which, in all our waking dreams, and idle reveries, we had sketched out to ourselves, as the final object of all our desires. We feel, therefore, a peculiar sympathy with the satisfaction of those that are in it : we favor all their inclinations, and forward all their wishes. What pity, we think, that any thing should spoil and corrupt so agreeable a situation ! We could even wish them immortal : and it seems hard to us, that death should, at last, put an end to such perfect enjoyment. It is cruel, we think, in Nature to compel them, from their exalted station, to that humble, but hospitable home which she has provided for all her children. Great King, live for- ever ! is the compliment, which, after the manner of Eastern adulation, we should readily make them, if ex perience did not teach us its absurdity. Every calamity that befalls them, every injury that is done them, excites in the breast of the spectator, ten times more compassion and resentment than he would have felt, had the same things happened to other men. It is the misfortunes of kings only, which afford the proper subject for tragedy. They resemble, in this respect, the misfortunes of lovers. Those two situations are the chief that interest us upon the theater ; because, in spite of all that reason and ex- perience can tell us to the contrary, the prejudices of the imagination attach to these two states, a happiness superior to any other. To disturb, or put an end to, such perfect enjoyment, seems to be the most atrocious of all injuries." Every man's experience, I should think, must have furnished him with sufficient examples of this kind of 308 LECTURE XXII. feeling ; — of the examples of men who have nothing to wish, or to want ; who are utterly incapable of forming a base or ungenerous sentiment ; but who, with the most honest and disinterested views, are quite enslaved by the admiration of greatness. Their benefits can extend to a few ; but their fortunes interest almost every body. We are eager to assist them in completing a system of hap- piness, that approaches so near to perfection ; and we desire to serve them, for their own sake, without any recompense, but the honor or the vanity of obliging them. Upon this disposition, however, to go along with the passions of the rich and powerful, is founded the dis- tinction of ranks, and the order of society. Watched over, and kept within due bounds, it is a sentiment which leads to the most valuable and important consequences. But I hope I shall .be pardoned for observing, it is a ter- rible corrupter of moral sentiments, when it destroys that feeling of modest independence, which is quite as necessary to the real welfare of society, as a wise sub- ordination, and difference of rank. As every thing which excites pain, is apt to excite re- sentment, so, every thing which excites pleasure, is apt to excite benevolence. A good countenance, or a good figure, always conciliates a considerable degree of favor ; — certainly, very unjustly ; because, no man makes his own figure, or his own face ; and the distresses of others, or their merits, are the only legitimate objects of benevo- lence. The messenger of good news, is always an object of benevolence. Every one knows, that an officer who brings home the news of a victory, receives a donation in money, and is -commonly knighted, or promoted. Strictly speaking, it would be just as equitable to mulct him of half a year's pay, for bringing home the news of a defeat, as it would be to present him with £500. for bringing home the news of a victory : but, if they be not too great, all men sympathize with the excesses of the generous and benevolent passions ; while they restrain the malevolent principles within the most rigid bounds of justice. That the messenger of disastrous news should be punished, would appear to the impartial spectator, the most horrible injustice ; but no one envies his reward to ON THE BENEVOLENT AFFECTIONS. 309 him who brings good intelligence, though no one pre- tends to say that he has deserved it. A thousand in- stances may be observed, where the tendency of pleasure to excite benevolence, gets the better ©f justice ; but, because it is an excess of the right side, it is less noticed, and less blamed. A witty, agreeable man, with a good address, may be guilty, I am afraid, of innumerable faults, which a dull and awkward offender would never be able to get over. The question always is, "what he is to us;" not, what he is, in his general relations to society. If he succeed in giving pleasure, he is almost certain of exciting benevolence. For this reason it is, that the little excellences so very often beat the great ; < and that a person who has the dining and supping virtues, so often plays a more conspicuous part in society, than the great- est and most august of human beings. " Those amiable passions," says Adam Smith, " even , when they are acknowledged to be excessive, are never regarded with aversion. There is something agreeable, even in the weakness of friendship and humanity. The too tender mother and the too indulgent father, the too generous and affectionate friend, may sometimes, perhaps, on ac- count of the softness of their natures, be looked upon with a species of pity, in which, however, there is a mixture of love ; but can never be regarded with hatred and aversion, nor even with contempt, unless by the most brutal and worthless of mankind. It is always with concern, with sympathy, and kindness, that we blame them for the extravagance of their attachment. There is a helplessness in the character of extreme humanity, which more than any thing interests our pity. There is nothing in itself, which renders it either un- graceful or disagreeable : we only regret that it is unfit for the world, because the world is unworthy of it ; and because it must expose the person who is endowed with it, as a prey to the perfidy and ingratitude of insinuating falsehood, and to a thousand pains and uneasinesses which, of all men, he the least deserves to feel ; and which generally, too, he is, of all men, the least capable of supporting. It is quite otherwise with hatred and re- sentment. Too violent a propensity to these detestable 310 LECTURE XXII. passions, renders a person the object of universal dread and abhorrence, who, like a wild beast, ought, we think, to be hunted out of all civil society.''" There is a species of benevolence, which ought to have an appropriate name ; because names are of im- mense importance in teaching virtue, and in securing it : A love of excellence, — a benevolence excited by all superiority in good, as envy is the hati^ed excited by that superiority ; — an honest and zealous admiration of talent, and of virtue, in whatever corner and nook of the world they are to be found, — an admiration which no disparity of situation, no spirit of party, none of the hateful and disuniting feelings can extinguish. In all ages of the world, the ablest men have been the first to express their admiration of excellence ; and, while they themselves were extending the triumphs of the human understanding, they have worshiped its powers in other minds, with veneration bordering upon idolatry. The best cure for envy, is, to inspire the Young, at a very early period of their lives, with the deepest respect for virtue and talent ; to kindle this feeling up into a passion ; to make their acknowledgment of merit a gratification of pride ; the homage theV pay to it, an irresistible impulse. — like that which is felt at the image of sublime beauty, or the spectacle of matchless strength. Respect and esteem are low decrees of benevolence, excited by the severer part of the social virtues ; — as. justice and integrity ; or, by the prudent virtues : — as, temperance and caution. Affection is always more per- manent when it happens to be mingled with respect and esteem ; because the absence of respect and esteem im- plies disapprobation, which in time might destroy benev- olence. A certain mixture of fear, is not unfavorable to affection ; it must be very small ; but. whether it be that we get tired with one attitude, and like to be affect- ed in a different manner, a sprinkling of fear or resent- ment, upon the sweeter passions, seems to be very well relished, and perhaps serves to keep them from corrupt- ing so soon as they otherwise would do. These are the principal observations which I have to offer on the benev- ON THE BENEVOLENT AFFECTIONS. 311 olent affections, in particular. We see by them, and by what I have said on the malevolent passions, that Nature allures us to a particular system of actions, by the pleasure she has annexed to them ; and deters us from the opposite system, by the pains of which it is productive. She might have punished alone ; but she punishes and rewards also. As it is true that there is a grateful flavor in ripe fruit, and an enticing smell to draw us toward it, it is as true, and as notori- ous, that there is a real pleasure in benevolence, a charm in compassion, in candor, and every species of goodness. We are guided in our physical aversion by nauseous and irritating tastes ; and are taught as plainly to love, and to forgive, by those bitter pangs which hatred and resentment never fail to leave behind them, when they are indulged without the restraints of justice. Nothing which it is important we should do, or should avoid, is left to the determination of reason alone, but the object is always secured by aversion or by desire. We do not eat or drink when reason points out to us to do so, but when the feelings of nature admonish us : we are urged by an impetuous feeling to be compassionate, to resist atrocious injustice, and to do every thing which it is necessary for the well-being of society that we should do. I shall now proceed to make some general observa- tions on the passions and affections, whether benevolent or malevolent. It has been supposed by some writers, that nature has appropriated some particular signs of the countenance, or gesticulations of the body, to denote some passions, and other signs for other passions : and that we are born with a knowledge of these signs ; that is, that, previous to all experience, the child knows the first smile to be the sign of pleasure ; and the first frown the sign of pain. This appears to me to be quite a preposterous notion. Where the acquisition of any knowledge can be explain- ed by the usual method of experience, it is very useless, as well as pernicious, to invent new first principles to account for it. The child sees the nurse smile when 312 LECTURE XXII. she is good humored, and therefore connects together the ideas of smiling and kindness : previous to that, there is no evidence that the child connects any idea with any particular change of the countenance. And if we can suppose a child to have been so educated, that while he was corrected, the person who punished him took care to smile ; and while he was praised, it was always ac- companied with frowns ; to such a child a frown would be the indication of benevolence, — and a smile, of re- sentment. But has nature made the signs of the passions steady and uniform, so that though they are not known at the birth, they are easily learned and remem- bered afterward ? The signs of some passions, certain- ly not. Blushing, which we call the natural sign of shame, certainly can not exist in a negro : besides, it is a sign of anger, as well as shame ; and of innocent bash- r ulness, as well as guilty shame ; and of ill health, and fainting away, and a thousand other affections of mind and body : so that if you choose to say nature has driven us this, as an indication to others, of what passes in our minds, it is an extremely dangerous and deceitful guide, — and as likely to put us out of the way as in it. There is some fallacy also in this, that whenever we see what we call the signs of the passions, they are accompanied with such a plain context, that their interpretation is wonderfully facilitated. The face of an angry fish- woman w r ould indicate. I suppose, the signs of the passions ; but these signs certainly borrow something of their perspicuity, from the oaths which accompany them ; and something from the blows she might bestow on the object of her indignation. However, it can not be denied that nature has given some very general indications of the passions ; and the doctrine is only ridiculous, when pushed to such extremes as some writers have carried it. If the whole body be taken in. as well as the coun- tenance, the violent agitation of the limbs in great anger, and the perfect state of rest under the feeling oi compla- cency and satisfaction, are, no doubt, phenomena which always follow those affections of mind : nor do I suppose there is any nation on the face ot the earth, which ex- presses content as we express anger. — or. nice v ON THE BENEVOLENT AFFECTIONS. 313 anger as we do content : at least, no nation, the inhabi- tants of which express sudden indignation by assuming a more tranquil position than before ; or perfect content by every extravagance of gesture and motion. In these respects, probably, all nations are alike : but the finer signs may differ ; for in grief, one muscle, or set of muscles, contracts ; in displeasure, another. But it is not simply the contraction of this muscle, which is our sign of the passion ; but generally, the effect which this contraction produces upon all the other features of the face : for instance, the first mark of dejection is, that it makes the eyebrows rise toward the middle of the fore- head, more than toward the cheek ; but the effect of this, can not possibly be the same with a fine Italian face, and with the physiognomy of a Chinese. The general effect upon the countenance, produced by the contrac- tion of the same muscle, must be so different, that the smile of complacency of one race of men, may exactly correspond to the smile of contempt in another. There- ' fore, if nature has made such a language of looks, it is only vernacular in each particular country ; — it is not the language of the whole world. The doctrine of natural signs, taken thus grossly, is true ; carried to any greater degre'e of minuteness, will be found to involve its advocates in a thousand absurdi- ties. There is a great affinity between all the good affec- tions ; and the same affinity between all the malevolent and painful ones. It is a common thing to become very fond of those whom we pity ; approbation, long ex- ercised toward any particular person, generates, at last, affection. So does esteem ; and still more, admiration. Every body is in love with great heroes. The pleasures of the body are favorable to all the benevolent virtues, — and its pains unfavorable. No one is so inclined to good nature, courtesy, and gene- rosity, when cold, wet, and dirty, as after pleasant feed- ing, and during genial warmth. A courtier, who had a favor to ask of his master, would never choose a moment of ear-ache, or a fit of the gout, as the happiest opportu- nity of preferring his request. Count Rumford has been 814 LECTURE XXII. accused of being too fanciful, because he has advanced that there is a great connection between cleanliness and virtue. It is a position, certainly, very capable of being turned iuto ridicule ; but if it be seriously examined, and if the affinity between our feelings be properly attended to, there can surely be no absurdity in conceiving that all the filth and pains of body, and little privations, to which the poor are subjected, must produce an irrita- tion of mind, infinitely more favorable to the malevolent than to the good passions. The inference from these facts is, that one very suc- cessful method of making people good is to make them happy ; and that the most effectual preventive of punish- ment, and the most powerful auxiliary to moral advice, is to diffuse over their lives those feelings of comfort and ease, which have an almost mechanical influence in cherishing the social and benevolent virtues. That virtue gives happiness, we all know ; but if it be true, that happiness contributes to virtue, the principle furnishes us with some sort of excuse for the errors and excesses of able young men, at the bottom of life, fret- ting with impatience under their obscurity, and hatching a thousand chimeras of being neglected and overlooked by the world. The natural cure for these errors is, the sunshine of prosperity : as they get happier, they get better; and learn, from the respect which they receive from others, to respect themselves. u Whenever,'' says Mr. Lancaster (in his book just published), " I met with a boy particularly mischievous, I made him a monitor : I never knew this fail." The cause for the promotion, and the kind of encouragement it must occasion, I con- fess appear rather singular ; but of the effect I have no sort of doubt. In the same manner, the bad passions herd together : and where one exists in any strength, the others are much more likely to find an easy reception. Pain, as I have said before, produces anger ; fear gives birth to cruelty ; displacency is the parent of revenge : so that by gaining one good habit, we have the chance of gaining many others similar to it ; and by contracting one bad ON THE BENEVOLENT AFFECTIONS. 315 one, of adding very rapidly to the stock of our imper- fections. Sometimes it happens that passions, originally differ- ent from each other, give force to each other. When we would affect any one very much by a matter of fact, of which we intend to inform him, it is a common arti- fice to excite his curiosity, — delay as long as possible to satisfy it, — and, by that means, raise his anxiety and impatience to the utmost, before we give him a full in- sight into the business. We know this curiosity will precipitate him into the passion which we propose to raise, and assist its influence upon the mind. Hope is, in itself, an agreeable passion, and allied to friendship and benevolence ; yet it is able, sometimes, to increase anger, when that is the predominant passion. Nothing communicates more force to our emotions, than an op- position of contrary passions, — love and revenge ; hatred and admiration ; gratitude and envy. " Horror and doubt distract His troubled thoughts, and from the bottom stir The hell within him ; for within him hell He brings, and round about him, nor from hell One step, no more than from himself, can fly By change of place : Now conscience wakes despair That slumber'd ; wakes the bitter memory Of what he was, what is, and what must be Worse ; of worse deeds worse sufferings must ensue, Sometimes toward Eden, which now in his view Lay pleasant, his griev'd look he fixed sad ; Sometimes toward heaven, and the full-blazing sun, Which now sat high in his meridian tower : Then, much revolving, thus in sighs began." In all this altercation of passions, those of an opposite nature, instead of destroying each other, appear to com- municate to each other additional force ; they all add to the quantity of the excitement, all violate the state of rest, and raise the mind into a state of unnatural agita- tion ; and of such importance in our mental constitution does it seem, to overcome the state of tranquil apathy, and such is the proneness of all strong feelings, whether good or bad, that the progress from any one passion to another, seems to be quite as easy and natural, as the progress from tranquillity to passion at all. It cost 316 LECTURE XXII. Timotheus, I dare say, a great deal of fine playing, to throw the soul of Alexander into a tumult of feeling; but that once accomplished, the bard harped him into any passion he pleased. However this be true of Tim- otheus and Alexander, it is certainly true of music in general. If we are stupid or indolent, we resist its powers for some time ; but when the twangings, and the beatings, and the breathings once reach the heart, and set it moving with all its streams of life, the mind bounds from grief to joy, from joy to grief, without effort or pang, but seems rather to derive its keenest pleasure from the quick vicissitude of passion to which it is exposed. It is the same with acting. It is difficult to rouse the mind from an ordinary state, to a dramatic state ; but that once done, we glide with ease from any passion, to one the most opposite. All objects of sense, — every thing that we hear and see, — excite the passions in an infinitely greater degree than the same thing conceived by the description of others. This was the defense always made by the Ro- man Catholics, for the worship of images, — that it was difficult to keep up any fervor o^ devotion by a mere speculative notion. It required the forcible impression of an object of sense, to invigorate the passion, and keep it alive. This is the use of colors, in the day of battle : when the carnage becomes very dreadful, the words duty and country, and every other speculative notion that can be gathered together, are often of very cold opera- tion ; — but the actual sight of their colors in danger, will do more in an instant, than all the stimulating ideas which the whole resources of language can present to men. An appeal is made to the passions through the senses, and such appeals are always the most irresistible, particularly with the lowest class, who have fewer ideas of reflection, in comparison with their ideas of sense. A thing. I am very sorry to say. is sometimes more pleasant because it is forbidden. This is because the love of power is excited by the prohibition ; — and any one excitement always increases any other excitement The efforts made to surmount the obstacle, rouse the spirits and enliven the passions. I forget what comedy ON THE BENEVOLENT AFFECTIONS. 317 it is in, where a lady, who is about to be married with the consent of her parents, refuses to give her hand to the husband in the usual manner, but insists upon the apparatus being provided, and that she should be stolen away, according to the strictest etiquette of clandestine marriages. Uncertainty, has the same effect as opposition. The agitation of the thought ; the quick turn which it makes, from one view to another ; the variety of passions which succeed each other, according to the different views : all these produce an emotion in the mind ; and this emotion transfuses itself into the predominant passion. Security, on the contrary, diminishes the passions ; the mind, when left to itself, immediately languishes ; and, in order to preserve its ardor, must be every moment supported by a new flow of passion. Nothing more powerfully excites any affection, than to conceal some part of its object, by throwing it into shade ; which, at the same time that it shows us enough to prepossess us in favor of the object, leaves still some work for the imagination. Besides, that obscurity is al- ways attended with a kind of uncertainty, the effort which the fancy makes to complete the idea rouses the spirits, and gives an additional force to the passion. " The other shape, If shape it might be call'd that shape had none Distingtrishable in member, joint, or limb, — Or substance might be call'd that shadow seem'd, For each seem'd either, — black it stood as night, Fierce as ten Furies, terrible as Hell, And shook a dreadful dart : what seem'd his head, The likeness of a kingly crown had on. The undaunted fiend what this might be admired ; Admired, not fear'd : God and his Son except, Created thing naught valued he, nor shunn'd." As despair and security, though contrary, produce tne same effects ; so, absence is observed to have contrary effects, and, in different circumstances, either increases or diminishes our affections. Rochefoucault has re- marked, that " absence destroys weak passions, but in- creases strong ; as the wind extinguishes a candle, and 318 LECTURE XXII. blows up a fire/' Long absence naturally weakens our idea, and diminishes the passion ; but where the affec- tion is so strong and lively as to support itself, the un- easiness arising from absence increases the passion, and gives it fresh force and influence. The imagination and affections have together a close union ; the vivacity of the former, gives force to the latter : hence, the pros- pect of any pleasure with which we are acquainted, af fects us more than any other pleasure which we may own to be superior, but of the nature of which we are wholly ignorant: of the one we can form a particular and determinate idea, the other we conceive under the genera] notion of pleasure. When we apply ourselves to the performance of any action, or the conception of any object, to which we are not accustomed, there is a certain unpliableness in the faculties, and a difficulty in the spirits, to move in the new direction ; hence, every thing that is new is most affecting, and gives us either more pleasure, or pain, than what, strictly speaking, should naturally follow from it. When it often returns upon us, the novelty wears off; the passion subsides, the hurry of the spirits is over, and we survey the object with tranquillity and ease. Any satisfaction we have recently enjoyed, and of which the memory is fresh and perfect, operates on the will with more violence than another, of which the trace- are decaved and obliterated. Contisruitv in time and place, has an amazing effect upon the passions. An enormous globe of fire, which fell at Pekin, would not excite half the interest which the most trifling phenom- enon could give birth to nearer home. I am persuaded many men might be picked out of the streets, who. for 1000 guineas paid down, would consent to submit to a very cruel death, in fifteen years from the time of receiv- ing the money. This, for the main, is a wise provision of nature ; for the progress of life, generally speaking. and the order of the world, depend upon an attention to present objects : but this, like every other moral pro- vision, is given without any limit or adjustment ; and it becomes the great object of wisdom and ot virtue to re- strain it within proper limits. By all that we can look ON THE BENEVOLENT AFFECTIONS. 319 upon an object of sense, and (admitting its capacity of affording present pleasure) steadily reckon up its influ- ence upon future happiness ; by all that, are we ad- vanced in power of thought, and rectitude of action. The great labor is, to subdue the tyranny of present im- pression ; to hold down desire and aversion, with a firm grasp, till we have time to see where they would drive us. The men who can do this, are the men who do all the praiseworthy actions that are done in the world ; — who write lasting books, make treaties, lead armies, and govern kingdoms ; or, if their life be private, live pleas- antly and safely. Those men, on the contrary, who can acquire no knowledge, enjoy no praise, and feel no peace- ful happiness, seem only to have lived to destroy the moral order of the world, and dishonor the works of God. LECTURE XXIII OX THE PASSIONS. EFFECTS OF PASSIOXS OX THE BODY, AND OF SURPRISE OX THE PASSIOXS. OF WHAT IS SAID ABOUT RULIXG PASSIOXS. OF TEMPER » HUMOR ; NATURE. THE DIFFERENT DEGREES OF THE PASSIONS, AND PARTICULARLY OF THE PASSIONS IN THEIR LOW DEGREES. HOW FAR A STATE OF PAS- SION IS AGREEABLE TO THE MIND. THE EFFECTS OF PASSIONS AND TAL- ENTS OX EACH OTHER. The powerful part which the passions were intended to act in our constitution, is clearly evinced by those rapid and dreadful effects which they frequently commit upon the body. Instances are very numerous of persons who have been driven mad by joy. — who have dropped down dead from anger or grief. Great numbers of people die every year, pining away from deranged circum- stances, or from disgrace, or disappointed affection, in a state which we call broken-hearted. The passions kill like acute diseases, and like chronic ones too. Every physician who knows any thing of the science, has seen innumerable cases of all the disorders of the body, origi- nating from disturbed emotion, and totally inaccessible to all the remedies by which mere animal infirmities are removed. Dr. Gregory, of Edinburgh, in his M Lec- tures on the Practice of Medicine." mentions so singular an instance of the effects of joy, that, but for such highly respectable authority, I should hardly think it credible. He was sent for in the course of his medical practice, to a family in the country, consisting of a mother and tWQ daughters. They had recently come to a very 1. and a very sudden accession of fortune. Upon his arri- val at the house, he was met by the eldest daughter, who, with a great appearance of agitation, cautioned \ ON THE PASSIONS. 321 him against her mother and sister; and informed him they were both mad. He very soon perceived that this lady was so herself; and upon visiting the other two, perceived they were not a jot better. The truth turned out to be, that their astonishment and joy was so great, upon being raised from poverty to extreme opulence, — they had so many plans of equipage ; and so many dis- putes whether they should go to Bath before they went to London, or London before they visited Bath, — that the small share of reason they ever could have possessed, fell a sacrifice to the agitation. Independent of the mere magnitude of the passion, a distinct effect is pro- duced by the suddenness of it; or rather, perhaps, it would be clearer to say, that all the passions are consid- erably increased by surprise, and diminished by expec- tation. To be thoroughly informed of the nature and extent of any danger, to which we are about to be ex- posed, — to have leisure to summon up resolution, and invent resources, — diminishes very materially the feel- ing of that danger : a sudden exposure to it, might com- pletely overset the mind. In the same manner with grief. A long struggle with death, and a finely-gradu- ated decay, familiarize us to the loss of our friends : the countenance which grows paler day by day, and the form which every hour emaciates, inure us so to the pang of separation, that we meet with calm resignation a mis- fortune, which, suddenly communicated, would bear down all authority of reason, and leave, perhaps, the mind itself a mere ruin beneath its pressure. In this re- spect, there is a great analogy between body and mind. It is not difficult, by gradations, to accustom the body to any thing ; while it receives the most violent injuries from changes that are sudden. This dread of sudden vicissitude, admits of no explanation ; it is one of the means by which the powers of man are limited, and he is controlled within the sphere in which he at present moves. It is curious to observe the very little time necessary to the mind for its changes ; and how short a preparation obviates the worst and most dangerous ef- fects of the passions. To come into a room suddenly, and say such a person is dead, might very likely kill the 22 LECTURE XXIII. person to whom it was addressed : but " he is not quite so well as could be wished ; there is some little danger ; he was getting worse," and so on ; — by the presentation of a mournful idea, which the mind can bear, and by the gradual increase of it up to the point which you wish to establish, though you can never prevent the feelings of nature, you blunt them, and deter their excesses from acting so tremendously upon the infirmities of the body. Any one passion may act upon the mind, when it is in one of these three states : — first, when it is under the influence of a similar passion ; next, when it is under the influence of an opposite passion ; next, when it is in a state of rest, and under the influence of no passion at all. For instance, I may receive such news as would overwhelm me with grief, and, at the moment previous to my receiving it, I may be in a state of joy, or sorrow, or in a state of indifference ; the question is, in which of these three states will the new passion produce its greatest effects ? Is the grief greater for being added to grief, or being contrasted to previous joy ? or from its falling on the mind when it was in a passionless state ? If the two states of grief and joy can not coexist, so that they neutralize each other, then the grief is always more intense from the contrast. If a father were to learn that his son had distinguished himself very much in battle, and were then to be told, in the midst of his joy, that his son had died of his wounds, the joy and the grief stand so opposed to each other, that the one would go rather to inflame, than to diminish the other. " Dead at the very moment that I expected to see him return with the highest reputation ! in the midst of all the congratu- lations I was making to myself for his safety !" — these are the ideas with which a parent would naturally exas- perate his misfortune. But if the joy and the grief were in nowise related together, then the joyful passion would neutralize the sad one. To hear that my fortune .was materially diminished, would affect me less, if I had just recovered my health, or had just gained a distinguished reputation. I should set off the good against the evil. and bring my mind to a kind of equilibrium ot feeling and passion. ON THE PASSIONS. 323 Some men possess a much stronger tendency to par- ticular passions than to others, — and passions, like tal- ents, are transmitted by birth from parent to child : some say, acquired by early imitation ; but the analogy of animals rather leads us to suppose that birth influences the qualities of the mind, as well as the limbs and gen- eral figure. All the foals of an ill-tempered horse are very often as vicious as the sire, whom they have never seen. Cock-fighters are extremely attentive to the breed of their fowls : a valiant cock has his eggs sent about as presents, that they may be latched into heroes ; and these heroes have certainly had no communication with their parents, and no opportun ty of forming their manners upon such models of valor. It is very often (not always) true, that there is a ruling passion which obscures or absorbs all the rest. In some minds, two or three of the great passions appear to hold a divided empire. In others, there is such a want of prominence in the active principles, that it is extremely difficult to say which governs, — which obeys. It is, however, an extremely important circumstance in the investigation of character, to ascertain what are the paramount motives, by which any human being is habit- ually impelled ; and the most complicated phenomena, after such a key to their interpretation is once obtained, become clear and comprehensible. We speak of a man's disposition according to the predominance of good or bad passions in his nature. There are three expressions in our language, which, because they refer to the kind and degree of the pas- sions, require some explanation in this place ; — Temper, Humor , and Nature. When used with adjectives of blame and praise, temper and humor mean nearly the same thing. A good-humored person, or a good-tem- pered person, is one in whom the intentions and actions of others do not easily excite bad passions, — who does not mistake the motives by which the rest of the world are actuated toward him, A good-natured person is a man of active benevolence ; who seeks to give pleasure to others in little things. Good-temper measures how a man is acted upon by others : good-nature measures 324 LECTURE XXIII. how he acts for others. The presumption is, that the two excellences would be found uniformly conjoined to- gether; that a man who was passively benevolent, would be actively so too : but the reverse is often the case in practice. There many men of inviolable temper, who never exert themselves to do a good-natured thing, from one end of the year to the other ; and many in the highest degree irritable, who are perpetually employed in little acts of good-nature. It must be observed, that all the three words refer only to the little vices and virtues. Repeated fits of peevishness, constitute ill- temper. Violent hatred, and deadly revenge, require and receive a much graver name. To do little favors to others, and contrive small gratifications and amuse- ments for them, is the province of a good-natured man. a A more exalted and difficult benevolence immediately assumes a more dignified appellation, and ceases to be called good-nature. To brine: a large twelfth-cake to a child, is good-nature ; to give him education, support, and protection, though he have no natural claim upon you, is compassion, and the summit of good feeling. J $■ Of all the affections, there are various degrees. There/ is that degree in which it is scarcely perceptible ; there is that calm state of the affection, where it leaves the ^ reason unbiased ; and there is that last, and m violent degree of it, which assumes the name of passion. J This is quite as true of the malevolent, as of the benev- J olent affections. Resentment may be calm, or it may be furious. There is a silent apprehension, and a fear j exhibiting itself in the most acute paroxysms. Now, it seems evident that reason, in a strict sense (meaning by that term the judgment of truth and falsehood), can z> never be any motive to the will, and can have no inrlu- ] ence, but so far as it touches some passion or affection, m What is commonly, and in a popular sense, called reason, and is so much recommended in moral discourses, is nothing but a general and calm passion, which takes a comprehensive and distant view oi its object, and actu- ates the will, without exciting any sensible emotion. A man, we say. is diligent from reason; that is. from a calm desire o( riches and fortune. A man adheres to i ON THE PASSIONS. 325 justice from reason ; that is, from a calm regard to public good, and to a character with himself and others, For observe all that reason can do ; reason only enables us to judge of propositions. This man is miserable ; this man is going on in a way which will terminate in his complete ruin ; by a prudent set of measures, I will save and convert him. By your reason you prognosti- cate his future good ; but the motive which induces you to plan his extrication, has nothing to do with reason. If God have not planted the benevolent passions in your heart, you may go on reasoning and anticipating to all eternity, without the slightest disposition to act. All motives come from the passions ; all means and instru- ments, from reason. The same objects which recommend themselves to reason, in this sense of the word, are also the objects of passion when they are nearer to us ; and acquire some other advantage, either of external situation, or con- gruity to our internal temper. Evil near at hand pro- duces aversion, and is the object of passion ; at a great distance, we say it is avoided frqm reason. The common error of metaphysicians has been in ascribing the direction of the will entirely to one of those princi- ples, and supposing the other to have no influence. In general, we may observe that both these principles operate on the will ; and what we call strength of mind, implies the prevalence of the calm passions above the violent ; though we may easily observe that there is no person so constantly possessed of this virtue, as never on any occasion to yield to the solicitations of violent desire and affection : and from these variations of temper, proceed the great difficulty of deciding with regard to the future actions and resolutions of men, where there is any contrariety of motives and passions. Without some calm passion, — some degree of some species of desire, — the mind could not long endure. Such a state is probably the state of fatuity, or idiotism. A man in such a condition, would stop in the middle of a street, and remain there all his life. Some degree of passion, therefore, is not only pleasing, but necessary. Whenever this stimulus of passion does not exist in due 326 LECTURE XXIII. proportion, we feel ennui: when there is a just degree of passion, and that passion directs us to objects easily- attainable, we feel contented, — for content is not the absence of calm passion, but the constant facility of gratifying it without too much difficulty, and without subsequent inconvenience. Not only is a state of calm passion pleasant, but a state of violent emotion appears to have its allurements. Young persons love danger for danger's sake. School-boys climb walls and trees be- cause it is agreeable to them to be afraid of tumbling; — and this explains the pleasure of mischief. A school-boy flings a stone into a window, and, running to some distance, stops to enjoy the violent rage of the person whose window has been broken : the moderate risk he runs, is a very pleasant excitement to him. Nay, he will tie a rope across a place where he knows people are to pass, even where he can not wait to see them tumble : the mere imagination of so much terror and confusion, fills him with pleasant feelings, and he is convulsed with laughter at the very thoughts of it. Young men turn soldiers and sailors from the love of being agitated ; and for the same reason, country gentle- men leap over stone walls. This — and not avarice — is the explanation of gaming. Men who game, are, in general, very little addicted to avarice ; but they court the conflict of passions which gaming produces, and which guards them from the dullness and ennui to which they would otherwise feel themselves exposed. The love of emotion is the foundation of tragedy; and so pleasant is it to be moved, that we set oft' for the ex- press purpose of looking excessively dismal for two hours and a half, interspersed with long intervals of positive sobbing. The taste for emotion may. however, become a dangerous taste ; and we should be very cautious how we attempt to squeeze out of human life, more ecstasy and paroxysm than it can well afford. It throws an air of insipidity over the greater part of our being, and lavishes on a tew favored moments the joy which was given to season our whole existence. It is to act like school-boys, — to pick the plums and sweetmeats out of the cake, and quarrel with the insipidity of the batter: ON THE PASSIONS. 327 whereas the business is, to infuse a certain share of flavor throughout the whole of the mass ; and not so to habituate ourselves to strong impulse and extraordinary- feeling, that the common tenor of human affairs should appear to us incapable of amusement, and devoid of interest. The only safe method of indulging this taste for emotion, is by seeking for its gratification, not in passion, but in science, and all the pleasures of the understanding ; by mastering some new difficulty ; by seeing some new field of speculation open itself before us ; by learning the creations, the divisions, the connec- tions, the designs, and contrivances of nature. If we seek relief from the lassitude of common thoughts and common things, these are the only emotions which at once are innocent, inexhaustible, and sublime. It is impossible not to suppose that there is a con- siderable degree of connection between the intellectual, and active powers ; that talents must produce a striking influence upon affections, and affections upon talents. The extremes are very easily perceived ; there is a degree of energy in the active powers, utterly incompati- ble with any exercise of the understanding at all. In paroxysms of rage and grief, not only the arrangement of ideas, but even the utterance of words, becomes quite impossible: and on the opposite side, it can not be conceived how the understanding comes to act at all ; how it does' any thing more than merely perceive, with- out the influence of some desire or affection ; however low and however calm that degree may be. The influ- ence of passion upon the understanding, will, of course, be very different, according to the different parts of the understanding to which it is applied. To all efforts of the imagination, a certain degree of passion appears highly favorable ; — anger quickens wit, multiplies images and words, and gives a flow and a fecundity, of which the mind is utterly destitute in its ordinary state. Every man is eloquent in speaking of himself, from the direct | influence which his passions have upon his imagination. The finest and most affecting parts of Cicero, are always about himself; every passion of his great mind, seems to be at work, in that noble conclusion of the second 328 LECTURE XXIII. philippic, which afterward cost him his life. "But do you, Antony," he says, " look to yourself; and I will confess what are my principles : I have defended the republic when I'was young, I will not desert it now I am old : I have despised the sword of Catiline, and the sword of Antony shall not alarm me. Most willingly would I sacrifice this body, if, by my death, the liberty of Rome could be established. Did not I say twenty years ago, in this very senate, that when a man perished who had reached the dignity of consul, he could not be said to have perished prematurely? And do you think, now that old age is come upon me, I will retract or deny this doctrine ? Conscript fathers, I wish for death ; I have gained all that the republic can bestow ; I have performed all that it can require ! Let death come when it will, I am prepared to meet it. I have only two things to implore : first, that my country may deal out to all her children the punishment or the reward they merit ; next, that when I do die, I may leave the Romans free. If the Gods grant me this, there is nothing else which they can bestow."' No one could say of 3Ir. Burke, that he did not write with passion ; and whenever his passions are awakened, his imagination appears to be fecundated : he is meta- phorical at all times ; but when he feels strongly, every thing is simile, allusion, and metaphor ; and these are poured out, in a manner quite natural ; as if the habitual effect of passion in him, were, to conjure up all this splendid imagery, and to give unusual promptitude to the current of his ideas. But, though passion always comes in aid of a fine imagination, it very often happens that we meet with imagination without passion or feeling, — and feeling and passion without imagination. There is a beautiful passage in the book of Ruth, which, though full of feeling, has no imagination. " And Ruth said to her mother, Naomi, Entreat me not to leave thee : for whither thou goest. I will go : and where thou lodgest, I will lodge ; thy people shall be my people, and thy God shall be my God : where thou diest I will die, and there will I be buried : the Lord do so to me. and ON THE PASSIONS. 329 more also, if aught but death part thee and me !" No- thing oan be more beautiful, but there is no imagination in it. If Cowley, or any of the poets of Cowley's school, had had to express the same degree of affection, he would most probably have found several reasons why the affec- tion of Ruth for Naomi resembled lightning, smoke, air, fire, water, and clouds ; what properties it had in com- mon with the shooting of a meteor ; and in what way it might be compared both to morning and evening, and the middle of the day : in short, he would have displayed a great deal of imagination totally barren of all passion. To inventive reasoning, the passions are very favor- able. The resources which men exhibit in shipwrecks, and on desert islands, are perfectly astonishing. In the attempt to escape from prison, as much has been done with a rusty nail, as the best artisan could hardly have effected with the best tools, in any ordinary state of ex- citement of mind. In short, the process of invention in reasoning, is exactly the same as the process of invention in poetry. In passion, the mind dwells intensely on one object ; all the ideas related to it, occur from associa- tion ; and we seize upon the epithet, the argument, or the mechanical invention, which we judge the best. Passion aids the understanding, by multiplying the asso- ciations. It was precisely the same effect which passion produced, that aided Cicero when he attacked Antony ; Archimedes, when he defended Syracuse ; and Baron Trenck, when he broke out of prison. It may be doubted, whether quick and strong passions are not inimical to those circumspect habits of mind, which are necessary to a good taste ; for I should conceive that, in the ac- quirement of a fine taste, first emotions must be very often checked, and the mind kept in a state of suspense, till the relation of each part to the whole has been ex- amined, and the effect of surprise properly allowed for. There is a state of mind, however, in which it is as important to keep a crowd of ideas out of the mind, as it is at others to excite them ; and, at such periods, the presence of any lively passion must be detrimental. When we wish to fix the attention upon one object, to ascertain all its properties, and the relations it bears to 330 LECTURE XXIII. some other object, nothing can be more unfavorable to such habits of accurate observation, than that crowd of slightly related ideas, with which the passions are apt to people the understanding. With respect to the general connection between pas- sions and talents, no rule can be laid down, by which the existence of the one is with any certainty inferred from the existence of the other. Great passions may coexist with a very low state of talent ; and^ great talents with a very low state of passion. Nor does it by any means appear, that the cold-blooded race of men, are intended to act a less conspicuous part on the theater of the world, than those whose passions are the most acute, and the most irritable. The liberty of Europe, is at present threatened by a man of the most impetuous passions; the independence of America, was established by a man who certainly had his passions in the most perfect com- mand. Alexander was a madman ; Augustus, calm and artful. When we compare together the retarding, and the impelling part of the machinery, it would be crude and hasty language, to give one any preference over the other. If there be any man. who has great pas- sions which he can command, and obey, according to circumstances, such a man must in the end be greater than all others of equal talents. The passions, I have before stated to be affected by every circumstance which affects the body : as age, health, climate, and race : they are affected by govern- ment, by rank, by sex, by education, by the degree of refinement of the age. by solitude, by society, and by habit. In fact, the passions are acted upon by every outward and inward circumstance : but these are the principal. It is very easy to conceive, that governments absolutely mider the control of the people, and abso- lutely under the control of one person, must have a strong tendency to encourage different passions : that the same circumstance must be true of commercial, and of military nations ; that where the youth of any country hear nothing spoken of, at their first coming into life, but the acquisition of property, and perceive that every one increases in estimation as he advances in opulence, ON THE PASSIONS. 331 it is highly probable that the active principles by which he will be controlled, will be of a very different nature from what they would have been, if he had been nursed in the tumult and glory of arms. Civilization must have a prodigious effect upon the passions ; it must supersede the necessity of revenge, by strengthening the power of law ; whereas, in barbarous times, a man has only his own malevolent passions to trust to for protection. Courtesy, and the appearance of benevolence, are fashionable ; reputation becomes valuable, and a certain degree of good faith is more generally diffused. The most considerable difference between the active powers of the sexes, is, that women are more generally under the influence of fear; and they rather avoid shame, than seek glory. They are probably, also, more under the influence of the benevolent feelings than men, because, in the distribution of duties, a great number of benevolent offices devolve upon them ; and because they are exempted from all those which require an immediate exertion of the malevolent passions, or at least a suppres- sion of the benevolent ones. It is the duty of men to cut oft' limbs, hang criminals, and massacre the enemies of their country, whenever they are able : they are soldiers, judges, and physicians : — women are carefully protected from every situation which requires the sacri- fice of a single instant of benevolence. Speaking very generally and grossly, the effect of solitude is to cherish great virtues, and to destroy little ones. " Society," says Adam Smith, "is the best preservative of that equal and happy temper, which is so necessary to self- satisfaction and enjoyment : men of retirement and speculation, who are apt to sit brooding at home over either grief or resentment, though they may often have more humanity, more generosity, and a nicer sense of honor, yet seldom possess that equality of temper which is so common among men of the world." The difference of the passions, and the different pro- portions in which the same passions are measured out to different individuals, form the leading and most prom- inent diversities in human character. Men differ from each other very materially, as their desires are negative 332 LECTURE XXIII. or positive ; — as they wish to obtain praise, or to avoid blame. In the first class are the vain, the ambitious, and the active part of the human race : the last contains men of reserve, of humility, and of caution ; who, provided they do not incur ridicule and disgrace, are well con- tented to leave to others the contest for distinction. Men differ, as their desires are vehement or weak. Some can hardly be said to have any desires at all; others would overturn kingdoms, and mingle heaven with earth, to effect the least of all their desires. Another variety in human character is, the length or continuation of desire, which, united with vehemence of desire, makes, I believe, what we call strength of char- acter ; for we could not deny to any man that attribute, who wished any thing vehemently, and continued in the pursuit of it steadily; at least, if it was his habit to feel and act after this manner. Then again, we may ob- serve a striking dissimilarity among men, as they are governed by near or distant motives ; or, in other words, as they are under the influence of calm, or strong pas- sions. We distinguish, also, between warm and cold dispositions, that is, between different degrees of the benevolent feelings, — as we do between different degrees of irascibility, in the epithets irritable and patient. Some men are extremely benevolent in little things, and dis- tinguish themselves by their politeness ; others have the great virtues, and not the lesser ones. A disposition to fear, or to hope, makes two different classes of men ; so does the place, or degree, in which a man puts himself, with regard to his fellow-creatures. It has often been said. that, where the passions are the most difficult to be roused, they are the most terrible when they are roused. It is most probable that this opinion is not quite so true as it is supposed to be. from the deception which, in this case, must necessarily be exercised upon the imagination by the contrast. Who- ever were to see a beautiful young lady in a violent rage, would be apt to think it much more excessive and violent, from the mere novelty and surprise of the thing. than if he had beheld a captain of a man-of-war in a sim- ilar situation of mind. Again, it must be remembered, ON THE PASSIONS. 333 that the causes which throw a person of a mild disposi- tion into a fit of rage, must be very strong, to commit such an outrage upon the customary habits of his na- ture ; whereas, an equal degree of indignation may easily be produced in a more irritable disposition, by a cause less grave and important. But, the degree of provoca- tion being given, and the effects of novelty allowed for, it is not easy to see, why the passions of a phlegmatic man, once roused, should be stronger and more difficult to be allayed than those of one more accustomed to pas- sion. One solution, indeed, there is, which has some ap- pearance of plausibility. Men accustomed, for instance, to anger, may often have suffered from anger ; though unable to check the passion entirely, they have learned a certain degree of control over its wildest excesses, and are not, at those moments, quite so unable to govern themselves as they appear to be : but, where passion is new, it is unsuspected, unaccustomed to any check, and much more likely to hurry on to excesses, because its excesses are not feared, and hardly known. There is a certain analogy to this in drunkenness. Professed reg- ular drunkards preserve a certain glimmering of reason, and are seldom very extravagant in their behavior : drunkenness in a person unaccustomed to it is often per- fect madness. Such are a few of the most striking phenomena of the passions, which move the world, and make up the secret life and inward existence of man ; for what we do see and know with certainty of any human creature, is, whether he is lodged in marble or in clay, — whether down or straw is his bed, — whether he is clothed in the purple of the world, or molders in rags. The inward world, the man within the breast, the dominion of thought, the region of passion, — all this we can not penetrate : we can never tell how a kind and benevolent heart can cheer a desperate fortune ; the comfort w 7 hich the lowest man may feel in a spotless mind, — the firmness which a man derives from loving justice, — the glory with which he rebukes the bad emotion, and bids his passions be still. Therefore, not to the accidents of life, but to the foun- tains of thought, and to the springs of pleasure and pain, 334 LECTURE XXIII. should the efforts of man be directed to rear up such sentiments as shall guard us from the pangs of envy ; to make us rejoice in the happiness of every sentient being ; to feel too happy ourselves for hatred and resentment ; to forget the body, or to enslave it forever ; seeking to purify, to exalt, and to refine our nature. This is the rigid discipline of moral philosophy, which, rigid as it is, is so beautiful and so good, that without it no condition of life is tolerable ; with it, none wretched, sordid, or mean. LECTURE XXIV. ON" THE DESIRES. Dr. Reid, in his essay upon the Active Powers, re- marks of our desires, that they have, all of them, things, not persons, for their object. They neither imply any good nor ill affection towards any person, nor even tow- ard ourselves. They can not, therefore, with propriety be called either selfish or social. But there are various principles of actions in men, which have persons for their immediate objects, and imply, in their very nature, our being w T ell or ill affected to some person, or at least, to some animated being. " Such principles," says Dr. Reid, "I call by the general name of affections ; whether they dispose us to do good or hurt to others." This method, by which passions are referred to persons, and desires to things, has been also adopted by Mr. Dugald Stewart, in his " Outlines of Moral Philosophy," without any alteration. But if desire concern only things, why is the love of esteem classed among the desires ? for that, surely, respects persons ; and why are joy and grief classed among the passions without any limitation ? for grief may be occasioned by the loss of £20,000., as by the loss of an aunt or a cousin. There is a grief occasioned by persons, and a grief occasioned by things ; but both Dr. Reid and Mr. Stewart would not scruple to call grief — let its cause be what it would — by the name of passion. The first object, surely, in all investigations of this nature, is to ascertain in what sense such words are actually used : and then, after showing that such uses are unsatisfactory or vague, to propose that deviation from the established meaning, which, being the most useful, is the least violent. In 336 LECTURE XXIV. chemistry, mineralogy, or any science remote from com- mon life, the popular language which respects them, is commonly not only useless, but it conduces to error ; and is better kept out of view : but in the language of feeling, words are of great importance, because every man feels they are the repositories of human judgments, upon a. subject on which all men are, more or less, cal- culated to judge. It will appear, I believe, that, in all this business of feeling, there are three things which have particularly attracted our notice : — the violent perturba- tion or derangement the mind suffers ; the wish to do something, or obtain something, with which that pertur- bation is accompanied ; and the cause from which that perturbation is derived. " Achilles heard : with grief and rage opprest, His heart swell' d high, and labor'd in his breast ; Distracting thoughts by turns his bosom ruled, Now fired by wrath, and now by reason cool'd : That prompts his hand to draw the deadly sword, Force through the Greeks, and pierce their haughty lord ; This whispers soft, his vengeance to control, And cahu the rising tempest of the soul." Iii this, and in every other picture of extreme passion, it is to the perturbation itself, its causes, and its conse- quences, that we direct our inquiry. Whenever the emotion proceeds from a bodily cause, and is accom- panied with a wish to act, or to obtain, we give to that emotion the name of appetite ; — as in the instance of hun- ger and thirst. Here the mind is thrown into a state of emotion, — the body is the cause of that emotion ; and it is accompanied by a wish to obtain, and to act. Xo one would now call hunger and thirst, passions ; or im- agine that the celebrated authoress of the Plays on the Passions, is bound, in the prosecution of her task, to bring forward a hero who has not eaten any thing for forty- eight hours, and to conclude such a play with the ca- tastrophe of a dinner or a supper. We say a desire for food, as well as an appetite for food ; but in speaking of the desires, and the appetites, we should hardly class together the desire of knowledge, and the desire of drink. It seems generally agreed, where ON THE DESIRES. 337 any kind of precision is required, to call the bodily emo- tions by the name of appetites ; and the mental ones, by those of passion or desire. When the cause, then, of the emotion is the body, — and when it is accompanied with an active tendency, it is called appetite ; when it is not, it receives simply the name of bodily pain or pleasure. We may say meta- phorically, that gout, rheumatism, and lumbago, are the unpleasant passions of the body ; that warmth and re- pletion are its agreeable passions. Whenever we see any emotion of the mind which has not the body for its cause, we call it desire, if it lead to action ; — passion, if it do not. No one calls grief and joy, hope and fear, by the name of desire. To suffer from the desire of grief, is nonsense ; to suffer from the passion of grief, is the customary phrase. They are not called desires, because they are not the immediate causes of action. We say the desire of knowledge, the desire of esteem, the desire of power, because they are emotions leading immediately to action. Some emotions we call indiscriminately by the name of passion or desire : but this exactly confirms what I say ; for when we speak of the passion of revenge, we are more particularly think- ing of the perturbation the mind endures ; when we speak of revenge as a desire, we have in mind the ten- dency to action which it occasions : therefore, if I am right, the idea of referring desires to things, and passions to persons, is quite unfounded ; and this will turn out to be somewhere near their meaning. Appetites are emotions of mind, proceeding from a bodily cause, and leading immediately to action : there are also animal pains and pleasures, which are emotions of the mind proceeding from a bodily cause, and not lead- ing immediately to action. — Passions are emotions of the mind, not proceeding from a bodily cause, and not lead- ing immediately to action. — Desires are emotions of the mind not proceeding from a bodily cause, and leading to action. — And lastly, whenever we use the two words, desire and passion, for the same affection of mind, it is because in the one, we consider what the mind endures P LECTURE XXIV. from the emotion ; in the other, how it is impelled to act by the emotion. I am aware it would be very curious, as well as very useful, here to consider how far the same divisions and distinctions obtain in other languages, which are adopted in our own : it would not be very difficult to do it, but it would necessarily lead to long verbal discussions, which might be very agreeable to two or three persons, and very tiresome to every one beside. I have already classed those emotions of the neutral class, which are called either desires or passions, among the latter ; because I found them so classed, and because it did not then occur to me, what was the distinguishing circumstance between the passions and desires. The desires, of which I shall treat at present, are, the desire of knowledge, the desire of esteem, the desire of power, the desire of possession, and the desire of activity : not that these are the only desires which possess the mind, but that almost all the lesser motives are immediately resolvable into them. Let every man consider the innu- merable principles of action by which he is every day impelled, and he will very soon discover that these de- sires are the origin of them all. You take a walk ; that is, you are under the influence of that principle of nature, which makes continued rest painful to you ; or you qo to call upon some one, who will make you more rich, or more powerful ; or you go to a tailor, who will make you more respectable in your appearance. These great operating principles are broken down into innumerable divisions and subdivisions ; but there are very few of our actions which can not be traced to their source. The ten thousand minute things which we all perform every day, all proceed, directly or indirectly, from the great principles which I have enumerated. Look at the bustle of Bond street ; drive from thence to the Royal Exchange : observe the infinite variety of occu- pations, movements, and agitations, as you go along : nothing can appear more intricate. — more impossible to be reduced to any thing like rule or system : and yet a very few elements put all this mass of human beings into action. If a messenger from heaven were on a sud- ON THE DESIRES. 339 den to annihilate the love of power, the love of wealth, and the love of esteem, in the human heart ; in half an hour's time the streets would be as empty, and as silent, as they are in the middle of the night. I take it to be a consequence of civilization, that all the feelings of mind which proceed from the body excite little sympathy, in comparison with those which have not a bodily origin. The loss of a leg and an arm is a dreadful misfortune ; but the slightest disgrace w T ould be considered as a much greater. To be laid up seven months in the gout every year is a piteous state of existence ; to lose a brother or a sister is a state of existence, in common estimation, still more miserable. The slightest pang of jealousy, or wounded pride, may be brought upon the stage ; but the most intense pain of body, introduced into a play, would excite laughter rather than compassion. Who would endure a tragedy, where the whole distress turned upon a fit of the palsy, or a smart rheumatic fever? Nothing could be more exquisitely ridiculous ! The fact is, as a nation advances in the useful arts, all bodily evils are so much mitigated, and guarded against, that they cease to excite that sympathy which they formerly did, because they are less generally felt. How ridiculous, as I before remarked, a play would be, of which a hungry man were the hero ! Why ? — be- cause we never suffer from extreme hunger, and have very little sympathy for it ; there is hardly any such thing known in civilized society : the author himself would, probably, be the only man in the whole play- house, who had ever seriously felt the want of a dinner. But if a nation of savages were to see such a drama act- ed, they would see no ridicule in it at all ; because starv- ing to death is, among them, no uncommon thing : they are advanced such a little way in civilization, that to fill, their stomachs, is the great and important object of life : and I have no doubt, that to an Indian audience, the loss of a piece of venison might be the basis of a tragedy which would fill every eye with tears ; but, on the con- trary, they might be very likely to laugh, to hear a man complain of his wounded honor, if it turned out that he had ten days' provision beforehand in his cabin. In the 340 LECTURE XXIV. same manner, the loss of a leg is the consummation of all evil, where there is nothing but body ; but it becomes an evil of the lowest order, where there remain behind the pleasures of imagination, of elegant learning, of the fine arts, of all the luxuries and glories of civilization, — the tendency of which is always to put down and vilify every thing which belongs to the body, and to exalt all the feelings in which the mind alone is concerned. In some of the Greek tragedies, there is an attempt to excite compassion by the representation of the agonies of bodily pain. Philoctetes cries out and faints from the extremity of his suffering, exclaiming upon the stage, "Oh, Jupiter! my leg, my leg!" Hyppolitus and Her- cules are both introduced as expiring under the severest torments. These attempts to excite compassion by the representation of bodily pain, are certainly among the greatest breaches of decorum, of which the Greek theater has set the example ; and afford a strong suspicion that their audience was less elegant and refined than that which presides over our modern theaters. And the reason why such sort of appeals to the passions would not now be tolerated, is, not so much on account of the pain they would excite (because, the sufferings of the mind excite pain), but because bodily pain is a dull, stupid, unvary- ing, uninteresting spectacle, in comparison with all those critical and delicate emotions of mind, which are univer- sally felt in a state of civilization, — and in that state alone. Dr. Adam Smith seems to imagine that our dis- regard of the bodily appetites and passions, can be ac- counted for on general principles. "Such is our aver- sion," he says, "for all the appetites which take their origin from the body : all strong expressions o( them are lothsome and disagreeable. According to some ancient philosophers, these are the passions which we share in common with the brutes, and which, having no connec- tion with the characteristical qualities of human nature, are upon that account beneath its dignity. But there are many other passions which we share in common with the brutes, such as resentment, natural affection, even gratitude, which do not. upon that account, appear to be so brutal. The true cause ot the peculiar disgust ON THE DESIRES. 341 which we conceive for the appetites of the body, when we see them in other men, is, that we can not enter into them. To the person himself who feels them, as soon as they are gratified, the object that excited them ceases to be agreeable : even its presence often becomes offensive to him; he looks round to no purpose for the charm which transported him the moment before ; and he can now as little enter into his own passion as another person."* I can not think this explanation to be just ; but it seems to me, that all the pains and pleasures of the body are degraded, and put down, by the greater pains and pleas- ures of the mind introduced by civilization. Having premised these observations, I proceed to con- sider the desire of knowledge itself. A child loves novelty, because the excitement which it occasions is agreeable : he does not consider whether the novelties which attract his attention are useful or not ; but he merely loves them because they are new. It is from this passion that he becomes so rapidly ac- quainted with the properties of matter. In what we call his idlest moments, he is making himself acquainted with the qualities of objects, and the powers of his own body ; — is wax soft ? is iron hard ? is wood fit to eat ? how high can I jump ? what can I carry ? and such like questions, which may be called the grammar of exist- ence, a child is perpetually resolving, under the influ- ence of novelty. The desire of knowledge is this same principle, guided by utility ; for no person, I believe, is said to acquire knowledge, who merely acquires new truths, but only he who acquires new useful truths. It would not be impossible to ascertain how many persons there are in Great Britain whose names begin with an S. A person who ascertained this, would acquire new truths ; but we should hardly say he was influenced by a desire of knowledge. The love of knowledge is, perhaps, very seldom gen- uine : it is not loved for the direct pleasure it affords, but to avoid disgrace ; or to obtain money, or fame, or * Dr. Adam Smith's " Moral Sentiments," part i. p. 46. 342 LECTURE XXIV. power ; or for the pleasure of communicating it. There are, I fancy, very few of those who love knowledge the best, that would pursue it with any great degree of ardor, if they were so completely excluded from society, as to render it impossible that they should communicate with mankind, either in person, or by their works. The fact is, that to seek for those novelties which are hidden in history, or in science, — to wait for our gratifications so long, and to withstand so many present impulses of sense, as every lover of knowledge must do, — is no very easy thing. It requires all these auxiliary passions to help it out. It rewards so much, that it ought to be rewarded; it confers so much honor, that it ought to be honored ; it communicates so much pleasure, that it ought to be pleased ; it is so immensely valuable to mankind, that no motive which gives it birth can be a bad one. The best, however, of all motives is (as Lord Bacon has told us), that we may employ the gift of reason, given us by God, to the use and advantage of man. The love of knowledge, merely for its own sake, and without any reference to its utility, is a passion quite similar to that which is felt by a child ; — a desire to procure excitement from novelty and surprise. The immediate and instant pleasure derived from reading an ingenious problem in Euclid, is not different from that which a child would feel at the sight of a new toy : but a man before he sets about gratifying this passion for novelty, satisfies himself that the novelties which he is seeking, are useful. So that the love of knowledge is very often a mere secondary passion ; and it proceeds from the love of that fortune and fame, which is the consequence of knowledge : or. when it seems more original, it may be resolved into the love of emotion or novelty. But though, in common, the love of knowledge is solvable into some other passion at its origin, and before it is formed by association, yet there are some very remarkable instances of the pure love of knowledge, where it is not easy to ascribe its existence to any other cause. Such appears to have been the case with James Ferguson, the philosopher and the mechanic. He was ON THE DESIRES. 343 born in Scotland, of the poorest parents ; and his love of knowledge began to exert itself at the earliest age. He learned to read from hearing his father teach his brother : and had made that acquisition before any one suspected it in the slightest degree. He made a pro- digious advance in mechanics while he was a farmer's boy, without any instructor, or the help of any one book. Of an evening after he had brought home the sheep, he employed himself in contemplating the stars ; and began the study of astronomy, by laying down, from his own observation only, a celestial globe : in these ob- servations and occupations he was discovered, and in- troduced to public notice. The famous Buxton had not the slightest recollection when his passion for numbers began. His attention was, from the earliest times of his life, so constantly fixed upon arithmetic, that he frequently, when a child, took no cognizance of external objects ; and when he did, it was only of their numbers. If any space of time was mentioned, he immediately reduced it to seconds ; if any person mentioned that he had been traveling so many miles, Buxton told him the number of hair's- breadths he had been over. At church, he found it quite impossible to attend to the meaning of what the clergyman said, but he knew exactly of how many words, syllables, and letters, the sermon consisted. It is very difficult to ascribe such instances as these to any other cause than the mere love of knowledge itself; but in general, it is the instrument of some other desire at first, — till at last, by the customary process of association, it becomes to be loved on its own account. The desire of knowledge in any people begins from the love of nov- elty, is cherished by the love of utility, and then princi- pally encouraged by the fame and distinction to which it leads. Curiosity would be the first motive in a savage, to examine the arms and instruments of Europeans ; a consciousness of their utility would increase this desire ; and, in process of time, the distinctions obtained by in- ventors and improvers of these things, would be the most customary incitement to the cultivation of knowl- edge. Nothing can be more important to the welfare 344 LECTURE XXIV. of a community, than the wide extension of rational curiosity in the desire of knowledge ; it not only in- creases the comforts, enlivens the feelings, and improves the faculties of man, but it forms the firmest barrier against the love of pleasure, and stops the progress of corruption. Every nation has its chances for happiness increased, in proportion as it honors and rewards a spirit which, above all things, honors and rewards it. The strongest of all our desires, seems to be the desire of esteem. It is the cause of innumerable other desires : it is the frequent cause (as I have before said) of the love of knowledge : it is the cause, very often, of the love of wealth; for no man, I presume, who lived in a desert, and moved about without a single soul to look at him, would care what sort of a coat he wore, provided he was kept from the cold ; or w T hether he eat out of earthenware, or silver, provided his meat was kept out of the dirt. In the same way, the love of power may be traced to it ; not but that there exists a love of power, quite independent of it, — but that men very often love power, only for the additional esteem they gain from it among their fellow-creatures. The love of life perpetu- ally gives way to the love of esteem ; men are shot, and hacked to pieces, from the hope of gaining esteem, or the fear of losing it. Upon this subject of the desire of esteem, there are two opinions which require considera- tion ; the one of Dr. Adam Smith, the other of Mr. Hume. " We are not content," says the former of these writers, " with praise, unless we deserve it : nor are we content with deserving it, unless we obtain it." It is probable, therefore, that there are two original prin- ciples in the human mind : the one. the love of praise ; the other, the love of praiseworthiness. In the same manner, we are not easy when we are blamed, even though we deserve it ; nor are we easy to deserve it. even though we are not blamed : therefore, here the double principle is observable. — first, the dread of blame : next, the dread of blameworthiness. The opinion o\ Mr. Hume is, that there is no love of the esteem oi others, except as that esteem enables us to esteem our- selves ; that the thing wanted is self-approbation; and ON THE DESIRES. 345 the praise of others is only important as it is a means of gratifying this feeling. In the first place, what, in a mere moral point of view, is meant by self-approbation ? (Put religion out of the question for a moment.) Examine, in a mere human point of view, what passes in your own mind when you approve yourself. It is really nothing more than that pleasure which results from the esteem of all honest and reflecting men. When you are universally blamed, though you know you have done right, you always com- fort yourself that the world would have determined otherwise, had they been acquainted with all the circum- stances, and informed of the real motives. You refer the matter to a more enlightened tribunal, or to posterity : you do not pretend to set up your own self-approbation, against the judgment of others ; but you approve your- self, merely because you say, better men, more enlight- ened men, and more impartial men, would have decided in a very different manner. Therefore, I can not see how self-esteem, and the desire of the esteem of others, can be compared together : for, called upon to define self-esteem, I could say nothing else of it than that it was that agreeable feeling which proceeds from the be- lief that we possess, or that we ought to possess, the esteem of others. Then again, it is very true, that we love praise, and we love to Reserve praise ; but the love of praiseworthiness is merely a consequence of the love of praise, — not an original principle. To make my meaning the more clear, I will put this case : — A great battle is gained, the plan and dispositions of which are admirable ; the general who conducted the army is con- sidered as a consummate master of the military art, and arrives at the very summit of reputation as an accom- plished officer ; but this plan of the battle was drawn out for him the evening before, by one of his aides-de-camp, whose original conception it was, and to whom all the merit is really due. Which is the most enviable situa- tion ? His, who is praised without being praiseworthy ; or his, who is praiseworthy without being praised ? No- body here could entertain a moment's doubt about the matter, that the praiseworthiness is preferable to the 346 LECTURE XXIV, praise. But why ? Merely from the love of praise ; merely because it, in the end, procures more praise. A miser may refuse a sum of money, because, by so doing, in the end he may gain a greater : his reputation is worth more to him than the sum which he is offered for it ; he does not love reputation better than money, but he loves reputation merely because he loves money. Just so with praiseworthiness : it grows out of the love of praise, and is only preferred to it at any particular time, because, by that temporary preference, it is prob- able more praise, in the end, will be obtained ; at last, like every other preference, it grows into a habit. The desire of power, I can not better describe than in the words of Mr. Dugald Stewart. I quote from his "Outlines of Moral Philosophy ;' ! and his views upon this subject appear to be so truly excellent, that I shall quote them at some length : — " Whenever we are led to consider ourselves as the authors of any effect, we feel a sensible pride or exulta- tion in the consciousness of power ; and the pleasure is, in general, proportioned to the greatness of the effect, compared to the smallness of the exertion. " The infant, while still on the breast, delights in ex- erting its little strength upon every object it meets with ; and is mortified, when any accident convinces it of its imbecility. The pastimes of the boy are. almost without exception, such as suggest to him the idea of his power : — and the same remark may be extended to the active sports, and the athletic exercises, of youth and of man- hood. " As we advance in years, and as our animal powers lose their activity and vigor, we gradually aim at ex- tending our influence over others, by the superiority of fortune and of situation, or by the still more flattering superiority of intellectual endowment : by the force ot our understanding, by the extent of our information, by the arts of persuasion, or the accomplishments of address. What but the idea of power, pleases the orator, in the consciousness of his eloquence ; when he silences the reasons of others by superior ingenuity ; bends to his purposes their desires and passions : and. without the ON THE DESIRES. 347 aid of force or the splendor of rank, becomes the arbiter of the fate of nations ? " To the same principle we may trace, in part, the pleasure arising from the discovery of general theorems. Every such discovery puts us in possession of innumer- able particular truths, or particular facts ; and gives us a ready command of a great stock of knowledge, to which we had not access before. The desire of power, therefore, comes, in the progress of reason and experi- ence, to act as an auxiliary to our instinctive desire of knowledge. " The idea of power is, partly at least, the foundation of our attachment to property. It is not enough for us to have the use of an object. We desire to have it completely at our own disposal ; without being respon- sible to any person whatever. " Avarice is a particular modification of the desire of power ; arising from the various functions of money in a commercial country. Its influence as an active prin- ciple is much strengthened by habit and association. " The love of liberty proceeds, in part, from the same source ; from a desire of being able to do whatever is ( agreeable to our own inclination. Slavery mortifies us, because it limits our power. " Even the love of tranquillity and retirement has been resolved by Cicero, into the same principle. " The desire of power is also, in some degree, the foundation of the pleasure of virtue. We love to be at liberty to follow our own inclinations, without being subject to the control of a superior ; but this alone is not sufficient to our happiness. When we are led, by vicious habits, or by the force of passion, to do what reason disapproves, we are sensible of a mortifying sub- jection to the inferior principles of our nature, and feel our own littleness and weakness. A sense of freedom and independence, elevation of mind, and the pride of virtue, are the natural sentiments of the man, who is conscious of being able, at all times, to calm the tumults of passion, and to obey the cool suggestions of duty and honor." LECTURE XXV. ON SURPRISE, NOVELTY, AXD VARIETY. STATEMENT OF DIFFERENCE BETWEEN SURPRISE, NOVELTY, AND VARIETY. EFFECTS OF SURPRISE. OF CONTRAST. OF THE TWO KINDS OF NOVELTY. OF VARIETY. EFFECTS OF CHANGE. AND THE EXPLANATION OF THOSE EFFECTS. HOW FAR NOVELTY IS AGREEABLE. EXPLANATION OF THE PLEASURE OF NOVELTY. Wonder, surprise, and admiration, — words often con- founded, — denote, in our language, sentiments, which though allied, are also in some respects distinct from one another. What is new and singular, excites the sentiment which, in strict propriety, is called wonder ; what is unexpected, surprise ; and what is great or beautiful, admiration. We wonder at all the rare phenomena of nature ; — at meteors, comets, and eclipses ; at singular plants and animals ; and at every thing, in short, with which we have before been, either little, or not at all acquainted ; and we still wonder, though forewarned of what we shall see. We are surprised with those things which we h seen very often, but which we little expected to meet with in the place where we find them. We are sur- prised at the sudden appearance of a* friend, whom we have seen a thousand times, but whom we did imagine we were to see then. We admire the beauty of a plain, or the vastness of a mountain, though we have seen both often before: and though nothing appears us in either, but what we had expected with certainty to see. Or, to take it by illustration, and to exemplify the usages of the three words in one object : — The first time I see St. Paul's, I wonder at it : the hundredth time. I only admire it. If I wake in a coach, and rind myself in ON SURPRISE, NOVELTY, AND VARIETY. 349 St. Paul's Churchyard, when 1 thought I was in Pall Mall, I am surprised by. the appearance of the building. For the first time of seeing such a building, surprise, admiration, and wonder might all be excited at the same moment ; afterward, surprise and admiration, or admira- tion alone. When an object of any kind, which has been for some time expected and foreseen, presents itself, whatever be the emotion which it is by nature fitted to excite, the mind must have been prepared for it, and must even in some measure hgve conceived it before, because the idea of the object having been so long present to it, must have excited some degree of the same emotion which the object itself would excite. The change, therefore, is less considerable, and the passion which it excites glides gradually, and easily, into the heart without violence, pain, or difficulty. But the contrary of all this happens when the passion is unexpected. If it be a stron'g passion, the heart is thrown by it into a violent and convulsive emotion, such as sometimes occasions immediate death : sometimes the suddenness of the ecstasy so entirely disjoints the frame of the imagination, that it never after returns to its former tone and compo- sure, but falls either into a frenzy, or habitual lunacy ; or such as almost always occasions a momentary loss of reason, or of that attention to other things which our situation or our duty requires. From the apprehension of these consequences, we are very cautious of com- municating bad news on a sudden. The panic terrors which sometimes seize upon whole armies in the field, or great cities, when an enemy is in the neighborhood, and which deprive, for a time, the most determined of all deliberate judgment, are never excited but by the sudden apprehension of danger. Fear, though naturally a very strong passion, never rises to such excesses, unless exasperated by wonder, from the uncertain nature of the danger, and by surprise, from the suddenness of the apprehension. There are some very interesting observations on this subject in the tracts of Dr. Adam Smith ; one passage from which ] shall take this opportunity of quoting. " Surprise, is not 350 LECTURE XXV. to be regarded as an original emotion, of a species distinct from all others. Violent and sudden change produced upon the mind, when an emotion of any kind is brought suddenly upon it, constitutes the whole nature of surprise. But when not only a passion, and a great passion, comes all at once" upon the mind, but when it comes upon it while the mind is in the mood most unfit for conceiving it, the surprise is then the greatest. Surprises of joy when the mind is sunk into grief, or of grief when it is elated with joy, are therefore the most insupportable. The change is, in this case, the greatest possible. Not only a strong passion is conceived all at once ; but a strong passion, the direct opposite of that which was before in possession of the soul. When a load of sorrow comes down upon the heart that is expanded and elated with gayety and joy, it seems not only to damp and oppress it, but almost to crush and bruise it. as a real weight would crush and bruise the body. On the contrary, when, from an unexpected change of fortune, a tide of gladness seems, if I may say so, to spring all at once within it. when depressed and contracted with grief and sorrow, it feels as if it suddenly extended and heaved up with violent, irresistible force, and is torn with pangs, of all others the most exquisite, and which almost always occasion faintings. deliriums, and sometimes instant death. For it may be worth while to observe, that though grief be a more violent passion than joy. — as. indeed, all uneasy sensations seem naturally more pungent than the opposite agreeable ones, — yet, of the two, surprises ot joy are still more insupportable than surprises of grief." '* These observations are very true, and very interesting ; but they would have been introduced, perhaps, with greater accuracy, if the phenomena to which they refer, had been classed under the head of contrast rather than surprise: for contrast and surprise, though feelings which very much resemble each other, are unquestion- ably very separable and distinct. This is a case which will set the distinction between contrast and surprise * Dr. Adam Smith's " History o