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 TEA 
 
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 PREFACE. 
 
 The following pages contain the substance of the Lectjrea 
 which, for several years, have been delivered to the classes in 
 Intellectual Philosophy, in Brown University. 
 
 Having been intended for oral delivery, they were, in many 
 respects, modified by the circumstances of their origin. Hence, 
 illustrations have been introduced more freely than would other- 
 wise have seemed necessary. In preparing them for the press, 
 however. I was led to consider the class of persons for whose 
 use they were principally designed. I remembered the diffi- 
 culty of fixing definitely in the mind of the pupil the nature 
 and limits of subjective truth ; and therefore allowed my instruc- 
 tions to retain in general the form which they had previously 
 assumed. Whether I have in this respect judged wisely, it is 
 not for me to determine. 
 
 I have not entered upon the discussion of many of the topics 
 which have called into exercise the acumen of the ablest meta- 
 physicians. Intended to serve the purposes of a text-book, it 
 was necessary that the volume should be compressed within a 
 compass adapted to the time usually allotted to the study of 
 this science in the colleges of our country. I have, therefore, 
 attempted to present and illustrate the important truths in intel- 
 lectual philosophy, rather than the inferences which may be 
 drawn from them, or the doctrines which they may presuppose. 
 These may be pursued to any length, at the option of the teacher. 
 If I have not entered upon these discussions, I hope that I have 
 prepared the way for their more ample and truthful develop- 
 ment. 
 
IV PREFACE. 
 
 It has been my desire to render this work an aid to mentaJ 
 
 improvement. For this purpose, I have added practical sug- 
 gestions on the cultivation of the several faculties. Earnest- 
 minded young men frequently err in their attempts at self-im- 
 provement. It has seemed to me, therefore, that a work of this 
 kind would be manifestly imperfect, did it not, directly as well 
 as indirectly, aid the student in his efforts to discipline . and 
 strengthen his intellectual energies. 
 
 In order to encourage more extensive reading upon the sub- 
 ject than can be furnished in a text-book, I have added refer- 
 ences to a number of works of easy access, specifying the places 
 in which the topics treated of were discussed. In this labor, I 
 have availed myself of the assistance of my former pupils, Mr. 
 Samuel Brooks, now instructor in Greek, in this University, 
 and Mr. Lucius W. Bancroft, of Worcester, Mass. To these 
 gentlemen the student is indebted for whatever benefit he may 
 derive from this feature of the work. 
 
 For the many imperfections of this volume, the author con- 
 soles himself with the reflection, that it has been written and 
 prepared for the press under the pressure of other important 
 and frequently distracting avocations. In the humble hope 
 that it may, nevertheless, facilitate the study of this interest, 
 ing department of human knowledge, it is, with diffideiifle, 
 submitted to the judgment of the public. 
 
 Brown University, Sept 14; 1854. 
 
PREFACE TO THE PRESENT EDITION. 
 
 It was my design, soon after this volume was published, 
 to subject it to a thorough revision, and make such cor- 
 rections in the text as were evidently needed. I found 
 myself, however, unable at the time to accomplish my 
 intention, in consequence of several other unexpected and 
 imperative obligations ; and, subsequently, bj reason of a 
 long period of imperfect health. I have devoted to this 
 work the first leisure that I have been able to command ; 
 and have corrected the text with all the attention in my 
 power. I hope that I have improved it. 
 
 In this labor I have been greatly assisted by the aid of 
 another. Some time since, I received from an anonymous 
 friend a copious list of valuable corrections, of which I 
 have freely availed myself I take this method of express- 
 ing my sincere gratitude, to my unknown benefactor ; and 
 I beg him to receive my thanks for his . careful reading of 
 the text, and for his many valuable suggestions. Most 
 of these I have thankfully adopted. 
 
 F. WAYLAND. 
 
 Peotidbnce, R. I., May^ 1865. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 fNTRODUCTION AND DEFINITIONS, -. . . 9 
 
 CHAPTEE I. 
 
 THE PERCEPTIVE EACULTIES. 
 
 Section I. — Of our Knowledge of Matter and IVIind, c . 16 
 
 Section n. — The Perceptive Powers in general, 28 
 
 Section rH. — Of our Mode of Intercourse with the External Woild, . 32 
 
 Section rV.—The Sense of SmeU, . 41 
 
 Section v. — The Sense of Taste, 46- 
 
 Section VI. — The Sense of Hearing, 50 
 
 Section Vn. — The Sense of Touch, 59 
 
 Section Vm. — The Sense of Sight, 63 
 
 Section IX. — Acquired Perceptions, , 77 
 
 Section X. — The Nature of the Knowledge which we acquire by the 
 
 Perceptive Powers, • . 86 
 
 Section XI. — Conception, 103 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 CONSCIOUSNESS, ATTENTION AND REFLECTION. 
 
 Section I. — Consciousness, 110 
 
 Section n.— Attention and Reflection, . . . . 119 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 ORIGINAL SUGGESTION, OR THE INTUITIONS OF THE INTELLECT. 
 
 Section I. — The Opinions of Locke, ...,...' 18G 
 
 Section II. — The Nature of Original Suggestion, 136 
 
 Section HI. — Ideas occasioned by Objects in a State of Rest, . . . 142 
 Section IV. — Suggested Ideas occasioned by Objects in the Condi- 
 tion ©f Change, 150 
 
 Section V. — Suggested laeas accompanied by Emotion, 168 
 
VIII CONTENTS. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 ABSTBAGTIOM, . • • • 177 
 
 CHAI^TER V, 
 
 MEMORY. 
 
 SecjtionI. — Association, of Ideas, •• 202 
 
 Bkction n. — The Nature of Memory, 223 
 
 BrctionIIL — ^^ The Importance of Memory, . 246 
 
 Section IV. — The Improvement of Memory, • 254 
 
 CHAPTER Vr. 
 
 REASONING. 
 
 Section I. — The Nature and Object of Reasoning, and the Manner 
 
 in which it proceeds, 279 
 
 Section IT. — The different Kinds of Certainty at "which we arrive 
 
 by Reasoning, 307 
 
 Section in. — Of the Evidence of Testimony, . . . . 317 
 
 Section IV. — Other Forms of Reasoning, 338 
 
 Section V. ; — The Improvement of the Reasoning Powers, 34^. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 IMAGINATION. 
 
 Section I. — Nature of the Imagination, 351 
 
 Section II. — Poi^ic Imagination, . . .' 367 
 
 Section III. — On the Improvement of Poetic Imagination, .... 370 
 Section IV. — Philosophical Imagination, ... - • . . 377 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 TASTE. 
 
 Section L — The Nature of Taste, 387 
 
 Section II. — Taste considered Objectively. Material Qualities as 
 
 Objects of Taste, . 392 . 
 
 Sfif^TiON in. — • Immaterial Qualities as Objects of Taste, 408 
 
 Section IV. — The Emotion of Taste ; or Taste considered Subjec- 
 tively, 408 
 
 APPENDIX. 
 
 Note to pai xtrl, 102, .421 
 
 Note to page 115, I 425 
 
INTRODUCTION. 
 
 DEFINITION OF THE INTELLECTUAL POWERS 
 
 Intellectual Philosophy treats of the faculties of the 
 human mind, and of the laws by which they are governed. 
 
 The only forms of existence which, in our present state 
 we are capable of knowing, are matter and mind. It is the 
 mind alone that knows. When, therefore, we cognize 
 matter, the otject known, and the subject which knows, are 
 numerically distinct. When, on the other hand, we cog- 
 nize mind, the mind which knows and the mind which ia 
 known are numerically the same. The mind knows, and 
 the mind is the object of knowledge. 
 
 1. The mind becomes cognizant of the existence and qual- 
 ities of matter, that is, of the world external to itself, by 
 means of the Perceptive faculties. It knows not what 
 matter is, or what is the essence of matter, but only its 
 qualities ; that is, its power of affecting us in this or that 
 manner. When we say, '^ This is gold," we do not pretend 
 to know what the essence of gold is, but merely that there 
 is something possessed of certain qualities, or powers of cre- 
 ating in us certain affections. 
 
 2. In a similar manner we become acquainted with the 
 energies of our own mind. We are not cognizant of the 
 mind itself, but only of the action of its faculties or sensi- 
 bilities. When we th'«ik, remember, or reason; when we 
 
10 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 are joyful or sad, when we deliberate or resc ve, we knoTf 
 that these several states 3f the mind exist, and that they are 
 predicated of the being whom I denominate I, or myself. 
 The power by which we become cognizant to ourselves of 
 these mental states is called Consciousness, When, by an 
 act of volition, a particular mental state is made the object 
 of distinct and continuous thought, the act is denominated 
 Reflection. 
 
 3. An idea of perception or of consciousness terminates aa 
 soon as another idea succeeds it. It is perfect and complete 
 within itself, and is not necessarily connected with anything 
 else. I see a ball either at rest or in motion ; I turn my 
 eyes in another direction and perceive a tree or a house ; in 
 a moment afterwards they are both violently thrown down. 
 I am conscious of several separate perceptions, which follow 
 each other in succession. Each one of these mental acts ia 
 complete within itself, and might have been connected with 
 no other. We find, however, that these ideas of perception 
 are not ^thus disconnected. They do not terminate in them- 
 selves, but' give occasion to other ideas of great importance; 
 ideas which, but for the acts of perception, could never have 
 existed. Thus, we saw a house standing, we now see it 
 fallen : there at once arises in the mind the idea of a cause, 
 or of something which has occasioned this change. Several 
 ideas following in succession, occasion the idea of duration. 
 The existence of these secondary ideas under these circum- 
 stances is owing to the constitution of the human mind 
 itself It suggests to us these ideas, which, when once con- 
 ceived, are original and independent. This power of the 
 mind is termed Original Suggestion. 
 
 4. The knowledge acquired both by our perceptive facul- 
 ties and by consciousness, as well as much that is given us 
 by original suggestion, is the l^nowledge of things or acta 
 as individuals. We perceive single objects; we are con 
 
DEFINITION OF THE INTELLECTUAL POWERS. H 
 
 Bcious of single mental states. These pass away and become 
 recollections. The recollections are like their originals, 
 merely recollections of individuals. Had we no othei 
 power, our knowledge would consist of separate isolated 
 ideas, without either cohesion or classification. Our knowl- 
 edge would be all either of single individuals, or of single 
 acts performed by particular agents. When, however, we 
 reflect upon our knowledge, we find it to.be of a totally 
 diflerent character. It is almost all of classes. With the 
 exception of proper names, all the nouns of a language des- 
 ignate classes ; that is, ideas of genera and species, and not 
 ideas of individuals. There must, therefore, exist a power 
 of the mind by which we transform these ideas of individuals 
 into ideas of generals. We give to this complex power the 
 name of Abstraction, 
 
 5. We have thus far considered the intellectual faculties 
 without reference to the element of time. We, however, all 
 know that the ideas obtained in the past remain with us at 
 this present. The history of our lives from infancy is con- 
 tinually before us, or^ at the command of the will, it may be 
 spread out before our consciousness. We know that the 
 ideas which we now acquire may be retained forever. Nay, 
 more, we are conscious of a power of recalling at will the 
 knowledge which we have once made our own. The faculty 
 by which we do this is called Memoi^y. 
 
 6. Possessed of these powers, we might obtain all the 
 ideas arising from perception, consciousness and original 
 suggestion ; we might modify them into genera and species, 
 we might treasure them up in our memory and recall 
 them at will. But we could proceed no further. Our 
 knowledge would consist wholly of facts, or the informa- 
 tion which we have derived either from our own observa- 
 tion or the observation of others. But this manifestly ia 
 uot our condition. We are able to make use if the knowl- 
 
12 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 edge acquired by the powers of which I have spoken, w 
 such a manner as to -arrive at truth before unknown, truth 
 • which these powers could never have revealed to us. Ie 
 this manner we make use of the facts in geology in order to 
 determine the changes which have taken place in the history 
 of our globe. Thus, from the axioms and definitions of 
 geometry, we proceed to demonstrate ^he profoundest truths 
 of that science. The faculty by which we thus proceed m 
 the investigation of truth is termed Reason, 
 
 7. Thus far we have treated of those powers which give 
 us knowledge of things and relations actually existing, oi 
 which modify and use this knowledge. Were we limited to 
 these, we could consider no conception but as actually true. 
 We could conceive of nothing except that which we had 
 perceived, or which some one had perceived for us. But we 
 find ourselves endowed with a power of taking the elements 
 of our knowledge and combining them together at will. We 
 thus form to ourselves pictures of things that never existed, 
 and we give to them form and substance by the various 
 processes of the fine arts. It was this power which con- 
 ceived the group of Laocoon, or Milton's Garden of Eden. 
 We give to this power the name of hnagination. 
 
 8. The exercise of all our faculties is generally agreeable, 
 and sometimes is productive of exquisite pleasure. I look at 
 a rainbow, I pursue a demonstration, I behold a successful 
 efibrt in the fine arts, and in all these cases I am conscious 
 of a peculiar emotion. The causes producing this emotion 
 are unlike, but the mental feeling produced is essentially 
 the same. " Every one recognizes it under the name of the 
 beautiful ; and the sensibility by which we become capable 
 of this emotion is called Taste. 
 
 The faculties which will be treated of m the present work 
 toay , then, be briefly defined as follows : 
 
 1. The Perceptive faculties are those by which we riecome 
 
DEMNITION OF THE INTELLECTUAL POWERS. IS 
 
 acquainted "with the existence and qualities of the externa] 
 world. 
 
 2. Consciousness is the faculty by which we become 
 cognizant of the operations of our own minds. 
 
 3. Original Suggestion is the faculty which gives rise 
 to original ideas, occasioned by the perceptive faculties or 
 consciousness. 
 
 4. Abstraction is the faculty by which, from conceptions 
 of individuals, we form conceptions of genera and species, or, 
 in general, of classes. 
 
 5. Memory is the faculty by which we retain and recall 
 T>ur knowledge of the past. 
 
 6. Reason is that faculty by which, from the use of the 
 knowledge obtained by the other faculties, we are enabled to 
 proceed to other and original knowledge. 
 
 7. Imagination is that faculty by which, from materials 
 already existing in the mind, we form complicated concep- 
 tions or mental images, according to our own will. 
 
 8*. Taste is that sensibility by which we recognize the 
 beauties and deformities of nature or art, deriving pleasure 
 from the one, and suffering pain from the other. 
 
 It is by no means intended to assert that these are all the 
 powers of a human soul. Besides these, it is endowed with 
 conscience, or that faculty by which we are capable of 
 moral obligation ; with will, or that motive force by which 
 we are impelled to action ; with the various emotions, in- 
 stincts and biases, which, as observation teaches us, are 
 parts of a human soul. These are, however, the most im- 
 portant of those that are purely intellectual. In the follow- 
 ing pages we shall consider them in the order in which they 
 have been named. 
 
 2 
 
14 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 REFERENCES 
 
 to PASSAGES 1-T WHICH ANALOGOCS SUBJECTS ARE TREATED. 
 
 Importance of Intellectual Philosophy — Reid's Inquiry, chap. 1, sec. 1 
 
 Difficulty of the study — Reid's Inquiry, chap. 1, sec. 2. 
 
 Cultivation of mind distinguishes us from brutes — Inquiry, chap. 1. 
 sec. 2. 
 
 What are matter and mind — Reid's Introduction to Essays on the In- 
 tellectual Powers. 
 
 Matter and mind relative — Stewart's Introduction to vol. i. ; Reid's 
 Essays on certain powers, Essay 1, chap. 1. 
 
 Origin of our knowledge — Locke, Book' 2d, chap. 1, sec. 2 — 5 and 24. 
 
CHAPTER L 
 
 :HE PERCEPTIVE FACULTIES 
 
 6EC1I0N I. — OF OUR KNOWLEDGE OF MATTER AND MIND. 
 THERE IS NO REASON FOR SUPPOSING THE ESSENCE OB 
 MATTER AND MIND THE SAME. THE RELATION OF MIND 
 TO MATTER IN OUR PRESENT STATE. 
 
 Op the essence of mind, as I have remarked, we know 
 nothing. All that we are able to affirm of it is, that it ia 
 something which perceives, reflects, remembers, believeSj 
 imagines, and wills ; but what that something is^ which ex 
 erts these energies, we know not. It is only as we are con- 
 scious of the action of these energies that we are conscious 
 of the existence of mind. It is only by the exertion of its 
 own powers that the mind becomes cognizant of their exis- 
 tence. The* cognizance of its powers, however, gives us no 
 knowledge of that essence of which they are predicated. 
 
 In these respects, our knowledge of mind is precisely 
 analogous to our knowledge of matter. When we attempt to 
 define matter, we affirm that it is something extended, divis- 
 ible, solid, colored, etc. ; that is, we mention those of ita 
 qualities which are cognizable by our sense?5. In other 
 words. Wig affirm that it is something which has the power 
 of aSecting us in this or that manner. When, however, the 
 question is asked, what is this something of which these 
 qualities are predicated, we are silent. The knowledge of 
 the qualities gives no knowledge of the essence to which 
 
16 • INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 
 
 they belong. We cognize the qualities by means of our 
 perceptive powers ; but we have no power by which we are 
 able to cognize essence, or absolute substance. 
 
 This does not seem to be the fact by accident, but from 
 necessity. If we reflect upon the nature of our faculties, 
 we shall readily be convinced that, by our perceptive -pow- 
 ers, we learn that a particular object affects us in a particu- 
 lar manner, creates in us a certain state of mind, or, m 
 other words, gives us a certain form of knowledge. I look 
 upon snow, and there is created in my mind the idea of 
 white. I look upon gold, I have at once the idea of yellow. 
 Besides this, there is another idea created, which is, that 
 this quality, or power of creating in me this notion, belongs 
 to the object which I contemplate. I thus not only gain 
 the idea of white or yellow, but the additional conviction 
 that snow is white and gold is yellow. 
 
 The same remarks apply to our knowledge of mind. I 
 am conscious of perception, of recollection, of pleasure, or 
 pain. I thus acquire a notion of these several mental acts, 
 and thus a certain form of knowledge is given to me. Be- 
 sides this, I have an instinctive belief that the mental en- 
 ergy which gives rise to this particular form of knowledge 
 is predicated of the thinking being whom I call I, or myself. 
 If the knowledge which we derive from perception and con- 
 sciousness be analyzed, I think it will be found to go thus 
 far, but that, from the constitution of our nature, it can go 
 no farther. 
 
 But, while our knowledge of mind and our knowledge of 
 matter agree in this respect, that neither of them gives us 
 any information concerning essences, these two- forms of 
 knowledge are in other respects quite dissimilar. 
 
 1. In the first place, it is obvious that the energies of the 
 Dne and the qualities of the other are made known to us by 
 iifferent powers of the mind. The qualities of matter are 
 
THE PERCEPTIVE FACULTIES. 1^ 
 
 revealed to us by our perceptive faculties, in Tvhich our 
 spiritual and material natures are intimately united. The 
 energies of mind are revealed to us by consciousness, one of 
 the elements exclusively of our spiritual nature. It is 
 almost needless to remark, here, that this difference in the 
 mode in which these forms of knowledge are revealed to us 
 does not affect the evidence of the truth of either. Percep- 
 tion and consciousness are both original and legitimate 
 sources of belief. We cannot philosophically deny the ex- 
 istence of either. The world without us and the world 
 within us, the me and the not me, are both given to us by 
 the principles of our constitution as ultimate facts, which, 
 whatever may be his theory, every man, from the necessity 
 of his constitution, practically admits. 
 
 2. We always express the attributes of matter and the 
 energies of mind by terms generically dissimilar. The 
 qualities of matter we designate by adjectives, or terms 
 aaeaning something added to a substance, and wholly inca- 
 pable of an active signification. Thus, we say of a ma- 
 terial object, it is hard, soft, white, black, warm or cold. 
 On the other hand, we designate the energies of mind by 
 active verbs or participles, terms which indicate a power 
 residing in the substance itself. We say of mind, it thinks 
 remembers, wills, imagines ; or, that it is a thinking, will- 
 ing, remembering, imagining substance. This difference 
 in our mode of speech is aot accidental, but of necessity. If 
 any one will make the experiment, he will find it impossible 
 to express his conceptions on these subjects in any other 
 manner. We are unable to conceive of thinking, reasoning, 
 remembering, as qualities, or of white, black, or color, as ener- 
 gies. We are so made that we are obliged to think of these 
 different attributes as at the farthest remove from each 
 other. 
 
 From these remarks we discover the limit which has be'u: 
 2* 
 
18 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPB 
 
 fixed by our Creator to our investigations on these suojects. 
 We perceive in the objects around us various qualities, and 
 we know that these qualities must be predicated of some- 
 thing, — for nothing, or that which does not exist, can have 
 no qualities, - -but what that something ik we know not. So 
 again, we are conscious of the energies of mind, and we 
 know that these energies must be energies of something, 
 while of the essence of that something we are equally igno- 
 rant. Hence, in all our investigations respecting either 
 matter or mind, we must abandon at the outset all inquiries 
 respecting essences or absolute substance, and confine our- 
 selves to the observation of phenomena, their relations tc 
 each other, and the laws to which they are subjected. The 
 progress of physical science within the last two centuries 
 has been greatly accelerated by the practical acknowledg- 
 ment of this law of investigation. Intellectual science can 
 advance in no other direction. 
 
 If, then, it be affirmed that the soul or the thinking prin- 
 ciple in man is material, or that its essence is the same as the 
 essence of matter, we answer : 
 
 First, that the assertion is unphilosophical, inasmuch as 
 it transgresses the limits which the Creator has fixed to 
 human inquiry. We have been endowed with no powers for 
 cognizing the essence of anything, and therefore we pass 
 beyond our legitimate province in affirming anything on the 
 subject. We can neither prove nor disprove it. We may 
 show that no evidence- can be adduced in favor of it: that all 
 the analogies bearing on the subject would lead to a different 
 conclusion ; and thus we may form the basis of an opinion 
 merely, but w.e can go no further. The nature of the case 
 excludes all positive knowdedge. 
 
 Secondly, we reply that the assertion is nugatory. It is 
 affirmed that the essence of the soul is the same as the 
 essence of matter. But what is the essence of matter ? We . 
 
THE PERCEPTIVE FACULTIES. ^^ 
 
 are obliged to confess that we do not know. Wlnjnj there- 
 fore, we assert that the essence of the soul is the same aa 
 the essence of matter, we merely assert that it is the same aa 
 something of which, by confession, we know absolutely noth-' 
 ing. Were this assertion granted, it would then add nothing 
 whatever to the sum of human knowledge. Would it not be 
 better frankly to confess our ignorance on the subject ? 
 
 Thirdly, so far as the grounds for an opinion exist, they 
 favor precisely the opposite opinion. 
 
 The qualities of matter and the energies of mind are as 
 widely as possible different from each other. In all lan- 
 guages they are designated by different classes of words 
 We recognize them by different powers of the mind, powers 
 which cannot be used interchangeably. Our senses cannot 
 recognize the thoughts of the mind, nor can consciousness 
 recognize the qualities of matte**. To assert, then, that the 
 essence of mind and of matter is the same, is to assert, with- 
 out the possibility of proof, that two things are the same^ 
 which not only have no attribute in common, but of which 
 the attributes are as unlike as we are able to conceive. 
 
 It may not be out of place to enumerate the several men- 
 tal states consequent upon the enunciation of any given 
 proposition. In the first place, the assertion is made with- 
 out any evidence either in favor of or against it. In this 
 case (supposing the veracity of the assertor not to be taken 
 into view) my mind remains precisely as it was before. 
 The assertion goes for nothing. I have no opinion either 
 the one way or the other. I neither believe nor disbelieve, 
 nor have any tendency in either direction. In the second 
 case the assertion is made, and though sufficient proof is not 
 ^ presented to create belief, yet considerations, as, for instance, 
 I analogies, are shown to exist, which create a probability 
 either in favor of or against the thing asserted. Here, 
 then, is ground for an opinion, and the state of mind is 
 
20 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 
 
 chansred. We neither believe nor disbelieve, but we hold 
 an opinion either in favor of, or contrary to the assertion. 
 In the third case, the assertion is sustained either by syllo- 
 gistic reasoning, or by testimony conformed to the laws 
 of evidence. Here a different state of mind is produced. 
 I believe it. I rely upon it as I would upon a matter which 
 came within the cognizance of my own perception or con- 
 sciousness. To illustrate these cases. A man asserts that 
 the moon is a mass of silver. His assertion leaves my 
 mind where it was before. I know nothing about it. 
 Another man asserts that the planet Jupiter is or is not 
 inhabited. He cannot prove it, but he presents various 
 analogical facts in harmony with this assertion. I form 
 an opinion on the subject. In the third case, a man asserts 
 that the sun is so many millions of miles from the earth, 
 and he proves, by testimony, that the observations forming 1| 
 the data were made, and he explains the mathematical rea- ' 
 soning by which this result is obtained. I believe it, and 
 in my mind it takes its place with other established facts. 
 Any one, who will reflect upon the evidence presented in 
 favor of the materiality of the mind, can easily determine 
 which of these mental states it is entitled to produce. 
 
 But it has been sometimes said that the brain itself is the 
 mind, and that thought is one of its functions. The reason 
 given for this belief is, that diseases of the brain and nerves 
 affect the condition of the mind ; that the mind declines as 
 they become di3bilitated by age, and that the mind becomes 
 deranged when the brain suffers from disease.' 
 
 To this I would reply, that, so far as I have observed, 
 the facts are hardly stated with accuracy when this course 
 of argument is, adopted, and a large class of facts bearing 
 in an opposite direction is too frequently left out of view. 
 
 But, granting the facts, they do not justify the conclu- 
 ftion that is drawn from them. Suppose the brain to be 
 
THE PERCEPTIVE FACULTIES. 2\ 
 
 Lne instrument which the mind uses in its intercourse with 
 the external world, — as, for instance, suppose the brain 
 to secrete the medium by which the mind derives impres- 
 sions from without, and sends foith volitions from within, — 
 any derangement of this organ would, by necessity, create 
 derangement in the forms of mental manifestation connected 
 with that derangement. Disease of the nerves may create 
 false impressions, or may lead to acts at variance with the 
 spiritual volitions. As the facts may be thus accounted for 
 on the supposition that the brain is an organ used by the 
 mind, as well as on the supposition that the brain is itself 
 the organ of thought, they leave the question precisely 
 where they found it. 
 
 If, then, it be asked, what is the relation which the mind 
 holds to the material body? our answer would be as follows : 
 The mind seems to be a spiritual essence, endowed with a 
 variety of capacities, and connected with the body by the 
 principle of life. .These capacities are first called into 
 exercise by the organs of sense. So far as I can discover, 
 if a mind existed in a body incapable of receiving any im- 
 pression from without, it would never think, and would, of 
 course, be unconscious of its own existence. As soon, 
 however, as it has been once awakened to action by impres- 
 I sions from without, all its various faculties in succession are 
 I called into exercise. Consciousness, original suggestion, 
 I memory, abstraction, and reason, begin at once to act. 
 I These various powers are developed and cultivated by sub- 
 |i sequent exercise, until this congeries of capacities, once so 
 blank and negative, may at last be endowed with all the 
 energies of a Newton or a Milton. 
 
 Locke compares the mind to a sheet of blank paper ; 
 
 : Professor Upham, to a stringed instrument, which is silent 
 
 until the hand. of the artist sweeps over its chords. Both 
 
 I of these illustrations convey to us truth in respect to the 
 
22 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 
 
 relation existing between the mind and the material systeic 
 which it inhabits. The mind is possessed of no innate ideas ^ 
 its first ideas must come from without. In this respect it 
 resembles a sheet of blank paper. In its present state it 
 can originate no knowledge until called into action by im- 
 pressions made upon the senses. In this respect it resembles 
 a stringed instrument. Here, however, the resemblance 
 ceases. Were the paper capable not only of receiving the 
 form of the letters written upon it, but also of combining 
 them at will into a drama of Shakspeare or the epic of 
 Milton ; or, were the instrument capable not only of giving 
 forth a scale of notes when it was struck, but also of com- 
 bining them by its own power into the Messiah of Handel, 
 then would they both more nearly resemble the spiritual 
 essence which we call mind. It is in the power of com- 
 bining, generalizing, and reasoning, that the great differ- 
 ences of intellectual character consist. . All men open their 
 eyes upon the same world, but all men do not look upon 
 the world to the same purpose. 
 
 REFERENCES. 
 
 Mind first called into action by the perceptive powers — Locke, Book 2, 
 chap. 1, sec. 9 ; chap. 9, sections 2 — 4, and sec. 15. 
 
 On the proper mean^ of knowing the operations of our own minds — 
 Reid, Essay 1, chap. 5. 
 
 No idea of substance or essence, material or spiritual • — Locke, Book 2 
 chap. 23, sections 4, 5, 16, 30. 
 
 Energies of mind expressed by active verbs — Reid, Essay 1, chap. 1. 
 
 Explanation of terms — Ibid. 
 
 Affirmation concerning the essence of mind unphilosophical — Stewart, 
 Introduction. 
 
 As much reason to believe in the existence of spirit as of body — Locke, 
 Book 2, chap. 23, secti:ns 5, 15, 22, 30, 31. 
 
THE JfEKCEPTIVE FACULTIES. 28 
 
 BBCTIOX II. — OF THE PERCEPTIVE POWERS IN GENERAL, 
 
 Before entering upon the consideration of the individual 
 senses, it may be of use to offer a few suggestions respecting 
 the perceptive powers in general, i propose to do this in 
 the present section. 
 
 1. I find myself, in my present state, in intimate con- 
 nection with, what seems to me to be, an external world. I 
 cannot help believing that I am in my study; that, looking 
 out of the window, I behold in one direction a thronged 
 city, in another green fields, and in the distance beyond a 
 range of hills. I hear the sound of bells. I walk abroad 
 and am regaled with the odor of flowers. I see before me 
 fruit. I taste it and am refreshed. I am warmed by the 
 sun and cooled by the breeze. I find that all other men in 
 a normal state are affected in the same manner. I conclude 
 that to be capable of being thus affected is an attribute of 
 human nature, and that the objects which thus affect me are, 
 like myself, positive realities. 
 
 I cannot, then, escape the conviction that I am a conscious 
 existence, numerically distinct from every other created 
 being, and that I am surrounded by material objects pos- 
 sessed of the qualities which I recognize. The earth and the 
 trees seem to me to exist, and I believe that they do exist. 
 The grass seems to me to be green, and I believe that it is 
 green. I cannot divest myself of the belief that the world 
 around me actually is what I perceive it to be. I know that 
 it is something absolutely distinct from the being whom I 
 call myself I am conscious that there is a me, an ego. ' I 
 perceive that there is a not me. a noii ego. I observe that 
 lodl men hive the Bame convictions, and that in all their 
 
24 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY 
 
 conversation and reasonings they take these things foi 
 granted. 
 
 2. I, ?iowever, observe that my power of cognizing the 
 existence and qualities of the objects around me is limited. 
 There are but five classes of external qualities which I am 
 able to discover ; these are odorS; tastes, sounds, tactual, 
 and visible qualities. For the special purpose of cognizing 
 each of these qualities I find myself endowed with a partic- 
 ular organization, which is called a sense. These are the 
 senses of smell, taste, hearing, touch, and sight. Each 
 sense is limited to its own department of knowledge, and 
 has no connection with any other. We cannot see with our 
 ears, or hear with our fingers. Each sense performs its 
 own function, irrespective of any other. That matter has ' 
 no other qualities than those which we perceive, it is not ' 
 necessary to assert ; but if it have other qualities, inas- j 
 much as we have no means of knowing them, we must' 
 be forever, in our present state, ignorant of their existence. 
 
 This limitation, however, exists, not by necessity, but, by 1 
 the ordinance of the greater. He might, if he had so ^1 
 pleased, have diminished the number of our senses. The 
 deaf and the blind are deprived of means of knowledge 
 which other men enjoy. The number of the senses in many 
 of the lower animals is exceedingly restricted. We might 
 possibly have been so constituted as to hold intercourse with 
 the world around us without the intervention of the senses. 
 Wc suppose superior beings to possess more perfect means 
 of intelligence than ourselves ; but no one imagines them 
 to be endowed with material senses. Our Creator might, 
 probably, have increased the number of our senses, if he had 
 seen fit, and we should then have enjoyed other inlets to ' 
 Knowledge than those which we now possess. It is not im- 
 probable that some of the inferior animals possess senses of 
 Ivhich we are destitute. Migratory birds and fishes are 
 
THE PERCEPTIVE FACULTIES. 2A 
 
 endowed with a faculty by which, either by day or by night, 
 they pursue their way, with inevitable certainty, through 
 the air or the ocean. May not this power be given them by 
 ^neans of an additional sense 7 
 
 3. When our senses are brought into relation to their 
 a])propriate objects, under normal conditions, a state of 
 mind is created which we call by the general name of 
 thought, or knowledge. If a harp is struck within a few 
 feet of me. a state of mind is produced which we call hear- 
 ing. So, if I open my eyes upon the external world, a 
 state of mind is produced which we call seeing. This men- 
 tal state is of two kinds. It is sometimes nothi/ig more than 
 a simple knowledge, as when my sense of smelling ia 
 excited by the perfume of a rose. At other times it goes 
 further than this, and we not only have a knowledge or 9 
 new consciousness, but also the belief that there exists some 
 external object by which this knowledge is produced. 
 
 The external conditions on which these changes depend 
 are as numerous as the senses themselves. Each sense has 
 probably its own media, or conditions, through which alone 
 its impressions are received. We see by means of the 
 medium of light. We hear by means of the vibrations of 
 air. None of these media can be used interchangeably 
 Each medium is appropriated to its peculiar organ. 
 
 4. Physiologists have enabled us to trace with consider- 
 able accuracy several steps of the process by which the 
 intercourse between the spiritual intellect and the material 
 world is maintained ; by which impressions on our material 
 organization result in knowledge, and the volitions of the 
 -•oul manifest themselves in action. A brief reference to 
 our organization in this respect is here indispensable. 
 
 The nervous system in general is that part of our phys- 
 ical organization by which the mind holds intercourse with 
 the external world, and through which it obtains the ele- 
 8 
 
26 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 
 
 ments of knowledge. The nervous system is, however, of 
 a two-fold character. A part of it is employed in giving 
 energy to those processes by which life is sustained. These 
 have their appropriate centres either in the spinal marrow, 
 or in the different ganglia. Thus the heart, arteries and 
 lungs, have their appropriate system of nerves, with the.r 
 proper centre. The digestive apparatus has its own nervous 
 system. These are all parts of the general arrangement of 
 brain, spinal marrow and nerves, but their functions are 
 performed without volition or thought. Hence many of the 
 lower animals, which have no need of thought, have no other 
 nervous apparatus. The brain may be removed from some 
 of the cold-blooded animals without, for a considerable pe- 
 riod, producing death. In such cases sensation will pro- 
 duce motion, the arterial and digestive processes will con- 
 tinue for a while uninterrupted. Thus a common tortoise will 
 live for several days after its head has been cut off. Thus we 
 also perform these various functions without any interven- 
 tion of the will. We digest our food, we breathe, our 
 hearts pulsate, without any care of our own; and these 
 functions are performed as well when we sleep as when we 
 wake,— nay, they proceed frequently for a while with entire 
 regularity. when consciousness has been suspended by in- 
 jury of the brain. 
 
 As this part of the nervous system has nothing to do with 
 thought and volition, we may dismiss it from our considera- 
 tion, and proceed to consider that other portion of it which 
 stands in so intimate connection with the thinking prin- 
 ciple. 
 
 The organism which we use for this- purpose consists of 
 the brain and nerves. The part of the brain specially con- 
 cerned in thought is the outer portion, called the cerebrum. 
 From the brain proceed two classes of nerves, which have 
 Deen appropriately termed afferent and efferent. The affe- 
 
 1 
 
THE PERCEPTIVE FACULTIES. 27 
 
 rent nerves connect the various organs of sense with the 
 brain, and thus convey to it impressions* from without. 
 When an image from an external object is formed on the 
 retina of the eye, a change is produced along the course of 
 the optic nerve, which terminates in the brain, and the re- 
 sult is a change in the state of the mind which we call see- 
 ing. When the vibrations of the air fall upon the ear, 
 another change is produced on the auditory nerve which is 
 continued until it reaches the brain, and the result is a 
 change in the state of the mind which we c^li hearing. The 
 other, or the efferent class of nerves, proceed from the brain 
 outwardly, and terminate in the muscles. By these the vo- 
 litions of the mind are conveyed to our material organs, 
 and the will of the mind is accomplished in action. The 
 process just now mentioned is here reversed. The volition 
 of the mind acts upon the brain, the change is communi- 
 cated through thp nerves to the muscles, and terminates in 
 external action. Thus the brain is the physical centre to 
 which all impressions producing knowledge tend, and from 
 which all volitions tending to action proceed. 
 
 The proof of these truths is very simple. If the connec- 
 tion betwen the organ of sense and the brain be interrupted 
 by cutting, tying or injuring the nerve, perception imme- 
 diately ceases. If, in the same manner, the connection be- 
 tween the brain and the voluntary muscles be interrupted, 
 the limbs do not obey the will. Sometimes, by disease, the 
 nerves of feeling alone are paralyzed, and then, while the 
 power of voluntary motion remains, the patient loses en- 
 tirely the sense of touch, and will burn or scald himself 
 without consciousness of injury. At other times, while the 
 
 * I of course use the word impression here, in a general sense, to convey 
 the idea of a change produced, and not of literal impression oi change of 
 material fbri£ 
 
INTELLECTLAL PHILOSOPHY. 
 
 nerves of sensation are unaffected, the nerves of volition are 
 paralyzed. In this case, feeling and the other senses are un- 
 impaired, but the patient loses the power of locomotion. 
 Sometimes an effect of this kind is produced by the mere 
 pressure upon a nerve. Sometimes, after sitting for a long 
 time in one position, on attempting to rise we have found 
 one of our feet '' asleep." We had lost the power of mov- 
 ing it, and all sensation for the time had ceased. It seemed 2 
 more like a foreign body than a part of ourselves. Long- 
 continued pressure on the nerve had interrupted the com- 
 munication between the brain and the extremities of the 
 nerves. As soon as this communication was reestablished, 
 the limb resumed its ordinary functions.^ 
 
 These remarks respecting the nerves apply with somewhat 
 increased emphasis to the brain. If by injury to the skull 
 the brain becomes compressed, all intelligent connection be- 
 tween us and the external world ceases. So long as the 
 cause remains unremoved, the patient in such a case con- 
 tinues in a state of entire unconsciousness. The powers of 
 volition and sensation are suspended. If the brain becomes 
 inflamed, all mental action becomes intensely painful, the 
 
 * Sometimes this communication is so entirely suspended that a limb inl 
 this state, when touched by the other parts of the body, appears like a 
 foreign substance. An instance of this kind, which many years since oc- 
 curred to the author himself, may serve to iUustrate this subject He 
 awoke one night after a sound sleep, and was not agreeably surprised to 
 find a cold hand lying heavily on his breast. He was the sole occupant 
 of the room, and he knew not how any one could have entered it It was 
 80 dark that he could perceive nothmg. He, however, kept hold of the 
 hand, and, as it did not move, was somewhat relieved by tracing it up 
 to his own shoulder. He had lain in an awkward position, so that he 
 had pressed upon the nerve until all sensation had ceased. Probably 
 many stories of apparitions and nightly visitations may be accounted for 
 by supposing a similar cause. 
 
 f- 
 
 I 
 
THE PI.HCEPTIVE FACULTIES. 29 
 
 perceptions are false or exaggerated, and the volitions as- 
 sume the violence of frenzy.* 
 
 It may illustrate the relation which the nervous system 
 sustains to the other parts of our material structure, to 
 suppose the brain, nerves and organs of sense separated 
 from the rest of the body, and to exist by themselves, with- 
 out loss of life. In such a case, all our intellectual con- 
 nections with the external world could be maintained. We 
 could see, and hear, and feel, and taste, and smell, and re- 
 member, and imagine, and reason. All that we should lose 
 would be the power of voluntary motion, and the con- 
 veniences which result from it. If, then, we should put 
 this nervous system into connection with the bones, muscles, 
 and those viscera which are necessary for their sustentation, 
 we should have our present organization just as we actually 
 find it. We see, then, that the other parts of our system 
 are not necessary to our power of knowing, but mainly to 
 our power of acting. 
 
 5. Of sensation and perception. 
 
 I have said that when our senses, under normal condi- 
 kions, are brought into relation to the objects around us, 
 the result is a state or act of the mind which we call know- 
 'ing. A new idea or a new knowledge is given to the mind. 
 This knowledge is of two kinds. In one case it is a simple 
 
 * Sometimes, however, astonishing lesions of the brain occur without 
 ither causing destruction of life or eyen any permanent injury. A case 
 fas a few years since publishei in the daily papers, under the authority 
 )f several eminent physicians, more remarkable than any with which I 
 lad been previously acquainted. A man was engaged in blasting rocks 
 md as he stood over his work, and was, I think, drawing the priming- 
 fire, the charge exploded, and drove through his head an iron rod of some 
 :wo or three feet in length. The rod came out through the top of his 
 lead, and was found covered with blood and brain. He nevertheless 
 talked home without assistance, and under ordinary medical care recov- 
 ired in a few weeks. 
 
 3* 
 
80 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 
 
 I 
 
 knowledge, connected with no external thing. Thus, sup^ 
 pose that I had never yet received any impression from the 
 external world. In "profound darkness a rose is brought 
 near to me. I am at once conscious of a new state of mind. 
 I have a knowledge^ something which I can reflect upon, 
 which we call smell. This knowledge, however, exists solely 
 in my mind. I refer it to nothing, for I know nothing to 
 which I can refer it. This simplest form of knowledge ia 
 called sensation. 
 
 But there is another form of knowledge given us through 
 the medium of our senses. In some cases we not only ob- 
 tain a new idea, or a knowledge of a quality, but we know, 
 also, that this quality is predicated of some object existing 
 without us. We know that there is a not me ^ and that thia 
 is one of its attributes. Suppose, as in the other case, I 
 am endowed with the sense of sight, and in daylight the 
 rose is placed before me. I know that there is an ex- 
 ternal object numerically distinct from myself, and that it 
 is endowed with a particular form and color. This act ia 
 called perception. 
 
 These two forms of knowledge are united in the sense of 
 touch, and may be clearly distinguished by a little reflec- 
 tion. The illustration of Dr. Eeid is as follows : ^^ If a man 
 runs his head with violence against a pillar, the attention of 
 the mind is turned entirely to the painful feeling, and, to 
 speak in common language, he feels nothing in the stone, 
 but he feels a violent pain in his head." " When he leans 
 his head gently against the pillar, he will tell you he 
 feels nothing in his head, but feels hardness in the 
 stone."— Reid's Inquiry, chap. 5, sec. 2. So I prick 
 a person with the point of a needle ; a new knowledge is 
 created in his mind, which he denominates pain. I draw 
 the needle lightly over his finger, and I ask him what it is ; 
 he replies, the point of a needle. So, if I place my f ngera 
 
THE PERCEPTIVE FACULTIES. 31 
 
 lightly on a table with my attention strongly directei to the 
 feeling, I am conscious of a sensation. If I move my hand 
 slowly over the table in order to ascertain its qualities, I am 
 conscious of a perception ; that is, of a knowledge that the 
 table is smooth, hard, cold, etc. The smell of a rose, the 
 feeling of cold, the pain of the toothache, are sensations. 
 The knowledge of hardness, of form, of a tree, or a house, 
 arc perceptions. 
 
 It has been commonly suppo ed that every perceptioii 
 was preceded by and consequent upon a sensation. Hence 
 the question has frequently ari^^n, since the perception is 
 predicated upon the sensation, and the sensation conveys to 
 us no knowledge of an external world, whence is our knowl- 
 edge of an external world derived ? From these data it has 
 seemed difficult to answer the question satisfactorily. Dr. 
 Brown has attempted to solve the difficulty by supposing 
 the existence of a sixth sense, which he calls the sense of 
 muscular resistance. He suggests that the pressure of the 
 hand against a solid body produces a peculiar sensation in 
 the muscles by which we become cognizant of the existence 
 of an external world. To me this explanation is unsatisfac- 
 tory. The question is, how does sensation, which is a mere 
 feeling, and gives us no knowledge of the external, or the 
 not me, become the cause of perception, which is a knowl- 
 edge of the external '? Dr. Brown attempts to remove the 
 difficulty by suggesting another sensation, which, being a 
 mere sensation also, has no more necessary connection with 
 the knowledge of the external than any other. 
 
 It is my belief that the idea of externality, that is, of 
 objects numerically distinct from ourselves, is given to us 
 spontaneously by the senses of touch and sight. When we 
 feel a hard substance, the notion that it is something exter- 
 nal to us is a part of the knowledge which at once arises in 
 the mind When I look upon a tree. I cannot divest my- 
 
82 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 
 
 self of the instantaneous belief that the tree and myself are 
 distinct existences, and that :t is such as I perceive it to be. 
 Unless this knowledge were thus given to us by the consti- 
 tution of our minds, I know not how we should ever arrive 
 at it. That this view of the subject is correct, is, I think, 
 evident from what we observe of the conduct of the young 
 of all animals. The lamb, or the calf, of a few hours old, 
 seems by sight to have formed as distinct conceptions of ex- 
 ternahty, of qualities, of position, and of distance, as it ever 
 obtains. We cannot suppose that its knowledge arises from 
 any sense of muscular resistance, but must believe that it 
 is given to it originally with the sense of sight. So an in- 
 fant turns to the light, grasps after a candle, just as it doea 
 after any visible object in later life. I therefore believe that 
 this complex knowledge is given to us by the senses of sight 
 and touch, just as the simpler knowledge is given to us by 
 the senses of smell and taste. 
 
 REFE RENCES. 
 
 Perception in general — Reid's Inquiry, chap. 6, sec. 20. 
 Process of nature in perception — Reid's Inquiry, chap. 6, sec. 21. 
 Mode of perception — Essays on Intellectual Powers, Essay 2, chap. 1. 
 Perception limited by the senses — Essay 2, chap. 2. 
 The evidence of perception to be relied on — Essay 2, chap. 5. 
 Sensation and perception — Abercrombie's Intellectual Powers, Part 2, 
 sec. 1. 
 
 1 
 
 SECTION III. — OF THE MODE OF OUR INTERCOURSE WITH 
 THE EXTERiTAL WORLD. 
 
 In the preceding sections we have treated of both the 
 physical and spiritual facts concerned in the act of percep- 
 tion. We have seen that in order to the existence of per- 
 ception, some change must be produced in the organ of 
 
 I 
 
THE PERCEPTIVE FACULTIES. 8b 
 
 sense ; this must give rise to a change transmitted by the 
 nerves to the brain, and the brain must be in a normal state 
 in order to be affected by the change communicated by the 
 nerves. If either of these conditions be violated, neither 
 sensation nor perception can exist. When, however, these 
 organs are all in a normal state, and its appropriate object 
 is presented to an organ of sense, the result is a knowledge 
 or an affection of the spiritual soul. The first part of the 
 process is material — it consists of changes in matter; the last 
 part is thought, an affection of the immaterial spirit. The 
 question is, how can any change in matter produce thought, 
 or knowledge, an affection of the spirit ? Or, still more, 
 how can this modification of the matter of the brain produce 
 in us a knowledge of the external world, its qualities and 
 relations ? The lighting of effluvia on my olfactory nerve 
 is in no respect like the state of my mind which I call the 
 sensation of smell. The vibrations of the tympanum, or 
 the undulations of the auditory nerve, are in no respect 
 similar to the state of my mind when I hear an oratorio of 
 Handel. The two events are as unlike to each other as 
 any that can be conceived. In what manner, then, does the 
 one event become the cause of the other ? 
 
 A variety of answers has been given to these questions. 
 The manner in which the subject has been formerly treated 
 is substantially as follows : It was taken for granted that 
 the mind was a spiritual essence, whose seat was the brain ; 
 that the mind could only act or be acted upon in the place 
 where it actually resided, and that, as external objects were 
 at a distance from the mind, it was necessary for images of 
 external objects to be present to it, in order that it might 
 obtain a knowledge of their existence. 
 
 Hence arose the doctrine of what has been called repre- 
 sentative images. By some of the ancient philosophers it 
 was supposed that forms or species rf external objects 
 
84 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 
 
 enter?! the organs of sense, and through them becam€ 
 present to the mind, ii; was the opinion of Locke, so far 
 as I can understand him, that, in every act of perception, 
 there is an intermediate image of the external object pres- 
 ent to the mind, which the mind cognizes immediately, in- 
 stead of the object itself. I am aware that th« language of 
 Locke is, on this subject, exceedingly unceitain and ambig- 
 uous. Sometimes he seems to use the word idea to express 
 merely an act of the mind, and, at other . times, something 
 present to the mind, but numerically distinct from it, which 
 is the immediate object of knowledge. That, however, he 
 really believed that in perception there must exist something, 
 a positive entity, different both from the mind and its per- 
 ceptive act, is evident from such passages as the following : 
 '^ There are some ideas which have admittance only 
 through one sense which is peculiarly adapted to receive 
 them." — ^' And if these organs, or the nerves which are the 
 conduits to convey them from without to their audience in 
 the brain, the mind's presence-room (as I may so call it), 
 are any of them so disordered as not to perform their func- 
 tions, they have no postern to be admitted by, no other way 
 to bring themselves into view and be perceived by the un- 
 derstanding." — Book II., chap. 3, sec. 1. 
 
 Again: '^ If these external objects be not united to our 
 minds when they produce ideas therein, and yet we perceive 
 their original qualities in such of them as singly fall under 
 our senses, it is evident that some motion must be thence 
 continued by our nerves or animal spirits, by some parts of 
 our bodies, to the brain or seat of sensation, there to produce 
 the particular ideas we have of them. And since the ex- 
 tension, figure, number and motion, of bodies of an observa- 
 ble bigness, may be perceived at a distance by sight, it is 
 evident some singly impe7cejjtible bodies m>ust come from 
 them to the eyes, and thereby convoy to the brain somi 
 
- THE PERCEPTIVE FACLLTIES. 35 
 
 motion which produces these ideas which we have of them.^' 
 — Book II., chap. 8, sec. 12. 
 
 Again : •• I pretend not to teach, but to inquire, and there- 
 fore cannot but confess here, again, that external and internal 
 sensation are the only passages that I can find of knowledge to 
 the understanding. These alone, as far as I can discover, 
 are the windows by which light is let into this dark room ; 
 for, methinks, the understanding is not much unlike a closet 
 wholly shut from the light, with some little opening left to 
 let in external visible resemblances or ideas of things 
 without. Would the pictures coming into such a dark 
 room but stay there and lie orderly, so as to be found upon 
 occasion, it would very much resemble the understanding of 
 a man in reference to all objects of sight and the ideas of 
 them." — Book ii., chap. 2, sec. 17. 
 
 From these quotations, — and many of the same kind might 
 be added, — two things are evident : first, that Locke used 
 the word idea to designate both the act of the mind in per- 
 ception, a mere spiritual aflection; and also something pro- 
 ceeding from the external object which was the cause of this 
 state. Secondly, that he did really recognize this interme- 
 diate something as a positive entity which the soul cognizes 
 instead of the outward object. He speaks of the nerves as 
 the conduits to convey these ideas to their presence- 
 chainber^ the brain ; of im,perceptible bodies which must 
 come from them (external objects) to the eyes, and be 
 conveyed to the brain. These expressions are too definite 
 to be used figuratively, and we must, therefore, accept this 
 explanation of the phenomena as a statement of the belief 
 of our illustrious author. This belief, however, was by no 
 means peculiar to him. It was a common belief at the time, 
 and he always refers to it as a matter well understood, and 
 received without question, by his cotemporaries. The stu- 
 dent who wishes to pursue this subject farther, will read 
 
S6 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 
 
 with pleasure the passages referred to at the close of the 
 chapter. 
 
 The belief, then, prevalent at the time of Locke, may be 
 stated briefly thus : The soul is located in the brain. It 
 can cognize nothing except where it exists in space. Exter- 
 nal objects, being separated from it, can never be the imme- 
 diate objects of its perception. There must, therefore, pro- 
 ceed from the external object to the mind some images or 
 forms, which, entering by the senses, become present to the 
 mind, and are there the objects of perception. Hence the 
 mind never cognizes external objects ; this is, from the na- 
 ture of the case, impossible. It only cognizes these images 
 m the brain, and, from their resemblance to external objects, 
 it learns the existence and qualities of the external world. 
 
 Dr. Reid for a while believed this doctrine, but, startled 
 at the conclusions to which it led, was induced to examine 
 the foundations on which it rested. Upon reflection, he 
 soon arrived at the following conclusions : 
 
 1st. The existence of these images is inconceivable. We 
 can conceive of the image of a form, but how can we con- 
 ceive of the image of a color as existing in absolute dark- 
 ness ; and still more of the image of a smell, a sound, or a 
 taste ? Or how can we conceive of distinct images of Lll of 
 these various qualities forming the conception of a sinde 
 object ? ^ 
 
 2d. Were this theory conceivable, it is wholly destitute 
 of proof^ It IS merely the conception of a philosopher's 
 bram. Who ever saw such images? Who, bv his own 
 consciousness, was ever aware of their existence? What 
 shadow of proof of their existence was ever given to the 
 world ^ Are we, then, called upon to believe an inconceiva- 
 ble hypothesis on no other evidence than merely the asser- 
 tion 01 philosophers ? J - ^^ 
 
 3d. Were the existence of intermediate images proved, it 
 
THE PERCEPTIVE FACULTIES. 37 
 
 would relieve the subject of no essential difficulty. It might 
 reasonably be demanded, is it easier to cognize a small 
 object than a large one ? If the image be matter, then the 
 question still remains unanswered, how does a change of 
 matter create thought, an affection of the soul ? Is the im- 
 age spirit ? Then it cannot resemble the external object, and 
 can give us no notion of its qualities. And, more than all, 
 if ¥re never cognize the object, but only the image, how can 
 we have any knowledge whatever either of the external 
 object or of its qualities ? 
 
 The suggestion of these considerations abolished at once 
 the doctrine of a representative image. Since the time of Dr. 
 Reid, it has, I think, been conceded, by the most judicious 
 writers on this subject, that we know nothing concerning the 
 mode of perception beyond a statement of the facts. There ^ 
 is a series of physical facts which can be proved by experi- 
 ment to exist. When these terminate there arise knowl- 
 edges of two kinds : the one a simple knowledge, as when I 
 am conscious of a smell or a sound ; the other a compound 
 knowledge, embracing a simple idea, as of color or form, 
 and also an idea of an external object of which these quali- 
 ties are predicated. Both of these are pure and ultimate 
 cognitions. We are as perfectly convinced of the truth of 
 the one as of the other. I as fully believe that I see a 
 rose, that its leaves are green and its petals red, as that I 
 smell an odor which I have learned to call the smell of a 
 rose. I cognize no image, I cognize the rose itself; and I 
 am as sure of its existence as I am of my own. Such seems 
 to be the law of perception under which I have been created. 
 I can neither change these perceptions, nor help relying with 
 perfect confidence on the truths which they reveal to me. 
 If I am asked to explain it any farther, I confess myself 
 unable to do so. If investigation shall enable us to establish 
 any additional facts in the series by which the material 
 4 
 
38 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPKY. 
 
 change terminates in thought, we will accept its discoverh 
 with thankfulness. Until this is done, it is far better, wheti 
 we have reached the utmost limit of our knowledge, humbly 
 to confess our ignorance of all that is beyond. 
 
 The doctrine of a representative image would not, at the 
 present day, deserve even a passing notice, were it not for 
 the consequences which were deduced from it. Some of 
 these are worthy of remark. 
 
 In the first place, it was difficult to conceive how the soul 
 cx)uld be affected and thought produced by any change in 
 matter. It was supposed that this difficulty could be re- 
 lieved by the hypothesis of representative images. But 
 then it was demanded, are these images matter or spirit ? 
 If they are matter, and matter cannot act but upon matter, 
 since they act on the mind, the mind must be matter. Hence 
 was deduced the doctrine of materialism. Or, on the other 
 hand, are these images spirit ? In this case, spirit might 
 act upon spirit; but then how could spiritual images proceed 
 from matter, and, more still, how could they resemble mat- 
 ter? If, then, we cognize nothing but these, whence ia 
 the evidence of any material world ? Hence the doctrine 
 of idealism. 
 
 But again. It is granted in this hypothesis that we can 
 cognize in itself nothing external. We cognize nothing but 
 images, and it is impossible for us to cognize anything else. 
 But it was apparent that no images, which could by possi- 
 bility pass through the nerves, could resemble external qual- 
 ities ; what reason, then, have we to believe that the external 
 quality is, in any respect, like the image which alone we 
 are able to contemplate? Again: in order to know that the 
 images are similar to the objects which they represent, we 
 must know both the object and its representative. But by 
 necessity we can know only the one , how can we affirm that 
 It resembles the other? If I enter a gallery of paintings, 
 
THE PERCEPTIVE FACULTIES. 39 
 
 how can I determine whether the pictures are likenesses oi 
 are mere productions of the fancy; if neither I nor any other 
 man had ever seen any originals of which they could be the 
 resemblances? Hence it is manifest that the evidence of the 
 existence of a material world, or of anything existing out 
 of the mindj is at once swept away. Keasoning in this 
 manner, Bishop Berkeley arrived at idealism. He denied the 
 existence of an external world, and concluded that nothing 
 existed but spirit and the affections of spirit. 
 
 But this idea was generalized. It was admitted that we 
 could not cognize external objects directly, but only through 
 the medium of representative images. If this is true of 
 material, why is it not true of spiritual objects, — of the 
 cognitions of consciousness ? Why do we not cognize them 
 by means of representations 1 But if we cognize them 
 thus, and have no cognition of the objects themselves, how 
 do we know that there is any such existence as mind or its 
 faculties ? In short, how do we know that anything exists 
 but ideas and impressions '? How do we know that any such 
 realities exist as time, space, eternity, Deity 7 All is re- 
 solved into a succession of ideas, which follow each other by 
 the laws of association, and besides these there is nothing in 
 the universe. This is nihilism, and such consequences were 
 actually deduced by some philosophers from this doctrine. 
 It was surely important to examine the evidences of an hy- 
 pothesis which led to such results. 
 
 This imperfect fragment of the history of intellectual 
 philosophy is not without its value. It teaches us the vast 
 superiority of the acknowledgment of ignorance, to the gratu- 
 itous assumption of knowledge. When we have reached the 
 limits of our knowledge, there is no harm in confessing that 
 beyond this we do not know. But to look out into the 
 darkness, and dogmatically to affirm what exists beyond the 
 rsach of our vision, may exclude invaluable truth, and in- 
 
40 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 
 
 troduce the most alarming error. Thus, in the present in 
 stance, a hypothetical explanation of a fact, which in our 
 present state does not seem to admit of explanation, when 
 carried out to its legitimate results was found to terminate 
 in universal scepticism, and furnish a foundation for consis- 
 tent atheism. Philosophy will certainly have made impor- 
 tant progress when it shall have been able accurately to 
 determine the limits of human inquiry. 
 
 REFERENCES. 
 
 Representative images — Locke, Book 2, chap. 3, sec. 1 ; chap. 8, sec. 
 12 ; chap. 11, sec. 17. Reid's Inquiry, chap. 1, sees. 3—7 ; 2d Essay, 
 chaps. 4, 7, 9, 14. Stewart, vol. 1, chap. 1, sec. 3. Introduction, Part 
 1, vol 2, chap. 4, sec. 1 ; chap. 1, sec. 3. Cousin, Psychology, chaps. 6 
 and 7. 
 
 Knowledge an agreement between the idea and object — Lock& Book 4^ 
 chap. 1, sec. 2 ; chap. 4, sec. 3. Cousin, chap. 6. 
 
 Consciousness an authority — Chapter 1. 
 
 Three things existent in perception — Reid, 2d Essay, chap. 5. 
 
 Idealise: and Nihilism— Cousin, chap. 6, last part, and chap 7 Rftid 
 2d Essay, 3hap«. 10l~12. 
 
THE INDrVIDUAL SENSES SEPAKATELY CONSIDERED 
 
 SECTION IV. — OF THE SENSE OF SMELL. 
 
 Having, in the preceding chapter, treated of our percep- 
 tive powers in general, I proceed to describe the particular 
 senses with which we have been endowed. Proceeding from 
 the simpler to the more complex, I shall examine, in order, 
 smell, taste, hearing, touch and sight. 
 
 The organ of smell is situated in the back part of the 
 nostrils. It is composed of thin laminae of bone, folded 
 together like a slip of parchment, over which the olfactory 
 nerve is spread, covered by the ordinary mucous membrane 
 which lines the mouth and posterior fauces. It is so situ- 
 ated that the whole surface of the organ is exposed to the 
 current of air in the act of inspiration. 
 
 In those animals which seek their prey by scent, this or- 
 gan is found larger, exposing a greater amount of surface 
 to the air, than in those which pursue their prey by sight 
 The perfection in which this sense is enjoyed by some of the 
 lower animals has always been a subject of remark. A 
 dog will track the footsteps of his master through the streets 
 of a crowded city, and, after a long absence, will recognize 
 him by smell as readily as by sight or hearing. 
 
 When we are brought near to an odoriferous body, we 
 immediately become sensible of a knowledge, a feeling, or a 
 4* 
 
42 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 
 
 particular fetate of mind. If a tuberose is brought nc^ a 
 person who has never smelled it, he is at once conscious of 
 a form of knowledge entirely new to him. If we do not 
 by our other senses, know the cause of the sensation, we 
 have no name for it, but are obliged to designate it by re- 
 ferring to the place where we experienced it. If, by our 
 other senses, we have learned the cause of the sensation, we 
 designate it by the name of the object which produces it. 
 Were the perfume of a rose present to me for the first 
 time, and did I not see the flower, I could give to it no name. 
 As soon as I have ascertained that the perfume proceeds 
 from the rose, I call it the smell of a rose. We thus seo 
 clearly that from this sense we derive nothing but a sensation, 
 a simple knowledge, which neither gives us a cognition of 
 anything external, nor teaches us that anything exists out 
 of ourselves. 
 
 The exercise of this sensation is either agreeable, indif- 
 ferent or disagreeable. The perfume of flowers, fruit, aro- 
 matic herbs, &c., is commonly pleasant. The odor of ob- 
 jects in common use is generally indifferent. The odor ot 
 putrid matter, either animal or vegetable, is excessively dis- 
 agreeable. In general, it may be remarked that substances 
 which are healthful for food are agreeable to the smell ; 
 while those which are deleterious are unpleasant. The 
 final cause of this general law is evident, and the reason 
 why the organ of smell in all animals is placed directly over 
 the mouth. Odors of all kinds, however, if they be long 
 continued, lose their power of affecting us. We soon 
 become insensible to the perfume of the flowers of a garden ; 
 and men, whose vocation requires them to labor in the midst 
 of carrion, after a short time become insensible to the offen - 
 sive effluvia by which they are surrounded. 
 
 Pleasant odors are refreshing and invigorating, and re- 
 store, for the time, tie exhausted nervous energy. Offen- 
 
THE INDIVIDUAL SENSES. 43 
 
 ftive odors, oa the other hand, are depressing to the spirits, 
 and tend to glcom and despondency. The former of these 
 effects is alluded to with great beauty in the well-known 
 lines of Miltran 
 
 ** As when to them who sail 
 Beyond the Cape of Hope, and now are past 
 Mozambique ; off at sea, north-east winds blow 
 Sabean odars from the spicy shore 
 Of Araby the blest ; with such delay 
 Well pleased, they slack their course, and many a league. 
 Cheered with the grateful smell, old Ocean smiles." 
 
 Paradise Lost, Book 4, lines 169 — 165. 
 
 Concerning the manner in which this sensation is pro- 
 duced, I believe that but one hypothesis has been suggested. 
 The received opinion is that what is called effluvia, or ex- 
 tremely minute particles, are given off by the odorous body, 
 that these are dissolved in the air, and brought in contact 
 with the organ of this sense in the act of breathing. That 
 this may be so is quite probable. It is, however, destitute 
 of direct proof, and is liable to many objections. It is dif- 
 ficult to conceive how a single grain of musk can, for a long 
 time, fill the area of a large room with ever so minute par- 
 ticles, without visible diminution of either volume or weight 
 Until, however, some better theory shall be presented, we 
 seem justified in receiving that which even imperfectly ac- 
 counts for the facts in the case. Still, we are to remember 
 that it is merely a hypothesis, to be abandoned as soon as 
 any better explanation is established by observation. 
 
 From what has been already remarked, it must be, I 
 think, evident that the sense of smell gives us no percep- 
 tion. It is the source of a simple knowledge which alone 
 would never lead us out of ourselves. This sensation clearly 
 gives us no notion whatever of the quality which produces 
 
44 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY- 
 
 it, noi have philosophers ever been able to determine what 
 that quality is. It is possible that the suggestion of cause 
 and effect might indicate to us the probability of a cause, 
 but the sense itself would neither awaken this inquiry nor 
 furnish us with the means of answering it. 
 
 Does the sense of smell furnish us with any conc-bption ? 
 By conception, I mean a notion of a thing, such as will 
 enable us, when the object itself is absent, to make it a 
 distinct object of thought. Thus I have seen a lily ; I can 
 form a distinct notion of its form and jcolor, and I can com- 
 pare it with a rose, and from my conceptions point out the 
 difference between them. I could describe this lily, from 
 my conception of it, so that another person could have the 
 same notion of it as myself Were I a painter, I could ex- 
 press my conception on canvas. Now, is there a similar 
 power of forming a conception of a smell ? Can I form a 
 distinct notion of the smell of an apple or a peach, and can 
 I compare them together, or describe them by language, or 
 in any other manner transfer my conception to another ? 
 So far as I can discover, from observing the operation of 
 my own mind, all this is impossible. After having smelled 
 an odorous body, I know that I should be able to reco-nize 
 that particular odor again. I cannot form a conceptio^'n of 
 the smell of a rose, but I know that I could, if it were 
 present, immediately recognize it and distinguish it from all 
 other odors. Beyond this I am conscious of no power 
 whatever. 
 
 This, however, I am aware, is but the experience of a 
 emgle mdmdual. Other persons may be more richly en- 
 dowed than myself. I have frequently put this question to 
 th classes which I have instructed, and I find the testimony 
 not altogether uniform. Some few young gentlemen in every 
 
 of a smell as they ha4 of a color or a form. The greater 
 
THE INDIVIDUAL SENSES. 45 
 
 part, however, have agreed with me that they had no power 
 to form the conception in question. 
 
 It has, very probably, occurred to the reader that the 
 words, ^'the smell of a rose," convey two entirely different 
 meanings; the one objective, the other subjective. The 
 ''smell of a rose'' may designate a peculiar feeling or 
 knowledge existing in my mind, or it may designate the un- 
 known cause of that feeling. Thus, when I say the smell 
 of a rose is sometimes followed by fainting, I mean the sen- 
 sation produced in the mind. I say the apartment is filled 
 with the smell of a rose. I here mean the unknown quality 
 existing in the rose. Both of these expressions I suppose 
 to be correct, and in harmony with the idiom of the Eng- 
 lish language. The same ambiguity exists in all the terms 
 commonly used to designate sensations. Thus, the taste of 
 an apple, heat, cold, sweet, sour, and many others, admit of 
 a similar twofold signification. 
 
 Chemical philosophers, aware of this ambiguity in lan- 
 guage, have wisely introduced a new terra, by which, in a 
 particular case, this difficulty may be obviated. Observing 
 that the term '' heat " may signify a certain feeling in my 
 mind, as well as the unknown cause of that feeling existing 
 in a burning body, and as they were continually treating 
 of the one, and almost never of the other, they have desig- 
 nated the two ideas by difierent words. Retaining the term 
 heat to signify the sensation of a sentient being, they use 
 the word " caloric " to designate the unknown cause of the 
 sensation. Every one must perceive how much definitenesa 
 the use of this term has added to this branch of philosoph- 
 ical inquiry. 
 
 REFERENCE. 
 Bud's Inqiiry, chapter 2, the whole chapter. 
 
46 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOI flr. 
 
 SECTION V. — THE SENSE OF TASTE. 
 
 The nerves of taste are spread over the tongue and the 
 back part of the fauces. They terminate in numerous 
 papillae^ or small excrescences, which form together the or- 
 gan of taste. It is almost needless to obsei ve that the 
 nerves are everywhere covered with the mersbrane lining 
 the mouth, and never come in immediate contact with the 
 sapid substance. These papillae are most nVimerous on the 
 tip, the edges, and the root of the tongue^ leaving many 
 portions of the intermediate surface almost destitute of this 
 ' sensation. 
 
 The sense of taste is never excited except by solutions. 
 The saliva, which is copiously furnished by the glands of the 
 mouth, is an active solvent. By mastication, the solid food 
 becomes intimately mixed with this animal fluid, is partially 
 dissolved by it, and, in this condition, is brought into rela- 
 tion to the papillae which constitute the organ of taste. 
 Insoluble substances are, therefore, tasteless. When the 
 papillae of the tongue either become dry, or are covered 
 with the thick coating produced by fever, taste becomes im- 
 perfect or is wholly suspended. 
 
 When a sapid body, under normal circumstances, is 
 brought into relation with the organ of taste, a sensation either 
 pleasing or displeasing immediately ensues. When the sen- 
 sation is pleasant, we are instinctively impelled to swallow, 
 and with the act of swallowing the sensation is perfected 
 and ceases. When the sensation is unpleasant, we are on 
 the other hand, impelled to reject whatever may be the cause 
 ot It, and frequently it requires a strong effort of the will 
 to control this impulse. The sensation of taste is not con. 
 Bummated without the act of swaUowing. It would seem 
 
THE IimiVIDUAL SENSES. 47 
 
 probable that the anterior and posterior nerves of the tongue 
 were designed to perform different offices, the former giv- 
 ing us an imperfect sensation, which creates the disposition 
 either to swallow or to reject the sapid substance ; the latter 
 awakening the perfected sensation as the substance passes 
 over it. 
 
 As in the case of smell, so in that of taste, I think that 
 ♦nth the sensation no perception is connected. A particular 
 sensibility is excited ; a feeling either pleasant or unpleasant 
 IS created ; a simple knowledge is given us ; — but no cog- 
 nition of anything external can be observed. Whatever 
 notions of externality come to us, by means of this sense, 
 are derived from other sources than the sense itself Thus, 
 we can receive nothing into the mouth except by bring- 
 ing it into contact with the lips. The sense of touch 
 then cognizes it as something external to ourselves. The 
 suggestion of cause and effect might lead us possibly to the 
 same conclusion. These, however, are no parts of the sense 
 of taste. The taste in the mouth which frequently accom- 
 panies disease, awakens no idea of anything external. 
 When, however, by means of our other senses, we have 
 learned that a particular flavor is produced by any sub- 
 stance, we associate the flavor with the substance, and give 
 it a name accordingly. We thus speak of the taste of an 
 apple, a pear, or a peach. 
 
 So far as I am able to discover, the remarks made in the 
 last section, respecting conception as derived from smell, 
 apply with equal truth to the sense of taste. I think that 
 men generally have no distinct conception of an absent taste, 
 but only a conviction that they should easily recognize it if 
 it were again presented to them. This form of recollection 
 may be so strong as to create a longing for a particular fla- 
 vor, but still there is no conception like that produced by 
 eiUier sight or touch. 
 
48 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 
 
 The same ambiguity may be observed here as in the 
 analogous sense. The taste of an apple, means both the 
 quality in the fruit which produces the. sensation and the 
 affection of the sentient being produced by it. The one is 
 objective, belonging exclusively to the non ego; the other is 
 subjective, belonging wholly to the *.go. Of the sensation 
 we have a very definite knowledge ; it can be nothing but 
 what we feel it to be. Of the cause we are, as in the sense 
 of smell, wholly ignorant. 
 
 The number of sensations derived from taste is, I think, 
 much greater than that derived from smell. An epicure 
 becomes capable of multiplying them, and distinguishing 
 them from each other to a very great extent. We are able, 
 also, to classify our sensations of taste much more definitely 
 than those of smell. Thus, we speak of acid, subacid, 
 Bweet, bitter, astringent, and many other classes of tastes, to 
 which we refer a large number of individuals. In this 
 manner we designate various kinds of fruit, medicines, &c. 
 While, therefore, these two senses seem to be governed 
 by the same general laws, I think that in man the knowl- 
 edge derived from taste is more definite and more varied 
 than the other. By means of the sense of touch, which so 
 completely surrounds the sense of taste, we should, in the 
 use of it, also arrive at the idea of externality. In this 
 respect it is indirectly the source of knowledge which is not 
 given us by the sense of smell. In blind mutes, however, 
 to whom the sense of smell becomes much more important, 
 in all probability the case is reversed, and smell furnishes 
 more numerous and definite cognitions than taste. 
 
 1 have said above that the sensation of taste is not per- 
 fectly experienced unless the sapid substance is swallowed. 
 Whatever is swallowed enters the stomach, undergoes the 
 process of digestion, and, whether nutritious or deleterious^ 
 enters the circulation and becomes assimilated with our mar 
 
THK INDIVIDUAL SENSES. 49 
 
 terial system. It is manifest, therefore, that if a substance 
 be pleasing to the taste, we may, by gratifying this sense, 
 iw^ilow either what is in itself deleterious, or that which 
 ecomes deleterious by being partaken of in excess. It is, 
 .-ence, evidently important that the gratification of the 
 sense be made subordinate to the hio:her desim : that of 
 promoting the health and vigor, physical and intellectual, 
 of the whole man. 
 
 In brutes, for the most part, the gratification of the appe- 
 tite is controlled by instinct. The instances are very rare 
 in which one of the lower animals has any desire for food 
 which is not nutritious, or desires it in larger quantity than 
 the health of the system demands. Man, how^ever, is en- 
 dowed with no such instinct. The regulation of his appe* 
 tite is submitted to his will, directed by reason and con 
 science. Guided by these, a perfect harmony will exist 
 between his gustatory desire and the wants of his material 
 and intellectual organization. 
 
 But suppose it to be otherwise. Suppose the human be- 
 ing to swallow neither what nor as much as his health 
 requires, but what and as much as will furnish gratification 
 to his palate. He will eat or drink much that is delete- 
 rious, and much which, by excess, becomes destructive to 
 health. When, by frequent indulgence, this subjection to 
 appetite has grown into a habit, the control of the spiritual 
 over the sensual is lost, and the man becomes either a glut- 
 ton or a drunkard, and very commonly both. 
 
 The efiects of these forms of indulgence are too well 
 known to require specification. Gluttony, or ihe excessive 
 love of food, renders the intellect sluggish, torpid and inef- 
 ficient, cultivates the most degrading forms of selfishness, 
 exposes the body to painful and lingering disease, and fre- 
 ' quently terminates in sudden death. 
 5 
 
50 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 
 
 «* The full-fed glutton apoplexy knocks 
 Down to the ground at once, as butcher felleth ox.'* 
 
 Thompson's Castle of Indohnce. 
 
 The appetite for deleterious drinks leads to consequences 
 still more appalling. In a very short time it ruins the 
 health, enfeebles the intellect, maddens the passions, de- 
 stroys all self-respect, and, in the most disgusting manner, 
 brutiilizes the whole being. It speedily and insensibly grows 
 into a habit which enslaves the nervous organism, sets at 
 defiance the power of the will, and thus renders the ruin of 
 the being, both for time and eternity, inevitable. We hence 
 perceive the importance of holding our appetites in strict 
 subjection to the dictates of reason and conscience, and 
 especially of excluding the possibility of our ever becoming 
 the victims of intemperance. 
 
 RE FERENCE. 
 • Reid's Inquiry, chapter 3. 
 
 SECTION VI.— THE SENSE OP HEARING. 
 
 The organ of this sense is the ear. It is composed .of 
 two parts, the external and mternal ear. The external ear 
 b intended merely to collect and concentrate the vibrations of 
 the air, and conduct them to the membrana tympani^ 
 which separates the two portions of this organ. Tha 
 external ear thus performs the functions of an ear-trumpet. 
 The membrana tympani is a thin membrane stretched 
 across the lower extremity of ttie tube in which the outward 
 ear terminates. The vibrations of the air, thus produced 
 upon the tympanum, are, by a series of small bones occu- 
 pying its inner chamber, transmitted to certain cells filled 
 with fluid, in which the extremity of the auditory nerve 
 
THE INDIVIDUAL SENSES. 51 
 
 terminates. From these cells the nerve proceeds directly to 
 the brain. 
 
 The medium by which the auditory nerve is affected, is 
 the atmospheric air. Sonorous bodies of all kinds produce 
 vibrations or undulations in the air, which strike upon the 
 tympanum, and are, by the apparatus above alluded to, con- 
 veyed to the auditory nerve. The effect produced upon the 
 nerve is simply that of mechanical vibration, and this vibra- 
 tion, so far as we can discover, is the cause of the sensation 
 of sound. A mere fluctuation in the extremities of the 
 nerve is the occasion of all the ielight which we experience 
 in listening to the sublimest compositions of a Handel or a 
 Mozart. No more convincing proof can be afforded that 
 there is no conceivable resemblance between the change in 
 the organ of sense, and the delightful cognition of the soul, 
 which it occasions. 
 
 The number of sounds which the human ear is able to 
 distinguish is very great. Dr. Keid remarks that there are 
 five hundred tones which may be distinctly recognized by a 
 good ear ; and that each tone may be produced with five 
 hundred degrees of loudness. This would give us two hun- 
 dred and fifty thousand different sounds which could be per- 
 ceived by an ear of ordinary accuracy; This I presume is 
 true ; but a little reflection will convince us that the number 
 )f sounds which we are able to distinguish far transcends 
 ali human computation. The voice of every human bemg 
 may easily be distinguished from that of every other, >v'hile 
 the number of separate sounds which every individual is 
 able to produce, including tones, loudness, stress and eiQ- 
 phasis, is absolutely incalculable. If the same note be 
 struck by ever so many different -instruments, the -ound of 
 each instrument can be readily recognized. If ten thou- 
 sand instruments of the same kind were collected, it is prob- 
 able that no two could be found whose sounds would ba 
 
52 fNTELLECTDAL PHILOSOPHY. 
 
 identical. Numbers which accumulate by such masses set 
 all computation at defiance. 
 
 Although our power of distinguishing the smallest varia- 
 tion of sound is so remarkable, it has been observed that 
 ^ there are some sounds which are inaudible to particular 
 persons. It seems probable that each ear is endowed with 
 the power of cognizing sounds within a particular range, 
 but that this range is npt the same in every individual. 
 This difierence is, I think, most observable in the shrillest 
 sounds, or those pitched on the highest key, and producer, 
 by the most rapid vibrations. I have known some persons 
 who were unable to hear the sound produced by a species of 
 cricket, while to other persons the sound was so loud as to be 
 unpleasant. I think that Dr. Reid remarks the same pecu- 
 liarity respecting himself. 
 
 We all possess, to a considerable degree, the power of 
 determining the direction from which sounds proceed. We 
 derive this power, probably, in part, from the fact that our 
 ears are separated at some distance from each other, on op- 
 posite sides of the head, and hence a sound must, in many 
 cases, affect the one differently from the other. Persons 
 who have lost the use of one ear much less easily determine 
 the direction of sounds. This power, moreover, is greatly 
 improved by practice. We learn, in this manner, to form a 
 judgment of the distance of sounds, and to associate with 
 them much other knowledge which properly belongs to the 
 other senses. Thus, it is said that Napoleon was never de- 
 ceived as to the direction or distance of a cannonade, and 
 the remarkable precision of his judgment always excited the 
 wonder of his friends. 
 
 It is in this manner, I presume, that ventriloquism, as it 
 is termed, is to be explained. We have learned by experi-' 
 ence to determine the distance and direction of sounds. 
 For instance, I hear a person speaking. The quality of the 
 
THE INPIVID.AL SENSED. 5S 
 
 Bound, its degree of loudness and distinctness, teach me 
 that it is produced by some one on mj left hand, and in the 
 street which passes by my window. If a person in the room 
 with me were able to produce a sound which should strike 
 upon my ear precisely like that which I just now heard, I 
 should suppose that it proceeded from the same place as 
 before. The effect would be more remarkable, if he should, 
 by some ingenious device, direct my attention to the window, 
 and create in me the impression that some one was outside 
 of it. In order to accomplish this result, it is necessary 
 that the performer be endowed with an ear capable of de- 
 tecting every possible variety in the quality of sound, and 
 vocal organs of such extreme delicacy that they are able 
 perfectly to obey the slightest intimation of the will. I 
 have never witnessed any performance of this kind, but I 
 have known one or two persons who possessed this power in 
 a modified degree, and this is the account which they have 
 given me concerning it. I am told that those who perform 
 these feats publicly are also able to. create the sounds which 
 we hear, without moving, in the least, the visible organs of 
 speech. How ^ they are able, in this manner, to produce 
 articulate sounds, I am unable to explain. 
 
 Is hearing a sensation or a perception ? That is, does it 
 furnish us with a simple knowledge, without giving us any 
 cognition of an external world ; or does it furnish us with a 
 complex knowledge, that is, a knowledge of a quality and 
 of the object in which it resides ? 
 
 The knowledge furnished by this sense seems to me to be 
 of the following character : it is purely a sensation, a simple 
 knowledge, giving us no intimation of anything external. 
 The knowledge, however, derived from this sense, differs 
 from those which we have already considered, in many 
 particulars. Some of these are worthy of attention. 
 
 The sensation of hearing is much more definite, f^rWi, 
 6^ 
 
54 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 
 
 and intensely pleasing, than that derived from either of the 
 preceding senses. It bis, moreover, a power of strongly 
 affecting°the tone of mind of the hearer. These impressions 
 being made upon a being endowed with original sugges- 
 tion, would naturally occasion an inquiry for a cause. 
 While hearing a strain of music, it would at once occur to us 
 that we did not produce it, that we could not prolong it, and, 
 hence, that it must originate from something external to our- 
 selves. We should thus learn that there existed something 
 out of ourselves ; but what that something was, the sense of 
 hearing would furnish us with no means of determining. 
 Let a man hear a violin, a bugle, or a piano, and, though he 
 would readily observe a diflference between them, he could 
 by this sense alone form no conception of the nature of 
 either instrument, or of the medium through -which an im- 
 pression was made upon his auditory nerve. When did a 
 peal of thunder ever suggest to man the nature of the cause 
 which produced it ? In this respect, therefore, the sense of 
 hearing differs from those already considered. It suggests 
 to us the idea of a cause, but gives us no knowledge of the 
 nature of that cause. 
 
 In another respect, however, the sensation of hearing is 
 peculiar. It enables us to form very definite conceptions. 
 Smell and taste possess this power, if at all, in a very lim- 
 ited degree. By no power of language can we convey to 
 another the knowledge which they give us. The sense of 
 hearing enables us to proceed much further. We hear a 
 Bound; we can repeat it. We hear a tune ; we can mentally 
 recall it without producing any sound whatever, and wc can 
 derive pleasure from this silent conception of it. Still 
 more, we are able to designate a great variety of articulate 
 sounds by the alphabet. By means of this notation, the 
 sounds of a speaker's voice can be so recorded, that another 
 person wlio has not heard him, and who may not even under- 
 
THF INDIVIDUAL SENSES. ' 55 
 
 stand the langu age in which he has spoken, may he able 
 accurately to repeat all that he has said. The case is still 
 stronger when the words uttered are set to music. Here 
 it is not only possible to note down the words, but also 
 the precise musical notes in which they were expressed, so 
 that the song, and the tune in which it was sung, may be 
 accurately repeated by a person on the other side of the 
 globe. 
 
 I have remarked that our conception of musical sounds 
 may give us pleasure in perfect silence : as when we remem- 
 ber a strain which we have heard on a former occasion. 
 This is yet more observable when sounds are described by 
 their appropriate notation. A skilful musician will read 
 the notes of an opera or oratorio, form the conception as he 
 proceeds, and derive from them as definite a pleasure as he 
 who reads the pages of a romance or a tragedy. It has 
 frequently happened that the most eminent musicians have 
 been afflicted with deafness. It is delightful to observe that 
 this infirmity in only a modified degree deprives them of 
 their accustomed pleasure. They sit at an instrument, 
 touching the notes as usual, and become as much excited 
 with their own conceptions as they were formerly by sounds. 
 Under these circumstances, some of them have composed 
 their most elaborate and successful productions. These 
 facts establish a wide difference between the sense of hearing 
 and the senses of taste and smell. The latter produce in 
 us no definite conceptions, and are susceptible of being formed 
 into no such language. Hearing is evidently a much more 
 intellectual sense than either of those which we have thus 
 far considered. 
 
 Besides, musical sounds have an acknowledged power 
 over the tone of the human mind. By the tone of mind, I 
 mean that condition of our emotional nature which inclines 
 us to be grave or gay, lively or sad, kind or austere, appre- 
 
56 INTELLE^rUAL PHILOSOPHY. 
 
 hensive or reckless. New, it is well known that music has 
 the power not only to harmonize with any of these tones of 
 mind, and thus increase it, but in many cases to alter and 
 control it. Every one knows the difference between a sport- 
 ive and a melancholy air, between a dirge and a quickstep; 
 and every one also knows how readily his tone of mind as- 
 similates with the character of the music which he chances 
 to hear. Sacred music, well performed, renders deeper the 
 spirit of devotion. The hilarity of a ball-room would in- 
 stantly cease if the music were withdrawn. I question if 
 the martial spirit of a nation could be sustained for a single 
 year, if music were banished from its armies ; and military 
 evolutions, whether on parade or in combat, were performed 
 under no other excitement than the mere word of command. 
 From these well-known facts, an aesthetical principle may 
 be deduced of some practical importance. The design of 
 music is to affect the tone of mind. To do this, it must be 
 in harmony with it. No one would think a psalm tune 
 adapted to a charge of cavalry ; and every one would be 
 shocked to hear a devotional hymn sung to the tune of. a 
 martial quickstep. It hence follows, that what may be 
 good music for one occasion, may be very bad music for 
 another. If we are called upon to judge of the excellence 
 of any piece of music, it is not enough that the music be 
 good, — the question yet remains to be decided, is it good for 
 this particular occasion ; that is, does it harmonize with the 
 particular tone of mind which the words employed would 
 naturally awaken 7 If it do not, though it may be very] 
 good music for some occasions, it is bad music in this par- 
 ticular case. The II Penseroso and the L' Allegro of Mil- ^ 
 ton have, I believe, been set to music, and, if the music! 
 were adapted to the thought, the effect of these beautiful po-^ 
 ems would be increased by it. But every one sees that the ^| 
 music adapted to the one must be very unlike that adapted^ 
 
 I 
 
 1 
 
THE INDIVIDUAL SENSES. - 5]f 
 
 to the other. Let the music be transferred from the 
 one to the other, and the incongruity would be painful ; 
 and what was just now good music would become at once 
 intolerable. Much of the church, music at present in vogue 
 seems to me to partake of the incongruity of such a trans- 
 position. 
 
 Here, also, the question may be asked, whether all poetry 
 is adapted to music. From the preceding remarks it would 
 seem that it is not, unless it awaken some emotion. And 
 again, the emotion in some cases may not be adapted to 
 music. Terror, horror, the deepest impressions of awe, are 
 probably not adapted to musical expression. The attempts 
 which have been made to convey such emotions by music 
 have, I apprehend, generally failed. They may, like much 
 other music, display the skill of the composer or the per 
 former, but they leave the audience unmoved. 
 
 Another peculiarity of this sense deserves to be mentioned 
 By it we are capable of forming a natural language under- 
 stood by all men. Our emotions mstinctively express them- 
 selves by the tones of the voice, and these are easily recog- 
 nized by those to whom they are addressed. Every one 
 understands the tones indicative of kindness, of authority, 
 of pity, of rage, of sarcasm, of encouragement and contempt. 
 Should a man address us in an unknown tongue, we 
 should immediately learn his temper towards us by the 
 tones of his voice. The knowledge of these tones is common 
 to all men, under all circumstances. Children of a very 
 tender age learn to interpret them ; nay, even brutes seem 
 to understand their meaning very distinctly. It would seem, 
 then, that the tones of the voice form a medium of communi- 
 cation, not only between man and man, but even between 
 man and some of the inferior animals. 
 
 I have said that these tones of the voice are universally 
 understood. It is also true that they have the power of 
 
b8 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHr. 
 
 awakening an emotion, similar to that which produced them, 
 in the mind of the hearer. A shriek of terror will convulse 
 a whole assembly. It is said that Garrick once wxnt to 
 hear Whitefield preach, jind was much impressed with the 
 power of that remarkable pulpit orator. Speaking afterwards 
 of the preacher's eloquence, he is reported to have said, *'I 
 would give a hundred pounds to utter the word Oh ! as White- 
 field utters it.'.' It is probable that it is in the powder of 
 expressing our emotions by the tones of the voice, more than 
 in anything else, that the gift of eloquence consists. This 
 was, I presume, the meaning of Demosthenes, who, when 
 asked what was the first, and the second, and the third ele- 
 ment of eloquence, replied, successively, ^'Delivery, delivery, 
 delivery ! '' This is, I think, illustrated in the case to which 
 I have alluded. Whitefield's printed sermons do not place 
 him high on the hst of English preachers ; while, as they 
 were delivered by Whitefield himself, they produced efiects 
 which can only be ascribed to the very highest efibrts of 
 eloquence. 
 
 The relation of these remarks to the cultivation of elo- 
 quence is obvious. Suppose a public speaker to be able to 
 construct a train of thought which shall lead the minds 
 of men, by logical induction, to a given result. Suppose, 
 moreover, that this train of reasonmg is clothed in appro- 
 priate diction, so that it is adapted not only to convince, 
 shut to please an audience. It is now to be delivered in the 
 hearing of men. It may be delivered in so monotonous 
 tones as to put an assembly to sleep, or in tones so inappro- 
 priate and grotesque as to provoke them to laughter. It is 
 now necessary that the orator be deeply moved"" by his own 
 conceptions, and that he be able to give utterance to his own 
 emotions in the tones of his voice. His organs of speech 
 must be capable of every variety of expression, and they 
 must so instinctively respond to every emotion, that the 
 
THE INDIVIDUAL SENSES. 59 
 
 ttfought which the speaker enunciates is lodged in the mind 
 of the hearer, animated by the precise feeling of him who 
 utters it. He who is thus endowed can hardly fail of 
 becoming an orator. Hence, if we would improve in 
 eloquence, we must studiously cultivate the natural tones 
 of emotion; in the first place by feeling truly ourselves, 
 and, in the second, by learning to express our emotions in 
 this language which all men understand. 
 
 REFERENCE. 
 Reid's Inquiry, chap. 4, sections 1, 2 
 
 SECTION VII. — THE SENSE OF TOUCH. 
 
 The nerves of feeling are situated under the skin, and 
 are plentifully distributed over the whole external surface, 
 So completely does the network which they form cover the 
 whole body, that the point of the finest needle cannot punc- 
 ture us in any part without wounding a nerve, and giving us 
 acute pain. It is in this manner that we are guarded from 
 injury. Were any portion of our body insensible, we might 
 there sufier the most appalling laceration without being 
 aware of our danger. 
 
 The chief seat of the nerves of touch is, however, in the 
 palm of the hand, and in the ends of the fingers. The 
 other parts of the body lender us sensible of injury from 
 external sources, but they are incapable of furnishing ua 
 with any definite perceptions. The hand, on the contrary, 
 conveys to us very exact knowledge of the tactual qualities 
 of bodies. For this purpose it is admirably adapted. The 
 separation of the fingers from each other, their complicated 
 flexions, the extreme delicacy of their muscular power, all 
 
§0 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 
 
 combine to render this organ susceptible of an infinite varietj 
 of definite impressions. 
 
 Though the fingers are separated, yet in using them 
 toc^ether, when a single object is presented, but one percep- 
 tion is conveyed to the mind. It would seem, however, 
 that, in order to produce this result, corresponding points of 
 the fingers must be applied to the object. If we change 
 them from their normal position, by crossing the second over 
 the fore-finger, two perceptions will be produced, and a 
 small object, as a pea, will seem to us double. 
 
 The sensation of touch is of two kinds, as it is caused, 
 first, by teTnperature^ and secondly by contact. 
 
 The sensation produced by temperature is that of cold or 
 heat. It is awakened by any body whose temperature diftn 
 from that of our external surfiice. When we place OV 
 hands in water only blood warm, we are not conscious rf 
 this sensation. If we place one hand in hot, and the other 
 in cold water, for a few minutes, and then remove them both 
 to tepid water, we experience the sensation of heat in the 
 one and of cold in the other. 
 
 The efiect produced upon us by temperature is a simple 
 knowledge, a pure sensation. It gives us no knowledge 
 of anything external. During the first chill of a fever le 
 are unable to determine whether the weather is cold, or OV 
 system diseased ; that is, whether the sensation proceede 
 from without or from within. And when the sensation pro- 
 ceeds from without, it gives no information respecting its 
 cause, or the manner in which it afiects us. 
 
 Heat and cold are merely aficctions of a sensitive organ- 
 ism. That which causes them is called by choinista 
 caloric. This quality in bodies has opene<l a wide field for 
 philosophical investigation, which, by developing the laws 
 of steam, has modified the aspects of modem civilia* 
 tion. 
 
THE INDIVID AL SENSES. GJ 
 
 Secondly, the sense of touch is excited oy contact. I 
 use the term contact here in its common, and not in its 
 strict meaning. The nerves are alwavs covered with the. 
 skin, and when by accident the skin is abraded, we feel pain, 
 but we are conscious of no perception. Nor, in fact, is the 
 skin itself ever in absolute contact with the external object. 
 A layer of air always interposes between them. 
 
 When the hand is thus brought into proximity to an 
 external body, we are immediately made conscious of its 
 existence. In this act there may, I think, be discovered 
 both a sensation and a perception I have referred to this 
 fact in a previous section. Nothing further will here be 
 necessary than to appeal to the experience of every 
 individual. Let any one place his hand lightly upon a 
 piece of marble, or any external object, fixing his attention 
 as much as possible upon his sensation, and he will, I think, 
 find himself conscious of a feeling into which the idea of 
 oxtcmiility does not enter, and which gives him no knowl- 
 edge of the qualities of body. Let him now take up the 
 marble, and attempt to cognize its several qualities, and I 
 think he will be conscious of a very difTcrent knowledge, 
 involving the notions of externality, hanlncss, smoothness, 
 form, and, it may be, some others. In this case he pays no 
 attention to his sensations. It does not occur to him that 
 they exist. All he is conscious of is the various qualities 
 of tho external object, and of these he obtains a very dis- 
 tinct cognition. It may require a small cfibrt at first to 
 distinguish these two forms of knowledge from each other, 
 but I am persuaded that any one may do it who will be at 
 the pains for a few times to make the experiment. 
 
 The perceptions given us by this sense are exceedingly 
 
 definite and perfect. By it we not only know that a quality 
 
 exists, but also what it is. We have the knowledge, and 
 
 we know what it is that produces it. In this manner the 
 
 6 
 
62 INTELLBJTtAL PHILOSOPHr. 
 
 perceptions by touch lie at the foundation of all our knowl* 
 edge of an external world. We rely upon them with more 
 certainty than any other. Many of the qualities revealed 
 • 10 us by touch are also revealed to us by sight. If, how- 
 ever, in any case, we have reason to doubt the evidence of 
 sight, we instinctively apply to the sense of touch in order 
 to verify our visual judgment. 
 
 The principal qualities cognized by touch, besides exter- 
 nality, are extension, hardness, softness, form, size, motion, 
 situation, and roughness or smoothness. Besides these, 
 however, there are various sensations of pain and pleasure 
 given by this sense, the specific efiect of particular agents^ 
 as of electricity and galvanism, the sensation of tickling, 
 and many others of the same kind. To this sense have also 
 been ascribed the sensation of hunger and thirst, and the 
 various affections belonging to our sensitive organism. 
 
 Confining ourselves, however, to ihQ perceptions of touch, 
 we find that they are almost exclusively given us by the 
 hand. In this manner we obtain a distinct knowledc^e of 
 extension, of size, of hardness, softness and form. When 
 the body is small, or the discrimination delicate, we rely 
 almost wholly on the perceptive power of the fingers. In 
 this manner we obtain, experimentally, nearly all our knowl- 
 edge of the primary quaHties of body. 
 
 We may here remark the difference between the knowl- 
 edge obtained by this sense, and that obtained by the senses 
 previously considered. The others give us each a particular 
 class of sensations, and only one kind of knowledge. By 
 touch we are conscious of heat and cold, together with a 
 great variety of other sensations, and also of the various 
 perceptions of primary qualities mentioned above Tho 
 others give us no direct knowledge of an external world. 
 Ihis gives us that knowledge directly and immediately. 
 J he others, when the existence of an external world is sag- 
 
THE INDIVIDUAL SENSES. 06 
 
 gested, give us no knowledge of its qualities. This givea 
 us a positive knowledge of several of the most essential of 
 them. We know, for instance, that form is precisely what 
 it appears to be, and that our knowledge of it exactly con- 
 forms to the reality. We know that it must, under all 
 circumstances, be exactly what we perceive it to be. We 
 thus derive from it a distinct conception ; we can make it 
 an object of thought, and can form concerning it the most 
 complicated processes of reasoning. When we see a blind 
 person read with his fingers, we must be convinced that he 
 has as definite a conception of the forms of letters as we 
 ourselves have by sight. We thus learn that not only does 
 this sense enable us to make large additions to our knowl- 
 edge, but that it is really the original source of a great part 
 of our knowledge of the world around us. Of its intrinsic 
 importance we may form an opinion from the fiict that there 
 is no case on record in which a human being has been bom 
 without it. By it alone, as in the case of Laura Bridgman, 
 we may learn our relations to the world around us ; may 
 be taught the use of language, and may even acquire the 
 power of writing it with considerable accuracy. This sense 
 is lost only in paralysis, and in those cases in which the 
 individual, drawing near to dissolution, has no farther need 
 Qf any of the organs of sense. 
 
 REFERENCE. 
 Reid'a Inquiry, chap. 5, sections 1, 2. 
 
 SECTION -VIII. — THE SENSE OF SIGHT. 
 
 The organ of vision is the eye. It is an optical mstru- 
 Bient, of exquisite construction, adapted in the most perfect 
 
64 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 
 
 manner to accomplish the purposes of its formation. At 
 will, we can admit the light or surround ourselves with total 
 darkness. As we frequently pass from darkness to light, 
 the eye is provided with a curtain, by means of wliich the 
 pupil is either expanded or contracted, so that no more light 
 than is required falls upon the retina. We can turn the 
 eyes in every direction. By them we can discern objects 
 either gigantic or microscopic, within a few inches of us, 
 or at the distance of several miles. It gives us instan- 
 taneously a knowledge of the qualities of bodies, which 
 could be discovered by the other senses only after a long 
 and patient investigation, and of many qualities which, with- 
 out this sense, could never be discovered at all. Although 
 capable of such complicated action, and always in use ex- 
 cept when we sleep, the eye is comparatively seldom liable 
 to accident or disease. It is protected from ordinary vio- 
 lence by the overhanging brows. The fine particles of dust 
 which fall upon it are perpetually washed away by the copi- 
 bined action of the eyelids and the lachrymal gland. Ite 
 rapid and incessant change of position, by calling into ac- 
 tion different portions of the optic nerve, preserves it from 
 severe exhaustion. Thus it happens that a large portion of 
 mankind pass through life without ever knowing that their 
 eyes are even liable to disease. 
 
 The manner in which the impression is produced upon 
 the organ of vision has been fully explained by physiolo- 
 gists. The human eye is a small globe, so constructed that 
 the rays of light coming from a visible body which fall upon 
 It, are formed into a small image upon its inner posterior 
 surface. This image is inverted. The rays of light first 
 flill upon the visible object, and are from it reflected upon 
 the eye. Of course, where there is no light, that is, when 
 no rays can be either received or reflected, there can be no 
 vision. 
 
THE INDIVIDUAL SENSES. 65 
 
 Ovei the back part of the eye is spread out an expansioD 
 of the optic nerve, called the retina. Immediately behind 
 this, is a thin membrane, on which is laid a black pigment 
 for the absorption of the light producing the image. In 
 order to produce distinct vision, this image must be accu- 
 rately defined. Hence, in twilight, when the light is insuf- 
 ficient, an object is but imperfectly seen. When, owing to 
 slight malformation of the eye, as in near-sighted or in aged 
 persons, the image is not accurately delineated on the retina, 
 mion is also indistinct; nor can the infirmity be relieved 
 until by artificial means we cause the rays of light to form 
 a true image on the expansion of the optic nerve. If the 
 nerve become paralyzed, vision ceases. If it be inflamed, 
 vision is so intensely painful that the patient cannot, with- 
 out severe sufiering, bear the least glimmer of light. The 
 nerves of vision do not proceed from each eye directly to the 
 brain, but first meet at what is called the decussation of the 
 optic nerve, where their fibres intermingle, after which they 
 separate and enter the substance of the brain. What pur- 
 pose is answered by an arrangement so different from that 
 . observed in the other nerves of sense, has not yet been dis- 
 covered. 
 
 When, under normal circumstances, the visual image is 
 formed on the retina, a mental state succeeds which we call 
 vision. What this is we all know by experience. The 
 question, however, remains. Is sight a sensation or a per- 
 ception ? and, if a perception, is it like the sense of touch 
 preceded by a sensation ? Before proceeding further, let us 
 attempt to answer these questions. 
 
 Is sight a sensation or a perception ? A sensation is a 
 simple, knowledge, a state of mind terminating in itself, 
 and, so far as our consciousness is concerned, having no 
 original connection with anything external. Now, if merely 
 the cof^nition of color is considered, we must admit that it 
 6* 
 
gg INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 
 
 resembles in many respects, the cognition of hearmg. The 
 notion or knowledge of red, for instance, is an affection of 
 the mind, and wholly unlike the cause from which it pre 
 ceeds. No one supposes that the rose has the simple knowl 
 edge which we designate by the word red. And, moreover, 
 this simple knowledge gives us not the most distant idea of 
 its cause. Sight gives us no more knowledge of that qual« 
 ity in bodies which produces in us the notion of color, than 
 hearing designates the size and form of the instrument 
 which produces the sound to which we are listening, or the 
 atmospheric change which precedes the clap of thunder at 
 which we tremble. In this respect the act of seeing resem- 
 bles a mere sensation. 
 
 On the other hand, it is to be remarked, that, although 
 the knowledge of color is a sensation, a subjective affection, 
 yet we are so made as to refer this knowledge directly and 
 immediately to the external object. When we reflect upon 
 the subject we know that the notion of red is a spiritual 
 affection, and yet that affection seems to be a part of the 
 rose. When we are conscious of an odor, we do not, so far 
 as the sense of smelling is concerned, assign it to any ex- 
 ternal location. When we hear a sound, so far as this sense 
 is concerned, we do not determine the place of its origin. 
 The music seems to float around and envelop us, like the 
 atmosphere. But when we are sensible of a color, we see 
 it in a determined locality, we see it now and there, and at 
 once fix the limit of its existence. 
 
 Here, however, it may be said, that in this respect the 
 perception by sight is similar to that of touch ; that in 
 touch we equally transfer our notion of form to the object 
 which we perceive. The cases, I admit, are similar,, but I 
 think by no means identical. When I feel of a cube, and 
 obtain a knowledge of its form, it is obvious tlmt the thought 
 of my mind is not like the cube — ^that is, it is not so]id, 
 
THE INDIVIDUAL SENSES. 67 
 
 equiangular and equilateral. It is, nevertheless, a positive 
 knowledge that such are the qualities of the cube. I know 
 that the thought of my mind represents to me these quali- 
 ties just as they are. They are the sufficient cause of that 
 particular idea, and nothing else could have been the cause 
 of it. It is a definite know^ledge of a mode of the not me, 
 admitting of no intermediate question. When, however, 
 I see a color, the case is quite dissimilar. My notion of 
 color gives me no knowledge of its cause. I have by it no 
 knowledge of a particular mode of the not me, which, of 
 necessity, if it produce in me any knowledge, must produce 
 precisely that of which I am conscious. My sense of sight 
 does not inform ma at all what color (objective) is. That 
 the existence of light is necessary to it, all men know ; but 
 what light is, in what manner it produces color, whether by 
 rectilinear rays reflected from the object, or by a succession 
 of waves of a universal medium, is yet a matter of dispute 
 among philosophers. In the case of sight, then, if the 
 question be asked, what produces this knowledge, we can give 
 no answer. In the case of touch, we answer at once, the 
 form of a cube, — we all know what that form is, — and the 
 subject admits of no farther discussion. 
 
 I do not know whether I have made this distinctly ob- 
 vious to others, or whether I have analyzed the act of 
 vdsion accurately. I have, however, endeavored as well as 
 I am able to state the facts in the case as they appear to my 
 own consciousness. 
 
 Is there in sight, as in touch, a sensation antecedent to 
 perception, or a sensation which it is in our power to dis- 
 tinguish from perception ? For myself, I have never been 
 able to discover it. I place my hand, under differenf con- 
 ditions, on a cube, and I am able to distinguish the sensation 
 from, the perception, and can make either of them, sepa- 
 . rately, a matter of thought. I can discover no such dis- 
 
68 XNTliLLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 
 
 tinct states of mind in the act of vision. I open my eyes 
 I see a book. The first thing of which I am conscious is 
 the cognition of an external object. I am conscious of no 
 intermediate or different mental state. I must, therefore, 
 believe that none exists. It may be said that one has existed, 
 but that, from long neglect, we have lost the power of ob- 
 serving it. To this I reply, that we habitually neglect the 
 sensation in the perception of touch, but, when it is pointed 
 out to us, we easily recognize it. If it existed in the sense 
 of seeing, I see no reason why we should not as easily ob- 
 serve it. The simple fact seems to be, that, as soon as wo 
 are conscious of the knowledge of color, we are, at the same 
 instant, conscious of the knowledge of the object in which 
 the color seems to reside. We cannot separate the one 
 from the other. 
 
 The perception of an object as endowed with color is, 
 however, in some respects, unlike the perception of an ob- 
 ject as endowed with form. 
 
 The perception by touch is fixed and definite, in all posi- 
 tions remaining precisely the same. The perception by 
 sight varies by every change of position. For instance, if 
 a small cube is placed in my hands, I turn it over and feel 
 of It on all sides, and it ever presents itself to me as the 
 same figure. On the other hand, I look upon it with one of 
 Its faces directly before me, and it presents one appearance. 
 1 turn one of the angles towards me, and it presents another. 
 1 change its position a hundred times, and at every time it 
 presents a different appearance. 
 
 Again, the^perception by touch is unaffected by distance. 
 I feel of a cube, and I derive a clear knowledge of its form. 
 I extend my arms to their utmost length, and the perception 
 
 do s nir* ?"' '' '' ' "^^^ ^^' -^ -y -'-- ' f i^ 
 
 iTook. ^'"^\ ' '' '' ""'' ^ ^^^^ '^' P^^^^Pti<^- of sight. 
 I look at a cube at a distance of twelve inches from my 
 
 i 
 
THE INDIVIDUAL SENSES. 69 
 
 eyes , it has one magnitude. I remove it ten feet oflF, and 
 its apparent magnitude is ten times less. Its color is less 
 vivid, and its outline less distinct. I remove it to the dis- 
 tance of an hundred feet, and it is diminished to ' an indis- 
 tinct speck. If I would represent it to another person, T 
 must represent it thus indistinctly. Hence the distinction 
 made between tactual and visual form and magnitude. 
 
 We have the means of associating these two ideas together 
 in a manner hereafter to be considered. We are able to 
 translate the language of sight into the language of touch. 
 This, however, would be unnecessary, were there not this 
 difference in the two perceptions to which I have here re- 
 ferred. 
 
 If we observe the relation in which the senses stand to 
 each other, we shall at once perceive the importance of 
 sight. Smell and taste give us simple knowledges, without 
 any cognition of the not me, and, also, I think, without the 
 power of forming conceptions. Hearing suggests the not me, 
 and gives us the power of forming conceptions ; but it gives 
 us no knowledge of any of the attributes of the sonorous 
 body, save its power of awakening this sensation. Touch 
 gives us an immediate and positive knowledge of the not 
 me, and of all its primary attributes, and leaves upon the 
 mind a most definite conception. Sight enables us to deter- 
 mine most of the qualities revealed to us by touch, not only 
 near at hand, but at great distances ; by the delicacy of its 
 language, it enables us to discover many of the qualities re- 
 vealed by the other senses ; and, while performing all these 
 functions, it is a source of most exquisite pleasure. 
 
 That the conceptions of sight are more definite than those 
 received by our sense of touch, I will not affirm. It is, 
 however, certain that they are much more easily retained 
 in the memory. When we recollect an external object, I 
 think we much more readily recall the visual conception 
 
70 INTELLBCTt'AL PHILOSOPHY. 
 
 thar. any other. I may feel of a sphere, and obtain a 
 knowledge of its form and magnitude ; but when I think of 
 it, the visual appearance presents itself most readily to my 
 mind. Almost all the conceptions of figurative language 
 are derived from sight. The power of originating such con- 
 ceptions is called imagination, or the^ower of forming im^ 
 ages. The fine arts, with the exception of music, address 
 themselves wholly to this mode of perception. Almost all 
 the other senses are, in some manner, tributary to it, and 
 thus enable us to employ it in order to arrive at the most 
 varied and distant forms of knowledge. 
 
 Let us now propeed to inquire, what are the qualities of 
 the external world which are cognized by means of this 
 sense ? 
 
 1. If the above remark be true, that we are so made aa 
 to refer our visual conception to the external object, it will 
 follow that we derive our cognition of externality as truly 
 from this sense as from touch. Touch gives us a distinct 
 and immediate notion* of the existence and qualities of an 
 external object. Sight gives us a conception of an unknown 
 cause of a known effect : it also teaches us that this cause is 
 numerically distinct from ourselves, and assigns to it its 
 position in space. 
 
 The existence of this function of vision has frequently 
 been denied, and it has been affirmed that, until aided by 
 touch, sight gives us no idea of externality, any more than 
 smell or hearing. The principal ground for this opinion is 
 the authority of Cheselden,^ who, long since, published an 
 account of a young man whom he couched for cataract, and 
 who, on restoration to sight, thought, at first, that every 
 object touched his eyes. On this statement I would observe, 
 tbit, on the first admission of light to the unnaturally sensi* 
 
 • Philosophical Transactions, 1778, No. 402. 
 
THE INDIVIDUAL SENSES. 71 
 
 Kve retina, a sensation unlike to sight would be likely to 
 Eirise, which the patient might very probably designate by 
 Baying that the object touched his eyes. Every one/ in 
 passing from darkness into a strong light, has felt a sensa- 
 tion of this kind, and he may remember that it is more 
 nearly akin to touch than to sight. If we had before known 
 everything by touch, we should naturally use this language 
 in describing it. On this account, I think the case does not 
 warrant the stress that has been laid upon it. But, secondly, 
 if it were so, if he thought that the objects touched his . 
 eye, then, as Sir W. Hamilton has happily remarked, " still 
 they appeared external to the eye," for it is evident that 
 two things cannot 'seem to touch each other, unless, at the 
 same time, also, they appear numerically distinct. That 
 which is numerically distinct from the eye must be the non 
 ego. Besides, the young of all animals, as soon as they 
 open their eyes, recognize external objects as external, and, 
 with evident design, move either towards or away from 
 them. In fact, they use their eyes at first just as they use 
 them afterwards. A new-born infant teaches us the same 
 truth. Who ever saw a young child place its hand on its 
 eyes when an object was placed before it ? It reaches out 
 its hand towards the object, without, it is true, any correct 
 idea of distance, but with a correct conception of external- 
 ity and direction. I think that all our observation upon 
 our own use of this faculty must lead us to the same con- 
 clusion. 
 
 2. From this sense, exclusively, we obtain our knowle^dge 
 of color. Of the nature of this cognition I have already 
 had occasion to express my opinion. It is a simple knowl- 
 edge in itself, an affection of the sentient being, which, how- 
 ever, we naturally and immediately refer to the external 
 object. Of this quality, thus recognized, the varieties are 
 numerous; and they are indefinitely multiplied ty the cir 
 
J2 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 
 
 cuiDStances of light and shade, distance and proximity, 
 degree of illumination, and. many others. Hence it is that 
 external nature presents to us an exhaustless and ever- varied 
 scene of beauty and sublimity. Every object in the world 
 around us, which the hand of God has formed, is made to 
 minister to our happiness. But this is only a small part of 
 the benefit which we derive from this function of sight. 
 Every change of color, and every variation in the degree of 
 color, is indicative of some change which is originally cog- 
 nized by some other sense. Hence it is that sight, which 
 acts instantaneously, and cognizes its objects at large dis- 
 tances, is enabled, by changes of visual appearance, to detect 
 an immense number of qualities which vision alone could 
 never hsive discovered. All the senses become tributary to 
 it, and it does the work of all. Of the manner in which 
 this is done, we shall treat more particularly in the follow- 
 ing section. 
 
 3. To the qualities of external bodies, rendered cognizable 
 by sight, we must undoubtedly add extension. If we refer 
 our notion of color to an external object, I do not see how 
 it is possible to exclude from our minds the knowledge that 
 the colored object is extended. If we look upon anything 
 colored, that color covers a definite portion of space. Let 
 any one look upon a surface marked alternately by different 
 colors, and the limitations of each are distinctly defined. 
 Hence^ also, arises the idea of form in one dimension. We 
 can as well cognize a circle or square by sight as we can 
 do it by touch. We read as rapidly by the eye as the bl:2id 
 by their fingers. 
 
 4. Lastly, we must now add solidity, or extension in 
 three dimensions, to the perceptions given us by sight. 
 Until quite lately, this power has been denied to the faculty 
 of vision. It has been the generally received opinion that 
 sight gives us nothing but the different shades of color. 
 
THE INDIVIDUAL SENSES. 78 
 
 represented on a plane surface, as we perceive them in a 
 painting ; but that by touch we learn to associate the 
 shading with the form, and thus indirectly learn to cognize 
 solidity by the eye. This view was universally received, 
 until the researches of Professor Wheatstone, of King's Col- 
 lege, London, threw new light upon the whole subject. The 
 brilliant discoveries of this philosopher have added a new 
 function to the organ of vision, and demonstrated that, by 
 the eye alone, we are enabled to cognize solidity as well as 
 simple extension. He has shown that, in consequence of 
 binocular vision, we are able to determine the form of 
 bodies within a certain distance. The manner in which this 
 is accomplished is as fallows : It must be obvious to every 
 one, that, inasmuch as the right and left eye occupy different 
 positions in space, the images which an external object forms 
 on the two eyes must be slightly dissimilar. I look upon 
 an inkstand on the table before me, closing first my right 
 eye and then the left. I can clearly discover a differ- 
 ence between the right and left image. Now, it is this 
 difference of figure in the two images that gives us the 
 notion of solidity. This is proved by the stereoscope, an 
 invention of Professor Wheatstone. This instrument is so 
 constructed that we can see separately the image of an 
 object formed on the right eye, and then that formed on the 
 left. 
 
 When seen in this manner, each figure appears to us as .a 
 mere drawing on a plane surface. When now we look at 
 them with both eyes, we do not perceive two plane drawings, 
 but a distinct, and, I had almost said, palpable solid. It is 
 however evident that this effect can be produced only when 
 the body is at so small a distance, and of such a magnitude, 
 that two images can be formed. If it be far off, so that 
 the rays become parallel, and thus form the same image on 
 both eyes, no effect from binocular vision is produced. We 
 7 
 
74 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 
 
 observe the truth of this law in our daily experience. When 
 we look upon a well-executed painting, every figure, when 
 viewed from a proper position, appears to stand out from 
 the canvas. It seems to us impossible that it should be a 
 plane surface. But if we draw near, the illusion vanishes. 
 Wlien we arrive at the position at which the figures, if solid^ 
 would form different images on the two eyes, and no such i 
 difference exists, we know at once that the surface is a plane, t 
 If it be objected that persons with one eye are able to dis- 1 
 tinguish solidity, it is replied that they do it less perfectly / 
 than others ; that they are obliged to do it by observing ii 
 the shading of the surface, and that they are frequently seen t 
 to move the head in a horizontal direction rapidly, in order i 
 to form the different images on the same eye.^ 
 
 In consequence of this discovery, a very beautiful optical i 
 instrument has been invented, by which the effect of » 
 daguerreotype pictures has been much improved. A picture i 
 is taken separately for each eye. When these are looked i 
 at together, through glasses adapted to the purpose, we per- \ 
 ceive only one figure ; but it has all the appearance of 
 solidity. Daguerreotypes of statuary have thus all the 
 effect of the original marble. 
 
 The question has frequently been asked, How do we see 
 objects single with two eyes ? To this question I do not 
 know that any more satisfactory answer has been given than 
 the plain statement of the fact that so we were created. It 
 seems to me not half so strange as the fact that we see at 
 all. But I would inquire, is it more remarkable that we 
 receive a single impression from two organs of sight, than 
 from any of our other senses ? All our nerves of sense are 
 double. Every other sense has a right and a left nerve ; yet 
 all the impressions made upon us from a single object are 
 
 ♦Transactions of the Roya Society, yoI. 56, p. 371. June 21, 183^ 
 
THE INDIVIDUAL SENSES. 76 
 
 single. Each ear receives an auditory irapulse. yet we hear 
 but one sound. When we feel of an object, each hand 
 receives a distinct impression, yet we perceive but one 
 object. It does not seem strange to us that we do not hear 
 two sounds with two ears, or that we do not feel two cubes 
 when we hold one with our two hands.. The case, however, 
 seems to me precisely similar to that in which we look upon 
 one object with our two eyes. The sense of sight, then, 
 merely conforms to the general law by which all our senses 
 are governed. It would seem, then, unnecessary to proceed 
 farther than to refer the case of sight to the general law 
 of the senses. The question thus resolves itself into the 
 general one. How are single impressions made vrith double 
 organs ? To this I do not know that any answer has been 
 either given or attempted. 
 
 x\gain, it has been asked, How do we see objects erect, 
 when the image on the retina is inverted? Dr. Reid 
 answers this question by stating it as a general law that we 
 see every object in the direction of the right line that 
 passes from the picture of the object on the retina to the 
 centre of the eye, •• as the rays from the upper part of the 
 object form the lower part of the image, and, vice versa^ 
 we see the upper part of the object with the lower part of 
 the retina, and the contrary ; and thus we see the object as 
 it is, that is, we see it erect." In how far this relieves the 
 diflBculty, or carries us back to a more general law, I will not 
 pretend to determine. Tome it does not seem to throw that 
 light on the subject which seems obvious to others. I have 
 thought that, possibly, this effect was in some way connected 
 with the decussation of the optic nerve. No nerves, except 
 those of sight, unite before entering the brain, and in no 
 other case is this peculiarity observed. May there not be 
 some connection between the facts ? 
 
 Persons who have been couched for cataract see objects 
 
76 INIELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 
 
 erect as soon as their power of vision is restored. At least, 
 Cheselden and other observers have never stated anything 
 to the contrary. This could hardly have been the case if 
 so striking a phenomenon had passed under their notice. 
 To this there seems but one exception. Sir W, Hamilton 
 quotes a case from Professor Leidenfrost, of Duisburg, 1793, 
 in which the fact was otherwise. A young man. blind 
 from birth, had reached his seventeenth year, when his sight 
 was restored after an attack of ophthalmia. When he first 
 saw men, they seemed to him inverted ; that is, their heads 
 were towards his feet ; and trees and other objects seemed 
 to hold the same position. I am unable to account for 
 this difference from ordinary experience. I would only 
 remark, that we are always liable to err in reasoning from 
 instances of this kind, because, when the condition of an 
 organ is decidedly abnormal, it is impossible to say to what 
 extent and in what direction the abnormal cause has been 
 exerted. 
 
 REFERENCES. 
 
 Sense of siglit — Reid's Inquiry, chap. 6. 
 
 Sight the noblest of our tsenses, 
 
 No sensation in sight, 
 
 Relation of visual to real figure. 
 
 Color a quality of body, 
 
 Parallel motioi^ of the eyes, 
 
 How we see objects erect. 
 
 How we see objects single. 
 
 We know not how the image on the retina causes vision, section 12 
 
 Carpentei 's Physiology, article si^ht. 
 
 Cheselden's case— Phil. Transactions, 1728, No. 402. 
 
 W^heatstone's paper, Phil. Trans., vol. 56, p. 371. 
 
 Prof. Lierlenfrost's case. Sir W. Hamilton — Reid, p. 16a 
 
 ** section 1. 
 
 *' section 8. 
 
 " sections 23 and 7. 
 
 " sections 4 and 5. 
 
 " section 10. 
 
 •* sections 11 and 12. 
 
 ** section 13. 
 
ACQUIRED PERCEPTIONS. 7? 
 
 SECTION IX. — OF ACQUIRED PERCEPTIONS, OR THE INTER- 
 CHANGE ABLE USE OF THE SENSES. 
 
 It has been already remarked that each of our senses 
 furnishes us with a distinct species of knowledge. We 
 cognize odors by smell, sounds by the ear, colors by the 
 eye, and so of all the rest. Neither of the senses can be 
 used in the place of the other. We can neither see with 
 our ears, hear with our fincrers. nor smell with our tongue. 
 Such is manifestly the fact, if our senses be considered 
 separately. 
 
 But when the senses are considered collectively, we find 
 that the above statement does not convey the whole truth. 
 One sense seems to convey to us knowledge which could 
 have been gained only by another. A single perception 
 will frequently furnish us with knowledge, which we find, 
 upon reflection, to have been originally given us by the 
 action of another sense^ or oy the combined action of several 
 of the senses. Considered in this light, our whole sensual 
 organism seems to be one complicated system, designed in 
 the most rapid and convenient manner to make us ac- 
 quainted with the external world. We find ourselves, in a 
 thousand cases, using one sense for another, whenever we 
 can do it with advantage ; and if by misfortune we are de- 
 prived of any particular sense, it is surprising to observe 
 how readily the remaining senses come to our aid, and enable 
 us to cognize objects in a manner which, at first view, would 
 seem utterly impossible. 
 
 The process by which this effect is produced is the fol- 
 lowing : We have already observed that the variety of 
 impressions which may be received by several of our senses 
 is beyond the power of computation. Who can estimate the 
 infinite number of sounds which we are capable of hearing : 
 7^ 
 
78 INTELLECIOJAL PHILOjOPHY. 
 
 or of color and shading which we are capable of seeing, 
 and of distinguishing from each other ? Now, we find that 
 a quality cognized by one sense is, by the kind provision of 
 our Creator, connected with some modification of a quality 
 perceived by another sense. Observing this connection, we 
 learn to associate the original with the secondary quality, 
 and, from the observation of the one, to infer the existence of 
 the other. For example, if I wish to learn whether a body 
 is hard or soft, I employ the sense of touch. This is the 
 sense originally given to me for the purpose of gaining 
 this knowledge. I see before me a piece of polished marble, 
 and a piece of velvet, of the same color. I feel of them 
 both, and ascertain that the one is hard, and the other soft. 
 But I also observe that the visual appearance of these two 
 substances is dissimilar. I carefully note this difierence. 
 When I see the same objects again, I shall not be obliged 
 to feel them ; I know, at a glance, not only the visual but 
 the tactual character of each. I go farther ; I generalize 
 this diflference. I know that one visual appearance, where- 
 ever it is seen, indicates hardness, and another softness. 
 Hence, when we, for the first time, look upon a substance, 
 we commonly form an opinion of its hardness or softness 
 from its peculiarity of color. Hence, also, we frequently 
 use the language of one sense for that of another. We say 
 of a surface that it looks hard or it looks soft. So paint- 
 ers, having observed that warm weather in summer is accom- 
 panied by a particular appearance of the sky, associate the 
 language of feeling with that of sight, and speak of a warm 
 sky, of warm or of cold coloring, and of other distinctioiis 
 of a similar character. 
 
 Illustrations of acquired perceptions are presenting them- 
 eelves to us every day, in the ordinary experience of life. 
 The apothecary learns how to distinguish medicines by their 
 imell as accurately as by their taste. The mineralogist \j 
 
ACQUIRED PERCEPTIONS. 7S 
 
 breathing upon a mineral, and observing its smell, will know 
 in an instant whether it is or is not argillaceous. Or, 
 . again, he will distinguish a calcareous from a magnesian 
 mineral by the touch ; or he will determine the character 
 of another by its fracture. If a grocer wishes to know 
 whether a cask is full or empty he does not look into it, 
 but merely strikes upon it, and ascertains the fact in an 
 instant by sound. A mason who wishes to know if a wall 
 in a particular spot is solid, does not pull it down, tut 
 Btrikes it with his hammer. In the same way we determine 
 whether an object before us is made of w^ood, or metal, or 
 stone. When these indications are closely observed, the 
 accuracy of the judgments to which they lead is frequently 
 very remarkable. It is said that an Indian hunter, on the 
 prairies, by placing his ear on the ground, will discover the 
 approach of an enemy long before he can be recognized by 
 the eye, and will distinguish a herd of buffaloes from a troop 
 of dragoons with unerring certainty. We are told that the 
 Arabs will tell the tribe to which a passer-by belongs, by the 
 print of his foot in the sand, and by the track of a hare 
 will know whether it be a male or a female. 
 
 Inasmuch, however, as our visual perceptions are more 
 varied and more rapid than those of our other senses, and 
 as we, by the eye, cognize objects at great distances, the 
 greater part of our acquired perceptions are referred to this 
 sense. We judge of the qualities of almost all the sub- 
 stances in daily use by the eye alone. We continually 
 determine distance and magnitude by the eye. The manner 
 in which this is done is worthy of special notice. It is well 
 known that, as an object recedes from us, its visual appear- 
 ance presents several observable changes. First, its magni- 
 tude diminishes. Secondly, its color becomes, dim and misty. 
 Thirdly, its outline becomes indistinct; and, fourthly as its 
 distance increases, the number of intervening objects 
 
80 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 
 
 becomes greater. It is by the observation of these changes 
 that we determine whether objects are receding from, or 
 advancing towards us. In the same manner, by comparing 
 these indications, we judge of the distance and magnitude 
 of any object. In every case of this kind we go through a 
 comphcated act of judgment ; yet, from habit, Ave do it so 
 rapidly, that we should hardly be aware of it but from the 
 mistakes which we occasionally commit. For instance ; I 
 see an object presenting a certain dimness of color, of a 
 certain indistinctness of outline, and of a given visual mag- 
 nitude, and observe various objects intervening between it 
 and me. This is all that the sense of sight gives me. I 
 immediately judge it to be a man of ordinary size, half a 
 mile off: and my judgments are so generally accurate, that 
 I am surprised if I find myself in error. 
 
 When, however, any one of these conditions is changed, 
 we are liable to be deceived. This is commonly the case 
 when objects are seen through a mist. The deception here 
 is not occasioned, as is generally supposed, by refraction 
 of the rays of light, causing the object to seem larger. 
 The object really seems to us of the proper size. The 
 mist, however, renders the color and the outline indistinct, 
 and we suppose the object to be at a much greater distance 
 than it is. The body has the magnitude belonging to a 
 quarter of a mile in distance, with the indistinctness of half 
 a mile. With this magnitude, at the latter distance, it would, 
 of course, seem to us much larger than it actually is 
 An incident, illustrative of this fact, once occurred to the 
 author. He was, early in the morning, in a dense fog, 
 sailing through the harbor of Newport, and passed near the 
 wharf of Fort Adams. He observed on the wharf some very 
 tall men, and mentioned their remarkable size to the friends 
 who accompanied him. Presently he was struck with their 
 behavior. They were jumping and playing lik$ childreAi 
 
ACQUIRED PERCEPT. ONS. 8i 
 
 in a manner that seemed to him wholly unaccountable 
 Presently, as the sun dispersed the fog, he found himself 
 close to the wharf, and these gigantic men dwindled down 
 to a company of playful little boys, who were amusing 
 themselves in childish gambols. 
 
 In the same manner we mistake if the atmosphere is 
 more transparent than that to which we are accustomed. 
 Bishop Berkeley, I think, remarks that English travellers 
 in Italy, unaccustomed to the clear sky of southern Europe, 
 were liable to continual misjudgment respecting the distance 
 of objects seen in the horizon. The clearness of the color, 
 and the distinctness of the outline, led them to suppose 
 castles, mountains, &c., much nearer than they really were. 
 In the same manner, when there are no intervening objects, 
 we frequently find our judgments at fault. Thus, in looking 
 over a sheet of water, we always underrate the distance. 
 When we throw a stone at an object in the water, we always 
 find that our eye has deceived us, and the stone falls far 
 short of the mark. For the same reason, objects seen on the 
 shore from the water seem much less than their natural 
 size. The fact is, they appear of the magnitude which 
 belongs to the distance, but we suppose the distance less 
 than it is ; and, associating this magnitude with diminished 
 distance, they appear to us less than they really are. 
 
 In order to form these judgments correctly, one of these 
 elements must be fixed. From this we learn to institute a 
 comparison, and then an accurate opinion is formed. If we 
 have the magnitude of the object, the change in its color 
 and outline teaches us its distance. If we know its distance, 
 we can judge of its magnitude. Hence, painters, in order 
 to give us a correct notion of an object which they repre- 
 sent, always place in its vicinity something with whose real 
 magnitude we are familiar. Thus, if I drew a pyramid, it 
 might be difficult to determine whether I intended to repre- 
 
82 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 
 
 sent it aa large or small. If, however, I drew an Arab 
 standing by his camel at the foot of it, my intention would 
 at once become apparent. Every one knows the size of a 
 camel, and from this he would judge of the magnitude of 
 tlie pyramid. 
 
 The benefits which we derive from this interchangeable 
 use of the senses are innumerable. We are thus enabled 
 to transfer to one sense the cognitions which belong to 
 another, always using that which we can employ with the 
 greatest rapidity and convenience. Our whole sensitive 
 organism is thus capable of being used for almost every 
 form of cognition. Very much of our early education, 
 especially the education which enables us to perform any 
 art, consists in the acquisition of these secondary percep- 
 tions. It is thus that the physician, from symptoms, or 
 external indications which another person would not observe, 
 is enabled to discover the locality, the nature, and the pro- 
 gress of disease, and frequently to foretell the result with 
 unerring accuracy. 
 
 The benefit of this arrangement is specially evident when 
 we are unfortunately deprived of any one of our senses. 
 Our acquired perceptions are then almost indefinitely mul- 
 tiplied, and the knowledge which we derive from our re- 
 maining senses is sometimes so great as to appear almost 
 incredible. Thus, the blind, by paying strict attention to 
 the indications derived from touch and hearing, acquire an 
 accuracy of judgment, respecting things known to others by 
 sight alone, which greatly surprises ug. It is said that they 
 can learn to determine, with great accuracy, the number of 
 persons in a room by observing the sound of a speaker's 
 voice, and that, by striking on the floor, they will form a 
 very correct opinion as to the size of an Apartment. Dr. 
 Abercrombie mentions two blind men who were . remark^ 
 ably good judges of horses. One of then discovered, on 
 
ACQUIRED PERCEPTIONS. 83 
 
 ft particular occasion, that a hor^e was blind by observing 
 the manner in which he placed his feet upon the ground 
 when in motion, although the fact had not been noticed by 
 any other person of the company. Another discovered that 
 a horse was blind of one eye, by observing that the temper- 
 ature of the eyes was different. On the other hand, the 
 deaf acquire great skill in judging of the qualities of bo<lie3 
 by touch and sight. They will learn to understand a 
 speaker by the motion of his lips, and to interpret -the 
 minutest shades of emotion by the changes in the counte- 
 nance. When both sio:ht and hearing are denied, a larcre 
 amount of knowledge may be acquired by smell and feeling. 
 Persons in this unfortunate condition have been known to 
 select their own clothes, out of a pile of clean linen, by smell. 
 The most remarkable instance on record of the education of 
 a person under these circumstances, is found in the case of 
 Laura Bridgman, who has been for several years under the 
 care of Dr. Samuel G. Howe, of the Massachusetts Asylum 
 for the Blind. She has from infancy been deprived both of 
 hearino: and sio-ht. She has, nevertheless, been tauo;ht the 
 alphabet for the blind ; she converses rapidly with her 
 fingers, writes very intelligibly, and uses the language 
 which designates the qualities of color and sound with con- 
 siderable accuracy, knows her friends and instructors, and 
 feels for them every sentiment of gratitude and affection. 
 
 It' will readily occur to every one that great use may be 
 made of acquired perceptions in the practice of the various 
 arts and professions. We thus are enabled to determine 
 facts and form judgments which would otherwise be impos- 
 sible. An illustration of this kind presents itself in the 
 use of the stethoscope, a small ear-trumpet, by means of 
 which physicians listen to the sound made by the lungs in 
 breathing, and by the heart in pulsation. A few years 
 eince. it was observed that these sounds varied with the con- 
 
84 INTELLECTUAL PHILjSOPHY. 
 
 Jition of these organs in health and in disease. This obser- 
 vation led to a very important result. First, the sound 
 made by the lungs in health was distinctly ascertained. 
 Then the variations from it were noticed. If the disease 
 terininated in death, the condition of the lungs was ascer- 
 tained by inspection. The sound was thus associated with 
 tne particular disease which occasioned it. This mode of 
 observation was continued until almost every form of disease 
 in the chest was recognized and made to speak an audible 
 language. When this language has been learned by one 
 man, it can be taught to another ; and thus this important 
 means of acquiring knowledge has become common to phy- 
 siciims. Practitioners, who have paid sufficient attention to 
 this subject, and who are endowed with great delicacy of 
 hearing, have been able to discover with remarkable ac- 
 curacy the condition of the organs of the chest, the form of 
 disease under which the patient has been laboring, and even 
 to mark out on the surface the precise portion of the lungs 
 which was suflfering from inflammation. 
 
 The manner in which our acquired perceptions may be 
 improved is manifestly as follows. In the first place, we 
 learn to observe with the greatest accuracy the minutest 
 differences in the impressions made upon our organs of 
 sense. We are thus enabled to discover the slightest change 
 of color or of outline, the minutest differences in hardness, 
 smoothness or temperature, and the almost imperceptible 
 variations in sound and interval. Tbe nicer our d^^ri mi- 
 nation in these respects becomes, the wider is the field of 
 observation open to discovery. In this respect, much must 
 depend upon the original perfection of the organs themselves : 
 but that more depends upon careful cultivation, is evident 
 from the fact that whole tribes of savages, of by nc means 
 delicate organization, attain to remarkable accuracy in the 
 use of their organs of sense. 
 
ACQUIRED *>ERCEPTIONS, 85 
 
 Secondly, we must learn to associate with each variation 
 observed by one sense, the quality or condition discovered 
 by another sense. In this manner we acquire the language 
 . of nature, and are enabled to interpret it for our own bene- 
 fit and the benefit of others. We are thus able to form 
 judgments which, to the uninitiated, seem like the result of 
 magic. Thus, distinctness and indistinctness of color and 
 outline teach us the magnitude and distance of objects many 
 miles off. Thus the Indian, by observing minute differ- 
 ences of sound, will form an accurate judgment undei 
 circumstances which would leave other men wholly in dark- 
 ness. 
 
 The physician, by placing his ear on the chest of his 
 patient, can tell whether the organs within are healthy or 
 diseased, and can thus the better employ such m'^ans of 
 cure as will accomplish the result which he proposes. 
 
 It is hardly necessary to remark that the progress of 
 the arts enables us to cultivate our acquired perceptions 
 with greater success. The microscope and the telescope 
 have greatly increased our power in this respect. Instru- 
 ments for observing infinitesimal changes in temperature 
 will probably lead to similar results. The tendency of 
 science is in this direction, and it will, without doubt, lead 
 to a rich harvest of discovery. 
 
 Before closing this section, it is proper to remark that 
 in the usu of acquired perceptions we are liable to form 
 false judgments, and then to complain that our senses have 
 deceived us. I once saw, on a door-post, the painting of 
 a key hanging on a nail, and it was so well executed that 
 I was not aware of the deception until I attempted to take 
 it down. Here it might be said that my senses deceived 
 me, but such was not the fact. My eyos testified truly to 
 all that they promised to make known. They testified to a 
 certain color and shading. This <^v^deuco was in its nature 
 8 
 
gft IJlTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 
 
 ambiguous lor the effect might be produced either by a 
 painting or by a real key. Without sufficient attention, I 
 inferred that it was a key, when I ought to have examined 
 it more carefully. But mj senses did not deceive me, for 
 the eye testified truly, and when I applied to another sense, 
 it enabled mo to form a true judgment. I was misled by 
 my own negligence, and not by any defect in my senses. I 
 ought, perhaps, to add that the deception in this case was 
 aided by my companion, who directed my attention to the 
 door, and asked me to hand him the key that he might open 
 it. Had it not been for this circumstance, I should probably 
 have discovered the truth from the effect of binocular vision. 
 It will be found that all the cases w^hich are commonly as- 
 cribed to deception of the senses are of the same character 
 as that to which I have here referred. Our senses alw^ays 
 testify truly, but we sometimes deceive ourselves by the 
 inference which we draw from their evidence. The defect 
 resides in our inference, and not in our senses, for it is by 
 the use of our senses, alone, that we are enabled to correct 
 the error into which we have fallen by our own inadver- 
 tence. 
 
 REFERENCES. 
 
 Original and acquired perceptions — Reid's Inquiry, chap. 6, sec. 20— 
 £3. Abercrombie, Partii., sec. 1. 
 
 Improvement of the senses — Reid, Essays on the InteUectual Powers 
 E^say 2, sec. 21. 
 
 SECTION X. — OF THE NATURE OF THE KNOWLEDGE WHICH 
 WE ACQUIRE BY THE PERCEPTIVE POWERS. 
 
 Having, in the preceding sections, treated of the manner 
 m which our knowledge of the external j^orld is acquired, 
 
QUALITIES OF BODIPJS. 87 
 
 "1 propose, in the present section, to offer some suggestions 
 on the nature of this knowledge. 
 
 1. The knowledge which we acquire by perceptioi 
 is always of individuals. If we see several trees, we see 
 them not as a class, but as separate and distinct objects 
 of perception. If we see several men, as John, James, 
 Edward, we see each one as a distinct individual. The 
 same remark applies to the acts which we observe. We see 
 John strike James ; that is, we see a particular individual 
 perform a particular act. We thus see, that while, from 
 the knowledge gained by the perceptive faculties, we subse- 
 
 . quently form genera and species, yet, without the aid of 
 some other powers of the mind, to form genera and species 
 would be impossible. Our several items of knowledge 
 would be like separate grains of sand, without cohesion and 
 without affinity. • 
 
 2. The knowledge derived from the perceptive powers 
 is always knowledge of the concrete. When Ave perceive a 
 body, we do not cognize the color, figure, temperature, etc., 
 each as an abstract quality, and then afterwards unite them 
 in one conception ; but we perceive a body, colored, of such 
 a figure and temperature ; that is, a body in which all these 
 qualities are united. The first impression made upon us is 
 the cognition of an external object, possessing all these 
 qualities ; or, at least, so many as are cognizable by 
 the senses which are at the time directed towards them. 
 We have the power of separating these qualities, in thought, 
 the one from the other, and of making each of them a dis- 
 tinct object of attention. This, however, is the function of 
 fk faculty of the mind to be treated of hereafter. 
 
 3. Of primary and secondary qualities. 
 
 It has been already stated that our knowledge is of qual- 
 ities, not of essences. We do not cognize the objects around 
 us absolutely, we cognize them as possessed of certain means 
 
gg INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 
 
 of affecting us, and thus giving us notice of the modes of 
 their existence. 
 
 The qualities of matter have, of old, been divided into 
 two cliisses, which, at a later period, have been denominated 
 primary and secondary. The primary qualities are those 
 which, by necessity, enter into our notion of matter ; which 
 we must conceive of as belonging to body, as soon as we 
 conceive of body at all. Such are extension, divisibility, 
 magnitude, figure, solidity, and mobility. We cannot think 
 of matter, without involving these qualities in our very 
 notion of it. If we conceive of matter as the only thing 
 created, before any sentient being was created to cognize it, 
 we think of it as possessing all these qualities in as perfect 
 a manner as at present. 
 
 The secondary qualities are those which are not necessary 
 to our conception of matter as matter, yet which give it 
 the power of variously affecting us as sentient beings pos- 
 sessed of such or such an organism. Such are smell, 
 tiste, sound, color, hardness, softness, and many others. 
 These might all be absent, or wholly unrecognized, and yet 
 our idea of matter as matter would be definite and precise. 
 They are only cognized by means of their appropriate media. 
 If the media had not been created, no "conception of them 
 could ever have been formed. We cognize them only by 
 means of our peculiar organism. Had this organism been 
 created of a different character, these qualities could never 
 have been known. Of the primary qualities themselves we 
 form a definite idea ; we know that they are what they 
 Beem to us to be. Of the secondary qualities, in themselves, 
 >VG know nothing more than this, that some occult cause 
 j-jossesses the power of affecting us by means of o.ur senses in 
 this or that manner, or of creating in us such or such] 
 cognitions. 
 
 These secondary qualities have been, more lately, ve] 
 
QUALITIES OF BO >IES. 89 
 
 properly divided into two classes. First, those wnich we 
 cognize by their relation to our own organism : and, sec- 
 ondly, those which we cognize by their relations to other 
 bodies. Thus, malleability, ductility, and various other 
 qualities, are cognized by the action of various metals on 
 each other. Gold and steel are, to our organism, equally 
 unmalleable ; that is, we can make no impression upon either 
 by voluntary effort. But when gold is brought into forcible 
 contact with steel, its quality becomes manifest. The same 
 is true of brittleness, and various other qualities. 
 
 Sir William Hamilton, after examining this subject with 
 unsurpassed acuteness, has suggested another classification of 
 the qualities of matter. It will be found, treated of in full 
 in note D to his edition of the works of Dr. Reid. To pur- 
 sue the subject at length, would be impossible within the limits 
 that must be assigned to the present work. I shall attempt 
 no more than to present a condensed view of some of the 
 most important elements of his classification. 
 
 Sir William Hamilton divides the qualities of matter into 
 three classes. First, primary or objective ; second, secundo- 
 primary or subjecto-objective ; and third, secondary or sub- 
 jective qualities. The primary are objective, not subjective, 
 percepts proper, not sensations proper ; the secundo-primary 
 are both objective and subjective, percepts proper and sensa- 
 tions proper; the secondary are subjective, not objective, 
 sensations proper, not percepts proper. 
 
 1. Of the primary qualities. 
 
 These are all deducible from two elementary ideas. We 
 are unable to conceive of a body except, first, aa occupying 
 space, and second, as contained in space. Fron the first of 
 these follow, by necessary explication, extension divisibility, 
 size, density or rarity, and figure; from the second are 
 explicated incompressibility absolute, mobility, situation. 
 
 2. The secundo-primary. 
 
 8* 
 
I 
 
 90 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 
 
 These have two phases, both immediately apprehended 
 *' Ou their primary or objective phasis, they manifest them- 
 selves as degrees of resistance opposed to our locomotive 
 energy ; on their secondary or subjective phasis, as modes 
 of resistance, a presence affecting our sentient organism." 
 *' Considered physically, or in an objective relation, they, are 
 to be reduced to classes corresponding to the diflferent 
 sources, in external nature, from which resistance or pressure 
 springs. These sources are three. 
 
 I. Co-attraction. 11. Repulsion. III. Inertia. 
 
 From co-attraction result gravity and cohesion. 
 
 From gravity result heavy and light. 
 
 From cohesion follow, 1. Hard and soft ; 2. Firm and 
 fluid : 3. Viscid and friable : 4. Tough and brittle ; 5. 
 Rigid and flexible ; 6. Fissile and infissile ; 7. Ductile 
 and inductile ; 8. Retractile and irretractile ; 9. Rough 
 and smooth ; 10. Slippery and tenacious. 
 
 From repulsion are evolved, 1. Compressible and incom- 
 pressible ; 2. Resilient and irresilient. 
 
 From inertia are evolved, Movable and Immovable. 
 
 3. The secondary qualities. 
 
 '^ These are not, in propriety, qualities of bodies at all. 
 As apprehended, they are only subjective affections, and 
 belong only to bodies in so far as these are supposed fur- 
 nished with the powers capable of specifically determining 
 the various parts of our nervous apparatus to the partic- 
 ular action, or rather passion, of which they are susceptible; 
 which determined action or passion is the quality of which 
 we are immediately cognizant ; the external concause of 
 that internal effect remaining to the perception altogether 
 unknown.-' 
 
 ''Of the secondary qualities," that is, those phenomenal 
 affections determined in our sentient organism by the agency 
 of external bodies, '^ there are various kinds; the variety 
 
QUALITIES OF BODIES. 91 
 
 principally depending on the differences of the different 
 parts of our nervous apparatus. Such are the proper sensi- 
 sibles, the idiopathic affections of our several organs of sense, 
 as color, sound, flavor, savor, and tactual sensation ; such 
 are the feelings from heat, electricity, galvanism, etc., and 
 the muscular and cutaneous sensations which accompany the 
 perception of the secundo-primary qualities. Such, though 
 less directly the result of foreign causes, are titillation, 
 sneezing, horripilation, shuddering, the feeling of what is 
 called setting the teeth on edge, etc. etc. Such, in fine, 
 are all the various sensations of bodily pleasure and pain, 
 determined by the action of external stimuli." 
 Concerning these in general, it may be remarked, 
 
 1. ^^ The primary are qualities, only as we conceive them 
 to distinguish body, from not-body : they are the attributes 
 of body as body, corjjoris ut corpus. The secondary and 
 secundo-primary are more properly denominated qualities, 
 for they discriminate body from body. They are the attri- 
 butes of body, as this or that kind of body, corporis ut tale 
 corpus y 
 
 2. ^^ The primary arise from the universal relations of 
 body to itself; the secundo-primary, from the general rela- 
 tions of this body to that ; the secondary, from the special 
 relations of this kind of body to this or that kind of sentient 
 organism. 
 
 3. *' Under the primary we apprehend the modes of the 
 non ego ; under the secundo-primary we apprehend the 
 modes both of the ego and the non ego ; under the second- 
 ary we apprehend modes of the ego, and infer modes of the 
 non ego. 
 
 4. '^ The primary are apprehended as they are in bodies ; 
 the secondary, as they are in us ; the secundo-primary, aa 
 they are in bodies and as they are in us. "* 
 
 5. *' The terms designating primary qualities are univocal, 
 
92 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 
 
 marking out one quality ; those designating the secundo-pri 
 
 mary and secondary are equivocal, denoting both a mode of 
 
 existence in bodies and a mode of affection in our organism." 
 
 Of these qualities, in particular, considered as in bodies, 
 
 1. ^^ The primary are the qualities of a body in relation 
 to our organism as a body simply ; the secundo-primary are 
 the qualities of a body in relation to our organism as a pro- 
 pelling, resisting, cohesive body ; the secondary are the 
 t[ualities of body in relation to our organism as an idiopath- 
 ically excitable and sentient body. 
 
 2. " The primary are known immediately in themselves ; 
 the secundo-primary, both immediately in themselves and 
 mediately in their effects on us ; the secondary, only medi- 
 ately in their effects on us. 
 
 3. '' The primary are apprehended objects ; the secondary, 
 inferred powers ; the secundo-primary, both apprehended 
 objects and inferred powers. 
 
 4. "The primary are conceived as necessary and perceived 
 as actual ; the secundo-primary are perceived and conceived 
 as actual ; the secondary are inferred and conceived as pos- 
 sible. 
 
 5. ^'The primary may be roundly characterized as mathe- 
 matical ; the secundo-primary, as mechanical ; the secondary^ 
 as physiological.'' 
 
 Of these qualities, considered as cognitions, 
 
 1. *' We are conscious as objects, in the primary qualities, 
 of the modes of the not-self; in the secondary, of the modes 
 of a self; in the secundo-primary, of the modes of a self and 
 a not-self, at once. 
 
 2. " Using the terms strictly, the apprehensions of the 
 primary are perceptions, not sensations ; of the secondary, 
 sensations, not perceptions ; of secundo-primary, sensations 
 and perceptions together. 
 
 3. ^* In the primary there is thus no concomitant seconi- 
 
QUALITIES OF tfOi>IBS. 93 
 
 ary quality; in the secondary, no conooi:*.it&n«» primary 
 quality ; in the secundo-primary, a secondary and quasi- 
 primary quality accompany each other. 
 
 4. ^' In the apprehension of the primary, there is ^lO :jub- 
 ject-object determined by the object-object ; in the secundo- 
 primary, there is a subject-object determined by the object- 
 object; in the secondary, the subject-object is the only 
 object of immediate cognition." 
 
 I have not, in the above quotations, inserted all the acute 
 and valuable distinctions of our author. I have selected 
 those only which seemed to me the most important, and 
 which discriminate most clearly the characteristic elements 
 of these modes of cognition. For a more extended view of 
 the subject I must refer the reader to the work itself, 
 where he will find every distinction wrought out with a 
 power of metaphysical analysis which has never been sur- 
 passed. 
 
 In regard to Sir William's classification, if I may hazard 
 an opinion, I think that his distinctions are rendered obvi- 
 ous and beyond dispute. Whether his classification includes 
 all the secundo-primary qualities, I am by no means certain. 
 In so far as these qualities are apprehended by their efiects 
 on our organism, his classification appears exhaustive. But 
 what shall we say of that class of qualities which arise from 
 the relations of insentient bodies to each other, as malleabil- 
 ity, chemical affinity, and various others? These are not 
 known by any impression on our organism, as a propelling, 
 resisting, cohesive body. They are not primary qualities. 
 They are not cognized by our idiopathic sentient organism. 
 They must be secundo-primary, but I think are not included 
 in our author's classification. 
 
 4. Leaving now the subject of primary and secondary qual- 
 itieSj I proceed to remark; that the knowledge derived firom 
 
94 INTELLECTUAi PHILOSOPHY. 
 
 {perception is truly knowledge ; that is, the evidence of oui 
 senses is worthy of belief 
 
 Til us, I open ray eyes, and I perceive before me a book 
 I put forth my hands, and feel of it. My perceptions per- 
 fectly coincide. They both testify to the existence of an 
 extorniil object, numerically distinct from myself, of such a 
 niii'Miitude, form, situation. I am conscious of a state of" 
 mind which I call perception; and of that state of mind one 
 of the elements is an unalterable conviction that the object 
 exists now and here, just as I perceive it. This conviction 
 is a necessary part of my state of mind, if, indeed, it be 
 not the state of mind itself This conscious perception is 
 to me the know^ledge that this book exists. If I am asked 
 why I believe thus, or have this conviction, I can give no 
 other account of it than that I am so made It is a cogni- 
 tion given me in virtue of my creation. If I am asked to 
 prove it, I must plead my inability to do so. I can prove 
 no proposition except by some other proposition of higher 
 authority. But there is no proposition of higher authority 
 than this cognition given me by my Creator, who made me 
 so that, under certain conditions, I cannot choose but have 
 it. If I am asked to prove that I exist, I am unable to do 
 it for the same reason, namely, that I have no more evident 
 proposition w^hich can be used as a medium of proof I am 
 80 made that the existence of an external world is revealed 
 to me at the same time and just as obtrusively as my own 
 existence. By the constitution of my mind, the one fact 
 is as clearly revealed to me as the other. 
 
 But this subject is capable of more extended illustration 
 and explication. 
 
 1. *'Our cognitions, it is evident, are not all at second 
 hand." Demonstration must at last rest upon propositions 
 which carfy their own evidence, and necessitate their own 
 admission. Were it otherwise, were there no truths which 
 
Validity of perception. 95 
 
 revealed themselves to the human mind, all proof would 
 be nugatory ; it would be a succession of arguments, each 
 one resting on something yet to be proved. Some truth 
 must then be given to us in our creation as intelligent be- 
 ings, on which we may found our reasoning, and from which 
 all demonstration must proceed. 
 
 If it be asked, how do these primary cognitions assure U3 
 of their truth and certify us of their verity, the only answer ia 
 that they are results of our mental constitution. As soon 
 as a human mind apprehends them, without argument or 
 proof, it immediately knows them to be true. The only 
 answer we can give to him who asks us a reason of these 
 beliefs is, that we are so made, we are created to believe 
 them. To suppose their falsehood, is to suppose that we are 
 created thus simply in order that we may be deceived. 
 And as, besides this, it is upon these beliefs that all subse- 
 quent knowledge is founded, if we deny them, all knowl- 
 edge is a delusion, and truth and falsehood are unmeaning 
 terms. This, surely, without any proof, cannot be asserted ; 
 and, hence, I think it must be conceded that we must in the 
 first instance receive these beliefs as true, until they are 
 shown to be false, and just in so far as they are shown to be 
 false. That we do thus by the constitution of our nature 
 believe in the testimony of our senses, that we do thus uni- 
 versally admit it, is, I think, beyond controversy. It is, 
 therefore, to be believed until it is shown to be unfounded. 
 
 But it may possibly be denied that this belief is one of 
 those given us by our creation, or one of the first truths 
 revealed to the common sense of man by virtue of his intel- 
 lectual constitution. What, then, are the characteristics by 
 which these truths may be known ? 
 
 Sir W. Hamilton reduces these characteristics to the foui 
 following : 
 
 1. They are incomprehensible. ^^ A conviction is m 
 
96 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 
 
 comprehensible when there is merely given us in conscious 
 ness that its object is, and when we are unable to compre- 
 hend, through a higher notion or belief, why or how it is. 
 ^' When \SQ are able to comprehend why or how a thing is, 
 the belief of the existence of that thing is not a primary 
 datum of consciousness, but a subsumption under the condi- 
 tion or belief which affords its reason." 
 
 2. Thty are simple. '' It' is manifest that if a cogni- 
 tion or belief be made up of, and can be explicated into, a 
 plurality of cognitions or beliefs, that, as compound, it can- 
 not be original." 
 
 3. They are iiecessary and universal ^' If necessary, 
 they must, of course, be universal. The necessity here 
 Bj)oken of is of two kinds. The first kind is when we can- 
 not construe it to our minds that the deliverance of con- 
 sciousness is not true, or when the opposite of the assertion 
 is unthinkable. Thus the proposition that a part is greater 
 than the whole, or that two straight lines can at the same 
 time be parallel and at right angles in the same plane, is 
 unthinkable. There is another necessity, however, which 
 is not unthinkable, when the deliverance of consciousness 
 may be false, but when, at the same time, we cannot but 
 admit that it is of such or such an import. This is the case 
 in contingent truths, or what may be called matters of fact. 
 In this case, the thing is not conceived as absolutely impos- 
 sible, but impossible under the present constitution of things, 
 or we being as we are. Thus, I can theoretically suppose 
 that the external object of which I am conscious in percep- 
 tion may be in reality nothing but a mode of mind, or self. 
 I am unable, however, to think that consciousness does not 
 compel me to regard it as external, as a mode of matter or 
 not self. Such being the case, I cannot practically believe 
 the supposition which I am able speculatively to maintain ; 
 for I cannot believe this supposition without believing that 
 
VALIDITY OF PEIICEI'TION. 97 
 
 the last ground of all belief is not to be believed, which ia 
 self-contradictory. 
 
 4. y sir compai^ative evidence and certainly. ''These 
 truths are so clear and obvious that nothing more clear or 
 obvious can be conceived by which to prove them." Ac- 
 cording to BuiSBer, they " are so clear, that if we attempt to 
 pr^ve or disprove them, this can be done only by proposi- 
 tions which are manifestly neither more evident nor more 
 certain." 
 
 Now, so far as I can perceive, all these characteristics 
 belong to the deliverance of consciousness in perception. 
 Tliey are incomprehensible, simple, practically necessary, 
 and of such clearness of manifestation that they can neither 
 be proved nor disproved by anything more evident. We are 
 then entitled to consider them first truths, or truths revealed 
 to man in the constitution of his nature. If such deliver- 
 ances are not to be believed, then nothing is to be believed, 
 and all knowledge is essentially impossible. 
 
 But the subject may be finally considered from another 
 point of view. 
 
 The data of consciousness may be considered as two-fold. 
 
 1. "As apprehended facts or actual manifestations." As 
 when I say, I see a tree, or I feel a cube, there is an actual 
 manifestation to me that I am in that particular state of 
 mind described by these words. Consciousness reveals to 
 me that fact as the present state of my mind. 
 
 2. " These deliverances of consciousness may be consid- 
 ered as testimonies to the truth of facts beyond their own 
 phenomenal reality." These acts of consciousness are the 
 testimonies to the fact thai that tree and that cube are now 
 existing. It is, however, to be observed that the testimony 
 to the existence of this state of mind, and to the existence 
 of the tree which this state of mind cognizes, is given ua 
 in the same act. 
 
 9 . 
 
08 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 
 
 The truth of this first testimony of consciousness is ad- 
 mitted hy all. When consciousness testifies that I am now 
 in a mental state which I call perception, it cannot be 
 doubted that such is the fact. The doubt, in this case, ia 
 clearly suicidal. The state of mind called perception is at- 
 U^sted by consciousness. The state which I call doubting 
 ia attested by the same consciousness. If, then, conscious- 
 ness is not to be believed when it testifies to perception, 
 neither is it to be believed when it testifies to doubting. So 
 tliat, if a man doubts whether he is really in the state of 
 mind called perception, he must equally doubt whether he 
 is in the state of mind which he calls doubting. He must 
 doubt whether he doubts, just as much as he doubts whether 
 he perceives, meaning, by this term, a mere subjective act, 
 a state of the thinking subject. 
 
 There may, however, be without absurdity a doubt as to tiie 
 other part of the act ; that is, to the truth of this testimony 
 as to something numerically different from the subject. It 
 may be said that this is merely a subjective state of the mind 
 itself: that it is merely a form of the ego produced by the 
 action of some subjective cause, and that it gives us no 
 knowledge of anything external. 
 
 To this objection it may be answered, 
 
 1. "It cannot but be acknowledged that the veracity of 
 consciousness must, at least in the first instance, be conceded- 
 Negantl iiicumbit probatio. Nature is not gratuitously to 
 be assumed to work, not only in vain, but in counteraction 
 of herself Our faculty of knowledge is not, without a 
 ground, to be supposed an instrument of illusion. Man, 
 unless the melancholy fact be proved, is not to be held 
 organized for the attainment and actuated by the love of 
 truth, only to become the dupe and victim of a perfidious 
 Creator." 
 
 2. ''But, granting that these convictions are at the be- 
 
VALIDITY OF PERCEPTION. 99 
 
 ginning to be received as true, it is yet competent to attempt 
 to prove them false, and thus correct an error into which 
 we have been led by our constitution. But how shall this 
 be done ? As the ultimate grounds of knowledge, these 
 convictions cannot be redargued from any higher knowledge ; 
 and as derivative beliefs they are paramount in certainty to 
 every derivative knowledge. They cannot, therefore, be 
 disproved by knowledge derived from any other source, for 
 the most certain knowledge which we possess must rest upon 
 the same foundation as the testimony of our own con- 
 sciousness." 
 
 3. "If, then, these convictions be disproved, they must 
 be disproved by themselves. This can be done only by one 
 of two methods. First, it must be shown that these pri- 
 mary data are directly and immediately contradictory of 
 themselves." "They are many, they are in authority co- 
 ordinate, and their testimony is clear and precise. ' Now, 
 if this testimony is intellectually or in fact, at variance, then 
 we must conclude either that one or the other, or both, tes- 
 timonies are false. Or, secondly, it must be proved ' ' that 
 they are mediately or indirectly contradictory, inasmuch 
 
 i as the consequences to which they necessarily lead, and for 
 the truth or falsehood of which they are therefore responsi- 
 ble, are repugnant. In no other way can the veracity of 
 consciousness be assailed. It will argue nothing to show 
 that they are incomprehensible, for nothing can be more 
 absurd than to make the comprehensibility of a datum of 
 consciousness, the criterion of its truth. To ask how an 
 immediate fact of consciousness is possible, is to ask how 
 consciousness is possible ; and to ask how consciousness is 
 
 \ possible, is to suppose we have another consciousness above 
 and before that human consciousness concerning whose mode 
 of operation we inquire. Could we answer this, verily we 
 should be as gods." Neither of these attempts has ever been 
 
100 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 
 
 made. We may, therefore, receive the testimony of con- 
 Bciousness as true beyond the reach of argument or contra- 
 diction. 
 
 4. And, lastly, consciousness testifies to two things : first 
 that there is now existing a state of mind; and, secondly 
 that that state of mind is an actual cognition of an external 
 world possessing such or such qualities. Suppose we admit 
 the first testimony; how, then, admitting this, can we reject 
 the other testimony of which it forms a part ? What dis- 
 tinction can we take between the two items of the same tes- 
 timony, by which we can receive the one and reject the 
 other. Or, on the other hand, suppose we deny the testi- 
 mony of consciousness to the truth of the perception, how 
 can we admit it when it attests to an existing state of mind? 
 If the one is false, the other may be true, but it is surely 
 not to be credited. Thus the very facts of our subjective 
 existence would be shown to be unworthy of belief, and the 
 evidence of the existence of the ego and the non ego would 
 be swept away togetheir. 
 
 In this and the preceding article I have used the thoughts, 
 and, for the most part, the language of Sir W. Hamilton. 
 It gives me pleasure to acknowledge my obligations to a 
 gentleman, whose boundless learning in every department of 
 human knowledge, united with unrivalled acuteness and 
 rare power of examining with perfect distinctness the mi- 
 nutest shades of thought, have long since given him a posi- 
 tion among the profoundest philosophers of this or any other 
 age. 
 
 5. I close this section with a few remarks upon the law of 
 perception in its relation to evidence. This law may be 
 stated in few words. 
 
 1. When all our faculties are in a normal state, and an . 
 appropriate object is presented to an organ of sense, a sen- 
 sation or a perception immediately ensues. We cannot by 
 
VALIDITY OF PERCEPTION. 101 
 
 our will prevent it. If I open my eyes, I cannot escape the 
 flight of the object before me. If a sound is made, near to 
 me, I cannot by my will prevent hearing it ; and the same 
 is true of all other senses. 
 
 2. On the other hand, my faculties being in their normal 
 condition, if no object is presented to my organs of sense, 
 1 can perceive none. I cannot perceive what I will, but 
 only what is presented to me. I cannot see a tree, unless a 
 tree is before me. I cannot hear a sound, unless a sound is 
 produced within hearing; and so of the rest. 
 
 3. Hence it follows that if, under normal conditions, I 
 am conscious of perceiving an external object, then that 
 object exists when and where I perceive it. The conscious 
 perception could exist under no other conditions. It is a 
 fact which admits of being accounted for in no other man- 
 ner. And, on the other hand, if, under normal circum- 
 stances, I perceive no object, then no object exists to be 
 perceived. 
 
 These simple laws lie at the foundation of the evidence 
 of testimony. If we perceive an event, we know that that 
 event is transpiring. If we remember that we perceived it, 
 we know that it has transpired. So, if we are satisfied 
 that credible witnesses were conscious of perceiving an ob- 
 ject, we know that the object existed as perceived. If un- 
 der circumstances, such that if it were present they must 
 have perceived it, and they were conscious of no percep- 
 tion, then we know that the object was not present. The 
 further consideration of the conditions by which these laws 
 are limited belongs to the science of evidence. The state- 
 ment of the law itself is all that concerns to our present 
 inquiry. 
 
 Within a few years past various statements have been 
 made which seem to modify the above laws. It has been 
 asserted that persons, under the influence of what is called 
 9* 
 
102 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 
 
 mesmerism can be rendered perfectly unconscpus of what 
 is passing around them ; that they are able to cognize per- 
 sons and events without the intervention of the appropriate 
 meilia, and under circumstances which render it certain 
 tluit such cognitions could not have originated in the ordi- 
 nary use of the organs of sense. This subject has attracted 
 considerable attention, both in this country and in Europe. 
 Sir W. Hamilton remarks: '^ However astonishing, it is now 
 proved, beyond all rational doubt, that, in certain abnormal 
 states of the nervous organismj perceptions are possible 
 through other than the ordinary channels of the senses.'' — 
 Hamilton's Reid, page 246, note 2, Edinburgh edition. 
 
 It has been, I believe, proved beyond dispute, that pa- 
 tients under this influence have submitted to the most dis- 
 tressing operations without consciousness of pain ; that other 
 persons have cognized events at a great distance, and have 
 related them correctly at the time ; and that persons totally 
 blind, when in the state of mesmeric consciousness have 
 enjoyed for the time the power of perceiving external ob- 
 jects. So far as I have been informed, while these distant 
 cognitions are sometimes correct, they are as frequently 
 wholly erroneous, and the person is totally unable to distin- 
 guish the true from the false. The subject seems to me 
 well worthy of the most searching and candid examination, 
 The facts seem to indicate some more general laws of exter- 
 nal cognition than have yet been discovered. The matter 
 is by no means deserving of ridicule, but demands the atten- 
 tion of the most philosophical inquirers. 
 
 REFERENCE S. 
 
 Knon ledge acquired by perception is of individuals — Locke, Book 4, 
 chap. 7, sec. U ; Reid, Essay 5, chap. 1. 
 The knowledge acquired by perception is real — Reid, Essay 2, chaps. 5 
 
CONCEPTION. 103 
 
 Primary and secondary qualities — Locke, book 2d, chap. 8, sec. 9, 10, 
 W, 24 ; Reid, Essay 2d, oh. 17 ; Cousin, ch. 6. 
 
 Sir W. Hamilton, Dissertation supplementary to Reid ; note D. 
 
 Laws of Perception — Reid, Essay 2d, cli. 1, 2. 
 
 The credibility of the evidence of perception demonstrated — Sir W 
 Hamilton's Dissertation on Common Sense. Note A, as above. 
 
 SECTION XI. — OF CONCEPTION. 
 
 The subject of conception is, in its origin, so intimately 
 allied to perception, that, although it enters as a constituent 
 element into almost every act of the mind, there seems a 
 propriety in treating of it here. 
 
 The word conception has already frequently occurred in 
 the preceding pages. It is proper that it should be more 
 definitely explained. 
 
 Conception has been defined as that act of the mind in 
 which we form a notion or thought of a thing. To this, 
 however, it has been objected, that the word notion or 
 thought in this place means the same as conception, and 
 that we might with the same propriety reverse the defini- 
 tion, and say that the having a notion of a thing was the 
 forming a conception of it. There seems to be force in this 
 objection. The fact is, that a simple act of the mind is in- 
 capable of definition. We can do no more than present the 
 circumstances under which it arises, and our own conscious- 
 ness at once teaches us what is meant. 
 
 1. To proceed in this manner, then, I would observe that 
 when I look upon a book, or any external object, I instantly 
 Torm a notion of it, of a particular kind. I know it as an ex- 
 ternal body, numerically distinct from myself, of a certain 
 form color and magnitude, at this moment and in this 
 place existiag before me. When I handle a book, I have the 
 
104 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 
 
 same notion^ the quality of color only excepted. This 
 knowledge is called perception. 
 
 2. Secondly, I find that when the object of perception ia 
 removed, and the act of perception ceases, a knowledge of 
 the object is still present to my mind. This is called a con- 
 ception. Thus, the book which I just now perceived is re- 
 moved, but the conception of it is still an object of con- 
 sciousness. A cube which I saw is burned to ashes, but I 
 have a distinct conception of its form and dimensions. I can 
 recall to my mind the cataract which I saw last summer, the 
 house in which I slept, or particular portions of the road over 
 which I passed. In these cases, however, the conception is 
 not simple ; it is combined with the act of memory. I have 
 not only the conception, but the assurance or belief, that at 
 a certain time these objects actually existed as I now con- 
 ceive of them. 
 
 3. But let us now separate this act of conception from 
 the act of memory. We can conceive of a tree or a cataract 
 without connecting it with the idea either of present or 
 past existence. We are doing this continually in the course 
 of our own thoughts. We do it when we read a romance. We 
 are here continually forming images of things, places, and • 
 persons, which we know never existed. So, in a geometri- 
 cal demonstration, we form for ourselves the conception of a 
 figure, and proceed to reason upon it, though we have never 
 seen it represented to the eye.^ A concept or concep. 
 
 • The word conception is commonly used in two or three significations. ' 
 It is employed to designate the power or faculty, the individual act of that 
 ficulty, and that act considered as an object of thought. On this subject 
 Bir W. Hamilton remarks, *'We ought to distinguish imagination and 
 imai;e, conception and concept. Imagination and conception ought to be 
 employed in speaking of the mental modification, one and indivisiole, cc«h 
 Bidered as an act; image and concept, in speaking of it, considerea tm 
 product or immediate object " — Note to page 263. 
 
 
CONCEPTION. 105 
 
 lion is, therefore, that representation or cognition of a 
 thing which we form in the mind when we are thinking of 
 jt. 
 
 4. Again, when we think of an act of the mind as thmk- 
 ing, willing, believing, or of any emotion, as joy or sorrow, 
 we form a conception of it. We cannot think it unless we 
 can do this. Hence, when a state of mind is spoken of which 
 we cannot represent to ourselves in thought, we say we can- 
 not conceive of it ; that is, the words spoken do not awaken 
 in us any corresponding conception. 
 
 5. Again, by the faculty of abstraction we may analyze 
 the elements of these concrete conceptions, and combine 
 them into general or abstract ideas. Thus, from several in- 
 dividual horses we form the general notion of a horse, mean- 
 ing the genus, and having respect to no individual horse 
 existing. These are general conceptions, or conceptions of 
 genera or species. 
 
 6. We have also conceptions of general intuitive truths, 
 such as the axioms of mathematics. We conceive of the 
 truth that the whole is greater than its part, or that if 
 equals be added to equals the wholes are equal. So we form 
 conceptions of general relations, as of cause and efifect_ 
 power, and many others. 
 
 7. Lastly, we are able to form images by combining into 
 one whole, elements previously existing in the mind, as when 
 a painter conceives of a landscape, or of a historical group. 
 This form of conception is more properly styled imagination. 
 
 In all cases of conception where the act is completed, if I 
 do not mistake^ we form something of the nature of a pic- 
 ture, which the mind contemplates as the object of thought. 
 I am aware that, in speaking and writing, when the terms 
 are perfectly familiar, we do not pause and form the con- 
 ception. Thus, we use the axioms, in demonstration, without 
 pausing to reflect upon the words we employ, and yet wo - 
 
106 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 
 
 use them with entire accuracy. Thus we speak of cause 
 and effect, number, and various other ideas. When, how- 
 ever, we attempt to dwell upon any one of these ideas, so 
 far as I can observe, we form a concept of it in the mind. 
 Thus, when I think of the term horse as a genus, and dwell 
 upon it in thought, there is before me, as an object, a con- 
 cept of such an animal. So, if I think the axiom the whole 
 is greater than its part, two magnitudes corresponding to 
 these terms present themselves before me. From this 
 remark, however, must be excepted those cases in which we 
 recognize a truth as a necessary condition of thought, as 
 duration, space, and ideas of a similar character. Even 
 here, however, we find the mind from its natural impulse 
 striving to realize something which shall correspond to a 
 concept. 
 
 Of conceptions thus explained it may be remarked in 
 general : 
 
 1. In conception there is nothing numerically distinct 
 from the act of the mind itself From the analogies of lan- 
 guage we are liable to be misled in thinking of this subject. 
 We speak of forming a conception, and of forming a machine ; 
 of separating the elements of a conception, and of separating 
 the parts of an object from one another. As in the one 
 case there is some object distinct from the ego, we are prone 
 to suppose that there must be also in the other. There is, 
 however, in conception nothing but the act of the mind 
 itself We may, nevertheless, contemplate th?s act from 
 different points of view ; first, as an act of the mind, or as 
 the mind in this particular act, and, secondly, as a product 
 of that- act which we use in thinking. There is, however, 
 numerically nothing but the act of the mind itself 
 
 2. Conception enters into all the other acts of the mind. 
 In the simplest sensation there is, for the time being, a 
 knowledge or a notion, though it may remain with us not a 
 
CONCEPTION. 107 
 
 moment after the object producing it is withdrawn. We 
 can have a knowledge of our own powers only as we have 
 conceptions of them. We can remember, or judge, or rea- 
 son, only as we have conceptions. In fact, all our mental 
 processes are about conceptions. Of them, all our knowl- 
 edge consists. 
 
 3. Our conceptions are to us the measure of possibility. 
 When any proposition cannot be conceived, that is, is un- 
 thinkable, we declare it impossible or absurd. Thus, if it 
 be said that a part is greater than the whole, that two 
 straight lines can enclose space, or that a change can take 
 place in a body while all the conditions of its existence re- 
 main absolutely the same, I understand the assertion ; but 
 when I attempt to form a conception of it, that is, to think 
 it, I find myself unable to do so. I affirm it to be impos- 
 sible. On the other hand, I may think of a communication 
 between the earth and the moon. In the present state of 
 science it is impracticable, but it is within the limits of 
 thought, ' and my mind is not so organized that I feel it to 
 be impossible. This case, is, however, to be distinguished 
 from the unconditional, the incomprehensible. This, from 
 the nature of our intellect, we know to be necessary ; it is 
 not contradictory to thought, though to grasp the concep- 
 tion is impossible. In the other case we are able to com- 
 prehend the terms, but we are unable to construe them in 
 thought ; in other words, the relation which is affirmed is 
 unthinkable. 
 
 4. In simple conception, or where it is unattended by 
 any other act of the mind, there is neither truth nor false- 
 hood. ^ I may conceive of a red mountain, of a blue rose, of 
 a winged horse, but the conception has nothing to do with 
 my belief in the existence of either of these objects. If the 
 conception is united with an act of judgment or memory, 
 then it at once becomes either true r false. In the concep- 
 
108 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 
 
 tion itself, however, I can discover neither. Stewart, I 
 know, advances a contrary opinion ; but I must confess my- 
 self wholly unconvinced by his reasoning. 
 
 5. Conceptions may be either clear and distinct, or obscure 
 and indistinct. We easily observe the difference here spoken 
 of in the effects produced on us by different descriptions. 
 Some authors describe a scene with so graphic a power that we 
 at once form a conception as definite as though we had our- 
 selves beheld it. Others use emphatic and imposing lau- 
 gyage, but they leave on us no, distinct impression. We 
 arc deluged by a shower of words, but no conception is 
 imprinted on the memory. 
 
 6. Conceptions may be strong and vivid, or faint and 
 languid. The same scene may with equal faithfulness be 
 described to us by two persons. The one deeply affects us, 
 while the other hardly interests us suflSciently to command 
 our continued attention. We observe the same effect in 
 ourselves, resulting from the accidental tone of our own minds. 
 At some times we find our conceptions much stronger than 
 at others, under precisely the same external circumstances. 
 
 From what has been observed, it will readily appear that 
 the power of forming conceptions differs greatly in differ- 
 ent individuals. Every teacher must have remarked this 
 fact, in his attempts to communicate instruction. Some per- 
 sons will at once seize upon the salient points of a concep- 
 tion, discover its bearing and relations, and hold it steadily 
 before the mind, until it becomes incorporated with their 
 knowledge. They never can be satisfied until they have 
 attained to this result. Others require repeated explana- 
 tions, and, when they suppose themselves to have mastered 
 a conception, we are surprised to observe that no important 
 point seen\s to have arrested their attention, but that there 
 rest on their minds only considerations of inferior impor- 
 tance blended together in dim and uncertain confusion. 
 
CONCEPTION. 109 
 
 The differenoi^ in chis respect, is still more remarkable in 
 the connection of conception with the fine arts, though per- 
 haps this exercise of the power belongs rather to the imagi- 
 nation. A portrait-painter will form so distinct a concep- 
 tion of a countenance that, years afterward, he will repre- 
 sent it correctly on canvas. The same power of forming 
 distinct conceptions is essential to the poet or novelist. No 
 one can read the descriptions of Sir Walter Scott without 
 being sensible of his high endowment in this respect. Nor 
 was this power limited to the scenes which he himself had 
 witnessed. His description of a summer day in the deserts 
 of Syria could not have been surpassed by the most gifted 
 Bedouin Arab. It was to this power that he owed much 
 of that brilliant conversational eminence, which rendered 
 him the centre of attraction in every circle in which he 
 chose to unbend himself. 
 
 REFERENCES. 
 
 Conception — Reid, Essay 1, chap. 1 
 
 Formed at will — Reid, Essay 4, chap. 1. 
 
 Enter into every other act of the mind — Reid, Essay 4, chap. 1. 
 
 Neither true nor false — Reid, Essay 4, chap. 1. 
 
 Ingredients derived from other powers — Reid, Essay 4, chap. 1. 
 
 Analogy between painting and conception — Reid, Essay 4, chap. 1 
 Conception in general — Stewart, vol. i., chap. 3. 
 
 Attended with belief — Stewart, vol. i., chap. 3. 
 
 Power of description depends on — Stewart, vol. i., chap. 3. 
 
 Improved by habit — Stewart, vol. i., chap. 3. 
 Conception — Abercrorabie, Part 3, sect. 1. 
 
 Clear or obscure — Abercrombie, Part 3, sect. 1. 
 In conception neither truth nor falsehood — Locke, Book 2d, chap 22, 
 •ects. 1—4, 19, 20. 
 
 Clear or obscure — Locke, Book 2, <5h. 29, sect 1 
 
 10 
 
CHAPTER II. 
 
 OONSCIOJSNESS, ATTENTION, AND REFLECTION. 
 
 SECTION I. — CONSCIOUSNESS. 
 
 Consciousness is that condition of the mind in which it. 
 is cognizant of its own operations. It is not thinking and 
 feeling, but that condition in which we know that we think 
 or feel. Thought, however, is necessary to consciousness, 
 for unless thought existed, we could not be conscious of it. 
 We may nevertheless suppose a mental act to be performed 
 of which we have no consciousness. In such a case we 
 should have no knowledge of its present existence, and 
 should only know that it had existed by its results. 
 
 On this subject, however, a considerable diversity of opin- 
 ion obtains. Sir W. Hamilton and many philosophers of 
 the highest authority believe that consciousness cannot prop- 
 erly be separated from the act to whose existence it tes- 
 tifies, and that to make a distinction between the assertions, 
 'I perceive" and '^I am conscious of perception,'' is im« 
 .possible. They hold that when we, are not conscious of an 
 act, the act is not performed ; and that when consciousness 
 does not testify to anything, it is because there is nothing 
 concerning which it can testify. 
 
 In answer to this, it may be granted that when it is said 
 *' I perceive," the meaning is the same as when I say '' ^ 
 am conscious of perceiving." When I say '' I perceive," 
 
CONSCIOUSNESS. Ill 
 
 there is involved, by necessity, in this assertion, the evi- 
 dence of consciousness. The question still returns, Is there 
 a state of mind which involves perception, of which we are 
 not conscious, and which is not expressed by the words " 1 
 am conscious that I perceive" ? 
 
 Let us, then, proceed to examine the facts. A person may 
 be engaged in reading, or in earnest thought, and a clock 
 may strike within a few feet of him without arresting hi^ 
 attention. He will not know that it has struck. Let, now. 
 another person ask him, within a few seconds, if the clock 
 has struck, and he will be conscious of a more or less dis- 
 tinct impression that he has just heard it ; and, turning to 
 observe the dial-plate, finds such to have been the fact. 
 What, now, was his state of mind previous to the question ? 
 Had there not been a perception of which he was not con 
 scions ? 
 
 But we may take a much stronger case. While a person 
 is reading aloud to another, some train of thought frequent- 
 ly arrests his attention. He, however, continues to read, 
 until his opinion is requested concerning some sentiment of 
 the author. He is unpleasantly startled by the reflection 
 ^hat he has not the remotest conception of what he has been 
 reading about. He remembers perfectly well up to a cer- 
 tain point, but beyond this point he is as ignorant of the 
 book as if he had never seen it. What, then, was the state of 
 his mind while he was reading ? He looked upon the page. 
 He must have seen every letter, for he enunciated every 
 word, and observed every pause correctly. No one had a 
 suspicion that he did not cognize the thoughts which he 
 was enunciating to others. Yet, the. moment afterwards, he 
 has not the least knowledge either of the words or the ideas. 
 Can we say that there was no perception here ? . Could a 
 man read a sentence aloud without perceiving the words in 
 which it was written ? Yet, so far as we can discover, this 
 state of mind was unattended by consciousness. 
 
112 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. '■ 
 
 Another case, of a very striking character, was related to 
 me by the person to whom it refers. A few years sinc^5, 
 while in London, I became acquainted with a gentleman 
 who had, for many years, held the responsible office of short- 
 liiind writer to the House of Lords. In conversation one 
 day, he mentioned to me the following occurrence. Some 
 time during the last war with France, he was engaged in 
 tiiking minutes of evidence in a court of inquiry respecting 
 the Walcheren expedition. Li this duty he was incessantly 
 engaged from four o'clock in the afternoon until four o'clock 
 the next morning. At two o'clock in the morning he was 
 aroused from a state of unconsciousness by Sir James E., one 
 of the members of the court, who asked him to read the min- 
 utes of the evidence of the last witness. It was the testimony 
 of one of the general officers who had described the fortifica- 
 tions of Flushing. My friend, Mr. G., replied, with some em- 
 barrassment, ' ' I fear I have not got it all. " '' Never mind, ' ' 
 replied the officer, ^' begin, and we will help you out." The 
 evidence consisted of tw^o pages of short-hand, and Mr. G. 
 read it to the close. He remembered it all perfectly ex- 
 cepting the last four lines, of which he had no recollection 
 whatever. These last lines were, however, written as legibly 
 as the rest, and he read them without difficulty. When he 
 came to the end, he turned to General E., saying, '^ Sii 
 James, that is all I have." '' That," replied the other, '' is 
 all there is ; you have the whole of it perfectly." He had 
 rei)orted the evidence with entire accuracy up to the very 
 moment when he was called upon to read, and yet the last 
 four lines had been written, and written in short-hand, so 
 far as he knew, during a period of perfect unconsciousness. 
 
 The condition of the mind which we term derangement 
 conveys some instruction on this subject. Here, it is not 
 uncommon for the patient to suppose that he is not the per- 
 son speaking or acting, but some other, and that some other 
 
CONSCaCOUSNESS. 113 
 
 mind than his otm is occupying his body and performing 
 the intellectual operations, of which he is conscious. Thug, 
 Pinel mentions the case of a man in France who imagined 
 that he had been sentenced to death and guillotined ; but 
 that, after his execution, the judges reversed their decision, 
 and ordered his head to be replaced ; the executioner re- 
 placed the wrong head, and hence he was ever after think- 
 ing the thoughts of another man instead of his own. We 
 have said that consciousness is that condition of the mind 
 in which it becomes cognizant of its own operations ; that 
 is, we are cognizant, not only that certain intellectual opera- 
 tions are carried on, but that they are our own. In this 
 case of deranged consciousness, the individual was aware 
 that there were thoughts, desires, remembrances, &c., going 
 on within him, but he could not recognize them as the opera* 
 tions of his own mind. 
 
 These cases would seem to show that a distinction may 
 fairly be made between consciousness and the faculties to the 
 operation of which it testifies. Yet it would scarcely seem 
 proper to denominate it a faculty ; I prefer to call it a con- 
 dition of the mind. 
 
 Such being the nature of consciousness, it is of course 
 unnecessary to specify the various kinds of knowledge which 
 we cognize by means of it. If it be the condition neces- 
 sary to the cognition of our mental operations, then all 
 forms of thought are made known to us through this 
 medium. Hence, as I have before suggested, to say I 
 know, and to say I am conscious of knowing, mean the same 
 thing : since the one cannot be true without involving the 
 other. 
 
 Consciousness always has respect to the state of the mind 
 
 •tself, and not to anything external. We are not conscious 
 
 of a tree, but conscious that we perceive the tree. We may 
 
 be conscious of hearing a sound ; we are not conscious of a 
 
 10* 
 
114 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 
 
 Bound. Those writers who deny the existence of conscious- 
 ness as a condition distinguishable from the act to which h 
 testifies, of course, adopt a different form of expression. 
 They would say that I am conscious of a tree, or of a 
 Bound, assuming that perception in all its varieties is but so 
 many forms of consciousness. I have no desire to enter 
 upon a further discussion of this subject. So far, however, 
 as I am able to observe the operations of my own mind, 1 
 am constrained to believe that the form of expression which 
 I have used represents my act in perception more accurately 
 than the other. 
 
 Consciousness has respect to the present, never to the 
 past. We can be conscious of nothing that does not exist 
 now and here. We may be conscious that we now remem- 
 ber the sunset of yesterday, but we cannot now be conscious 
 of the perception of the sunset of yesterday. We may be 
 conscious that we remember the appearance of an absent 
 friend, but we cannot be conscious of the appearance of an 
 absent friend. 
 
 In the normal condition of the mind, consciousness, with- 
 out any effort of the will, is always in exercise, and is 
 always bearing witness to the existence of our own mental 
 acts. It may be turned off involuntarily from the object 
 directly before us to some other, but, during our waking 
 hours, it always bears witness to something. Hence, con- 
 sciousness, united with memory, gives rise to the conviction 
 of i)ersonal identity. We know by means of this faculty 
 that certain thoughts and feelings exist, and that they are 
 the thoughts and feelings of the being whom I denominate 
 I, myself Memory connects these various testimonies of 
 consciousness into a connected series, and thus we know that 
 our intellectual acts, from our earliest recollecti(m, proceed 
 from the same being, and not another. I thus know that 
 ilie thoughts and feelings which I remember to have been 
 
CONSCIOUSNESS 115 
 
 conscious of yesterday are the thoughts and feelings of the 
 same being who is conscious of other intellectual acts 
 to-day ; that is, that through all the changes of the present 
 state, the ego^ myself, is the same individual and continuous 
 subject. 
 
 There have been observed occasionally abnormal cases 
 of what may be termed double consciousness. In such a 
 case, the present existence of the individual is at one time 
 connected with one period of his life, and at another time 
 with another. A young woman in Springfield, Mass., some 
 years since, was affected in this manner. She was at first 
 subject to attacks of what appeared to be ordinary somnam- 
 bulism. These were then transferred from the night to the 
 day-time, and during their continuance her powers of per- 
 ception were in a strange manner modified. With her eyes 
 thickly bandaged, in a dark room, she could read the finest 
 print. She was removed to the hospital for the insane at 
 Worcester, in order to be under the care of the late Dr. 
 Woodward. Here it was immediately observed that her 
 normal and abnormal states represented two conditions of 
 consciousness. Whatever she learned in the abnormal state 
 was entirely forgotten as soon as she passed from this state 
 to the other, but was perfectly remembered as soon as the 
 abnormal state returned. Thus she was taught to play 
 backgammon in both states. What she learned in the ab- 
 normal state was entirely disconnected from what she learned 
 in her natural state, and vice versa. The acquisition made 
 in one state was lost as soon as she entered the other : and 
 it was remarked that she learned more rapidly in the abnor- 
 mal than in the normal state. The first symptom of her 
 recovery was the blending together of the knowledge 
 acquired in these separate conditions. As the cure ad- 
 vanced, they became more and more identified, until the 
 • testimony of consciousness became uninterrupted and then 
 
116 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 
 
 the abnormal state vanished altogether. Several cases are 
 also on record in which persons have been subject to this 
 double consciousness without any manifestation of somnam- 
 bulism. In such instances, the individual has suddenly 
 awaked to a recollection of his former life, with the excep- 
 ' tion of a portion immediately preceding, of which he has no 
 recollection. A period of his existence seems perfectly 
 parenthetical, and h.s present consciousness connects itself 
 only with that portion of his life which preceded the change 
 in his condition. This peculiar affection will be best illus- 
 trated by an example. A few years since, a theokigical 
 student, represented to be a person of unexceptionable char- 
 acter, was suddenly missing from a city in the interior of 
 New York. All search for him was fruitless, and he was 
 supposed to have been murdered. A few months afterwards, 
 his friends received a letter from him, dated Liverpool, 
 England. He stated that a short time before, he had found 
 himself on board of a vessel bound from Montreal to Liver- 
 pool, without the least knowledge of the manner in whfeh 
 he came there. He recollected nothing from the time of 
 his being in the city where he had last been seen by his 
 friends. He however learned from his fellow-passengers 
 that he had embarked on board the vessel at Montreal, — and 
 he must have walked about two hundred miles in order to 
 arrive there, — that he sometimes seemed peculiar on the 
 passage, but that there had been nothing in his conduct to 
 excite particular remark. 
 
 Consciousness suggests to us the notion of existence. 
 When we are conscious of a sensation there immediately 
 springs from it the idea of self-existence. The conscious- 
 ness of a perception suggests the idea of the existence both 
 of the object perceived, of the subject perceiving, and fre- 
 queutly of some particular condition of that subject. Thus, 
 suppose 1 am looking upon a waterfall. I am conscieis of 
 
CONSCIOUSNESS. 117 
 
 eogmzing an external object ; I am conscious of the state 
 of mind called perception, and I am conscious of the emotion 
 of beauty or sublimity occasioned by the object which I 
 perceive. 
 
 It is obviously in our power to contemplate at will either 
 of these objects of thought. I may direct my attention to 
 the external object, or to the internal mental act, or to the 
 emotion which the object occasions. Thus, in the instance 
 just mentioned, I may direct my whole power of thought to 
 the observation of the waterfall. I may examine it so care- 
 fully and minutely, that its image is fixed in my remem- 
 brance forever. Or, on the other hand, I may turn my 
 attention to my own intellectual state, and analyze the 
 nature of the act of perception. Or, still more, after 
 having become deeply impressed with the external object, I 
 may contemplate my own emotions, and, following the train 
 of thought which they awaken, may lose all consciousness 
 of the perception of the object, wholly absorbed in the sen- 
 sibilities which it has called into action. We may do either 
 of these in any particular instance. We may from natural 
 bias, or from the circumstances of education, form the habit 
 of pursuing either the one or the other of these trains of 
 thought. 
 
 Hence arises the distinction between objective and sub- 
 jective writers. The objective writer describes with graphic 
 power the appearances of external nature, the march of 
 pageants, the shock of battles, and whatever addresses itself 
 to the perceptive powers. This habit of mind is also of 
 special importance in all the researches of physical science 
 The subjective writer turns his thoughts inward, and either 
 as a metaphysician, analyzes his own mental phenomena, 
 or pours forth in the language of poetry the emotions of 
 his soul. Thomson and Scott, especially the latter, are 
 eminently objective. Young and Byron are equally sub- 
 
118 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHf. 
 
 jective No one can compare a canto of the Lady of the 
 Lake with a canto of Childe Harold, or with one of 
 Youn^^'s Night Thoughts, without observing the difference 
 which I am here attempting to illustrate. 
 
 It is, however, obvious that no writer can be either wholly 
 objective or wholly subjective. Were two writers wholly 
 objective, their representations of external nature would be 
 exactly alike. But how dissimilar are the most objective 
 passages of Scott, Thomson and Moore ! Each one tinges 
 every description with the hues of his own subjectivity. 
 Nor, on the other hand, can the most subjective writer be 
 wholly subjective. He needs some objective starting-point, 
 and he will choose it in conformity w^ith the, peculiar bias of 
 his mind, and pursue that line of thought which best har- 
 monizes with his general temperament. Thus Young com- 
 mences a train of subjective reflection by reference to an 
 external object. 
 
 " The bell strikes one ! We take no note of time 
 But by its loss. To give it then a tongue 
 Is wise in man. As if an angel spoke, 
 I feel the solemn sound ! If heard aright, 
 It is the knell of my departed hours." 
 
 Minds of the very highest endowment have the objective 
 and the subjective equally at their command. Not only the 
 descriptions of Shakspeare and Milton,. but their delinea- 
 tions of human emotion, are the theme of universal eulogy. 
 And we may also remark that for its power over the human 
 heart genius depends less upon the circumstances by which 
 It is surrounded, than upon its own inherent energies. 
 Cowper has so described the bogs and fens of Olney, that 
 v^e seem to have been contemplating a picturesque*^ land- 
 scape ; and ^Hhe turning up of a mouse's nest with the 
 I)lough " is reflected back in images of affecting loveliness 
 from the bosom of Burns, 
 
ATTENTION AND REFLECTION. 11& 
 
 SECTION 11. — ATTENTION AND REFLECTION. 
 
 I HAVE remarked in the previous section that conscious- 
 ness, in the ordinary states of the mind, is involuntary. We 
 are sensible of no effort of the will when we either observe 
 the objects around us, or are conscious of the mental changes 
 taking place within us. I have also above alluded to the 
 fact that we may make either the object perceived, or the 
 state of the perceiving subject, an object of thought. 
 
 But, besides this, our consciousness may be accompanied 
 by an act of the will. We may, for instance, will to ex- 
 amine, with the greatest possible care, an object of percep- 
 tion, as a mineral, or a flower, or some particular work of 
 art. Excluding every other object of thought, the effort of 
 the mind is concentrated upon the act of perception. We 
 thus may discover qualities which we never before perceived. 
 But in what respect does this state of mind differ from ordi- 
 nary consciousness ? The effort of the Avill cannot change 
 the image formed on the retina ; for it can exert no influence 
 whatever on the laws of light to which this image is sub- 
 jected. It must consist in a more intense consciousness, by 
 which every, impression made on the organ of sense is 
 brought more directly before the mind. Our perception 
 is excited and directed by an act of the will. This condi- 
 tion of mind, when directed to an external object, is properly 
 called Attention. 
 
 The difference between consciousness and attention may, 
 I think, be easily illustrated. In jassing through a street, 
 Te are conscious of perceiving every house within the range 
 of our vision. But let us now come to a row of buildings, 
 one of which we desire to find, and which has been pre- 
 viously described to us. We examine every one of these 
 houses earnestly and minutely. We can, if it be necessary 
 
£20 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 
 
 dcscrii)e every cne of them with accuracy, while of the 
 others which we have passed in our walk we can give no 
 account whatever. We say that we have observed every 
 house in that row attentively, but that on the others we 
 bestowed no attention. Or, to take a too common instance ; 
 we read a book carelessly, we see every letter and form a 
 conception of every sentence ; but all is done listlessly, and 
 we close the book hardly aware of a single idea that we 
 have gained while we have been thus occupied. Let, how- 
 ever, our whole mental effort be directed to the subject on 
 which we are reading, and we fix it in our recollection, and 
 we can, at will, recall it and make it a matter of thought. 
 We say of ourselves, that in the former case we read with- 
 out and in the latter case with attention. 
 
 We sometimes, I think, speak of attention as practically 
 distinguished fi:-om every other act of the mind. Thus, 
 suppose we are striving to catch an indistinct sound that is 
 occurring at intervals, we then listen with attention. We 
 say to another person, '' Give all your attention that is pos- 
 sible, and you may hear it." He may possibly reply, ^'I 
 am all attention." Here we seem to recognize the condition 
 of attention directed to no present object of perception, bu 
 we merely place ourselves in a condition to perceive any 
 object which presents itself 
 
 Sometimes the object to which our thought is directed is 
 internal ; that is, it is some state of the mind itself. Ordi- 
 nary consciousness testifies to the existence of these stater ' 
 without any act of the will ; nay, it is not in the power of 
 the will to arrest this continuous testimony. But we some- 
 times desire to consider some particular mental state, as the 
 :t of perception or memory ; or some emotion, as that of 
 Ae beautiful or sublime. It is in the power of the will to 
 deUin such mental state, and hold it up before us as aa 
 •bjcct of thought. When, by volition, we make our own 
 
ATTENTION AND REFLECTION. 12] 
 
 mental states objects of observation, we denominate this act 
 Reflection. As the etymology of the word indicates, we 
 turn the mind backwards upon itself, so that it contemplates 
 its own states and operations, very much as in the case of 
 attention it concentrates its effort upon objects of percep- 
 tion. 
 
 I do not pretend that the words attention and reflection 
 are always used in this restricted sense. Attention is fre- 
 quently used to designate voluntary consciousness both ob- 
 jective and subjective. Reflection is not so commonly used 
 to denote both* mental states. It has, however, seemed to 
 me that these mental states should be designated by different 
 terms, and that the etymology of the two words, as well as 
 the general current of good use, tends in the direction 
 which I have here indicated. 
 
 This general power of rendering the various faculties of 
 the mind obedient to the will is of the greatest possible 
 importance to the student. Without it, he can never em- 
 ploy any power of the mind with energy or effect. Until 
 it be acquired, our faculties, however brilliant, remain 
 undisciplined and comparatively useless. From the want of 
 it, many men, who in youth give, as is supposed, great 
 promise of distinction, with advancing years sink down into 
 hopeless obscurity. Endowed with fertility of imagination 
 and unusual power of language, they are able to follow any 
 train of thought that accident may suggest, and clothe the 
 ideas of others with imagery which seems to indicate orig- 
 . inal power of scientific research. But the time soon arrives 
 when the exigences of life require accuracy of knowledge, 
 soundness of judgment, and well-placed reliance on the 
 decisions of our own intellect. The time for display has 
 passed, and the time for action — action on which our success 
 or failure depends — has come. Such men, then, after per^ 
 haps dazzling the circle of their friends with a few wild and 
 11 
 
122 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 
 
 ttiiiciful schemes, which gleam at intervals amid the ap^ 
 proachiiig darkness, sink below the horizon, and are seen no 
 more forever. 
 
 One of the greatest advantages derived from early and 
 systematic education is found in the necessity which it 
 imposes of learning thoroughly and at stated periods certain 
 a[)propriate lessons. We are thus obliged to direct our 
 attention for a time to the earnest pursuit of some object. 
 By being placed under this necessity for a few years, the 
 power of the will over the faculties, if we. are faithful to 
 ourselves, becomes habitual. What we learn is of impor- 
 tance, but this importance is secondary to that of so culti- 
 vating and disciplining our faculties that we are ever after- 
 wards able to use them in enlarging the boundaries of 
 science, or directing the courses of human thought and 
 action. If a system of education, besides cultivating the 
 habit of attention, cultivates also the habit of reflection and 
 generalization, so that the student learns not only to acquire 
 but from his acquisitions to rise to general principles, ob- 
 serve the operations of his own mind, and compare what be 
 has karned with the instinctive teachings of his own under- 
 standing, the great object of the instructor will be success- 
 fully accomplished. 
 
 To acquire habits of earnest and continued attention and 
 reflection, is one of the most diflScult tasks of the student. 
 At the beginning, he finds his mind wandering, his atten- 
 tion easily turned aside from the object to which he would 
 direct it, and disposed to yield to the attraction of external 
 objects, or to seize upon every fancy that the memory or 
 the imagination may present. Much of that time is thus 
 spent in dreamy idleness, which he had really determined 
 to employ in laborious study. It is evident that his success 
 !nust depend wholly on the correction of these habits. Our 
 minds are comparatively useless to us, unless we can render 
 
I 
 
 ATTENTION AND REFLECTION. 123 
 
 ihem oiedient servants to the Trill, so that, at any time and 
 under any circumstances, we can oblige them to think of 
 what we. wish, as long as we wish, and then dismiss it and 
 think of something else. We should strive to attain such a 
 command of all our faculties that we can direct our whole 
 mental energies upon the most abstruse proposition, until 
 we have either solved it, or ascertained that, with our pres- 
 ent advantages, a solution is impossible. 
 
 Perhaps the section cannot be more profitably closed 
 than by the suggestion of some means by w^hich the power 
 of cho will over the other faculties may be increased. 
 
 1. Much depends upon the condition of the physical sys- 
 tem. Our intellectual faculties are in more perfect exercise 
 in health than in sickness, and as the condition of the body 
 tends to sickness our power over them is proportionally 
 diminished. Every one knows how difficult it is to command 
 his attention during a paroxysm of fever. In recovering from 
 illness, one of the first symptoms of convalescence is a return 
 of the power over the mind, and a disposition to employ it in 
 its accustomed pursuits. Now, it is obvious that anything 
 which interferes with the normal condition of the system, 
 durmg the continuance of its action, produces the same 
 effect, as temporary indisposition. Such causes are over- 
 feeding, either occasionally or habitually, the use of indiges- 
 tible food, the want of sleep, or of exercise, undue mental 
 excitement, or exce-siv^- fatigue. Every one in the least 
 attentive to this subject must have observed the effect of 
 some or all of these causes upon his power of mental con- 
 ceritration. A large portion of the life of many men is 
 spent in habitual violation of the laws by which the free use 
 of the mind is conditioned. If, by accident, they for a 
 ■ short time obey the laws of their nature, their intellectual 
 powers recover their tone, and they enjoy what they call a 
 lucid interval. They postpone all important mental labor 
 
124 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 
 
 until this favored period arrives, without ever suspecting 
 that it is owing to their own folly that they are not in this 
 condition continually. Our Creator manifestly intended 
 that our intellectual light should shine with a clear and steady 
 brilliancy, not that it should gleam out occasionally, after 
 loriir j)oriods of mist and gloom and darkness. But, if we 
 would obtain the power of using our intellect to the greatest 
 advantage, we must habitually obey those laws which have 
 been imposed upon us by our Creator. 
 
 The diet of a student should be light, and rather spare 
 than abundant. A laboring man needs nutritious and 
 abundant food, to supply the waste caused by physical exer- 
 tion. The diet which is indispensable to the one is exceed- 
 ingly injurious to the other. A student also requires reg- 
 uhir and sufficient daily exercise, which should generally be . 
 carried to the point of full perspiration. His sleep should . 
 be all that health requires, and he should invariably retire 
 at an early hour. His study and sleeping room should be 
 well ventilated, and his ablutions should be daily and 
 abundant. To specify more minutely in detail the treat- 
 ment of the physical system, would be out of place here ; 
 and, besides, no rules which could be given would be appli- 
 cable to every case. Every man, observing the laws of the 
 human constitution, shouV apply them honestly to his own 
 case. All that is required is that the student form all his 
 physical habits with the direct and earnest purpose of giv- 
 ing the freest scope and the most active exercise to all his 
 ntellectual faculties. 
 
 It is, however, the fact that students are liable to err in 
 almost all of these particulars. They pay no attention 
 either to the quantity or quality of their food. Though, 
 perhaps, in early life, accustomed to labor, as soon as they 
 commence a course of study, they forsake, not only labor, 
 but all manner of exercise. If anxious to improve, -they 
 
ATTENTION AND REFLECTION. 12S 
 
 Study until late at night, thus destroying the power of ap- 
 plication for the following day. They live ii;i heated and 
 ill- ventilated rooms. Measuring their progress by the num- 
 ber of hours employed in study, they remain over their 
 books until the power of attention is exhausted. Much of 
 their time is thus spent in ineffectual efforts to comprehend 
 the proposition before them, or, after they have compre- 
 hended it, in equally ineffectual attempts to fix it in their 
 recollection. The result of all this it is painful to contem- 
 plate. Broken down in health and enfeebled in mind, the 
 man in early life is turned out upon society a confirmed and 
 mediocre, invalid, equally unfitted for the habits either of 
 active or sedentary life. This is surely unfortunate. There 
 can be no good reason why a student, or the practitioner of 
 what are called the professions, should be an invalid. Tc 
 study, violates no moral or physical law. A student may, 
 then, be as healthy in body and vigorous in mind as any 
 other man. If he be not, his misfortune is the result, not 
 of mere mental application, but of the violation of the laws 
 under which he has been created. 
 
 2. I have already intimated that the power of prolonged 
 and earnest attention depends upon the will. But we find 
 that until the mind becomes in some manner disciplined, the 
 influence of the will is feeble and irregular. Of course, 
 t)ur first attempt must be to increase the power of the will 
 over the other intellectual faculties. 
 
 Here, however, I am aware that probably great differ- 
 ences exist in mental constitution. The will in some men 
 is by nature stronger than in others. Some men surrender 
 a deliberately-formed purpose at the appearance of a trifling 
 obstacle ; others cling to it with a tenacity which nothing 
 but death can overcome. In this latter case, every physical 
 and mental energy is consecrated to the accomplishment of 
 the purpose to which the life of the being is devoted. Wheii 
 11* 
 
126 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 
 
 8U 
 
 ch a >v'ill, moved by high moral principle 4nd guided by 
 sound judgment, is directed to the accomplishment of a 
 great enterprise, it wins for its possessor a name among the 
 benefactors of the race. John Howard was an illustrious 
 cxiuni)lc of this class of men. The most masterly delinea- 
 tion of this form of character found, so far as I know, in 
 any language, is contained in John Foster's Essays ; a book 
 whicli I should fail in my duty did I not recommend to the 
 thoughtful perusal of every young man. 
 
 Such instances of energetic will are, however, rare, and 
 it becomes us to inquire whether the control over our facul- 
 ties can be obtamed by those who are less happily consti- 
 tuted. The most important means of cultivation, if we . , 
 desire to improve ourselves, lies in the will itself. The more 
 constantly we exercise it, the greater does its power become. 
 The more habitually we do what we resolve to do, instead of 
 doing what we are sohcited to do by indolence, or appetite, 
 or passion, or the love of trifles, the more readily will our 
 faculties obey us. At first the efibrt may yield only a partial 
 result, but perseverance will render the result more and 
 more apparent, until at last we shall find ourselves able to 
 employ our faculties in such manner as we desire. If, then, 
 the student finds his mind unstable, ready to wander in 
 search of every other object than that directly before him, 
 let him never yield to its solicitations. If it stray fi:om the 
 subject, let him recall it, resolutely determining that it shall 
 do the work that he bids it. He who will thus faithfully 
 deal with his mtellectual faculties will soon find that Ms 
 labor has not been in vain. 
 
 But, in order to arrive at this result, we must be thor- 
 oughly in earnest, and willing to pay the price for so inval- 
 uable an acquisition. We must forego many a sensual 
 pleasure, that the action of our faculties may be free and 
 unembarrassed. We must -esolutely resist all tendencies 
 
ATTENTION AND REFLECTION. 127 
 
 to indolence, both physical and mental. We must learn to 
 be alone. We mast put away from us all reading and all 
 conversation that would encourage the tendencies Avhich we 
 wish to suppress. By, doing this, and exerting to the full 
 the present power of our will, we cannot fail to make prog- 
 ress in mental discipline. 
 
 It may not be improper to add a remark respecting a kind 
 of reading in which a student is, at the present day, strongly 
 tempted to indulge. I have.no disposition here to discuss 
 the advantages and disadvantages of the reading of works 
 of fiction. It is sufficient for my purpose to observe, first, 
 that this kind of mental occupation evidently requires no 
 efibrt of the will to arrest the attention. The mind follows 
 pleasantly and unconsciously the train of conceptions pre- 
 sented by the author. Disquisitions requiring mental effort are 
 always considered blemishes in a romance, and are, I believe, 
 generally passed over unread. And, secondly, the mind be- 
 comes filled with interesting and exciting images, which 
 remain with us long after the reading has been finished. 
 From these causes, reading of this character must enfeeble 
 the will, and create a tendency to wander from a course of 
 thought which follows entirely different laws of association. 
 These reasons seem to me sufficient for advising any person 
 desirous of cultivating the habit of attention, either to 
 abandon the reading of fiction altogether, or, at least, to in- 
 dulge in it with such severe discretion as shall prevent it 
 from fostering those habits which we desire to eradicate- 
 After we have accomplished our objeci, and the victory of 
 the will over our other powers has been acknowledged, we 
 may allow ourselves a larger liberty. Until this is done, 
 the stricter the discipline which we enforce upon ourselves, 
 the more rapid will be our attainment in the habit of 
 self-government. 
 
 3. The power of the will over our other faculties is 
 
128 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 
 
 greatly assisted by punctuality ; that is, by doing everything 
 in precisely the time and place allotted for the doing of it. 
 If, when the hour for study has arrived, we begin to waste 
 our time in frivolous reading or idle musing, we shall find 
 our real work more distasteful, the longer we procrastinate. 
 If on the contrary, we begin at once, we the more easily 
 conquer our wandering propensities, and our minds are fully 
 occupied before trifles have the opportunity of alluring us. 
 The men who have accomplished the greatest amount of in- , 
 tellectual labor have generally been remarkable for punc- 
 tuality ; they have divided their time accurately between 
 their different pursuits, have rigidly adhered to the plan 
 which they have adopted, and have been careful to improve 
 every moment to the utmost advantage. 
 
 4. The control of the will over our faculties is much as- 
 sisted by the use of the pen. The act of writing out our 
 own thoughts, or the thoughts of others, of necessity in- 
 volves the exercise of continuous attention. Every one 
 knows that, after he has thought over a subject with all the 
 care in his power, his ideas become vastly more precise by 
 committing them to paper. The maxim of the schoolmen 
 was studivm sine calamo somnium. The most remark- 
 able thinkers have generally astonished their contemporaries 
 by the vast amount of manuscript which they have left be- 
 hind them. I think that universal experience testifies to 
 the fact that no one can attain to a high degree of mental 
 cultivation, without devoting a large portion of his time to 
 the labor of composition. 
 
 It is a very valuable habit to read no book without oblig- 
 ing ourselves to write a brief abstract of it, with the opinions 
 which we have formed concerning it. This will oblige us to 
 read with attention, and will give the results of that atten- 
 tion a permanent place in our recollection. We should 
 thus, in fact, become reviewers of every book that we read, 
 
ATTENTION AND REFLECTION. 129 
 
 The learned and indefatigable Reinhardt was thus able to 
 conduct one of the most valuable reviews in Germany, by 
 writing his opinions on every work which came under his 
 perusal. The late Lord Jeffrey commenced his literary 
 career in precisely this manner. When a youthful student 
 at the university, he not only wrote a review of every book 
 which he read, but of every paper which he himself com- 
 posed. His strictures were even more severe on his own 
 writings than On the writings of others. He thus laid the 
 foundation of his immense acquisitions, and attained to so 
 great a power .of intellectual analysis, that for many years 
 he was acknowledged to be the most accomplished critic of 
 his time. 
 
 REFERENCES. 
 
 Consciousness — Reid, Essay 1, chap. 1 ; Abercrombie, Part 2, sect. 
 2 ; Locke, book 2, chap. 6, sect. 2 ; chap. 9, sect. 1. 
 
 Is consciousness distinguished from perception? — Stewart, voL i., 
 chap. 2. 
 
 Cases of Abnormal Consciousness — Abercrombie, Part 3, sect. 4 ; part 2. 
 
 Attention and Reflection — Reid, Essay 1, chap. 5 ; Essay 4, chap. 4 
 Stewart, yoI i., chap. 2. Abercrombie, Part 2, chap. 1. 
 
 Improvement of Attention and Reflection, Part 2, chap. 1. 
 
 Consciousness — Cousin, sect. 1, p. 12, 8vo : Hartford, 1834. Henry 
 translation, and note A, by J Tof. H. 
 
CHAPTER m. 
 
 ORIGINAL SUGGESTION, OR THE INTUITIONS OF THE 
 INTELLECT. 
 
 I 
 
 SECTION L — EXAMINATION OF THE OPINIONS OF LOCKE. 
 
 We have thus far considered those powers of the human 
 mind by which it obtains a knowledge of the existence and 
 qualities of the external world, and of the existence and 
 energies of the thinking subject. This knowledge, as I 
 have said, is all either of individual existences or of individ- 
 ual acts, or states of the subjective mind. It is, of course, 
 all concrete, and the conceptions derived from it are of the 
 same character. This knowledge is original, direct and im- 
 mediate. It is the constitutional testimony of our faculties 
 as soon as they are brought into relation to their appropri- 
 ate objects. It always contemplates as an object something 
 now existing, or something which at some time did exist. 
 • Let us, then, for a moment consider what would be the 
 condition of a human being possessed of no other powers 
 than those of which we have thus far treated. He would be 
 cognizant of the existence and qualities of the objects which 
 he perceived, and of the state of mind. which these objects 
 called into exercise ; and, if endowed with memory, he could 
 retain this knowledge in recollection. Here, however, his 
 knowledge would terminate. Each fact would remain dis- 
 connected from every other, and each separate knowledge 
 would terminate absolutely in itself No relation between 
 
OPINIONS OF LOCKE. • 131 
 
 any two facts would be either discovered or sought for. 
 The questions why, or wherefore, would neither be asked 
 nor answered. The knowledge acquired would be perfectly 
 barren, leading to nothing else, and destitute of all tendency 
 and all power to multiply itself into other forms of cognition. 
 The mind would be a perfect living daguerreotype, on which 
 forms were indelibly impressed, remaining lifeless and un- 
 changeable forever. 
 
 It was the opinion of Locke, that all our knowledge either 
 consisted of these ideas of sense or consciousness, or wag 
 derived from them by comparison or combination. Thus, 
 says he, ^^ First, our senses, conversant about particular 
 sensible objects, do convey to the mind several distinct per- 
 ceptions of things, according to those various ways in which 
 those objects do affect them. Thus we come to those ideas 
 we have of yellow, white, heat, cold, soft, bitter, and all 
 those which we call sensible qualities ; which, when I say 
 the senses convey to the mind, I mean they from external 
 objects convey into the mind what produces these sensations. 
 Phis source I cdl Sensation,''^ — Book 2, chap. 1, sec. 3. 
 
 Secondly. ^^ The other fountain from w^hich experience 
 furnisheth the understanding with ideas, is the perception 
 of the operations of our own minds w^ithin us, as it is em- 
 ployed about the ideas it has got ; which operations, when 
 the soul comes to reflect on and consider, do furnish the 
 understanding with another set of ideas, which could not be 
 had from things without. Such are perception, thinking, 
 doubting, believing, reasoning, knowing, willing, and all 
 those different acts of our own minds, which, we being con- 
 scious of and observing in our ownselves, do from these 
 receive into the understanding as distinct ideas as we do 
 from bodies affecting our senses. I call this Reflect ion,^^ 
 — Ibid. sect. 4. 
 
 " The understanding: seems to me not tc have the least 
 
132 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 
 
 glimmering of any ideas which it does not receive from one 
 of these two. External objects furnish the mind with the 
 ideas of sensible qualities, which are all these different per- 
 ceptions they produce in us, and the mind furnishes the 
 understanding with ideas of its own operations." Again: 
 "• Let any one examine his own thoughts, and thoroughly 
 search into his understanding, and let him tell me whether 
 all the original ideas he has there are any other than of the 
 objects of his senses, or of the operations of the mind 
 considered as objects of his reflection, and how great a mass 
 of knowledge soever he imagines to be lodged there, he will, 
 upon taking a strict view, see that he has not any idea in 
 his mind but what one of these two have imprinted, though, 
 perhaps, with infinite variety, compounded and enlarged by 
 the understanding, as we shall see hereafter." — Ibid. Sec. 5. 
 
 Again: ^"If we trace the progress of our minds, and 
 with attention observe how it repeats, adds together, and 
 unites its simple ideas received from sensation and reflection, 
 it will lead us further than perhaps we should have imagined. 
 And I believe we shall find, if we warily observe the orig- 
 inals of our notions, that even the most abstruse ideas, how 
 remot(^ soever they may seem from sense or from any oper- 
 ations of our own minds, are yet only such as the under- 
 standing frames to itself by repeating and joining together 
 those ideas that it had from objects of sense, or from its 
 own operations about them."— Book 2d, chap. 12, sec. 8. 
 
 From these extracts it appears evident that Locke be- 
 lieved all our original knowledge to proceed from perception, 
 or, as he calls it, sensation, and consciousness. Whatever 
 other knowledge we have, is produced secondarily by adding 
 together, repeating, and joining together, the simple ideas 
 derived from these original sources. I have before re- 
 marked that these ideas are of individuals and are concrete. 
 If, therefore, the theory of Locke be correct, all our other 
 
OPINIONS OF LOCKE. 133 
 
 knowledge is created by adding, repeating, and joining 
 together these individual and concrete conceptions. 
 
 Now, if this be so, — if it be the law of our nature that the 
 human intellect is incapable of attaining to any other knowl- 
 edge than the ideas of sensation and reflection, that is, of 
 perception and consciousness, — in other words, thart the 
 knowledge of the qualities of matter and the operations of 
 our own minds, then it follows that all our notions which 
 cannot be reduced to one or the other of these classes, is a 
 mere fiction of the imagination, unworthy of confidence, 
 and is, in fact, no knowledge at all. But it is Obvious that 
 there are in our minds many ideas which belong to neither 
 of these classes ; such, for instance, are the ideas of relation, 
 power, cause and efi*ect, space, duration, infinity, right and 
 wrong, and many others. Can these be produced by the 
 uniting, joining, or adding together our conceptions of the 
 qualities of matter, or of our own mental acts ? Let any 
 one try the experiment, and he will readily be convinced 
 that they can be evolved by no process of this kind. It 
 will follow then, if the theory of Locke be admitted, that 
 these notions, which I have above specified, and all others 
 like them, are mere fancies, the dreams of schoolmen or of 
 fanatics, having no real foundation, and forming no sub- 
 stantial basis for science, or even valid objects for inquiry. 
 Nothing, then, can, be deemed worthy of the name of science 
 or knowledge, except the primitive data either of perception 
 or consciousness, or what is formed by adding, uniting, join- 
 ing together, these primitive cognitions. Hence, the ideas 
 of which I have spoken, such as those of space, duration, 
 infinity, eternity, cause and effect, all moral ideas, — nay, 
 the idea of God himself, — are the figments of a dream, and 
 all that remains to us is merely what we can perceive with- 
 out and be conscious of within. This was the conclusion 
 at which many men arrived at the close of the last century. 
 12 
 
134 INTELLECTUAL PHIIOSOPHT. 
 
 Inasmuch as t-ieir principles were said to be derived from 
 Locke, he has sometimes been considered the foiAider of 
 the sensual school. 
 
 It is, however, to be observed, that Locke did not perceive, 
 much less would he have admitted, the result to which his 
 doctrines led. He speaks of the ideas to which I have 
 alluded, such as space, power, &c., as legitimate objects of 
 human thought, and gives quite a correct account of th.eir 
 origin. Thus, speaking of power, he remarks : '^ The mind 
 being every day informed by the senses of the alteration of 
 those simple ideas it observes in things without, and taking 
 notice how one comes to an end and ceases to be, and an- 
 other begins to exist which w(is not before ; reflecting, also, 
 on what passes within itself, and observing a constant change 
 in its ideas, sometimes by the impression of outward objects 
 on the senses, and sometimes from the determination of its 
 own choice ; and concluding, from what it has always ob- 
 served to have been, that like changes will for the future 
 be made in the same things by the same agents, and by 
 the like way considers in the one thing the possibility of 
 having any of its simple ideas changed, and in another the 
 possibility of making that change, and so it comes .by that 
 idea which we call power.'' — Book 2, chap. 21, sec. 1. 
 
 Here we perceive that Locke acknowledges the existence 
 of ideas or knowledges derived neither from sensation nor 
 reflection, and gives a very intelligible account of their 
 origin. It is obvious that the idea of power is not derived 
 from the senses ; we neither see, nor feel, nor hear it. It 
 is not an operation of the mind, therefore is not derived 
 from reflection. And, besides, comparing, adding together, 
 uniting, are acts of the mind, wholly difierent either from 
 perception or consciousness. It is evident, therefore, that 
 Locke, when he examined the ideas in his own mind, ob- 
 served among them many which neither perception n^ r con- 
 
OPINIONS OF LOCKE. 135 
 
 BCiousness could give ; and he, perhaps carelessly, accounted 
 for their origin by the use of the indefinite expressions, 
 •^ takes notice of," '' concludes," ^' comes to the idea," &c. 
 We see, therefore, that Locke went beyond his own theory, 
 and really saw what his theory declared could not be seen. 
 Had he pursued a difierent method, and first observed the 
 ideas of which we are conscious, and afterwards investigated 
 their origin, his system would probably have been greatly 
 modified. He, however, pursued the opposite course : first 
 determining the origin of our ideas, and then limiting our 
 ideas by the sources which he supposed himself to have 
 exhausted. 
 
 The manner in which Locke was led into this error is 
 apparent. He had been at great pains to refute the doctrine 
 of innate ideas, and to show that the human mind could 
 have no thought until some impression was made upon it 
 from without. It was also obvious to him that the only 
 objects which we are able to cognize are matter and mind. 
 ^ He compared the mind to a sheet of white paper, entirely 
 blank until something is written on it by a power external 
 to itself This, however, although the truth, is only a part 
 of the truth. As I have before remarked, if the sheet of 
 paper had the power of uniting the letters written upon it 
 into words, and these words into discourse, and of proceed- 
 ing forever in the elimination of new and original truth, it 
 would much more accurately represent the intellect of man. 
 This illustration of a sheet of white paper evidently misled 
 our philosopher, and prevented him from giving due prom- 
 inence to the originating or suggestive power of the mind. 
 
 This brief notice of the opinions of Locke seemed neces- 
 sary, especially since so great and important conclusions 
 . Have been deduced from his doctrine. The whole subject 
 has been treated in a most masterly manner by Cousin, in 
 
136 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPili.. 
 
 his Revie\T of the Philosophy of Locke, to which I would 
 specially refer the student. 
 
 But tc what conclusion are we led by this brief examina- 
 tion of the theory of Locke? We have seen that, on the 
 supposition that all our ideas are derived from perception 
 and consciousness, a large portion of the most important 
 ideas of which the human soul is conscious must be aban- 
 doned as the groundless fictions of the imagination, having 
 no foundation in the true processes of the understanding. 
 On the other hand, we know from our own consciousness 
 that these ideas are universally developed in the human in- 
 tellect as soon as it begins to exercise independent thought. 
 We must, therefore, conclude, that the theory of Locke is 
 imperfect, and that it does not recognize some of our most 
 important sources of original knowledge. It is, then, our i 
 business to inquire for some other sources besides those I 
 recognized by Locke. • 
 
 REFERENCES. 
 
 Sources of our knowledge— Locke, Book 2, chap. 1, sec. 3, sec. 4, 
 Bee. 5 ; Book 2, chap. 12, sec. 8, chap. 22, sec. 1, 2, 9. 
 
 Suggestion a power of the mind — Reid, Inquiry, chap. 2, sec. 7 ; Int. 
 Powers, Essay 3, chap. 5 ; Essay 2, chap. 10, 12. 
 
 Examination of Locke's Theory — Stewart, vol. i., chap. 1. 
 
 Before all others. — Cousin's Examination of Locke's PhUosophy, chap. 
 li 1., 3, 4. 
 
 SECTION II. — THE NATURE OF ORIGINAL SUGGESTION, OR 
 THE POWER OP INTUITIVE COGNITION. 
 
 Locke has truly stated that all the substances to which 
 in our present state we are related are matter and mind. 
 By perception we obtain a knowledge of the qualities of the 
 one, and by consciousness a knowledge of the operations of 
 
ORIGINAL SUGGESTION. 137 
 
 jhe other. Each is distinct and complete within itself, and 
 each terminates definitely at its own appropriate limit. 
 
 The thought, however, thus awakened, does not thus ter- 
 minate. The mind of man is endowed not only with a 
 receptive^ but also with what may be called a suggestive 
 power. When the ideas of perception and consciousness 
 terminate, or even while they are present, a new series of 
 mental phenomena arises by virtue of the original power 
 of the intellect itself. These phenomena present them- 
 selves in the form of intuitive cognitions, occasioned by the 
 ideas of consciousness and perception, but neither produced 
 by them nor in any respect similar to them. They may be 
 considered acts of pure intellection. To the ideas of per- 
 ception or consciousness there by necessity belongs an 
 object either objective or subjective. To those ideas of the 
 intellect I think no such object belongs. Hence they could 
 not be cognized originally either by perception or conscious- 
 ness. They could not exist within us except we were 
 endowed with a diflFerent and superior intellectual energy. 
 We can give but little account of these intellections, nor 
 can we ofier any proof of their verity. As soon as they 
 arise within us, they are to us the unanswerable evidence 
 of their own truth. As soon as we are conscious of them, 
 we know that they are true, and we never offer any evidence 
 in support of them. So far as our powers of perception 
 aa^d consciousness are concerned, the mind resembles in 
 many respects a sheet of white paper. Here, however, the 
 analogy terminates. There is nothing in the paper which 
 in any respect resembles this power of intuitive knowledge 
 of which we here speak. 
 
 What we here refer to may, perhaps, be best illustrated by 
 
 a familiar example. A child, before it can talk, throws a 
 
 ball and knocks down a nine-pin. By perception aided by 
 
 memory, it derives no other ideas beside? those of a rolling 
 
 12^ 
 
138 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 
 
 ball and of a falling ninepin. This is all that the senses 
 could give it. It might be all that would be apparent tc 
 the mind of a brute. But is this the case with the child? 
 Far otherwise. There arises in his mind, by virtue of its 
 own energy, the notion of cause and effect; of something in 
 the ball capable of producing this change, and of something 
 in the ninepin which renders it susceptible of this change. 
 He instinctively cognizes a most important relation existing 
 between these two events. Still more, he has an intuitive 
 belief that the same event can be produced again in the 
 same way. Relying on this belief, he sets up the ninepin 
 again, and throws the ball in the confident expectation that 
 it will produce the same result as at first. There has thus 
 been created in his mind, not only the relation of cause and 
 effect, but the important conviction that like causes wdll 
 produce like effects. In consequence of the relations which 
 have thus been revealed to him, he sets a value upon his 
 toys which he did not before. The same idea is developed 
 as soon as the infant puts his finger in the candle. He will 
 not try the experiment a second time. He immediately 
 obtains a knowledge of the relation of cause and effect, and 
 that the same cause will again produce the same effect. 
 He does not see this relation ; it is not an object of percep- 
 tion, nor is it an operation of the mind. He does not feel 
 it when he is burned. As soon, however, as he cognizes 
 the relative ideas, the relation in which they stand to each 
 other presents itself to him as an intuitive cognition. 
 
 I have here used an illustration from external objects. I. 
 however, by no means assert that in this manner we first 
 arrive at the knowledge of cause and effect. The same idea 
 is evidently suggested by every act of voluntary motion. 
 A child wishes to move his hand ; it moves, but perhaps not 
 m the right direction. He tries again with better success. 
 At last he accomplishes his object. Heie is, perhaps, tha ! 
 
ORIGINAL SUGGESTION. 139 
 
 most striking instance of this relation which he ever wit- 
 nesses, and it is brought home directly to his own conscious- 
 ness. He is conscious of the act of volition, he knows tliat 
 he wills ; this mental act is followed by a change of position 
 in his hand, and by motion in something with which his 
 hand comes into contact. This succession of events, the for- 
 mer of which is within the cognition of his own conscious- 
 ness, and the latter of his perception, would be suiBcient to 
 give occasion to this intuitive knowledge at a very early 
 period. 
 
 It may be proper to observe, that although this power of 
 original suggestion is developed and perfected with advanc- 
 ing years, yet it commences with the first unfolding of 
 the intellect. Both the perceptive and the suggestive 
 powers belong to the essential nature .of a human mind 
 Were a child destitute of the power of intuitive cognition, 
 even at a very early age, we should know that it was an 
 idiot. If, for instance, it manifested no notion of cause and 
 effect, but would as soon put its fingers into a candle the 
 second time as the first, we should be convinced that it was 
 not possessed of a normal understanding. Nay, we form 
 an opinion of the mental capacity of a child rather by the 
 activity of its suggestive than of its perceptive powers. It 
 may be blind or deaf, or may suffer both of these aflSictiong 
 together ; that is, its perceptive powers may be at the mini- 
 mum, and yet we may discover that its intellect is alert and 
 vigorous, and that it discovers large powers of acquisition 
 and combination. Such a case occurs in the instance of 
 Laura Bridgman, a bUnd mute, whose suggestive powers are 
 unusually active, and who has, with admirable skill, been 
 taught to read and write, so that she is at present able to 
 keep a journal, and correspond with her friends by letter. 
 
 With respect to these ideas of suggestion, or intuiticn, twc 
 
140 INTELLKCTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 
 
 important remarks are made by Cousin. I give his ideas 
 here, rather than his words. 
 
 1. ^' Unless we previously obtained the idea of perception 
 and consciousness, we could never originate the suggested or 
 intuitive cognitions. If, for instance, we had never observed 
 the fact of a succession, we could never have obtained the 
 idea of duration. If we had never perceived an external 
 object, we should never have obtained the idea of space. If 
 we had never witnessed an instance of change, we should 
 have had no idea of cause and effect. As soon, however, as 
 these ideas of perception and consciousness are awakened, 
 they are immediately either attended or followed by the 
 ideas of suggestion. We perceive, then, that, chronologi- 
 cally considered, the ideas of perception and consciousness 
 take precedence. They appear first in the mind, and, until 
 they appear, the others could have no existence. It was 
 this fact which probably gave rise to the error of Locke. 
 Because no .other ideas could be originated except through 
 means of the ideas of perception and consciousness, he in- 
 ferred that our knowledge could consist of nothing but these 
 ideas, either in their original form, or else united or added 
 to each other. The fact, on the contrary, seems to be, that 
 our suggested ideas are no combination or modification of 
 our receptive ideas ; they form the occasions from which the 
 mind originates them by virtue of its own energy. We are 
 80 made, that, when one class of ideas is cognized, the other 
 spontaneously arises within us, in consequence of the con- 
 stitution of the human, intellect. 
 
 2. ''But, secondly, when we have thus obtained these 
 ideas of suggestion, we find that their existence is a neces- 
 sary condition of the existence of the very ideas by which 
 they are occasioned. Thus, as I have said, tne notion of 
 an external world is the occasion in us of the idea of space 
 but, when we have obtained the idea of space, we see that 
 
ORIGINAL SUGGESTION. 141 
 
 it is a necessary condition to the conception of an external 
 world ; for, were there no space, there could be no external 
 world. If we had never witnessed a succession of events, 
 we should never have obtained a conception of duration. 
 Having, however, obtained the conception of duration, we 
 perceive that it is a necessary condition of succession ; for, 
 were there no duration, there could be no succession. And 
 again, had we never observed an instance of change, we 
 should never have attained the conception of cause and 
 effect, or of power. But the conception of power once 
 gained, we become immediately sensible that, had there been 
 no power, change would have been impossible. We thus 
 learn that, logically considered, the suggestive idea takes 
 the precedence, inasmuch as it is the necessary condition of 
 the idea by which it is occasioned." 
 
 With these remarks of this most acute and very able meta- 
 physician I fully coincide, so far as they apply to a large por- 
 tion of our ideas of suggestion. I think, however, that there 
 is a large class of our intuitive cognitions, of which the second 
 of these laws cannot be affirmed. Take, for instance, our 
 ideas of relation and degree, arising from the contemplation 
 of two or more single objects. I do not see how it is true 
 that the relation is a necessary condition to the existence of 
 the bodies which occasion it, or that the idea of degree is a 
 necessary condition to the existence of the qualities by which 
 it is occasioned. I dissent with diffidence from an author 
 so justly distinguished ; nevertheless, in treating on this, as 
 on any other subject, I am bound to state fully the truth aa 
 it presents itself to my individual consciousness. 
 
 In order the more fully to illustrate this subject, I have 
 thought it desirable to present a number of instances in 
 which these original suggestions or intuitions are occa- 
 Bioned by the ideas of perception and consciousness. I by 
 uo means attempt an exhaustive catalogue. Jt will be suffi- 
 
142 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 
 
 cicnt for my purposes, if I am able to present such a vkw j 
 of the subject as will direct more definite attention than haa 
 generally been given to this part of our intellectual consti- 
 tution. 
 
 It has seemed to me that these intuitions might be class- 
 ified as follows : 
 
 I. Those unaccompanied by emotion. 
 
 II. Those accompanied by emotion. 
 
 I. Those unaccompanied by emotion are, 
 
 1. Those occasioned by objects in a state of rest 
 
 2. Those occasioned by objects in the condition of change. 
 
 II. Those accompanied by emotion are, 
 
 1. iEsthetic ideas. 
 
 2. Moral ideas. 
 
 REFERENCES. 
 Cousin, chaps. 2, 3, and 4. 
 
 SECTION III. — IDEAS OCCASIONED BY OBJECTS IN A STATE 
 or REST. 
 
 We may contemplate objects in a state of rest either as 
 one or many. Let us, in the first place, examine a single 
 object. 
 
 Suppose, for instance, a solid cube is placed before me. 
 I look at it, and perceive its color and form ; I handle it, and 
 perceive that it is hard and smooth, and that its form is the 
 same as I have discovered by sight: I strike it, and it gives 
 forth a sound ; I attempt to smell it and taste of it, and 
 thus derive all the knowledge of its qualities which I am 
 able to discover. I reflect on • these various acts of percep- 
 tion, and thus obtain a knowledge of the state of my mind 
 when performing these mental acts. I have then all the 
 
ORIGINAL SUGGESTION. 14^^ 
 
 knowledge which I can derive from perception and con- 
 sciousness. Had I no other mental energies, my knowl- 
 edge would here arrive at an impassable limit. If, however, 
 we reflect upon our own cognitions, we shall be conscious of 
 much important knowledge occasioned by these mental acts, 
 which the acts themselves do not give us. 
 
 I look upon the cube ; I perceive it to be extended ; I re- 
 move it to another place. What is there where the cube 
 was a moment since ? What is that which the cube occu- 
 pies, and in which it is contained '] It can be occupied by 
 matter, or left vacant. I become conscious of the fact that 
 it is a condition necessary to the existence of all matter. 
 Abolish it, and I abolish the possibility of an external uni- 
 verse. I call it space. What is it ? It has no qualities 
 that can be cognized by the senses. It is neither an act 
 nor an aflection of the mind. It is not matter ; it is not 
 spirit. It differs from both in every conceivable particu- 
 lar. The existence of matter is made known to us by the 
 senses. Space is cognizable by none of them. It is neither 
 seen, nor felt, nor heard, nor smelled, nor tasted. Matter 
 is a contingent existence : it may or may not exist here, or 
 it may not have existence anywhere. I can conceive of an 
 era in duration when it never existed. I can conceive of 
 another era when it will cease to exist. Not so of space ; 
 as soon as I form a notion of it, I perceive it to be neces- 
 ^ry. I cannot conceive of its non-existence or annihilation. 
 This cube and all other matt^er is limited, and is so from 
 necessity : space is by necessity unlimited. Matter, being 
 limited, of necessity has form ; space has no form, for it has 
 no limitation. The conception of a body, however vast, 
 su^r^ests an image ; space suggests to us no image. We find 
 ourselves, therefore, in possession of a conception, revei.led 
 to us neither by perception nor consciousness, which, never- 
 theless, is cognized by the mind, from the necessity of ita 
 
144 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 
 
 own nature. Without perception it would never have been 
 cot^nized. Chronologically, it is, therefore, subsequent to it. 
 As soon, however, as I obtain this conception, I know that 
 it is a necessary condition to the existence of that which is 
 perceived. It is necessary physiologically; for without 
 space there can be no matter. It is necessary psychologi- 
 civUy ; for we cannot in our minds conceive of matter with- 
 out conceiving of space as a necessary condition of our 
 conception. 
 
 But let us reflect upon this idea somewhat more atten- 
 tively. We all have a knowledge of what is meant by space ; 
 we cannot easily confound it with any other idea ; yet no 
 one can describe it. It has no qualities. It holds no rela- 
 tion to our senses, or to our consciousness. What are its 
 limits ? As I have before said, it has none. The house in 
 which I am writing occupies space, and is contained in space. 
 The earth and the whole planetary system move in space. 
 The whole sidereal system either moves or reposes in space 
 We pass to the utmost verge of the material universe — space 
 fitill stretches beyond, unmeasured, immeasurable. We have 
 approached no nearer to its confines than at first ; for, were 
 such creations as now exist to be multiplied forever, space 
 would be yet inexhaustible. What do we call this idea, 
 which, by the constitution of our minds, emerges necessarily 
 from this conception ? It is the idea of the boundless, the 
 immensurable, the infinite. It is an idea which we cannot 
 comprehend, and yet from which we cannot escape. We 
 may, perhaps, remember how, in childhood, we wearied our 
 feeble understandings in the attempt to grasp it. It is at 
 present as far beyond the power of our comprehension as at 
 first, yet we find the mind ever tending towards it. It is an 
 idea neither of perception nor consciousness, nor can it be 
 evolved from any union or combination of those ideas. It 
 evolves itself at once, on our conception of space, from the 
 
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 V; 
 
 
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 r^ 
 
 
 P 
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 rf 
 
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 I 
 
ORIGINAL SUGGESTION. 145 
 
 energies of the mind itself. Having been once formed, it 
 holds its place independently in the mind, and depencls not 
 for its existence on any other idea. 
 
 Again ; I canhot be conscious of my own existence with- 
 out being conscious at the same time that I am an individ- 
 ual, separate not only from the rest of the material, but 
 from the other individuals of the spiritual universe. I am, 
 in myself, a complete form of existence, distinct from every 
 other form that has existed, or that may exist. When I 
 obssrve the cube, it suggests to me the same idea, that of 
 unity. I retain this idea of oneness, apart from any object 
 which at first suggested it. It cannot be called a quality. 
 It is not an energy of the mind ; yet it is an idea which 
 immediately arises within us, on such occasions as I have 
 suggested. * 
 
 It may, however, be proper to remark, that this idea of 
 unity is always relative. It always has respect to the 
 relation in which we contemplate an object. An individual 
 human being is one ; yet it possesses one body and one 
 spirit, and without both of these, in our present stat^, it 
 would not be a human being. A human soul is one ; but, in 
 order to be a human soul, it must be possessed of various 
 faculties, each one of which may be considered distinctly. 
 A regiment is one, and yet it could not be a regiment, un- 
 less it were composed of several distinct companies united 
 under a single commander. A company is one ; but it is 
 made up of single individuals, as privates, subalterns, cap- 
 tain, etc. We thus see that, in speaking of unity, the rela- 
 tion in which we contemplate the object is always to be 
 taten into view ; and that there is no absurdity or contra- 
 diction in saying, that it is one in one relation, d^nAmany in 
 another relation. 
 
 Let us look once more upon our cube. We perceive in it 
 form, solidit]^, divisibility, color, etc. These we call quali- 
 13 
 
146 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 
 
 ties of matter, or the powers which it possesses of affecting 
 us in a particular manner. But is either of these qualities 
 matter ? Are all of them combined matter ? Were we to 
 say that color and form and divisibility, etc., are matter, or 
 substance, would this assertion exf ress the idea of which we 
 are conscious when we reflect upon this subject ? So far is 
 this from the fact, that the assertion would seem to involve 
 an absurdity. We always say of a material object, it is 
 something divisible, solid, colored, etc. ; plainly distinguish- 
 ing, in our conceptions, the something in which the qualities 
 reside, from the qualities which reside in the something. We 
 thus find ourselves possessed of the two ideas, essence and 
 attribute, substance and quality. We know that there must 
 be one, whenever we perceive the other. But where does 
 this idea of substance come from ? Surely neither from the 
 senses nor from consciousness ; yet we all have attained it. 
 It must have originated in the mind itself We perceive 
 the quality. The mind affirms the existence of the sub- 
 stance, and affirms it not as a contingent, but as a necessary 
 truth. 
 
 It is almost superfluous to remark, that we arrive at the 
 ssLine idea from consciousness. Consciousness testifies to the 
 existence of mental energies. From this knowledge, the 
 mind at once asserts the existence of an essence to which 
 these energies pertain. Were there no mental energies, we 
 could never become cognizant of a spiritual substance ; but, 
 having been cognizant of it, we know that it is a necessary 
 condition to the existence of the energies of which we are 
 conscious. 
 
 2. These instances are sufficient to illustrate the nature of 
 
 the cognitions which are suggested by the energies of the 
 
 mind itself, when we contemplate a single object. Let ua 
 
 now suppose several objects, seme of similar and others of 
 
 f' 
 
ORIGINAL SUGGESTION. 147 
 
 dissimilar qualities, to be present before us. Suppose ^liciri, 
 for instance, cubes, pyramids, cylinders, etc. 
 
 If I observe them singly, each will furnish me with all 
 the primary and suggested ideas to which I have just now 
 referred. I observe several to be of one form. I compare 
 their aggregate with unity, and there arises in my mind the 
 idea of number. As soon as I have formed this notion, I 
 find myself abstracting it from the cubes, and from every 
 other object, and treat it as a conception by itself, capable 
 of enlargement or diminution at my will. So readily does 
 this conception separate itself from the objects which gave 
 occasion to its existence, that, in the rudest conditions of 
 society, men give names to the several ideas of number, and 
 very soon form a symbolical language to represent them. 
 Every one knows that his ideas of number were originally 
 derived from the observation of a plurality of objects ; and 
 yet no one, thinking of ten, twenty, thirty, to say nothing 
 of thousands and millions, ever associates these ideas with 
 any actual existences. We always consider them as abstract 
 ideas, yet ideas of the most fixed and determinate character. 
 But these ideas are not objects of perception. We neither 
 see nor feel nor taste number; yet perception occasions 
 these ideas. We know- number as soon as the occasions 
 which suggest it present themselves. 
 
 In enumeration, we always proceed by unity. We re- 
 peat unity until we arrive at a certain aggregate, which we 
 then consider as a unit. Thus, in our enumeration, we 
 repeat unity, giving a different name to every increasing 
 aggregate, until we arrive at ten. We then make this our 
 unit, and add to it other similar uniis, until we arrive at a 
 hundred ; in the same manner, we make this our unit until 
 we arrive at a thousand, then to a million, etc. Suppose, 
 aow, I carry on this process to any assignable limit, can I 
 exhaust my idea of number ? Suppose I proceed until mj 
 
148 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 
 
 powers of computation fail, have I yet .proceeded so far that 
 I cannot add to the sum millions upon millions ? Can I 
 conceive of any number so vast that I cannot add to it aa 
 many as I choose? We perceive this to be impossible. 
 Here, again, we recognize the same idea which lately 
 evolved from our notion of space. It is the idea of infinity. 
 We see that it springs at once, by the operation of oui 
 minds, from every conception capable of giving occasion 
 to it. 
 
 Again; we cannot observe a number of objects at the same 
 time, without recognizing various relations which exist be- 
 tween them. I see two cubes possessing in every respect 
 the same qualities. Hence arises the relation of identity 
 of form, color, etc. Others possess different qualities ; hence 
 the relation of diversity. When the forms are precisely the 
 same, or when they occupy exactly the same space, there 
 arises relation of equality. When they occupy different 
 measures of space, there arises the relation of inequality. 
 These latter relations are specially used in all our reason- 
 ings in the mathematics. All our demonstrations in this 
 science are designed to show that two quantities are either 
 equal or unequal to each other. 
 
 Still further, I perceive that two or more objects are not 
 in contact. Space intervenes between them, and we recog- 
 nize the relation of distance. Each one has a definite rela- 
 tion in space to all the others. Hence arises the relation 
 of place. Place always refers to the position which a body 
 holds in respect to other bodies. Were there but one body 
 in space, we could not from it form any notion of place. 
 As soon as other bodies are perceived, and their relation to 
 it recognized, we obtain this idea respecting it. Thus, I 
 say tliis paper lies where it did ten minutes since. Here I 
 refer to the table and the objects upon it, whose position in 
 relation to the paper is the same as it was before, leaving 
 
ORIGINAL SUGGESTION. 149 
 
 out of account altogether the fact that the table has moved 
 with the diurnal and annual revolution of the earth. A 
 man in a railroad car will say that he has not changed his 
 place for half a day, when he knows that he has been 
 moving at the rate of thirty or forty miles an hour. 
 
 Again ; we perceive that, of several cubes, the first occu- 
 pies a larger portion of space than the second, and the 
 second a larger portion than the third. All of them are 
 red, but the tinge of one is deeper than that of another. 
 Hence arises the relation of degree. This idea is so univer- 
 sally recognized, that, in all languages, it is designated by 
 a special form, entitled degrees of comparison. 
 
 But it is not necessary that I pursue this subject further. 
 I think that every one must recognize in his own mind a 
 power of originating such knowledges as these, as soon as 
 the occasion presents itself They are not ideas of percep- 
 tion or of consciousness, but ideas arising in the mind, by its 
 own energies, as soon as we cognize the appropriate objects 
 which occasion them. Having once obtained them, they 
 immediately sever themselves from the objects which occa- 
 sion them, and become ideas of simple intellection, which 
 we use as abstract terms in all oi;ir reasonings. 
 
 REFERENCES. 
 
 Space — Locke, Book 2, chap. 13 ; Cousin, chap. 2 ; Reid, Essay 2, 
 chap. 19. 
 
 Space and body not the same — Locke, Book 2, chap. 18; Cousin, 
 chap. 2. 
 
 Infinity from spa<je — Locke, Book 2, chap. 13 ; Cousin, chap. 3 ; Reid< 
 Essay 2, chap. 19. 
 
 Unity — Locke, Book 2, chap. 7. 
 
 Substance and solidity — Locke, Book 2, «hap. 4 ; Cousin, coap 8 
 
 Number — Locke, Book 2, chap. 1L6, 17 ; Cousin, chap. 3. 
 
 Relation — Locke, Book 2, chap. 25. 
 
 Identity and Diversity — Locke, Book 2, chap 27^ 
 
 Place — Locke, Book 2, chap. 13. / 
 
 13* h 
 
150 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 
 
 BECTION IV. — SUGGESTED IDEAS OCCASIONED BY IHB 
 CONSIDERATION OF OBJECTS IN THE CONDITION OF 
 CHANGE. 
 
 Every one must be aware that motion, change, progress, 
 and decay, are written upon everything within us, and 
 upon everything without us. It is natural to suppose that 
 a variety of suggestions, or intuitive cognitions, would be 
 occasioned by the development of this universal law. 
 
 Our thoughts are in a condition of perpetual change. 
 Thought succeeds thought ; one conception follows another 
 without a moment's cessation, at least, during our waking 
 hours, from the commencement to the close of our present 
 existence. The idea of incessant change is essential to 
 our notion of life. Abolish it, and the result is universal 
 death. 
 
 Destitute of memory, we should be unconscious of these 
 changes, and cognizant only of the thought or emotion of 
 the present moment. Endowed with memory, however, we 
 become aware of the fact that the thought of which we are 
 now conscious is not the thought of which we were con- 
 scious a few moments since; and that the thoughts ol 
 yesterday, or of boyhood, are very different from the 
 thoughts of to-day. 
 
 The same knowledge is also derived from the acts of per- 
 ception in connection vith memory. We perceive a cloud 
 overspreading the heavens. When last we looked upward 
 all was clear ; now all is lurid. Again, the cloud is dissi- 
 pated, and all is sunshine. We arise in the morning, and 
 light is gradually stealing over the heavens. Soon, the sun 
 arises, and all nature is aroused to life. In a few hours it is 
 mid-day, and animal and vegetable droop wfth the ex- 
 C5e88ive heat. Soon, the sun declines ; it sinks beneata the 
 
DURATION. . 151 
 
 horizon ; we are fanned by the breezes of the evening, and 
 behold the blue expanse above us dotted with innumerable 
 Btars. Had we no memory, we should be cognizant of the 
 existence of but one phenomenon, — that which presented 
 itself to us at a particular moment. Our existence in con- 
 sciousness would be limited to the smallest conceivable por- 
 tion of duration. Constituted as we are, we become aware 
 that one event succeeds another ; and we hold the fact of 
 this succession distinctly within our knowledge. 
 
 From both consciousness and perception, then, united with 
 memory, we acquire a knowledge of succession; that is, 
 that some other event or events preceded that of which we 
 are now cognizant. But another idea is immediately occa- 
 sioned in a human mind by the idea of succession, different 
 from it, and from any which we have thus far considered 
 It is the idea of duration. I cannot define it. I cannot 
 explain it. Yet it belongs to the very elements of human 
 thought. We can neither think nor act without taking it 
 for granted. It is a condition of existence : for, were there 
 no duration, nothing could exist. It is neither an idea of 
 perception nor of consciousness. We cannot cognize it by 
 our senses, nor is it an operation of the mind. The intel- 
 lect seizes upon it as soon as we recognize the fact of 
 succession. Ko one can give any further account of its 
 origin. No one can enumerate its qualities, for it has no 
 qualities. Yet, every one has the idea, and no one can con- 
 ceive of its non-existence. 
 
 We perceive, in th:s case, the difference between the 
 chronoloorical and the loo-ical order of these two ideas. 
 
 O CD 
 
 Chronologically, the idea of succession takes the precedence; 
 for, unless we had first cognized the fact of succession, we 
 should never have obtained the idea of duration. But when 
 both have been acquired, we immediately perceive that dura- 
 tion is the necessary condition to succession ; f.u, without 
 
152 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 
 
 duration, succession would be impossible. Logically, there- 
 fore, duration takes the precedence. 
 
 The first measure of duration seems naturally to be the 
 succession of our own thoughts. A portion of duration 
 seems long or short, in retrospect, according to the number 
 of events to which we have attended, and the tone of mind 
 or the deojree of earnestness with which we have observed 
 them. But it is obvious that these elements vary greatly 
 with the same individual at difierent times^ and with dif- 
 ferent individuals at the same time. We, therefore, seek for 
 some definite portion of duration, as the unit by which we 
 may measure with accuracy any other limited portion. 
 Such natural unit is found in the revolution of the heavenly 
 bodies ; and hence we come to measure duration by days, and 
 months, and years, or by some definite portion of these 
 units. Duration measured in this manner we call time. 
 If I do not mistake, we mean, by time, that portion of dura- 
 tion which commences* with the creation of our race, and 
 which will terminate when '^ the earth and the things therein 
 shall be dissolved." 
 
 But let us take a year, and add to it by unity. We soon 
 arrive at a century. Taking this as our unit, we add again, 
 until we arrive at the era of the creation. We go backward 
 still, until we even find ourselves in imagination at the com- 
 mencement of the sidereal system. Duration is still unex- 
 hausted; it is yet an unfathomable abyss. We conceive 
 ot ages upon ages, each as interminable as the past duration 
 of the material universe, and cast them into the mighty 
 void ; they sink in darkness, and the chasm is still unfathom- 
 able. We go forward again, and add century to century, 
 without finding any limit. We pass on until. the present 
 system is dissolved, and duration is still immeasurable. We 
 add together the past and the future term of the existence 
 of the universe, and multiply it by millions of millions, and 
 
DURATION. 153 
 
 we have approached no nearer than at first to the hmits of 
 duration. We are conscious that it sustains no relations 
 either to measure or limit. It is beyond all computation 
 made by addition of the finite. It is thus, from the contem- 
 plation of duration, that the idea of the infinite arises in a 
 human intellect from the necessity of its nature. 
 
 This idea of the infinite, to which the mind so necessarily 
 tends, and which it derives from so many conceptions, is 
 one of the most remarkable of any of which we. are cogni- 
 zant. It belongs to the human intelligence, for it arises 
 within us unbidden on various occasions, and we cannot 
 escape it. Yet it is cognized by none of the powers either 
 of perception or of consciousness. It is occasioned by 
 them ; yet it differs from them as widely as the human mind 
 can conceive. The knowledge derived from these sources 
 is by necessity limited and finite. This idea has no rela- 
 tions whatever to anything finite. It has no qualities, 
 yet we all have a necessary knowledge of what it means. 
 Is there not in this idea some dim foreshadowing of the rela- 
 tion which we, as finite beings, sustain to the Infinite One, 
 and of those conceptions which will burst upon us in that 
 unchanging state to which we are all so rapidly tending ? 
 
 Of cause and effect^ and of power. 
 
 I proceed to the consideration of this important subject. 
 I have no expectation of adding anything new to a discus- 
 sion, which, from the earliest history of philosophy, has 
 engaged the earnest thought of the ablest men. I shall not 
 enter upon the consideration of many of those questions 
 which emerge out of it. Were I to attempt to present 
 them ever so briefly, I should transcend the limits to which a 
 work of this kind must be restricted. I shall content my- 
 self with stating the views which, after some reflection, have 
 presented themselves to my own mind. 
 
 Let us, then, commence with the observation of a single 
 
154 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 
 
 phenomenon ; that is, a case of change. Suppose, for in- 
 stance, I observe that water, which a few minutes since wa3 
 fluid, has now become solid. I find myself unable to think 
 of this change as an isolated fact, or as the commencement 
 of a series. It must have had antecedents. Nor is this 
 all. The antecedents must have stood in a certain relation 
 to it. Suppose I attempt to think of this change as occur- 
 rinor while all the conditions of the existence of the fluid 
 remained throughout just as they were at the beginning. I 
 cannot think it. There is a book on one end of my table. 
 I leave the room for a moment, and, on my return, I find it 
 at the other end of the table. I ask what moved it. I am 
 answered, nothing. I am told that all the conditions of the 
 existence of that book had been absolutely the same during 
 its change of place ; that no agency of any kind had been 
 exerted upon it, and yet the book had been removed from 
 one place to another. I am obliged to reply I cannot think 
 it. It is as unthinkable as the proposition that two straight 
 lines can at the same time be parallel and at right angles 
 with each other, or that two circles can cut each other in 
 moVe than two points. I intuitively know that there must 
 have been a cause which rendered the water hard, which an 
 hour ago was fluid ; and a cause which removed the book 
 from one place to another. If I am asked why I think in 
 this manner, I can give no account of it. I am obliged to 
 say I am so made. To think in this manner seems to me 
 necessary to the normal condition of a human intellect. 
 
 This, however, is but one form of causation ; the case in 
 which the antecedent and consequent, the cause and effect, 
 are both brute matter. A variety of other cases deserves to 
 be considered. • 
 
 2. Brute matter may be the cause of change in spirit. 
 Thus, I open my eyes and see a tree. A sonorous body is 
 struck, and I hear a sound. Here brute matter produces in 
 
POWER, CAUSE AND EFFECT. 155 
 
 me a change. A new condition of mind is produced within 
 me, which I denominate a knowledge. This could not have 
 existed but for the presence of the material objects which 
 have caused it. Under some circumstances, the effect is as 
 inevitable as when both cause and effect are n^terial. The 
 effect, however, is here modified by conditions unknown in 
 the former case. For instance, a considerable pcrtiou of 
 my life is spent in sleep, during which time the effect of 
 ordinary agents upon my mind is suspended. Again ; no 
 know^ledge is created in my mind except through the medium 
 of consciousness. But consciousness is indirectly subject to 
 the will. If, by the effort of the will, it is earnestly directed 
 to another object, the tree may be present, or the sonorous 
 body may be struck, and no appropriate knowledge is created 
 in my mind. Here, w^e see that a new element enters into 
 the conditions of cause and effect, by which the universal 
 relation of the one to the other is considerably modified. 
 
 3. Spirit or mind may be the cause of change in matter. 
 The simplest instance of this mode of cause and effect is in 
 the movement of the limbs. I put forth my hand and take 
 a pen between my fingers. I dip it in the ink and proceed 
 to write a sentence. Here, I am conscious of an effort of 
 the will. I perceive the movement of my hand, and I 
 observe on the paper precisely the words which I intended 
 to write. In the normal condition of my spiritual and mate- 
 rial faculties, this effect is universal. But I observe here 
 another peculiarity. The event to be produced is foreseen 
 by the mind, and it takes place precisely according to its 
 predetermination. I ought, however, to add that, though 
 this event is always foreseen and intended, yet, by education, 
 the connection between the volition and the material result 
 is rendered more perfect. Thus, when I began to write, I 
 at first made nothing but straight lines., and could net for 
 some time make them as correctly as I intended. By prac- 
 
156 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 
 
 tice, however, I rendered the connection between the voli- 
 tion and the physical act more and more perfect, so that 
 they camd at last to correspond with considerable accuracy 
 to each other. 
 
 4. Spirit may be the cause of change in spirit. Thig 
 Includes two cases : First, when we effect changes in the 
 condition of our own minds ; and, secondly, when we effect 
 changes in the minds of others. 
 
 1. When we effect changes in our own minds. For in- 
 stance, I am thinking of some subject ; I resolve to banish 
 it, and think of something else ; I succeed. The first thought 
 is displaced; it is to me, for the time, as if it had never 
 existed, and I now think of something entirely different. 
 Here, however, we may observe a considerable range in the 
 conditions of the phenomena. In the first place, much de- 
 pends on the general, and, also, on the particular energy of 
 my will. It may be constitutionally feeble, or, by neglect, 
 I may have lost the power of self-control. I try to banish 
 the present thought, and it will not leave me, or, if it leaves 
 me for the moment, it immediately returns. Again, I may 
 know that I ought to banish the thought Avhich now occupies 
 me, and I resolve to do it ; but, on the other hand, the 
 thought is pleasant to me, and I am unwilling to relinquish 
 it. Either no result, or a very imperfect one, is accom- 
 plished. Or, again, some peculiar thought has seized upon 
 me with overwhelming power, and, under my present cir- 
 cumstances, I cannot displace it by any effort of my will. 
 For instance, suppose I am a miser. I have cultivated 
 within myself the habit of esteeming wealth the greatest of 
 earthly blessings, and have given it the first place in my 
 affections. By a sudden calamity, a large portion of my 
 property is destroyed. Thinking of it will not restore it. I 
 desire to banish the subject from my mind. I cannot ; it ia 
 present with me by day and by nighb, tormenting me, and I 
 
POWER, CAUSE AND EFFECT. 167 
 
 rannot help it. Here the pcwer of the will is conditioned 
 by the present state of the mind itself, which state is the 
 result of successive previous volitions. We hence perceive 
 that the act of the will here is subject to conditions ^vholly 
 unknown in the third case considered ; that is^ where the 
 mind acts on material substances. 
 
 2. The mind may produce change in other minds. Here 
 the conditions become more complicated. I will suppose 
 myself in the possession of some truth, which is, in its na- 
 ture, adapted to effect a change in the mind of another ; for 
 instance, a change in his course of action. Now, the effect 
 produced will depend both on the state of my own mind and 
 the state of mind in those whom I address. Thus, I may con- 
 ceive the truth imperfectly, feebly, so as to leave an indefinite 
 impression on others. I may conceive of it adequately, but 
 I may be unaffected by it myself, and may have no particu- 
 lar desire to affect others. Or, again, having a clear con- 
 ception of it myself, I may have an all-absorbing desire to 
 cause others to be affected as I am affected myself. Each 
 of these conditions will probably vary the effect produced 
 on the minds of others. Or, in this last case, supposing 
 myself to be ever so much in earnest, the effect of my com- 
 munication may be different in the case of each auditor. 
 The effect will, in each case, be determined by the state of 
 every man's mind. In one I may create joy, in another sor- 
 r:w ; one may be pleased, another displeased ; one may re- 
 solve to take the course which I recommend, and another to 
 resist it to the uttermost. Here, the same cause produces 
 diametrically opposite effects ; the effect in each individual 
 case being determined by the present condition of the mind, 
 and its relation to the truth which I exhibit. 
 
 Now, concerning these various cases, I would offer a few 
 suggestions. 
 
 1. So far as I am able to discover, these are all leg;ti- 
 14 ' 
 
158 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPIIT 
 
 mate instances of cause and effect. Whether I hare included 
 them all, I pretend not to determine, but I think no exhaust- 
 ive classification can be formed without including those 
 which I have mentioned. 
 
 2. The link which binds together the cause and the effect 
 is, in all cases, hidden. This is, I believe, universally 
 gi-anted. We may observe the cause and then the effect, 
 but a veil is in all cases spread over the nexus between 
 them, which it has not been given to the human mind to 
 penetrate. 
 
 3. When I examine these several cases, they seem to me 
 very unlike. The matter affecting and affected is, in the 
 different instances, exceedingly dissimilar, and the results 
 produced are very widely different. What can be more 
 unlike than the freezing of water by cold and the change 
 of the moral character of a human being by the presenta- 
 tion of truth ? 
 
 4. Hence, I would ask, may there not be different kinds 
 of causation ? May not causation in matter be a totally dif- 
 ferent nexus from causation in mind ? Were we endowed 
 with faculties capable of knowing perfectly all the phenom- 
 ena, might we not find them as dissimilar in themselves as 
 they are in their effects ? 
 
 5. Such being the possibility, can it be legitimate to rea- 
 son from causation in the one case to causation in the other; 
 that is, to conclude that because causation in matter is one 
 thing, therefore causation in spirit is the same thing? Is 
 not the argument for fatalism deduced from a view of the 
 indissoluble nature of cause and effect founded on this as- 
 sumption ? 
 
 6. Granting, what is evidently true, that, under precisely 
 the present conditions, any given cause must mevitably 
 produce, whether in matter or spirit, a definite ind certain 
 
POWER, CAUSE AND EFFECT. 159 
 
 eflfect; are there not many things predicable of the inevita- 
 bleness in the one case which cannot be predicated of it 
 in the other ? For instance, I present to a miser a case of 
 distress, precisely calculated, in its nature, to awaken benevo- 
 lent emotions in the mind of an intellectual and moral being 
 in a normal condition. But, by a course of previous volun- 
 tary action, he has so changed his mind from its normal 
 condition, that the recital serves no other purpose than to 
 harden his heart against suffering. In his present condition, 
 this result as inevitably follows from my appeal, as his 
 death would follow from plunging a knife into his bosom. 
 Now, granting the inevitableness in both these cases to be 
 the same, is the nexus between the two events of the same 
 character? Suppose me to know the inevitableness to bo 
 the same, is the moral character of the two actions equal ? 
 
 If, then, finally, the nature of causation in matter and 
 causation in mind be so unlike, when finite beings alone are 
 concerned, that we cannot reason from the one to the other ; 
 how much greater must be the disparity when the cause is 
 infinite, and the effect produced is on the finite ! How, es- 
 pecially from causation in matter, can we reason respecting 
 the acts of the Infinite Spirit, whose thoughts are not as our 
 
 , thoughts? It would surely be a humbler and wiser philos- 
 ophy, if we believe in a Universal Cause of perfect holiness 
 and perfect love, to receive the facts of his government as 
 he has revealed them, assured that in the abysses of his 
 wisdom, far past our finding out, mercy and truth go before 
 his face, and justice and judgment are the habitation of his 
 throne. 
 
 The notion of cause, by the constitution of the human mind, 
 
 ^ involves the idea of power. It is the logical condition to 
 this idea ; without it, the idea of cause could not exist. It 
 j8 that in the cause by virtue of which it produces its efteet 
 
160 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 
 
 It is a cause simply, and for no other reason, than that in 
 it resides the power. 
 
 The notion of power is always fixed and invariable. We 
 cannot conceive of it as, under the same circumstances, 
 sometimes producing an effect and at other times produc- 
 \n(^ none. When we find such an antecedent, we at once 
 determine that it is destitute of power, and that it is not, in 
 this case, a cause. It is essential to our conception of 
 power, that under the same conditions it shall invariably 
 produce the same change. 
 
 Hence, we perceive the difference between invariable suc- 
 cession and cause. Cause is invariable succession with the 
 additional idea of power. Cousin's illustration here is ap- 
 posite. ^'I sit in my room," he observes, '^ and wish 
 that I could hear a certain air. Some one in another room 
 plays it. I wish for it again, and it is played again. But 
 this is a very different thing from taking up an instrument 
 and playing it myself The one is a case of succession, the 
 other of cause and effect. In the latter, I recognize my 
 own volition, not merely as the antecedent, but the cause of 
 the sounds.'' And we may observe, still further, that the 
 power, by reason of its in variableness, is the sole reason of 
 the invariableness of the succession. Were not power such 
 as I have suggested, the succession might intermit, vary, 
 and fluctuate, indefinitely. 
 
 This idea of cause and effect, and power, is not derived from 
 experience, as some philosophers have asserted. It springs by 
 necessity from the original constitution of the human mind. 
 When we observe a change we cannot do otherwise than 
 think of the cause. The change furnishes the occasion for 
 the creation of this idea ; but, as soon as we have arrived at 
 It, we know that the existence of the power residing in the 
 cause was the necessary condition to the existence of the 
 effect. It arises as truly on the first observation of a change, 
 
POWER. CAUSE AND EFFECT. 161 
 
 as on the thousandth. It is as obvious to the apprehension 
 of children as of adults. If it was not apparent in the first 
 instance, it could not be in the thousandth. If, in the first 
 instance, we recognize nothing but succession, and had no 
 idea of cause and of power, the second instance would be 
 precisely like it, and the third, and thus indefinitely. 
 Every one remembers the case reported of Dr. Beattie. He 
 wrote, on the prepared soil of his garden, the name of his son, 
 a very young child, and sowed some delicate seeds in the 
 lines which he had thus traced. In a few days the child 
 came running to inform him of the wonder which he had 
 discovered — his own name plainly growing in the flower- 
 bed. The father, for a while, pretended to believe that there 
 Was no cause for the phenomenon, but that the letters had 
 grown in their present form of themselves, and he attempted 
 to create this belief in his son. It was all in vain ; the child 
 could not believe it. The necessary relation of cause and 
 eflfect was as deeply fixed in his mind as in the mind of his 
 father. Dr. Beattie then made use of this illustration to 
 teach him the necessary existence of a First Cause. The 
 same incident, I observe, has been related of the father of 
 Gen. Washington. 
 
 But, it may be asked, has experience nothing to do with 
 our investigation of the laws of cause and eflect ? I answer, 
 nothing whatever with our original idea of cause and of 
 power. This is given us in the very constitution of our 
 intellectual nature. If it were not so given, we should have 
 no conception of a cause, and should, of course, have nc 
 occasion to institute any inquiries concerning it. 
 
 But, although experience, or more properly experiment, 
 furnishes us with no original ideas of causation, yet, when this 
 idea has been given us, and we know that by necessity the 
 sause of a certain phenomenon must exist, it is by experiment 
 alone that we are able to discover what :hat cause is. Ex- 
 14* 
 
162 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 
 
 periment, therefore, follows directly upon the suggestion of 
 causation in any particular instance. This may be clearly 
 illustrated by observing the principles which govern us in 
 carrying forward a case of philosophical investigation. The 
 steps in such a process are, I think, the following : 
 
 1. We observe an instance of obvious and manifest change, 
 or, in the language of philosophers, a phenomenon. We are 
 80 made that we cannot think of this change without also 
 thinking of the cause which produced it. Every one knows 
 that to speak of a change producing itself, or of a change 
 occurring with no relation whate\er to any other event, is 
 not only to speak nonsense, but to utter what is unthink- 
 able. 
 
 2. This notion of cause, which, in these circumstances, 
 has arisen within us, involves the idea of power. It is, in 
 fact, this power which makes it a cause. But, since power 
 is a fixed and unchangeable idea, we cannot conceive of it 
 without conceiving of it as always acting in the same way 
 under the same circumstances. Hence, we know that in 
 whatever antecedent the power resides, that antecedent 
 must be the cause of the phenomenon. And, on the other 
 hand, when we observe any antecedent to be fixed and in- 
 variable, in that we suppose the power to reside ; that is, 
 wc afiirm this antecedent to be the cause of the consequent 
 effect. 
 
 3. In order, then, to ascertain the fixed and invariable 
 antecedent, we institute our experiments. We place the 
 phenomenon under every variety of antecedents. When we 
 find an antecedent which, under all circumstances, invaria- 
 bly precedes the change, we assume this to be the cause. 
 Henceforth, these two events hold this relation to each 
 other. 
 
 4. Hence, we perceive that if two distinct and separate 
 Invents were the stated and invariable antecedents of another 
 
POWER, CAUSE AND EFFECT. 1(53 
 
 event, it would be impossible to determine which of the twr 
 was the cause. One would fulfil the conditions of the prob 
 lem as well as the other. Hence we see that our knowl- 
 edge of causation is never abs3lute, being always conditioned 
 by the actual progress of human knowledge. Thus, so far 
 as human observation has gone, the event A has always 
 been the invariable antecedent of the event B. But subse- 
 quent investigations may reveal the fact that A is not the 
 invariable antecedent, or that the antecedency of A is condi- 
 tioned by some other event with which it must be combined 
 in order to produce the effect. Thus, it was observed that 
 water boiled at 212° of Fahrenheit, and it was, for a long 
 time, supposed that this law was universal. It was, how- 
 ever, subsequently ascertained that it boiled on the tops 
 of high mountains at a lower temperature. Hence it was 
 necessary to condition the former law by the pressure of the 
 atmosphere, and say that water boils at 212° at the level 
 of the sea. If it should be found that the electrical condi- 
 tion of the atmosphere had any power to modify the result, 
 it would be necessary to add this new condition to the origi- 
 nal law. 
 
 It may be useful to illustrate these remarks by observing 
 the manner in which we proceed in determining any particu- 
 lar cause. I will- take, for example, the freezing of water. 
 
 I perceive, on some occasion, for the first time, that 
 water, which I left fluid at sunset last evening, is solid this 
 morning. I, first of all, inquire whether it be the identical 
 substance w^hich was a short time since fluid. I examine 
 the vesse! in which it is contained ; I ascertain that no human 
 being has approached it ; that all the other water in the siime 
 vicinity has undergone the same transformation. I am 
 satisfied that here is a case of legitimate change. 
 
 i^'rom the constitution of my mind, I am unable to conceivo 
 that this change could have been produced without an ade- 
 
164 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 
 
 quale cause. Had the water remained through the night, 
 with all its relations to all other things unchanged, it must 
 by necessity have continued in its original condition. This 
 is to me as obvious as that if a body be at rest, it must forever 
 remain at rest, unless some power from without compel it to 
 assume the condition of motion. There must, therefore, be 
 some cause for this event. The instinctive impulses of my 
 nature lead me to inquire for this cause. This inquiry I con- 
 duct by experiment or trial. In what manner shall I proceed? 
 I first observe all the antecedent events which I am able 
 to discover. For instance, the water was fluid in daylight ; 
 it became solid in darkness. Darkness may have been the 
 cause of its solidity. It became solid in the open air ; it 
 returned to its former fluidity as soon as it was brought into 
 the house. Change of place may have been the cause of 
 the phenomenon. Or, again, I observe that there was a 
 sudden change of temperature during the night, and that 
 the mercury in the thermometer fell from 40° to 20°. This 
 change of temperature may be the cause of which I am in 
 search. I proceed to institute a series of experiments for 
 the purpose of determining which of these is the invariable 
 antecedent of the phenomenon. I find that water, in various 
 instances, becomes solid in light as well as in darkness, and 
 that again it becomes fluid in darkness when it had become 
 solid in daylight. Darkness cannot, then, have been the 
 cause. I examine the other hypothesis. Was change of 
 place the cause ? I find that, without any change of place, 
 the water which was solid at sunrise becomes fluid at noon. 
 Change of place will not, therefore, account for the phenom- 
 enon. Was the cause, then, the change of temperature ? 
 I subject water to this trial. I find that everywhere, 
 and under all circumstances, when the temperature falls 
 below 32° Fahrenheit, water becomes solid, whether by 
 day or by night, and without any regard to locality. * 
 
POiVER, CAUSE AND EFFECT. 165 
 
 therefore arrive at the conclusion that the temperature of 
 32° is the cause of the freezing of water, and that water 
 has the susceptibility of being frozen at this temperature 
 The two events thus stand to each other in the relation of 
 cause and effect. I have discovered the cause of the event, 
 or, in other language, I have accounted for a phenomenon. 
 It is on these principles, and in this manner, that we proceed 
 in any legitimate case of philosophical investigation. 
 
 Having thus obtained the idea of causation and of power, 
 and having learned how to determine the cause in any par- 
 ticular case, the necessity of our intellect obliges us to pro- 
 ceed a step further. As we look about us, we observe that 
 everything bears witness to the exertion of power. The 
 universe is subject to perpetual change, and change without 
 the idea of power is unthinkable. Day and night, sun- 
 shine and storm, summer and winter, spring and autumn, 
 are names indicative of changes and classes of changes 
 ^nore numerous and more complicated than the human mind 
 can comprehend. Power is, then, one of the most univer- 
 sal ideas of which we are able to conceive. But let us look 
 at the case a little more carefully. We say that atmospheric 
 air, moisture, and sunlight, are the causes of vegetation. 
 Let us, then, examine the growth of a vegetable, from the 
 putting forth of its first leaf, through all the changes of its 
 development, to its beautiful flower and its ripened fruit. 
 Let us examine a single leaf, and investigate all its func- 
 tions, and their exquisite adaptation to cooperate in the 
 general design. Let us generalize this case, and we find 
 the surface of our globe to be thickly covered with just 
 Buch instances. We cannot fail to obserye that the beauty 
 and adaptations of the effect infinitely transcend any attri- 
 bute possessed by the physical cause. We cannot conceive of 
 the gases of the atmosphere, the drops of water, and the rays 
 of the sun, as adequate causes of all these wonderful results. 
 
166 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 
 
 We conceive by necessity of some cause or causes unseen^ 
 beyond, directing, controlling, energizing, those perceived 
 causes, in which, at first view, this power seemed to reside. 
 
 To ascend thus from apparent to unseen causes, from 
 physical to supernatural power, seems to be the necessary 
 tendency of our intellectual nature. The human mind is 
 hardly capable of so intense degradation as not to recognize 
 the existence of some power unseen, by which all that is 
 seen is governed and sustained. Hence have arisen the 
 innumerable systems of idolatry wnich have prevailed among 
 men. Every nation recognizes some invisible powers as the 
 causes of visible changes, and hence as objects of worship. 
 The very absurdity of many of these systems teaches us 
 this tendency in the clearest possible manner. The more 
 absurd the object of worship, the stronger is the proof that 
 the necessities of the human intellect demand some cause 
 to which the changes of visible nature can be referred ; and 
 that it will accept the most preposterous notion of an ulti 
 mate cause, sooner than believe that no such cause exists. 
 
 But the human mind, having advanced thus far, proceeds 
 by necessity a step further. As we contemplate the vari- 
 ous phenomena of the universe, we. observe that no class of 
 facts, nor any single fact, is isolated. All are parts of one 
 plan, the development of one idea. The vegetable and 
 animal kingdoms, the laws which govern organic and inor- 
 ganic nature, and the relations which subsist between them, 
 all represent portions of one idea, which must have been 
 ODnceived by a single intelligence before anything visible 
 waa created. Hence we are called upon to account for this 
 perfect harmony in this infinite variety of parts, the perfect 
 order which exists among beings in themselves so diverse 
 from each other. We can account for it only on the sup- 
 position that the cause of causes is not many, but one, in- 
 finite in power and -fisdom, the sufficient reason why every 
 
■ POWER, CAUSE AND EFFECT. 167 
 
 thing IS, and why it is as we now behold it. That tliia 
 opinion has universally prevailed among men who liavo 
 addicted themselves to thinking, is manifest. The philoso- 
 phers who paid an outward respect to the classic mythology 
 acknowledged and reverenced the Supreme Divinity. And 
 everywhere, among men of reflection, it has been acknowl- 
 edged that, if there are causes beyond those which we per- 
 ceive, there must be one universal Cause, all-powerful, all- 
 wise, all-good, self-existent, and, of course, eternal. 
 
 But, supposing this to be granted, other questions emerge 
 from this belief. If there be a universal, all-pervading Cause, 
 what is the nature of his agency ? In material causation, is 
 Jie the sole operator in every change, so that every event is 
 an immediate act of the Deity, or the result of such an 
 act 7 Or, on the other hand, has he constituted matter with 
 such attributes and relations that all which w^e see is the 
 necessary consequence of the original creation, from which 
 the Creator has withdrawn, and over which he now^ exerts no 
 agency? And, again, in spiritual changes, similar questions 
 arise. Does the free will of man act independently of any 
 controlling agency of the Deity, or is the Deity the cause 
 of spiritual change, as in the first supposition above in 
 regard to matter ? Or has he so created spirits that the 
 chanj;L's of which w^e are conscious proceed by necessity 
 from the elements of our original creation 'I These ques- 
 tions, and many more, arise from the conception of an uni- 
 versal, all-pervading, and all-pow^erful Cause. 
 
 With respect to these inquiries, I w^ould remark, in gen- 
 eral, that I believe the most opposite answers to either of 
 them can probably be proved to be true, by arguments 
 which it would be diflScult to confute ; and that the clearest 
 reasoning may lead us to results at variance with the sim- 
 plest dictates of our moral and intellectual nature. To what 
 conclusion, then, shall we arrive ? I arewer, to the belief 
 
168 INTELLECTUAL THILOSOPHY. 
 
 that the subject is clearly beyond the reach of our under- 
 standinf'. The point in which the infinite and the finite 
 come in contact has been, and must ever be, hidden from 
 mortjil eyes. It is the dictate of reason and religion that 
 tlie Deity is all-wise, all-good, and all-powerful, and there- 
 fore that he is the only being capable of governing the uni- 
 verse which he has made. It is not possible that such a 
 being shoald govern it too much. On the other hand, we 
 have the evidence of our own consciousness that we are per- 
 fectly free. We know that such a being as the Deity must 
 carry on his wise and just and merciful intentions, and that 
 he must carry them on through the agency of his intelli- 
 gent creatures ; we know, also, that we are perfectly free 
 to act as we choose, and that this freedom is an essential 
 element of our moral responsibility. Of the manner in 
 which these agencies cooperate, I think we must be content 
 to remain in ignorance. 
 
 REPERENCES. 
 
 Idea of power — Locke, Book 2, chap. 7, sec. 8. 
 Power, active and passive — Locke, Book 2, chap. 21, sec. 2. 
 Cause and effect — Locke, Book 2, chap. 26. 
 Idea of a God — Locke, Book 4, chap. 10, sec 1 — 8. 
 Cause and effect — Reid, Essays on In. Powers, Essay 6, chap. 6. 
 Power, cause and effect — Reid, Essays on Active Powers, Essay 1. 
 Locke's idea of power examined — Cousin, chap. 4. 
 Notion of power derived either from the objective or subjective — 
 Cousin, chap. 4. 
 
 SECTION V. — SUGGESTED IDEAS ACCOMPANIED BY EMOTION* 
 
 We have thus far considered those ideas which are sug- 
 gested to us by the contemplation of oojects which produce 
 In us no emotion. They are purely intellectual, and have 
 
SUGGESTED EMOTIONS. 169 
 
 no other effect upon us than to increase our knowledge. 
 Thus, the ideas of duration, cause and effect, space, and a 
 variety of others, are simple knowledges, and produce in ua 
 no ulterior state of mind. 
 
 Were we merely intellectual beings, these would be all 
 the suggestive ideas of which we need be conscious. But 
 we find the case to be otherwise. We are made not only to 
 knou\ but io fep-L As we look abroad upon the world, we 
 find ourselves not only capable of knowing that things are or 
 are not, but also of deriving pleasure or pain from the con- 
 templation of them. Who does not know with whaji eager 
 gaze the eyes of the child are turned towards the rainbow 7 
 Who has not been deeply moved at beholding the glory of a 
 summer's sunset? Again, it is undeniable that we are 
 variously affected by our observation of the actions of our 
 fellow-men. Some of them awaken in us admiration, re- 
 spect, gratitude and love ; others fill us with disapprobation, 
 disgust and abhorrence. These various cognitions, and the 
 emotions which they create, belong, I suppose, to the class 
 of original suggestions. They may be divided into two 
 classes : 1, Ideas of the beautiful and the sublime, or ideas 
 of taste ; and, 2, Moral ideas. 
 
 1. Ideas of the beautiful and sublime. 
 
 Let us commence the exposition of this subject by an 
 example. Suppose there were placed before us an antique 
 marble vase of exquisite workmanship. We look at it, and 
 observe its color, and form, and proportions. We feel of it. and 
 discover that it is solid; smooth and heavy. We test it by 
 our other senses, and ascertain whether or not it possesses 
 -any qualities which they can recognize. When we have 
 done this, we have obtained all the knowledge concerning it 
 which our perceptive faculties can give. 
 
 Let us now place by the side of it a rough block of mar- 
 ble, of a similar magnitude. The senses give us, as before, 
 15 
 
170 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 
 
 a knowleuge of its color, form, solidity, roughness or smooth- 
 ness, sonorousness, taste and smell. This knowledge is all 
 that our perceptive faculties can give us in either case. 
 Were we merely intellectual, that is, unemotional beings, 
 no other impression besides that of knowledge would be 
 produced upon us. Both of these objects would be con- 
 temphited with equal indifference ; nay, the rough block 
 might be preferred, if we could devote it to a purpose of 
 utility of which the other was not susceptible. Thus, we 
 are told that, not unfrequently, the remains of a beautiful 
 statue are found imbedded in mortar, in the wall of a peas- 
 ant's hovel, in the neighborhood of an ancient city on the 
 plains of Asia Minor. 
 
 Let us now observe these objects together, and remark 
 the feelings which they awaken within us. We cannot fail 
 to observe that the one has a power of affecting us very dif- 
 ferently from the other. As we look upon the one, we are 
 conscious of an emotion of exquisite pleasure. We attach 
 to it a value such as wealth can scarcely estimate. We look 
 upon the other with total indifference, or, it may be, with 
 disgust, and cast it aw^ay as an incumbrance. To the one 
 we are powerfully attracted, while from the other we are 
 repelled. We recognize in the one the quality of beauty, 
 cf which we perceive the other to be destitute. A child at 
 an early age would make this distinction. Every one 
 knows how strongly even very young persons are attracted 
 by brilliant colors and agreeable forms. Yet this emotion 
 liannot be defined. It arises unbidden at the contemplation 
 of outward objects of a particular character, under such 
 circumstances as have been appointed by the Creator to " 
 occasion it within us. , 
 
 This idea is not, however, cognizable directly by the 
 Benses. We neither see. nor hear, nor feel, nor taste beauty; 
 nor is it an energy of our minds. Yet, whenever we per- 
 
EMOTIONAL ST/GGESTIONS. 171 
 
 ceive certain external objects, there arises within us the 
 knowledge that thej are beautiful, and we are conscious ot* 
 the subjective emotion which this quality occasions. In 
 this respect it resembles the other suggested ideas. They, 
 as we have seen, are not cognized by the senses, but the 
 cognitions derived from the senses are the occasion of 
 their existence. So, in this case, as soon as we are con- 
 scious of the perceptions, we are conscious of the cogni- 
 tion of this quality,, and of the emotion which this quality 
 produces. 
 
 The emotion of the beautiful is suggested by an infinite 
 variety of objects in the external w^orld. It arises from the 
 contemplation of form, of color, of motion, of proportion, 
 and, in fact, from almost every object in nature. I shall 
 not here enter into an illustration of these obvious facts. 
 'It is sufficient merely to allude to them, reserving the more 
 extended discussion to another place. 
 
 If we observe the various objects which give occasion to 
 this emotion, we shall observe them to be exceedingly dis- 
 similar. The objects are unlike, but the emotion is the 
 same. We thus learn to distinguish the emotion produced, 
 from the causes which produce it. Having done this, we 
 ascribe to any object this quality, if it produces in us this 
 paiticular emotion. Thus, the mathematician speaks of 
 the beauty of a demonstration ; the critic, of the beauty of 
 a metaphor ; the moralist, of the beauty of a social relation ; 
 and the mechanic of the beauty of a machine. In each 
 ■ case, the emotion of the beautiful is awakened in the mind 
 of the speaker, and he ascribes the quality of beauty to 
 that which produces it. 
 
 There is also another emotion, suggested by the contem- 
 
 ' plation of material and immaterial objects, in many respecta 
 
 similar to the emotion of beauty. The mode of its origin 
 
 is the same. It is suggested, in the first instance, by objects 
 
172 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 
 
 in nature , it is a source of exquisite pleasure ; it arise?5 on 
 a oreat variety of occasions ; but yet the emotion itself is 
 always the same. Its character may perhaps be best illus- 
 trated by an example. He who has stood by the sea-side in 
 a storm may perhaps remember the ceaseless roar of the 
 waves, the rude shock of the surge, which, heaving itself 
 a^^ainst the cliff, made the solid rock to tremble beneath 
 him, and the tossing of the white foam as it flew from the 
 crest of the billow. All this might have been equally well 
 perceived by the dog at his feet, or the wild sea-bird, as, 
 screaming in gladness, it dashed into the thickest of the 
 spray. But these are not all the ideas that arise within the 
 bosom of the man. Besides all these, he feels an emotion 
 of awe, and yet of exultation ; of solemnity, and yet of 
 excitement ; of humility when he thinks of his own little- 
 ness, and yet of greatness when he yields himself up to the 
 conceptions which crowd upon him. His imagination roams 
 over the ocean ; he muses upon its matchless power, its vast 
 extent, its deceitful smiles, and its sudden wrath, until he is 
 bewildered in the throng of his thick-coming fancies. Every 
 one recognizes in this the emotion of sublimity. 
 
 Here, as before, we perceive that this idea, and the emo- 
 tion which accompanies it, are entirely different from the 
 simple perceptions by which they are occasioned. They 
 could not arise without the perceptions, and the perceptions 
 would be perfect without them. They are called forth un- 
 der peculiar circumstances in obedience to the principles 
 of our constitution, and, having once arisen, they remain 
 with us, irrespective of the circumstances that gave them 
 birth. 
 
 Having, howBver, obtained this idea, with its correspond- 
 ing emotion, we find that it is excited by a variety of spirit- 
 ual conceptions, as well as external perceptions. The infi- 
 nite in space and duration, immaculate justice, heroic self 
 
MORAL SUGGESTIONS. 17? 
 
 denial, self-sacrificing love, and a large variety of the more 
 majestic moral qualities, excite this emotion in a very high 
 degree. How dissimilar soever they may be .in themselves, 
 if they awaken this emotion we class them under the same 
 designation, and call them all sublime. Hence we speak 
 of the sublime in nature and in art, of the sublime in elo- 
 quence, in poetry, and in action. The external objects 
 which awaken this emotion are dissimilar, but, producing 
 a similar effect, we comprehend them all under the same 
 classification. 
 
 Of moral ideas derived from suggestion. 
 
 Thus far we have observed chiefly those suggested ideas 
 which may be derived from irrational objects. It would be 
 natural to expect that suggestions of a peculiar character 
 would be occasioned by observing the actions of our fellow- 
 men, intelligent and accountable agents. 
 
 Thus, for instance, I find myself in possession of a cer- 
 tain amount of power. I can move my limbs in any direc- 
 tion. I know, however, that these motions are not uncaused ; 
 they are consequent upon, and caused by, the energy of my 
 own will. I look further, and find that my will does not 
 act at random. I will to. perform an action, in order to ac- 
 complish a certain purpose. So long as I am sane, that is, 
 governed by the established laws of my being, I find these 
 two antecedents, will and motive, always preceding every 
 act of power which I exert. 
 
 K I observe the acts of others, I come to the same con- 
 clusion. I cannot conceive of an act of a man in a normal 
 condition, without considering it as emanating from his will ; 
 nor can I conceive of an act of the will uninfluenced by any 
 motive. Hence, when we contemplate the act of an intelli- 
 gent being, we always involve in our conceptions not mercJy 
 the outward chancre, but also the will in which it originated 
 and the motive by which the will was governed 
 15* 
 
174 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 
 
 But c ir acts commonly influence the happiness, or affect 
 the riglits of our fellow-men. Whenever we observe such 
 an act, there arises in the mind a wholly new idea, unlike 
 any which we have thus far examiiied ; it is the idea of 
 right or wrong. A particular quality in that action is im- 
 mediately recognized. Perception gives us nothing but the 
 external act ; but by virtue of our constitution there is sug- 
 gested to us a moral quality, something very different from 
 the external action itself; and the cognition of this quality 
 is always attended by certain subjective affections. These 
 subjective affections are the most important of any of which 
 we are susceptible. The faculty of the mind which gives 
 rise to these objective cognitions and subjective affections 
 is called conscience. It belongs to moral philosophy to 
 treat of this subject at large. 
 
 I might mention various Other instances of original sug- 
 gestion, but the above will suflSce to illustrate my meaning. 
 It will, I think, be obvious, from what I have said, that, by 
 virtue of this power, we possess a distinct and most impor- 
 tant source of knowledge. The ideas which we derive in 
 this manner are unlike those either of perception or con- 
 sciousness, yet they are no less truly clear and definite, 
 and really lie at the foundation of all our subsequent 
 knowledge. They seem, more than any other of our ideas, 
 to result from the exertion of the pure intellect. We 
 know them to be true, without the intervention of any 
 media. The intellect with which we are created vouches 
 for their truth, and we cannot conceive them to be false. 
 
 If it be asked how we may improve this faculty, I answer 
 that m a matter so simple, when our knowledge is intuitive, 
 rules seem almost useless, i few suggestions may, how- 
 ever, not be wholly without advantage. 
 
 It must be obvious to every one, that our train of 
 thought may follow in the line of our perceptions, or of our 
 
ORIGINAL SUQGESTIONS. 175 
 
 BQggestions We may pass from perception to perception 
 without heeding the suggestions to which they give occasion; 
 or. detaining every perception, we may follow out to their 
 utmost extent the suggestions which spring from it. The 
 former is the habit of the superficial, the latter of the re- 
 flective mind. The one cognizes only th'e facts which are 
 visible on the surface ; the other arrives at a knowledf'-e of 
 the hidden relations by which all that is seen is united • 
 together and directed. Millions of men, before Sir Isaac 
 Newton, had seen an apple fall to the ground, but the sight 
 awakened no suggestion ; or, if it did, the suggestion was 
 neither retained nor developed. He seized upon it at once, 
 followed it to its results, -and .found that he had caught hold 
 of the thread which could guide him through the labyrinth 
 of the universe. 
 
 If, then, we would cultivate the faculty of original sug- 
 gestion, we must exercise it by patient thought. Sugges- 
 tions will arise in our minds, if we will only heed them, 
 '■ and they will arise the more abundantly the more carefully 
 we heed them. We should attend to our own intuitions, 
 examine their character, determine their validity, and follow 
 them CO their results. We should have due respect for the 
 teachino's of our own individual intellio:ence. What other 
 men have thought is valuable, but its chief value is, not to 
 save us from the labor of thinking, but to enable us to 
 think the better for ourselves. If, with patient earnestness, 
 we thus follow out the suggestions of our own minds, we 
 Bhall find them enriched and invigorated. Instead of drink- 
 ing forever at the fountains of other men, the mind will 
 thus discover a fountain within itself "If," said Sir Isaac 
 Newton, " I am in any respect different from other men, it 
 is in the pov-er of patient thought." 
 
176 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 
 
 REFERENCES. 
 
 Origin of moral ideas — Locke, Book 2, chap. 2, sees. 1, 2 ; book % 
 chap. 21, sec. 42 ; book 2, chap. 28, sec. 5. 
 
 Cousin, chap. 5. 
 
 Necessity of patient; thought in cultivating original suggestion — Locln 
 Book 4, chap. 3, sec. 22—30. 
 
 Abercrombie, Part 4, 9M. I 
 
 , 
 
 
CHAPTER IV. 
 
 ABSTRACTION. 
 
 Iisr order the more definitely to understand the nature of 
 Abstraction, let us review the ground which we have passed 
 over, that we may the more distinctly perceive the point 
 from which we are about to proceed. 
 
 We have seen that by perception we cognize externa] 
 objects, and that by consciousness we cognize our internal 
 energies. Our knowledge, however, derived from both of 
 these sources, is individual and concrete. I perceive a tree ; 
 it is an individual tree. I perceive fifty trees ; they are all 
 individuals, difiering in various respects from each other 
 but each a distinct and unique object of perception. So, 
 also, I am conscious of an act of memory, that is, of remem- 
 bering a particular object. I am conscious of remembering 
 another. Each act is numerically, and as I think of it, dis- 
 tinct from every other act. Our conceptions of these acts 
 are of the same character as the acts themselves, and, with 
 these powers alone, every idea would be as distinct from every 
 other idea as the grains of sand on the sea-shore, without 
 either cohesion or fusibility. 
 
 The same remark applies in substance to the ideas derived 
 from original suggestion. Of these ideas some I know are 
 general, and can be referred to no particular object. Such 
 are the ideas of space, duration, infinity, and perhaps some 
 others. These are cognized as universal and necessary iin 
 
178 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 
 
 Booii as the mind begins to think ; and, as they are at the 
 beginning, so they remain forever, unsusceptible of either 
 change or modification. Another class of our suggestive 
 ideas is, however, of a different character. I perceive, for 
 instance, a case of change, as the rolling of a ball, or the 
 falling of a pin. The idea of cause and power at once sug- 
 gests itself, but it is of the power requisite to produce this 
 effect, and this only. It is the idea, not of causation jn 
 general, but of causation in this individual instance. Should 
 I see another case of change, the same notion of causation 
 would arise, but it w^ould again be of an individual change, 
 and would be wholly disconnected from that which I ob- 
 served before. That is, every idea of causation would- be 
 indissolubly connected with that change by which it was oc- 
 casioned, and thus our knowledge of causation would be 
 nothing moTe than the remembrance of these several isolated 
 and separate facts. 
 
 If, then, our intellectual powers were limited to those 
 which we have already considered, it is easy to imagine 
 what must be our condition. We could perceive individual 
 objects, and be conscious of the exertion of individual ener- 
 gies, or of the putting forth of certain intellectual acts. 
 Every object of perception would be distinct and discon- 
 nected, and equally so the conceptions which it originated. 
 Our knowledge would be all of individuals, and every object 
 must have its own proper name, or that which is equivalent 
 to it. When we speak of different men, we call them John, 
 James, William, meaning by each of these terms to desig- 
 nate an individual unlike every other in existence. Such 
 would be our knowledge if we had no other faculties than 
 those already examined. 
 
 But, if we look into our own minds, and ol^serve the minds 
 of other men, we find our condition to be the reverse of all 
 this. Proper names, or those used to designate individuals, 
 
I 
 
 ABSTRACTION. 179 
 
 are the rarest words in a language. We use them only to 
 point out persons and places, and when these are not alluded 
 to such words are never employed. In works of science 
 they have no place whatever, unless we find it necessary to 
 refer to some historical fact. Language is made up alto- 
 gether of words designating classes of things, as book, house, 
 tree, idea : or of qualities, as red, white, blue, warm, cold ; 
 or of actions, as walk, ride, think, give, take ; or of relations, 
 as by, to, upon, &c. When we use these words we have 
 no reference to individuals, and desire merely to indicate 
 classes of things, actions, qualities or relations, signified by 
 these terms. So universally is this the case, that, when we 
 wish to individualize a particular object, we are obliged tc 
 use several descriptive terms, in order to distinguish it from 
 its class. Thus, if I wish to direct attention to a particular 
 table, I am obliged to refer to it as my table, of such a 
 color and size, or standing in such a place, or bought of 
 such a person. In this manner we select an individual 
 from a class, in order to make it an object of particular 
 attention. 
 
 We observe, then, what our conceptions would be, were 
 we endowed with no other powers than those which we have 
 thus far considered. We see, on the other hand, what our 
 conceptions actually are. With no other powers than those 
 of perception, consciousness, and original suggestion, our 
 ideas would be all of individuals. But we find, in fact, that 
 they are the reverse of this — that they are all of classes. 
 We naturally inquire. How does :his change take place 7 How 
 do we pass from the conception of individuals to the concep- 
 tion of generals ? How, from single, isolated, concrete facts, 
 do we form notions of classes, or of genera and species'; 
 It is to this subject that we are now to direct our attention 
 
 Abstraction is that faculty of the mind by \vhich frou 
 
180 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 
 
 individual, concrete conceptions, we form general and ab- 
 stract ideaa. 
 
 Though I spej|k of abstraction as a faculty of the mind, 
 1 am aware that it is, in many respects, unlike those of 
 which I have thus far treated. It gives us no new knowl- 
 edge, like perception, consciousness and original suggestion ; 
 it only modifies the knowledge which we have acquired by 
 these faculties. It does not, like them, perform its office 
 by a single act. On the contrary, it accomplishes its object 
 by a succession of acts, each one different from both the 
 others. Yet^ as it performs a function which could be per- 
 formed by no other power, — as it actually does something, 
 and as a faculty is the power of doing something, — I think 
 we cannot err in designating it by the same general name 
 which is given to the other intellectual energies. 
 
 In the mental process by which we pass from individuals 
 to generals, three separate acts can be distinctly perceived ; 
 these are analysis^ generalization and combination. 
 
 1. Analysis, I have remarked, when treating of concep- 
 tion, that we have the power of retaining a notion of any 
 object of perception after the object is removed, precisely 
 similar to that which we formed when we were perceiving 
 it. For instance, I saw a rose yesterday. I cognized it 
 then as present, and observed its color, form, magnitude, 
 as a distinct and concrete object, uniting in itself these 
 various and dissimilar qualities. I retain to-day a notion 
 of it as an object absent, uniting in itself all the various 
 qualities which I cognized in it as present. The difference, 
 subjectively, is merely between the notion of the object 
 as present and the notion of it as absent. Now, when I 
 make the conception of this rose an object of reflection, 1 
 am able to separate, in thought, these qualities from each 
 other ; tliat is, to think of each quality separately, without 
 thinking of the others. Thus, I may think, exclusively, of 
 
ABSTRACTION. 181 
 
 its color, then of its form, its weight, &^. ; at each time 
 banishing from my mind the conception of all the other 
 qualities. I look upon a lily ; I form a conception of it in 
 the same manner, and in the same manner can I, in thought, 
 separate its qualities one from the other, making each one 
 of them the exclusive object of attention. I behold a moun- 
 tain as present. I form a conception of it as absent. I can 
 think exclusively of its form, or its magnitude, or its color, 
 or its trees, or of the strata of which it is formed. The act by 
 which we thus, in thought, separate the elements of a con- 
 crete conception from each other, and consider each one by 
 itself as a distinct object of thought, is commonly termed 
 abstraction. I prefer to call it analysis, as this word suf- 
 ficiently designates its character, and distinguishes it from 
 the other acts which with it go to make up the process of 
 abstraction. 
 
 I wish it, however, to be distinctly remembered, that this 
 act, in every case, has for its object an individual conception. 
 I have analyzed my conception of a rose, and considered its 
 qualities separately. But they are the qualities of this 
 particular rose, and nothing more. The case is the same 
 when I analyze a lily, or a mountain ; it is not the analysis 
 of any and every lily, or mountain, but only of that one 
 which I saw, and of which I now form a conception. The 
 color is not the color of roses, or lilies, but only of this par- 
 ticular rose, or of that particular lily. The same remark 
 applies to the form, fragrance, or any other of its qualities. 
 It is just the same as if I, for the first time, saw one of 
 these objects, and were never to see it again. In thought, I 
 separate each one of its qualities from the other, and then 
 the mental a^ct terminates. 
 
 2. Generalization. By analysis I have separated the 
 qualities of an individual rose. Suppose I were called upon 
 to give to each of them a name ; I could do it in no other 
 16 
 
1S2 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 
 
 manner than by designating each of them by the name oi 
 tlie object from which the concrete conception was deri\eA 
 1 must call them, for instance, the color, the form, the fra- 
 grance, the weight, of the rose A. But suppose, now, anothei 
 rose is presented to me. I analyze the conception which I 
 Lave formed of it as before, and find it made up of color, 
 form, fragrance, etc. These qualities now cease to be the 
 qualities of the rose A ; they become the qualities of tlio 
 roses A and B. I see a hundred roses. I analyze the con 
 ceptions which I form of them, and 'find the same qualities 
 in each. These qualities cease, then, to be the qualities of 
 the roses A and B, but become the qualities of roses. 
 
 But I proceed further, and analyze the conception I have 
 formed of other objects, as, for instance, of a carnation, a 
 peo^y ; and I find that the color of the rose is also the 
 color of these flowers. I observe again, and find that 
 cherries and other fruits present the same color. It ceases, 
 then, to be the color of roses, or flowers, or fruits ; and, by 
 necessity, separating it from every object in which I per- 
 ceived it, I designate it by a particular name, and call it 
 red. Again ; I observe a violet ; I analyze the conception 
 which I f3rm of it, and call the color, the color of this par- 
 ticular violet. I see several violetSj all having the same color, 
 and then this color becomes to me the color of violets, I 
 observe monks-hood, and various other flowers, different 
 kinds of fruit, the heavens above me, and many other objects 
 clothed in the same color ; and it is no longer the color of 
 a violet, or of violets. I give it a name to designate this 
 particular quality, and call it blue. Henceforward I think 
 of it by itself, without any reference to all, or any, of the 
 objects in which I at first detected it. It forms, in my mind, 
 a distinct conception. Again; I find that every object 
 which I perceive has a particular mode of addressmg the 
 eye Some are red, some are blue some are brown. I 
 
ABSTRACTION. 182 
 
 ^3nsider thi? impression, aside from the various objects which 
 j produce it, and give it a general name, color. 
 j . In this manner we form simple abstract ideas of the 
 ' several qualities which we observe- We derive them origi- 
 nally from individuals, in the manner above stated ; but we 
 conceive of them without respect to any individuals what- 
 ever. 
 
 When these simple abstract ideas are thus formed, tliey 
 constitute the alphabet which we use in thinking. As we unite 
 the letters of the alphabet into syllables, syllables into 
 * words, and words into sentences and discourse, so these sim- 
 ple abstract ideas, combined into the various forms of com- 
 plex conceptions, form the matter which we use in the exer- 
 cise of the powers of reasoning and imagination. 
 
 3. Combination. The process in this case is exceedingly 
 obvious. Having obtained these simple abstract ideas, dis- 
 connected from any subject in which they originally existed, it 
 ' is manifestly in our power to unite them together so as to form 
 any complex conceptions that we may desire. Thus, to 
 refer to the previous instances, I have formed simple abstract 
 ideas of red, blue, the form and the fragrance of a rose, the 
 color, form, and fragrance of a lily, or violet, the magnitude 
 and form of a mountain. It is evident that I may recom- 
 ^ bine these different simple ideas just as I choose. I can. in 
 conception, unite the form of a rose with the color of a lilyj 
 and the fragrance of a violet. I should, then, have the 
 conception of a white rose with the perfum.e of a violet. I 
 can unite the idea of the form of a mountain with the color 
 red. and I then have a red mountain. I may combine the 
 notion of red with the leaves and green with the petals of a 
 rose, and I have a green rose with red leaves, &c. 
 
 In this manner we are every moment forming conceptiong 
 by means of language, either written or spoken. A few 
 days since I read in a newspaper an account of a new variety 
 
184 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. jMM 
 
 of roses which had been discovered in North Carolina ; iti 
 peculiarity consisting in this, that the petals of the flower 
 were green. I unite together the simple abstract ideas in- 
 dicated by the words, and I have almost as definite concep- • 
 tion of it as if I had seen it. So, when any new plant, 
 or animal, or work of art, is described to us, we immediately 
 unite the several simple ideas in the manner indicated by 
 our informer, and the conception stands before -our minds I 
 like a reality. 
 
 From this view of the subject, we see that abstraction — 
 meaning by this term the three several acts entering into 
 this process — is indispensable to the formation of language. 
 To make the most simple affirmation by the use of proper 
 names, or individual concrete conceptions, such as they 
 are delivered to us by perception, consciousness, and orig- 
 inal suggestion, is manifestly impossible. We must, by such 
 combinations as I have mentioned, form ideas designating 
 classes ; or language could not exist. K we examine 
 the words of a language, we shall find that, except such as 
 designate simple ideas, they are all used to express a group 
 of ideas united under a single term. The definition of a I 
 word analyzes it, and shows the various simple ideas of i 
 which it is composed. Thus, if we take any words at ran- « 
 dom, as debtor, creditor, father, brother, iEriend, country 
 patriotism, treachery, murder, robbery, fee, we shall find 
 that each of them is composed of several distinct ideas. A J 
 correct definition gives us every element that essentially | 
 belongs to the compound conception. , I 
 
 We thus learn the manner in which the communication 
 of thought is rendered practicable. A single word is made 
 the vehicle of ever so large a group of conceptions. If, in- 
 stead of using such words, we were obliged at length to 
 enumerate all the ideas which they designate, human inter- 
 course by language must cease. The thought now expressed 
 
ABSTRACTION. 185 
 
 OL a single sentence would require pages iuv its develop- 
 ment, and the multitude of apparently disconnected ideas 
 would render the comprehension of an ordinary statement 
 almost impossible. 
 
 From these illustrations of the nature of abstraction, it 
 appears that the exercise of this faculty may give rise to 
 two different classes of conceptions. The first class is 
 formed entirely in obedience to our own will. Having 
 formed simple abstract ideas, we have the power to unite 
 them together in just such compound conceptions as we 
 please. We may conceive of the magnitude of a mountain 
 with the form and color of a rose; we have then a concep- 
 tion of a rose as great as a mountain. We may unite the 
 form of wings with that of a horse, and we have the concep- 
 tion of a winged horse. We may go further, and unite in 
 one complex conception various distinct images of beauty. 
 Thus, Milton, from various scenes which he had beheld, 
 selected those portions best adapted to his purpose, and 
 formed the complex conception of the Garden of Eden. So 
 the sculptor, from several specimens of the human form, 
 selects those features which seem best suited to his purpose, 
 and unites them in one conception more perfect than any 
 which he has seen in actual existence. Wheni we use this 
 faculty for these purposes, we call it Imagination. 
 
 But we use this faculty for another purpose. By means 
 of it we form all our classifications of the objects of nature, 
 and hence it lies at the foundation of all natural science. 
 Here, however, we find it acting under different condi- 
 tions from those which we have last considered. The ele- 
 ments of our complex conceptions were then subject to 
 nothing but the will. Our object was to please, and, if this 
 was accomplished, our whole end was attained. Here, our 
 object is to instruct. We desire our classifications to coin- 
 cide with objects in nature, and if they do not our labor m 
 16* 
 
186 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 
 
 worse than th:own away. We are, therefore, restricted 
 in our materials to the matters of fact before us. In form- 
 ing a complex conception from nature, we must combine 
 precisely those elements which nature herself has combined, 
 and neither more nor less. In just so far as my conception 
 departs from the fact in nature, it is imperfect, superfluous, 
 or monstrous. If I am forming a scientific conception of a 
 lion, I must admit into it precisely those elements w^hich 
 nature has united in this class of animals. If I form a con- 
 ception of a lion at will, I may add to it wings, any color 
 that pleases me, and any magnitude that will answer my 
 purpose. In the one case, we have the conception of a phys- 
 iologist; in the other, of an imaginative sculptor, such as 
 designed the winged lions in the temples of Nineveh. 
 
 The manner in which we form the classifications of sci- 
 ence may, then, be easily illustrated. Suppose a physiol- 
 ogist wishes to form a scientific conception of a horse. A 
 specimen is presented to him ; he examines the outward 
 appearance of the animal, its form, color, motion ; he dis- 
 sects it, and examines its internal structure, the peculiarities 
 of its skeleton, the number of its bones, their position and 
 relations to each other. He takes note of these elements 
 with all the cafe in his power. These various simple ideas 
 belong to nothing but this individual specimen, the horse 
 A. Let another specimen be in a similar manner exam- 
 uied. He notes, as before, all its elementary ideas, and pro- 
 ceeds until he has satisfied himself that further investigation 
 is useless. But these various elements have now ceased to 
 be the elements of any particular horse ; they are the ele- 
 ments of the class of animals whose character he is investi- 
 gating. 
 
 He k now desirous of uniting these several ideas' into a 
 conception that shall apply not to one or another horse, 
 but to all horses. He compares these elementary ideas, and 
 
ABSTRACTION. 187 
 
 finds some of ^chem constant ; that is, belonging to all the 
 horses he has seen. Others of them are inconstant ; that is, 
 they belong to some, and not to others. He separates the 
 one from the other, uniting in one complex conception all 
 the constant elements, and leaving out of his conception all 
 that are variable. For instance, the form of the skeleton, 
 the number of vertebrie, the structure a,nd number of the 
 teeth, the organs of digestion, etc., are constant. These are 
 found to be the same in all. On the other hand, color, size, 
 and many other elements, are variable. It is by the union 
 of these constant qualities that he forms his general abstract 
 idea of a horse, referring to no horse in particular, but being 
 the conception which answers in his mind to that word when 
 it is used either by himself or others. In this manner all 
 our general conceptions, that is, conceptions comprehending 
 a number of similar objects, are formed. That we are 
 always conscious of every step of the process, I do not affirm. 
 We are so continually performing this mental operation, that 
 we give no heed to the manner in which we proceed. If, 
 however, any one will pause, and observe his own mental 
 operations, I think he will find them such as I have 
 attempted to describe., 
 
 I have spoken of the mode in which our general abstract 
 conceptions are formed in matters of science. It isi proper 
 to remark thgft all men, whether learned or unlearned, pro- 
 ceed precisely in the same manner. A common man. in 
 forming his notion of a horse, acts just like a physiologist. 
 The only difference is, that the one is able to detect a 
 greater number of elementary ideas, and is the better able 
 to distinoruish the constant from the variable. The one ob- 
 serves merely the elements which are obvious to the senses ; 
 the other, by dissection, examines the organs which perform 
 :he functions necessary to the existence of the animal. The 
 difference, then, is, that the observation of the one covers a 
 
188 INTELLtOTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 
 
 larger field, and is made with more minute accuracy, than 
 the other. Both, howev:)r, depend on the same principles, 
 and obey the same intellectual impulses. 
 
 It will be readily seen, from what has been remarked, that 
 abstraction, or the faculty by which we form classes, is indis- 
 pensable to enumeration. Whenever we speak of any num- 
 ber of objects, we must first reduce them to a class. Thus, 
 if I were asked how many are there in this room, how 
 would it be possible to reply ? I ask how many what 7 — 
 how many persons, or books, or chairs, or tables, or things ? ' 
 Until I know the class to which the objects to be enumer- 
 ated belong, I can never reply to the question. • 
 
 I have thus explained the manner in which we form 
 general abstract conceptions, or conceptions of classes. Let 
 us examine the manner in which we proceed when we form 
 our conceptions of genera and species. 
 
 Let us take, for instance, our conception of horse ; it is a 
 conception formed by the union of all the constant elements 
 which we have found existing in that animal. Suppose I 
 proceed, and examine a zebra, an ass, an elephant. , I form 
 general conceptions of these, as I did of the horse. I now 
 compare these several conceptions together, and find that 
 there are certain elements in which they all agree, while 
 each one has additional elements peculiar to itself I com- 
 bine in one conception the elements which they all possess in 
 common, and gave to it the name pachydermata, which in- 
 cludes all these several classes. This gener9;l name distin- 
 guishes the genus, while the additional elements, by which 
 these subordinate classes difier from each other, mark the 
 species. Thus it may be said that these several classes of 
 animals form species, included in the genus pachydermata. 
 
 As we proceed in our investigations, we observe various 
 other classes of animals, as carnivora, rodontia, and a mul- 
 titude of others. We compare these genera together, and 
 
ABSTRACTION, 189 
 
 'find that in certain elements, gradually grow jng less numer- 
 ous, they all agree, I form a larger class by uniting those 
 less numerous elements into a simple conception, and give 
 to that conception the name mammalia. Pursuing my 
 examination further, I find other classes of animals, as 
 numerous as mammalia, difiering from them in many im- 
 portant respects, yet having one or more elements in com- 
 mon : for instance, they all have vertebrae. I then form a 
 generic class, by uniting in one conception the few and sim- 
 ple elements which they all hold in common. This forma 
 my widest and most comprehensive generalization. 
 
 We see, then, that vertebrate comprehends under it an 
 immense number of individuals ; that is, every one endowed 
 with this form. Under this are several subordinate classes, 
 each one possessing this element, and also something addi- 
 tional peculiar to itself, as mammalia, fishes, etc. If I now 
 take one of these second classes, I find that under it are 
 several sub-genera, each one possessing all the elements of 
 the genus, and also some other elements by which it differs 
 from every other sub-genus. In this manner I descend, un- 
 til I come to the lowest species or variety, in which all the 
 individuals are, in all constant elements, similar to each 
 other. In this manner we form the genera and species of 
 science. We of course find that, the greater the number of 
 elements which enter into the idea of a class, the smaller is 
 the number of individuals under it ; and, on the other hand, 
 the smaller the number of elements in the idea of a class, 
 the greater the number of individuals which it comore- 
 hends. • 
 
 From what we have here observed, we perceive the 
 difference betw^een the process of investigation and of in- 
 struction. In in\estigat^on, we proceed from particulars to 
 generals ; we discover particular facts and reduce thorn to 
 classes, and then, going still further, comprehend these 
 
190 INTELLECTI3 IL PHILOSOPHY. 
 
 I 
 
 classes under more general classes, until we have arrived ar 
 the widest generalizations in our power. But, when we 
 wish to instruct, or communicate knowledge to others, thia 
 process is reversed. We then begin with the simplest and 
 most universal principles, comprehending the greatest num- 
 ber of individuals under them. From these we proceed to 
 the largest subordinate genera, from these to sub-genera or 
 species, until we have mastered the whole class of objects 
 which our most generic classification comprehends. At 
 each step, aa Ave proceed downwards from the more to the 
 less general, we add some new elements, until we at last 
 .arrive at the conception of the individuals, with which, in 
 the labor of investigation, we commenced. 
 
 And hence we learn the nature of a definition in science. 
 
 When we define any scientific conception, we first men- 
 tion the geftus to which it belongs, and then the specific 
 difference, or those other elements, which, being added to 
 the conception of the genus, designate its peculiar species. 
 Thus, in geometry, we define a figure as '' any combination 
 of lines which encloses space. ' ' Here ' ' combination of lines ' ' 
 is the generic idea, and ''enclosing space" is the specific 
 difference, or the element added to the generic idea which 
 makes out our conception of a figure. Again; ''a plane 
 triangle is a figure bounded by three straight lines." 
 Here, again, ''figure" denotes the genus, and "bounded 
 by three straight lines " is the specific difference, or the 
 element added to the conception of figure which gives us 
 the conception of the species, triangle. So, again, "a 
 right-angled triangle is a triangle one of whose, angles is a 
 right angle." Here, again, "triangle" is the genus, and 
 'one of whose angles is a rig\t angle" is the specific dif- 
 fererrce, or the element added to the idea of triangle which 
 creates the conception of a right-anojled triano-le.* 
 
 Hence, we see that simple objects, or those which have 
 
ABSTRACTION llM 
 
 no parts, or into the conception of Avlii.cli no plurality of (;le* 
 ments enters, can never be defined. They can furnish no 
 specific difference, nor can they, by analysis of elements, 
 be classed within any genus. In such cases, we are obli;^cd 
 merely to describe the circumstances under which the oljject 
 is presented to our cognition, or else place the subject him- 
 self under these circumstances. Thus, if we wish to make 
 known to any man a simple energy of the mind, we mention 
 the circumstances under which it arises; he refers to li is 
 own experience, and instantly recognizes our meaning. If 
 he has had no such experience, he can never arrive at the 
 knowledge. Thus, I cannot define seeing to a blind man, 
 for it is a simple act. I describe to him the circumstances 
 under w^hich it occurs to me, but under the same circum- 
 stances he receives no impression. There is^ therefore, an 
 impassable gulf between us, so far as this cognition is con- 
 cerned. The case is similar in all our simple cognitions. 
 
 The question has arisen, and formerly it was argued with 
 great bitterness, what is the object of our thought when we 
 form a general conception ? Thus, I think of animal, quad- 
 ruped, mammal, man, tree, etc. There is nothing in nature 
 ans^yering to this conception, for every individual possesses 
 all the elements which enter into my conception, and also 
 many more. What, then, is the object of thought, when 
 we think any of these ideas ? Some philosophers asserted 
 that there was an actual object corresponding to this concep- 
 tion ; and others, that, when we formed a general concep- 
 tion, the only object was the word which designated it. The 
 one class was called realists, the other nominalisty. It ia 
 needless to enter into this discussion at present. It is evi- 
 dent that conception is a mode of thought, and that there i3 
 in this act nothing numerically distinct from the mental 
 d,ct itself. It is true, as Sir W. Hamilton has observed. 
 that we mav in thou<2:ht make a distinction between the fac- 
 
192 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 
 
 ulty or state of the mind in conception, and the concept or no- 
 tion in which this act exhibits itself. But there is no exist- 
 ing thing numerically diflferent from the act, and, therefore, 
 it seems evident that both nominalists and realists were 
 equally wide of the truth. 
 
 From these illustrations, I hope that the manner in which 
 we form tlasses and general conceptions will be sufficiently 
 understood. It is, however, 'evident that this process may 
 be employed in a great variety of ways. Abstraction ena- 
 bles us to classify, but we may classify for different pur- 
 poses, and thus, under different circumstances, select differ- 
 ent elements as the basis of our classification. 
 
 It may be useful to mention some of the more common 
 and obvious principles by which our classifications are deter- 
 mined. 
 
 1. We very frequently form classes from our observation 
 of the external appearance, the form, color, magnitude, etc., 
 or from an examination of the internal structure. Thus, as 
 I have before remarked, men classify the objects which they 
 behold, as animals, birds, etc., according to their external 
 appearance ; the physiologist classifies them by an examina- 
 tion of their internal structure, and the manner in which 
 they perform the various functions necessary to life. Such 
 are, in general, the classifications in the various departments 
 of natural history. 
 
 Here it is proper to remark that, having once formed our 
 classification, we naturally refer a new specimen to some one 
 of the classes which we have found already existing. It seems, 
 however, strange, that, while knowledge is ever advancing, 
 men are disposed to believe, at every successive step, that 
 they have arrived at its ultimate limits. Yet such is mani- 
 festly the infirmity of man. Hence it is that our classifi- 
 cations are frequently incorrect. Supposing, incautiously, 
 that the classes which we have -ecognized include all the 
 
ABSTRACTION. VS^ 
 
 specimens or all the facts that can exist, we arc liable to 
 refer a new specimen or a new fact to a class to which it 
 does not belong. Thus the islanders of the Pacific, who 
 had never seen any other quadrupeds than hogs and goats, 
 upon seeing a cow, declared that it must be either a hn-'^e 
 goat or a horned hog. These being the only classes they 
 had ever observed, they naturally supposed that this new 
 specimen must be referred to either the one or the other. 
 This was the error of savages, but the same error is liable 
 to occur among philosophers. What is called accounting for 
 a phenomenon is nothing more than referring it to some 
 law, or general classification, under w^hich it is compre- 
 hended. Thus, if I am asked why a stone falls to the 
 earth, I account for it by replying that all matter is recipro- 
 cally attractive ; that is, I refer this individual fact to a 
 general law, or the expression of a more general fact. 
 From the disposition to refer a new phenomenon to some 
 established law, philosophers as well as savages are exposed 
 to error. In the case of philosophers, however, the error is 
 liable to be carried a step further. When they cannot 
 account for a phenomenon, — that is, when they know of no 
 class to which to refer it, — they not unfrequently deny its 
 existence ; taking it for granted that if they cannot account 
 for a phenomenon, it could not have occurred. It is for 
 this cause that every new discovery is obliged to fight its 
 way to a place in science, against the whole influence of phi- 
 losophic incredulity. So far as this leads to a more thorough 
 investigation of whatever claims to be a discovery, it is well 
 and reasonable ; but so far as it rejects whatever cannot be 
 accounted for as unworthy of examination and deserving 
 only of ridicule, it is neither well nor reasonable, and is 
 directly opposed to all true progress in science. Philoso- 
 phers would frequently be wise would they bear in mind the 
 instruction of the poet : 
 17 
 
194 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 
 
 •* There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, 
 Than are dreamed of in your philosophy." 
 
 2. Individuals may be classified by similarity of cause 
 Here we neglect entirely all consideration of external ap* 
 pearance or of internal structure, and, forming the concep- 
 tion of a particular cause, combine into one class every indi- 
 vidual to which that cause gives origin. Thus, the geologist 
 may arrange rocks into two classes, the one of which has 
 resulted from the action of fire, and the other from the 
 action of water. The physician may arrange diseases 
 according to the causes which have produced them, one class 
 resulting from the affection of the nerves, another from the 
 afiections of the lungs, the stomach, etc. 
 
 3. We may classify individuals from similarity of efiects. 
 Here, omitting all consideration of appearance, " structure, 
 and origin, we form a conception of a particular effect. 
 Having formed this conception, we comprehend under it 
 every individual which will produce the effects in question. 
 The {)hysician arranges all the substances in the materia 
 medica on this principle. It matters not to him whether 
 the articles which he is examining belong to the animal, 
 vegetable or mineral kingdom. We classify them as nar- 
 cotics, stimulants, sudorifics, emetics, etc., according, solely, 
 to the effects which they are known to produce upon the 
 human organism. Thus, the critic classes objects in nature 
 or art according to the effect which they are known to pro- 
 duce upon the human mind. He calls a landscape, a meta- 
 phor, a picture, beautiful, graceful or sublime, as he observes 
 it to produce tL^se particular emotions on the mind of man. 
 
 It will appear, from these few illustrations, that the vari- 
 eties of classification are as numerous as the principles on 
 which classifications may be formed. Every art has its 
 own principles, on which it classifies the substances on 
 which its labor is exerted. The same individual may thus 
 
ABSTRACTION. 195 
 
 be compreheiided under as many different classes ixs there 
 are different conceptions formed in the minds of those who 
 contemplate it. The physician, the botanist, and the poet, 
 may all examine the same plant, and each will assign it to 
 a different class, according to the controlling ideas by which 
 his classification is governed. 
 
 It is obvious that a faculty, which enters so • essentially 
 into all the modes of thought, must greatly influence our 
 intellectual character. This will be rendered the more evi- 
 dent if we consider the separate acts which form the process 
 of abstraction, and observe the manner in which the pre- 
 dominance of either affects the elements of our intellectual 
 constitution. 
 
 1. Analysis. This power to detect and distinguish from 
 each other all the various qualities of an external object, 
 and all the various changes of a material or a spiritual phe- 
 nomenon, is frequently denominated acuteness of observa- 
 tion. It is essentially what we have spoken of under the 
 name of analysis. Its importance to a thinker or discoverer 
 is manifest. As every variety of external appearance indi- 
 cates a modification of internal quality, and as every varia- 
 tion in the process of a change indicates some alteration 
 in the condition of the cause, it is obvious that this power 
 must be of prime importance to a philosopher. He who 
 is best able to analyze the constituent elements of the ob- 
 jects to which his attention is directed, whether in the world 
 within or the world without, is the most richly provided 
 with the materials for accurate judgment. It is thus that 
 an accurate observer frequently detects facts which result in 
 important discoveries, that ha e always been within the 
 reach of his contemporaries, but which had never before 
 attracted their attention. From the want of this power, the 
 effects of one cause are sometimes ascribed to another ; im- 
 portant causes are undetected ; cause and effect, antecedent 
 
196 INTELLECTUAL PHI- SO PHY. 
 
 and consequent, are blended together; and, in general, 
 research becomes vague, unsatisfactory, and unworthy of 
 reliance. He, then, who desires to attain to accuracy of 
 philosophical inquiry, should strive to cultivate this power 
 to the greatest perfection. Nor is this all. By this instru- 
 ment we are able to detect sophistry, and lay "bare the 
 insufficient foundations of all false reasoning. It was from 
 want of acuteness of observation that Locke fell into many 
 of his most important errors. The value of this endow- 
 ment is also conspicuously seen in the review of his Philos- 
 ophy, by Cousin, an author of surpassing mental acuteness. 
 This power has always been largely developed in those fa- 
 vored individuals who have made the most important addi- 
 tions to our knowledge of the laws of nature. 
 
 2. Of different, but not inferior, importance to a culti- 
 vated mind, is the power of generalization. Acuteness of 
 observation will discover new facts, and observe changes 
 heretofore unknown ; it will analyze what is concrete, and 
 unravel what is complicated ; but it will do no more. If 
 we possess only this power, we may do important service to 
 science by collecting valuable materials ; but we shall col- 
 lect them only that they may be wrought into philosophical 
 laws by the genius of others. Besides this, therefore, an 
 inquirer after truth needs a power which, having discovered 
 an important relation, shall enable him to detect it under 
 whatsoever changes of condition it may be hidden. He will 
 thus be able to arrange under each class those individuals 
 which the Creator himself has arranged under it, and trace 
 out a given cause through all the diversities of time and 
 place to which its influence may have extended. Probably 
 no power of the human mind has been so fertile in discov- 
 ery as this. From a single observation of an hitherto un- 
 noticed phenomenon, or from the minute and almost micro- 
 ocopic experiments of the laboratory, the philosopher is 
 
ABSTRACTION. 197 
 
 able frequently to enunciate a law which controls the most 
 important changes of the universe. It was thus that Sir 
 Isaac Newton, having accurately determined the hiw which 
 governed the fall of an app^e, at once began to generalize 
 this idea. If this law governs bodies at small distances 
 from the earth, why should it not govern bodies at great 
 distances ? If it governs bodies at great distances from the 
 earth, why may it not reach to the moon, and govern her mo- 
 tion in her orbit 7 and if the moon in relation to the earth, 
 why not the earth and planets in relation to the sun ? Thus, 
 by following out this elementary law, the germ was evolved 
 ^ of the greatest discovery recorded in the annals of science. 
 In a similar manner, Dr. Franklin made himself acquainted, 
 by experiment, with the laws of the electric fluid. He observed 
 the phenomena of lightning in the thunder-cloud. Compar- 
 ing them together, and making due allowance for the differ- 
 ence between the vastness of nature and the littleness of 
 man, he detected the same elementary phenomena in both, 
 and the question at once occurred to him. Are they not 
 identical 1 A simple experiment decided the question in 
 the affirmative, and added a wide domain to the empire of 
 human knowledge. It was also a rare combination of these two 
 powers of observation and generalization that gave to Cu- 
 vier the first place among the naturalists of his own, and, 
 perhaps, of every age. 
 
 3. Intellectual character is also affected by the degree in 
 which we are endowed with the power of combination. 
 
 I have already remarked that the power of combination 
 I may be either poetic or scientific ; that is, that we may 
 form our combinations at will, or they may be limited by 
 the objects in nature from which they are derived. This 
 difference of endowment distinguishes the class of Milton 
 and Shakspeare from that of Newton and Franklin. 
 
 But, passing this general distinction, it is evident that 
 
VJ8 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 
 
 the power oi a.ientific combination is possessed by min iii 
 very unequal degrees. Suppose a philpsopher to have ob- 
 served with accuracy a series of phenomena. He has them 
 before him, — the facts and the order of their succession. 
 He knows that under the same conditions the same succes- 
 sion will be repeated. But this is not enough. What are 
 the unseen changes of which these phenomena are the man- 
 ifestations ; and what are the relations which they sustain 
 to each other ? In a word, what is the rationale of these 
 several changes ? As, for instance, he places a piece of wood 
 on the fire; it inflames and burns to ashes. The facts are 
 visible and common, and he knows that another piece of 
 wood, under the same conditions, will be subject to the same 
 changes. But what is the rationale of these changes ? 
 What is combustion? What is flame? What is ashes? 
 What are the combinations formed and dissolved during the 
 change of wood to a substance so utterly unlike itself? 
 Here, then, is a demand for philosophical combination. 
 The next step is to form a conception of such unseen causes 
 as will be sufficient to account for the phenomena. 
 
 The power of forming such conceptions exists in very 
 different degrees. Some men merely observe the facts, and 
 give themselves no trouble to ascertain the cause. Others, 
 in seeking for a cause, form conceptions after the manner of 
 the poets, which have no relation to established laws, and 
 can never be verified by observation or experiment. He 
 who is endowed with true philosophical genius seems 
 instinctively to originate combinations analogous to truth, 
 which become the immediate precursors to discovery. I do 
 not say that there is anything of the nature of proof in a 
 conception of this kind, only that it serves to direct the 
 inquiries of the original investigator. Having formed his 
 conception, his next business is to prove it to be true. 
 When he has done this, his discovery is made. Without 
 
ABSTRACTION. 109 
 
 proof, nothing has yet been determined : but without some 
 conception to direct investigation, there coukl be no prooC 
 for there would be nothing to prove. Sir Isaac Newton and 
 Sh' Humphrey Davy seem to me to have been richly en- 
 dowed with the power of scientific combination. On the 
 other hand, Dr. Priestley, though an eminent philosopher, 
 seems to have possessed it in a very imperfect degree. 
 Though his discoveries were numerous, and of the highest 
 importance, yet all his theories of the changes which he 
 observed have long since been exploded. 
 
 The powder of philosophical combination, of necessity, 
 improves with the progress of science. As the laws of 
 nature and her modes of operation are better understood, we 
 form conceptions more and more analogous to truth. We 
 learn to think more and more in harmony with the ideas of 
 the Creator ; and, from a larger and more accurate acquaint- 
 ance with the known, we are the better able to unravel the 
 mysteries of the unknown. When it was observed that 
 water would rise in a pump, the solution of the phenomenon 
 ' at first said to be given was that nature abhorred a 
 vacuum. When it was found that it w^ould not rise more 
 than thirty-two feet, this fact was explained by the theory 
 that nature did not abhor a vacuum for more th.in thirty- 
 two feet. Can it be that any of the hypotheses of the present 
 day will seem as strange to our successors as this theory 
 does to us ? 
 
 With regard to the improvement of this faculty, a few 
 words nay be added at the close of this chapter. Let u3 
 refer to each of the three acts into which abstraction lias 
 been divided. 
 
 Analysis, or the power of distinguishing and separating 
 from each other things which differ, may be eniployed 
 either objectively or subjectively, as we are inquiring into 
 
200 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 
 
 the qualities and relations of the world without us, or the 
 energies and relations of the world within us. 
 
 So far as the accurate observation of the external world 
 is concerned, much depends upon the delicacy of our senses. 
 but probably no less upon the earnest attention with which 
 we use them. A listless, careless observer never discovers 
 anything. It is only by an intense direction of tho mind to 
 the objects of our inquiry, that we are able to detect changes 
 and relations which have been hidden from preceding 
 observers. Truth reveals herself not to those who pay her 
 mere formal and perfunctory service, but to those who 
 render to her the earnest and heartfelt homage of the whole 
 «3oul. 
 
 Acuteness in the analysis of mental phenomena requires 
 an equal earnestness, though it is differently directed. We 
 here find it necessary to cultivate the habit of withdrawing 
 from all external objects, and fixing our attention on the 
 revelations of our own consciousness. Few men can do this 
 without long-continued and patient effort. With such 
 effort, however, most men can attain to it. We must learn 
 to look calmly and steadily upon a mental phenomenon. If 
 there appear in it the slightest indications of complexity ; 
 if, when examining it from different points of view, the least 
 shade of difference be cognizable in our consciousness ; or, 
 if, on comparing .two forms of thought, which seemed to us 
 identical, there arises within us the intellectual feeling of 
 dissimilarity, we must pause until we are thoroughly satis- 
 fied on the subjects of our inquiry. It is by listening to 
 the first suggestion of a difference, thut we learn to deter- 
 mine the character and relations of our mental phenomena. 
 
 If we would enlarge our power of generalization, I know 
 of no better method than to study the generalizations of 
 nature. Admirable lessons of this sort are found in the 
 natural sciences, — chemistry, physiology, geology, etc. No 
 
ABSTRACTION. 201 
 
 finer exercise for the power of generalization can bi desired, 
 than to take a single important chemical law, and trace out 
 its operations on the vast and the minute throughout the 
 kingdom of nature. Having become familiar with these 
 wide-spreading classifications, we shall be the better able to 
 pursue the generalizations of the subjective. We may then 
 take an intellectual or moral law, and, ha\nng clearly marked 
 out its nature aiid limitations, follow out its efiects on the 
 character of individual and social man. The light which 
 will thus dawn on the mind will frequently astonish the 
 student himself. Patient thought in. this direction will 
 furnish explanations of phenomena, and suggest rules of 
 conduct, which would hardly reveal themselves to any other 
 mode of investigation. 
 
 To improve the power of philosophical combination, we 
 need, most of all, to study the actual combinations of nature. 
 The more familiar we become with them, the clearer will be 
 the light shed upon the unknown. Much may also be 
 learned from the lives of those who have been so fortunate 
 as to extend the limits of human knowledge. By observing 
 the manner in which they have labored, we may hope to be 
 able to follow their example. This subject will, however, 
 come again under consideration, when, in a subsequent 
 chapter, we treat of scientific imagination. 
 
 REFERENCES. 
 
 Abstraction — Locke, Book 2, chap. 11, sections 9, 6, 10, 11 ; chapter 
 12, section 1 ; Stewart, vol. i., chapter 4 ; Reid, Essay 5, etapters 2, 3, 
 and 4. 
 
 Why most words general — Locke, Book 3, chap. 3, aeotions 1— 10 
 Reid, Essay 5, chap. 1. 
 
 Simple words not definable —Locke, Book 3, chap. 4, soctions 4—11. 
 
 Nominalism and Realism — Cousin, sect. 5, last part ; Stewart, yoL l, 
 ohap. 2, sections 2 and 3 
 
CHAPTER V. 
 
 MEMORY. 
 
 BECTION I. — ASSOCIATION OF IDEAS, OR A TRAIN Of 
 THOUGHT IN THE MIND. 
 
 The next faculty which we shall consider is Memory- 
 As, however, its nature cannot be unfolded without a knowl- 
 edge of the laws which govern the succession of thought in 
 the mind, we shall devote to this subject a preliminary 
 section. 
 
 Every person is conscious of the fact that, during his 
 waking hours, his mind is continually engaged in thinking. 
 Were any one to ascertain that an hour, or even a few 
 minutes, had elapsed, in which he had been conscious of no 
 thought, he would know that, unless he had fallen asleep, he 
 must have been aflfected with some disease which had for the 
 time paralyzed his intellectual powers. 
 
 And yet more ; we are all conscious that it is impossible, 
 without severe and long-continued effort, to fix the mind 
 continuously upon any particular thought. It naturally, 
 and without effort, passes from one idea to another, and it 
 requires a determination of the will to detain it upon any one 
 subject. No interval seems to intervene between one 
 thought and another. They succeed each other without any 
 volition on our part, and frequently take a direction whicL 
 we strive in vain to control. A train of thought will some- 
 
ASSOCIATION OF IDEAS. 203 
 
 times seize upon the mind, and we are unable to disenga;^o 
 it. We strive to turn our attention to other objects, aiid^ 
 after repeated and strenuous eiforts, succeed but imperfectly. 
 And in general it may be remarked, that he has attamcd 
 to uncommon intellectual self-discipline who is able to think 
 at will, and for any considerable length of time, upon any 
 subject that he chooses. 
 
 But, while all this is true, it is, on the other hand, triio 
 that our thoughts do not follow each other at random. Tlicre 
 are what may be called laws ^f connection, by which their 
 succession is governed. Whenever an unusual idea occurs 
 to us, nothing is more common than to inquire for the reason 
 of its appearance at that particular time and place. ^ We 
 take it for granted that it pould not have occurred to us 
 without being related to some other idea previously existing 
 in the mind. We, therefore, refer back to the thoughts which 
 were just before present to our consciousness, and endeavor 
 to trace some connection between them and that for whose 
 origin we are inquiring. 
 
 This fact may be abundantly illustrated by our own expe- 
 rience. The following examples will recall other instances 
 to our recollection. Mr. Hobbes relates, in his Leviathan, 
 that, upon some occasion, several gentlemen were engaged 
 in a conversation respecting the civil war. One of them 
 abruptly inquired the value of a Roman denarius. The 
 question sounded oddly, and strangely at variance with the 
 subject under discussion. Mr. Hobbes relates that, on a little 
 reflection, he was led to trace the train of thought which led 
 to the inquiry. The subject of conversation, the civil war, 
 naturally led the mind to the history of Charles T. The 
 remembrance of the king suggested the treachery of those 
 who delivered him up. The treachery in this case intro- 
 duced the treachery of Judas Iscariot. The crime of Judas 
 was at once associated with the price for which it was com- 
 
•204 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 
 
 mitted, and hence the question what was the value of « 
 Roman denarius. • 
 
 Stewart gives an illustration from the voyage of Captain 
 King, the companion of Cook, of the power of a single 
 object to awaken a train of reflection. '' While we were at 
 dinner in this miserable hut, on the banks of the river 
 Awatska, the guests of a people with whose existence we 
 had before been scarcely acquainted, and at the extremity 
 of the habitable globe, a solitary half-worn pewter spoon, 
 whose shape was familiar to us, attracted our attention; 
 and, on examination, we found it stamped on the back with 
 the word London. I cannot pass over this circumstance 
 in silence, out of gratitude for the many pleasant thoughts, 
 the anxious hopes, and tender remembrances, it excited 
 in us. Those who have experienced the eSects that long 
 absence and extreme distance from their native country pro- 
 duce on the mind, will readily conceive the pleasure such 
 a trifling incident can give." 
 
 A touching incident, illustrative of the same principle, is 
 related by Mrs. Judson in her reminiscences of her late hus- 
 band. During Dr. Judson' s long captivity, in the death 
 prison at Ava, his heroic wife, intending to create an agree- 
 able surprise, had taken great pains to prepare an article 
 of food that might cheer his spirits by reminding him of 
 home. " In this simple, homelike act, this little unpretend- 
 ing eSusion of a loving heart, there was something so touch- 
 ing, so illustrative of what she really was, that he bowed his 
 head upon his knees, and the tears flowed down to the chains 
 about his ankles. Presently the scene changed, and there 
 came over him a vision of the past. He saw again the home 
 of his boyhood. His stern, strongly revered father, his 
 f^entle mother, his rosy, curly-haired sister a.nd pale young 
 brother, were gathered for the noonday meal, and he waa 
 once more among them. And so his fancy revelled thero- 
 
ASSOCIATION OF IDEAS. 20S 
 
 Finally, he lifted his head, and the misery that sur- 
 rounded him ! He moved his feet, and the rattling of the 
 heavy chains was as a death-knell. He thrust the care- 
 fully prepared dinner into the hands of his associate, and, 
 as fast as his fetters would permit, hurried to his aim little 
 shed."— Vol. i., pp. 378-9. 
 
 It is unnecessary to illustrate more fully the general fact 
 that our ideas thus follow in succession independently of our 
 will. We may remark, still further, that when thought fol- 
 lows thought without any connection, we recognize it imme- 
 diately as a proof of insanity. To say of another that he 
 talks incohereiitly, is to say that he is not in his right mind. 
 Without any knowledge of the laws of mental association, 
 we, in this manner, intuitively distinguish a normal from an 
 abnormal state of the intellect. Thus, in the annual report 
 of the Massachusetts General Hospital for 1853, one of the 
 patients is referred to as continually talking after the fol- 
 lowing manner : *' I have a commission as a justice of the 
 peace, and an asparagus bed. I like lightning best at a dis- 
 tance. Whoever puts his name on paper in the Wiscasset 
 Bank, has a mark on his forehead, and is worse off than if 
 he was dining with one of the selectmen. Look out." 
 
 It is obvious, then, that our thoughts follow each other 
 in a train subjected to certain general laws, and that they 
 only move at variance with these laws when the mind is in 
 an abnormal state. 
 
 The laws by which the train of thought is governed, or,, 
 as they are called, »the laws of association, are of two kinds, 
 objective and subjective. The objective laws are those arising 
 from the relations which our thoughts sustain to each other ; 
 the subjective arise from the relations which our thoughts 
 sustain to the thinking subject. Among the objective lawa 
 are numbered resemblance, contrast, contiguity, and cause 
 and erTect ; am« ng the subjective are, interval of time, fro- 
 18 
 
206 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 
 
 fjuency of repetition, coexistent emotion, and the menta* 
 condition of the particular individuaL 
 
 I. Of the objective laws of association. 
 
 1. Resemblance, Every one knows that when we are 
 thinking of any interesting object or event, other objects or 
 events in any respects similar to it, naturally present them- 
 selves. If we look, for the first time, upon a river in a 
 foreign land, we instantly recall some river in our own ccun- 
 try which it resembles ; and we are never as well satisfied 
 as when we find a marked similarity between them. We 
 never pass over ridges of snow-clad mountains without be - 
 ing reminded of the Alps. When we visit a battle-ground^ 
 we find rising up within us the recollection of other battles 
 which may have resembled it in the fierceness of the con- 
 test, the number of the slain, the principles which nerved 
 the different combatants, or the results which flowed from 
 the action over the destinies of humanity. This universal 
 tendency is seen in the manner in which we designate 
 remarkable events by giving to them the name of some re- 
 markable event of a similar character. Thus any battle in 
 which a small number of patriots have resisted a host 
 of invaders is called a Thermopylae or a Marathon. A 
 distinguished general is called an Alexander or ■ a Julius 
 C^sar, a patriot is a Washington. These instances all illus- 
 trate the facility with which one event suggests to us an- 
 other which resembles it. 
 
 If however, we examine the cases which we associate 
 b; resemblance, we shall find them to -be of two kinds. 
 Sometimes we associate objects by resemblance in their ex- 
 ternal qualities. Thus, when we see a v^st mountain, we 
 think of Mont Blanc, Chimborazo, or the Himalayas. We 
 rompare a vast river to the Mississippi or the Amazon. So, 
 when distinguished men are mentioned, we are continually 
 comparing them together, if, in their character or circum 
 
ASSOCIATION OF T1>KAS. 207 
 
 Stances, there b. any elements of similarity. Hence Crom- 
 well and Napoleon, Charles I. and Louis XVI., Pitt and 
 Fox, Scott and Byi'on, are so commonly spoken of in con 
 nection. In fact, a large portion of our conversation con- 
 sists of comparisons of this character. 
 
 Another mode of association belonging to the same class, 
 but a source of far greater pleasure, is that in which objects 
 and events are connected, not by resemblance in their ex- 
 ternal appearances, but by their effects. Here the mind 
 is delighted, not simply by the addition of another image in 
 itself beautiful, but by the peculiar effect of novelty and 
 unexpectedness. Thus Ossian describes the music of his 
 ..minstrel by saying, •• The music of Caryl, like the memory 
 of joys that are past, was pleasant yet mournful to the soul." 
 Here the objects themselves, music and a recollection, are 
 entirely unlike ; but, agreeing in the effect which they pro- 
 duce, we derive a peculiar pleasure from associating them 
 together, and we are conscious that the pleasure is greater 
 from the fact that the resemblance is unexpected. Thus 
 Job compares his friends to a brook in the desert, which, in 
 summer, when it is most needed, is dried up, and disappoints 
 the hope of those who relied upon it for succor. There is 
 no similarity here in the objects themselves. A man can- 
 not resemble a brook. In one thing, however, they are 
 alike : they disappoint hope. Hence the beauty of the figure. 
 It is on this circumstance that the success of metaphorical 
 language depends. Hence the rule of rhetoricians, that 
 those metaphors are most beautiful in which the objects 
 themselves are most dissimilar, while in the effects which 
 they produce, or the point in which they are compared, they 
 are the most alike. Hence the beauty of the passage in 
 Longmus, in which he compares the Iliad of Homer to tlie 
 meridian sun, and the Odyssey to the sun at his setting, 
 when the magnitude is increased, but the effulgence is di- 
 minished. 
 
208 INrELLECTUAL IfilLOSOPHT. 
 
 2. Contrast. We find ourselves frequently associating 
 ideas on the principle of contrast ; that is to say, one idea 
 at one time suggests to us another which resembles it ; at 
 another, an idea exactly opposite to it. Thus, happiness 
 frequently recalls to our mind the idea of misery, as in the 
 verse of Young : " How sad a sight is human happiness ! '' 
 Height and depth, power and weakness, greatness and little- 
 ness, poverty and riches, the palace and the hovel, the cra- 
 dle and the grave, are mutually suggested by each other. 
 Hence in rhetoric the frequent use of antithesis. 
 
 As I remarked respecting resemblance, that it may be 
 either in external appearance or in effect, the same is true 
 of contrast. We here derive pleasure from contemplating 
 similarity of external appearance, while the effects are 
 exceedingly unlike. Thus, in the beautiful passage from 
 Milton's Comus : 
 
 ** I have often heard 
 My mother Circe, with the sirens three. 
 Amidst the flowery kirtled naiades, 
 Culling their potent herbs and baleful drugs, 
 Who, as they sung, would take the prisoned soul 
 And lap it in Elysium. Scylla wept 
 And chid her barking waves into attention. 
 And fell Charybdis murmured soft applause. 
 Yet they in pleasing slumber lulled the sense, 
 And, in sweet madness, robbed it of itself ; 
 But such a sacred and homefelt delight. 
 Such sober certainty of waking bliss, 
 I never heard till now." 
 
 Comus, 254—262. 
 
 3. Contiguity. This may be either of time or place. 
 
 1. Of time. When we reflect upon any event, we natur- 
 ally find our attention called to other events which occurred 
 at the same period. When we think of a distinguished man, . 
 we always recall his cotemporaries. Whoever thinks of 
 Johnson without finding him surrounded, in our conception 
 
ASSOCIATION OF IDEAS. 209 
 
 by Boswell, Goldsmith, Garrick, Burke, and Sir Joshua 
 Reynolds ? When we think of Napoleon, we surround liiin 
 with his marshals, and the sovereigns whose destinies he so 
 greatly changed. An event of historical importance sug- 
 gests the events contiguous to it in time. The advent of 
 our Saviour could hardly be thought of wi'-Jiout leading ug 
 to reflect upon the condition of Rome, and of the then civ- 
 ilized world. Hence we learn the appropriateness of the 
 rule, in the study of history, to fix definitely in our minds 
 the culminating events in each particular era, and then the 
 contemporaneous occurrences will easily group themselves in 
 their proper places. 
 
 2. Contiguity in place. When any important place is 
 visited or thought of, it at once suggests to us the other places 
 in its vicinity. Who can think of Jerusalem, and not think 
 of the hills of Calvary, the mount of Olives, the garden of 
 Gethsemane ? Who can think of Waterloo without thinking 
 of Brussels, and Quatre Bras, and the localities in the neigh- 
 borhood, on the possession of which the issue of the contest 
 so frequently turned ? It is on this account that we survey 
 with such impassioned interest any spot from which, at an 
 earlier age, have emanated influences which have been deeply 
 felt in the history of our race. The sentiments of Johnson 
 at lona find a response in the bosom of every cultivated 
 mind. 'VWe were now treading that illustrious island 
 which was once* the luminary of the Caledonian regions, 
 whencv savage clans and roving barbarians derived the ben- 
 efits of knowledge and the blessings of religion. To abstract 
 the mind from all local emotions would be impossible if it 
 were endeavored, and would be foolish if it were possible. 
 Whatever withdraws us from the power of the senses, what- 
 ever makes the past, the distant, or the future, predominate 
 over the present, advances us in the dignity of thinking 
 beings. Far from me and from my fiiends be .^uch frigid 
 18* 
 
210 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 
 
 philosophy as may conduct us indifferent and unmoved over 
 any ground which has been dignified by wisdom, bravery, 
 or virtue. That man is little to be envied whose patriotism 
 would not gain force upon the plain of Marathon, or whose 
 piety would not grow warmer among the ruins of lona." — 
 Journey to the Western Islands. 
 
 Hence we perceive the reason why names of places, per- 
 sons, etc., frequently add so much vivacity to style. In- 
 stead of an abstract and it may be disconnected idea, they 
 present us with a visible image, surrounded by a multitude 
 of associate ideas. Thus, when we wish to render impress- 
 ive the idea of successful resistance to oppression, wx refer 
 to particular localities, as Runnymede, Naseby, Lexington, 
 Bunker Hill, or Yorktown. And hence w^e learn that the 
 study of history should always be connected with that of 
 geography ; that is, we should study history with the map 
 before us. We thus associate events with localities, and 
 rememb.er them more perfectly, as well as comprehend them 
 more accurately. 
 
 4. Cause and effect, I have already, when treating of 
 original suggestion, referred to the fact that the observation 
 of a change always leads us to ask for the cause. In the 
 same manner, when we observe the manifestation of power, 
 we instinctively ask for the results which have followed it. 
 We associate in obedience to this universal tendency. If we 
 think upon the reformation by Luther, we naturally think 
 of the causes which led to it, and strive to trace out its con- 
 sequences. If we think of the landing of the Pilgrims, we 
 ask ourselves what causes could have led them to forsake the 
 comforts of a civilized home, and plant themselves, in mid- 
 winter, upon a continent inhabited only by savages ; and, 
 before we have answered this inquiry, w^e find ourselves 
 turning to the changes which this event has wrought upon 
 the destinies of the world. So, when, for the first time, I 
 
ASSOCIATION OF IDEAS. 211 
 
 observe a philosop\iical experiment, I am wholly unsatisfied 
 until I understand the rationale of the changes which it pre- 
 stents. I see, for instance, a taper lighted, when placed in 
 the focus of one concave mirror, if a heated cannon-i)all is 
 placed in the other, though the taper is carefully protected 
 from the direct rays of the ball. It is a disagreeable puzzle 
 until the doctrine of the radiation of caloric is explained to 
 me. As soon as this is done, my mind is at ease, and I 
 proceed at once to explain other phenomena by the applica- 
 tion of the same principle. Now, it is obvious that, this 
 connection having been thus established, either one of these 
 ideas will almost infallibly suggest the other. The law of 
 caloric radiation will suggest the effect which has been men- 
 tioned, and the effect will suggest to us the law. So. hav- 
 ing examined the causes which led to the first settlement of 
 this country, and the consequences which have flowed from 
 it, either one will bring to our mind the other, almost as a 
 matter of necessity. It will readily occur that, as this is a 
 permanent relation, like causes always producing like effects, 
 this mode of association must be one of the most important 
 means of enlarging and retaining our knowledge. 
 
 It will be easily perceived that these various forms of 
 objective association intermix with and modify each other. 
 Thus, the relation of cause and effect would naturally asso- 
 ciate two events together; the association l)y resemblance 
 would recall similar causes, and that by contrast, causes and 
 effects of a dissimilar character ; while events connected by 
 the relation of contiguity of time and place w^ould be more 
 likely to occur to us than events remote and long sfnce 
 passed away. Thus, were I thinking of the landing of the 
 Pilgrims, I would naturally think of the causes which led 
 to this event; resemblance would lead me to think of simi- 
 lar cases of colonization, and contrast would bring to my 
 recollection other instances in which men had left their na- 
 
212 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY 
 
 tive country, for love of adventure or thirst for gold. As I 
 traced the results, I would naturally compare those which 
 resembled the enterprise of the Pilgrims with those origin- 
 ating in a dissimilar cause ; and, as the most contiguous in 
 lime and place, I wouU naturally turn to the states of 
 South America, and contrast the causes and eflfects of these 
 two modes of colonization together. In this manner, by the 
 blending of these various forms of association, a vast range 
 of thought is opened before us ; while, at the same time, it 
 is always under the control of established and recognized 
 laws. 
 
 II. Of the subjective laws of association. 
 
 The laws commonly comprehended under this class are, 
 as I have remarked, interval of time, frequency of repetition, 
 coexistent emotion, and the mental state of the particular 
 individual. 
 
 1. Interval of time. 
 
 Every one knows that if two ideas are associated together 
 from any cause whatever, the one readily recalls the other, 
 if only a short interval of time have elapsed. But, if both 
 of the ideas have been for a long time absent from our 
 recollection, the association becomes indistinct, and the sug- 
 gestion occurs less readily. To the truth of this remark 
 every one's experience bears testimony. The events of a 
 journey, by the relations of contiguity of time and place, 
 readily suggest each other in regular succession, immedi- 
 ately after our return. But, if we enter upon our usual 
 avocations, and have no occasion, either by writing or con- 
 vei'sation, to recall the scenes which we witnessed, all but 
 the most prominent events fade from our recollection. We 
 forget most of the localities, and those which we remem- 
 ber cease to suggest the events connected with them. All 
 becomes blended together in one confused remembrance ; we 
 A)rget both when and where we saw particular persons or 
 
ASSOCIATION OF IDEAS. 218 
 
 things, and nothing n^mains to us but a rccollecti.jn of tho 
 most important events, and a general impression made by 
 the facts, which are themselves fast sinking into oblivion. 
 The same truth is illustrated by the reading of a book, and 
 in a thousand other instances. 
 
 2. Repetition, 
 
 It is obvious that an association which has been frequently 
 recalled presents itself to us much more readily than anoth 
 er which has only once or twice, and at long intervals, passed 
 through the mind. By every successive act of repetition, 
 the connecting link between the two ideas is strengthened, 
 until, at length, the association between the two becomes 
 indissoluble. Hence it is that the beliefs of childhood are 
 with so great ^ difficulty eradicated, and that, even after the 
 belief has passed away, the association still remains. Thus, 
 many persons who in youth have been taught the belief in 
 goblins, aild night after night have listened to the recital of 
 ghost stories and spectral appearances, although now per- 
 fectly convinced of the groundlessness of their former belief, 
 never pass by a grave-yard, in darkness, without a tremor. 
 They have so firmly associated a grave-yard with ghosts, 
 that, in spite of the most deliberate conviction, the one idea 
 recalls the other with its former unpleasant emotions. 
 
 The value of this power of rendering associations perma- 
 nent by repetition is seen in the acquisition of practical skill 
 He who has been in the habit of performing the most com- 
 plicated operations never finds himself at a loss ; each step 
 in the process instantly suggesting that which is immediately 
 to succeed it, and each successive emergency calling to mind 
 the means by which it has been previously encountered. 
 Hence, we see the difference between theory and practice, 
 and the peculiar advantages of each. He who is only ac- 
 quainted with the theory is obliged to pursue a course of 
 reasoning in order to arrive at a result; while, to a practical 
 
214 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 
 
 man, th^ result is suggested by the principle of reiterated 
 association. A man may have studied thoroughly the theory 
 of navigation, and may understand the laws by which a vessel 
 is <^overned in moving through the water, both in fair weather 
 and foul. But let him be called on to reduce his knowledge 
 to practice in any trying emergency, and he will be obliged 
 to compare and reason, and form a judgment from various 
 conflicting elements, so that he will probably not arrive at a 
 result until the time of action is past. He, however,* who has 
 been long in the practice of navigation, who has witnessed 
 storms in all their variety, and has frequently been called 
 upon to employ the means necessary to escape their violence, 
 finds that at the critical moment the course proper to be 
 pursued suggests itself spontaneously. He will, therefore, 
 have taken all the measures necessary for safety, before the 
 theoretical navigator . has determined what they are. The 
 extent to which practical skill may be carried, without any 
 knowledge of principles, is often I'emarkable. A very intel- 
 ligent captain of a steamer once told me that he had, for 
 several years, employed an engineer, in whom he reposed 
 entire confidence, and whom he had found, on every occa- 
 sion, perfectly competent to the discharge of his duties. It 
 happened that on one occasion the engineer made some 
 remark which led him to ask the question, what makes an 
 engine go. The man replied, at once, that he never knew, 
 and he never could understand it, although he knew the 
 several parts perfectly, and could, by the sound of the ma- 
 cliinery, tell in an instant the nature and place of any irreg- 
 ularity, and the manner in which it should be rectified. 
 
 By these remarks, hoAvever, I do not wish it to be under- 
 stood that I consider practical skill preferable to theoretical 
 knowledge. Were events always to follow each other in 
 the same succession, and always to require the same mode of 
 treatment,, practice would seem nearly all that was neces- 
 
ASSOCIATION OF IDEA3. 21ft 
 
 Bary i.i education. But the reverse is the fact. Cases are 
 continually occurring which can only be provided for by a 
 knowledge of general laws : and here, if we have no guide 
 but practical skill, we must be inevitably disconcerted. 
 \Yhen a new emergency arises, nothing but general laws 
 will enable us either to understand or to provide for it. 
 The perfection of education requires that both of these ele- 
 ments be combined, — that is, that we learn the laws by 
 which changes are governed, and acquire so thorough a 
 knowledge of the modes of their application, and, by repeated 
 practice, associate so strongly the steps of the process we 
 perform, that, while we act with the promptitude of the 
 practised artisan, we may comprehend the reasons of our 
 action, and be able, on the instant, to form a correct judg- 
 ment under the pressure of an untried emergency. Thus 
 the affairs of a government, under ordinary circumstances, 
 may be sufficiently well conducted by a mere official, guided 
 Bolely by precedent, provided he be familiar with the rou- 
 tine of daily administration. But when new combinations 
 arise, and events transpire, for which official rules furnish" 
 no direction, there is demanded, besides a knowledge of the 
 forms of proceeding, a comprehensive acquaintance with 
 general prmciples, which shall unfold the true relations of 
 things, under what conditions soever they may present tbem- 
 Belves. Thus says Mr. Burke, in his speech ^n American 
 taxation : "It may truly be said that men too much con- 
 versant with office are rarely minds of remarkable enlarge- 
 ment Their habits of office are apt to gjve them a turn to 
 think the substance of business not to be more important 
 than the forms in which it is conducted. These forms are 
 adapted to ordinary occasions, and therefore persons who 
 are nurtured in office do admirably well so long as things 
 go on in their common order ; but when the liigli roads are 
 broken up, and the waters are out, — when a new and 
 
216 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 
 
 troubled scene is opened, and the file afibrds no precedent 
 — then it is that a greater knowledge of mankind, and a far 
 more extensive comprehension of things, is requisite than 
 ever office gave, or than ever office can give." 
 
 Ic i!is frequently been observed that niilitary commanders 
 have generally succeeded remarkably well in the adminis- 
 tration of civil affairs. As examples of this, the founders 
 of dynasties may be referred to ; or, if particular instances 
 need be given, we may mention the names of Frederick the 
 Great. Washington, Napoleon, Wellington, General Jack- 
 son, and a multitude of others. The reason of this may be 
 found in the remark made above, that the perfection of edu- 
 cation consists in the combination of theoretical knowledge 
 with practical skill. The duties of a military commander 
 give him this education. He is obliged to form for himself 
 the plans which must be carried out upon his own responsi- 
 bility. Hence, he must study them thoroughly for himself, 
 understand their bearings, and take no step which he has 
 not decided upon after the most mature reflection. He 
 must then execute his decisions himself, and thus the rela- 
 tion of theory and practice, of the conception and the execu- 
 tion of it, must be constantly present to his reflection. The 
 advantage which this habit of mind must confer, over that 
 of theorists who never practise and practical men who never 
 reason, must be apparent. India has been called the cradle 
 of great men, and for this same reason. In the immense 
 empire of Great Britain in the East, the government of so 
 many provinces must create a vast number of situations in 
 which almost the sole authority must reside in the chief 
 administrative officer of the district. He must learn to 
 decide for himself, and decide wisely, and also provide the 
 means for carrying his decisions into eSect. In such a 
 school as this, talent is rapidly developed, and thus not 
 >infrequently a man of thirty-five attains the clearness of 
 
ASSOCIATION OF IDKAS. 217 
 
 mind, fertility of resources, and promi)tncss of action, of a 
 man. under ordinary circumstanceSj of fifty. 
 
 3. Co'existerit emotion is tnc third law of subjective 
 association. 
 
 By the law of coexistent emotion, it is ijieant that when- 
 ever an event awakens in us strong emotion, it becomes 
 deeply fixed in the memory, and is more readily associated 
 with any other event to w^hich it is related. 
 
 Of the existence of such a law in our mental constitution 
 our own experience will furnish us with innumerable exam- 
 ples. The events of several days will frequently pass away, 
 without leaving more than a dim and shadowy trace of their 
 occurrence. But if on any particular day a fact has been 
 communicated to us by which we were strongly excited, as 
 the death of a friend, the unexpected arrival of a relative, 
 or an event of great importance to our country, that day 
 will long stand out vividly before us. The place where and 
 the time when we first received the intelligence are indis- 
 solubly associated with the event itself, and the fact, with 
 all its attendant circumstances, is engraven on the mind for- 
 ever. So, in travelling over a country for the first time, its 
 ordinary features, awakening no emotion, are soon forgotten ; 
 but if we chance to pass by a celebrated river, an overhang- 
 ing precipice, a magnificent waterfall, or any other object 
 that awakens the emotion of novelty, beauty, or sublimity, 
 we find it indelibly fixed in our recollection, with all its at- 
 tendant circumstances ; and it is ever afterwards ready to be 
 associated with similar scene;s which we witness ourselves, or 
 which are described to us by others. The power of emotion 
 is here two-fold ; — in the first place, it rivets the event on 
 the memory, -and, in the second, it recalls it whenever, on a 
 Bubsequent occasion, the same emotion is awakened. 
 
 It is on this principle that felicity of st^le, splendor of 
 imagery and power of description, become important aids in 
 19 
 
218 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 
 
 all our efibrts to convince men by argumeLt. When we 
 desire to change the opinions of men, it is necessary that our 
 reasonings be retained in their recollection^ and frequently 
 dwelt upon in reflection. When an argument is associated 
 with emotion it is more easily retained; and when the em^ 
 tion is pleasant it is more readily recalled, and more 
 earnestly considered. Under these circumstances it will 
 produce a more distinct impression on the judgment, and 
 the judgment itself is associated with agreeable emotions. 
 Every one will remember, after hearing a discourse, that 
 different passages present themselves to his recollection with 
 different degrees of distinctness ; and he always finds that 
 those which affected him most strongly during delivery are 
 those which fix themselves, afterwards, most firmly on his 
 momorv. Of the thousands who have read Burke's speech 
 on the nabob of Arcot's debts, probably very few have any 
 distinct conception of the argument, while all remember his 
 magnificent description of the descent of Hyder Ali upon 
 the Carnatic, commencing, '^When, at lipngth Hyder Ali 
 found," etc. The facts and the reasonings may have long 
 since passed away, but we remember the scene of devasta- 
 tion which the orator describes, and, whether justly or 
 unjustly, hold in abhorrence the men whom he stigmatizes 
 as the authors of the calamity. 
 
 4. Peculiarities of mental character. Some of these 
 are permanent, and some accidental. 
 
 Men differ very greatly in mental constitution. In seme 
 the reasoning element predominates, in others the imagin- 
 ative, and in others the practical. These intellectual biase? 
 must modify very materially the train of thought. Let. 
 for instance, a poet and a philosopher, on a clear night, 
 go out to survey the vault of heaven, studded with in- 
 numerable stars. The trains of thought which will arise in 
 the minds of the two men will be exceedingly unlike. 
 
ASSOCIATION OF ID 1^] AS. 219 
 
 The one would associate all thtit he saw with various ideas 
 of moral sublimity with which he is tauiiliar, and would per- 
 haps express his emotions in a hymn of praise, or an ode to a 
 planet. The astronomer would think of the distances, mag- 
 nitudes and revolutions, of the heavenly bodies, and would 
 find himself striving to solve some problem which their pres- 
 ent position suggested. A devout man, on the other hand, 
 would probably give utterance to his emotions in the words 
 of David : '' When I consider the heavens the work of thy 
 fingers, the moon and the stars which thou hast ordained, 
 what is man, that thou art mindful of him, or the son of 
 man, that thou visitest him?" To a mind like that of 
 Newton the fall of an apple might give rise to a train of 
 thought which would lead to the most magnificent dis- 
 coveries ; to a boy it might suggest no other idea than the 
 desire of eating it ; while to the botanist it would recall the 
 class and order of plants to which the tree belonged. Agas- 
 siz and Coleridge would be very differently affected by a view 
 from the vale of Chamouni. On the other hand, in an un- 
 cultivated mind, none of these trains of thought would be 
 awakened. Thus, the poet, describing a mind of this order, 
 tells us, 
 
 ** A cowslip, by the river's brim, 
 A yellow cowslip was to him ; 
 And it was nothing more. ' ' 
 
 Besides these intellectual differences, there are permanent 
 varieties of character depending on the tone of mind of the 
 individual. Some men are always cheerful, the present and 
 the future being always tinged with the roseate hue of hope. 
 Every change seems to them indicative of prosperity. Such 
 is, more commonly, the character of youth. To others the 
 present, but more especially the future, seems clothed with 
 gloom ; and the prospect of change awakens no other emo- 
 tion than apprehensiveness. Such is the character of the 
 
220 INTELLECTUAL PHILO&jPHY. 
 
 melancholy man, and such is apt to be the tendency of age 
 Milton, in his L' Allegro and II Penseroso, has, with strik- 
 ing beauty, illustrated these two forms of character. 
 
 These are permanent varieties ; but there are accidental 
 varieties, dependihg on the circumstances of the individual 
 The mind, deeply affected by any train of reflection, will 
 pursue it for some time, though at variance with its 
 natural bias. Thus, an astronomer, fresh from the reading 
 of Milton, might look upon the heavens for a time with the 
 emotions of a poet ; and a poet, rising from the study of 
 the Principia, might look upon them with the eye of an as- 
 tronomer. And then, again, our tone of -mind frequently 
 varies from its accustomed bias. A cheerful man is some- 
 times sad, and a melancholy man is sometimes mirthful. 
 Images exquisitely ludicrous occasionally flitted across the 
 gloom which habitually shrouded the mind of Cowper. We 
 all know how different are the trains of thought which press 
 upon him who walks abroad for the first time after the 
 death of a friend, and him who, after confinement by sick- 
 ness, rejoices in the freshness of invigorated health. 
 
 These subjective laws again modify each other. Thus, 
 for instance, lapse of time is modified by coexistent emotion ; 
 that is to say, an event which has strongly interested us will 
 much more readily be associated with surrounding circum- 
 stances, even after a long interval, than an event which 
 awakened no emotion, though of more recent occurrence. 
 Or, again, the. objective and subjective laws may modify 
 each Dther. Thus, we know that we associate ideas in 
 obedience to the laws of resemblance or contrast, but whether 
 we shall associate by the one, or the other, may depend 
 upon the permanent or accidental tone of mind of the indi- 
 vidual. Thus, if a cheerful scene be presented to a happy 
 man, he associates by resemblance, a melancholy man by 
 i/Ontrast. The loveliness of spring to a mourner suggests 
 
ASSOCIATION OF IDEAS. 221 
 
 »nly images of disappointed hope and speedy dissulutioa 
 To tne cheerful man even the gloom of winter awakens the 
 anticipations of returning spring, and he thinks only of the 
 contrast which, in a few months, will renew the whole face 
 of nature. 
 
 It is, in this manner, by the combination of these several 
 laws, that the train of thought is directed. As these vari- 
 ous causes operate with unequal power at different times, 
 and are modified by edit other, and by the present circum- 
 stances of each individual, there arises an infinite variety in 
 the modes of mental association. Hence we should consider 
 it almost miraculous if two men should be affected in exactly 
 the same manner in precisely the same circumstances, so that 
 they should give utterance to their sentiments in the same 
 language. Yet, while all this diversity is known to exist, 
 we are conscious that it is still governed by laws ; for we 
 recognize in an instant an abnormal or incoherent associa- 
 tion, and attribute it at once either to idiocy or insanity. So 
 delicate are our mental instincts, that he who knows nothing 
 of the laws of association is intuitively aware when they 
 are violated. 
 
 It is on the perfection of this delicate instinct, which spon- 
 taneously recognizes all the laws of association, that the 
 power of the dramatist essentially depends. He forms con- 
 ceptions of a variety of characters, and places them in cir- 
 cumstances desimed to call forth the intensest emotion. 
 But these circumstances will affect each individual according 
 to his peculiar idiosyncrasy. The dramatic poet has the 
 power of throwing himself into each character, and of feeling 
 instinctively the emotions to which such a human being, 
 under such circumstances, would give utterance. This 19 
 .tie of the rarest gifts with which genius is ever endowed. 
 It is to this power that Shakspeare owes his preeminence. 
 Considered simply as a poet, there are other men of geniuj 
 19* 
 
222 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 
 
 with whom he may come into comparison ; but in dramatic 
 
 exhibition of character he stands, by confession, without a 
 
 rival. 
 
 ** Our Shakspeare's magic could not copied be; 
 Within that circle none dare walk but he." 
 
 It may seem, from what I have said, that associatior 
 evinces a power beyond our, control, and that hence we arc 
 not responsible for our trains of thought, or the conse- 
 quences to which they lead. This inference, it is almost un- 
 necessary to add, is unwarranted. By association ideas are 
 suggested, but it still depends on our own volition to deter- 
 mine whether the suggestion shall be heeded. A thought 
 is presented by the law of association ; we may accept or 
 reject it. Two dissimilar thoughts are suggested, and we 
 may select either of them at our option. When a particu- 
 lar association is followed repeatedly, we form the habit of 
 thinking in that particular train ; but the formation of that 
 habit depended, at each successive step, upon our own will. 
 It is, then, evident that the formation of our characters, 
 whether intellectual or moral, is dependent on ourselves. 
 Hence it is that circumstances are said to form men ; that is, 
 the conditions in which we are placed accustom us to cer- 
 tain modes of thinking, which, becoming habitual, render 
 our character fixed and determinate. Hence, also, we see 
 how much character depends upon energy of will, by which 
 the development of our own powers ceases to be the result 
 of accident, and follows in the line marked out for it by 
 reasonable and predetermined choice. 
 
 It has been truly remarked, that our associations are fre- 
 quently the cause of great errors in judgment. When w^e 
 repeatedly associate two ideas together, we are prone, with- 
 out examination, to consider the connection by its nature 
 indissoluble. Thus, in youth, having observed many good 
 
NATURE OF MEMORY. '2'23 
 
 mer members of our own religious sect, we associate the 
 idei of goodness with that sect, and. going furtlier, consider 
 piety exclusively coniSned within its limits. Ilavin*'', agam. 
 experienced innumerable benefits arising from a republican 
 government, we not only associate the idea of freedom and 
 intelligence with our own institutions, but suppose tliat 
 these advantages can be enjoyed under no other conditions 
 of humanity. A multitude of cases of a similar kind will 
 readily suggest themselves. These errors are manifestly 
 to be removed bv a larg-er knowledo;e of the world, and a 
 more careful and frequent examination of the reasons of 
 our opinions. This subject is treated with great beauty 
 and sound discrimination in Stewart's chapter on Associa- 
 tion. 
 
 REFERENCES. 
 
 Stewart — Vol. i., chap. 5 ; Locke — Book 11, chap. 33 ; Reid — Essay 
 4, chap. 4. 
 
 SECTION II. — THE NATURE OF MEMORY. 
 
 Memory is that faculty by which we retain and recall 
 •our knowledge of the past. I saw a tree yesterday. I 
 know now that I saw it then and there. I have a concep- 
 tion of a tree, with a certain knowledge that I saw the tree 
 which corresponds to this conception, at some previous time. 
 How I know this I cannot tell, but my consciousness reveals 
 it to me as positive and reliable knowledge. 
 
 I have, in the above definition, ascribed but two func- 
 tions to memory, — the power by which we retain, and that 
 by which we recall, our knowledge of the past. The distinc- 
 tion between these powers is easily observed, for they are 
 not always bestowed in equal degrees. Some men retain 
 ^Jieir knowledge more perfectly than they recall it. Othera 
 
224 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHT. 
 
 have their knowledge always at command, and make even 
 Bmall acquisitions eminently available. 
 
 Stewart divides the first of these functions into suscepti- 
 bility and retentiveness. A foundation for this distinction 
 evidently exists. Some men acquire with great rapidity, 
 but they very soon forget whatever they have learned. 
 Others acquire with difficulty, but retain tenaciously the 
 knowledge which they have once made their own. Others, 
 again, as I have just remarked, have a remarkable command 
 of their knowledge on all occasions. It must be evident 
 that memory is perfect in the degree in which it is endowed 
 with all these attributes. Men of the highest order of in- 
 tellect are often preeminently gifted in all these respects. 
 It will be sufficient to mention the names of Leibnitz. 
 Milton, Johnson, Scott, Napoleon, Cuvier, Goethe, Sir W. 
 Hamilton, in order to confirm the truth of this remark. 
 Such men acquire with incredible facility, rarely forget any- 
 thing which they have learned, and, at will, with remarkable 
 accuracy, concentrate all their knowledge upon the point 
 which they are at the moment discussing. 
 
 The knowledge which we obtain by memory may prop- 
 erly be called, in the words of Sir W. Hamilton, represen- 
 tative and mediate, in distinction from presentative and 
 immediate knowledge. When I see a tree, I am conscious 
 of an immediate knowledge, the object being presented 
 directly before my mind. When I remember a tree, there 
 is no external object presented. The tree is represented by 
 the act of the mind itself. I know the tree throuo-h the 
 medium of this representation. The immediate object of 
 my thought is this conce| tion of the thing, while, by a power 
 inherent in my intellect, I connect this image with the idea 
 of past reality. That this is true, is evident from the fact 
 that the mental state is precisely the same, whether the 
 •bject at present is or is not existing. I remember a hous« 
 
NATURE OF MEMORY. 225 
 
 which I saw a year ago. The image of it is distinctly be- 
 fore my mind. I am told that the house has been burned 
 down, and that nothing remains where it stood but a heap 
 of smouldering ruins. This does not at all affect the iinairo 
 I have in my mind. The only difference in the two cases 
 is, that before I contemplated it as the representation of 
 something existing, now only of something that did exist. 
 
 Concerning this faculty, as thus defined, several important 
 facts may be observed. 
 
 1. I have before remarked, when treating of the percep- 
 ' live faculties, that our knowledge derived from this source 
 is of two kinds, simple and complex. Simple knowledge is 
 merely a state of mind, a consciousness of a peculiar impres- 
 sion made upon our sensitive organism, without giving us an 
 intimation of anything external; a mere affection of the 
 me, without any relation to the not me. The other kind 
 of knowledge is complex ; that is, together with this affection 
 of the me, there is communicated to us a knowledge of the 
 7iot me, in some of its modifications. In this latter case, 
 we form a notion of the not me as something numerically 
 distinct from the me. 
 
 Whenever our knowledge is of the latter character, our 
 recollection of it is always attended by a conception, and 
 this conception forms a part of the act of memory. Sir 
 W. Hamilton, on this account, happily describes memory as 
 a recoUective imagination. We have before us an image of 
 the object remembered, and are conscious that it represents 
 some past existence. Thus, when we remember a visible 
 object, we form for ourselves' a distinct conception of its ap- 
 pearance. We never consider an act of memory complete 
 until this conception is created Thub, if I am asked 
 whether I remember a village Arhich I passed through 
 some years since, if I can rerr^U the conception of the 
 locality, I answer in the aflarmative ; if I only know iliat 
 
226 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY^ 
 
 from the route which I took I must have passed through it, 
 but have no conception of its appearance, I answer in the 
 negative. If, however, after an interval, I am able to recall 
 it as I perceived it, I reply that now I recollect it. 
 
 With respect to simple knowledge, or that which is 
 limited to sensations, the case is different. We here form 
 no conception, and the act of memory is imperfect I re- 
 member^ for instance, the visible appearance of a peach, its 
 color, magnitude, form, etc., and I represent it to myself 
 in thought. I have, however, no such recollection either of 
 the smell or taste of the peach. I form no representation 
 of these qualities, nor, so far as I know, am I able to do it. 
 My recollection amounts to no more than this : I know 
 that I have, at various times, both smelled and tasted of 
 peaches, and that I should instantly recognize these qualities 
 were they present ; but I can do no more. An exception 
 to this remark is, however, to be made in the case of hearing. 
 Here, though the knowledge is simple, that is, merely an 
 affection oi our sensitive organism, it is, however, capable 
 of forming a conception. Hence, our recollection of it is 
 remarkably perfect. After once hearing a tune, we can, 
 if skilled in music, recall it with perfect accuracy, and can 
 do it in perfect silence, merely forming a conception of the 
 Bounds by the memory. 
 
 2. A' complete act of the memory is always attended by 
 belief. He who remembers, is conscious of an original con- 
 nction that the conception which he forms is the true repre 
 ijcntativo of some preexisting knowledge. He knows it to 
 lie, as has been said, a recollective imagination. How we 
 know this, how we are able to distinguish a simple imagina- 
 tion from a recollective imagination, we are unable to ex- 
 plain. Consciousness reveals to us the difference, and we can 
 discover nothing beyond the simple fact. It has been said 
 that we learn to rely upon the testimony of memory by ex 
 
NATURE OF MEMORY. 227 
 
 perience. This, however, must be inc(^TQct, for \\\) evidently 
 rely upon it anterior to experience. And, besides, the very 
 experience on which we are here said to depen<l. presupposes 
 the validity of the testimony of memory. Unless I rely on 
 mem(.ry to give me a knowledge of the past, I can gain no 
 experience respecting the character of memory itself 
 • I am, however, aware that there are frequent cases in 
 which, while we have a clear conception of an act, our recol- 
 lection is imperfect, so that we doubt whether the state of 
 mind be merely a conception or a recollection. Thus. I 
 intended several days since to write a letter, and formed a 
 purpose to write it at a particular time. The question now 
 occurs to me, did I write it or not? When I think of the 
 act, is my mental state that of recollection, or only of con- 
 ception ; in other words, did I actually do it, or did I oidy 
 resolve to do it ? Here our consciousness enables us to 
 distinguish between certainty and doubt, though it does not 
 enable us to resolve the doubt. So far, however, as I have 
 observed, it is generally the fact that when we doubt the 
 doubt is entitled to precedence, and we find on inquiry that 
 the thing was not done. When, on the other hand, the 
 testimony of consciousness to our recollection is perfect, we 
 rely upon it with as much certainty as on the present evi- 
 dence of our senses. I am as sure that I saw a certain tree 
 yesterday, as I was sure yesterday that I was then seeing 
 it. It is upon this attribute of memory that all our belief 
 of the existence of the past and the distant depends. Wo 
 repose the same confidence in the memory of competent 
 witnesses as in our own. I just as fully and perfectly be- 
 lieve in the existence of Constantinople as of London, though 
 the one I have seen • and the other I have not. seen. On 
 this belief in the veracity of memory, all the evidence of 
 testimony depends ; and hence, with entire confidence in itj 
 
228 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 
 
 validity, we proceed to decide questions involving pmperty, 
 reputation, and life itself. 
 
 It is proper here to remark, that this consciousness, by 
 which Ave determine a representation in our minds to be a 
 recollection and not an imagination, is liable to be greatly 
 impaired. He who forms the habit of deliberate lying, or 
 of affirming that his conceptions are recollections, will grad- 
 ually lose the power of distinguishing the one from the other. 
 By passing from truth to falsehood and from falsehood to 
 truth, without moral consciousness, the line which separates 
 them from each other becomes more and more indistinct, 
 until it is at last obliterated. I have known men who 
 would utter the most absurd falsehoods, without seeming to 
 be conscious either that they were lying or that their hear- 
 ers knew them to be liars. A more just retribution for 
 the abuse of our moral faculties cannot be conceived. 
 
 Another peculiarity connected with this part of our sub- 
 ject deserves to be remarked. We are sometimes led into 
 innocent mistakes concerning our recollection. If we hear 
 an event frequently related, until every minute incident is 
 engraven on our recollection, we may, after a considerable 
 period has elapsed, seem to ourselves to have witnessed it. 
 I think it is Burke who says, '^ Never let a man repeat to 
 you a lie. If he tell you a story every day which you know 
 to be false, at the end of a year you will believe it to be 
 true." A distinguished justice of the Supreme Judicial 
 Court of Massachusetts once related to me a case which 
 pertinently illustrates this remark. He was once trying a 
 cause relating to a will, and a lady testified most distinctly 
 to some occurrences which she had witnessed when she was 
 a child. Her evidence was distinct and minute as to all 
 the circumstances of person, time, and place. She was a 
 person of mature age, of a character above suspicion, and 
 incapable of testifying to what she did not believe to be 
 
NATURE OF MEMORY. 229 
 
 true. It aowever appeared, in the course *f the trial, from 
 incontestable documentary evidence, that the events had 
 transpired several years before she was born. When a girl 
 dhe had heard the occurrence so frequently related, with 
 great particularity, that in mature years it presented itself 
 to her as a matter of personal knowledge rather than of 
 recollection of the narrative of others. 
 
 Lastly ; the act of memory involves two subordinate be- 
 liefs. First, it presupposes a belief in the past existence of 
 the object recollected ; and, secondly, in the past and present 
 existence, of the subject recollecting. From both of these 
 we derive the idea of duration, for were there no duration, 
 there could be no past existence ; that is, the idea of dura- 
 tion logically precedes the idea of memory. From the 
 second of these beliefs we derive the idea of personal 
 identity. The belief that we, who are now existing, cog- 
 nized an object at any previous point in duration, su})pose3 
 both the cognitions to appertain to the same subject ; that is, 
 that the eso in both these cocrnitions is one and the same. 
 
 3. The power of recollection in different individuals 
 differs greatly, both in degree and in kind. 
 
 Some men are so remarkably gifted in this respect, that 
 without apparent effort they seem to remember whatever they 
 have read, and every person whom they have even casually 
 seen. Others, though possessing many eminent qualities 
 of intellect, find difficulty in recollecting the persons and 
 things which daily surround them. Cyrus is reported to 
 have been able to call by name every soldier in his army, 
 and Themistocles to have known individually every citizen 
 of Athens. I have been told that General Washington 
 never found it necessary to be twice intraluced to the same 
 person. Boswell records of Dr. Johnson, that once, when 
 riding in a stage-coach, he repeated with verbal accuracy 
 a number of the Rambler, some ten or twelve years after 
 20 
 
230 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 
 
 its p»;blication ; at the same time stating that he had not 
 Been it since he corrected the original proof-sheets. In his 
 life of Rowe he criticizes the poet's works with a -very accu- 
 rate conception of their merits, frequently quoting whole pas- 
 sages as though he were transcribing them from the printed 
 page. When he had finished it, he said to a friend, "I 
 think this is pretty well done, considering that I have not 
 read a play of Rowe's for thirty years." On the contrary, 
 Montaigne, though a man of original genius, and one of the 
 marked men of his age, was always complaining of the bad- 
 ness of his memory. ^' I am forced," says he, '^ to call my 
 servants by the names of their employments, or of the coun- 
 tries where they were born, for I can hardly remember their 
 proper names, and if I should live long, I question whether 
 I should remember my own name." In this case there seems 
 to be some peculiar idiosyncrasy; for while he forgot so 
 readily the individual, he was able to remember the class to 
 which he belonged. 
 
 Differences of memory exist hot only in degree, but Id 
 kind. 
 
 I have already observed that some men are more remark- 
 able for susceptibility, others for retentiveness, and others 
 for readiness of memory. Every one who has observed the 
 minds of young persons, must have seen frequent illustra- 
 tions of the truth of this remark. But these differences do 
 not terminate here. There exist what may not inappropri- 
 ately be termed objective differences of memory ; that is, this 
 power seems, in different individuals to manifest an affinity 
 for different classes of objects. Some men remember num- 
 bers and dates with remarkable accuracy, and easily retain 
 not only figures, but even long and complicated algebraic 
 formulae. Other men remember permanently and without 
 effort, localities, the faces of persons, and every form of 
 external nature. Some have great facility in recollecting 
 
NATURE OF MEMORY. 231 
 
 words and their relations to each other ; and hence at an 
 early age manifest a fondness for the study of laiigua;^e and 
 the pursuits of philology. Otliera again, ^vlio are pos- 
 sessed of none of these powers in a remarivable degree, 
 acquire principles and general laws without efibrt, and will 
 frequently remember the law\ while they forget the facts by 
 which it is established. It is said that the late Dr. Gall 
 was first led to the investigations which terminated in his 
 system of phrenology, by observing that some boys possessed 
 peculiar skill in finding their way out of a forest, while 
 others, under the same circumstances, would be completely 
 bewildered. He remarked, that those of the first class were 
 marked with a protuberance in the forehead just above the 
 eye. He also observed that those who displayed a remark- 
 able aptitude for languages were formed with a depression 
 'of the roof of the orbit of the eye, which gave to the eye 
 the appearance of unusual fulness. Generalizing these ob- 
 servations, he was led to conclude that every modificatiun 
 of mental character was accompanied by some corresponding 
 peculiarity in the form of the brain. Whether there be the 
 connection between the mental and physical organization 
 which phrenologists assert, I will not determine ; but that they 
 have aided us in remarking with greater exactness many 
 peculiarities of mental constitution, may, I think, be fairly 
 admitted. 
 
 That these diiferences may be accounted for, in some 
 degree, by education, I have no doubt. In the most re- 
 markable instances, however, they seem to depend chiefly 
 on natural endowment. I have known several persons who 
 have been o;ifted with some of these forais of recollection in 
 a very uncommon degree, and they have uniformly told me 
 ^ that the things w^hich they remembered cost them no more 
 pains than those which they forgot. All the account 
 which they couH give of the matter was, that some classes 
 
232 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 
 
 of facts, without any special effort, remained permanentlj 
 fixed in their recollection, while others were as readily for 
 gotten by them as by other men. A highly-esteemed cler- 
 gyman of Massachusetts, lately deceased, who could tell the 
 year of the graduation of every alumnus of his university 
 and the minutest incidents relating to every ordination in 
 his vicinity for the last half-century, assured me that it cost 
 him no labor, but that it was, so far as he knew, a mental 
 peculiarity. 
 
 The large development of any particular form of memory 
 is not, of necessity, accompanied by any other remarkable 
 intellectual endowments. Instances have frequently been 
 noticed of men, with prodigious powers of recollection, 
 whose abilities in other respects were even below medi- 
 ocrity. Very remarkable memory has even been observed 
 in persons of so infirm an understanding that they did 
 not even comprehend what they accurately repeated. In this 
 case, probably, the power was mere susceptibility of memory ; 
 that is, the power of acquiring on the instant, without the 
 ability of permanent recollection. A very remarkable case 
 of this one-sided power is mentioned in the life of the late 
 Mr. Roscoe, of Liverpool. A young Welsh fisherman, of 
 about the age of eighteen, was found to have made most re- 
 markable progress in the study of languages. He was not 
 only familiar with Latin and Greek, but also with Hebrew, 
 Arabic, and other oriental dialects. Some benevolent gen- 
 tlemen, in that city, provided means for giving him every 
 literary advantage, in the hope that his vast acquisitiona 
 might be made useful to society, and also that he might un- 
 fold the processes by which his singular attainments had 
 been made. The attempt was, however, unsuccessful. He 
 seemed not to be peculiarly capable of education, but, witt 
 the exception of this peculiar gift, his mind partook entirelj 
 
NATURE OF MEMORY, 238 
 
 of the character of the class with ^yhich he had been asso- 
 ciated. 
 
 4. The character of memory changes materially with 
 age. 
 
 Memory is one of our faculties which is developed at a 
 very early age, specially in the characteristics of suscepti- 
 bility and retentiveness. Of this any one will be convinced 
 who will observe the prodigious number of particulars which 
 a human being acquires almost in infancy. A child of four 
 or five years old has already learned the names and uses 
 of the ordinary objects which he sees around him; and has 
 acquired a tolerable knowledge of his native language. A 
 boy, before he goes to school, is better acquainted with his 
 mother tongue, than he will be with Latin and Greek after 
 ten or twelve years of study. Nor is this all. Children 
 educated in a family in which several languages are spoken, 
 learn them all with equal facility. 
 
 As might, however, be expected, this faculty, which first 
 comes to maturity, is also the first to decline. The first intel- 
 lectual indication of advancing years is a conscious failure in 
 the power of recollection. When the memory becomes im- 
 paired from this cause, we do not forget so much the 
 knowledge acquired in youth, as that acquired at a later 
 period. Hence, old men recite the deeds of their youth, 
 not those of maturer years. Horace describes an old man 
 as laudator temporis acti. The heroes of our revolution 
 are never so well pleased as when relating the events of that 
 illustrious struggle, and the reminiscences whicli they have 
 treasured up of the career of Washington. The reason 
 for this is two-fold. An event which transpires in youth 
 awakens in us a deeper coexistent emotion than in age : and, 
 secondly, the social character of youth leads us frequentl.^ 
 to relate the incidents which please us, and hence every in 
 teresting event becomes more deeply engraved on the mem 
 20* 
 
234 INTELLECTUAL PHII.JSOPHY. 
 
 ory. To an old man, the later period of his life resembles a 
 dream ; the period of youth and early manhood alone seems 
 like reality. 
 
 As old men are naturally inclined to recite the events of 
 their youth, so this very recital is most pleasing to the 
 young. A child wearies his parents with the request that 
 they will tell him what they saw and did when they were 
 young. We are all conscious of the eagerness with which 
 we listen to the relation, by eye-witnesses, of occurrences 
 which transpired sixty or seventy years since. The final 
 cause of this arrangement is as obvious as it is beautiful. 
 These corresponding dispositions were conferred upon us for 
 the sake of binding together the young and the old by the 
 tie of mutual sympathy. The tedium and infirmity of age 
 is beguiled and alleviated by the society of youth ; and the 
 young are taught those lessons of experience, which they 
 would seek for in vain from those who, like themselves, are 
 just commencing the warfare of life. 
 
 From these facts, we learn the more correctly to appre- 
 ciate the importance of a diligent and well-spent youth. If 
 the spring-time of life is consumed in frivolity and sin, the 
 mind, in the winter of age, must sink into decrepitude ; and 
 nothing will present itself to the memory, but the recollec- 
 tion of deeds which tinge the cheek with shame, and goad 
 the conscience with remorse. If, on the other hand, the 
 memory is stored in youth with valuable knowledge, and the 
 faculties are disciplined by strenuous exertion, we sow the 
 seeds of a green old age ; that condition in which, without 
 the vigor and elasticity of youth, there exist the accumu- 
 lated knowledge of a laborious life, and the calm, ripe wis- 
 dom of a large experience. If to these be added the con- 
 sciousness of purity of motive, and the beautiful simplicity 
 which results from a virtuous life, old age becomes one of 
 the most favored periods of our present state. It may then 
 
NATURE OF MEMORY. 285 
 
 be worth while for the young to remember, that while dili^ 
 gence and mental discipline afford the only reasonable hope 
 for success in manhood, they present the only security 
 against the evils of an imbecile, unhappy, and neglected old 
 age. 
 
 It is to be remarked, further, that the memory of youth 
 differs in kind, as well as in degree, from that of maturer 
 life. In youth, as might be expected, we remember fiicts ; 
 as we advance in age, we observe, appreciate, and remem- 
 ber laws and their relations. In the early period of life, we 
 collect the materials ; as we grow older, we learn to use 
 them. In youth our tendency is to the objective and con- 
 crete ; in maturer years we tend to the subjective and the 
 abstract. If we were to be more particular, we might 
 aflBnn, that in childhood susceptibility seems more active ; 
 in youth, retentiveness ; ard in manhood readiness. In 
 childhood, as I have said, we learn a multitude of things 
 which we soon forget. The ordinary events of the first 
 four or five years of our lives soon pass into oblivion. In 
 advancing youth, while we lose in some degree the power 
 of committing to memory, we retain what we have learned 
 much more tenaciously. I have remarked on the facility 
 with which young persons will learn several languages at 
 the same time, and, what is scarcely possible for an. adult, 
 they will learn them idiomatically.^ It is, however, a singu- 
 
 * A singular confirmation of this remark is found in the life of Dr. 
 Carey, the pioneer Protestant missionary in India. Dr. Carey had a de- 
 cide«l ':alent for languages, and acquired them with great facility before h« 
 left England. When he arrived in Bengal with his family, he commenced 
 the study of the native tongues with his usual perseverance, a.«*sisted hy 
 the best helps, both printed and oral, which the country tlien atforded. 
 His children, without any instruction, were left to amuse themselves with 
 natives of their own age. It was not long before the f ither wjis obliged 
 to call in his children to explain to him phrases and idioms which he wm 
 unable to unlerstand. They had learned, by playing with their folic wa, 
 more rapidly than he by tH combined aid of books and pundits. 
 
236 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 
 
 lar fact, that if a young person studies an ancient language^ 
 as Latin or Greek, and, from change of residence, forgets hia 
 native tongue, he will remember the language which he ac- 
 quired by grammatical study, longer than his vernacular. 
 This difference may arise either from the fact that reten- 
 tiveness of memory increases with age, or because whatever 
 is learned by a protracted effort is more indelibly fixed in 
 the recollection. 
 
 5. Memory may be improved in a shorter time, and tv a 
 greater extent, than any of our other faculties. 
 
 The change that may be produced in this respect is i 3- 
 quently remarkable. Pupils in a school may, in a fjw 
 months, be taught to commit to memory an amount which, at 
 first, would have seemed incredible. It is not difficult to 
 teach a class to recite from beginning to end the acquisitions 
 of a whole term, without any aid from the instructor. A 
 gentleman with whom I am well acquainted, informed me 
 that he once determined to ascertain the extent to whicli the 
 improvement of his memory could be carried. Hf soon 
 found himself able to repeat verbatim, two or three p? ^es of 
 any book after it had been read to him only once. IJe was 
 able to go into a legislative assembly, and write dow«i from 
 recollection, after its adjournment, the proceedings of the 
 day, with as much accuracy as they were reporteck by the 
 stenographers. 
 
 While, however, it is generally true, that the memory may 
 be greatly and permanently improved by judiciou? practice, 
 't is probable that the rapid improvement, of whick we have 
 frequent instances, has respect more to susceptibility, than 
 either to retentiveness or readiness. What we acquire so 
 suddenly is learned only for a particular occasion ; and 
 when the occasion has passed away, all we have learned has 
 passed away with it. Clergymen, who with tase commit 
 their sermons by once or twice reading them over, are obliged 
 
NATURE OF MEMORY. 237 
 
 to commit them anew as often as they arc called to deliver 
 them. When we desire to cultivate the memory in general, 
 and render our knowledge permanently available, greater 
 care is necessary. The process is more difficult, and must 
 be conducted on principles which depend on the general laws 
 of the human mind. 
 
 The following case, related by Dr. Abercrombie, illua- 
 trates the extent to which the susceptibility of memory may 
 be increased by the pressure of circumstances. " A distin- 
 guished theatrical performer, in consequence of the sudden 
 illness of another actor, had occasion to prepare himself, on 
 very short notice, for a part which was entirely new to him ; 
 and the part was long, and rather difficult. He acquired it 
 in a very short time, and went through it with perfect accu- 
 racy, but, immediately after the performance, forgot every 
 word of it. Characters which he has acquired in a more 
 deliberate manner he never forgets, and can perform them 
 at any time without a moment's preparation ; but, in regard 
 to the character now mentioned, there was the further and 
 very singular fact, that, though he has repeatedly performed 
 it since that time, he has been obliged each time to prepare 
 it anew, and has never acquired in regard to it that facility 
 which is familiar to him in other instances. When ques- 
 tioned respecting the mental process which he employed the 
 first time he performed this part, he says that he lost sight 
 entirely of the audience, and seemed to have nothing before 
 him but the pages of the book from which he had learned 
 it ; and that, if anything had occurred to interrupt thisillu- 
 81 :n, he should have stopped instantly." — Abercrombie, 
 Part 3, section 1. 
 
 6. The power of recollection depends much . n the man- 
 ner in which our knowledge has been acquired. 
 
 Knowledge acquired by the assistance of our perceptive 
 feculties, is much longer remembered than that acquired by 
 
238 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY 
 
 conception through the medium of language. Ani, further, 
 a proposition which can in any manner be represented by an 
 imao'c is more easily remembered than a purely abstract 
 proposition, of which no image can be formed. We remem- 
 ber a landscape far better by having seen it, than by the 
 most elaborate description. Every one knows that the 
 scenery depicted in the writings of travellers and novelists 
 leaves scarcely a trace on the recollection. A machine may 
 be described to us with the most careful particularity, and 
 we may be able distinctly to comprehend it ; yet, if we see 
 neither it nor a model of it, we soon find that our recollec- 
 tion has become exceedingly shadow}'" and vague. The use 
 which may be made of this fact is evident. It teaches us 
 the importance of illustrating, by figures, diagrams, or ex- 
 periments, whatever we desire to communicate to others, 
 wherever the subject admits of it. Hence the use of a 
 black-board in a class-room ; and hence the value of skill 
 in drawing, to an instructor, in every branch of physical 
 science. 
 
 7. It is, however, the fact, that, in our present state, time 
 gradually obliterates the impressions made upon the memory. 
 What we learned yesterday, may be fresh in our recollection 
 to-day, but we shall remember it much less perfectly in a 
 month. If a year elapse without having had occasion to 
 recall it, it will in a great degree have faded away from our 
 recollection. I say, in a great degree; for, although the 
 principle which it involves, or the conclusion which it estab- 
 lishes, may remain, the sharp and definite outline of the 
 facts will have dissolved into forgetfulness. In this respect, 
 we are all the victims of a perpetually recurring delusion. 
 It seems to us that what we .remember so perfectly, and 
 understand so clearly, to-day, can never be forgotten. 
 Though repeated trials, and lamentable ignorance of what 
 we have once known, might seem sufficient to convince us of . 
 
NATURE OF MEMORY. 2.H9 
 
 our error, we press blindly onward, ever Icarninii;, and yv{ 
 ever failing permanently to treasure up what we have 
 already acquired. 
 
 While this, however, is the general fact, it is subject to 
 several modifications. Some of these are the followin<^ : 
 
 o 
 
 1. Exact and definite knowledge is much longer remem- 
 bered than vague and indefinite conceptions. A proposition 
 but half known, and indistinctly conceived, is almost imme- 
 diately forgotten ; while that which we have thoroughly 
 thought, and adequately comprehended, does not easily 
 escape us. Hence we see that our progress in knowledge 
 does not so much depend upon the amount which we read 
 as upon the manner in which we study. He who reviews 
 his past history will observe that his present acquisitions are 
 the sum of all that he has at some time thoroughly learned. 
 That which was only imiperfectly understood is lost in the 
 mass of confused and useless reminiscences. 
 
 2. An isolated proposition is soon forgotten, while one 
 of which we perceive the connections and relations is more 
 easily remembered. A single number, as the height of a 
 mountain, the area of a field, the page of a book, a law of 
 
 , mechanics expressed in abstract terms, or any truth viewed 
 without relation to any other truth, easily eludes our recol- 
 lection. We obviate this diflSculty, if we can establish any 
 relation, even though it be but fanciful, between the fact 
 which we desire to remember, and some other truth perma- 
 nently known. Thus, if we wish to remember the lieiglit 
 of a mountain, we associate it with the height of some well- 
 known object, and we find our power of recollection 
 increased. If we associate a law with the facts for which 
 it accounts, the same effect is produced. It is on the prin- 
 ciple of associating something to be remembered, with some- 
 thing else well known, that the systems of artifici:il memory 
 are construc'ied. 
 
•240 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 
 
 3. Knowledge which is beginning to vanish from our 
 recollection is rendered more permanent by even a cursory 
 review. By occasionally repeating this review, the truth 
 Decomes incorporated with our permanent knowledge. It is 
 a good rule never to commence the reading of to-day, until 
 we have carefully reviewed the reading of yesterday ; and 
 never to lay aside a book until we have leisurely imprinted 
 on our minds its most important truths. Conversation on 
 what we have read is of great service in this respect. I 
 think it is Johnson who mentions that it was his custom, in 
 youth, as soon as he had finished a book, to find some one 
 to whom he could explain its principles. Full and free 
 discussion upon the truths which we have acquired, gives not 
 only permanency but definiteness to our knowledge. It is 
 on this account that studious men derive so much advantage 
 from associating together, and communicating the result of 
 their researches for the benefit of each other. 
 
 8. From remarkable and well- authenticated facts, it ap- 
 pears that, probably from some unexplained condition of the 
 material organs, the recollection of knowledge long since 
 obliterated may be suddenly revived. These cases have been 
 observed to occur most frequently in extreme sickness, and 
 on the near approach of death. May it not be that, in our 
 present state, the material and immaterial part of man being 
 intimately united, our failure of recollection is caused by 
 some condition of the material organism ; and that, as this 
 union approaches dissolution, the power of the material over 
 the immaterial is weakened, and the knowledge which we 
 have once acquired is more fully revealed to our conscious- 
 ness, mdicating that when the separation is complete it will 
 remain with us forever ? 
 
 A variety of cases are mentioned by writers on this sub- 
 ject, a few of which are here inserted : 
 
 An instance is mentioned by Coleridge of a servant-girl 
 
NATURE OF iMEMOKY. 241 
 
 JD Germany, who, in extreme sickness, >vas observed to 
 repeat passages of Greek, Latin and Hebrew, though she 
 was known to have no acquaintance with these hiU'^uafT^cs. 
 Upon inquiry into her history, it was found that, many years 
 before, she had been a domestic in the flimily of a learned 
 professor, who was in the. habit of repeating aloud passages 
 from his favorite authors while walking in his study, which 
 adjoined the apartment in which she was accustomed to labor. 
 This case is the more remarkable, inasiir-icli as the person 
 had never been conscious herself of having acquired the 
 knowledge which she, under these circumstances, exhibited. 
 
 The Rev. Mr. Flint, a very intelligent gentleman, who, in 
 a series of interesting letters, has related his experiences in 
 the valley of the Mississippi, informs us that, under a des- 
 perate attack of typhus fever, as his attendants afterwards 
 told him, he repeated whole pages from Virgil and Homer, 
 which he had never committed to memory, and of which, 
 after his recovery, he could not recollect a line. 
 
 Dr. Abercrombie, in his work on intellectual philosophy, 
 mentions a variety of cases in which persons in extreme sick- 
 ness, and under operations for injuries of the head, con- 
 • versed in languages which they had known in youth, but had 
 for many years entirely forgotten. 
 
 Dr. Rush mentions the case of an Italian gentleman, who 
 died of yellow fever in New York, who, in the beginning of 
 his sickness, spoke English : in the middle of it, French ; 
 but on the day of his death, nothing but Italian. A Lu- 
 theran clergyman informed Dr. Rush that the Germans and 
 Swedes of his congregation in Philadelphia, when near 
 death, always prayed in their native languages, though some 
 of them, he was confident, had not spoken them for fifty or 
 sixty years. 
 
 Dr. Abercrombie mentions another case, of a boy, who, at 
 the age of four, received a fracture of the skull, for which 
 21 
 
242 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 
 
 he underwent the operation of the trepan. He was at the 
 time in a state of perfect stupor ; and, after his recovery, 
 retained no recollection either of the accident or of the opera- 
 tion. At the age of fifteen, during the delirium of a fever, 
 he gave his mother a correct description of the operation, 
 and the persons who were present at it, with their dress and 
 other minute particulars. He had never been observed to 
 allude to it before, and no means were known by which he 
 could have acquired a knowledge of the circumstances which 
 he related. 
 
 What conclusion we are authorized to draw from these 
 facts, it is difficult to determine. They, however, indicate 
 that what we seem to forget, can never be irretrievably lost 
 to the percipient soul. The means for recalling it in some 
 inexplicable manner appear to exist, and when, under some 
 unknown conditions, they are called into action, all or any 
 part of our knowledge may, on the instant, be brought to 
 our recollection. 
 
 The moral lesson which these facts inculcate is obvious. 
 If every impression made upon the mind is to remain 
 upon it forever, if the soul be a tablet from which nothing 
 that is written is ever erased, how great is the importance 
 of imbuing it with that knowledge which shall be a source 
 of joy to us as long as we exist ! And, again ; since knowl- 
 edge which lies so long dormant may be revived unex- 
 pectedly, under conditions which we cannot foresee, and at 
 times when it may have the most important bearing upon 
 our decisions and our destiny, it is of the greatest conse- 
 quence to us to store the mind with such knowledge as shall 
 invigorate our principles and confirm our virtue. He who 
 reads a corrupting book for pastime may thoughtlessly lay 
 it down, and suppose that in a few days all the images which 
 it has created. will have passed from his remembrance for- 
 ever. But these latent ideas may be recalled by some casual 
 
NATURE OF MEMOllY. 248 
 
 association or some physical condition of the i)rain, and 'Mvo 
 that bias to his mind, in the hour of temptation, wliich will 
 determine him to a course that shall tend to his final 
 undoing. 
 
 It may not be inappropriate here to suggest the harmony 
 between this condition of memory and the scripture doctrine 
 of a general judgment. The teaching of the New Testa- 
 ment on this subject is, that the whole race of man will bo 
 summoned before God, to be judged according to the deeds 
 done in the body. We can easily perceive how all this may 
 be done, if the view which we have taken on this subject be 
 correct. Suppose every being to be perfectly conscious of 
 all the events of his past life, and of all the obligations 
 which he has violated, and his character in a spiritual world 
 to be as manifest to others as it is to himself; and the judg- 
 ment concerning every individual must be immediately 
 formed by the whole universe. No examination is neede\l, 
 for the facts which in each case form the basis of the con 
 demnation are apparent to all. Like choosing its like, the 
 good would be separated from the bad : and the decision pro- 
 nounced by the Judge would be reechoed back from the 
 conscience of every individual, with the assent of every 
 moral intelligence. 
 
 It may be well, in closing this section, to refer to some 
 singular effects produced on memory by disease. They 
 do not come under any law with which I am acquainted^ 
 yet they deserve to be recorded for the purpose of directing 
 attention to the subject. It is by the observation of anom- 
 alous cases in science, that we are led to the discovery of 
 new and important laws. 
 
 Sometimes, in consequence pf injury or disease, the mem- 
 ory of a particular period is lost altogether, while what 
 occurred both before and after that period is rememlxjred 
 with accuracy. Dr. Beattie mentions the case of a clergy- 
 
244 INTELLECTUAL MILOSOPHY. 
 
 man who, in consequence of an apoplectic attack, lost the 
 recollection of precisely four years. 
 
 Sometimes the loss of memory relates to particular per- 
 sons. Dr. Abercrombie mentions the case of a surgeon who 
 was thrown from his horse and carried into a neighboring 
 house in a state of insensibility. From this he soon recov- 
 ered, and gave minute and correct directions respecting his 
 own treatment. In the evening he was so much relieved, 
 that he was removed to his own house. The medical friend 
 who accompanied him in the carriage made some observa- 
 tion respecting the precautions necessary to be observed to 
 prevent unnecessary alarm to his family, when, to his as- 
 tonishment, he discovered that his friend had lost all idea 
 of having either a wife or children. It was not until the 
 third day that the circumstances of his past life began to 
 recur to his mind. 
 
 Cases have occurred in which, from an injury to the head, 
 the knowledge of a particular language has been lost. In 
 other cases, not a language but a particular class of words 
 has been dropped from the recollection. A case is men- 
 tioned, in Avhich a patient suflFered from an attack of apo- 
 plexy. On his recovery, he had lost the power of pronounc- 
 ing or writing either proper names or any substantive 
 while his memory supplied adjectives in profusion. He 
 would speak of any one whom he wished to designate, by 
 calling him after the shape or color for which he was dis- 
 tinguished ; calling one man ^^red," from the color of his 
 bair, and another ''tail," from his stature; asking for his 
 hat as " black," and his coat as '' brown." As he was a 
 good botanist, he was acquainted with a Vast number of 
 plants, but he could never call them by their names. A 
 similar instance occurred, lately, in Livingston county, New 
 York. 
 
 A remarkable case is mentioned in the life of Rev. Wn 
 
NATURE OF MEMORY. 245 
 
 Tennent, a distinguished clergyman of New Jersey, about 
 the middle of the last century. While prosecuting hig 
 studies preparatory to the ministry, he was taken ill and 
 apparently died. After lying for some days without man- 
 ifesting any signs of life, he was resuscitated and recov- 
 ered. When he regained his health, it was found that ho 
 had lost all knowledge of the past, and was obliged to com- 
 mence his studies anew, beginning at the alphabet. He had 
 proceeded in this manner for some time, and had advanced 
 as far as the Latin grammar, when, on a sudden, he placed 
 his hand on his head, complaining of violent pain, and, on 
 the instant,, his former knowledge had returned to him just 
 as it existed previous to his illness. The wliolc account is 
 very remarkable, but I believe its authenticity to be above 
 suspicion. 
 
 Of these, and a vast number of similar facts, I believe our 
 present knowledge is unable to furnish us with any expla- 
 nation. They deserve to be recorded as material for future 
 investigation. Subsequent inquirers may be enabled to use 
 them so as to point out more clearly the connection between 
 the mind and the material organism, and thus enlarge our 
 knowledge of our intellectual faculties and the conditions of 
 their exercise. 
 
 REFERENCES. 
 
 Nature of memory — Reid, Essay 3, chap. 1; Stewart, vol. i.,chap. G. 
 
 Implies the power of retaining and recalling — Stewart, vol. i., chap. 6, 
 Bee. 1. Locke, Book 2, chap. 10, sec. 1, 2, 8 ; chap. 19, sec. 1. 
 
 Includes susceptibility, retentiveness and readiness— Stewart, vol. i., 
 chap. 6, sec. 2. 
 
 An original faculty — Reid, Essay 3, chap. 2. 
 
 Involves conception— Reid, Essay 3, chap. 1; Stewart, vol. i., chap. 6, 
 sec. 1. 
 
 Attended with belief of past existence and personal identity — Reid, 
 
 Essay 3, chaps. 1, 4, 6. 
 
 Varies in different individuals— Abercrombie, Part 3, sec. i , Stewart, 
 voL L, chap. 6, sec. 1, 2. 
 
 21* 
 
2-16 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 
 
 Local and pliiloEophical memory — Abercrombie, Part 3, sec. 1. 
 Greatly improvable — Stewart, vol. i., chap. 6. 
 
 Objects which awaken emotion easily remembered — Stewart, vol i 
 chap. 6, sec. 1. 
 
 Ideas fade from memory — Locke, Book 2, chap. 10, sees. 4, 5. 
 
 Reviewing fixes knowledge — Abercrombie, Part 4. 
 
 Effect of disease on memory — Abercrombie, Part 3, sec. 1. 
 
 SECTION III. — THE IMPORTANCE OF MEMORY. 
 
 In treating of this subject, I shall consider, first, the re- 
 lation of memory to our other faculties ; and, secondly, the 
 importance of a cultivated memory to professional success. 
 
 I. The relation between memory and our other intel- 
 lectual faculties. 
 
 Memory is not necessary either to perception or con- 
 sciousness. We could see, and hear, and feel, and be con- 
 scious of all the operations of our faculties, as* well without 
 memory as with it. It is not necessary to some acts of orig- 
 inal suggestion. Without it we might have a notion of 
 existence, both objective and subjective. We could not, 
 however, without it, form those original suggestions which 
 involve the idea of succession. Thus, without it, we could 
 have no notion either of duration or of cause and effect. 
 
 Memory, on the other hand, is essential to the existence 
 of all those ideas into which the element of time enters. 
 Without it our whole knowledge would consist of the im- 
 pressions made upon us now and here. Our intellectual 
 existence would thus be reduced to a single point. Whatever 
 we had known previously to the present moment, whatever 
 ideas had occupied our minds before the one Avhich now 
 occupies them, would be blotted out forever. Hence, though 
 we could form a notion of that which was immediately be- 
 fore us, we could not retain that notion, or anything corre* 
 
IMPORTANCE OF MEMORY. 247 
 
 spending to it, after it was withdrawn. Being una})le to 
 form conceptions, we could perform no acts either of analy- 
 sis, generalization, or combination. We could form no 
 notion of classes, and could have no general ideiis. Wo 
 could exercise no power of association, for there would bo 
 nothing within the scope of our mental vision, except the 
 single idea with which we were at the moment occupie 1. 
 Equally impossible would it be for us to reason. We reason 
 by the comparison of propositions ; but every proposition in- 
 volves two ideas, and one of these must designate a class ; 
 and without memory, as I have remarked, the notion of 
 classes would be impossible. But if this be true of the sin- 
 gle propositions which form a syllogism, how much stronger 
 is the case when we consider the syllogism itself, and, still 
 more, the series of syllogisms which form an argument. 
 
 Thus, memory holds an intermediate place between those 
 mental acts into which time does and those into which it doea 
 not enter. It originates nothing ; it gives us no new ideas ; 
 it merely retains the ideas given us by the originating fac- 
 ulties, and presents them to those other faculties whose 
 office it is, by modifying, comparing, and combining, to 
 enlarge our knowledge, and extend indefinitely the range 
 of human intelligence. Thus, though memory originates 
 nothing, yet, without it, the faculties which originate would 
 be useless. Though it neither analyzes nor compares, yet, 
 without it, the powers by which we analyze and compare 
 might as well not exist. Were we possessed of this alone, 
 our existence would be an absolute blank ; yet, possessed 
 of every other but this, our existence would be reduced to 
 a single point. If this be the relation which memory sus- 
 tains to our other faculties, it must evidently be one of the 
 most invaluable of our intellectual endowments. The greater 
 the perfection in which it exists, the broader foundation is 
 laid hr the exercise of our powers of analysis, combination. 
 
248 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 
 
 and reasoning The more accurately we retain and the 
 more promptly we recall our knowledge of the past, the 
 richer is our supply of material for every form of intellectual 
 exercise. 
 
 II. The importance of a cultivated memory to pro- 
 fessional success. 
 
 By a cultivated memory, I mean a memory so improved 
 by eaucation that it can treasure up with ease, retain with 
 firmness, and recall with promptitude, the knowledge ac- 
 quired by the other faculties. 
 
 1. Without such a memory it is evident that reading 
 must be, to a great degree, useless. Without it, a man may 
 be what Horace calls a ^'helluo librorum^,^^ a devourer of 
 books ; but he will rarely be anything more. We some- 
 times meet with men of this class, omnivorous readers, who 
 seize upon books with avidity, with no other object than, 
 either present enjoyment, or the reputation of vast general 
 knowledge. They are pleased with the images spread be- 
 fore them. These pass away to be succeeded by others^ 
 until the labor is completed, and nothing remains bu*^ a 
 confused recollection of pleasant or painful emotions, and 
 the consciousness that another unit has been added to the 
 number of books which they have read. It is evident that 
 a man may read, in this manner, forever, without any in- 
 crease of mental energy, or any real addition to the amount 
 of his knowledge. 
 
 2. A cultivated memory is also indispensable to a vigor- 
 ous imagination.. Imagination is the power of forming com- 
 plex conceptions out of materials already existing in the 
 mind. But it is evidently impossible to combine into im- 
 ages elements which we have never collected, or which, if we 
 have previously collected, we are unable to recall. Hence^ 
 we find that those authors who have been remarked foi 
 boundless fertility of imagination have always been endowed 
 
IMPORTANCE OF MEMORY. 249 
 
 with the highest gifts of memory. Scott, Goethe, Coleridge, 
 Milton, Macauley, might be easily referred to as illustrations. 
 A distinguished poet must be an intense and accurate ob- 
 server of nature, and the conceptions formed from actual 
 observation must be the materials from ^vhich be creates 
 the images of beauty or sublimity which please or subdue 
 us. The case is similar in philosophical imagination. Un- 
 less we are possessed of all the facts in a phenomenon or a 
 series of phenomena, we can never form any adequate con- 
 ception of the rationale which binds them together in one 
 scientific idea. Without an accurate knowledge of the facts 
 in astronomy, Copernicus could never have formed his idea 
 of the solar system. 
 
 3. The importance of a cultivated memory to reasoning 
 is equally obvious. Reasoning is a series of mental acts by 
 which we pass from the known to the unknown. Whenever 
 a proposition is capable of being proved, there exist certain 
 other propositions, which connect it indissolubly with truths 
 already known. These intermediate propositions are called 
 the argument or proof. Suppose, now, that we desire to 
 demonstrate a particular proposition ; if we can summon at 
 will all that we have ever known on the subject, we can 
 easily determine whether we possess the required media 
 of proof. If, on the other hand, our knowledge is vague 
 and undetermined, and we are unable to recall it to our 
 recollection, we weary ourselves and perplex others by mul- 
 tiplying irrelevant truths by which nothing is determined. 
 The value of this power is specially illustrated in the ciise of 
 forensic or legislative orators. They are frequently obliged to 
 construct an argument, or reply to an opponent, when there 
 is neither opportunity for consulting authorities nor examin- 
 ing digests. All that can possibly avail a man is the knowl- 
 edge which he has previously acquired, and he must be abla 
 to bring it to bear ^t once on the point at issue, or the op 
 
250 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 
 
 portunity is lost forever. On this power must, therefore^ 
 frequently depend the skill of a debater, or the success of 
 an advocate. . 
 
 4. A cultivated memory is necessary to the attainment 
 of accuracy of practical judgment. 
 
 By practical judgment I mean an ability to predict the 
 future from a knowledge of the past, and to form an opinion 
 of the doubtful from a knowledge of the true. This talent, 
 more than almost any other, gives us influence among men ; 
 and sometimes seems, in the most favored individuals, to at- 
 tain almost to the certainty of prescience. Burke, in his 
 'writings on the French Revolution, predicted the course of 
 events almost precisely as they subsequently occurred. 
 Other skilful statesmen have been able, from the present 
 aspect of affairs, to anticipate the changes which were ap- 
 proaching in the distance. Several of Napoleon's predic- 
 tions of the course of events in Europe, have been, in a re- 
 markable manner, verified by the political revolutions that 
 have occurred since his death. 
 
 The dependence of this talent upon memory is easily per- 
 ceived. As our judgments respecting the future must pro- 
 ceed upon the supposition that the course of nature is uni- 
 form, how can we predict the future without a knowledge 
 of the past ? But mere general and indefinite knowledge 
 will not here suffice. He who would attain to soundness of 
 judgment must possess himself of facts in particular, with 
 the circumstances by which they were surrounded, the limi- 
 tations by which they were fixed, and the conditions under 
 which they existed. This, of course, supposes an accurate 
 and comprehensive memory. We shall find that the most 
 eminently sagacious men have been favored with a memory 
 of this character. Of this type of mind Dr. Franklin 
 seems to preseit a remarkable instance. 
 
 But this, of itself, wiU not confer that eminence of prac- 
 
IMPORTANCE OF MEMORY. 251 
 
 tical judgment to which we here refer. We frccjuentl^ 
 observe men capable of amassing a vast collecticui of facts, 
 but they are all thrown together at random, and ever remain 
 in a state of chaotic confusion. Their knowledge has neither 
 been associated by scientific relations, nor chissified accord- 
 ing to established principles ; hence it is useless for the pir- 
 poses of investigation, and can form the basis of no prac- 
 tical judgment. It consists of merely isolated facts, from 
 which no general principles have been deduced, and hence it 
 furnishes no rules for future conduct. Such a man, thouirh 
 ever so extensively read, will ever be incapable of the wise 
 conduct of affairs. Men are frequently pointed out as walk- 
 ing libraries, to whom every one applies for the knowledge 
 of a fact, but to whose opinion no one would defer in any 
 case of practical importance. Thus, we see that those 
 powers by which knowledge is rendered available must be 
 cultivated, as well as those by which it is acquired, if we 
 would attain to soundness of judgment in the practical af- 
 fairs of life. 
 
 I am, however, aware that, to these, other elements must 
 be added, in order to form the character of which we are 
 treating. To a cultivated understanding, a retentive and 
 ready memory, must be united great freedom from preju- 
 dices, invincible love of truth, decided moral courage, and 
 firm reliance on the decisions of the human intellect, if we 
 would realize that conception of practical wisdom which 
 Locke somewhere happily denominates ''large round-about 
 common sense." Without freedom from prejudice we shall 
 look upon the plainest facts through a distorted medium. 
 If we have no real love of truth we shall never take the 
 pains necessary to arrive at it. If we are deficient in reli- 
 ance on the decisions of our own intellect, no matter how 
 clearly we may comprehend our position, we shall never 
 reach a deliberate conclusion. And without moral courage^ 
 
252 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 
 
 whatever be our conclusions, we shall never dare to carry 
 them into practice. In this, as in every other case, we per- 
 ceive that moral qualities form, the most important elements 
 of human character. Hence we see that, actual ability 
 depends greatly upon the cultivation of our own nature ; 
 and is placed mi3re within our own reach than might at first 
 be supposed. 
 
 The distinction between mere learning and that practical 
 wisdom by which all learning is made available to the pur- 
 poses of science, or the exigences of practical life, is well 
 illustrated by Cowper in his Task, one of the most delightful 
 poems in the English language. 
 
 ** Knowledge and Wisdom, far from being one, 
 Have ofttimes no connection. Knowledge dwells 
 In heads replete with thoughts of other men ; 
 Wisdom, in minds attentive to their own. 
 Knowledge, a rude unprofitable mass. 
 The inere material with which Wisdom builds. 
 Till smoothed, and squared, and fitted to its place. 
 Does but encumber what it seemed to enrich. 
 Knowledge is proud that he has learned so much. 
 Wisdom is humble that he knows no more. 
 Books are, not seldom, talismans and spells, 
 By which the magic art of shrewder wits 
 Holds an unthinking multitude enthralled. 
 Some to the fascination of a name 
 Surrender judgment hood-winked. Some the style 
 Infatuates, and, through labyrinths and wilds 
 Of error, leads them by a tune entranced. 
 While sloth seduces more, too weak to bear 
 The unsupportable fatigue of thought. 
 And swallowing, therefore, without pause or choice. 
 The total grist unsifted, husks and all." 
 
 Winter Walk at Noow. 
 
 If these remarks be true, it seems remarkable that tho 
 question should ever have arisen, whether a powerful 
 
IMPORTANCE 3F MEMORY. *z5E 
 
 t 
 
 memory is compatible with great soundness of judgment. 
 We see, from the above considerations, tliat soundness of 
 judgment, without a fair development of memory, is impos- 
 sible. The mistake on this subject has probably arisen 
 from two misconceptions. In the first place, a cultivated 
 and disciplined memory has been confounded with a miscel- 
 laneous and unclassified collection of facts. In the second 
 place, the abuse of memory has been confounded with tho 
 use of it. Memory is properly used when it is employed 
 to recall our previous knowledge, in order to deduce from it 
 laws which shall govern our future conduct. It is abused 
 when we employ it merely for the purpose of recalling 
 precedents which shall enable us blindly to follow our file- 
 leader. Here it usurps the place of judgment, and renders 
 us servile copyists and imbecile imitators. When we use it 
 to furnish facts, which, by comparison and generalization, 
 shall enable us to form judgments, we derive from it the 
 benefit which the Creator intended. 
 
 That remarkable powers of memory are commonly asso- 
 ciated with other distinguished endowments, might be easily 
 shown by instances. I have already alluded to several men 
 of genius, who possessed unusual retentiveness and readiness 
 of memory. I do not, however, remember any individual 
 in whom this coKibination was so remarkable as the late 
 Emperor Napoleon. He used to say of himself, that his 
 knowkdge was all laid away in drawers, and that he had 
 only to open the proper drawer, and all that he had 
 acquired on that particular subject was at once presented 
 before him. It was, I think, at the Congress of Erfurt, 
 that he astonished the sovereigns of Europe by the minute- 
 ness of his knowledge of historic dates. When they ex- 
 pressed their surprise that he should have been able to attain 
 such extraordinary accuracy amidst the pressure of business 
 with which he had been so long overwhelmed, he replied, 
 22 
 
254 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 
 
 that his acquisitions of this kind were made when he was a 
 lieutenant of artillery, and was for a considerable perio(? 
 quartered in the house of a bookseller ; besides, added he, ] 
 had always great facility in the recollection of numbers. 
 The diligent improvement of time, in youth, thus laid the 
 foundation for the success of the future arbiter of Europe. 
 
 I have pursued this subject to a greater extent than 
 might have seemed necessary, did I not suppose that the im- 
 portance of this faculty is frequently underrated, especially 
 by young men. If a man succeed in almost any depart- 
 ment of intellectual labor, it is often said, by way of dispar- 
 agement, that his effort is nothing but the result of unusual i 
 memory. Were this the fact, it would still be true, that the 
 cultivation of memory to high perfection, so that our past- 
 knowledge is always available in every emergency, is neither 
 an* ordinary nor a contemptible attainment. But the asser- 
 tion is commonly unfounded. While distinguished success, 
 in any department, can rarely be attained by the exercise of 
 memory alone, it is equally true that the noblest powers 
 would be continually liable to mortifying failure without it. 
 Let us, then, labor to cultivate this faculty by every means 
 in our power, always remembering that we shall derive from 
 it the greatest advantage, not by allowing it to supersede 
 the use of the other faculties, but by training it to act in 
 subordination to them. He who reasons without facts must 
 always proceed in the dark ; while he who relies on isolated 
 facts, neither using his powers of generalization nor reason- 
 ing, must be willing to remain always a child. 
 
 SECTION IV. — THE IMPROVEMENT OF MEMORY. 
 
 From the preceding remarks, it is evidently of great 
 importance to every educated man to be able to acquire 
 
IMPROVEMENT OF MEMORY. 265 
 
 kno\! ledge rapidly, to retain it permanently, and to recall 
 it with ease. To confer upon us this power, or, at loiist, 
 to improve it, is one important object of intellectual disci- 
 pline. I shall proceed to illustrate some of the general 
 principles on which the improvement of memory depends. 
 My object is purely practical. I desire merely to present 
 such views of the subject as will enable us to give increased 
 efficiency to this important faculty. The facts which we 
 have to present are all within the range of every man's 
 consciousness. But though nothing be added to our stock 
 of knowledge, something naay, perhaps, be gained, if what 
 we already know can be directed more clearly to a valuable 
 end. 
 
 1. Memory, whether we consider its susceptibility, reten- 
 tiveness, or readiness, is strengthened only by habitual and 
 earnest use. If unemployed, or not employed in diligent 
 study, its power will gradually diminish. This may be 
 illustrated in a variety of particulars. 
 
 Let a man find it necessary, for any particular purpose, 
 to remember an event, a conversation, or some passage in a 
 discourse, and he will find that the effort which he makes 
 confers upon him in some degree the power which he needs. 
 Let him be placed under the necessity of doing the same 
 thing frequently, and statedly, and he soon becomes con- 
 scious that his power rapidly increases. It matters not 
 what may be the class of objects which we are called upon 
 to recollect, we recollect with ease what we find it necessary 
 to recollect habitually. The civil engineer remembers, with- 
 out effort, localities, the outline of a country, heights, dis- 
 tances, levels, water-courses, and whatever facts are impor- 
 tant in the practice of his profession. The merchant 
 remembers prices in different countries, the amount of pro- 
 duction in each for a great number of years, the consump- 
 tion under various circumstances, and the conditions b^ 
 
256 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 
 
 which it is affected, the rates of exchange, and the fluctu 
 ations of markets. The lawyer remembers, in the sam€ 
 manner, decisions, arguments, analogies, precedents, and 
 cases. Neither of these could do more than very imper- 
 fectly what the other does with facility. The memory, 
 strengthened by exercise in one particular department of 
 knowledge, is left in other respects almost in its natural 
 condition. 
 
 Nor is this all. The power of recalling our knowledge is 
 materially affected by the circumstances under which the 
 habit is cultivated. He who is accustomed to extemporary 
 speaking will find his recollection more active when in the 
 presence of an audience than in the retirement of his study. 
 He has made that most valuable acquisition, the power of 
 thinking upon his legs ; and he will perceive truth more 
 clearly, he will illustrate it more forcibly, and find all his 
 knowledge more perfectly under his control, in these circum- 
 stances, than in any other. Another man, who has accus- 
 tomed himself solely to writing, finds his power of recollec- 
 tion much more active when surrounded by his books and 
 papers. The pen has become to him an almost indispensa- 
 ble instrument of thought, and, without it, he i& frequently 
 and strangely at a loss. Neither of these men could do the 
 work of the other. Hence it is that so few men have been 
 successful in both written and extempore discourse. Hence 
 it is that, frequently, orations which have produced the 
 deepest impression during delivery, have appeared so tame 
 and lifeless when they have been committed to paper. The 
 excitement of delivery, which enabled the speaker to asso- 
 ciate so many images of beauty and sublimity with the sub- 
 ject-matter of his discourse, passed away when the orator ha 
 attempted to write, and little remains but the plain appeal " 
 to the understanding. Cicero somewhere alludes to the 
 difficulty of attaining tc great perfection in both written and 
 
IMPROVEMENT OF MEMORY. 2h7 
 
 spoken discourse, and justly, if not wisely, compliments him* 
 self on having been successful where most other emi/ient 
 men had failed. 
 
 The eflfect of society upon the character of our recollection 
 has frequently been remarked. He who associates habitually 
 with men of distinguished colloquial ability, is placed under 
 the necessity of recalling his knowledge on the instant, and 
 of recalling it on any subject that the occasion may demand. 
 The peculiar kind of recollection is also greatly modified by 
 the company with which we associate. If our companions 
 are men of humor, we find ourselves involuntarily recalling 
 humorous events and droll associations. If we consort with 
 men of science, the mind takes a bias in a contrary direction 
 Thus a n.an of great colloquial excellence transforms into his 
 own intellectual likeness those who are much in his society. 
 An illustration of this remark is found in BoswelPs Life of 
 Johnson. The associates of this great converser were re- 
 markable for their colloquial talent, and every individual 
 was more or less tinged with the peculiarities, whether 
 good or bad, of their master. Men of quite opposite ele- 
 ments of character were assimilated in their modes of 
 thought to him whom they all admired ; and they thus 
 formed a school, of which the lineaments were recognized 
 throughout the contemporary literary world. 
 
 Instances of the power of recalhng all our knowledge 
 upon a given subject, are found in the lives of men who 
 have been successfully employed in the conduct of affairs. 
 We see them forming plans for the future, embracing a 
 complicated variety of contingencies, for all of which provis- 
 ion must be made in advance. The motives of men must 
 be weighed, the efiect of measures upon difierent govern- 
 ments estimated ; action and reaction must be subjected to 
 deliberate calculation, and all the elements which would 
 advance or retard the design must be distinctly present to 
 22* 
 
258 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 
 
 the mind. The intellectual eflfort required in a great military 
 commander is essentially the same. It is said that beforo 
 the Duke of Wellington took the command of the army of 
 the Peninsula, the plan of operations which he subsequently 
 carried into effect had been thoroughly matured and re- 
 solved upon. Every one must perceive the vast knowledge 
 of facts, and the wonderful accuracy of judgment, which were 
 required in order to perfect a plan which could be carried 
 into effect in the midst of so many and so complicated con- 
 tingencies. Dumas also relates, that, when the Emperor 
 Napoleon '-decided to abandon the invasion of England, and 
 attack the Emperor of Austria, it was necessary to confide 
 to the chief of his staff not only the idea of the plan of the 
 campaign which he meditated, but, likewise, to develop all 
 the details. He dictated to M. Daru, off-hand, and without 
 once stopping, those memorable instructions, that admirable 
 plan of the campaign, which we saw executed precisely as 
 he had fixed it, doubtless after profound meditation. In 
 these instructions, the march of every day, the places at 
 which the army should arrive at successive periods, and the 
 place and almost the day on which the great battle should 
 be fought, were minutely specified. With these previous , 
 instructions the actual result corresponded with astonishing - 
 accuracy. Every one must be amazed at the amount and 
 the minuteness of the knowledge which could foresee and 
 provide for every emergency that might arise in so extended 
 and vast operations." 
 
 I have pursued these illustrations beyond the limit which 
 the importance of the subject would seem to demand. The 
 object which I have in view must plead my apology. I 
 have desired to give prominence to the fact that the memory 
 is readily improved by exercise, and that it improves in the 
 precise manner in which it is earnestly and habitually em- 
 ployed. Every one must see that such command of knowl- 
 
IMPROVEMENT OF MEAIORY. 259 
 
 edge as I have exemplified could be the result of nothing 
 but assiduous and thorough cultivation. A lesson of practi- 
 cal value to the young may be learned from these consider- 
 ations. We are thus taught that we may, by diligent and 
 earnest effort, become equal to the discharge of duties 
 which now seem out of our power. The Duke of Welling- 
 ton, in ear'y life, gave no indications of eminent abihty. 
 We are liable to error in supposing that because we do not 
 now possess the practical skill which a particular situation 
 demaads, it would therefore be presumption in us to under- 
 take it. It is generally safe to believe that what other men, 
 in. the same circumstances, do, we, if the duty be imposed 
 upon us, can do also. But, while we adopt this rule, we 
 shall greatly err if we suppose that we shall be qualified for 
 any situation merely by being placed in it Place confers 
 no talent, and it communicates no knowledge ^ while, there- 
 fore, we may hope to do what other men have done, it must 
 be under the conditions in which other men have done it. 
 Unless we take the same pains, and subject ourselves to the 
 same discipline, as those who have succeeded, we shall un- 
 questionably fail. Inspiration is, at least, as rare now as it 
 has been in past ages ; and, if we would attain to success, 
 we must form our rules of conduct, not on exceptions, but 
 on general laws. To subject ourselves to the discipline 
 necessary to success, will not interfere with the inspirations of 
 genius ; while, should it happen that we are not inspired, 
 without such discipline our failure will be inevitable. 
 
 2. It is a well-known fact that the power of recollection 
 depends greatly on attention. 
 
 The condition of mind which we denominate attention is 
 that in which we direct our whole mental energies exclusively 
 to one particular object. It may proceed cither from with- 
 out or from within : from an objective or a subjective cause. 
 In tlie former case, the occurrence itself so entirely engrosses 
 
260 INTELLECTLAL PHILOSOPHY. 
 
 our thcughts that, without any volition, everything else il 
 excluded from the mind. Let a traveller in £;irope ride 
 over a field rising and falling, now in regular and again in 
 irregular slopes, with here and there a clump of trees, on 
 one side a windmill, and on the other an old stone house, and 
 it will leave no definite impression on his mind. He can 
 look upon just such scenes anywhere, and he has seen just 
 as impressive landscapes every day of his life. His thoughts 
 may wander in the direction of home, and his conversation 
 turn to such subjects as the humor of the moment may sug- 
 gest. But let him be informed that this is the field of Wa-j 
 terloo, that this eminence is Mount St. Jean, that yonder is' 
 the farm-house of La Haye Sainte, that there is the thicket^ 
 and villa of Hougomont, and near him the tree under which 
 Wellington remained during the greater part of the action;' 
 that on the slopes beyond the French were posted,. and there' 
 in the vale is the spot where, for the first time, the Imperial' 
 Guard faltered, mowed down in ranks, as they advanced to! 
 the charge ; every other thought now vanishes from his 
 mind, and it is not possible for him to think of anything' 
 but that terrible battle, on which the course of empire in' 
 Europe depended. Such an impression is engraven on th^' 
 memory forever. 
 
 In these cases, as I have said, the occasion of attention is 
 from without. It is arrested by objects around us, wS are 
 conscious of no special mental efibrt when it is excited, and' 
 we could not control it if we would. There is another and 
 very different form of attention, which depends upon the 
 exercise of our will. In this case, by an act of volition, we 
 dismiss all thought irrelevant to the subject before us, and 
 concentrate upon it all the mental energy of which we are ca- 
 pable. The more perfectly we do this, the greater will be our' 
 power of recollection; we shall thus acquire knowledge in 
 the shortest time, and retain it with the greatest success. The! 
 
IMPROVEMENT OF ME\ DRY. 261 
 
 men v^ho have been remarkable for great powers of memory 
 have possessed in a remarkable degree the power of abstract 
 attention. The biographer of Johnson observes that whilo 
 he was reading the appearance of mental effort which ho 
 exhibited was painful even to his companions. He seemed 
 wholly unconscious of the existence of anything around him; 
 his countenance was flushed, the veins of his forehead became 
 distended, and his whole appearance betokened the intensest 
 mental concentration. A portrait, by Sir J. Reynolds, pre- 
 sents him in precisely this attitude. 
 
 Of the nature of attention, and the means by which it 
 may be cultivated, I have before treated ; I need not, there- 
 fore, repeat what I have said on this subject. It will be suf- 
 ficient to observe that, if we desire to improve the power of 
 memory, it is here that we must always commence. Until 
 we have learned to dismiss from our minds wandering and 
 irrelevant thought, and fix our intellectual energies on the 
 subject directly before us, we shall always suffer the evils 
 of imperfect and feeble recollection. Attention, as we have 
 before observed, obeys the commands of a determined will. It 
 is thus in our own power to enlarge and strengthen our intel- 
 lectual faculties. A weak memory maybe rendered strong, 
 md a fleeting recollection permanent, by resolutely laboring 
 [Q improve it. The remedy, however, resides in ourselves, 
 ind it is the same for all. If we are willing to make the 
 sacrifices necessary to insure success, observing the laws by 
 -vhich the improvement of our faculties is governed, there is 
 10 one of our intellectual powers which may not be improved 
 *ar beyond what at the commencement we should have be- 
 ieved possible. The men who earnestly labor to improve 
 hemselves generally go beyond expectation ; those who rely 
 ►n their undisciplined powers almost always fall short of it. 
 
 i^ut, Deyond this, we should labor to acquire, not men'ly 
 he power of o",casional attention^ but the habit of consUnt 
 
262 INTELLECTUAL PHILC30PHY. 
 
 and wakeful mental earnestness. In this manner, alone^ 
 does our exrstenoB become in the highest degree valuable, 
 since every portion of it brings forth the richest and most 
 abundant fruit, and no hour and no occasion is suffered to 
 run to waste An oasis in the desert is, by contrast, ex- 
 ceedingly beautiful and picturesque ; but how valueless i: 
 appears when compared with the broad acres of a cultivated 
 land, clothed as far as the eye can reach with exhaustless 
 fertility, the hills covered with flocks, the valleys loaded 
 with corn, supplying with prodigal liberality the wants of 
 every living thing that finds a home upon its bosom ! So 
 the transient efforts of genius may delight and surprise us ; 
 but it is the steady labor of earnest minds that works out 
 those changes in public opinion, by which error is dissipated, 
 truth discovered and promulgated, and a new impulse 
 given to the progress of humanity in wisdom and virtue. 
 
 It is by acquiring this habit of constant and earnest 
 attention, and the power of transferring at will our whole 
 energy from one subject to another, that some men are en- 
 abled to perform an amount of intellectual labor which 
 seems almost incredible. The duties of the Chancellor of 
 Great Britain, in his judicial office the most important in 
 the kingdom, as speaker and a leading member of the 
 House of Lords, and frequently an active member of the 
 cabinet, could be successfully discharged by no one whose 
 intellect was not disciplined to incessant and intense exer- 
 tion. The same remark is applicable to every man who 
 stands in the front rank of any profession. The demand for 
 eminent service is incessant ; and nothing can meet this 
 demand but a mind capable of putting forth its best efforts 
 without either cessation or weariness. 
 
 3. In the third place, readiness, or facility in recalling our 
 knowledge, depends mainly upon the principles by which it 
 is associ-ited. The thought which we at this moment need 
 
IMPROVEMENT OF MEMORY. 20U 
 
 18 brought to our recollection, because it has been eounectuiL 
 by some li\v of association, with a thought now present. 
 
 Our associations are of two kinds, those by casual, and 
 those by permanent relations. The associations which wo 
 form from contiguity of time and place, or from nieie exter- 
 nal appearance, as color, size, etc., are casual; those from 
 cause and effect are permanent. When we see an event oc- 
 curring at a particular time and place^ it by no means fol- 
 lows that a similar event will recur at the same place at a 
 corresponding time ; nor are similar events, by any tie 
 whatever, connected with, or related to, that time and place. 
 Hence, if we associate an event by these relations, there is 
 nothing whatever to recall our analogous knowledge. If. on 
 the other hand, we observe an event, and associate it with 
 its causes and effects, we know that the same cause, under 
 similar circumstances, will produce the same effect, and, 
 under modified circumstances, will produce modified effects. 
 Hence, this form of association connects with the event 
 which we wish to remember a multitude of other events, 
 any one of which, if present to the mind, may recall any 
 one or all of the others. 
 
 Inasmuch, then, as casual associations furnish no bond of 
 connection by which facts are associated together, they can 
 furnish little aid to the memory, and can assist us but feebly 
 in the investigation of truth. If a lawyer associated cases 
 merely with the court-rooms in which they happened to ho 
 decided, his knowledge would lender but little service in 
 the, practice of his profession. He must remember tlicm hy 
 their connection with the principles of equity, if he wishes 
 to recall them whenever an analogous case occurs in the 
 course of his pleadings. Were they associated merely by 
 time and place, the most dissimilar decisions would 1)0 
 grouped together, so that he could rarely call to mind those 
 adapted to his purpose. If he associate them by tlie pria- 
 
264 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 
 
 ciples to which thej are allied, each case would recall tne 
 principle, and the principle the cases which it controlled 
 Knowledge, in this manner, becomes linked together. A 
 sino^le fact brino;s with it the recollection of a multitude of 
 other facts, and these form the basis of important generaliza- 
 tions, or the materials for apt and ample illustration. 
 
 Or, again, suppose we witness a philosophical experiment. 
 By casual association, we should connect it with nothing 
 but the place in which it was performed ; and the various 
 steps of the process would be thought of only in the order 
 of their succession. All that would remain to us would be 
 the naked facts, that, at such a time and place, in such a 
 lecture-room, the first event w^as followed by the second, 
 and the second by the third, and so on to the end. If, on 
 the contrary, the relations of cause and efiect were clearly 
 explained, and every change referred to its appropriate law, 
 we should know not only the succession of changes, but 
 the law which governed each succession. Hence, each event 
 will be associated with the others by a definite and un- 
 changing connection. Ever afterwards, any event in the 
 series will readily call to recollection those thus associated 
 with it, and also the law on which the succession depended ; 
 and any one of these laws will also recall not only these 
 effects, but many others which at any time we may have 
 had occasion to observe. 
 
 From these illustrations it is evident that readiness, or 
 the power of recalling our knowledge, depends greatly upon 
 philosophical association In order to associate in this man- 
 ner, we must form the habit of referring facts to the laws 
 on which they depend, and of tracing out laws to the facts by 
 which they are exemplified. If we observe a phenomenon, 
 we should, if possible, ascertain its cause. If we examine 
 a specimen, we should refer it to its cla.ss. If we study an 
 event, we should observe its necessary relations to the events 
 
IMPROVEMENT OF MKMORY. 265 
 
 which preceded and which have succeeded it. So, on the 
 other hand, if we have comprehended an abstract principle, 
 we should not be satisfied until we have transformed it into 
 a concrete expression, observed the foots by which it is illus- 
 trated, and the results to which it leads. If, for instance, 
 we comprehend a general law in mechanics, we should work 
 out problems which illustrate its mode of operation, until 
 the law and the facts which depend upon it are so thoroughly 
 associated together that they form one clearly defined and 
 well digested conception. So, in political economy, if wo 
 are satisfied that a law is true, we should not rest until, if 
 possible, we have exhausted the results to which it will, of 
 necessity, lead ; and, on the other hand, if we observe a new 
 fact in the movements of commerce, or the operations of 
 finance, w^e should trace it back to its legitimate cause, and 
 determine the law to which it owes its existence. 
 
 In this respect, our systems of education are probably 
 defective. We determine, in the first place, that a certain 
 number of sciences must be learned in a given time. In 
 the time allotted to each, it may be possible either to com- 
 municate to the pupil some of the facts without the general 
 principles, or some of the principles without the facts ; but 
 not to associate the principles with the facts by the patient 
 labor of tracing out their connections with each other. It 
 is by this latter mode of acquisition that the mind attains 
 power and alertness. He who has thus mastered a single 
 science has gained far better mental discipline than by 
 cursory attention to several. He who has learned one thing 
 thoioughly knows how other things also are to be learned ; 
 and he who has proceeded as far as this has made no con- 
 temptible progress m his education. 
 
 But, though a system of education does not accomplish all 
 that might be desired, it may yet be of great value. We 
 may derive important advantage from a distinct knowledge 
 23 
 
266 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 
 
 of general principles, although we have but little power 
 of carrying them into practice. If we have gained only sc 
 much knowledge that we are able, in subsequent life, to refer 
 common facts to general laws, or even to understand the 
 reference when it is made by others, we have laid the foun- 
 dations of philosophical association. The observations occur- 
 ring in our daily occupations will, from time to time, revive 
 and enlarge our knowledge. Every general law acquired 
 in youth thus becomes a nucleus, on which our additional 
 attainments crystallize, and the mass increases by continued 
 aggregation. Hence it is often observed that young men, 
 who are well grounded in the severe^' studies, attain, in the 
 end, to a larger intellectual growth, and succeed much bet- 
 ter in professional life, than those of greater brilliancy, who 
 aim at more general attainments, and devote their time tc 
 what is called universal reading. 
 
 From these remarks we learn the value of hypotheses in 
 philosophy. An hypothesis is a conception of the causes 
 of a phenomenon which has not yet been established by 
 proof Since it is not established, it is of no positive valid- 
 ity, and can neither be received as a truth, nor made the 
 basis of scientific reasoning. Yet it is not, therefore, value- 
 less. It offers to our consideration a conjectural law. If 
 to this law we can refer a number of phenomena which 
 were before isolated, we are the better able to retain them 
 in the memory. Suppose, for instance, several isolated facts 
 have been observed in geology, for which no cause has been 
 discovered. A theory is proposed which, if it be allowed, 
 will account for the whole, or a considerable part of them. 
 This is an hypothesis. By grouping them together as the 
 result of this supposed cause, an important aid is rendered 
 to our recollection. Burke, I believe, remarks that an hy- 
 pothesis is good for as much as it will explain. An hypoih- 
 esis, moreover, presents a definite subject for investigation- 
 
IMPROVEMENT OF MEMO. Y. 2G7 
 
 If it be proved false, science is the gainer ])y the research 
 which it has occasioned ; if it be proved true, an addiiKni is 
 made to the knowledge of man. 
 
 4. Readiness of memory is materially assisted by method- 
 ical arrangement. 
 
 Every one knows the difficulty of remembering isohited 
 and disconnected items, such as a number of words selected 
 at random, or a column of miscellaneous figures. Tliis 
 difficulty is greatly diminished by arranging these several 
 items according to some general conception, as, for instance, 
 by placing the words in alphabetical order, or grouping 
 them according to the subjects to which they relate. By 
 such an adjustment some principle of connection is imme- 
 diately established, and, as one suggests the following, we 
 easily commit them to memory, and more readily recall 
 them afterwards. 
 
 It is obvious that all sciences, from the necessity of tl:o 
 case, are susceptible of a natural arrangement. In the dis 
 covery of knowledge, as I have before remarked, we pro- 
 ceed from individuals to generals, and from less to more 
 general, until we arrive at the most comprehensive genus 
 which the present state of knowledge admits. In the com- 
 munication of knowledge, this process is exactly reversed; 
 w^e commence with the most comprehensive genus, and pro- 
 ceed step by step to the less comprehensive, until we arrive 
 at varieties and individuals. So, when, ii. any case, we 
 desire to communicate truths, by patient reflection we shall 
 be able to discover the general principle on which the whole 
 essentially depends When this is clearly displayed, it sug- 
 gests in natural succession whatever is to follow. The order 
 in which science thus arranges itself, confers important as- 
 sistance on the memory. When knowledge has no relation 
 to time, we proceed from more to less genera truth. When 
 time enters into the development of a subjec the order of 
 
2G8 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 
 
 cause and effect is to be preferred. Thus, in natural his- 
 tory, we proceed from genera to species ; in history, we follow 
 the order of time, which here is also the order of cause and 
 effect. In political economy, we treat, in succession, of pro- 
 duction, exchange, distribution, and consumption ; because 
 this is the order of the dependence of one class of actions 
 upon another, and this is the order of changes through 
 A-hich any object passes that is modified by the industry 
 of man. It is easy to perceive that our power of recalling 
 our knowledge of any subject, must be greatly increased by 
 the simplicity and clearness with which it was arranged, 
 when it was treasured up in the memory. 
 
 When any branch of knowledge is thus reduced to method, 
 we can readily commence with its more general and element- 
 ary principles, and trace them through their subsidiary 
 ramifications, each genus suggesting the several species 
 which it includes, until all our acquisitions on this subject 
 are spread in one view before the mind. The want of such 
 an arrangement is, not unfrequently, a serious embarrass- 
 ment to a student. He sometimes finds important truths 
 carelessly thrown together — principles and results, causes 
 and effects, in a condition of hopeless dislocation ; so that to 
 treasure them up as available knowledge in their present 
 form is almost impossible. In this case, if the knowledge is 
 worth the trouble, our best method is to think the subject 
 out and rearrange it for ourselves. This will require time, 
 but it is the only way in which knowledge so inartistically 
 presented can be rendered useful to the student. The great 
 work of iVdam Smith, which has wrought so wonderful 
 changes in the policy of nations, would have "achieved its 
 triumph at a much earlier period if its effects had not been 
 weakened by great want of systematic arrangemert. 
 
 The power of clear and well-digested method is of great 
 
 I 
 
IMPROVEMENT OF MEMORY. 2G9 
 
 value, not only to the student himself, but also to those 
 tx) whom he communicates knowledge. The preacher, who 
 will take the trouble to acquire it, will not so often complain 
 that his teachings are forgotten, or that his audience is in- 
 attentive. The lawyer will thus be enabled greatly to 
 abridge his proceedings, and at the same time leave a 
 stronger and more durable impression on the court and the 
 jury. In our addresses to our fellow-men, I hardly know 
 of an acquisition of greater importance than this, or one 
 that aids more powerfully our efforts to produce conviction. 
 From what has been said, we perceive the incorrectness of 
 the opinion, that the memory resembles a store-house, which 
 may be filled to overflowing, or so filled as to render further 
 acquisitions more and more difficult. If the student have 
 used his memory aright, the greater his acquisitions the 
 easier will subsequent acquisitions become. If he have 
 formed the habit of concentrated thought, the less effort will 
 be required to fix his attention. If he habitually refer his 
 facts to principles, he will successively arise to higher and 
 higher generalizations, and the knowledge which he acquires 
 will connect itself by more and more numerous associations. 
 We are never embarrassed by the amount of our knowledge, 
 but only by its miscellaneous and disorderly variety. If 
 reflection upon a subject presents us with nothing but a 
 multitude of irrelevant and disconnected facts, without gen- 
 eralization or arrangement, we may well complain of being 
 overburdened with knowledge. But, when reflection yields 
 the fruit of app<^ite principles and illustrative facts, the 
 wider the range of our acquisitions the greater will be our 
 intellectual power. It is in consequence of the formation 
 of such habits that an accomplished public speaker fre- 
 quently astonishes us, by discoursing with ample fulness, and 
 with the clearest method, upon occasions which allowed no 
 opportunity for previous preparation. The attainment of 
 23* 
 
270 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 
 
 fiuch a power is certainly worth all the labor which it can 
 possibly demand. 
 
 Of artificial memory. 
 
 Besides the means for the cultivation of memory which I 
 have suggested above, others, depending upon artificial as- 
 sociation, have been frequently recommended. Cicero some- 
 where mentictis the systems of this kind which were in use 
 in his time. It may be well to indicate the principles on 
 which such systems are founded. 
 
 When we wish to remember a particular fact, we fre- 
 quently associate it with something which we cannot easily 
 forget. We sometimes see men desiring to recollect an 
 engaorement tie a knot in their handkerchief, or bind a 
 string around one of their fingers. In artificial memory, a 
 regular system of signs is employed for a similar purpose. 
 I remember a lecturer on mnemonics, who used for this pur- 
 pose a sheet or two of paper, divided into a large number 
 of compartments, in each- of which was engraved a figure of 
 some well-known object. When a number of items, as a 
 column of words, was to be remembered, the pupil was 
 taught to associate each word with an object in one of these 
 compartments. In this manner a large number of partic- 
 ulars might be remembered for a short time. The system, 
 however, which has maintained the most permanent reputa 
 tion, is that of Gray, in his Memoria Technica, a work of 
 which Dr. Johnson speaks somewhere with great respect. 
 The nature of this system may be known from a single 
 example. Suppose the object is to remember numbers. 
 The vowels, diphthongs, and the most important consonants, 
 are so arranged as to correspond with the nine digits and 
 ciplier, in the following manner : 
 
 a e * 
 
 1 2 
 
 b d 
 
 1 
 
 
 
 u 
 
 au 
 
 01 
 
 ei 
 
 ou 
 
 y 
 
 3 
 
 4 
 
 5 
 
 6 
 
 7 
 
 8 
 
 9 
 
 
 
 t 
 
 f 
 
 1 
 
 a 
 
 h 
 
 J£ 
 
 n 
 
 X. 
 
ARTIFICIAL MP]MOllY. 27j 
 
 This table maj bo used thus : Suppose that I wIsIumI to remem- 
 ber the fact that Julius Cnesar arrived at the supreme powci 
 in the year 46, B. C. I observe that the letter o is above 
 4, and the letter s under 6. Forty-six is then represented 
 by the syllable os. I write Julio^ for Julius, and thus 
 recall this date to my recollection. Or, again : Alexander 
 founded his empire in 331, B. C. The number 331, as 
 before explained, may be expressed by the letters Ua. I 
 then write Alexiia instead of Alexander, and am thus re- 
 minded of the date in question. Various other systems 
 have been devised, but they all depend upon similar prin- 
 ciples. 
 
 Of the utility of this method of aiding the memory, I 
 am unable to speak from experience. I have, however, ob- 
 served, that, whatever may be the immediate effect of these 
 systems, they are generally soon laid aside. It seems as 
 difficult to remember the system as to remember the knowl- 
 edge which it would enable us to retain. Whatever be its 
 virtue, it can confer upon us no valuable mental discipline. 
 It would seem better, therefore, to cultivate the memory by 
 chose methods which give increased vigor to all our other 
 intellectual faculties. When a subject is capable of philo- 
 sophical association, it is surely better to fix it in our recol- 
 lection by philosophical arrangement. When the matter to 
 be remembered is names, dates, or other isolated fiicts, it is 
 better to refer to tables and books, where such knowledge is 
 to be found, than to trust to our memory, unless we are 
 endowed with special facility for this sort of acquisition. 
 
 There is, however, one mode of rendering our knowle Ige 
 available, which seems to me of great value. It is a well- 
 arranged common-place book, or a book made for the pur- 
 pose of recording any important items of knowledge in such 
 manner as to be easily accessible. The Rev. Dr. Todd, of 
 Pittsfield, Mass., has prepared a work exceedingly well 
 
272 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 
 
 adapted to this purpose. It is called an ^^ Index Rerum." 
 It consists of blank leaves ruled and paged, with the letters 
 of the alphabet, so that a student can readily insert a word 
 designating a particular subject, and under this word record 
 all the places in which he finds this subject treated. A 
 student, by the use of such a book, would be able to refer to 
 all the works which he had read on any particular subject, 
 by glancing at a single entry in his index. His common- 
 place book would thus be an index to his whole library ; 
 enabling him, in the shortest time, and with the least trouble, 
 to render all his past reading available for immediate use 
 whenever he should require it. 
 
 At the risk of some repetition, I shall close this part of 
 the subject with a few directions for study, deduced from the 
 preceding remarks : 
 
 1. We should employ our minds as little as possible in 
 those occupations which require no effort of attention. 
 He who spends much of his time in reading that which hie 
 does not wish to remember, will find his power of acquisi- 
 tion rapidly to' diminish. Light reading is entitled to' its 
 place, and need not be proscribed altogether. But light 
 reading need not be useless reading. Facts of all kind^i, to 
 him who is able to make a proper use of them, are always 
 of inestimable value. But much that is called light read- 
 ing tends to no result whatever except present amusement ; 
 and nothing is more destructive of every manly energy than 
 amusement pursued as a business. Nor let it be supposed 
 that the vigorous employment of our faculties is destitute 
 of its appropriate enjoyment. Here, as everywhere else, 
 happiness is found, not when we seek for it directly, but 
 when, thoughtless of ourselves, we are honestly doing our 
 duty. The weariness caused by labor is relieved either by 
 rest or by a change of pursuits, and the mind returns with 
 -enewed relish to its appointed labors. But what changa 
 
IMPROVEMENT OF MEMOR*! 27J 
 
 can relieve an intellect jaded and worn down by excessive 
 excitement, and vexed with the incessant craving of unsat- 
 isfied desires ? 
 
 2. We should strive to observe accurately every fact, and 
 comprehend clearly every truth to which our attention may 
 be directed. In this manner alone can we attain to precis- 
 ion of thought and distinctness of conception. We sliall 
 thus learn the diiference between what we know and wliat 
 we do not know : an attainment of more value than mi<^ht 
 at first seem manifest. He whose mind habitually rejects 
 crude and undigested conceptions, and vague and intangible 
 theories, has made no inconsiderable progress in intellectual 
 cultivation. Nor is it enough that a man can comprehend 
 what an author has written while the book is under his eye. 
 He should attain to such a knowledge of the subject that he 
 can think it out for himself in his own language, and trace 
 its connections and dependencies by means of illustrations 
 of his own. In this manner he will be able to understand 
 what he reads, to remember what he . understands, and to 
 recall what he has remembered whenever the occasion ren- 
 ders it necessary. 
 
 I am aware that this method of study will seem to require 
 a much longer time, and restrict us to a much slower 
 progress, than the course commonly pursued. A man will 
 be obliged to select his books with greater care, and devote 
 to his reading a more vigorous and protracted effort, than is 
 generally thought necessary. He may thus lose, if he ever 
 possessed it, the reputation of genius; but, what is more 
 important, he may find the reality. By forming the habit 
 of earnest and habitual attention, he may thus acquire that 
 power which is the very element of genius. At first, the 
 mind laboring in this manner may seem to act slowly ; but, 
 as soon as efibrt becomes its natural condition, vigorous 
 action will be as rapid as any other. Those who think 
 
274 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 
 
 inteiisely, if they do it habitually, require less time than 
 other men to perfect their mental operations. It is thus that 
 the powers of the mind are carried to their highest perfection, 
 and those intellectual labors are performed which to other 
 men seem almost miraculous. 
 
 3. Our knowledge should, as far as possible, be philosoph- 
 ically arranged. Facts should be accounted for, that is, 
 referred to their appropriate laws ; and laws should be ex- 
 emplified until the use of them becomes perfectly familiar. 
 In this respect students are very prone to err. I have fre- 
 quently seen young men, who could pass a creditable exam- 
 ination in the rules of rhetoric, who could not successfully ■ 
 construct a discourse on the simplest subject, and who were 
 unable to write three consecutive sentences without a blun- 
 der. Every one perceives that knowledge of this kind is 
 useless, and must soon be forgotten. It is this habit of com- 
 bining theory with practice which, most of all, confers pro- 
 fessional ability. 
 
 The importance of arranging our knowledge methodically, 
 that is, in its relations to the general principles on which it 
 depends, need not again be insisted on. I will, therefore, 
 only add that, in all our efforts to improve our minds, we 
 should be patient with ourselves. Bad habits cannot be 
 corrected except by the formation of good ones ; and to form 
 habits of any kind is a work of time. Strenuous effort, if 
 we give it time enough, will accomplish all that we could 
 desire. We must not, however, be disconcerted at the 
 imperfect success of our incipient efforts. Each one will 
 accomplish something ; and every effort accomplished, though 
 but imperfectly, will render less difficult that which succeeds. 
 • Those who have been the most successful in the end have 
 frequently confessed that their first attempts were marked 
 by mortifying failure. It was thus with Demosthenes ; and 
 if more men were blessed with his determination to succeed, 
 
 I 
 
IMPROVEMENT OF MEMORY. 276 
 
 the world would not so often have complained of the small 
 number of great orators. 
 
 The application of the preceding remarks to the duties of 
 an instructor is apparent. 
 
 The object of a teacher is to communicate knowledge and 
 BO to communicate it as to develop and strengtlien the 
 powers of the mind. Hence, in order to succeed, he umst 
 observe the laws to which the mind is subjected. The mind 
 of the pupil is similar to the mind of the teacher, age only 
 excepted. The course which has proved most successful with 
 the one, will prove the most successful with the other. If 
 we bear this in mind, we shall perceive the importance of 
 the following suggestions : 
 
 1. I have remarked that our power of recollection depends 
 greatly upon the clearness of our conceptions. Now, the 
 ability of young persons to comprehend complicated rela- 
 tions is, of course, much less than of adults. It is, there- 
 fore, the duty of the instructor to analyze what is complex 
 and simplify what is intricate, or else so to direct the mind 
 of the pupil that he can do it for himself In this manner 
 every kind of knowledge adapted to the age of the pupil 
 may be brought within his intellectual grasp. The in- 
 structor should not merely hold forth to the pupil what is 
 laid down in the books, but think it out for himself, observe 
 its elements, and separate them from each other, so that he 
 may place them in the clearest light before the conception 
 of the pupil. In these respects instructors frequently fail. 
 Sometimes they have no clear idea of a subject themselves, 
 and, of course, can convey none to others. They merely 
 inculcate by rote what they have learned by rote themselves. 
 Sometimes an instructor, who understands a subject himself, 
 forgets the labor by which his knowledge was acijuired, and 
 becomes unconscious of the difference between himself and 
 his pupil. What is very smiple to him now, appears to him, 
 
276 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 
 
 of course, simple to every one. What became familiar to 
 him only by severe and protracted effort, seems capable of 
 being learned by his pupil in a shorter time than is actually 
 possible. In these respects it becomes an instructor to be on 
 his guard. He should consider, not what he can do now, but 
 what he could have done when under the circumstances of 
 his pupils. He should, therefore, be careful to assure him- 
 self that what he teaches is understood. He who will bear 
 these things in mind will not often have to complain of the 
 stupidity of his pupils. When an instructor finds all his 
 pupils blockheads, the indication is certainly ambiguous; 
 there is a blockhead somewhere, but whether it be either 
 the teacher or the pupil becomes a proper subject of 
 inquiry. 
 
 2. What has been rendered simple may be easily illus- 
 trated. Skill, in illustration, therefore, is of great impor- 
 tance to a teacher. He perhaps presents to a pupil a new 
 idea which is not readily comprehended. The conception 
 of the one is not grasped by the other ; or, if it is, the pupil 
 does not certainly know that the idea in his mind is that 
 which the teacher means to communicate. The teacher 
 must, therefore, call up some analogous idea with which the 
 pupil is familiar, so that, from ground common to both, he 
 may pass by easy gradation to that which is new and 
 uncomprehended. Things dissimilar in themselves fre- 
 quently stand to each other in similar relations, thus 
 affording wide range for analogies. In this manner the 
 known is made to teach the unknown. Nor is this all. 
 The illustration associates a new* with a familiar idea. 
 An mteresting and apposite image is presented, and thus 
 whatever is learned is more easily remembered. An illus- 
 tration addressed to the eye is always the most successful. 
 Hence, maps, diagrams, experiments, are among the mosi 
 indispensable aids of an instructor. 
 
IMPROVEMENT OF MEMORY. 277 
 
 3. It is scarcely necessary to add that the pi ogress 
 of the pupil will be greatly accelerated by reducing hia 
 knowledge, as far as possible, to practice. From tlie neces- 
 sity of the case, it is evident that much of the pupil's time 
 must be occupied in learning rules. If, however, the teach- 
 ing is confined to these alone, it becomes intolerably irksome. 
 The mind struggles against it, and is willing quickly to forget 
 what is associated with nothing but pain. These difficulties, 
 however, may in a great degree be removed, by teaching the 
 pupil, as soon as he has learned a rule, to put it into prac- * 
 tice. He then aiscovers that the knowledge of rules is a 
 means of power, for it enables him to do what he could not 
 do before, and he becomes conscious of progress and 
 increased ability. Every step in advance brings with it 
 an inunediate reward, and he proceeds to the next step with 
 new consciousness of power, and more earnest desire f^r 
 other acquisitions. It was formerly the practice to carry a 
 boy through the Latin grammar before he began to trans- 
 late a word ; and months were consumed in this dry and 
 repulsive labor. It would be no wonder if, under such a 
 discipline, he learned to abominate the grammar, the lan- 
 guage, and the instructor, together. But if, as soon as he 
 has learned a single rule, or mastered a single inflexion, ho 
 is taught to use it in the construction of easy phrases, and 
 when, with the knowledge thus gained, he proceeds to the 
 next rule, and finds the increased power derived from adding 
 these knowledges together, further progress becomes desira- 
 ble in itself, and learning is no longer a drudgery. While it 
 would be absurd to say that, in all respects, our modes of 
 teaching are preferable to those of our fathers, it is delight- 
 ful to a benevolent mind to contemplate the improvements 
 which have been introduced in the modes of instructing the 
 young. The labor required is better adapted to the faculties 
 of the learner, though here, it must be confessed, we yet 
 24 
 
278 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 
 
 need improveraent. Study ministers more to iAe growth d{ 
 the mind, instead of being a barren exercise of memory ; and 
 a vast amount of misery has been lifted oflF from the human 
 race — certainly no trifling consideration. 
 
 REFERENCES. 
 
 Relation of memory to philosophical genius — Stewart, voL L, chap b« 
 section 8. 
 
 Improvement of memory — Stewart, vol. i., chap. 6, section 8. 
 
 Effect of practice in formation of habits ■ — Stewart, vol. i., chap. 2. 
 
 Theory and practice — Stewart, vol. i., chap. 4, section 7. 
 
 Attention connected with memory — Locke, Book 2 j chap. 10, section 3 : 
 Abercrombie, Part 3, section 1. 
 
 Connected knowledge easily retained — Stewart, vol. i., chap. 6, section 
 8 ; sections 1, 2, 4 ; Abercrombie, Part 8, section 1. 
 
 Memory aided by method — Stewart, vol. i., chap. 6, section 8 ; Abw- 
 crombie, Part 8, section 1. ♦ 
 
 Nature and use of hypothesis — Locke, Book 4, chap. 12, sections 12, 
 18 ; Abercrombie, Part 3, section 4 ; Stewart, vol. i., chap. 6, section 7. 
 
 ArtiMal memory — Stewart, vol. L, chap. 6, section 6. 
 
 Rules for study — Stewart, vol. i., chap. 6, section 5. 
 
 Effects of writing on memory — Stewart, vol. i., chap. 6, section 6. 
 
 Visible objects easily renembered — Stewart, vol. i., chap. 6, ee:^OB 2. 
 
 Memory a storehomse — Reid, Essaj 3, chap. 7. 
 
CHAPTER VI 
 
 REASONING. 
 
 8KCTI0N I. — THE NATURE AND OBJECT OF REASONING, 
 AND THE MANNER IN WHICH IT PROCEEDS. 
 
 We now come to the consideration of that series of men- 
 tal acts denominated reasoning. Before, however, we enter 
 upon this branch of our subject, it may be useful to review 
 again, very briefly, the ground which we have gone over, 
 that we may distinctly perceive the point from which we 
 proceed, and learn the relation which this form of mental 
 action holds to the other acts of the mind. 
 
 By our perceptive powers, we become acquainted with the 
 qualities of external objects, and, in general, with the facta 
 in the external world. By our consciousness, we learn the 
 facts existing in the world within us. By original sugges- 
 tion, various intuitive truths and relations become objects 
 of cognition. By abstraction, conceptions of individuals 
 assume the form of general ideas ; and by memory, all thia 
 knowledge is retained and recalled to our consciousness a* 
 the command of the will. 
 
 Were we endowed with no other powers than these, we 
 might enjoy the pleasures of knowledge. Whatever we had 
 observed or experienced, and whatever had been observed 
 and experienced by others, might be retained, generalized 
 and combined, and thus our acquisitions might be both ex- 
 
280 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 
 
 tensive and valuable. But, with no other faculties, we could 
 only know what we or other men had actually observed or 
 experienced. We could never make use of this knowledge to 
 penetrate into the unknown. In a word, we could observe, 
 and feel, and generalize, and classify, and remember, but 
 we could not reason. 
 
 But such is not the condition of the human mind. As 
 Boon as we acquire any knowledge whatever, we are prompted 
 to use it for the purpose of acquiring other knowledge. We 
 are continually saying to ourselves^ if this be thus, then 
 this other must be so ; or this must be so, because this and 
 that are so. If this be so, what must of necessity follow 7 
 This is the language of human beings, young and old, sav- 
 age and civilized, learned and ignora-nt. It is the impulse 
 of our common nature, and one of the endowments with 
 which we hav^ been blessed by a merciful Creator. He has 
 enabled us to cognize relations existing between certain 
 truths, from which emanate other truths different from the 
 preceding, but which, without a knowledge of them, could 
 never have been discovered. 
 
 The results of the exercise of this faculty have been most 
 astonishing. Unlike our other endowments, every one of 
 its acts provides a wider field for its future employment, and 
 thus its range is absolutely illimitable. The perception of 
 one color gives me no additional power to perceive another 
 color. A fact remembered furnishes only accidentally a 
 basis or an aid to wider recollection. But every truth dis- 
 covered by the reasoning power, and, in fact, every truth, 
 however acquired, becomes, by use of this power, the means 
 for proceeding to further discovery. Through the element- 
 ary cognitions in geometry, our reason at first discovers 
 certain truths concerning lines, angles and triangles. 
 Using these increased means of knowledge, it proceeds to dis- 
 cover truths concerning circles and squares and, using 
 
REASONING. 281 
 
 these again, it discovers those concerning solids, spheres and 
 spherical triangles ; and, using these again, it has been able 
 to reveal to us the magnitude, distances and motions, of the 
 heavenly bodies, and thus unfold the wonders of modern 
 astronomy. The knowledge which we thus obtain is ori- 
 ginal knowledge ; that is, it is given us specially by this 
 faculty, and could be given us by no other. How could we 
 ever learn the distance or magnitude or motion of the plan- 
 ets, either by perception, or consciousness, or original sug- 
 gestion, or abstraction, or memory ? The same remark is 
 true respecting the other sciences. Every science which 
 presents to us knowledge which could not be attained by the 
 powers above mentioned, must rely for its discoveries wholly 
 on reasoning. 
 
 We see, then, the nature of this faculty. It cognizes 
 nothing directly and immediately. It neither perceives the 
 facts of the outward nor is conscious of the facts of the 
 inward world; it furnishes no original suggestions, and 
 neither abstracts nor remembers ; but it receives these data 
 as they are delivered to it by these preceding faculties, and, 
 by a process of its own, uses them to discover new truths, 
 to which none of them could ever have attained. The man- 
 ner in which this is done, we shall attempt to explain. 
 
 Reasoning consists in a series of mental . acts, by which 
 we show such a relation to exist between the known and the 
 unknown, that if the former be true, the latter must also be 
 equally true. Thus, in geometry, the known with which 
 we commence is the definitions and axioms. Our fii*st dem- 
 onstration shows such relations to exist between them and 
 the first proposition, that if those be true this must be true 
 also. This first proposition is thus added to the known, 
 and becomes as firm a ground from which to reason as the 
 definitions and axioms from which we at first proceeded. In 
 our next step we again show, by mt reasoning powers, that 
 24* 
 
282 INTELLUCTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 
 
 if this increased known be true, the second proposition mnst 
 be true also. We then add our second proposition to the 
 known, and with this increased material of knowledge pro- 
 ceed to the third proposition ; and so on continually. In 
 each act of reasoning, we observe first the known, reaching 
 to a definite limit, beyond which all is uncertainty. We 
 observe, secondly, a proposition in the unknown which may 
 be true or may be false, of which nothing can with certainty 
 be affirmed, separated from the known by a chasm, so to 
 speak, of thus far impassable ignorance. The reasoning 
 power projects a bridge across this chasm, uniting them 
 indissolubly together, transforming the unknown into tht 
 known, adding a new domain to science, and enlarging bj 
 every such act the area of human knowledge. 
 
 If such be the nature of the mental {)rocess which we 
 denominate reasoning, it suggests to us three distinct topics 
 for consideration : 
 
 First, the nature of the truths from which we proceed. 
 
 Secondly, the validity of the results at which we arrive. 
 
 Thirdly, the nature of the process by which we pass 
 from the one to the other. 
 
 To the consideration of these subjects the remainder of 
 this section will be devoted. 
 
 I. TIte nature of the truths from which we pro- 
 ceed. 
 
 I have already said that, in reasoning, we design to show : 
 that if certain things are true, certain other things, whose 
 truth is now unknown, must be true also. We then must, 
 of necessity, proceed from the true to the doubtful, from the 
 known to the unknown. The premises are always, at the 
 commencement, better known than the conclusion at which we 
 propose to arrive. From this it is evident that we can never 
 reason unless from what is either known or conceded ; and, 
 further, that we can never prove any proposition unless we 
 
FIRST TRUTHS. 283 
 
 can find some other proposition better known by wliieh tc 
 prove it. If any proposition is to be proved, all other pos- 
 Bible propositions must stand to it in one of three rehitions, 
 either less known^ equally known^ or better knowji. To 
 attempt to prove what we know by what we do not know, 
 or to prove what we know by what we do not know as wdl, 
 is absurd. Inasmuch as proof brings the conclusion to pre- 
 cisely the level of the premises, a process of this kind would 
 diminish instead of increasing the certainty of our conclu- 
 sion. That an error of this kind cannot be committed. I 
 would not, however, assert. We not unfrequently hear 
 men attempt to prove, what every one at the beginning al- 
 lows, but which, at the conclusion of the argument, every 
 one is disposed to doubt. Such must always be the result 
 when we attempt to prove self-evident truths. Secondly : to 
 attempt to prove either what we know or what we do not 
 know, by what we only know equally well^ is nugatory. 
 We of course know no better at the end than at the begin- 
 ning of our argument, and all our labor is by necessity 
 thrown away. We could not, by a life's labor in this man- 
 ner, advance a single step in knowledge. Hence we can 
 never prove any proposition, unless we can find some prop- 
 ositions better known than that which we desire to prove. 
 Hence it follows, that, when we find a proposition so evident 
 that no proposition more evident can be discovered, the 
 truth of such a proposition cannot be established by the 
 reasoning faculty. If it be true, its truth must be deter- 
 mined by some other power of the mind. Hence, all rea- 
 soning must commence from truths not made known by the 
 ason, that is, which the intellection perceives to be true 
 previous to all reasoning, and from which all the deductiona 
 of reason proceed. Let us consider the aature of some of 
 these elementary beliefs, which lie at the foundation of all 
 reasoning.' 
 
284 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 
 
 Were nothing more required than that a man should con- 
 vince himself of the truth of any proposition, nothing more 
 would be necessary than that he himself was satisfied that 
 his premises were true. I do not, of course, say that he 
 would thus, of necessity, arrive at truth, but he would be 
 able to convince himself of the truth of the proposition in 
 question. But, if we reason for the purpose of convincing 
 another man, it is obvious that he also must admit with us 
 the truth of our premises, or the propositions from which we 
 proceed. Unless the two can agree in the premises, argue • 
 as long as they may, they can make no progress towards a ' 
 conclusion. The argument which convinces the one has no 
 effect on the other, since he denies the premises on which it 
 is founded. No argument, then, can have any power over 
 the mind of another, unless both equally admit the truth of 
 the premises on which the conclusion rests. But what is '■ 
 >ue of any two men, is true of all men collectively. We 
 'an never convince the human mind of the truth of our 
 conclusions, unless there be some truths from which we 
 proceed, which all men equally with ourselves admit prior 
 to all argument. If such truths did not exist, all reasoning 
 addressed to the human race would be nugatory and use- 
 less. When men reason at great length, without coming to 
 a conclusion, the cause of their difficulty generally is, that 
 they have no principles in common. Hence, when we find 
 ourselves in this condition, the proper course to be pursued 
 is to refer back to the premises from which we proceed, and 
 deter -.nine whether they be the same. When men agree in 
 premises, and reason logically from them, it cannot be long 
 before some conclusion is reached. 
 
 But it is evident that in all matters of science, and, in 
 fact, in all our reasonings (those only excepted which are 
 technically termed ad hortmiem)^ we address ourselves not to 
 one man, or one class of men, but to the whole human race. 
 
FIRST TRUTHS. 285 
 
 We proceed upon the belief that what convinces one man, 
 of fair understanding and in a normal condition of the intel- 
 lect, will convince all men under the same circumstances 
 that iSj that there are common truths which all men admit, 
 and thatj reasoning from them, they must all arrive at the 
 same result as soon as the argument is fairly presented 
 And this anticipation is justified by universal experience. 
 The conclusions of mathematics, astronomy, mechanics, of 
 geology, chemistry, magnetism, of political economy, and 
 social philosophy, from the time of their first promulgation, 
 have established themselves gradually in the mind of man, 
 until, by the force of their own evidence, they are admitted 
 as acknowledged truths. Every man who has been con- 
 vinced of the truth of the reasoning on which their con- 
 clusions depend, feels assured that every other man who 
 contemplates them without prejudice will be convinced also. 
 Hence the universal confidence that is felt in the maxim of 
 Bacon, '^ Magna est Veritas et 'prevalebitP Such unani- 
 mous consent to conclusions could not be predicted, and 
 could not exist, unless there were principles lying at the 
 foundation of the reasonings, which all men admit, and from 
 which conclusions follow, by irresistible sequence, which all 
 men must allow. Such truths, made known to all men by 
 the original constitution of the human understanding, must 
 lie at the foundation of all science, and of all knowledge 
 established by reasoning. They have been called, by Buffier 
 and Dr. Reid, first truths, and they are said by the-^e phi- 
 losophers to emanate from the common sense of mankind. 
 
 It may reasonably be demanded whether there is any 
 mode by which we may determine whether or not any 
 proposition is a first truth. Is there any test by which 
 they may be practically distinguished from mere propositions 
 that are inferred from them ? To this I answer, 
 
 First, they are incomprehensible. 
 
286 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 
 
 i 
 
 Secondly, t/iei/ ai^e si?nple. 
 
 Thirdly, t/ief/ are necessary and universal. 
 
 Fourthly, theij are so evident that nothing 7nore evi* 
 dent can he discovered by luhich to prove them. 
 
 This subject has, however, been already considered undei 
 the head of the Reality of our Knowledge, pages 95 — 97. 
 to which pages the reader is referred. 
 
 The axioms of geometry are acknowledged to be the foun- 
 dation truths of that science ; but other self-evident truths 
 lie equally at the foundation of all other knowledge estab- 
 lished by reasoning. For instance : that I exist ; that an 
 external universe exists ; that the testimony of my percep- 
 tive and my reasoning powers is to be received ; that a 
 change presupposes a cause ; that the course of nature is 
 uniform, or that the same causes under the same conditions 
 will produce the same efiects ; that rational beings act from 
 motives, and that a change of action must proceed from a 
 change of motives, and a multitude of others, may be placed 
 in the number of first truths. 
 
 Between the truths that are acknowledged by all as self- 
 evident, as I have before remarked, a distinction may be 
 observed. The first truths of geometry, for instance, are 
 perceived to be such unconditionally. Thus, we could not 
 conceive of any circumstances in which the whole of any- 
 thing would not be greater than its part, the reverse of this 
 truth being manifestly unthinkable. This, as we perceive, 
 must be true semper et ubiqiie. But that I exist, that an 
 external world exists, is only a conditional first truth. 
 Neither I nor the external world have always existed, aud- 
 it is not impossible to suppose them to cease to exist. It is 
 not, however, possible to conceive them not to exist, things 
 being as they are ; that is, I being conscious of the acta 
 of thinking, perceiving, etc. Thus also, things being as 
 they are, it is impossible to conceive of an intelligent being 
 
FIRST TRUTHS. 287 
 
 as acting witliout motive, but it is not impossible t) suppose 
 beings constituted so differently from us as to act in this 
 manner, or to suppose that no intelligent beings had ever 
 been created. But^ things being as they arc^ the opposite 
 of these truths is utterly inconceivable. 
 
 On these first truths all our reasonings ultimately depend. 
 They are rarely stated in language, because every m;in 
 instinctively takes them for granted, and he knows that all 
 other men do the same. It would, however, be a very valu- 
 able service to science, if the first truths of all knowledge 
 in general, and of the separate sciences in particular, could 
 be plainly stated and accurately classified. In this manner 
 a large amount of useless discussion would be prevented, 
 and truth arrived at with much greater facility. Dr. Reid, 
 in the sixth chapter of his sixth Essay on the intellectual 
 powers, has stated several of the necessary truths in gram- 
 mar, logic, mathematics, in taste, in morals and meta- 
 physics, together with many contingent truths which are 
 admitted in all our efforts after knowledge. The subject, 
 however, demands a more extended and minute examination. 
 Whenever it shall have been done, the labor of intellectual 
 research will be greatly diminished, and its results moi'o 
 easily verified. 
 
 2. I have stated above that the end to be accomplished 
 by the reasoning faculty is to render the conclusion at wliich 
 we arrive, of precisely the same validity as the premises. 
 From this it is evident that whatever the reasoning fa(!ultj 
 has logically deduced from first truths is just as valid mat- 
 ter from Avhich to proceed as the first truths themselves. 
 Thus, in geometry, from the axioms and definitions we prove 
 a proposition ; that proposition, when logically proved, is aa 
 certainly true as the axioms from which wo at first pro- 
 ceeded. The proposition that the angles at the base of an 
 feoscehs triangle are equal, is just as valid a premise, in % 
 
288 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 
 
 geometrical demonstration, as the truth that things equal to 
 the same are equal to one another. And, still further, what- 
 ever is by logical process pnoved from this proposition is 
 just as valid matter as the proposition itself. And this will 
 be the case to any extent whatever. 
 
 The only abatement to be made to this statement is the 
 uncertainty arising from the imperfection of our faculties 
 Ws may, from this imperfection, reason illogically without 
 perceiving it. If there be this liability, the greater the 
 number of arguments, the greater the probability that in 
 some one there will be error. And this liability increases 
 with the complication of the relations which we are called 
 to consider. This liability is reduced to the smallest prac- 
 tical value when the various steps of an argument have 
 been examined by men skilled in the discovery of truth, 
 and their validity has been allowed by all succeeding phi- 
 losophers. 
 
 3. Besides these truths given us in the original constitu- 
 tion of our intellect, and the truths following from them 
 by logical deduction, other truths are valid matter in our 
 reasonings. Such are the acknowledged laws of nature, 
 established by incontestable observation. Thus, it has been 
 ascertained that the sensation of hearing, under normal con- 
 ditions, is caused by the vibration of the air ; the perception 
 of external objects, by the formation of an image on the 
 retina ; that water boils at 212° and freezes at 32° Fahren- 
 heit, under ordinary conditions of barometrical pressure; 
 that the atmosphere is a mixture of oxygen and nitrogen 
 gases, and water a compound of oxygen and hydrogen, both 
 always in definite proportions ; that atmospheric air is neces- 
 sary to animal life. These, and all other laws and general 
 facts, which at any time have been discovered by experiment 
 or observation, whether in matter or mind, are valid matter 
 from which to proceed in our reasonings. We thus see the 
 
FIRST TRUTHS. 289 
 
 connection between those powers of the mind which we havo 
 previously considered and the reasoning faculty. The former 
 observe and retain and generalize, and thus change individ- 
 ual facts into general laws. These become the premises 
 from which, by our reasoning power, conclusions are drawn ; 
 and thus knowledge is increased, and the dominion of man 
 over nature extended. 
 
 4. I have thus far treated of premises, or propositions 
 from which we proceed in reasoning, of which the truth is 
 incontestable. Wherever such propositions can be discovered 
 we always are bound to use them, for thus alone can we 
 arrive at pure truth, and enlarge our positive knowledge. 
 Frequently, however, in our practical conduct, such propo- 
 sitions cannot be discovered, and we are obliged to form 
 our reasonings on mere probability. In this case we can 
 arrive at nothing higher than probability, but this proba- 
 bility is in many cases far preferable to ignorance, and may 
 furnish a valuable guide for our conduct. Thus, we say, 
 concerninor a comino: event, men under certain circumstances 
 generally act thus or so. A, is under these circumstances, 
 therefore he will probably act thus or so. Under such or 
 such conditions of the atmosphere it generally rains ; such 
 are the conditions this morning, therefore it will probably 
 rain to-day. Or, again : if there be a war in Europe, there 
 will be a demand for American grain ; there will probably 
 be a war in Europe, therefore probably there will be such 
 a demand. It is obvious that much of our reasoning con- 
 cerning future events is of this character. It does not 
 furnish us with certain knowledge, but yet with knowledge 
 which may be of gi'eat value in the practical business of 
 life, and the management of affairs. 
 
 n. Such are some of the truths from which we proceed 
 in the use of our reasoning powers. I proceed to inquire, 
 Becondly, what is the state of mind at which we arrive 
 25 
 
290 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 
 
 provided the reasoning faculty has been employed in ooedi 
 once to the laws to which it has been subjected. 
 
 The states of mind of which we may be conscious in regard 
 to any proposition, are, I think, the following : 
 
 1. We may be in perfect ignorance concerning it, neither 
 believing nor disbelieving it in the slightest degree. Thus, 
 were it affirmed that the sun is inhabited, I must say, I 
 know nothing about it. I have no facts from which to 
 reason, and am therefore in absolute ignorance ; I have not 
 even an opinion either in favor of, or in opposition to, the 
 proposition. It is to me precisely the same as if the affirm- 
 ation had not been made. 
 
 2. I may know that a proposition is true. Here 1 
 express my state of mind by saying that I believe it, or I 
 know it. Thus, I know that the exterior angle of a triangle 
 is equal to the two interior and opposite angles. I believe 
 that there are such cities as London, Paris, and Wash- 
 ington. 
 
 3. I may know a proposition to be false. Here my sta,te 
 of mind is expressed by the words, I disbelieve it. Thus, if 
 the proposition were presented to me, that the angles at the 
 base of an isosceles triangle are unequal, I know it to be 
 false, and I say I disbelieve it. 
 
 4. Without being able to arrive at either belief or disbe- 
 lief, I am capable of forming an opinion concerning the 
 truth or falsehood of a proposition. I weigh the several con- 
 siderations presented, and I find my mind inclined in one 
 direction or the other ; though I am fully aware that this 
 inclination may be reversed by subsequent and more accu- 
 rate knowledge. Thus, in the present state of knowledge, 
 I am unable either to believe or disbelieve that the planets 
 are inhabited, yet 1 may have an opinion on tl e subject in- 
 clining either to the one view or the other. I therefore 
 
PROPOSITIONS. 2^1 
 
 wait for furilier information, prepared to change my opinion 
 witli the progress of knowledge. 
 
 The object of reasoning is to advance our certainty, and 
 to move the mind onward from the extreme of ignorance on 
 the one hand, to the opposite extreme of belief on the other. 
 Hence it may change our mental state from ignorance to 
 opinion, from opinion to more confident opinion, or from 
 either of these to certainty or confident belief Its move- 
 ment is all in one direction, from a lower to a higher degree 
 of certainty. 
 
 From what has been said, it is evident that, when our 
 premises are indubitable, we arrive, by reasoning, at absolute 
 belief or indubitable truth. When our premises are merely 
 matters of opinion we arrive only at opinion. In every 
 case we raise the conclusion to precisely the same degree of 
 certainty as the premises from which we proceed : we make 
 what was before unknown, or less known, exactly equal to 
 what was before more known. Our conclusion can never 
 be more certain than our premises, but if our process be 
 logical, it can never be less certain. 
 
 III. We now come, in the third place, to inquire what is 
 the process by which this relation between the known and 
 the unknown is rendered apparent, so that we are enabled 
 to raise the one to the certainty of the other. 
 
 We do this by syllogism. A syllogism is a series of 
 judgments or propositions, the last of which affirms the con- 
 clusion at which we have arrived. Before considering syllo- 
 gisms, it will be proper to consider the nature of jud.Lniients, 
 or the propositions of which they are composed. 
 
 Judf^ment is an act of the mind in which we affirm one 
 thing of another ; that is, we affirm a predicate of a .sul)|ect, 
 or judge that a particular individual or species is included 
 in a particular genus or class. Thus, I judge snow to be 
 white, grass to be green, avarice to be contemptible ; thai 
 
292 IISTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 
 
 is, I judge these particular individuals to be comprenended 
 within the class which I predicate of them. 
 
 Our judgment may be either clear and distinct, or obscure 
 and confused. 
 
 A judgment is formed from two conceptions, and it 
 affirms that one of these may be predicated of the other. 
 Now, if we have a complete comprehension of both these 
 conceptions, our judgment must be clear and distinct. On 
 the other hand, if my knowledge of the conceptions involved 
 be imperfect, vague, and obscure, my judgment must be of 
 a similar character. Thus, when the proposition is an- 
 nounced that the three angles of a triangle are equal to two 
 right angles, I comprehend the terms employed both in the 
 subject and predicate, and my judgment is definite and un- 
 ambiguous. If it be said that the rings of Saturn are chaos, 
 I find myself to have a very incomplete idea of the rings of 
 Saturn, and a very indistinct idea of chaos. Hence, I am 
 unable to form anything more than a very indistinct idea of 
 the proposition. 
 
 It is hardly necessary to remark that judgment enters as 
 an element into almost all our mental acts. We think in 
 judgments ; that is, we are always affirming one thing of 
 another, and we do not consider anything else to be thinking. 
 To conceive of things without forming judgments, is to make 
 no progress. We can only be said to think when we form 
 a judgment, respecting two conceptions, in which one is 
 affirmed of the other. 
 
 The expression of a judgment in words, is called a propo^ 
 sition. A proposition, therefore, must consist of a subject^ 
 or that of which we affirm, a predicate^ or that which we 
 affirm of it, and a copula^ or that which affirms the relation 
 existing between them. Thus, if I say, man is a vertebrate, 
 here man is the subject, vertebrate is the predicate, and is 
 Is the copula, or that which affirms the one of the other, 
 
PROPOSITIONS. 20% 
 
 The subject is that of which we discourse, the predicate ia 
 the class to which we aflSrm that it belongs, or under which 
 it is comprehended, and the copula is that which affirms the 
 existence of this relation. 
 
 When we thus affirm a predicate of a subject, we afiirin that 
 all the qualities of the predicate are possessed by the subject. 
 When I say, man is a vertebrate, I affirm that all which is com- 
 prehended by the predicate vertebrate is possessed by ?nan. 
 
 In every proposition it is obvious there must be two 
 conceptions. Of these one must be a general idea, or one 
 designating a class. To affii^m of two individuals is either 
 nugatory or false. To say John is John is nugatory, for 
 the proposition does not advance our knowledge. To say 
 John is Peter is false, for it affirms something to be different 
 from what it is. 
 
 The subject may be either an individual or a species : the 
 predicate must be a genus ; that is, it must designate a larger 
 class than the subject. In a proposition, we therefore affirm 
 that a particular individual is included within a particular 
 class. Hence, every proposition must be either true or false. 
 The subject is either included within the class designated by 
 the predicate, or it is not. It cannot be neither within noi 
 without it. Thus, if I say horse is a vertebrate, it is eithei 
 true or false^ for horse is either included within this class, 
 or it is not. 
 
 We may now proceed to the subject of syllogism. 
 
 A syllogism, in the language of Aristotle, is a speech in 
 which certain things (the premises) being supposed, some- 
 thing different from what is supposed (the tonclusion) 
 follows of necessity, and this solely in virtue of he suppo- 
 sitions themselves. 
 
 The principle on which a syllogism depends is the follow- 
 ing : Whatever is affirmed or denied of a class is affirmed 
 or denied of every individual urfder that class. Thus, when 
 25* 
 
294 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 
 
 I say snow is white, I mean that snow is comprc nended un^ 
 der the class white, and I affirm this also of all snow what- 
 ever. When I say snow is not black, I exclude snow from 
 the class black, and I exclude all snow from this class : that. 
 is, I deny black of snow. 
 
 It will be seen, from what has been said, that logic, or the 
 science of syllogisms, is formal ; that is, it must proceed 
 from premises conceded. It of itself takes no cognizance 
 of either their truth or falsehood. Supposing them to 
 be true, it governs the forms of propositions, and their rela- 
 tions to each other, and merely assures us that the conclu- 
 sion which we infer in obedience to its rules is as true as our 
 premises. It renders us no other aid than this, but this it 
 renders most effectually. 
 
 It has sometimes been supposed that syllogism was a 
 mode of reasoning, and a mode of reasoning employed by 
 philosophers, while other men reasoned in some other and 
 simpler manner. It has even been said, that, much as philos- 
 ophers talk about syllogism, when 'they come to reason, 
 they neglect it all, and reason like common men. To this 
 it may be replied, that syllogism is not a mode, it is the 
 mode of reasoning. It is the peculiar process of the reason- 
 ing faculty. The reasoning power forms syllogisms just as 
 the imagination forms pictures, each being the purpose for 
 which these different powers were respectively designed 
 Philosophers and other men must, therefore, if they reason 
 at all, reason in the same way, for they have no other 
 nethod by which to proceed. I do not, of course, pretend 
 that either of them draws out every argument in the form 
 of a syllogism. One or both of the premises are frequently 
 so well known as to be taken for granted, and we need only 
 state the conclusion which must follow from what is con- 
 ceded by all. But, in this case, our reasoning, though ever 
 BO much abridged, may always be reduced to the form of a 
 
SYLLOGISM. 295 
 
 gyllogisin, and we always so reduce it, if we desire to test 
 its truth and examine it with accuracy. 
 
 In forming a syllogism in the first proposition we affirm 
 that a species is included under a genus. By the second 
 proposition we affirm that an individual or a sub-species ia 
 included under this species. In the third proposition, or the 
 conclusion, we affirm the proposition which, of necessity, 
 follows from the conjunction of the two first propositions or 
 premises. 
 
 Thus, for example, I affirm, 
 
 1. All tyrants are detestable. 
 
 2. Caesar was a tyrant. 
 
 3. Caesar was detestable. 
 
 Here, by the first proposition, I affirm that the species 
 tyrant is included under the genus detestable ; by the 
 second proposition, I affirm that the individual Caesar was 
 included under the species tyrant ; and, by the third propo- 
 sition, I affirm the conclusion which of necessity follows, 
 namely, that Caesar is included under the class detestable. 
 
 In order to illustrate this subject, let us suppose that the 
 proposition to be proved is, Caesar was detestable. The 
 predicate is called the major term, the subject the minor 
 term. When we make this assertion, it is denied by an op- 
 ponent ; that is, he asserts, on the contrary, that this predi- 
 cate, detestable, cannot be affirmed of the subject, Caesar. 
 In what manner is it given us to proceed? Assertion is 
 confronted by assertion equally decided. In what manner 
 shall we arrive at the truth, so as to convince an opponent, 
 or mankind in general, of the validity of our proposition ? 
 
 We do this by seeking for what is called a middle term, 
 or for some class which is included in the class detestable, 
 and which also includes the subject Oaesar. Suppose 1 
 choose the term dictator, and say, 
 
 1. All dictators are detestable. 
 
296 INTELLECrUAL PHILOSOPHr. 
 
 2. Caesar was a dictator. 
 
 3. Caesar was detestable. 
 
 My opponent refers to Fabius, and other dictators, who 
 were not detestable. I am, therefore, obliged to change 
 the first premise, and say, some dictators are detestable. But, 
 as all dictators are not included in the class detestable, the 
 conclusion will not by necessity follow, and this argument 
 must be relinquished. 
 
 I seek for another middle term, and select that mentioned 
 above, the term tyrant. I show by facts that Caesar was 
 comprehended under this class. I then proceed as before, 
 and the conclusion follows by necessity, in virtue of the 
 suppositions themselves. 
 
 The above is an affirmative syllogism. In a negative 
 syllogism the process is modified as follows : We first 
 affirm that a certain species is wholly excluded from a par- 
 ticular genus. In the second place, we affirm that the in- 
 dividual or sub-species is included in this excluded species. 
 The conclusion follows, by necessity, that the individual or 
 species is excluded from the first mentioned genus. 
 
 For example, suppose it were to be proved that Caesar 
 was not detestable. This is denied, and we must seek for a 
 middle term which shall include Caesar, and be excluded 
 from the class detestable. I choose the term dictator, and 
 then say, 
 
 1. No dictator is detestable. 
 
 2. Caesar was a dictator ; therefore^ 
 
 3. Caesar was not detestable. 
 
 Here, however, I am met by the fact that some dictators 
 were detestable, and for this reason my argument fails, 
 since some dictators are not excluded from this class. 
 
 I must, therefore, select another middle term. I say 
 therefore 
 
 1. Nc brave and generous man is detestable. 
 
STLLOGISM. 297 
 
 2. Caesar was a brave and generous man. 
 
 8. Caesar was not detestable. 
 
 If these premises are granted, the conclusion, as before, 
 follows by necessity. If any of our premises is denied, we 
 are obliged to form a syllogism in the same manner, and 
 prove our premise before we can proceed. But, having es- 
 tablished the premises, the conclusion cannot be evaded. • 
 
 The above instances will illustrate the general nature of 
 syllogisms. Sophisms are arguments purporting to be syl- 
 logisms, in which the essential laws of syllogism are vio- 
 lated. Thus, 
 
 1. All quadrupeds are animals. 
 
 2. Birds are animals ; therefore, 
 
 3. Birds are quadrupeds. 
 
 Here it is seen at once that the class quadrupeds, which 
 is included in animals, does not include birds. Therefore, 
 nothing is concluded. So again, 
 
 1. Black is a color. 
 
 2. White is a color ; therefore, 
 
 3. White is black. 
 
 Here, as before, both white and black are included in the 
 same genus, but there is no species included in the class 
 color, which also includes the subject of the conclusion. 
 
 I have thought that this subject might be illustrated by a 
 few simple diagrams. I, therefore, add them in this "place, 
 for the sake of representing the doctrine of syllogism to the 
 eye. To those learned in logic, they will, I know, he 
 deemed superfluous ; but, as this work is designed for those 
 who are entering upon this study, they may not be wholly 
 without advantage. 
 
 The affirmative syllogism may be represented by tlie tbl- 
 lowing diagram. For instance. 
 
 All vertebrates are animals. 
 
 Horse is a vertebrate ; therefore, 
 
 I 
 
298 INTELLECTUAI PHILOSOPHY. 
 
 Horse is an animal. 
 
 < 
 
 
 
 o 
 
 
 -4^ 
 
 
 OS 
 
 
 U 
 
 
 ,0 
 
 
 3 
 
 
 
 
 u 
 
 
 S 
 
 
 > 
 
 
 
 ■ 
 
 
 That is, vertebrate is included in animal, horse is included 
 in vertebrate ; therefore, horse is included in animal. 
 Take, again, a negative syllogism ; for instance, 
 No predaceous animals are ruminant. 
 Lion is a predaceous animal ; therefore, 
 Lion is not ruminant. 
 This may be represented by the following diagram : 
 
 I 
 
 I 
 
 That is, predaceous is excluded from ruminant, and lion 
 is included in predaceous ; therefore, lion is excluded from 
 ruminant. 
 
 This is the regular form of syllogism. The nature of 
 sophisms or false syllogisms may be illustrated by similar 
 diagrams. For instance, 
 
SYLLOGISM. 
 
 209 
 
 All quadrupeds are animals. 
 Birds are animals ; therefore, 
 Birds are quadrupeds. 
 
 a 
 
 g 
 
 That is, quadrupeds are included in animals ; birds are 
 included in animals, but are not included in quadrupeds ; 
 therefore, nothing is concluded. Again, 
 
 Food is necessary to life. 
 
 Corn is food ; therefore, 
 
 Com is necessary to life. 
 
 I 
 
 '6 
 
 < o 
 
 6 
 
 That is, necessary to life includes some food, 'mi riot all 
 
300 TXTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 
 
 food includes corn but, as necessary to life does not include 
 all food, so corn is not of necessity included in necessary to 
 life. So, again, 
 
 Black is a color. 
 
 White is a color ; therefore, 
 
 Black is white. 
 
 
 5 
 
 Here color includes black and also includes white. Both 
 are colors, but we see at a glance that nothing is concluded. 
 
 In this manner we may represent various forms of syl- 
 logisms and sophisms. The above examples will, however, 
 sufficiently illustrate the nature of both. 
 
 In some cases we are able to discover a middle term which 
 is intuitively true and fulfils all the conditions of proof. 
 Here our course is plain. But suppose we are unable to do 
 this, what course remains for us ? We are then obliged to 
 construct a conjectural syllogism, which will prove our 
 proposition, provided we can show its premises to be true. 
 We then take the conjectural premise, and construct a syllo- 
 gism by which it can be proved. If here one of our prem- 
 ises is conjectural, we construct another syllogism, until 
 we have arrived at some proposition lyhigh we are able to 
 prove. In this manner the premise in question is estab- 
 lislisd. When both the original premises are proved, the 
 
REASONING. 
 
 80i 
 
 work is done, and the original conjectural syllogism ia 
 shown to be true. Or, on the other hand, if, attempting to 
 prove either of our premises, we find the foundation on which 
 it rests to be false, we abandon it altogether, and seek for 
 some other media of proof 
 
 This process may, I think, be illustrated by the prop- 
 osition commonly known as the 4Tth of the first bwk 
 of Euclid's elements, or that which proves that in any 
 right-angled triangle, the square of the side subtending the 
 right angle is equal to the sum of the squares of the sides 
 containing the right angle. I presume every reader to be 
 familiar with the proposition, and, therefore, I need only 
 indicate briefly the illustration which I have to offer. 
 
 2 
 
 a 
 
 1^ 
 
 N ^ 
 
 1 
 
 I 
 
 i' 
 
 / 
 
 y 
 
 r 
 
 / 
 
 
 < 
 
 The proposition to be proved is that the squares a and A 
 are together equal to the larger square x. 
 
 Here I can find no middle terra of acknowledged truth 
 by which to prove this proposition. I proceed, therefore, 
 and construct an argument which will prove it provided the 
 premises can be shown to be true. Having divided the 
 larger square, x, into two parts, by the line 6, 7, I say, 
 26 
 
302 INTELLECTUAL PiilLOSOPHY. 
 
 Things equal to the same are equal to each other. 
 
 The square x^ and the sum of the squares a and 6, are 
 equal to the parallelograms a' and b\ 
 
 Therefore, the square x is equal to the sum of the squares 
 a and b. 
 
 Now this syllogism will prove the proposition if I can 
 show the premises to be time. But it is not proved that the 
 squares a and b are respectively equal to the parallelograms 
 a and b\ This is, in the next place, to be proved. 
 
 I say, then, again. 
 
 The doubles of equals are equal. 
 
 The parallelogram a and the square a are each double 
 of the equal triangles, 1, 2, 3, and 6, 2, 5. 
 
 Therefore, the parallelogram a' and the square a are 
 equal. 
 
 But it is yet to be proved that these two triangles are 
 equal. This has been taken for granted. 
 
 I proceed again. 
 
 Triangles having two sides equal, and the angle contained 
 by these two sides equal, are themselves equal. 
 
 These triangles have these sides and angles equal ; 
 
 Therefore, these two triangles are equal. 
 
 The equality of the triangles proves the square and 
 parallelogram to be equal, and thus my conjectural syllo- 
 gism is proved to be true. 
 
 The conjectural syllogism with which I commenced, 
 proved the proposition, provided its premises could be 
 proved. I have proved the premises, and, therefore, the 
 proposition is proved. 
 
 But, having discovered this truth, suppose I wish to com- 
 municate it to another. I then reverse the process, and 
 commence with the proposition with which I just now con- 
 cluded. 
 
 I first show that the triangles are equal ; 
 
REASONING. {QS 
 
 Then, that a rectangle and a triangle being on the same 
 base and between the same parallels, the rectangle is doul)le 
 of the triangle ; 
 
 Hence, the triangles being equal, the rectangle and the 
 square must be equivalent. 
 
 And, hence, the two smaller squares and the greater 
 square being both equal to the two parallelograms, the two 
 smaller, and the greater square are equal to each other. 
 
 In this instance the example is taken from the mathe- 
 matics. But the case is essentially the same in all cases 
 where we attempt to prove a proposition. We first con- 
 struct a syllogism, which, if true, will prove it. But one 
 or both the premises may be doubtful. We take the doubt- 
 ful premise and form a syllogism, which, if true, will prove 
 it. If, here, one of our premises is conjectural, we make a 
 third proposition, which, in like manner, we attempt to prove, 
 until we arrive at some acknowledged truth from which it 
 proceeds. We then construct our argument, beginning with 
 the fundamental truth at which we last arrived, and proceed 
 outwards, reversing our process, until we show that our orig- 
 inal proposition depends upon truth which all must ac- 
 knowledge. 
 
 Thus, when one of our premises is denied, we must prove 
 our premise. If the premise of this proof is denied, we 
 must prove this premise. Going backward, in this manner, 
 we at last arrive at first truths, or those which every mind, 
 in a normal condition, perceives by intuition to be true. 
 Thus, in the proposition just taken for an example, if our 
 premises were continually denied, we should at last arrive 
 at the definitions and axioms of geometry. And thus, in any 
 other reasoning, we arrive, by the same process, at truths 
 equally obvious to a sound understanding. When we have 
 arrived at these, reason can go no fiu'ther. If these are 
 denied, the party denying must be wanting in ordinary 
 
304 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 
 
 intellect, or we must have taken as true what is obviously 
 false. Whichever be the case, there is an end of argument. 
 
 We hear it frequently said that all mathematical reason- 
 mg depends upon definitions and axioms. This is true ; but 
 their importance depends upon difierent principles. It may 
 be well to consider briefly the nature of each. 
 
 A definition is a conception expressed in language. 
 Thus, if I am about to prove to another person a proposi- 
 tion in which I use the conception of lines, angles, trian- 
 gles, squares and circles, it is evident that my argument 
 will be useless to him, unless, when I use these words, he 
 have the same conceptions as myself If, when I say 
 *' line," he has the same conception that I have when I say 
 '^triangle," we could never understand each other. It is 
 necessary, therefore, that I explain, as clearly as possible, 
 the conception which I form when I use these terms. Hav- 
 ing done this, and it being certain that we have the same 
 conception when we use the same words, we are prepared 
 to proceed in our argument. 
 
 An axiom expresses an intuitively perceived relation be- 
 tween our conceptions. Thus, having defined what we mean 
 by lines, angles, and other elements of quantity, we say 
 ^' Two straight lines cannot enclose space." ^^ Things equal 
 to the same are equal to one another." These relations 
 being conceded by both parties, and the same conceptions 
 being common to both, we have the elements necessary for 
 reasoning. 
 
 When it is said, therefore, that we cannot reason without 
 definitions and axioms, the impossibility arises from difier- 
 ent causes. We cannot reason without definitions, because 
 we cannot reason together unless the terms wh^ch we em- 
 ploy create in the minds of each other the same conceptions. 
 But this cannot be known unless the terms which we use 
 we adequately explained ; that is, unless they are defined. 
 
AXIOMS AND DEFINITIONS. 806 
 
 The reason for the necessity of axioms is difTerent. Wo 
 must agree as to the laws to which these conceptions are 
 subjected, or else we can never arrive at a common conclu- 
 sion. If I show that what I assert is true, for otherwise 
 two straight lines must enclose space, or that the whole be 
 less than its part, 1 can proceed no further. But, if my 
 opponent does not admit these axioms or laws of quantity to 
 be true, he will never feel the force of my reasoning, and 
 will, of course, not be convinced. 
 
 This is manifestly true in the mathematics. But it is 
 obvious that the same principles must govern all our rea- 
 sonings. Unless men attach the same meaning to the same 
 term, that is, unless a term awakens in each the same con- 
 ception, they can no more reason together than they could 
 if each spoke a language unknown to the other. In ordi- 
 nary discourse, the meaning of terms is sufficiently estab- 
 lished by usage to prevent any serious diflBculty. It is found, 
 however, necessary, when accuracy of reasoning is attempted, 
 to proceed further, and define our terms with the greatest 
 precision. Were this more frequently done, much valuable 
 labor would be saved, and diflferences of opinion among hon- 
 est men would be found less important than they seem to be. 
 And so of axioms. Unless the relations which exist between 
 these conceptions are admitted, men may reason together 
 forever without coming to any conclusion. Thus, were two 
 men arguing together on the nature of human rights, they 
 might define man as accurately as they pleased, but, unless 
 they agreed upon the relation which man sustains to indi- 
 vidual man and to society, they could never come to any con- 
 clusion. Neither would be pressed by the arguments of 
 the other, and what seemed to the one perfectly conclusive, 
 would to the other seem destitute of all show of reason. It 
 is to be regretted that much of our reasoning is apt to l>e of 
 this character. 
 
 26* 
 
80t) INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 
 
 The whole subject of syllogisms, their nature and classi- 
 fication, the rules to which they are subjected, and the dis- 
 tinction between true and false syllogisms, is treated of in 
 the science of logic. To these the reader is referred for a 
 further development of the doctrines here briefly alluded 
 to. I ask leave to commend this study to all persons who 
 aim at the attainment of mental acuteness, and the thorough 
 cultivation of their reasoning power. 
 
 REFERENCES. 
 
 Reasoning, its nature — Reid, Essay 7, chap. 1. 
 
 Reasoning, instinctive — Reid, Essay 7, chap. 1. 
 
 Reasoning rests on first truths — Reid, Essay 1, chap. 2 ; Essay 6, 
 chap. 2. 
 
 This denied — Locke, Book 4, chap. 2, sees. 7, 8 ; chap. 7, sees. 8, 10, 
 19, 20. 
 
 Cousin's Review of Locke — chap. 9. 
 
 Buffier, first truths. 
 
 Test of first truths — Reid, Essay 6, chap. 4. 
 
 Classification of first truths — Reid, Essay 1, chap. 2 ; Essay 6, chaps. 
 5,6. 
 
 Judgment, its nature — Reid, Essay 6, chap. 1. 
 
 Judgment distinguished from testimony and conceptions — Reid, Essay 
 6, chap. 1. 
 
 Judgments necessary and contingent — Reid, Essay 6, chap. 1. 
 
 Common Sense, Reid, Essay 6, chap. 2. 
 
 Syllogism not the great instrument of reasoning — Locke, Book 4, 
 chap. 17, sees. 4 — 7 ; Cousin, chap. 9. 
 
 Aristotle's logic examined — Stewart, vol. ii., chap. 3, sec. 1. 
 
 Effects of study of logic on intellectual habits — Stewart, vol. ii., chapi 
 P, sec. 2. 
 
 Use of definitions — Stewart, vol. ii., chap. 2, sec. 3. 
 
 Nugatory propositions — Locke, Book 4, chap. 8, sec. 4. 
 
 Propositions true or false — Locke, Book 2, chap. 32, sees. 1—4. 
 
KINDS OF CERTAINTY. 801 
 
 SECTION II. — 3F THE DIFFERENT KINDS OF CERTAINTY AT 
 WHICH WE ARRIVE BY REASONING. 
 
 I HAVE remarked that by the process of reiisoning, if 
 properly conducted, we always render the conclusion iis 
 certain as the premises. This is the sole object of syllo- 
 gism, and this it invariably accomplishes. I have also 
 observed that our conclusions may be either certain, or only 
 probable, according to the nature of the premises from 
 which they, proceed. 
 
 Dismissing the consideration of the cases in which wo 
 establish probability, and confining our attention to that in 
 which we arrive at certainty, we perceive that this certainty 
 is of two kinds. We may arrive, first, at metaphysical or 
 absolute, or, secondly, at practical certainty. Let us attempt 
 to distinguish these from each other, and show the pecu- 
 liarities of each. 
 
 I. Of metaphysical and absohite certainty. 
 
 When we arrive at this kind of certainty, the matter of 
 our reasoning is wholly conceptions, or the notions which 
 we form in our own minds, representing no actual reality. 
 These are, of course, precisely what we make them, neither 
 greater nor less, nor in any possible respect different from 
 our thoughts ; for they are our thoughts themselves, and 
 nothing else. Hence, when they are distinctly compre- 
 hend3d, and formed into syllogism according to the rules of 
 logic, they must lead to a conception of the same chanicter 
 as the premises, and be inevitably as true. Tliere is no lia- 
 bility for misconception or ambiguity. The result must bo 
 v^ true as our thoughts themselves. 
 
 The most remarkable example of this mode of reasoning 
 is found in the pure mathematics. Here the matter alx)ut 
 which we reason is pure conceptions. We demonstrate truth 
 
808 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 
 
 about lines, angles, triangles, circles, etc., not as actual ex- 
 istences^ but merely as conceptions. By our definitions, we 
 announce distinctly the ideas intended by the terms which 
 we employ. These ideas we continue to use without change 
 throughout our reasonings, and the results at which w^ 
 arrive are concerning these alone. 
 
 I have said that in this mode of reasoning we have noth- 
 ing to do with actual existences. This is evident from the 
 fact that the pure mathematics might have been carried to 
 any conceivable degree of perfection, had a material uni- 
 verse never been created. All that is required for this 
 mode of reasoning is a thinking mind. Hence we never, 
 in geometry, attempt to prove anything respecting an exist- 
 ing figure. We may use a diagram for the sake of concen- 
 trating our attention, but our reasoning is not concerning it, 
 or any other thing visible or tangible. No actual figure 
 exactly corresponds with our definitions, and, if it did, we 
 have no faculties by which to ascertain the correspondence. 
 We say the angles at the base of an isosceles triangle are 
 equal. This we show to be unconditionally true. But it is 
 true of our conceptions only, and not of the diagram on the 
 blackboard. We do not know that the lines of that triangle 
 are perfectly straight, or the sides equal; nay, we know 
 that it is beyond our power to make them so. But this in 
 no manner afiects our demonstration. If any one should 
 attempt to convict us of error, by measuring the triangle 
 and showing that one angle was greater than the other, we 
 should smile at his ignorance. We know that our proposi- 
 tion is true concerning the conception existing in our minds, 
 and this is all we ever attempted to prove. 
 
 I have said that the most striking example of this species 
 of reasoning is observed in the case of the pure mathe- 
 matics. I know of no reason, however, why it should not 
 exist in anv other case in which the matter ;f our argu- 
 
KINDS OF CERTAINTY. 309 
 
 merit is pure conception. All that is necessary is that our 
 terms be accurately defined and clearly apprehended, and 
 that they be subjected to the laws of syllogistic reasonin«^. 
 The result must be as purely truth in the one case as the 
 other. Thus, 
 
 1. All accountable beings are entitled to freedom. 
 
 2. Sylphs and gnomes are accountable beings. 
 
 3. Sylphs and gnomes are entitled to freedom. 
 Suppose the first proposition clearly understood. 
 Sylphs and gnomes are imaginary beings, of which I 
 
 form a conception just as I please. The conclusion must 
 follow as clearly and inevitably as in mathematical demon- 
 stration. 
 
 It must, however, be manifest that the range of subjects of 
 this character is extremely limited, and, therefore, its utility 
 by no means extensive. We live in a matter-of-fact worll. 
 We desire to enlarge our knowledge, not of mere cbnceptions 
 but of realities. We wish to know the laws of things actually 
 existing, and so to use them as to ascertain other laws of 
 which we are ignorant. In order to do this, we must 
 come forth from the region of conceptions into that of real- 
 ities. Thus, the pure mathematics themselves would bo 
 utterly useless, except as a discipline, unless we combined 
 them with existing facts, when they assume the form of 
 mixed mathematics. Here, however, we arrive not at abso- 
 lute, but practical certainty. Let us observe the manner 
 in which II. Practical certainty is attained. 
 
 In this kind of reasoning, either one or both of our prem- 
 ises is some general law, or particular fact, establishcil i»y 
 observation or experiment. Our conclusion, then, approaches 
 no nearer to absolute truth, than our fiict or observation 
 represents the pure and absolute verity. But no one pre- 
 tends that our faculties are capable of arriving at pure and 
 absolute truth. It has often been remarked that a perfect 
 
310 INTELLECTU iL PHILOSOPHY. 
 
 circle, or triangle, or square, never was constructed, and 
 that no instrument ever made, could claim to be absolutely 
 accurate. Our processes may be as perfect as the present 
 condition of the arts will allow, but we can go no further. 
 Progress in the arts may enable us to exclude additional 
 causes of error, and thus arrive at greater accuracy. But 
 when we have done all, our powers are limited and imper- 
 fect ; and, to use the words of Johnson, ' ' a fallible being 
 must fail somewhere." The eye is incapable of discerning 
 objects below a certain magnitude, or differences which do 
 not exceed a certain degree. The sensation of touch can 
 only detect impressions when their impulse attains to a cer- 
 tain force. Our nerves are easily fatigued, and fatigue im- 
 pairs their accuracy of observation, and their control over 
 our muscles. The various passions to which we are subject 
 influence our whole sentient organism, and frequently unfit 
 us for observation at a time when their perfect accuracy is 
 the most needed. It is said that when Sir I. Newton had 
 arrived very nearly at the close of that calculation which 
 has made his name immortal, and saw the result to which 
 he was tending, he was seized with so violent a fit of trem- 
 bling, that, unable to complete the work, he surrendered his 
 papers to a friend, by whom it was finished. It is told of 
 one of the observers sent many years ago to the Pacific 
 Ocean to observe the transit of Venus, that, at the precise 
 moment when the transit occurred, he fainted from excess 
 of excitement. Perfect a^ccuracy can, therefore, never be 
 predicated of a being in whose organization are involved so 
 many liabilities to error. 
 
 Thus, for instance, in the mixed mathematics we arrive? 
 it only practical certainty. Here we first establish the 
 relations existing between the lines of a fio-ure of which we 
 have conceived. This is pure mathematics, and our result 
 is absolute truth. We then apply these relations to a figure 
 
KINDS OF CERTAINTY. 811 
 
 actually existing, and as nearly identical with the ti;4ure 
 which we have conceived, as We are able to make it, and 
 proceed to our result. This result is ohviuusly not ai>- 
 solute truth; it is only proximate ; that is, just us near to 
 absolute truth as the actual figure is near to the perfect 
 conception which forms the basis of our reasonings. 
 
 Let us take an example. I demonstrate by pure math- 
 ematics that the homologous sides of simihir triangles are 
 proportional. Availing myself of this law, I proceed to 
 ascertain the height of a steeple. I measure a base line, 
 and observe the angle formed betw^een the extremity of this 
 line and the highest point of the object. I find a corre- 
 sponding tabular triangle in the tables, and by a single pro- 
 portion arrive at the result. But is this a perfect result 7 
 Its accuracy depends upon the accuracy of my measure- 
 ments of the base line and the angle. But are these infallible ] 
 Was my chain perfectly true ? Was the temperature such as 
 to have efiected no change upon it ? Was the surface perfectly 
 level, and was my muscular tension precisely such as to 
 ensure perfect accuracy, and, at every movement of the chain, 
 was that tension precisely the same 7 Was the instrument 
 with which I measured the angle, of perfect construction 
 and in perfect order ? Was there no tremor in my muscles, 
 and was my sight of the object absolutely true .^ No one 
 of these things can be asserted, and, unless they can all be 
 asserted, perfect accuracy is impossible. But what then / 
 Are our results valueless ? By no means. They are per- 
 fect for any and every practical purpose. If we have tiikcn 
 every precaution in our power to exclude the liability of error, 
 we have arrived at all the certainty which the present con- 
 dition of knowledge admits. We know that our result can- 
 not, except by accident, be perfectly accurate ; bu^ it is so 
 accurate that neither ourselves nor any one else can detect 
 any error This is, to all intents and purposes, precisely 
 
 
312 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 
 
 as good to us as absolute certainty. In the one case we 
 know that there is no error ; and. in the other, although we 
 admit there may be error, yet neither we nor any one else 
 is able to detect it. 
 
 The case is illustrated in the study of astronomy. We 
 here first conceive of spherical triangles, and determine, by 
 demonstration, the relations between them. Here we arrive 
 at absolute truth. We then measure degrees on the earth's 
 surface, we take the measure of angles, we make observa- 
 tions on the times and places of planetary bodies, and, by 
 constructing triangles as far as possible identical with those 
 which we have before conceived, we determine the distance 
 of the sun, and the diameter of the orbit of the earth. But 
 does any one pretend that these calculations are absolutely cor- 
 rect ? Their accuracy depends wholly on the perfection of 
 the observations, which, of necessity, enter as elements into 
 our calculations. Were our measurements of lines and 
 angles absolutely perfect? Were our observations abso- 
 lutely infallible ? This, from the nature of our faculties 
 and the imperfection of instruments, is manifestly impossible. 
 Our conclusions must, therefore, share in, or must greatly 
 magnify, these imperfections. We say the sun is so many 
 millions of miles from the earth ; but, thus speaking, do we 
 intend to be understood as enunciating an absolute truth ? 
 Do we mean that it may not be a hundred or a thousand 
 miles either nearer or more distant ? All we know is that 
 we are unable to discover any error ; that we have arrived 
 at as near an approximation to truth as is possible m the 
 present condition of science. We can do no more, and we 
 pretend to do no more. This is as far as our Creator has 
 permitted us, in our present state, to proceed, and with 
 this we must be content. When we have approached so 
 near to the truth that we can discover no error, we have 
 Arrived at practical certainty, and we need ask for no more. 
 
KINDS OF CEKTAINTY. * ^1*1 
 
 Now, if I do not mistake, this is precisely the luethud'it' 
 our reasoning respecting any matters of fact. We reason 
 by conceptions. If our premises, matters of fact, the result 
 of observation, precisely correspond with these conceptions, 
 our reasonings are true absolutely. But we cannot be sure 
 that there is this perfect correspondence. We may, how- 
 ever, be convinced that this correspondence is so nearly 
 exact that the human faculties can discover no error, and 
 here, as before, we arrive at practical certainty, or the limit 
 marked out for us by our intellectual constitution. When 
 our premises have been established with all the accuracy of 
 which our Maker has made us capable, and our conclusion 
 from them follows by the laws of reasoning, we have arrived 
 at as near an approximation to truth as is possible in our pres- 
 ent state. If neither we nor any one else can point out 
 any error, we may well be satisfied ; for we may know that 
 the error can never be appreciated by the faculties which 
 God has given us ; and, therefore, to us it is precisely the 
 Bame as if it were absolutely true. 
 
 Thus, suppose we say, 
 
 When men can have no motive for testifying falsely, 
 their testimony is worthy of belief 
 
 A and B can have no motive for testifying falsely ; there- 
 fore the testimony of A and B is worthy of belief 
 
 The truth of the first of these propositions would, I pre- 
 sume, be admitted ; it being one of the acknowledged lawd 
 of human action, since no man acts without a motive. The 
 second only can admit of doubt. We, therefore, make it 
 the object of special examination. We survey all the mo- 
 tives by which men are known to be influenced. We in- 
 quire whether any of these motives could have induced 
 them to speak falsely. We are unable to discover any. Wo 
 then rely with firmness on the conclusion that they have 
 testified truly. It may be said that motives for falsehood 
 27 
 
314 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 
 
 may exist which have never been discovered. Be it so. But^ 
 inasmuch as we have been unable to discover them, we have 
 arrived at the nearest approximation to truth which our 
 faculties admit, and we must rely on such faculties as we 
 possess. When, in the full and free exercise of our intel- 
 lectual powers, we can discover no error in our premises, 
 and no error in our reasoning, we must receive as true the 
 conclusions which they necessitate. We have no other re- 
 source. If we deny this, there is an end to all reasoning, 
 and everything beyond our own observation is a delusion. 
 
 If we now compare these two kinds of reasoning, we ob- 
 serve the following facts : 
 
 1. The process which we employ is, in both cases, precisely 
 the same. When we attempt to discover tr^ith by reason- 
 ing, we use syllogism ; for this is the ipode of action im- 
 posed upon our reasoning faculty. We U3e this, for we 
 have no other to use. 
 
 2. The one kind of reasoning treats onl^- of conceptions 
 both in its premises and its conclusions. With actual exist- 
 ences, 7^es gestcB^ it has nothing to do. Of course, it is 
 excluded from all cases which involve matters of fact. The 
 other has to do with actual existences, and to them its con- 
 clusions refer. Hence, this is the mode of reasoning which 
 we must, of necessity, employ in all the business of life, 
 and in all those investigations of science which contemplate 
 things as actual existences. 
 
 3. By the one we arrive at absolute certainty respecting 
 things not existing except in our conceptions. By the other 
 we arrive at practical certainty respecting things as exist- 
 ing wholly distinct and separate from ourselves. In the 
 one case we arrive at absolute truth ; in the other, we ap- 
 proach as near to absolute truth as the limited and imper- 
 fect nature of our faculties admits. We approach so d^p^ 
 to it that WG are unable to detect any error. ! 
 
r KINDS or CERTAINTY. bl5 
 
 It will be observed that these two kinds of rc.isonin«' cor- 
 respond in general to those commonly termed demonstnitivo 
 and moral reasoning. I have used different terms frcm tliodo 
 commonly employed, because I suppose them better adapted 
 to the subject. It will be seen, if what I have said be 
 true, that the difference between these two kinds of reason- 
 ing is much less than has frequently been supposed, both as 
 to the mode in which they are conducted, and the results at 
 which they arrive. 
 
 From what has been said, I think it will appear that but 
 little ground exists for the superiority which has been claimed 
 for demonstrative reasoning, or that which treats purely of 
 conceptions. It is granted that in this species of reasoning 
 we arrive at absolute truth ; but then, from its condition.s, 
 it excludes all actual existences, and can, therefore, furnish no 
 guide to conduct. As soon as demonstrative reasoning has 
 to do with matters of fact, it reposes, by necessity, upon 
 moral reasoning, and, specially, on the evidence of testimony. 
 Thus, suppose I have demonstrated the distance of the sun 
 from the earth. It is evident that the facts which form the 
 elements of my reasoning must be established by what is 
 called moral evidence. I am told that such and such obser- 
 vations have been made by different men, through a succes- 
 sion of years. Now, here is a two-fold liability of error. 
 In the first place, how do I know that these observations 
 were ever made at all 7 I have nothing here to rely on but 
 the testimony of men, which is said to be so vastly inferior 
 in certainty to demonstration. In the second place, what 
 assurance have I that these observations were correctly 
 made? How shall I be sure that all the instruments were 
 perfect, or that proper skill was employed in the use of 
 them I Important errors have frequently been made by sci- 
 3ntific men. Sir Isaac Newton's discoveries were for several 
 jrears postponed by an error in measuring a degree of the 
 
316 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 
 
 earth^s surface. What shall guard us against similar erior 1 
 Now, if these are not reliable grounds of belief, all our dem- 
 onstration is useless ; for, on the facts which they deliver 
 to us, all our calculations rely. Our demonstrations, then, 
 as soon as they affect any matter of fact, are limited in their 
 certainty by moral evidence, and they attain to no higher 
 certainty than moral evidence confers. By the evidence of 
 testimony, however, we are assured that these observations 
 were made. From the known characters of the observers, 
 we have every reason to believe that they were made cor- 
 rectly. On these assurances our calculations proceed, and 
 they arrive at a degree of accuracy so great that neither we 
 nor any one else can discover any error. 
 
 From these remarks we perceive the absurdity of demand- 
 ing what is called demonstrative evidence to substantiate a 
 matter of fact. Men sometimes tell us, for instance, that a 
 revelation from God, being a matter of so great importance, 
 should have been attested by mathematical demonstration. 
 We see that to ask this is to demand what is absolutely 
 impossible. Being a matter of fact, it must come under the 
 laws of evidence which belong to matters of fact. To 
 attempt to prove a fact by mathematical demonstration is as 
 absurd as to attempt to prove a mathematical proposition by 
 testimony. 
 
 REFERENCES. 
 
 Conclusions either certain or probable — Reid, Essay 6, chapter 4 ; 
 Essay 7, chap. 1. 
 
 Metaphysical and mathematical reasoning — Reid, Essay 7, chapter 1 ; 
 Locke, Book 4, chapter 4, section 6. 
 
 Nature of demonstrative evidence — Stewart, vol. ii., chap. 2, sees. 3, 4. 
 
 Superiority of mathematical reasoning — Stewart, vol. ii., chapter 2, 
 section 3 ; Reid, Essay 7, chap, 2. 
 
 Morality capable of demonstration — Locke, Book 4, chap. 2, sections 
 16, 18 ; chap. 3, section 18 ; chap. 4, section 7. 
 
 Conclusions in mixed mathematics as sure as data — Stewart, vol. ii , 
 chap. 2, section 4. 
 
EVIDENCE OF TESTIMONY. 817 
 
 SECTION III. — OF THE EVIDENCE OF TESTlMo.M. 
 
 In demonstrative reasoning our premises rest upon truths 
 intuitively perceived by every intellect in a normal condi- 
 tion, or else upon truths proceeding from these by necessity. 
 In reasoning concerning matters of fact, many of our 
 premises are general laws, established by observation and 
 experience. But this observation and experience must be 
 established by many witnesses. A single individual can 
 observe but little. We must all rely upon the labors of 
 others. But how shall we distinguish true from false 
 testimony ? Many things have been recorded as true, 
 which have subsequently been found to be false. Wo 
 need, therefore, to ascertain the laws by which testimony 
 may be established, so that we may be able to proceed with 
 certainty in our reasonings. It is, therefore, proper to ex- 
 amine this part of our subject, and determine, if possible, 
 the principles on which the evidence of testimony rests. 
 
 Testimony is of two kinds, direct and indirect. 
 
 I. Of direct testimony. 
 
 It must be admitted that the testimony of man is a source 
 of as certain knowledge as any that we possess. If we refer 
 to our own consciousness, we find no difference between the 
 streno"th of our belief in matters of fact and matters of 
 demonstration. We as perfectly believe that such persona 
 as Julius Cgesar, Cicero, Alexander, Martin Luther, Wash- 
 ington, and Xapoleon, existed : that the battles of Mara- 
 
 jn, Bunker Hill, Austerlitz and Waterloo, were fought ; 
 and that there are now standing the cities of London, Pans, 
 and Vienna, as we believe that the three angles of a triangle 
 are equal to two right angles. If we ask ourselves which 
 do we most confidently believe, we can discover no shade of 
 difference. In any practical matter we should proceed upon 
 
318 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 
 
 the belief of one as readily a« upon that of the other. This 
 is true of mankind universally. If this be so, then both of 
 these grounds of belief must rest equally upon the laws of 
 human thought. There must exist elementary first truths, 
 acknowledged by all men, on which our confidence ulti- 
 mately reposes. That this is true of mathematical reason- 
 ing is universally admitted. It must, however, be equally 
 true of any other mode of proof which produces the same 
 results. 
 
 Let us take another case. We are told that, a few years 
 since, an eclipse of the sun occurred on a Sunday, a little 
 after noon. It had been predicted by astronomers, and their 
 predictions concerning it had been extensively published. 
 Men in every place on this continent declared that they wit- 
 nessed it. The daily newspapers, immediately after it is said 
 to have occurred, were filled with accounts of the phenomena 
 that were said to have been observed. Every fact respect- 
 ing it was minutely recorded, and the statements of its 
 various phases were inserted in the transactions of learned 
 societies throughout the world. Now, granting these facts 
 to be so, could we any more doubt that an eclipse really 
 occurred, at the time and in the manner specified, than .we 
 could doubt a proposition in geometry ? Suppose that one 
 man, under these circumstances, should doubt the fact of 
 the eclipse, and another should doubt a demonstration in 
 mathematics, should we not decide that the mind of the one 
 was in. as abnormal a state as that of the other ? 
 
 Yet I am aware that there are difierences in the belief 
 in the two cases. In the one case our belief is in the truth 
 as universal, as true at all times and in all places. In the 
 other, it is particular ; that is, it is not true of every time 
 and every place, but only of this time and this place. In the 
 one case our knowledge is perfect and complete ; thq,t is, we 
 know the whole df the truth affirmed, and nothing can be 
 
EVIDENCE OF TESTIMONY. 81* 
 
 added to render our knowledge more adequate. When I am 
 convinced that the three angles of a triangle are e(iual lo 
 two right angles, nothing can be added to the proposition by 
 which my knowledge can be increased. If I fully compre- 
 hend the terms, I have precisely the same knowledge of the 
 truth as Newton himself. He might have seen conse(|uence8 
 derivable from it which I do not see; but our knowledge of 
 the proposition itself is entirely the same. In the case of 
 the other proposition, that at a given time and place there 
 was an eclipse of the sun, it is not so. We all may l)e equally 
 confident of the main fact; but of various circumstances 
 respecting it, our knowledge may be dissimilar and unequal. 
 Men who observed the eclipse may have been more or less 
 influenced by their imaginations ; they may have dissimilar 
 appreciations of the temperature, of the degree of darkness, 
 of the time and duration of the event. Hence their narra- 
 tives may in these respects differ; and it may require much 
 labor to obtain a complete idea of the eclipse; and there may, 
 after all, remain many circumstances which we know but 
 imperfectly. All this may be granted, and yet it does not 
 in the least affect, our belief of the main fact. Nay, all 
 these variations must exist if the main fact be true. They 
 follow from the differences in the subjective nature of man. 
 Hence the rule in testimony is that the best evidence to 
 any fact is, agreement of witnesses as to the main event, and 
 difference as to the minor particulars. 
 
 The followino; strikino; illustration of these remarks is 
 worthy of notice. I presume that no one can doui)t that 
 the battle of Waterloo was fought on the eighteenth of June, 
 1815, between the French and the allies, under the com- 
 mand respectively of Napoleon and Wellington. It may 
 certainly be taken for granted that men believe this fact as 
 undoubtingly as they do any proposition in geometry. Yet 
 the time of the commencement of the battle cannot even now 
 
320 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 
 
 be settled with precision. In Maxwell's life cf Wellington, 
 I find the following statement : 
 
 *' The time when the battle began has been stated with 
 marked contrariety. The Duke of Wellington says it com- 
 menced about ten o'clock, and further observes that when 
 his troops discontinued the pursuit, at night, they had been 
 engaged twelve hours. In this General Gneisenau concurs, 
 but, of course, only from information he had received. 
 General Alava, who was by the side of the duke the 
 whole day, fixes it at half-past eleven. Napoleon and Gen- 
 eral Drouet state twelve as the hour ; while Marshal Ney 
 names one o'clock. Without tracing minuter contradictions, 
 this may suffice to show the difficulty of attaining exact 
 knowledge when it might have been presumed no difficulty 
 could exist. With one exception, which I think ought to 
 be decisive, I was equally bewildered by the intelligence I 
 received from officers whom I had an opportunity of con- 
 sulting. By one I, was told that the battle began soon after 
 mid-day, by another exactly twenty minutes past eleven, and 
 by a third at ten o clock. B-ut Sir George Wood — and his 
 information is what I conceive cannot be disputed — gave 
 me the following statement. The action commenced about 
 half-past ten or a quarter to eleven. There had been skir- 
 mishing, before, all the morning. A column of the enemy 
 was advancing against Hougomont, and the first gun that 
 was fired was from our lines against that column. I gave 
 the order by the command of the duke. The gun did imme- 
 diate execution, and killed six or eight. This column then 
 retired, and went round the wood."— Maxwell's Life of 
 Wellington, vol. 3, note to page 479. 
 
 We perceive, from this incident, how dissimilar is the 
 adequcteness of our knowledge in a matter of fact, from 
 that in an abstract geometrical proposition; and yet our 
 
EVIDENCE Oi TESTIMONY. 821 
 
 eonfideiiee In the truth of the main fact is as great in the 
 one case as in the other. 
 
 But, it may be very properly demanded, is testimony of 
 all kinds equally worthy of behef '? Are we not very often 
 the dupes of false evidence 7 We reply, that in this resj)oct 
 we are all very liable to be deceived. But the case is the 
 same with mathematical evidence or demonstration. How 
 often has it been announced that men have demonstrated 
 the quadrature of the circle ; but, upon examination, it lias 
 been discovered that either they have been deceived, or that 
 they desired to deceive others. Either they had commenced 
 with false principles, or they had reasoned incorrectly from 
 true ones. So in the mixed mathematics, innumerable errors 
 have from time to time been discovered and corrected. This, 
 however, presents no objection to the validity or reliability of 
 mathematical reasoning. It only teaches us the necessity of 
 examining our arguments with care, and assuring ourselves 
 that our reasonings are conducted strictly according to the 
 laws of mathematical proof When they are so conducted, 
 they never did and they never can lead to error. So in the 
 case of evidence. It is granted that we are liable to be de- 
 ceived by reliance upon testimony. But this by no means 
 proves that testimony is worthless ; or that testimony, when 
 given strictly according to the laws of evidence, is not as 
 reliable as demonstration. It only teaches us the necessity 
 of subjecting testimony to its own appropriate laws, that we 
 may thus separate the true from the false. If, therefore, 
 we can establish the elementary laws of evidence, and *pply 
 them strictly to any case of testimony, we receive the 'esult 
 to which they lead us with unquestioning confidence. 
 
 The essential and self-evident truths on which t .e evi- 
 dence of testimony rests, seem to be t;>'0. The first is 
 the law of perception, to which allusion has bc^n made 
 when treating of that subject. It may be expressed at 
 
lr!!2 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 
 
 follows : Whenever, in the normal condition of our facul* 
 ties, we are conscious of a perception, then there exists an 
 object, such as we perceive, as the cause of that perception. 
 1 cannot perceive what I will. The consciousness of per- 
 ception must be excited from without, and it cannot exist 
 under normal conditions, unless a corresponding object from 
 without give occasion to it, I am conscious that I per- 
 ceive the paper on which I now write, and the table at 
 which I am seated. I could not, by the laws of my being, 
 be thus conscious, unless there existed here and now these 
 objects which give rise to it. 
 
 Under the term normal conditions, as here used, several 
 things are to be supposed. For instance, the external cir- 
 cumstances must be such as to admit of no liability to error. 
 If I testify to an object of sight, the light must be suffi- 
 cient to allow me to see correctly. If I testify to an object 
 of sound, I must be near enough to hear it distinctly. The 
 same remark applies to the other senses. 
 
 The mind must be in a normal condition. The witness 
 must be sane. He must be free from any violence of pas- 
 sion or excitement of imagination, which would lead to erro- 
 neous observation. Thus, if a man were habitually terrified 
 in passing by a grave-yard, we should receive with great 
 suspicion his testimony respecting a ghost which he believed 
 he had seen seated on a tomb-stone. Intense prejudice, 
 which affected the matter in question, would lead to similar 
 suspicions. 
 
 The senses must be in a normal condition. No one would 
 repose perfect confidence in the testimony of a man to a 
 visual fact, whose eyes were either partly blind or subject 
 to optical illusions. 
 
 Here, however, two remarks deserve attention. First, 
 we always take it for granted that men are in a normal 
 audition unless there is evidence to the contrary. Nc 
 
EVIDENCE OF TESTIMONY. 828 
 
 man is ever called upon to prove his sanity. The very fact 
 that he is thus called upon, must proceed upon the suppo- 
 sition that he is able to construct a proof : that is. that ho 
 is sane. He who affirms that another is insane, must him- 
 self furnish the evidence; and, in the absence of such evi- 
 dence, the contrary is to be taken for granted. 
 
 Secondly, it is to be remarked that abnormal cases are 
 extremely rare. We may meet a thousand individuals, 
 without finding one among them whose condition is. in any 
 respect, so abnormal as to affect his testimony. And hence, 
 when a number of persons agree in testifying to the same 
 fact, the supposition of abnormal action is excluded. Thus, 
 if only one person had testified that he saw an eclipse, we 
 might suppose- that his mind or his organs were diseased. 
 But to suppose that so large a number of persons, in differ- 
 ent places, were in an abnormal condition, and in precisely 
 the same condition, at the same time, is manifestly al)surd. 
 
 The second general law is derived from the nuturc 
 of the active powers of man. It may be stated as fol- 
 lows : 
 
 1. Every human action is the residt of motive. That 
 is to say, when there is no motive there is no action. 
 
 2. When there is no motive for speaking fdsehj^ 
 men always speak the truth. The motive which leads 
 men to speak falsely may be very unreasonable or insuffi- 
 cient. They will sometimes speak falsely against their own 
 permanent interest ; but they always speak from a present 
 motive, as fear, vanity, desire of applause, etc. 
 
 3. When no motive can be conceived why men should 
 testify as they do, but the love of truth ; and every other 
 conceivable motive woidd impel them to testify differ- 
 ently, then they testify from the love of truth; that is, 
 they affirm what they believe to be true. To suppose the 
 contrary is absurd. For, if no motive but the love '/ truth 
 
K24 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 
 
 could impel them to their present testimony, to suppose the 
 love, of truth removed, — that is, suppose them to testify 
 falsely, — is to suppose men to act without any motive, 
 and in opposition to every conceivable motive. This is 
 diametrically opposed to the laws of human action. To 
 suppose any one to act in this manner, is to suppose him 
 not to be endowed with proper human faculties. 
 
 But it may be said that motives for speaking falsely may 
 exist, though we cannot conceive of them. Granted. But 
 then we have arrived at the point previously mentioned ; 
 that is, we have come so near the truth that we can discover 
 no source of error. We have, therefore, attained to that 
 practical certainty which is all that is given to us in estab- 
 lishing any matter of fact. When we have gone so far, we 
 have reached the limit which the Creator has assigned to our 
 faculties, and we can proceed no further. 
 
 Again ; in the case supposed, when many witnesses tes- 
 tify, this motive which no one can assign, which no one 
 ventures to announce, and which no one has yet discovered, 
 must have influenced a number of persons, against every 
 conceivable interest, to testify to the same thing. To make 
 such a supposition the ground either of belief or disbelief, 
 is manifestly absurd ; but to make it the ground of either, 
 in opposition to testimony established by the laws of evi- 
 dence, exhibits a state of mind for which it is difficult to 
 find a name. 
 
 But suppose that on such ground as this the evidence of 
 testimony is to be disregarded, what is the result ? Evi- 
 dently, that no fact in history or science could be believed, 
 unless we had seen it with our own eyes. The past would 
 be a universal blank. Books would be useless, and the 
 whole of human knowledge must be limited to our own 
 individual experiences. There is here no middle path. 
 Either we must receive everything established by the strict 
 
EVIDENCE OF TESTIMONY. 825 
 
 laws of evidence, or we must receive nothing. Which is 
 the alternative to be chosen by a reasonable intelligence, it 
 is not difficult to discover. He who desires to see this sub- 
 ject treated with great acuteness and admirable humor, 
 should read Archbishop Whately's '^ Historical Doubts 
 relative to Napoleon Buonaparte." 
 
 At some risk of prolixity, I will illustrate this subject by 
 an example to which I have before referred. 
 
 It is granted that a great number of persons, of difierent 
 ages and pursuits, and in various places throughout this 
 country, testified that on a particular day they witnessed a 
 total eclipse of the sun. In what manner shall we examine 
 this evidence, in order to ascertain whether their testimony 
 is worthy of belief? 
 
 In the first place, we appeal to the law of perception. 
 Was this an event which they were all capable of observ- 
 ing ? Could they have been conscious of perceiving it, un- 
 less the event had actually occurred ? On this subject there 
 cannot exist the shadow of a doubt. Every one will ad- 
 mit that if these persons were all conscious that they per- 
 ceived the eclipse, the eclipse must have taken place. 
 
 Secondly, were they really conscious that they perceived 
 it ; that is, did they testify truly ? 
 
 Here we turn to the law of human motive. We say no 
 motive but the love of truth could have impelled all these 
 persons, of different ages, habits, culture and prejudices, in 
 many different places, to unite in this testimony. Take 
 away the love of truth,— that is, suppose them to 8p<':ik 
 falsely,— and we must suppose them to act individually with- 
 out any motive ; and, still more, that without any motive 
 they all, and without concert, united in giving the .^une 
 testimony. The absurdity of this supposition is, I think. 
 
 obvious. 
 
 Thi3 testimony would be still more irresistible, if the 
 
 28 
 
326 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 
 
 persons who testified were, in consequence of their evidence 
 exposed to contempt, obloquy, persecution, loss of property 
 and of life. In this case, to suppose them to testify falsely, 
 would be to suppose them to act not only without any mo- 
 tive, but in opposition to every motive. It is impossible to 
 suppose an intelligent being with a human constitution to 
 act in this manner. 
 
 In such a case as this, we show that what is testified to 
 is true, or else an intuitive law of perception, or an intui- 
 tive law of human action is violated. When we have done 
 this, we have done all that reasoning can do. This is all 
 we do in demonstrative or mathematical reasoning. We 
 there show that unless a proposition be true, an axiom, or an 
 intuitive law of quantity, is violated. We can go no further. 
 In either case, where we have shown this, the proposition in 
 question has been proved. Facts thus established have 
 never been shown to be false. Indeed, they never could 
 be disproved, for we can never be more certain of anything 
 than of the intuitive laws of our own nature. Suppose that 
 the opposite of what we have thus proved was also proved, 
 it could not show the first proposition to be false. It would 
 only establish an opposite proposition on equivalent evidence, 
 and we should be perfectly unable to choose between two 
 contradictory propositions, both being perfectly entitled to 
 belief 
 
 From these remarks it will appear, that, in establishing 
 any fact by testimony, two points, and but two, are of neces- 
 sity to be made evident. First, that if the witnesses were 
 conscious of perceiving it, it re^illy must have occurred. 
 Here we show that the event was one properly cognizable 
 by the senses, that the witnesses were in proper conditions, 
 objective and subjective, for observing it ; that is, that the 
 impression on their senses must have been made under the 
 ordinary laws of perception. In the second placp, we show 
 
I 
 
 EVIDENCE OF TESTIMONY. 327 
 
 that the witnesses testify to what they really believe to }po 
 true ; that is, they really believe themselves to have been 
 conscious of the perception in question. We here show tliat 
 there can be no motive for testifying falsely; that is, to 
 suppose them to testify falsely, is to suppose them to act 
 without motive. If we can proceed further, and show that 
 if they testify falsely, they not only act without any motive, 
 but in opposition to every motive, we have then the same 
 evidence as if every witness was on oath. 
 
 In this manner we prove any fact in history ; as the death 
 of Caesar in the senate-house, his conquest of Britain, or 
 any other event. On these principles trials are conducted 
 every day in our courts of law. I do not know of any 
 method by which a student will improve his knowledge of 
 the science of evidence more advantageously, than by an- 
 alyzing carefully the evidence in important trials, when the 
 decision depends upon the establishment of matters of fact. 
 If the above remarks be correct, they will enable hira to 
 carry on this examination and analysis with some degree of 
 success. 
 
 IL Of indirect or circumstantial evidence. 
 
 In the preceding remarks I have considered the case in 
 which the witnesses testify directly to the fact in question ; 
 that is, they declare that they themselves perceived the 
 fact which they relate. 
 
 But cases are continually occurring in which it is impor- 
 tant to establish a fact to which there were no witnesses. 
 How, in the absence of witnesses, shall such a fact be 
 proved 7 This is done by indirect or circumstantial evi- 
 dence. The principles on which we here proceed are as 
 follows : 
 
 It is obvious, from the regular succession of cause and 
 effect, to which all the changes in the universe are sub- 
 jected, that no event can occur isolate^ w\ alone. I do 
 
328 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 
 
 not know that, as we are constituted, it is possible for us to 
 conceive of such an event. Every phenomenon is indissolu- 
 bly connected with other phenomena, to which it stands in 
 permanent relations. When we see water changed into ice 
 we know that it must have been exposed to a temperature 
 as low as 32''. When water boils, we know that its tempera- 
 ture has been raised to 212°. If a body at rest begins to 
 move, or if, when moving, it changes suddenly its direction^ 
 we know that some force must have been applied to it. 
 These changes could not have produced themselves ; they 
 are the result of some stated antecedent. Now, if we can 
 show the existence of a train of facts, so related to the fact 
 in question, that unless this fact occurred the laws of cause 
 and effect must have been violated, then we have proved the 
 main fact by indirect, or circumstantial evidence. 
 
 The rules which govern us in this kind of evidence are 
 the following : 
 
 1. When we are not inquiring for a fact, but for the 
 cause of it, the fact itself must first be established. Thus, if 
 it be required to prove that A murdered B, we must first 
 prove that B was murdered, and prove it by direct evidence. 
 
 2. In the second place, all the facts, on which we rely to 
 prove the fact in question, must be established by direct 
 evidence. Thus, if we rely on the facts A, B, D, to prove 
 the fact 0, — that is, these facts being proved, that the fact 
 C must have existed, — we must prove the facts A, B, and 
 D, by the personal knowledge of witnesses themselves. 
 
 3. We must show that the facts A, B, and B, could not 
 have existed unless the fact C had existed. WTien we have 
 established these facts, and shown that they can be accounted 
 for on no other supposition than the existence of the fact 0, 
 — that is, that unless the fact C occurred, a law of nature 
 has been violated, — then we have proved this feet by indi* 
 rect evidence. 
 
INDIRECT EVIDENCE. 829 
 
 This, however, will be rendered more eviden by an ex- 
 ample. Take the following case. B is found alone in a 
 room, dead, stabbed in the back, and his skull fractured })y 
 the stroke of a bludgeon. The first thing to be established 
 is that the man is dead ; and, secondly, that his death waa 
 occasioned by the wounds upon his person ; and, thirdly, that 
 the wounds could not have been inflicted by himself: that 
 is, that he died by the hands of another, and not by his own. 
 These facts must be proved by direct evidence. It is thus 
 shown that the man was murdered. The question next to 
 be answered is, who was the murderer ? 
 
 Here it is shown that A and B unlocked the door and 
 entered the room together. A noise, as of altercation, was 
 heard. No one entered the room until A left it, and the 
 first person who entered it after his departure found B dead 
 in the manner described. Now, these facts having been 
 established, it is proved that A is the murderer. The man 
 is dead. He died of these wounds. They could have been 
 inflicted by no person except A or B himself They are so 
 situated that B could not have inflicted them on himself; 
 they must, therefore, have been inflicted by A. 
 
 But, besides these, other antecedent and subsequent facts 
 may confirm the supposition of the guilt of A. For instance, 
 men do not commonly commit such a crime without a vio- 
 lent motive. If such a motive existed, it gives confirmation 
 to the supposition of his guilt. And, again, when a man 
 has committed so atrocious a crime, he is commonly appre- 
 hensive, and takes means to escape the consequences. If 
 B was known to enter the room with a purse of gold and 
 was found with his pockets rifled, and if this purso waa 
 found in the possession of A, this will furnish a motive for 
 the deed. If A immediately afterwards changed his name, 
 disguised his person, and was preparing immediately to 
 escape from the vicinity, and no reason but his guilt can be 
 28* 
 
880 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 
 
 assigned for his conduct, this is a strong confirmatory cir< 
 cumstance. The supposition that he was the murderer can 
 alone account for all his subsequent conduct. 
 
 Hence, we see the points which are to be made out by 
 the prosecution in any trial where the evidence is circum- 
 stantial. First, the crime must have been committed. For 
 instance, if it be a case of murder, the body must be found, 
 and it must be proved that the death was caused by violence. 
 Second, the facts must be such as can be accounted for on 
 no oth-er supposition than that the accused was the murderer. 
 If they can be accounted for on any other reasonable suppo- 
 sition, then the case is not proved. And, on the other 
 hand, the ground of the defence is, first, that the deceased 
 did not die by violence ; or, in general, that he was not mur- 
 dered ; or that, if murdered, the facts can be accounted for 
 on some other supposition. The facts in all cases must be 
 established, as I have said, by direct testimony. 
 
 In every trial, where the evidence is circumstantial, we 
 hear much said about the uncertainty of this kind of evi- 
 dence, and various cases are mentioned in which the lives 
 of innocent men have been sacrificed in consequence of this 
 uncertainty. This may have been the case when the prin- 
 ciples of evidence were less perfectly understood than at 
 present. But, if a trial is conducted according to the rules 
 of evidence as at present established, circumstantial proof 
 may be relied on with as much certainty as direct. Men 
 may be mistaken as to a fact, or they may swear falsely ; 
 but a well-connected chain of circumstances can rarely de- 
 ceive us. It is somewhat remarkable, that, in a late trial 
 for murder in Boston, where the evidence was circum- 
 stantial, the circumstances proved, all led to the true result ; 
 while the direct evidence, intended to prove an aliH, was 
 absolutely, though innocently, erroneous. 
 
 This kind of evidence is frequently resorted to m scientifio * 
 
INDIRECT EVIDENCE. 881 
 
 investigations. Certain facts are observed. In what man- 
 ner are they to be accounted for? that is, what must have 
 been the nature and the order of the changes hy wliicli these 
 appearances were produced ? When we have conceived of 
 a cause, or succession of causes, which will account for all 
 the facts, and which alone can account for them, we may 
 consider such cause or causes as matter of esUiblished" truth. 
 Thus, a geologist observes that a river has cut its way 
 through banks a hundred feet high. Some thirty feet be- 
 low the surface of the soil a layer of vegetable matter is 
 discovered, the stumps of trees, standing upright, imbedded 
 in the soil where they grew, and the trees broken off lying 
 upon and by the side of them. Some thirty feet lower, 
 another stratum of a similar character is observed. From 
 the position of these trees it is evident that they also must 
 have grown on the spot where they are found, and, of course, 
 that each of these layers must have been, at the time of its 
 growth, on the surface of the earth. There is but one way 
 in which these facts can be accounted for. After the lower 
 layer of trees had grown to its present size, the surface of 
 the earth must have subsided until they were covered with 
 drift for thirty or more feet. The subsidence was then ar- 
 rested until another forest grew up. Another subsidence 
 must have occurred until the drift covered the timber again 
 to a similar depth. Then the whole surflice miist have been 
 upheaved to its present position, and, afterwards, the river 
 must have cut its way through the mass, thus laying bare the 
 mode of its formation. As no other cause can be assi-no«l 
 for these effects, we are warranted in believing that such 
 events as these actually existed. 
 
 It will be seen that direct and circumstantial evidence 
 may frequently be found corroborating each other, and they 
 then present the strongest possi])le ground of belief If any 
 marked event occur, not only will it be seen by witnesses. 
 
332 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 
 
 but it will be preceded by its appropriate causes, and fol- 
 lowed by its appropriate effects. Thus, the death of Caesar 
 is proved by the testimony of eye-witnesses, and contem- 
 porary writers. But, besides this, the civil wars in the 
 Roman empire, and the character of the parties that were 
 formed immediately after that event is said to have taken 
 place, can be accounted for on no other supposition than 
 that of his violent death. So the invasion and occupation 
 of Britain by the Romans is proved by the testimony of 
 historians. But if such an event had occurred, we should 
 naturally expect that some traces of their occupation would 
 be observed in that island. Hence, we examine, and find 
 there the remains of Roman encampments, walls, roads, 
 Roman coins of that age, and inscriptions which could have 
 been made by no other people. These facts can be ac- 
 counted for on no other supposition than that of the conquest 
 and permanent occupation of Britain by the former con- 
 querors of the world. This coincidence of direct and indi- 
 rect evidence furnishes the most perfect ground of belief 
 which we can conceive to any matter of fact. 
 
 REFERENCES. 
 
 Evidence of testimony — Reid, Essay 7, sec. 8 ; Stewart, voL ii, chap 
 2, sec. 4 ; Abercrombie, Part 2, sec. 3. 
 
 Different kinds of evidence — Reid, Essay 2, chap. 20. 
 
 Testimony of others a source of knowledge — Locke, Book 4, chap. 16, 
 «ecs. 6 — 8 ; Abercrombie, Part 2, sec. 3. 
 
 Law^ of testimony — Abercrombie, Part 2, sec. 3. 
 
 Natural bias to truth — Abercrombie, Part 2, sec. 3 ; Reid's Inquiry, 
 chap. 6, sec. 24. 
 
 Hume's argument against miracles — Abercrombie, Part 2, sec. 3 
 
 Case when witnesses are numerous — Abercrombie, Part 2, sec. ^ 
 
 Circumstantial evidence — Abercrombie, Part 2, sec. 3. 
 
PROBABLE REASONING. 884 
 
 SECTION IV. — OTHER FORMS OF REASONING. 
 
 I. Of probible evidence. 
 
 Thus far I have treated of those modes of reasoning' iu 
 which our premises are acknowledged to be true, and our 
 conclusion is equally, that is, absolutely true. But all of 
 our reasoning is not of this character. It fre([ueiitly hap- 
 pens that our premises rise no higher than probability, and 
 our conclusions can only reach the same level. Our process 
 is, however, precisely the same, the only difference consists 
 in the degree of certainty to which we arrive. 
 
 When the reasons for believing a proposition to be true 
 are not such as to establish belief, but only to show that it 
 is more likely to happen than not, we say that such a propo- 
 sition is probable. Thus, if the wind is in a certain quarter. 
 I say that it probably will rain. I examine the evidence 
 that may be adduced in favor of the proposition that the 
 planets are inhabited, and I say that it is or is not probable. 
 It may require the cooperation of several causes to render 
 an event certain. If, however, only a part of these causes 
 unite in a particular case, the event may occur, though we 
 cannot expect it with confidence. So, if an intelligent being 
 has several times, under given circumstances, acted in a par- 
 ticular manner, we form a distinct anticipation that he will 
 act in the same manner under similar circumstances. But 
 here our anticipation only amounts to a probability, for wo 
 know not what changes may have taken place in his charac- 
 ter since we last observed him ; and there may have arisen 
 circumstances which affect him '>f which we are ignorant. 
 When, in this manner, we attain to mere probability, weaill 
 our state of mind opinion ; that is, we judge a proposition 
 more likely to be true than false. 
 
 We take such opinions as the grounds of our reasonings 
 
i34 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 
 
 m. a large number of cases in practical life. Thus, w« 
 say, 
 
 It is probable that the character of a human being will be 
 improved by affliction. 
 
 A. B. has suflfered affliction ; therefore, 
 
 A. B. is probably improved in character. 
 
 Or, again : 
 
 If there be war in Europe, the price of breadstuffs will rise. 
 
 There will probably be a war in Europe ; therefore. 
 
 It is probable that the price of breadstuffs will rise. 
 
 When only one of our premises is a doubtful and the 
 other a certain proposition, the probability of our conclusion 
 is equal to that of our doubtful premise. Thus, it being 
 granted that if there be war in Europe prices will rise, the 
 probability of our conclusion is precisely as great as the 
 probability of a war. When, however, both of our premises 
 are mere probabilities, the probability of our conclusion is 
 greatly reduced, and can rarely furnish a ground for an 
 opinion. Thus, 
 
 If the south wind blow to-morrow, it will probably rain. 
 
 The south wind will probably blow to-morrow ; therefore, 
 
 It is (very slightly) probable that it will rain. 
 
 When so slight an indication of an event is given, it is 
 manifestly of very little use in forming a judgment. 
 
 Erom the fact that we reason from probabilities, very 
 commonly, in the practical business of life, it has happened 
 that this mode of reasoning has sometimes been confounded 
 with that by which we arrive at practical certainty. It haa 
 sometimes been said that moral reasoning, or reasoning 
 concerning matters of fact, is nothing else than a succession 
 of probable arguments, each one reducing the liabilities of 
 error, until they become so small as to be inappreciable. 
 The cases, however, are dissimilar. In the one case, we pro- 
 ceed from an approximation to truth so near that neither 
 
PROBABLE REASONING. 83»> 
 
 we nor other men can discover any error, and the result id 
 of the same character. In the other case, we proceed from 
 an approximation to truth, but so distant that we can appre- 
 ciate our liability to error ; we know the uncertainty of our 
 premises, and the result is a mere approximation similar 
 to them, producing not belief, but merely opinion. For in- 
 stance, suppose we endeavor to ascertain whether the l)attle 
 of Waterloo was fought on the 18th of June, 1815 We 
 proceed according to the laAvs of evidence as before stato<l. 
 We apply the rule of perception, and the rule of human 
 motive. We can discover no error, and no other man can 
 discover any. I rely upon the result at which I have 
 arrived with perfect confidence, and the state of mind of 
 which I am conscious is belief, full, entire, and unquestion- 
 able. Again ; the question is asked, when did the battle 
 commence? I find that here the accounts vary. The best 
 authorities differ, some placing it as early as ten o'clock, 
 and others as late as one. I form an opinion, by comparing 
 the accounts, and balancing the probable motives which 
 would lead men into error. I form an opinion as to the 
 time, but it is not belief. I am conscious of a state of mind 
 very dissimilar to that in the preceding case. 
 
 Or, again; from the data established by ol).servatiun a.s 
 accurate as the faculties of men will permit, we determine 
 the distance and magnitude of the planet Jupiter. No error 
 can be discovered either in our data or our reasoning. Wo 
 know that there may be error, but that it cannot exceed a 
 certain amount, and we rely on the result under thi.s con- 
 dition with absolute certainty. But when it is said the 
 planet Jupiter is inhabited, we collect our data, and they 
 give us nothing but a probability to reason from, and we 
 arrive at nothing but an opinion. The states of mind dif- 
 fer not in degree but in kind. The one proceeds from data 
 in which no error can be discovered by the faculties which 
 
336 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 
 
 God has given us. The other proceeds from data which we 
 know to be uncertain, and the uncertainty of which we are 
 able to appreciate. They, of course, lead to an entirely dif- 
 ferent subjective result, and a line of distinct demarcation 
 must ever separate the one from the other. 
 
 II. Reasoning from induction. 
 
 The object of this mode of reasoning is to establish a 
 general law, from the observation of particular instances. 
 The principle on which it depends has been already ex- 
 plained, when treating of cause and effect. See pages 153 
 -158. 
 
 It is in conformity with our intuitive beliefs, that, from 
 observing a change, we proceed to ascertain its cause. We 
 know that, wherever the cause exists, the effect must neces- 
 sarily follow, and that wherever an event always follows a 
 given antecedent, this antecedent must be the cause. We 
 therefore observe all the various phenomena which pre- 
 cede a change. We ascertain, so far as possible, which of 
 them is the invariable antecedent ; in other words, that which 
 being present the effect exists, and which being removed the 
 effect ceases. When this has been done, we consider our- 
 selves to have ascertained the cause. 
 
 Having thus determined, by experiment, the cause in this 
 particular case, we proceed as follows : 
 
 What is the cause of this effect in one case must be the 
 cause in all cases. 
 
 The event A is the cause in this case ; therefore, 
 
 The event A is the cause in all cases. 
 
 It frequently happens that there are several antecedents, 
 and the greatest skill and the most persevering sagacity are 
 requisite in order to determine which of them is invariable. 
 We are obliged to try every variety of combinations, in order 
 to ascertain with perfect precision the cause, and to sever 
 It from every occasional and variable antecedent. When, 
 
I 
 
 ANALOGY. 887 
 
 )r, this is done, we generalize with entire confidence, 
 and (consider the law as established. 
 
 The manner in which we proceed, in such a case, is illus- 
 trated most happily in the process employed by Sir Isa^ic 
 Newton to discover the cause of the solar spectrum. The 
 full account may be found in the third cliapter of Sir David 
 Brewster's life of this great philosopher. 
 
 in. Of reasoning from analogy. 
 
 In this form of reasoning, we do not attempt to prove a 
 proposition true, and we may not even attempt to prove it 
 probable. All that we generally desire is to prove it not 
 improbable. 
 
 In the other cases of which we have treated, we proceed 
 upon the supposition that the same cause, under the same 
 conditions, will produce the same effects. Here we proceed 
 upon the supposition, not that the same cause will produce 
 the same effect, but merely that similar causes may produce 
 similar effects, in the absence of evidence to the contrary. 
 
 If this mode of reasoning were reduced to a syllogism it 
 would take substantially the following form : 
 
 1. Similar causes may produce similar effects. 
 
 2. The cause A is similar to the cause B ; 
 
 3. Therefore the cause A and B may produce similar 
 effects. 
 
 Tlie principal uses of analogical reasoning are the follow- 
 ing: 
 
 1. It is frequently employed with success in answering 
 an a priori objection. It is thus used with great acuteness 
 and unanswerable force, by Bishop Butler, in his Analogy. 
 Thus, if men deny the existence of God, and hence infer 
 that there can be no future state of rewards and punish- 
 ments, his answer is as follows : It is granted, even by 
 atheists themselves, that in the present state we are rewarded 
 for some actions and punished for others ; that is, that wo 
 29 
 
338 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 
 
 find ourselves under a moral government. But, if we ex.et 
 under such conditions now, when, by the supposition, there 
 is no God, there can be no reason assigned why we may not 
 continue to exist after death, and exist under the same con- 
 ditions as at present ; that is, under a moral government, in 
 which we shall be rewarded and punished according to the 
 character of our actions. The whole of this admirable 
 treatise, one of the most remarkable that any language can 
 produce, is intended to show that the principles of moral 
 government taught in the Scriptures are strictly analogous 
 to those everywhere exhibited in the government of the 
 world, as seen by natural religion. Hence, it is evident 
 that if God has adopted these principles for our government 
 in one case, there can be no a priori reason why he should 
 not adopt them in another case. "• It will here be found," 
 says he, *• not taken for granted, but proved, that any rea- 
 sonable man, who will thoroughly consider the matter, may 
 be as much assured as he is of his own being, that it is not 
 so clear a case that there is nothing in it." 
 
 While, however, analogy claims to do no more than this, 
 it, in many cases, in fact, does much more. It is evident 
 that the greater the similarity of cause the greater is the 
 probability of the similarity of effects. It may thus, in 
 some cases, approximate to proof; at the least, it furnishes 
 grounds for a decided opinion. Thus, the similarity of 
 many of the effects of electricity and galvanism created the 
 opinion that they were the same agent, before their identity 
 was discovered. 
 
 2. It will readily appear that an iniportant use of analo- 
 gy is to aid us in scientific investigation. Suppose, for in 
 stance, that we have discovered the cause for a well-known 
 effect. We observe anotlier effect of a similar character, 
 and we instinctively are led to inquire, may it not arise froiu 
 the same or a similar cause ? Hence, in our search aftei 
 
ANALOGY. 389 
 
 causes, we are greatly aided, and much uselcodlahor is saved, 
 by such an indication. Thus, Sir 11. Davy discovered tho 
 metallic basis of potash. But there are other alkalies in 
 many of their sensible properties nearly j?llied to potash. 
 How natural was it for him to expect that the same hiws 
 governed them all, and that they all were formed in tlic same 
 manner from metallic bases ! 
 
 3. Analogy is frequently used by the orator with great 
 eftect. Thus, if it is admitted that a man has acted in one 
 way at one time, there is no reason why he might not he 
 expected to act in the same way at another time. Or, if it 
 is honorable for one man to act in a particular manner in 
 one case, there can be no reason why it is not honorable for 
 another man, in a case essentially alike, to act in a similar 
 manner. This mode of reasoning is used with the haj)piest 
 success by Erskine, in the introduction of his argument for 
 Stockdale. He commences by alluding to the fact that, though 
 connected by ties of the closest ' intimacy with the poHtical 
 party who had directed the prosecution, yet, Mr. Stockdale 
 had not hesitated to entrust him with his defence. He adds, 
 ^' This, however, is a matter of daily occurrence. So unsul- 
 lied is the character of the English bar, that no political 
 bias ever interferes with the discharge of the duty of an ad- 
 vocate ; that, whatever may be our public principles, or tho 
 pi-ivate habits of our lives, they never cast even a shade 
 across the path of our professional duties. If this be char- 
 acteristic of the bar of an English court of justice, what 
 sacred impartiality may not every man expect from its ju- 
 lors and its bench." Many similar instances may be found 
 in the speeches of this eminent orator, perhaps the most 
 consummate advocate of modern times. 
 
 It is, however, obvious, that this mode of reasoning is lia- 
 ble to great abuse. The whole force of the argument de- 
 pends on the similarity of the cases. But if an advocaU 
 
340 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 
 
 can present cai^es seeming to be similar, while, in fact, they 
 are widely diverse, he may draw from them the most erro- 
 neous conclusions. It is, therefore, the business of an oppo- 
 nent, or of an inquirer after truth, to examine reasoning of 
 this kind with the closest scrutiny ; and, when it is defective, 
 point out the dissimilarity of the cases, and show the result 
 to which such analogies would lead, if we allowed them to 
 form the foundation of our judgment. 
 
 REFERENCES. 
 
 Probable evidence — Stewart, vol. ii., chap. 2, sec. 4 ; Locke, Book 4, 
 chap. 15 ; Abercrombie, Part 2, sec. 8. 
 
 Induction — Reid, chap. 6, sec. 24; Stewart, vol. ii., chap. 4, sec. 1,' 
 Cousin, chap. 9. 
 
 Analogy — Reid's Inquiry, Essay 1, chap. 4; Stewart, vol. ii., chap. 2, 
 sec. 4, chap. 4, sec. 4 ; Locke, Book 6, chap. 16, sec. 12; Abercrombie, 
 Part 3, sec. 4. 
 
 Herschel's Discourse on the Study of Natural Philosophy. 
 
 Remarks on Analogical Reasoning in Whately's Rhetoric. • 
 
 Bacon's Novum Organon. 
 
 SECTION V. — ON THE IMPROVEMENT OF THE REASONING 
 
 POWERS. 
 
 It is appropriate to close this chapter with a few sugges- 
 tions on the manner of improving the reasoning powers. 
 
 If the remarks in the preceding pages are correct, it will 
 appear that the process which we employ in reasoning is, in 
 all cases, essentially the same. Our object is to show such 
 a relation between the known and the unknown, that, if one 
 DC true, the other is equally true ; or, if one be only prob- 
 ible. the other is equally probable. If our premises are 
 ienied, we proceed to show their relation to something bet- 
 ter known and more universally admitted, and thus fall 
 back, step by step, until we rest upon those elementary 
 truths which are given us in the constitution of the human 
 
t 
 
 IMPROVEMENT OF IlEASONINQ. 841 
 
 intellect. From these, m the first place, all our knowledge 
 proceeds. 
 
 The manner in which we accomplish this is by syllo<;i8m. 
 We show that what is true of a chiss is true of every indi- 
 vidual under that class By making it evident that indi- 
 viduals or species are included under classes to which they 
 were not supposed to belong, or that a predicate can be 
 affirmed of a subject which could not have been affiimed of 
 it before, new knowledge is evolved, and the domain of 
 science is enlarged. 
 
 To proceed in this manner is, I suppose, the instinct of 
 our nature. A human being begins to reason almost as 
 soon as he begins to think; and were he incapable of 
 reasoning, that is, of inferring a conclusion from premises, 
 we should at once perceive that he was destitute of a ra- 
 tional soul, or deficient in an important element of our in- 
 tellectual nature. Logicians unfold the process and develop 
 the laws by which reasoning is performed, and thus enable 
 us the better to distinguish between valid a^-guments and 
 sophisms. To be able to do this is of great utility in the 
 work of mental cultivation. We thus are rendered capable 
 of determining whether our reasonings are, or are not, in 
 accordance with the laws of the human mind. When this 
 attainment has been made, we can rely with confidence upon 
 the decisions of our own understanding. This is an impor- 
 tant condition of all intellectual progress. We can never 
 proceed boldly in the work of investigation, until we can 
 say, with Sir Isaac Newton, ^' When I see a thing to be 
 true, I know it is true.'' 
 
 If, then, we would cultivate our reasoning power with 
 luccess, it is important to understand the nature of the 
 human mind, and especially the process by which it estab- 
 lishes truth by reasoning. The first of these is treateil of 
 in works on intellectual philosophy. This, however, is not 
 29* 
 
342 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 
 
 alone suf^sient for our purpose The whole subject of 
 reasonin; ^ in all its ramificationSj is unfolded in the science 
 of logi^ . By a diligent study of this science, our acute- 
 ness " /ill be greatly sharpened, and, what is probably of 
 greater consequence, the mind not only becomes accustomed 
 to all the forms of reasoning, but learns instinctively to 
 reject every conclusion not warranted by logical principles. 
 
 I lately met with the following curious illustration of 
 the utility of the study of logic in cultivating the power 
 )f the mind^: 
 
 ^^ The Asiatic Journal, 1827, records the following 
 instance of acuteness in a young brahmin. After the 
 introduction of juries into Ceylon, a wealthy brahmin, 
 whose unpopular character had rendered him obnoxious to 
 many, was accused of murdering his nephew, and put upon 
 trial. He chose a jury of his own caste ; but so strong was 
 the evidence against him, that twelve out of thirteen of the 
 jury were thoroughly convinced of his guilt. The dissen- 
 tient juror, a young brahmin of Camisseram, stood up, de- 
 clared his conviction that the prisoner was the victim of a 
 conspiracy, and desired that all the witnesses should be 
 recalled. He examined them with extraordinary dexterity 
 and acuteness, and succeeded in extorting from them such 
 proofs of their perjury, that the jury, instead of consigning 
 the prisoner to an ignominious death, pronounced him inno- 
 cent. The affair made much noise in the island, and the 
 chief justice, Sir Alexander Johnston, sent for the juror who 
 had so distinguished himself, and complimented him on the 
 talents he had displayed. The brahmin attributed his skill 
 to the study of a book which he called ^ The Strengthener 
 of the Mind.' He had obtained it from Persia, and had 
 translated it from the Sanscrit, into which it had been ren- 
 dered from the Persian. Sir Alexander Johnston express- 
 ing a curiosity to see the book, the brahmin brought a Tamil 
 
imphjvement or reasoning. 343 
 
 manuscript, on palm leaves, which Sir Alexander found, to 
 his infinite surprise, to be the. ' Dialectics of Aristotle I 
 regret that I am not able to verify this anecdote by a refer- 
 ence to the original work. I give it as I found it m t% 
 periodical on education. 
 
 The study of rules and the comprehension of prirciplea 
 will, however, be of very little value, unless our knowledge, 
 as we have before recommended, be reduced to practice. 
 By the habitual practice of earnest investigation, without 
 any knowledge of the rules of logic, a man will become an 
 able reasoner ; while, without this practice, no matter what 
 be his understanding of the rules, he will never ac(|uire the 
 power of convincing others. 
 
 2. I, therefore, remark that the power of ratiocination 
 may be improved by the study of works of a syllogistic 
 character. Among these, it is common to assign the first 
 place to the pure mathematics. A geometrical demonstra- 
 tion is composed of a succession of pure syllogisms, free 
 from any admixture of contingent truth, and receiving as 
 premises only what every human mind must necessarily 
 admit. The appeal is made exclusively to the understand- 
 ing ; the conceptions are definite and precise, and the con- 
 clusions follow from their own intuitive evidence. This, 
 then, would seem to present the simplest and purest exercise 
 of the reasoning power. For this cause, the mathematics 
 have always formed an important branch of a liberal educa- 
 tion. They give exercise to the reasoning power, and they 
 may be pursued at an early period of life, when other 
 reasoning could not be so easily comprehended. 
 
 On the use of the mathematics for the purpose of intel- 
 lectual cultivation, however, the highest authorities on the 
 subject of education differ. Sir W. Hamilton ^ contends, 
 
 * On the Study of the Mathematics as an Exercise of the Mind.— DiBCUi 
 lions on Philosophy, etc. London, 18-32 : pp. 2oG — i3*J7. 
 
344 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 
 
 with great power and exuberance of learning, that they are, 
 of all intellectual pursuits, the least adapted to produce the 
 effect so commonly ascribed to them. It must be admitted 
 that they discuss the relations of nothing but quantity, and 
 the simplest of these relatiDns ; and that the matter of which 
 they treat, and the mode in which they treat it, are entirely 
 unlike those which must be employed in the affairs of life 
 and the mvestigations of the other sciences-. Whoever will 
 read this very able discussion will at least be convinced 
 that the ordinary opinion on the universal adaptedness of the 
 mathematics to mental discipline requires a thorough reex- 
 amination. It is also a duty manifestly imposed upon 
 teachers to consider this question with a mind unbiased by 
 preconceived opinions, and observe carefully the effect of 
 this study on the reasoning powers of their pupils. In all 
 our institutions of learning we require that every candidate 
 for a literary degree shall devote a considerable portion of 
 his time to the mathematics, not for any practical purpose, 
 but purely as a means of special intellectual culture. It 
 sur.ely cannot be inappropriate to inquire whether it actually 
 produces the anticipated results. 
 
 3. In the mathematics, our reasoning concerns nothing 
 but the necessary relations of quantity, and, therefore, we 
 arrive at absolute truth. A very small part of our practi- 
 cal reasoning is, however, of that character. We desire to 
 have the truth, not concerning abstract conceptions, but 
 concerning matters of fact, or that into which fact enters as 
 a necessary element. Hence, were we to confine our reason- 
 ing to the mathematics, it may be doubted whether we 
 should increase our power of general ratiocination. It has 
 been frequently remarked that persons who have addicted 
 themselves exclusively to this science, have been singularly 
 deficient in the reasoning power which is required in the 
 several professions, and in the ordinary affairs of life. I 
 
IMPROVEMENT OF REASON. 845 
 
 have not perceived that original ability in young men waa 
 at all measured by proficiency in the mathematics. Mm 
 of decided talent generally succeed well iu anytliing. an.l, 
 of course, in abstract science. The general reasoning power 
 is not more closely connected with special talent for mathe- 
 matics, than with special talent for philology, pliih>sophy, 
 physics, or any other branch of learning. 
 
 It will, therefore, be necessary for us to accustom our- 
 selves to reasonings concerning matters of fiict, or, as it is 
 called, moral reasoning. In order to do this, it will be use- 
 ful to examine argumentative treatises, discourses, sermons, 
 pleas at the bar, or anything which, by consecutive proof, 
 professes to arrive at a conclusion. I hardly know of any 
 work better adapted to such a purpose than Butler's Anal- 
 ogy. It will aid us in this labor, first, carefully to read 
 the work which we attempt to examine, taking notes of 
 every step of the argument, and thus, in the briefest manner, 
 forming for ourselves an analysis of the whole. Then, fix- 
 ing our minds distinctly upon the thing to be proved, we 
 should examine the general syllogism by which it is es- 
 tablished, and the proofs on which the several propositions 
 ! rest. Where an argument is abbreviated, we should supply 
 i the propositions that are suppressed, and the conclusions that 
 are omitted. In this manner we shall be able fully to ap- 
 preciate the value of the whole argument, yielding an intel- 
 ligent conviction to its proofs, and rejecting whatever is 
 sophistical. A practice of this kind will have a marked 
 effect upon our power of ratiocination. 
 
 By pursuing the course here indicated, we may be enabled 
 to understand, appreciate and verify, the various forms of 
 .argument. We thus become skilful in detecting sophistry, 
 and distinguishing truth from falsehood. This may l>e lonne^l 
 passive syllogistic power. It is an important preparation 
 for further progress, but is in itself only a partial develop- 
 
346 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 
 
 ment of tho reasoning faculty. We need the aoility, not 
 only to understand and appreciate the arguments of others, 
 but also to originate and construct arguments for ourselves. 
 This is the great purpose which this power was intended to 
 accomplish. 
 
 4. We may improve ourselves in this respect by mathe- 
 matical study. As soon as we have acquired the command 
 of a few theorems in geometry, we should attempt to demon- 
 strate for ourselves. Problems for this purpose should be 
 provided in our text-books. It would be well if the student 
 should never make use of the demonstration in the book, 
 until he had exhausted his ability to originate one for him- 
 self In this manner, thouo;h he mio^ht seem at first to 
 make but slow progress, his real mathematical power would 
 rapidly increase. If mathematical studies are to be used as 
 a means for mental discipline, the practice of original demon- 
 stration must be invaluable. Were it more frequently 
 adopted, I have no doubt that it would add materially to 
 vigor and alertness of mind. In this respect, algebraical 
 problems possess a peculiar advantage. I know of no ex- 
 ercise that calls into more active use the power of grasping 
 firmly a particular conception, and tracing it out unchanged 
 through various and complicated relations, than thenefibrt to 
 form a difficult algebraical equation. 
 
 5. If we would educate our reasoning powers, we must 
 pursue the same course in subjects not mathematical. We 
 must learn to form arguments for ourselves on all matters 
 of investigation that come under our notice. When a doubt- 
 ful question Jirises, instead of avoiding it, we should earnestly 
 bend ourselves to the labor of solving it. We should be in 
 the habit of forming logical plans of thought on every sub- 
 ject of study. Whether we write or speak, we should always 
 have an end in view, towards which every thought tends by a 
 natural succession, and a logical arrangement. If a lawyer 
 
IMPROVEMENT OF IlEASOV. 347 
 
 makes a plea, he should not be satisfied with merely pre- 
 senting a variety of considerations that have a bearing; qq 
 the subject; his argument should be direct and conchisive. 
 If a pre?.cher construct a discourse, he should have in view 
 a particular moral condition to which he desires to lead liis 
 audience, and every paragraph and every sentence should 
 tend to lead them to this condition. 
 
 If, however, we desire to cultivate our intellect to the 
 best advantage, two cautions are here to be observed. The 
 first respects reliance on authority. Many men, when a 
 proposition is to be proved, spend their time in hunting up 
 authorities, and collecting the opinions of others. By these 
 they expect men to be convinced, without once asking the 
 question whether they are convinced themselves. I would 
 by no means speak lightly of the learning of the past, or 
 of the opinions of eminent men ; but it must still be apparent 
 that an opinion, whether of an ancient or a contemporary, 
 is worth just as much as the reason on which it is founded. 
 No matter how high the authority, we should never attempt 
 to convince another by an argument the force of which we 
 have not ourselves acknowledged. We may embarrass and 
 confound men by an array of learned authorities, but we 
 shall rarely convince them unless we have first convinced 
 ourselves. 
 
 But it is hardly enough that we ourselves be convinced 
 by the teaching of others. We should, if possible, convince 
 ourselves by reasons drawn from the fountain of our own 
 reflections. A student who desires to develop fully his o^\'n 
 powers, must make his own mind his chief reliance in all 
 his intellectual labor. If he cultivate this habit, he will 
 frequently find it less laborious to think out an argument 
 for himself than to seek for it in books. A man endowed 
 with a ready memory and sufficient command of language, 
 may, without any active use of his reasomng powers, speak 
 
34S INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY 
 
 or write upon a subject with fluency and elegance. Such 
 men in youth create great expectation, but when the hour^ 
 arrives for decided intellectual trial, they fail. On the 
 other hand, he who thinks for himself and relies on his own 
 resources, may at first seem slow of apprehension and want- 
 ing in richness of thought, but his powers are invigorated 
 by every effort. The exercise of his faculties yields con- 
 tinually a richer and more abundant product, and thus con- 
 firms his confidence in his own intellectual power. We 
 should, therefore, resolve in the beginning that whatever we 
 produce shall be, as far as possible, our own ; at least, that 
 it shall have passed through the processes of our own think- 
 ing, and thus become assimilated with the working of cur 
 own intellect. No habit is so fatal as plagiarism to all 
 vigor of the understanding. It inevitably induces indolence, 
 mental imbecility, and utter inability to carry on a train 
 of original thought. 
 
 6. In order to improve the reasoning powers, it is im- 
 portant that we always labor for truth. Many persons, in 
 order to acquire skill in debate, are in the habit of defend- 
 ing the true or false indiscriminately, believing that they 
 can cultivate their own understanding by misleading the 
 understanding of others. A man may learn thus to embar- 
 rass and confound an antagonist, but he does it at great 
 sacrifice. By earnestly seeking for truth, and rejecting all 
 sophistry, the mind acquires a tendency to move in the right 
 direction. Chemists speak much of the affinities of various 
 substances for each other. There is a natural affinity in 
 the human mind for truth, and this affinity is strengthened 
 by seeking for it with an honest and earnest purpose. If 
 we in our investigations inquire for nothing but truth, it 
 ipontaneously reveals itself to us. The whole history of 
 philosophical discovery illustrates this remark. Hence 
 nothing can be more unwise than to destroy the original 
 
IMPROVEMENT OF REASON. 849 
 
 delicacy of the faculty of reason by employing u uui\^ 
 criminately in the support of truth or falsohiHKl. Wc may 
 thus gain the praise of acuteness or readiness in debate ; 
 but we lose what is of incomparably greater consecpicnco, 
 the instinctive love of truth, and the delicate discrimina- 
 tion between truth and error. 
 
 . And, lastly; it is impossible for us to reason well, or 
 BO to reason as to increase the sum of human knowledge, 
 without the possession of large and accurate knowledge. 
 Reasoning is the process by which we pass from the 
 known to the unknown. The known, then, lies at the 
 foundation of our process. Unless there be something 
 known, we cannot begin to reason ; and the greater the 
 amount of our knowledge, the larger is the material 
 with which we labor. The more exact our knowledge is, 
 the more successfully can we use it in the discovery of 
 truth. 
 
 AWe men, of marked independence of mind, and strong 
 tendency for investigation, by failing to know what other 
 men have discovered, are liable to waste their energies in 
 search of that which has been already discovered. Hence, 
 after arriving at valuable truth, they find themselves 
 in the rear of their age. Though the cases are rare, 
 able men sometimes fall into this error. If this be the 
 case with men of unusual endowments, how much more 
 does it deserve the attention of those who can boast of 
 no extraordinary talent ! He who would enlarge the field 
 of human knowledge, must stand upon the limits of the 
 known, before he can expect to enter the field of the 
 unknown. 
 
 REFERENCES. 
 
 Cultivation of the reasoning faculties-^ Abcrcrombic. Part 3, »ection 4 
 Mathematicians not good reasoners — Abercrombie. Part U, Bcction 4 
 
 30 
 
350 rr^TEL^ECTUAL PHI. OSOPHY. 
 
 Difference between sound judgment and ingenious disputation — Aber. 
 crombie. Part 3, section 4. 
 
 Power of reasoning depends on extent of knowledge — Abercrombie, 
 Part 3, section 4. 
 
 Use of authorities — Locke, Book 4, chap. 20, section 17. 
 
 Advantage of clearness and exactitude of knowledge — Locke, Book 4 
 ehap. 12» seotido 14» 
 
CHAPTER VII. 
 
 LVIAGEnATION. 
 
 SECTION I. — THE NATURE OF THIS FACULTY 
 
 The next faculty of which we propose to treat 13 the 
 Imagination- It is the power by which, from simple con- 
 ceptions already existing in the mind, we form complex 
 wholes or images. Thus, the painter, selecting several beau- 
 tiful views from various landscapes which he has observed, 
 forms them into a smgle picture. The novelist unites the 
 elements of several characters which he has observed in the 
 conception of his hero. 
 
 It is manifest that some form of abstraction must, by 
 necessity, precede the exercise of imagination. Were we 
 not able to analyze the concrete, and contemplate its several 
 parts separate from each other, we could never unite them 
 at will, so as to form an original image. The parts must 
 be mentally severed before they can be reunited in a new 
 conception. It is this power of reuniting the several 
 elements of a conception at will, that is, properly, imagina- 
 tion. Imagination may then be designated as the power of 
 combination. 
 
 There is, however, a difference in the m:inner in which 
 the power of combination receives and mcxlifies the materials 
 derived from abstraction. In treating of abstraction I 
 attempted to show that it included three acts ; first, anal/ 
 
352 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 
 
 sis, by which the qualities of a concrete obje<;t are separated 
 from each other ; second, generalization, by which these 
 simple elements of an individual become a general abstract^ 
 idea ; and, third, combination, by which these last are united 
 in a complex conception, representing not an individual 
 but a class. The act by which we form classes, may, 
 perhaps, more properly be called conception than imagina* 
 tion. 
 
 The act of imagination proper, differs from that act by 
 which we form classes. In the first place, the mode of 
 abstraction in the two cases is unlike. In forming concep- 
 tions of classes we first separate qualities from each other. 
 In collecting the elements for a picture in the imagination, 
 we separate not qualities so much as parts. Again ; before 
 we can proceed to form classes, we must first generalize our 
 individual abstractions, and thus form general abstract ideas. 
 In imagination proper we do not generalize, but at once 
 unite the ideas of individual parts which we have previously 
 separated from each other. In the third place, the result 
 is dissimilar. In the one case we form a notion of a class, 
 meaning no particular individual ; in the other, we form a 
 notion of an individual, which is the more perfect in pro- 
 portion to its distinct individuality. 
 
 The difference between these cases may be illustrated by 
 a familiar example. Suppose that a physiologist wer^ 
 attempting to form a scientific conception of an animal, say, 
 for instance, of a horse. He would examine the first speci- 
 men with all the accuracy in his power, taking note 
 specially of all the qualities of its external appearance and 
 internal structure. He would, in the second place, examine 
 other specimens, taking note of each particular quality as 
 before. These qualities would then not belong to one speci- 
 men, but to them all, or would become general abstract 
 ideas. Ho would next distinguish those that were constant 
 
IMAGINATION. 853 
 
 •m those which were variable, uniting the constant into 
 a single conception, and rejecting the others as valuers. 
 This conception thus formed would represent the class, and 
 would correspond to the word horse, whenever he or other 
 physiologists used it. 
 
 But, were an artist required to paint the charger of a com- 
 mander-in-chief on a battle-field, he would proceed in a very 
 . different manner. Observing several horses, he would jkt- 
 eeive one remarkable for the beauty of its head. The Ixxly 
 of another, and the neck of a third are distinguished for 
 elegance of form and symmetry of proportions. Without 
 any act of generalization, he would unite such of these sev- 
 eral parts as he chose into one image, which he would 
 transfer to the canvas. This picture would not be the 
 representation of a class, but of an individual. The object 
 of the painter would be, not to form an image which should 
 stand for all horses, but a picture of a more beautiful horse 
 than had ever existed, thus making this representation to 
 stand out by itself, distinguished from every other that had 
 ever been conceived. 
 
 Imagination proper is, therefore, the power of forming 
 not general conceptions, designating classes, but particular 
 images representing individuals. It is the power by which 
 • we form pictures in the mind, of some object or event. 
 Hence, it would seem that those writers have erred who 
 state that this act of the mind closely resembles the process 
 of reasoning. The two acts are really remarkably unlike. 
 The materials used in the reasoning process are always 
 propositions, that is, affirmations respecting genera and 
 species. The imagination, on the contrary, employs con- 
 ceptions of separate parts, which it combines into an indi- 
 vidual whole. The process which they employ is dissimilar , 
 the one forming syllogisms, the other uniting elements. The 
 result at which they arrive is different. The one ends ia 
 30* 
 
S54 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 
 
 a proposition affirming a predicate of a subject; fce other snda 
 in a picture affirming nothing. The one asserts a tiuth, 
 the other presents a conception. That the most gifted men 
 are frequently endowed with both of these powers in a high 
 degree, and that the possession of both is necessary to great 
 intellectual effi^rts, is granted; but this no more proves 
 them to be either identical or similar, than the necessity of 
 reason and memory to intellectual effiDrt proves these faculties 
 identical. 
 
 If we examine the several acts of this faculty, we may, 
 I think, observe a difference between them. We have the 
 power to originate images or pictures for ourselves, and we 
 have the power to form them as they are presented to us in 
 language. The former may be called active, and the latter 
 passive imagination. The active I believe always includes 
 the passive power, but the passive does not always include 
 the active. Thus we frequently observe persons, who delight 
 in poetry and romance, who are utterly incapable of creat- 
 ing a scene or composing a stanza. They can form the pic- 
 tures dictated by language, but are destitute of the power 
 of original combination. Even this secondary and inferior 
 form of imagination is possessed in different degrees. Every 
 one in the habit of giving instruction, especially when de- 
 scription is necessary, must have been convinced of the great 
 difference of individuals in this respect. Some persons 
 create a picture for themselves as soon as it is presented in 
 language. Others form it with difficulty, after repeated 
 trials ; and at last we are uncertain whether the conception 
 in our own mind is the same as that awakened in the mind 
 of another. It is on this power, chiefly, that the love of 
 poetry and fiction depends. Hence, we frequently find per- 
 sons of good sense and strong judgment, who never manifest 
 any taste for imaginative writing. This type of character 
 is most frequently observed in those who have not com- 
 
I 
 
 IMAGINATION. 855 
 
 menced their education until late in life. The imagitiation 
 is most active in youth, and if it remain undeveloped until 
 the period of youth be past, it rarely attains its full power 
 or its natural proportions. 
 
 The active power of imagining is bestowed with still 
 greater diversity. Some men are poets by nature. Ilenco 
 the maxim, looeta nascitiir non Jit^ — a poet is formed by 
 nature, not by education. Men endowed with a creative 
 imagination are continually perceiving analogies, forming 
 comparisons, and originating scenes of beauty or grandeur, 
 out of all that they observe and all that they rcmeuiber. 
 Johnson was sitting one evening by the side of a table, on 
 which two candles were burning. The conversation turned 
 on Thomson. ^^ Thomson," said he, /'could not see 
 those two candles without forming a poetical image out of 
 them." On the other hand, we are told of a celebrated 
 mathematician, who, after reading the Paradise Lost, laid 
 down the book in disgust, with the significant question, 
 '•What does it prove ? " In the one case, the imagination 
 had been exclusively cultivated ; in the other, the reasoning 
 power. The one had been accustomed to form pictures, the 
 other demonstrations. Neither could have been interested 
 in the labors of the other. Both would probably have 
 derived advantages from a more generous and universal cul- 
 tivation of their intellectual powers. 
 
 This distinction leads us to observe a mistake, frequently 
 made, respecting the mode of cultivating the imagination. 
 Young persons sometimes spend their time in reading works 
 of fiction, and tell us that their object is to improve tlii.s 
 power of the mind. This kind of reading produces an effect, 
 but not the efi'ect intended. It improves nothing but the 
 passive power of the imagination : that is, it enables us the 
 more readily to conceive of scenes presented to us by Ian- 
 guage. It cannot enable us to create scenes for ourselves. 
 
C56 INTELLECTUAL PHILuSOPHT. 
 
 If this passive imaginative power is exclusively cultivated, 
 it is even liabb to paralyze the power of creation by con- 
 demning it to perpetual inaction. Sir Walter Scott was, 
 from boyhood, a vast reader of romances, but he was also 
 an indefatigable story-teller, and would detain his school- 
 fellows, by the half-day together, with fictions of his own 
 creation, wrought out on the instant from the stores of his 
 inexhaustible fancy.. 
 
 Again ; a distinction may be observed in the nature of the 
 active power of the imagination. Some men instinctively 
 employ this faculty in the creation of images of beauty or 
 sublimity. They address themselves to the taste, and their 
 object is merely to please. Such men are by nature poets. 
 Whatever they see or hear becomes at once materials for the 
 exercise of the fancy. Analogies between the seen and the 
 unseen, the relations of matter and the relations of mind, 
 the objective and the subjective, are continually revealing 
 themselves, and thus giving birth to comparisons, meta- 
 phors, similes and pictures. No one can read the poetry of 
 Milton, Shakspeare, Burns,. Cowper and Thomson, with- 
 out observing this wonderful power of creating at will 
 images of transcendent loveliness, from either the lowliest 
 or the loftiest object that the eye rests upon. 
 
 But there is another and a smaller class of persons, richly 
 endowed with imagination, in whom this faculty acts on 
 somewhat different principles, and tends to a very different 
 result. The materials which they employ are not scenes, 
 or images of individual beauty, but laws of nature. They 
 address not the taste, but the reason. Their object is not 
 to please, but to instruct. The result at which they arrive 
 is not a picture that can be painted on canvas, but a complex 
 conception of truth united in one idea, and tending to a par- 
 ticular conclusion. Such men no sooner observe a phenome 
 non than they summon from the whole field of their knowledge 
 
POETIC IMAGINATION. 867 
 
 every law that could relate to this particular case, and hc- 
 lect and combine into one conception such of these laws aa 
 will reasonably account for the change. Most men, when 
 they observe a phenomenon, know that it must liave a cau.se, 
 but never give themselves the trouble to seek for it. Others 
 are perpetually searching after causes, but seem condeumed 
 to search forever in the wrong direction. Men who are 
 preeminently gifted are generally endowed with this power 
 of combination in a remarkable degree. Such were Ar- 
 chimedes, Plato and Aristotle, among the ancients, and 
 among the moderns, Newton, Sir H. Davy, Cuvier, and 
 many of the illustrious men yet spared to us. It liaa 
 appeared to me that the study of chemistry, when pursued 
 into the regions of original investigation, has a strong ten- 
 dency to cultivate the highest exercise of this endowment. 
 
 As these two forms of the imagination are of special 
 mterest, and are to a considerable degree dissimilar, we shall 
 in the following remarks consider them separately. 
 
 SECTION II. — POETIC IMAGINATION. 
 
 Imagination, as we have said, is the power of combina- 
 tion. In poetic imagination, its elements are not general 
 abstract ideas, but rather notions of the several parts of 
 different wholes, which may be united at will. The pic- 
 tures of the imagination are not representations of chisses, 
 but are individual images which the mind forms for itself 
 from the conceptions which it has already treasured up. 
 
 Thus, when a painter would delineate on canvas an ideal 
 landscape, he has recourse to the various elements of pic- 
 turesque beauty which are present in his recollection. Ho 
 uas been in thJ habit of observing the aspects of nature Id 
 all their infinite variety. Tree and shrub river and stream- 
 
358 IM^ELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 
 
 let, meadow and hill-side, sunlight and shadow, at mornings 
 noon and evening,.are all vividly impressed upon his recol- 
 lection. He forms, at first, a general conception of the picture 
 which he is about to execute. He forms, perhaps, another. ' 
 and another, until the prominent features of his design are 
 determined upon. When the elements of his combination 
 are such as he approves, he proceeds to fill up the outline 
 with such of the accessories as will best harmonize with his 
 subject. When his conception is thus matured, he proceeds 
 to give it form and coloring. The idea which at first ex- 
 isted in his own mind alone, now begins to appear in all the 
 loveliness of a finished picture. It is said that Cole, the 
 distinguished American landscape painter, never drew a line 
 upon canvas until he had not only matured the whole scene in 
 his mind, but even written out the description in full. From 
 this written delineation he rarely made any variation when 
 he transferred his conception to canvas. The case is the 
 same in any other of the fine arts. One of the most im- 
 pressive ideas that crowds upon the spectator, as he, for the 
 first time, looks upon the interior of a gothic cathedral, is, 
 that all this magnificence of beauty, even to its minute 
 details, must have existed in the mind of the architect be- 
 fore the first stone of the mighty fabric was laid. It aU 
 appears like a gorgeous epic, — an Iliad, or a Paradise Lost, 
 in stone. 
 
 In the preceding cases our design is simple. It is 
 merely to present a conception which shall awaken th^ 
 emotion either of beauty or sublimity in the minds of our 
 fellow-men. Our labor is, in the first place, purely concep- 
 tual. It consists in creating in our own minds a picture. 
 Suppose this to have been done ; the next step is to give to 
 this conception some external expression^ by which we shall 
 transfer to the minds of wther men the very image which 
 we have created in our own. Hence we see that two ele* 
 
POETIC IMAGINATION. 359 
 
 ments must be combined in the character of an eniihfiit 
 artist. First, he must be endowed \vith a rich and vi«M>roua 
 imagination, by which he may form beautiful and strikin;^ 
 conceptions.; and, secondly, he must be a])le to realize hm 
 conceptions in some material form, so that they may create 
 their proper impression upon the minds of others. Artidfa 
 may fail from the want of either of these elements. If a 
 man be ever so highly gifted with imagination, but be dv- 
 ficient in power of execution, unable to establish any medium 
 of communication between himself and other men, he will 
 be forever exposed to mortifying failure. He may speak or 
 lecture well on his art but he can never become a success- 
 ful artist. Such was apparently the case with Ilaydon. On 
 the other hand, when imagination is w^anting, the prac- 
 titioner may be a skilful copyist ; if a painter, he may draw 
 with accuracy, or represent with fidelity, whatever he sees ; 
 but he can never attain to the highest conception of art. 
 
 The manner in which these two processes are united in 
 art is various. Sometimes, as I have before remarked, the 
 conception is elaborated and perfected in the mind, befori- it 
 receives any external expression. Gray's Elegy and Burns* 
 •'Bruce's Address to his Soldiers," are s;iitl to have been 
 completed before a word was written. In other cases, 
 the rough draft is first committed to canvas, or written out 
 in words, and this is elaborated and modified, until it haa 
 attained to all the perfection of which the author is caj)ahle 
 Milton was for many years engaged in the plan of Panidise 
 Lost, and there now exist in the Library of Trinity College, 
 Cambridge, his various drafts, approaching nearer to tho 
 plan which he finally adopted. Which of these rro<les b 
 to be preferred must be left to tho mental habitfl of the 
 artist. As a general rule, however, it may be remarket! 
 that the more thoroughly any work is excogiti.t..] in tl.r l)f>. 
 
360 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 
 
 ginning, the less will be the labor of composition, and the 
 more marked and observable the symmetry of the whole. 
 
 But suppose that this first; intellectual labor has been 
 accomplished, and a conception has been formed which we 
 desire to present to our fellow-men. What shape shall 
 this expression assume ? The answer to this question will 
 depend upon the endowments special to the individual. 
 
 If this conception has been formed in a mind endowed 
 simply with the power of language, it will be expressed in 
 prose. 
 
 Suppose, that, in addition to the power of language, an artist 
 possess also an ear for rhythm, he will express it in poetry. 
 
 If, on the other hand, he be endowed with the power of 
 delineating form, he will execute his conception in marble 
 or stone, and become a sculptor or an architect. 
 
 If he have the power of expression, not only in form, but 
 also in color, he will be a painter. 
 
 Thus, the fountain from which all the fine arts take their 
 rise is precisely the same. It is the power of creating in 
 our own minds images of beauty or sublimity. Hence 
 flow the various forms of art in the channels marked out by 
 our individual endowments. It is rare that an individual is 
 gifted with more than one of these modes of expression, 
 though, in highly favored instances, they are occasionally 
 combined. Michael Angelo was equally distinguished in 
 sculpture, painting and architecture ; and was, besides, no 
 mean poet. Washington AUston was both a painter and a 
 poet. Such gifts are, however, uncommon, and success in 
 a single department may well satisfy the ambition of any 
 artist. 
 
 We see, then, the reason of the rule in rhetoric, that, in 
 order to test the correctness of a metaphor, we should con- 
 ceive of it as represented on canvas. We here recognize 
 the principle that the spiritual part of the work is the same 
 
POETIC IMAGINATION. ,,C,\ 
 
 m both modes of expression; arnhve piesent it to thedecw- 
 ioii of taste, in any manner that will best display its form 
 and proportions. Thus, Horace coiTectly remarks, 
 
 I 
 
 " Pictoribus atque poetis, 
 Quidlibet audendi semper fuit oequa potcstas.' 
 
 Hence a conception expressed in any one of the fine arts 
 is readily transferred to the other. A group in painting is 
 easily rendered in marble. Either of these also furnishes 
 subjects for poetry, while the conceptions of Shakspeare, 
 Milton, Scott and Bunyan, have supplied inexhaustible ma- 
 terials for the painter and engraver. 
 
 The relation of poetic imagination to taste is easily ex- 
 plained. By the imagination we create pictures in the 
 recesses of our own* consciousness. By poetry, painting, 
 sculpture, and the other fine arts, we give to our concep- 
 tions an outward manifestation. By this outward manifes- 
 tation we transfer our own conceptions to the minds of other 
 men. They, by the passive power of the imagination, form 
 for themselves the image which we represent. Hence, the 
 imagination in us, addresses first the imagination of others. 
 But this is not its ultimate object. Its design is to please 
 the taste. Unless the emotion of beauty or sublimity is 
 awakened, we fail to accomplish our object. If we do not 
 form an impressive manifestation of our own conception, it 
 will fail to create a corresponding conception in other men. 
 After the conception has been awakened, if they look upon 
 it with disgust or indifference, our labor has been thrown 
 away. We see, therefore, that in order to form the charac- 
 ter of a finished artist, there must be combined great vi;,'or 
 I of imagmation, and great delicacy ol taste. The author 
 must be able instinctively to determine whether his concep- 
 tion is really beautiful, that is, whether it will give pleas- 
 ure to the universal mind of man. 
 31 
 
362 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 
 
 When taste is deficient and the imagination Tigorous, a 
 writer or artist will abound in conceptions ; but they will be 
 puerile, oiean, disgusting, unnatural or misplaced ; or, what 
 is perhaps more common, beauty and deformity will be 
 strangely and unaccountably mingled together. In such a 
 ease, the world sometimes passes them by in silence, some- 
 times overwhelms them with ridicule ; or, provided the fol- 
 lies and eccentricities are strongly marked, at first it gazea 
 upon them with wonder, then applauds them as criginalj 
 and then consigns them to oblivion. In the words o^ 
 Horace : 
 
 *' Humano capiti cervicem pictor equinam 
 Jungere si veiit, et varies inducere plumas 
 Undique collatis membris, ut turpiter atrum 
 Besinet in piscem, mulier formosa^superne, 
 Spectatum admissi risum teneatis, amici. 
 Crediti, Pisones, isti tabulae fore librum 
 Persimilem, cujus, velut aegri somnia, vanae 
 Fingentur species, ut nee pes nee eaput uni 
 Keddatur formae." 
 
 Ars Poeti<3A, 1 — 9. 
 
 It IS possible, however, that the cause of the failure of 
 an author, or of an artist, may be precisely the reverse. 
 His taste may be too far in advance of his contemporaries. 
 In this case they will derive no pleasure from his concep- 
 tions, be they ever so perfect, and his works will fall dead 
 from his hand, though ever so deserving of immortality. 
 Pamters have perished from want, the least deserving of 
 whose pictures have since commanded a price which would 
 have rendered the artist opulent. The manuscript of 
 Paradise Lost was sold for five pounds ; while, at pres- 
 ent, the annual profits from the sale of his work would have 
 been a fortune to the patriot-poet. The progress of taste 
 may thus create a demand for a work of the imagination, 
 which did not exist in the life-time of the artist or the 
 
POETIC IMAGINATION. 868 
 
 author. Homer is said to hiive l)(';;.^e(l liis hreiul while 
 living ; although, centuries after his ileatli, seven of iho 
 most illustrious cities contended for the honor of havin«' 
 been his birth-place. 
 
 I have thus far treated of imagination as the power by 
 which we form pictures at will. The object here is simple. 
 The combinations thus formed address themselves to the 
 taste. If they give us pleasure nothing more is demanded, 
 and our object has been attained. If the painter execute a 
 beai.tiful picture, or the sculptor a beautiful statue, we ask 
 for nothing more. So, if the novelist or the descriptive 
 poet present us with a succession of pleasing or exciting 
 scenes, they may be entirely successful. More commonly, 
 however, in writing, some other design is intermingled with 
 this. Thus, when in earnest composition, we desire to 
 lead the mind of the reader to a given result, some moral or 
 intellectual idea, by the association of resemblance or con- 
 trast, suggests an event or object in nature or art to which 
 it is analogous. We turn aside and form an image of the 
 suggested idea. . Here, however, our object is two-fold. To 
 introduce an image merely because it was beautiful, might 
 distract attention from the proper course of thought, and 
 thus interfere with our principal design. Besides being 
 beautiful, the image must illustrate and enforce the idea 
 which suggested it. When both of these objects are accom- 
 plished, the great end of this form of imagination isatt^iinetl, 
 and to attain it is one of the most difhcult achievements in 
 literary labor. Those comparisons and metaphors which 
 spring so spontaneously from the subject, that it appears 
 impossible to have given utterance to the thought in any 
 other manner, while they irradiate it with brilliant and un- 
 expected light, have commonly been the result of iniens* 
 labor, and are the pr Kluct of the most ex(iuisitc artiitio 
 skill/ 
 
36^ INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 
 
 It may serve to illustrate this use of the imagination if 
 we present a few examples. Moore, a writer of exuberant 
 fancy, has occasion to allude to the fact, that the affections, 
 by their nature, demand an object on which they may lean, 
 and which they strive to appropriate to themselves. This 
 idea naturally suggests the image of a vine, which can only 
 be sustained by entwinmg itself around a support. This 
 illustration, however, has been so often employed, that it 
 has become trite. The poet looking more narrowly upon 
 the object, observed that it clung to its support by means 
 of a tendril. Hence he elaborates the following beau- 
 tiful comparison : 
 
 " The heart, like a tendril, accustomed to cling, 
 Let it grow where it will, cannot flourish alone. 
 But will lean to the loveliest nearest thing 
 
 It can twine with itself and make closer its own." 
 
 Burke visited Versailles very aoon after the marriage of 
 Marie Antoinette. lie saw what seemed the commencement 
 of a brilliant and happy career, herself the most remarkable 
 object in the court which she adorned. When, in his re- 
 marks on the French revolution, he had occasion to refer to 
 this event, her position suggested to his rich and poetic im- 
 agination the appearance of the morning star. His mind 
 turned at once towards the beautiful image, and he says, 
 '' It is now sixteen or seventeen years since I saw the queen 
 of France, then the dauphiness, at Versailles ; and surely 
 never lighted on this orb, which she hardly seemed to touch, 
 a more delightful vision. I saw her just above the horizon, 
 decorating and cheering the elevated sphere she just began 
 to move in, glittering like the morning star, full of life, and 
 splendor, and joy." 
 
 Thus Longinus, when he is comparing the eloquence ef 
 Demosthenes and Cicero, turns to nature for analogies- 
 
POETIC IMAGINATION. JIG-I 
 
 By two very striking images he gives us an impression of 
 the peculiar character of each, beyond the power of an^ 
 mere description. He compares the one to the tliunderl)olt, 
 which by a single stroke, scatters in splinters the giant oak 
 leaving a second stroke superfluous ; the other to a con- 
 flagration in a forest, spreading on every side irresistible 
 destruction, furnishing for itself the material which it con- 
 sumes, and gaining breadth and intensity at every step of 
 its progress. 
 
 In these cases a two-fold object is accomplished. h\ the 
 first place a new and beautiful image is introduced, to which 
 the mind recurs with pleasure ; and, secondly, the original 
 idea is rendered vastly more definite and impressive. In 
 this manner we render taste and imagination subservient to 
 reason. We convince men, and make them pleased to be 
 convinced, and thus rarely fail of success. 
 
 In the above instances it will be perceived that a visible 
 image is presented to the mind, numerically distinct from 
 the idea to which it owes its origin. In many cases, how- 
 ever, this is not done. The image is only casually and for 
 a moment present to the mind of the writer, yet its presence 
 suggests the use of words which belong rather to it than to 
 the principal thought. Thus, he who resists successfully a 
 host of enemies, naturally suggests the idea of a man making 
 headway against a violent stream. We do not, however, 
 introduce the image, but only use terms suggested by it, and 
 say, he stemmed the torrent of opposition. When we think 
 of the origin of our nation, its struggles with the aborigines, 
 its exposure for years to universal destruction, we are natu- 
 rally led to think of a tree just planted, which any hand 
 may pluck up; or of childhood, which, in its helplessness, 
 any assailant may overcome. We do not express the image 
 in full, but its presence renders it almost imi)0S3ible for ni 
 to speak upon the subject without employing the terms,— 
 31* 
 
366 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 
 
 ^' the germ of a nation." ^' the planting of a people," " the 
 infancy of the republic," etc. So, Avhen we reflect upon 
 the progress of a great truth, first discovered by a retired 
 philosopher, then modestly brought to the notice of the world, 
 receiving testimony from kindred sciences, until, gaining 
 strength at every step, it is universally acknowledged, we 
 naturally think of a spring, which, rising in the recesses 
 of the mountains, receives tributaries on every side, until it 
 gradually spreads out into a mighty river. Hence, we 
 speak of '' ascending to the fountain head of knowledge," 
 of ''the current of opinions," of ''a flood of evidence," and 
 the like. Instances of this kind are found in abundance in 
 the books on rhetoric. 
 
 There is another relation, somewhat difierent from the 
 above, in which the imagination stands to the art of per- 
 suasion. By the imagination we form pictures of objects, 
 scenes, events, characters, and the like. It is a well- 
 known fact that our emotions are excited as truly by a con- 
 ception as by the reality. We are moved by the incidents 
 of a romance, we love one fictitious character and hate 
 another, we grieve over the distresses of virtue, we rejoice in 
 the punishment of crime, just as though what we read were 
 veritable narrative. And this efiect is produced by the con- 
 ceptions themselves, for our emotions are not quelled even by 
 the reflection that all this is fiction. In this manner, the 
 imagination may be made to address our domestic afiections, 
 our passions, — worthy or unworthy, — our conscience, or our 
 piety. Thus, the inimitable parables of our Saviour convey 
 the most sublime and touching lessons of universal truth. 
 The allegory of Bunyan overflows with religious instruction, 
 and exquisite moral sentiment. Homer has instilled into 
 the bosom of millions besides Alexander, the love of war, 
 and the inextinguishable thirst for glory. We thus per- 
 ceive that the passions ani sentiments of mankind, either 
 
POETIC IMAGINATION. 367 
 
 br good or for evil, are greatly under die power of tho 
 Imagination. 
 
 The manner in which the orator avails himself of thin 
 principle is the following. In the attempt to convince men 
 fUT first appeal is to their reason. We construct a train of 
 
 rgument which proves our propositions to be true, and we 
 present such motives as should induce them to act in tho 
 
 aanner we desire. If we are deeply in earnest ourselves, 
 pur earnestness will not fail to call into exercise every 
 power of the mind. Notions of things material and imma- 
 fcerial, visible and invisible, related to our subject by all the 
 
 siws of objective or subjective association, will with various 
 legrees of distinctness rise before us. These various mate- 
 irials the orator uses in such manner as he perceives best 
 
 iapted to accomplish his purpose. In the words of Shak- 
 ppeare, 
 
 ** The poet's eye, in a fine frenzy rolling, 
 Doth glance from heaven to earth, from earth to he.iven ; 
 And, as imagination bodies forth 
 The forms of things unknown, the poet's pen 
 Turns them to shape, and gives to airy nothings 
 A local habitation and a name." 
 
 Mid-summer Night's Dream. 
 
 When an image, a picture, or an event, presents itself to 
 the imagination of the orator, better adapted to e.xcite tho 
 emotion which he wishes to arouse than the naked statement 
 of his argument, he spreads this picture before tho niimi 
 with all the graphic power of which he is capable. We are, 
 as I have said, affected by conceptions as truly as by reality. 
 The emotion excited by the accessory is readily transferreil 
 to the principal idea, and thus we are sunk in s;ulnc^ 
 melted into compassion, aroused to indi<;nation, or inflamed 
 to patriotism, as we listen to the ct^'nest appeals of imjMUi. 
 sioned eloquence. It is by this combination of the reasoning 
 
868 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 
 
 power with the imagination^ that the greatest triumphs of 
 the art of persuasion have been accomplished. 
 
 Sometimes the imagination personifies an abstract princi- 
 ple, and, 'nvesting it with every element of grandeur and 
 sublimity, awakens emotion which is at once transferred to 
 the principle itself Curran, in his defence of Eowan, — 
 who had been indicted for the publication of a paper in which 
 he pleaded for universal emancipation, — affirms that his 
 client had claimed nothing more than was the birthright of 
 every Englishman, and that universal emancipation is an 
 essential element of the British Constitution. His imagina- 
 tion, fired with so noble a theme, at once conceives of uni- 
 versal emancipation as the genius presiding over British 
 soil, and he proceeds to clothe this being with every attri- 
 bute of majesty, thus transferring to the principle which he 
 defends, the sublime emotions which his conception has in- 
 spired. '^ I speak in the spirit of British law, which makes 
 liberty commensurate with and inseparable fi:om the British 
 soil, which proclaims even to the stranger and the sojourner, 
 the moment he sets his foot on British earth, that the soil 
 on which he treads is holy, and consecrated by the genius of 
 universal emancipation. No matter in what language his' 
 doom may have been pronounced ; no matter what complex- 
 ion incompatible with freedom an Indian or an African sun 
 may have burned upon him ; no matter in what disastrous 
 battle his liberties may have been cloven down ; no matter 
 with what solemnities he may have been devoted on the altar 
 of slavery, — the moment he touches the sacred soil of 
 Britain, the altar and the god sink together in the dust, 
 his soul walks abroad in her own majesty, his body swells 
 beyond the measure of the chains that burst from around 
 him, and he stands redeemed, regenerated, and disenthralled, 
 by the irresistible genius of universal emancipation. '^ The 
 tfiect of such a conception upon a hearer is obvious. He, 
 
POETIC IMAGINATION. 869 
 
 who before looked upon tha doctrine as merely a matter of 
 abstract right, now cherishes it as a sublime and most enno- 
 bling sentiment, and not only justifies, but honors and ven- 
 erates the man who promulgates it. 
 
 It is obvious that the same means may bo successfully 
 used to arouse indignation against a person or an opiuion. 
 The same great orator, wishing to discredit the testimony 
 of a government witness, presents before us an image which 
 can awaken no emotion but those of loathsomeness and detes- 
 tation. Referring to the confinement of this person in the 
 Castle before the trial, he styles him '' the wretch that is buried 
 *a man, who lies till his heart has time to fester and rot, and 
 is then dug up a witness." He asks, " Have you not seen 
 him, after his resurrection from that tomb, after having been 
 dug out of the region of death and corruption, make his 
 appearance upon the table, the living image of life and death, 
 and the supreme arbiter of both ? Have you not marked, 
 when he entered, how the stormy wave of the multitude 
 retired at his approach ? Have you not marked how the 
 ■'human heart bowed to the supremacy of his power, in the 
 ' undissembled homage of deferential horror 7 how his 
 ■glance, like the lightning of heaven, seemed to rive the body 
 ' of the accused and mark it for the grave, while his voice 
 warned the devoted wretch of woe and death, — a death 
 which no innocence can escape, no art elude, no force 
 resist, no antidote prevent? There was an antidote.— 
 a juror's oath; but even that adamantine chain, which 
 bound the integrity of man to the throne of eternal justice, 
 is solved and melted in the breath that issues from the in- 
 former's mouth. Conscience swings from her moorings, 
 and the appalled and afirighted juror consults his own safety 
 in the surrender of the victim." 
 
 From such instances as these it is easy to perceive the 
 xnannernn which the orator may make even the imaginatiou 
 
870 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 
 
 to aid in tlie work of persuasion. He may bring the past 
 the present, and the future, before the mind of the hearer 
 and awaken, by means of it, any train of sympathy that he 
 desires. The pages of ancient and modern eloquence are 
 studded with gems of this kind, illustrating the power of 
 the consummate orator to wield the passions of men at his 
 will, and too" frequently, I must confess, to make the worse 
 appear the better reason. 
 
 SECTION in. -^ON THE IMPROVEMENT OF POETIC IMAG- 
 INATION. 
 
 Imagination, as we have before said, is the power of 
 combination, — the faculty by which, out of materials 
 abeady existing in the mind, we form new and original im- 
 ages. Of course, our power of combination must be limited 
 by the amount of the materials on which it may be exerted. 
 Knowledge of all kinds is the treasury from which our 
 power of combination must be supplied. The works of the 
 classical poets of all languages furnish us with a great variety 
 of beautiful imagery. But these poets themselves derived 
 their images from nature. The same book is open to us, and 
 we must study it for ourselves if we would attain to freshness 
 and vigor of imaginative power. He, therefore, who would 
 cultivate this faculty with success, must observe nature in 
 all her infinite variety of phases, by day and by night, in' 
 sunshine and in storm, in summer and in winter, on the 
 prairie and by the seaside, and delight himself in the beauti- 
 ful and the grand wherever they may exist in every aspect 
 of creation around him. Says Imlac, in Rasselas, '' I ranged 
 mountains and deserts for images and resemblances, and 
 pictured on my mind every tree of the forest and flower of 
 
CULTIVATION OF THE IMAQINAnON. 871 
 
 the valley. I observed with equal care the crags of the 
 rockj and the pinnacles of the palace. Sometimes I wan- 
 dered along the mazes of the rivulet, and soniotimes 
 watched the changes of the.summer cloud. To a poet noth- 
 ing can be useless. Whatever is beautiful and wluitever ia 
 dreadful must be familiar to his imagination : he must he 
 conversant with all that is awfully vast or elegantly little. 
 The plants of the garden and the animals of the wood, the 
 minerals of the earth and the meteors of the sky, must all 
 concur to store his mind with inexhaustible variety ; for 
 every idea is useful for the enforcement or decoration of 
 moral or religious truths, and he who knows most will have 
 most power of gratifying his reader with remote allusions 
 and unexpected instruction." — Rasselas, chap. 10. 
 
 The habits of those who have been most distinguished for 
 richness of imagination will, I believe, confirm the truth of 
 these remarks. The poetry of Homer, Shakspeare and 
 Milton, is replete with images which could only have been 
 derived from close observation of nature, as she presented 
 herself to them in their dissimilar walks of life. But we 
 may recur to more recent instances. It is recorded of the ^ 
 distinguished American, whose exquisite portraits of nature 
 have rendered classic the banks of the Hudson, that he once 
 invited a friend to visit his '• studies." He led him to some 
 of the mountains that overlook his favorite river, and re- 
 marked that he was accustomed to spend whole days, from 
 sunrise to sunset, in those majestic solitudes, observing the 
 never-ceasing changes wrought upon the scenery around 
 him in every hour of the day, and that thus he labored to 
 acquire a familiarity with every appearance of natural 
 beauty. The boundless range of the imagination of Sir 
 Walter Scott has been long acknowledged. Until, how- 
 ever, his memoirs were published, ni one would have be^ 
 lieved that he depended on minute observation for tha 
 
612 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 
 
 materials of his fancy. Before he wrote Rokeby, hu visited 
 his friend Mr. Morritt, in whose grounds the scene of the 
 poem was to be laid. ^'The Monday after his arrival, he 
 said, ^ You have often given me the materials for a romance, 
 now I want a good robber's cave and an old church of the 
 right sort.' We rode out and found what he wanted in the 
 ancient slate quarry of Bignal, and the ruined abbey of 
 Eglinstone. I observed him noting down even the peculiar 
 little wild flowers and herbs that accidentally grew around 
 and on the side of a bold crag near his intended cave of 
 Guy Denzil, and could not help saying, that, as he was not 
 to be on his oath in this work, daisies, violets and primroses, 
 would be as poetic as any of the humble plants he was ex- 
 amining. I laughed, in short, at his scrupulousness ; but I 
 understood him when he replied that in nature herself no 
 two scenes were exactly alike, and that whoever copied truly 
 what was before his eyes, would possess the same variety in 
 his descriptions, and exhibit, apparently, an imagination as 
 boundless as the range of nature in the scenes which he 
 describes ; but whoever trusted to imagination, would soon 
 find his own mind circumscribed and contracted to a few 
 favorite images, and the repetition of these would soon pro- 
 duce that monotony and barrenness which have always 
 haunted descriptive poetry in the hands of any but the pa- 
 tieiit worshipper of truth. ^ Besides,' said he, ' local 
 names and peculiarities make a fictitious story look so much 
 better in the face.' In fact, he was but half satisfied with 
 the most beautiful scenery which he could not connect with 
 some local legend,''^ — Lockhart's Life of Scott, vol. 1, 
 page 426. 
 
 Nor was Sir Walter Scott a close observer of nature 
 merely in the forms of inanimate creation. His amazing 
 power of delineating every variety of human character may 
 be traced to the same source. When ^^ The Pirate" appeared, 
 
IMPROVEMENT OF THE IMAr.INATION. f^JS 
 
 every one wondered at the fertile fancy of the Great Un- 
 known, and his power of conceiving so accurately the mnn- 
 ners, and even the modes of conversation of the people of 
 the Hebrides. Those, however, who Imd accoinpaniod tho 
 author in his visit to these regions, recognized in many of 
 the most striking passages of the novel an almost literal 
 record of the events which had transpired under their 
 own eyes. We thus perceive that the exhaustless richnei« 
 of the imagination of the great novelist was derived from 
 a remarkably exact observation of nature and mankind, 
 aided by a memory from which nothing seems to have 
 escaped that could minister to the success of his literary 
 labors. 
 
 It is related of Stothard, an eminent English artist, that 
 nothing could exceed the care with which he was in the 
 habit of copying the minutest object in nature, in which he 
 detected any special beauty. " He was beginning to paint 
 the figure of a reclining sylph, when a difficulty arose in his 
 mind how best to represent such a being of fancy. A friend 
 present said, ^ Give the sylph a butterfly-wing, and then you 
 have it.' ' That I will,' said Stothard, ' and, to be correct, 
 I will paint the wing from the butterfly itself He instiintly 
 sallied forth into the fields, caught one of these beautiful 
 insects, and sketched it immediately. * * He became 
 a hunter of butterflies. The more he caught, tlie greater 
 beauty did he trace in their infinite variety, and he would 
 often say that no one knew what he owed to these insects, — 
 they had taught him the finest combinations in that diflicult 
 branch of art, coloring. '^ * Whenever he was in the 
 fields, the sketch-book and the color-box were brought forUi 
 from his pocket, and many a wild plant, with ita delicate 
 formation of leaf and flower, was carefully copied on tho 
 spot. The springing of the tendrils from the stfem, and 
 every elegant bend and turn of the leaves, or the drooping 
 32 
 
374 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 
 
 of a bell, was observed and depicted with the utmost 
 beauty." He who observes nature in this manner will 
 never have occasion to complain of deficiency of materials 
 for the use of the imagination. 
 
 2. It is evideni, however, that the successful use of the 
 imagination does not depend merely upon our power to 
 form pictures. We must do more than this. To conceive 
 of a mountain more vast than another mountain might be 
 considered an exercise of the imagination. But this would 
 excite no emotion either of/ novelty or sublimity. The 
 theogony of Boodhism is replete with conceptions of this 
 kind, but it Tiwakens no other feeling than that of disgust. 
 If we hope to cultivate this faculty, we must acquire the 
 habit of associating the visible with the invisible, the mate- 
 rial with the spiritual. Had Goldsmith, in his celebrated 
 simile, compared the cliff to another, cliff, or the village pas- 
 tor to another village pastor, his conception would have been 
 powerless, and w^ould scarcely have escaped contempt. It 
 is the unexpected coincidence between a sublime object in 
 nature and the moral elements of a noble character, that 
 presents one of the finest images to be found in the English 
 language. We must learn to associate these two classes of 
 objects together, so that, whatever be the point of observa- 
 tion which the mind occupies, it shall habitually seek for 
 appropriate analogies, and turn in the direction in which 
 they will most readily be found. Thus, it was remarked 
 above of Sir W. Scott, that '' he was but half satisfied with 
 the most beautiful scenery which he did not connect with 
 some local legend." Thus, a poetic imagination instinctively 
 sees all things double, blending, in beautiful harmony, 
 thought, sentiment, subjective emotion, with whatever is most- 
 analogous to it in the objective world of nature or art. 
 
 We may cultivate the imagination by studying atten- 
 tively works most distinguished for poetical combination 
 
IMPROVEMENT OF THE IMAGINATION. 87f 
 
 ll cii-} studying attentively^ in distinction from the niera 
 cursory perusal of classical authors. We must not only 
 read but meditate upon the beautiful and suidinie in 
 thought, until we feel the full force of every analogy ; en- 
 tering into the spirit of the writer himself if we would 
 avail ourselves of the most successful cfTorts of human 
 genius. We thus acquire the intellectual liabits of the nian- 
 ters cf human thought. In the language of poetry, wo 
 catch a portion of their inspiration, instead of servilely ren- 
 dering their thoughts in our own language. It is by the 
 diligent study of a few of the best writers, and not the hasty 
 readirg of many, that we derive the greatest benefit from 
 the study of the classics of our own or any other country. 
 The late Mrs. Grant, of Laggan, who had acquired uncom- 
 mon power in the use of the English language, ascril)ed her 
 success, more than to anything else, to the fact, that for sev- 
 eral years in her youth, she was limited in her reading to 
 the Bible, the Dictionary and Milton's Paradise Lost. 
 
 But, after all, the study of the classics is mainly bene- 
 ficial as it enables us to study nature for ourselves, and to 
 discover the fountains from which genius in all ages hixs 
 been invigorated. When we have learned to i\5sociatc the 
 seen with the unseen, we have acquired a language which 
 enables us to read with new eyes the inexhaustihle volume 
 of the works of God. The world of matter and the world 
 of thought stand up before us in grand parallelism, each 
 reflecting light upon the other. Thus, in the descriptions 
 of Washington Irving, every flower, every animal, every 
 bird, the hill-side, the waterfall, the field and the forest, all 
 seem endowed with life, and almost with- reason; they l)e- 
 eome our companions, and are ever suggesting to us some 
 idea of playful humor or of aff'ecting sentiment. Thus, the 
 most common occurrences awakened in Burns thobo analo- 
 
3T6 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 
 
 gies with human life and manners, whica gave occasion t''. 
 some of his most exquisite odes. 
 
 But, lastly, this habit, like any other, can only be culti- 
 vated by practice. We must form the combinations of the 
 imagination, if we would learn to form them. We must 
 assiduously cultivate the practice of writing, if we would 
 learn to write well. If we would write well, we must write 
 earnestly, having an end in view, and being deeply interested 
 in the efibrt to attain it. In this state of mind analogies 
 the more readily suggest themselves. As they arise dimly 
 and flit before us at a distance, we should summcn them 
 into our presence, and shape them if possible to our purpose, 
 If they are intractable we must labor the more strenu^;usiy, 
 viewing them from different points, and striving to seize up- 
 on their analogy with the idea which we wish them to illus- 
 ,trate. We may frequently fail, or at best succeed but im- 
 perfectly. This, however, should not discourage us. 
 Nothing was ever exquisitely finished without unwearied 
 and patient labor, and at the cost of repeated and mortifying 
 failure. By untiring and well-directed effort, great things 
 may in the end be accomplished. We must be patient with 
 ourselves, and not expect to do without labor what other 
 men have done in no other manner. Paradise Lost was the 
 work of almost a lifetime. Cowper somewhere informs us 
 that his poetry, which seems to flow without effort, cost him, 
 on an average, half an hour for every line. If incessant 
 toil was necessary to successful effort in minds so highly 
 gifted, ordinary men surely need not to expect to oucceed 
 without it. 
 
 REFEEENCES, 
 
 Imagination in general — Stewart, vol. i., chap. 7, sec* 1. 
 Steps in the process — Stewart, vol. i., chap. 7, sec. 1. 
 
PHILOSOPUICAL IMAGINAliON. 87T 
 
 Difiference between abstraction in reasoning and imagination — Stew- 
 art, vol. i., chap. 4, sec. 1. 
 
 Relation of imagination to character — Stewart, vol. i., ohap, 7. mo^ 
 4—6. 
 
 Manner in which imagination pleases us — Stewart, vol i., chap. 6, 
 Part 1, sec. 4. 
 
 Relation ef imagination to fine arts — vol. i., ch. 7, sec 2 
 
 SECTION IV. — PHILOSOPHICAL IMAGINATION. 
 
 There is another mode in which the imagination acta, of 
 BuflScient importance to deserve particular attention. It 
 may be denominated Philosophical Imagination. With some 
 remarks concerning it we shall conclude the present chapter. 
 
 In this form of imagination, as in the preceding, we com- 
 bine the elements which previously existed in the mind. 
 The elements, however, are in the two cases dissimilar. In 
 poetic imagination, as I have said, we make use of parts 
 of individual wholes, which we combine anew, forming an 
 image at will. In philosophical imagination our elements 
 are single general truths or separate laws of nature, or the 
 various relations of these laws to each other. These wo 
 combine into a conception of a new and more complicated 
 law or general philosophical truth. 
 
 The conceptions when formed by these separate acts ^ of 
 imagination are also exceedingly unlike. By poetical im- 
 agination we form an individual picture, which may be 
 represented to the senses. Qy philosophical imagination we 
 form not a picture, but an ideal conception of some general 
 truth. By the one we form images, by the otner we frame 
 hypotheses. In the one case, the conception is addressed to 
 the taste, and if the emotion of beauty or sublimity is 
 awakened, our object is accomplished. In the other, th« 
 taste is wholly neglected, and our appeal is exclusively to 
 32* 
 
378 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 
 
 the understanding. If the conception is analogous to truth, 
 or if its truth or falsehood can be definitely determined^ 
 nothing more is required. The design of the one is to give 
 us pbasure ; of the other, to enlarge our knowledge. 
 
 The nature of the conceptions which we are considering 
 may be understood by examples. Copernicus, having ob- 
 served the various established facts respecting the motions 
 of the heavenly bodies, sought to form a conception of their* 
 various relations which should account for every fact by 
 bringing it under the control of some understood and 
 acknowledged law. Ptolemy and Tycho Brahe had made 
 the same attempt before, but they imagined laws nowhere 
 existing, and left many of the facts wholly unaccounted for. 
 ^-^pernicus siXpposed the sun to be the centre of a singk 
 system, the stars being themselves centres of systems at 
 infinite distances from it ; the earth and planets to move 
 around the sun in orbits nearly circular, and the moon to 
 be a satellite of the earth, revolving around it, and thus 
 with it revolving around the centre of the system. By this 
 conception, all the facts thus far observed were accounted 
 for. Dr. Black, reflecting upon the facts which he had 
 observed respecting the freezing of water, the melting of 
 ice, and the formation and condensation of vapor, sought to 
 form a conception of some general law, which should account 
 for all the phenomena. He was thus led to originate the 
 doctrine of latent heat, and immediately saw that this would 
 fulfil every requirement. Each of these is an instance of 
 philosophical imagination. It is an original conception cf 
 some general law, or combination of laws, addressing itself 
 to the understanding, and harmonizing facts otherwise 
 apparently contradictory. 
 
 These illustrations appertain to science. But essentially 
 the same exercise of the imagination must be employed in 
 every original design. We can never either think or act 
 
p 
 
 _ PHILOSOPHICAL IMAGINATION. 879 
 
 efficiently, unless we think or act in conformity with a plan. 
 There must always exist some ideal which wo propose cither 
 to prove, or else to realize in action. This ideal must be the 
 product of the imagination. The ideal of Paradise LosI 
 was thoroughly thought out before a line of it was written. 
 So the plan of every great enterprise iDust be matured, and 
 its detail thoroughly arranged, before it can be commenced 
 with any hope of success. We see, then, how imi)ortajit an 
 element of individual or social progress is found i:> the exer- 
 cise of this faculty. 
 
 It must be apparent that great diversities of chi-mcter 
 must necessarily arise from the different degrees in which 
 this endowment is bestowed. Some men have no ideals. 
 They form no plans beyond those demanded in the conduct 
 of the ordinary affairs of life. In all things else they follow 
 instinctively the beaten track, and yield with unquestioning 
 submission to the opinions of those who have gone before 
 them. They have no other rule of action than implicitly to 
 follow their file-leader, fully convinced that nothing can bo 
 better than what has been, and that a course of action must 
 of necessity be wise, provided it has been for a long while 
 pursued. Others, again, are overburdened with imaginings. 
 They do nothing but form plans, and originate projects 
 which have no foundation in general principles, and must 
 inevitably end in ludicrous failure. Such men, however, 
 rarely attempt to realize their own schemes ; they are satis- 
 fied with the attempt to force them upon others. They aro 
 the builders of castles in the air, ever striving after imjK^si- 
 bilities, spending tbeir lives in the fruitless labor of i)Ui>u. 
 ing phantoms and grasping after unsubstantial shadows. 
 That man is rarely endowed who is able to originate idcaU 
 resting on truth, and to work them out with that \k>U mffu'iiy 
 which^nsures the possibility of realizing them in action. 
 When such power is united with executive talent, and guidod 
 
380 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHT. 
 
 by enlarged benevolence, it designates a man who was created 
 for the benefit of his race. 
 
 It is important to observe the relation which a philosophi- 
 cal imagination sustains to the reasoning power in out 
 investigation of truth. 
 
 I have said that reasoning is the process by which we 
 pass from * the known to the unknowHj and thus transform 
 the unknown into the known. Suppose the philosopher to 
 stand on the utmost limits of the known. His reason is 
 prepared either to prove or disprove any proposition that 
 may be presented. But there is no proposition presented. 
 There is nothing within the cognizance of the understand- 
 ing, but on the one side the known, and, on the other, 
 absolute silence and darkness. Reason presents no proposi- 
 tion. Its sole province is either to prove or disprove what is 
 placed before it. None of the other faculties which we 
 have considered can present propositions to the reason, as 
 the matter on which its powers shall be exerted. Hence 
 the necessity of the imagination. Its office is to pass beyond 
 the limits of the known, and form a conception which may 
 be true of something in the unknown. This, it presents in 
 the shape of a proposition or a philosophical conception. 
 As soon as this is done, an opportunity is offered for the 
 exercise of the reasoning faculty. There is something now 
 to be proved, and there may be something by which to prove 
 it. We at once endeavor to discover some media of proof 
 which may show a necessary connection between what is 
 known, and this proposition which is, as yet, unknown. 
 Until this connection can be shown, our proposition is a mere 
 suggestion, a theory, an hypothesis. As soon as this con- 
 nection has been established, what was before hypothesis 
 becomes acknowledged truth, and by just so much is the 
 dominion of science extended. 
 
 Or, to express the same idea in another form, experiment, 
 
PHILOSOPHICAL IMAGINATItN. 88i 
 
 or the attempt to discover new truth, is notliin;^ n ' -^ m 
 putting questions to nature. But a question supj..-, -no 
 definite object of inquiry. The answer of nature, if she 
 answer at oil, is always either yes or no. Philosopliical 
 imagination enables us to put the question in a form ca])al)lo 
 of a definite answer. It suggests a conception which may 
 be true or false, but which must be either one or the other. 
 By experiment or demonstration we put the (question to 
 nature, and receive her answer either afiirmative or nega- 
 tive. If the answer be negative, we surrender our proposi- 
 tion as worthless, and the imagination suggests another, and 
 another, until an affirmative answer is received. The work 
 is then accomplished, and a new truth is added to the sum 
 of human knowledge. 
 
 Thus the conceptions of Ptolemy and of Copernicus were 
 both mere hypotheses of equal value, until one was proved 
 to be true. The conception of Newton, that the motions 
 of the bodies which compose the solar system are all sub- 
 jected to the law of gravitation, was a mere hypothesis, a 
 creation of the imagination, until it was scientifically estab- 
 lished. He himself so considered it, and I believe never 
 mentioned it until he had proved it. He considered it merely 
 a question which he had put to nature, unworthy of atten- 
 tion until he had received an affirmative answer. At first, 
 he supposed that the answer which he received was negative. 
 Taking for one element of his calculations the length 'jf a 
 degree of the earth, as it had been measured by the French 
 mathematicians, he found that his hypothesis could not be 
 established, and he laid it aside for several years. A new 
 and more accurate measurement was afterwards obtained, 
 which brought to his recollection his almost fcrgotten com- 
 putations. He commenced them anew, with more accurate 
 data, and soon arrived at the result which added hi.s uninn 
 to the brief Hst of those who must always be remembered 
 
382 INTELLEbiOAL PHILOSOPHY. 
 
 The samo process must be performed in every case where a 
 scientific truth is discovered. The proposition of the square:j 
 on the sides of a right-angled triangle was a mere hypoth- 
 esis to Pythagoras until he had demonstrated its truth. 
 
 These illustrations have referred to science. The truth 
 here suggested is, however, of wider application. Thus, the 
 ingenious inventor has become acquainted with some natural 
 law which he believes may be rendered available for the 
 service of inan. He must form in his own mind a concep 
 tion of the manner in which this result may be accomplished. 
 At first a rough draft is present before him. He per- 
 ceives it& imperfections, and labors to correct them. One 
 and another plan suggests itself, until he has before him a 
 whole system of arrangements by which the result may be 
 attained. Months of anxious thought were consumed by 
 Watt and Fulton before they perfected those conceptions, 
 which, when realized in the form of inventions, have revolu- 
 tionized the manufactures and commerce of the world. The 
 same remark will apply to a military commander, who, 
 before a sword is drawn, must form in his mind the whole 
 plan of a campaign. Thus it is that an act of the imagina- 
 tion must precede every other, when an important truth ia 
 O) be discovered, or great enterprise to be achieved. We 
 must, first of all, form a conception of what we would do, or 
 prove, and of the means by which it is to be accomplished. 
 We may, it is true, fall short of our ideal ; but, except by 
 accident, we cannot go beyond it. Hence this creative 
 power lies at the foundation of all great excellence. Other 
 things being equal, he will certainly arrive at the most 
 em^jnent success, who is able to take the largest, most com- 
 prehensive, and most truthful views of that which he desires 
 to accomplish. 
 
 I shall close this chapter by a few suggestions on the 
 mode of improving a philosophical imagination. 
 
PHILOSOPHICAL IMAGINATION 883 
 
 It is obvious that this power, to be of imy pmcticul v;iluc 
 iLUSt derive its materials from essential truth. Fancies eai. 
 never form the elements of a philosophical imagination. Wo 
 desire to discover truth ; but truth can only lx» discoverctl 
 by means of truth. The more thoroughly, therefore, wo are 
 acquainted with the known, the more easily shall we dis- 
 cover the regions which may be reclaimed from the unknown. 
 He will be more likely to extend the limits of human 
 knowledge who has made himself acquainted with alrea«ly 
 discovered truth. Newton, at an early age, was familiar 
 with all that was then known of the science of astronomv ; 
 and this knowledge pointed out to him the line in which dis- 
 covery was to be made. Columbus was profoundly learned 
 in the geography of his age. He was intimately accjuaintcd 
 with all that had been discovered of the figure of the eartii, 
 and the proportions in which its surface was covered with 
 land and water. This knowledge first suggested to him the 
 idea of a new continent. Had he known of nothing beyond 
 the shores of the gulf of Genoa, his mind coultl never have 
 formed this magnificent conception, and after-ages would 
 never have heard of the " world-seeking Genoese." 
 
 2. I have before remarked the power of generalization to 
 
 Aid in the discovery of truth. We may here observe the 
 
 mode in which it tends to this result. Every object in 
 
 nature, every change, every law, is the type of a class more 
 
 numerous than we are able to conceive. These types are 
 
 repeated and diversified in infinite variety, but they arc all 
 
 characterized by the same essential elements, unseen, it may 
 
 be, by the casual observer, but understood by the far..^i.i,ditcd 
 
 : interpreter of nature. He who is able to distinguish the 
 
 essential elements of a type from its accidentiil circum. 
 
 j stances, trace them out through their various manifestations, 
 
 i »nd expand them to their widest generalizations, will find^hii 
 
 mind replete with conceptions of all possible truth. Gen- 
 
384 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 
 
 eralization pointed out to Newton those conceptions which 
 led to most of his discoveries, and also gave rise to many 
 suggestions which were not proved to be discoveries until 
 more than a century after his death. In his experiments 
 on light, he observed that the refracting power of different 
 bcdies was in proportion to their combustibility, and that the 
 diamond possessed the former power in an unusual degree. 
 Applying this law to this particular case, he was led to con- 
 ceive that the diamond itself might be combustible. Though 
 a mineral, and the hardest of known substances, he disre- 
 garded these accidents, and, boldly generalizing his idea, 
 predicted a discovery which only a few years since has been 
 established. 
 
 3. In the works of a great artist, there is always to be 
 observed a manner peculiar to himself, which a true connois- 
 seur will readily detect. We call this peculiarity the style 
 of an author or an artist. It is derived from the intellec- 
 tual and moral character of the individual, and is that which 
 renders his outward works the index of his inward and spir- 
 itual mind. It is natural to suppose that this peculiarity 
 should be apparent in the works of the Creator. There is 
 a speciality in his mode of treating subjects, a style which 
 designates all the works of his hand. He who, by deep and 
 profound reflection on the works of God, has become most 
 familiar with the laws of that w^hich we call nature, and 
 with the relations which these laws sustain to each other, 
 will be the most likely to penetrate into the unknown, and 
 originate those conceptions which lead to the discovery of 
 truth. The further he advances in his investigations, the 
 richer will be the field of discovery that opens before him. 
 
 If I may be allowed, I will use an illustration which I 
 once employed when treating on this subject. '^ Suppose I 
 should present before you one of the paintings of Raphael, 
 and, covering a part of it with a screen, ask you to proceed 
 
PHILOSOrillCAl, i;i \.;|\ • n-.v 
 
 I 
 
 ^with the work, and designate where the next lines should l>o 
 drawn. It is evident that none but a painter ever nei-tl 
 make the attempt, and that, of painters, he would Ik; the 
 most likely to succeed who was best acquainted with tho 
 genius of Raphael, and had most thoroughly meditated on 
 the manner in which that genius manifested itself in tho 
 work before him. So, of the system of the universe. We 
 see but in part; all the rest is hidden from our virw. 
 He will, however, most readily discover where the nut 
 lines are drawn who is most thoroughly acquainted with 
 the character of the author, and has pbserved with the 
 greatest accuracy the manner in which that character is dis- 
 played in that portion of the system which he nas revealed 
 to us. It is evident, also, that just in proportion as tlie 
 work advanced, and portion after portion of the screen was 
 removed, just in that proportion vtould the difficulty of com- 
 pleting the whole be diminished." — Discoui-sc on the Phi- 
 losophy of Analogy. 
 
 If these remarks be true, they throw some light upon 
 the subject of education. The power of forming conceptions 
 which shall lead to discovery in science, or to the practica- 
 ble in action, is clearly of vast importance. Can this power 
 I be cultivated ] On this question there can be no doubt. It 
 • steadily increases with the progress of the human mind. 
 We naturally inquire whether the cultivation of this ele- 
 ment of intellectual character has been regarded with suffi- 
 cient attention by those who form our courses of higher 
 education. A large part of the studies which we pursue 
 add very little to our power of forming conceptions of anj^ 
 character whatever. A larger infusion of the study of 
 physical science, not merely as a collection of fact.s, but as 
 a system of laws, with their relations and dc'iKHideneios, 
 would be of great value in this respect. We thus study 
 the ideas and conceptions of the Creator. We become lO- 
 33 
 
386 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 
 
 quainted with his manner of accomplishing his purposes, 
 and learn, in seme measure, the style of the Author of all 
 things. Surely, this habit of mind must be of unspeakable 
 value to a philosopher in the discovery of truth, or to a man 
 of aflFairs in devising his plans, since these can only succeed 
 as they are in harmony with the designs of infinite wisdouj 
 and benevolence. 
 
 *' There 's a Divinity that shapes our ends. 
 Rough-hew them as we will." 
 
 REFERENCES. 
 
 Nature of hypothesis — Reid, Essay 1, ohap. 3, 
 Importance of ideals — Stewart, vol i., chap. 7, sec 6, 
 Certain style in nature's works -^ vol. ii., chap. 4, m^ 4 
 
 I 
 
CHAPTER VIII, 
 
 TASTE. 
 
 SECTION I. — THE NATUl^E OF TASTK. 
 
 We have now considered the most important (f those 
 powers of the human mind which may be strictly termed 
 intellectual; that is, which are employed in the ac(iuisition 
 and increase of knowledge. By the use of these wc mi;;ht 
 prosecute our inquiries in every direction, and extend tho 
 hmits of science, as far as it has been permitted by our Crea- 
 tor. But were this all, we should be deprived of much of 
 the innocent pleasure which accompanies the einj)l()yinfnt 
 of our faculties, and thus lose an important inducement to 
 mental cultivation. We find that many of tlie phenomena 
 which we observe, are to us a source of happiness, freijuently 
 of an exquisite character. This happiness is bestowed upon 
 us through means of another endowment, which we denomi- 
 nate taste. It is so intimately associated with the faculties 
 ' purely intellectual, that our view of them would be imiKM-fcct 
 ( iid we not bestow upon itat least a brief examination. 
 
 Taste is that mental sensibiljty by which we cognize the 
 beauties and deformities of nature and art,— enjoying 
 pleasure from the one, and suifering pain from the other.- 
 In this definition we speak of taste is a sensibility, mliioi 
 
86S INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 
 
 m 
 
 than a faculty. A faculty is the power of doing something,! 
 of putting forth some act, or accomplishing some changeJ 
 Such is not the nature of taste. It creates no change. It 
 merely recognizes its appropriate object, and is the seat of the 
 subjective emotion to which the object gives exercise. When 
 an object is presented, taste recognizes its aesthetic quality ; 
 it is sensible of pleasure or pain, and here its office terminates. 
 Of the universality of this endowment there cannot be a 
 question. The consciousness of every man bears testimony 
 to its existence. When we look upon a rainbow, we are 
 sensible of an emotion wholly different from that with which 
 we look upon the dark cloud which it overspreads. The Kii 
 cause of the emotion we call the beauty of the rainbow, and 
 the emotion itself we recognize as one of a peculiar charac- 
 ter, unlike any other of which we are conscious. We ob- 
 serve that all men are affected by a multitude of objects in ri 
 the same manner as ourselves. Young and old, cultivated ta; 
 and uncultivated, observe this quality in many of the same ffe; 
 objects, and are affected by them in the same manner. It 
 is not asserted, however, that all men recognize the quality 
 of beauty in the same things, or that all men are conscious iir 
 of the same intensity of aesthetic emotion. These may vary 
 by association and culture. What is here affirmed, is, that 
 all men, in various degrees, are conscious of the pleasure i[^ 
 lerived from the observation of objects which they term 
 Deautiful, and that there are objects, which all men of the 
 same or a similar degree of culture, designate by this epi- 
 thet. Hence, particular scenes have been, by all observers, 
 denominated beautiful or sublime. Hence, descriptions of 
 localities or events have been transmitted from age to age, 
 from nation to nation, and from language to language, ever 
 awakening the emotions to which they at first owed their 
 celebrity. Anacreon's ode to Spring, Homer's description 
 of a storm in the ^gean, Horace's Fountain of Brundu- ^i 
 
 lio: 
 
NATURE OF TASTK. ggp 
 
 rium and the pleasures of a country lito, Milton a liaicicr. 
 of Eden, seem beautiful to all men ; and every man, when 
 he applies to them this designation, is certain that ho usca 
 language which is perfectly well understood by the men 
 ■ whom he addresses. 
 
 It may serve to render our notion of taste more defmito 
 if we distinguish it from some of the faculties with which 
 it is liable to be confounded. 
 
 Taste is sometimes confounded with imagination. Thus 
 figurative language and works of art in general are some- 
 times said to be addressed to the imagination. This is not 
 strictly true. The conceptions of the fine arts are created 
 by the imagination of one, and reproduced by the imagina- 
 tion of another. This is, however, only the means to an 
 end. Our ultimate object is to present them to taste, for, 
 unless the taste be gratified, no matter how strongly they 
 ;may be imagined, the whole object for which they are 
 created, fails. 
 
 Imagination is the faculty by which we combine : tasto 
 is the sensibility by which we feel. Imagination forms pic- 
 tures ; taste determines whether or not a certain quality 
 ^exists in them after they are formed. By my imagination, 
 il form a conception of a landscape ; by my taste, I decide 
 upon the beauty of the conception which I have createil. 
 ilmagination creates ; taste judges of the creation. Imagina- 
 tion itself is the seat neither of pleasure nor pain ; all the 
 [pleasure which we enjoy, or the pain which we suffer, fi-om 
 the works of the imagination, is derived from taste. 
 
 These endowments may be conferred in very different degree 
 upon the same person. A fertile imagination, as I have 
 before remarked, is sometimes combined with a very im|>ur- 
 Ifect taste. In such cases, an artist will form images in 
 great profusion, but they fail to please, and sonietuiKM di^ 
 gust us. Such seems to have been the case with Fuseli. a 
 33* 
 
S9G INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 
 
 painter of boundless imagination, but frequently combining 
 in his conceptions the sublime and the ridiculous. This 
 peculiar type of character is not uncommonly found in pAv«. 
 sons passing into insanity, or in that condition of the intel- 
 lect, sometimes existing through life, in which the individual 
 dwells habitually upon the narrow confine which separates 
 sanity from madness. The late Edward Irving, a man of 
 powerful imagination and withal of commanding eloquence, 
 seems for many of the later years of his life to have exem- 
 plified this remark. 
 
 It is, however, more common to find men endowed with a 
 correct taste, but deficient in imagination. Such persons, 
 have no power of original creation, while they will decide 
 correctly concerning the creations of others. They are 
 good critics, but bad artists. For a man of so eminent en- 
 dowments, I think that Addison may be considered much 
 more remarkable for taste than imagination. I think it was 
 the great Lord Chatham who remarked, that few men were 
 endowed with the '•'prophetic eye of taste," that is, who 
 could create for themselves a conception, and judge correctly 
 concerning its beauty, before it had assumed a visible reality. 
 His remark was made w^ith reference to landscape gardening, 
 but it is of general application. We know that almost every 
 man can determine whether grounds are laid out beautifully, 
 while very few men have the talent for so laying them out 
 as to confer permanent pleasure on the beholder. Distin- 
 guished success in the fine arts can only be attained by 
 those, in whom both of these endowments are in an eminent 
 degree united. Homer, Milton, Shakspeare, M. Angelo, 
 Raphael, were all thus preeminently gifted. 
 
 Taste and conscience have many points both of similarity 
 and difierence. Both of them belong to the class of original 
 suggestions. Both take cognizance of a peculiar quality in 
 An external object, and both derire either pleasure or pai^? 
 
NATURE OF TASTE. 8Vk 
 
 fh)m the cognizance of this quality. Wlien I sec an art 
 done, I recognize in it the quality of right or wrong, ami I 
 am conscious also of a subjective emotion. So I perceiva 
 an external object. I observe in it the quality of beauty or 
 aeformity, and it awakens its corresponding aesthetic emo- 
 tion, which is either the pleasure or pain of tiii*te. In these 
 respects they singularly coincide. 
 
 In many important particulars, however, they are widely 
 dissimilar. 
 
 Conscience observes the peculiar quality which it detects, 
 in nothing but the voluntary actions of responsible beings. 
 Taste discovers the quality which it cognizes, in all objects 
 material and spiritual, in all actions, and in all rehitions. 
 The one is called into action by the quality of right or 
 wrong; the other by beauty or deformity. The difference 
 between these two qualities is manifest at once to our con- 
 sciousness. Every one knows that the quality which ho 
 recoornizes in a rose, and that which he reco;i;nizes in an act 
 of noble self-sacrifice, are as different as any two objects 
 within the range of his knowledge. The subjective emotion 
 awakened by conscience is wholly unlike that awakened by 
 taste. The emotion of conscience is complicated with a 
 variety of other emotions, as, for instance, of moral appro- 
 bation or disapprobation, the conviction of good or ill desert, 
 the assurance of consequences which must result from 
 moral action. The pleasure of taste is simple, terminating 
 in itself, and wholly destitute of any moral emotion. No 
 man can pay even a casual attention to the deliverances of 
 consciousness, without being convinced of the wide difTiT- 
 ence both objective and subjective, of these two endowments. 
 
 The character of taste varies greatly with age. In youth, 
 bright colors and strong contrasts please us. We arc inca- 
 pable of being affected by anything which does not imprena 
 us strongly. As we gr^w older, we dcriy« more plcaijuro 
 
$92 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 
 
 from form^ proportion, symmetry and expressi^n. Lesi 
 dazzling colors, and more subdued contrasts become agree- 
 able, and we behold with indifference what we once admired 
 as beautiful. In this respect, savages resemble children. 
 No color pleases them so much as scarlet, no matter in what 
 form it may become a part of the dress. Their ornaments 
 are such as force themselves upon the notice, without any 
 regard to the relation which they sustain to the character 
 of the wearer, or their harmony with the general impression 
 which he supposes himself to produce. Ornaments, in a 
 more advanced state of society, worn merely to attract 
 attention, or for the display of wealth, manifest the same im- 
 perfection of taste which we observe in savages. 
 
 SECTION II. — TASTE CONSIDERED OBJECTIVELY. — MATE- 
 RIAL QUALITIES AS OBJECTS OF TASTE. 
 
 The objects adapted to awaken the emotion of taste are 
 innunerable. The Creator, having bestowed upon us this 
 sensF^ility, has made the universe around us to minister tc 
 its gratification. The heavens above, the earth beneath, 
 all the changes of the seasons, all the products of animal 
 and vegetable life, the gems of the mine and the pearls of 
 the ocean, the ripple of the brook and the thunder of the 
 cataract, the prancing of the war-horse and the bounding 
 of the fawn, the wing of the butterfly and the plumage of 
 the bird of Paradise, the carol of the lark and the wild 
 scream of the eagle, with the ten thousand objects which 
 meot us wherever we look abroad upon the works of God, 
 are intended to awaken the emotions of beauty and sublim- 
 ity, and fill us with humble adoration of Him who is the 
 ftivei of every good and perfect gift. 
 
OBJECTS OF TASTE. HOJ 
 
 To attempt an enumeration, of jiU the ohjocts in whicli wf 
 
 ^discover beauty or sublimity would be uselciW. We shall 
 
 aerely indicate some of the classes of objects by which wo 
 
 Fare thus affected, principally for the sake of directing atton- 
 
 jtion to the aesthetic elements existing in the w^rld around uh. 
 
 The qualities of external objects which address them- 
 selves to the taste are those which arc perceived by the eya 
 and the ear. 
 
 By the eye we perceive color ^ form^ and viotion. 
 
 Color as an object of beauty. 
 
 Colors may be divided into prismatic and plain. 
 
 The prismatic colors are violet, indigo, blue, green, yel- 
 low, orange and red. These all are beautiful separately, 
 and, in an eminent degree, when combined. What can bo 
 more exquisitively beautiful in color, than the summer rain- 
 bow or the solar spectrum 7 No human being probably ever 
 looked upon them without intense delight. 
 
 A distinction may, however, be discovered between tho 
 prismatic colors. The first three of the series, in the order 
 in which I have mentioned them, may be denominated grave, 
 the last three gay, while the remaining one, green, i>ossesse3 
 a character intermediate between them. Hence, gay color* 
 are most appropriate to festive occasions, while graver are 
 adapted to occasions of solemnity. The dresses of men are 
 generally either black or blue ; those of women, of every 
 variety of color, but more commonly gay. How strangely 
 inappropriate would it seem if the dresses of a we<liling 
 party or a ball-room, and those of a court of justice were ex- 
 changed for each other ! The colors of the garden and the 
 field are commonly either white or some modification of rtnl, 
 orange, or yellow. The grave colors are here obsiTVcil but 
 rarely, and then in their lighter shades ; or, by being mingled 
 with the others, they increase their effect by contrast 
 
 The color, however, which is most abundantly Bpreail 
 
894 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 
 
 over nature is green. It is universally agreeable ; it admits 
 of an infinite variety of shade, and, without producing any 
 vivid emotion, harmonizes most happily with all. A grove 
 is an appropriate place for a festive entertainment, and trees 
 are the indispensable ornament of a cemetery, where every- 
 thing reminds us of the sorrows of separation and the so- 
 lemnities of eternity. 
 
 Color sometimes becomes an element of sublimity as well 
 fts of beauty. The sublimity of a thunder cloud is increased 
 by its intense blackness. The deep blue of the heavens, in 
 a clear night, adds greatly to the grandeur of the spectacle 
 which they exhibit. 
 
 Many of the objects which we perceive are clothed with 
 plain colors, as gray, brown, dusky, or wood color. These 
 produce in us no emotion, either of pleasure or pain, but 
 they relieve the eye when fatigued by the brilliancy of the 
 prismatic colors. Thus, the earth when not covered with 
 vegetation, the trunks and branches of trees, and most of 
 our domestic animals, are clothed in plain colors. 
 
 Form, — We detect the quality of beauty in the simplest 
 varieties of form. Thus, a straight is more beautiful than 
 un irregular line. A curved, irrespective of utility, is more 
 beautiful than a straight line. A spiral line, as of a vine 
 entwined around a column, is more beautiful than either. 
 The stems of flowers that bend gently downward, like the 
 lily of the valley, are more beautiful than those which stand 
 straight and inflexible, like the hollyhock. Every one has 
 remarked the difference between the serpentine bending of 
 a river, seeming to turn at will in any direction which it 
 prefers, and the stiff rectilinearity of a canal, carried through 
 hill and over valley, without a single graceful flexure to 
 vary its monotony. 
 
 Angles seem capaMe of greater beauty than could have 
 been anticipated. The obtuse angle of the roof of a Greciao 
 
OBJECTS Ot VASTE. /JJf, 
 
 temple is remarkably agreealile. Tlic ^vll(>le eflect of the 
 edifice would be destroyed by raising tlif roof to un acute 
 angle. On the contrary, a pyramid standing on tliu ground, 
 if its apex were obtuse, would appear squat and di.sgn^tiri'^r 
 Yet, an acute-angled roof is not always displeasing 
 Gothic edifict>it is indispensable, and here an obtuse an-lc 
 would be intolerable. That this difibrence exists must, I 
 think, be admitted by all. The reason of it I am unable 
 to discover. 
 
 Figure. — Irrespective of utility, figures bounded hy 
 curves are more beautiful than those bounded by straight 
 lines. A sphere is more beautiful than a cube, a circle 
 than a square, an ellipse than a parallelogram, a cylindri- 
 cal than a rectangular column. The lines of i)eauty in the 
 human countenance are all curves. What could be more 
 shocking than a human face, formed by right lines? The 
 petals of flowers, the outline of fruits, are almost univer- 
 Bally bounded by curves. 
 
 Regular figures are always more beautiful than irregular. 
 A square is more beautiful than a trapezoid. A room of 
 which the opposite sides are not equal, or a window or door 
 not exact parallelograms, afiect us painfully. The roof of a 
 house of which the sides slant unequally is everywhere dis- 
 agreeable. 
 
 Simple forms are generally more beautiful than complex. 
 Every one admires the simple majesty of a Grecian temple, 
 the mere combination of a few right lines and circles. Yet 
 this rule is, by no means, exclusive. The Gothic cathedral 
 is remarkable for its extreme complexity, both of doaien 
 and ornament, and yet it is preeminently beautiful 
 
 Proportion.— Vvo])ori\on is a relation existing U'.^s.. i 
 the parts of the same figure, as between the length aixl 
 breadth of a parallelogram, the two diameters of an ellipse, 
 the diameter and height of a column, or the base and eler*. 
 
896 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 
 
 tion of a building. In some of these we discover beauty ; 
 in others deformity. A building with no other beauty 
 than that of proportion is frequently decidedly agreeable. 
 It requires the highest skill in an artist to determine before- 
 hand the proportions that shall please all men in all ages. 
 In this respect the taste of the Greeks was preeminent 
 The canons which they established for the proportions of 
 tlie several parts of a temple have never been improved. 
 It has been found that no material departure can be mado 
 from them without producing deformity. 
 
 Uniformity J or perfect similarity of corresponding parts, 
 is another source of beauty. We admire a tree, of which 
 the opposite branches are equal, and project at the same 
 angle from the trunk. A building with equal wings on 
 the opposite sides is frequently beautiful ; but if the wings 
 be of different magnitudes, or dissimilar construction, it is 
 considered a deformity. The limbs on the opposite sides of 
 the body, the features on the opposite sides of the face, are 
 uniform ; when it is otherwise, we are pained by what seems 
 a monstrosity. 
 
 But, while uniformity is pleasing, it is necessary to observe 
 that its opposite, variety^ is equally pleasing. In objects 
 designed to accomplish the same purpose we expect uni- 
 formity ; but when the design is diflFerent, or even suscep- 
 tible of modification, we are delighted with variety. We 
 love to see the opposite branches of the same tree uniform ; 
 but we also love to see the different trees of a forest or a 
 park marked by every possible variety. We are pleased 
 when the windows of a house, in the same story and in the 
 same line, are uniform ; but we are also pleased to see the 
 windows of different stories dissimilar. . If two rows of 
 columns are placed one above the other, in the front of a 
 building, it would be monstrous to see different orders of 
 
OBJECTS OF TASTB. g/f 
 
 architecture occupying the same line ; but wo are plciukxl 
 when the upper row is of a different order from the lower. 
 
 Magnitude has an important influence on all our wsibetic 
 ideas. Vastness is a quality which addresses strongly the 
 sensibility of taste. Every one has felt the emotion of .sul>. 
 liniity when travelling through a mountuinous country. 
 Hence a region like Switzerland becomes a favorite resort 
 for the lovers of nature from every part of the civilized 
 world. The ocean is at all times a most impressive object, 
 especially when lashed into tempest. Here vastness in 
 magnitude combines with resistless force to create the 
 strongest emotion of sublimity. On the other hand, small- 
 ness, if combined with regularity, may be eminently beau- 
 tiful ; but, without regularityj littleness awakens no emotion. 
 An overhanorino^ cliff is sublime ; a fraf];ment broken off 
 
 DO I o 
 
 from it is indifferent : but a delicately-formed crystal found 
 in that fragment may be remarkably beautiful. The temple 
 of Minerva, or Lincoln cathedral, impresses us with awe, 
 and awakens the emotion of sublimity ; but an accurate 
 model of either, of a few inches in magnitude, would bo 
 exceedingly beautiful. A cascade in a brook is beautiful ; 
 but the cataract of Niagara is inexpressibly sublime. 
 
 Such are some of the facts relating to beauty of form 
 It is proper, however, to remark that they are only geneml, 
 not universal ; that is, we frequently observe beauty which 
 seems at variance with the most commonly observeil laws. 
 We can never say that, because a particular form or pro- 
 portion is beautiful, therefore, in different circumstances, a 
 form directly the reverse milt be disagreeable. Ournotiona 
 on these subjects are frequently modified by association. 
 But where no association exists, we observe contradictions 
 which can be harmonized by no laws with which I am ac- 
 quainted. A remarkable instance of this occurs m the 
 wonderful beauty of the Grecian temple and the Gothic 
 34 
 
398 li^TELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 
 
 cathedral, of which the canons are precisely the reverse of 
 each other. In deciding upon any form of be/iuty, our 
 appeal must, therefore, be to the sensitiveness of our com- 
 mon nature. The taste of mankind is here ultimate, and 
 seems frequently to set all our laws at defiance. 
 
 Motion as a source of beauty. 
 
 Motion is in itself pleasing. A ship under Bail is vastly 
 nuDre beautiful than a ship lying at anchor or at the wharf 
 
 But motion is of various kinds, each exhibiting some 
 peculiar form of beauty. 
 
 Motion may be either quick or slow. Though both aiw 
 agreeable objects to the taste, slow motion tends more to the 
 beautiful, and swift to the sublime. The slow sailing of a 
 hawk is beautiful ; when pouncing upon his prey, the motion 
 tends to the sublime. The gentle flow of a river is beau 
 tiful ; when it falls over a precipice it is sublime. 
 
 In general, it may be remarked, that no motion is beau- 
 tiful which betokens toil or violent effort. The nearer it 
 approaches to utter unconsciousness of exertion, other things 
 being equal, the more beautiful it becomes. Every one 
 must have observed the aesthetic difference between the toil- 
 some gait of a rhinoceros, or an elephant, and the elastic 
 bounding of a deer. The motion of a vessel under sail, 
 for this reason, is, I think, more beautiful than of one pro- 
 pelled by steam. 
 
 Motion in curves is more beautiful than that in straight 
 lines, both because of the greater beauty of the curved line, 
 and because curvilinear motion indicates less effort. For 
 these reasons, the motion of a nsh in the water has always 
 seemed to me remarkably beautiful. The waving of a field 
 of grain, presenting an endless succession of curved lines, 
 advancing and receding with gentle motion, uniform in the 
 midst of endless variety, has always seemed to me one of 
 the most beautiful objects in nature. On the contrary, 
 
OBJECTS OF TASTE. 899 
 
 jolting and angular motion always displeases us. How dif. 
 ferent is the effect produced by the motion of one man od 
 crutches, aid of another on skates ! 
 
 Ascending motion is more graceful than descending, if it 
 do not betoken effort. The ascent of a rocket is more l)cau- 
 tiful than its descent, especially if it ascend in a curved line. 
 For this reason a jet d'eau is vastly more beautiful than a 
 waterfall of the same volume. Ascending motion in spiral 
 lines is exceedingly beautiful, as for instance, the ascent of 
 a hawk, as it moves slowly upw^ard, in oft-repeated circles. 
 
 It is manifest that many objects derive their pow<fr to 
 please us from a single one of these qualities. Thus, the 
 evening cloud displays rarely any other beauty than that of 
 color. Others combine several of them, conducing to the 
 same result. Thus the rainbow unites beauty of color with 
 beauty of form. The greater the number and the more intense 
 the degree in which any object unites these several qualities, 
 the more impressive does it become, and the more Huiver- 
 sally is it selected by pcets and artists for lesthetic effect 
 Thus the human form, especially the countenance, combin- 
 ing beauty of color, form, motion, and expression, is always 
 considered the most remarkable object in nature, and is 
 selected by painters and sculptors, as the finest subject on 
 which their art can be employed. 
 
 Objects of taste addressed to the car, or beauty nf 
 sound. 
 
 That sound is a source of beauty, independently, and 
 especially in combination with other objects, will be readily 
 granted by every lover of nature. How greatly is the effect 
 of a summer's landscape increased by the singing of birds ! 
 
 Sounds differ in their degree of loudness. 
 
 Loudness awakens the emotion r,f sublimity, as m lh« 
 instance of a peal of thunder or the roar of a c.»tanu-L 
 Soothing sounds, as the singing of birds, the hum of bce^ 
 
400 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 
 
 the rustling of the trees of a forest, add greatly to the 
 effect of a summer's landscape. Low, continuous sound 
 tends to repose, and harmonizes with all our ideas of the 
 peace and quietness of a country life. These circumstances 
 are beautifully combined by Virgil, in describing the peace 
 of Italy, in contrast with the civil wars by which it had 
 been so lately devastated : 
 
 *' Sepes 
 Hyblaeis apibus florem depasta salicti, 
 Saepe levi somnum suadebit inire susurro 
 Hinc, alta sub rupe, canit frondator ad auras. 
 Nee tamen interea, raucae, tua cura, palumbes, 
 Nee gemere aeria cessabit turtur ab ulmo." 
 
 1 Bucolic. 
 
 So Shakspeare, alluding to the power of gentle sounds 
 
 " That strain again ; it had a dying fall. 
 0, it eame o 'er my ear like the sweet south 
 That breathes upon a bank of violets, 
 Stealing and giving odor." 
 
 Twelfth Night, Act 1, Seene 1. 
 
 But, while loudness of sound awakens the emotion of sub- 
 limity, it must not be supposed that its opposite, absolute 
 silence, is unimpressive. Deep silence is frequently emi- 
 nently sublime, especially when it occurs in the intermission 
 of the roar of the tempest, or in preparation for the awful 
 catastrophe of a battle. Campbell, in his ^'Battle of the 
 Baltic," illustrates this fact in these remarkable lines: 
 
 As they drifted on their path, 
 There was silence deep as death, 
 And the boldest held his breath 
 
 For a time. 
 * Hearts of oak ! ' our captain cried, and each gaii« 
 From its adamantine lips. 
 
OBJECTS OF TASTE. 401 
 
 Spread a death-shade round thj ships. 
 Like the hurricane eclipse 
 Of the sun.*' 
 
 The late Dr. Jeffries, of Boston, in the narrati\o of hifl 
 passage across the English Channel with Montgolfier, in a 
 balloon, has the following striking remark : 
 
 ''Amidst all the magnificent scenes around mo and under 
 me, nothing at the time more impressed me with ita novelty 
 than (if I may be allowed to use the expression) the aw- 
 ful stillness or silence in which we seemed to be enveloped, 
 which produced a sensation that I am unable to describe, 
 but which seemed at the time to be a certain kind of stillness 
 (if I may so express it) that could be felt." — Narrative 
 of Two Aerial Voyages, page 52. 
 
 Sound may be either lengthened or abrupt. Continuous 
 sound is grave ; abrupt sound is exciting. We all have ob- 
 served the difference between the long, reechoed bellowing^ 
 of distant thunder, and the sudden rattling reverberation 
 of thunder near at hand. Music with few or distant inter- 
 vals harmonizes with a melancholy train of thought. Mu- 
 sic with rapid and frequent intervals is cheering and ani- 
 mating. Every one knows the different effects of a dirge 
 and a quick-step, or of the same air played in cj lick and in 
 slow time. 
 
 The effect of music on our emotions is thus admirably 
 iesciibed by Cowper : 
 
 •* There is in souls a sympathy with sounds. 
 And as the mmd is pitched, tlie ear is pleased 
 With melting airs or martial, briak or grave. 
 Some chord in unison with what we hear 
 Is touched within us, and the heart replies. 
 How soft the music of yon village bells. 
 Rolling at intervals upon the car 
 In cadence sweet ! now dying all away. 
 Now pealing loud again, and louder still, 
 
 34* 
 
402 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 
 
 Clear and sonorous as the gale comes on 
 With easy force it opens all the cells 
 Where memory slept." 
 
 Task, Book 6. 
 
 I have thus far spoj:en of sounds which produce an 
 aesthetic effect upon us by themselves. It is, however, 
 probable that sounds depend more upon association for their 
 effect, than either color or form. The effect of music is 
 greatly increased by uniting it with appropriate words. The 
 most common air, if associated with the remembrance of 
 home and country and friends, beconies deeply affecting. I 
 have heard the Swiss herdsman's song, and it seemed to me 
 dull and monotonous, without any power of appeal to the 
 heart. Yet it is said to effect these mountaineers, when in 
 a foreign land, even to weeping ; so that the playing of it is 
 forbidden in the armies with which they are in service. 
 
 It is on this account that common sounds, nay, sounds in 
 themselves displeasing, become, under peculiar circum- 
 stances, delightful. There is nothing intrinsically pleasing 
 in the lowing of cattle ; when heard close at hand, it is dis- 
 agreeable. Yet I have heard seamen speak with deep feel- 
 ing of the delight with which they listened to these sounds, 
 when, after a long voyage, they first heard them from their 
 native shore. In a word, anything pleases us which recalls 
 deeply-affecting reminiscences ; and music possesses this 
 power in a remarkable degree. Cowper expresses this truth 
 ^ith exquisite taste in the following passage : 
 
 ** Nor rural sights alone, but rural sounds 
 Exhilarate the spirit, and restore 
 The tone of languid nature. Mighty winds, 
 That sweep the skirt of some far-spreading wood 
 Of ancient growth, make music not unlike 
 The dash of ocean on his winding shore. 
 Ten thousand warblers cheer the iay, and one 
 
OBJECTS OF TASTE. 405 
 
 The livelong night. Nor these uh)no, whom not« 
 Nice-fingered art must emulate in vain, 
 But cawing rooks, and Ivites, that soar sublime 
 In still repeated circles, scrwiming loud, 
 The jay, the pie, and e'en the boiling owl. 
 That hails the rising morn, have charu.H for mo. 
 Sounds inharmonious in themselves, and hanh. 
 Yet heard in scenes where peace forever reigm. 
 And only therc^ please highly, fur her sahe,** 
 
 Task, Hook 1. 
 
 SECTION III — OBJECTS OF TASTE. IiMMATERIAL QUAL- 
 ITIES. 
 
 There can be no doubt that we discover in the- cre:ition 
 around us much that is beautiful which ca/uiot be referred 
 to any material quality. There are various attributes of 
 human beings which do not discover themselves to the 
 Senses. There are various affections of our spiritual nature 
 which we are able to contemplate distinctly by thenisclvcri. 
 These affections are capable of producing in us the emotion 
 of beauty and sublimity, or of deformity and meanness. A 
 brief consideration of some of these is neces.sary to the 
 completion of the plan which we have proposed. 
 
 The order in which these emotions arise is probably the 
 followino-. We first become conscious of the emotion of 
 
 o 
 
 bBauty from the contemplation of material objects. Color* 
 and sounds first delight us ; then form and motion. But, 
 as our minds assume a subjective tendency, we think of 
 the actions, the motives, the governing principles, and char- 
 acters of men. We find that some of these awaken in us 
 an emotion exceedingly analogous to that of which we were 
 conscious when we observed the beautiful and sublime in 
 external nature. We give to both clas^ses of emotion the 
 same name, and designate the objects which awaken them 
 
404 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 
 
 by the same epithet. Thus, we speak of a beautiful flowet; 
 and of a beautiful sentiment, of a sublime scene and a sub- 
 lime action, employing the same term to designate the aes- 
 thetic quality in the object, whether it be materistl or imma- 
 terial. 
 
 It may, however, be well to observe, in passing, that the 
 amotion of taste, when we contemplate a moral action, is 
 different from the moral emotion. In the latter case, we 
 look upon it as right or wrong ; as fulfilling or violating 
 obligation ; as a matter for moral approbation or disappro- 
 bation, and as involving consequences greater than we can 
 adequately conceive. In this case, we merely contemplate 
 its aesthetic quality, as something which excites within us 
 the emotion of the beautiful or sublime, without any consid- 
 eration of its merit or demerit, or any view of its conse- 
 quences either here or hereafter. Hence it is that there are 
 many more admirers of goodness than good men. A pro- 
 fane and impious poet may discourse eloquently on the 
 character of a holy God, as Rousseau paid a striking tribute 
 to the moral sublimity of the death of the Redeemer. 
 
 I proceed to mention a few examples of immaterial qual- 
 ities which seem to possess remarkable aesthetic power. 
 
 Unusual power of intellect, successfully displayed, pre- 
 sents an object singularly pleasing to the taste. Newton, in 
 his study, arriving at the result of his labors, and over- 
 whelmed with the consciousness that he had revealed to 
 mankind the mechanism of the universe ; Milton, in pov- 
 erty and blindness, working out his immortal epic ; Gibbon, 
 seated on the ruins of the Coliseum, resolving to develop 
 the cause of the decline and fall of the Roman empire, — 
 are illustrations of this form of sublimity. 
 
 High intelligence, leading to important and self-reliant 
 action, presents a still more impressive object of the spirit- 
 ually sublime. A general, on the eve of a great battle, 
 
IMMATERIAL OBJECTS 0. TASTE. 406 
 
 prepared for a contest on which vast issues dcpoiid, aa Na- 
 poleon at the battle of the Pyramids ; Columbus medilaling 
 the disco vt-ry of America, and fully resolved to Oevote h'\» 
 life to the search for an unknown world; Clarkson rcsolv- 
 ing to lay aside every other object, and live thereafter only 
 for the abolition of the African slave-trade,— may all U 
 cited as instances of this kind. 
 
 The social and domestic afiections, when conspicuously 
 displayed, furnish many illustrations of beauty and sui)lim- 
 ity. The aflFection of the parent for his prodigjil son, in 
 the inimitable parable of our Lord ; the Roman daughter 
 nourishing from her own breast her father who wa^j 
 condemned to die by starvation ; the lament of David over 
 Saul and Jonathan, and his bitter wailing over his son Ab- 
 salom; the parting of Paul from the elders at Miletus, — 
 are all illustrations of the power of affection to create the 
 emotion of the beautiful, and they have been fre<juently 
 used for this purpose by poets and artists. 
 
 Still more impressive are the exhibitions of high moral 
 excellence. 
 
 The noble bearing of the three Hebrews, when threatened 
 with instant death unless they would worship the golden 
 image of the king of Babylon, is a fine illustration of tho 
 morally sublime. ^'0, Nebuchadnezzar, we are not care- 
 ful to answer thee in this matter. If it be so, our God 
 whom we serve is able to deliver us, and he will deliver u» 
 out of thy hand, king ! But if not, be it known unto 
 thee, 0, king, that we will not serve thy Gods, nor wor- 
 ship the golden image which thou hast set up.'' 
 
 The description by Hwace of a man of steadfast purpoM 
 ani incorruptible integrity, has for ages called forth Om 
 admiration of scholars : 
 
 •• Justum et tenacem propositi virum 
 Non civium ardor prava jubentiam. 
 
406 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 
 
 Non vultus instantis tyranni, 
 Mente quatit solida, neque Auster, 
 Dux inquieti turbidus Hadrise, 
 Nee fulminantis magna manus Jovis. 
 Si fractus illabatur orbis, 
 Impavidum ferient ruinse." 
 
 Lib. 3. Carmen 3. 1^8. 
 
 An act of supposed patriotism is thus celebrated by 
 AJcensiie : 
 
 " Look then abroad through nature, to the range 
 Of suns and stars and adamantine spheres, 
 Wheeling unshaken through the void immense. 
 And speak, man ! does this capacious scene 
 With half that kindred majesty dilate. 
 Thy strong conception, as when Brutus rose 
 Refulgent from the stroke of Caesar's fate. 
 Amid the crowd of patriots, and his arm 
 Aloft extending, like Eternal Jove 
 When guilt brings down the thunder, called aloud 
 On Tully's name, and shook his crimson steel. 
 And bade the father of his country hail ! 
 For lo ! the tyrant prostrate in the dust. 
 And Rome is free again." 
 
 1 adduce this passage without any sympathy with its 
 ethical sentiments, and merely as an example of the power 
 of supposed patriotism to awaken emotion. It is a con- 
 spicuous instance of the power of love of country to 
 ennoble, for the moment, assassination itself How different 
 is the type of moral sublimity revealed to us in the New 
 Testament ! For example, I need only refer to the dying 
 prayer of Jesus, '^Father, forgive them, for they know not 
 what they do ! '' The reply of our Lord to the soldier who 
 3mote him has always seemed to me eminently sublime : 
 ''If I have done evil, bear witness of the evil; but if 
 well, why smitest thou me ? " 
 
 The effect produced upon us either by material qualitiea 
 or immaterial energies is greatly increased by contrast. A 
 large object seems larger, and a small object smaller, when 
 
IMMATERIAL OBJECTS OF TASTE. 407 
 
 placed in juxtaposition. A beautiful form appears in>r6 
 beautiful by contrast with deformity. Lofty d is in tr rest xl- 
 ness is more sublime when opposed to meanness, and })ra>vTy 
 when contrasted with pusillanimity. Of this principle ar- 
 tists of every profession, wherever it is possible, avail them- 
 selves. We thus see youth and old age introduced into llic 
 same group, in an historical painting, wildness and cultiva- 
 tion into the same landscape. So, in romance and tragoJjr, 
 characters of the most opposite elements are brought into 
 contact, to deepen the impression produced by both. TLus, 
 Brutus and Cassius, Othello and lago, Duncan and Macbc th, 
 add greatly to the impression of each other. Instances of 
 the same kind may be given without number. 
 
 It is universally observed that the external indicationf of 
 the benevolent affections, or of those which we recognia 3 aa 
 beautiful, are themselves beautiful ; while those which in- 
 dicate the malevolent affections are displeasing. Hence, wo 
 frequently meet a person whose countenance, without a single 
 beautiful feature, is remarkably agreeable, simply by reason 
 of the expression. In other cases, when the features them- 
 selves are beautiful, they fail to impress us favorably, be- 
 cause they are disfigured by the indications of meanness. 
 selfishness, passion, or treachery. Hence it is that mcml 
 and intellectual cultivation have so powerful an effect in im- 
 proving the human countenance. It is only when the ma- 
 terial and spiritual elements are united, that we observe the" 
 highest style of human beauty. We can thus readily dis- 
 tinguish the works of a first-rate artist. A sculptor or a 
 painter may be able to delineate a form of faultless prc|X)r- 
 tions, and yet only attain to mediocrity in his profeaelon. 
 He who to skill in delineation adds the power of exprcaning 
 the indications of intellectual and moral clianirter, i,^ alono 
 destined to the immortality which the arts of design can 
 confer. It is one thing to copy a model, and is a very dif 
 
408 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 
 
 ferent thing to form a conception of character, and, then, tc 
 represent it in marble, or on canvas, so that we reproduce tho 
 same conception in the mind of every beholder. 
 
 Some of the innocent and painful emotions, as sorrow, 
 grief, regret, disappointment, may be agreeable objects of 
 taste, in their external manifestations. Here, however, a 
 cautious line of discrimination must be observed. As soon 
 as emotions become intense, they cease to be pleasant to the 
 beholder. Thus, the external indication of sadness may 
 render a beautiful countenance more attractive ; but the 
 distortion produced by convulsive grief is unpleasant. 
 Hence, he who is overwhelmed by calamity, and is obliged 
 to give utterance to his emotion in sobs and weeping, covers 
 his face, or retires from the view of others. The same re- 
 mark, in fact, applies to all the emotions. A smile may be 
 pleasing in an historical picture, but a broad grin, or wide- 
 mouthed laughter, would be intolerable. In reference to 
 this subject. Dr. Moore, in his ^' View of Society and Man- 
 ners in Italy," objects to the conception of the celebrated 
 group of Laocoon. He affirms that the physical agony 
 expressed in the contortion of the features and limbs of the 
 parent and children, as they writhe within the folds of the 
 serpents, is too intense to be contemplated without positive 
 pain, and that, therefore, the effect of the group is distress- 
 ing and, of course, unpleasant. The artist has exhibited 
 his conception with admirable skill ; the fault is in the con- 
 ception itself 
 
 SECTION IV — THE EMOTION OF TASTE; OR TASTE CON- 
 SIDERED SUBJECTIVELY.^ 
 
 The emotion of taste, or that state of mind of which we 
 are conscious when we contemplate any object of unusual 
 
TAgTE CONSIDERED Srii.I i:rTl\ ELY. 4iit. 
 
 •esthetic power, is exceedingly simple. Every one knowi 
 what it is, yet it is impossible to analyze, and difficult to do- 
 scribe it. It is not connected by necessity wixh any result. 
 Sometimes we may desire to possess the object, as, for in- 
 stance, a picture that pleases us ; but this desire is by no 
 means universal. Who ever desired to own the falls of 
 Niagara ? Nor does the possession of a beautiful object in- 
 crease the pleasure whicb it gives us. The traveller through 
 a beautiful country enjoys the scenery around him just as 
 much as if it were his own. 
 
 The emotion of gratified taste is eminently pleasing. To 
 be assured of this, we need only observe the sacrifices which 
 men undergo to obtain it. We travel hundreds of miles, at 
 great personal inconvenience, and are satisfied if at the 
 end, we can look upon a magnificent cataract, or spend a 
 few days amid scenes of picturesque beauty. What rail- 
 lions have been attracted to Italy to survey the creations of 
 art which adorn the crumbling tomb of that '^ lone mother 
 of dead empires ! " And, if we look upon the world around 
 us, we shall be surprised at the vastness of the expense in- 
 curred in the gratification of taste. We do not spend much 
 on mere specimens of art, but when anything is demanded 
 by utility, we are willing to treble the cost, if it also gratifies 
 our love for the beautiful. 
 
 The emotion of taste, like the objects which excito it, 
 is of a twofold character — that produced by the beautiful, 
 and that by the sublime. The distinction easily unfoldii 
 itself to our consciousness. Every one knows that the 
 emotion produced by a parterre of flowers, a jet d'cau, in un- 
 like that produced by the sight of the ocean in a storm, a 
 magnificent mountain, the Parthenon of Athens, or the 
 pyramids of Egypt. Both are emotions of Uistc. liolh 
 are eminently sources of pleasure. The character of the 
 one may, however, be readily distinguished from the other. 
 35 
 
410 INTELLECTIJAL PHILOSOPHY. , 
 
 No sharp line of discriminatk)n can. however, be drawL 
 between the classes of objects which give ri.se to these dif- 
 ferent emotions. In many cases, they insensibly blend with 
 each other. A river at its commencement, and for a por- 
 tion of its course, is simply beautiful. When it pours itself 
 into the ocean, like the Mississippi or Amazon, it becomes 
 an object of sublimity. It may be, however, impossil)le tc 
 designate the point at which one quality ends, and the other 
 begins. The same is true of immaterial qualities. An act 
 of kindness, compassion, or gratitude, is generally beauti- 
 ful, while a conspicuous act of justice is sublime. These, 
 however, may be reversed. A trifling or graceful act of 
 justice may be beautiful : an act of godlike compassion, as 
 the death on the cross, is passing sublime. 
 
 We may observe a diiference in the character of these 
 emotions, and in the sentiments with which they harmonize 
 The emotion of beauty is calm, moderately exhilarating, at- 
 tractive, and harmonizes with all the bland and social affec- 
 tions, whether grave or gay. The emotion of the sublime 
 is exciting, engrossing, filling the mind with awe, some- 
 times with terror, and associating with grave resolves and 
 momentous and soul-stirring action. Thus ornament may 
 increase the hilarity of a ball-room, or it may add deeper 
 impressiveness to the sadness of the tomb. The sublime 
 may add intensity to the emotion which impels us to heroic 
 achievement, or, overpowering all our faculties, may over- 
 whelm us with sudden amazement. 
 
 The emotion of taste is commonly transient. Its object 
 being to give us pleasure, the impression which it creates is 
 easily effaced by collision with the sterner realities of life. 
 It is, in its nature, evanescent. An object that pleases us 
 to-day, will affect us less powerfully to-morrow, and, if it be 
 continually in our presence, will soon cease to affect us at 
 nil. Personsf living in the vicinity of he most magnificent 
 
TASTE CONSIDERED SUBJECTIVKLY. 411 
 
 sceiiCiy, view it without emoiion. Frum ilus tiu't, llu- .n- 
 tist finds it necessary to employ every nieuiis in his powci 
 to deepen the impression which he designs to creato. The 
 manner in which this is done must depend upon the mcjuui 
 at his disposal. The painter, in his representation, ia 
 limited to a single moment of time. In forming his con- 
 ception, he must, therefore, arrange every circumstance of 
 his picture, so that it shall on that instant conduce to the 
 principal eflect. In language, we are not thus limited, and 
 may accomplish our result by means of repeated impres- 
 sions. As, however, the mind aflFected by one object would 
 be less affected by another precisely similar, it U'comea 
 necessary to arrange every circumstance climactically, so 
 that the emotion first excited may be rendered at every step 
 more intense. The effect of such an arrangement is beau- 
 tifully illustrated by Shakspeare in the following passage : 
 
 " Knew ye not Pompey ? Many a time and oft 
 Have ye climbed up to walls and battlements, 
 To towers and windows, yea to window tops, 
 Your infants in your arms, and there have sat 
 The livelong day, in patient expectation. 
 To see great Pompey pass the streets of Rome. 
 And when you saw his chariot but appear. 
 Have you not made an universal shout. 
 That Tiber trembled underneath his banks. 
 To hear the replication of your sounds 
 Made in his concave shores ? " 
 
 Juuus CiESAB, Act 1, Scene 1. 
 
 For the same reason novelty adds greatly to the power 
 of an esthetic conception. The most beautiful object bj 
 repetition becomes incapable of moving us. Hence we aro 
 specially gratified Avith a new illustration, an unex|K»ctca 
 resemblance or contrast, or any object, cither of beauty or 
 sublimity, which meets us for the first time. Hence thf 
 power of a mind that looks ufca a subject by iU own liglH 
 
112 intellbjtual philosophy. 
 
 and discovers new relations that have escaped the observation 
 of others. Such writers, even with many defects, will al- 
 ways please ; while he who is content to be an imitator, may 
 be faultlessly correct, and inimitably proper, but he comes to 
 us with a thrice-told tale, and leaves us wholly unaffected. 
 
 Wit is generally mentioned as one of the objects by which 
 the emotion of taste is excited. It seems to me but partially 
 connected with the subject, and therefore cannot here, claim 
 any separate discussion. In the place of any analysis of 
 its nature and effects, I shall merely quote the following 
 passage from Dr. Barrow as the best description of wit and 
 its modes of affecting us with which I am acquainted. 
 
 '' Sometimes it lieth in pat allusion to a known story, or 
 in seasonable application of a trivial saying, or in forging 
 an apposite tale : sometimes it playeth in words and phrases, 
 taking advantage from the ambiguity of their sense, or the 
 affinity of their sound : sometimes it is lodged in a sly ques- 
 tion, in a smart answer, in a quirkish reason, in a shrewd 
 intimation, in cunningly diverting or cleverly retorting an 
 objection : sometimes it is concealed in a bold scheme of 
 speech, in a tart irony, in a lusty hyperbole, in a startling 
 metaphor, in a plausible reconciling of contradictions, or in 
 acute nonsense : sometimes a scenical representation of per- 
 sons or things, a counterfeit speech, a mimical look ot ges- 
 ture passeth for it : sometimes an affected simplicity, some- 
 times a presumptuous bluntness, giveth it being : sometimes 
 it riseth from a lucky hitting upon what is strange, some- 
 times from a crafty wresting obvious naatter to the purpose : 
 often it consisteth in one knows not what, and springeth up 
 one knows not how. Its ways are unaccountable and inex- 
 plicable, being answerable to the roving^ of fancy and the 
 windings of language. It is, in short, a manner of speak- 
 ing out of the plain way, which, by a pretty and surprising 
 uncouthness in conceit or expression, doth affect and amus6 
 
I 
 
 TASTE CONSIDERED SUBJECTIVELY. 413 
 
 the fancy, stirring in it some wonder, and breeding some 
 delight thereto. It raiseth admiration, as signifying a nimble 
 sagacity of apprehension, a special felicity of invention, a 
 vivacity of spirit and reach of wit more than vul"^ir. It 
 seemeth to argue a rare quickness of parts, that one can 
 fetch in remote conceits applicable ; a notable skill, tliat ho 
 can dexterously accommodate them to the purpose Ixjfore 
 him, together with a lively briskness of humor not apt to 
 dash those sportful flashes of the imagination. It also pro- 
 cureth delight by gratifying curiosity with its rareness or 
 semblance of difficulty (as monsters not for their beauty but 
 their rarity ; as juggling tricks, not for their use but their 
 abstruseness, are beheld with pleasure), by diverting the mind 
 from its road of serious thoughts, by instilling g^iyety and 
 airiness of spirit in way of emulation or complaisance ; and 
 by seasoning matters, otherwise distasteful or insipid, with 
 an unusual and thence grateful tang.'' — Sermon against 
 Foolish Talking and Jesting. 
 
 A few remarks on the improvement of taste may be 
 appropriate to the close of this chapter. 
 
 I have said above that taste is that sensibility by which 
 we recoojnize the beauties and deformities of nature and art, 
 derivmg pleasure from the one, and suifering pain from the 
 other. Erom this definition it is evident that the function 
 of taste is two-fold ; first, it discriminates between beauty 
 and deformity, and, secondly, it is a source of pleasure and 
 pain. Cultivation improves it in both these respects. It 
 • renders us better capable of distinguishing between beauty 
 and deformity in their nore delicate shades of difference; 
 ajid, as this power of discrimination is improved, the pleas- 
 ure which we derive from gratified tiiste l)ecomes more 
 exquisite and enduring, and the pain which we suffer from 
 deformity is, in a corresponding degree, increased. 
 
 When we speak of the improvement of taste, the (luestioo 
 35* 
 
414 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 
 
 naturally arises. How may we know when our taste is im- 
 proved ] The taste of men varies greatly under different 
 circumstances. The taste of childhood differs from that of 
 youth, and that of youth from manhood. The taste of 
 savages in all ages is unlike that of civilized man. And 
 among nations that have made the greatest progress in civil- 
 ization and refinement, we find that there have been great 
 diversities in this respect. The taste of Egypt was exceed- 
 ingly different from that of Greece. The taste of Greece 
 and Rome were by no means identical. Neither of them 
 bore any resemblance to the taste of India. Or, if we draw 
 nearer to the present time, the taste of the Mahommedans 
 was very dissimilar to that of the Catholics of the middle 
 ages. And we perceive corresponding difference at the 
 present day. The taste in architecture of France, Ger- 
 many, Italy, and Great Britain, is by no means identical. 
 The same remarks apply to poetry and the other fine arts. 
 
 Hence the question has frequently arisen. Is there any 
 standard of taste ? Are there any canons to which we may 
 appeal when a difference of opinion exists, or by which w€ 
 may be guided in our attempts at self-cultivation? It may 
 be worth while briefly to examine this question. 
 
 If by a standard of taste be meant a system of arbitrary 
 rules, established by reasonings or dictated by authority, to 
 which all the works of art must conform, and by reference 
 to which their merit must be decided, it is manifest that no 
 such standard exists. Who ever established it 7 = By what 
 course of reasonings were its principles demonstrated? Who 
 was ever competent to decide for all men, at all times ; and 
 to whose decisions have men ever yielded implicit submission? 
 It is obvious that such a standard does nof and cannot exist. 
 
 But, if, by a standard of taste, it be meant that on a great 
 variety of questions in aesthetics there is a general agree- 
 ment of mankind in all ages, and among, all nations, of the 
 
IMPROVEMENT <»r T\<Tr. 41."^ 
 
 same or of similar degrees of culiure, aiij tlint thw ngrco 
 ment having been observed, many general lawn may !»o 
 deduced from it by which the artist may be safely govei ned, 
 and by which we may all test the accuracy of our individual 
 decisions, then we must answer this (juestion in the afTirma- 
 tive. No one will doubt that some forms, colors, and pro- 
 portions, are more agreeable to mankind than others ; iluit 
 some positions are graceful, and others awkward ; that some 
 modes of thought and expression give us pleasuiv. and (jthera 
 give us pain. If mankind are made with similar faculties, 
 such must be the result. Although nations may differ widely 
 in their decisions at a particular time, yet intercourse with 
 each other and progress in civilization tend to unanimity of 
 opinion even on questions upon which there existed at first 
 great diversity. Thus, when Greece and Rome came into 
 contact, Greece asserted her superiority over her concjueror, 
 and every Roman artist and poet copied with even servile 
 fidelity the models which were brought from the city of Peri- 
 cles. It is the object of the artist to observe these general 
 facts, not for the purpose of giving laws to nature, but of 
 recording the laws .Aich nature has herself establishcil. 
 Just so far as these laws have been discovered, they become 
 the standard to which the artist must conform if he dcairca 
 to succeed, that is, to please humanity. 
 
 It would seem, then, that in our in(|uiries on tlii.s sub- 
 ject we are merely determining a question of fact. We ask 
 what sesthetical forms have been found universally U) plca.se 
 mankind, or rather that portion of mankind whose circum- 
 stances have been favorable to a correct decision ? When 
 this question has been answered, we are to receive it as an 
 ultimate fact. That which human nature pronounces to »« 
 beautiful is beautiful to man, and that which it pn)nouiicci 
 deformed is deformed. We may, it is true, witli lulvantagf 
 frequently analyze a complicated decision, it order to detar- 
 
416 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 
 
 mine with more accuracy the particular elements on which 
 it is founded, and thus arrive at a simpler and more general 
 law. Thus, the voice of mankind has pronounced the epic 
 of Homer to be beautiful. This decision cannot be ques- 
 tioned. We may, however, examine it, to determine the 
 qualities on which this decision is founded. There is the 
 general plot, the delineation of character, the description of 
 events, the vivacity of dramatic action, the language and 
 rhythmical power, the machinery or intervention of the 
 gods, the quarrels of the chiefs, the catalogue of the ships, 
 the lists of the slain, the slaughtering of animals, and the 
 culinary arrangements of the chiefs. We may certainly 
 analyze this complex variety of elements, and determine 
 which is essential and which injurious to the general effect. 
 In this manner we are enabled to ascertain what it is that 
 pleases mankind, and thus form a more definite idea of the 
 standard of poetic excellence. 
 
 Our labor here, however, consists mainly in analysis. 
 We may examine separately the various elements of success 
 or failure, but we cannot reason from them with any decided 
 confidence. Because a particular form is beautiful in one 
 position, we cannot determine that it will please under all 
 circumstances. Because a particular "combination of form 
 is beautiful, we cannot determine what will be the effect of 
 an entirely opposite combination. An artist of originality 
 may repose a reasonable confidence in his own sensibilities, 
 but he can never be sure that a conception will please, until 
 he has submitted it to the judgment of mankind. 
 
 Writers on this subject, of distinguished ability, have con- 
 tended that there is no established relation between the 
 numan sensibility and the external world, by which we are 
 entitled to say that anything is in itself beautiful. They 
 afiirm that our idea ji beauty is merely derived from asso- 
 ciation. In reply to this assertion, it may be remarked that 
 
IMPROVEMENT OF TASTE. 417 
 
 our own consciousness testifies clearly to the character of the 
 
 emotion of taste. It may clearly be distinguished from 
 every other emotion, and also from every act of tlie inui-'i- 
 nation, the reason, or any of our other faculties. It diffen 
 from them all in its nature, its origin, and its resulta. If, 
 then, it be an original and peculiar aflfection of tlie mind, 
 its existence need not and cannot be accounted for by a&so- 
 ciation. As Mr. Stewart very appositely remarks : ** Tha 
 theory which resolves the whole effect of the beautiful into 
 association, must necessarily involve that species of piiralo- 
 gism to which logicians have given the name of reasoning 
 in a circle. It is the province of association to impart to 
 one thing the agreeable or disagreeable effect of another ; 
 but association can never account for the origin of a clasd 
 of pleasures different in kind from all the others we know. 
 If there was nothing originally pleasing or beautiful, the asso- 
 ciating principle would have no material on which to operate." 
 
 As to the manner in which this faculty may be improved, 
 but little can be said in addition to what was remarked when 
 treating of the imagination. Both faculties are employed 
 upon the same objects, and the mode of cultivation is in 
 most respects the same. A few brief suggestions arc all that 
 I shall here offer. 
 
 It is universally admitted that all the forms of nature 
 possess some portion of aesthetic power. As we Ix^conio 
 familiar with these, and hold communion with nature in all 
 her aspects, whether grave or gay, beautiful or sublime, wo 
 cultivate our aesthetic sensibility, we more readily recognize 
 the beautiful, and rejoice in it with more exquisite emotioiLH. 
 
 We shall also derive great benefit from studying wilb 
 care classical productions in the various departments of the 
 fine arts. When an artist has been eminently successful; he 
 has united in one conception all the elements of the beauti- 
 ful within his power, excluding from it all that could difc- 
 
418 INTELLECTUAL PHILOSOPHY. 
 
 tract the attention or diminish the effect. Hence, if we 
 comprehend his design, understand his mode of developing 
 it, and meditate upon his work, until we sympathize with 
 his sentiments and share in his enthusiasm, our taste will 
 become in some measure assimilated to his. He who haa 
 caught the inspiration of Raphael must possess already the 
 spiritual element of a painter ; and he who can feel the 
 sentiments which inspired Milton and Shakspeare, must be 
 endowed with some portion at least of poetic genius. 
 
 If, however, we desire to improve our taste, we must do 
 it not by the indiscriminate study of models, but only by 
 the contemplation of the most eminent. We m.ust confine 
 ourselves to the most faultless models if we would cultivate 
 our love for the beautiful. If the student would form a 
 classical style, and acquire a discriminating love for literary 
 excellence, he must limit his reading to the works of those 
 whom the suffrages of humanity have numbered among the 
 masters of thought and expression. A vast amount of mis- 
 cellaneous reading may enable us to abound in small knowl- 
 edge and flippant criticism. It is only by communion with 
 those whose works ^^the world will not willingly let die," 
 that we learn to emulate their intellectual achievements, and 
 become the instructors of our fellow-men. 
 
 In studying the works of others for our own improve- 
 ment, one caution is however to be observed. They are the 
 productions of fallible men like ourselves. We are, there- 
 fore, to bring to the examination of every work of art, the 
 exercise of a calm, discriminating judgment, prepared to 
 distinguish beauty from deformity wherever they exist. We 
 must exercise our own taste, if we would cultivate our sen- 
 sitive nature. When we study the works of others to 
 awaken our own sensibilities, to correct our errors, and to 
 arouse ourselves to emulation, we develop our own faculties. 
 But, if we study only to bow before a piaster as we would 
 
IMPROVEMK.XT (>F TASTK. 41!« 
 
 worship our Creator, we become servile copyists and tie- 
 graded idolatei-s. It is not impossible that our voneraliim 
 for the ancients has in some degree prcxluccd tliis vKi^x 
 upon modern literature. I have always l)cen struck with 
 the remark of one of the Italian masters, who, when ii work 
 of an earlier artist was spoken of with servile adoration, 
 turned away and said, ^' I too am a painter." To study 
 the works of others that we may be able to equal them, cul- 
 tivates the power of original creation. To study them only 
 that we may learn how to do feebly, what they have done 
 well, is fatal to all manly development, and must consign 
 an individual or an age tc the position of despairing and 
 wondering mediocrity. 
 

 
 p 
 p 
 
 
 i 
 
APPENDIX. 
 
 Note to pages 101, 102. 
 
 It is stated in the text that, under certain abnormal circumgtancfi, wt 
 become capable of perceptions, or cognitions, without the aid of the o*gaDf 
 of sense. While I was lecturing on this subject, a few years since, one of 
 my pupils informed me of some facts, of a very decided character, in pos- 
 session of his brother, J. M. Brooke, Esq., of the United States Navy. At 
 my request he wrote to his brother, stating my wish for information. Mr. 
 Brooke soon after very kindly wrote to me as follows : 
 
 Washington, Oct. 27, 1851. 
 
 Sir : It affords me pleasure to comply with your request, ma<le through 
 my brother William, relative to some experiments perfornie<l on Umvd of 
 the U. S. steamer Princeton, in the latter part of the yc-ir 18^17 ; she U'ing 
 then on a cruise in the Mediterranean. Nathaniel Bishop, the subject of 
 the experiments, was a mulatto, about twenty-six years of ape, in Ko«i 
 health, but of an excitable disposition. The 4irst experiment was of tho 
 magnetic or mesmeric sleep, which overpowered him in thirty minutcH 
 from the commencement of passes made in the ordinary way, accompanied 
 with a steadfast gaze and effort of will that he shouM sleep. 
 
 In this state he was insensible to all voices but mine, unless I directed 
 or willed him to hear others ; he was also insensible to such amount of 
 pain as one might inflict without injury, that is, what would have been 
 pain to another. He would obey my directions to whistle, dance, or nvng. 
 When aroused from this sleep he had no recollection of what occurr^ 
 while in it. That such an influence could be exert e<l I was alrt'ady aware, 
 having previously witnessed satisfactory experiments.^ Of clairvoyance I 
 had never been convinced ; indeed, considered it nothing more than a •orl 
 of dreaming produced by the will of the operator. I became aware of ita 
 truth rather through accident than design. 
 
 It happened one day that some one of ray brother officers Mkedia qu«». 
 tion which the others could not answer. Bishop, who had been a few 
 moments before in a mesmeric sleep, g?ive the desircl information, ipm*- 
 ing with confidence and apparent accuracy. As the information rrUt^ to 
 something- which it seeme<;l almost impossible to know with' r . w« 
 
 were very much surprised. It struck me that he might In .i ; 
 
 and I at once asked him to tell me the time by a watch kept m i:.' ..:.*- 
 Cle, on the spar or upper deck, we being on the berth w lower dtxrk. lit 
 answered correctly, as I found upon looking at the watch, allowing cgh* 
 86 
 
422 APPENDIX. 
 
 ♦ 
 
 or nine seconds for time o-xupied in getting on deck. I then asked his 
 many questions with regard to objects at a distance, which he answered 
 and, as f;ir as I could ascertain, correctly. 
 
 For example, one evening, while at anchor in the port of Genoa, the 
 captain was on shore. I asked Bishop, in the presence of several officers, 
 where the captain then was. He replied^ *' At the opera with Mr. Lester, 
 the consul." **What does he say ? " I inquired. Bishop appeared to 
 listen, and in a moment replied, *' The captain tells Mr. Lester that he wag 
 much pleased with the port of Xavia ; that the authorities treated him 
 with much consideration." 
 
 Upon this, one of the officers laughed, and said that when the captain 
 returned he would ask him. He did so ; saying, " Captain, we have been 
 listening to your conversation on shore." "Very well," remarked the 
 captain. "What did I say ?" expecting some jest. The officer then re- 
 peated what the captain had said of Xavia and its authorities. ** Ah," 
 said the captain, "who was at the opera? I did not see any of the 
 officers there." The lieutenant then explained the matter. The captain 
 confirmed its truth, and seemed very much surprised, as there had been 
 no other communication with the shore during the evening. I may 
 remark that we had touched at several ports between Xavia and Genoa. 
 
 On another occasion, an officer being on shore, I directed Bishop to 
 examine his pockets ; he made several motions with his hands, as if 
 actually drawing something from the officer's pockets, saying, " Here is a 
 handkerchief, and here a box — what a curious thing ! — full of little white 
 sticks with blue ends. What are they, Mr. Brooke? " I replied, " Per- 
 haps they are matches." "So they are!" he exclaimed. My com- 
 panions, expecting the officer mentioned, went on deck, and meeting him 
 at the gangway, asked, "What have you in your pockets?" "Noth- 
 ing," he replied. " But have you not a box of matches ? " "0, yes ! " 
 said he. " How did you know it ? I bought them just before I came on 
 board." The matches were peculiar, made of white wax with blue ends. 
 
 The surgeons of the Princeton ridiculed these experiments, upon which 
 I requested one of them ( Far quh arson), to test for himself, which he con- 
 sented to do. With some care he placed Bishop and myself in one corner 
 of the apartment, and then took a position some ten feet distant, conceal- 
 ing between his hands a watch, the long second-hand of which traversed 
 the dial. He first asked for a description of the watch. To which Bishop 
 replied, " 'Tis a funny watch, the second-hand jumps. " 
 
 The doctor then asked him to tell the minute and second, which he did ; 
 directly afterwards exclaiming, " The second-hand has stopped ! " which 
 was the case, Dr. F. having stopped it. " Well," said the doctor, " to 
 what second does it point, and to what hour ; and what minute is it now ? " 
 Bishop answered correctly, adding, "'Tis going again." He then told 
 twice in succession the minute and second. 
 
 The doctor was convinced, saying that it was contrary to reason, but 
 ke must believe. I then proposed that the doctor should mark time ; and 
 directed Bishop to look in his mother's house in Lancaster, Pa. (where he 
 had never been), for a clock ; he said there was one there, and told the 
 time by it ; one of the officers calculated the difference in time for the 
 longitudes of Lancaster and Genoa, and the clock was found to agree 
 within five minutes of ths watch time. 
 
 Several persons being still unconvinced, I proposed that the captai* 
 should select a letter from the files in his cabin and put it on the cabin 
 table: and that Bishop should read it withcut leaving an apartment on 
 
APPKXDIZ. 42^ 
 
 the cieck below the cabin, and some distance forwanl of it. Upon thi* tM 
 captain sent for me, and telling me that all the discipline in liu- -• r '.,-• 
 would be destroyed, ordered me to discontinue the pru-ticc. 
 retained his power of clairvoyance, I often amuse*! iiiyjM'lf in << 
 10 the United States, and, although I cannot assert that he tU« 
 
 truth, I believe that in many insUinces he did so, as I ha\r ar- 
 
 sons when relating to them for confirmation sucli cxperiinMit-* m cKiir- 
 Yoyance as concerned actions unknown, as they supposed, to any one bat 
 themselves. 
 
 As it was in my power to control Bishop in his wanderinp*, I U!«uallj 
 limited his powers of observation, and meddled only so far in the aflairt 
 of my neighbors as might be honorable. 
 
 The power which I acquireil by putting him to sleep remained af\cr kt 
 woke, and was increased by its exercise. If not exerte<i for scveml dayi 
 it decreased, sometimes rendering it necessary to repeat the passej* aivl 
 again put him to sleep. While awake and under my influence, I m'.u\9 
 many experiments, such as arresting his arm when raisinj; f«K»d to hi* 
 mouth, or fixing him motionless in the attitude of drinkinj^. On »tne 
 occasion I willed that he should continue pouring tea into a cuj> ftlre:wHy 
 fall, which he did, notwithstanding the exclamations of those who were 
 scalded in the operation. Tliese influences were exerte<I witliout ri word 
 or change of position on my part. He remembered or forgot what he f^rM 
 when clairvoyant, as I willed, of which I satisfied myself by experiment. 
 
 All his senses were under control, so completely, indeed, that had ) 
 willed him to stop breathing I believe that he would. You may wish er 
 know something more with regard to my experience ; if so, I shall bi 
 happy to inform you. I am, sir, respectfully. 
 
 Your obedient servant, 
 
 J. M. Brookk. 
 
 Db. Watland, 
 
 Providence, R. I. 
 
 Note to page 115. 
 
 When treating on the subject of consciousness, 1 have referred tc thi 
 feet of double consciousness, and alluded to two or three cases which hatf 
 been published. Within a few days, a case has been brought to my notiof 
 by my former pupil, S. P. Bates, Esq., of Mejidville. Penn.. which ha* 
 eeemed to me more remarkable than any that I have met with chwwhero 
 Mr. Bates, at my request, procured me a narrative, written by the ^aticnl 
 herself. I give it in her own words, omitting only such paasages %» mid 
 nothin- to the intrinsic value of the rektion. The extracU w from • 
 letter addressed to her nephew. Rev. John V. Reynolds : 
 
 My de.4^ Nephew : I will now endeavor to pive you a >-;.f .. .n«nt .f 
 myself. When at the age of eighteen or twenty. I w:us .^. 
 with fits. In the spring of 1^11,1 had a very .evon> om-. 
 greatly convulsed, and I was extremely ill 'or .si'veral i^y». -M 
 hearing were totally lost, and, durmg twelve woc.k.^^^^^ 
 fit mentioned, I continued in a very feeble PUte. But. at ■ U . . 
 
t24 APPENDIX. 
 
 Kreeks, the senses cf sight aad hearing were again restored. But a mere 
 remarkable visitation of Providence awaited i^e. A little before the ex- 
 piration of the twelve weeks, one morning, when I awoke, I had lost all 
 recollection of everything. My understanding with an imperfect knowl 
 edge of speech remained ; but my father, mother, brothers and sisters, 
 and the neighbors, were altogether strangers to me. I had no disposition 
 to converse either with my friends or with strangers. I had forgotten the 
 use of written language, and did not know a single letter of the alphabet , 
 aor how to discharge the duties of my domestic employment, more than a 
 new-born babe. I presently, however, began to learn various kinds of 
 knowledge. 
 
 I continued five weeks in this way, when I suddenly passed from this 
 second state (as, for distinction, it may be called) , into my first state. 
 All consciousness of the five weeks just elapsed was totally gone, and my 
 original consciousness was fully restored. My kindred and friends were 
 at once recognized. Every kind of knowledge which I had ever acquired 
 was as much at my command as at any former period of my life ; but of 
 the time, and of all events, which had transpired during my second state, 
 I had not the most distant idea. For three weeks I continued in my first 
 state. But in my sleep the transition was renewed, and I awoke in my 
 second state. As before, so now, all knowledge acquired in my first 
 state was forgotten, and of the circumstances of the three weeks' lucid 
 interval, I had no conception. Of the small fund of knowledge I had 
 gained in my former second state I was able to avail myself, and I con- 
 tinued from day to day to add to this little treasure. 
 
 From the spring of 1811, till within eight or ten years ago, I continued 
 frequently changing from my first to second, and from my second to first 
 state. More than three quarters of the time I was in the second state. 
 There never was any periodical regularity as to the transitions. Some- 
 times I continued several months, and sometimes a few weeks, a few days, * 
 or only a few hours, in my second state ; but in the lapse of five years I, 
 in no one instance, continued more than twenty days in my first state. 
 
 Whatever knowledge I acquired at any time in my second state became 
 familiar to me when in that state, and I made such proficiency, that I soon 
 became as well acquainted with things, and was in general as intelligent 
 in my second as in my first state. I went through the usual process of 
 learning to write, and took as much satisfaction in the use of books as in 
 my first state. Your father undertook to reteach me chirography. He 
 gave me my name, which he had written, to copy. I took my pen, though 
 in a very awkward manner, and actually began from the right to the left 
 in the Hebrew mode. It was not long before I obtained tolerable skill in 
 penmanship, and often amused myself in writing poetry. I acquired all 
 kinds of knowledge in my second state, with much greater facility than a 
 person who had never been instructed. 
 
 In my second state I was introduced to many persons whom I always 
 recognized in that state (and no one enjoyed the society of friends better 
 than I did) , but if ever so well known to me, in my first state, I had no 
 knowledge of them in the second, until an acquaintance had been again 
 formed. In like manner all acquaintances formed in -the second state, 
 must be formed in the first in order to be known in that. 
 
 These transitions always took place in my sleep. In passing from my 
 second to my first state, nothing was particularly noticeable in my sleep. 
 But in passing from my first to second state, my sleep was so profound 
 that no one could awaken me, and it not unfrequently continued eighteoi 
 
APPENDIX. 425 
 
 or twenty hours. had generally some presentiment Df the clinn-r f„t 
 several days before the event. 
 
 My sufferings, in the near prospect of the transition fn.m ritli.-r thr . t.oof 
 th« other state, were extreme, particularly from thcfirj^t to thr ^. , ,, | -t.iti: 
 When about to undergo the change I was harassed witli fc.-ir U-^t I j,h.»uKl 
 never revert so as to know again in this world those wlio woro dciir to nu 
 My feelings in this respect were not unlike those of one wlio wa.H nUul to 
 be separated by death, though, in the second sbite, I did not anticij»ato the 
 change with such distressing apprehensions as in the first. I wiw njitu- 
 rally cheerful, but more so in this than in my natural state. I believe I 
 felt perfectly free from trouble when in my second state, and, for iwuie 
 time after I had been in that state, my feelings were such that, had all mj 
 friends been lying dead around me, I do not think it would have given me 
 one moment's pain of mind. At that time my feelings were never moved 
 with the manifestation of joy or sorrow. I had no idea of tlie p^ust or the 
 future. Nothing but the present occupied my mind. In the first HtuRo 
 of the disease, I had no idea of employing my time in anytlun;; that waa 
 useful. L did nothing but ramble about, and never tire<I walking aboul 
 the fields. My mother, one day, thought she would try to rouse me a 
 little. She told me that Paul says those who would not work, must not 
 eat. I told her it made no matter of difference to me what Paul said, I 
 was not going to work for Paul or any other person. I did not know whc 
 Paul was then. I had no knowledge of the Bible at that time. 
 
 As an evidence of my ignorance of any kind of danger in that early 
 period, before I had attained any information of right or wrong, danger 
 or safety, as I was, one afternoon, walking a short distance from the houi«, 
 I discovered, as I thought, a beautiful creature. Insensible of danger, I 
 ran to it, and, in attempting to take hold of it, it eluded my gnisp by 
 running under a pile of logs. It was a rattlesnake. I had my hand upon 
 the rattle ; but fortunately my foot slipped and I fell back. I heard it ' 
 rattle, and was still very unwilling to go home without it. I put my arm 
 a considerable distance under the log where the snake had crept. 
 
 It may be remarked that whenever I changed into my natural state, I 
 always feit very much debilitated. When in my second state I had no 
 inclination for either food or sleep. My strength at such times was en- 
 tirely artificial. I generally bad a flush in one cheek, and continual 
 thirst, which denoted inward fever. 
 
 When I was last down at home I was reading some letters which I had 
 received from dear friends with whom I had corresponded! previous to 
 these changes, and who had been the companions of my younger *]aj^ 
 but their images are now entirely erased from my memory. It would be 
 a source of gratification to me if I were in possession of my former recol- 
 
 lection. 
 
 **♦♦*• 
 In the early period of my disease I used to talk in my m.vj.. /ind t^'U 
 my plans. Sometimes my friends would overhear me, which wo.iM .• lu-o 
 them to watch my movements, and by that means I huvc Nru w%m 
 many unpleasant trips in my sleep. ^1^^^' l"-Tf>^LDa. 
 
 Note 1. Miss Reynolds could pronounce a word after any o?4'. bat 
 could at first make no use of it herself. i . 4^ w^ — 
 
 Note 2. The hand-writing of Miss Reynolds m her secon.l nUle w»j ii 
 aifterent from her hand-writing in the firet as that of two mdivi-iuiiUi 
 
426 APPENDIX. 
 
 Note 3. At about forty years of age these changes ceased, and she lived 
 on to the end of life in her second state. She would, of course, have nc 
 remembrance of her life previous to these changes. During the last part 
 of her life Miss Reynolds taught school, and proved a very successfa 
 teacher. 
 
 In addition to the above Mr. Bates has obligingly procured for me the 
 following memoranda from Rev. Mr. Reynolds : 
 
 Miss Reynolds was about forty years of age when these transitions 
 ceased. Until the time of her death, at the age of sixty-nine, she con- 
 tinued in what she terms her second state. Hence, all the early part of 
 her life was a complete blank. Her entire disregard of danger gradually 
 disappeared, until there was, in this respect, nothing remarkable. Her 
 two states were never in any measure blended. 
 
 One circumstance alluded to by Miss R. is thus stated more particularly 
 by her nephew. " It was her habit, immediately after going to sleep, — and 
 she usually dropped asleep very soon after retiring, — to begin to recount 
 aloud the duties and incidents of the preceding day. She would go through 
 all that she had done during the day, in the exact order in which it had 
 occurred. She would frequently stop and comment upon things that had 
 occurred, and would laugh heartily when she came to anything thai 
 pleased her. 
 
 " After going through with the duties and incidents of the preceding 
 day, she would then lay her plans for the day to come. When the day 
 came, she would begin and perform everything as she had planned. It 
 seems that she was not aware of having formed any previous plan of 
 action, as she frequently used to wonder how her friends could divine 
 what she was going to do during the day, as she found that they evidently 
 *could do. This habit was of much service to her friends, as it enabled 
 them to foresee and prevent her from doing many acts of mischief. This 
 \iabit continued for more than a year." 
 
 Miss Reynolds, as I have mentioned, continued for nearly thirty yea'rs 
 of her life in the second state. " She, however, ceased to manifest any of 
 those symptoms bordering on insanity which she exhibited during its first 
 periods. She taught school for several years, united with the church, was 
 a consistent Christian, and performed all the duties of life in a way which 
 exhibited nothing else than a perfectly rational state. No person would 
 have discovered anything unusual in h«r manners and conversation. 
 There ivas, perhaps, always ratl^er an excessive measure of nervous excita 
 bility, that is, an excess above the average." 
 
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 MRS. EMILY C. JUDSON, 
 
 (Fanny Forrester,) 
 
 Tnird wife of the Rev. Ad?iiiram Judson, D.D., Missionary to Dormnh. 
 
 By A. C. Kendrick, Professor of Qreek in the Uuivoraitj of Rnnhimcif 
 
 1 voL 12mo., with a steel-plate Likeness of Mrs. Judsoo. 
 
 Price $1 50. 
 
 *"rhe narrative is carefully and beautifully written."— Comm^roiaZ AdpertU^, 
 
 ** This ' Life and Letters' must take a high rank among the rollgioaa biography ol rM 
 4K»uiitry.'" — 2^ew Bedford Mercury. « 
 
 **Not least among the many charms of this delightful bit of blogrriphy will be w»« 
 OPgnized several sunny letters from N. P. Willis, to his litorarv protege, whicU prMm 
 V\e Home Journalist in a most pleasing light." — Gor. Ronton Pout. 
 
 **It is a biography uncommonly rich with all the materials which a gifted anddevoUd 
 woman could supply from the stores of her well-spent life. The world und the Cbartsil 
 :iliould both be grateful for these records of genius, and these triumphs of Christlao IkktL^ 
 coctained within the pages of this charming book." — Christian Intellii/enc^r. 
 
 " Her correspondence is marked by frankness and an intensity of passion, an<l ita peni* 
 sal gives the reader an insight into her character, which he feeU to ho a<* truthful aad 
 positive as a personal acquaintance of considerable faruiliiirity could utTord As a bloc* 
 raphy, the volume occupies the first rank. It is full of unprotending pathon, and will m 
 widely read, valued, and treasured as a beautiful and thrilling history of ouo of the oiost 
 talented, unselfish, noble, heroic, and devoted of women." — dongr6jatitymUi*t. 
 
 *' In biography, this is the book of the season — and of many seasons. We coofeM U 
 having always felt, in spite of our reluctance, an unpleasant degree of inl>i:ivlng as to thi 
 fitness of ' Fanny Forrester' for the work of missions ; but jis Dr. Keutlriok ha.-* |>or 
 tr.syed her character and recorded her life, she carries our symi>athy — our ailrnlrailoD— 
 our revcrtince, by storm. Henceforth wo place her among the heroin«vs and martyrs o^ 
 Christianity. Not because we forgive ' Alderbrook' for the sake oi ' liat CwtK* — oai 
 old way of thinking was somewhat in that style— bat because we see now how ihr -;>lril 
 of unselfi.-^h consecration to the happiness of others runs through both, and m:ik.- .-Mn 
 *parts of one harmonious whole.' Her 'Life and Letters' are worthy of nn l:ii.;i -n'^ 
 sale, and will have it. How 'a digger among Greek roots' could write such » ir««k 
 sppreciative, glowing memoir of 'a sensitive child of genius and soni;.' pMftfs our com- 
 
 Crehension; and we can not forbear the remark, that Mr.-*. .ruds<»n does not ris*- mofy» 
 1 our esteem as a Christian woman, than Dr. Kendrick as an author."— y^*/*!/**"** ''•^ 
 Qld^ Richmond. 
 
 "The correspondence is particularly attractive, aweeines.% slmpllcUr ■ i- 
 
 Uess, and humor are its characteristics. The volume will raise oren the 
 which the public has formed of Mrs. Judsou. Tht- nearer it conduct'* u^ - 
 
 iecret feelings of her heart and most cherUhed convictions of her inind» th« iiwrc ^raiAJ 
 oveable, and noble she appears." — Boston Tran'icript. 
 
 "The letters of Dr. Judson throw new light up<»n his loving, genial n»lu[^. •od •ho^ 
 w thorou;] 
 h«r faithfulu 
 
 iiow thori>U'"'''*^^"' ^^° '*»"*^ morrinorA wa>* rtHA (if AfTrtctioQ- und how DappT I'. pr«»ved. WW 
 
 to ner husban.L the maternal love which knew no diaeronce Deiwoen uia cm.u.ru %aA 
 her own, and the ever-growing beauty of her spiritual Mfo Mra. Lmliv L Jud*ca rt-t^-r^N 
 ft large place in the i)ublio heart."— A?i*i;y/* Joi^riMi. 
 
Boohs Published hy Sheldon c& Co, 
 
 HISTOET OF DOCTEINES. 
 
 Bj K. R. Hagenbach, Professor of Theology in the University of Basle. 
 
 The Edinburgh translation of C. "W. Buch, revised, with large additions 
 from the fourth German edition, and other sources, 
 
 By Hexry B. Smith, D.D., 
 Professor in the Union Theological Seminary of the City of New York. 
 In 2 vols., 8vo. Cloth. Price, $5 00. 
 " 2 " " '' " Sheep, $6 GO. 
 
 From the American Preshytenan. 
 
 "The character of the work, as the product of profound scholarship, pervaded in the 
 main with sound and elevated views, as candid in its statements, condensed in style, and 
 well fortified with pertinent citations from a wide range of authorities, is well known. 
 Professor Smith's services, in the revision of the work, are very great. It is based upon 
 the fourth German edition of the work, which appeared in 185T, and comprises all ^;he 
 author's improvements to that time, together with citations from other authors, and 
 references to the more recent German, as well as English and American literature." 
 From the Ilethodist. 
 
 "It is the great merit of Professor Smith, of Union Theological Seminary, New York, 
 to have presented the theological public with a new edition of Hagenbach, which em- 
 bodies all the important results of modern research. It contains all the matter of the 
 last (fourth) German edition of Hagenbach, copious additions from the other text-books, 
 and from other sources, and is especially valuable for the completeness of its biblio- 
 graphical references. In this department the German original is particularly deficient, 
 as it notices but rarely the theological literature of England and America. Neither En- 
 gland nor Germany has another work which, in this particular department, contains as 
 much information as this excellent new edition of Hagenbach." 
 From the Central Presbytarian. 
 
 " The history of Christian doctrine, although an important part of theological science, 
 has been almost necessarily neglected in this country, in consequence of the want of a 
 suitable text-book. The v,^ork of Hagenbach, a translation of which was published some 
 years since in Clark's Foreign Library, was in many respects what was needed, but the 
 translation was so imperfect and unreliable that it could not be safely recommended. 
 If Professor Smith, therefore, with his habitual thoroughness, had only revised the 
 translation, he would have rendered an important service to the interests of this branch 
 of theological learning among us. But he has done much more than this. He has not 
 only incorporated the improvements and additions of the fourth edition of the original, 
 (the Edinburgh translation was made from the first edition,) but has also made additions 
 from other authors on the history of doctrines, the whole of which, including the im- 
 portant references to the most recent German, English, and American literature, increases 
 the matter of the volume above one-third. Henceforth the Edinburgh translation of 
 Hagenbach must be regarded as altogether superseded by Professor Smith's edition." 
 From the Christian Observer. 
 
 "This is a valuable book for theological students. Its merits, it appears, are very 
 highly appreciated, both in Germany and Great Britain., having passed through four 
 editions in Germany, aiid three in Edinburgh. The present edition is enriched by addi- 
 tions from it-s predecessors, and also from other works on the subject. This neglected 
 branch of theological study derives importance from its intimate connection with the 
 history of the Church, the progress of philosophy, and the various phases of religious 
 faith, found in Christendom at the present time. It gives a view of the internal life of 
 the Church, and may render important aid in distinguishing the essential articles of the 
 Christian faith from various religious errors and opinions jvhich have been entertained 
 in every age." * 
 
 A DICTIONARY OF ENGLISH ETYMOLOGY, 
 
 Ey Hensleigh Wedgwood, M.A. 
 
 Annotated and enlarged by Ho:n-. George P. Maesh, linthor of " Lectures 
 
 on the English Language," etc., etc. 
 
 YoL I (A to D).now ready. Imperial 8vo, cloth, (uHCUt.) Price, $3.00. 
 
I 
 I 
 
 Books Published by Sheldon dt Co. 
 
 UNIFORM WITH OLSHAUSEN'S GOMMENTauy 
 
 NEANDEFS COMMENTARIES. 
 
 THE SCRIPTURAL EXPOSITIONS OF REV. AUGUfcCUS 
 
 NEAXDER, D.D. 
 
 Translated from the GermsL by 
 
 MRS. H. C. CONANT. 
 
 COMPRISIN'O 
 
 rHE FIRST EPISTLE OF JOHX, THE EPISTLE TO THE PHIL/P- 
 PIAXS. and THE EPISTLE OF JAMES. 1 vcL 8vo., uniform wita 
 Olshausen's Commentary, Price $2 25. 
 
 " Neander was learned in phUosophy, and in the history of the Church, beyond any 
 msn of his age, perhaps of any age. Take up now his Commentary on Jol'in'g Y\rM 
 Epistle — the best of his works of this character with which I am acquainted. The fxcfl 
 ''"-'?€ of this exposition is not at all owing to his marvelous learning, but to the child!ik« 
 
 i loving temper which places him in so delightful harmony of spirit with the beloved 
 ..;:os:le." — Francis Waylan4. 
 
 *• Neandpr is best known to our readers as the Historian of the ^urch, and his Eccle- 
 siastical History, brought down to the period of the Reformation, has secured for him the 
 reputation of being one of the most profound scholars p^d thinkers of the age. Th» 
 eva'.cr Ileal Strauss. Lis friend and coUeagae, says of him in his funeral discourse : ' H« 
 did not despise human knowledge ; he sought for it with unwearied diligence ; he was a 
 master in it; but he laid- all the surprising treasures of his learning at the foot of the 
 cross.' 
 
 " While, however, Neander was an historian, he excelled also as an Expounder of the 
 Bible : and we have, as his dying legacy to the people of God, his exposition of the np^stle 
 of Paul :o the Philippians ; the General Epistle of James ; and the First Epistle General 
 of John. These expositiDns are not — as German Expositions usually are — W'irks of learned 
 criticism merely, but are popular practical Commentaries on Divine truth, rich in the 
 results of study, and glowing with the light and warmth of a de-^p pers«)nal experience of 
 the g'-^sijeL Neander, with all his accumulated stores of learning, s:it as a docile pn^ilat 
 . the leet of Christ, and his Christiiin humility was beautifully illustrated in the f.ict, that 
 when applied to for his antograph. to be placed under his engraved portrait, he pivt> it, 
 and appended therete the words ; * Now we see through a glass darkly, but then face to 
 face.'" — Hartford Religions HeraM. 
 
 '• This work is exactly what it professes to be, not learned criticism, but a practical ex- 
 planation of the Epistle to the Philiypians, It comprises two popular lectures, which wiU 
 not fiil to interest any intelligent Christian who will read them with care. Cler:.rvmen 
 will find this work etainently suggestive of n^-w trains of thought which »aay b*; profitably 
 use 1 in the sacred task." — Llteran/ Advetiser. 
 
 '• The friends of religious truth will be glad t',^ see this Comrat-ntary on * r 
 
 James, foil wi :g so soon on the Philippians. Perhaps no bo^jk of the New 1 « 
 
 been mor-e misunderstood tlian this Epistle, on account of a supposed contr j 
 
 its teachings and- the 'doctrines ©f grace.' A more comprehensive ani J 
 
 exegesis, however, sees in the Epistles of James and Paul only the same sy ;i 
 
 set forth from different points of view. The work of Ntander is a most v 
 ance in the elucidation of this epistle. By looking at it from his owneTui::;. J 
 
 point of view, we are able to see, at a glance, how it falls beautifully into i J 
 
 •ysteni uf Christ, confirming rather than weakening the great doctrl ■••^ n 
 
 /f which the Holy Ghost seems to have intrusted to PauL The tra -1 
 
 idiomatic, and almost entirely free from the abstract and cumbrous ; -J 
 
 cftvn marks translations fr. m the German. No clergyman or Sunday-.^i'- •■ ';,"' ■ " "^ 
 fail to feel his mind invigorated and his heart enlarged by the study of this work. ~A««t 
 York Beoyrder. ■ i« 
 
 " Mrs- Conant has devoted her accomplished skill as a translator, t - ' iB 
 
 read e ring into English thii charming prod'.iction of Neander. Th\ 
 ceedi a similar one on the Episth- tu the Piulii)i'-ians ; . 1 is i*s If ' ■ *- 
 
 oVh*r on the Firs: Epistle to John— a work pnblis " - • •* ' ' ^12 
 
 no$ doubt Vnat these volumee will he desire i hv . anc» te sMAuxmam 
 
 tbea tr 4ll «aiouichtfil student? o*' thp 4iil»k-.''— Wu: . ■ lector 
 
Books Published by Sheldon <b Co. 
 
 HISTORY OF LATIN CHKISTIANITY. 
 
 Including that of 'the Popes, to the Pontificate of Nicholas V. Bj HBir. 
 Haet Milman, D.D., Dean of St. Paul's. 
 
 8 vols. Crown 8vo. 
 
 Price in Cloth, cut, . . $15 00 I Price m Sheep, . . . $18 00 
 
 I " HalfMor.,gUt,. 24 00 • " 
 
 '* One of the remarkable works of the present age, and one in irhich the author reviewjs 
 #rta curious erudition, and in a profoundly philosophical spirit, the various chan^ces that 
 oftve taken place in the Eoman hierarchy ; and, while he fully exposes the manifold er- 
 rors and corruptions of the system, he shows throughout that enlightened charity which 
 Is the most precious of Christian graces, as it is unhappily the rarest." — Wm. H. Prea- 
 eott, in a note in the second volume of Philip II., p. SCH). 
 In a private letter to S. Austin Allibone, Esq., written two years later, Prescott said : 
 " If it seems to you high praise, I believe no one who has carefully read the extraor- 
 dinary work to which it refers, will consider it higher than the book deserves." 
 
 % '" Boston, October 11, 1860. 
 
 ** Qentlemen: — I have great pleasure in expressing a most favorable opinion of Deaa 
 Milman's * History of Latin Christianity.' 
 
 " Through the kindness of the author, I have been acquainted with the work since its 
 flrst appearance in England. It is a work of vast research, conducted with judgment 
 amd discrimination among authorities of very diverse weight, and not seldom conflicting 
 purposes, and alwayi with a spirit of truly liberal inquiry. 
 
 " No ( ne can deny to Dean Milman the credit of Learning, Candor, and a consden ;loai 
 tearch after Truth. ' 
 
 " The Theological Literature of the modern English Church has, as far as I am aware, 
 produced no more valioable wo7^k. 
 
 " 1 remain, gentlemen, with great respect, truly yours, ED WARD EVEKETT." 
 
 " St. Geoboe'8 Ekotoby, October 17, 1860. 
 ** Messrs. Sheldon <fe Co. : 
 
 •' Oentlemen : I am exceedingly gratified vrith the appearance of your new edition of • 
 Milman's * Latin Christianity.' It is a work equally remarkable for the extent of its re- 
 search, the fullness of its material, and the eloquence and beauty of its arrangement and 
 ityle. Its impartiality of statement and deductions is a very distinguishing feature of ita 
 excellence, and it will doubtless take its place among those histories which finally ocr 
 oupy their whole projected ground, and remain as permanent authorities among men. 
 « Yours respectfuUy, STEPHEN H. TYNG." 
 
 " Union Theological Seminary, 
 New York, Oct 19, I860. 
 * Messrs. Sheldon & Co.: 
 
 ** Dean Milman's * Historxy of Latin Christianity' is not only the ablest work of its dis 
 ttnguished author, but it also takes the front rank in English historical and ecclesiasticat 
 literature. Written fn a liberal and impartial spirit, it presents in an attractive styl« 
 the result, rather than the processes, of thorough investigation in a field almost un visited 
 Dy English Church historians. General and ecclesiastical history are here so combined, 
 that the work is indispensable to every student. Your elegant and cheap edition de- 
 •erves the widest circulation, and will, I doubt not, find its way into everv good li 
 brary, private or public. HENKT B. SMITH." 
 
 ** The enterprise and usefulness of the Publishing House of Sheldon h Co., are exhib- 
 ited in the continued issues of great standard religious works, such as the Christian stu« 
 dent must have, and are valuable in all time. Among these books, and in the front ranfc 
 of religious historical composition, we place the volumes which this house has now be 
 yun to publish, the flrst having just made its appearance. The rise, progress, a ad tri* 
 amph of Christianity in the early centuries, constitutes the great epoch 'n tie hiafcoif 
 •f the wwid." — Hew York Observer 
 
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