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' r3^3 
 
 MENTAL 
 
 INCLUDING THE 
 
 mTELLECT, SENSIBILITIES, AND YvlLL. 
 
 BT 
 
 JOSEPH HA YEN, D.D., 
 
 PKOFESSOR OF SYSTEMATIC THEOLOGY IjST THE TJ! KOI. or; [CAT. SEMIXAET, 
 
 CHICAGO, ILL., AND LATE PROE. OF INTELLECTf \L AND MORAL 
 
 PHILOSOPHY IN AMHERST COLLEGE. 
 
 BOSTON: 
 a O U L r> AND I. I N C c> L 
 
 59 "WASHINGTON STREET. 
 NEW YORK: SHELDON AND COMPANY. 
 
 1872. 
 
f L 
 
 i0> \ ^* 
 
 ^ioAarotL, «yr>r<llng to Act of Congress, in the jeai ldS7, toj 
 
 GOULD AN1> LINCOLN, 
 
 ^ f&d €!iflrk*g Office of the District Cart of the District of Masaachaaet^ 
 
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 ^vj 
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 If any apology were necessary for adding yet an- 
 other to the numerous works on Mental Philosophy 
 which have recently appeared, the circumstances that 
 led to the preparation of the present volume may, 
 perhaps, constitute that apology. 
 
 When called, several years since, to the chair of 
 Mental and Moral Philosophy, in this Institution, the 
 text-books, then in use, seemed to me not well 
 adapted to the wants of College students. Nor 
 was it easy to make a change for the better. Of 
 the works in this department, then generally in use 
 in our Colleges, some presumed on a more extensive 
 acquaintance with the science than most young men 
 at this stage of education are likely to possess ; others, 
 again, erring on the opposite extreme, were deficient 
 in thorough and scientific treatment ; while most, if 
 not all, were, at the best, incomplete, presenting but 
 
ly 
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 a partial survey of the entire field. In none of ttem 
 was tlie science of mind presented in its complete- 
 ness and symmetry, in a manner at once simple, yet 
 scientific ; in none of them, moreover, was it brought 
 down to the present time. Something more com- 
 plete, more simple, more thorough, seemed desirable. 
 
 Every year of subsequent experience as a teacher 
 has but confirmed this impression, and made the want 
 of a book better adapted to the purposes of instruc- 
 tion, in our American Colleges, more deeply felt. 
 The works on mental science, which have recentlj 
 appeared in this country, while they are certainly a 
 valuable contribution to the department of philosophy, 
 seem to meet this deficiency in part, but only in part. 
 They traverse usually but a portion of the ground 
 which Psychology legitimately occupies, confining their 
 attention, for the most part, to the Intellectual Facul- 
 ties, to the exclusion of the Sensibilities ^ and the Will. 
 
 Feeling deeply the want which has been spoken 
 of, it seemed to me, early in my course, that some- 
 thing might be done toward remedying the deficiency, 
 by preparing with care, and delivering to the classes, 
 lectures upon the topics presented in the books, as 
 they passed along. This course was adopted — a 
 method devolving much labor upon the instructor, but 
 rewardiug him by the increased interest and mora 
 
PREFACE. -y 
 
 rapid progress of tlie pupils. Little by little the 
 present work thus grew up, as the result of my 
 studies, in connection with my classes, and of my 
 experience in the daily routine of the recitation and 
 lecture roz)m. Gradually the lectures, thus prepared, 
 came to take the place more and more of a text- 
 book, until there seemed to be no longer any reason 
 why they should not be put into the hands of the 
 student as such. 
 
 It is much easier to decide what a work on mental 
 science ought to be, than to produce such a work. It 
 should be comprehensive and complete, treating of all 
 that properly pertains to Psychology, giving to every 
 part its due proportion and development. It should 
 treat the various topics presented, in a thorough and 
 Bcientific manner. It should be conversant with the 
 literature of the department, placing the student in 
 possession, not only of the true doctrines, but, to some 
 extent also, of the history of those doctrines, showing 
 him what has been held and taught hj others upon 
 the points in question. In style it should be clear, 
 perspicuous, concise, yet not go barren of ornament 
 as to be destitute of interest to the reader. 
 
 At these qualities the writer has aimed in the 
 present treatise; with what success, others must de- 
 termine. 
 
Vi PREFACE. 
 
 All science, in proportion as it is complete and 
 true, becomes simple. In proportion as this re- 
 sult is attained, the labor bestowed upon it disap- 
 pears from view, and the writer seems, perhaps, to 
 others, to have said but a very plain and common 
 thing, This is peculiarly the case with mental 
 science. The difliculty of discussing with clearness 
 and simplicity, and, at the same time, in a complete 
 and thorough manner, the difficult problems of Psy- 
 chology, will be understood only by those who make 
 the attempt. 
 
 Amhbbst CoLusaB. SeptoiLbsr, iwn 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 ON THE NATURE AND IMPORTANCE OF MENTAL SCIENCE 16 
 
 Section L — Nature op the Science 15 
 
 Section IL — Importance op Mental Science 20 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 ANALYSIS AND CLASSIFICATION OF THE MENTAL POWERS 29 
 
 Section L — GtEneral Analysis 29 
 
 Section II. — Analysis op Intellectual Powers. 31 
 
 Section IIL — Historical Sketch — Various Divisions of the 
 
 Mental Faculties • 35 
 
 DIVISION FIRST. 
 THE intellectual FACULTIES. 
 
 PRELIMINARY TOPICS. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 CONSCIOUSNESS. 3» 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 ATTENTION. 46 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 CONCEPTION ... » 
 
vili CONTENTS 
 
 PAET FIRST- 
 
 THE PRESENTATIYE POWEE. 
 
 BENSE, OR PERCEPTION BY THE SENSSS 53 
 
 Section I. — G-et-ehal Observations , 59 
 
 SECTION II. — Analysis of the Perceptive Process 61 
 
 Section III. — Anai ysis and Classification of the Qualities 
 
 of BoDTJiS 65 
 
 Section IY. — Or&a??s of Sense — Analysis of their Several 
 
 PuNCTioijrs 68 
 
 Section Y. — Amount of Information derived from the Re- 
 spective Sensj5.s T2 
 
 Section YI. — Credibility of our Sensations and Perceptions 81 
 
 BscnoN YIL — Historical Sketch 84 
 
 I. Of different DivxSioits of the Qualities of 
 Bodies .., 84 
 
 XL Of different Theories gf Perception 81 
 
 PART SECOND. 
 
 THE REPRESENTATIYE POWER. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 MEMORY _.. 96 
 
 Section I. — Mental Reproduction 96 
 
 I. Nature « « , , » , . 96 
 
 II. Laws ^ c . . o . . • , 101 
 
 fiacnON n. ~- Mental Recognition, as distinguished from MwS' 
 
 tal Reproduction 113 
 
 I. General Character , ,..«.» 113 
 
 II. What is implied in an Act of Memory..... 118 
 
 III. Qualities of Memory 118 
 
 IY. ^Memory as related to Intellectual 
 
 Strength , 121 
 
 Y. Cultivation op Memory. . . ^ . . , 125 
 
 YL Effects of Disease on Memory 1 28 
 
CONTENTS • U5 
 
 SaonoN n. — Continued. agb 
 
 ¥11. INFLUENCE OP Memory on the HAPPrNTESs 
 
 OF Life 131 
 
 VIII. Historical Sketch — Different Theories cp 
 
 Memory c 133 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 IMAG IN ATION , . . 137 
 
 Section I. — General Character of this Faculty , . . IB*! 
 
 Section II. — Relation to other Faculties 138 
 
 Section III. — Active and Passive Imagination 140 
 
 Section IY. — Imagination a simple Faculty 112 
 
 Section Y. — Not merely the Power of Combination 144 
 
 Section YI. — Limited to Sensible Objects 14t 
 
 Section YII. — Limited to netv- Results 148 
 
 Section YIII. — A Voluntary Power 149 
 
 Section IX. — Use and Abuse of Imagination 152 
 
 Section X. — Culture of Imagination 154 
 
 Section XL — Historic Sketch — Various Definitions and 
 
 Theories op Imagination by different "Writep^.. 168 
 
 * 
 
 PART THIRD. 
 
 THE REFLECTIVE POWER. 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 THE SYNTHETIC PROCESS. — GENERALIZATION 165 
 
 Section I. — Nature of the Synthetic Process IS6 
 
 Section IL — Province and Relation of several Terms em- 
 ployed TO DENOTE, IN PaRT, OR AS A WHOLE, THIS 
 
 Power of the Mind It'i 
 
 Section HI. — Historical Sketch — The Realist and Nomin- 
 alist Controversy •. 171 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 THE ANALYTIC PROCESS — REASONING 18C 
 
 Section I. — The Nature of the Process 181 
 
 Section IL — Relation op Judgment and Reasoning 18* 
 
 1* 
 
X CONTENTS. 
 
 Section III. — Different Kinds of EBASONiNa ! 89 
 
 L Demonstrative 189 
 
 11. Probable— (1.) From Testimony; (2.) Fbom 
 
 Experience; (3.) From Analogy 192 
 
 Seotion IV. — Use of Hypotheses and Theories in Reason- 
 ing 199 
 
 SbotioiI v. — Different Forms of Reasoning 203 
 
 I. Analysis op the Proposition 203 
 
 IL Analysis of the Syllogism 205 
 
 in. La^s of Syllogism 207 
 
 IV. I -FFERENT KiNDS OF SYLLOGISM 209 
 
 V. Different Forms of Syllogism. 210 
 
 VI. Laws of Thought on which the Syllogism 
 
 DEPENDS 212 
 
 VIL Use and Value of the Syllogism 213 
 
 fllL Historical Sketch of the Science of Logic. 219 
 
 PART FOURTH. 
 
 INTUITIVE POWER. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 EXISTENCE AND NATURE OF THIS FACULTY 329 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 TRUTHS AND CONCEPTIONS FURNISHED BY THIS FAC- 
 
 ni^TY 238 
 
 Section I. — Primary Truths 238 
 
 Seotion II. — Intuitive Conceptions 241 
 
 I. Space 241 
 
 n. Time 244 
 
 m. Identity 249 
 
 IV. Cause , 25t 
 
 V. Idea oi? the Beautiful and the Right 262 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 THE CONCEPTION AND COGNIZANCE OF THE BEAUTIFUL. 263 
 
 Section I. — Conception of the Beautiful, 263 
 
 BEonoN IJ. — Cognizance of the Beautiful. ; 28^ 
 
COK/ENTS. XI 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 PAai 
 n)BA AND COaNIZANOE OF THE RIGHT 303 
 
 Section L — Idea of Riawr — Whence comes the Idia 303 
 
 Sbotion II. — Cognizance op the Right — 1. Natuee op Con- 
 science; 2. Authority op Conscience ZU 
 
 SUPPLEMENTARY TOPICS. 
 
 CHAPTER I. ' 
 
 INTELLIGENCE IN MAN AS DISTINGUISHED FROM IN- 
 TELLIGENCE IN THE BRUTE 32S 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 MIND AS AFFECTED BY CERTAIN STATES OF THE BRAIN 
 
 AND NERVOUS SYSTEM 342 
 
 Section I. — Sleep. 343 
 
 Section n. — Dreams 351 
 
 Section III. — Somnambulism • 360 
 
 Section IV. — Insanity 36§ 
 
 DIVISION SECOND. 
 
 THE SENSIBILITIES. 
 
 PRELIMINARY TOPICS. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 NATURE, DIFFICULTY, AND IMPORTANCE OF THIS DE- 
 PARTMENT OF THE SCIENCE 371 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 ANALYSIS AND CLASSIFICj^ TION OF THE SENSIBILITIES H«- 
 
gn CONTENTS. 
 
 PART FIRST. 
 
 SIMPLE EM OTIONS. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 mSTINCTIYB EMOTIONS 395 
 
 Bection I. — Of that general State of Mind known as 
 
 Cheerfulness, and its Opposite, Melancholy.. 396 
 
 Section II. — Sorrow at Loss of Friends 399 
 
 Section III. — Sympathy with the Happiness and Sorrow op 
 
 Others 402 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 RATIONAL EMOTIONS. 409 
 
 Section I. — Emotions of Joy or Sadness, arising from the 
 Contemplation op our own Excellence, or the 
 
 Ke7erse 409 
 
 Section II. — Enjoyment of the Ludicrous 413 
 
 Section III. — Enjoyment of the New and Wonderful 424 
 
 Section IV. — Enjoyment of the Beautiful, and the Sublime. 42 1 
 Section Y. — Satisfaction in Yiew of right Conduct, and Re- 
 morse IN YlBW OF WRONG 434 
 
 PART SECOND« 
 
 THE AFFECTIONS. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 BENEYOLENT AFFECTIONS .'. 441 
 
 Section I. — Love of Kindred 442 
 
 Section II. — Loye of Friends • . 4A1 
 
 Section III. — Loye op Benefactors 451 
 
 Section IY. — Love of Home and Country 46A 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 MALEYOLENT AFFECTIONS 458 
 
 Eesentment, with its Modifications, Envy, Jealousy, Re- 
 venge 458--46S 
 
CONTENTS. xill 
 
 PART THIRD. 
 
 T H E D E S I R E S. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 BfATIXRB . JCD CLASSIFICATION OF DESIRES 4tS 
 
 CHAPTER 11. 
 DESIRES ARISINa FROM THE PHYSICAL CONSTITUTION. 44t 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 DESIRES ARISING FROM THE CONSTITUTION OF THE 
 
 MIND 481 
 
 Section I. — Desire of Happiness 481 
 
 Section IL — Desire op Knowledge 481 
 
 Section III. — Desire of Power 490 
 
 Section IY. — Certain Modifications of the Desire of Power, 
 
 AS Desire of Superiority and Desire of Pos- 
 session 49S 
 
 Section Y. — Desire of Society 501 
 
 Section YI. — Desire of Esteem 505 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 HOPE AND FEAR 51Q 
 
 DIVISION THIRD. 
 THE WILL. 
 
 PRELIMINARY OB SE R Y A TI ONS. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 NATURE OF THE WILL 5.^^ 
 
 Section I. — Elements involved in an Act of Will 52.' 
 
 Sbution II — Investigation of these Elements 62? 
 
 L Motive . 5«3 
 
xiv CONTENTS. 
 
 Section II — Continued. ^a^m 
 
 XL Choice ».,,,,»* , . , 526 
 
 III. Executive Yolition 530 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 RKIiATION OF THE WILL TO OTHER FACULTIES 531 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 FREEDOM OF THE WILL.... 6BI 
 
 Sectiox I. — Presumptions in Favor of Freedom. . , 639 
 
 Section II. — Direct Argument 544 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 CERTAIN QUESTIONS GONx^ECTED WITH THE PRECEDING 549 
 
 Section I. — Contrary Choice 549 
 
 Section IL — Power to do what we are not disposed to do 551 
 
 Section III. — Influence of Motives 554 
 
 I. Is the Will always as the greatest ap- 
 parent Good 554 
 
 II. Is the Will determined by the strongest 
 
 Motive 555 
 
 III. Are Motives the Cause and Volitions the 
 
 Effect 556 
 
 CHAPTER y. 
 
 THE DOCTRINE OF THE WILL YIEWED IN CONNECTION 
 
 WITH CERTAIN TRUTHS OF RELIGION 66? 
 
 Section L — The Power which God exerts over the Human 
 
 Mind and AYill , , . . 561 
 
 Section II. — Man's Power over Himself ^^^ 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 BTRENGTH of will 669 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 eiSTORTCAL SKETCH— OUTLINE OF THE CONTROVERSY 
 
 RESPECTING FREEDOM OF THE WILL 5t3 
 
\ 
 
 INTRODUCTIO 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 ON THE NATUKE AND IMPORTANCE OF MENTAL RCIENCE, 
 
 § I. — Natuee of the Science. 
 
 Mental Philosophy^ what, — What is Mental Philosophy, 
 as distinguished from other branches of science ? 
 
 Philosophy, in the wide sense usually given it, denotes 
 the investigation and explanation of the causes of things ; 
 it seeks to discover, and scientifically to state, the general 
 laws both of matter and mind ; its object is to ascertain 
 facts, and their relation to each other. Mental Philosophy 
 has for its object to ascertain the facts and laws of mental 
 operation. 
 
 Metaphysics^ v^hat. — Of the two grand departments of 
 human knowledge — the science of matter and the science 
 of mind ; — the former, comprising whatever relates to mate» 
 rial phenomena, the science of nature, is known under the 
 general name of Physics / the latter, the science of mind, 
 is often designated by the corresponding term, neither very 
 correct nor very fortunate. Metaphysics, This term is often 
 used to include whatever does not properly fall under the 
 class of Physics. In its strict sense, it does not include so 
 much, but denotes properly the science of abstract truth ; 
 the science of being, in itself considered — apart from its 
 
16 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 particular accidents and properties — that wliicli we now call 
 Ontology. The term is commonly ascribed to Aristotle, 
 but incorrectly. It originated with his followers. Several 
 treatises of his relating to natural science having been col- 
 lected and published, under the title ra (j>vGi/ca^ other 
 treatises on philosophical subjects were afterward arranged 
 under the title ra fiera (pvattta^ indicating their relation to 
 the former, as proper to be read after the perusal of those 
 Hence the term came into use in the general sense, already 
 spoken of, to denote whatever is not included under physics, 
 although originally employed with a much more limited 
 meaning. 
 
 Mental Philosophy not properly Metaphysics, — Neithei 
 in its wider nor in its stricter sense does this term properly 
 designate the science of mind. Mental Philosophy neithei 
 embraces every thing not included under physics, nor is it 
 the science of abstract being. As one of the intellectual, io 
 distinction from the physical sciences, it holds a place along 
 with Logic — the science of the laws of human thought and 
 reasoning; Ethics — the science of morals; Politics — the 
 science of human organization and government ; to which 
 should be added Ontology — the science of pure being; ah 
 which are properly embraced under the term Metaphysics 
 in its wider and popular sense. To designate the science ot 
 mind in distinction from these other sciences, some morf 
 definite term is required. The word Psychology is no^ 
 coming into use as such a term. 
 
 Mental Philosophy a Natural Science, — The science o< 
 jiind, indeed, deserves in one aspect to be ranked amon^ 
 the natural sciences. It is a science resting on experience 
 observation, and induction — a science of facts, phepomena 
 and laws which regulate the same That which is specificaJh 
 its object of investigation — the human mind — is strictly a 
 part, and most important part of nature,^ unless we exclude 
 man himself from the world to which he belongs, and of 
 ;7hich he is lord. 
 
INTRODUCTION. 1*7 
 
 Possibility of such a Science, — The possibility of the 
 science of the human mind has been denied by some ; 
 but without good reason. If we can observe and classify 
 the phenomena of nature, in her varied forms, animate and 
 inanimate, and ascertain in this way the laws to which she 
 is subject ; if it is possible thus to construct a science of 
 plants, of animals, of the elements that compose the sub- 
 stance of the earth, of the strata that lie arranged beneath its 
 surface, of the forces and agencies that at any time, recent 
 or remote, have been at work to produce the changes which 
 have taken place upon and within our globe — -nay, more, if 
 leaving our own planet we may, by careful observation of 
 the heavenly bodies, learn their places, movements, dis- 
 tances, estimate their magnitude and density, measure their 
 speed, and thus construct a science of the stars, surely the 
 phenomena of our own minds, the data of our own con- 
 sciousness, must be at least equally within our reach, and 
 equally capable of observation, classification, and scientific 
 statement. If we can observe the habits of animals and 
 plants, we can observe also the habits of men, and the phe- 
 nomena of human thought and passion. If the careful in- 
 duction of general truths and principles from observed facts 
 form the basis and method of true science in the one case, 
 so in the other. 
 
 Science of flatter and of Mind analogous, — The science 
 of matter, and the science f mind agree perfectly in this, that 
 all we know of either is wimply the phenomeua which they 
 exhibit. We know not matter as it is in itself, but only as 
 it affects our senses. We perceive certain qualities or prop- 
 erties of it, and these we embody in our definition, and 
 beyond these we say -jothing, because we know nothing 
 Equally relative is our knowledge of mind. What it is in 
 itself we know riot, but only its phenomena as presented to 
 oar observation and consciousness. It thinks and feels, it 
 perceives, remembers, reasons, it loves, hates, desires, de- 
 termines \ these exercises are matter of experience and 
 
18 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 observation ; they constitute our knowledge and our defini 
 tion of mind, and beyond we cannot go. 
 
 Modes and Sources of Information the same in both, — 
 This being the case, it is evident that both our sources of 
 information, and our mode of investigation, must be essen- 
 tially the same in the two departments of science. In eithei 
 case our knowledge must be limited to phenomena merely, 
 and these must be learned by observation and experience. 
 A careful induction of particulars will place us in possession 
 of general principles, or laws, and these, correctly ascertained 
 and stated, will constitute our science, whether of matter or 
 mind. 
 
 They differ in one Respect, — In one respect, indeed, our 
 means of information with regard to the two branches of 
 science differ. While both matter and mind can be known 
 only by the observation of the phenomena which they pre- 
 sent, in mental science the field of such observation lies in 
 great part within ourselves — the phenomena are those of our 
 own present or former consciousness — the mind is at once 
 both the observer and the object observed. This circum- 
 stance, which at first seems to present a difficulty, is in 
 reality a great advantage which this science possesses over 
 all others. 
 
 Apparent Difficulty, — The difficulty which it seems to 
 present is this: How can the eye perceive itself? How can 
 the mind, as employed, for example, in remembering, or 
 judging, or willing, inspect its own operations, since the 
 moment its attention is turned to itself it is no longer en- 
 gaged in that operation which it seeks to inspect — is no 
 longer remembering, or judging, or willing, but is employed 
 only in self-observation ? We admit that the mind, in the 
 very instant of its exercising any given faculty, cannot make 
 itself, as thus engaged, the object of attention. But the 
 operations of the mind, as given in consciousness, at any 
 moment, may be retained or replaced by memory the next 
 raom'>nt, and as thus replaced and attested, may stand be 
 
INTRODUCTION, 19 
 
 fore us the proper objects of our investigation, so lopg as we 
 please. This puts it in the power of the mind to observe 
 and to know itself. 
 
 Real Advantage. — The advantage accruing from the cir- 
 cumstance that the phenomena to be observed are those of 
 our own present or former consciousness, is this : that those 
 phenomena are fully within our reach, and also are capable 
 of being known with greater certainty. In physical science 
 the facts may be scattered over the globe, and over centu- 
 ries of time, not personally accessible to any one observer in 
 their completeness, and yet that completeness of observa- 
 tion may be essential to correct science. In psychology, the 
 observer has within himself the essential elements of the 
 science which he explores ; the data which he seeks, are the 
 data of his own consciousness ; the science which he con- 
 structs is the science of himself. 
 
 Comparative Value of this hind of knowledge. — The 
 knowledge thus given in conscious experience is more cor 
 rect and reliable than any other. It has this peculiarity 
 that it cannot be disputed. I may be mistaken in regard 
 to the properties of a piece of matter which I hold in my 
 hand, and which seems to me to be square or round, of such 
 or such a color, and of such or such figure, size, and density ; 
 but I cannot be mistaken as to the fact, that it seems to me 
 to be of such color, figure, etc. The former are results of 
 perception and judgment ; the latter is an immediate datum 
 of consciousness, and cannot be called in question. To 
 doubt our own consciousness is to call in question our very 
 doubt, since the only evidence of our doubting is the con- 
 sciousness that we doubt. As to the phenomena of the ex- 
 ternal world — the things that are passing without — I may 
 be mistaken ; as to what is passing in my own mind — the 
 thoughts, feelings, volitions of my own conscious self — there 
 IS no room for doubt or mistake. 
 
 N^ot limited to Consciousness. — I do not mean, by what 
 has been said, to imply that in our own observation of 
 
20 INTRODUOTION. 
 
 mental phenomena we are limited to the experience of mi 
 own minds, but only that this is the principal source of our 
 information. The mental operations of others, so far as we 
 have access to their minds, are also legitimate data. These 
 we may observe for ourselves in the daily intercourse of life, 
 may notice how, under given circumstances, men will think, 
 feel, and act, and the knowledge thus acquired will consti- 
 tute a valuable addition to our self-knowledge. We may 
 receive also, in this science, as in any other, the testimony of 
 others as 1 o t leir own mental states and operations. In so 
 far as psychoiogy relies upon these sources, it stands on r 
 iooting with other sciences. 
 
 § II. — Importance of Mental Science. 
 
 Com^jarative Neglect. — That the science of the mind has 
 not hitherto held that high place in the public regard and 
 estimation, at least in our own country, to which it is justly 
 entitled, as compared with other branches of knowledge, 
 can hardly be denied. The cause of this comparative neg- 
 lect is to be found partly jn the nature of the science itself, 
 partly in the exclusively practical tendencies of the age. 
 
 The first CoMse considered. — The nature of the science 
 is such that its benefits are not immediately apparent. The 
 dullest mind can perceive some use in chemistry, or botany, 
 or natural philosophy. They are of service in the analysis 
 of soils, the rotation of crops, the comprehension of the 
 laws of mechanical and chemical forces. But mental science 
 has no such application, no such practical results patent and 
 obvious to the careless eye. Its dwelling-place and sphere 
 of action lie removed somewhat from the observations of 
 men. It has no splendid cabinets or museums to throw 
 open to the gaze of the multitude. It cannot arrange in 
 mao-nificent collection all the varieties of mental action, all 
 the complications of thought and feeling as yet observed^ 
 nor illustrate by curious instruments, and nice experiments. 
 
INTRODUCTION. 21 
 
 the wonierful laws of association, the subtle changes aad 
 swift flashes of wit and fancy, and quick strong emotion, the 
 impulses of desire, the curious play of volition, the une:?- 
 plained mystery of thought, the lights and shadows thax 
 come and go upon the field of consciousness. For these 
 curious and wonderful phenomena of the inner life there are 
 no philosophic instruments or experiments, no charts or dia- 
 grams. Nor are there yet brilhant discoveries to be made, 
 nor splendid rewards to be gained by the votaries of this 
 science. " Four or five new metals," says Sydney Smith, 
 '' have been discovered within as many years, of the exist- 
 ence of which no human being could have had any suspi- 
 cion ; but no man that I know of pretends to discover four 
 or five new passions." 
 
 The second Cause, — But the chief obstacle, as I suppose, 
 to the more general cultivation of mental science is to be 
 found in the exclusively practical tendencies of the age. We 
 are a people given more to action than to thought, to enter- 
 prise than to speculation. This is perhaps inseparable from 
 the condition of a new state. An age of action is seldom 
 an age of reflection. External life demands the energies of 
 a new people. The elements are to be subdued, mountains 
 levelled, graded, tunnelled, roads constructed, cities built, 
 and many useful, necessary works to be wrought with toil 
 and cost, before that period comes of golden affluence, and 
 leisure, and genial taste, and elegant culture, that can at 
 once appreciate and reward the higher efibrts of philosophio 
 Vavestigation. 
 
 Relation to other Sciences, — The importance of mental 
 science appears from its relation to other sciences. We find 
 in nature a gradually ascending series. As we pass from 
 the observation and study of the mineral to the forms of 
 vegetable life, from the plant to the insect — and thence tc 
 the animal, and from the animal, in his various orders and 
 slasses, to man, the highest type of animated existence on 
 the earth, we are conscious of a progression in the rank and 
 
22 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 dignity of that which we contemplate. But it is only whec 
 we turn our attention from all these to the intelligence that 
 dwells within the man, and makes him master and lord ot 
 this lower world, that we stand upon the summit of ele- 
 vation and overlook the wide field of previous inquiry. 
 Toward this all other sciences lead, as paths along the 
 mountain side, starting from different points, and running 
 in different directions, converge toward a common terminus 
 at the summit. As the mineral, the plant, the insect, the 
 animal, in all their curious and wonderful organizations, are 
 necessarily inferior to man, so is the science of them, how- 
 ever important and useful, subordinate to the science of man 
 him-self ; and as the human body, curious and wonderful in 
 its organism and its laws, is nevertheless inferior in dignity 
 and worth to the spirit that dwells within, and is the true 
 lord of this fair castle and this wide and beautiful domain, 
 so is the science of the body, its mechanism, its chemistry, 
 its anatomy, its laws, mferior to the science of the mind, the 
 divinity within. 
 
 Other Sciences Creations of the Mind. — Many of the 
 sciences justly regarded as the most noble, are themselves 
 the creations of the mind. Such, for example, is the science 
 of number and quantity — a science leading to the most sub- 
 lime results, as in the calculations of the astronomer, yet a 
 pure product of the human intellect. Indeed what is all 
 science but the work of mind ? The creations of art are 
 wonderful, but the mind that can conceive and execute 
 those creations is still more to be admired. Language is 
 wonderful, but chiefly as a production and expression of 
 mind. The richness, the afliuence, tDe eloquence, the exact- 
 ness, the beauty, for example, of the Greek tongue, of what 
 are these the qualities, and where did they dwell — in the 
 Greek language, or in the Greek mind ? Which is really 
 the moi^e noble and wonderful then, the language - itself, or 
 the mind '.hat called into being such a language, and em 
 
INTRODUCTION. 23 
 
 ployed it as an instrument of expression ; and of which is 
 the science most noble and worthy of regard ? 
 
 We admire the genius of a Kepler and a Copernicus, we 
 sympathize with their enthusiasm as they observe the 
 movements and develop the laws of the heavenly bodies ; we 
 look through the telescope, not without a feeling of awe, as 
 it seems to Uft us up, and bear us away into the unknow^D 
 and the infinite, revealing to us what it would almost seem 
 had never been intended for the human eye to see ; but one 
 thing is even more wonderful than the telescope — that is 
 the mind that contrived it. One thing is more awe-in- 
 spiring than the stars, and that is the mind that discovers 
 their hidden law^s, and unlocks their complicated move- 
 ments ; and when we would observe the most curious and 
 wonderful thing of all, we must leave the tubes and the 
 tables, the calculations and the diagrams with which the 
 man works, and study the man himself, the workman. 
 
 Itelation of this Science to the practical Arts and Sci- 
 ences, — But aside from the view now presented, the con- 
 nection of mental science with other and practical arts and 
 sciences is much more intimate than is usually supposed 
 Take for example the A^ery noblest of all sciences — -the- 
 ology : we find it, in an important sense, based upon and 
 receiving its shape and character from the views which we 
 entertain, and the philosophy which we adopt of the human 
 mind. Our philosophy underlies our theology, even as the 
 solid strata that Ue unseen beneath the surface give shap^ 
 and contour and direction to the lofty mountain range. 
 
 Psychology as related to Theology, — Not to speak of the 
 very idea which we form of the divine Being, borrowed as 
 it must be, in a sense, from our previous conception of th 
 human mind, and our own spiritual existence, not to speak 
 of the aro^uments bv which we seek to establish the existence 
 of the divine Being, involving as they do some of the nicest 
 and most important of the laws of human thought, what 
 problems, we nay ask, go deeper mto the groundwork of 
 
24 INTRODUCTIOK. 
 
 any theological system than those pertaining to human 
 ability, and the freedom of the will — the government of the 
 affections and desires — the power of a man over himself, to 
 be other and better than he is, and to do what God requires. 
 But these are questions purely psychological. You cannot 
 stir a step in the application of theology to practical afe^ 
 till you have settled in some way these questions, and that 
 view, whatever it be, crude or profound, intelligible or ab- 
 Burd, is, for the time, your science, your philosophy of the 
 mind. 
 
 Psychology as related to the healing Art, — Scarcely less 
 intimate is the connection of psychology with the science of 
 life. The physician finds in the practice of his profession, 
 that in order to success, the laws of the human mind must 
 constitute an important part of his study — how to avoid, 
 and how to touch, the secret springs of human action. A 
 word rightly spoken is often better than a medicine. In 
 order to comprehend the nature of disease he must under- 
 stand the effect on the bodily organization of the due, and 
 also of the undue, exertion of each of the mental faculties ; 
 in fine, the whole relation of the mind to the bodily functions, 
 and its influence over them — a field of inquiry as yet but 
 imperfectly understood, if indeed adequately appreciated by 
 the medical profession. 
 
 As related to Oratory. — To the public speaker, whether 
 at the bar, in the public assembly, in the halls of legislation, 
 or in the pulpit, it need hardly be said that a knowledge of 
 thb science, and the abihty to make practical use of it, is 
 indispensable. Success in oratory depends, doubtless, in a 
 measure, upon other things ; but he who best understands 
 the laws and operations of the human mind, how to touch 
 the sensibilities, how to awaken the passions, how to excite 
 the fears and the hopes, how to rouse the resentment of his 
 hearers, how to soothe the troubled spirits, and allay the 
 excitement of feeling, and disarm prejudice, and call into 
 play the sober reason and calm judgment of man, will 
 
INTRODUCTION. 25 
 
 best be able to accoraplish his purpose. He will be able to 
 turn to his own account the circumstances of the occasion, 
 and like a skilful organist, touch with ease, yet with precision 
 and effect, what key he will. No man can do this who does 
 not well understand the instrument. 
 
 As related to the Art of Education, — Especially is this 
 science of use to the teacher in the knowledge which it gives 
 him of the mind of his pupil, and the skill in dealing with 
 that mind. The mind of the pupil is to him the instru- 
 ment on which he is required to play — a curious instrument 
 of many and strange keys and stoj)s — capable of being 
 touched to wonderful harmony, and to fearful discord ; — and 
 to handle this instrument well is no ordinary acquirement. 
 What shall we say of the man who knows nothing of the 
 instrument, but only the music to be performed, nothing of 
 the mind to be taught, but only the knowledge to be com- 
 municated? To know the mind that is to be taught, how to 
 etimulate, how to control, how to encourage, how to restrain, 
 how to guide and direct its every movement and impulse, is 
 ^ot this the very first and chief thing to be known ? 
 
 Connection of this Science loith our ovun personal Inter- 
 ests. — The importance. " mental science is evident not only 
 from its relation to other sciences, but from the relation il 
 sustains to man and his higher interests. Some sciences in^ 
 terest as as abstractions — merely speculative systems of 
 Iruth ; others as realities, but of such a nature, and so re- 
 mote from the personal interests and wants of the race to 
 wnieh we belong, that they make little appeal to our sensi 
 bilities. Thus it is with mathematical and astronomica 
 truth. The heavenly bodies, whose movements we observe, 
 hold on their swift silent way, in the calmness of their own 
 eternity, regardless of man and his destiny, even as they 
 rolled ages ago, and as they will ages hence. What have 
 we to do with them or they with us ? We watch them as 
 they hold their course through the deep firmament, as 
 children, standing on the sea-side, watch the distant snowy 
 
26 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 Bail that glides silently along the horizon, afar cff^ beautifui 
 unknown. So sail those swift ships of the firmament, and 
 only he who made them knows thek history. 
 
 Psychology in contrast with other Sciences in this respect 
 —•But when we come to the study of oursehes, and thi 
 laws of our own intelligence, our inquiries assume a practice 
 importance which attaches to no other departments of trutl'.. 
 
 t is no longer the sail dimly visible on the far horizon, bu^ 
 nir own conscious being that is the object of thoughts 
 The question no longer is, Whence comes that swift ship, and 
 whither goes it, but, What am I, and whither going ; what 
 my history, and my destiny ? This mysterious ?ioul which 
 animates me, and is the presiding divinity over all my 
 actions, what is it, with all its wondrous faculties — sense, 
 imagination, reason, will — those powers of my being ? What 
 IS that change which passes upon me, which men call sleep, 
 and that more mysterious and fearful change that must soon 
 pass upon me, and that men call death ? How is it that 
 events of former years come back to njind, with all the 
 freshness and reality of passing scenes ? What is that prin- 
 ciple of my nature that ever assumes to itself the right of 
 command, saying to all my incli. uons and passions, thou 
 shalt, and thou shalt not, and when I disobey that mandate, 
 filling my whole soul with misery, my whole future existence 
 with remorse? And what and whence that word ought^ 
 that has so much to do with me and my pursuits : ought 
 tvhat, and why ought, and to whom ? — Am I free, or am I 
 subject to inevitable necessity; if free, then how are all m} 
 
 ctions controlled, and predetermined by a divine Provl 
 ience ? If not free, then how am I responsible ? Who sliall 
 solve this problem; who shall read me this strange inex- 
 plicable riddle of human life ? Such are the questions and 
 themes which mental philosophy discusses, and we perceive 
 at a glance their intimate connection with the highest inter- 
 ests and personal wants of man as an individual. 
 
 Connection (Jif this Science with mental Discipli7ie. — Th® 
 
INTRODUCTTON. 27 
 
 importance of mental science may "be further apparent in its 
 eflect on the culture and discipline of the mind. It is the 
 peculiar effect of this science to sharpen and quicken the 
 mental powers, to teach precision and exactness of thought 
 and expression, to train the mind to habits of close atten- 
 tion and concentration of thought, to lead it to inquire into 
 the causes and relations of things ; in a word, to render it 
 amiliar with the great art of distinguishing things that 
 differ. It would hardly be possible to name another branch 
 of study that tends so directly to produce these results in the 
 cultivation of the mind. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 ANALYSIS AND CLASSIFICATION OF THE MENTAL 
 
 POWERS. 
 
 Importance of such a prelimmany Investigation, — It is 
 of the highest importance, as we approach a science like the 
 one before us, to obtain, if possible, at the outset, a clear 
 and comprehensive view of the field about to be explored. 
 It is desirable that the traveller, before entering a new 
 country, should learn something respecting its extent, its 
 political and geographical divisions, its manners, its laws, its 
 history. Even more necessary is it, in entering upon a new 
 science, to know its boundaries and divisions, to obtain 
 clear idea, at the very commencement of our inquiries, of 
 the number, nature, extent, and arrangement of the subject 
 we are about to investigate. Otherwise we shall be liable 
 to confusion and error, shall not know where, at any mo- 
 ment, in the wide field of investigation, we may chance to 
 be, or what relation the topic of our immediate inquiry 
 holds to the whole science before us; as a ship on tho 
 
28 INTRODUCT ON 
 
 ocean, witliout observation and reckoning, loses her latitude 
 and longitude. We shall be liable to confound those dis- 
 tinctions which are of less, with those which are of more im- 
 portance, and to mistake the relation which the several 
 topics of inquiry bear to each other. Especially is this pre- 
 vious survey and comprehension of the subject essential in 
 a science like this, where so much depends on the clearness 
 and accuracy with which we distinguish differences often 
 minute, and on the definiteness with which we mark off and 
 lay out the several divisions of our work. A thorough an« 
 alysis and classification of the various faculties of the mind 
 is necessary, in the first place, before we eniei upon ine 
 special investigation of any one of them. Such a classifica- 
 tion must serve as our guide-book and chart in all further 
 inquiries. 
 
 Difficulty of such an Investigation. — The importance ol 
 such a preliminary investigation is scarcely greater than its 
 difficulty. It would be easy, indeed, to mention, almost at 
 random, a considerable number of mental operationSj with 
 whose names we are famiUar ; and a httle thought would enable 
 us to enlarge the hst almost indefinitely. But such a list, 
 even though it might chance to be complete, would be neither 
 an analysis nor a classification of these several powers. I: 
 would neither teach us their relations to each other and ^-o 
 the whole, nor enable us to understand the precise nature 
 and office of each faculty. We could not be sure that we 
 had not included under a common name operations essenti- 
 ally different, or assigned distinct places and offices to pow- 
 ers essentially the same. Much depends, moreover, on th^ 
 order in which we take up the several faculties. 
 
 It is evident at a glance that to form a clear, correct, and 
 comprehensive arrangement of the powers of the mind, is 
 no slight undertaking. A complete understanding of the 
 whole science of the mind is requisite. It is one of the last 
 things which the student is prepared to undertake, yet one 
 of the first which he requires to know. Unfortunaftel> for 
 
INTKODUCTION. .29 
 
 the science, perhaps no topic in the whole circle jf inieileC' 
 tual investigation has been more generally neglected, by 
 those who have undertaken to unfold the philosophy of 
 the mind, than the one now under consideration. 
 
 ' § I. — General Analysis. 
 
 A mental Facility^ what, — In making out any schem« 
 oi classification, the question at once arises, how are we to 
 "know what are, and what are not distinct faculties ? Ii; 
 order to this, we must first determine what constitutes a 
 mental faculty. 
 
 What, theuj is a faculty of the mind ? I understand by 
 this term simply the mind's power of acting, of doing some- 
 thing, of putting forth some energy, and performing some 
 operation. Tne mind has as many distinct faculties, as it 
 has distinct powers of action, distinct functions, distinct 
 modes and ^spheres of activity. As its capabilities of action 
 and operation differ, so its faculties differ. 
 
 The Mind not complex, — Now mental activity is, strictly 
 speaking, one and indivisible. The mind is not a complex 
 substance, composed of parts, but single and one. Its activ- 
 ity may, however, be exercised in various ways, and upon 
 widely different classes of objects; and as these modes of 
 action vary, we may assign them different names, and treat 
 ol them in distinction from each other. So distinguished 
 and named, they present themselves to us as so many dis- 
 tinct powers or faculties of the mind. But when this \% 
 done, and we make out, for purposes of science, our com- 
 plete list and classification of these powers, we are not to 
 forget that it is, after all, one and the same indivisible spirit- 
 ual principle that is putting* forth its activity under those 
 diverse forms, one and the same force exerting itself — 
 whether as thinking, feeling, or acting — whether as re- 
 membering, imagining, judging, perceiving, reasoning, lov- 
 ^g, fearing, hating, desuing, choosing. And while we may 
 
30 - INTRODUCTION 
 
 designate these as so many faculties of the mind, we aio noi 
 to conceive of them as so many constituent parts of a com- 
 plex whole, which, taken together, compose this mysterious 
 entity called the mind, as the different limbs and organs ol 
 the physical frame compose the structure called the body. 
 Such is not the nature of the mind, nor of its faculties. 
 
 The Question before us. — In inquiring, then, what are 
 fche faculties of the mind, we have simply to inquire what 
 are the distinct modes of its activity, what states and oper- 
 ations of the mind so far resemble each other as to admit of 
 being classed together under the same general descriptioii 
 and name. Our work, thus understood, becomes in reality 
 a very simple one. 
 
 The more hnportant DistinGtions to he first ascertained 
 — What, then, are the cleai^ly distinct modes of mental ac- 
 avity? -And first let us endeavor to ascertain the widei 
 and more important distinctions. We shall find that, innu- 
 merable as the forms of mental activity may at first sight 
 appear, they are all capable of being reduced to a few gen- 
 eral and comprehensive classes. 
 
 The first Fonn of mental Activity, — I sit at my table. 
 Books are before me. I open a volume, and peruse its pages. 
 My mind is occupied, its activity is awakened ; the thoughts 
 of the author are transferred to my mind, and engage my 
 thoughts. Here, then, is one form of mental activity. This 
 one thing I can do ; this one power I have — the faculty of 
 thouijjht. 
 
 The second Form. — But not this alone : I am presently 
 conscious of something beside simple thought. The writer, 
 whose pages I peruse, interests me, excites me ; I am 
 amused by his wit, moved by his eloquence, affected by hia 
 pathos ; I become indignant- at the scenes and characters 
 wliich he portrays, or, on the contrary, the/ oommand my 
 admiration. All this by turns passes over .^e, as the fitful 
 shadows play upon the waters, coming and going with the 
 changing cloud. This is not pure thought. It is thought. 
 
INTRODUCTION. 3l 
 
 accompanied with another and quite distinct element, that 
 h^ feeling. This power also I have ; — I can feel. 
 
 A third Form, — And not this alone. The process does 
 not end here. Thought- and feeling lead to action. I re- 
 solve what to do. I lay down my book, and go forth tr 
 perform some act prom]3ted by the emotion awakened 
 within me. This power also I have ; — the faculty of volun- 
 tary action, or vohtion. 
 
 These three Forms comprehensive, — Here, then, are three 
 grand divisions or forms of mental activity — thought, feel- 
 ing, volition. These powers we are constantly exerting. 
 Every moment of my intelligent existence I am exercising 
 one or another, or all of these faculties. And, what is 
 more, of all the forms of mental activity, there is not one 
 which does not fall under one or another of these three 
 divisions — thought — feeling — volition. Every possible 
 mental operation may be reduced to one of these three 
 things. 
 
 We have, then, these grand departments or modes of 
 mental activity, comprehensive of all others : Intellect, or 
 the faculty of simple thought ; Sensibility, or the faculty of 
 feeling ; Will, or the faculty of voluntary action. 
 
 Under these leading powers are comprehended subordi- 
 nate modes of mental activity, known as faculties of the In- 
 tellect, or of the Sensibility, or of the Will. 
 
 We have at present to do only with ihose of the Intellect, 
 
 § II. — Analysis of Intellectual Powers. 
 
 Sense-perception, — Observing closely the intellectual op 
 erations of the mind, we find a large class of them relating 
 to objects within the sphere of sense, extei-nal objects, aa 
 perceived by the senses. The mind, through the medium 
 of sense, takes direct cognizance of these objects. This 
 class of opei'ations we may call Sense-perception, and the 
 
32 INTlCODUtjTION. 
 
 facu\ty thus employed, in distinction from other leading 
 divisions of the intellectual powers, we may call Sense^ or 
 ttLe Presentative faculty. Its distinctive office is to jt^rc^^^ii 
 to the mind, through the senses, objects external, sensible, 
 as now and here present. 
 
 The Hepresentatlve Power, — But the mind not only re- 
 solves impressions of external objects, as present, and acting 
 on the organs of sense ; it has also the faculty of conceiving 
 of them in their absence^ and representing them to itself 
 This faculty, as distinguished from the receptive power, or 
 sense, we may call the Representative Power. 
 
 Mental Peproduction^ and mental Recognition as distin- 
 guished, — This power operates in various forms. Tliere 
 may be the simple representation of the absent object, with- 
 out reference to the act of former perception, as when 1 
 think of the Strasburg tower, without recalling any partic- 
 ular instance of its perception. Or there may be such re- 
 calling of the former act and instance of perception. The 
 thought of the tower, as it presents itself to my mind, 
 may stand connected definitely with the idea of the time, 
 and place, and attending circumstances in which, on some 
 occasion, I saw that object. It is then recognized as the ob- 
 ject which was seen at such or such a time. The former is 
 an instance of mental reproduction simply — the latter, of 
 mental recognition. We have in common language but one 
 name for the two — although the term more strictly belongs 
 only to the latter — and that is, Memory. 
 
 Representation of the Ideal in distinction from the 
 Actual, — Again, unlike eitlier of these, there may be a con- 
 ception and representation of the object, not at all as it is in 
 reality, and as it was perceived, but varied in essential par- 
 ticulars, to suit our own taste and fancy — a tower not of 
 ordinary stone, but of some rare and costly marble — not of 
 ordinary height, but reaching to the skies, etc., etc. In the 
 former cases we conceived only of the actual^ now of the 
 ideal. This faculty is called Imagination. Both are form* 
 
INTRODUCTION. 33 
 
 of the representative power, not presenting^ but only repre^ 
 senting objects. 
 
 Go7iception of the Abstract, — Tlie Discursive or JReflectim 
 Power. — In the cases thus far described we have conceived 
 of some sensible object, considered in and by itself, capable 
 of being represented to thought. We may, however, con 
 ceive not of an object in itself considered, but of the proper 
 ties and relations of objects in the abstract. Thus we coiin 
 pare and class together those objects which we perceive to 
 possess certain properties in common ; as books bound in 
 cloth, or in leather, octavos, or duodecimos. In so doing 
 we exercise the faculty o^ generalization^ which involves com- 
 parison, and also what is usually termed abstraction. Or 
 we may reverse the process, and instead of classing together 
 objects possessing certain elements in common, we may 
 analyze a complex idea, or a comprehensive term, in order 
 to derive from it whatever is specifically included in it. 
 Thus from the general proposition, /'All men are mortal," 
 inasmuch as the term " all men " includes Socrates, I infer 
 that Socrates is mortal. The process last named is called 
 reasoning. 
 
 In either case, both in the synthetic and the analytic 
 process now described, we are dealing not with the concrete 
 but the abstract. The properties and relations of things, 
 rather than things themselves, are the objects of our thoughts. 
 Still they are the properties and relations primarily of sensi* 
 ble objects^ and of these objects as conceived^ and not as pre- 
 sented to sense. To distinguish this class of conceptions 
 from those previously considered, and also from that pres- 
 ently to be noticed, we may designate this power of the 
 mind as the Discursive or Reflective Power. Its results are 
 notions of the understanding rather than imiDressions of 
 Bense, or ideas of reason. 
 
 Conceptions not furnished by Sense, — The Dituitive 
 Power, — We have considered thus far those intellectual 
 operations whid fall within three leading departments of 
 
 2* 
 
34 INTKODUCTIC N. 
 
 meKtal activity; — the Presentative, Repit.«eutative, an<3 
 Discursive Powers. These operations all have reference 
 directly or indirectly to sensible objects. The first regards 
 them 2LB present / the second represents them as absent ; the 
 third considers their properties and relations in the aJ- 
 tract. 
 
 But the mind has also the faculty of formmg ideas and 
 ecnceptions not furnished by the senses. It departs from 
 the sphere of sense, and deals with the super-sensihle^ with 
 those primary ideas and first principles presupposed in all 
 knoAvledge of the sensible. Such are the ideas of time, 
 space, cause, the right, the beautiful. These are suggested 
 by the objects of sense, but not directly derived from nor 
 given by those objects. They are ideas of reason^ rather than 
 notions of understanding. They are awakened in the mind 
 on occasions of sensible perception, but not conveyed to the 
 mind through the senses, as in perception, nor directly de- 
 rived from the object as in the case of the representative 
 and discursive powers. This faculty we may call the Origin- 
 ative or Tntuitive Power, in distinction from those previously 
 considered. 
 
 Summary of leadmg Dimsions, — We have then four 
 grand divisions of intellectual operations, under which the 
 several specific faculties arrange themselves ; viz., the Pre- 
 sentative, the Representative, the Discursive, and the Origin- 
 ative or Intuitive faculty. The first has to do with sensible 
 objects, as present; the second has to do with the same class 
 of objects as absent ; the third deals with their abstract 
 properties and relations ; and the fourth has to do not with 
 the sensible, in any form, but with the super-sensible. 
 
 I believe the faculties of the intellect, in pure thinking, 
 may all be reduced to those forms now specified, undei 
 these four leading divisions 
 
INTRODUCTION, 3ft 
 
 Results of the preceding analysis in a tabular 
 roBM: 
 
 POWERS OF THE INTELLECT. 
 
 J. Presentative, lerception, 
 
 IT. Eepeesentatiye, \ ^- ^^ *^ ^°'"^^ • • • ^«™''^S'- 
 
 ( 2. Of the Ideal, . . Imagination. 
 
 )U. EErLEOTiTE, I 1. Synthetic Generalizaiion. 
 
 ( 2. Analytic, .... Reasoning. 
 IV. Intuitive, Original Conception, 
 
 g IlL — Historical Sketch — Yarious Divisions of the Mental 
 
 Faculties. 
 
 The earlier Division. — The general division of the pow- 
 ers of the mind, for a long time prevalent among the earlier 
 modern philosophers, was into two chief departments, 
 known under difierent names, but including under the one 
 what we now term the intellect, under the other what we 
 designate as the sensibilities and the will, which were not 
 then, as now, distinguished from each other in the general 
 division, but thrown into one department. Under the first 
 of these departments, they included the thinking and reason- 
 ing powers, the strictly intellectual part of our nature ; 
 under the second, whatever brings the mind into action — 
 the impelling and controlling power or principle — ^the af- 
 fections, emotions, desires, volitions, etc. The names given 
 to these two divisions varied with difierent writers, but the 
 difierence was chiefly in the name, the principle of division 
 being the same. By some authors they were designated as 
 the contemplative and the active powers, by others cognit' 
 ive and motive. The latter was the nomenclature proposed 
 by Ilobbes. Others again adopted the terms understanding 
 and will, by which to mark the two divisions ; Locke, Reid, 
 some of the French philosophers, and, in our own country, 
 Edwards, followed this division. Stewart designates them, 
 the one class as the intellectiial^ and the other as the active 
 
36 INTRODUCTIOI?. 
 
 and moral powers. Brown objects to this phraseology dn 
 the ground that the intellectual powers are no less active 
 than the other. He divides the mental powers or states 
 primarily into what he calls external and internal affections 
 of the mind, comprehending under the former all those 
 mental states which are immediately preceded by and con- 
 nected with the presence of some external object ; under 
 the latter, those states which are not thus immediately pre- 
 ceded. The latter class he divides into intellectual statesf 
 and emotions, a division corresponding essentially to those 
 of the authors previously mentioned, the emotions of Brown 
 comprehending essentially the powers which, others had 
 termed motive, or active and moral. 
 
 Prevale7ice of this Method, — This twofold division of the 
 mental powers, under different names, as now stated, has 
 been the one generally prevalent until a comparatively re- 
 cent date. It may doubtless be traced, as Sir William 
 Hamilton suggests, to a distinction made by Aristotle, into 
 cognitive and appetent powers. 
 
 The more recent Method, — The threefold division of the 
 mental faculties very early came into use among pbilosoph 
 ical and theological writers in this country, and is now very 
 generally adopted by the more recent European writers oi 
 note, especially in France and Germany. According to this 
 division the various affections and emotions constitute a de- 
 partment by themselves, distinct from the will or the volun- 
 tary principle. There are many reasons for such a dis- 
 tinction ; they have been well stated by Professor Upham 
 Cousin adopts and defends the threefold division, and pre 
 viously still, Kant, in Germany, had distinguished the mental 
 powers under the leading divisions of intelligence, sensibil- 
 ity, and desire. 
 
MENTAL PHILOSOPHY, 
 
 DIVISION FIRST. 
 
 THE INTELLECTUAL FACULTIES 
 
PRELIMINARY TOPICS* 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 COKSOIOUSNESS. 
 
 Ger^eral Statement, — Before proceeding to investigate tlie 
 several specific faculties of the intellect, as already classified, 
 there are certain preliminary topics to be considered, certain 
 mental phenomena, or mental states, involved more or less 
 ftilly in all mental activity, and on that account hardly to be 
 classed as specific faculties, yet requiring distinct considera- 
 tion. Such are the mental states which we denominate as 
 consciousness and attention. 
 
 Definitions. — Consciousness is defined by Webster as 
 the knowledge of sensations and mental operations, or of 
 what passes in our own minds ; by Wayland, as that condi- 
 tion of the mind in which it is cognizant of its own opera- 
 tions ; by Cousin, as that function of the intelligence which 
 gives us information of every thing which takes place in the 
 interior of our minds ; by Dr. Henry, translator of Cousin, 
 as the being aware of the phenomena of the mind — of that 
 which is present to the mind ; by Professor Tappan, as the 
 necessary knowledge which the mind has of its own opera* 
 eions. These general definitions substantially agree. The 
 mind is aware of its own operations, its sensations, percep- 
 tions, emotions, choices, etc., and the state or act of being 
 chus cognizant of its own phenomena we designate by the 
 general term Consciousness. 
 
10 CONSCIOUSNESS. 
 
 JReasons for regarding Consclousiiess as not a distinct 
 Faculty, — Is this, however, a distinci faculty of the mind ? 
 The mind, it is said, is always cognizant of its own opera- 
 tions : when it perceives, it is conscious of perceiving ; when 
 it reasons, it is conscious of reasoning ; when it feels, it is 
 conscious of feeling ; and not to be conscious of any par- 
 ticular mental act, is not to perform that act. To have a 
 sensation, and to be conscious of that sensation, it is said, 
 are not two things, but one and the saane, the difference 
 being only in name. A perception is indivisible, cannot be 
 analyzed into a fact, and the consciousness of the fact, for 
 the perception is an act of knowing, and does not take place 
 if it be not known to take place. This is the view taken 
 by Sir William Hamilton, Professor Bowen, and others of 
 high authority. It was maintained by Dr. Brown with 
 much force as an objection to the doctrine of Reid, who 
 had recognized consciousness as a distinct faculty. 
 
 Reasons for the opposite View, — On the other hand, the 
 claims of this form of mental activity to be regarded as a 
 facultv of the mind, distinct from and coordinate with the 
 other mental powers, are admitted and maintained by writ- 
 ers of authority, among whom are Dr. Wayland and Presi- 
 dent Mahan. They maintain that the office of cansciousnesa 
 being to give us knowledge of our own mental states, and 
 this function being quite distinct from that of any other 
 mental faculty, the capacity or power of performing this 
 function deserves to be regarded as itself a faculty of the 
 mind. It is maintained also by Dr. Wayland that conscious- 
 ness does not necessarily invariably accompany all mental 
 action, but that there may be, and are, acts of which we are 
 not at the time conscious. 
 
 Instances in proof of this Position, — In support of this 
 position he refers to certain cases as instances of unconscious 
 i^erception ; as when, for example, a clock strikes within a 
 fev9 feet of us, while we are busily engaged, and we do not 
 notice it, or know that it has struck, yet if questioned 
 
CONSCIOUSNESS. 41 
 
 aflerward, are conscious of an impression that we have 
 heard it ; as when also while reading aloud to another per 
 son, some thought arrests our attention, and yet by a sort 
 of mechanical process, we continue the reading, our mind, 
 meanwhile, wholly occupied with another subject, until pres- 
 ently we are startled to find that we have not the remotest 
 conception of what we have just been reading ; yet we 
 ead every word correctly, and must, it would seem, have 
 perceived every word and letter. He refers also to the 
 case of the short-hand writer to the House of Lords in 
 England, who, on a certain occasion, while engaged in tak- 
 ing the depositions of witnesses in an important case, after 
 many hours of continued exertion and fatigue, fell, for a few 
 moments, into a state of entire unconsciousness, yet kept on 
 writing down, and that with perfect accuracy, the deposi- 
 tions of the Avitness. Of the last few lines, when he came 
 to read them, he had no recollection whatever, yet they 
 were written as legibly and accurately as the rest. From 
 these and similar cases it is inferred that there may be 
 mental activity of which we have at the time no conscious- 
 dess. 
 
 The Evidence examined, — With regard to the case* no vV 
 cited, it seems to me that they do not fully estabhsh the 
 point in question. For in the first place, it may be doubted 
 whether they really involve any mental activity — whether 
 they are properly mental acts, and not merely mechanical or 
 automatic. It is well known that many processes which 
 ordinarily require more or less attention may, when thej 
 Lave become perfectly familiar, be carried on for a time 
 almost without thought. The senses, so far as they are re- 
 quired to act at all, seem in such cases to act mechanically, 
 or automatically, somewhat as a wheel when once set in mo- 
 tion continues for a time to revolve by its own momentum, 
 after the propelling force is withdrawn. The mental activity 
 exerted in such cases, if there be any, is so very slight as to 
 escape attention, and we are unconscious of it simply be 
 
42 CONSCIOUSx^ESS. 
 
 • 
 
 cause ih ere was little or nothing to be conscious of. We 
 have an illustration of this in the act of walking, while busily 
 engaged in conversation with a friend, or in our own medi- 
 tations. We are not conscious of any mental act preceding 
 or directing each step and movement of the limbs, but hav- 
 ing at the outset decided what direction to take, the mind 
 gives itself to other matters, while the process of walking 
 goes on by a sort of mechanical impulse, until presently 
 something occurs to arrest our attention and direct it to the 
 physical movement in which we are engaged. The muscular 
 contractions tend to follow each other in a certain regular 
 succession ; a certain law of association seems to govern their 
 movements, as is seen in the rapid motions of the pianist 
 the flute player, the type distributor, and in many similar 
 cases ; and so long as the regular succession, and accustomed 
 order of movement, is undisturbed, the process goes on with 
 little or no interference of the intellectual principle. In 
 such cases the act can hardly be said to involve mental 
 activity. 
 
 A further Question, — But aside from this, even admitting 
 that the acts under consideration are such as to involve men- 
 tal activity, what evidence is there, it may still be asked, 
 that there was at the moment no consciousness of that ac- 
 tivity ? That there was subsequently no consciousness of itj 
 does not make it certain that there was none at the time. 
 The subsequent consciousness of an act is neither more nor 
 less than memory, and is not properly consciousness at all 
 Consciousness takes cognizance, properly speaking, only of 
 the present, not of the past. The absence of subsequent 
 consciousness is simply absence of memory, and this may be 
 accounted for in other ways than by supposing a total ab- 
 sence of consciousness in the first instance. Whatever men- 
 tal activity was really exerted by the short-hand reporter in 
 the case referred to, he was, doubtless, conscious of exerting 
 at the time, but it may have been so slight, and the mind so 
 little impressed by it, in the state of physical weariness and 
 
CONSCIOUSNESS. 45 
 
 prostration, that it was not remembered a raoment after- 
 ward. We remember not every thing that occurs, but only 
 that to which we attend, and which makes some impression 
 upon us. 
 
 The true Mcplanation. — In the other cases referred to, 
 the explanation now given is still more evidently the true 
 one. What is called an absence of consciousness is simply 
 an absence of attention at the time, and consequently of 
 memory afterward. The person who is reading aloud, in 
 the case supposed, is mentally occupied with something else 
 than the sentiments of the author, is not attending, in a word, 
 to what he is reading, and hence does not, a moment after, 
 remember what it was that he read. So of the striking of the 
 clock. The sound fell upon the ear, the auditory nerve per 
 formed its office, the usual change, whatever it may be, wa^ 
 produced in the brain, but the process of hearing went no 
 further; either no mental activity vv^as awakened by that 
 sound, or, if any, but the slightest, for the mind was other- 
 wise occupied, in a word, did not attend to the summons of 
 the messenger that waited at the portal, and hence there 
 was no subsequent remembrance of the message, or at most 
 a vague impression that something of the kind was heard. 
 
 On the whole, it does not appear from the cases cited, 
 that mental activity is ever, at the moment of its exertion, 
 unaccompanied with consciousness. 
 
 Summary of the Argum^ent, — I hesitate then to assign 
 sonsciousness a place among the faculties of the mind, as 
 iistinct from and coordinate with them, for the following 
 reasons : 
 
 1. It seems to me to be involved in all mental acts. We 
 sannot, as it has been already said, suppose an act of per- 
 ception, for example, or of sensation, without the conscious- 
 ness of that perception or sensation. Whatever the mind 
 does, it knows that it does, and the knowing is involved in, 
 and given along with the doing. ♦ISTot to know that I see 
 a bookj or hear a sound, is in reality not to see and not to 
 
14 CONSCIOUSl^ESS. 
 
 hear it. Not to know that I have a sensation is not to have 
 it. But what is involved in all mental action cannot be set 
 down by itself as a specitic mental act. This were much the 
 same as to reckon the whole among tlie parts. 
 
 2. Consciousness, while involved in, cannot be, either 
 psychologically or chronologically, distinguished from the 
 mental acts which it accompanies. The act and the con- 
 sciousness of the act are inseparable in time, and they are 
 incapable of being distinguished as distinct states of mind 
 We cannot break up the sensation or perception into a fact, 
 and the consciousness of that fact. Logically we may dis- 
 tinguish them as different objects of thought and attention, 
 but not psychologically as distinct acts of mind. 
 
 3. Consciousness is not under the control of the will, and 
 
 15 not therefore a faculty of the mind. It is not a power of 
 doing something, but an inseparable concomitant of all 
 doing. What has been termed by some writers voluntary 
 consciousness, or reJfectio?ij is simply attention directed to 
 our own mental acts. 
 
 Distinctioii of Consciousness and Self- Conscious?iess. — 
 Others again distinguish between consciousness and self- 
 consciousness ; but all consciousness, properly so cailed, in- 
 volves the idea of self, or the subjective element. To know 
 that I have a sensation, is virtually to know myself as hav« 
 mg it. 
 
 Cases of ahnortnal or suspended Consciousness. —In 
 certain disordered and abnormal states of the nervous ov^ 
 ganism, the knowledge of what has transpired previously to 
 that state seems to be lost ; and then again, on passing out 
 of that condition into the normal one, all knowledge of what 
 took place while in the abnormal state is wantmg. Instances 
 are on record Wxiere persons have alternated in this manner 
 from one to the other condition, carrying on, as it were, by 
 turns, two separate arid independent lines of mental activity. 
 An instance of tliis nature is related by Dr. Wayland. It 
 has been usual to sp^'^k of these as instances of disordered 
 
CONSCIOUSNESS. 45 
 
 or suspended consciousness. Strictly speaking, however, it 
 '8 not consciousness but memory that is in such cases dis- 
 ordered. It is not tlie knowledge of the present, but of the 
 past^ that is disturbed and deficient. While the abnormal 
 state continues, the individual is conscious of what transpires 
 in that state. When it ceases, the patient wakes as from a 
 reverie or dream, and retains no recollection of any thing 
 that took place during its continuance. It is the memory 
 that fails, and not the consciousness. We are never co/? 
 ecious of the past 
 
 Objects of Consciousness, — 1. Consciousness deals onlj 
 with reality. We are conscious only of that which is, not 
 of that which may be. The poet is conscious indeed of his 
 dction, the builder of air-castles is conscious of his reverie, 
 but the fiction and the reverie, regarded as mental acts, are 
 realities^ and it is only as mental acts that they are objects 
 of consciousness. 
 
 2. ISTot every thing real is an object of consciousness, but 
 only that which is^r^^^^^ and in immediate relatio7i to us. 
 The destruction of Pompeii, and the existence of an Antarctic 
 continent are realities, but not objects of my consciousness. 
 
 3. Primarily and directly we are conscious of our own 
 mental states and operations ; of whatever passes over the 
 field of our mental vision, our thoughts, feelings, actions, 
 physical sensations, moral sentiments and purposes : me- 
 diately and indirectly we are conscious of whatever, through 
 the medium of sense, comes into direct relation to us. For 
 instance, when I put forth my hand and it strikes this table, 
 I am conscious not only of the movement, and the efibrt to 
 move, but of the sensation of resistance also, and indirectly 
 1 may be said to be conscious not of the resistance only, but 
 of something — to wit, the table — as resisting. This some- 
 thing I know, as really as I know the sensation and the fact 
 of resistance. To this immediate perception of the external 
 world in direct relation to our physical organism. Sir W, 
 Hamilton would extend the sphere of con^sciousness. Usual' 
 
46 ATTENTION. 
 
 ly, however, the t^rm has been employed in a more n*- 
 Btricted sense — to denote the knowledge of what passes 
 withm, rather than of what lies without the mind itself. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 ATTENTION. 
 
 General Gharaiiter of this Power. — It has not been um^A 
 to treat of Attention as one of the distinct faculties of f^e 
 mind. It is doubtless a power which the mind possesses, 
 but like the power of conception, or more generally the 
 power of thought and mental apprehension, it is involved in 
 and underlies the exercise of all the specific mental faculties, 
 Nor is it, like consciousness, confined to a distinct depart- 
 ment of knowledge, viz., the knowledge of our own menta] 
 states. It is subsidiary to the other mental powers, rathei 
 than a faculty of original and independent knowledge. It 
 originates nothing — teaches nothing — puts us in possession 
 of no new truth — has no distinct field and province of its 
 own. And yet without it other faculties would be of little 
 avail.* 
 
 Definitions. — If it were necessary to define a term so 
 well understood, we might describe it as the power which 
 the mind has of directing its thoughts, purposely and volun- 
 tarily, to some one object, to the exclusion of others. It is 
 described by Dr. Wayland as a sort of voluntary conscious 
 ness, a condition of mind in which our consciousness is ex 
 cited and directed by an act of the will. He speaks also of 
 an involuntary attention, a state of mind in which our 
 thoughts, without efibrt or purpose of our own, are en- 
 grossed by objects of an exciting nature. It may be ques- 
 tioned, perhaps, whether this is properly attention. Only 
 In so far as attention is a voluntary act is it properly a 
 
ATTENTION, 47 
 
 power of the mind, and only in so far aoes it differ from the 
 simple activity of thought, or of consciousness. The latter 
 IS always involuntary, and in this it differs from attention. 
 
 Instances in Illustration, — It can hardly be necessary to 
 illustrate by example the nature of a faculty so constantly in 
 exercise. Every one perceives, for instance, the difference 
 between the careless perusal of an author — the eye passing 
 istlessly over the pages, and the mind receiving little or no 
 impression from its statements — and the reading of the 
 same volume with fixed and carefal attention, every word 
 observed, every sentiment weighed, and the whole mental 
 energy directed to the subject in hand. We pass, in the 
 streets of a crowded and busy city, many persons whom we 
 do not stop to observe, and of whose appearance we could 
 afterward give no account whatever. Presently, some one 
 in the crowd attracts our notice. We observe his appear- 
 ance, we watch his movements, we notice his peculiarities 
 of dress, gait, manners, etc., and are able afterward to de- 
 scribe them Avith some degree of minuteness. In the for- 
 mer case we perceive, but do not attends In the latter, we 
 attend, in order to perceive. 
 
 Sometimes the sole Occupation, — Attention seems to be 
 at times the sole occupation of the mind for the moment, as 
 when we have heard some sound that attracts our notice, 
 and are listening for its repetition. In this case the other 
 faculties are for the time held in suspense, and we are, as we 
 say, all attention. The posture naturally assumed in such a 
 case is that indicated by the etymology of the word, and 
 may have suggested its use to designate this faculty, viz., 
 attention — ad-tendo— a bending to^ a stretching towardj'Qi^ 
 object of interest. 
 
 Analysis of the mental Process in Attention. — If W6 
 closely analyze the process of our minds in the exercise of 
 this power, we shall find, I think, that it consists chiefly in 
 this — the arresting and detaining the thoughts, excluding 
 th'is the exercise o^ other forms of mental activity, in con 
 
sequence of which the mind is left free to direct it& wnoie 
 energy to the one object in view. The process may be com 
 pared to the operation of the detent in machinery, which 
 checks the wheels that are in rapid motion, and gives oppor- 
 tunity for any desired change ; while it may be compared, 
 as regards the result of its action, to the helm that directs 
 the motion of the ship, now this way, now that, as the 
 helmsman wills. 
 
 Objects of Attentio7i, — The objects of attention are of 
 course as various as the objects of thought. Like con- 
 sciousness, it may confine itself to our own mental states ; 
 and, unlike consciousness, it may comprehend also the en- 
 tire range of objective reality. In the former case it is 
 more commonly designated by the term reflection, in the 
 latter, observation. 
 
 Importance of Habits of Attention, — l^he importance of 
 nabits of attention, of the due exercise and development of 
 this faculty of the mind, is too obvious to require special 
 comment. The power of controlling one's own mental 
 activity, of directing it at will into whatever channeb the 
 occasion may demand, of excluding for this purpose all other 
 and irrelevant ideas, and concentrating the energies of the 
 mind on the one object of thought before it, is a power of 
 the highest value, an attainment worth any effort, and which, 
 in the different degrees in which it is possessed, goes far to 
 xiiake the difference between one mind and another in the 
 realm of thought and intellectual greatness. While the 
 attention is divided and the mind distracted among a 
 variety of objects, it can apprehend nothing clearly and 
 definitely ; the rays are not brought to a focus, and the 
 mental eye, instead of a clear and well-defined image, per« 
 2eives nothing but a shadowy and confused outline. The 
 mind while in this state acts to little purpose. It is shorn 
 of its strength. 
 
 The power ol commanding the attention and concentrat- 
 ing the mental energy upon a given object, is, however, 9 
 
ATTENTION. 49 
 
 power not easily acquired nor always { ossessed. The diffi- 
 culty of the attainment is hardly less than its hnportance. 
 It can be made only by earnest effort, resolute purpose, dili- 
 gent culture and training. There must be strength of will 
 to itake command of the mental faculties, and make them 
 suDservient to its purpose. There must be determination 
 to succeed, and a wise discipline and exercise of the mind 
 with reference to the end in view. This faculty, like every 
 other, requires education in order to its due development. 
 
 Wliether certain Acts are performed without any Degree 
 of Attention. — It is a question somewhat discussed among 
 philosophers, whether those acts which from habit we have 
 learned to perform vrith great facility, and, as we say, al- 
 most without thinking, are strictly voluntary ; whether 
 ^hey do or do not involve an exercise of attention. Every 
 one is aware of the facility acquired by practice in many 
 manual and mechanical operations, as well as in those more 
 properly intellectual. A musician sits at his instrument, 
 scarcely conscious of what he is doing, his attention ab- 
 sorbed, it may be, with some engrossing topic of thought or 
 conversation, while his fingers wander ad libitum among 
 the keys and strike the notes of some familiar tune. Is 
 •there in such a case a special act of volition and attention 
 preceding each movement of the fingers as they glide over 
 the keys ? And in more rapid playing, even when the atten- 
 tion is in general directed to the act performed, ^.e., the exe- 
 cution of the piece, is there still a special act of attention 
 to the production of each note as they follow each other 
 with almost inconceivable rapidity ? Dr. Stahl, Dr. Reid, 
 and others, especially many able physiologists, have an- 
 swered this question in the negative, pronouncing the acts 
 in question to be merely automatic and mechanical, and not 
 properly involving any activity of mind. The mind, they 
 would say, forms the general purpose to execute the given 
 piece, but the particular movements and muscular contrac- 
 tions requisite to produce the individual notes, are, for the 
 
 3 
 
50 ATTEFTIOK. 
 
 most part, involuntary, the result of habit, not of special at 
 tention or volition. 
 
 The opposite View. — On the other hand, Mr. Stewart 
 maintains that all such acts, however easily and rapidly per- 
 formed, do involve mental activity, some degree of attention, 
 some special volition to produce them, although we may not 
 be able to recollect those volitions afterward. The different 
 steps of the process are, by the association of ideas, so con- 
 nected, that they present themselves successively to the 
 mmd without any effort to recall them, without any hesita- 
 tion or reflection on our part, and with a rapidity propor- 
 tioned to our experience. The attention and the volition 
 are instantaneous, and therefore not subsequently recol- 
 lected. Still, he would say, the fact that we do not recol- 
 lect them is no proof that we did not exercise them. The 
 musician can, at will, perform the piece so slowly, as to be 
 able to observe and recall the special act of attention to 
 each note, and of volition to produce it. The difference in 
 the two cases lies in the rapidity of the movement, not in 
 the nature of the operation. 
 
 Objection to this View, — The only objection to this view, 
 of much weight, is the extreme rapidity of mental action, 
 which this view supposes. An accomplished speaker wil). 
 pronounce, it is said, from two to four hundred words, oi" 
 from one to two thousand letters m a minute, and each let- 
 ter requires a distinct contraction of the muscles, many of 
 them, indeed, several cpntractions. Shall we suppose then 
 80 many thousand acts of attention and volition m a 
 minute ? 
 
 Jieply to this Objection. — To this it may be replied tliat 
 the very objection carries with it its own answer, shice if 
 it be true that the muscles of the body move with such won- 
 derful rapidity, it is surely not incredible that the mind should 
 be at least equally rapid in its movements with the body. 
 To show that both mind and body often do act with great 
 rapidity, Mr. Stewart cites the case of the equilibrist, wlio 
 
ATTENTION. 51 
 
 > ^b^a^oes himself on the slack rope, and at the same time 
 balances a number of rods or balls upon his chin, his posi- 
 tion every instant changing, according to the accidental and 
 ever- varying motions of the several objects whose equilib- 
 
 ium he is to preserve, which motions he must therefore 
 constantly and closely watch. Now to do this, the closest 
 
 ttention, both of the eye and of the mind, to each of these 
 lustantaneous movements, is absolutely necessary, since the 
 movements do not follow each other in any regular order, a^ 
 do the notes of the musician, and cannot, therefore, by any as- 
 sociation of ideas, be linked together, or laid up in the mind. 
 TJie Question undecided, — The question is a curious one^ 
 and with the arguments on either side, as now presented, I 
 leave it to the reader's individual judgment and decision. 
 Mr. Stewart is doubtless correct as to the rapidity of mental 
 and muscular action. At the same time it seems to me there 
 are actions, whatever may be true in the cases supposed, that 
 are purely automatic and mechanical, 
 
 W7iether we attend to more than one thing at once, — 
 Analogous to the question already discussed, is the inquiry 
 whether the mind ever attends or can attend to more than one 
 thing at one and the same time ; as when I read an author, 
 my attention meanwhile being directed to some other ob- 
 ject than the train of thought presented by the page before 
 me, so that at the end of a paragraph or a chapter I find 
 that I have no idea of what I have been reading, and yet I 
 have followed with the eye, and perhaps pronounced aloud, 
 every word and line of the entire passage. To do this must 
 have required some attention. Have I then the power of 
 attQiiding to two things at once ? So, when the musician 
 carelessly strikes up a familiar air while engaged in ani- 
 mated conversation, and when the equihbrist balances both 
 his own body upon the rope, and also a number of bodies upon 
 different parts of his body, each movement of each requiring 
 constant and instant attention, the same question arises. 
 0]oinion of Mr. Steioart, — Mr. Stewart, in accordance 
 
52 ATTENTION 
 
 with the view already expressed of the rapidity of the mind'i 
 action, maintains that we do not under any circumstances 
 attend at one and the same time to two objects of thought, 
 but that the mind passes with such rapidity from one to 
 another object in the cases supposed, that we are uncon- 
 scious of the transition, and seem to ourselves to be attend- 
 ing to both objects at once. 
 
 Illustration of this View. — An illustration of this we find 
 in the case of vision. Only one point of the surface of any 
 external object is at any one instant in the direct line of 
 vision, yet so rapidly does the eye pass from point to point, 
 that we seem to perceive at a glance the whole surface. 
 
 Jffow it is possible to compare different Objects, — It may 
 be asked. How is it that we are able to compare one object 
 with another, if we are unable to bring both before the 
 mind at once ? If, while I am thinking of A, I have no 
 longer any thought whatever of B, how is it possible ever 
 to bring together A and B before the mind so as to compare 
 them ? 
 
 The answer I conceive to be this, that the mind passes 
 with such rapidity from the one to the other object, as to 
 produce the same effect that would be produced were both 
 objects actually before it at the same instant. The transi- 
 tion is not usually a matter of consciousness ; yet if any one 
 will observe closely the action of his own mind in the exer- 
 cise of comparison, he will detect the passing of his thoughts 
 back and forth from one object to the other many times 
 before the conclusion is reached, and the comparison is com* 
 piet^« 
 
CHAPTER III 
 
 OONOBPTION. 
 
 Character ^f this Power, — This term has been employed 
 in various senses by different writers. It does not denote 
 properly a distinct faculty oi toie mind. I conceive of a 
 thing when I make it a dib-iino^ olrject of thought, when I 
 apprehend it, when I construe i\ %o myself as a possible 
 thing, and as being thus and thus. iMs form of mental 
 activity enters more or less into all oai mental operations ; 
 it is involved in perception, memory, imztgmation, abstrac- 
 tion, judgment, reasoning, etc. For this reason it is not to 
 be ranked as one of, and correlate with, these several specific 
 faculties. Like the power of thought, and hardiy even more 
 limited than that, it underlies all the special facukies, and is 
 essential to them all. Such at least is the ordinal y accepta- 
 tion of the term ; and when we employ it to denote some 
 specific form of mental activity, we employ it in a sense 
 aside from its usual and established meaning. 
 
 Objects of Conception, — I conceive of an absent object 
 of sight, as, e, g,^ the appearance of an absent friend, or of a 
 foreign city, of the march of an army, or the eruption of a 
 volcano. I conceive also of a mathematical truth, or a 
 problem in astronomy. My conceptions are not limited to 
 former perceptions or sensations, nor even to objects of 
 sensible perception. They are not limited to material and 
 sensible objects. They embrace the past and the future, the 
 actual and the ideal, the sensible and the super-sensible. 
 
 Conceptions neither true nor false. — Our conceptions are 
 neither true nor false, in themselves considered ; they be- 
 come so only when attended with some exercise of judg- 
 ment or of belief. We conceive of a mountain of gold or of 
 
54 CONCEPTION* 
 
 glass, and this simple conception has nothing to do witlj 
 truth or error When we conceive of it, however, as SiCr 
 tually existing, and in this or that place, or when we simply 
 judge that such a mountain is somewhere to be found, then 
 such judgment or belief is either true or false ; but it is no 
 onger simple conception. 
 
 ^ot always Possibilities / nor possible Things always 
 conceivable. — Our conceptions are not always possibilities. 
 We can conceive of some things not within the limits of possi- 
 bility. On the other hand, not every thing possible even is 
 conceivable. Existence without beginning or end is possible, 
 but it is not in the power of the human mind, strictly speak 
 ing, to conceive of such a thing. I know that Deity thus 
 exists. I understand what is meant by such a proposition, 
 and I believe it. But I cannot construe it to myself as a 
 definite intellection, an apprehension, as I can conceive of the 
 existence of a city or a continent, or of the truth of a mathe- 
 matical proposition. 
 
 The same may be said of the ideas of the infinite and the 
 absolute. They are not properly within the limits of 
 thought, of apprehension, to the human mind. Thought in 
 its very nature imposes a limitation on the object which is 
 thought of — fathoms it — passes around it with its measur- 
 ing hne — apprehends it : only so far as this is done is the 
 thing actually thought ; only so far as it can be done is the 
 thing really thinkable. But the infinite, the unconditioned, 
 the al)solute, in their very nature unlimited, cannot be shut 
 up thus within the narrow lines of human thought. Thej 
 are inconceivable. They are not, however, contradictory to 
 thought. They may be true ; they are true and real, though 
 we cannot properly conceive tnem. 
 
 The Inconceivable becomes Impossible^ when, — TSTot every 
 thing then which is inconceivable is impossible, nor, on the 
 other hand, is every tiling which is impossible inconceivable. 
 The inconceivable is impossible, at least it can be known to 
 
CONCfPTION. 55 
 
 be so, only when it is either self-contradiett)ry — as that a 
 thing should be and not be at the same time — that a part 
 IS equal to the whole, etc. ; or when it is contradictory of 
 the laws cf thought, as that two straight lines should enclose 
 a space — that an event may occur without a cause — that 
 space is not necessary to the existence of matter, or time to 
 the succession of events. These things are imthinkable 
 but they are more than that, contradictory of the established 
 lawis of thought ; and they are impossible, because thus con- 
 tradictory, and not merely because inconceivable. It is 
 hardly true, as is sometimes affirmed, and as Dr. Wayland 
 has stated, that our conceptions are the limits of possi- 
 bility. 
 
 Mr, StewarPs use of the term Conception, — Mr. Stewart 
 has employed the term Conception in a somewhat peculiar 
 manner, and has assigned it a definite place among the fac- 
 ulties of the mind. He uses it to denote " that power of 
 the mind which enables it to form a notion of an absent ob- 
 ject of perception, or of a sensation which we have formerly 
 felt." It is the office of this faculty " to present us with an 
 exact transcript of what we have felt or perceived." In 
 this respect it differs from imagination, which gives not an 
 exact transcript, but one more or less altered or modified, 
 combining our conceptions so as to form new results. It 
 differs from memory in that it involves no idea of time, no 
 recognition of the thing conceived, as a thing formerly per 
 oeived. 
 
 Objection to this use. — This use of the term is, on some 
 cccounts, objectionable. It is certainly not the ordinary 
 sense of the word, but a departure from established usage 
 It is an arbitrary limitation of a word to denote a part only 
 instead of the whole of that which it properly signifies. 
 There is no reason, in the- nature of the case, why the 
 notion we form of an absent object of perception, or of a 
 eeasation, should be called a conception, rather than oui 
 
56 CONCEPTION. 
 
 notion of an abstract truth, a proposition in morals, or a 
 mathematical problem. I am not aware that any special 
 importance attaches to the former more than to the latter 
 class of conceptions. Indeed, Sir W. Hamilton limits the 
 term to the latter. But this again is not in acooidiUiCd 
 with established usage. 
 
INTELLECTUAL FACULTIES. 
 
 PiRT FIRST 
 
 THE PRESBNTATIVE PGvTER 
 
THK 
 
 PRESENTATIVE POWER 
 
 SENSE, OR PERCEPTION BT THE SENSES. 
 
 § I. — General Observations. 
 
 This Faculty the Foundation of our Knowledge, — Of the 
 cognitive powers of the mind, the first to be noticed, ac- 
 cording to the analysis and distribution ah'eady given, is the 
 Presentative Power — the power of cognizing external ob- 
 jects through the senses. This claims our first attention, 
 inasmuch as it lies, chronologically at least, at the founda- 
 tion of all our cognitive powers, and in truth, of our entire 
 mental activity. We can, perhaps, conceive of a being so 
 constituted as to be independent of sense, and yet possess 
 mental activity ; and we can even conceive such a mind as 
 taking cognizance, in some mysterious way, of objects ex- 
 ternal to itself. But not such a being is man — not such 
 the nature of the human mind. Its activity is first awak 
 ened through sense ; from sense it derives its knowledge of 
 the external world, of whatever lies without and beyond 
 the charmed circle of self ; and whether all our knowledge 
 is, strictly speaking, derived from sense, or not — a question 
 so much disputed, and which we will not here stay to dis- 
 cuss — there can be no doubt that the activity of sense, and 
 the knowledge thus acquired, is at least the ?>eginning and 
 foundation of all our mental acquisitions. We are con- 
 stantly receiving impressions from without through the 
 «enses. In this way the raind is first awakened to activity. 
 
60 PERCEPTION BY THE SENSES. 
 
 and from this source we derive our knowledge of the extei 
 nal world. 
 
 General Character of this Faculty. — In its general char- 
 acter the faculty now under consideration, as the name indi- 
 cates, is presentative and intuitive. It presents rather than 
 represents objects, and what the mind thus perceives it per- 
 ceives mtuitively, rather than as the result of reflection. 
 The knowledge which it gives is immediate knowledge, the 
 knowledge of that which is now and here present, in time 
 and space. 
 
 Involves a twofold Element. — Looking more closely at 
 the character of this faculty, we find it to involve a twofold 
 element, which we cannot better indicate than by the terms 
 subjective and objective. There is, in the first place, the 
 knowledge or consciousness of our own sentient organism 
 as affected, and there is also the knowledge of something 
 external to, and independent of the mind itself, or the me, 
 as the producing cause of this affection of the organism. 
 We know, by one and the same act, ourselves as affected, 
 and the existence and presence of an external something 
 afiecting us. This presupposes, of course, the distinct inde- 
 pendent existence of the me and the not-me — of ourselves 
 as thinking and sentient beings, and of objects external to 
 ourselves, and material, — a distinction which lies at the 
 foundation of all sense-perception. All perception by the 
 senses involves, and presupposes, the existence of a sentient 
 being capable of perceiving, and of an object capable of 
 being perceived. It supposes, also, such a relation between 
 the two, that the former is affected by the presence of the 
 latter. From this results perception in its twofold aspect, 
 or the knowledge, on the part of the sentient mind, at once 
 of itself as affected, and of the object as affecting it. Ac- 
 cording as one or the other of these elements is more di- 
 rectly the object of attention, so the subjective and the 
 objective character predominate in the act of perception, 
 U the former, then we think chiefly of the me as affected, 
 
PERCEPTION BY THE SENSES. 61 
 
 and are scarcely conscious of the external object as the 
 source or the producmg cause ; if the latter, the reverse 
 ia true, 
 
 § n — Analysis of the Perceptive Process. 
 
 Simple Sensation. — The nature of the presentative power 
 may be better understood by observing densely the different 
 teps of the process. As we come into contact with the 
 external world, the first thing of which we are conscious, 
 the first step in the process of cognition, is doubtless simple 
 sensation. Something touches me, my bodily organism is 
 thereby affected, and I am conscious, at once, of a certain 
 feeling or sensation. I do not know as yet what has pro- 
 duced the sensation, or whether any thing produced it. I 
 do not as yet recognize it as the result of an affection of the 
 bodily organism, or even as pertaining to that organism in 
 distinction from the spiritual principle. I am conscious only 
 of a certain feeling. This is simple sensation — a purely 
 subjective process. 
 
 Recognition of it as such. — We do not, however, stop 
 here. The mind is at once aroused by the occurrence of the 
 phenomenon supposed, the attention is directed to it. I 
 cognize it as sensation, as feeHng. If it be not the first in- 
 stance of the kind in my experience, I distinguish it from 
 other sensations which I have felt. 
 
 Distribution of it to the Parts affected, — More than this; 
 1 am conscious not only of the given sensation, but of its 
 being an affection of my bodily organism, and of this or 
 that part of the organism ; I distinguish the body as the seat 
 of the sensation, and this or that part of the body as the 
 part affected. The organism as thus affected becomes itself 
 an object of thought as distinct from the thinking mind 
 that animates and pervades it. It becomes to me an ex- 
 ternality, having extension and parts out of and distinct 
 from each other. As thus viewed, and brought now for the 
 first time under the eye of consciousness, it becomes knowu 
 
62 PERCEPTION BY THE SENSES. 
 
 to me as the non-ego^ still connected, however, by sensa 
 tion with the ego, the sentient principle and as thus viewed, 
 I become aware that the sensation which I feel is an affectioD 
 of that organism, and of a certain portion of it, as the hand, 
 or the foot. This cognizance of the sensation as such, aa 
 pertaining to the organism, and to this or that part of the 
 same, and the consequent cognizance of the organism as 
 euch, as distinct from the sentient mind, and as thus and 
 thus affected, is no longer simple sensation^ it is perception^ 
 
 Cognition of so7nething external to the Organis'in itself 
 — This is the most simple form of immediate perception. 
 The process does not, however, necessarily stop here. I am 
 conscious not only of this or that part of my organism as 
 affected, but of something external to the organism itself, 
 in contact with and affecting it. This organism with which 
 I find myself connected, the seat of sensation, the object of 
 perception, is capable of self-movement in obedience to my 
 volitions. I am conscious of the effort to move my person, 
 and conscious also of being resisted in those movements by 
 something external in contact with my organism. This yet 
 unknown something becomes now the object of attention 
 and perception ^ — this new phenomenon — resistance, some- 
 thing resisting. To perceive that I am resisted, is to per- 
 ceive that something resists, and to perceive this is to per- 
 ceive the object itself which offers such resistance. I may 
 not know every thing pertaining to it, what sort of thing it 
 may be, but I know this respecting it, that it exists, that it 
 is external to my organism, that it resists my movements^ 
 Thus the outer world becomes directly an object of percep- 
 tion — passes under the immediate eye of consciousness. 
 
 In what Sense these several Steps distinct, — In the prece- 
 ding analysis, in order more clearly to illustrate the nature Ox 
 the process, we have regarded the act of perception as 
 oroken into several distinct parts, or steps of progress. This, 
 however, is not strictly correct as regards the psychology 
 of the matter. Logically, we may distinguish the simple 
 
PERCEPTION BY THE SENSES. (53 
 
 «rnsation as mere feeling, from the reference of the same to 
 this or tha*> part of the bodily organism as affected, and 
 each of these again, from the cognizance of the external ob- 
 ject, which by contact or resistance produces the sensation. 
 Chronologically, the act is one and indivisible. The sensar 
 tion and the perception are synchronous. We cannot 
 separate the act of sense-perception into the consciousness 
 of a sensation, the consciousness of the bodily organism a 
 affected by that sensation, and the consciousness of an ex 
 ternal something as the proximate cause of that affection. 
 To experience a sensation, is to experience it as here or 
 there in the sentient organism, and to perceive contact or 
 resistance, is to perceive something in contact or resisting. 
 There may, however, be sensation without cognizance of the 
 external producing cause. 
 
 Mestricted Sense of the term Perception. — According to 
 the view now advanced, perception is immediate / not a 
 matter of inference, not a roundabout reflective process. 
 It is a cognizance direct and intuitive of the bodily organi- 
 zation as thus and thus affected, and of an external some- 
 thing in correlation with it, affecting and limiting that or 
 ganism in its movements. 
 
 Usually, however, a wider range has been given to the 
 term, and the faculty thereby denoted. It has been made 
 to comprehend any mental process by which we refer a spe- 
 cific sensation to something external as its producing cause. 
 It is thus employed by Reid and Stewart, and such has been 
 in fact the prevalent use of the term. According to this, 
 when we experience the sensation of fragrance, and refer 
 that sensation to the presence of a rose, or the sensation of 
 sound, and refer it to the stroke of a bell, or a passing car 
 riage, we exercise the faculty of perception. Evidently, 
 however, our knowledge in these cases is merely a matter 
 of inference, of judgment, not of immediate direct percep- 
 tion, not in fact of perception at all. All that we properly 
 perceive in such a case, all that we are directly cor scions of 
 
84 PERCEPTION BY THE SENSES. 
 
 IS the fragrance or the sound. That these are produced hj 
 the rose and the bell is not perceived, but only conceived^ 
 inferred — known, if at all, only by the aid of previous ex- 
 perience. 
 
 Sensation as distinguished ffom Perception, — Accord- 
 'ng to the view now presented, seiisation^ as distinguished 
 from perception^ is the simple feeling which results from a 
 certain affection of the organism. It is known to us merely 
 IS feeling. Perception takes cognizance of the feeling a% 
 an affection of the organism^ and also of the organism as 
 thus affected, and consequently as external to the me, 
 extended, having parts, etc. It apprehends also objects 
 external to the organism itself limiting and affecting its 
 movements. Sensation is the indispensable condition of 
 perception. If there were no sensation, there would be no per* 
 ception. The one does not precede, however, and the other 
 follow in order of time, but the one being 'given, the other 
 is given along with it. The two do not, however, coexist 
 in equal strength, but in the relation, as stated by Hamilton, 
 of inverse ratio / that is, beyond a certain point, the stronger 
 the sensation, the weaker the perception, and vice versa. 
 
 Sensation as an Affectioji of the Mind, — It has been 
 common to speak of sensation as lying wholly in the mind. 
 Primarily, however, it is an affection of the nervous organ- 
 ism, and through that organism, as thus affected, an impres- 
 sion is made on the mind. If it were not for the mind 
 present with the organism, and susceptible of impression 
 from it, and thus cognizant of changes in it, the same 
 changes might be produced in the organism as now, but w^ 
 should be entirely unconscious of and insensible ta them. 
 In certain states of the system this actually happens, as in 
 Bound sleep, the magnetic state, the state produced by cer- 
 tain medicinal agents as ether, chloroform, opium, and the 
 intoxicating drugs of the East. In those cases, the connect 
 tion between the mind and the nervous organism seems to 
 be in some manner interrupted or suspended, and conse- 
 
PERCEPTION BY THE SENSES Qh 
 
 qiiently there is for the time no sensation. The nerves Liay 
 be irritated, divided even, and still no pain is felt. ' 
 
 It is not true, however, that the sensation is wholly in the 
 mind. It is in the living animated organism, as pervaded by 
 the mind or spiritual principle, mysteriously present in every 
 part of that organism, and cognizant of its changes ; and 
 neither the body alone, nor the mind alone, can be said to 
 possess this faculty, but the two united in that complex 
 mysterious imity which constitutes our present being. 
 
 § III. — Analysis and Classification of the Qualities of Bodies. 
 
 Difference of Qualities, — The qualities of bodies as 
 known to us through sensation and perception are many 
 and various. On examination, a difference strikes us as exist- 
 ing among these qualities, which admits of being made the 
 basis of classification. Some of them are qualities which 
 strike us at once as essential to the very existence of matter, at 
 least in our notion of it, so that we cannot in thought divest 
 it of these qualities, and still retain our conception of matter. 
 Others are not of this nature. Extension, divisibility, size, 
 figure, situation, and some others, are of the former class. 
 If matter exists at all, it must, according to our own con- 
 ceptions, possess these qualities. We cannot think them 
 away from it, and leave matter still existing. But we can 
 conceive of matter as destitute of color, flavor, savor, heat, 
 cold, weight, sound, hardness, etc. These are contingent 
 and accidental properties not necessary to its existence. 
 
 JIbiv named and distinguished. — Philosophers have 
 called the former class primary., the latter secondary quali- 
 ties. The former are known a priori., the latter by expe^ 
 rience. The former are known as qualities, in themselves, 
 tlr.e latter only through the affections of our senses. 
 
 The primary qualities then have these characteristics : 
 
 1. They are essential to the very existence of matter, at 
 least in our conception. 
 
ee PERCEPTION EY THE SENSES. 
 
 2. Tliey are to be known d priori. 
 
 3. They are known as such, or in themselves. 
 The secondary, on the contrary, are : 
 
 1. Accidental, not essential to the notion of matter. 
 
 2. To be known only by experience. 
 
 3. To be learned only through the affection of the senses, 
 Further Division of secondary Qualities, — A further 
 
 division, however, is capable of being made. The secon- 
 dary qualities, as now defined, comprise, in reality, two 
 classes. There are some, which, while known to us only 
 through, the senses, have still an existence as qualities of 
 external objects, independent of our senses. As such they 
 are objects of direct perception. Others, again, are known, 
 not as qualities of bodies, but only as affections of sense, not 
 as objective, but only as subjective, not as perceptions, but 
 only as sensations. Thus I distinguish the smell, the taste, 
 
 • 
 
 and the color of an orange. What I distinguish, however, 
 is after all only certain sensations, certain affections of my 
 own organism. What may be the peculiar properties or 
 qualities in the object itself which are the exciting cause of 
 these sensations in me, I know not. My perception does not 
 extend to them at all. It is quite otherwise with the qualities 
 of weight, hardness, compressibility, fluidity, elasticity, and 
 others of that class. They are objects of perception, and 
 not of sensation merely. 
 
 These Classes^ how distinguished, — The class first 
 named, are qualities of bodies as related to other bodies. 
 The other class are qualities of bodies as related only to our 
 nervous organization. The former all relate to bodies ag 
 occupying and moving in space^ and come under the cate- 
 gory of resistance. The latter relate to bodies only as 
 capable of producing certain sensations in us. We may call 
 tke former mechanical^ the latter physiological. 
 
 Connection of Sensation with the exterjial Object. — 
 From long habit of connecting the sensation with the ex 
 ternaJ body which produces it, we find it difficult to per 
 
PERCEPTION BY THE SENSES. 67 
 
 guade ourselves that taste and smell are mere aifectioiis of 
 our senses, or that color is really and simply an affection of 
 the optic nerve of the beholder, and that what is actually 
 perceived in these instances is not properly a quality of the 
 external object. A little reflection, however, will convince 
 us that all which comes to our knowledge in these cases, all 
 that we are properly cognizant of, is the affection of our 
 own nervous organism, and that whatever may be the na. 
 ture of the qualities in the object which are the producing 
 cause of these sensations in us, they are to us occult and 
 wholly unknown. 
 
 Power of producing these Sensations, — It is not to be 
 denied, of course, that there is in external objects the power 
 of producing these sensations in us, under given circum- 
 stances ; but to what that power is owing, in what pecu- 
 liarity of constitution or condition it consists, we know not 
 We have but one name, moreover, for the power of pro 
 ducing, and the effect produced. Thus the color, taste, 
 smell, etc., of an object may denote either the sensation in 
 us, or the unknown property of matter by virtue of which 
 the sensation is awakened. It is only in the sense last men- 
 tioned, that the qualities under consideration may properly 
 be called qualities of bodies. 
 
 JSnumeration of the several Qualities as now classed,- 
 According to the classification now made, the qualities of 
 bodies may be thus enumerated. 
 
 I. Primary, — Extension, divisibility, size, density, figure 
 absolute incompressibihty, mobility, situation. 
 
 II. Secondary, — A. Objective^ oy mechanical — as heavy 
 or light, hard or soft, firm or fluid, rough or smooth, com- 
 pressible or incompressible, resilient or irresilient, and any 
 other qualities of this general nature resulting from attrac- 
 tion, repulsion, etc. 
 
 B. Subjective or physiological— 2i^ color, sound, flavor, 
 eavor, temperature, tactual sensation, and certain other 
 affections of the senses of this nature. 
 
PERCEPTIOIsr BY THE SENSES. 
 §1V.— ORGiNs OF Sense.- — Ajstalysis of theis Several Functions 
 
 Number of the Senses. — The different senses are usually 
 reckoned as five in number. They may all be regarded, 
 however, as modifications of one general sense, that of 
 touch — or, in other words, the susceptibility of the nervous 
 system to be excited by foreign substances brought into 
 contact with it. This is the essential condition of sensation 
 in any case, and the several senses, so called, are but so 
 many variations in the mode of manifesting this excitability. 
 There is a reason, nevertheless, for assigning five of these 
 modifications and no more, and that is, that the anatomi- 
 cal structure indicates either a distinct organ, as the ear, 
 the eye, etc., or at least a distinct branch of the nervous ap- 
 paratus, as in the case of smell and taste, while the whole 
 nervous expansion as spread out over the surface of the 
 body contributes to the general sense of touch. 
 
 The Senses related to each other, — Distinct Office of each, 
 — It is evident enough that these several senses sustain a 
 certain relation to each other. They are so many and no 
 more, not merely by accident ; not merely because so many 
 could fijid room in the bodily organization ; not merely be- 
 cause it might be convenient to have so many. Let us look 
 at the office performed by each, and we shall see that while 
 each has its distinct function, not interchangeable with that 
 of any other, it is a function more or less necessary to the 
 animal economy. Remembering that the design and use 
 of the several senses is to put us in possession of data, by 
 means of which, directly or indirectly, we may gain correct 
 knowledge of the external world, let us suppose the inquiry 
 to be raised. What senses ought man to have for this pur 
 pose ? What does he need, the material universe remaining 
 what it is ? 
 
 Function of the Sense of Touch, — Things exist about us 
 ki space, having certain properties and relations. We 
 need a sense then, first and chiefly, that shall acquaint us 
 
PERCEPTION BY THE SENSES, 69 
 
 with objects thus existing, taking cognizance of what lies 
 immediately about us in space. This we have in the gen 
 eral sense of touch, making us acquainted with certain ob- 
 jective or mechanical qualities of external objects. 
 
 This Sense^ how limited, — This, however, avails only for 
 objects within a short distance, and capable of being brought 
 into contact. It operates also synthetically and slowly, 
 ^art after part of the object being given as we are brought 
 mto contact with different portions of it successively 
 until the process is so far complete that, from the ensemble 
 of these different parts, our understanding can construct the 
 whole. 
 
 Possibility of a Sense that shall meet these Lim^itations. 
 — We can conceive of a sense that should differ in both 
 these respects — that should take cognizance of distant ob- 
 jects, not capable perhaps of being brought into contact — 
 and that should also operate analytically, or work from a 
 given whole to the parts, and not from the parts to a whole, 
 thus giving us possession at once of a complete object or 
 .series of objects. Such a sense, it is easy to see, would pos- 
 sess decided advantages, and in connection with the one 
 already considered, would seem to bring within the sphere 
 of our cognizance almost the complete range of external 
 nature. This we have, and this exactly, in the sense of 
 vision. It takes in objects at a distance, and takes in the 
 whole at a glance. 
 
 This new Sense still limited, — This new sense, however, 
 convenient and useful as it is, has evidently its limitations. Il 
 is available only through a given medium, the light. Strictly 
 speaking, it is the light only that we see, and not the distant 
 object ; that is known indirectly by means of the light that 
 variously modified, travels from it to the eye. When this 
 fails, as it does during several hours of the twenty-four, or 
 when it is intercepted by objects coming between and shut- 
 ting out the forms on which the eye seeks in vain to rest| 
 then our knowledge from this source is cut off. 
 
50 PEKCEPTION Br THE SENSES. 
 
 Still another Se?ise desirable. — Under these circumstances^ 
 might it not be well, wore there given an additional sense, 
 of the same general nature and design, but operating 
 through a different medium, sure to be present wherever ani- 
 mal life exists, so that even in the darkness of the night, or 
 the gloom* of the dungeon, we might '3till have means of 
 knowing something of the surrounding objects. And what 
 of this medium, or avenue of sense, were of such a nature 
 as to be capable of modification, and control, to some ex- 
 tent, on our part, and at our pleasure, so as to form a means 
 of voluntary communication with our fellow-beings. Would 
 not such an arrangement be of great service ? Exactly 
 these things are wanted ; exactly these wants are met, and 
 these objects accomplished, by a new sense answering to 
 these conditions — the sense of hearing — the cognizance 
 of sound. This we produce when we please by the spoken 
 word, the vocal utterance, whether of speech, or musical note, 
 or inarticulate cry, varied as we please, high, low, loud, soft 
 — a complete alphabet of expression, conveying thus by 
 signals, at once rapid and significant, the varying moods and 
 phases of our inner life to other beings that had else been 
 strangers, for the most part, to the thoughts and feelings 
 which agitate our bosoms. 
 
 Senses for another Class of Qualities, — The senses, as 
 thus far analyzed, have reference primarily to the number 
 magnitude, and distance of objects as occupying space — ■ 
 to quantities rather than qualities. Were it possible now 
 to add to these a sense, or senses that should take cogni- 
 zance of quality, as well as existence and quantity — that 
 should detect, to some extent at least, the chemical proper- 
 ties of bodies as connected especially with the functions of 
 respiration and nutrition — the list of senses would seem to 
 be complete. This addition is made, this knowledge given, 
 in the senses of S7nell and taste. 
 
 JPossihility of additional Senses. — To those already 
 named, other senses might doubtless have been added by 
 
PERCEPTION BY THE SENSES. 71 
 
 the Creator, which would have revealed, it may be, proper- 
 ties of matter of which we have now no conception. It ia 
 not to be supposed that we know every thing respecting the 
 nature and qualities of even the most familiar and common 
 objects. Many things there may be, actual, real, in the 
 world about us, of which we know nothing, becautse they 
 come not within the range of any of our senses. But aU 
 that is essential to life, and happiness^ and highest welfare 
 s doubtless imparted by the present arrangement ; and 
 when closely studied, no one of these senses will be founf^i 
 superfluous, no one overlapping the province of another, but 
 working each its specific end, and all in harmony. 
 
 The proper Office of Psychology in respect to the Senses. — 
 It is the province of the anatomist and the physiologist to 
 explain the mechanical structure of the several organs of 
 sense, and their value as parts of the physical system. Thf 
 psychologist has to do with them only as instruments of thr 
 mind, and it is for him to show their connection and prope» 
 office as such. This has been attempted in the precedm^ 
 analysis. 
 
 The hind of Knowledge afforded by the Senses, — It is t^ 
 be noticed, in addition, that with the exception of the ta^ 
 tual sense, and possibly of sight, these senses give us d< 
 direct, immediate knowledge of external things. The;*! 
 simply furnish data, signs, intimations, by the help of whic) 
 the understanding forms its conclusions of the world with 
 out. They are the receiving agents of the mind. Thi» 
 is, in fact, the chief office of sen^se, to receive through it> 
 various avenues the materials from which the understanding 
 shall frame conceptions of things without ; to convey, as i\ 
 were, a series of telegraphic despatches along those curious 
 and slender filaments that compose the nervous organization 
 by means of which the soul, keeping her hidden seat and 
 chamber within, may receive communication from the dis- 
 tant provinces of her empire. These signs the understand^ 
 ing interprets ; and in so far as this is the true nature of the 
 
72 PERCEPTION BY THE SENSES. 
 
 process, it is not a process of immediate and proper per 
 ception. I hear, for example, a noise. All iLat I really 
 perceive in this case is the sensation of sound. I refer 
 it, however, to an external cause, to a carriage passing 
 m the street. I specify, moreover, the kind of carriage, 
 perhaps a coach, or a wagon with iron axles, I have ob- 
 eerved, have learned by experience, that sounds of this 
 nature are produced in this way, that is, by carriages pass- 
 ing, and by such carriages. Hence I judge that the sound 
 which I now hear is produced in the same way. It is an 
 inference^ a conception merely. All that sense does is to re- 
 ceive and transmit the sign, which the understanding inter- 
 prets by the aid of former experience. And the same is 
 true of the other senses, with the exceptions named. 
 
 Not therefore of little Value. — We are not to infer, how 
 ever, that these senses are on this account of no special 
 value or importance to us. They do precisely what is 
 needed. They put us in possession of just the data wanted 
 in order to the necessary information concerning external 
 things. It is only the theorist who undervalues the senses, 
 and he only in his closet. No man, in the full possession 
 of his reason, and his right mind, can go forth into this fair 
 and goodly world, and not thank God for every one of those 
 senses — sight, hearing, taste, touch, and smell. Their true 
 and tull value, however, we never learn till we come to be 
 deprived of their use ; till with Milton we exclaim, 
 
 " Seasons return ; but not to me returns 
 Day, or the sweet approach of even or morn." 
 
 § V. — Amount op Information Derived from the Rjsspeotiye Sbsisks 
 
 A further Question as to one Class of the Senses. — Th( 
 relations and specific functions of the several senses have 
 been already described. Some further questions arise, 
 however, respecting the precise amount and kind of infor- 
 mation afforded by that class of the senses which, as we 
 
PERCEPTION BY THE SENSES. "^S 
 
 oave seen, relates to the spatial properties of bodies, in dis- 
 tinction from the oliemical, viz. : hearing, sight' and touch. 
 
 W7iat is. given '^k Hearing. — And first, as to the sense of 
 hearing. What is it precisely that we hear ? When we 
 listen to a sound, w speak of hearing the object that pro- 
 duces the sound ; we say, I hear a bell, a bird, a gun, etc. 
 Strictly speaking, we do not hear the object, but only the 
 Bound. It is not the bell or the bird that we hear, but th< 
 vibration of the air produced by bell and bird. This has 
 been already illustrated by reference to a carriage passing in 
 th« street. It is only by experience, aided by other senses, 
 that we learn to refer the sound to its producing cause. 
 
 Hearing not properly Perception, — Is hearing then a sen- 
 sation merely, or is it a perception ? If by perception we 
 mean a direct knowledge of the external object — which is 
 the proper sense of the word — hearing certainly is not per- 
 ception. It gives us no such immediate knowledge. What 
 we perceive in hearing is merely the sensation of sound. It 
 may be doubted whether by this sense alone we should ever 
 get the idea that what we hear is any thing external to our* 
 selves. 
 
 Affords the means of Judging, — As it is, however, we 
 judge, not only of the existence and nature, but of the 
 distance and direction of the external object whence the 
 sound proceeds. We learn to do this with great correct- 
 ness, and with great facility. No sooner do we hear a 
 sound, in most instances, than Ave form an opinion at once, 
 from what direction it comes, and what produces it; noi 
 are we often mistaken in our judgment. The faculty of 
 judging by the ear as to the direction of the sound, and the 
 nature of the object producing it, may be cultivated by care 
 and practice to a remarkable degree of accuracy. ISTapoleon 
 v/as seldom mistaken as to the direction and distance of a 
 cannonade. It is said that the Indian of the north-western 
 prairies by applying his ear to the ground, will detect the 
 approach of a body of cavalry at a distance beyond the 
 
 4 
 
14 PERCEPTION BY THE SENSES, 
 
 reach of vision, and distingiiisli their tread fronc. that of a 
 herd of buffaloes. 
 
 .Number of Sounds. — The number of sounds which the 
 ear can distinguish is almost without limit. There are, it ia 
 gaid, five hundred distinct tones which an ear of usual accu- 
 racy can recognize, and each of these tones admits of five 
 .idndred variations of loudness, giving, in all, two hundred 
 md fifty thousand different sounds. 
 
 Power of Sound over the Mind, — The power of sound 
 to affect the mind, and especially the feehngs, is too well 
 km)wn to require specific statement. The note of an instru- 
 ment, the tone of a human voice, the wild warbling of a 
 bird, tbe tinkling of a bell, the variations of speech and of 
 song, from the high and shrill to the low and heavy intona- 
 tion, from the quick and impetuous to the slow and plaintive 
 movement, these simple varieties of tone affect powerfully 
 the heart, and find their way at once and irresistibly to the 
 feelings. Hence the power of music over even the unculti- 
 vated mind ; hence too in no small degree the power of the 
 skilful orator over the feelings of his audience. It is not 
 merely, nor so much, the thing said, in many cases, as the 
 way of saying it, that touches and sways the assembled mul- 
 titude. Tones and sounds have a natural meaning. They 
 are the natural language of the heart. They express emo- 
 tion, and hence awaken emotions in others. 
 
 The Question as to Sight, — Turning now from the sense 
 of hearing to that of sight,, the question arises. What is it 
 precisely that we perceive by the eye ? When we fni the 
 eye upon any object, more or less remote, what is it, strictly 
 speaking, that we see, extension and figure, or only color ? 
 Is it by vision that we learn prinaarily the distance Ox* objects! 
 and their locality ? These are points requiring investiga- 
 tion. 
 
 Does Sight give Extension and Figure, — As to the first 
 of these questions, whether extension and figure are objects 
 li direct visual perception. No doubt they are associated 
 
PEECEPTION BY THE SENSES. 75 
 
 m our minds mth the act of vision, so that the mctnenl wo 
 Bee an obiect we obtam an idea of it as extended, and of 
 such and such dimensions and figure.. The question is, 
 whether it is really through the sense of sight that we obtain 
 this idea, or in some other w^ay. Had we no other i^ieana 
 of information, would sight alone give us this ? When we 
 first open our eyes on external objects, do we receive tlio 
 idea of extension and figure, or only of color ? The fact 
 that as matters are, we cannot in our experience separate the 
 n<^tion of some surface extension from the sensation of color, 
 is not decisive of these questions. We cannot, as Dr. Brown 
 observes, separate the color from the convexity and magni 
 tude of an oak before us, but this does not prove that con- 
 vexity and magnitude are objects of immediate arid original 
 perception. If every surface in nature had been convex, 
 suggests the same writer, we should probably have found 
 the same difiiculty in attempting to conceive of color as 
 separate from convexity, that we now find in attempting to 
 conceive of it as separate from length and breadth. As it 
 is, however, our sensation of color has not always been asso- 
 ciated with convexity, while it has been always associated 
 with surface extension. Hence it is, he maintains, that we 
 seem to perceive, by the eye, the length, and breadth, and 
 objects along with their color. 
 
 Argument fr 0^)71 the Affection of i Portion of the Retina. 
 — The fact that in vision a certain portion of the retina iu 
 length and breadth is actually affected by the light falling 
 on it, has been supposed by some to be conclusive of the 
 fact that we perceive the length and breadth of the external 
 object by the eye. This does not necessarily follow. As 
 Dr. Brown contends, it is equally true that a certain part of 
 the organ of smell is affected by odors, and a certain part 
 of the auditory nerve is affected by sounds, yet we are not 
 conscious of any perception of extension by either of these 
 organs ; we neither smell nor hear the length, and breadth, 
 and magnitude of objects; nor is there any reason to suppose 
 
76 PERCEPTION BY THE SENSES. 
 
 that the particular portion of the retina affected has an^ 
 thing to do with the original sensation of sight. 
 
 Amount of the preceding Arguments, — These arguments, 
 however, do not strike me as conclusive. They merely 
 shoi;\ the possibility that extension and figure may he ac- 
 quired rather than original perceptions. They do not 
 amount to positive evidence that they are so. 
 
 An Argument to the Contrary, — On the other Land, 
 there is one consideration of a positive character, which to 
 most minds will be likely to outweigh the merely negative 
 arguments already adduced. Color is a property of light, 
 and light comes to us reflected from objects occupying 
 space ; we perceive it only as we perceive it spread over 
 and reflected from some surface. Extension, then, surface 
 expansion of the reflecting object, is the indispensable con- 
 dition of the visibility of light itself, and so of color, as re- 
 flected from the object. Now it is difficult to persuade our- 
 selves that what we know to be an essential condition of 
 the perception of color, and what we seem to perceive along 
 with the color, and cannot, even in thought, wholly separate 
 from it, is not, after all, really perceived by the eye. 
 
 Argument from recent Discoveries. — Indeed, recent dis- 
 coveries in science seem to vindicate that not only surface 
 extension, but trinal extension, or solidity., may be an 
 object of direct perception by the eye. I refer to the 
 researches of Wheatstone, in binocular vision, which go 
 to show, that in consequence of the difference of the imager 
 formed upon the right and the left eye, as occupying differ- 
 ent positions with i-eference to the object seen, we are en^ 
 ab1ed by the eye to cognize the solidity as well as the exten» 
 sion of objects. The difference of figure in the two images 
 gives us this. That such is the case is shown by an instru- 
 ment, the stereoscope, so constructed as to present separ- 
 ately the image as formed on each eye, which, when separ- 
 ately viewed, appear as mere plane surfaces, but wiieu 
 v'.ewed together, the right image with the right eye, and 
 
PERCEPTION BY THE SENSES. 77 
 
 ; le lefl one with the left eye, at the same time, preseiit qo 
 ronger the appearance of plane surfaces, but the two imagus 
 combine to form one distinct figure, and that a solid, having 
 length, breadth, thickness, and standing out with all the 
 semblance of the real object. 
 
 It is hardly necessary to say that if extension is an object 
 af perception by the eye, so also is figure, which is merely 
 ihe limitation of extension in different directions. 
 
 Second Question — Does Sight give Distance ? — Is it also 
 oy vision that we obtain the idea of the distance of objects 
 and their externafity ? Does vision alone give the idea that 
 what we see is numerically distinct from ourselves, and that 
 it occupies this or that particular locality ? So it Vv^ould seem, 
 judging from the impression left upon the mind in the act 
 of vision. We seem to see the object as here or there, ex- 
 ternal, more or less distant in space. We distinguish it 
 rom ourselvefe. 
 
 The negative 'View, — This is denied by some. All that 
 Vv'e see, they contend, is merely the light coming from the 
 object, and :6^om the variations and modifications which this 
 )xhibits we learn to judge by experience of the distance and 
 ocality of the object. It is a matter of judgment and not 
 3f perception. We have learned to associate the two things, 
 jhe visual appearance and the distance. 
 
 Argument in the Negative, — In proof of this they ad- 
 duce the fact that we are frequently mistaken in our esti- 
 mate of the distance of objects. If there be more or fewer 
 intervening objects than usual, if the atmosphere be more 
 or less clear than usual, or any like circumstance affords a 
 variation from our ordinary experience, we are misled as to 
 the distance of the object. Hence we mistake the distance 
 of ships at sea, or of objects on a prairie or a desert, the 
 width of rivers, the height of steeples, towers, etc. 
 
 Further Argument in the Negative, — It is ffirther con 
 tended that facts show that the impressions of sight alone, 
 uncorrected by experience, do not convey the idea of di* 
 
78 PERCEPTION BY THE SENSES. 
 
 tanee at all, but that what we see seems to be in connectioB 
 with the eye itself, until we learn the contrary by the aid oi 
 other senses. This, it is said, is the experience of persons 
 who have been operated upon for cataract, particulaily of a 
 patient whose case is described by Cheselden, and who 
 thought every thing which he saw, touched his eyes. It is 
 said also to have been the same with Caspar Hauser, when 
 6rst liberated from the long confinement of his dungeon, 
 and permitted to look out upon the external world. The 
 goodly landscape seemed to him to be a group of figures, 
 drawn upon th-fe wmdow. 
 
 Force of this Argument. — - This, however, is not incon- 
 sistent with the perception of externality by vision, since 
 even what seems to be in contact v/ith the eye, nay, what is 
 known to be so, may still be known as external. Contact 
 imjolies externality. It is very much to be doubted, more 
 over, whether the cases now referred to, coincide with the 
 usual experience of those who are learning to see. The lit- 
 tle child seems to recognize the externality and remoteness 
 from his own person of the objects which attract his atten- 
 tion, as soon as he learns to observe surrounding objects at 
 all, and, though he may not judge correctly of their relative 
 distance from himself, never seems by his movements to sup- 
 pose that they are in contact with his eye or with any part 
 of his person. The young of animals, also, as soon as they 
 are born, seem to perceive by the eye, the externality, the 
 direction, and the distance of objects, and govern their 
 movements accordingly. It is not, in these cases, a mattei 
 of experience, but of direct perception. These facts render it 
 doubtful, to say the least, whether the common impression — • 
 that which in spite of all arguments to the contrary, is, and 
 aiways will be made upon the mind in the act of vision, viz., 
 that we see objects as external, as having locality, and as 
 more or lejs remote from us - s not, after all, the correct 
 impression. 
 
 Learning to judge of Distance not inconsistent with thi& 
 
PERCEPTION BY THE SENSES 79 
 
 View. — Nor does it conflict v/ith this view that we learn lo 
 judge of the true distance of objects, and are often deceived 
 in regard to it. The measurement of distance, the more or 
 less of it, is of course a matter of experience, a thing to be 
 learned by practice. It does not follow, however, that we 
 may not by the eye directly, and at first, perceive an object 
 to be external, and removed from us, in other words distant, 
 though we may not know at first how distant. The rays of 
 light that come to us from this external object, may give us 
 direct perception of the object as external, as extended, and 
 as occupying apparently a given locality in space more or 
 less remote, while at the same time it may be left to other 
 senses and to experience to determine how great that diissu 
 tance is. 
 
 Que3ti07is as to Touch, — Passing now from the sense of 
 sight lo that of touchy we find similar questions discussed 
 among philosophers respecting the precise information af- 
 forded by this sense. Does touch give us immediate per- 
 ception of externality, extension, form, hardness, softness, 
 etc., including the various mechanical properties of bodies *i 
 To this sense it has been common tq ascribe these faculties 
 of perception. They are so attributed by Reid, Upham, 
 Wayland, and, I believe, by modern writers generally, with 
 the exception of Brown and Hamilton. 
 
 JProbahility of another Source of Information, — It may 
 be questioned, I think, whether, as regards some of these 
 qualities at least, it is not rather the consciousness of resist- 
 ance to muscular effort, than the sense of touch, properly 
 Bpeaking, that is the informing source. So, for example, as 
 to hardness ; the application of an external body lightly to 
 he hand awakens the sense of touch, but conveys no idea 
 of hardness. Let the same object be allowed to rest with 
 gradually increasing weight upon the hand until it becomes 
 painful, and we get the idea of weight, gravitation, but not 
 of the hardness or impenetrability of the object. It is c»nly 
 when our muscular effort to move or penetrate the external 
 
80 FERCEPTIOIS BY THE SEP^SES. 
 
 body is met and resisted by the same, that we learn the im- 
 penetrabihty of the opposing body. 
 
 Other Perceptions attributable to the same Source, — So 
 with regard to externality, extension, and form. When an 
 external object, a cube, for example, or an ivory ball, is 
 placed on the palm of the hand, sensation is awakened, but 
 is that sensation necessarily accompanied with the percep- 
 tion of the external object as such ? Does the mere tactual 
 sensation, in the first instance, and of itself, inform us that 
 there is something external to ourselves, that what we feel 
 is not a part of our own organism ? We are conscious of a 
 change in the sensation of the part affected, but are we im- 
 mediately conscious that this change is produced by some- 
 thing external ? Let there be given, however, the conscious- 
 ness of resistance to our muscular movements, as when the 
 cube or ball, for instance, prevents the effort to close the 
 hand, or when our locomotion is impeded by the presence 
 of some obstacle, and will not the same resistance inform us 
 of the extension of the resisting body, and so of its form 
 and figure ? We learn whereabout in space this resistance 
 occurs, and where it ceases. The tactual sensation would 
 indeed very soon come to our aid in this cognition, and 
 serve as a guiding sense, even in the absence of the former. 
 The question is, whether this alone would, in the first in 
 stance, give us such cognitions ? 
 
 Our first Ideas of Extension^ how derived. — We have 
 had reference in this discussion only to the qualities of ex- 
 ternal bodies. There can be little question that cmv first 
 ideas of extension are derived from our own sentient organ- 
 ism, the consciousness of sensations in different parts of the 
 body, distinct from, and out of each other, thus affording 
 ihe knowledge of an extended sentient organization. The 
 udea of externality, or outness, and extension, thus acquired, 
 th^ transition is easy from the perception of our own bodies 
 AS possessing these qualities, to the cognizance of the same 
 4uah\i^ in external objects. 
 
PERCEPTION BY THE SENSES. ffi 
 
 g VI. — Credibility of our Sensations and Perceptions. 
 
 Denied by some, — There have always been those who 
 were disposed to call in question the testimony of the senses. 
 Such were the Eieatics and the Skeptics among the Greek 
 philosophers, and there have not been wanting among the 
 moderns minds of acuteness and ingenuity that have fol- 
 lowed in the same path. While admitting the pJieno'inena 
 of sense, the appearance of things as being so and so, thej 
 have called in question the corresponding objective reality 
 Things appear to me to be thus and thus — such and such 
 impressions are made on my senses — that I cannot deny; 
 but how do I know that the reality corresponds to my im- 
 pressions, or, in fact, that there is any reality ? How know 
 we our senses to be reliable ? What evidence have we that 
 they do not habitually deceive us ? 
 
 Emdenee demanded. — It were perhaps a sufficient answer 
 to this question to reply, What evidence have we, or can we 
 have, that they do deceive us ? In the absence of all evi- 
 dence to the contrary, is it not more reasonable to suppose 
 that our perceptions correspond to realities, than that they 
 are without foundation, uncaused, or caused by something 
 not at all answering to the apparent object of perception ; 
 more reasonable to suppose that there is a real table or book 
 answering to my perception of one, than that I have the 
 perception while there is no such reality ? It remains with 
 those, then, Avho question and deny the validity of sense- 
 perception, to show reasons for such denial. And this be- 
 comes the more imperative on them, inasmuch as they 
 contradict the common belief and universal opinion of man* 
 kind — nay, what, in spite of all their arguments, is still, by 
 their own confession, their own practical conviction and belief. 
 
 Evidence impossible. — But whence is ihis evidence g 
 come? Where is it to be souglit ? How are we to prove 
 that sense deceives us, except by arguments drawn from 
 «ense ? And if sense is not reliable in the first instance. 
 
5'J PERCEPTION BY THE SENSES, 
 
 why re.y upon it in the second, to prove that it is not re^ 
 liable? If the senses do habitually deceive us, manifestly 
 it can never be shown 'that they do. And, even if thia 
 could be shown, it would be impossible to find aiQy thing 
 better to rely upon in their stead. We have these guides or 
 none. We have these instruments of observation provided 
 for the voyage of life. We may pronounce them worthless 
 nd throw them into the sea, but we cannot replace them. 
 
 Inco7isistent and contradictoTy Testimony of Sense,— 
 But it may be replied that the testimony of sense is often 
 inconsistent with itself, and contradictory of itself. What 
 is sweet to one is sour and bitter to another. What seems a 
 round tower in the distance becomes a square one as you 
 approach ; and the straight stick that you hold m your hand 
 appears crooked when thrust into the water. There is in 
 reality, however, no contradiction or inconsistency in the 
 cases supposed. The change of circumstances accounts in 
 every instance for the change of appearance. In the case 
 of the stick, for example, the different density of the water 
 accounts for the refraction of the rays of light that pass 
 through it, and this accounts for the crooked appearance of 
 the stick that is only partially submerged. So in the other 
 cases ; it is no contradiction that an object which appears 
 round at a distance of ten miles, should appear square at the 
 distance of so many rods — or that the taste of two persons 
 should not agree as to the savor of a given object. 
 
 Deceptions of Sense,- — It may be further objected that in 
 fc^.ertain states of the physical organism, sensations are ex- 
 perienced which seem to be of external origin, but are really 
 produced by internal changes ; and that in such cases we 
 have the same perceptions, see the same objects, hear the 
 same things, that w^e should if there were a corresponding 
 external reality, while nevertheless there is no such reality, 
 and it can be proved that there is none. If this may happen 
 in some cases, why not in others, or in all ? 
 
 Reply, — I reply, the simpL ^nct, that in the case sup» 
 
PERCEPTION BY THE SENSES. S3 
 
 posed the deception can be detected and proved, shows the 
 difference between that and ordinary perception. If the 
 senses were not habitually reliable, we could not detect the 
 mistake in this particular instance. If all coin were counter- 
 feit, how could we detect a counterfeit com ? We know, 
 moreover, liow to account for the mistake in the case before 
 us. It occurs, by the supposition, only in a certain state of 
 
 he organism, that is, only in a diseased, abnormal conditioi? 
 of the system. The exception proves the rule. 
 
 Distinction of direct and indirect TesthnoJiy. — A dis- 
 tinction is to be made, in the discussion of this subject, be- 
 tween the direct and indirect testimony of the senses, be- 
 tween that which is strictly and properly perception, and 
 that which is only conception, judgment, inference. What 
 I really perceive, for example, in the case of the distant 
 tower, or the stick partially under water, is only a given ap- 
 pearance ; I infer from that appearance that the tower is 
 round and the stick crooked, and in that inference I am mis- 
 taken. My judgment is at fault here, and not my senses. 
 They testified truly and correctly. They gave the real ap- 
 pearance, and this was all they could give, all they ever 
 give. This has been well stated by Dr. Reid, and, long be- 
 fore him, the same ground was taken, in reply to the same 
 objection, by Aristotle and also by Epicurus. 
 
 Direct Perception gives what. — In regard to direct and 
 immediate perception, the case is different. Here the testi- 
 mony is positive to the existence of the object. When 
 something resists my voluntary movement, I am conscious 
 
 »f that resistance, conscious of something external and re- 
 sisting. I cannot deny the fact of that consciousness. I 
 
 nay, however, deny the correctness, the truthfulness of 
 what consciousness affirms. To do this, however, is to put 
 an end to all reasoning on the subject, for, when we give up 
 consciousness as no longer reliable, there is nothing left to 
 fall back upon. If any one chooses to leap from this preci 
 pice, wo can only ssijjinis. 
 
84 PERCEPTION BY THE SENSED, 
 
 ^ YII. — Historical Sketch. 
 
 I. Of Different Divisions of the Qualities ob 
 
 Bodies, 
 
 The Greek Philosophers, — The distinction of the quali 
 ties of bodies into two classes, differing in important re 
 Bpects, is by no means a modern one. It was recognized by 
 some of the earlier Greek philosophers, who held that the 
 sweet, bitter, hot, cold, etc., are rather affections of our own 
 senses than proper qualities of matter, having independent 
 existence. Subsequently the view was adopted by Protago- 
 ras, and by the Cyrenean and Epicurean schools. Plato 
 held it, and especially and very fully, Aristotle, who calls the 
 qualities to which we have referred, and which are usually 
 denominated secondary, affective qualities, because they have 
 the power of affecting the senses, while the qualities now 
 usually termed primary, as extension, figure, motion, num- 
 ber, etc., he regards as not properly objects of sense. The 
 former class he calls proper sensibles, the latter, common. 
 
 Tlie Schoolmen. — - The schoolmen made much of this dis- 
 tinction, and held, with Aristotle, that the qualities now 
 called primary, require, for their cognition, other faculties 
 than those of sense. 
 
 Doctrine of Galileo, — Galileo points out the true ground 
 and philosophy of this distinction, and also gives the name 
 iwiniary to the class referred to, viz., those qualities which 
 are necessary to our conception of hody^ as for example, 
 figure, size, place, etc., while, on the contrary, colors, tastes, 
 etc., are not inherent in bodies, but only in us, and we caa 
 conceive of body without them. The former are real quali- 
 ties of bodies, while the latter are only conceptions which 
 give us no real knowledge of any thing external, but only 
 of the affections of our own minds. 
 
 TJie Moderns, — Descartes and LocJce merely adopted 
 these distinctions as they found them, without essential 
 modification. So also did Iteid and Stewart^ although both 
 
PERCEPTION_^Y THE SENSES, 85 
 
 included among the primary qualities some which are prop* 
 erly secondary, as roughness, smoothness, hardness,, softness. 
 Indeed Stewart restricted the primary qualities to those and 
 such as those just named. 
 
 Hamilton, — INTo writer has so fully elaborated this mat- 
 ter as Sir William Hamilton, to whom we are indebted 
 mainly for the historical facts now stated, and whose disserta- 
 tions are and must ever remain an invaluable thesaurus on 
 the philosophy of perception. So complete and elaborate is 
 his classification of the qualities of matter, that I shall be 
 pardoned for giving a synopsis of its principal points in this 
 connection. • 
 
 Hamilton's Schem^e — General Divisions, — He divides 
 the qualities of bodies into three classes, which he calls 
 primary, secundo-primary, and secondary. The primary 
 are thought as essential to the very notion of matter, and 
 may be deduced a priori^ the bare notion of matter being 
 given ; while the secundo-primary and the secondary, being 
 accidental and contingent, must be deduced a posteriori^ 
 learned by experience. His deduction of the primary quali- 
 ties is as follows : 
 
 Primary Qualities, — ^ We can conceive of body only as, 
 T. Occupying space ; H. Contained in space. Space is a 
 necessary form of thought, but we are not obliged to con- 
 ceive of space as occupied, that is, to conceive of matter. 
 When conceived it must be under the conditions now 
 Darned. 
 
 I. The property of occupying space is Simple Solidity^ 
 which implies, a. Trinal extension, or length, breadth, ana 
 thickness ; h. Impenetrability, or the property of not be- 
 ing reduced to non-extension. Trinal extension involves, 
 1. Number, or Divisibility; 2. Size, including Density; 3. 
 Shape. 
 
 II. The attribute of being contained in space, affor^l^ the 
 notion, 1. Of Mobility ; 2. Of Position. 
 
 The essential and necessary constituents then of our no 
 
ao PERCEPTION BY THE SENSES. 
 
 tion of matter are, 1. Extension (comprising unier it, 2 
 Divisibility ; 3. Size ; 4. Density ; 5. Figure) ; 6. Ultimate 
 Incompressibility ; 7. Mobility ; 8. Situation. These are 
 the primary qualities, products, in a sort, of the understand- 
 ing, developing themselves with rigid necessity out of the 
 given notion of substance occupying space. 
 
 Secundo-Primary Qualities, — The secundo-primary are 
 contingent modifications of the primary, all have relation to 
 space, and motion in space, all are contained under the cater 
 gory of resistance^ or pressure^ all are learned or included as 
 results of experience, all have both an objective and sub- 
 jective phase, being at once qualities of matter, and also 
 affections of our senses. 
 
 Considered as to the sources of resistance, there is, I. Thai 
 of Co-attraction^ under the forms of a. Gravity, 5, Cohesion ^ 
 11. That of Repulsion ; III. Inertia ; all which are capable 
 of minute subdivision. Thus from cohesion follow the hard 
 and soft, firm and fluid, tough and brittle, rigid and flexible, 
 rough and smooth, etc., etc. From repulsion are derived 
 compressible and incompressible, resilient and irresilient. 
 
 Secondary Qualities, — The secondary qualities are, as 
 apprehended by us, not properly jfttributes of body at all, 
 but only affections of our nervous organism. They belong 
 to bodies only so far as these are furnished with the power 
 of exciting our nervous organism to the specific action thus 
 designated. To this class belong color, sound, flavor, savor 
 tactile sensation, feeling of heat, electricity, etc. Such also 
 are titillation, sneezing, shuddering, and the various sensa 
 tions, pleasurable or painful, resulting from the action of ex 
 ternal stimuli. 
 
 These Classes further distinguished, — Of the qualitie 
 thus derived, the primary are known immediately in them 
 selves, the secondary only mediately in their effects on us, 
 the secundo-primary both immediately in themselves, and 
 mediately in their effects on us. The primary are qualities 
 of body in relation to body simply, and to our organism 
 
PERCEPTION Bl THE SENSES. 87 
 
 as SQch ; the secundo-primary are qualities of body m rela- 
 tion to our organism, not as body in general, but as body 
 of a particular sort, viz. : propelling, resisting, cohesive ; 
 the secondary are qualities of body in relation to our organ- 
 ism as excitable and sentient. The primary may be roundly 
 characterized as mathematical, the secundo-primary as me- 
 chanical, the secondary as physiological. 
 
 Measons for retaining the twofold Division. — Such, hx 
 brief outline, are the principal points of Hamilton's classifi 
 cation. While following in the main the distinctions here 
 mdicated, I have preferred to retain the old division into 
 primary and secondary, as at once more simple, and suffi- 
 ciently accurate, merely dividing the secondary into two 
 classes, the mechanical (secundo-primary of Hamilton), and 
 physiological. We are thus enabled, not merely to retain a 
 division and nomenclature which have antiquity and au- 
 thority in their favor, and are well-nigh universally received, 
 but we avoid the almost barbarous terminology of Sir Wil- 
 liam's classification — while, at the same time, we indicate 
 with sufficient precision the important distinction between 
 the so-called secundo-primary and secondary qualities. 
 
 H. Of Different Theories of Perception. 
 
 Healists and Idealists, — There are two leading theories, 
 quite distinct from each other, which have widely prevailed, 
 and divided the thinking world, as to the philosophy of per- 
 ception. The one maintains that in perception we have 
 direct coghizg^nce of a real externa] world. This is the view 
 taken in the preceding pages, and now generally held by 
 psychologists in this country, and to some extent in Europe 
 But for a long period, the prevalent, and in fact, until the 
 time of Reid in Scotland, and Kant in Germany, the almost 
 universally-received opinion was the reverse of this - — that 
 in perception, as in any and all other mental acts, the mind 
 Is conscious only of its own ideas, cognizant of itself and its 
 Dwn states only, incapable, in fact, of knowing any thing 
 
88 PERCEPTION BY THE SENSES. 
 
 external to itself. Those who hold the former view are 
 termed Realists^ the latter Idealists, 
 
 Further division of the latter, — The latter, however, are 
 of two classes. The Absolute Idealists hold that the notion 
 we have of external things is purely subjective, having no 
 external counterpart, no corresponding outward reality. In 
 distinction from this the greater part maintain that while 
 Ve are cognizant, directly and strictly, of nothing beyond 
 our own minds, nevertheless there is an external reality cor- 
 responding to the idea in our minds, and which that idea 
 represents. Hence they have been designated JRepresent- 
 ative Idealists^ or, as Sir William Hamilton terms them, 
 Cosmothetic Idealists. 
 
 Farther Distinction, — Of these latter, again, some hold 
 the idea which we have of an external world to be ijierely a 
 state or modification of the mind itself; others regard it as 
 a sort of intermediate connecting link between mind and 
 matter. The former may be called egoistic, and the latter 
 non-egoistic. 
 
 Summary of Classes, — We have then these three great 
 cla-sses — - the Natural Realists^ the Absolute Idealists^ and 
 the Representative Idealists comprising the Egoistic and 
 Non-Egoistic divisions. 
 
 Distinguished Writers of the different Classes, — On the 
 roll of absolute idealism are names of no smaU distinction : 
 Berkley and Hume, in England, Fichte and Hegel, in Ger- 
 many, are of the number ; while among the representative 
 idealists one finds Descartes, Arnauld, Malebranche, Leibnitz. 
 Locke, in fine, the greater number of philosophic writers from 
 Descartes onward to the time of Reid. Subsequently even^ 
 we find a writer of no less repute than Dr. Brown assuming, 
 as the basis of his philosophy of perception, the exploded 
 theory of I'epresentative idealism, under the egoistic form. 
 Of natural realists since the time of Reid, Sir W. Hamilton 
 is the most distinguished. 
 
 Origin of Representative Idealism, — The doctrine of 
 
PERCEPTION BY THE SENSES. • 8J 
 
 representative perception doubtless originated in the dilB- 
 culty ot conceiving how a purely spiritual existence, the 
 human mind, can, by any possibility, take cognizance of, or 
 be affected by, a purely material substance, the external 
 world. The soul seated in its presence-chamber, the brain, 
 can cognize nothing beyond and without, for nothing can 
 act except where it is present. It must be, then, said the 
 philosophers, that in order to the mind's perceiving any 
 thing of that which lies beyond and without its own imme- 
 diate locality, there must come to the mind from that outer 
 world certain little images bearing some resemblance to the 
 things without, and representing to the soul that external 
 world. These images — more refined than matter, less spirit- 
 ual than mind itself, of an intermediate nature between the 
 two — they termed ideas. 
 
 Tendency of Hepresentative to Absolute Idealism. — It is 
 easy to see how such a doctrine would lead almost inevi- 
 tably to absolute idealism. If we do not in perception take 
 cognizance directly of matter external, but only of certain 
 images or ideas in our own minds, then how do we know 
 that these images correctly represent the external reality, 
 which we have never cognized, and never shall ? How do 
 we. know, in fact, that there is any such external reality? 
 What evidence have we, in a word, of the existence of any 
 thing beyond and without our own minds ? This was the 
 actual result to which Berkley and Hume drove the" then 
 prevalent philosophy of Europe, as to a legitimate and in 
 evitable result. 
 
 Relation of Dr. Meid to this Controversy. — To Dr. Reid 
 belongs the credit of rescuing philosophy from this dan 
 gerous extreme, by showing the utter falsity of the ideal 
 theory. He took the ground that the existence of any such 
 representative images in the mind is wholly without proof 
 nay more, is inconceivable ; that while we can conceive of 
 an image of form or figure, we cannot conceive of an image 
 of sound, or oi \aste or smell. The hypothesis is wholly 
 
90 ■ PERCEPTION BY THE SENSES- 
 
 wdthout foundation. But even if it were conceivable and 
 established by sufficient evidence, still it would explain 
 nothing as to the manner in which the mind perceives ex 
 ternal objects. It relieves no difficulty. If the representa- 
 tive image be itself material, how can the mind take cog- 
 nizance of it ? If not material, how can it represent matter, 
 and how can the mind know that it does represent correctly 
 the external object? 
 
 State of the Matter since Reid, — Since the time of Dr. 
 Reid, this theory of representative perception, at least in 
 this non-egoistic form, has been for the most part aban- 
 doned, and philosophers have been content to take the 
 groui^d indicated by consciousness, and the common sense 
 of mankind, that in perception we take direct cognizance 
 of the external object. 
 
 Position of Hamilton. — It remained for Sir W. Hamil- 
 ton to complete the work which Dr. Reid began, by show- 
 ing that the representative theory, in its finer or egoistio 
 form, as held by Dr. Brown and others, is equally untenable 
 or unsound ; that it makes little difference whether we re- 
 gard the image or idea, which we take to represent the 
 external object, as something distinct from the mind itself, 
 or whether we view it as a mere modification or state of the 
 mind, so long as we make any thing of the sort the direct 
 object of perception instead of the real external thing. 
 Idealism is the result in either case, and philosophical skepti- 
 cism the goal. In place of any and all such views, Hamilton 
 maintains, with great power and earnestness, the doctrine 
 of natural realism ~ that in perception we are cognizant 
 immediately and directly of the external object. 
 
 As no other writer has so fully elaborated this department 
 of science, it may be of service to present in this connection 
 the chief points of his theory. 
 
 Chief Points of Hamilton's Theory of Perception. — 
 All perception is immediate cognition ; we perceive only 
 what we apprehend as now and here existent j and henoo 
 
PEECEPTION BY THE SENSES 9i 
 
 \\rliat we perceive is either in our own organism, viewed as 
 material, extended, etc., or else is in immediate correlation 
 to it. The organism is, in perception, viewed as not-me ; in 
 sensation, as of the me. 
 
 What is given in Perception proper. — What we appre- 
 hend in perception proper is: 1. The primary qualities of 
 body as pertaining to our own organism ; 2. The seeundo- 
 primary qualities of bodies in correlation to it. (See Ham- 
 ilton's division of qualities of bodies, as above.) 
 
 Primary Qualities of external Objects^ how hnown. — The 
 primary qualities of things external to our organism we do 
 not perceive immediately, but only infer, from the effects 
 produced on us by them. Neither in perception nor sensa- 
 tion do we apprehend immediately, or in itself, the external 
 cause of our affection or sensation. That is alwavs unknown 
 to consciousness, known only by inference or conjecture. 
 
 External Existence^ how learned, — The existence of the 
 world without is apprehended not in a perception of tlie 
 primary qualities of things external, but of the secundo- 
 primary — L e., in the consciousness that our movements are 
 resisted by something external to our organism. This in- 
 volves the consciousness of something external, resisting 
 The two things are conjunctly apprehended. 
 
 This presupposes what, — This experience presupposes 
 the notion of space, and motion in space. These are inher 
 ent^ instinctive native elements of thought, and it is idle to 
 inquire how we come by them. Every perception of sen- 
 sations out q/, and distinct from, other sensations gives occa- 
 sion for conceiving the idea of space. Outness involves it. 
 
 Points of Difference between this Theory and Peid^s. — 
 The system, as thus stated, differs in some respects mate- 
 rially from the doctrine of perception advanced by Dr. Reid, 
 and generally adopted since his time by the English and 
 Scotch philosophers. According to Hamilton, perception is 
 not, as held by Reid and others, the conception of an object 
 suggested by sensation, but the direct cognition of some 
 
92 PERCEPTION BY THE SENSES. 
 
 thing. We do not raevelj conceive of iae object as existing, 
 and believe it to exist, we know it smd perceive it to exist. 
 Nor does sensation precede, and perception follow, as gener- 
 ally stated, but the two are, in time, conjunct, coexistent. 
 Nor do we perceive the secondary qualities of bodies, as 
 Buch, but only infer them from our sensations. Neither do 
 we perceive distant objects through a medium, as usually 
 held, but what we perceive is either the organism itself, as 
 affected thus and thus, or what is directly in contact with it, 
 as affecting and resisting it. Extension and externality, 
 again, are not first learned by touchy as Reid holds, and 
 most subsequent writers, both English and American, but 
 in other ways ; the former, by the perception of the primary 
 qualities of our own organism, as the seat of sensations dis- 
 tinct from other sensations elsewhere locaUzed ; the latter, 
 by the resistance which we experience to our own locomot- 
 ive force. Finally, sensation proper is not, as with Reid and 
 others, an affectioi purely of the mind, but of mind and 
 body as complex. Its subject is as much one as the other. 
 
INTELLECTCAL FACULTIES. 
 
 PART SECOND. 
 
 THE REPRESENTATIVE POWElI. 
 
THB 
 
 REPRESENTATIVE POWER 
 
 GENERAL OBSERYATIONS. 
 
 Nature of this Power — Its various Forms. — It is in the 
 mind's power to conceive or represent to itself an object not 
 at the time present to the senses. This may take place in 
 several forms. There may be the simple reproduction va 
 thought of the absent object of sense. There may be^ alonf 
 with the reproduction or recurrence of the object, the re 
 cognition of it as a former object of sensation or perception 
 There may be the reproduction of the object not as it is, or 
 was^ when formerly perceived, but with variations, the dif 
 ferent elements arranged and combined not according to 
 the actual and original, but according to the mind's own 
 ideals, and at its will. This latter form of conception i? 
 what is usually termed imagination — while the general 
 term memory, as ordinarily employed, is made to include 
 the two former. While using the term in this general 
 sense, we may properly distinguish, however, between 
 mental reproduction, and mental recognition, the latter be 
 iDg strictly the office of memory. 
 
 All these are but so many forms of the representative 
 power. We may designate them respectively as the re^ 
 productive^ recognitive^ and creative faculties. The mind's 
 activity is essentially the same under each of these forms. 
 The object is not t/iven but thought^ not presented to sense, 
 but represented to the mind. The process is reflective rathei 
 
96 MEMORY. 
 
 than intuitive. It is a matter of understanding ratlier than 
 of sense or of reason. It is a conception, not a perception 
 or an intuition, and it is a siranle conception of the object as 
 it is or is conceived to be, m itself considered, and not in 
 relation to other objects. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 MEMORY. 
 § I. — Mental Reproductiox. 
 
 I. NArURE OF THE PROCESS. 
 
 General Character. — As now defined, this is that form of 
 mental activity in which the mind's former perceptions and 
 sensations are reproduced in thought. The external objects 
 are no longer present — the original sensations and percep- 
 tions have vanished — but by the mind's own power are re- 
 produced to thought, giving, as it were, a representation or 
 image of the original. 
 
 Example, — Suppose, for instance, that I have seen Stras- 
 burg minster, or the cathedral of Milan. Months, perhaps 
 years pass away. By-and-by, in some other and remote part 
 of the world, something reminds me of that splendid struc- 
 ture ; I see again its imposing front, its lofty towers, its airy 
 pinnacles and turrets. The solemn pile rises complete, as 
 by magic, to the mind's eye, and, regardless of time or dis- 
 tance, the faculty of simple conception reproduces the object 
 as it is. 
 
 Conceptions of Sound. — In like manner 1 form a concep- 
 tion, more or less distinct, of sounds once heard. The 
 chanting of the evening service in the Churck of the 
 Madeleine at Paris, and the prolonged note of a shepherd's 
 horn among the Alps, are instances of musical sound that 
 frequently recur with startling distinctness to the mind. 
 
MEMORY. 9^ 
 
 rhe same is to some extent true of the sedations and per- 
 ceptions derived from the other senses. With more or less 
 vividness the objects of all such sensations and perceptions 
 are capable of being reproduced in conception. 
 
 The Conceptions not of Necessity connected with the Re- 
 collection of Self as the Percipient, — In these cases there 
 may or may not be a connection of the object, as it lies be- 
 fore our minds, witli our own personal history as the formei 
 percipients of that object. The time, place, circumstance, 
 of that perception may not be distinctly before us ; even 
 the fact that we have ourselves seen," heard, felt, what we 
 now conceive, may not, at the moment, be an object of 
 thought. These are the elements of memory or mental re- 
 cognition, and are certainly very likely to stand associated 
 m our minds with the conception of the object itself. But 
 not always nor of necessity is it so. There may be simple 
 conception of the object, mental reproduction, where there 
 18, for the time being, no recognition of any thing further. 
 The Strasburg minster, the chanting of the choir, the note 
 of the mountain horn, the snowy peak of Jimgfrau, may 
 stand out by themselves before the mind, abstracted from 
 all thought of the time, the place, the circumstances in 
 which they were originally perceived, or even from all 
 thought of the fact that we have at some former time actu- 
 allyperceived these very objects. They may present them- 
 selves as pure conceptions. 
 
 Conceptions vary in some Respects, — Our conceptions 
 vary in respect to definiteness and clearness. The objects 
 of some of the senses are more readily and also more dis 
 tmctly conceived than those of others. The sense of sight 
 is peculiar in this respect. A visible object is more easily 
 and more distinctly conceived than a particular sound or 
 taste. The sense of hearing is, perhaps, next to that of sight 
 in this respect ; while the sensations of taste and smell are 
 so seldom the objects of distinct conception, that some have 
 eveii denied the power of conceiving them. Dr. Wayland 
 
98 MEMORY. 
 
 jiaintains this view. That we do form conceptions more Ok 
 less distinct of the objects both of taste and smell, as, e.g. 
 of the taste of a melon, or the smell of an orange, hardly 
 admits of question ; while, at the same time, it is doubtless 
 true that we have less occasion to reproduce in thought the 
 objects now referred to than those of sight and hearing, 
 that they are recalled with less facility, and also with \em 
 listinctness. 
 
 Stewards Theory, — Dugald Stewart has ingeniously ^ng 
 gested that the reason why a sound or a taste is less readily 
 conceived than an object of sight, may be that the former 
 are single detached sensations, while visible objects are com- 
 plex, presenting a series of connected points of observation, 
 and our conception of them as a whole is the result of many 
 single conceptions, a result to which the association of ideas 
 largely contributes. We more readily conceive two things 
 in connection than either of them separately. On the same 
 principle a series of sounds in a strain of music is more 
 readily conceived than a single detached note. 
 
 Importance of this JF^ov^er, — The value of this power to 
 the mind is inestimable. Without it, the passing moment, 
 the impression or sensation of the instant, would be the sum 
 total of our intellectual life, of our conscious being. The 
 horizon of our mental vision would extend no further than 
 our immediate present perceptions. The past would 'pe a 
 blank as dark and uncertain even as the future. Conception 
 lights up the otherwise dreary waste of past existence, and 
 eproducing the former scenes and objects, gives us mental 
 possession of all that we have been, as well as of the present 
 moment, and lays at our feet the objects of all former 
 knowledge. The mind thus becomes in a measure inde 
 pendent of sense and the external world. What it has once 
 seen, heard, felt, becomes its permanent acquisition, even 
 when the original object of perception is for ever removed. 
 I may have seen the grand and stately minster, or the 
 ancwv Alp but once in all my life , but ever after it dwelli 
 
MEMORY. 99 
 
 Rmong my conceptions, and in after years, on other con- 
 tinents, and amid far other scenes, that vision of beauty and 
 grandeur pusses before me as an angelic vision ; that succes- 
 sion of sweet sounds traverses again the silent chambers of 
 the brain, with all the freshness of first reality. It is only a 
 conception now, but who shall estimate the worth of that 
 simple power of conception ? 
 
 The Talent for Description as affected hy this Power, •— 
 riie following remarks of Mr. Stewart illustrate happily one 
 $f the many uses to which this power is subservient : 
 
 "A talent for lively description, at least in the case of 
 sensible objects, depends chieiiy on the degree in which the 
 describer possesses the power of conception. We may re 
 mark, even in common conversation, a striking^ difference 
 among individuals in this respect. One man, in attempting 
 to convey a notion of any object he has seen, seems to placa 
 it before him, and to paint from actual perception ; another, 
 although not deficient in a ready elocution, finds himself, in 
 such a situation, confused and embarrassed among a number 
 of particulars imperfectly apprehended, which crowd into 
 his mind without any just order and connection. Nor is it 
 merely to the accuracy of our descriptions that this power 
 is subservient ; it contributes, more than any thing else, to 
 render them striking and expressive to others, by guiding 
 us to a selection of such circumstances as are most promi- 
 nent and characteristic; insomuch that I think it may 
 reasonably be doubted if a person would not write a happier 
 description of an object from the conception than from the 
 perception of it. It has often been remarked, that the per 
 fection of description does not consist in a minute specifica 
 tion of circumstances, but in a judicious selection of them 
 and that the best rule for making the selection is to attena 
 to the particulars that make the deepest impression on our 
 own minds. When tne object is actually before us, it is 
 extremely difficult to compare the impressions which differ- 
 ent circumstances produce ; an4 the very thought of writing 
 
100 MEMORY. 
 
 a description, would prevent the impressions which would 
 otherwise take place. When we afterward conceive the ob- 
 ject, the representation of it we form to ourselves, however 
 lively, is merely an outline, and is made up of those eJrcum- 
 stances which really struck us most at the moment, while 
 others of less importance are obliterated." 
 
 Conceptions often Complex, — It is to be further remarked 
 especting the power now under consideration, that the no- 
 tion, or conception which we form of an object, by means 
 of this faculty, is frequently complex. The particular per- 
 ceptions and sensations formerly experienced, and now rep- 
 resented, are combined, forming thus a notion of the object 
 as a whole. The figure, magnitude, color, and various other 
 properties, of any object, as, e, g.^ a table, are objects each of 
 distinct and separate cognition, and as such are mentally 
 reproduced, distinctly, and separately ; but when thus re- 
 produced, are combined to form the complete conception of 
 the table, as it lies in my mind. The notion or conception 
 of the object as a whole being thus once formed, any single 
 perception as, e.g.^ of color, figure, etc., is afterward suf- 
 ficient to recall and represent the whole. 
 
 Of ten passes for Perception, — It was remarked, in treat- 
 ing of perception, that very much which passes under that 
 name is in reality only conception. I hear, for example, 
 a carriage passing in the street. All that I really per- 
 ceive is the sound ; but that single perception recalls at 
 once the various perceptions that have formerly been asso- 
 ciated with it, and so there is at once reproduced in my 
 mind the conception of the passing carriage. Our convic' 
 tion of the existence and reality of the object thus con- 
 ceived, is hardly inferior to that produced by actual and 
 complete perception. 
 
 Correctness of our Conceptions, — In general it may be 
 remarked, that our conceptions are more or less adequate 
 ftnd correct representations of the objects to which they 
 relate, according as they combine the reports of moro ox 
 
MEMORY TOi 
 
 fewer different senses, respecting more or fewer different 
 qualities, and as these reports are more or less clear and 
 distinct. 
 
 II. Laws of Mental REPRODuorioisr. 
 
 Conceptions not uncaused. — It is evident that our con 
 captions arise not uncaused and at hap-hazard, but accordin^y 
 to some law. There is a method about the phenomena of 
 mental reproduction. There is a reason why any particulai 
 scene or event of former experience, any perception or sen« 
 sation, is brought again to mind, when it is, and as it is, 
 rather than some other in its place. A careful observation 
 and study of the laws which regulate in general the succes- 
 sion of thought, will furnish the explanation and true phi- 
 losophy of mental reproduction. 
 
 Principle of Suggestion, — Every thought which passes 
 through the mind is directly or indirectly connected with, 
 and suggested by something which preceded ; and that 
 Bomething may be either a sensation, a perception, a concep- 
 tion, or an emotion. The precedence may be either imme- 
 diate or remote. Some connection there always is between 
 any given thought or feeling at any moment before the 
 mind, and some preceding thought or feeling, which gives 
 rise to, occasions, suggests, the latter. These suggestions 
 follow certain general rules or laws, which are usually called 
 the laws of association. These laws, so called, are only the 
 different circumstances under which the suggestions take 
 place, and are termed laws only to indicate the regularitj 
 aad uniformity with which, under given circumstances 
 given thoughts and feelings are awakened in the mind. 
 
 TTiis the Basis of mental Reproduction, — It is to this 
 general principle of suggestion or association that we are 
 indebted for all mental reproduction. It is only as one idea 
 or feeling is suggested by some other which has gone be- 
 fore, and with which it is in some way, and for some reason, 
 associated in our minds, that any former thought or seiLsa 
 
102 MEMORY. 
 
 tion is recalled, that any object which we have perceived 
 or any scene through which we have passed, is mentally 
 reproduced. It is thus that the sight of an object brings to 
 inind occurrences connected with it in our history ^ that tlie 
 aame recalls the thing, that the words of a language bring 
 ^o mind the ideas which the}^ denotCg or the characters on 
 the musical staff, the tones which they represent. 
 
 Not a distinct Faculty, — It has been customary to speak 
 of association of ideas as a distinct faculty of the mind. It 
 is not properly so ranked. It is a law of the mind rather 
 than a faculty of it — a rule or method of its action in certain 
 cases ; and the particular power of mind to which this rule 
 applies is that form of simple conception which we term 
 mental reproduction. 
 
 The Term Suggestion preferred hy JBrown, - — In place of 
 the term association, Dr. Brown would prefer the term sug- 
 gestion as more correct. To speak of the association of 
 ideas implies that they have previously coexisted in the 
 mind, and that the one now recalls the other in consequence 
 of that previous coexistence. That this is often the case is 
 doubtless true, but it is also true that in many cases one 
 idea suggests another with which it has not previously 
 been associated in our minds. It is not necessary to the 
 suggestion that there should be any prior association. An 
 object seen/br the first time suggests many relative concep- 
 tions. The sight of a giant suggests the idea of a friend of 
 diminutive stature, not because the two ideas have pre- 
 viously been associated, or the two objects have coexisted, 
 either in perception or conception, but because it is a law of 
 the mind that one conception shall suggest another, either 
 as similar, or as opposite, or in some other way related to it. 
 This may be as truly a law of the mind, independent of 
 association, as that light falling on the retina shall produce 
 vision. It may seem mysterious that this should be so. Is 
 It not equally mysterious that ideas which have formerly 
 coexisted should ^pcall each other? The real mystery is 
 
MEMOKY. 10.^ 
 
 the reciiiTeiice in miy mode, and fi'om any source, of the idea 
 without the recurrence of the external producing cause. 
 Foi these reasons, Dr. Brown prefers the term suggestion 
 to association. 
 
 The Term Conception preferalle to either, — As regards 
 the activity of the mind itself,, in the process of mental re- 
 production, the term conception seems to me to express 
 more nearly the exact state of the case than either associa- 
 tion or suggestion. An idea is suggested to the mind by 
 gome external object; the mind conceives the idea thus sug- 
 gested. The flute which I perceive lying on the table in 
 the room of my friend suggests at once to my mind the 
 idea of that friend. The action of the mind in this case is 
 simply an act of conception. All that the flute does — all 
 that we mean when we say the flute suggests the idea of 
 the friend — is simply to place the mind in such a state that 
 the conception follows. Whether we speak then of the laws 
 of association,, laws of suggestion,, or laws of mental concep- 
 tion,, is immaterial, provided we bear in mind the real nature 
 of the process as now defined. 
 
 Question stated, — But what are the laws of association, 
 or suggestion, so-called — in other words, of mental concep- 
 tion? Under what circumstances is a given conception 
 awakened in the mind by some preceding conception or per- 
 ception ? This is an important subject of inquiry, and one 
 which has not escaped the attention of philosophers. 
 
 Prim^ary Laws, — It has been usual to enumerate as 
 primary laws of suggestion, the following : resemblance^ 
 contrast,, contiguity in time or place ; to which has some- 
 times been added cause and effect. There can be little 
 doubt that these are important laws of suggestion ; that a 
 given object of thought is likely to suggest to the mind that 
 which is like itself, that which is unlike, that which is con 
 nected with itself in time and place, that of which it is the cause 
 or the effect. Whether these principles are exhaustive, and 
 whether they may not be reduced to some one general prin 
 ciple Gomprehensive of them all, may admit of question. 
 
104 MEMORY. 
 
 Law of Similars, — To begin with resemblance. It seems 
 to be a law of our nature, that like shall remind us of like. 
 The mountain, the forest, the river, that I see in my morning 
 walk to-day, remind me of similar objects that were familiar 
 to my childhood. Nor is it necessary that the resemblance 
 should be complete, A single point of similarity is sufficient 
 to awaken the conception of objects the most remote, and, in 
 otl er respects, dissimilar. I pass in the street a person with 
 blue eyes, or dark hair, or having some peculiarity of ex- 
 pression in the countenance, and am at once reminded of a 
 very different person whom I knew years ago, or whom I 
 met perhaps in another land ; yet the two may be as unlike, 
 except in the one point which attracts my attention, as any 
 two persons in the world. An article of dress peculiar to 
 the Elizabethan age, or to the court of Louis XIV. reminds 
 us of the lordly dames and courtiers, or gallant warriors of 
 those periods. A single feature in the landscape, perhaps a 
 single tree, or projecting crag, on the mountain side, brings 
 before us the picture of a scene widely different in most re- 
 spects, but presenting only this one point of resemblance to 
 the scene before us. 
 
 Wot confined to Objects of Sight, — Ngr is it the objects 
 of sight alone that are suggestive of similar objects. The 
 other senses follow the same law. Sounds suggest similar 
 sounds ; tastes, similar tastes ; and along with the sounds, 
 tastes, etc., thus recalled, are awakened conceptions of many 
 things having no resemblance to the suggesting object, bu 
 associated in our previous perceptions with the object sug 
 gested. A certain succession of m^usical sounds, for exam 
 pie, recalls to the Swiss his native valley, and the moun- 
 tains that shut it in, and brings back to his mind the scenes 
 of his childhood, and the peculiar customs of his father-land, 
 where he heard in former years that simple melody. With 
 what a tram of associations is a single "lame often fraught 
 what power of magic lies often in a single word ! 
 
 Tlhistrations of other Laws, — Of the other principles o:^' 
 
MEMORY 105 
 
 suggestion or association which have been named, it is not 
 necessary to speak minutely. Their operation is obvious 
 and indisputable. Illustrations will occur to every one. The 
 palace of the king reminds us by contrast of the hovel of the 
 peasant. The splendor of wealth and luxury suggests the 
 wretchedness of poverty and want. The giant reminds ua 
 of the dwarf, and the dwarf of the giant. On the principle 
 of contiguity in time and place, the sight of an object re- 
 minds us of events that have occurred in connection with it ; 
 the name Napoleon suggests Waterloo, and Wehington, 
 and the marshals of the enapire ; St. Peter's and the Vatican 
 suggest Raphael and his Transfiguration ; a book, casuall}- 
 lying on my table, reminds me of the volume that formerly 
 stood by its side on the shelf, and so carries me back to 
 other scenes, and other days. 
 
 In like manner, if it be not indeed the operation of the 
 same principle, cause suggests the effect, and effect its cause. 
 The wound reminds me of the instrument, and the instru- 
 ment awakens the unpleasant conception of the wound which 
 it once inflicted. 
 
 TF^y one Conception rather than another. — Inasmuch aa 
 any one conception may awaken in the mind a great variety 
 of other conceptions — since a picture, for example, may re- 
 call the person whose likeness it is, or the artist who painted 
 it, or the friend who possesses it, or the time and place in 
 which it was sketched, or the room in which it formerly 
 hung, or any circumstance or event connected with it — - the 
 question arises, why, in any given instance, is 07ie of these 
 conceptions awakened in the mind rather than any other in 
 its stead ? It is evident that the action of the associating 
 principle is not uniform, sometimes one conception being 
 awakened, sometimes another. 
 
 Secondary JLaios. — In answer to this, Dr. Brown has 
 shown that the action of these general and primary laws of 
 suggestion, now named, is modified by a variety of circum- 
 Btances, Tvhich may bo called secondary laws of suggestion, 
 
 5* 
 
106 MEMORY. 
 
 and w hich will accouKfc for the variety in question. Thes9 
 modifying circumstances are : 1. Continuance of attention. 
 2. Vividness of feeling. 3. Frequency of repetition. 4. 
 Lapse of time. 5. Exclusiveness of association. 6. Origi- 
 nal constitutional differences. 7. State of mind at the time. 
 8. State of body. 9. Professional habits. Any one of these 
 circumstances may so modify the action of the primary laws 
 of suggestion, that one conception shall be awakened in the 
 mmd rather than another, by that which has preceded. 
 
 Correctness of this View, — There can be little doubt aa 
 to the correctness of this view. The attention, for example, 
 which a given object or event excites at the time of its oc- 
 currence, and the strength and liveliness of feeling which it 
 awakened in us, have very much to dp, as every one knows, 
 wdth our subsequent remembrance of that object or event. 
 So also has the frequency with which the train of thought 
 has been repeated. — a fact illustrated in the process of com- 
 mitting to memory. 
 
 The more frequently two things come together before the 
 mind, the more likely will it be, when one is again presented, 
 to think of the other. In the process of learning a thing by 
 rote, we repeat the lines over and over, until they become so 
 associated, and linked together, that the suggestion of one 
 recalls the whole. Frequently, however, we find it difficult 
 to pass from one sentence to another, or from one stanza or 
 paragraph to another, while we find no difficulty in complet- 
 ing the sentence or paragraph once commenced. The reason 
 is, we have repeated each sentence or stanza by itself in 
 the process of learning, and have not connected one with 
 another. The last words of one sentence, and the first 
 words of another, have not been repeatedly conjomed in 
 the mind — have not frequently coexisted. 
 
 Sometimes, however, a more than usual vividness of con- 
 ception will make up for the want of this frequent co- 
 existence. When, for any reason, as excited feeling, or 
 extraordinary interest in what we perceive, we grasp with 
 
MEMORY. 107 
 
 peculiar clearness and force the idea presented, this vivid 
 ness of mental conception ^vill, of itself, insure the remem^ 
 brance of the object contemplated. A man, on trial for hia 
 life, will be likely to recollect the faces and tones of each 
 of the different witnesses on the stand, and the different 
 judges and advocates, even if he never sees them afterward. 
 
 We ail know, also, that the lapse of time weakens the 
 impression of any object or event upon the mind, and so 
 lessens the probability of its recurrence to the thoughts. 
 We more readily recall places and objects seen in a recent 
 tour, than those seen a year ago. The exclusiveness of the 
 connection is also an important circumstance. An air of 
 music, which I have heard played or sung only on one oc- 
 casion, and by one musician only, is much more likely, when 
 heard again, to bring to mind the former player, than if it 
 had also been \ssociated with other occasions and other per- ' 
 formers. Mua \ depends, moreover, on native differences of 
 temperament, on the habitual joyousness, or habitual gloom, 
 which may pervade the spirits, on the lights and shadows 
 which passing events may cast, in quick succession, on the 
 mind, as good or bad news, the arrival of a friend, the fail- 
 ure of an enterprise, a slight derangement of any of the 
 bodily functions, or even the state of the atmosphere. All 
 these circumstances have much to do with the question, 
 whether one conception or another shall be awakened in 
 the mind by any object presented to its thoughts. 
 
 These Laws distinguished as Objective and Subjective, — 
 It will be observed that the primary laws of suggestion, 
 so called, are such as arise from the relations which our 
 thoughts sustain to each other, while the secondary are such 
 as arise from the relations which they sustain to ourselves, 
 the thinking subjects. Hence the former have been called 
 objective^ the latter, subjective laws. 
 
 Possibility of reducing the primary Laws to one com- 
 yrehensive Principle, — I have already suggested that pos- 
 sibly the primary laws admit of being reduced to some on© 
 
108 MEMORY. 
 
 general and comprehensive principle This is a point de* 
 serving attention. Were we required to name some one 
 principle which should comprehend these several specific 
 laws of association, it would be that of the prior existence 
 m the mind of the suggesting and the suggested idea. The 
 two conceptions have, for some reason, and at sorae time, 
 stood together before the mind, and hence the one recalls 
 the other. It seems to be a general law of thought^ that 
 xoliateiier has been perceived or conceived in connection 
 with some other object of perception or thought^ is after- 
 ward suggestive of that other. The relation may be that 
 of part to whole, of resemblance, of contiguity, or contrast, 
 or cause ; it may be a natural or an artificial relati'^n ; what- 
 ever it is that serves as the connecting link between one 
 thought and another, as they come before the mi^d at first, 
 that will also serve as the ground of subsequent fX)T>nection, 
 when either of these thoughts shall present itse'^f again to 
 the mind. The one will suggest the other. 
 
 Application of this Principle to the several La^^s of Sug- 
 gestion, — Why is it, for example, that things contiguous in 
 dme and place suggest each other ? In consequepce of that 
 contiguity they were viewed by the mind in connertion with 
 each other ; as, e, g,^ the handle, and the door to which it 
 belongs, the book, and its neighbor on the shelf. It is be 
 cause Napoleon and his marshals, Wellington and Waterloo, 
 have been presented together to the thoughts, that orie now 
 recalls the other. For the same reason the light hai\' and 
 blue eyes of the person passing in the street recall the friend 
 of former years ; that peculiarity of hair and of eyes haa 
 been, in my mind, previously connected with the conception 
 of my friend. So also a part suggests the whole with which 
 it has been ordinarily connected, as, for example, the crystal 
 and the watch. 
 
 Further Application of the same Principle, — On the 
 same principle cause and eflfect are naturally suggestive. 
 We have been accustomed to observe the elision of a spart 
 
MEMOKY. 309 
 
 ID connection with the forcible collision of flint and steel 
 and whenever we have observed the apjolication of fire to 
 gunpowder, certain consequences have uniformly attracted 
 our attention ; hence the one of these things awakens im- 
 mediately in our minds the conception of the other, with 
 which it has previously coexisted. For the same reason the 
 instrument suggests the idea of the wound, and the wound 
 of the instrument. The sight of a rose, and the sensation 
 of fragrance, have usually coexisted ; hence either recalls 
 the other. 
 
 The connection in this case is natural. Let us suppose a 
 case in which it shall be arbitrary, or artificial. Suppose I 
 happen to hold a rose in my hand, at the same moment a 
 certain unusual noise is heard in the street, or at the mo- 
 ment when an eclipse of the sun becomes visible ; on seeing 
 the rose the next day I am instantly reminded of the noise, 
 or of the eclipse, that was connected with it in my previous 
 perception. 
 
 Application to the Law of Oppo sites, — On the same 
 principle opposites also suggest each other. They sustain a 
 certain relation to each other in our thoughts, and are in a 
 sense necessary to each other in thought, as, e. g.^ white and 
 black, crooked and straight, tall and short ; which are 
 relative ideas, neither of which is complete by itself without 
 fhe other ; the one the complement of the other ; each, so 
 CO speak, the extreme term of a comparison. As such they 
 stand together before the mind, in its ordinary perceptions, 
 and hence the one almost of necessity recalls the other. 
 
 The same Principle suggested by Dr, Broion. — The pos. 
 sibility of reducing the laws of association to one common 
 principle, as now attempted, namely that of prior coexist- 
 ence in the mind, has not altogether escaped the notice of 
 philosophers. Dr. Brown, in more than one passage, ad- 
 vances the idea, that on a sufi3.ciently minute analysis " al] 
 suggestion may be found to depend on prior coexistence, or, 
 at least, on such immediate proximity, as is itself, very pro- 
 
no MEMORY 
 
 bably, a modification of coexistence." In order to this 
 nice I'eduction, however, he adds, we must take into ac- 
 count " the influence of emotions, and other feelings that 
 are very different from ideas ; as when an analogous object 
 suggests an analogous object by the inflience of an emotion 
 or sentiment, which each separately may have produced 
 before, and which is therefore common to both." As illus- 
 rative of this, he refers, among others, to cases of remote 
 resemblance ; as when, '' for example, the whiteness of 
 untrodden snow brings to our mind the innocence of an 
 unpolluted heart ; or a ^ne morning of spring, the cheerful 
 freshness of youth." In such cases, he says, " though there 
 may never have been in the mind any proximity of the very 
 images compared, there may have been a proximity of each 
 to an emotion of some sort, which, as common to both, 
 might render each capable, indirectly, of suggesting the 
 other. The same principle he applies to suggestion by con- 
 trast, as when the sight of a person with a remarkably long 
 nose brings to mind some one whom we have seen with a 
 nose as remarkable for brevity ; the common feeling in the 
 two cases being that of surprise or wonder at the peculiarity 
 )f this feature of the countenance. 
 
 Theory of MaJian, — Mahan, in his Intellectual Philosophy, 
 carries out the suggestion of Dr. Brown, and makes the 
 emotion awakened in common by two or more objects, the 
 sole law, or ground of association. One object recalls an 
 other only by means of the feeling or state of mind com 
 mon to both. 
 
 This View questionable, — That this is the philosophy of 
 the suggesting princij)le in those cases in which two object 
 have not previously coexisted in the mind — that is, ir 
 cases of suggestion, and not of association properly — -I am 
 disposed to admit, but that it is the philosophy of associor 
 tion^ strictly speaking, that it is the reason why objects 
 which have been viewed together by the nind should after- 
 ward recall each other, is to bd questioned, It seems to hif 
 
MEMORY. Ill 
 
 an established law of mental action that objects once viewed 
 in connection by the mind, afterward retain that connection. 
 This is a grand and simple law of thought. I doubt whether 
 any explanation can make it more simple, whether any 
 thing is gained by calling in the influence of emotion to ac- 
 count for it. The emotion may, or may not, be the cause 
 why objects, once coexistent in the mind, recall each other, 
 [I is enough that the simple law of previous coexistence, as 
 now stated, covers the whole ground, and accounts for all 
 the phenomena of mental association. 
 
 Tlie same Rule given by Aristotle, — Long before the 
 days of Brown and his successors, this same law had sug- 
 gested itself to one of the closest thinkers, and most acute 
 observers of mental phenomena, whom the world has ever 
 seen, as a principle comprehensive of all the specific laws of 
 association. Aristotle — as quoted by Hamilton — expresses 
 the rule in the following terms : Thoughts^ which ham at 
 any time^ recent or re7note^ stood to each other in the relatio7i 
 of coexistence^ or immediate consecution^ do^ when severally 
 reproduced^ tend to reproduce each other. Under this gen- 
 eral law he includes the specific ones of similars, contraries, 
 and coadjacents, as comprehending all the possible relations 
 of things to each other. 
 
 Further Question, — View of MosenJcranz, — It may still 
 be questioned whether the specific laws of association, as 
 usually given, viz., resemblance, contrast, contiguity, and 
 cause, are a complete and exhaustive list. Are there not re- 
 lations of things to each other, and so relations of thought, 
 which do not fall under any of the categories now named ? 
 A distinguished psychologist of the Hegelian school, Rosen- 
 kranz, denies even that there are any laws of association. 
 Law is found, he says, where the manifoldness still evinces 
 unity, to which the manifold and accidental are subject 
 But association is not subject to any such unity. It is a free 
 process. There are indeed certain limitations or categories 
 of ficught, but thes/'^ so-called laws of association are not to 
 
112 MEMOKT. 
 
 be confounded witL those categories ; they are not exhaus 
 tive of them. Why not also introduce the law by which 
 we pass from quality to quantity, being to appearance, the 
 universal to the particular, the end to the means, etc., etc. ? 
 In short, all metaphysical and logical categories lay claim to 
 be included in the list of such laws. No one can calculate 
 the possible connections of one conception with another. 
 Each is, for us, the middle point of a universe from which 
 we can go forth on all sides. What diverse trains of 
 thought, for example, may the Strasburg minster awaken 
 in my mind : the material of which it is built, the architect, 
 the middle ages, the gothic style, etc., etc. There is, in a 
 word, no law of association. 
 
 Objections to this View. — Such, in substance, is the view 
 maintained by this able writer. We cannot altogether coin- 
 cide with it. That the specific laws of Aristotle, Hume, and 
 Brown, are not exhaustive, may very likely be true ; that 
 there is no law, no unity to which this manifoldness of con- 
 ception i^ subject, is yet to be shown. Take the very case 
 supposed. The gothic minster of Strasburg reminds mo 
 of the gothic style of architecture. What is that but an 
 instance under the law of similarity ? It reminds me of the 
 middle ages. What is that but the operation of the law 
 of contiguity in time? It brings to mind the architect. 
 What is that but the relation of cause to efiect ? Or, if I 
 think of the material of which the building is composed, 
 the marble of this minster reminding me of the class, marble, 
 does not that again fall under the relation of a part to the 
 whole, which is comprehended under the general law of co- 
 adjacence, or contiguity in space? So quality and quantity 
 matter and form, being and appearance, as parts of a com- 
 prehensive whole, recall each other. The instances given, 
 then, so far from proving that there is no law of association 
 actually fall under the specific laws enumerated. 
 
 The JLavj of Contiguity includes what, — It is contended 
 that this gives a wider extension to the law of contiguity in 
 
MEMORY. lis 
 
 time and space than properly belongs to it. I reply, net 
 wider than is intended by those who make use of this ex- 
 pression. Aristotle, the earliest writer who attempts any 
 classification of the laws of suggestion, distinctly includes 
 under the law of coadjacence whatever stand as parts of tho 
 same whole, as, e, ^., parts of the same building, traits of the 
 game character, species of the same genus, the sign and the 
 thing signified, different wholes of the same part, correlate 
 terms, as the abstract and concrete, etc., etc. 
 
 Reference to the subjective Laws. — If it still is asked why 
 does the minster of Strasburg, or any given object, suggest 
 one of these several conceptions, and not some other in its 
 place? the reason for this must doubtless be sought in the state 
 of the mind at the time; in other words, in those subjective 
 or secondary laws of suggestion, of which we have ah^eady 
 spoken, as given by Brown and others. Aristotle has more 
 concisely answered the question in the important rule which 
 he adds as supplementary of his general law ; viz., that, of 
 two thoughts, one tends to suggest the other, in proportion, 
 1. To its comparative importance ; 2. Its comparative interest. 
 For the first reason, the foot is more likely to suggest the 
 head than the head the foot. For the second reason, the 
 dog is more likely to suggest the master than the master 
 the dog. 
 
 § 11. — Mental RECOGmTiox, as Distinguished from Mental 
 
 Reproduction. 
 
 I. General Character of this Process. 
 
 The Faculty as thus far considered. — Thus far we have 
 considered the faculty of mental representation only under 
 one of its forms, viz., as reproductive. By the operation of 
 this power, the intuitions of sense are replaced before the 
 mind, in the absence of the original objects; images, so to 
 speak, of the former objects of perception are brought out 
 from the dark back-ground of the past, and thrown m relief 
 
114 MEMORY. 
 
 upon the menial canvas. Picture after picture thus comes 
 up, and passes away. The mind has the power of thus re* 
 producing for itself, according to laws of suggestion already 
 considered, the objects of its former perception. This it is 
 constantly doing. No small part of our thinking is the 
 simple reproduction of what has been already, in some 
 form, before the mind. 
 
 An additional Element. — The intuitions of sense, thus 
 replaced in the absence of the external objects, present 
 themselves to the mind as mere conceptions, involving no 
 reference to ourselves as the perceiving subject, nor to the 
 time, place, and circumstances of the original perception*. 
 But suppose now this latter element to be superadded to 
 the former ; that along with the conception or recalling of 
 the object, there is also the conception of ourselves as per- 
 ceiving, and of the circumstances under which it was per- 
 ceived ; in a word, the recalling of the subjective along with 
 the c>^'6Ci^^^6 element of the original perception, and we have 
 now that form of mental representation which we term 
 recognitive^ or mental recognition. 
 
 The two Forms com^pared and distinguished. — The two 
 taken together, the reproduction, and the recognition, con 
 stitute what is ordinarily called memory, which involves, 
 when closely considered, not . only the reproduction, in 
 thought, of the former object of perception, but also the 
 consciousness of having ourselves perceived the same. The 
 conception is given as before, but it is no longer mere con- 
 ception in the abstract, standing by itself; it is connected 
 now by links of time, place, and circumstance, with our own 
 personal history. It is this subjective element that consti- 
 tutes the essential characteristic of memory proper, or men- 
 tal recognition, as distinguished from mere conception, oj 
 mental reproduction. 
 
 Specification of Time and Place. — It is not necessary 
 that the specific tim^e and place wheti and where we pre- 
 viously perceived the object, or received the impression^ 
 
MEMORY. 114 
 
 should be recalled along with the object or impression ; this 
 may or may not be. More frequently, perhaps, these do recur 
 to the mind, and the object itself is recalled or suggested by 
 means of these specific momenta; but this is not essential to 
 the act of memory. It is enough that we recognize the 
 representation or conception, now before the mind, as, in 
 general, an object of former cognition, a previous possession 
 of the mind, and not a new acquisition. 
 
 Not of necessity voluntary. — Nor is it necessary to the 
 feet of memory, that this recurrence and recognition of 
 former perceptions and sensations, as objects of thought, 
 should be the result of special volition on our part. It may 
 be quite involuntary. It may take place unbidden and un- 
 sought, the result of casual suggestioif. 
 
 Distinction of Terms, — Memory is usually distinguished 
 from remembrance^ and also from recollection. Memory is, 
 more properly, the power or faculty, remembrance the ex- 
 ercise of that power in respect to particular objects and 
 events. When this exercise is voluntary — when we set our- 
 selves to recall what has nearly or quite escaped us, to re-col- 
 lect^ as it were, the scattered materials of our former con 
 sciousness — we designate this voluntary process by the term 
 recollection. We recollect only what is at the moment out 
 of mind, and what we wish to recall. 
 
 Possibility of recalling, — But here the question aiise? 
 how it is possible, by a voluntary effort, to recall what it 
 once gone from the mind. Does not the very fact of a vo- 
 lition imply that we have already in mind the thing willed 
 and wished for ? How else could we will to recall it ? 
 This is a philosophical puzzle with wliich any one, wh<3 
 chooses, may amuse himself. I have forgotten, for instance, 
 the name of a person : I seek to recall it ; to recall what ? 
 you may ask. That name. What name ? Now I do not 
 know what name ; if I did, I should have no occasion to re 
 call it. And yet, in another sense, I do know what it is that 
 I have forgotten* I know that it is a name, and I knoTf 
 
116 MEMORY. 
 
 whose name it is ; the name, viz., of this particular person 
 And this is all I need to know in order to have a distinct 
 definite object of volition before my mind. 
 
 The Mode of Operation, — The process through which 
 the mind passes in such a case, is, to dwell upon some cir- 
 cumstances not forgotten, that are intimately connected 
 with the missing idea, and through these, as so many con 
 necting links, to pass over, if possible, to the thing sought. 
 I cannot, for example, recall the name, but I remember the 
 names of other persons of the same family, class, or profes- 
 sion, or I remember that it begins with the letter B, and 
 then think over all the names I know that begin with that 
 letter ; and, in this way, seek to recall, by association, the 
 aame that has escaped. 
 
 Memory not an immediate Knowledge, — It has been held 
 by some that memory gives us an immediate knowledge of 
 the past. This is the view of Dr. Reid. If, by immediate 
 knowledge, we mean knowledge of a thing as existing, and 
 as it is in itself — nothing intervening between it as a present 
 reahty, and our direct cognizance of it — then not in this 
 sense is memory an immediate knowledge ; for a past event 
 is no longer exi3tent, and cannot be known as such, or as it 
 is in itself ; it no longer is^ but only was. Hence an imme- 
 diate knowledge of it, is, as Sir William Hamilton affirms, 
 a contradiction. Still, we may know the past as it was,, not 
 less really and positively than we know the present as it is. 
 I as really know that I sat at this table yesterday as I know 
 thai I sit here now. I am conscious of being here now. I 
 was conscious of being here then. That consciousness is 
 not to be impeached in either case. If the senses deceived 
 me yesterday, they may dec^jive me to-day. If consciousness 
 testified falsely then, it may now. But if I was indeed here 
 yesterday, and if I knew then that I was here, and that 
 knowledge was certain and positive, then I know now that 
 I was here yesterday, for memory recognizes what would 
 i^therwise be the mere conception of to-day, as identical 
 
MEMORY. 117 
 
 with the positive knowledge of yesterday. Memory may 
 possibly be mistaken as to the so-called positive knowledge 
 of yesterday ; and so sense may be mistaken as to the so- 
 called positive knowledge of the present moment. 
 
 Belief attending Memory, — The remarks of Dr. Reid 
 on this point are worthy of note. " Memory is always ac- 
 companied with the belief of that which we remember, as 
 perception is accompanied with the belief of that which we 
 perceive, and consciousness with the belief of that whereof 
 we are conscious. Perhaps in infancy, or in disorder of mind, 
 things remembered may be confounded with those which 
 are merely imagined ; but in mature years, and in a sound 
 state of mind, every man feels that he must beheve what he 
 distinctly remembers, though he can giv^e no other reason 
 for his belief, but that he remembers tlie thing distinctly ; 
 whereas, when he merely imagines a thi/ig ever so distinctly 
 he has no belief of it upon that account-. 
 
 This belief, which we have from distinct memory, we ac 
 count real knowledge, no less certain than if it was grounded 
 on demonstration ; no man, in his wits, calls it in question, 
 or will hear any argument against it. The testimony of 
 witnesses in causes of life and death depends upon it, and 
 all the knowledge of mankind of past events is built on this 
 foundation. There are cases in which a man's memory is 
 less distinct and determinate, and where he is ready to allow 
 that it may have failed him ; but this does not in the least 
 weaken its credit, when it is perfectly distinct." 
 
 Importance of this Faculty, -- The importance ol mem- 
 ory as a power of the mind, is shown by the simple fact, 
 that, but for it, there could be no consciousness of continued 
 existence, none pf personal identity, for memory is our 
 only voucher for the fact that we existed at all at any 
 previous moment. Without this faculty, each separate in- 
 stant of life would be a new existence, isolated, disconnected 
 with aught before or after ; nay, there would, in that case, 
 scarcely be any consciousness of even the present existence. 
 
lift MEMORY. 
 
 for we are conscious only as we are cognizant of i:hange^ 
 says Hamilton, and there is involved in it the idea of the 
 latest past ahnig with the present. Memory, then, is essen- 
 tial to all intelligent mental action, whether intellectual, sen- 
 sational, or voluntary. The ancients seem to have been 
 aware of this, when they gave it the name fxvrjiir] (from 
 uvTjjjsg^ fivaofiai)^ appellations of the mind itself ^ as being, in 
 &ct, the chief characteristic faculty of the mind. 
 
 11. What is implied in- a:n" Act of Memoky. 
 
 Several Conditions. — Every act of memory involves 
 these several conditions : 1. Present existence. 2. Past 
 existence. 3. Mental activity at some moment of that 
 past existence. 4. The recurrence to the mind of some- 
 thing thus thought, perceived, or felt. 5. Its recognition 
 as a past or former thought or impression, and that our 
 own. These last, the recurrence and the recognition, are 
 strictly the essential elements of memory, yet the others are 
 implied in it. In order to my remembering, for example, an 
 occurrence of yesterday, I must exist at the present time, 
 else I cannot remember at the present time ; I must have 
 existed yesterday, else there can be no memory of yester- 
 day ; my mind must have been active then, else there will 
 be nothing to remember; the thoughts, perceptions, sensa- 
 tions, then occupying the mind, must now recur, else it is 
 the same as if they had never been ; they must recur, not 
 as new thoughts and impressions, but as old ones, else I no 
 longer remember, but only conceive or perceive. 
 
 Til. Qualities of Memory. 
 
 Distinctions of Stewart and Wayland, — It has been 
 customary to designate certain qualities as essential to a 
 good memory. Susceptibility, retentiveness, and readiness, 
 are ^hus distinguished by Mr. Stewart ; the first denoting 
 the facility with which the mind acquires ; the second, the 
 permanence with which it retains ; and the third, the quick- 
 
MEMORY. 119 
 
 * 
 
 ness witli which it recalls and applies its original acquisi- 
 tions. And these qualities are rarely united, he adds, 
 in the same person. The memory which is susceptible 
 and ready, is not commonly very retentive. Dr. Wayland 
 makes the same distinction. Some men, he says, retain 
 their knowledge more perfectly than they recall it. Otherg 
 have their knowledge always at command. Some men 
 acquire with great rapidity, but soon forget what they 
 have learned. Others acquire with difficulty, but retail 
 tenaciously. 
 
 Objections to this View, — Although supported by such 
 authority, it admits of question w^hether this distinction is 
 strictly valid. Facility of acquisition, the readiness with 
 which the mind perceives truth, is hardly to be reckoned as 
 an attribute of memory. It is a quality of mind, a quality 
 possessed in diverse degrees by different persons, doubtless, 
 but not a quality of mind in its distinctive capacity and office 
 of re7nemberi7ig. It is no part, psychologically considered, 
 of the function of mental reproduction. It is essential, in- 
 deed, to the act of memory that there should be something 
 to remember, but the acquisition of the thing remembe?'ed, and 
 the remembering, are two distinct and different mental acts; 
 nor is it of any consequence to the mind, in remembering, 
 w^hether the original acquisition was made with more or less 
 facility. Indeed, so far as that bears upon the case at all, 
 facility of acquisition, as even these writers admit, is likely 
 to be rather a hindrance than a help to subsequent remem* 
 brance, since what is most readily acquired is no^ most 
 readily recalled. 
 
 2%e 3Iind retentive in what Sense, — ISTor is it altogether 
 proper to speak of retentiveness as a quality of memory — a 
 quality which may pertain to it in a greater or less degree 
 in different cases. The truth is, all memory is retentive, or, 
 more properly, retentiveness is itself memory. It is a 
 quality of mind ; a power or faculty possessed in different 
 degrees by different persons; and the power which the mind 
 
120 MEMORY. 
 
 possesses of retaining thus, wholly, or in part, what passes 
 before it, is the faculty of memory. But in what sense doej* 
 the mind retain anythmg which has once occupied its 
 thoughts ? Not, of course, in the sense in which a hook 
 retains the hat and coat that are hung upon it, ready to be 
 taken down when wanted. We are not to conceive of the 
 mind as a convenient receptacle, in which may be stowed away 
 all manner of old thoughts, , sensations, impressions, as olc* 
 clothes are put by in a press, or guns in an armory. Not ia 
 any such sense is the mind retentive. What we mean, 
 when we say the mind is retentive, is simply this, that it is 
 in its power to repossess itself of what has once passed be- 
 fore it, to regain a thought or impression it has once had. 
 And this is done by the operation of those laws of sugges- 
 tion already considered. That, and that only is retained by 
 the mind, w^hich under the appropriate circumstances is by 
 the principle of suggestion recalled to the mind. We are 
 Qot to distinguish, then, the power to retain and the power 
 to recall, as two separate things ; nor, for the same reason, 
 can we conceive of a memory that is other than retentive, 
 or that is retentive but not ready. So far as these ex^ 
 pressions denote any real distinction, it amounts simply to 
 i/his, that some minds are more retentive than others ; in 
 other words, more susceptible of the influence of the sug- 
 gesting principle in recalling ideas that have once been 
 before them. Such a difference undoubtedly exists. Some 
 remember much more readily and extensively than othera 
 This may be owing, partly, to some difference of mental 
 constitution and endowment ; but more frequently to differ 
 ences of mental habit and culture. It is not necessary to 
 refer again to the laws of mental reproduction which have 
 been already discussed. It is sufficient to say, that the more 
 dearly any fact or truth is originally apprehended^ and ths 
 more deeply it interests the mind^ the more readily will it 
 ^ubseq^^ntly recur, and the longer will it be retained 
 
MEMORY. 121 
 
 IV, Memory in Relation to Intellectual Strength 
 
 The common Opinion, — The question has arisen, how 
 H^r the power of memory may be regarded as a test of in- 
 tellectual ability. The opinion has been somewhat preva- 
 lent, that a more than usual development of this faculty is 
 likely to be attended with a corresponding deficiency in 
 Bome other mental power, and especially that it is in com 
 patible with a sound judgment. To this opinion I cannot 
 subscribe. Doubtless it is true that many persons, deficient 
 in the power of accurate discrimination, have possessed won- 
 derful power of memory. The mind, in such cases, undis- 
 ciplined, uncultivated, with Httle inventive and self-moving 
 power, lies passive and open to the influence of every chance 
 suggestion from without, as the lyre is put in vibration by 
 the stray winds that sweep across its strings. Facts and 
 incidents of no value, without number, and without order^ 
 are thrown into relief upon the confused background of the 
 past, as sea-weed, sand, and shells are heaped by the un- 
 meaning waves upon the shore. 
 
 But if a weak mind may possess a good memory, it is 
 equally true, that a strong and well disciplined mind is sel- 
 dom deficient in it. Men of most active and commanding 
 intellect have been men also of tenacious and accurate 
 memory. Napoleon was a remarkable instance of this. So 
 also was the philosopher Leibnitz. While, then, we cannot 
 regard the memory as a test of intellectual capacity, neither 
 can it be con;?idered incompatible with, or unfavorable to, 
 mental strength. On the contrary, we can hardly look foi 
 ,any considerable degree of mental vigor and power where 
 this faculty is essentially deficient. 
 
 Memory as affected by the Art of Printing. — It is re- 
 marked by Mi^s Edgeworth, and the remark, is noticed with 
 approval by Dugald Stewart, that the invention of printing, 
 by placing books within the reach of all classes of people, 
 has lowered the value of those extraordinary powers of 
 
 6 
 
122 MEMORY. 
 
 memory whicb some of the learned were accustomed to diw 
 play in former times. A man who had read, and who could 
 repeat, a few manuscripts, was then not merely a remarkable, 
 but a very useful man. It is quite otherwise now. There 
 is no occasion now for any such exercise of memory. Hence 
 instances of extraordinary memory are of unfrequent oo« 
 currence. 
 
 Failure of Memory accompanies failure of mental 
 Power, — A dechne of mental vigor, whether produced by 
 disease or age, is usually attended with loss of memory to 
 some extent. The first symptoms of this failure are usually 
 forgetfulness of proper names and dates, and sometimes of 
 words in general. A stroke of palsy frequently produces 
 this result, and in such cases the name sometimes suggests 
 the object, while the object no longer recalls the name. 
 This is probably owing to the fact that the sign, being of 
 less consequence than the thing signified, and making less 
 impression on the mind, is more readily forgotten ; hence 
 the name, if suggested, recalls the thing, while, at the same 
 time, the thing may not recall the name. In general, we 
 pass more readily from the sign to the thing signified, thar 
 the reverse, and for the reason now given. Mr. Stewart 
 remarks, that this loss of proper names incident to old men, 
 is chiefly observable in men of science, or those much occu- 
 pied with important afiairs — a fact resulting, he thinks, 
 partly from their habits of general thought, an^.1 partly from 
 their want of constant practice in that trivial conversatiau 
 which is every moment recalling particulars to the mind. 
 
 The Memory of the Aged, — In the principles which have 
 been advanced, we find an explanation, I think, of some 
 facts respecting memory, which every one has noticed, but 
 of which the philosophy may not be at first sight apparent. 
 Why is it that aged people forget ? that, as we grow old, 
 while perhaps other powers of the mind are still vigorous, the 
 memory begins to lose its tenacity? Not, I suspect, from any 
 special change which the brain undergoes, for why should such 
 
MEMORf. 123 
 
 AaBges affect this faculty more than any other ? I should 
 seek the explanation in a failure of one or other of the con- 
 ditions already mentioned as essential to a good memory ; 
 either in the want of a sufficiently frequent coexistence of 
 associated ideas, or else in the want of a sufficiently vivid 
 conception of them ^vhen presented ; or, more likely, in 
 both„ And so the facts would indicate. Age involves usu- 
 ally the gradual failure and decay of the powers of percep 
 ticTi ; the ear fails to report what is said, the eye what i& 
 pa&sing in space ; and as memory is dependent on prior 
 perception, of course a diminished activity of the one brings 
 about a diminished activity of the other. In proportion as 
 this ensues, the mind's interest in passing events is likely to 
 fail, for what is no longer clearly apprehended no longer 
 awakens the same interest and attention as formerly. This 
 directly affects the vividness of conception, and indirectly 
 also reacts upon the frequency of coexistence, for what we 
 do not clearly apprehend, nor feel much interest in, will not 
 be likely often to recur to mind, nor shall we dwell upon it 
 when presented. There is thus brought about, by the 
 mutual action and reaction of the causes now specified, a 
 failure more or less complete of the essential conditions of 
 a retentive memory. 
 
 The old man dwells accordingly much in the past. His 
 life is behind him, and not in advance. He is unobservant 
 of passing events, because he neither clearly apprehends 
 them, now that his connection with the outer world is in a 
 measure interrupted by the decay of sense, nor does he 
 much care about them, for the same reason. His attention 
 and interest, withdrawn in a manner from these, revert to the 
 past. Those things he remembers, the sports and compan . 
 ions of his youth, and the stirring events of his best and 
 most active years, for those things have been frequently as- 
 sociated in his mind, linked with each other, and with all 
 the past of his life, and they have deeply interested him 
 Hence they are remembered while yesterday is forgotten. 
 
124 MEMORY. 
 
 Varieties of Memory. — Why is it, you ask, that niemorj 
 seems to select for itself now one and now another field of 
 operation, one man remembering dates, another events or 
 facts in history, another words or pages of a book, while m 
 each case the memory of other things, of every thing tha; 
 lies beyond or without the favorite range of topics, is de- 
 fective ? Manifestly for much the same reason already 
 given. The mind has its favorite subjects of investigation 
 and thought ; to these it frequently recurs, and dwells on 
 them with interest ; there is, consequently, frequency of co* 
 existence, and vividness of conception — the very conditiong 
 of retentiveness — while, at the same time, the mind be- 
 ing preoccupied with the given subjects, and the attention 
 and interest withdrawn from other things, the memory of 
 other things is proportion ably .deficient. We remember, in 
 other words, just those things best, in which we are most 
 interested, and with which we have most to do. 
 
 This explains why we forget names so readily. We have 
 more to do with^ and are more interested in, persons^ than 
 their names ; the latter we have occasion to think of much 
 less often than the former. The sign occurs less frequently 
 than the thing signified, 
 
 V. Cultivation of Memory. 
 
 The principles already advanced furnish a clue to the 
 proper and successful cultivation of the memory. Like al! 
 other powers, this may be cultivated, and to a wonderful de= 
 gree ; and, like all other powers, it gains strength by use^ by 
 exercise. The first and chief direction, then, if you would 
 cultivate and strengthen this faculty of the mind, is, exereiQi 
 it ; train it to do its work — to do it quickly, easily, accura- 
 tely, and well — as you train yourself to handle the keys oj 
 an instrument, or to add up a column of figures with prompt 
 pess and accuracy. 
 
 To be more specific. — As regards any particular thin^ 
 whict you wish to remember: 1. Grasp it fully, clearly, defin 
 
MEMORY. 125 
 
 he\y ji the mind ; be sure yoa have it exactly — z7, and not 
 something like it or something about it. 2. Connect it wit!/ 
 other things that are known ; suffer it to link itself with other 
 ideas and impressions already in the mind, that you may have 
 something to recall it by. 3. Frequently revert to it, until 
 you are sure that it has become a permanent possession, and 
 one which you can at any time recall by any one of numerou^s 
 connecting links. In this way you secure the two conditions 
 already specified as essential, viz., frequency of coexistence, 
 and vividness of conception. - 
 
 Systems of artificial Memory, — A thing is recalled by 
 the suggestion of any coexisting thought or feeling. Ob- 
 serving this, ingenious men have availed themselves of the 
 principle of association to construct various mechanical or 
 artificial systems of memory, usually termed m^nemonics. 
 The principle of the construction is this : should you see an 
 elm or an oak-tree, or hear a particular tune whistled, at the 
 same time that you were going through a demonstration ii 
 Euclid, you would be likely to think of the tree or the tunt 
 whenever next you had occasion to repeat that demonstra- 
 tion. The sight of the diagram would recall the associated 
 object. They stand together in your mind afterward. This 
 we have already found to be the groundwork and chief ele 
 ment of all association of ideas and feelings, viz., prior co- 
 existence in the mind. Suppose, now, you wish to fix in the 
 mind the list of English kings. Make out a correspondin£r 
 list of simple figures, or images of objects, giving each it? 
 invariable place in relation to the series: N"o. 1. a pump; 
 No. 2. a goose, etc., till you reach a sufficient number, say a 
 hundred. These are committed to memory, fixed indelibly im 
 the mind. You then associate with those figures your Eng 
 lish kings ; Charles I. stands by the pump ; Charles II. 
 pursues the goose ; James hugs the bear, and so on. 
 These things thus once firmly linked together, remain after 
 ward associated, and the figure serves at once to recall the 
 associate monarch nnd to fix his place in the series. The 
 
126 MEMORY. 
 
 same series of figures, of course, will serve for any nuin ei 
 of diflferent series of events, personages, etc., which are to 
 be remembered. 
 
 Utility questioned, — It may be seriously questioned, I 
 think, whether such systems are of real value ; whether 
 they do not really weaken the memory and ^hrow it into 
 disuse, by departing from the ordinary law^ and methods 
 of suggestion, and substituting a purely artificial, arbitrary 
 and mechanical process ; whether, morevoer, they really ao 
 complish what they propose ; whether, since the signs or 
 figures have no natural relation to each other, and none to 
 the things signified, but only the arbitrary relation imposed 
 by the system, it is not really as difficult to fix the connec- 
 tion of the two things in your mind, e.^., to remember that 
 Charles the Second is represented by a dog or by a goose, 
 as it would be simply, and in the natural way, to remember 
 the things themselves without any such association. 
 
 Extent to which the Memory may he cultivated. — The 
 extent to which the cultivation of the memory may be car 
 ried by due training and care, is a topic worthy of some at- 
 tention. Men of reflection and thought, and generally men 
 of studious habits, literary men and authors, do not, for the 
 most part, rely so much upon the memory as men of a more 
 practical cast and of business pursuits ; for this reason, viz., 
 the want of due exercise, this faculty of their minds is not 
 in the most favorable circumstances for development. Some 
 striking exceptions, however, we shall have occasion pres* 
 ently to mention. 
 
 It has been already remarked, that prior to the art of 
 printing, the cultivation of the memory was an object of far 
 greater importance, to those who were destined for publio 
 life, than it is in modern times, and consequently instances 
 of remarkable memory are much more frequently to be met 
 with among the ancimts than among the men of our times. 
 The same remark wiL apply to men of different pursuits w 
 
MEMORY. 127 
 
 any age : the more one has occasion to employ the men«<^y, 
 the more striking will be its development. 
 
 Jnstamies of extraordinary Memory. — Cyrus, it is n^aid 
 knew the name of every officer, Pliny has it of every soldier, 
 that served under him. Themistocles could call by name 
 each one of the twenty thousand citizens of Athens. Ilorten- 
 gius could sit all day at an auction, and at evening give ac 
 account from memory of every thing sold, the purchaser, and 
 the price. Muretus saw at Padua a young Corsican, saya 
 Mr. Stewart, who could repeat, without hesitation, thirty-six 
 thousand names in the order in which he heard them, and 
 then reverse the order and proceed backward to the first. 
 
 Dr. Wallis of Oxford, on one occasion, at night, in bed, 
 proposed to himself a number of fifty-three places, and found 
 its square root to twenty-seven places, and, without writing 
 down numbers at all, dictated the result from memory twenty 
 days afterward. It was not unusual with him to perform arith- 
 metical operations in the dark, as the extraction of roots^^.^.? 
 to forty decimal places. The distinguished Euler, blind fi*om 
 early life, had always in his memory a table of the first six 
 powers of all numbers, from one to one hundred. On one oc- 
 casion two of his pupils, calculating a converging series, or? 
 reaching the seventeenth term, found their results differing 
 by one unit at the fiftieth figure, and in order to decide which 
 was correct, Euler went over the whole in his head, and his 
 decision was found afterward to be correct. Pascal forgot 
 nothing of what he had read, or heard, or seen. Menage, at 
 seventy-seven, commemorates, in Latin verses, the favor of 
 the gods, in restoring to him, after partial eclipse, the full 
 powers of memory which had adorned his earlier life. 
 
 The instances now given are mentioned' by Mr. Stewart ; 
 but perhaps tbe most remarkable instance of great memory, 
 in modern times, is the case of the celebrated Magliabechi^ 
 librarian of the Duke of Tuscany. He would inform any 
 one who consulted him, not only who had directly treated 
 of any particular subject, but who had indirectly tourb^^ 
 
19B MEMORY 
 
 upon it in treating of other subjects, cr» cue numttjr of pop 
 haps one hundred different authors, giving the name of the 
 author, the name of the book, the words, often the page, 
 wliere they were to be found, and with the greatest exactness. 
 To test his memory, a gentleman of Florence lent him at 
 one time a manuscript he had prepared for the press, and, 
 some time afterward, went to him with a sorrowful face, and 
 pretended to have lost his manuscript by accident. The 
 poor author seemed inconsolable, and begged Magliabechi 
 to recollect what he could, and write it down. He assured 
 the unfortunate man that he would, and setting about it, 
 w^'ote out the entire manuscript without missing a word. 
 He had a local memory also, knew where every book 
 stood. One day the Grand Duke sent for him to inquire if 
 he could procure a book which was very scarce. " No, sir,'* 
 answered Magliabechi ; " it is impossible : there is but one in 
 the world ; that is in the Grand Seignior's library at Constan- 
 tinople, and is the seventh hooh^ on the seventh &helf^ on the 
 right hand as you go in,^^ 
 
 VI. Effects of Disease on the Memory. 
 
 Forgetfulness of certain Objects. — Of the effect of certain 
 forms of disease, and also of age, in weakening the power of 
 remembering names, I have already spoken. There are 
 other effects, occasionally produced by disease upon this 
 faculty of the mind, which are not so readily explained. In 
 gome cases, a certain class of objects, or the knowledgi? of 
 C3ertain persons, or of a particular language or some part of 
 a language, as substantives, e. g.^ seems to be lost to the 
 mind ; in other cases, a certain portion of life is obliterated 
 from the recollection. In cases of severe injury to the head, 
 persons have forgotten some particular language; others 
 have been unable to recall afterward the names of the most 
 common objects, while the memory was at no loss for adjeo 
 tiv3S. A surgeon mentioned by Dr. Aberero'mbie, so far re- 
 r,overed from a fall a& to give special dii-ectiohs resperjtins^ hia 
 
MEMORY. 129 
 
 own treatment, yet, for several days, lost all idea of having 
 either a wife or children. The case of Mr. Tennent, who ox 
 recovering from apparent death, lost all knowledge of his 
 
 9 
 
 past life, and was obliged to commence again the study oi 
 the alphabet, until after considerable time his knowledge 
 suddenly returned to him, is too well known to require 
 minute description. 
 
 Former Objects recalled, — In other instances, precisely 
 the reverse occurs. Disease brings back to mind what has 
 been long forgotten. Thus, persons in extreme sickness, or 
 at the point of death, not unfrequently converse in languages 
 which they have known only in youth. The case cited by 
 Coleridge, and so frequently quoted, of the German servant 
 girl, who in sickness was heard repeating passages of Greek, 
 Latin, and Hebrew, which she had formerly heard her mas- 
 ter repeat, as he walked in his study, but of whose meaning 
 she had no idea, is in point in this connection. So also is the 
 case of the Italian mentioned by Dr. Rush, who died in 
 New York, and who, in the beginning of his sickness, spoke 
 English, in the middle of it, French, but on the day of his 
 death, nothing but ItaUan. A Lutheran clergyman of Phil- 
 adelphia told Dr. Rush that it was not uncommon for the 
 Germans and Swedes of his congregation, when near death, 
 to speak and pray in their native languages, which some of 
 them had probably not spoken for fifty years. These facts 
 are sufficiently numerous to constitute a class by themselves ; 
 they seem to fall under some law of the physical system not 
 yet clearly understood, and are, therefore, in the presep^- 
 state of our knowledge, incapable of explanation. 
 
 Inference often draion from these Facts, — Certain writers 
 have inferred, from the recurrence of things long forgotten^ 
 as in the cases now cited, that ail knowledge is indestructible 
 and that all which is necessary to the entire reproduction of 
 the past life is the quickened activity of the mental powers 
 an effect wliich'is produced in the delirium of disease. Fron 
 this they have derived an argument for future retributiou 
 
180 MEMORY. 
 
 Coleridge has made such use of it, and has been followed 
 by Uphani, and in part, at least, though with more caution, 
 by Wayland. 
 
 The true Inference, — It may be doubted, perhaps, whether 
 the abso] ute indestructibility of all human knowledge is a 
 legitimate inference from these facts. The most that can 
 with certainty be concluded from them, is, not that all our 
 past thoughts and consciousness must or will return, but that 
 much of it may — perhaps all of it ; and this is all we need 
 to know in order to perceive the possibility of a future ret- 
 ribution. It is enough to know, that in the constitution of 
 the mind m^eans exist for recalling, in some way to us mys- 
 terious, and under certain conditions not by us fully under- 
 stood, the objects of our former consciousness, in all the 
 freshness and vividness of their past cognizance, long after 
 they seem to have passed finally from the memory. 
 
 Importance of a well-spent Life. — This simple fact, to- 
 gether with the well-known tendency of the mind in advan- 
 cing age to revert to the scenes and incidents of early life, 
 certainly presents in the clearest light the importance of a 
 well-spent life, of a mind stored with such recollections as 
 shall cast a cheerful radiance over the past, and brighten the 
 uncertain future in those hours of gloom and despondency 
 when the shadows lengthen upon the path of earthly pil- 
 grimage, and life is drawing to a close. If the thoughts and 
 unpressions of the passing moment are liable, by some 
 casual association, by some mysterious law of our being, 
 under conditions which may at any moment be fulfilled, to 
 recur at any time to subsequent consciousness, with all the 
 minuteness and power of present reality, it becomes us, as 
 we regard our own highest interests, to guard well the 
 avenues of thought and feeling against the first approach 
 of that which we shall not be pleased to meet again, when 
 it will not be in owe. power to escape its presence^ or avoid 
 \tH recognition. 
 
MEMORY 131 
 
 Yll. Ikpi.uence of Memoky on the Happiness of Life. 
 
 The Pleasures of the Past thus retained. — Of the iraport- 
 unce of this faculty as related to other intellectual powers, 
 I have already spoken. I refer now to its value as connected 
 with human happiness, as the source of some of the purest 
 pleasures of life. The present, how^ever joyous, is fleeting 
 and evanescent. Memory seizes the passing moment, fixes 
 it upon the canvas, and hangs the picture on the souPs inner 
 chambers for her to look upon when she will. Thus, in an 
 important sense, the former . years are past, but not gone. 
 We live them over again in memory. 
 
 . Instance of Niehuhr, — It is related of Carsten Niebuhr, 
 the Oriental traveller, that " w^hen old and blind, and so 
 feeble that he had barely strength to be borne from his bed 
 to his chair, the dim remembrance of his early adventures 
 thronged before his memory with such vividness that they 
 presented themselves as pictures upon his sightless eye-balls. 
 As he lay upon his bed, pictures of the gorgeous Orient 
 flashed upon his darkness as distinctly as though he had just 
 closed his eyes to shut them out for an instant. The cloud- 
 less blue of the eastern heavens bending by day over the 
 broad deserts, and studded by night with southern constel- 
 lations, shone as vividly before him, after the lapse of half a 
 century, as they did upon the first Chaldean shepherds 
 whom they won to the worship of the host of heaven ; and 
 he discoursed with strange and thrilling eloquence upon those 
 scenes which thus, in the hours of stillness and darkness, were 
 reflected upon his inmost soul." 
 
 The same Thing occurs often in old Age. — Something 
 of this kind not unfrequently occurs in advanced life. Pic- 
 ture to yourself an old man of many winters. The world in 
 x^hich his young life began has grown old with him and around 
 him, and its brighte^st colors have faded from his vision. The 
 life and stir, the whirl and tumult of the busy world, the world 
 of to-dav and yesterday, move him not. He heeds but slightly 
 
132 MEMORY. 
 
 the events of the passing hour. He lives in a past world 
 The scenes of his childhood, the sports and companions of 
 his youth, the hills and streams, the bright eyes and laughing 
 faces on which his young eyes rested, in which his young 
 heart delighted — these visit him again in his solitude, as he 
 sits in his chair by the quiet fireside. He lives over again 
 the past. He wanders again by the old hills, and over the 
 old meadows. He feels again the vigor of youth. He leads 
 again his bride to the altar. He brings home toys for his 
 children, and enters again into their sports. And so the ex- 
 tremes of life meet. Age completes the circuit, and brings 
 us back to the starting-point. We close where we began, 
 Tjife is a magic ring. 
 
 The recollection of past Sorrow not always painful. — 
 "But life is not all joyous. Mingled with the brighter hues 
 of every life are also much sadness and sorrow, and these, 
 too, are to be remembered. It might be supposed that, 
 while memory, by recalling the pleasing incidents of the 
 past, might contribute much to our happiness, she would add, 
 in perhaps an equal degree, to our sorrow, by recalling much 
 that is painful to the thoughts. Such, however, I am con- 
 vinced, is not the fact. The benevolence of the Creator 
 has ordered it otherwise. To no one, perhaps, is memory 
 the source of greater pleasure, strange as it may seem, than 
 to the mourner. The very circumstances that tend to renew 
 our grief, and keep alive our sorrow, in case of some severe 
 calamity or bereavement, are still cherished with a melan- 
 choly satisfaction of which we would not be deprived. 
 There is a luxury in our very grief, and in the remembrance 
 of that for which we grieve. We would not forget what we 
 have lost. Every recollection and association connected 
 with it are sacred. Time assuages our grief, but impairs 
 not the strength and sacredness of those associations, nor 
 diminishes the pleasure with which we recall the forms we 
 shall see no more, and the scenes that are gone forever. 
 Every memento of the departed one is sacred ; the books. 
 
MEMORY. 133 
 
 the flowers, the favorite walks, the tree in whose shadoTV he 
 was wont to recline, all have a significance and a value 
 which the stricken heart only can interpret, and which 
 memory only can afford. 
 
 We recollect the Past as it was, — It is to be noticed, 
 «ilso, that, in such cases, the picture which memory furnishes 
 18 a transcript of the past as it was ; the image is stereotyped 
 and unchangeable. Other things change, we change ; that 
 changes not. It has a fixed value. A mother, for instance, 
 loses a child of three years. It ever remains to her a child 
 of three years. She remembers it as it was. She growb 
 old ; twenty summers and winters pass ; yet as often as she 
 visits the little mound, now scarce to be distinguished from 
 the level surface, there comes to her recollection that little 
 child as he was, when she hung, for the last time, over that 
 pale, sweet face that she should see no more. She still 
 thinks of him, dreams of him, as a child, for it is as such 
 only that she remembers him. 
 
 Blessed boon, that gives us just the past ; when all things 
 change, fortunes vary, friends depart, the world grows un- 
 kind, and we grow old, the former things remain treasured 
 in our memory, and we can stand as mourners at the grave 
 of what we once were. 
 
 VIII. HiSTOKicAL Sketch. — Different Theories of 
 Memory. 
 
 Ancient Theory, — The idea formerly, and almost univer- 
 sally entertained respecting the modus operandi of the faculty 
 we call memory, was, that in perception and the various oper 
 ations of the senses, certain impressions are made on the 
 sensorium-— certain forms and types of things without, certain 
 i7nages of them — which remain when the external object is 
 no longer present, and become imprinted thus on the mind. 
 Such, certainly, was the doctrine of the earliest Greek com* 
 mentators on Aristotle. Such, I must think, is substantially 
 the doctrine of Aristotle himself. 
 
i34 MEMOKY. 
 
 Theory of Aristotle, — His idea is, that memory, as well as 
 imagination, primarily and directly, relates only to sensible ob- 
 jects, and gives us only images of these objects, and even when 
 it gives us strictly intellectual objects, gives us these only by 
 images. One cannot thinJc^ he says, without images. Its 
 Bource and origin, then, he concludes, is the sensibility, and so it 
 pertains to animals^ as well as men ; only to those, however, 
 which have the perception of time, since memory is a modifi- 
 cation of sensation or intellectual conception, under the con- 
 dition of time past. Such being, in his view, the nature and 
 ^source of memory, he goes on to ask how it is that only a 
 modification (or state) of the mind being present, and the 
 object itself absent, one recalls that absent object? 
 
 "Manifestly," he replies, "we must believe that the impres- 
 sion which is produced, in consequence of the sensation, in 
 the soul, and in that part of the body which perceives the 
 sensation, is analogous to a species of painting, and that the 
 perception of that impression constitutes precisely what we 
 call memory. The movement which then takes* place m the 
 mind rmprints there a sort of type of the se7isation analo- 
 gous to the seal which one imprints on wax with a ring. 
 Hence it is that those who by the violence of the impression, 
 or by the ardor of age are in a great excitement (movement) 
 have not the memory of things, as if the movement and seal 
 had been applied to running water. In the case of others, 
 however, who are in a sort cold, as the plaster of old edifices, 
 the very hardness of the part which receives the impression 
 prevents the image from leaving the least trace. Hence it is 
 that young children and old men have so little memory. It 
 is the same with those who are too lively, and those who 
 are too slow. Neither remember well. The one class are 
 too humid^ the other too hard. The image dwells not in 
 the soul of the one, makes no impression whatever on that 
 of the other. 
 
 "How is it now," he goes on to ask, "that this stamp, impres- 
 sion, image, or painting, in us, a mere mode of the mind, cai« 
 
MEMORY. 135 
 
 recall the absent object ? " His answer is, that the impression 
 or image is a copy of that object, while, at the same time, it 
 is, in itself considered, only a modification of our mind, just 
 as a painting is a mere picture, and yet a copy from nature, 
 (Parva Naturalia: Memory, ch. 1.) 
 
 Defence of Aristotle, — Sir W. Hamilton defends Aris* 
 totle against the strictures of Dr. Reid, upon this subject, 
 by the supposition that he used these expressions not in a 
 literal, but in a figurative or analogical sense. The figure, 
 ^owever, if it be one, is very clearly and boldly sustained, 
 and constitutes, in fact, the whole explanation given of the 
 process of memory — the entire theory. Take away these 
 expressions, and you take away the whole substance of his 
 argument, the whole solution of the problem. Sensation, or 
 intellectual conception, produces an impression on the soul, 
 and imprints there a type of itself, not unlike a painting or 
 the stamp of a seal on wax, and the perception of this is 
 memory. Such is in brief his theory. 
 
 Theory of Hobbes, — Not far remote from this was the 
 theory of IJobbes, who regarded memory as a decaying or 
 vanishing sense ; that of Hume, who represents it as merely 
 a somewhat weaker impression than that which we designate 
 as perception ; and that of the celebrated Malebranche, 
 who accounted for memory by making it to depend entirely 
 on the changes which take place in the fibres of the brain. 
 " For even as the branches of a tree which have continued 
 some time bent in a certain form, still preserve an aptitude 
 to be bent anew after the same manner, so the fibres of the 
 brain having once received certain impressions by the course 
 of the animal spirits, and by the action of objects, retain a long 
 time some facility to receive these same dispositions. IvTow 
 the memory consists only in this faculty, since we think on the 
 same things when the brain receives the same impressions." 
 
 He goes on to explain how, as the brain undergoes a 
 change in different periods of life, the mind is affected ac- 
 cordingly " The fibres of the brain in children are m% 
 
136 MEMORY. 
 
 flexible, and delicate ; a riper age dr'es, hardens, J^d 
 strengthens them ; but in old age they become wholly in- 
 flexible." ^' * ^ " YoY as we see the fibres which compose 
 the flesh harden by time, and that the flesh of a young part- 
 ridge is, without dispute, more tender than that of an old 
 one, so the fibres of the brain of a child or youth will be 
 much more soft and delicate than those of persons more ad 
 Vanced in years." 
 
 Strictures iipon this Theory, — Without disputing whal 
 is here stated as to the difference in the fibres of the brain 
 at different periods of life, it remains to be proved that all 
 this has any thing to do with the differences of memory in dif- 
 ferent persons, or with the phenomena of memory in generaL 
 
 These theories, it will be observed, all assume that in per- 
 ception and sensation some physical effect is produced on 
 the system, which remains after the orginal sensation or per- 
 ception has ceased to act, and that memory is the result of 
 that remaining effect, the perception, or conscious cogniz- 
 ance of it by the mind. The process is a purely physiolog- 
 ical one. Without insisting on the expressions made use of 
 to represent this process, all which convey the idea strongly 
 of a me,chanical effect — type imprinted on the soul, impres- 
 sion made on it as of a seal on wax, image, picture, copy, 
 etc. ; allowing these to be mere metaphors ; allowing, 
 moreover, that the essential fact all along assumed, is a fact, 
 viz., that in sensation, perception, etc., some physical effect 
 is produced on the sensorium ; there are still two essential 
 propositions to be established before we can admit any of 
 these theories: 1. That this physical effect remains any 
 time after the cause ceases to operate ; 2. That if &o, it is in 
 any way concerned in the production of memory ; and even 
 if these points could be made out, it would still be an open 
 question, in what way, possible or conceivable, this effect 
 or impression on the sensorium gives rise to the pheno- 
 menon of memory ; foi this is, after all, the chief thing to be 
 explained. 
 
IMAGINATION, 137 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 IMAGINATION. 
 §L— General Chaeacter op this Faculty. 
 
 TTie Point at which loe have arrived. — We have thus far 
 t^oated of those forms of mental representation which are 
 concerned in the reproduction of what has once been per- 
 eeived or felt, and in the recognition of it as such. It re- 
 mains still to investigate that form of the representative 
 power, which has for its office something quite distinct from 
 either of these, and which we may term the creative 
 faculty. 
 
 Office of this Faculty, — By the operation of this power, 
 the former perceptions and sensations are replaced in 
 thought, and combined as in mental reproduction, but not, 
 as in mental reproduction, according to the original and 
 actual^ so that the past is simply repeated, but rather aa 
 cording to the mind's own ideal^ and at its own will and 
 fancy ; so that while the groundwork of the representation 
 is something which has been, at some time, an object of 
 perception, the picture itself, as it stands before the mind 
 in its completeness, is not the copy of any thing actually 
 perceived, but a creation of the mind^s own. This power 
 the mind has, and it is a power distinct from either of those 
 already mentioned, and not less wonderful than either. Tne 
 details of the original perception are omitted ; time, place, 
 circumstance fall out, or are varied to suit the fancy ; the 
 scene is laid when and where we like ; the incidents follow 
 each other no longer in their actual order ; the original, in 
 a word, is no longer faithfully transcribed, but the picture is 
 conformed to the taste and pleasure of the artist. The con- 
 ception becomes ideal. This is imagination in its true and 
 proper sphere — the creative power of the mind. 
 
138 IMAGINATIOK. 
 
 §11. — B.i\.ATION OF THIS TO OTHER FACULTIEa 
 
 The true province of imagination may be more definitely 
 distinguished by comparing it with other powers of the mindr 
 
 Imagination as related to Memory. — How, then, doea 
 imagination differ from memory ? In this, first and chiefly, 
 that memory gives us the actual, imagination, the ideal ; in 
 tliis also, that memory deals only with the past, while imagi- 
 nation, not confined to such limits, sweeps on bolder wing, 
 and without bound, alike through the future and the past. 
 In one respect they agree. Both give the absent — that 
 which is not now and here present to sense. Both are rep 
 resentative rather than presentative. Both also are forms 
 of conception. 
 
 To Perception. — In what respect does it differ from per- 
 ception ? In perception the object is given, presented ; in 
 imagination it is thought, conceived ; in the former case it 
 is given as actual^ in tb^. latter, conceived not as actual but 
 as ideal. 
 
 • To Judgment, — Iinap'ipadon differs ^vom. judgment^ in 
 that the latter deals, not likii the former, with things m 
 themselves considered, but rather with the relations of 
 things — is, in other words, a -^rm Pot of simple^ but of relor* 
 tive conception ; and also in that it deals with these relatione 
 as actual^ not as ideal. It has always sp^^cific reference to 
 truth, and is concerned in the formation of omnion and be- 
 lief, as resting on the evidence of truth, and the perceptioi 
 of the actual relations of things. 
 
 To Heasoning, — In like manner it differs from reason 
 ing^ which also has to do with truths, facts —r has fer its ob- 
 ject to ascertain and state those facts or principles ; its so^^ 
 and simple inquiry being, what is true f Imagination con- 
 cerns itself with no such inquiry, admits of no such limita- 
 tion. Its thought is not what did actually occur, but what 
 in given circumstances might occur. Its question is not 
 what really was^ or ^5, or will be, but what m.ay be ; what 
 
IMAGINATION. 139 
 
 may be concewed as possible or probable under such or such 
 contingencies. 
 
 Reasoning, moreover, reaches only such truths as are in 
 volved in its premises, and may fairly be deduced as conclu. 
 sions from those premises. It furnishes no new material, 
 but merely evolves and unfolds what lies vrapped up in the 
 admitted premises. Imagination lies under no such restric- 
 tion. There is no necessary connection between the wrath 
 of Achilles, and the consequences that are made to resuh 
 from it in the unfolding of the epic. 
 
 To Taste. — Imagination and taste are by no means iden- 
 tical. The former may exist in a high degree where the 
 latter is essentially defective. In such a case the concep- 
 tions of the imagination are, it may be, too bold, passing 
 the limits of probability, or, it may be, offensive to delicacy 
 wanting in refinement and beauty, or in some way deficient 
 in the qualities that please a cultivated mind. This is not 
 unfrequently the case with the productions of the poet, tho 
 painter, the orator. There is no lack of imagination in their 
 works, while, at the same time, they strike us as deficient in 
 taste. Taste is the regulating principle, whose ofiice is to 
 guide and direct the imagination, sustaining to it much the 
 same relation that conscience does to free moral action. It 
 is a lawgiver and a judge. 
 
 To Knowledge. — Still more widely does imagination 
 differ from simple knowledge. There may be great learn 
 ing and no imagination, and the reverse is equally true. 
 We know that which is — the actual ; we imagine that 
 which is not — the ideal. Learning enlarges and quickens 
 the mind, extends the field of its vision, augments its re- 
 sources, expands its sphere of thought and action ; in this 
 way its powers are strengthened, its conceptions multiplied 
 and vivified. There is furnished, consequently, both mora 
 and better material for the creativ'e faculty to work upon 
 Further than this, the imagination is little indebted tc> 
 learning. 
 
140 IMAGINATION. 
 
 Illustration of these Differences. — To illustrate the di£ 
 ferences already indicated : I stand at my window and look 
 out on the landscape. My eye rests on the form and dark 
 outline of a mountain, pictured against the sky. Percep* 
 tion, this. I go back to my desk, I shut my eyes. That 
 form and figure, pencilled darkly against the blue sky, are 
 
 still in my mind. I seem to see them still. That heavy 
 
 * 
 
 mass, that undulating outline, that bold rugged summit — 
 the whole stands before me as distinctly as when my eye 
 rested upon it. Conception, this, replacing the absent ob- 
 ject. I not only in my thoughts seem to see the mountain 
 thus reproduced, but I Jcnow it when seen ; I recognize it as 
 the mountain which a moment before I saw from my win- 
 dow. Memory, this, connecting the conception with some- 
 thing in my past experience. The picture fades perhaps 
 from my view, and I begin to estimate the probable dis- 
 tance of the mountain, or its relative height, as compared 
 with other mountains. Judgment, this, or the conception 
 of relations. I proceed to calculate the number of square 
 miles of surface on a mountain of that height and extent. 
 Reasoning, this. And now I sweep away, in thought, the 
 actual mountain, and replace it with one vastly more im- 
 posing and grand. Eternal snows rest upon its summits ; 
 ' glaciers hold their slow and stately march down its sides ; 
 the avalanche thunders from its precipices. Imagination 
 now has the field to herself. 
 
 § III. — Active and Passive Imagination. 
 
 View of Dr, Wayland, — "If we regard the several act 
 )f this faculty," says Dr. Wayland, " we may, I think, ob 
 <erve a difference between them. We have the power to 
 i>riginate images or pictures for ourselves, and we have the 
 power to form them as they are presented in language. 
 The former may be called active, and the latter passive 
 imagination. The active, I believe, always includes the pas* 
 Bive power, but the passive does not always include the 
 
IMAGINATION. li\ 
 
 activ3. Thus we frequently observe persons who delight in 
 poetry and romance, who are utterly incapable of creating 
 a scene or composing a stanza. They can form the pictures 
 dictated by language, but are destitute of the power of 
 original combination." 
 
 Correctness of this View questioned, — That many who 
 enjoy the creations of the poet and the splendid fictions of 
 the dramatist and novelist, are themselves incapable of 
 producing like creations, is doubtless true. The same is 
 true in other departments of the creative art. Many per- 
 sons enjoy a fine painting or statue, good music, or a noble 
 architectural design, who cannot themselves produce these 
 works of art. This does not prove them deficient, how- 
 aver, in imagination, for the inability may be owing to other 
 muses, as want of training ; nor, on the other hand, does 
 the simple enjoyment of ideal creations involve a difi*erent 
 kind of imagination from that exercised in creating. Imagi- 
 nation is, as it seems to me, always active, never passive. 
 Where it exists, and whenever it is called into exercise, it 
 acts, and its action is, in some sense, creative. It conceives 
 the ideal, that which, as conceived, does not exist, or at 
 least is not known to the senses as existing. It matters not 
 in what way these ideal conceptions are suggested, whether 
 by the signs of language written or spoken, or by those 
 characters which the painter, the sculptor, or the architect 
 presents, each in his own way, and with his own material, or 
 by one's own previous conceptions. Every ideal conception 
 IS suggested by something antecedent to itself. All active 
 imagination is, in other words, passive, in the sense here in- 
 tended, and all passive imagination, so called, is in reality 
 active, so far as it is, properly speaking, imagination at al]. 
 The difference between the faculty that produces and that 
 which merely enjoys, is a difference of degree rather than of 
 kind. The one is an imagination peculiarly active ; the 
 uther tiUghtly so ; or, more properly, the one mind hai 
 xrmch^ the other little imagination. 
 
142 IMAGINATION. 
 
 Philosophic Imagination. — The term. philosophic imagi* 
 nation, in distinction from poetic^ is employed by the same dis- 
 tinguished writer to denote che faculty, possessed by some 
 minds of a high order, of discovering new truths in science ; 
 of so classifying and arranging known facts as to bring to 
 light the laws which govern them, or, by a happy conjecture, 
 assigning to phenomena hitherto unexplained, a theory which 
 will account for them. Whethp-r the faculty now intended 
 is properly imagination, admits ^f question. Its field is that 
 of conjecture, supposition, th^eory, invention. It involves 
 the exercise of judgment and reason. It seeks after truth. 
 It is a process of discovering what is. Imagination deals 
 Irith the ideal only — inquires not for the true. 
 
 § TV. — iMAaiHATION A SiMPLE FACULTY. ' 
 
 Common Theory/, — The view which has been very gene- 
 rally entertained of the faculty now under consideration, 
 both in this country, and by the Scotch philosophers, resolves 
 it partially or wholly into other powers of the mind, as ab- 
 straction, association, judgment, taste. In this view, it 
 is no longer a simple faculty, if indeed it can with propriety 
 be called a faculty at all, inasmuch as the effects ascribed to 
 it can be accounted for by the agency of the other powers 
 now named. 
 
 4 
 
 A different View, — It seems to me that imagination, while 
 doubtless it presupposes and involves the exercise of the. 
 suggestive and associative principle, of the analytic or divi 
 Bive principle by which compounds are broken up into theii 
 distinct elements, and also, to some extent, of judgment, or 
 the principle which perceives relations, is, nevertheless, itself 
 a power distinct from each of these, and from all of them in 
 combination. Memory presupposes perception, or some- 
 thing to be reproduced and remembered. It is not, therefore, 
 to be regarded as a complex faculty, comprising the percep- 
 tive pcwer as one of its factors. The power to combine, ia 
 
IMAGINATION. 'ix% 
 
 Eke marmei^ presupposes the previous separation of elemenia 
 capable of being reunited, but is not to be resolved into that 
 power which produces such separation. It involves some 
 ftxercise of judgment along with its own proper and dis- 
 tinctive activity, but is not to be confounded with, or 
 resolved into the power of perceiving relations. 
 
 The faculty of ideal conception is really a power of th 
 mind, and it is a simple power, a thing of itself, although it 
 may involve and presuppose the activity of other faculties 
 along with its own. Abstraction, association, judgment, 
 taste — none of them singly, nor all of them combined, are 
 what "we mean by it. 
 
 Theory of Brown. — Dr. Brown resolves the faculty now 
 in question into simple suggestion, accompanied, in the case 
 of voluntary imagination, with desire, and with judgment. 
 There- is nothing in the process different from w^hat occurs 
 in any case of the suggestion of one thought by another, he 
 would say. We think of a mountain, we think of gold, and 
 some analogy, or common property of the two, serves to 
 suggest the complex conception, mountain of gold. Even 
 where the process is not purely spontaneous, but accom- 
 panied with desire on our part, it is still essentially the same 
 process. We think of something, and this suggests other 
 related conceptions, some of which we approve as fit for our 
 purpose, Others we reject as unfit. Here is simple suggestion 
 accompanied with desire and judgment; and these are all 
 the ^actors that enter into the process. " We may term this 
 state, or series of states, imagination or fancy, and the term 
 nay be convenient for its brevity. But in using it we must 
 not forget that the term, however brief and simple, is still 
 the name of a state that is complex, or of a succession of 
 states, that the phenomena comprehended under it being 
 the same in nature, are not rendered, by the use of a mere 
 word, different from those to which we have ah'eady given 
 peculiar names expressive of them as they exist separately; 
 and tnat it is to the classes of these elementary phenomena. 
 
14*4 IMAGINATION. 
 
 therefore, that we must refer the whole process of imagina- 
 tion in our philosophic analysis." - 
 
 Strictures on this Theory. — This view, it will be per 
 ceiyed, in reality sweeps the faculty of imagination entirely 
 from the field. To this I cannot yield my assent. Is not 
 this state, or affection of the mind, as Dr. Brown calls it 
 quite a distinct thing from other mental states and affeo 
 tions ? Has it not a character sui generis f Is not th 
 operation, the thing done, a different thing from what i& 
 done in other cases, and by other faculties ; and has not the 
 mind the power of doing this new and different thing ; and 
 is not that power of doing a given thing what we mean in 
 any case by 2, faculty of the mind ? Is there not an element in 
 this process under consideration which is not involved in other 
 mental processes, viz. : the ideal element ; the conception, 
 not of the actual and the rea), as in the case of the other 
 faculties, but of the purely ideal ? And if the mind has the 
 faculty of forming a class of conceptions so entirely distinct 
 from the others, why not give that faculty a name, and its 
 own proper name, and allow it a place, its own proper place, 
 among the mental powers ? 
 
 § Y. — Imagination not merely the Power of Combination. 
 
 The prevalent View, — This question is closely connected 
 with that just discussed. The usual definitions make the 
 feculty under, consideration a mere process of combining 
 and arranging ideas previously in the mind, so as to form 
 new compounds. You have certain conceptions. These 
 you combine one with another, as a child puts togethei 
 blocks that lie before him, to suit himself, now this upper 
 most, now that, and the result is a work of imagination. It 
 is tke mere arrangement of previous conceptions, and not 
 itself a power of producing or conceiving any thing. And 
 even this arrangement of former conceptions is itself a sponr- 
 taneous casual process, according to Dr. Brown, not properly 
 a power of the mind. 
 
IMAGINATION. 145 
 
 Makes Imagination little else than Invention, — Accord- 
 ii>g to this view, imagination is hardly to be distinguished 
 from mere invention in the mechanic arts, which is the re- 
 sult of some new combination of previously existing materials. 
 The construction of a steam-pump with a new kind of valve, 
 is as really a work of imagination, as Paradise Lost. The 
 man who contrives a carding-machine, and the man who 
 conceives the Transfiguration, the Apollo Belvidere, or th 
 Iliad, are exercising both, the same faculty — merely com- 
 bining in new forms the previous possessions of the mind. 
 
 TJiis View inadequate, — This is a very meagre and in- 
 adequate view, as it seems to me, of the faculty of imagina- 
 tion. It fixes the attention upon, and elevates into the 
 importance of a definition, a circumstance in itself unim- 
 portant, while it overlooks the essential characteristic of the 
 faculty to be defined. The creative activity of the mind is 
 lost sight of in attending to the materials on which it 
 works. 
 
 The Distiyictive Elemeiit of Imagination overlooked, — 
 Imagination I take to be the power of conceiving the ideal. 
 The elements which enter into and compose that ideal con- 
 ception, are, indeed, elements previously existing, not tkem- 
 selves the mind's creations; but the conception itself is the 
 mind's own creation, and this creative activity, this power 
 of conceiving the purely ideal, is the very essence of that 
 which we are seeking to define. True, the separate con- 
 ceptions which enter into the composition of Paradise Lost 
 — trees, flowers, rivers, mountains, angels, deities — were 
 already in the poet's mind before he began to meditate th( 
 sublime epic. They were but the material on which he 
 wrought. Has he then created nothing, conceived nothing ? 
 Have we truly and adequately described that immortal 
 poem when we say that it is a mere combination of trees, 
 rivers, hills, and angels, in certain proportions and relations 
 aot previously attempted ? 
 
 Illustration drawn from^ the Arts, — The artist makes use 
 
 ^7 
 
146 IMAGINATION. 
 
 of colors previously existing when be would produce a paint- 
 ing, and of marble already in tlie block, when he would chisel 
 a statue or a temple. In reality he oiily combines. Yet it 
 would be but a poor definition of any one of these sublimf 
 arts to say that painting, sculpture, architecture, is merely 
 the putting together of previous materials to form new 
 wholes. We object to such a definition, not because it af- 
 firms what is not true, but because it does not affirm the 
 chief and most important truth ; not because of what it 
 states, but because of what it omits to state. These are 
 creative arts. They give us indeed not new substances, but 
 new forms, new products, new ideas. So is imagination a 
 creative faculty. The individual elements may not be new, 
 but the grand product and result is new, a creation of the 
 mind's own. And this is of more consequence than the 
 fact that the elementary conceptions were already in the 
 mind. The one is the essential characteristic, the other a 
 comparatively unimportant circumstance ; the one describes 
 the thing itself, the other the mere modus operandi of the 
 thing. 
 
 Illustration drawn from the Creation of the material 
 World. — What is creation in its higher and moie proj)er 
 sense, as applied to the formation, by divine power, of the 
 world in which we dwell ? There was a moment, in the 
 eternity of the past, when the omnipotent builder divided 
 the light from the darkness, and the evening and the morn- 
 ing were the first day. The elements may have existed be- 
 fore — heat, air, earth, water, the various material and dif 
 fused substance of the world about to be — but latent, son- 
 fused, chaotic those elements, not called forth and ap- 
 pointed each to its own proper sphere. Light slumbers 
 amid the chaotic elements unseen. He speaks the word, and 
 it comes forth from its hiding-place, and stands revealed in 
 its own beauty and splendor. Has God made nothing, in so 
 doing ? Has he conceived nothing, created nothing ? And 
 when the work goes on, at d is at length complete- and the 
 
IMAGINATION. l^) 
 
 fair new world hangs poised and trembling on its axis, pei- 
 feet in every part, and rejoicing the heart of the builder, is 
 there no new power displayed in all this, no creation here ? 
 And do we well and adequately express the sublime mystery 
 when we say that the deity has merely arranged and com- 
 binea materials previously existing, to form a new whole ? 
 
 Art essentially creative, — So when the poet, the painter, 
 the skillful architect, the mighty orator, call forth from 
 the slumbering elements new forms of beauty and power, 
 are not they, too, in their humble way, creators ? True, 
 they have in so doing combined conceptions previously ex- 
 isting in the mind. The writer combines in new forms the 
 existing letters of the alphabet, the painter combines existing 
 colors, the architect puts together previously-existing stones. 
 But is this all he does ? Is it the chief thing ? Is this 
 the soul and spirit of his divine art ? 'No ; there is a new 
 power, anew element, Tiot thus expressed— the power of con- 
 ceiving, and calling into existence, in the realm of thought, 
 that which has no actual existence in the world of sober 
 reality. He who has this povrer is a maker — n oirjTrj g. 
 It is a power conferred, in some degree, on all, in its highest 
 degree, on few. The poet, painter, orator, the gifted crea- 
 tive man, whoever he is, belongs to this class. 
 
 § YI. — Imagination limited to Sensible Objects. 
 
 Z^aw of the J?nagination. — It is a law of the imagina- 
 tion, that whatever it represents, it realizes, clothes in sen- 
 sible forms, conceives as visible, audible, tangible, or in some 
 way within the sphere and cognizance of sense. Whatever 
 it has to do with, whatever object it seizes and presents, i 
 brings within this sphere, invests with sensible drapery. 
 Now, strictly speaking, there are no objects, save those of 
 sense, which admit of this process, which can be, even iu 
 conception, thus invested with sensible forms, pictured to 
 ibe eye, oi represented to the other senses as objects of their 
 
148 IMAGINATION 
 
 cognizance. If I conceive of objects strictly immateiial as 
 thus presented, I make them, by the very conception, to 
 depart from their proper nature and to become sensible. 
 Imagination has nothing to do, then, strictly speaking, with 
 abstract truths and conceptions, with spiritual and imma- 
 terial existences, with ideas and feelings as such, for none oi 
 these can be represented under sensible forms, or brought 
 within the sphere and cognizance of the senses. Sensible 
 objects are the groundwork, therefore, of its operation - 
 the materials of its art. 
 
 .But not to visible Objects. — It is not limited, however, 
 to visible oh^QoXj^ merely — is not a mere picture-forming, 
 image-making power. It more frequently, indeed, fashions 
 its creations after the conceptions which sight affords than 
 those of the other senses ; but it deals also with conceptions 
 of sound, as in music, and the play of storm and tempest, and 
 with other objects of sense, as the taste, the touch, pressure, 
 etc. Thus the gelidi fontes of Virgil is an appeal to the 
 sense of delicious coolness not less than to that of sparkling 
 beauty. A careful analysis of every act of the imagination 
 will show, I think, a sensible basis as the groundwork of the 
 fabric — something seen, or heard, or felt — something sai4 
 or done — some sensible reality — something which, how- 
 ever ideal and transcendental in itself and in reality, yet 
 admits of expression in and through the senses ; otherwise 
 it were a mere conception or abstraction — a mere idea — ■ 
 not an imagination. 
 
 § VII. — Imao-ination limited to New Eesults. 
 
 The simple reproduction oi the past ^ whether an object oi 
 perception, or sensation, or conception merely, the simple 
 reproduction or bringing back of that to the mind, we have 
 assigned as the office of another faculty. Imagination, we 
 have said, departs from the reality, and gives you not what 
 jrou have had befoi 3, but something new, other, differ 
 
IMAGINATION. 14g 
 
 eut. It is not the simple image-making powei, then, fox 
 mental reproduction gives you an image or picture of any 
 former object of perception, as you have seen it — a portrait 
 of the past, true and faithful to the original. 
 
 Some writers would differ from the vievv^ now expressed. 
 Some of the Germans assign to imagination the double office 
 of producing the new and reproducing the old ; the latter 
 they call imaginative reproduction. In what respect this 
 latter differs from the faculty of mental reproduction in gen- 
 eral, it is difficult to perceive. Wlien I remember a word 
 spoken, or a song, I have the conception of a sounds or a 
 series of sounds. When I remember an object in nature, as 
 a mountain, a house, etc., I have the conception of a ma- 
 terial object, having some delinite form, and figure, outline, 
 proportion, magnitude, etc. The conception of the absent 
 object presents itself in such a case, >f course, as an image 
 or picture of the object to the mentai eye. It is as really 
 the work of conception reproductive, however, to replace, in 
 this case, the absent object as once perceived, as it is to 
 bring back to mind any thing else that has once been before 
 it ; e, g,^ a spoken word or a date in history. We may, if we 
 please, term this faculty, as employed on objects of sight, 
 conception miaginative^ and distinguish it from the same 
 faculty as employed in reproducing other objects ; but it 
 were certainly better to appropriate the term imagination 
 to the single and far higher province of creation — the office 
 of conceiving the ideal under the form of the sensible. 
 
 § Yin. ■ — iMAaiNATION A VOLUNTARY PoWER, OR PROCESS. 
 
 Is it an act which the mind puts forth when it will, and with 
 hoVis when it will ? Or is it a mere passive susceptibility 
 of tne mind to be impressed in this particular way ? As the 
 harp lies passive to the wind, which comes and goes we 
 know not how or whither, so does the mind lie open to such 
 thoughts and fancies as flit over *t, and call forth its hidden 
 
150 IMAGINATION. 
 
 harmonies as they pass by? Those who, with Di. Brown, 
 resolve imagination into mere suggestion, of course take 
 uhe latter view. 
 
 Often spontaneous, — Undoubtedly, the greater part ol 
 our ideal conceptions are spontaneous — the thoughts that 
 rise at the instant, unpremeditated, uncalled, the suggestions 
 of the passing moment or event. This is true of our daily 
 reveries, and all the little romances we construct, when we 
 give the reins to fancy, and a " varied scene of thought" — 
 ♦>o use the beautiful expression of Cud worth — passes before 
 us, peopled with forms unreal and illusive. There is no 
 special volition to call up these conceptions, or such as these. 
 They take their rise and hue from the complexion of the 
 mind at the time, and the character of the preceding concep- 
 tions, in the ever moving, ever varying series and procession 
 of thought. They are like the shifting figures on the cur- 
 tain in a darkened room, shadows coming and going, as the 
 forms of those without move hither and thither. So far, all 
 is spontaneous. Nay, more : It is, doubtless, impossible, by 
 direct volition, to call up any conception, ideal or otherwise ; 
 since this, as Dr. Brown has well argued, would be " either 
 to mil without knowing what we will, which is absurd," or 
 else to have already the conception which we wished to 
 have, which is not less absurd. 
 
 If no intentional Activity^ then Imagination not a Fac- 
 ulty. — Is there then no intentional creation of new and ideal 
 conceptions, of images, similes, metaphors, and other like 
 naterial of a lively and awakened fancy, but merely a casua 
 uggestion of such and such thoughts, quite beyond any 
 control and volition or even purpose of ours ? If so, then, 
 after all, is it |)roper to speak of a faculty of imagination, 
 since we have not, in this case, the poioer of doing the 
 thing under consideration? We merely sit still in the dark- 
 ened room, and watch the figures as they come and go, with 
 Bome desire that the thing may go on, some appreciation of it, 
 »ome critical judgment of the diiferent forms and movementst 
 
IMAGINATION. 15^i 
 
 The Mi7id not wholly passive in the Process, — I reply ^ 
 this is not altogether so. The mind is not altogether j^a^src'v 
 in this thing ; there is an activity involved in the process, 
 and that of the mind's own. There is a power, either orig- 
 inal or acquired, of conceiving such thoughts as are now 
 mider consideration, a readiness for them, a proneness to them, 
 a bias, propensity, inclination, more powerful in some than 
 in others, by virtue of which this process occurs. We may 
 call this a faculty, though, more strictly, perhaps, a suscepti- 
 bility^ but it is, in truth, one of the endowments of the 
 mind, part of its furniturCj one form of its activity. 
 
 A 'more direct voluntary Element, — But there is, further 
 than this, and more directly, a voluntary element in the 
 process. It is in our power to yield, or not, to this propen- 
 sity, this inchnation to the ideal ; to put forth the mental 
 activity in this direction, or to withhold it; to say whether or 
 not the imagination shall have its free, full play, and with 
 Uberated wing soar aloft through her native skies ; whether 
 our speech shall be simple argument, unadorned stout logic, 
 or logic not less stout, clothed with the pleasing, rusthng 
 drapery which a lively imagination is able to throw, like a 
 splendid robe, over the naked form of truth. 
 
 There is, then, really a mental activity, and an activity in 
 some degree under control of the will, in the process we are 
 considering. 
 
 Same Difficulty lies elseiohere, — The same difficulty which 
 meets us here, meets "us elsewhere, and lies equally against 
 other mental powers. We cannot, by direct volition, re- 
 nember a past event, for this impUes, as in the case of the 
 volition to imagine a given scene, either that the thing is 
 already in view, or else that we will we know not what. 
 Yet, as every one knows, there is a way of recalling past 
 events ; a faculty or power of doing this thing ; a faculty 
 which we exercise when we please. 
 
 The same may be said of the power of thought in general. 
 We cannot, by direct voUtion, thinJfi^ of any given thing, for 
 
152 IMAGINATION. 
 
 to will to th nk of it is already to have thought of it, yet 
 there is mental activity involved in every process of thought 
 a mental power exercised, a faculty of some sort exercised. 
 Nor is it a power altogether beyond our own control. We 
 can direct our thoughts, can govern them, can turn them, as 
 we do a water course, that will flow somewhere, but whose 
 channel we may lead this way or that. 
 
 § IX. — Use and Abuse of Imagination. 
 
 Infiuence upon the Mind. — As to the benefits arising 
 from the due use and exercise of this faculty, not much, per- 
 haps, is requisite to be said. It gives vividness to our con- 
 teptions, it raises the tone of our entire mental activity, it 
 adds force to our reasoning, casts the light of fancy over the 
 sombre plodding steps of judgment, gilds the recollections 
 of the past, and the anticipations of the future, with a color- 
 ing not their own. It hghts up the whole horizon of thought, 
 as the sunrise flashes along the mountain tops, and lights up 
 the world. It would be but a dreary world without that 
 light. 
 
 Influence on the Orator, — By its aid the orator presents 
 his clear, strong argument in its own simple strength and 
 beauty, or commands those skilful touches, that, by a magic 
 spell, thrill all hearts in unison. There floats before his mind, 
 ever as he proceeds, the heau ideal of what his argument 
 should be ; tov/ard this he aspires, and those aspirations 
 make him what he is. No man is eloquent who has not the 
 imagination requisite to form and keep vividly before him 
 such an ideal. . 
 
 On the Artist, — By its aid the artist breathes into the 
 manimate marble the breath of life, and it becomes a living 
 BOUi. By its aid, deaf old Beethoven, at his stringless instru- 
 ment, calls up the richest harmony of sound, and blind old 
 Milton, in his darkness and desolateness, takes his magician'si 
 wand, and lol there rises before him the vision of that Para 
 
IMAGINATION. 15J 
 
 dise where man, in his primeval innocence^ walked witt 
 God. 
 
 On other Minds. — Nor is it the poet, the orator, the 
 artist, alone, that derive benefit from the exercise of this 
 faculty, or have occasion to make use of it. It is of inestimable 
 value to us all. It opens for us new worlds, enlarges the 
 sphere of our mental vision, releases us from the bonds and 
 bounds of the actual, and gives us, as a bird let loose, the 
 wide firmament of thought for our domain. It gilds the 
 bald, sullen actualities, and stern realities of life, as the 
 morning reddens the chill, snowy summits of the Alps, till 
 they glow in resplendent beauty. 
 
 On the Spectator* and Observer, — It is of service, not to 
 him who writes alone, but to him who reads ; not to him 
 who speaks alone, but to him who hears ; not to the artist 
 alone, but to the observer of art ; for neither poet, nor orator, 
 nor artist, can convey the full meaning, the soul^ the inspi- 
 ration of his work, to one who has not the imagination to 
 appreciate and feel the beauty, and the power, that lie hidden 
 there. There is just as much meaning in their works, to us, 
 as there is soul in us to receive that meaning. The man of 
 no imagination sees no meaning, no beauty, no power, in the 
 Paradise Lost, the symphonies of Beethoven and Mozart, 
 the Transfiguration of Raphael, the Aurora of Guido, or the 
 master-pieces of Canova and Thorwalsden. 
 
 Errors of Imagination, — Undoubtedly there are errors, 
 mistakes, prejudices, illusions of the imagination ; mistakes 
 in judgment, in reasoning, in the affairs of practical life, the 
 source of which is to be found in some undue influence, some 
 wrong use, of the imagination. We mistake its conceptions 
 for realities. We dwell upon its pleasing visions till we for 
 get the sober face of truth. We fancy pleasures, benefits 
 results which will never be realized, or we look upon the 
 dark and dr^rary side of things till all nature wears the som- 
 bre hue of our disordered fancy. 
 
 N'ot, therefore^ to set aside its due Culture. -^ AQ. thin we 
 
 !7* 
 
154 IMAGINATION. 
 
 are liable tc do. All these abuses of the imagination are 
 possible, likely enough to occur. Against them we must 
 guard. But to cry out against the culture and due exercise 
 of the imagination, because of these abuses to which it is 
 liable, is not the part of wisdom or highest benevolence. 
 To liincler its fair and full development, and to preclude its 
 ise, is to cut ourselves off, and shut ourselves out, from tha 
 source of some of the highest, purest, noblest, pleasures of 
 this our mortal life. 
 
 No Faculty perhaps of more Value, — It is not too much 
 fco say, that there is, perhaps, no faculty of the mind which, 
 under due cultivation, and within proper bounds, is of more 
 real service to man, or is more worthy of his regard, than 
 this. Especially, is it of value in forming and holding before 
 the mind an ideal of excellence in whatever we pursue, 
 % standard of attainment, practicable and desirable, but lof 
 tier far than any thing we have yet reached. To present 
 such an ideal, is the work of the imagination, w^hich looks 
 not upon the actual, but the possible, and conceives that 
 w4iich is more perfect than the human eye hath seen, or the 
 human hand wrought. No man ever yet attained excel- 
 lence, in any art or profession, who had not floating before 
 his mind, by day and by night, such an ideal and vision of 
 what he might and ought to be and to do. It hovers 
 before him, and hangs over him, like the bow of promise and 
 of hope, advancing with his progress, ever rising as he rises, 
 and moving onward as he moves ; he will never reach it; 
 but without it he would never be what he is. 
 
 § X. — Culture of the Imagination. 
 
 Strengthened hy Use, — In what way, it is sometimes 
 asked, may the faculty under consideration be improved and 
 strengthened ? To this it may be replied, in general, that 
 the ideal facultj, like every other, is developed and strength- 
 p«jed by exercise, weakened and impaired by neglect. There 
 
IMAGINATION. 155 
 
 18 no surer way to secure its growth than to catl its present 
 powers, whatever they may be. into frequent exercise. The 
 mental faculties, like the thews and muscles of the physical 
 frame, develop by use. Imagination follows the same gen- 
 eral law. 
 
 Study of the Works of others, — I do not mean by this 
 ^exclusively the direct exercise of the imagination in ideal 
 creations of our own, although its«frequent employment in 
 this way, is of course necessary to its full development. 
 But the imagination ^s also exercised by the study of the 
 ideal creations of others, especially of those highly gifted 
 minds which have adorned and enriched their age with pro 
 ductions of rarest value, which bear the stamp and seal of 
 immortality. With these, in whatever department of letters 
 or art, in poetry, oratory, music, painting, sculpture, architec- 
 ture — whatever is grand, and lofty, and full of inspiration, 
 whatever is beautiful and pleasing, whatever is of choicest 
 worth and excellence in its own proper sphere ; with these 
 let him become familiar who seeks to cultivate in himself 
 the faculty of the ideal. Every work of the imagination 
 appeals to the imagination of the observer, and thus devel- 
 ops the faculty which it calls into exercise. No one can be 
 familiar with the creations of Shakspeare and Milton, of 
 Mozart and Beethoven, of Raphael and Michael Angelo, 
 and not catch something of their inspiration. ^ 
 
 Study of Nature, — Even more indispensable is the study 
 of nature ; and it has this advantage, that it is open to those 
 who may not have access to the sublime works of the high- 
 est masters of art. Nature, in all her moods and phases — 
 in her wonderful variety of elements — the grand and the 
 lowly, the sublime and the beautiful, the terrible and the 
 pleasing — nature in her rnildest and most fearful displays 
 of power, and also in her softest and sweetest attractions, 
 iiS open to every man's observation, and he must be a 
 close observer and a diligent student of her who would 
 cultivate in himself the ideal element. The most g:ifted 
 
156 IMAGINATION. 
 
 sons of genius, the minds most richly endowed with the 
 power of ideal creation, have been remarkable for their love 
 and careful study of nature. 
 
 Mistake, on this Point, — I must notice in this connec* 
 tion, however, a mistake into which some have fallen in re^ 
 gard to this matter. The simple description of a scene in 
 Qature, just as it is, is not properly a work of the imagina* 
 ion. It is simply percoiption or memory that is thus exer 
 cised, along with judgment and artistic power of expres- 
 Bion. Imagination gives not the actual, but the ideal. She 
 never satisfies herself with an exact copy. The mere por- 
 trait painter, however skillful, is not in the highest sense an 
 artist. The painter, mentioned by Wayland, who copied 
 the wing of the butterfly for the wing of the Sylph, was 
 not, in so doing, exercising his imagination, but only his 
 power of imitation. So, too, when Walter Scott gives us, 
 in the cave of Denzel, a precise description of some spot 
 which he has seen, even to the very plants and flowers that 
 grow among the rocks, that scene, however pleasing and 
 iife4ike, is not properly a creation of his own imagination ; 
 it is a description of the actual, and not a conception of the 
 ideal. Much that is included under the general title of 
 works of the imagination is not properly the production 
 of that faculty. ^ 
 
 Coleridge has made essentially the same remark, that in 
 what is called a work of imagination, much is simple narra- 
 lion, much the filling up of the outline, and not to be attribu- 
 <"jed to that faculty. 
 
 The Student of Nature not a mere Copyist, — The true 
 study of nature, is not to observe simply that we may copy 
 what she presents, but rather to gather materials on which 
 our own conceptive power may work, and which it may 
 fashion after its own designs into new combinations and re- 
 sults of beauty. Nature, too, is full of hints and sugges* 
 tions which a discerning mind, and an eye practised to the 
 beauiiriil, will not fail to catch and improve. It is only 
 
IMAGINATION. 151 
 
 when we do this, when we begin, in fact, to depart 
 from, and go beyond the actual, that we exercise the 
 imagination. 
 
 Difference illustrated hy an Example, ~ The difference 
 between simple description, and the creations of the con- 
 oeptive faculty, may be shown by reference to a single 
 example : 
 
 " The twilight hours, hke birds, flew by, 
 
 As lightly and as free ; 
 Ten thousand stars were in the sky, 
 
 Ten thousand in the sea ; 
 For every wave, with dimpled cheek 
 
 That "ioaped upon the air, 
 Had caught a star in its embrace, 
 
 And held it trembling there." 
 
 The quiet stillness of the evening, the reflection of the 
 stars in the sea, are the two simple ideas which enter into 
 this beautiful stanza. They would have been faithfully and 
 fully expressed, so far as regards all the perfections of exact 
 description, by the simple propositions which follow : "The 
 evening hours passed swiftly and silently ; many stars ap- 
 peared in the sky, and each was reflected in the sea." 
 
 The poet is not content with this description. The swift- 
 ness and silentness of those passing hours remind him of the 
 flight of birds along the sky. The resemblance strikes him 
 a^ beautiful. He embodies it^ in his description. It is an 
 ideal conception. He goes further. He sees in the watei, 
 not the reflection merely o^ the stars, but the stars them 
 selves, as many in the sea as in tlie sky. Here is a de- 
 parture from the truth, from the actual, an advance into 
 the region of the ideal. Imagination, thus set free, takes 
 still further liberties : attributes to the inanimate wave the 
 dimpled cheek of beauty, ascribes its restlessness not to the 
 laws of gravitation, but to the force of a strictly human 
 passion, un ler the influence of which it leaps into the aif 
 
158 IMAGINATION 
 
 toward the object of its affection, seizes it, and holds it, 
 jrembling, in its embrace . 
 
 § XL — -Historical Sketch. 
 
 Various Definitiong and Theories of Imagination 
 BY Different Writers. 
 
 Definition of Di\ JReid, — Held makes it nearly synony- 
 mous with simple apprehension. " I take imagination, in its 
 most proper sense, to signify a lively conception of objects 
 of sight ^"^"^ the conception of things as they appear to the eye. 
 Addiso?i employs the term with the same limitation, that is, 
 as confined to objects of sieht. 
 
 Of Stewart. — Stewart regards this as incorrect, holds that 
 imagination is not confined to visible or even sensible objects. 
 He regards it as a complex, not a simple power, including 
 simple apprehension, abstraction, judgment, or taste, and 
 association of ideas ; its province being to select, from dif 
 ferent objects, a variety of qualities and circumstances, and 
 combine and arrange then so as to form a new creation of 
 its own. 
 
 Of Brown. — Brown differs not essentially from the viev? 
 of Stewart. He also makes imagination a complex oper9 
 tion, involving conception, abstraction, judgment^ associa 
 tion. He distinguishes between the spontaneous and thf 
 voluntary operation of the imaginative power ; in the for 
 mer case, there is no voluntary effort of selection, combi 
 nation, etc., but images arise independently of a¥iy depire or 
 choice of ours, by the laws of suggestion ; and this he ho]d>' 
 to be the most frequent operation of the faculty. In the 
 case of voluntary imagination, which is attended with desire 
 this desire is the prominent thing, and serves to keep the 
 conception of the subject before the mind, in consequence 
 of which^ a variety of associated conceptions follow, by the 
 laws of suggestion, in regular train. Of these suggested 
 conceptions and images, some, we approve, others, we do 
 
IMAGINATION. 159 
 
 not ; the former, by virtue of our approval, become more 
 lively and permanent, while the latter pass a»vay. Thus, 
 without any direct effort or power of the will to combine 
 and separate these various conceptions, they shape themselves 
 according to our approval and desire, in obedience to the 
 ordinary laws of suggestion. 
 
 Of Smith, — Sydney Smith regi*rds imagination m much 
 the same light — a faculty in which association plays the prin 
 cipal part, assisted by judgment, taste, etc., amounting, ia 
 fact, to much the same thing that we call invention ; the 
 process by which a poet constructs a drama, or a machinist 
 a steam-engine, being essentially the same. 
 
 Of Wayland and Upham., — Wayland^ in common with 
 most of the authors already cited, makes imagination a com- 
 plex faculty, involving abstraction, and association ; " the 
 power by which, from simple conceptions already existing 
 in the mind, we form complex wholes or images." Some 
 form of abstraction necessarily precedes the exercise of this 
 power. The different elements of a conception must be first 
 mentally severed before we can reunite them in a new con^ 
 ception. "It is this power of reuniting the several elements 
 of a conception at will, that is, properly, imagination. Im- 
 agination may then be designated the power of combination." 
 Upham takes the same view. The same view, essentially, 
 is also given by Amande Jacques^ a French writer of dis- 
 tinction. 
 
 View of Tis^ot, — Tissot^ as also many of the German 
 philosophers, gives imagination the double province of re- 
 calling sensible intuitions, objects of sight, such as we have 
 known them, and also of conceiving objects altogether dif 
 ferently disposed from our original pe^xeptions of them, 
 varied from the reality. The former they call imagination 
 reproductive^ the latter, creative. That form of the imagi- 
 nation which is purely spontaneous, in distinction from the 
 voluntary, they term, fancy. 
 
 Of Coleridge and Mahan. — Coleridge^ followed by Ma- 
 
160 IMAGINATION 
 
 ha7i^ regards imagination as the power which recombines 
 the several elements of thought into conceptions, Vhich con- 
 form not to mere existences^ but to certain fundamental 
 ideas in the mind itself ideas of the beautiful, sublime, etc. 
 These Defmitions agree in what, — These definitions, it 
 will be perceived, with scarcely an exception make imagina- 
 tion to be a complex faculty, and regard it as merely tlit 
 lower of combining ^ in new forms, the various elements of 
 thought already in the mind. The correctness ojf each of 
 these ideas Las been already discussed. 
 
NTELLECTUAL FACULTIES. 
 
 PART THIRD. 
 
 THE REFLECTIVE POWER 
 
CHAPTER I. 
 
 THE SYNTHETIC PROCESS — GENERALIZATION. 
 § L — Nature op the Synthetic Process. 
 
 Our Conceptions often Complex, — If we examir e atten- 
 tively the various notions or conceptions of the mind, we 
 find that a large part of them are in a sense complex — com- 
 prising, in a word, a certain aggregate of properties, which, 
 taken together, constitute our conception of the object. 
 Thus, my notion of table, or chair, or desk, is made up of 
 several conceptions, of form, size, material, color, hardness, 
 weight, use, etc., etc., all which, taken together, constitute 
 my notion of the object thus designated. 
 
 OriginaUy given as discrete, — These several elements 
 that enter into the composition of our conceptions of ob- 
 jects, it is further to be noticed, are, in the first instance, 
 given us in perception, not as a complex whole, but as dis- 
 crete elements. Thus, sight gives us form and color ; touch 
 gives us extension, hardness, smoothness, etc. ; muscular re- 
 sistance gives us weight, and so, by the various senses, we 
 gather the several properties which make up our cognizance 
 of the object, and which, taken together, constitute our 
 conception of it. 
 
 Conceptions of Classes, — But a large part of our cor- 
 ceptions, if we carefully observe the operations of our own 
 minds, are not particular, but general, not of individual 
 objects, but of classes of objects. Of this, any one may 
 satisfy himself on a little reflection. How are these concep- 
 tions formed ? 
 
 Such Conceptions^ how formed,-^— The process of forming 
 a general conception, I take to be this : The several ele- 
 ments that compose our conception of an individual object, 
 
164 THE REFLECTIVE POWER. 
 
 smaller, one is here, the other there, one is a part in relation 
 to a whole, some are like, others unlike each other. The 
 several relations that may exist and fall under the notice of 
 this power of the mind are too many to be easily enumer- 
 ated. The more important are, position, resemblance, pro- 
 portion, degree, comprehension. All these may, perhaps, by 
 a sufficiently minute analysis, be resolved into one — that of 
 comprehension, or the relation of a whole to its parts. 
 
 Co^nprehensive of several Processes, — The faculty now 
 under consideration will, on careful investigation, be found 
 to underlie and comprehend several mental processes usually 
 ranked as distinct operations and faculties of the mind, but 
 which are at most only so many forms of the general power 
 of relative conception. Such are the mental operations 
 usually known 2i^ judgment^ abstraction^ generalization^ and 
 reasoning. Of these, and their relation to the general 
 faculty comprehensive of all, we shall have occasion to 
 speak further as we proceed. 
 
 Two Modes of Operation, — As the relations of object to 
 object may all be comprised under the general category of 
 comprehension, or the whole and its parts, there are mani- 
 festly two modes or processes in which the reflective faculty 
 may put forth its activity. It may combine the several 
 parts or elements to form a complex whole, or it may divide 
 the complex whole into its several parts and elements. In 
 the one case, it works from the parts, as already resolved, to 
 the whole ; in the other, from the whole, as already com- 
 bined, to the parts. The one is the compositive or synthetic, 
 the other, the analytic or divisive process. Each will claim 
 Dur attention. 
 
THE REFLECTIVE POWER. 
 
 GENERAL OBSERVATIONS. 
 
 Office of this Potoer, — We have thus far treated of that 
 power of the mind by which it takes cognizance of objects 
 as directly presented to sense, and also of that by which it 
 represents to itself former objects of cognition in their ab- 
 sence. But a large portion of our knowledge and of our 
 mental activity does not fall under either of these divis- 
 ions. There is a class of mental operations which diffei 
 from the former, in that they do not give us directly sensa 
 tions or perceptions of things, do not present objects them- 
 selves ; and from the lattea-, in that they do not represent to 
 the thought absent objects of perception ; which differ froiP 
 both, in that they deal not with the things themselves, but 
 with the properties and relations of things — not with the 
 concrete, but with the abstract and general. This class of 
 operations, to distinguish it from the preceding classes, we 
 have named, in our analysis, the reflective power of the 
 nind. It comprises a large part of our mental activity. 
 
 Specific Character, — The form of m-ental activity whicl 
 is characteristic of this faculty, is the perception of relationa 
 that which Dr. Brown calls relative suggestion^ but whicL 
 we should prefer to term relative conception. The mind ia 
 BO constituted that when distinct objects of thought are 
 presented, it conceives at once the notion of certain rela- 
 tions existing between those objects. One is larger, one 
 
1(36 THE SYNTHETIC PKOCESS. 
 
 being originally presented, as we have already said, one b^ 
 one, in the discrete, and not in the concrete, it is of couj'se 
 in our po (ver to conceive of any one of these elements by 
 itself. No new power or faculty is needed for this. By 
 the usual laws of suggestion any one of these elements may 
 be presented to ihe mind, distinct from those with which, in 
 perception, it is associated, and as such it may be the object 
 of attention and thought. I may thus conceive of the color, 
 the form, the size, or the fragrance of a flower. 
 
 EfxUnsion of the Process to other Objects, — It is of the 
 form, color, etc., of some particular flower, as yet, how- 
 ever, and not of form and color in general, that I conceive. 
 Suppose, now, that other flowers are presented to my no- 
 tice, possessing the same form and color, for example, red. 
 Presently I observe other objects, besides flowers, that are 
 of the same color — horses, cows, tables, books, cloths. 
 As the field of observation enlarges, still other objects are 
 added to the list, until that which I first conceived of as the 
 peculiar property of a single flower, the rose, and of a single 
 specimen, no longer is appropriated in my thoughts to any 
 individual object or class of objects, but becomes a general 
 conception. It is an abstraction and also a generalization; an 
 abstraction because it no longer denotes or connotes any in- 
 dividual object, but stands before the mind as simple, pure 
 quality, red, or redness ; a generalization inasmuch as it is a 
 quality pertaining equally to a great variety of objects. 
 
 The Process carried still further, — Having thus obtained 
 the general conception of red, and, in like manner, of blue, 
 violet, yellow, indigo, orange, etc., etc., I may carry th( 
 process still further, and form a corception more general 
 than either, and which shall include all these. These are 
 all varieties denoting the certain peculiarity of appearance 
 which externcil objects present to the eye. Fixing my 
 thought upon this, their common characteristic, I no longer 
 conceive of red, -or blue, or violet, as such, but of co?or in 
 general. 
 
THE SYNTHETIC PROCESS. 167 
 
 In like manner, I observe the properties of different tri 
 angles — right-angled, obtuse-angled, acute-angled, equilat- 
 eral, isosceles. I leave out of view whatever is peculiai 
 to each of these varieties, retaining only what is common to 
 them all — the property of three-sidedness ; and my concep- 
 tion is now a general one — triangle. 
 
 It is in this manner that we form the conceptions ex- 
 pressed by such terms as animal, man, virtue, form, beauty, 
 and the like. A large proportion of the words in ordinary 
 use, are of this sort. They are the names or expressions of 
 abstract, general, conceptions : abstract, in that they do not 
 relate to any individual object ; general, in that they com- 
 prehend, and are equally applicable to a great variety of 
 objects. 
 
 Process of Classijication, — The process of classljication 
 is essentially the same with that by which we form general 
 abstract conceptions. Observing different objects, I find 
 that they resemble each other in certain respects, while in 
 others they differ. Objects A, B, and C, differ, for instance, 
 in form, and size, and weight, and fragrance, but agree in 
 some other respect, as in color. On the ground of this 
 resemblance, I class them together in my conceptions. In 
 so doing, I leave out of view all other peculiarities, the 
 points in which they differ, and take into account only th( 
 one circumstance in which they agree. In the very act o/ 
 forming a class, I have formed a general conception, whici! 
 lies at the basis of that classification. 
 
 Tendency of the Mind, — The tendency of the mind Ic 
 group individual objects together on the ground of perceived 
 resemblances, is very strong, and must be regarded as on^ 
 of the universal and instinctive propensities of our nature, 
 one of the laws of mental action. As we have alreadv re- 
 marked, respecting general abstract terms, a large portion 
 of the language of ordinary life is the language of classifica- 
 tion. The words which constitute by far the greater part 
 of the names of things, are common nouns, that is, names of 
 
168 THE SYNTHETIC PROCESS. 
 
 classes. The names of individual objects are compaiatively 
 few. Adjectives, specifying the qualities of objects, denote 
 groups or classes possessing that common quality. Adverbs 
 qualifying verbs or adjectives, designate varieties or classes 
 of action and of quality. Indeed, the very existence of Ian 
 guage as a medium of communication, and means of expres- 
 Bion, involves and depends upon this tendency of the mind to 
 class together, and then to designate by a common noun, 
 objects diverse in reality, but agreeing in some prominent 
 points of resemblance. In no other way would language be 
 possible to man, since, to designate each individual object by 
 a name peculiar to itself, would be an undertaking altogether 
 impracticable. 
 
 Hudeiiess of the earlier Attempts, — The first eflbrts of 
 the mind at the process of classification are, doubtless, rude 
 and imperfect. The infancy of the individual, and the in- 
 fancy of nations and races, are, in this respect, alike ; objects 
 are grouped roughly and in the mass, specific difierences 
 are overlooked, and individuals differing widely and essen- 
 tially are thrown into the same class, on the ground of some 
 observed and striking resemblance. As observation be- 
 comes more minute, and the mind advances in culture and 
 power of discrimination, these ruder generalizations are either 
 abandoned or subdivided into genera and species, and the 
 process assumes a scientific form. What was at first mere 
 classification, becomes now, in the strictest sense, generalizor 
 tion. 
 
 Sclent fjie Glassijication, — Classification, however scien- 
 tific, is still essentially the process already described. We 
 observe a number of individuals, for example, of our own 
 ypecies. Certain resemblances and differences strike us. 
 Some have straight hair, and copper complexion, others, 
 woolly hair, and black complexion, others, again, differ from 
 the preceding in both these respects. Neglecting minor and 
 specific differences, we fix our attention on the grand points 
 of resemblance, and thus form a general conception, which 
 
THE SYJNTHEilC PROCESS. 169 
 
 embraces whatever characteristics belong, in common, to 
 the several individuals which thus resemble each other. To 
 this general conception we appropriate the name Indian, 
 Negro, Caucasian, etc., which henceforth represent to us so 
 many classes or varieties of the human race. Bringing these 
 classes again into coniparison with each other, we observe 
 certain points of resemblance between them, and form a con- 
 ception still more general, that of man. 
 
 Further Illustration of the same Process. — In this way 
 the genera -and species of science are formed. On grounds 
 df observed resemblance, we class together, for example, 
 certain animals. They differ from each other in color, size, 
 and many other respects, but agree in certain characteristics 
 which we find invariable, as, for example, the form of the 
 skeleton, number of vertebrae, number and form of teeth, 
 arrangement of organs of digestion. We give a name to 
 the class thus formed — carnivora, rodentia, etc. The class 
 thus formed and named, we term the genus, while the minor 
 differences mark the subordinate varieties or species in- 
 cluded under the genus. In the same way, comparing other 
 animals, we form other genera. Bringing the several genera 
 also into comparison, we find them likewise agreeing in 
 certain broad resemblances. These points of agreement, in 
 turn, constitute the elements of a conception and classifica- 
 tion still wider and more comprehensive than the former. 
 Under this new conception I unite the previous genera, and 
 term them all mammalia. And sb on to the highest and 
 widest generalizations of science. 
 
 Having forme^l our classification we refer any new speci- 
 men to some ope of the classes already formed, and the 
 more complete our original survey, the more correct is this 
 process of individual arrangement. It is remarked by Mr, 
 Stewart, that the islanders of the Pacific, who had never seen 
 any species of quadruped, except the hog and the goat, 
 naturally inferred, when they saw a cow, that she must be- 
 long to one or the other of these classes. The limitations of 
 
170 THE SYNTHETIC PROCESS 
 
 numau knowledge may lead the wisest pIiikAiOp'^ier int« 
 essentially the same error. 
 
 It is in the way now described that we form gencri*, and 
 species, and the various classes into which, for purposes of 
 science, we divide the multitude of objects which are pre 
 Bented m nature, and which, but for this faculty, would ap 
 pear to us but a confused and chaotic assemblage without 
 number, order, or arrangement. The individuals exist in 
 nature — not the classes, and orders, and species : theso 
 are the creations of the human mind, conceptions of thd 
 brain, results of that process of thought now described as 
 the reflective faculty in its synthetic form. 
 , Impoftanoe of this Process, — It is evident at a glance 
 that this process lies at the foundation of all science.. Had 
 we no power of generalization — had we no power of sepa- 
 rating, in our thoughts, the quality from the substance to 
 which it pertains, of going beyond the concrete to the ab- 
 stract, beyond the particular to the general — could we deal 
 only with individual existences, neither comparison nor clas- 
 sification would be possible ; each particular individual object 
 would be a study to us by itself, nor would any amount of 
 diligence ever carry us beyond the very alphabet of knowl- 
 edge. 
 
 Existence of general Conceptions questioned, — Import 
 ant as this faculty may seem when thus regarded, it has 
 been questioned by some whether, after all, we Lave, in fact* 
 or can have, any general abstract ideas ; whether triangle, 
 man, animal, etc., suggest in reality any thing more to the 
 mind than simply some particular man, or triangle, ca: ani 
 mal, which we take to represent the whole class to which 
 the individual belongs. 
 
 There can be no question, however, that we do distin- 
 guish in our minds the thought of some particular man, as 
 Mr. A, or some particular sort of man, as black man, white 
 man, from the thought suggested by the term man ; and 
 tlie thought of an isosceles or right-angled triangle, from 
 
THE SYNTHETIC PROCESS. 171 
 
 ehe thought suggested by the unqualified term triangle. 
 They do npt mean the same thing ; they have not the 
 same value to our minds. Now there are a great multi- 
 tude of such general terms in every language, they have 2 
 definite meaning and value, and we know what they mean- 
 It must be then that we have general abstract ideas, or gen- 
 eral conceptions. 
 
 Argwnent of the Nominalist. — But the nominalist re- 
 plies. The term man, or triangle, awakens in your mind, in 
 reality and directly, only the idea of some particular indi- 
 vidual or triangle, and this stands as a sort of type or reprer' 
 sentation of other like individuals of whom you do not defi- 
 nitely think as such and so many. I reply, this cannot be 
 shown ; but even if it were so, the very language of the ob- 
 jection implies the power of having general conceptions. 
 If the individual man or triangle thought of stands as a typo 
 or representation, as it is said, of a great number of similar 
 men and triangles, then is there not already in my mind, 
 prior to this act of representation, the idea of a class of ob- 
 jects^ arranged according to the law of resemblance, in 
 other words, a general ahstract idea or conception ? If I 
 had not already formed such an idea, the particular object 
 presented to my thoughts could not stand as type or rep- 
 resentation of any such thing, or of any thing beyond it- 
 self, for the simple reason that there would be nothing of the 
 sort to represent. 
 
 Further Reply , — Besides, there is a large class of general 
 terms to which this reasoning of the nominalist would no4 
 at all apply — such terms as virtue, vice, knowledge, wis- 
 dom, truth, time, space — which manifestly do not awa- 
 ken in the mind the thought of any particular virtue or 
 vice, any particular truth, any definite time, any definite 
 space, but a general notion under which all particular in 
 stances may be included. To this the nominalist will per 
 haps reply, that in such cases we are really thinking, after 
 all, of mere names or sign'^y as when we use the algebraia 
 
172 THE SYNTHETIC PROCESS. 
 
 formula £c— y, a mere term of convenience, Laving indeed 
 Bome value, we do not know precisely what, itself tlie ter 
 minus and object of our thought for the time being. In 
 such cases the mii.d stops, he would say, with the term it- 
 self, and does not go beyond it to conjure up a general 
 conception for it. So it is with the terms virtue, vice ; so 
 with the general terms, class, species, genus, man, animal, 
 triangle ; they are mere collective terms, signs^ formulas 
 of convenience, to which you attach no more meaning than 
 to the expression x—y. If you would find their mean- 
 ing and attach any definite idea to them, you must resolve 
 them into the Jpar^^cwto' objects, the particular vices, virtues, 
 etc., which go to make up the class. 
 
 I reply to all this, you are still classifying, still forming a 
 general conception, the expression of which is your so called 
 formula, x—y^ alias virtue, man, and the like. 
 
 § 11. — Peovince and Kelation of several Terms employed to 
 DENOTE, IN Part, or as a Whole, this Power of iim Mind. 
 
 We are now prepared to consider the proper province 
 and relation of several terms frequently employed, with 
 considerable latitude and diversity of meaning, to denote, 
 in part, or as a whole, the process now described. Such are 
 the terms abstractio7i^ generalization^ classification^ and 
 iudginejtt. 
 
 I. Abstraction. 
 
 Term often used in a Wide Sense. — This term is fr©* 
 s^nently employed to denote the entire synthetic process an 
 now described — the power of forming abstract general con 
 ceptions, and of classifying objects according to tliose con- 
 ceptions. It is thus employed by Stewart^ Wayland, Mahan, 
 and others. There is, perhaps, no objection to this use of 
 the word, except that it is manifestly a departure from the 
 strict and proper sense of the term. 
 
THE SYNTHETIC PKOCESS. 173 
 
 More limited Sense, — There is another and more conk 
 mon use of tlie term abstraction, wliich gives it a more 
 Jimited sense. As thus employed, it denotes that act of tho 
 mind hj Avhich we fix our attention on some one of the sev- 
 eral part^ properties, or qualities of an object, to the exclu- 
 leion of all the other parts or properties which go to make 
 up the complex whole. In consequence of this exclusive 
 direction of the thoughts to that one element, the other ele 
 ments or properties are lost sight of, drop out of the ao 
 count, and there remains in our present conception only 
 that one item which we have singled out from the rest. 
 This is denominated, in common language, abstraction. 
 Such is the common idea and definition of that term. T< 
 IS Mr. Upham's definition. 
 
 This not really Abstraction, — Whether this, again, is the 
 true idea of abstraction, is, to say the least, questionable. 
 W^hen I think of the cover of a book, the handle of a door, 
 the spring of a watch, in distinction from the other parts 
 which make up a complex whole, I am hardly exercising 
 the power of abstract thought ; certainly no new, distinct 
 faculty is requisite for this, but simply attention to one 
 among several items or objects of perception. Hardly ever 
 can it be called analysis, with Wayland. It is the simple di- 
 rection of the thought to some one out of several objects 
 presented. A red rose is before me. I may think of its 
 jolor exclusively, in distinction from its form and fragrance ; 
 that is, of the redness of this particular rose, this given 
 surlace before me. The object of my thought is purely a 
 sensible object. I have not abstracted it from the sensible 
 individual object to which it belongs. It is in no sense an 
 abstract idea, a pure conception. There has been nothing 
 done which is not done in any case where one thing, rather 
 than another ol a group or assemblage of objects, is made 
 the object of attention. 
 
 The true Natuie of Abstraction. — But suppose now 
 khat instead of thinking of the redness of this rose m par- 
 
174 THE SYNTHETIC PROCESS 
 
 ticuiar^ I think of ike color red in general, without refer* 
 ence to the rose or any other substance ; or, to carry the pro* 
 cess further, of color in general, without specifying in my 
 thought any particular color, evidently 1 am dealing now 
 with abstractions. I have in my thought drawn away (ab- 
 straho) the color from the substance to which it belongs, 
 from all substance, and it stands forth by itself a pure con- 
 ception, an abstraction, having, as such, no existence save in 
 my mind, but there it does exist a definite object of contem- 
 plation. The form of mental activity now described, I should 
 call abstraction. It is not necessary, perhaps, to assign it a 
 place as a distinct faculty of the mind. It is, in reality, a 
 part, and an important part, of the synthetic process already 
 described. But it is not the whole of that process, and the 
 term abstraction should not, therefore, in strict propriety, at 
 least as now defined, be applied as a general term to desig- 
 nate that class of mental operations. The synthetic process 
 involves something more than mere abstraction ; viz. : 
 
 II. Classification as Distinguished feom Generali- 
 zation. 
 
 Classification, — When the general idea or conception has 
 been formed in the mind, we proceed to bring together 
 and arrange, on the basis of that general conception,* what ever 
 individual objects seem to us to fall under that general rule. 
 This we call classification. Thus, forming first the abstract, 
 or general conception red, we bring together in our thought a 
 variety of objects to which Lhis conception is applicable, as red 
 norses, red flowers, red books, red tables, etc., etc., thus 
 forming classes of objects on the ground of this common 
 property. The difference between classification and gene- 
 ralization,, in so far as they are not synonymous, I take to 
 be simply this, that in the former we group and arrange 
 objects according to no general law, but mere appearance 
 or resemblance, often, therefore, on fanciful or arbitrary 
 grounds while in the latter case, we proceed according to 
 
THE SYNTHETIC PROCESS 175 
 
 Kome general and scientific principle or law of classification^ 
 making only those distinctions the basis of our arrangement 
 which are founded in nature, and are at once invariable and 
 essential. 
 
 in. Judgment as Related to Classification. 
 
 Judgment, — We have already spoken of that specific 
 process by which, having formed a given conception, or a 
 given rule, we bring the hi dividual objects of perception and 
 thought under that rule, or reject them from it, according 
 as they agree or disagree with the conception we have 
 formed. The process itself we have called classificatioru 
 The mental activity thus employed is technically termed 
 judgment — the power of subsuming, under a given notion 
 or conception, the particular objects which properly belong 
 there. Thus, the botanist, as he meets with new plants, and 
 the ornithologist, as he discovers new varieties of birds, refers 
 them at once to the family, the genus, the species to which 
 they belong. His mmd runs over the generic types of the 
 several classes and orders into- which all plants and bkds are 
 divided, he perceives that his new specimen answers to the 
 characteristic features of one of these families^ or classes, and 
 not to those of the others, and he accordingly assigns it ^ 
 place under one, and excludes it froir the rest. So doing, 
 he exercises judgment; All classification involves and de- 
 pends upon this power ; closely viewed, the action of the 
 mind, in the exercise of this power, amounts smij^ly to this, 
 the perception of agreement or disagreement between two 
 objects of thought. In the case supposed, the genus or 
 species, as described by those who have treated of the par- 
 ticular science, is one of the objects contemplated; the new 
 specimen of plant or bird, as carefully observed and studied, 
 is the other. These two objects of thought are compared ; 
 the one is perceived to agree or not to agree with the other ; 
 *ni OB the ground of this agreement or disagreement, the 
 
176 THE SYNTHETIC PROCESS^ 
 
 classificatiou is made. This perception of agreement in sucL 
 a case is an act of judgment, so called. 
 
 N'ot a distinct Faculty, — The form of mental activity 
 now described, is hardly to be ranked as a distinct faculty 
 of the mind, although it has been not unfrequently so treated 
 by writers on mental science. It enters more or less fully 
 into all mental operations ; like consciousness and attention, 
 Jt is, to some extent, involved in the exercise of all the fac- 
 ulties, and cannot, therefore, be ranked, with propriety, as 
 coordinate with them. It is not confined to the investiga- 
 tions of science, but is an activity constantly exercised by 
 all men. We have in our minds a multitude of general 
 conceptions, the result of previous observation and thought. 
 Every moment some new object presents itself. With thos 
 quickness of thought, we find its place among the concep- 
 tions already in the mind : it agrees with this, it is incom- 
 patible with that, it belongs with the one, it is excluded 
 from the other. This is the form of most of our thinking; 
 indeed, no small part of our mental activity consists m this 
 perception of argreements and disagreements, and in the re- 
 ferring of some particular object of experience, some individ- 
 ual conception, to the class or general conception under which 
 it properly belongs. The expression of such a judgment is 
 a proposition. We think in propositions, which are only 
 ludgments mentally expressed. We discourse in proposi- 
 tions, which are judgments orally expressed. We cannot 
 frame a proposition which does not afiirm, or deny, or call 
 in question, something of something. 
 
 Judgment in relation to Knowledge > — Are judgment and 
 knowledge identical? Is all knowledge only some form 
 of judgment? So Kant, Tissot, and other writers of that 
 school, would afiirm. " Judgment is the principal operation 
 of the mind, since it is concerned in all knowledge properly 
 ^o called." "^AUour knowledges are judgments. To know, 
 iB to distinguish, and to distinguish, is at once to afiirni, and 
 to deny." Such wa^ also Dr. Reid's doctrme, in opposition 
 
THE SYNTHETIC PROCESS. 177 
 
 to Locke, who distinguisliecl between knowledge and judg 
 ment. Reid, on the contrary, regards knowledge as only 
 one class of judgments, namely, those about which we ara 
 most positive and certain. According to this view, judg- 
 ment seems to cover the whole field of mental activity. Sir 
 William Hamilton thus regards it. We cannot even expo- 
 rience a sensation, he maintains, without the mental affirma* 
 jion or judgment that we are thus and thus affected. 
 
 Gomnion Speech distinguishes them, — It must be ad- 
 mitted, however, that in common use there is a distinction 
 between knowing and judging, the one implying the com- 
 parative certainty of the thing knowm, the other implying 
 some room and ground for doubt, the existence of opinion 
 and belief, rather than of positive knowledge. The word 
 itself, both in its primitive signification, and its derivation, 
 indicating, as it does, the decision by legal tribunal of 
 doubtful cases, favors this usage. That an exercise of judg 
 ment is, strictly speaking, involved in all knowledge, is, 
 nevertheless true, since, to know that a thing is thus and 
 thus, and not otherwise, is to distinguish it from other 
 things, and that is to judge. 
 
 § III. — Historical Sketch. 
 
 The jRealist and Nominalist Controversy. 
 
 . The Question at Issue, — lN"o questioii has been more 
 earnestly and even more bitterly discussed, in the w^hole 
 history of philosophical inquiry, than the point at issue be- 
 tween the Realist and Nominalist, as to what is the precise 
 object of thought when we form an abstract general concep- 
 aon. When I use the term man,, for example, is it a mere 
 nay^ie^ and nothing more, or is there a real existence corre- 
 sponding to that name, or is it neither a mere name on the 
 one hand, nor, on the other, a real existence, but a con- 
 ception of my own mind, ^hich is the object of thought ? 
 
178 THE SYNTHETIC PEOOESS, 
 
 These three answers can be made, tliese three doctrjiea 
 held, and essentially only these three. Each has been actu- 
 ally maintamed with great ability and acuteness. The 
 names by which the three doctrines are respectively desig- 
 nated are, Realism, ISTominalism, and Conceptualism. 
 
 Early History of Realism, — Of these doctrines, the 
 former, Realism, was the first to develop itself. To say 
 nothing of the ancients, we find traces of it in modern 
 philosophy, as early as the ninth century. Indeed, it would 
 seem to have been the prevalent doctrine, though not 
 clearly and sharply defined ; a belief, as Tissot has well ex- 
 pressed it, " spontaneous, blind, and without self-conscious- 
 ness." John Scotus Erigena, and St. Anselm, Archbishop 
 of Canterbury, both philosophers of note, together with 
 many others of less distinction, in the ninth, tenth, and 
 eleventh centuries, were prominent Realists. The Platonic 
 view may, in fact, be said to have prevailed down to that 
 period. The early fathers of the Christian Church were 
 strongly tinged with Platonism, and the Realistic theory ac- 
 cordingly very naturally engrafted itself upon the philosophy 
 of the middle ages. The logical and the ontological, exist 
 ence as mere thought of the mind, and existence as reality.^ 
 were not distinguished by the leading minds of those cen- 
 turies. The reality of the thought as thought, and the 
 reality of an actual existence, corresponding to that thought, 
 were confounded the one with the other. As the rose of 
 which I conceive has existence apart from my conception, so 
 man, plant, tree, animal, are realities, and not mere concep 
 tions of the mind. 
 
 Rise of Nominalism, — It was not till nearly the close of 
 the eleventh century, that the announcement of the oppo- 
 site doctrine was distinctly made, in opposition to the preva- 
 lent views. This was done by Roscelinus, who maintained 
 that universal and general ideas have no objective reahty; 
 that the only reality is that of the individuals comprised 
 under these genera; that there are no such existences a^sl 
 
THE SYNTHETIC PROCESS. 179 
 
 man, animal, beauty, virtue, etc. ; that generality is only a 
 pure form given by the mind to the matter of its ideas, a 
 pure abstraction, a mere name. 
 
 In this we have the opposite extreme of Realism. If tlie 
 Realist went too far in affirming the objective reality of his 
 conception, the NominaUst erred on the other in overlooking 
 its subjective reality as a mode or state of the mind, and ra 
 ducing it to a mere name. 
 
 Dispute becomes theological. — The dispute now, unfor- 
 tunately, but' almost inevitably, became theological. The 
 Realist accused the Nominalist of virtually denying the doc- 
 trine of the Trinity, inasmuch as, according to him, the idea 
 of Trinity is only an abstraction, and there is no Being cor- 
 responding to that idea. To this, Roscelinus replied, v/ith 
 at least equal force and truth, that on the same ground the 
 Realist denied the doctrine of divine unity, by holding a doc- 
 trine utterly incompatible with it. Roscelinus, however, 
 was defeated, if not in argument, at least by numbers said 
 authority, and was condemned by council at the close of the 
 eleventh century. 
 
 Hise of Oonceptualism, — It was about this time, that. 
 Abelard, pupil of Roscelinus, proposed a modified view of 
 the matter, avoiding the extreme position both of the 
 Realist and the Nominalist party, and allowing the subjective^ 
 but not the objective reality, of general ideas. This is substan 
 tially the doctrine of Oonceptualism. The general abstract 
 idea of man, rose, mountain, etc., has indeed no existence or 
 reahty as an external object, nor is there among externa] 
 ')bjects any thing corresponding to this idea ; but it has, 
 nevertheless, a reality and existence as a thought, a concep- 
 tion of my mind. 
 
 Prevalence of Mealism during the twelfth and thirteenth 
 Centuries, — The doctrine, as thus modified, gained some 
 prevalence, but was condemned by successive councils and 
 by the Pope. Sustained by such authority, as well as bj 
 the namef of men greatly distinguished for learning ana 
 
180 THE ANALYTIC PROCESS, 
 
 philosophy. Realism prevailed over its antagonists during the 
 Jatter part of the twelfth and the whole of the thirteenth 
 contury. The fourteenth witnessed again the rise and 
 spread of the Conceptuaiist theory, under the leadership of 
 Occam. The dispute was bitter, leading to strife and even 
 blood. 
 
 Later History of the Discussion. — In the seventeenth 
 eentury we find Hobbes, Hume, and Berkley advocating the 
 doctrine of the Nominalists, while Price maintains the side 
 of Realism. Locke and Reid were ConceptuaUsts, Stewart 
 a Nominalist. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 THE ANALYTIC PROCESS — EEASONING-. 
 
 JRelation to the Synthetic Process. — We have thus fai 
 considered that form or process of the reflective faculty, by 
 which we combine the elements of individual complex con- 
 ceptions, to form general conceptions and classes, on the basis 
 9f perceived agreements and differences. This we have 
 ccrmedthe synthetic process. The divisive or analytic process 
 ^•emains to be considered. This, as the name denotes, is, so 
 %r as regards the method of procedure, the opposite of the 
 former. We no longer put together, but take apart, no 
 longer combine the many to form one, but from the genera! 
 complex whole, as already formed and announced, we evolv 
 Ae particular which lies included in it. This prooess com- 
 preher^ds what is generally called analysis, and also reason- 
 mg. 
 
 In discussing this most important mental process, we shall 
 have occasion to treat more particularly of its nature^ its 
 fcrms^ a id its modes. 
 
THE ANALYTIC PROCESS 181 
 
 § I. — TnB Nature of the Process. 
 
 Conceptions often Complex, — It was remarked, in speat 
 ing of our conceptions, that many of them are complex. 
 My notion of a table, for example, is that of an object 
 possessing certain qualities, as form, size, weight, color, 
 hardness, each of which qualities is known to me by a 
 distinct act of perception, if not by a distinct sense, and each 
 of which is capable, accordingly, of being distinctly, and by 
 itself, an object of thought or conception. The understand- 
 ing combines these several conceptions, and thus forms the 
 complex notion of a table. The notion thus formed, is nei- 
 ther more nor less than the aggregate, or combination of 
 the several elementary conceptions already indicated. When 
 I am called on to define my complex conception, I can only 
 specify these several elementary notions which go to make 
 up my idea of the table. I can say it is an object round, or 
 square, of such or such magnitude, that it ife of such or such 
 material, of this or that color, and designed for such and 
 such uses. 
 
 Virtual Analysis of complex Conceptions, — IsTow when 
 I affirm that the table is round, I state one of the several 
 qualities of the object so called, one of the several parts of 
 the complex notion. It is a partial analysis of that complex 
 conception. I separate from the whole, one of its component 
 parts, and then affirm that it sustains the relation of a part 
 to the comprehensive whole. The separation is a virtual 
 analysis. The affirmation is an act of judgment expressed 
 in the form of a proposition. Every proposition is, in fact, a 
 species of synthesis, and implies the previous analysis of the 
 conception, or comprehensive whole, whose component parts 
 are thus brought together. Thus, when I say snow is white, 
 man is mortal, the earth is round, I simply affirm of the 
 object designated, one of the qualities which go to make up 
 my conception of that object. Every such statement oi 
 proposition involves an analysis of the complex conceptioii 
 
182 THE ANALYTIC PROCESS. 
 
 which forms the subject of the proposition, Aviiile the ^ling 
 predicated or affirmed is, that the quahty designated -the 
 result of such analysis — is cne of the parts constuuting 
 that complex ^iiole. 
 
 Reasoning^ «^Aa^.- — Reasoning is simply a series of such 
 propositions following in consecutive order, in which this 
 analysis is carried out more or less minutely. Thus, ^^'hon 
 I affirm that man is mortal, I resolve my complex notion of 
 man into its component parts, among which I find the attri- 
 bute of mortality, and this attribute I then proceed to affirm 
 of the subject, man. I simply evolve, and disthictly an- 
 nounce, what was involved in the term man. But this term 
 expresses riot merely a complex, but a general notion. 
 Resolving it as such into its individual elements, I find it to 
 comprehend among the rest, a certain person, Socrates, e. //., 
 and the result of this analysis I state in the proposition, 
 Socrates is a man. But on the principle that what is true 
 of a class must be true of the individuals composing it, it 
 follows that the mortality already predicated of the class, 
 man, is an attribute of the individual, Socrates. When I 
 affirm, then, that Socrates is mortal, I announce, in reality, 
 only wdiat was virtually imj^lied in the first proposition — - 
 man is mortal. I have analyzed the complex general con- 
 ception, man, have found involved in it the particular con- 
 ception, mortal, and the individual conception, Socrates, and 
 by a subsequent synthesis have brought together these 
 results in the proposition, Socrates is mortal, a proposition 
 which sustains to the affirmation, man is mortal, the simple 
 relation of a part to the whole. 
 
 JReasoning and Analysis^ hoio related, — This analytic 
 process,' as applied to propositions, for the purpose of evolvmg 
 from a complex general statement, whatever is involved or 
 virtually contained in it, is called reasoning ; as applied not 
 to propositions, but to sinijple conceptions merely, it is knowi,* 
 as simple analysis. The psychological process is, in eithe? 
 c*/ase, one and the same. 
 
THE ANALYTIC PROCESS. 183 
 
 Illustration hy Dr, Brown, — Dr. Brown has well illu9^ 
 trated the nature of the reasoning process in its relation to 
 the general ^proposition w^ith w^hich we set out, by reference 
 to the germ enclosed in the bulb of the plant. " The truths 
 at which we arrive, by repeated intellectual analysis, may be 
 said to resemble the premature plant which is to be found 
 enclosed in that which is itself enclosed in the bulb, or seed 
 which we dissect. We must carry on our dissection more 
 and more minutely to arrive at each new germ ; but we do 
 arrive at one after the other, and when our dissection is 
 obliged to stop, we have reason to suppose that still finer 
 instruments, and still finer ^ eyes, might prosecute the dis- 
 covery almost to infinity. It is the same in the discovery 
 of the truths of reasoning. The stage at which one inquirer 
 stops is not the limit of analysis in reference to the object, 
 but the limit of the analytic power of the individual. In- 
 quirer after inquirer discovers truths which were involved 
 in truths formerly admitted by us, without our bemg able to 
 perceive what was comprehended in our admission. * * ^ 
 There may be races of beings, at least w^e can conceive of 
 races of beings, whose senses would enable them to perceive 
 the ultimate embryo plant enclosed in its innumerable series 
 of preceding germs; and there may, perhaps, be created pow 
 ers of some higher order, as we know that there is one Eter- 
 nal Powder, able to feel, in a single comprehensive thought, 
 all those truths, of which the generations of mankind are 
 able, by successive analyses, to discover only a i^^^ that are, 
 perhaps, to the great truths which they contain, only as the 
 flower, which is blossoming before us, is to that infinity of 
 future blossoms enveloped in it, wdth which, in ever reno 
 vated beauty, it is to adorn the summers of other ages." 
 
 Inquiry suggested, — But here the inquiry may arise 
 IIow^ happens it that, if the reasonings which conduct to the 
 profoundest and most important truths, are but successive 
 and continued analyses of our previous conceptions, we 
 rhould have admitted those preceding truths and corcep 
 
184 
 
 THE ANALYTIC PKOCESS. 
 
 tions without a suspicion of the results involved in them If 
 The reason is probably to be found, as Dr. Brown suggests, 
 in the fact that in the process of generalizing we form classes 
 and orders before distinguishing the minuter varieties ; we 
 are struck with some obvious points of agreement which lead 
 us to give a common place and a common term to the ob- 
 jects of such resemblance, and this very circumstance ol 
 agreement which we perceive, may involve other circum' 
 stances which we do not at the time perceive, but which are 
 disclosed on miocite and subsequent attention. " It is as if 
 we knew the situations and bearings of all the great cities 
 in Europe, and could lay down, with most accurate precis- 
 ion, their longitude and latitude. To know thus much, is 
 to know that a certain space must intervene between them, 
 but it is not to know what that space contains. The process 
 of reasoning, in the discoveries which it gives, is like that 
 topographic inquiry which fills up the intervals of our map, 
 placing here a forest, there a long extent of plains, and be- 
 yond them a still longer range of mountains, till we see, at 
 last, innumerable objects connected with each other in that 
 space which before presented to us only a few points of mu- 
 tual bearing." 
 
 The Position further argued from the Nature of the Syl- 
 logism,— Th^t all deductive reasoning, at least, is essen- 
 tially what has now been described, an analytic process, ia 
 evident from the fact tha.t the syllogism to which all such 
 argument may be reduced, is based upon the admitted prin- 
 ciple that whatever is true of the class, is true of all the in- 
 dividuals comprehended under it. Something is affirmed oi 
 a given class ; an individual or individuals aio then affirnied 
 to belong to that class ; and on the slx'^'V^th of the prin- 
 ciple just stated, it is thereupon affirm .y^/ //^.at wha/^, was pre- 
 dicated of the class is also true of the /> dividual.. J^othing 
 can be plainer than that In this proce r/^ '/f e are working from 
 the given whole to the comprehe/zded parts, from the 
 complex conception stated at the outlet, to the truths thai 
 
 "i 
 
THE ANALYTIC PROCESS. 186 
 
 lie hidden and involved in it. In other words, it is a process 
 of analysis which we thus perform, and as all reasoning, 
 when scientifically stated, is brought under this form, it foi 
 lows that all reasoning is essentially analytic in its nature. 
 
 In'ductive Reasoning no Mcception, — It maybe supposed 
 that the inductive method of reasoning is an exception to 
 this rule, inasmuch as we proceed, in that case, not from the 
 general to the particular, but the reverse. Whatever ma^ 
 be true of deduction, is not induction essentially a synthetic 
 process ? So it might, at first, appear. I have observed, 
 for example, that several animals of a particular species, 
 gheep, for instance, chew the cud. Having observed this in 
 several instances, I presently conclude that the same is true 
 of the whole class to which these several individuals belong, 
 in other words, that all sheep are ruminant. Extending my 
 observation further, I find other species of animals likewise 
 chewing the cud. I observe, moreover, that every animal, 
 possessing this characteristic, is distinguished by the circum- 
 stance of having horns and cloven hoofs ; I find, so far as 
 my observation goes, the two things always associated, and 
 hence am led, on observing the one, immediately to infer 
 the other. The proposition that was at the outset particu- 
 lar, now becomes general, viz., all animals that have horns 
 and cloven hoofs are ruminant. Is the conclusion at which 
 I thus arrive, involved in the premiss with which I start ? 
 Is the fact that all horned and cloven-footed animals are 
 mminant, implied and contained in the fact that some 
 horned and cloven-footed animals, that is, so many as I have 
 observed, are so ? 
 
 Even here the Evidence of the Conclusion lies in the 
 Premiss, — A little reflection will convince us that these 
 questions are to be answered in the afiirmative. If the con- 
 clusion be itself correct and true, then it is a truth involved 
 in the previous proposition • for whatever evidence I have 
 of the truth of my conclusion, that all animals of this sort 
 are rimiinant, is manifestly derived ff >m, and therefore con- 
 
nf 
 
 n 
 
 186 THE ANALYTIC PROCESS. 
 
 tained in, the fact that such as I have observed are so. 1 
 have no other evidence in the case supposed. If this evi- 
 dence is insufficient, then the conclusion is not established. 
 If it be sufficient, then the conclusion which it establishes^ 
 is derived from and involved in it. 
 
 The argument fully and scientifically stated, runs thus : 
 . A, B, C, animals observed, are ruminant. But A, B, 0, 
 represent the class Z to which they belong. 
 
 Therefore, class Z is ruminant. 
 
 Admitting now the correctness of my observation in re- 
 ispect to A, B, C, that they are ruminant, the argument 
 turns entirely upon the second proposition that A, B, C, rep- 
 resent the class Z, so that what is true of them in this re- 
 spect, is true of the whole class. If A, B, C, do represent 
 the class Z, then to say that A, B, C, a^re ruminant, is to say 
 that Z is so. The one is contained in the other. If they do 
 not^ then the conclusion is itself groundless, and there is no 
 occasion to inquire in what it is contained, or whether it is 
 contained in any thing. It is no longer a valid argument 
 and therefore cannot be brought in evidence that somp 
 reasoning is not analytic. 
 
 W7iat sort of Propositions cojistitute Measoning, — It w 
 hardly necessary to state that not any and every series of 
 propositions constitute reasoning. The propositions musf 
 be consecutive, following in a certain order, and not onlj; 
 so, but must be in such a manner connected with and re- 
 lated to each other, that the truth of the final proposition 
 shall be manifest from the propositions which precede. To 
 affirm that snow is white, that gold is more valuable than 
 silver, and that virtue is the only sure road to happiness, ia 
 to state a series of propositions, each one of which is true, 
 but which have no such relation to each other as to consti- 
 tute an argument. The truth of the last proposition does 
 not follow from the truth of the preceding ones. 
 
THE ANALYTIC PROCESS. 18T 
 
 §11. — Relation of Judgment and Reasoning 
 
 Judgment Synthetic^ Reasoning Analytic, — The rel* 
 tion of judgment and reasoning to each other becomes evi- 
 dent from what has been said of the nature of the reasoning 
 process. Judgment is essentially synthetic. Reasoning, 
 essentially analytic. The former combines, aifirms one 
 thing to be true of another; the latter divides, declares one 
 truth to be contained in another. All reasoning involves 
 judgment, but all judgment is not reasoning. The several 
 propositions that constitute a chain of reasoning, are so many 
 distinct judgments. Reasoning is the evolution or deriva- 
 tion of one of these judgments, viz., the conclusion, from 
 another, viz., the premiss. It is the process by which we 
 arrive at some of our judgments. 
 
 Mr, StewarVs View, — Reasoning is frequently defined as 
 a combination of judgments, in order to reach a result not 
 otherwise obvious. Mr. Stewart compares our several judg- 
 ments to the separate blocks of stone which the builder has 
 prepared, and which lie upon the ground, upon any one of 
 which a person may elevate himself a slight distance from 
 the ground ; while these same judgments, combined in a 
 proces«! of reasoning, he likens to those same blocks con- 
 verted now, by the builder's art, into a grand staircase lead- 
 ing to the summit of some lofty tower. It is a simple com- 
 bination of separate judgments, nor is there any thing in the 
 last step of the series differing at all in its nature, says Mr 
 Stewart, from the first step. Each step is precisely like 
 every other, and the process of reaching the top is simply 
 a repetition of the act by which the first step is reached. 
 
 This View called in Question, — It is evident that this 
 position is not in accordance with the general view which we 
 have maintained of the nature of the reasoning process. 
 According to this view, reasoning is not so much a combina- 
 tion as an analysis of judgments ; nor is the last of the several 
 propositions in a chain of argument of the same ns^t.ure pre* 
 
188 THE ANALYTIC PROCESS^ 
 
 cisely as tlie first. It is, like the first, a judgment, but unlike 
 the first, it is a particular sort of judgment, viz., an inference 
 3r conclusion, a judgment involved in and derived from the 
 former. 
 
 In the series of propositions, A is B, B is C, therefore A 
 IS C, the act of mind by which I perceive that A is B, or 
 that B is C, is not of the same nature with that by which I 
 perceive the consequent truth that A is C ; no mere repeti 
 lion of the former act would amount to the latter. There is 
 a new sort of judgment in the latter case, a deduction from 
 the ibrmer. In order * to reach it, I must not merely per- 
 ceive that A is B, and that B is C, but must also perceive 
 the connection of the two propositions, and what is involved 
 in them. It is only by bringing together in the mind these 
 two propositions, that I perceive the new truth, not other- 
 wise obvious, that A is C, and the state or act of mind in- 
 volved in this latter step seems to me a different one from 
 that by which I reach the former judgments. 
 
 § III. — Different Kiis^r/S of EEAsoNiNa. 
 
 Two Kinds of Truth, — The most natural division is that 
 accordhig to the subject-matter, or the materials of the work. 
 The truths which constitute the material of our reasoning 
 process are of two kinds, necessary^ and contingent. That 
 two straight lines cannot enclose a space, that the whole is 
 greater than any one of its parts, are examples of the former. 
 That the earth is an oblate spheroid, moves in an elliptical 
 orbit, and is attended by one satellite, are examples of the 
 latter. 
 
 TJie Difference lies i7i what, — The difference is not that 
 one is any less certain than the other, but of the one you 
 cann'^t conceive the opposite, of the other you can. That 
 three times three are nine, is no more true and certain, than 
 that Csesar invaded Britain, or that the sun will rise to-mor- 
 row a few minutes ^^arlier or later than to-day. But the one 
 
THE ANALYTIC PROCESS. 18f 
 
 ftdmits of the contrary supposition without absurdity, the 
 other does not ; the one is contingent, the other necessary 
 "Now these two classes of truths, differing as they do, in this 
 important particular, admit of, and require, very different 
 methods of reasoning. The one class is susceptible of demons 
 Btration^ the other admits only that species of reasoning 
 called j^ro5a5/6 or moral. It must be remembered, however 
 hat when we thus speak we do not mean that this latter 
 class of truths is deficient in proof; the word probable is not, 
 as thus used, opposed to certainty^ but only to de'tnoiistf jj- 
 tion. That there is such a city as Rome, or London, is just 
 as certain as that the several angles of a triangle are equal 
 to two right-angles ; but the evidence which substantiates the 
 one is of a very different nature from that of the other. The 
 one can be demonstrated, the other cannot. The one is an 
 eternal and necessary truth, subject to no contingence, no 
 possibility of the oj^posite. The other is of the nature of an 
 event taking place in time, and dependent on the will of 
 man, and might, without any absurdity, be supposed not to 
 be as it is. 
 
 I. Demoi^stratiye Reasoning. 
 
 Field of De7nonstrative JReasonmg, — Its field, as we have 
 seen, is necessary truth. It is limited, therefore, in its range, 
 takes in only things abstract, conceptions rather than reali- 
 ties, the relations of things rather than things themselves, as 
 existences. It is confined principally, if not entirely, to 
 mathematical truths^ 
 
 No degrees of Evidence, — There are no degrees of eyi* 
 dence or certainty in truths of this nature. Every step 
 follows irresistibly from the preceding. Every conclusion is 
 mevitable. One demonstration is as good as another, so far 
 as regards the certainty of the conclusion, and one is as 
 good as a thousand. It is quite otherwise in probable rea- 
 soning. 
 
 Two Modes of Procedure, — In demonstration, we inaj 
 
190 THE J^l^ALYTIC PROCESS. 
 
 proceed directly, or indirectly ; as, 6. g,^ in ease of two trian- 
 gles to be proved equal. I may, by super-position, prove 
 this directly ; or I may suppose them unequal, and proceed 
 to show the absurdity of such a supposition ; or I m'ly make 
 a number of suppositions, one or the other of which 7nu8t be 
 true, and then show that all but th'e one which I wish to 
 establish are false. 
 
 Force of Mathe^iiatical reasoning. — The question arises 
 whence the peculiar force of mathematical, in distinction from 
 other reasoning ? — a fact observed by every one, but not 
 easily explained : how happens this, and on what does it 
 depend, this irresistible cogency avKjlCH compels our assent ? 
 Is it ov/ing to the pains taken to define the terms employed, 
 and the strict adherence to those definitions ? I think not ; 
 for other sciences approximate to mathematics in this, but 
 not to the cogency of its reasoning. The explanation given 
 by Stewart is certainly plausible. He ascribes the peculiar 
 force of demonstrative reasoning to the fact, that the first 
 principles from which it sets out, ^. 6., its definitions, are 
 purely hypothetical^ involving no basis or admixture of facts, 
 and that by simply reasoning strictly upon these assumed 
 hypotheses the conclusions follow irresistibly. The same 
 thing would happen in any other science, could we (as we 
 cannot) construct our definitions to suit ourselves, instead 
 of proceeding upon facts as our data. The same view is 
 ably maintained by other writers. 
 
 If this be so, the superior certainty of mathematical, 
 over all other modes of reasoning, if it does not quite 
 vanish, becomes of much less consequence than is generallj 
 gupposed. Its truths are necessary in no other sense than 
 that certain definitions being assumed, certain suppositions 
 made, then the certain other things follow, which is no more 
 t;iian may be said of any science. 
 
 Confirraation of this View. — It may be argued, as a con- 
 6rmation of this view, that whenever mathematical reason- 
 iBg comes to be applied to sciences involving facts either 
 
THE ANALYTIC PROCESS. IDJ 
 
 H8 the data, or as objects of investigation, \v}i<3re it is no longei 
 possible to proceed entirely upon hypothesis, as, e. g.^ when 
 you apply it to mechanics, physics, astronomy, pra-ctical 
 geometry, etc., then it ceases to be demonstrative, and bo- 
 comes merely probable reasoning. 
 
 Mathematical reasoning supposed hy S07ne to be ideti' 
 tical. — It has been much discussed whether all mathematical 
 reasoning is merely identical, asserting, in fact, notliing more 
 than that a^=^a / that a given thing is equivalent to itself, 
 capable of being resolved at last into merely this. This 
 view has been maintained by Leibnitz, himself one of the 
 greatest mathematicians, and by many others. It was for a 
 long time the prevalent doctrine on the Continent. Condillac 
 applies the same to all reasoning, and Hobbes seems to have 
 had a similar view, ^. 6., that all reasoning is only so much 
 addition or subtraction. Against this view Stevv^art con 
 tends that even if the propositions themselves might be 
 represented by the formula a=-a^ it does not follow that the 
 various steps of reasoning leading to the conclusion amount 
 merely to that. A paper written in cipher may be said to 
 be identical with the same paper as interpreted ; but the evi- 
 dence on which the act of deciphering proceeds, amounts to 
 something more than the perception of identity. And 
 further, he denies that the propositions are identical, e. g,, 
 even the simple proposition 2x2 = 4. 2x2 express one 
 set of quantities, and 4 expresses another, and the proposi- 
 tion that asserts their equivalence is not identical ; it is not 
 saying that the same quantity is equal to itself, but tliat two 
 iiilerent quantities are equivalent. 
 
 II. Pkobable Reasois^ing. 
 
 Not opposed to Certainty, — It must be borne in mincl^ 
 as already stated, that the probability now mtended ia 
 not opposed to certainty. That Csesar invaded Britain 
 LS certain^ but the reasoning which goes to establish it, is 
 only probable reasoning, because the thing to be pro^"«d ii 
 
192 
 
 THE ANALYTIC PROCESS. 
 
 an eyent in history, contingent therefore, and not capable 
 of demonstration. 
 
 Sources of Evidence, — ETvidence of this kind of truths is 
 derived from three sources : 1. Testimony ; 2. Experience ; 
 3. Analogy. 
 
 1. .Evidence of Testimony, * 
 
 In itself probable. — This is, a priori, probable. We ar( 
 so constituted as to be inchned to believe testimony, and it 
 IS only when the incredibility of the witness has been ascer- 
 tained by sufficient evidence, that we refuse our assent. The 
 child believes whatever is told him. The man, long conver- 
 sant with human affairs, becomes wary, cautious, suspicious, 
 'jncreaulous. It is remarked by Reid that the evidence of 
 testimony does not depend altogether on the character of 
 the witness. If there be no motive for deception, especially 
 if there be v/eighty reasons why he should speak truth, or if 
 the narrative be in itself probable and consistent, and tallies 
 with circumstances, it is in such cases to be received even 
 from those not of unimpeachable integrity. 
 
 Limits of Belief, — What are the limits of belief m 
 testimony ? Suppose the character of witnesses to be good, 
 the narrative self-consistent, the testimony concurrent of 
 various witnesses, explicit, positive, full, no motive for decep- 
 tion ; are we to believe in that case whatever may be testi- 
 fied ? One thing is certain, we do in fact believe in such 
 cases ; we are so constituted. Such is the law of our nature. 
 Nor can it be shown irrational to yield such assent. It has 
 been shown by an eminent mathematician that it is always 
 possible to assign a number of independent witnesses, sc 
 great that the falsity of their concurrent testimony shall be 
 mathematically more improbable, and so more incredible, 
 than the truth of their statement, be it lohat it 7nay. 
 
 Case supposed, — Suppose a considerable number of men 
 of undoubted veracity, should, without concert, and agree- 
 ing in the main as to particulars, all testify, one by one, that 
 
THE ANALYTIC PROCESS. 193 
 
 they witnessed, on a given day and hour, some very strange 
 occurrence, as, e.g.^ a ball of fire, or a form of angelic 
 brightness, hovering in the air, over this building, or any 
 like unwonted and inexplicable phenomenon. Are "we to 
 withhold or yield our assent ? I reply, if the numbei of 
 witnesses is large, and the testimony concurrent, and with- 
 out concert, and no motive exists for deception, and they 
 are men of known mtegrity, especially if they are sane and 
 sober men, not easily imposed upon, I see not how we can 
 reasonably withhold assent. Their testimony is to be taken 
 as true testimony, i. 6., they did really witness the pheno- 
 menon described. The proof becomes stronger or weaker 
 in proportion as the circumstances now mentioned coexist to 
 a greater or less extent, i,e.^ in projTortion as there are more 
 or fewer of these concurring and corroborating circum- 
 stances. If there was but a single witness, or if a number 
 of the witnesses w ere not of the best character, or if there 
 were some possible motive for deception, or if th^y were 
 not altogether agreed as to important features of the case, 
 so fa:- the testimony would of course be weakened. But 
 we may alvv^ays suppose a case so strong that the falsity of 
 the witnesses would be a greater miracle than the truth 
 of the story. This is the case with the testimony of the 
 witnesses to our Saviour's miracles. 
 
 Distinction to he made. — An important distinction is 
 here to be noticed betv/een the falsity, and the incorrectness, 
 of the witness, between his intention to deceive, and his be- 
 ing himself deceived. He may have seen precisely what he 
 describes ; he may be mistaken in thinking it to have been 
 an angel, or a spirit, or a ball of fire. Just as in the case 
 of certain illusions of sense — an oar in the w^ater — the eye 
 correctly reports what it sees, but the judgment is in error, 
 in thinking the oar to be crooked. So the witness may be 
 true, and the testimony true in the case of a supposed 
 miracle or other strange phenomenon ; the appearance- vci^,^ 
 have been just as stated, but the question may stiF be r^< 
 
 9 
 
194 THE ANALYTIC PKOCESS 
 
 were the witnesses correct, in their inference, or judgment, 
 as to what was the cause of the said appearance, as to what 
 it was that they saw or heard ? 
 
 This must be decided by the rules that govern the pro- 
 i>eedings of sensible men in common affairs of life. 
 
 2. Seasoning from l^Jxperience, 
 
 Induction as distinguished from Deduction. — Tliis ig 
 called induction^ the peculiar characteristic of which, in dis- 
 tinction from deductive reasoning, is that it begins with indi- 
 vidual cases, and from them infers a general conclusion, 
 whereas, the deductive method starts with a general propo- 
 sition, and infers a particular one. From the proposition all 
 men are mortal, the syllogism infers that Socrates is mortal. 
 From the tuct that Socrates, Plato, Aristotle, Pliny, Caesar, 
 Cicero, and any number of other individuals, are mortal, in- 
 duction leads you to conclude that all men are so. The 
 premises here are facts occurring within the range of observ- 
 ation and experience, and the reasoning proceeds on the 
 principle of the general uniformity of nature and her laws. 
 Induction, then, is, ir. other words, the process of inferring 
 tliat what we know to be true in certain observed cases. 
 is also true, and will be found to be true, in other like 'cases^ 
 which have not fallen under our observation. 
 
 Hasis of this Mode of reasoning, — The groundworl^ 
 of induction, as I have already said, is the axiom or universal 
 proposition of the uniformity of nature. Take this away, and 
 all reasoning from induction or experience fails at once* 
 This is a truth which the human mind is, by its natm^e and 
 constitution, always disposed to proceed upon. It may not 
 be embodied in the shape of a definite proposition, but it is 
 tacitly assumed and acted upon by all men. How came we by 
 this general truth. Is it intuitive ? So say the disciples of 
 certain schools, so says Cousin, and so say the Scotch meta- 
 physicians, and the German. Others, however, contend that 
 It is itself an induction, as truly as any other, a truth learned 
 
THE ANALYTIC PROCESS. 198 
 
 from experience and observation, and by no means the first, 
 but rather among the latest of om' inductions. Without 
 stopping to discuss this question, it is sufficient for our pur- 
 pose to notice the fact, that this simple truth is universally 
 admitted, and constitutes the basis of all reasoning from ex- 
 perience. 
 
 Incorrect Mode of Statement, — The proposition is some- 
 times incorrectly stated, as, e, ^., that the future will resemble 
 the past. This is not an adequate expression of the great 
 truth to which we refer. It is not that the future mere^ 
 will resemble the past merely, but that the unknown will 
 resemble the known. The idea of time is not properly con- 
 nected with the subject. That vv^hich is unknown may lie in 
 the future, it may lie in the present or the past. 
 
 Liynits of this Selief — An important question here 
 arises. What are the limits, if Hmits there are, to this belief 
 of the uniformity of nature, and to the reasoning based on 
 that belief? Are we warranted, in all cases, in inferring tnat 
 the unkno vvTi v/ill be, in similar circumstances, like the known 
 — that what we have found to be true in five, ten, or fifty 
 cases, and without exception, will be universally true ? We 
 do reason thus very generally. Such is the tendency of the 
 mind, its nature. Is it correct procedure? Is it certain 
 that our experience, though it be uniform and unvaried, is 
 the universal experience ? If not, if limits there are to this 
 method of reasoning, what are they? 
 
 Erroneous Induction. — The inhabitants of Siam have 
 never seen water in any other than a liquid or gaseous form. 
 They conclude that water is never solid. The inhabitants 
 of central Africa may be supposed never to have seen or 
 heard of a white man. They infer that all men are black 
 Are these correct inductions ? ISTo ; for they lead to false 
 conclusions. They are built on insufficient foundations. 
 There was not a sufficiently wdde observation of facts to 
 justify so wide a conclusion. Evidently, we cannot infer 
 from oui own non-observation of exceptions, that excep- 
 
196 THE ANALYTIC PROCESS. 
 
 tioDS do not exist. We must first know that if ^hero 
 were exceptions we should have known them. In both the 
 cases now supposed, this was overlooked. The African has 
 only 8een men who were natives of Africa. There may be, 
 m other countries, races that he has not seen, and has had no 
 opportmiity to see. The world may be full of exceptions to 
 this general rule, and yet he not know it. Correct in duction in 
 his case would be this : I have seen many men, natives of 
 central Africa, and they have all been black men, without 
 exception. I conclude, therefore, that all the natives of 
 central Africa are black. In a word, it is only under 
 like circumstances that we can infer the uniformity pf 
 nature, and so reason inductively from the known to the 
 unknown. 
 
 Superstitious Belief of the Ancients, — - The tendency of 
 men to believe in the universal permanence of nature, and^ 
 on that ground, to generalize from insufiicient data, is iliu.s 
 trated in the superstitious and widely prevalent idea among 
 the ancients, and some of the moderns also, of grand cycles 
 of events extending both to the natural and the moral world. 
 According to this idea, the changes of the atmosphere, and 
 all other natural phenomena, as observed at any time, would, 
 after a period, return again in the same order of succession 
 as before ; storms, and seasons, and times, being subject to 
 some regular law. It was supposed, in fact, " that all the 
 events " — to use the language of one of these theorists — 
 *' within the immeasurable circuit of the universe, are the 
 successive evolutions of an extended series, which, at the 
 return of some vast period, repeats its eternal round during 
 the endless flux of time." This is a sufficiently grand induc» 
 tion, startling in its sweep and range of thought, but requir- 
 ing for its data a somewhat wider observation of facts than 
 can fall to the lot of short-lived and short-sighted man, dur 
 mg the few years ol his narrow sojourn, and pilgrimage, in a 
 world like this. 
 
THE ANALYTIC PROCESS. 197 
 
 S, Keasoning from Analogy, 
 
 Meaning of the term Analogy, — This word, analogy, is 
 used with great variety of meaning, and with much vague- 
 Qess, therefore. It properly denotes any sort of resem- 
 blance, whether of relation or otherwise ; and the argument 
 li'om analogy is an argument from resemblance, an argument 
 'of an inductive nature, but not amounting to complete in- 
 duction. A resembles B in certain respects ; therefore it 
 probably resembles it, also, in a certain other respect : such 
 IS the argument from analogy, A resembles B in such and 
 such properties, but these are always found connected with 
 a certain other property ; therefore A resembles B also in 
 regard to that property : such is the argument from indac- 
 iion. Every resemblance which can be pointed out between 
 A and B creates a further and increased probability that the 
 resemblance holds also in respect to the property which is 
 the object of inquiry. If the two resembled each other in 
 all their properties, there would be no longer any doubt as 
 to this one, but a positive certainty, and the more resem- 
 blances in other respects so much the nearer we come to cer- 
 tainty respecting the one that happens to be in question. 
 
 Illustration of this Principle, — It was observed by ISTew- 
 ton, that the diamond possessed a very high refractive 
 power compared with its density. The same thing he knew 
 to be true of combustible substances. Hence, he conjectured 
 that the diamond was combustible, He conjectured the 
 same thing, and for the same reason, of water, ^. 6., that it 
 contains a combustible ingredient. In both instances, he 
 guessed right — reasoning from analogy. 
 
 Further Illustration of Reasoning from Analogy, — Reiv 
 soning from analogy, I might infer that the moon is in- 
 habited, thus : The earth is inhabited — land, sea, and air, are 
 all occupied with life. But the moon resembles the earth 
 in figure, relation to the sun, movement, opacity, etc. ; 
 moreover, it has volcanoes as the earth has ; therefore, it i? 
 
198 THE AI^ALYTIO PROCESS 
 
 pi'obahly like the earth in this other respect, that of boing 
 inhabited. To make this out by induction, I must show that 
 the moon not only resembles the earth in these several re- 
 spects, but that these circumstances are in other cases ob- 
 served to be connected with the one in question; thus, in 
 other cases, bodies that are opaque, spherical, and moving in 
 elliptical orbits, are known to be inhabited. The same thing 
 is probably true then in all cases, and inasmuch as the moon" 
 has these marks, it is therefore inhabited. 
 
 Counter Probability, — On the other hand, the points of 
 dissimilarity create a counter probability, as, e, ^., the moon 
 has no atmosphere, no clouds, and therefore no water : but 
 air and water are, on our plafiet, essential to life ; the pre- 
 sumption is, then, looking at these circumstances merely, that 
 the moon is uninhabited. Nay, more : if life exists, then 
 it must be under very diiferent conditions from those under 
 which it exists here. Evidently, then, the greater the resem- 
 blance in other respects between the two planets, the less 
 probability that they differ in this respect (^. 6., the mode of 
 sustaining Kfe), so that the resemblances already proved, 
 become, themselves, presumptions against the supposition 
 that the moon is inhabited.. 
 
 Amount of Probability, — The analogy and diversity, 
 when they come thus into competition and the argument.^ 
 from the one conflict with those of the other, must be 
 weighed against eacb other. The extent of the resemblance^ 
 compared with the extent of the difference, gives the amount 
 of probability on one side or the other, so far as these eh- 
 nents are Jcnown, If any region lies unexplored, we can 
 infer nothing with certainty or probability as to that. Sup 
 pose, then, that so far as we have had the means of observing, 
 the resemblances are to the differences as four to one; we 
 conclude with a probability of four to one, that any given 
 property of the one will be iound to belong to the other. 
 The chances are four out of five. 
 
 Value, of Analogical Heasoning. — Thii chief value of 
 
.THE ANALYTIC PROCESS. 193 
 
 analogy, as regards science, howeyer, is as a gaicle to con 
 jecture and to experiment ; and even a faint degree of anal 
 ogical evidence may be of great service in this way, by 
 directing further inquiries into that channel, and so conduct- 
 ing to eventual probability, or even certainty. 
 
 It is well remarked by Stewart, that the tenxiency of c ur 
 nature is so to reason from analogy, that we naturally confide 
 in it, as we do in the evidence of testimony. 
 
 Liable to mislead. — It must be confessed, however, that 
 it is a species of reasoning likely to mislead in many cases„ 
 Its chief value lies not in proving a position, but in rebutting 
 objections ; it is good, not for assault, but defence. As thus 
 used it is a powerful weapon in the hands of a skilful 
 master. Such it was in Butler's hands. 
 
 y lY. — Use of Hypotheses and Theories in Eeasoning. 
 
 Theory., what. — The terms hypothesis and theory are 
 often used interchangeably and loosely. Confusion is the 
 result. It is difficult to define them accurately. 
 
 Theory (from the Greek, Oecopta ; Latin, theoria ; French, 
 theorie ; Italian, teoria ; from deoypeG)^ to perceive, see, 
 contemplate) denotes properly any philosophical explana- 
 tion of phenomena, any connected arrangement and state- 
 ment of facts according to their bearing on some real oj 
 imaginary law* The facts, the phenomena, once known, 
 proved, rest on independent evidence. Theory takes survey 
 of them as such, with special reference to the law whicl) 
 governs and connects them, whether that law be also known 
 or merely conjectured. 
 
 JHypothesis^ what, — Hypothesis {yiTo-riOripii) denotes 9 
 gratuitous supposition x)t conjecture, in the absence of al) 
 positive knowledge as to what the law is that governs and 
 connects the observed phenomena, or as to the cause which 
 will account for them. 
 
 Theory may or may not he Hypothesis. — Hypothesis i% n 
 
200 THE ANALYTIC PKO0ESS-. 
 
 its nature, conjectural, and therefore uncertain ; has its de- 
 grees of probability — no certainty. The moment the thing 
 supposed is proved true, or verified, if it ever is, it ceases to 
 be hypothesis. Theory, however, is not necessarily a matter 
 of uncertainty. After the law or the cause is ascertained, 
 fully known, and no longer a hypothesis at all, there may 
 be still a theory about it ; a survey of the facts and pheno- 
 mena, as they stand affected by that law, or as accounted 
 for by that cause. The motion of the planets in elliptical 
 orbits, was originally matter of conjecture, of hypothesis. 
 It is still matter of theory. 
 
 Prohahility of Hypothesis. — The probability of a hypo- 
 thesis is in proportion to the number of facts or phenomena, 
 in the given case, which it will satisfactorily explain, in 
 other words, account for. Of several hypotheses, that is the 
 most probable which will account for the greatest number 
 of the given phenomena — those which, if the hypothesis be 
 true, ought to fall under it as their law. If it accounts for 
 all the phenomena in the case, it is generally regarded as 
 having established its claim to certainty. So Whewell 
 maintains. This, however, is not exactly the case. The hy- 
 pothesis can be verified only by showing that the tacts or 
 phenomena in the case cannot possibly be accounted for on 
 any other supposition, or result from any other cause ; not 
 simply that they can be accounted for, or can result from 
 this. This is well stated by Mill in his System of Philosophy, 
 The hypothesis of the undulating movement of a subtle and 
 all-pervading ether will account for many of the known 
 phenomena of light; but it has never been shown, and in 
 the nature of the case never can be, probably, that nx) other 
 hypothesis possible or supposable will also account for them. 
 Use of Hypotheses. — As to the use of hypotheses in 
 Bcience, Reid's remarks are altogether too sweeping, and quite 
 mcorrect. It is not true that hypotheses lead to no valuable 
 result in philosophy. Almost all discoveries were a^ first 
 hypotheses, suppositions, lucky guesses, if you please to call 
 
 1 
 
THE ANALYTIC PROCESS 20i 
 
 thorn so. The Copernican theory that the earth revoives on 
 its axis was a mere hypothesis at the outset. Kepler's theory 
 of the elliptical orbits oi the planets was such ; he made and 
 abandoned nineteen false ones before he hit the right. This 
 discovery led to another — that planets describe equal areas 
 in equal times. Newton never framed hypotheses, if we 
 may believe him. But his own grand discovery of the law 
 of gravity as the central force of the system, depends for one 
 of its steps of evidence on his previous discovery that the 
 force of attraction varies as the inverse square of the dis 
 tance, and this was suggested by him at first as a mere 
 hypothesis ; he was able to verify it only by calling in the 
 aid of Kepler's discovery of equal areas in equal times, 
 which latter, as already stated, was itself the result of hyp -v 
 thesis. Had it not been for one hypothesis of Newton, 
 verified by the results of another hypothesis of Kepler, 
 Newton could never have made his own discovery. 
 
 A hypothesis, it must be remembered, is any supposi- 
 tion, wdth or without evidence, made in order to deduce 
 from it conclusions agreeable to known facts. If we succeed 
 in doing this, we verify our hypothesis (unless, indeed, it 
 can be shown that some other hypothesis will equally well 
 suit these facts), and our hypothesis, when verified, ceases 
 to be longer a hypothesis, takes its place as known truth, 
 and in turn serves to explain those facts which would, on the 
 supposition of its truth, follow from it as a cause. It is 
 simply a short-hand process of arriving at conclusions in 
 science. Suppose the problem to be the one already nam^-d 
 ■ — to p'ove that the central force of the solar system is otjg 
 and the same wdth gravity. Now it may not be easy, or even 
 possible in some cases, to establish the first step or premiss in 
 such a chain of reasoning. The inductions leading to it 
 may not be forthcoming. Hypothesis steps in and supplies 
 the deficiency, by substituting in place of the induction a 
 supposition. Assuming that distant bodies attract each 
 other with a power inversely as the square of the distance. 
 
 a* 
 
20-2 THE ANALYTIC PKOCESS. 
 
 It proceeds on tliat supposition, and arrives at the desirea 
 (conclusion. 
 
 In what Cases admissible, — Now this method is always 
 allowable, and strictly scientific, whenever it is possible to 
 verify our hypothesis, ^. 6., in every case in which it is pos- 
 sible to show that no law but the one assumed can lead to 
 these same results ; that no other hypothesis can accord with 
 the facts. 
 
 In the case supposed, it would not be possible to- prove 
 that the same movements might not follow from some other- 
 law than the one supposed. It is not certain, therefore, 
 that the moving force of the solar system is identical with 
 gravitation, merely because the latter would, if extended so 
 far, produce the same results. In many other cases it is 
 practicable; indeed, in all cases lohere the inquiry is not tc 
 ascertain the cause^ but^ the cause being already Jcnown^ to 
 ascertain the law of its action. 
 
 Even in cases where the inquiry is not of this nature, 
 hypothesis is of use in the suggestion of future investiga* 
 tions, and,, as such, is frequently indispensable. 
 
 View of Ifr. Mill. — Nearly every thing which is now 
 theory, was once hypothesis, says Mill. "The process of 
 tracmg regularity in any complicated, and, at first sight, con 
 fused set of appearances, is necessarily tentative : Ave begin 
 by making any supposition, even a false one, to see what 
 consequences will follow from it ; and by observing how 
 tliese differ from the real phenomena we learn what correc- 
 tions to make in our assumption. The simplest supposition 
 which accords with any of the most obvious facts, is the 
 best to begin with, because its consequences are the most 
 easily traced. This rude hypothesis is then rudely cor- 
 rected, and the operation repeated, until the dedu<3tive re- 
 sults are at last made to tally with the phenomena. Let 
 any one watch the manner in which he himself unravels any 
 complicated mass of evidence ; let him observe how, for in- 
 *tauce, he elicits the true history of any occurrence from 
 
THE ANALYTIC PROCESS. 203 
 
 the involved statements of one or of many witnesses. He 
 will find that he does not take all the items of evidence into 
 his mind at once, and attempt to weave them together; 
 the human faculties are not equal to such an undertaking ; 
 he extemporizes, from a few of the particulars, a first rude 
 theory of the mode in which the facts took place, and then 
 looks at the other statements, one by one, to try whether 
 they can be reconciled with the provisional theory, or what 
 corrections or additions it requires to make it square w.th 
 them. In this way, which, as M. Comte remarks, has some 
 resemblance to the methods of approximation of mathema 
 ticians, we arrive by means of hypothesis at conclusions not 
 hypothetical." 
 
 § Y. — Different Poems of Reasoning. 
 
 It remains to treat briefly of the differ e7it forms of reason, 
 ing, as founded in the laws of thought. 
 
 How far these Forms fall within the Province of Psy- 
 chology. — - As there are different kinds or modes of reason- 
 ing, according to the difference of the subject-matter or 
 material about which our reasoning is employed, so there 
 are certain general forms into w^hich all reasoning may be 
 cast, and which, according to the laws of thought, it natu- 
 rally assumes. To treat specifically of these forms, their 
 nature, use, and v^alue, is the business oilogic; but, in so far 
 as they depend upon the laws of thought, and are merely 
 modes of mental activity as exercised in reasoning, they are 
 to be considered, in connection with other phenomena of 
 the mind, by the psychologist. Briefly to describe these 
 forms, and then to consider their value, is all that I now 
 propose. I begin with the proposition, as the starting* 
 point in every process of reasoning. 
 
 1. Analysis of the Pkopositio:n". 
 Wliat cAmstitiUes a Proposition, ■— A^ reasoning deal^ 
 
204 THE ANi^LYTIC P-ROCESS. 
 
 with propositions, which are judgments expressed. Every 
 proposition involves two distinct conceptions, and expresses 
 the relation between them ; affirms the agreement or disa- 
 greement of the one with the other. As when I say, Snow 
 is white, the conception of snow is before my mind, and also 
 of whiteness; I perceive that the latter element enters into 
 my notion of snow, and constitutes one of the qualities of 
 the substance so called ; I affirm the relation of the two, 
 accordingly, and this gives the proposition enunciated. 
 Every proposition then consists of these several parts, a word 
 or words expressing some conception, a word or words ex- 
 pressing some other conception, a word or words expressing 
 the relation of the two. The words which designate these 
 two conceptions are called the terms of the proposition, and, 
 according to the above analysis, there are, in every proposi- 
 tion, always two terms. That term or conception of which 
 something is affirmed, is called the subject^ that which is 
 affirmed of the same, the predicate^ and the word which ex- 
 presses the relation of the two, the copula. In the above 
 proposition, snow is the subject, white, the predicate, and is, 
 tbe copula. 
 
 Quality and Quantity, — Propositions are distinguished as 
 to quality and quantity. The former has reference to the 
 affirmative or negative character of the proposition, the lat- 
 ter to its comprehensiveness. Every proposition is either 
 affirmative or negative, which is called its quality. As to 
 quantity, every proposition is either universal^ affirming 
 something of the whole of the subject — as. All men are 
 mortal ; or el^e particidar,, affirming something of only a part 
 of the subject — as, Some tyrants are miserable. 
 
 Four kinds of categorical Propositions. — We have, then, 
 tour kinds of categorical propositions, viz., universal affirma- 
 tive, universal negative, particular affirmative, particular 
 negative. That is, with the same subject and predicate, it 
 is always possible to state four distinct propositions; as, 
 ^very A is B, no A is B, soti^e A is B, some A is not B 
 
THE ANALYTIC PROCESS. 205 
 
 For the sake of convenience, logxcians designate these dif- 
 ferent kinds of propositions severally by the letters A, E, I, O. 
 Propositions that thus differ in quantity and quality are said 
 to be opposed to each other. Of these, the two universals, 
 A and E, are called contraries ; the two particulars, I and 
 O, sub-contraries; -the universal affirmative, and the particu- 
 lar affirmative, A and I, also the universal negative and the 
 particular negative, E and O, are respectively subalterns; 
 while the universal affirmative and the particular negative, 
 A and O, as also the universal negative and particular 
 affirmative, E and I, are contradictories. 
 
 Rules of Opposition, — The following rules will be found 
 universally applicable to propositions as opposed to each 
 other. If the universal is true, so is the particular. If the 
 particular is false, so is the universal. Contraries are never 
 both true, but may be both false. Sub-contraries are never 
 both false, but may be both true. Contradictories are never 
 both true, or both false, but always one is true, the other 
 false. The truth of these maxims will be evident on apply- 
 ing them to any proposition and its oiDposites, as for example, 
 to the affirmation. Every man is mortal. 
 
 Categorical and liypothetical Propositions, — Proposi- 
 tions may be further distinguished as categorical or hypo- 
 thetical ; the one asserting or denying directly, as, 6. ^., The 
 earth is round; the other conditionally, — as. If the earth is 
 round, it is not oblong. 
 
 Pure^ and Modal. — The proposition, moreover, maybe 
 either pure or modal, the former asserting or denying with- 
 out qualification, — as, Man is liable to err ; the latter qualify- 
 ing the statement, — as, Man is extremely or unquestionably 
 liable to err. 
 
 II. A:n^alysis of the Syllogism. 
 
 Proposition the Pink^ Syllogism the Chain. — All rea- 
 soning admits of being reduced to the form of a syllogism. 
 Having discussed the proposition which forms the material or 
 
206 THE ANALYTIC PROCESS. 
 
 ground wort of every connected chain of argument, we ar?: 
 prepared now to examine the syllogism, or chain itself, into 
 which the several propositions, as so many links, are wrought. 
 
 Syllogism defined. - — A syllogism is an argument so ex- 
 pressed that the conclusiveness of it is manifest from the 
 mere form of expression. When, for example, I affirm that 
 all A is B, that all B is C, and that, consequently, all A is 
 C, it is impossible that any one who is able to reason at alLj 
 and who comprehends the force of these several propositions 
 taken singly, should fail to perceive that the conclusion fol« 
 lows inevitably from the premises. That which is affirmed, 
 may or may not be true^ but it is conclusive. If the 
 premises are true, so is the conclusion ; but whether they 
 are true or not, the argument, as such, is conclusive ; nay, 
 even if they are false, the conclusion may possibly be true. 
 For example, Every tyrant is a good man ; Washington 
 was a tyrant ; therefore, Washington was a good man. 
 Both the premises are false, but the argument, as regards 
 the form, is valid, and the conclusion is not only correctly 
 drawn, but is, moreover, a true proposition. In a vford, the 
 syllogism concerns itself not at all with the truth or falsity 
 of the thing stated, but only with the form of stating, and 
 that form must be such, that the premises being conceded, 
 the conclusion shall be obvious and inevitable. All valid 
 reasoning admits of such statement. 
 
 Composition of a Syllogism,, — Every syllogism contams 
 three propositions, of which two state the grounds or rea- 
 sons, and are called the premises, the other states the infer 
 ence from* those positions, and is called the conclusion. 
 These three propositions contain three, and only three, dis- 
 tinct terms, of which one is common to both premises, and 
 Ib called the middle term ; the others are the extremes, one 
 of which is the subject of the conclusion, and is called the 
 minor term ; the other the predicate of the conclusion, and 
 :« called the m^ajor term, from the fact that it denotes the 
 class to which the subject or minor term belongs. In the sy^ 
 
THE ANALYTIC PROCESS, 207 
 
 logism, — Every man is mortal ; Socrates is a man ; tliereforc, 
 Socrates is mortal, — the three terms are, man, mortal, and 
 Socrates: of these, Socrates, or the subject of the conclusion^ 
 is the minor ; mortal, or tlie predicate of the conclusion, is 
 the major ; and man, with which both the others are com- 
 pared, is the middle term. 
 
 Major and ininor Premiss, — The premiss which oontains 
 the major term, and compares it with the middle, is called 
 the "inaj or premiss : that which, in like manner, compares the 
 minor term with the middle, is called the rainor premiss. 
 In the syllogism already given, ' Every man is mortal' is the 
 major premiss ; ' Socrates is a man' is the minor premiss. 
 
 The Order variable. — The order of the terms in the re- 
 spective propositions, and even the order of the propositions 
 «;hemselves, is not invariable, but depends on circumstances. 
 (n the above proposition, it is immaterial whether I say, 
 Every man is mortal, or, Mortal is every man; it is imma- 
 terial whether I state first the major or the minor premiss; 
 nay, it is allowable even to state the conclusion first, and 
 then the grounds and reasons for the same. 
 
 III. Laws of Syllogism, 
 
 The following rules or maxims will be found applicabh to 
 all cases, and may be regarded as laws of the syllogism. 
 
 Middle Term unequivocal. — The middle term must not he 
 equivocal. This rule is violated in the following syllogism. 
 Nothing is heavier than, lead ; feathers are heavier than 
 nothing; therefore, feathers are heavier than lead. The 
 middle term, nothing, is here used in difi:erent senses in 
 the two premises. 
 
 Middle Term to be distributed. — Essentially thfe same 
 thing occurs when the middle term is not, at least once, in 
 the premises, used in its most complete and comprehensive 
 sense, or, as the logicians express it, distributed. As, for 
 example, when I say. White is a color, the term color is not 
 Here distributed, for it properly includes many things be^ 
 
208 THE ANALYTIC PROCESS 
 
 sides white. If now I introduce into another proposition the 
 same term in a similar manner, as Black is a color, I evi- 
 dently include under the term, as now used, some pari 3f the 
 ■class of things denoted by the general word color, which was 
 not included under the same term as first used. The color 
 which is affirmed to agree with black, is not the same color 
 which is affirmed to agree with white. The term, in fact, 
 ienotes one thing in the one proposition, and another in the 
 other. A syllogism thus constructed, is invalid. Hence the 
 rule, that the ^middle terra must he distributed^ or taken in 
 its completeness, to include the whole class which it propeily 
 denotes, at least once in the premises. This is done either 
 by making it the subject of an affirmative^ or the predicate 
 of a negative proposition ; as, All men are mortal, or, No 
 vice is useful. Here the term man in the one case, and the 
 term 'useful in the other, are each distributed or taken in 
 their completeness. There is no individual to whom the 
 term man can properly be applied, who is not included in 
 the expression, all men, nor is there any useful thing which 
 is not here denied of vice. 
 
 What distributed in the Conclusion. — On the same 
 principle, no term must be distributed in the conclusion 
 which loas not distributed in one of the premises. This 
 rule is violated in the following syllogism, All birds are 
 bipeds ; no man is a bird ; therefore, no man is a biped. 
 Here the term biped, in the major premiss, is not taken 
 in its completeness, since many creatures besides birds 
 are bipeds. Birds are only one sort of bipeds. In the 
 conclusion, however, the term biped, being the predicate 
 of a negative proposition, is distributed, the whole class 
 of bipeds is spoken of, and man is excluded from the 
 whole class. The syllogism is, of course, invalid. 
 
 Law of negative Premiss, — It is further a law of the 
 syllogism, that from negative premises nothing can be in- 
 ferred. Also, that if one premiss is negative^ the conclusion 
 mU be negative,. 
 
THE ANALYTIC PEOCESS 209 
 
 JLaw of particular Premiss, — Fro'in two porticular pr^ 
 mises nothing folloios^ hu^ if one premiss is particular^ the 
 co7iGlusion will be so. 
 
 These rules are too obv^ «us, and too easily verified, to re- 
 quire illustration. 
 
 IV. DlEFERElSTT KiNDS OF SyLLOGTSM. 
 
 Syllogisms differ. — We have mentioned as yet only those 
 properties of the syllop-V^'m which universally belong to it. 
 There are diiFerencesi. however, which require to be noticed, 
 and which con.'^tit^ir^ s distinction of some importance, pre* 
 sen ting, in fact, two distinct kinds of syllogism. 
 
 Two Modes of procedure. — There are manifestly two 
 entirely distinct modes of procedure in reasoning. We may 
 infer from the whole to the parts, or from the parts to the 
 whole. The former is called deductive, the latter inductive 
 reasoning. The one i? precisely the reverse of the other in 
 method of procedure. Each is a perfectly valid method of 
 reasoning, and each is, in itself, a distinct and valid kind of 
 «^yllogism. Each reo aires the other. The deductive is 
 wholly dependent on the inductive for its major premiss, 
 which is only the con'ilusion of a previous induction, while, 
 on the other hand, the induction is valuable chiefly as pre- 
 paring the Vv^ay for subsequent deduction. Each has equal 
 claims with the other to be regarded as a distinct and inde- 
 pendent form of syllogism. They have not, however, been 
 !0 treated by logicians, but, on the contrary, the inductive 
 ffiethod has been regarded, almost universally, as a mere 
 S^ppendage of the deductive, an imperfect form of one or 
 another of the several figures of the syllogism deductive. 
 Of this we shall have occasion to speak more fully in the 
 aistorical sketch. 
 
 The two Modes compared. — The precise relation of the 
 two modes will best appear by the comparison of the follow 
 ing syllogisms. The inductive syllogism runs thus : a;, y 
 e, are A ; cc, 2/, ^, constitute B ; therefore, B is A. 
 
210 THE ANALYTIC PROCESS. 
 
 The deductive runs thus: B is A; cc, y, z^ constitute B 
 therefore, cc, 2/, ^5 are A. 
 
 The latter, it will be seen at a glance, is the precise coun- 
 terpart of the other, beginning where the former ends, and 
 exactly reversing the several steps in their order. 
 
 The Law of each, — The general law or rule which 
 governs the former, is, What belongs (or does not belong) 
 to all the constituent parts, belongs (or does not belong) to 
 the constituted whole. The law of the latter is. What be- 
 longs (or not) to the containing whole, belongs (or not) to 
 all the contained parts. 
 
 Application of the inductive Method, — Applying the 
 inductive method to a particular case, we reason thus : Mag- 
 nets cc, 2/, ^, etc., including so many as I have observed, 
 attract iron. But it is fair to presume that what T have 
 observed as true of cc, y, ^, is equally true of 6, f g^ and all 
 other magnets ; in other words, cc, y, ^, do represent, and 
 may fairly be taken as constituting the whole class ol 
 magnets ; consequently, I conclude that all magnets attract 
 iron. Thus stated, the truth which was at first observed 
 and affirmed only of particular instances, becomes a general 
 proposition, and may, in turn, become the premiss of a 
 process of deduction. Thus, from the general proposition, 
 obtained as now explained by the inductive mode, that all 
 horned animals ruminate, I may proceed, by the deductive 
 mode, to infer that this is true of deer or goats, or any par- 
 ticular species or individual whose habits I have not as yet 
 observed. 
 
 V. Different Forms of Syllogism. 
 
 The Form of Statement not invariable, — As there are 
 dilTerent kinds of syllogism, so also there are different /bnn.3 
 in which any kind of syllogism maybe stated. These forms 
 are not essential, pertaining to the nature of the syllogism 
 Itself, but accidental, pertaining merely to the order of 
 announcing the several propositions. It has already been 
 
THE ANALYTIC PROCESS. 211 
 
 remarked, in speaking of the general structure ol the syllo- 
 gism, that the order of propositions is not essential. Either 
 premiss may precede, either follow. Nay, we may state .#r^'^ 
 the conclusion^ and then the reasons^ or grounds. This latter 
 method, as Hamilton has shown in his ISFew Analytic of Logi- 
 cal forms^ is perfectly valid, though usually neglected by wri^ 
 ers on logic. It is not only valid, but the more natural of the 
 two methods. When asked if Socrates is mortal, it is mora 
 natural to say, He is mortal, for he is a man, and all men are 
 mortal, than to say. All men are mortal, he is a man, and 
 therefore, he is mortal. In fact, most of our reasoning takes 
 the first of these forms. The two are designated by Hamil- 
 ton, respectively, as the analytic and synthetic syllogism. 
 
 Order of Premises rriay vary, — As to the order of the 
 premises, which shall precede the other, this, too, is quite 
 unessential and accidental. The earlier method, practised 
 by Greek, Arabian, Jewish and Latin schools, was to state 
 first the minor premiss, precisely the reverse of our modern 
 custom. 
 
 Order of Terms not essential. — The order of the terms^ 
 in the several propositions, is also accidental rather than 
 essential. There are several possible and allowable arrange- 
 ments of these terms Tvdth reference to the order of pre- 
 cedence and succession, giving rise to what are calledj^^^f/e5 
 of the syllogism. These arrangements and figures have 
 usually been reckoned as four ; three only are admitted by 
 Hamilton, the fourth being abolished. The first figure occurs 
 when the middle term is the subject of one premiss and the 
 predicate of the other. The second figure gives the middle 
 term the place of predicate in both premises. The third 
 makes it the subject of both. 
 
 A further Variation, — There is still another form of 
 statement, in which the terms compared are not, as above, 
 severally subject and predicate, but, in the same proposition, 
 are both subject, or both predicate, as when we say, A and 
 B are equal ; B and C are equal ; therefore, A and ar^ 
 
212 THE ANALYTIC PROCESS. 
 
 equal. This is a valid synthetic syllogism, though not recog- 
 nized by logicians previously to the Nev:i Analytic of Ham 
 ilton. It is termed by him the unfigured syllogism. 
 
 Hypothetical reasoning not syllogistic, — It has been cus- 
 tomary to treat of hypothetical reasoning, in its two forma 
 of conditional and disjunctive, as forms or kinds of syllogism. 
 As when we say, if A is B, C is D ; but A is B, therefore 
 Is D ; or, disjunctively, either A is B, or C is D ; but A 
 is not B, therefore C is D. These, however, are not prop 
 erly syllogisms. The inference is not mediate, through 
 comparison with a common or middle term, but immediate^ 
 whereas the syllogism is, in all its forms, a process of mediate 
 inference. 
 
 Summary of Distinctions. — To sum up the distinctions 
 now pointed out. All inference is either immediate, as in 
 the case of hypothetical reasoning, whether conjunctive or 
 disjunctive, or else mediate, as in the syllogism. The latter 
 may be inductive or deductive; and, as to form, analytic or 
 synthetic, figured or unfigured. 
 
 VI. Laws of Thought on which the Syllogism 
 
 DEPEISTDS. 
 
 Statement, — There are certain universal la^^s of thought 
 on which all reasoning, and, of course, all syllogisms, depend. 
 These laws, according to Hamilton, are the principles of 
 identity^ of contradiction^ and of excluded middle y from 
 which primary laws results a fourth, that oi reason and corv^ 
 sequent, 
 
 Laio of Identity^ what, — The principle of identity 
 430mpels us to recognize the equivalence of a whole and its 
 several parts taken together, as applied to any conception 
 and its distinctive characters. As, for example, the same- 
 ness or equivalence of the notion man with the aggregate 
 of qualities or characters that constitute that notion. 
 
 Law of Contradiction^ what. — The law of contradiction 
 IS the principle that what is contradictory is unthinkable ; 
 
T^E ANALYTIC PROCjlSS 213 
 
 a«5 for example, that A has, and yet has not, a given {|:ial 
 ity, B. 
 
 Laio of excluded Middle. — The principle of excluded 
 middle is this, that of two contradictory notions, we must 
 think one or the other to be trae ; as, that A either has or 
 has not the quaility B. 
 
 Xtmo of Reason and Consequent. — From these primary 
 i^inciples results the law of reason and consequent. All 
 logical inference is based on that law of our nature, that one 
 notion shall ahvays depend on another. This inference is of 
 two kinds, from the whole to the part«, or from the parts to 
 the whole, respectively called deductive and inductive, as 
 already explained. 
 
 Certain Points not included in the preceding Synopsis, — ■ 
 I have presented, as was proposed, in brief outline, a 
 synopsis of the forms of reasoning. For a full treatment of 
 these forms, and the laws which govern them, the treatises on 
 logic must be consulted. 
 
 Some things usually considered essential to logical forms, 
 as the modality of propositions and syllogisms, and the con- 
 version of the other figures of the syllogism into the first, 
 I have not included in the above outline, for the reason that 
 the former does not properly fall wdthin the province of 
 logic, which has to do only with the form and not with the 
 matter of a proposition or an argument, while, as to the 
 latter, it is only an accidental, and not an essential circum- 
 Btance, what may be the figure of a syllogism, and it is, 
 therefore, of no importance to reduce the second and third 
 figures to the first. 
 
 VII. Use and Value of the Syllogism. 
 
 Having considered the various forms which the syllogisui 
 may assume, as also the laws or canons which govern it, 
 we proceed to inquire, finally, as to it use and value in 
 reasoning. 
 
 AM mediate reasoning syllogistic. — It must be Goa 
 
214 THE ANALYTIC PROCESS^, 
 
 ceded, I think, that all mediate reasoning, all mference, 
 which is not immediate and direct, but which, in order to 
 reach its conclusion, compares one thing with another, is es- 
 sentially syllogistic. The greater part of our reasoning pro- 
 cesses are of this sort. When fully and explicitly stated, 
 such reasoning resolves itself into some form of syllogism. 
 It is not, as sometimes stated, a mode of reasoning, but the 
 mode which all reasoning, except such as is direct and im- 
 mediate, tends to assume. Not always, indeed, is this 
 reasoning fully drawn out and explicitly stated, but alJ 
 valid reasoning admits of being thus stated ; nay, it is not, 
 as to form at least, complete until it is so expressed. 
 
 Not alioays syllogistically expressed. — In ordinary con- 
 versation, and even in public address, we omit many inter- 
 mediate steps in the trains and processes of our arguments, 
 for the reason that their statement is not essential to our 
 being understood, the hearer's mind supplying, for itself, the 
 connecting links as we proceed ; just as in speaking or writ- 
 ing, we make many abbreviations, drop out some letters and 
 syllables here and there, in our hasty utterance, and yet all 
 such short-hand processes imply and are based upon the full 
 form ; and it would be as correct and as reasonable to say 
 that the fully written or fully spoken word is merely a mode 
 of speaking and writing, which, when the grammarian and 
 rhetorician come into contact with common people, they lay 
 aside for the ordinary forms of speech, as to say that syllo- 
 gism is merely a mode of reasoning, which the logician lays 
 aside when he comes out of his study, and reasons with 
 other men. 
 
 Chief Value of the Syllogism. — The chief use of the 
 syllogism, I apprehend, however, to be, not in presenting ^ 
 train of argument for the purpose of convincing and per- 
 suading others ; for the laws of thought do not require us in 
 such a case to state every thing tliat is^even essential to the 
 argument, but only so much as shall clearly indicate our 
 meaning, and enable the hearer or reader to follow us; but 
 
THE ANALYTIC PROCESS. 215 
 
 rather in testing the soundness or detecting the nnscwandness 
 of an argument, whether our own, or that of an opponent. 
 For this j^urpose, an acquaintance with the forms and laws 
 of syllogism may be of great service to the writer and to 
 the orator. 
 
 Objection to the Syllogism. — But it is objected to the 
 syllogism that it is of no value in the discovery and estab 
 • ishment of truth, masmuch as, by the very la^vs of the syllo 
 gism, there can be nothing more in the conclusion than war 
 assumed in the premises. There is, and can be, in this way 
 no progress from the known to the unknown. The very 
 construction of the syllogism, it is said, involves a petitio 
 fvincipii. When I say. All men are mortal ; Socrates is a 
 man ; tlierefore, Socrates is mortal ; the major premiss, it is 
 said, affirms the very thing to be proved ; that Socrates is 
 mortal is virtually affirmed in the proposition that all men 
 are so. Either, then, the syllogism proves nothing which was 
 not knov/n before, or else the general proposition, with v/hioh 
 it sets out, is unv/arranted, as asserting more than we know 
 to be true, and, in that case, the conclusion is equally unre- 
 liable ; in either case nothing is gained by the process ; the 
 syllogism is worthless. 
 
 Lies equally against all reasoning, — This objection, if 
 valid against the syllogism, is valid against and * overthro \n^ 
 not the syllogism merely, but all reasoning of whatever 
 kind, and in whatever form. It is an objection which really 
 applies, not to the form which an argument may happen to 
 assume, but to the essential nature of reasoning itself Aa 
 '^as shown in discussing the nature of the reasoning process, 
 all reasoning is, in its nature, essentially analytic. It is the 
 evolution of a truth that lies involved in some already ad* 
 mitted truth. It simply develops, draws out, what was 
 therein contained. Its starting-point must always be some 
 admitted position, its conclusions must always be some in 
 evitable necessary consequence of that admission. Tho 
 mortality of Socrates isg indeed, involved and contained in 
 
216 THE ANALYTIC PROCESS. 
 
 the general proposition wliich affirms the mortahty of all 
 men, and so, also, is every inferred truth contained m that 
 from which it is mferred. 
 
 Conclusion not affirmed in the Premiss, — But while 
 contained^ it is not affirmed^ in the premiss. To say that all 
 men are mortal, is not to say that Socrates is so, but only 
 to say what implies that. The conclusion which draws out 
 and affirms what was involved, but not affirmed, in the pre- 
 miss, is an advance in the order of thought, a step of pro- 
 gress, and not merely an idle repetition, and the syllogism, 
 as a whole, moves the mind onward from the starting-point 
 to a position not otherwise explicitly and positively reached. 
 It is a movement onward, and not merely a rotation of the 
 wheel about its own axis. 
 
 T!ie Form accidental. — In so far as the objection of 
 petitio principii relates,. not to the nature of reasoning, but 
 only to its form^ this is entirely a matter of accident, and 
 does not pertain to the syllogism as such. As was shown in 
 treating of the different forms of syllogism, the order of the 
 propositions is not essential. We may, if we like, state the 
 conclusion first, and then the reasons, as, All A is C, for all 
 A is B, and all B is C ; or we may state the same thing in a 
 different form, as, A and B are equal ; B and C are equal ; 
 therefore, A and C are equal. Both are syllogisms, the for- 
 mer analytic^ the latter unfigured^ but to neither does the 
 objection of petitio principii apply so far as regards the mere 
 form of statement. ]N"or does it apply to that form of syllo- 
 gism in which the major premiss is a singular proposition, 
 as, e. g.^ Caesar was fortunate ; Csesar was a tyrant ; there- 
 fore, a tyrant may be fortunate. Here the subject of the 
 conclusion is not formally contained in that of the major 
 premiss, as Socrates is contained in the expression, all men, 
 a part of the whole. 
 
 Objection inapplicable to the inductive Syllogism, — Nor 
 does the objection apply again to the indiictive syllogism, in 
 which the conclusion is more comprehensive than the pre 
 
THE ANALYTIC PROCESS. 217 
 
 miss. The objection applies, in fact, only to the deductive 
 syllogism, and to that only in its synthetic form, and to tnai 
 only as figured, and as presenting, in its major premiss, otner 
 than a singular proposition. 
 
 Major Premiss^ whence derived, — But whence, it may 
 still be asked, comes the general proposition which every 
 deductive syllogism contains, whether analytic or synthetic, 
 the proposition e, ^., that all men are mortal ? Whether 
 this be stated before or after the conclusion is a mere mat- 
 ter of form ; but what is our authority for stating such a 
 proposition at all ? How do we know that which is here 
 affirmed ? 
 
 1 reply, it is a truth reached by previous induction. 
 Every deduction implies previous induction. I observe the 
 mortality of individuals, x^ y, z. I find no exceptions. My 
 observation extends to a great number of cases, insomuci 
 that I am authorized to take those cases as fairly represent 
 ing the whole class to which they belong. I conclude 
 therefore, that what I have observed of the many is true c 
 the whole. So comes the general proposition, All men are 
 mortal. 
 
 Authority for this belief, — But what reason have I to 
 believe that y/hat is true of the many is true of the whole 
 and how do I know this ? I reply, I do not know it by ob- 
 servation, nor by demonstration ; my behef of it rests upon, 
 and resolves itself into, that general law or constitution of 
 the mind according to which I am led to texpect, under like 
 circumstances, hke results, in other words, that nature acts 
 uniformly. This is my warrant, and my only warrant, for 
 the inference, that what I have observed in many cases is 
 true in others that I have not observed. 
 
 A Difficulty suggested, — But in what manner, now, shall 
 this mere belief of mine, for it is nothing more, come to take 
 its place as a. general proposition, as positive categorical affir- 
 mation in the syllogism whose major premiss reads, AU men 
 are mortal ? 
 
218 THE ANALYTIC PROCESS. 
 
 A ^aw of the mind may be a sufficient explanation of m^ 
 belief; but the science of syllogisms cannot take cognizance 
 of laws of the mind, as such, and has nothing to do with 
 beUefs, but is concerned only with the forms in which an 
 argument shall be presented. Those forms must be conclu- 
 8ive. How shall I convert, then, my conjecture, my plausible 
 belief, m the present case, mto that general positive affirma- 
 tion which alone mil answer the demands of the syllogism ? 
 
 Tlie Process explained. — The process is this : The precise 
 result of my observation stands thus — x^ v, z^ are mortal. 
 But I know that x^ y, z^ are so numerous as fairly to repre- 
 sent the class to which they belong. On the strength of 
 this position, the inductive s^^llooism takes itfe stand, and 
 overlookino; the fact that there are so^ne cases which have 
 not fallen under my observation. positiveMij a^rrn^ what I 
 only believe and presume to be true, and the arii:umeut tlien 
 reads, x^ y, ^, are mortal- But cc, i/> ^> ^i'^ ^il men, there- 
 fore, all men are mortal. 
 
 The general j)roposition thus reached by induction be- 
 comes, in turn, the major premiss of the deductive syllooism, 
 which concludes, from the mortality of all men* that of 
 Socrates in particular. 
 
 Position of Mill, — An able and ingenious writer. Mr. 
 Mill, in his treatise on logic, takes the ground that we have 
 no need to embody the result of our observations m tb** 
 form of a general proposition, from which again to descend 
 to the particular conclusion, but that, dispensing with th ^ 
 general proposition altogether, and with the syllogism o^ 
 every kind and form, we may, and vii'tually do, re^^sof- 
 du'ectly from one pai'ticular instance to another, as, e, g.^ t 
 J/, ^, are mortal; therefore, j*^, g^ A, are so. "If from our e?' 
 perience of John, Thomas, etc., who were once living, buf 
 are now dead, we are entitled to conclude that all humai? 
 beings are mortal, we might surely, without any logical in 
 consequence, have concluded at once, from those instances- 
 that the Duke of Welhngton is mortal. The mortality of 
 
THE ANALYTIC PROCESS. 219 
 
 i»ohu, Thomas, and company, is, after all, the whole evidence 
 «^e have of the mortality of the Duke of Wellington. Not 
 one iota is added to the proof by interpolating a general 
 proposition." Our earliest inferences, he contends, are pre- 
 cisely of this sort. The child burning his fingers, reasons 
 thus : " That fire burnt me, therefore this will." He does 
 not generalize, " All fire burns ; this is fire ; therefore, this 
 will burn." The only use of a general proposition, Mill 
 contends, is simply to furnish collateral security for the cor 
 rectness of our inference. 
 
 Remarks upon this View, — This view sweeps away at 
 once, and forever, all mediate reasoning, and shuts us up to 
 the narrow limits of such inference alone as proceeds fi^om 
 a given instance directly to a conclusion therefrom, ^o 
 doubt w^e do sometimes reason thus. But it is a reasoning, 
 the conclusiveness of which is not, and cannot be made, ap- 
 parent by any form of statement. If called in question, we 
 can only say, I think so, or, I believe so. The mortality of 
 John does not prove the mortality of Thomas. It may not 
 even render it probable ; it is only when I have observed 
 such and so many cases as to leave no reasonable doubt that 
 the property in question is a law of the class as sueh^ and 
 not a mere accident of tlie individual^ that I am really war- 
 ranted in the belief that any individual, not as yet observed^ 
 will come under the same law, because belonging to the 
 same class. To reason in this way is to generalize ; what- 
 ever process stops short of this, stops so far short of any 
 %jad all conclusive evidence of the truth of what it affirms. 
 
 VTII. HisTORiCAi. Sketch op the Scieis'cs of Logic. 
 
 Indian Logic earlier than that of Aristotle. — It is of 
 vlie Gieek logic, that of Aristotle, that we usually speak 
 when we have occasion to refer to this science. It is usu 
 ally attributed to Aristotle, indeed, as his peculiar glory^ 
 that he shoald. at once have originated, and brought to per- 
 fection, a Science which, for more than two thousand years, 
 
220 THE ANALYTIC PKOCESS 
 
 has received few alterations, found few minds capable of 
 suggesting improvements. Recent labors of Orientaiista 
 have, however, brought to light the fact that in India, Icng 
 before the palmy days of Grecian philosophy, logic was 
 pursued with vigor as a study and science. The Nyaya of 
 Gotama holds, in the Indian systems of philosophy, much the 
 same place that the Organon of Aristotle holds with us. 
 The two, however, are quite independent of each other. 
 Aristotle was no disciple of Gotama. 
 
 Aristotle's Logic not perfect, — IsTor, on the other hand, 
 was the logic of Aristotle by any means perfect, as it is often 
 represented. Its imperfections are many, and have been, 
 for the most part, faithfully capied by his disciples. 
 
 Aristotle the first Greek Logician, — Previous to. Aris- 
 totle there had been nothing worthy the name of science in 
 this department of philosophy. The Sophists had made some 
 attempts at logic, but of no great value. Plato had. not de- 
 voted much attention to it. Aristotle himself says, in the 
 close of his Organon, that he had worked without models or 
 predecessors to guide him. 
 
 Subsequent Writers, — The work of Aristotle is in six 
 parts, the first four treating of logic pure, the remaining 
 two of its application. The school of Aristotle carried the 
 cultivation and study of logic to a high degree. Theophras- 
 tus and Eudemus labored assiduously as commentators oe 
 tlieir master, but made no change in the essential principles 
 of the system. The Stoics, however, gave logic more atten- 
 tion and honor, more time and care, than did any other of 
 the rival schools of philosophy. They sought to enlarge its 
 boundaries and make it an instrument for the discovery of 
 truth. It held the first place in their system, ethics and 
 physics ranking after it. 
 
 St. Hilaire is wrong in saying that with Epicurus logic 
 was of little consideration, that sensation was the source 
 and criterion of thought with that school. The Epicurean 
 
THE ANALYTIC PROCESS. 221 
 
 iogic was a peculiar system, difFering from the Aristotelian, 
 and very little known in the subsequent centuries. 
 
 In Alexandria the logic of Aristotle was in great honor, 
 and had numerous commentators in the first centuries of the 
 Christian era. 
 
 Introduced into Rome. — For a time the original works of 
 Aristotle were lost. They lay buried in an obscure retreat 
 whither they had been carried for safe pr "{servation, and no 
 one knew what they were. Sylla, capturing the city, brought 
 them to Rome, where they were discovered to be the works of 
 the great master, and Cicero gives them, with some labor and 
 learning, to the pubUc. But the Roman mind never mast- 
 ered the logic of Aristotle. In all Roman philosophy, says 
 St. riilaire, there is scarcely a logician worthy of the name. 
 
 For several centuries, if not in Rome, yet in Alexandria 
 and Athens, in Greece and in Egypt, the logic of Aristotle 
 continued to be assiduously cultivated. 
 
 Logic in the Middle Ages. — It Vv as in the middle ages, 
 however, that logic received its chief cultivation and its 
 liighest honors. Aristotle was for some six centuries almost 
 the only teacher of the human mind, and the Organon was 
 the foundation of his knowledge. Nor during the irrup- 
 tion of the northern hordes, and the revolutions of society, 
 and enipiie, and human manners, which followed, did the 
 philosophy and logic of Aristotle pass out of sight or out of 
 mind. It seemed impossible for any revolution of empire 
 or of time to shake its ibundations or break its sceptre over 
 the human mind. In the seventh century, Isidore of 
 Seville, and. Bede the Venerable, gave it their labors and 
 renown. In the eighth, Alcuin introduced it into the court 
 of CLarlemagne. In the twelfth, Abelard, and the contro 
 veisy between the Realists and ISTominalists, gave this science 
 still more importance. 
 
 Logic in the Arabian ScJiools. — Meanwhile, the AIo- 
 liammedans had been in advance of the Christians m tlio 
 study ^^f this science. The Arabs had inherited the learning 
 
222 THE ANALYTIC PKOCESS. 
 
 of aiiti(|iiit7, and had carried the cultivation of the peripa* 
 tetic philosophy to a high degree of perfection more than % 
 centuiy before it had received the homage of the West. 
 From Arabia it passed, with the march of conquest, into 
 Spain, and some of the ablest commentators Europe has pro- 
 duced, on the works of Aiistotle, have been the Moors of 
 Spain. 
 
 Contimiance of Aristotle'' s Dominion. — The Crusade? 
 tended only to enlarge the sphere of this influence. Such 
 men as Albert the Great, and Thomas Aqumas, became, in 
 the thirteenth century, expounders of Aristotle. IN'ot till the 
 sixteenth century did this long dominion over the human 
 mind show symjjtoms of decadence. 
 
 Tlie Reformers. — Luther, among the Protestant reform- 
 ers, sought to banish logic from the schools ; but it was re- 
 tained, and in the Protestant universities was still professed^ 
 
 Attaches upon Aristotle, — It now became the fashion, 
 however, in certain quarters, especially among the mystics 
 in the Catholic communion, to decry Aristotle, and each 
 original genius took this way to show his independence. 
 Ramus is noted among these. Bacon followed in this track, 
 and did httle more than repeat the invectives of his prede- 
 cessors. He attempted to set aside the syllogism, and put 
 in its place induction. 
 
 Induction, however, in sqme form, is as old as the syllo- 
 gism. From Plato and Aristotle downward, a thousand 
 philosophers had availed themselves of this method of ^rea^ 
 oning, and had also stated and defended it. 
 
 Hie Moderns. — From Bacon and Descartes till our day. 
 logic has been in process of decadence. Locke condemns it 
 Reid and the Scotch school ridicule its pretensions. Kant 
 and Hegel, on the other hand, give it a due place in theii 
 isystems — the latter especially; while in France, it has ad- 
 mirers in St. Hiiaii'e, Cousin, and others of Hke genius ; and 
 m Edinburgh, the great Hamilton devoted to it the powers 
 of bis unrivalled inteFect. 
 
THK ANALYTIC PROCESS.,// 223 
 
 Logic of Hamilton, — As no writer, since the days of 
 Aristotle, has done more to complete and perfect the science ^ 
 of reasoning, than Sir William Hamilton, it seems due that 
 even so brief a sketch of the history of logic as th ^ present, 
 should indicate, at least, the more important changes wliich 
 his system introduces. Whatever may be thought of some 
 of his views and proposed reforms in this ancient science 
 and sanctuary of past learning, it is not too much to say, that 
 no writer on logic can henceforth present a claim to be con- 
 sidered, w^ho has not, at least, thoroughly mastered and 
 carefully weighed these views and proposed changes, even 
 if he do not adopt them. They are, moreover, for the most 
 part, changes so obviously demanded in order to the com- 
 pleteness of the science, and so thorough-going withal, that 
 they are destined, it would seem, to be sooner or later 
 adopted, and if adopted, to work a radical change in the 
 whole structure of this ancient and time-honored science. 
 
 I shall attempt nothing more, in this connection, than, in 
 the briefest manner, to enumerate some of the more impor- 
 tant of these improvements. 
 
 Assigns Induction its true Place, — Hamilton is the first, 
 80 far as I know, to elevate to its true place the inductive 
 method of reasoning, making it coordinate with the deduc- 
 tive, and assigning its true cliaracter and value as a form of 
 syllogism. 
 
 Recognizes the analytic Syllogism, — He is the first to 
 bring to notice the claims of the analytic syllogism to a dis- 
 tinctive place and recognition in logic ; a form of reasoning, 
 which, however natural and necessary, and in use almost 
 universal, had been strangely overlooked by logicians from 
 Aristotle down. 
 
 Rejects Modality, — He strenuously and consistently re- 
 jects the modality of the proposition and the syllogism, or. 
 the ground that logic is not concerned with the character of 
 the matter, whether it be true or false, necessary or 3ontin 
 gent, but only with the form of statement, and consequently, 
 
224 THE ANALYTIC PROCESS. 
 
 all distinctions founded on the truth or falsitv. tho necessity 
 or :ontingence of the matter, are utterly irrelevant to the 
 science — a principle admitted by others, but not previously 
 carried out to its true results. 
 
 Doctrhie of Figure, — He shows that the figure of the 
 syllogism is a matter accidental, rather than essential, that it 
 may be even entirely unfigured / abolishes the fourth figure 
 as superfluous ; and sets aside, as quite useless and unneces- 
 sary, the old laborious processes of reducing and connecting 
 the several figures to the first. 
 
 Rejects hypothetical Syllogism, — He throws out of the 
 syllogism entirely, the so-called hypothetical forms, both 
 conjunctive and disjunctive, as reducible to immediate in- 
 ference, and not, therefore, to be included under syllogistic 
 reasoning, which is always mediate. 
 
 The single Canon,—- Hq reduces the several laws and 
 canons of the figured syllogism to a single comprehensive 
 canon. 
 
 Quantification of the Predicate, — But the most import- 
 ant discoveiy made by Hamilton in this science, is the quan- 
 tification of the predicate. The predicate is always a given 
 quantity in relation to the subject, and that quantity should 
 be stated. This, logicians have always overlooked, quanti- 
 fying only the subject, as. All men. Some men, etc., but 
 never the predicate. Fully quantified, the proposition reads, 
 AH man is some animal, no animal, etc., i, 6., some sort oi 
 species of animal. This doubles the number of possible 
 propositions, giving eight in place of four, and gives a cor- 
 responding increase in the number of words. These eight 
 [/repositions are shown to be, not only possible, but admiss- 
 ible and valid. They are thus enumerated and named : 
 
 AFFIKMATIVE. NEGATIVE. 
 
 I. TotO'total : All A is all B. Any A is not any B. 
 
 II. Toto-partial : All A is some B. Any A is not some B. 
 
 II L. Parti-total : Some A is all B. Rome A is not any K. 
 
 lY. Pa^'^i-jpartial : Some A is some B. Some A is noi some il 
 
THE ANALYTIC PEOCESS. 225 
 
 Reference, — For a more full and exact aceouut of Hamil- 
 tOB's system, the reader is referred to the article on logic in 
 the volume of Discussions on PJiilosophy cmd Literature^ 
 by Sir W. Hamilton ; also, to " Aji Essay on the Neio 
 Analytic of Logical Forms^"^ by Thomas Spencer Baynes, 
 L. L. B. On the history of logic in general, see Dictionnaire 
 des Sciences Philosopliiques — Article Logique^ by Barthel- 
 erne St. Hilaire, Professor of Philosophy to the College of 
 France, member of the Institute, etc., etc. ; also, Blakey's 
 History of Logic, The Memoir of St, Hilaire, on the logic 
 of Aristotle, is one of the best works of modp-m times on 
 the subject of which it treats. 
 
INTELLI^MrniAl F/VCULTIES 
 
 PAR T F U 11 T 11 . 
 
 THE INTUITIVE FOWEll. 
 
INTUITIVE POWER. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 EXISTP]NCE AND NATURE OF THE INTUITIYB FAOULTT. 
 
 Office of this Power. — In our analysis of the powers of 
 the mind, one was described as having for its office the con- 
 ception of truths that He ap.art from the region and domain 
 of sense — first principles and primary ideas, fundamental to, 
 and presupposed in, the operations of the nnderstanding, 
 yet not directly furnished by sense. They are awakened in 
 the mind on occasion of sensible experience, but it is not 
 sensible experience which produces them. On the contrary, 
 they spring up in the mind as by intuition, whenever the 
 fitting occasion is presented. We must attribute their 
 origin to a special power of the mind by virtue of which, 
 under appropriate circumstances, it conceives the truths and 
 ideas to which we refer. This power Ave have termed the 
 originative or intuitive faculty. 
 
 Specific Character. — In its specific character and flmction 
 it is quite distinct from any of the faculties as yet considered 
 It does not, like the presentative power, bring before ns, in 
 direct cognizance, sensible objects ; nor does it, like the rep- 
 resentative faculty, replace those objects to thought, in their 
 absence. It neither presents, nor represents, any object 
 whatever. It forms no picture of any thing to the mind's 
 eye. It is a power of simple conception ; and yet it differs 
 hi an important sense from the other conceptive powers. 
 
230 • EXISTENCE AND NATUKE 
 
 and that is, that it is not reflective but intuitive in its action. 
 Its data are conceptions, but conceptions necessary and in- 
 tuitive, seen at a glance, not the results of the reflective and 
 discursive process. These data are ideas of reason, rather 
 than notions of the understanding, or processes of reflection. 
 There is no sensible object corresponding to these ideas. 
 We do not see, or hear, or feel, or by any means cog-* 
 nize, any thing of the sort ; nor can we form a picture, or 
 represent to ourselves any such thing as, e,g.^ time, or space, 
 or substance, or cause, and the like. They are conceptions 
 of the mind, and yet we conceive of them as realities. We 
 cannot think them the mere creations and figmeuts of the 
 brain. And in this respect, again, they difler from the no- 
 tions of the understanding — those classes and genera which 
 we know to be the mere creations of the mind. 
 
 Existence of such a Faculty, — If any are disposed to 
 doubt the existence of the faculty under consideration, as a 
 distinct power of the mind, we liave only to ask, whence 
 come these ideas ? They are given, not by perception, evi- 
 dently, nor by memory, nor by imagirjation, for they fall not 
 within the sphere of any of these faculties, that is the 
 sphere of sense. They reKte not to the sensible, but to the 
 super-sensible. 
 
 Nor are they the result of abstraction, as might at first 
 appear. Particular iiw^L^inces being given, certain times, 
 certain spaces, certain .substances, certain instances of right 
 and wrong conduct — it is the province of the faculty now 
 named, to form, from these concrete ideas, the abstract no° 
 tions of time, space, etc. But whence comes, in thp first in- 
 iStance, the concrete idea ? Whence comes the notion of a 
 iime, a space, a substance^ a cause, a right or wrong act r 
 Abstraction cannot give these. Manifestly, however, we 
 have a faculty of forming such conceptions, of perceiving 
 such truths and realities ; and as manifestly, it is a faculty 
 distinct from any hitherto considered. There are such reali- 
 ties as time, space, substance, cause, right and wrong, et^ 
 
OF THE INTUITIVE FACULTY. 231 
 
 The mind takes cognizance of tliem as sucli, knows tliem. 
 and knows tliem to be realities ; has, therefore, the faculty of 
 knowing such truths. We may call it. if we please, the 
 faculty of original and intuitive conception. 
 
 Generally admitted. — The existence of ideas not directly 
 furnished hj sense or experience, and not given by the 
 faculties whose office it is to deal with objects of sense, is 
 a doctrine now generally admitted by the most eminent 
 philosophers. Nor is it a doctrine peculiar to any one school. 
 Under different names it is the doctrine substantially of 
 Reid, Stewart, Brown, Price, among English metaphysi- 
 cians; Kant and his disciples in G-ermany; Cousin, Jouffroy 
 and others in France. It is denied by Hobbes, Condillac, 
 G-assendi, and others of that class who trace all our ideas to 
 sense as their ultimate source and parentage. 
 
 Opinion of Loche. — The position of Locke respecting 
 this matter, has been the subject of much controversy. By a 
 certain class of writers he has been regarded as denying the 
 existejice of any and all ideas not derived from sense, and has 
 been classed with the school of Hobbes, Condillac, etc. His 
 philosophy has been regarded by many as of doubtful and 
 dangerous tendency, as leading to the denial of all truth 
 and knowledge not wdthin the narrow domain of sense, and 
 so conducting to materialism and skepticism. This can 
 by no means be fairly charged upon him, nor upon his 
 philosophy. He held no such view^s, nor are they implied 
 or contained in his doctrine Locke, indeed, takes the 
 ground that all our ideas may be traced ultimately to one 
 of two sources, sensation or reflection ; the one taking cog- 
 nizance of external objects, the other of our own mental 
 operations : and that, whatever other knowledge we have 
 not given directly by these faculties, is produced by adding, 
 repeating, and variously combining, in our own minds, the 
 simple ideas derived from these sources. In this process, 
 however, of adding, combining, etc., he really includes what 
 we prefer t< designate as a separate faculty of the mind, 
 
232 • EXISTENCE AND NATURE 
 
 and by another name. He distinctly recognizes the existence 
 of the ideas which we attribute to this faculty — ideas of 
 space, power, etc. — and gives a clear, and for the most part 
 correct account of their origin. The mind, he says, observejj 
 what passes without— the changes there occurring; it reflects 
 also on what passes within — the changes of its own ideas and 
 purposes ; it concludes that like changes will be produced in 
 the same things, under the same circumstances, in future ; it 
 considers the possibility of effecting such changes, and so 
 comes by the idea of power. In this Locke really includes 
 essentially what we mean by suggestion or original concep- 
 tion. Experience, it is universally admitted, furnishes the 
 occasion, suggests the idea, must precede as the indispens- 
 able condition of the mind's having that idea, and is, at least 
 in this sense, the source of it, that it suggests the idea to 
 the mind. All this, Locke fully admits, while, at the same 
 time, he fails to draw the dividing line clearly between the 
 ideas of sense and those in question. 
 
 Objections to the term Suggestion, — The name original 
 suggestion has been commonly applied, of late, especially in 
 this country, to designate the faculty now under considera- 
 tion. It is so used by Professor Upham, and by Dr. Way- 
 land. It is liable, however, to serious objections. The term 
 suggestion does not seem to me to express the peculiar 
 characteristic, the distinctive element and office of this faculty. 
 It is not peculiar to the ideas now in question, that they are 
 suggested to the mind ; many other ideas, all ideas, in fact, 
 are suggested by something. This class of our thoughts, 
 therefore, is no more entitled to that name than any other 
 class. Nor is it peculiar to tnis class that they are original 
 suggestions. The mind has many other equally original 
 ideas that are likewise suggestions from things Vvdthout, 
 or from its own operations — mere fancies many of them, 
 imaginations. We need to distinguish, in this case, the 
 merely fanciful, the ideal, from the real. The terms in- 
 tuitive and intuition, while they imply the reality of the 
 
OF THE INTUITIVE Fx^CULTT 25J 
 
 tirA . pei^creived, indicate, also, the itamediateness of the 
 proo.>»». 
 
 Mor-e senoiis Objection. — But there is a still further and 
 more st^rious objection to the term suggestion as thus em- 
 ployed. The word does not, and cannot, with propriety, be 
 made to denote what is now intended. It has a transitive 
 significance, and cannot be made to denote a purely subject 
 ive process. Objects external suggest certain ideas to my 
 mind. I suggest ideas to other minds. The faculty of sug* 
 gestion lies, properly, not with the mind that receives the 
 suggestion, but with the mind or object that gives it. But 
 when we say the mind has the faculty of original suggestion, 
 we do not mean ihat it has the power of suggesting original 
 ideas to other mmds ; we refer to that power of the mind 
 by which, in virtue of its constitution, certain ideas, not 
 strictly derived from sense, are awakened in it when the occa- 
 sion presents itself. We intend not a power of suggesting, 
 but rather of receiving suggestions, a powder of conceiving 
 ideas, a power of original and intuitive conceptions. To say 
 that the mind suggests to itself ideas of space, time, etc., is 
 a singular use of terms. I understand w-hat is meant by 
 suggesting ideas to others, and what it is to receive sugges- 
 tions from others, and to have ideas suggested by events, 
 occurrences and objects without, and how one thought may, 
 by some law of association, suggest another^ But how the 
 mind suggests ideas to itself] is not so clear. A man, in a fit 
 of abstraction, talks to himself, but whether he suggests 
 ideas to himself in that way, so that he finds his own conver- 
 sation instructive apd profitable, may admit of question. 
 The truth is, the idea is suggested, not bi/ the mind, but to 
 the mind — suggested from without. The mind has the po wer 
 of conceiving certain ideas, w^hicli are awakened or excited 
 ji it by the occasion which presents itself. To call this fac- 
 •jlty a faculty of suggestion, is simply a misnomer. 
 
 The true Doctrine, — All we can truly say, is, that the 
 dea is awakened or called up in the mind when the occasion 
 
234 EXISTENCE AKD NATURE 
 
 presents, is suggested to it, not by it, suggested by the occsi^ 
 Bion, and not by the mind itself. The mind has the idea 
 within, has, moreover, tha faculty of conceimng the idea, is 
 so constituted, that, under certain circumstances, in view of 
 what it observes without, or is conscious of within, the given 
 idea is naturally and universally awakened in it; but the 
 source of the suggestion lies not within the mind itself, and 
 is not to be confounded with the mind's faculty of concep^ 
 tion. . 
 
 - Use of the tenn hy JReid and others. — Dr. Reid has 
 been referred to as authority for the use of the word sug- 
 gestion to denote the faculty in question. Dr. Reid makes 
 use of the word, but not in the sense now intended, not to 
 denote a specific faculty of the mind, coordinate with per- 
 ception, memory, imagination, etc., not, in fact, as a faculty 
 at all. He refers to the well known fact, that ideas are sug- 
 gested to the mind by objects and events without, and by 
 the sensations thus awakened ; as, e, g.^ a certain sound sug- 
 gests the passing of a coach in the street. So, also, one 
 idea or sensation will suggest another. He uses the term to 
 denote the suggestion of one thing to the mind hy another* 
 thing, and not to denote a power in the mind of suggesting 
 ihings to itself. This is the correct use, and was not origiuai 
 with Reid. Berkley had used the term in the same way 
 before him. Locke had used the word excited^ in the same 
 sense. The idea expressed by these terms, and the use of 
 the same or similar terms by which to express it, may be 
 traced back as far, at least, as to the Christian Fathers. St« 
 Augustine so uses it. Reid expressly applies the term to 
 the perception of external objects, as, e. g.^ certain sensations 
 suggest the notion of extension and space. This is correct 
 use. 
 
 The Facts in the Case, — The truth is, things exist thn?) 
 and thus, and we are cotistitutcd with reference to them as 
 thus existing. Sense and experience inform us of these ex- 
 istences and realities. Some of them are objects of direoi 
 
OF THE INTUITIVE FACULTY. 235 
 
 perception by the senses, as matter and its qualities. Some 
 of them are not directly objects of perception, but are sug- 
 gested to the mind by the operations of sense, and are 
 intuitively perceived by the mind, and recognized as trutJ:is 
 and reahties when thus suggested, as time, space, substance, 
 cause, the right, the wrong, the beautiful, etc. * 
 
 The mind has the faculty of receiving and recognizing 
 such truths and realities as thus suggested ; and this faculty 
 we call the power of original and intuitive conception. 
 
 These Ideas of internal Origin^ in what Sense. — It has 
 been customary of late, especially in our country, to speak 
 of the class of ideas now referred to as of internal origin^ 
 in distinction from other ideas, derived more directly from 
 sense, and which are consequently designated as of external 
 origin. As it is desirable to be exact in our use of terms, it 
 may be well to inquire in what sense any of our ideas a'-e 
 of external, and in what sense of internal origin, and 
 wherein the ideas, novv^ under consideration, differ from any 
 others in respect to their source. 
 
 Ideas of external Origin, — A large class of our idea.^ 
 evidently relate to objects of sense, objects external and 
 material, of which we take cognizance through the senses. 
 Such ideas may be said to be of external origin, inasmuch 
 as they relate to things without, and are dependent on the 
 external object as the indispensable condition of their devel- 
 opment. Were it not for the external object producing 
 the sensation of color or of hardness, I should not have the 
 idea of redness or of hardness ; were it not for the external 
 object resisting my movements, I should not get the idea of 
 externality. The idea is, in these cases, dependent on, and 
 imited by, the sensation or the perception. They corre- 
 spond as shadow and substance. The idea of resistance, and 
 the perception of it, the idea of sound or color, and the sen-» 
 Bation of it, are coextensive, synchronous, and, as to con. 
 tents, identical. 
 
 These^ in a Sense^ viternal^ — In another sense, however, 
 
2a& EXISTENCE AND NATURE 
 
 even these ideas are of internal origin, that is, they are the 
 mind's own ideas ; they spring up in the mind, and not out 
 of it ; they are, as ideas, strictly internal states, affections, 
 acts of the mind itself. Take away intelligence, reason, the 
 light divine, from the soul of man, and the external objects 
 may exist as' before, and produce the same effect on the 
 organs of sense, but the ideas no longer follow. The phys- 
 sical organs of the idiot are affected in the same way by ex- 
 ternal objects as those of any other person, but he gets not 
 the same ideas. These, it is the office of the mind to pro- 
 duce and fashion for itself out of the occasion and material 
 furnished by sense. And this is as true of ideas relating to 
 external objects as to any other. 
 
 Sensation an internal Affection. — It may even be said of 
 this class of ideas, that their suggestion is of internal origin. 
 The immediate occasion of the mind's having the idea of 
 extension, weight, hardness, color, etc., is not the existence 
 of the object itself, possessing such and such qualities, but 
 the impression produced by the object and its qualities on 
 the sense ; in other words, the sensation awakened in us 
 This it is which awakens and calls forth in the mind the 
 idea of the external object. Were there, for any reason, no 
 sensation, then the objects might exist as now, but w^e should 
 have no idea of them. But sensation is an internal affection, 
 '•evealed by consciousness, and the ideas awakened by it 
 and dependent on it, are immediately of internal origin, 
 though mediately dependent on some preceding externa] 
 condition and occasion. 
 
 Ideas of internal Origin. — If we examine, now, the ideas 
 of internal origin, so called, furnished by the faculty of ori- 
 ginal and intuitive conception, we find that, while they do 
 not directly relate to objects of sense external and material, 
 they nevertheless depend, in like manner, on some preceding 
 operation of sense as the occasion of their development, 
 Observation of what goes on without, or consciousness of 
 what goes on within furnishes the occasion, as all admit, oo 
 
OF THIS FACULTY, 237 
 
 which these ideas are awakened in the mind. The idea of 
 time, 6. g.^ is connected with the succession ol events, etc* 
 ternal or internal — thino-s without and thouo^ht and feelino; 
 within following each other — which succession is matter of 
 observation or of consciousness. The idea of space is con- 
 nected with the observation or sensation of body as ex- 
 tended. The idea of beauty and deformity is awakened by 
 the perception of external objects as possessing certain 
 qualities which we thus designate. The idea of right and 
 wrong^ in like manner connects with somethino* observed ii? 
 human conduct. So of all ideas of this class. They are not. 
 disconnected with, nor independent of, the appropriate ob- 
 jects of observation and consciousness. These objects must 
 exist, these occasions must be furnished, as the indispensahle 
 condition of the existence of the idea in the mind. Dis- 
 pense with the succession of events or the observation of 
 it, and you dispense with the idea of time in the human 
 mind. 
 
 Conclusion, — So far as regards the origin of the ideas in 
 question, it is not easy to draw a dividing line^ then, between 
 the two classes, marking the one as external^ the other as 
 internal. Both are of external origin, and equally so, in 
 this sense — that they both depend, and equally depend, on 
 some previous exercise of sense as the occasion and condi- 
 tion of their development. Both are of internal origin, in 
 another sense — that they are both awakened in the mind- 
 are both the j)roduct of its o^m activity. 
 
 Difference lies in lohat. — The difference is not so mucK 
 that of exteruahty or internality of origin , as it is a difier- 
 ence of character. The one relates to objects of sense, 
 which can be seen, heard, felt ; the other to matters not less 
 real, not less obvious, but of which sense does not take 
 direct cognizance. In either case they spring from the con- 
 stitution and laws of the mind. Such is my constitution 
 that extei"nal and material objects, aifecting my senses, fur- 
 nish me ideas relating to sr.ch objects. And such is m} 
 
238 TRUTHS AND CONCEPTIONS 
 
 coiisiitiUion that certain relations and qualities of things not 
 directly cognizable by sense, and certain realities and facta 
 of an aesthetic and moral nature, likewise impress my mind, 
 and thus awaken in me the idea of such relations and real- 
 ities. The objects, the relations, the realities, exist, they 
 are perceived by the mind, and thus the first idea of them 
 IS obtained. Color exists, and the eye is so constituted as 
 to be able to perceive it, and thus the idea of color is awa- 
 kened in the mind. So right and wrong exist, and the mind 
 «s so constituted as to be able to perceive and recognize their 
 existence, and thus the idea of right is awakened in the 
 mind. The faculty we call perception in the one case, orig 
 inal conception in the other. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 TRUTHS AND CONCEPTIONS EURNISHED BY THIS PACUMY 
 
 § I. — Prdiary Truths. 
 
 Primary Truths and Priniary Ideas as distingidshed. — 
 The faculty in question may be regarded as the source of 
 primary beliefs, truths, cognitions, intuitively j^:)erc6^Y'6C?, and 
 also of primary and oi'igiual conceptions, notions, ideas, also 
 intuitively conceived. 
 
 The difference between a conception or idea, and a belief 
 or truth, is obvious. The notion of existence, and ihi 
 knowledge or belief that I, myself, exist, are clearly distin- 
 guishable. The idea of cause, and the conviction that every 
 event has a cause, are distinct mental states. The one is a 
 primitive and intuitive conception, the other a primitive and 
 intuitive truth. Every primary truth involves a primitive 
 and original conception. 
 
 JExistence of first Truths, — All science and all reasoning 
 
FURNISHED BY THIS FACl^LTY. 239 
 
 dej)end ultimatelv on certain first truths or princi]Jes, not 
 learned by experience, but prior to it, the evidence and cer- 
 tainty of which lie back of all reasoning and all experience. 
 Take away these elementary truths, and neither science nor 
 reasomng are longer possible, for want of a beginning and 
 foundation. Every proposition which carries evidence with 
 it, either contains that evidence in itself, or derives it from 
 some other proposition on which it depends. And the same 
 is true of this other proposition, and so on forever, until we 
 come, at last, to some proposition which depends on no 
 ot-her, brpt is self-evident, a first truth or principle. Whence 
 come these first principles ? N'ot of course from experience, 
 for they are involved in and essential to all experience. 
 They are native or a priori convictions of the mind, instinc- 
 tive and intuitive judgments. 
 
 Existence of first Truths admitted, — The existence of 
 first truths or principles, as the basis of all acquired knowl- 
 edge, has been very generally admitted by phiL">sopherg. 
 They have designated these elementary principles, however, 
 by widely different appellations. By some, they have been 
 termed insUnctive beliefs, cognitions, judgments, etc , an 
 appellation mentioned by Hamilton as employed by a very 
 great number of writers from Cicero downward, including, 
 among the rest, Scaliger, Bacon, Descartes, Pascal, Leibnitz. 
 Hume, Reid, Stewart, Jacobi. Others, again, have term.ed 
 them a priori or transcendental principles, cognitions, judg- 
 ments, etc., as being prior to experience, and transcending 
 the knowledge derived from sense. So Kant and his schoo 
 termed them. By the Scotch writers they have been terme<? 
 also, principles of common sense, in place of which expression* 
 Stewart prefers the \s^q, fundamental laws of human helic/ 
 
 Criteria of primary Truths. — It becomes an importap \ 
 mquiry, in what manner we may recognize and distingui^b 
 first truths from all others. Besides common consent, or uni- 
 versality of belief on the part of those who have arrived at 
 years of discretion, Buffier relies, also, upon the following:. 
 
240 TRUTHS AKD CONCEPTIONS 
 
 as criteria of first principles ; that tliey are such truths as 
 can neither be defended nor attacked by any propositions, 
 either more manifest or more certain than themselves; and 
 that their practical influence extends even to those who 
 would deny them. Reid gives, among other criteria, the 
 following : consent of ages and nations ; the absurdity of 
 %he opposite ; early appearance in the mind, prior to educa- 
 tion and reasoning ; practical necessity to the conduct and 
 eoncerns of life. Hamilton gives the following as tests or 
 criteria of first truths : 1 . Incomprehensibilty , — We com- 
 prehend that the thing is, but not how or why it is. 2. >S'^w^- 
 l^licity, — -If the cognition or belief can be resolved into 
 several cognitiorts or belitjfs, it is complex, and so, no longer 
 original. 3. Necessity^ tend consequent universality,— -If 
 necessary, it is univeii^al, and if absolutely universal, then 
 it must be ne^jessary. 4. Coinparative evidence and cer- 
 tainty. 
 
 Suminary of Criteria. — The following may be regarded 
 as a summary of the more important criteria by which to 
 distinguish primary truths from all others. 
 
 a. A'^ first traths, or primary data of intellegence, they 
 are, of coui-se, not derived from observation or experience, 
 but ^re prior and necessary to such experience. 
 
 h. They are simple trutbs, not resolvable into some prior 
 fiind comprehending truth from which they may be de- 
 4uced. 
 
 c. As simple truths, they do not admit of proof there 
 t>eing nothing more certain which can be brought in evidence 
 of them. 
 
 d. While they do not admit of proof, the denial of tJieni 
 involves us in absurdity. 
 
 e. Accordingly, as simple, and as self-evident, they aro 
 universally admitted. 
 
 Enumeration of some of the Tilths usually regarded as 
 priynary. — Different writers have included some more, 
 some fewer, of these first principles in their list ; while nc 
 
FDRNISHED BY THIS FACULTY. 241 
 
 one Kas professed, so far as I am aware, to give a complete 
 enumeration of them. Such an enumeration, if it were pos- 
 sible, would be of great service in philosophy. The foilow- 
 mg have been generally included among primary truths by 
 those who have attempted any specification, viz. ; our per- 
 sonal existence, our personal identity, the existence of efficient 
 causes, the existence of the material world, the uniformity 
 of nature; to which would be added, by others, the relia- 
 bility of memory, and of our natural faculties generally, and 
 personal freedom or power over our own actions and voli- 
 tions. » 
 
 Correctness of this Enumeration, — That the truths now 
 spei^ified are in some sense primary, that they are generally 
 admitted and acted upon, among men, without process of 
 reasoning, and that, when stated, they command the universal 
 and instant assent of even the untaught and unreflecting 
 mind, there can be little doubt. Whether, in all cases, how- 
 ever, they come strictly under the rules and criteria now 
 given ; whether, for example, our own existence and identity 
 are primary data of consciousness ; or whether, on the con- 
 trary, they are not inferred from the existence of those 
 thoughts and feelings of which we are directly conscious, as, 
 for example, in the famous argument of Descartes, CogiiOn 
 ergo sian,, may admit of question. 
 
 § II. — Intuitive Conceptions. 
 
 Of the results or operations of the faculty under cons"ider 
 ation, we have considered, as yet, only that class which ma^ 
 be designated as primary truths^ in distinction from primitive 
 or intuitive conceptions. To this latter class let us now 
 direct our attention. 
 
 Proposed co7isicler ation of some of the more importa7it, — - 
 Without undertaking to give a complete list of our original 
 or intuitive conceptions, there are certain of the more im- 
 portant, which seem to require specific consideration. Such 
 
 11 
 
242 TRUTHS AND CONCEPTIONS 
 
 are the ideas of space, time, identity, cause, the beautiiul, 
 the right — ideas diffic ilt to define and explain, but, on that 
 account, requiring the more careful investigation. Let us, 
 then, take up these conceptions one by one, and inquire more 
 particularly into their nature. 
 
 I. Space. 
 
 Sul^ective View, — - What is space ? Is it a mere idea, a 
 mere conception of the mind, or has it reality ? This$ is a 
 question which has much perplexed philosophers. Kant and 
 his school regard both time and space as merely subjective, 
 mere conceptions or forms which the mind imposes upon 
 outward things, having no reality, save as conceptions, or 
 laws of thought. 
 
 Opposite View, — On the other hand, if we make space a 
 reality, and not a mere conception, what is it, and where is 
 it ? Not matter, and yet real, a something which exists, 
 distinct from matter, and yet not mind. Pressed with 
 these difficulties,- some distinguished and acute writers have 
 resolved time and space into qualities of the one infinite and 
 absolute Being, the divine mind. Such was the view of 
 ^ Clarke and Newton, a view favored also by a recent French 
 writer of some note — C. H. Bernard, Professor of Philoso- 
 phy in the Lycee Bonaparte. 
 
 A 7niddle Ground, - — These must be regarded as, oa 
 either hand^ extreme views. But is there a middle ground 
 possible or conceivable ? Let us see. What, then, is the 
 simple idea of space ? . What mean we by that word ? 
 
 Idea of Space, — When we contemplate any material ob 
 ject, any existence of which the senses can take cognizance, 
 we are cognizant of it as extended^ i, 6., occupying space^ 
 nor can we possibly conceive of it as otherwise. The idea 
 of space, 'then, is involved in the very idea of extended sub- 
 stance, or material existence, given along with it, impossible 
 to be separated from it. We may regard it, therefore, as 
 -the condition or postulate of heing^ considered as materiai 
 
FURNISHED BY THIS FACULTY. 243 
 
 sxlstence^ posseesing extension^ etc. The idea of it is 
 essential to the idea of matter, the reality of it to the 
 c'eality of matter; for if there were no space, there could 
 be no extension in space, and, without extension, no mat- 
 ter. 
 
 Not a 7nere Conception, — Is space, 'then, a mere con- 
 C5eption of the mind, merely subjective ? Unquestionably 
 not. It is not, indeed, a substance or entity^ it has nc 
 being. It is not matter, for it is, itself, the co7idition of 
 matter; it is not spirit, for then it were intelligent. It is 
 not an existence^ then, strictly speaking, not a thing cre- 
 ated, nor is it in the power of deity either to create or to 
 anniliilate it, for creation and annihilation relate only to ex- 
 istence. And yet space is a reality^ and not a mere concep- 
 tion of the mind. For, if so, then were there no longer any 
 mind to conceive it, there would be no^ longer any space ; if 
 no mind to think, then no thought. Were the whole race 
 of intelligent beings, then, to be blotted out of existence, 
 and all things else to remain as now, space would be gone, 
 while, yet, matter vf ould exist, extension — y/orlds moving 
 on as before. Extension in what, motion in what ? E^ot in 
 space, for that is no longer extant; defunct, rather, with the 
 last mind whose expiring torch v/ent out in the gloom of 
 night. Unless we make matter^ then, to be also a mere con- 
 ception of the mind, space is not so. If the one is real, the 
 other is. If one is a mere conception, so is the other ; and 
 to this result the school of Kant actually come. Matter, it- 
 self, is a subjective phenomenon, a mode of mind, or, rather, 
 if it be any thing more, Vy^e have no means of knowing it to 
 be so. 
 
 If, on the contrary, as we hold, matter exists^ and is aa 
 object of in 'mediate perception by the senses, then there is 
 guch athing as space also, the condition of its existence, ^^real-^ 
 ity^ though not an entity^ the idea of it given along with that 
 of matter, the reality of it implied in the reality of matter. 
 Matter presupposes it, depends on it as its sine qua non.. 
 
244 TKUTHS AND CONCEPTIONS 
 
 It depends on nothing. Were there no matter, there woula 
 be none the less space, but only space unoccupied. In that 
 case, the idea of space might never occur to any mind, but 
 the reality would exist just as now. Were all matter and 
 all mind to be blotted out of being, space would still be what 
 it is now. 
 
 The Jdea^ hoio awakened — How come we by our Idea of 
 Space f — Sense gives us our jSrst knowledge of matter, m 
 extended, etc., and so furnishes the occasion on which the 
 idea of space is first awakened in the mind. In this sense, 
 and no other, does it originate in sensation or experience. 
 It is a simple idea, logically prior to expeiience, because the 
 very notion oiT[\2X\^QX presupposes space; yet, chronologically^ 
 as regards the matter of development in the mind, subse- 
 quent to experience and cognizance of matter. 
 
 11. Time. 
 
 Idea and Definition, — What we have said of space will 
 enable us better to understand what is the nature of that 
 analogous and kindred conception of the mind, in itself so 
 simple, yet so difficult of definition and explanation — Time, 
 The remarks already made, respecting space, will almost 
 equally apply to this subject also. 
 
 Space, we defined as the condition of heing^ regarded as 
 extended^ material. Time is the condition of being ,^ regarded 
 as in action., movement.^ change. 
 
 Sense informs us not only of magnitudes, extensions, 
 material objects, and existences, as around us in nature, but 
 of movements and changes continually taking place among 
 these various existences ; as extension is essential to those 
 material forms, so succession is essential to these movements 
 and changes ; they cannot take place, nor be contieived to 
 take place, without it ; and as space is involved in, and 
 given along with, the very idea of extension.^ so tim« is ^^ 
 7olved in, and g?*ven along with, the very idea o^ succe^ — - 
 rime, then, is the condition of action, movement, change. 
 
FURNISHED BY THIS FACULTY. 245 
 
 event, as space is of extended and material existence. It in 
 that which is required in order that something should take 
 place or occur, just as space is that which is required in or- 
 der that something should exist as material and having 
 form. As space gives us the question lohere^ time gives us 
 the question when. It is the place of events, as space is of 
 forms. 
 
 Browri^s 'View, — Dr. Brown defines time to be the mere 
 relation of one event to another, as prior and subsequent. 
 It follows, from this view, that if there were no events^ then 
 no time^ since the latter is a mere relation subsisting among 
 the former. Is this so ? IsTo doubt we derive our idea of 
 time from the succession of events ; but is time merely an 
 idea, merely a conception, merely a relation, or has it reality 
 out of and aside from our mind's conceiving it, and inde- 
 pendent of the series of events that take place in it ? 
 
 Not a mere Conception, — Like space, it is a law of 
 thought, a conception, and like space it is not a mere law of 
 thought, not a mere conception of the mind, not altogether 
 subjective. Nor is it a mere relation of one event to an 
 other in succession. It is, on the contrary, necessary to^ and 
 prior to, all succession and all events. It does not depend 
 on the occurrence of events, but the occurrence of events 
 depends on it. As space would still exist were matter an- 
 nihilated, so time would continue were events to cease. 
 But ^'/ere time blotted out there could be no succession, no 
 occurrence or event. Time is essential, not to the mere 
 thought or conception of events, but to the possihility of 
 the thing itself. It is not, then, a mere idea, or conception 
 of the mind, nor a mere relation. It has, in a sense, object- 
 Ivity and reality, since it is the ground and condition of aU 
 continuous active existence, as space is of all extended 
 formal existence, the sine ^ud no7i^ without which not 
 merely our idea and conception of such existence would 
 vanish, but the thing itself. There could be no such thing 
 as active 3rntinuous existence, either of mind or matter. 
 
f46 TRUTHS AND CONCEPTIOKS 
 
 since mind and spirit, as continuous and persistent in any of 
 its moods and phases, much more as passing from *one to 
 another of those moods, imphes succession. Time is t<? 
 mind wliat space is to matter. Matter protends in space^ 
 viind in time. Time is even less purely subjective than 
 space, for should we say that both matter and space are 
 mere subjective phenomena, mere conceptions, yet even to 
 those very conceptions, to those subjective jDhenomena, as 
 states of mind, time is essential. 
 
 WJience our Idea of Time, — It is with the idea of time 
 as with that of space. Logically^ time is the condition, a 
 priori, of all experience, because of all continuous existence 
 and all consciousness ; but chronologically it is a posteriori, 
 z. 6., it is, to us, a matter of sensible experience. Sense is 
 the occasion on which the idea of time is first awakened in 
 our minds. We first exist, continue to exist, are conscious 
 of that existence, conscious of succession, thoughts, feelings, 
 sensations, and so we get the idea of time. 
 
 Time is necessary to succession : yet liad there been no 
 succession known to us, we should have had no idea of time. 
 We are to distinguish, of course, between our idea of time 
 and the thino- itself. Locke is incorrect in makino' the idea 
 
 CD <D 
 
 of succession prior to that of duration, iji itself considered^ 
 and not merely as regards our knowledge. In this respect, 
 Cousin has ably and justly criticised the philosophy of 
 Locke, 
 
 Ti77ie a relative Idea. — Looking at time merely as an 
 idea or conception of our own minds, it is simply the per- 
 ception of relation / the relation of passing events to each 
 other, the relation of our various modes and states of being, 
 our thoughts, feelings, etc, to each other, as successive, or 
 to external objects and ^events, as also successive; the 
 "whereabouts, in a word, of one's self, one's present consci- 
 ousness, in relation to what passes, or has passed, within or 
 without , the relation of the present me to the former me, 
 as regards both the succession of internal or external events 
 
FURNISHED BY THIS FACULTY. 2 47 
 
 Hence the mind has only to withdraw itself compiutoly 
 from the consciousness of its former states and of events 
 passing without, and it loses altogether its idea of time. 
 
 Thus in 8leep, — This we find to be the case in sleep. 
 The thinking goes on ; the idea of present self is kept up, 
 but not of self in relation to the objects that are really 
 about us, or to the actual part of its owm existence. "What- 
 ever relation seems to exist, is imaginary and untrue. We 
 no longer know where we are, nor exactly wdio we are. 
 The avenues of communication wdth the external world *^re 
 jshut up, the eye, the ear, etc., are inactive, the spirit A^ith- 
 draws from the outward into itself, as far as this is possible, 
 while the connection of body and mind still continues ; it^ 
 relations to former things and to present things are forgot- 
 ten and unknown. What is the consequence ? We lose aU 
 idea oithne j the moment of falling asleep and of our begin 
 ning to awake, if the sleep have been sound, is apparent^ 
 one and the same moment. The first efiect of returnino- 
 consciousness is to resume the broken thread of time, to 
 find your place again in the series of things, whether it is 
 mornino; or nio'ht, w^iat mornino; or what nio-ht it is : to 
 find yourself, in fact. You had forgotten yourself^ to use 
 a familiar phrase exactly descriptive of the present case. 
 What of yourself had you forgotten ? Simply your rela- 
 tion to the order and succession of things w^ithout, and of 
 thoughts and feelings within — your place in the series. In 
 sleep, your existence, so far as it is an object of conscious- 
 ness at all, is simply that of each passing moment bj 
 itself. 
 
 Tlius in cibsorhing Pursuits. — Ton have only, in yom 
 waking moments, to lose sight as completely of that reU 
 tion and succession of the present self to the post delf, oi 
 the me to the not me, and you lose as completely all idea 
 of time. • Does this ever occur ? Partially, whenever the 
 attention is absorbed in any intensely interesting pursuit or 
 study. T'me passes insensi]>ly then. We are abstracted 
 
248 TKUTHS AND CONCEPTIONS 
 
 from the series, our attention is withdrawn from surround* 
 mg objects and events, and even from our own thoughts, as 
 ^uch. We lose sight of the me, and, of com'se, of the rela- 
 tion of the me, to passing events^ and therefore lose the 
 sense of time. When the spell is at last broi^eL we must 
 go to seek ourselves again, as we would seek a child, that, 
 n its play, had wandered from our side. 
 
 Also in Disease, — Something of the same sort occurs in 
 gevere and protracted sickness. The mind loses its reckon- 
 ing, so to speak, as a ship in a storm loses latitude and 
 longitude, and wanders from its course, unable longer to 
 take its daily observations. 
 
 Idea of Time hi GMldren. — You have doubtless noticed 
 that children have little idea of time. It is much the same 
 to them, one day with another, one week with another ; it 
 is morning, or afternoon, or night indifferently. The dis* 
 tinction and recognition of time, and of one time as differ- 
 ent from another, is slowly acquired, and with difficulty. 
 They have not that self-consciousness, that apprehension of 
 the present and of the past, as related to each other in ti. 
 series of events, which is involved in the idea of time. 
 They are more like one in sleep, like one dreaming, like 
 one in reverie, wholly absorbed with the present moment, 
 the present consciousness. 
 
 Time longer to a Child than an -Adult, — What has beeii 
 said explains, also, the well-known fact, that time seems 
 longer to a child than to an adult person. It is, as we have 
 seen, the relation of the present self, as affected by clianges 
 internal and external, to the past self as thus affected, that 
 gives us the idea and the standard of time. Of course, the 
 shorter the line that represents the past, the longer, in com- 
 parison, that present duration which is measured by it 
 Now the child has fewer past thoughts and events with 
 whici to compare the present ones ; hence, they hold a 
 greater comparative magnitude to him than to us, who have 
 % ^j'dfer range of past existence and past consiaioaiuic^ss 
 
FURNISHED BY THIS FACCI.TY- 249 
 
 with wliich to connect the j)assing moments. Hence, the 
 longer we live, the more quickly pass our years, the shortei 
 appears any given period of duration. 
 
 Applied to eternal Duration. — You have but to applj^ 
 this thought to Him whose going forth is from of old, who 
 inhahiteth eternity^ and you have a new meaning in the 
 beautiful thought of the Hebrew poet, that with Him a 
 thousand years are but as a day. To that eternal mind, th^ 
 remoteness of the period when the first star lighted up the 
 vault of night at his bidding, may be recent as an evect of 
 yesterday. 
 
 in. Identity. 
 
 Difficult of Explanation. — Perhaps no subject, in the 
 whole range of intellectual philosophy, has been the occasion 
 of more per]3lexity and embarrassment than this. It iis, in 
 itself, a difficult subject to comprehend and explain. We 
 know what we mean by identity, but to tell what that 
 meaning is, to state the thing lucidly, and explain it phi- 
 losophically, is another matter. It becomes necessary to 
 examine the subject, therefore, with some care, in order to 
 avoid confusion of ideas, and positively erroneous opinions. 
 The subject is one of some importance in its theological, as 
 well as its strictly philosophical bearings. 
 
 Not Similarity. — Identity is not similarity^ not mere 
 resemblance — - shnilar things are not the same thing. We 
 may suppose two globes or spheres precisely alike in every 
 respect — of the same size, color, form, of the same material, 
 of the same chemical composition and substance, presenting 
 to the eye and the touch, and every other sense, the very 
 game appearance and qualities, so that, if viewed succes- 
 sively, we should not recognize the difference ; yet they are 
 not identical ; they are, by the very sup|)osition, two distinct 
 globes, two entities, two substances, and to say that they 
 are identical, is to say that two things are only one. Bhni^ 
 laHty is not identity so far from it, as Archbishop Whately 
 
£t}0 TKUTHS AND CONCEPTIONS 
 
 has well remarked, it is not even implied of necessity in 
 identity. A person may so far change as to be quite un- 
 hke his former self in appearance, size, etc., and yet be the 
 same person. Not only are tlie two ideas quite distinct, but 
 the one maybe, and in fact is, in most cases, the virtual 
 negation of the otl er. Resemblance, in most cases, implies 
 difference of objects, the opposite of identity. To say tha 
 A and B resemble each other, is to say that, as known to us, 
 -they are not one and the same, not identical. It is only 
 when one and the same object falls under cognizance at di- 
 verse times, so that we compare the object, as now known, 
 with the same object as previously known, that resemblance 
 and identity can possibly be predicated of the same thing. 
 
 Identity is only another term for sameness (idem) ; any one 
 who knows what that means, knov/s what identity means, 
 and that it does not mean mere similarity or resemblance. 
 
 iVb<5 sameness of chemicaL Composition. — ISTor does 
 sameness of chemical composition constitute identity. This 
 is merely similarity. Two bodies may be composed of the 
 same chemical elements, in the same proportion, and pos- 
 sessing the same general form and structure, yet they are 
 not the same body. A given piece of wood or iron may be 
 divided into a number of parts, each closely resembling the 
 others, of the same appearance, size, figure, color, weight, 
 and of the same chemical components ; yet no one of these 
 is identical with any other. When v/e say, in such a case, 
 that the different pieces are of the same material, we use the 
 word same with some latitude, to denote, not that they are 
 composed of strictly the same particles, that the substance 
 of the one is the very identical substance of the other, but 
 only that they consist of the same sort or ki7id of substance, 
 that they are, e. g,^ both wood, or both iron. But this does 
 not constitute identity. 
 
 There is no limit to the number of identical bodies which 
 it is possible to conceive on this theory of identity. The same 
 power that constr^icts one body of gVen chemical elements. 
 
FURKISHED BY THIS FACULTY. 251 
 
 and of given form and structure, may make two such, or 
 ten, and if the first two are identical, the ten are, and they 
 may exist at one and the same time, beside each other, 
 identical with each other, yet ten, every one of which is it- 
 self, and 3^et every one is each of the others ! 
 
 A. relative Term, — Identity is a relative term, like most 
 others that are expressive of quaHty. The term straight 
 impHes the idea of that which is not straight ; beauty, the 
 idea of deformity ; greatness, its opposite; and so of others. 
 Identity stands related to diversity as its opposite. To have 
 the idea of identity, is to have that of diversity also. To 
 affirm the former, is to deny the latter, and to deny is to 
 have the idea of that which is denied. I do not say there 
 can be no identity without diversity, Tbut only that_ there can 
 be no idea of the one without the idea, also, of the other, 
 any more than there can be the idea of a tall man without 
 the idea of short men. 
 
 Opposite of Diversity, — To affirm identity, then, is sim- 
 ply to deny diversity,^ to predicate unity, sameness, oneness. 
 Other objects there are, like this, it may be, similar in every 
 respect, capable of being confounded with it, and mistaken 
 for it, but they are other and not it. This we affirm when 
 we affirm identity, non-diversity^ non-otlierness. Whatever 
 it be that marks off and distinguishes a thing from all othei 
 like or unlike objects — whatever constitutes it^ individual 
 ity^ its esse7ice — in that eo?isists its identity. 
 
 Different applications of the Term, — Evidently, then, the 
 word has somewhat different senses as applied to different 
 classes of objects, whose individuality or essence varies, 
 There are three distinct classes of objects to which the tens 
 is applicable. 1. Spiritual existence. 2. Organic and ani 
 mate material existence. 3. Inorganic matter. 
 
 As applied to the first Class, — As regards the first clasa^ 
 spiritual existences,^ their identity consists in simple onenesa 
 and continuity of existence. It is enough that the soul or 
 spirit exist, and continue to exist. So long as this; is thti 
 
252 'fRUTHS AND CONCEPTIONS 
 
 case, identity is predicable of it. Should that existence oeaae^ 
 the identity ceases, since the object no longer exists of which 
 identity can be affirmed. Should another spirit be created 
 m its place, and even, if the thing ie supposable^ should it 
 be endowed, not only with the same qualities, but the same 
 co?iscious?iess. so as to be conscious of all that of which the 
 former was conscious, still it would not be identical with the 
 former. It is, by the very supposition, another spirit, and 
 not the same. To be identical with it, it must be the very 
 same essence, being, or existence, and not some other in its 
 place. 
 
 It is only of spiritual immaterial existence that identity, in 
 its strict and complete sense, is properly predicable, since it 
 is only this class of e^^istences that retains, unimpaired, its 
 simple oneness, sameness, continuity of essence. 
 
 Personal Identity, — When we speak oi personal identity, 
 we mean that of the spirit, the soul, the ego, in distinction 
 from the corporeal material part. The evidence of personal 
 identity is consciousness. We know that the thinking con- 
 scious existence of to-day, which we call self rne^ is one 
 and the same with the thmking conscious self or me of 
 yesterday, and not some other personal existence of like 
 attributes and condition. 
 
 Loche'^s Idea, — Mr. Locke strangely mistook the evidence 
 of personal identity for identity itself and affi.rmed that our 
 identity consists in our consciousness. If this were so, tJien, 
 whenever our consciousness were interrupted, as in sound 
 sleep, or in fainting, or delirium, our identity would be 
 gone. This error has been pointed out, and fully explained, 
 by Dr. Reid, and Bishop Butler, the former of whom makea 
 this supposition : that the same individual is, at different 
 periods of life, a boy at school, a private in the army, and a 
 military commander; while a boy, he is whipped for robbing an 
 orchard ; when a soldier, he takes a standard from the enemy, 
 and at that time recollects, perfectly, the whipping when a 
 boy ' when commander, he remembers taking the standard 
 
FUENISHED BY THIS FACULTY. 253 
 
 but not the whipping. It follows, according to ]Mr. Locke, 
 that the soldier is identical with the boj, and the general 
 with the soldier," because conscious of the same things, but 
 the general is not identical with the boy, because not ccn- 
 scious of the same things, that is, a is 3, and h is c, yet a is 
 not c. The truth is, identity^ and the evidence of it, are two 
 things. Were there no consciousness of any thing past, there 
 would still be identity so long as unity and continuity of 
 existence remained. 
 
 2, Identity as applied to the second Class. — As regards 
 organic material existence, whether animal or vegetable, the 
 identity consists in that which constitutes the essence or 
 being of the thing, which constitutes it an animal or vege- 
 table existence. It is not mere body, not mere particles of 
 matter, of such number and nature, or even of such arrange- 
 ment and structure, but along with this, there is a higher 
 principle involved — that of life. The continuity of this 
 mysterious principle of life, under the same general structure 
 and organization of material parts, making throughout one 
 complex unity, one entity, one being, though with many 
 changes, it may be, of separate parts and particles compos- 
 ing the organization ; this constitutes the identity of the ob- 
 ject. * 
 
 The identity is no longer complete, no longer absolute, 
 because there is no longer, as in the case of spiritual exist- 
 ence, absolute sameness of essence. Of the complex being 
 under consideration, animal or vegetable, the life-principle is, 
 indeed, one and the same throughout all periods of its -exist- 
 ence, but the material organization retains not the same 
 absolute essence, only the same general structure, and form, 
 and adaptation of parts, while the parts and particles them- 
 selves are continually changing. It is only in a modified and 
 partial sense, then, not in strict philosophical use of language, 
 that we can predicate identity of any material organic exist- 
 ence We mean by it, simply, contimdty of life under the 
 same general structure and organization ; for so far as it has 
 
»^54 TRUTHS AND CONCEPTIONS 
 
 unity at all, this is it. This enables us to distinguish sucsf 
 an object from any and all other like objects of the sam^ 
 kind or sort. 
 
 3. Identity as applied to the third Class, — As regards 
 mere Liorganic matter, its identity consists, again, in its 
 absolute oneness and sameness. There must be no change 
 of particles, for the essence of the thing now considered 
 jes not in any peculiarity of form, or structure, or life-prin« 
 oiple, all which are wanting, but simply in the number and 
 nature of the particles that make up the mass or substance 
 of the thing, anjd if these change in the least, it is no longer 
 the same essence. There is, properly, then, no such thing 
 as identity in the cases now under consideration, since the 
 particles of any material substance are liable to constant 
 changes. It is only in a secondary and popular sense that 
 we speak of the identity of merely inorganic material sub- 
 stance ; strictly speaking, it has no identity, and continues 
 not the same for any two moments. 
 
 We say, however, of two pieces of paper, that they are of 
 the same color, meaning that they are both white or both 
 red ; of two coins, that they are of the same fineness, the 
 same size, and weight, etc., meaning, thereby, only that the 
 two things are of the same sort of color, tlie same degree 
 of fineness, etc., and not that the color of tlie one or the 
 fineness and size of the one is absolutely the essential and 
 identical color, size, fineness of the otlier. It is by a similar 
 use of terms, not in their strict and proper, but in a loose and 
 secondary sense, that we speak of the identity or sameness 
 of any material substance in itself considered. Strictly, it 
 has no identity unless its substance is absolutely ' nchangedj 
 which is not true of most, if, indeed, of any mateiial exist- 
 ence, for any successive periods of time. 
 
 Popmlar Use. — There is a popular use of this terra 
 which requires further notice. We speak of the identity ot 
 a mountain, a river, a tree, or any like object in nature. It 
 is the same mountain, we say, that Ave looked upon in child 
 
FURNISHED BY THIS FACULTY. 255 
 
 tood, the same tree undci^ which we sat wlien a boy, the 
 same river in which we batlied or flslied in youth. Now 
 there is a sense in which this is true and correct. Theio 
 has been change of substance unquestionably, and therefore 
 there is not absolute identity ; but there is, after all, numer- 
 ical sameness, and this is what we mean when we speak of 
 the sameness or identity of the object. It constitutes a sufi 
 ficient ground for such use of terms. You recognize the 
 book, the mountain, the river, as one you have seen before. 
 The tree that you pass in your morning walk you recognize 
 as the very tree under which you sat ten years ago. Leaves 
 have changed, bark and fibres have changed ; branches are 
 larger and more numerous ; boughs, perhaps, have fallen by 
 time and by tempest ; it has changed as you have changed, 
 it has grown old like yourself, with changing seasons; its 
 verdure and foliage, like your hopes and plans, lie scattered 
 around it, and yet it is to you the sam.e tree. How so ? It 
 is the same numerical unity. Of a thousand or ten thousancl 
 similar trees, similar in species, in growth, and form, and 
 adaptation of parts, in size, color, general appearance, etc., it 
 is this individual one, and not some other of the same sort or 
 species growing elsewhere, that you refer to. It is the same 
 numerical unitv and not some other one of the series. Still 
 there must be continuity of existence in order to identity 
 even in this popular sense of the term. Were the parts en- 
 tirely changed and new" ones substituted, as in the puzzle of 
 the knife with several successive handles and blades, or the 
 ship whose original timbers, planks, cordage, and entire 
 substance, had, in course of time, by continued repairs, been 
 removed and replaced by new ; in such a case, we do not 
 ordinarily speak or think of the object as being any longer 
 the same. 
 
 This not absolute Identity, — In the cases now under 
 consideration, in which, in popular language, objects are 
 termed " same" and " identical," which are not strictly so, 
 ther^ is comparative rather than absolute unity and identity, 
 
256- TRUTHS AND CONCEPTIONS 
 
 There is reference always in sucli cases to other objects oi 
 the same kind, sort, and description, a series of which the 
 object of present cognition is one, and to svhich series it 
 holds the same relation now that it held formerly. As 
 when, of several books on a table, you touch 07ie^ and after 
 the interval of some moments or hours touch the same 
 again ; you say. The book I last touched is the same I touched 
 before^ the identical one ; yon do not mean that its substance 
 is absolutely unchanged, that it has the same precise number 
 of particles in its composition as before — this is not in 
 your mind at all — but only that the unity thus designated 
 is the same unity previously designated, that, and not some 
 other one of the series of similar objects. It is a compar- 
 ative idea, a comparative identity, in which numerical unity 
 is the element chiefly regarded. 
 
 PossiMe Flicrality implied. — In all cases where the idea 
 of identity arises in the mind, there is implied a possible 
 plurality of objects of the same general character; the idea 
 of such diversity or plurality i? before the mind, and the 
 foundation of that idea is the di\i^n*ence of cognition. The 
 same object is viewed by the same person at different times 
 or by different persons at the same time, and in that case, 
 though the object itself should 'be absolutely one and the 
 same, yet there have been distinct, separate cognitions of it, 
 and this plurality or difcrence of cognition is- a sufficient 
 foundation for the idea of a possible diversity of object. 
 The book as known to-day and the book as hnoion yester- 
 day, are two distinct objects of thought. The cognition 
 now, and the cognition then, are two separate acts of tho 
 mind ; and the question arises, Are the objects distinct, as 
 well as the cognitions ? This is ^*.^e question of identity. 
 You have an immediate, irresistible conviction that the ob- 
 ject of these several cognitions is one and the same. You 
 affirm its identity, absolute or comparative, as the case may 
 be. 
 
 Th6 Conceptik^n of Ide'yitity amounts to what, — In every 
 
FURNISHED BY THIS FACULTY. 257 
 
 case of affirmed identity, then, there is implied a possible 
 phirality of objects ; a diiierence of cognition of a given object, 
 whether one person cognizant at different times, or different 
 persons at the same time ; a question whether the possible 
 plurality, as regards the object of these different cognitions, 
 is an actual plurality ; a conviction and decision that it is not^ 
 that the object is one and the same ; and this sameness and 
 tmity are absolute or co'inparative^ according as we use the 
 language in its strict, primitive, philosophical meaning, or in 
 its loose and popular sense. In the one case, it is sameness 
 of absolute essence, in the other, sameness of nominal rela- 
 tion to others of a series or class. 
 
 IV. Cause. 
 
 Meaning of the Term, — The idea of cause is one with 
 which every mind is familiar. It is not easy, however, to 
 explain precisely what we mean by it, nor to ^x its limits, 
 nor to unfold its origin. 
 
 We mean by this term, I think, as ordinarily employed, 
 that on which some consequence depends, that but for which 
 some event or phenomenon would not occur. In order to 
 affirm that one thing is the cause of another, I must know, 
 not merely that they are connected, but that the existence 
 of the one depends on that of the other. This is more than 
 mere antecedence, however invariable. The approach of a 
 storm may be invariably indicated by the changes of the 
 barometer. These changes precede the storm, but are not 
 the cause of it. 
 
 Origin of the Idea. — Wlience do we derive the idea of 
 cause ? — -a question of sonjie importance, and much discussed. 
 
 Evidently not from sense. I observe, for example, the 
 melting of snow before the fire, or wax before the flame of 
 a taper. What is it that I see in this case ? Merely the 
 Dhenomenon, nothing more. All that sense conveys, all that 
 the eye reports, is simply the melting of the one substance 
 m the presence and vicinity of the other, I b^ee no cause, nc 
 
258 TRUTHS AND CONCEPTIONS 
 
 form transmitted from the one to the other, no action of ifie 
 one on the other, but simply the vicinity of the two, and the 
 change taking place in one. I infer that the change takes 
 place in consequence of the vicinity. I believe it; and if 
 the experiment is often repeated with the same results, I 
 cannot doubt that it is so. The idea of causality is, indeed, 
 suggested by what I have seen, but is not given by sense, 
 I have not seen the cause ; that lies hidden, occult, its nature 
 wholly unknown, and its very existence known, not by what 
 I have actually seen, but by that law of the mind which 
 leads me to believe that every event must have a cause, and 
 to look for that cause in whatever circumstance is known to 
 be invariably connected with the given change or event. 
 
 Constitution of the 3Iind,' — That such is the constitution 
 of the mind, such the law of its action, admits of no reason- 
 able doubt. No sooner is an event or phenomenon ob- 
 served, than we conclude, at once, that it is an effect, and 
 begin to inquire the cause. We cannot, by any effort of 
 conception, persuade ourselves that there is absolutely no 
 cause. 
 
 Not derived fro'm Sense. — But is not this principle ol 
 causality derived from experience ? We have already said 
 that sense does not give it. I do not see with the eye the 
 cause of the melting of the wax, much less does what I see 
 contain the general principle, that every event must have a 
 cause.* Sense does not give me this. 
 
 Wliether from Consciousness. — - Still, may it not be a 
 matter of experience in another way, given by cojisciousness^ 
 tiiough not by sense. For example, I am conscious of cer- 
 tain volitions. These volitions are accompanied with cer- 
 tain muscular movements, and these, again, are followed by 
 certain sensible effects upon surrounding objects. These 
 changes produced on objects without are directly con- 
 nected thus with my own mental states and changes, with 
 the volitions of which I am directly conscious. Given, the 
 volition on my part, with the corresponding muscular effort, 
 
FURNISHED BY THIS FACULTY. 2'9 
 
 and the external change is produced. I never observe it 
 taking place without such preceding volition. I learn to 
 regard my wid as the caiise^ and the external change as the 
 effect, I observe that it is in the power of others to produce 
 changes in like manner. Thus I obtain the general idea ot 
 cause. It is given by consciousness and experience. 
 
 Notion of Causality not thus derived, — It is to this 
 source that a very able and ingenious French philosopher 
 would attribute our first idea of cause. I refer to Maine de 
 Biran. I should agree with M. de Biran, that consciousness 
 of our own voluntary effort.«i. and of the effects thus pro- 
 duced, may give us our first notion of cause. But it doe? 
 not give us the law of causality. It extends to a given in- 
 stance only, explains that, explains nothing further than that, 
 cannot go beyond. I am conscious that in this given in- 
 stance I have set in operation a train of antecedents and 
 sequences which results in the given effect. I am not con- 
 scious that every event has, in like manner, a cause. My 
 experience warrantsS no such assumption, ^o induction of 
 facts and cases can possibly amount to this. Induction can 
 multiply and generalize, but cannot stamp on that which is 
 merely empirical and contingent, the character of univer- 
 sality and necessity. The law of causality, in a word, is to 
 be distinguished from any given instance, or number of in- 
 stances, of actually observed causation. The latter fall withii^ 
 the range of consciousness and experience, the former h 
 given, if at all, as a law of the mind, a primary truth, an idea 
 of reason. 
 
 HemarJcs of Professor JBoioeJi. — As Professor Bowen 
 has well observed, " The maxim, ' Every event must have a 
 caused is not, like the so-called laws of nature, a mere in- 
 duction founded on experience, and holding good only until 
 an instance is discovered to the contrary ; it is a necessary 
 and immutab* 3 truth. It is not derived from observation oi 
 natural phenomena, but is super-imposed upon such observa- 
 tion by a necessity of the human intellect. It is not made 
 
260 TRUTHS A:MD (JONCEPTIONS 
 
 known ilii'ougli the senses; and its falsity, under any circum- 
 stances, is not possible, is not even conceivable. The cauf^e 
 to which it points us, is not to be found in nature. The 
 mere physicist, after vainly starching, ever since the world 
 began, lor a single instance of it, has, at length, abandoned 
 the attempt as hopeless, and now confi?^es himself to the 
 mere description of natural phenomena. The true cause of 
 these phenomena must be sought for in the realm, not of 
 matter^ but of mind?'* 
 
 JfJiat constitutes Cause, — In this last remark, the author 
 quoted touches upon a question of no little moment. What 
 constitutes a cause ? We cannot here enter into the discus- 
 sion of this question. It is sufficient to remark, that in the 
 ordinary use of the word, as denoting that, but for which a 
 given result will not be, many things beside mind are in- 
 cluded as causes. A hammer, or some like instrument, is 
 essential to the driving of a nail. The hammer may be 
 called the cause of the nail beino- driven ; the blow struck 
 by means of the hammer may also be so designated. More 
 properly, the arm Avliich gave the blow, and, more correctly 
 still, the mind which willed the movement of the arm, and 
 not the consequent blow of the hammer, may be said to be the 
 cause. If we seek for ultimate and efficient causes, we must, 
 doubtless, come back to the realm of mind. It is mind that 
 IS, in every case, the first mover, the originator of any effect, 
 'Und it may, therefore, be called the true and prime cause, 
 the cause of causes. 
 
 History of the Doctrine, — AristotWs View, — The his- 
 tory of the doctrine of causality presents a number of 
 mdely different theories, a brief outline of which is all that 
 we can liere give. The most ancient division and classifica- 
 tion of causes is that of Aristotle, which is based on the fol 
 •owing analysis : Every work brought to completion im- 
 plies four things : an agent by whom it is done, an element 
 or material of which it is wrought, a plan or idea according 
 to which it is fashioned, and an end for which it is produced. 
 
FUKNISHED BY THIS FACULTY 261 
 
 Thus, to the production of a statue there must be a statu 
 ary, a block of marble, a plan in the mind of the artist, and 
 a motive for tie execution of the work. The first of these 
 is termed the efficient cause, the second the material cause, 
 the third the formal^ and the fourth the jinal cause. This 
 classification was universally adopted by the scholastic phi- 
 losophers, and, to some extent, is still prevalent. We still 
 speak of efficient and oi final causes. 
 
 Loche's Derivation of Cause, — With regard to the ori- 
 gin of the idea of cause, there has been the greatest diver- 
 sity of opinion. Locke derives it from sense ; so do the phi- 
 losophers of the sensationalist school. We perceive bodies 
 modifying each other, and hence the notion of causality. 
 
 Theory of Hume and of JBroion, — Hume denies the exist- 
 ence of what we call cause, or power of one object over an- 
 other. He resolves it into succession or sequence of objects 
 in regular order, and consequent association of them in our 
 thoughts. Essentially the same is the theory -of Brown, 
 who resolves cause and effect into simple antecedence and 
 sequence, beyond which we know nothing, and can affirm 
 nothing. 
 
 Theory of Leibnitz. — The theory of Leibnitz verges 
 upon the opposite extreme, and assigns the element of 
 power or causal efiiciency to every form of existence ; ever} 
 substance is a force, a cause, in itself. 
 
 Of J^ant^ — lL^-nXj and his school make cause a merelj 
 subjective notion, a law of the understanding, which it im- 
 presses upon outward things, a condition of our thought 
 We observe external phenomena, and, according to this law 
 of our intelligence, are under the necessity of arranging 
 them as cause and effect ; but we do not know that, mde_ 
 pendent of our conception, there exists in reality any thing 
 corresponding to this idea. The tendency of this theory, as 
 well as that of Hume and Brown, to a thorough-going skep 
 ticism, is obvious at a glance. The theory of Maine de Biraii 
 has been already noticed. 
 
262 TRUTHS AND CONCEPTIONS, ETC. 
 
 V. TiiE Idea of the Beautiful, and of Right^ 
 
 These Ideas Tntuitive. — Among tlie primary ideas awak* 
 eiied in the mind by' the faculty of original or intuitive 
 conception, ideas of reason, as some writers would prefer to 
 call them, must be included the notion of the beautiful^ and 
 also that of r^^/^^— ideas more important in themselves, and 
 in their bearijig on human happiness, than almost any others 
 which the mind entertains. That these ideas are to be 
 traced, ultimately, to the originative or intuitive faculty, 
 there can be little doubt. They are simple and primary 
 ideas. They have tlie characteristics of universality and 
 necessity. They are awakened intuitively and instantane- 
 ously in the mind, when the appropriate occasion is pre- 
 sented by sense. There are certain objects in nature and 
 art, which, so soon as perceived, strike us as beautiful. 
 There are certain traits of character and courses of conduct, 
 which, so soon as observed, strike us as morally right and 
 wrong. The ideas of the beautiful and the right are thus 
 awakened in the mind on the perception of the correspond 
 ing objects. 
 
 . Things to he considered respecting them. — Viewed as 
 notions of the intuitive faculty, or original conceptions, it 
 would be in place to consider more particularly the ch'cum- 
 stances under which each of these ideas originates, and the 
 characteristics of each ; also wdiat constitutes^ in either case, 
 the object, what constitutes the beautiful and the right. 
 
 These Tonnes ' reserved for separate Discussio7i. — These 
 matters deserve a wider and fuller discussion, however, than 
 would here be in place. The ideas under consideration are 
 to be viewed, not merely as conceptions of the reason or 
 mtuition, but as constituting the material of two disj^inct 
 and impoi'tant departments of mental activity, two distinct 
 classes of judgments, viz., the msthetic and the moral. The 
 conceptions of the beautiful and the right, furnished by tJi^ 
 originatTe oi irtnitive power of the mind, constitute the 
 
CONCEPTIOJ^ OF THE BEAUTIFUL. 263 
 
 material and basis on whicli the reflective power works, and 
 as thus employed, the mental activity assumes the form, and 
 is known under the familiar names of taste and conscience^ or, 
 as we may term them, the aesthetic and moral faculties. As 
 such, we reserve them for distinct consideration in the fol- 
 lowmg pages, bearing in mind, as we proceed, that these 
 faculties, so called, are not properly new powers of the 
 mind, but merely forms of the reflective faculty, as exer* 
 cised upon this particular class of ideas. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 THE CONCEPTION AND COGNIZANCE OF THE BEAUTIFUL 
 § I. — Conception of the Beautiful. 
 
 TJie Science wJdch treats of this, — The investis:ation oi 
 this topic brings us upon the domain of a science as yet 
 comparatively new, and which, in fact, has scarcely yet as- 
 sumed its place among the philosophic sciences — ^sthetics^ 
 the science of the beautiful. 
 
 Difficulty of defining, — What, then, is the beautiful ? — 
 A question that meets us at the threshold, and that has re- 
 ceived, from diflerent sources, answers almost as many and 
 diverse as the w^riters that have undertaken its discussion. 
 It is easy to specify instances of the beautiful without num- 
 ber, and of endless variety ; but that is not defining it. On 
 the contrary, it is only increasing the difiicalty ; for, wheru 
 so many things are beautiful, and so diverse from each 
 other, how are i^e to decide what is that one property which 
 they all have in common, viz., beauty ? The difliculty is to 
 fix upon any one quality or attribute that shall pertain alike 
 to all the objects that seem to us beautiful. A figure of 
 speech, a statue, a star, an air from an opera, all strike us an 
 
i>64 CONCEPTION OF THE BEAUTIFUL. 
 
 beautiful, all awaken in us the emotion wliicli beauty alone 
 can excite. But what have they in common ? It were easy 
 fco lix upon something in the case of the statue, or of the 
 star, which should account, perhaps, for the pleasure those 
 objects afford us ; but the sam.e thing might not apply to 
 the figure of speech, or to the musical air. It would seem 
 almost hopeless to attempt the solution of the problem in 
 this method. And yet there must he^ it would seem, some 
 principle or attribute in which these various objects that we 
 call beautiful agree, which is the secret and substance of 
 their beauty, and the cause of that uniform effect /^^hich 
 they all produce upon us. Philosophers have accordingly 
 proposed various solutions of the problem, some fixing upon 
 one thing, some upon another ; and it may be instructive to 
 glance at some of these definitions. 
 
 Some 7nake it a Sensation, — Of those who have under- 
 taken to define w^hat beauty is, there are some who make it 
 a mere feeling or sensation of the mind, and not an objec- 
 tive reality of any sort. It is not this, that, or the other 
 quality of the external object, but simply a subjective emo- 
 tion. It lies within us, and not without. Thus, Sir George 
 Mackenzie describes it as " a certam degree of a certain 
 species of pleasurable effect impressed on the mind." So 
 also Grohman, Professor of Philosophy at Hamburg, in his 
 treatise on assthetic as science, defines the beautiful to be 
 '* the infinite consciousness of the reason as feeling?'* As 
 the true is the activity of reason at w^ork as intellect or 
 knowledge, and as the good is its province when it appears 
 as 'will^ so the beautiful is its activity in the domain of sensi- 
 bility. Brown, Upham, and others, among English and 
 American writers, frequently speak of the emotion of beauty, 
 as if beauty itself were an emotion. 
 
 Others an Association, — Closely agreeing with this class 
 of writers, and hardly to be distinguished from it, is that 
 which makes beauty consist in certain associations of idea 
 and feeling with the object contemplated. This is the fa- 
 
CONCEPTION OF THE BEAUTIFUL 265 
 
 vorite doctrine with the Scotch metaphysicians. Thus Lord 
 Jeffrey, who has written with great clearness and force on 
 this subject, regards beauty as dependent entirely on associ- 
 ation, " the reflection of our own inward sensations." It is 
 Dot, according to this view, a quality of the object external, 
 but only a feeling in our own minds. Its seat is within and 
 not without. 
 
 Theory that Seauty consists in Expression. — Of the 
 game general class, also, are those who, with Alison, Reid^ 
 and Cousin, regard beauty as the sign or expression of 
 some quality fitted to awaken pleasing emotions in us. 
 Nothing is beautiful, say these writers, which is not thus ex- 
 pressive of some mental or moral quality or attribute. It is 
 not an original and independent quality of any peculiar forms 
 or colors, says Alison, for then we should have a definite 
 rule for the creation of beauty. It lies ultimately in the 
 mind, not in matter, and matter becomes beautiful only as 
 it becomes, by analogy or association, suggestive of mental 
 qualities. The same is substantially the ancient Platonic 
 view. Kant, also, follow^ed in the main by Schiller and 
 Fichte, takes the subjective view, and makes beauty a mere 
 play of the imagination. 
 
 'All these Theories make it subjective, — Whether we re 
 gard beauty, then, as a mere emotion, or as an association of 
 thought and feeling with the external object, or as the sign 
 and expression of mental quahties, in either case we make it 
 ultimately subjective, and deny its external objective reality 
 
 T^lfferent Forms of the objective Theory. — Of those who 
 take the opposite view, some seek for the hidden piinciple 
 of beauty in novelty / others, as Galen and Marmontel, in 
 utility y others, as Shaftesbury, Hutcheson, Hogarth, in the 
 principle of unity in vaHety / others, in that of order and 
 proportion.^ as Aristotle, Augustine, Crousez. 
 
 All these writers, while they admit the existence of beauty 
 m the external object, make it to consist in some quality or 
 conformation of matter, as such. 
 
 12 
 
^68 COI^CEPTiON OF THE BEAUTIFUL. 
 
 Tlie spiritual Theory, — There is still another theory of 
 the beautiful, which, while admitting its external objective 
 reality, seeks to divest it of that material nature in which 
 the writers last named present it, and searches for its es- 
 sence among principles ethereal and spiritual. According to 
 this view beauty is the spiritual life. in its immediate seiv 
 sihle manifestation y the hidden, invisible principle — spirit 
 in distinction from matter, animating, manifesting itself lo^ 
 „ooMng out through, the material form. It is not matter aa 
 guch, it is not spirit as such, much less a mere mental quality 
 or mental feeling ; it is the expression of the invisible and 
 fipiritual under sensible material forms. This view was first 
 fully developed by Schelling and Hegel, and is adopted, in 
 the main, by Jouffroy in his Cours d'Esthetique, by Dr. Au- 
 gust Ruhlert, of the university of Breslau, in his able system 
 of sesthetics, and by many other philosophical writers of dis- 
 tinction in Europe. 
 
 Questio7is for Consideration, — The following questions 
 i^row out of these various and conflicting definitions, as 
 presenting the real points at issue, and, as such, requiring 
 investigation. 
 
 I. Is beauty something objective, or merely subjective and 
 emotional ? 
 
 II. If the former, then what is it in the object that con- 
 stitutes its beauty ? 
 
 I. Question stated, — Is beauty merely subjective, an 
 emotion of our own minds, or is it a quality of objects? 
 When we speak, e, ^., of the beauty of a landscape, or of a 
 painting, do we mean merely a certain excitement of oui 
 sensitive nature, a certain feeling awakened by the object, 
 or do we mean some quality or property belonging to that 
 object? If the latter, then are we correct in attributing 
 any such quality to the object ? 
 
 Em^otion admitted, — Unquestionably, certain plea* ing 
 emotions are awakened in the mind, in view of certain o\d ^cts 
 which we term beautiful ; unquestionably those object^ '^x(^ 
 
CONCEPTION OF THE BEAUTIFUL. 2Q1 
 
 the cause or occasion of such emotions ; tliey have, undei 
 fav^orable circumstances, the power of producing them ; un- 
 questionably they have this power by virtue, moreover, of 
 some quality or property pe^'taining to them. All this will 
 be admitted by those who deny the objective reahty of 
 beauty. The question is not, whether there is in the object 
 any quality which is the occasion or cause of our emotion, 
 but whether the term beauty is properly the name of that 
 cause, or of the emotion it produces. 
 
 Beauty not an Emotion, — The question would seem a 
 very plain one if submitted to common sense. It would 
 seem strange that any one sh(fuld deliberately and intelli- 
 gently take the position that beauty and sublimity are merely 
 emotions of our minds, and not qualities of objects : when 
 v/e hear men speaking in this way, we are half inclined 
 to suspect that we misunderstand them, or that they mis- 
 understand themselves. I look upon a gorgeous sunset, and 
 call it beautiful. What is it that is beautiful ? That sky 
 that cloud, that coloring, those tints that fade into each other 
 and change even as I behold them, those lines of fire that lie 
 in brilliant relief upon the darker background, as if some 
 radiant angel had thrown aside his robe of light as he flew, 
 or had left his smile upon the cloud as he passed through 
 the golden gates of Hesperus, these, these, are beautiful; 
 there lies the. beauty, and surely not in me, the beholder. 
 An emotion is in my mind, but that emotion is not beauty ; 
 it is simple admiration^ ^. 6., v/onder and delight. There is 
 CO such emotion as beauty, common as is the ambiguous ex* 
 pression '' emotion of beauty." There are emotions of ftiar, 
 hope, joy, sorrow, and the like, and these emotions I ex- 
 perience ; I know w^hat they mean ; but I am not conscious 
 of having ever experienced an emotion of beauty^ though I 
 have often been filled with wonder and delight at the sight 
 of the beautiful in nature or art. When I experience an 
 emotion of fear, of hope, of joy, or of sorrow, what is it that 
 \B joyful or sorrowfiil, hopeful or fearful ? My mind, of 
 
268 CONCEPTION OF THE BEAUTIFUL. 
 
 course, that is, I, myself. ' The object that occasions the 
 emotion on my part, is in no other sense fearful or joyful 
 than as it is the occasion of my being so. If, in like manner, 
 beauty is an emotion, and I experience that emotion, it is, of 
 course, my mind that is beautiful, and not the object con 
 templated. It is I, myself, that am beautiful, not the sun- 
 set, the painting, the landscape, or any thing of that sort^ 
 whatever. These things are merely the occasion of my 
 being beautiful. Could any doctrine be more consoling 
 to those who are conscious of any serious deficiency on the 
 score of personal attractions ! Can any thing be more ab 
 surd? 
 
 77ie common View correct. — I beg leave to take the com 
 mon-sense view of this question, which I cannot but think is, 
 in . the present instance, the most correct, and still to think 
 and speak of the beauty of objects^ and not of our own minds. 
 Such is certainly the ordinary acceptation and use of the term, 
 nor can any reason be shown why, in strictest philosophy, 
 we should depart from it. There is no need of applying the 
 term to denote the emotion awakened in the mind, for that 
 emotion is not, in itself, either a new or a nameless one, but 
 simply that mingled feeling of wonder and delight which we 
 call admiration, and which passes, it may be, into love. To 
 make beauty itself an emotion, is to be guilty of a double 
 absurdity. It is to leave the quality of the object which 
 gives rise to the emotion altogether without a name, and 
 bestow that name where it is not needed, on that which has 
 already a name of its own. 
 
 JSeaitty still objective^ though reflected from the Mind, -=* 
 If to this it be replied, that the beauty which we admire 
 and which seems to be a property of the external object, is, 
 nevertheless, of internal origin, being merely a transfer to 
 the object, and association with it, of certain thoughts and 
 feelings of our own minds, a reflection of our own conscious- 
 ness gilding and lighting up the objects around us, v/hich 
 objects are then viewed by us as having a light and beauty 
 
CONCEPTION CF THE BEAUTIFUL. 263 
 
 ■{ their own, I answer, tt it even on this supposition, the 
 ^'Xternal object, as chus il amined, has the power of awak- 
 ening the pleasing (^motio:\ within us, and that power is its 
 beauty, a property or qus lity of the object still, although 
 borrowed originally from the mind ; just as the moon, though 
 it give but a reflected light, still shines, and with a beauty 
 of its own. So long as those thoughts and feelings lay hid' 
 den in the mind, untransferred, unassociated with the exter- 
 nal object, they were not beautt/. Not imtil the object is 
 invested with them, and they have become a property of 
 that object, do they ass-ume, to the mental eye, the quality 
 of beauty. So, then, beauty is even still an objective reality, 
 something that lies without us, and not within us. 
 
 The Power of expressing an objective Quality^ likewise, ■ — 
 In like manner, if it be contended that beauty is only the 
 sign and expression of mental qualities, I reply, that powder 
 of signifying or expressing is certainly a property of the ob- 
 ject, and that property is its beauty, and is certainly a thing 
 objective, and not a mere emotion. 
 
 All beauty not Hejlection^ nor .Expression,—! am far from 
 conceding, however, that all beauty is either the reflection 
 or expression of what passes within the mind. There are 
 objects which no play of the fancy, no transfer or association 
 of the mental states, can ever render beautiful ; while, on 
 tlie other hand, there are others which require no such asso- 
 ciation, but of themselves shine forth upon us with their own 
 clear and lustrous beauty. Suppose a child of lively sensi- 
 bility, and with that true love of the beautiful, vrheiover 
 discerned, which is one of the finest traits of the child's na- 
 ture, to look for the first time upon the broad expanse of the 
 ocean ; it lies spread out before him a new and sudden reve« 
 lation of beauty ; its extent of surface, unbroken by the 
 petty lines and boundaries that divide and maik off the lands 
 upon the shore ; its wonderful deep blue, a color he has seen 
 hitherto only in the firmament above him, and not there as* 
 here — that deep blue relieved by the white sails^ that, like 
 
270 CONCEPTION OF THE BEAUTIFUL. 
 
 birds of snowy wing, flit across its peaceful bosom, or lie 
 motionless in the morning light on its calm expanse ; its 
 peculiar convexity of surface, as it stretches far out to the 
 horizon, and lifts up its broad shoulders against the sky ; — 
 these things he beholds for the first time, they are associated 
 with nothing in his past experience; he has never seeii 
 never dreamed of such a vision ; it is not the reflection of 
 his own thoughts or fancies ; but it is, nevertheless, to him 
 a scene of rare and wondrous beauty, the recollection and 
 first impression of which shall haunt him while he lives. If, 
 in after life, he came to philosophize upon the matter, it 
 would be difficult to convince him that what he thus ad- 
 mired was but the play of his own imagination, the transfer 
 of his own mental state, the association of his own thought 
 and feeling with the object before him; in a word, that the 
 be'auty which so charmed him lay not at all in the object 
 contemplated, but only in his own mind. 
 
 A. further Question. — That the beauty which we per- 
 ceive is a quality of objects, and not merely a subjective 
 emotion, that there is in the object something which, call it 
 what we will, is the producing cause of the emotion in us, 
 and that this objective cause, whatever it be, is, in the proper 
 use of terms, to be recognized as beauty, this v/e have now 
 gufliciently discussed. Admitting, however, these positions, 
 the question may still arise, whether that which we call 
 beauty in objects has, after all, an absolute existence, inde- 
 pendent of the mind that is impressed by it ? The beauty 
 that I admire in yonder landscape, or in the wild flower that 
 looms at my feet, is, indeed, the beauty of the landscape 
 or the flower, and not of my mind; it pertains to, and dwells 
 in, the object, and not in me ; but dwells it there independ- 
 ently of me, the observer, and when I do not behold it ? If 
 there were no intelligent, observing mind, to behold and feel 
 that beauty, v/ould the object still be beautiful, even as now? 
 This admits of question. Is the beauty a fixed, absolute 
 fjuality, inherent in the object as such, and per se^ or is it 
 
CONCEPTION OF THE BEAUTIFUL. 27i 
 
 something springing out of the relation between the min(3 
 of the observer and the object observed. 
 
 iVb JKvidence of its JExiste7ice except its Effect, — That it 
 is relative, and not absolute, may be argued from the faol 
 that we have no evidence of any such quality or cause, save 
 as in operation, save as producing effects in us ; and as wo 
 could never have inferred the existence of the cause, had it 
 not been for the effect produced, so we have no reason to 
 suppose its existence when and where it does not manifest 
 itself in operation, that is to say, when and where it is not 
 observed. As the spark from the smitten steel is not strictly 
 to be regarded as itself a property of the steel, nor yet of 
 the flint, but as a relative phenomenon arising Irom the col- 
 lision of the two, so beauty, it may be said, dwells not abso- 
 lutely in the object per se, nor yet in the intelligent subject, 
 but is a phenomenon resulting from the relation of the 
 two. 
 
 further Argume^it from diversity of Effects. — The 
 same may be argued from the diversity of the effects pro- 
 duced. If beauty is a fixed, absolute quality of objects, it 
 may be said, then the effects ought to be uniformly the 
 same ; whereas there is, in fact, no such uniformity, no stand- 
 ard of beauty, none of taste, but wha^ seems to one man ex- 
 ceedingly fine, excites only the aversion and disgust of an- 
 other, and even the same person is at ^lifterent times difier- 
 ently affected by the same object. Hence it may be inferred 
 that the beauty is merely a relation between the mind and 
 the object contemplated, varying as the mind varies. 
 
 Reply to the first Argimient. — To these arguments I 
 reply, in the first place, that it is not necessary that a cause 
 should be in actual operation, under our immediate eye, in 
 order that we should conclude its independent and constant 
 existence. If, whenever the occasion returns, the effects 
 are observed, we (conclude that the cause exists p^er se^ and 
 not merely in relation to us. Otherwise we could never be 
 lieve t^^e absolute existence of any thing, but should, with 
 
72 CONCEPTION OF THE BEAUTIFUL. 
 
 Berkley and Hume, call in question the existence of mattei 
 itself, save as phenomenal and relative to our senses. Tlie 
 Bame argument that makes the beauty of a rose relativ*^ 
 merely to the observer, makes the rose itself merely a rela- 
 tive existence. How do I know that it exists ? I see it, 
 feel it, smell it ; it lies upon my table ; it aifects my senses. 
 I turn awav now. I leave the room. How do I kn^w 7iots 
 that the rose exists ? It no longer affects my senses ; the 
 cause no longer operates ; the effect is no longer produced, 
 I have just as much reason to say it no longer exists, as to 
 say it is no longer beautiful. 
 
 Reply to the second Argument, — To the argument from 
 the diversity of effect, I reply, that admitting the fact to 
 be as stated, viz., that the same object is differently regarded 
 by different minds, the diversity may arise from either of 
 two sources. The want of uniformity may lie in the cause, 
 or it may lie in the minds affected by it. The exciting cause 
 may vary, and the effects produced by it will then be di- 
 verse ; or the minds on which it operates may differ, and in 
 that case, also, the effects will be diverse. We are not to 
 conclude, then, from diversity of effect that the cause is not 
 uniform. A beautiful object, it is true, affects different ob- 
 servers differently, but the reason of the diversity may be 
 in tliem and not in the object. 
 
 What then is the fact ? Are the minds of all observers 
 equally susceptible of impression from the beautiful ? By 
 no means. They differ in .education, habit of thought, cul- 
 ture, taste, native sensibility, and many other things^ 
 Hardly two minds can be found that are not diverse in 
 these respects. Ought we then to expect absolute uniform 
 (ty of effect ? 
 
 Not to he conceded that there is 7io Agreement, - It is by 
 no means tc be conceded, however, that t'aere is no such 
 thing as a standard of beauty or of taste, no general agree- 
 ment among men as to what is or is not beautiful, no gen- 
 •»v<)l agreemiiut as to the emotions produced. There is such 
 
CONCEPTION OF THE BEAUTIFUL. 27d 
 
 agreement in both respects. Within certain limits it is uni- 
 form and complete. Certain aspects of nature, and certain 
 works of art, are, in all ages, and by all men, regarded as 
 beautiful. The Apollo Belvidere, and the Venus of the 
 Capitol, are to us what they were to the ancients ; the 
 perfection of the beautiful. The great work of Raphael, 
 scarcely finished at his death, the last touches still fresh from 
 his hand — that work which, as it hung above his bier, 
 drew tears from all eyes, and filled with admiration all 
 hearts — i? still the wonder and admiration of men. And so. 
 it will be in centuries to come. And so of the emotions 
 produced by the contemplation of the beautiful. Making 
 due allowance for habits of association, mental culture, and 
 differences of native sensibility, we shall find men affected 
 much in the same way by the beautiful in nature or art. 
 The men of the same class and condition as to these matters 
 
 — the peasant of one age or country, and the peasant of an- 
 other, the philosopher of one time, and of another, the 
 wealthy, uneducated citisen, and the fashionable fool, of one 
 period and nation, and of another — experience much the 
 same effects in view of one and the same object. The same 
 general laws, too, preside over and regulate the different 
 arts which have relation to the beautiful, in all ages of the 
 world. 
 
 Consequences of the TJieory that JBeauty is merely relative 
 
 — If beauty be not absolute but relative only, it follows, L 
 That, if there were no observers of nature or art, neither 
 w^ould be longer beautiful. 2. If, for any reason any thing 
 Is for the time unseen, as, e, g.^ a pearl in the sea, a precious 
 (Stone in the mine, or a rich jewel in the casket, it has no 
 beauty so long as it is there and thus. 3. As minds vary in 
 susceptibility of impression, the same thing is beautiful to 
 one person and not to another ; at one time and not at an- 
 other ; nay, at one and the same moment it is both beautiful 
 and not beautiful, according as the minds of the observers 
 vary I camiot say with truth, that the Mosaics of St. PetCT^'g, 
 
274 C0:NCEPTI0N of the BEALriFUL. . 
 
 or tlie great diamond of the East, are, at this moment, real 
 beautiful, because I do not know who, or whether any one, 
 may, at this moment, be looking at them. 
 
 Intmiate Relation hetioeen the Mind and the 05/6C^.— While 
 I maintain, however, the existence of beauty as an absolute 
 and independent quality of objects, and not merely as rela- 
 tive to the mind that perceives and enjoys it;, I would, 
 by no means, overlook the very intimate relation which 
 subsists, in the present case, between the perceiving mind 
 and the object perceived. Beauty makes its appeal primarily 
 to the senses. It pleases and charms us, because we are en- 
 dowed with senses and a nature fitted to receive pleasure 
 from such objects. In the adaptation of our physical and 
 mental constitution to the order and constitution of material 
 things as they exist without, lies the secret of that power 
 which the beautiful exerts over us. 
 
 Might have been otherwise constituted. — We might have 
 been so constituted, doubtless, that the most beautiful ob- 
 jects should have been disgusting, rather than pleasing: the 
 violet should have seemed an ugly thing, and the sweetest 
 strains of music harsh and discordant. There are disordered 
 senses, and disordered minds, to which, even novf, those 
 things, v/hich we call beautiful, may so appear. For that 
 adaptation of our sensitive nature to external objects, and 
 of these objects to our sensitive nature, by virtue of which, 
 the percipient mind recognizes and feels the beauty of the 
 object perceived, and takes delight in it, we are indebted 
 wholly to the wisdom and benevolence of the great Cre- 
 ator. 
 
 The Doctrine maintained. — Still, given., the present con- 
 stitution and mutual adaptation of mind and matter, and we 
 affirm the independent existence of the beautiful as an ob- 
 ject per se-y and not merely as an affection of the percipient 
 mind. The perception and enjoyment of the beauty are 
 "subjective^ relative, dependent ; the beauty itself not so. 
 
 The second Question, — If beauty be, then, as we find rea- 
 
CONCEPTION OF THE BEAUTIFUL. 275 
 
 son to beliave, not wholly a subjective affair, but a quality 
 or property of external objects, the qijestion now arisej^, 
 
 II. What is it in the object, that «constitutes its beauty? 
 
 Theory of Novelty, — And first, is it the novelty of the 
 thing ? Is the novel the beautiful ? Doubtless, novelty pleases 
 us. It has this in common with the beautiful. Yet some 
 things that are novel, are by no means beautiful. A raiU 
 for grinding corn is a great curiosity to one who has never 
 seen such a machine before, but it might not strike him aa 
 particularly beautiful. 
 
 Every thing, when first beheld, is novel ; but every thing 
 is not beautiful. Let us look more closely at the element of 
 novelty. That is novel which is new to its merely, which 
 appears to us for the first time. It may be new to the in^ 
 tellect, a new idea, or to the sensibility, a new feeling, or to 
 the will, a new act. As a new idea it satisfies our curiosity, 
 as a new feeling it developes our nature, as a new volition 
 It enlarges the sphere of our activity. In these respects, and 
 for these reasons, novelty pleases, but in all this we discover 
 no resemblance to the beautiful. 
 
 Novelty heightens Beauty. — It is not to be deni/^d that 
 novelty, in many cases, heightens the beauty of an object. 
 By familiarity, we become, m a measure, insensible to the 
 charms of that which, as first beheld, filled us with delight. 
 The sensibility receives no further excitement from that 
 to which it has become accustomed. To enjoy mountain 
 scenery most highly, one must not always dwell among the 
 mountains. To enjoy Niagara most highly, one must not 
 Jive in the sight of it all his days. But beauty, and the 6?^* 
 joyment of the beautiful, are surely different things, and 
 while novelty is accessory to the full effect of the beautiful 
 on our minds, and even indispensable to it, it is not, itself, the 
 element of beauty, not the ground and substance of it. 
 
 Not alioays pleasing, — Jouffroy even denies that novelty 
 is always pleasing. Some things, he contends, displease us, 
 eimply because they are new. We become accustomed to 
 
276 CONCEPTIOI!^ OF THE BEAUTIFUL. 
 
 them, and our dislike ceases. Thus it is, to some extent, 
 with difference of color in the races. 
 
 Theory of the Useful, — Is, then, the useful the beautiful ? 
 Tiiis theory next claims our attention. The foundation of 
 the emotions awakened in us by the beautiful in nature or 
 art, is the pei'ception of utility. We perceive in the object 
 a fitness to conduce, in some way, to our welfare, to serve, in 
 some way, our purposes, and for this reason, we are pleased 
 The utility is the beauty. 
 
 The most useful not the most beautiful, — That the 
 beauty of an object may, in our perception, be heightened 
 by the discovery of its fitness to produce some desirable 
 end, or rather, that this may add somewhat to the pleasure 
 we feel in view of the object, is quite possible ; that this is 
 the main element and grand secret, either of that emotion 
 on our part, or of the beauty which gives rise to it, is not 
 possible. It is sufficient to say, that, if this were so, the 
 most useful things ought, of course, to be the most beautiful. 
 Is this the case ? A stream of water conducted along a ship 
 canal is more useful than the same stream tumbling over the 
 rapids, or plunging over a perpendicular precipice. Is it 
 also more beautiful ? A swine's snout, to use a homely but 
 forcible illustration of Burke, is admirably fitted to serve tho 
 purpose for which it was intended ; useful exceedingly for 
 rooting and grubbing, but not, on the whole, very beau- 
 tiful. 
 
 Dissimilarity of the tioo, — Indeed, few things can be 
 more unlike, in their effect upon the mind, in the nature cA 
 the emotions they excite, than the useful and the beautiful. 
 This has been well shown by Jouffroy in his analysis of the 
 beautiful. Kant has also clearly pointed out the same thing. 
 Both please us, but not in the same way, not for the same 
 reason. We love the one for its advantage to us, the other 
 for its own sahe. The one is a purely selfish, the other a 
 purely disinterested love, a noble, elevated emotion. The 
 two are heaven- wide asunder. The ^glorious sunset is of no 
 
CONCEPTION OF THE BEAUTIFUL. 27V 
 
 Crartlily use to us, otherwise than mere beauty and pleasure 
 are in themselves of use. The gorgeous spectacle becomes 
 at once degraded in our own estimation by the very ques- 
 tion of its possible utility. We love it not for the benefit it 
 confers, the use we can make of it, but for its own sake, its 
 own sweet beauty, because it is what it is. There it lies, 
 pencilled on the clouds, evanescent, momentarily changing. 
 There it is, afar off. You cannot reach it, cannot com 
 mand its stay, have no wish to appropriate it to your- 
 self, no desire to turn it to your own account, or reap 
 iXnj benefit from it, other than the mere enjoyment ; still 
 you admire it, still it is beautiful to you. Of what use to 
 the beholder is the ruddy glow and flasli of sunrise on the 
 Alpine summits as seen from the Rhigi or Mount Blanc ? 
 Of what use, in fact, is beauty in any case, other than as it 
 may be the means of refining the taste, and elevating the 
 mind? That it has this advantage we are free to admit ; and 
 it is certainly one of the noblest uses to which any thing can 
 be made subservient ; but surely this cannot be what is 
 meant when we are told that beauty consists in utility, foi 
 this would be simply afl&rming that the cause consists in the 
 effect produced. Beauty refines and elevates the mind, is a 
 means of aesthetic and moral culture; as such it is of use, and 
 in that use lies the secret and the subtle essence of beauty 
 itself Li other words, a given cause produces a given effect, 
 and that effect constitutes the cause ! 
 
 27ie utility/ of JBeanty an incidental Circumstance, — The 
 truth is, that while the beautiful does elevate and ennoble the 
 mind, and thus furnish the means of the highest aesthetic 
 Wid moral culture, this advantage is wholly incidental to the 
 existence of beauty, not even a necessary or invariable 
 effect, much less the constituting element. This is not the 
 reason why we admire the beautiful. It does not enter into 
 our thoughts at the moment. As on the summi^ of Khigi, I 
 watch the play of the first rosy light on the snowy peaks 
 that lift themselves in stately grandeur along the opposite 
 
278 CONCEPTION OF THE BEAUTIFUL. 
 
 horizon, I am not thinking, at that moment, of the effect 
 produced on my own mind, by the spectacle before me ; I 
 am wholly absorbed in the magnificence of the scene itself. 
 "^t is beautiful, not because it is useful, not because it elevates 
 jnj mind, and cultivates my taste, and contributes, m v^arious 
 ways, to my development, but it produces these effects be- 
 cause it is beautiful. The very thought of the useful is al- 
 most enough, in sucli cases, to extinguish the sentiment of 
 the beautiful. 
 
 beauty cannot he appropriated. — That only is useful 
 which can be appropriated^ and turned to account. But 
 the beautiful, in its very nature, cannot be appropriated or 
 possessed. You may appropriate the picture, the statue, 
 the mountaiQ, the waterfall, but not their beauty. These 
 do not belong to you, and never can. They are the property 
 of every beholder. Hence, as Jouffroy has well observed, 
 the possession of a beautiful object never fully satisfies. 
 The beauty is ideal, and cannot be possessed. It is an ethe- 
 real spirit that floats away as a silver cloud, ever near, 
 yet ever beyond your grasp. It is a bow, spanning the blue 
 arch, many-colored, wonderful ; yonder, just yonder, is its 
 base, where the rosy light seems to hover over the wood, 
 and touch gently the earth ; but you cannot, by any flight 
 or speed of travel, come up with it. It is here, there, every- 
 where, except where you are. It is given you to behold, 
 not to possess it.- 
 
 Theory of Unity in Variety. — Evidently we must seek 
 elsewhere than in utility the dwelling-place of beauty. The 
 secret of her tabernacle is not there. Let us see, then, If 
 unity in variety may not be, as some affirm, the principle of 
 the beautiful. The intellect demands a general unity, as, 
 e,g.^ in a piece of music, a painting, or a play, and is not 
 satisfied unless it can perceive sucli unity. The parts must 
 be not only connected but related, and that relation must be 
 obvious. At the same time .the sensibility demands variety, 
 SIS f g.^ of tone and time in the mus'c, of color and shada 
 
CONCEPTION OF THE BEAUTIFUL. 27& 
 
 m tlie painting, of expression in both. Tlie same note of a 
 musical instrument continuously produced, or the same color 
 unvaried in the painting, would be intolerable. The due 
 combination of these two principles, unity and variety, say 
 these writers, constitutes what we call beauty in an object. 
 The waving line of Hogarth may be taken as an illustration 
 of this principle. 
 
 Objection to this View, — Without entering fully into the 
 discussion of this theory, it may be sufficient to say, that 
 while the principle how named does enter, in some degree, 
 into our conception of the beautiful, it can hardly be ad- 
 mitted as the ground and cause, or even as the chief element, 
 of beauty. Not every thing is beautiful which presents 
 both unity and variety. Some things, on the other hand, are 
 beautiful y/hich lack this combination. Some colors are 
 beautiful, taken by themselves, and the same is true of cer- 
 tain forms, which, nevertheless, lack the element of variety. 
 In the construction of certain mathematical figures, w^hicb 
 please the eye by their symmetry and exactness, we may 
 detect, perhaps, the operation of this principle. On the 
 other hand, it will not account for the pleasure* we feel when 
 the eye rests upon a particular color that is agreeable. A 
 bright red pebble, or a bit of stained glass, appears to a 
 child very beautiful. It is the color that is the object of his 
 admiration. We have simple unity but no variety there. 
 On the other hand, in a beautiful sunset we have the great 
 est variety, but not unity, other than simply a numerical unity. 
 
 We cannot, on the whole, accept this theory as a com 
 plete and satisfactory resolution of the problem of the beau 
 tiful, although it is supported by the eminent authority ol 
 Cousin, who, while he regards all beauty as ultimately per- 
 taining to the spiritual nature, still finds in the principle, now 
 under consideration, its chief characteristic so far as it as 
 sumes external form. 
 
 Order and Proportioii, — Shall we then, with Aristotle, 
 Augustine, Andre, and others, ancient and modern, seek the 
 
280 CONCEPTION OF THE BEAUTIFUL. 
 
 hidden principle of beauty in the elements of order and pr'xf 
 'portion f What are order and proportion ? Order is tho 
 arrangement of the several parts of a composite body. 
 Proportion is the relation of the several parts to each other 
 in space and time. Not every possible arrangement is order, 
 but only that which appears conducive to the end designed, 
 and not every possible arrangement of parts is proportion, 
 but only that which furthers the end to be accomplished. 
 To place the human eye in the back part of the head, the 
 limbs remaining as they now are, would be disorder^ for 
 motion must in that case, as now, be forward^ while the eye, 
 looking backward, could no longer survey the path we tread. 
 The limbs of the Arabian steed, designed for swiftness of 
 locomotion, bear a proportion to the other parts of the body, 
 somewhat different from that which the limbs of the swine, 
 designed chiefly for support, and for movements slower, and 
 over shorter distances, bear to his general frame. The pro- 
 portion of each, however, is perfect as it is. Exchange 
 each for each, and they are quite out of proportion. 
 
 Only another Form of the JJsefid, — Since order and pro- 
 portion, then, have always reference to the end proposed to 
 be accomplished, we have, in fact, in these elements, only 
 another form of the useful, which, as we have already seen 
 is not the principle of beauty. 
 
 Not always J^eautifuL —Accordingly, we find that order 
 and proportion do not, in themselves, and when unassociated 
 with other elements, invariabl}^ strike us as beautiful. Tho 
 leg of the swine is as fine a specimen of order and propor- 
 tion as that of the Arab courser, but is not so much admired 
 for its beauty. It must be admitted, however, that these 
 elements in combination, do with others, enter more or less 
 fully into the formation of the beautiful, are intimately asso- 
 ciated with its external forms. The absence or violation cl 
 these principles would mar the beauty of the object. 
 
 The spiritual Theory, — The only theoiy of beauty re- 
 mainii^g to be noticed is the spiritual theory, which make* 
 
CONCEPTION OF THE BEAUTIFUL. 281. 
 
 beauty consist, not in matter as such, nor in any mere ar- 
 rangement of matter in itself considered, but in the mani 
 Testation or expression, under these sensible material form?^ 
 of the higher, the liidden spiritual nature^ or element, ap* 
 pealing thus to our own spiritual nature, which is thereby 
 awakened to sympathy. In the sensible world about us we 
 find two elements diverse and distinct each from the other, 
 the idea and the form, spirit and matter, the invisible and 
 the visible. In objects that are beautiful we find these two 
 elements united in such a way, that the one expresses or 
 manifests the other, the form expresses the idea, the body 
 expresses the spirit, the visible manifests the invisible, and 
 GUI own spiritual nature recognizing its like, holds commun- 
 ion and sympathy with it as thus expressed. That which 
 constitutes the beautiful, then., is this manifestation, under 
 sensible forms, and so to our senses, of the higher and spiritual 
 principle wbich is the life and soul of things. 
 
 Relation of the Beautiful to the True and the Good. — It 
 dififersfrom the true in that the true is not, like the beautiful, 
 expressed under sensible forms, but is isolated, pure, abstract, 
 not addressed to the senses, but to reason. It differs from 
 the good, in that the good always proposes an end to be ac- 
 complished, and involves the idea of obligation, while the 
 beautiful, on the contrary, proposes no end to be accom 
 plished, acknowledges no obligation or necessity, but is 
 purely free and spontaneous. Yet, though differing in these 
 aspects, the good, the true, and the beautiful, are at basii^ 
 essentially the same, even as old Plato taught, differing 
 rather in their mode of expression, and the relations which 
 ^hey sustain to us, than in essence. 
 
 Relation of the Beautiful to the Sublime. — The relation 
 of the beautiful to the siiblhne^ according to this theory, is 
 simply this : In the beautiful, the invisible and the visible, 
 the finite and the infinite, are harmoniously blended. In the 
 sublime, the spiritual element predominates, the harmony is 
 disturbed the sensible is overborne bv the infinite, and oui 
 
282 CONCEPTION OF THE BEAUTIFUL. 
 
 spirits are agitated by the presence, in an unwonted degree^ 
 of the higher element of oor own being. Hence, wbile the 
 one pleases, the other awes and subdues us. 
 
 Application of this Theory, — Such, in brief outline, is 
 the theory. Let us see now whether it is applicable to the 
 different forms of beauty, and whether it furnishes a satis- 
 factory explanation and account of them. 
 
 Surveying the different forms of being, we find among 
 them different degrees of beauty. Does, then, every thing 
 which is beautiful express or manifest, through the medium, 
 and, as it were, under the veil, of the material form, the 
 presence of the invisible spiritual element ? and the more 
 beautiful it is, does it so much the more plainly and directly 
 manifest this element ? 
 
 Tlie Theory applied to inorganic Forms, — And first, to 
 begin with the lowest, how is it with the inanimate, inor- 
 ganic, merely chemical forms of matter ? Here we have 
 certain lines, certain figures, certain colors, that we call beau- 
 tiful. What do they express of the higher or spiritual ele- 
 ment of being? In themselves, and directly, they express 
 nothing, perhaps. Yet are they not, after all, suggestive, 
 symbolical of an idea and spirit dwelling, not in them, but 
 in him who made them, of the Creator's idea and spirit, inar- 
 ticulate ex]3ressions, mere natural signs, of a higher principle 
 than dwells in these poor forms ? Do they not suggest and 
 express to us ideas of grace, elegance, delicacy, and the like? 
 Do we not find ourselves attracted by, and, in a sort, in sym- 
 pathy with these forms, as thus significant and expressive ? 
 Is it not thus that lines, and figures, and mathematical forma, 
 the regular and sharply cut angles of the crystal, the ligjit 
 that flashes on its polished surface, or lies hid in beautiful 
 color within it, the order, proportion, and movement, by 
 jlxed laws, of the various forms of matter, appear beautiful 
 to us ? For what are order, proportion, regularity, harmony, 
 and movement, bj fixed laws, and what are elegance, and 
 
CONCEPTION OF THE BEAUTIFUL. 283 
 
 grace of outline and figure, but so many signs and expros- 
 sions of a higher intelligence ? 
 
 Theory applied to vegetable Forms. — Passing onward 
 and upward in the scale of being, taking into view, now, the 
 organic forms of vegetable life, do we not find a more 
 definite aiticulate expression of the spiritual and invisible 
 nnder the material form ? The flower thut blooms in our 
 path, the sturdy tree that throws out its branches against 
 the sky, or droops pensively, as if weighed down by some 
 hidden sorrow, address us more directly, speak more inti- 
 mately to our spirits, than the mere crystal can do, however 
 elegant its form, or definite its outline. They ex23ress senti- 
 ments, not ideas merely. They respond to the sensibilities, 
 they appeal to the inner life of the soul. They are strong 
 or weak, timid or bold, joyous or melancholy. It requires 
 no vigorous exercise of fancy to attribute to them the sensi- 
 bilities which they awaken in us. When in lively commun- 
 ion and sympathy with nature, we can hardly resist the 
 conviction that the emotions which she calls into play in our 
 own bosoms are, somehow, her own emotions also ; that 
 under these forms so expressive, so full of meanmg to us, 
 there lurks an intelligence, a soul. 
 
 To the animal Kingdom. — In the animal kingdom, this 
 invisible spiritual principle, the energy that lies hidden 
 under all forms of animate and organized substance, becomes 
 yet more strongly and obviously developed. The approach 
 is nearer, and the appeal is more direct, to our own spirituiu 
 lature. We perceive signs, not to be mistaken, of intelli- 
 gence and of feeling; passion betrays itself, love, hate, fear 
 the very principles of our own spiritual being, the very im 
 age of our own higher nature. Beauty and deformity are 
 now more strongly marked than in the lower degrees of the 
 Bcale of being. 
 
 To Man. -— In man we reach the highest stage of animai 
 existence with which we are conversant, the highest degree 
 of life, intelligence, soul — the being in whom the spin^uai 
 
284 CONCEPTION OF THE BEAUTIFUL. 
 
 ghiiies forth most clearly through the material veil — and^ 
 shall we not say also, the being most beautiful of all? The 
 highest style of beauty to be found in nature pertains to the 
 human form, as animated and lighted up by the intelligence 
 within. It is the expression of the soul that constitutes this 
 superior beauty. It is that which looks out at the eye, 
 which sits in calm majesty on the brow, lurks in the lip, 
 smiles on the cheek, is set forth in the chiselled lines and 
 features ( f the countenance, in the general contour of 
 figure and form, and the particular shading and expres- 
 sion of the several parts, in the movement, and gesture, 
 and tone ; it is this looking out of the invisible spirit that 
 dwells within, through the portals of the visible, this 
 manifestation of the higher nature, that we admire and 
 love ; this constitutes to us the beauty of our species. 
 Hence it is tliat certain features, not in themselves, per- 
 haps, particularly attractive, wanting, it may be, in certain 
 regularity of outline, or in certain delicacy and softness, are 
 still invested with a peculiar charm and radiance of beauty 
 from their peculiar expressiveness and animation. The light 
 of genius, or the superior glow of sympatliy, and a noble 
 heart, play upon those plain, and, it may be^ homely features, 
 and light them up with a brilliant and regal beauty. Those, 
 as every artist knows, are precisely the features most diffi- 
 cult to portray. The expression changes with the instant. 
 The beauty flashes, and is gone, or gives place to a still 
 higher beauty, as the light that plays in fitful corruscationa 
 along the northern sky, coming and going, but never still. 
 
 Jfan not the highest Type of Beauty. — Is then the human 
 form the highest expression of the principle of beauty ? It 
 can hardly be ; for in man, as in all things on the earth, is 
 mingled along with the beauty much that is deformed, with 
 the excellence much imperfection. We can conceive forms 
 superior to his, faces radiant with a beauty that sin has 
 never darkened, nor passion nor sorrow dimmed. "We can 
 conceive forms of beauty more perfect, purer, brighteri 
 
C<i.<CEPTION OF THE BEAUTIFUL 285 
 
 loftier than any thing that human eye hath seen or human 
 ear heard. We conceive them, however, as existing only 
 under some sensible form, as manifest in some way to 
 sense, and the beauty with w^hich we invest them is the 
 beauty of the spiritual expressing itself in the outward and 
 visible. It is the province of imagination to fashion these 
 concei3tions, and of art to attempt their realization. This, 
 the poet, the painter, the sculptor, the architect, the oratoi, 
 each in his way, is ever striving to do, to present undei 
 sensible forms, the ideal of a more perfect loveUness and ex- 
 cellence than the actual world affords. 
 
 This ideal can never be adequately and fully represented. 
 The perfection of beauty dwells alone wdth God. 
 
 Consider atio7i in favor of the Theory noio explained, — 
 It is in favor of the theorv now under consideration, that it 
 seems thus more nearly to meet and account for the various 
 phenomena of beauty, than any other of those which have 
 passed under our review, and that it accounts for them, 
 withal, on a principle so simple and obvious. The crystal, 
 the violet, the graceful spreading elm, the drooping willow, 
 the statue, the painting, the musical composition, the grand 
 cathedral, whatever in nature^ whatever in art is beautifu], 
 all mean something, all express something, and in this lies 
 their beauty ; and we are moved by them, because Ave, who 
 have a soul, and in whom the spiritual nature predominates, 
 can understand and sympathize with that which these forms 
 of nature and art, in their semi-articulate way, seem all 
 striving to express. 
 
 The Ideas thus expressed pertain not to Nature hut to t/i€ 
 divi?ie Mind, — It is not necessary that, v\dth the ancient 
 Greeks, we should conceive of nature, as having her&elf an 
 intelligent soul of thess forms as themselves conscious of 
 their own meaning and beauty. It is enough that we re 
 cognize them as conveying a sentiment and meaning not 
 their own, but his w^ho made them, and made them repre- 
 sentative and expressive of his own beautiful thought. 
 
286 COGNIZANCE OP TH E BEAUTIFU... 
 
 Words are not the only modes of expression. The soul 
 speaks more earnestly and eloquently often in signs than in 
 words. And when God speaks to men, he does it not al- 
 ways ic the barren forms of human speech, but in the flower 
 that he places by my path, in the tree, the mountain, the 
 rolling ocean, the azure firmament. These are his words y 
 and they are beautiful, and, when he will, they are terrible. 
 Ilappy he who, in all these manifestations, recognizes the 
 Toije of God. 
 
 II. — Cognizance of the Beautiful. 
 
 Beauty an Object of Cognition. — We have treated, iE 
 the preceding section, of the idea of the beautiful, in itself 
 considered. We proceed to investigate the action of the 
 mind as cognizant of the beautiful in its actual manifesta- 
 tions, whether in nature orJ|art. Beauty, as we have found 
 reason to believe, is not a conception merely, existing only 
 in the mind, but a quality of certain objects. As such it 
 has objective value and existence, and the mind is cognizant 
 of it as such, perceives it, observes it, compares it and the 
 object to wdiich it pertains ^\i^th other like and unlike ob- 
 jects, judges and decides respecting it. This quality of ob- 
 jects makes its appeal, as do all objects of perception, first 
 to the senses, and through them to the mind. There is thus 
 awakened in the mind, or suggested to it, the original and 
 intuitive conception of the beautiful ; there is also, and be- 
 side this, the cognizance by the mind of the beautiful as an 
 actual and present reality manifest in the object before it 
 As it perceives other objects of a like nature, it classes them 
 with the preceding, compares them severally, judges of their 
 respective merits, their respective degrees and kinds of 
 beauty. This discriminating power of the mind, as exer- 
 cised upon the vari.ous objects of beauty and sublimity, 
 wlietlier in nature or art, we may designate by the general 
 wame of ta^te. 
 
COGNIZANCE OF THE BEAUTIFUL. 2S7 
 
 Nature of this Power. — There has been much differerice 
 of opinion as to the piecrse nature of this power, whether 
 it is a distinct faculty of the mind, or the simple exercise of 
 ,some faculty already known and described, whether it is of 
 the nature of intellect, or of emotion, or the combination of 
 both. Hence the various definitions of taste which have 
 been given by different writers, some regarding it as strictly 
 an intellectual faculty, others as an emotion, while the 
 greater number regard it as including the action both of 
 the intellect in perceiving, and of the sensibility in feeling, 
 whatever is beautiful and sublime. 
 
 What has been already said, sufficiently indicates with 
 which of these general views our own most nearly accords. 
 We use the term taste to denote the mind's power of cog- 
 nizing the beautiful, a power of knowing, of discriminating, 
 rather than of feeling, an exercise of judgment and the re~ 
 flective power, directed to one particular class of objects, 
 rather than any distinct faculty of the mind. Feeling is 
 doubtless awakened on the perception of the beautiful ; it 
 may even precede the judgment by which we decide that 
 the object before us is truly beautiful ; but the feeling is not 
 itself the perception, or the judgment ; is /lot itself taste^ 
 whatever may be its relation to taste. 
 
 Proposed Investigatio7i. — As this is a matter of some 
 importance to a correct psychology, and also of much differ- 
 ence of opinion, it seems necessary, for purposes of science^ 
 to investiofate somewhat carefullv the nature of this form oi 
 mental activity. It is not a matter to be settled by author 
 ty, by arbitrary definition, or dogmatic assertion. We 
 mufet look at the view^s and opinions of others, and at the 
 reasons for those opinions. 
 
 Definitions. — As preliminary to such investigation, 1 
 «ihall present some of the definitions of taste, given by tho 
 more prominent writers, representing each of the leading 
 Tiew^s alreadv indicated. 
 
 Blair defines it " a power of receiving pleasure from the 
 
^88 COGNIZANCE OF THE BEAUTIFUL. 
 
 beauties of nature and art." Montesquieu, a French author 
 of distinction, defines it '' something which attaches us to 
 certain objects by the power of an internal sense or feeling." 
 Gerard, author of an Essay on Taste, makes it consist in the 
 improvement of the internal senses, viz., sense of novelty, 
 sublimity, beauty, imitation, harmony, etc. Accordant with 
 this are the lines of Akenside : 
 
 " What, then, is taste but those internal powers, 
 Active and strong, and feelingly ahvo 
 To each fine impulse ?" 
 
 Nature of these Definitions. — The definitions now given, 
 it will be perceived, make taste a matter of sensilnlity ^ of 
 nnQrefeelmg^ a sensation or sense, a passive faculty of being 
 pleased with the beauties of nature and art. 
 ^ Another' Class of Definitions, — Difiering ' from this. 
 f others have carefully distinguished between the rational and 
 \ emotional elements, the power of discrhninating and the 
 ' power of feeling^ and have made taste to consist properly 
 in the former. Of this class is Brown. M'Dermot also 
 takes the same view. This author, in his critical disserta- 
 tion on the nature and principles of taste, defines it as the 
 poioer of discriminating those qualities of sensible and intel- 
 lectual being, which, from the invisible harmony that exists 
 between them and our nature, excite in us pleasant emotions. 
 The emotion, however, though it may be the parent of taste, 
 ho would not regard as a constituent element of it. 
 
 Definitions conibining both Elements, — The greatei 
 number, .however, of those who have vnitten on this sub 
 j(,ct, have combined in their definitions of taste both these 
 elements, the power of perceiving and the power of feeling. 
 So Burke : " That faculty, or those faculties of the mind 
 which are affected wit\ or which form, a judgment of the 
 works of imagination and the elegant arts." Alison : "That 
 faculty of the mind by which we perceive and enjoy what>- 
 eve:? is beautiful or sublime in the works of nature and art " 
 
COGNIZANCE OF THE BEAUTIFUL. 289 
 
 lieid also makes it consist in " the power of discerning 
 -and relishing" thes'e objects. Voltaire makes the feeling 
 quite as essential as the perception. Benard, Professor of 
 Philosophy in the College Royal at Rouen, in the excellent 
 article on taste, in the Dictionnaire des Sciences Philoso- 
 phiques, defines taste as " that faculty of the mind which 
 makes us to discern and feel the beauties of nature, and 
 whatever is excellent in works of art." It is a compound 
 faculty, according to this author, inhabiting at once both 
 worlds, that of sense and that of reason. Beauty reveals it- 
 self to us only under sensible forms, the faculty which con- 
 templates the beautiful, therefore, seizes it only in its sensible 
 manifestation. The pure idea, on the other hand, in its 
 abstract nature, addresses not the taste but the understand- 
 ing ; it appears to us, not as the beautiful, but as the true. 
 Taste, then, has to do with sense. Still, says Benard, " the 
 essential element which constitutes it, pertains to the reason ; 
 it is, in truth, only one of the forms of this sovereign power^ 
 which takes different names according to the objects which 
 it deals with ; reason^ properly speaking, when it employs 
 itself in the sphere of speculative truth ; conscience^ Avhen 
 it reveals to us truths moral or practical ; taste^ when it ap- 
 preciates the beauty and suitableness of objects in the real 
 world, or of works of art." 
 
 These three Classes comprehensive, — Other au thorities 
 and definitions, almost without number, might be added, 
 but they fall essentially under the three classes now speci- 
 fied. Which of these views, then, is^ the correct and true 
 one ? is the question now before us. Is taste a matter of 
 feeling, or is it an intellectual discernment, or is it both ? 
 Evidently we cannot depend on authority for the decision 
 of this- question, since authorities differ. We must examine 
 for ourselves. 
 
 Etymology of the Term, — To some extent the word it- 
 self may guide us. Borrowed, as are most if not all wordg 
 expressing mental states and acts, from the sphere of sensei 
 
 13 
 
290 COGNIZANCE OF THE BEAUTIFUL. 
 
 there was doubtless some reason whj this word in particiilai 
 was selected to denote the power of the mind now undet 
 consideration. Some close analogy, doubtless, was supposed 
 to exist between the physical state denoted by this word in 
 its primary sense, and the mental faculty to which we refer, 
 so that, in seeking for a term by which to designate that in- 
 tellectual faculty, none would more readily present itself, as 
 appropriate and suggestive of the mental state intended, 
 than the one in question. This analogy, whatever it be, 
 while it cannot be taken as decisive of the question before 
 us, is still an element not to be overlooked by the psycholo^ 
 nist. What, then, is the analogy ? How Qomes this word 
 
 ' ,'aste — to be used, rather than any other, to denote the 
 /v.oa and power now under consideration ? 
 
 Taste as a Sense, -— In the domain of sense, certain ob- 
 jects brought in contact with the appropriate physical 
 organ, affect us as sv/eet, sour, bitter, etc. This is purely 
 an affection of the sensibility, mere feeling. We say the 
 thing tastes so and so. The power of distinguishing such 
 qualities we call the power or sense of taste. Primarily, 
 mere sensation, mere feeling, we transfer the word to denote 
 the power of judging by means of that sensation. There 
 is, in the first instance, an affection of the organ by the ob- 
 ject brought in contact with it, of which affection we are 
 cognizant ; then follows an intellectual perception or judg- 
 ment that the object thus affecting us, posses^-^es such and 
 Buch qualities, is sweet, sour, bitter, salt, etc.. The sensa- 
 tion affords the ground of the judgment. The latter is 
 based upon the former. The sensation, the simple feeling, 
 affords the means of discriminating, judging, distinguishing, 
 and to this latter power or process the word taste, in the 
 physical sense, is more frequently appropriated. We say of 
 such or such a man, his taste is acute, or his taste is im- 
 paired, or dull, etc., meaning his power ol' perceiving and 
 distinguishing the various properties of objects which affect 
 the sense of taste. 
 
COGNIZANCE OF THE BEAUTIFUL. 291 
 
 Analogy of this to the mental Process called Taste. — 
 It is easy to perceive, now, the analogy between the physical 
 power and process thus described, and the psychological 
 faculty under consideration, to which the name primarily 
 denoting the former has been transferred. Objects in nature 
 and art present themselves to the observation, and awaken 
 pleasure as beautiful, or excite disgust as the opposite. A 
 mere matter of sensibility, of feeUng, this. Presently, how- 
 ever, we begin to notice, not the mere feeling of pleasure 
 or aversion, but the character of the object that awakens it; 
 we discriminate, we attiibute to the object such and such 
 qualities, take cognizance of it as possessing those qualities. 
 This discriminating power, this judgment of the mind that 
 the object possesses such properties, we call taste. As, in the 
 sphere of sense, the feeling awakened affords the means of 
 judging and distinguishing, as to the qualities of the object, 
 60 here. The beautiful awakens sensation — a vivid feeling 
 of pleasure, delight, admiration ; deformity awakens the re- 
 verse ; and this feeling enables us to judge of the object, as 
 regards the property in question, viz., beauty or deformity, 
 whether, and how far, as compared with other objects of the 
 mind, it possesses this quality. In either case — the physical 
 and the psychological - — the process begins with sensation or 
 feeling, but passes on at once into the domain of intellect, 
 the sphere of understanding or judgment ; and while, in 
 either case, the word taste may, without impropriety, be 
 used to denote the feeling or susceptibility of impression 
 which lies at the foundation of the intellectual process, it is 
 more strictly appropriate to the faculty of discriminating 
 the objects, and the qualities of objects, which awaken in us 
 the given emotions. 
 
 So far as the word itself can guide us, then, it would seem 
 to be in the direction now indicated. 
 
 Appeal to Consciousness. - — Analogy, however, may mis- 
 lead us. We must not base a doctrine or decide a question 
 n psychology upon the meaning of a single term TJpor 
 
292 COGNIZANCE OF THE BEAUTIFUL, 
 
 observation and consciousness of what actually passes in oui 
 own minds, in view of the beautiful, we must, after all, rely. 
 Let lis place ourselves, then, in the presence of the beautiful 
 in nature or art, and observe the various mental phenomena 
 that present themselves to our consciousness. 
 
 I stand before a statue of Thorwalsden or Canova. The 
 spell and inspiration of high art are upon me. What passes 
 now in my mind ? 
 
 The first Element, — First of all, I am conscious of almost 
 instant emotion in view of the object, an emotion of pleasure 
 and delight. No sooner do my eyes rest upon the chiselled 
 form that stands in faultless and wondrous beauty before 
 me, than this emotion awakens. It springs into play, as a 
 fountain springs out of the earth by its own spontaneous 
 energy, or, as the light plays on the mountain tops, and 
 flushes their snowy summits, when the sun rises on the Alps. 
 It IS by no volition of mine that this takes place. 
 
 A. second Ele'inent. — Along with the emotion, there is 
 another thing of which, also, I am conscious. Scarcely have 
 my eyes taken in the form and proj)ortions on which they 
 rest with dehght, scarcely has the first thrill of emotion, 
 thus avv^akened, made itself known to the consciousness, 
 when I find myself exclaiming, " How beautiful !" The soul 
 says it ; perhaps the lips utter it. If not an oral, it is, at 
 least, a mental affirmation. The mind perceives, at a glance, 
 the presence of beauty, recognizes its divinity, and pays 
 homage at its shrine ; not now the blind homage of feeling, 
 merely, but the clear-sighted perception of the intellect, the 
 sure decision of the understanding affirming, with authority 
 ' That which thou perceivest and admirest is beautiful.' This 
 is an act of judgment, based, however, on the previous 
 awakening of the sensibility. I know, because I feel. 
 
 A third Ele'inent, — In addition to these, there may, oi 
 may not be, another phase of mental action. I may begin, 
 presently, to observe, with a more careful eye, the worl? 
 before me, and form a critical estimate of it, scan its outline^ 
 
COGNIZANCE OF THE BEAUTIFOL. 293 
 
 its several parts, its effect as a whole, ascertain its merits, 
 and its defects as a work of art, study its design, its idea, 
 and how well it expresses tha"" idea, and fulfills that design. 
 I seek to know what it is in the piece that pleases me, and 
 why it pleases me. This may, or may not, take place. 
 Whether it shall occur, or not, will depend on the state of 
 the mind at the moment, the circumstances in which it i^ 
 placed, its previous training and culture, its habits of thought. 
 Thisj too, is an exercise of judgment, comparing, distinguish- 
 ing, deciding ; a purely intellectual process. It is not so 
 much a new element, as a distinct phase of that last named. 
 It is the mind deciding and affirming now, not merely that 
 the object is beautiful, but in ichat and why it is so. 
 
 Uniformity of Results . — I change now the experiment. I 
 repeat it. I place myself before other works, before works 
 of other artists — works of the painter, the architect, the 
 musician, the poet, the orator. Whatever is beautiful, in art 
 or nature, I observe. I perceive, in all cases, the same results, 
 the occurrence of essentially the same mental phenomena. 
 I conclude that these effects are produced, not fortuitously, 
 but according to the constitution of my nature ; that they 
 are not specific instances, but general laws of mental action ; 
 in other words, that the mind possesses a susceptibility of 
 being impressed in this manner by such objects, and also h 
 faculty of judging and discriminating as above described. 
 To these two elements, essentially, then, do the mental 
 phenomena occasioned by the presence of the beautiful, re- 
 duce themselves. 
 
 The Question, — Which, then, of these elements is it that 
 answers to the idea of taste, as used to denote a power of 
 the mind ? Is it the susceptibility of emotion in view of the 
 beautifu], the power of feehng ; or is it the faculty of judg- 
 ing and disjcriminating ; or is it both combined ? Our 
 definitions, ^s we have seen, include both ; the word, itself; 
 may denote either ; both are comprised in our analysis of 
 the mental phenomena in view of the beautifuL 
 
•294 COGNIZANCE OF THE BEAUTIFUL. 
 
 Not the first, — Is it the first ? I think not. Taste is 
 not mere emotion, nor mere susceptibility of emotion. A 
 child or a savage may be deficient in taste, yet they may be 
 as deeply moved in view of the beautiful, in nature or art, 
 as the man of cultivated mind ; nay, their emotion may ex- 
 ceed his. They may regard, with great delight and admira- 
 tion, what he will view with entire indifference. So far from 
 indicating a high degree of taste, the very susceptibility ol 
 emotion, in such cases, may be the sure indication of a 
 want of taste. They are pleased with that which a culti- 
 vated and correct taste would condemn. The power of 
 being moved is simply sensibility, and sensibility is not taste, 
 however closely they may be related. 
 
 Taste the intellectual Element. — Is taste, then, the powder 
 of mental discrimination which enables me to say that such 
 and such things are, or ai-e not, beautiful, and which, in 
 some cases, perhaps, enables me to decide why, or wherein 
 they are so ? Does it, in a word, denote the intellectual 
 rather than the emotional element of the process ? I am 
 inclined to think this the more correct view. Susceptibility 
 of emotion is, doubtless, concerned in the matter. It has to 
 do with taste. It may be even the ground and foundation 
 of its exercise, nay, of its existence. But it is not, itself, taste, 
 and should not be included, therefore, in the definition. 
 
 Reason for distinguishing the two, — As we distinguish, 
 in philosophical investigation, between an emotion and the 
 intellectual perception that precedes and gives rise to it, or 
 between the perception and the sensation on which it is 
 ounded, so I would distinguish taste,, or the intellectual 
 perception of the beautiful, from the sensation or feeling 
 awakened in view of the object. The fact that both elements 
 exist, and enter into the series of mental phenomena in view 
 of the beautiful, is no reason v>^by they should both be desig- 
 nated by the same terra, or iiicluded in the same definition, 
 but, rather, it is a reason why thev should be cai'efi]]y di?i= 
 tinguished. 
 
COGNIZANCt OF THE BEAUTIFUL. 29,3 
 
 The ]>reoise nature of this fhciiltv mav be more distinctly 
 perceived, if we consider, more paiticularly, its relation to 
 ihejudgme?itj and also to the se/i^ibiliti/. 
 
 Taste, as related to Judgment, — According to the vie^v 
 DOW taken, taste is only a modihcation, or rather a }>articuiai 
 du'ectiou of that generd power of the mind which we call 
 judgme7it J it is judgment exercised about the beautiful. 
 It is the office of the judgment to form opinions and belieis, 
 tc inform us of relations, to decide that thincrs ai^e thus 
 and thus, that this is this, and that is that. As employed in 
 diderent depanments of thought, it appears under different 
 forms, and is known under diverse names. As employed 
 about the actual and sensible, we call it imderstanding ; in 
 the sphere of abstract truth it works under the cognomen 
 of reason; in the sphere of practical truth, the thing that is 
 Sfood and riofht to be done bv me, it is known as conscience : 
 in the sphere of the ideal and the beautiful it is taste. In 
 aU these departments of mental activity it is exercised, em- 
 ploys itself upon all these subjects, giving us opinion, beheL 
 knowledge, as to them alL The judgment as thus exer- 
 cised in relation to the beautiful, that is to say, the mhid 
 observing, comparing, discriminating, deciding, torming the 
 opinion, or reachmg it may be the positive knowledge that 
 this thing is, or is not, beautitiil — for this is simply what we 
 mean by judgment in any particular mstance — judgment, as 
 thus exercised, is known by the name of taste, More strictly 
 speaking, it is not so much the exercise of the judgment in 
 this paiticular way in given instances, as the founelatioa or 
 ;f round oi x\\\xt exercise, the disc'riminatlng faeuUxfov pou>ef 
 of the mind by virtue of which it thus operates. 
 
 Judgment does not furnish the Ideas, — Does, tlien, the 
 judgment, it may be asked, give us originally the ideas of 
 the true, the beantifiii, and the good? This we do not 
 aiiii'm. Judo:ment is not the source of ideas, certainlv not 
 of those now mentioned. It does not originate th'Hu, 
 Theii- origin and awakenino^ in the human mind is "vja 
 
296 COGNIZANCE OF THE BEAUTIFUL. 
 
 should say, on this wise. The beautiful, the true, the good^ 
 exist as simple, absolute, eternal principles. They are in 
 the divine mind. They are in the divine works. In a 
 sense they are independent of Deity. He does not create 
 them. He cannot reverse them or change their nature. He 
 works according to them. They ai'e not created by, but 
 only manifested in^ what God does. We are created with 
 a nature so formed and endowed as*to be capable of recog« 
 nizing these principles and being impressed by them. The 
 consequence is, that no sooner do we open the eye of reason 
 and intelligence upon that which Ues around and passes be- 
 fore us, in the world, than the idea of the true, the beauti- 
 ful, the morally good, is awakened in the mind. We in- 
 stinctively perceive and feel their presence in the objects 
 presented to our notice. They are the product of our ra- 
 tional intelligence, brought into contact, through sense, with 
 the w^orld in which we dw^ell. The idea of beauty or of the 
 liglit, thus once awakened in the mind, when afterward ex- 
 amples, or, it may be, violations, of these principles occur, 
 the judgment is exercised in deciding that the cases pre- 
 sented do or do not properly fall under the class thus desig- 
 nated ; and the judgment thus exercised m respect to the 
 beautiful, we call taste:, in respect to the right, conscience. 
 
 Taste as noio defined. — As now defined, taste is, as to its 
 principle, the discrhninating poioer of the mind with respect 
 to the beautiful or sublhne in nature or art ^ that certain 
 istate, quality, or condition of the mental powers and the 
 mental culture, the result partly of native difference and en- 
 dovnnent, partly of education and habit, by virtue of which 
 we are able to judge more or less correctly as to the beauty, 
 or deformity, the merit or demerit. of whatever presents it- 
 self In nature or art as an object of admiration, whether 
 and how far it is in reality beautiful, and of its fitness to 
 aw^iken in us the emotions that we experience in view 
 thej'trof. If we are able to observe, compare, discriminate, 
 <brm opiuiors and conclusions well and correctly, on tliesc» 
 
COGNIZANCE OF THE BEAUTIFUL. 29V 
 
 matters, our taste is good ; otherwise bad. Whetlier it 1)e 
 the one or the other, will depend not entirely on native en- 
 dow^nent, not altogether on the degree to which the jndg 
 ment is cultivated and developed in respect to other mat- 
 ters, but quite as much on the culture and training of the 
 mind with respect to the specific objects of taste, viz., the 
 beauties of nature and art. Men of strong minds, good 
 understanding, and sound judgment in other matters, are 
 not necessarily men of good taste. Like every other faculty 
 of the mind, taste requires cultivation. 
 
 Taste and good Taste, — It is necessary to distinguish 
 between taste, and good taste. Many ^vi'iters use the terms 
 indifi:erently, as when we say such a one is a man of taste, 
 meaning: of eood taste, or such a one has no taste whatever, 
 meaning that he is a man of bad taste. Strictly speaking, 
 the savage who rejoices in the disfigurement of his person. 
 by tattooing, paint, and feathers, is a man of taste^ as really 
 as the Broadway dandy, or the Parisian exquisite. He has 
 his faculty of judging in such matters, and exercises it — his 
 standard of judging, and comes up to it. He is a man of 
 taste, but not of correct taste. He has his own notions, but 
 they do not agree with ours. He violates all the rules and 
 principles by which well-informed minds are guided m such 
 matters. He shocks our notions of fitness and propriety, 
 excites in us emotions of disgust, or of the ludicrous, and, on 
 the whole, we vote him down as a man of no authoritv in 
 such matters. 
 
 As related to Sensibility/. — Thus far we have spoken of 
 taste only as related to the judgment. It is necessary to con 
 sider also its relation to the sensibility. Taste and sensibil 
 ity are very often confounded. They are, in realit}', quite 
 distinct. Sensibility, so far as we are at present coiit^erned 
 with it, is the mind's capability of emotion in view of the 
 beautiful or sublime. Taste is its capability of judging, hi 
 view of the same. Viewed as acts, rather than as states or 
 powers of the mind, sensibility is the feehng awakened ir 
 
 13* 
 
e98 COGNIZANCE OF THE BEAUTIFUL. 
 
 view of a beautiful object ; taste is the judgment or opinion 
 formed respecting it. In the case ah'eady supposed, I stand 
 before a fine statue. or painting. It moves me, attracts me, 
 fills me with delight and admiratioiie In this, it is not 
 directly and immediately my taste, but my sensibility, that is 
 afiTected and brought into play. I begin to judge of the ol> 
 ject before me as a work of art, to form an opinion respect* 
 ing its merits and demerits ; and, in so doing, my taste is 
 exercised. 
 
 TJie two not always proportional, — Not only are the 
 two principles distinct, but not always do they exist in equal 
 proportion and development in the same mind. Persons 
 of the liveliest sensibility are not always, perhaps not gener- 
 ally, persons of the nicest taste. The child, the uneducated 
 peasant, the negro, are as highly delighted with beautiful 
 forms and beautiful colors as the philosopher, but could not 
 tell you so well why they were moved, or what it was, in 
 the object, that pleased them ; neither would they discrim- 
 mate so well the truly beautiful from that which is not 
 worthy of admiration. If there may be sensibility without 
 taste, so, on the other hand, a high degree of taste is not 
 always accompanied with a corresponding degree of sensibil- 
 ity. The practised connoisseur is not always the man who 
 enjoys the most at sight of a fine picture. The skillful mu- 
 sician has much better taste in music than the child that 
 listens, with mingled wonder and delight, to his playing ; but 
 we have only to glance at the countenance of each, to see at 
 once which feels the most. 
 
 Sensibility not inconsistent with Taste. — I should not, 
 however, infer from this, that a high degree of sensibility isi 
 inconsistent with a high degree of taste. This was Mr, 
 Stewart's opinion. The feeling, he would say, will be likely 
 to interfere with the judgment, in such a case. Doubtless^ 
 where the feeling is highly wrought upon and excited, it 
 may, for the time, interfere with the cool and deliberate ex- 
 ercise rf the judgment. Yet, nevertheless, if sensibility bu 
 
COGNIZANCE OF THE BEAUTIFUL. 299 
 
 granting, there will not be likely to be much taste. If 1 feel 
 no pleasure at sight of a beautiful landscape or painting, I 
 shall not be likely to trouble myself much about its compar- 
 ative merits or defects. It is useless, in such a case, to in- 
 quire what pleases me, or why I am pleased, when, in truth, 
 nothing j^leases me. There is no motive for the exercise of 
 judgment in such a case, neither is there an opportunity for 
 its action. The very foundation for such an exercise is want- 
 ing. A lively sensibility is the basis of a correct taste, this 
 ground on which it must rest, the spring and life of its ac 
 tion. The two are related somewhat as genius and learning 
 which are not always found in equal degree, yet are by no 
 means inconsistent with each other. There may be a high 
 degree of mental strength and activity, without correspond- 
 ing acquisitions ; yet there can hardly b^ learning without 
 some degree of mental power and activity. There may be 
 sensibility without much taste, but hardly much taste with- 
 out sensibility. Taste is, in a great measure, acquired, cul- 
 tivated, an art; sensibility, a native endowment. It may 
 be developed, strengthened, educated, but not acquired. 
 Genius produces, sensibility admires, taste judges or decides. 
 Their action is reciprocal. If taste corrects and restrains the 
 too ready or too extravagant sensibility, the latter, on the 
 other hand, furnishes the ground and data upon which, after 
 all, taste must rely in its decisions. 
 
 Cultivation of Taste, — We have investigated, with some 
 care, as was proposed, the nature of that power of the mind 
 which takes cognizance of the beautiful. On the cultivation 
 of this power, a few words must be said in this connection. 
 Taste is an intellectual faculty, a perceptive power, a matter 
 of judgment, and, as such, both admits and requires cultiva- 
 tion. IN'o forms of mental activity depend more on educa- 
 tion and exercise, for their full development, than that class 
 to which we give the general name of ju<^gment, and no 
 form of judgment more than that which we call taste. The 
 mind uncultivated, untrained, unused to the nice perception 
 
JOO . COGNIZANCE OF THE BEAUTIFUL. 
 
 of the beautiful, can no more judge correctly, in matters of 
 taste, than the mind unaccustomed to judge of the distance, 
 magnitude, or chemical properties of bodies, can form cor- 
 rect decisions upon these subjects. It must be trained by 
 art, and strengthened by exercise. It must be made familiar 
 with the laws, and conversant with the forms ^f beauty. It 
 must be taught to observe and study the beautiful, in 
 nature and in art, to discriminate, to compare, to judge 
 The works in literature and in art which have received the 
 ap})robation of time, and the honorable verdict of mankind, 
 as well as the objects in nature w^hicli have commanded the 
 admiration of the race, must become familiar, not by obser- 
 vation only, but by careful study. Thus may taste be culti- 
 vated. 
 
 Historical Sketch. 
 
 View of Plato, — Among the ancients, Plato was, per- 
 haps, the first to distinguish the idea of the beautiful from 
 other kindred ideas, and to point out its afiinity with the true 
 and the good, thus recognizing in it something immutable 
 and eternal. In making the good and the beautiful identical, 
 however, he mistakes the true character and end of art. 
 Previously to Plato, and even by him, art and the beautifui 
 were treated only in connection with ethics and politics ; 
 aesthetics, as a distinct department of science, was not known 
 to the ancients. 
 
 Of Aristotle, - — Aristotle has not treated of the beautiful, 
 but only of dramatic art. Poetry, he thinks, originates in 
 the tendency to imitate, and the desire to know. Tragedy 
 is the imitation of the better. Painting should represent, in 
 like manner, not what is^ but what ought to he. In this 
 sense, may be understood his profound remark, that poetry 
 is more true than history. 
 
 Plotinus and Augustine. — After Aristotle, Plotinus and 
 Augustine alone, among the ancients, have treated of the 
 beautiful. The work of Augustine is not extant. It i» 
 
COGNIZANCE OF THE BEAUTIEUL. 301 
 
 known that he made beauty consist in unity and fitness of 
 parts, as in music. The treatise of Plotinus is regarded aa 
 at once beautiful and profound. Material beauty is, with 
 him, only the expression or reflection of spiritual beauty. 
 The soul alone, the mind, is beautiful, and in loving the 
 beautiful, the^ soul loves its own image as there expressed. 
 Hence, the soul must, itself, be beautiful, in order to com- 
 prehend and feel beauty. The tendency of this theory ia 
 to mysticism. 
 
 Longinus and Qitintilian, — Longinus, and Quintilian, 
 treat of the sublime, only with reference to eloquence and 
 oratory ; so, also, Horace, of art, as having to do with 
 poetry. 
 
 JBaco7i. — Among the moderns, JBacon recognizes the fine 
 arts as among the sciences, and poetry as one of the three 
 chief branches of human knowledge, but nowhere, that I am 
 aware, treats of the beautiful, distinctly, as such. 
 
 School of Leibnitz. — It w^as the school of Leibnitz and 
 
 "Wolf in Germany that first made the beautiful a distinct 
 
 science. Baumgarten, disciple of Wolf, first conceived this 
 
 idea. Like Plato, however, he makes the beautiful too 
 
 nearly identical with the good and Avith morals. 
 
 School of Locke, — In England, the school oi Loche hav<3 
 much to say of beauty. Shaftesbury and Hutcheson, while 
 they do not clearly distinguish between the beautiful and 
 the good, adopt the theory of unity in variety, as already 
 explained. Hogarth falls into the same class, his idea of 
 beauty being represented by the waving line. Burke does 
 uot distinguish sufiiciently between the sublime and the ter- 
 rible. 
 
 French Micyclopedists, — In France, the Encyclopedists 
 coincide, essentially, with the school of Locke, and treat of 
 the beautiful, chiefly in its moral aspect. 
 
 The later Germans, — In Germany, again, WmcJcehnan^ 
 an artist, and not a philosopher, seizing the spirit of the 
 Greek art, ascribes, as Plato had done, the idea of beauty to 
 
302 COGNIZANCE OF THE BEAUTIFUL 
 
 God, from wlioDi it passes into sensible things, as his mam 
 festatious. 
 
 In opposition to this ideal and divine aspect, Lessinf^ 
 takes a more practical view, regarding the beautiful from 
 the stand-point of the real. Herder and Goethe contribute, 
 also, much to the science of jpsthetics. All these do little 
 more than prepare the way for Kant^ \;\\o goes more pro« 
 foundly into the philosophy of the matter. He makes beauty 
 a subjective affair, a play of the imagination. 
 
 Schiller makes it the joint product of the reason and the 
 sensibility, but still a subjective matter, as Kant. 
 
 Schelling and Hegel, — Schelling develops the spiritual or 
 ideal theory of beauty. Hegel carries out this theory and 
 makes a complete science of it, classifies and analyzes the 
 arts. His work is regarded as the first complete discussion 
 of the philosophy of the fine arts. It is characterized by 
 strength, clearness, depth, power of- analysis, richness of 
 imaoination. 
 
 Theory of Jonffroy, — Jouffroy^ in France, among the 
 later writers, has treated fully, and in an admirable manner, 
 of the philosophy of the beautiful. His theory is derived 
 from that of Hegel, with some modifications. It is essen- 
 tially the theory last preseqted in the discussion of the sub- 
 ject in the preceding section, viz., the expression of the spir- 
 itual or invisible element under sensible forms. No writer 
 is more worthy of study than Jouffroy. His work is clear, 
 strong, and of admirable power of analysis. 
 
 Cousin. — Amono- the eclectics. Cousin, in his treatise on 
 the true, the beautiful, and the good, has many just ob- 
 servations, with much beauty and philosophic clearness of 
 expression. " 
 
 3f'Dermot, — In English, beside the works already refer- 
 red to, must be noticed the treatise of M''Derniot on Taste, 
 in which the nature and objects of taste are fully and well 
 discussed. 
 
OflAPTER IV. 
 
 IDEA AiTD 00(3rJNlZANCE OF THE RIGHT. 
 
 § 1. - - \Djsa of Right. 
 
 The Idea of Right a Oo7tc^don of the Mind, — Among 
 tne conceptions which consutatje the furniture of the mind, 
 thowe is one, which, in niany le&pects, is unlike all others, 
 whilo, at the same time, it is moie xbiportant than all others; 
 that ik^ ihe notion or idea of rigni, 
 
 Unit^t^sally prevalent, — When vre direct our attention 
 to any giN^v^n instance of the volmiirti\ action of any intel- 
 ligent rativ^ual being, we find ourser\e!< not unfrequently 
 pronouncing upon its character as a right or wrong act. Es- 
 pecially is thi^ the case w^hen the act cotriemplated is of a 
 marked and unusual character. The question at once 
 arises, is it right ? Or, it may be, without tne consciousness 
 of even a question respecting it, our decision lollows in- 
 stantly upon the mental apprehension of the act itself — this 
 thing is right, that thing is wrong. Our decision may be 
 correct or incorrect ; our perception of the real nature of 
 the act may be clear or obscure ; it may make a stronger or 
 weaker impression on the mind, according to our mental 
 habits, the tone of our mental nature, and the degree to 
 which we have cultivated the moral faculty.* There may be 
 minds so degraded, and natures so perverted, that the moral 
 character of an act shall be quite mistaken, or quite over- 
 looked in many cases ; or, when perceived, it shall make little 
 impression on them. Even in such minds, however, the idea 
 of right and wrong still finds a place, and the understanding 
 applies it, though not perhaps always correctly, to particulaf 
 'instances of human conduct. There is no reason to believe 
 
304 IDEA OF RIGHT. 
 
 that any mind possessing ordinary endowments, ihat de. 
 gree of reason and intelligence which natm'e usually be^ 
 stows, is destitute of this idea, or fails altogether to apply it 
 to its own acts, and tnose of others. 
 
 The Question and its different Answers, — But here an 
 'mportant question presents itself: Whence come tliese ideas 
 and perceptions ; their origin ? How is it, why is it, that 
 we pronounce an act right or wrong, when once fairly ap. 
 prehended ? How come we by these notions ? The fact is 
 admitted ; the explanations vary. By one class of writers 
 our ideas of this nature have been ascribed to education and 
 fashion j by another, to legal restriction^ human or divine. 
 Others, again, viewing these ideas as the offspring of na- 
 ture, have assigned them either to the operation of a special 
 sense^ given for this specific purpose, as the eye for vision ; 
 or to the joint action of certain associated emotions ; while 
 others regard them as originating in an exercise oi judg- 
 ment^ and others still, as natural intuitions of the mind, or 
 reason exercised on subjects of a moral nature. 
 
 Main Question, — The main question is, are these ideas 
 natural,^ or artificial and acquired? If the latter, are they 
 the result of education, or of legal restraint ? If the for- 
 mer, are they to be referred to the sensibilities,, as the 
 result of a special sense or of association, or to the intellect^ 
 as the result of the faculty of judgment or as intuitions of 
 reason ? 
 
 1. Education,— Come thev from Education and Imita" 
 tio7i ? — So Locke, Paley, and others, have supposed, 
 Locke was led to take this view, by tracing, as he did, all 
 simple ideas, except those of our own mental operations, to 
 sensation, as their source. This allows, of course, no place 
 for the ideas of right and wrong, which, accordingly, he 
 concluded, cannot be natural ideas, but must be the result 
 of education. 
 
 Objection to this View,_ — Now it is to be conceded that 
 education and fashion are poweiful instruments in tho cul* 
 
IDEA OF RIGHT. 305 
 
 tare of the mind. Their influence is not to be overlooked 
 in estimating the causes that shape and direct the opinions 
 of men, and the tendencies of an age. But they do not ac- 
 count for the origin of any thing. This has been ably and 
 clearly shown by Dugald Stewart, in answer to Locke ; and 
 it is a sufficient answer. Education and imitation both ijre- 
 suppose the existence of moral ideas and distinctions ; the 
 \?eiy things to be accounted for. How came they who first 
 taught these distinctions, and they who first set the example 
 of making such distinctions, to be themselves in possession 
 of these ideas ? Whence did they derive them ? Who 
 taught thein^ and set them the example ? This is a question 
 not answered by the theory now under consideration. It 
 gives us, therefore, and can give us, no account of the origin 
 of the ideas in question. 
 
 2. Legal Enactment, — Do we then derive these ideas 
 from legal restriction and enactment f So teach some 
 able writers. Laws are made, human and divine, requir 
 ing us to do thus and thus, and forbidding such and 
 such things, and hence we get our ideas originally of right 
 and wrong. 
 
 Presupposes Right. — If this be so, then, previous to ail 
 law% there could have been no such ideas, of course. But 
 does not law pjresvppose the idea of right and wrong ? Is 
 it not built on that idea as its basis ? How, then, can it 
 originate that on w^hich itself depends, and which it presup- 
 poses ? The first law ever promulgated must have been 
 either a just or an unjust law, or else of no moral character. 
 If the L*\tter, how could a law which was neither just nor 
 unjust, have suggested to the subjects of it any such ideas? 
 If the former, then these qualities, and the ideas of them, 
 must have existed prior to the law itself; and whoever 
 made the law and conferred on it its character, must have 
 had already, in his own mind, the idea of the right and it.s 
 opposite. P- is evident that we cannot, in this way^ account 
 
SG6 IDEA OF RIGHl. 
 
 for tlie origin of the ideas in question. We are no nearef 
 the solution of the problem than before. 
 
 In opposition to the views now considered, we raust re- 
 gard the ideas in question, as, directly or indirectly, the 
 work of nature, and the result of our constitution. The 
 question still remains, however, in which of the several 
 ways indicated, does this result take place ? 
 
 8 . Special Sense. — Shall we attribute these ideas to a 
 special sen^e ? This is the view taken by Hutch eson and 
 his followers. Ascribing, with Locke, all our simple ideas to 
 sensation, but not content with Locke's theory of moral dis- 
 tinctions as the result of education, he sought to account for 
 them by enlarging the sphere of sensation, and introducing 
 a new sense, whose specific office is to take cognizance of 
 such distinctions. The tendency of this theory is evident. 
 While it derives the idea of right and its opposite from our 
 natural constitution, and is, so far, preferable to either of the 
 preceding theories, still, in assigning them a place among 
 the sensibilities, it seems to make morality a mere sentiment^ 
 a matter of feeling merely, an impression made on our sentient 
 nature — a mere subjective affair — as color and taste are 
 impressions made on our organs of sense, and not properly 
 qualities of bodies. As these affections of the sense do 
 not exist independently, but only relatively to us, so moral 
 distinctions, according to this view, are merely subjective 
 affections of our minds, and not independent realities. 
 
 Hume and the Sophists, — Hume accedes to this general 
 view, and carries it out to its legitimate results, making 
 morality a mere relation between our nature and certain 
 objects, and not an independent quality of actions. Virtue 
 and vice, like color and taste, the bright and the dull, the 
 eweet and the bitter, lie merely in our sensations. 
 
 These skeptical views had been advanced long previously 
 Dy the Sophists, who taught that man is the measure of all 
 things, that things are only what they seem to us. 
 
 Ambiguity of tJie term Sense. — Tt is true, as Stewart has 
 
IDEA OF RIGHT. 3v>^ 
 
 observed, that these views do not ne^^^aii^arily result from 
 Hutcheson-s theory, nor were they, probably, held by hhn ; 
 but such is the natural tendency of his doctrine. The term 
 sense^ as employed by him, is, in itself, ambiguous, and may 
 be used to denote a mental perception / but when we speak 
 of a sense, we are understood to refer to that p^rt of our 
 constitution which, when affected from without, gives us 
 certain sensations. Thus the sense of hearing, the sense oi 
 vision, the sense of taste, of smell, etc. It is in this way 
 that Hutcheson seems to have employed the term, and his 
 illustrations all point in this direction. He was unfortunate, 
 to say the least, in his use of terms, and in his illustrations ; 
 unfortunate, also, in having such a disciple as Hume, to push 
 his theory to its legitimate results. 
 
 If, by a special sense, he meant only a direct perceptive 
 power of the mind, then, doubtless, Hutcheson is right in 
 recognizing such a faculty, and attributing to it the ideas 
 under consideration. But that is not the proper meaning of 
 the word sense^ nor is that the signification attached to it by 
 his followers. 
 
 JVo Evidence of such a Faculty. — But if he means, by 
 sense, what the word itself would indicate, some adaptation 
 of the sensibilities to receive impressions from things with- 
 out, analogous to that by which we are affected through the 
 organs of sense, then, in the first place, it is not true that 
 we have any such special faculty. There is no evidence of 
 it ; nay, facts contradict it. There is no such uniformity of 
 moral impression or sensation as ought to manifest itself on 
 this supposition. Men's eyes and ears are much alike, in 
 their activity, the world over. That which is white, or red, 
 to one, is not black to another, or green to a third ; that 
 which is sweet to one, is not sour, or bitter, to another. Kt 
 least, if such variations occur, they are the result only of 
 Bome unnatural and unusual condition of the organs. I^ut 
 it is otherwise with the operation of the so-called special 
 sense While all men have probably, some idea of right 
 
SOS IDEA OF RIGHT. 
 
 and wrong, there is the greatest possible variety in its appli 
 cation to particular instances of conduct. What one ap« 
 proves as a virtue, another condemns as a crime. 
 
 iVb Need of it, — Nor, secondly, have we any need to call 
 in the aid of a special sense to give us ideas of this kind. It 
 is not true, as Locke and Hutcheson believed, that all our 
 ideas, except those of our own mental . operations, or con- 
 sciousness, are derived ultimately from sensation. We have 
 ideas of the true and the beautiful, ideas of cause and effect, 
 of geometrical and arithmetical relations, and various other 
 ideas, which it would be difficult to trace to the senses as 
 their source ; and which, equally with the ideas of right and 
 wrong, would require, in that case, a special sense for their 
 production.' 
 
 4. Association. — Shall we, then, adopt the view of that 
 class of ethical writers who account for the origin of these 
 ideas by the pinnciple of association ? Such men as Hartley, 
 Mill, Mackintosh, and others of that stamp, are not lightly 
 to be set aside in the discussion of such a question. Their 
 view is, that the moral perceptions are the result of certain 
 combined antecedent emotions, such as gratitude, pity, re- 
 sentment, etc., which relate to the dispositions and actions 
 of voluntary agents, and which very easily and naturally 
 come to be transferred, from the agent himself, to the ac- 
 Jon in itself considered, or to the disposition which prompted 
 it ; forming, when thus transferred and associated, what we 
 call the moral feelings and perceptions. Just as avarice 
 arises from the original desire, not of money, but of the 
 things which money can procure — which desire comes, event- 
 ually, to be transferred, from the objects themselves, to the 
 means and instrument of procuring them — and, as sympathy 
 arises from the transfer to others of the feelings which, in 
 like circumstances, agitate our own bosoms, so, in like man- 
 ner, by the principle of association, the feelings which 
 naturally arise in view of the conduct of others, are trans- 
 ferred from the agent to the act, from the enemy or the 
 
IDEA OF EIGHT. 309 
 
 benefactor, to the injury or the benefaction, which acts stanJ 
 afterward, by themselves, as objects of approval or condem 
 nation. Hence the disposition to approve all benevolent 
 acts, and to condemn the opposite ; which disposition, thus 
 formed and transferred, is a part of conscience. So of other 
 elementary emotions. 
 
 Makes Conscience a mere Sentiment. — It will be per- 
 ceived that this theory, which is indebted chiefly to Mack- 
 intosh for its completeness, and scientific form, makes cou- 
 science wholly a matter of sentiment and feeling ; standing 
 in this respect, on the same ground with the theory of a 
 special sense, and liable, in part, to the same objections. 
 Hence the name sentimental school, often employed to des- 
 ignate, collectively, the adherents of each of these views. 
 While the theory, now proposed, might seem then to offer 
 a plausible account of the manner in which our moral senti* 
 m^ents arise, it does not account for the origin of our ideas 
 and perceptions of moral rectitude. Now the moral faculty 
 is not a mere sentiment. There is an intellectual perception 
 of one thing as right, and another as wrong : and the ques 
 tion now before us is, Whence comes that perception, and 
 the idea on which it is based ? To resolve the whole matter 
 into certain transferred and associated emotions, is to give 
 up the inherent distinction of right and wrong as qualities 
 of actions, and make virtue and vice creations of the sensi- 
 bility, the play and product of the excited feelings. To 
 admit the perception and idea of the right, and ascribe their , 
 origin to antecedent emotion, is, moreover, to reverse the 
 natural order and law of psychological operation, which bases 
 emotion on perception, and not perception on emotion. We 
 do not first admire, love, hate, and then perceive, but the 
 reverse. 
 
 Further Objections. — The view now under consideration, 
 while it seems to resolve the moral faculty into mere feeling, 
 thus making morality wholly a relative affair, makes con- 
 science, itself, an acquired, rather tha^ % natural fei^i^v, a 
 
310 IDEA OF RIGHT. 
 
 Becondary process, a transformation of emotions, rathei tlian 
 Itself an original principle. It does it, moreover, the fur- 
 ther injustice of deriving its origin from the purely selfish 
 principles of our nature. I receive a favor, or an injury; 
 hence I regard, with certain feelings of complacency, or the 
 o})posite, the man who has thus treated me. These feelings 
 I come gradually to transfer to, and associate with, the act 
 in itself considered, and this with other acts of the same na- 
 ture ; and so, at last, I come to have a moral faculty, and 
 pronounce one thing right, and another wrong. 
 
 At Variance imith Facts, — This view is quit^ inadmis- 
 sible ; at variance with facts, and the well-known laws of 
 the human mind. The moral faculty is one of the earliest to 
 develop itself. It appears in childhood, manifesting itself, 
 not as an acquired and secondary principle, the result of a 
 complicated process of associated and transferred emotion, 
 requiring time for its gradual formation and growth, but 
 rather as an original instinctive principle of nature. 
 
 Sympathy, — Adam Smith, in his " Theory of Moral 
 Sentiments," has proposed a view which falls properly under 
 the general theory of association, and may be regarded as a 
 modification of it. He attributes our moral perceptions to 
 the feeling of sympathy. To adopt the feelings of another 
 is to approve them. If those feelings are such as would 
 naturally be awakened in us by the same objects, we ap- 
 prove them as morally proper. Sympathy with the grati- 
 tude of one who has received a favor, leads us to regard the 
 benefaction as meritorious. Sympathy with the resentment 
 of an injured man, leads us to regard the injurer as worthy 
 of punishment, and so the sense of demerit originates ; sym- 
 pathy with the feelings of others respecting our own con- 
 duct gives rise to self-approval and sense of duty. Rules ol 
 morality are merely a summary of these sentiments. 
 
 This View not sustained by Co?iscious72ess. — Whatever 
 credit may be due to this ingenious writer, for calling atten- 
 tion to •^. principle which had not been sufficiently taken into 
 
IDEA OF RIGHT. 3 I 
 
 account by preceding philosophers, we cannot but regard \ 
 as an insufficient explanation of the present case. In t & 
 first place, we are not co7iscioi(s of the element of ftympa'i^'jy 
 in the decisions and perceptions of the moral faculty. Ife 
 look at a given action as right or wrong, and approve of it, 
 or condemn it on that ground^ because it is right or t/rong, 
 not because we sympathize with the feelings awakened by 
 the act in the minds of others. If the process now supposed 
 intervened between our knowledge of the act, and our judg- 
 ment of its morality, we should know it and recognize it as 
 a distinct element. 
 
 No hnperative Character. — Furthermore, sympathy, like 
 other emotions, has no imperative character, and, even if it 
 might be supposed to suggest to the mind some idea of 
 moral distinctions, cannot of itself furnish a foundation for 
 those feelings of obligation which accompany and character- 
 ize the decisions of the moral faculty. 
 
 The Standard of Right, — But more than this, the \ lew 
 now taken makes the standard of right and wrong variMe^ 
 and dependent on the feelings of men. We must L.iow 
 how others think and feel, how the thing affects then:., be- 
 fore we can know whether a given act is right or ^/loug, to 
 be performed or avoided. And then, furthermorCj oar feel- 
 ings must agree with theirs ; there must be sym]. dthy and 
 harmony of views and feelings, else the result wui not fol- 
 low. If any thing prevents us from knowing wl at are the 
 feelings of others with respect to a given course of conduct, 
 or if for any reason we fail to sympathize with tho&e feel- 
 ings, we can have no conscience in the matter. As those 
 feelings vary, so will our moral perceptions vary. We have 
 no fixed standard. There is no place left for right, as such, 
 and absolutely. If no sympathy, then no duty, no right, no 
 morality. 
 
 Residt of the preceding Inquiries, — We have, as yet, 
 fcund no satisfactory explanation of the origin of our mora! 
 •deas and perceptions. They seem not to be the result of 
 
512 IDEA OF EIGHT. 
 
 education and Imitation, nor yet of legal enactment. They 
 seem to be natural, rather than artificial and acquired. Yet 
 we cannot trace them to the action of the sensitive part of 
 our nature. They are not the product of a special sense, 
 nor yet of the combined and associated action of certain 
 natural emotions, much less of any one emotion, as sym- 
 pathy. And yet they are a part of our nature. Place man 
 where you will, surround him with what influences you will, 
 you still find in him, to some extent at least, indications of 
 a moral nature ; a nature modified, indeed, by circumstances, 
 but never wholly obliterated. Evidently we must refer the 
 ideas in question, then, to the intellectual, since they do not 
 belong to the sensitive part of our nature. 
 
 5. Judgment, — Are they then the product and operation 
 of the faculty of judgment ? But the judgment does not 
 originate ideas. It compares, distributes, estimates, decides 
 to what class and category a thing belongs, but creates 
 nothing. I have in mind the idea of a triangle, a circle, 
 etc. So soon as certain figures are presented to the eye, I 
 refer them at once, by an act of judgment, to the class to 
 which they belong. I aflirm that to be a triangle, this, a 
 circle, etc. ; the judgment does this. But judgment does 
 not furnish my mind with the primary idea of a circle, etc. 
 I.t deals with this idea already in the mind. So in our judg- 
 ment of the beauty and deformity of objects. The percep- 
 tion that a landscaj)e or painting is beautiful, is, in one sense, 
 an act of judgment ; but it is an act which presupposes the 
 'dea of the beautiful already in the mind that so judges. 
 So also of moral distinctions. Whence comes the idea of 
 right and wrong which lies at the foundation of every parti- 
 cular judgment as to the moral character of actions ? This 
 IS the question before us, still unanswered ; and to this there 
 remains but one reply. 
 
 6. These Ideas intuitive. — The ideas in question are m- 
 tuitive ; suggestions or perceptions of reason. The view 
 now proposed may be thus stated : It is the ofiice of reason 
 
IDEA OF RIGHT. 313 
 
 to discern the right and the wrong, as well as the true and 
 the false, the beautiful and the reverse. Regarded subject- 
 ively, as conceptions of the human mind, right and wrong, 
 as well as beauty and its opposite, truth and its opposite, are 
 simple ideas, incapable of analysis or definition ; intuitions 
 of reaso7i. Regarded as objective, right and wrong are 
 realities, qualities absolute, and inherent in the nature of 
 things, not fictitious, not the play of human fancy or human 
 feeling, not relative merely to the human mind, but inde- 
 pendent, essential, universal, absolute. As such, reason re- 
 cognizes their existence. Judgment decides that such and 
 such actions do possess the one or the other of these quali- 
 (ies ; are right or wrong actions. There follows the sense 
 of obligation to do or not to do, and the consciousness of 
 merit or demerit as we comply, or fail to comply, wdth the 
 same. In view of these perceptions emotions arise, but 
 only as based upon them. The emotions do not, as the 
 sentimental school aflSrm, originate the idea, the perception ; 
 but the idea, the perception, gives rise to the emotion. We 
 are so constituted as to feel certain emotions in view of the 
 moral quality of actions, but the idea and perception of that 
 moral quality rmx^i precede^ and it is the ofiace of reason to 
 produce this. 
 
 First Truths. — There are certain simple ideas which 
 must be regarded as first truths, or first principles, of the 
 human understanding, essential to its operations, ideas uni- 
 versal, absolute, necessary. Such are the ideas of personal 
 existence, and identity, of time and space, as conditions of 
 material existence ; of number, cause, and mathematical re- 
 lation. Into this class fall the ideas of the true, the beauti- 
 ful, the right, and their opposites. The fundamental maxmas 
 of reasoning and morals find here their place. 
 
 How aioaJcened, — These are, in a sense, intuitive percep- 
 tions ; not strictly innate, yet connate ; the foundation for 
 them being laid in our nature and constitution. So soon as 
 the mind reaches a certain stage of development they pre- 
 
 14 
 
314 COGNITION OF RIGHIT. 
 
 sent themselves. Circumstances may promote or retarcl 
 their appearance. They depend on opportunity to furnish 
 the occasion of their springing up, yet they are, nevertheless, 
 the natural, spontaneous development of the human soul, aa 
 really a part of our nature as are any of our instinctive im- 
 pulses, or our mental attributes. They are a part of that 
 native intelligence with whixjli we are endowed by the au- 
 thor of our being. These intuitions of ours, are not them- 
 selves the foundation of right and wrong ; they do not 
 make one thmg right and another wrong ; but they are 
 simply the reason why we so regard them. Such we 
 believe to be the true account of the origin of our moral 
 perceptions. 
 
 §11. — Cognizance of the Right. 
 
 TJie Cognition distinguished from the Idea of Right, — 
 Having, in the pi-eceding section, discussed the idea of the 
 right, in itself considered, as a conception of the mind, we 
 proceed now to consider the action of the mind as cognizant 
 of right. The theme is one of no little difficulty, but, at the 
 same time, of highest importance. 
 
 JExistence of this Power, — After what has been ah-eady 
 said, it is hardly necessary to raise the preliminary inquiry, 
 as to the existence of a moral faculty in man. That w^e do 
 possess the power of making moral distinctions, that we do 
 discriminate between the right and the wrong in human 
 conduct, is an obvious fact in the history and psychology of 
 the race. Consciousness, observation, the form of language, 
 the Uterature of the world, the usages of society, all attest 
 and confirm this truth. We are conscious of the operation 
 of this principle in ourselves, whenever we contemplate oui 
 own conduct, or that of others. We find ourselves, involun 
 tarily, and as by instinct, pronouncing this act to be right 
 that, wrong. We recognize the obligation to do, or to hav# 
 done, otherwise. We approve, or condemn. We are sn* 
 
COGNITION OF RIGHT. 315 
 
 •ained by the calm sense of that self-approval, or cast down 
 by the fearful strength and bitterness of that remorse. And 
 what we find in ourselves, we observe, also, in others. In 
 like circumstances, they recognize the same distinctions, and 
 exhibit the same emotions. At the story or the sight of 
 Rome flagrant injustice and wrong, the child and the savage 
 are not less indignant than the philosopher. Nor is this a 
 aaatter peculiar to one age or people. The languages and 
 the literature of the world indicate, that, at all times, and 
 among all nations, the distinction between right and wi^ong 
 has been recognized and felt. The rb dlKaiov and to naXov 
 of the Greeks, the honestum and the pulchrum of the Latins, 
 are specimens of a class of words, to be found in all lan- 
 guages, the proper use and significance of which is to express 
 the distinctions in question. 
 
 Since, then, we do unquestionably recognize moral distinc- 
 tions, it is clear that we have a moral faculty. 
 
 Questions v^hich present themselves. — Without further 
 consideration of this point, we pass at once to the investiga- 
 tion of the subject itself. Our inquiries relate principally 
 to the nature and authority of this faculty. On these pomts, 
 .t is hardly necessary to say, great difference of opinion has 
 existed among philosophers and theologians, and grave 
 questions have arisen. What is this faculty as exercised ; a 
 judgment, a process of reasoning, or an emotion? Does it 
 belong to the rational or sensitive part of our nature : to the 
 domain of intellect, or of feeling, or both ? What is the 
 value and correctness of our moral perceptions, and especially 
 of that verdict of approbation oi- censure., which we pasii 
 upon ourselves and others, according as the conduct con- 
 forms to, or violates, recognized obligation ? Such are some 
 of the questions which have arisen resj)ecting the nature and 
 authority of conscience. 
 
 I. The Nature of Conscience. — What is it ? A matter 
 af intellect., or of feeling y 2i judgment., or an emotion ? 
 
 A careful analysis of the phenomena of conscience, with a 
 
816 COGNITION OF RIGHT. 
 
 view to determine the several elements, or mental processes 
 that constitute its operation, may aid us in the solution of 
 this question. 
 
 Analysis of an Act of Conscience. 
 
 Cognition of Might, — Whenever the conduct of intelli- 
 gent and rational beings is made the subject of contempla- 
 tion, whether the act thus contemplated be our own or 
 nother's, and whether it be an Act already performed, or 
 only proposed, we are cognizant of certain ideas awakened 
 in the mind, and of certain impro&sions made upon it. First 
 of all, the act contemplated strikes us as right or wrong. 
 This involves a double element, an ide/i^ and a perception or 
 judgment. The idea of right and its opposite are, in the 
 mind, simple ideas, and, therefore, indA:firipble. In the act 
 contemplated, we recognize the one or the other of these 
 simple elements, and pronounce it, accordirgj?y, a right oi 
 wrong act. This is simply a judgment^ a pe ''caption, an ex 
 ercise of the understanding. 
 
 Of Obligation, — No sooner is this idea, thxj?^ ^-ognition, 
 of the rightness or wrongness of the given act, Kirly enter- 
 tained by the mind, than another idea, another cognjtiop^ 
 presents itself, given along with the former, and insep^'-ab? °» 
 from it, viz., that of obligation to do, or not to do, the v'ivp'^ 
 act : the ought^ and the ought not — also simple ideas, i>t>^' 
 indefinable. This applies equally to the future and to tW 
 past, to ourselves and to others : I ought to do this thing 
 I ought to have done it yesterday. He ought, or ought no\ 
 to do, or to have done it. This, like the former, is an intei 
 lectual act, a perception or cognition of a truth, of a reality 
 for which we have the same voucher as for any other reality 
 or apprehended fact, viz., the reliability of our mental facul- 
 ties in general, and the correctness of their operation in the 
 specific instance. It is a conviction of the mind inseparable 
 from the perception of right. Given, a clear percejDtion of 
 the one, and we cannot escape the other. 
 
COGNITION OF RIGHT 317 
 
 Of Merit and Defnierit. — There follows a third element, 
 ogically distinct, but chronologically inseparable, from, the 
 preceding : the cognition of merit or demerit in connection 
 with the deed, of good or ill desert, and the consequent ap. 
 proval or disapproval of the deed and the doer. ISTo sooner 
 do we perceive an action to be right or wrong, and to in. 
 volve, therefore, an obligation on the part of the doer, than 
 there arises, also, in the mind, the idea of merit or de- 
 merit, in connection with the doing ; we regard the agent 
 as deserving of praise or blame, and in our own minds do 
 approve or condemn him and his course, accordingly. This 
 approval of ourselves and others, according to the appre- 
 hended desert of the act and the actor, constitutes a process 
 of trial, an inner tribunal, at whose bar are constantly ar- 
 raigned the deeds of men, and whose verdict it is no easy 
 matter to set aside. This mental approval may be regarded 
 by some as a matter of feeling, rather than an intellectual 
 act. We speak oi feelings of approval and of condemnation. 
 To approve and condemn, however, are, properly, acts of 
 the judgment. The feelings consequent upon such approval 
 or disapproval are usually of such a nature, and. of such 
 strength, as to attract the principal attention of the mind t(? 
 themselves, and, hence, we naturally come to thmk ana 
 speak of the whole process as a matter of feeling. Strictly 
 viewed, it is an intellectual perception, an exercise of judg- 
 ment, giving sentence that the contemplated act is, or is not, 
 meritorious, and awarding praise or blame accordingly. 
 
 This completes the process. I can discover nothing in 
 ihe operation of my mind, m view of moral action, which 
 does not resolve itself into some one of these elements. 
 
 These Elements intellectual. — Viewed in themselves^ 
 these are, strictly, intellectual operations ; the recognition 
 of the right, the recognition of obligation, the perception of 
 good or ill desert, are all, properly, acts of the intellect. 
 Kach of these cognitive acts, however, involves a corres- 
 K>onding action of the seyislhilities. The perreption of the 
 
318 COGNITION OF RIGHT. 
 
 right awakens, in the pure and virtuous mind, feelings of 
 pleasure, admiration, love. The idea of obligation becomes, 
 in its turn, through the awakened sensibilities, an impulse 
 and motive to action. The recognition of good or ill desert 
 awakens feehngs of esteem and complacency, or the reverse; 
 fills the soul with sweet peace, or stings it with sharp re- 
 morse. All these things must be recognized and included 
 by the psychologist among the phenomena of conscience 
 These emotions, however, are based on, and grow out oJ^ 
 the intellectual acts already named, and are to be viewed as 
 an incidental and subordinate, though by no means unim- 
 portant, part of the whole process. When we speak of con- 
 science, or the moral faculty, we speak of a poia€7\ a faculty, 
 and not merely a feeling or susceptibility of being affected. 
 It is a cognitive power, having to do with realities, recog- 
 nizing real distinctions, and not merely a passive play of the 
 sensibilities. It isi simply the mind's power of recognizing a 
 certain class of truths and relations. As such, we claim for 
 t a place among the strictly cognitive powers of the mind, 
 among the faculties that have to do with the perception of 
 truth and reality. 
 
 Importance of this Position, — This is a point of some 
 importance. If, v/ith certain writers, we make the moral 
 faculty a matter of mere feeling, overlooking the intellectual 
 perceptions on which this feeling is based, we overlook and 
 leave out of the account, the chief elements of the process. 
 The moral faculty is no longer a cognitive power, no longer, 
 in truth, a faculty. The distinctions which it seems to re- 
 cognize are merely subjective / impressions, feelings, tc 
 which there may, or may not, be a corresponding reality 
 We have at least no evidence of any such reality. Such 
 a view subtracts the very foundation of morals. Our feel 
 ings vary ; but right and wrong do not vary witli our feel- 
 ings. They are objective realities, and not subjeocive phe- 
 nomena. As such, the mind, by virtue of the natural })ower8 
 with which it is end .>wed by the Creator, recognizes then 
 
COGNITION OF RIGHT. 310 
 
 The power by which it gives this, we call the moral faiyalty ^ 
 just as we call its power to take cognizance of another class 
 of truths and relations, viz., the beautiful, its (Esthetic faculty. 
 In view of these truths and relations, as thus perceived, cer- 
 tain feelmgs are, in either case, awakened, and these emo- 
 tions may, with propriety, be regarded as pertaining to, and 
 a part of, the phenomena of conscience, and of taste ; the 
 full discussion of either of these faculties will include the 
 action of the sensibilities ; but in neither case will a true 
 psychology resolve the faculty into the feeling. The mathe- 
 matician experiences a certain feeling of delight in perceiv- 
 ing the relation of lines and angles, but the power of per- 
 ceiving that relation, the faculty by which the mind takes 
 cognizance of such truth, is not to be resolved into the feel- 
 ieg that results from it. 
 
 MesuU of Analysis. — As the result of our analysis, wo 
 obtain the following elements as involved in, and constitut 
 ing, an operation of the moral faculty : 
 
 (1.) The mental perception that a given act is right or wrong. 
 
 (2.) The perception of obligation with respect to the 
 same, as right or wrong. 
 
 (3.) The perception of merit or demerit, and the conse- 
 quent approbation or censure of the agent, as doing the 
 right or the v/rong thus perceived. 
 
 (4.) Accompanying these intellectual perceptions, and 
 based upon them, certain corresponding emotions, varyirg 
 in intensity according to the clearness of the mental percep- 
 tions, and the purity of the moral nature. 
 
 TI. Authority of Conscience, — Thus far we have con I 
 sidered the nature of conscience. The question arises now 
 as to its authority — the reliableness of its decisions. 
 
 If conscience correctly discerns the right and the wrong, 
 and the consequent obligation, it will be likely to judge 
 correctly as to the deserts of the doer. If it mistake these 
 points, it may approve what is not worthy of approval, and 
 
 * 
 
 '3ondemn what is good. 
 
320 COGNITION OF RIGHT. 
 
 Wfiat JEvidence of GorrectJiess, — How are we to know, 
 then, whether conscience judges right ? What voucher 
 have we for its correctness ? How far is it to be trusted 
 in its perceptions and decisions ? Perhaps we are so c6n« 
 stituted, it may be said, as invariably to judge that to be 
 right which is wrong, and the reverse, and so to approve 
 where we should condemn. True, we reply, this may be 
 so. It may be that I am so constituted, that two and two 
 shall seem to be four, when in i-eality they are ^Ye ; and 
 that the three angles of a triangle shall seem to be equal to 
 two right angles, when in reality they are equal to three. 
 This may be so. Still it is a presumption in favor of the 
 correctness of all our natural perceptions, that they are the 
 operation of original principles of our constitution. It is 
 not probable, to say the least, that we are so constituted by 
 he great Author of our being, as to be habitually deceived. 
 It may be that the organs of vision and hearing are abso 
 lutely false ; that the things which we see, and hear, and feel, 
 through the medium of the senses, have no correspondence 
 to our supposed perceptions. But this is not a probable sup- 
 position. He who denies the validity of the natural facul 
 ties, has the burden of proof; and proof is of course impo!» 
 sible ; for the simple reason, that, in order to prove them 
 false, you must make use of these very faculties ; and if 
 their testimony is not reliable in the one case, certainly it is 
 not in the other. We must then take their veracity for 
 granted ; and we have the right to do so. And so of our 
 moral nature. It comes from the Author of our being, and 
 if it is uniformly and originally wrong, then he is v/rong. 
 [t is an error J which, in the nature of the case, can never be 
 detected or corrected. We cannot get beyond our constitu- 
 tion, back of our natural endowments, to judge, a priori^ 
 and from an external position, whether they are correct or 
 not. Right and wrong are not, indeed, the creations of the 
 diviwe willj but the faculties by which we perceive and ap 
 
COGNITION OF RFGHT. Si\ 
 
 prove the right, and condemn the wrong, are from liim : 
 and we must presume upon their general correctness. 
 
 Not infallible, — It does not follow from this, however, 
 nor do we affirm, that conscience is infallible, that she never 
 errs. It does not follow that our moral perceptions and 
 judgments are invariably correct, because they spring from 
 our native constitution. This is not so. There is not one 
 of the faculties of the human mind that is not liable to err. 
 Not one of its activities is infallible. The reasoning power 
 sometimes errs ; the judgment errs; the memory errs. The 
 moral faculty is on the same footing, in this respect, with 
 any and all other faculties. 
 
 Its Vctlue not thus destroyed. — But of what use, it vvill 
 be said, is a moral faculty, on which, after all, we cannot 
 rely ? Of what use, we reply, is any mental faculty, that 
 is not absolutely and universally correct ? Of w^hat use is a 
 memory or a judgment, that sometimes errs ? We do not 
 wholly distrust these faculties, or cast them aside as worth- 
 less. A time-keeper may be of great value, though not ab- 
 solutely perfect. Its authorship and original construction 
 may be a strong presumption in favor of its general correct- 
 ness ; nevertheless its hands may have been accidentally set 
 to the wrong hour of the day. 
 
 Actual Occurrence of such Gases. ■ — This is a spectacle 
 that not unfrequently presents itself in the moral world ~ 
 a man with his conscience pointing to the wa-ong hour ; a 
 strictly conscientious man, fully and firmly persuaded that 
 he is right, yet by no means agreeing with the general con- 
 victions of mankind ; an hour or two before, or, it may be, 
 as much behind the age. Such men are the hardest of all 
 "mortals to be set right, for the simple reason, that they are 
 conscientious. " Here is my watch ; it points to such an 
 hour ; and my watch is from the very best maker. I cannol 
 be mistaken." And yet he is mistaken, and egregiously so 
 The truth is, conscience is no more infallible than any othei 
 mental faculty. It is simply, as we have seen, a power of 
 
 14* 
 
322 COGNITION OF RIGHT. 
 
 perceiving and judging, and its operations, like all othei 
 perception?- and judgments, are liable to error. 
 
 Diversity of Moral Judgment, — And this which we hava 
 just said, goes far to account for the great diversity that 
 has long been known to exist in the moral judgments and 
 opinions of men. It has often been urged, and with great 
 force, against the supposed existence of a moral faculty in 
 man, as a part of his original nature, that men think and act 
 so differently with respect to these matters. Nature, it is 
 said,, ought to act uniformly; thus eyes and ears do not give 
 essentially conflicting testimony, at different times, and in 
 different countries, with respect to the same objects. Cer- 
 tain colors are universally pleasing, and certain sounds dis- 
 agreeable. But not so, it is said, with respect to the moral 
 judgments of men. What one approves, another condemns. 
 If these distinctions are universal, absolute, essential ; and if 
 the power of perceiving them is inherent in our nature, men 
 ought to agree in their perception of them. Yet you will 
 find nothing approved by one age and people, which is not 
 condemned by some other ; nay, the very crimes of one age 
 and nation, are the religious acts of another. If the per- 
 ception of right and wrong is intuitive, how happens this 
 diversity ? 
 
 This Diversity accounted for, — > To which I reply, the 
 thing has been already accounted for. Our ideas of right 
 and wrong, it was stated, in discussing their origin, depend 
 on circumstances for their time and degree of developrhent 
 They are not irrespective of opportunity. Education, habits^ 
 laws, customs, while they do not originate, still have much 
 to do with the development and modification of these ideas. 
 They may be by these influences aided or retarded in their 
 growth, or even quite misdirected, just as a tree may, by 
 unfavorable influences, be hindered and thw^arted in its 
 growth, be made to turn and twist, and put forth abnormal 
 and monstrous de'^elopments. Yet nature works there, 
 ne^ ertheless, and in spite of all such obstacles, and unfavor- 
 
COGNITION OF RIGHT. 323 
 
 able circumstances, seeks to put forth, according to her .aws, 
 her perfect and finished work. All that we contend is, that 
 nature, under favorable circumstances, develops in the human 
 mind, the idea of moral distinctions, while, at the same time, 
 raen may differ much in their estimate of v^hat is rights and 
 what is wTOJig^ according to the circumstances and in- 
 fluences surrounding them. To apply the distinction of. 
 Ight and wrong to ' particular cases, and decide as to the 
 morality of given actions, is an ofiice of judgment, and the 
 judgment may err in this, as in any other of its operations, 
 [t may be biassed by unfavorable influences, by v^rong edu^ \ 
 cation, wrong habits, and the like. 
 
 Analogy of other Faculties, — The same is true, substan- 
 tially, of all other natural faculties and their operations. 
 They depend on circumstances for the degree of their de- 
 velopment, and the mode of their action. Hence they are 
 liable to great diversity and frequent error. Perception 
 misleads us as to sensible objects, not seldom ; even in their 
 mathematical reasonings, men do not always agree. There 
 is the greatest possible diversity among men, as to the re 
 tentiveness of the memory, and as to the extent and powo* 
 of the reasoning faculties. The savage that thinks it n^ 
 wrong to scalp his enemy, or even to roast and eat him, V' 
 utterly unable to count twenty upon his fingers ; while thf 
 philosopher, who recognizes the duty of loving his neigh 
 bor as himself, calculates, with precision, the motions of th« 
 heavenly bodies, and predicts their place in the heaven, 
 for ages to come. Shall we conclude, because of thif 
 iiversity, that these several faculties are not parts :f our 
 nature ? 
 
 General Uniformity, — We are by no means disposed to 
 admit, however, that the diversity in men's moral judgments 
 is so great, as might, at first, appear. There is, on the con- 
 trary, a general uniformity. As to the great essential prin- 
 ciples of morals, men, after all, do judge much alike, in 
 different ages and different countries. In details, tliey differ 
 
324 cog:nition of right. 
 
 f In general principles, they agree. In the application of the 
 rules of morality to particular actions, they differ widely, 
 according to circumstances ; in the recognition of the right 
 and the wrong, as distinctive principles, and of obligation to 
 do the right as known, and avoid the wrong as known, in 
 this they agree. It must be remembered, moreover, that 
 men do not always act according to their own ideas of right. 
 From the general neglect of virtue, in any age or com 
 munity, and the prevalence of great and revolting crimes, 
 we cannot safely infer the absence, or even the perversion, 
 of the moral faculty. 
 
 Precisely in what the Diversity C07isists, — It is import- 
 ant to bear in mind, throughout this discussion, the distinc- 
 tion between the idea of right, in itself considered, and the 
 perception of a given act as right ; the one a simple concep- 
 tion, the other an act of judgment ; the one an idea derived 
 from the very constitution of the mind, connate, if not in- 
 nate, the other an application of that idea, by the under- 
 standing, to particular instance^ of conduct. The former, 
 the idea of moral distinctions, may be universal, necessary, 
 absolute, unerring ; the latter, the application of the idea to 
 particular instances, and the decision that such and such 
 acts are, or are not, right, may be altogether an incorrect 
 and mistaken judgment. Now it is precisely at this poinii 
 that the diversity in the moral judgments of mankind makes 
 its appearance. In recognizing the distinction of right and 
 wrong, they agree ; in the application of the same to partic- 
 ular instances in deciding lohat is right and what is wrong 
 ■ — a simple act of the judgment, an exercise of the under- 
 standing, as we have seen — in this it is that they diffei. 
 And the difference is no greater, and no more inexpli- 
 cable, with respect to this, than in any othe« class of judg- 
 ments. 
 
 Conscience not ahmays a safe Guide, — I have admitted 
 that conscience is not infallible. Is it, then, a safe guide ? 
 A.re we, in all cases, to fo^^ow its decisions ? Since liable to 
 
^ 
 
 COGNITION OF KIGHT. 325 
 
 err, it cannot be, in itself, I reply, in all cases, a safe 
 guide. We cannot conclude, with certainty, that a given 
 course is right, simply because conscience aj^proves it. This 
 does not, of necessity, follow. The decision that a given 
 act is right, or not, is simply a matter of judgment; and the 
 judgment may, or may not, be correct. That depends on 
 cu'cumstances, on education partly, on the light we have, be 
 it more or less. Conscientious men are not always in the 
 right. We may do wrong conscientiously. Saul of Tarsus 
 was a conscientious persecutor, and verily thought he was 
 doing God service. No doubt, many of the most intolerant 
 and relentless bigots have been equally conscientious, and 
 equally mistaken. Such men are all the more dangeroug^ 
 because d(3ing what they believe to be right. 
 
 It is^ nevertheless^ to he followed, — What, then, are we 
 to do ? Shall wa follow a guide thus Hable to err ? Yes, \ 
 I reply, follow conscience ; but see that it be a right and j 
 well-informed conscience, forming its judgments, not from 
 impulse, passion, prejudice, the bias of habit, or of unreflecting 
 custom, but from the clearest light of reason, and especially / 
 of the divine word. We are responsible for the judgments 
 we form in morals, as much as for any class of our judg- 
 ments ; responsible, in other words, for the sort of conscience \ 
 we have. Saul's mistake lay, not in acting according to 
 his conscientious convictions of duty, but in not having a 
 more enlightened conscience. He should have formed a 
 more careful judgment ; have inqaired more diligently aft^r 
 the right way. To say, however, th-at a man ought not to 
 do what conscience approves, is to say that he ought not to 
 do what he sincerely believes to be right. This would be a 
 very strange rule in morals. 
 
 Conscie7ice not exclusively intellectual. — I have dis- 
 cussed, as I proposed, the nature and authority of con- 
 science. In this discussion I have treated of the moral 
 faculty as an intellectual, rather than an emotional power. 
 I would not be understood, however, as implying that con 
 
 \ 
 
326 COGNITION OF KIGHT. 
 
 science has not also an emotional character. Every intellec. 
 tual act, and faculty of action, partakes more or less of this 
 character, is accompanied by feeling, and these feelings are 
 in some degree peculiar, it may be, to the particular faculty 
 or act of mind to which they relate. The exercise of imOr- 
 gination involves some degree of feeling, either pleasurable 
 or painful, and that often in a high degree; so also the 
 aesthetic faculty. It is peculiarly so with the exercise of the 
 moral faculty. As already stated, in our analysis of an act 
 of conscience, it is impossible to view our past conduct aa 
 right or wrong, and to approve or condemn ourselves ac- 
 cordingly, without emotion ; and these emotions will vary 
 in intensity, according to the clearness and force of our 
 intellectual conception of the merit or demerit of our con- 
 duct. 
 
 These feelings constitute an important part of the pheno- 
 mena of moral action, and consequently of psychology ; as 
 they belong, however, to the department of sensibility^ 
 rather than of intellect^ their further discussion is not here 
 in place. They will be considered in connection with other 
 emotions in the subsequent divisio^i of the work. 
 
I^^TELLECTUAL FACULTIES 
 
 SUPPLEMENTARY TOPICS. 
 
SUPPLEMENTARY TOPICS. 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 DISTINCT. — THE INTELLIGENCE OF THE BRUTE AS DISirfN 
 GUISHED FROM THAT OF MAN 
 
 Closely connected with the philosophy of human intelli- 
 gence is the science of instinct^ or the intelligence of the 
 brute — a subject of interest not merely in its relations to 
 psychology, but to some other sciences, as natural history, 
 and theology. 
 
 We work at a Disadvantage in such Inquiries, — With 
 regard to this matter, it must be confessed, at the outset, 
 that we work, in some respects, in the dark, in our inquiries 
 and speculations concerning it. It lies wholly removed 
 from the sphere of consciousness. We can only observe, 
 compare, and infer, and our conclusions thus derived must 
 be liable, after all, to error. The operations of our own 
 minds we know by the clearest and surest of all sources of 
 knowledge, viz., our own consciousness ; the operation of 
 brute intelligence must ever be in great measure unknown 
 and a mystery to us. How far the two resemble each other, 
 and how far they differ, it is not easy to determine, not easy 
 to draw the dividing line, and say where brute intelligence 
 stops and human intelligence begins. I 
 
 Method proposed, — Let us first define instinct, the term 
 usually applied to denote brute intelligence, and ascertain, 
 if possible, what are its peculiar characteristics ; we may 
 then be able to determine wherein it differs from intelligence 
 \n man 
 
330 INSTINCT. 
 
 Defiriitlon, ~ I understand, by instinct, a law of action, 
 governing and directing the movement of sentient beings 
 •— distinct, on the one hand, from the mere blind forces of 
 matter, as attraction, etc., and from reason on the other ; a 
 law working to a given end by impulse, yet blindly — the sul) 
 jecl not knowing why he thus works ; a law innate, inher- 
 ent in the constitution of the animal, not acquired but trans- 
 mitted, the origin of which is to be found in the intelligent 
 author of the universe. These I take to be the principal 
 characteristics of that which we term instinct. 
 
 Instinct a Law, — It is a law of action. In obedience to 
 it the bee constructs her comb, and the ant her chambers, 
 and the bird her nest ; and in obedience to it, the animal, 
 of whatever species, seeks that particular kind of food which 
 is intended and provided for it. These are merely instances 
 of the operation of that law. The uniformity and univer 
 sality which characterize the operations of this principle, 
 show it to be a law of action, and not a merely casual oc- 
 currence. 
 
 'Worhs hy Impulse, — It is a law worMng by hnpulse^ not 
 mechanical or automatic, on the one hand, nor yet rational 
 on the other. The impelling or motive force, in the case 
 supposed, is not that of a weight acting upon machinery, or 
 any hke mechanical principle, nor yet the reflex action of a 
 nerve when irritated, or the spasmodic action of a muscle. 
 It is not analogous to the influence of gravitation on the 
 purely passive forms of matter. Nor yet is it that higher 
 principle which we term reason in man. The bird constructs 
 her nest as she does, and the bee her cell, in obedience to 
 some blind yet powerful and unfailing impulse of her nature^ 
 guiding and directing her movements, prompting to action, 
 and to this specific form of action, with a restless yearaing, 
 imsatisfied until the end is accomplished. Yet the creature 
 does not herself understand the law by which she works. 
 The bee does not know that she constructs her comb at that 
 precise angle which will afford the greatest content in th<^ 
 
INSTINCT, 331 
 
 least space, does not know why she constructs it at thai 
 precise angle, could give no reason for her procedure, even 
 were she capable of understanding our question. It is not 
 with her a matter of reflection, nor of reason, at all, bul 
 merely of blind, unthinking, yet unerring impulse. 
 
 As i7i7iate, — This law is innate^ inherent in the constitu- 
 tion of the animal, not acquired. It is not the result oi 
 education. The bird does not learn to build her nest, noj 
 the bee her comb, nor the ant her subterranean chambers 
 by observing how the parent works and builds. Removed 
 from all opportunities of observation or instruction, the un 
 taught animal still performs its mission, constructs its nest 
 or cell, and does it as perfectly in solitude as among its fel- 
 I0WS5 as perfectly on the first attempt as ever after. What- 
 ever intelligence there is involved in these labors and con- 
 structions, and certainly the very highest intelligence would 
 seem, in many instances, to be concerned in them, is an in- 
 telligence transmitted, and not acquired, the origin of which 
 is to be sought, ultimately, not in the creature itself, but in 
 the Author of all intelligence, the Creator of the universe. 
 The intelligence is that not of the creature, but of the Creator. 
 
 Manifests itself irresjjective of. Circumstances. — It is to 
 be further observed, with respect to the principle under con- 
 sideration, that it often manifests its peculiar tendencies 
 prior to the development of the appropriate organs. The 
 young calf butts with its head before its horns are grown. 
 The instinctive impulse manifests itself, also, under circuni- 
 stances which render its action no longer needful. The 
 beaver caught and confined in a room, constructs its dam, 
 as aforetime, with whatsoever materials it can command, 
 although, in its present circumstances, such a structure is of 
 no possible use. These facts evidently indicate the presence 
 and action of an impulse working blindly, without reflection, 
 without reason, without intelligence, on the part of the ani- 
 mal. 
 
 Indignations of Contrivance. — On the other hand, tlier^ 
 
€32 INSTINCT. 
 
 are instances of brute action wHcb seem to indicate con- 
 trivance and adaptation to circumstances. The bee compelled 
 to construct her comb in an unusual and unsafe position, 
 steadies it by constructing a brace of wax-work between the 
 side that inclines and the nearest wall of the hive. The 
 spider, in like manner, whose web is in danger, runs a line, 
 from the part exposed to the severest strain or pressure, to 
 the nearest point of support, in such a manner as to secure 
 the slender fabric. A bird has been known, in like manner, 
 fco support a bough, which proved too frail to sustain the 
 weight of the nest, and of her young, by connecting it, with 
 a thread, to a stronger branch above. 
 
 These Facts do not pro'^y^e Meason, — Facts of this nature, 
 however interesting, and well authenticated, must be re* 
 garded rather as exceptions to the ordinary rule, the nearest 
 approach which mere instinct has been known to make 
 toward the dividing line that separates the brute from the 
 human intelligence. They do not, in themselves, prove the 
 existence of reason, of a discriminating and reflecting intelli- 
 gence, on the part of the animal ; for the same law of nature 
 that impels the creature to build its nest or its comb, under 
 ordinary circumstances, in the ordinary manner, may cer- 
 tainly be supposed to be capable of inducing a change of 
 operation to meet a sudden exigency, and one liable at any 
 time to occur. It is certainly not more wonderful, nor se 
 wonderful, that the bee should be induced to brace her 
 comb, or the spider her web, when in danger, as that either 
 should be able to construct her edifice originally, at the pre- 
 cise angle employed. It must be remembered, moreover, 
 that, in the great majority of cases, brute instinct shows no 
 §uch capacity of adaptation to circumstances. 
 
 The Question before us, — We are ready now to inquire 
 how far that which we call instinct in the brute, differs from 
 that vv^hich we call intelligence in man. Is it a difference m 
 Hnd^ or only in degree ? A glance at the history of the doo 
 '.rine may aid us here. 
 
INSTINCT 353 
 
 Early Views, - From Aristotle to Descartes, pMloscphers 
 took the latter view. They ascribed to the brute a degree 
 of reason, such as would be requisite in man, were he to do 
 the same things, and proceeding on this principle, they attri- 
 buted to animals an intelligence proportioned to the wants 
 of their nature and organization. This principle, it need 
 hardly be said, is an assumption. It is not certain that the 
 game action proceeds fi^om the same principle in man, and in 
 the brute ; that whatever indicates and involves intelligence 
 and reason, in the one case, as its source, involves the same 
 in the other. This is a virtual petitio principii. It assumes 
 the very point in question. It may be that what man does 
 by virtue of an intelligent, reflecting, rational soul, looking 
 before and after, the brute does by virtue of entirely a dif- 
 ferent principle, a mere unintellip^ent impulse of his nature, 
 a blind sensation, prompting him to a given course. This is 
 the question to be settled, the ^ hing to be proved or dis^ 
 proved. And if the view already given of the character oi 
 brute instinct, is correct, the position now stated as possible^ 
 may be regarded as virtually established. 
 
 View of Descartes. — Descartes, ;aerceiving the error of 
 preceding philosophers, went to th^ .opposite extreme, and 
 resolved the instinct and action of the brute into mere me- 
 chanism, a principle little different frem that by which the 
 weight moves the hands of the clock. The brute performs 
 the functions of his nature and organi?^i>tion, just as the 
 puppet moves hither and thither by springs hidden within, 
 of which itself knows nothing. The bird, the bee, the ant, 
 the spider, are so organized, such is the hidv'en mechanism 
 of their curious nature, that at the proper tiiv^-QS, and under 
 the requisite conditions, they shall build, each its own pro- 
 per structure ; and perform, each, its own projx^r work and 
 office. So doing, each moves automatically, meei>'inically. 
 
 Locke and his Disciples, — Differing, again, fr<^m thia 
 view, which certainly ascribes too little, as the oijp^sit€ 
 theory ascribes too much to the brute, Locke, Condillac, ^bJ 
 
^34 INSTINCT. 
 
 their disciples in France and England, took the ground mat 
 the actions of the brute which seem to indicate intelligence, 
 are to be ascribed to the power* of habit, and to the law of 
 association. The faculties of the brute, as indeed of man, 
 resolve themselves ultimately into impressions from without. 
 Xothing is innate. The dog scents his prey, and the beaver 
 builds his dam, and the bird migrates to a warmer clime, 
 from the mere force of habit, unreflecting, unintelligente 
 But how, it may occur to some one to ask, happens such a 
 habit to be formed in the first place ? How happens the 
 poor insect, just emerging from the egg, to find in himself 
 all requisite appliances and instruments for capturing hig 
 prey ? How happens the bee always, throughout all its 
 generations, to hit upon the same contrivance for storing its 
 honey, and not only so, but to select out of a thousand dif- 
 ferent forms, and diflerent possible angles, always the same 
 one ? And so of the ant, the spider, etc. And if this is a 
 matter of education, as it certainly is not, then how came the 
 first bee, the first ant, spider, or other insect, to hit upon so 
 admirable an expedient ? 
 
 The Scotch Philosophers, — On the other hand, Reid^ 
 Stewart, and the Scotch philosophers generally, departing 
 widely from the merely mechanical view, have ascribed to 
 instinct some actions which are properly automatic and in- 
 voluntary, as the shutting of the eyelid on the approach of 
 a foreign body, the action of the infant in obtaining its food 
 from the mother's breast, and certain other like movements 
 of the animal organization, which, according to recent dis- 
 coveries in physiology, are to be attributed, rather to ih@ 
 simple reflex action of the nerves and muscles. This is not 
 properly instinct. 
 
 Question returns, — Among these several views, where 
 then, lies the truth ? Unable to coincide with the merely 
 mechanical theory of Descartes, or with the view which re- 
 Bolves all into mere habit and association, with Locke and 
 Condi ilac, shall we fall back upon the ancient, and for a long 
 
INSTINCT. 335 
 
 time universally prevalent, view wliioh makes instinct only a 
 lower degree of that intelligence which, in man becomes 
 reason and reflection ? This we are hardly prepared to do. 
 The well-known phenomena and laws of instinct, its essen- 
 tial characteristics as developed in the preceding pages, seem 
 to point to a difterence in kind and not merely in degree. 
 
 Reasons for this Opinion, — 1. The JBrute incapable of 
 high Cultivation, — To recapitulate briefly the points of 
 diflerence : If instinct in the brute were of the same nature 
 with intelligence in man, if it were, properly speaking, inte^ 
 ligence^ the same in kind, difiering only in degree, then, it 
 ought, as in man, to be capable of cultivation to an indeflnite 
 extent, capable of being elevated, by due process of train- 
 ing, to a degree very much superior to that in which it first 
 presents itself. Now, with certain insignificant exceptions, 
 such is certainly not the case. No amount of training or 
 culture ever brings the animal essentially above the ordin- 
 ary range of brute capacity, or approximates him to the 
 level of the human species. 
 
 2. JBrute does not improve hy Practice. — On this theory 
 the brute ought, moreover, to improve by practice, which, 
 for the most part, certainly he does not. The spider lays 
 out its lines as accurately and constructs its web as well, 
 and the bee her comb, and the bird her nest, on the first at- 
 tempt, as after the twentieth or the fiftieth trial. There is 
 no progress, no improvement. Its skill, if such it may be 
 called, is a fixture. There is nothing of the nature of 
 science about it, for it is of the essential nature of all intelli 
 gent action to improve. 
 
 3. Does not adapt itself to Circumstances, ~ If it were 
 of the nature of intelhgence, it ought uniformly and invari- 
 ably to adapt itself to changing circumstances, and not to 
 keep on working blindly in the old way, when such proced 
 are is no longer of use. It is not intelligence, but mere 
 blind impulse, in the beaver, that leads him to build hi^ <^aru 
 on a dry floor or the pavement of a oourt-yard. 
 
336 INSTINCT. 
 
 4. Opposite 'View proves too much. — It is fartliermoro 
 to be noticed, that the theory under consideration, while it 
 inscribes to the brute only a lower degree of intelligence, in 
 i!*eality places him, in some respects, far beyond man in point 
 of intellect. If the instinct of the brute be intelligence at 
 all, it is intelligence which leaves his prouder rival" man, in 
 many cases, quite in the shade. ISTo science of man can vie 
 with the mathematical precision of the spider or the bee ii 
 the practical construction of lines and planes that shall en- 
 close a given angle. The engineer must take lessons of the 
 ant in the art of running lines and parallels. To the same 
 humble insect belongs the invention of the arch and of the 
 dome in architecture. Many of the profoundest questioUiS 
 and problems of science are in like manner virtually solved 
 by those creatures that possess, it is claimed, only a lower 
 degree of intelligence than man. The facts are inconsistent 
 with the theory. The theory either goes too far, or not far 
 enough. If instinct is intelligence at all, it is intelligence, in 
 Bome respects at least, superior to man's. 
 
 For reasons now stated, we must conclude that the intel- 
 ligence of the brute differs in Jdnd^ and not in degree 
 merely, from that of man. 
 
 Faculties wanting in the Brute. — If now the inquiry oe 
 raised, what are the specific faculties which are wanting in 
 the brute, but possessed by man, in other words, where runs 
 the dividing line which marks off the domain of instinct 
 from that of intellect, we reply, beginning with the differ- 
 ences which are most obvious, the brute is, in the first place, 
 not a moral and religious being. He has no moral nature, 
 no ideas of right and justice, none of accountability, and of 
 a higher power. He is, moreover, not an msthetic being. 
 He has no taste for beauty, nor appreciation of it. The 
 horse, with all his apparent intelligence, looks out upon the 
 most enchanting landscape as unmoved by its beauty as the 
 carriage which he draws. He has no idea, no cognizance oi 
 the beautiful. The faculty of original conception, which 
 
INSTINCT. 33Y 
 
 fUi-:;.plie!5 man with ideas of this nature, seems to be wanting 
 in the brute. He is, furthermore, not a scientijiG being. He 
 does not understand the principles by whi'ch he himself 
 works. He makes no progress or improvement, accordingly, 
 in the application of those principles, but works as well first 
 as last. He learns nothing by experience. Certain grand 
 rules and principles do indeed lie at the foundation of his 
 work, but they have no suf^ective existence in the brute 
 himself. N ow the faculties which constitute man a scientific 
 being are those which, in the present treatise, we have 
 grouped together under the title of reflective. These seem 
 to be wanting in the brute. He never classifies, nor ana- 
 lyzes, never forms abstract conceptions, never generalizes, 
 judges, nor reasons, never reflects on what is passing around 
 him ; never, in the true sense of the word, thinks. 
 
 Further Deficiency, — Here many, perhaps most, who 
 have reflected upon the matter at all, would place the divid- 
 ing line between man and the brute, denying him the pos- 
 session of reason and reflection, the higher intellectual pow- 
 ers, but allowing him the other faculties which man enjoys. 
 We must go further, however, and exclude imagination 
 from the list of brute faculties. Having no idea of the beau- 
 tiful, nor any power of forming abstract conceptions, the 
 ideals,, according to which imagination shapes its creations, 
 are wholly wanting, and imagination itself, the faculty of the 
 ideal, must also be wanting. ^ 
 
 The Povjer to perceive and rememher, — But has the 
 brute the power of perception , and memory, the only two 
 distinct remaining faculties of the human mind ? If we 
 distinguish, as we must, the physical from the strictly intel- 
 lectual element, in perception by the senses, the capacity to 
 receive impressions of sense, from the capacity to under- 
 stand and know the object, as such, from which the impres- 
 sions proceed, while we must admit the former, we should 
 question the existence of the latter in the brute. To know 
 or understand the objects of sense, to distinguish them m 
 
 lb 
 
338 INSTINCT. 
 
 such, from each other, and from self as the perceivmg 8ub 
 ject, is an attribute of intelligence in its strict and propel 
 sense, an attribute of mind. If the brute ^possesses it, ho 
 possesses as really a mind, though not of so high an order, 
 as man. 
 
 The dividing Line, — IsTow it is just iiere that we are 
 compelled to place the line of division between the brute and 
 man, between instinct and intellect. The brute has senses, 
 as man; in some respects, indeed, moie perfect than hiSt 
 Objects external make impressions upon his senses ; his eye, 
 his ear, his various organs of sense, respond to these impres- 
 sions. In a word, he has sensations, and those sensations 
 are accompanied, as all sensations in their nature are, and 
 must be, with consciousness, that is, they are felt. But this 
 does not necessarily involve what we understand by con- 
 sciousness in its higher sense, or self 'Consciousness, The 
 brute has, we believe, no knowledge of himself as such, no 
 self-consciousness^ properly speaking; does not distinguish 
 between self as perceiving, and the object as perceived, has 
 no conception of self as a separate existence distinct from 
 the objects around him, has, strictly speaking, no ideas, no 
 thoughts, no intelligent comprehension of objects about him; 
 has sensations^ but no perceptions in the true sense of the 
 word, since perception involves the distinction of subject and 
 object, or self-consciousness. These distinctions are lost to 
 the brute, blindly merged m the one simple consciousness of 
 physical sensation. He feels, but does not think, does not 
 understand. Sensation takes the place of understanding and 
 reason with him. It is his guide. To the impressions thua 
 received, his nature blindly responds, he knows not how or 
 why. He is so constituted by his wise and benevolent 
 M^tker, that sensation being awakened, the impulses of hijj 
 nature at once spring into play, and prompt irresistibly to 
 action, and to" such action as shall meet the wants of the 
 bemg. There is no need for intelligence to supervene, as 
 with man The brute feels and acts, Man feels, thinJcb^ and 
 
INSTINCT. 333 
 
 acts. The Creator has provided, for, the former, a substitute 
 which takes the place of intellect, and secures by blind, yet 
 unerring impulse, the simple ends which correspond to his 
 simpler necessities, and his humbler sphere. 
 
 Man''s Superiority, — Herein lies man's mastership and 
 dominion .over the brute. He has what the brute has not, 
 intellect, mind, the power of thought, the power to under- 
 stand and know. Just so far as he fails to grasp this high 
 prerogative, just so far as he is governed by sensation and 
 its corresponding impulses, rather than by intelligence and 
 reason, just in such degree he lays aside his superiority, and 
 sinks to the sphere of the brute. Thus, in infancy and early 
 life, there is little difference. Thus, many savage and un- 
 educated races never rise far above the brute capacity, are 
 mere creatures of sensation, impulse, instinct. 
 
 In one Respect inferior, — In one respect, indeed, man, 
 destitute of intelligence or failing to govern himself by its 
 precepts, sinks helow the brute. He has not the substitute 
 for intelligence which the brute has, has not instinct to guide 
 him, and teach him the true and proper bounds of indulgence, 
 but giving way to passion and inclination, without restraint, 
 presents that most melanche ly spectacle on which the sun 
 in all his course, ever looks down, a man under the dominion 
 of his own appetites, incapable of self-government, lost to all 
 nobleness, all virtue, all self respect. 
 
 Memory in the Urate, — It may still be asked, does not 
 the brute reniemher f It is the office of memory to replace 
 or represent what has been once felt or perceived. It sim- 
 ply reproduces, in thought, what has once passed before the 
 mind.. It originates nothing. Whatever, then, of intelli- 
 gence was involved in the original act of perception and 
 sensation, so much and no more is involved in the replacing 
 those sensations and perceptions. If in the original act 
 there was nothing but simple sensation, without intellectual 
 rpprehension of the object, without self-consciousness or dig. 
 ( '^ tior of subject from object, then, of course^ nothing mora 
 
340 INSTINCT. 
 
 tlian this will be subsequently reproduced. Mere images oi 
 phantasms of sensible objects may reappear, as shadows flickei 
 and dance upon the wall, or as such images Hit before us in 
 our dreams. The memory of the brute is, probably, of this 
 n at are, rather a sort of dream than a distinct conception of 
 past events. What was not clearly apprehended at first, 
 will not be better understood now. Failing, in the first in- 
 tance, to distinguish self from the object external, as the 
 source of im|)ressions, there can be no recognition of that 
 distinction when the object reappears, if it ever should, in 
 conception. The essential element of memory, which con- 
 nects the object or event of former perception with self sl^ 
 the percipient, must, in such a case, be wanting. 
 
 The JBrute associates rather than remembers. — What is 
 usually called memory in the brute, is not, however, so much 
 Iiis capacity of conceiving of an absent object of sense, as his 
 recognition of the object when again actually present to his 
 senses. The dog manifests pleasure at the appearance of his 
 master, and the horse chooses the road that leads to his for- 
 mer home. This is not so much memory as association of 
 xdeas or rather of feelings. Certain feelings and sensations 
 are associated, confusedly blended, with certain objects. 
 The reappearance of the objects, of course, reawakens the 
 former feelings. Thus, the whip is associated with the sen- 
 sation experienced in connection mth it. So, too, a horse 
 which has once been frightened by some object beside the 
 road, will manifest fear on subsequently approaching the 
 same place, although the same object may no longer be 
 there. The surrounding objects which still remain, and 
 which were associated with the more immediate object of 
 fear in the first instance, are sufficient to awaken, on their 
 reappearance, the former unpleasant sensations. 
 
 A being endowed with intelligence and reason would con 
 nect the recurring object, in such a case, with his own former 
 experience as the perceiving subject, would recall the time 
 and the circump^janees of the event and its connection with 
 
INSTINCT. 34i 
 
 his personal history. This would be, properly, an act of 
 memory. 
 
 But there is no reason to suppose that such a process take^ 
 place with the brute. We have no evidence of any thing 
 more, in his case, than the recurrence of the associated con- 
 ception or sensation, along with the recurrence of the object 
 which formerly produced it. Given, the object a, aceom^ 
 panied with surrounding objects ^, c, c?, and there is produced 
 a given sensation, y. Given, again, at some subsequent time, 
 the same object a, or anyone of the associate objects 5, c, d^ 
 and there is at once awakened a lively conception of the 
 same sensation 2/. 
 
 Summary of Results, — This is, I think, all we can, with 
 any certainty, attribute to the brute. He has sensations, 
 and so far as mere sense is concerned, perceptions of objects, 
 as connected with those sensations, but not perception in 
 the true sense as involving intellectual apprehension. These 
 sensations and confused perceptions recur, perhaps, as images 
 or conceptions, in the absence of the objects that gave rise to 
 them, and as thus reappearing, constitute what we may call 
 the memory of the brute ; but not, as with us, a memory 
 which connects the object or event with his own former his- 
 tory, and the idea of a personal self as the percipient, l^et 
 the object, however, reappear, and the previous sensation 
 associated therewith, is reawakened. 
 
 This, I am aware, is not the view most commonly enter- 
 tained of brute intelligence. We naturally conceive of the 
 brute as possessing faculties similar to our own. The brute^ 
 m turn, were he capable of forming such a conception, woiild^ 
 probably, conceive of man, as endowed with capacities like 
 his own* In neither case is this the right conceptioHt 
 
CHAPTER 11. 
 
 MINI AS AFFECTED BY CERTAIN STATSS OF THE ^RA13 
 
 AND NERYOUS SYSTEM. 
 
 Statement. — There are certain mental phenomena cob- 
 nected with the relation which the mind sustains to the 
 nervous organism, and depending intimately on the state of 
 that organism, which seem to require the notice of the psy- 
 chologist, though often overlooked by him ; I refer to the 
 phenomena of sleep, dreams, somnambulism, and insanity. 
 So far as the activity of the mind is involved in these states 
 or phenomena, they become proper objects of psychological 
 inquiry. They present many problems difficult of solution, 
 yet not the less curious and interesting, as phases: of mental 
 activity hitherto little understood. 
 
 View so7netimes taken by Physiologists, — It becomes 
 the more important for the psychologist to investigate these 
 phenomena, inasmuch as views and theories little accordant 
 with the true philosophy of the mind have sometimes been 
 put forth by physiologists, in attempting to explain the 
 phenomena in question. They have viewed the cerebral 
 apparatus as competent of itself to produce the phenomena of 
 thought, as self -acting^ in the absence of the higher principle 
 of intelligence which usually governs its operations, carry- 
 ing on by a sort of automatic action, the processes usually 
 ascribed to the mind or spiritual principle, while conscious- 
 ness and volition are entirely suspended. Consoiotisness, 
 in fact, is nothing but sensation, and thought a mere function 
 of the brain. This is downright materialism, a doctrine ut- 
 terly subversive of the very existence of that which we call 
 mind or soul in man. If the cerebral organization is com- 
 petent of itself duriug sleep to carry on those operationj? 
 
STATES OF THE NERVOUS SYSTEM. f>?a 
 
 which in waking moments are ascribed to the spiritual el'^- 
 ment of om- being, if thought is a function of the brain, aa 
 digestion is of the stomach, what need and what evidence 
 of any thing more than merely cerebral action at any time ? 
 What, in fact, is the mind itself but cei'ebral activity, and 
 what is man, with all his higher powers, but a mere arJ 
 mated organism ? 
 
 It becomes important, then, to account for the phenomena 
 under consideration in some way more consistent with all 
 just and true notions of the nature and philosophy of 
 mind. 
 
 Distinction of normal and abnormal States. — Of these 
 phenomena, while all may be regarded as intimately con- 
 nected with and dependent on the state of the brain and 
 nervous system, some seem to proceed from a normal, others 
 from an abnormal and disordered state of the nervous and 
 particularly the cerebral organism. Of the former class, are 
 sleep and dreams ; of the latter, somnambulism, the mes- 
 meric state, so called, and the various forms of disordered 
 mental action, or insanity. 
 
 § I. — Sleep. 
 
 Meaning of the Term, — What is sleep ? Will the name 
 itself afford any solution of this problem ? Like most 
 names of familiar things, we find the word descriptive of 
 some particular circumstance or phase, some one prominent 
 shara(^t eristic of the thing in question, rather than a deji 
 nition — much less an explanation — of the thing itself 
 
 The word sleep, from schlafen^ as the Latin sommm 
 from supinus^ refers to the supine condition and appearance 
 of the body when in this state ; the relaxing of the muscles, 
 the falling back or sinking down of the frame, if nnsup. 
 ported. This is the first and most obvious effect to the eye 
 of an observer, of the condition of sleep as regards tht 
 body. Further than this the word gives us no light. 
 
844 MIND AS AFFECTED BY 
 
 1. Sleep involves primarily IjOss of Co?2sciousness, — What 
 then, further than this, is sleep ? If we observe somewhat 
 closely, and with a view to scientific arrangement, the differ 
 ent aspects or phenomena that present themselves as consti* 
 tuting that state of body and mind which we call sleep, the 
 primary and most obvious fact, I apprehend, is loss of con- 
 sciousness, of the me, 'Not perhaps of all consciousness, 
 for we seem still to exist, but of self-consciousness, of the 
 m.e as related to time, and place, and external circumstance 
 We lose ourselves, as a common but most exact expression 
 describes it. 
 
 We are not at the Time aware of this Loss, — Of course, 
 sleep consisting primarily in loss of consciousness, we are 
 not conscious of the fact that we sleep, for this would be a 
 consciousness that we were unconscious. Illustrations of 
 this fact are of frequent occurrence. You are of an evening 
 getting weary over your book. You are vaguely conscious 
 of that weariness, amounting even to drowsiness ; you find 
 it difiicult to follow the course of thought, or even to keep 
 the line, but have no idea that you are at length actually 
 asleep for the moment, till the sudden fall of the book awak- 
 ens you. Nay, one who has been vigorously nodding for five 
 minutes will, on recovering himself, stoutly deny that he 
 has really been asleep at all ; the truth is, he was not con- 
 scious of it ; we never are, directly. 
 
 This results from what ? — This loss of consciousness re- 
 sults from the inactivity of the bodily senses. It is these 
 that afford os the data for a knowledge of self in relation 
 to external things. In sleep these avenues of communica- 
 ticn with the external world are shut up, and we silently 
 drop off, and, as it were, float away from all conscious con- 
 nection with it. We no longer recognize our relations to 
 time and space, nor even to our own bodies, which, as 
 material, come under those relations ; for it is by the senses 
 alone that we get these ideas. So far as consciousness of 
 ^^hose relations is concerned, we exist in sleep a? in deatl^ 
 
STATES OF THE NERVOUS SYSTEM. 345 
 
 out of the laws and limits of time and space^ and irrespec- 
 tive of the body and of all material existence. Mental ao- 
 lion, however', doubtless goes on, and we are conscious of 
 thought and of the feeling of the moment, but of nothing 
 further. All self-consciousness is gone. 
 
 An Affectio7i priinarily of the nervous System, — Sleep, 
 then, would seem to be primarily an affection of the nervous 
 system ; not of the reproductive — that goes on as usual, and 
 even with increased vigor ; nor yet of the muscular — that 
 m still capable of action ; but only of the nervous. That 
 gets weary ; by continued use, its vital active force is ex- 
 hausted, it needs rest, becomes inactive, gradually drops off, 
 and so there results this loss of consciousness, of which I 
 have spoken. It is strictly, then, the nervous system, and 
 not the whole body that sleeps. 
 
 Different Senses fall Asleep successively, — The different 
 senses become inactive and fall asleep, not all at once, but 
 successively. First, sight goes. The eye-lids droop, and 
 close. Taste and smell probably next. Touch, and hearing, 
 are among the last to give way. Hence, noises so easily 
 disturb us, when falHng asleep. Hence, too, we are most 
 easily awaked by some one repeating our name, or by some 
 one touching us. These senses are also the first to waken. 
 One sense may be asleep and another awake. You may 
 still hear what one is saying that sits near you, when already 
 the eye is asleep. So in death, one hears when no longer 
 able to see or to speak. 
 
 2. Loss of personal Control. — Accompanying this loss oi 
 ige f-consciousness is the loss of personal control., i, 6., the 
 control of the will over the bodily organization. This fol« 
 lows from the inactivity of the senses and of the nervous 
 system, for it is only through that, and not by direct agency 
 of the will, that we, at any time, exert voluntary power over 
 the body. When that system becomes exhausted, and ita 
 force is spent, so that it can no longer furnish the motive 
 fower, nor execute the commands of the higher inteUigenco 
 
 15* 
 
 Z' 
 
a46 MIND AS AFFECTED BY 
 
 the v/ili i-O longer maintains its empire over the physical 
 organization, its little realm of matter, its control is sus- 
 pended, its sceptre falls, and it realizes for the time the 
 story of the enchanted palace on which a magic spell had 
 fallen, suddenly arresting the busy tide of life, and sealing 
 up, on the instant, the senses of king, courtiers, and attend- 
 ants, in the unbroken sleep of ages. 
 
 Indications of approaching Sleep, — One of the first in- 
 dications, accordingly, of the approach of sleep, is the re- 
 laxing of the muscles, the drooping of the eye-lid, the drop- 
 ping of the head and of the arm, the sinking down of the 
 body from an erect to a supine position. If in church, the 
 head seeks the friendly support of the pew in front, fortun- 
 ate if it can secure itself there from the still further demands 
 of gravitation. 
 
 Analogous Gases. — - In respect to the point now under 
 consideration, the loss of control over the physical frame, 
 the phenomena of sleep closely resemble those of intoxica- 
 tion, and of fainting ; and for the same reason, in either 
 case, ^^ e., the inactivity of the nervous system, which is the 
 medium of voluntary power over the body. That inactiv- 
 ity of the nervous system is produced in the one case by 
 natural, in the other by unnatural causes, but the direct 
 effect is the same as regards the loss of voluntary power. 
 The same effects are also produced in certain diseases, and 
 eventually by death. 
 
 3. Loss of Control over the Mind, — Analogous to this 
 is the loss of voluntary control over the mental operations, 
 which is in fact, so far as the mind is concerned, the essen- 
 tial feature and characteristic <)f sleep. Mental action still 
 goes on, there is reason to suppose ; in many cases we know 
 that it does ; but the thoughts come and go at their own 
 pleasure, without regulation or ccntrol. It is not in our 
 power to arrest a certain thought, and ^x. our minds upon it 
 for the time, to the exclusion of others, as we can do in the 
 •3F^iking moments, and whVh constitutes, in fact, the chief 
 
STAliiS OF THE NERVOUS SYSTEM. 347 
 
 control and power we have over our thoughts, nor can we 
 dismiss, and throw off, an unpleasant train of thought, a 
 disagreeable impression, however much we may desire to 
 be rid of it. We are at the mercy of our ov/n thoughts 
 and casual associations, which, in the ungoverned, sponta- 
 neous play of the mind's own inherent energy, and guided 
 only by its own native laws, produce the wildest and stran» 
 gest phantasmagoria, having to us all the semblance of 
 reality, while we are, in truth, mere passive spectators of 
 the scene. 
 
 Faculties of Mind not suspended in Sleep, — It has been 
 supposed by some that the faculties of the mind are, in part 
 or wholly, suspended in. sleep, especially the higher faculties 
 more immediately dependent on the will. So long as mental 
 activity goes on, however, — and there is no evidence that it 
 ever entirely ceases in sleep — so long there is thought, and 
 so long must that thought and activity be exerted in some 
 particular direction, and on some particular object. We 
 cannot conceive of the mind as acting or thinking, and not 
 exercising any of its faculties, for what is a faculty of the 
 mind but its capacity of acting in this or that way or mode, 
 and on this or that class of subjects. It may be perception, 
 or conception, or memory, or imagination, or judgment, or 
 reasoning, or any other faculty that is for the moment 
 active ; it must be some one of the known faculties of the 
 mind, unless, indeed, we suppose some new faculties to be 
 then developed, of whose existence we are at other times 
 unconscious. 
 
 Merited Action modified hy certain Causes in Sleep, — « 
 The faculties will, however, be materially modified in their 
 action during sleep, by the causes already named ; chiefly 
 these two : 1st. the entire suspension of voluntary control 
 over the train of thought; 2d. the loss of personal conscious- 
 ness as regards especially the bodily organization, and its 
 present relations to time, and space, and all sensible objects. 
 In consequence o^ the form^er our thoughts will come and 
 
us x>IIND AS AFFECTED BY 
 
 go all unregulated and disconnected ; there will be no co 
 herence ; the slightest analysis will suffice for the associating 
 principle ; we shall be hurried on and borne away on the 
 rushing tide of thought, as a frail passive leaf swept on the 
 bosom of the rapids ; we shall whirl hither and thither as 
 in the dance of the witches ; we shall waken in confusion, 
 sad sesk to recover the reins of self-control, only to lose 
 them again and be swept on in the fearful dance. 
 
 Wa7it of Oongruity oioing to what. — In consequence of 
 the latter cause — the loss of sensational consciousness and of 
 ^)ur relations to sensible objects — there will be an entire want 
 'i)f fitness and congruity in our mental operations. The laws 
 of time, and space, and personal identity, will be altogether 
 disregarded, and we shall not be conscious of the incon- 
 gruity, nor wonder at the strangest and most contradictory 
 combinations. Here, there, everywhere, now this and now 
 that. The scene is in the valley of the Connecticut, and 
 anon on the Ural mountains, or the desert of Arabia, and 
 we do not notice the change as any thing at all remark- 
 able. ISTow we are walking up the aisle of the church, in 
 garments all too scanty for the proprieties of the occasion, 
 and now it is a wild bull that is racing after us, and the 
 transition from one to the other is instantaneous. Why 
 should it not be, for it is by the senses alone that we are 
 brought into conscious relation to the external world, and 
 -r* made cognizant of the laws of time and space, and those 
 «^its^es tiemo now locked in oblivion, what are time and space 
 
 Pht Causes uo'iL .ii/ni^ii ■♦ ^ujfirieni Explanation of the 
 f^keno'rnena. The causes already named will sufficiently 
 iccouni for tiie strange and distorted action of the various 
 :uentaJ taculties as exercised in sleep. Memory, 6.^,, will give 
 ■i^ tbe past with variations ad libitum ; things will appear tc* 
 iS, and events will seem to transpire, and forms and faces 
 amiliar will look out upon us, not as they really are, or eve^ 
 v«r' Wr talk with a former friend without the thouj^hK 
 
STAiH-S OF THE NERVOUS SYSTEM. 349 
 
 once occuiTing to us that he has been dead these many 
 years. Impression there is, feeling, idea, fancy, association 
 of all these, but hardly memory, or even imagination, much 
 less judgment or reasoning. So it would seem at first. A 
 closer insDection, however, will show us that there is in 
 reality, in this spontaneous play of the mind, the exercise 
 of all these faculties, only so modified by causes now named 
 as to present strange and uncouth results. 
 
 Mental Facidties not immediately dependent on the WilL 
 — If any of the mental faculties can be shown to be entirely 
 dependent on the will for their activity and operation, so as 
 to have no power to act except by its order or permission, 
 then it would follow that when the will is no longer in pos- 
 session of the throne, when its sway is for the time sus- 
 pended as in sleep, the faculties thus dependent on it must 
 lie inactive. But witli regard to most if not all mental opera- 
 tions, we know the reverse to be true. They are capable ot 
 spontaneous^ as well as voluntary action. Nay, some of them, 
 it would seem, are not subject, in any case, directly to its con 
 trol. It is not at our option whether to remember or for 
 get, whether to perceive surrounding objects, whether such 
 or such a thought shall, by the laws of association, follow 
 next in the train of ideas and impressions. Some mental 
 operations are more closely connected with and admit of a 
 more direct interference on the part of the will than others, 
 but it cannot be shown, I think, that any faculty is so far 
 dei)endent on the will as not to be capable of action, irre* 
 spective of its demands. Indeed, facts seem to show that 
 where once a train of mental action has been set in opera- 
 tion by the will, that action goes on, for a time, even when 
 the will is withdrawn, or held in abeyance, as in sleep, or 
 profound reverie. 
 
 Whence this Suspension of Power of the WilL — The 
 question may occur, whence arises this suspension of the 
 power of the vill over the mental operations in sleep ? What 
 produces it ? Does it, like the loss of voluntary power ove? 
 
350 MIND AS AFFECTED BY 
 
 the physical frame, result from the inactivity of the nervouff 
 apparatus ? The fact that it always accompanies' this, and 
 is found in connection with it, that whatever produces the 
 latter seems to be the occasion, also, of the former, as in 
 the case of disease, delirium, mesmeric influence, stupefying 
 drugs, inebriation, etc., and that the degree of the one, 
 whether partial or complete, is in proportion to the degree 
 of the other — these facts seem to me to favor the idea now 
 suggested. 
 
 Summary of Mesults, — These, then, seem to be the prin- 
 cipal phenomena of sleep : loss of sensational consciousness, 
 loss of voluntary power over the body, loss of voluntary 
 power over the operations of the mind. 
 
 Exhaustion of the nervous System, — Sleep, then, appears 
 to be primarily an. affection of the nervous system, the result 
 of its exhaustion. By the law of nature, it cannot continue 
 always active ; rejjose must succeed to effort. Hence, the 
 more rapid the exhaustion of the nervous system, from any 
 cause, the more sleep is demanded. This we know to be the 
 fact. The more sensitive^the system, as in childhood, or with 
 the gentler sex, as in men of great sensibility also, poets, 
 artists, and others, the more sleep. On the other hand, those 
 sluggish natures which allow nothing to excite or call into 
 action the nervous system, sleep from precisely the opposite 
 cause ; not the exhaustion of nervous activity, but its abso- 
 lute non-existence. If both our systems, the animal and the 
 vegetative or nutritive, should sleep at once, says Ranch, 
 there would be nothing to awaken us. That would be 
 death. '' In sleep, every man has a world of his own," says 
 Heraclitus ; " when awake, all men have one in common." 
 Sleeping and waking, it has been beautifully said by another 
 are the ebb and flood of mind and matter on the ocean of 
 t>ur life. 
 
STATES OF THE NERVOUS SYSTEM. 351 
 
 § II. — Dreams. 
 
 Resume of previov.s Investigation. -^ It hsiH been shown 
 in the preceding section, that sleep is primarily and chiefly 
 an afiection of the nervous system, in which, through ex- 
 haustion, the senses become inactive, and, as it were, dead, 
 while, at the same, the nutritive system and the functions 
 essential' to life go on ; that in consequence of this inactivity 
 of the sensorium, there results, 1. Loss of consciousness, so 
 far, at least, as regards all connection with, and relation to, 
 external things ; 2. Loss of voluntary power over the physi- 
 cal and muscular frame ; 3. Loss of voluntary control over 
 the operations of the mind ; the mind still remaining active, 
 however, and its operations going on, uncontrolled by the 
 will. 
 
 We are now prepared to take up, more particularly, that 
 specific form of mental activity in sleep, called dreaming ; a 
 state which admits of easy explanation on principles already 
 laid down. 
 
 A Dreara.^ what, — What, then, is a dream f I reply, it is 
 any mental action in sleep, of which, for any reason, we are 
 afterward conscious. This is not the case with all, perhaps, 
 with most mental action during sleep. Senses and the will 
 are inactive, then, for the most part, and whatever thoughts 
 and impressions may be wrought out in the laboratory of the 
 mind, whatever play of forces and wondrous alchemy may 
 there be going on, when the controlling principle that pre 
 sides over and directs its operations is withdravv^n, are, for 
 the most part, never subsequently reported. Let the sensi- 
 tivity be partially aroused, however, let some disturbing 
 cause come in to prevent entire loss of sensibility, or let the 
 conceptions of the mind present themselves^with more than 
 usual vividness and force of impression, and what we then 
 ^hink may afterward be remembered. This is the philosoj^hy 
 of dreams. What is thus remembered of our thoughts in 
 sileep, we call a dream, more especially applying the term to 
 W'.ch of our thoughts and conceptions in sleep, as have som^ 
 
352 MIND AS AFFECTED BY 
 
 degree of coherence and connection between themselves, so 
 as to c'3nstitute a sort of unity. 
 
 Sources of our Dreartis. — Our dreams take shape and 
 character from a variety of circumstances. They are not 
 altogether accidental nor unaccountable ; and even when wg 
 cannot trace the connection, there is reason to suppose that 
 such connection exists between the dream, and the state of 
 the body, or of the mind, at the time, as, if known, would 
 account for the shape and complexion of the dream. The 
 principal sources, or, perhaps, it were more correct to say, 
 modifying influences of our dreams are, 1, Our present bodily 
 sensations, and especially the internal state of the physical 
 system, and, 2, Our previous waking thoughts, dispositions, 
 and prevalent states of mind. 
 
 Illustrations of the first, — As to the first of these modi- 
 fying causes, instances of its operation will probably occur 
 to every one from his own experience. You find yourself 
 on a hard bed, or, it may be, have thrown yourself into some 
 uncomfortable position, and you dream of broken bones or 
 of the rack. The band of your robe buttons tightly about 
 the neck, and you dream of hanging. You have taken a 
 late supper of food highly seasoned and indigestible, and in 
 your dreams a black bear very heavy and huge, quietly seats 
 himself on your chest, or, as a military officer once dreamed, 
 under similar circumstances, the prince of darkness sits cross- 
 legged over your stomach, with the Bunker Hill monument 
 in his lap. The instance related by Mr. Stewart, of the gen- 
 tleman, who, sleeping with bottles of hot water at his feetj 
 dreamed that he v/as walking along the burning crater of 
 Mount ^tna, is in point here. Here the bodily sensation 
 of heat upon the soles of the feet suggests the idea of a situ 
 ation in which such a sensation would be likely to occur, and 
 this idea blending mth the sensation which is permanent and 
 real, assumes, also, the character of reality, and the dream 
 shapes itself accordingly. So when a window falls, or some 
 sudden noise is heard, if it do not positively awaken you so 
 
STATES OF THE NERVOUS SYSTEM. 353 
 
 as to make known the real cause, you hear the sound, 
 the sensorium partially aroused, mistakes it, perhaps, for the 
 sound 01 a gun, and instantly you are in the midst of a battle 
 at sea, or a fight with robbers. To such an extent are our 
 dreams modified by sensible impressions of this sort, that it 
 is possible, by skillful management, to shape and direct, to 
 some extent, at least, the dreams of another as you will. 
 An instance is related of an ofiicer who was made, in this 
 way, in his sleep, to go through with all the minutia of a 
 duel, even to the firing of the pistol which was placed in his 
 hand, at the proper moment, the noise of which awoke him. 
 This was simply an acted dream. 
 
 Latent Disease. — Not unfrequently, some physical dis- 
 order, incipient or latent, of which we may not be aware in 
 our waking moments, makes itself felt in the state of sleep, 
 when the system is more susceptible of internal impressions, 
 and thus modifies the dreams. In such cases, the dreams 
 may serve as a sort of index of the state of the physical sys- 
 tem, and somewhat, doubtless, of the apparently prophetic 
 character of certain dreams may be accounted for in thib 
 way. 
 
 The second Source. — -A second source, if not of our dreams 
 themselves, at least of the peculiar shape and character 
 which they assume, is to be found in our previous thoughts, 
 and prevalent mental occupations and dispositions. We fall 
 asleep, and mental action goes on much as before, in what- 
 ever direction and channel it had already received an impulse. 
 Whatever has made the deepest impression on us through 
 the day, has longest or most intently occupied us, repeats 
 itself the moment we lose our consciousness of surrounding 
 objects. The mind goes on with the new and strange spec» 
 tacle, or with the unfinished problem, and unsolved intricate 
 study of the day or. of the night hour ; and not seldom ig 
 the train of thought resumed and pursued to some purpose. 
 On waking in the morning, we find little difficulty in com- 
 pleting a demonstration or solving a difficulty which had 
 
S54 MIND AS AFFECTED BY 
 
 appeared uisarmountable when we left it the previous night, 
 Now the truth is, we did not leave it the previous night. It 
 occupied us in our sleep. The brain was busy with it, it may 
 be, all the night. It is solved in the morning, not because the 
 mind is fresher then, but because it has been at woi'k upon 
 it through the night. Sometimes we are conscious of this 
 on waking, and can dimly recall the severe continuous men- 
 tal toil which went on while we slept. Usually, I suppose, 
 we have no consciousness of it, and our only evidence of it 
 is the well-known law and habit of the mind, to run in its 
 worn and latest channels, together with the often observed 
 fact that the difficulty previously felt is, somehow, strangely 
 solved. 
 
 Further Illustration of the same Principle, — Condorcet ia 
 not the only mathematician who has received, in sleep, sug- 
 gestions which led to the right solution of a problem that 
 he had been obliged to leave unfinished on retiring for the 
 night ; nor is Franklin the only statesman who has, in dreams, 
 reached a satisfactory conclusion respecting some intricate 
 political movement. However this may be, there can be 
 no reasonable doubt that our previous mental occupation, 
 our prevalent state and disposition of mind, our habits of 
 thought and habits of feeling, determine and shape the com- 
 plexion of our dreams. They have a subjective connection^ 
 are by no means so disconnected with us and our real his- 
 tory, so much a matter of hap-hazard, as one may suppose^ 
 It was not without reason that President Edwards took 
 notice of his dreams as affording an index of the state of h.. 
 heart, and his real native propensities. They are the vane 
 that shows w^hich way the mind is set. Who will say that 
 the dreams of Lady Macbeth, those dreams of a guilty con- 
 science, are not among the most truth fu] of the portraitures 
 of the g; Tat master dramatist ? * 
 
 Native Talent then shows itself. -—~Rot only our nati^-t** 
 disposition and prevalent cast of thought betray themselves 
 m dreams, but, as a certain writer as remarked, our native 
 
" SrAl IS OF THE NERVOUS SYS;. EM. 35§ 
 
 talents show ou , in those moments of spontaneous raentai 
 action. Talents >f hich have had no opportunity to develop 
 themselves, owing to our education and professional pursuits. 
 take their chance and their time when we sleep, and we ar^ 
 poets, artists, orators, whatever nature designed, whatevei 
 the trammelled mind longs, but longs in vain, to be in oui 
 waking moments. 
 
 Tncoherency of Dreams, — The incoherency of our dreams 
 has been sufficiently accounted for in what I have previously 
 said. It is not, I think, owing ciiiefly, as Upham supposes, 
 to our loss of voluntary power and control over our thoughts 
 during sleep, though it is quite true that we have no such 
 control. The truth is, we are not at the time aioare of any 
 such incoherency. It cannot, of course, be owing then to 
 our loss of voluntary power, since no increase of such powei 
 would enable us to repair a defect which we are unconscious 
 of, but is owing entirely to another cause already mentioned, 
 viz., that in sleep we lose our relatiofi to things around us, 
 lose our place, and our time, and hence, retain no standard 
 of judging as to what is, and what is not, consentaneous and 
 €t, self-consistent and coherent. 
 
 Apparent Meality, — Nothing is more remarkable in 
 areams than their apparent reality. The scenes, actions, 
 and incidents, all stand out with peculiar distinctness, arf 
 projected as images into the air before us, and have not at a*, 
 the semblance of any thing merely subjective. This has been, 
 by some, ascribed to the fact that there is nothing to dis- 
 tract or call off the attention from the conceptions of tha 
 mind in dreams ; we are wholly in them, and hence they 
 appear as realities. I do not find, however, that in propor- 
 tion as my attention in waking moments is wholly absorbed 
 in any train of thought, those conceptions manifest any such 
 tendency to project themselves, so to speak, into objective 
 reality. They are still mere conceptions, only more vivid. 
 I am inclined, therefore, to attribute the seeming reality of 
 dreams to another source. We are accustome^l to regard 
 
S56 MIND AS AFFECTEF BY * 
 
 every thing as objective^ which is out oi the reach and con 
 t.rol of our will, which comes and goes irrespective of us and 
 our volition. ISTow, such we find to be the prime law of 
 cerebral action in sleep. Of course, then, we are deceived 
 into the belief that these conceptions over which we have no 
 control, are not conceptions, lout perceptions^ realities. 
 
 jEstimate of Time. — Nothing has seemed to some writers 
 more mysterious than the entire disproportion between the 
 real and apparent time of a dream. I refer to the fact 
 that our dreams occupy frequently such very minute por- 
 tions of time, while they seem to us to stretch over such 
 long continued periods. An instance is related of an officer 
 confined in the prisons of the French Revolution, who was 
 awakened by the call of the sentry changing guard, fell 
 asleep again, witnessed, as he supposed, a very long and 
 very horrible procession of armed and bloody warriors, de- 
 filing on horseback down a certain street of Paris, occupy- 
 mg some hours in their passage, then awoke in terror in 
 season to hear distinctly the response of the sentry to the 
 challenge given before the dream began. The mind in 
 such cases, say some, operates more rapidly than at other 
 times. There is no evidence of that. Mr. Stewart has 
 suggested, I think, the right explanation. As our dreams 
 geem to us real, and we have no means of estimating time 
 otherwise than by the apparent succession of events, th^ 
 conceptions of the brain, that is, our dreams, seem to us to 
 take up just so much time in passing as the events them^ 
 selves would occupy were they real. This is perfectly a 
 natural result, and it fully accounts for the apparent anomaly 
 in question. 
 
 Prophetic Aspect, — Are dreams sometimes prophetic^ 
 and how are such to be accounted for ? Cicero narrates a 
 remarkable instance .of what would seem to be a prophetic 
 dream. I refer to the account of the two Arcadians who 
 came to Megara and occupied different lodgings. The one 
 of these appeared twice, in a "^ream, to the other, first im- 
 
• STATES OF THE NEEVOUS SYSTEM. 357 
 
 ploring help, taen murdered, and informing his comrade that 
 his body would be taken out of the city early in the morn- 
 ing, by a certain gate, in a covered wagon. Agitated by the 
 dream, the oth*er repairs at the designed time to the ap- 
 pointe<l place, meets the wagon, discovers the body, arrests 
 the murderer, and delivers him to justice. 
 
 Other Instances of the like Nature. — Another instance, 
 perhaps equally striking, is narrated in the London Times, 
 A Mr. Williams, residing in Cornwall, dreamed thrice in the 
 same night that he saw the Chancellor of England killed, 
 in the vestibule of the House of Commons. The dream so 
 deeply impressed him that he narrated it to several of his 
 acquaintance. It was subsequently ascertained that on the 
 evening of that day the Chancellor, Mr. Perceval, was as- 
 sassinated according to the dream. Now, this was cer- 
 tainly a remarkable coincidence. Was it any thing more ? 
 Was it merely an accidental thing — a matter of chance — 
 that the dream should occur as it did, and should tally so 
 closely with the facts ? But these are not singular instances. 
 Many such are on record. 
 
 Case related by Dr. Moore. — 1>.. Moore, author of an 
 interesting work on the use of the body in relation to 
 the mind, narrates the following, as coming under his own 
 observation. A friend of his dreamed that he was amus- 
 ing himself, as he was in the habit of doing, by reading 
 the epitaphs in a country church-yard, when a newly made 
 grave attracted his attention. He was surprised to find on 
 the stone the name, and date of death, of an intimate 
 friend of his, with whom he had passed that very evening 
 in conversation. Nothing more was thought of the dream, 
 however, nor, perhaps, would it ever have recurred to 
 mind, had he not received intelligence, some months after- 
 ward, of the death of this friend, which took place at tb(j 
 very date he had, in his dream, seen recorded on the tom]> 
 stone. 
 
 Case related 'by Dr. Ahercromhie. — The case mentioned 
 
553 MIND AS AFFECTED BY 
 
 by Dr. ALercombie is another of tliese reoarkfible coinci- 
 dences. Two sisters sleeping in the same room adjoining 
 that of a sick brother, the one awakens in affriglit, having 
 dreamed that the watch had stopped, and that on mention- 
 h'jg it to her sister, the latter replied, " Worse than that hap 
 happened, for -'s breath has stopped also." On examina- 
 tion the watch was fonnd going and the brother in a sound 
 sleep. The next night the dream was repeated precisely as 
 before with the same result. The next morning as one of the 
 sisters had occasion to take the watch from the writing-desk 
 she was surprised to find it had stopped, and at the same 
 moment was startled by a scream from the other sister in the 
 chamber of the sick man, who had, at that moment, expired 
 
 Additional Cases. — Another instance of a similar nature 
 is related, but I know not on how good authority. The 
 sister of Major Andre, it is said, dreamed of her absent 
 brother, one night, as arrested and on trial before a court 
 martial. The appearance of the officers, their dress, etc., 
 was distinctly impressed on her mind ; the room, the relative 
 position of the prisoner and his judges, were noticed ; the 
 general nature of the trial, and its result, the condemnation 
 of her brother. She woke deeply impressed. Her fears 
 were shortly afterward confirmed by the sad intellio-ence of 
 her brother's arrest, trial, and execution, and, what is re- 
 markable, the facts corresponded to her dream, both as re- 
 spects the time of occurrence, the place, the appearance of 
 the room, position, and dress of the judges, etc. Washing- 
 ton and Knox were particularly designated, though she had 
 never seen them. 
 
 Another instance is related of a man who dreamed that 
 the vessel in which his brother was an officer, and, in part, 
 owner of the cargo, was wrecked on a certain island, and 
 the vesi^^el lost, but the hands saved. He was so impressed 
 that he went directly and procured an extra insurance of 
 five thousand dollars, on his brother's portion of the property. 
 By the next ai-rival news came that the vessel was wrecked. 
 
STATES OF THE NEPwV^OUS SYSTEM. 359 
 
 » 
 at the time and place of whicli the man had dreame-j, and 
 
 the mariners saved. 
 
 CoinoAdences, — lN"ow it is perfectly easy to call all these 
 things coincidences. They cei-ta^nly are. But is it certain, 
 or it is probable, that they are rpiere coincidences ? To call 
 hem coincidences, and pass them off as if they were easily 
 and fully accounted for in that way, is but a si] allow con- 
 <:oatment of our ignorance under a certain show of philos- 
 ophy. It is but a conjecture at the best; a conjecture, 
 moreover, which explains nothing, but leaves the mystery 
 just as great as before ; a conjecture which is by no means 
 the most probable of all that might be made, but, on the con- 
 trary, one of the most improbable of all, as it seems to me. 
 Mark, the cases I have now mentioned do not come under 
 any of the laws or conditions laid down as giving rise or modi- 
 fication to our dreams. They are not suggested, so far as it 
 appears, by any present bodily sensation on the part of the 
 dreamer, nor was there any reason in the nature of the case 
 why any such event, much less conjunction of events, should 
 be apprehended by the dreamer in his wakmg moments. It 
 was not the simple carrying out of his waking thouglits. 
 Doubtless many dreams regarded as prophetic, may be 
 explained on these principles. They are the result of our 
 present sensations or impressions, or of the excited and anx- 
 ious state of mind and train of thought during the day. But 
 not so in the cases now cited. 
 
 N^ot necessary to suppose them Supernatural, — Shall ^e 
 believe, then, that dreams are sometimes prophetic ? We 
 have no reason to doubt that they may be so. Are they, in 
 that case, supernatural events ? No doubt the future may 
 be supernaturally communicated in dreams. ISTo doubt it has 
 been, and that not in a few cases, as every believer in the 
 sacred Scriptures must admit. But this is not a necessary 
 supposition. A dream may be prophp'^ic, yet not super- 
 natural. Some law, not frilly kno^m to us, may exist, by 
 virtue of which the nervous system, when in a highly excited 
 
3Q0 MIND AS AFFECTED BY 
 
 state, becomes susceptible of impressions not ordmarily re- 
 ceived, and is put in communication, in some way to ua 
 mysterious, with scenes, places, and events, far distant, so as 
 to 'become strangely cognizant of the coming future. Can 
 any one show that this is impossible ? Is it more improb- 
 able than that the cases recorded are mere chance coinci- 
 dences ? Is it not quite as likely to be so, as that the event 
 should correspond, in so many cases and so striking a man- 
 aer, with the previous dream, and yet there be no eauscj 
 whatever^ for the correspondence ? Is it not as reasonable, 
 even, as to suppose direct divine interposition to reveal ^he 
 future, the possibility of which interposition I by no means 
 deny, but the reason for which does not become apparent ? 
 fs it not possible that there may be some natural law or 
 agent of the sort now intimated, some as yet unexplained, 
 but partially known, condition of the physical system, when 
 In a peculiarly sensitive state, of which the modus operandi 
 is not yet understood, but the existence of which is indicated 
 (n cases like those now described ? That this is the true 
 explanation, I by no means affirm ; I make the suggestion 
 merely to indicate what, it seems to me, may be a possible 
 8olution of the problem. 
 
 Possible Modes of accounting for the Facts, — Evidently 
 there are only these four possible solutions. 1. To deny the 
 facts themselves, i. 6., that any such dreams occurred, or at 
 feast, that they were verified in actual result. 2. To call 
 them accidental coincidences. 3. To admit a supernatural 
 agency. 4. To explain them in the way suggested. Our 
 choice lies, as it seems to me, between the second and the 
 fast of these suppositions. 
 
 § III. — Somnambulism. 
 
 Relation to the magnetic State, — Somnambulism or sleep 
 walking, is called, by some writers, natural magnetic sleep. 
 They suppose it to differ from the state ordinarily called 
 
STATES OF THE N-fcRVOtFS SYSTETST. 361 
 
 mesmeric, chiefly in this, that the former is a natural, and 
 the latter an aitlficial process. 
 
 Heseniblance of this to other cognate Phenomena, — We 
 shall have occasion, as we proceed, to notice the very close 
 resemblance between dreaming, somnambulism, mesmerism, 
 and insanity, all, in fact, closely related to each other, char- 
 acterized each and all by one and the same great law, and 
 passing into each other by almost imperceptible gradations. 
 
 Method proposed, — It will be to the purpose, first to 
 describe the phenomena of somnambulism, then to inquire 
 whether they can be accounted for. 
 
 Description. — The principal phenomena of somnambulism 
 are the following : The subject, while in a state of sound 
 sleep, and perfectly unconscious of what he does, rises, walks 
 about, linds his way over dangerous, and, at other times, in- 
 accessible places, speaks and acts as if awake, performs in 
 the dark, and with the eyes closed, or even bandaged, opera- 
 tions which require the closest attention and the best vision, 
 perceives, indeed, things not visible to the eye in its ordinary 
 waking state, perhaps even things absent and future, and 
 when awakened from this state, is perfectly unconscious of 
 what has happened, and astonished to find himself in some 
 strange and unnatural position. 
 
 An Instance narrated, — A case which fell under the ob- 
 servation of the Archbishop of Bordeaux, when a student in 
 the seminary, is narrated in the French Enclycopedia? A 
 young minister, resident there, was a somnambulist, and to 
 satisfy himself as to the nature of this strange disease, the 
 Archbishop went every night into his room, after the young 
 man was asleep. He would arise, take paper, pen, and ink, 
 and proceed to the composition of sermons. Having wiitten 
 a page in a clear legible hand, he would read it aloud from 
 top to bottom, with a clear voice and proper emphasis. If 
 a passage did not please him, he would erase it, and wiite 
 the correction, plainly, in its proper place, over the erased 
 line or word. All this was done without any assistance from 
 
 16 
 
MIND AS AFFECTED BT 
 
 the eye, wMcb. was evidently asleep ; a piece of pasteboard 
 interposed between the eye and the paper produced no in- 
 terruption or inconvenience. When his paper was exchanged 
 for another of the same size, he was not aware of the change, 
 but when a paper of a different size was substituted, he at 
 once detected the difference. This shows that the sense of 
 tact or feeling was active, and served as a guiding sense. 
 
 Other Gases of a similar Nature. — Similar cases, almost 
 without number, are on record, in which much the same 
 phenomena are observed. In some instances it is remarked 
 that the subject, having written a sentence on a page, returns, 
 and carefully dots the i's, and crosses the t's. These phe- 
 nomena are not confined to the night. Persons have fallen 
 into the magnetic state, while in church, during divine ser- 
 vice, have gone home with their eyes closed, carefully avoid- 
 ing obstacles in their way, as persons or carriages passing ; 
 and have been sent, in this state, of errands to places several 
 miles distant, going and returning in safety. 
 
 An amusing incident is on record of a gentleman who 
 found that his hen-roost was the scene of nightly and alarm- 
 ing depredations, which threatened the entire devastation 
 of the premises, and what was strange, a large and faithful 
 watch-dog gave no alarm. Determined to ascertain the true 
 state of the case, he employed his servants to watch. Dur- 
 ing the night the thief made his appearance, was caught, 
 after- much resistance, and proved to be the gentleman him' 
 self in a state of sound sleep, the author of all the mischief. 
 
 A rem^arhahle Instance, — Another case is also related, 
 which presents some features quite remarkable. In a cer 
 tain school for young ladies, I think in France, prizes had 
 been offered for the best paintings. Among the competitors 
 was a young and timid girl who was conscious of her in* 
 feriority in the art, yet strongly desirous of success. For a 
 time she was quite dissatisfied with the progress of her work, 
 but by and by began to Motice, as she resumed her pencil in 
 %he morning, that something had been added to the work 
 
STATES OF THE NERVOUS bYSTEM 353 
 
 iiiice she last touched it. This was noticed for some timej 
 and quite excited her cui;iosity. The additions were evi- 
 dently b} a superior hand, far excelling her own in skill and 
 vrorkmanship. Her companions deniM, each, and severally, 
 all knowledge of the matter. She placed articles of furniture 
 agaiuvSt her door in such a way that any one entering would 
 be i^ure to awaken her. They were undisturbed, but still 
 the mysterious additions continued to be made. At last^ 
 her companions concluded to watch without, and make sure 
 that no one entered her apartment during the night, but 
 still the work went on. At length it occurred to them to 
 watch her movements, and now the mystery was explained. 
 They saw her, evidently in sound sleep, rise, dress, take her 
 place at the table, and commence her work. It was her own 
 hand that, unconsciously to herself, had executed the work 
 m a style which, in her waking moments, she could not ap- 
 proach, and which quite surpassed all competition. The 
 picture, notwithstanding her protestations that it was not 
 her painting, took the prize. 
 
 The Question. — How is it now, that in a state of sleep, 
 v^ith the eye, probably, fast closed, and the room in darkness, 
 this girl can use the pencil in a manner so superior to any 
 thing that she can do in the day time, with her eyes open, 
 and in the full possession and employment of her senses and 
 her will ? 
 
 Several Things to he accounted for, — Here are, in fact, 
 several things to be accounted for. How is it that the som- 
 nambulist rises and moves about in a state of apparently 
 sound sleep? How is it that she performs actions requfr- 
 ing often a high degree of intelligence, and yet without 
 apparent consciousness? How is it that she moves fear- 
 lessly and safely, as is often the case, over places where 
 Bhe could not stand for a moment, in her waking state, 
 •without the greatest danger ? How is it that she can see 
 without the eye, and perform actions in utter darkness, re< 
 i(uiring the nicest attention, and the best vision,, and not 
 
364 MIND AS AFFECTED BY 
 
 only do tliera, but in such a manner as even to surpass what 
 can be done by the same person in any other state, under 
 the most favorable circumstances ? 
 
 Firsts the MovemeM, — As to the first thing — the move- 
 ment and locomotion in sleep — it may be accounted for in two 
 ways. We may suppose it to be wholly automatic. This is 
 the view of some eminent physiologists. The conscious soul, 
 they say, has nothing to do with it, no knowledge of it. 
 The will has nothing more to do with it, than it has with 
 the contraction of a muscle, or irritation in an amputated 
 limb. 
 
 Objection to this View, — For reasons intimated already, 
 we cannot adopt the automatic theory. It seems to us sub- 
 versive of all true science of the mind. The body is self 
 moved in obedience to the active energy of the nervous or- 
 ganism, and this organism again, acts only as it is acted upon 
 by the mind that animates, pervades, and controls that or* 
 ganism. In the waking state, this mental action, and the 
 consequent nervous and muscular activity, are under the 
 control of the will. In sleep, this control is, for the time, 
 suspended, and the thoughts come and go as it may chance, 
 subject to no law but that of the associative principle. The 
 mind, however, is still active, and the thoughts are busy in 
 their own spontaneous movement. To this movement, the 
 brain and nervous system respond. That the brain itself 
 thinks, that the nerves and muscles act, and the limbs move 
 automatically, without the energizing activity of the mind, 
 is a supposition purely gratuitous, inconsistent with all the 
 known facts and evident indications of the case, and at war 
 with all just notions of the relation of body and mind. 
 
 Another Theory, — Another, and much more reasonable 
 supposition is, that the will, which ordinarily in sleep loses 
 control both over the mind and the body, in the state ot 
 somnambulism regains, in some way, and to some extent* 
 its power over the latter, so ttot the body rises and moves 
 about in accordance with the thought and feeling that. hap 
 
STATES OF THE NERVOUS SYSTEM. 3G5 
 
 pen, at the moment, to be predominant in the mind. There 
 is no control of the will over those thoughts and suggestions : 
 they are spontaneous, undirected, casual, subject only to the 
 ordinary laws of association ; but for the time, whether 
 owing to the greater vividness and force of these suggestions 
 and impressions, or to the disturbed and partially aroused 
 state of the sensorial organism, the will, acting in accordance 
 with these suggestions of the mind, so far regains its power 
 over the bodily organism, that locomotion ensues. The 
 dream is then simply acted out. The body rises, the hand 
 resumes the pen, and the appropriate movements and actions 
 corresponding to the conceptions of the mind in its dream, 
 are duly performed. 
 
 The second Point of Inquiry, — This virtually answers 
 the second question, how the somnambulist can perform ac- 
 tions requiring intelligence, yet without apparent conscious- 
 ness. 
 
 There is, doubtless, consciousness at the time — there must 
 be ; the thought and feeling of the moment are known to 
 us at the moment. ISTot to be conscious of thought and 
 feeling, is, not to think and feel. That the acts thus per- 
 formed are not subsequently remembered, is no evidence 
 that they were not objects of consciousness at the time of 
 their occurrence. This is absence of memory, and not of 
 consciousness. 
 
 Not remembered, — Why they are not subsequently re- 
 membered, we may, or may not, be able to explain. Not 
 improbably, it may be owing to the partial inactivity of the 
 genseS) and the consequent failure to perceive the actual re- 
 lations of the person to surrounding objects. But to what- 
 ever it may be owing, it does not prove that the mind is, for 
 the time, unconscious of its own activity, for that is impofj- 
 sible. 
 
 Third Question. — As to the third question, how the 
 eomnambulist can safely move where the waking person 
 cannot, as along the edge of precipices, and on the roofai 
 
366 ' MIND AS AFFECTED BY 
 
 of houses, the explanation is simple and easy. The eye A 
 closed. The sense of touch is the only guide. Novr the 
 foot requires but a space of a few inches for its support, that, 
 given it knows nothing further, asks nothing beyond. It 
 is the eye that informs us at other times of the danger be- 
 yond, and so creates, in fact, the present danger. You walk 
 safely on a two-inch plank one foot from the ground. The 
 same effort of the muscles will enable you to walk the same 
 plank one hundred feet from the ground, if you do not 
 know the difference. This the somnambulist, with closed 
 eye, and trusting to the sense of feeling alone^ does not 
 recognize. 
 
 • A Question still to be answered, — But the most difficult 
 question remains. How is it that the sleep-walker in utter 
 darkness, reads, writes, paints, runs, etc., better even than 
 others can do, or even than he himself can do at other times 
 and with open eyes. How can he do these things Avithout 
 seeing ? and how see in the dark and with the organs of 
 vision fast locked in sleep. The facts are manifest. Not so 
 ready the explanation. I can see how the body can move 
 and with comparative safety, and even how the cerebral 
 action may go on in sleep, without subsequent remembrance. 
 But to read, to write, to paint, to run swiftly when pursued 
 through a dark cellar, without coming in contact with sur- 
 rounding objects, are operations requiring the nicest powei 
 of vision, and how there can be vision without the use of 
 the proper organ of vision, is not to me apparent. It does 
 not answer this question to say that the action is automatic. 
 That would account for one's seeing, but not without eyes. 
 The movement from place to place, according to the same 
 theory, is also automatic ; that accounts for a person's walk- 
 ing in sleep, but not for his walking without legs. Kor 
 does it solve the difficulty to say that in sleep the life of 
 the soul is merged in that of the body ; doubtless, but 
 how can the body see without the eye, or the eye without 
 light ? 
 
STATES OF THE NERVOUS SYSTEM 3o1 
 
 Tlieory of a general Se?ise, — ■ The only theory that seema 
 to offei even a plausible solution is that advanced by some 
 German psychologists, and by Rauch in this country, of a 
 general sense. The several special senses, they say, are all 
 resolvable into one general sense as their source, viz., that 
 of feeling. They refer us in illustration to the ear of the 
 erab, to the eye of the fly and the snail, to the scent of flies, 
 in which cases, respectively, we find no organ of hearing, or 
 vision, or smell, but simply an expansion of the genera, 
 nerve of sensation, or some filament from it, connecting with 
 a somewhat thinner and more delicate membrane than the 
 ordinary skin. This shows that our ordinary way of j)er- 
 ceiving things is not the only way ; that special organs of. 
 vision, etc., are not needed in order to all perception, much 
 less to sensation. It has been found by experiment that bats, 
 after their eyes have been entirely removed, will fly about as 
 before, and avoid all obstacles just as before. In these cases, 
 it is contended, perception is merely feeling heightened^ the 
 exercise of the general sense into which the special senses 
 are severally merged. And this, it is said, may be the c-^se 
 with the somnambulist. 
 
 JRemarJcs on this Theory, — There is doubtless truth iii 
 the general statement now advanced. I do not see, how- 
 ever, that it accounts for all that requires explanation in the 
 case. It explains, perhaps, how, without the organ of vision, 
 a certain dim, confused perception of objects might be fur- 
 nished by the general sense, but not for a clearer vision and 
 a nicer operation than the waking eye can give. This, to 
 me, remains yet unexplained. Is there an inner conscious 
 ness, a hidden soul-life not dependent on the bodily organi- 
 lation, which at times comes forth into development and 
 manifests itself when the usual relations of body and soul 
 are disturbed and suspended ? So some have supposed, and 
 so it may be for aught we know to the contrary, but this is 
 only to solve one mystery by supposing another yet 
 greater. 
 
SCb MIND AS AFFECTED BY 
 
 Must admit what, — Whatever theory we adopt, or even 
 if we adopt none, we must admit, I think, in view of the 
 facts in the case, that in certain disordered and highly ex- 
 cited states of the nervous system, as, e, g,^ when weakened 
 by disease, so that ordinary causes affect it more powerfully 
 than usual, it can^ and does sometimes^ perceive what^ under 
 ordinary circumstances^ is not perceptible to the eye^ or to 
 the ear ; nay,, even dispenses with the use of eye and ear^ 
 and the several organs of special sense. This occurs, as 
 we have seen, in somnambulism, or natural magnetic sleep. 
 We meet with the same thing also in even stranger forms, 
 in the mesmeric state, and in some species of insanity. 
 
 The mental Process obvious. — So far as regards the 
 purely mental part of the phenomena, the operations of the 
 mind in somnambulism, there is nothing which is not easily 
 <ixplained. In somnambulism, as indeed in all these states 
 so closely connected — sleep, dreams, the mesmeric process, 
 and even insanity — the will loses its controlling power over 
 the train of thought,, and^ consequently,, the thought or feel- 
 ing that happens to be dominant gives rise to,, and entirely 
 shapes,, thh actions that may in that state be performed. 
 This dominant thought or feeling, in the case of the som- 
 nambulist, is, for the most part, probably, the result of pre- 
 vious causes ; a continuation of the former mental action, 
 which, when the influence of the will is suspended and the 
 senses closed, by a sort of inherent activity keeps on in the 
 game channel as before. Of such action, the soul is itself 
 probably conscious at the moment, but afiberward no recol- 
 lection of it lingers in the mind. 
 
 § IV. — Disordered Mental Action. 
 
 Relation to other mental Phenomena, — Closely allied to 
 Boranambulism, dreaming, etc., are certain forms of dis- 
 ordered mental condition commonly termed insanity ; hav- 
 ing this one element in common with the former the Iosn 
 
STATES OF THE NERVOUS SYSTEM. 369 
 
 j>f suspension of all voluntary control over the train ol 
 thought. This must be regarded as the characteristic fea- 
 ture and essential ground-work of the various phenomena 
 in all these various states. 
 
 ClassiJicatio72, — The forms of disordered mental action 
 are various, and admit of some classification. Some are 
 transient, others permanent, arising from some settled dis- 
 order of the intellect, or the sensibilities. 
 
 I. Transient Forms, — Of these, some are artificially pro 
 duced, as by exciting drugs, stimulants, intoxicating drinks, 
 etc., others by physical and natural causes, as disease, etc. 
 
 Delirium^ artificial, - — The most common of these forms 
 of disordered mental action is that transient and artificial 
 state produced by intoxicating drugs^ and drinks. This is 
 properly called delirium, and takes place whenever total or 
 even partial inebriation occurs, whether from alcoholic or 
 narcotic stimulants, as the opium of the Chinese, and the 
 Indian hemp or hachish of the Hindoos. The same effects, 
 substantially, are produced, also, by certain plants, as the 
 deadly night-shade and others, and also by aconite. In all 
 these cases the efiect is wrought primarily, it would seem, 
 upon the blood, which is brought into a poisonous state, and 
 thus deranges the action of the nerves and the brain. The 
 hachish or Indian hemp, which, in the East, is used for pur- 
 poses of intoxication more generally, perhaps, than even 
 opium, or alcoholic drinks, may serve as an illustration of 
 the manner in which these various stimulants afiect the 
 senses. At first the subject perceives an increased activity 
 of mind ; thoughts come and go in swift succession and 
 pleasing variety ; the imagination is active — memory, fancy, 
 reason, all awake. Gradually this mental activity increases 
 and frees itself front voluntary control / attention to any 
 special subject becomes difiicult or even impossible ; ideas, 
 strange and wonderful, come and go at random with no appar- 
 ent cause and by no known law of suggestion ; these absorb 
 the attention until the mind is at last given up to them, and 
 
 16* 
 
dlO MIND AS AFFECTED BY. 
 
 there is no further consciousness of the external things^ 
 while, at the same time, the patient is susceptible, as in the 
 magnetic state, of influence and impression from without. 
 How closely, in many respects, this resembles the state of 
 the mind in somnambulism, mesmerism, and ordinary dream- 
 ing, I need not point out. The mental excitement produced 
 by opium is perhaps greater, and the images that throng the 
 brain, and assume the semblance of reality, are more numer- 
 ous and real. The subsequent exhaustion and reaction in 
 either case are fearful. For illustration of this the reader is 
 referred to the Confessions of an Opium Eater, by the ac- 
 complished De Quincey. 
 
 Delirium of Disease, — The ordinary delirium of disease 
 is essentially of the same nature wdth that now described, 
 differing rather in its origin, or producing cause, than in 
 its effects. It comes on often in much the same way ; in- 
 creased mental activity shows itself; attention is fixed with 
 difficulty ; strange images, and trains of thought at once 
 singular and uncontrolled by the will, come and go ; the 
 mind at last is possessed by them and loses all control over 
 its own movements. Every thing now, which the mind 
 conceives, assumes the forrn of reality. It has no longer 
 conceptions but perceptions. Figures move along the walls 
 and occupy the room.^ They are as really seen^ that is, the 
 sensation is the same, as in any case of healthy and actual 
 vision ; only the effect is wrought from within outward, 
 from the sensorium to the optic nerve and retina, instead of 
 the reverse, as in actual vision. Voices are heard also, and 
 various sounds, in the same manner ; the producing cause 
 acting from within outward, and not from without inward. 
 
 Differs from. Dreaming, — This state differs from dream- 
 ing in that the subject is not necessarily asleep, and that it 
 involves a greater and more serious disorder of the faculties, 
 as well as of longer continuance. The illusions are perhaps 
 also more decided, and more vividly conceived as external 
 and real entities Like dreams, and unlike the con(».eptions 
 
STATES OF THE NERVOUS SYSTEM. 371 
 
 of the magnetic state, these ideas and illusions may be sut* 
 sequently recalled, and in many cases are so ; the mind, 
 however, finding it difficult still to believe that they were 
 fictions^ and not actual occurrences. 
 
 In dreaming, the things which we seem to see and heai 
 are changes produced in the sensorium by cerebral or othei 
 influences. In delirium, the sensorinm xtself is disordered 
 and produces false appearances^ spectres, etc. 
 
 Mania, — That form of disordered mental action termed 
 mania^ differs from that already described in that, along 
 with the derangement of the intellect, there is more or lesa 
 emotional disorder. The patient is strongly excited on any 
 thing that at all rouses the feelings. There may be much 
 or little intellectual derangement accompanying this excite- 
 ment. The two forms, in fact, pass into each by a succes- 
 sion of almost indefinable links. The main element is the 
 sarne in each, ^. 6., loss of voluntary control over the 
 thoughts and feelings. Each is produced by physical 
 causes, and is of transient duration. 
 
 Power of Suggestion, — In all th^M*^ forms of delirium 
 now described, whether artificial or xiatural, the mind is 
 open to suggestions from without, and these become often 
 controlling ideas. Hence it is of imperative necessity that 
 the attendant should be on his guard as to what he says or 
 does in the presence of the patient. An instance in point 
 is related by Dr. Carpenter, in which a certain eminent phy- 
 sician lost a number of his patients in fever by their jump- 
 ing from the window, a fact accounted for at once^ when we 
 come to hear that he was stupid enough to cautioR the at- 
 tendants, in the hearing of his patients,, against thp possibil- 
 ity of such an event. 
 
 II. Permanent Forms, — I proceed next to notice those 
 more permanent forms of mental disorder, pommonly termed 
 insanity,, a term properly applied to desi|xnate those cases of 
 abnormal mental activity in which there seems to be either 
 8ome settled disu:irder of the intellect, as, e. g,j when the 
 
ni2 MIKD AS AFFECTED BY 
 
 brain has been weakened by successive attacks ol mania, 
 epilepsy, etc., or else some permanent tendency to disordered 
 emotional excitement. 
 
 Disorder of the Intellect, — Where the intellectual fac- 
 ulties are disordered, the chief elementary feature of the 
 case is the same as in those already noticed, viz., JOoss of 
 voluntary control ocer the mental operations — the psycholo- 
 gical ground-work, as we have seen, of all the various forma 
 of abnormal mental action which have as yet come under 
 our notice. 
 
 Memory affected, — In the cases now under considera- 
 tion, the memory is the faculty that in most cases gives 
 the first signs of failure, particularly that form of memory 
 which is strictly voluntary, viz., recollection. In cons^ 
 quence of this, past experience is placed out of reach, can- 
 not be made available, and therefore reasoning and judg- 
 ment are deficient. The thoughts lose their coherency and 
 connection, as they are thus cut loose from the fixtures of 
 the past, to which the laws of association no longer bind 
 them ; they come and go with a strange automatic sort of 
 movement, over which the mind feels that it has little power. 
 Gradually this little fades away ; the will no longer exercises 
 its former and rightful control over the mental activities ; its 
 sway is broken, its authority gone ; the mind loses control of 
 itself, and, like a vessel broken from her moorings, swings 
 sadly and hopelessly away into the swift stream of settled 
 insanity. The mind still retains its full measure of activity, 
 perhaps greatly increased ; but it acts as in a dream. All its 
 conceptions are realities to it, and the actually real world, a 
 it mingles with the dream and shapes it, is but vaguely and 
 imperfectly apprehended through the confused media of the 
 mind's own conceptions. All this may be, and often is, real- 
 ized, where there is entire absence of all emotional excite- 
 ment. 
 
 Not easily cured. — The condition now described is much 
 less open to medical treatment than the mental states pre- 
 
STATES OF THE NERVOUS SYSTEM. 373 
 
 viously mentioned. Indeed, where there is insanity result- 
 ing f\-om settled cerebral disorder, there is very little hope 
 of cure. Nature may in time recover herself ; she may not. 
 This depends on age, constitution, predisposing causes, and 
 a variety of circumstances not altogether under human 
 control. 
 
 Disordered Action of the Sensihilities. — Another form 
 of insanity is that which consists in, or arises from, not 
 any primary disorder of the intellectual faculties, but a tend- 
 ency to disordered emotional excitement. Sometimes this 
 is general, extending to all the emotions. These cases re- 
 q[uire careful treatment. The patient is like a child, and 
 must be governed mildly and wisely, is open to argument 
 and motives of self-control. In other cases, some one emo- 
 tion is particularly the seat and centre of the disturbance, 
 while the others are comparatively tranquil. In such caseis 
 the exaggerated emotion may prompt to some specific ac- 
 tion, as suicide, or murder, etc. This is termed impulsive 
 insanity. The predominant idea or impulse tyrannizes over 
 the mind, and, by a sort of irresistible fatality, drives it on 
 to the commission of crime. The patient may be conscious 
 of this impulse, and revolt from it with horror ; there may 
 be no pleasure or desire associated with the deed, but he is 
 unable to resist. He is like a boat in the rapids of Niagara, 
 So fearful the condition of man when reason is dethi oned, 
 and the will no longer master 
 
MENTAL PHILOSOTHY. 
 
 DIVISION SECOND 
 
 THE SENSIBILITIES. 
 
THE SENSIBILITIES. 
 
 PRELIMINARY TOPICS. 
 
 CHAPTER 1 
 
 NATURE, DIFFICULTY, AND IMPORTAJSTOB OF THIS 
 DEPARTMENT OF THE SCIENCE. 
 
 Previous Analysis, — In entering upon the investiga- 
 tion of a new department of our science, it may be weU 
 to recur, for a moment, to the analysis and classification 
 of the powers of the mind which has been already given 
 in the introduction to the present volume. The facul- 
 ties of the mind were divided in that analysis, it will be 
 remembered, into three grand departments, the Intellect, 
 the Sensibilities, and the Vf ill ; the first comprising the va- 
 rious powers of thinking and knowing^ the second oi feeling^ 
 the third of willing. The first of these main divisions has 
 been already discussed in the preceding pages. Upon the 
 second we now enter. 
 
 Difference of the two Departments, — This department of 
 mental activity difiers from the former, as feeling difiers 
 from thinking. The distinction is broad and obvious. No 
 one can mistake it who knows any thing of his own mental 
 operations. Every one knows the difference, though not 
 every one may be able to explain it, or tell precisely in what 
 it consists. But whether able to define our meaning or not, 
 we are perfectly conscious that to think and to feel are dif 
 ferent acts, and involve entirely different states of mind. 
 
378 THE SENSIBILITIES. 
 
 \ 
 
 The common language of life recognizes the (Sistincticnj alike 
 that of the educated and of the uneducated, the peasant 
 and the man of science. The literature of the world recog 
 nizes it. 
 
 Relation of the two. — As regards the relation of the two 
 departments to each other, the intellect properly precedes 
 the sensibility. The latter implies the former, and depends 
 upon it. There can be no feeling — I speak, of course, of 
 mental feeling, and not of mere physical sensation — without 
 previous cognizance of some object, in view of which the 
 feeling is awakened. AiFection always implies an object of 
 affection, desire, an object of desire ; and the object is first 
 apprehended by the intellect before the emotion is awakened 
 in the mind. When we love, we love something, when we 
 desire, we desire something, when we fear, or hope, or hate, 
 there is always some object, more or less clearly defined, that 
 awakens these feelings, and in proportion to the clearness 
 and vividness of the intellectual conception or perception of 
 the object, will be the strength of the feeling. 
 
 Strength of Feelings as related to Strength of Intellect* — 
 The range and power of the sensibilities, then, in other 
 words, the mind's capacity of feeling, depends essentially 
 upon the range and vigor of the intellectual powers. Within 
 certain limits, the one varies as the other. The man of 
 strong and vigorous mind is capable of stronger emotion 
 than the man of dwarfed and puny intellect. Milton, Crom- 
 well, Napoleon, Webster, surpassed other men, not more in 
 clearness and strength of intellectual perception, than in 
 energy of feeling. In this, indeed, lay, in no small degree, 
 the secret of their superior power. In the most eloquent 
 passages of the great orators of ancient or modern times, it 
 is nnt so much the irresistible cogency and unrelenting grasp 
 of the terrible logic, that holds our attention, and casts its 
 spell over us, as it is the burning indignation that exposes 
 whe sophistries, and tears to shreds the fallacies of an oppa 
 nent, and sweeps all argument and all opposition before it 
 
THE SENSIBILITIES. 370 
 
 like a devouring fire. The orations of Demosthenes, of 
 Burke, of Webster, furnish numerous examples of this. 
 
 Influence of the Feelings on the hitellect, — On the other 
 land, it is equally true that the state of the intellect in any 
 case depends not a little on the nature and strength of the 
 mind's capacities of feeling. A quick and lively sensibility 
 is more likely to be attended with quickness and strength of 
 intellectual conception ; imagination, perception, fancy, and 
 even reasoning, are quickened, and set in active play, by ita 
 electric touch. 
 
 A man with sluggish and torpid sensibilities, is almost of 
 necessity a man of dull and slugglish intellect. A man with- 
 out feeling, if we can conceive so strange a phenomenon, 
 would be a man, the measure of whose intellectual capacity 
 would be little above that of the brutes. 
 
 Importance of this Department of the m^eiital Faculties. — 
 Such being the nature of the sensibilities, the innportance of 
 this department of mental activity becomes obvious at a 
 glance. The springs of human action lie here. We find 
 here a clue to the study of human nature and of ourselves. 
 To understand the complicated and curious problem of hu- 
 man life and action, to understand history, society, nations, 
 ourselves, we must understand well the nature and philoso- 
 phy of the sensibilities. Here we find the motives which set 
 the busy world in action, the causes which go to make men 
 what they are in the busy and ever changing scene of life's 
 great drama. It is the emotions and passions of men which 
 give, at once, the impulse, and the direction, to their energies^ 
 constitute their character, shape their history and their des 
 tiny. A knowledge of man and of the world is emphaticallj^ 
 a knowledge of the human heart. 
 
 Fxtr act from Drown. — The importance of this part ot 
 our nature is well set forth in the following passage from 
 Dr. Thomas Brown : 
 
 " We might, perhaps, have been so constituted, with re- 
 spect to our intellectual states of mind, as to have bad all the 
 
S80 1HE SENSIBILITIES. 
 
 varieties of these, our remembrances, judgments, and erea 
 tions of fancy, without our emotions. But without the emo 
 tions which accompany them, of how little value would the 
 mere intellectual functions have been ! It is to our vivid 
 feelings of this class we must look for those tender regards 
 which make our remembrances sacred, for that love of truth 
 and glory, and mankind, without which to animate and re- 
 Ward us in our discovery and diffusion of knowledge, the 
 continued exercise of judgment would be a fatigue rather 
 than a satisfaction, and for all that delightful wonder which 
 we feel when we contemplate the admirable creations of 
 fancy, or the still more admirable beauties of the unfading 
 model, that model which is ever before us, and the imitation 
 of which, as has been truly said, is the only imitation that is 
 itself originality. By our other mental functions, we are 
 mere spectators of the machinery of the universe, living and 
 inanimate ; by our emotions^ we are admirers of nature, lov- 
 ers of man, adorers of God. * ^ ^ . 
 
 Less attractive Aspects, — " In this picture of our emotions, 
 however, I have presented them in their fairest aspects ; 
 there are aspects which they assume, as terrible as these are 
 attractive ; but even terrible as they are, they are not the 
 less interesting objects of our contemplation. They are the 
 enemies with which our mortal combat, in the warfare of 
 life, is to be carried on ; and of these enemies that are to as- 
 sail us, it is good for us to know all the arms and all the 
 arts with which we are to be assailed ; as it is good for us 
 to know all the misery which would await our defeat, as 
 well as all the happiness which would crown our success, 
 that our conflict may be the stronger, and our victory, there- 
 fore, the more sure. 
 
 "In the list of pur emotions of this formidable class, is to 
 be found every passion which can render life guilty and 
 miserable ; a single hour of which, if that hour be an hour 
 of uncontrolled dominion, may destroy happiness forever, 
 ajid leave Uttlemore of virtue than is necessary for giving 
 
THE SENSIBILITIES 3dl 
 
 all its liorror to remorse. There are feelings as blasting to 
 every desire of good that may still linger in the heart of the 
 frail victim who is not yet wholly corrupted, as those pois- 
 onous gales of the desert, which not merely lift in whirlwinds 
 the sands that have often been tossed before, but wither even 
 the few fresh leaves, which on some spot of scanty verdure, 
 have still been flourishing amid the general sterility." 
 
 Difficidty of the Study, — With regard to the difficulty 
 attending th? study of this part of our nature, a word seems 
 necessary in passing. It has been supposed to constitute a 
 peculiar difficulty in the way of the successful investigation 
 of this department of mental activity, that the sensibilities 
 are, in their very nature, of such an exciting character, as to 
 preclude the calm, dispassionate observation and reflection 
 so necessary to correct judgment. At the moment of exer- 
 cising any lively emotion, as hope, fear, anger, etc., the 
 mind is in too great perturbation to be in any condition 
 for accurate self-observation, and when the excitement has 
 subsided^ the important moment has already passed. Mr 
 Stewart has particularly noticed this difficulty in his Intro- 
 duction to the Active and Moral Powers, and quotes Hume 
 to the same efiect. 
 
 Not peculiar to this Department of the Science. — The 
 difficulty in question, however, is one which, in reality, per- 
 tains to all mental science, and not to this department of it 
 alone ; and so Hume, in the passage cited by Mr. Stev/art, 
 seems to intend. It is true that while we are under the influ- 
 ence of any exciting emotion, we are in no mood, and in no 
 suitable state to observe, with critical eye, the workings of 
 our own minds ; neither are we in any condition to do so 
 when engaged in the less exciting, but not less absorbing 
 intellectual occupation of reasoning, or imagining, or remem- 
 bering. The moment we begin to observe ourselves as thu% 
 engaged, the mind is no longer employed as before, the ex- 
 periment which we wish to observe is interrupted, and in- 
 Btead of reasoning, imagining, or remembering, we are onlf 
 
382 ANALYSIS AND CLASSIFICATION 
 
 observing ours4ves. Our only resource, in either case, is tc 
 turn back and gather up, as well as we can from memory^ 
 the data of our mental activity and condition while thus and 
 thus employed. And this we can do with regard to the ac- 
 tion of the sensibilities, as well as of the intellect, provided 
 only the degree of emotion and excitement is not so great 
 as to interfere with the present consciousness, and so with 
 the subs^equent recollection of what was passing in our own 
 minds. 
 
 » 
 
 Sources of Information. — Nor are we dependent entirely 
 on self-observation. Our sources of information are twofold, 
 the observation of our own minds, and of others. From the 
 latter source tv e may learn much of the nature of this de- 
 partment of mental action. The sensibilities of others are 
 more open to our inspection, and less readily mistaken, than 
 their intellectual states. Nor do we meet, in this case, with 
 the same difficulty ; for however excited and incapable ol 
 iself-inspection, at the moment, the subject of any strong 
 emotion or passion may be, the spectator, at least, 4s able to 
 observe the effect of that passion, and note its phenomena, 
 with calm and careful eye. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 ANALYSIS AND CLASSIFICATION OF THE SENSIBILITIEa 
 
 Certain Distinctions may he noticed, — Including, undei 
 the term sensibility, according to the definition already 
 given, whatever is of the nature of feeling^ in distinction 
 from thought or cognition, and limiting the term also to 
 feelings strictly 'inental^ in distinction from merely physical 
 sensation, it is obvious that there are certain leading distinc- 
 tions still to be observed in this class of our mental states, 
 certaic great and strongly marked divisions or differences, 
 
OF THE SENSIBILITIES. 383 
 
 by which we shall do well to be guided in our arrangement 
 and classification of them. Our feelings are many and. va- 
 rious ; it is impossible to enumerate or classify them with 
 perfect precision ; yet there are certain points of resemblance 
 and difference among them, certain groups or classes into 
 which they naturally divide themselves. 
 
 .4 general Distinction indicated, — One general distinction 
 lies at the outset, patent and obvious, running through all 
 forms and modes of sensibility, namely, the difference of 
 agreeable and disagreeable. Every feeling is, in its very 
 nature, and of necessity, one or the other, either pleasing or 
 painful. In some cases the distinction is much more strongly 
 marked than in others ; sometimes it may be hardly per- 
 ceptible, and it may be difficult to determine, so slight is the 
 degree of either, whether the feeling under consideration 
 partakes of the character of pleasure or pain; sometimes 
 there is a blending of the two elements, and the same emo- 
 tion is at once pleasing and painful to the mind that experi- 
 ences it. But I cannot conceive of a feeling that is neither 
 agreeable or disagreeable, but positively indifferent. The 
 state of indifference is not an exercise of sensibility, but a 
 simple want of it, as the very name denotes by which we 
 most appropriately express this state of mind, i. 6., apathy 
 (a TTaOog), 
 
 Simple Amotions. — Passing this general and obvious dis- 
 tinction, we find among our sensibilities a large class which 
 we may denominate simple ernotions. These comprise the 
 joys and sorrows of life in all their varieties of modification 
 and degree, according, as the objects which awaken them 
 differ. Under this class fall those general states of the mind 
 which, without assuming a definite and obvious form, impart 
 a tinge and coloring of joyousness or sadness to all our ac- 
 tivity. Under this class, also, must be included the more 
 specific forms of feeling, such as the grief or sorrow we feoi 
 at the loss of friends, sympathy with the happiness or sorrow 
 of others, the enjoyment arising from the contemplation ci 
 
884 ANALYSIS AND CLASSIFICATION 
 
 persuasion of our own superiority, and the chagrin of the 
 reverse, the enjoyment of the ludicrous, of the new and won- 
 derful, of the beautiful, to which must be added the satis^ 
 Faction resulting from the consciousness of right action, and 
 those vivid feelings of regret in view of the wrong, which, 
 in their higher degree, assume the name of remorse, and fail 
 like a chill and fearful shadow over the troubled path of 
 earthly life. These all are simple emotions, and all, more- 
 over, are but so many forms of joy and sorrow, varying as 
 the objects vary which give rise to 'them. 
 
 Further Difference of instinctive and rational Emotion, 
 — It wiH be observed, however, that of these seveial speci- 
 fic forms of simple emotion, some are of a higher order than 
 the others. Such are those last named in the series, the 
 feelings awakened in view of the ludicrous, in view of the 
 new and wonderful, in view of the beautiful, and m view of 
 the right, or, in general, the SBSthetic and moral emotions. 
 These, as seeming to possess a higher dignity, and to in- 
 volve a higher degree of intellectual development, we may 
 denominate the rational^ in distinction from the other simple 
 emotions, which, to mark the difference, we may term in- 
 stinctive. 
 
 Emotions of a complex Character, — - Passing on in our 
 analysis, we come next to a class of emotions differing from 
 that already considered, in being of a complex character. 
 It is no longer a simple feeling of delight and satisfaction in 
 the object, or the reverse, but along with this is blended the 
 wish, more or less definite and intense, of good or ill, to the 
 object which awakens the emotion. The feeling assumes an 
 active form, becomes objective, and travels out from itself 
 and the bosom that cherishes it, to the object which calls it 
 forth. In this desire of good or ill to the object, the simple 
 element of joy or sorrow, the subjective feeling, is often 
 merged and lost sight of; yet it ever exists as an essential 
 element of the complex emotion. 
 
OF THE SENSIBILITIES 385 
 
 Further Subdivision of this Class, — Of this class are 
 ihe feelings usually denominated affectionSy whicli may be 
 further subdivided into benevolent and malevolent^ according 
 as they seek the good or the ill of their respective objects. 
 As the simple emotions are all but so many modes and 
 forms of the feeling of Joy, and its opposite, sorrow^ so 
 the affections are but so many different modifications of 
 the one comprehensive principle of love^ and its opposite^ 
 hate. 
 
 Various Objects of Affection, — The affections vary as the 
 objects vary on vrhich they rest. Of the benevolent class, the 
 more prominent are, love of kindred, of friends, of bene- 
 ('actors, of home and country. Of the malevolent affections, 
 so called, the more important are the feeling of resentment 
 m view of personal injury, of indignation at the wrongs of 
 t>thers, the feeling of jealousy, and the like. 
 
 The Passions, — These various affections, both malevol- 
 ent and benevolent, when they rise above the ordinary de- 
 gree, and become impatient of restraint, imperious, no 
 longer under the control of reason and sober reflection, but 
 themselves assuming the command of the whole man, and 
 impelling him toward the desired end, regardless of other 
 and higher interests, become the passions of our nature, 
 f*^ith which no small part of the self-conflict and self-dis- 
 cipline of this our mortal life is to be maintained. 
 
 The Desires. — There is still another class of emotions, 
 iiffering essentially in their nature from each of the two 
 reading divisions already mentioned, that is, our desires, 
 These are of two sorts. Those which are founded in the 
 physical nature and constitution of man — as the desire of 
 food, of muscular exertion, of repose, of whatever is adap- 
 ted to the animal nature and wants — are usually denom- 
 inated appetites : those, on the other hand, which take 
 their rise from the nature and wants of the mind, rather 
 than of the body, may be termed rational., in distinction 
 from animal desires or appetites. Of these the more im* 
 
886 ANALYSIS AND CLASSIFICATION 
 
 portant are the desire of happiness, of knowledge, of power 
 ol society, of the esteem of others. 
 
 As joy has its opposite, sorrow, and love its opposite, hate, 
 so also desire has its opposite, aversion ; and the objects of 
 aversion are as numerous as the objects of desire. The de- 
 sire of wealth has its counterpart, the aversion to poverty 
 and want ; the desire of life and happiness stands ovesf 
 against the aversion to suffering and death. The two are 
 60 to speak, the positive and negative poles of feeling. 
 
 Hope and Fear, — There is yet another and important 
 class of our emotions, having not a little to do with the hap- 
 piness or misery of life, casting its lights and shadows over 
 no small part of our little path from the cradle to the grave, 
 our hopes and our fears. These, however important in 
 themselves, are, nevertheless, but modifications of the prin- 
 ciples of desire and aversion, and are, therefore, to be re 
 ferred to the same general division of the sensibilities. 
 Hope is the desire of some expected good, fear the aver- 
 sion to some anticipated evil. 
 
 Summary of Glasses. — To the txjree comprehensive 
 classes now named. Simple JShnotionb^ A^ections^ and De* 
 sires may be referred, if I mistake no.s the various sensibil- 
 ities of our nature ; or, if the analysis and classification be 
 not complete and exhaustive, it is at lervst sufficiently minute 
 for our present purpose. 
 
 i Historical Sketch of the leading Divisiois^s of thk 
 Sensibilities adopted by different Writers. 
 
 xmportant to Jcnoio the Principles of Division adoptea 
 by others, — The discussion of the present topic would be 
 incomplete without a glance at the history of the same. It 
 is of service, having obtained some definite results and con- 
 clusions of our own, to know also what have been the views 
 and conclusions of others upon the same matter. As witb 
 
OF THE SENSIBILITIES, 38? 
 
 rvgard to the intellectual powers, so also with respect to the 
 sensibilities, different principles of division and classification 
 have been adopted by different writers. Our limits will 
 allow us to glance only at the more important of these. 
 
 General Principles of Classification, — - Of those who 
 have written upon the sensibilities, some have placed them 
 in contrast to each other, as hope and fear, love and hate^ 
 etc., making this the principle of division ; others have classed 
 them as personal, social, etc. ; others as relating to time, 
 the past, the present, and the future ; others as instinctive 
 and rational ; while most who have had occasion to treat of 
 this part of our mental constitution, have considered it with 
 reference solely or mainly to the science of ethics or morals, 
 and have adopted such a division and arrangement as best 
 suited that end, without special regard to the psychology of 
 the matter. 
 
 Of the Greek Schools. — - Among the Greeks, the Acade- 
 micians included the various emotions under the four pri^- 
 cipal ones, fear, desire, joy, and grie^ classing despair and 
 aversion under grie^ while hope, courage, and anger were 
 comprised under desire. 
 
 To denote the passivity of the mind, as acted upon, and 
 under the iniiuence of emotion, the Greeks 'named the pas- 
 sions in general, ixdOog^ suffering, whence our terms pathos, 
 pathetic, etc., whence also the Latin Joa5^^o 2^ndi patior^ from 
 which our word passion. The Stoics, in particular, desig- 
 nated all emotions as TraQr}^ diseases, regarding them as dis- 
 orders of the mind. 
 
 Hartley'^ s Division. — Among the moderns, Hartley di- 
 vides the sensibilities into the two leading classes oi grateful 
 and ungrateful ones; under the former, including love, 
 desire, hope, joy, and pleasing recollection ; under the latter, 
 the opposite© of these emotions, hatred, aversion, fear, grief, 
 displeasing recollection. 
 
 Distinction of primitive and derivative. — Certain other 
 English writers, a^ Watts and Gi^ove^ derive all the emotions 
 
888 ANALrSIS AND CLASSIFICATION, 
 
 ultimately from the three principal ones, admiration, love, 
 and hatred, which they term the priniitive passions, all oth- 
 ers being derivative. 
 
 Division of Cogan, — Cogan^ whose treatise on the pas- 
 sions is a work of much interest, divides the sensioilities into 
 passio?is^ emotions^ and affections / by the iiist of thest 
 terms designating the first impression which the mind r©° 
 ceives from some impulsive cause ; by the second, the more 
 permanent feeling which succeeds, and which betrays itself 
 by visible signs in the expressions of the countenance and 
 the motions of the body; while by affections, he denotes 
 the less intense and more durable influence exerted upon the 
 mind by the objects of its regard. The passions and affec- 
 tions are, by this author, further divided into those which 
 spring from self-love and those which are derived from the 
 social principle. 
 
 Classification of Dr, Meid, — Dr. Meid divides the active 
 principles, as he terms them, into three classes, the 7nechani- 
 cal^ the animal^ and the rational^ including, under the first, 
 our instincts and habits, under the second, our appetites, 
 under the third, our higher principles of action. 
 
 Of Stewart, — -Dugald Stewart makes two classes, the 
 instinctive or implanted^ and the rational or governing prin- 
 ciples, under the former including appetites^ desires^ and 
 affections^ under the latter, self love and the moral faculty. 
 The desires are distinguished from the appetites, in tha.t they 
 do not, like the former, take their rise from the body, nor 
 do they operate, periodically, after certain intervals, and 
 cease after the attainment of their object. Under the title 
 of affections, are comprehended all those principles of ouf 
 nature that have for their object the communication of 
 good or of ill to others. 
 
 Of Drown, — Dr, Drown divides the sensibilities, to which 
 he gives the general name of emotions^ with reference to 
 tiieir relation to tirae^ as immediate,, retrospective,, ar.d pros* 
 pective Under the f^rmer^j he includes, as involvirg no 
 
OF THE SENSIBILITIES, ^8^ 
 
 moral feeling, cheerfulness and melancholy, wondtr and iU 
 opposite, feelings of beauty and the opposite, feelings of sub- 
 limity and of the ludicrous ; as in^'olving moral feeling, the 
 emotions distinctive of vice and virtue, emotions of love and 
 hate, of sympathy, of pride and humility. Under retrospec- 
 tive emotion he includes anger, gratitude, regret, satisfac 
 tion; under prospective emotion, all our desires and fears. 
 
 Of Uphara. — Prof. Upham divides the sensibilities into 
 the two leading departments, the natural and the morale 
 the former comprehending the emotions and the desires^ 
 the latter, the moral sentiments or conscience. Under the 
 class of desires, he includes our instincts, appetites, pro- 
 pensities, and affections. 
 
 Of JSichok, — Dr. Hickok classes the sensibuities undei 
 the departments of animal^ raiional^ and spiritual suscep- 
 tibility ; the former comprehending instincts, appetites, 
 natural affections, self-interested feelings, and disinterested 
 feelings ; the second, aesthetic, scientific, ethic, and theistic 
 emotions ; while the latter or spiritual susceptibility differs 
 from each of the others, in not being, like them, constitutional, 
 but arising rather from the personal disposition and charac- 
 lier. 
 
 Memarlcs on the foregoing Divisions. — Our limits forbid, 
 tior does the object of the present work require, a critical 
 discussion of these several plans of arrangement. 
 
 It is but justice to say, however, that no one of these 
 weveral methods of arrangement is altogether satisfactory, 
 rhey are not strictly scientific. The method of Cogan, for 
 example, derives all our sensibilities ultimately from the two 
 principles of self-love, or desire for our own happiness, and 
 the social principle, or regard for the condition and character 
 of others ; which again resolve themselves, according to this 
 author, into the two cardinal and primitive affections of love 
 and hate. This division strikes us at once as arbitrary, and, 
 therefore, questionable ; and, also, as ethical rather than 
 psychological. There are many simple emotions which can 
 
Sd^) ANALYSIS AKD CLASSIFICATION 
 
 not properly be resolved into either of these two principle^ 
 On the other hand, the psychological distinction between 
 the emotions and desires is overlooked in this arrangement. 
 The same remarks apply substantially to several of the other 
 methods noticed. 
 
 Objection to Stewards Division, — The arrangement of 
 Mr. Stewart is Uable to this objection, that the principle of 
 self-love, and also the moral faculty, which he classes by 
 themselves as rational principles, in distinction from the 
 other emotions as implanted or instinctive principles, are 
 as really implanted in our nature, as really constitutional 
 or instinctive, as any other. Appetite, moreovef, is but one 
 form or class of desires ; self-love is but another, ^. 6., the 
 desire of our own happiness. 
 
 To UpTiani's Division, — The division of Mr. Upham is 
 Htill more objectionable on the same ground. The natural 
 and the moral sentiments, into which two great classes he 
 divides the sensibilities, are distinct neither in fact nor in 
 name ; the moral sentiments, so called, are as really and truly 
 natural^ founded in our constitution, as are our desires and 
 affections ; nor is the term natural properly opposed to the 
 term moral as designating distinct and opposite things. The 
 terms instinctive and rational, which Mr. Stewart employs, 
 though not free from objection, much more accurately ex- 
 press the distinction in view, could such a distinction be 
 shovm to exist. 
 
 Difference of ethical and psychological Inquiry, — In a 
 work, the main object of which is to unfold the principles 
 of ethical science, it may be desirable to single out from the 
 other emotions, and place by themselves, the principle of selfi 
 love, together with the social principle and the moral senti 
 ments, as having more direct reference to the moral charac- 
 ter and condact. In a strictly psychological treatise, how- 
 ever, in which the aim is simply to unfold, and arrange in 
 their natural order, the phenomena of the human mind, such 
 a principle of classification is evidently inadmissible. Th© 
 
OF THE SENSIBILITTES. 391 
 
 different operations and emotions of the mind must bo 
 studied and arranged, not with reference to their logical or 
 ethical distinctions, but solely their psychological (Tifferences. 
 Viewed in this light, the moral sentiments, so far as the^ 
 are of the nature of feehng or sensibility at all, and net 
 rather of intellectual perception, are simple emotions, and 
 do not inherently differ from any other feelings of the same 
 class. The satisfaction we feel in view of right, and the pain 
 in view of wrong past conduct, differ from the pain and 
 pleasure we derive from other sources, only as the objects 
 differ which call forth the feelings. They are essentially of 
 the same class, the difference is specific rather than generic. 
 They are modifications of the one generic principle of joy 
 and sorrow, and differ from each other not so much as each 
 differs from a desire^ or an affection of love or hate. 
 
 Objection to Brown'' s Arrangement, — Tlie classification 
 of Dr. Brown, if not ethical, is, perhaps, equally far from 
 being psychological. The relation of the different amotions 
 to time is an accidental, and not an essential differe?vje, and 
 it is, moreover, a distinction wholly inapplicable tr far the 
 larger portion of the sensibilities, viz., those which he calls 
 immediate emotions, or " those which arise without involv- 
 ing necessarily :iny rvotio'^^ of time." This is surely Iuohm o 
 non lucendo 
 
SENSIBILITIES 
 
 PART FIRST. 
 
 SIMPLE EMOTIO NS 
 
SIMPLE EMOTIONS. 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 INSTmCTIYE EMOTIONS. 
 
 Previous Analysis, — It will be recollected that in the 
 analysis which has been given of the sensibilities, they were 
 arranged under three generic classes, viz., Simple Emotions, 
 Affections, and Desires, all, however, having this in common, 
 that they are in themselves agreeable or disagreeable, as 
 states of mind, according as the object which awakens them 
 is viewed as either good or evil. 
 
 Nature of simple Emotions. — Of these, the simple emo- 
 tions^ which are first to be considered, comprise, it will be 
 remembered, that large class of feelings which, in their 
 various modifications and degrees, constitute the joys and 
 sorrows of life. They may be comprised, with some latitude 
 of meaning, under the general terms joy and sorrow, aa 
 modifications of that comprehensive principle or phase of 
 human experience. They are awakened in view of an object 
 regarded as good or as evil; an object, moreover, of present 
 possession and present enjoyment or suffering; in which 
 last respect they differ from desires^ which have respect 
 always to some good, or apparent good, not in present pos 
 session, but viewed as attainable. . 
 
 Division of simple JEmotions, — Of these simple emotions, 
 again, some may be called instinctive^ as belonging to tho 
 animal nature, and, to some extent, common to man with the 
 brutes, in distinction from others of a higher order, invoiving 
 
396 INSTINCTIVE EMOTIONS. 
 
 or presupposing the exercise of reason and the reflective 
 powers. 
 
 It is of the former class that we are to treat in the present 
 chapter. 
 
 §L — Of that GrENERAL StATE CF THE MiND KNOWS* AS ChEEEPUIt 
 NESS; AND ITS OPPOSITE, MELANCHOLY. 
 
 Nature of this Feeliyig. — There is a state of mind, of 
 which every one is at times conscious, in which, without any 
 immediately exciting cause, a general liveliness and joyous- 
 ness of spirit, seldom rising to the definiteness of a distinct 
 emotion, a subdued under-current of gladness, seems to fill 
 the soul, and flow on through all its channels. It is not so 
 much itself joy, as a disposition to be joyful ; not so much 
 itself a visible sun in the heavens, as a mild, gently-diffused 
 Hght filling the sky, and bathing all objects in its serene 
 loveliness and beauty. It has been well termed "a sort of 
 perpetual gladness." , 
 
 Prevalence at differeiit Periods of Life, — There are those, 
 of fortunate temperament, with whom this seems to be the 
 prevailing disposition, to whom every thing wears a cheerful 
 and sunny aspect. Of others, the reverse is true. In early 
 life this habitual joyousness of spirit is more commonly prev- 
 alent ; in advanced years, more rarely met with. Whether 
 it be that age has chilled the blood, or that the sober ex- 
 oerience of life has saddened the heart, and corrected the 
 more romantic visions of earlier years, as life passes on we 
 are less habitually under the influence of this disposition. 
 It is no longer the prevailing frame of the mind. In thu 
 beautiful language of another, " We are not happy, without 
 knowing why we are happy, and though we may still be sus- 
 ceptible of joy, perhaps as intense, or even more intense, 
 than in our years of unreflecting merriment, our joy must 
 arise from a cause of corresponding importance ; yet even 
 down to the close of extreme old age there still recur occa 
 
INSTINCTIVE EMOTIONS. 397 
 
 conally some gleams of this almost instinctive happiness, like 
 a vision of other years, or like those brilliant and unexpected 
 corruscations which sometimes flash along the midnight of 
 a wintry sky, and of which we are too ignorant of the cir- 
 tumstances that produce tliem, to know when to predict 
 .heir return." 
 
 The opposite Feeling, — Corresponding to this general 
 cate of mind now described, is one of quite the opposite 
 :liaracter — that habitual disposition to sadness which is 
 usually called melancholy. Like its opposite, cheerfulness, it 
 ^ rather a frame of mind than a positive emotion, and, like 
 its opposite, it exists, often, without any marked and definite 
 cause to which we can attribute it. It is that state in which 
 subsiding grief, or the pressure of any severe calamity now 
 passing away, leaves the mind, the grey and solemn twilight 
 that succeeds a partial or total eclipse. It is, with many 
 persons, the habitual state of mind, through long periods^ 
 perhaps even the greater part, of life. Not unfrequently it 
 occurs that minds, of the rarest genius and most delicate 
 sensibility, are subject to that extreme and habitual depres- 
 sion of spirits which casts a deep gloom over the brightest 
 objects, and renders life itself a burden. This state of 
 habitual gloom and despondency, itself usually a form of 
 disease, the result of some physical derangement^ deepens 
 sometimes into a fixed and permanent disorder of the mind, 
 and constitutes one of the most pitiable and hopeless forms 
 of insanity. Such was the case with the melancholy, but 
 most amiable and gentle Cowper. 
 
 Element of poetic Sensibility, — In its milder forms, 
 the state of mind which I describe, constitutes, not un- 
 frequently, an element of what is termed poetic genius, a 
 melancholy arising from some sad experience of the troubles 
 and conflicts of life, and from sympathy with the suflfermg 
 and sorrowing world, the great sad heart of humanity — a 
 melancholy that, like the plaint of the ^Slolian harp, lends 
 sweetness and richness to the music of its strain. Such are 
 
398 INSTINCTIVE EMOTIONS. 
 
 many of the strains of Tennyson ; sucli the deep under-L3ii 
 rent of Milton's poetry ; such, preeminently, the spirit and 
 tone of John Foster, one of the truest and noblest specimen.^ 
 of poetic genius, although a writer of prose. A quick and 
 lively sensibility, itself an inseparable concomitant of true 
 genius, is not unfrequently accompanied with this gentler 
 form of melancholy. The truly great soul that communes 
 with itself, with nature, and with eternal truth, is no stranger 
 ^o this subdued yet pleasing sadness. It is this to which 
 Milton pays beautiful tribute in the H Penseroso^ and which 
 ho thus invokes : 
 
 " But hail, thou goddess, sage and holy, 
 Hail, divinest Melancholj^ I 
 Come, pensive nun, devout and pure, 
 Sober steadfast, and demure, 
 All in a robe of 'darkest grain 
 Flowing with majestic train, 
 And sable stole of Cyprus lawn 
 Over thy decent shoulders drawn. 
 Come, but keep thy wonted state, 
 With even step and musing gait, 
 And looks commercing with the skies, 
 Thy rapt soul sitting in thiie eyes." 
 
 Not inconsistent with Wit, — It should be remarked that 
 the disposition of which we speak is not inconsistent with 
 the occasional and even frequent prevalence of feelings of 
 directly the opposite nature. A prevailing tendency to sad 
 ness is not unfrequently associated with an almost equally 
 prevailing tendency to emotions of the ludicrous. The same 
 hveliness of sensibility which prepares the soul to feel keenly 
 whatever in life is adapted to awaken sad and sober reflec- 
 tions, also disposes it to notice quickly the little incongruities 
 of character, the foibles and follies of mankind, in which a 
 duller eye would detect nothing absurd or comical. It is, 
 moreover, the natural tendency of the mind to spring back, 
 Ukc the bow unstrung, from one extreme of feeling to its 
 
INSTINCTIVE EMOTIONS. 399 
 
 opposite, and seek relief from its sadness in the lighter sal 
 lies of wit. And so we have the melancholy Cowper singing 
 John Gilpin, and the author of the Night Thoughts, in con 
 versation, a jovial and witty man. 
 
 § II. — SOEROW AT Loss OF FRIENDS. 
 
 Differs from Melancholy, — Beside the general states ^f 
 mind akeady described, and which can hardly be called dis- 
 tinct emotions, there are certain specific forms of joy and sor- 
 row which claim our attention. Prominent among these ia 
 the grief we feel at any great and sudden bereavement or 
 calamity, as, for example, the loss of friends. This is a state 
 of mind closely allied, indeed, to the melancholy of which I 
 have spoken, but differs from it in that it springs from a 
 more obvious and immediate cause, and is at once morG 
 definite and more intense. After a time, when the first bit- 
 tern ess of anguish is past, and the mind recovers itself in a 
 measure from the violence of the shock it has received, and 
 which, for the time, like a sudden blow, seemed to staggei 
 all its energies, when other causes begin to operate, and 
 other scenes and cares demand its attention, its sorrow, at 
 first violent and irrepressible, gradully subsides into thai 
 calmer but more permanent form which we have already 
 described as melancholy. 
 
 Effects of Gn'ief upon the Mind in the first Shoch of any 
 Calamity, — When the loss is very great, especially if it 
 comes suddenly to us — and what bereavement, however long 
 anticipated and feared, does not at last overtake us sui- 
 denly ? ~ the mind is at first, in a manner, stupefied and 
 amazed, unable to realize its loss, and looks helplessly about 
 it for relief. To this succeeds a state of mental anguish, 
 more or less intense, in proportion to the liveliness of the 
 sensibilities, and the strength of the previous attachment. 
 In many cases the sorrow is uncontrollable, and finds relief in 
 tears, or in those more violent expressions of anguish in 
 
400 INSTINCTIVE EMOTIONS. 
 
 which the burdened heart of man in all ages has been woni 
 to indicate its grief, as the rending of the garments, the 
 beating of the breast, the tearing of the hair, and other like 
 demonstrations of utter and hopeless sorrow. The mind in 
 such a state resigns itself passively to the violence of its emo- 
 tion, and is swept on by the rushing current that overflows 
 its banks. It is Rachel mourning for her children, and re- 
 fusing to be comforted. It is David going to the chamber 
 over the gate, and exclaiming, as he goes, " O Absalom, my 
 son ! my son !" 
 
 Subsequent State of Mind. — When the first violence of 
 grief has subsided, and reflection succeeds to passion, the 
 mind begins to recall the circumstances of its loss, and sets 
 itself to comprehend the greatness and reality of the calam- 
 ity that has befallen it. It dwells with interest and satisfac- 
 tion on all the worth and virtues of the departed, magnifies 
 all that was good, excuses or overlooks all that was faulty, 
 recalls the words, the tones, the looks, and gathers up the 
 slightest memento of the former history, with the same 
 Racred regard and reverence with which it treasures in the 
 funeral urn the ashes of the dead. A sacredness and dignity 
 invest the character, and the life, when once the angel death 
 has set his seal upon them. 
 
 Silence of deep Grief — The deepest sorrow is not al - 
 ways, perhaps not usually, the most violent and demonstra- 
 tive. It is when the first sudden passion of grief is passed 
 and the soul retires within herself to meditate upon her loss, 
 calmly gathering her mantle about her to hide from the ob- 
 servation of others those tears and that sorrow which are sa- 
 cred, it is then that the deepest sorrow, and the heaviest dark 
 ness gather about the burdened spirit. The truest, deepest 
 grief is ever silent. It shrinks from human observation. It 
 finds no words for expression, wishes none. It is a veiled 
 and silent goddess, whose rites and altars are hidden from 
 the eye of day. It is the nature of joy to communicate It- 
 self. It is the nature of sorrow, whatever may ho- the occa- 
 
INSTINCTI^^E EMOTIONS. 401 
 
 sion whence it springs, to retire within itself. It seeks its 
 chamber that* it may weep there. 
 
 Effect of Time in assuaging Sorrow. — The effect of time 
 in softening and allaying the violence of grief, is kitown to 
 every one. The manner in which this effect is produced is 
 worthy of attention. A recurrence to the laws of sugges- 
 tion may explain this. It will be recollected that among 
 the secondary or subjective laws which regulate the sugges- 
 tion of our thoughts, the interval of time which has elapsed 
 since the occurrence of any event holds an important place. 
 That which has taken place but recently is more likely to 
 recur again to mind than events of remoter date. On the 
 first occurrence of any calamity, or bereavement, every thing 
 ocnds to remind us of our loss, and this constant suggestion 
 of it has a powerful effect in keeping alive our sorrow\ As 
 time passes on, however, the objects which once suggested 
 only that which we had lost, become associated with, and 
 so suggest other objects and occurrences ; or, if they still 
 remind us of our loss, the remembrance is mingled with 
 that of other scenes and events which have since transpired, 
 and other feeHngs which have since agitated" our hearts. 
 Thus time is constantly mingling other ingredients in the 
 cup of our grief. The law of the most recent still holds in 
 suggestion, and thus the very principle that formerly re- 
 minded us continually of our loss, now shuts it out, by in- 
 terposing between it and us what has since transpired. The 
 thought of the past comes up less frequently, and when it 
 recurs, is mingled with so many other associated objects, and 
 experiences, that it no longer awakens emocions of unmiti- 
 gated grief. Gradually other objects interest us, other plan^ 
 and duties engage us, other emotions agitate the heart, as 
 successive waves beat on the same troubled shore, and 
 render fainter, at each return, the traces which former bil- 
 lows had impressed upon its sands. 
 
 Thus time, the great consoler^ assuages our sorrows, and 
 the unbroken darkness that once hung over the mind , and 
 
402 INSTINCTIVE EMOTIONS. 
 
 shrouded all its thoughts and purposes, gives place, at length, 
 to a chastened and subdued sadness, that suffuses the j^ast 
 with a soft and mellow radiance. We are ever moving on, 
 swiftly, steadily, in the current of events, and objects whoso 
 fearful magnitude, once, from their very nearness, engrossed 
 our whole attention as we passed into their deep shadow, 
 gradually diminish as they recede, until their dark outline b 
 barely discernible on the distant horizon. 
 
 § III, — Sympathy with the Happiness and Sorrow op OTHima. 
 
 Tn what Manner awakened, — Closely allied to the emo- 
 tions of joy and sorrow awakened by our own personal experi- 
 ence of good and of evil, is the sympathy we feel with the joys 
 and sorrows of others in similar circumstances. Joy is con- 
 tagious. So also is grief. We cannot behold the emotions 
 of others, without, in some degree, experiencing a corres- 
 ponding emotion. Nor is it necessary to be eye-witnesses 
 of that happiness, or sorrow. The simple description of any 
 scene of happiness or of misery affects the heart, and 
 touches the chords of sympathetic emotion. We picture 
 the scene to ourselves, we fancy ourselves the spectators, or, 
 it may be, the actors and the sufferers ; we imagine what 
 would be our own emotions in such a case, and in proportion 
 to the liveliness of our power of conception, and also of our 
 power of feeling, will be our sympathy with the real scene 
 and the real sufferers. 
 
 Mature of this Principle, — The sympathy thus awak- 
 ened, whether with the joy or the sorrow of others, is a 
 simple emotion^ distinct in its nature from both the affectiong 
 and the desires, and it is, moreover, instinctive, rather than 
 rational — a matter of impulse, a principle implanted in our 
 na^^ure, and springing into exercise, as by instinct, whenever 
 the occasion presents itself, rather than the result of reason 
 and reflection. It is a susceptibility which we possess, to 
 some extent^ at least, in common with the brutes, who ar^ 
 
INSTINCTIVE EMOTIONS 403 
 
 by no means insensible to the distresses or to the happiness 
 of their fellows. It is a susceptibility which manifests itself 
 m early life, before habits of reflection are formed, and under 
 circumstances which preclude the supposition that it may be 
 the result of education, or in any manner an acquired and 
 not an original and implanted principle. So far from being 
 the result of reflection, reason and reflection are often needed 
 to check the emotion, and keep it within due bounds. There 
 are times when sympathy, for example, with the distresses 
 of others, would stand in the way of efficient and necessary 
 action, and when it is needful to summon all the resources 
 of reason to our aid, in the stern and resolute performance 
 of a duty which brings us into conflict with this instinctive 
 principle of our nature. The judge is not at liberty to re- 
 gard the tears of the heart-broken wife or child, when he 
 rises to pronounce the stern sentence of violated law upon 
 the wretched criminal. The kind-hearted surgeon must foi 
 the time be deaf to the outcries of his patient, and insensible 
 to his sufie rings, or his ministrations are at an end. 
 
 Usual Limitation of the Term, — The term sympathy is 
 more frequently used to denote the emotion awakened by 
 the sufiermgs of others, than our participation in their joys. 
 There can be no doubt, however, of the tendency of our 
 nature to each of these results, and that it is, in fact, but one 
 and the same principle under a twofold aspect. Nor does 
 the word itself more properly belong to, and more truly ex- 
 l^ress, the one, than the other of these aspects. We as readily 
 rejoice v^dth those who do rejoice, as we weep with those 
 who weep, and in either case our feeling is sympathy {aw 
 nadog). 
 
 Tliis Limitation accounted for, — The reason why the 
 term is more frequently applied to denote participation in 
 the sorrows of others, is obvious on a little reflection. Such, 
 and so benevolent, are the arrangements of a kind Provi- 
 dence, that happiness is the prevalent law of being, and sor- 
 row the exception to that general rule. It is diffused as 
 
404 INSTINCTIVE EMOTIONS. 
 
 the simsliine, and the gentle air over all things that breathe, 
 and even inaniniate objects, by a sort of sympathetic glad- 
 ness, reflected from our own minds, seem to share in the 
 general joy. Calamity and sorrow, at least in their more 
 marked and definite forms, come, like «torm and tempest in 
 nature, more seldom, and, when they do occur, are the 
 more remarkable and stand out more impressively frora 
 the common experience of life, from their very rarity. 
 
 M(yi''e Need of Sympathy icith Sorrow, — There is doubt- 
 less, also, more occasion for sympathy with the sorrows of 
 others, when those sorrows do occur, than with their joys, 
 and this may be another reason for the more frequent use 
 of the term in this connection. Sorrow needs sympathy, as 
 joy does not. It leans for support on some helping and 
 friendly arm. Joy is, in its nature, strong and self-sustaining, 
 sorrow the reverse. It is a wise and kind provision of the 
 Author of our nature, by which there is implanted in our 
 constitution an instinctive sympathy with sorrow and sufier- 
 ing in all their forms, even when we ourselves are not di" 
 rectly the objects on which the calamity falls. 
 
 Remark of Dr, Srown. — - It is well remarked by Dr. 
 Brown that " we seem to sympathize less with the pleasures 
 of others than we truly do, because the real sympathy is 
 lost in that constant air of cheerfulness which it is the part 
 of good manners to assume. If the laws of politeness re- 
 quired of us to assume, in society, an appearance of sadness, 
 as they now require from us an appearance of some slight 
 degree of gayety, or, at least, of a disposition to be gay, it 
 is probable that we should then remark any sympathy with 
 gladness, as we now remark particularly any sympathy with 
 sorrow ; and we should certainly, then, use the general 
 name to express the former of these, as the more extraordi- 
 nary, in the same way as we now use it particularly to ex- 
 press the feelings of commiseration. Joy," remarks the 
 jame writer, " may be regarded as the common dress of 
 society, and real complaceixcy is thus as little remarkable 
 
INSTINCTIVE EMOTIONS. 405 
 
 as a well-fashioned coat in a drawing-room. Let us conceive 
 a singlie ragged coat to appear in the brilliant circle, and 
 all eyes will be instantly fixed on it. Even beauty itself, till 
 the buzz of astonishment is over, will, for the moment, 
 scarcely attract a single gaze, or wit a single listener. Such, 
 with respect to the general dress of the social mind, is grief. 
 It is something for the very appearance of which we are not 
 prepared." 
 
 Not ttme that we sympathize only with Sorrow, — These 
 reasons sufiiciently account for the almost exclusive attention 
 paid by moralists to this part of our sympathetic nature, as 
 well as for the almost exclusive use of the term itself to de- 
 note participation in the sorrows, rather than in the joys of 
 others. It is not necessary to infer from this circumstance, 
 as some have done, that our sympathies are only with sor- 
 row, that we do not experience a corresponding emotion in 
 view of the happiness of others, a view as unfavorable to 
 our nature as it is remote from truth. 
 
 Distinction of Terms. — Sympathy, as usually employed, 
 to denote a fellowship with the sufferings of others, is sy- 
 nonymous with the more specific term commiseration^ and 
 this again is interchangeable with the terms pity and com- 
 passion. So far as use establishes a difference between these 
 terms, it is perhaps this : we more frequently employ the 
 word coDApassion where there is an ability and a disposition 
 to relieve the suffering ; we pity and we commiserate what 
 it is out of our power to remedy. 
 
 Strength of this Feeling. — The emotion of sympathy, es- 
 pecially in that form more specially under consideration, is 
 probably one of the strongest and most marked in its effects 
 upon the mind, of any of the feelings of which we are sus- 
 ceptible. When fully aroused, it amounts even to a passion. 
 Whea the object that awakens it is exposed to imminent 
 danger and there is need of instant and efficient exertion 
 to avert the danger, and bring that relief ^hicn, if it comes 
 at all, must come speedily, then there is no prudent cal 
 
406 INSTINCTIVE EMOTIONS. 
 
 eiilation of consequences, no deliberation, no hesitation, no 
 fear, but, regardless of every danger, the sympathizer, for- 
 getful of himself, and thinking only of the object to be ac- 
 complished, plunges into the sea or into the flames, faces the 
 wild beast, or the moi'c savage human foe, seizes the assas- 
 sin's arm, or rushes desperately between the murderous 
 Weapon and its victim. This boldness and energy of action 
 are, indeed, the result of sympathy, rather than the direct 
 exercise of the emotion itself, but they show how powerful 
 IS the feeling from which they spring. 
 
 Irrespectwe of r?ioral Qualities, — • It is worthy of note, 
 moreover, that the emotion of which we speak, is, in great 
 measure, irrespective of the moral qualities of the sufferer. 
 He may be a criminal on the rack or the gallows, the most 
 hardened and abandoned of men, and the suffering to which 
 he is exposed may be the just punishment of his crimes, 
 still it is impossible for any one whose heart is not itself 
 hardened against all human suffering, to regard the miser- 
 able victim with other than feelings of compassion. That 
 must be a hard heart that could v/itness the agony of even 
 its worst enemy, in such a case, without pity for the suf- 
 ferer. 
 
 Design of this Principle, — If we inquire, now, for what 
 end this feeling was implanted in our nature, its final cause 
 IS obvious. It is a benevolent arrangement, the design of 
 which is twofold : — first, to prevent undue suffering, by 
 keeping in check tlie excited passions that would otherwise 
 prompt to the infliction of immoderate and unjust punish- 
 ment when the object of our resentment is in our power ^ 
 i^econdly, to secure that relief to the sufferer which, in cir« 
 cumstances of peril, might fail to be afforded were it not for 
 the pressure and impulse of so strong and sudden an emo* 
 tiov^ 
 
 Adaptoi^ion to Circumstances, — A further and incidental 
 benefit ij^sulting from the possession of a lively sensibility to 
 the joys and sorrows of others, has been noticed by Ccgan, 
 
INSTINCTIVE EM0TIOIN8 407 
 
 in his treatise on the passions, viz., tliat it disposes the iniud 
 to accommodate itself readily to the tastes, manners, and 
 dispositions of those with whom we have occasion to asso- 
 ciate. A mind of quick and ready sympathy easily entei'a 
 ijito the feelings and understands the conduct of others un- 
 der given circumstances, and is able to adapt itself to the 
 &ame, easily, and by a sort of instinct. It places itself at 
 once in the same position, and governs itself accordingly, 
 
 Syinpathy not to he traced to Self-love as its Origm.---- 
 The questior has arisen, w^h ether sympathy, w^hich, of all the 
 sensibilities, would seem to lie at the furthest remove from 
 all admixture of selfishness, is not, after all, to be traced ul 
 timately to the principle of self-love. Those philosoj^hers 
 who regard this principle as the main-spring of all human 
 action, and the parent source of all the various emotions 
 that agitate the human heart, are at some pains to show that 
 even the feeling of pity may be traced to the same origin. 
 It was the theory of Hobbes, that the sentiment of pity at 
 the ca]*"mties of others springs from the imagination, or 
 fiction as he terms it, of a similar calamity befalling our- 
 selves. Adam Smith also maintains that it is only frorp 
 our own experience that we can form any idea of the sufl:er- 
 ings of others, and that the way in which we form such an 
 idea is by supposing ourselves in the same circumstances 
 with the sufferer, and then conceiving how we should bo 
 affected. All this is very true. It is in this way, doubtless, 
 that we get the idea of what another is suffering. But the 
 idea of what he suffers is one thing, and our sympathy with 
 that suffering is another. One is a conception, and the othei 
 is the feeling awakened by that conception. Moreover, it 
 does not follow, as Mr. Stewart has well shown in his criti 
 cism upon this theory, that the sympathy in this case arises 
 from our conceiving or believing, for the moment, those suf 
 ferings to be really our own. The feeling which arises on 
 the contemplatim of our own real or fancied distress, is quite 
 another feeling in its character, from that of pity or com- 
 
408 INSTINCTIVE EMOTION'S. 
 
 passion. . The two emotions are readily distinguished. Th« 
 mere uneasiness which we feel at the sight of another's suC 
 fering, and the desire which we naturally feel to be rid of 
 ihat uneasiness, are not the chief elements in compassion. 
 If they were, the sure and simple remedy would be to run 
 away from the distress which occasions the uneasiness, to 
 put it as quickly as possible out of sight and out of mind. 
 Such an emotion, prompting to such a course, might well be 
 termed selfish. But this is not the true nature of sympathy. 
 It is not a mere unpleasant sensation produced by observing 
 the sufferings of another, though such a sensation, doubtless, 
 is produced in a sensitive mind, and accompanies, or may 
 even be said to form a part of, the emotion which we term 
 sympathy ; there is, over and above this feeling of uneasiness, 
 2l fellowship of sorrow and of suffering, a bearing of that suf- 
 fering with him, as his^ and not as our own, a pain/br him^ 
 and not for ourselves, the result and urgent prompting of 
 which is the impulse, the strong irrepressible desire to re- 
 lieve, not ourselves from uneasiness, but the sufferer from 
 that which occasions his distress. 
 
 What follows from this Theory, — If compassion for 
 others were the offspring of fear for ourselves, then, as But- 
 ler has well said, the most fearful natures ought to be the 
 most compassionate, which is far from being the case. It 
 may be added, also, that if sympafthy is, in any respect, a 
 ^elfish principle, then they who are most completely and 
 habitually governed by selfish considerations ought, for the 
 same reason, to be the most keenly alive to the sufferings of 
 others, which is little less than a contradiction in terms 
 
OflAPTER 
 
 RATIONAL EMOTIONS. 
 
 S L — Emotions of Joy or Sadness ARisma from the GoNTEMPLdiTios 
 OF OUR OWN Excellence or the Reyerse, 
 
 Nature and Objects of this Emotion, — Among those 
 susceptibilities which, while implanted in our nature, and 
 springing into exercise by their own spontaneous energy, 
 imply in their operation the exercise of the reflective powers, 
 and in general, of the higher intellectual faculties, and which 
 on that account, we designate as rational^ in distinction 
 from the instinctive emotions, a prominent place is due to 
 those vivid feelings of pleasure, and pain, with which we con- 
 template any real or supposed excellence, or defect, in our- 
 selves. The direct object of the emotions now under con- 
 sideration, is self in some form o^' ispect. The immediate 
 cause of these emotions is some real or fancied excellence 
 which we possess, or, on the other hand, some real or imag- 
 ined deficiency. This excellence or deficiency may pertain 
 to our intellectual or to our moral qualities and attainments, 
 or even to our circumstances and condition in life, to any 
 thing, in short, which is ours^ and which distinguishes us 
 from our fellows. The quality contemplated may be a real 
 possession and attainment, or it may exist only in our imag- 
 ination and conceit. And so, also, of the defect ; that, too, 
 may be real, or imaginary. In either case, vivid feelings 
 are awakened in the mind. It is impossible to contemplate 
 ourselves either as possessing or as lacking any desirable 
 quality without emotion, pleasing or painful, and that in a 
 high degree. 
 
 Iri wJmt Manner awaJcsned, — These emotions are awak* 
 
 IS 
 
410 RATIONAL EMOTIONS 
 
 ened in either of two ways : by the simple contemplation ji 
 the supposed excellence, or defect, in themselves considered 
 as pertaining to us ; or, more frequentlyj by the comparison 
 of ourselves with others in these respects. It is to the feel 
 ings aw^akened, in the latter case, by the perceived superioritj 
 or inferiority of ourselves to others, as tiie result of sucb 
 comparison, that the terms pride and humility are ordinanly 
 applied. These terms are relative, and imply, always, somii 
 process of comparison. There may be, however, the paii^ 
 ful consciousness of defect, or the pleasing consciousness (ff 
 some high and noble attainment, when the relation which we 
 sustain to others, as regards these points, forms no part of 
 the object of contemplation. The comparison is not of our- 
 selves with others, but only of our present with our former 
 selves. We are satisfied and delighted at our own progress 
 and improvement, or humbled and cast down at our repeated 
 failure, and manifest deficiency. 
 
 Not the smne with moral Amotion, — The emotions now 
 under consideration must not be confounded with the satis- 
 faction which arises in view of moral worthiness, and the 
 regret and disapprobation with which we view our past 
 conduct as morally wrong. The emotions of which we now 
 speak, are not of the nature of moral emotion, howevei 
 closely alhed in some respects. It is not the verdict of an 
 approving or condemning conscience that awakens them. 
 They have no reference to the right as such. The object is 
 viewed, not in the light of obligation or duty, but merely as 
 a good^ a thing agreeable and deairabls. Thus viewed, its 
 possession gives us pleasure, its absence, pain. 
 
 JSfot blame-worthy in itself, — In the simple emotion thus 
 awakened, the satisfaction and pleasuie wath which we r^ 
 gard our own intellectual and moral attamjijients, or even 
 our external circumstances, there is nothmg blamable or 
 unworthy of the true man. It is simply the working of 
 nature. The susceptibility to such emotion is part of our con- 
 etitution, implanted and inherent. As Dr. Brown has well 
 
RATIONAL EMOTIONS. 41i 
 
 remarked, it is impossible to desire excellence, and not to 
 rejoice at its attainment; and if it is culpable to feel pleasure 
 at attainments wMch have made us nobler than we were 
 before, it must, of course, have been culpable to desire such 
 excellence. 
 
 In vjhat Cases the Emotion becomes culpable, ~lt is 
 onJy when the emotion exists in an undue degree, or with re- 
 gard to unworthy objects, when the supposed excellence 
 upon which we congratulate ourselves really does not exist, 
 or, when existing, we are disposed to set ourselves up above 
 others on account of it, and perhaps to look down upon 
 others for the lack of it, or even to make them feel by our 
 manner and bearing what and how great the difference 
 is between them and us ; it is only under such forms and 
 modifications, that the feelmg becomes culpable and odious. 
 These it not unfrequently assumes. They are the states of 
 mind commonly denoted by the term pride^ as the word is 
 used in common speech ; and the censure usually and very 
 justly attached to the state of mind designated by that 
 term, must be understood as applicable to the disposition 
 and feelings now described, and not to the simple emotion 
 of pleasure in view of our own real or supposed attainments. 
 That which wo condemn in the proud man is not that he 
 excels others, or is conscious of thus excelling, or takes 
 pleasure even in that consciousness, but that, comparing him- 
 self with others, and feeling his superiority, he is disposed 
 to think more highly of himself than he ought, on account 
 of it, and more contemptuously of others thin he ought; 
 and especially if he seeks to impress others ^th the senso 
 of that superiority. 
 
 Different Formes which this Disposition assumes. — This 
 he may do in several ways. He may be fond of displaymg 
 his superiority, and of courting the applause and distinction 
 which it brings. Then he is the vain man. He may make 
 mucli of that which really is worth little, and plume himself 
 on what he does not really possess. Then he is the conceited 
 
412 RATIONAL EMOTIONS 
 
 man. He may look with contempt upon and treat witii 
 arrogance his inferiors. Then he is the haughty man. Of 
 he may have too much pride to show in this way his own 
 pride ; too much self-respect to put on airs, and court atten- 
 tion by display ; too much sense to rate himself very fai 
 above his real worth ; too much good breeding to treat 
 others with arrogance and hauteur. In that case he con- 
 tents himself with his ow^n high opinion and estimate of 
 himself, and the enjoyment of his own conscious superiority 
 to those around him. He is simply the proud man then, not 
 the vain, the conceited, or the arrogant. The difference, 
 however, is not so much that he thinks less highly of him- 
 self, and less contemptuously of others in comparison, but 
 that he does not so fully show what he thinks. The supe- 
 riority is felt, but it is not so plainly manifested. 
 
 The Disposition^ as thus manifested^ reprehensible. — Of 
 this disposition and state of mind in any of its manifestations 
 as now described, it is not too much to say that it is worthy 
 of the censure which it commonly receives. It is not merely 
 unamiable and odious, but morally reprehensible. Especially 
 is this the case where the superiority consists, not in mental 
 or moral endowments and attainments, but in adventitious 
 circumstances, such as beauty or strength of person, station 
 in society, wealth, or the accident of birth — circumstances 
 which imply no necessary worth in the possessor, no real 
 and inherent superiority to those on whom he looks down. 
 In such a case, pride is purely contemptible. 
 
 Incompatible with the highest Excellence. — The highest 
 excellence is ever incompatible with the disposition to think 
 highly of our present attainments and excellence, and to 
 place ourselves above others in comparison. Emotions of 
 pleasure may indeed arise in our minds, as we view the un- 
 mistakable evidences of our own improvement. But the 
 noblest nature is that which looks neither at itself, to mark 
 its own acquirements, nor yet at others below itself, to mark 
 its owB superio ity, but whose earnest gaze is fixed only o» 
 
RATIONAL EMOTIONS. 413 
 
 vliat which is ribove and superior to itself — the beau ideal 
 ever Hoating before it of an excellence not yet attained — 
 in comparison with which all present attainments seem of 
 little moment. The truly great and noble mind is evei 
 humble, and conscious of its own deficiencies. 
 
 §11. — Enjoyment of the Ludicrous. 
 
 Properly an Emotion. — Among the sources of rational 
 enjoyment which the constitution of our nature affords, 
 must be reckoned the feeling awakened by the perception 
 of the ludicrous. We class this among the emotions, inas- 
 much as it is a matter of feeling, and of pleasurable feeling, 
 differing in its nature not more from the intellectual facul- 
 ties, on the one hand, than from the affections and desires, 
 on the other. It is a species of joy or gladness, a pleasur- 
 able excitement of feeling, awakened by a particular class 
 of objects. Whatever else may be true of the feeling in 
 question, the character of agreeableness is inseparable from 
 it. It falls, therefore, properly into that class of feelings 
 which comprises the various modifications of joy and sor- 
 row, and which we have denominated simple emotions. 
 
 Wliy rational, — We term it rational^ rather than in- 
 stinctive, inasmuch as it implies, if I mistake not, the exer- 
 cise of the higher intellectual faculties. It is the preroga- 
 tive of reason. The brute nature has no joerception, and of 
 course no enjoyment, of the ludicrous. The idiot has none, 
 rhe uncultivated savage nature has it only in a slight degree. 
 In this respect the feeling under consideration is quite anal- 
 ogous to the enjoyment of the beautiful and sublime, and 
 also to the feeling awakened in view of right or wrong ac- 
 tion, the approbation or disapprobation of our past conduct. 
 All these, though founded in our nature and constitution, 
 are ration'.al rather than instinctive, as implying the exercise 
 of those faculties which more peculiarly distinguish mas 
 fiom the lower orders of beino:. 
 
414 RATIONAL EMOTIONS. 
 
 In what Way to he defined. — To define precisely the 
 emotion of the ludicrous would be as difficult as to give an 
 exact definition of any other fiieling. We must content 
 ourselves, as in all such cases, by determining the circum- 
 Btances or conditions which give occasion for the feeling. 
 Though we cannot define the emotion itself, we can care- 
 fully observe and specify the various objects and occasions 
 that give rise to it. 
 
 The Question stated. — 'View's of Locke and Dry den, — 
 Under what circumstances, then, is the feeling of the ludi- 
 crous awakened ? What is that certain peculiarity, or qual- 
 ity, of a certain class of objects, which constitutes what we 
 call the ludicrous^ objectively considered ? Various answer? 
 have been given to this question, by writers not unac- 
 customed to tlie careful observation of mental phenomena. 
 Mr. Locke's definition of wit is to this efiTect, that it consists 
 in "putting those ideas together with quickness and variety, 
 wherein can be found any resemblance or congruity, where- 
 by to make up pleasant pictures and agreeable visions in the 
 fancy.'' This, it has been justly remarked, is too compre- 
 hensive, since it includes the entire range of eloquence and 
 poetry. It comprends the sublime and the beautiful as well 
 as the witty. It applies to the most facetious passages of 
 Hudibras ; it applies equally well to the most eloquent pas- 
 sages of Burke or Webster, and to many of the finest pas- 
 sages of Paradise Lost. Still more comprehensive is Dry- 
 den's definition, who says of wit, that it is a propriety of 
 thoughts and words, or thoughts and words eloquently 
 adapted to the subject, a definition which, it has been jo 
 oosely remarked, would include at once Blair's Sermons 
 Campbell's Pleasures of Hope, Csesar's Commentaries, ths 
 Philippics of Cicero, and the funeral orations. of Bossuet, as 
 peculiarly witty productions. It should in justice be re- 
 marked, however, that neither Dryden nor Locke, in their 
 ^ise of the term wit, seem to have had in mind what we now 
 understand bj it, viz., facetiousness, or the mirth-provoking^ 
 
KATIONAL EMOTIONS. 415 
 
 power, but rather to have employed the word m that mora 
 general sense, in which it was formerly almost exclusively 
 used, to denote smartness and vigor of the intellectual 
 powers, good sense, sound judgment, quickness of the appre- 
 hension, more particularly as these qualities are exhibited in 
 discourse or in writing. 
 
 Definitio7i of Johns an, — Johnson comes nearer the maik 
 when he defines wit as " a kind of concordia diseo7's^ a com- 
 bination of dissimilar images, a discovery of occult resem* 
 blances in things apparently unlike." ISTot much removed 
 from this, if not indeed derived from it, is the definition of 
 wit given by Campbell, in his Philosophy of Rhetoric ~ 
 " that which excites agreeable surprise in the mind, by the 
 strange assemblage of related images presented to it." To 
 this, also, applies the same objection as to the preceding de- 
 finitions, that it includes too much, the beautiful and sub- 
 lime not less than the ludicrous, eloquence as well as wit. 
 
 OJ* ITobbes. — Hobbes defines laughter, which, so far as 
 relates to the mind, is merely the expression of the feeling 
 of the ludicrous, to be " a sudden glory, arising from a sud- 
 den conception of some eminency in ourselves, by compari- 
 son with the infirmity of others, or our own former infirmity." 
 There can be little doubt, I think, that the object which ex- 
 cites laughter, always present itself to the mind as in some 
 sense its inferior ; and in so far, the definition involves an 
 essential element of the ludicrous. The person laughing is 
 always, for the time being, superior, in his own estimation 
 at least, to the person or thing laughed at. It is some awk 
 wardness, some blunder, some defect of body, mind, a 
 manner, some lack of sharpness and sense, or of courage, o* 
 of dignity, some perceived incongruity between the true 
 character or position of the individual and his present cii 
 cumstances, that excites our laughter and constitutes the 
 hidicrous. 
 
 Objections to this Theory, — It is not true, however, that 
 the laughter or the disposition to laugh, arises from thtf 
 
416 RATIONAL EMOTIONS. 
 
 simple conception of our own superiority, or the inferiority 
 of the object contemplated, even in the cases supposed; for 
 if that were so, then wherever and whenever we discover such 
 superiority, the feeling of the ludicrous ought to be awakened, 
 and the greater the superiority, the stronger the tendency to 
 mirth ; which is far from being the case. We are not dis- 
 posed to laugh at the misfortunes of others, however superior 
 our own condition may be to theii's in that very respect. My 
 estate may be better than my neighbor's, or my health su- 
 p^-^iior to his, but I am not disposed to laugh at him on that 
 account. On the theory of Hobbes, no persons ought to be 
 so full of merriment, even to overflowing, as the proud, self- 
 conceited, and supercilious, who are most deeply impressed 
 with the idea of their own vast superiority to people and 
 things in general. The fact is precisely the reverse. Such 
 persons seldom laugh, and when they do, the smile that 
 plays for a moment on the face is of that cold and disdainful 
 nature which is far removed from genuine and hearty merri- 
 ment. It has httle in it, as it has been well said, " of the 
 full glorying and eminency of laughter," but is rather like 
 the smile of Cassius, 
 
 "He loves no plays, ' 
 
 As thou dost, Antony ; he hears no music ; 
 Seldom he smiles : and smiles in such a sort 
 As if he mocked himself and scorned his spirit, 
 That could be moved to smile at any thing." 
 
 We cannot then resolve the ludicrous into the simple per- 
 ception of some inferiority of the object or person thus re- 
 garded, to ourselves, since there are many kinds of inferiority 
 which do not, in the least, awaken the sense of the ludicrous, 
 vrhile, at the same time, those who are most impressed by 
 the consciousness of their superiority are not usually most 
 disposed to mirth. 
 
 Incongruity tJie essential Element. — If we are required 
 aow to specify i¥ vhat consists the esseniial character of tho 
 
RATIONAL EMOTIONS. 417 
 
 ludicrous, and of wit which maybe regarded as the exciting 
 or producing cause of the same, we should detect it in the 
 grouping^ or hrmging together in a sudden and unexpected 
 manner^ ideas or things that are in their nature incongruous. 
 The incoJigimity of the objects thus brought into juxtaposi- 
 tion, and the surprise felt at tlie novel and unexpected relation 
 thus discovered, are, it seems to me, the true essential ele- 
 ments in the idea of the ludicrous. If we examine closely 
 the different objects that give rise to this emotion, we shall 
 find, I think, always something incongruous, and conse- 
 quently unusual and unexpected, in the relations presented, 
 whether of ideas or of things. It may be the result of acci- 
 dent, or of awkwardness, or of mental obtuseness, or of de- 
 sign ; it matters not in what mode or from what source the 
 thing proceeds; whenever these conditions are answered, 
 the sense of the ludicrous is awakened. 
 
 Melation of Surprise to the ludicrous, — Surprise is an 
 essentia] concomitant of the ludicrous. This is the state of 
 mind into which we are thrown by the occurrence of any 
 thing new, strange, out of the usual course, and, therefore, 
 unexpected. Whatever is incongruous, is likely to be un- 
 usual, and of course unexpected, and hence strikes the mind 
 with more or less surprise. I^ot every thing that surprises 
 us, however, is witty. The sudden fall of a window near 
 which we are sitting, or the unexpected discharge of a mus- 
 ket within a few paces of us, may cause us to start with sur- 
 prise, but would not strike us probably as particularly face- 
 tious. We are surprised to hear of the death of a friend, oi 
 of some fearful accident, attended with loss of life to many, 
 but there is no mirthfulness in such surprise. It is only that 
 form of surprise which is awakened by the perception of the 
 incongruous, and not the surprise we feel in general at any 
 thing new and strange, that is related to the ludicrous. It 
 is rather a concomitant, therefore, than strictly an element 
 of the emotion we are now considering. 
 
 Novelty ae related to Wit, — How much novelty and sud 
 
 18^ 
 
418 RATIONAL EMOTIONS. 
 
 deniiess add to the effect of wit, every one knows. A story 
 however witty, once heard, loses its freshness and zest, and» 
 often repeated, becomes not merely uninteresting, but irk- 
 some, and at length intolerable. In the same manner, and 
 for the same reason, a witticism which we know to have 
 been premeditated produces httle effect, as compared with 
 
 the same thing said in sudden repartee, and on the spur of 
 
 « 
 
 the moment. That a man should have studied out some 
 curious relations and combinations of things in his closet, 
 does not surprise us so much, as that he should happen to 
 conceive of these relations at the very moment when they 
 would meet the exigency of the occasion. The epithets 
 which we most commonly apply to any witty production or 
 facetious remark, indicate the same thing ; we call it hvely, 
 fresh, sparkhug, full of vivacity and zest — terms borrowed, 
 perhaps, from the choicer wines, which will not bear exposure 
 but lose their flavor and life when once brought to the air. 
 
 Even the Incongruous not always ludicrous. — We come 
 to this result, then, in our own attempted analysis, that the 
 incongruity of the ideas or objects brought into relation with 
 each other constitutes the essential characteristic, the invari- 
 able element of the ludicrous, the eflect being always greatly 
 heightened by the surprise vre feel at the novel and unex- 
 pected combinations thus presented. It must be remarked, 
 however, that even the incongruous and unexpected fail to 
 awaken the sense of the ludicrous, when the object or event 
 contemplate^ is of such a nature as to give rise to other and 
 more serious emotions. When the occurrence, however 
 novel and surprising in itself, or even ludicrous, is of such a 
 nature as to endanger the life, or seriously injure the well- 
 being of ourselves or of others, in the one case fear, in the 
 other compassion, are at once awakened, and all sense of the 
 ludicrous is completely at an end. The graver passion is at 
 variance with the lighter, and banishes it from the mind< 
 Should we see a will dressed and portly man, of some pre- 
 tension and bearing, accidentally lose his footing and sprawl 
 
RATIONAL EMOTIONS . 413 
 
 ingloriously in the gutter, our first impulse undoubtedlj 
 would be to laugh. The incongruity of his present position 
 and appearance with his general neatness of person and dig- 
 nity of manner would appeal strongly to the sense of the 
 ridiculous. Should we learn, however, that in the fall he 
 had broken his leg, or otherwise seriously injured himself 
 our mirthfulness at once gives place to pity. 
 
 Discovery of Truth not allied to the ludicrous. — It is for 
 a similar reason that the discovery of any new and import- 
 ant truth in science, however strange and unexpected, never 
 awakens the feeling of the ludicrous. Its importance carries 
 it over into a higher sphere of thought and feeling. Kep- 
 ler's law of planetary motion must have been at first a strange 
 and wonderful announcement; the chemical identity of char- 
 coal and the diamond presents, in a new and strange relation, 
 objects apparently most unlike and incongruous; yet, in all 
 probability, neither the astronomer, nor the chemist, who 
 made and announced these discoveries, were regarded by the 
 men of the time as having done any thing peculiarly witty. 
 We look at the importance of the results in such cases, and 
 whatever of oddity or incongruity there maybe in the ideas 
 or objects thus related, fails to impress the mind in the pres- 
 ence of graver emotions. 
 
 y^arious Forms of the ludicrous, — The incongruity that 
 awakens the feeling of the ludicrous may present itself in 
 many diverse forms. It may relate to objects^ or to ideas. 
 In either case, the grouping or bringing together of, the in- 
 congruous elements may be accidental^ or it may be mten- 
 tionaL If accidental, it passes for a blunder ; if intentional, 
 it takes the name of wit. 
 
 Accidental and intentional grouping of Objects incongru- 
 ous, — Of the accidental grouping of objects that are incon- 
 gruous, we have an instance in the case al] eady supposed, of 
 the well- dressed and dignified gentleman unexpectedly pros- 
 trate in the mud. If in place of the dignified gentleman we 
 have the dandy, o^ the Broadway exg^iisite, fresh fi'om the 
 
420 RATIONAL EMOTIONS. 
 
 toilet, the incono-rnitY is so much the g^reatei, anc so much the 
 greater our mirth. Let the hero of the scene, for instance, 
 be such a one as Hotspur so contemptuously describes as 
 coming to parley with him after battle : — 
 
 " When I was dry with rage and extreme toil, 
 Breathless and faint, leaning upon my sword, 
 Came there a certain lord, neat, trimly dressed, 
 Fresh as a bridegroom ; and his chin, new-reaped, 
 Showed hke a stnbble-land at harvest home. 
 He was perfumed like a milliner ; 
 And 'twixt his finger and his thumb he held 
 A pouncet box, which ever and anon 
 He gave his nose, and took 't away again ; 
 
 - imagine such a character, with all his finery, floundering 
 m the mud, and the ludicrousness of the scene would be such 
 as to set at naught all attempts at gravity, even on the part 
 of those who seldom smile. 
 
 When the incongruous objects are purposely brought into 
 relation for the sake of exciting mirth, the wit may be at the 
 expense of others^ in which case we have either the practical 
 joke, or simple buffoonery, imitating the peculiarities and in- 
 congruities of others ; or the joker may play off his wit at 
 his own expense^ and act the clown or the fool for the amuse- 
 ment of observers. 
 
 Accidental grouping of incongruous Ideas, — When the 
 incongruity is that not of objects^ but of ideas brought into 
 new and unexpected relation, and when this is the result of 
 accident or awkwardness, rather than of design, we have 
 what is termed a blunder or a hull. In such a case there is 
 always involved some inconsistency between the thing 
 meant, and the thing said or done. There is an appar 
 ent congruity, but a real incongruity of the related ideas 
 An instance of this occurs in the anecdote related by 
 Sydney Smith, of a physician, who, being present where 
 Jie conversation turned uf on an English nobleman of rank 
 
RATIONAL EMOTIONS. 421 
 
 and fortune, but without children, remarked, with great 
 seriousness, that to be childless was a misfortune, but 
 he thought he had observed that it was f^reditary in some 
 families. Of this nature is most of the wit which we call 
 Irish ; the result of accident rather than design — a blunder, 
 a bull. It is said that during the late rebellion in Ireland, 
 the enraged poj)ulace, on a certain occasion, vented their 
 wrath against a famous banker, by solemnly resolving to 
 burn all his bank-notes which they could lay hands on ; for- 
 getting, in their rage, that this was only to make themselves 
 BO much the poorer, and him so much the richer. The in- 
 stance given by Mr. Mahan is also in point, of two Irishmen 
 walking together through the woods, the foremost of whom 
 seizing a branch, as he passed along, and holding it for a 
 while, suddenly let it fly back, whereby his companion be- 
 hind was suddenly reduced to a horizontal position, but on 
 recovering himself, congratulated his associate on having 
 held back the branch as long as he did, since it must other- 
 wise have killed him. 
 
 Intentional grouping of incongruous Ideas, — The inteii- 
 tional grouping of incongruous ideas, for the purj)ose of 
 exciting the feelhig of the ludicrous, is more properly de- 
 nominated wit. This, again, may assume diverse forms. 
 Where the ideas are entirely dissimilar, but have a name or 
 soxmd in common, which similarity of mere sound or name 
 IS seized upon as the basis of comparison, the wit takes the 
 name of a pun. The more complete the incongruity of the 
 two ideas, thus brought into strange and unexpected relation, 
 under cover of a word, the more perfect the pun, and the 
 more ludicrous the effect. This kind of wit is deservedly 
 reckoned as inferior. " By tTnremitting exertions," says a 
 quaint writer, " it has been at last put under, and driven 
 into cloisters, from whence it must never again be sufiered 
 to emerge into the light of the world." One invaluable 
 blessing, adds the same author, produced by the banishment 
 of punning is, an immediate reduction of the number of wits. 
 
422 EATIONAL EMOTIONS. 
 
 Th.e BiiTlesque, — When the wit is employed in del^(/»^g 
 what is great and imposing, by applying thereto figures and 
 phrases that are mean and contemptible, it takes the name of 
 burlesque, -The pages of Hudibras afford abundant illustra 
 tions of this form of the ludicrous. The battle of Don Quixote 
 and the wind-mills is a burlesque on the ancient tournaments 
 
 The Moch-Heroic, — The mock-heroic, by a contrary pro 
 cess, provokes the sense of the ridiculous by investing what 
 is inconsiderabla and mean with, high-sounding epithets and 
 dignified description. The battle of the mice and frogs is an 
 instance of this. 
 
 The double Meaning, — Beside the varieties of intentional 
 incoDgruity of ideas already mentioned, there are certain less 
 important forms of witticism, which can perhaps liardly be 
 classed under any of the foregoing divisions. The whole 
 tribe of double entendres,^ or double meanings, where one 
 thing is said and another thing is meant, or at least where 
 the apparent and honest is not the only or the real meaning; 
 satire^ which is only a modification of the same principle, 
 drawn out into somewhat more extended and dignified dis- 
 course, and which, under the form of apparent praise, hides 
 the shafts of ridicule and invective ; sarcas^n^ which conveys 
 the intended censure and invective in a somewhat more in- 
 direct and oblique manner ; — these are all but various modes 
 of what we Have called intentional incongruity of ideas. 
 
 17iis JPrinciple^ in what Respects of dangerous Tendency. — 
 Of the value of this principle of our nature, I have as yet 
 said nothing. To estimate it at its true worth, is not alto- 
 gether an easy thing. On the one hand, there can be little 
 doubt that, carried to excess, it becomes a dangerous prin» 
 ciple. The tendency to ^iew all things, even perhaps tho 
 most sacred, in a ludicrous light, and to discover fanciful 
 and remote relations between objects and ideas the most 
 diverse and incongruous, must exert an unhappy influence 
 on the general tone and character of both the mind and the 
 heart. Wher^ wit, or the disposition to the ludicrous, ho- 
 
RATIONAL EMOTIONS. 423 
 
 comes the predominant quality of the mind, impressing the 
 other and nobler faculties into its lawless service, it must be 
 to the detriment of the mind's highest energies and capaci- 
 ties ; to the detriment especially of that sincerity and honesty 
 of purpose, and that earnest love of truth, which are tho 
 foundation of all true greatness. I speak in this of the ex* 
 cess and abuse (rf wit ; I speak of the mere wit. 
 
 Of use to the Mind, — On the other hand, the tendency 
 to the ludicrous has its uses in the economy and constitution 
 of our nature, and they are by no means to be overlooked. 
 It gives a lightness and buoyancy, a freshness and life, to the 
 faculties that would otherwise be jaded in the weary march 
 and routine of life. It is to the mind what music is to the 
 soldier on the march. It enlivens and refreshes the spirits. 
 A hearty laugh doeth good like a medicine. A quick and 
 keen perception of the ludicrous, when not permitted to 
 usurp undue control, but made the servitor of the higher 
 powers and propensities, and keeping its true place, not in 
 the fore-front, but in the background of the varied and busy 
 scene, is to be regarded as one of the most fortunate mental 
 endowments. 
 
 Wit often associated with nohle Qualities. — There is no 
 necessary connection, no connection of any sort, perhaps, 
 between wisdom and dullness, although a great part of 
 mankmd have always persisted in the contrary opinion. 
 The laughter-loving and laughter-provoking man is by no 
 means a fool. He who goes through the world, such as it 
 3s, and sees in all its caprices, and inconsistencies, and follies, 
 and absurdities, nothing to laugh at, much more justly de- 
 feerves the suspicion of a lack of sense. '' Wit," it has been 
 justly remarked, " is seldom the only eminent quality which 
 resides in the mind of any man; it is commonly accompanied 
 by many other talents of every description, and ought to be 
 considered as a strong evidence of a fertile and superior un- 
 derstanding. Almost all the great poets, orators, and states* 
 men of all times, have been witty.'^ 
 
424 RATIONAL EMOTIONS. 
 
 V 
 
 Wit as an Instrument for correcting Folly, — There it 
 one important use of the faculty under consideration, to 
 which I have not as yet alluded. I refer to its power as an 
 instrument for keeping in check the follies and vices of 
 those who are governed by no higher principle than a regard 
 to the good opinion of society, and a fear of incurring the 
 ridicule of an observing and sharp-sighted world. To such, 
 and such there are in multitudes, " the world? s dread laugh?'^ 
 is more potent and formidable than any law of God or man« 
 There are, moreover, many lighter foibles and inconsistent 
 des of even good men, for which the true and most effective 
 weapon is ridicule. 
 
 Memarks of Sydney Smith, — I cannot better conclude 
 my remarks upon this part of our mental constitution, than 
 by citing some very just observations of Sydney Smith — 
 himself one of the keenest wits of the age. 
 
 '' I have talked of the danger of wit ; I do not mean by 
 that to enter into common-place declamation against faculties, 
 Decause they are danp:erous ; wit is dangerous, eloquence is 
 dangerous, a talent for observation is dangerous, every thing 
 is dangerous that has enerc^y and vigor for its characteristics ; 
 nothmg is safe but mediocrity. * * * But when wit is 
 combined with sense and information ; where it is softened 
 by benevolence, and restrained by strong principle ; when it 
 is in the hands of a man who ^an use it and despise it, who 
 can be witty and something much better than witty, who 
 loves honor, justice, decency, good nature, morality, and 
 religion, ten thousand times better than wit ; wit is then u 
 beautiful aud delightful part of our ns>^twre.'' 
 
 § III. — Enjotment of the New and Woxdbbful. 
 
 Surprise and En7iui, — Of that form c*' surprise winch 
 arises in view of the incongruous, and wb^ch acrjompanies 
 the feeling of the ludicrous, I havo already Had o<jca«ion to 
 speak, in treating of that emotion Oi the feeling oi sui 
 
RATIONAL EMOTIONS. 425 
 
 priew; in general, its nature, and occasions, and also ol that 
 feeling to which it stands opposed, and which ior want of a 
 better term we may call ennui^ I am now to speak. 
 
 Definition and nature of Surprise, — Surprise may be de- 
 fined as the feeling awakened by the perception of whatever 
 IS new and wonderful. It is, iii itself considered, an agree- 
 able emotion, rather than otherwise. Variety and novelty 
 are usually pleasing ; our nature demands them, and is grati- 
 fied at their occurrence. Monotony, the unbroken thread, 
 and ever-recurring routine of ordinary life and duty, weary, 
 and, after a time, disgust us. Upon this listlessness and 
 lethargy of the mind, a new and unexpected event, as the 
 arrival of a friend, or the reception of some unlooked-for 
 mtelligence, breaks in with an agreeable surprise. Hence 
 the eagerness of men, in all ages and all nations, to hear or 
 Bee some new thing. It is only when the new. event or in 
 telligence is of the nature of positive evil, when the news is 
 of some misfortune, real or imagined, when the experience 
 of present, or the fear of future, suffering, is the direct and 
 natural result of the occurrence, that the surprise becomes a 
 painful emotion. And even in such cases, I am not quite 
 sure that there is not in the first excitement of the mind 
 upon the reception of bad news, as of the death of a friend, 
 or the calamity of a neighbor, something for the moment, 
 of the nature of pleasure mingling with the pain. We deeply 
 regret the occurrence, but are pleased to have heard the 
 news. The thing grieves us, but not the hearing of it. It 
 is not the surprise that pains us, but the thing at which we 
 are surpnsed. Surprise, like every other form of mental ex- 
 citement, is not, in itself, and within due bounds, disagree- 
 able, but the reverse. 
 
 How avmkened. — This emotion is awakened, as already 
 stated, in view of any thing unforeseen and unexpected. 
 We naturally anticipate, to some extent, the course of the 
 future. We presume it will be substantially as the past. 
 We expect the recurrence oi what has often and usually oo 
 
i26 RATIONAL EMOTIONS. 
 
 curred, and whenever any thing breaks in on this estabhshed 
 order of events, we are surprised at the interruption in the 
 ordinary train of sequences. Hence the new and the strange 
 always excite surprise. 
 
 Differs from Wonder. — Surprise differs from wonder, in 
 that the latter involves an intellectual element, the effort of 
 the mind to satisfy itaelf of the cause and proper explanation 
 cf the new and strange phenomenon. Surprise is purely a 
 matter of sensibility, of feeling, and not of intellect. The 
 mind is wholly passive under this emotion. It may lead to 
 action, as may any other emotion, but, like every other emo- 
 tion, it is, in itself, an influence exerted upon the mind, and 
 not by it, something passively reo jived, and not actively put 
 forth. 
 
 From Astonishment, — It diffen? from astonishment in 
 that the latter expresses a higher dtgree of mental excite- 
 ment, as in view of some occurrence exceedingly remarkable 
 and strange, or of some object whose magnitude and import- 
 ance fills the mind. 
 
 Design of this Principle, — The end to be accomplished 
 by this provision of our nature is sufficiently obvious. Our 
 attention is thereby called to whatever is out of the ordinary 
 course, and which, from the circumstance that it is something 
 unusual, may be supposed to require attention, and we are 
 put on our guard against the approaching danger, or roused 
 to meet the present emergency. Surprise is the alarm-bell 
 that calls all our energies into action, or at least warns them 
 to be in prt»sent readiness for whatever service may be 
 needed. The same principle operates also as a stimulus to 
 exertion in the ordinary affairs of life. We seek new things^ 
 we are weary with the old, and this simple law of our na- 
 ture is often one of the strongest incitements to effort. 
 
 The opposite Feeling, — The opposite of surprise is that 
 uneasy feeUng, of which we are conscious, from the constant 
 recurrence of the same objects in unvaried sequence ; as, for 
 iiistance, from the continued repetition of the same sound. 
 
RATIONAL EMOTIONS. 42*? 
 
 or series of sounds, the uniform succession of the same or 
 similar objects in the landscape, and the like. Every one 
 knows how tedious becomes a perfectly straight and level 
 road, with the same objects occurring at regular intervals, 
 and with nothing to break the dead monotony of the scene. 
 The most rugged passes of the Alps would be a relief in ex- 
 change, both to body and mind. The repetition of the same 
 song, or the same succession of musical sounds, howevei 
 pleasing in themselves, becomes in like manner, after a time, 
 intolerable. For want of a better term, for I am not sure 
 that we have in our own language any one word that ex- 
 actly expresses the feeling now under consideration, we 
 may borrow of the French the somewhat expressive term 
 ennui^ by which to designate this form of the sensibility. 
 
 Use of Ennui, — There can be little doubt that this feel- 
 ing subserves a valuable purpose in the constitution and 
 economy of our nature. It is the needed motive and stimu- 
 lus to action, without which we should settle down often 
 into a sluggish indifference and contentment with things as 
 they are, instead of pressing forward to something worthier 
 and better. 
 
 § lY. — Enjoyment of the Beautiful and Subloie. 
 
 TTie Enjoyment^ as distinguished from the intellectual 
 Perception of the Beautiful, — Of the idea of the beautiful, 
 and of the action of the mind as cognizant of it, in so far as 
 regards the intellectual faculties, I have already treated in 
 another connection. But it is not the intellect alone that 
 comes under the influence of the beautiful. What the sense 
 perceives, what the taste and judgment recognize and ap- 
 prove, the sensibility is quick to feel. Emotion is awakened. 
 No sooner is a beautiful object perceived in nature or art, 
 than we are conscious of lively sensations of pleasure. So 
 strong and so universal are these feelings, that many writers 
 have been led to speak of beauty itself, as if it were an emo 
 
f28 IIATION/.L EMOTIONS 
 
 tion, a merely subjective matter, an affair of feeling merely; 
 The incorrectness of this view has been already shown, and 
 we need not enter npon the discussion anew. 
 
 The term Admiration, — The feeling awakened by the 
 perception of the beautiful, like some other feelings of which 
 we are conscious, has not a name that precisely designates 
 it; hence the expression — ambiguous, and, therefore, objec* 
 tionable — emotions of beauty, employed by certain writers 
 to denote the feeling in question. The word admiration^ 
 though often used in a somewhat wider sense, perhaps more 
 nearly expresses the emotion to which I refer, than any 
 other word in our language. We are surprised at what is 
 new and strange. We admire what is beautiful and sublime. 
 The feeling is one of pure and unalloyed pleasure, mingled 
 with more or less of wonder or surprise, in case the object 
 contemplated is one which is new to us, or one of rare and 
 surpassing beauty. As the beautiful has its opposite — the 
 deformed or ugly — so the feeling which it awakens stands 
 contrasted with an opposite emotion, viz., disgust. 
 
 In connection with this form of sensibility, there are some 
 questions requiring consideration. 
 
 Whether the Mnotion is immediate, — It is a question 
 somewhat debated, whether the emotions awakened by the 
 beautiful and sublime are immediate, or reflective ; whether 
 they spring up at once on perception of the object, or only 
 as the result of reflection and reasoning. Those who main- 
 tain that beauty consists in utility, or in order and propor- 
 tion, fitness, unity with variety, etc., must, of course, regard 
 the emotions awakened by it as not immediate, since, ac- 
 cording to their theory, time must be allowed for the under- 
 standing to CQnvince itself, in the first place, that the object 
 is useful, etc. The qualities constituting the beauty must 
 be first apprehended by the mind as existing in the object 
 bcifore there can be emotion, and to do this is the work of 
 reflection. If, however, beauty is but the expression of the 
 invisible under the visible and sensible forms, then all that 
 
RATIONAL EMOTIONS. 429 
 
 is necessary to produce emotion is simply the perception of 
 tlie object thus expressive, since the moment it is perceived, 
 it is perceived as expressing something, and thus, appealing 
 to our own spiritual nature, awakens immediate emotion. 
 
 How to he decided, — The question must be decided by 
 the observation of facts, and the result will constitute an ad- 
 ditional argument in favor of one, or the other, of the gen- 
 eral views of the beautiful now named. What then are the 
 facts in the case, as given by consciousness, and observation ? 
 
 Testimony of Consciousness, — So far as I can judge, no 
 sooner do we find ourselves in presence of a beautiful object 
 than we are conscious of emotions of pleasure. There is no 
 previous cross-questioning of the object to find out whether 
 it is adapted to this or that useful end, or whether the rules 
 cf order, and proportion, are observed in its construction. 
 Before we have time to think of these things, the sensi- 
 bility has already responded to the appeal which beauty ever 
 makes to our sensitive nature, and the first distinct fact 
 of which we are conscious is an emotion of pleasure. 
 
 Effect of Repetition, — Consciousness assures us, more- 
 over, that the pleasure is usually quite as vivid at the first 
 sight of a beautiful object as ever after, which would indi- 
 cate that it is not the result of reflection. In truth, repetition 
 is found, in most cases, to weaken the emotion, and familiarity 
 may even destroy it. Yet every repetition adds to our op- 
 portunity for observation and reflection, and strengthens our 
 conviction of the utility, the order, the fitness, the proper^ 
 tion, of that which we observe. 
 
 Critical Reflection subsequent to Emotion, — It seems 
 evident, moreover, that whatever reflections of this nature 
 we may choose to indulge, are uniformly subsequent to the 
 first emotion of pleasure and delight, to the first impression 
 made upon us by the beauty of the object — after-thoughts 
 readily to be distinguished from those first impressions — 
 and that they are usually the result of a special volition to 
 inform ourselves as to these matters ; whereas the emotion 
 
480 RATIONAL EMOTIONS. 
 
 is spoilt au.eous and involuntary. Doubtless a pleasure arises 
 from the perception of the qualities referred to, but it is a 
 pleasure of another kind from that which arises in view of 
 the beautiful, as such. We must think, then, that the 
 emotions awakened by the beautiful are immediate, net 
 
 reflective. 
 
 Further Question, — Closely allied to the preceding is 
 the question, Which precedes the other, the emotion w^hich 
 a beautiful object av\^akens, or the judgment of the mind 
 that the object is beautiful. Logically, doubtless, the two 
 things may be distinguished, but not, perhaps, in order of 
 time. No sooner is the object perceived, than it is both 
 perceived and felt to be beautiful. The emotion awakened 
 and the mental affirmation, " That is beautiful," are both 
 immediate on the perception of the object, synchronous 
 events, so far as concerns at least our ability to distinguish 
 between them in point of time. 
 
 Logically,^ Emotion precedes, — In point of logical rela- 
 tion, the emotion, I think, must be allowed the precedence, 
 although so high an authority as Kant decides otherwise. 
 Had we no emotion in view of the beautiful, we should 
 not know that it was beautiful. As, universally, sensation is 
 the indispensable condition of perception, and logically, at 
 least, its antecedent, so here the feeling of the beautiful is 
 the condition and source of the perception of the beautiful. 
 The object strikes us as being so, moves us, affects us, pro- 
 duces on us the impression, and hence we say, " That m 
 beautiful." Had we no susceptibility of emotion in view of 
 the beautiful, it may be seriously questioned whether we 
 should ever have the perception or impression that any given 
 object is beautiful. 
 
 The Beautiful as distinguished from the Sublime — 
 There is still another point deserving attention. In discus- 
 sing the aesthetic emotions, we have spoken as yet only of 
 the feeling awakened by the heautifvl. How do these ema 
 tions differ — in degree merely — or in nature ? 
 
 I 
 
RATIONAL EMOTIONS. 431 
 
 2%e Opinion that they differ only in Degree, — Scmo liave 
 maintained that sublimity is only a higher degree of what 
 we call beauty. A little stream playing among the hills and 
 tumbling over the rocks is beautiful ; a little further on, as 
 it grows larger, and swifter, and stronger, it becomes sub- 
 lime. If this be so, it is a very simple matter : the survey- 
 or's chain, or a ten foot pole, will, at any time, give us the 
 difference, and enable us to determine at once whether a 
 river or a mountain is merely pretty, or sublime. 
 
 Different Emotions excited hy each, — If they differ in 
 kind^ however, and not merely in quantity, it may not be 
 so easy to tell just what the difference is. We can best de- 
 tect it, perhaps, by observing carefully the difference of the 
 emotions excited in us by the two classes of objects. I con- 
 template an object, which, in common with all the world, I 
 call beautiful. What emotion does that object awaken in 
 me ? An emotion of pleasure and delight, for which I can 
 hnd, perhaps, no better name than admiration. I contem- 
 plate now another object which men call sublime. What 
 now are my emotions ? Admiration there may be, but not, 
 as before, a calm, placid delight ; far otherwise. An admi- 
 ration mingled with avf e, a sense of greatness and of power 
 in the object now oppresses me, and I stand as before some 
 superior being, or element, in whose presence I feel my com- 
 parative feebleness and insignificance. 
 
 The Sublime conveys the Idea of superior Power, — Ac- 
 cordingly we find that the objects which men call sublime 
 are invariably such as are fitted to awalcen such emotions. 
 They are objects which convey the idea of superior forc6 
 and power — something grand in its dimensions or in ita 
 strength — something vast and illimitable, beyond our com- 
 prehension and control. The boundless expanse of the 
 ocean, the prairie, or the pathless desert, the huge mass of 
 some lofty mountain, the resistless cataract, the awful crash 
 of the thunder, as it rolls along the trembling firmament, 
 the roar of the sea ir. a storm when it lifteth up Its waves on 
 
432 RATIONAL EMOTIONS. ' 
 
 high, the movements of an army on the battle-field — theses 
 and such as these, are the objects we call sublhne. The lit- 
 tle maybe beautiful, it is never sublime. Nor is the meiely 
 great always so, but only when it conveys the idea of supe- 
 rior power. Montmorenci is beautiful, Niagara is sublime, 
 A Swiss valley, nestling among the hills, is beautiful ; the 
 mountains that tower above it through the overhanging 
 clouds into the pure upper sky, and in the calm, serene 
 majesty of their strength stand looking down upon the slum- 
 bering world at their feet, and all the insignificance of man 
 and his little affairs, are sublime. 
 
 The Sublhne and the JBeautiful associated, — Nor is the 
 iBublime always unassociated with the beautiful. Niagara is 
 not more sublime than beautiful. The deep emerald hue of 
 the waters as they plunge, the bow on the mist, the foam 
 sparkling in the abyss below, are each among the most beau 
 tiful objects in nature. The sublime and the beautiful are 
 olten mingled thus, distinct elements, but conjoined in the 
 same object. The highest aesthetic effect is produced by 
 this combination. The beauty tempers the sublimity ; the 
 sublimity elevates and ennobles the beauty. It is thus at 
 Niagara. It is thus when the sunrise flashes along the sum 
 mits of the snowy Alps. 
 
 The Beautiful tranquiUzes^ the Sublime agitates, — The 
 beautiful pleases us ; so, in a sense, does the sublime. Both 
 produce agreeable emotions. Yet they differ. In the en- 
 joyment of the beautiful there is a calm, quiet pleasure; 
 the mind is at relSt, undisturbed, can at its leisure and sweet 
 will admire the delicacy and elegance of that which fills it 
 with delight.' But in the perception of the sublime it is 
 otherwise. The mind is agitated, is in sympathy with the 
 stir, and strife, and play of the fierce elements, or is op- 
 pressed with the feeling of its own insignificance, as con- 
 trasted with the stern majesty and strength of what it 
 contemplates. Hence the sublime takes a deeper hold on the 
 mind than the merely beautiful, awes it, elevates it, rouses 
 
EATIONAL EMOTIONS. i3S 
 
 its slumbering energies, quickens the slow course of tliought, 
 and maRes it live, in brief moments, whole hours and day3 
 of ordinary life. The beautiful charms and soothes us ; the 
 sublime subdues us and leads us captive. The one awakens 
 our sympathy and love, the other rouses in us all that is 
 noble, serious, and great in our nature. 
 
 JRelation of the Sublime to Fear, — The relation of the 
 sublime to fear has been noticed by several writers. Men- 
 delssohn, Ancillon, Kant, Jouffroy, Blair, have spoken of it, 
 AS well as Burke. The latter was not far from right in hia 
 ^hoory of fear as an element of the sublime. It were better 
 io say awe than fej>M', for the boldest and stoutest hearts are 
 fully isusceptible of it ; and it were better to speak of it as 
 ftn eleruejii; of our emotion in view of the sublime, than as 
 an elemeniL. of the sublime itself. 
 
 Oultvoatio7h of msthetic Sensibility, — I cannot^ in this 
 connection, eatlrely pasG without notice a topic requiring 
 much more caieuii con&idevr\tion than my present hmits will 
 permit — the cullivaxion of the aesthetic sensibility — of a 
 love for ihe boaailfal. 
 
 This Culture neglected, - - The love of the beautiful is 
 merely one of the manifold forms of the sensibility, and, in 
 ^jommon with every other feeling and propensity of our 
 nature, it may be augmented^ quickened, strengthened to a 
 very great degree by duvS c:^.illure and exercise. It is an en- 
 dowment of nature, buC, like cither native endownents, it 
 may be neglected and salTered to die out. This, unfortun- 
 ately, is too frequently the case with those especially who 
 are engaged in the active pursuits of life. The time and 
 the attention are demanded for. other and more important 
 matters, and so the merely beautiful is passed by unheeded. 
 It admits of question, whether iu is not a serious defect in 
 our systems of education, that so little attention is paid to 
 the culture of the taste, and of a true love for the beautiful. 
 The means of such a culture are ever at hand. The great 
 works and the most perfect models in art are not, indeed, 
 
 19 
 
434 RATIONAL EMOTIONS. 
 
 accessible to all. Not every one can cross the seas to study 
 the frescoes of Raphael and Michael Angelo. But around 
 us in nature, along our daily paths, are the works of a greater 
 Artist, and no intelUgent and thoughtful mind need be unob- 
 servant of their beauty. 'Not is there danger, as some may 
 apprehend, that we shall carry this matter to excess. The 
 tendencies of our age and of our country are T^hoUy the 
 reverse. The danger is rather that in the activity and ener- 
 gy of our new life, the higher culture will be overlooked, 
 and the love of the beautiful die out. 
 
 Value of this Principle, — The love of the beautiful la 
 the source of some of the purest and most exquisite pleasures 
 of life. It is the gift of God m the creation and endowment 
 of the human soul. Nature lays the foundation for it among 
 her earliest developments. The child is, by nature, a lover 
 of the beautiful. Nor is it in early life alone that this prin- 
 ciple has its natural and normal developments. On the con- 
 trary, under favorable circumstances, it grows stronger and 
 more active as the mind matures, and the years pass on. 
 Happy he who, even in old age, keeps fresh in his heart this 
 pure and beautiful fountain of his youth ; who, as days ad- 
 vance, and shadows lengthen, and sense grows dull, can still 
 look, with all the admiration and delight of his childish years, 
 on whatever is truly beautiful in the works of God oi man. 
 
 § Y. — Satisfaction in View of Right Conduct, and Remobss m 
 
 View of Wrong. 
 
 The Feeling^ as distinguished from the Perception- of 
 Right, — In the chapter on the Idea and Cognizance of the 
 Right, the notion of right, in itself considered, and also the 
 mind's action as cognizant of the right, so \i^y %% least as con- 
 3erns the intellectual faculties thus employed, were fully dis- 
 cussed. It is not necessary now to enter again upon the 
 investigation of these topics. But, as in the cognizance of 
 the beautiful, so in the cognizance of the right, not only i& 
 
RATIONAL EMOTIONS. 436 
 
 the intellect exercised, but the sensibilit/ also is aroUiSed, 
 As consequent upon the perceptions of the intellect, emotion 
 is awakened ; and that emotion is both definite and strong. 
 It is peculiar in its operation. No emotion that stirs the 
 numan bosom is more uniform in its development, more 
 strongly marked in its character, or exerts a deeper and 
 more permanent influence on the happiness and destiny of 
 man, than the satisfaction with which he views the virtuous 
 conduct of a well-spent hour or a well-spent life, and the regret, 
 amounting sometimes to remorse, with which, on the contrary, 
 he looks back upon the misdeeds and follies of the past. Of all 
 the forms of joy and sorrow that cast their lights and shadows 
 over the checkered scene and pathway of human existence, 
 there are none which, aside from their ethical relations, are 
 of deeper interest to the psychologist, or more worthy his 
 • careful study, than the emotions to which I now refer. 
 
 The moral Facility not resolvable into moral Feeling, — 
 So deeply have certain writers been impressed with the im- 
 portance of this part of our nature, that they have not hesi- 
 tated to resolve the moral faculty itself into the emotions 
 now under consideration, and to make the recognition of 
 moral distinctions ultimately a mere matter of feeling. This, 
 whether regarded ethically, or psychologically, is certainly a 
 great mistake, fatal in either case to the true science whether 
 of morals or of mind. Right and wrong, as also the beau- 
 tiful and its opposite, are not mere conceptions of the human 
 mind. They have an actual objective existence and reality 
 and, as such, are cognized by the mind, which perceives a 
 given act to be right or wrong, and, as such, obligatory or the 
 opposite, and approves or condemns the deed, and the doer, 
 accordingly. So far 'the intellect is concerned. But the 
 process does not stop here. Sensibility is awakened. The 
 verdict and calm decisions of the judgment are taken up by 
 the feelings, and made the basis and occasion of a new form 
 of mental activity. It is with this excitement of the sensi- 
 bility in view of conduct as right or wrong, that we are n^w 
 
436 RATIONAL EMOTIONS. 
 
 concerned, and while we can by no means resolve a/1 oui 
 moral perceptions and judgments into this class of emotix^ns,, 
 we would still assign it an important place among the various 
 forms of mental activity. 
 
 Not limited to our own Conduct, — The emotion of which 
 we speak is not limited to the occasions of our own moral 
 conduct ; it arises, also, in view of the moral actions of otherai 
 A good deed, an act of generosity, magnanimity, courage, 
 by whomsoever performed, meets our approbation, and 
 ^wakens in our bosoms feelings of pleasure. If the act is 
 one of more than ordinary heroism and self-sacrifice, we 
 are filled with admiration. Instances of the opposite excite 
 our displeasure and disgust. N o small part of the interest 
 with which we trace the records of history, or the pages of 
 romance, arises from that constant play of the feelings with^ 
 which we watch the course of events, and the development 
 of character, as corresponding to or at variance with the de 
 mands of our moral nature. 
 
 A. good Conscience an Object of unv^ersal Desire, — But 
 it is chiefly when we become ourselves the actors, and the 
 decisions of conscience respect our own good or evil deeds, 
 that we learn the true nature and power of the moral emo- 
 tions. A good conscience, it has been said, is the only ob- 
 ject of universal desire, since even bad men wish, though in 
 vain, for the happiness which it confers. It would perhaps 
 be more correct to say that an accusing> conscience is au 
 object of universal dread. But iii either case, whether for 
 approval or condemnation, very great is its power over tho 
 human mind. 
 
 Sustainhig Power of a good Consilience. — We all know 
 Bomething of it, not only by the observation of others, but 
 by the consciousness of our own inner life. In the testi- 
 mony of a good conscience, in its calm, deliberate approval 
 of our conduct, lies one of the sweetest and purest of the 
 pleasures of life ; a source of enjoyment whose springs are 
 beyond the reach of accident or envy ; a fountain in thft 
 
RATIONAL EMOTIV.NS. 437 
 
 4lesert making glad the wilderness and the solitary place. 
 It has, moreover, a sustaining p.ower. The consciousness of 
 rectitude, the approval of the still small voice within, that 
 whispers in the moment of danger and weakness, " You are 
 right^'^ imparts to the fainting soul a courage and a strength 
 that can come from no other source. Under its influence 
 the soul is elevated above the violence of pain, and the press- 
 ure of outward calamity. The timid become bold, the 
 weak are made strong. Here lies the secret of much of the 
 heroism that adorns the annals of martyrdom and of the 
 church. Women and children, frail and feeblQ by nature, 
 ill fitted to withstand the force of public opinion, and 
 shrinking from the very thought of pain and sufiering, have 
 calmly faced the angry reproaches of the multitude, and res- 
 olutely met dea^h in its most terrific forms, sustained by the 
 power of an approving conscience, whose decisions were, to 
 them, of more consequence than the applause or censure of 
 the world, and whose sustaining power bore them, as on a 
 prophet's chariot of fire, above the pains of torture and the 
 **age of infuriated men. 
 
 Power of Remorse, — Not less is the power of an accus- 
 ing conscience. Its disapprobation and censure, though 
 clothed with no external authority, are more to be dreaded 
 than the frowns of kings or the approach of armies. It is 
 a silent constant presence that cannot be escaped, and will 
 not be pacified. It embitters the happiness of life, cuts the 
 sinews of the soul's inherent strength. It is a fire in the 
 bones, burning when no man suspects but he only who is 
 doomed to its endurance ; a girdle of thorns worn next 
 the heart, concealed, it may be, from the eye of man, but 
 givmg the wearer no rest, day nor night. Its accusations 
 are not loud, but to the guilty soul they are terrible, pene- 
 trating her inmost recesses, and making her to tremble aa 
 the forest trembles at the roar of the enraged lion, as the 
 deep sea trembles in her silent depths, when her Creator 
 goeth by on the wings of the tempest, and the God of glory 
 
438 RATIONAL EMOTIONS. 
 
 thundereth. The bold bad man hears that accusing v oioe, 
 and his strength departs from him. The heart that is inm*ed 
 to all evil, and grown hard in sin, and fears not the face of 
 man, nor the law of God, hears it^ and becomes ^s the heart 
 of a child. 
 
 How terrible is remorse ! that worm that never dies, that 
 fire that never goes out. We cannot follow the human soul 
 beyond the confines of its present existence. But it is an 
 opinion entertained by some, and in itself not improbable, 
 that, in the future, conscience will act with greatly increased 
 power. When the causes that now conspire to prevent its 
 full development and perfect action, shall operate no longer; 
 when the tumult of the march and the battle are over ; 
 when the cares, the pleasures, the temptations, the vain 
 pursuits, that now distract the mind with their confused up- 
 roar, shall die away in the distance, and cease to be heard, 
 in the stillness of eternity, in the silence of a purely, spiritual 
 existence, the still small voice of conscience may perhaps be 
 heard as never before. ^ In the busy day-time we catch, at 
 intervals, the sound of the distant ocean, as a low and gentle 
 murmur. In the still night, when all is hushed, we hear it 
 beating, in heavy and constant surges, on the shore. And 
 thus it may be with the power of coiiscience in the future. 
 
SENSIBILITIES, 
 
 PART SECOND. 
 
 THE AFFECTION 
 
THE AFFECTIONS. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 BENETOLENT AFFECTIONS. 
 
 Character of the Affections as a Class, — Of the three 
 generic classes into which the sensibilities were divided, ^^^., 
 Simple Emotions, Affections, and Desires, the first alone has, 
 thus far, engaged our attention. We now approach the 
 second. It ^vill be remembered that, in our analysis of the 
 sensibilities, the Affections were distinguished from the 
 Simple Emotions, as being of a complex eharacter. inTolv- 
 ino^, alono; with the feelino- of delio-ht and satisfaction in the 
 object, or the reverse, the wish, more or less definite and 
 intense, of good or ill to the object that awakens the emo- 
 tion. The feeling thus assumes an active and transitive form, 
 going forth fr'om itself, and even forgetting itself, in its care 
 for the object. 
 
 Sow divided. — The affections, it will also be remembereu,- 
 were fiulher divided into the 'bene'colent and inalevolent^ ac- 
 cording as they seek the good or the ill of the object on 
 which they fasten. As the simple emotions are but so many 
 forms oi joy and sorrow^ so, likewise, the affections are but 
 so many modifications of the principle of love and its oppo- 
 site, hate, 
 
 Effects upon the Character in their marked De'celopment. 
 — When these give tone to the general character of an in 
 dividual, he becomes the philanthropist or misanthropist, thf 
 
 19^ 
 
442 BENEVOLENT AFFECTIONS. 
 
 man of kind and gentle disposition, or the hater of his raco, 
 according as the one or the other principle predominates. 
 
 Roused to more than ordinary activity, breaking away 
 from the restraints of reason, and the dictates of sober judg- 
 ment, assuming the command of the soul, and urging it on 
 to a given end, regardless of other and higher interests, 
 these affections assume the name of passions^ and the spec- 
 tacle is presented of a man driven blindly and madly to the 
 accomplishment of his wishes, as the ship, dismantled, dnves 
 before the storm ; or else, in stern conflict with himself and 
 the feelings that nature has implanted in his bosom, con- 
 trolling with steady hand his own restless and fiery spirit. 
 
 Relation to the simple Emotions, — The relation which 
 the affections, as a class, bear to the simple emotions, de- 
 serves a moment's attention. The one class naturally fol- 
 lows and grows out of the other. What we enjoy, we come 
 naturally to regard with feelings of affection, while that 
 which causes pain, naturally awakens feelings of dislike and 
 aversion. So love and hate succeed to joy and sorrow in 
 our hearts, as regards the objects contemplated. The simple 
 emotions precede and give rise to the affections. 
 
 Mnum^eration, — The benevolent affections, to which we 
 confine our attention in the present chapter, assume different 
 forms, according to their respective objects. 
 
 The more prominent are, love of kindred^ love of friends^ 
 love of benefactors^ love of hom^e and country. Of these we 
 fihall treat in their orcler. 
 
 § L — Love of Kindred. 
 
 Includes what, — Under this head we may include the 
 parental^ the filial^ and the fraternal affection, as modifica- 
 tions of the same principle, varying according to the varying 
 relations of the parties concerned. 
 
 JDoes not grovj out of the Relations of the Parties, — That 
 the affection groms out of the relations sustained by the par* 
 
BENEVOLENT AFFECTIONS. 443 
 
 ties to each other, I am not prepared to affirm, although 
 some have taken this view ; I should be disposed rather to 
 regard it as an implanted and original principle of our na- 
 ture ; still, that it is very much influenced and augmented by 
 those relations, and that it is manilestly adapted to them, no 
 one, I think, can deny. 
 
 Mut adapted to that Itelation, — How intimate and how 
 peculiar the relation, for example, that subsists between 
 parent and child, and how deep and strong the affection 
 that binds the heart of the parent to the person and well- 
 being of his offspring. The one corresponds to the other ; 
 the affection to the relation ; and the duties which that 
 relation imposes, and all the kind offices, the care, and at- 
 tention which it demands, how cheerfully are they met and 
 fulfilled, as prompted by the strength and constancy of that 
 affection. Without that affection, the relation might still 
 exist, requiring the same kind offices, and the same assiduous 
 care, and reason might point out the propriety and necessity 
 of their performance, but how inadequate, as motives to ac- 
 tion, would be the dictates of reason, the sense of propriety, 
 or even the indispensable necessity of the case, as compared 
 with that strong and tender parental affection which makes 
 all those labors pleasant, and all those sacrifices light, which 
 are endured for the sake of the helpless ones confided to its 
 care. There was need of just this principle of our nature to 
 meet the demands and manifold duties arising from the re- 
 lation to which we refer ; and in no part of the constitution 
 of the mmd is the benevolence of the great Designer more 
 manifest. What but love could sustain the weary mother 
 during the long and anxious nights of watching by the 
 ijouch of her suffering child? What but love could prompt 
 to the many sacrifices and privations cheerfully endured for 
 its welfare ? Herself famished with hunger, she divides the 
 last morsel among those who cry to her for bread. Herself 
 perishing with cold, she draws the mantle from her own 
 8houlder6 to protect the little one at her side from the fury 
 
444 BENEVOLENT AFFECTI DNS. 
 
 of the blast. She freely perils her own life for the safety of 
 tier child. These instances, while they show the strength of 
 that affection which can prompt to such privation and self 
 sacrifice, show, also, the end which it was designed to sub- 
 serve, and its adaptation to that end. 
 
 This Affection universal. — The parental affectio!i is uni- 
 versal, not peculiar to any nation, or any age, or any condi- 
 tion of society. Nor is it strong in one case, and weak in 
 another, but everywhere and always one of the strongest 
 and most active principles of our nature. Nor is it peculiar 
 «o our race. It is an emotion shared by man in common 
 with the lower orders of intelligence. The brute-beast 
 tnanifests as strong an affection for her offspring, as man 
 emder the like circumstances exhibits. The white bear of 
 %\\Q arctic glaciers, pursued by the hunter, throws herself 
 be'^ween him and her cub, and dies in its defence. 
 
 iUl these circumstances, the precise adaptation of the sen- 
 f^^ibiaty in question to the peculiar exigencies it seemed de- 
 iiigned to meet, the strength and constancy qf that affection, 
 ■^he universality of its operation, and the fact that it is common 
 ^<o man with the brute, all go to show that the principle now 
 ander consideration must be regarded as an instinctive and 
 ^>rjginal principle, implanted in our nature by the hand that 
 wmed us. 
 
 8trengthe7ied hy Circumstances, • — But though an original 
 principle, and, therefore, not derived from habit or circum- 
 stance, there can be no doubt that the affection of which we 
 i^peak is greatly modified, and strengthened, by the circum- 
 itances in which the parent and child are placed with respect 
 to each other, and also by the power of habit. Like most 
 Df our active principles, it finds, in its own use and exercise, 
 Ihe l»w of its growth. So true is this, that when the care 
 and guardianship of the child are transferred to other hands, 
 diere viprings up something of the parent's love, in the heart 
 fco whti^h has been confided this new trust. It seems to be 
 u U\f ^ / cur naturo that we love those who are dependent 
 
BENEVOLENT AFFECTIONS. 445 
 
 on us, who confide in iis, and for whom we are required to 
 exert ourselves. The more dependent and helpless the ob- 
 ject of our solicitude, and the greater the sacrifice we make, 
 or the toil we endure, in its behalf, the greater our regard 
 and affection for it. If in the little group that gathers 
 around the poor man's scanty board, or evening fireside, 
 there is one more tenderly loved than another, one on whom 
 his eye more frequently rests, or with more tender solicitude 
 than on the others, it is that one over whose sick-bed he has 
 most frequently bent with anxiety, and for whose benefit he 
 has so often denied himself the comforts of life. By every 
 sacrifice thus made, by every hour of toil and privation cheer- 
 fully endured, by every w^atchful, anxious night, and every 
 day of unremitting care and devotion, is the parental affection 
 strengthened. And to the operation of the same law of our 
 nature is doubtless to be attributed the regard which is felt, 
 under similar circumstances, by those who are not parents, 
 for the objects of their care. But it may reasonably be 
 doubted whether, in such case, the affection, although of the 
 same nature, ever equals, in intensity and fervor, the depth 
 and strength of a parent's love. 
 
 Strongest in the Mother, — The parental affection, though 
 common to both sexes, finds its most perfect development 
 m the heart of the mother. Whether this is the natural re- 
 sult of the principle already referred to, the care and effort 
 that devolve in greater degree upon the mother, and awaken 
 a love proportionably stronger, or whether it is an original 
 provision of nature to meet the necessity of the case, we caa 
 but see in the fact referred to a beautiful adaptation of our 
 nature to the circumstances that surround us. 
 
 Stronger in the Parent than in the Child, — The love of 
 the parent for the child is stronger than that of the child for 
 the parent. There was need that it should be so. Yet 19 
 there no affection, of all those that find a place in the human 
 heart, more beautiful and touching than filial love. ISTor, 
 on the contrary, is there any one aspect of human nature. 
 
446 BENEVOLENT AFIECTIOKS. 
 
 xmperfect as it is, so sad and revolting as the spectacle some- 
 times presented, of filial ingratitude, a spectacle sure to 
 awaken the indignation and abhorrence of every generous 
 heart. When the son, grown to manhood, forgets the aged 
 mother that bore him, and is ashamed to support h^ir totter- 
 ing steps, or leaves to loneliness and want the father whose 
 whole life has been one of care and toil for him, he receives, 
 as he deserves, the contempt of even the thoughtless world, 
 and the scorn of every man whose opinion is worth regarding, 
 
 There have not been wanting noble instances of the 
 strength of the filial affection. If parents have voluntarily 
 incurred death to save their children, so, also, though per- 
 haps less frequently, have children met death to save a 
 parent. 
 
 Value of these Affections, — The parental and filial affec- 
 tions lie at the foundation of the social virtues. They form 
 the heart to all that is most noble and elevating, and consti 
 tute the foundation of all that is truly great and valuable in 
 character. Deprived of these influences, men may, indeed, 
 become useful and honorable members of society — such cases 
 have occurred — but rather as exceptions to the rule. It is 
 under the genial influences of home, and parental care and 
 love, that the better qualities of mind and heart are most favor- 
 ably and surely developed, and the character most success- 
 fully formed for the conflicts and temptations of future life. 
 
 Not inconsistent with the manly Virtues,-— 1^ or \^ the 
 gentleness implied in the domestic affections inconsistent 
 with those sterner qualities of character, which history ad 
 mires in her truly great and heroic lives. Poets have known 
 this, painters have seized upon it, critics have pointed it out 
 in the best ideal delineations, both of aficient and of modem 
 times. It softens the gloomy and otherwise forbidding char 
 acter of stern Acbilles ; it invests with superior beauty, and 
 almost sacredness, the aged Priam suing for the dead body 
 of Hector ; it constitutes one of the brightest ornaments with 
 which Virgil knew how to adorn the character of the hero 
 
BENEVOLENT AFEECIIONS. 447 
 
 of tlie JEueid, while in the affection of N"ap3leon foi his 
 son, and in the grief of Cromwell for the death of his daugh- 
 ter, the domestic affection shines forth in contrast with the 
 strong and troubled scenes of eventful public hfe, as a gen- 
 tle star glitters on the brow of night. 
 
 § II. — Love of Friends. 
 
 Much said in Praise of Friendship. — Among the benev- 
 olent affections that find a place in the human heart, friend- 
 ship has ever been regarded as one of the purest and no- 
 blest. Poets and moralists have vied with each other in its 
 praise. Even those philosophers who have derived all our 
 active principles from self-love have admitted this to a place 
 among the least selfish of our emotions. There can be no 
 doubt that it is a demand of our nature, a part of our ori- 
 ginal constitution. The man who, among all his fellows, 
 finds no one in whom he delights, and whom he calls his 
 fiiend, must be wanting in some of the best traits and qual- 
 ities of our common hinnanity, while, on the other hand, 
 pure and elevated friendship is a mark of a generous and 
 noble mind. 
 
 On lohat CircMmstances it depends. — If we inquire 
 whence arises this emotion in any given case, on what prin- 
 ciples or circumstances it is founded, we shall find that, 
 while other causes have much to do with it, it depends 
 chiefly on the 'more or less intimate acqitaintance of the 
 parties. There must, indeed, be on our part some perception 
 of high and noble qualities belonging to him whom we call 
 our friend, and some appreciation, also, of those qualities. 
 We must admire his genius, or his courage, or his manly 
 strength and prowess, or his moral virtues, or, at least, his 
 position and success. All these things come in to modify 
 our estimate and opinion of the man, and may be said to 
 underlie our friendship for him. Stilly it is not so much 
 from these circumstances, as from personal and intiraat<? ac- 
 
#48 BENEVOLENT AFFECTIONS 
 
 quaintance, that friendship inost directly springs. Admira 
 tion and respect for the high quahties and noble charactei 
 of another, are not themselves friendship, however closely 
 related to it. They may be, and doubtless are, to some ex- 
 tent, the foundation on which that aifection rests, but they 
 are not its immediately producing cause. They may exist 
 where no opportunity for personal acquaintance is afforded^ 
 while, on the other hand, a simple and long-continued ac- 
 quaintance, with one whom we, perhaps, should not, in our 
 own candid judgment, pronounce supeiior to other men, 
 either in genius, or fortune, or the nobler qualities of the 
 soul, may, nevertheless, ripen into strong and lasting friend- 
 ship. 
 
 Sow Acquaintance leads to Friendship. — To what is this 
 owing ? E^ot so much, I suspect, to the fact that acquaint* 
 ance reveals always soniething to admire, even in those 
 whom we had not previously regarded with special defer- 
 ence — although this, I am willing to admit, may be the case 
 — but rather to that simple law of mental activity which we 
 call association. The friend whom we have long and inti- 
 mately known, the friend of other, and earlier, and, it may 
 be, happier years, is intimately connected with our owb 
 history. His life and our own have run side by side, oi 
 rather, like vines springing from separate roots, have inter- 
 twined their branches until they present themselves as one 
 to the eye. It is this close connection of my friend with 
 whatever pertains to myself, of his history with my history, 
 and his life with my life, that contributes in great measure 
 • to the regard and interest I feel for him. He has become^ 
 as it were, a part of myself. The thought of him awakens 
 m my mind pleasing remembrances, and is associated with 
 agreeable conceptions of the walks, the studies, the sports, 
 the varied enjoyments and the varied sorrows that we have 
 shared together. 
 
 Regard for inanimate Objects, — The same principle ex^ 
 tends also to inanimate objects, as places and scenes with 
 
BENEVOLENT AFFECTIONS. 449 
 
 which we have become familiar, the meadows tnrcmgh 
 whicli we roamed in childhood, the books we read, the 
 rooms we inhabited, even the instruments of om* daily toil. 
 These all become associated with ourselves, we form a sort 
 of friendship for them. The prisoner who has spent long 
 years of confinement in his solitary cell, forms a species of 
 attachment for the very walls that have shut him in, and 
 looks upon them for the last time, when at length the hour 
 of deliverance arrives, not without a measure of regret. 
 The sword that has been often used in battle is thenceforth, 
 to the old soldier, the visible representative of many a hard- 
 fought field, and many a perilous adventure. Uncouth and 
 rusty it may be, ill-formed, and unadorned, in its plain and 
 clumsy iron scabbard, but its owner would not exchange it 
 for one of solid gold. It is not strange that the principle 
 of association, which attaches us so closely even to inani- 
 mate, objects, should enter largely as an element into the 
 friendships we form with our own species. 
 
 Other Causes auxiliary, — I would by no means deny, 
 However, that other causes may, and usually do, contribute 
 to the same result. Mere acquaintance and companionship 
 do not, of necessity, nor invariably, amount to friendship. 
 There must be some degree of sympathy, and congeniality 
 of thought and feeling, some community of interests, pur- 
 suits, desires, hopes, something in common between the two 
 minds, or no friendship will spring up between them. Ac- 
 quaintance, and participation in the same scenes and pursuitSj 
 furnish, to some extent, this common gl'ound. But even 
 vv^here this previous companionship is wanting, there may 
 exist such congeniality and sympathy between two minds^ 
 the tastes and feelings, the aims and aspirations of each may 
 De so fully in unison, that each shall feel itself drawn to the 
 other, with a regard which needs only time and opportunity 
 to ripen into strong and lasting friendship. 
 
 Dissimilarity not inconsistent with Friendship. — Nor is 
 it necessary, in order to true friendship, that there should be 
 
45C BENEVOLENT AFFICTIONS. 
 
 complete similarity or agreement. The greatest diversity 
 even may exist m many respects, whether as to qualities of 
 mind, or traits of character. Indeed, such diversity, to some 
 extent, must be regarded as favorable to friendship, rather 
 than othervi^ise. We admire, often, in others, the very 
 qualities which we perceive to be lacking in ourselves, and 
 choose for our friends those whose richer endowments in 
 these respects may compensate in a measure for our own 
 deficiencies. The strongest friendships are often formed in 
 this way by persons whose characters present striking points 
 of contrast. Such diversity, in respect to natural gifts and 
 traits of character, is not inconsistent with the closest sym- 
 pathy of views and feelings in regard to other matters, and 
 therefore not inconsistent with the warmest friendship. 
 
 Limitation of the Number of Friends. — It was, perhaps, 
 an idle question, discussed in the ancient schools of philoso- 
 phy, whether true friendship can subsist between more, than 
 two persons. IsTo reason can be shown why this affection 
 should be thus exclusive, nor do facts seem to justify such a 
 limitation. The addition of a new friend to the circle of mv 
 acquaintance does not necessarily detract aught from the 
 affection I bear to my former friends, nor does it awaken 
 suspicion or jealousy on their part. In this respect, friend- 
 ship is unlike the love which exists between the sexes, and 
 which is exclusivv^ in its nature. 
 
 It must be admitted, at the same time, that there are 
 limits to this extension, and that he who numbers a large 
 circle of friends is not likely to form a very strong attach 
 ment for any one of them. Not unfrequently, indeed, a 
 friendship thus unlimited is the mark, as Mr. Stewart sug- 
 gests, of a cold and selfish character, prompted to seek the 
 acquaintance of others by a regard to his own advantage, 
 and a desire for society, rather than by any real attachment 
 to those whose companionship he solicits. True and genuine 
 friendship is usually more select in its choice, and is wholly 
 disinterested in its character. A cold and calculating policy 
 
BENEVOLENl AFFECTIONS. 451 
 
 forms no part of its nature. It springs from no stilfish or 
 even prudential considerations. It burns with a pure and 
 steady flame in the heart that cherishes it, and burns on 
 even when the object of its regard is no longer on earth. 
 Our friendships are not all with the living. We cherish the 
 memory of those whom we no longer see, and welcome to 
 the heart those whom we no longer welcome to our home 
 and fireside. 
 
 Effect of adventitious Circumstances, - — Reverses in life, 
 changes in fortune, the accidents of health and sickness, of 
 wealth and poverty, of station and influence, have little 
 power to weaken the ties of true friendship once formed. 
 They test, but do not impair its strength. True friendship 
 only makes us cling the closer to our friend in his adversity ; 
 and when fortune frowns, and the sunshine of popular favor 
 passes away, and " there is none so poor to do him rever- 
 ence," whom once all men courted and admired, we still love 
 him, who, in better days, showed himself worthy of our love 
 and who, we feel, is none the less worthy of it, now that we 
 must love him for what he ^5, and not for what he has. That 
 is not worthy the name of friendship, which will not endure 
 this test. 
 
 Changes in moral Character. — Much more seriously is 
 friendship endangered by any change of moral character and 
 principle, on the part of either of the friends. So long as the 
 change aflects merely the person, the wealth, the social posi- 
 tion, the power, the good name even, we feel that these are 
 but the external circumstances, the accidents, the surround* 
 ings, and not the man himself, and however these things 
 may vary, our friend remains the same. But when the 
 change is in the heart and character of the man himself, 
 when he whose sympathies and moral sentimerxts were once 
 in unison with our own, shows himself to be no longer what 
 he once was, or what we fondly thought him to be, there is 
 no longer that community of thought and feeling between 
 us that is essential to true and lasting friendship. Yet, 
 
452 BENEVOLENT AFFECTIONS, 
 
 even in such a case, we continue to cherish for the friend 
 of former years a regard and affection whicfi subsequent 
 changes do not wholly efface. We think of him as he was^ 
 and not as he is ; as he was in those earlier and better days, 
 when the heart was fresh and unspoiled, and the feet had 
 not as yet turned, aside from the paths of rectitude and 
 honor 
 
 § III. — LOYE OF BeNEFACTOES. 
 
 As related to Friendship. — Closely allied to the affections 
 we feel for our friends is the emotion we cherish towards 
 our benefactors. Like the former, it is one of the forms of 
 that principle into which all kindly affection ultimately re- 
 solves itself, namely, love, differing as the object differs on 
 Avhich it rests, but one in nature under all these varieties of 
 form. The love which we feel for a benefactor, differs 
 from that which we feel for a friend, as the latter again 
 differs from that which we feel for a parent or a child. 
 It differs from friendship, in that the motive which prompted 
 the benefaction, on the part of the giver, may be simple 
 benevolence, and not personal regard ; while, on our part, 
 the emotion awakened may be simple gratitude to the gene- 
 rous donor, a gratitude which, though it may lead to friend- 
 ship, is not itself the result of personal attachment. 
 
 Nature of this Affection, — If we inquire more closely 
 mto the nature of this affection, we find that it involves, as 
 do all the benevolent affections, a feeling of pleasure or de- 
 light, together with a benevolent regard for the object on 
 which the affection rests. The pleasure, in this case, results 
 from the reception of a favor. It is not, however, merely a 
 pleasure in the favor received, as in itself valuable, or as 
 meeting our necessities; it is, over and beyond this, a pleasure 
 in the giver as a noble and generous person, and as stand- 
 ing in friendly relations to us. Such conceptions are always 
 agreeable to the mind, and that in a high degree. The 
 benevolent regard which we cherish for such a person, the 
 
BENEVOLENT AFFECTIONS 453 
 
 disposition and wish to do him good in turn, are the natural 
 result of this agreeable conception of him ; and the two 
 i/Ogether, the pleasure, and the benevolent regard, constitute 
 the complex emotion which we call gratitude. 
 
 Regards the Giver rather than the Gift, — If this be the 
 correct analysis of the affection now under consideration, it 
 is not so much the gift^ as the giver^ that awakens the emo- 
 tion ; and this view is confirmed by the fact that when, from 
 any circumstances, we are led to suspect a selfish motive on 
 the part of the donor, that the gift v/as prompted, not so 
 much by regard to us, as by regard to his own personal ends, 
 for favors thus conferred we feel very little gratitude. The 
 gift may be the same in either case, but not the giver. 
 
 Modes of manifesting Gratitude, — Philosophers have 
 noticed the different manner in which persons of different 
 character, and mental constitution, are affected by the recep- 
 tion of kindness from others, and the different modes in 
 which their gratitude expresses itself. Some are much more 
 sensibly affected than others by the same acts of kindness ; 
 and even when gratitude may exist in equal degree, it is not 
 always equally manifested. We naturally look, however, 
 for some exhibition of it, in all cases, where favors have been 
 conferred ; its due exhibition satisfies and pleases us ; its ab- 
 sence gives us pain, and we set it down as indicative of a 
 cold "and selfish nature. 
 
 A disordered Sensihility indicated hy the Absence of this 
 Principle, — One of the most painful forms of disordered 
 sensibility — the insanity, not of the intellect, but of the feel- 
 ings — is that which manifests itself in the entire indifierence 
 and apathy with which the kindest attentions are received, 
 or even worse, -the ill-concealed and hardly-suppressed ha- 
 tred which is felt even for the generous benefactor. A case 
 of this sort is mentioned by Dr. Bell, the accomplished su- 
 perintendent of the MacLean Asylum for the insanCj as 
 coming under his notice, in which the patient, a lady, by no 
 means wanting in mental endowments, seemed utterly deg« 
 
454 BENEVOLENT AFFECTIONS 
 
 titnte and incapable of natural alFection. Having, cfti one 
 occasion, received some mark of kindness from a devoted 
 friend, she exclaimed, " I suppose I ought to love that per- 
 son, and I should, if it were possible for me to love any one ; 
 but it is not. I do not know what that feeling is." A more 
 Bad and wretched existence can hardly be conceived than 
 that which is thus indicated — the deep night and winter of 
 the Boul, a gloom unbroken by one ray of kindly feeling for 
 any living thing, one gleam of sunshine on the darkened 
 heart. Happily such cases are of rare occurrence. The 
 kindness of men awakens a grateful response, in every human 
 heart, whose right and normal action is not hindered by dis- 
 order, or prevented by crime. 
 
 Disorder of the moral Nature, — Is it not an indication 
 of the imperfect and disordered condition of our moral na- 
 ture, that while the little kindnesses of our fellow men awaken 
 in our breasts lively emotions of gratitude, we receive, un- 
 moved, the thousand benefits which the great Author of our 
 being is daily and hourly conferring, with httle gratitude to 
 the giver of every good and perfect gift ? 
 
 § IT. — Love of Home and Country. 
 
 Its proper Place, — Among the emotions which consti 
 tute our sensitive nature, the love of home and of country, 
 or the patriotic emotion, holds a prominent rank. It falls 
 into that class of fe«jlings which we term affections, in- 
 asmuch as it involves not only an emotion of pleasure, but 
 a desire of good towards the object which awakens the 
 feeling. 
 
 Founded on the Separation of the Il^ce.^ — The affecticB 
 now to be considered implies, as its condition, the separation 
 of the human race into families, tribes, and nations, and of 
 \ts dwelling-places into corresponding divisions of territory 
 and country, a division founded not more in human nature, 
 than in the physical conditions 'and distributions of the 
 
BENEVOLENT AFFECTIONS. 455 
 
 globe, broten as it is into different countries, by mountain^ 
 river, and sea. ISTo one can fail to perceive, in this arrange- 
 tnent, a design and provision for the distribution of the race 
 into distinct states and nations. To this arrangement and 
 design the nature of man corresponds. To him, in ail his 
 wanderings, there is no place like home, no land like his native 
 land. It may be barren and rugged, swept by the storms, 
 and overshadowed by the frozen hills, of narrow boundary, 
 and poor in resources, where life is but one continued 
 struggle for existence with an inhospitable climate, unpro- 
 pitious seasons, and an unwilling soil ; but it is his own land, 
 it is his father-land, and sooner than he will see its soil in- 
 vaded, or its name dishonored, he will shed the last drop of 
 blood in its defence. 
 
 Other Causes auxiliary, — The strong tendency to rivalry, 
 and war, between different tribes, tends, doubtless, to keep 
 alive the patriotic sentiment, by binding each more closely 
 to th( soil, which it finds obliged to defend at the sacrifice 
 of treasure, and of life. The great diversity of language, 
 manners, and customs, which prevails among difierent na- 
 tions, must also tend very strongly to separate nations still 
 more widely from each other, and bind them more closely 
 to their own soil, and their own institutions. 
 
 Effect of Civilization, — Such are some of the causes 
 which give rise to the patriotic sentiment. Civilization 
 tends, in a measure, doubtless, to dimmish the activity of 
 these causes. In proportion as society advances, as national 
 jealousies and rivalries diminish, as wars become less frequent, 
 as nations come to understand better each other's manners, 
 laws, and languages, and to learn that their interests, appar- 
 ently diverse, are really identical, this progress of civiliza- 
 tion and culture, removing, as it does, in great measure, the 
 barriers that have hitherto kept nations asunder, must tend, 
 it would seem, to weaken the influence of those causes 
 which contribute to keep alive the patriotic feeling. And 
 such we believe to be the fact. It is in the early period of 
 
456 BENEVOLENT AFEECTIONS. 
 
 a nation's existence, tlie period of its origin and growth, of 
 its weakness and danger, that the love of country most 
 strongly developes itself. It is then that sacrifices are most 
 ^iieerfully made, and danger and toil most readily met, and 
 ife most freely given, for the state whose foundations can 
 tO other way be laid. As the state, thus founded in treasure 
 und in blood, and vigilantly guarded in its infancy, gains ma- 
 €urlt Y and strength, becomes rich, and great, and powerful, 
 comes into honorable relation with the surrounding states 
 and nations, the love of country seems not to keep pace 
 with its growth in the hearts of the people, but rather to 
 diminish, as there is less frequent and less urgent occasion 
 for its exercise. 
 
 National Pride, — There is, however, a counteracting 
 tendency to be found in the national pride which is awak- 
 ened by the prosperity and power of a country, and especi- 
 ally by its historic greatness. The citizen of England, or of 
 France, at the present day, has more to defend, and more 
 to lov^, than merely his own home and fireside, the soil that 
 he cultivates, and the institutions that guarantee his freedom 
 and his rights. The past is intrusted to him, as well as the 
 present. The land whose honor and integrity he is deter- 
 mined to maintain, at all hazard and personal sacrifice, is not 
 the England, or the France, of to-day merely, but of the cen- 
 turies. He remembers the glories of the empire, the armies, 
 and the illustrious leaders that have carried his country's 
 flag with honor into all lands, the monarchs that, in succes- 
 siji]^ from Clovis and Charlemagne, from Alfred and Harold 
 the dauntless, have sat in state upon the throne that claims 
 liis present allegiance, the generations that have contributed 
 to make his country what it now is ; and he feels that net 
 merely the present greatness and power of his country, but 
 all its former greatness and glory, are intrusted to his pres- 
 ent care and keeping. 
 
 Depends upon A.ssociation, — ^ If we inquire more closely 
 into the philosophy of the matter, we shall find, I think. 
 
 .J 
 
BENEVOLENT AFFECTIONS. 457 
 
 that the principle of association is largely concerned as the 
 nnmediately producing cause of the emotion now under con- 
 sideration. We connect with the idea of any country the 
 history and fortunes, the virtues and vices of its inhabitants, 
 of those who, at any time, recent or remote, have passed their 
 brief day, and acted their brief part, within its borders, and 
 whose unknown dust mingles with its soil. They have long 
 smce passed away, but the same hills stand, the same rivers 
 flow along the same channels, the same ocean washes the 
 ancient shores, the same skies look down upon those fields 
 and waters, and with these aspects and objects of nature we 
 associate all that is great and heroic in the history of the 
 people that once dwelt among those hills, and along those 
 shores. Every lofty mountain, every majestic river, every 
 sraggy cliff and frowning headland along the coast, stand 
 as representative objects, sacred to the memory of the past, 
 and the great deeds that have been there performed. 
 How much this must add to the force and power of the. 
 patriotic emotion is obvious at a glance. 
 
 Same Principle concerned in the Love of Home, — lu 
 like manner, by the same principle of association, we connect 
 our own personal history with the places where we dwell, 
 and the country we inhabit. They become, in a measure, 
 identified with ourselves. To love the home of our child- 
 hood, and our native land, is but to love our former selves, 
 since it is here that our little history lies, and whatever we 
 have wrought of good or ill. 
 
 An original Principle, — With respect to the character 
 of this emotion, while it is doubtless awakened and strength 
 ened by the law of association, still I cannot but regard it 
 as an original provision and principle of our nature, spring- 
 mg lip instinctively in the bosom, showing itself essen- 
 tially tho same under all conditions of society, and in all 
 ages and countries. It waits not for education to call it 
 forth, not for reason and reflection to give it birth ; while 
 
 20 
 
458 MALEVOLENT AFFECTIONS. 
 
 at the same time, reason and reflection doubtless contribute 
 largely to its development and strength. 
 
 Strongest where it wight he least expected, — It has been 
 frequently observed, by those who have made human nature 
 their study, that the patriotic feeling is not confined to the 
 inhabitants of the most favored climes and countries, but, on 
 the contrary, is often most strongly developed in nations 
 les^ populous, and in countries little favored by nature. The 
 inhabitants of wild, mountainous regions, of sterile shores, 
 of barren plains, manifest as strong a love of home and 
 country, as any people on the globe. It is thus with the 
 Swiss among their mountain fastnesses, and with the poor 
 Esquimaux of northern Greenland, where, beyond the arctic 
 circle, cold and darkness reign undisturbed the greater part 
 of the year. Even in those dreary realms, and in those 
 bosoms little refined, the voice of nature is heard, and the 
 love of home and of country is strong. Even beggars have 
 been known to die of nostalgia, or home-sickness. 
 
 CHAPTER 11. 
 
 MALEYOLENT AFFECTIONS. 
 
 As distinguished fro'in the Benevolent, — The affections 
 have already been distinguished from other forms of the 
 sensibility, by the circumstance that they involve, along 
 with the feeling of pleasure or pain, some feeling of kindness 
 or the opposite, toward the object ; in the one case we term 
 them benevolent, in the other, malevolent affections. Of 
 the former, I have treated in the preceding chapter ; of the 
 latter, I am now to speak. 
 
 Resentment the generic Name, — These affections may be 
 comprised under the general name resentment,^ as that which 
 underlies and constitutes the basis of them all. Envy, Jeal 
 
MALEVOLENT AFFECTIONS. 459 
 
 oasy, revenge, etc., may be regarded as but so many modi- 
 fications, or j)erversions, of this general principle. As the 
 benevolent affections are all so many forms of love, going 
 forth toward diverse objects, and varying as the objects 
 vary, so the malevolent affections are so many forms of the 
 pposite principle, ^. 6.. aversion, varying, likewise, with the 
 objects. 
 
 Founded in Nature, — As the benevolent, so likewise tho 
 malevolent or irascible feelings are, as to their principle^ 
 instinctive ; they have their foundation in our nature. They 
 are, as such, universally exhibited under the appropriate 
 circumstances ; they are early in their development, showing 
 themselves often prior to the exercise of the reflecting and 
 reasoning powers ; they are, also, to some extent, common to 
 man with the brutes. 
 
 Gapcible^ however^ of rational Exercise and Control,— 
 While we pronounce them instinctive, however, we would 
 by no means^ imply that they are not capable of being de- 
 liberately and intelligently exercised, or that they are not 
 in fact, frequently so exercised. What instinct originally 
 teaches, reason and reflection, when, at a later date, they 
 come into play, may sanction and confirm. On the other 
 hand, they may repress and forbid what instinct prompts, 
 In the former case, the emotion, affection, passion, is none 
 the less an instinctive principle in its nature and origin, al- 
 though it has now passed from the domain of mere instinct 
 to the higher sphere of reason and intelligence. What wa« 
 done in the first instance from sudden impulse, blindly, with« 
 out thought, is now done deliberately and intelligently. 
 This maybe the case with all our instinctive principles of action^ 
 as well as with those now particularly under consideration. 
 Instinct and reason, or intelligence, though distinguished 
 from, are not necessarily opposed to each other, in tJie sense 
 that one and the same mental act may not proceed, now 
 from one, now from the other, of these principles. The love 
 which I cherish for my friendsj or my kindred, may be 
 
i60 MALEVOLENT AFFECTIONS. 
 
 purely instinctive, it may be strictly rational, a matter oi 
 reflection, the result of deliberate purpose. 
 
 Existence of such a Principle denied by some. — The ex 
 istence of such a principle as resentment, among the original 
 and constitutional elements of our nature, has been. called in 
 question by some writers. It has been thought derogatory 
 to the divine character, that the Creator should implant the 
 principle of resentment in the human heart. He commands 
 us to love, and not to hate, and what he expressly forbids, 
 he cannot have made provision for in the very constitution 
 of the mind. Such a principle, it is also maintained, is alto- 
 gether unnecessary. This is the ground taken by Mr 
 Winslow, in his work on moral philosophy. 
 
 The Question at Issue. — There is certainly much force in 
 the view thus presented. The question before us, however, 
 is not, what we might, a prior^ have supposed the nature of 
 man to be, nor, what it ought to be, but simply, what is that 
 nature as a matter of fact ? Whether such a principle as 
 resentment is necessary in a well-constituted mind, is not 
 now the question ; nor yet whether the Creator could con- 
 sistently implant such a principle within us; nor, again, 
 what may be the moral character of such a principle ; but 
 simply, Is there such a principle among the native elements 
 of human character? If it be found there, we may conclude, 
 either, that the Creator has placed it there for some wise pur- 
 pose, or else, that the nature with which man comes into the 
 world is no longer an adequate expression of the will of the 
 Creator concerning him, but has, in some way, lost its originaS 
 purity and integrity. 
 
 Existence of such a Principle, — I^ow that thera are cer« 
 tain irascible feelings which find a place, under certain cIf- 
 cumstances, in the human bosom, whenever the fitting occa- 
 idon calls them forth, can hardly be denied ; nor yet that 
 they have their foundation m the nature of man. We have 
 the same evidence of this, that we have of the existence of 
 iwiy other original and native principle. It manifests itseii 
 
MALEVOLENT AFFECTIONS. 461 
 
 universally, uniformly, under all the varieties of social con- 
 dition, among all nations, in all ages of the world. It de- 
 velopes itself at an early period of life, before education or 
 example can have come in to account for its existence. 
 Reason may subsequently control and restrain it, or it may 
 fail to do so ; but the principle exists before it can be either 
 mdulged or restrained. When the occasion which calls it 
 forth is some injury or evil inflicted upon ourselves, the feel- 
 ing takes the name of resentment / when others are the ob- 
 jects of that injustice, the feeling awakened is more properly 
 termed Indignation, We resent our own wrongs, we are 
 indignant at those of others. The principle is, in either case, 
 the same, and is as truly a part of bur nature, as gratitude 
 for favors received, or sympathy with the sorrows of the 
 afflicted. 
 
 Term Malevolent^ how employed, — The term malevolent^ 
 as used to designate this class of affections, is, it must be con- 
 fessed, liable to serious objection. It has come into use as a 
 convenient term, in place of, and for the want of, something 
 better, to mark the distinction between the feelings now 
 under consideration, and those of the opposite character, 
 already considered ; and as we call those henevolent^ so we 
 call these m^alevolent^ merely by way of contrast, and not as 
 implying any thing criminal in the character of the emotions 
 themselves. The term, however, is unfortunate, as seeming 
 to involve a meaning not intended. The moral character of 
 the affections thus designated, is an open question, to be de- 
 cided upon its own merits, and not to be considered as settled, 
 one way or the other, by the use of the term novv" undei 
 consideration. This question we shall presently discuss. 
 For the present, we have to consider, more particularly, the 
 several forms in which the malevolent or irascible feeling 
 presents itself. 
 
 Nature of Resentment, — Resentment is the feeling awak 
 ened in view of injury received. It is precisely the opposite 
 ^f gratitude, which is the feeling awakened h^^ benefits con 
 
462 MAx^EVOLENT AFFECTIONS. 
 
 ferred. As, in the latter case, there springs up at once ic 
 the heart an affectionate regard for the generous donor, so, 
 in the former there is awakened, at once a feeling of resent- 
 ment against those who have done us the wrong. It is an 
 instinctive emotion. No sooner are we conscious of the in. 
 jury than we are conscious also of the feeling of resentment. 
 
 Design of this Principle, - — The design of this principle 
 of our nature is evident. It arms us against those sudden 
 dangers and assaults, which no foresight can anticipate, nor 
 prudence prevent, and which, when they occur, require in- 
 stant action, and prompt redress. In such cases, reason and 
 reflection would come to our aid too late ; were w^e left to 
 their counsels, however wise those counsels might be, we 
 should already have suffered the injury from which they 
 would seek to protect us. Something is needed that shall 
 prompt to speedier action ; some watchman vigilant and 
 armed, ready on the first approach of danger to strike his 
 alarm-bell, and summon the garrison to action. This we 
 have in the principle of resentment. Were it not for thip 
 principle.^ moreover, a cautious and timid policy might often 
 preyail o^^er the sense of justice, and honor, and right, or a 
 selfish policy might keep us back from interfering, at our 
 own peril, for the jorotection of the injured, and the punish- 
 ment of the aggressor. Instinct sets us right in such mat- 
 ters, before reason has time to act. 
 
 Necessary to the P'unishment of Crime, — The malevo- 
 lent feeling, at least in the form now under consideratioUj 
 seems to be, in some degree, necessary for the punishment 
 of crime, and the protection of society. It may be doubted * 
 whether, without it, we should act with sufficient energy, 
 and promptness, for the redress of wrong, when that wrong 
 is not inflicted upon ourselves. Nature has guarded against 
 this danger, by planting in the human bosom an innate sense 
 of justice, a hatred of wrong and injury wantonly inflicted, 
 and a quick resentment against the perpetrator, which leads 
 as to seek his detection and punishment, silences the plead 
 
MALEVOLENT AFFECTIONS. 46e^ 
 
 sngs of compassion in his behalf, and arms us to infiict the 
 merited blow. That is but a weak and short-sighted benev 
 olence, that is incapable of hatred of crime, and criminals ; 
 and that, under the flimsy pretence of compassion for the 
 unfortunate, and humanity, would shield from justice, and 
 due punishment, those who strike at the highest interests of 
 society, and put in jeopardy all that is most dear and sacred 
 to man. There are cases, in which compassion becomes 
 malice aforethought, and stern resentment is the only true 
 benevolence. It is one of the sublimest and most glorious 
 attributes of deity, as portrayed in the Scriptures, that with 
 the highest benevolence he combines the stern, inflexible 
 hatred of wrong, so that, while it can with truth be said, 
 '' God is love," it can with equal truth be afiirmed, " our 
 God is a consuming fire." 
 
 Liable to abuse, — While, however, the principle no\^ 
 considered has its uses, and must be regarded as a most ini 
 portant provision of nature for the necessities of our race, it 
 must also be conceded that it is a principle liable to abus^, 
 and requiring to be kept in careful ch^pck. Especially in its 
 sudden and instinctive action, upon the reception of personal 
 harm or danger, are we liable to be cj?rried to extremes, and 
 indulge a resentment out of proportion to the merits of the 
 case. 
 / A Check on excessive Resentment, — Against this exces- V 
 give resentment of injuries, real or imaginary, nature has ^\ 
 provided a check needful and salutary, in the indignatioD 
 with which any such manifestation is sure to be regarded 
 by others, and the loss of that sympathy, otherwise on our 
 side, but now turned in favor of the object of our too great 
 resentment. The wise and prudent man will carefully avoid 
 Buch a result, and this prudence will act as a powerful curb 
 on his anger. To the man of virc^ous and honorable senti- 
 ments there is also another resciamt, hardly less powerful, 
 upon the exercise of the malevok/it feeling in any undue 
 iegree, and that is, the feeling o^ seif-de^r^dation '^w^ 
 
464 MALEVOLENT AFFECTIONS. 
 
 humiliation which such a man must feel, in consequence of 
 his excessive resentment, when the heat of passion cools, 
 and the moments of calmer reflection ensue. Even as exer- 
 cised within due bounds, the malevolent affection is, from 
 its very nature, a painful one. Not only the first emotion 
 on the reception of injury or insult is one of a disagreeable 
 aature, but the wish or desire, which instantly follows and 
 accompanies it, of inflicting in return some ill upon the ag- 
 gressor, is also a feeling which disturbs and disquiets the 
 mind, and inflicts a species of suffering upon the mind that 
 cherishes it, that may not improperly be termed its own 
 punishment. And this again may be regarded, and doubt- 
 less is, to some extent, a check upon the indulgence of the 
 malevolent affection. 
 
 Violent JExhihitions of this Feeling^ where found, — It is 
 accordingly in natures uncultivated and rude, little accus- 
 tomed to self control, and the restraints of reason and relig^ 
 ion, that we naturally look for the violent and excessive out- 
 bursts of passion. A regard for our own happiness, a due 
 sense of our own dignity and moral worth, and a decent 
 respect for the opinions of those about us, whose approba- 
 tion and sympathy we desire, contribute, if not to diminish 
 the strength, at least to repress the manifestation, in any 
 considerable degree, of the feeling of resentment, in those 
 who have arrived at years of discretion, and have profited 
 by the lessons of experience. The child is angry with the 
 stone- against which he strikes his foot, and vents his resent- 
 ment for any injury upon the unconscious instrument, whicli 
 was the means of its infliction. The savage tears from Ms 
 flesh the arrow that has wounded him, and breaks it into 
 fragments. This is undoubtedly the instinct of nature, un- 
 taught by reason and reflection. It is probably the first im- 
 pulse of every man, on the reception of any injury, and before 
 !jie has time to reflect on the folly of such a course, to ex- 
 pT:'ess in some manner his resentment against the immediate 
 instrument of his suffering. 
 
MALEYOLENT AFFECTIONS. 465 
 
 Deliberate Form of Resentment, — When the first im 
 pulse has passed, and time gives opportimity for reflection, 
 this instinctive resentment dies av^ay, or gives place to a 
 deliberate and rational form of the same emotion. Thus 
 affected, the mind casts about it to ascertain the real exteni 
 of its injury, and the best means of redress ; it distinguishes 
 between the conscious agent, and the unconscious instrument 
 of its wrong, between the intentional injury and the unin 
 tentional, and, it may be, accidental harm ; it takes iuto vicT^ 
 the circumstances of the case, and the probable motives of 
 the doer, and graduates its resentment accordingly. 
 
 Illustration of deliberate Resentment, — The law of re 
 taliation which prevails among savage tribes, and which de- 
 mands blood for blood, life for life, and exacts the fearful 
 penalty w^ith a justice inexorable and sure, though often 
 long delayed, and which never loses sight of its victim, 
 though years, and broad lands, and wide waters intervene, 
 affords an illustration of deliberate in distinction from in- 
 stinctive resentment. The law of honor, so called, as it exists 
 among civilized nations, also illustrates the same principle. 
 
 Pointed out by Sutler and others, — The distinction 
 which we have indicated between the instinctive and delib- 
 erate form of this emotion, was clearly pointed out by 
 Butler, though by no means original with him, as some 
 writers have supposed ; it is quite too obvious and import- 
 ant a distinction to have escaped the notice of earlier, and 
 even of ancient philosophers, nor is it at all peculiar to this 
 one affection, but common to all the sensibilities^ as I have 
 already said. 
 
 Modifications of the general Principle, — There are cer- 
 tain modifications of the malevolent affection, which require 
 a passing notice in this connection. I refer to those emo- 
 tions commonly known as e7ivy^ jealousy,, and revenge. 
 These are all but different forms of the same general prin- 
 ciple, varying as the different circumstances and obj'^,cts var| 
 which call them forth. 
 
 20^ 
 
466 MALEVOLENT AIFECTIONS. 
 
 Nature of Envy, — Envy is that form of resentment which 
 too often, and too easily, finds a place in the hmnan bosom, 
 when another is more fortunate, more successful, more hon- 
 ored and esteemed, than ourselves. Especially is this the 
 case, when the fortunate one is from our own circle of com- 
 panionship, and our own rank in life, and when the honors 
 and distinctions, or the wealth and power, that fall to his lot 
 are such as we might ourselves have aspired to reach. We 
 never, I suspect, envy those whose condition is, and origin- 
 ally was, very far removed from our own. The peasant 
 envies not the lord of the realm, nor the beggar the kingp 
 but rather his fellow-peasant, or fellow-beggar, whose hut is 
 warmer, and whose ragged garment not so ragged, as his 
 own. It is the passion of a weak and narrow mind, a mean 
 and degrading emotion, the opposite of every thing noble 
 and generous. 
 
 Nature of Jealousy, — Jealousy is that form of the ma- 
 levolent affection which has relation more particularly, 
 though not exclusively, to the attachment which exists 
 between the sexes, and which is awakened by the supposed 
 rivalry of another. It is one of the most painful of the ma- 
 levolent affect'ons, and, when thoroughly roused, one of the 
 strongest and most powerful principles of our nature. It is 
 the peculiarity of this passion, that the object of its suspicion, 
 and resentment, is, at the same time, the object of the heart's 
 deepest love, and, it may be, adoration ; the strength and bit» 
 tern ess of the passion being in proportion to the fervor and 
 earnestness of that affection. In the character' of Othello, we 
 have a fine delineation of the working and development of 
 this trait of human character, as in Cassius we have a por- 
 traiture of the correspondmg affection of envy. 
 
 Nature of Kevenge. — Revenge is resentment in its most 
 deliberate form, planned and carried into execution, not foi 
 the prevention of crime or injury, nor yet with reference 
 to the ends of justice, but for the simple gratification of 
 personal hatred. As such, and springing from such a motive, 
 
MALEVOLENT AFFECTIONS. 467 
 
 it is usually excessive in degree, and malicious in character, 
 It is a dark and deadly passion, not -more dangerous to so- 
 ciety than degrading to the bosom that harbors it. It has 
 not one redeeming quality to recommend it. It is neither 
 the mark of a noble and generous, nor yet of a manly and 
 brave spirit. It is the offspring of fear, rather than of cour- 
 age. It usually seeks to accomplish, by secret and unlawful 
 means, what it is ashamed or afraid to do openly, and by 
 fair and honorable measures. It is a passion closely allied to 
 those which may be supposed to reign in the bosom of a 
 fiend. 
 
 Qualifying HemarJc, — ! have spoken of envy, jealousy 
 and revenge, as modifications or different forms of the gene- 
 ral principle of resentment, or the irascible propensity. There 
 is, however, one important respect in which they all differ 
 from the parent principle from which they spring. The lat- 
 ter, resentment, while founded in our nature, may, in exer- 
 cise, be either instinctive or deliberate, as already shown ; 
 the former imply, I suspect, always some degree of delibera- 
 tion, some element of choice. They are natural, in so far as 
 there is a tendency in our nature to the exercise of these 
 feelings under given circumstances, and, inasmuch as the 
 principle from which they spring is founded in our nature, as 
 one of its original elements ; but they are not, like that prin- 
 ciple, sometimes instinctive in their operation, but always, on 
 the contrary, involve, as it seems to me, some process of 
 thought, reflection, deliberation, choice. 
 
 Moral Character of the malevolent Affections, — It has 
 been a question, much discussed, whether the class of feel- 
 mgs under consideration, in the present chapter, has any 
 moral character^ and if so, what ? The question pertains, 
 perhaps, more properly, to moral than to mental science 
 but we cannot pass it entirely without notice in this connec- 
 tion. So far as regards those forms of the malevolent emo- 
 tiou last considered, envy, jealousy, and revenge, there can 
 be little doubt. Their exercise involves, as already stated^ 
 
468 MALEVOLENT AFFEO TIOJ?^ S. 
 
 something of reflection and choice. They are not instinctive, 
 but voluntary in their operation, capable, therefore, of con- 
 trol, and if not subjected to the stern dominion of reason, if 
 not checked and subdued by the higher principles that 
 should ever govern our conduct, we are reprehensible. 
 Their indulgence in any form, and to any degree, must be 
 regarded as blameworthy. They are perversions of that 
 principle of resentment, which, for wise reasons, nature haa_ 
 implanted in our bosoms. Their tendency is evil, and only 
 evil. They are malevolent in the full and proper sense of 
 that term. 
 
 Of simple Mesentment, — As to the primary principle of 
 resentment in its simple and proper form, in so far as its 
 operation is deliberate and voluntary, rather than purely in- 
 stinctive, implying the exercise of reflection and reason, it 
 must possess, in common with all other mental acts of that 
 nature, some moral character. Within due limits, and on 
 just occasions, it is a virtue ; when it passes those hmits, 
 when it becomes excessive, or is uncalled for, by the circum- 
 stances of the case, it becomes a vice. 
 
 Of Resentm^ent as instinctive, — The question before us 
 properly relates to^ that form of resentment which is purely 
 instinctive, unaccompanied by the exercise of reason and the 
 reflective powers. Has such an emotion, strictly speaking, 
 an}'^ moral character ? How far are we responsible for its 
 exercise ? It seems to be a principle of manifest justice, and 
 accordant with the common sense of mankind, that a man 
 should be held responsible only for his rational and volun- 
 tary acts, for such things as it lies in his power to do, or not 
 to do, according as he chooses. But that which is purely 
 distinctive, is certainly not of this character. It may be in 
 my power to repress the feeling of resentment that arises in 
 my bosom on the reception of manifest injustice and wrong; 
 I may refuse to harbor such a feeling ; I may struggle to 
 rise above it ; but the feeling itself is instinctive, and I can 
 ao more prevent its first awakening and impulse, than I can 
 
MALEVOLENT AFFECTIONS. 46& 
 
 prevent the involuntary contraction of the muscles upon 
 the incision of the surgeon's knife. 
 
 Views of others — JIplicm%^ JReid^ Chalmers, — Such is 
 the view now generally entertained, we believe, by psychol- 
 ogists. " Instinctive resentment," says Mr. Upham, " has 
 no moral character." " A moral character attaches only to 
 the voluntary form of resentment." The same may be said 
 of other affections, and of the sensibilities generally. In so 
 far as they are purely instinctive, they have no moral char- 
 acter. 
 
 Dr. Reid, in his Active Powers of the Human Mind, hoids 
 this language, " Nothing in which the will is not concerned 
 can justly be accounted either virtuous or immoral." The 
 practice of all criminal courts, and all enlightened nations, 
 he adds, is founded upon this principle ; insomuch, " that if 
 any judicature in any nation should find a man guilty, and 
 the object of punishment, for what they allow to be alto- 
 gether involuntary, all the world would condemn them as 
 men who knew nothing of the first and most fundamental 
 rules of justice.'* 
 
 Dr. Chalmers claims for the principle now under consider- 
 ation a place among the primary and universal moral judg- 
 ments of mankind. " It is in attending to these popular, or 
 rather universal decisions, that we learn the real principles 
 of moral science. And the first, .certainly, of these popular, 
 or rather universal decisions is, that nothing is moral or 
 immoral that is not voluntary. 
 
 "That an action, then, be the rightful object either of 
 moral censure or approval, it must have had the consent of 
 the -will to go along with it. It must be the frait of a voli- 
 tion, else it is utterly beyond the scope, either of praise for 
 its virtuousness, or of blame for its criminaMty. If an action 
 be involuntary, it is as unfit a subject for any moral reckon- 
 ing, as are the pulsations of the wrist." 
 
 (Sketches of Moral and Mental Philosophy, Chapter V 
 (hi the Morality of the Mnotions,) 
 
b £ N S 1 B I L I T 1 E S 
 
 PART THIRD. 
 
 E S I 
 
DESIRES. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 NA^TQEE AND CLASSIFICATION OF DESIRES 
 
 General Character of Desire, — What we enjoy we love, 
 and what we enjoy and love, becomes, when no longer pres- 
 ent, or when, although yet present, its future absence is re- 
 garded as probable, an object of desire. In the latter case 
 it is perhaps more properly the continuance of the loved ob- 
 ject, rather than the object itself, that is desired. Strictly 
 speaking, we desire only that which is not in possession, and 
 which is regarded as good and agreeable. More frequently 
 the objects uf desire are those things which, in some meas- 
 ure, we have actually enjoyed, and learned by experience 
 how to prize. In many cases, however, we learn in other 
 ways than by our own experience the value of an object ; 
 we gather it from observation, from the testimony of others, 
 partly, perhaps, from imagination ; and in such cases what 
 is known or supposed to be agreeable and a good thing, 
 though never, perhaps, actually enjoyed by ourselves, may 
 be an object of desire. Thus I may desire wealth, or power, 
 long before they come into my possession to be enjoyed 
 The felicities which await the righteous in the future may 
 be distinct and definite objects of desire, while yet we are 
 pilgrims on the earth, and have not seen " the- land that is 
 very far off." Even in the cases supposed, however, we 
 have enjoyed, to some extent, if not the very same, yet 
 similar objects ; we have experienced something, though it 
 
4V4 NATURE AND CLASSIFICATION 
 
 may bt on a small scale, of the advantages which wealth 
 and power confer, while in our enjoyment of earthly happi- 
 ness there is doubtless something on which the imagination 
 can build its more glorious anticipations of the future, and 
 it is this enjoyment and realization of a present or a past 
 good, that constitutes the foundation of our desires. If we 
 had never enjoyed aught, it may be doubted whether we 
 should ever desire aught. 
 
 Law of the Sensibility, — 1^\\^ great law of the sensibility, 
 then, may be thus stated, as regards the order and relation 
 of the several classes of emotion to each other : I enjoy ^ I 
 love^ I desire / and the reverse, I suffer^ I dislike^ I cherish 
 aversion. That such is the order or law of mental opera- 
 tion has been ably shown by Damiron in his Cours de Philo* 
 Sophie, and also, before him, by Jouffroy. 
 
 Conditions of Desire, — Desire is a feeling simple and in- 
 definable. We can merely specify the conditions which it 
 observes, and the occasions on which it is awakened. These 
 conditions or occasions are the two already mentioned ; the 
 previous enjoyment, in some degree, of an agreeable object, 
 and the present or contemplated absence of that object. 
 Where these conditions are fulfilled, desire springs up at 
 once in the mind, a desire proportioned to the degree of 
 that previous enjoyment, and the strength of the affection 
 thereby awakened in our minds for the object of our 
 regard. 
 
 Opposite of Desire^ Aversion, — The opposite of desire is 
 aversion, the feeling that arises in view of an object not as 
 agreeable but as disagreeable, not as a good but as an ill. 
 This, too, like desire, is based upon some measure of ex- 
 perience ; we have suffered somewhat of real or imagined ill, 
 which, while it continues, is an object of disHke or hatred, 
 and regarded as something which, though now absent, may 
 possiMy be realized in the future, becomes an object of 
 aversion. Aversion, as well as its opposite, desire, finds iti? 
 object in the future, while its basis lies in the past. 
 
OF DESIRES 475 
 
 It will not be necessary to treat particularly of oar aver- 
 sions as a distinct class of emotions, since they are, for 
 the most part, simply the counterparts of our desires, the 
 desire of life, or happiness, having its equivalent in the aver- 
 sion which we feel to suffering, and to death ; so of othei 
 desires. 
 
 ' Desire always preceded hy Emotion. — With regard to 
 the nature of desires, it may further be remarked that while 
 they imply always an object, an agreeable object, and that 
 an absent one ; while they imply, also, some previous enjoy- 
 ment of that now absent object, or, at least, some knowledge 
 of its existence and adaptation to our wants, as the founda- 
 tion on which they rest, they do not take their rise imme- 
 diately from the simple perception or intellectual contempla- 
 tion of that absent object, as presented again merely to 
 thought or imagination, but always some emotion or affec- 
 tion is first awakened by such thought or perception, and 
 the desire succeeds to, and springs out of, that emotion. The 
 mere perception of the object which formerly pleased me, 
 does not, of itself, awaken in me immediately a desire foi 
 the object, but first an emotion or affection, and from that 
 arises the desire. 
 
 Permanence of the Desires, — The greater permanence 
 which our desires seem to possess, as compared with other 
 simple emotions and affections, and which has been some- 
 times regarded as a distinguishing characteristic of this cJass^ 
 of feelings, is owing, probably, not so much to the nature of 
 desire, in itself considered, as to the fact that the object de- 
 sired is always an absent object, and so long as it so remains^ 
 the desire for it is likely to continue. Were our desires 
 always gratified as soon as they are definitely known, they 
 
 ♦vould be no more permanent than any other state of mind. 
 Desire a m^otive Power, — The desires, it is to be noticed, 
 moreover, are, in their nature, motive powers, springs of 
 action to the mind. They are, if not the only, at least the 
 chief source of mental activity. They prompt and excite 
 
41Q NATURE AND CLASSIFI C ATI 3N, ETC. 
 
 the mind to action. The faculties, both physical and mental, 
 are, in a manner, subject to their control. The intellect it- 
 self leads not to action ; nor do the emotions ; they agitate 
 the mind, but it is only as they awaken desire, and that 
 desire fixes upon a definite object, possible, but not in pos- 
 eession, that mind and body are both aroused to go forth for 
 the attainment of the absent object of desire. 
 
 Classification of Desires, — Our desires may be classed 
 according to their objects. These are of two sorts or classes : 
 those which pertain to the physical nature and constitution, 
 and those w^hich relate to the wants of the mind rather than 
 of the body. The desires, accordingly, may be classed as 
 twofold — the anhnal^ and the rational ; the former having 
 their source in the physical constitution of man, the latter in 
 the nature and wants of the mind, rather than of the body. 
 Of the former class are the desire of food, of sex, of exertion, 
 of repose, of whatever, in a word, is adapted to the anima^ 
 nature and wants. Of the latter class, the more prominent 
 are the desire of happiness, of knowledge, of power, of so- 
 ciety, of the esteem of others. 
 
 In connection with our desires are to be considered also 
 those emotions which are known under the name of hope 
 and fear, and which, as was stated in our previous analysis 
 of the sensibilities, are to be regarded rather as modifications 
 of desire, than as distinct principles or modes of menlil 
 activity. 
 
CHAPTER II. 
 
 DBaiSES AEISING FROM THE PHYSICAL CONSTITUTION. 
 
 Nature of Appetite as compared with other Forms oj 
 Desire. — These are usually called appetites^ in distinctioc 
 from those desires which are founded in the nature of the 
 mind. They are, however, properly, a class of desires 
 though not always so ranked by philosophical writers. They 
 are feelings which arise always in view of some good, real, 
 or supposed, which has its adaptation to the wants of our 
 nature, but which is not in present possession. This absence 
 creates a longing for the object, which longing, so far as it 
 relates to the mind at all, and not merely to the muscular 
 sensation — as of hunger, etc. — is purely a desire. It differs 
 from the other desires, in the respect mentioned, that it takes 
 its rise fi'om the constitution and wants of the body, rather 
 than of the mind. It is not, however, on this account, the 
 less a mental state, a psychological phenomenon. 
 
 Ambiguity of the Term, - — The term appetite is ambigu- 
 ous ; sometimes denoting the uneasy physical sensations, as 
 hunger, thirst, etc., which are conditions of the muscular 
 and nervous systems, and not states of the mind ; sometimes 
 the mental condition which results from this, and which is 
 properly called desire. It is only with the latter that psy- 
 chology has to do ; the former fall within the province of 
 physiology. 
 
 Enumeration of the more important,^ and the End accom- 
 plished by each, — The desires, of the class to which we 
 now refer, are various, comprehending all those which im- 
 mediately relate to, and arise from, the various bodily wants. 
 The more important are the desire of food, and of sex, to 
 which may be added the desire of action, and of repose. 
 
478 
 
 DESIRES ARISING FROM 
 
 The coiistltution of our pliysicMil Hystcnri is such as to lay tlio 
 ibimdation of lliesc desires. Tliey pertain to our animal 
 natures, and, as such, have a most imjmrtant part to perform 
 ai tlio economy of life. They all relates, directly or hidi* 
 rectly, to the j3oiitiiniaiice of life, whether that of the indi- 
 vidual, or of the S[)ecies. Each of the appetites, or animal 
 desires, as we ])refer to call tlieni, has its own specific object 
 to accomplish, with reference to this genei-al end. The de- 
 fine of ibod looks to the preservation of individual life and 
 vigor, by repairing the waste which the physical system is 
 continually undergoing. The desire of muscular exertion 
 and r(^])ose has the same general design. The desire of sex 
 has ibr its object the j)r(\servation of the species. 
 
 Ini'portance of these Principles, — Not only has each of 
 these desires a specific end to accomplish, but it is an end 
 which, so far as Ave can see, would not otherwise be accom- 
 plished. Iveason iiiight suggest the expediency of taking 
 (bod to sustain the system, or of resting at intervals froiri 
 exertion, in order to /'ecrnit our exhausted energies ; but 
 were it not for the desires that nature has implanted in us 
 demanding positive gratification, and reminding ns when wo 
 transgress those laws which govern our physical being, liow 
 often, in the pressure of business, should We nc^glect the due 
 care of the body, and dej)iive ourselves of needed food, or 
 needed rest, or needed muscular exertion. Were it not lor 
 the demands of appetite, how imperfectly sliould we judge 
 either as to the pro})er pro})()rti()n, or the })roper cpiantity, 
 and quality, of that reireshment which the body needs, and 
 which food, and rest, and nniscular (exercise supply. And 
 the same may be said of the other animal desires. . Th jy 
 are necessary to the economy of life, by supplying a moti t'e 
 which would not otherwise exist, and thus securing a rer lit 
 not oth(u-wiso ol)tnined. The princi[)les to Avhich wo re.'or, 
 aro not, therelbre, to be rc^garded as of little importaMCO 
 because relating to the wants of I7ie body, and common to 
 man with the animal races, genei-ally ; ur the contr^ivy, 
 
THE PHYSICAL CONSTITUTION 41^9 
 
 they are of the liigliest importance and value; a duo rcp^ard 
 to them is essential to the highest well-being, and the neglect 
 or abuse of them brings its own sure and speedy punishment. 
 To be ashamed of our animal nature, is to be ashamed of 
 ourselves, and of the constitution that (rod gave us; to 
 think lightly of it, is to despise the divine wisdom and be* 
 nevolence. It is no part of an intelligent and rational nature 
 to contemn the casket that contains all its treasure. Even 
 were that casket worthless in itself, it would be valuable for 
 the office it performs ; much more when it is itself a pieco 
 of rare workmanship, curiously and wonderfully wrought. 
 
 Not selfish, — The a2)petites are not to be regarded as 
 essentially selfish, in their nature. They relate, indeed, to 
 our own personal wants ; so do all our desires, and, in soine 
 measure, all our sensibilities. But when exercised witiiin 
 due bounds, they are not inconsistent with the rights and 
 happiness of others, but the rather promotive of these re- 
 sults ; and, therefore, not in the proper sense of the term 
 are tTiey selfish propensities. Their ultimate aim is not tho 
 securing of a certain amount of enjoyment to the hidividual 
 by their ^-atification, but the securing of a certain end, not 
 otherwise reached, by means of that enjoyment. They are 
 to be set down as original and implanted principles of our 
 nature, rather than as selfish and acquired propensities. 
 
 Dangerous Tendency, — I would, by no means, however, 
 overlook the fact that the animal desires are of dangerous 
 tendency when permitted to gain any considerable control 
 over the mind, and that tbey require to be kept within caro 
 ful bounds. They are liable to abuse. When suffered to 
 become predominant over other and higher principles of 
 action, when, from subjection and restraint, they rise to the 
 mastery, and govern the man, then sinks the man to tho 
 level of the brute, and there is presented that saddest spec- 
 tacle of all that the sun beholds in his course about the earth, 
 a mind endowed with capacity of reason and intelligence, 
 but enslaved to its own base passions. There is no slavery 
 
480 /THE PHYSICAL C ONSTITUl I ON. 
 
 SO degrading as that, none so hopeless, l^e most earnest 
 efforts, the best and most sincere purposes and resolutions 
 are too often made in vain, and the mind, struggling, to little 
 purpose, with its own propensities, and its own vitiated na- 
 .ure, is swept on by the fearful current of its urigoverned, 
 Siiid now ungovernable, appetites, as the ship over wdiich 
 ueither sail nor helm have any further power, is swept along 
 m swift and ever lessening circles by the fatal maelstrom. 
 
 Curious Law of our Nature, — It seems to be the law of 
 our nature, that while our active principles gain strength by 
 exercise, the degree of enjoyment or of suffering which they 
 are capable of affording, diminishes by repetition. This has 
 been clearly stated by Mr. Stewart. It follows from this, 
 that while by long and undue indulgence of any of the animal 
 desires, the gratification originally derived from such indulg- 
 ence is no longer capable of being enjoyed, the desire itself 
 may be greatly increased, and constantly increasing, in its 
 demands. It is. hardly possible to conceive a condition more 
 wretched and miserable, than that of a mind compelled thus 
 to drain the^ bitter dregs of its cup of pleasure, long since 
 quaffed, and to repeat, in endless round, the follies that no 
 longer have power to satisfy, even for the brief moment, the 
 poor victim of their enchantment. The drunkard, the glut- 
 ton, the debauchee, afford illustrations of this principle. 
 
 Acquired Appetites, — Beside the natural appetites of 
 which I have hitherto spoken, and which are founded in the 
 constitution of the physical system, there are certain appe 
 tites which must be regarded as artificial and acquired, such 
 as the desire, so widely and almost universally prevalent, ia 
 countries both savage and civilized, for narcotic and stimu 
 tating drugs of various kinds, and for intoxicating drinks. 
 
CHAPTER III. 
 
 OKSIRES ARISma FEOM THE CONSTITUTION Ob^ THE MIOT) 
 
 § I. — Desire of Happiness. 
 
 Propriety of the Designation Self-love, — Among that 
 class of desires that have their foundation in the mental 
 rather than in the physical constitution, one of the most im- 
 portant is the desire of happiness^ or, as it is frequently 
 called, self-love. The propriety of this designation has been 
 called in question. " The expression," says Mr. Stewart, 
 " is exceptionable, for it suggests .an analogy (where there 
 Is none, in fact) between that regard which every rational 
 being must necessarily have to his own happiness, and those 
 benevolent affections which attach us to our fellow-creatures. 
 There is surely nothing in the former of these principles 
 analogous to the affection of love : and, therefore, to call it 
 by the appellation of self-love^ is to suggest a theory with 
 respect to its nature, and a theory which has no foundation 
 in truth." 
 
 This Position questionctble. — I apprehend that in this 
 remark, Mr. Stewart may have gone too far. The regard 
 which we have for our own happiness certainly differs from 
 that which we entertain for the happiness of others, as the 
 «>ljects differ on which, in either case, the regard is fixed* 
 That the emotion is not essentially of the same nature^ how- 
 ever, psychologically considered, is not so clear. Love or 
 affection, as it has been defined in the preceding chapters, is 
 the enjoyment of an object, mingled with a wish or desire of 
 good to the same. Love of friends is the pleasure felt in, 
 and the benevolent regard for, them. Love of self, in like 
 
 21 
 
482 DESIRES ARISING FROM 
 
 Diari er, is the enjoyment of, and the desire of, good to self. 
 Whoever, then, enjoys himself, and wishes his own good, 
 exercises self-love; and the essential ingredient of this affec- 
 tion is the desire for hie own happiness. N'ot only, then., is 
 there an analogy between the two principles, the desire c i 
 our own happiness, and the regard which we feel for others, 
 but something more than an analogy ; they are essentialij 
 of the same natm-e so far as regards the mental activity ex- 
 ercised in either case, and the term love as properly desig- 
 nates the one, as the other, of 'these states of mind. I may 
 lOve myself, as truly as I love my friend, nor is it the part of 
 a rational nature to be destitute of the principle of self-love. 
 
 Not to he confounded with Selfishness, — There is more 
 force in the objection, also urged by Mr. Stewart, against 
 the phrase self-love^ used to denote the desire of happiness, 
 that it is, from its etymology, liable to be confounded, and in 
 fact, often is confounded, with the word selfishness^ which 
 denotes a very different state of mind. The word selfish 
 ness is always used in an unfavorable sense, to denote some 
 disregard of the happiness and rights of others ; but no such 
 idea properly attaches to self-love, or the desire of happiness, 
 which, as Mr. Stewart justly remarks, is inseparable from 
 our nature as rational and sensitive beings. 
 
 Views of Theologians, — Misled, perhaps, by the resem- 
 blance of the words, many theological writers, both ancieit 
 and modern, have not only represented self-love as essentially 
 einful, but even as the root and origin of evil, the principle 
 of original sin. 
 
 So Barrow expressly afllrms, citing Zuingle «>', authority. 
 English moraUsts have sometimes taken the same view, and 
 the earlier American divines very generally lieid it. 
 
 Self-love not criminal, — It can hardly be that a prin- 
 ciple, which seems to belong to our nature as intelligent and 
 rational beings, should be essentially criminal in it nature. 
 The mistake, doubtless, arises from overlooking the distinc 
 tion, already indicated, between self-love and selfishness 
 
THE CONSTITUTION OF THE MIND 483 
 
 The love of self, carried to the extreme of disregarding the 
 happiness of others, and trespassing upon the rights of others^ 
 in the way to self-gratification, is indeed a violation of the 
 piinciples of right, and is equally condemned by nature, 
 speaking in the common sense and reason of man, and by 
 divine revelation. But neither reason, nor the divine law, 
 orbid that regard to our own happiness which self-love, in 
 ts true and proper sense, implies, and which exists, it may 
 safely be affirmed, in every human bosom in which the light 
 of intelligence and reason has not gone out in utter dark- 
 ness. The sacred Scriptures nowhere forbid this prmciple. 
 They enjoin upon us, indeed, the love of our neighbor ; but 
 the very command to love him as myself, so far from forbid- 
 ding self-love, implies its existence as a matter of course, 
 and presents that as a standard by which to measure the 
 love I ought to bear to others. 
 
 Opinion of Aristotle, — Much more correct than tha 
 opinions to which I have referred, is the view taken by 
 Aristotle in his Ethics, who speaks of the good man as ne- 
 cessarily a lover of himself, and, in the true sense^ preemi- 
 nent!]/ so. " Should a man assume a preeminence in exercis- 
 ing justice, temperance, and other virtues, though such a 
 man has really more true self-love than the multitude, yet 
 nobody would impute his affection to him as a crime. Yet 
 he takes to himself the fairest and greatest of all goods, and 
 those the most acceptable to the ruling principle in his na- 
 ture, which is, properly, himself, in the same manner as tho 
 30vereignty in every community is that which most properly 
 eonstitutes the state. He is said, also, to have, or not to 
 Clave, the command of himself, just as this principle bears 
 sway, or as it is subject to control; and those acts are con 
 fiidered as most voluntary which proceed from this legisla 
 tive or sovereign power. Whoever cherishes and gratifies 
 this ruling part of his nature, is strictly and peculiarly a 
 lover of himself but in quite a different sense from that in 
 which self-love is regarded as a matter of reproach." (Ethic. 
 
484 DESIRES ARISING FROM 
 
 Nic, lib. ix., cap. viii.) This view appears to me eminently 
 just. 
 
 That man is not, in the true and proper sense, a self-lover 
 who seeks his present at the expense of his future and per- 
 manent well-being, or who tramj)les upon the rights and 
 happiness of others, intent only upon his gratification. The 
 glutton, the drunkard, the debauchee, are not the truest 
 lovers of self. They stand fairly chargeable, not with too 
 much, but too little regard for their own happiness and well- 
 being. 
 
 Not the only original Principle, — But while the desire 
 of happiness is a principle which has its foundation in the 
 constitution of the mind, and which is characteristic of rea- 
 son and intelligence, it is by no means to be regarded as the 
 only original principle of our nature. Certain moralists have 
 sought to resolve all other active principles into self-love, 
 making this the source and spring of all human conduct, so 
 that, directly or indirectly, whatever we do finds its origin 
 and motive in the love of self. According to this view, I 
 love my friends, my kindred, my country, only because of 
 the intimate connection between their well-being and my 
 own ; I pity and reUeve the unfortunate only to relieve my- 
 self of the unpleasant feelings their condition avv^akens ; I 
 sacrifice treasure, comfort, health, life itself, *only for the 
 sake of some greater good that is to be thus and only thus 
 procured ; even the sense of right, and the obligations of a 
 religious nature, which bind and control me, find their chief 
 strength, as principles of action, in that regard for my own 
 happiness which underlies all other considerations. 
 
 Such a View indefensible, — This is a view not more de 
 rogatory to human nature than inconsistent with all true 
 psychology. That the principle under consideration is one 
 of the most powerful springs of human conduct, that it en- 
 ters more largely than we may ourselves, at the time, be 
 aware, into those motives and actions that wear the aj^pear- 
 once of entire disinterestedness, I am disposed to adm^^ 
 
THE CONSTITUTION OF THE MIN3. 485 
 
 nor would I deny that our sense of right, and of religious 
 obligation, finds a strong support in that intimate and insepa* 
 rable connection which exists between duty and happiness. 
 The Scriptures constantly appeal to our love of happiness as 
 a motive to right action. Their rewards and promises on 
 the one hand, and their warnings and threatenings on the 
 other, all rest on this assumed law of human nature, that 
 man everywhere and always desires his own well-being; 
 But that this is the only and ultimate ground of human aa 
 lion, that all the benevolent affections, all honor, and virtue^ 
 all sen&e of duty and right, all religious emotion and religious 
 principle resolves itself into this, neither reason, nor revela^- 
 tion, nor the closest observation of the human mind, do 
 either teach or imply. 
 
 This Desire^ in what Sense rational. — Stewards View, — 
 We have spoken, thus far, of the desire of happiness as a 
 rational principle. Is it, in such a sense, peculiar to a rational 
 and intelligent nature ? Does it so imply and involve thf 
 exorcise of reason, that it is not to be found except in con- 
 nection with, and as the result of, that principle ? If so, it 
 can hardly be called an original and implanted, or, at lesst, 
 an instinctive principle. And such is the view taken by Mr. 
 Stewart, in his Philosophy of the Active and Moral Powers 
 The desire of happiness im]3lies, in his estimation, a deliberate 
 and intelligent survey of the various sources of enjoyment, 
 a looking before and after, to ascertain what will, and what 
 will not, contribute to ultimate and permanent well-being ; 
 and this it is the part of reason to perform. 
 
 jf^ot exclusively so. — That the desire of happiness, as ex 
 eicised by a rational nature, involves something of this pro- 
 cess, some general idea of what constitutes happiness, of 
 what ift good on the whole and not merely for the present, 
 Bome perception of consequences, some comprehensive view 
 and comparison of the various principles of action and 
 courses of conduct, as means to this general end, may, in- 
 deed, be admitted. And, so far as the exercise of self-love 
 
486 DESIRES ARISING FROM 
 
 is of the nature now indicated, it is certainly a rational 
 rather than an instinctive act. But I see no reason why one 
 and the same emotion, or mental activity of any sort, may 
 not be, at one time, the result of reflection, at another, of im- 
 pulse ; now deliberate and rational, and now, instinctive in its 
 character. We know this to be the case, for example, with 
 the aflections, both benevolent and malevolent. A principle 
 '^f action may be none the less instinctive, and originally im- 
 planted in man's nature, from the fact that, when he arrives 
 at years of discretion, his reason confirms and strengthens 
 what nature had already taught, or even adopts it as one of 
 its own cardinal principles. It is not necessary, in order to 
 all desire of good, that I should know, completely and com- 
 prehensively, in what good consists, and I may still desire 
 my own happiness, according to the measure of my knowl 
 edge and capacity, when I simply know that I am happy at 
 the present moment. 
 
 Desire of continued Existence, — Closely analogous to 
 the principle now under consideration, if not, indeed, prop- 
 erly a form or modification of it, is the desire of continued 
 existence. No desire that finds a place in the human bosom, 
 perhaps, is stronger or more universal than this. Life is 
 valued above all other possessions ; riches, honors, place, 
 power, ease, are counted as of little worth in comparison. 
 There are, indeed, occasions when life is willingly sacrificed, 
 rather than to incur dishonor and reproach, or for the de- 
 fence of the innocent and helpless who depend on us for 
 protection, or for some great and good cause that demands 
 of the good and true man such service as may cost life. 
 Even in such cases, the importance of the interests which 
 demand and receive such a sacrifice, show the value we at- 
 tach to that which is laid upon the altar. 
 
 Increases with Age, — The desire of continued existence 
 geems to increase, as age advances, and life wears away. 
 We always value tliat the more of which we have but little, 
 It is a striking proof of the divine benevolence, that, in a 
 
THE CONSTITUTION OF THE MIND. ^481 
 
 world so full of care, and toil, and sorrow, as the present is, 
 and must be, to the multitude of its inhabitants, there are 
 few so miserable as not to regard continued existence as a 
 boon tc be purchased at any price. 
 
 § XL — Deshie op Knowledge. 
 
 An 07*iginal Prmclple, — Among the various principles 
 that enter into the composition of our nature, and are the 
 motive powers of the human mind, awakening and calling 
 forth its energies, and impelling it to action, the desire of 
 knowledge holds an important place. From its early mani- 
 festation, before reason and reflection have as yet, to any ex- 
 tent, come into play, and from its general, if not universal 
 existence, we infer that it is one of those principles origin- 
 ally implanted in our nature by the great Author of our 
 being. 
 
 Not Curiosity, — The desire of knowledge, though often 
 spoken of as synonymous with curiosity^ is not altogether 
 identical with it. Curiosity has reference rather to the 
 novelty and strangeness of that which comes before the 
 mind. It is the feeling awakened by these qualities, rather 
 than the general desire to know what is yet unknown. It 
 is of more limited application, and while it implies a desire 
 to understand the object in view of which it is awakened, 
 implies also some degree of wonder, at the unusual and un- 
 expected character of the object as thus presented. While, 
 then, curiosity is certainly a most powerful auxiliary to the 
 desire of learning, and stimulates the mind to exertions it 
 might not otherwise put forth, it is hardly to be viewed aa 
 identical with the principle under consideration. 
 
 Manifested in early Life. — The desire of knowledge is 
 never, perhaps, more strongly developed than in early life, 
 and never partakes more fully of the character of curiosity 
 than then. To the child, all things are new and strange 
 Ho looks abo^:!.t him upon a world as unknown to him as he 
 
188 DJrSIRES ARISING FROM 
 
 # 
 
 is to it, and every different object that meets his eye is a 
 new study, and a new mystery to him. The desire to ac- 
 quaint himself with the new and unknown world around 
 him, keeps him constantly employed, constantly learning. 
 
 Ik later Tears, — As he grows up, and the sphere of his 
 intellectual vision enlarges, every step of his progress only 
 opens new and wider fields to be explored, beyond the limits 
 of his previous investigations. If there is less of childish 
 curiosity, there is more of earnest, manly, irrepressible de- 
 eire and determination to know. His studies assume this or 
 that direction, according to native taste and temperament, 
 early associations, or the force of circumstances ; he becomes 
 a student of science, or a student of letters, or of art, or of the 
 practical professions and pursuits of life ; but turn in what 
 direction and to what pursuits he will, the desire to know 
 still lives within him, as a sacred lamp ever burning before 
 the shrine of truth. , • 
 
 JExjjlains the Love of Narrative. — Every one has re- 
 marked the eagerness with which children listen to stories,, 
 histories, and fables. This is owing not more to the love of 
 the ideal, which is usually very strongly developed in early 
 life, than to the desire of knowing what presents itself to 
 the mind as something new and unknown, yet with the 
 semblance of reality. Nor does this love of narrative for- 
 sake us as we grow older. We have still our romances, our 
 histories, our poems, epic and tragic, to divert us amid the 
 graver cares of life ; and the old man is, perhaps, as impatient 
 as the child, to go on with the story, and comprehend the plot, 
 when once his interest and curiosity are awakened. 
 
 A benevolent Provision, — We cannot but regard it as a 
 benevolent provision of the Creator, so to constitute the 
 human mind, that not only knowledge itself, but the very 
 process of its acquisition, should be a pleasure. And when 
 we consider how great is the importance to man of this desire 
 of knowledge, and how great is the progress of even the hum- 
 blest mind, from the dawn of its intelligence^ on to the period 
 
THE CONSTITUTION OF THE MIND. 489 
 
 of its full maturity and strength ; how, under the influence 
 ot this desire, the mind of a ISTewton, a Kepler, a Bacon, a 
 Descartes, a Leibnitz, moves on, from the slow and feeble 
 acquisitions of the nursery, to the great and sublime dis- 
 cover! 3S that are to shed a light and glory, not only on the 
 name of the discoverer, but on the path of all who come 
 after him, we can hardly attach too high an importance to 
 this part of our mental constitution. 
 
 A rational^ though an injunctive Prinoiple, — The de- 
 sire of knowledge, like many of the active principles wbicb 
 have already Mien under our notice, is cajDable of rational 
 exercise and control, while, at the same time, an implanted and 
 insti^^^tive principle. It operates, at first, rather as a blind 
 impM\%e, impelling the mind to a given end ; when reason 
 assup3^>!^ her sway of the mind and its restless energies, what 
 was before a mere impulse and instinct of nature, now be- 
 comes 9. s^^liberate and rational purpose. 
 
 Morel C-^iaracter, — As to moral character, it m ly, or 
 may not, "^^'taia to the exercise of the principle under con- 
 sideration. Tho desire of knowledge is not of necessity a 
 virtuous affeo^iou vi the mind. Characteristic as it is of a 
 noble and suporor nature, more elevated and excellent, as 
 it certainly is, than ^0 m.erely animal desires and impulses, 
 it is not inseparably *-om:eoted with moral excellence. 
 
 As rationally exera^-ed it is laudable and virtuous, pro- 
 vided we seek knowledge v^xh proper motives, and for right 
 ends ; otherwise, the re^e^'Sv^. Inasmuch, however, as we 
 are under obligation to act ir iiils, as in all other matters^ 
 li'om pure motives, and for ri^M ends, the mere absence oi^' 
 Bueh a motive, the desire and ju^'-s^nt ot 'J'^nowledge in ai^^' 
 other manner, and from other nc? u'^^/*' *■ V<\'*o.'^'^' ^^ '^- 
 worthy. 
 
190 DESIRES ARISIlsTG FROM 
 
 § III. — Desire of Power. 
 
 A. native Principle, — The desire of power must be re* 
 garded as an original princi^Dle of our nature. Like the 
 desire of happiness, and of knowledge, it is both early in itp» 
 development, and powerful in its influence over the mind. It 
 is also universally manifest. 
 
 In what Manner awakened, — Of the idea of power or 
 cause, and of the manner in which the mind comes, in the 
 first instance, to form that idea, I have already spoken, un- 
 der the head of origirtal conception. We see changes taking 
 place in the external world. We observe these changes 
 immediately and invariably preceded by certain antecedents. 
 The idea of cause is thus suggested to the mind, and cause 
 implies power of one thing over another to produce given 
 efiects. We find, also, our own volitions attended with cor- 
 responding efiects upon objects external, and thus learn, still 
 further, that we ourselves possess power over other objects. 
 The idea thus awakened in the mind, there springs up, also, 
 in connection with the idea, an activity of the sensibilities. 
 The power which we find ourselves to have over objects 
 about us affords us pleasure; what we enjoy we love, and 
 what we love we desire ; and so there is awakened in the 
 mind a strong and growing desire for the possession of 
 power. 
 
 Pleasure of exerting Power, — The pleasure which we 
 derive from producing, in any instance, a manifest effect, 
 and from the consciousness that we have in ourselves the 
 power to produce like effects whenever we will, is one of 
 the highest sources of enjoyment of which nature has made 
 us capable. It is, to a great extent, the spring and secret 
 of the constant activity of which the world is full. It shows 
 itself in the sports of childhood, and in the graver pursuits 
 of maturer years. The infant, when it finds that it can move 
 and control its own little limbs, the boy learning the art of 
 guch athletic sports as he perceives his fellows practisCj the 
 
THE CONSTITUTION OF THE MIND. 491 
 
 man when he finds that he can control the action of his fel 
 !ow-man, and bend the will of others to his own, are. each, 
 and jDcrhaps equally, delighted at the acquisition of this new 
 power ; and the pleasure is generally in proportion to the 
 novelty of the acquisition, and the apparent greatness of the 
 effect produced. 
 
 Strength and Influence of this Principle, — The love of 
 power is one of the strongest of the ruling principles of the 
 human mind. It has its seat in the deepest foundations of 
 our nature. I can do something ; I can do what others do 
 I can do more than they; such is the natural order and 
 progression of our endeavors, and such also the measure and 
 increase of our delight. What, but the love of power, leads 
 to those competitions of strength with strength, which mark 
 the athletic games and contests of all nations, civilized and 
 savage ? What, but the love of power, impels the hunter over 
 the pathless mountains, and deserts, in quest of those savage 
 denizens and lords of nature, whose strength is so far su- 
 perior to his own ? What, but the love of power, leads the 
 warrior forth, at the head of conquering armies, to devastate 
 and subdue new realms ? 
 
 Seen also in other Pursuits, — And in the peaceful pursuits 
 of life, how largely does the same impulse mingle with the 
 other, and perhaps more apparent, motives of human action ? 
 The man of science, as he watches the nightly courses of the 
 stars, or resolves the stubborn compounds of nature into 
 their simple and subtle elements, as he discovers new laws, 
 and unlocks the secrets that have long baffled human in- 
 quiry, derives no small part of his gratification from the con- 
 sciousness of that power which he thus exercises over the 
 realm of matter subjected to his will. And when, in like 
 manner, the orator, on whose words depend the fives of 
 men, and the fate of nations, stands forth to accuse or defend, 
 to arouse the slumbering passions, and inflame the patriotism, 
 the courage, the resentment of his audience, or to soothe 
 their anger, alLay their prejudice, awaken theii' pity or their 
 
*92 DESIRES ARISING FROM 
 
 fears, how does the consciousness of his power ovei the 
 swaying, agitated multitude before him, mingle wit.-jt the 
 emotions that swell his bosom, and augment the fierce de- 
 light of victory? 
 
 Auxiliary to desire of Knowledge, — The desii^e of power 
 s accessory to, and in some cases, perhaps, the foundation of 
 certain other principles of action. It is especially auxiliary 
 to the desire of knowledge, inasmuch as every new acquisi 
 tion of truth is an accession of power to the mind, and is, 
 therefore, on that account, as well as for its own sake, de- 
 sirable. As a general thing, the more we know, the more 
 and the better we can do. Every mental acquisition becomes, 
 in some sense, an instrument to aid us in further and larger 
 acquisitions. We are enabled to call to our aid the very 
 forces and elements of nature which our discoveries have, in 
 a manner, subjected to our sway, and to conform our own 
 conduct to those established laws which science reveals. 
 The mind is thus stimulated, in all its investigations, and toil- 
 some search for truth, by the assurance that every increase 
 of knowledge is, in some sense, an increase, also, of power. 
 Hence the aphorism so current, and generally attributed to 
 Bacon, which affirms that knowledge is power. 
 
 Auxiliary also to love of Liberty, — The love of liberty^ 
 according to some writers, proceeds also, in part, at least, 
 from the desire of power, the desire of being able to do 
 whatever we like. Whatever deprives us of liberty trenches 
 upon our power. In like manner, writers upon morals have 
 noticed the fact that the pleasure of virtue is in a measure 
 due to the same source. When evil habits predominate 
 and acquire the mastery, we lose the power of self-control, 
 the mind is subjected to the baser passions, and this loss of 
 power is attended with tne painful consciousness of degra 
 dation. On the other hand, to the mind that is bent on 
 maintaining its integrity, though it be by stern and deter- 
 mmed conflict with the evil influences that surround it, and 
 lt» o^Yix natural propensities to a course of sinful indulgence. 
 
THE CONSTITUTION OF THE MIND. 493 
 
 every fresTi struggle with those adverse influences becomes 
 a pledge of final success, and the hour of victory, when it 
 conies at last, as come it will, is an hour of triumph and of 
 
 joy. 
 
 § IV. — Certain Modifications op the Desire of Power ; - A.S, the 
 Desire of Superiority, and of Possession. 
 
 General Statement, — There are certain desires to which 
 the human mind is subject, and which seem to have a foun 
 dation in nature, which, though frequently regarded as dis 
 tinct principles of action, are more properly, perhaps, to be 
 viewed as but modifications of the principle last considered. 
 I refer to the desire of superiority^ and the desire of posses- 
 sion / or, as they are more succinctly termed, ambition and 
 avarice. 
 
 T7ie Desire to excels universal, — The desire to excel is al- 
 most universal among men. It shows itself in every condi- 
 tion of society, and under all varieties of character and pur- 
 suit. It animates the sports of childhood, and gives a zest 
 to the sober duties and realities of life. It penetrates the 
 camp, the court, the halls of legislation, and of justice ; it 
 enters alike into the peaceful riA^alries of the school, the col 
 lege, the learned professions, and into those more fearful 
 contests for superiority which engage nations in hostile en- 
 counter on the field of strife and carnage. What have we, 
 under all these manifestations, but the desire of superiority, 
 and what is that but the desire of power in one of its most 
 common forms ? 
 
 ITot pecidiar to Man, — This is a principle not peculiai 
 to human nature, but common to man with the brute. The 
 lower animals have also their rivalries, their jealousies, their 
 contests for superiority in swiftness, and in strength, and he 
 fs the acknowledged leader who proves himself superior in 
 these respects to his fellows. 
 
 Not the same with Envy. — The desire to excel, or the 
 jrinciple of emulation, is not to be confounded with envy 
 
494. DESIRES ARISING FRoM 
 
 with which it is too frequently, but not necessarily, asso 
 ciated. Envy is pained at the success of a rival ; a just and 
 honorable emulation, without seeking to detract from the 
 well-merited honors of another, strives only to equal and 
 surpass them. This distinction is an important one, and has 
 been very clearly pointed out by Mr, Stewart^ and also by 
 Sp, Butler^ and, still earlier, by Aristotle, " Emulation,'' 
 says Butler, " is merely the desire of superiority over others, 
 with whom we compare ourselves. To desire the attain- 
 ment of this superiority by the particular means of othere 
 being brought down below our own level, is the distinct no 
 tion of envy." To the same effect, Aristotle, as^ quoted by 
 Stewart : " Emulation is a good thing, and belongs to good 
 men ; envy is bad, and belongs to bad men. What a man 
 is emulous of he strives to attain, that he may really possess 
 the desired object ; the envious are satisfied if nobody 
 has it." 
 
 Not malevolent of Necessity, — Dr. Reid has classed 
 emulation with the malevolent affections, as involving a 
 sentiment of ill-will toward the rival ; but, as Mr. Stewart 
 very justly remarks, this sentiment is not a necessary con- 
 comitant of the desire of superiority, though often found in 
 connection with it-; nor ought emulation to be classed with 
 the affections, but with the desires, for it is the desire which 
 is the active principle, and the affection is only a concomit- 
 ant circumstance. 
 
 View niaintai7ied hy Mr. JJpham, — Mr. Upham denies 
 emulation a place among the original and implanted prin- 
 ciples of our nature, on this ground. All our active princi 
 pies, he maintains, from mstinct upward, are subordinate to 
 the authority and decisions of conscience, as a faculty para- 
 mount to every other. But the desire of superiority he 
 supposes to be utterly inconsistent with the law of subordi- 
 nation. Whenever man perceives a superior, he perceives 
 one with whom, by this law of his nature, if such it be, he 
 is brought into direct conflic^ and collision, and as he is sui- 
 
THE CONSTITUTION OF THE MIND. 495 
 
 rounded by those who, in some respect, are his superiors, he 
 is really placed in a state of perpetual warfare and misery ; 
 nor can he regard even the Supreme Being with other feel- 
 ings than those of unhallowed rivalry. A principle that 
 would lead to such results, he concludes, cannot be founded 
 oi the constitution of our nature. He accordingly resolves 
 the desire of superiority into the principle of imitativeness. 
 
 The Correctness of this View called in Question, — It is 
 difficult to perceive the force of this reasoning. The desire 
 of superiority, it is sufficient to say, whatever be its origin, 
 leads to no such results. As actually manifest in human 
 character and conduct, it does not show itself to be incon- 
 sistent with due subordination to authority, nor does it in- 
 volve man in necessary and perpetual conflict with his fel- 
 lows, nor does it ]3resent the Supreme Being as an object of 
 unhallowed rivalry. We have only to do with facts, with 
 the phenomena actually presented by human nature ; and 
 we do not find the facts to correspond with the view now 
 given. Nor can we perceive any reason, in the nature of the 
 case, why the desire in question should lead, or be supposed 
 to lead, to such results. The desire of superiority does not 
 necessarily imply the desire to be superior to every body, 
 and every thing, in the universe. It may have its natural 
 and proper lioiits ; and such we find to be the fact. 
 
 Actual Limitations of this Principle, — We desire to 
 excel not, usually, those who are far above us in rank and 
 fortune, but our fellows and companions; our rivals aae 
 mostly those who move in the same sphere with ourselves. 
 The artist vies with his brother artist, the student with his 
 fellow student, and even where envy and ill-will mingle, as 
 they too often do, with the desire, still, the object of that 
 envy is not every one, indiscriminately, who may happen to 
 be superior to ourselves, but only our particular rival in the 
 '"ace before us. The child at school does not envy Sir Isaac 
 Newton, or the illustrious Humboldt, but the urchin that is 
 next above himself in the class. The desire of superiority, like 
 
496 DESIRES ARISING FROM 
 
 every other desire of the human mind, looks only At what h 
 possible to be accomplished, at what is probable, even ; it 
 aims not at the clouds, but at things within our leach, things 
 to be had for the asking and the striving. Bat whatever 
 view we take of the matter, the desire of superiority cer- 
 tainly exists as an active principle in the human mind ; nor 
 do we see any reason why it should not be admitted as au 
 original principle founded in the constitution of our nature, 
 or, at least, as one of the forms and modifications of such a 
 principle, viz., the love of power. • 
 
 This JPmiciple 7^equires Hestraint, — I would by no means 
 deny, however, that the desire now under consideration is 
 one which is liable to abuse, and which requires the careful 
 and constant restraints of reason and of religious principle. 
 The danger is, that envy and ill-will, toward those whom we 
 regard as rivals and competitors with us, for those honors 
 and rewards which lie in our path, shall be permitted to 
 mingle with the desire to excel. Indeed, so frequently are 
 the two conjoined, that to the reflecting and sensitive mind, 
 superiority itself almost ceases to be desirable, since it is but 
 too likely to be purchased at the price of the good- will, and 
 kind feeling, of those less fortunate, or less gifted, than our- 
 selves. 
 
 Another Form of the same Desire, — The desire of pos- 
 session may be regarded, also, as a modification of the desire 
 of powder. That influence over others w^hich power implies, 
 and which is, to some extent, commanded by superiority of 
 personal strength or prowess, by genius, by skill, by the 
 various arts and address of life, or by the accident of birth 
 and hereditary station, is still more directly and generally 
 attainable, by another, and perhaps a shorter route — the 
 possession of wealth. This, as the world goes, is the key 
 that unlocks, the sceptre that controls, all things. Personal 
 prowess, genius, address, station, the throne itself, are, in no 
 inconsiderable degree, dependent upon its strength, and at 
 Its command. He who has this can wel! afford to dispense 
 
THE CONSTITUTION OF THE MIND. 49-^ 
 
 with most other goods and gifts of fortune ; so far, at least, 
 as concerns the possession of power. He may be neither 
 great, nor learned, nor of noble birth ; neither elegant in per- 
 son, nor accomplished in manners, distinguished neither for 
 science, nor virtue ; he may command no armies, he may sit 
 upon no throne ; yet with all his deficiencies, and even his 
 vices, if so he have wealth, he has power. Unnumbered 
 hands are ready to task their skill at his bidding, unnum- 
 bered arms, to move and toil and strive in his service, un- 
 numbered feet hasten to and fro upon his errands. He 
 commands the skill and labor of multitudes whom he has 
 never seen, and who know him not. In distant quarters of 
 the globe, the natives of other zones and climes hasten upon 
 his errands ; swift ships traverse the seas for him ; the furs 
 of the extreme North, the rich woods and spices of the tropics, 
 the silks of India, the pearls and gems of the East — whatever 
 IS costly, and curious, and rare, whatever can contribute to 
 che luxury and the pride of man — these are his, and for him. 
 No wonder that he who desires power, should desire that 
 which is one of the chief avenues and means to the attain^ 
 ment of power, and that what is valued, at first, rather as an 
 mstrument than as an end, should presently come to be re- 
 garded and valued for its own sake. 
 
 A twofold Aspect — Covetousness^ Avarice, — There are, 
 rf I mistake not, two forms which the desire of possession 
 assumes. The one is the simple desire of acquiring, that 
 there maybe the more to spend ; the other of accumulating, 
 adding to the heaps already obtained — which may be donu 
 5y keeping fast what is already gotten, as well as by getting 
 more. The one is the desire of getting, which is not incon- 
 sistent with the desire of spending, but, in fact, grows out 
 of that in the first instance ; the other is the desire of in 
 creasing, and the corresponding dread of diminishing, what 
 IS gotten^, which, when it prevails to any considerable de- 
 gree, effectually prevents all enjoyment of the accumulated 
 treasure^ and becomes one of the most remarkable and most 
 
498 DESIRES ARISING FROM 
 
 odious passions of our perverted nature. The term covetr 
 ousness answers somewhat nearly to the one, avarice to the 
 other, of these forms of desire. It must be added, also, thai 
 it seems to be the natural tendency of the primitive and 
 milder form of this principle, to pass into the other and more 
 repulsive manifestation. He who begins with desiring 
 wealth as a means of gratifying his various wants, too fre- 
 quently ends with desiring it for its own sake, and becomes 
 that poorest and most miserable of all men, the miser. 
 
 T7ie inordinate love of Money not owing wholly to Asso- 
 ciation, — Whence arises that inordinate value which the 
 miser attaches to money, which, in reality, is but the mere 
 representative of enjoyment, the mere means to an end? 
 Why is he so loth to part with the smallest portion of the 
 representative medium, in order to secure the reality, the 
 end for which alone the means is valuable ? Is it that, by 
 the laws of association, the varied enjoyments which gold 
 has so often procured, and which have a fixed value in our 
 minds, are transferred with all their value to the gold which 
 procured them ? Doubtless this is, in some measure, the 
 case, and it may, therefore, in part, account for the phe- 
 nomenon in question. The gold piece which I take from my 
 drawer for the purchase of some needful commodity, has, it 
 may be, an increased value in my estimation, from the recol- 
 lection of the advantages previously derived from the pos- 
 session of just such a sum. But why should such associations 
 operate more powerfully upon the miser, than upon any other 
 person ? Why are we not all misers, if such associations are 
 the true cause and explanation of avarice? Nay, why is not 
 the spendthrift the most avaricious of all men, since he hag 
 more* frequently exchanged the representative medium for 
 the enjoyment which it would procure, and has, therefore, 
 greater store of such associations connected with his gold ? 
 
 The true lL'xplanaPw?i. — Dr. Brown, who has ad mix ably 
 treated this part of our mental constitution, has suggested, 
 I think, the true explanation of this phenomenon. 
 
THE CON'STITUTIO]^ OF THE MIND 499 
 
 So long as the gold itself is in the miser's grasp, it is, and 
 ifi felt to be, a permanent possession; when it is expended, 
 it is usually for something of a transient nature, which per- 
 ishes with the using. It seems to him afterward as sc much 
 utter loss, and is regretted as such. Every such regretted 
 expenditure increases the reluctance to part with another 
 portion of the treasure. There is, moreover, another cir- 
 cumstance which heightens this feeling of reluctance. Tho 
 enjoyment purchased is" one and simple. The gold with 
 which it was purchased is the representative, not of that 
 particular form of enjoyment alone, but of a thousand others 
 as well, any one of which might have been procured with the 
 same money. All these possible advantages are now no 
 longer possible. Very great seems the loss. Add to this the 
 ^circumstance that the miser, in most cases, probably, has 
 accumulated, or set his heart upon accumulating, a certain 
 round sum, say so many thousands or hundreds of thousands. 
 The spending a single dollar breaks that sum, and, there- 
 with, the charm is broken, and he who was a millionaire 
 before that unlucky expenditure, is a millionaire no longer. 
 It is mainly in these feelings of regret, which attend the 
 necessary expenses of the man who has once learned to set 
 a high value upon wealth, that avarice finds, if not its source, 
 at least its chief strength and aliment. 
 
 Odiousness of this Vice. — There is, perhaps, no passion 
 or vice to which poor human nature is subject, that is, in 
 some respects, more odious and repulsive than this. There 
 is about it no redeeming feature. It is pure and unmingled 
 selfishness, without even the poor apology that most othei 
 vices can offer, of contributing to the present enjoyment 
 and sensual gratification of the criminal. The miser is de- 
 nied even this. He covets, not that he may enjoy, Imt thai 
 be may refrain from enjoying. 
 
 Strongest in old Age, — ''In the contemplation of many 
 of the passions that rage in the heart with greatest fierce^ 
 ness," says Dr. Brown, "• there is some comfort in the 
 
500 DESIRES ARISING FROM 
 
 thought tliat, violent as they may be for a time, they are 
 not to rage through the whole course of life, at least if life 
 be prolonged to old age ; that the agitation which at every 
 period will have some intermissions, will grow gradually less 
 as the body grows more weak, and that the mind will at 
 last derive from this very feebleness a repose which it could 
 not enjoy when the vigor of the bodily frame seemed to 
 give to the passion a corresponding vigor. It is not in 
 avarice, however, that this soothing influence of age is to be 
 found. It grows with our growth and with our strength 
 but it strengthens also with our very weakness. There are 
 no intermissions in the anxieties which it keeps awake ; and 
 every year, instead of lessening its hold, seems to fix it more 
 deeply within the soul itself, as the bodily covering around 
 it slowly moulders away. * * * fpj^e heart which is 
 weary of every thing else is not weary of coveting more 
 gold ; the memory which has forgotten every thing else, 
 continues still, as Cato says in Cicero's dialogue, to remem- 
 ber where its gold is stored ; the eye is not dim to gold 
 that is dim to every thing beside ; the hand which it seems 
 an efibrt to stretch out and fix upon any thing, appears to 
 gather new strength from the very touch of the gold which 
 it grasps, and has still vigor enough to lift once more, and 
 count once more, though a little more slowly, what it has 
 DC en its chief and happiest occupation thus to lift and count 
 for a period of years far longer than the ordinary life of 
 man. When the relations or other expectant heirs gathei 
 around his couch, not to comfort, nor even to seem to com- 
 fort, but to await, in decent mimicry of solemn attendance 
 that moment which they rejoice to view approaching ; the 
 dying eye can still send a jealous glance to the cofier near 
 which it trembles to see, though it scarcely sees, so many 
 human forms assembled ; and that feeling of jealous agony, 
 which follows and outlasts the obscure vision of floating 
 forms that are scarcely remembered, is at once the last xms^- 
 cry and the last consciousness of fife." 
 
THE CONSTITUTION OF THE MIND, 501 
 
 § Y. — Desire of Society. 
 
 A natural Principle, — There can be little doubt that 
 tie desh'e of society is one of the original principles of our 
 nature. It shows itself at a very early period of life, and 
 under all the diverse conditions of existence. Its universal 
 manifestation, and that under circumstances which preclude 
 the idea of education or imitation in .the matter, proves it 
 an implanted principle, having its seat in the constitution of 
 the mind. 
 
 Manifested hy Anhnals of every Species, — The child re- 
 joices in the company of its fellows. The lower animals 
 manifest the same regard for each other's society, and are 
 unhappy when separated from their kind. Much of the at- 
 tachment of the dog to his master may, not improbably, be 
 owing to the same source. The beast of labor is cheered 
 and animated by his master's presence, and the patient ox 
 as he toils along the furrow, or the highway, moves more will- 
 ingly when he hears the well-known step and voice of his 
 i)wner trudging by his side. Every one knows how much 
 the horse is inspirited by the chance companionship, upon 
 the way, of a fellow-laborer of his own species. Horses that 
 have been accustomed to each other's society on the road, or 
 in the stall, frequently manifest the greatest uneasiness and 
 dejection when separated ; and it has been observed by 
 those acquainted with the habits of animals, that cattle do 
 not thrive as well, even in good pasture, when solitary, a^ 
 when feeding in herds. 
 
 Social Organizations of Animals, — Accordingly ws 
 find most animals, w^hen left to the instinct of nature, asso- 
 ciating in herds, and tribes, larger or smaller, according to 
 the habits of the animal. They form their little communi- 
 ties, have their leaders, and, to some extent, their laws, ac>- 
 knowledged and obeyed by all, their established customa 
 and modes of procedure — in which associations, thus regu- 
 Latedj it is impossible not to recognize the es^eitial featui^ 
 
502 DESIRES ARISING FROM 
 
 and principle of what man, in his pohlJcal associations of the 
 same nature, calls the state. What else are the little com- 
 munities of the bee, and the ant, and the beaver, but so 
 many busy cities, and states, of the insect and animal tribes ? 
 
 The social State not adopted because of its Advantages 
 merely, — It may be said that man derives advantages from 
 the social state, and adopts it for that reason. Unquestion- 
 ably he does derive immense advantages from it ; but is that 
 the reason he desires it ? Is the desire of society consequent 
 upon the advantages', experienced or foreseen, which accrue 
 from it, or are the advantages consequent upon the desire 
 and the adoption of the state in question ? Is it matter of 
 expediency and calculation, of policy and necessity, or of 
 aative instinct and implanted constitutional desire ? What 
 IS it with the lower animals ? Has not nature provided in 
 their very constitution for their prospective wants, and, by 
 implanting in them the desire for each other's society, laid 
 the foundation for their congregating in tribes and commu- 
 nities ? Is it not reasonable to suppose that the same may 
 be true of man ? The analogy of nature, the early mani- 
 festation of the principle prior to education and experience, 
 the universality and uniformity of its operation, and the fact 
 that it shows itself often in all its strength under circum- 
 stances in which very little benefit would seem to result 
 from the social condition, as with the savage races of the 
 extreme North, and with many rude and uncultivated tribes 
 of the forest and the desert — all these circumstances go to 
 show that the desire of society is founded in the nature of 
 man, and is not a mere matter of calculation and policy. 
 
 Mail's Nature deficient without this Principle, — And 
 this is a sufficient answer to the theory of those who, with 
 Hobbes, regard the social condition of man as the result of 
 his perception of what is for his own interest, the dictate of 
 Drudence and necessity. The very fact that it is for his in- 
 terest would lead us to expect that some provision should 
 be made for it in his nature • a.nd this is precisely what wo 
 
THE CONSTITUTION OF THE MIND. 603 
 
 find to be the case. Were it otherwise, we should feel tliat, 
 in one important respect, the nature of man was deficieut, 
 inferior even to that of the brute. But the truth is, the 
 whole history of the race is one comjDlete and compact con 
 tradiction of the theory of Hobbes, and shows, with the 
 clearness of demonstration, that the natural condition of 
 man is not that of seclusion, and isolation from his fellows, 
 but of society and companionship. 
 
 Strength of this Principle. — So strongly is this principle 
 rooted in the very depths of our nature, that when man ia 
 for a length of time shut out from the society of his fellow 
 men, he seeks the acquaintance and companionship of 
 brutes, and even of msects, and those animals for whom, m 
 his usual condition, he has a marked repugnance, as a relief 
 from utter loneliness and absolute solitude. Mr. Stewart 
 i elates the instance of a French nobleman, shut up for sev^ 
 eral years a close prisoner in the Castle of Pignerol, during 
 the reign of Louis XIV., who amused himself, in his solitude, 
 by watching the movements of a spider, to which he ai 
 length became so much attached, that when the jailor, dis- 
 covering his amusement, killed the spider, he was afflicted 
 with the deepest grief. Silvio Pellico, in his imprisonment, 
 amused himself in like manner. Baron Trench sought to 
 alleviate the wretchedness of his long imprisonment, by cul- 
 tivating the acquaintance or friendship of a mouse, which 
 in turn manifested a strong attachment to him, played about 
 his person, and took its food from his hand. The fact hav- 
 ing been discovered by the officers, the mouse was removed 
 to the guard-room, but managed to find its way back to the 
 prison door, and, at the hour of visitation, when the door 
 was opened, ran into the dungeon, and manifested the 
 greatest delight at finding its master. ' Being subsequently 
 removed and placed in a cage, it pined, refused all susten- 
 ance, and in a few days died. " The loss of this httle com- 
 panion m^ido me for some time quite melancholy," adds the 
 uarrator. 
 
504 DESIRES ARISING FROM 
 
 Case df Silvio Pellico, — How strongly is the desire foi 
 society manifested in these words of Silvio Pellico, when 
 forbidden to converse with his fellow-prisoner. ''I shall 
 do no such thing. I shall speak as long as I have breath, 
 and invite my neighbor to talk to me. If he refuse, I 
 will talk to my window-bars. I will talk to the hills be- 
 fore me. I will talk to the birds as they fly about. I will 
 talk." 
 
 Facts of this nature clearly indicate that the love of so- 
 ciety is originally implanted in the human mind. 
 
 Illustrated frotn the History of Prison Discipline. — 
 The same thing is further evident from the effects of entir(3 
 seclusion from all society, as shown in the history of prison 
 discipline, lor the facts which follow, as well as for som(3 
 of the preceding, I am indebted to Mr. UjAam. 
 
 The legislature of New York some years since, by way ol 
 experiment, directea a number of the most hardened crim- 
 mals in the State prison at Auburn, to be confined in solitary 
 cells, without labor, and without intermission of their soli- 
 tude. The result is tnus stated by Messrs. Beaumont and 
 Tocqueville, who were subsequently appointed commissioners 
 by the French government to exarnine and report on the 
 American system ot prison discipline. " This, trial from 
 which so happy a result had been anticipated, was fatal to 
 the greater part ot tne convicts ; in order to reform them, 
 they had been subjectea to complete isolation ; but this ab- 
 solute solitude, if nothmg interrupts it, is beyond the strength 
 of man ; it destroys tne criminal, without intermission, and 
 without pity ; it does not reform, it kills. The unfortunates 
 vn whom this experiment was made, fell into a state of de- 
 jjression so manitest tnat their keepers were struck with it ; 
 their livtsS seemed in aanger if they remained longer in this 
 situation ; iive of tnem nad already succumbed during a 
 single year ; .their moral fcrtate was no less alarming ; one of 
 them had become insane , another, in a fit of despair, had 
 embraced the opportuna /^, when the keeper brought him 
 
THE CONSTITUTION OF THE MIND 505 
 
 something, to precipitate himself from his cell, running the 
 almost certain chance of a mortal fail. Upon those, and 
 similar effects, the system was finally judged." The same 
 results substantially have followed similar experiments in 
 other prisons. It is stated by Lieber, that in the peniten- 
 tiary of New Jersey, ten persons are mentioned as having 
 been killed by solitary confinement. Facts like these show 
 how deeply-rooted in our nature is the desire of society, and 
 how essential to our happiness is the companionship of our 
 fellow-beings. 
 
 § YI. — Desire op Esteem. 
 
 A71 important and original Principle, — Of the active 
 principles of our nature, few exert a more important influ- 
 ence over human co^iduct, few certainly deserve a more 
 careful consideration, than the regard which we feel for the 
 approbation of others^ The early period at which this man- 
 ifests itself, as well as the strength which it displays, indicate, 
 with suflicient clearness, that it is an original principle, 
 founded in the constitution of the mind. 
 
 Cannot be regarded as an acquired Habit. — When we 
 see children of tender age manifesting a sensitive regard for 
 the good opinion of their associates, shrinking with evident 
 pain from the censure of those around them, and delighted 
 with the approbation which they may receive ; w^hen, in ma- 
 turer years, we find them — children no longer — ready to 
 sacrifice pleasure and advantage in every form, and to almost 
 any amount, and even to lay down life itself to maintain an 
 honorable place in the esteem of men, and to preseive a 
 name and reputation unsulhed — and these thmgs we du see 
 continually — we cannot believe that what shows itself so 
 early, and so uniformly, and operates with such strength, is 
 only some acquired principle, the result of association, or 
 the mere calculation of advantage, and a prudential regard 
 to self-interest. In many cases wa know it cannot be so. 
 
 22 
 
606 DESIRES ARISING FROM 
 
 It is not the dictate of prudence, or the calculation of ad 
 vantage, that influences the little child ; nor is it the force 
 of such considerations that induces the man of mature yeara 
 to give up ease, fortune, and life itself, for the sake of honor 
 and a name. Even where the approbation or censure of those 
 who may pass an opinion, favorable, or unfavorable, upon 
 our conduct, can be of no benefit or injury to us, that appro- 
 bation is still desired, that censure is still feared. We 
 prefer the good opinion of even a weak man, or a bad man, 
 to his disesteem ; and even if the odium which, in that case, 
 we may chance to incur in the discharge of duty, is felt to 
 be unjust and undeserved, and our consciousness of right 
 mtention and right endeavor sustains us under all the pres- 
 sure of opinion from without, it is impossible, nevertheless, 
 not to be pained with even that unjust and undeserved re- 
 proach. We feel that, in losing the confidence and esteem 
 of others, we incur a heavy loss. 
 
 Want and wretchedness may drive a man to desperate 
 and reckless courses ; yet few, probably, can be found, so 
 wretched and desperate, who, in all their misery, would not 
 prefer the good opinion and the good offices of their fellow- 
 man. 
 
 Accounted for neither hy the selfish nor the associativt 
 Principle. — It can hardly be, then, a selfish and prudential 
 principle — this strong desire of esteem ; nor yet can it be the 
 result of association, as some have inferred ; since it shows 
 itself under circumstances where a selfish regard for one's 
 own interests could not be sujDposed to operate, and with a 
 power which no laws of association can explain. 
 
 Ilunie^s Theory, — Hardly better is it accounted for on 
 the principle which Hume suggests, that the good opinion 
 of others confirms our good opinion of ourselves, and hence 
 is felt to be desirable. Doubtless there is need enough, in 
 many cases, perhaps in most, of some such c>^firmation. 
 Nor would I deny that this may be one element of the 
 f Measure which we derive from the esteem of others. Dr, 
 
THE CONSTITUTION OF THE MIND. 50"} 
 
 Brown, in his analysis of the principle under consideration, 
 irfias very justly included this among the components of the 
 pleasure thus derived. But it by no means accounts for the 
 origin, nor explains the nature, of this desire. It is rather 
 an incidental circumstance than the producing cause. 
 
 Tills Principle as it relates to the Future, — Perhaps in 
 no one of its aspects is the desire of esteem more remark 
 able, than when it relates to the future — the desire to leave 
 a good name behind us, when we are no longer concerned 
 with the affairs of time. It would seem as if the good or 
 ill opinion of men would be of no moment whatever to us, 
 when once we have taken our final departure from the stage 
 of life. We pass to a higher tribunal, and the verdict of 
 approving or reproving millions, the applause of nations, 
 the condemnation of a world in arms against us, will hardly 
 break the silence or disturb the deep repose of the tomb. 
 These approving and condemning voices will die away in 
 the distance, or be heard but as the faint echo of the wave 
 that lashes some far-off shore. 
 
 Yet, though the honors that may then await our names 
 will be of as little moment to us, personally, as the perish- 
 ing garlands that the hand of affection may place upon our 
 tombs, we still desire to leave a name unsullied at least, if 
 not distinguished, even as we desire to live in the memory 
 and affections of those who survive us. 
 
 How to be explained, — To what, then, can be owing this 
 desire of the good opinion and esteem of those who are to 
 come after us, and whose opinion, be it good or ill, can in 
 no way affect our happiness ? Philosophers have been sadly 
 at a loss to account for it, especially those who trace the de- 
 sire of esteem to a selfish origin. Some, with Wollaston 
 and Smith, have referred it to the illusions of the imagina- 
 tion, by which we seem, to ourselves, to be present, and to 
 witness the honors, and listen to the praises, which the future 
 ts to bestow. Such an illusion may possibly arise in some 
 Qour of reverie, some day-dream of the mind ; but it is im- 
 
508 DESIRES ARISING FROM 
 
 possible to suppose that any one of sound mind si ould ba 
 permanently influenced by such an illusion, or fail to per^- 
 ceive, when reason resumes her sway, that it is an illusion, 
 and that only. 
 
 Admits of Explanation in another Way, — If, however 
 we regard the desire of the good opinion of others as an 
 original principle of our nature, and not as springing from 
 selfish considerations, it is easy to see how the same princi- 
 ple may extend to the future. If, irrespective of personal 
 advantage, we desire the esteem of our fellow-men while 
 we live, so, also, without regard to such advantage, we may 
 desire their good opinion when we are no longer among 
 them. 
 
 True, it is only a name that is transmitted and honored, 
 as Wollaston says, and not the man himself. Se does not 
 live because his 7iame does, nor is he known because his 
 name is known. As in those lines of Cowley, quoted by 
 Stewart : 
 
 " 'Tis true the two immortal syllables remain ; 
 But, 1 ye learned men, explain 
 What essence, substance, what hypostasis 
 In five poor letters is ? 
 In these alone does the great Caesar live — 
 'Tis all the conquered world could give." 
 
 Yet reason as we may, it is no trait of a noble and mgen- 
 
 uous mind to be regardless of the opinions of the future. 
 
 The common sentiment of men, even the wisest and the 
 
 best, finds itself, after all, much more influenced by such con- 
 
 iderations than by any reasoning to the contrary. 
 
 N'ot unworthy of a noble Mind, — Nor is it altogether 
 unworthy of the ambition of a noble and generous mind to 
 leave a good name as a legacy to the future ; in the Ian 
 guage of Mr. Stewart, " to be able to entail on the casual 
 combination of letters which compose our name, the respect 
 of distant ages, and the blessings of genera ^^ions yet unborn. 
 Nor is it au im worthy object of the mos^ rational benevo- 
 
THii: CONSTITUTION OF THE MIND. 509 
 
 leiice to render these letters a sort of magical spell for kind- 
 ling the emulation of the wise and good whenever they 
 shall reach the human ear." 
 
 Desire of Esteer^i not a safe JRide of Conduct, — I would 
 by no means be understood, however, to present the desire 
 of esteem as, on the whole, a safe and suitable rule of con- 
 duct, or to justify that inordinate ambition which too fre- 
 quently seeks distinction regardless of the means by which 
 it is acquired, or of any useful end to be accomplished. The 
 mere love of fame is by no means the highest principle 
 of action by which man is guided — by no means the no- 
 blest or the safest. It is ever liable to abuse. Its tenden- 
 cies are questionable. The man who has no higher principle 
 than a regard to the opinions of others is not Ukely to ac- 
 complish any thing great or noble. He will lack that prime 
 element of greatness, consistency of character and purpose. 
 His conduct and his principles will vary to suit the changing 
 aspect of the times. He will, almost of necessity, also lack 
 firmness and strength of character. It is necessary, some- 
 times, for the wise and good man to resist the force and 
 pressure of public opinion. He must do that, or abandon 
 his principles, and prove false at once to duty, and to him- 
 self. To do this costs much. It requires, and, at the same 
 time, imparts, true strength. Such strength comes in no 
 other way. That mind is essentially weak that depends for its 
 point of support on the applause of man. In the noble lan-^ 
 guage of Cicero, " To me, indeed, those actions seem all the 
 more praiseworthy which we perform without regard to 
 public favor, and without observation of man. The true 
 theatre for virtue is conscience ; there is none greater.'^ 
 The praise of man confers no solid hapj^iness, unless it is felt 
 to be deserved ; and if it he so, that very consciousness is 
 sufficient. 
 
 Disregard of public Opinion equally unsafe. — It must 
 be confessed, however, that if a regard to the opinions of 
 otkers is not to be adopted as a wise and safe rule of cou' 
 
510 HOPE a:n d fear 
 
 duct, an entire disregard of public opinion is, on the othei 
 hand, a mark neither of a well ordered mind, nor of a virtu* 
 ous character. " Contempta fama," says Tacitus, " contem- 
 nantur virtutes." 
 
 Accordingly we find that those who, from any cause, hav^ 
 lost their character and standing in society, and forfeited 
 the good opinion of their fellow-men, are apt to become de^ 
 perate and reckless, and ready for any crime. 
 
 CHAPTER IV, 
 
 HOPE AjNiD fear. 
 
 Nature of these Emotions. — In the analysis of the sensibili- 
 ties, which was given in a preceding chapter, hope and fear 
 were classed as modifications of desire and aversion^ having 
 reference to the probability that the object which is desired or 
 feared may be realized. Desire always relates to something in 
 the future, and something that is agreeable, or viewed as such, 
 and also something possible, or that is so regarded. Add to 
 this future agreeable something the idea or element oi proh- 
 xibility^ let it be not only something possible to be attained, 
 but not unlikely to be, and what was before but mere desire, 
 more or less earnest, now becomes hope^ more or less definite 
 or strong, according as the object is more or less desirable, 
 and more or less likely to be realized. And the same is true 
 of fear; an emotion awakened in view of any object re 
 garded as disagreeable, in the future, and as more or less 
 likely to be met. 
 
 As desire and aversion do not necessarily relate to dif 
 ferent objects, but are simply counterparts of each other, the 
 desire of any good implying always an aversion to its loss, 
 80, also, hope and fear may both be awakened by the same 
 cbjectj according as the gaining or losing of the object be- 
 
HOPE AND FEAR. 511 
 
 comes the more probable. What we hope to gain we fear 
 to lose. What we fear to meet, we hope to escape. 
 
 Tkt Strength of the Feeling dependent^ in part^ on tht 
 Importance of the Object, — The degree of the emotion, how- 
 ever, in either case, the readiness with which it is awakened, 
 and the force and liveliness with which it affects the mind, 
 are not altogether in proportion to the probabihty merely 
 that the thing will, or will not, be as we hope or fear, but 
 Bomewhat in proportion, also, to the importance of the ob« 
 ject itself. That which is quite essential to our happiness is 
 more ardently desired, than what is of much less consequence, 
 though, perhaps, much more likely to be attained ; and be- 
 cause it is more important and desii'able, even a slight pros^ 
 pect of its attainment, or a slight reason to apprehend its 
 loss, more readily awakens our hopes, and our fears, and 
 more deeply impresses and agitates the mind, than even a 
 much stronger probability would do in cases of less import- 
 ance. What we very much desire, we are inclined to hope 
 for, what we are strongly averse to, we are readily disposed 
 to fear. Nothing is more desirable to the victim of disease 
 than recovery, and hence his hope and almost confident ex- 
 pectation that he shall recover, when, perhaps, to every eye 
 but his own, the case is hopeless. Nothing could be more 
 dreadful to the miser than the loss of his treasure, and noth- 
 ing, accordingly, does he so much fear. Poverty would be 
 to him the greatest of possible calamities, and of this, ac- 
 cordingly, he lives in constant apprehension. Yet nothing 
 is really more unlikely to occur. It is the tendency of the 
 mind, in such cases, to magnify both the danger of- the evilj 
 on the one hand, and the prospect of good on the other. 
 
 Illustration from the case of a Traveller, — " There can 
 be no question," says Dr. Brown, " that he who travels in 
 the same carriage, with the same external appearances of 
 every kind, by which a robber could be tempted or terrified, 
 will be in equal danger of attack, whether he carry with him 
 !ittle of which he can be plundered, or such a booty as 
 
512 HOPE AND FEAK. 
 
 would impoverish him if it were lost. But there can be no 
 question, also, that though the probabilities of danger be the 
 same, the fear of attack would, in these two cases, be very 
 different ; that, in the one case, he would laugh at the ridicu- 
 lous terror of any one who journeyed with him, and expressed 
 much alarm at the approach of evening ; — and that, in the 
 other case, his own eye would watch, suspiciously, every 
 Horseman who approached, and would feel a sort of relief 
 when he observed him pass carelessly and quietly along, at 
 a considerable distance behind." 
 
 Uneasiness attending the sudden Acquisition of Wealth, 
 
 — This tendency of the imagination to exaggerate the real, 
 and conjure up a thousand unreal dangers, when any thing 
 of peculiar value is in possession, which it is certainly possi- 
 ble, and it may be slightly probable, that we may lose, may, 
 perhaps, account for the uneasiness, amounting often to ex 
 treme anxiety, that frequently accompanies the sudden ac- 
 quisition of wealth. The poor cobbler, at his last, is a merry 
 man, whistling at his work, from morning till night. Be- 
 queath him a fortune, and he quits at once his last and his 
 music; he is no longer the light-hearted man that he was; 
 his step is cautious, his look anxious and suspicious ; he 
 grows care-worn and old. He that was never so happy in 
 his life as when a poor man, now dreads nothing so much as 
 poverty. While he was poor, there was nothing to fear, but 
 every thing to hope, from the future ; now that he is rich, 
 there is nothing further to hope, but much to fear, since if 
 the future brings any change in his condition, as it is not 
 unlikely to do, it will, in all probability, be a change, not 
 from wealth to still greater wealth, but from present afflu- 
 ence to his former penury. 
 
 The Pleasure of Hope surpasses the Pleasure of Reality. 
 
 — It will, doubtless, be found generally true, that the pleas* 
 ure of hope surpasses the pleasure derived from the realiza- 
 tion of the object wished and hoped for. The imagination 
 rnvests with ideal excellence the good that is still future, and 
 ^hen the hour of possession and enjovment comes, tha 
 
HOPE AND FEAR. 513 
 
 reality does not fully answer the expectatiou. Or, as m the 
 case, already supposed, of the acquisition of wealth, there 
 come along with the desired and expected treasure, a thou- 
 sand cares and anxieties that were not anticipated, and that 
 go far to diminish the enjoyment of the acquisition. From 
 these, and other causes, it happens, I believe, not unfre- 
 quently, that those enjoy the m.ost, who have really the 
 least, whether of wealth, or of any other good which the 
 mind naturally desires as a means of happmess ; nor can we 
 fail to see in this a beautiful provision of divine benevolence 
 for the happiness of the great human family. 
 
 Influence on the Mind, — The influence of hope, upon the 
 human mind, is universally felt, and recognized, as one of the 
 most powerful and permanent of those varied influences, and 
 laws of being, that make us what we are. It is limited to no 
 period of life, no clime and country, no age of the world, no 
 condition of society, or of individual fortune. It cheers us, 
 aUke, in the childhood of our being, in the maturity of our 
 riper years, and in the second childhood of advancing age. 
 There is no good which it cannot promise, no evil for which 
 it cannot suggest a remedy and a way of escape, no sorrow 
 which it cannot assuage. It is strength to the weary, cour- 
 age to the desponding, life to the dying, joy to the desolate. 
 It lingers with gentle step about the couch of the suffering, 
 when human skill can do no more ; and, upon the tombs of 
 those whose departure we mourn, it hangs the unfading gar 
 land of a blessed immortahty. 
 
 " Angel of life I thy glittering wings explore 
 Earth's loveliest bounds, and ocean's widest shore.* 
 
 The same poet who sang so well the pleasures of hope, 
 has depicted the influence of this emotion, on the mind which 
 some great calamity has bereft of reason. 
 
 " Hark, the wild maniac sings to chide the gale 
 That wafts so slow her lover's distant sail ; 
 
 4: :» -Ir 4i 4c # 
 
 22* 
 
514 HOPE AKD FEAR. 
 
 Otl when yon moon lias climbed the midnight skj 
 
 And the lone sea-bird wakes its wildest cry, 
 
 Piled on the steep, her blazing fagots burn 
 
 To hail the bark that never can return ; 
 
 And still she waits, but scarce forbears to weep, 
 
 That constant love can linger on the deep." 
 
 It is, indeed, a touching incident, illustrative not more of 
 fche strength of this principle of our nature, than of the 
 Denevolence which framed our mental and moral constitu- 
 tion, that when, under the heavy pressure of earthly ills, 
 reason deserts her empire, and leaves the throne of the hu- 
 man mind vacant, JSbpe still lingers to cheer even tho 
 poor maniac, and calmly takes her seat upon that vacant 
 throne, even as the radiant angels sat upon the stone by the 
 door of the em))ty sepulchre. 
 
MENTAL PHILOSOPHI. 
 
 DIVISION THlRr 
 
 THE WILL 
 
;; 
 
THE WILL 
 
 PRELIMINARY OBSERTATIONS. 
 
 heading Divisions. — In our analysis and distribution ol 
 the powers of the mind, they were divided into three gen 
 ciric classes, viz., Intellect, Sensibility, and Will. Of these, 
 the two former have been discussed in the preceding pages ; 
 it now remains to enter upon the examination of tlie third. 
 
 Importance and Difficulty of this Department, — This is, 
 m many respects, at once the most important and the most 
 difficult of the three. Its difficulty becomes apparent when 
 we consider what questions arise respecting this power of 
 the mind, and what diverse and conflicting views have been 
 entertained, not among philosophers only, but among all 
 classes of men, and in all ages of the world, concerning 
 these matters. Its importance is evident from the relation 
 which this faculty sustains to the other powers of the mind, 
 and from its direct and intimate connection with some of 
 the most practical and personal duties of hfe. Whatever 
 control we have over ourselves, whether as regards the 
 bodily or the mental powers, whatever use and disposition 
 it IS in our pov/er to make of the intellectual faculties with 
 which we are endowed, and of the sensibilities which accom- 
 pany or give rise to those intellectual activities, and of the 
 physical organization w4iich obeys the behests of the sover- 
 eign mind, whatever separates and distinguishes us from the 
 mere inanimate and mechanical forces of nature on the one 
 hand, or the blind impulses of irrational brute instinct on 
 the othei ; for all this, be it more or less, we are indebted 
 
518 PRELIMINARY OBSERVATIONS 
 
 to tliat faculty which we call the Will. And hence it hap 
 pens that in th^s, as in many other cases, the most abstract 
 questions Df philosophy become the most practical and im-. 
 portant questions of life. In every system of mental philos- 
 ophy the Will hold^ a cardinal place. The system can no 
 more be complete without it, than a steamship mthout the 
 engines that are to propel her. As is the view taken of the 
 Will, such is essentially the system. 
 
 Melation to Theology, — Nor is it to be overlooked that 
 the doctrine of the Will is a cardinal doctrine of theologj, 
 as well as of psychology. Inasmuch as it has a direct and 
 practical bearing upon the formation of character, and upon 
 the moral and religious duties of life, it comes properly 
 within the sphere of that science which treats of these 
 duties, and of man's relation to his Maker. Hence every 
 system of theology has to do with the Will ; and according 
 to the view taken of this faculty, such essentially is the sys- 
 tern. If in psychology, still more in theology, is this the 
 stand-point of the science. 
 
 N'ot^ therefore^ to he treated as a theological Doctrine, — 
 Not, however, on this account, is the matter to be treated 
 as theological and not strictly psychological. It is a matter 
 which pertains properly and purely to psychology. It is 
 for that science which treats of the laws and powers of the 
 human mind to unfold and explain the activity of this most 
 important of all the mental faculties. To this science the- 
 ology must come for her data, so far as she has occasion to 
 refer to the phenomena of the Will. The same may be said 
 
 f ethical, as well as of theological science. In so far as 
 they are concerned with the nioral powers, and with the 
 human will, they must both depend on psychology. With 
 
 n lier proper sphere they stand, not as teachers, but a^ 
 learners. 
 
 The more Care • requisite on this Account, — For this 
 reason all the more care is necessary, in the study and ex 
 planation of the present theme. An error in this part of 
 
PRELIMINARY OBSERVATIONS. 519 
 
 tlie investigation is likely, to extend beyond the bounds of 
 tlie science itself, into other and kindred sciences. The 
 most serious consequences may flow from it, in other and 
 wider fields of thought. 
 
 Sources of Information, — The sources of our information 
 are essentially the same in this as in the preceding divisions 
 of the science. They are tw^ofold ; the consciousness of 
 what passes in our own minds, and the observation of 
 others. Our single business is to ascertain facts, actua 
 phenomena ; not to inquire what might be, or what ought, 
 to be, according to preconceived notions and theories, but 
 what is. This is to be learned, not by reasoning and logical 
 argument, but by simple observation of phenomena. Hav- 
 ing once ascertained these, we may infer, and conclude, and 
 reason from them, as far as we please, and our conclusions 
 will be correct, provided the data are correct from which 
 we set forth, and provided we reason correctly from these 
 principles. 
 
 Method to be pursued. — In treating of this department 
 of mental activity, it will be our first business, then, to point 
 out the well established and evident facts pertaining to the 
 matter in hand, viewed simply as psychological phenomena, 
 as modes in which the human mind manifests itself in ac- 
 tion, according to the laws of its constitution. These being 
 ascertained, Vv^e shsiU be prepared to consider some of the 
 more difiicult and doubtful matters respecting the will, on 
 which the world has long been divided, and which can never 
 be intelligently discussed, much less settled, without a clear 
 understanding, in the first place, of the psychological facts in 
 the case, about which there need bcj and should be, no dis 
 puteo 
 
CHAPTER 1. 
 
 NATURE OF THE WILL. 
 
 What the Will is, — I understand, by the will, that powei 
 '^v^hich th3 mind has of determining or deciding what it v,il\ 
 do, and of putting forth volitions accordingly. The will ia 
 the power of doing this ; willing, is the exercise of the power ; 
 volition, is the deed, the thing done. The will is but an- 
 other name for the executive power of the mind. What- 
 ever we do intelligently and intentionally, whether it implies 
 an exercise of the intellect, or of the feelings, or of both, 
 that is an act of the will. All our voluntary, in distinction 
 from our involuntary movements of the body, and move- 
 ments of mind, are the immediate results of the activity of 
 the WiU. 
 
 Condition of a Seing destitute of Will. — We can, per- 
 haps, conceive of a being endowed with intellect and sen- 
 sibility, but without the faculty of will. Such a being, 
 however superior he might be to the brutes in point of intel- 
 ligence, would, so far as regards the capacities of action, be 
 even their inferior, since his actions must be, as theirs, the 
 result of mere sensational impulse, without even that unen- 
 ing instinct to guide him, which the brute possesses, and 
 which supplies the place of reason and intelligent will. To 
 this wretched condition man virtually approximates when, 
 by any means, the will becomes so far enfeebled, or brought 
 under the dominion of appetite and passion, as to lose the 
 actual control of the mental and physical powers. 
 
 Will not distinct from the Mind, — It must be borne in 
 mind, of course, as we proceed, that the Avill is nothing but 
 the mind itself willing, or having power to will, and not 
 something distinct from the mind, or even a part of tlio 
 
NATURE OF TilE WILL. . 52* 
 
 mind, as the handle and the blade are distinct pai'ts oi tha 
 knife. The power to think, the power to feel, the power to 
 will, are distinct powers, but the mind is one and indivisible, 
 exercising now one, now another, of these powers. 
 
 § ^. — Elements mYOLVED in an Act of "Will. 
 
 Proposed Analysis. — In order to the better understand- 
 ing of the nature of this faculty, let us first analyze its oper- 
 ationSj with a view to ascertain the several distinct stages or 
 elements of the mental process which takes place. We will 
 then take up these several elements, one by one, for special 
 investigation. 
 
 Observation of an Act of Will — What, then, are the 
 essential phenomena of an act of the will ? Let us arrest 
 ourselves in the process of putting forth an act of this kind, 
 and observe precisely what it is that we do, and what are 
 the essential data in the case. I am sitting at my table, I 
 reach forth my hand to take a book. Here is an act of my 
 will. My arm went not forth self-moved and spontaneously, 
 it was sent, was bidden to go ; the soul seated within, ani- 
 mating this physical organism, and making it subservient to 
 her will, moved that arm. Here, then, is clearly an act ol 
 will. Let us subject it to the test of observation. 
 
 The first Element, — First of all, then, there was evi- 
 dently, in this case, something to he do7ie — an end to be ac- 
 complished — a book to be reached. The action, both of 
 body and of mind, was directed to that end, and but for 
 that the volition would not have been put forth. 'It is to be 
 observed, moreover, that the end to be accomplished, in 
 this case, was 2^ possible one — -the book was, or was supposed 
 to be, within my reach. Otherwise I should not have at- 
 tempted to reach it. 
 
 A second Element. — I observe, furthermore, in the case 
 ander consideration, a motive, impelling or inducing to that 
 find ; a reason why T willed the act. It was curiosity, per- 
 
522 . NATURE OF THE WILL. 
 
 haps, to see what the book was, or it may have been so.ae 
 other principle cl my nature, which induced me to put forth 
 the volition. 
 
 A. further Step in the Process, — But the motive does 
 not, itself, produce the act. It is merely the reason why 1 
 produce it. It has to do not directly with the action, but 
 with me. Its immediate effect terminates on me, and it is 
 only indirectly th&,t it affects the final act. The next step in 
 the process, then, is to be sought, not in the final act, but in 
 my mind as influenced by- motive ; and that step is my 
 choice. Previous to my putting forth the volition to move 
 my arm, there was a choice or decision to do so. In view 
 of the end to be accomplished, and influenced by the mo- 
 tive, I made up my 7nind — to use a common but not inapt 
 expression — to perform the act. The question arose, for 
 the instant, Shall I do it ? The very occurrence of a thing 
 to be done, a possible thing, and of a motive for doing it, 
 raises, of itself, the question, Shall it be done ? The ques- 
 tion may be at once decided in the affirmative, in the ab- 
 Bence of reasons to the contrary, or, in the absence of reflec- 
 tion, so quickly decided, that, afterward, we shall hardly be 
 conscious that it was ever before the mind. Or it mav be 
 otherwise. Reasons to the contrary suggest themselves 
 — counter influences and motives — in view of which we 
 hesitate, deliberate, decide ; and that decision, in view of all 
 the circumstances, is omy preference^ or choice. In most cases 
 the process is so rapid as to escape attention ; but subsequent 
 reflection can hardly fail to detect such a process, more or 
 iCss distinctly marked. 
 
 The fined Stage of the Act, — We have reached now the 
 point at which it is decided, in our own minds, what course tb 
 pursue. In the case supposed, I have decided to take up the 
 book. The volition is not yet put forth. Nothing now 
 remains, however, but to put forth the volition, and at once 
 the muscular organism, if unimpeded and in health, obeys the 
 will. The thing is done, and the experiment concluded. 
 
NATURE OF THE WILL. 523 
 
 Summary of Results. —I repeat novv^ the experiment ten 
 or a hundred times, but always with like results. I find 
 always, where there is an act of the will, some end to be ob- 
 tained, some motive, a choice, an executive volition. I con- 
 clude that these are the essential phenomena of all voluntary 
 action. 
 
 Of these, the two former, viz., the end to be accomplished, 
 and the motive, may be regarded as more properly condiA 
 tions of volition, than constituent elements of it. Still, e<? 
 intimately is the volition connected with one, at least, of 
 these conditions, viz., the motive, that it claims special con 
 sideration. The ends to be accomplished by volition are '^Ii 
 numerous as the infinite variety of human purposes and ao 
 tions, and, of course, admit of no complete enumeration or 
 classification. We confine our further attention, t '3n, to 
 these elements ■ — the motive, the choice, the execuL e voli- 
 tion — and proceed to their more careful investio..tion aa 
 phenomena of the Avill. 
 
 §n. — Investigation of these Elements. 
 
 The first of these Elements^ Motive^ always hnplied in Ac- 
 tion, — I. The Motive — that which incites the mind to 
 action — the reason why it acts, and acts as it does. We 
 never act without some such incitement, some reason for 
 acting ; at least this is true of all our intelligent and volun • 
 tary actions, of which, alone, we now speak. It may bn 
 nothing more than mere present impulse, mere animal appe- 
 tite or passion , even that is a motive, a reason why we act. 
 We cannot conceive of any being having the power of vol* 
 untary action, and exerting that power without any reason 
 whatever why he did it. The reason may, or may not, 
 be clearly apprehended by his own mind — that is another 
 question ; but whether distinctly and clearly recognized as 
 such, or not, by our own minds, a reason there always is iot 
 what we dr» 
 
524 NATURE OF THE WILL. 
 
 In ivhat Sense this Term employed. — Strictly speakin^^ 
 the motive is not any and every influence which may beai 
 upon the mind as an inducement to action, but only the 
 prevailing inducement, that which actually moves or induces 
 us to perform the proposed act. In this sense, there may be 
 many different inducements, but only one motive. Such, 
 however, is not the ordinary use of the term. That is 
 usually called a motive which is of a nature to influence the 
 mind, and induce volition, whether it is, in the given case, 
 c^ffective, or not. To avoid confusion, I adopt the general use. 
 
 Nature of Motives,— A^ to the nature of the motives 
 from v/hich we act, they are manifestly of two kinds, and 
 widely distinct. There is desire, and there is the sense of 
 moral obligation or duty ; — the agreeable, and the right ; 
 <sach of these constitutes a powerful motive to action. We 
 find ourselves, under the influence of these motives, acting, 
 now from desire, now from sense of duty, now in view of 
 what is in itself agreeable, and now in view of what is right ; 
 and the various motives which influence us and result in 
 action, may be resolved into one or the other of these power 
 ful elements. 
 
 These Elements distinguished, — These are quite distinct 
 elements, never to be confounded with, nor resolved into 
 each other. Desire is the feeling which arises in view of 
 some good not in present possession, something agreeable, 
 and to be obtained ; it looks forward to that ; its root and 
 spring is that grand principle of our nature, the love of hap« 
 piness. Its appeal is to that. Its s<trength lies in thau 
 Duty^ as we have already shown — that sense of obligation 
 which is implied in the very idea of right — is quite another 
 principle than that, not founded in that ; springs not from 
 self-love, or the desire of happiness; is, on the contrary, a 
 simple, primitive, fundamental idea of the human mind, based 
 m the inherent, essential, eternal nature of things. GivcE 
 the right, the perception of right, and t. ere is given, ajsc 
 along with it, the sense of ohliqatio7i. 
 
NATURE OF THE WILL. 525 
 
 Tlieir Action not ahoays in Unison, — These two motives 
 may act in different directions ; they frequently do so. De- 
 sire impels me one way, duty another. Conflict then arises. 
 Which shall prevail, desire or duty, depends on circumstan- 
 ces, on my character already formed, my habits of thought 
 and feeling, my degree of seli-control, my conscientiousness, 
 the strength of my native propensities, the clearness with 
 which, at the time, I apprehend the different courses of 
 conduct proposed, their character and their consequences. 
 Desire may prevail, and then I go counter to my sense of 
 obligation. Remorse follows. I am wretched. I suffer 
 penalty. Duty prevails, and I do that which I believe to be 
 right, regardless of consequences. I suffer in property, 
 health, life, external good, but am sustained by that approv- 
 ing voice within, which more than compensates for all such 
 losses. 
 
 That there are these two springs or motives of human ac- 
 tion, and that they are distinct from each other, is what I 
 affirm, and what no one, I think, who reflects on what con- 
 sciousness reveals, will be disposed to deny. 
 
 Motives of Duty not resolvable into Motives of Interest. 
 — Should any still contend that this very approval of con- 
 science, this peace and happiness which result from doing 
 right, are, themselves, the motive to action, in the case sup. 
 posed, and so, self-love, a desire of happiness, is, after all, the 
 only TRotive^ I reply, this is an assumption utterly without 
 proof. Consciousness contradicts it. The history of the 
 human race contradicts it. There is such a thing as doing 
 right lor its own sake, irrespective of good to ourseiveSa 
 Every man is conscious of such distinction, and of its force 
 as a motive of conduct. Everv virtuous man is conscious of 
 acting, at times, at least, from such a motive. 
 
 Coincidence of Desire and Duty, — It is only when de- 
 sire and duty coincide, that the highest happiness can be 
 reached, when we no longer desire and long for, because we 
 D<r longer view as agreeable, that which is not strictly right. 
 
526 NATURE OF THE WILL. 
 
 This IS a slate never fully realized in this life. It implies 
 perfection of character, and a perfect world. 
 
 Desires^ as Motives of Action^ further distinguished, — Dti- 
 su'e, and the feelirg of obligation, I have spoken of as mo- 
 tives of conduct. The former, again, is not always of one 
 Bort, Desire is, indeed, in itself, a simple element, springing 
 trom one source, but not always directed to the same object. 
 We desire now one thing, now another. There are two 
 classes, at least, of desires quite easy to be distinguished, the 
 physical and the psychical, the one relating to the wants of the 
 body, the other to the craving of the higher nature ; the 
 mere animal instincts, propensities, passions, looking to ani- 
 mal gratification ; and the higher rational self-love, which 
 geeks the true and permanent well-being, under the guidance 
 of reason. Each of these furnishes a powerful motive, or 
 class of motives, to human action. They are each, however, 
 but different forms of desire. 
 
 The second Element^ Choice^ akoays involved in Volition, 
 — II. Choice. — This is an essential element in volition, and 
 next in order. As, setting aside such acts as are purely spon- 
 taneous and mechanical, we never, intelligently and pur- 
 posely, do any thing without a volition to do it, so we never 
 put forth volition without exercising choice. The act per- 
 formed is not a voluntary act, unless it is something which I 
 choose to do. True, my choice may be influenced by ex- 
 traneous causes — may even be constrained — circumstances 
 may virtually compel me to choose as I do, hj shutting me 
 up to this one course, as being either the only right, or the 
 only desirable course. And these circumstances, that thug 
 influence my decisions, may be essentially beyond my con- 
 trol, as they not unfrequently are. Yet, aU things considered, 
 it is my choice to do thus and not otherwise, and so long as 
 I do choose, and am free to act accordingly, the act is volun- 
 tary. 
 
 I'he Position illustrated, — This may be illustrated by the 
 case of the soldier who, in the bombardment of his native 
 
NATURE OF THE WILL 527 
 
 city, is ordered to point his piece in the direction of his o fvn 
 dwelling. To disobey, is death. To obey, is to put in 
 jeopardy those who are dear to him. He hesitates, but 
 finally chooses to obey rders. He aims his piece as directed, 
 sadly against his inclination ; yet, on the whole, it is hia 
 choice to do it. He prefers tiiat to the certainty of dis- 
 honorable death, a death which would in no way benefit or 
 protect those whom he wishes to save. A man, of his own 
 accord^ lies down upon the surgeon's operating table, and 
 stretches out his arm to the knife. It is his choice — a hard 
 choice, indeed, but, nevertheless, decidedly his choice. He 
 prefers that to still greater suffering, or even death. In 
 these cases — and they are only instances and illustrations of 
 what, in a less marked and decided way, is continually oc- 
 curring — we see the utmost strain and pressure of circum- 
 stances upon a man's choice, making it morally certain that 
 he will decide as he does, shutting him up to that decision, 
 in fact, yet his choice remaining unimpaired, and his act a 
 free act ; free, because he does as he, on the whole, and 
 under the circumstances, chooses to do. He does the thing 
 voluntarily. 
 
 Another Case supposed, — Suppose, now, the man were 
 forcibly seized, and borne by sheer strength to the table, 
 and placed upon it, and held there while the operation was 
 performed. In that case, he no longer acts, is only acted upon^ 
 no longer chooses and wills to go there, nay, chooses and 
 wills directly the contrary. The difference in the two caseSj 
 is the difference between a voluntary act, chosen reluctantly, 
 ndeed, and under the pressure of an exigency, but still 
 chosen^ and the passive suffering of an action which, so far 
 from being voluntary, was, in no sense, an act of his own. 
 
 Choice always influenced by Circu7nstances, — JSTow, as 
 regards the actual operation of tbings, our choices are, in 
 feet, always influenced by circumstances, and these circum- 
 stances are various and innumerable 5 a thousand seen and 
 unseen influences are at work upon us, to affect our decisions. 
 
528 NATURE OF THE WILL. 
 
 Were it possibk lo estimate aright all these influences, to 
 calculate, with precision, their exact weight and effect, then 
 our choice, under any given circumstances, might be pre- 
 dicted with unerring certainty. This can never be exactly 
 known to man. Sagacity may approximate to it, and may, 
 so far, be able to read the future, and predict the probabl 
 conduct of men in given circumstances. To the omniscient, 
 these things are fully known, and to his eye, therefore, th 
 whole future of our lives, our free choices and voluntary acts, 
 Jie open before they are yet known to ourselves. 
 
 Conclusion stated, — From what has been said, it appears 
 that it is not inconsistent with the nature of choice, to be 
 influenced, nay, decided by circumstances, even when those 
 circumstances are beyond our control. 
 
 Diversity of Objects essential to Choice. — What is implied 
 in an act of choice ? Several things. In order to choice, 
 there must, of course, be diversity of objects from which to 
 choose. If there were but one possible cours-^ to be pur- 
 sued, it were absurd to speak of choice. Hence, even in 
 the cases just now supposed, there was a diversity of objects 
 from which to choose — death, or obedience to orders, suffer- 
 ing from the surgery, or greater suffering and danger with- 
 out it, and between these the man made his choice. 
 
 Liberty of Selection also essential, — As a further con- 
 dition of choice, there is implied liberty of selection from 
 among the different objects proposed. It were of no use 
 that there should be different courses of conduct — different 
 ends, or different means of attaining an end — proposed to 
 our understanding, if it were not in our power to select 
 which we pleased^ if we were not free to go which way we 
 will. Choice always implies that different actions and vo- 
 litions are possible, and are, as such, submitted to our de- 
 cision and preference. There can be no volition without 
 choice, and no choice without liberty to choose. Whatever 
 interferes, then, Avith that liberty, and diminishes or takes it 
 away, interferes, also, with my choice, and diminishes or 
 
NATURE OF THE WILL. 529 
 
 destroys that. The very essence of a voluntary act consists 
 in its being an act of choice, or a free-will act. No tyranny 
 can take this away, except such as destroys, also, all volun* 
 tary and responsible action. You may command me to 
 burntncense on a heathen altar. The very command leaves 
 it optional with me whether to obey. If I do not, the pen- 
 alty is death. Very well — I may choose the penalty, rather 
 than the crime, and no power on earth can compel me to 
 choose otherwise. I die, but I die a free man. True, you 
 may bind me, and by mechanical force urge me to the altar, 
 and by superior strength of other arms, may cause my hand 
 to put m cense there, but it is not my act then ; it is the act 
 of thof3e who use me as a mere passive instrument ; it is no 
 more my act, than it would be the act of so much iron- Qr 
 wood^ or other instrument. 
 
 Deliberation implied, — Choice, moreover, implies delio 
 eration, the balancing and weighing of inducements, the 
 comparison and estimate of the several goods proposed, the 
 several ends and objects, the various means to those ends ; 
 the eyercise of reason and judgment in this process. I see 
 befor 3 me different courses, different ends proposed to my 
 understanding, am conscious of diverse inducements and 
 reasons, some urging me in one direction, some in anotner, 
 ^N'ative propensities impel me toward this Ime of conduct. 
 Rational self-love puts in a claim for quite another procedure. 
 Benevolence, and a sense of duty, it may be, conspire to 
 urge me in still another direction. I am at liberty to choose. 
 I must choose. I can go this way or that, must go in one oi 
 the other. I hesitate, deliberate, am at a loss. 
 
 Now there is no choice which does not virtually involve 
 some process of this kind. It may be very rapid ; so rapid 
 as to escape detection, in many casc«, so that we are hardly 
 conscious of the process. In other cases, we are painfully 
 conscious of the whole scene ; we hesitate long, are in doubt 
 and suspense between conflicting motives and mterests. 
 Desire and dutv wage a fierce contest within us Shall we 
 
 9Q 
 
530 NATUEE OF THE WILT 
 
 choose the agreeable ? Shall we choose the right ? An(^ 
 then, again, which is really the agreeable, and which is truly 
 the right ? 
 
 Final Decision, -— A^ the result of this deliberation ^ wh 
 finally decide, one way, or the other. This decision i| oui 
 preference^ our choice. Our minds, as we say, are made uy 
 what to do, what course to pursue. When the time comeSj 
 we shall act. Something may prevent our having our way^ 
 opportunity may not offer, or we may see fit, subsequently 
 to reconsider and revoke our decision. Otherwise, oui 
 choice is carried out in action. 
 
 Choice implies, then, these things : diversity of objects, 
 liberty of selection, deliberation, decision, or preference. 
 
 The final Element. — III. Executive Volition. — In 
 our investigation of the several elements or momenta of an 
 act of the Will, we have as yet considered but two, viz., 
 motive and choice — the first, more properly a condition of 
 voluntary action, than itself a constituent part of it, yet 
 stiU, a condition so indispensably connected with volition, as 
 to require investigation in connection with the latter. It 
 only remains now to notice the last stage of the process, the 
 final element, which added, the process is complete — that 
 is, the executive act of the mind^ volition properly so called. 
 When the objects to be attained have been presented, when 
 the motives or inducements to action have been considered, 
 when, in view of all, the choice or preferei^ce has been 
 made, it still remains to put forth the voHtion, or the act 
 mil not be performed. This may never happen. Oppor 
 unity may never offer. But suppose it does. We with 
 This done, tbe bodily mechanism springs into play, obedi 
 ent to the call and command of the soul. 
 
 Even now, the action does not of necessity correspond to 
 the volition. JEven now, we may be disappointed. Other 
 wills may be in action in opposition to ours. Other arms 
 may move in obedience to those other wills. Or we may 
 Qx\<\ iV»« thing too much for us to do, impracticable, beyond 
 
RELATION OF THE WILL, ETC. 5^,1 
 
 our stteagth and means, or disease may palsy the frame, go 
 that it sliall not obey the mandate of the spirit. Never- 
 theless the volition is complete. That depends not on the 
 success of the exertion. We have vnlled^ and with that 
 our mental action ceases. What remains is physical, not 
 psychological. If we succeed, if the volition finds itself 
 answered in^execution, then, also, the act once performed i 
 thenceforth out of our power. It is done, and stands a per 
 manent historic event, beyond our control, beyond our decis 
 ion or revocation. Our power over it ceases in the moment 
 of volition. Our connection with it may never cease. It 
 moves on in its inevitable career of consequences, and, like a 
 swift river, bears us along with it. We have no more to do 
 with it, but it has to do with us ; it may be to our sorrow, 
 it may be, forever. 
 
 Such are, in brief, the main psychological facts, relating 
 to the will, as they offer themselves to our consciousness 
 and careful inspection. 
 
 CHAPTER 11. 
 
 EELATION OF THE WILL TO OTHER POWERS OF THE MINP 
 
 Activity of the Intellect 'in Volition, — It is a matter of 
 some importance to ascertain the relation which the wiE 
 sustains to the other mental powers. There can be no 
 doubt that the activity of the will is preceded, in all cases 
 by that of the intellect. I must first perceive some object 
 presented to my understanding, before I can will its attain 
 ment. In the case already supposed, the book lying on my 
 table is an object within the cognizance of sense, and to per 
 ceive it is an act of intellect. Until perceived, the will puts 
 not forth any volition respecting it. Nor does the mere 
 oerf^'^ption occasion volition. In connection with the pei^ 
 
532 RELATION OF THE WILI 
 
 ception of the book, ideas present themselves to tho mind, 
 curiosity is awakened, the mind is set upon a train of 
 thought, which results in the desire and the volition to take 
 the book. In all this the intellect is active. In a word, 
 whatever comes in as a motive to influence the mind in 
 favor of, or against a given course, must in the first instincie 
 address itself to the understanding, and be comprehended 
 oy that power, before it can influence the mental decisiong^^ 
 A motive which I do not comprehend is no motive ; a 
 reason which I do not perceive, or understand, is, to me, no 
 reason. 
 
 Activity of the Sensibilities also involved. — But does 
 volition immediately follow the action of the intellect in the 
 case supposed ? Do we first understand, and then will ; or 
 does something else intervene between the intellectual per- 
 ception and the volition ? Were there wo feeling awakened 
 by the intellectual perception, would there be any volition 
 with regard to the object perceived ? I think, Ifeel^ I will ; 
 is not that the order of the mental processes ? " We can 
 easily imagine," says Mackintosh, " a percipient and think- 
 ing being without a capacity of receiving pleasure or pain. 
 Such a being might perceive what we do ; if we could con 
 ceive him to reason, he might reason justly ; and if he were 
 to judge at all, there seems no reason why he should not 
 judge truly. But what could induce such a being to wiU 
 or to act ? It seems evident that his existence could only 
 be a state of passive contemplation. Reason, as reason, can 
 never be a motive to action. It is only when we superadd 
 to such a being sensibility, or the capacity of emotion, or 
 sentiment of desire and aversion, that we introduce him in- 
 to the world of action." 
 
 Opinion of Locke, — To the same efiect, Locke : " Good 
 and evil, present and absent, it is true, work upon the mind, 
 but that which immediately determines the will from timo 
 to time, to every voluntary action, is the uneasiness of d&^ 
 BirCy fixed on some absent good, either negative, as indolence 
 
TO OTHER POWERS OF THE MIND. 553 
 
 to one in pain, or positive, as enjoyment of pleasure. That 
 It is this uneasiness that determines the will to the succes- 
 Biye voluntary actions, whereof the greatest part of our lives 
 IS made up, and by which we are conducted through differ- 
 ent courses to different ends, I shall endeavor to show both 
 from experience and the reason of the thing." Elsewhere 
 again ; " For good, though appearing and allowed ever so 
 great, yet till it has raised desireS in our minds, and there- 
 by made us uneasy in its want, it reaches not our wills ; we 
 are not within the sphere of its activity." 
 
 Testimony of GonsGiousness, — The general opinion of 
 philosophical writers is now in accordance with the views 
 thus expressed. The intellect they regard as acting upon 
 the will not directly, but through the medjrin of the sensi 
 bilities, the various emotions and desires ^hich are awak 
 ened by the perceptions of the intellect. That this is the 
 correct view, admits of little doubt. Tb^. question is best 
 settled by an appeal to consciousness. Ir che case supposed, 
 the perception of the book upon the table does not, of itself, 
 directly influence my will. It is not until some feeling is 
 aroused, my curiosity excited, or desire, in some form, 
 awakened, that my will acts. The object must not only be 
 perceived, but perceived. as agreeable, and the wish to pos« 
 sess it be entertained, before the volition is put forth. 
 
 Whether this Hule applies in all Cases. — That this is so 
 as regards a large class of our volitions, will hardly be de- 
 nied. When the motive to action is of the nature of desire^ 
 it is the sensibility, and not the intellect, that is directly, con- 
 458rned in shaping the action of the will. I first perceive the 
 object to be agreeable ; I next desire its possession, as such; 
 then I will its attainment. The intellectual activity gives 
 rise to emotion, and the latter leads to volition. 
 
 It may be supposed, however, that when the motive which 
 influences the will is not of the nature of desire, but rather 
 of a sense of obligation or duty, then the case is otherwise, 
 the inter ectual | erception of the right, and of the obligation 
 
584 RELATION OF THk. WILL 
 
 • 
 
 to do the right, being sufficient of tnemselves to lead the 
 mind to action. But as the intellectual perception of the 
 agreeable is followed by emotion or desire in view of the 
 same, so the intellectual perception of the right is followed, 
 in Uke manner, by a certain class of feelings or emotions, 
 usually called moral sensibilities ; and it is the feeling^ in 
 either case, and not the knowing^ the sensibility, and not the 
 intellect, that is directly in contact with the will. I know 
 that I ought, and I feel that I ought, are states of mind 
 closely connected, indeed, but not identical ; and it is the 
 latter which leads directly to volition. 
 
 Desire and Volition not always distinguished, — Another 
 point requiring investigation, is the precise relation between 
 volition and desire. Are they the same thing, and if not, 
 wherein do they differ ? It has been the custom of certain 
 writers not to distinguish between desire and volition, as 
 states of mind, or to regard them as differing, if at all, only 
 in degree. Thus Condillac, and writers of the French 
 school, as also Brown, Mill, and others, in Great Britain, 
 have treated of volition as only a stronger degree of desire, 
 which, again, is only a form of emotion. Even M'Cosh, in 
 his treatise on moral government, while insisting on the dis 
 tinction between emotions and desires, regards wishes, de- 
 sires, and volitions, as belonging essentially to the same 
 class of mental states. " Appealing to consciousness," says 
 that able and elegant writer, " we assert that there is a class 
 of mental states embracing wishes, desires, volitions, which 
 cannot be analyzed into anything else. These mental states 
 or affections are very numerous, and occupy a place in the 
 human mind second to no other. They differ fi^om each 
 other in degree, and possibly even in some minor qualities 
 but they all agree in other and more important respects 
 and so are capable of being arranged under one head.'' 
 And in a subsequent paragraph he remarks to the sam« 
 effect, " Later mental inquirers are generally disposed to ad 
 mit that the voiitioi> the positive determinatior to take a 
 
TO OTHEK POWERS OF THE MIND. 535 
 
 particular step, the resolution, for instance, to give a sum of 
 money to take our friend to a warmer climate for the restor- 
 ation of his health, is more than a mere emotion. But if we 
 are thus to constitute a separate attribute to which to refer 
 volition, it is worthy of being inquired whether we should 
 not arrange, under the same head, wishes, desires, and the 
 cognate states, as being more closely allied in their nature to 
 volitions than to the common emotions." 
 
 The Difference generic, — It is on this latter point that 
 we are compelled to join issue with the writer just quoted. 
 A wish, a desire, are forms oi feeling * a volition is not. 
 The difference is generic, and not one of degree merely. A 
 desire differs from any other form of feeling, not so much, 
 not so radically, as it differs from a volition. A wish or desire 
 may lead to volition, or it may not. We often wish or de- 
 sire what we do not will. The object of our desires may 
 not be within the sphere of our volitions, may not be pos- 
 sible of attamment, may not depend, in any sense, upon our 
 wills. Or it may be something which reason and the law 
 of right forbid, yet, nevertheless, an object of natural desire. 
 And so, on the other hand, we may, from a sense of duty, 
 or from the dictates of reason and prudence, will what is con- 
 trary to our natural inclinations, and our volitions, so fei 
 from representing our desires, in that case, may be directly 
 contrary to them. 
 
 Opinion of JReid. — Accordant with the view nov/ ex- 
 pressed, are the following remarks of Dr. Reid : " With re- 
 gard to our actions, we may desire what we do not will, and 
 will what we do not desire, nay, what we have a great aver- 
 sion to. A man a-thirst has a strong desire to drink, but, 
 for some particular reason, he determines not to gratify his 
 desire. A judge, from a regard to justice and the duty of 
 his office, dooms a criminal to die, while, from humanity and 
 particular affection, he desires that he should live. A man, 
 for health, may take a nauseous draught for which he has 
 uo desire, but a great aversion. Desire, therefore, evec 
 
536 RELATION OF THE WILL 
 
 when its object is some action of our own, is only an excite- 
 ment to the will, but is not volition. The determination of 
 the mind may be not to do what we desire to do." 
 
 Opinion of Locke. — To the same effect is the following 
 from Locke : '' This caution, of being careful not to be mis- 
 led by expressions that do not enough keep up the difference 
 between the will and several acts of the mind that are quite 
 distinct from it, I think the more necessary, because I find 
 the will often confounded with several of the affections, es- 
 pecially desire^ and one put for the other, and that by men 
 who would not willingly be thought not to have had very 
 iistinct notions of things, and not to have writ very clearly 
 about them. This, I imagine, has been no small occasion of 
 obscurity and mistake in this matter ; and therefore is, as 
 much as may be, to be avoided. For, he that shall turn his 
 thoughts inward upon what passes in his mind when he 
 wills.^ shall see that the loill or power of volition is convers- 
 ant about nothing, but that particular determination of the 
 mind, whereby, barely by a thought, the mind endeavors tc 
 give rise, continuation, or stop to any action which it takes 
 to be in its power. This well considered, plainly shows that 
 the will is perfectly distinguished from desire^ which, in the 
 very ^ame action may have quite a contrary tendency from 
 that which our will sets us upon. A man whom I cannot 
 deny, may oblige me to use persuasions to another, which, 
 at the same time I am speaking, I may wish may not prevail 
 on him. In this case, it is plain, the will and desire run 
 counter. I will the action that tends one way, while my 
 desire tends another, and that right contrary. Whence it 
 is, evident,'^ he adds, " that desiring and willing are two 
 distinct acts of the mind ; and, consequently, that the ^o^7/, 
 which is but the power of volition^ is much more dis- 
 tinct from desireP 
 
 Testimony of Consciousness . — The testimony of con- 
 sciousness seems to be clearly in accordance with the views 
 now expressed We readily distinguish between our de- 
 
TO OTHER POWERS OF THE MIND. 537 
 
 eires and our volitions. We are conscious of willing, oftcj, 
 what is contrary to our desires ; the course which honor ajid 
 duty approve, and which we resolutely carry out, is in dis- 
 regard of many fond and cherished desires which still agitate 
 the bosom. And even when our desires and volitions coin- 
 cide, it requires but little reflection to discover the difference 
 between them. It is a difference recognized in the common 
 language of life, and in the writings and conversation of men 
 who are by no means theorists or metaphysicians. 
 
 Further Illustrations of the Distinction, — Mr. Upham, 
 who has very clearly and ably maintained the distinction 
 now in question, refers us, in illustration, to the case of 
 Abraham offering his son upon the altar of sacrifice, sternly, 
 resolutely willing, in obedience to the divine command, 
 what must have been repugnant to every feeling of the 
 father's heart ; to the memorable instance of Brutus order- 
 ing and witnessing the execution of his own sons, as con- 
 spirators against the State, the struggle between the strong 
 will and the strong paternal feeling evidently visible in his 
 countenance, as he stood at the dreadful scene ; and the case 
 of Virginius, plunging the knife into the bosom of a beloved 
 daughter, whose dishonor could in no other way be averted. 
 In all these, and many other similar cases, private interests 
 and personal affections are freely and nobly sacrificed, in 
 favor of high public interests, and moral ends ; yet, to dc 
 this, the will must act in opposition to tiie current of nature 
 feeling and desire. 
 
CHAPTER II!. 
 
 FREEDOM OP THE WILL. 
 
 Problems respecting the WtlL — Our attention has tl\ui 
 hr been directed to the psychological facts respecting the 
 will, in itself considered, and also in its relations to the other 
 mental powers. It becomes necessary now, in order to the 
 more complete understanding of the matter, to look at some 
 of the disputed points, the grand problems, respecting the 
 human will, which have for ages excited and divided the re- 
 flecting world. The way is prepared for these more difficult 
 questions, when once the simple facts, to which our attention 
 has already been directed, are well, understood. These 
 questions are numerous, but, if I mistake not, they all resolve 
 themselves virtually into the one general problem of the 
 freedom of the will, or, at least, so link themselves with that 
 as to admit of discussion in the same connection. 
 
 Freedom^ what, — In approaching this much-disputed 
 question, it is necessary to ascertain, in the first place, what 
 is meant by freedom, and what by freedom of the will,, else 
 we may discuss the matter to no purpose. Various defini- 
 tions of freedom have been given. It is a word in very com- 
 mon use, and, in its general application, not liable to bo 
 misunderstood. Every one who understands the ordinary 
 language of life, knows well enough what freedom is. It 
 denotes the opposite of restraint ; the power to do what one 
 likes, pleases, is inclined to do. My person is free, when it 
 can come and go, do this or that, as suits my inclination 
 Any faculty of the mind, or organ of the body, is free, when 
 its own specific and proper action is not hindered. Freedom 
 of motion, is power to move when and where we pleasei 
 
FREEDOM OF THE WILL. 539 
 
 Freedom of speech, is power to say what we likb. Freedom 
 of action, is power to do what we like. 
 
 Freedom of the Wtll^ what, — What, then, is freedom of 
 the will ? What can it be but the power of exercising, with- 
 out restraint or hindrance, its own specific and proper func- 
 tion, viz., the putting forth volitions, just such volitions aa 
 we please. This, as we have seen, is the proper office of the 
 will, its specific and appropriate action. If nothiog prevents 
 or restrains me fi'om forming and putting forth such volitiong^ 
 as I please, then my will is free ; and not otherwise. 
 
 Freedom of the will, then, is not power to do what om 
 wills^ in the sense of executing volitions when formed 
 that is simple freedom of the limbs, and muscular apparatus, 
 not of will — a freedom which may be destroyed by a stroke 
 of paralysis, or an iron chain ; — it is not a freedom of walk- 
 ing, if one wills to walk, or of singing, or flying, or moving 
 the right arm, if one is so disposed. That is freedom, but 
 not freedom of the will. My will is free, not when I can do 
 what I will to do, but when I can will to do just what I 
 please. Whatever freedom the will has, must lie within its 
 own proper sphere of action, and not without it ; must re- 
 late to that, and not to something else. This distinction, so 
 very obvious, has, nevertheless, been sometimes strangely 
 overlooked. 
 
 Is, then, the human will free, in the sense now defined ? 
 Let us first notice some presumptions in favor of its freedom • 
 then the more direct argument. 
 
 § L — Presumptions in Fayor of Freedom. 
 
 Tlie general Conviction of Freedoin a Presumption in its 
 Favor, — 1. It is a presumption in favor of freedom that 
 there is among men, a very general, not to say universal 
 conviction of freedom. It is a prevalent idea, an established 
 conviction and belief of the mind. We are conscious of this 
 btlief cnirselves, we observe it in others. When we perform 
 
540 FREEDOM OF THE WILL. 
 
 any act, or choose any course of conduct, we are impressed 
 with the belief that we could have done or chosen differently, 
 had we been so disposed. We never doubt or call in ques* 
 tion this ability, in regard to the practical matters of life. 
 The languages and the literature of the world bear witness 
 to the universality of this belief. Now this general convic- 
 tion and firm belief of freedom constitute, to say the least, a 
 presumption, and a strong one, in favor of the doctrine. If 
 men are free to do as they like, then they are free to will as 
 they like, for the willing precedes the doing ; and if they 
 are not thus free, how happens this so general conviction ol 
 a freedom which they do not possess ? 
 
 T%e Appeal to Consciousness, — The argument is some- 
 times stated, by the advocates of freedom, in a form which 
 is liable to objection. The appeal is made directly to con- 
 sciousness. We are conscious^ it is said, of freedom, conscioua 
 of a power, when we do any thing, to do otherwise, to take 
 some other course instead. Strictly speaking, we are con- 
 scious only of our present state of mind. I may know the 
 past; but it is not a matter of consciousness; I may also 
 know, perhaps, what might have been, in place of the actual 
 past, but of this I am not conscious. When I experience a 
 sensation, or put forth a volition, I am conscious of that sen- 
 sation or volition ; but I am not conscious of what never 
 occurred, that is, of some other feeling or volition instead of 
 an actual one. I may have a firm conviction, amounting 
 even to knowledge, that at the moment of experiencing that 
 feeling, or exercising that volition, it was possible for me to 
 have exercised a different one ; but it is a conviction, a be 
 iief, at most a knowledge, and not, properly, consciousness. 
 I am conscious of the conviction that I am free, and that I 
 can do otherwise than as I do ; and this, in itself, is a pre- 
 sumption, that I have such a power ; but I am not conscious 
 of the power itself. It may be said, that if there were any 
 restraint upon my will, to prevent my putting forth such 
 volitions as I please, or to prevent my acting otherwise than 
 
FREEDOM OjP THE WILL. 541 
 
 I do, I should he conscious of such restraint ; and thisS may 
 be very true ; and from the absence of any such conscious* 
 ness of restraint, I may justly infer that I am free ; but this, 
 again, is an inference^ and not a conscioiisjiess. One thing, 
 however, I am conscious of, that my actual volitions are 
 such, and only such, as I please to put forth ; and this leada 
 to the conviction that it is in my power to put forth any vo- 
 lition thafl may please. 
 
 Our moral Nature a Presu7nptio7i in Favor of Freedom, 
 — 2. It is a further presumption in favor of the entire free- 
 dom of the will, that man's moral nature seems to imply it. 
 We approve or condemn the conduct of others. It is with 
 the undevstanding that they acted freely, ^nd could have 
 done otherwise. We should never think of praising a man 
 for doing wnat he could not help doing, or of blammg hiro 
 for what it was utterly out of his power to avoid. So, also, 
 we approve and condemn our own actions, and always wdth 
 the understanding that these actions and volitions were free. 
 There may be regret for that which was unavoidable, but 
 never a sense of guilty never remorse. The existence of these 
 feelings always implies freedom of the will, the power to 
 nave done otherwise. Let any man select that period of his 
 iijstory, that act of his whole. hfe, for which he blames himself 
 most, and of which the recollection casts the deepest gloom 
 and sadness over all his subsequent years, and let him ask 
 himself why it is that he so blames himself for that course, 
 and he will find, in every case, that it is because he knows 
 that he might have done differently. Take away this con- 
 viction, and you take away the foundation of all his remorse, 
 and of self-condemnation. The same thing is implied, also, 
 in the feeling of obligation. It is impossible to feel under 
 moral obligation to do what it is utterly and absolutely out 
 of our power to do. 
 
 This View maintained hy Mr, TTpham. — "There are 
 some truths," says Mr. Upham, " which are so deeply based 
 in the human constitution, that all men of all classes deceive 
 
542 FREEDOM OF THE WILL 
 
 them, and act upon them. They are planted deeply anii 
 immutably in the soul, and no reasoning, however plausible, 
 can shake them. And, if we are not mistaken, the doctrine 
 of the freedom of the will, as a condition of even the possi- 
 bility of a moral nature, is one of these first truths. It seems 
 to be regarded, by all persons, without any exception, as a 
 dictate of common sense, and as a first principle of our na- 
 ture, that men are morally accountable, and are t&e subjects 
 of a moral responsibility in any respect, whatever, only so 
 far as they possess freedom, both of the outward action, and 
 of the will. . They hold to this position, as an elementary 
 truth, and would no sooner think of letting it go than of 
 abandoning the conviction of their personal existence and 
 identity. They do not profess to go into particulars, but 
 they assert it in the mass, that man is a moral being only so 
 far as he is free. And such a unanimous and decided 
 testimony, bearing, as it absolutely does, the seal and super- 
 scription of nature herself, is entitled to serious considera- 
 tion." 
 
 Also hy Dr, Held, — Dr. Reid, also, takes essentially the 
 same view. He regards it as a first principle, to be ranked 
 in the same class with the conviction of our personal exist- 
 ence and identity, and the existence of a material world, 
 *' that we have some degree of power over our actions, and 
 the determinations of our will." It ia implied, be maintains, 
 in every act of volition, in all deliberation, and in every 
 resolution or purpose formed in consequence of deliberation 
 " It is not more evident," he says, " that mankind have a 
 conviction of the existence of a material world, than that 
 they have the conviction of some degree of power in them- 
 selves, and in others, every one over his own actions, and 
 the determinations of his will — a conviction so early, so 
 general, and so interwoven with the whole of human con 
 duct, that it must be the natural effect of our constitution^ 
 and intended by the Author of our being to guids our ad 
 tions." 
 
FREEDOM OF THE WILL. 548 
 
 Consequences of the Opposite, — 3. The consequences of 
 the opposite view afford a presumption in favor of freedom. 
 
 If the will is not free, if all om* liberty is merely a liberty 
 to do what we will to do, or to execute the volitions which 
 we form, but we have no power over the volitions them- 
 selves, then we have no power whatever to will or to act 
 differently from what we do. This is fatalism. All that 
 the fatalist maintains is, that we are governed by circum- 
 stances out of our own control, so that, situated as we are, it 
 is impossible for us to act otherwise than as we do. From 
 this follows, as a natural and inevitable consequence, the 
 absence of all accountability and obligation. The founda- 
 tion of these, as we have already seen, is freedom. Take 
 this away, and you strike a fatal blow at man's moral nature. 
 It is no longer possible for me to feel under obligation to do 
 what I have absolutely no power to do, or to believe myself 
 accountable for doing what I could not possibly avoid. 
 Morality, duty, accountability, become mere chimeras, idle 
 fancies of the brain, devices of the priest and the despot, to 
 frighten men into obedience and subjection. 
 
 This View sustained by Facts. — These are not random 
 statements. It is a significant fact, that those who have un- 
 dertaken to deny accountability, and moral obligation, have, 
 almost without exception, I believe, been advocates of 
 the doctrine of necessity. Indeed, it seems impossible to 
 maintain such views upon any other ground ; while, on the 
 other hand, the denial of the freedom of the will leads al- 
 most of necessity to such conclusions. "Remorse," says Mr. 
 Belsham, "is the exquisitely painful feeling which arises 
 from the belief that, in circumstances precisely the same, we 
 might have chosen and acted differently. This fallaciovs 
 feeling is superseded by the doctrine of necessity." 
 
 Equally plain, and to the same effect, are the following 
 passages from the correspondence of Diderot, as quoted by 
 Mr. Stewart : " Examine it narrowly, and you will see that 
 Ihe word iberty is a word devoid of meaning ; that there 
 
544 FREEDOM OF THE WILL. 
 
 are not, and that there cannot be, free beings ; that we are 
 only what accords with the general order^ with our organi- 
 zation, our education, and the chain of events. These dis- 
 pose of us invincibly. We can no more conceive of a being 
 acting without a motive, than we can of one of the arms of 
 a balance acting without a weight. The motive is alwaya 
 exterior and foreign, fastened upon us by some cause di^ 
 tinct from ourselves. * * * We have been so ofteo 
 praised and blamed, and have so often praised and blamed 
 others, that we contract an inveterate prejudice of believing 
 that we and they will and act freely. But if there is no liberty, 
 there is no action that merits either praise or blame ; neither 
 vice nor virtue ; nothing that ought either to be rewarded 
 or punished. ^ * ^ The doer of good is lucky, not 
 virtuous. •* * ^ Meproach others for nothing^ and 
 repent of nothing y' this is the first step to wisdo'inP 
 
 These Opinions not to he charged upon all Necessitarians, 
 ' — It is not to be supposed, of course, that all who. deny the 
 freedom of the will, adopt the view^s above expressed. 
 Whether such denial, however, consistently followed out to 
 its just and legitimate conclusions, does not lead to sucb 
 results, is another question. 
 
 § n, — The Dikeot Argument. 
 
 Another Mode of Argument, — Thus far we have ocn- 
 sidered only the presumptions in favor of the freedom of 
 the will. We find them numerous and strong. The ques- 
 tion is, however, to be decided not by presumptions for or 
 against, but by direct argument based upon a careful inquiry 
 into the psychological facts of the case. To this let us now 
 proceed, bearing in mind, as we advance, what are the es- 
 sential phenomena of the will, as already ascertained, and 
 what is meant by freedom of the will as already defined. 
 
 The Will free unless its appropriate Action is hindered^ 
 — It is evident tha^, if we are right in our ideas of what 
 
FREEDOM OF THE WILL. 645 
 
 freedom is, the will is strictly and properly free, pro\r ded 
 nothing interferes with, and prevents, our putting forth such 
 volitions as we please and choose to put forth. The specific 
 and appropriate action of the will, as we have seen^ is simply 
 to put forth volitions. Whatever freedom it has, then, mitst 
 lie within that sphere, and not without it, must relate to that,^ 
 and not to something else / whatever restraint or want of 
 freedom it has, mnst also be found within these limits. My 
 will is free, when I can will to do just what I please. 
 
 Strength of Incli7iation^ no Impediment, — If this be so, 
 then it is clear, 1. That mere strength of inclination can by 
 no means impair the freedom of the will. Be the inclination 
 never so strong, it matters not. Kay, so far from interfering 
 with freedom, it is an essential element of it. Freedom pre- 
 supposes and implies inclination. One is surely none the 
 less free because very strongly inclined to do as he likes, 
 provided he can do what he wishes or prefers. This is as 
 true of the action of the will as of any other action. 
 
 The Source of Inclination,^ of no Consequence to the pres- 
 e/tt Inquiry, — 2. It is evident, furthermore, that freedom 
 has nothing to do with the source of my inclinations, any 
 more than with their strength. It makes no difference what 
 causes my preference, or whether any thing causes it. I 
 have a preference, an inclination, a disposition to do a given 
 thing, and put forth a given volition — am disposed to do 
 It, and can do it — then I am free, my will is free. It 
 is of no consequence hoio I came by that inclination or 
 di.^position. The simple question is. Am I at liberty to fol- 
 low it ? 
 
 The Interference must he fro'in loithout^ and must affect 
 the Choice. — It is evident, moreover, according to what 
 has now been said, that if there be really any restraint upon 
 the will, or lack of freedom in its movements, it must pro- 
 ceed from something extraneous, outside the will itself, 
 something which comes in from without, and that in such 3 
 vray as to interfe^e,^ in some way with my choice ; for it ia 
 
546 FREEDOM OF THE WILL. 
 
 there that the element of freedom lies. But whatever intei 
 feres with my choice, interferes with my willing at all / th 
 act is no longer a voluntary act. Choice is essential t\ 
 vohtion, the very element of it. In order to an act of wih, 
 as* we have seen, there must be liberty to choose, delibera- 
 tion, actual preference. Volition presupposes them, and ia 
 based on them. Whatever prevents them, prevents voli- 
 tion. Whatever places me in such a state of mind that 1 
 have no preference at all, no choice, as to any given thing, 
 places me in such a state that I have also no volition as 
 to that thing. The question* of freedom is forestalled in 
 sach a case, becomes absurd. Where there is no volition, 
 there is of course no freedom of volition, nor yet any want 
 of freedom. Freedom of will is power to will as I like 
 but now I have no liking, no preference. 
 
 The Siippositio7x varied, — But suppose now that I am 
 not prevented from choosing, but only from carrying out my 
 choice in actual volition ; from willing, according to my 
 choice. Then, also, the act is no longer properly a volition^ 
 an act of will, for one essential element of every such act, 
 viz., choice^ is wanting. I have a choice, indeed, but it is 
 not here, not represented in this so-called volition, lies in 
 another direction, is, in fact, altogether opposed to this, my so- 
 called volition. There can he no such volition. The human 
 mind is a stranger to any such phenomenon, and if it did oc- 
 cur, it would not be volition, not an act of the will, not a 
 voluntary act. Whatever, then, comes in, either to prevent 
 my choosing, or to prevent my exercising volition according 
 to my choice, does, in fact, prevent my willing at all. If 
 there he an act of the will, it is, in its very nature, a fret 
 act, and cannot be otherwise. Allow me to choose, and to 
 put forth volition according to my choice, and you leave me 
 free. Prevent this, and you prevent my willing at all. 
 
 Th£, Limitation^ as usually regarded^ not really one, — 
 Those who contend that the will is not iroQ^ place the limit 
 ution hack of the choice. Choice is governed by inclina- 
 
FREEDOM OF THE WILL. 54? 
 
 fo'oTv, they say, and inclination depends on circumstances} 
 on education, habits, fashion, etc., things, in great meas- 
 ure, beyond our control ^ and while these circumstances re* 
 main ths same, a man cannot choose otherwise than he does. 
 To this I reply, that, as we have already seen, the will ia 
 strictly and properly free, promded nothing interferes with, 
 and prevents, our putting forth such volitions as we choos6 
 to put forth. Is there, then, any thing in these circum^ 
 stances which are supposed to control our choice, and to be 
 BO fatal to our freedom, is there in them any thing which 
 really interferes with, or prevents our willing as we choose f 
 Does the fact that I am inclined, and strongly so, to a given 
 choice, prevent me from putting forth that choice in the 
 shape of executive volition ? So far from this, that inclina- 
 tion is the very circumstance that leads to my doing it. All 
 that could possibly be contended, is that the supposed in- 
 clination to a given choice is likely to prevent my having 
 some other and different choice. But that has nothing to 
 do with the question of the freedom of my will, which de- 
 pends, as we have seen, not on the power to choose otherwise 
 than one is inclined, or than one likes, but as he hkes. 
 What force, I ask again, is there in any circumstance, or 
 combination of circumstances, which go to mould and shape 
 my inclinations and my disposition, and have no further 
 power over me, what force in them, or what tendency, to 
 prevent my willing as I choose^ a^s I like, as I am inchned ? 
 Nay, if my will acts at all, it must, as I have shown, act in 
 this way, and therefore act freely. 
 
 Freedom of Inclination not Freedom of 'Will, — But sup- 
 pose I have no power to lihe^ or to be incHned, differently 
 from what I do like, and am now inclined ? I reply, it mat- 
 ters not as to the present question. The supposition now 
 made, takes away or limits, not the freedom of the will, it 
 does not touch that ; but the freedom of the affections. Can 
 1 like what I do not like — and can I put forth such volitions 
 «8 I please or choose — are two distinct questions, and agaia 
 
548 FREEDOM OF THE WILL. 
 
 I repeat that the freedom of our will depends, not on our 
 having this or that particular choice, but on our being able 
 to carry out whatever choice we do make into our volitions ; 
 not on our being able to will otherwise than we choose, nor 
 yet on our ability to choose otherwise than we do, but simply 
 on our being able to will as we choose, whatever that choice 
 may be. 
 
 Are the Sensibilities Free, — Have I, in reality, however, 
 any freedom of the affections, any power under given cir 
 cumstances^ to be affected otherwise than I am, to feel other- 
 wise than I do ? I reply, the affections are not elements of 
 the will, are not under its immediate control ; are not strictly 
 voluntary.- It depends on a great variety of circumstances, 
 what, in any given case, your affections or inclinations may 
 be. You have no power of will directly over them. You 
 can modify and shape them, only by shaping your own vol- 
 untary action so far as that bears upon their formation. By 
 shaping your character which is mider your control^ you 
 may, in a manner, at least, determine the nature and degree 
 of the emotions which will arise, under given circumstances, 
 in your bosom. 
 
 The two Questions entirely distinct, — But, however that 
 may be, it has nothing to do, I repeat, with the question 
 now under discussion. The freedom of the affections, and 
 the freedom of the will, are by no means the same thing. 
 We have already seen that there may be a fixed and positive 
 connection between my inclinations and my choice, and so 
 my will, and yet my will be perfectly free. This is the main 
 thing to be settled ; and there seems to be no need of fur- 
 ther argument to establish this point ; and if this be so, 
 decides the question as to the freedom of the will. 
 
 I^earing of tJds Yiew upon the divine Government. — 
 The view now taken, leaves it open and quite in the power 
 of Providence, so to shape circumstances, guide events, and 
 BO to array, and bring to bear on the mind of man, motives 
 and inducements to any given course, as virtually to controi 
 
CERTAIN QUESTIONS, ETC. 549 
 
 and determine Hs conduct, by controlling and determining 
 his indinations^ and so his choice ; while, at the same time, 
 the man is left perfectly free to put forth such voHtions aa 
 he pleases, and to do as he likes. There can be no higher 
 Uberty than this. To this point I shall again revert, when 
 the question comes up respecting the divine agency in ooa- 
 nection with human freedom. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 CERTAIN QUESTIONS CONNECTED WITH THE PRECEDINa 
 
 § I. — Contrary Choice. 
 
 The Question stated, — In the preceding chapters our at- 
 tention has been directed to the psychological facts respect- 
 ing the willj and also to the general question respecting the 
 freedom of the will. Closely connected with this main 
 question, and involved in its discussion, are certain inquiries 
 of a like nature, which cannot wholly be passed by, and for 
 the consideration of which the way is now prepared. One 
 of these respects the power of contrary choice. Have we 
 any such power ^ Is the freedom, which, as wo have seen, 
 belongs to the very nature of the will, sicch a freedom as 
 allows of our choosing, under given circumstances, any other- 
 wise than we do ? When I put forth a volition, all other 
 things being as they are, can I, at that moment, in place of 
 that volition, put forth a different oi;e in its stead ? 
 
 Not identical with the preceding, — This question is not 
 identical with that respecting the freedom of the will, for it 
 has been already shown that there may be true freedom 
 without any suj^h power as that now in question. My will 
 is free, provided I can put forth such volitions as I please, 
 irrespective of the power to substitute other voLtion^ anii 
 choices m place of the actual ones. 
 
550 CERTAIN QUESTIONS 
 
 Such Power not likely to he exercised. — The question, 
 however, is one of some importance, whether we have any 
 such power or not, ^nd whether we have it or not, one 
 thing is certain — we are not hkely to exercise it. If among 
 the fixed and given things, which are to remain as they are, 
 we include whatever inclines or induces the mind to choose 
 and act as it does, then, power or no power to the contrary, 
 the choice will be as it is, and would be so, if we were to try 
 the experiment a thousand times ; for choice depends on 
 these preceding circumstances and inducements — the in- 
 chnation of the mind — and if this is given, and made cer- 
 tain, the choice to which it will lead becomes certain also. 
 A choice opposed to the existing inclination, to the sum 
 total of the existing inducements to action, is not a choice 
 at all ; it is a contradiction in terms. The j^ower of contrary 
 choice, then, is one which, from the nature of the case, will 
 never be put in requisition, unless something lying back of 
 the choice, viz., inclination, be changed also. 
 
 £ut does such Power exist. — The question is not, how- 
 ever, whether such a power is likely to be employed, but 
 whether it exists / not whether the choice will he thus and 
 thus, but whether it can he otherwise. When, from various 
 courses of procedure, all practicable, and at my option, I 
 select or choose one wliich, on the whole, I will pursue, have 
 I no pov^ier^ under those very circumstances, and at that very 
 moment, to choose some other course instead of that ? Can 
 my choice be otherwise than it is ? 
 
 In what Sense there is such Pov^er. — Abstractly, I sup- 
 pose, it can. Power and inclination are two difierent thing^s. 
 The power to act is one thing, and the disposition to exert 
 that power is another thing. Logically., one does not in- 
 volve the other. The power may exist without the disposi- 
 tion^ or the disi^osition without the power, ^here is^oz/jer, 
 logically, abstractly considered, to choose, even when incli- 
 nation is wanting ; you have only to supply the requisite in* 
 clin^tio^ and the power is at once exerted, the choice ia 
 
CONNECTED WITH THE PRECEDING 55^ 
 
 made, the act is performed. But the change of inclination 
 does not create any new power ; it simply puts in requisitioD 
 a power ah-eady existing. 
 
 § II. — Power to Do what we are not Disposed to Do. 
 
 The Question under another Form, — Closely analogoui 
 to the question last discussed, virtually, indeed, the sams 
 question under another form, is the inquiry, whether we can 
 at any moment, will or do what we are not, at that moment, 
 incUned to do. Have I any such power or freedom as this, 
 that I CAN do what I am not disposed or do not wish to 
 do ? My disposition being to pursue a given course, is it 
 really in my poicer to pursue a different one ? 
 
 In order to determine this question, let us see what con- 
 stitutes, or in what consists, the power of doing, m any case, 
 what we are disposed to do ; and then we may be able to 
 judge whether that power still exists, in case the disposition 
 is wanting. 
 
 In what Poioer consists, — It is admitted that I can'^dio 
 what I wish or am disposed to do. Now, in what consists 
 that power ? That depends on what sort of act it is that I 
 am to put forth. Suppose it be a physical act. My power 
 to do what I wish, in that case, consists in my having certain 
 physical organs capable of doing the given thing, and undei 
 the command of my will. Suppose it be an intellectual act. 
 My power, in that case, of doing what I like, depends on my 
 having such mental faculties as are requisite for the perform- 
 ance of the given act, and these under control. So long, 
 then, as I have the faculties, physical or mental, that are ro 
 quisite to the performance of a given act, and those faculties 
 are under the control of my will, so that I can exert them 
 if I please, and when I please, so long my power of doing 
 what I like is unimpaired, and complete, as, e,g,^ the pcwef 
 of walking, or adding a column of accounts. 
 
652 CERTAIN QUESTIONS 
 
 Sat siijypose the Disposition v^anting. — Suppose, noy^,^ 
 the disposition to be wanting ; does the power also disap- 
 pear, or does it remain ? I have the same faculties as be- 
 fore, and they are as fully under the control of the will as 
 ever, and that constitutes all the power I ever had. I have 
 )he power, then, of doing what I have no inclination to do. 
 W^hatever I can do if I like, that also I can do, even if I do 
 f.ot Uke. In itself considered, the power to do a thing may 
 6e quite complete, and independent of the inclination or dis- 
 position to do or not to do. 
 
 Will it be ]rmt in Requisition ? — But will this power be 
 iver exercised ? Certainly not, so long as the disinclination 
 (Continues. In ordev to the doing of any thing, there must 
 not only hepoimi'' to do it, but disposition. If the latter be 
 wanting, the former, though it may exist, will never be put 
 forth. 
 
 Our Aetio7is not consequently inevitable, — Have I, then, 
 no power, that is really available, to do what I do not happen 
 to be, at this moment, inclined to do ? Am I shut up to the 
 actual inclinations and choices of any given hour or mo- 
 men^* ? Am I under the stern rule of inevitable necessity 
 and fate to do as I do, to choose as I choose, to be inclined 
 as I am inclined ? By no means. My inclinations are not 
 fixed quantities. They may change. They depend, in part, 
 on . the intellectual conceptions : these may vary ; in part 
 on the state of the heart : divine grace may change the 
 heart. 
 
 Actual Choices not necessary ones, — The actual choice 
 rf any given moment is by no means a necessary one. An- 
 other might have been in its stead. A different inclination 
 •s certainly possible and conceivable, and a different inclina- 
 tion would hav^ led to a different choice. If, instead of 
 looking at the advantage or agreeableness of a proposed 
 course, and being influenced by that consideration, I had 
 looked at the right, the obligation in the case, my choice 
 fV^ould have been a different one, for I should have been in- 
 
CONNECTED WITH THE PRECEDING. 553 
 
 fluenced by a different motive. Two different objects were 
 presented to my mind, a and 5. As it is, I choose a, but 
 might have chosen 5, and should^ had I been so inclined. 
 Why did I choose a ? Because, as the matter then pre- 
 sented itself to my mind, I was so inclined. But I might have 
 taken a different view of the w^hole thing, and then my m- 
 clination and my choice would have been different. It was 
 in my power to have thought, to have felt, to have acted 
 differently. What is more, I not only mighty but, perhaps, 
 ought to have felt and acted differently. I am responsible 
 for having such an inclination as leads to a wrong choice 
 responsible for my opinions and views which influence my 
 feelings ; responsible for my disposition, in so far as it is the 
 result of causes w^ithin my owr^. control. 
 
 Different Uses of the Term Power, — It ought to be 
 clearly defined in all such discussions lohat ice mean by the 
 principal terms employed. In the present instance what we 
 mean by the words poioer,, ability^ can,, etc., ought to be 
 distinctly stated. Now, there are two senses in which these 
 words are used, and the question before us turns, in part, on 
 this difference. 
 
 1. We may use the word power, e. g.^ to denote all that 
 is requisite or essential to the actual doing of a thing, what- 
 ever is so connected with the doing, that, if it be wanting^ 
 the thing will not be done. 
 
 Or, 2. In a more limited sense, to denote merely all that 
 is requisite to the doing the thing, provided we please or 
 choose to do it, all that is requisite in order to our doing 
 what we like or wish. 
 
 The latter distinguishes between the ability and the will- 
 ingness to do ; the former includes them both in the idea of 
 power. In order to the actual doing there must be both. 
 But does the word power properly include both ? In ordi- 
 nary language, certainly, we distinguish the two. I can do a 
 thing, and I wish to do it, are distinct propositions, and 
 neither includes the other. It is only by a license of speech 
 
 24 
 
W&4 CERTAIN QUESTIONS 
 
 ., we sometimes say I cannot^ when we mean simply, I 
 ji^ve no wish or disposition. If we make the distinction in 
 v^aestion between power and disposition, then we can do 
 what we have no wish to do. If we do not make it, but in- 
 clude in the term power the disposition to exert the power, 
 then we cannot do what we have no disposition to do. 
 
 § III. — Influence of Motives 
 
 I. Is THE Will always as the greatest afparek's 
 Good ? 
 
 The Answer depends on the Meaning of the Question, - — 
 If by this be meant simply whether the mind always wills 
 as it is, on the whole, and under all the circumstances, dis- 
 posed or inclined to will, I have already answered the ques- 
 tion. If more than that be meant, if we mean to ask 
 whether we always, in volition, act with reference to the 
 one consideration of advantage or utility, the good that is 
 to accrue, in some way, to ourselves or others from the 
 given procedure — and this is what the question seems to im* 
 ply — I deny that this is so. I have already shown, in pre- 
 senting the psychological facts respecting the will, that our 
 motives of action are from two grand and diverse sources : 
 desire and duty — self-love^ or, at most such love as in- 
 volves mere natural emotion, and sense of obligation / that 
 we do not always act in view merely of the agreeable^ but 
 also in view of the rights and that these two are not iden* 
 tical. Now the greatest apparent good is not always the 
 night; nor even the apparent right. We are conscious of 
 he difference, and of acting, now from the one, now from 
 the other, of these motives. But to say that the will is al- 
 ways according to the greatest apparent good, is to resolve 
 all volition into the pursuit of the agreeable, and all motives 
 of action into self-love. It is to merge the feeling of obli- 
 gation in the feeling of desire, and lose sight rf it as in it- 
 self a distinct motive of action. 
 
CONNECTED WITH THE PRECEDING. 555 
 
 hfect in the Socratic Philosophy, — This was the capita] 
 defect in the ethical system of Socrates, who held that men 
 always pursue what they think to be good, and, therefore, 
 always do what they think is right, since the good and the 
 right are identical ; sometimes, indeed, mistaking an apparent 
 good for a real one, but always doing as well as they know 
 how ; from which it is but a short step to the conclusion that 
 sin is only so much ignorance, and virtue so much knowl 
 edge — a conclusion to which the modern advocates of the 
 doctrines under discussion would by no means assent, but 
 from which that shrewd thinker and most consistent logician 
 saw no escape. 
 
 II. Is THE Will determined by the strongest Motive ? 
 
 Tlie Term " strongest " as thus employed. — Much depends 
 on what we mean by "strongest" in this connection, and what 
 by the word " determined ? " If we me^n, by the strongest 
 motive, the one which in a given case prevails, that in view 
 of which the mind decides and acts, then the question amounts 
 merely to this. Does the prevalent motive 2iQXM2iSij prevail f 
 To say that it does, is much the same as to say, that a 
 straight stick is a straight stick. And what else can you 
 mean by strongest motive ? What standard have you for 
 measuring motives and guaging their strength, except simply 
 to judge of them by the effects they produce ? Or, who 
 ever supposed that, of tvv^o motives,* it was not the stronger 
 but the weaker one that in a given case prevailed ? 
 
 Tlie Word " determinedP — The question may be made, 
 however, to turn upon the word determined. Is the will 
 deterrmined by that motive which prevails ? Is it determ^ined 
 at all by a7iy motive or by any thing ? If by this word it 
 be meant or implied that the motive, and not the mind itseli, 
 IS the producing cause of the mind's own action, then I deny 
 that the will is^ in any such sense^ determined, whether by 
 the strongest motive, or any other. The will is simply the 
 mind or the soul willing ; its acts are determined by itself, 
 
556 CERTAIN QUESTIONS 
 
 and itself only. If you mean simply that the motive influ- 
 ences the will, prevails with it, becomes the reason v^hy the 
 will decides as it does, this I have already shown to he true, 
 and in this sense, undoubtedly, the motive determines the 
 volition, just as the fall of an apple from a tree is, in the first 
 instance, produced or caused by the law of gravitation ; but 
 the particular direction which it takes in falling, depends on, 
 and is determined by, adventitious circumstances as, e, ^., t)ae 
 obstacles it meets in its descent. Those obstacles, in one 
 sense, determine the motion ; they are the reason and ex- 
 planation of the fact thai it falls just as it does, and not 
 otherwise ; but they are not the producing cause of the 
 motion itself. 
 
 III. Aee Motives the Cause, and Volitio:n^s thsj 
 
 Effect ? 
 
 Incorrect Use of the Term Cause, — It is common, with a 
 certain class of writers, to speak of motive as the cause of 
 action or volition. This is, if at all correct and allowable, 
 certainly not a fortunate use of terms. The agent is prop- 
 erly the cause of any act, and in volition the soul itself is 
 the agent. It is the mind itself, which is, strictly, the effi- 
 cient cause of its own acts. The motive is the reason why I 
 act, and not the producer or cause of my act. In common 
 speech, this distinction is not always observed. We say, I 
 do such a thing because of this or that, meaning for such 
 and such reasons. In philosophical discussion it is necessary 
 to be more exact. 
 
 Liable to be misunderstood. — The use of the word, m 
 now referred to, is particularly to be avoided as liable to mig« 
 lead the incautious reader or hearer. It suggests the idea 
 of physical necessity, of irresistibility. Given, the law ot 
 gravitation, e, g.^ and a body unsupported must fall — no 
 choice, no volition ; whereas, the action of the mind in voli- 
 tion is, by its essential nature, voluntary,^ directly opposed to 
 the idea of compulsion. Those who use the word in this 
 
CONNECTED WITH THE PRECEDING. 55^ 
 
 manner are generally careful to disclaim, it is true, any such 
 sense ; but such are our associations with tlie word cause^ as 
 ordinarily employed, that it is difficult to avoid sliding, un- 
 awares, into the old and familiar idea of some sort of abso- 
 lute physical necessity. It were better to say, therefore, thai, 
 motives are the reasons why we act thus and thus. To go 
 further than this, to call the motive the cause of the volition, 
 is neither a correct nor a fortunate use of terms, since the 
 idea is thereby conveyed, guard against it as you will, that, 
 in some way, the influence was irresistible, the event un- 
 avoidable. 
 
 The Phrase " moral Necessity P ~ The same objections 
 lie with still greater force against the phrase moral necessity 
 as applied to this subject. Those w^ho use it are careful, for 
 the most part, to define their meaning, to explain that the^ 
 do not mean necessity at all, but only the certainty of actions. 
 The word itself, however, is constantly contradicting all such 
 explanations, constantly suggesting another and much stronger 
 meaning. That is necessary, properly speaking, which de- 
 pends not on my will or pleasure, which cannot be avoided, 
 but must be, and must be as it is. ]^ow, to say of an act of 
 the will, that it is necessary, in this sense, is little short of a 
 contradiction in terms. The two ideas are utterly incongru- 
 ous and incompatible. 
 
 A volition may be certain to take place ; it may be the 
 motive that makes it certain, but if this is all we mean, it is 
 better to say just this, and no more. If this is all we mean, 
 then we do not mean that volitions are necessary in any 
 proper ^ense of that term. There is no need to use the 
 word necessity, and then explain that we do not mean neces- 
 sity, but only certainty. It is precisely on this unfortunate 
 use of terms that the strongest objections are founded, 
 against the true doctrine of the connection of motive with 
 volition. Even Mill, one of the ablest modern necessitari- 
 ans, objects to the use of this term, and urges its abandon- 
 ment. 
 
568 CERTAIN QUESTIONS 
 
 Tlie true Connection, — WTiat^ theuy is the collection be- 
 tween Motive and Volition ? — I have all along ^dmitlbil, 
 that there is such a connection between volitions and mo- 
 tives, that the former never occur without the latter, that 
 they stand related as antecedent and consequent, and that 
 motives, while not the producing cause of volitions, are still 
 the reason ichy the volitions are as they are, and not other- 
 wise. They furnish the occasion of their existence, and the 
 explanation of their character. So much as this, the psy 
 chology of the subject warrants — -more than this it does not 
 allow. More than this we seem to assert, however, when 
 we insist on saying that motive is the cause, and volition the 
 efiect. We seem, however we may disclaim such intention, 
 to make the mind a mere mechanical instrument, putting 
 forth volitions only as it is impelled by motives, these, and 
 not the mind, being the real producing cause, and the voli- 
 tions following irresistibly, just as the knife or chisel is but 
 the passive instrument in the hand of the architect, and not 
 at all the producing cause of the effects which follow. 
 
 Difference of the two Cases, — !N^ow there is a vast differ- 
 3nce between these two cases. The impulse, communicated 
 DO the saw, produces the effect irresistibly ; not so the mo* 
 tive. The saw is a passive instrument ; not so the "inind* 
 There is, in either case, a fixed connection between the an- 
 tecedent and the coilsequent, but the nature of the connec- 
 tion is widely different, and it is a difference or the greatest 
 moment. It is precisely the difference indicated by the two 
 words cause and reason — as applied to account for a given 
 occurrence — the one applicable to material and mechanical 
 powers and processes, the other to intelligent, rational, volun- 
 tary agents. There is a cause why the apple falls. It ia 
 gravitation. There is a reason why mind acts and wills aj5 
 it does. It is -motive. 
 
 JBut IS the Mind the producing Cause of its oion Volitions ? 
 ' — This, the advocates of moral necessity deny. "If we 
 diould thus cause a volition," saj s Dr. Edwards, " we should 
 
CONNECTEI) WITH THE PRECEDING. 55S 
 
 doubtless cause it by a causal act. It is impossible tliat we 
 cause any thing without a causal act. And as it is supposed 
 that we cause it freely, the causal act must be a free act, i, 6., 
 an act of the will, or volition. And as the supposition is, 
 that ail our volitions are caused by ourselves, the causal act 
 must be caused by another, and so on infinitely, which m 
 both impossible and inconceivable." That is, if the mind 
 causes its own volitions, it can do it only by first acting to 
 cause them, and that causative act is, itself, a volition, and 
 requires another causative act to produce it, and so on ad 
 infinitum. 
 
 The Dictum Necessitatis proves too much, — This cele- 
 brated argument has been called, not inappositely, the 
 dictum necessitatis. It rests upon the agj«umption, that no 
 cause can act, but by first acting to produce that act. Now 
 this virtually shuts out all cf^use from the universe, or else 
 involves us in the infinite series. Apply this reasoning* to 
 any cause whatever^ and see ^f it be not so. Suppose, e. g.^ 
 that m>otive^ and no*, the min4 itself, is the producing cause 
 of volition. Then, ac^/Ording to the dictum, motive cannot 
 act, but by first acting- m ord-^r to act, and for that previous 
 causative act, there mp^t have been an ulterior cause, and 
 so on forever, in an end^^^f^ s^iccession of previous causative 
 acts. 
 
 The Dictum as applica^^^ fo Mind, — But it may be said 
 this dictum applies only tc ^?nd, or voluntary action. How, 
 then, is it known, that min'^ ^.annot act without first acting 
 m ordei to act ? Would p^t- this virtually shut out and ex- 
 linguish all mental action ? The mind thinks ; must it first 
 think, in order to think? .^t reasons, judges, corceives, im- 
 agines, must it first reason^ ^udge, etc., in order to reas(5n, 
 and judge, and conceive, ^^A imagine? If not then why 
 may it not will without first ^nilling to will ? 
 
 The Dictum as applicable to Dpity.--\i mmd is not Iho 
 ^ause of its own volitions, t^^D^ Y^\s is H witA the volitions 
 of the infinite and eternal xp^ VvV® k\ C-her au»^l or an- 
 
660 THE WILL VIEWED 
 
 caused ? If caused, then by what ? If by himself, then 
 there is again the infinitely recurring series according to the 
 dictum. If by something else, still we ' do not escape the 
 series, for each causative act must have its prior cause. Are 
 the volitions of Deity, then, uncaused? Then certainly 
 there is no such thing as cause in the universe. Motives, 
 then, are no longer to be called causes. Deity is not, in 
 fact, the cause of any thing, since not the cause of those 
 volitions by which alone all things are produced. If he is 
 not the cause of these, then not the cause of their conse- 
 quences and effects. In either case, you shut out all cause 
 from the universe, whether the dictum be applied to mind 
 or to motion, to man or to God ; or else you are, in either 
 case, involved in the vortex of this terrible infinitive series. 
 
 To give up the dictum, is to admit that mind may be the 
 producing cause of its own volitions. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 THE DOCTEINE OF THE WILL VIEWED IN CONNECTION WITH 
 CERTAIN TRUTHS OF RELIGION. 
 
 The Relation of Psychology to Theology » — The very close 
 connection between the philosophy of the will, and the science 
 of theology, has already been remarked. We have discussed 
 the questions which have come before us thus far, on purely 
 psychological grounds, without reference to their theological 
 bearing. It would be manifest injustice to the matter in 
 hand, however, were we to overlook entirely the relation of 
 our philosophy to those higher truths which pertain to the 
 domain of theological science. 
 
 The whole question respecting the freedom of the human 
 will, especially, assumes a new importance, when viewed ia 
 connection with the truths of natural and revealed religioa 
 
IK CONNECTION WITH RELIGION. 561 
 
 It ceases to be a speculative, and becomes an eminently prac- 
 tical question when thus viewed. 
 
 There are two points which require special attention, aa 
 regards that connection ; the one, GfodPs po'wer over man , 
 the other, ma'?i^s power over himself, 
 
 § L — The Power which God Exerts over the Human Mind 
 
 AND Will. 
 
 Depe^idence of Man. — It seems to be the teaching of 
 reason, no less than of religion, that man stands to the 
 Creator in the relation of absolute dependence. The one is 
 the subject, the other the sovereign. The control of Deity 
 extends, not merely to the elements and forces of nature, 
 which are by no means the chief and most important part of 
 his works, but over all intelligent, rational beings. This is 
 implied, not only in the fact that he is the Creator of 
 all, but in the fact of moral government, and of a super- 
 intending providence. Manifestly, there could be no such 
 thing as moral government, and no control over the af- 
 fairs of the world, if the conduct of men, the minds and 
 hearts of intelligent beings, were not subject to that control. 
 This is not only the inference which reason draws from the 
 acknowledged supremacy of the Creator, it is not only thus 
 a tenet of natural religion, but it is also one of the plainest 
 doctrines of revealed truth. In the most explicit and direct 
 terms, the Scriptures ascribe to God the supreme control 
 of human conduct, of the human mind and heart. This 
 power over the thoughts and purposes of intelligent boingi 
 is the very highest power. 
 
 Tills Control unlimited. — This control, moreover, in 
 order to be complete and effective, must reach beyond 
 the present and passing moment, must take in the future, 
 must sweep through the whole range of coming duration, 
 and comprehend whatever is to be. jSTothing must take 
 place without his foreknowledge and permission. The mi^ 
 
 24^ 
 
562 THE WILL VIEWED 
 
 niitest events, tlie falling of a sparrow, the number of the 
 forest leaves, and of the hairs of our head, must be no ex« 
 rjeption to this general law. 
 
 Implies a Plan^ and that Plan embraces human Con- 
 duct. — If we suppose the supreme Being to be, not only a 
 Creator and Ruler, but a wise and intelligent one, then we 
 must suppose him to have some plan of operations. The 
 very idea of providence^ indeed, implies this. And this plan 
 must be supposed to extend to, and include, future events, 
 all events, minute events ; for the little and the great are 
 linked together, the future and the present are linked to- 
 gether, and the plan and government that has to do with 
 one, must have to do with all, and with human conduct 
 among the rest. This, again, is not more clearly the doc- 
 trine of reason than of revelation. 
 
 The Difficulty stated. — Whatever freedom man has, then, 
 it must be such a freedom as is consistent with God's com- 
 plete control and government of him. Neither his present 
 nor his future conduct, neither his thoughts, his feelings, noi- 
 his purposes, must be beyond the reach of the divine purpose 
 and control. But how are these things to be reconciled — 
 man's entire freedom, God's entire control and government 
 of him ? 
 
 Different Positions assumed. — Both are facts, and, there- 
 fore, true. Either, by itself, can be well enough conceived 
 and comprehended, but, taken together, they appear incon- 
 sistent. Many do not hesitate to pronounce them so. 
 Some, who accept them both as true, legard them as still in- 
 explicable and incomprehensible. Others receive one and 
 reject the other, or, at least, assume such a position as 
 amounts to a virtual rejection of one of these truths. Thus 
 the fatalist secures the supreme government of God, only at 
 the expense of human freedom, and thus weakens, if not 
 destroys, the foundation of human accountability. Others 
 again, in their horror of fatalism, preserve the freedom and 
 accountability of man, at the expense of the divine govern- 
 
IN CONNECTION WITH RELIGION. 5^53 
 
 ment and purposes, thus virtually placing man beyond the 
 power and control of Deity. 
 
 Application of the preceding Psychology to this Ques 
 tion. — How, then, are these two great facts to be recon- 
 ciled ? If we mistake not, a true psychology, a correct 
 view of the nature of the will, prepares the way for this. 
 What have we found to be the process of the mind in voli. 
 tion ? The several steps of the process are found to be 
 these : In the first place, some object to be accomplished is 
 prescinted, as such, to the understanding. This object, thus 
 presented, appealing to the desires or to the sense of duty 
 influences or inclines the mind. This, again, leads to choice 
 choice to volition, volition to action. 
 
 Freedom lies where, — Now in this whole process, ivhere 
 does the element of freedom lie ? Not in the final exec- 
 utive act — the doing as we will to do — for that is merely a 
 bodily function, a physical and not a mental power ; nor yet 
 in the control of the motives which influence or incline us ; 
 for these are, for the most part, out of our power. Evi- 
 dently freedom, so far as it pertains to the human will, lies 
 in the power of forming and putting forth such volitions as 
 we please, in other words, of choosing as we like, and will- 
 ing as we choose, so that w^hatever our inclinations may be, 
 we shall be at liberty to choose and to will accordingly. 
 This is the highest practical freedom of which it is possible 
 to conceive, and it is all the freedom which pertains to the 
 human will. 
 
 IIoio this may consist with the divine Control. — Let ua 
 ee, now, if this be not a liberty perfectly compatible with 
 the divine government and control over us. These volitions 
 uird choices of ours are by no means arbitrary or casual ; 
 there is a reason for them ; a reason why we choose as we 
 do. We choa^e thus and thus, because we are, on the whole, 
 BO disposed 01 inclined ; and this inclination or disposition 
 depends on a great variety of circumstances, on the nature 
 and strength of th'^ motive presented, our physical and 
 
564 THE WILL VIEWED 
 
 mental constit ation and habits, our power of self-control^ 
 the strength of our desires, as compared with our sense of 
 duty, the presence or absence of the exciting object; in fine, 
 on a great variety of predisposing causes and circumstances, 
 all of which are to be taken into the account, when the ques- 
 tion is, why do we choose thus, and not otherwise ? Now, 
 these circumstances which go to determine our inclinations, 
 and so our choices and volitions, are, in a great measure, be 
 yond our direct control. Our physical and mental constitu 
 tion, our external condition, our state of mind, and circum 
 stances at any given moment, whatever in the shape of 
 motive or inducement may be present with moving power 
 to the mind, inclining us this way or that, all this hes much 
 more under divine control than under our own. 
 
 The Point of Connection, — Here, then, to speak rever- 
 ently, lies the avenue of approach, through which Deity 
 may come in and take possession of the human mind, and 
 influence and shape its action, without infringing, in the 
 least, on its perfect freedom. He has only to present such 
 motives as shall seem to the mind weighty and sufficient, 
 has only to toucn the main-spring of human inclination, ly- 
 ing back of actual choice, has only to secure within us a 
 dis^Dosition or liking to any given course, and our choice fol- 
 lows with certainty, and our volition, and our action ; and 
 that action and volition ^vefree in the highest sense, because 
 our choice was free. We acted just as we pleased, just as 
 we were inclined. 
 
 Tlie Influence of Man over his fellow Ifen an Illustration 
 of the same Principle, — Now this is just what we, in a 
 limited way, and to a small extent, are constantly doing 
 with respect to our fellow men. We present motives, in* 
 ducements, to a given course, we work upon their incUna- 
 tions, we appeal to their sensibilities, their natural desires, 
 their sense of duty, and in proportion as we gain access to 
 their hearts, we are successful in shaping and controlling 
 their conduct. The great and difficult art of governing 
 
IN CONNECTION WITH RELIGION 565 
 
 men lies in this. We have only to suppose a lihe power, 
 but complete and perfect, to be exercised by the supreme 
 disposer and controller of events, so shaping and ordering 
 circumstances as to determine the inclinations of men, gain- 
 ing access, not in an uncertain and indirect manner, but by 
 immediate approach to the human heart, all whose springs 
 lie under his control, so that he can touch and command 
 them as he will; we have only to conceive this, ^nd we 
 have, as it seems to me, a full and sufficient explanation of 
 the fact that man acts freely, and just as he is inclined, while 
 yet he is perfectly under the divine control. 
 
 Poioer which the Scriptures ascribe to G-od, — And this, 
 if I mistake not, is precisely the sort of control and power 
 over man which the Scriptures always ascribe to God, viz., 
 power over the inclinations, affections, dispositions, from 
 which proceed all our voluntary actions. In his hand are 
 the hearts oi men, and he can turn them as the rivers ot 
 water are turned. 
 
 The Theory does not suppose a divine Influence to Evil, 
 — It is not necessary to suppose that God ever influences 
 men to evil ; the supposition is inconsistent with the divine 
 character, with all we know and conceive of Deity. [N'or is 
 any such influence over man necessary in order to the ac- 
 complishment of evil, but, on the contrary, much is needed 
 to restrain and prevent him from sin. Sufficient already are 
 the motives and influences that incline him to go astray ; 
 feeble and inefficient, the inducements to a better life. Could^ 
 we suppose, however, any influence of this sort to be»exerted 
 over man, inclining him to evil, we can still see how such 
 influence might be perfectly consistent with his entire free- 
 dom. It is not the integrity of human freedom, but the in- 
 tegrity of the divine character, that forbids such a sup- 
 position. 
 
 Does not interfere with JRespoJisihility, — Does such a 
 power over human conduct, as that now attributed to the 
 supreme Being, interfere with human responsibility ? Not 
 
566 THE WILL VIEWED 
 
 m the least. Responsibility rests with Hrn who acts Ireely 
 and as he pleases, doing that which is right or wrong, of his 
 own accord, knowing what he does, and because he has a 
 mind to do it. And it is thus man acts, under whatevei' 
 degree of divine influence we may suppose him placed, 
 
 § II. — Man's Power over Himself. 
 
 Unjust TO require what it is impossible to perforrn, ^-^ 
 Have I power, in all cases, to do what the divine will re« 
 quires ; power to do right ? It would seem to be the ver 
 diet of reason, and the common sense of mankind, that to 
 require of any man what is literally and absolutely beyond 
 his power, is unjust, and that such a requirement, if it were 
 made, would impose no obligation, since obedience would 
 be impossible. We cannot suppose God to be guilty of such 
 manifest injustice. His commands are right. They carry 
 with them the judgment and reason of men. Conscience 
 approves them. Obhgation attends them. They must, there- 
 fore, be such commands as it is possible for us to obey. It 
 would be manifest injustice and wrong to require of me 
 what it is actually and absolutely out of my power to do. 
 
 Supposed Disinclination, — But suppose I have really no 
 inclination, no dispositiou, to do right. My affections and 
 desires are all wrong, inclining me to evil, and my sense of 
 duty or moral obligation is not strong enough to prevail 
 against these natural desires and evil inclinations ; suppose 
 
 # 
 
 this, which, alas ! is too often true, and what, then becomes 
 of my power to do right ? Does it any longer exist ? Have 
 I any power to change those affections and inclinations ; or, 
 they remaining as they are, have I any power to go con- 
 trary to them ? A question this, at once profoundly phUo- 
 sophical, and intensely practical. 
 
 Position of the Fatalist. — The fatalist has no hesitation 
 in replying no, to these questions. Man has no power to 
 change the current of his own inclinations, nor yet to %<^ 
 
TK CONNECTION WITH RELIGION. 5GV 
 
 frg^^isr^ ihat current. He is wholly under the miiuence of 
 motives ; they turn him this way and that. He has i)ower 
 to do as he wills, but no power over the volitions themselves. 
 He has power* to do only what he has a mind to do. Ha 
 has no mind, no inclination to do right, therefore, no powe? 
 *^o do so. 
 
 This Position at Variance with a true Psychology, — A 
 correct psychology, as we have already seen, gives a differ- 
 ent answer. It is not true, as a matter of fact in the philos 
 ophy of the human mind, that man has no power to do what 
 lie has no disposition to do ; nor is it true that his inclina- 
 tions and affections are wholly out of his power and control. 
 In both respects, fatalism is at war, not more with the com- 
 mon sense of mankind, than with a sound and true philosophy. 
 
 Confounds Power with Inclination. — To say that man 
 has no power to do what he is not inclined to do, is to con- 
 found power with inclination. They are distinct things. 
 The Ofie may exist without the other. I have power to do 
 what I have no disposition to do ; on the other hand, I may 
 have the disposition to do what is not in my power. I have 
 power CO set fire to my own house, or to my neighbor's, or 
 to cut off my right hand ; power, but no disposition. Pre- 
 sent a motive sufficiently weighty to change my mind, and 
 mcline me to the act, and you create, in that way, a new 
 disposition, but no new power. This point has been fully 
 discussed in the previous chapter, and I need not here 
 repeat th-e argument. It was shown that in order to the- 
 actual doing of a thing, two things are requisite, namely, 
 the power to do, and the incKnation to exert that power; 
 and that neither involves the other. Where the power 
 alone exists, the thing can he done, but will not be y where 
 both exist, it both can and will be done. It is not true, 
 then, in any proper use of terms, that want of inclination ia 
 want of power. 
 
 Our Inclinations not wholly bey o id our Control, — 
 Equally incorrect is the position that our inclinations and 
 
568 THE WILL VIEWED. ETC. 
 
 affections are wholly out of our own control. Within cer 
 tain limits it is in our power to change them. Inclination ia 
 not a fixed quantity. It may change. It ought to change. 
 In many respects it is constantly changing. We take dif- 
 ferent views of things, and so our feelings and inclinations 
 change. Circumstances change ; the course of events changes; 
 ind our disposition is modified accordingly. So that while 
 he affections and inclinations are certainly not under the 
 direct and immediate control of the will, it is still, in a great 
 measure, in our power to modify and control them. While 
 they remain as they are, it is quite certain that we shall do 
 as we do ; but it is not necessary that they should^ nor cer- 
 tain that they will^ remain as they are. 
 
 TJie true A7iswer, — To the question, then, can the man 
 whose inclinations are to evil, whose heart is wrong, do 
 right ? a true psychology answers yes. He can do what he 
 is not inclined to do ; nor is that evil inclination itself a fixed 
 quantity ; he can be, he may be, otherwise inclined. 
 
 SometJwig else needed beside Power, - — It must be admit- 
 ted, however, that so long as the heart is wrong, so long as 
 the evil disposition continues, so long the man will continue 
 to do evil, notwithstanding all his power to the contrary. 
 Left to himself, there is very little probability of his effecting 
 any material change in himself for the better. In order to 
 this, there is needed an influence from without, and from 
 above ; an influence that shall incline him to obedience, thrit 
 shall make him willing to obey. 
 
 Tlie Gospel meets this Necessity, — This is precisely the 
 want of his nature which divine grace meets. It creates 
 within him a clean hearty and renews within him a right 
 spirit. This is the sublime mystery of regeneration. The 
 soul that is thus born of God is made willing to do right. 
 The incfinations are no longer to evil, but to good, and the 
 man still doing that which he pleases, is pleased to do the 
 will of God. The change is in the disposition; it is a change 
 of the affections, of the heart; thus the Scriptures always 
 
POWEE OF WILL. * 5Q^ 
 
 -^present it. This was all that was wanted to secure obe- 
 dience, and this divine grace supplies. 
 
 It is not our province to discuss theological questions, as 
 such. It has been our aim, simply, to show the relation of a 
 true psychology to the system of truth revealed in the Scrip- 
 tureSr The perfect coincidence of the two is an argument in 
 fevor of each. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 POWER OF WILL. 
 
 Differences i7% this respect, — There are great diffeioncesj 
 among men, as regards the strength and energy of this, as 
 compared with the other departments of mental activity. 
 The difference is, perhaps, as great in this respect, as in re- 
 gard to the other mental faculties. ISTot all are gifted with 
 equal power of imagination, not all with equal strength ot 
 memory, or of the reasoning faculty ; not all with equal 
 strength of the executive power of the mind. Some persons 
 exhibit a weakness of will, a want of decision and firmness, 
 an irresolution of character and purpose. They waver and 
 iiesitate in cases of doubt and emergency, requirmg decision 
 and energy. They are governed by no fixed purpose. The 
 course which they adopt to-day, they abandon to-morrow 
 fcr the opposite. They are controlled by circumstances. 
 Opposition turns them from their course, difficulties dis- 
 courage them. They are easily persuaded, easily led ; ill 
 fitted to be themselves leaders of men. 
 
 Others, again, are firm and inflexible as a rock. They 
 choose their course, and pursue it, regardless of difficulties 
 and consequences. Difficulties only arouse them to new 
 effort. Opposition only strengthens their decision and pui^- 
 pose. They are hard to be persuaded^ when once theii 
 
570 POWEK OF WILL. 
 
 minds are made up, and harder still to be driven. They 
 take their stand, nothing daunted by opposing numbers, 
 and, with Fitz-James, when suddenly confronted and sur- 
 rounded by the hosts of Roderic^Dhu, exclaim, 
 
 *' Come one, come all, this rock shall fly 
 Erom its firm base, as soon as /." 
 
 * Instances of Firmness, — Napoleon, fiery and impetuous 
 as he was, possessed this energy and strength of will. 
 Obstacles, difficulties, insurmountable to other men, estab- 
 lished usages, institutions, armies, thrones, all were swept 
 away before the irresistible energy of that mighty will, and 
 that determined purpose, as the wave, driven before the 
 storm, clears itself a path among the pebbles and shells that 
 lie strewn upon the shore. In the character of his brother 
 Joseph, King of Spain, we have an example of the opposite. 
 Mild, cultivated, refined, amiable, of elegant tastes, a man 
 of letters, loving retirement and leisure, he was lacking in 
 that energy and decision of character which fit men for 
 command in camps and courts. We hav^e in the firm and 
 terrible energy of Cromwell, as contrasted with the mild- 
 ness and inefficiency of his son and successor Richard, the 
 same difierence illustrated. The Puritan leaders of the 
 English Revolution were men of stern and determined 
 energy of character. Among the Romans, Caesar presents 
 a notable example of that strength of will which fits men 
 for great enterprises ; while the great Roman orator, with 
 all his acquisitions of varied learning, and all his philosophy, 
 and all his eloquence, was deficient in firmness of purpose. 
 
 Often exhibited in military Leaders, — In general it may 
 be remarked that great military commanders have usually 
 been distinguished for this trait of character. It was by 
 virtue of their energy, and decision, and firmness of pur- 
 pose, that they accomplished what they did, succeeding 
 where other men would have failed. Thus it was with Han^ 
 oibal, \vith Frederic the Great^ with Wellington, with our 
 
POWER OF WILL. 571 
 
 own Washington. They ^'ere, by nature, endowed with 
 those qualities which fittv ^ them for their important and 
 difficult stations ; while, at the same time, the work to which 
 they were called, and the circumstances in which they were 
 placed, tended greatly to develop and strengthen those pecu- 
 liar traits and qualities, and this among the rest. 
 
 The same Trait exhibited in other Stations of Life. --^ 
 Strength of will shows itself, however, in other relations and 
 stations of life, as well as in the military commander. The 
 leader of a great political party, as, for example, of the Ad- 
 ministration, or of the Opposition, in the English Parliament, 
 has abundant occasion for firmness and strength of purpose. 
 It was not less strength of will, than of moral principle, in 
 Socrates, that led him resolutely to withstand the popular 
 clamor, and the opinions of his associate judges, and refuse 
 to sentence the unsuccessful military commanders, on the 
 day when the decision lay in his hands; the same trait 
 showed itself in that retreat after the battle of Delius, so 
 graphically described by Plato, when he walked alone and 
 slowly from the field, where all was confusion and flight, 
 with such coolness and such an air of calm self-reliance, that 
 no enemy ventured to approach him ; it was shown not less 
 in his determined refusal to escape from prison, and the un- 
 just sentence of death, notwithstanding all the entreaties 
 and remonstrances of friends. 
 
 Strength of Will in the Orator, — The truly great orator, 
 rising to repel the assaults of his antagonist, or to allay the 
 prejudices and take command of the passions and opinions 
 of a popular assembly, calm and collected, and conscious of 
 his strength, master of his own emotions, and of all his 
 powers, presents an illustration of the same principle. It 
 was seen in Webster, when he rose in the Senate to rejDly to 
 Hayne. The very aspect of the man conveyed to all be- 
 holders the idea of power — a strength, not merely of 
 gigantic intellect, but of resolute will, determined to con- 
 quer 
 
POWEE OF WILL. 
 
 Strength of 'Will as shown in the JEndurance of Suffer* 
 ing, — The same principle is sometimes manifested in a dif- 
 ferent manner, and in different circumstances. If it leads to 
 heroic actions^ it leads also to heroic endurance and suffer- 
 ing. It was the firm and stubborn will of Regulus, that sent 
 him back to Carthage, to endure all that the disappointed 
 malice of his foes could invent. It was the firm will of 
 Jerome of Prague, that kept him from recantation in the 
 face of death ; the firm wiU of Cranmer, that thrust his right 
 hand into the flames, and kept it there till it was quite con- 
 sumed. A like firmness of purpose has been exhibited in 
 thousands of instances, both in the earlier and later annals 
 of Christian martyrdom. Rather than renounce a principle, 
 or abandon the deeply-cherished convictions of the soul, na- 
 tures, the most frail and feeble, have calmly met and endured 
 the greatest sufferings, with a firmness, and courage, and 
 power of endurance, that nothing could shake or overcome. 
 
 Mow to he attained, — To multiply instances is needless. 
 But how shall this strength of will, so desirable, so essential 
 to true greatness and nobleness of character, be attained ? 
 
 In part it is the gift of nature, doubtless — the result of 
 that physical and mental constitution with which some are 
 more fortunately endowed ; in part it is an acquisition to be 
 made, as any other mental or physical acquisition, by due 
 care and training. It will be of service, especially, in any 
 endeavor of this sort, to accustom ourselves to decide with 
 promptness, and act with energy in the many smaller and 
 less important affairs of life, and to carry out a purpose, 
 once deliberately formed, with persistence, even in trivial 
 matters. The habit thus formed, we may be able afterward, 
 and gradually, to carry into higher departments of action, 
 and into circumstances of greater embarrassment and dif- 
 ficulty. On the other hand, this must not be carried to the 
 extreme- of obstinacy,^ which is the refusal to correct a mis- 
 take, or acknowledge an error, or listen to the wiser and 
 better coujisels of others. 
 
CHAPTER Vll. 
 
 BJSTOBIO^L SKETCH. — OUTLINE OF THE CONTKOA^ SLRSY 
 EESPEGTING- FREEDOM OF THE "WILL, 
 
 testion early Discussed, — The question respecting hu* 
 laian freedom, was very early a topic of inquiry and discus- 
 sion. . It enters prominently into the philosophy of all 
 nations, so far as we know, among whom either philosophy 
 or theology have found a place. It is by no means confined 
 to Christian, or even to cultivated nations. It holds a prom- 
 inent place in the theological systems and disputes of India 
 and the East, at the present day. The missionary of the 
 Christian faith meets with it, to his surprise, perhaps, in the 
 remotest regions, and among tribes little cultivated. It is a 
 question, at once so profound, and yet of such personal and 
 practical moment, that it can hardly have escaped the atten- 
 tion of any thoughtful and reflecting mind, in any country, 
 or in any age of the world. 
 
 The Greek Philosophy, — Among the Greeks, conflicting 
 opinions respecting this matter prevailed in the difierent 
 schools. The Epicureans,, although asserting human liberty 
 in opposition to the doctrine of universal and inexorable 
 fate,, were, nevertheless, necessitarians,, if we may judge 
 from the writings of Lucretius, whose idea of liberty, as Mr* 
 Stewart has well shown, is compatible with the most perfect 
 necessity, and renders man " as completely a piece of passive 
 mechanism as he was supposed to be by Collins and Hobbes.^' 
 This liberty is, itself, the necessary effect of some cause,, and 
 the reason assigned for this view is precisely that given by 
 modem advocates of necessity^ namely, that to suppose other= 
 wise, is Xfi suppose an effect without a cause. 
 
 On the other hand, the Stoics,^ while maintaining the doo- 
 
Bii histokica: sketch. 
 
 trine otfate^ held, nevertheless, to the utmost liberty of the 
 will. With the consistency of these views, we are not now 
 concerned. Epictetns is referred to by Mr. Stewart, as an 
 example of this not unusual combination of fatalism and free- 
 will. 
 
 T/ie Jewish Sects. — - Very similar was the relation of the 
 two rival sects among the Jews, the Sadducees and tne 
 Pharisees, the former holding the doctrine of human freedom, 
 the latter of such a degree, at least, of fatality, as is incon- 
 gistent with true liberty. 
 
 The Arabian /Schools, — Among no people, perhaps, has 
 this question been more eagerly and widely discussed, than 
 by the Arabians, whose philosophy seems to have grown out 
 of their theology. When that remarkable book, the Koran, 
 first aroused the impulsive mind of the Arab from his idle 
 dreams, and startled him into consciousness of higher truth, 
 the very first topic of inquiry and speculation about which 
 his philosophic thought employed itself, seems to have been 
 this long-standing question of human ability and the freedom 
 of the will. The Koran taught the doctrine of necessity and 
 fate. A sect soon arose, called Kadrites^ from the word 
 hadr.^ power, freedom, holding the opposite doctrine, that 
 man's actions, good and bad, are under the control of his 
 own will. From this was gradually formed a large body of 
 dissenters^ as they styled themselves, and in mamtaining 
 these views on the one side, and opposing them on the otherj 
 ' the controversy became more and more one of philosophy, 
 and for some three centuries, with varied learning and skill, 
 Arabian scholars and philosophers disputed, warmly, thi 
 most difficult and abstruse of metaphysical questions. Fa- 
 talism seems ultimately to have prevailed, as, indeed, a doc- 
 trine so congenial to error, and to every false system of 
 religious belief, would be quite likely to do, where any such 
 system is established. 
 
 The Scholastics and the Reformers, — Among the sclio* 
 lastic divines of the middle ages, some held to the liberty of 
 
HISTORICAL SKETCH 575 
 
 the will, while many allowed only what they called the 
 liberty of spontaneity^ i, e., power to do as we will, in oppo- 
 sition to liberty of indiffere?iCG, or power over the deter- 
 minations of the will itself. 
 
 Among the moderns, the Reformers differed among them- 
 selves on the matter of liberty, the Lutherans, with Melano 
 thon, opposing the scheme of necessity ; Calvin and Bucer 
 maintaining it, as the necessary consequence of their views 
 of divine predestination. 
 
 Distinguished modern Advocates of Necessity, — Among 
 the philosophical writers of the last and the present century, 
 a* very strong array of eminent names is on the side of ne- 
 cessity. Hobbes, Locke — who is claimed, however, by each 
 sid^ — Leibnitz, Collins, Edwards, Priestley, Belsham, Lord 
 Kames, Hartley, Mill, advocate openly the doctrine of ne- 
 cessitv. 
 
 Doctrine of Hohhes, — The views of Hohhes seem to have 
 given shape to the opinions of subsequent advocates of this 
 theory. The only liberty which he allows, is that of doing 
 what one wills to do, or w^hat the scholastics called the 
 liberty of spontaneity. Water is free, and at liberty, when 
 nothing prevents it from flowing down the stream. Liberty 
 he defines, accordingly, to be " the absence of all hnpedi- 
 merits to action that are not contained in the nature and 
 intrinsical quality of the agent,'''^ A man whose hands are 
 tied, is not at libe^'ty to go ; the impediment is not in him, 
 but in his bands ; while he who is sick or lame, is at liberty, 
 because the obstacle is in himselt A free agent is one who 
 a3an do as he wills. 
 
 This is essentially the view of freedom adopted by the 
 tater advocates of necessity, and almost in the same terms 
 it is the view of Collins, Priestley, and Edwards. 
 
 Doctrine of DocJce. — ^^It is, also, Doclce^s idea of n-eedonx- 
 Liberty, he says, is the power of any agent "to do or for- 
 bear any j^articular action, according to the determination 
 or thought of the mind, thereby either of them is preferred 
 
576 HISTORICAL SKETCH. 
 
 to the other " This extends only to the carrying out oui 
 volitions when formed, and not to the matter of willing or 
 preferring ; power over the determinations of the will, itself, 
 IS not included in this definition. 
 
 Locke Inconsistent, — In this, Locke was inconsistent with 
 bimself, since, in his chapter on power, he seems to he main- 
 taining the doctrine of human freedom. The liberty here 
 Iiitended, it has been justly remarked by Bledsoe, is not 
 freedom of the will, or of the mind in willing, but only of 
 the body ; it refers to the motion of the body, not to the 
 action of the mind. 
 
 Locke expressly says, " there may be volition whe^e 
 there is no liberty ;" and gives, in illustration, the case of 
 a man falling through a breaking bridge, who has volition 
 or preference not to fall, but no liberty, since he cannot 
 help falling. In this, again, Locke is inconsistent, since, 
 elsewhere, he distinguishes between volition and desire or 
 preference, while here he does not distinguish them. 
 
 There can be no doubt that Locke supposed himself an 
 advocate of human freedom, for such is the spirit of his 
 whole treatise, especially of 'his twenty-first chapter ; at the 
 same time, it must be confessed, his definitions are incomplete, 
 and his language inconsistent and vacillating, so that there 
 is some reason to class him, as Priestley does, with those who 
 really adopt the scheme of necessity without knowing or 
 intending it. 
 
 View of Luhnitz, — Leibnitz was led to adopt the doc- 
 trine of necessity from his general theory of the sufficient 
 reason^ that is, that nothing occurs without a reason why it 
 should be so, and not otherwise. This principle he carries 
 so far as to deny the power of Deity to create two things 
 perfectly alike, and the power of either God or man to 
 choose one of two things that are perfectly alike. This prin- 
 ciple presents the mind as always determined by the greatest 
 apparent good, and establishes, as its author supposed, by 
 
EISTORICAL SKETCH. 57? 
 
 the certainty of demonstration, the absolute impossibility of 
 free agency. 
 
 View of Collins. — Collins maintains the necessity of all 
 human actions, from experience, from the impossibility of 
 liberty, from the divine foreknowledge, from the nature of 
 rewards and punishments, and the nature of morality. He 
 takes pains to reconcile this doctrine with man's accounta- 
 bility and moral agency, and is careful to define his terms 
 mth great exactness. Thus the terms Hberty and necessity 
 are defined as follows : " First, though I deny liberti/ in a 
 certain meaning of the word, yet I contend for liberty as it 
 signifies a power in man to do as he wills or pleases. Sec- 
 ondly, when I affirm necessity^ I contend only for moral ne- 
 cessity^ meaning thereby that man, who is an intelligent and 
 sensible being, is determined by his reason and his senses ; 
 and I deny man to be subject to such necessity as is in 
 clocks and watches, and such other beings, which, for want 
 of sensation and intelligence, are subject to an absolute^ 
 'physical^ or mechanical necessity, 
 
 Coincidence of Collins and Edwards, — The coincidence 
 of these views and definitions, and, indeed, of the plan of 
 argument, with the definitions and the arguments of Ed- 
 wards, is remarkable. No two writers, probably, were ever 
 further removed from each other in their general spirit and 
 character, and in their system of religious belief; yet as re- 
 gards this doctrine, the definitions and views of one were 
 ©hose of the other, and as Mr. Stewart has justly remarked, 
 the coincidence is so perfect, that the outline given by the 
 former, of the plan of his work, might have served with 
 equal propriety as a preface to the latter. 
 
 Views of Edwards, — No writer has more ably discussed 
 this question than the elder Edwards. He is universally 
 conceded to be one of the ablest metaphysicians, as well as 
 theologians, of modern times. His work on the Freedom of 
 the Will is a masterpiece of reasoning. At the same time, 
 as to the character and tendency of the system therein main* 
 
 25 
 
578 HISTORICAL SKETCH. 
 
 tained, the greatest difference of opinion exists. By som'3 
 he is regarded as a fatalist, by others he is claimed as an ad- 
 vocate of human freedom. There is some ground for this 
 difference of opinion. No writer, from Plato downward, 
 was ever perfectly self-consistent ; it would be strange if 
 Edwards were so. That the general scheme of necessity, 
 maintained by Edwards, tends, in some respects, to fatalism, 
 -—that the ablest champions of fatalism, and even writers of 
 atheistic, and immoral views, have held essentially the BQxat 
 doctrine, and maintained it by the same arguments — must be 
 conceded ; that such was not the design and spirit of hia 
 work, that such was not his own intention, is perfectly 
 evident. * ^ 
 
 Main Positio7is of Edwards, — The definitions of Ed- 
 wards, as we have already seen, are the same with those of 
 Colhns and Hobbes. He understands by liberty merely a 
 power to do as one wills. The mind is always determined by 
 the greatest apparent good. The motive determines the 
 act, causes it. The mind acts, wills, chooses, etc., but the 
 motive is the cause of its action. That the mind should be 
 the cause of its own volitions, implies, he maintains, an act 
 of will preceding the volition, that is a volition prior to voli- 
 tion, and so on forever in an infinite series. This argument, 
 the famous dictum necessitatis^ has been considered in a 
 previous chapter. Now, to say that motive is the producing 
 cause, and volition the effect, especially if the connection of 
 the two is of the same nature as that between physical 
 causes and effects, as Edwards affirms, is certainly to say 
 that which looks very strongly toward fatalism. 
 
 Necessity^ what, — Edwards maintains the doctrine of 
 necessity. But what did he mean by moral necessity f 
 The phrase is unfortunate, for reasons already suggested — 
 It does convey the idea of irresistibility, of something 
 which must and will he — in spite of all contrary will and en- 
 deavor. This, however, he is careful to disclaim. He means 
 by moral and philosophical necessity simple certainty, 
 
flISTOKICAL SKETCH. 67t 
 
 " nothing different from certainty." " ISTo opposition or 
 contrary will and endeavor," he says, " is supposable in the 
 case of moral necessity, which is a certainty of the inclina- 
 tion and will itself." Now we must allow him to put his 
 own meaning upon the terms he uses ; and to say that 
 under given circumstances, there being given such and such 
 motives, inclinations, and preferences, such and such voli- 
 tions will certainly follow, is not to say that the will is not 
 free in its action — is not to shut us up to absolute fate — 
 is not, in fact, to say any thing more than is strictly and 
 psychologically true. In defending himself from this very 
 charge, he uses the following explicit language in a letter to 
 a minister of the Church of Scotland : " On the contraky, 
 I have largely declared that the connection hetween anteced- 
 ent things and consequent ones^ which takes place xoith re 
 gard to the acts of men'' s wills^ ichich is called moral neces- 
 sity^ is called by the name of necessity impeoperly ; and 
 that such a necessity as attends the acts of men's wills is 
 more properly called certainty than necessity ; it being no 
 other than the certain connection between the subject anu 
 predicate of the proposition which affirms their existence." 
 " Nothing that I maintain supj^oses that men are at ail hin- 
 dered by any fatal necessity, from doing, and even willing 
 and choosing as they please, with full freedom ; free with 
 the highest degree of liberty that ever was thought of, or 
 that could possibly enter into the heart of man to con- 
 ceive." This is explicit, and ought to satisfy us as to what 
 Edwards himself thought of his own work, and meant by 
 it. Still a man does not always understand himself, is not 
 always the best judge of his own arguments, is not always 
 consistent with himself, does not always express his own 
 real opinions, nor do himself justice, in every part of his 
 reasonings. This is certainly the case with Edwards. We 
 are at a loss to reconcile some passages in his treatise 
 with the foregoing extract, e. g,^ the dictum necessitatis ; 
 also his declaration that the difference between natural and 
 
580 HliiluRICAL SKETCH 
 
 moral necessity ^ lies not so much in the natuee of the 
 connection as in the two terms connected.'' This is an un- 
 fortunate admission for those who would shield him from 
 the charge of fatalism. If the necessity, by which a Aboli- 
 tion follows the given motive, is, after all, of the same nature 
 with that by which a stone falls to the earth, or water 
 freezes at a given temperature, it is all ovei with us as to 
 any consistent, intelhgible defence of the freedom of the; 
 will. 
 
 If, moreover, the doctrine of Edwards leaves man full 
 power, as he says above, to will and to choose as he pleases^ 
 what becomes of the dictum^ which makes it impossible for 
 the mind to determine its own volitions ? 
 
 Z>oes not distinguish between the Affections and the Will. 
 -— It should be remembered that Edwards does not distin- 
 guish between the will and affections. This distinction had 
 not, at that time, been clearly drawn by writers on the phi- 
 losophy of the mind. The twofold division of mental powers, 
 into understanding and will, was then prevalent ; the affec- 
 tions, of course, were classed with the latter. Hence there 
 is not that definiteness in the use of terms which modern 
 psychology demands. Had Edv^rds distinguished between 
 the affections and the will, it must have given a different 
 cast to his entire work. Even Locke, whose philosophy 
 Edwards follows in the main, had distinguished between 
 will and desire^ as we have already seen ; but in this he u 
 not followed by Edwards, who, while he does not regard 
 them as " words of precisely the same signification," y(>t 
 does not think them " so entirely distinct that they sau 
 ever be said to run counter?'^ 
 
 Views of the later Necessitarians. — Of the views of the 
 later advocates of necessity, Priestley, Belsham, Diderot, and 
 othei's, of that school, we have already spoken in a previous 
 chapter. They cany out the scheme, with the greatest bold 
 ft ess and consistency, to its legitimate consequences, fatalism, 
 and the denial of free agency and accountability. God is 
 
HISTORICAL SKETCH. 58l 
 
 the real and only responsible doer of whatever comes to pass, 
 and man the passive instrument in his hand. Remorse, re- 
 gret, repentance, are idle terms, and to praise or blame our- 
 selves or others, for any thing that we or they have done, is 
 merely absurd. 
 
 Advocates of the Opposite, — On the other hand, the doc 
 trine of the freedom of the will has not wanted able advo- 
 cates among the more recent philosophical writers. In 
 general it may be remarked, that those who have treated of 
 the powers of the human mind, as psychologists, have, for 
 the most part, maintained the essential freedom of the will, 
 while the advocates of the opposite view have been chiefly 
 metaphysicians, rather than psychologists, and, in most cases, 
 have viewed the matter from a theological rather than a 
 philosophical point of view. Among the more recent and 
 able advocates of the freedom of the will, are Cousin and 
 Jouffroy, in France, Tappan and Bledsoe, in our own country. 
 Previously, Mr. Stewart, in his appendix to his " Active and 
 Moral Powers," had concisely, but ver} ably, handled the 
 matter, and earlier still, Kant, in Germany, had conceded 
 the liberty of the will as a matter of co7isciousness, while 
 unable to reconcile it with the dictates of reason. 
 
 View of Hamilton, — Substantially the same view is taken 
 by the late Sir William Hamilton, who, by general consent, 
 stands at the head of modern philosophers, and who accepts 
 the doctrine of liberty as Sifact^ an immediate dictum of con- 
 Bciousness, while, at the same time, he is unable to conceive 
 of its possibility, since "to conceive a free act, is to conceive 
 «ai act which, being a cause, is not, in itself, an effect ; in 
 other words, to conceive an absolute commencement ;" and 
 this he regards as impossible. At the same time, it is equally 
 beyond our power, he thinks, to conceive the possibility of 
 the opposite, the doctrine of necessity, since that supposes 
 *'an infinite series of determined causes^''"' tvliich cannot be 
 conceived. But though inconceivable, freedom is not the 
 'ess a fact given by consciousness • and is to be placed in the 
 
582 flISTOKICAL SKETCH. 
 
 same category with many other facts among the phenomena 
 of mind, 'Svhich we must admit as actual, but of whose pos 
 sibility we are wholly unable to form a notion." 
 
 Heniarks upon this View. — The difficulty here presented, 
 — if I may venture a remark upon the opinions of so profound 
 a thinker, and the same is true of Kant, — turns evidently on 
 the peculiar idea of freedom entertained by those writers, 
 namely, that in order to be free, an act of the will must be 
 wholly undetermined, not itself an efiect, but an absolute 
 commencement. Any influence, from any source, going to 
 determine or incline a man to will as he does, renders the 
 act no longer free. Such freedom is certainly inconceivable; 
 and what is more, impracticable ; it exists as little among the 
 possibilities of the actual world, as among the possibilities of 
 thought. We never act, except under the influence of mo- 
 tive and inclination ; and if acts thus performed are not free 
 then no acts that we perform are so. 
 
 Vieio of Coleridge. — This eminent disciple of the eai'lie'i 
 German philosophy, derives from Kant the view of freedom 
 now explained, and carries it to the furthest extreme. AD 
 influence and inclination are inconsistent with freedom. 
 The disposition to do a thing renders the will, and the act 
 of the will, no longer free. A nature^ of any kind, is incon- 
 sistent with freedom. This, of course, shuts out all freedom 
 from the actual world. ISTor is it possible to conceive how 
 even the acts of Deity can be any more free than ours, on 
 this supposition ; nor how, if any such freedom as this were 
 supposed to exist, an act thus performed, without any motive, 
 or any disposition or inclination on the part of the agent 
 could be a rationed or accountable act. 
 
 Vieios of Cousin^ and Joiiffroy. — Cousin and Joufli'oyj 
 while by no means denying the influence of motive upon 
 the mind, place the fact of liberty in the power which the 
 mind has of being itself a cause, and of putting forth voli- 
 tions from its own proper power. The law of inertia, con- 
 tends Jouffroy, which requires a moving force proportioneJ 
 
HISTORICAL SKETCH 583 
 
 to the movement of a material body, does not apjjly to the 
 human mind, and " to apply this law to the relation which 
 subsists between the resolutions of my will and the motives 
 which act upon it, is to suppose that my being, that I my- 
 self, am not a cause ; for a cause is something which pro* 
 duces an act by its own proper power." Cousin, in like 
 manner, places liberty in the absolute and undetermined 
 power of the will to act as cause ; and " this cause, in order 
 to produce its effect, has need of no other theatre, and no 
 other instrument than itself. It produces it directly, with- 
 out any thing intermediate, and without condition ; * * a 
 being always able to do what it does not do, and able not 
 to do what it does. Here, then, in all its plenitude, is the 
 characteristic of liberty." 
 
 View of Tappan, — One of the ablest defenders of the 
 freedom of the will in our own country, Mr. Tappan, in his 
 review of Edwards, takes essentially the position just ex- 
 plained. All cause lies ultimately in the will. It is this which 
 makes the nisus or effort that produces any event or phenom- 
 enon. Of this nisus the mind or will is itself the cause, and, as 
 such, it is self-moved. It makes its nisus of itself, and of it- 
 self it forbears to make it, and within the sphere of its activity, 
 and in relation to its objects, it has the power of selecting, by 
 a mere arbitrary act, any particular object. It is a cause, all 
 whose acts, as well as any particular act, considered as phe- 
 nomena demanding a cause, are accounted for in itself alone. 
 
 Position of Bledsoe, — Similar is the position of Mr. 
 Bledsoe, one of the most recent reviewers of Edwards, a 
 writer of marked ability and candor. He denies, however, 
 that volition is the effect of any thmg, whether motive oi 
 mind, in the sense that motion of the arm is an effect. It 
 is activity^ action., the cause of a^Uo7i^ but not effect. In 
 distinction from most waiters <./ tho same theological v^ews, 
 he denies that the w^ill is self-determined., or that it is d^ter- 
 mined at all., and by any thing. It is the determ9mr bui 
 not the determined. 
 
REFERENCES. 
 
 Amcng the authorities which have been consulted in the 
 |ireparation of this work, the following may be referred to, 
 with profit, by the reader who desires to pursue the subject 
 feirther. 
 
 I. THE INTELLECT. 
 
 A ON THE INTELLECTUAL FACULTIES IN GENERAL. 
 
 Locke. — Essays on the Human Understanding. 
 
 Reid. — Essays on the Intellectual Powers. Walker Ed. 
 
 *' Works. — By Hamilton, with notes and dissertations. 
 Dugald Stewart. — Philosophy of the Human Mind. Bowen Ed, 
 
 " Philosophical Essays. 
 
 Brown. — Lectures on the Philosophy of the Mind. 
 The works of Upham, Wayland, Winslovj, Mahan, may also be 3onsT3i 
 mth profit. 
 
 Cousin. — Cours de, 1828. Id., 1829. 
 
 " Fragments Philosophiques. 
 
 Jouffroy. — Melanges Philosophiques. Nouvelles Melanges, 
 
 " Esquisses de D. Stewart. Preface. 
 
 Descartes. — Meditations. Id., Discours de la Methode. 
 Leibnitz. — Nouveaux Essais sur I'Entendement Humain. 
 Malehranche. — Eechercho de la Yerite. 
 Eoyer Gollard. — CEuvres de Reid. Pragments. 
 Dam-iron. — Cours de Philosophie. 
 Kegel. — Encyklopadie der Philosoph. WissenchaH, 
 Rcsenkrantz. — Psychologic. 
 Kant. — Anthropologic. Kritik Reiner VernaB^ 
 
 " Elritik der Urtheilskraft. 
 ArisioU€. — Metaphysics. 
 " On the SouL 
 
 Plato. — Sepublic. 
 Cicero, — Tusculanse Quest; ones. 
 
»^^ REFERENCES. 
 
 B. ON THE SPECIFIC FACULTIES. 
 
 I. SENSATION AND PERCEPTION. 
 
 Reid.- — Intellectual Powers. 
 
 Hamilton, — Supplementary Dissertation, Note D 
 
 6. Wight. — Philosophy of Sir "W. Hamilton. Paix IL 
 
 Stewart. — Philosophical Essays. Ess. II. 
 
 Brown. — Philosophy of Human Mind. 
 
 MilL — Analysis of Human Mind. 
 
 A. Smith. — Essays on Philosophical Subjects. Of the External Sonsas 
 
 Young. — Lectures on Intellectual Philosophy. 
 
 Comte. — Philosophy Positive. , . ^ t 
 
 Muller. — Elements of Physiology. 
 
 Tissot. — Anthropologic. 
 
 Maine de Biran. — Nouvelles Considerations sur les Rapports, etc. 
 
 Jouffroy. — Nouvelles Melanges Philosophiques. 
 
 Royer Collard. — Fragments in Jouffroy's CEuvres de Reid. 
 
 Tortual. — Die Sinne des Menschen. 
 
 Buffier. — Traite des Premieres Yerites. 
 
 Amedee Jacques. — Psychologic. Manuel de Phil, a I'usage dea CoU. 
 
 Dictionnaire des Sciences Philosophiques. Art. Sens. 
 
 Aristotle, — De Anima. Parva Naturalia. 
 
 •/". Ba/rth. Saint Hilaire. — Psychologie de Aristotle, Nuw.*-^ :Aiid prefaot 
 
 II. MEMORY. 
 
 Stewart — Intellectual Philosophy. 
 
 Reid. — Intellectual Powers. (Walker.) 
 
 Brown. — Philosophy of Human Mind. 
 
 Mill — - Analysis of Human Mind. 
 
 Ahercombie. — On Intellectual Powers. 
 
 Hume. — Treatise on Human Nature. Book I. Pari I "^ 
 
 Aristotle. — Parva Naturalia. 
 
 Bartheleme Saint Hilaire. — Psychologie dAristotle. Part II, 
 
 Malebranche. — Recherche do la Yerite. Li v. 11. 
 
 Rosenkraniz. — Psychologie. 
 
 EfQel. — EncycL Phil Wisaench. Dritter TheiL 
 
REFERENCES. 587 
 
 III. IMAGINATION. 
 
 Stewart, — Intellectual Philosophy. 
 
 Brown. — Philosophy of Human Mind. 
 
 Ranch. — Psychologie. Part IT. 
 
 Sidney Smith. — Sketches of Philosophy. 
 
 Mill. — Analysis of Human Mind. 
 
 Amedee Jacques. — Manuel de Philosophie. Psychol V. 
 
 RosenJcrantz. — Psychologie. Die Einbildungskraft. 
 
 Hegel. — Encyc. der Phil. Wissenchaft. Dritter TheiL Die fiHn^ildung 
 
 lY. ABSTRACTION AND GENER ALIZ ATI 'l^i 
 
 Eeid. — Intellectual Powers. 
 
 Brown. — Phn. ophy of Human Mind. 
 
 Stewart. — Intellectual Philosophy. 
 
 A, Smith. — Considerations on First Formation of Langca^^* 
 
 J. S. Mill — System of Logic. 
 
 Whewell. — Philosophy of Inductive Sciences. 
 
 James Mill. — Analysis of Human Mind. 
 
 Thomson. — Laws of Thought. 
 
 Cousin. — Elements of Psychology. (Henry.) 
 
 Hume. • — Treatise of Human Nature. Book L Part 1. 
 
 Y. REASONING, 
 
 Hamilton. — Supplementary Dissertation, Note A. 
 Beid. — Intellectual Powers. 
 Stewart. — Intellectual Philosophy. Part II. 
 Locke. — On the Human Understanding. Book lY. 
 Whewell. — Philosophy of Inductive Sciences. 
 Buffier. — Premieres Yerites. 
 Brown. — Philosophy of Human Mmd. 
 Mill. — System of Logic. 
 
 Hamilton. — Discussions on Philosophy. (Tumbull Ed."; Article lY Logif 
 also Appendix II. A and B. 
 Bayn£s»—'New Analytic of Logical Forms. 
 Descartes, — Discours de la Methode. 
 Condillac — ArtdePenser. 
 
 Dictionnaire des Sciences Philosophiques. Logiqo© 
 Pascal — Ponsees — de 1' Art de Persuader, 
 Port-Royal. — Logique. 
 A.ris1x>Ue. — Organon. 
 
€88 REFERENCES. 
 
 VI. INTUITIVE OONOEPTIOH. 
 
 FIRST PRINCIPLES. 
 
 Reid, - - Intellectual Powers. Essay VI., cap. IIL 
 
 Hamilton, — Dissertation A. §§ 3, 4, 5. 
 
 Stewart — Intellectual Philosophy. Part II., cap. I. 
 
 Coleridge. — Aids to Reflection. 
 
 Mill — System of Logic. Book II., caps. V. and VI. 
 
 JBuffier, — Premieres Verites. Part I., cap. VII. 
 
 TIME, SPACE. 
 
 Cousin, — Cours de Philosophie. Tome II., Lemons XVII., XVIII. 
 
 " Idem. Elements of Psychologic. Henry. Cap. III. 
 
 Locke. — E^ay on the Human Understanding. Book II., cap. XXVI 
 Stewart — Philosophical Essays. Essay II., cap. II. 
 Eeid. — Intellectual Powers. Essay III., cap. II. 
 Mill. — Analysis of the Human Mind. Cap. XIV., § V. 
 Eoyer Colla/rd. — Fragments, IX, X. 
 
 Kant. — Kritik rein, vernunft. Transcend. JEsthet. Part I., § II. 
 Dictionnaire des Sciences FMlosophiques. Temps. Espace. 
 Eegel, — Encyclop. Philosoph. Wissench. Tsweiter Theil. Erst. AbschniU 
 
 IDENTITY. 
 
 Locfce. — Essay, etc. Book II., cap. XXVII. 
 
 Cousin. — Review of do. as above. Elements Psychologie, cap. IIL 
 
 Reid, — Intellectual Powers. Essay III., cap. III. 
 
 Mill. — Analysis, etc., cap. XIV., § VII. 
 
 Whately, — Logic — Appendix. On Ambiguous Terma 
 
 Butler, — Dissertation on Identity. 
 
 CASUALITY. 
 
 MilL — System of Logic. Book III., cap. XXI. 
 
 Whewell. — Philosophy of Inductive Sciences. Part I. Book lU. 
 
 Locke. — Essay. Book II., cap. XXVI. 
 
 Tappan, — On the Will. Cap. II. Cause. 
 
 Bowen. — Metaphysics and Ethics. 
 
 Maine de Biran. — Examples des Le9ons de Philosophie de Laromiquioro 
 
 Oousin. — (Euvres de Maine Biran. Preface. 
 
 As above. El. Psychologie, cap. IV- 
 
REFERENCES 589 
 
 THE BEA-UTIFUL. 
 
 Karnes. — Elements of Criticism. 
 
 Alison. — On Taste, 
 
 McBermoi — On Taste. 
 
 Stewart, — Philosophical Essays. Part II. 
 
 Brown. — Philosophy of the Human Mind. Emotions of Beaiii%, 
 
 Jouffroy. — Cours d'Esthetique. 
 
 Cousin. — Philosophy of the Beautiful. (Daniel, Trana) 
 
 Kant — Kritik der Urtheilskraft. 
 
 HegeL — Cours d'Esthetique. (Benard, Tr.) 
 
 THE EIGHT. 
 
 Stewart — Active and Moral Powers. ("Walker Ed.> 
 Brown. — Philosophy of the Human Mind. Ethical Scienciit 
 Butler. — Sermons. 
 t'aley. — Moral Philosophy. 
 Adam Smith. — Theory of Moral Sentiments. 
 Jpliam. — Mental Philosophy, Yol. II. 
 IVinslow. — Elements of Moral Philosophy. 
 Wayland. — Moral Philosophy. 
 WheweU. — Elements of Morality. 
 Jouffroy. — Introduction to Ethics. (Channing, Tr.) 
 
 " Cours de Droit Natural. 
 
 Emile Saisset. — Manuel de Philosophie a I'usage des CoiL Mof 
 Descartes. — Lettres. 
 Qicero. — De Officiis. 
 Aristotle. — Nicom. Bth. 
 }*Uito — Kepublic and Grorgias. 
 
 II. THE SENSIBILITIES 
 
 Stewart —- Active and Moral Powers. (Walker Ed.) 
 
 /Rezd — Faculti^.a of the Human Mind. Essay IIL 
 
 Brown. — Philosophy of the Human Mind. Emotions. 
 
 P-vham. — Mental Philosophy. VoL II. • 
 
 <Jogan. — Oa the Passions. 
 
 Descartes — Lea Passions de 1' Ame. 
 
 OondiUac — Traite des Sensations. 
 
 Oamiron - Cours de Philosophie. De la SensibilU^. 
 
690 REFERENCES. 
 
 Jouffroy. — Melanges PhilosopMques. De V Amour de 3A 
 Aristoth. — On the Soul. Books II. and III 
 
 III. THE WILL. 
 
 Edwards. — On the Will. 
 
 Tappan. — Review of do. 
 
 Day. — Review of do. 
 
 Bledsoe. — Examination of do. 
 
 I. Taylor. — Essay introductory to do, 
 
 Tappan. — On the Will, and do. on Moral Agency. 
 
 Mahan. — On the WiU. 
 
 Upham. — On the Will. 
 
 Heid. — On the Faculties of the Human Soul. Essay lY, 
 
 Belsham. — Philosophy of the Human Mind. 
 
 Mill. — System of Logic. Book YI., cap. II. 
 
 MiU. — Analysis of the Human Mind. Cap. XXIT. 
 
 Cogan. — - Ethical Questions. Question IT. 
 
 Stewart — Active and Moral Powers. Cap. YI. 
 
 Beid. — Essays on Active Powers. Essay LI. 
 
 Locke. — On the Human Understanding. Book II., cap. XXI. 
 
 Mamilion. — Philosophy of the Conditioned, cap. 11., § I. (0. W. Wights) 
 
 Jouffroy. — Introduction to Ethics, § lY. 
 
 Leibnitz. — Essays de Theodicee. 
 
 Cousin. — Fragments Philosophiquea. Preface. 
 
 Amedee Jacques. — Manuel dePML Fsychologie. Yohntk XY. — X^II 
 
 Maine de Biran. — CEuvres. Yol. lY. 
 
 " Controversy with Clarke. 
 
 Cousin. — Psychologic. (Henry, Tr.) Cap. X. 
 Damiron, — Psychologic. Liv. L, § II., cap. IIL 
 Smik Saisset — Dictionnaire des Sdecces Philosophiques. Ait Libend 
 
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