-V -(~~~
PREFACE.
"Know thyself" was the inscription on the temple of Apollo.
The meaning of this terse admonition was either a practical
one: Know thy frailties, thy human weakness, thy sinful nature; acknowledge thyself what thou art,-and amend thy ways;
or it was a theoretical one: Man, the highest being in nature,
who-studies every thing below himself, who knows the soil which
he cultivates, and the stars that regulate the seasons, and the
laws of crystallization, vegetation and animalization-should
not he desire to know himself? a being, who stands midway
between the kingdom of nature and that of immortal spirits?
who is the measure of the earth and all it contains, who unites
what is dispersed in nature, every power and every- beauty in
himself? But how shall man become acquainted with himself
both practically and theoretically-? This is the question, which
the great Apollo did not answer. Shall he merely observe himself?  But man is inclined either to place too high or too low a
value upon himself; he has not a proper measure for his judgment in himself. Shall he watch others? He that will under.
stand himself must observe those around him, but to understand
them, he must look into his own heart. Thus he may indeed
obtain a knowledge of man, but-one, that is without systematic
connection, incomplete, partial and imperfect.  While we cannot do without such a knowledge of man, the admonition of
Apollo will only be listened to fully, when we connect with this
experimental knowledge a systematical development of all contained in man, especially of his reason and will. These are the
basis of all the thoughts and actions, of all the sciences and
practical pursuits in man, and without a knowledge of them, it
will always remain difficult to understand man, as we meet him
in life. Theory must here, as every where else, assist practice. 
PREFACE.
The principal object of the author in writing this book, was to
render this noble and delightful science accessible to all classes
of readers, for as the inscription on the temple of Apollo was not
only intended for some, but for every one approaching it, so the
knowledge of man is desirable for every one and not for a few
only. The author flatters himself, that he has effected this pur.
pose by using plain language, by following a simple course of
thought, by taking all his illustrations from nature, and by corn paring constantly the activities of mind with those analogous to
it, in nature. With the exception of a few divisions, it is hoped
therefore, that the present work may be read by all.
A second object of the author was to give the science of man
a direct bearing upon other sciences, and especially upon religion
and theology. Psychology and theology are connected by their
common subject, which is man. Religion, of which theology is
the science, is intended for man, and for him only; psychology
treats of man and not of any other being. Man as the subject
of psychology, is created for religion and cannot do without it.
Religion is not a mere quality, but the substance of man. He
remains what he is, though he has no learning, no beauty, no
wit, neither a strong memory nor an acute judgment; but he
ceases to be man in the full sense of the term then he has no
religion;-he is then only an animnal, more cunning, crafty and
prudent, than all the others, one that can invent machines, but
he is no longer the lord of the earth, the image of his Creator.
Now religion has for its soul, faith; this contains thoughts and
ideas, as for instance, those of providence, of sin, of sanctifica.
tion, of regeneration, of repentance, &c. Psychology develops
the nature of reason and consequently that of its productions,
which are thoughts; and without understanding the nature of
reason and its capacities, that of faith will not be clearly known;
for if faith and reason differ, as they do, how can this difference
be exhibited, unless the being of each is manifest to us? Again:
Faith must be active by love, or else it is dead. It must there.
fore affect our will and fill it with love and animate it to good
works. If so, the being of our will in its state of nature, and
previous to its regeneration, ought likewise to be known. But
as such it exists in the form of desires, inclinations, emotions
and passions, and these are the subjects of psychology; hence
the study of the latter again is indispensable to a thorough study
of theology.  While, therefore, the first section of the second
part will assist the science of dogmatics, the second has for its
remote object to be auxiliary to that of christian ethics.
It will scarcely be necessary to show the influence which a
iv 
PRELFACE.
good, systematical knowledge of man, of his reason and will,
and their union with his body must have on the practice of me dicine; and if the physician studies human and comparative
anatomy, physiology and somatology in general, he will find it
much to his advantage, to know the whole life contained in the
body which he dissects. And how will he manage cases of
mental disease without psychology? The basis of all pathology
is certainly a knowledge of health, and this must be the same
in the sphere of mind.
The lawyer, on the other hand, who protects our rights, will
be the more successful in doing so, the better he understands
human nature; for all rights are those of man, and when dis.
puted, passions and  desires have darkened our knowledge of
them; and the lawyer in addressing the court, in developing the
case before him, must well understand the nature of the passions, to make his case clear.  The greatest lawyers and public
orators, Pitt, Sheridan, Fox, &c., were also the finest psychologists. Many actions are committed under the influence of ve.
hement emotions or passions: to value the guilt of such actions,
their mnoving springs, the passions must be known.
But above all is the study of psychology useful to parents and
teachers; they have to draw out, what is in their children, and
how can they do this well without knowing the nature of what
they are expected to cultivate? Hence the study of psychology
and especially of desires, inclinations aind emotions, is indispensable to them.
Yet why should we speak of the mere usefulness of a science,
which if well represented, is one of the most entertaining and
interesting, which the human mind has produced? Who would
not feel anxious to see his portrait, drawn before the eye of his
mind?  Psychology is not only intended for the wants of man,
whether sensual or intellectual, those of life or of social intercourse; its highest design is to make man conscious of the sllbjects of which it treats, reason and will, and give him full possession of both.  Man possesses only that of which he is conscious;
an inheritance of which I know nothing, may b)e mine in law,
bult not by possession. Unless I know my reason and will, I
possess neither fully, but only partially.
The present work is, as far as the author knows, the first
attempt to unite German and American mental philosophy. This
design has not been executed by bringing together two separate
systems or by forming an eclectic compound, which is neither the
one nor the other, and the parts of which do not grow forth from
one spirit, but are brought together from different sources and
1'
v
I 
PREFACE.
united by the writer-a real sphinx in the sphere of science.
The author was rather anxious to have whatever the work contains, bear witness of one and the same objective spirit, which
formed all the parts into one life, as the specific life of a tree
changes all particles into one juice.
The author feels himself under obligation to acknowledge
filly the use he has made of the following writers:  Locke,
D. Stewart, Reid, Brown, Rosenkranz, Carus, Jr., Carus, Sen.,
Daub, Stiedenroth, Suabedissen, Eschenmayer, Heinroth, Hegel,
Kant, Wirth, Steffens, Herbart, Hartman, and others. He has
used these authors with more or less freedom, and especially
Carus, Jr., Daub and Rosenkranz, whose general arrangement he
has adopted not without some improvements, however, as he
hopes. The work was to be of one spirit; whatever has been
suggested by others, had to become a part of the whole by receiving this spirit and by representing it. Hence to save space,
a general acknowledgment has been thought sufficient.
As to the language, the author has particularly to beg the indulgence of his readers. He hopes this will be granted, as in
philosophy beauty of speech is less desirable than clearness, and
as in this science we desire less to be entertained than to be enriched with ideas.  The terminology of mental philosophy in
the English language, as in almost all others, is difficult and not
perfectly agreed on. Thus, to mention one instance instead of
many, the difference between sensation and perception is by no
means clearly established; as yet it is still disputed. The author
has therefore used sensation indiscriminately both for the perception of the object and the feeling connected with it in the sense
by which it is perceived.  Simplification has been his great object; yet the signification once given to a word, has been
strictly adhered to.
MERCERSBUROIH, APRIL 21ST, 1840.
VI 
PRELIMINARY NOTICE
TO THE
SECOND EDITION.
THE amiable and highly gifted author of the following work,
had not quite completed his revision of it for the second edition,
when it pleased God in his wise and righteous sovereignty, to take
him away by death. In the circumstances, it seems proper to
prefix here a few statements with regard to his life and character.
Dr. Rauch was a native of Kirchbracht, in the Grand Dutchy of
Hesse Darmstadt, born July 27, 1806. His father, a minister belonging before the "Union" to the Reformed Church, still lives to
mourn over the tidings of his son's untimely decease. He is an orthodox and diligent pastor, in the neighborhood of Frankfort, on the
Maine. At the age of eighteen, Dr. Rauch entered the University of
Marburg, where he took his diploma in the year 1827. Afterwards
he spent a year, as a student at Giessen; and subsequently to this
another year still, at Heidelbergh. Here he enjoyed, as it would
seem, the special regard and favor of that aged giant in the sphere
of mind, Charles Daub, since dead; a man, who had followed Kant,
Schelling, and Hegel, to the farthest bounds of speculation, without surrendering for a moment his firm hold upon the great objects of faith; resolutely facing the biljows, as Tholuck has
expressed it, and forcing his way through, where even Schleiermacher could save himself only by retreating towards the shore.
For the memory of this man Dr. Rauch entertained always the
highest veneration. Daub had fixed his eye upon him as a young
man of more than common promise, who might be expected to do
good service to the cause of science, in the department to which
he wished to consecrate his life. On quitting Heidelberg, he
spent a year again at Giessen, as professor extraordinarius; at the
end of which time, he received an appointment to a regular professorship in Heidelberg. Here however his fair prospects were
suddenly covered with a dark cloud. In his lectures, he was supposed to have expressed himself with too much freedom with
regard to government. Jealousy was awakened; and it was considered necessary, in the judgment of his friends, that he should
quit the country. With a sorrowful heart accordingly, he came 
viii    PRELIMINARY NOTICE TO THE SECOND EDITION.
in the year 1831 to the United States. His first year was spent at
Easton, in the State of Pennsylvania. In the summer of 1832 he
was invited to take charge of the classical school, in connection
with the Theological Seminary of the German Reformed Synod,
then located at York in the same State. On the removal of this
institution to Mercersberg in the year 1836, and the establishment
of Marshall College, he became the President of the College, retaining his connection with the Seminary still as Professor of
Biblical Literature.
It is not saying too much to affirm, that Dr. Rauch was one ot
the finest scholars belonging to this country. His mind was of the
first order, and his education had been complete. In the whole
compass of the German Philosophy he was most perfectly at
home. By a ten years residence in this country, he had become,
at the same time, sufficiently Americanized to be able to enter without difficulty into the modes of thinking and feeling, which are
here prevalent.  He had ceased indeed to think of himself as a
foreigner, and loved to identify himself entirely with our institutions and our character as his own. Thus might he be considered
as qualified, beyond most if not all others, for transferring into
the English sphere of thinking, the true spirit and life of German
thought in a useful and intelligible way. This requires more a
great deal, than mere translation or report fi'om our language into
the other. It can be properly accomplished only where the mind
has become thoroughly pervaded with the life of its subject itself,
so as to be able to give it out naturally and easily in a new form.
That German Philosophy must, in the end make itself deeply and
extensively felt upon our system of thinking, in one way and
another is not to be doubted. It ought to do so; for it embodies
elements which are needed to give tone and vigor to our inward
life. At the same time, it is immensely important that the medium
through which the one form of mind is made to flow over into the
other, should be pure and clear. Under this view, Dr. Rauch was
eminently fitted to transact between the mind of Germany and
the mind of this country. He understood and honored Hegel as
a philosopher; and because he did so, he found himself in no danger of following him blindly into his errors. He was secured
against all transcendental, pantheistic dreams, by knowing familiarly the boundaries of this enchanted ground, rather than by
mere blind prejudice. He was moreover a firm believer in the
truth of the Bible, and in the great doctrines of grace which it
teaches.
As he seemed to be thus specially qualified for such a service
as has now been mentioned, so did he feel himself powerfully
drawn towards it, as his proper and congenial vocation. Enthusiastically attached to his favorite studies, he cherished the lively
hope of making himself useful, on this field, in a permanent and
extensive way. His Psychology was only the beginning of what
he wished and expected to accomplish, as an author. Of much
more account, in his own estimation, was to have been his Morai 
PRELIMINARY NOTICE TO THE SECOND EDITION.
Philosophy; a work on which his heart was greatly set, and which
he hoped to be able to publish in the course of the ensuing sum mer. A treatise on Aesthetics was intended to carry out and com plete the scheme.
His system of Moral Philosophy is expected still to make its
appearance, in substance at least, after some time. A course of
lectures which he has left behind him on this subject, embody the
principles and main thoughts of his contemplated treatise, though
they may not exhibit fully the form in which it was designed
that all should finally be comprehended, before going to the press.
As it regards the present work, its character may be considered
as already fully established. No work of the sort in this country,
has ever been so favorably received. The first edition was exhausted in a very few weeks after its publication. In this second
edition, the author will be found to have made some material improvements upon the first; not by changing or modifying his
views at all, but by throwing them occasionally into a more perspicuous form, and guarding here and there against misconceptions, to which they were before exposed. He has moreover paid
special attention to the phraseology, which here and there sounded
too strongly of a foreign idiom, and to the occasional errors in
typography which had escaped notice in the first edition. In
this accurate revision due regard has been had to the opinions
expressed in different reviews, in relation to the work, so far as
they were considered to be worthy of attention. In the case
however of most of the strictures which had been made upon it,
he felt that he had no reason to yield his own judgment, as it had
influenced him at first, to that of his reviewers.  That he might
not seem, at the same time, to have overlooked or despised such
criticism, and for the purpose also of apologizing for his own
views, he had expected to notice certain points thus animadyerted
upon, in a new Preface, more full than the first, and designed to
stand in its place. This has been prevented by his death.
JOHN W. NEVIN.
MERCERSBURG, MARCH 23, 1841.
ix  
INDEX OF CONTENTS.
INTRODUCTION.
CHAPTER  I.-Difference between man and the animal,...............
(1.) Man has the same physical functions as the
animal..............................................
(2.) The psychological difference between man
and the animal,................................
CHAPTER II.-Life.......................................2.
~ 1. Life in general,..........................
~ 2. Of the plastic power, or the principle of all
individual life....................................
~ 3. Instinct,.............................................
~ 4. On the ingenuity of animals,.............
~ 5. Relation of instinct to man,.................
PART I.-ANTHROPOLOGY.
CHAPTER I.-Modifications of mind produced by the permanent
influence of nature,..............................
~ 1. The influence of nature upon the mind of
man,..............................
(1.) Highlands,.............................
(2.) Plains and valleys.......................
(3.) Coasts,...................................
~ 2. The different races of mankind,..........
Nation        al differences......................
(1.) The French................................
(2.) The Italians...............................
(3.) The English,......................
(4.) The Germans,..............................
Remarks,.........................................
~ 3. Qualities of the mind produced by sexual
difference................................
(1.) Physically,...............................
(2.) Psychologically,.........................
Woman.
(1.) Moral disposition.........................
(2.) Mental qualities,....................
Man.
(1.) Moral disposition........................
(2.) Mental qualities,..........................
Page.
13
14
15
22
ib.
25
34
39
48
55
ib.
61
ib.
62
66
68
73
74
ib.
76
78
so
ib.
81
ib.
ib.
83
ib 
Page.
~ 4. Temperaments...........................85
The sanguine temperament,................. 88
The choleric temperament,.............. 89
The melancholic temperam ent,............. 90
The phlegmatic temperament,..91
~ 5. Mental capacities.......................92
(1.) Docility,.ib.
(2.) Talent...........................94
(3.) Genius...........................ib.
~ 6. Idiosyncrasy........................................ 100
CHAPTER II.-Of the transient influence of nature upon the mind,  103
~ 1. Age....................................   ib.
(1.) Childhood,........................105
(2.) Youth.................................... 107
(3.) Manhood...................................  108
(4.) Old age,..........................ib.
~ 2. Sleeping and waking............................. 109
(1.) What is sleeping and what is waking?  110
(2.) Where is sleep met with?............. 111
(3.) What is the design of sleep?..........  113
(4.) What are the conditions of sleep?....  115
(5.) What is a regular sleep?............ 116
(6.) Whiat is falling asleep?.................. 117
(7.) What is awaking?........................ 118
~ 3, Dreaming...........................................119
(1.) The form of dreams...................... 125
(2.) Causes of dreams................... 127
~ 4. Prophetic dreams, presentiment, vision and
deuteroscopy, or second sight,............... 129
~ 5. Magnetic sleep,........................141
~ 6. Health and diseases of the mind.............. 149
Division of the diseases of the mind.
(1.) Melancholy................................ 151
(2.) Insanity,.........................152
(3.) Mania,............................ib.
CHAPTER  III.-The power of the mind over the body,...........160
(1.) The mind has an influence on the
form of the body,......................ib
(2.) Mind exercises a power over the
health of the body,................... 161
(3.) Power of the mind over the body may
be seen from the formation of habits,  164
(4.) The power of mind over the body is
perceived in the art of representing
the emotions and thoughts of the
mind by the emotions of the body,  166
(5.) The power of the mind over the body
leaves its traces and impressions on
the face, on the forms of its single
parts, as nose, lips, eyes, forehead,.  168
(6.) The power of the mind over the body
is indicated too by the formation of
the skull, which must bear witness
of the life of the mind..............  170
XII
INDEX OF CONTENTS. 
INDEX OF CONTENTS.
PART II.-PSYCHOLOGY.
Page.
INTRODUCTION.
~ 1. Self- consciousness..............................
(1.) Self-feeling does not enable the animal
to distinguish between the subject
that feels and the object that is felt,  178
(2.) The animal having self-feeling does
not distinguish between itself and
its members.........................   ib.
(3.) The animal having self-feeling does not
distinguish between itself and its
.race,................................ ib.
~ 2. Mutual relation of body and soul,.............. 180
~ 3. Personality,.......................................... 186
(1.) The person is not only the centre of
man, but also the centre of nature,  189
(2.) Our personality is the centre of the
whole human race...................... 190
(3.) Our personality is complete only when
we are conscious of God and our re             lation to himn,...........................  191
~ 4. Division..............................192
REASON.
CHAPTER I.    ~ 1. Sensation and the senses........................
(1.) Matter in general,........................
(2.) Its chemical qualities,..............
(3.) Its light and sound................
General remarks on the senses,.......
~ 2. Of attention..........................
(1.) Attention in general,...
(2.) Difficulty of comprehending attention
in its origin as it exists in a child,
CHAPTER II.-~ 1. Intellectual conception..................
~ 2. Of conception.....................................
~ 3. Fanc    y...............................
~ 4. Imagination,......................................
Characteristics of imagination...........2
Semeiotic imagination.................
~ 5. Iinguage,................
(1.) Without language there can be no
knowledge..............................
(2.) If God taught Adam language, he of
course taught him but one,........
Its etymological e lements,.....26
First,-in the vowels............................
Secondly,-in the consonants..................
(1.) They are altogether     imitative,....
(2.) Symbolical........................
The grammatical and synt       actical     elements,.
Written language,.................
xiii
204
207
ib.
208
ib.
216
217
218
223
225
229
233
240
249
251
253
254
261
262
263
. ib.
ib.
264
ib. 
INDEX OF CONTENTS.
~ 6. Memory.............................................
(1.) When memory is productive it is a
general conception,....................
(2.) Mechanical memory................
CHAPTER  III.-On pure thinking.......................................
(1.) How thinking differs from the other
faculties of the mind..................
(2.) The contents of our sensation are dark
and little understood before our
thinking penetrates them,............
Comprehension or apprehension,............
Judgment..............................................
Syllogism, or conclusion,...........................
Who is qualified for pure thinking,................
Remarks,...............................
OF WILL.
1. General nature of will...........................
Desire,............................................
Inclination.......................................
Emotion,..........................................
Passion...........................................
2. Relations of desires, inclinations, emotions,
and passions to the will......................
1. On desires,.......................................
Sensual desires..................................
Sensual-intellectual desires,.................
Rational desires.................................
Remarks,.............................................
CHAPTER  III.-On inclination and passion,..............................
{ 1. Inclinations arising from the relation in
which  man stands to himself,............
Self-love,..........................................
Love of life,....................................
Self-hatred,......................................
Self.love as a passion..........................
Self-love as a passion in a negative form,
~ 2. Inclinations arising from the relation of man
to his fellow man............................
Love of property...............................
Love of property as a passion,..............
(1.) Covetousness,.........................
(2.) Avarice................................
3.) Prodigality,..........................
Love of honor..................................
Love of honor as a passion,.................
(1.) Ambition,............................
(2.) Pride..................................
(3.) Vanity......................347
Love in general,................................
Sexual love,....................................
Sexual love as a passion,....................
Parental and filial love........................
Fraternal love,................................
xiv
Page.
268
269
ib.
274
276
283
284
ib.
285
287
290
CHAPTERI.
293
296
298
300
302
304
310
ib.
311
312
315
317
319
ib.
320
325
327
328, -
330
ib.
334
335
336
337
340
345
ib.
346
347
349
352
353
355
356
CHA-PTER II.-~ 
INDEX OF CONTENTS.
XV
Page.
358
359
360
364
ib.
366
ib.
367
370
ib.
371.
373
374
375
376
378
379
383
ib.
384
ib.
ib.
388
389
ib.
390
391
ib.
392
393
394
396
National love....................................
Love of mankind................................
Remarks,..............................................
CHAPTER  IV.-Emotions,...................................................
~ 1. Simple emotions..................................
~ 2. Mixed emotions..................................
Hope..............................................
Fear,..............................................
Remarks,.............................................
~ 3. Compound emotions.....................
Depressing emotions...........................
Anxious expectation...........................
Despondency,.....................................
Patience..........................................
Awe,...............................................
Strengthening emotions......................
Wrath.............................................
CONCLUSION.-On religion................................................
~ 1. General nature of religion,.....................
(1.) Religion is not the mere knowledge
that there is a God.....................
(2.) Religion is not mere morality.........
(3.) Religion does not proceed from a feel                                       ing of dependence in man..........
~ 2. True religion.....................................
~ 3. Religions of desire,..............................
(1.) The lowest of all superstition is en.
chantment or feticism................
(2.) Buddhism...................................
~ 4. Religions of imagination.........................
(1.) Brahmanism...............................
(2.) The Persian religion,......................
(3.) Religion of the Egyptians,..............
(4.) Religion of Beauty, or the religion of
Greece...................................
~ 5. The religion of understanding, or cool re                               flection.......................................... 
I 
INTRODUCTION.
CHAPTER I.
DIFFERENCE BETWEEN MAN AND THE ANIMAL.
Simia quam similis turl)issimna bestia nobis!-ENNIus.
IT is a very general remark, that man is the highest order of animals, or that he is an animal gifted with reason.
Were this correct, we might say with equal truth, that
the animal is man without reason; or that some of the
plants, which seem to form a transition from the vegetable
to the animal kingdom, are animals without sensation.
Though man has, physically speaking, many things in common with the animal, lie nevertheless differs from it in his
whole constitution. Man is no more a mere continuation
of the animal. than the animal is merely a continuation of
the vegetable. The difference is perceptible, both physically and psychologically.
1. Man has the same physical functions that the animal
has, but they are more perfect and more delicate. The
body of the animal is either covered with scales or feathers, with fur, wool, or bristles.  All of these approach
more or less nearly to the nature of vegetables; and some
of them, as for instance, the shell of snails and the tortoise,
to inorganic nature.   These insensible substances, interposed between the skin and the elements that surround
and affect living beings, deprive animals of the more tender and delicate sensations, at the same time that they
serve to protect them from the inclemency of the seasons.
The body of man is covered with a thin, highly sensitive,
and beautiful skin, which is not concealed under a vegetable and lifeless veil, but unveiled exhibits the presence of
2                      X 
INTRODUCTION.
the blood, the pulsations of the heart, and the utterance of
animation over the whole body. Everywhere sensitive,
the swelling life shines forth from within, and the fresh,
blooming color of the skin is but the expression of the in   ternal power, the mirror of its healthy or sickly state.
Over the face of man are shed beauty and spirit, and even
animals are said to gaze at him with mute wonder. The
complaint, that man alone is born without raiment, is silly,
for this apparent helplessness is the source not only of the
most various and delicate sensations, and knowledge de   rived from them, but also of much ingenuity. Man has
not claws, but hands, that are susceptible of many different
positions, by which he handles the chisel, which pours life
and beauty over the hard, cold marble, the pencil that
animates the canvas, the instrument from which he draws
forth sweet melodies, and the iron, from which he forms
the weapons denied him by nature. His bodv is so fash   ioned that he must walk upright; for while no animal is
intended to walk otherwise than on all-fours, the propor   tions of the human frame are such, as to render any other
than an upright position almost impossible.  His legs are
much longer than his arms, his knees bend forward, his
eves are in front and not at the sides, the ligaments of the
neck are weak and incapable of supporting the head when
hanging down, the arms are at a great distance from each
*  other, and the breast is broad and full.  A horizontal posi   tion would drive the blood into the head with such vio  lence as to cause stupor.  Man is made to turn his head
from the earth to the sky, fromn the right to the left, to
view now the crawling insect beneath his feet, and nov
the millions of stars above his head. To the fish it is na.
tural to swim, to the bird to fly, to man to walk upright.
The Greek word for man, (ii,,,oa,o;) a being that can look
upwards, indicates the difference between man and ani  mals in this respect. It influences our whole being and
nature.  Even the bees, when they have lost their queen  l)ee, cause the larva of a future laboring bee to be trans  lormed into a queen by changing its horizontal to an up   ight position, and giving it different food.
The same superiority is visible in the human face, its
l)-oportions and features. With the animal, the most pro.
14 
INTRODUCTION.
minent part is the mouth; with man, the upper part of the
face. With the animal, the mouth, jaws, and teeth are to
serve only physical purposes; they are formed to pluck
the grasses and twigs, or to seize and carry their prey, and
thus to perform at the same time the service of the hands
of man. The human mouth, with its beautiful and sensitive lips, its regular rows of teeth, serves not only the
body, but the soul; nourishes not only the stomach, but
also the understanding. Its muscles are so movable, that
according to Haller's calculation, it may pronounce in one
minute fifteen hundred letters.   The contraction of a
muscle forming the letter must consequently take place in
in the three thousandth, and the vibrations of the stylopharyngean muscle in pronouncing a letter, in the thirty
thousandth part of a minute.' No bird flies as fast as the
winged words fall from the lips of man.'
Comparing the animal physiologically with man, we
cannot but perceive a great difference in this respect also.
The lower the animal in the scale of being, the more it is
confined to one and the same food. To this food it is directed by instinct, by constitution and appetite, as the
magnet to the pole.  Man, on the contrary, selects his
food and drink from all the kingdoms of nature, from the
salt of the ocean to the mushrooms of the forests, from
the oyster and the amphibious turtle to the lofty sailors of
the air and ibex of the High Alps.  He prepares his food
by fire, and the story of Prometheus is not a mere fable,
but contains a deep truth. The laws of his digestion differ
widely from those of animals, the functions of assimilation
penetrating more thoroughly the elements of nutrition.
The flesh of the fish, when compared with that of the
bird, is found less formed and solid; that of the bird less
so than that of the quadruped, but the flesh of man is
more perfect than that of any animal.  This shows itself
externally on the whole surface of the human body, and
especially in the "morbidezza" of the skin, the trial-point
of all artists.
2. The psychological difference between man and animals
is yet more striking. The animal has in common with
man, Sensation and Perception. By sensation we understand an internal motion or activity, produced in a sensi
15 
INTRODUCTION.
tive organ by something external.  The  organ may be
seen externally, but this internal activity or motion cannot
be observed; it can only be felt. The eye, for instance,
is the organ of sight; the fluid surrounding it is constantly
in motion, and this motion may be seen, because it is an
external one.  But when the light falls upon the ey(, it
causes a sensation, which as an internal motion, is invisible
to the eye of the observer. He may notice the dilation
or contraction of the pupil, but cannot see sight itself, nor
hear hearing. Comparing the vibrations of a string of the
piano with those of a nerve, subject to sensation, we shall
find the former altogether mechanical and external, the
string moving away from itself. The nerve, when affected.
trembles within itself, and self-touched in its motions, it
has sensation, or feels. The vibrating string of the piano
gives a sound, but the sound is not felt by it; the nerves
of the ear, on the other hand, receive a sensation from it.
These trembling motions of the nerves are called sensations, because they are peculiar to the senses. Now, the
animal has these sensations in common with man, but with
this difbference. In the animal one sense prevails over all
the others, and these are subservient to it. In the eagle,
for example, it is the eye that is predominant; from immense heights he observes the mouse creeping on the soil,
and darts upon it, certain of his prey. Yet this one sense
has always reference to the means of subsistence, which
the animal seeks under its guidance; so that while it may
be extremely acute and successful in discovering the food.
it may be dull and stupid in respect to other objects of
which man receives the most accurate sensations through
the same sense. The ear of the wood-cock is acute in
perceiving any rustling noise, as that in the fallen leaves
of the forests, but shrill and clear sounds it does not notice.
The eye perceives only such objects as reflect the light
upon it. The eye of man may, however, direct itself to
the different parts of these objects, to their color, proportions, size and form, motion or rest, and inspect each by
itself, while the eye of the animal, for want of reason, is
forced to admit a sensation from all these parts at once,
and consequently receives but a confused impression.  As
one sense prevails in animals. the others are found less
16 
INTRODUCTION.
active. The lion has an excellent scent, but his sight is
weak. Hence the animal is under the dominion of one
sense, while the harmonious and equal strength of all the
senses places man above them, and makes him master of
them all. Which of the senses prevails in an animal, depends always upon the species to which it belongs. In the
eagle it is sight, in the mole hearing, in the vulture scent;
but wherever one sense predominates, the others must
subserve and be directed by it.  In man, no sense being
more acute than another, none reigns, but all are co-ordinate with each other, and subordinate to the understanding.  The animal is vis sentiens, man natura intelligens.
Hence it is, too, that we do not speak of insanity or derangement, but of madness, when animals can no longer
distinguish one object from another, but  like infuriated
elephants or horses, trample under their feet every object
that opposes their course. And, finally, man sees not only
with his eye external objects, but is also able to examine
the eye, by which he sees; the animal can neither see its
eye nor itself.
Perception, however, is more than Sensation. The
latter is and remains in contact with the object, by which
it is called forth, and is consequently dependent on it.
The sensation of hearing is impossible without the vibration of the air; that of seeing is impossible without the
presence of light. Sight and light, hearing and sound, are
so inseparable, that the one could not be without the other.
Without light the eye could not see, without an eye, there
would be an eternal night. And if there were no ear, the
brooks might continue to murmur, the waving trees to
rustle their branches, the winds to roar, but to earthly
beings nature would be silent as the grave. Nor can man
avoid admitting a sensation, when the element that excites
it, acts upon the organ. As we cannot have a sensation
of light unless it falls upon the eye, so we must have it,
when the eye is affected by it. We cannot taste salt unless it lies on the tongue, but when once it is jrought in
contact with the tongue, we must have such a sensation,
as its specific nature is capable of exciting. In sensation,
therefore, we depend wholly on the presence of external
objects. and are determined by them. But after we have
2*
17 
INTRODUCTION.
once had a sensation, we may have perceptions of the
objects of sensation, and these perceptions are possible
without the presence of the objects. This appears from
the fact that one, who in the latter part of his life becomes
blind, may have perceptions of all he once saw. Yet perceptions are impossible without previous sensations, for
one born blind can have no perception of color or form.
Another distinction between sensation and perception is
this. Sensation always exists in an organ; perception
not. When I hear a fine melody for the first time, I have
a sensation of it; but when afterwards, without hearing it,
it floats in my mind, I have a perception of it. Or when I
experience hunger,  I may have  a perception of food,
though it be not present, but when I eat, I have a sensation of it. The animal has perceptions as well as man.
The hunter's dog dreams, and pursues in his dream the
hare or the stag. The dog, when near to his master, has
a sensation of him by scent, or sight; but when seeking
him for days in succession, he can have only a perception
of him. The animal is confined within the sphere of sensation and perception, and as its sensations are limited to
its natural wants, so must be its perceptions. But the perceptions of man are as much more numerous and accurate,
as his sensations are more various and acute. And in addition to sensations and perceptions, he has what the animal has not, and which we may express by the term
apperceptions, or thought.
As the animal is separated by sensation from the plant,
so man is elevated by apperception above the animal.
Perception and apperception differ widely.  The objects
of perception are always such as are single and met with
in a certain place and time. The eagle, that builds his
nest on a high rock, has not the least idea of the nature of
the stone on which his nest is placed, nor of the region in
which it stands, but he carries with him the image of this
single rock, as it stands in a particular place, and noticing
no resemblance between it and other rocks,.he would find
it among thousands of others, its peculiar features being
strongly and solely impressed upon his eye. The objects
of apperception, on the other hand, are the kind, the species and individuals of things.  It is by apperception, that
is 
INTRODUJCTION.
man distinguishes between his perceptions and the objects
perceived; and again, that he classifies nature and its productions, by discovering union in the greatest variety, as
when he says: these bushes are rose-bushes; and by distinguishing one class from another, as pears from apples,
and these fromn peaches.  This the animal can never do.
It sees, it perceives the grass, but it never arranges it according to its botanical classes. The dog universally will
pursue the hare, and it may seem that he does so, because
he knows this class of animals, and distinguishes between
it and others; but the truth is, that all hares being exactly
alike in size, form, and scent, will produce the same sensations in the dog, and these will always set him in motion.
This then is the broad difference, the chasm between man
and the animal: the former can think, the latter cannot.
for it is glebae adscriptus. It lives, but acquires no experience; it eats its food daily, but never knows what this
food is. Some indeed have gone so far as to say, that
animals not only judge, but draw conclusions from causes
to effects. To draw conclusions is the highest power of
human reason, and if they could do this, they would be
able to think, and to will like man, and to have apperceptions like him. If animals had the power of thinking, and
could not express their thoughts by language, but only by
barking, like the dog Berganza in Hoffman's novel, they
would be worse off than Shakspeare's Lavinia, who had
lost both tongue and arms, and while full of the deepest
emotions and an ardent desire to express them, was unable
to communicate any thing, either by language or signs: or
than Saintine's "Le motile," whose breast was surcharged
with a poetical spirit, the productions of which, in his opinion, would have surpassed those of Dante and Ariosto,
and yet he had to be mute. But the fact is, that men who
ascribe these high and noble powers to brutes, generally
speaking, do not know what thinking is, or what is to be
understood by judging and drawing conclusions. Animals
have no idea of power, of capacities, of energy, of proportions, of beauty, of truth, and consequently none of
cause and effect. None of these are visible or accessible
to the senses, but only to thought, which it yet remains to
be proved, that animals possess. The process by which
19 
INTRODUTCTION.
we arrive at conclusions is simply this. We have three
thoughts; each differs from the other, and each is included
within a certain limit. But while all differ, one is capable
of uniting the two others, and of removing this difference.
Thus two thoughts are reduced to one class by a third one
connecting them. To make use of an example frequently
adduced, the dog once whipped, fears as soon as he sees
his master take the cane with which he has been beaten
on a former occasion. The cane is one thing, the master's
intention another, and the pain proceeding firom the whipping, a third. Now it would be foolish in the extreme, to
say, that the dog connects the idea of pain with the cane
by the intention of the master. He has but a confused
impression, and without any conclusions or judgments, he
darkly connects things as they formerly were connected,
and anticipates consequences, without being conscious of
such a connection, or without having any thing like an idea
of cause and consequence. Hunters, it is true, tell many
anecdotes about the acuteness and ingenuity of animals, as
do sailors also voyaging to distant countries. The fact,
however, is, that unless their game were bound by the invariable laws of instinct in all its actions, unless one fox
would dig its hole as the other, and all stags would go to
the water, and seek food at regular hours, and live in certain places at different seasons, the hunters would not be
able to entrap them.
Animals, finally, cannot have any emotions; neither joy
nor grief, neither hope nor fear.  The external expressions
of these emotions are weeping and,autghing, neither of
which has as yet been observed in animals. We indeed
all remember fi'om Homer's Iliad, that when the noble
Patroclus, alone and at a distance from his true friend
Achilles, fell by the hands of the Trojans, his horses shed
big tears and refused to obey, because they missed the well
known voice of their beloved master. But these tears belong to poetry; they are the tears which Homer himself
wept at the death of the hero his fancy had created. So
poetry attributes innocence to the lily, because it is of the
purest white; modesty to the violet, because it blooms
and exhales its fragrance unseen; love to the rose, because
the cheeks of the maiden blush like it, when for the first
20 
INTRODUCTION.
time she feels this noble emotion. What is joy in man,
springing from a feeling that connects itself with some
thought, in animals, is but a physical sensation or bodily
pleasure, the agreeable re-action of the muscles against
some external influence, the satisfaction of some want.
And so what is grief in man, is but a physical pain, or suffering in the animal.  The dog, that lays himself upon the
grave of his master and remains there until he dies, does
so not from deliberation and free choice, but being forced
by the chain of habit, which he is unable to break. Nor
do animals fear or hope, for neither the future nor the past
is known to them. A dark anxiety which they do not understand, a confused anticipation, is all of which they are
susceptible.
21 
CHAPTER II.
~ 1. LIFE.
IT is not my intention, in this Chapter, to show what
life is in itself, but only to exhibit some of its most striking
phenomena, and the different stages of its general development throughout nature. Thus only can we gain a clear
idea of the rank occupied by man among animated beings.
Of Life in general.
IN the following three points, the living differs from the
dead or lifeless, the organic from the inorganic.
1. Whatever is alive, must be a union, a totality of many
organs or members, and so united with them, that they
cannot be separated from each other, nor firom the whole,
without being destroyed. The crystal, however transparent, and beautiful, and regular in its form, is not alive,
for it is not an individual being, nor a whole, whose parts
are organs or nmecmbers; it is not organized at all. The
many forms of the crystal are not indeed produced by a
power foreign to its matter, not by an external contrivance, but by a plastic power, which, resting in its matter,
always calls forth the same symmetrical forms according
to eternal laws, whenever the conditions under which it
can be active are present. But the organization of the
whole into parts, as for example, that of the plant into
trunk and branches, being wanting, we should hesitate to
call the crystal alive.  Every one of its qualities is contained in each particle of the mineral, and though there
may be many qualities, they are all of them so included
in each other, that where one is the other is also. Hence
there is no union of many members or organs, each of
which, while pervaded by the same life, has a particular 
INTRODUCTION.
office; but the smallest piece of the mineral is as perfect
as the whole. The plant, on the other hand, is a whole,
that contains and supports all its parts. These parts are
not merely connected as the links of a chain, which cannot
support itself, but must be supported by the nail in the wall;
they grow forth from and depend on each other, and on
the life of the whole. Roots, trunks, branches, twigs,
leaves, blossoms and fruits, all differ from each other; each
has a peculiar office; each assists and promotes the life of
the whole; and while the one depends on the other, all
depend on the individual, whose organs they are. The
leaf torn from the branch, loses its freshness, its sap, its color, and withers. The branch, hanging only by a few
fibres to the trunk, is no longer a part of the tree. One
of the characteristics, therefore. of life, is that its parts do
not merely cohere externally and mechanically, like those
of a machine, but are inseparably connected bv concrescence or a common growth, so that they cannot be divided
without mutual ruin. The iron, divided into small particles o0 atoms by the file, still remains iron. The parts of
a house, as they are heterogenous and only collected from
the different portions of nature. and then put together, so
they will remain what they are. stone, timberi, mortar,
and glass, though they should be taken apart and applied
to another building. But the trunk severed from the root,
is dead; the hand, lopped from the arm, grows bla(ck and
decays.
2. The second characteristic of life is the continued
process by which, whatever lives, preserves itself. As no
living being begins to be by external union, i. e. by a mere
mechanical composition of its parts, but grows forth from
a spontaneous coalescence, so it cannot be supported and
upheld by a foreign power, but must preserve itself by its
own vitality. The chemist may have all the elements of
which a plant consists, and yet it will be wholly out of his
power to produce the plant, or that vital tie that keeps
the parts together in the form of a plant. The parts of
which the machine consists were in existence before the
machine was made, but the parts that constitute the plant,
as the roots, branches, bark, and sap of the tree, were not
before the tree was.  Hlence the organic or living indivi
23 
INTRODUCTION.
dual produces all its parts by a power within itself, and by
this power it also preserves itself. In regard to this selfpreservation, however, a great difference appears in the
different animated beings. The plant by its roots absorbs
those elements which are congenial to its nature; it may
therefore be said to eat and drink, to preserve itself. But
the activity of the plant is purely external. It does not
preserve an organism that may be said to have finished
growing, but by assimilation every spring, it produces new
limbs, leaves, and blossoms. It grows as long as it lives,
and yet every new limb is but a repetition of the original
trunk, as are the new leaves of the old. The animal, on
the other hand, reaches a point, where all its members
are complete and full-grown, and at this stage it preserves
its organism by nutriment. In the animal, one limb differs from the other, the nose from the mouth, the eyes
firom the car, the legs firom the body; but they do not
grow in succession, like the branches of the plant, but contemporaneously.  Hence it is that the life of the plant is
merely external; it presses constantly to the surface, and
exhibits itself in color, bark, fragrance, fruit and seed. And
as its life, so its self-preservation is external, not felt by it.
The life of the animal is more internal, it feels itself, and
feels a pleasure in preserving its life.
3. A third characteristic of life is, that form and matter,
which constitute a living being, are not brought together
externally, so that the matter somewhere exists, and the
form is given it by an external power. This is the case
in art.  The marble exists long before the artist impresses
the picture of his imagination upon it. So this picture
exists in the mind of the artist before his chisel carves the
stone.  But it is otherwise.in a living being.  This grow.
forth from an invisible power, according to certain. unchangeable laws. This power on the one hand materializes, attracts matter, assumes volume, produces fibres,
roots, bark, branches or nerves, muscles, sinews, bones,
&c.; on the other it is plastic, giving form to the matter.
It is however only one power, that acts under two different
forms, so that while it assumes volume, it at the same time
changes the particles received into that form in which
alone its nature can admit them. It is therefore correct
24 
INTRODUCTION.
to say, that in a living being the matter does not precede
its form. The air we exhale, is no longer what it was
when we inhaled it; the light absorbed by the plant is
changed into color, and consequently does not exist in it
as pure light; and this change begins when the element
is received by the plant. The wormwood, the rosebush,
the tube-rose, may A11 of them stand on the same soil, receive the same moisture, the same atmosphere, and the
same degree of heat, and consequently live on the same
elements; yet the different taste and medical power of
their sap, the different color of their leaves, the different
fragrance of their flowers, sufficiently show, that while the
same elements enter into their nature, they do not remain
the same, but are changed and peculiarly modified by the
form under which they enter it. Though the elements as
such precede the plant, they become elements of the plant
only by that plastic power, which in converting them into
constituent parts of the plant gives them at the same time
form. The light flows into the eye of the mole no less
than into that of the eagle, but it exists in the one as it
does not in the other; there is a specific difference between the contents of the eye of the eagle and that of the
mole.
From these remarks it must be manifest, that the variouis forms of life do not proceed from dead matter, nor
from chance or any blind impulse, but that they are fashioned by a plastic power placed in matter by the divine will,
and that this is the power which upholds the species and
individuals, and universally produces the same forms ac cording to the same unchangeable laws.   This power.
then, is the very soul of life, and the question is, W/at can(
we know concerning it?
~ 2. OF THE PLASTIC POWER, OR THE PRINCIPLE
OF ALL INDIVIDUITAL LIFE.
We daily see thousands of beings begin to be; we see
them arise from the ground of the earth, from seeds and
3
25 
INTRODUCTION.
sprouts, and eggs in the water and on the continent, on the
soil and in the air. Each new being bears the form of the
species to which it belongs, and though favorable or un.
favorable influences may render this form more or less
perfect, no external power can change its specific character. From the seed universally will proceed the form of
the plant from which the seed was produced, and leaves
and branches, roots and trunk, blossom and fruit, may be
anticipated with all certainty.   Considering all this, we
must admit that there is a type, which precedes the opening and growing being, and which fashions it with so unchangeable a necessity, that the individuals of any species
have continued substantially the same in size and formr, in
nature and qualities, ever since the creation of the world.
This cannot be owing to accidental circumstances; nor
can form emerge from chaotic matter, nor life from death,
nor light from darkness, nor the organic from the inorganic.
The theory of Thales, therefore, who made water the
mother of all life, or the Aristotelian hypothesis of a generatio aequivoca in opposition to a generatio sexualis,
could no longer stand, even if Redi's experiments had been
less decisive. This hypothesis considered matter as possessed of power to produce the various forms of life. We
see worms and insects generated in decaying flesh; rmushiooms and other plants make their appearance in the different portions of the earth, wherever soil and climate
are favorable to them. Certain plants are always found
around salt springs and nowhere else; the pinits pumilis is
met with on the top of the Silesian mountains, and again
on the Carpathian; how, it has been asked, could these
plants be found so uniformly under the same circumstances, if the same qualities of matter did not always
produce the same forms of life? So we discover, in the
intestines of animals, worms which differ specifically according to the different parts in which they are found, so
that they cannot have been generated by such as might
have been swallowed in water. Thus the theory. Redi,
however, by his simple yet ingenious experiment, completely refuted it. He filled three pots with flesh and exposed them to the sun.  One of these pots he sealed up
tightly, another he covered merely with paper, and the
26 
INTRODUCTION.
third he left open. Upon examining all of them, he discovered that the one left open was filled with insects, the
second, covered with paper, exhibited but a few, and the
third none at all. But suppose insects might originate
from matter, could the larger animals, the horse and the
stag, the zebra and camneleopard, and above all, man, ori.
ginate in the same way? And if they could, by what
power of matter?
From the time of Redi, the proverb of the celebrated
Harvey, that every being originates from seed or eggs,
omne animal ex ovo, became daily more acceptable: yet
' whether I examine with the microscope the germ in the
acorn, or whether I view the oak of a hundred year-s, I
am equally far from its origin.' The seed is already the
product of a plastic power, which formed it, as it must
produce the form that shall grow forth from the seed.
The Greek question-whether the egg was before the hen
or the hen before the egg, must likewise present itself.
The egg is the chicken in possibility, and the chicken is the
realized possibility which was contained in the egg.
At length all the different and many hypotheses on the
origin of individual life, gave way to that which was called
the theory of involution, or theoria preformationis.  This
asserted that all forms exist from the beginning of tile
world, only infinitely small, all of them prefornmed, the one
included in the other, and many millions of germs in one.
Growth is nothing else than evolution or enlargement of
these preformed germs. This theory was supported by
many strange arguments; but however well supported it
might have been, it transferred the difficulty in question
only from one place to another. For whether I view the
tree in its full size or in its infinitely small preformation,
here as well as there I see it alreadv formed, and must ask,
whence these forms? When we, however carefully, and
by the most accurate instruments, examine the egg of a
butterfly, we cannot discover any thing except a white
fluid, which is of the same color and substance in all its
parts, and fills a small, round, simple cover. Nothing can
be seen as yet of the body of the butterfly, nothing of its
beautifully colored wings, nothing of its proboscis, which
the future fly will thrust into the cups of flowers, nothing
27 
INTRODUCTION.
of its limbs and many eyes. And yet the possibility of
producing all of them, slumbers in the egg, and no sooner
is it exposed to the necessary and favorable conditions,
than an invisible power will develop member after member in this simple and identical fluid.
The celebrated Blumenbach, who for a long time had
taught this theory of involution, was accidentally led to
discover its fallacy, and to start one which will be found
of much greater importance to our subject than any former
one. While spending a part of a vacation in the country,
he met with a green armpolypous in a rivulet. He mutilated it repeatedly, and whenever he cut off a part, the
whole animal would become thin for a time, and an effort
to reproduce the lost part became evident. On the second
or third day, tails, arms, and other mutilated parts were fully
grown again. Soon after, he had to attend upon a man,
froin one of whose limbs had to be cut a large portion of
flesh; the wound soon healed, and the system directly
showed a tendency to cover the cavity. When these phenomena were brought in connection with others,-for
example, that the feelers of snails, when cut off, or the
limbs of spiders, when lost, are soon restored again,-it
could not but strike him, that all living beings carry in
themselves a plastic power, from which not only they
themselves proceed, but which has a tendency to produce
and preserve those forms which are essential to them.
The correctness cf this view may be perceived even in
the vegetable kingdom; for it is not the germ in the seed,
firom which the plant originates. This germ is already of
a visible and decided form, the result of the flower. In
the flower we may discover a whitish, globular fluid,
which as the flower unfolds itself, and finally fades away,
becomes more solid, and when ripe, is thrown off from the
mother-plant as seed. In this seed is contained the germ,
the first formation of the future plant, as roots and leaves
may be considered the second and third formations.
Whence then is the germ? It is the product of a plastic
power, which is the principle of individual life and its
preservation, which forms in the plant the seed, the fibres
and the roots, the leaves and the branches; which makes
the roots seek for moisture, and the leaves for the air, and
28 
INTRODUCTION.
the flower for the light of the sun, and which will confine
the form of each individual to its species, so that the seed
of the palm-tree will never grow up and become an oaktree, nor the acorn grow up a palm-tree.
This plastic power reigns wherever there is life:
whether it be in the depths of the ocean, where it works
secretly and unseen, or in the cavities of the earth, where
it mysteriously forms the salamander and dragon, or in
the bud and blossoms of the plant, which it clothes with
beauty, or in the sensations and perceptions of animals,
in which the light of intellect seems to dawn. It can no
more be seen with the eye, than any other power.  But
as we conclude from effects as to causes, so we conclude
here from the products as to the power that produces
them. These products are the forms of individual life,
and consequently we must admit a plastic power, which
produces them. To the thinking and observing man, its
existence is no less certain than the sound that falls upon
his ear, or the dazzling light that is reflected upon his eyes.
The necessity of admitting and knowing this plastic power,
will appear more fully when we consider separately the
principal phenomena that cannot be explained without it.
They are,
First, a living motion. When we compare the different
possible motions with each other, we cannot but acknowledge a great difference between them as to their cause.
The merely mechanical motion, that like the ball rolling
from place to place, changes only its locality, is univer sally caused by a power not contained in the object in
motion,-but by one that is external to it.  The ball on the
billiard table, struck by the rod, will roll on until the im pulse given it has exhausted itself. The arrow, shot from
the bow, is set in motion by a power which does not rest
in it, and which gives it the direction it takes. All me chanical motion so wholly depends on an external cause,
that where it ceases, it must likewise stop. The cannon
ball, discharged into the air, cannot continue to rise, ad
infinitum, bt-' mulst sink back upon the earth in a parabo lic line. With chemical motion it is somewhat otherwise.
Its cause is contained in the peculiar relation or affinity
of two bodies to each other; each of which presupposes
3*
29 
INTRODUCTION.
in the other, what is wanting in itself. Iron filings and
vitriolic acid, put together, will affect and set each other
into motion, the result of which will be the production of
a third body. Mechanical motion leaves a body as it
found it, but chemical motion effects an entire change.
Again, when we see the seed of a plant, sown in a favorable soil, and exposed to the light, swell and move, the motion, though dependent on proper conditions, is not caused
by a power without, but by one within the seed, and the
effect is not a new chemical combination, but a living
body, growing out from within. We may observe the
same, when we compare the motion of an infusorium with
any other merely mechanical loco-motion. The lowest
class of animals, which are so small that five thousand
millions may live in one drop of water, and that can only
be rendered visible by a microscope, magnifying one hundred times, which indeed have only become known since
the  nvention of Leuwenhoek's microscope and may be
produced by pouring water upon decaying substances (infundere, iiifusorium), are called infusoric(.  They are, according to natural historians, mere living points, atoms
that eat and drink, but have no organized bodies. And
yet these living atoms have a motion of their own. The
feather, that floats in the air, the dust that is raised by the
attraction of light, the piece of wood that swims down the
river, are all carried and moved by the elements, in which
they are: but these little, living animals, move with or
against the current, and in whatever direction they choose.
Their motions, therefore, depend not on any thing external, but on a power within themselves, strong enough to
resist the current of the air.
Secondly, a separation of the living being from the element in which it is born. The drop of water that flows
along in a river, is not separated in any way from the
element of which it forms a part. The single grain of
sand is separated from all other grains, but it is not separated by its own innate power, for it is not alive. When,
on the other hand, in the plant a globular fluid is formed,
and when this fluid at length hardens and in the form of
seed by its own activity, thrusts itself forth or falls from
the mother-plant, we must conclude that there is a simpler
30 
INTRODUCTION.
secretly-working power, causing the fluid-which originally is a part of the plant, and in as close a contact with
it as a drop of water with its volume,-to separate itself
and constitute a being of its own. This is the case with
the puncture saliens in the animal, and with all living beings throughout nature.  All commence in such a simple
activity, all begin to move, and to grow forth from it and
receive members and form by it. Through it, the being
that is active, is active in reference to itself. Whatever
Las an existence of its own must be active, and it must be
so either with reference to itself or to something else. An
example may illustrate this: when the blacksmith suffers,
instead of the iron, merely its shadow to fall upon the anvil, and strikes it with his hamnmer, the shadow cannot be
affected, because it has no existence of its own, its motions,
and its whole shadowy, lifeless appearance depending on
the iron.  But when instead of the shadow, the iron is
placed upon the anvil, it will stretch itself out under the
heavy strokes of the hammer.   It is active, yet not for itself, but only for the hammer. The sun, that shines upon
the sand and heats it, is active, yet not for itself, but for
something else; the sand, that is heated and perhaps converted into glass, is active likewise, but not for itself
either, but for some other purposes. The germ, on the
other hand, that under the mild influence of sweet moisture and of a genial warmth, begins to move, to swell, to
break the cover and to sprout, is not active for any thing
else, but for itself; for the result of its activity is its formation as a plant.  As such it preserves itself, breathes,
eats and drinks with its roots and leaves. By the simple
activity in question, therefore, a living being begins to
exist as an in?divid'ual; as such it is related to itself in all
its parts; branches and twigs, roots and trunk, are all of
them related to each other, and their union is the plant or
t,.he individual life, whose organs they are.
Thirdly, a specificform. This originally simple power
or activity, contains the possibility of producing such
forms, as the prototype of a genus necessarily demands.
When we observe an egg, from which the future young is
to come forth, we are forced to admit this possibility. At
first, nothing is visible but the fluid; afterwards a beating
31 
INTRODUCTION.
point is seen; soon the heart begins to have pulsation;
the blood to become red; the head makes its appearance;
eyes, mouth, and members shoot forth. Limbs, as yet
slender as the threads of a cobweb, wings, toes, and feet
become visible. The being in a state of formation, already
sleeps and wakes, moves and rests. It seeks light, and
without assistance opens the shell. Is here no form-giving power? Must not this power have in itself the type
of the formation which it is to produce, and is it not correct therefore to say, that it contains the possibility of
producing specific forms? This possibility is not a mere
fiction of our fancy, it is a physical possibility, that when
all the conditions are present, must pass over into reality.
As the forms, proceeding from the possibility, cannot be
accidental, but must all of them represent their prototype,
or the image which seems to slumber in that originally
simple activity, this possibility or plastic power has been
called nisusformativus.  By nisus is indicated the -tendency of a power to effect a certain, definite object. Byform?ativus is to be understood the quality of the object, its
form and whole organism. There is no such tendency in
lines, to form a circle or a triangle, but there is one in the
acorn, when sown, to form an oak-tree.
It is the same power too, that forms the being, which
preserves it. No sooner is the young born, than all the
fiunctions of this power are in operation.   The mouth
opens itself, the lungs breathe, the stomach digests, and
the lips seek their food.  Leaves fall every autumn, but
every spring adorns the trees with new ones.  It is this
power that causes a wound to heal, and that in inferior
animals, restores lost limbs.  Not the individual only, however, is thus preserved by it-for sooner or later it must
decay-but after it has fully formed and matured the individual, it takes care by it of the genus, and becomes a
tendency of propagation. The period, when it takes this
different direction, is indicated externally. The muscles
swell rounder and fuller, the face blooms, and vigor and
feeling of a youthful freshness is spread through the
whole body.
It is remarkable that this plastic pGwer, the principal
phenomena of which we have considered, determines also
32 
INTRODUCTION.
the motions of the organs, and the use to be made of them.
It causes the sap to rise and to sink in the plant, the
branches to extend themselves towards the light, the roots
to move from the centre towards the nourishing moisture,
and the leaves to expand and contract in proportion as
the cellular textures are filled with juice. So the stamina
of many plants move of their own accord, as soon as they
are formed; the cups of others close when the sun sets,
as those of many tulips; others shut their leaves when a
storm threatens, as the Scotch sycamore, and others again
sink into the water when the sun sinks, and re-appear
when it rises, as the lotos. The light may act here by
way of excitement, but cannot act as the sole cause; and
as plants have no sensations and perceptions, these motions must be attributed to the plastic power, as the motions in the lips of the new-born child proceed from it.
More instructive, and more to our purpose, however,
are some phenomena, which we observe exclusively in the
animal world. Here all the productions of the plastic
power are more perfect and more regular.   They are
more  perfect; for if we  compare  the most beautiful
flower with the eye the latter will strike us at once as
being infinitely more artistical and complete. They are
more regular; for the animal has but two lungs, but two
eyes, but two ears, while the plant has thousands of leaves,
and buds, and flowers. The more nearly animals are al lied to the vegetable world, the greater will be the num ber of their limbs; some reptiles have more than one hun dred feet;-yet the number of limbs in any is no longer
left indefinite, as in the plant, but determined by the
species. The more animals approach man or the sphere
of reason, the more perfect their forms, and the less nume rous their limbs.
And as this power in animals becomes more perfect
an(l regular, so it assumes a higher character. When we
see the vine seek with its tendrils the large tree, and when
we see them wind themselves around it, we at once attri bute these motions to that power by which the plant
grows. But not so when we see that the tortoise, hatched
by the sun a mile from the shore, no sooner leaves the
shell, than it runs without a guide, in a straight line to the
33 
INTRODUCTION.
ocean, or when we see ducks hatched by a hen, not listening to her clucking, plunge into the water, and without having learned to swim, enjoy this element with innate skill, or when we see the ox select two hundred and
seventy-six herbs for his food, but universally shun two
hundred and eighteen, though he never studied botany.
The sphex fabulosa, before laying her eggs, hollows out a
little cell for every one; then fetches half-killed spiders,
drags one into each cell, and lays her eggs on them, so
that the future young ones may not want for food.  The
mining spider digs a channel into the earth, about two
feet deep, and closes it very artificially by a trap-door.
This door is round, formed of different layers of earth,
which are held together by threads; its outside is rough,
but the inside smooth and lined with a thick texture, from
the upper part of which, threads run to the surface of the
channel, so that the door hangs on a string, and falls by
its own weight into a fold as accurately as if the whole
had been eflfected by mathematical skill.  This door the
spider has the skill to keep shut by its bodily exertions,
when an enemy tries to open it. When we see such phenonlena, we must admit a far higher agency than that
which works and lives in plants, and this higher agency is
iznstin?ct.
~ 3. INSTINCT.
What comparative anatomy is for the study of the anatomy of man, that, instinct and an investigation of its nature is for the study of Mental Philosophy.  Within its
sphere we discover phenomena that are full of design and
calculation, and analogous to those of reason, and yet reason being wanting, will and self-consciousness being entirely absent, we cannot attribute these designs to animals,
but must ascribe them to him who works by eternal laws
through their instinct; yet a knowledge of these phenomena will be found extremely useful to the psychologist.
The physiologist finds it necessary, in order to understand
34 
INTRODUCTION.
fully the different organs of man, to compare them with
those of animals. He must trace them from their first
indications in the lower classes of animals, through all their
different gradations up to man. Thus may he discover
the importance of each part, by perceiving what degree
of sight or hearing those parts of the eye or the ear afford,
which are met with in animals that have not those organs
perfectly formed. There are animals that consist of a single organ, which, while in its connection with a complicated organism in man, it is subordinate to higher ones, is
the only one in them or at least prevails over the few
)thers that they may possess. In viewing such a being,
we may see what kind of life a single organ is capable of
producing, and what its share must be in the constitution
of man. So we know, that in muscles and snails, the liver
and heart alone are fully formed; in many insects the
wind-pipe; in others the lungs; in the polypous the stoma(h; in infusoria the gut.  Nature contains all the parts
of man, but not as man has them. In the lowest animals,
single parts are sufficient to form the whole being; more
of them become united at the higher stages of animal life,
until finally all appear well-proportioned in man, the tree,
whose leaves are scattered throughout nature; and as a
machine can be known only when its parts are viewed
singly, so man can be understood only, when we are acquainted with the inferior tribes in nature, which present
to our inspection the different parts composing his system.
Thus it is likewise with the psychological life of man. In
viewing the nature of instinct we may see what kind of
mental life sensation and perception, independent of reason
and will, are able to produce, and thus we may learn how
to value reason and will as we should. It is not the identity, but the difference, not the sameness but comparison,
from which we may learn most, and whenever in a science
we have gained a prominent point adapted to exhibit these
differences, it will be well for us to pause for a moment
over it. Such points are for science, what mountains are
for travellers, who desire to observe a country. They will
see more, when standing on mountain-tops, than any where
else. The nature of plastic power in the vegetable world,
and that of instinct in animals, will accordingly teach us
35 
INTRODUCTION.
more concerning Psychology, than any other portion of
human science.
The different general phenomena of instinct have been
arranged by the celebrated Reimarus, in no less than fifty  eight different classes. It will be sufficient for the present
purpose, to mention only a few. Animals, from the time
of their birth, move with perfect skill from one place to
another, and use all their limbs in a perfectly correct man ner, and for the right purpose, without having received in struction. So the squirrel uses its fore-paws at once pro perly; so the fish swims without teaching. Amphibious
animals will move from one element into the other; and
birds, insects, fishes, and even quadrupeds will seek, and
unerringly find, distant countries, in order to enjoy the de gree of heat or cold favorable to their constitutions. Other
animals bury themselves when winter approaches. All
animals select their food not only skillfully, but also seek it
in the proper places, at the proper season, and at the pro per time, by day or night; many are extremely cunning
in catching their prey, and in laying up provision for in clement seasons; others know how to heal their wounds,
how to erect dwellings for themselves, how to defend
themselves from their enemies either by houses, as the
beaver, or by regular wars, as some species of ants. All
these phenomena of instinct, however, may be reduced to
three great classes, one of which will comprehend all those
that have reference to the nutrition, another those referring
to the m7notion, and the third, those relating to the p-opagation of animals, for the end of all instinct is the preservation of the individual and of the race,
Instinct pre-supposes, what is not found in the sphere of
vegetation, sensation and perception; and while the plastic
power of the vegetable kingdom extends also to the ani.
meal, instinct is confined to such beings as can feel.  The
plant grows and ripens, but it would be improper to say,
except poetically, that it sleeps, or that it is fatigued, hun
gry and thirsty. It is true, that plants hang their leaves
when they suffer from want of moisture; that, like the
lotus ornithliopedioides, which folds its flowers at night and
opens them again in the morning, they seem to sleep, yet
when all is well investigated, we shall discover that we
36 
INTRODUCTION.
speak but metaphorically of the sleep of plants. For as
they are never awake, so they cannot properly be said to
sleep.   But hunger and thirst, a tendency  for motion
and rest, and for the propagation of the race, are the peculiar phenomena of instinct, which we shall now investigate.
It is natural to every living being to sustain itself by
food. But neither man nor animals would think of taking
nourishment, did not the system and operation of digestion
force them to do so. When by exercise or atmospheric
influence, digestion is regularly promoted, the stomach will
become empty, and the gastric juice will gather. The
power of this juice will seek something to act upon, and
finding no food, it will attack the coats of the stomach.
If no food is administered, the stomach will make an attempt by contractions to remove this juice, and not succeeding in this, death is inevitable. It is the nature of
instinct,-ist, To feel the pain thus caused by the activity
of this gastric juice, and to feel the danger of destruction.
This feeling itself is of course painful, and is generally
called hunger.-2d, Instinct, as hunger, will impel the animal to attack the world around and seek for food. This
appears already from the connection of hunger and an
irresistible tendency to motion. The horse stamps when
hungry, and were it not chained, it would go in search of
food. The boa constrictor is constantly active when in
want of food, but as soon as its hunger is satisfied, it lies
sluggishly down and may be chased by a child.-3d, Instinct will direct the animal to its proper food, and no
sooner is this perceived by the particular sense that prevails in the animal and stands in the service of instinct,
than a prophetic feeling of pleasure will at once induce
the animal to seize upon it. Hence it is; that the sheep,
without choice or consideration, will select salt from
amongst arsenic, which would be impossible to man.  Instinct then is, on the one hand, a feeling of want, and on
the other, a feeling of the sympathy existing between this
w-ant, and the objects by which it is to be satisfied.  This
sympathy expresses itself in the animal by an internal
urgency to seek, and by the pleasure it feels when guided
by its prevailing sense it perceives its proper food, so that
4
37 
INTRODUCTION.
no reflection is required to distinguish one herb from
another.
If it were necessary to illustrate the nature of instinct,.
a number of examples might be given. Analogous to it is
the attractive power in the magnet, which from among
many thousand grains of different substances, attracts none
but iron filings. The root absorbs only certain elements
of the soil, and excludes others, as appears from the fact
that plants set in an unfavourable soil wither. So we see
animals of imperfect formations, confined to one single
food, which they select from among many different materials. The fact, however, that instinct pre-supposes feeling, sensation, and perception, raises it above the power in
the magnet, and gives it a higher character than that of
the root which also seeks and finds its nourishment. And
how can it be supposed that instinct is rather an intelligent
powei, than that it is a sympathy between the whole nature of the animal and the objects which are congenial to
it? Especially when we consider that the ox eats two
hundred and seventy-six herbs, but rejects two hundred
and eighteen; that the goat finds four hundred and fortynine palatable, but feels averse to one hundred and twentysix; the sheep, three hundred and eiglhty-seven, not touching one hundred and forty-one; the horse, two hundred
and sixty-two, leaving two hundred and twelve untasted.
When we consider, too, that they not only distinguish different herbs, but that with the same readiness they discover their food, though it should be under ground. The
reindeer lays itself down, scrapes away the deep snow
with its horn, and its fore-feet, and finds its aliment. Do
these animals do so from a knowledge of these herbs, and
of the locality favorable to their growth, or from a sympathetic relation between themselves and their food? Animals are certainly not mere machines, as Descartes maintained, but neither are they thinking beings, as many sensualists would like us to believe. Their life is confined to
sensation and perception, and all their activity proceeds not
from uwill, but from a feeling of pain or pleasure.
38 
INTRODUCTION.
~ 4. ON THE INGENUITY OF ANIMALS.
I hope, however, to throw still more light upon this interesting topic, by considering some productions of animals which seem to manifest ingenuity. Of this kind, are
all those that on the one hand, answer as means for a certain purpose; for example, the web, by which the spider
catches his prey, flies and insects, as skillfully as the fisher
entraps in his net the inhabitants of the rivers. Wher.eever we perceive an adaptation of means to the end, there
we allow ingenuity to be active. On the other hand,
they must be something separate from the animal by
which they were produced. The shell of the snail, that
of the tortoise, and of the armadilla, are very artistlike
and beautiful, but they are formed by mere excretion, and
by the influence of the atmosphere, and constituting parts
of the animals themselves, they do not belong to the class
of productions of which we speak. We do.not think of
ingenuity when we admire the beautifully coloured wings
of the butterfly, or when we delight in viewing the regular and beautiful formations of leaves, of buds and flowers,
for all of them form parts of the beings in which we discover them, and are the products of the same plastic
power which formed the animals or plants themselves;
but when we see the cell of the bee, the larva of the caterpillar, or the nest of the tailor bird, we are at once
struck with their ingenuity. When we examine the cover
in which the chrysalis of a caterpillar awaits its future
transformation, we find it full of design. Some of these
coverings have a crown on one end, made of erect and
stiff threads that form in the inside a smooth and comfortable surface, but offer stiff knots and points on the outside,
so that they easily yield to a pressure from within, but
make it difficult to be pressed in from without. Here is
design, here is preparation for a change which the animal
has to undergo but once in its life, and as we cannot feel
willing to ascribe these phenomena to the knowledge and
will of the animal, we must attribute them to a peculiar
modification of instinct. This we feel ourselves the more
39 
INTRODUCTION.
strongly forced to do, when we ascertain that this tendency for artificial productions is not met with in the
more perfect animals which possess all the senses in considerable perfection. The elephant does not show a trace
of it; the horse, the reindeer, the ibex, the zebra, are not
possessed of it. But the tortoise, a stupid, sluggish, and
awkward creature, paddles to the shore, digs with her
clumsy feet a hole, and after having deposited her eggs in
it, she covers it, levels it with the soil, and creeps several
tinies over it, so that not a trace of the hole can be discovered. From this it will appear, that this modification of
instinct is not found every where in the animal world,
especially not in that part which by its completeness of
the senses approaches most nearly the intellect of man,
and the question offers itself.-Where is it met with?
It is not found among such animals as maintain a decided independence of the elements in which they live,
such as have five senses, as the buffalo, the bison; nor
again, among such as depend almost wholly on the element
surrounding themi, and are of weak and imperfect organization. It is frequently met with among insects that appear and disappear with certain plants, or live principally
on plants; and among birds and fishes that depend on
certain seasons, and observe them in their going and
coming from one region to another. These facts are of
considerable importance to the question under consilera
tion. For who does not at once perceive a connexion be
tween the plastic power which produces the plant and its
beautiful formations, and the insect in which this power
is continued, and throtug,h which  it indirectly produces
here, the cell of the bee, and there, the pyramid of the ant.
These remarks may aid us in discovering the nature of
animal ingenuity.  The mere plastic power, as it reigns
in the vegetable kingdom, is entirely extcrnacl and objective in its productions; through it the seed germinates,
sprouts, and sendls forth the root, stem, and leaf, the bud,
Ihe flower andi the seed; but from the germ to the seed
all is external, the plant breathing forth its most internal
life into color and fiagrance. Instinct, on the other hand,
is internal, conditioned byfeelbig, by sensation, and perception. The phenomena of the plastic power and those
40 
INTRODUCTION.
of instinct are the same, the preservation of the individual
being, and of the race. The plant needs nourishment, motion, and rest, andpropagates itself by seed or sprouts. The
animal is subject to the same wants but with this difference: the roots of the plant absorb moisture, its leaves
drink the cooling dew and air without becoming in any
degree conscious of it; the animal feels its wants, and
guided by sensation, it seeks and finds the means by which
to remove them.   The plant, a mere external growth,
cannot move from its place; the animal is enabled by
feeling itself, to go in search of its food. Instinct, then,
raises the animal as much above the plastic power, as reason raises man above instinct. Yet while instinct and
the plastic power differ, they are contained in each other;
instinct could not exist for a moment without the plastic
power and its irresistible tendency to live; it is the plastic power, only modified by feeling. Again, the plastic
power reigns throughout all nature; it is the soul of all
life without exception, while instinct is confined to animal
life.
We have now arrived at the point at which animal ingenuity must become clear. It is the medium between
instinct and plastic power. It is stronger than the latter
and weaker than the former. It is external in its productions, like the plant, and at the same time feels its wants,
and separates what it produces, from itself by feeling.
Its productions are impossible without instinct, and no
less so without the plastic power; they are their joint
product.
When the bee, without the least knowledge of flower
or juice, buries itself in the cup and sucks in the sweet
nectar, it is filled with feelings of pleasure; but when it
builds the cell, its activity resembles that of the plant, for
it is the plastic power that is active in and through it.
The cell is external like the flower, but the flower constitutes part of the plant; the cell is separate from the bee,
for the bee, feeling itself, will not grow together with such
external materials.
The plastic power, as has been before remarked,
prevails throughout all nature; compared with instinct
it is the general, while instinct, belonging only to ani                            4~
41 
INTRODUCTION.
mals is the  specific.   Now  instinct, i. e. feeling, per ception, and sensation, may either be so strong that the
plastic power of the element in which the animal lives, is
not permitted to effect anything in and through it, the
nervous strength of the animal resists such a tendency the plastic power enters into the animal, but does not
affect its independence. Or, the instinct, feeling, indepen dence of the animal may be too weak for the plastic
power  to work  through it.  Or, finally, the animal is
on the one hand susceptible of resisting the unlimited
influence of the plastic power, and on the other of receiving it into itself, of being penetrated by it, so that when it
is active by instinct, this power is permitted to act through
it and to give form and shape to its productions. Animal
ingenuity then, is the measure of independence given to
these little creatures, and of their dependence on those elenmects in which they principally live.
Now what can be more comprehensible than animal
ingenuity? There are some thoughts that will always require thinking to be understood; and as little as one person can digest for another, so little will it be possible, by
even the clearest representation, to make such thoughts
understood by all. But what can be more easily understood than the skill with which some birds make distant
journeys? The element in which the bird lives is the
air, and it is so entirely pervaded by this element, that the
wings and feathers are filled with it, so that even when
the windpipe is closed up, the bird will still be able to live
if an opening is made in the bone of the wing, and the
air thus permitted to communicate itself to the lungs.  No
doubt the changes of the air must be quickly felt, and the
sympathy between the bird and its element must be very
strong.  When, now the bird, after her young are reared,
feels a desire to wander because nutriment has become
scarce, the warmth diminished, and the whole state of the
atmosphere changed, she will be attracted by the warm
south wind, and following it, will find her new home. It
is not a previous knowledge then, not a compass, that directs her, but the warm winds alluring to the south, penetrate and bear her onward, as the fish feels itself drawn
by the sweet waters of the rivers. The bee lives princi
d2 
INTRODUCTION.
pally in the vegetable kingdom, in which the plastic power
alone reigns. This power enters the bee, and by its laws
the cell is formed.
There are two reasons that make us gaze with so much
wonder at the productions of animal ingenuity. In the
first place we discover in them an adaptation of means to
an end, and whenever we perceive this, we presuppose
reason and design. And yet there is the same adaptation
of the root to the flower in the plant; and in perceiving
it, we feel by no means astonished, merely because we
consider the one the product of the plastic power, which
is wholly external, and the other that of meditation. In
the second place, most of us are in the habit of considering nature and its manifold powers as a mechanical whole,
whose parts have been brought together by some mechanic, and whose powers exist side by side, without having
any affinity to, or connexion with each other. But the
opposite of all this is the case. Nature is a system, not a
conglomeration; alive and active in all its elements and
atoms, it is filled with powers, from the mechanical, chemical, magnetic, and galvanic up to the organic, all of which
flow invisibly into each other, affect and determine each
other. Eternal laws dwell in them, and provide that
while these powers receive, and work with and through
each other, none interferes with the other, or in any degree changes its nature, but supports and upholds it.
Thus we have a constant life, powers flow up and down,
to and fro. The drop of water falling from the cloud is
shapeless, exposed to the cold, it radiates into a beautiful
flake of white snow. Nothing is isolated; nothing disconnected; the air preserves the elasticity of the water no
less than moisture a proper temperature of the atmosphere.
It may be instructive to compare these artificial productions of animals with the works of human art. The great
contrast between them will show the true nature of the
former.
1. Animals are born not only with the capacity, but with
the ready skill to produce artificial works. This is manifest from the fact, that these little creatures not only execute these works immediately after their birth, but also in
the same way throughout their lives, without in the least
43 
INTRODUCTION.
improving them. The spider feels a tendency to weave
his web before he has seen the flies, to ensnare which he
spins the thread. The ant-eater can scarcely yet move,
when his nature already impels him to prepare the funnel,
for the purpose of catching ants and other insects. To
say that they learned this from seeing their parents do the
same, would be contrary to experience. For, as Aristotle
remarks, if we have three eggs hatched by artificial heat,
one of a bird, one of a duck, and one of a serpent, we
shall see the young bird try to fly, before its wings are
grown; the duck to swim, and the serpent to creep into
the earth, before they have seen any one of their kind do
the same. What man does, he must have learned by trial,
but the caterpillar has only once in his life to undergo a
transformation, and yet he knows how to spin a covering
that will suit his future state, of which he cannot have the
least idea. The work, to be produced, seems to bear a
prophetic character, for while the larva is still of a cylindric form. he weaves a covering fitted to the form of the
chrysalis, as if he had his future state before his eyes.
Man is not born with any ready skill, like the animal; his
arm allows the mere possibility of performing thousands
of different operations, but this possibility must be exercised
and developed. Exercise demands both time and repetition, and produces experience; but experience is imnpossible without reason and judgment. All the artificial productions of animals are based on instinct; those of man
on reason, will, and consciousness, and hence it is that the
former have reference only to physical wants, but the latter to intellectual.
2. Some animals construct their artificial works of materials which they prepare themselves. The paper wasp
builds its nest of pasteboard fabricated by its own ingenuity.  The celebrated Oken savs of it, "This pasteboard
not only resembles our pasteboard, but it is really the same;
equally as close, white, and strong as man is able to make
it. Put one of these nests into the hands of a paper maker
without telling him anything about it, and he will press,
and turn, and tear it, without once imagining that any except one of his own profession could have prepared it."
The aquatic spider, that cannot live under water without
44 
INTRODUCTION.
air, draws forth from its nipple a moist substance, a kind
of varnish, covers itself with it, and bursting this bladder,
it forms by degrees a diver's bell of it, as large as half a
pigeon's egg; by a few threads it fastens it to some solid
object in the water, its opening.hanging downward, and
then filling it with air, it may sit in it below the water for
a long time, and watch its prey. So the bee gains honey
and wax by digestion, and forms its cells of them. A
little bee, called the paper. hanger (antophora argentato)
bores perpendicular holes into the earth, and lines its
house with pieces of the soft red leaves of flowers, as
handsomely as persons of wealth cover their rooms with
carpets. The antophora entuncularis builds its very arti  ficial nest of leaves that are cut perfectly round; it folds
them into the form of a thimble, and shoves six or seven
into each other.  Man and animals may, however, use
the same materials, and yet there remains this great diffe  rence. The animal uses these substances without know  ing their qualities, without having the least idea of the
powers that fit them for the uses to which they apply
them. They do not use them, therefore, from choice or
consideration, but being directed to them by instinct. The
swallow builds its nest of the same materials now, which
it used in the time of Pliny.  Man, on the other hand,
knows the powers of different substances, and their fitness
for various purposes; lie, therefore, selects and judges.
Stones may be good for one, wood for another building.
He has works written on the different building materials,
and architects must be well acquainted with the nature
of timber and stone, if they desire their works to be du  rable.
3. Animals produce all their works by their own limbs, for
they have no instruments. " In order to understand the
works of animals," says the most celebrated natural his
torian of our time, the distinguished Oken, "we must
know the organs with which they are provided by nature."
How artificial seems to us the preparation of wax and
honey; how many ingenious instruments would we have
to invent, and how much skill would it require to gather
pollen, and how easy is all this for the bee. Its whole
body, even what is supposed to be its eyes, is so covered
45 
INTRODUCTION.
with hair, that viewed with a strong lens it resembles a
piece of moss. The hairs are formed for gathering pollen;
the head is a flat triangle, running downward to a points
its feelers are extremely flexible.  The horny upper jawbones meet in front of the mouth like tongues, they are
hollow, and can approach each other like hands; below is
the proboscis, bent backward, and well formed, to be thrust
into the nectar cups of flowers, and in addition to all, the
limbs, that move involuntarily without reflection or will, of
which the two behind answer the purpose and bear the
name of brushes. These limbs are so shaped, that their
natural motions have a tendenc(y to produce the works that
seem to us so remarkable. The German rat has a bag
below the chin, into which it gathers grain; the mole has
protruding fore-feet to dig with; the fish has fins and a
broad, upright, standing tail, to swim. But man, according
to Franklin, is an animal that can invent machines. The
savage, fastening a sharp stone to a club, uses it as an axe;
he does not defend himself by his limbs, but by the bow,
the arrow, and the tomahawk. Man has invented the saw
and the hatchet, the sword and the gun, the furnace and
the mill, and is daily increasing the number of machines.
There is no animal that ever attempted to fabricate its
works by the use of self-invented machines, or  by fite.
Monklieys, that are generally admitted to be ingenious never
think of keeping up the fire by adding wood, though they
evidently delight in its warmth; nor of firing woods, or of
destroying the property of those that injure them, or of
preparing instruments of iron by the aid of fire.
4. The arts of animals have no history, as have those
of man. They have no history in the objective sense of
the word; they have no gradual development, no cultivation, no improvement; they are stationary, they are the
same now that they always were. The arts of animals
cannot have a history in the subjective sense of the term
history, for there can be no historical narration where
nothing is to be narrated, and animals cannot be conscious
of an improvement, when there is none. But it is the
character of history, that on the one hand it develops
gradually all the capacities of a nation, or of our race; and
on the other, makes us conscious of them by narrating
46 
INTRODUCTION.
them; and hence it is, too, that history objectively means
the actions related, res gestac, and subjectively the relation
of them, historia rerum gestarum. On the other hand,
there was a time when man knew of no arts, not even of
such as are now considered indispensable. But animals
have always had the same arts in the same degree of perfection, and for the same purposes as at present. Man had
to invent his, and he changes and improves them daily
The arts of men differ in different regions, while the same
animals will always produce the same works, wherever
they are. And so men of different capacities in the same
region, wvill have different success, while animals of the
same kind will have the same.
5. Finally, the purpose for which animals produce
works of art, is limited to the sustenance of individual life
and the preservation of the race. Hence their works are
few in number. The spider can only spin a web; the
bee can only build a cell. Hence it is too, that the bird
does not build its nest before the time of propagation.
The purposes, for which man exercises his ingenuity and
inclination to art, are manifold. By mechanical art he invents instruments, to serve his desire for knowledge. The
press, the paper, the ink, the watch, the electrical machine,
the compass, the telescope, give sufficient proof of this;
and the yard and the measure, the landmark and the coin,
show that his ingenuity is made subservient to his sense of
justice. By the fine arts he enters the sphere of beauty
and the compositions of Mozart and Beethoven, of Handel
and Haydn; the pictures of Raphael and Titian, the poetry
of Shakspeare and Homer must serve to satisfy his longing
for intellectual entertainment.
From the above remarks it. sufficiently appears, that,
though the works of animals are full of intellect and design,
it is not their design, we admire, but that of the Creator,
who accomplishes it through the animals.
47 
INTRODUCTION.
~ 5. RELATION OF INSTINCT TO MAN.
The plastic power, as it exists and operates in the plant
is blind, for it has neither sensation nor perception. The
instinct of animals is like the twilight, not clear, but confused
in itself, for it can neither comprehend, judge, nor conclude;
it distinguishes only by sensations, and such distinctions are
faint, unaccompanied by consciousness, and not resulting
from comparison, but depending wholly on the strength of
the impression made by the different objects on the senses
of the animal. The instinct of insects and of those animals
that produce artificial works, is interesting, and so regular
in its productions, that they seem to be living arithmneticians; yet they thus only appear to us, for in reality these
little creatures are not conscious of their powers. Man
has the power of thought; here every thing becomes trans.
parent, clear, distinct and manifest; where pure thought
prevails, there instinct loses its power. Though the animal
is separated from the vegetable kingdom by sensation and
perception, the plastic power of plants is continued in it,
and the animal is formed by it, grows, matures and decays
according to its laws. So man is separated from the
animal by reason, but on the one hand, he is formed by
the same plastic power, and on the other, instinct still appears in the new-born child, whose lips long instinctively
for nourishment, and in many of the actions of savages.
The principal manifestations of instinct in man, however,
are those of hunger and thirst, of motion and rest, and of
care for the race. But, as has been said above, man is
separated from the animal by reason; he can think, he can
will, and by these powers he reigns over his instinct, and
subjects it to his discipline.  lie must live, in order to
think; he must eat and drink, in order to live; but while
the animal is wholly under the control of instinct, and while
hunger is a tyrant whose dictates must be obeyed, man
can not only eat what he pleases, but also wl-holly abstain
from food, and though urged by an excessive appetite he
may nevertheless give away his food, or like Atticus starve
himself in the midst of plenty. The animal must eat when
48 
INTRODUCTION.
hungry, and it must eat what its instinct directs it to use.
The lion cannot eat hay, the horse will not eat flesh. Nor
will the animal eat more tihan is sufficient to appease its
wants, but man may eat and drink much or little, and when
he pleases. A glutton is said to have eaten before the
Emperor Aurelian a wild hog, a young pig, a whole lamb,
one hundred pieces of Roman bread, and to have drank
besides, a bucket full of wine.
Such too, is the case with all the other natural powers
of man.  He may live or commit suicide; the animal must
live, and though the rein-deer is said to kill itself by dashing its head against the tree, its death is accidental, for it
intends only to free itself from pain, caused by the glutton
which fastens upon its head.  The whole life of the animal
is a slavish one. The sight of the hunter puts the stag to
flight, and he must bound over hill and valley, over bush
and brook. But when the cannon-ball fell into the room
of Charles XII, and he remained calmly in his chair, when
the Dutch admiral, in the moment he was about to take a
pinch of snuff, and lost the extended hand by a shot, took
it with the other, and whien a British  cannonier, whose
right hand was torn off by a ball as he was about to discharge his cannon, used the left with the words, "does the
enenmy think that I have but one hand?" they showed, that
they by their will, were above the necessity of yielding to
fear or the influence of pain.
Man possessing reason, has an innate desire for knowledge, which the animal has not.  This desire is more than
instinct, and not any part of it. This may be easily made
clear. The gratification of instinct is pleasure, connected
with sensation and perception, with the taste of food, with
the motion of muscles or their rest. But the gratification
of a desire for knowledge, is pleasure connected with our
apperceptions, with our cognitions, with our comprehensions, judgments, and conclusions.  In the sphere of instinat all is confined to sense, in the sphere of our intellectual desiies, our pleasures, are derived from thought, from
a satisfaction of our thirst for knowledge. But while instinct extends not beyond the sphere of sensation, our desire for knowledge includes instinct, and it is this which
leads miany of us to the objects suited to the exercise of our
5
49 
INTRODUCTION.
eculiar talents. So Linnaeus, when yet an infant, could
be silenced by no other toy so quickly, as by a flower put
into his hands. So Mozart, when only six years old, would
make distinctions between different notes, which his father,
likewise a musician, could not perceive.  Instinct mingling
with our desire for knowledge, constitutes in union with it,
talents and natural capacities.
The life of man and that of the animals, it must be
evident, differ widely, not only in degree, but in kind.
Where that of man commences, the animal is left behind.
A chasm separates the one from the other. The animal
may gaze on man, but it cannot understand him, for it is
unable to think or to comprehend, and the words spoken to
the dog, for example, are not for him what they are for
man, sounds full of meaning, they are mere signs to him.
The life of the animal is like a dream; and even while
waking it dreams. But the life of man is fully awake, it is
possessed of self-consciousness, and gifted with the capacity to originate constantly new thoughts, and assisted by
the powers of nature to realize them.
50 
PART I.
ANTHROPOLOGY.  
P'ART T.
ANTIIROPO LOGY.
Mental philosophy has to consider the mind of man, 1.
In its connection with the body, in its dependence upon it,
and through it upon nature. 2. In its relation to itself.
In the former case its doctrines may be embraced under
the general term ANTHROPOLOGY, and in the latter that of
PsYcHOLOGY. The object of Anthropology is to examine
the external influences to which mind is subject, and its
modifications produced by them. The object of Psychology is to investigate the nature of mind, as it is conscious
of itself and of the difference between it and nature, and
as it has rendered these natural influences more or less
subject to its power.
The mind becomes subject to the influences of physical
nature only by its connection with the body. Whatever
affects the latter permanently, will also influence the former. The qualities of the mind, produced by these influences, are therefore, likewise permanent. The Mongol,
the Malay, and the Negro, are the same at present, physically and psychologically, that they were at the time of
Herodotus, who describes them as Scythians, Indians, and
Black People. The disposition of the Laplander cannot
be changed into that of the Frenchman, by emigrating to
the South, any more than a transplanted peach-tree can become a palm-tree.  This general modification of the mind
may, however, be altered by the peculiar capacities of an
individual, by temperament, by age, or by exchanging one
region for another. Nor is the mind wholly subjected by
its connection with the body to these influences of situation
5 
ANTHROPOLOGY.
and circumstances. Possessed of consciousness and will,
it may subject the body and all its peculiarities, and also
the solar, lunar, and telluric influences to its control, at least
in a great degree.
Anthropology may, therefore, be divided into three
parts: or those which treat.
I. Of the permanent influences of nature, of race, sex,
&c. upon the mind.
II. Of the transient influences of age, sleep, dreaming, &c.
III. Of the power of the mind over the bLody.
54 
CHAPTER I.
MODIFICATIONS OF MIND PRODUCED BY THE PER.
MANENT INFLUENCE OF NATURE.
~ 1. THE INFLUENCE OF NATURE UPON THE MIND
OF MAN.
IT cannot escape the observation of any, that every
organic form of life is so affected by the quality of the
elements surrounding it, that a certain region of the earth,
with the plants and animals growing in it, and claracterizing it, seems to form one inseparable whole.   No sooner
does the student of Natural History perceive a salt spring,
than he looks for the plants peculiar to springs of this
kind. As the osteologist may judge, from a single bone, of
the whole animal, so a single plant may indicate to the
scientific botanist, the face and soil of the earth, and the
elements in which it grew.   The same  truth is seen
throughout all nature. The seed depends for its growth
on a favorable soil, no less than on a favorable season.
The plant that luxuriates in a mild and rich soil, when
transplanted into another, will wither. The elements that
called forth its life aie required for its support. With
animals the same is the fact; some of them, like plants,
appear and disappear with certain seasons; others with
certain plants. The whole existence of the cherryv-worm
continues only as long as the cherry; it then buries itself
in the earth, re-appears in the following MIay as a little
black fly, lays its egg in the cherry, and dies.  The power
that renews the life of the cherry-tree, seems also to revive
the cherry-worm. No animal but the dog can live except
within certain geographical boundaries, so that we may 
ANTHROPOLOGY.
have a geography of plants and animals. The connection
of certain animals with plants, and that of plants with some
peculiar spot on the face of the earth, is truly striking.
The cameleopard, and the cameleopard-plant, are both
found in the south of Africa, and nowhere else. The ele ments too, in which animals principally live, very essen tially affect their natures.  The fish, living in the water, is
mute, cheerless, serious, and phlegmatic. Insects, on the
other hand, playing and spending their lives in the light,
are agile, beautifully colored, some of them transparent as
light, and most of them courageous, choleric, and very de structive. Little insects will destroy whole woods; a little
ant in the south frequently ruins the finest furniture.  Ho mer was aware of the boldness of insects. When Achilles
protects the body of his friend Patroclus, from the Trojans, Homer compares them to flies, which though con stantly chased away by the mnother sitting by the cradle of
her babe, perseveringly repeat their bold attacks. Again,
birds live in the air, and the effects of this element on them
is expressed in their cheerfulness, their delight in singing,
and their sailing about in the air with intense pleasure.
It cannot be otherwise with man. He too must feel the
effect of seasons and times, of heat and cold, and of the
elements in general.  His body develops itself by the laws
which the Creator has given to the earth. The earth supports man by the air he breathes, by the food he cats; it
clothes him by furnishing the materials which art prepares;
it protects him from storm and rain, from heat and cold,
by affording him stone and timber, futrs, skins, and his fuel.
The earth and its productions arouse his senses, impress
his mind, excite his desires, and exercise his activity. The
sight of scanty or luxuriant vegetation on the one hand,
and the intercourse of man with animals on the other, as
that of the Arabians with their horses, of the Laplanders
with their rein-deer, of the Greenlanders or Samoiedes,
with their seals, or that of the Moors with their camels,
must affect variously his disposition. Man, as long as he
lives, depends on the earth and its productions; its laws,
and characteristic powers must not only influence him,
but leave certair traces and permanent impressions on his
mind.
56 
ANTHROPOLGOY.
The earth, however, became the residence of such a being as man, by the position it occupies in our planetary
system. By this position it stands in a relation to the sun,
the moon, and to itself. On these relations all life on earth
depends.
1. The particular relation of the earth to the sun produces a higher or lower degree of heat and cold. The
general consequence in this respect is, that too great heat
arrests the development of mind by relaxing the nervous
and muscular system, and that too great cold has the same
effect by contracting those systems, so that the Pesheraes
in the south fully resemble the Esquimaux in the farthest
north, both as to size and form of body, and as to intellect.
Again, too sudden transitions from one temperature to another, are less favourable to the health of body and mind,
than more gradual ones; hence it must follow, that a region, blessed with the regular four seasons, so that spring
and autumn are interposed between summer and winter,
must be more favorable to the intellectual life of man, than
one where either summer or winter continues almost without interruption. The same must be said of the transitions
from day to night. Where they are very sudden, a relaxation of the system will take place; where they are more
gradual, so that day and night are separated by the twilight
of the evening and the dawn of the morning, there the
system will feel invigorated by a cool evening after a warm
day, and will, by degrees, pass over from the freshness of
a balmy morning to the heat of noon. The morning is the
threshold of expectation, the day is the season of labor and
activity, the evening that of enjoyment and satisfaction,
and the night that of rest. The interruption of this natural course, is injurious to body and mind.
The temperate zones for these reasons will always be
the seat of intellect and science. there the mind is energetic: the soft, vernal breezes, the charms of a tender verdure, resting on hills and valleys, which appear gradually,
call forth hopes and anticipations and a vigorous activity.
As they disappear, a melancholy seriousness and earnestness, a desire for the past, and a consciousness of the vanity of all things will arise in the breast, when forests, and
hills, and valleys are gradually stripped of their beauty,
57
I [I. 
ANTHROPOLOGY.
when the country sinks into a deep gloom, and the life of
animated nature becomes mute and finally dies away. In
the temperate zones, however, are differences worthy to
be noticed.  "In the East," says the distinguished Ritter
in his well known Geography, "the sun rises, and de scribes in its royal course the eradiating arch through the
South to the West, and thus, considered with reference to
the sun, the fountain of all earthly life, this great cosmical
relation indicates from the beginning, the first natural divi sion of the surface of the earth.
There is Asia, the part of the earth, whose essential cha racter is pronounced in the name Orient; here is Europe
its opposite, the Occident, which is characteristically desig nated in all the parts of its nature and history in every
period. Not only their countries and sky but their plants
and animals confirm it; the voices of all nations express
it, by their songs, by the history of their cultivation, by
their religions, philosophies and languages.
Truly, says a highly gifted writer, the Oriental and Occidental nations are turned away from each other, those
with their faces towards morning, these towards the sunset
or evening; those faithfully preserving the seats of antiquitythese seeking a momentous future in spite of the constant
changes of all forms of existence."
The worshippers of the sun are met with in Asia.  The
brightness of his light is so great, that man, in gazing at it, is
lost in admiration and does not notice the things rendered
visible by the light, because the glorious light itself too much
attracts his eye. He adores, he worships it. In the West
the sun sets; his brightness is less brilliant, though frequently sublime and beautiful.  Man is not overcome by
it, and when the setting-sun sinks behind the mountain before our eye, the idea that he will illuminate other worlds
and return, involuntarily offers itself; and if we are reminded of our own departure, our breast will be cheered
by the hope, that we likewise shall rise again. Hence it is,
that the West is the proper field for science, art and history, for there alone man obtains full possession of himself,
and a clear consciousness of the world around him. Says
Hegel, "These is an East for the history of the world,
though East is in itself something relative. Asia is the East
58 
ANTHROPOLOGY.
for history, there the external physical sun rises, and in the
West he sets: but here the internal sun of self-consciousness rises, which sheds a higher splendor." It is remarkable, that as the sun rises in the East, so many sciences
have originated there, and even religion was there first revealed to man. But nothing gained its full maturity there.
The Chinese claim the honor of having discovered gunpowder, but the Jesuits had to furnish them with cannon.
They pretend to have invented the printing press, but as
yet they have only presses of wood with immoveable letters.
What Greece and Rome were in ancient times, Europe and
America are in modern.
2. The influence of the moon on the mind of man.
Certain as the influence of the moon is upon the earth, it
is very limited on man. Some diseases of the mind are
undoubtedly modified by the moon, and physicians are of
the opinion that bodily diseases are much affected by it.
Yet on the whole its influence is not sufficiently ascertained, and we have to confine it here to the effects produced
by its light on our imagination. These effects may be seen
in the poetry and mythology of nations, and, whenever
perceptible, are highly fantastical.  The dim light of the
moon does not delineate objects accurately, but exhibits
them in shadowy and uncertain shapes. The Greenlander
imagines the heavenly bodies, sun and moon, pursuing each
other in despair of success.  "The earth," they say, "rests
on immense pillars of ice, that constantly threaten ruin.
Demons of darkness desire its destruction, and they are
only restrained from dashing the tottering fragment to
pieces by the howl of Angekoks, which fill the night with
their shrieks from dark, icy and barren regions." Such
fancies come upon us from the hour of midnight, that begets the fear of spectres, and that in dim moonlight makes
us see a ghost in every object.
3. The local influence of the earth upon the mind of
man. The influence of the sun depends upon the union
of his light with the activity of the earth. The rays, that
fall upon morasses, will produce poisonous vapors; those,
that in the same region fall upon sand, deadly heat; and
those that are absorbed by moist oases, a cheerful vegetation. The nature of the sun blends with that of the earth,
59 
ANTHROPOLOGY.
and the earth surrounds man, and possesses him and keeps
him, whithersoever he goes, as long as he enjoys the light of
the sun. But the surface of the earth is in different regions
peculiarly modified by soil, by productions, by scenery, by
the serenity and color of the sky, by air and atmosphere.
Man must be born on some particular spot, and its whole cha racter will impress itself strongly upon his youthful mind.
All his desires, every thought of his soul, every one of his
wishes, every hope is more or less interwoven with this
impression of his home, and his whole disposition greatly
depends upon the region of his birth. So much is this the
case, that when man leaves the home of his youth, and
when new scenery, new objects, new customs are contrasted with those by which his early desires and habits
were modified, and from which they in some measure proceeded, he becomes sick with longing for his home.  His
feelings and views, desires and habits, that grew up with
the objects of his early home, are still the same in his
bxeast, but the visible world around him no longer corresponds with them, and this contradiction induces him constantly to recall the image of his native country. This
great influence of locality may further be seen in the modifications which it imparts to the character and disposition
of men.
If we compare the Abyssinians and Shangallas, who live
in the same zone, we shall be most forcibly struck with the
truth of this assertion. The former, seeking the high Alps
of north Africa, which are covered with rich prairies, keep
large herds of cattle, make use of the horse, of iron, &c.
and are a noble race, strong, versatile, acute, active, and
possessed of a chivalrous disposition. Living under a serene sky, in a pure atmosphere, and a mild temperature,
they are cultivated and humane, and would be much more
so, were they not surrounded on all sides by enemies, so
that they themselves, according to Ritter, compare their
land to the Donguelat, a beautiful flower, but like the thistle
beset with thorns. The Shangallas on the other hand,
dwelling in the morasses and swamps along the river Mahareb, inhaling poisonous vapors, submitting to all kinds of
diseases, living on lizards, on the flesh of the ostrich, rhinoceros, elephant, and on fish, never think of improving their
60 
ANTHROPOLOGY.
nomes, or exchanging them for a better region. Thick
woods with large trees, that afford an easy protection from
the heat of the sun and wooden lances, is all they desire.
When the rainy season commences, they, as do the rainworms when the sun shines, disappear in caves, which
they quickly dig in the soft sand-stone along the steep, inaccessible walls of the high rocks.  "The negroes along
the coasts," says the celebrated Ritter, "differ as widely
from those of the mountains, as the inhabitants of cities
from those of the country, and so the negroes that live on
mountains, differ widely from the negroes of the plain."
The principal differences with regard to the surface of
the earth, are those of the Highlands, Plains and Coasts:
(1.) Highlands. The purity of the air, and the liberty
with which the inhabitants roam on their highlands, gives
them the spirit of independence, that makes them reluctant
to be restrained by laws. They feel depressed when they
descend into the valleys; they cannot breathe freely, their
eyes cannot pierce the depths of distant horizons; the
color of the sky, plants and animals are all so different, that
they pine away with home-sickness. Wandering from
place to place, free as the birds of the air, they lead a careless and cheerful life. Right and justice rest in the strength
of the arm; hospitality and robbery spring up with equal
ease, and in the same breast. No tie keeps the Highlanders together, except that of family connection. They split
into small clans, and though wars should unite them for a
time, they are dispersed in a moment after their battles are
fought. They swell like a mountain torrent, and like it
disappear. Living in the bosom of nature, however, being
strangers to the luxuries of cities, their characters are
strong, noble and high-minded. The Foulahs dwelling on
the high Alps of Africa, stand as high in this respect above
their neighbors living below them, as the natives of Cashmere above the Hindoos.
(2.) Plains and Valleys, on the other hand, by the richness of their soil, and numerous streams, invite to a settled
life. Agriculture is carried on, and its success being dependent on the regular return of seasons, it leads to order
t. —d regularity.  The idea of property becomes more developed, for no one would be willing to bestow labor upon
6
61 
ANTHROPOLOGY.
the cultivation of land, unless he were sure of the exclusive
possession of it, and of a permanent protection of his
claims. A regularly established government becomes indispensable. Valleys have at all times been the seats of
large empires. Man, by the power of mind subdues the
wildness of nature, and by extirpating large forests, in
which the cold and snow of winter loves to dwell, he improves the climate, and having once satisfied the necessities of life, he turns his attention to science and art.
(3.) Coasts form a strong, bold, independent and kindhearted people. The ocean was not intended, as Horace
sings, to separate nations and sections of the earth. Mountains and not waters, Hegel remarks in his Philosophy of History, are barriers to the intercourse of different people, and
Cesar, in crossing the Alps, caused a new epoch in history.
Waters between different countries, though vast as the
Atlantic, do not keep nations asunder, but as man builds
bridges over rivers, so he erects moving bridges, or as
Homer says, creates horses of the deep, that will unite one
coast with another. Europe and America have more intercourse than Spain and France, though the latter are
only separated by the Pyrenees.  The  mind  and disposition of man, living along the coast, near the surface of
great waters, is enlarged and ennobled, for while the immensity of the ocean fills the breast with an idea of the infinite, the rising and sinking waves, the constantly changing
bosom of the deep, remind him of the uncertainty of all
earthly things, of their changeableness, and of the necessity
of assisting one another. The watery element invites us,
for it offers wealth and a knowledge of distant countries.
Its dangers render bold and intrepid, prudent and brave,
and give us a feeling of the power of man, who successfully combats the rage of storms and billows, while standing on a mere plank.
Before dismissing this topic we have to add a word on
the elementary influence of the earth on man. It is well
established, that a clear sky, and a pure mountain air invigorate, while a gloomy and moist atmosphere depresses.
The sky of Italy and that of England differ no less than the
dispositions of their inhabitants. The vapors arising from
the soil, are of importance. Pythia, chewing a few leaves
62 
ANTHROPOLOGY.
and sitting on her tripod, was believed in the superstition
of Greece, to become so inspired by the vapors of the
grotto, that she could foresee the future.-Next to the atmosphere, the food we take, will influence our disposition.
If our digestive power is strengthened by it, our spirits will
rise. The black soup of the Spartans, which their youth
had to prepare for themselves by mixing bread with water
and a few herbs, was simple but strong, as was the character of the Lacedemonians. An Athenian could not
relish it; he desired more refined food. When after having
been deprived for a considerable time of a favorite dish,
we partake again moderately of it, we feel cheered; or
when after having endured for hours a burning thirst, we
approach a little grove and lay ourselves down by a clear
and cool fountain under shady trees, we feel happy and
cheerful, and if while thirsty, we would scarcely have listened to the petitions of a beggar, we then feel full of sympathy and kindness. Man may eat whatever nature offers
as food; and what animals cannot do, he may overcome
the natural aversion that he has to certain kinds of food.
The soldiers of Napoleon fed on cats and horse-flesh. The
principal food, however, taken by man, is derived from the
animal and vegetable kingdoms, and consists of meat or
vegetables, or flour, milk and fruit.  Each of these have
different effects upon him. Meat increasing the activity
of bile, renders him choleric and passionate. Food prepared of flour, favors a phlegmatic disposition, and is therefore recommended by physicians as a wholesome dish in
warm climates, where the digestive activity is much accelerated. Milk, and what is prepared of it, preserves a
child-like and harmless disposition, as may be seen from
shepherds. The Foulahs on the Alps of Africa, living
principally on milk and butter, are said to be a mild and
gentle nation; they honor father and mother above all, and
their highest title is that of Father and Mother, which they
use as we do that of Master, and Old Man, as we that of
Lord. Finally vegetables have been commended at all
timces by persons of sedentary habits.  Pythagoras recommended them to his disciples, and Newton abstained from
meat when he wished to study deeply, and lived almost
entirely on colewort. Some fruits are said to strengthen
63 
ANTHROPOLOGY.
the memory, and some herbs to excite the organs of
speech.
It is admitted by all, that strong drinks, and especially
distilled liquors, weaken the memory, deprive of self-possession, undermine health, make men quarrelsome and
passionate, and call forth brutal desires in a shocking manner. Some Qf them paralize the whole power of the soul,
take away all remembrance, and while they excite bodily
activity and set all the members in motion, they annihilate
the capacity of man to control and direct his steps, and as
though an evil genius had gained a magic dominion over
the motions of the body, the soul sees the dangers, into
which the body is driven by an evil demon, and cannot
rescue it from them. The effects of gases, when inhaled,
of tobacco, &c*, are too well known to demand a particular
notice here.
As man may eat and drink what he chooses, so he may
eat much or little.  He may  eat more, and bear hunger
better thnan an animal. A dog supported merelyby sugar
died after a few weeks; geese fed on starch were found
dead after twenty-four days. But the Arab, without any
injurious effects, lives cheerfully on a little gum for many
weeks in his desert; Johanna Naunton supported herself
for seventy-eight days by the juice of lemon.  Renaud, on
the other hand, Archbishop of Bourges, slept only two
hours, but had eight meals a day. Among the Kirgises a
man of good appetite, eats a whole lamb, the tail of which
alone weighs twenty pounds.
Yet we must be careful, lest our wish to acknowledge
the dependence of man on these influences, should induce
us to overvalue themi.  The mild Ionian sky with its soft
and gentle breezes no doubt breathed many an image into
the songs of Homer, as the high oaks and vast heaths filled
the breast of Ossian with the remembrance of by-gone
ages, and with visions of fantastic forms produced by the
dim moonlight sleeping on the heaths, or by the moaning
winds, as they swept over them; but neither the Ionian
sky nor the heaths of Scotland were sufficient to call forth
the genius of Homer or of Ossian. The Otomake, bordering the Oronoke, are blessed with a beautiful climate and
a rich soil, and yet they prefer living on potter's clay,
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ANTIIROPOLOGY.
which they roast, to cultivating the land. On the other
hand, we find a noble set of men, of great stature, of high
principles of honor, and of a scientific spirit, high in the
north, in Scandinavia. The sky is cold, the soil is poor;
the winter never recedes from the high rocks; the summer
appears only in the valleys, and for a short time calls forth
a dark green along the declivities. Yet while an uninterrupted silence reigns over nature, the voice of a lovely,
melancholy song greets the ear; science and nobleness of
character love to dwell there, and a firm, resolute will
knows how to meet the power of an unfriendly climate.
The constitution of man fits him to live every where under
heaven, and to support his innate dignity. No region is
destitute of him; though individuals may suffer from emigration, and find it difficult to become acclimated, the
human race is at home every where on the face of the
earth. Up to the eightieth degree of North latitude, along
the Polar ice, the Greenlander and Esquimnaux live; down
to the sixtieth degree of South latitude, the Pesheraes exist
on the Terra del Fuego.  Where mercury becomes mnalleable, where birds fall down dead from the air, where aniiuals howl from the effects of cold, there man may live;
and he can also endure a heat, that is above the warmth of
blood.-It cannot be denied, however, that much depends
on these influences for the disposition of man, though different people, exposed to the same influences, like plants
growing on the same soil, exhibit quite a different aspect.
The Foulahs, Gallas, and Abyssinians live on the same
high Alps, and yet a considerable difference is perceptible
in their cultivation and disposition. The Mandingoes, a
numerous nation, of beautiful form, open, frank and cheerful, refined and simple in their manners, have a republican
government, and are the merchants of Northern Africa.
Close to them live the Negroes, stupid and rude, voluptuous
and cowardly, rapacious, and without regard for justice or
law.-Considering such facts, we must acknowledge, that
it is not the climate alone, nor the soil, nor the food, nor
the manner of living, which causes such differences in mankind, but that there must be some cause in man himself, a
cause, which will incline him to form certain habits, to seek
for a home that will correspond with his feelings and de                            6*
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ANTHROPOLOGY.
sires. Correct as it is, to consider customs and habits as
dependent on the natural influences of a region, it is also
certainly true, that a prevailing inclination attracts man to
a particular region.
~ 2. THE DIFFERENT RACES OF MANKIND.
Man is every where the same, and there is no specific
difference'in the human race, as there is in animals. All
men, wherever they live, to whatever race they belong,
have reason; theyfeel, they think, they will. We cannot
speak therefore of different kinds of men, as we speak of
different kinds of animals, because that which constitutes
man, is the same in all individuals, and only exists in a modified form. The differences that exist between the races
of men do not proceed from the absence orpresence of certain faculties or bodily organs, but fromn their peculiar
strength or modification, which cannot be explained by the
influence of climate, but must be ascribed to an innate difference. Such is the color of man; cold regions will not
bleach the negro, and the southern heat of Africa will not
convert the Moor into a black man. The disposition of the
rmin- size of - the body, formation of the skull, the proportions
of the face and language, exhibit likewise such strongly
marked differences, as will enable us to distinguish by them
one race from another. These different qualities may be
anticipated before the birth of a child, and nothing can extinguish them except amalgamation. Yet while these differences cannot he denied, they are not such as exist between two species of the same kind. Hence it is, that
while in the world of animals every individual, the infusoria excepted, is connected with its genus by the species to
which it belongs, as the single ourang-outang by his species
with the monkey-kind, every individual man is in connection with mankind, directly through himself and not by a
species. We cannot speak therefore of different species
of mankind, but only of various races. By the term race,
we understand that union of individuals, which is brought
about by mere propagation, independent of history, or
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ANTHIROPOLOGY.
affection, or common interest. The English and Germans
are of the same race, but how different their history, their
characters, their cultivation and interests.  It is certain
that these races exist, but it is difficult to say how they all
spring firom one pair. This difficulty has led many to consider the different races as having sprung from so many
different roots, which it would be impossible to reduce to
one common origin and which are united only by intellectual and moral elements, by reason and will. There have
not been wanting those, however, who with great acuteness have philosophically proved, what we know through
revelation concerning the origin of the human race. No
less difficult is it to determine the exact number of the human races, because the varieties of tribes, and the transitions from one race to another are so many, that they become easily confounded with each other, when we attempt
to classify them. Hence it is, that there are so many different divisions made by the learned; while Linnaeus, and
Leibnitz admitted four races, Meiners accepted only two;
Pownal, three; Hiunter, four; Buffon and Herder, six;
Hegel, three; Kant, Blumenbach and Virey, five. The
latter is the more commonly adopted view. According to
this we have the Caucasian, American, Malay, Mongol and
Negro races. A delineation of their bodily forins belongs
rather to the science called Natural Description of Man
than to Anthropology, as the question concerning the origin of the human race, where? when? how? and by what
means it was called into existence belongs to the Natural
History of Man, two sciences that have received the particular attention of the celebrated Blumenbach.
It would be superfluous here to give a characteristic of
the disposition, intellect, and moral capacities of the different races, as every good geography, and especially every
philosophy of history, furnishes one more complete than
our space would permit us to give. All that is required
here, is to acknowledge a permanent distinction between
the races, which not only affects the body, but also the
mind.
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ANTHROPOLOGY.
National Differences.
1. Cruelty and an absence of love and mercy, and of
humane feeling, ignorance and superstition, indolence, arbitrariness, and oppression of the weaker, characterize the
the savage. Morality, a sense of obligation and duty, are
not acknowledged; and the barbarian, as he does what is
pleasing and useful to him, so he prevails by the arm of
strength. Nor has he any feeling of personal respect or
any regard for truth, beauty, and honor, but destroys whatever will not serve his sensual desires. The first step to
civilization is a willingness to submit our individual will to
laws and duties, and to seek for liberty no longer in our
own arbitrariness. To the savage this step seems to involve the loss of his liberty, for genuine liberty is unknown
to him. A limitation of selfish desires and passions, a restraint of arbitrariness and mere good pleasure, is to him
a limitation of liberty, and hlence he hates laws and duties.
Fond of his liberty, he cannot think of relinquishing his
stage of cultivation for one, that in his views offers the opposite of what he desires.
The savage is so wholly sunk in the life of nature, that
he does not distinguiish between its activity and that of
mind, but views both as merged into each other. We, accustomed from youth to separate soul and body, mind and
nature, find it almost impossible to transfer ourselves into
the life of the savage in this respect; and yet this sphere
of thinking and feeling in reference to nature, constitutes
the most essential portion of the intellectual existence of
the savage. From the mountains to the valleys and brooks,
all is full of meaning and possessed of will and reason to
him. The forms of the mountains, the one being tableformyed, another piercing the clouds with its peaks, a third
round; all this is not accidental; now clouds gather around
themn, mist covers them, lightnings flash about them; and
now again they lie clear and open in the sun, and their outlines are fully exhibited by the distribution of light and
shade. This, in the imagination of the savage, is all dependent on the mountains themselves. So cool brooks,
murmuring forth from dark grottoes, refreshing them when
thirsty, and dancing over stone and pebble, constantly in
.08 
ANTIIROPOLGOY.
motion must be full of life and spirits. The plant, that full
of energy and vigor, proceeds from its own seed and luxuriantly spreads and grows as if by its own power, terminating in a beautiful cup, which bursting, unfolds the choicest
colors that rest among the dark green leaves of the branches, attracts his attention and admiration. There must be
a life like that which animates himself, or even better;he worships the plant:-But above all he adores the animal;
it is silent, it communicates not, and yet it walks about, eats
and drinks; it builds its nest artificially on lofty branches,
has holes like the fox, houses like the beaver; catches the
fly by a web, and leads a life full of mystery to the savage. Some Indian tribe traces its origin to a certain species of the bear, and whenever they kill one, they apologize
for doing so by telling him, that they know he loves his
grand children and is willing to satisfy their hunger. In
this life of the savage, sensual desire rules over him, his
attention can be elicited only by objects that may have
immediate reference to himself. It is always a single object, this or that horse, this or that dog, that interests him.
Ilis desire is without measure, it is not satisfied until its
object is annihilated; his enemy is not only killed, he must
be eaten too. In the strength of this desire, magic has its
origin, for it is subjectively the desire to realize what we
wish by the mere expression of our will, without any intermediate causes.
3. Savages have no organized government. All life is
perfect in proportion as it is well organized. The animal
life begins with that of the infusorium, but it is highly imperfect in that stage, and equally as imperfectly organized.
There is no heart visible, no brain, no liver, there are no
functions of different systems, and motion is the only expression of life in these little animals. So it may be said
the savage has a government, but it is only the beginning
of that of civilization. Whatever is organized has, on the
one hand, identity of life or a common soul, a common
spirit, and on the other, a variety of members, through
which this one life is diffused, and all of which represent
it.  These  members or organs differ from each other, as
the branch from the trunk, and yet they have the same
life. Each has a peculiar office, and yet all serve but one
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ANTHROPOLOGY.
purpose. A well organized government has likewise but
one soul-morality and liberty. The energy of this soul
must show itself by creating a number of distinct institutions and offices, each of which differs from the other by a
particular activity allotted to it, while all activities and all
offices are united by proceeding from the same common
soul, and in being pervaded by it. In such a government
all are co-ordinate to each other, and subordinate only to
law; in such a government alone, it is possible that occupations and ranks in the greatest variety can co-exist without any interference, and that all the wants of man may
be satisfied, for in it each want has its corresponding organ by which it receives its satisfaction. Farmers and
merchants, teachers and politicians, mechanics and all other
classes of men are so many organs of civil life, all of which,
while each has an existence of its own, and seems to be
active for itself like the leaves of a large tree sustain and
support the whole. Plato illustrates this beautifully by
showing the evil consequences that would result to one
who while he had capacity and skill for making shoes,
would also have to be his own tailor and carpenter and
blacksmith. He certainly would do nothing properly. But
if he makes shoes for himself and others, and if others,
skilled in tailoring, in the business of the carpenter, &c.
make his dresses, and build his houses, all will be better off;
for each will attend to that for which he has a peculiar talent.
4. Savages have no history.  History is the intellectual process that begins with the less perfect, and passes
over to the more perfect, for it develops what is in man.
The plant exists already as a possible existence in the
germ, but undeveloped. Its development exhibits, by various forms from the root up to the seed, all that is contained in the germ. Though the seed gains nothing by
this process since it terminates merely in a multiplication of seed like itself, we having observed it once, we
may know all the possible forms which it has the power
of producing. Yet the life of the plant is monotonous,
always passing through the same course; and hence it cannot be said to have a history, because it does not improve
nor deteriorate, and one plant is as complete and perfect
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ANTHROPOLOGY.
as any other of the same species. But man can increase
in perfection unlimited; the last stage he has attained in
the cultivation of his mind becomes always the first of a
new development. This may be made clear by an exam ple from nature. For here we see, that the plastic power
of the plant first produces a single leaf; but this leaf grows
up into a trunk; this again branches out into twigs, and
the twigs produce leaves, &c., so that always the last production contains the germ of a new one. Yet in the vegetable kingdom, the last production only repeats the preceding one; the plant is and always will be confined to particular limits. History, on the other hand, has a constant
tendency to remove the limits of the present, to go beyond
them, to improve and to advance. This progress does not
disregard the contents of the past, but it will include them
when nations do not become stationary, and fix themselves
on the customs and habits of the past as the Chinese. So
the trunk does not annihilate the root, though it is a higher
development, but it truly preserves it. History includes
the past by making us conscious of what it was. As long
as we live in the spirit of an age, interest in it and predilection for it wiil not permit us to perceive its real worth,
but we generally overvalue it. When from the elements
contained in it, the spirit is forced to assume a new form
and produce new customs and views; we become conscious both of what was good or objectionable in the old, because then we shall be free and impartial in our judgment.
So when a strong inclination, love, for example, holds us
chained, we shall not be conscious of its nature while it
reigns over us, but no sooner are we freed from it, than it
becomes known and manifest to us in all its qualities. From
all this it follows, that when the many intellectual capacities slumbering in man are historically developed, he must
become conscious of them, and that what before he possessed only by nature, will then come within the sphere of
his voluntary action. He thus not only gains, but is essentially changed and enriched, and the once-gained wealth of
ideas is never lost, but is constantly pressing onward. Man
is born free, but unless he is conscious of his freedom he
does not possess it. Again, in nature every thing develops
itself peaceably without a struggle; but man, conscious of
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ANTHROPOLOGY.
every change in himself, has to undergo conflicts in making
these changes. The idea of development ever pre-supposes
some thing to be developed; this must exist previously, and
remain the same in the development, only that what there
is in it is drawn out. With man, reason and will are to be
unfolded in all their riches. Both, in the savage, are sunk
in the life of nature, which by its energy, and by the fullness of its sensual enjoyments, keeps him in bondage. Reason and will ought to break loose from this life, but being
satisfied with their state, they would act against themselves
in doing so. Hence the savage has no history, for he is
what he always has been. Civilization is connected with
many struggles, all of which form the theme of history.
History is, in what it records, the development of mind; it
shows how the savage consciousness became more and
more disciplined, its powers drawn out, its mere possibilities realized; and how a rude, passionate, arbitrary will,
became refined and subject to the control of higher authority. The history of a nation is its character; if it be humane, the nation will be so; if bloody and rude, like that of
Rome, the nation will be cruel; for history only develops
what is in man.
Civilized nations differ then from savages by morality in
its most extensive sense, by organized governments, ana
by having a history. Nations differ from each other as
races and tribes, but their national differences are historical
and consequently known to themselves, and thus they lose
their strangeness and inimical power of opposition. These
differences are expressed in the national manner of thinking and acting, in literature and art, language and style,
customs and habits, morals and civil laws, in desires and
peculiar inclinations. All of them enter into the habits of
nman, and whether a person is born of one or another nation, is by no means a matter of indifference. The Roman,
even though the doctrine of a metamorphosis were true,
could not at once be an Englishman. Anthropology has,
therefore. to acknowledge a modification of mind, pro'duced by national difference; and we shall give a short
characteristic of the following nations, the French, the
Italians, the English, and the Germans.
72 
ANTHROPOLOGY.
1. The Frenchl
The Frenchman has been distinguished ever since the
time of Caesar for vivacity and excitability. He is full of
enthusiasm, and easily roused. His cheerfulness cannot
be eradicated even by misfortune, for the quickness and
elasticity of his mind makes him seek by every possible
means, either to remove the evil, or to render it more light.
He deserves particular praise for refinement, socialness,
and a great desire to anticipate the wishes of all those with
whom he has intercourse. His politeness does not originate in selfish motives, but in a delicate feeling of propriety
and decency, and in natural taste. Even when he disagrees with a person, or disapproves of any thing, he tries
to express himself politely. With regard to intellect, clearness of understanding prevails in him; he submits every
thing in science and poetry to its laws, and is particularly
fond of mathematics. Though he is an admirer of poetry,
his imagination, subject to the cool deliberation and calculation of his understanding, is not permitted to produce the
mystical, nor to be active, by a kind of inspiration, but all
its productions are accompanied by reflection, and hence
they have more the character of oratory and eloquence,
than that of pure poetry. The Frenchman is penetrating,
spirited, sprightly, and witty, but he wants soul and solidity,
and reverence for existing relations. The Frenchman
however is no less proud of his Troubadours than of Lafontaine; of Racine, of Corneille and Moliere; of Descartes and Pascal, of Crebillon, Destouches and Marivau,
of Voltaire, Rousseau, Guizot, etc.
The weakness of the Frenchman is his want of deep,
decided individuality; his desire to be generally acceptable prevents the formation of a very determined character,
for such an one will always stand mnore or less harshly opposed to society. He wants earnestness, seriousness, and
depth of feeling, which the liveliness of his wit, light jotiality, that interest only by their constantly changing elements, render impossible.  His whole character, as Kant
remarks, is expressed in his language, for what language
can translate words like these: frivolite; galantrie: petitmnaitre; coquette; bon mot; naivete?
7
73 
ANTItROPOLOGY.
2. The Italians
The name of the Italian reminds us at once of the land
of beauty, of serene skies, and lovely scenery, of splendid
sunsets and sunrises; and as if the genius that has thrown
such loveliness over his country, had erected a dwelling in
the breast of the Italian, animated his hand, and formed his
imagination: we see his public saloons and churches and
buildings adorned with the beauties of art. Music and
poetry, painting and sculpture, have all met withi a friendly
reception under that mild sky, and it is in Italy, where
even now, we must seek for their finest models.  It has
justly been remarked, thiat as the Frenchman is distinguished for good taste in society, and for refined manners,
so the Italian is characterized by a most refined taste in
art.  Imagination is prominent in his intellectual powers;
it is nourished by the charms of nature, and easily excited
by a hot and fiery temperament.   Dante's poem of the
Universe; Petrarca's songs of love; Boccaccio's novels;
Ariosto's smoothness of style, and flow of images and ideas;
Tasso's Jerusalem Delivered; Gozzi's Comedies; Alfieri's
Tragedies, and Manzoni's-lyric and dramatic poetry, are
all of them known to all the world. Tile Italian is, however, less celebrated for his scientific spirit.
The dark side of the Italian character is his great selfishness, and his unbridled desire for gain. Guided by this
desire, he invented banks, lotteries, and checks. Ile is
fond of pomp, of public processions, carnivals, miasquerales,
public buildings, and is willing to endure poverty if he can
only have these pleasures. In general it may be said, that
no where do the greatest poverty and riches live in closer
connection than in Italy. The Italian is revengeful, and
his knife is always ready for use. Banditti may be hired
at all times. Cruelty is well marked in his character, and
expresses itself even in his physiological experiments. We
need only advert to those instituted by Spallanzani.
3. The English.
The Englishman possesses a manly, solid, and great disposition. He has spread his political power over a large
74 
ANTHROPOLOGY.
portion of the earth, and by his commercial life he seems
to be destined to cultivate rude nations. This gives him a
strong feeling of importance. He is devoted to principles
of honor and gentlemanliness, and always supports a lofty
character. The greatness of his character expresses itself
in all his enterprizes, for they are generally magnificent
and on a large scale. A feeling of independence pervades
all Englishmen; surrounded by the ocean, England is protected from inimical attacks, while its familiarity with that
element enables it to make itself important in the eye of
every political power in the world. The Englishman has
a deep feeling of personal dignity, and maintains it with
strong emphasis. A good, strong, common sense is his
inheritance, and he is practical by nature. He comprelends quickly and accurately; perceives at first glance the
combination of circumstances, and the most intricate complication of things, and in a moment devises means and
ways to remove difficulties, and even to turn them to advantage. His judgment is acute and penetrating, and in
whatever direction he desires to extend his business, he
has the skill to do so. He is resolute and persevering,
always active, and intent on his business. Nor is the Englishman destitute of true and genuine imagination; he has
a full share of it. He loves the sublime more than the
beautifiu, though Shaklspeare, the pride of the world, and
the greatest poet not only of England, but of all nations,
unites the beautiful and sublime.  I-e loves to name Milton, Scott, Fielding and Goldsmith, Moore and Byron, etc.,
all of whom are poets of great genius. The English poetry
is full of seriousness, of melancholy, and again of humor,
and the most splendid imagery. Every where do we discover a desire to solve the great enigmas of life, or to
meditate on and examine them.  In science the Englishman is solid and accurate. He distinguishes well, and investigates accurately, and observes with a great deal of
sound judgmnent. The French are clear and ingenious
thinkers, but often superficial; the English are no less
clear, but more profound, more solid writers, and stand in
point of science and literature, decidedly above their rivals
in politics.
The weak side of the English is a certain exclusiveness,
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ANTHROPOLOGY.
and a national pride, that too often prevents them from
acknowledging the good qualities of other nations, merely
because they are not their own.
4. Germans.
The German is not characterized by traits in disposition
or intellect that are very showy or striking,, like the Italian
or Frenchman, but lie unites in himself a number of good
qualities, that are met with in other nations, and possesses
them in such a harmony, that none prevails decidedly above
the other, but all are permitted to be active. Yet there
are a few features in his character which distinguish him
decidedly. He is devoted to order and regularity, and
always anxious to acknowledge the authority of law. He
is therefore a good, quiet, and peaceable citizen, opposed
to innovation, and full of a pious reverence for antiquity,
for the views and customs of his ancestors. With this
reverence he connects much prudence and circumspection
a regard for the future, and nothing is more foreign to him
than frivolity or levity. Serious and earnest by nature,
inclined to deep and solid meditation, and to lasting and
warm emotions, he seeks for a worthy and noble aim of
his life, and cannot rest satisfied with one that terminates
in time, or even in the sphere of his own existence. His
genuine disposition it would be difficult to express by Englishi words, for its consists in trcuherzigkeit, (trueheartedness)
gematthlichkeit, bedenkichkeit, (considerateness,) garuebellust, and in a ahinungsvollen, geistric(hen Ueberschwinglichkeit ind Schwaermerei.  His talents are of a high order,
but need long and much polish.  Like the diamond, however, they will throw their light in all directions, when
once called forth.  W.V. AHumboldt remarks, that those
grapes which are not rapidly, but gradually ripened bv a
moderate heat, yield the best wine; experience teaches,
thlat the richer a being is, the more it has to develope, the
more time it will require to mature. The German certainlv becomes by a long training, more conscious of all
his mental powers than he would if his intellectual developemernt were more rapid. He loves truth, and seeks for
it, independent of any seiiish consideration.  He is the
76 
ANTHROPOLOGY.
wholesale merchant in literature, for his language contains
the most faithful and perfect translations of all the most
celebrated works in the world. The English enjoy all the
productions of the earth and of every climate, the German
appropriates to himself all the products of genius of all nations.  As the Englishman is devoted to gentlemanliness,
so the German reveres honor.  With him the "word of
honor" is equivalent to an oath, and any one that breaks it
is considered an outlaw. The Germans were at all times
fond of personal liberty, and their history cannot be understood without acknowledging this fact. This fondness for
liberty was one of the sources of the Reformation, as it
also animated the nation in 1813.
The German is proud of tie Niebel,&gen lied, of his
Minne Singers, of Lessing and Klopstock, of Wieland and
Herder, of Schiller and Goethe and Jean Paul Frederick
Richter. He numbers among his philosophers a Leibnitz
and Kant, a Fichte, Schelling, and Hiegel. He claims a
Herschel and Kepler; a John V. Mueller and Schlosser.
Luther and Frederic I. are his great representatives. In
Painting, Duerer and Cornelius are known to all the world;
in Sculpture, Dannecker, Rauch, etc.; in Music, Sebastian,
Bach, Haydn, Handel, Mozart, and Beethoven are greatly
distinguished.  The German style of art, when compared
with the Italian may be said to be significant, while the
Italian is expressive.
The weak side of the German is his pedantry in science
and art, his too great dependance on external circumstances, which no doubt results from his regard for the customs
and views of his ancestors and of all with whom he has
any intercourse. The Englishman feels all the importance
of his personality, and speaking of himself, says: " I myself."
The German is willing to forget himself in the presence
of others. It is Shakspeare's delight to represent persons;
Goethe's great forte is to characterize the objective world
around him, and the dififerent situations, in hiich persons
might have to live. From his devotion to honor, the German
overvalues its external signs, titles, orders, etc., and from his
thorough and innate love of liberty, he frequently when passing over from a monarchical to a republican government,
becomes rude, and ready to set all authority at defiance.
7*
77 
ANTHROPOLOGY.
REMARK.
No two other nations in the world have exercised a more continued influence upon each other, than the Germans and the English. Their characters resemble each other in many respects, in
seriousness, in fondness for deep and solid meditations, and in devotion to principles of honor and faithfulness. There were times,
when English literature and English institutions were imitated
throughout Germany; and there were others, when England drew
richly from German works. The German law is still the basis of
the English; and Scott and Byron show by their writings, that
they were warm admirers of Goethe.
It may be asked: what is the exact difference, where there is
so great an affinity? The general answer will be this; "The
English are more practical, the Germans more theoretical." This
answer is however insulting to both parties at once, and is incorrect. The English have their Cudworth, Locke, Bacon, David
Hume, and many others; they have their great Divines and their
Poets, all of whom were theoretical. The Germans on the other
hand have changed, not by theory, but by their practical exertions the face of politics, by the invention of gun powder; that
of practical religion, by the great reformation and that of science
and general cultivation by the Printing Art. It is evident that the
words "practical and theoretical," are used improperly.  They are
placed in opposition to each other by the above judgment, while
they are intrinsically united. Real practice needs much theory
and the better the latter, the more solid will be the former.
Genuine theory will always have practice in view as its end and
chief object. Practice and theory are related to each other and
the question is: what is the difference between them?
1. Practice is altogether as impossible without knowledge, as an
action without a will. But this knowledge may be called practical, because it has a particular reference to application in life
and contains the rules for it. As knowledge it must differ from action. All action has always a single, particular case in view;
knowledge the general, that will apply to many individual cases;
the objects of action are peculiarly modified by manifold circumstances, by local and temporary influences; the rules of knowledge are the same and action and knowledge do not entirely
cover each other. But with all our actions we have in view something general too and thus action and knowledge are united.  We desire either to realize the good, the true, the noble, the beautiful in
our lives by action, and in this case we must know what is good
and true. This is the fact withl practical religion; without a
theoretical acquaintance with the Old and New Testaments, or
with the nature of God, our practical religion would be idolatry
or heathenism, which is practical but has no theory; and it
would therefore introduce vice and falsehood rather than the true
78 
ANTHROPOLOGY.
and good into our lives. Or we long to become rich; yet riches
also are something general, and without an idea of property, of
timne aud its duration, of right and laws, that guarantee an exclusive possession, we could not acquire wealth.  But a code of laws,
like the English, presupposes much knowledge.  Rightly understood then actio~i and,knowledge do not contradict, but presuppose
one another and it is only want of a teleological or theoretical
judgment, awkwardness in applying it, a want of harmonious cultivationI of all the faculties of mind, when the theorist is no more
successful in his practice, than the quack.
2. As practice is impossible without knowledge, so theory is
worth nothing without practice. The difference between practical and theoretical knowledge is this. The one contains the elements of an immediaLte application, the other not.  The one asks:
what use can be miade of this truth? the other: what is this truth?
wherein does it consist? The former seeks truth on account of the
benefit, to be derived fi om it, the lattor desires it on its own accoent, and not for the sake of something else, which it is to serve
Us means.  In the one case, truth is rendered subservient to selfish interests, in the other it is considered more valuable than any
thing else, the supreme good.  Practical knowledge, having only
usefulness in view, must spread itself-over a large field; it thus
becomes superficial.  But no knowledge is less practical, than
that which does not exhaust its subjects.  Truly practical knowledge is solid an,d thorough; but all solid knowledge must be
theoretical, must be acquired for its own sake, and as it is in itself,
since  every relation to something else renders it impure.  No
knvwl'~dge is more practical than that of mathematics, and yet it
is entirely theoretical  So is no language more philosophical and
theoretical than the German, and yet it expresses every shade of
feeling and is extremely practical.  Without examining here the
origin of knowledge, we will only exhibit in a few words two
kinds of theory. Both are united in having the same principles,
but they differ in the manner of representing them.  The one begins with sing(le facts, observes and examines them, unites such
as exhibit essential affinities under a common head, and as those
excluded wvill shTow something  comnmon with each other, new
classes will be formed, and a number of classes more allied to
each other, than others will again become subordinate to a higher
one. Every day adds new facts, and Las the whole exists in its
parts, this cannot be seen until all the latter have been collected.
No o'.i(e can say when this will be effected.  According to tkhis
theory all he'ads and classes, or rather principles seem to have
been gained by observation, and by uniting those facts, that show
similarity.  Yet unless man had formed an idea of union previous
to his making experiments, he would and could not think of investigating single cases, since his investigations could not have
any scientific object.  This object is the union sought for.  The
other theory begins therefore with the principle of science, and
79 
ANTIIROPOLOGY.
experience is to corroborate and prove it. It does not suffer itself
to be drowned in the constantly increasing number of facts, nor
to become confused by them. The principle is the life of all experiments, and is the same to science, that the centre is to a periphery. All the parts of science are organized by it and filled
with it, as every member of the body indicates the presence of
the soul. It attracts, what belongs to sciences and arranges it,
and excludes what is foreign to it. This principle giving the
science a systematical character, throws light upon all its parts
by the mutual support, they afford to each other, and which proceeds from their position and relation to each other. This theory,
it cannot be denied, has little reference to practice; it wvill ex
haust truth, it will exhibit science as a whole; it does not desire
to give rules for action.  What then is its value l  The former
theory is engaged with single actions, for which it gives the rules,
the latter examines the general nature of these rules. The former
reduces the many single instances of language to general rules, the
latter unfolds before us the principles of grammar, gives us the
philosophy of it, and shows the necessity and connexion of the
many single rules. Both kinds of grammers are necessary. They
are related to each other as history and philosophy of history.  The
latter cannot be written without the former; yet the former is a
mere collection of dry bones without the latter. The one demands great discrimination and penetrating acuteness; the other
a productive genius. The one makes fine distinctions in given
facts; the other derives deep and fruitful ideas from them.
~ 3. QUALITIES OF THE MIND) PRODUCED BY SEXUAL
DIFFERENCE.
This difference is one that in the most decisive manner
affects both body and mind. It is not transitory, but remains the same throughout life, so that many theologians
nave been led to ask whether the two sexes-something
analogous to which we discover in the Negative and Positive poles, in contraction and expansion, in the relation of
the sun to the earth,-will not be continued after death.
The sexual difbference manifests itself,
1. Physically. The whole organization in all, and not
only in some of its parts is different in man and woman.
Bones and muscles are stronger and more angular in man,
and more tender and round in woman, while some are
larger in the latter than in the former. Again, not only
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ANTIIROPOLOGY.
the anatomical and organical systems, but also their functions differ in both. In man the arterial and cerebral systems prevail, and with them irritability; in woman the
venous and ganglion systems and with them plasticity and
sensibility. So the lungs are stronger, and hence the voice
fuller, and respiration more copious in man, while the liver
and its activity prevails in woman. Skin and hair are
more soft in woman than in man, and it is evident, that
the body of the one is better qualified than that of the
other to endure labor.
2. Psychologically. Man and woman differ both in moral disposition and in mental qualities, as will appear from
the following comparison.
5WOMAN.   As it respects in the first place moral disposition, we may say, chastity in feeling and imagination, in
word and action, is the principal virtue that either of choice
or unconsciously reigns in the bosom of woman. It is
tender and delicate, like an exotic plant, and cannot endure
exposure. Hience woman shrinks from appearing in public, whether in the pulpit or the rostrum, or with the sword
in the hand, as the Maid of Orleans.  The family is her
sphere of action, there she arranges and orders what man
gathers, and with propriety and taste embellishes the house,
and renders it attractive.  She desires whatever increases
domestic comfort, as furniture and dress, order and cleanliness, full chests and drawers.-Love is the second prevailing virtue, that adorns her character.  Without it she is
like a closed blossom which exhibits neither its beauty or
its fragrance; love reveals hei inward mystery.  She may
love and not be aware of it, ai,d such love is tender and
innocent.  But when once she ioves, she gives her whole
heart and person without reserve. She enters into all the
wishes and views of himin whom she has chosen. Pliny
says of his wife, " she loves science, because she loves me.
She carries with her my writings, she reads them, she com mits them to memory. She sings my verses, she composes
her own melodies to them, and needs no other teacher than
love.''-Patience is the third trait in her character and she
is perhaps never more beautiful, than when the tear trem bles through a smile. Sympathy and compassion, kindness
81 
ANTHROPOLOGY.
and mildness, cheerfulness and  warmheartedness, are
charms thrown around her by nature.
Secondly, as it respects mental qualities; here Feeling
predominates; she receives easily, and appropriates quick ly; she forms what she receives and feels herself attracted
by all that can touch the heart.  Her thinking rests more
on feelirng than on faith, and is not directed to skeptical
investigations. It is not distinguished for productiveness,
for if we look at the fine arts, we cannot discover a single
woman who has established a new school either in painting, in music,,r sculpture.  Some  women have become
celebrated for their skill in imitation, as Angelica Kauffman
in painting, or as the nuns of the Netherlands in musical
concerts; but imitation as well as learning rests on faithful
reception. In architecture no woman ever attempted anything; in music we have no female composer of celebrity;
in poetry, the ancients knew one Sappho, but no female
Homer or Pindar, and our modern female poets have done
little in the highest departments of poetry, the Drama,
Epic, Lyric.  The sphere of woman being feeling and
beauty, she is not expected to become learned but cultivated.  Cultivation is no less valuable and difficult of attainment than learning; the former rests on taste, the latter
often merely on memory. Yet there have been learned
ladies, that had good taste, fine judgment, and quick intuition, as Madame de Stael.  Law and juridicial knowledge
seems particulaliy attractive to them, perhaps because they
love erder. At all events it is remarkable, that it was a
woman  who presided over right and order among the
Greeks, Tienmis, the mother of the Hiorae and Parcae.
Her servants iklewise, were women, the Erinnyaec, 1)ike
and Nemesis Adrastea. Demeter gave statutes to cities,
and Egeria furnished Numa Pompilius with his laws.  WYelJeda did the same in the north, and the old Germans cominenced no war without having consulted their women.
Deborah gave judgment during forty years under the palmIrees on Mount Ephraim.  And in modern times we see
a Mathilda of Tuscany encourage the revival of the Pandects, and give celebrity by them to the University of
Bologna. Two daughters of professor Andreas, both of
them married to lawyers, lectured to large audiences from
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ANTHROPOLOGY.
the rostrum, when their husbands were absent. So two
other Italian ladies were known to appear in disguise on
the rostrum, and their lectures on law were well received
by numerous students. Many women have obtained the
degree of LL. D., and in France many have published large
w,orks on Law.  In mathematics on the other hand, astronomy, metaphysics, history or medicine, none scarcely have
acquiired celebrity. And this is not accidental, not because
no o-pportunity has offered itself to their productive genius,-genius will always find its way-but because it is
their highest happiness to be mothers.
MA.,N.   Moral disposition.  In man thought and will prevail, and a desire for liberty and honor. He must act and
work, toil and labor, and can preserve his dignity and
standing in the world only by acting from principles and
clear comprehensions. He is to provide for the family, to
protect it, procure for it honor and respectability. If patience adorns woman, courage belongs to man. In some
languages his name is derived from the same root fromn
which the words for courage and virtue were taken. Public life is the sphere of man; there he is to labor and to
execute his ideas.   As he is to drain swamps, to clear
woods, to subdue wild nature, to destroy rapacious animals, and render climates mild, and inhospitable regions
habitable, so he is to adorn the pulpit and the rostrum, the
judge's bench and the art of the physician, and to cultivate
music, painting, sculpture, architecture, poetry, and science.
As Hercules represents the former, so Apollo the latter employment. If woman is mild and forgiving, man must be
just in governing himself, his family, and all intrusted to
his charge. If woman always observes what is right from
a sense of propriety, man must insist on the execution of
the laws, when they have been violated. Independence
renders man, faithfulness and confidence render woman
happy. Man desires what strengthens his feeling of importance. The horse, the sword, the chase and war, riches
and titles, honors, influence and power, are welcomed by
him. Woman may shed tears without words, man must connect action with them.
Mental qualities. Productiveness, which has no limits in
any science or art, as far as they are accessible to the hu
83 
ANTHROPOLOGY.
ran mind, characterizes the mind of man. Every inven  tion in mechanical art, every style of the fine arts, every
advance in science has as yet been effected by man. It is
his office to produce and realize ideas in politics, in arts,
and science; to know and investigate, understand and rep  resent. Only one government has as yet been found that
was entirely managed by women, and this among the ne groes in Africa.
When we look on the characters of man and woman,
we cannot but perceive that neither is perfect by itself, but
that each needs the other for its perfection. Each posses ses something which is wanted in the other, and hence only
their union forms a complete character. Neither can en dure therefore to remain by itself. Strength and courage
rest in man, mildness and tenderness in women; united,
these qualities form one whole, separated, the former will
degenerate into rudeness and ferocity;,- and the latter into
inconsistency and fickleness. Hence the one must be soft ened by tender emotions, and the other strengthened by
firmness.-Again: Cold understanding may easily become
too calculating, too arithmetical, too selfish, when not re fined by generous emotions of kindness and love.  The
timidity of woman on the other hand, her fearfulness needs
a prop on which to rest.- The union of both in one is ex ternally represented by marriage. Through it the strength
of man is rendered mild by tile gentleness of woman, his
courage is moderated by her softness and timidity, and his
understanding receives warmth of feeling. So the qualities of woman receive their finish by their union with those
of man, for her feeling obtains proper nourishment through
his intercourse with the world, as her timidity relies safely
on his strength. Thus both intended for each other are
truly what they ought to be when united, and the object of
the original difference between man and women, is the
richest and closest union of both.
This union, which commences with love, has its pledge
and visible appearance in the child; for the mental qualities and moral capacities of both father and mother
continue themselves in their children, and these appear as
an individual identity, so that, what before was given to
two, is now represented by one. This we perceive daily
84 
ANTHROPOLOGY.
by recognizing in a child some qualities of the father, and
others of the mother. The consciousness of this fact constitutes family attachment. It is true, that the sons of celebrated men often appear to be without extraordinary degrees of talent, and again that sons of men, little known,
exhibit uncommon capacity. But it must be admitted that
in the former case the father may have exhausted the inheritance of his nature, and that the greatness of his name
induces us to apply too high a measure, by which to judge
of the talents of the son; as was the case with the sons
of Goethe and Schiller. In the latter case the natural capacities of the father may not have been developed, or the
son inherited his bright genius from the mother. So Goethe
says that he inherited his love of poetry from his mother,
and many other traits in his character, as, for example, an
aversion to all violent impressions, a rich vein of everteeming wit, of humour, &c.; these we recognize in that
of his mother. Madame Letitia Bonaparte had four sons,
all of whom were energetic and men of talents; her husband is little known, and no doubt the sons inherited what
they possessed from her. Hence the great importance of
knowing the mother, her disposition, her character and
talents, when we desire to judge correctly of distinguished
men. We come then, to the natural qualities of the individual.
These depend on all the influences we have before represented from that of climate to that of sex, including
those of race, nation, occupation, &c. The qualities that
exclusively belong to the individual are temperaments, mental capacities and idiosyncracy.
~ 4. TEMPERAMENTS;.
The soul is not only connected with the body, but they
are interfused so that the nature of the one must affect
that of the other. When all the functions of assimilation
are fresh and vigorous, when respiration is easy, when digestion and circulation of blood, excretion and secretion
are regular and natural, then the sensations will be fill and
8
85 
ANTHROPOLOGY.
lively, the whole mind will be youthful, and feel, think and
will with energy. When, on the other hand, we suffer
much from rheumatism, headache, from shortness of breath
or dyspepsy, the spirits will be low, the mind feel depress ed, and especially the system  of sensibility must become
wealkened.  The will and resoluteness of man may, in some
degree, overcome such difficulties and sufferings. Tieck is
much afflicted with rheumatism, and yet his poetry is cheer ful and humorous. Beethoven lost his hearing, and yet he
continued to compose the most sublime works. Buttman
could not bear the slightest breath of cold air, and nevertheless he was constantly engaged in revising, correcting,
and completing his excellent Greek grammar and other
works.  Such instances are, however, rare, and are exceptions to the general rule.
The body of man consists of three principal vital systemns.  The first of them is that of sensibility.  By it man
feels himself and the world around him. Its principal organ is the brain and nervous system.  The second is that
of irritability. Its tendency is to resist the influences exercised by external objects upon man, and at the same time
to bring them into subjection to him. Its organ is the
heart and muscular system.  The third is that of r(IJroductiveniess. By it our body preserves itself, and in so doing,
seizes on whatever may serve it as food. Its organ is the
liver and intestinal system.
Through these systems the bodv is connected with the
soul, andI the peculiar manner in which this connection is
modified by tlhe prevalence of the one or the other, is called
temperaciiectt.  This word is derived from temperare, which
means to unite or moderate two extremes; and hence the
term temperatuire as applied to the atmosphere.  Temperament might, therefore, be defined to be the peculiar connection of soul and body in an individual. This connection becomes peculiar by the prevailing fluids of the body,
their lymphatic, sanguine, choleric, and bilious nature; by
the prevailing elements, as water, air, fire, or earth; by the
nature of the blood, which is either cold or warm, light or
heavy; by that of the fibres, which are either lax orftim,
soft or hard. All these must affect ourfeeling, this our
thinking, and this again our will.
&6 
ANTHROPOLOGY.
It is easy to understand the origin of temperaments. All
empirical knowledge and sensual desires are qualified by
sensation.  Sensation is impossible without the senses, and
these are impossible without nerves. All our knowledge
is accompanied by feeling, and all the actions of our will
pre-suppose both feeling and knowledge. The more perfect and easy the functions of the nervous system are, the
less they are interrupted or interfered with, thegreater,
stronger and livelier will be the power of feeling, thinking
and willing. For the more easy it is to excite our senses,
the more clear our sensations must be; the more clear the
sensations, the more definite and accurate our knowledge,
and the stronger the feeling connected with it, and the volition proceeding from it. Now if the muscular system
prevails, the nervous will be proportionally weak.  Hercules, in the Grecian mythology, had  trong muscles, but
was not distinguished for strength of mind.  Apollo, on the
other hand, was physically weaker, but prevailed by clearness of thought. If the system of reproductiveness prevails over the others, a tendency to rest or inactivity becomes perceptible. We have four different temperaments;
the s(anguine stands connected with the system of sensibility; the melancholic with that of reproductiveness;
while the system of irritability by its twofold relation to
the arterial and venous blood produces the choleric temperament, when the arterial, and the phlegmatic, when the
venous blood prevails.
The temperaments do not directly originate in the individtdual, but in circumstances preceding its existence, in
climate, locality, in the season of birth, &c. Hence many
feel inclined to consider them as accidental. Every man,
they say, must have a temperament, but which of the four
seemtns to be wholly accidental. So every man must have
eyes, but whether they are blue or black is accidental.
Children of the same parents may have very different tem peramnents, as, for instance, those of Madame Letitia Bona parte. Though it mav be accidental, whether a man is
born with the choleric or melancholic temperament, he
will retain it through life, and though the phlegmatic may
modify his temperament by change of climate, by food,
and drink, he cannot change it into the sanguine. Yet
87 
ANTHROPOLOGY.
while none can change his temperament, he may subdue
it, and exercise it as he pleases. With somne its power is
naturally weak. Leibnitz knew not whether he was choleric, or sanguine, or phlegmatic. Nor does any temperament appear in its perfect purity, but as the prevalence of
one system does not exclude the functions of the others, so
the phlegmatic does not destroy entirely the symptoms of
the melancholic, but frequently they approach so near each
other, that it is difficult to distinguish the one from the
other. And again, the same temperament will be differently modified in different persons.
The Sanguiine Temperament.
This is the temperament of enjoyment and pleasure.  It
has great susceptibility to impressions of every kind so that
the person is ready and longs to receive them; but many
impressions cannot take possession at the same time of the
same breast; one extinguishes the other and the last is always the most vigorous. This temperament partakes of
the nature of the air, which by its great elasticity yields
to every pressure, and directly afterwards regains its former
state. Liveliness, cheerfulness, and a never-ceasing desire
for enjoyment characterize it, and its mobility is like that
of the birds, that constantly live in and are filled with the
air. An individual of sanguine temperament finds it difficult to govern his temperament, to conquer its tendency
to levity and to trifling employment.-Persons of this temperament incline strongly to Belles-Lettres, but prefer the
brilliant, thepleasant, and the copious to the more solid,
the truly beautiful and simple. It is the temperament of
the French nation; though fond of the fine arts, they have
not produced anything very remarkable either in Painting,
Sculpture or Music. The system of materialism is principally favored by them in Philosophy. Their courage is
flill of fire for the moment, but soon passes by; their emotions are quick, but short; they are careless, communicative, benevolent, but feel averse to labor and pain. La
Fontaine was sanguine. His poetry bears the stamp of this
character.
88 
ANTHROPOLOGY.
The Choleric Temperament.
This may be called the temperament of action. It resists external impressions, and re-acts on every thing that
affects it. Feeling its power, it is courageous, determined,
and possesses much energy and perseverance. Its nature
resembles that of fire; nothing is more energetic and more
active than fire; its activity does not bluster like that of
the wind, it does not stagnate like water, but continues
without interruption, until the elements of existence are
consumed. So, little insects that depend much on the
warmth of the sun, are indefatigable in their ruinous activity, and though small, they are very destructive. The
choleric temperament is excitable, yet not by little things,
as the sanguine; but when excited, it perseveres in the
plan which it has chosen.  Strong in its inclinations it is
faithful, but no less subject to great passions, to ambition,
to despotism, to wrath and other vehement impressions.
Its activity thus vibrates between life and death, between
producing and destroying. It is the temperament of despots, and of such men, as seem to be destined for the chastisement of nations, for, magnanimous and brave, courageous and proud, it is jealous. vindictive and malicious, inclined
to violence and obstinacy. Its bent is to practical pursuits;
it is quick of understanding, acute in judgment, clear and
precise in its expressions, and its productions in the arts
are manifold and expressive. This is the temperament of
the Spaniards and Italians, and was that of Napoleon.
"Every action excited him only to a new one.  When at
war, he thought of the advantage to be gained from a
truce; when he had effected it, he thought of the wavs
and means to break it. In France he thought of Russia,
in Russia of India. Even at St. Helena he was engaged
in dictating a history of his own adventures, or in review ing those of others, as those of Caesar or Alexander." If
the sanguine lives wholly for the present, in which alone
he can enjoy himself, the choleric is forced to dwell with
his plans in the future, for all action is preceded by a reso lution and separated from it by the lapse of time.
8*
so 
ANTHROPOLOGY.
The I'el(tncholic Temperament.
A constant longing and desire, and inclination to retire
or withdraw into itself, are the characteristics of this tem perament. All its activity receives its impulse from re.ection on the past, on the vanity of all things, and espe cially of human affairs. The ruins of former days exhibit
on the one hand the greatness of man, and thus rejoice
the heart, and on the other they indicate the decay of all
that is sublunary, and fill the heart with sadness; thus joy
and sadness commingle, and give a tendency to serious ness, to meditation, and frequently to speculation. To the
melancholy all that is near and clear to others is still at a
distance, and as thile blue color of the sky, which presents
itself to our eye when it gazes into the immense depth
above us, or which envelopes distant mountains, awakes a
longing for something unknown, so every thing, however
well-ascertained, serves only to call up in the breast a de siie for something still deeper and higher and purer.  It
delights to live in the regions of truth, of beauty, of the
sublime. and the romantic. It feels indifferent to the sensual world, and the eye, turned inwardly, indicates this by
its coldness and want of animation.  In science it is deep
and inclined to skeptical researches.  In art it aims at expression, as in the German school of music.
WVe find a remarkable instance of this temperament in
Chateaubriand.  "Brought tip in an old castle in Bretagne,
his melancholy was nourished. even in his youth.  Durilg
the revoiution he dreams in the woods of America; he
sings of the introduction of the christian religion into Gaul;
he makes a pilgrimage to the holy sepulchre; examines the
haven of old Carthage; reads Milton's Paradise Lost in
England; full of romance, he attempts to defend the old
stage by writing his MAloses, a drama that was never exhibited; he uph-olds the legitimacy of Henry V., retires
firom public life, writes the history of France, and in his
memoirs comnplnains of ennui, while the world around hiim
is undergo;n,o ne-   developments."  Byron is another instance.  Nothing, could satisfy him except the past, the
ancient literature of Greece, &c.
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ANTHROPOLOGY.
The Phlegmatic Temperanent.
In this, self-possession prevails, which does not suffer itself to be carried away by external impressions, nor does
it permit any of the one-sided characteristics of the previous temperament to reign, but retains its full dominion
over all the influences exercised upon it, and over all its
re-actions. It has therefore the capacity of entering into
every situation and feeling, and is accessible on all sides.
It is moderate in all things, in joy and grief, in mirth and
sadness, in labor and rest. This perfect equilibrium renders it possible to retain at all times its liberty and personal dignity. The sanguine temperament is dependent
on external impressions; the choleric on its internal passionateness, which does not allow cool reflection; the melancholic on its longing, that ever fills all its thoughts and
feelings;-but the phlegmatic is independent of all of them.
It has its centre and union in itself, and is aware of this
fact; it has found itself, and while in the other temnperaments the consciousness of the world is principally active,
in this self-consciousness prevails. In proportion as our
consciousness is related to something external, we are dependent on it; but in proportion as it is related to itself,
and independent of any thing apart from itself, we are
free. The phlegmatic temperament has frequently been
wronged, and looked on as inferior to the others, because
its features are not so striking; and yet it alone renders it
easy to man to preserve to himself his liberty, and to move
without prejudice and pre-determination, in whatever
O:>ection of science or art he chooses.  Its seeming indifference and rest is not without activity and deep interest,
but like the lake, the waters of which seem motionless on
the surface while rivulets and fresh waters are constantly
flowing in, and though unseen, keep up a gentle but healthy
and lively activity, so this is always devoted to some ac tion, without much display.  Its talents are highly respect able, its ideas deep and clear, its style rather dry, but pro found and accurate. In art it is faithful, as in the Dutch
school with its landscapes and family-pictures.
Its possessor is in danger of becoming indolent, indiffe rent, and fond of eating and drinking.
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ANTHROPOLOGY.
Aristotle asserted that the melancholy temperament was
most favorable to science and art. He quotes among the
rest Socrates, of whom Plato says, that in the midst of the
noise of an encampment, he fell into a deep meditation,
and stood immovably in one place, from one morning to
another, until the rising sun roused him, to offer his prayer.
Empedocles, Plato, Homer, Phidias, Dante, Raphael, Handel, and other distinguished scholars had the same temperament. Yet it is the will that reigns in man, and not the
temperament; the former, and not the latter, forms the
character, nor does talent and genius depend on it. Moses
and Paul were choleric. Oberlin was sanguine, and the
celebrated Rembrandt  phlegmatic.   One temperament
will make it more easy than another, to lead a life according to determined principles, or to enter on some scientific
or practical pursuit.  The choleric, for instance, is favorable to practical business, ibr it is the temperament of action; the sanguine to Belles-Lettres, for it is that of enjoyment; the melancholy to deep speculation, for it is that
of desire; and the phlegmatic to thorough and universal
learning, for it is that of self-possession and patience. The
temperaments will thus connect themselves with mental
capacities, and infuse into them liveliness or ease; zeal or
indifference; quickness or slowness; cheerfulness or dullness; resoluteness or tardiness.
~ 5. MENTAL CAPACITIES.
Of these a twofold view is to be taklien, with regard to
the intensity of their strength and energy, and with regard
to the objects, to which they are instinctively directed.
I. In respect to energy, and degree of strength, our
mental faculties are to be divided into three classes, that of
docility or mere capacity, of talents, and of genius.
1. Docility.
Every man is born with the possibility to learn, and this
p)ssibility has its origin and ground in God, the Creator.
Hence Plato, when he was about to die, thanked the gods,
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ANTHROPOLOGY.
that they had created him a man and not an animal. This
general possibility may be called the capacity of mind to
reeive ideas or knowledge, and every one, who is conscious of himself, is endowed with it. It is therefore something general and qualifies every one who has it, to become
a moral agent, and to feel religious affections. Religion
and moral character being the two greatest accomplishments of man in this life, no one has a right to complain
that his talents are less distinguished than those of others.
Some of us are rich, others poor, but all may live and realize the end of life, if they are diligent and faithful. To
learn is to be active; but learning, as the act by which we
acquire knowledge, is an intellectual activity, that has a
certain end in view and is subject to certain rules, excluding the arbitrariness of him who learns. Thus his mind
is disciplined. To learn, means therefore in the first place
to receive what is communicated.   But that which is communicated by instruction is not a single thing, nothing sensual, but a general idea, a general notion or a general rule.
Learning, therefore, demands not only the power of perceiving clearly and distinctly single objects, but of perceiving that which  is common  to many of them, or it demands the power of comnprehlending the many in one. The
animal may be broken in or taught to perform certain services, but it cannot comprehF nd principles or general laws.
To perceive the general nature of a single object means
nothing less than to refer it to its class. I ask, TVhat is
this?  And receive this answer1, A rose.  Thus the single
plant is classified, and I henceforth shall know every other
flower of the same species. To learn in the second place
means to judge theoretically. We must distinguish between
our perceptions and the objects perceived. There are
many objects; all must be classified; every object is related
to itself, that is, has parts which are related to each other,
and these again must be distinguished.  Finally, a distinction must be made between substance and accidents, the
essential, and unessential, &c.  To notice all these, we must
pa,y close attention.  To learn in the third place means to
be attentive. And in the last it means to remember that
which has been received.
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ANTHROPOLGOY.
2. Talent.
When the mere capacity becomes an ability, so that we
are not only receiving, but in being taught, teach ourselves
and feel an inclination to apply rules and principles and to
produce effects we may call it talent. The man endowed
with talent, has acute perceptions and comprehends quickly,
precisely, easily,-hence facility fromfacile-adds nothing
and overlooks nothing. He distinguishes accurately not
only between the different qualities, but also between the
essential and accidental, and he discovers connections and
separations, differences and unions, harmonies and contradictions, causes and effects, grounds and consequences,
where the man that has mere capacity cannot observe them.
His attention is easily attracted and interested in all that
presents itself in the sphere of his science; and his memory
is not only faithful, but prompt and vivid.  To irmprove a
science, demands talent; but mere talent is confined to
certain spheres as to the extent of its productiveness; nor
is it new and original, but fixes itself always on miaterials
that are historically handed down  to it.  It transforms,
imitates, or leads out.  So Virgil imitated Itomer; ilorace
imitated Pindar; Cicero the Greek philosopl-hers.
3. Genit?us.
When any one possesses all the qualities of talent in a
still higher degree, he is said to have genius-firom genus.
HIere acuteness of juIdgment is uinited widi depth, which
dives into the nature and beini,' of all things, and is not satisfied wvith their nearest, but always  demands their last
hidden element or foundation.  Acuteness and dep<th are
seldom united, but wlihere we meet both in one person, we
see the highest grade of genius.  With genius the understanding is flexible and capable  -of entering with ease into
the views, feelings and character of any one, so that a fe-w
words spoken by a person will enable it to understand and
represent the whole character of that person; or a singe
outline will cause it to produce the whole picture.  Attention is constantly  awake and active; and memory, ai(lcd
by imagination, is not only prompt and vivid, but productive, giving a new, and more attractive form to every thing
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ANTHROPOLOGY.
intrusted to it. Thoughts present themselves without labor; and the progress in art and science demands but little
exertion to astonish any one who observes it. Even in
times of rest true genius is on the advance. The character of genius is therefore evidently productive and inventive. It is new, and frequently comes in contact with establislied rules. Yet it is not arbitrary in its productions,
but follows a rational necessity, the ground and reason of
which it can understand.  Nor is it correct to think, that
genius needs no study. It is not enough to produce new
ideas, we must also know, lw to express them well.  But
this demands exercise.  Leoiardo Da Vinci said, "If your
son has genius, put him to a master after he has studied
anatomy and perspective." It is for this reason that povertv is more favorable to genius than wealth, for it renders exertion necessary. Goethe rose every morning at
an early hour, and studied regularly the whole day. Leibnitz sat for weeks in his chair without taking any exercise.
Nothing can be more perverse, than the notion that genius
works altogether like instinct. Shakspeare is generally
adduced as an example, and though it must be admitted
that he had not a complete education, his works show a
great amount of knowledge which he must have acquired
in some way or other. lIe lived in an age, which being
filled with romantic views, was highly favorable to poetry,
and cultivated the genius of the great poet much more than
an age like ours, wholly given to practical pursuits could
(lo. In Shakpeare's time, the poet and the public exercised
a much greater mutual influence on each other than they
now do.
True genius is rare, and hence it is a gift that is desired
by many. But as a few only possess it, many may be seen
to make pretensions to it, while they have scarcely talent.
II. In respect to the objects to which our mental capacities or talents have a peculiar tendency, we say that a man
has the a(ptitu(lde, or ability, or qualification for the performance of something, or for a study when his talents are
perfectly adapted to a certain sphere of activity. Thus
far we have only spoken of the energy of mental capacities; here we shall treat of the sphere of action, to which
95 
ANTHROPOLOGY.
they are directed by nature. At the same time the degree
of their energy will exhibit itself in the greater or less
ease, with which persons perform the labors for which their
talents qualify them. Many may therefore have an incli nation to the same art or science or practical pursuit, while
their success will be very diflbferent, though they should all
of them be equally diligent. The objective spheres for the
subjective capacities of man may be divided into three
general fields: Science; practical pursuits; and the fine
arts. Each of them may be subdivided again, and every
subdivision will demand a peculiar qualification.
The qualifications for science in general are an innate desire for knowledge, sound judgment, and a good memory.
Now it may be that a man has memory as a talent, but
judgment merely as capacity, and then he will easily receive
and retain knowledge and accumulate a great amount of
it, but his knowledge will be only held together by the order
of succession externally, as beads are united by the string
that passes through them.  Here judgment requires much
exercise.  Or a man possesses judgment as a talent and memory as a mere capacity. Such a man has a limited knowledge, but what he knows, he knows well and according to log
ical order of cause, and effect, and ground, and consequence.
But as all objects of knowledge have a bearing upon each
other, memory ought to be exercised.   Or finally a man
possesses both memory and judgment as talents, and then
he will not only leairn well and much, but improve science
and enrich the store of general inowledge.  The study of
history requires a strong, prompt and  faithful memory, a
lively imagination, that can enter inito the spirit of past
ages, and the characters and situations of historical heroes,
impartiality of judgment, and an ardent interest in the human race.  And here, again,  iere  chronology rests more
on memory, than on judgment; the representation on the
other hand, of the customs, manners, arts, sciences, politics
and laws of different nations, their characters, the design
of historical actions, their results and historical criticism
demand much teleological judgment; and the philosophy
of history is impossible without great talent and genius.
So the study of metaphysics is founded on a desire fobr
knowledge, that is not satisfied with knowing many things
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ANTHROPOLOGY.
but seeks for their ground and nature, and desires in all its
knowledge such a systematical connection, as will give to
every portion its proper place.  And the study of Natural
sciences; geology, geography, botany, zoology, pre-suppose
great powers of observing, skill in arranging our perceptions logically, readiness in naming and describing them
well; it requires too, the gift of invention, of making experiments, and of construing, developing and applying
them.
The practical talent has likewise its different objects, as
agriculture, mechanical arts, trade, political, medical, juridical pursuits, &c. The qualifications for them may range
from mere capacity to genius. The latter will invent new
ways and means, new instruments and machines, new institutions and regulations. Every business demands tact,
that is the gift to perceive quickly and correctly the point
on which all depends; dexterity in choosing at once the
right means; resoluteness to act promptly and without delay or fear; expeditiousness in dispatching work cheerfully
and energetically, and finally an enterprising spirit.
The qualifications for the fine arts must always exist
either as talents or as genius. We may enjoy the productions of art without having a talent for them, or without
being blessed with genius, but the artist cannot produce
any thing worth having without a high degree of talent.
The object of art is to represent truth in a sensible form.
Three things are indispensable for the artist, a strong and
productive imagination, the inspiration of a great and noble idea, and skill to realize this idea either in marble or on
the canvass.  And here again, the different arts pre-suppose
different qualifications. Architecture with its labyrinths,
obelisks, pyramids, temples and palaces, rests on a sense
of regularity, symmetry and harmonious proportions.
Sculpture is confined to the white marble, which colorless
receives the idea of the master, only by having it fully expressed on its surface. A sense forform, and a particular
dexterity in wielding the chisel, constitute tile particular
qualifications for sculpture. Painting adds the eye to its
pictures, and thus is able to represent man in all his relations, to represent his feelings, his actions and motives. A
sense for colors, for light and shade, indicate talents for it.
9
97
I......... 
ANTHROPOLOGY.
Music expresses only sensations and feelings, and its material is sound. A fine and delicate ear, an inclination to
rhythm, harmony and mnelody will qualify for it. Poetry,
from the epic to the dramatic, demands genius in the highest degree and an unlimited power over language.
Not every artist is capable of moving in every sphere
of his art with the same ease. Homer was great in epic,
Sophocles in tragic, Pindar in lyric poetry. Petrarch gained immortal glory by his sonnets, and not by those works,
from which he expected to enjoy his greatest fame. Shakspeare on the other hand, and Goethe were universal.-Much
less still can one artist judge correctly of all the arts or be
equally successful in them. Goethe never presumed to
judge of music; Michael Angelo's sonnets are forgotten,
as are the works of sculpture produced by the hands of
Socrates. Roos was an excellent hand in drawing ruminating animals, but he failed when he attempted any thing
out of his sphere. There is a relation between the talents
of an artist and their proper objects, which makes them
completely transparent to the artist, and grants him an insight into their nature, that enables him to transfer himiself
wholly into their situation. Where this natural relation is
wanting, the artist ought to acknowledge the limits of his
I)roductive powers.
We have thus seen, that our natural capacities differ not
only with regard to their energy, but also to the external
sphere of activity for which they qualify man, and the
question remains, What is it that causes this difference?
As the animal has instinct, so man has an innate tendency
to acquire knowledge. The greater or less strength and
excitability of this natural tendency, will call forth the activity of reason, which is the principle of all talents and
genius, in a higher or lower degree, either as a capacity or
as a talent. When that tendency is strong enough to remore all difficulties with regard to its object, we possess
the activity of mind as a mere capacity. When on the
other hand it requires but little excitement from without
to act in full energy, we have talent.  When finally that
natural tendency is not only strong enough to remove ail
difficulties, but excites to productiveness, and animates, for
example, the fingers of the painter, to create forms and
!...:i            "'"
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ANTHROPOLOGY.
proportions, or the imagination of the musician, to compose melodies and harmonies, we have genius.
In the next place it is the same innate tendency, to acquire knowledge, which directs our talents to certain objects. This tendency in its lowest stage includes instinct,
which points out to it its proper sphere. The sphere of
instinct is sensation, that of the tendency to acquire knowledge, is apperception, consciousness. But all talents presuppose strong and acute senses, and consciousness is impossible without sensation. As instinct directs the animal
by one or the other sense to its proper food, so it silently
influences the direction, which the desire for knowledge in
man takes to certain objects. The painter needs a correct eye, the musician a delicate ear; both are instinctively
directed to their arts by their senses. Mozart, when only
six years old, on hearing a violin, stated that its sound was
one-eighth lower than that of one which he had heard the
day before. When both were compared, his remark was
found to be correct.
Some talents show themselves earlier in life than others.
That for music needs no nourishment from without, but
draws all its compositions from its own resources, and
hence it early manifests itself. Mozart was but five years
old when he entertained large companies with his performances. Beethoven did so in his eighth year, and Ilummel
in his ninth. As talents depend on the strength and activity of our desire for knowledge, so this must be awakened by our sensations, by the sight of objects, and acquaintance with them, to which they are adapted. Correggio, on seeing a picture of Raphael, exclaimed, "Anch
io son pittore." I too am a painter. Thucydides hears a
lecture of Herodotus, his eyes fill with tears, and he becomes conscious of his latent talent. La Fontaine hears,
for the first time in his twenty-second year, a few verses
of Malherbe's poems, and awakes from a long dream, perceiving at once his innate qualification for poetry. The
early or late development may, therefore, frequently depend on circumstances. But a difference in this respect is
also produced by the object on which genius is to exercise
itself. Ovid, when yet a boy, made verses whenever he
wrote.  Melancthon received the degree of A. M. in his
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ANTHROPOLOGY.
fourteenth year, and in his eighteenth he was professor of
the Greek language in a celebrated university.
~ 6. IDIOSYNCRASY.
By idiosyncrasy we understand that peculiarity of a con stitution, by virtue of which the individual feels either sym pathy with a certain object, or antipathy against it, or indifference towards it.  Tl/is peculiarity is based on the
correspondence of our nervous system with certain objects
or persons. Idiosyncrasy does not belong to the whole
race, its character is therefore not generic; as, for example, the aversion of one class of animals to another, or that
of man to serpents, but it belongs exclusively to certain
individuals, and because of its singularity, it is difficult to
account for it. Sometimes a sudden fiight of the mother
may leave a never-dying impression on the soul of the
child, and idiosyncrasy may frequently take its rise in that
early state of life, as was the case with James I., who could
not endure the sight of a naked sword, or with the Grand
Duke of Epernon, who swooned at the sight of a young
hare.  In all instances it is certain, that the utterance of
sympathy or antipathy rest not on judgment, but on mere
feeling.  In common life the attraction of different persons
to each other rests either on an internal equality or resemblance which is recognized in spite of all external difference,
orI on a common interest which is determined by the capacities of those that feel it. In both cases we are guided
by judgment. Sympathy, or antipathy, on the other hand,
while they likewise found themselves upon such an internal resemblance or inequality of individuals, are the immediate utterance of feeling, and not of a clear judgment.
Persons meet for the first time, and feel themselves attracted without knowing each other, or they feel themselves repelled like balls tossed against each other. It is
as if this internal equality or inequality were more perceived by a kind of presentiment than any thing else; it
resembles the attractive power of magnet and of iron, of
the negative and positive pole. In the world of morals,
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ANTHROPOLOGY.
the like loves to associate with like, the good with the
good, and the bad with the bad; but sympathy, founded
on mere feeling, demands always some polar difference in
two persons that otherwise resemble each other in habits
and taste. Two persons, perfectly alike, frequently feel
an aversion to each other, as two keys, near each other on
the piano, harmonize less than two separated by a third.
But when there is a polar relation between the two, so
that the one possesses positively what the other does negatively, then they will attract each other. This is the casebetween persons of different sexes. Such a difference is
not opposition, but proceeds from an original union. Sympathy then rests on a natural correspondence between the
nervous systems of two persons or their disposition. This
correspondence is only felt, and not clearly known. Hence
it is that frequently a single movement of the lips, or a peculiar glance of the eye may call forth sympathy or antipathy.
An interesting fact is related of two monks, who so sympathised with each other, that when the one was taken
sick, the other would feel unwell; and when the former
recovered, the latter would be delivered from pain. Petrarch states, that when once Laura suffered much from
pain in her eyes, and he felt very much for her, his eyes
began to experience the same pain.
Antipa'(thy must be explained on the same principles, and
we will therefore only give a few remarkable instances
from Schubert in his history of the soul.  The celebrated
Erasmus became feverish when he smelt fish. The distinguished Scaliger, when near a water-cress, trembled in his
whole body. Simon Ponli felt strong palpitation of the
heart when fresh apples were brought into his room. A
little opium laid in the ear of a patient caused his death,
and the sight of white horses acted as a powerful cathartic
with another. A man, that had recovered from a long
disease, swooned, when he smelt bread, and another felt
himself violently purged when he smelt broth. Baco
swooned during an eclipse of the nioon; and P. Boyle,
when he heard the noise, which is caused by water, pour ilig forth from a spigot. Honey with some persons has the
9*
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ANTHROPOLOGY.
effect of poison; and the aversion felt by many to caterpillars, spiders, mice, and toads, is well known.
It is usual to speak also under the general head of idiosyncrasy of apathy. Physically, this is the state of the
system when no medicine can reach it. A man much engaged in alchemy could take four ounces of sweetened and
sublimated mercury without being purged. Psychologically it is the absence of every kind of interest in many
.things which attracts others easily.
102
!'-i. I':*'.' 
CHAPTER II.
OF THE TRANSIENT INFLUENCE OF NATURE
UPON THE MIND.
All the modifications of mind which we shall have to
consider in this chapter, are such, as are not permanently
the same, but subject to changes, and periodical. The first
are those produced by age.
~ 1. AGE.
They are not permanent. The child does not remain a
child, but grows and becomes a youth; and the youth developes itself, matures and becomes man or woman. None
of these stages is therefore fixed, but the one passes over
into the other. Yet with these transitions, changes both
of the physical and psychological nature take place, and as
may be anticipated, not accidentally, not without some good
design. As in the plant, those leaves which appear first
and are nearest to the soil, are also least formed, and their
substance more rude, so man in his childhood shows physically little expression in his face, and psychologically is
confined to mere sensations and perceptions.  But as the
leaves grow higher from the soil as they are more exposed
to the air, and the influence of the light, the juice becomes
more refined, the color more firesh and tender and all the
forms grow more perfect, until finally on the top of the
plant many delicate leaves cluster around one centre and
form the bud, from which the flower in all its beauty bursts
on us. This is the youth of the plant. When the flower
fades, the seed will begin to ripen, and when the seed is 
ANTHROPOLOGY.
matured, the fruit will decay. Here we have the picture
of man. His youth is the flowering season of the plant.
Sensation and perception have been well exercised and
now the powers of imagination, of fancy, of memory, and
the capacity to receive and digest new ideas, are to be cultivated, for they are principally active, and indicated in
the bloom of the face, in the fire of the eye, and by all the
emotions of the heart.  When these powers of the mind,
have been sufficiently attended to, they fade, and judgment,
reflection, thought, and practical activity grow forth from
them, until the ripened soul causes the body to decay, as
the seed the plant. Should we now venture to pronounce
the design of the ages, we should say;-the soul enters the
world in a state of involution, and its destiny is to unfold
and manifest what it contains. Whenever one great manifestation has been made, it turns to another, leaving the
former behind, and this change is indicated by the transition from a lower to a higher age, until when all its developements are eflected, it turns from time to eternity, and
forsaking its body, which is no longer of use to it, leaves
it to decay. For the body, without the soul, cani as little
support itself, as the rainbow, created by the sun, can continue, after the sun turns away from it to a different part
of the globe.
Different periods of this gradual developement have
been exhibited by physiologists. Some have admitted ten,
each consisting of seven years, thirty one weeks and six
days; Shakspeare speaks of seven, but most writers, following the division of the seasons, admit only four. To
divide these periods according to years, is a difficult undertaking. Not only, because as the seasons, so our ages
differ in the various climates, but they vary with different
persons in the same region.  That which exists and grows,
cannot be fixed in certain stages, but like a stream, that
continually flows and cannot be stopped by putting a pole
as a landmark into its waters, one stage will flow imperceptibly into the other. Haller collected more than one
thousand instances of persons, who lived more than one
hundred to one hundred and ten years, and some of such,
as died in the one hundred and fiftieth and one- hundred
and seventieth year; ten periods, each of six years, thirty
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ANTHIROPOLOG'Y.
one weeks and six days would of course not be sufficient
in such cases.
We shall in a short characteristic of the ages follow the
natural division of the season and the day, the influence
of which on all that live is analagous to that of the four
ages on our life. These divisions are strongly marked by
our mental and physical power, and also by a pre-disposition to certain diseases. In childhood our nature inclines
to inflammation of the brain; in youth to disorders of the
pectoral system; in manhood to bilious diseases and fevers.
and in old age to palsies.
Childhood.
This exhibits three distinct stages, that of the infant,
that when the child begins to walk and to speak, and that
when it begins to understand the world around it.
During the first of these three periods the child exists
more in the form of vegetative life. It sleeps about eighteen hours a day, and like plants, grows rapidly, and is altogether a sleeping monad, for the morning of intellect is not
yet dawning on it. It is, however, born a sensitive being,
and feels every where on its body, except on the sole of
the foot. This experience shows, for when the air streams
on its tender body, it moves its limbs and cries; when it is
touched, its muscular power attempts to re-act. As the
lungs breathe as soon as the air falls upon them, so its lips
point themselves and seek for nourishment, when it feels
hunger. Drinking and eating are yet united in one act.
The pleasure, accompanying the satisfaction of want, runs
like an electric spark through all its limbs, and soon not
only the lips, but also its little hands seek the favored food.
Thle touch of the hands will attract the eye, which begins
to be active four or five days after birth, and thus one
sense will awaken and aid the other. Hearing develops it self later, as it is said to continue longest in the dying. It
distinguishes first the voice of the mother, for this pro ceeds from the same breast from which it receives its
nourishment.
The second period announces itself by the attempts of
the child to walk and to speak. With them it raises itself
above the sphere of mere feeling, and enters on that of
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ANTHROPOLOGY.
consciousness. A desire to play indicates a will in its low est stage. This desire makes the child seize with its little
hands, what is offered to them; it grows fond of what it
has once seized and pays attention to toys and those, which
it sees and handles oftenest, it will soon be able to distinguish from others. This appears from the fact, that it will
not suffer one toy to be taken out of its hands and another
to be put in its place, but it insists on the one, that was
taken from it. Thus it learns to distinguish and to choose.
The interest felt by the child in certain objects will be expressed by its hands, and some inarticulate sounds, until
finally, after having heard them named repeatedly, it imitates words. The child indeed had sounds before; it wept,
and laughed, and cried; but to form sounds into tones and
pronounce them as words demands intellect. Its original
sounds were principally vowels; to pronounce consonants
teeth are required. Mere sounds the animal has likewise,
but its sounds have no variety. The goose hisses, the hen
clucks, the sheep bleats. The voice of man is capable of
forming all these sounds, as was Madame Catalani to compass three octaves and a half. The child at first indicates
by a few words a great many objects; every stranger is
an uncle or an autnt. After some time it forms words of
its own, that frequently arc full of significance.- AVith the
language the child becomes conscious of the world, and of
itself, especially when it ceases to speak of itself in the
third person, and begins to name itself by the term I. This
conception of itself is like a light in the midst of darkness.  Now the child plays with itself, as if it were sufficient to itself. It sleeps less, and is unwilling to be put to
bed, &c.
The third period is that in which the child desires to become acquainted with the world. The impressions it receives are new and strong, as they are yet few it retains
them easily. The fondness for play increases; the boy
runs about, wrestles, climbs trees and makes mischief; the
girl delights in adorning a doll, and attending to a kitchen
apparatus in miniature. Pleasure and displeasure seize the
young heart with much vehemence and the will excited by
them, attaches the action without deliberation to desires.
These change quickly and influence to many actions, that
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ANTHROPOLOGY.
muist be imprudent.   Not distinguishing between genuine
and false pleasures, the child will give the more valuable
for a trifle which attracts its attention. The rash and inconsiderate life of the child meets therefore a contradiction in the well regulated and principled life of grown
persons, and this contradiction manifests itself as discipline.
Thle virtues of gratitude, obedience, and petitioning, can
be cultivated in the earliest childhood by withholding and
granting at proper seasons. Cleanliness in dress and moderation in food, are the basis of all education. Exercise
of the higher senses, the ear and eye, and limitation of the
pleasures of the lower are the best preventives of voluptuousness and sensuality.
Children live wholly in the present; the future does not
yet trouble them. One day passes by like the other. As
yet boys and girls play with each other; but soon they flee
in order to seek each other again. The girl turns in upon
herself and grows modest and silent, the boy shunning
her seeks the company of boys, and becomes awkward
and rude.
Youth.
Sera Venus-inexhaustajuventus.-Tacitus.
Now all formations of the body are fully developed;
the proportions of all parts to each other, are in their
highest perfection; the nerves are vigorous and the muscles swell softly over into each other. The beard and the
change of voice in the young man; the delicacy and bloom
in the face of the girl indicate this period no less, than a
higher respiration and a greater warmth of the whole body.
Psychologically this period may be known from a prevalence of the imagination, memory, and judgment, and an
irresistible inclination to dive into the future, lay plans, and
build castles in the air. The breast is filled with hopes and
ideas, with expectations and wishes, with undertakings and
plans to reform the world. Love and friendship are the
two principal inclinations of youth;  perseverance and
courage, firmness and nobleness, magnanimity and selfdenial, are in their train. Love ennobles and often forms
the transition from a silent and idle life, to a most generous
and noble activity. Dante's love to Beatrice ripened into
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ANTHROPOLOGY.
his Divina Commedia; Petrarch's love entered into his
sonnets; Goethe's into his Faust. In a moral respect Honor becomes the guiding principle.
Manhood.
The growth of the body has ceased, though its intensive
strength may still grow higher. The face exhibits impressions of certain fixed inclinations, and passions and expressions of character; the glance of the eye is firm, the support of the body manly and noble, and the walk dignified
and serious. The ideals of youth depart, and the reality
of life claims the undivided attention of man. In the place
of the pictures of fancy, life offers its objects, and mature
judgment and knowledge, firmness of will, ripeness of experience, and a resolute but deliberate activity become indispensable. Purposes must be realized; something must
be effected to secure to man a position in society. Wife
and children must be taken care of, the government and
the welfare of the whole human race demand the interest
of man.   As thinking becomes more logical, the single
thoughts clearer, so the emotions of the heart are viewed
more correctly, and no longer suffered to exercise an influence on the will proportional to their vehemence. And so
all actions are accompanied by circumspection and pru(lence, and must proceed from a sense of duty, and from a
consideration of their consequences in the future. Man
must know how to resign and endure, how to persevere
and to act.
Old Age.
Jucundissima est aetas devexajam, non tamen preceps.-Seneca.
The frailty of old age has been the theme of many a
poem, and of much complaint. Homer early compared the
voice of old men to the chirping of the balm-cricket. And
yet old age is not destitute of its high pleasures. Desires
and passions, those tyrants of youth no longer rage in it;
past experience, and many changes and occurrences, rising
and sinking wealth and power, the destructive and reviving facts of history, have taught the aged neither to tremble at dangers nor to overprize things earthly. He can no
longelr be deluded; his counsel is sought for and valued.
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ANTHROPOLOGV.
Old age may therefore be called that of peace and serenity;
for quick impressions no longer disturb it, unseasonable desires no longer torture it, and its principal attention is generally directed to its eternai nome. The more familiar it
grows with the home above the stars, the more it becomes
estranged to the concerns of life, and this gradual estrangement may be called a gradual dying, and death nothing else
than a transition of the soul from time to eternity leaving
the body behind. As the soul dives into the other world
the colors of this earth grow pale and less interesting.
Yet some old men have preserved in themselves a deep
interest in the world, and continued to feel youthful, and
labor with energy. Goethe continued his usual activitv
until a few days before his death; Ruben's Last Judgment,
and Raphael's Transfiguration, were the best and last works
of those great men.
Many feel neglected in old age, because they have ceased
to take any interest in those around them; many lose their
memory because they do not exercise it. Robert Constantine had an excellent philological memory in his one hundredth and third year. Many become childish, because
they live altogether in the days of their childhood, and pay
no attention to the affairs of the day. But when all is as
it ought to be, then the old man will rejoice in his age, and
as the horizon of his earthly sun grows more narrow, that
of his heavenly sun will become more expanded and more
brilliant. For the soul that comes from God, having fiulfilled its destiny on earth, desires to return.
~ 2. SLEEPING AND WAKING.
Sleeping and waking are the "ebb and flood of mind
and of matter on the ocean of our life." They are related
to each other as night and day, darkness and light, consc(iousness and unconsciousness. In proportion as any being may be said to be awake, it will be able to enjoy sleep.
We propose to answer the following questions:
1. What is sleeping, and what is waking?
2. Where is sleep met with?
10
109 
ANTIIROPOLOGY.
3. What is its design?
4. What are its conditions?
5. What is a regular sleep?
6. What is afalling asleep? and 7.
1. What is sleeping, and what is waking?
Sleep. The words used in different languages to signify
the state of life under consideration, express generally a
relaxation. Somnuis in the Latin no doubt is derived from
supintus, lying on the back, and this from sopio, to deprive
of feeling or sense, and from which the modern term sofa
comes; the Greek term forgo; is equal to butros, and this is
allied to the Latin supuns, supnius, somnus, and means likewise lying back; the English sleep comes from the Saxon
slepan, and the German schlafen, whose root is schlaff, and
whose meaning is lax or relaxed, and which is used of the
bow-string when loosened. Sleep in general is, therefore,
a state of relaxation. This definition is not, however, sufficient, and we must add that is the negation of consciousness of the world and of ourselves. Yet consciousness is
not annihilated, but continued as dreams indicate, and as
the possibility of awaking at a certain hour, sufficiently
proves. The nervous system, which influences the activity
of the soul when directed outward, is asleep, and hence
the communications of the soul with the world is interrupted for a time.  We must further add, that sleep is the
rest of the activity of the organs of sensibility; yet the
functions of sensibility, of sensation and perception, are not
suppressed, but only limited in their clearness and accuracy; they are veiled and put to rest with regard to external objects. But while at rest in this respect, they reproduce their life, and re-invigorate themselves. Again
we must add, that sleep is the prevalence of the functions
of bodily reproduction, or digestion, respiration, circula.
tion of the blood over those of sensibility. Though breathing, and the pulsation of the blood becomes slower, they
are the former more deep, and the latter fuller. Ilence it
is, that many snore when asleep, for they draw in the air
more deeply. Secretion is diminished, but is richer and
more energetic, and digestion is more perfect. Persons
grow principally during sleep, and wounds heal more at
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What is waking? 
ANTHROPOLOGY.
mnight than during the day. The plant grows quicker than
any thing else in nature, and it is therefore considered as
the true representative of re-production. A twig broken
off and planted, produces a new tree. Now, the life of
man during sleep is principally vegetative, as Aristotle remarked, and Leibnitz called man when asleep a vegetable
monad.  In sleep man  is turned in upon  himself, and
wholly indifferent to the world around him; hence Heraclitus said,-in sleep every man has a world of his own,
but when awake all men have one in common with each
other. Sleep has been considered by ancient poets as the
sister of death; Homer calls death a brazen sleep,'r~vo;
xacx,o;; but if sleep is rest in activity, and death as it is
generally viewed, a cessation from all activity, then sleep
and death are not sisters, nor are they in any way related
to each other.
Waking. This is the opposite of sleeping, or that state
of life in which the system of sensibility reigns over that
of re-production, or in which the soul and consciousness
prevail over the body. All the functions of sensibility are
fully active, as seeing, hearing, smelling, tasting, and feeling; we think, and judge, and will; we distinguish between ourselves and the world, between our perceptions
and the things perceived; we remember, direct attention
whithersoever we please, and determine the motions of all
OUr muscles.
Sleeping and waking seem to be in opposition, and yet
they are not, for the one is founded on the other. While
we sleep, something in us is awake, and while we are
awake, some powers in us are at rest.
2. Where is sleep met with?
As sleeping and waling are closely related to each
other, we may at once say, that a being can enjoy sleep
only in proportion to the degree in which it may be said'
to be awake. Beings that are wholly reproductive, that
live and grow only externally, and have neither feeling nor
sensation, cannot sleep. It cannot be denied, that there
are many plants, which under the influence of light and
warmth close their cups at night, and open them again in
the morning, or protect their flowers by folding their leaves
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ANTHROPOLOGY.
around them, and by forming a bower, or by rolling up
their leaves in the form of a cornet;-yet their sleep, if it
may be called so, is but distantly analogous to that of man.
It is nevertheless remarkable, that some flowers are so
regular as to the time of falling asleep, that Linnaeus con  ceived the thought of establishing a Horologium Flora, that
is, a dial of flowers.
Animals, on the other hand, have feeling and sensation;
they feel themselves, and they feel and perceive the things
around them; they are consequently awake in some degree
at least, though their state of waking resembles that of
dreaming, and hence Leibnitz called them dreaming mo  nads. Here it will be well to notice, that living and being
awake are different states of existence. The plant lives,
but is not awake; the animal is awake, but has no clear con  sciousness. Animals, being awake, they also sleep. The
ibex, which climbs from mountain to mountain, when the
time of its retirement approaches, seeks for a silent and
isolated place to rest and enjoy sleep. The eagle that
sailed during the day in the air, and passed over hills and
valleys, is satisfied with a small spot when the night breaks
in.  Some animals sleep not only during night, or for a
short part of the day, but through a whole season, or during
a smaller or greater portion of it.  Some fall asleep when
the cold, others when the warm, or others when in some
regions the rainy season makes its appearance. The Ger  man rat, the marmot, the badger, the hedgehog, the bear,
all of which love cold climates, sleep more or less during
the whole winter; the hedgehog in Madagascar, and the
tanrec in the East Indies, sleep during the greater part of
summer; and so does the crocodile, which remains stiff in
in the mire, hardened by the sun until a few drops of rain
start it, and make it burst the mud and go in search of its
,prey.  Among the birds the swallow, the nest of which is
eatable, and some few other kinds are subject to this long
sleep, which is also met with among men, but there always
as a disease. The question may be asked, whether all
animals sleep? Some of the lower classes, as infusoria
polypi, that have either no nerves at all, or very few only,
can of course sleep but little, because they are awake but
little, and their existence is more vegetative than animal.
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ANTHROPOLOGY.
Other animals live constantly in a dull mixture of sleeping
and waking, as the amphibious; and some insects sleep so
slightly, that their sleep might better be called a kind of
drowsiness, for they observe every thing going on around
them. Fish have been seen following a ship for seven
days, and as yet it is doubted by many, whether the dull
life of aquatic animals stands in need of sleep.  From these
remarks, it may be sufficiently seen, that the sleep of animals differs not only from that of man, but in the different
animals according to the degree in which they may be said
to be awake.
3. What is the design of sleep?
Rest and activity are so separated in every being which
lives on earth, that the one excludes the other, or no being
can be active and rest at the same time. But what cannot
take place simultaneously may do so in succession, and as
the night follows the day, so rest follows activity, and this
again rest. Whenever our activity continues for a long
time, it must result in exhaustion, and thus render itself
impossible; and when rest is enjoyed beyond a proper
measure, disgust and weariness are experienced. The necessity for the alternate transition from waking to sleeping,
and from sleeping to waking, lies in the above law, and is
contained in the life of man. It is the union of mind and
body, and though its activity is originally one, it is organized and utters itself by different systems. These determine and limit each other, so that while each is going on in
the same body, neither interferes with the other. Among
these systems some serve more the growth and strength
of the body, others more directly the activity of the mind.
But all of them are equally subject to exhaustion, and stand,
therefore, equally in need of rest. They cannot consequently be all of them active in an equal degree at the
same time, but they must relieve each other, so that while
the one is principally active, the others will be at rest, and
for the time being, yield their dominion. Were both kinds
of systems equally active at the same time, they would
have to fall asleep at the same time, and then nothing would
remain active in man to awaken him again; while, on the
other hand, a continued activity of the vegetative system
10*
113 
ANTHROPOLOGY.
of the body would finally stifle the life of the mind, and a
continued activity of the mind by the brain, nerves, and
muscles would volatilize the body as light volatilizes burning matter. An uninterrupted wakefulness renders the
brain soft and watery, and causes insanity, as long sleep
suffocates by the growing and accumulating fat. Here,
then, we may discover the true reason why plants cannot
sleep. They cannot be said to be truly active, and hence
stand not in need of rest, as the planets and stars, which
are ever moving, never experience fatigue. Should we
nevertheless call the growth of plants an activity, it would
be necessary for us to say, that their activity and rest is so
united that the one cannot be distinguished from the other.
Without any disturbance, their juices rise and sink; without labor the bud unfolds itself in the light of the sun and
scatters its fragrance. But the life of the animal has sensation through it, it is attracted by the objects around or
repelled by them and its originally peaceful, and harmonious activity is elicited and spent in all directions, and hence
exhaustion follows and rest becomes necessary. And all
this takes place in a still higher degree in man. The equilibrium of his mental life is wholly disturbed by the occurrences of the day, by the emotions of fear and hope, of
joy and pain, of solitude and anxiety, of love and hatred; by self-interest and interest in others; by desires,
inclinations, and passions; bv cares and troubles, by the
constant exertion of thinking and willing. Thus rest becomes in a high degree necessary, and the design of sleep
as regards the intellect is,
To grant rest to the mind. For if during the state of
waking, the mind may be compared to a living spring,
whose reviving waters are constantly gushing forth and
flowing into many rivulets; during sleep it gathers and
collects itself, draws in its manifold activities; and thus,
for a time, it fiees itself from the contrast and opposition
to itself into which it is brought by the opposite nature of
the objects claiming its power and attention during its waking. The mnind returning to itself, delivers itself from
the stretch on which it is during the whole day and thus it
is at rest.
It not only rests in sleep, that is, ceases from labor, but
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ANTHROPOLOGY.
it is positively invigorated and strengthened, and this restoration of mental power is another part of the design of
sleep.  It descends to the state of its original existence to
that of the embryo and like Anteus, who by throwing
himself on the earth, gained new strength, so it recovers
what it has lost by its activity in the world. It is as if it
drew a new supply of strength from the source of its existence, and hence the expressions that one feels like a new
creature after a healthy sleep or balmy sleep, are highly
significant.
According to the view here taken of the design of sleep,
it would seem that the mind sleeps and not the body alone,
or that such is the case of the system of sensibility, and
irritability, and this is true. Sleep is not death, nor a separation of the soul firom the body; in sleep they remain
closely united. The mind sleeps; it is for a time in a state
of unconsciousness, while at the same time it has not in the
least lost its consciousness, this has only become latent or
is for a time veiled. This state of mind has been compared to that of the memory when it possesses all the words
of a foreign language, and could call them forth at any
time, and yet does not remember one for years because
the person whose memory it is no longer speaks that language. This state is similar to another activity of the soul,
which in order to reflect on a new idea, dismisses for a
time a previous one without loosing or forgetting it. It
will be understood that the mind is spoken of here in its
connection with the body, and especially with the nerves
by which it is principally active. When these become ex hausted, the activity of the mind will not cease, but will
be greatly diminished and consequently rest. This rest is
what we call sleep.
4. What are the conditions of sleep?
These are many and various, and that without which all
the others would be insufficient, is the law according to
which life cannot remain in one and the same state longer
than a certain time, and according to which its existence
vibrates between activity and rest, sleeping and waking.
This is the case, in some degree at least, with the mind.
115 
ANTHROPOLOGY.
Here we find, that after serious labors, the mind inclines
strongly to something of a lighter nature. Leibnitz, when
fatigued with study, delighted in meditating on the improve ment of wagons; Kepler turned from his astronomical
investigations to music. The more the mind has been productive and self-active in one direction, the more it will
desire to be merely receptive in another. After writing
much it will be delightful to read for a while. The next
condition of sleep is a certain degree of exhaustion caused
by activity. He only sleeps well who wakes well. Any
thing that weakens the nervous system, great cold or heat,
or whatever too greatly raises or depresses the activity of
the sensibility, or what even wearies by not affording sufficient excitement, by being too uniform or tedious will make
us feel sleepy; while any thing that strongly engages the
mind will keep it awake. A certain degree of indifference
to the world and to our business is indispensable to sound
sleep, and whatever promotes this state of indifference will
also promote sleep. Hence the night with its darkness and
silence is the time for sleep, for the absence of light suflbfers
the eye, through which the objects of the world receive
form and shape and gain our attention, to be at rest.
Again, whatever promotes the growth of the body is favorable to sleep. Fat, corpulent and growing persons,
especially children, sleep more than old persons. And
finally sleep may be caused by strong odors or medicines taken from the vegetable kingdom, as opium, by strong food,
which renders a higher degree of digestion necessary, as
may be seen from serpents, that after having eaten their
prey, fall asleep; by strong drinks, which force the blood
inward, while such as tea, that propel it to the surface, keep
us awake.
5. What is a regular sleep?
That sleep we should not hesitate to call regular and
healthy, and refreshing, in which the functions of digestion
or of the system of reproduction in general, prevail over
that of sensibility, so that we are not disturbed by dreams
or by cares.  So is waking regular and healthy, when we
scarcely know that we have a body, when no limb hurts
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ANTHROPOLOGY.
us, and when the process of digestion is not in the least
perceived.  Sleep is irregular when it is disturbed by unpleasant, feverish, or distressing dreams, and wk:n we often
awake during the night. The nature of sleep will differ
according to its prevailing causes. Sleep, produced by
strong drinks, will be heavy and unhealthy; that produced
by cold, will be benumbing; that by too great fatigue, will
be deep, &c. Some instances of lethargy remind us of
the long sleep of animals. Schubert relates thie case of
Guiseppe Ciaborri, who was buried during an earthquake
by the corpse of his friend, and there lay for fourteen days
under the ruins of his native city almost constantly sleeping. A sick person slept for seventeen weeks with but a
few interruptions, and after this long sleep recovered firom
his disease. This shows that such a sleep is sickly. Another
slept for seventy days and then recovered from an illness;
and Fichet records a case in which a man slept for four
years, only waking when he felt hungry. Equally extraordinary are the instances in which persons have fallen
asleep while on the rack. The nerves being so weakened
that they could no longer re-act, began to die, while the
rest of the body seemed yet to live.  Sleep and death not
infrequently pass over the one into the other. Poison,
introduced into the blood, frequently causes first a deep
sleep and then death. As we have many instances of such
a heavy, lethargical sleep, so we have some of an uncommon wakefulness.  A  murderer, according to Schubert,
remained awake for fourteen days, and though he took
gradually fo)rty grains of opium, his eyelids would not sink
and grant himn a balmy sleep.
6. What is Failling Asleep?
To say all in one word, we may reply: a gradual inactivity of the different senses. First of all the eye ceases
to be awake, the eyelid sinks and it closes; then taste and
smell become insensible; the ear yet hears, but does not
understand; the mouth yawns, the members stretch themselves, the head, as in the embryo, sinks down on the breast,
and while for a short time the life of the mind seems to
rest under the surface of the body, so that a little excite
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ANTHROPOLOGY.
ment will call it forth again, it soon sinks deeper until it
wholly disappears. So the English soldiers on the fort of
St. Philip heard no longer the thunder of the cannons, but
slept standing at their posts. Physically, falling asleep is
frequently indicated by a feverish pulsation of the blood,
and always by a rest of the muscles, by a decrease of animal warmth, by slower, but deeper breathing.   As the
thinking power becomes relaxed, and loses accuracy and
acuteness as the motion of the muscles grows less energetic, so all activity is turned off from the world and sinks
back into the life of the body. The eye of the astronomer,
which a moment since enjoyed the millions of golden stars
above, and roamed in immeasurable space lets fall the lid
-and stars and space are no more seen.
7. What is Awaking?
When sufficient strength has been gained, one sense
after another becomes active again, and man becomes conscious of himself, and the world around. A feeling of
strength and of vigor, of cheerfulness and alacrity, accompanies our awaking, as that of relaxation accompanies our
falling asleep. Our connection with the world is renewed,
and the last thoughts, before falling asleep again present
themselves.-When life is vigorous, the transition from
sleeping to waking is short, though generally preceded by
a short morning sleep. The dark feeling, in which our intellectual life was resting, becomes gradually more light;
figures like thoughts make their appearance, and an electric stream of power passes through limbs and muscles,
until we are fully awake. The process of awaking is generally complete, when the eye opens, for through it the objects around us can be distinguished, and hence it elicits
our judgment and thinking, and our desire for renewed activity.
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ANTHROPOLOGY.
~ 3. DREAMING.
The word dream, by a transposition of the letters o and
r, comes firom the Latin, Dormio, which word means both
to sleep, and to dream, as the noun somnium, means both
sleep and dream.  In connection with sleeping we have to
consider that state of the mind, in which it dreams.
Dreaming is generally described as an involuntary action
of the soul. By involuntary is meant, that the pictures,
images and ideas, running through our sleep, are not subject to our critical judgment, nor to our conscious will, but
that they come and go, appear and disappear, as if sent by
another power than that of the soul. Yet this definition
of dreaming does not exhaust the subject. Dreaming is a
state of mind, that is made up of sleeping and waking.
The soul, when it dreams, is neither wholly asleep nor
wholly awake. We are awake, when we judge, consequently when we distinguish between our soul and body,
between our activity and its results, between the world and
ourselves and when we know that we make these distinctions. We are asleep, when we are no longer aware of
these differences and when we cease to judge.  Dreaming
is the flowing together of ourselves with the objective
world; for while in sleep this is wholly merged in a state.,
of unconsciousness, in dreaming it emerges from it; not
having however the power of a clear and distinct judgment, we are not able to keep the objective world separated from ourselves, but all our activities flow confusedly
together with their results, our perceptions with the things
perceived, and our imagination with its own productions.
Dreaming then is that state of mind, in which we are not
conscious of ourselves or of our personality. We are conscious of ourselves when we clearly distinguish between
our soul and body and acknowledge their union. In dreaming this distinction is gone, and hence we are unconscious
of our person. This shows itself in all dreams, and more
especially in those in which we exchange our personality
for that of another. Johnson, in his dreams, frequently
disputed with an opponent, and felt chagrined, that he had
himself the poorest arguments. An old Professor dream
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ANTHROPOLOGY.
ed, that he was again a student, and when examined could
not answer the question to which his classmate, sitting near
him, fully and readily replied. In both these instances it
is evident, that the dreamers had no self-consciousness.
And so it is in all our dreams, for if we were clearly conscious of ourselves, we should not dream, but be awake.
Without personality there can be no liberty, no volition, no
will. In dreaming then we are incapable of willing decidedly. This it will not be difficult to prove. For when
we dream that we are pursued by a mad dog, or any rapacious animal, we cannot, however much we may try to
do it, discover the means of escape.   Our muscles seem
powerless, they will not move from the place, they
deny their services. We desire to be delivered from danger, we feel that running could be the only way of safety
and yet we cannot take a step. Nor is understanding and
judgment active and free in dreaming, but both are merged
in mere feeling. Some remarkable instances may seem to
lie in the way of this assertion, and yet it is nevertheless
true. If by understanding we comprehend the many in
one, and if by judgment we distinguish between the different qualities of a thing, and separate one class of beings
from another, we cannot exercise either power without
self-consciousness, and where this is active, there, as has
been stated, we do not dream, but wake. Condillac, we
are told frequently finished treatises in his dreams, which
while he was awake, offered insurmountable difficulties.
Maignan, a mathematician of the seventeeth century, in
his dreams, solved problems, which he found correct, when
he judged of them after he awaked.  Reinhold discovered
in a dream the deduction of the logical categories, and so
all of us frequently feel, when we awake in tile morning,
that we have clearer ideas on some subjects than we had,
when we  retired.  Strong as these instances are in favor
of a quickened understanding and judgment in dreams,
they do not after all prove what they seem to establish.
For there is no doubt but the essays of Condillac and the
problems of Maignan, and the categories of Reinhold, had
not in vain engaged the minds of these men, but they were
well matured and ripe, long before they lay down to sleep.
It often so happens, that while many impressions, and many
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activities engage our mind at the time, when we attend to
a difficult subject, the results of our meditation and study
will not become manifest to ourselves, because some feeling, some impression veils it or does not suffer it to present
itself freely, and separate from the other views and ideas,
that may occupy our thoughts.  After we retire and dismiss the many cares and interests, which divide our mental
energies, the principal subject of meditation during the day
will enter into our dreams and all the other impressions
that accompanied it having disappeared, the result of our
study will be permitted to show itself disencumbered. So
noise around us frequently prevents us from remembering
a certain occurrence, which is certainly treasured up in our
memory. When the noise ceases, our recollection of it is
at hand. The mountains are there, but the mist renders
them invisible; as soon as the mist sinks, they rise. We
experience the same, when, having been for a long time
engaged in some labor unsuccessfully, we return to it, after
recreation. Then we are often astonished at the ease with
which we finish the work.  No new  efforts have been
made, no new attention has been paid to it, and the greater
facility must therefore result from the removal of something,
that before obstructed our efforts.
The state of mind, in which it neither comprehends nor
judges, nor is conscious of itself, must be that of
Feeling. The mind, as has been shown, retires during
sleep from the manifold activities into which it flows forth
when awake. Yet its rest is not inactivity, for this is
death. Whatever has life must be active, and only what
is active is alive. The activity of the mind during sleep
is sunk into form of feeling.  This, without judgment, is an
entire union of subject and object, of the activity which
feels, and the thing that is felt; a union, not resulting from
the difference of both, but one that knows of no difference
whatever. Thus all differences in the activity of the soul
are dropped, and the soul places itself wholly and undivided in every feeling and emotion, or in every word  and
action.  When we are awake, we judge of our actions as
well as of our words and feelings; our mind, when enter ing into them, is conscious of their relation to itself, of their
consequences and propriety. During sleep no part of the
11
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ANTHROPOLOGY.
mind is above our feelings or words, but the whole mind
rests in an undivided manner in every single emotion, and
in every single action. Hence we may explain how words
spoken in our dreams are frequently much more beautiful,
much more appropriate than those we should have chosen
when awake; hence it is too, that our emotions in our
dreams are more whole-souled, and consequently more
animated; and that our sympathies and antipathies are
more vehement than they would be in a state of wakefulness. As the muscular strength of insane persons is very
greatly increased, when their whole mind enters into a
passion, so are our feelings in sleep, and their utterances in
dreams.
Some of the feelings, that we thus have in dreams, will
be stronger than others; these stronger feelings will cause
a difference in the simple and harmonious activitv of the
mind, and disturb it. Every difference will lead to variety,
and hence the mind will flow forth again with its activity
into different channels, as in its state of waking. Yet not
conscious that these differences in its activity are its own
productions, imagination, the principal power active in
dreams, represents them as something strange, as something external, sometiling not proceeding from the activity
of the mind, but firom some other source.  Thus  the i(leitity and hairmony of the mind is preserved in its dreams,
for whatever might interfere with it is thrust out under the
form of a strange being or power. On the one hand the
mind seems to distinguish, while on the other it remains
still under the influence of mere feeling. But the activity
of the mind which thus unites thinking andfeeling is
Imagination.  This mental power does not demonstrate
nor produce pure thoughts, and make us conscious of them,
but it gives all ideas in a sensual form, in a sensible image.
While we are awake, its operations are accompanied by
critical judgment; we reflect on the images and their appropriateness to render a thought visible. In our dreams
this critical judgment is absent, and though we may compose poems while dreaming, their value can be judged of
by us only when we are awake; and frequently what may
please us in our dreams, will be found wholly incapable of
satisfying our waking judgment. Imagination is therefore
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active, without our being conscious of it; this is sometimes
the case with poets, who write without cool reflection,
but then they write by inspiration, and may be compared
to a burning torch which illuminates all around, but does
not see itself, nor understand its own nature. As it is the
province of the imagination to express a general thought
or truth, or that which is common to many things of the
same kind by a single concrete and individual image or
symbol, so in our dreams it produces images, concrete signs
or symbols by which it speaks or acts. The course of an
unfortunate life, for example, it will describe by a high
mountain which we have to ascend.  Agreeable or disagreeable feelings which connect themselves with the labor
we have in climbing up the mountain, will call forth the
images of beautiful flowers or disgusting animals.  Ilence
it is, that we cannot only speak in verses while we are
dreaming-because imagination is principally active, and
the soul is wholly thrown into it-but that the language of
dreams in general is replete with poetical beauty, with
energy, and appropriateness. Instead of words, we have
a fine imagery; thus, pearls indicate tears.  The wife of
Henry IVT. of France dreamed a few days before the murder of lhei husband, that two splendid diamonds had been
changed into pearls. So Goethe, shortly before he visited
Italy, had a dream of a symbolical character. He dreamed
that he landed from a large boat on an island, fertile and
richly covered with vegetation, where he knew the most
beautiful pheasants were offeied for sale.  He directly
traded with the inhabitants for these beautiful creatures,
which they brought killed, and in large quantities. They
were genuine pheasants, but as dreams usually transform
every thing, they had long, colored-eyed tails like those of
peacocks or birds of paradise. They were brought by
scores into the vessel, their heads turned inward and arranged so ornamentally, that the long, variegated tails
hanging outwards, formed in the sunshine the most bril liant arches imaginable; and so richly indeed, that room
was scarcely left in the front and rear for the oarsmen and
helmsman.  Thus they cut the peaceful waves, and Goethe
named to himself the friends to whom he intended to pre sent these gay treasures. Though Goethe neither sent nor
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ANTHROPOLOGY.
brought pheasants from Italy to his friends, hlie sent many
a letter, filled with the riches of his poetical genius, which
received new impulses and new materials from the world
of art surrounding him.-Knowing the power of imagination, we cannot feel astonished at the choice which it makes
in our dreams of images, by which to convey its dark notions. A man, suffering from cramps in his breast, saw
himself attacked and wounded by cats whenever his disease was about to return. Nor shall we consider it strange
that it frequently makes use of images, which are directly
opposite of what they are to indicate. Weeping in dreams
is said to announce great joyousness; cheerfulness in dreams
foretells mourning. To eat earth means to gather riches;
beautiful lilies apprize us of scorn which we shall have to
endure from the world. Marriage-feasts in dreams are the
messengers of misfortune, as funeral processions those of
joyful occurrences. Romeo in a dream sees himself elevated to the dignity and splendor of an emperor, shortly before he hears of the death of his Juliet. In these images
of our dreams a certain law prevails, when we think them
to be arbitrary.  This law is, that extremes elicit each other.
Cheerfulness and mournfulness, marriage and death, the
sounds of joy and those of grief, are found more closely
together in nature, than we are inclined to admit.
Nearly allied to imagination is the activity of memory.
This likewise is often active in our dreams, and when not
divided, and when it is animated by the whole activity of
the mind it will of course be more lively, more vivid, and
perhaps more faithful in the detail of occurrences.  Thus
agentleman dreamed that a person appeared before his
bed, offering to reveal to him either his future or past life.
He agreed on having his past life represented to him. The
person then gave him a review of all that had occurred to
him, the greater part of which he would not have been
able to recall when awake. To explain this dream, we
must remember a remark made above, that memorv as
well as every other power is subject to dissipation, and that
it may treasure up occurrences, which the manifold employments of the day prevent it from bringing to our recollection, while dreaming, its whole activity dwells on one
point only. It therefore represents past actions more in
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the detail, and not merely recollects them, but gives them
all the novelty of recent occurrences. Dead persons die
again before us; we, in old age, go again to school with
our books under our arms. Yet memory in our dreams is
mechanical; not subject to our will, so that we might demand certain things intrusted to it. It gives them according to the association of ideas, or in some external connection, or in one borrowed from the memory in its state of
waking.   Consciousness does not accompany its operations. When awake, we classify the contents of memory,
and call upon it to give them according to general heads
and classes; this tendency to generalize, renders the
memory less inclined to depict and delineate. In our
dreams memory dwells more on the individual nature of
occurrences, it loves the concrete, and hence its greater
vividness and detail. There are some dreams that continue successively for a number of nights, to complete a
long story. Here it must be remembered that similar
feelings and circumstances will produce a type of a dream,
which will continue as long as its causes and conditions
are the same, until its subject is exhausted.
1. The Form of Dreamns.
One delights in the illusions of dreaming, because originating in ourselves, they must have some analogy with the rest of our lfe and our
fate.-Goethe.
Dreams being destitute of a clear self-possessed consciousness, they of course can have no logical connection
This has been already shown from the entire neglect of the
laws of space and of time. In space one place cannot be
where another is, for different places occupy different positions; and so whatever exists in a bodily form, while it
must be somewhere, cannot be every where. Dreams
know nothing of these laws, but the persons and beings in
them have a kind of ubiquity. In the twinkling of an eye
we now are in Asia, and now in Africa. Our imagination
may likewise travel fast when awake, but then the critical
consciousness is closely following it. And so in dreams the
laws of time are wholly neglected, such as those of succession of the past present and future. This succession
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ANTHROPOLOGY.
enters into our thoughts and actions. Before we act we
resolve; our resolution, as something present, is referred
to its execution as something future. In our dreams, reso lution and action coincide in one moment; the future is
present. Thus all logical and all voluntary connection is
destroyed. To have clearness and distinctness in our
knowledge, we must arrange it according to the laws of
space and time; we must, for instance, cause our memory
to give up its contents in the regular order in which they
occurred. And not only so, we must perceive the relations
of cause and effect, ground and consequence. Where the
things contained in dreams have nevertheless a strictly logical connection, it is not produced by our dreaming imagination or memory, but merely repeated by an involuntary
association of ideas, or by our mechanical memory. In
this limited sense it may well be said, as it has been asserted, that there is both an objective and a subjective connection in our dreams. Dreams arising in ourselves must
have a subjective connection, an analogy with our disposition, knowledge, talents, and skill. There must be too an
objective connection, for our dreaming imagination must
have materials for its activity; these must be given to it,
and their original connection may preserve itself in our
dreams. Such a connection, however,.is mechanical; it
is like the connection of leaves, that shaken off by the wind,
attach themselves to each other on the ground, or like leaves
that flow down the same rivulet, and are united not by
their nature, but by the water that carries them. The subjective connection of our dreams demands, however, our
particular attention, for these very firequently betray our
true disposition and moral character. If during the time
of busy activity our conscience is not permitted to speak,
it will frequently burst its chains in our dreams and announce loudly to all that hear it, and especially to ourselves, what is in us. Shakspeare represents the dreams
of conscience very beautifully in Lady Macbeth. A celebrated professor, who for some time had omitted ofifering
his morning and evening worship, prayed in his dreams a
ntilmber of nights in succession, and repeated all the bible
p)rayzers which he h)ad learned by heart in his youth.  The
(!cA-lln no;n i)e an illusion, but the disposition firom which
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ANTHROPOLOGY.
it arises will be true. It was on this principle, that a Greek
emperor had a person executed, merely because he dreamed of having killed him.
2. Causes of Dreams.
These are manifold, and it would be difficult to enumerate all of them and arrange them in classes. We shall
therefore point out only a few, and among the most fertile
ones are,
1. Impressions on our senses. Thus we feel cold, and
our imagination leads us into ice-fields; light falls upon our
eyes, and we exclaim Fire! A philosopher dreamed that
thieves were about to kill him, and'to render his death
more cruel, they introduced a large pole between his toes,
and tried to break them out. He awoke and found a straw
in the place of the pole. Sometimes a disordered system,
any thing lying undigested in the  stomach will cause
dreams.
2. Whatever has much engaged us during the day,
whether it has been agreeable or disagreeable, will become
a source of dreams during the night.  Perhaps a strong
emotion, suppressed by our will, while we were awake,
disturbs our sleep; or a strong wish, the fiulfillment of
which we would not for a moment consider possible when
waking, presents itself as realized. Persons desirous to be
rich, dream that they are so. Talents, that are not permitted to exhibit themselves, because our daily employment is hostile to them, will seek for an opportunity in our
dreams of exercising themselves. And so whatever impedes any activity, whatever disturbs body or mind, will
cause our dreams and enter into them. The nightmare is
a remarkable instance of the kind. A thick and impure
air renders breathing difficult, and our imagination, which
views every thing under the aspect of a concrete form and
being, perceives a bear or a cat lying on our mouths. Carus, Junior, relates a case from Sedillot's Journal de Medicine, which is to the point here.  Laurent, the physician
of the first battalion of the regiment, Tour d'Augergne,
was lodged during a night in a deserted monastery at I'almi, in Calabria, when suddenly some persons, lying toguth
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ANTHROPOLOGY.
er in narrow rooms on straw, which was spread on the
floor, came running in much frightened, all saying that they
had seen a ghost-like, long-haired black dog, and had dis tinctly felt him running over their breasts. During the
next night Laurent with some  other officers, remained(
watching, after the soldiers had been persuaded to retire,
and without their seeing any thing suspicious, the soldiers
were frightened by the same dream, and could not be in duced again to return to their lodging place.
3. When our intellectual activity has been exercised but
little or at least less than its power would demand to be come relaxed, when consequently it stands in no need of
recreation and sleep, then dreams will follow one after
another, in case we retire to rest. Our senses close, but
our mind feels reluctant to sleep. As a general rule it may
be stated, that we never dream more, and sleep worse, than
when we wake little.
4. The nervous state of the system when weakened, may
produce many dreams. Persons in fever, in delirium will
imagine they see all kinds of images and so the dreams of
nervous persons are full of them. If in this state of health
we have no clear and distinct dreams, we toss about, groan
and sighl, and it frequently takes us a long time to awake.
Dreams, springing from the same causes, may be much
modified by the disposition and character of the dreamer.
The natural difference of the imagination, its degree of
liveliness and strength, and its cultivation, will considerably affect its images and productions. The imagination of
the painter, and that of the musician, of the poet, and that
of the sculptor will certainly preserve their peculiar characteristics in their dreams. If the imagination is naturally
productive and plastic, the materials furnished it in the
dream, will be connected in new ways, and as the judgment is absent, these combinations will frequently be of
strange character. The most opposite things will be united, caricatures will be formed, animals speak, serious
persons will appear in ludicrous situations and countries
will present the most beautiful combinations of water and
mountain scenery, and of landscapes of all kind.  From
these few remarks, it must be evident, that the dreams of
children, and those of old persons, must differ widely not
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ANTHROPOLOGY.
only in their substance, but also in reference to their form,
liveliness and distinctness; and so again the dreams of savages and those of cultivated persons. The former will
consider them too as being sent by a higher power and regard them as possessed of divine authority. Animals too
dream; but their dreams stand in the same relation to those
of man, in which their instinct stands to the clear thinking
of man. They may dream of pursuing a hare or chasing
a stag, but their dreams cannot go beyond the sphere of
sensation; they cannot produce new images, &c.
~ 4. PROPHETIC DREAMS, PRESENTIMENTI VISION)
AND DEUTEROSCOPYI OR SECOND SIGHT.
Somnia sunt alia physica, alia divina, alia diabolica.-Melancthon.
We propose to consider these different states of mind
together, for they are to be explained on the same general
principle. When speaking of sleep, we found it useful to
glance at the phenomena of waking, and so here prophetic
dreams which we have when asleep, and presentiments
which are the dreams of our waking mind will mutually
explain and interpret each other. What we mean by prophetic dreams, will be easily seen from one or two examples. And here we cannot help thinking of one, handed
down by Cicero, who, as is well known, was by no means
credulous. Two Arcadians came to Megara and took different lodging-places. The one of them appeared twice
to the other in a dream, first seeking aid and then murdered, and stating that his corpse would be taken early in the
morning on a covered wagon passing through a certain
gate out of the city. This dream agitated the other, and
going at the appointed time towards the gate, he met the
murderer with the wagon and handed him over to the police. A lady of the writer's acquaintance, was from home,
when a little brother of hers was killed by an ox. The
night after this occurrence she dreamed that an ox-cart
was sent for her, in which she was expected to return.
This dream affected her spirits so much, that she expressed
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ANTHROPOLOGY.
her apprehensions to her friends in the morning. When
informed of the misfortune she directly understood her
dream. The dream of Mr. Williams of Scorrierhouse,
near Redruth, in Cornwall, is fully related in the London
Times of the 16th of August, 1829. He saw the Chancellor killed in the vestibule of the House of Commons,
and having had the same dream thrice in one night, he
communicated it to many of his acquaintances all of whom
were living when the Times gave the account. Afterwards it was ascertained, that on the evening of the same
day Mr. Percival was assassinated by a certain Bellingham.
This dream resembles the second sight of Mr. Lodin,
who in the hour of death saw the murderer of James V.
From these few examples it will appear, that prophetic
dreams are such as give us information concerning things
which would seem to be inaccessible to our common senses
at the time. It cannot be denied, that it is difficult to point
out the possibility of such dreams, yet it must be admitted,
that there have been dreams of the kind. To refuse belief in them altogether, would not annihilate them, but
merely remove them from our consideration. It is more
easy to disbelieve a thing that is difficult to explain, than to
attempt to understand it. No doubt many dreams have
been exaggerated, and to receive all without a critical
judgment, would indicate great credulity. We shall therefore divide prophetic dreams into two classes; the one
embraces those dreams, the subject of which is the dreamer
himself, his health, his state of mind, his conscience; the
other comprises all such as foretell something foreign to the
dreamer, but always something that will stand in a necessary relation to the present, so that if nothing occurs to
prevent it, it must develop itself from it. Dreams of the
first class have never been much doubted, for physicians
have too many opportunities of testifying to their truth.
Persons while yet well receive by a dream an impression
of a future disease. A woman, about to be taken sick
with an inflammation of the brain, dreamed that her heart
was changed into a serpent which rose with awful hissing
up to her head. Her imagination represented her disease
symbolically. Diseases do not all at once and suddenly
seize our system. They have their beginning and course,
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ANTHROPOLOGY.
and frequently develop themselves very gradually. Yet
however small the beginning of a disease, it is the disease
begun. If a strong nervous and muscular constitution may
not perceive it until it has grown considerably, there is no
reason to doubt the possibility, that a person whose nervous
system is out of tune and highly sensitive when asleep,
and when his whole mind is sunk into the state of a general feeling and raises and animates this, should perceive a
future disease even in its very infancy. This will become
more credible, when we consider that our body is a system,
which consists not of parts as the machine, but of organs,
each of which while it has a peculiar office represents our
whole life. The drop of blood, that now runs through the
veins of the eye, will soon pass through every vein in the
body. In the state of health, when all the organs are active in perfect harmony, no difference is felt; but when.
one of them is about to separate its life from that of the
others, a difference between itself and these must be exhibited, and this will be noticed. Our explanation of prophetic dreams, it will easily be perceived, strips them entirely of the power of prophecy, for they do not foretell that which is not yet, but that which is, and which
in our common state of mind would be imperceptible,
because it could not sufficiently affect our strong nerves.
The dreams of the second class, on the other hand, that
seem to foretell fuiture occurrences or to have a sensation of
things going on at the time, but at a great distance, like the
dream of Mr. Williams, are founded either on sympathy,
as we shall see when we speak of presentiment, or on our
knowledge of a necessary connection existing between the
foundation and that which rests upon it. So Franklin often
perceived in his dreams the results of the labor to which
hlie had attended during the day. These results were owing
to the faithfulness with which he executed his business.
The plant lies likewise in the seed as to possibility, and any
one who sees the seed may prophecy what the plant will
be that shall grow forth from it, Only those occurrences
may, therefore, be foretold by our dreams, the premises of
which are known to us, but it would be mere superstition
to believe that we could anticipate in dreams the actions of
a free-will,
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ANTHROPOLOGY.
The whole subject before us will become more plain by
considering the nature of presentiment, vision, and second
sight. We shall also here preface each of these states of
mind by giving one or two examples:
Jung Stilling, in his Almanac of 1808, relates a remarkable presentiment of a minister, who was taking a walk
with the intention of visiting a rocky mountain near his
house, and of enjoying the beautiful view from it. While
approaching the summit of the mountain he felt restless
and uneasy; unable to explain this feeling, he asked himself, whether it was right for him to spend his time thus
idly, and busied in such thoughts, he stepped aside for a
moment to seek a cool place under a wall formed by the
rock.  He had scarcely left the narrow path leading to the
top of the mountain, when a large stone, breaking loose
from the rest of the rock, with great vehemence struck the
spot, where one moment before he was standing. The
Reverend John Dodd, one evening, when already undressed, felt a great agitation in his mind which was wholly unaccountable to him. It seemed to him, that he ought to go
and visit a friend, who lived a mile or two off from him.
His family tried to dissuade him from going that night, but
their efforts were in vain. Mr. Dodd went, dark as it was,
and on arriving at the house of his friend, he found him
ready to commit suicide.  His unexpected visit and counsel prevented the deed forever, and his friend became converted by divine grace. Schiller, the great poet, was in
the habit of walking with his steward; at one time, when
passing on a rugged path through a pine wood and between
high rocks, he was seized by a feeling that some person
must be buried there. Some time after he was informed
of the murder of a wagoner committed at the place, on
which he had the presentiment.
Presentiment-if now  we should define it-is the dark
foreboding of something taking place either in ourselves or
around us. This foreboding is a dark feeling not understood by us; a general feeling of restlessness, strange and
altogether uncommon. Its possibility must not be considered as a privilege of the mind, to dive into futurity or
distance, but as a disease and weakness, by which it sinks
firom its state of clear waking into that of dreaming and
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ANTItROPOLOGY.
drowsiness, or from its state of human life into that of animal existence. For animals, whose life is more or less
plunged into the general life of nature, and penetrated by
it, and whose feeling is that of sympathy with the elements
in which they live, have a high degree of presentiment.
They seek, like the fish, distant waters, or like the bird,
countries afar off; they announce, while the sky is yet serene and clear the approach of a shower, and when the
inhabitants around Vesuvius feel secure, the nightingale
prophecies a near eruption, and flutters about, sending forth
heart-rending notes. The less a being is independent of
the element in which it lives, the more quickly it will perceive the changes going on in it, and again the less it can
counteract an impression, the more vehemently it will be
affected by it. If in a state of health we handle metals as
we please, and perceive no effect from them, the mere
touch of a ruby on the hand will cause to some diseased
persons pain in the arm, or a feeling of coldness and heavi ness in the tongue.
It is certainly an erroneous idea to think, that we can
perceive by our common senses all the powers of nature.
Many of them have only lately become known to us. The
celebrated Brown divided substances into parts so infinitely
small, that they were smaller than the four-thousandth part
of an inch; he then scattered them into the air, while not
a breath was stirring, and observed them moving about.
As the motion could not be their own, he concluded that
there was a power which communicated it to them. This
power is now ascertained to be in constant motion, and to
pervade us, but we have in a healthy state of our nervous
system no sense by which we may perceive it. This mag netic stream is nevertheless equally as certain, as the elec tric influences upon us, though we cannot discover by our
senses the polar relations in many chemical affinities.
These activities, however, exist, and may become known
to us in two different ways, either by a change taking place
inr them, or by one in ourselves. That only is perceptible
to us, which can afbfect our senses, because it is strong
enough to resist their activity. If the senses are excitable,
the impression needs not be strong to be perceived; if they
are healthy, it must be energetic. We are penetrated by
12
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ANTHROPOLOGY.
electric powers, without our feeling them. The eye, when
it is pressed against any thing flashes forth electrical sparks,
and the skin of the cat, when rubbed, emits them. As soon
as this electric power approaches us with sufficient energy,
we perceive it. So when we touch an electrical fish or
eel. From this it follows, that when the external state of
a natural power is changed, we may receive impressions
from such as left us perfectly free before. And so it is
when our own nervous system becomes more excitable;
then natural agencies will be perceived, though their
energy should remain the same. The distance from which
these agencies reach us, cannot form any objection, or even
cause any difficulty in understanding this theory. For if
the eye, by the medium of light, may be set in connection,
for example, with the Sirius, which is so many thousand
miles distant from us; if the ear, so small an organ, hears
the sound that originated twenty or thirty miles from us,
and if we cannot conceive the possibility of all this, what
right have we to refuse belief in the possibility that magnetic and electric powers, may impress us from a greater
or shorter distance? If these remarks are correct, it cannot escape us, that the more we are merged in the general
life of nature, the more we shall sympathize with all its
changes, and the more distant activities with which its
agencies are connected, will become perceptible to those
whose nervous system is capable of receiving impressions
firom them. On a similar ground we must explain presentiment concerning friends; they rest on deep sympathy
with them, on a kind of polar relation. Should a presentiment become more clear, and assume the form of prediction, it must be remembered, that the future has its origin
in the present, and that it must spring up from this source,
as does the tree from the seed.
Presentiments may become visions when our imagination gives them form and shape. They then will appear to
us from without as images, which to the visionary seem to
have reality. The images will not be produced arbitrarily
by our imagination, but they will enlerge from our feelings
and be calculated to represent their general nature, which
is either agreeable or disagreeable. When they proceed
from the feelings, that accompany the activity of con.
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ANTHROPOLOGY.
science, then they will often assume the forms of good or
evil spirits, because they will symbolically represent feelings, flowing forth from a quiet or disturbed conscience.
Yet before we define vision, it may not be disagreeable to
give a general notion of it by a few instances:
Petrarch, when at Vaucluse, saw Laura approach him
at three different times during one night; fear seized his
limbs, and the blood returned to his heart. Trembling he
left the house, to breathe more freely. He climbed a rock,
he walked through the woods and looked around on all
sides to see whether Laura was following him.  "No one
will believe me, but it is true; I saw her in remote places,
where I thought to be alone; from the trunk of a tree,
from the basin of a fountain, from the cave of a rock,
from clouds, &c. Fear made me immovable, I knew not
what would become of me, and whither I should go 1"
Torquato Tasso during the last years of his life, was firmly
convinced that a friendly ghost was in the habit of appearing to him. His friend, the knight Manso, expressed his
unbelief to him, and was requested to convince himself by
being personally present at one of his conversations with
the apparition. Manso agreed to it, but while Tasso conversed with his spectre, he could see nothing at all. One of
the finest visions ever seen by any man, is no doubt that
of Benvenuto Cellini, which we shall give here in a free
extract from Goethe's works. Cellini, the Italian artist,
during his last imprisonment frequently prayed to God,
that he would show him in a dream once more the disk of
the sun. One morning he arose early and prayed fervently
that God, by divine inspiration, would communicate the
cause to him, why he was not worthy of seeing the sun
even in a dream.  While praying, and lost in the wish of
seeing the sun, the Lord seized him in the manner of a
wind, and led him into a large room, where he appeared
to him in the form of a beautiful youth. He then saw a
great number of persons, through the midst of which he
had to force his way. At length he arrived at a narrow
door, by which he entered a small street. Raising his eyes
he perceived the sun, shining upon a high wall. The Lord
then told him to walk up to a high edifice by a few steps,
where he saw the sun in its full glory. After a while the
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ANTITROPOLOGY.
rays of light inclined to the left of the sun, and the disk
became pure and clear, and appeared like a bath of purest
gold. Soon after this, the middle of the golden circle ex  panded and became elevated, when all at once Christ on
the cross became visible, of the same pure gold, of which
the sun was, and so beautiful and so benign, that no human
mind could have imagined the thousandth part of such
beauty. Then Christ moved to the left, and the centre of
the circle again expanded and showed the beautiful figure
of the holy virgin. She sat elevated, her son in her arms,
and a smile on her face. On both sides two angels stood
of great beauty. "All this I saw clearly and really, and
thanked God constantly with a loud voice."
The images of vision originate in the same way, as those
of our dreams. Here also it is a strong feeling, by which
our whole mind is absorbed, by which its volition and clear
consciousness are held down. The mind resting wholly in
this feeling —as for instance that of Petrarch in the feeling
of love-will animate and raise it. Thus this feeling will
re-act in uncommon strength, or render every other emo tion subject to it, and as the mind is lost in it, imagination,
which is nearest allied to feeling, will represent it in a concrete form, under an individual image, and place it without
us. This is indeed the case with every artist, with the
painter, the sculptor, the poet. Their imagination transfers
a thought or feeling into an image, which of course they
must see as clearly before them, as if it existed in reality.
Yet there is this difference between the images of the artist and the visionary. The artist controls his imagination
by a conscious judgment; he distinguishes between it and
its productions, and comprehends the latter as his own.
The visionary looks upon them as possessed of reality; he
views them not as proceeding from him, but as approaching him from without. And here it must be remarked, that
the feeling, which gives rise to such a vision, may again be
represented as being itself caused by the vision. So a woman entertained, for a considerable time, the idea of committing suicide; but the voice of her conscience unnerved
her arm. One morning however she plunged herself into
a deep well, and while standing up to the chin in the water, she suddenly perceived a guardian spirit, that extended
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ANTHROPOLOGY.
his hand to assist her in getting out of the well again ~his
friendly apparition no doubt was the voice of he),onscience, whose words were put into the mouth of an image,
which her own imagination had produced. So it is known
that the celebrated Blake, the English painter, frequently
saw before him the forms of Dante, Milton, Virgil and
Pindar, as if they were his contemporaries. Once Milton
communicated to him a poem, that had not been published
before in his collected works. The poem was by Blake,
but his vision made it appear to come from Milton.
Visions, though their name is derived from visus, sight,
are not confined to the eye only, but all the senses may
share them. Suso, for instance, ate strawberries that were
offered him in neat baskets. Nicolai felt all the pain, caused
by a bristly serpent, winding itself around his body. Jacob
Boehme, in the hour of death, heard beautiful music, which
was inaudible to every one of the bystanders. Yet the eye
is most favourable to visions. It easily produces phantoms.
Irregular points, indistinct outlines, confused spots will induce it, especially during moonlight, to draw them out into
regular forms. If our imagination be strong, and our judgment weak, and our conscience not perfectly at peace with
us, we shall see spectres and ghosts of all kinds, and thus
tremble at the creations of our own mind. The eye is the
sense too, that more readily obeys the internal urgency of
imagination, and will more easily see those images, which
imagination necessitates it to form.
Second sight is the last of the phenomena of mind under
consideration. It differs from presentiment and vision, and
again contains both united. Vision has but rarely any thing
to do with predictions and future events; it considers its
images to be present and not future. Presentiment, on the
other hand, is a dark foreboding of something distant, either
in space or time. Second sight while it differs from both,
has much in common with each. It unites in itself the fore bodings of presentiment, and the clearness and distinctness
of vision. Or it is a presentiment, that exhibits its fore boding in such an image, as its substance demands.  Hence
it is a vision, that without much imagination, indicates ex actly what it represents. A lady, whose husband was from
home, saw him return on the public road, when all at once
12*
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ANTHROPOLOGY.
he disappeared before her eyes. Afterwards she received
information of his death, while travelling homeward. The
explanation of second sight seems at first to be extremely
difficult; but if the theory of presentiments and visions
has been understood, that of second sight cannot remain
concealed from us, for it is nothing else than the union of
both. Here as well as in presentiments, nothing can be
foretold that has not its foundation in the elements surrounding us, or in the intimate and close sympathy which
we feel with near acquaintances, friends, and relatives.
There have been little islands on which the second sight
was extremely common. Thus Faro Island, the islands
around Scotland, and some valleys in other parts of Europe, the Steinthal, &c. have been long known for their
number of seers. The inhabitants of these islands and valleys are much separated from the rest of the world; the
silence and  retirement of their residences makes them
meditate much on themselves, and live more in each other;
their cultivation is not that of the mind in general, not
that of judgment and reflection, but more that of feeling;
hence their relation to each other is based on the heart
more than on the calculations of the understanding. Circumstances well known to the seer, impress his mind, and
as this is merged greatly in feeling, affect deeply the latter;
this affection of the feeling, instead of reflecting on it and
expressing its substance clearly, will be pronounced darkly,
and in the form of presentiment by the seer, whose imagination will see the future in the present, and the effect in
the cause, and represent it as vision does. Or the probability of an occurrence is to be ascertained by judgment;
but the seer, not exercising it, perceives it by mere feeling,
and his fears or hopes set his imagination into operation,
and he sees as real and present what his fears and hopes
anticipated.
This explanation will be found correct, at least with regard to one kind of second sights, when we consider tnat
the seers in Scotland have been generally of very low rank
and almost without any cultivation, wholly living in the
state of nature; and when we add, that those clans which
had seers were frequently isolated, living entirely within
the sphere of their own families. In such a life every feel
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ANTHIROPOLOGY.
ing and motion of one member would easily communicate
itself to all.  As the cultivation of the mind becomes more
refined, and the intercourse with the world greater, second
sight becomes less frequent. When we have often a presentiment that some friend or other will pay us a visit, the
seer adds the image and such other circumstances as may
render themselves probable to his feeling. The more retired we live, the more important the visit from a friend
would be, and the more it will engage our imagination. If
our presentiment is called forth by circumstances that render such a visit probable, for instance by fine weather, or
by the idea of leisure, or any thing known to be favorable,
the seer does not leave it with this dark impression, but
perceives the ship at great distance and the persons in it,
and even the dress they wear. Thus the seer perceives at
a distance what in reality he only sees in himself. Second
sight, no doubt, in many instances is produced by magnetic
or other natural influences, which will even affect animals,
as for example, horses; but there is certainly nothing miraculous about it. Another remark may not be out of place
here.   Thousands  of impressions, ideas, notions, pass
through our mind, and are no longer remembered; they
seem to be gone, without having left a trace. And yet
while every sensation appears and disappears, none is lost,
but each affects the mind, and exercises an influence upon
its character. This influence will be felt long after the
individual impression is forgotten. Though never remembered again as single impressions, they may nevertheless
breathe life into our words, and a peculiar power into the
productions of our minds. The elements lie in the soul,
unknown to him, whose soul it is; how much might be explained concerning visions and second sight, if these dark
elements were always known to us.
Second sight is not any thing arbitrary. Some seers it
is true, received payment for second sights, but their visions
were frequently full of deception. Seers cannot call them
forth when they desire to have them, nor keep them off
when they approach them. A seer who was warned by
his minister, and admonished not to indu!ge second sights,
saw during a sermon the corpse of a person then alive on
the same place where that person afterwards was buried.
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ANTHROPOLOGY.
Second sight is principally met with among the uncultivated, as Johnson has remarked, and as will appear from
the history of idolatry,-the Shaman are a remarkable instance-Swedenborg, however, though a learned and cultivated man, imagined himself to have travelled into other
worlds, and thus mistook the productions of his own mind
for genuine realities. So it was with the pious Oberlin,
who was in possession of a map, on which he was in the
habit of showing to the family that had lost one of its members, where the soul of their departed friend was to dwell.
Savages, like Swedenborg, say that their souls are traveling when they dream. The idea that the soul can leave
the body and wander into distant places has been favored
by many cultivated persons, yet always by such as were a
little diseased in their minds.
The fear of ghosts and spectres, so common among all
nations, and especially in their infancy, originates in a manner similar to visions. The spectres are but the productions of the imagination, sometimes called forth by an external impression on the senses. The state of the conscience will render them more or less terrible, so that in
proportion as we fear these ghosts, we in reality fear ourselves. If our hearts are pure, and we are heavenly
minded, the fear of ghosts will vanish, as legends give us
to understand, when they require nothing more than a
prayer to disperse spectres.   When  our conscience  is
troubled we shall feel alarmed, especially at night, by the
supernatural world and its inhabitants. As we see ourselves in part when we see spectres, so we may see ourselves wholly, and such a sight of ourselves generally is
thought by the credulous to indicate death. Goethe saw
himself on the public road near Strasburg, in a gray suit
on horseback, as he really eight years afterwards rode on
the same spot, but continued to live a long time afterwards.
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ANTHROPOLOGY.
~ 5. MAGNETIC SLEEP.
There is scarcely a subject of Psychology more contested, than the one which we now approach. While some
reject it, without having cooly examined it, others superstitiously and without any discrimination receive every fact
related, if it is only uncommon and miraculous. It may be
well to glance at both parties.
The one of them rejects animal magnetism, because its
phenomena are extraordinary or out of the common experience. They do not faithfully investigate and then judge,
but determined to admit to be true only what can be
handled, and what will easily be explained on common principles, they are ready to condemn whatever is not analogous to their own experience. They wholly forget, that
nothing is true, because we experience it; but that we experiene it, because it is true or because it has reality. Experience does, therefore, not affect the truth of any thing,
but only corroborates or confirms it. If Whately, in imi tation of Thomas Campanella, who died in 1639, and who
attempted to prove that Charles the Great never lived,
wrote an essay, the object of which was to show how, by
historical scepticism, the life of Napoleon might be consi dered a fiction, he could expect to succeed only on the
principle of Sallust, according to which mien are willing to
admit what is common, but always inclined to respect what
in the least extends beyond their own capacities. These
persons who prove everything by facts, and consider facts
the basis of all knowledge, will reject them as soon as they
do not correspond with other facts known to them. Sa tisfied with the use of the world, they never dream of any
thing besides that which is visible, and yet every produc tion of nature rests on an invisible power, everything that
is perceptible on something that is concealed.
The other party is always looking out for facts of mag netic sleep, that will astonish the world.  If these )heno minena could be explained, their interest in animal magnetism
would be gone. They are, therefore, as anxious to receive
all facts without reflecting on themn, as the others are to de  nounce them. The former party thinks, but thinking makes
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ANTHROPOLOGY.
it an unbeliever; the latter believes, but fears to think, and
thus want of thought makes it superstitious. To it the
facts are too high and too strong; it cannot grasp them,
but must admit them and hence feels an unbounded respect
for them, almost considering them of divine origin and as
divine communications.
Both parties, it may be easily seen, render it difficult to
themselves to get a correct idea of magnetic sleep.  If the
thinker could once convince himself of magnetic phenomena in sleep, he could certainly no longer continue his
opposition; if the superstitious believer could understand
their laws, he would cease to gaze with reverence upon
them. But how can the one become convinced of facts,
and the other of their laws, if both either do not investigate the subject or examine it with preconceived notions?
When persons, prejudiced against the idea of magnetic
sleep, offer themselves to the magnetizer, and then find that
manipulation will effect nothing with them, they will at
once have done with the matter.  And yet they forget,
that the relation between the magnetizer and the miagnetized is a polar one, that on the part of the magnetized it is
a disease, both bodily and mentally, that it demands confidence and faith, without which persons, subject to animal
magnetism wsill feel an antipathy and yet be thrown into
convulsions if an attempt is made to put them asleep.  A
sympathy between the magnetized and magnetizer is indispensable, and such a relation between both, that the nervous system of the latter is neither too strong nor too weak,
but of the exact energy required to excite that of the
former. If too strong, it produces cramps and pain; if
too weak, it cannot cause any effect. When, on the other
hand, the believer is constantly prepared to receive stories
of all kinds of visions, of apparitions, of departed spirits,
and even of journeys into other worlds, to what else can
this predilection,which fears critical judgment, lead than to
superstition?  Neithler of these two parties takle a correct
position in reference to animal magnetism, and we shall
have to deviate from both. On the one hand it will become candid examiners to exercise their full power of
judgment, as one of the parties does, and on the other, to
admit all well-authenticated facts, as the other does, with
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ANTHROPOLOGY.
this difference, that we distinguish between well authenticated facts, and those relations that are the fictions of an
imagination which delights in the supernatural and mystical.
We do not propose to give a full theory here -this would
be presumptuous and out of place. Nor is it our design,
to include at present the artificially produced magnetic
sleep or Mesmerism. We shall therefore confine ourselves
to the natural magnetic sleep, which was in existence long
before Mesmer discovered it, and which, if somnambulism
is taken in its widest sense, may be called Idio or Autosomnambulism.  Much that has been said on presentiments
and visions, must necessarily apply to magnetic sleep, for
what presentiments are in our state of waking, the phenomena of magnetic sleep are in our state of sleeping.  These
phenomena are in general the following; Persons speak,
act, and — walk about in their sleep; they see themselves,
their viscera, anticipate diseases, have presentiments of
things future or at a distance, and frequently have apparitions.  Their moral disposition seems to be raised, they
speak a purer language and are in general elevated above
their common character.  The phenomena of thle artificial
and natural imagnetism are nearly the same, for the socalled clcaiiroyaniec is peculiar to both; but there are a few
that belong exclusively to the former.-Such are the ef fects of manipulation, when the eyes close, the pupil turns
upward, pain is assuaged, breathing becomes more easy,
the face brightens up, and all heaviness departs from the
limbs. Again: the dependence of the magnetized upon
the magnetizer is so great, that it has been compared to
that of the embryo upon the mother, and the feelings and
ideas of the magnetizer are said to communicate them selves to the magnetized, who if the magnetizer is a phy sician, will prescribe medicines for themselves according
to his system, or if he is a poet, write in his style. These
phenomena will take place in natural somnambulisrm in
which persons likewise prescribe for themselves, and fore see the course their disease is likely to take.
A few instances of magnetic sleep or somnambulism
may throw light upon its nature: When the archbishop of
Bordeaux was in the Seminary, he knew a'young minister
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ANTHROPOLOGY.
who was a somnambulist. In order to become acquainted
with this singular disease, he went every night into his
r3oom as soon as the minister was asleep, and observed
among the rest the following facts.-The young man arose,
took paper and ink and wrote sermons. Whenever he
had finished a page, he read it over from the top down to the
bottom with a loud voice, and without making use of his
eyes.  When a passage did not please him, he would erase
it and write the correction with much accuracy above it.
The beginning of a sermon  pleased the bishop much.  It
was elaborate and well-written. In order to ascertain
whether he had made  use of his eyes or not, a piece of
pasteboard was placed under his chin, so that he could not
see the paper on which he wrote. He continued, however, to write without noticing anything that the bishop did.
Again, in order to ascertain how the somnambulist could
perceive the presence of objects, his paper was exchanged
for another of a different size. He directly discovered it,
while a paper of the same size laid in the place of his own,
lid not in the least disturb him. This case is related in
he French Encyclopedia. From another remarkable case
:t appears, that somnambulism is not confined to the night,
but may take place during the light of the day. A girl of
fourteen years of age was seized by somnambulism while
attending divine service. She rose and went home with
her eyes closed; afterwards she was found half undressed,
sitting on her bed.  All attempts to awaken her were in
vain; after some time she went to a table, took a hymn
book, sought and found the hymn which had been sung in
the church, and with closed eyes she continued to sing
where she had stopped when at the service. The same
girl was sent by a minister, in whose service she was, to a
Doctor Mueller, who lived at a distance of about three
miles.  She went while under the influence of somnambulism. The Doctor, aware of her disease, ordered something
for her and sent her to his apothecary. There she waited
for the medicine. Having received it, she went homeward
while still asleep. Doctor Mueller followed her for more
than a mile and a half, to observe her.  She noticed every
impediment in the path, and carefully avoided wagons and
persons. When she awoke and noticed the Doctor, she
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ANTHROPOLOGY.
was frightened, and knew not how she. had come there.
See Carus Junior, in his Psychology, and Nasse's Archives.
This last mentioned case proves that it is not the influence
of the moon which gives somnambulists so much safety in
climbing roofs of houses, and passing through dangerous
places. The feeling of perfect safety, to anticipate this remark, is derived from their ignorance of the danger in
which they are. A foot requires but a little small spot to
stand on with perfect safety; whether this spot be given
on the roof of a house or on the solid ground, is a matter
of little consequence to somnambulists, who do not judge
while they are asleep. As soon as they perceive the dai.
ger, when suddenly awakened, they fall down or injure
themselves.
The above examples might be sufficient, were we not
anxious to exhibit the strength of sympathy and antipathy
in the state of somnambulism, and the great excitability
of the nervous system. And here we shall allude to a woman of Prevorst in Wurtemberg, whose case has lately
caused much sensation in Germany.  Minerals when touched by somnambulists, will frequently produce the most astonishing effects in different parts of the body. It is remarkable, that these effects not only differ widely from each
other according to the different minerals, but also according to the different parts of the body with which they are
brought in connection. They will produce convulsions,
cramps, lameness, they will exhilarate or make desponding.
With the woman of Prevorst, salt put into her hands im mediately caused salivation; copper, colic and nausea.
Without taking it into her mouth, she felt the acid taste of
spar. Crystal laid upon her, awoke her when asleep, but
when placed upon her heart, it made her whole body stiff.
Other metals made her laugh, and others again cry. It is
certainly worthy of our notice and may aid us in some
considerations hereafter, that she seemed to feel tile nature
of these metals, as she could enter into the views and feel ings of persons. Very hard metals, universally caused her
muscles to grow stiff and hard; soft spar produced the
contrary eflfect.
Somnambulists, as has been seen, speak, act and walk,
while the four senses of the head are asleep. How then
13
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ANTHROPOLOGY.
is it possible, that they can walk or write or act? How
is it possible, that a somnambulist, with closed eyes, can run
faster through a large dark cellar, than other persons, with
a light in their hands, can follow her? The following the ory, accepted by many, is offered to the consideration of
the reader:
Here we must remember what has been said on the na ture of sleep and dreaming in general, that the life of the
soul is merged in that of the body, and rests principally in
in the ganglion nervous system. This now is so much ex cited in its activity, that to some degree it may be substi tuted for the upper senses. The sense of feeling as spread
over the whole skin, is the source of the four senses of the
head, as may easily be seen from comparative anatomy.
With the crab for instance, the ear is nothing else than a
skin, softer than the rest, below which lies a bag filled with
moisture and nerves. The eye of flies consists only of a
thin skin, to which runs a filament of a nerve. Oken, in
his Natural History says: "at the sides of the head are
two eyes, composed of many single ones, which have a
great many surfaces-the eyes of the butterfly have seven teen thousand. These eyes are only the arched and thin
skin, to which extend nerves, that lead out single filaments
to each surface." With snails no organ of sight can be
observed, and yet according to Oken they distinguish, like
some maggots, between darkness and light. Flies hlave
undoubtedly a good scent, and yet they have no nose.
Some have therefore thought that they smell with their
windpipes, others with a soft place behind their lips, and
others with their feelers. These remarks fully establish
the truth, that our common way of perceiving things is not
the only one, and therefore what is not analogous to it, deserves not to be rejected for that reason merely. In somnambulism, feeling, as spread over the whole body, is
heightened and changed  into a capacity of perceiving.
The mere feeling of any thing within or without becomes
a sensation or perception; hence somnambulists see their
own viscera, and especially those which are much excited
during the state of somnambulism.   The power of per..
ceiving thus produced will be strongest, wherever many
nerves are concentrated, as on the cavity of the heart and
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ANTHROPOLOGY.
other parts of the body. The nature of this sensation is,
however, indistinct and confused, since it is only by the
division of the sensitive power into five distinct senses, that
we can obtain clear and transparent ideas of things around
us. Salt, for example, is white to the eye, sharp to the
taste, and angular to the touch; we observe these different
qualities, by bringing one after the other in contact with
our different senses. When all the senses are merged in
one, that is, when the divided activity of sensation, is reduced and without order to one simple activity, the impressions received from objects can be nothing else than
dark and confused. It would therefore be wrong to say
of somnambulists that they see and hear, taste and smell,
but like snails they have only a dim impression of light and
darkness, and like animals that have no regularly formed
cars, they have but a dull, dreamlike sensation of sound.
With this view of the sensual life of the somnambulists, it
may safely be said that the general sense, which develops
itself from feeling, takes the place of the others, as does
feeling in some degree that of sight with the blind. The
blind, though by mere feeling he may distinguish between
black and red, can get no idea of color by it. So the somnambulist can get no clear idea of objects, but only perceives their presence and general difference. When Spallanzini cut out the eyes of bats, and then set them free, he
observed with astonishment, that they avoided every obstacle in their way. How could they do this? Certainly
only by the development of ageneral sense.
We ought not to object to such a general sense, because
we cannot conceive of its nature and activity;-though
both may be understood from the general nature of sleep.
Such an objection would be in no wise better, than if the
blind should object to a sense like that of sight, merely because all our explanations will not give him an adequate
idea of it, he having nothing analogous to it in his experience.
The strength of sympathy and antipathy may now be
easily explained. When we have the full use of all our
senses, we can govern the impressions made upon us, at
least to a certain extent. We may exclude the light from
the eye, the noise from the ear. But when the life of the
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ANTHROPOLOGY.
soul is sunk into that of the body, and has resigned its dominion for a time, when the distinctness of sensation is
gone, and when instead of many senses, but a general sense
is active, then we are more receptive, more passive, more
under the dominion of an impression, and as it affects us
pleasantly, we either sympathize with the object fromn which
it comes, or feel an antipathy to it. The nature of feeling
always expresses itself directly, without reflection. The
fact, that somnambulists frequently prescribe correct medicines for themselves rests on the feeling of disease, which
makes them seek for relief, and though man is not under
the dominion of instinct in somnambulism, something analogous to it makes its appearance. Their sympathy with
vegetables known to them, will guide them. The dog
when sick finds an herb to cure him. The disease in him
impels, by a feeling of want and pain, to seek for something, and finding the herb, he will be made certain by the
impression he receives from it through scent, that it will
afford what his diseased system demands. As the magnet
attracts the iron, as the negative pole attracts the positive,
so a relation between the disease and the natural remedy
will force the dog to seize the latter.
With regard to perceptions of distant objects and to presentiments, we refer back to these subjects as above. With
a few modifications all will pertain to the present case.
We only add an extract from Goldsmith's history, which
may give us a case analogous to the perception of distant
objects in animals.  Speaking of the pigeon, he says: "the
letter is tied under the bird's wing, and it is then let loose
to return. It is seen on such occasions, flying directly into
the clouds to amazing height, and then with the greatest
certainty and exactness directing itself by some surprising
instinct towards home, which lies sometimes at many miles
distance, bringing its message to those to whom it is directed. By what marks it discovers the place, by what chart
it is guided in the right way, is to us utterly unknown."
The carrier pigeon cannot possibly see the place whither
it is to go, and yet it is certain of it, though we cannot
comprehend how it became so, because the'sense by which
it is made certain of it is wanting to us. So it is as to
somnambulists.
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ANTHROPOLOGY.
~ 6. THE HEALTH AND THE DISEASES OF MIND.
Our body as has been already remarked is not a machine, but an organism. A machine is externally composed; its parts are joined in each other by a power not resting in it; the idea of the mind producing it, is not contained
in it but in the mechanic, and precedes it as all its parts
exist, before it is finished as a whole. This external composition, in which one part is connected with the other, not
by its internal nature or by one life pervading all the parts,
but by mechanical cohesion renders it possible, that when
one part of the machine gets out of order, it may be mended or another substituted for it. With the body this is
different. Its members are not merely parts, but organs,
for they are alive, and their life is that of the body, as the
life of the body exists only in them. All the organs together constitute the organism; the former do not precede
the latter, but all grow forth simultaneously firom one point
that contains them, as the seed the plant. In such an organism each organ has a peculiar position and importance
or design; both position and design are given it by the
general life of the organism, so that the root as of the plant
cannot be where the stem is, nor the stem where the flower, and so that the stem has a design different fiom that of
the root. But it is one life that unfolds itself in the root,
stem, and flower which connects them, and which is the
same in every one of them. This life they have to manifest, and while each organ is active for itself, it is so only
in reference to the whole, from which it derives existence
and activity. Thus it is with our body. Each nerve is
connected with all the nerves. The body may be said to
be well, only when all its organs are harmoniously active.
Bv the term harmoniously we understand that there are
different organs, but that they all of them are united and
serve one common end. In health, therefore, no organ
obtains an ascendancy over all the others, or isolates its
activity, or absorbs that of the rest; when, however, any
organ does become active without reference to the whole by what cause is here entirely indifferent-then the body
13*
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ANTHROPOLOGY.
is diseased, the organism is deranged: this is indicated by
pain, for pain is the feeling of a conflict or separation between parts belonging together.
The definition of bodily disease will render that of mental derangement easily understood. The mind is pure activity, and as such a perfect union. But this activity takes
different directions and unfolds itself in different wavs, and
thus it may be said to be the union of manifold activities,
all of which are internally united, each being what the
other is, and all serving the same whole, yet each in a specific manner. When these activities harmonize, that is,
when each in its place fulfils its design, and no one interferes with the other, so that while many and different, they
still are one and united in their tendency to serve the
whole to which they are subordinate, the life of the mind
may be said to be healthy. Or in other words the activities of the mind are many, but when they are co-ordinate
to each other and subordinate to the mind as their whole,
so that all are equally penetrated and governed by the
whole mind, then the latter is well. But when this co-ordination is interrupted, when one of the mental activities
succeeds in gaining the exclusive interest of the mind, and
thus by an increased strength absorbs all the others or suppresses them, the mind is out of order. There is none of
the activities wanting, but the order in which each ought
to be active in its sphere without interfering with the
other, and in which all should aid and support each other
is deranged. When, for instance, the imagination is active
without or independent of judgment, it will produce phantoms and fantastical notions. With the poet, imagination
is likewise principally active, but it is at the same time
ai(led by the fancy, by the memory, and by the judgment.
The latter pervades it, for a poet must know what beauty
is, and to know this he must judge much and constantly,
compare his productions with the laws of beauty known
to him, and control his imagination.
Divisions of the diseases of the mind.-Some have thought
proper, to divide them according to the three principal activities that may I)e diseased, and thus have considered melancholy as a disease of feeling, insanity as a disease of the
understanding, and  Jilania as a disease of the will.  Yet
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ANTHROPOLOGY.
the activities of mind so relate to each other, that the disease of one will affect all the others. The maniac is not
only diseased in his will, but also in his imagination and
judgment, for how can any one will any thing without a
knowledge of it? And how can he know it without judgment? Another principle of division has therefore been
proposed, one derived from the relation of the mentally
diseased to the objective world around him. This principle
must be correct, if it is right to say that derangement in
general is that state of mind, in which our mental activities
being out of order, we live only in our own ideas and notions, in the fictions of our brain, and substitute them for
the realities and relations of real life; in which consequently the mind by supposing its fictions to be true, comes
into contradiction with the world. The position which
the derangement of mind assumes, may be a threefold one:
1. AIelancholy. Here the deranged on the one hand is
fully convinced, that his notions and wishes ought to be realized, but on the other he darkly feels the impossibility of
effecting their realization. He therefore makes no effort to
render possible the impossible; yet he cannot resign the
ideal, which he bears in his bosom; he loves his fictions or
the objects of his wishes so much that he cannot part with
them.  Thus he consumes his existence in a monotonous
grief; he cannot take interest in any thing, except the object of his sadness. A young girl of cultivated mind was
known to stand the whole day mute and immovable, with
her head bent down.   After long and repeated attempts
nothing was drawn from her except a nod or a shake of
the head. When she was asked if any poison had injured
her, she shook her head.  When asked if she had injured
others, she nodded. But how? no one could learn from
her. One Monday the unfortunate girl at length deter mined to repeat the Lord's prayer.   When she came to
the petition; "Lead us not into temptation, but deliver us
fir om evil;" she raised her voice with the strongest empha sis, and some time afterwards she cried out most piteously:
"Alas! the sin against tke Holy Ghost." hiere the idea,
that she had committed the sin against the Holy Ghost,
was viewed by the girl as real, while at the same time she
desired it to be otherwise, and feeling the impossibility of
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undoing what she supposed she had done, it threw her into
the state in which we find her.
2. Insanity. In this state the deranged has lost every
idea of the world as it is and of its relation to him; he feels
convinced that all his imaginations are real, and exist in
full truth. He is therefore satisfied and cheerful, and very
ingeniously assimilates the whole world around him to that
of his dreams. He is no longer sensible of any contradiction of his phantoms to the world. If he fancies himself
a king, he will act as a king with the most logical consequence. So the Jesuit, Father Sgambari imagined that he
had been created a Cardinal. To convince him, that his
flattering fancy was an error, Father Provinzial, in the
hope of curing him, made a friendly representation to him.
He answered in this dilemma: "You  either consider me
insane or not. In the latter case you do me great injustice,
in speaking to me in such a manner.   In the former I consider you with your permission, a greater lunatic than myself, because you think you can by mere persuasion bring
me to my senses." Aside from this fancy, his understanding was sound, and disposed to scientific investigations.
Whenever students addressed him with "Your Eminence,"
he was social and communicative. As the body is often
partially diseased, but otherwise well, so may the mind be
partially deranged. Sometimes persons have become estranged to themselves. A soldier looked on his body as a
miserable machine, made to replace his former real body,
that had been destroyed by a cannon ball. Or persons,
whose judgment is diseased, and whose imagination is active without restraint, produce all kinds of images, when
they feel pain, and consider them as the cause of the pain.
Animals bite them or sting them. Tissot relates the case,
of a man, that became deranged from constant study.  He
was convinced, that seven horsemen were constantly fightIng in his stomach.
3. Mania. This state of derangement unites in some
degree the two former. The melancholy man conscious of
the impossibility of realizing his wishes, dwells with his
whole mind constantly on the object of his exclusive in terest, and compares it with the reality of the world, and
discovering the permanent contradiction, he has an ever
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ANTHROPOLOGY.
teeming source of sadness in the results of this comparison.
Thle insane, on the other hand is determined no longer to
acknowledge the world around him, as it is, but to re-model
it so as to bring it in harmony with that of his imagination.
The maniac, like the melancholy man, feels that what he
takes to be real, is not so, but that the opposite of it, is;
at the same time he has the tendency of the insane, to realize his fictions, for he considers them to be true and correct. This realization cannot be easily effected as with the
insane, for the maniac feels the contradiction of his fictions with the world; he therefore, finding the world in his
way, turns against it with the hope that by its destruction
he may realize the purposes of his diseased will. He rages
because he cannot effect what he designs, nor can he resign
his will. He is like the passionate man, that kills in his
fury whoever opposes him. His whole mind will have
fixed itself in one idea, and cannot retire from it, because
he has given it dominion over himself. hence the immense muscular power in the fits of mania.
All the diseases of the mind have their longer or shorter
intermissions. This shows, that the reason exists, and is
only deranged. Many insane persons are so merely with
regard to a single subject, but on every other they are per fectly sane. Others are insane only during a certain period
of the year. A celebrated physician of Venice imagined
during the dog-days, that he was an earthen jar, and locked
himself up for a whole month. After the four weeks were
past, he came down again, and went as usual to his em ployment. Every kind of derangement, according to the
statements of many physicians, abates in old age, and the
deranged state of mind is therefore one that will pass away
sooner or later.
The above division of mental diseases is, of course, sus ceptible of many subdivisions. Insanity, for instance, in cludes imbecility of mind, weakness of the understanding
and will in which man cannot take care of himself; inca pacity of connecting ideas, or of seizing a thought and fix ing the mind on a single idea; idiocy, when a person is ac tive without having any particular object in view; lunacy,
when the insane considers himself perfectly rational. Me  lancholy comprises hypochondria, which tortures man by
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ANTItROPOLOGY.
making him constantly brood over future or present, real
or imaginary evils. Mania applies to those that find pleasure in abusing others, in ridiculing them, or who desire to
destroy others, and cunningly watch for a proper opportunity. Our division will be found to comprise all the possible relations which the subjective mind may, in its state of
derangement, assume to the objective world around. At
the same time it agrees with the division founded by others
on the principal activities of mind, for melancholy seems
to rest on deep feeling and emotions; insanity on the thinking activity in man, and mania on the will.
One question is left which seems to be of great importance. How is it possible that the mind, a purely intellectual activity of divine origin, can become diseased? It
would seem to have the power to keep itself free from
every thing that might entangle it. But here we must remark in the first place, that thesoul is already diseased in
its state of nature; for turned away from its proper objects, truth, and holiness, and the love of God, it is sunk in
sinfulness and vice, and instead of deriving its food and
nourishment from a study of the good and noble, it seeks
for it in the sensual and transitory. But that which nourishes a power communicates also its nature to it, as may be
observed in every thing living, in every plant, which, in
absorbing the light, becomes colored, and in receiving the
air, receives fragrance.  As little as the magnet could be
said to be in its vigor, if instead of pointing towards the
north, it should suffer itself to be attracted in other directions, so little is the mind healthy, when it once has lost its
only proper direction, but it must be said to be in error
and in a dangerous deviation from the right path. To express these remarks more fully, we will consider, for a m(oment, the nature of will. The iill, one of the activities of
mind. is healthy, when by its own power it freely directs
itself in accordance with the divine will, so that it agrees
with it both externally, as to the action, and internally as
to the disposition. When on the other hand it does not so,
but directs itself either by desires or passions, then it is not
free, but under the dominion of something different from
itself, which is the ground of its determination. The divine
law is the divine will, It is the only source of freedom, and
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ANTHROPOLOGY.
it alone is free; the human will directing itself by it or by
the divine law, returns to the source from whence it came,
becomes filled with its nature, and consequently free. To
enter on this subiect fully here, would lead to discussions
that would take up too much room. One idea it may however be useful to mention here, an idea, according to which
it is supposed that our will is free, when it can choose between the evil and the good. This idea is wholly erroneous, and instead of calling such a will free, it would be
better to call it arbitrary. For if freedom, like every thing
else in creation, has its own nature, and if without it nothing can be said to be free, then freedom includes the necessity of acting in accordance with its own nature, or else
it destroys itself. This nature is contained and expressed
in the divine law, which, like the divine will, cannot be influenced by any thing except itself, because whatever is, is
created by it and dependent upon it. The human will can
be free, therefore, only when it receives the divine will as
its soul. But if a will should rather choose evil and sin, it
would miss what it seeks for, liberty,* and become the slave
of sin; for sin is so wholly opposed to purity of will, that
it destroys its freedom. As long, therefore, as a will is capable of choosing between the good and evil, between
heaven and hell, between the source of its life and that of
its death, so long this will is not free. It would no doubt
at once be considered erroneous, if any one should assert
that fire, in order to be fire, might choose between burning
or not burning, or that water might be water, whether it
would moisten or not; or that light might be light, though
it should be able to choose between itself and darkness.
Every one will admit, that in the moment light chose to
turn into darkness, it would lose itself and cease to be the
free light. So it is with liberty. It must, in order to remain
what it is, always preserve its own nature, and this nature
* It will be easily seen that it is by no means the author's desire to discuss the nature of will in this place, that it is rather introduced for the sake of comparison, than for its own; he hopes
therefore that the mere incidental allusion will not be made the
basis of either friendly or unfriendly criticism. He here speaks
of the contents and not of the fiorm of will, and again of pture and
genuine, and not of common liberty,
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ANTHROPOLOGY.
is, to determine itself freely by its own activity, and not
by any thing different from itself. Liberty is therefore a
free activity that is not arbitrary, but includes necessity.
But the human will, in its state of nature, is averse to ne cessity, and instead of perceiving in it the protector of its
liberty, it views it as its enemy. It has therefore lost its
liberty, and may, in this respect, be compared to a planet
that has no light in itself, but must receive it from the sun,
around which it revolves. If the planet remains in its path,
and preserves its relation to the sun, it has light, and whatever grows on it is filled with light, and grows and blooms
in the most beautiful colors. But if the planet at any time
should choose between its regular course and another, and
really pursue one leading off from the sun, darkness and
death would reign on it and destroy all life. The sun of the
will is that of righteousness or the divine will; it alone
can make us free. Rejecting it, we reject the only source
of freedom, and become mentally diseased. The eye of
man has a latent light in itself, but this light is darkness,
and will remain such unless it be excited by the light of
the sun. Suppose the sight to be the freedom of the eye,
the eye can be said to be free only when turning towards
the light, but not when diving into darkness. So the will is
free, only when living in its proper elements, in the good
and true, in the beautiful and divine, and when it does not
sutiffer any attraction or power to separate it from the divine law.
From these remarks it will sufficiently appear, that the
will in its state of nature is diseased. It is not directed
towards its proper object; nor does it receive its proper
nourishment; nor is it pure, but much more determined
by sensual appetite and desires, by inclinations and passions.  Every passion is a transient derangement, and the
only difference between it and a real derangement is this.
The man in passion may be so overpowered, that he, as
for instance in anger, can no longer control himself; yet
Ih enters into this passion arbitrarily, and might if he chose
avoid it. The maniac, on the other hand, comes under the
influence of his passions, independent of his will. Some
maniacs frequently foresee their fits, and beg that they may
he chained lest they should hert some person.  MWith this
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view history agrees. For a spirit of revenge and wrath
infuriated those heroes, whose insanity is mentionedamong
the first that have become known historically for their
derangement, Hercules and Ajax. Some have therefore
thought that a mental derangement was merely psychological, and always caused by sinfulness. This idea, no doubt
is correct, if it means to assert, that the body itself became
subject to diseases only by the fall of man. Certain it is,
however, that by the close connection of the body with the
soul, the former has frequently been the cause of the diseases of the latter.
Passion, as haughtiness, revenge, wrath; deep emotions,
as terror and fright; inclinations, as unfortunate love, may
become the causes of derangement, and the works of Shakspeare exhibit the most interesting examples of this kind.
If the will of man were pure, these powers of sin could not
affect it. If man had faith in God, and loved him su premely, if he confided in his providence, then he would
not become the prey of every passion, nor would loss and
misfortune harm him.   But placing his sinful affections
wholly on earthly things, he must despair when they are
taken from him, or when he cannot attain to the objects
of his highest wishes. He lives in the sphere of delusion;
how easy then must it be for the demons of pride and
wounded ambition, of unsatisfied vanity and sore jealousy
to derange a mind that has no hold in any thing which is
permanent and solid. If that on which we stand constantly
turns around with us, we must become giddy. Again, the
constant use of one and the same mental activity may so
awaken all otheirs, that a derangement will be the conse quence. This is the case with such as have become insane
from the study of mystical books. Or the whole mind of
a person is so constantly devoted to one single object, it
becomes absorbed by it and so fixed upon it, that it cannot
keep off its image. So Orestes constantly saw the blood
gushing from the wound inflicted on his mother by his own
hand. So when Spinello had painted Satan in the most
hideous colors, his imagination was filled with the picture,
until at length he saw Satan constantly at his side, re  proaching him for having painted him so ugly. And what
else than the silent beginning of derangement was it, when
14
157 
ANTHROPOLOGY.
a painter, who had killed a person, afterwards drew a pic ture that was beautiful in every respect, but over which
such a gloom was spread, that no person could look upon
it without feeling an awe for which nothing could account,
except the diseased imagination of the painter.
As derangement is caused by the activity of the mind
itself, so again the activity of the body may operate on it
and derange it. And here any thing that destroys the
health of the body, will more or less affect the mind. Intoxication is in itself a transient derangement, for it causes
such an excitement of the nerves, that they with their
whole activity, especially that which principally depends
upon them, as the imagination, withdraw themselves more
or less, from the dominion of the mind, and act independent
of control until exhaustion and sleep follows. A drunken
person walked at night through a street, beautifully illuminated by the moon; and thinking it was a river, undressed himself to bathe, and could only be convinced of
his mistake by the hardness of the stones. Another in
falling down a flight of stairs, rose calmly and asked a friend
that happened to be with him with much concern, "whether he had hurt himself in falling down so many steps?"
He could not be persuaded that it was himself that had met
with the accident, but insisted on his friend's having fallen.
The delirium tremens, or mania potu are too well known
to be mentioned here. In America and Europe more than
one third of all the deranged persons become so from the
use of liquors; in China, on the other hand, from that of
opium. Poisonous food may likewise cause delirium. Two
monks ate water hemlock.  Both immediately felt much
thirst; both plunged into water, the one thinking that he
was a goose, and the other that he was a duck, and both
declaring that they could live no where else except in the
water. Tissot knew a child four years old that raved
several times a day. He ascribed it to the food which it
had received from its nurse. Want of sleep may derange
the activity of the mind as well as too long a deprivation
of food. Ugolino ate in his delirium his own child. The
idiocy of children is frequently the consequence of the sinful life of parents.
It may be easily understood how bodily sickness may
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ANTHROPOLOGY.
produce mental derangement. Our ideas, our whole thinking depends in some degree on our nervous system. Where
nerves are, there is feeling; and where feeling is, there is
either instinct, or in its place consciousness. Man becomes
conscious of every feeling produced by impressions on the
nerves, and when the nerves are diseased, the feelings must
be so; and if they are unsound, the ideas called forth by
them must become unfavorably affected. With every feeling is connected pleasure or pain, and with the latter a
tendency either to indulge the pleasant, or to remove the
unpleasant feeling by action and activity. Want is a state
of necessity, in which some organ of our body finds itself;
when this state of the organ enters the nervous system attached to it, it is felt; of this feeling we become conscious,
and produce in accordance with it certain notions and
ideas. While we therefore must agree with those physicians, that derive many mental diseases from organic derangement, we must at the same time deprecate the idea
that the body is the sole source of mental sickness. We
would rather repeat it as our conviction, that the mind, if
it were directed to its proper object, to God and a Savior,
could rule over its body as well as over its passions, for it
would then possess purity and a power over all things
which are merely earthly.  If it would keep itself aloof
from them, and be ready to lay down the life for Christ's
sake, it could not be absorbed by the care for health or
bodily defects. Some may perhaps feel inclined to reply,
that mental derangement arises frequently firom too deep a
r-eligious solicitude.  This may be true, and yet it will not
aflect our theory. Good wine will become spoiled in an
impure vessel. When a man will not surrender his life,
and yet longs for the privileges of religion, when he will
not give up his sin, and yet cannot resign the possession of
divine favor, and when he then feels the contradiction be tween his state of sinfulness and that of desired sanctifica tion,-he may easily become deranged, not through reli gion, but by his relation to it
159 
CHAPTER III.
THE POWER OF THE MIND OVER THE BODY.
We have seen that the mind depends greatly on external influences and on the body of man, and yet it exercises
by its energy a control and dominion over the elements
around it and also over the body. It affects the form, the
health and vigor of the latter, and leaves on it an impression of its strength of character and disposition. To direct the attention to this power of the mind over the body,
is the object of the present chapter.
1. The mind has an influence on the fobrm of the body.
This assertion may be easily established, for it is too well
known how a fright of the mother during pregnancy, or
the sight of any disagreeable or deformed person affects
the form of the embryo. The deformity of many children, the deficiency of some members, the weakness even
of some senses, as for instance of the eye, in Albinos must
be traced to the influence of which we speak. Howshipp,
an English physician, relates a remarkable case of this kind.
A woman in the state of pregnancy was frightened in
crossing a frozen river; the ice burst and cracked, she was
terrified, and when delivered of a child, its skin was rent
and gaped considerably in many places, but had begun to
heal up. The Lacedemonians were familiar with this powerful influence, for they placed the beautiful statutes of
Apollo, Hyacinth, and Narcissus in the rooms of their wives
when pregnant. The sight of an epileptic has frequently
transferred the disease to the embryo. The mind of the
mother has its influence not only on the body, but also on
the disposition of the child, as we have seen in another
place. The Jesuits, well versed in the subject of educa 
ANTHROPOLOGY.
tion, showed therefore much sound wisdom in always ascertaining the character of the mother when they received
a new pupil. The reason of this influence is obvious.
The life of the mother and that of the embryo-child is
one. One blood circulates in both, the same nourishment
sustains both, and the feelings of the mother are, at least
in some degree, also those of the embryo. The body of
the child being in a state of developement, is of course
more subject to the reception of so powerful impressions,
and of the changes produced by them, than that of the
mother which is already formed. And yet we may see
similar effects of the power of the mind on the body of
adult persons. Vice and crimes seem to have been the
causes of great deformities of the heart. Testa found the
heart of a great criminal, hard, hairy, and skinny; and Riolan found that of a very vicious man gristly. The same
observation has often been repeated.
2. The mind exercises a power over the health of the
body. It would be superfluous, to repeat here, that certain
diseases of the body are accompanied by weakening emno tions of the mind, as anxiety, despondency, melancholy,
fear, a tendency to commit suicide, &c. Such diseases are
those of the liver, obdurations of the intestines. And yet
other diseases have a cheering eflect upon the mind, as
for instance consumption, diseases of the lungs, &c. So
the mind in its turn exercises the most powerful influence
upon the health of the body. Fear relaxes the muscles
and strips the whole system of energy, and exposes it to
the attacks of a fatal miasma; on the other hand, a strong
will and courage keep off the enemy. We will here allude
to a few instances. When in the orphan house of Har lem, a boy was seized with epilepsy, all those in whose
sight this occurred, were so terrified that the disease soon
spread through the whole asylum. The celebrated Boer have knowing the cause of their disease, after having used
all other means in vain, had instruments brought, such as
pincers, hooks, hammers, &c., had them placed in the fire,
and then threatened that the first child that became epi  leptic should be pinched and tortured with these hot in  struments.  The children fearing this, were all of them
delivered from this dreadful evil. This statement agrees
14*
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ANTHROPOLOGY
with another recorded in Schubert's History of the Soul.
In the year 1S800 the fever raged awfully in the city of Ca diz. Two hundred dead persons were daily carried out
of the city, and all the streets were filled with the smell
of death. All ties of friendship and sympathy were torn
asunder, when all at once the powerful fleet of the English
appeared before the city. The citizens forgot the pestilence, and instead of despairing and committing suicide,
they collected and fought for theiri liberty.  From that monient the fever disappeared.  A student of Boerhave always felt the symptoms of every disease, on which this
great physician lectured. Tissot relates two cases, in which
one was freed by violent angelr from the gout, and another
who had been mute for four years received his speech
again. So a son of Croesus, who was mute from his youth,
when he saw a soldier threatening to kill his father, was
enabled by the powerful emotions of angelr with a loud
voice to speak the words, " Do not kill Croesus!"  The
celebrated Stahl became acquainted with a similar fact during his practice. Lameness has frequently been healed by
fright, caused by fire or other dangers. Hydrophobia is
said to have sometimes originated in groundless fear. The
power which the mind frequently exercises during times
of revivals, is known firom the history of one which took
place a few years ago in the west of our country.  Persons walking to church were seized on their way by strange
feelings and fell down.  Similar phenomena were perceived at Redruth, in the church of the Methodists; the upper
members of the body trembled and were convulsed, and
the muscles of the face were distorted. See Schubert's
History of the Soul, p. 834-852. These examples will
sufficiently show the power of the mind over the body.
The question yet left is, How is it possible that the mind
can exercise such a power on the body?  To understand
this possibility we must consider, that all the emotions ot'
the mind have each its peculiar nerve on which they act.
This nerve, becoming thus aflectedl, will in its turn aftect
all those immediately connected with it. If the emotion
is invigorating, as that of courage, hilarity, &c., the life
of the nervous system will be elevated and strengthened;
if the emotion is of a weakening character, as fear, sad
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ANTHROPOLOGY.
ness, &c., the nervous system will become depressed. The
nerves pass over the whole body, and every organ is surrounded by them; hence it is, that as they are affected, so
the pulsation of the heart, the circulation of the blood,
breathing, digestion, and even the voice will be either impeded or promoted by emotions.
An example or two will serve to make this more clear.
When we are under the influence of the emotion of joy,
we feel our pulse beat higher, our cheeks redden, breathing
becomes easy, and the muscles elastic. A fresh and vigorous life is spread through all the nerves; the eye sparkles, and digestion is accelerated. And all these changes in
our system proceed from the nerve, upon which joy principally acts.  Joy is the pleasant feeling that connects itself
with the realization of a hoped-for good or pleasure. This
feeling has not therefore a physical origin, but its ground
is the idea of good, which we anticipate. When this anticipated good presents itself to us, the feeling of pleasure
excites first our cerebral system, and thence it sends its rays
of life into all parts of the body.
So again anger has the most powerful effect on the body,
healing diseases, as we have seen, by rousing violently the
slumbering life, or more frequently producing diseases.
Anger is an emotion, in which a strong feeling of displeasure arouses the desire and an expectation of destroying the
cause of this displeasure, or of causing a similar unpleasant
feeling in him who is the offender. This is at once per ceptible in the external appearance. For all the muscles,
subject to the will, are in motion. The eye rolls about;
the face is distorted; the teeth are grated; the voice roars
or trembles; the fist is clenched. Our organism forms a
whole, and every local excitement, if strong enough, will
communicate itself to all parts of the body. The agita tion of the muscles and nerves, immediately subservient to
will, will be propagated upon the ganglion nerves, and from
them upon those that entwine themselves around the vis cera. Hence the secretion of bile will become more copi ous; the circulation of the blood will be more rapid, and
warmth will be quickly developed. And here we may re mark, that the secretions do not only become more copious,
but are essentially changed in their quality. The saliva,
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for instance, becomes poisonous in a high degree, the milk
of nurses causes cramps, convulsions, and colic in children
nourished by it. A person, biting in his wrath another,
may cause his death by the introduction of the venomous
saliva into his blood. This also may be easily explained.
For the saliva, according to Oken, has the office to kill the
life of all the substances we eat and assimilate; strictly speaking, all saliva is poisonous, and even that of birds has been
fatal to persons. When now the hostile nature of anger
communicates itself to the whole body, and consequently
also to the saliva of the glands of the mouth, it will not only
excite to a higher degree its poisonous nature, but positively impregnate it with its own fury. In the same manner the foam of a mad dog becomes poisonous, and also
the saliva of many furious animals.
It would be easy to show the effects of other emotions
upon the body, as for instance, of fright, which sometimes
deprives us of our senses, causes us to swoon, makes the
voice tremble, and takes away all self-possession. But the
above examples will suffice. One remark, however, we
will here add lest we should be misunderstood.-On the one
hand, one and the samne organ may be affected by different
emotions, as for example, the liver by fear, fright, disconteitment; and on the other, the same emotions do not
always produce the same effects, for while the feeling of
shame makes some blush, it will cause the faces of others
to grow pale; and while wrath affects the liver of one, it
will derange the digestion of another, and promote the appetite of a third. Therefore the idea of Plato, which was
before entertained by Homer, that each emotion and passion had a particular organ as its seat, as courage the breast
and lungs, (thus in Homer a strong and loud voice is a
sign of strength) wrath the liver, must be accepted with
much caution. This much however may be seen from the
above remarks, that a general excitement of the blood and
nerves may become beneficial to an existing disease, as well
as dangerous to an otherwise healthy system.
3. The power of the mind over the body may be seen
from the formation of habits. Habit is the regular return
of actions that, by frequent repetition, have lost all feeling
of strangeness. Nerves and muscles have their natural po
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ANTHROPOLOGY.
sition, and the feeling connected with it is simple. When
a new action demands a change of this position, a new
feeling will connect itself with it, and this new feeling will
interfere with the former simple feeling, until a frequent
repetition of the same action makes the blood, nerves, and
muscles, run repeatedly through the same position, and
thus makes them familiar with it. Then the feeling of
strangeness will also disappear, and what before attracted
our attention by its novelty, will be no longer noticed.
Though the action to which we have thus accustomed ourselves, by frequent repetitions, has lost the feeling of
strangeness, it is still felt, but we no longer distinguish between the feeling connected with it and that of our existence. Thus we may accustom ourselves to the influence
of the weather, to storm and rain, to cold and heat; and
even to the endurance of misery, diseases, and misfortunes.
An unfortunate occurrence, when visiting us for the first
time, may appear extremely hard, and almost threaten to
destroy our life; if the same occurrence should take place
the second time, its novel impression would be weakened,
and so on, until its effects on us would be trifling. The fable of the hare, that was much frightened at the first sight
of the lion, but gradually grew so familiar with him as to
accost him, contains therefore a full and important truth.
Habit leads to skill, and skill renders the most difficult
labor easy. The arm which constantly hammers on the anvil, will no longer feel the fatigue which at first was caused
by a few strokes. The fingers of a performer on the piano
become so familiar with every key, that they miss none,
though the performer has his eyes constantly directed to
the notes and not to the keys. It is, to speak with Leibnitz,
as if the monads of the fingers were set free, and no longer
subordinate to the monad of the soul; they act for them selves. Yet the mind of the performer has, nevertheless,
to watch them, for as soon as he thinks of something else,
the fingers will miss the keys. Skill renders work easy by
reducing the effort at first required to a very small amount.
Habits may be formed by design or involuntarily. - Ex amples, education, inclination and passion, lead to involun tary customs, while those willed by us are acquired by our
own determination, and because we find them useful and
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good. WVhen a habit is once formed, we become attached
to it, for it becomes natural to us, and will and nature are
united in it. Hence it is that habits become periodical, and
when the hour of a certain action arrives, an excitement
is felt in the muscles and nerves, which can only be allayed
by the performance of the action. The power of habit is
therefore great; it frequently keeps us bound as its slaves,
and prevents us from receiving what is better, merely because it is strange and new to us. The question may therefore be asked, whether we ought to submit to this power?
Custom, in general, is beneficial to man, provided it is morally correct and good. For, being itself good, and reigning
with regularity over the life of man, it will pervade and
ennoble it; it will rescue it from the sphere of mere arbitrariness, where every new desilre invites to a new action;
if habits, which are good in themselves, extend over whole
nations, they will unite individuals, break the strength of
selfishness, lead them to submit to higher authority, and render them social and communicative. If habits are not good,
or morally correct, our moral feeling ought to exclude them
from us, and if we have formed them, our will ought to
remove them again. However great may be the power of
habit, that of our will is still greater, and to exercise the
latter, it would be wvell, from time to time, to free ourselves from certain indifferent habits, merely to prove to
ourselves that we can do a thing if we are resolute and
determined.
4. The power of mind over the body is perceived in the
art of representing the emotions and thoughts of the mind
bythe  motions of the body.  This power exhibits itself in
the control man has over his voice. He can modulate it
according to any feeling or ideas contained in words or
works. The character of a piece will determine the key
of voice, so that every tone and semi-tone will be guided
by it. Every emotion of the heart has a tone to express
it; in fear, the voice is trembling and low; in joy, clear
and full; in anger, loud and roaring. Each kind of poetry
has its tone, the lyric, dramatic, and epic; each is to be declaimed in a different key of voice. The oratory of the
bar or pulpit demands each a different tone. So again the
arsis and thesis, or raising and sinking of the voice, and
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ANTHROPOLOGY.
the accent and emphasis are all wholly under the control
of the mind; and he who thinks well, will generally speak
well, as he who understands well, will generally read well,
for what is felt and understood will enter into the voice.
Gesticulation aids very essentially the understanding of
words, and frequently where words would not be sufficient
fully to express a feeling, a single glance or a single gesture
will be sufficient. So Octavio, at the close of Schiller's
Wallenstein, says more by a glance towards heaven, than
a whole speech would have communicated. The expressions of certain feelings by gestures are at first involuntary.
The hair rises when we are frightened; the face grows
pale, when we fear. This natural expression becomes artificial when it is produced by our will, and from a consciousness of its appropriateness to convey an idea of our
feelings and emotions. To know this appropriateness, we
must know the reason why certain motions of the body
are expressive of certain emotions of the mind: hence this
art has its science, and has been treated by several writers.
It subjects the whole body to its designs. The walk, and
the motion of the hands, the posture and keeping of the
whole frame are all used. But especially the face, the head,
and the hands.
The face has to serve it by its expression; by the curling of the lips, by the rolling or fixing of the eye, by the
drawing in of the nose, by the wrinkling of the forehead, &c.
The head affirms by nodding, and denies by shaking; in
the former case it moves towards the object, in the latter,
away from it. Bending gently down, it may indicate humility, as in prayer, or shame and confusion, or modesty.
Looking up towards heaven, it may acknowledge our de pendence on a higher Being, and ask for its blessing or
its curse.
The hand, when clenched, threatens; when stretched
forth and open, it salutes; when one of its fingers is di rected toward something, it points out or commands; when
folded, it indicates that, as the hands are clasped together,
and turned inwardly, and for a time give up their accus tomed activity, so the mind is collecting itself to direct its
devotion to heaven, abstaining from earthly thoughts. The
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ANTHROPOLOGY
hand, moving away from the body, gives a sign not to approach; moving toward the body, it invites to come. The
hands clasped in marriage, unites two persons into one;
striking hands confirms a bargain. "With the Hebrews,
kissing the hand, the knee, or the foot, indicated submission; with us, kissing the lips, friendship."-From De
Wette's Commentary on the Psalms, page 88.
Other parts of the body may serve, in a similar way, to
express the feelings or thoughts of the mind, as for instance,
shrugging the shoulders, and the like.
When one part of the body is not sufficient, several are
used at one time. Shaking the head may be united with a
repellent motion of the hand. The hand will here principally assist the head, especially when signs for intellectual
emotions are to be given. The hand covering the eyes,
closes up the fountain of observation, and shows that we
either meditate on some subject, or are given to spiritual
devotion. Laying a finger on the nose invites attention, for
as the nose is thus divided, so the judgment is accurately
to divide, but the judgment cannot be without attention.
Rubbing behind the ear has reference to the understanding,
for the ear is the most theoretical sense. Putting the hand
upon the heart confirms what we have said.
It will easily be seen, that the meaning of these signs or
gestures, does not depend merely on the motions of the
hand, but on the parts of the body touched by them. The
nearer they are connected with the intellectual activity of
the mind, the more noble will be the signification of the
gestures; the more these parts are connected with the system of re-production, the less noble the meaning of the
gestures concerning them.
In conclusion the whole body may be used by the mind,
as bowing to express its respect, kneeling its entire homage, a straight and unbending posture its haughtiness.
5. The p,)wer of the mind over the body leaves its traces
and impressions on the face, on the forms of its single?l'ts,
as nose, lips, eye, forehead. A well-formed head indicates
strength and fullness of understanding; a head thick and
fleshy, stupidity; a head small and thin, weakness of mind.
If the face is too long or too round, it betrays a low disposition. Thus in Shakspeare's Cleopatra.
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ANTHROPOLOGY.
Cleopatra. Bear'st thou her face in mind? Is it long or round 1
Messenger. Round even to faultiness.
Cleopatra. For the most part too they are foolish that are so.
The chin and the lower jaw have reference to the sensual disposition of man. The upper lips, together with the
nose and eyebrows, and including the eye and the ear, refer to feeling and humor, and to theoretical knowledge;
the rest of the face up to the hair, to mind in general.
"The forehead is the portal of understanding, the seat of
thought; raised eyebrows indicate wrath, eyebrows hanging down, dark and cheerless emotions. The eye is the
mirror of the soul." To judge of the disposition of a person, the proportions of the three regions into which face
is divided, must be carefully examined, while every organ,
as the nose, the eye, the mouth, forms also a whole by itself. The roughness or smoothness of the hair, its color,
and that of the eye and of the skin, declare to the physiognomist the temperament of a person.
There is certainly much truth in physiognomy, if confined within its proper limits, but if it aspires to the character of a science, or if it assumes a judgment over the moral
character of man, it becomes insipid.  "When  Zopyrus
perceived in the face of Socrates that he was naturally
inclined to voluptuousness, why did he not read in the
same face, that he had a power too, which was strong
enough to correct this natural tendency?  If this tendency
deserved to appear in the head of a Faun, that power was
worthy of being honored with the head of a Jupiter."
When Porta in his attempts at physiognomy went so far
as to comnpare the faces of animals with those of man, he
made two mistakes. He supposed that animals had really
a physiognomy; but if we call physiognomy the external
expression of the internal and invisible mind or disposition,
then animals having no mind, cannot be said to have a
physiognomy. Arid if they had, their faces are grown over
with hair, and thus their expression is concealed from the
observing eye. We cannot speak of a physiognomy of
animals because all animals of the same species have the
same expression if they have any, and whoever has seen
one lion, has seen all, and in describing the face of one, he
describes the faces of all. So it must be admitted too, that
15
169
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ANTHROPOLOGY.
children, when born, have no expression in their faces, as
persons when they die, generally lose those they had in
their lifetime.   Savages have a physiognomy but little
variegated, while physiognomy will vary in proportion as
nations become cultivated. This shows that the expres sion of the face depends on the moral character of man,
and not the latter on the former. Who can say by what
a wrinkle on the forehead is caused, whether by care or
dissipation?  Many a one may have had the nose of Shak speare, without having had his humor, and no doubt the
whole face of Slakspeare has had in some age or other its
like, while in no climate and in no age has Shakspeare yet
been equalled. The same causes do not produce the same
effects, because man does not suffer causes to act as such,
but controls them. "Green wood, when placed near the
fire gets warped, dry wood only brown." Two men of
equal strength and age, may spend the whole night in dis sipation, and after all not have the same appearance in the
morning. How much more must this be the case in the
sphere of liberty, where we by our mere will may bid de fiance to every line in our face. In London, Macklin, the
actor, of whose face Quin said: "If this man is not a rascal, God does not write a legible h1and," received in the
year 1775 public praise on account of his honesty and nobleness.  One and the same organ-and this may be said
with regard to phrenology no less than with regard to
physiognomy-mnay serve two very different purposes.
The nose for instance is the organ of smell and for conducting off the mucus; the tongue of taste and of language.
6. The power of the mind over the body is indicated too
by theformation of the skull, which must bear witness of
the life of the mind. The observation of this fact has likewise given rise to the idea of forming a science called
Phrenology. The manner of reasoning is this:-Every
activity of the mind seems to demand a particular organ.
It is not the eye that sees, nor the ear that hears, but mind
sees and hears by the eye and ear. But the mind could
not see without the eye, nor hear without the ear. The
eye is the organ of sight, as is the ear that of hearing. It
is reasonable to expect that this should be so with every
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ANTHROPOLOGY.
other activity of the mind. Again, it is not the organ, but
the nerves in it, that are active, and to know the amount
of activity, of which the organ is susceptible, we must observ-e the nerves embodied in it. Yet they cannot be laid
bare during the life of man, and all we can do is to judge
of their volume and strength by the elevations or indentations of the skufl, and their proportions to each other. For
all the nerves, in whatever direction they may run over the
body, will finally concentrate in the brain, and as the skull
surrounds it, and conceals it from our sight, the skull only,
its formation, its depressions or elevations, are left for our
examination.
It has been fashionable of late, either to decry phrenology or to raise it above all other sciences. We, on our
part, have to acknowledge that talents and capacities will,
to a certain degree, be indicated by the formation of the
skull.  Character, on the other hand, is the effect of will,
and not of the nervous muscles. Nor can phrenology
much aid our science, for to understand any elevation on
the skull, we must know the psychological activity symbolically indicated by it. T'he want of a good psychology
in Gall and Spurzl)eim  misledl them, and their errors are
exposed in a masterly manner with all due acknowledment
of their merits by Professor C. Hartman, in his Geist des
Menschen, from page 255 to 291. Carus, in the second
part of his Psychology, and Hegel in his Phenomenology
have likewise spoken against the extravagancies of phrenology.
The internal and invisible mind, expressing itself physiognomically and on the skull of man, will be the subject of
our investigations hereafter. We shall view it not as a
compound of many mental activities that exist by the side
of each other in one common receptacle, and that are ex ternally united, we cannot say how? but as a whole of
many branches, all of which proceed from one identical
life, and are held together by it.
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PART II.
PSYCHOLOGY.  
PART II.
PSY C H OLOGY
INTRODUCTION.
~ 1. SELF-CONSCIOUSNESS.
In every science we  may discover one point which is
the centre of the whole, and which, well understood, will
shed light upon every portion of its whole extent. In the
system of divinity, it is the idea of revelation; in moral
philosophy, it is that of law in connection with that of
conscience; and in mental philosophy it is that of selfconsciousness. Without self-consciousness we can know
nothing clearly, either within ourselves or in nature. It is
the light, by which alone we can see in the sphere of knowledge; before it is fully developed in the child, all his ideas
must be confused, and nothing can be known in relation to
other things, nothing be classified or arranged, but every
object will appear to him without distinction in itself, and
without a generic diffeibrence from that which is not itself.
When, in an adult, self-consciousness disappears for a momnient, all consciousness of the things around us and of our
personal qualities sinks into transient oblivion, and we no
longer notice what is going on around us, though we continue to hear and to feel. Self-consciousness then, is the
root of all our knowledge: it must accompany our mental
activities, and without it it would be in vain to investigate
the nature of the soul. For this reason it ought to be ex amined, before we approach the activity and nature of the 
PSYCItIOLOGY.
soul, and for this reason also it deserves a full share of our
attention.
What then are we to understand by self-consciousness?
It is not a thing that is ready wrought in us, and the qualities of which, like those of minerals, chemical substances,
one has only to analyze in order to know; but it is an activity that constantly produces itself. The activities of mind,
however, are manifold, and it will here be necessary and
instructive to distinguish it from them.  The first of all the
activities of the mind isfeeling. It is the most subjective,
the most internal and inexpressible in man. Yet difficult
as it may be, to convey a clear idea of it, we cannot pass
it over in silence. " Feeling, in general, is passion called
forth by its own activity."  This definition demands some
explanation. The passion spoken of here, is one conditioned by its own activity. Hence it follows as a first rule,
that that zchich cannot affect itself, cannot feel. The ball
on the billiard table, for example, is set in motion by the
billiard-stick; it is active, but not of its own accord.
Touching another ball, it communicates its motion to it,
and is put at rest by the resistance it meets with, and consequently is affected; but this affection or passion is not
produced by its activity, but by the resistance of another
ball. Every metal expands by heat, and contracts by cold;
but this activity in the metal is elicited by an activity
without; the metal is affected, but not by itself. Hence
though warmed by the heat, it neither feels warmth nor
cold.
A second rule is, that nothing can feel which affects itself
or acts upon itself, but not for itself A machine acts upon
and affects itself, but not for itself' The plant, on the other
hand, that stands in the sun moves its twigs and leaves; its
juices rise and sink, it is active, and both affects itself and
acts for itself. This appears clearly from the fact that after
a hot noon. it re-creates itself in the dew of the evening;
and that from the germ to the blossom and seed, it grows
only for itself and not for any thing else, for it will grow
whether an animal is near to eat it or not. But this activity of the plant is wholly called forth and conditioned by
something different from itself, by heat, rain, atmosphere,
&c. We therefore add a third rule:
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PYSCHOLOGY.
When an activity which conditions itself as passive, is not
conditioned by a third and foreign activity, as that of the
nerve, then we have feeling. Feeling is an activity that
affects itself; affecting itself, it is active; being affected,
it is passive; activity andpassion in one isfeeling.  Such
an activity may be called a "trembling in itself."  This
motion is not like that of the planet turning on its axis;
nor like that of the plant turning spirally, nor like that of
the string, which touched moves away from itself, but it is
an inward motion, one in itself. Such is the motion of the
nerve when touched; the life of the nerve seems by its own
energy to touch itself, the parts of the nerve to tremble in
themselves.
Feeling pre-supposes one who feels and something which
is felt. Is the thing felt, different from him that feels; then
the feeling is called a sensation. The light of the sun is
felt by the eye, the acid of the grape by the tongue, both
feelings are sensations. But when feeling does not depend
on the senses, when the object felt is also the subject that
feels, then we have what may be called self-feeling.
This self-feeling, like a feeling in general, is enjoyed by
the animal, but consciousness is not. It may, therefore, be
proper to point out the difference between them. By selffeeling every individual is related to itself, and through it
is certain of its existence. The plant cannot feel itself,
and consequently could not support itself, had it not struck
its roots into the soil. But the animal, feeling itself, feels
its wants and satisfies them, and can move from place tc
place. It feels itself in its members and feels them as its
own. It feels itself when it stretches them in the warm
light of the sun, or in its dreams. By self-feeling, thereforie, the animal is an individual; not only externally, that
is, not merely like the plant, externally separated from other
things, but internally by feeling itself and taking interest in
itself. A plant when torn into pieces offers no resistance
but an animal about to be slain, either rages or looks piteously at him who destroys it. And so again feeling itself
it cannot exchange its existence for that of another. The
"elephant which was intended to frighten Fabius," ant
that, which is exhibited in a menagerie, take each such an
interest in itself that it would be impossible for them to be
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PSYCHOLOGY.
other than itself. In proportion as the animal takes an interest in itself, it opposes every other animal of which it
receives a feeling by sensation. The stronger the selffeeling, the greater will be the opposition, the more determined the separation from all other animals, and consequently the more complete the isolation. Rapacious animals love to be alone in their caves, on high rocks or in
ambush. They live together, the old with the young only
during certain seasons, and separate again as soon as the
instinctive care for the race becomes unnecessary. It is
true there are animals that seemn to be social; the sheep,
the goose, the ant, the bee; but all of them are held together by instinct, by the pasture on which they graze, by the
hive or cell which they build in common. And even then
they take little notice of each other, it is only in times of
danger that the voice, or some other sign, which is the same
in all the individuals of the same class, calls them together
for mutual defence. When the danger is past each lives
again by itself.
However much self-feeling may seem to resemble selfconsciousness, it differs from it in the following points:
1. Self-feeling does not enable the animal to distinguish
between the subject that feels and the object that is felt.
The difference exists but is not known to mere feeling. The
animal feeling itself, does not judge that it feels, and again,
that it is itself the object of its feeling.
2. The animal having self-feeling does not distinguish
between itself and its members; it feels its members, but
cannot make a distinction between itself as the whole, and
them as its parts or organs. Just as little can it distinguish
between a sensation and its organ, the object of the sensation and itself which has the organ, and through it the sensation. The difference is there; but it is not distinct and
clear, it is onlyfelt, not known.
3. The animal having self-feeling, does not distinguish
between itself and its race, so that it would refer itself to
its class, but it isolates itself by its self-feeling. Every animal capable of feeling itself belongs to a class of animals;
the pigeon, the hare, the dog and the lion; all are individuals of a certain kind, and the instinct of each class directs all its individuals to the same modes of life, &c.
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PSYCHOLOGY.
Self-feeling gives them the same degree of energy, the
same kind of sensations, so that for example all moles differ from all eagles in the same way as regards sight. But
while the kind is distinctly expressed in all its individuals,
no one of them refers itself to its class, but they are all of
them, even when gregarious, only single among many.
Self-feeling chains a being to itself, makes it not only a self
but selfish. However different the degrees of energy may
be in the self-feeling of the different classes of animals,
each animal is by it a single isolated being; selfish even
when it exhibits a tendency to association, for no sooner do
we offer food to sheep, for instance, than one runs to outdo
the other and all fight, each to get what it desires. Want,
necessity, instinct may hold them together, but they are
not conscious of these facts. To define then self-consciousness it is,
First. That activity of mind, by which man distinguishes
between his body and soul, and while thus distinguishing
between them, refers the one to the other, and again comprehends both united in one. It is consequently an act of
judgment, a power that perceives distinctions as they are
and makes them, and yet judgment does not precede it, but
is a part of it, and self-consciousness only expresses itself
by it. In a machine all the parts are likewise distinct,
they are related to and connected with each other, but by
a power not in the machine. The parts of the plant are
distinguished, the roots from the trunk, the twigs from the
leaves; they are related to each other, and systematically
connected. The power that produces these distinctions,
that which in developing itself, causes part to shoot forth
from part, and as their common soul keeps them united, is
contained in the plant, it is the plastic power, but it neither
feels itself, nor is aware of its productions. The animal
feels its different parts, its liver and stomach-its senses,
and feeling them it feels itself in every one of them; but it
has no consciousness of them nor of itself, it does not per ceive its members as its own, for it neither distinguishes
between itself and other objects, nor between its organs and
itself. Self-consciousness makes us clearly aware of these
distinctions and their union.
Secondly. Self-consciousness is the activity of mind, that
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PSYCHOLOGY.
distinguishes between man and his senses, and by which
man has it in his power to use them for whatever purpose
he chooses, for making observations, experiments, &c.
And as it distinguishes between the senses and their possessor, so it distinguishes between the sensations and the
senses, between the objects and the sensations produced by
them.
Thirdly. It not only observes things in nature, but recognizes their relation to each other. But the principal relation is that of the individual to its genius.-It recognizes
the genus in every individual, and thus suffers nothing to
enter it as an isolated being. When I ask, What is this?
I desire to know its general nature. If am told that it is a
sheep, I feel satisfied, for the name sheep is not a proper
but a general name, expressing a certain and definite class
of animals, consequently the general nature as it exists in
the individuals belonging to that class. Self-consciousness
comprehends therefore the general in the individual, and
the individual in the general. Nothing in nature is wholly
isolated, but every thing is connected one with another,
this with a third and all with tlhe whole.
This relation self-consciousness perceives and acknowledges.
~ 2. MUTUAL RELATION OF BODY AND SOUL.
Before speaking of Personality, we shall attempt to gain
some idea of the connection between the soul and body,
as it will aid us much in forming a correct notion of what
we are to understand by the term person.
The views entertained concerning the relation of the
soul to the body, are quite various, but may be divided into
two classes, the one comprising those who admit of two
different substances, the other those that either consider
the soul as the efflorescence and result of the body, or the
body as built by the soul. The former keeps soul and body
so separate, that it is diffltclt to say how they can act iq
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unison. According to it the body has a life of its own, and
the soul likewise; both are, however, intended for each
other, and the former receives the latter, as the engine the
steam. Or to express this difference still more strongly, the
soul and body are connected, as Plato represents it, like
two horses yoked together, one born of earth, and sensual
in its nature, the other of heavenly origin and spirit:-one
prone to the earth, the other rising towards heaven, and
their owner, incapable of controling them, hanging between heaven and earth, unable to reach the one, and unwilling to descend to the other. A dualism that admits of
two principles for one being, offers many difficulties, and
the greatest is, that it cannot tell how the principles can be
united in a third. A river may originate in two fountains,
but a science cannot, and much less individual life.
The latter class of theories represents the soul as the
final result and efflorescence of a continually refined life of
the nerves, so that reason and will are nothing but the organic life of matter, which, by a refined process, attains
the power of thinking and    willing,-here a soul becomes
superfluous, and Materialism, in its rudest form, prevails,or it takes the soul for the original activity, and considers
the body as built by it. This is the theory of Stahl, Treviranus, and others. As the caterpillar spins and weaves a
texture fitted for its future metamorphosis, so the soul, like
a mason, builds its own tabernacle.  The first of these
opinions is too gross, and the last spiritualizes the whole
existence of man too much. We cannot, however, enter
into a scientific refutation of the theories alluded to, and
must be satisfied with advancing one that seems to be
nearer to truth. Yet we would not assert that it is not open
to objections.
Before it is possible to come to any conclusion on this
difficult and yet exceedingly interesting subject, we must
clearly define what we understand by body. For as the
Eanglish language not only calls our organism a body, but
speaks also of the sun, moon, and stars, as heavenly bodies,
it is evident that the term in question is not used in the
same unchangeable sense. Other languages, as the Greek
and Gei man, make a careful distinction between dead and
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PSYCHOLOGY.
living bodies; the German calling the former Koerper, cowpora and the latter Leib, firom Leben, life.
The general idea connected with the term body, is that
of an external frame animated by life. According to this
view, the body and soul are wholly different, and as opposite to each other as life and death.   Yet  this view
must be erroneous, as it not only brings the soul and body
in opposition, but also the bodily life and the external frame.
The body, as an external frame, has been ascertained by
chemists to consist of nine different substances, gases,
earths, metals, and salt. It is therefore dust, and must return to dust. No man would be willing to assert, that man
consists of a soul, bodily life, and nine different kinds of
earthly substances; but all would be ready to acknowledge
that eaLrth is by no means an essential part of man.  This
must appear the more true, when we consider that this external fi'amne of man "never ceases to perish," but is constantly undergoing changes; that it is in an unceasing flow.
It is like a foaming place in a smoothly flowing river; one
viewing it from a distance might suppose the foam to be
unchangeably the same; but, on examining more closely,
he will discover that the water thus foaming, is in an uninterrupted flow, changing its drops so constantly, that they
are not the same for a moment, and that only the rock
which breaks the water, remains the same. Thus it is with
the body. The gases constantly escape, and all the particles undergo incessant changes. Hence the necessity of renovating our bodies. This renovation demands new elements, which originally foreign to the body, must be as.zmilated and rendered subservient to its organism. If then
the particles of the external frame are incessantly changing, they cannot be the body itself, since new elements are
every moment received and old ones excluded, and all of
them are but dust. The true and genuine body must be that
which retains and preserves its organical identity in all
these changes which remains the same in the never-ceasing
stream of matter. But what is this organical identity? The
life or power which connects the gases, earths, metals, and
salt, into one whole, which penetrating them, keeps them
together, or dismisses some and attracts others. No sooner
does this penetrating power retire, than the body becomes
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PSYCHOLOGY.
a corpse, and the elements fall asunder. This power is the
true body; it is invisible, but connecting the elements according to an eternal and divine law, it becomes manifest
by its productions.
We seem to have gained, then, this one idea, that the
external firame is not the body, and that it is not to be opposed to the soul, but that the life and power which connects the elements is the body. Again, that it is the connection of the elements that is human, and not the substances themselves, and finally, that these substances and
elements do not remain the same, but are constantly passing away, while new ones are taking their place. That
which is permanent in these changes, and combines the
elements in this manner, is life.  The idea of life is therefore to be next considered.  Though we gave its characteristics in the Introduction, and must refer to them, it may
not be superfluous to view it here under a different aspect.
All life wherever it exists is formed and organized. Form
is not and cannot be the result of matter, which itself is
chaotic and shapeless.
Form, in man, and throughout the Universe, is the result of thought. Hence life, being formed, does not proceed from matter; but is a thought of God, accompanied
by the divine will, to be realized in nature, and to appear
externally by an organized body. As the thought gives
the form, so the divine will, resting in the thought and in separably united with it, works as power and law in all
nature.  Is there not every where reason and wisdom, and
an eternal and unchangeable law manifested in all the pro ductions we see? The plant before me, is it not the pro duct of an intelligence; or does it not represent a thought,
that by the divine will became not only external and cor porealized, but received also the power to propagate itself?
The animal with its members and senses,-what else can
it be but a divine thought exhibited in an external form?
All nature is full of divine wisdom and reason, but it does
not possess reason, for it is neither conscious of itself nor
of any thing else. Hence we should hesitate to speak of
a soul in animals, for as gravity is not a mere quality of
matter, but as matter would be wholly annihilated without
it, so the soul has thinking not merely as one of its quali
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PSYCHOLOGY.
ties, but cannot be conceived of without it. The soul of
man and the life of the animal are therefore wholly diffe rent.  In applying this to man, to the union of soul and
body, we may say-The soul of man is likewise a divine
thought, a creation of God, filled with power to live an ex istence of its own. But it is soul, for it comprehends itself
and all that is; and not only does it comprehend itself, but
it is also able to produce new thoughts in accordance with
its laws of thinking. Again, it develops itself like all other
life in nature; and develops itself in a twofold direction;
outwardly and inwardly. There can be nothing merely
internal, but it must be so only in reference to itself as external.  The flesh of the apple is internal only in reference
to its skin, which is external. The internal or thinking life
of the soul has its external, and this the sensitive life of the
body, by which the soul is connected with the world. The
life of the soul and the body is therefore one in its origin;
a twofold expression of the same energy. The particles
of the body on the other hand, are not at all a part of man;
they are dust, and only their connection and the lifec connecting them, is truly human. Flesh, in so far as it is
merely earth, cannot feel; but in so far as this earth is
connected by life, it is life in this peculiar connection that
feels in a peculiar manner. In order to render this somewhat difficult and abstruse idea more clear and distinct to
all classes of readers, we will make use of some illustrations.  "The rainbow is a phenomenon well known to all;
how is it formed? When the sun sends his rays in a particular angle upon a watery cloud, the beautiful colors and
form of the great arch, will be directly seen. Let us examine of what this rainbow consists. Does it consist of
drops of water on the one hand, and of light on the other?
By no means. The drops of water are to the rainbow,
what the body as a mere corpse is to man. The drops
constantly fall, and only serve to represent or reflect the
different colors of the light. It is the sun that produces on
the sheet of rain both color and shape. When the sun
disappears, the rainbow with its colors is gone, but the gray
rain-drops are still left. Yet as necessary as the sheet of
rain is for the rainbow, so necessary is the body for the
soul." Or let us take another example. When the artist
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PSYCHOLOGY.
first conceives the idea, either of a musical composition or
of any noble work in literature or art, it will be yet rude
and unorganized. Carrying it in his mind for a long time,
this idea will become more clear, one part shooting forth
from the other until the whole is matured. To see this
idea clearly, he feels impelled to give it an external form,
as on the marble, if the artist be a sculptor. The marble
receives the image of the idea, and if fully and well expressed by a skillful chisel, the image will call forth the
same idea in the bosom of every one who examines it with
judgment. It would, however, certainly be wrong to say that
this image of the artist consists on the one hand of marble,
whiteness, smoothness, and on the other, of the internal
idea, for the marble only represents the image, but it is
not in any way the image. So it would be wrong to say,
that man consists of two essentially different substances;
of earth and the soul; but he is soul only, and cannot be
any thing else. This soul, however, unfolds itself externally in the life of the body, and internally in the life of
mind. Twofold in its development, it is one in its origin,
and the centre of this union is our personality. Several
remarks naturally flow from the above view:
First. As the plant can never pass beyond itself and
become an animal, so the animal cannot by a continued
development reach the nature and life of man, but it remains an animal for ever. For so much only can be developed, as exists according to possibility in the germ of a
being; what is therefore not contained in this possibility,
or germ, or origin, cannot proceed from it. Thinking,
judgment and reason, or soul in general, not being originally in the idea realized in the animal,-the animal of
course differs from man by not having a soul. Though it
has sensation and perception, these again must differ from
those of man, as they do not include the power to judge.
The life of man, as it is the union of physical and psveychical, is not to be considered as a higher development of
animal life, differing only in degree, but it is wholly and
essentially different even in its principle. It is therefore
not a transition from that which is not human to the human; from the unconscious to the conscious. It is not the
same animal activity, only clearer, more distinct, and more
16*
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PSYCHOLOGY.
refined, so that the whole difference is one of quantity and
not of quality. Feeling, however, elevated and refined,
still remains feeling.
Secondly.  We admit, therefore, of a difference between
soul and body, but one that proceeds from, and terminates
in a union. As the common principle of both differs from
every other in nature, so the bodily life of man (liffers
from that of the animal. It is from its beginning and in
its principle different, and does not merely become so at a
certain stage.
Thlirdly.  This theory upholds the idea of a creation and
not of emanation. God remains what he is, the unchangeable Jehovah after the universe is created.   So the mind
of man is not diminished, however great the number of
thoughts which it produces. On the other hand, neither
the body nor the soul is the ground of their existence. but
God himself.
~ 3. PERSONALITY.
Deus nos personat.
The term person comes from the Latin personare, tlhe
original meaning of which is to sound thtrough. It was
used of one, who was not, like a slave, a mere thing saleable and transferable, but who had a right to speak and
defend himself in courts of justice. In this respect the
German word for person fully agrees with the Latin and
English, for laut, plural leute, has exactly the same meaning. From this it must appear that those who consider the
external, visible body as that which is named by person,
are mistaken. It is true that persona signified a mask, but
in distinction from larva, one that by an instrument rendered the voice of the actor more audible. The term person has, therefore, a direct bearing upon the intelligence
of man, since only an intelligent being can comprehend
rights and duties, and consequently defend them, and since
only such a one can speak. The animal has a body, and
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PSYCHOLOGY.
in the more perfect animals we discover all the organs of
the human frame, yet should we hesitate to speak of animal personality. The animal is an individual, that feels
itself, but cannot be a person, be(cause it is not conscious
of itself.
B3efore giving a definition of personality, it will be well
to define the term individuality. We have it in common
with the animal, while we share personality with the Deity.
Individuality is the centre or union of many organical functions, that proceed from it and return to it. It is the power
that produces all of them, and keeps them related to each
other, and to their whole. It is, therefore, that by which a
being is concentrated upon itself-the centre of all organic
activities. It renders a living organism indivisible, hence
it is called individuality. The stone remains what it is,
though it be broken into small particles, but an animal is
destroyed when its members are torn asunder. That which
is wanting to individuality, in order to make it personality,
is a soul capable of thinking and willing.
Personality is likewise a centre and union of the manifold, but one that is awake in itself, that has found and laid
hold of itself, and having once found cannot again lose itself, but will enjoy itself for ever. It is the centre of all
our bodily and mental activities; emancipated from all
that is not itself, it reigns over all the powers of body and
soul, for it is that which must take care of both. It is the
person within us, which determines itself to be this or that;
to open itself to any influence, or exclude it; to follow one
or the other direction; to enter a sphere of activity, or
withdraw from all, and retire within itself. Person is the
union of reason and will, for I know, and I will; it is the
identity of self-consciousness and self-love, and whatever
takes place in either must centre in it, and only thus can it
be identified with the being that knows and loves itself. It
remains the same, whether it is active practically or theoretically, or whether abstracted from all without, it confines
itself wholly to itself. Neither character nor age, neither
knowledge nor temperament can'affect it. The expression
for our personality is the little pronoun L A short explanation of it will render clear what we are to understand
by person and personal identity
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PSYCHOLOGY.
Every word contains a thought, and every thought contains truth, if its contents correspond entirely with those
of its object. Is the object a physical or historical one?
then its contents, and those of the thought of it, are not
exactly the same.  I have, for example, as correct an idea
of the sun, as the present state of astronomy makes it possit)le for me to form; but the contents of the sun are light,
and other qualities, while those of the ideas which I have
formed of it, are but the sensations and perceptions of
these qualities, but not light itself. Of all the thoughts we
have, there is none that in this respect is equal to that
which we express by the pronoun L. Every thought, as
we have seen, pre-supposes a subject that thinks, and an
object thought of. In the thought contained in the word I,
subject and object are perfectly the same, for it is I that
thinks, and Ithat is thought of. There I am active, because
I think; here I am passive, because I am the subject of
thought. There is a difference, consequently, but one, that
when rightly considered, is really none. For the identity
between the thought and its subject, expressed by I, is such
that the being of the one is that of the other also; that the
one cannot be separated from the other, for the one is the
other. This it is that we call personal identity. Our consciousness may be enriched with knowledge, and again forget all it has learned, and yet our I will remain the same.
I can possess nothing else in the same way that I possess
myself; for no where else can subject and object be united
as they are in the word I. The same that I express by this
term in my youth, I express by it at the most advanced
age; and even in the hour of death neither form nor contents being in the least changed. This personal identity
remains so much the same in spite of all changes, both in
body and mind, that though two children resemble each
other much more in their natures, than the same person
resembles himself as regards bodily vigor in his youth and
old age-yet will the personal identity be the same with
him in all periods of life, while the two children, resembling
each other in other respects, widely differ in their persons.
It is this I, this personal identity, which, as the conscious
centre of body and soul, attributes both to itself in saying,
I must take care of my body and of my soul. Without it,
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PSYCHOLOGY.
there could be no mine and thine. It is invisible, can
neither be seen nor felt; is neither bone nor muscle, neither
nerve nor sinew; and is only accessible to thought. If I
say, I have wounded myself, I speak inaccurately, for I
ought to say I have hurt my limb, my body. This invisible
I is that general activity, which accompanies all our actions and knowledge. It is I that feels and perceives; that
comprehends and recollects; that judges and concludes;
that resolves and wills and acts. I am active in all these
different ways, and yet remain the same in every single
activity. I may enter upon any activity or exclude all.
The idea of personality, as may be easily seen, includes
that of independence of every thing that is not itself. It
rests upon itself, and as it is the centre of all in man, so it
is the centre of nature around, for it is not only conscious
of itself, but conscious of all other things. If by self-consciousness it inclines to itself, taking an inward direction,
by consciousness of other things, it takes an outward direction, one away from itself. And in this light we have yet
to view personality.
The person is not only the centre of man, whose radii
and periphery are all the activities of body and soul, and by
which all of them are pronounced, that is through which
they sound, personat, but it is also,
1. The centre of nature, the echo of the universe. What
nature contains scattered and in fragments, is united in the
person of man. Every isolated feeling, every solitary
sound in nature is to pass through man's personality, and
to centre in it. His personality is the great, beautiful, and
complete bell, that announces every thing, while nature
contains only parts of it, the sounds of which are dark and
dull. This by no means teaches any form of Pantheism;
all it says is this, What would be the most glorious sunset
if man should not perceive and enjoy it? What would be
the order of the universe if man were not conscious of it?
What the laws of Astronomy if a Newton and Kepler
had not discovered them? They might exist, but as without an eye there would be eternal darkness, without an
ear uninterrupted silence, so there could be no order or
regularity without an understanding capable of perceiving
it. The songs of birds, if not heard by man, would neither
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PSYCHOLOGY.
be plaintive nor joyful. It is he alone that perceives the
nature of things, and their systematical connection with
each other. But again, the personality of man is the centre
of nature in another respect; as we have seen that there
are animals which having but one of the many physical
organs of man, constitute nevertheless a full and complete
being, so the moral qualities are distributed, and a single
one frequently makes up the whole character of a certain
species of animals. The serpent is sly, the tiger treacherous, the fox cunning; and so each animal has a prevailing quality which determines its whole nature; but man
unites all in himself. Like the fox he is cunning, and like
the serpent he is sly; hence he can sympathise with every
being in nature, and may in this respect be called the centre
of nature. Nature is external, knows nothing of itself,
mind alone can seek and find itself and all other things.
"Was will die Nadel nach Norden gekehrt?
Sich selber zu finden es ist ihr verwehrt."
2. Our personality is the centre of the whole human race,
for it contains the generality and individuality united in
one. It expresses a single and individual being, separating
it from all others; and again it is most general, since every
one is an I like myself. This I is, therefore, not like a
proper name, but it is a word that conveys a most general
idea. Thus in our personality, the general and individual
are so united, that.the one is contained in the other. This
will appear from the following reinarks: —We speak of a
national spirit, of national honor, of national art and literature; these do not and cannot exist in the abstract, their
existence must be concrete. It becomes concrete when
the general and individual grow together, concresco, or are
united, when, therefore, the general becomes conscious of
itself in the individual. Greece, as such, could not become
conscious of its honor or literature, but when this genera1
national spirit becomes individualized in a Plato or Sophocles, it becomes conscious of itself. Hence it is their personality, in which the Greek spirit must centre, and through
which as its organ, it expresses itself by works of literature and art. True genius, must therefore always bear
the character of a national generality,-genius comes from
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PSYCHOLOGY.
genus-and the less individuality appears it its productions,
the more valuable it is. The history of a nation, and its institutions will all express the national spirit, as the actions
and feeling show the character of a person; but without
individuals a nation could have no history. According to
this,
3. Our personality is complete only when we are conscious of God and our relation to him, and when we suffer
God to speak to it and through it. It is not nature nor
matter that produces personality, but God, who is the
ground of all personality. We can know a thing thoroughly
only when we are acquainted with its ground-so man
must know God before he can become truly acquainted
with himself. In saying that God is the ground of all personality, we mean, that he freely created man; that there
was no emanantion, by virtue of which the Deity flowed
forth into man, and could not return to himself again. If
that were the case our highest wisdom would become an
Egology, and the Bible and Theology would become superfluous. So the personality of God differs widely from that
of man.  Its elements are omniscience and omnipotence,
and all the other infinite attributes. Those of human personality are a limited reason and will, attached to nerves
and muscles.
This personality of man is not, however, active immediately after birth. The child feels as soon as it enters the
world, but it is only with difficulty that it becomes conscious of itself. It may soon notice its single members, the
hand, the foot, the lips, but to enable it to comprehend the
body and soul as a whole, whose centre it is itself, requires
much time and labor on the part of its instructors. Hence,
long after the child speaks, it names itself, not by the term
I but by its proper name, speaking of itself in the third
person, as "William wants this or that."  It is with the
personality of the child as with the life of a plant, which
needs the aid of many physical influences. Or like a torch
that must be lighted before it can illuminate. Hence it is
that children exposed in their infancy and grown up in
the woods, can neither speak, nor think, nor remember.
A boy found in the Hanoverian woods, about eleven years
old, ran on his hands and feet, climbed trees with great
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PSYCHOLOGY.
skill, and was perfectly wild. When caught and properly
attended to, he could remember nothing beyond the time
when he was placed under the influence of man. And so
it was in many other instances of the same kind, eight of
which have been noticed by Linneus under the head Homo
sapiensferus, or the wise wild man.
This awaking of the child in itself is like the rising of a
light in the midst of darkness. The state of existence,
preceding that in which the child finds itself, is dark, and
we are not conscious of it. So man is like a night-plant,
whose top only is penetrated by the light, while many powers and qualities are left in the dark soil below, which will
never wholly rise into the sphere of light. As regards even
our person, therefore, we are surrounded by darkness in
the midst of light.
~ 4. DIVISION.
Until recently, mental philosophers have been in the habit of representing mind as a compound of many faculties,
as a whole made up of parts. This view of the soul is a
mechanical one, and does not regard the character of life
in general. It is scarcely necessary now to refute an idea
so spiritless, for who can believe that the faculties of mind
are as separate and distinct as drawers in a chest, each answering a certain purpose and occupying a place, from
which all the others must be excluded. According to this
view the faculties do not proceed from one general principle, for the power of perception and that of memory,
differ as widely as the various parts of a machine. These
faculties are united, but only as the different cells of wasps
are held together by the sheet of comb on which they are
built. As to the rest, the wasp occupying one cell, does
not and cannot know much of its neighbor residing in a
different one.   The question has, therefore, justly been
asked —How, if the mind consists of so many faculties,
each of which is separate from the other, can they be uni
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PSYCHOLOGY.
ted in one consciousness? If fancy, in its cell, re-produces
an image, how can consciousness, a power different from
fancy, take cognizance of it? To say that each faculty
has a consciousness of its own, would be highly absurd,
since we should then be forced to admit a plurality of consciousness. How this plurality of consciousness could be
internally united into one, it would be hard to understand.
This whole view has been, therefore, more or less relinquished, and one directly opposed to it has been received.
There is but one thinking power in man. It is the same
when it judges as when it observes, comprehends, thinks, or
wills. The apparent difference is produced either by the
object to which it is directed,-as for instance it is designated as memory when directed to the past, imagination
when turned to the future;-or, by the greater or less degree, in which it exerts itself. For whether I have a sensation of a thing, or a comprehension, it is nearly the same,
only that the latter is a higher stage of thinking. By sensation I comprise many qualities and pronounce their union
a thing or individual; by comprehension I unite many indiduals, and call this union a class. It is the same activity
only raised in the latter instance.
But the mind is neither a multitude of faculties, nor is it
a simple, identical activity, but it is a union that not only
comprises the manifold, but- produces it by unfolding its life
organically. There are many kinds of union: a mechanical one, as that of a machine; and an organic one, as that
of a living plant. The latter will serve to explain the
union here spoken of.  When we, for the first time, watch
an apple tree from its earliest growth till it blossoms and
yields fruit, we are at once ready to say that the first leaves
of the young tree which sprouts from the soil differ as
widely from those which afterwards appear on the trunk
and branches, as these from the blossoms and the blossoms
from the fruit. We are, therefore, inclined to view this
tree as made up of so many different organs, as the old
psychology considers the soul as consisting of so many fa culties. But then again, if some one should direct our at tention to the fact that each succeeding formation is but a
repetition of a former one, that the first leaves, for instance,
which sprout forth near the ground, thick, colorless, and
17
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PSYCIIOLOGY.
full of unrefined rude sap, are repeated by, or transformed
into leaves of the trunk, that, being raised above the ground
and more exposed to the sun and purer atmosphere, they
become more refined, more vigorous and more beautifully
formed,-we should willingly acknowledge that the plant
could not be made up of parts independent of each other,
but that the whole was produced by the plastic power contained in the seed. And we should do so the more readily,
if we should discover that as the tree spreads into twigs
and leaves, the succeeding leaves still become more refined,
more perfect in shape and color, until many cluster together
and form a bud, which opening, shows itself clad in red
and white, surrounded by the tender green of the leaves
nearest to it. This is not all. The fruit itself, consists but of
a cluster of leaves, which, absorbing the finest juice of the
tree, and constantly nourished by the rays of the sun and
the warmth of the atmosphere, are peculiarly organized to
filtrate all the nourishment they thus receive. These compact leaves at first taste like other leaves and are of their
color; but they expand, and finally appear as a fruit, wholly
different from any other part of the tree. The fruit, be it
an apple or a grape, is only the capsule of the seed, and as
the latter ripens. this decays. In this respect the pod of
the bean has the same design with the finest pear. In
proof of our assertion, it may be remarked, that the pod of
the bean is merely a leaf bent together. The same is true
of the pods of radishes, peas, &c. In the apple then, we
eat nothing but the refined and filtrated moisture of the
earth, the light of the sun, and the balm of the atmosphere,
as it lives and works in the other leaves.
It is remarkable, that in proportion as we nourish a plant
with rude and heavy manure, it produces dark, strong and
large leaves, thus retarding its state of bloom. This shows
that these stronger leaves filtrate and prepare the juices for
the higher and more delicate leaves, and that these again
are ihe same leaves at a higher stage, that we before noticed at a lower one. It is therefore certain, that it is the
same organ which first appears at the root, then higher up,
and finally as blossom and fruit. Considering this we might
be induced to suppose the plant or the tree, as simple an
activity, as some have represented mind. Yet in examin
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PSYCHOLOGY.
ing a plant or tree a little more closely, we must perceive
that while all the different parts constantly repeat but one
organ and proceed from one common power, they nevertheless differ, each having a peculiar office to perform for
the development and preservation of their general life.
This view, the only correct one, unites the two former.
For according to it we perceive on the one hand a union,
an identity, and on the other a variety; but the variety
and difference proceeds from the union, which appears in
every single organ, and only unfolds itself by all of them.
This leads us once more to the idea of development. Whatever develops itself, changes, yet it doe(s not become any
thing else than it was when undeveloped. For while it
takes different forms, it remains the same in all of them;
while it exhibits itself under different aspects, it does not
pass over into any thing that is not itself, nor does it receive
any of its various forms from without, but all develop
themselves from within. It becomes and exists otherwise
when developed, than when undeveloped, but it has not
become any thing else. Developing itself, it becomes in
?eality, what before it was according topossibility and energy. So the bulb of a hyacinth may be said to be and not
to be the hvacinth. It is the hyacinth according to energy,
and nothing can grow forth from it, that is not in it; and
again it is not yet the hyacinth, for it has not yet grown
forth.  The growing forth is the development of the energy slumbering in the bulb. The idea of development contains, therefore, the idea of a transition from the invisible
to the visible, from the dark and unknown to the manifest
and revealed. Thus the soul contains in its simplle identical activity, all that afterwards appears in succession, under
the form of faculties. They are but the development of
the energy of the soul, but its representation and its organs.
Hence the soul is an energy, that in developing itself, remains the same that it was, and yet becomes different. It
remains the same, for nothing is added from without, all
comes from within; it is different, for it exists in its developed slate. The first developments of the plant are, as
we have seen, the roots and rude leaves, which become
more refined as they grow higher on the stock; the first
development of the soul, the leaves near the roots of its
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PSYCHOLOGY.
existence is sensation, which is followed by attention.
Higher than these are conception, fancy, imagination and
memory, which may be considered the blossoms on the tree
of knowledge, while pure thinking, under the form of the
understanding, judgment, reason and will, are the ripe fruits.
And here we may remark, that there could be no blossoms,
were there no leaves near the root; but as the juice in them
rises higher, it becomes more refined, until it appears pure
and clear in blossom and fruit.  So sensation is the beginning and root of all knowledge, and nothing can enter the
understanding that has not first been received by sensation.
As it passes fiom the lower to the higher activities of mind,
it becomes iiiore and better known, and like the fruit, more
refined.  Again, as the blossom of a plant miay be retarded,
or wholly prevented by rude nourishment, so sensual persons may always move in the sphere of sensuality, and satisfied with it, never look for any thing beyond.
Before closing this paragraph, however, it may not be
superfluous to add a remark.  I have spoken of higher and
lower stag(es of tile development of mind, and some might
feel inclined to consider sensation, for example, a lower
faculty than conception. This would be wrong. The mind,
as has been repeatedly stated, is a whole; a whole cannot
exist without its parts, as these cannot be without the
whole. Were a single one of these parts wantingo, the idea
of the whole would be destroyed; but the mind is a living
whole, and hence its parts are organs, that is, filled with the
life of the whole, of which they are parts. If one of these
organs were wanting, the mind, as a whole, would be ruined, could not operate, would be insane or deranged, etc.
Hience one part is as necessary as the other, and it would
be wrong to speak of higher and lower faculties, as if the
one were better than the other. Who would say, that the
root of the tree, because it is in the soil, is less valuable
than the branch, because it grows in the air? The one is
as valuable as the other. Sensation, it is true, when compared with thinking, stands lower than fancy or imagination, and yet, in as far as it belongs to man, it is intellectual
and pervaded by reflection from the beginning. The sensation of the animal is without reflection; it always remains, therefore, below thinking; but the sensation of man
196 
PSYCHOLOGY.
contains, from its motions, the possibility of reflection. If,
however, with reference to the development of mind, we
should nevertheless speak of its lower and higher stages,
we must remember that while one and the same life developes itself, each faculty is not merely a higher stage of that
life, (in that case it would only be stronger and fuller than
the one preceding,) but is also a qualitatively different one.
Thus the objects and contents of sensation and imagination are wholly different; those of sensation are given
from without, those of imagination produced firom within.
The difficulty here is to distinguish between sameness and
identity. The latter includes difference, and is as impossible without it as harmony; the former excludes all variety.
An identity of the powers of mind, therefore, does not exclude their qualitative different and distinct operations, but
pre-supposes them. Thus sensation is originally the same,
whether it be that of heacring, seeing, or smelling; yet by
reflection upon it, the greatest variety is observed, not only
in its contents, but also in sensation as such. With regard
to their contents, it is easily acknowledged that the sensations of red and white in color, and of sharp and flat in
music, differ widely; and so likewise with  regard to the
sensations themselves; for those of sight and hearing are
certainly as different as they can be.
Psychology will be divided into two sections; the former treating of Reason in general, the latter of the Will.
17*
197   
SECTION I.
ON REASON. 
REASON.
The section on Reason will be divided into three chapters. The
I. Treating on Sensation, or the receptive powers of
Reason.
II. On conception in general, or the form-giving nature
of Reason.
III. On pure Thinking.
This division is not made arbitrarily, but is derived from
the nature of reason itself. It is reason that is to be developed before us, and its development consists really in nothing else than its becoming conscious of itself, and of all
that it (contains. But reason, as such, is abstract; we must
see it in its concrete form and state. As such it appears in
man, and here in the form of self-consciousness. The development of reason and self-consciousness is therefore
the same. Now sensation is the indispensable and first condition of all intellectual developments, and of that of selfconsciousness likewise; for, by feeling the objects of our
sensations, we darkly feel ourselves, and in proportion as
we become conscious of them, we must become conscious
of ourselves. But as we become conscious of ourselves,
reason awakes in itself, and this is its first stage of development.
The second chapter, on the other hand, treats on that
portion of reason which works in itself, as fancy, that
forms new images.  If it receives all its excitement from
the outward world before, it now delights in its inward 
PYSCHOLOGY.
operations, as appears from the life of the artist, the poet,
etc. It gives form to all that it receives from sensation, and
by doing so, becomes conscious of its power. The con sciousness of the world, under the form of sensation, may
rouse self-consciousness to a considerable degree, even in
children; but man must awake in himself, and become conscious of himself by looking into his own bosom. All the
mental operations mentioned in this chapter, as conception,
fancy, memory, are therefore termed inward; thus differing,
not in the degree of development only, but in quality also,
from the mental activities of the first chapter. Reason thus
becomes conscious of itself, and of its contents, by its operations within itself.
The third chapter finally leads us to reason freed from
every thing not properly belonging to it, and standing pure
on its own fully developed ground. Here nothing prevails
but pure thought.  Images, symbols, signs, are all of them
sensual in their nature; for the eye or the ear, they represent thoughts, but are not the thoughts themselves. Now
it is entirely accidental what image, or symbol, or comparison, I use to signify a thought. If I lead the life of a shepherd, my imagery will be taken from the scenery, circumstances, nature, and incidents of that life. So we find it in
Gessner's poems. If I am a seaman, the ocean will furnish
me with images.
So again my choice of images among those at my command is arbitrary. The sceptre or crown-both are symbols of dominion. But when I express a pure thought, reason, no longer satisfied with accidental and arbitrary representations, and fully conscious of itself, will appear in its
own form, which is that of generality and necessity, that is,
every thought, if it is to contain truth, must, by these two
qualities, show itself independent of all objective and subjective, of all external and internal authority, must be, as
truth really is, its own authority, and the authority for every
thing else. Self-consciousness must not be absorbed by
pure thinking, but it must fully awake in it, and thus raise
itself into a higher sphere of life, where neither nature nor
our egoity reign, but pure thought alone. When I, for example, say, God is the highest Being, I express by the term
Being, a thought which cannot be made plain by any image
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or symbol; I must, in order to understand it, re-produce it
in my own mind. So it is general in its nature, for it demands the same thought every where, in all countries, and
in all individuals; it is necessary, for it cannot be otherwise
than it is. The term highest is not a pure thought, it has
reference to the lower, and is only the highest when compared with all running on the same scale with itself. It has
neither generality nor necessity for what I consider high
may be low to another.
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CHAPTER I.
~ 1. SENSATION AND THE SENSES.*
N7Vihil est in intellectu, quod non anteafuerit in sensu.
Sensation has several times been the subject of our consideration; it is the soil from which all knowledge arises;
the chaos from which mind creates its intellectual world.
With it the development of mind commences, and in it
mind has all the materials with which to establish its sciences. Sensation is, therefore, the first stage, in which the
general possibility, from which all the developments of
mind proceed, realizes itself. For feeling an object, we
we must feel it in ourselves. In having a sensation, we
therefore feel ourselves, and something different from ourselves, and thus we are roused to self-consciousness by the
object felt. Hence, sensation may be considered as the
indispensable condition of self-consciousness.   Sensation,
as we have seen, differs from feeling, and yet has many
things in common with it. Like it, it pre-supposes nothing
but life for its existence; as we do not need to learn how
to feel, so we have sensations without instruction, all they
require being life itself. To learn how to judge, time is
necessary, but feeling and sensations are inseparably connected with the activitv of animal life. On the other hand,
feeling and sensation differ as before seen, for the former
is not circumscribed in its form, nor are its contents clear
and distinct; the latter is a limitation of the feeling activity,
* For sensation some writers here would use the term perception
as referring to the notice which the percipient mind takes of external objects.  The author, however, prefers the term sensation,
since his principal object here is to speak of the aqffection of the
senses as called forth by external impressions on them, and
he trusts that he will be pardoned this somewhat unusual application of the word, and that candid readers in forming their judg.
meit of his views will bear in mind the above explanation, 
PSYCHOLOGY.
an affection of one of the senses. Not every limitation of
an activity, therefore, is sensation,-the light, for instance,
is an activity; falling upon a smooth, well polished surface, it is reflected, consequently its flow is limited, but no
sensation is produced. Sensation is the limitation of an
activity, which is felt by the activity. ilence, every sen
sation pre-supposes the limitation of an activity, and a feeling of this limitation -This limitation is only felt; feeling
is dark and indistinct; hence it is, that mere sensation
does not distinguish between itself and its contents, and
that no being can, by sensation alone, distinguish between
the sensations of the different senses. We have sensations
of the eye, and the ear, of taste and feeling; they differ
essentially, and have different contents; but sensation does
not distinguish between them and their contents. Again,
the sensations of the same senses difibr in themselves not
only with regard to the objects by which they are affected,
as the fragrance of the syringa differs from that of thc
hyacinth, but also as regards the subject affected; here the
contents of the same sense differ strictly in themselves, and
almost enter into an opposition, for those of sight are either
(lark or light, those of the ear either fiat or sharp, those of
the nose fragrance or stench, those of the tongue sweetness
or sourness, those of feeling roughness or smoothness, soft ness or hardness. But as long as sensation merely pvc vails, all is confusedly mixed together, and it is only by
duced.
Again the contents of our sensations and the objects
which produce them are not the same. The bird, for instance, that flies through the air, is not contained in my
eye, but in the air; its image, however, its plumage and
motions are contained in my sensation.  To enable us to
separate the contents of our sensations from their external
objects, judgment is necessary. This sufficiently appears
from a remarkable case that came under the observation
(-f Dr. Cheselden, in the year  1727.  He  succeeded in
giving sight to a youth of twenty years, who was born
blind.  When the bandage was removed, the lad supposed
that whatever he saw, was not without but within his eyes.
After some time he perceived that the things seen by him
18
205 
PSYCHOLOGY.
were not in his eye, but now he saw all of them on one
surface before him. It was only by using his hands that
he obtained an idea of distance and separation. This was
quite natural, for that which we feel, is not the object;
this is without us. We feel only an impression, and this is
an affection of our senses. We feel, therefore, strictly
speaking, only ourselves or the affection of our senses, and
hence it is, that the child does not distinguish between sen sations and their contents, nor between these and their ob jects. Distinction and order are, therefore, not by sensa tion as such, but by thought and judgment. Another ex ample may serve to make this still more clear. When we
first cast our eye over a scarcely legible page, all seems
confusion; but as soon as we examine the writing more
closely, as soon as we can discern the letters, and connect
them into syllables and words, the confusion disappears.
This connection is, however, not the act of sensation, but
of attention and judgment.   Nor can we by sensation
discover any thing that is general in its nature. The eye
cannot see to what species or genus a thing belongs, this
can be perceived only by the judgment. Life, for instance,
is something general; but it cannot be perceived by the
senses; n~ one has yet seen life as such with his eyes, or
heard it with his ears. From its productions, we may con clude upon life as the power that calls them forth; but
when we draw conclusions, we think.  So we may feel the
smooth bark of a plant, see the pure white of the lily, or
the tender red of a rose; but the l'fe of the lily we cannot
see. We may taste the juice of the grape, but its life we
can neither taste, nor discover by tasting the grape. Life less elementary nature alone is subject to our sensations;
life, as such, is not, though its productions may be seen, or
tasted, or felt.
If sensation is a medium between man and natural ob jects; if by it only, man can become conscious of the ex ternal world, the senses which render sensation possible,
next demand our attention. It is by them that the uni verse is opened to us, and we may become conscious of all
its beauties and laws, its powers and their productions, and
thus enrich ourselves with knowledge. Their physiology
is here to be left out of view, and their psychological im
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PSYCHOLOGY.
portance can only be touched on, nor is it necessary to do
more, since so many works give a full exhibition of the
manner in which the notions of time and space, of substance and accidents, &c., are formed by the aid of the
senses.
That which is to be felt, must have power to affect the
senses. Whatever is too weak to do this, cannot impress
them, and consequently cannot be perceived by them. We
must not, therefore, imagine that all the activities of nature
are perceptible to our senses  there are doubtless many of
which we are at present entirely ignorant. The following
are the principal objects of sensation:
1. Matter in general, its gravity, its mechanical cohesion,
the structure of bodies, their smoothness, roughness, sharpness, softness and hardness; the temperature and its
changes. The sensation is that of feeling, and in man the
organ is the skin. The skin is sensitive in proportion as it
is tight. The lips, the arms and hands, feel very quickly.
The structure of a body may be felt by the hand. Forming a semi-circle, it can easily adapt itself to almost any
form; both hands joined form a sphere, the prototype of
all other forms. In the lower classes of animals, the nerves
are hard, and possess but little flexibility. The higher
classes are generally covered with fur, feathers, or scales,
and feeling is therefore not very fine. Somne have feelers
and proboscis, others a tender skin, as snails and serpents;
but none have arms and hands, carried by the body and
perfectly free for the purpose of feeling.
2. Its chemical qualities. Matter has internal qualities
that can only be perceived in a state of solution, and this
state is either that of an inelastic or that of an elastic fluid.
Under the first form, it is liquid in general, the sensation is
taste, and the organ is the tongue. Nothing can be tasted
before it is dissolved   The medium of taste is water.
Tasting is a complete chemical process. The thing to be
tasted is separated by the teeth, tongue and saliva, and ts
qualities are caused to penetrate each other.  The sense
of taste discovers more chemical qualities than any cheinical analysis. Hence the term taste is ever applied to the
investigation of beauty in the sphere of art. Finally, the
tongue stands in a close relation to the stomach, it is indeed
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PSYCHOLOGY.
a mere continuation of it. Tasting is the beginning of digestion. The tongue proves the food for the stomach. It
is remarkable that while animals surpass man in other
senses, the tongue is not found fully among them. Zoophytes, worms, and the lower classes of fish, have no tongue;
insects have frequently only a wart; and the tongue of
other animals is often covered with scales.
Under the second form it is the elastic fluid, the sensation is that of smell, the organ the nose, the medium the
air.  Every thing smelled isassimilated; it enters through
the nose, the cerebral system and lungs. Hence there is a
close connection between the lungs and the nose, the latter
proving the air for the former, and warning it not to inhale
it, when corrupt. Strong vapors and exhalations frequently
cause swooning, nausea, cramps, &c.
3. Light and Sound. Light. That which is seen is not
pure light, nor space, nor matter, but light as rendered visible by matter. The sensation is that of sight, the organ
is the eye; the mediums of sight are the fluids, solids and
gaseous elements. The sense of sight having reference to
judgment, we must learn to see.-Sound is produced by the
elastic vibrations of bodies; the sensation is that of hearing, the ear is the organ, and ether the medium. As optics
and accoustics treat very fully on these two senses, they
are only mentioned here for the sake of completeness.
General Remarks on the Senses.
General feeling is the root from which all the senses grow
forth. It has no external organ and is not related to external objects, but has only reference to the living and feeling being, informing it of the state of its organism. By it
we may form an idea of what will benefit or injure our
b)odily system, so that we may govern our appetites and
regulate our diet.  Its organ is not properly speaking, a
sense, not a cluster of nerves, but all the nerves as a whole.
It is called general feeling, because it indicates the general
state of the system, general debility or vigor, general
warmth or chilliness, general pain or pleasure:-and again,
hunger or thirst, refreshment or satisfaction. The objects
of this feeling are, therefore, the changeable states of the
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PSYcHtOLOG'Y.
functions and organs of the body, which could not be pereeived by the single senses. As all the senses have their
root in this common or general feeling, so it is again affected
by all the impressions made upon them. Hence every sensation we have is the feeling of a change in our general
feeling, and as our disposition and humor depend greatly on
the state of our general feeling, it will on the one hand modify the influence of these impressions upon us, as on the
other it will be influenced by them. The former appears
from the fact, that the same temperature affects persons so
differently, that each if asked would give a different degree
of heat or cold. The latter is substantiated by the effects
which impressions, made upon the senses, have in cheering
or depressing the spirits.
A sense, affected by an external object in harmony with
its own nature, feels pleasure, but if affected too strongly,
or against its nature, pain-this feeling, whether of pain or
pleasure, will be communicated to the whole system, and
to what has been called generalfeeling by the connection
of the principal nerve of the sense affected, with all the
nerves of the body.  Hence cold and heat, a clear or cloudy
sky have such an influence upon us; a good dinner renders us comfortable and satisfied; delicate odors enliven
the imagination and spread pleasure over all our feelings. The opposite of these will, of course, have an oppo site effect.
On these usual effects of impressions from the senses on
our general feeling, depends the symblolization of colors
and music, which of course will vary according to differ ent climates, like language, art, &c. According to Goethe,
"every color leaves a peculiar impression on man and thus
reveals its nature both to his eye and his mind; men in
general delight in color, the eye stands in need of it as of
the light, etc. The colors which we see in bodies are not
something entirely strange to the eye, by which it isforced
to that sensation; this organ is always disposed to produce
colors of itself, and enjoys an agreeable sensation when
something corresponding to its own nature is offered fromrn
without. Hence it is that the single impressions of colors
will work specifically and produce a decided specilfic state
in the living organ-so in the mind also experience teaches
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PSYCHOLOGY.
that particular colors produce particular dispositions. It is
for this reason that colors may be applied to sensual, moral,
and aesthetical purposes, and that they are used allegori cally, symbolically and mystically. To give a few exam ples, black is the color of mourning, because it extinguishes
all other colors; white is the color of innocence, because
it is the general ground for all colors. Black and white
mixed, form gray, the color of resignation, fear, uneasiness
and twilight. Hence nearly all nations represent good be ings in white, evil spirits in black, and ghosts in gray. Blue,
the color of the atmosphere we inhale, and which quickens us, attracts, hence it is the color of desire, longing,
faithfulness, for faithfulness belongs not to itself, but to
another. Pure yellow, the color of gold, attracts us strongly and is the color of cheerfulness. Red, the color of fire,
like it pierces the eye, and is the symbol of power. Popes,
cardinals, and kings are therefore clad in the different
shades of red, some of which express violence, as orange,
others a concealed tendency to power, as the crimson of
cardinals.
The same may be observed with regard to sounds.
Some of them, as that of cutting glass, grate on the ear;
others soften or rejoice the heart, and excite the activity
of the limbs. And how various are the emotions called forth
by the rustling of branches, the murmuring of a brook,
the sighing of the wind; by the war-like sound of a trumpet,
or the soft tones of a distant flute? The power of music
may likewise be seen from the great influence it has on
animals. Mice are known to have been killed by it; horses
are animated by the sound of the trumpet.
The degree of a nation's cultivation may easily be recognized by their fondness for penetrating or lively colors,
and their copious mixture on a small surface; or by the
more refined taste that prefers delicate colors, their regular distribution, and harmonious connection. Music is likewise a criterion of the cultivation of a nation. Delight in
simple melodies, or in a grand composition, in a single instrument, or in the concert of many, will indicate the
state of civilization and refinement. Smell and taste have
also their fashions, by which the civilized differ from the
uncivilized.
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PSYCHOLOGY.
The noblest senses of man are the eye and the ear. For,
while the others have reference either to matter or its
chemical qualities, they refer the one to the judgment, the
other to understanding. If we compare them with each
other, we find that both are senses for form; and therefore
the mediums of art and literature. Painting, sculpture, and
architecture, depend on sight, as music, poetry, and science,
on hearing. While the eye opens the universe with its
thousands of objects, the ear is their common echo, and
communicates to us their internal being. The eye is cold,
dwelling only on the surface of things, while the ear listens to every sound of nature, and makes us feel with all
that lives; for, whatever can emit sound, from the gushing
water, and the singing bird, to man, expresses by it the degree of its vigor, the manner of its life. The ear excites,
therefore, more deep sympathy than the eye. The statue
of Laocoon leaves us more cold than the description of his
sufferings in Virgil. Music breathes more life into us than
a picture. If in this respect the ear has an advantage over
the eye, the eye being more removed from feeling, is nearer
to thought. We compare truth with light; a prophet is a
seer. Truth illuminates. Again, thunder can be heard at no
greater distance than twenty or thirty miles, while lightning may be seen at the distance of fi-om one hundred and
twenty to two hundred and fifty miles; but what the eye
seems to gain in this respect, it loses in another, for it cannot see in the dark, while the ear hears as well in the night
as at any other time. We know, too, that instruction must
be addressed to the ear, and that a single word from a commanding officer will animate his soldiers far more than a
mere signal. Hearing makes social intercourse and the cul.
tivation of mind possible; for, as we have said, it has a
direct bearing on the understanding; as what we hear, we
naturally desire to understand. Sight has more reference
to the imagination, to hope, and other emotions, hence the
eye so easily betrays these emotions.  The eye was the
sense appealed to by the pictures and statues of Polytheism; in Monotheism, it is the ear; lawgivers, prophets, and
the Saviour addressed themselves to it.
The erroneous idea that the senses differ from each other
only in quantity, that, for example, sight is only a more re
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PSYCHOLOGY.
fined sense than feeling, taste more refined than smell, led
to the notion of the substitution of one sense for another.
The eye of blind persons, it is asserted, is altogether reduced to mere feeling; with some animals taste is wholly absent, and scent is their only pleasure in eating. The degree
of acuteness of the nerves, their greater or less development, and the external elements affecting them, produce
the different sensations. In accordance with this view it is
said, that one sense may take the place of another. When
I speak of sounds that are dark or clear, or of a sweet scent,
I ascribe the attributes of one sense to another, as if no
qualitative difference existed between them: and who has
not noticed that the scent of many an animal or firuit exactly resembles the taste of something with which we are
familiar? And yet, notwithstanding all this, it would be
highly incorrect to deny a total difference between the different senses and sensations.  however fine and sensitive
thefeeling of the blind may become, if he was born blind,
he cannot form a conception of color, though he may be
able, by touch, to distinguish between the surfaces of colors. But such a distinction resembles that which the ear
of the animal perceives in the sounds of the human voice:
it hears them, but not the words formed by them.
The formns in which alone we can perceive objects of
sense, are those of space and time. The former being extensive, is external, the latter protensive, is internal. Things
in space exist contemporaneously as the numerous stars of
the firmament; things in time succeed each other, and time
is itself its own succession. Whatever is in space must assume in its form the dimensions of space.  These are the
point, the line, the sphere.  Infusoria are globular points;
worms and serpents are long; fish and beetles are broad
or flat; and all the mammalia are voluminous. Time is divided into the past, the present, and the future. Whatever
is in it must belong to one of these divisions. Now we say,
all that is in time and space may be perceived bv one or
another sense, but space and time themselves are inaccessible to the senses; the past. for instance, is one of the divisions of time, but neither the eye nor the ear can perceive
that which no longer exists. Tile future, as yet, is not, anil
consequently cannot impress the senses.  So it is with the
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PSYCHOLOGY.
geometrical line-it is not tangible like a ribbon or string,
but can only be seen by the eye of the mind, as the geometilical point cannot be felt by the finger like the point of
a needle.
Oken, the renowned Natural Philosopher, has very ingeniously spoken of an external and internal sense, by
which to perceive the dimensions of Space and Time. As
the five senses stand related to sensation, so this external
and internal sense is related to what we may anticipate
here, Intellectual Perception, or that power of mind which
perceives objects in space and time. Space and Time are
the subjective forms of all our perceptions, and we can
perceive nothing except in them. We can by continued
abstraction empty space and time of their contents, but no
imagination can remove space and time themselves.  But
they are not only, as Kant maintained, the subjective forms
of our perceptions, they have an objective existence; they
are independent of our perceptions.  Now all that fills
space, for example, may be felt and perceived by our senses,
as they are the conditions of our  sensations; but space
itself, in which all material objects are, cannot be felt, cannot become the object of a sensation.  But it may become
the object of our external sense, which stands, as was said
above, related to our intellectual perception.  Space, when
regarded by itself, in abstraction from all it contains, is
nothing else than extension, (thie " out of each other," according to Kant;) it has three dimensions, which, to follow
legel's views, are the point, the line, and the sphere.
Neither of them is material, neither accessible to the touch,
the eye, or the palm.  The point of a needle may be very
fine, but it is still a material point, one that may be felt
ihe point in space is without any dimension, cannot be felt
at all, it must be perceivedl by intellect, and hence it is that
the external sense, which perceives it, is related to our intellectual perception, and intermediates it as the senses do
sensation.  The power to perceive these dimensions of
space is called sense, because it has reference to the five
senses.  So the point in space is a mere negation, nothing
positice; yet we may point to it, and if we do so it is with
the point of a finger. The line is likewise wholly inaccessible to our sensations; for though we may stretch a cord
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in a straight line, and handle it, it is not the line which we
touch, but the material of which the cord consists, which
may be silk, or flax, or hemp; yet here also our intellectual
perception of the line is aided by the feeling or touch rest ing in the point of the finger. And with the sphere it is
not otherwise. The eye, which is the sense for it, cannot
be affected by it, as it is affected by the stars of heaven, or
by any material object, it cannot have a sensation of it.
The sphere is only the object of intellectual perception, and
the eye is the sense that aids this perception. Its own form
is spherical, and as the feelers of snails and other insects
seem to be living lines, so the eye is a living sphere. Yet
to see a sphere, we must think; for a sphere is, where
from a common centre, (the point,) all the radii, (the lines,)
streani forth and form a periphery, so that neither a point
nor a line either recedes, or projects beyond the others.
Light forms the most perfect sphere, for all its rays flow
from one common centre, and exhibit a perfect periphery.
The internal sense has reference to time, and as the senses
of feeling and of sight aid our intellectual perception of
the dimensions of space, so those of smelling, tasting, and
hearing, aid our intellectual perception of the dimensions
of timne.  For though the future, for example, is wholly inaccessible to our sensations, yet is there some distant re.
lation between it and scent. Dogs, for example, discover
by their smell the distant both in space and time; the scent
of food causes a perception of the taste, which is as yet
afuture sensation.-The sense of hearing is related to our
perception of the past.  This can no longer be felt, we
can no longer have a sensation of it, but we may have a
perception of it, and this perception will be intermediated
by hearing.-The third dimension of time is the present,
and our perception of it is aided bv the sense of taste.
While eating and drinking we forget past (ares, and feel
unconcerned about the future.  We indulge ourselves, and
think not of the evil consequences which may result from
the brief pleasure.
With reference to time itself we may say the same as of
space; it is wholly impossible for us to abstract froom it,
though we may abstract from all contained in it. In that
case time only is left, and in this emptiness it is nothing
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else than protension, or its own succession, the dimensions
of which we have considered above. We become conscious of time and its nature by the changes that take place
in it, and which we partly observe in nature, and partly in
ourselves. But our consciousness of time and space in the
abstract is gained by reflection on the external and internal
sense. Both are active; the former flowing forth outwardly, as sight, the organ of which is convex and projecting; the latter inwardly, as hearing, the organ of which
is concave, immitting, not emitting.  When we now reflect
on the activity that flows outwardly, constantly expanding
or extending, this activity will assume the character of rest,
and present itself to us as space. And so it is likewise
with the activity of our internal sense. Its protensive activity, when it becomes objective to us, assumes the character of time.
Now the external sense might be called too the natural
sense, or the sense for nature; for all that is in nature, is
either by the side of each other, or in each other, or out of
each other, and this is the nature of space. And so the
internal sense may be called the'Historical sense, or the
sense for history; for all that is historical is after each
other, in a constant flow or succession. Nature is the
sphere of realitv; history that of ideality. By reality we
understand the existence of an object for another, whether
the object be conscious of this facd or not; as for example, the fountain of water has reality for the thirsty that
drink from it.  Nature, in which all exists, the one by the
side of the other, is therefore the sphere of reality, and has
a hold upon man and his scientific investigations that is
strong and lasting. By ideality we understand on thle other
hand the existence of a beingfor itself, its perceiving, un(lerstanding, knowing itself. Here all is contained in the
sphere of thought, for without thinking no one can be for
himself.  I may exist as I for another who is like myself
an I; but not for any being below me, not for the animal
for instance, that is not an I.-Now  realism and idealism
belong together, as nature and history, as the external and
internal sense. But as the one or the other prevails in a
person, we see him incline to the study of natural sciences,
and feel averse to history; or incline to the latter, and dis
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relish the former.  And so he will be either a realist or an
idealist in principle.   But  keeping himself within the
sphere of nature or history, and not admitting a world
above sense and touch, he cannot remove the contradiction
between realism and idealism, nor move freely in a science
of puie truth, holiness, beauty, etc., for that demands more
than a mere intellectual perception, it demands pure
thinking.
~ 2. OF ATTENTION.
We have seen that feelings and sensations are in themselves indistinct and confused, and that though they are the
beginning of all knowledge, yet lkno)wledge cannot be produced by theim alone.  This is manifest from the fact, that
while animals feel and have sensations like ourselves, they
have no knowledge or science.  That by which distinction
and clearness is produced in the feelings is attention.  It is
the basis of all knowledge, and even of self-consciousness.
Without it, we could neither perceive accurately, nor remember well, nor take cognizance of our own perceptions.
So when we are deeply engaged in meditation, we may
meet an intimate acquaintance, look in his face, and yet
pass him by without being conscious of knowing him.  Persons employed in iron works, take no notice of the noise
around them, but converse as if all were silent; and in the
field of battle, amidst the thunder of cannon, generals will
listen to the report of an officer as if not a breeze of the
air were stiriring. This they can do, as all will say, because
they pay no attention to the noise around them.  Hence it
is correct to say, that without attention, nothing exists for
the mind of man.  Without attention we may think and
have no thoughts, for our thinking will be only a kind of
dreaming or reverie: without attention we may travel for
years, yet gain no wisdom; we may be surrounded by the
choicest productions of art and discover no beauty. At
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tention therefore deserves our notice, and we shall inquire:
What activity of mind is called attention?
To understand Attention fully, we must consider it first,
as it is voluntary and as we are conscious of it, and secondly, as it is neither voluntary nor conscious, but as it precedes all the other mental faculties, and is active in the
child, which is as yet neither conscious of the world nor of
itself:
1. Attention in general, and as it exists in mature persons, is that activity by which the mind decides to turn for
a time, from every thing else, and direct itself to a particulai object.  It differs from observation, for this has an external object, and its aim is, to ascertain the nature of this
object and its relation to others.  Observation pre-supposes
and requires attention.  Again, attention differs from judging, or thinking, for judgment likewise has objects, which it
compares with each other. Attention is only the activity of
mind, by which it resolves to fix itself upon a single object;
it is therefore imlpossible without will-yet it may be drawn
iforth in various ways.   The novelty or contrast of things,
the pleasant or unpleasant manner in which they afbfect us,
or the interest which from any cause we take in them, may
serve to excite it.  So one sense will elicit the attention of
another-as, when we feel something crawling under our
fingers, our eyes involuntarily turn towards it, to see what
it is: or if we hear a gun discharged behind us, we  turn
to see whence the report came.   The eye also, directs the
ealr.  An officer in glittering uniform, riding up and down
before his soldiers, who change in their position at every
word he speaks, attracts the attention of the ear.   Or a
preacher of dignified exterior, appears for the first time be fore us in the pulpit; the eyes of all watch his motions,
and the ear is ready to catch his words   Interest in a
thing will call forth the attention-the musician will easily
be attracted by any thing concerning the life of a Mozart
or Beethoven, a Weber or Bellini; or by any of their com positions.  The psychologist discovers beauties in Shak speare, that many readers pass without perceiving. Ma nifold indeed are the sources of attention, and it would
lead us far to mention all of thenm. jet we must add one
more, and this is the will or resolution  it is easy to pay
19
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attention, where interest or inclination urge us to do so;
but such attention has no moral value, nor is it sufficient
for the study of a science. Every science has branches,
that at first excite no interest in us; we must therefore de termine by our will to attend to them. This attention
alone is a moral one, and deserves regard. Not that which
we do from natural impulse, deserves credit, but that which
receives attention by virtue of our will, even though it be
against our inclinations. This is the case, when accustomed to lighter reading, we for the first time take a scientific
book into our hands; we read a few pages and lay it aside
-neither interest nor inclination is attracted, and we pay
no farther attention to it. It is here that a resolute will
is necessary to urge us to give attention, even against inclination.
The objects of oiur attention may be various at the same
time. The captain of a ship in a storm has to direct his
attention to many things. The rope-dancer, who while he
walks the rope, moves a cane on a pivot, must attend both
to the cane and his feet.  Cosar  dictated seven letters at
a time.  But however different the objects to whichi it maay
be directed, attention is always and universally thie same
identical activity of the mind-as  the nature of sight or
hearing is never changed by the objects from -which they
receive their impressions, but remain the same whensoever
the impression may comie.
2. It is more difficult to comprehend attention in its origin, as it exists in the child, before it has become conscious
of itself, and consequently before it can will.  Attention as
a state of mind, is always voluntary; but attention as it
must necessarily precede will and every other activity of
mind, cannot be voluntary This has been felt by all psychologists, and some have, therefore, tried to explain its
origin by saying that it is caused by a heightened excitement of one of our sensations or senses. But in this case
it would be difficult to say why animals, especially the
higher kinds, cannot pay attention as well as man; yet it is
well known that they cannot do this. If the view alluded
to were correct, our attention would necessarily be proportional in its strength to our impressions; yet we know that
very strong impressions sometimes draw  forth very little
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attention, while slight ones attract much. It is true, that
sensations attract attention in a greater or less degree, but
attention does not originate in them. What then is the origin of attention?
This question does not propose to ascertain how atten ion is drawn forth after we are conscious of it, after we
by our will may charge ourselv es to be attentive;-its aim
is to examine attention as that activity of the mind, which
brings order and distinctness into our chaotic feelings, and
renders consciousness and judgment, and all the other activities of mind possible. As such it is a spontaneous, but
not a voluntary activity, and precedes the whole development of mind, as the plastic power precedes the growth of
the plant.
In its origin, and as the common basis of all the other
activities of mind, attention is the power by which mind
gives itself a direction, when as yet it has none, and is yet
unconscious of itself. The mind at this stage exists as
feeling, which includes all the succeeding stages of development, as the germ of the seed includes those of the whole
growing process. Feeling, however, as we have seen repeatedly, is without an object and without a direction, the
mere chaos, from which mind as the demiurge, is to build
its own world. If feeling had an object, it would be sensation and as such have a most determined direction. The
sensation of sight is directed outwardly to objects in space,
that of hearing inwardly to objects in time. But mere
feeling in general, however rich in contents, from the
deepest pain to the hightest pleasure, has no object and no
direction, and the mind in its first stage of existence is nothing but feeling. Now the question presents itself: How
does this feeling assume a direction, and mind become conscious of itself and of the world around it?  This cannot
be effected by the will of mind; for it is as yet undeveloped; nor by a conscious or arbitrary activity, for in that
case we should move in a circle and pre-suppose what we
wish to explain. We are therefore forced to admit an acticity in feeling, as the first stage of mind, which, neither
willed nor conscious of itself, but in distinction from both,
is spontaneous. This spontaneous activity slumbers in feeling and needs an external excitement, the influence of a de
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veloped and matured mind upon it. But this excitement
is only its condition and not its cause.
Another question with regard to this activity presses it self upon us, and it is this: What is its character? It
must be in the first place, without any direction to an external object, for in that case it would be the same as
perception, or developed attention, which may be demanded
and willed, as has been shown above. The activity before
us, as spontaneous attention, is the first and original direction, which the mind takes. This direction it takes not to
any thing different from itself, but to itself. Tile direction
takes place in itself as feeling, where all is yet chaotic,
without distinction, without separation, without order. The
direction is constantly repeated, and is the same, no matter
what may be its contents. It being the first direction
which mind gives itself, and being the direction, which
mind gives itself to itself, we may say with truth, that without it, mind could never develop itself, and that only with
it mind begins to exist for itself, as every thing else of
which the mind becomes conscious comes to its knowledge
only through it. With this direction itself the whole development of mind commences, for once conscious of itself,
it will not rest until all within it is drawn out. It is only
after the mind has taken this direction to itself, made itself
the object of its own reflection, that it may take a direction
away from itself to any thing else. As little as the eye that
is without light in itself can see, so little can mind without
distinctness in itself, distinguish between the external and
the internal. When we look into the eye of a child during
the first weeks of its existence, we see that it is active,
constantly moving, but we see also that its activity has no
direction. The light falls upon it, images of surrounding
objects are reflected on its retina, but it does not yet see
them, because its eye is not directed to them. Thus it is
with the feelings, before we are conscious of them, they
atre of course active; they possess pain and pleasure, as
they, for example, precede hunger and accompany its gratification: but they are not directed to any particular  object, and are therefore without a conscious direction.  The
same is the case with the whole mind.  It is for a long time
in a state of unconsciousness, and while in this state, has
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PSYCHOLOGY.
no direction. For when it is conscious of an object, it
must be directed to it; as long as it is not conscious of any
thing, it cannot have a direction, since no direction which
the mind takes can be entirely without consciousness. The
developed mind is then a self-conscious activity. Attention in its beginning, is spontaneous activity of the mind
that is not voluntary; but by which only choice becomes
possible; it is that activity by which mind, which as yet
has no direction, gives itself one, yet not to an external
object, but to itself in its first stage of existence, that is, to
feeling. Reflecting on feeling, it afterwards reflects on the
causes of feeling. By this direction of the mind to itself,
distinction is produced; one feeling is separated from another, sensation from sensation, and subject from object.
Were it not for this activity-the name given it is of little
consequence, we should be incapable of giving conscious
and voluntary attention to any thing; the animal has not
the former and consequently not the latter. It may point
the ear when an unusual sound excites its nerves and irritates the muscles, and correctly speaking, it cannot avoid
doing so, but must follow the direction from which a strong
impression reaches it: but it has no mind to direct to these
sounds.
The difference between attention, perception and obsei
vation, may be shown in the following manner. Attention
is the psychological ground of observation, and sensation
must furnish it with the particular object to be examined.
Our sensations and observations are limited to the sphere
of visible objects; we cannot observe things to which the
senses have no access: but attention has no such limits.
The last star that can be seen by the eye, does not arrest
and limit attention; it may direct itself farther, for its activity is infinite. Sensation and observation therefore are
limited, attention unlimited. Again, sensation is always of
necessity.  We cannot see without light, and cannot avoid
seeing when light is present. So we cannot hear without
sound and must hear when surrounded by noise. But attention is a free activity-by it I examine what I please;
analyse and re-unite parts, compare them with each other
and determine myself to turn from one to another. The
condition of all thinking and willing, is attention, as that
19*
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PSYCHOLOGY.
direction which is not determined, but which mind determines itself to take. Finally, sensation contains objects
and contents all united; attention, as preceding other mental activities, separates and distinguishes them from each
other; it is in this respect an act of disruption, by whichand this deserves notice-the objects of our sensations are
placed without us, in space and time; by which their contents are separated from our sensations, and our sensations
from ourselves. It is judgment in its lowest stage, and
judgment is attention in its most refined form.  As long as
we have merely a sensation of light, light and sight are yet
undivided: but attention will enable us to perceive that the
one may be where the other is not. The power perceiving this is higher than that of sensation; it is conception.
Thus the transition from sensation to conception is formed
by attention.
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CHAPTER II.
CONCEPTION.
IN commencing this chapter, I cannot avoid quoting the
words of' Stewart: "In a study such as this, so far removed from the common purposes of speech, some latitude
may perhaps be allowed in the use of words, provided only
we define accurately those we employ, and adhere to our
own definitions."
We have seen that attention in its commencement is an
activity that separates the objects of sensations from their
contents. and from the sensations themselves.
] 1. INTELLECTUAL PERCEPTION.
We feel a smooth surface, or touch something rough.
Smoothness or roughness are produced in our feelings by
the greater or less affection of the senses; they are there
fore felt as being in ourselves.  By attention, however, we
transfer them into the object, and pronounce them its quali
ties. As such they exist no longer in ourselves, in our sen
ses, but in the object that is in space and time. Seeing things
as contained in space and time, we do not merelv see them
with t.e eye of sense, but with the eye of the mind; our
seeing them is accompanied by consciousness; it is an intellectual, not a merely sensual sight by the senses. To distingitishl this seeing as accompanied by consciousness, from
the mtere sensation, we may call it an intellectual perception. It is the same with sensation, and differs from it only
by seeing its objects in space and time, and by being conscious of them. To understand this fully, we must remember that originally, and before attention has made the dis 
PYSCHOIOT,OGY.
tinction, tlhe ol,bjects of sensation do not exist as yet at all
for us, that they consequently are not at all distinguished
from their contents in our sensations, nor rcJfrre(d to each
other.  If the obljects miay be called exteirnal, the contents
are internal; now during that original state, the external
object and the internal contents are merged in each other;
there is, as yet, no external or internal, and the object be..
comes object to man only by attention, which separates the
contents from our sensations, and uniting them places them
in space and time. The sensation thus deprived of its contents, ceases to be what it was, and becomes an intellectual
perception or intuition.
We must here guard agyainst the idea, that the objects of
our sensations not only preceded but produced them.  The
tree, it is true, may stand many a decennium and never be
noticed; but if it is to become an object for mne, it can-become so only through that activity which separates the contents from my sensations, and transfers them into space and
time. That activity does not, of course, place the contents
in my sensations, but finds them there, and all it does is to
unite theIn, and pronounce them, when united, the thing or
object, and when considered by themselves, the qualities of the
object. The contents of my sensations are for example,
sharpness to my tongue, whiteness to my sight, and hardness to my feeling.  I transferi these contents, which severally fill and burden one of my senses, into space, unite them,
and there see or rather perceive salt. Before this act of separation, the object does not exist at all for the mind, and
hence we may see once more the importance of knowing
something about attention, not as it exists ripe and mature,
but as it is the activity, that precedes every other mental
exercise, and through which not only every thiing else, but
mind begins to have an existence for itself. The example
of the blind man, to whom Cheselden gave sight, may be
remembered here, but another instance may serve to make
the above still more clear. The child, before it is attentive,
undoubtedly has sensations; it sees, hears, feels, and smells.
But it does not vet distinguish the objects and contents of
its sensations from the sensations themselves: it does not
separate them from each other.  It sees, for instance, the
table in the room, but runs against it and hurts itself; it
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PSYCHOLOGY.
sees the precipice, and does not shun it; it sees the moon,
and stretches its little hands to seize it. Why does it so?
Because all it sees rests yet undivided on the retina of its
eye; but no sooner does its mind reflect on its feelings, than
it will be induced bv them to reflect on the objects which
called them forth, and thus learn to distinguish. This is not
yet an act of judgment; children, in their infancy, especially before they have become conscious of themselves,
do not judge. When the child, therefore, no longer runs
against objects, but shuns them; when it no longer sees
things only with its bodily eye, but perceives them as they
co-exist in space, or as they succeed each other in time 
when it sees them with its mind-then the child unconsciously, and yet fi-eely, has made distinctions by virtue of
that abstract attention which is represented above as the
origin of all attention. When I approach a large city for
the first time, and view it from a neighboring eminence, it
appears like a confused mass of houses: if, after examining it, I see the houses and streets in their regular arrangement my sight of it is no longer merely bodily, but mental.
Or if we hear music below our windows while asleep, we
do not hear the melody or harmony, but only sounds. We
awake, and a feeling is excited. We reflect upon it, that is,
our mind is directed to it, and tries to discover what is going on in it, and thus by it is led to attend to the sounds,
and to discover the melody in the sounds as they fall upon
the ear. This whole process, from feeling to perception,
may be very rapid, and in mast cases may not be at all noticed by us. Yet though its single stages may melt into each
other, they must always be passed through. These few examples, it is hoped, will sufficiently show that there is a
difference between seeing a thing only with the bodily eye,
and seeing it as contained in space and time.
~ 2. OF CONCEPTION.
We have seen the origin and nature of intellectual perception.  It has no contents in itself, for it perceives every
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PSYCHOLOGY.
thing out of itself. Yet the contents of sensations continue
as objects in space and time, as does also the person who
once had these sensations; by the intellectual perception
a connection is kept up between these objects and the person. The objects were once present to his sensations, yet
not as objects, but merely as contents of the different
senses, confused and without order; as objects they are
not contained in the senses, but in space and time, and are
external.  They are, however, to become internal, and the
power that renders them so is conception. It transfers the
objects of space and time into ourselves, and gives them
an internal existence. Yet not the objects, as they would
burden the senses, but only their images arc received.
The contents of conception are those of ouir former sensations; they were, as we have seen transferred into space
and time, and now  they are received back into the mind,
not as they really exist, but by their images.  By these
images, which are wholly ideal, a relation is brought about
between ourselves and the things of which they are the
images, for while the objects exist without us, or in space
and time, their images are within us. What then are we
to Understand by an image?
1. There are many images which are no conceptions;
as when thie infant is held before a looking-glass, its image
is reflected, but it does not notice it. Here is an image in
the mirror, but not in the mind of the infant.  This image
may be perceived by other persons, and they may form a
conception of it; but it will be in the mirror whether seen
or not.  So when a tree stands near clear and transparent
waters, its image will be reflected by them; this image
rests on the surface of the water, but it is not a conception, until our eye has seen, and our mind perceived it.
The image of our mind miust be gradually formed; the
object of which it is the image, must have been felt, it must
lhave been separated from our senses by that act of disruption before mentioned, and transferred from our senses
into space and time, must have been formed, and there received back by us. Without sensation then we could form
no image of an external object, and those who are of
opinion that Homer, whose works are replete with imagery
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PSYCHOLOGY.
was blind, must have a filmn over their own eyes. Milton
and Ossian were blind, but had sight in their youth.
2. The image is therefore the same as the thing which
it represents, and yet there is a difference between them.
The thing is not the image, for it exists in space or time.
Thus the zebra is the object of which I have an image; it
is made up of life, feelings, sensations, blood, nerves, limbs.
All of them have reality, they exist in the animal, as they
do not in the image we have have formed of it.  On the
other hand again, the image is the same as the object, for
it cannot be without it, and unless it include what the object includes, it is not its true image. We see here two
views of the same subject that are in direct opposition to
each other.  Neither of them is wholly correct: the image
is, and is not the object. It is not the object, for the object has reality, independent of the image and of man; —
it would exist, whether we perceive it or not. So its contents are all of them real qualities that exist independent
of our conceptions. Again, it is the object, for it could not
be found without it; but it is the object, not as it exists in
space and time, as it is real-it is the ideal object. The
image has therefore the same contents as the object, with
this difference, the one has them as they exist in the mind
ideally, the other as they are in the material thing, really.
We would say, therefore: by the power of conceiving, the
contents of an object, and the object itself become contents of our conceptions or images.
3. Though the image is the ideal object, and fully represents the latter, yet it is less complete than the object represented by it. When we first see and examine a thing,
all its parts, whether essential or not, impress themselves
upon us; but these unessential parts would burden without
benefiting us. Conception, therefore, refines these contents, and thrusts out what is not necessary to give a faithful image of the nature of the thing. In examining a beautiful statue, I observe every little thing about it, and even
such marks as do not form a necessary part of it. When
I leave the statue, I take its image with me, but the accidental circumstances under which I saw it, and all that
does not strictly pertain to it. I suffer to be left out of the
image. The image of a beautiful person has impressed
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PSYCHOLOGY.
itself deeply upon my mind; but the unpleasant voice or
the large foot are no longer included in it. And as the
image in the course of time grows less complete, so it becomes more general. Every image is that of a single object, and is consequently itself single; but the person that
hlas the image, as he sees one object, sees many others ot'
the samie kind, and thus of the whole forms a general image.
I have the image of a certain rose, which I saw in the hand
of a friend; this rose has faded-but I have seen many
other roses like it, and the image of the former rose, how
ever well defined and accurate it may have been, will at
length become so general, that it would represent all roses
as well as it represents this one.
Though sensations are the general source of all images, so
that a poet who had never seen a sunset would be unable
to depict it, yet it is not necessary that all the images in our
minds should have originated in our own sensations.  The
descriptions of travelers are a rich source of images; yet
unless we have seen something similar to what is described
to us, we cannot form a conception of it. A nation that
lives at a distance from the ocean, will find it difficult to
form an idea of a storm at sea.
Of these images the mind is full, and as one after another enters the mind, many must be rendered dim and
indistinct by those which are newer and more vivid, and
sink as others rise to consciousness. Thus they would be
lost to us, like jewels dropped into the ocean, if the mind
had not the power to recall and revive them. It is the
mind, and not a lifeless receptacle in which these images
sink; the self-conscious mind, therefore, retains them as it
formed them, and though they are not present to consciousness, they are not lost. If they have ever existed in the
mind with clearness and vividness, with order and accuracy, they will never be forgotten, though their colors may
fade.  As the vase filled with perfume will retain it as long
as it exists, so the mind will be affected by all its past
images, and must be able to summon them to re-appear,
and this its capacity is called, Fancy.
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PSYCHOLOGY.
~ 3. FANCY.
Fancy is a higher stage of conception. Its images are
those of the latter, perfectly free from all accidental additions, from every appearance of impressions by sense.
This will appear from the following-an image may exist
in the mind independent of the perception of the object;
the image and perception may, therefore, be separated, for
though the image may disappear from the sphere of consciousness, the mind has the power to recall it, and has this
power without being reminded of the image by the sight
of the object. The image is, therefore, freed from all dependence on the natural object, or the perception of it. It
is a true conception by which the mind can represent a
thing or object to itself, whenever or wherever it chooses,
and however distant in space or time may be the object to
be represented. Again, the recognition of the image in the
object, or of the object in the image, is an act of subsumption. For, when after we have a conception of a thing, we
recognize it as soon as it presents itself again, we refer the
image to our perception of the thing, and thus recognize
the one in the other. By this recognition the image in our
mind may be corrected, no less than our peiception of tho
thing may be guided by the image previously formed of it.
For example, the image of a beautiful landscape remains in
my mind; traveling the night, I approach the same scenery without knowing where I am-on awaking I at once
feel as if the scenery were known to me; I observe more
closely, recognize in the scenery the image I had before
formed of it, and thus confirm my image no less by my
perception than this by my image. Or, a beautiful melody
slumbers in my mind; I have neither heard nor thought
of it for years; when, unexpectedly, it is played in my
hearing; I do not at first recognize it, though it sounds fa iniliar to me.. I listen with the ear of the mind, and joyfully
salute in the melody an old acquaintance.  Let us now in (uire, first, I-ow this reproduction of past images is pos sible? And, secondly, What are its laws?
1. All images, as we have before said, remain in the
mind; they are numerous, and of very opposite natures.
20)
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Wet they are not isolated; but all are connected by a com mon tie; this tie is our personal consciousness.  A thread
may connect the most beautiful pearls; but each pearl is
unconscious of the others, and the thread knows nothing
of the treasures it serves to unite. But the Iwhich con nects these images, knows of all of them, predicates them
as its contents, and thus unites them with each other and
with itself. Though many of these images disappear from
present consciousness, the I which keeps all in a relation to
each other, and holds them as its treasures, can at any time
dive into its own depths, and raise the seemingly lost image
to light. And this re-production is not connected with much
labour, but the images appear spontaneously like the tables
of Ilephaistos, that spread themselves whenever the gods
wished to feast; or, like Solomon's ring, which presented
a new assemblage of spirits with every turn.
It is then our personal consciousness that includes and
governs the images of the mind. Yet there are some that
seem to force themselves upon us against our will, and how
much soever we may desire to repel them. Shakspeare has
illustrated this very forcibly in his Macbeth, and Goetho
in his Iphigenia, when Orestes is haunted by unpleasant
images.
2. The images in the mind are related to each other by
the I, which formed them from the materials furnished by
the sensations, and which possesses and keeps them all connected. Hence, as a general rule, it may be stated, that as
different images are subjectively united in the mind, so
they will present themselves in this relation to each other
when one of them is re-produced. This is the principal
basis of the association of ideas, and on it rest all its laws.
These we will consider in a few words:
And first, When different images have been produced by
different senses at the same time, the one will be recalled
to the mind when the other makes its appearance. WVe
have spent a pleasant hour in agreeable company; the
room was filled with delicate perfumes, and we were delighted by the fragrance. Whenever we recall the fragrance, the images of the persons we then saw, the order
in which they stood or sat, and even the conversation that
took place, will be vividly recollected.
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PSYCHOLOGY.
Secondly. The images in the mind have their objects in
space. They exist together-none is isolated, but the beautiful cathedral is surrounded by houses, streets and openra
squares.  When  the image of the cathedral rises, our
fancy, if it be energetic and vivid, will reproduce the
images of all the objects surrounding the cathedral. Any
one who has seen the City Hall of New-York, and preserved an image of it, will also have transferred to his
mind the surrounding space as the common platform of
many other objects; when at a distance from New-York
he recalls the image of the Hall, the image of the space
around, with all its objects, will present themselves-the
park, with its iron railings, the broad streets encompassing
the park, and the fine buildings lining the streets, &c.
Thirdly. Space remains always the same, though what is
in it may change. Time is but change and succession. The
place where old Athens stood, still remains; the time when
it first stood there is gone for ever. Yet we rarely remember a place without remembering the particular time when
we saw it. The images, the objects of which are in time,
must, like the latter, succeed each other, so that the image
of one thing is followed and preceded by other images. In
this connection images likewise exist in our mind, and one
revives all of them. We recall the image of a dying friend,
and all connected with it rise to view: we see his suffering face, the positions in which he lay-and then his funeral procession. Persons of lively but uncultivated fancy,
will so fill their narrations of past events with accidental
circumstances, that it is often difficult to keep the train of
their ideas. On the whole, images, the objects of which
were in time, present themselves more easily than those,
the objects of which are in space. It is likewise more difficult to represent the latter to others than the former.
This homer knew, when, instead of describing the shield
of Achilles, he leads us to the place where it is manufac tured, and shows us part after part as it is fabricated.
Thus he communicates, in succession, what he would other wise have had to depict simultaneously. Hence, too, poetry
is more generally attractive than painting.
Fourthly, Images elicit each other by contrast or resemb lance. An Otaheitan youth called the falling flakes of snow.
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white rain. A chief of the Otaheitans called a repeating
watch, a little sun. In both instances, two images presented themselves together, while they had only a single mark
in common with each other. The image of a fine commodious rail-road car may readily call up that of an old uncomfortable rattling stage-coach. Images that contrast,
at the same time complete, and thus render each other more
vivid.
Fifthly, The law of cause and effect brings images in
connection. Whoever thinks of a Gothic building, will
involuntarily perceive in his mind the taste of the age
when Gothic architecture prevailed, the manners, laws, habits, religion, all of which harmonized, and were active in
producing this noble style of architecture.
Sixthly, Many concrete images are brought in connection by a general one, which comprises them as the whole
does its parts. Every image is at first as concrete as the
thing of which it is the image; it is therefore single, occupying a certain place, and in a certain time. But when
once we have conceived it, and then perceive it in ourselves we gradually free it, as we have stated, of its individual peculiarities, and thus abstracting firom them, we
form an image that is more general. I have, for instance,
the image of a mocking-bird; as such it is a single image,
in which plumage, bill, eyes, and wings, are vividly represented.  So of the Baltimore Oriole; its colors, and lively
motions. But abstracting from colors, motions, bill, &e.
I retain an image, which is that of birds in general, and
not of a single individual, so that when it presents itself,
the images of many species, as eagles, ravens, doves, &c.
will be suggested, and in number proportioned to my knowledge of ornithology. So every one has a general image
of all butterflies, which he has gained from individual ones.
Having it once, he is by it reminded of the different classes
of butterflies. The image of a general character, loses
more or less its reference to the single object of which it
is the image, and gains a more direct relation to the species,
yet these general images are not the same as the classes or
species into which judgment divides nature; they are collective but not generic, they express what is common to
many, buit not the soul that unites them internally.  The
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image by its general character, however, becomes thus still
miore free, and refined, and the activity of mind we have
called conception and fancy, are elevated and become,
~ 4. IMAGINATION.
We must ever keep in view, that mind is an identical
life, but at the same time existing in different organs, which
have been called faculties. The comparison of the life of
mind with that of a tree, may be once more noticed. The
contents of sensations are those of conception, and they
are also those of imagination. As contained in imagination, however, they are less sensuous and more general in
their character, and are, therefore, less limited in extent,
and leave us more free in their application. Imagination
is consequently a freer activity than conception. The latter takes originally all its images as they pecl off from their
objects; fancy calls them forth from the depths of the mind
in certain connections and combinations; imagination itnites
them freely, independent of the laws of association There
is another difference between imagination and conception,
which deserves mention here.  Tihe inmage of conception,
as has been stated, is not exactly the same as its object;
for the object has reality independent of the image. The
images of imagination on the other hand, are the free productions of imagination, and have no existence in reality,
as for example, the image of the centaur: these images of
imagination are therefore truly the objects themselves.
This independence of the mind, in uniting the most different conceptions, and produce new ones, begins to exhibit
itself at least in some degree in fancy.'Every conception
may become the centre, from which I may summon manv
others to appear.  What is there to prevent me, when I
think of the cathedral at Strasburg, from directing my at tention to Erwin of Steinbach, its celebrated architect, or
to Goethe's treatise on it, or to the misconception of Gothic
architecture which so long prevailed. So I may turn to
20-:
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the guild of architects of the middle ages, to masonry or
mysteries in general. Or I may direct my thoughts to the
stone of which the cathedral is built; to its pictures, its
bells; the French Revolution that once threatened its de struction, or Alsace of which it is the ornament.' Now if
law is the power which is the union of the manifold, their
common soul and which unites the individuals and brings
them in relation to each other, upholding order and regu larity, what is the law in the above transitions?  Fancy is
undoubtedly more fiee in associating conceptions or ideas,
than those who place so great a stress upon the laws of association, or suggestion as some prefer, would be willing to
admit. Not ten nor twenty laws would fully show the nature of association, for as the fancy of a person is more
or less vivid and distinct, more or less active or inert,-so
it will combine more or less freely.   Why  may not the
idea of substance call forth that of accidence? or that of
phenomena the idea of cause? or that of end the idea of
means?  It is certain therefore, that fancy is free in its
combinations, and more  so when  it associates different
ideas by its own power.  In the latter respect it rises towards imagination, yet it is not the same, for fancy is only
ireproduiictive, while imagination more free is productive.
The richer the former, the richer the latter. To define
ilnagination, we would say,
1. It is the activity of mind which with ease and fireedom unites different images or creates new ones, having
been furnished with the materials for them, by sensation
and conception.  Such images of imagination are those of
Amazons, Cyclops, Syrens, fairies, elves, giants, and dwarfs,
&c.  These images cannot be seen in nature, they are
therefore in one respect Htew, and yet thie parts of which
they consist, are furnished by sensation or percel)tion, and
consequently met with out of us.
2. Inmagination is the power to call forth images for the
purpose of clothing an idea or thought which arises in the
mind.  The  images thus called foirth may  be variously
modified to render them appropriate vehicles of thoughlt.
This no one will dispute who is aware that as the mind
constantly grows in cultivation, its conceptions must likewise become more correct, so that as often as they are re
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PSYCHOLOGY.
produced, they will bear the impress of the mind's improvement. Imagination then, is the power which modifies
the inages once received, creates new ones of them, andgives
them contents whichl do not originally belong to them.
Some examples will show this more satisfactorily: I
think of strength; my imagination being lively, seeks for
an image by which to express it; it takes the image of the
lion, places its thought in it, and thuis the lion becomes the
symbol of strength.  Again, the idea that man if left to
himself, is without any knowledge of heavenly things, and
cannot speak concerning them, is a thought produced by
reflection. This thought imagination desires to represent
in an external form. It therefore creates an image to
which it gives it as its contents. The Egyptian statue of
Memnon was the symbol thus created.  It was made of
marble, its face turned towards the rising sun, and it gave
forth lovely sounds when the first rays fell upon it. So
man is mute and dead till heavenly light awakens him.
Guido represents a pious and beautiful virgin, sitting alone
at her needle; two angels attend her. What does this
mean? Innocence and diligence are honored 10y heavenly
spirits.
The contents placed in an image, may be a number or
cluster of thoughts, and then instead of one we must have
many images. When connected it is called an allegory.
The thought that man consists of soul and body, is connected with the idea, that whatever he is in regard to intellect, he is by having freed himself from his animal passions. The Egyptian sphinx is an allegorical representation of this; in it the head of a woman grows forth, and
rests on a body composed of parts of different animals,
mingled with each other. This means, that humanity,here represented by a woman-must by its own power
emerge from the dominion of animal desires. Or Eros, love.
sitting upon a lion, strength, and guiding him with a silken
cord, moderation, shows that love softens the strongest.
Cerberus with three heads, and Argus with a hundred eyes,
express the ideas that watchfulness must look in every
direction. The centaur is the symbol of prudence, swiftness, and considerateness.
Imagination, as it may place its contents in the works of
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painting and sculpture, may also express them by soundv,
that is, music, and words, which is poetry. A person of
imagination, not only feels anxious to express his thoughts
and ideas in a sensible form, but his feelings and emotions
likewise. Joy and grief, pain or pleasure, fear and hope,
anxiety and expectation, gayety and melancholy, fill the
breast of man, and go and come with never-ceasing changes.
The greater part of our inmost feelings and most tender
emotions, do not become entirely objective to ourselves,
but are grown together with the heart their common seat,
mysterious and not understood. Images have their objects
existing in reality; the images of imagination, though they
are not real, may be made to assume an external form, and
thus become objective to us by the chisel or the brush; but
it is utterly impossible to represent ourfeelings in an external form, or to convey them by language. F'or the latter
is also intended for general conceptions only. The medium
by which alone we can make a representation of our feelings to ourselves and others, is that of musical sound. But
sounds are not all musical; the murmuring of brooks, the
roaring of forests, the humming of bees, the whistling of
the wind, and the song of birds, are not in themselves musical; they also become so in relation to us, after we place
feelings with which they harmonize in them, and hear tihe
feelings expressed by them.  What is it-if this slight
digression may be permitted,-that interests us in the
mournful sounds of the nightingale, when concealed in the
thicket, she sends forth her plaintive notes, that sweetly
swelling fill the valley and touch every heart?  Is it not
that we imagine the nightingale giving utterance to her
grief, as we would to ours, in song?  Does not the Greek
mnythos inform us that she is grieved, and that she breathes
forth her grief in melodious notes? Suppose some one
should accurately imitate her, should we after discovering
it, consider this imitation attractive, or the sounds musical? Every bird that sings, expresses the peculiar feeling
of its own existence, by its peculiar note, and how different
is the note with which the mother mourns, when a mnischievous boy has stolen her young, from those with which
she calls them, and those which she has in her common
state of existence! Sounds become musical also by their
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PSYCHOLOGY.
richness, clearness, fullness, purity, and by the relation of
the different sounds to each other, by rhythm, time, harmnony, and melody, by their connections, transitions, and
various modifications.
What is it now, that makes musical sounds susceptible
of representing our emotions and feelings? Sounds like
feelings cannot assume a shape or form in space; they float
only in time. So our feelings have an existence in tine
only, not in space, since they are without external form
and visible expression. They change and pass away like
sounds; sounds, therefore, closely resemble feelings in this
respect, and are the very element in which they may live
and move. Hence the movements of music easily enter
the seat of feeling, the heart and its emotions, and as while
we listen, consciousness has nothing external to engage its
attention, as the music draws its attention to the feelings
of the heart, it becomes merged in them, and is borne along
on thle stream of expressive harmonies and lovely melodies.
Thus we see that music is an excellent medium by which
to express and call forth the feelings.  Again, as harmonies
and melodies afbfect oui feelings and not out judgment like
paintings, statues, &c., so it is timie that renders sounds in
their connection musical, and that affects us pleasantly.
For wre are in time, and time is in us; and so sound again
re'sts only in time.  Thus we and sounds have a common
element, and when sounds are well measured and follow
each other in order, they enter into our feelings, and prodnce the same rhythmical motions in us.  Now it will be
understood why a'll sounds are not musical, for time is the
first element of music; yet no animal can keep time, neither
in its walk nor in any thing it does; neither (lo birds hkeep
time in their songs.  The art of keeping time belongs to
man, and is not met with in all nature, even in the niotion
of the heavenly bodies, which accelerate and  ieta d their
course; the music of the spheres must therefore diffi r fi )om
ours in this respect.
We see, then, that music has all its elenients in co:,iiioNt
with ourselves.  In it we do not hear any thiing( different
from ourselves, but the heart hears itself, as if the light in
its purity could see itself. Time is common to our feelings
and to sound; sounds in themselves, by their purity or
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PSYCHOLOGY.
clearness, softness and richness, accord with particular feelings, like interjections and exclamations; while harmonies
and melodies unfold our joy and grief in all their depth
and fullness.
But imagination does not only place our emotions and
feelings in music, but also thoughts and conceptions. In
this case we are in the habit of saying, music accompanies
songs, while songs are themselves already music.  Music,
by itself, and music as an accompaniment, differ only itheir contents; the former hasfeelilgs for its contents
latter conceptions. Here again we must distinguish.
,sician places either the feeling which has been 
id in him by reading a poem, in his music, or his de,.
is to represent by music conceptions themselves. In the
former case, the composer studies a poem until he enters
fully into its spirit, and receives an impression which will
iResembile the feeling under the influence of which the poet
composed the piece. He then will, by his imagination, place
this impression or feeling in sounds. The character of the
poem will ibe that of the melody, and this will call forth
sympathly in the hearts of the hearers.  This is the case
with Zelter's beautiful and classical compositions to GCoethe's
and Schiller's poems.  Zelter says himself, that he learned
those pieces by heart, studied their chlaracter, gave hii.seif
,14) wholly to the impressioll received firom them, and sung
the melody in his mind.
Haydn's Creation. on the other hand, Handel's Messiaih,
Bethoven's Oratorios, Mozart's Operas, have, as their conients, conceptions and ideas placed in themi by imagination.
Thnese composers did not wish to throw their private feelings into these compositions, but to represent ideas themselves.  Yet even here these ideas are not represented  )v
music to the judgmeit or unid(erstatn(iig, but to the hecrt,
and the feelings called forth, foli examnple, by light, by the
seasons, by the crucifixion, are intended to be awakened in
us by sounds. We shall feel the emotions produced by these
phenomena; we shall merge ourselves in them and experience them fully. It is scarcely necessary to say, that nothing ariouses us more quickly than music.  The Marseilles
Hlymn of the French revolution, the classical church  mnusic of the middle ages, the operas of Mozart, the lovely
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PSYCHOLOGY.
melodies in Freischutz, how they excite and animate! The
Requiem of Mozart, his master-piece, how it makes us feel
the melancholy of the composer, which remains so fully
in it!
After this rather long digression on music, in which we
have indulged, because music generally receives less attention than the other arts, it only remains for me to say, that
the poet also, by imagination, places his thoughts in his
poetry. To do this he makes use of language. The sound
as the articulate word is no longer desired on its own'account, but as means; and words become the mere vehicle
of thoughts. Thus Homer embodied his reflections on
wrath, haughtiness, and voluptuousness, in the characters
of Achilles, Agarmemnon, and Paris, his reflections on connubial fidelity in Penelope, on prudence in Ulysses, on life
in general, in his Iliad and Odyssey. Goethe, in his Iphigenia, represents the thought, that truth and humanity in the
beautiful genius of a mild and tender girl, will conquer
even the rudeness of a barbarian. Sophocles exhibits the
power of a sister's love, by bringing its divine power in
contact with the human statute of Creon, and by exhibiting the victory of the former over the latter, in the bosomn
of the tender Antigone. And what is the case in epic and
dramatic, is, of course, so too in lyric poetry. Does not
Pindar's grave imagination place all its high and noble
thoughts in the stories it relates? Does it not use these fables as if they were invented for these contents, which
Pindar is desirous of representing in a sensible form?
From the above it must sufficiently appear, that imagination as the basis of arts creates an unreal but powerful and
beautiful world. By it all objects and images receive ideal
substance, and there is nothing too good to become the receptacle in which imagination may place the contents of
the mind.  h; ile the man of business sees nothing in spring
but flowers and hills, the eye of imagination perceives in
the flowers and ornamented hills the connubial garlands of
spring; when the former hears nothing but the noise of a
running brook, imagination hears the murmuring wateirs
express their joy, that they are no longer chained by the
ice, but have been freed by spring to which they sing their
zon;.
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PSYCHOLOGY.
Characteristics of Imagination.
In continuing the subject of imagination, it must be understood that its character is also that of art, that in describing it, we in truth represent the nature of the latter.
With this view we suffer ourselves to indulge this interesting topic somewhat beyond the symmetrical proportion
which the different parts of a book ought to exhibit in their
relation to each other.
And first, Imagination is originally imitative. This assertion, however, has been disputed, for it seems at first sight
to make nature the teacher of man-to indicate that he
learned from the fish to swim, from the beaver to build houses
from the spider to weave the net with which he can catch
the fish in the water, and the bird in the air.  This is repulsive to tile laws of nature; all offence, however, will be
done awav as soon as we ascertain the true meaning of
imitation.  It means nothing else than "to reproduce the
exact measure of such phenomena as we perceive in nature or in the lives of other beings."  This capacity is by
no means to be despised, for here also man shows himself
to be the lord of nature, since there is nothing in it which
hie cannot unite with himself and make subservient to his
purposes.  All the lower classes of animals, some of which
are docile in a high degrce, fel no inclination whatever to
.imitate, and only birds are attracted by sounds, and monkeys by the motion,s of man to attempt it. But this imitation of animals rests on an instinctive, dark and confused
sympathy, while that of mlan is voluntary and designed for
certain purposes. These are at first the removal of wants
and necessity; but soon man delights in the skill hie has acquired in imitating nature, and  cultivates art for its sake.
This skill manifests to him his power; especially when. as
was.the case with several distinguished painters in ancient
times and in the Dutch schools, the resemblance deceives
the eye.  Who is not here reminded of the grapes of Zeuxis
at which birds pecked; of the painted insects  toirn to
pieces by a monkey, anxious to take hold of them; of the
horse on canvass, neighed at by that of Alexander; and of
the painted linen cloth that even deceived a miastei iii the
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PSYCHOLOGY.
art of painting? Yet imagination cannot for a long time
delight itself in this mere skill and dependence on nature.
The productions of nature have, on the one hand, a decided superiority over those of imagination, for the flower in
my garden blooms, breathes and exhales, while that on paper is but imitation and has no life. It is for this reason
no doubt that the Mohammedans object to art; for they
say that all these workls of art resembling so much the
works of nature, will rise in the day of judgment and demand a soul of the artist. On the other hand, if mere
skill is that which delights, beauty cannot be the object but
only correctness, and in this case it could not matter whether the object imitated is a blade of grass or a beautiful
bird, if the resemblance is only effecteld.
Imagination is not satisfied with such imitation; freeing
itself from it, it will at first indulge fancies and images that
cannot be met with in nature.  Elves peeping forth from
the cups of flowers, or fairies slipping into them when the
sun rises; clouds surrounding a picture, that exhibit angels
when closely examined, and garlands of flowers, in the
cLIps of which we discover beautiful faces;-such pictures
are the products of an imagination freeing itself from natuie. When the desire to be perfectly free, is indulged to
excess, we get caricatures, witches, and faces that have no
truly intellectual character whatever.
By imitating all that nature contains, man becomes acquainted not only with its usefulness, but also with its general nature. In it he soon recognizes something divine.;
fo        r      while all the  individual beings are constantly going and
cominng,                     appearing and disappearing, it remains permnanently the same, unchangeable and the prototype of all the individual  forms o      f      a  species. Ha ving compared image with
ima     ge, the     eye of genius sees what is no where realized in
one individu         al; it sees the  prototype of all, which the individual   is lwholly incapable of expressing in a faultless nianner.               The idea of perfect beauty has arisen in the mind of
t    h    e      artist. He  seeks for it in reality but cannot find it.
A               hair, a mole, a l arge foot, will render the otherwise perfect beauty of a lady imperfect. So it is with every thing
in             history an d   elsewhere.   Our purposes mav be noble,
but external circumstances attach themselves to their exe
21
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PSYCHOLOGY.
cution, and they are not what they were designed to be
Historical actions may have been well and fully designed,
but only a part of the design has been carried out, the rest
of the actions were accidental. The imagination of the
artist having conceived the ideal of beauty, and having
sought in vain for it in reality, sketches it on canvass, represents it in the statue, or breathes it into language.  This
idea of beauty is infinite and invisible, and placing it in a
sensible form, the artist unites the infinite and finite, the invisible and visible, and as by a magic mirror he renders the
one visible in the otheri. This union of the invisible and
visible, of thought and sensible form, is beauty. To see it,
there is more than an accurate bodily eye required; and
he who has not the soul of beauty in his own mind, will
never discover it out of himself. Compositions like those
of Mozart; cathedrals like those at Cologne and Strasburg; landscapes like those of Claude Lorraine, are not
met with in nature.  And here it may be well to introduce
the views of some celebrated artists on this point.  Raphael and Guido confess, the former, that he could not find
any model for his female beauty, his Galatea; the latter,
that he sought in vain for a model for his archangel.  Raphael adds in his letter, in which he states the above"Because I cannot find the ideal of my  Galatea in reality,
I make use of a certain idea."  [This word used in the
sense of Plato.]   When  Zeuxis, requested by a city to(
paint Helena, asked for five of the most beautiful Oils as
models, did he not say, that there was no single vTilgin
equal to his ideal of beauty?  Hence Winkelmann is correct in saying: Nature may exhibit single parts of as gi-eat
beauty, as art ever produced; but beauty as a whole, nature must yield to art.  Goethe said once to Eckernann;
the heads of two horses of ancient date and lately found
are of such beauty, that the English, the best horsemen in
the world, are constrained to acknowledge tliat they nevei
saw such horses in reality. And again: when once asked
respecting a picture of Rubens', lie said: such scenery has
never been seen in nature; this we owe to the poetical
genius of Rubens.
A good iinagination, however, is not'anatural; it makes
use of the objects of nature, and puts the riches of its own
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PYSCHOLOGY.
soul into them. So Goethe says of Claude Lorraine; he
knew the world, and used it as a means by which to express his rich soul.
Though we fear to swell this portion too mnuch, we cannot deny ourselves the pleasure of adding two questions
more with regard to art; What is its truth?  What is its
aim?
With regard to the former question a host of views ought
to be met if space would allow it.  "Poetical truth is fictitious, and hence having no reality, is of no value." This
is the creed of many persons. With them all truth consists in the mere real existence of a thing, and yet so much
every falsehood, every theft, every crime claims for itself,
for all of them have at least an existence. Real truth,
however, is not the mere external existence of a thing, but
its rational and general nature.   If I say: "this plant
blooms," and a few days after any one goes to see whether
it is so, it may have shed its flowers, and consequently
what I said is no longer true. But if I name the species
of the plant, its kind, describe its form and manner of life,
as this belongs not only to it as an individual, but to its
species, I have given truth; and whether any one sees the
plant that I see, or another of the same kind, he will know
what I know.   Or the truth is a historical one.  Here the
opinion is that the correctness of thefact is the truth of
history. If so, the French would be right in asserting that
we have no history, but only the notions of historians. For
all history is related by language; language, however, is
so general in its expressions that it is whlolly impossible for
it to express any thing entirely individual.  If' I say: he
squinits, I can convey only something general; many squint,
but each one in a peculiar manner, and this peculiarity
cannot be represented by the word squint.  It can only be
pointed out to the eye with the finger. Every historical
action is to be performed by individuals; their feelings enter
into it as elements; it pre-supposes a certain place, a certain hour, all which affect the feelings of the individuals;but who would or who could by the strongest imagination
discover all the particulars of such an action?  Hence it
follows that what might be called the real existence of an
action cannot be conveyed by language whi(h is so gene
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PSYCIIOLOGY.
ral that it cannot utter our feelings at all except by interjections. And again: the action as it occurred, existed
differently from what it does in our conceptions. There
is its reality, here its ideality.  Now all of us know how
differently actions are described by different spectators,
though they are most impartial. And yet we speak of
historical truth! The truth of history consists in the spirit
that produces the action, in the development of national
intellect, prosperity, intercourse, &c., so that one action is
interwoven with another by one and the same national
spirit. This spirit, this national exertion to preserve, to
improve, to advance itself, is the truth of history. I may
know, for instance, the hour and place, when and where a
battle was fought, the individual persons who fell, and those
who escaped; and yet I may have no historical truth. But
when1 the design for which thie battle was fought becomes
known to me, and its eftects upon nations and the succeeding history, then only I have truth.
From  this it must appeal that truth does not consist
merely in its having an existence in reality; but that it is
the rational generality, the general spirit which appears in
and through a thing.  The thing is perishable, the spirit
eternal.  Now in this respect the truth of art agrees filly
with truth in general. The aritist's eye perceives the truth
resting in the objects or historical occurrences; he perceives that it is clouded there by many circumstances, and
loving the truth he feels an irresistible desire to represent
it as he sees and loves it; free from every thing not pertaining to it, pure and transparent.  This of course  can
only be said of true and genuine art, and not of its inferior
branches; of Shakspeare, and not of Bulwer; of the better
parts of Byron, but not of his poetry in general.
Thus then we have answered the first question, and with
it also the second.  For if the truth of art is what we have
seen it to be, the representcationl of this truth is its aini.
Artists (o10 not merelv desire to imitate, for then their labors
would be vanity; nor merely to entertain, foir then they
would stand on the same scale with jugglers, ventriloquists,
&c.  Their aimn is to represent the invisible in the visible,
the infinite in thie finite, eternal truth in its purity, by rendering it manifest in a sensible form and shape.  By this
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PSYCHOLOGY.
its aim, art differs from all sciences, all of which make constant efforts to generalize single objects, and classify them,
and therefore, proceed in a manner directly opposite to
that of art. Yet art and science serve each other, for the
latter gives the rule for the former, and the former furnishes materials for the latter, and painting, for example,
may aid by its pictures the study of natural history, &c.
Secondly. Our imagination is either rich or poor, that
is, it produces many or few new images, or it is strong or
weak, fiery in its productions, vivid and distinct, or cool
and indifferent. Here, according to the law, that a power
spread over a large surface, will be less strong than when
apart in smaller circumference-the rich imagination may
be less accurate and precise than a strong one, for the
former will produce more new images than the latter. An
imagination that has but a few objects attractive to itself,
cannot, of course, have many materials for the formation
of its productions. It shows both strength and riches,
when it knows how to use the few materials it has, with
the most various and always new modifications. Such an
imagination produces from the object the greatest varietv
of the most beantiful imagery, as for instance, that of Ossian. It differs likewise in quality. The imagination of
the gardener, the geometer, the man of business, and the
architect, easily perceives regularity and order, symmetry
and harmony. The imagination of the painter and sculptor is aided by the eye, and form, colors, light, and shade,
flow easily from the chisel and brush-the ideas of the artist's animating hand and fingers. Imagination, aided by
the ear, fits for music and language.
Thirdly. Imagination differs also with regard to its
form. This is either symbolical, classical, or romantic.
The form of imagination is symbolical when it places its
contents in an object, which is more or less capable of in dicating them. Truth, for example, is the same in the
sphere of science, that light is in the sphere of nature.
Thus far both are homogeneous. But truth is spiritual,
and cannot be felt by a sense, nor perceived by the mere
bodily eye, while the rays of light may be felt. When
now truth, as an invisible power, is represented by the orb
of the sun, we have a symbol. The symbol is something
21*
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PSYCHOLOGY.
external-a form perceptible by sense, which by its peculiar
position convinces us that it contains a hidden meaning.
This meaning is invisible and internal.  In symbolical imagination, therefore, we must distinguish the external forIn
from  the internal signification.  The owl at the feet of
Athena, for instance, held by a chain, is the symbol of
darkness, for it cannot see by day; the chain in the hand
of the goddess of wisdom is the symbol of the powers of
light over darkness. VWe can only see the owl and the
chain, but being connected with Athena, we must believe
that the artist had some design in placing it there, and that
the owl is but the receptacle of some of his thoughts, which
we must discover by reflection.
Imagination is classical, when form and contents so fully
receive each other, that the former is transparent and
seems only to exist in order to represent the latter, and
when the latter fully expresses itself so that the artist not
only shows the best form, but also knows how to communicate by it every particle of its contents, leaving nothing
unexpressed, retaining nothing in his bosom.  This entire
initus-sutsception of form and contents is the only classical
form of imagination, and we meet with it in Greece alone.
If, in the symbolical form, contents and form are only
brought together externally; if we must reflect in order to
discover the one in the other, the contents in the form, if
consequently we may make a mistake; with the classical
form all is otherwise, for all is clear, transparent, and perfectly beautiful. Who that looks at the statue of Apollo,
will not at once recognize an ever-blooming youth, that, free
from care and trouble, rejoices in the feeling of existence.
The form of imagination may be romantic. As such it
was not known to the ancients; for it has become possible
only since the introduction of Christianity, which opened
to the mind of man the world of infinite spirit; this world,
filling the breast of artists, imagination seeks in vain for
conceptions and images in which to place, and by which
to express it. Nothing in the world can represent, in an
adequate form, that God whom Christ has revealed. The
spirit is only accessible to the spirit; we cannot convey it
by any image. The symbol, it is true, may represent the
Infinite by the finite; but what a defective representation!
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PSYCHOLOGY.
And yet, however defective, it satisfied the ancients, for
they had no clear idea of the Invisible and Infinite; they
felt it darkly, but knew it not. Now the Infinite is clearly
revealed; hence it is that no representation given it by
imiagination will suffice, for our' consciousness of the Infinite will tiow beyond every visible, finite form, and leave
it far behind.  Thie poet is overpowered by the riches of
his theme, andl yet he cannot dismiss it. He feels that he
cannot fully express what agitates his breast, and yet he is
irresistibly it urged to give vent to his deep and lasting etnotions. TIhei elements of the romantic imagination are, the
love of Chriist. the vanity of all tiungs,. a desire for an eternal home, the transitoriness of this, and the immortality of
a future life. Its elemenis are, on the one hand, the spirit
and the world, forwhial it isdestined, and on the other
hand thi, wo ld( oj sense in which it lives, and which cannot satisfv its s;)iiitual lonlgin. nor  represent its ideas.
Thlis rnantie ch,:acter is indicated i by the steeples which
are peculiar to Chlristian chuirches; they ri'se high into the
clouds. and point to   -o0l-( above.
If we  C,)mparc'  these three forms with each other, we
s'all find(l tli s.'b)li(a to lIe siibliiie, the classical to be
ibea,tifttl, and tihe romantic; to be sentiet  and mnstical.
Fo)iritlhlv.  The power of inaoinati(o)n is stiscetible of
cultiv-atio)n.  iAt irst,, t is rude, colossal, an-l wit hout rneaS.il'S.  f O' foinistance, tle mythuiis of Uma an:! Siva, or of
Sagaias ani  Vishnu in India; -of Faust in Ger many.  It
becomes cultivated when it 1prol-uces according to laws.
It will become piquant, paradoxical, barrou &t, fill of cai(atures, when it is arbitrarv.  The stattes of an Italian
cognlt, made of the finest stone, are examples of arbitrary
uitagination.  He had the head of a goose put upon the
bo,,dy of a lady; or the neck of a goose with the head of
an eagle on the body of a lion.
Fifthiv. Imagination and cool reflection seem to be anti 3)des; the y,outhful fire, and warm-th, and fireshness of the
f'i, ner, are extinguished bv the considerateness and logical
calculation of the latter. Yet imagination needs the nieatsuree
which thou,ght only can give it.  In proportion, however,
as pure thinking prevails, the imagery of imagination be comes superfluous, and imagination itself is madle subser
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PSVCHYOLOGY.
vient to reflection. As man lives in the sphere of theoreti cal truth, so he moves in that of practical life, in which
the naked reality only avails, and images and beautiful pic tures are of no value. Yet, as was remarked above, the
man of business, and our practical life also, need the aid
of imagination. The yard, the scales in the hand of justice,
are the symbols in which imagination places the practical
idea of right. It was imagination that taught savages to
lick property when transferred from one to another, for
the tongue is the organ of assimilation; or to break a
straw-stipula, hence stipulation-for as a straw exactly
divided, so each receives full value. Here the productions
of imagination are no longer beautiful, but useful. In the
progress of time, these symbolical actions become superfluous; a word becomes sufficient, and where it is not, a
legal instrument of writing, or the to,iord written, is necessary. Thus the will of man becomes independent of external things. Imagination, in this practicetl respect, takes the
following course: it is, at first, symbolical, then it becomes
emblematic, and finally semiciotical.  It is symbolical, when
the object by which it represents a thought, and the thought
itself are homogeneous.  Darkness cannot be the symbol of
light; but "when a genius with an inverted torch is placed
as a monument upon a grave, it is symbolical. For there a
life has been extinguished, a light, an eye, beneath that
monument the dead lies without life, without light-the
light of the torch and the light of life are homogeneous."
On the other hand, the productions of imagination are emblemnatical, when the form and contents become inadequate
to each other, or are heterogeneous. The feeling of thirst,
and a glass of beer on a tavern-sign, have nothing homogeneous; the sign is, therefore, not the symbol of thirst, but
its emblem. Yet there is still a relation between them; if a
relation no longer exists, the imagination works senmejoti(ally. Here the form intended to represent certain contents, does not in the least resemble them; it therefore represents something entirely different from itself; the imagination determines that a thing independent of its fitness
shall signify or indicate a certain thing, though it bears not
the slightest relation to the thing signified. Two triangles,
for instance, put into each other, are, in many countries,
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PSYCHOLOGY.
used as signs before beer-hiouses; there is certainly no relation between two triangles and beer. If the things used
as symbols and emblems continue to have an existence,
whether we place contents in them or not, the sign loses
all importance when the thought signified is drawn from it,
or when it is no longer used significantly. Many signs,
which we daily make, can be understood by no one except
ourselves; the boy, for instance, breaks down a few branches near where he has discovered a bird's nest; this is to
him an indicative sign, but not to us; hence we can attach
no importance to these broken branches.
We have yet to consider imagination, as producing signs,
and as such it may be called,
Semeiotic Inmagination.
The term semeiotic is not found in the English language.
It is of Greek origin fioin the word  ais~t, sign.   With
this explanation we may be permitted to use ithere. Every
thing in nature, upon which man may impress his will, must
suffer itself to be used by him as a sign. Even rivers may
become the signs of boundaries. Yet the more susceptible
a thing is of receiving a mark from the hands of man, the
better it is qualified for a sign. Thus, the staff in the hand
of Agamemnon, "which sent forth no leaves, and retained
no life, after the knife cut it fiom itis trunk and peeled and
smoothed it," is the sign of power; so the hickory pole
with its flags is a sign, intelligible to all the citizens of the
Unicon. The signs of semeiotic imagination are contained
either in space or time, either in rest or in motion, and may
be thus classified: Signs in space have different forms, yet
they are not to be valued by their forms, but by what they
indicate. The cockade, the flag, which indicates a nation's
ideas of its liberty, and which though at rest themselves
may cause the greatest commotions, as the flag when unfurled and waving in the air; are of more importance than
the most showy sign before a tavern. The signs that are
only in space are innumerable; those that I make in a book
while reading it, in my walks, and those made by private
individuals in their gardens or houses, used by companies
on their-seals, by nations in the uniform of their soldiers,
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PSYCHOLOGY.
&c. At first these signs had a meaning in themselves, but
this meaning was gradually lost, and semeiotic imagination
used them for whatever purpose it pleased.
When, on the other hand, the sign is something which
exists only in timne, it must be always in motion.  The numerous signs that belong to the art of expressing thoughts
by the motions of the body, have been already alluded to
in Part I, Chapter III., to which the reader is referred.
Other signs are; rockets discharged in the air; the waving, of a handkerchief; the hoisting of a flag, &c. These
are all of them for the eye, and must be noticed at the
very moment, when they are in motion.  Imagination is
more rich, however, in the signs it produces for the ear.
Sounds become signals. Clappingthe hands may indicate
applause; hissing, disapprobation.  The same sounds may
affect us in the most different ways, and these different effects depend wholly on the meaning we attach to them.
In Germany, where in former times every occurrence of
the day was brought into connection with religion, it was
announced lby the same bell that summoned worshippers
to the house of God on Sabbaths and holy days.  The bell
accompanied the life of an individlual from his cradle to
his grave; and it was also the tongue to announce the
grand divisions of the day. All these things the bell proclaimed by the same sound, and yet how different are the
feelings excited in us when its rich sounds fell upon the ear
at Easter, from those called forth by the same bell on Good
Friday, on the Sabbath, or early in tl-he morning when it
announced the rising of the sun! Again, the chimes of a
bell that reach us firom the summit of a hill covered with
forests, where silence reigns and nothing is to be seen but
a solitary chapel-how sweetly are we affected by them!
Poets like Uhland, Schiller and others, have made these
chimes the themes of some of their finest poems.
Next in rank are organical sounds, or such as are produced by the organs of man; hence sounds of instruments,
the trumpet, flute, &c.  The sounds of the trumpet govern
the motions of a body of cavalry, those of the flute are
fitted for the expression of love. Whistling is likewise a
signal, but a signal of uncertain character. The watch
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PSYCHOLOGY.
man in pursuit of a thief makes use of it, and so does
the thief.
Finally, articulate sounds must serve as signs. But what
sounds are articulate?  Those produced by articulos, by
the tongue, teeth and lips; those therefore that are formed
by all of them. The sounds of animals differ from those
of instruments; the latter are based in the vibrations of
b)odies, the former rest in the voice. The superiority of
the latter mav be seen even in the external form. Musical instruments are either long, as the flute, the horn, the
clarinet, or voluminous as the drum, &c.; but the throat of
the animal producing the voice, unites both length and
depth. Yet while the voice of the animal is superior to
the sounds of irw.trtuments, the voice of man is superior to
that of animals; for it is capable of producing the word.
The Latins hav-e one root for voice and word, vow -vocabt1lttut.  The word contains more than a mere sign-a sign
for light indicates only light as visible to the eye.  The
word light contains all that natural philosophers know about
it.  Hence with articulate sounds as words, we approach
a higher spher e of the mind, and as conceptions are connected with each other by the power of our self-consciousness, so are w(ords as the signs of thought, and in this union
they form laiigaage.
~ 5. LANGUAGE.
All our conceptions depend upon our sensations, and are
impossible without them. Our sensations depend on our
individuality, and are impossible without it; for that, which
has no individual life, cannot feel.  Conceptions without
words are, therefore, confined to the individual, transient
as itself, and limited to its peculiar existence. But when
a conception is expressed by a word, it receives an existence independent of that of the individual, and is rescued
from the danger of being lost with it  Through the word
a conception becomes permanent; without it, it would dis
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PSYCHOLOGY.
appear with the person that formed it, as the gilded cloud
vanishes with the setting sun.  The conception is internal,
as we have before seen; the word is so likewise, for it has
no cxi/ste.cc in s)ace, no external form; yet it is for the
ear and consequently audible.  Thus while the conception
originally is not for the senses, it receives by the word an
external utterance for the ear'.  Language, then, is the extertlrl cs,)ression for our internal conceptions.  This, however, must not be misunderstood, for though the word is
external as sound, it must become  internal by  hearing.
Tlis shows itself. when uncultivated persons read; here
the word has its corresponding signs in space, but such persons nevertheless either read aloud, or imitate the sound
wvithl their lips.
Language is either that of signs or that of words. The
former we have spoken of in the division on semeiotic
imagination. It is not so much the product of mind, as of
the necessities and wants of our nature.  It is limited in
its extent, and can only cause others to feel as we do, or
to understand oura sensations.  I am  hungry, another has
food; I make a sign, chew, or point to his food and thus
make him understand my appetite. It would be difficult to
express thoughts or ideas by such signs, had they not been
conveyed by woI'ds before, and had they only been placed
in these signs.  Something similar to a language of signs
we,ndoubtedly meet with in nature.  The ants that touch
each other, when danger threatens; the bird that on the
watch, gives a sign to warn; the hen that calls its young
-have all of them a language of signs; yet wve must not
say that they understand each other, for they live in the
sphere of mere sensation and perception. These signs only
serve to call forth the same dark sensations, the possibility
of which is easily comprehended, when we consider that
one hen clucks like another, and that animals of the same
species have the same self-feeling, and that this will exipress itself by the same peculiar voice and note in all the
individuals.
The language of words, on the other hand, has a different
origin, and one that is more disputed.  And indeed we
must confess that it is difficult to be ascertained.  For the
more carefully we exa,mine the subject, the more we are
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PSYCIIOLOGY.
led by the consideration of the different elements of language to different views.  There are two hypotheses on the
origin of language, which are in direct opposition, and
mwhose elements it may here be proper to point out.
I. It is admitted by all, that where there is design and
an adaptation of means to an end, there must be a cultivated intellect, there must be knowledge of the design.
Without language, however, there can be no knowledge,
since a conception will be without clearness and distinctness, until it is expressed by a word. This shows itself in
children, who as long as they do not speak have no clear
conceptions; but when they learn to speak, they learn to
understand. Language here seems indispensable for the
development of mind.  But any one who has paid a little
attention to speech, must observe fiom the etymological
part of grammar to the highest syntactical rules, the laws
of reason; so that it may be said with truth that language
is embodied reason, or reason which has become objective
to itself. If reason is undeveloped before there is a language, and again, if language is developed reason is an external form, or as it has uttered itself, how can the undeveloped reason be said to have invented language?  Especially when it is considered, that the languages of the most
remote times, have those words by which the relation of
the finite to the infinite may be expressed with the greatest accturacy-such, for instance, as life, sight, being, truth,
spirit, good, right, holy, justice, salvation, &c. Again, to
say that man lhas invented language, would be no better
than to assert that he has invented law. To make laws,
there must be a law obligating all to keep them; to agree
or make a compact, to observe certain institutes, there must
be already a government protecting this compact.  To invent  language, pre-supposes language already, for h-w
could men agree to name different objects, without coinmmunicating' by words their designs?  From all this it must
follow, that man did not invent, but received his language
from Giod.
Thus far it seems all correct, but this view is neverthle less one-sided, and does not notice one fact of great im portance.  Reason and language, as thie GCreek word logos
22
253 
PSYCIIOLOGY.
indicates, are identical. The conception I have is a word
unuttered; the word I pronounce is a conception sounded
with the lips. If I have to produce by my mental activity
the conception, I must undoubtedly create the word for it,
since the former is wholly impossible without the latter.
The conception could no more be received by the mere
word or its sound, than a word could be understood without the conception which it invests; and if God had taught
man language, he must either have given him the conceptions, together with their comprehending words, and then
it would be incomprehensible how man could receive either
without his own spontaneous activity, or he must have
given merely the words as shells, in which to place his
thoughts.  If the former were the case, man would become a mere machine, through which another thinks and
speaks; in the latter it would be impossible to see how
man could be taught mere words without having already
an ideaof language.  Hence, this view was abandoned,
and one directly opposite embraced-" Man has inmented
language by his own ingenuity."
II. If God taught Adam language, he of' course taught
him but one; but we know, so the hypothesis asserted, that
every savage tribe has its own tongue, and that the less
cultivated nations and savages are, the more various their
languages will be.  Not less than three thousand and sixtyfour languages have been already discovered.  Klaproth,
on his journey through a small part of Asia, met with no
less than thirty-six; among our Indians every tribe has a
language unintelligible to all the others. There must have
been more than one language from the beginning of the
world, as mankind spread and existed in different races, its
languages became multiplied, so that to understand the
language of one tribe, an individual belonging to another,
must acquire it with hard labor. Again, we see that birds
sing, that quadrupeds express their wants by their voice,
the lion roars when hungry,-should not man, gifted with
reason and excellent organs to articulate sounds, be able to
express his wants and necessities by sounds framed in
words? A close examination of many words will lead us
to believe, that man imitated nature.  This imitation could
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PSYCHOLOGY.
not be difficult, since his organs of speech will enable him
to form every sound that nature can produce. Words of
this kind are, for instance, rustling, murnmuring,'whistling,
rolling, lisping, roaring.  And again, we find many words,
the sounds of which are the same in different languages:
thus, Sanskrit, pita; Lat.,pater; Gr., Tar,o; Eng.,.father;
Ger., Vates; &c.  Sanskr., nata; Lat., nater; Gr,,,,1o;
Eng., mother; Ger., mntter.  Sanskr., rohitlah; Lat., rufus;
Eng., red; Ger., roth; Italian, rosso; Fr., rouge; Dutch,
2'ood; Danish, rod.  Sanskr., padas; Gr.. s;; Lat., pes;
Eng..foot; Gothn., fothus; Ger.,fuss; Frank. vuoz. Sanskr.,
tain; Gr., Te,t'Etl; Lat., tendere; Eng., extend; Ger., dehnen;
Goth., thanjani; Frank, denen. &c. These parallels might
be much multiplied, but the above examples are sufficient
to make 1us ask: Whence conme these words into the difIerent languages?-Man will not only notice, but by his
attention distinguiish sounds in the most precise manner
lie will then imitate them, desirous of communicating some
things to his fellow-men byv their sounds or form.  Thus
by an innate desire to imitate, man was induced to form
some words, and finally the entire language.  It was not
necessary for him, to be in the full possession of the reason, for how many even now speak without being aware,
that there are rules, or grammars, exhibiting them.
This also appears to be a very mistaken view. It severs
what God  has joined together, reason and language, con ception and word. It admits that the conception could
exist long before the word, and that man might seek for
the latter after he has the former. This idea is not much
better than to say, that man invented sleep; for the act of
thinking and that of speaking is so much the same, that no
person can think without speaking, if not loud, at least to
himself, though he should not notice it. Feelings and sen sations may do without words, but conceptions need words.
and thinking is but an internal speaking, as speaking is an
externalthinking. Another mistake is thts. The question
before us, has no reference at all to will; it must be left
out of view; yet both of the views exhibited refer more
or less to it. But the exercise of will pre-supposes the ex istence of language.
I shall attempt to answer the question above in the fol
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PS~YCHOLOGY.
lowing manner -Reason is the source of all our concep tions and thoughts; thioughts are the same internally that
words are externally. As reason produces our conceptions,
so it produces inseparably with them-n also their correspond ing words. As the plastic power produces at the same
time sap and bark, form and contents, so reason produces
thought and language. But reason has not its origin in it self; its author is God, whose will lives in it as its law.
The author of language is, therefore, not man, but God.
Yet we must not understand this as if God had taught man
language as a teacher makes a scholar learn; but God gave
man a power, that in developing itself, would necessarily
with itself develope language. God did not give language
as something ready formed, as we give our scholars the
elements of the Greek tongue in dictionaries and gram mars, but-and this God alone, and no other being could
do-gave him a power by which to name all things, and
made the animals pass before Adam, to see what he would
name them, and the names he would give them should be
their names.  This view comprises what is true in the two
former, and avoids their errors. Or, in other words: God
gave man in his reason the possibility of thinking and
speaking, as he placed in the germ the possibility of growing and developing a specific form. The process by which
to realize this possibility was left to man, without will or
design spontaneously language proceeds from the development of reason.
A few remarks will corroborate this idea. Reason, the
possibility of thinking and speaking, is essentially the same
in all individuals; its laws are the same, and its functions.
So nature surrounding us,-however modified its p)henomnena may be,-is essentially the same in all its laws and
activities, and these are the same as those of reason, given
by the same Divine Being.
As by reason we think and reflect, so we receive all the
impressions of the senses, from which we form our conceptions, from nature. On account of this identity of reason and nature, we are able to know the latter, otherwise
no communication would take place between it and ourselves. In so far as all persons have the same laws of reason, and are impressed by nature according to the same
256 
PSYCHOLOGY.
laws, so far it is one and the same substance or being that
lives in all and connects all, so that every thought proceeding from this reason, must be the same in whatever individual it may originate, and so that one can lead out a
thought and render it complete, though it took rise in
another.
But if reason is every where the same, whence the difference of languages? Why have we not one language
only, as we have one reason? We answer: Reason, though
essentially one in its laws and nature, is, nevertheless, modified by its connection with the body, the constitution, and
through it with climate, as iras been seen in Anthropology.
All the modifications caused by tihe influences of nature,
race, nation, occupation, &c. must here be recalled, and
must be admitted to have a considerable influence on our
attention, conception, fancy, and imagination, memory and
thinking. Reason is thus the same, and again differs in the
various regions of the earth. So the flame remains, though
spread from one to a thousand torches; but the torches
kindled, may produce a slight difference, if one is of hickory,
another of pine.  As now thinking is the same on the one
hand, but modified on the other, so language is, in accordance
with it every where language, and vet at the same time it
has its peculiar differences, not onlv in different nations,
but even in its dialects in the same nation. An example will
illustrate this. The Greeks, living in a mild climate, under
serene skies, surrounded by a beautiful country, and gifted
by the Deity with a vivid and strong imagination, had their
thoughts every where bent upon the discovery and production of beauty. They would, therefore, notice. in all
they observed, the beautiful; this would strike them, and
from this quality they would name the thing in which tlhey
discovered it. The Romans, on the other hand, of an entirely different cast of mind, looked every where for the
useful, and waved all considerations of beauty in its favor.
The Germans, finally, are peculiarly inclined to speculation,
and seek for the foundation of all things. This difference
will exhibit itself no less in these respective languages, than
in literature and art. The Greek, noticing the beautiful
motions of lightning, calls it -arueo-7; the Roman, attracted lv
the splendid light, and its destructiveness, names itfulgur;
22*
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PSYCHOLOGY.
the German perceives the difference of this motion from
all others, and signifies it by the term Blitz. ILeibnitz conceived the idea of inventing one language for all nations.
Nothing could be more unfortunate than the coimpletd success of such an undertaking, if by it-what Leibnitz did
not intend —all the other languages would beconie superfluous. For, as each language views the same things differently, the human mind is left free to express every shade
of difference in its tnouglllt.  Tqhis lil)erty we desire in the
same languaTe., where the best writers have their individual style. so that while they utse the general language,
they makle it assuime a peculiar form, and with it a pectliar fresnness.  EverT writer must, of course, observe the
general iules of his language, or hAis works would be unintelligible.  But the general nature of the lainguag'e will become tinged with that ofl the individual; it will yield to it
the imoie, the more flexible it is; and while in the latter
respect it may demand a hermeneutical explanation, its
genicral nature, whiclh is modified by tie style of thie writer. w;ill male suchi an explanation possib/lc.
We fiequently hear it asserted. treat man was urged, by
necessity, t) forma  language,  and that this necessity was;
that of communication.  Though it is true that man could
not, witiiout language, be what he is, and what he ought to
be, yet many persons have been found wild whf-) lived
withlout languiage.  The un;e of language  rests, there.ore
not on a p)hysicCal necessity, so that man coul(l not live without it, as hie could not exist without breathing, or without
food. The spider is driven by an irresistible tendency to
spin his web); so man to eat; but he mnay live without
thoughts or words.  While at the same time, however, that
when all th-e necessary conditions are present,-conditions
which we  have before considlered,-his  reason will thin l,
and speak, it is not only impelled to do so firotom necessity,
from a mere desire to communicate, but it delights in giving form to its thoughts.  Man desires every where to re
cognize his own activity in that whichi surrounds him   in
this desire art has, in part, its origin, and fa.shion,     and o(naments. The joint desire to commu,nicate our thoughts t()
others, and to form them, originate the effort of reason to
think and to speak.  The desire to form our conceptions
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PYScHOLOGY.
produces single words; the desire to communicate them to
others forms language as such, or as speech. And this again
must not be understood mechanically, as if words were
first formed and embodied in memory, as in a dictionary
for future use; but words are formed foi the sake of communication, so that a word is no sooner formed, than it enters into a relation with others, and thus a word, according
to W. Von Humboldt, originates as much in connection
with others, as a connection arises out of single words.
Hence language is not merely a compound of words, but a
system of kindred conceptions, all of which ale brought in
connection by the forms of words, by prefixes, affixes, by
compositions, &c. The pleasure we take in giving form to
all surrounding us, in impressing the traces of our mind
upon all it touches, is the self-activity which causes the child
to speak; while with reference to the particular language,
it is dependent on the nation in which it is born, and consequently receptive instead of spontaneouts. In this dependence an individual can only have such thoughts as are already expressed in his language. Yet, if this is youthful,
and has the root of its life in itself, so that new sprouts
may come forth from it, new thoughts will clothe themselves in new words. The language of a nation wil, therefore, exercise a considerable influence on the thoughts of
those who use it. As language is the medium bv which
mind manifests itself to mind, by which the barriers of an
isolated existence are torn down, and man is drawn to
man, it will justify us in making once more a slight digression before approaching the elements of language.
Language as we have said, is the objective existence of
a national spirit. Studying a foreign language we study
the spirit of the nation whose language it is, and thus our
mind is united with that of the nation. Now we may study
a language mereiy on account of the thoughts'it embodies,
and thus enrich our own mind; for every thought, received by it in ourselves, is like a spark, that kindles a new
light. But it may be studied to exercise our thinking, as
there is no other science that will teach us better, to think
correctly and logically.  For in the first place, grammar
contains the categories of thinking, it is full of rules and
laws, all of which are those of reason.   Studying gram
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PSYcHIOLOGY.
mar we study the logic of understanding in its simplest
form. We learn here to reduce the most various phenomena to one head or union, which combines all of them;
and if learning does not consist in merely receiving, but in
understanding and reproducing what is given to us,-the
exercise by which we are made to apply rules in different
ways, especially in writing, compositions and the like, will
make us wholly master of them.  Thus we learn to think
logically.
Learning a language for the purpose of obtaining access
to the riches placed in it by a nation, or for the purpose of
speaking it, however, differs widely from making language
as such the object of our investigation. When we (1do this,
we study the philosophy of language, and this cannot be
done without the study of the human mind.  Here rules
as such are not the object, but their reason andground,
and necessity. We know the rules, but we desire to know
more. Such study exercises pure thinking. We want to
ascertain the nature of a word not wvords, its connection
with others, the nature and law of sentences, periods,
speeches, style. But words, sentences, and periods, cannot be perceived by the senses; here we rmust think, if we
would understand them.  When I say a pronoun or a verb,
or a noun, I pronounce words, but at the samne time in their
qualifying distinctions; these distinctions cannot be heard;
that by which a pronoun differs from a verb, rests not in
the sound. but only in the thought.  Hence the philosophical grammar must be studied, that which is not satisfied
with adding rule to rule, with placing them only externally
under a common head, as apples, pears, potatoes may be
put in one bag; but which exhibits the nature of all rules,
and unites them as it finds them already united by their
nature. Again, every word includes a thought; the nature of a word may be fully ascertained by etymology, its
contents not. Reflecting on the wvord in this respect, is reflecting on  the thought; thinking reflects on  itself as
resting in a word.  This thought, however, not being nmy
thought, nor reflecting on it on account of the thing of
which it is the thought, I can take interest in it, only for its
own sake, and thus impartial and abstracting both from
myself and the thing expressed, or abstracting from all
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PSYCHOLOGY.
subjectiveness and objectiveness I discover the true nature
of thought.  It is language then, that renders reason more
manifest than any other science, for all the conceptions and
thoughts, contained in all the sciences of the human race,
are embodied in it.  Natural sciences show likewise reason, history and philosophy; but language is the external
reason, as reason is the internal language. If I wish to
know a nation, I must know its language. Again, we acknowledge by these views, that nothing can cultivate the
mind more than the study of languages, and especially that
of ancient languages, the perfections of which in every respect arc unrivalied, and whose antiquity makes them more
attentive to the imagination. It will be necessary to speak
a word on the elements of language; they are,
The Etymological Elements.
It has been a favourite idea, ever since granmmar has
been treated philosophically, that there exists in the sound
of letters and words some fitness to express the conceptions
placed in them.
This idea founds itself' philosophically upon the fact that
the sounds of all things rest on their internal vibrations or
trembling motions, which following certain decided polar
directions, announce the trie natuire of every thing; for
nothing can vibrate against its susceptibility of doing so.
Water, fire, wood and metal, all vibrate differently. The
nature of water for example, is not to hol-d togethler in itself but to be held together, hence it fcalls in drops.  Its
sound is therefore hollow, murmuring as it passes over the
pebbles in its bed. The air on the other hand is not held
together externally, but holds itself together and though
fluid it does not fall in drops but is elastic, yet its sounds
wants clearness and purity, it wvhistles, blusters, moans.
But the sound of bodies is different. They are not held
together externally like the water, nor elastically like the
ai-, but cohere intenisively in themselves.   Thle Greeks called this properly Te,,st,, wheref-roni Toro,, tone.   Such  is
the property of a well stretched string, and how clear it
sounds. The clearest of all sounds is that of the voice.
It is not the product of a mere vibration, into which a
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PSYCHOLOGY.
body has been put by an external impulse but the free product of a living organism, which by it renders its whole
peculiarity manifest. Chladni's discovery, that every vibrating motion which reaches the ear in the form of sound,
has its corresponding geometrical figure in space confirms
the above idea. This may be seen, when sand( is scattered
upon a pane of glass, or water poured into a cup and when
we then draw the bow of a violin across the glass, every
new stroke will call forth new figures, and yet each particular note will repeat the one corresponding to it. These
spectces of souTnd indicate the nature of the internal vibrations; hence it is that sounds  may be said, to convey to
us an idea of the nature of every thing, and of what the
hand of the Lord has written upon all the bodies, that he
has created. The idea alluded to above, must be explained
by this fact.  Words are either more or less correct, more
or less happy imitations of the sounds that are peculiar to
the phenomena indicated by them, and as every thing expresses its nature by single sounds, according to which man
names it, man in his language expresses tlhe tLue Being of
all that exists.  The single sound is enough for the animal;
man stands in need of a language that will contain all the
sounds of nature.  We must iremark here that the same
desire which appears in langtuage as such, to give form and
to communicate. strikes us again in the constituent parts of
every word.  For the vowels open and sonorous, are cornmunicative, while the coinsonoaits surrounding the vowels,
and mute without them, give form. Vowels then are the
produ(ct of the desire of conmmunication, consonants  that
of our pleasure in formin?Tg whatever comes in contact with
us.  Articulation and  formnation of sound  is the sanie.The opinion now  is. that both vowels and consonants had
o)riginally some significance, some nattural fitness to be the
signs of the ideas or impressions, to be represented by
them; that for instance, what is lovely, light, mild, would
be impressed by similar sounds, as what is rude, rough,
harsh, by others.  This fitness shows itself,
First in the voweis.- U and I, for instance, are indicalive of deep emotions and clear and lively colors, thus;
huhu! hihi! roth! 2o0,o! rutfus.  A signifies pleasure, in
general something handsome or great; for example, brahat(t.
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PSYCHOLOGY.
This significance of vowels is beautifully exhibited in the
Persian imitation of the nightingale: "Dani  tscheh guest
mara an bulbul sehheri-Iu ehud tscheh ademi kes i' selihk
bichaberi."
Secondly, in the consonants.-These are
1. Altogether imnitative.  Though produced by articula-.
tion, thev imitate inarticulate sounds. They paint for tihe
ear, they represent things by closely imitating their sounds.
Of this description are all such as express emotions, joy or
pleasures, disgust or mourning, love or hatred.   Pshaw!
sh! tsch! dsch! These  sounds,  however, grow  less in
number in proportion as nations become civilized and languiages cultivated.
2. Syrnbolicai.-Sounds here are not immediately imitative; but they attempt only to produce the impressions
upon the ear, resembling that which the object produces
upon the soutl.  The sound S, for example, is used in words
that express something strong, solid,fast, hence: sto; stand;
stehek;  lUT,(!t; schtia, in Sanskrit; stout; stt(rdyy; stick;
stirff; stop; stone; stubborn; steel; staff; stur'geon. The
Sanskrit sound ii, indicates that w?Ihich is melti'y7r,flowirig
(asitnder, the flt?i( in general, the little, the siiilar.  From
it we have &eC:r.w; itH,-s;  ltXtIw;?u),; t; Qo  &, [;
light; licht; icuchiten; laut; laugh; snmile. Thie sound
W, indicates whatever is'u(avcring, restless, c-)tifised in its
?nOtion, as vin(d;    CaveC;'wish si; st' Ull;''  sttif;  vhirlpool; to Hind; wendcei; wtirren.  The letter R signifies
the crookecdl, the }o01xh, the rude, the i rcgt,ilar, separation;
as tremble); shiritj(tli in Sanskr.; schreiten; rtIeh7rcn; trapj)elnl; trcimoo;?tteri; renne;,,; ruin; i ridt.  The letters 1)b, ), and.f, as they require full lips to be pronounced,
so they  are expressive  of fullness, as: bloom; blossom;
flowerl; breast; briust; briost; broad; spronut; spriessen;
flow; blowc; blast; brtndle; glow.   Plato in his Cratylus
made some attempts to discover the origin of letters and
words, yet he did it more in play, than in earnest. while
what he says on the origin of language belongs even now
to the best. that ever has been said on this subject.
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PSYCILoLoGY.
Thle Gramnmatical and Syntactical Elements.
As it is reason that produces language, and as this reason
is in all nations the same, only modified by external circumstances and descent, we must discover in all languages
the same logical elements, and thus only it is possible for
us to learn foreign tongues. These logical elements are,
first, the verb; secondly, the noun; thirdly, the adjective;
fourthly, the preposition, &c. The nature of sentences,
periods, and speech, is likewise the same in all languages;
for example, each subject and predicate must be connected
by a copula, for thus only can their union  be asserted.
So is this union in all languages a grammatical judgment.
When sentences are connected, we obtain periods, &c.One thing we will yet state here.  Words, as we have
shown above, do not originate singly and disconnected, so
that we carried single words in our memory, and then
united them like cents to make a dollar. But words originate in connection with each other, in sentences. As one
thing in nature is related to the other, so man perceives
nothing entirely by itself. This relation of things to each
other, will determine the word used by man to express a
thing.  If I consider, for instance, a po)rtion of land between two hills, and direct my attention principally to its
meandering course, and the rivulet passing through it, bordered with flowers, I call it a dale: if, on the other hand,
I direct my attention l)rincipaliv to its usefulness to man, I
call it a valley.  There is the same  diflerence between
chalice and cal.  Hence the difference between prosaical
and poetical expressions; the former originates in our desire to express the simple relation of things to each other,
the latter to convey their- relation to beauty.
VWritten Laiguiage.
If language as such is the memory of our conceptions,
writing is the memoiry of language. By writing, language
receives an existence in space, consequently gireater permanency.  The external signs for mere soIn(ts are?totes;
those for words may  be hieroglyphics, pictures, iinages.
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PSYCHOLOGY.
These images may be symbolical. " A lion, a sword, a man,
if used as pictures, indicate what they stand for; or petaphoorical-for instance, the image of a handle signifies authority; or semeiotical-as, for instance, a man  below a
line, indicates that he is dead; or allegorical-fire and a
circle mean to roast,-or it has chairacters."  Yet here
every change of ideas makes a change of character necessary, and hence their use is still imperfect and inconvenient.
Thie Chinese character for old, for instance, according to
MAedhurst, expresses, when turned a little to the right instead of the left, to exam?nine.  The only way of representing words in space, is to represent the elements of which
they consist, letters and syllables.  Ilieroglyphics cannot
express the abstract, they cannot convey by signs or symbols an idea of greatness as such, of goodness, of beginning
and  end, cause and effect, &c.  They render abstract
thinking wholly impossible.  This difficulty is removed by
the use of the alphabet.
Language gives to all our conceptions, and through themn
to all things, a higher, a more noble and more permanent
existence.  Children that have yet no names for the things,
of whiclh they have sensations and perceptions, d(o  not
know them, and as long as they do not know them, so long
all is chaotic for them.  They see, foir instance, tne flainingo, its bright color, its partly black bill, the size of its
neck, the length of its slender legs,-the flamingo exists
for them, but only for their senses.  Blackl and scailet are
different colors, and the sensations from the. n are different,
yet they are not separate and distinct to chilien.  TI-re
is no mark, no particular quality in thie felin  the  child
has of'red, or white, or blue, by which to diutingus  olne
from the other.  Thus flamingos exist, yett merely ie nature.  Children form a conception of them; tin; c  rmeption at first is that of a single bird, and has all contents of
sensation, including the particular red, the particular size
of the bird seen, and all its peculiarities.  As yet c+,n
need no name, for their fancy is sufficient to call up te
single image. But the conception becomes more general,
the particular contents of sensation are dropped, a-d chiiltdren seek for names.'I'The child has, for instance, a coin ception of bread; this conception at first includes tie taste
265 
PSYCHOLOGY.
for it comes fresh from sensation; the bread is of wheat,
baked in a particular way; as this particular bread it could
not be named. Now the single conception of this particular bread becomes a general one, and thus it not only can
be named, but the name is the only medium by which it
can be communicated. Bread is a general name, whether
baked of wheat, or rye, or oats, or barley, makes no difference.  So it is with the term apple, it stands for every
species of apples. Hence it is correct to say, that language
gives a higher and more noble existence to all that it names.
As much as thinking is superior to imere feeling, to sensations or pe(rceptions, so much is the existence of a thing in
langutiage superior to that in imeie nature.  It is by language, that wiatever is in nature is classified, and all confusion is removed from it.  As long as the thing exists
merely in nature, as long as we have merely a sensation of
it, so long we have no name for it, and need none because
by our single image of it, we can recall it.  But when we
have a general conception, a single iinmage is no longer able
to recall it, we must have a name.
Again, to have the thing as it is in nature, I must go and
see, and feel, or hear it.  The  roarinig tof Niagara, the
dashing foam, the silvery spray, exist for mty ear and mny
eye; and to have it exist thus, I must be near it.  But
after I have formed a conception of it, and have a name
for it, it does not mnatter where I am, whether in Euirope
or in Asia, in the name  Niagara I lnave the thing itself.
We easily perceive, that here the same relation exists between the thing and its name, that was observed between
the image and its object. In the namne I have the thing, but
not as it exists in nature-for there it would be only for
my senses-but as it exists in my conceptions. To illustrate this I need only say, that my senses may perceive a
tree, but not the species or genus as such; this species or
genus is thle tree contained in my general conception of it.
A tree existing in nature is for my senses, but it exists in
my general conception as it does not in nature. Thinking
of this general tree, or tree as a genus, I need not have an
image of a tree at all, of its roots, trunk, branches, but my
conception is altogether general. This general conception
is not one of a tree that blooms and grows-such a concep
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PSYCHOLOGY.
tion would be a single one. that of a tree before my house.
Of a kind no sensation or perception is possible; we can
only have a conception of it. Hence, every name is the
thing, in so far as it exists in our conceptions. So far all
seems correct. But as there is a difference between an
object and its image, so there is one between our general
conceptions and their names. The former are wholly internal; names as words written or spoken are external.
And again, our conceptions of a thing, of an individual,
species or genus, cannot be manifold, but to be correct,
each genus can have but one corresponding conception.
But as regards the names for these conceptions they may
be various.  So what we  call food may also be called
nob'ishrnent or sustenance; the idea of diminution may be
expressed by the words small, little, petty, short, lowt, or
m71cait. It is true all synonymous words have slight shades
of meaning by which they diflebr, yet it is certain too that
one and the same conception may have different names
without losing or gaining any thling by it, as for example,
the same animal may be called giraffe or cameleopard.  If
now we say the name is the thing as it exists in the sphere
of conception, and again if we are constrained to admit
that our conceptions can choose any name, that they are
internal, but names external; that names atre but the signs
for our conceptions,-we must admit the existence of a
contradiction. For what the one judgment asserts the
other denies. This contradiction must be removed, and
the power to remove it is memory.   It is the power which
always unites the external sign with the conception for
which it stands; it unites the word and its meaning so inseparably, that when the former is pronounced, the latter
is understood. This inseparable connection of word and
thought produces their real identity, so that I need not go
and see the thing in order to show it to another, but naming
it is sufficient; for memory produces a complete identity
of thing and name.  Thus the dispute of Nomninalists and
Realists is removed by that power, which we have to considerh)y.memory.
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PSYCHOLOGY.
~ 6. MEMORY.
It may be easily seen, that this power  differs from reproductive fancy, and that in this difference it has reference
to conceptions and things, as contained in names, while
reproductive  fancy recalls tile image or conceptions of
single things. It is an act of reproductive fancy, when I
recall the image of a friend, or of a beautiful landscape, or
that of a sick- hbed;-or in other words, places, times, single
things, and persons, are the objects of reproductive fancy,
while the names and the general conceptions expressed by
them, arc the objects of memory..7lemory is tha(t activity,
whi(ch fintds for every general conception or thoug,ht thle aippropri(te word, adl recognizes in every word the conception
it contains. To speak well demands a good memory; to
know the thing, but not its name, immediately causes confusion.  Yet we know  that all psychologists speak of a
memory of things as well as of words, of locality as well
as of time, of numbers, persons, and language.  But the
fact is that they commingle two distinct activities of the
mind, fancy and memory. These pre-suppose each other,
they belong together, as the basis and that which is founded
upon it; as the root and the trunk; yet ought they to be
kept distinct, for the objects of the one are not exactly the
same wih th,.cse of the other; they exist in a more refined
manner in memory. But even if they were one and the
same, we ought not to speak of different kinds of memory,
because memory guided by the interests which different
persons take in dcifferent objects, retains conceptions of one
class more easily than those of another. It would excite a
laugh, if it should be said that we had different kinds of
eyes, because the painter's eye finds it easy to distinguish
the slightest shades of colors; and that of the architect more
readily perceives synmmletry, regularity, and harmony.  It
is his great interest-on whatever that may be based,which constitutes the eye of the painter different from that
of the sculptor. So it is with memory; whatever interests
a man he -will r-eiinembei with ease.  The interests of some
mten will sl)r,ead ovec a great liany objects.  Leibnitz took
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PYSCH()LOGY.
not only a great interest in philosophy, but also in history,
languages, &c. A long life enables such men to acquire
an immense knowledge.  Memory retains either without
will or by virtue of it; if the former, it is reproductive, if the
latter, it is mechan?ical.
1. Wh/en memory is productive, it is a general conception that unites all the particular ones belonging to it, and
whenever it is recalled, these are included. The term
theology expresses such a general conception; it includes
the particular conceptions of exegesis, hermeneutics, critique, dogmatics, christian ethics, pastoral theology, homiletics, &c. The recalling of these parts of theology is not
an act offancy, for all these conceptions are without images,-they are the names of thought, and memory, the
power that retains them, keeps off all such names as do not
belong strictly under the general head.  It will not suffer,
for instance, that the name civil law be connected with
theology, but will point out a place for it in jurisprudence.
Fancy gives the images as it received them, memory exercises judgment concerning the association of its concep tions.
2. jlechanical memory. In the above, words are held
together by their comfnon affinity, internally. The same
is the case, when noun and adjective are joined by a co pula, when words are brought together by the sense, to
be expressed by them, by metre, alphabet, by grammatical
and lexicographical connections. But when there is no
objective connection whatever between the different words,
and when we nevertheless desire to hold them together,
then it is our will that must determine us to do so, and
determine their connection, while our intellect is the power
that enables us to retain themn.  The  connection of the
words here is an entirely mechanical one, wholly external,
wholly brought about by the will of man, and preserved
by his intellect. This demands little or no thinking, for the
meaning of the words is not observed here. I send a boy
to a store to fetch salt, sugar, snuff, and also a piece of
linen, a quire of paper, a pound of nails, and other things.
There is certainly nothing that sugar and nails, or linen and
paper have in common, and which would bind the one to
the other; it is, therefore, the power of intellect that keeps
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them together, not by reflection on them, but by will and
the simple power of the mind, as it does not think at all.
Hence it is that young persons who think less, commit
with the greatest ease to memory, and hence too, that the
false prejudice is so current, that men of very acute judgment have generally a weak memory, and yet judgment,
in order to be acute must have materials to judge of, and
how can it get them without memory? The strongest
judgment, if memory is weak, will constantly make mistakes, never find the right word, the right comparison, the
right fact, and it will constantly have to correct itself even
in its common language, for it will always seek for the
right word, and vet miss it.
The spirit of ages, that makes things fashionable, or not,
has exercised its irresistible power even on the faculties of
the mind. There was a time when memory was neglected,
when especially in schools children were taught to reason
only, and when the mechanical memory was despised. The
disciples of Pythagoras had to be silent for four years, and
only to receive and listen. Pythagoras thought, no doubt,
that to speak rationally and intelligently on a subject, a
student ought first to have made  himself acquainted with
it; and to do so he ought to have learned to abandon all
preconceived and immature ideas, and to listen with obedience to those of his teacher. This is right. The mind
must learn obedience as well as the wvill, or else it will have
no doctrine pure, but always commingle its own notions
with it. Discipline of mind is the true basis of study.
The mechanical memory ought, therefore, to be much exercised; for by it the judgment will gain materials for its
reasoning.
Memory seems, however, to be too much valued at present. Historical learning, the union of all past experience
in our memory, is the most valued science, and this rests
principally on memory. Yet this view mistakes the term
science. Not he who has collected a great number of facts,
and knows their elements of usefulness, and how to apply
them, is the scientific man. For every man has some such
knowledge, and yet we would not say that all men are men
of science. Such a definition of science renders the term
science relative, like that of riches. According to it all
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PSYCHOLOGY.
men of a country are scientific; they form a pyramid, and
while the most scientific becomes its head, those that are
least so have to fo)rm the base, and all the rest come to
stand between according to their greater or less amount of
knowledge.   Yet thie accumulation of facts is not science,
it is merely learning. Learning may place value upon
facts, and their correctness; science requires the form and
spirit of these facts; learning is satisfied with  the facts,
and their external mechanical connection, science demands
their leading principle, their internal union, and hence it is
that we may speaksc of a scientific spirit, bUit not of a learned
spirit.  Science has, therefore, two sides; it has an internal one, a soul, a union, a penetrating principle, on which
all the facts belonging to it must rest; and again, it has
an) external ouc? which spreads itself over a large surface,
and daily increases, for experlence is added to experience.
If it demands mienioiry to acquire tlie external materials of
a science in our power, j-tdgn-int is required, anal a 1oble
spirit, to enter into the lifd of a science, and to neiceive
how it jpeirvaes and animates all.  Judgment and memory,
the spontaneous and receptive  activities ought therefore
to be exerisedi  in an equal degree; and neithei at the expense of the other.-In conclusion~ we,iunst speak a word
with regard to IMnlemonics, or the art of exerci'sing, the
memiorv.
No doubt the memory may be stietigthhe,cd(: th'nis, however, is not so much tlhe aim of Mnemonics, as bv certain
means t) faciltate tic recollection of a particular name.
I dlesire, for instance, a person who kn.vws mythology, but
not  geography, to remember the name Athens, and tell him
to recall thie names of the Greek goddesses, and Athena will
certainly remind him of Athens.   Yet we easily see that
as I must retain in my memory the means by which to re member somnething else, I only double my labor, for I may
as well remember the thing at once, as the means which
recalls it.
Memorvy may, hiowever, be truly strengthened by con tinued exercise.  How this is possible, andl how it is to be
understood, has been beautifully illustrated by the nature
of the magnet.  This activity in the first place slumbers in
all kinds of iron, and may be called forth by an appropri
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ate external influence on it. The light of the sun mav
awaken it, the rays of electricity, the stroke of the ham mer, but especially an already magnetized iron, when
drawn across in certain directions.  We then see that it is
the realized magnetic activity in the one iron, which elicits
the possible magnetic activity of the other.  The thus
awakened activity of the magnet is strengthened by exer cise, and  disappears again when  it is not  used.   To
strengthen it we must bring it in contact with other iron,
and lay it for this purpose in iron filings.  Now the ques tion is: How can it thus be strengthened?  As the mag netic activity, when once awakened, has the power to
awaken that which still slumbers, so tlhis, when once active will have the same power: it must, therefore, react
upon the magnetic power, by which it was elicited and
strengthen it, in the same degree that it was itself acted
upon and strengthened. It will excite as it has been excited; it will strengthen as it has been strengthened; for
it is one and the same activity that awakens, and that has
been awakened.
If we apply this to memory we  may say, that all the
conceptions which we receive by memory, are the productions of our thinking power; but as they are the contents of words we must reproduce them, in o:der to have
them as conceptions. Or these conceptions rest in names;
but language does neither speak, nor understand itself;
they are therefore like the slumbering magnet in the unmagnetized iron. Our mind approaches them, and receives
them by breathing the breath of life into them: being thus
received, and as our mind acted upon them, so their life
will act upon our mind and strengthen it, as the magnetized iron strengthens that by which its latent power has
been roused.  It is the same mental activity that produces
the conceptions, and places them in names, and which
again receives them by recalling them.  The former might
be called the productive, the latter the reproductive memory.
From all this it must follow, that as the body is strengthened by appropriate food, so is the memory: that the many
conceptions and ideas are all of them filled with the nature of our own intellect, and that as intellect is power, they
will strengthen memory in proportion as many or few are
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received by it. It must be evident, however, that an acute
perception, a faithful reproductive fancy, and continued
interest, will render memory very tenacious.
We may remark yet, that however different and manifold may be the objects committed to memory, its union
will remain the same.  As the globule of quick silver, to
which is added many other globules, increases in size and
bulk, and remains a perfect sphere, so it is with memory.
Miemory in this respect may be compared to a monad
which constantly attracts other monads, and thus becoming
conscious of all of them, strengthens itself and reigns over
them according to its own pleasure.
In conclusion, it may be stated that memory holds the
same relation to pure thought, that fancy holds to imagination. Imagination is the union of thought and sensuality;
it represents a thought in a single image, and this image is
either created by it, or borrowed from fancy. Memory
gives the thought in a mere sign, or word, without any
image, and attaches thought and word so to each other,
that they become inseparable.
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CHAPTER III.
ON PURE THINKING.
THE chapter now before us is one of the most difficult
in Mental Philosophy. Its object is to ascertain the nature
of pure thinking, as such; it must therefore abstract from
thinking, as it is subjective, my or your thinking, and it
must look away from the objects of our thoughts, whether
physical, as the sun and moon; or historical, as tlie actions
of heroes, or the import of mora4 notions: we must, in a
word, direct our attention merely to thinking, as such.
This is extremely difficult, and cannot be effected without much effort.  Most persons employ their external senses
more than their internal thinking power, and in proportion
as one mental activity is exclusively exercised, it will become more acute; but the others will grow weak.   The
feeling of ability and skill is pleasant, and man delights,
therefore, more in the investigation of objects in which he
can enjoy the feeling of power, than in such as demand
effort, and remind him that he has yet something to learn.
Add to this the aversion felt by all to well disciplined thinking-for all of us like to have our own thoughts and
opinions on subjects-and also, that we sooner have sensations and conceptions than pure thoughts, that we must
consequently with considerable labor raise ourselves into
the region of pure thought; that language too, is better
calculated to express general conceptions than pure
thoughts; and especially that it must borrow the words by
which to convey the highest thoughts from fancy and
imagination, and that therefore the same word may serve
the lowest and highest-and we shall find it natural that so 
PSYCHOLOGY.
few only should take delight in a question like the one before us.  And yet we cannot dismiss it, but must request
ourI readers to follow  us with patience.   The question,
What is pure thinkiiy,? must be solved.  Thinking is the
true basis of all our knowledge, for until we have penetrated our conceptions by thought, until we know their nature, their ground, their connection with each other, we
have no science. One may have collected a great deal of
knowledge, but if it has no connection, it is not solid, not
scientific, and though it have full certainty for the possessor,
the truth it contains is not drawn out.  The knowledge
that in the year 480 B. C., the battle of Salamis was fought,
is disconnected, as it stands here, neither solid. nor valuable; evei y boy may learn thus much; he may know the
year, the name of the place where the battle was fought,
and wlho gained th.e victory; but it requires thinking to
d(isecover the secret causes that led to it, and perceive the
influence which it had up,on the national  cultivation of
Greece, and yet it is only whein we see historical facts
strictly connected, when we see their necessity and their in fluence upon eacd- other, that we have historical truth. The
boy may  know  the facts clhronologically as well as his
teachler, but the latter must know more than the mere facts,
or he is not fit to teach history.  The additional knowledge
is only accessible to pure tho-,gi-t, which needs neither
images nor sensations nor perceptions.  The same is the
case in other splheres.  I may  have, for example, a con ception of blue, but unless I can show its origin and na ture, I have no knowledge of it. So, pointing to the blue
in the sky, and defining it to be "darkness seen through
light," are very difierent.  Again, as thinking must pene trlate all our conceptions, and the contents of our sensa tions and perceptions, so it must show their relations to
each other. Every object has a number of distinctions in
itself; these enter into our conceptions; but these distinc  tions, as contained in our conceptions, stand beside each
other, and are not known in their common origin: thus the
thing is one, and yet it is many.  This is a contradiction
which our conception does not notice, or if noticed, it does
not remove it. Thinking perceives the one in the mani  fold, and again the nmanifold as one, God is just, and is
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mnerciful; these are two qualities, which when penetrated
by thought, have one  and the sanme n(ature, so that justice is
lmercy, and mercy,justice.  And finally, thinking must show
the necessity of things, or show that a thing must be as it
is. This it can do only by exhibiting its ground and gene  rIal reason.
From all this it will follow, that though we should at
first feel indifferent to the present question, we shall take
an interest in it, as soon as we desire to treat a science
lt)gically, or to solve difficult questions, or to remove doubts
and sciuples, ignorance andl error.  To firee ourselves from
them, neither the decisions of an infallible church, nor the
majority of votes taken on such subjects, nor any external
object, as the magnet that may guide the sailori, or a polar
star, wil suffice. Thinking alone will avail. But if I do
not know  the mnedium by which to remove an evil, or by
which to acquire a good, how can I make a proper use of
it?  Anti  again, if I desire to know myself, but do not know
my high.est power, how can I pretend to be acquainted
with miy mind?  Ien like Piato and Aristotle; Cudworth
ld Loci le; Leibnitz, Kant, and Hegel; Spinoza and Des
Caites, have, therefore, not hesitated to bestow much time
and labor on the subject of our present chapter, and what
man oughlt not to be willing to bestow at least some at ttention on that noblest of all powers within him which lhe
dailv uses? We shall, therefore,
1. Inquire, How thinking differs from the other faculties
of the mind?
If we compare thinking with sensation and perception,
we shall find that both are activities, and that in this respect
they are the same. But sensation is an activity, whose
nature is reccptive; it receives impressions, and receives
them as they are made upon our organs.  The activity, as
sensation or perception, is therefore wholly determined by
The object felt it miust feel the object as it presents itself,
and must receive an impression as it flows forth firom it.
It is consequently an activity that is not in the leastfil'ee.
Conception is also an activity, but one that differs from
sensation or perception, for it is not merely rcccptcve, but
frieeing sensation more or less from its immediate contents,
tiransferring them into space and time, and producing the
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PSYCHOLOGY.
images of their objects, it is a form-giving and productive
activity. In my conceptions I am therefore more free,
than in my sensations, more self-active, more independent
of the objects the images of which I conceive.  Thinking,
however, differs both from sensation and conception. Like
them it is an activity, but an activity having both for its
medium, and impossible without them. Feeling is possible
without thinking, and so are sensations: thinking demands
feeling, sensation, and conceptions, as the fruit demands
the preceding stages of growth.  What kind of an activity
then is thinking?   That activity which generalizes.  By
generality is however not to be understood a mere  collective union, which may have been gained by abstraction
or negaction, or by observing what is commnon to many; nor
is it that which is often expressed by the team uitniversality.
The term, many, includes only single ones-the one stands
by the side of the other; many stars, many grains of sand,
are all of them each by itself, whatever they may have in
common with each other.  If the many are reduced to a
collectice whole, we may use the terni all.  But whether
many or all, they are accessible to my senses; as I see one
star, so I may see many, and if my eye could reachi the infinite, I might see all.  The generality which is here spoken
of, is not gained by abstraction, but by position; it is not
the product of nman, nor that of any object, it is neither subjective nor objective, but above both; its origin  is pure
reason, as such.  It exists not merely in our thoughlts, but
equally as much in nature; it is in the sphere of nature the
genus; in the sphere of mind the identity, and( in that of
science the gcenerality.  As such it would remain abstract,
did it not become concrete by its own innate power, which
entering into a difference becomes through it concrete in
the individual.  Hence the genus in nature divides itself,
and enters the species, and through it realizes itself in the
inadividual.  This is the case already in the planetary system.  The sun is the general; the planets are the species,
and each planet, by its peculiarities, is individual. Thus
with every class of animals.  The genus contains the pos
sibility of the species, anli this possibility is realized through
the species in the individuals. And with every science it
is the same,  What  the genus is in nature, the generality
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277 
PSYCHOLOGY.
is here; the species is the particularity, and the individual
is the singularity.  The single specimen of a mineral has
only value by representing its species and kind.-Now, it
will be admitted, that the eye cannot see a genus or a species, or the sense of touch or of hearing, perceive any thing
like it; yet it must be also admitted that the genera and
species are, that nature has them, that a Linnaeus, Haller,
Cuvier, and Oken, do not classify nature, nature has classified itself, its genera have specified themselves; we only
discover its classification, and correct our discoveries daily
by new observations.  And yet the genera of nature may
be experienced, may become accessible to our sensations,
for they exist not in the abstract, but in the concrete, and
every individual of a species represents them. Thus they
become objects of our sensations, and tlbc objects of our
sensations become the objects of our th.,)ights: as the latteri, however, they exist in an entirely differentform. To
make the above more clear we ask, What is the object, and
what are the contents of pure thitnkin,g?
By comparing them with those of the preceding activities of the mind, we may here also render our subject more
generally intelligible.   The  objects of our sensations  or
perceptions are always something single, contained in a
certain place, and existing in a certain time. Beyond this
singleness the objects of sensation cannot extend.   I see a
single sheep, or many at a time;   t, however many they
are, they are only present to my eye each as a single one.
Conception rec,eives its objects from sensation; it forms
the contents of sensation, and noticing that which many
objects have in common with each other, it forms a more
or less general image, one that needs no longer a sensual
existence, though it was gained from it. The object of
pure thinking is nothing single; not an image; not any
thing visible to the eye or to any one of the senses. Its
object is thought, as such. Of it no image can be formed;
it is shapeless and colorless; it has no existence in space
and time, like a tree or a cloud, that passes by. Hence, it
is without interest to the sensualist, for he wills only what
is agreeable, what touches his senses; or to the mere man
of business, for he desires by his understanding only what
is useful. Yet it is, for who would say, that the thoughts
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PSYCHOLOGY.
of justice, of truth, of right, had no being, no objects? And
what are their objects? Any thing different from themselves? The object I have for my conception of the suit,
differs from my conception; the sun is in the firmament,
my conception in me; my conception and its object are
separate, the one is where the other is not; but my thought
of justice, and justice are not separate; they are identical.
Take away all mind, and justice is taken away; take away
all ])ossible conceptions, the sun still remains. And what
are the contents of pure thinking? Pure Being. Not external existence, as that of the sun, or of any object of conception. The contents of a conception is the image of its
object; those of the object are qualities which become
sensations in us;-but justice or right have no material
qualities; all that can be said of thlem is that they are.  It
happens here most fortunately, that these ideas may be
rescued from the charge of being abstract or abstruse or
mystical, by one of the noblest sciences, by mathematics.
These are the product of pure thinking; nature knows
nothing of fitures, nor of Geometry; it has neither triangles nor circles. What then are the objects of mathematical thoughts? These very thoughts themselves. Are they
now imaginary? or arbitrary?  By no means, the relation
of the sides of a triangle remain eternally the same, though
our senses cannot see, and nature cannot shore them.-But
thoughts without a material existence, what are they worth?
Nothing for him, that wants only to eat and drink. Such
a question ought not to be answered, it is beneath science.
Yet it is by thoughts, that stir the inward soul of man, that
something great may be effected, not by fine images, by
conceptions and fanciful representations.  The Reformation could not have been effected by smooth poetical phrases; it (,ould only be brought about by a mind  like Luther's.  What science effects even now greater things than
Mathematics?
A f(,w examples will illustrate the above: man as an
indiiidual may be the immediate object of my sensation;
I see him, I feel him, I hear his voice. The same man
may be the object of my conception, yet not the latter
without having been present to my senses. As an object
of my conception he may exist in it merely as an individual;
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PSYCHOLOGY.
as he lives, and moves about, as he eats and drinks. But
I may have formed a conception of him as belonging to a
certain nation. As the object of this conception fie is no
longer merely a single one, but of a more general character, he is an American, because both the external features,
common to all Americans, and the spirit and manner of
thinking are represented by him. Thus he is the objectof
my conception, as he cannot be the object of my sensation.
As the object of my thinking he is neither a mere individual, nor belonging to a particular nation, but he is man.
This is his true being; as such he can neither be the object of sensation, nor of conception, it is only pure thought,
that can conceive the idea of hutmanity.  For humanity is
that generality that pervades all nations, and all individuals,
that will survive all the nations of the present time, and
continue to live in all the following generations.  Or to
give another example,-nature produces by crystalization
the icicle and the diamond; by organization the moss and
the beautiful calla; by animalization the toad, and the
proud deer of the forest. These productions of nature are
and may be perceived by our senses. But as far as they
are accessible to our senses they will pass away. The calla,
of which I had once a sensation, may exist in nmy conception, in my reproductive fancy.  But when I place it under
its species, and this under its kind, I think an(l jt(dge, and
the object of my  thinking is no longer the singfle calla, as
it exists for my sensation, nor the image of that calla as it
was conceived by me,-it is the species, the kind, that do
not exist in nature in a particular form or shape, having a
peculiar color, or size; but become manifest onlv in individual beings. The kind, or genus is the true generality and necessity of all the individuals belonging to it, and while the
individuals may be the objects of sensations and conceptions, kind, as such, can only be the object of tlhought. Or,
finally, I have a conception of a knife, an axe, of scissors,
saw, and other instruments; as such, my conceptions have
their corresponding objects in space or time. But now I
place all of them under the general term, instrument, by
which to sever, to dissect, &c.; and this idea I again place
under that of means and end, and thus all the single conceptions and their corresponding objects are gone, and that
280 
PSYCHOLOGY.
which is left is their general character, or that which makes
each one of them an instrument. The thought of instrument is identical with the instrument; for this has no existence whatever independent of the thought, and yet it is,
it has an energy, for by it as the general idea all instruments are produced.
Now, it is easy to understand that the objects of sensations and conceptions are also those of thinking; but while
those of sensation exist wholly in nature, and while those
of conception, though more general, are still only collectitve,
those of thinking are wholly general, and as such have no
existence independent of thinkinig.  Yet they truly exist;
they are not a mere abstracteion; they are tlhe pure being
and nature of individual things, their soul, and life. The
abstract is lifeless; it has no being; the gcr2c-al, the genm.s, the species, on the other hand, is.  3forality, as someth'ing abstract, exists only in my head, and no(-) wI t-re else
but imorality, as that which is the general in all nmoral actions, is and is their generial nature.  To make thIis clear
we would state it thus:-i-/oi-alriy in its ge'er,(,Ity is the
agreement of human will with the divine law. This human will does not exist in the abstract, but it particularizes
itself and becomnes national will, and thus morality in particular is the agreement of the national will, as expressed
by its history, laws, literature, &c., with the divine will.
But the national will cannot act as such, it must have its
organs, and these are the single citizens of a nation, and
hence morality is individualized, expresses itself by the
single actions of single persons, and may be said to be the
agreement of our personal will, with the divine, so that we
observe all duties towards ourselves, our fellow-men, and
God, because they are the expressions of the divine will.
Thus the general morality is realized in that of the individual, and while otherwise it would be merely abstract, it
thus becomes concrete. Or I say, that one of the qualities
of the divine law is its generality.  Hlow is this to be understood? Is this generality merely abstract? The generality of the law is that power which alone constitutes
every other commandment a law, and without which there
could be none. This general law lives, therefore, in all
individual laws, and becomes manifest by them. No one
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PSYCTIO,IOGV.
feels himself morally obligated to fulfil the mere arbitrary
will of a despot: it has not the law as its soul, and hence
cannot bind us to obey it by external force.
Thinking, then, being the same as generalizing, seeks
every where for the true nature of things, for their generality and necessity, for thlj.-ir real and genuine truth.  This
does not consist in the perishable part, which may be seen
with the senses; but in that which, while the individual
dies, continues to live.  It is tl-e Drylad of the Romans, for
instance, which as the soul of the tree passes into another,
animating it, when the one in which it lived is hewn down.
The object of thought, therefore, is not a single thing, not
this. or that; nor is it a collection of things, or something
they have in common withi each other, but it is the gener,al natuie of all those individuals through which that nature flows, and that are internally united by it.
If we consider that all nature is full of reason, that every
being is the expression of it, then we must a(knowle(:.ge,
tlhat what we thus perceive by thinking, is reason itself, or
flesh of our flesh, and hone of oui bone.   The laws  of
reason and nature are the expressions of the same divine
will, and.-ev differ onlyN, by their olbiects, and by the fact
that in nature they work unconsciously, but in man with
his consciousness.  The law of gravity  which attracts all
particles to a common  centre, and the law accordinog to
which in times of danger, all citizens incline to one great
individual. as for instance, to Washington, is the same.
Unwilling to leave the present sublect in thie least dark,
we will add yet a few words.-The obiects of sensation
or perception are somethingo  material;  the  contents of
conception are images hovrc tltey may be generalized;
language and memory can do() in pai without these images.
But the objects and contents of thoug-ht are wholly witthout imug7ery,  The liviig tree may  be seen and conceived
as an image; but life, as such, has no imtnage.  So it is wilih
the thloughts of jUStice hlolness, virtlIe, tr,Ith; with  th
thtough,ts of cause and c,ct, g,ottnd and conc.squef.ce.  They
do not exist as such in space, anu  -et no one wo,ld deny
their existence.  Here it is, where Nomrninalists and Realists must cease their oppositiont, andc discovering each their
one-sidedness, they must unite; foi when I say holiness,
2,9 2 
PSYCHOLOGY.
this thought has in its generality, of course, no corresponding external object, and yet it cannot be without an object,
or it would be an e)mpty thought. What then is its object?
The thought of holiness itself. This then is the last and
principal diflerence between feeling, sensation, conception,
and thinking-that feeling cannot become objective to
itself, nor sensation, nor conception, or with other words,
feeling cannot feel itself, nor can sensation, or conception
perceive themselves: but thinking has this power of dotubling itself, it may become objective to itself, perceive itself, think of and reflect on itself. As thinking has the
power to render itself objective to itself, so it is the power
that can reflect on every thing else, on the lowest and the
highest, on the rudest and the most refined.
2. The c(ntents of our sensation are dark, and little understood, before our thinking penetrates them; and so the
contents of our conceptions are not perfectly transparent.
But those o' thinking are clear and lucid.  "Thinking is a
simple, und,sturbed, quiet activity;'cogitatio est actio sibi
perspicua, et in se continua.'  It flows without interiiiption, and is every where perfectly clear to itself. Feeling
is a trembling motion in itself; sensation is a dark and confuised wearying of the mind; the act by which we become
conscious of the world and of ourselves may be called an
awakening.  But thinking is a flowing activity, perspicuous to itse:f, and conscious of itself, and known to itself in
every one of its pulsations. Its symbol in nature is the
ether. Ether fills all space, and yet it is transparent: it is
constantly in motion, and yet this motion is not perceptible
to the eye, for it is always equal, quiet, and uni(l1sturbed.
The air is thick, not clear, nor transparent: it is cloudy,
and blue or gray of color.  But the ether is clear, colorless, anud- pure: of unfathomable depth, open to the eye, but
mysterious to the understanding.  In the air it storms; its
motions are not quiet and flowing, but crossing each other.
Again; ether is contained in all that has existence, whether
animate, or inanimate, elementary, or concrete. Art miay,
therefore, extract ether from every thing.  So it is with
thinking. That which truly is in nature, are the divine
thoughts the divine laws, and ali the rest is but matter;
that which truly is in history, are likewise the thoughts and
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will of nations, that have realized themselves in actions,
customs, institutions, art, &c. By thinking we may extract those thoughts in nature and history, as by art we
may gain the ether contained in all things." We need not
carry our thoughts into nature and loan them to it; they
are there, and all we have to do is to open our eyes and
perceive them. Reason, like ether, is every where, but we
can only discover it by thinking, as a Sir Isaac Newton, a
Kepler, a Cuvier.
Thinking, as this uninterrupted flow, as this generalizing
activity, is as yet without distinctions; it is not without
contents, for being perspicuous to itself, it has itself for its
contents, it is the light that sees itself.  But thinking is an
activity, that according to the divine laws contained in it,
produces distinctions, and these are,
First, Comprehension or Apprehension.  Thinking in this
form unites the manifold in one, but according to its internal nature. And this nature consists in this-every
single individual belongs to a species, and through it to its
kind.  The kind is thie generality, the species the particularity, and the individual the singularity.  The general nature specifies and individualizes itself by its own poster.
The comprehension consists in this trichotomy.  It comprehlends the individual in the species the species in the
genus, and the genus in the individual.  There is nothing
arbitrary in this activity, nothing l depending on oU' will or
pleasure; it is thinking in the form of comprehension or
understanding, that by its own laws is necessarily thus active, and that discovers the same laws in the activity of
nature.
Secondly, Juttdgment.  By judgment thinking renders the
contents of comprehension more distinct, by  separating
them, on the one hand, and on the other, keeping them
united by a copula. The term lion, is a comprehension,
when I perceive the genus in the individual lion. When I
say, 4 this is a lion," I have in the term this, a single lion
in view, a lion that is perhaps before me in a menagerie,
buit in the term lion the whole class or genus of lions, and
thus separating the individual from the genus. I nevertheless keep them connected by the copula is, and thus show
their identity. Judging, I do not comprehend the one in
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PSYCHOLOGY.
the other, or the manifold in one, but subordinate the one
to the other, or a)alyzc.  Both are, and  remain distinct;
the subject being the single individual, the predicate the
genus, as when I say, " the rose is a flower," yet in this distinction they are related to each other.  Thinking, in this
iorm, is judgment, and as such, it is the power that every
where produces light and order.  Yet we must have coinprehended, before  we can judge, for every judgment consists of two coij)ieheitsiots or apperceptions; meie senlsations and perceptions may form sentences, but cannot f(orrm
a jautdgient.   Wlhen 1I say, for example, "it is cold to-day,"
I connect a perception (to-day) wit,h a sensation, (cold,)
by tli,nking, or the copula, is.  Yet I have merely a grammatical sent'ice. not a judgment.  But when I say:  "the
rose is a )lant," I htave united tlre geieral with the specific,
and thus hiav.i4ed.
'Thirdly, Syllog'-r  or  Concit.son, is the actiivity by
wlhi'- tilinkiig reiuovies all difference, and eftecis  a permancn- identity. In evei - syllogisi-l we have three thloughts;
cach  is distinct, and differs fir'om the other, but one of them
is ca;a)le of removing  the diti lnce, and of uniting the
others in itself. Hence, this process is called Co-eclusion
o0  Syl/ogisiii.  This activity of thinking is reason, the fuit
on the tree of knowledge.   In considering the nature of
the syllogism, it is easy to discover its infinite p)ower to
move  in endless circles within itself.  Every syllogism
contains three judgments; each is finite, the mere product
of understanding.  Yet none is independent o(f the other,
none is of any value detached from the others.  The syllogism unites all, and is infinite in itself.  This will appear
thus. Two of the judgmnents in every syllogism, as (the
proposition major and b.) the proposition minor make, the
former an infinite regress, and the latter an infinite,i0ogress possible.  Every propositio mnajor of a syllogism may
become the conclusion of a second; the propositio major
of this second, the conclusion of a third; the propositio
major of this the conclusion of a fourth, and so on ad infinitum.  This may be called the infilite regress.  Again,
every conclusion may in the same way, only in the opposite direction, become the propositio major of another;
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PSYClIOLOGY.
the conclusion of this the propositio major of a third, and
so on without end.
So again; every syllogism contains three apperceptions;
each finite, but in the syllogism, in relation to each other.
They are the terminus major, the terminus minor, and the
terminus medius.  One of them unites the two others because it contains them according their nature and being.
In the syllogism each may come to stand in the place of
the other, for none stands independent of the other; the
minor may become medius, the mediuis, majori; and the
major again minor, and so on.  This gives the sylioegism an
infinite, internal motion. The syllogism is the only true
form of thought, and from its natuie, that of pure thiinking may be seen. Single thoughts the insane mian may
have; they may flash forth from his deranged  mind like
lightning fiaom dark clouds.  The prudent man, that is
wholly in,lifferent to truth, may have closely connected
thouohits, but the connection is brought about by himn, by
his purposes, not by the nature of the thoughts themselves.
But purie thinking demands of us, first of all, to resigi) ouri
views and pre-formed notions, and yield to thinking, as
as suchi, and its results.  Pure thinking, like the sylliogisri,
is not intermediated, but intermnediates itself.  All finite
knowledge is intermediated by other knowledge.  That of
Napoleon's exploits by that of the French nation; that of
the sun, by that of the moon..But pure thinking flows incessantly in itself; it is infinite already in its motions, from
the general to the particular, firom the particular to the
singular; then in its passing over to ju(lgnment, where by
the greatest variety of judgments, all of which have their
strict necessity, it passes over to the syllogism.  The connection of thoughts is not an external one; it is one brought
about by the energy and nature of thought itself. So one
doctrine of the Bible contains all the others, and if well
developed, it contains the whole system of divinity. Such
thinking is not determined by any thing else, as it is not intermediated by any thing else; now, if we say, that the
identity of thinking with itself is truth, and that not to be
determined by any thing foireign is liberty, we must say,
that the form of pure thinking is the syllogism, and its contents are truth and liberty. By truth is to be understood
28(') 
PSYCHOLOGY.
the t?uth, noL physical, historical, or any isolated single
truth. Pure thinking, or reason and truth and liberty are
inseparable.
But few only are permitted, however, to enter the sphere
of such pure thinking. The demands of life, their calling,
the whole direction of their minds, are averse to it, and
they have neither time nor wish to cultivate it. Yet there
are many who might, if they would, give attention to pure
thinking; they live in the sphere of science; it is their
duty to do so. Some of them make unsuccessful efforts,
and abandon the undertaking, embittered against all school
logic, as they say. The question might, therefore, be asked,
Who is /qual,f'edfor pure thinking?
1. Not he who is satisfied with knowing much, but does
not desire to see all his knowledge internally and systematically connected; who  desires to know  every thing
clearly and distinctly, but is indiffelent about  its ground
and origin.  Where, on the other hand, the qualification or
talent exists, there will be discovered an irresistible, instinctive urgency of reason to penetrate every thing with
thought, to unfold its origin, its nature, its connection with
the whole to which it belongs, to break down the limnits of
matter and sense, and press forward to the infinite, which
alone is of value, and which is the only proper object of all
scientific investigation.
2. Not he, who considers nature as a mere minechanisrr.m,
stripped of though.t and reason, and into which his wisdom
has first to place thoughts, in order to find them there.
Nature does not think, is not conscious of itself; has not
reason, as man has it; blat its productions are full of reason
and thoughts that are corporealized; the mechanical sys- tems of the starry heavens; the productions of the earth,
the minerals and their qualities, the vegetables in their more
or less regular formations; the animnals with their more or
less perfect organizations; all give witness of reason, and
show the union of thought and of being, even in nature.
He who is qualified for pure thinking, seeks every where
for pure thought, and seeks for it in nature also. The object
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PSYCIIOLOGY.
of all his investigations in nature, history, and elsewhere, is
thought or reason.
3. Not he that interests himself in science, not on account of truth, but for his own sake. Unless we take an
interest in our studies we  can make no progress; but this
interest may be taken, because we desire to make a living,
and consider the science we study as the best means.  To
live then we must study it. Here our desire for knowledge
has fallen back into a meie desire to eat andl drink, and
support life.  Thiliking is here of no accoupt, if we only
have bread.  Or our interest bases itself upon  vanity and
self-love.   We  wish to distinguish ourselves, to  effect
som-ething great, and force ourseives to take an interest in
whatever we consider the best means to lead us to th-is
end. The less pure thinking there is required, the nmore
all is made dependen,t on our own  fancies and  imaginations, giving us the appearance  of originality, the better.
Or, fiallTy, our inlerest in science is based on our 1l,-ve of
truth, as such.  Truth cannot  be reached without pure
thoulght, and he whose interest in study rests on this love,
is qualified to move in the spheire of pure thinking.
4. He is not qualified for thiS sphere  who opposes experience and pure thinking to eacii othlei.  True  xperience must be r)atioial, and true thinking iii.st be cJ]crimental.  When experience constantly opposes pIliiosophy,
as if pure reason had nothing to de with it, the qualifications we speak of are wanting; but when  tile scientific
man takes a deep interest in tie facts o(f learnin  and experience, because  they all of tern  contain  tiioug,ht, if
sought for, the qualifications are thire.
We commnenced the section on Reason with Feeling, and
gradually developed fiemn it pure thiniingr.  1cling and
Pure Tltidking are the two mJs simnple activities of the
mind, yet the latter is interme  ated by a nulmber of different activities, precediL int, wil e  the former piesupploses
nothing, except life.  WVe conmmnence wit ii Feeling, because
it is on tl-he one hand the first motiCon of life, one that needs
no exercise, and which  co-exists with life itself; and because it is thinking according to its possibility.  rThe term
possibility must here be properly  uiderstood.   The  tea"l
is that which hias an existence for svmet:i ci: iJ..:.
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PSYCHOLOGY.
sun exists for the earth, the earth for the plants, the plants
for animals. The Possible is that which on the one hand
is, and on the other, is not. It is according to its energy,
its power of developing itself in case all the conditions are
favorable; it is not as long as these conditions are not at
hand.   When  the conditions unite with the energy or
power of development, the contradiction is removed, and
the mere possibility becomes reality. Now, feeling, is
thiiing according to possibility: it becomes real thinking
by developiiieit, wtehich is calledjforth by external excitemen-et.
The development accomplishes itself in three stages. Commiencing with Feelirng, it becomes Sensation and Attention.
SenLsationt is already another activity than Feeling; with
,ensation, the possibility contained in Feeling, begins to
realize itself.  Yet sensation is wholly determined, wholly
receptive; this receptiveness is of course, self-activity at
the saiie time, yet so that the form of the senses and the
self-feeling of the being whose senses they are, determine
thie sensations. Tihe next stage is that of Conception, or
as I may be permitted to call it, representative Thinking.
If sensation is determined, and if it is a feeling of so-mething, objective, conception, as a form-giving power, is more
subjective, determining, more than determined. Thus the
possible thinking has developed itself to a still higher degree.  Conception, from intellectual perception, fancy, imagination, language to memory, is the constant effort of mind
to realize itself, until intermediated by  all these stages it
comes forth as pure thinking.  As such it is as simple an
activity as feeling, but feeling is without distinctness, a
darAk weactiig in itself, while thinking is clear and lucid as
light; again, man must feel, but nothing can force him to
think; thinking is a perfectly free activitv. Man is born
with feeling, but not with thoughts.  The way from feeling to pure thinking is long and laborious.  It is delightful
to observe the gradual and methodically intermediated becomining of pure thinking.
One remark flows naturally from the above considerations, which is this. We must not think that feeling is the
origin of thinking.  Thinking cannot originate in any thing
else than in itself. Thinking may be said to begin as feeling, but not to originate in it, as if feeling were the mother
25
289 
PSYCHOLOGY.
of thinking. The fountain, fi'om which cool water gushes,
is not the origin of the water. So buds might be said to
be the origin of fruit, because without buds there can be
no fruit, yet the origin of the fruit is also that of the buds.
Remarks.
1. Feeling and sensations are as little the origin or ground
of thinking, as buds and blossoms are the origin of fruit.
The fruit depends on them as a condition, but its origin
precedes blossoms and buds, and is moreover also their
origin. Thinking, however, commences as feeling, and develops itself from it gradually till it reaches its height.
Human feeling and that of the animal must consequently
differ from their very commencement, for the one contains
thinking according to its possibility, in its latent state, the
other not. Sensations and conceptions are related to thinking and its development as conditions; for without them it
could not exist in man.
2. There is a difbference between the expressions Ithink,
and I have a thought. The words "I have," express a being, but one, which is not itself, what it possesses.  "To
have a good thought," and "to think well," is, therefore,
not exactly the same. The thought I have may be borrowed, but when I think well, the thought being the product of my own thinking, is the same with it. Yet this
must not be understood, as if a man might have a thought
without thinking; he may have a word without the thought
it contains; but to have a thought merely handed by another would be no better than to have another eat and
digest for him.
290 
SECTION II.
ON WILL.  
CHAPTER I.
~ I. GENERAL NATURE OF WILL.
It is usual to consider Reason and Will as wholly different activities, and to speak of mental and moral faculties.
But the mind is one, and reason and will are so inseparable, that the one includes the other. They have one principle and one life; and what is on the one hand liberty of
will, is on the other spontaneity of thought. Man cannot
will a thing, unless he knows of it; he cannot have any
knowledge of it without the influence of will. Before he
resolves on a thing, he must consider it, and again, he must
resolve to consider it. The more clear and distinct our
thinking, the more it will be pervaded by the will; and the
more considerate, wise and correct our actions, the more
the breath of understanding will penetrate them. I investigate a subject by my will; and my will is directed to it
by the knowledge I have of it. Will and reason constantly
determining each other, are one and the same-existing
in different forms; or "Reason is nothing else than will
with prevailing consciousness, and will is reason with a prevailing practical tendency."
It must be remarked here, however, that will may be
viewed in a twofold aspect, as nature and as moral will;
in the latter respect it is to be viewed in the closest connection with law, moral obligation, duties and rights; in the
former it manifests itself by desires, inclinations, emotions,
and passions. Only the morally good is free; the merely
natural will is wholly dependent on external objects or internal passions, it does not determine itself by its own nature, but by the nature of that which is different from it                            25* 
PSYCHOLOGY.
self. In the sphere of the natural will we can recognize
nothing but determinism. It will, therefore, be understood,
that here we shall examine the will of man, as it is by na ture, and not as it is by grace or religious influence. The
natural will then lives in all our desires, inclinations and
passions; and these, after a preliminary remark, we shall
try to define and distinguish from each other. We may
here recollect what has been said on the nature of instinct.
It is on the one hand a feeling of want, and on the other
the direction to the object by which the want may be re moved. There is a corresponding relation between the
wants of all animated beings and the things which may re lieve them, as there is a relation between negative and po sitive poles. The want is the negative, and the food intended for it, is the positive. As this relation is a natural
one, the being feeling the want, is excited and restless, for
the want is related to the thing desired, and cannot remain
quiet; this excitement demands a certain direction, a direction to the means by which to satisfy the want, and it is
instinct which gives it. Now if the feeling of want is
painful, that of satisfaction is delightful, so that the mere
sight of food is exhilarating. Again: whatever can feel
itself must feel external influences, and receive from them
pleasant or unpleasant impressions. The stone exposed to
the sun, does not feel it; the flower may wither, but the
eye looking into it feels the most severe pain. When now
any external influence upon a being which feels itself, excites its self-activity, pleasure will be felt by its reaction;
when this self-activity is weakened, and perhaps rendered
in some degree impossible, pain is the result. Pain and
pleasure are, therefore, the two extremes, between which
the existence of man vibrates, and upon which the general
character of all desires and inclinations, emotions and passions rests.
The nature of instinct proceeds, as we have seen, firom
self-feeling; for without feeling itself, a being cannot feel
want. Self-feeling is its channel. It is no less determined
by this self-feeling than it determines the whole life of a
living being; it directs it with an inflexible determination
to its proper food, so that no horse has ever yet been seen
to eat flesh, even in its greatest hunger, nor a tiger to eat
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PSYCHOLOGY.
straw. While instinct, as long as it is in the sphere of mere
self-feeling has no choice with regard to the direction which
it takes, it loses all direction when it enters the sphere of
consciousness in man. As a stream, that flowing smoothly
along its course turns neither to the right nor to the left, is,
on plunging into the broad, deep ocean, suddenly deprived
of its direction, so is instinct, when received by consciousness.  For now feeling and consciousness unite; the mnere
feeling of want becomes a consciousness of it, as likewise
tile feeling of pain; what we feel we become conscious of,
and feeling entering into our consciousness, gives it warmth
and life, and fills it with pain or pleasure. Butt consciousness will not suffer itself to be driven to its objects by an
instinctive power; where it reigns choice and arbitrariness. reason and will prevail. Instinct grows dull, and
loses its nature; but as man continues to have wants, What
must supply the place of instinct?
The full import of this question will be perceived, when
we observe, that we cannot desire the unknown; and again
that we cannot know any thing unless we desire to know
it. Hence a desire cannot originate directly in our knowledge, nor this in our desire.  How is this contradiction to
be removed? Instinct raises the animal above it; but instinct is not in man what it is in the animal. The contradiction in man must be removed by what may be called
appetency. This is instinct which has lest its direction: for
though the direction is lost, the activity continues; man
continues to feel hunger and thirst, and a tendency of his
nature to satisfy them. This tendency is instinctive, but
as blan is conscious of it, it is no  longer instinct as such.
Ile feels hunger, but the object by which to satisfy it, is
not pressed upon him by instinct.  He sees, however, many
objects that are pleasant to his sight; he feels an appetency
to unite them  with himself, to eat them  without as yet
knowing whether they will be agreeable or disagarecable.
He eats the apple and finds it good, and from this moment
the remembrance of the pleasure derived from the assimi lation of it will always call forthl the anticipation of plea sure as often as he feels want, and perceives an apple or
represents it to himself by fancy. By appetency then, we
understand the original activity of instinct, which having
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PSYCHOLOGY.
lost its direction by entering the sphere of consciousness, attempts togive itself a new one. Or appetency in man is the
anticipation of a pleasure. I see for the first time a plate
of beautiful grapes; their transparency, their pure juice
swelling beneath the skin, attract the eye.  As yet I have
not tasted them, they may taste sweet. or bitter, or acid,
for all is not gold that glitters; I cannot yet say that I shall
like them, but I make the attempt, I taste and find them
good, and from that moment I desire grapes whenever I
see them.
What then is a desire?
Desire.
It is the positive direction which we have taken by means
of appetency to an object or objects, which agree with our na tural wcants.  Two things then are necessary for the origin
of a desire; a natural want and an object to? emove it. The
want and this object must be brought together, and that
which unites them is not instinct as such, but what we have
called appetency. This appetency would be impossible
without sensation; but sensation has here no reference to
theoretical but to practical knowledge, for as soon as I see
the pear a feeling of pleasure connects itself with my perception, and I already anticipate the enjoyment of eating it.
And so likewise I examine it only with reference to its
taste. Sensation and knowledge, therefore, enter into the
service of the desires.
Desires are eithei positive or negative.  The positive desires are those the objects of which agree with our nature,
and thus produce the feeling of pleasure. The negative
desires on the other hand, do not find what they seek, an
object corresponding withl our wants, and pleasure resulting from its union with ourselves; but the object positively
desired, is discovered to be injurious or to produce an effect opposite to what we expected, and hence we abhor it
whenever we again see it. No negative desire is possible
without a positive one preceding it; for we must become
acquainted with the nature of all things around us by our
own experience, and though the sheep selects safely sugar
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PSYCHOLOGY.
from arsenic, man must either have eaten the latter himself, or have seen it used by others, before he will avoid it.
The difference between positive and negative desires
will appear more distinctly if we inquire: What is to be
understood by the sati.sfaction of desire? The satisfaction
of a positive desire is the assimilation of its object with
ourselves, making it part of our own existence, and receiving pleasure by doing so. I desire an apple which I
see hanging on a branch perfectly ripe and pleasant to the
sight; I pluck and eat it, and my desire is satisfied. It
exists no longer for itself, but becomes flesh of my body
and blood of my blood; it is converted into an accidence
of myself. So it is with every thing else. The piece of
sugar is desired by the child; its desire is half satisfied
when it receives it, and fully when it eats it. The satisfaction of desire then consists in this; the want, the restlessness from which the desire arises, is removed, and the
anticipation of pleasure realized at the expense of the object desired, for it is destroyed.-Our negative desires, on
the other hand, are satisfied when the thing we dislike is
kept away from us, consequently does not come in contact
with us. The manner in which we keep it at a distance,
may be effected by our turning away from it, by fleeing it,
or if necessary by annihilating it. Again, negative desires
and abhorrence differ.  Every negative desire bases itself
upon a positive one, and this upon a knowledge of the object; abhorrence, on the other hand, is the immediate expression of instinct, and does not rest on knowledge, but
on a sensation, especially on that of smell or sight. The
horse abhors carcasses; man, any thing unclean in his
food.
A demand, on the other hand, differs from a positive
desire, by basing itself upon a right; while a wish is a
desire for something, which we either know to be out of
our reach, or which we make no attempt to get into our
power.
Every desire, however, is transient; for every satisfaction of desire is like the pressure of an elastic body that
rises as soon as the hand is removed firom it. Like the
phoenix, which ever rises anew from its own ashes, or the
liver of Prometheus, which grew as fast as the vultures
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PSYCHOLOGY.
ate it, so desire rises always anew firom its satisfaction.
The life, spent in the sphere qf desire is, therefore, without
true satisfaction, and man cannot remain within it. IHe
wills something permanent, and passes over into the sphere
of
Inclination.
If our desires cannot be permanently satisfied, and if
they are changeable, constantly passing from one object to
another,-our inclinations select a single object, fix themselves upon it, and instead of destroying it by assimilation,
preserve it; for an inclination is the desire to remain in
constait and pemnacnent connection with a certain object, and
to effect this, it must be carefully preserved. From this
preliminary definition it may be seen that the difference
between desire and inclination is not merely in degree, as
some have asserted in saying that inclination is a desire to
which we have become accustomed; the difference is one
of quality; inclination is something else than desire. When
under the influence of desire, we want the objects to vield
to us, to pass over into ourselves, and become accidents of
ourselves; when we have an inclination to an object we
yield to it, bend towards it, and our aim is to remain in
connection with it. It is not the repetition of a desire,
therefore, that makes it an inclination so that the latter
would be the former, having only become habitual. We
cannot have an inclination, without having had a desire,
and yet the difference remains one of quality or kind. If
one desires to learn a mechanical business merely for the
purpose of gaining a livelihood by it, he will not c are for a
particular one, but be satisfied with any; but an inclination will be bent upon some one, and no other, and whatever may oppose this inclination, it will remain the same.
A mere desire to drink when we are thirsty differs not a
little from an inclination for a.pecific wine.
No desire can therefore pass over at once into an inclination, and we all know that it is impossible for us to love
a thing, merely because we desire to love it. That which
renders a natural inclination possible, is an innate propensity. The wants of man, and his feeling of them, are permanent; appetency is the attempt to give these feelings a
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PSYCHOLOGY.
direction to certain objects, by which they may be removed.  These objects are various, but only one is desired
at a time, and it may be one thiing or another.  Man needs
food and drink; what this food and drink may be, is indifferent in the sphere of desire; but propensity is the innate tendency of our wants and feelings to a certain particular object; it is the adaptedness contained in the knowledge of an object, and in the feelings connected with  thlis
knowledge, to our capacity of desiring it.  This adaptedness
or relati)n between our knowledge of an object and the
desire for it is innate, and therefore precedes both in their
reality, and exhibits itself at the mnioment that we for the
first time perceive thie object.  How  many ladies had
Dante seen without being affected by them? But when
he saw Beatrice, his heart was at once hers. So it was
with Petriarch when he saw Laura. This propensity is so
strong that no one can alter it, because it is something as
subjective in man, as instinct is in animals; it is instinct
modified by the influence of reason. Yet while none can
change or extinguish it, every one is expected to govern it.
And again, as no one can have an inclination for what he
has no natural propensity, so he cannot avoid feeling an
inclination, when a propensity exists in his bosom. Upon
such a propensity talents and genius are based. Inclinations have, therefore, propensity for a medium. They presuppose desires, and are impossible without them; they
must have an object; this object must be known, and with
the knowledge of it a feeling of pleasure must be connected, as in desires.
How then is inclination to be defined?  When as often
as wee think of an object, we desire a connection with it, we
have a propensity to it, which, indulged, will become an incli.
nation. We must not imagine, however, that as we have
different inclinations, so we must have different propensities.  Propensity is a general activity, which may individualize itself, and produce the most various inclinations,
as one and the same reason takes the most different directions to the various objects of knowledge. I have a propensity to the past, to reflect on it, on historical facts; but
here by virtue of this general propensity, I may incline to
heraldry, to chronology, to the ethical portions of history,
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to criticism, &c. An inclination is either positive or negative. As positive, it is love of a thing, as negative, dislike.
The character of inclination is calmn, it does not storm
like desire, it is not vehement like passion, and yet it is full
of warmth and life. When, however, this calmness is disturbed, when the objects of an inclination render man subject to themselves, their slave, the inclination loses its character, and becomes something more, it becomes,
Emotion.
"An emotion" according to Kames, "is an internal motion or agitation of the mind, which passes away without
desire." This definition of emotion is not altogether accurate, for mind is itself an internal motion, it is an uninterrupted] motion,'and an emotion must be something different firom the usual state of the mind. Emotion is a disturbance of the quiet, peaceful, and otherwise uninterrupted
motion of the mind.  Fromr this definition it follows at once
that the animal having no mind, cannot have emotions.
Every emotion is a strong feeling, yet not every feeling is
an emotion. The feelings of hunger and thirst, of fatigue
ori vigor, are no emotions; but feeling connected with a
clear thought of their origin may be emotions. By the
thought of its cause a feeling becomes united with consciousness, gains a hold upon the mind; and if this hold is so
strong, that the person loses self-control, that, as Kames
says, no desire, no determined direction can take place in
him, that he becomes confused-then the feeling is an emotion. A man who is quietly walking alone in a beautiful
grove, engaged in meditation, suddenly sees a rattle-snake
before him; he clearly perceives his danger, and a feeling
of displeasure connecting itself with his perception, he is
so fi'ightened that at first he is neither able to defend himself nor to run away. This is an emotion which deprives
him of the command of his mind.  Such an emotion may
be compared to the disturbance of the quiet mirror of a
lake when a stone is dropped into it. The waters seem in
perfect rest, yet they are in motion. The stone disturbs
their quietude, and small circles form themselves which
constantly enlarge as they recede from the centre.  De
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sires and inclinations have a determined direction to certain objects, but emotions have no direction at all. For instance a person highly insulted by another, feels wroth;
he clenches his fist, his eyes roll-but he is at first unable
to act; the offender meanwhile runs off and the angry man
exclaims, "if I had him here now I would give him what
he deserves." But we have not yet fully understood the
nature of an emotion. We must see its origin and foun,lation. We have said that an emotion is a disturbance of
the activities of mind: What are these activities?  Thinking, willing andfeeling.  When these three activities are
of equal strength and in harmony, or when thinking freely
prevails, then the mind is active, but in no emotion; when
desire prevails, the activity of the mind having a direction,
is likewise not agitated, but when the thinking activ' ity is
impeded by that of feeling, when thinking becomes clouded by it-then we have an emotion.  The possibility that
"thinking may prevail in us, and be at the same time impeded by our feeling," has been called excitabiity.  The
greater this is in a person the more will he be under the
influence of emotions. The correctness of this definition
of emotion will appear too firom the expressions we use,
when we recover from an emotion.  "I was overcome;"
I was unmanned;" "I was led away;" "I was not myself;" "I forgot myself;" &c.  Animals, as was said above,
cannot have emotions, because the ground of every emotion is thinking, connected with strong feeling.  Yet we
know that they express pain and joy, fear and hope.  This
only seems so however. Their pain and pleasure, proceeding fi'om the measure of an external influence upon them,
is of an entire bodily character, disconnected with any
thought, and what seems to be fear or hope, is nothing but
a confused and dark anticipation of which they can give
no account to themselves, neither while they are agitated,
noi afterwards. Their fear does not proceed from the
thought of danger connected with strong feeling; but like
tho bird charmed by a snake, they have but an unknown
din feeling, not even amounting to anxiety.  Emotions are
likewise either negative or positive, as their nature harmo nizes with that of the person.  Aill positive emotions are
strength'ening, as joy, delight, hope; all negative ones are
26
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PSYCHTOLOGY.
weakening, or of a melting character, as grief, melancholy,
&c.
We have said, a little above, that instinct loses its direction in man, and we have just stated that emotions are
without direction; What then is the difference between instinct that has lost its direction, and emotions? Emotions
are more intellectual than instinct after it enters into man,
and again instinct gains a direction by appetency, while
emotions pass away without taking any certain direction.
Emotions, however, are transient like desires; and cannot
be recalled. The joy I felt at the reception of glad tidings,
when once gone, is gone for ever, as an emotion, and to
pretend to have it again in all its liveliness and freshness
would be sheer affectation. Emotions being transient, they
can gain permanency only by connecting themselves with
an inclination; but thus neither the inclination nor the emotion remain pure, they are mixed, and in this mixed state.
they are
Passsion.
The difference between inclination and passion is not
always kept up very distinctly, and the reason is, that they
have the same contents. For as we have love of honowr
and of property, so we have ambition and avarice, which
are passions, the objects of which are likewise honor and
property. Again, every inclination may become a passion,
either transient or permanent, and hence it demands much
knowledge of human nature to distinguish between an inclination and a passion. They do not merely differ in degree, so that an inclination losing its proper measure would
become passion; in this case it would be difficult to ascertain this proper measure. Passion has elements, which inclination has not, and the relation of passion to its object
is wholly different from that of inclination to its object.
What then are the elements of passion, that are not met
with in inclination? Passion in general is a vehenment, immovable, and persevering inclination, that has received into
itself either a strong emotion or another inclination or a
desire. A higher or lower degree merely, cannot make the
same state of mind, at one time an inclination, and at an
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other a passion, but the difference is produced by their entirely different nature. In passion, thinking and feeling,
are wholly subordinate to desire; hence passions are blind.
Every passion is at the same time negative and positive,
a complete contradiction. Avarice is positive as a determined desire for money; negative as a constant depriving
ourselves of the most necessary sustenance. So again with
reference to the relation of passion to its object, it may be
said, that passion, as its name indicates, is wholly under
its control; that the object so reigns in it, as to exclude
every other inclination or desire. A few examples may be
given:
1. When an emotion enters into an inclination, it causes
a transient passion. The father, for example, loves his
son; this love is quiet and undisturbed. But the father
hears of some danger which threatens his son; the thought
of this danger connects itself with a strong feeling and becomes fear, and this emotion entering his paternal love,
changes it into a passion, that will last as long as the fear
continues, and will disappear with it. The more excitable
a person is, and the more determined in his propensity and
inclination to a certain object, the more easily passions of
this sort will arise in his mind. A man loves property;
this love is of a tranquil character, and he does not lose his
equilibrium. But war breaks out; it renders property insecure-he is excitable, fear enters into his love and converts it into a transient passion. When the war is over
and property becomes safe, the passion subsides.
2. Again; passions originate, when one inclination en ters into another, and thus strengthening it, changes it into
a passion. This passion will be permanent and always
ready to break forth, as often as an emotion draws it out.
A man, for instance, loves war and honor equally; here
are two inclinations and if he observes that his reputation
may be increased by his love of war, he will make this
subservient to the other, and instead of love of honor, he
will have ambition.
3. And finally, when a desire enters into an inclination,
it likewise becomes a passion. The nature of desire and
that of inclination is different. The desire wants the ob ject to yield to us; in inclination the person bends towards
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PSYCOLOGY.
the object.  Desire, to satisfy itself, destroys its object by
assimilation, inclination is determined to preserve it.
When desire and inclination enter into each other, they
form a shocking contradiction, which is the essence of passion. To illustrate this, we will take once more the example of the ambitious man. He loves honor, and hence
is ready to devote himself, all his skill, all his knowledge,
all his power and even life to it; at the same time, he desires honor to yield to him, to be his, and longs for it merely
for his own sake. If it were not his honor, he would not
take any interest in it. On the one hand, then, he gives
himself up to honor, considering it the highest good; on
the other he desires honor to become a mere accident of
himself.
In conclusion we would define passion thus: "It is a
strong, persevering, blind desire, that is either connected with
a strong emotion or an inclination, and deprives man of selfcontrol, chaining all his thinking and willing."
~ 2. RELATION OF DESIRES, INCLINATIONS, EMO
TIONSI AND PASSIONS: TO THE WILL.
Acts of the will and those of desire resemble each other,
and hence are not always distinguished in common life.
And yet their difference is considerable. The motive of
an action, prompted by desire, is always the anticipation of
pleasure, be this pleasure sensual, intellectual, or rational.
An action that proceeds purely fi'om will, on the other
hand, has for its motive, the knowledge and love of the
divine law, and the feeling of regard for ourselves. With
this feeling also, it is true, a pleasure is connected, but this
pleasure is of a moral nature, depending on notions of right
and  duty.   Acts  of the will always have reference to
rights; I may demand what I will; acts of desire do not
regard them, but we frequently desire what we have no
right to long for. Our natural desires, are therefore indifferent to right and duty, and consequently have in them
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PSYCHOLOGY.
selves no elements of moral goodness. Again: the soul of
desire is lust, pleasure; being under its influence, we are
under that of pleasure, and if our life is confined to the
sphere of desire, it will know of nothing higher than pleasutire or Eudaemonism.  In this case our will does not determine itself by the idea of the divine law, nor by its own
power, but it is determined by the notion of pleasure, and
consequently it is not firee, but under the dominion of
something different from itself. It is true that man, while
under the dominion of desire, may turn from one object to
another, so that no one enchains him, yet it is the power
of pleasure alone, that controls him, even when he is prudent, like Epicurus.
In inclinations, it is different, and man is even less free
in them than in desires.  For when we have once formed
an inclination, it is a particular object, one out of many,
that fastens us to itself, and claims our interest, care, and
attention, above all others. WYe can, therefore, no longer
turn away firom it, and bend to another, as we please, but
this object enchains us. Hience one inclination excludes
those that cannot harmonize with it, and draws a circle
around us, within which alone we can move with a certain degree of liberty. Our mere curiosity, for instance,
finds every knowable object equally interesting; but when
we feel a strong inclination to a particular science, it will
limit our interest in other sciences, and though we may
speak in an animated manner of them, yet they will attract
us in proportion as they approach the one that is our favorite. But if in our inclinations we are not free, if in
them we are determined by the power of their objects and
the pleasure we take in them,-passion makes us wholly
their slaves. They deprive us of all self-control; they do
not permit any other inclinations to exist by their side, they
are vehement and importunate desires, insisting with might
on their satisfaction. They are like internal diseases,
working secretly, absorbing and poisoning all the healthy
portions of the will, and subjecting it wholly to their
control.
Passions, unless their objects are of a noble character,
run a dagger through the heart of will; destroying it in the
most direct way. Man in the state of nature is the crea
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PSYCHOLOGY.
ture of passion. The highest good for man is liberty, civil
or moral, external or internal; yet moral and internal liberty
only renders civil liberty, or the independence of nations
on each other, and that of citizens on the nations, and
liberty of thought, valuable or desirable.   Only when
morally free, we may say with right, the will of man is his
happiness. To preserve liberty, laws and duties and rights
surround man. Now, that which most immediately destroys will is passion, because it disregards all duties and
all rights. Take, for example, ambition; it is undoubtedly
the desire of having others possess a good opinion of our
characters. This desire is so great that it darkens orr
reason with regard to every thing else. It becomes the
principle and motive of all actions, it subordinates all inclinations. The ambitious man does every thing because it
will increase his reputation, and not because it is honorable in itself; the highest good he knows of, is his own
honor.  This, however, is certainlv a slavish dependence
on the object of our desire. The ambitious man needs the
influence of others to spread his reputation.  Hence, he
becomes dependent on them externally, as he is on his desire for honor internally; for whatever does not promote
it, can gain no hold on him. Every permanent passion is
a suicide committed by our will and our reason.  The influence of passion on our will being so great, we add a remrark
with regard to the different classes of passionate men. In
this respect we may divide them all into three classes:
1. Some men are only at times overpowered by passions, but generally free from them. They possess fine
talents, the power to ac(lquire much and solid knowledge;
they readily take an interest in all that deserves attention;
for they are left firee firom those deep impressions which
monopolize the interest of man. Their thinking is no less
extensive, than energetic and deep, and so their feeling is
both deep and expanded over many objects. They lay
plans and execute them with perseverance and steadiness,
for they are not drawn off by any sudden and powerful
stimulus. They may be less inventive and ingenious, but
they are clear, deep and thorough, and their iminds are
principally active in the form of pure reason. They are
fond of speculation and philosophy, for this science must
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PSYCHOLOGY.
be carried on without prejudices or predilections, without
passions or emotions.
2. The second class comprising those who are passionate, whose passions however are transient. They have
many inclinations, and being highly excitable, emotions
will be easily called up, and through them their inclinations will become transient passions. These of course
will affect their character. Their thinking and feeling will
not be of equal strength, as regards their extent and e7ergy; but they spread over a large field and thus weaken
themselves. Taking an interest in every object brought
before them, they persevere in nothing, but pass from one
thing to another, knowing something of all, but not much
of any thing.  Their desire for knowledge is mere curiosity. They rarely ask for the principles of the arts or
sciences; satisfied with a few facts they have no idea of a
systematic life that pervades all sciences. Again: passionate men may take a deep interest for a time in the objects
of their passions, but their interest continues only as long
as their passion lives; while at the same time it is confined
to the sphere of their passion. They take an interest in
their native country, but not in the whole world.  They
prefer the useful to the good, and right and dutiful.
3. The third class of men are those who are governed
by one strong and permanent passion. Their thinking is
strong and energetic, but limited as to its extent; and so it
is with their feeling. The limitation of these activities
renders it possible to be more energetic and powerful within the limits in which they concentrate themselves, upon
some few objects. Persons of this character are thorough
in their knowledge. The envious man will be a close observer, the avaricious a good arithmetician. So it is with
feeling. The proud man will not care for the sons of his
neighbor, but the more deep will be his interest in his own.
The man, whose passions are permanent, may appear externally cool, deliberate and free from deep emotions; for
one great passion controls all his feelings and movements.
The ambitious despot, for example, knows how to gain the
confidence of all, while none is permitted to pry into his
secrets, or to see his weak side.-To one of these three
classes every man belongs, and to know man, we must
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PSYCHOLOGY.
study the nature of the passions. The study of the poets,
especially of Shakspeare, will be found very fertile.
Finally, we have yet to consider the relations of emotions to will. Emotions. while they continue, render desire impossible. This shows itself, when we have lost a
friend by death, we lose all desire for food or drink. Emotions sometimes strengthen desire, but then emotion enters
into desire and puts forth all its energy in the direction
which the desire has taken. Again: it has been observed
that some persons speak better than they write, while
others write better than they speak: How is this to be explained? Emotions either strengthen or weaken our thinking; they strengthen it when thinking draws their power
into itself and thus gains their assistance. It becomes then
enthusiastic and thoughts flow more clearly, more rapidly
and fully; the thought of that which causes the emotions,
and the emotions become inseparable and aid each other.
Persons, on whose thinking emotions have this effect, speak
better, because they are more easily excited in public, than
in their private study. When, however, the emotion so
grows together with our thinking, that it wholly fills the
latteri, becomes its soul and does not suffer it to turn to any
thing else, mental derangement may take place. This is
the case when all our thinking and feeling has become one
grief; when whatever we look upon, seems to be a mirror,
reflecting only what agitates us, and when all seems to be
gloomy and dark as ourselves. But emotions more generally weaken our thinking, and then we cannot speak as
well as write.  Our judgment becomes slow and our perceptions obscure. A young man appears for the first time
in the pulpit; he desires to do well, but the feeling of danger arising from the possibility of failure, impedes his desire, unmans his judgment, and becoming embarassed he
does not know where he is nor what he is doing. Or a
person who has not often been in company, reluctantly enters it; in the course of conversation some witty or cutting
remark is made which he keenly feels, but in his embarrassment cannot find a reply.
Lastly, emotions weaken our will; when we are wroth
and act in this state, we do not determine ourselves by
will but by the power of an unpleasant feeling. Our will
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PSYCHOLOGY.
is the slave of it and wholly determined by it. There is,
of course, no physical necessity in the emotions to compel
man to act in accordance with the impulse received from
them. When the cloud, filled with electricity, strikes a
house, it cannot do otherwise; but whee a man filled with
wrath strikes another, he might have refrained, he might
have restrained himself. But in the latter case the question would be, What induced him to refrain from discharging his wrath, on his fellow man; Was it a sense of duty,
or some selfish desire? We have seen then, that in the
sphere of our natural will, there is no liberty to be found,
and that consequently what is called so, is arbitrariness,
but not fireedom.
We shall now offer a few remarks on each of the above
subjects in particular, yet so that we shall include inclination and passion in one chapter, as their objects are the
same.
309
~e e.. e. 
CHAPTER II.
~ 1. ON DESIRES.
Desires may be divided according to their objects.
These are either sensual, or sensual-intellectual, or rational;
and hence we have so many different classes of desires.
Sensual desires.
The term sensual does not include any reproach whatever, for it has here no reference to morality. Such a
reference it can get only by our will in its relation to the
divine, which is here wholly left out of view. These desires are called sensual, because their object becomes known
to us by our senses; and because our knoweldge of them
is sensuous. Yet it must not be thought, that any knowledge could exists without some reflection, or thought; we
mean only to say, that sensation is the condition, without
which no knowledge of the objects of sensual desires
would be possible. The desires under consideration are
numerous as their objects, which extend from inorganic
nature, as minerals, waters, to the organic-vegetables of
all kinds and animals. Whether an individual has many or
few of them depends on his own constitution, and on the
nature surrounding him. The latter is conditioned by the
influences of the sun and moon, and climate in general.
If the region in which a person lives, is productive, if it
exhibits to his eyes a great variety of fruits and vegetables,
his desires will be many: if the region is barren, or if its
productions, though rich and plentiful, are limited in their
i~n(s,.thc desires of its inhabitants cannot be various,
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PSYCHOLOGY.
though they may be vehement. No man can desire that
of which he has no knowledge; he who has never seen
an oyster, or a turtle, cannot long for one, and he who has
never tasted southern fruits, as oranges, pine-apples, &c.,
will not feel a desire for them. As regards the constitution
of man, it is, as we have seen in Anthropology, modified by
various causes. Age affects it, and hence we desire in
youth that to which we feel indifferent in manhood. Sexual difbference likewise produces a difference in our sensual
desires: woman has more delicate, more refined desires;
those of man are more vehement and more coarse. And
so the number and varietv of our desires depend further
on the race to which we belong, on the tribe, the nation,
the age in which we live, on the family in which we are
brought up.  The Germans are fond of sauerkraut; the
English of roast beef; the French of bouillon; the Italians
of maccaroni, &c. So is each family a small whole in its
own, separated from others by a family-spirit, expressing
itself in peculiar views and feelings, customs and habits.
Here also members of one family will have desires, which
those of another have not. Some feel an aversion to
milk, and whatever is made of it; others again desire it
more than any other food.
Sensual-Intellectual Desires.
The object of these desires are those that may be perceived by our senses, but become objects of desire by reflection. Of this nature are all the objects of property.
As sensual objects they are perceptible to the eye, but their
character of being property is only known to the understanding. For that which renders them property, is the
law: this cannot be seen with the eyes, and though signs
and landmarks may separate our property from that of
another, it is only by thinking, by acknowledging the invisible law, that we perceive and acknowledge property.
The sign is there for the animal as well as man; but for
the former it is a mere stone, a mere post; for unless we
see that something is indicated by a thing, it is no sign for
us. Again: desires are intellectual when objects are not
desired so much on their own account, as on account of
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PSYCHOLOGY.
something else, when they are therefore considered as
useful more than merely agreeable. So we become conscious of duration of time, and through it of that of life; we
desire a long life because we desire the pleasures and enjoyments life grants us. Life is here desired on account
of that which it offers. Should we be sick, the desire of
life would induce us to desire the most unpleasant medicine, if we hoped to recover by taking it. So we may
desire life for the sake of gathering property, or of acquiring reputation. The objects of sensual-intellectual desires
are, therefore not only agreeable, but useful. But the
useful is worth more than the agreeable; an illuminated
saloon may be agreeable, but a machine is useful, and the
latter stands higher. If the number of sensual desires,
depends on many accidental circumstances, that of intellectual desire depends on the cultivation of the mind;
and as the objects of intellectual desires stand higher or lower
on the scale of intellect, we desire most those that stand
nearest to ourselves.
There are some desires which, while the above are natural, are wholly unnatural. Persons whose systems are
weakened and incapable of any longer serving the desires
which they once enjoyed, still remember them, and from
remembrance desire them again; or seeing others enjoy
themselves, thev desire their pleasures. This is the case
with old voluptuaries especially, and with persons who
have exhausted their nature by excessive indulgence. An
alderman w%ho was importuned by a beggar, when on his
way to a dinner, said;  "I would giv-e you five guineas for
your appetite."
Rational Desires.
Their objects are those which are not at all perceptible
to the senses, and which consequently can only be perceived by thinking. Truth, for instance, is nothing sensual:
the numbers written on the blackboard have a sensual existence, but we may rub them off at any time. The relation on the other hand, in which numbers stand to each
other cannot be rubbed off, but remains for ever the same.
The number two cannot be less nor more than two under
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PSYCHOLOGY.
any circumstances, and two added to three must always
make five.  This relation is the truth of numbers.   But it
is not visible to the eye, it is onlv accessible to the understanding. So it is wvith beauty. Not the marble, not the
canvass and the colours, are beautiful-they may be
agreeable;-it is thoughit alone that is beautiful when it ap)ears in a sensible form.  If we acknowledge beauty in
nature, we must also acknowledge a spirit addressing us
fiom all the productions of nature. The material by
which beauty is expressed may be destroyed; languages
die and become extinct; the marble crumbles in the course
of time; colors grow pale; but beauty in its nature is eternal,
and as such it is only an object to thought and reflection.
Now we desire truth, beauty, and goodness, but as soon
as we enter these spheres, we have entered the sphere of
pure will, and our desires imust assume a moral relation.
The nature of truth, of beauty, and honour is such that
they cannot become means; they are the final end of all
that is.  If any  one, for example,  should desire honor
merely because it is useful, and not because it is intrinsically desirable, he would, as soon as this was known of him,
be denied honor by every one, for such a desire is dishonorable in itself. The honorable man, on the other hand, will
sacrifice property and life to honor. The same is the case
with beauty, speaking here of the beauty of art. It has
the power to silence all desires, to raise us above sensual
feeling, so much that it has for this reason at all times been
considered an excellent means of cultivation. For when
our desires are at rest we are left free to examine a thing;
but when the object of our investigation excites desires
by its sensual life, we seek less for its true nature, than for
the use we may make of it. In all the beauties of art, sensual life, being absent, desires cannot be awakened by
them.  We may, however, desire beauty fobr its own sake,
but not as means for any thing else. What then is the object of a rational desire? It is one that is likewise desired
on its own account, that in our view of it cannot be lowered to become a mere means for something else, while at
the same time it is confined to the sphere of natural desires. That which cannot become means again, and which
is infinite in its nature, is always rational, and the object of
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PSYCHOLOGY.
a rational desire is happiness. The idea of happiness is
that of an uninterrupted well-being. Man flees what is
painful, and seeks what is pleasant; he is anxious to reduce
the pain, without which no life has yet been found, to the
smallest, and increase pleasure to the highest amount. The
better he succeeds in affecting this, the more will he ap proach the ideal of happiness. All other desires have to
serve that of happiness; all other ends will become sub ordinate to it; all his other desires will be governed by it,
and brought into harmony with it. Wherein then does
this happiness consist? It is an uninterrupted well-being:
well-being is the feeling of pleasure; pleasure proceeds
from the satisfaction of wants, for though pain is the opposite of pleasure, and cannot be sought for on its own
account, it becomes by its removal, the source of pleasure.
To satisfy wants we must have the means, and the idea of
happiness includes them. Happiness then consists in the
possibility of satisfying all our possible wants, and the desires arising firom them.  But theie are many desires; they
cannot all be satisfied at once; a man cannot eat and drink,
read and speak at the same timne. And again there are
sensual and intellectual wants, and desires which frequently interfere with each other, so that if we indulge the forine, we shall weaken the latter, and so the reverse. Hence
prudence must compare one with the other, lest we should
indulge the less valuable desire, and deprive ourselves of
one that might have given more satisfaction. Yet, however prudent man may be with regard to the preference he
gives one desire over the other, and withi regard to the
means which he may collect, and the object of which mIay
be his study, he will after all. not find what he seeks in his
state of nature, for one thing alone remains permanent ir.
him, his thirst for happiness, while all the rest is constantly changing.  Dante, in his celebrated Convito. has shown
this beautifully in the following passage. " The original
desire that draws us to every thing is implanted in us by
nature, and this is the desire to return to God as our fountain.  And as the pilgrim who  walks on an unknown
path, considers every cottage which he perceives at a distance as the resting-place, and when he discovers that it is
not, directs his hope onward to another, and thus from cot
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tage to cottage, until at length he reaches the harbor;-so
it is with the soul: as it enters the new, yet unknown path
of this life, it directs its eye to the object of its highest
good and every thing which it perceives to contain any
good, it takes for it. And as its insight is at first imperfect,
and has neither experience nor instruction, a little good
seems great to it, and hence its desire is at first bent upon
it. Thus we see little children vehemently desire an apple, and when they grow larger they desire a bird, and
when still larger beautiful dress, and afterwards a horse,
and then a wife, and then riches, and so on. The reason
of this is that the soul does not find in any one of these
things what it seeks for, and what it hopes to find elsewhere. And thus we may see that one wish always stands
behind the other in the eye of the soul, like a pyramid
which increases more and more, and spreads towards the
basis, and the last ground and the basis of all wishes, is
God. In truth, as one loses his way on a path here on
earth, so the soul often loses its way on that path on which
our wishes wander. v * * * As we see that he who walks
in the right way, attains the end, and fulfils his wish, and
comes to rest after his labors; but he who enters the wrong
path never attains his object, and never comes to rest, so
it happens also in life.  The correct pilgrimn comes to the
end and to rest,,but he that misses the path can never
reach it; but with much disappointment of soul he will
look with a longing eye into an empty distance."
Remarks.
1. Goethe, in his Faust, has represented the nature of
desire in a most terrible manner. It is probably the only
tragedy in which desire, as such, is the pathos of the hero.
Faust would like to have the whole universe serve him;
he desires every thing, and is satisfied with nothing. He
is never under the influence of emotion or passsion: it is
desire that destroys him.
2. In the sphere of desire we may discover prudence;
but not wisdom. Epicurus was a prudent man, a man that
would not inconsiderately indulge desires; he was a useful
man, whatever Cicero, de finibus bonortm, may say against
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E-.
I,". 
PSYCHOLOGY.
him, for he taught that to be happy ourselves, we must assist others in becoming happy. Man needs man and cannot live without him, and knowing this, none should be
selfish, but every one ought to live for others, that they
again may live for him. This is certainly prudent. But
happiness within this sphere of desires is not the highest
end of man, and however prudently it may be planned,
however prudently all means may be procured-there is
an end higher still, and this is the salvation of the soul.
This cannot be converted into a means; it is the final
destination of man. And that man is wise, who endeavours to secure it to himself.
316 
CHAPTER III.
INCLINATION AND PASSION.
The general character of all positive inclinations is that
of love; it lives in all of them, and hence it is that miost
are named from it, as love of honor, love of life, self-love,
love of fashion, &c. Love is the entering the nature and
being of something else;-loving a thing we unite ourselves with it, without expecting it to yield to us. The
character of love however, greatly differs. There is a
mortal love which may be demanded of us: we ought to
love all our fellow beings, even our enemies.  "Be like the
cinnamon tree that pours fragrance on him who hews it
down."  There is a religious love, it is the love of God,
and to God. it is mercy towards those that deserve no love,
and it is the love kindled in our hearts by the Holy Spirit.
And there is finally a pathological love, or natural love,
which does not rest on principles of our will, but on a
kind of sympathy between ourselves and its objects, on
what hlas been called propensity. Its distant analogy may
be fecund in the animal world at the time when the old attend to their young.  Yet all consciousness being absent,
it is but animal sympathy, instead of love, that we observe
there.  Hence it is that one generation of animals knows
nothing of another, for they neither remember, nor love
each other, after the young are once able to take care of
themselves.  No one would say either, however dependent
his (log may be on him, that he is loved by him. Such
doggish love would be worth little.  All pathological or
natural love, arises from a natural propensity to certain objects, and pre-supposes some resemblance between ourselves
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PSYCHOLOGY.
and them. In nature it is true that unlike poles attract
each other, but they are nevertheless the poles of the same
power, and have it in common with each other, and it is
the power itself that thus divided, unites itself with itself
by attraction. The objects of our love modify its character. They are either ourselves, or something inanimate,
things and objects in nature, or they are our fellow-men.
When its objects are inanimate we cannot properly speak
of love, or if we do, we must use the word in a limited
sense. It would be strange to say that we love a certain
food or drink, or love a house, a garden, a golden chain, a
ring: but in all these instances we would rather say we
like such things. Only the like can enter into the nature
of the like, the spiritual that of spirit, the sensual that of
sensation; but inanimate things have nothing that resembles any thing in ourselves, and hence they cannot be loved,
properly speaking. But we may love ourselves, and love
our fellow-men.  Yet the basis of all pathological love, is
self-love, and no man ever lived that loved any thing different fi'om himself, but self-love was the open or secret
source of his interest. Christ alone was free from all selflove: he loved as none before, or after him; he loved the
world sinful as it was, and loved it having no scheme in
view for himself, free from every calculation in his own
favor. His love, the prototype of all, was not chained to
his self, but free and pure; he loved the world for its own
sake. Our love, whatever be its object, rests always on
our self-love, and we love every thing else because it pleases us, because it has something which we love in ourselves.
Yet though all love commences in self-love, it is not necessary that the latter should remain the prevailing soul of the
former, but it may become so strong and so pure, that selflove disappears.  This shows itself especially when love
becomes mutual, when it exists between two persons.
This love like every ether commences with self-love. We
love a quality, a trait in the character of another, because
it pleases us, because it corresponds with our idea of nobleness, or because it is agreeable to our feeling. The other
loves himself as much as we love ourselves, and the approbation of others is desired as much by him as by us. He
perceives our liking to one of his qualities, and though he
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should find nothing else in us, that could attract his attention, he will certainly like our liking to him, and thus his
self-love will make him incline to us.  But if oui love could
not leave the other  in whom  we discovered a pleasant
quality, indifferent, his love to our liking will certainly
strengthen our inclination to him; now, however, its object will no longer be a quality in him, but his love, so that
our love will love his love, or that love will love itself, that
love will have itself as its contents.  Thus self-love is
merged in love; and love hovering over two like a genius
of peace and harmony, so unites them, that though two in
space and time, they will be one in spirit. There is a difference, for there are two; and yet there is none, for they
are one.  They do not love, the one something in the other,
as his money, his beauty, his character; but each loves the
love of the other; and love thus divided between two, resting in each, and being the same in both, only closes itself
together with itself. It finds itself, and rejoicing in having
fou)nd itself, it keeps together with itself. As the soul, according to Plato, was divided in two, before it entered the
world. and now each half seeks the other, and as they will
be delighted when they meet again, and are drawn towards
each other by a mysterious feeling of their belonging to
each other, so it is with love between two persons. Such
love mav comnience in self-love, but where it blooms and
lives, self-love dies away.
All inclinations either have reference to man in his relation to himself as an individual, or to him, as he is related
to his fellow-men, and hence we have two general classes:
~ 1. INCLINATIONS ARISING FROM TIHE RELATION
IN WhIICIh MAN STANDS TO HIMSELF.
Self-love.
Self love being the mother of all other inclinations, demands an attention above all others. Its object is the per
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PSYCHOLOGY.
son himself that loves. It is the only love in which the
subject that loves, and the object loved, are the same, for
loving myself, it is I that love, and it is I that am loved.
It includes a consciousness of our existence, and of every
thing that can render it comfortable and pleasant. Arising
from our natural tendency to preserve ourselves, we not
only desire a continuation of our existence in the present
life, but also after death, and not only rejoice in our preservation, but especially delight in every new mode of existence, in every developcment of our powers. We love
ourselves as we are, and love what we find in ourselves.
Self-love is the mother of all other inclinations, because
unless we take an interest in ourselves, it will be impossible
to take it in any thing else. The relation, however, in
which we stand to ourselves, will render it impossible for
us, to be indifferent to ourselves; for there is no other object of which we can be so immediately conscious, and
there is none of which we are conscious, that we can desire as much, as we desire a continuation of our existence.
Every desire includes a knowledge of its object, which
here is the subject that has the knowledge and the desire:
but where klnowledge and desire are so inseparable, that if
we have the one, we must have the other, there must be a
strong propensity, or such a possibility for the origin of
an inclination, that the inclination will certainly be formed.
Hence no man can help loving himself, for it is as natural
to him as to breathe.
The object of self-love, it has been stated, is our self, and
all it contains.  Its contents are its existence, the continuation of this existence, life, and all that constitutes a part
of ourselves.-We can, however, only love ourselves as
living beings, and in proportion as we love ourselves we
shall love our life. This we love because it is ours, and
because we love ourselves. Love of life is therefore next
in importance, for unless we live we cannot love.
Love of life.
The mere tendency to live, and continue life, we have
in common with the animal: the worm when trodden upon
writhes beneath the foot, as if it were unwilling to die;
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PSYCHOLOGY.
the ox when struck with the axe of the butcher moans and
rages as if he resisted with all his might the attempt to deprive him of his life. But no animal can love its life, for
to love a thing, we must be conscious of it, and be able to
desire it. Man may love his life; because he can render
the idea of life objective to himself, he can in his thoughts
separate life from himself, and say, "my life." But we
love life on account of its contents, and these are the joys
and pleasures of life. Hence these become objects of our
love. There are two ways in which we may enjoy ourselves in life:-life is activity; every activity that feels
itself oscillates between rest and labor; the change from
the one to the other is pleasant.  It is pleasant to recreate
one's self after labor, and it is pleasant to muscles and
nerves to be active again after rest. A desire for rest
without labor is indolence, and desire for constant employinent becomes an inclination to enterprise, business, and
may degenerate into restlessness.  If the former  by its
power of sloth, drags us down to matter; the latter destroys the vigor of our system.  But as rest becomes tedious, and activity exhausts, and consequently either by itself,
becomes unpleasant, man will try to unite them moderately, so that neither one prevails above the other. This is
the origin of diversion and amusements of every kind.
For every play demands, on the one hand, some attention,
some activity, yet one that does not fatigue, and on the
other, it permits us to rest ourselves.  Hence there is in
children an inclination to play. But adults may likewise
incline to games. The constantly changing and always
attractive manner in which this kind of activity employs
the mind, is highly fascinating, the skill we have an opportunity of exhibiting; the attraction offered to the imagination by chance that prevails in games, and by tempting a
dark and concealed fortune, all of them render this kind of
entertainment pleasant. So it is with hunting. The ele nments of this pleasure are manifold.  All uncertainty is
exciting; the uncertainty of success is therefore among the
first; we half fear, and half hope; fear and hope mingling
produce the emotion of anxiety, which is pleasant if hope
prevails over fear. The next elements are, the exercise of
skill and judgment in discovering the haunts of the game;
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PSYCHOLOGY.
presence of mind in seizing the opportunity quickly, andi
with  confidence  when it offers itself.  It is delightful
too, to rest under the green boughs of trees, to move from
place to place in pursuit of an object we much desire;
the fragrance of woods is invigorating, and the observation
of the life of animals is interesting. This inclination to
hunting was greater during the middle ages, than it was
among the ancients, or that is now.  Among the ancients
we  find that the E,gyptians, Indians, and all the Asiatic
nations, considered animals sacred, and rather protected
than destroyed them. Among the Greeks, too, certain
animals were consecrated to certain gods, and were used
in sacrifices. Yet I-ter(-ules and other heroes hunted them,
especially those that were inimical to man. Hercules kills
the Neinean lion, the Lernean serpent, &c. Inclinations to
war, to adventures, and other tendencies of our nature,
rest on the same principle.
Closely connected with our life, are the means by which
we support it, and if we love the former we must take interest in the latter. Hence we form an inclination to eating and drinking, and to society.  A good dinner in a good
company has its attractions for every one. The union of
sensual with intellectual enjoyments during  meals, was
highly cultivated by the Greeks; their Syiiposia( are well
known.  It seems that by satisfying our sensual wants, we
are left more free, and alive to those of the mind.  Food
has certainly a soothing influence upon the mind, and it is
for this reason, that while we eat and drink we forget past
troubles and listen less to the cares that either harass us for
the present or for the future. Hence it is too, that what
is said during a meal, was thought by many nations to be
spoken in confidence and sacred; and that certain nations,
as the Arabians, will not injure their enemy after they
have eaten with him. The citizens of Moskau, gave their
empress when visiting her, briead and salt, and she accepting it, declared that all her apprehensions were gone. And
in modern times we do not invite every one to eat and
drink with us; but like to feel at liberty during our meals,
to say what we please. Kant has very ingeniously pointed
out the course good conversation should take during a meal.
Every thing unpleasant to any one, absent or present, should
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PSYCHOLOGY.
be avoided, and it should pass from the mere narration of
the novelties of the day, the contents of newspapers, to
arguing. For in speaking of novelties and of the news of
the day, different views will be expressed, and as every one
thinks well of his own he will politely defend them. Conversation thus becomes more lively and will finally end in
jestinig.  Much reasoning fatigues, especially towards the
endc of a festival, since eating makes one feel inclined to
rest. Mirth, laughing and pleasant allusions are usefill to
d(ligestion, &c.  Inclination to dancing, smoking, and fash-lion, likewise proceed from our love of life and its enjoynents.
Our inclination to fashion concerns more the form of obje({ts, than the objects themselves.  It extends not only to
dress, but to furniture, style of building, literature, art, and
every thing else of which we make use.  The inclination
itself rests on an innate tendency to give form to whatever
comes into our hands; we arefree in giving this form, and
not bound, like the spider or the bee, to a particular one
for every object. Hence forms are changeable, and this
changeableness of form is what is called fashion.  Many
object to it because it is changeable; but every product
of man is perfectible, and man seeking constantly for the
best form for dress and every thing else, and never finding
the absolute best, changes it without interruption. Some
form our dress, our furniture &c., must have: placing no
value upon any particular one leaves us morally more free,
than if we either adhere to an old fashion, because we consider it best, or are always anxious to be foremost in every
one. Kant therefore says correctly, that there are fools in
the fashion and out of it. It is weakness to speak against
fashion. Since our dress needs some formn, and which of
the many possible forms this may be, is whollv immaterial.
Fashion may become useful; for as it extends over the
productions of the mind, there are times when certain institutions, the study of certain languages and sciences become fashionable, when we feel inclined to imitate what is
good in other nations.
The inclination to smoking seems wholly unnatural. It
was unknown until the discovery of America, and thence
spread over all Europe. It is an ethereal eating, soothing
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PSYCHOLOGY.
and passing time. Though unnatural, it no doubt had a
very simple origin. Some think that the Indians who kindled fire with a great deal of trouble, tried to preserve it,
by placing coals in the stem of a plant, and by putting this
p)lant into the mouth whenever it became inconvenient to
carry it in the hand. Others are of opinion that the Indians, in order to protect themselves from musketoes, made
smioke around themselves, and at first putting smoking
plants into their mouths for convenience sake, they become fond of them and so formed by degrees a habit of
using them.
So is our inclination to dancing natural in its origin.
Tfhe emotions of savages are few in number, but strong
and vehement in energy. They became sometimes so agitated that they must open a vein to obtain relief. Generally, joyful occurrences cause them to jump and run about.
and in these irregular motions, those which we call dancing
and which keep time and rhythm, originated. Dancing is,
therefore, the external representation of our internal emotions by the motions of the body. So soldiers have diffeient marches for every military motion, and these marches
accompanied by music have their effects upon them.  In
I,iefland, the reapers in harvest keep time with music.
With us, however, dancing does not proceed from an emo.
tion, but we dance to excite one.  The savage jumping
about needs no music: he sings and claps his hands; that
is enough for him; we must have music the melodies of
which will inspire us and dispose us to dancing.
Manifold indeed are the inclinations that may arise from
the natural tendencies of our natuie, all of which have
reference to man as an individual being. We have desire
for knowledge; when this desire is satisfied by any one,
when we observe his willingness and zeal to aid us, we love
him, and this love is that of the scholar to the teacher.
We have a desire for health; if we are sick and recover
through the aid of a skillful physician, we again cannot but
feel attached to him. And so it is with the ward, who unable to defend his own rig,hts, will, as hie becomes conscious
of their value, strongly incline to his careful, attentive, and
disinterested guardian.  We shall now consider self-love in
its negative form, in which it is
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PSYCHOLOGY.
Self-hatred.
By hatred in general, we understand here a constant dislike to whatever could interfere with our self-love. The
object of this hatred may either be something external, or
the person who hates himself so that he is himself the object of his own displeasure. Hating himself, man desires
to direct his thoughts away from himself; filled by the
highest displeasure, he would forget himself.  Self-hatred
seems wholly unnatural, and the question is, What is its
origin?  Nothing but self-love.  This is paradoxical.  Selflove seems to be the principle of self-hatred, and this certainly is no better than to say: a man hates himself because
he loves himself.  The object of self-hatred is man himself,
yet not the whole of man, but some one of his qualities,
closely and inseparately interwoven with his whole chqlracter and being.  Man loves himself and would like to be
as perfect in every respect as possible. The interest lie
takes in himself induces him to sketch an ideal of what he
ought to be: he then compares himself as he is, with this
ideal, and finding that he is not by any means like it, he
receives pain from the result of this comparison.  Instead
of making a resolute attempt to improve his character, his
will seems diseased and is inactive, and the displeasure
mingling with his feelings of self-love, he avoids thinking
o      f        himself and hates himself. Thus self-hatred originates
only in self-love. When in addition to this, man becomes
weary of life, either because he has spent his physical
powers in the excessive indulgence of sensual pleasures
and hates their constant and monotonous repetition, or because he has suffered misfortunes without sufficient firmness to support himself properly under themni'-then it is
possible he will commit suicide. Anid in the commission
of it we may see that man hates himself because he loves
himself. For what can be the reason, for which he should
desire  to make an en d to his own life?  Either he nmust
desi         re to           withdra w himself from an activity to which he
woul         d   have to attend in order to live as is the case with
many persons who have lost property or honour, ori to free
himself fr om sliffeting like Mirabeati or Clavier, or to ob                           28
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PSYCHOLOGY.
tain an imagined happiness like the Indian philosopher
Calamus. In all these instances however, we must say
that if the self-murderer did not love himself, he could not
care for life or death, but taking interest in himself, he kills
himself to be free from something that is painfil to him
or obtain that which he much desires. With some flattering hope the self-murderer embraces death.  The correcthess of these remarks are corroborated by the fact, that
persons who are particularly concerned for their life and
its preservation, very often have an irresistible tendency
to commit  suicide.   This has been observed by Gall.
Suicide committed in such an instance, is certainly the
fruit of an irregular  self-love.-Nothing leads, however,
more quickly to the aversion to life than inactivity. When
a gradual transition from rest to labor is wanting, time is
stript of interest and we fell oppressed with its tediousness.
The mind hates emptiness, it feels a horror, a void: it desires to fill its life with deeds and actions. Hence many,
as has been remarked, hang themselves, because time rests
too hard on then.
Aversion is the negative, not of self-love as such, but of
a modification of it. When we do not love our self as a
whole so much as one of its qualities, say personal beauty,
or art, science, or anything that belongs to it, then our inclination should be called "l ove of our qualities, or of that
wthich is ours and not self-lov'e."  This love of what is our
own, is principally found among children, who  love their
hand or their eye, or something belonging to themselves,
but cannot yet form a notion of themselves as a whole.  It
is met with among women, and characterizes some nations
as the Athenians of ancient, and the French in modern
times. In proportion as we love every thing belonging to
ourselves, we feel an aversion to all that may interfere
with it. I love, for example, health, and as soon as I hear
of a prevailing disease I feel a strong aversion to it; I love
wealth and hate to see poverty wrapped in rags: we lovw
truth and in proportion as we feel inclined to it, we shuii
ignorance. Here, likewise, suicide may be committed.
The honor of a person is not the person; yet it is a high
quality of his character, and he loves it more than himself
If honor is wounded, and he despairs of recovering it, he
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PSYCHOLOGY.
kills himself. So a lady loves her beauty; she is seized
with the small-pox; her face is covered with marks and
she is ready to die.
Self-love as a Passion.
Self-love as a passion, is selfishness, and originates when
a desire enters our self-love. The desire is that every thing
shall serve us, and exist only for us to the exclusion of
every one else. Every desire the end of which does not
lie out of the sphere of him who desires, is selfish; and
when such a desire enters into an inclination, it converts
the latter into a passion. Passion rendlers the origin of
other inclinations, if not impossible at least difficult; hence
the selfish man cannot take interest in any thing unless it
has some reference to himself. The man who loves himself may love others, but the selfish man is incapable of
loving from disinterested motives. Truth and beauty have
value for him as far as they are useful to him; if he cannot
see their immediate use, they leave him indifferent.   The
selfish man expects the devotion of all, he expects every
one to be active for him; but feels little inclined to do any
thing for others. If he is disappointed in his expectation
he feels unhappy.  He is incapable of forming friendship
because he can only take interest in himself: He will
break any connection if it comes in collision withi his interest.  Selfishness either concerns our whole self or only
parts of it. When the latter is the case, passions arise,
when a desire draws itself into an inclination, which we
have formed to something, belonging to ourselves, to an
attribute of our character, to skill in art or knowledge,
science, &c. I love a science because by labour and application, I have acquired considerable knowledge in it and
have made it my own. Now I desire that every one else
shall love it as I do, and if I discover that it is not generally favored, I become passionate. Or I am strongly inclined to some practical object which I have in view; I
desire the assistance and interest of every one, and try to
gain it by all means and ways. My inclination will thus
become a passion, and force me to sacrifice rest and frequently honor to it. For to gain the interests of others, I
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PSYCHOLOGY.
shall if my inclination has become passion, accomodate
myself to every one, agree with every one's views and no where show my own in opposition to those of others.
Another form  of selfishness is passion for enjoyment.
When ouri inclination to pleasure is pervaded by the desire
for every thing that may serve it, when this desire makes
us hunt for pleasures, then our inclination is a passion. As
such, it renders all other inclinations subordinate to itself,
and takes interest in nothing unless it can be eaten or
drunk, or made in some way subservient to our pleasures.
Works of art and literature, sciences and all intellectual
productions, have worth only when they can be enjoyed
by way of a refined pleasure. This passion exhibits itself
also thus. When we love life and are willing to labor in
order to enjoy it, our love is an inclination. But when we
desire enjoyments independent of labor, when we desire to
enjoy what others have gained by their labor, or when we
desire others to labor that we may enjoy the fruits of their
labors, then our inclination to life and its enjoymients is a
passion.
There is, finally, a theoretical egotism or selfishness
which we will merely mention here. It is that egotism,
which has either laid down certain rules and maxims for
practical pursuits and for intercourse with mnen, all of whom-n
it considers selfish and under the influence of the same
selfish rules which it has adopted, and on the execution of
which it insists with a singular perseverance. Or it is
egotism in theory, science, which considers its judgments
and views and hypotheses to be infallible, and expects all
others to yield to them.
Self-love as passion in its negative form.
Here it is self-hatred, as represented above, that becomes
a terrible passion, in which man constantly tortures and
vexes himself; for he is not satisfied either with himself or
with any thing in himself; and this passion may be compared to the bodily disease called epilepsy.  In this disease
every nerve touches and wounds the other, and every
muscle affects the other with pain; the whole body seems
to be in contflict with itself, and seems to l)e determined to
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PSYCHOLOGY.
ruin itself by its own remaining strength. The individual
is sick through his ownl nerves and muscles; nerves and
muscles are not attacked from without, but they afflict
each other mutually. So it is with self-hatred when it is
kindled into a passion. The dissatisfaction of man with
himself is a permanent one and he cannot think of himself
without the greatest pain. He consumes his life in bitterness, for in all he does and undertakes, he will perceive
frailties, and these will so attract his attention that he cannot see the good mingled with them. If he could do the
latter, he would mend what is imperfect and go joyfully
from one degree of improvement to another. The artist
while he finishes a work, may notice its frailties, but having
finished it, he has improved himself and commences a new
work with a determination to execute it, as much more
skillfully as his own power has been raised, and so he advances himself by every work and with himself all his
productions. The man dissatisfied with himself finds all
his thoughts constantly drawn to his frailties and weaknesses, and cannot turn them away friom them.  It seems
as if every possible pleasure in life or that man could take
in himself was suddenly suppressed, because the higher
idea whlich man has of himself, and of genuine pleasure
cannot enter on such pleasures as being beneath it.  This
discord like an electric spark passes through every feeling
of pleasure that man might derive firom his productions or
life, or any thing that life offers. For once at war with
himself he is so with every thing else, and finds fault with
whatever comes fromn the hand of man. Every thing human is imperfect; but it has likewise something good; the
man dissatisfied with himself and the world, will every
where see only the faults and not the beauties. Hle is morose, and  as the proverb says, finds fault with the fly
crawling on the wall. There is no innocent pleasure, no
work, no science in which he does not find something to
censure.
And finally, our aversion to life may become a passion
and then it mav be called ill humor.  In it man desires
every thing, and is satisfied with notling,.  No joy and no
hope, no knowledge and no skill is equal to his anticipations. Dissatisfaction alone is permanent, but its objects
28*
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P.SYC HOTIO(Y.
are in a constant flow. This ill humor differs widely from
the humor of the poet.  iHe is likewise conscious of the
infinite and great, and of the deficiencies of every human
work and pursuit. But instead of finding fault with these
deficiencies and becoming mnorose, the poet by his power
of language repiresents the contrasts between the infinite
and the trifling anxiety, and solicitude expressed by man
for the finite and the stress laid on little things, and thus
renders the trifling cares of man ridiculous, yet without
bitterness or satire. He uses the infinite as a mirror, and
making the pursuits of man reflect themselves in it, he
effects all he desires.
~ 2. I'NCLINATIONS ARISING FROM THE RELATION
OF MAN TO HIS FELLOW-MEN.
Love of property.
The notion of property pre-supposes a relation of men
to each other, in which they are united at least for the purpose of protecting each othei and what they possess.  In
this relation every one must have something, a bow or a
net, a staff or a herd of cattle.  Separated from all the
rest, isolated like Robinson Crusoe on a distant island, a
man could not have property, for though the whole island
might be his by the law of taking first possession, there
would be no law to protect him in his property. Only
when many are united so that one has a property firom the
possession and use of which every one else is excluded, we
speak of property and not until then.  If love of prioperty
is impossible without a relation of the possession to other
men, it is impossible likewise without a notion of property
and its value.  There are animals that in collecting a small
provision for the inclement seasons seem to have an idea
of time as something fulture, for they lay up for filture
wants, and of property, for they attempt to defend it when
it is attacked. So the bees guard their honey, cows on the
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PSYCITOLOGY.
Alps of Switzerland seize certain objects, and defend them
vehemently from others. The German rat gathers in a
great quantity of wheat, and many poor persons seek its
holes and take the firuits of its labors.  Yet no one would
seriously say that animals truly have property, or else man
would steal, as often as he makes use of their provisions
without their permission. They have no idea of property
nor of time, and they defend what they instinctively
gather from an impulse of their nature and not from a
feeling of right. The idea of property is therefore necessary, to form an inclination to it. Where it is wanting
there is no inclination.   Children of rich parents, may
have a great deal of property, yet they have no idea of it.
They know not the value of wealth and hence do not care
for it. If their parents are dead we place them under the
care of guardians, when they grow and become of age,
they generally form a strong inclination to property, for
they have then become conscious of its value. As an inclination to property is impossible without an idea of it, so
we must have an idea of time, and its duration; for property is to be permanent, to endure in time. The apple
when eaten, is no longer the property of any one  but the
tree, from which it was plucked will bear apples again.
The child, however, will give the whole tree for a single
apple.
The love of property pre-supposes therefore an object,
from thle possession and use of which every one else is excluded, a notion of time and the value of property as a means
of support in all time. The less persons are accustomed to
look ahead, the less strong will be their love of property.
Savages have no clear idea of time in its three great divisions, the past, the present, and future; their social life is
not well-regulated, and their love of property is consequently weak. They live by fishing, and the chase, and
their unerring shafts easily make the wild bird or the stag
their property. But such property is of no duration; the
bow and the arrows, the net and the trap are the only permanent property of savages. The momentary want demands their labor, but the want being satisfied they do not
trouble themselves any further. The property of Nomades stands on somewhat higher ground. Their social life
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PSYCHOLOGY.
is more close and settled, and their notion of time is more
accurate. Living on the milk of animals, they must raise
and protect them. Yet their property is still movable, like
that of savages.  Cain kills Abel; the farmer supplants the
wandering herdsman. Where agriculture prevails, the notion of time becomes strong and clear, for the farmer depends on seasons. Farms cannot be moved; the object of
property is therefore permanent. But while thus the character of property becomes permanent and immovable, it is
not wholly adapted to the changeableness of time and to
our own mutability. The farm, the house, the garden, will
always remain on the same spot, though we may desire to
change our residence. Now it might be that two, either of
whom would desire the property of the other, might make
an exchange.  Such instances would, however, be rare.
It will be more frequently the case that, one anxious to relinquish his estate for the purpose of seeking another residence, might find one willing to sell his, but not to exchange
it, and then a medium would be required, by which to represent the respective value of each property. This representative of property is found even among savages, and
consists principally in some thing rare, as rare feathers,
shells, or birds. In the Old Testament, however, money is
mentioned.  It is the representative among all civilized nations, and the question is; What is the reason that gold and
silver are used for this purpose?
The hypotheses on this subject are different, as they
take into consideration one or the other quality of property. One of its qualities is that it must have been gained
by labor. The apple I eat, plucking it firom the tree of
another, is not mine in the sense in which I call the firuit of
that tree mine, which I have grafted, and upon which I
have bestowed much care. Hence they say that silver and
gold, and the precious metals are only to be brought forth
from the bowels of the earth by much labor, and for this
reason they are well qualified to represent property, for it
must also have been earned by diligence, if not directly by
our own, by that of those from whom we inherited it.
They are rare too, not very abundant, and consequently
their value will place a proper estimate on property in general. Yet property may be gained without labor; a thing
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PYSCHOLOGY.
belonging to no one becomes mine by my mere will to take
possession of it, for res nullius cedit primo occuipanti.
Others, therefore, have directed their attention to the use
to be made of property, and said, the representative of
property ought to be something which cannot itself be
used for any thing else. The design of property is, to be
used; if that which represents it, can be used, then it becomes a part of property, and not its mere representative.
It might effect exchanges, but not sales. Yet we have innumerable articles made of gold and silver, and this hypothesis is not therefore fully correct. Hence we must
keep a different quality of property in view, and this is its
permanency and  duration.  Of  all bodies the precious
metals are the most durable; gold and silver retain their
nature in all the changes they may have to undergo; lead,
iron, and copper are destructible. Again; precious metals
cannot be imitated, and if mixed with inferior substances,
it is easy to detect it. It is remarkable that many persons
love its representative more than property itself; they prefer money to that, the value of which it represents.  The
reason perhaps is, that money is more movable, that it is
the same every where.
The elements of the pleasure we take in the possession
of property are many, and among them are the following:
Property in general, the possession of earthly objects, increases the feelings of our existence; for what we possess
attaches itself to us.  Hence the possession of property
gives us a feeling of greater importance, influence, and security.  Again: all property is to serve as means, either
for the satisfaction of bod(tily, or intellectual, or moral wants
and activities, and if the satisfaction of these wants is
pleasant, the possession of the means must be so. Property secures to us a certain degree of independcr.-n.   It is
pleasant to be able to follow out and execute one's own
plans. But to do this demands property. In proportion
as any one has wealth, he will feel inclined to think that he
can do what he wills, and this again is pleasant. Some
love the acquisition of property, more than property. Activity is pleasant in itself and is the soul of life; if the activity which we employ for something that we may call
our own is successful, it may become the object of our in
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PSYCHOLOGY.
clination. And as the acquisition, so the preservation of
property may be the object of an inclination, which may
be called economy.  Property has reference to the future,
and every one who is wise wvill be impressed with the' necessity of preserving the means of support after they have
once been acquired, and of maintaining the balance between one's income and expenses, lest the firuits of labor
be overbalanced by the pleasures of enjoyments. This inclination is found in all classes of men, yet the higher classes are much more frequently inclined to spend freely. Artists, poets, and persons of the same or similar employments
are frequently poor. Socrates had little or nothing; Luther
died, leaving his estate involved in debt; Melancthon knew
not how to preserve what he earned, or what was present
ed to him, and Calvin left nothing of note. Nevertheless
the inclination to the preservation of property is a useful
one, and if exercised in the proper spirit is a virtue.
Love of property as a passion.
All property is to be considered as means for some end,
it is to be used, to be consumed, for it has no value whatever, unless it is emnployedl.  But when one's love to property has degenerated into a passion, our relation to it has
been changed, and while before we considered it means,
we now regard it as the end of all our activity and of our
life.  It is generally said that too great inclination to property or a desire for too gri-eat an amount becomes a passion; but both definitions are wriong.  My inclination to
property may be very great, and I still may feel at liberty
to use it for my bodily support, for my pleasures, or the
promotion of benevolent objects, and as long as I can do
so. I am not under the dominion of a passion. And again
it is wrong to say that where a too large amount is desired,
we have yielded to a passion. For what is much or little
in the scale of wealth? We call him well off who has as
much as he needs.  But the rational man needs not much
to live on, for nature is satisfied with little,-\Tatara paucis
contenta; yet another needs an amount which some would
call much. The ideas of riches are, therefore, relative, and
from them we cannot derive a definition of avarice orI co)
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PSYCHOLOGY.
etousaess. It cannot be the object of an inclination either
that converts it into a passion; it remains the same, though
its quantity should be greater orI less. Nor can it be the
idea we form of this object; for this may be infinite as the
object it,lf, and still not force us to form a passion for it.
When a man would rather lose his life than his property,
when he would rather starve himself and his family, than
use his money as means, when consequently his property is
his idol for which he labors and lives, when he is no longer
free but the slave of his idol, then instead of an inclination
to property he has a passion for it. The relation of the
person to his property has been chianged; the difference between this inclination and its corresponding passions is one
relating to quality and not merely one to quantity.  Passions pervert what is originally correct. What is means
becomes an end, and what ought to be the end becomes
means.  Money becomes the end, and the persons  the
means for its acquisition and preservation.  It is not he
that has the money, but the money has him.   Money is the
substance and being of his life, lie is its acci(lence.  This
appears clearly from the manner, in which the man whose
idol is money, treats himself and all others. He that has
nothing is worth nothing in his view; property and not personality makes with him the man!  When he holds intercourse with men, his motive is the anticipation of some
benefit or advantage which he may  lderive from such an
intercourse.  If he cannot gain somrnetlaing, he will not seek
the society of any one. Again, he frets himself in the
same way.  If he loses what he possesses, his joys are
gone, and life being stripped of its highest good for him,
he kills himself.
Love of property, as a passion, presents itself under two
different forms, for we either delight in the acquisition of
property, and then it is covetousness or self-interest; or we
delight in its preservation and then it is avarice.
1. Covetousness is the passion that desires constantly to
add to the stock we already have.  The covetous man
knowes of but one good,-property, or money —he therefore
indulges not any other passion that might interfere with
this. He desires an infinite increase of his wealth, and
yet knows of no end, for which to use it. He does not
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care very particularly how he obtains his possessions if he
has only a legal title to them.  "He removes landmarks,
seizes every thing his debtor has, lest he should lose interest, demands the reward before he assists the sufferer,
and will rather see the corpse of the stranger exposed by
the way- side than bury it without being certain of his fee."
It is not necessary, however, that the covetous man cheat,
and make use of immoral means to obtain his possession.
He mnay be the prudent, cool, calculating arithmetician who
well knows that honesty is the best means of attaining his
grand object.  The covetous is always the self-interested.
For in all he does, says, and undertakes, he has only his own
advantage in view; and nothing else can move him to do
any thing.
2. Avarice has for its objects the preservation of its property.  The avaricious, mistakling its true value, will not
suffer himself to use it for any purpose, not even for the
necessaries of life. The miser who stumbled against a
stone and hurt his toe, exclaimed, "it was well that I had
not on, my shoe, or else I should have torn it." "The
avaricious man  denies himself every pleasure, lest he
should receive detriment in that which is so' dear to him.
He  knows of no greater happiness than to count his
guineas again and again. He conceals them with the most
anxious care, and returns alarmed to see, if he has left the
slightest clew that might lead to the discovery of his heart's
treasures. The English millionaire dressed in the rags of
a beggar, and on a famnished hoirse travels from province to
province in search of his idol;  he feeds  his horse upon
hedges, dips his hard bread in water and returns with a
full purse, concealing the guineas thus gained in the torn
hangings of a distant loom, where his son-in-law, to whom
he had given his daliughlter empty-handed, after much seeking finds them."  This is the true character of the avaricious man.  Yet he lmust live, hle must eat and drink, and
must spend something; but he will try to get every thing
for the lowest price and of tihe cheapest kind.  He is cold
and hard as the metal that he loves, selfish in the highest
degree, unwilling to give or lend, or assist in any way;
hence he is hated bv all, loved by none.-The conditions
required for the origin of covetousness or avarice, may be
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.SYCHOLOGY.
the idea a person entertains of the influence which wealth
gives, and its power to grant access to gratifications of
every kind; an avaricious man of this character will be
anxious to have the full extent of his wealth known. Or
the idea of the usefulness of money is lost, especiallv when
no other desire keeps it alive, and the avaricious man loves
monev for its own sake and finds his sole pleasure in hoarding it. Such a one will wish to appear poor to the world.
Others fear poverty in the midst of plenty, like the Duke
of Buckingham, who though possessed of immense wealth.
feared he would die poor as a church mouse.
Prodigality is the opposite of avarice.  The prodigal
spends what he has without thought of the future. His
desire is to live and enjoy life.  " He loses self-control and
stabilitv of character, and is influenced in all his resolutidns by the allurements of sensuality.  He purchases what
is offered and pays double interest to get the money. Every
whim  that strikes his fancy is indulgel, and every duty
neglected; while his family is suffering from want, he
feasts hlis associates in pleasure.  He very generously pays
those who assist him  in the execution of his wishes, but
leaves his faithfil servants who labor for his real benefit,
unrewarded.  Louis XV., of France, spent 2,000,000 of
francs a week on his profligacy, and suffered his most faithful officers to starve. The spendthrift makes presents when
he cannot redeem his notes. He must come to a miserable
end, for his expenses are sufficient to swallow upf) the greatest fortune.  He will then drown his cares in increased
dissipation, in gambling and drinking, and finally terminate
his career by suicide."  The spendthrift may be amiable,
the miser is always detestable  the spendthrift loves society
and shares his pleasuries with others, the avaricious loves
none but himself. He is proud and haughty to those who
ask his assistance, hard to his nearest relatives who depend
on him; and prepared to encounter even contempt if he
can gain by it. The object of the covetous man may be
enjoyment and a splendid style of living, but he is ever
careful lest he should injure his estate by his expenditures,
and makes every effol)rt to increase his wealth at the same
time that he appears to spend it freely. It is said in the
Bible that it is more difficult for a rich man to enter the
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PSYCHOLOGY.
kingdom of God, than for a cainel to go through the eye
of a needle. The question here offers itself; Why is this
so?  Is there any thing in property itself that renders it
impossible to preserve purity of heart or to become a
christian? This cannot be, for the Bible admonishes us to
gather property, by saying: "Let him that stole, steal no
more, but rather let him labor, working with his hands the
thing which is good, that he may have to give to him that
needethlt." It is said by some, that riches expose to many
temptations, that they fill man with too great a love of
earth, &c.;-but poverty and want are no less trying and
tempting, for if riches may lead to pride, haughtiness, vanity and sensual pleasures, poverty may lead to flattery,
falsehood, fraud, theft and  murder.   The possession of
property is necessary, and the greater or less amount is
here of no  consequence.   And  yet the Bible declares
riches a great obstacle in tl-he way of our salvation.  It is
not riches but the v'alue we place upon them, that causes
this difficulty.  When we  consider it as the highest good,
when oui desire for it makes us forget our duties to God
and man, when we are covetous and avaricious, then it is
more difficult for us to enter the kiingdom of heaven than
for a camel to go through the eye of a needle.  And to be
rich in this sense, it is not necessary that we sh;)uld have
great possessions; the man who  has but a cottage may
value wealth as much as he who possesses millions; he may
be tortured day and night by his thirst for wealth.  Again:
covetousness and avarice destroy all morality.  As passions they regard nothing that is in their waay; but every
impediment only serves to increase their energy and power
and makes them more violent. The avaricious man expects to become rich without God, and does not hesitate
to use any means that may lead to his favorite object.
Not faithful to his God, he cannot be expected to be so to
his fellow-men. His honor is to gain his object by craftiness, his happiness to increase his wealth. And from the
abundance of his heart, his mouth speaks.  What does not
bring him gold is unworthy of his attention. He will violate his duty to parents and children, friends and benefactors if it comes in contact with his passion; nothing is too
sacred to be sacrificed to money, even his honor has a
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PSYCHOLOGY.
price. No pledge is inviolable to him, no contract will he
keep unless forced by law or self-interest; he will betray
his friend as Judas betrayed the Savior. Thus he sunders
the nerve of human society, poisons the fountains of social
life, destroys confidence and good faith, and substitutes in
their place suspicion and distrust.
But there is another characteristic of covetousness and
avarice to be considered. It is cold and deliberate, and
unlike other passions, increases with age. The lower the
flame of life burns, the weakelr the fire of imagination
grows, the stronger and more exclusive it becomes. With
great care the avaricious man extinguishes all nobler emrnotions, lest they should lead him off from the great object of
his desires, lest a kindly feeling should in a moment of
weakness cause him to overlook his advantage and to commit an inconsiderate action, as he would call it.  With age
the ardor of our feelings decreases, and avarice that had
before to contend with them, increases in proportion as
our- understanding becomes more cool, more calculating.
With most other passions this is the opposite; Dante, in
his Divina Comedia, meets the avaricious -in the seventh
circle of hell, and represents them as having a purse hanging around the neck, on which they lookl with childish delight.
The idea of property itself leads to great selfishness, for
property is exclusive; and if instead of endeavoring to ennoble ourselves, we yield to low passions, riches must become a teeming source of selfishness.  The correct view
on the subject before us is that all property taklies its rise in
the will of God; for the earth and all that it contains, is
his.  Before the fall there was no mine and thiie, but all
was common to those that could use it.  With the fall selfishness rose in man, absorbing by its bitter root all healthful juice. Now, each sought for the centre of his existence
in himself, and forgetting the common origin of all, he no
longer recognized a briother in a fellow-man, but saw in
him a stranger.  In this selfishness man grasped after all
around himt: without an intervening law the stronger of
our race w,ould have deprived the weakei ones of the most
necessary means of sustenance. But God, from eternal
love, appointed the right of property, lest men fighting for
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PSYCHOLOGY.
possessions destroy each other. Now, every right imposes
a duty, and the enjoyment of all rights depends on the fulfillment of our duties; so that one can preserve his property only by abstaining from that of others. It was for
this purpose that God permitted men to divide the earth
and its productions, that those who in their sinfulness were
inclined to say; "all is mine!" might learn to say, " these
things are not mine! from them I must abstain, however
great my desire to possess themn." Property was intended
not to strengthen our selfishness, but to bridle it, to break
and subdue our selfish will. As rich and poor must live
together, a great variety of duties of love and kindness,
originate in their mutual relation, which only become possible by the possession of property. But the avaricious
man perverts all this, and makes wealth the source of rude,
resistless selfishness: of quarrels and law-suits, of enmity
and hatred.
It may be well to remark, in conclusion, that the term
riches does not refer solely to that property, the representative of which is unoney, but to every thing, science,
honor, skill, or whatever it may  be, in the possession of
which man feels himself rich, and which he desires as the
highest good. The objects of our riches may be different,
the power exercised over us by them will be the same. Is
honor the object of our passion? the tit that fastens us to
earth. and draws us away from God, is ambition.   Is the
object beauty? the tie is vanity; is it knowledge? the tie
is literary famre.  In each of them we are fettered by sin,
for truth alone, that comes from Christ, can make us free.
Taking the term avarice in this extensive sense, it may be
justly said, that it is the root of all evil.  Christ demands
our whole affection, and whatever  we love on earth must
have a reference to his kingdom, and we must love it only
because of this its relation. No rich man, none that feels
iich in any thing out of Christ, can therefore enter the
kingdom of heaven.
Love of Honor.
Personal honor was as little known among the ancients
as personal liberty. The honor and liberty of the nation
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PSYCHOLOGY.
was that of each individual citizen, and Cato living wholly
in the thought of national liberty, kills himself, when he
considers it lost. because he knows of none  belonging to
himself, as an individual.  "In the Iliad it is the wrath of
Achilles, which is the moving principle on which all the rest
becomes dependent, but it is not what we in modern times
understand by honor. The offence felt by Achilles does
not concern his honor, but he is grieved because Agamemnon has taken away his portion of the spoils, his y.Qu; an
honorary reward for his bravery. The violation concerns
something real, a gift, into which it is true some preference, some acknowledglment of bravery and glory is placed;
and Achilles is enraged, because Agamemnon meets him in
an unworthy manner, and declares that he will not regard
him among the Greeks-yet the true feeling of honor is no
where perceptible in Achilles. This appears too from the
fact, that he is fully satisfied, when he receives back the
portion, taken away from him, with some additional presents; and also from the circumstance, that Agamemnon
is ready to make this reparation, though both, according to
our views, have rudely abused each other. They roused
their anger by abusive words, but not their feelings of
honor." Our principal question here of course must be:
What do we understand by honor?   By external honor
we understand the good opinion which our fellow-men have
of our qualities, of our character, or of ourselves.  Honor
is therefore not any thing tangible or material like property, it is wholly ideal, and love of honor is but the value
we place upon the opinion, which others form of us or of
our qualities. A man that does not care for this opinion,
will not care for honor. Our fellow-men will in general
value what is calculated to promote the general welfare,
and it will consequently receive their good will and good
opinion. Hence, whatever is of this general character,
whatever is generally desirable, will also be honorable, and
bring honor to him, who either has or acquires it.  Some
honor is innate, as for example, that of being man, of be ing possessed of genius, of talents; other honor is inherited,
as for example, the honor to be born of honest parents, or
descended from an old and honorable family. From this
latter honor, that of nobility arose, which was confined to
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341 
PSYCHOLOGY.
a certain separate rank, but which is now passing away, as
civilization dispels the remaining clouds of darkness.  The
noble ancestors of some old families, had served their
country by their bravery, and the generous sacrifices which
they willingly made for its sake, and thus had gained the
good opinion of their contemporaries in a high degree.
By distinguishing themselves above others by lofty deeds,
they were raised above them. Yet what belonged exclusively to their own merit, was appropriated by their sons,
as if virtue could be inherited like a piece of ground, or
like property, and so the most degenerate sons frequently
enjoyed that of which they were wholly unworthy.
Honor, in the second place, may be gained by acquiring
whatever is of general value in the opinion of men. Here
then a man's honor depends on his will and natural capacities. The means by which it is to be acquired, are skill
in the use of our limbs, especially for the production of
such works, as will benefit the community. This is the
case with the soldier, who knows how to manage his horse,
and to wield his sword. The honor of the soldier differs
however from the mere reputation of the juggler, whose
skill has no reference to the general welfare. Honor may
be acquired by skill in realizing useful designs and purposes, the invention of new machines, or the construction of
such as were already known; by works of the fine arts,
and by science. The scientific man enjoys a more lasting
honor than the artist, though the latter may be more
honored during his life. Sciences are free from the peculiarities of a national spirit, art is under its influence.
The Aphrodite of Apelles, and the Madonna of Raphael,
differ more than the logic of Aristotle and that of Whateley. Among the scientific, those again are most highly
honored, whose sciences are most closely related to practical pursuits. Honor may be acquired by every occupation, that has reference to the satisfaction of our wants.
Every one, who while he is active for himself benefits the
community at the same  time, receives honor.   So the
farmer has honor, for on his occupation the basis of the
whole government rests. The mechanic labors indeed for
himself, but if he is skilful he will benefit the whole community in which he lives, and will be honored. Honor is
24 
PSYCHOLOGY.
higher in proportion as the occupation by which it is acquired, has less the welfare of the individual than that of
tile whole community in view.  The honor of a valuable
justi(e of the peace is greater than his, who lives entirely
to himself; yet the justice of the peace may labor at the
same time, for the support of his famnily; he may be a carpenter, a farmer, or a merchant: hence, the honor of the
minister or the judge is still greater, for they devote themselves wholly to the welfare of the public. This external
honor may be indicated by orders and insignia; but it ceases
to be honor, if it has no relation at all to morality, and thus
becomes mere reputation.
WVe now pass over to the consideration of internal
honor.
Internal ori subjective honor is the idea which a person
lhas of himself, of his qualities or character.  The person
is, however, free to seek for honor in any thing he possesses or is; for the notion of honor is his own creation
and he may place in it what he pleases. It is, therefore,
not the object, which is honorable in itself, but the notion
of the subject, on which honor is dependent.  The contents of honor may be high virtuies, such as honesty, faiithfiltcrss, coura(,ge, biraery, the exact flllftilnellt of (lsties:
these are honorable in themselves; but withl regaird to sub.lective honor, they become so only. wh-en the person raises
them into the sphere of honor by his own determination,
when he resolves to seek his honor in them. The question
is not whether a thing is honorable in itself, but whether it
agrees with our notions of honor.  Hence a man of honor,
in this sense of the word, may neglect many duties and
still remain an honorable man in his own opinion, and
again, he will often perceive obligations, and insist on their
miost exact fiulfilment, when  others can see none.  He
creates his obligations by the principles of his own honor,
and( considers it a point of honor to lead them out.  It is
thilis kind of honor, which may lose all true substance and
beco,me wholly whimsical, a mere form without any true
life.  In this case, trifling and insignificant notions are fre quently brought in connection with our honor; and we in sist on having them regarded as if they were really of
great importance. We see then, that it is wholly left to
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PPSYCIIOLOGY.
the arbitrary choice of a person to extend his honor as far
and over as many of his personal qualities as he pleases,
and it is therefore natural that such subjective honor, the
limits of which it must be difficult to ascertain, is easily
wounded; especially when we consider that honour is
something so subjective and that the notions of it differ so
widely, that no general rule can be given as to what is of fensive or not. What leaves one cold, rouses another into
passion. And as no one is willing to have his honor esti mated by another, but claims the right to be his own judge
in such matters, every one will when offended on so deli cate a point, himself seek for satisfaction, for he alone
knows how much or little is required to make a sufficient
reparation. This goes so far that unless the offender is
himself a man of honor he is neither able to give nor take
away the honor of another; hence unable either to offend
or to give satisfaction. For satisfaction consists in seeing
honor acknowledged by another but if he does not appear honorable to me his opinion cannot be of any value
to me.
But neither the external nor internal honor is the true
honor. True honor can only be acquired by virtue, by
moral conduct, by a correct relation to the divine law.
The love of this honor is the root of many good traits in
the character of man; it ennobles, and without it, it must
be difficult to fulfil our other duties; since this honor
alone can gain for us the true confidence of our fellowmen, without which we could' not enjoy a sphere of conscientious activity. This honor may be acquired by every
one; women by chastity and her other domestic virtues;
man by what he does and effects by faithfulness to a given
promise, by scorning undignified actions, by works of art
and of science:-all may acquire moral honor which alone
can render any other honor valuable. Moral honor alone
is permanent.  "Like a hymn it is always attractive, while
the mere objective or subjective honor is like a street song,
which wearies the ears."  The  honor of Napoleon and
that of Washington, differs as essentially as that of Robespierre and Luther.  "Moral honor cannot be taken from
us. Luther was stripped of his titles by the council of
Orlamuen(e during his contest with Carlstadt, but he ne
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PSYCIIOLOGY.
vertheless remained the honorable Martin Luther.   A
panegyric on Cromwell, on the other hand, is like a false
coin, it will not become current. It is most injurious to
him, in whose mouth or hand it is last found."
Love of honor as a passion.
When the love of honor becomes a passion, it is either
ambitioin, and thus stands connected with external honor;
or it is pride and is founded on internal honor. Ambition
is the vehement and blind desire for the good opinion of
our fellow-men; this desire is blind and vehement, because
honor is not desired on its own account, not because it is
noble and good, but on his account who desires it.  The
ambitious constantly thinks of increasing his honor and
hence is always bent upon something future, the execution
of which seemns ardtuous and demands power and strength
of mind, but in all he does he has his own reputation in
view, and he could do any thing, right or wrong, if his honor would be a(lvanced by it. The truly honorable man
will everywhere do what is good and right, and so he is
determined to avoid what is dishonorable in itself.  The
ambitious man only asks: Will it bring honor in the
opinion of others? for this opinion alone sanctions in his
view what is honorable, and without it there is no honor.
He longs to see every thing acknowledged that is his, while
the truly honorable man is satisfied with knowing that
what he does is honorable in itself, and that he is worthy
of honor. He will, therefore, perform what is honorable
and not look for applause. External honor has its expressions in society; rank, offices of different kinds, &c., include an honor in themselves which they confer on any
one, who occupies them whether he deserves it or not.
Hence the ambitious desires prominent positions in public
life, he will strive to be at the head of affairs; he cannot
hear to have any one above him, and would rather be the
first in a village than second in Rome. Ambition leads to
many vices. It courts public opinion and consequently
must yield to it and become unfaithful to its own principles, if it has any.  It will distinguish itself, and seeks
originality and pretends to what it has not.  It leads to
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PSYCIIOLOGY.
hatred and especially to envy, for it cannot avoid drawing
comparisons between itself and others, and perceiving that
others have the same or more than it has, and at the same
time desiring to have the sole title to honor, it enviously
asperses the qualities of others.   Envy consists in the
strange opinion, that we alone ought to have, what others
nevertheless have likewise; that others ought not to make
any pretensions to it, because we are superior to them;
that because others are in ourt' way, therefore we are not
first iii rak, and that nothing is wanting to our elevation
but their reinoval.-It will be generally found connected
with ambition, for the ambitious will always meet his equal,
and this he cannot endure.  Envy is not excited by the
dead.   Byron did not envy Shakspeare, nor Napoleon,
Alexander or Cesar; nascitur in vivis livor, post fata quiescit,-Envy rages among the living, after death it dies away.
It is for these reasons that it is honorable to be called a
man of honor, but despicable to be charged with ambition.
Though an ambitious man stands higher in public opinion,
than an avaricious one, because the object of the former is
ideal that of the latter wholly nmaterial.
Pride, as was stated. is founded upon internal honor,
and differs consequently firom  ambition, as the internal
from external honor.  Ambition endeavors to gain the good
opinion of otheris and possess it, whether right or wrong;
pride is satisfied with its owvn.  It does not, like ambition,
yield to the opinions of others or court them, but rather
expects all to look up to it.  When others do not feel and
express by their actions this subordination to the proud, he
either grows cold or becomes distant. If the ambitious
desires to be foremost and first every where, the proud
will demand it in a much higher degree, and jealousy will
be more incident to his character, than to that of the ambitious; for nothing but thie highest of all can satisfy him.
The ambitious  may  acknowledge  some  weakness  and
fi'ailty in his character, but the proud makes the highest
pretensions in every respect, does not acknowledge any
frailty, insists on unlimited admiration, raises himself above
all others, and expects them to be humble in his presence.
The ambitious is constantly in search of honor, the proud
considers himself in possession of it, and would not be
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PSYCIIOLOGY.
willing to appear to be seeking for it. Pride differs from
hr,ltghtiness.  The haughty man expects others to consider
themselves a mere nothing in his presence, and to feel
happy if he calls upon them for their services. VWhen this
haughtiness grows still more excessive, it becomes supercilioisness, which  desires others to despise  themselves,
whlen they perceive its splendor and greatness.  -We have
repeatedly had occasion to remark, that passions include
extremes, that they are liviing contradictions.  This remark
lmay again be made here. For the proud, the haughty, the
supercilious, while they expect all others to bow before
them, will themselves bow before others and do homage
if the occasion requires it. This is expressed by Tacitus,
in his forcible manner; Aliis humiliter inserrviunt, dum aliis
crltceliter su]perbiant,-They serve some in humility, while
they make their pride felt by others.  Pride may be dividcled into as manv classes, as there are objects of pride.
There is a pride of learning, which easily passes over into
vanity; there is a pride of virtue, which is the fruit of selfrighteousness;  there is a pride of piety, that humbly acknowlcdges human depravity, while at the same time it
thinks well of itself, as having left behind the mass of conception; there is a pride of nationality, when we consider
ori' nation superi.r to all others; there is finally, a pride
of genius, originality, money, property, a pride of rank
firom the soldier to the prince, including every rank and
condition of men.   One kind of pride we  must mention
here. as arising firom the true and genuine honor, firom that
honor which can alone be acquired by virtue. This pride
is correct and moral, and is felt, when any one suggests to
us any thing base, and when we reject such a suggestion
with scorn. It consists in our own conviction that our
honor has no price, that it cannot be bribed either by money or any thing else, and that we cannot be induced to
do wilfully any thing mean.   If, nevertheless, any one
approaches us with sinister intentions, we feel indignant
at him.
Finally, it is necessary to distinguish vanity from pride.
By vanity we do not understand here the transitoriness
and perishableness of all things, but the disposition which
induces man to place a high value upon every thing that is
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PSYCITOTIOGY.
his, and because it is his.  The man is vain in a somewhat
different respect, that expects the finite and transitory to
be permnanent, and seeing himself disappointed, exclaims:
all is vain! while in fact his imagination alone is vain.
For transitoriness does not make things, the nature of
w'Thich it is to be finite, vain.  They go and come again.
You,th, beauty and understanding are valuable, and not
vain, though youth decays, beauty fades, and understanding
lsses its vigor. But why should we not enjoy these things,
ti-ough they are transitory? Have they no value in refer nce to our higher duties?  Things are not vain because
thtey are transitory, but we are vain, when we place our
affections upon the transitory, and expect it to remain the
sanIe for ever.  We  transfer our own vanity into the
!hings of the world and pronounce it their quality, while
in fact it is ours.  The vanity we here speak of is the desire for the imme(liate notice of our qualities, and an exr)iession of a good opinion.  It is a modification of ambition, and it enters more into the retail sale of honor.  It is
therefore little, and diflers by this littleness from pride.  It
either places particular stress on things, that must be whollI indifferent to public opinion, as for instance, on the day
on which we were born, on dress or personal beauty, or on
such, as are of more general value, as wit, language, skill.
Trhe latter objects may easily lead to vanity- for as ihey
!)lease the person who has themn, so they are attractive to
all.  The vain person noticing their general attractiveness
desires that they shall please others, because they are his,
and so his interest in any object is not immediately derived
fiom the object itself, but firom the imtpression it makes upon others. Hence, the vain person will constantly contrive
to have an object that impresses others favorably seen by
them. Perhaps a lady is vain of her beautiful hand, and
she will certainly know how to exhibit it with a full appearance of modesty.  As honor is a high good, but is
aibused by ambition, so are beauty, talent, genius, much to
h-e desired; but when we love them, not because we  consider them high and noble, but because they are ours-because we possess them-when we could not take any interest in them, in case we were deprived of them, then our
love of them is vatit/.  This vanitv is closelv connected
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PSYCHOLOGY.
with the one before described, and the only difference is
that it is more selfish.  It is right to love all things that
God has created, but it is wrong to expect of them, what
God has not given them; and so it is right to love our personal qualities and that which belongs to us, but it is wrong
to believe them good, because they are connected with us.
Both kinds of vanity may pervade the spirit of whole ages.
About the middle of the last century, a melancholy feeling,
of the vanity of all things, spread itself over the world.
Young's Nigh,t Thoughts, Sterne's Sentimental Journey,
and Werther's Sorrows, induced or encouraged that silent
consumption of mind and energy.  And so again whole
ages may be diseased with vanity as a mnodification of ambition; especially such as are without a deteinined character.  Muchl depends too upon the character of individuals and nations. The English, for instance, are inclined to
pride, the French to vanity.
The inclinations whlich we have had under consideration
thlus far, as arising from the relation of man to his fellownmen, had for their contents objects, that could neither understand nor answer them.  These inclinations r,st, therefore, solely in him who has them, and cannot be reciprocated.  The inclinations we now have to examine are divided between at least two persons.  They are, therefore,
m-utual inclinations, and social in the highest sense of the
word, and the first among them is
Love.
Love, in general, is the devotion of one person to another.  In it we surrender the independence of our existenee, and desire to become self-conscious, not in ourselves
onlv, but especially in the consciousness of another. In
him we seek ourselves, by him we desire to be acklinowledged and received with our whole personality and all connected with it.  His consciousness we desire to penetrate,
to fill with our person all his will and knowledge, all his
lesires and wishes.  Then the other lives only in us, as we
live in him. Thus both are identical, and each lays his
whole soul into this identity. Love is therefore, ennot)ling; for loving we do not belong to ourselves, but to him
30
349 
PSYCHIOLOGY.
whom we love, as he belongs to us.  Thus our selfishness is
broken; we forget ourselves as isolated beings, and seek
and find ourselves only in each other; we do not exist and
live for ourselves alone, but at the same time for him, whom
we love, and principally for him; for in him the root of
ourI joys and pleasures rests, in him we possess ourselves
wholly, out of him the world is dreary and dead to us.
Whatever cannot be drawn within this circle of our love,
leaves us indifferent.  "Especially in female characters is
love most beautiful; for with them this devotion, this sui
render is the highest point, as they center their intellectual
and real life upon this feeling of love, in it find their only
hold on life, and if misfortune touches it, they disappear
like a light which is extinguished by the first rough breath.
In this silubjective tenderness of feeling love is not found in
the classic alt of Greece, where it appears only as a sub ordinate element for representation, or only in reference
to sensual enjoyments."
In Homer, either no great weight is placed upon it, or
love appears in its most worthy form, as marriage in the
domestic circle, as, for instance, in the person of Penelope,
or as the solicitude of a wife and mother in Andromache,
or in other moral relations.  The tie, on the other hand,
which attaches Paris to Helen, is acknowledged as immoral, and is the cause of the terrors and misfortunes of the
Trojan war, while the love of Ac(hilles to Briseis has little
depth of feeling, for Briseis is a slave, and at the disposal
of his will.  In the odes of Sappho, the language of love is
raised to lyriic inspiration, yet it is more the lingering, consuiming fire of the blood that is expressed, than the warmth
of feeling and the emotions of the heart. In another respect, love, as expressed in the delightful little songs of
Anacreon, is a cheerful, general enjoyment, which without
suffering, without struggles, and without the resignation of
an oppriessed and longing heart, joyfully seizes the imme
diate pleasure, not regarding it as necessary to possess this
object of affection, and no other. Neither does the noble
Tragedy of the ancients know the inclination of love in its
romantic significance. Especially with AEschylus and Sophocles it does not claim any particular interest.   For
tiougtih Antigone is destined to be the wife of Harmon,
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PSYCHOLOGY.
though Haemon defends her before his father, and eyen
kills himself because he cannot save her-he speaks before
Creon only of objective relations, and not of the power of
subjective passion, which in fact he did not feel in the sense
of a modern passionate lover. Euripides makes use of love
as an essential pathos in his Phedra, yet there it is represented as a criminal aberration of blood, as a passion of
sense, as instigated by Venus, who desires the destruction
of Hippolytus, because he will not bring sacrifices to her.
So we have in the Venus de Medici a beautiful image of
love, and nothing can be said against its neatness and plastic execution, but the expression of internal warmth and
life, as modern Art demands it, is wholly wanting.
The same is the case in the Roman poetry, when after
the dissolution of the republic, and of the rigiditv of moral
life, love degenerated more or less into sensual enjoyment.
Petrarch, on the other hand, though he wrote his sonnets
for amusement only, gained his immortal reputation by the
fancies of his love, which under the warm Italian sky, conne(ted itself in the depths of his heart with religion. Dante's
exaltation also proceeded from his love of Beatrice, which
rendered sublime in him, became a religious love, while his
boldness and bravery was transformed into a religious intuition of art, in which-what no one else would venture
-he made himself thie judge of all men, and consigned them
to hell, to purgatory, or to heaven.  As a contrast to this
exaltation, Bocaccio represents love, partly in vehemence
as a passion, partly as stripped of all morality, making in
his various novels the morals of his age and country pass
in review before our eyes.
In the German?ninnesong, love is full of piety, tender,
without richness of imagination, playful, melancholy, monotonous  with the Spaniard, it is full of imagination in its
expression, knightly, subtle in seeking and defending its
rights and duties as a matter of honor, and fanatical iri the
time of its highest splendor. With the French, especially
in latter times, it becomes gallant, inclining to vanity, a
forced feeling created by sophistry, a kind of sensual enjoyment without passion, or passion without enjoyment, a
feeling and sentimentality full of reflection.
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PSYCHOLOGY.
From the above it will be seen that at present we have
under consideration
Sexual Love.
This is founded on a tendency of nature, which, divided
between two of different sexes, draws them irresistibly,
yet mysteriously towards each other, and makes each feel,
that it cannot find its completion in itself, and must seek
for it in another. This love is pure and noble, when it is
called forth by love.  "The purest love is the effect of the
most perfect, external beauty in its union with an equally
perfect internal beauty of the heart. It calls forth noble
and delightful feelings in ourselves, silences every desire,
and renders us happy by its presence. It is a perfect union
of the most beautiful in us with the most beautiful out of
us. Its removal leaves a void in the heart; we are drawn
after it." This is the case with all lovers. Every one
considers his love the fairest, most beautiful, and most virtuous of all that ever lived.  If personal beauty is wanting, other charms will compensate for it, or make the lover
overlook the deficiency. Sexual love is the bloomn of our
intellectual and bodily life, and as the flower reveals by its
color and fragrance the life of the plant, so love will render
manifest the ideal of beauty and loveliness, and the kind of
life which a person conceals within himself.  Again: love
is the intellectual and physical development of youth, for it
is the joint product of imagination and fancy, and of bodily
vigor and freshness of nerves and muscles, all of which have
arrived at the stage of maturity. If love induces us to
seek for all that is noble and beautiful in order to adorn
with it the object of love; if we desire to seek for honor
and every virtue, to lay it at the feet of the beloved one;
if we long for nothing more than the entire union of soul
with soul.-then our love is noble, and the being of whom
it is the blossom must be so likewise. Such love excites us
lo virtuous and magnanimous actions, and many a youth
of amiable qualities, but who was exposed to dangers, has
been rescued by love, and raised by it into the sphere of
beauty and nobleness, from that of sensual enjoyments In
sexual love now, if it is to be pure, love must be the only
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PSYCIIOLOGY.
object desired, not money, not mere external beauty. Such
love will desire its preservation, and this it can obtain only
by a permanent union, which is marriage. Marriage is
the external representation of the internal union, produced
by love between two persons of different sexes, and sanctioned by the usual ceremony. Husband and wife are
truly one. The interests and wishes of the one are also
tiose of the other; they enter so wholly and entirely into
each other's feelings, views, and desires, that they seem to
have but one thinking power.  Genuine marriage cannot,
therefore, be produced by a mere ceremony, but must have
its possible existence in love. Yet what is once joined together, let no man put asunder, and hence the choice is
short, and the regret is long.
From the above it must follow that true love renders
Monogamy indispensable, and that Polyandry or Polygamy
are wholly unnatural. We can exchange our Self but once,
and receive but one Self in exchange for it. And here is
the point too, on which it must appear possible, that love
may become a passion.  For, as we cannot love every one,
but must naturally be limited in our choice, the idea may
take hold of our mind after we think we have found the
person, that she and no other in the worldll is the one whom
we can love. Centreing our affections upon her, it seems
wholly impossible to us, that we should be able to love any
other. If now impediments are thrown in our way, if we
fear the loss of our love, and know that no reparation can
be made to us, our love will be changed into a transient or
permanent passion.
Sexual Love as a Passion.
The impediments laid in the way of love, are either external, or they are contained in one of the lovers, and may
be termed internal. The external impediments proceed
from the world around us, from its manners and views
from the family spirit, its interests, from laws and preju(lices, and( the prose of life.  The lovers think of nothing
but their love; they are satisfied with it.  Yet man is not
to live to his feelings only, he has duties to perform, and
to honor the many relations, in which he finds himself
30*
353
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PSYCHOLOGY.
Thus a collision between his love and his duties may easily
take place. Among, these possible collisions none is more
frequent than thai of honor.  This  may  demand the resignation of love, me,ely because the two are not of equal
rank. This opposition, however, will only strengthen the
power of love, and instead of yielding to the suggestions of
honor, it becomes so irresistible as rather to sacrifice life
than yield to any obstacles. Again: the will of parents,
family duties, duties towards the country, or faithfulness
to a vow, may interfere with love, and here again it will
become passion. Now it may be that this passion overcomes all difficulties, and effects its final union, or that the
person acknowledges the power of these objective rights
and  duties, and  struggles silently with himself and the
power of his own passions.  On the latter passion the play
of the Maid of Orleans, by Schiller, rests.  Very often, as
we have said already, it is the prose of life-intrigue, prejudices, and the like, that oppose love, determined to destroy the fairest prospects.   In this case, also, love becomes
a passion, and makes every sacrifice to conquer  difficulties.  If the difficulties will not yield, if all daily grows
darker, love may be driven to suicide, or terminate in insanity.
The internal impediments are always to be sought for in
the lovers themselves.  Herc it may be, that love on the
part of one has never fully developed itself.  When  now
the otller demands the exclusive possession of the love of
the first, and when he feels that this is not filly given, that,
perhaps, a third receives as much attention as himself, he
will becoine passionate, and his passion will be jealousy.
IWhen lov e is pure on both sides, all fear is banished.   It is
often a feeling of weakness, a feeling that we dlo not deserve the possession of the love of the other, that causes
this fear.  So O)thello is certain of Desdemona's love; lie
fears no,thing.  lago cannot succeed at first in filling his
heart with suspicion, until he  mentions his age, his (lark
color. &c.  Fr.om that m )ment suspicion is ripe in Othello's
t)I'ast.
L1ove may become a transient passion, when the greatness of the new feeling, the darkliess of the relations, that
are yet indistinct. the late youthful pride, which is now to
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PSYCHoLOGY.
surrender, to confess itself conquered, embarrass: love
would not betray itself, and betrays itself by this very wish
for concealment. It desires to meet the beloved, and
trembles or flees when he approaches. It seeks solitude to
give free course to its tears, and keeps secret from others
what moves the heart. It does not venture to pronounce
the name, but it finds circuitous routs to hear from the beloved object.-So love may become a transient passion in
a moment, when after we have secretly anticipated a kind
reception from the person in whom we are interested, we
receive a distinct and marked sign of it, one that can no
longer be misinterpreted.
The passion of love is one of the most painful. The
object appears to him who is under its influence as the
only possible one he could choose; a certain fatality, a
necessity against which he strives in vain, chains him to
this one, which is in his eyes the most perfect.  Without
him or her the passionate lover does not expect to enjoy
life or to become happy in any way. Hence the most bitter feeling of an irreparable loss constantly agitates the
breast:, and presents nothing but misery. Love, as was
allude(l to above, may mitigate and even expel other passions, but when once a passion, it cannot itself be rend(lered
less strong by any other inclination. It is too certain of
its loss, it feels that no reparation can be made, that it must
carry its grief with it for ever.
After these remarks on love as a passion, we shall now
approach some inclinations which spring from sexual love,
and the first among them is
Parental and filial love.
All love between parents and children commences in the
love of the mother to the children and father. The mother
in loving the newly born child loves herself, for its life is
hers.'e nourishes it with her milk, it comes from her
and lives through her.  She attends to it because she loves
it.  The child grows and observes; its wants are satisfied
by the mother, from whose eyes love and sympathy stream
into its own.  It loves the mother and this love remains
the same throughout life. "A true son will cling to his
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PSYCHOLOGY.
mother, and never part with her. For that which enters
most deeply into the heart of man and his whole character
is his love of the mother, who loved him first. Coriolanus
suffered himself to be conquered only by his love to his
mother, and there has, probably, never been a great man
who did not speak of his mother, when she was alluded to,
with the most heartfelt love, as did Frederick I,. Napoleon,
&c." It is the love of the mother to the child that calls
forth that of the father to it; for the father loves it because
he loves the mother. The child, on the other hand seems
to love the father because it loves the mother, and she loves
the father. And so again it is with the love of the children
to each other. The mother loves all, and all love the
mother; but when all are loved by the mother to the same
extent, then all loving the mother will love what she loves,
and consequently love each other. This family love will
be ruined when one of the children is made a pet by the
mother, as in that case jealousy and envy will be generated.
When all is right the love of the mother will be the center
of all the members of the family; all will incline towards
her and again spread from her, but like the branches of a
well-proportioned tree, that, while they each turn away
from the trunk, only do so to form a more beautiful and
perfect crown. One needs only to watch a little family to
perceive the correctness of the above remarks.  Children
will constantly quarrel with each other, but the mother
reigns among them, commands peace, reconciles, quiets,
and silences them, and makes them love and indulge each
other. Thus it may be truly said that all the morel relations in the family and government, have their strong hold
in the love of the mother, and that she is the basis on
which the whole fabric rests.
Fraternal love.
This is the love between sisters and  brothergand its
character is of the brightest purity. There are, however,
some differences in it, for it is either love between two
sisters or two brothers, or it is love between sister and
brother. As love between two sisters or between two
brothers, it is not so fine and strong; for one sister is what
,15 6 
PSYCIIOLOGY.
the other is, and one brother what the other; the attraction
is not so irresistible, and if a desire should arise in both
for one and the same object, as is often the case in the division of property, or if, for instance, two brothers should
fall in love with the same lady, as was the case in Schiller's
celebrated Bride of Messina, the fraternal love might easily
turn into hatred.   There are other causes from which
hatred may arise between brothers. The relation of the
members of a family to each other is not one resting immediately on duties and rights like that of citizens to each
other. One brother may, therefore, make demands on the
other as if he had really a right to them. If the other declines fulfilling these demands, he may charge him with
want of love. This might occur when the one of two
brothers is a spendthrift, and the other a prudent man.
No hatred can be more bitter or more terrible than that
between two sisters or two brothers; and the reason is
that when they love each other, it is in the purest and
warmest manner; that during the time of their love neither
has a secret firom the other, neither thinks of concealing
his fi'ailties and weaknesses, as one stranger would from
another; hence when they hate each other, each feels himself b)etrayed and consequently fraternal hatred is more
bitter than any other, unless principles of honor and morality restrain it.  The warmer the love, the more intense
the hatred: this is a general law. There can be no purer
love, on the other hand, than that between the brother and
sister. For the sistei loves the brother, as she cannot love
any one else.  She cannot love mother or father as she
may love her brother, for the difference of age, and the dependence upon them, makes her feel under some restraint;
the same is the case with her love to aunt and uncle. Her
love to her husband, however pure it may be, is already
more selfish. But her love to her brother is firee from all
selfish emotions, is perfectly pure.  Tlhis love was called by
the Greeks a divine love, resting upon a divine law, and
when in Sophocles it comes.in contact with the human
statute of Creon, Antigone fulfils the former, violating the
latter. In modern times we are much inclined to seek for
its ground merely in the blood, but love does not cling to
the blood, it rests in spirit, and family love has its ground
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PSYCHOLOGY.
in family sfpirit.  In this spirit all incline to each other, and(i
to their common trunk; all are constrained by it to love
each other, and hence, every family forms a whole, that
excludes every one not belonging to it, not pervaded by
that spirit which produces a resemblance of feeling and
views, of desires and inclinations in all the members of the
same family.  It is remarkable, however, that among the
members of a family, grandparents and grandchildren feel
more attraction for each other, than children and parents.
iTo what is this owing? The parents standing between
grandparents and grandchildren, as the present between
the future and the past, are full of vigor, strength, and insist on the execution of their plans, on discipline, &c. The
grandparents are, on the other hand, losing their vigor, the
root of their existence is in the past, they better remember
early impressions, those of their chlildhood, than those they
received in more advanced age. They can, therefore, enter more easily into the feelings and life of children, than
parents. Children receiving more in(dulgence from them,
will, of course, incline more stronglyT to them.
But if each family is a whole that does not admit anything firom without, then selfishness must be its character,
and all intercourse between the members of different fam —
ilies must be rendered impossible. The question is: Hlow
may this selfishness be broken?  In two ways: First, by
intermarriage, and secondly, by the common love of all
citizens to their native country.
ATationial Love.
The love of all famnilies to each other is, therefore, first
effected by the love of their different members to each
other.  The love between son and daughter, as bride and
bridegroom, will unite two families; and their children
again will unite others, until all the families of a nation
grow together by sexual love, and form one great whole.
If the love of the mother to her children and theirs to her,
may be compared to a tree. the branches of which, while
they spread, bend nevertheless back to the common triiink;
the love of one family to another may also be compared to
a tree the fiull grown branches of which sink themselves
. "I I' 
PSYCHOLOGY.
into the soil, send forth roots anc form new trees, remaining nevertheless connected with the parent-tree. The thus
connected families again form a whole, and this is the nation-nanciscor. And here, secondly, national love develo01s itself.  All the citizens of a nation have the same otjects of affection, one country, one language, one manner
of thinking, the same customs and morals. Every one that
loves them will love those who agree with him in their inclinations. Hience it is that when two citizens of the same
country, who while at home took no notice of each other,
iieet in a distant foreign land, they will form an immediate
acquaintance. Hence too, we delight to hear our native
tongue again after we have for a long time spoken the
language of other nations.  But the country also, its soil,
its valleys and mountains, its rivers and streams, its productions, its skies, its villages, towns and cities, its public
roads and canals, and in short all belonging to it become
the objects of our love, and this love is that to the Fatherland.  "Yet I know nothing more sweet than home," sayis
Homer.  The love for the Fatherland was stronger in ancient times than in modern. The Christian religion, has
taught us to consider every stranger as a friend and brother, and civilization has rendered manners and customs more
similar to each other among all nations.
Love of llTankind.
As every familv is at first exclusive, so everyv nation again
forms a whole, kept together by a national spirit, and thrusting out whatever does not proceed from it.  Thus our nation stands opposed to another, and all are enemies to each
other. This is proved by history; for all intercourse
among nations commenced in tears rather than in mutual
lore. Each nation, as a whole, is selfish; considers its own
productions in art and science, its heroes and victories, its
laws and institutions superior to those of other nations and
expects them to be acknowledged thus, and as the same
pretensions are made by each nation. and none is willing
to do what the other deminands,-all will feel opposed to
each other. How is this general dislike to be removed?
It might at first sight seem that commercial intercourse and
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general cultivation would effect this, but when more closely examined, it must be acknowledged that such intercourse
rests on national selfishness and close arithmetical calculation, and that it may for this reason often lead to ruptures,
from which the most bitter hatred and wars may proceed.
Science and art on the other hand, as long as national. prejudices exist, cannot penetrate all nations in a perfectly free
form, and their power is consequently limited to a national
form, and in it they become a matter of national pride,
and consequently an object of national jealousy and quar.
re]l. The only power left to remove national enmity and
produce peace among all nations is the christian religion,
which teaches us, to " love all men."  We cannot love the
whole race as a mass, but we may love every one whom
we meet with, and take an interest in every nation and
tribe of mankind on the face of the earth. This is the
spirit of Christ and of missions; this ought to be the spirit
of every man. Tile general possibility of loving all men
becomes a duty, and this dutv is the crown of all pathological inclinations. It commences with sexual love; it
passes over to connubial love and refines itself still more
in the paternal and filial love, in fraternal, family, and national love, until it appears in its highest beauty, in the love
to all men. As the model of this love we have Christ,
who persecuted by all, by the Jews, and Romans, and
Greeks, surrounded by malice, voluptuousness, faithfulness,
standing alone in the midst of enemies, loved all, and hated
none.
Remarks.
1. It is usual to consider frientdship as an inclination, a
view that is wholly erroneous. It is not founded on the
relations of our organism, but rests on the affinity of two
souls, on the perception of an internal quality, and its pillars are tillimited coridlence, and as unlimited faithfulness.
Friendship is therefobre a vir,tue, and though it mav comt.
mence in an inclination, and may include love, it goes far
beyond it.  Frankness and openness, communication and
participation, are indispensible to it.  The beautiful poemn
of Schiller, entitled Die Burgershaft, represents the nature
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PSYCHOLOGY.
of friendship in a masterly and a most impressive manner.
Friendship is impossible without mutual regard, but we
may love without it; we may say, "I love thee, but I cannot respect thee!" firiendship rests on a moral respect for
each other; on principles and needs no love, though it may
have it.
2. Family love and national love may easily pass over
into passions. The former may then be called Nepotism.
This passion makes us prefer whatever is connected with
our families to anything that proceeds from other families.
It is a family pride that is ready at all times to defend the
meanest actions of its relatives, to praise beyond measure
what is good in them, and if power and influence allow, to
raise them to rank and positions of honor, whether they
deserve it or not. Nepotism will not benefit but ruin a
government; it is Despotismn on a small scale, and will become one on the largest if permitted to take its own course.
So national love may become a passion, but always in the
form of a disinclination.  Two nations dislike each other;
they have the same common object in view; only one of
them can obtain it,'and hence this collision arouses their
dislike, and converts it into a passion, which has for its
desire mutual destruction. Such a passion may more easily
originate between two particular nations than between
others. The French and English dislike each other; the
Germans and English love each other. It will be more
difficult for the latter than the former to become arrayed
against each other.
3. A nation is an organized body; it has therefore different ranks, as it has different activities.  Members  of
different ranks may dislike each other, and this dislike may
break forth into passion in times of revolution. This dislike may seem very insignificant at its coimmencenient,and
continue so for a long time.  It then is a in-eve indifference
of the persons to each other. One man discoveris an inclination in another which he has not; he is therefore
wholly indifferent toit.  The other notices this indifference,
and feels chl-agrined.-A  merchant, for instance, loves money; to acquire it demands a certain amount and a certain
kind of knowledge. The learned man on the other hand,
inclines to knowledge for its own sake, and he will feel as
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361 
PSYCHOLOGY.
indifferent to the money of the merchant, as the merchant
to what he thinks useless knowledge. If they become acquainted with each other, they will at first leave each other
cold, and by degrees dislike each other. This dislike will
express itself thus: they either avoid each other, or when
brought together are polite, while each is aware of the dislike of the other.-Such a dislike for a long time existed
between Cuvier and Geoffrey St. Hilaire, both of whom
labored in the same sciences, and in the same institution,
but carried out different views. This dislike may, however, increase till it becomes hatred, which desires the destruction of the object hated, and ends in open hostility.
For these are the three degrees of all disinclinations: First,
Dislike, which is a mere indifference, and desire to have
nothing to do with him, whom we dislike. Secondly, Hatred, or a desire to injure him whom we hate.  And thirdly,
Enmity, or a determination to hurt, destroy, and injure him
whose enemy we are.  This dislike takes place principally,
as was said, between persons of different ranks and occupations, as between the nobility of a country and the farming class, between philosophers and clergymen; but it takes
place also between members of the same profession, between lawyers or physicians.   So Plato and Xenophon
are said to have secretly disliked each other, yet this has
never been  fully ascertained.   Party hatred is likewise
found among the members of a nation. The cause is the
partial inclination of some to a common object, to common
principles, and their prominent representatives.  This inclination will attract those that cherish it to each other,
and unite them in proportion, as it separates them from all
those that have it not, and have perhaps a similar and
equally strong predilection of other objects and principles.
It is not love to each other that unites the members of a
party, but love to the same inclination, harmony of views
and feelings, of desires and efforts. The separation of the
different parties includes indifference; this indifference may
become hatred, and in times of revolution enmity, as that
between Loyalists and Democrats. As these parties in the
government may rage against each other, so the different
sects in religion. The Catholic hates the Protestant; the
Jew the Christian; the Turk the Persian,-and among the
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Protestants again, there was a time, when Lutherans and
the Reformed hated and persecuted each other.
4. All disinclinations have the same conditions, that positive inclinations pre-suppose for their origin. They are
the dislike on the part of one to something on that of the
other; as, for instance, the dislike of one to the slow tedious
manner of speaking of the other. The other perceives this
dislike, and dislikes it. The former now will dislike in
addition to the slow speaking, this dislike of the other, and
so both will at first be cool in their intercourse, but soon
hate and become hostile to each other.
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CHAPTER IV.
EMOTIONS.
"Emotions are like water, that breaks away the dam;
passions like a stream, that digs its bed constantly deeper.
Emotions affect the health like apoplexy; passions like
consumption. Emotions are like intoxication that passes
over in sleep, but leaves its traces in the headache that follows; passion is like a disease arising from swallowed poison, and it needs a physician of the soul, who after all cannot prescribe radical, but only palliative medicine." Emotions have been divided into two classes, the one of which
comprises those that are strengthening, as cheerfulness, joy,
hope; and the other, those that are weakening, as fear,
anxiety, grief. This division, as will be seen, is taken from
the effects which emotions have upon us, and though correct in this respect, it is not founded on emotions, as they
are in themselves. Another division, founded wholly upon
the nature of emotions, has therefore been adopted, which
we shall follow in its whole arrangement without attempting to make any essential changes. According to this view,
emotions are either simple, mixed, or compound.
~ 1. SIMPLE EMOTIONS.
They are pleasure and pain; both as emotions are feelings connected with a thought, and differ thus from mere
bodily pleasure and pain. They neither of them require 
PSYCHOILOGY.
any other emotion or feeling for their existence except
that of agreeableness or disagreeableness. This may be
connected with a perception or sensation; but here it is
the feeling that attaches itself to the knowledge of an object. They are called simple or pure emotions, because
they are the same, whatever may be the object in the
knowledge of which they originate, not depending as a
condition on an additional feeling, neither in their energy,
nor in their duration. He that for the first time enjoys
the view of a beautiful landscape, will experience the emotion of pleasure in which all desires are silenced. This
pleasure arises from the agreeable feeling, accompanying
the examination of the landscape.  It is simple and pure,
though the scenery is variegated and our reflections on it
are manifold. We rejoice in nature, and are satisfied with
this pleasure, as long as it continues, desiring nothing for
the time being. Or a friend unexpectedly visits us; our
pleasure is so great, that at first we do not think of asking
him how long he will stay with us.-So the emotion of
pain is simple and pure, not a bodily or sensual pain, but
like pleasure, a feeling, arising firom our knowledge of an
object, and always the same, though the objects of our
knowledge may be different. Like the emotion of pleasure,
it exists independent of the organs of sense, sensual pain
and pleasure always demand organs, the physical ability of
which is either raised or depressed by some external influence upon them.   Their energy and  duration differ,
their nature is the same. There is an emotion of pain
"that thrusts its long proboscis into the heart, and draws
forth tears in streams. The whole heart swells and flows,
and convulsively compresses its inmost fibres." Such pain
dissolves itself in tears, it is an infinite feeling, but pure and
simple. In it the sufferer does not feel or desire to injure
or remove the object by which the pain is caused.-The
purity of the emotions of pain and pleasure, expresses itself too, by their relation to the present. The object which
thev concern may be in the past, the emotion rests wholly
and entirely in the present. Thus these emotions are con tained wholly in themselves, need nothing else for their
existence, and are therefore both simple and pure.
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~ 2. MIXED EMOTIONS.
Here, also, we have but two, fear and hope; and if pain
and pleasure had only reference to the present, these refer
to the future. They are called mixed, because they cannot originate without the former two, but pre-suppose them
for their existence. Again: fear and hope having reference to the future, are impossible without the idea of time,
and demand, therefore, much reflection. Hence they are
of a higher character, than pleasure and pain. The thought
of the future draws out the soul of man and renders him
great, that of the immediate present contracts his mind.
Jean Paul is therefore right in saying: "Neither pleasure
nor pain, but only hope can give us rest."
Hope.
This is a pleasure in the present, strengthened by the expectation of pleasure in the future, or it is a pleasure connected with the anticipation of some future occurrence
that will be agreeable to us. Its element is pleasure, but
pleasure on the one hand as felt in the present, and pleasure
on the other as anticipated in the future. This two-fold
reference of hope to the present and future, gives it a
mixed nature. Every thing future is only possible; the
degree of the probability of an occurrence will condition
the energy of hope. The beggar who hopes to become a
king, is insane; the impediments that may seem to be in
the way of a future good must be such as can be surmounted, and there must be a high degree of probability that this
will give way, or there can be no hope. So when we
perceive all impediments vielding to the approach of the
hoped for good, our hope will become confidence. Hope,
as the expectation of something future, is indispensable to
enterprise and activity.  The farmer sows his seed, hoping
that it will germinate and grow; the sailor leaves his native
shore, hoping he shall see it again laden with wealth; hope
of victory accompanies the soldier in war, and hope that
the seeds of truth will find their appropriate soil, and bring
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PSYCHOLOGY.
forth fruit, if not now, after his death, encourages the
teacher to persevere in his arduous work. Who would be
eager to endeavor and act, to advance and improve himself and all around him, were not hope playing in his bosom? Every person, from the child to the aged, hopes;
but as imagination and understanding, are more or less developed or naturally more or less energetic, hope will correspond with them.  The hope of the child is but an uncertain, dark and confused anticipation, or a wish; the
hope of the youth needs little probabilily; imagination
loves to calculate on the favor of fortune. The hope of
manhood is of a general character; its objects are better
times and the benefit of posterity; it rests on cool understanding, and a knowledge of the present and its elements,
and is firm, strong and persevering, even when surrounded
by misfortunes or preyed upon by disease.  The old man,
submissive and resigned, continues to hope though near the
grave, but his hope is directed to another world, and if of
any value. it must rest on faith.
One who has been fiequently disappointed, will find it
difficult to hope; yet no one is entirelv without hope.
Wvhen all hope disappears, dcespair takes its place.  Despair
is that situation of mtind, in which fear and grief no longer
give room to hope, in which sadness consumes every jov,
and neither present nor future good can find any access to
is. A willing resignation of the world differs firomn despair;
such a resignation is blessed with internal peace and rest,
and while it hopes nothing for itself, it may hope for others.
Resignation is the result of character, of principle, of views
which we have formed of life and the value of its enjoymients; it is a principled limitation of our wishes and
desires.
Fear.
This is the opposite of hope; a feeling of strong displeasure connecting itself with the thought of a future evil or
of an unpleasant occurrence, that in all piobability will
take place. The future evil, the occurrence of which is not
very probable, cannot alarm us.  We all believe that there
will be a time, when the earth shall be no more, but every
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PSYCTHOT,OGY.
one of us expect to be gone before it arrives. Hence we
do not fear it.' No one is ashamed of hope, but many dis like to have it known that they can fear, and yet fear is
older and more powerful than hope. It is natural to man,
for dependent as he is on powers that are not under his
control, it would be foolish to pretend to be above fear. Fear has its different degrees, and much may depend on
age, experience, constitution, and temperament to which
of these degrees we are principally subject. These degrees
are: First: A mere feeling of uneasiness, when we have
to exercise our strength to avert an impending evil, and
feel uncertain of success, or when the danger is indefinite.
Secondlv: It becomes terror, when it is suddenly excited,
and when it deprives us of all presence of mind; then we
grow pale and tremble.  This is the case when we at once
perceive a destructive power of nature threatening us and
see no possibility of escape. Thirdly: It may become
stupefaction, when the evil feared falls upon us and really
harms us.
There must of course, always be an object in which we
take an interest, and whose existence we consider endangered. These objects of fear may be manifold; and as
they differ, so fear differs in its character. We may fear
physical evils, or moral crimes and their punishments, the
reproaches of conscience, the violation of honor or of that
which is sacred and inviolable. Reverence is a fear, the
object of which is Beauty, Holiness, Truth, God. And so
again with the fear that our honor might be violated, a
feeling of shame and confusion is connected. Of these
many species of fear, we shall consider only two: Re?e?fence and Shalme.
Reverence is the regard we feel for the true value contained in a thing, and the fear to approach or abuse it.
Regard or respect is the beginning of reverence, and he
only who can perceive the true value of a thing is susceptible of regard and reverence. In proportion as a man is
truly cultivated, in proportion as he can discern an eternal
and indestructible value in nature, in beauty, and truth, he
will revere them, and the more will reverence be the bloom
of all his cultivation. This fear is therefore delicate.'its
object is not the occurrence of a physical evil, but that of
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PSYCHOLOGY.
an ideal, a moral misfortune. Such would be the violation
)f any thing sacred to himn whose mind is truly cultivated.
The barbarian destroys whatever comes in his way; not
having the most distant idea of the value of beauty, he
ruins the finest works of art. In times, when all fear of
laws, and the fear of all that is sacred is gone, as in those
of revolutions, no monument of former greatness however
grand, is protected from the hand of destruction. It is
easy to fear, but difficult to revere. Reverence, then, is
the tender fear which we feel in the presence of persons,
or in handling things, the value of which has become
known to us, and which we fear, to injure or abuse.Shame, on the other hand, is the fear felt by us of losing
the good opinion of others, by a mistake or error which
we have committed, that would offbend decorum, morality,
or customn, &c., it has reference to sexual relations, and in
this respect is the fear that others might consider us impure
in our feelings.  This feeling may be very painful and pervade our whole mind. It may be called forth suddenly
when any thing which we desire to conceal from the world
is exposed; when a weakness is detected, or a frailty noticed.  Goethe has represented this emotion by a most
beautifiul likeness. He says in his Notes on his WestOestliche Divan; "In countries where they have no layers
of lime, the shells of muscles are used for the preparation
of a very necessary building material, and piled up between dry branches, they become  glowing hot, with the
flame which is kindled beneath them. The beholder cannot resist the feeling, that these creatures a short time be fore full of life, growing and thriving in the ocean, enjoyed
in their way the general pleasure of existence and now,
not burned to ashes, but penetrated by the fire, retain their
full form, while all life is extinguished in them. Suppose
that night comes on and that these organical remnants
really appear glowing to the eye of the spectator; no more
appropriate image of the pain of the soul can be placed
before our eyes. If any one desires a perfect picture of
this, let him ask the chemist to put oyster shells into a state
of phosphorescence when he will confess with us, that the
glowing hot feeling which pervades man, when a just re proach meets him unexpectedly in the midst of the self
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PSYCHOLOGY.
conceit of confident self-feeling, could not be more terribly
expressed." Thus shame penetrates man and the blood
rushes to the face, till it glows like the shells that are penetrated by fire.
Remarks.
1. Fear and hope cannot existat the same time in the
same breast, for they exclude each other as a pleasure and
pain. And so again pain and hope exclude each other as
pleasure and fear. When we doeply mourn, it is difficult
for us to hope, and it is wholly wrong to endeavor to excite hope in the mourner during the time that his grief is
greatest. The best consolation is to mourn with him, to
sympathize with his grief.  So we cannot enjoy ourselves
fully, when in the midst of our pleasure we fear poison.
It is therefore equally imprudent to introduce tidings of
misfortune, by first exciting a cheerful mood in him whom
they concern.
2. If the animal can feel sensual pleasure and pain, and
thus may have something similar to the two corresponding
emotions, it is wholly deprived of hop)e and fear, for these
are impossible without a full and clear idea of futurity, and
this idea is impossible without understanding. Now it is
well known that the animal flees from certain objects, and
this might seem to resemble fear; but the cause of flight
is not a knowledge of the danger; it is only a feeling of
displeasure instinctively connected with the sight of the
object. The perception of such an object has the same
effect upon the animal that lightning has upon the eye of
man.
~ 3. COMPOUND EMOTIONS.
These emotions are called compound, because their elements are not simple, but always partake of the nature of
two other emotions. These two emotions do not constitute a third one in an external manner, but receive each
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PSYCHOLOGY.
other so, that their elements grow together and form internally one. The sap of a plant consists likewise of many
different substances, and is after all but one in its nature.
The compound emotions may be divided into depressing
and invigorating affections of the mind; the former being
founded on pain and fea?r, the latter on pleasure and hope.
Depressing Emniotions.
lfelanicholy or Sadness.  Pleasure and pain, as was said
above, exclude each other, and where the one is, the other
cannot be. And yet we find them united in melancholy.
But they exist in it as mere elements and not as emotions;
neither is any longer what it originally was, but each has
entered into the other and exists in an impure state. Melancholy is, therefore, both painful and pleasant.  The union
of pain and pleasure depends on our remembrance of the
past-hence it is, that melancholy is not found among children, for their remembrance is either weak or as yet they
have none at all. The remembrance of the past is connected with a feeling of pleasure, for it in some degree recalls past enjoyments.  But at the same time the past with
its enjoyments cannot be revived, so that it is again real;
the remembrance, therefore, includes the knowledge of a
loss and with it a feeling of pain.  This enters into the
pleasure and both become sadness.  This emotion, which
is at the same time both sweet and bitter, joyful and sorrowful, expresses itself in three different ways:
First, In old age, when man looks back upon his youth.
Then he was strong and vigorous, then little was required
for his joys and yet they were fill of life and of warmth.
Cares were strangers to him, and the future smiled upon
him like a balmy May day. Such recollections are delightful, but they are not without sadness, for those days of
youth are gone, and never will return. No power on earth
can bring back even a single hour. Nor were they without their labors and sorrows, which will likewise enter into
our recollection, and pain will mingle with pleasure. So
Goethe says of himself in advanced age: "they have called me a child of fortune, nor have I any wish to complain
of the course of my life. Yet it has been nothing but la
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PSYCHOLOGY.
bor and sorrow, and I may truly say that in seventy-five
years, I have not had four weeks of true comfort. It was
the constant rolling of a stone that was to be always lifted
,v:."  At another time he said, "I should not like to live
-y lif over again; as the mature plant could not desire
to r uirn again to the contracted state of buds and seeds."
At another.  "When I look back upon my earlier and mid(Ile life, and consider how few are left of those that were
y-.ung with me, I am reminded of a summer visit to a
watering place.  On arriving one makes the acquaintance
cf those who have been already somne time there and leave
the week following. This loss is painful. Now one becomes attached to the second generation, with which one
lives for a time and becomes intimately connected. But
this also passes away and leaves us solitary with the third
which arrives shortly before our own departure, and with
which we have no desire to have much intercourse."  In
such words deep sadness breathes.
Secondly, The recollection of our' home likewise calls
forth this sad delight or delightful sadness.  Our fancv
carries in itself the scenery of our native country to which
a part of ourI life, of our feelings and d(lesires were once
closely linked.  As these images emerge from the depths
of ourt mind and present themselves to us, our numerous
connections, firiends, relatives, the happy hours spent in the
circle of sisters, brothers and parents, will likewise appear
before the eye of the mind, and when we consider that we
are far off firom parents and home, when then oul' thoughts
are constantly bent upon the scenes of our infancy-we
feel sad and though unhappy, nevertheless desire to retain
this feeling of sadness, because it is the only consolation
remaining to us.
Thirdly, The remembrance of a firiend, whose loss is not
recent, but of by-gone-days.  If recent, we feel grief and
imourn.  But when at a distance and when the first bitterness of grief is over, we delight in the remembrance of
the hours we spent with him, and at the same time feel
sF)rrowfill because they will never return.  So Victor in
Jean Paul's Hesperus, exclaims  of his fi'iend.  "0O! that I
could once more speak to thee, g,)od, dear an(l noble friend
of my youth."  It is not necesar y, ho(wever, that  we
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PSYCHOLOGY.
should have suffered a loss which we bewail, but the beautful and divine may make a sorrowful impression upon us,
and we may become melancholy by it. Music heard at a
distance has this effect. Hence Plato said, that it reminds
us of a better home.
These feelings of desire, and longing, of pain and pleasure, constitute the theme of elegiac poetry. In it grief
either prevails over pleasure, as for instance, in the noble
Elegy in a Country Chuich-Yard   or pleasure over grief,
as in Goethe's Elegies. And again, this poetry sings either
of the sadness called forth by the consideration of the
vanity of all things, by the sight of ruins, the standing, but
broken remnants of the life of by-gone ages; or it sings
the grief caused by our own disappointments. In the former case, its character is noble, in the latter selfish.  Yet
the mouth of the poet is blessed, fior in his grief melody
and speech are granted him to mourn in the deepest fullness of his distress, and if man in his sadness grows silent,
God has permitted him to tell what he suffers.
Anxious Expectation.
This likewise belongs to the depressing emotions, for as
the person can do nothing whatever with regard( to the object expected, its long delay must weary an(l exhaust; what
we possess we can no longer expect, but what is yet at a
distance firom us, we may expect. The object of expectation is, therefore, always something future; but that which
is entirely future is only possible, and hence uncertain.
Expecting a thing, we hope and fear at tile same time.
We hope that our expectation will be realized, and we fear
that we may be disappointed. The more intense our interest in the object, the more fear and hope will mingle in
our breast.  This is beautifilly illustrated in the poem of
Schiller called Die Erwartung, Expectation, where hope
prevails over fear, and yet cannot entirelv fi'ee itself from
the latter.  A lover sits in a garden expecting his beloved.
EiAvery rustling leaf makes him imagine that he hears her
al)pI'oachingf footsteps, and he looks anxiously around  for
her whose presence he desires; every motion startles him,
and his heart is divided between hope and fear.-Anxious
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373 
PSYCHOLOGY.
expectation is always caused or depends on a doubt entertained by the person; if the possibility, that an occurrence
will take place is great, we have hope in the place of anxious expectation; or, if the occurrence be of an unpleasant nature,fe(alr.  For example, we watch the disease of
a friend: if his danger is uncertain and his disease yet undeveloped, we are constantly under the influence of anxious
expectatiot; if the danger be great, we fear, if it seems
diminishing, we hope.
Despondency.
This emotion arises from the union offear and pain, and
is the opposite of cheerfulness. It may be produced when
we see a friend suffer; the sight of this suffering is painful; we perceive at the same time the danger threatening
himn, and fear for him.  This fear uniting itself with our
pain, makes us despondent. If our fears are realized, our
despondency becomes grief.  This becomes mournfulness
when grief continues, and it becomes still more bitter if the
grief is not softened by a single ray of hope. Despondency is increased by the recollection of former pleasures,
or by the sight of the happiness of others. Hence it loves
solitude.-The emotion of despondency manifests itself in
diffebrent ways. It unnerves the system, fills the eyes with
tears, makes us silent, solitary, and reluctant to take an interest in any thing.  It extends time, for "sad hours seem
long."  WVeeping is an interesting phenomenon; it is the
effect of the influence and power exercised by the emotions
of the mind upon the body; all weakening emotions strongly
affect the glandular system, and especially the muscles of
sight and respiration  when these are weakened, sighing
and tears will be the natural consequence. These effects
are however not only produced by such emotions as naturally tend to relax the system; those that are in themselves
strengthening, become the opposite, when their measure
exceeds our capacity to receive them. So violent laughter
brings tears into the eyes. The extreme of a strengthening emotion becomes weakening. The deepest grief is
silent and tearless; weeping would  relieve the breast.The emotion of despondency likewise weakens the soul;
374 
PSYCHOLOGY.
it discourages, renders us indifferent to the world, even to
life, and makes the sight of cheerfulness painful to us. Its
effects on the soul and body may ruin the constitution, and
not only attract disease, but render medicine ineffectual.
Patience.
This is the deep feeling of a present evil or misfortune,
connected with the hope of overcoming it by yielding; or
it is pain combined with the hope, that by enduring and
giving way to it for a time we may obtain relief. This
emotion does not excite, but weakens. In courage, the
hope of overcoming an evil by resistance, excites our activity; in patience, no desire to resist is felt. The courageous man suffers the pain, hoping to remove it by his own
power and strength; the patient man bears it, hoping to
be freed from it in the course of time. To resist disease
or misfortune would avail nothing; they come from a higher
hand, and it would be childish to clench the fist, and grind
the teeth, or attempt to overcome them by a sinful obstinacy. Patience may be exercised as a virtue, and is then
the result of will, and not an emotion. As such it is an
ornament of the Christian, and assumes the character of
an entire resignation of our own will in misfortune, and a
readiness to leave all with God; or it is the resignation we
feel, when we must suffer wrong, and cannot obtain justice; we then prefer suffering to doing wrong.  A different species of resignation, not in any way a virtue, is
sometimes manifested by warriors, who  seeing themselves
surrounded by a host of enemies, throw away their weapons,
speak not, move not, ask for no favor, but suffer themselves
t, be hewn down, or taken captive.  Such resignation is
an expression of pride, a pretended fortitude. Patience
may also be exercised in public life, and here as an adjunct
lo courage, it may be cultivated by soldiers. Fabius Cuncttator effected more by tiring out Hannibal than if he had
impatiently met him in battle.-The greater irritability of
man renders courage more natural to him, than inactive
patience, while the greater sensibility and inclination to retirement, and a feeling of dependence will cause patience
to be more common in woman. Yet women may be as
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PSYCHOLOGY.
courageous as men, and there have been some who have
showed more presence of mind, and greatel determination
in executing a plan, than many men would have done. A
young girl who could repeatedly venture upon the strong
billows of a raging river to rescue her beloved friends from
danger; a woman that in the moment of the highest danger, thrusts the dagger into the bosom of an ill-fated seducer; sufficiently prove, that woman may be courageous.Patience is not the opposite of courage, but its opposite is
cowardice.
Awe.
This is an emotion, that arises either from our relation
to the supernatural or to the natura(l.  Man stands  in a
relation to the supernattural, by his reason and will, and the
pillars of this relation are faith on the one hand, and morality on the other. When we believe that God is just and
holy, that nothing sinful can endure his presence, the feeling connected with this belief will be a religious awe;
when we are convinced that the divine will is sacred and
inviolable, and that all duties are imposed upon us by it,
the feeling will be a moral one. But man may enter into
a relation to the supernatural by his imagination; the supernatural world would then be filled by his imagination,
with good or evil spirits, who in his opinion may exercise
either a benevolent or malicious influence upon this world
in accordance with their natures.  This is the origin of
the fear of spectres; they are the products of a diseased
imagination and a corrupt conscience; and man in fearing
spectres, fears himself, his own thoughts and fancies. When
this fear reigns, the emotion of secret awe may easily make
its appearance. When a man really believes that he may
see spectres,fear will seize him, and the emotion will not
be that of awe. But when we ourselves feel safe, when
instead of seeing spectres, we read well-written stories of
them, the fear and pleasure will mingle in our breast, and
the emotion in question will result from them.  So children
will cluster around their nurse in the hour of twilight, and
listen with delight to her stories, but at the same time they
will approach more and more closely to her, and would not
for the world leave the room, without a light. If they felt
376 
PSYCHOLOGY.
only fear, they could take no pleasure in these stories.The emotion of secret awe presupposes, however, several
conditions: First, A belief in the possibility that supernatural beings can make their appearance in the world and
affect us. Secondly, A particular time; night, twilight:
when the light illuminates and defines the forms of all
things around us, we do not fear spectres.  When during
the day we become interested in the stories of spectres and
supernatural apparitions, it is the poetical manner in which
they are represented, that interests us, and our feeling is
that of the sublime.-The other form of secret awe, arises
from the relation in which man stands to nature. Whatever be the power man may exercise by his ingenuity over
nature, there are some powers before which he must recede. Such are the elements of water and fire, earthquakes, hurricanes, and storms.   When  a conflagration
breaks out in a large city, and in a part of it filled with
merchandize, when we see the flames spread with the
swiftness of the wind, and rise high into the air, when we
hear the report of exploding powder casks, and see hundreds of persons endeavoring to combat the flames: we
are at the same time penetrated by fear and apprehension,
and rejoice to see man oppose the elements of destruction.
Or when we see a courageous person venture upon a boisterous river, when we see him struggle and gain his object
by ingenuity and presence of mind, we feel fear and pleasure mingle, and their union forms what we have called an
emotion of awe.
We may here remark that a few emotions are yet to be
mentioned, which may be ranked among the compound
emotions:-The first of these is astonishment.  It arises
when either the opposite of that which we feared, or of
that which we expected takes place. Another is surprise
or wonder: it is the emotion that takes place in us, when
we see a power, with which we believed ourselves to be
intimately acquainted, produce effects, for which we could
not have looked.  When on the other hand, man compares
his own power with that which he sees producing actions
in another that would seem wholly impossible to him, and
for which his energy would not in any way be sufficient,
hlie will admire it. No man on earth, unless he be stupid
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PSYCHOLOGY
and sluggish, can avoid the emotion of admiration, for every
one will find a power far exceeding his own, and Horace's
"Nil admiirari," is incorrect.  Who would not look with
admiration upon a Shakspeare, or Calderon, or Goethe?
We nowhere read in the Bible, that Christ, when he was
on earth, was under the influence of admiration, but w(
read that once or twice he expressed surprise: what powei
could exceed his, and deserve his admiration? The other
class of compound emotions next demands consideration
and this is that of
Strengthening emotions.
And first among these we may mention courage.  This
Is grief, connected with the hope of overpowering it by
resistance. Courage demands, therefore, as its conditions:
First; An evil, future ol present, and a feeling of pain derived from an apprehension of this evil. Secondly; A
prospect of removing it by our own efforts. Hope, one
of the constituent parts of courage, is pleasant, and if connected with a feeling of strength, it produces a desire to
encounter danger and to seek opportunities for exhibiting
courage.  Courage may, hlowever, be a virtue, and is then
not an emotion. but the product of moral principles, of a
morally good will, and of a conviction, that the object in
danger, dlenmands our assistance.-Courage as an emotion
becomes tI'aCei'y, when a feeling of honor inspires to action; it becomes rashness, when the danger is not only
very great, but seems to require a greater amount of power
than is possessed by him who braves it.  It demands a
strong inclination for action, much confidence and a livelv
imagination.  Courage becomes temerity, when the object
of bravery or courage is not promoted but frustrated by
it.  Tihe object of couriage is victory; this, temerity loses,
for it is passionate and blind. Courage is considerate and
self-possessed, while temeritv is wholly devoid of prudence.
It may be called forth by disgust with life; in this case the
person meets his foe in combat wishing to lose his life in
the encounter; or it is produced by intoxicating diinks, or
by physical means, by religious notions, as among the Turks
who believe that whatever is allotted to man, will seize him
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PSYCHOLOGY.
whether he be at home or in war, active or indolent.Boldness, finally, is courage that ventures to say or express
what others would hesitate to convey in such language.
Wrath.
The strong feeling of displeasure accompanying the idea
that others have injured us either wilfully or without design, may excite wrath, as likewise the perception of wrong,
inflicted upon others. Wrath itself is a suddenly excited
feeling of displeasure, with the sudden hope, either to resist,
or to destroy the cause of the evil. The greater our bodily excitability, the more easily we are brought under its
influence. While it continues, the offending object absorbs
our whole attention, puts us off our guard, and deprives us
of due consideration, so that we say what we afterwards
regret, injure the innocent, and even inflict an expression
of our displeasure on inanimate objects, like the boy who
stumbling against a stone vents his rage upon it. Modifications of wrath are refractoriness, which we feel, when
anything is urged upon us against our will, or when it is
suggested to us that we ought to love what we dislike; indignation, when we perceive anything offensive to goodbreeding, to politeness, or to justice and equity; obstinacy,
when others insist on our changing our views and opinions,
without showing sufficient reasons for our doin,g so. This
is the kind of wrath, the absence of which in a man Aristotle considers a sign of a slavish disposition.   Anger is the
dissatisfaction we feel with ourselves, when we have committed an error. Chagrin pre-supposes a purpose, an end,
which we feel ourselves justified in endeavoring to attain,
but which we cannot execute. While under its influence,
we become discouraged from attempting anything else;
and take an interest in nothing. We consume ourselves in
silent anger. Malice is the pleasure we take in destroying,
or seeing destroyed that which is the favorite enjoyment
of others, or which we envy them. Wrath, in general,
was more common with the ancients than it is with us.
To conquer it shows more greatness of mind, than to express or cherish it.  Children and rude persons express
their displeasure by using offensive language.
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PSYCHOLOGY.
Joy.
This emotion differs from that of mere pleasure. The
latter has only reference to the present, joy always more
or less to the future, and hope is one of its necessary constituents. Joy is therefore pleasure, strengthened by the
hope of future happiness.  Without this hope no one can
be really joyful, since the prospect of future misfortune
would make us unhappy. Joy rests on a pleas(ant present,
and a smiling future, it is the union of pleasure and hope,
of the present and the future. Joy becomes delight when
the long-wished-for occurrence takes place as we expected,
and when at the same time a new hope arises in our breast
so that care and trouble can gain no hold upon us. In such
cases the emotion of joy has often proved fatal; for hopes
suddenly realized while the mind is again drawn powerfully into new future prospects, distract the mind and by
its connection with the body, cause the entire (erangement
or destruction of the physical system; as wrath is said to
make every thing appear blue to us, and as fright dulls the
hearing.  The degrees of joy are very numerous, beginning with satisfaction and terminating in ralpture.  Cheerfulness is a lively joy; mirth a joy connected with mischlief, &c.-Joy expresses itself externally by a cheerful
countenance, by singing and laItghiz?g.  Its peculiar songs
are lyric poems, dithyr(ambi, in wl-hichl the poet either fully
or significantly expresses what moves and agitates him. It
may also express itself without worlds by merely humming
a melody. Birds likewise sing and express their peculiar
state of self-feeling, their feeling of sensual pleasure or
pain, but man alone can l(augh, and hence many have considered laughing the peculiar distinction between man and
animals. This definition that man is an animnal that can
laugh, has been laughed at, and yet it is correct in one
respect, unless the definition of laughing, by Kant, is wholly
wrong.  "Whlatever is to excite hearty laughter, must contain something contrary to reason.  Laughing is the transformation of an excited expectation into nothing."  This
definition, as will be seen, has reference to uniderstanding
to thinkin,g. It presupposes an expectation, and this ex
380 
PSYCHOLOGY.
pectation, highly excited, sees what is expected result in
nothing. The nothing here is that which is contrary to
reason, hence either the physical impossible or the logical
impossible. When a father has high expectation of his
son, and this expectation is changed into nothing, he will
not laugh, but feel pain; his expectation is, therefore, properly speaking, not changed into nothing, but into pain.
Or when we expect great results from the convention of a
public body or from the operations and effects of a law,
and find our expectation deceived, we do not feel like
laughing, for our expectation has resulted in grief. The
expectation in these instances is not changed into nothing,
but into the opposite of what was expected; instead of
the law benefiting the community, it injures it. Animals
cannot have any clear expectation, nor an idea of what is
to be understood by the term "nothing," they cannot laugh,
for laughing, according to Kant, is an expression of intellect. A few examples will make this definition of laughing
more clear: A person relates, that an Indian when at the
table of an Englishman in Surat, saw him open a bottle of
ale, which burst forth in a torrent of foam. The Indian
expressed his astonishment with many exclamations, and
when asked by the Englishman what lihe found so amazing,
he answered; I do not wonder at its coming out, but I
wonder how you got it in.  Of course we expected a good
reason for the astonishment of the Indian and instead of it
we get nothing, for what he says is itself impossible, since
no one would be able to get the spreading fo,am of ale into
a bottle. Again: A rich merchant gives us an account of
the distress and anxiety he suffered on his return from
India; he states every thing circumstantially, how he had
to cast much of his wealth overboard, and how he was
p)enetrated and overcome by the deepest despondency;
and finally, directs our attention to the effect the misfortune
had upon him; we, full of sympathy, anxiously listen to
hear what it was, and when our expectation is raised to
the highest pitch, he informs us that: "the effect of these
troubles was so great, that during the night following all
the hair on my wig became gray." This is physically impossible, for this hair has no life, and is not in any way
connected with the life of the person. So when it is asked,
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PSYCHOLOGY.
why Hudibras wore but one spur, we shall certainly laugh
if we are directed to look in the poem for the answer, and
find the following:
For Hudibras wore but one spur,
As wisely knowing could he stir,
To active trot one side of's horse
The other would not hang.
This answer of course changes our expectation into
nothing, for it gives no reason, but what it states may be
understood of itself. The definition of laughing by Kant,
agrees in part with that of Aristotle, who says, that the absurd or incongruous excite laughter; it explains, however,
but one kind of laughter, for there are other kinds that
cannot be included in it. Laughter, in general as to its
causes, is a real Proteus; they cannot be reduced to a single and common class-and all attempts to do so, have as
yet proved vain.
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CONCLUSION.
ON RELIGION.
~ 1. GENERAL NATURE OF RELIGION.
We have now considered man in his different relations
to nature, to himself, and to his fellow-men; yet one we
have omitted, that to his Creator. This relation, if it is to
be pure, miust rest on faith, and faith is the gift of God.
The soul in its state of nature is selfish in all its feelings,
words and actions; it is blind and corrupt, it poisons whatever it touches, and all its notions of right and wrong, of
equity and justice, have for their measure the selfishness
of man. Hlence constant wars and litigations, deceptions,
theft and murtder: courts of justice, police, prisons, punishments and even executions.  Self-interest and selfish desires
move the mass of mankind.   There is nothing good in man
from which pure religion or a knowledge of divine things
might proceed, and hence as long as man is in a state of
sinfulness, God is veiled from him, and though he might
see the divine wisdom and power of the teleological relations and grand phenomena of nature, he could not discover in them the holiness of God. But what is a religion
without the idea of holiness? What is a knowledge of
God if this is not included in it?  Deus a diabolo differt
castitate, says Melancthon.  Yet, I hear it stated, that there
were religions independent of a revelation: Whence are
these? Did they not grow forth from something in man?
-To answer this question satisfactorily, we must agree on
what we understand by religion. And here we shall have
at once to reject a host of views, but particularly the following: 
PSYCHOLOGY.
1. Religion is not the mere knowledge that there is a
God.  Such knowledge may be the source of much philosophical speculation, but it leaves the heart cold, and does
not animate the will to good actions. The devils know
that there is a God and tremble, they know what they hate
to know, and what they cannot love. Again: If religion
consisted in knowledge it would necessarily follow, that the
most learned divines must be the most devoted and religious; that the degree or amount of knowledge must also be
that of godliness; which is by no means the case. On the
contrary the same amount of knowledge may be found in
persons who have very different degrees of piety; and so
piety may be the same, though the knowledge of different
persons should differ widely.
2. Religion is not mere morality, so that our will driven
by the conviction of a future state of retribution, desires
every where to fulfill the will of God, and the manifold
duties imposed  upon  us.  Word  and actions are mere
empty sounds and forms; that which is their soul is the
motive producing them. Motive and design exist before
action, and are the offspring of our sanctified or depraved
disposition. That which renders an action good or evil,
lies not in the deed itself, but in the will, and the power
that sanctifies the will.  The same action performed by the
religious and irreligious has an entirely different value as
to its moral goodness. An unsanctified will can only lead
to stoic pride.
3. Religion does not proceed from a feeling of dependence in man. This feeling in its lowest stage, it is is said,
is a mere feeling of dependence on nature, its productions,
its terrible or benign phenomena. While feeling dependent on nature in these respects, man feels free as regards
his will and moral actions and does what he pleases.  But
when the original feeling' is cultivated, it becomes a feeling
of dependence that will leave nothing perfectly free in
man, but will include his will also, so that he is and feels
wholly dependent (on the Initiiite.  This feeling includes
the other. that there is a progressive union of man with
God, and this is the germ of all religion, whetheri  Feticism
or Polytheism, onlv that Monotheism is the purest of all
religions.
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PSYCHOLOGY.
This view on the origin of religion is one that seems
highly plausible, and to refiute it we shall consider for a
moment the nature of feeling.-We understand by it "the
geineral susceptibility of pleasure and displeasrtt7e."  Activi ty whether physical or organic, has its limitations; these
limitations have different degrees, and the notice we talike
of these degrees of limitation is that which we call feeling,
and this is either pleasant or painful. Every activity of
man has avCertain capacity to) receive impressions, and cannot receive any beyond it; if excited beyond measure it is
destroyed. The stone lying in the heat of the sun, does
not suffer, because it remains what it is though broke in
pieces, and because it cannot feel though it is burning hot
to our sensation.  The plant cannot receive the rays of the
sun in every degree, but only in one commensurate to its
life or striength; exposed to too great a degree of heat, it
withers yet it cannot feel.  But the eye looking into the
light of the sun, feels pain and may become blind.  We
say now that when any activity of man is promoted by
any cause whatever, a feeling of pleasure is experienced,
when impeded, that of displeasure. And as the activity
differs, so the feeling.  Our bodily activity, when the different functions are harmonious and riegu'laI, is accompanied by a feeling of pleasure, of hilarity, and this is a feeling of health; when these functions are impeded, when
digestion is sluggish and heavy by a feeling of displeasure,
of a tendency to rest, of sickness.  So feelings accompany
oui thinking power, as those of pleasure, when we find
what we seek for in the sphere of trath without great labor, and when the difficulties in ou' way yield, and those
of pain, when we meet with different results from what
we expected, or when we do not find at once what we
seekl; this is so with feelings connecting themselves with
the sight of beauty, when we see the infinite in the finite,
the thought represented is a sensible form in an image.
These feelings are not merely physical, not merely in the
nerve, but their ground is the soul.  Eveiy merely sensual
feeling is in a particular nerve, local; the feelings under
consideration are spread throughout the whole inner man;
and again the feeling of beauty cannot arise fi'om a sensual impression, but must finally rest in an act of judgment.
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385 
PSYCIIOLOGY,
Neither have the feelings of which we speak any external
objects; but they are wholly subjective, the most subjective
possessed by man. This can easily be shown by comparing them with sensation. When I feel the heat of the sun,
warmth is the object of my feeling; when I hear the voice
of a person, sound is the object of my feeling; when I feel
the smoothness of a surface, I feel with my hands or fingers, and the object is the thing felt. But when a feeling
of pleasure is connected with the hearing of the voice of
a friend then this pleasure has no object that is felt; it arises from the recognition of a friend, and the object of the
feeling is pleasure. Or when the feeling of pleasure unites
with that of smoothness, this has not for its object smoothness, it has no relation whatever to it, but merely to ourselves. All feelings are either agreeable or disagreeable
when they have merely reference to our sensuality; or
when they refer to form and contents, their expression is
that of the beautiful, sublime, or the opposite. Now I may
say, the lily is beautiful; or the fragrance is agreeable, in
all these instances the predicates express feelings, which
have in reality no object. For the predicate beautiful, is
not continued in the rose, nor that of agreeable, in the fragrance: these predicates are my feelings which I transfer
and place into these objects, pronouncing these their qualities. When on the other hand I say, the lily is a bulbous
plant, then the predicate is a constituent part of the lily, a
predicate resting in its logical subject. The rose will remain a rose whether I declare it to be beautiful or not;
but it will no longer remain a rose if it is not a flower or
a plant.
The first objection then to be made to the assertion, that
religion originates in a feeling of dependence on the Infinite is this:-Feeling is without an object and a mere feeling of dependence leaves the object on which we depend,
wholly undefined; it demands therefore knowledge from
some other source, but knowledge is more than feeling.
Feeling without knowledge is blind.
Again: This feeling of dependence on the Infinite is not
fo)und everywhere; on the contrary we find in its place a
slavish feeling of dependence on nature, on the finite, on
animals, vegetables, stones, &c. If this feeling of dlepen
3S6 
PSYCHOLOGY.
dence on the finite, is the feeling of dependence on the Infinite but in its rude state, it demands cultivation, and can
be found only among the cultivated, since it would be impossible to cultivate feeling alone, and independent of the
other activities of the mind. But religion is not merely
intended for the cultivated, it is for all, for the rich and the
poor, for the learned and the ignorant. Nor is it true, that
the most cultivated are always the most religious.
And in the third place: Feeling and thinking are inseparable. There is a feeling connecting itself with the
thought of the Infinite, but it is not the origin of this
thought; it only accompanies it, as a feeling of respect accompanies our morally good actions. The feeling of regard may act as a motive, but it is not the principle of our
actions, since to know whether they are good or not, we
must compare them with the law, and every comparison
is an act of judgment and not offeeling.  And this feeling of
self-regard, or respect, while originating in the most different actions, will nevertheless be the same. So it is with
the feeling of despondency, of joy, of grief; they all may
have various causes and still be the same feeling.-Feeling
being without a definite object, demanding knowledge for
its very existence, is even not a sure sign of truth, much
less its origin. Or in other words, feeling may give certainty to him that has it, but not trutht. Heathen whose
religions are superstitions, the systems of sin and wickedness, have as much feeling as Christians, as much zeal, and
as much fervor. How many are willing to sacrifice themselves for the supposed truth of their religion, how many
desirous of becoming martyrs   All mysticism and superstition take their rise in feeling, when connected with fancy
and  imagination.   Feeling without knowledge is blind,
mystical, dark, inexpressible and unintelligible; its contents
may be the highest or lowest, right or injustice, joy or grief,
wrath or hatred, hope or fear, the roval flower or the most
noxious weed. All feeling is changeable; now it raises our
zeal and interest, and now again it leaves us cold and indifferent; now it elevates us to heaven, and now again it
suffers us to sink down to despair.
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PSYCHOLOGY.
~ 2. TRUE RELIGION.
What then is true religion? It is a peculiar activity of
God, which announcing itself to the heart of man, changes
it, converts it, and restores man to peace with himself, with
the world, and with God. A few words on this definition
will render it perfectly clear.-The object of religion is the
restoration of peace; this can be restored only by an union
of man with his Creator, through whom alone he can perceive the true value of every thing created by him, and
estimate it properly. This union is to be produced by a
peculiar activity of God upon the heart of man. This activity is peculiar, because it differs from every other divine
agency, and announces itself as such to the heart, so that
it needs no further proof, but is its own authority: as the
light of the sun needs no other light to make itself seen or
manifest, so this activity of God, directed upon the heart,
makes it certain of its nature. It is the heart upon which
it acts, purifying and converting it. Feelings and knowledge are changeable, the heart is permanent.  Again: It
is the centre of man, uniting in itself thought and will and
feeling, for from it good and evil thoughts proceed; it is
according to the Bible the source of desires and passions,
the seat of consciousness, of the conscience, and of our
whole inner man. It being changed, the whole man is
changed; it being converted from the world to God, fronm
sin to holiness, all the activities of which it is the seat will
be turned contemporaneously and for ever. Hence, while
in the state of nature the different activities of mind were
at war with each other-while thinking delighted perhaps
in abstract, cold and useless speculations, in generalizing
every thing so that no form in reality could any longer correspond with it; or while imagination would suppress
thinking, and beget, as in India, the most fantastical and
shapeless productions, or while will wholly directed to the
sensual, was entirely absorbed by desires and passions;they are now brought into harmony pervaded by one spirit,
by one love, and by one object, so that man having God in
his heart, will have him in his thoughts, in his will, his ac
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PSYCHOLOGY.
tions and his feelings, so that none of these mental activities will feel healthy and joyfuil without this reference to
Go(l. Religion then is always based upon a communication of God to man, and where this communication is wanting, where the regenerating power of the Spiiit is absent,
there cannot be true religion. We must, therefore, consider all heathenish religions as superstitious  they rest on
a faith created by themselves, and not produced by God in
them; they do not free man from sin by converting him,
but lead him deeper into it.  A glance at them must prove
this, and especially prove too, that the activities of the soul,
while man is in the state of nature, are at war with each
other. For all religions are either the productions of desi'tre to the exclusion of the other activities, or of imnagination, or of cool reflection and understanding.
~ 3. RELIGIONS OF DESIRE.
1. The lowest of all superstitions, and one spread among
the numerous tribes of Afirica, is that of enchanttment or
feticism. It is wholly produced by desire and a feeling of
want.  By his ilmnediate will man expects to effect what
hie desires, to exercise power over nature and its elements,
to conjure stormns, diseases, and death.  " Enchantment is
in itself nothing else than the expression that something
opposes the purposes of man, and that it ought not to be."
This opposition is pronounced without the use of any means
in a direct manner, or means are called in aid, and the enchantment is indirect. The principal thing is, that man by
his mere will, here and there, desires to coerce nature to
be at his disposal.  Again: Whatever may injure or benefit
man, receives his adoration; whatever may serve as remedy or means, all stones, and herbs, and animals, deserve
his decvotion, for each is possessed of a peculiar power, and
each good for something.  Gold differs from copper, the
hlare from the stag, the fur of the former from that of the
latter; each has an efficacv different from that of the other
33*
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PSYCHOLOGY.
&c.  The deity is the fetish; it has no universal form, no
unchangeable existence, but now it is a stooe, which the
negro carries about with him, and which he worships until
he gets tired of it.  Then he chooses something else for his
deity, and so on.  Now it is the water, that attracts his
curiosity, by its transparency, penetrableness, liveliness,
murmuring; now the stormy wind, now the fire, which is
no less destructive than beneficial.  Or it is a plant, a tree,
-as it grows forth, spreading and clothing itself in a lovely
green, on the top of which the flower in all its splendor
makes its appearance-which attracts his admiration, and
to which he ascribes a power, it does not possess; or it is
the animal which moves freely about, seeks its food, and
resembles the savage in its actions, yet is mute, mysterious,
and hence a wonder to him.
2. The second form of superstition, in which desire is
still perceptible, is Buddhism, as met with among the Mongols, Birmans, and Chinese in the west.  In it desire is controlled, for the individual recedes before the one, indistinct and unknown substance, which all in all, is unconscious of itself; the individual retiring into itself, grows
mute and silent. This superstition teaches that all has proceeded fi'om nothing; this is the deity, and does not mean
an abstract absence of being, but an undefined, incomprehensible, shapeless being, a being so vague, and so without
contents, that if we are asked what it is, we must say nothing of all that we (an know.   All will return to nothiing.
Silence. obedience, resignation, are the highest virtues. The
silence of the grave is the element of eternity. Cessation
of all motion, both in body and soul, is the highest happiness of man; when once reached, man is the same with
Fo or Buddha. Buddha himself stands in a position of
deep meditation; feet and hands cross each other, and one
of his toes is placed in his mouth, indicating that he feasts
on himself, on his own meditations. The highest end man
may attain is to connect himself by meditation and silence
with nothing; then he will be the same with God, not to
be distinguished friom him.
The belief in the metamorphosis of the soul causes the
worship of animals, for which they erect temples.  Even
hospitals for diseased cows are met with.  A  missionary
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PSYCHOLOGY.
relates the history of a dying Chinese, who sent for him
and complained, that a bonze had told him, that as he was
in the service of the emperor, so he would remain in it
after his death, for his soul was to pass into an imperial
post-horse, and he ought then to attend faithfully to his
service, not kick nor bite, nor stumble, and be satisfied with
little food. This religion, however, worships its deity in
the form of living men, called Lamas. There are especially three of them, that receive the honor of being considered gods; the one is Dalai Lama, in Lassa; the other
is Lama, in Thibet, and the third in Tartary.
~ 4. RELIGIONS OF IMAGINATION.
1. Brahminism.  This is a fantastical wild production.
Imagination is not bridled in it by reason, its form is shapeless, without measure or proportion, and hence, though
symbolical, by no means beautiful. It is pantheistic, for it
makes no distinction between the free activity of God and
that of the world and man.  "The whole world is Brahma,
grew forth firom Brahma, consists in Brahma, and will
finally be absorbed by Brahma."  The creation of the
world is rather an ertan(ation, fori the deity flows forth in
innumerable gradations, down to the being and existence
of finite things, which are the being of the d(eity itself. The
whole world is the result of a desire in thle deitv for change.
Hence, all is diiine, a part of deity  every flo\wer and every
star, every leaf and every twig.  Yet the Indians have not
one idea only of the creation, but many, and these differ
essentially.  In the Vedas we find the following account.Brahma sits in solitude, another being higher than himself,
tells him to extend himself and beget himself.  But Brahma
was not capable during a thousand years, to comprehend
his extension, and hence he returned into himself.  Cosmogonies in the law-book of Menu, in the Vedas, and Puranas differ, hence nothing can be said with certainty.
The Brahmins are the existence of Brahma; they came
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forth from his mouth; but every one miay become Brahmna
by great rigor of life, especially by remaining for ten years
inactive, by living on leaves and dried grass, by standing
on one leg, crossing the armris above the h'lead, &c.  Great
phenomena of natuIe, the Ganges, the sun, the IIimmalehs.
are identified with Bralma; every activity being divine,
imagination personifies all. and hence an innumerable host
of gods, at the head of whom stands Indria.  Finally, sin is
nothing but a limitation of Brahma, for infinite in himself,
lie exists in the finite; to conquer these limits by asceticism is conquering sin.
2. The Persian Religion.  In this we perceive the deity
divided in itself, a dualism that is external as to its origin.
In the Christian religion we have likewise the kingdom of
Satan, opp)sing that of G-od: but Satan is a created being,
and God is in himself one; again, Satan is coni(uered, but
Ahriman and Ormuzd are continually at war.  The ancient
Peirsians revered the sun or firie as thie highest rbei;-,.  Zervane Akerene or eternity is the original ground ot all.  As
nature does not produce any thing pure, as all in it is of an
impure and mixed nature, there must be two principles and
not one that is like a tavern keeper, who pours out of two
casks, mixing the drink.  These are contained in Zervane
Akerene, and are Ormuzd or the light, and Ahrimnan or
darkness.  Light and darkness are consequently not miere
symbols, but the one is the good and the other the evil.
The difference between physical and moral evil is destrloyed.  The good is the light itself; whatever contains light
and life, contains therefore good and is Ormuzd.  Mithra
stands between  them, assists Ormuzd, and  desires the
destruction of Ahriman.  The latter is sometimes called
the first-born of light, but is said to have forsaken it.
The kingdom of light is unshaken above the solid skv in
heaven; also on the mountain of Albordi; the kingdom of
darkness was below the earth until it broke forth into the
world of bodies of Ormuzd. Hence it is that the space
between heaven and earth is divided by night and day.
Before this corruption, Ormuzd had a kingdom'of spirits
of light, and Ahriman one of spirits of darklness. But
afterwards the two kingdoms oppose each otheri. Those
that believe the lies of Ahriman will, however, be thrust
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PSYCHOLOGY.
into darkness after death, while those, faithful to Ormuzd,
will be received into the kingdom of light. This then is
the religion which' makes God fight with God.
3. The religion of enig-ma( or the religion of the Egyj)ttians. In it we meet first with the God Hermes, the personification of mind, the god that invented language,
writing and science; the spirit of light that lives in heavenly bodies.  Osiris, however, is the god that was most
adored by the people. His sister was Iris, the goddess of
the earth and the moon. Osiris, the god of goodness, the
principle of all life, like Ormuzd, has an enemy in Typhon.
Osiris dies by his hand, the god himself is killed. Deatlh,
this great enigma of human life, is the principal theme of
the Egyptian religion. Even their god dies, and the highest happiness of man is to be buried near his tomb, to
slumber near him after a life of care and disappointment.
But Osiris rises again, becomes the judge of all the dead
and thlus Typhon is conquered. Ahriman continues to oppose Orinuzd, but Typhon's power is destroyed by the
death and resurrection of Osiris.  As Osiris is principally
honored as the god of the dead, as their judge, so the
Egyptians seem to have paid more attention to the dead,
than the living.  The palaces of their kings and nobles are
crumbled to dust, but the monuments and tombs erected
to the dead, are not injured by the tooth of timne. Grottos
destined for their reception extend many miles; and the 
pyramids attract our attention at present, as they have
gained the admiration of thousands long before us. This
religion is certainly full of seriousness, it seems to have
discovered that all is vain, to have a full idea of the immortality of the soul-for Herodotus expressly states, that
the Egyptians had been first in believing the soul to continue after death-and yet they adored cats and dogs, birds
and monkeys, and especially Apis.
The religion of the Egyptians, deserves to be called
enigmnatical; its hieroglyphics, the symbolical character of
art among them, in which every thing is significant, even
the number of pillars, of steps, of pots set around the
tomb of Osiris, has meaning and is not decided on from
considerations of proportion. But Oedipus, a Greek, solved
the enigma of the Sphinx, thrust her down the precipice
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PSYCHOLOGY.
and slew her. As we approach the religion of Greece, we
perceive every thing grow clear and transparent, enigmas
recede; stones and rocks as mere signs are no longer suf ficient; in the place of symbols, we have mythi and the
productions of an art, that renders the most dark and dif ficult lucid, and sets forth all that may move the breast of
man.
4. The religion of Beauty, or the religion of Greece.
The gods of Greece were persons, whose will was free,
and who were not subject to any power of nature, nor
limited to it. The highest among these gods was Jupiter;
he had given the laws of justice, was himself justice, and
both gods and men had to obey it, yet without being forced
by necessity, but freely and willingly. But there was an
iron necessity, u,(,x,,, reigning over gods and men, of which
it was unknown, whether it was blind or intelligent, possessed of will, or a power that could neither determine itself, nor could be determined by any thing else, but could
not be otherwise than it was. This power allotted to everyv
god his portion of power, and the manner of his existence,
and if men sought counsel from the gods through theii
oracles and attempted to discover the future, the gods could
tell them only what this blind fate had granted them to
know.  Yet Zeus had given the law and Sophocles sings
b)eautifully': " Be it the lot of my life, to preserve holy purity in word and dee(l, faithful to eternal rights that carn(me
down from above, born in ctthe,'s space, which no earthly
being, no mortal man begot; Olympus is their father;
never will they sleep in forgetfulness, for a god lives poweifiully in them, nevei  g,owing old."  "There is nothing
that is not Zeus, and Zeus is justice."  Thus justice, right,
thle lIw i; acknowledged and man is willing to obey it.
Blt at (he same time there is the incomprehensible, irresistible F(tte, against whose decisions mortal man can do
nothing, and through whose  power he may be forced
against his wvill, to violate the law.  Laius for instance receives the oracle, that he will be killed by a son, not yet
born; to prevent this misfortune, he exposes the infant
child on the mountain Cithaeron, and considers himself
safe. But Oedipus taken up by a shepherd, fell into the
hands of the king of Corinth, was educated by him at a dis
394 
PSYCHOLOGY.
tance from home, and when grown up being offended, he
consults the oracle concerning the truth of the insult and
receives the answer, that he was fated to marry his mother.
Believing Corinth to be his home, he leaves it, lest the
oracle should be fulfilled. On his wanderings he meets
Laius, whom he does not know; insulted by him hlie strikes
and kills him. Thus Laius falls by the hand of his son,
who commits parricide, without having any idea of it. He
arrives at Thebes, the home of his birth, but not known to)
him as such; here he solves the enigma of the Sphinx and
receives the publicly promised reward, the hand of the
widowed queen Jocasta.  She was the wife of Laius and
the mother of Oedipus.  Thus Oedipus violates two divine
laws against his will, being guided by fate. And here we
must remark, that the Greek heroes imputed all the consequences of an action, all that connected itself with it, to
themselves, whether these accidental circumstances were
included in their resolutions or not. In modern times, we
hold ourselves responsible only for as much as our resolution and calculation, our intention and design contains and
all that accidentally attaches itself to our actions, we exclude from the amount of guilt.-So again in another tragedy of Sophocles, in Antigone, we see the divine law of
family love enter into a collision with the civil law or human statutes of the king Creon.  Both laws are to be kept
sacred, but Antigone, seeing the corpse of her brother unburied, finds herself in the dilemma, that she must either
break the one or the other law.  The familv law was considered divine in Greece, the civil, human; she therefore
resolves at the peril of her own life to offend the civil and
obey the divine law. This, that she knowingly and by a
resolution of her will must break one of two laws, was her
fate. Here we may remark, that before the Greek religion, there was no distinction nmade between divine and
human laws, and that at present the possibility of a collision of duties is no longer admitted.
This dependence on fate rendered it impossible for the
Greeks to feel perfectly free; but instead of forming reso lutions of their own, and from the elements contained in
their own self-consciousness in important undertakings,
they took refuge in the oracles, as the Romans in their
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PSYCHOLOGY.
aitguria, auspicia, and haruspicia. The uncertainty whether
their undertakings would meet the approbation of the gods,
and their feeling of an entire dependence on them made
them seek their counsel in every public oi private affair.We have called the religion of Greece that of beauty;
thus far it has exhibited itself only as that of necessity.
It is beautiful, however, in the following respects:-The
gods of Greece are firee and intelligent beings; as such
they were to be represented. Nothing in nature was sufficient to be this representative, hence it was to be produced by art. All beauty has the following elements.
First; Sensation, that of seeing or hearing. Secondly; A
pure thought. Every sensation is finite, limited; but a
thought is infinite.  Here is a contradiction, and it is removed by the artist, who unites thought and sensation in
Thirdly; An iimage.  The more this image seems to exist
only for the purpose of exhibiting the thought of the artist,
the more it seeims ornly the transparent body of this idea,
which is the soul, tli-e more it deserves to be called beautiful. The Greek artist, creating by his imagination in his
soul an idea of the being and nature of his gods, felt an
irresistible urgency to represent this idea of others by an
external form, so that they also might possess it. The idea
of Apollo was that of a being, free from care, cheerful in
itself, vigorous, and powerful, that of intellect personified.
Such an idea is infinite in itself; the artist possesses the
power to represent it by an image, in a sensible form, and
the god appears before us, creating in us the idea, which
inspired the artist.
~ 5. THE RELIGION OF UNDERSTANDING OR COOL
REFLECTION.
This was the religion of the Romans. It was Eudaemonismn, a religion of usefulness. Cicero praises the Romans on account of their piety, because they desired the
approbation of their gods in all their undertakings. But
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PSYCHOLOGY.
the truth is, that the Romans honored their gods because
they stood in need of them, for they had their designs,
which thev expected by honoring the gods to induce them
to execute.  WhIen the old gods were not favorable to
them, they created new ones.  It is lknown that neither the
Greeks nor the Romans had a doctrinal part of religion;
festivals, the theatre, were the only means of preserving
religion in public. In Greece it was principally the tragedy, which unlike that of Shakspeare, did not mingle mirth
with sadness, but was  serious throughout.   Its themes
were justice, purity of disposition and action, the holiness
and the inviolability of the divine law. If these laws were
offended, man had to atone for the offence, and it was only
by submitting patiently and humbly to the punishment inflicted by the gods, that he could become  reconciled with
them, and with the law. This is beautifully exhibited in
Oedipus in Colonna.  The Romans received their tragedies
from Greece, and the only entertainment of the kind, which
grew forth on Roman soil and was peculiar to the Romans,
was the butchering of animals and meet.  Hundreds of
men, four or five llundred lions at a time were killed, or
forced to destroy each other before a delighted public.  In
such entertainments we cannot discover any moral worth,
any thing that could refine or cultivate.   So thie whole religion of the Romans was mean and worthless.  A religion
that has its roots in the idea of usefulness, is contemptible.
In it the notion of gain or the apprehension of loss, hope
and fear for himself, determine  man to be pious; love is
not to be met with where usefulness is the ground of religion here the question is: [FItat is the end? and again:
Is it a private or public one?  If that of a whole governmnent, is it dorminiotn, as it was withl Rome?  Whatever be
the object and end, the followers of such a religion look to
their gods for the satisfaction of some interest, and thus
make them mere tools, means foi  the purposes of man.
Man may honor them, but in doing so hle hopes that they
will pay him for his trouble, that his designs and purposes
will fill their breast, and make them willing to promote his
wishes.  Such creeping humility is hypocrisy.
The end, the Romans had in view, and  for the sake of
which they desired the favor of their gods, was to conquer
34
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PSYCHOLOGY.
all nations, and enrich themselves with the spoils of war.
Hence, their highest god was Fortuna Publica; Romna is a
governing, a divine. h-oly being, and in the form of a god it
is Jupiter Crapitolinus, the highest of all the gods. Other
gods had to preside over the fertility of the earth, the skill
of man. There was a Jupiter Pistor, who presided over
the art of baking. Fornax was the oven, in which the
grain was dried.   Vesta the fire, over which the bread was
baked.-Comparing a single god of Greece  with one of
Rome, we shall find a striking difference. "Athena was
the goddess of Athens; she had not to serve Athens or its
inhabitants, was not their tool, but their Spirit, and Athens
was only the external existence of this spirit. Jupiter Ca pitolinus, on the other hand, is not the Roman spirit, but
he is a god that has to serve it."
Having thus touched upon the most important forms of
superstitious religion, we must come to the conclusion, that
man left to himself, is wholly unable to restore a proper
relation between himself and God, to restore harmony and
peace. Sin has its root in the will; unless it is sanctified,
Holiness, the soul and substance of religion will and must
be absent. But this will can only be sanctified by the regenerating power of the Holy Spirit.  Yet corrupt as these
religions were, they were a faint echo of the knowledge of
Divine things, that man received in paradise, a dark and
confused remembrance, held down by sin, and not able to
emerge from the depth of corruption, it being itself pervaded by sin. The knowledge of death, however, the fear
of evils of every kind, the perception of the vanity of all
things, the urgent warnings of conscience even in its state
of depravity-roused this dim remembrIance, which in connection with a sinfill imagination, with desires and evil concupiscence, produced  idolatry, the worship of animals,
sacrifices, and all other parts of superstitious belief.-The
correctness of this view appears friom the fact that the remembrance of the flood, andl a hope of the restoration of
man to the favor of God, run throughout all nations more
or less clearly.  This remembrance and this hope include
the idea, that there was once a state of mankind purer, and
better than the present, and that the present is not what it
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PSYCHIIOLOGY.
ought to be. This is indicated too, by the great number
of sacrifices.
If we see on the one hand, that man cannot create a religion of his own, and on the other, that he is anxious to
worship a nigher being, we should expect nothing less, than
that he would seize with joy upon a revelation, made to
him by God himself. And yet the opposite of this is true.
Man without religion is incomplete, a plant, that has not
flowered; a bell, without a tongue, which cannot give a
clear and distinct sound; a planet, that having wandered
from its sun, is without light; a ship, without a compass,
a stranger, without a home. And though this is so, his sin
veils the light of revelation as a cloud that of the sun.
Revelation is there, but he cannot see it, because the eye
of his soul is filled with the darkness of sin, satisfied with
its state, it feels pain, when looking into the light of revelation.  We cannot withhold from  our readers an extract
from the beginning of the seventh book of Plato's Republic, which though written by a heathen, expresses the relation of the sinner to the gospel in a masterly manner.
Perhaps it may have more weight with some, than if it
were written by a distinguished divine of modern times:  "See men in a subterraneous, cavernlike dwelling, which
has an opening along the whole cavity towards the light.
Suppose that from their infancy they were chained by the
neck and limbs, so that they must remain on the same spot
and can only look forward but are unable on account of
the fetters to turn their heads around. A fire burning
above, and at a distance behind them, gives them light.
Between the captives and the fire, a road passes; along it
runs a wall, like one which jugglers erect before the spectators, from behind which they exhibit their skill. Along
this wall men are carrying all kinds of vessels, which overtop the wall, and statues and other stone and wooden images of all kinds of art. Some of these men speak, others
are silent. This whole comparison now applies to us. For
in the first place these chained persons see nothing of themselves and of each other, except the shadows cast by the
fire upon the opposite wall of the cavern. And so of all
that is carried along the wall, only the shadows are seen.
Now  if they can speak with each other, they certainly
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PS YChIOLOGY.
name what they see. And if their prison had an echo,
they would, when one of the passers by should speak, iimagine the fleeting shadows were speaking. Hlence they
would not consider anything else to be true than the
shadows of those works of art.-Let us then consider the
cure and redemption from their chains and ignorance; how
it will be, if they should meet withl the f(ollowing things:Suppose one was unchained and forced to walk up, and
to look into the light, and in doing so, lie felt pain and
could not on account of the dazzling splendor perceive
those things, the shl(dows of whiclh he saw before; if then
any one should assure him, that before -he saw only vanities, but now, nearer to reality and turned to that which
truly is, he saw more correctly, and if he showing him all
that passed by, should ask him, what each is and force him
to anrsvwer, he certainly would be confused and would believe, that what he formrerly saw, was more real, tliani what
now was shown him.  And if he were urged to look into
the light, his eyes would pain himn, he would flee it and ieturn to that, which he is able to look at, firmly c)nvinced
that it was more true than what was shown hinm last.  Suppose too, some one would violently lead( hiiii up   ie ough
and steep ascent and not release himy, until ie't,ad bhiought
him to the light of the sun; le will feel much pain, and be
dragged up against his will.  And when he now comes t')
the lig,ht, and has the eyes full of iays, he will be rnable to
see any thing of all that is shown hii, as being real and
true.  In order to see, what is al)ove, he must become accustoined to the light, at first tie would most easily pel ceive
shadows; then the reflections of mnen and other things in
the water, and at length men themselves. Anti thus he
would prefer contemplating what is in the skyi, and the sky
itself at night, and seeing the light of the moon and stars
to looking at the sun and the light in thie day.  But after
some time he will be able to view the sun itself instead of
the image in the water, and then flie will find out, that it is
he, that causes the revolutions of time and years, and disposes all in the visible space, and is also the cause of what
the captives saw in their cavern.  And if he should now
remember  his first dwelling and his fellow captives, he
would certainly consider himself happy and pity them,
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PSYCHOLOGY.
if they were in the habit of giving honor, praise and rewards to him who could most accurately see the passing
shadows and remember best what came first, what last, and
what at the same time, and who could best foretell what
will come next, he would no longer desire this reward, nor
envy those in power and honored among themn.   ie would
much rather like Achilles in Hades, prefer cultivating the
land of a poor man and enduring every thing else, to having such notions and living there again. And this we will
consider yet, that if he should go down again and sit in his
place, his eyes would be full of darkness, coming directly
from the sun.  And if he should again emulate those who
had always been captives there, in the examination of those
shadows, while there was yet a glinimer before his eyes,
and while they had not yet accustomed themselves again
to darkness:-he would be laughed at, and they would say,
that he had come down with spoiled eyes, and that it was
not worth while to ascend; but that every one ought to be
killed, that would attempt to force them and take them up
to the light of the sun."  [The Jews reallv did so.]
"The whole picture must now be applied thus: The region, which becomes manifest to us by sight, is the cavern;
the power of the sun is the light of the fire in the prison,
the act of ascending and the view of the things above, is
the elevation of the soul into the region of knowledge. Now
my belief is this, [Plato speaks] and God knows whether it
is correct.  What I know is this, that last of all, that may
become known, and only with great pains thle idea of the
good is perceived; but when once perceived, it is acknowledged as the power of all the good and beautiful, wherever
it be met, of the light and the sun from which it flows
forth, in the visible; of truth and reason in all knowable
things, so that every one must see this idea, if he will act
rationally either in private or public affairs."
4 t-, I 
I