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Cornell University Library 
 BJ1401 .S66 1875 
 
 Gravenhurst; or 
 
 olin 
 
 Thoughts on good and ev 
 
 3 1924 029 204 983 
 
.GRAVENHUBST 
 
 OR, THOUGHTS ON GOOD AND EVIL 
 SECOND EDITION 
 
 KNOWING AND FEELING 
 
 A CONTRIBUTION TO PSYCHOLOGY 
 
 BT 
 
 WILLIAM SMITH 
 
 AUTHOR OF 'tHORNDALEj' ETC. 
 
 WITB A MEMOm OF TEE AUTHOR 
 
 WILLIAM BLACKWOOD AND SONS 
 
 EDINBUKGH AND LONDON 
 
 MDCCCLXXV 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 PRELIMINARY NOTE, 
 
 MEMOIR, 
 
 GRAVENHUR8T, 
 
 PAGE 
 
 3 
 
 5 
 
 127 
 
 KNOWING AND PEELING, . . . 331 
 
NOTE BY TEE PUBLISHERS. 
 
 The following Meinoir, originally, as is evident, printed 
 for private circulation only, is now pvhlished at tlie request 
 of many admirers and friends of the late William Smitii. 
 
" It is quite in vain that critics and readers both con- 
 stantly repeat that the biography of a man of letters 
 is almost always unentertaining, and that we could 
 hardly expect it to be otherwise. Whatever it is we 
 expect, or have any jjist reason for expecting, there is 
 an incurable curiosity to know something of the man 
 wherever the writer has succeeded in interesting us. 
 The case stands thus : we have a living human being 
 revealing himself to us by his thoughts, and by nothing 
 else. Something to fill up the blank we inevitably 
 crave. We have here an object of esteem, perhaps of 
 some degree of veneration, and yet our hero remains 
 obstinately invisible ; even to the mind's eye utterly 
 obscure. We desire that he take human form, and be 
 seen moving amongst the realities of life ; we desire 
 that he stand out before us somewhat distinctly in the 
 imagination. 
 
 " Other great men, the man of action, the great 
 captain, the great statesman, write their lives in their 
 deeds ; the very career which ennobles or distinguishes 
 them is also their biography. We see them in their 
 actions. Their lives, too, are written in the history of 
 their country, and they hardly need a separate memo- 
 rial. With the man of letters it is otherwise. He has 
 
writteu a book, and placed it there on the desk before 
 us. The hand that placed it there is unseen. Unless 
 some friend will tell us, we can know nothing of the 
 destiny of this man. He comes before us as the 
 thinker only : he had these thoughts, but where ? 
 under what circumstances ? He also lived, enjoyed, 
 or suffered. It may be a commonplace story, but in 
 this instance we must have the commonplace." 
 
 These are words of your own, my beloved ; and I 
 appeal to their sanction as I prepare to write out my 
 glimpses of your early life, my memories of the later 
 years during which it was intertwined with mine. I 
 am not writing for the public — a task you held un- 
 suited to a wife, requiring a more impartial judgment 
 than her love and sorrow could exercise. I only try to 
 write for the inner circle of friends who desire to know 
 how you came to be what you were, and to hold the 
 opinions you held. I cannot, indeed, teU them much, 
 yet there is no other who can tell them so much. For 
 you used to say that you had let me look you through 
 and through; and whenever you adverted, ever so 
 lightly, to your past, I gathered up your words and 
 stored them in my heart. 
 
 L. C. S. 
 1873. 
 
ME MO IK. 
 
 That must have been a happy home at North End, 
 Hammersmith, into which, during the January of 1808, 
 William Henry Smith was born, the youngest of a large 
 family. His father, a man of strong natural intelligence, 
 having early made a fortune sufficient for his wants, 
 early retired from business, in consequence mainly of an 
 asthmatic tendency, which had harassed him from the 
 age of thirty. The impression I gained of him from his 
 son's description was that of one peculiarly fond of quiet 
 and of books, but whose will gave law to his household, 
 and was uniformly seconded by the loving loyalty of his 
 wife. The large family had a recognised Head, a condi- 
 tion I'have often heard my husband insist upon as essen- 
 tial to aU healthy domestic life. Whatever the spirits 
 of the children might prompt, it was an understood, a 
 felt law, that " Papa's " tastes and habits must be re- 
 spected. And these, being interpreted by so gentle a 
 mother, were never viewed in the light of unreasonable 
 restraints. This dear mother seems to have been a 
 woman of a quite primitive type, full of silent piety. 
 
6 MEMOIR. 
 
 wrapped up in the home and the family. She was of 
 partly German extraction, her mo^er had been an emi- 
 nently saintly character, and I have caught glimpses too 
 of a grandfather devoted to the study of Jacob Boehme, 
 whose folio volumes, and the tradition of the veneration 
 in which they had been held, still existed in the Ham- 
 mersmith home. 
 
 How often, by the divination of love and sorrow, I 
 have tried to conjure up that home before my mind 1 
 My husband once took me to its site, but the good old 
 house had been cut up into shops, and the large garden 
 was all gone, — the large garden, that had seemed so large 
 to the happy child playing there by the hour " under 
 the scarlet and purple blossoms of the fuchsias," under 
 the benignant eye, too, of a well-remembered old servant, 
 gardener and groom, who kept the plants and the sleek 
 discreet horse " Papa " drove in his gig, in equal order. 
 It was an everyday delight to play in that garden, a 
 high privilege to ride in that gig. I think I can see the 
 father, very tall, a little worn by asthma, with black 
 eyes of peculiar piercing power, and a certain stateliness 
 and natural dignity which were wont to receive from 
 officials at public places a degree of deference, noticed 
 with some amusement by the little observant companion 
 and sight-seer. What he must have been at an early 
 age a miniature then taken shows. It represents a fair 
 yellow-haired child of about three, with great black eyes 
 fuU of the new joy and wonder of life, and a smile of 
 singular sweetness, of almost benignity. No wonder 
 that, as his eldest surviving sister affectionately recalls, 
 " he was the pet of both parents," though his exceeding 
 mobility did sometimes a little agitate the valetudinarian 
 
MEMOIR. 7 
 
 father, who would lay down a half-crown on the table 
 and say, " WiHiam, yon shall have it, if you will only 
 sit still for ten minutes ! " A child with such an expres- 
 sion as the picture shows would surely have complied 
 had it been any way possible ; but he did not remember 
 that the half-crown was ever won. One day, when he 
 was very small, a canary bird belonging to a sister died, 
 and was buried beneath a flower-bush in the garden ; and 
 on that occasion, when the bright and restless creature 
 lying suddenly motionless on the palm of some young 
 hand had given the happy child his first experience of 
 wondering sadness, he wrote his first verses. There is 
 no one but me who recalls the trifling incident, — ^me, to 
 whom nothing that ever befell him can be a trifle ! I 
 always felt a sacred interest in hearing him spontane- 
 ously revert to this joyous period. It was not very often 
 that he did so ; to speak of himself at aU was unusual 
 with him ; but in his writings one not unfrequently 
 comes upon passages akin in spirit to the one I am 
 about to transcribe from a review of Jean Paul, which 
 he wrote in the summer of 1863 : — 
 
 " All men delight, as Eichter himself observes, in far- 
 reaching recollections of their days of childhood. He 
 proceeds to assign two reasons for this : ' That in this 
 retrospect they press closer to the gate of life, guarded 
 by spiritual existences ; ' and secondly, ' That they hope 
 in the spiritual fervour of an earlier consciousness to 
 make themselves independent of the little contemptible 
 annoyances that surround humanity.' This is going 
 very far for a reason; a better might be found nearer 
 home, in the simple pleasure of the tender and other 
 emotions that we feel at the revived image of our minia- 
 
MEMOIR. 
 
 ture self. Mr Bain, in liis late admirable treatise on the 
 Emotions, Las described a form of our passions wbich 
 he calls self-pity, a tender yearning over one's self — ^the 
 same kind of pathetic sentiment which we feel for an- 
 other, and which, indeed, is first elicited by some other 
 person, and afterwards indulged in towards ourseLf. We 
 look upon ourself as worthy of commiseration, or else of 
 congratulation. We sympathise, in fact, with that self 
 which is thrown before us as an object of contemplation. 
 In no case is this species of sentiment so distinctly felt 
 as when we conjure up the self of childhood. We weep 
 — not its tears again, but tenderly over the little sorrows 
 that brought them ; we laugh — not again the laughter 
 of childhood, but we laugh over its laughter, tiU the eyes 
 fill again with other tears. The image that rises up in 
 the memory, though recognised as ourself, is yet so dif- 
 ferent from this present recollecting and reflecting self, 
 that we are capable of loving it, praising, chiding, laugh- 
 ing over it, with the same freedom as if it were some 
 other person we were thinking of. We feel a charming 
 egotism when we record the feats of childhood ; we sym- 
 pathise with the boastfulness of the little boaster ; the 
 vanity is not our own. We feel no shame at reviving 
 its sallies of passion ; we, the mature judge, pardon the 
 little ignorant culprit. Whatever feelings in the course 
 of our life have been elicited towards children, centre 
 upon thds child, which also was ourself. We travel 
 hand in hand with it, like the guardian angel in the 
 picture-books, looking down with grave, sweet, half- 
 puzzled smile; only, in the picture-books, the angel 
 guides the child, and here the child is leading the 
 graver angel where it lists, stooping now for a flower, 
 
MEMOIE. 9 
 
 or striking out hopelessly after the too swift and vagrant 
 butterflies." 
 
 Here is another glimpse of the enjoyments of those 
 early days. The cheerful drawing-room in the Hammer- 
 smith home had a window at both ends. Eound the 
 one that looked into the garden clustered the white 
 blossoms or hung the luscious fruit of a surpassing pear- 
 tree — a swan-egg — the like of which was never met in 
 later years ! From the other window the children could 
 watch the following spectacle, which my husband evi- 
 dently enjoyed recalling in a notice of Mr Knight's 
 Eeminiscences, published in 1864 : — 
 
 " Very pleasant is this looking back over a period of 
 history through which we too have lived. Give a boy 
 a telescope, and if he is far enough away from home, 
 the first or the greatest delight he has in the use of it is 
 to point it back to the house he lives in. To see the , 
 palings of his own garden, to see his father at work in 
 it, or a younger brother playing in it, is a far greater 
 treat than if you wer'e to show him the coast of France 
 or any other distant object. And so it is with the past 
 in time. If the telescope of the historian brings back 
 to us events through which we have lived, and which 
 were already fading away in the memory, he gives to us 
 quite a peculiar pleasure. . . . 
 
 " This great revolution in our mode of travelling, the 
 substitution of the steam-engine for the horse, will soon 
 be a matter of history, and older men will begin to 
 record, with that peculiar zest which belongs to the 
 recollection of youth, the aspect which the highway 
 roads leading out of London presented in their time. 
 The railway-train rushing by you at its full speed is 
 
10 MEMOIR. 
 
 sublime ! — it deserves no timid epithet. You stand 
 perhaps in the country, on one of those little bridges 
 thrown over the line for the convenience of the farmer, 
 who would else find his fields hopelessly bisected. A 
 jet of steam is seen on the horizon, a whir of a thousand 
 wheels grows louder and louder on the ear, — and there 
 rushes under your feet the very realisation of Milton's 
 dream, who saw the chariot of God, instinct with 
 motion, self- impelled, thundering over the plains of 
 heaven. You look round, and already in the distant 
 landscape the triumphal train is bearing its beautiful 
 standard of ever -rising clouds, white as the highest 
 that rest stationary in the sky, and of exquisitely in- 
 volved movement. For an instant the whole country 
 is animated as if by the stir of battle : when the spec- 
 tacle has quite passed, how inexpressibly flat and deso- 
 late and still have our familiar fields become ! Nothing 
 seems to have a right to exist that can be so still and 
 stationary. Yet grand as this spectacle is, we revert 
 with pleasure to some boyish recollections of the high- 
 road, and to picturesque effects produced by quite other 
 means. We are transported in imagination to a bay- 
 window that commanded the great western road — the 
 Bath Eoad, as people at that time often called it. Every 
 evening came, in rapid succession, the earth tingling 
 with the musical tread of their horses, seven mail-coaches 
 out of London. The dark-red coach, the scarlet guard 
 standing up in his solitary little dickey behind, the 
 tramp of the horses, the ring of the horns — can one 
 ever forget them ? For some miles out of London the 
 guard was kept on his feet, blowing on his horn, to 
 warn all slower vehicles to make way for his Majesty's 
 
MEMOIE. 11 
 
 mails. There was a turnpike within sight of us ; how 
 the horses dashed through it ! with not the least abate- 
 ment of speed. If some intolerable blunderer stopped 
 the way, and that royal coachman had to draw up his 
 team, making the splinter-bars rattle together, we looked 
 upon it as almost an act of high treason. If the owner 
 of that blockading cart had been immediately led off 
 to execution, we boys should have thought he had but 
 his deserts. Our mysterious seven were stUl more 
 exciting to the imagination when, in the dark winter 
 nights, only the two vivid lamps could be seen borne 
 along by the trampling coursers. No darkness checked 
 the speed of the mail ; a London fog, indeed, could 
 not be so easily vanquished ; but even the London 
 fog which brought all ordinary vehicles to a stand-still 
 could not altogether subdue our royal mails. The pro- 
 cession came flaring with torches, men shouting be- 
 fore it, and a man with a huge link at the head of 
 each horse. It was a thrilling and a somewhat fear- 
 ful scene." 
 
 The first sorrow that left a trace on my husband's 
 remembrance was the going to school, at the age, I 
 think, of eight or nine. He did not go far indeed, but 
 to the sensitive and much-petted child, the change from 
 the atmosphere of love and joy that filled his home was 
 simply appalling. He was sent to a clergyman of the 
 name of Elwal, and found himself surrounded by a good 
 many older boys, who appeared to him — and probably 
 were — boisterous and brutal. At all events the little 
 fellow, to whom the Bible his mother so loved was the 
 most sacred of all things, could not read it, could not 
 kneel night and morning beside his little bed, without 
 
12 MBMOIE. 
 
 jeers and taunts and rough dissuasives. He only read 
 and prayed the more resolutely. The unflinching spirit 
 that throughout life followed after truth at any cost, 
 was even then awake in the lonely and sorrowful child. 
 Then, too, the comparatively coarse fare, the inevitable 
 fat, for which he had a constitutional loathing, some- 
 what impaired his health. Yet he probably kept back 
 — with the strange reticence that belongs to childhood 
 — the full amount of his unhappiness, or he would 
 never have been left at this school; and no doubt, 
 too, school-life to one so quick to learn, so active in 
 play, must also have had a pleasant side. Still the 
 memory of those days never failed to awake in him 
 the pathetic yearning, the self-pity, to which allusion 
 has been made in a preceding extract. He was al- 
 ways sorry for the "miniature self" placed under Mr 
 Elwal's care. 
 
 The next school to which he went was in every way 
 a contrast. Mr Elwal taught well, but disregarded — as 
 was indeed almost universal at that time — ^the material 
 comforts of his pupils. At Eadley, near Abingdon, the 
 latter were well attended to, but the standard of learn- 
 ing was not high. But the two years or so spent there 
 were always cheerfully adverted to. It might jar the 
 High Church susceptibilities of the present inmates of 
 Eadley Hall to know that early in the century it was a 
 Dissenting school — the head- master a Dissenter, who 
 seemed to have little vocation for bis office beyond 
 failure in some former business ! However, he had a 
 fair staff of masters, and an amiable, popular wife who 
 liked William Smith to drive with her in her little 
 pony-carriage, which he appeared to have liked too. In 
 
MEMOIE. 13 
 
 fact, at Eadley — so far as I could discern — lie did 
 nothing but what he liked. A religious profession was 
 supposed to be in the ascendant there, would have insured 
 approval ; one is not therefore surprised to find that the 
 feeling of devotion, which opposition had only stimu- 
 lated, now retired out of sight. He very soon learnt 
 all that the masters could teach him, was at the 
 head of the school (a distinction which, he carefully 
 impressed upon me, implied but mediocre scholarship), 
 and had his time almost entirely at his own disposal.* 
 Eadley was then a noble but stiU unfinished house, 
 standing in beautiful grounds. There was one room 
 especially fine in its proportions, with rows of stately 
 pillars, and looking into the park — a room origin- 
 ally destined for a library, but almost unfurnished, and 
 with a scanty choice of books — and this room was the 
 boy's favourite and undisturbed resort. And among the 
 few volumes it contained he found Byron ! And pacing 
 up and down that pillared room, book in hand, the 
 potent spell wrought in the young poetic heart. No 
 sketch of his youth could be faithful that omitted this 
 Byronic phase. He has often described its sufferings to 
 
 * Since this was written I hare become indebted to tlie Rev. H. H. 
 Dobney for a further glimpse of William Smith's school-days. Mr 
 Dobney was at Eadley at the same time ; a younger boy, in a different 
 class, the personal contact of the two was therefore slight, and they 
 quite lost sight of each other. Yet Mr Dobney writes me word that he 
 never took up ' Gravenhurst,' "ever one of his favourite books," or 
 ' Thorndale,' " without thinking of the William Smith whom he knew 
 as a boy, and wondering whether their author could possibly be he. " 
 He vividly remembers him — " a lightly-made boy, not joining much in 
 boisterous amusements," nor "mixed up in scrapes ; " but even then, 
 one "to whom it was natural to speak with something of an almost 
 deferential manner," — one "who seemed the student rather than the 
 schoolboy. " 
 
14 MEMOIE. 
 
 me, but I prefer to give them in words of his own, 
 written in 1864 Throughout the long series of his 
 articles on various subjects I can trace occasional allu- 
 sions to this morbid influence : — 
 
 "The youth of the last age were battling blindly 
 and passionately against fate, were full of gloomy 
 mysteries, great devotees to beauty, which after aU 
 was but to them the rainbow in a storm which they 
 thought might abate, but which never ceased, — rain- 
 bow always upon clouds which broke up only to 
 reunite in darker masses, — rainbow of beauty, Tvot of 
 hope, incongruous apparition in a troubled and chaotic 
 world. 
 
 " Our Byronic fever had more than one phase ; some- 
 times it exhibited itself in a mere moody fantastical 
 misanthropy, combined with a reckless pursuit of very 
 vulgar pleasure; but in a less numerous and more 
 meditative order of minds it displayed itself in a morbid 
 passionate discontent with themselves as with all others. 
 These were not pleasure-seekers, they had a great scorn 
 for human life.'' . . . It is needless to point out to 
 which of these two classes the writer could ever have 
 belonged. 
 
 But although the first reading of Byron's poetry 
 dated as far back as the two years spent at Eadley 
 school, it was later that the Byronic spirit was fuUy 
 developed. Certainly the germ must have lain dor- 
 mant during the brief and happy period that the 
 boy passed at Glasgow College (1821-22). He was 
 yoiing to go there — only fourteen ; but a brother, eight 
 years older than himself— his favourite brother Thej-re, 
 a keen logician even then, remarkable throughout life 
 
MEMOIR. 15 
 
 for wortli and charm as well as intellect, and still re- 
 membered as the eloquent preacher at the Temple 
 Church from 1832 to '46— was at that time a student at 
 Glasgow, and it seemed desirable that "William, who 
 had evidently absorbed what of learning Eadley coidd 
 afford, should share higher advantages under his 
 brother's care. 
 
 He always remembered this session at Glasgow with 
 peculiar interest, and more than once described to me 
 the passage from London to Leith, made in foggy 
 weather (in a sailing vessel of course), the impressions 
 received on landing, the introduction to Scotch coUops, 
 and the ambrosial sweetness of the first glass of Edin- 
 burgh ale ! A clever student (now a dignitary of the 
 English Church) shared the lodgings of the two brothers ; 
 John Sterling was one of their intimate associates, and 
 much eager conversing and debating went on, to which 
 I cannot doubt that the boy contributed many an ap- 
 posite illustration and subtle argument.- His elder 
 brother in one of his home letters writes: "The 
 opinion which I have formed of William's abilities is 
 confirmed and increases. . . . He evinces at certain 
 periods a very superior capacity. I may be mistaken, 
 and I should be sorry to strengthen an unfounded ex- 
 pectation ; but if I can converse with him on almost 
 any subject without a difficulty from his want of 
 apprehension, lose sometimes the idea of a disparity 
 existing between us, and forget that I am talking to a 
 boy, surely I may be permitted to infer that his under- 
 standing is above the level of ordinary minds." 
 
 It was now that for the first time William Smith fell 
 in with Scotch metaphysics — that, to use his own words 
 
16 MEMOIR. 
 
 in talking over the subject -with me, "he got thinking." 
 As a consequence, the old theological foundations be- 
 came gradually disturbed, at first perhaps insensibly, 
 for his supreme enjoyment was still found in hearing 
 Dr Chalmers preach. That fervent eloquence always 
 remained one of his most vivid memories. At the 
 time I write of, the three friends and fellow-students 
 were all Dissenters, but my husband was the only one 
 of them who throughout life not only firmly adhered in 
 theory to the Voluntary system,^ but as a matter of 
 taste preferred the simple Presbyterian service. The 
 large family in the Hammersmith home were indeed in 
 the habit of attending the parish church once a-day 
 — the father had the old-fashioned Church-and-King 
 reverence, — but it was in the Independent chapel that 
 the younger members had their strongest emotions 
 roused. It is easy to trace the influence of early asso- 
 ciations in the passage I am about to extract from a 
 notice of Sheridan Knowles, written by my husband in 
 the summer of 1863 : — 
 
 "If a French actor or Italian opera-singer retires 
 from the stage to a convent of La Trappe, there to dig 
 his own grave in silence and seclusion, we hasten to 
 throw around the incident a halo of poetry. If we do 
 
 1 Nevertheless I give a little anecdote which I owe to my husband's 
 gifted brother-in-law, Mr Weigall, to prove that long before the Glas- 
 gow days, at a very early age indeed, "William Smith could look upon 
 both sides of a question. "His brother Theyre," wTites Mr AVeigall, 
 "always predicted to me his future distinction. I remember his men- 
 tioning as an evidence of his quickness that when he (Theyre) was 
 driving him in a little pony-carriage of rather fragile-looking construc- 
 tion, kept chiefly for the use of his sisters, William said to him, ' I 
 don't like riding in this thing. I never feel secure. I always feel 
 as if I were being supported by voluntary contributions.'" 
 
MEMOIR. 17 
 
 not altogether admire and applaud, we stand aside in 
 submissive, respectful attitude ; we look in mute amaze- 
 ment at this man who is so palpably forsaking earth 
 for heaven. No poetry hovers over the Dissenting 
 meeting-house. Neither the pew nor the pulpit of the 
 Baptist chapel presents anything attractive to the 
 imagination. Good Protestants as we are; we sympa- 
 thise more readily with the Trappist than with the less 
 ardent hut surely more rational devotion that takes 
 shelter in the walls of the little Bethel. Yet this 
 should not he. In reality that little Bethel may be the 
 scene of a pious enthusiasm as remarkable as any that 
 demonstrates itself,, under more poetic circumstances, 
 in the convent of La Trappe. We have but to throw 
 ourselves into the heart of the true worshipper, and the 
 most unsightly edifice of brick and mortar that ever 
 glared on us from the dusty street of a provincial town 
 will become invested with a poetry of the highest order. 
 See the well-regulated methodical tradesman enter such 
 a building. Leaving the cares and gains of the week 
 behind him, he walks at the head of his family up the 
 narrow passage, which we will not call the aisle; he 
 needs no verger to usher him into his seat; his hand 
 reaches over to the familiar button that fastens the door 
 of his pew ; he opens the door, lets in wife and children, 
 then establishes himself in his accustomed corner. He 
 deals out from some secret depository — perhaps from a 
 drawer under the seat — the Bibles and the Hymn-books, 
 calf-bound, and the oldest of them not a little soiled 
 and dog-eared. These he distributes, and then prepares 
 for the morning devotion. One great sentiment he 
 
 B 
 
18 MEMOIE. 
 
 more or less distinctly recognises — the sentiment which, 
 differently modified, constitutes the essence of religion 
 in all churches and in aU hearts, that he and his famdly 
 are then and there doing homage to the Lord of all, are 
 pledging themselves to obedience to whatever is just, 
 and wise, and good, because His ways are perfect, and 
 He requires of us. His rational creatures, what poor 
 attempts at perfection we can make. After some inter- 
 val of silenee, a man, in spotless black coat and white 
 neckcloth, rises from the deal pulpit opposite, a square 
 deal box, with a reading-desk to it, which desk has no 
 other ornament or furniture than the one large book, on 
 which the minister reverently lays his hand. That one 
 book sanctifies the whole place. Take that away, and 
 all is dirt and dinginess. But our man in the corner of 
 his pew could tell you that from that central spot there 
 has emanated, he knows not how, a subtle influence 
 that has pervaded the whole building, so that its very 
 plastered walls are sacred to him. There is a knot in 
 the unpainted wood-work of his pew on which his eye 
 has often rested as he followed the worthy preacher. 
 Were our man to travel, and to be absent in foreign 
 kingdoms, that knot in a piece of soiled deal would 
 rise before his imagination, and suggest holy memories 
 to him. His hand would be again on the button of 
 that pew, and he would prepare himself for solemn 
 meditations. Oh; believe us, the poetry comes from 
 within. A lady kneels upon her prie-dieu before an 
 altar, covered with glittering candlesticks and flowers, 
 and lights and tapestry — ^kneels there under the carved 
 roof which echoes with marvellous music ; so let her 
 kneel, if her heart worships better in that fashion; but 
 
MEMOIE. 19 
 
 all the array of sesthetic symbolism will be unmeaning 
 to her as the upholstery of her own drawing-room, 
 unless she can bring to it that very poetry which our 
 sober tradesman has contrived to throw over a wooden 
 pew, polished only by his own elbows." 
 
 To return to the youthful Glasgow student. Perhaps 
 nothing can convey so accurate an idea of what he was 
 at this early age as a letter written in most delicate 
 and legible characters to one of his elder sisters. In it 
 we already see something of that blending of thought 
 and feeling, of self-control and reflectiveness with spon- 
 taneity, which distinguished the man. It shows, too, 
 how happy and loving was the home -circle he was 
 nurtured in — a circle, I have heard hi"m say, of which 
 no member permitted him or her self an uncourteous 
 tone or the disrespect of personal comment towards any 
 other. There was a latent fire in the dark eyes of all, 
 and a tacit conviction prevailed that such a liberty 
 would be resented. I copy the letter verbatim. It 
 was written in the summer of 1822 : — 
 
 "My dear Esther, — I surely need not tell you with how- 
 much pleasure Selina's letter was received. Need I say, I shall 
 be glad to see you all. With how much pleasure I look forward 
 to the happy time, how many fond anticipations, and how many 
 expectations I indulge ! You have lately felt all these, and know 
 them well ; but you cannot tell the change my mind has under- 
 gone before the arrival of that joy-bearing letter. I had been 
 ' making up ' my mind to spend my summer at Glasgow, and 
 perhaps part of that summer alone. I say ' making up,' for it 
 was a kind of process, and one rather tedious and difficult. For, 
 as I told my dear mamma, the thought would often come with 
 great force — 'how I should like to see them all!' Now this 
 would greatly retard the process, and therefore I set strict watch 
 over my thoughts ; and when they rambled to North End, I 
 
20 MEMOIR. 
 
 checked them, after a very short indulgence, for fear they should 
 end in a desire to visit that happy corner. It has set all in a 
 flame. Those smothered feelings burst forth— hope and expecta- 
 tion shine with double lustre — all is light and gladness. And 
 shall I see you all so soon ? Yes, I shall, I shall ! 
 
 " This is the first time I have stopped to take breath since I 
 began this letter, for, whenever the subject of home comes across 
 my mind, it imparts such an impulse that there is no resisting it. 
 Perhaps it has carried me on with precipitation in this case. 
 Sometimes it crosses my path while I am taking a walk, and then 
 it is sure to make me take extraordinary long steps, or make fan- 
 tastic leaps. In short, wherever it comes it gives an irresistible 
 stimulus, which no gravity can withstand and no will restrain. 
 But gently ! gently, my pen ! 
 
 " There is one little circumstance I cannot help mentioning. 
 "When Theyre had perused the letter, and knew how the contents 
 would please me, he put on a grave look, and, with a solemn 
 manner, read to me that part which contained the news. The 
 contrast was very great, for, while he was standing in this solemn 
 manner, I was laughing and wriggling about the chair, as though 
 bewitched. — Well then, you may expect us the first week in Au- 
 gust, at the latest ; and glad shall I be when that week comes, for 
 I do so want to see you all. 
 
 " No doubt it wiU give you pleasure to hear that Theyre has 
 carried off the first prize in the Logic class. There are in every 
 class a certain number of prizes given, and they are distributed 
 according to the votes of the students. Theyre obtained his unan- 
 imously. He also was successful in a prize essay. I must also 
 tell you that the Greek Professor gave me one for two or three 
 poetical translations I wrote. There is no little ceremony in dis- 
 tributing them, but I wiU not trouble you with that. 
 
 "How many circumstances are there which are constantly 
 directing our thoughts to that place where our affections are 
 placed ! The most trifling thing will sometimes carry us away 
 many miles, and detain us there for a long time. The other day 
 as I was demonstrating a proposition (for I am attending a little 
 to mathematics), I happened to put the lid of the case of instru- 
 ments upon my compass, and, twirling it round, it made a noise 
 like a rattle. This rattling immediately reminded me of May- 
 fair ; it was but ft step to North End, and, when once you have 
 
MEMOIE. 21 
 
 set your foot ttere, you know how many difficulties to take it 
 away again. Well, some time after I found myself looking in- 
 tently on the proposition, and holding the compass and the case 
 on it in my hand, but quite ignorant of what I was doing. I 
 seemed to have been roused from a vision.'' ... 
 
 Then follow messages of love to the different mem- 
 bers of the family, and a little significant postscript: 
 " You promise you won't keep me ! " which proves how 
 much the College life was appreciated.^ But though 
 he did return at the commencement of the next session, 
 a sharp attack of inflammation of the lungs soon led to 
 his being sent away home, and in the January of 1823 
 his father died, at the age of sixty-three. 
 
 And now came many changes, all of them fraught 
 with pain. There was the loss of the indulgent father, 
 
 ^ My husband throughout life entertained a very decided preference 
 for the Scotch system of mental training. I may illustrate this by 
 some observations of his in an article, written in 1855, on the Life of 
 Lord Metcalfe. That distinguished man, as a young Oxonian, professed 
 to ' ' abhor metaphysics," and in his journal prayed to be delivered from 
 "the abominable spirit" of reliance on reason as a guide, — "blessed 
 reason, " as he in irony termed it : — 
 
 " One cannot help remarking that a Scotch youth of the same age 
 might be equally pious, equally steadfast in his faith, and perhaps 
 more conversant with the several articles of his creed, but he never 
 would have expressed the tenacity of his convictions in this manner, 
 never would have spoken of ' blessed reason ' ironically. . . . His 
 first and last boast would have been that his faith was the perfection 
 of reason. A Scotch lad, who had only breathed the air of Glasgow 
 or of .Edinburgh, would have never shrunk from intellectual contest, 
 or professed that the creed he held and cherished was not in perfect 
 harmony with the truly blessed reason. He would as soon have thought 
 of proclaiming himself a lunatic in the public streets, and avowing a 
 preference for a slight shade of insanity. Such distinction we cannot 
 help noticing between the systems of education in England and Scot- 
 land ; but we have no intention of pursuing the subject, or drawing 
 any laboured comparison between their respective merits." 
 
22 MEMOIR. 
 
 the spectacle of the mother's meek, deep-seated grief, 
 the break-up of the cheerful home, and in addition 
 there was the closing of the College career — for the 
 climate of Glasgow was pronounced too severe to be 
 safely returned to ; and the youth in whose secret soul 
 the problems of the metaphysician and the visions of 
 the poet were already seething, found himself destined 
 to an uncongenial calling — ^that of .the Law. " He was 
 articled," I quote from a letter of Mr Weigall's, " to 
 Mr Sharon Turner, the Anglo - Saxon historian, who 
 was by profession an attorney; but the office routine 
 was so distasteful to him that he soon solicited Mr 
 Turner to cancel his articles, but Mr Turner told him 
 he did not feel justified in doing so, as he did not 
 consider William at that time the best judge of what 
 was expedient for him. Wniiam dragged through the 
 weary hours he was required by his agreement to spend 
 in Mr Turner's office, and has often told me they were 
 the most tedious and profitless in his existence." "When 
 it is remembered, too, that at this early age necessity 
 was laid upon the earnest seeker after truth to loose 
 from the old moorings, and put forth, he alone, — he — 
 so loving, so sensitive, so considerate of the feelings of 
 others — alone on what then seemed " a dim and perilous 
 way," one towards which, at all events, no member of 
 his home ever so much as glanced, — it need excite no 
 surprise that he viewed this period of his youth as pro- 
 foundly unhappy. He would occasionally revert to it, 
 but I never encouraged auy reminiscence that cast a 
 shadow over his spirits. I feel, however, that the 
 following passage from one of his early works sprang 
 from personal experience : — 
 
MEMOIE. 23 
 
 " It generally happens that the externtCl influences of 
 daily scene and customary actions oppose their timely 
 resistance to the desponding humour of our early days. 
 But in my own case the outward scene of life was such 
 as to foster and encourage it. The encroaching dis- 
 position hecame sole possessor of my mind. The ivy 
 grew everywhere. It spread unhindered on my path, 
 it stole unchecked upon my dwelling, it obscured the 
 light of day, and embowered the secluded tenant in a 
 fixed and stationary gloom. ... In this moody con- 
 dition of my soul, every trifling disgust, every casual 
 vexation, though disregarded of themselves, could sum- 
 mon up a dismal train of violent and afflicting medita- 
 tions. The first disturbance, the first ripple on the 
 surface, soon indeed subsided ; but, to take an illustration 
 from some fairy tale I have read, the pebble was thrown 
 upon enchanted waters, and it roused the gloomy and 
 tempestuous genius that lay scarce slumbering beneath 
 them." . . . 
 
 Yet nothing could be more true than that " his mis- 
 anthropy injured no one but its owner." Such was the 
 sweetness of his nature, and his equitable recognition 
 of the claims of others, that I doubt if his devoted 
 mother, or any one of the home -circle "to whose 
 hilarity he conspicuously contributed," ever suspected 
 that beneath such a sunlit smiling surface any gloomy 
 genius whatsoever dwelt and stirred. A lady, how- 
 ever, who in her character of acquaintance may have 
 observed more accurately than relatives, who often 
 stand too near to see, describes him at this period 
 as " most gentle and gracious, but seemingly quite 
 apart from the rest in his dreamy, gentle way." She 
 
24 MEMOIE. 
 
 adds : " Looking at his face, one could only think of 
 the wonderful depth and intellect of his eyes — this was 
 something marvellous." 
 
 And now comes a period of which I can give scarce 
 any account, for to my husband, whose life had long 
 been one of abstract thinking— impersonal, one might 
 almost say — any attempt at recalling dates was dis- 
 tinctly painful; and I, while gladly garnering any 
 crumbs that fell for me from his past, was aware that 
 he could not, even had he tried, reconstruct it consecu- 
 tively. But I know that he lived with a most tender 
 mother — a mother in whose eyes whatever William 
 did was rjght — to whom his very leaving off attending 
 church and chapel, though it might have disturbed her 
 in the case of others, could not seem wrong. I know 
 that his first visit to Switzerland — first sight of the 
 Lake of Lucerne and the glories of the mountains — was 
 paid during an early period of youth, while there was 
 on him that misanthropic Byronic mood, in which, to 
 use his own words, " a love and enthusiasm for nature 
 was a compensation for want of cordial sympathy with 
 man, not a related feeling strengthened by and strength- 
 ening that sympathy." 
 
 When exactly that mood passed away for ever I 
 cannot determine ; but in his earliest productions it is 
 already looked back upon as from a distance. I will 
 finally dismiss it in two passages of his own : — 
 
 " He who has read, and felt, and risen above the 
 poetry of Byron, will be for life a wiser man for having 
 once been thoroughly acquainted with the morbid sen- 
 timents which there meet with so full and powerful an 
 expressioa And so variously are we constituted, that 
 
MEMOIK. 25 
 
 there are some who find themselves best roused to 
 vigorous and sound thinking by an author with whom 
 they have to contend. There are who can better quiet 
 their own perturbed minds by watching the extrava- 
 gances of a stronger maniac than themselves, than by 
 listening to placid strains, however eloquent. Some 
 there are who seem destined to find their entrance into 
 philosophy, and into its calmest recesses, through the 
 avenue of moody and discontented reflection." And: 
 " It is a sort of moral conversion when a youthful mind 
 turns from a too exclusive admiration of Byron's genius 
 to the pages of Wordsworth." This conversion in my 
 husband's case took place early. 
 
 I have heard him say that during his youth he was 
 a quite rapacious reader of English and French litera- 
 ture. All the dramatists, all the essayists, all the his- 
 torians of both countries, in addition to their philoso- 
 phical writers — nothing came amiss to him ; and if the 
 day seemed long in the lawyer's office, the nights flew 
 in eager study. It was his custom to sit up till three 
 or four. The dear mother mast have had many an 
 anxious thought as to the effects of such a practice on 
 so sensitive and fragile a frame, but she never seems 
 to have interfered, even by tender remonstrance, with 
 her son's perfect liberty. I extract a passage of his 
 (written in 1847) which is evidently the expression of 
 a personal experience : " The student's lamp was burn- 
 ing ; how calm, how still is the remote and secluded 
 chamber! . . . Reflection has her emotions, thrilling 
 as those of passion. He who has not closed his door 
 upon the world, and sat down with books and his own 
 thoughts in a solitude like this, may have lived, we 
 
26 MEMOIR. 
 
 care not in how gay a world, or how passionate an ex- 
 istence, he has yet an excitement to experience, which, 
 if not so violent, is far more prolonged, deeper and 
 more sustained, than any he has known — than any 
 which the most brilliant scenes or the most clamorous 
 triumphs of life can furnish. What is aU the sparkling 
 exhilaration of society, the wittiest and the fairest, what 
 all the throbbings and perturbatioHS of love itself, com- 
 pared with the intense feeling of the youthful thinker 
 who has man, and God, and eternity for his fresh con- 
 templations, who for the iirst time perceives in his soli- 
 tude all the grand enigmas of human existence lying 
 unsolved about him? His brow is not corrugated, his 
 eye is not inflamed ; he sits calm and serene ; a child 
 would look into his face and be drawn near to bim ; 
 but it seems to him that on his beating heart the very 
 hand of God is lying." 
 
 One is not surprised to find that to the life of the 
 lawyer and the student William Smith before long 
 added that of the writer. I learn from his brother-in- 
 law, Mr Weigall, that " his first effort in print was a 
 series of papers, under the head of the 'Woolgather- 
 er,' " published in the ' Athenaeum,' to which he, John 
 Sterling, and Maurice contributed. "Sterling's father," 
 writes Mr Weigall, "the 'Thunderer' of the 'Times,' 
 called on me shortly after one of these papers was 
 published, to congratulate me on the impression it had 
 produced. I remember his saying that ' such pure and 
 elegant English had not been written since the days 
 of Addison.' " 
 
 This incident I never heard my husband allude to. 
 There are two lines of Arthur dough's which William 
 
MEMOIK. 27 
 
 Smith might have taken for his motto throughout life. 
 They contain the very essence of his character : — 
 
 " Things so merely personal to myself, 
 Of all earth's things do least affect myself. " 
 
 Success or approbation, such as he would have dwelt 
 on with pleasure if falUng to the lot of another, never 
 seemed so much as Tecognised in connection with him- 
 self. He shrank from praise more sensitively than from 
 censure. The latter he could at least appropriate. 
 
 From Mr Weigall I learn too that " the reputation he 
 acquired by these papers led to his being urged to join 
 the Union Debating Society." "I accompanied him," 
 Mr Weigall writes, "more than once to the Union 
 debates. I remember one occasion especially, on which 
 John Stuart Mill was in the chair. There were present 
 on that evening Mr Eoebuck, Mr H. L. Bulwer (after- 
 wards Lord Balling), Mr Komilly (the present Lord), 
 Sir Henry Taylor (author of ' PhUip van Artevelde '), 
 and WiUiam. ... I never on any other occasion 
 heard such an eloquent debate. William spoke chiefly 
 in reply to Sir H. Taylor — very forcibly, but not with 
 his usual gentleness." 
 
 Of the first poems that he published, ' Guidone ' and 
 ' Solitude,' my husband tells the fate in ' Thorndale,' 
 through the lips of Luxmore. He really did dig a hole 
 in the garden and bury the unsold copies in the earth ! 
 How full of beautiful passages each of these poems is, 
 a rapid glance even suffices to show, but they are too 
 subjective and perhaps too sad to please widely. The 
 abnormally introspective habit of thought that at this 
 early period secretly tortured one— then, as always. 
 
28 MEMOIR. 
 
 exceptionally free from self-reference in speech or action 
 — is too infrequent to awaken general interest. The 
 same may be said of his first prose work, ' Ernesto : a 
 Philosophical Eomance,' written much about this time, 
 but only published in 1835 as the last volume of 
 ' The Library of Romance,' edited by Leitch Pdtchie. It 
 was with some difficulty that I prevailed upon him to 
 give me a copy of this early production, the very story 
 of which he had utterly forgotten, and never cared to 
 glance over. Immature he no doubt was right in pro- 
 nouncing it, but it abounds in thoughtful and eloquent 
 passages. There is in it the promise of ' Thorndale.' 
 I win only make two extracts from it, both of which 
 have an autobiographical interest. The first describes 
 the experience of an unsuccessful poet : — 
 
 " I sought it not — I sought not this gift of poetry — 
 I despised not the ruder toils of existence — I strove to 
 pursue them, but I strove in vain. I could not walk 
 along this earth with the biisy forward tread of other 
 men. The fair wonder detained and withheld me. 
 Flowers on their slender stalks could prove a hindrance 
 in my path ; the light acacia would fling the barrier of 
 its beauty across my way ; the slow-thoughted stream 
 would bend me to its winding current. Was it fault of 
 mine that all nature was replete with feeling that com- 
 passed and enthralled me ? On the surface of the lake 
 at even-tide there lay how sweet a sadness ! Hope 
 visite^d me from the blue hills. There was perpetual 
 revelry of thought amidst the clouds and in the wide 
 cope of heaven. The passion of the poet came to me, 
 not knowing what it was. It came, the gift of tran- 
 quil skies, and was breathed by playful , zephyrs, and 
 
MEMOIR. 29 
 
 fell on me with serene influence from the bright and 
 silent stars. 
 
 " I saw others pursuing and enjoying the varied pros- 
 perity of life. I felt no envy at their success, and no 
 participation in their desires. I could not call in and 
 limit my mind to the concerns of a personal welfare. 
 I had leaned my ear unto the earth, and heard the 
 beating of her mighty heart and the murmur of her 
 mysteries, and my spirit had lost its fitness for any 
 selfish aim or narrow purpose. I stood forth to be the 
 interpreter of his own world to man. Alas ! I myself 
 am but one — the poorest of the restless and craving 
 multitude. 
 
 " Gone ! gone for ever ! is the pleasant hope that 
 danced along my path with feet that never wearied and 
 timbrel that never paused ! Oh, gay illusion, whither 
 hast thou led me, and to what desolation has the music 
 of thy course conducted ! I am laden as it were with 
 the fruitage of kind affections, but I myself am forlorn 
 and disregarded ; I kindle with innumerable sym- 
 pathies, but am shut out for ever from social endear- 
 ments, from the sweet relationships that make happy the 
 homes of other men. I am faint with love of the 
 beautiful, and my heart pants with its unclaimed devo- 
 tion-T-but who may love the poet in his poverty ? " 
 
 The second passage that I quote from ' Ernesto ' 
 embodies the conclusions of a speculative intellect that, 
 having "proved all things" with unflinching energy, 
 could best "hold fast" what it recognised as funda- 
 mental truth — fundamental, and vital to the thinker 
 from first, to last ! 
 
30 MEMOIR. 
 
 "The most sublime, the most essential, the most 
 irresistible of aH doctriaes — the existence of an Intel- 
 lectual Creator of the universe — needs the support of 
 other faculties than reason. The many learned treatises 
 ■which daUy appear to elucidate and confirm what is 
 called the argument from design, would prove as feeble 
 and ineffectual as they are felt to be strong and con- 
 vincing were they restricted in their appeal to a passion- 
 less and unimaginative intellect. . . . 
 
 "In such questions, a reason, unsupported by the 
 common feelings of our nature, and by those associa- 
 tions of thought which such feelings have generated or 
 maintained, might probably oscillate for ever. But 
 indeed it is not as a doctrine explanatory of the world's 
 creation that the belief of a divine existence holds the 
 place it does in the mind of man. We claim a human- 
 ised causation. Our transiency seeks support on an 
 eternal mind — our fears implore, our hopes solicit, a 
 beneficence that is beyond the circle and superior to the 
 dominion of nature. We may cavil, but we must 
 believe ; the heart demands it, and reason allows if she 
 could not compel. Do we wish by this to enfeeble the 
 proof of a divine existence ? We could not live a day, 
 an hour, without this faith. We desire only to point 
 out the indissoluble union, the harmony and necessary 
 co-operation of the several faculties of the human mind 
 — of the reason, the feelings, and the imagination. We 
 honour this compounded and complicate condition of 
 humanity. Is it for nothing that we are imaginative 
 beings ? that we must for ever carry forth the feelings 
 of a known world into the region of the unknown ? He 
 who would deny to his affections all influence on his 
 
MEMOIE. 31 
 
 belief, must either pronounce (and this is frequent and 
 harmless) that to be the pure result of ratiocination to 
 ■which other operations of the mind have greatly con- 
 tributed ; or in the almost suicidal attempt to separate 
 himself entirely from the control of feeling, he must 
 unsocialise his reason, deprive himself of some of the 
 greatest sources of human felicity, and lose, it may 
 be, the needful guidance and restraint of those very 
 passions which he so contemptuously estimated." 
 
 In 1836 and 1837 my husband wrote several articles 
 for the ' Quarterly Eeview,' in reference to which I find 
 some notes from Lockhart, at that time its editor. 
 These, and a few other letters that I shall presently 
 refer to, had been put aside by William long years ago, 
 and first came to sight again after our marriage, when a 
 box of stored-away books was sent to him at Brighton. 
 I remember well that his first impulse was to destroy 
 these letters, but I pleaded for their preservation, and 
 they were therefore consigned to another stationary and 
 seldom-opened box, and thus escaped the doom of every 
 justly appreciating written tribute paid him in later 
 years — the flames. I can recall a note from Mr J. S. 
 Mill, in the autumn of 1865, alluding in his large- 
 hearted generous way to certain lectures William had 
 delivered at Kensington more than twenty years before 
 (lectures of which I had heard him make casual and 
 disparaging mention), and that note I meant to abstract 
 and preserve; but when next I rummaged my husband's 
 little desk — which always stood open to my inspection — 
 I could not find it ; the note had been burnt ! But to 
 return to the ' Quarterly.' It appears that Mr Lockhart 
 did not wish it to transpire that William Smith's articles 
 
32 MEMOIK. 
 
 were those of a young and unknown writer. In one of 
 the notes I find, " I have heard nothing hut good of your 
 paper on Landor, and I am sure it has told tenfold the 
 more from no one ki^owing as yet where it came from. 
 Be it so with Mr Bulwer. You will lose nothing in 
 the issue." Never surely did editor find a contributor 
 more conveniently willing to suppress himself! Two 
 of these articles were on legal subjects, one on Sir Harris 
 Nicholas — a kind friend of my husband's, at whose 
 house he was in the habit of meeting interesting society 
 —one was on Modern Science, the remaining two on 
 Landor and Bulwer. 
 
 I wish I could more distinctly trace WiUiam Smith's 
 legal experiences. I know that he studied every branch 
 of law that a solicitor can practise, before he began to 
 read for the bar with a Mr Brodie. I think that it 
 must have been in 1838 that he was called to the bar at 
 the Middle Temple. Although I have spoken of of&ce 
 routine as irksome to him, yet in the history and philo- 
 sophy of Jurisprudence he always found vivid interest, 
 and would recommend the study as eminently favour- 
 able to the best development of the mind. Certainly 
 he never in later years regretted having undergone 
 this legal training. Perhaps he owed to it the rare 
 tempering of lively imagination by shrewdest common- 
 sense, of quick feeling by dispassionate judgment. 
 But in his early days the bias towards a life devoted 
 to poetry and abstract thought was too strong to be 
 resisted without suffering, and the combining profes- 
 sional study with literary pursuits must have been a 
 strain upon a frame that was never a strong one. On 
 no point was his counsel to the young more strenuous 
 
MEMOIR. 33 
 
 than in regard to the dangers of such divided allegiance. 
 Here are some words of his on the subject : " It is 
 a piece of advice we would give to every man, but 
 especially to the student — Harmonise your labours. 
 If ambition prompt you to mingle two conflicting studies 
 that will not accord, that breed perpetual civil war in 
 the mind, we charge you to fling away ambition. If 
 the higher and more beloved study — be it science, or 
 poetry, or philosophy — will not yield, then choose at 
 once for it and poverty, if such must be the alternative. 
 Better anything than a- ruined, disordered mind ; or, 
 if you prefer the expression, than a confirmed cerebral 
 disease." We shall find the writer of this passage 
 making such decided choice by-and-by. But the time 
 had not yet come. 
 
 In 1839 William Smith published 'A Discourse on 
 Ethics of the School of Paley.' "The late Professor 
 Ferrier," I quote from the obituary notice in the ' Scots- 
 man,' "used to speak of this pamphlet — in bulk it is 
 nothing more — as one of the best written and most 
 ingeniously reasoned attacks upon Cudworth's doctrine 
 that had ever appeared." It is interesting to find that 
 the favourite brother Theyre — William's fellow-student 
 at Glasgow — who had now for several years been a 
 clergyman of the Church of England, and was Hulsean 
 Lecturer in 1839-40, adopted the opposite stand-point, 
 and in the notes to the" second volume of his Lectures 
 vigorously contends against the theory put forth in the 
 '.Discourse on Ethics,' while admitting, with evident 
 satisfaction, that it had never " met with a more ingeni- 
 ous as well as eloquent advocate." 
 
 It was also in 1839 that my husband, having been 
 
 
34 MEMOIE. 
 
 introduced by Mr Warren to the Messrs Blackwood, 
 ■wrote his first article, entitled "A Prosing on Poetry," for 
 their Magazine. Thus began a much-valued connection, 
 that endured to the end of his life, and an uninterrupted 
 friendship. His contributions were very varied — tales, 
 adaptations from foreign literature, at first intermingled 
 with reviews. Later the articles became more exclu- 
 sively critical and devoted to philosophical subjects. I 
 have the whole series, bound up in eight volumes, con- 
 taining a hundred and twenty papers, not one of them 
 hastily or carelessly written, not one that does not con- 
 tain unbiassed criticism and earnest thought. I often 
 look at the volumes regretfully : so much wisdom and 
 charm of style seems buried there — forgotten ! But I 
 cannot doubt that these contributions did good work in 
 their day, enlarged and enriched many a kiadred mind, 
 woke inquiry and diffused toleration. Some years ago 
 Mr Blackwood proposed to reprint a selection from 
 them, but my husband declined; and though he still 
 would from habit tear out and lay aside his articles, 
 I found written on the pap6r that contained all those 
 
 of later date, " To be burnt — ^when ." In that one. 
 
 instance I could not obey him. 
 
 In 1840 "William Smith published a pamphlet on 
 Law Eeform, written in his own easy, lucid style, " for 
 the general reader," and calling, not only for certain 
 changes that have since taken" place, but for several 
 now under consideration. 
 
 I think that about this time my husband's life must 
 have been peculiarly pleasant. He was stUl living 
 with the mother who so loved him, and whom he so 
 loved ; there were cheerful homes of married brothers 
 
MEMOIR. 35 
 
 and sisters, where he was always eagerly welcomed — 
 depended upon on social occasions to make the " party 
 go off well" by his bright talk and smile— and he had 
 besides his own circle of personal friends, amongst whom 
 I may name George Henry Lewes,^ Samuel Warren; 
 
 ^ Since I wrote this Mr Lewes has sent me his reminiscences of his 
 friend, which I gratefully transcribe here, though they refer to a some- 
 what later period. " It was, I think, early in the year 1842 that I first 
 made the acc[uaintance of William Smith, an aoc[uaintance that very 
 rapidly grew into a friendship over which no cloud ever crossed. Our 
 ways of life separated us, and we saw but little of each other during the 
 last twenty years, but the separation was of bodies only, not of minds. 
 He was at first what I knew him at last, one of the few men deservedly 
 called distingwished, a genuine and individual nature not in any degree 
 factitious or commonplace. He was himself, and all his opinions and 
 sentiments were his own, not echoes or compromises. In spite of his 
 shyness, there was an aifectionate expansiveness in his manner which 
 irresistibly attracted me, and although I always spoke of him as ' Little 
 Smith,' the epithet, absurd enough coming from one no bigger than 
 himself, only expressed the sort of tender feeling one has for a woman. 
 So far from its implying any assumption of superiority, I regarded him 
 not only as my elder, but in many respects my superior ; and in the 
 height of our discussions, which were incessant, my antagonism was 
 always tempered by that veneration which one irresistibly feels in 
 presence of a genuine nature. It was this genuineness, and his keen 
 ilexible sympathy, which formed the great charm of his society. One 
 felt thoroughly at home with him at once. 
 
 "At that time he had lodgings in Pembroke Square, Kensington. 
 I lived in the same square, so that we saw each other frequently; 
 though it was I who mostly had to pay the visit, his reserve making 
 him less willing to come in to me. He led a lonely, uncomfortable 
 life, as , such a man in lodgings inevitably must, unless he goes into 
 society. I nsed to preach to him agamst his waste^of time in desultory 
 study, and his injudicious arrangement of the hours of work. In vain. 
 Like most literary men, he had a prejudice in favour of night-work, 
 and would fritter away the precious hours of morning, taking little 
 exercise, and less relaxation. I nsed to tell him that mamage was 
 the only safety for him — and so it proved ! So affectionate a nature 
 could not be content with study and work : the heart claimed its own ! 
 
 " There was another point on which I used to preach with equal un- 
 
36 MEMOIR. 
 
 the author of ' The Correlation of Physical Forces' (now 
 Mr Justice Grove), Frederick Denison Maurice, and 
 John Sterling. I have before alluded to his habit of 
 under-estimating— perhaps I should rather say his in- 
 ability to realise — the amount of the regard he inspired. 
 Hence, while delighting to enlarge upon the special 
 merits of more successful men, he would touch very 
 lightly upon his own intercourse with them. But from 
 other sources I know something of the charm they 
 found in his society, and the regret with which they 
 lost sight of him ; and I shall here copy a letter of 
 Sterling's — the man of aU others I have heard my 
 
 success — the waste of his fine mind in metaphysical research. This 
 was a standing suhject of controversy. His profound seriousness and 
 restless desire to get to the bottom of every subject made hiih cling 
 pertinaciously to even the faintest hope of a possible answer to those 
 questions which for centuries have vexed speculative minds, and no 
 failure could discourage him. 
 
 "We were always battling, yet never once did we get even near a 
 quarrel. On many points, wide as the poles asunder, we managed to 
 mangle each other's arguments without insult, and whenever opposi- 
 tion seemed verging towards the excitation of temper, some playful 
 remark or wild paradox of retort was ready to clear the air with laughter. 
 In this way we 'travelled over each other's minds,' and travelled over 
 the universe. On matters of poetry and criticism we were more at 
 one ; but even there, precisely because Smith had his own views, his 
 own mode of looking at things, there was an endless charm in listening 
 to him and differing from him. Till deep into the night we would sit 
 ' talking of lovely things that conquer death ; ' and I seem now to see 
 the sweet smile and, the lustrous eye fixed on me, and hear his pleasant 
 voice playfully uttering some fine truth. One of the noticeable points 
 in him was the lambent playfulness, combined with great seriousness, 
 the subtle humour and the subtle thought which gave a new aspect to 
 old opinions, so that we may say of him what Goethe says of Schiller, 
 that — 
 
 ' Hinter ihm, im wesenlosen Soheine, 
 Lag, was uns AUe btindigt— das Gemeine.' " 
 
MEMOIR. 37 
 
 husband say whom he could have hest loved — both 
 because it is interesting in itself, and prpves the value 
 Sterling set upon his friend : — 
 
 " Clifton, January 6th, 1840. 
 
 " My dear Smith,— I have very little time for -writing any but 
 the most indispensable letters before I leave England. Yours, 
 however, is too kind, and gave me too much unexpected pleasure, 
 to be left unacknowledged. I attach little value to the contents 
 of my volume as poems ; but had my judgment of them been 
 different, no corroboration of it from others could give me the 
 kind of gratification which I derive from finding that you some- 
 times think of me, and return so cordially the regard which I 
 must always feel for you. The future is with me still more 
 uncertain than with most people, but if any among the strange 
 chances of life should bring us withiu reach of each other, I should 
 consider it a more unalloyed advantage and pleasure than most of 
 those which life affords. As to the Professorship, my suggestion 
 in answer to Mill's inquiry whether I knew of a fitting person 
 would have been the same had I known of you only what I have 
 read in your writings. There was at that time some reason to 
 imagine the stars might be turned from their courses for once, 
 and the Glasgow Professors from jobbing. It would have been, 
 of course, very pleasant to see you in your right place, and I still 
 trust that some opportunity may arise of having you established 
 as a public teacher. 
 
 " I should be very glad to know something of what you are 
 about, and also to have some accounts of Theyre and of Weigall — 
 to both of wl^m pray remember me warmly. 1 leave this on 
 Friday for Falmouth, whence I am to embark for Madeira. I 
 have had a long and severe illness, and at one time seemed hardly 
 likely to recover. It is still very doubtful whether I can face 
 another English winter, and I may very possibly be afloat again 
 on this yeasty world — with a wife and four children to lighten my 
 movements. At all events, I shall be always affectionately yours, 
 
 " John SiERLiNa." 
 
 In connection with this faint hope of a Glasgow 
 Chair, to which the letter alludes, I find two notes of 
 
38 MEMOIE. 
 
 Mr J. S. Mill's, full of friendly co-operation and in- 
 terest ; but highly as my husband esteemed the post of 
 Professor of Moral Philosophy in a Scotch University, 
 I am sure that the whole scheme arose entirely from the 
 zeal of a few friends, and that its impracticability gave 
 him no sense of disappointment. I never heard him 
 dwell upon it. 
 
 In the summer of 1842 a gteat grief befell him. His 
 dear mother died at the age of seventy -five, having 
 survived her husband nineteen years. I have spoken 
 of the peculiar tenderness between the mother and son. 
 Some friends who remember her well have described 
 her to me in her later years, placid and smiling in her 
 arm-chair, knitting away, with William seated on a 
 footstool beside her, kissing her hand, interrupting her 
 work by his playful ways and tender raillery, she pre- 
 tending to chide — she, so proud, so fond ! Into his 
 intellectual nature, his thought - life, the dear mother 
 did not and could not enter, but she had a boundless 
 love for him ; his comforts, his tastes, were paramount 
 with her — he was her first object always; and his sister, 
 Mrs Walker, the " dear Esther" of the early Glasgow 
 letter, writes to me — " I shall never forget the desola- 
 tion of heart William expressed when the %rave closed 
 over our mother." Later, his wife and he held it as a 
 treasure in common that both were the youngest and 
 peculiarly loved children of their mothers, and never 
 felt their hearts more closely knit together than when 
 speaking of them. I believe that he spent the winter 
 of that first orphan year with a married sister. After- 
 wards the dreary London lodging life to which Mr 
 Lewes refers must have set in. 
 
MEMOIR. 39 
 
 The play of 'Athelwold' was published in 1842, and 
 I transcribe, from one of Mr Mill's notes, a passage 
 relating to it, not without interest, knowing whose 
 criticism it is that he quotes : — 
 
 " I showed your play \o the most superior woman I have ever 
 known," and the most fastidious judge of poetry, and she writes 
 to me about it; ^'I like the play very much. I think the subject 
 an excellent one, and the mode of saying it natural, healthy, and 
 quite free from the affectation of " old dramatists," which is an 
 affectation I, of aU others, most nauseate. It is the only play, and 
 almost the only poem, of the present time which I know without 
 affected mannerism.' 
 
 " I think it worth while telling you of this opinion, because, if 
 you were acquainted with the writer, I am sure you would attach 
 real value to her judgment, and especially to her approbation. — 
 Ever yours, J. S. Mill." 
 
 Here is another letter on the subject of ' Athelwold,' 
 a little flowery and prolix, but also interesting : — 
 
 "3 Seejeakts' Inn, 8th Feb. 1843. 
 " Dear Sir,' — I have long desired to gratify myself by express- 
 ing to you the deep admiration with which, attracted by the ex» 
 tracts I saw in the weekly papers, I perused your tragedy of 
 ' Athelwold,' and by seeking from you such recognition of a com- 
 mon love for dramatic literature as may be testified by your 
 acceptance of my very feaO. and imperfect attempts at that delight- 
 ful species of poetry. I hope I do not trespass too far on your 
 good-nature, emboldened by some old recollections of several 
 members of your family, and by the assurance of Mr Warren that 
 my offering will not be unwelcome, when I ask you to accept of 
 ]ny own slender dramas, and of the earnest wish I cherish that 
 you may realise the splendid promise which your ' Athelwold ' 
 has given to the world. It seeins to me to combine more purely 
 dramatic power with more of poetical luxuriance and tenderness 
 than any of the dramas which have, within the last few years, 
 sprung from the imagination of our national genius. The only 
 
40 MEMOIR 
 
 obstacles wMch. I perceive to its entire success in representation 
 are the impossibility of presenting any image of that loveliness 
 which, in its infant perfection, charmed the mighty Dunstan, and 
 the magic power of which sways the heart of Athelwold, and 
 the destinies of the scene — which, being seen, will not be believed, 
 — and in the too painful nature of Elfrida's perfidy, and the 
 wearying agony of the closing scenes — wearying, though touched 
 and softened by exquisite beauty. But on that inner stage — ^the 
 theatre which every true lover of the dramatic poem lights np 
 within his own mind as he reads — will ' Athelwold ' 'ever hold a 
 noble place, which no bad passions of managers, nor caprices of 
 actors, nor envy of author-critics shall abolish or destroy. My 
 own plays are, I well know, mere proofs of the affection of one 
 who has loved, 'not wisely but too well,' the dramatic form of 
 poetry, and has been unduly tempted by the opportunity of tast- 
 ing the pleasure which, with all its alloy, does belong to the real- 
 isation of the conceptions of the mind on the stage. That you 
 may attain this pleasure with as little of the annoyances which 
 encircle it as theatrical associations wiU permit, and extend and 
 complete the lasting fame which your first work promises, and 
 find in all dramatic creation to be its ' exceeding great reward,' is 
 the earnest wish of, dear Sir, your faithful and obedient servant, 
 
 "T. N. Talfourd." 
 
 In the spring of 1843, Mr Macready made applica- 
 tion to the author for permission to act 'Athelwold.' 
 I find two little notes on the subject, and give the 
 
 second : — 
 
 " 5 Clarence Teebaoe, Reqent's Pabk. 
 
 " My deae Sir, — We are about to endeavour, with your per- 
 mission, to give a representation of ' Athelwold ' before the close 
 of our present season. I very much regret my intention of pro- 
 ducing it should have been so long deferred, but in a theatre the 
 most careful plans are constantly deranged by unexpected circum- 
 stances. 
 
 " I should wish to have your assent, and also your approval of 
 the large omissions which must of necessity be made in its per- 
 formance. — Yours, my dear Sir, most sincerely, 
 
 "W. C. Macready." 
 
MEMOIR. 41 
 
 On the first night of its representation the play met 
 with decided success, and the author was enthusiastically- 
 called for. What seemed to have impressed him most 
 on the occasion was Macready's exquisite rendering of 
 the character of Athelwold. Miss Helen Faucit (now 
 Mrs Theodore Martin) recollects that one particular 
 moment in her impersonation of Elfrida was pronounced 
 by Macready " the best thing she ever did." We have 
 seen that the season was already drawing to a close. 
 The play had therefore a brief run, and why it was not 
 reproduced the following year I know not with any 
 certainty. 
 
 The autumn of 1843 was spent by my husband in 
 Paris, where the lectures at the Sorbonne were his 
 especial interest. I have before me a note to his sister, 
 Mrs Weigall, characteristically describing his position 
 .in a French boarding-house : " Stuttering out my broken 
 sentences of French, thinking it a great good fortune if 
 the simplest thing I utter is understood, and a great 
 honour if the dullest person in the company will con- 
 descend to talk to me." 
 
 I know that for a time WiUiam Smith went the 
 Western Circuit, but to him it proved " so expensive 
 and profitless he had to relinquish it." Probably he 
 had already done so at this time, for, in the summer of 
 1845, he made a tour in Switzerland. How intensely 
 he enjoyed it appears in a paper,—" The Mountain and 
 the Cloud,"— written on his return, and published in 
 -Blackwood's Magazine.' And in a letter to the sister 
 M'ho was his regular corresipondent, I find expressions 
 of delight : " I saw Mont Blanc to perfection, the lake, 
 and the splendid scenery that lies between. This was 
 
42 MEMOIE. 
 
 pleasure ! To be carried by a mule over the mountain- 
 passes, alone, your guide walking silent behind, the 
 beast taking care of himself and you too, the eye 
 greeted at every turn by something new and great, /, 
 in my poor experience of life, have had no enjoyment 
 comparable to it." 
 
 The winter following was spent in Brussels at the 
 house of his eldest brother Frederick (who had for 
 some years lived in Belgium), where William had the 
 cheerful companionship of young nieces. It was there 
 he wrote ' Sir William Crichton,' which appeared, with 
 a reprint of ' Athelwold,' and of his two early poems, 
 in a small, a very small unpretending volume,^ pub- 
 lished by Pickering towards the end of 1846. I copy 
 Serjeant Talfourd's estimate of the play : — 
 
 "3 Serjeants' Inn, Chamoeet Lane, 
 * itl Februwry 1847. 
 
 " Dear Sib, — ^You have added greatly to the obligation you 
 conferred on me by sending me your noble tragedy of ' Athel- 
 wold,' when you directed your publisher to present me with your 
 small volume containing that drama and two others of kindred — 
 one, at least, iu my humble judgment, of superior — ^merit. Of 
 
 1 This small volume was never widely circulated, but it met with 
 cordial recognition from a few. Walter Savage Lander was one of 
 those who estimated it highly. It is to Mr "Weigall that I owe this 
 knowledge. He writes thus: "About eighteen years ago I saw a 
 good deal of Landor. On one occasion I mentioned WiUiam's works. 
 He said immediately : ' I know Mr Smith, and everything he has 
 published. I have a great respect for him, sir. There are things iu 
 his works CLuite equal to anything that Shakespeare ever wrote.' \ 
 said I was much gratified to hear him say so, and wished tlie world 
 thought so too. He replied, 'The world does not think so now, 
 because it is chiefly composed of fools ; but I know it, and I believe 
 some day the world will agree with me.' " 
 
MEMOIE. 43 
 
 ' Gnidone ' I have been able only to take a glance, too transient 
 to know more tlian that it is worthy of its author ; hut ' Sir 
 WiUiam Crichton ' I have read with the deep and earnest atten- 
 tion it commands and requites, and feel that I have acquired a 
 possession for life. Whether enough of stirring action would 
 remain if all its fine shadings of thought were withdrawn, to fill 
 the stage for the ordinary point of tragic development, I will not 
 determine ; hut that with much of picturesque action and heroic 
 character it has the highest excellence of thoughtful heauty, of 
 affections steeped in meditative sweetness, I am as sure as that I 
 think and feel ; while I read it, to me 
 
 ' There is that witliiii 
 Makes all eztemal scene, whate'er it be. 
 Mere dream and phantom— merely moving cloud 
 Athwart some pale and stationary thought.' 
 
 And those lines, which seem to me indicative of your true genius, 
 seem also to me among the most beautiful ever written. If 
 Heaven gave me such a choice, there are very few of which I 
 had rather been the author." 
 
 It was in the spring of 1846 that my husband visited 
 Italy.^ He travelled, as usual, alone, and with eager, 
 unresting haste. I have heard him say that he spoke 
 to no one ; that the excitement the marvels of ancient 
 art occasioned was inexpressible ; that he went on from 
 place to place regardless of fatigue. From Eome he 
 writes to his sister, Mrs Weigall : " I must tell you 
 that I, even I, am here — that I have seen St Peter's, 
 the Vatican, the Coliseum, and I know not what collec- 
 tions of statues and paintings." The morning after 
 
 1 I think it must have been before this that the bust given as fron- 
 tispiece was taken. The sculptor, Mr Weigall, writes of it as follows : 
 " I saw then in 'William the profound philosopher, the penetrating, 
 calm, judicious critic, and the tender, passionate poet ; and, I believe, 
 to those who have eyes to see such things, all these phases of his char- 
 acter may be found in the bust." 
 
44 MEMOIR 
 
 his arrival he " sallied forth to St Peter's ; " one gladly 
 realises how light the step must have been, how vivid 
 the enjoyment ! 
 
 " I had been prepared," he says, " to expect that the gigantic 
 proportions of the statuary and other accessories took oflE from the 
 apparent magnitude of the building ; but what I was not prepared 
 for was the magnificent effect of all this gigantic statuary. From 
 the moment yon enter within the limits of St Peter's everything 
 swells out into colossal proportions. The interior of the dome is 
 perfect — so mellow and so chaste with all its splendours. Then 
 the effect of the high altar is quite startling. It stands just under 
 the dome (in pictures it appears necessarily as if at the extremity 
 of the building). You know the four twisted columns of bronze, 
 but you have not felt their height ; and besides, there is much of 
 this altar that cannot be represented in a picture, as it lies be- 
 neath the surface. A marble staircase descends before the altar. 
 You look down and see golden doors, and before them a marble 
 image of a Pope kneeling there in eternal prayer for the people. 
 Then in every direction such stupendous sculpture : figures 
 thrown with such audacity and grace over the architraves ; and 
 above all, the tombs of various Pontiffs, which add to their other 
 merits that of being so well placed that at first they seem groups 
 designed only for the ornament of the church. But what shall I 
 say of the Vatican 1 of the Apollo, the Laocoon, of a certain 
 Jupiter Tonans, the most sublime representation of the old ruler 
 of the skies % I had better say nothing, for in my present mood 
 I should probably be guilty of some extravagance. There is also 
 a collection of sculpture at the Capitol — the celebrated Dying 
 Gladiator, a Venus, and the delightful little group of Cupid and 
 Psyche ; in short, the sculpture here is beyond aU description 
 admirable, and the delight I have experienced is more than I 
 would willingly make even the attempt to express. 
 
 " Then have I not seen the Sistine Chapel, and the frescos of 
 Michael Angelo ? Now as to these, you know, or at least Henry 
 knows (how often have I thought that he ought to have been 
 here !) that these consist first of a large picture on the wall repre- 
 senting the Last Day, and of the compartments of the roof. Now 
 for that same large picture of the Last Day : I got nothing from 
 
MEMOIE. 45 
 
 it ; it excited in me no sentiment whatever ; I have not a -word 
 to say about it ; but some of those compartments of the roof are 
 amongst the sublimest things I have ever beheld. The effect is 
 quite thrilling— is awful. You breathe hard as you look up to 
 them. 
 
 " The Coliseum I have not seen by moonlight, and probably 
 shall not ; but on a very beautiful day I traversed it and mounted 
 it, and explored it in aU directions. It is certainly the king of 
 ruins. And you see from it the principal ruins of ancient Eome ; 
 you have the blue hills on the horizon, so that a visit to the Coli- 
 seum is full of interest. But I am falling, I fear, into the gossip 
 of travellers, which is just a reminiscence to themselves of a plea- 
 sure they have had, but which conveys nothing to any other. As 
 to the city of Eome, I can tell you that all that is not temple or 
 palace is filth and wretchedness. ... I wish to see other 
 parts of Italy, and therefore cannot stop very long in any one. 
 My next stage will be Naples, then I retrace my steps to Florence, 
 to Venice, to Milan, through Switzerland and the Rhine, home ; 
 all which, though it sounds a great deal, will not take much time 
 in accomplishing." 
 
 This programme, however, was slightly modified. On 
 his homeward way he became very iU, and had to make 
 a halt at his eldest brother's house in Brussels. By him 
 William was, as I have often heard the latter recall, most 
 tenderly nursed. In many particulars there was a family 
 likeness between the two men. Both had the faculty of 
 inspiring intense affection in those who knew them best, 
 both the same refined courtesy in domestic life. Their 
 cast of mind was indeed dissimilar, but the elder brother 
 fully appreciated the nature of the younger. I shall 
 never forget his looking at William with moistened eyes, 
 on the occasion of a flying visit of ours many years later, 
 aind saying : " He was always quite different from the 
 rest of the world." His daughters, too, most lovingly 
 remember the student uncle, so interested in their pur- 
 
46 MEMOIK. 
 
 suits, SO encouraging, so playful.^ In him the solitary- 
 nature was strangely combined, or I might rather say 
 alternated, with the eminently social. When he did 
 come out of his own element of abstract thought, it was 
 to enter with genuine interest into the very slightest 
 concerns of others ; to set talk flowing with greater spon- 
 taneity ; to bring out the best of every mind. He came 
 into a room where he felt himself welcome like an influx 
 of fresh air and light. Whoever he addressed was con- 
 scious of a certain exhilaration and increased freedom, 
 for he, more than any person I have known, " gave one 
 leave to be one's self." 
 
 But it may be asked. Why are not more of his own 
 letters quoted to illustrate his character better than the 
 words of another can 1 I do not know that there are any 
 of his early letters extant. At no time of his life does 
 he appear to have kept up a large or varied correspon- 
 dence, and he had an especial dislike to letters of his 
 
 '" It is to one of these nieces that I owe the following lines of his, 
 which she tells me her uncle put into her hand as a kind of reply to 
 some theological discussion or other, which, with the self-assertion of 
 early youth, she had tried to force upon him : — 
 
 CHBISTIAN" RESIGNATION. 
 
 There is a sweetness in the world's despair, 
 
 There is a rapture of serenity, 
 When severed quite from earthly hope or care. 
 
 The heart is free to suffer or to die. 
 
 The crown, the palm, of saints in Paradise, 
 
 My wearied spirit does not crave to win ; 
 Breathe— in Thy cup, Christ, of agonies — 
 
 Breathe Thy deep love, and let me drink therein. 
 To weep as Thou hast wept, I ask no more, 
 
 Be mine the sorrows that were known to Thee • 
 To the bright heavens I have no strength to soar, 
 
 But I would find Thee on Thy Calvary. 
 
MEMOIE. 47 
 
 being preserved or referred to. In more than one ease 
 I know he entreated that they should be destroyed, and 
 (however reluctantly) his wish was complied with. I 
 think it proceeded from the same quite abnormal sensi- 
 tiveness, that made him shrink not only from any allu- 
 sion to his own books, but from the very sight of them. 
 Never was I able to keep a volume of his writing on 
 table or shelf for three days together ! Silently they 
 would be abstracted or pushed into some dark recess. 
 But as to his letters — though naturally I am averse to 
 extract from my own stores, and I have no letters on 
 general subjects to draw from — I know from testimony 
 as well as experience that they were quite special in their 
 simplicity and natural grace. No one familiar with him 
 could possibly have attributed his shortest note to any 
 other person. It was sure to bear some indefinable stamp 
 of his individuality. Here is a passage of his regarding 
 the letters of Southey, most applicable to his own : — 
 
 " The letters, as we advance through these volumes, 
 become more and more characterised by that consum- 
 mate ease and unstudied elegance which are the result 
 only of long practice in composition ; for the perfect 
 freedom and grace of the epistolary style may be described 
 as the spontaneous expression of one previously habitu- 
 ated to a choice selection of terms. It requires this com- 
 bination of present haste and past study. The pen should 
 run without a pause, without an after-thought, and the 
 page be left without a correction ; but it must be the pen 
 of one who in times past has paused very long and cor- 
 rected very often." 
 
 The influence of William Smith's foreign tours is trace- 
 able in his contributions to'Blaekwood'sMagazine' during 
 
48 MEMOIK. 
 
 the years 1846 aad 1847. 'Mildred,' a tale published 
 in the latter year, the scene of which is laid in Italy, con- 
 tains some descriptions of the treasures of the Vatican, 
 which will, I think, be read with interest. The extract 
 following is taken from a conversation between two who 
 are in heart even more than friends, while outwardly 
 something leas : — 
 
 " ' You are before the Amazon,' said Winston ; ' it is 
 the statue of all others which has most fascinated me. 
 I cannot understand why it should bear the name it does. 
 I suppose the learned in these matters have their reasons : 
 I have never inquired nor feel disposed to inquire into 
 them ; but I am sure the character of the statue is not 
 Amazonian. That attitude — the right arm raised to draw 
 aside the veil, the left hand at its elbow steadying it — 
 that beautiful countenance, so fuU of sadness and of dig- 
 nity — no, these cannot belong to an Amazon.' 
 
 '"To a woman,' said Mildred, ' it is allowed to be in- 
 different on certain points of learning ; and in such cases 
 as this I certainly take advantage to the full privilege 
 of my sex. I care not what they call the statue. It 
 may have been called an Amazon by Greek and Eoman 
 — it may have been so named by the artist himself when 
 he sent it home to his patron ; I look at it as a creatidn 
 standing between me and the mind of the artist : and 
 sure I am, that, bear what name it may, the sculptor 
 has embodied here all that his soul had felt of the sweet- 
 ness and power and dignity of woman. It is a grander 
 creation than any goddess I have seen; has more of 
 thought.' 
 
 " ' And as a consequence,' interposed Winston, ' more 
 of sadness, of unhappiness. How the mystery of life 
 
MEMOIB. 49 
 
 seems to hang upon that pensive brow ! I used to share 
 an impression, which I believe is very general, that the 
 deep sorrow which comes of thought, the reflective me- 
 lancholy which results from pondering on the bitter 
 problem of life, was peculiar to the moderns. This statue 
 and others which I have lately seen have convinced me 
 that the sculptor of antiquity has occasionally felt and 
 expressed whatever could be extracted from the mingled 
 poetry of a Byron and a Goethe.' 
 
 " ' It seems that the necessity of representing the gods 
 in the clear light of happiness and knowledge deprived 
 the Greek artist of one great source of subKmity. But 
 it is evident,' continued Mildred, ' that the mysterious, 
 with its attendant sorrow, was known also to him. How 
 could it be otherwise ? Oh ! what a beautiful creation is 
 this we stand before ! And what an art it is which per- 
 mits us to stand thus before a being of this high order, 
 and note all its noble passions ! From the real life we 
 should turn our eyes away, or drop them abashed upon 
 the ground. Here is more than life, and we may look 
 on it by the hour, and mark its graceful sorrow, its queen- 
 like beauty, and this overmastered grief which we may. 
 wonder at but dare not pity.' 
 
 " They passed on to other statues. They paused before 
 the Menander sitting in his chair. ' The attitude,' said 
 she, ' is so noble that the chair becomes a throne. But 
 still how plainly it is intellectual jpower that sits enthroned 
 there ! The posture is imperial ; and yet how evident 
 that it is the empire of thought only that he governs in ! 
 And this little statue of Esculapius,' she added, ' kept 
 me a long while before it. The healing sage — how faith- 
 fully is he represented ! What a sad benevolence— ac- 
 
 D 
 
50 MEMOIE. 
 
 quainted with pain — compelled to inflict even in order 
 to restore ! ' 
 
 " They passed through the Hall of the Muses. 
 " ' How serene are all the Muses ! ' said Winston. 
 ' This is as it should he. Even Tragedy, the most moved 
 of all, how evidently her emotion is one of thought, not 
 of passion ! Though she holds the dagger in her down- 
 dropt hand, how plainly we see that she has not used it ! 
 She has picked it up from the floor after the fatal deed 
 was perpetrated, and is musing on the terrihle catastro^ 
 phe, and the still more terrible passions that led to it.' 
 
 " They passed through the Hall of the Animals, but 
 this had comparatively little attraction for Mildred. 
 Her companion pointed out the bronze Centaur for her 
 admiration. 
 
 " ' You must break a Centaur in half,' said she, ' before 
 I can admire it. And if I am to look at a satyr, pray 
 let the goat's legs be hid in the bushes. I cannot embrace 
 in one conception these fragments of man and brute. 
 Come with me to the neighbouring gallery. I wish to 
 show you a Jupiter seated at the further end of it, which 
 made half a Pagan of me this morning as I stood vener- 
 ating it.' 
 
 " ' The head of your Jupiter,.' said "Winston, as they 
 approached it, ' is surpassed I think by more than one 
 bust of the same god that we have already seen ; and I 
 find something of stiffness or rigidity in the figure ; but 
 the impression it makes as a whole is very grand.' 
 
 " ' It wiU grow wonderfully on you as you look at it,' 
 said Mildred. ' How well it typifias all that a Pagaai 
 would conceive of the Supreme Euler of the Skies, the 
 controller of the powers of nature, the great administra- 
 
MEMOIR. 51 
 
 tor of the world -who has the Fates for his council ! His 
 power irresistible, but no pride in it, no joy, no triumph. 
 He is without passion. In his right hand lies the thun- 
 der, but it reposes on his thigh ; and his left hand rests 
 calmly upon his tall sceptre surmounted by an eagle. 
 In his countenance there is the tranquillity of unques- 
 tioned supremacy, but there is no repose. There is 
 care, a constant wakefulness. It is the governor of a 
 nature whose elements have never known one moment's 
 pause.' 
 
 " ' I see it as you speak,' said "Winston. He then 
 proposed that they shoiild go together and look at the 
 Apollo, but Mildred excused herself 
 
 " ' I have paid my devotions to the god,' she said, 
 ' this morning when the eyes and the mind were fresh. 
 I would not willingly displace the impression that I 
 now carry away for one which would be made on a 
 fatigued and jaded attention.' 
 
 " ' Is it not god-like ? ' 
 
 " ' Indeed it is. I was presumptuous enough to think 
 I knew the Apollo. A cast of the head esteemed to be 
 a very good one — my uncle had given me — T placed it 
 in my own room ; for a long time it was the first thing 
 that the light fell upon, or my eyes opened to in the 
 morning ; and in my attempt at crayons, I copied it I 
 believe in every aspect. It seemed to me, therefore, 
 that in visiting the Apollo I should recognise an. old 
 acquaintance. No such thing. The cast had given 
 me hardly any idea of the statue itself There was 
 certainly no feeling of old acquaintanceship. The brow 
 as I stood in front of the god qiiite overawed me ; in- 
 voluntarily I retreated for an instant ; you will smile, 
 
52 MEMOIR. 
 
 but I had to muster my courage before I could gaze 
 steadily at it.' 
 
 " ' I am not surprised ; the divinity there is in no 
 gentle mood. How majestic, and yet how lightly it 
 touches the earth ! It is buoyant with god-head.' 
 
 " ' What strikes me/ continued Mildred, ' as the great 
 triumph of the artist, is this very anger of the god. It 
 is an anger which, like the arrow he has shot from his 
 bow, spends itself entirely upon its victim ; there is no 
 recoil, as in human passion, upon the mind of him who 
 feels it. There is no jar there. The lightning strikes 
 down — it tarries not a moment in the sky above.' " 
 
 A complete and decisive change in William Smith's 
 manner of life was now drawing near. I may mention 
 an incident — supplied by Mr Weigall — which must 
 have closely preceded it. " Soon before the Corn Laws 
 were repealed," writes Mr Weigall, " William was urged 
 by John Stuart Mill to attend a meeting to aid the 
 advocates for repeal. The Honourable Mr ViUiers, Mr 
 Mill, and William were the principal speakers, and 
 William was beyond doubt the most impressive of them 
 all. The Chartists at the time were getting rampant, 
 and were in great force at that meeting, both men and 
 women. They had disapproved of almost every wisely 
 qualified utterance from Mr Mill, but when William 
 opened his speech with a most happy and harmonious 
 sentence, the women about me said — ' Oh what a beauti- 
 ful speaker ! don't disturb him,' and for some time they 
 seemed delighted ; but when he began with his prescient 
 wisdom to caution them against expecting too much 
 from the repeal — that the effect of free-trade in corn 
 
MEMOIR. 53 
 
 would be to equalise •prices throughout Europe, they 
 began to howl him down — William stopped and faced 
 the turmoil boldly, and by a very stirring appeal to 
 their candour and sense of fair-play secured again their 
 goodwill, and sat down, the great success of the even- 
 ing. From what I observed on that occasion," adds 
 Mr Weigall, " I felt convinced that could William have 
 overcome his retiring habits he would have won dis- 
 tinction in public life." But the retiring habits were 
 just then on the point of decisively prevailing. 
 
 I do not know whether it was in 1848 or 1849 that 
 my husband acted upon a resolve that must have been 
 for some time gathering — the resolve of entirely relin- 
 quishing the pursuit of his profession, and devoting 
 himself to thinking and writing, in perfect solitude, 
 amidst the beautiful scenery of the English lakes. He 
 had made no way at the bar ; he was not likely to make 
 any — ^he had no legal connections ; his heart was not in 
 his calling ; his sensitive nature shrank from collision 
 with purely personal aims and ambitions, from the 
 inevitable turmoil and dust of " life's loud joyous jost- 
 ling game." He could not, with any hope of success, 
 compete on that arena. And, indeed, in addition to 
 other hindrances, his private fortune, seriously dimin- 
 ished by a loan to an unsuccessful relative (loan which 
 he in his refined generosity converted into a gift), 
 was no longer adequate to the expenses chambers and 
 circuit entailed on the briefless barrister. Then there 
 were other influences at work. The " love of thinking 
 for its own sake" was growing irresistible, and was 
 seconded not only by a "passionate thirst for nature 
 and beauty," but by that craving for solitude which 
 
54 MEMOIE. 
 
 strangely underlay all his social" charm, all his enjoy- 
 ment of society, which found such forcible expression in 
 his earliest poems, and renders portions of 'Thorndale- 
 so unutterably pathetic. Circumstances and character 
 alike now pointed one way. There is a line of Brown- 
 ing's that sums it all up : Thenceforth 
 
 " This man decided not to Live, tut Know." 
 
 My husband has often described to me his first plunge 
 into the new life. It was made at Bowness (on Winder- 
 mere), a quiet village in those days. There he took a 
 small lodging, where the sitting-room opened into a 
 garden, and for six months he never spoke to a creature, 
 except indeed the few words of necessity to his land- 
 lady. It comforts one to remember what loving letters 
 from sisters and nieces must have varied that solitude, 
 as well as what high raptures , Nature and Thought 
 bestowed upon their devotee. And then the winters 
 were always social. Some weeks would be spent at the 
 house of his brother-in-law, Mr Weigall, where there 
 were clever nephews growing up and two much-loved 
 nieces, of whom his sister has told me he was " the idol 
 and the oracle." Some would be pleasantly passed at 
 Bath or Brighton, where he had several friends. 
 
 In 1851 his stOl secluded summer life was varied by 
 an incident that might have given a different direction 
 to all his future. One day the following letter from 
 Professor Wilson was delivered to him. Although it is 
 marked " strictly private and confidential," there can be 
 no indiscretion in giving it now and here : — 
 
 " Mr DEAR Sir, — Our excellent friend Jolin Blackwood has 
 kindly undertaken to put tMs letter into your hand at Bowness, 
 
MEMOIE. 55 
 
 or if not, to find your direction there and forward it to you. My 
 health, has become very lately so precarious that I have been 
 iaterdicted by my medical adviser from lecturing this ensuing 
 session, and I can think of no man so qualified meanwhile to dis- 
 charge for me the duties of my Chair as yourself. I am therefore 
 most anxious, without delay, to see you here, when I will explain 
 fully to you what will be required from you. As yet the matter 
 is in my own hand, and I do not fear that, though laborious, your 
 dufies wiU be agreeable. You will have to give a course of lec- 
 tures on Moral Philosophy to my class during my leave of absence 
 from College. It is absolutely nefcessary that you should be with 
 me iw/mediately for a day, that you may empower me to say that 
 I can depend on you, for not a word can I utter publicly or 
 privately without a perfect understanding with you. I shall 
 therefore be looking for you in return to this, and be most happy 
 to receive you in my house on your arrival. — Yours, with all 
 esteem, John Wilson. 
 
 " 6 Glouoestee Place, EDnfBUEGH, 
 Se^pt. 29(A, 1851." 
 
 Here seeine,d an opening every way congenial, for 
 William had, as we have seen, a great respect for Scotch 
 philosophy, and looked upon the duties of a Chair in a 
 Scotch University as most honourable and useful. He 
 has told me that he asked for two hours of deliberation, 
 and carried the matter out, to be revolved and decided 
 in the course of his morning's walk. He decided to 
 decliae. Swayed by some scruples (how needless !) as 
 to his fitness, possibly by some other scruples— for he 
 was too truthful ever to profess certainty where he was 
 conscious of doubt, — swayed, perhaps, by the spell of 
 the mountains and the life of unfettered thought, by 
 the " spell of the desk," on which already lay the early 
 pages of ' Thorndale.' At all events he did decline, nor 
 have I ever heard him express a regret that he did so. 
 I gain a glimpse of him at this time from a letter of 
 
56 MBMOIE. 
 
 Mr Blackwood's, -written to me after I lost him : " I re- 
 member going up to the Lakes a great many years ago, 
 and finding him all alone at Bowness. It made me sad 
 to leave him so solitary, as I felt that his fine sensitive 
 nature required some one ever nigh who could sym- 
 pathise with him." 
 
 In the May of 1852, a heavy blow fell upon William 
 Smith. His favourite brother Theyre, at that time 
 rector of Wymondham, in Norfolk, died suddenly and 
 prematurely. Thenceforth Brighton, where Mrs Theyre 
 Smith and her children made their home, became a 
 centre of tenderer interest to William, and his constant 
 winter resort. 
 
 It was in the same year that my husband exchanged 
 Windermere for Keswick Lake, the lovely Derwent- 
 water, afterwards so dear to us both. There the summer 
 solitude was less entirely unbroken than heretofore. 
 He was introduced by an early friend, who had left the 
 Bar for the Church (the Eev. J. H. Smith, of Leaming- 
 ton), to Dr Lietch, a physician who had been led by ill- 
 health to give up practice in a large town, and benefit 
 a then comparatively retired district by his active and 
 enlightened benevolence. How refreshing the society 
 of each to the other appears from a letter written to me 
 by Dr Lietch in the October of 1872 :— 
 
 " In 1852, '53, and '54, when your husband was at work on 
 ' Thorndale,' I saw much of him ; the old felled spruce-tree, con- 
 verted into a rude seat on the hill of Faw Park, is still, or was 
 last year, in existence, on which we often sat and talked of many 
 things, which, when ' Thorndale ' was published and sent to me 
 by him, were vividly recalled to me. At that time there was 
 something of Clarence in him, something (at times much) of 
 Cyril, occasionally gloomy flashes of Seckendorf, and frequently 
 
MEMOIK. 57 
 
 ' the perfect tranquillity with, which the poet would admit, on 
 some most momentous subjects, his profound ignorance.' The 
 ' wistful perpetual argument ' which was his life was then going 
 on with incessant energy, and was more visible to me then than 
 during the last twelve or fifteen years of his life, when I saw less 
 of him, and when, indeed, your presence and love had silenced 
 many conflicts, and reconciled him to many doubts and difficulties 
 in this incomprehensible world." 
 
 Several summers had now iDeen spent at Portinscale, 
 a pretty hamlet within a short walk of Dr and Mrs 
 Lietch's cheerful and kindly home ; but in 1856 an 
 attractive row of new lodging-houses, and the close 
 vicinity of the very excellent library that the town of 
 Keswick possesses, induced William Smith to move to 
 3 Derwentwater Place. And there, in a light, pleasant, 
 three-windowed room, with peeps of lake and moun- 
 tains, 'Thorndale' was getting finished. I transcribe 
 a passage from an article on Landor, written in 1853, 
 which appears to me interesting as virtually a criticism 
 and a justification from the pen of the author of the 
 form his own book in great measure assumed : — 
 
 " The dialogue, as we have intimated, has lost ground 
 amongst us as a form of composition, and there are 
 other reasons than the caprice of fashion or the love of 
 change for this general distaste towards it. In an age 
 where inany books are to be read, we like to come at 
 once and rapidly to the gist of the matter ; we wish to 
 be led straightway to the conclusion we are finally to 
 rest iu. We have little time to spare, and cannot 
 afford to be bandied about from one speaker to another. 
 Why this circuitous path, when we might have gone in 
 a direct road from one point to the other ? Why this 
 zigzag, this tacking about, as if we were for ever under 
 
58 MEMOIE. 
 
 contrary winds 1 Or let it be the line of beauty itself 
 we are illustrating, why these undulations here when 
 we have our wicket-gate before us, and might reach it 
 by a straight and level path ? It is stUl worse when 
 there is no wicket-gate to enter, no final conclusion to 
 rest in, and a dialogue replete with thought and dis- 
 cussion proves to be wjitten with a dramatic rather 
 than a didactic purpose. Art for the sake of art, where 
 the province is speculative truth, becomes a rather 
 questionable matter. Earnest-minded men like to see 
 clearly where it is that the author himself is earnest 
 and sincere — where it is that he really intends to work 
 upon their conviction, and where he is merely exercising 
 his ingenuity to give pleasure or create surprise. 
 
 "We note these objections to the dialogue, without, 
 however, entirely acquiescing in them. If this form of 
 composition may be sometimes wearisome or vexatious 
 to the reader, it may be all but necessary to the writer. 
 That very incertitude and fluctuation which it admits 
 of may be inseparable from minds whose thoughts and 
 reflections we would nevertheless wiUingly listen to. 
 Men of this temper could not write at all if they might 
 not draw something of a mask or a veil between them- 
 selves a,nd the public. If it is troublesome to the 
 active impatient man to be bandied about, or partially 
 mystified by dramatic inventions, it may be infinitely 
 to the ease of the writer to adopt some form of com- 
 position which does not rigidly compromise him, which 
 gives a certain scope for oscillation, which permits him 
 to say what seemed truth yesterday, though he already 
 suspects that it will not wear exactly the same appear- 
 ance to-morrow. There are men who grow bold only 
 
MEMOIR. 59 
 
 when they speak in the name or the person of another ; 
 they could not utter the ' last word ' of the problem if 
 in their own persons they must pledge themselves for 
 ever to their own solution. They see much of the 
 subject, much of its difficulties ; they have something 
 withal to say which is worth our hearing ; but they 
 doubt if they are in possession of the whole truth. 
 Well, we must permit them some device, some fiction, 
 some dramatic form which will give them liberty of 
 speech, which will sanction half-truths and partial con- 
 tradictions. We must not tender the oath and the book 
 to all our witnesses. We shall get more truth from 
 some by diminishing the weight of responsibility. Not 
 to add to all this that there are readers also of kindred 
 minds who more frequently find themselves in the atti- 
 tude of unpledged contemplation than of direct search 
 for truth, or strenuous advocacy of opinions." 
 
 It was in the August of 1856 that William Smith 
 and his future wife first became acquainted. My be- 
 loved mother — at that time a complete invalid — a little 
 niece of mine who then lived with us, and I, had been 
 spending the early summer in Borrowdale, and we too, 
 attracted by the new and cheerful row of lodging- 
 houses, now took up our abode at 3 Derwentwater Place. 
 The solitary student, to whom I confess I not a little 
 grudged the drawing-room floor, soon sent to proffer one 
 request — that the little girl would not practise her scales, 
 etc., during the morning hours. Now and then we used 
 to pass him in our walks, but he evidently never so 
 much as saw us. There was something quite unusual 
 in the rapt abstraction of his air, the floating lightness 
 of his step ; one could not help wondering a little who 
 
60 MEMOIR. 
 
 and what he was, but for several weeks nothing seemed 
 more entirely nnlikely than our becoming acquainted. 
 
 The lodging-house that we all occupied was kept by 
 a mother and two daughters who had had a reverse of 
 fortune, and to whom this way of life' was new. We 
 were their first tenants. One of the daughters especially 
 was weU educated and interesting. To her I gave a 
 copy of Grillparzer's 'Sappho,' which I had recently 
 translated. I knew she would value it a little for my 
 sake, but it never occurred to me that she would take 
 it to the recluse in the drawing-room. She did so, how- 
 ever. Piles of manuscript on his desk had convinced 
 her that he was " an author," and it amused her to show 
 him the little production of one of the other lodgers ! 
 Perhaps he may have thought that she did this at my 
 request, perhaps his kindliness disposed him to help by a 
 hint or two some humble literary aspirant — ^for always he 
 was kind — at all events, the very next day he sent down 
 a message proposing to call, and on the 21st of August 
 there came a knock at our sitting-room door ; the rapid 
 entrance of a slight figure, some spell of simplicity and 
 candour in voice and manner that at once gave a sense 
 of freedom ; and the give-and-take of easy talk — begin- 
 ning with comments on the translation in his hand — 
 had already ranged far and wide before he rose, and, 
 lightly bowing, left the room.^ I thought him absolutely 
 unlike any one I had ever met ; singularly pleasant in 
 
 ^ One little observation of his chmg to my memory, returns to it 
 very often in my present loneliness— is it too trivial to record ? Dis- 
 cussing the building instinct in insect and bird, and their variety of 
 dwellings, he said, "The primary condition of the home is that there 
 should be too." 
 
MEMOIR. 61 
 
 all he said ; even more singularly encouraging and gra- 
 cious in his way of listening. He pointed out a passage 
 in the translated play that had particularly taken his 
 fancy : — 
 
 " Like to the little noiseless garden snail, 
 At once the home and dweller in the home ; 
 Still readj' — at the very slightest sound — ■ 
 Frightened, to draw within itself again ; 
 Still turning tender feelers all around, 
 And slow to venture forth on surface new ; 
 Yet clinging closely if it cling at all. 
 And ne'er its hold relaxing — but in death." 
 
 I have transcribed the lines, because, in after days, he 
 was much given playfully to designate himself " The 
 Snail." At the close of this first call I well remember 
 that my mother, who had been reclining the while in 
 an adjoining room, exclaimed: "What could you find 
 to talk about so long, my dear ? one might have thought 
 you had known each other for years ! " That was it ! 
 To certain natures William Smith, from the first moment 
 of meeting, could never seem a stranger! The call was 
 soon repeated, and afterwards he came three times in 
 the evening, as then my mother was able to see him. 
 She was at once impressed with his charm : " How 
 could you call him plain, my dear ? he has one of the 
 most delightful countenances I have ever seen ! " The 
 dear mother ! herself a sufferer and grievously depressed 
 for two years past, it was not frequent at that time to 
 hear her express delight ; but she was delighted with 
 him! He afterwards told me that just then he was 
 " positively starving for conversation." Hence, perhaps, 
 his effervescence and abandon. On one of these pleasant 
 
62 MEMOIR. 
 
 evenings lie read us some of ' Sartor Eesartus.' He gave 
 me a copy of Lis dramas, and the day we left Keswick 
 (just a fortnight after our first meeting) he took me to 
 see his favourite view of the Lake ; and we talked with 
 the perfect unreserve of those who hold themselves little 
 likely ever to meet again. He spoke much of his mother, 
 of his happy home with her, his sense of isolation since 
 he had lost her ; spoke, also, a little of his literary work 
 and religious opinions. I, on my side, told him of my 
 family circumstances, in which, too, there was sadness 
 and struggle. He frankly said he was sorry we were 
 leaving ; I did not say to any one, not even to myseK, 
 how sorry I was to go ! A short note or two were inter- 
 changed, then came a longer letter telling me of the pro- 
 jected departure for Australia of Mr and Mrs Weigall 
 and their daughters, of whom he was especially fond, 
 and " whose house afforded him a refuge to which he 
 occasionally fled from this wandering, solitary life." N"o 
 wonder that he added, " To' me this is no little affliction, 
 though they write in good spirits ;" and, " I think you 
 will have a little compassion for me." From that time 
 the letters grew longer. We planned a meeting at Pat- 
 terdale in the ensuing spring, and thither he duly went. 
 My mother, however, preferred the prospect of an Irish 
 tour ; and I, whose chief solicitude then was the state 
 of her health, never let her find out till long after the 
 touch of disappointment I could not help feeling at being 
 unable to keep tryst. 
 
 • I will give a few passages from some of these early 
 letters which chanced to get preserved when, at his 
 earnest request, I burnt the correspondence of the two 
 years that intervened between our first and second 
 
MEMOIE. 63 
 
 meeting. But the extracts no more show the charm of 
 the letters than pulled-out petals the beauty of a flower. 
 The first gives a glimpse of his lonely life : — 
 
 " That other boot you alluded to we should agree upon, I am 
 sure. I think there are passages in Charlotte Bronte's letters 
 which beat all the letters I have ever read. And what a picture ! 
 what a family group at the little rectory ! . . . How thoroughly 
 I could sympathise with some of these letters in which she de- 
 scribes her own solitude ! How many hours have I passed in the 
 evening with the candle put in some corner of the room, because 
 my eyes could no longer bear the light, pacing up and down, and 
 looking out at the clouds — ^if fortunately there were any clouds 
 to be seen ! I have rarely been more interested in any book than 
 this." 
 
 Here is his account of ' Thomdale,' which was then 
 on the point of publication : — 
 
 " The bgok— the libretto, as I modestly style it — is being printed, 
 but it goes on very slowly. It will be only one volume, much 
 such a volume as one of the new edition of Professor Wilson's 
 works. The title is to be ' Thomdale,' or ' Thomdale's Diary,' — 
 the last title will tell you what sort of work it is. Not a novel. 
 But a diary admits the intermixture of some incidents with reflec- 
 tion. It closes with a sort of Confession of Faith, or view of 
 human progress, which is a sort of continuous essay. Some will 
 perhaps read up to this, and then drop the book ; others would be 
 satisfied with reading this last part, and leaving the rest alone. I 
 am not at all sanguine about its success — I never have succeeded in 
 anything — but one must put forth what there is in one's mind, be 
 it much or little. I was quite in earnest when I said that I should 
 like to have a lady critic at my elbow ; because it is on matters 
 of taste, style, bits of verse, etc., that I should particularly want 
 to consult another. And as to graver matters, although there are 
 some few men whose opinion would be invaluable, they are very 
 few, and quite inaccessible. Even on these I would rather have 
 the impressions of an intelligent woman than ' the average man,' 
 who is not at all impressible, and who is certainly not a whit 
 wiser, or more disciplined or trained to thinking." 
 
64 MEMOIR. 
 
 The following extract I give because the views it ex- 
 presses about India were held by him to the end, and 
 put out in the last article he ever wrote : — 
 
 " Yes ! this terrible revolt in India must occupy all thoughts. 
 It occupies mine a good deal, but to very little purpose. I see 
 that the national revenge of England must have its course. But 
 bur Indian Empire has never been a great favourite of mine. I 
 always looked at it as leading to much benefit, in one way or the 
 other, to India itseU', but as having little to do with the real power 
 and prosperity of England. I myself revolt at the scheme, put 
 forth by some writers in the ' Times,' of governing India entirely 
 by foreign troops, presuming this were possible. If the English 
 power is not really educating Indians, so that they will assume 
 one day an independent and permanent position among the nations, 
 I really see no justification whatever for our conquests." 
 
 It was in the autumn of 1857 that 'Thorndale' ap- 
 peared. On my return from the Irish tour, by which 
 my dear mother's health had marvellously benefited, I 
 well remember going into an Edinburgh library in quest 
 of some other book, and having 'Thorndale' recom- 
 mended me by the librarian as a very remarkable work 
 indeed. Before long the author sent me a copy, but I 
 glanced over it merely; I did not read it for some 
 months. My way of religious thinking, perhaps I 
 should rather say of feeling, led me to shrink from any 
 disturbing influence. 
 
 It was never an easy matter to convince "William 
 Smith of his own success. But if favourable, often 
 enthusiastic, and always unbiassed criticism (for he 
 belonged to no literary clique or mutual admiration 
 society whatever), could afford a test, then ' Thorndale ' 
 was decidedly successful. In reference to this I will 
 here quote a passage from an article on ' Gravenhurst ' 
 
MEMOIR. 65 
 
 by M. Mi] sand, which appeared some years later in the 
 ' Eevue des Deux Mondes ' : — 
 
 "Je relisais derniferement un extrait des jugemens 
 port^s par la presse sur I'avant - dernier ouvrage de 
 M. Smith: Thorndale, ou le Conflit des Opinions. 
 J'etais frapp^ du ton de tons ces jugemens. Les appre- 
 ciations des juges ne s'accordaient pas. 'On respire 
 partout/ disait I'un, 'les sentimens flev^s du gentil- 
 homme et du chretien ; ' ' I'auteur/ disait I'autre, ' est 
 \in esprit si delicatement ^quilibr^, qu'il peut peser avec 
 une egale justesse les opinions les plus opposees ; en 
 somme, c'est une intelligence singulierement sceptique 
 et impartiale.' Mais ci travers ces dissidences d'opinions 
 on sentait chez les divers critiques la mSme impression 
 d'attrait, je dirais volontiers d'allfechement. Les uns et 
 les autres avaient ^t^ ^videmment gagn^s ; ils s'accor- 
 daient k repr^senter le livre comme une oeuvre qui 
 tiemandait k §tre savour^e a loisir, qui devait avoir ^t^ 
 ^crite lentement, ^crite plutot par intermittence et aux 
 heures favorables, tant elle renfermait de d^licieuses 
 pens^es, et tant les pens^es avaient la fraicheur, et 
 comme le duvet du premier moment." 
 
 In a note of Mr J. S. Mill's— one of the few to whom 
 my husband wished a copy sent — 'Thorndale' is spoken 
 of as follows : — 
 
 " I had already read tlie book with great interest. As is the 
 case with everything of yours that I have read, it seemed to me 
 full of true thought aptly expressed, and, though not resolving 
 many questions, a valuable contribution to the floating elements 
 out of which the future moral and intellectual synthesis will 
 have to shape itself. I have been much pleased, both on your 
 account and that of the book itself, at the dedided success it has 
 met with." 
 
66 ME MOTE. 
 
 My husband's contributions to ' Blackwood's Maga- 
 zine' were suspended from the April of 1856 to the 
 January of 1858, when he wrote a notice of a transla- 
 tion I had made of Freytag's ' Debit and Credit.' His 
 kindly encouragement was a support to me in every 
 little effort of the sort, and during the ensuing spring 
 our letters were very frequent. We told each other all 
 our interests, and also all our discouragements and diffi- 
 culties. I well recollect his pleasantly contrasting our 
 lives in some such words as these : " You are in a good 
 roomy boat, rowing hard, but with others around you ; 
 whilst I am bobbing up and down on the waves alone, 
 with only a life-belt to trust to." Certainly a habit of 
 coniidence had been very firmly established when, on 
 the 14t'h of July 1858i we met again at Patterdale, and 
 yet neither had quite distinct or correct impressions 
 of the other. William often told me he could iiever 
 identify the Patterdale companion with the Keswick 
 acquaintance. Nor was I prepared for aU I found in 
 him. By this time I had indeed read ' Thorndale,' and 
 had felt its pathos as keenly as its beauty. In the let- 
 ters I had been accustomed to receive there was almost 
 always an undertone of sadness; but, to my surprise, 
 their writer was cheerful beyond any one I knew, or, at 
 least, cheerful with a kind of cheerfulness I had never 
 known — something akin to morning sunlight — the 
 soaring song of larks- — the sportiveness of young wood- 
 land creatures. I cannot describe it, but it effaced for 
 me all memories of canje and disappointment ; it made 
 the whole world new.. Neither was he any longer in- 
 clined to be solitary. From the day of our first cordial 
 meeting to that of my mother's and my departure we 
 
MEMOIR. 61 
 
 invarialDly took long walks, morning and evening, let 
 the weather' be what it would. When it was fine, we 
 sought out some exquisite shade of birch-treeS on high 
 ground, with peeps of XJUeswater through the branches, 
 or a mossy knoll overhanging a " lake-like bend of river," 
 or a sequestered grass walk beside a most joyous brook, 
 and in such scenes as these he would read to me by the 
 hour,^ or I, in my turn, would repeat poetry to him. 
 When it was wet we put ^up with any shelter we could 
 find,, or talked and laughed very gaily under our um- 
 brellas. We were not, howeveT, always gay. The bur- 
 den of loneliness was far njore painful to him at this 
 time than when he first resolved to endure it. In one 
 of our early walks I can recall his suddenly bursting 
 out, — " I have come to envy any room in which there 
 are two chairs ! '' And we knew that the days of our 
 present happiness were numbered, and we did not then 
 imagine that it could by any possibility be rendered 
 permanent ! To both the future seemed dark. But 
 before the close of those six summer weeks, out of their 
 happiness a tie had been woven, strong enough to dis- 
 pense with any definite hope, to endure through what- 
 ever dividing circumstances or differing opinions ; and 
 fourteen years later, when the last parting was drawing 
 very near, he could still smile as he said, " Patterdale 
 was our Idyll." 
 
 Henceforth the constant letters took a different tone. 
 
 1 To those who knew William Smith, it is unnecessary to dwell 
 upon the charm of his reading. His voice was singularly flexible, 
 Tariedj and, above all, pathetic. He himself had an idea that he suc- 
 ceeded best with comic subjects, and. many delighted especially in 
 hearing him read Dickens, Sterne, etc. Yet I always grudged the 
 •.voke to anything but poetry of a high order. 
 
^ MEMOIR. 
 
 But the new letters went to the old address, for, after 
 we left, he soon returned to Keswick, and was occupied 
 in preparing the second edition of ' Thorndale.' In the 
 winter he came to Edinburgh for some weeks — came 
 after much irresolution, and with many, scruples, such 
 as will easily be imagined in a nature so fastidiously 
 honourable, so purely unselfish as his. On my part 
 there were no scruples. In heart and soul, through 
 life to death, I knew that I was his. Poverty might 
 indeed preclude much, but fliat nothing could alter, and 
 to be the chosen and th'e dearest friemd of such a one 
 as he, seemed to me, and, what is more remarkable, 
 seemed to my most fond and partial mother, a Jugh if 
 not altogether a happy destiny. I may here quote 
 a passage from a review by him of Gray's Letters 
 (written four years before the time I am speaking of), 
 because it was verified in the life of both of us: — 
 "How grossly do we err, indeed, when we think that 
 youth is the especial or exclusive season of friendship, 
 or even of love! In the experience of many it has 
 been found that the want of the heart, the thirst for 
 affection, has been felt far more in manhood than in 
 early years." 
 
 The six weeks spent in Edinburgh were for him 
 social, cheerful weeks. For the first time I saw him in 
 society. In a gathering of strangers he would often sit 
 silent ; and I noticed, with some amusement, how any 
 complimentary allusion to his book would embarrass 
 him, and make him look round for a way of escape. 
 Perhaps this may have led to his being called a shy 
 man. I never thought the epithet descriptive. He 
 cliost to retire, was more swift to hear than to speak, 
 
MEMOIK. 69 
 
 preferred learning from others to setting them right, 
 and was very sensitive to differences of social atmo- 
 sphere. But when that atmosphere was congenial, he 
 was more completely frank, and more invariably elicited 
 frankness from others than sufferers from shyness can.^ 
 During his stay in Edinburgh we were of course much 
 together, and my dear father now learned in a measure 
 to know him. I say " in a measure," for he, alas ! was 
 blind, and could not see the animated face, the smile 
 which was as it were the key to the whole man; so 
 that to those who never saw it I despair of conveying 
 the secret of his personal influence. 
 
 We could not now consent to long separations ; the 
 summers we might at least contrive to spend together, 
 — :and therefore, breaking through the habit of years, 
 William Smith forsook his dear Lake country, and in 
 the May of 1859 we met at Dunkeld. During this 
 summer a fervent protest of his against the explana- 
 ' tion given by Dr Mansel of ' The Limits of Eeligious 
 Thought ' appeared in ' Blackwood's Magazine,' and he 
 was occupied in writing a review of Sir W. Hamilton's 
 ' Lectures on Metaphysics.' Our talks now more fre- 
 quently took an abstract character. He would lead me 
 into his own favourite sphere of philosophical thought, 
 and, untrained as my mind was, any receptivity it had 
 lay in that direction. On other points, too, I could not 
 but be insensibly modified by his companionship. ' But 
 
 ' I recollect Dr Robert Chambers, at whose house William oace 
 dined, observing to me, after some humorous lamentations about the 
 universality of the name of Smith, that he had " never seen a man 
 whom he could so soon love." Dr Chambers could not have suspected 
 the interest I felt in hearing him say so. 
 
70 MEMOIK. 
 
 never was man more tender and reverent to the convic- 
 tions of others ! The following passage, written by him 
 in 1861, with regard to the spirit evinced by M. JRenan 
 in one of his early works, exactly portrays his own 
 habit of feeling and acting in these matters : — 
 
 " No man is more ready to admit that, whatever his 
 own opinions may be, those opinions are as nothing 
 when weighed against the manifest wants, tendencies, 
 and aspirations of mankind. He knows that the atti- 
 tude of mind of the incessant inquirer after truth, by 
 which the philosopher is supposed to be distinguished, 
 can belong only to a few. While claiming freedom for 
 such, inquirers, he has no expectation and no wish that 
 they should take the place of teachers of the multitude. 
 They could not give to that multitude their own 
 thoughtfulness ; they would give their doubts, but not 
 that spirit of inquiry which invests doubt itself with 
 sacredness." . . . And again : — 
 
 "Not his the presumption that would project his 
 own mind as a type for all others. ... He would 
 not intentionally weaken the foundation on which the 
 morality of more simple-minded or more imaginative 
 men than himself is seen to rest ; but the gradual per- 
 meating influence of a truth once spoken he has no, 
 wish, no power to- arrest. This he believes mv^t be 
 ultimately beneficent." 
 
 During the four months spent at Dunkeld we saw 
 more of each other than at Patterdale ; for now, in 
 addition to the two long walks, the evenings were 
 always spent together; and when we parted, on the 
 16th of September — he soon to make his way back to 
 Keswick — of air the improbabilities that occupied our 
 
MEMOIR; 7.1- 
 
 minds none were so out of the question as our being 
 separated for long. There was an autumn meeting at 
 Keswick, a winter meeting in London, and the 3d of 
 May 1860 found him and me and my dear mother com- 
 fortably installed as joint-tenants of Mount Hazel, a 
 farmhouse in Carnarvonshire, not far from the coast. 
 
 For some months past William's mind had been 
 occupied with the idea of another book, and on one of 
 those May-days I was called into his study to listen to 
 the introductory chapter of ' Gravenhurst.' But although 
 he only wrote two short papers for the Magazine, the 
 book did not get on very fast during the happy time 
 spent, first at Mount Hazel, and then at Llanberris. 
 Our mountain walks were so long, and we were so much 
 together. Nothing, indeed, was materially changed' in 
 our outward position, but obstacles weighed less upon 
 our spirits than they had done at Dunkeld ; we suc- 
 ceeded better, at all events, in pushing them out of 
 sight; and the nearly five months of constant com- 
 panionship had brought about a still more complete 
 sympathy. For under his influence I could not but 
 grov a little wiser and worthier. Parting was a great 
 pain, but this time I think he felt it even more than I ! 
 A week later we met at the house of a dear friend, and 
 by the middle of December — I hardly know how — we 
 discovered that, as he phrased it, " the impossible had 
 become possible," and that we must "live and work 
 together." I will give two grave passages from the pile 
 of joyous letters between the 14th of December and our 
 maniage : — 
 
 "And So my dear bird was a little serious, a little sad. We 
 shoald both be very shallow people if we were not a little serious. 
 
72 MEMOIK. 
 
 I make very serious vows to myself. I do hope that you shall 
 never have cause for any other sadness than what comes inevit- 
 ably to us all. I will ' love her, comfort her, and honour her.' 
 I should often repeat to myself those lines — 
 
 ' No more companionless 
 Although he trod the path of high intent,' 
 
 if I did not feel that there was a certain presumption in my talk- 
 ing of ' the paths of high intent.' Yet, although with little suc- 
 cess, and very little power, I have always put before myself a high 
 aim in my studies and my writings. And I should like to die 
 still ttriviiig, though I get no higher than to strive." ._ . . 
 
 And this, in answer to words of mine disclaiming 
 any presumptuous wish to change " the nature of my 
 thinker's thoughts:" — 
 
 " Since I wrote, another letter came from Edinburgh, for 
 which I ought to thank you still more. It gave me reassurapce 
 that my dear bird and I shall always be en rapport. 
 
 ' I could not love thee, dear, so much. 
 Loved I not honour more,' — 
 
 so runs some knightly rhyme. I, who am no knight, must feub- 
 stitute the word truth for honour, though it mars the verse." \ 
 
 In the February of 1861 I left Edinburgh, taking 
 with me, for my only portion, my parents' blessing. 
 We were married on the .5th of March, at St JcJin's 
 Church, Notting HUl, from the house of a most ^ear 
 friend, the one, perhaps, to whose noble and teiider 
 nature the kindred nature of my husband most entik-ely 
 responded. Other friends, friends of childhoodj of 
 girlhood, friends of a lifetime, gathered round! us. 
 They almost all came from a distance, and many of 
 them met again on this occasion who had not met for 
 years. One of them — my sister in heart — described 
 
MEMOIK. 73 
 
 thus the impression William made upon her : " Lucy, 
 I should like to tell him everything that ever happened 
 to me!" All were at once completely at home with 
 him. It was a happy beginning of a.great happiness ! 
 "We spent some weeks at Hastings and at Brighton ; 
 then settled ourselves for the summer at Tent Cottage 
 (near Couiston) — a green nest, with tall trees round, 
 that my beloved mother shared with us. There are 
 words of my husband's that often recur to my mind : — 
 
 " It takes so little to make Earth a Heaven.'' 
 
 Of worldly goods, so very little ! Were I to name the 
 income that procured for us the ideal of both, I should 
 excite in some a smile of incredulity. But it is literally 
 true that from first to last we were never conscious of a 
 privation — never perturbed by care. Whatever our in- 
 come, we always contrived to have it in advance, and it 
 was one of the peculiarities of my husband's character 
 to be equally prudent and generous, a combination that 
 much in my former life had taught me to prize. But 
 indeed all that life now seemed to me requisite training 
 for such "measureless content" as mine. I had had 
 perplexity enough to enhance the rest of reliance on a 
 perfectly sound judgment ;. buffeting enough to make me 
 habitiially alive to a justice and tenderness that never 
 failed. 
 
 It was during this summer that he wrote down, on 
 the inside of an old envelope, the following lines — 
 an answer, I imagine, to some conventional prompting 
 of which I must have been guilty. They are so char- 
 acteristic that I give them : — 
 
74 MEMOIE. 
 
 " Oh vex me not with needless cry 
 
 Of what the world may think or claim ; 
 Let the sweet life pass sweetly by 
 The same, the same, and every day the same. 
 
 Thee, Nature, Thought — that hums in me 
 
 A living and consuming flame — 
 These must sufiSce ; let the life he 
 
 The same, the same, and evermore the same. 
 
 Here find I taskwork, here society — 
 
 Thou art my gold, thou art my fame ; 
 Let the sweet life pass sweetly by. 
 
 The same, the same, and every day the same. " 
 
 The "swest life" was not disturbed during the 
 remainder of the year, but we changed its scene to 
 Keswick — to the house where we had first met five 
 years before — - and then to Brighton. During the 
 summer William had written several articles, — one for 
 the ' British Quarterly ' (of which his friend Dr Vaughan 
 was then editor), on the poems of Mrs Browning — 
 poems so dear to us both that her death that summer 
 seemed to bring personal loss and pain. While the 
 winter sped on at Brighton, ' Gravenhurst ' grew rapidly. 
 William wrote it undisturbed by my presence — a great 
 triumph to me — I sitting the while at another table 
 writing too. For through the kindness of Mr Strahan 
 — most enterprising and liberal of publishers — I had 
 for several years a good deal of translation to do. This 
 was one of the finishing-touches to the completeness of 
 our life. Kot to speak of my pleasure in contributing 
 to our income, I delighted in compulsory occupation ; 
 and to see me busy over my manuscript gave my hus- 
 band a more comfortable sense of security from casual 
 remarks than he would have had if I had only been 
 
MEMOIR. 75' 
 
 ■working or reading. Then, when the pen was thrown 
 down, both enjoyed the walk all the more thoroughly, 
 the more childishly — in both there was much of the 
 child. 
 
 In the May of 1862 ' Gravenhurst ' was published, and 
 we went to' Switzerland for five months, dividing the 
 time between Bex, Zermatt, Sixt, Chamounix, and 
 XJnterseen. It was our custom to settle down quietly 
 at one place after another, to get its loveliness by heart, 
 and to be free from that ruffling of equanimity bad 
 weather may entail on the rapid tourist. Our fortnight 
 at Zermatt stands out very prominently in my memory. 
 The keen air and the kind of scenery exhilarated my 
 husband to the utmost. In a manuscript book of his 
 I find, very hastily jotted down : " Two short, long 
 weeks and all my future — such is your share, Zermatt, 
 of my life. Nowhere the torrents so grand, the snow- 
 hills more beautifully set. I cannot describe the scene 
 on the Gorner Grat — but I recur to it and keep it 
 alive. All pleasure — flowers — the English hare-bell, 
 looks up from my ankle, the white Pinguicula (as if 
 dropt from the skies upon its stalk, on which it rests 
 rather than grows), shy as the violet and more delicate. 
 You look up from the flower and down into the ravine. 
 I tremble as I look below — one false step and all the 
 beauty is gone for ever, gone for me! And see, the 
 torrent - stream is so safe — just here is its low bed 
 scooped in the solid rock ; it is so distant as to seem 
 quite silent. And then the village, and the cows, and 
 the goats, and the church, and the beUs ; a great deal 
 of the praying here seems done by the bells — and not 
 badly." 
 
76 MEMOIR. 
 
 What rapturous memories of our long walks those 
 few words waken ! At Zermatt, too, we made an in- 
 teresting and enduring friendship. We were there 
 early in June, and the H6tel du Mont Cervin had only 
 two other inmates, a young husband and wife, and 
 their sweet child of three. The visitors' book gave 
 their names; they were !N"ew-Englanders. We never 
 thought it worth while to record ours, and hence in the 
 course of two or three days Mr Loomis, who discerned 
 something remarkable about the man, asked William 
 what his was. " The commonest of all English names, 
 —William Smith." " Yes ; but I like it for the sake 
 of a favourite author." And then I broke in, inquiring, 
 with a strong presentiment what the answer would be, 
 which of the numberless Smiths he alluded to ? " The 
 author of ' Thorndale.' " It was a great pleasure to 
 me to say, "This is he." Mr Loomis had with him" 
 the American edition of the book, which my husband 
 saw with interest. So began a friendship and corre- 
 spondence that were kept up to the last. 
 
 We had had some vague idea of spending the winter 
 in Switzerland, but the illness of my dear father recalled 
 us. The winter was spent at Weston-super-Mare, where 
 we knew no one— where from the 14th of October to 
 the 17th of February we only spoke to each other ; and 
 never were we more cheerful than under these circum- 
 stances. The place itself had not much interest — coun- 
 try and sea were alike tame ; but the beautiful sunsets 
 in front of our large window were a constant source of 
 pleasure, and we had Switzerland to remember. But, 
 indeed, however ecstatic my husband's enjoyment of 
 Swiss glories, it was far less exceptional than his unfail- 
 
MEMOIK. 77 
 
 ing delight in the familiar shows of earth and sky. It 
 never was more true than of him that — 
 
 " The poet hath the child's sight in his breast, 
 And sees all new. What ofteTiest lis has viewed, 
 Se views with the first glory." 
 
 As usual, during these peaceful months William was 
 thoroughly occupied, not only in writing for the Maga- 
 zine, but with psychological subjects. In the manu- 
 script book that at that time lay upon his desk, I find 
 much jotted down under the head of ' Knowing and 
 Feeling.' But the one thing in him that I regretted was 
 his habit of writing so many of his thoughts illegibly, 
 even to himself He would often deplore his own way of 
 working, — extracts made, line of argument traced out, 
 to be referred to hereafter, and when wanted undecipher- 
 able ! When a new MS. book was begun, there would 
 be resolves to do better ; but habit was too strong, the 
 pen flew too fast, the writing (in his letters so delicate 
 and clear) baffled the writer's own patience. 
 
 In the spring of 1863, after a little round of visits — a 
 thing unprecedented with us — we found ourselves again 
 in the neighbourhood of Coniston, attracted thither 
 mainly by friends with whom, during our stay at Tent 
 Cottage, we had entered into cordial relations, and whom 
 we had much enjoyed meeting during our Swiss tour. 
 One of these friends was an especially congenial com- 
 panion to my husband, and his correspondent to the 
 end. Whenever he had received any new or vivid 
 delight from art or nature, or whenever a political or 
 religious movement had excited in him more than usual 
 interest, I always knew that the sheets of note-paper I 
 
78 MEMOIR. 
 
 saw spread out on the little desk were destined for Miss 
 Eigbye. She will not, I know, object to my quoting 
 here her earliest impression of him : — 
 
 " I like to recall the first time I saw him, and the 
 feeling that his joyous, radiant expression awakened in 
 me — something of surprise, and wonder, and pleasure. 
 I remember distinctly recognising that it Avas something 
 I had never seen before." 
 
 During the course of this summer there fell upon me 
 an irreparable blow, — the death within one week of both 
 beloved parents. But my husband's presence made 
 anguish (as I now understand the word) impossible. 
 A few days before her sudden seizure, my mother had 
 said to me, " Thank God, my darling, that when I am 
 in my grave you will have one to love you as I do ! " 
 She, better than any one; would have understood how, 
 having all in him, even her loss could not darken life. 
 My joy henceforth lacked the complete reflection it 
 found from her sympathy, but it was " fulness of joy " 
 still. More than ever my companion, more ihan ever 
 tender, my husband seemed resolved that my nature 
 should know no want. Part of the ensiling winter was 
 spent in Edinburgh amid true friends; the remainder 
 at Brighton. 
 
 The summer of 1864 was memorable to us, as beins 
 the first we spent at a house which became almost a 
 home ; I refer to Newton Place, in Borrowdale. It was 
 a house pleasantly planned, with large windows, and 
 rooms lofty in proportion to their size, — a house into 
 which breeze and sunlight streamed in from the four 
 quarters ; and it was pleasantly situated, with the lake 
 and Skiddaw in front, on either side bold wooded cra^s 
 
MEMOIR. .79 
 
 or soft grassy hills, and between iis and the latter green 
 meadows, with a river gliding' silently through. It was 
 a pleasant coincidence that this house had been some- 
 what coveted by me eight years before, when my mother 
 and I occupied it for a few weeks ; and that William, 
 calling upon some, friends who tenanted it, had said to 
 himself that the dtawing-room would make him a de^ 
 lightful study. And now we shared it. We were able 
 to secure it to ourselves from April to December, and 
 we had rooms to which we could welcome friends. But 
 I wiU vary my chronicle of our outwardly unbroken life, 
 by an extract from his manuscript book of the year, 
 suggested evidently by the quiet stream we so often 
 watched together : — 
 
 " The Eivee. 
 
 " Beauty here does not owe much to utility. Not 
 many objects more beautiful or more useful, but the 
 beauty and utility seem very distinct. The river to a 
 very thirsty man has lost its beauty ; and the farmer 
 who thinks more intensely than any of us of irrigation, 
 sees very little of its charm of beauty. This lies in its 
 motion, in its light, in its endless variety, and that 
 curve which displays more of these, and suggests life 
 and choice of movement." 
 
 " All beautiful things grow more beautiful by looking 
 long at them. There is the charm of novelty ; there is 
 also the growing charm of persistency and repetition ; 
 the eye feeds. Indeed, dwell on any object, and the 
 sentiment it is calculated to inspire augments so long 
 as attention is unfatigued." 
 
80 MEMOIR. 
 
 " See how the wind gives a ripple this way, while the 
 stream is that way. Where the river bends, and one 
 part is exposed to the wind and the other not, you would 
 say that the stream is flowing in one direction here, and 
 there in another direction. We must explain its appar- 
 ent contradiction. Like noble minds, it leaves its incon- 
 sistencies to the candour or the mistake of others." 
 
 " This gnat upon the surface, it does not seem to me 
 a life, but a fragment of life — a joy — a motion, nothing 
 more." 
 
 "The river by its inundation obliterates itself; by 
 overflowing becomes mere marsh. I pray that my river 
 here will keep its bounds, and not strive to be a lake." 
 
 " There is a sodden leaf that cannot float upon the 
 surface, and yet has not weight enough to rest .,upon the 
 ground. It moves always, but is always drawn along 
 the bottom, of the stream. That is its progress." 
 
 "How endless are the charms of a river! It has 
 ceaseless motion, yet it suggests repose ; these blurred 
 shadows of the bank and trees are stationary, though the 
 water is ever flowing. Motion and shadow ; life and 
 the dream of life ; and the whence and the whither." 
 
 "The moss just under the stream is kept moist by 
 the water, and yet shines in the sun. How resplendent 
 a green ! but where I see nothing but the bare stones, 
 I find the most fascinating spectacle. There the river 
 af light is flowing. On the surface the water ripples, 
 
MEMOIR. 81 
 
 ripples in the light ; so light and shadow course each 
 other in mimic flow along the bottom of the stream. 
 I watch that under-stream that is no stream, and think 
 of what thought may he." * 
 
 " This stick half in the water, crooked to the eye, 
 I take it out, it is straight. Delusion that the child 
 detects, and that to the man has become an additional 
 knowledge by his explanation of it. But the man him- 
 self, can he take himself out of the element through 
 which he sees himself?" 
 
 The winter of 1864-65 was outwardly more varied 
 than was usual with us. It included a stay of two 
 months at Llandudno, in North Wales, a short visit 
 to Bath, where my husband had an old and intimate 
 friend and correspondent, and several weeks at Brighton; 
 and then, after a fortnight in London, we set out early 
 in May for Switzerland, and saw Lucerne and enchant- 
 ing Engelberg in their fresh beauty, and had Pensions 
 to ourselves. Our other happy resting-places were 
 Grindelwald, Unterseen, Champ^ry, Bex, La Comballaz. 
 One week too was given to Chamounix, for which 
 William had an especial affection. His deepest impres- 
 sions of subKmity had been received there twenty years 
 before, renewed in 1862 ; his constant nature preferred 
 revisiting it to exploring new scenes. Never shall I 
 forget his lying on the ground on our return from the 
 Chapeau one glorious August day, gazing long and 
 silently, absorbed in wonder and worship, at what he 
 had called "the sculpture of landscape," — "the great 
 hills built up, from their green base to their snowy sum- 
 
82 MEMOIR. 
 
 mits, with rock, and glacier, and pine forests," — " lead- 
 ing beyond this earth." Then suddenly starting from 
 his trance of rapture he said, " Now, I don't want to see 
 that again !'' He had indeed seen it this last time in 
 fullest perfection. 
 
 We spent five months in Switzerland. They were 
 fraught with delight ; and yet there were days — days of 
 .reaction after vivid enjoyment — when I could plainly 
 see that my hushand missed the steady occupation, the 
 studious routine of our English summers. Had his life 
 heen prolonged, I do not think we should ever have 
 become tourists again. During the ensuing years, re- 
 membering his own delight in Italy, and kindly anxious 
 to give me every possible pleasure, he would often ask 
 me whether I really wished very much to go there ; 
 because, if so, the effort would be made. But I had 
 always a doubt as to such a journey being the best 
 thing for him. I dared not wish it. 
 
 I will transcribe a few of the ' Scraps of Verse from a 
 Tourist's Note-book,' which were written during our 
 second Swiss summer, and published in the Magazine : — 
 
 " The lightest, hrightest cloud that floats 
 lu the azure, can hut throw 
 Some kind of shadow, dark or faint. 
 On whatever lies helow." 
 
 "For me, thank God ! although I lowly lie, 
 I lie where earth looks straightway to the sky ; 
 On me, remote alike from king and clown. 
 No fellow-atom flings his shadow down. 
 
 No shadow? — none?— Think, look again ! 
 An hour- ago that huge and rocky hill 
 
 Stood hare, unsightly ; all in vain 
 Did mid-day light each rent and chasm fill. 
 It waited for the cloud. The shadow came, 
 
MEMOIE. 83 
 
 Rested or moved upon its brow 
 
 And, lo ! it softens into beauty now — 
 Blooms like a flower. "With us 'tis much the same, — 
 From man to man, as the deep shadows roll. 
 Breaks forth the beauty of the human soul." 
 
 "High rise the mountains, higher rise 
 
 The clouds ; the mimic mountain still. 
 The cloud, the cloud, say what we will, 
 
 Keeps full possession of our skies. 
 Let clotid be cloud, my frieiid ; we know the wind 
 
 Shapes and re-shapes, and floats the glory on ; 
 Glory or gloom it floats, but leaves behind 
 
 The stable mountain, open to the sun. 
 Let cloud be cloud — unreal as the space 
 
 It traverses ; earth can be earth, yet rise 
 Into the region of God's dwelling-place, 
 
 If light and love are what we call his skies. " 
 
 " The stream flows on, it wearies never. 
 Whilst I, who do but watch its flow, 
 
 I weary oft. ' Ah, not for ever ! 
 Soon other eyes '— I know, I know, 
 
 I too repeat my ' Not for ever, ' 
 And waking to that thought I start. 
 And iind my weariness depart." 
 
 " I pluck the flower, one moment to behold 
 Its treasury of purple and of gold ; 
 The blossom, and a nest of buds around, 
 Euthless I pluck, and fling them on the ground. 
 
 Plucked because fair, then flung to death away ! 
 I might have stooped and looked, and had a blameless joy. 
 
 Nature's great prodigality, you say. 
 
 E'en for man's wantonness provides. 
 
 It may be so, but still with me abides 
 
 A sense of shame that I could so destroy." 
 
 " The stream to the tree — I shine, you shade. 
 And so the beauty of the world is made. " 
 
 Our second Swiss tour, like our first, was succeeded 
 by several months of exclnsiveljtete-d-fete life at Weston- 
 
84 MEMOIE. 
 
 super- Mare, and I was soon happily convinced that the 
 spell of the desk had in no way been weakened by 
 our wanderings. William wrote a long 'Eeview of 
 J. S. Mill's Examination of Sir William Hamilton's 
 Philosophy,' confining himself chieily to that " central 
 position in which the great question is discussed of the 
 nature and origin of our knowledge of the external 
 world." To those who know his writings it is needless 
 to indicate the side he took in the controversy. He 
 " selected to be totally wrong '' (according to Mr Mill) 
 " with Sir William Hamilton, rather than exchange our 
 real world of matter and motion, of substance and force, 
 for permanent possibilities of sensation attached to 
 nothing at all — for mere thoughts of sensations, — a 
 dreary and bewildering idealism." My husband's mind 
 was at this time constantly engaged with the problems 
 the book in question treats of ; but a remark he made 
 with regard to Sir W. Hamilton — " He loved thinking 
 over the look better than thinking over the pen " — was 
 just then applicable to himself. The manuscript book 
 grew full, but during our stay at Weston-super-Mare 
 nothing else was written. We left it with tender regret, 
 as we always did any place where we had been quite 
 alone — ^left it for an interval of social life in Edinbursh 
 — and in the February of 1866 found ourselves once more 
 at Newton Place. During the eleven months that we 
 spent there we had very frequently guests — dear young 
 nieces, dear old friends — of mine originally, but now 
 of his, for he adopted them heartily, and not any of 
 them, I know well, have forgotten or will forget the 
 simple cordiality of his welcome. It is true that the 
 prospect of any interruption to our duality was some- 
 
MEMOIR. 85 
 
 times perturbing to the student, wlib loved his regular 
 work and his habitual ways ; true that when those 
 even we best loved left and we returned to each other, 
 I heard the words that above all words made my hea,rt 
 leap with joy : " Noio I have my ideal of life." But 
 none came to us who were not friends indeed ; we had 
 no surface acquaintance, no conventional sociality, and 
 at the close of every visit we received we found ourselves 
 enriched by pleasant memories and enlarged interests. 
 Early in 1867 we made our winter flight to Brighton, 
 and for the summer fixed ourselves at Barmouth, in 
 North Wales — a place to which my husband had never 
 before been, though he had chosen it for the scene of 
 one of the episodes in ' Thorndale.' 
 
 "We had a snug little cottage to ourselves, perched 
 just above the estuary, on the other side of which rose 
 the range of Cader Idris. The place suited my husband's 
 health, and as usual we were fortunate in a landlady, 
 whose kindliness and care for us gave a sense of comfort 
 and security very precious to both. We should have 
 been, I believe, unduly pained by an opposite experi- 
 ence, but during our married life we never encountered 
 it. My husband's unvarying consideration for the 
 claims and the feelings of all brought into contact 
 with him, as well as his self-helpfulness and punctuality, 
 made him the most popular of lodgers. Looking over 
 my diaries, whatever year I take up seems to have been 
 the happiest ! William was much occupied, I remem- 
 ber, this particular summer with scientific subjects. 
 One of the papers that he wrote for the Magazine was 
 a review of a Work of Emile Saigey's, treating of the 
 'Unity of Natural Phenomena.' I think the clos- 
 
86 MEMOIR. 
 
 ing paragraphs will interest some' who -read these 
 pages : — ■ 
 
 " What if the movements of suns and planets, about 
 which so many theories have been devised, should at 
 last be studied in the movements of the molecule ? 
 The movements of suns and systems may be but results 
 or examples of those two movements of rotation and 
 translation with which we found it necessary to endow 
 every atom from the commencement. 
 
 " Weed we add that we have still to ask how atoms 
 
 came to be endowed with these movements, and were 
 
 brought into all these rhythms or harmonies ? Need we 
 
 add that our last and boldest generalisations only make 
 
 the necessity more glaring to supplement the atom and 
 
 its movement with the great idea of Intelligential 
 
 Power ? 
 
 " God, and the atom, and the soul of man, 
 Something we seem to know of all the three — 
 Something^ — and only — always — of the Three ! " 
 
 "We were seven m6nths at Barmouth. What memo- 
 ries arise of grave and tender talk during sunset strolls 
 along the quiet sands, while the distant Carnarvonshire 
 mountains stood out lilac against a "daffodil sky ;" of 
 glad morning rambles, after morning work, over hills 
 gorgeous with furze and heather ; of rapid pacing up and 
 down the bridge, watching the flowing or the ebbing rush 
 of the tide ! We had a good many brief visits from dif- 
 ferent friends during the summer ; but we were much 
 alone too. The winter found us in Edinburgh. 
 
 During our stay there one of our peculiar interests lay 
 in attending together, every Sunday morning, a rather 
 singular service held by a Mr Cranbrook in the Hopetoun 
 
MEMOIE. 87 
 
 Rooms. Mr Cranbrbok had 1)6611 originally, I b6li6V6, 
 an Indep6iid6nt minister, but at the time I speak of he 
 had seceded from that body. We never knew his history 
 with exactness, but heard of him as an earnest thinker, 
 following at any cost after what he deemed truth. He 
 was then evidently in ill-health, and had the wistful look 
 of one " led by the Spirit " into a desert. His congrega- 
 tion was small ; but loving hands always placed flowers 
 on each side of the desk before him. His sermons were 
 generally critical; but in his prayers the emotional nature 
 of the man came out. We found the contrast between the 
 cold analytical tone of his preaching and the passionate 
 cry of his heart deeply pathetic, and came away with 
 rauch to talk over during our Sunday morning walk. To 
 me it was always an unspeakable interest to go with my 
 husband to a place of worship. I never saw there a de- 
 meanour quite the same as his, — he sat so still, there was, 
 such reverent attention in his fixed glance. It was not 
 often that I had this experience ; compromises and con-i 
 formity to custom formed no part of his religion ; but he 
 laid down no rule for others ; could understand how in 
 them memories and affections might hold together old 
 habits and changed opinions ; never charged their intel- 
 lectual inconsistency with dishonesty. When I returned 
 from church, he liked me to tell him what I had heard 
 there, and if a deepened sense of things unseen and a 
 desire to live more in accordance with the highest stand- 
 ard be the best results of religious teaching, then it was 
 his comments that most helped me. I, on my side, 
 reverenced the law of his higher nature, unflinchingly 
 obeyed and rewarded openly by a transparent simplicity, 
 a reality in look, and speech, and gesture, that sXlfelt the 
 
.88 MEMOIE. 
 
 influence of, and wliich his venerable friend Dr Brabant 
 once referred to in these words, — "When I am with 
 your husband I feel in the presence of absolute truth." 
 
 In the January of 1868 we left Edinburgh for our dear 
 Newton Place, and some of our kind friends thought it 
 an injudicious move. But even in winter we enjoyed it 
 thoroughly: perhaps never more than then, when mighty 
 winds swooping down from Scawfell tossed and twisted 
 our protecting trees and shook the walls of our dwelling 
 as they passed us by, or when heavy rains had turned 
 our meadows into a lake, and flooded roads shut us most 
 completely in. To the happy, storm is as exhilarating 
 as sunshine, and I used to liken our secluded life to a 
 full glass of champagne, into which — drop the merest 
 trifle, it efi'ervesces anew. A book, a magazine, sent by 
 a friend, a parcel from the London library, the arrival 
 of proof to correct, etc., still more, any natural spectacle 
 —northern lights, frost-work, falling snow — anything, 
 everything, was pleasurable excitement. On such winter 
 evenings my husband would often take me from room to 
 room of our "dwelling "to show me" the moon, or moon- 
 lit clouds, or the starlight splendour in different parts of 
 the sky. And after standing long in silence together 
 gazing at the silent stars, he would turn from their op- 
 pressive magnificence with such words as these : "Love 
 must be better than Hate in all worlds ! " So much was 
 certain. While thus alone, from the first hour of rising 
 — when I could hear him " singing, dancing to himself" 
 — to the winding up of our evening by some game of 
 chess or cards, all was conscious enjoyment. I cannot 
 convey to those who did not know him, or knew him 
 but slightly, the variety of his playfulness, the delicate 
 
MEMOIR. 89 
 
 humour that gave charm and freshness to " every day's 
 most quiet need by sun and candle light." I suppose 
 it required a heart like his, " moored to something in- 
 effable, supreme," and an entire absence from personal 
 anxieties, enmities, ambitions. I only know that this 
 " spirit of joy" that he felt and diffused was, as far as 
 my experience goes, unique, and no sketch of his char- 
 acter that did not lay stress upon it could be in any degree 
 complete. 
 
 This year, 1868 — our ' Annus Mirabilis,' as he some- 
 times called it — was the most social of aU our years. For 
 several months we had a succession of dear friends, some 
 of them eminently congenial companions to my husband ; 
 and between their coming and going, intervals of our 
 own life. William was well and strong ; the seasons 
 were all unusually fine ; in autumn the hills were one 
 sheet of golden bracken, such as we never saw before or 
 since ; the leaves hung later on his beloved birch-trees, 
 and our mountain walks were longer than usual. 
 
 It was in the February of 1869, when we were back 
 again at Brighton, that, for the first time, I saw my hus- 
 band really ill. True, it was only, as we supposed, an 
 attack of influenza, nor did "he once allow it to interfere 
 with his rising at the usual hour and walking put on all 
 dry days. But an entry in my diary tells that he was 
 " suddenly seized with a shivering-fit,of course succeeded 
 by fever, and such prostration of energy as I had never 
 witnessed in him. The day passed, and he did not once 
 sit at the dear, familiar little desk ; dozed off over the 
 book in his hand, always, however, rousing himself to 
 give the sweetest smile and say some sweet words." It 
 was the first draught of the bitter cup, but this time it 
 
90 MEMOIE. 
 
 passed away, and. before a fortnight was over no trace of 
 illness seemed. left; the step was as elastic, the eye as 
 bright as before. 
 
 We had debated with ourselves whether to spend the 
 following summer in Derbyshire or Cornwall ; but I had 
 a longing to see the Atlantic break on the Bude shore, 
 having read of the waves rising there to an unusual height ; 
 and my husband, to whose more occupied mind place was 
 less important, allowed my preference to prevail. It was 
 a long journey to take, to a spot quite unknown to us, 
 where, of course, we should not have a single acquaint- 
 ance. I think I never set out in a greater ferment of 
 delight than on that bright April day ! But Bude is a 
 place that has its ■wrong side, " a bare, sandy common, 
 and an ugly canal ;" and my husband's first impression 
 of it, given in a letter to a dear niece, was, " that a more 
 dreary region could not be discovered in all England," 
 and that, " had lie fallen upon it alone, he should have 
 been off like a shot the next morning." However, a 
 little accident that befell me immediately on my arrival 
 (the falling of a sashless window on my hands) so distres- 
 sed him as to "make it impossible to growl at the place," 
 and its own peculiar charm soon asserted itself. Later on 
 he writes to the same niece : " These ground-swells of the 
 Atlantic will spoil me for any other seas. On the coast 
 of Sussex and Kent I have seen grand seas, but I was 
 blinded or blown away in the attempt to look at them, 
 and the waves were generally dark and turbid. On this 
 coast I have seen waves as lustrous and clear as the 
 waters of the Lake of Geneva rising in all the grand forms 
 of a storm." 
 
 Our small abode at Bude was not so quiet as we could 
 
MEMOIR. 91 
 
 have wished, but William at once set about writins 
 on a subject that had long been occupying his mind : 
 ' Knowing and Feeling.' The illusion that, as I take up 
 one pocket-book after another, makes the year therein 
 recorded seem of all our years the best, comes over me 
 strongly as I dwell on our Bude life. The bold cliffs, 
 where always there was a renovating breeze, short 
 flower-iilled tiirf for our feet, and a glorious semicircle 
 of sea below us, where, as we stood or sat near the edge, 
 great gulls would come soaring up from the shore, not 
 seeing us till close by, then calmly slant off — their 
 wide wings foam-white in the sunshine ; or whence we 
 watched the ravens that had their nests in the rocks 
 below, tumble fantastically in the air, — how these things 
 delighted him ! The peaceful days were all made up of 
 thinking, writing, and of four short rambles on common 
 or shore. He took no long walks, felt no inclination 
 for them ; but we heard that the air of the place often 
 disposed to lassitude, and our landlady — struck at first, 
 as indeed strangers usually were, with his look of 
 fragility — told me she and her neighbours noticed a 
 marked improvement as the weeks went on. The 
 summer brought us a dear young niece ; and General 
 and Mrs Cotton, whose presence in Borrowdale had 
 been a delight the previous summer, now spent three 
 weeks at Bude. WiUiam, very busily engaged with his 
 own thoughts and pen, only joined in one excursion 
 7— that to Tintagel. In a letter to his niece Clara he 
 says : — 
 
 " I was very glad that I went. It was a kind of scenery some- 
 what novel to me. At Tintagel you stand on a rook; — 500 feet 
 above the level of the sea — ^which juts out, and enaUes you to 
 
92 MEMOIR. 
 
 command a magnificent view of both sides of this beautiful coast. 
 What makes the chief charm of the view are the grand, isolated 
 rocks that rise at some little distance from the shore out of the 
 blue sea. These assume various shapes, and all beautiful. But 
 perhaps the greatest novelty at Tintagel were the caves. In one 
 of these the greenest of ferns had grown over the roof in the most 
 delectable way, and the colour of the rocks was to me quite sur- 
 prising — all the colours of the richest marbles — dark red, green, 
 yellow, but a sort of dull, deep purple being the prevailing tint. 
 In another cave it was not the colours one admired, but the 
 admirable proportions, the lofty roof, the fryrm of the whole. In 
 this second cave we saw a spectacle I shall never forget. The 
 cave led through to the ocean. It was the calmest and brightest 
 of days, but there was a ground swell, and the magnificence of the 
 waves as they filled for a moment the whole entrance to the cave, 
 then dashed up the spray to the roof, was something to remember 
 for ever." 
 
 From the lOtli of September to the 5th of January 
 ■we were quite alone, and the little desk was soon per- 
 manently installed in the joint sitting-room. As usual, 
 I have no outward events to record. A wonderfully 
 high tide had been predicted for the 6th of October, 
 such as would lay half Bude partially under water; but 
 there was no wind that night, and we watched the calm 
 sea flow in — the village lights reflected in its perfect 
 stillness — flow in and turn, having spread no further 
 than at the September spring-tides. I confess I was 
 disappointed ; but WUliam, who never had any craving 
 for the abnormal, was heartily glad that the low-lying 
 houses should escape the anticipated discomfort. One 
 day we saw the rocket apparatus used, but only in the 
 way of practice. This was a novel sight to both, and 
 a gi-eat interest. The sunsets grew finer as autumn 
 advanced, and we invariably went out to watch them. 
 
MEMOIR. 93 
 
 Even in December we could sit in the shelter of the 
 rocks without any fear of chill. The morning and 
 evening hours were occupied by the projected treatise 
 on ' Psychology ;' I used sometimes to doubt whether 
 the critic would ever let the author iinish it ! But how- 
 ever intent my husband might be on this or other 
 abstruse subjects, he was never rendered absent-minded, 
 never so much as let the fire go out while he was writ- 
 ing, and the moment the pen was laid down the brow 
 was all smoothness, the eye all light, and he as ready to 
 listen to any trifle his companion might have to impart 
 as to share his own trains of thought with her. He had 
 indeed a rare gift of sympathy. Even trivial things 
 told to him seemed trivial no longer; while as to 
 the higher aspirations and the perplexities they bring, 
 these spontaneously took, as it were, refuge in his mind 
 — the former to gain strength and support, the latter a 
 tender comprehension that always lightened if it could 
 not always remove. 
 
 We left Bude, as I have said, early in January, left 
 it for Bath, and there spent three weeks under the roof 
 of my husband's old and true friend;; Mrs Haughton. 
 In my pocket - book for this year he wrote, " A new 
 decade ; the old wish : may it be a repetition of the 
 last ! " There had been several entries of 'the kind : 
 " May we have no new years, only the old ones back 
 again ; " " May the new year be happy as the old," etc. 
 As we purposed spending the following spring and 
 summer in the North, at our dear Newton Place, we 
 fixed upon Edinburgh for the few intervening winter 
 weeks. Again in February he had for three days a very 
 shai'p attack of illness, of cold merely, as we thought. 
 
.94 MEMOIR. 
 
 Yet, looking back, I see too plainly tlie significance of 
 one night of fever and breathlessness, that made him 
 fear he was going to be asthmatic like his father, and 
 after which he rose looking fearfully ill, though in a 
 few hours that appearance passed off. Looking back, I 
 notice too a greater reluctance to go into society, but at 
 the time there were many ways of accounting for this,; 
 one, that I was greatly occupied with a dearly-loved 
 invalid friend, and spent all my evenings with her. 
 
 March found us once more at Newton Place, where 
 we were welcomed and ministered to with an affection 
 that we returned. If these happy records be found 
 monotonous, they are soon about to close. This year my 
 husband published in the ' Contemporary ' two articles 
 on " Knowing and Feeling," and wrote two papers for 
 ' Blackwood's Magazine.' One of these was upon Dr 
 Noah Porter's work on the ' Human Intellect,' for which 
 he had, and expressed, high appreciation, and which 
 generally lay upon his writing-table. I need hardly 
 say that he also read much. What and how he read 
 shall be described in words of his own, vraitten long 
 years before, and true to the end : — 
 
 "The books of a speculative man lie open quite 
 tranquilly before him, the page turns slowly — they are 
 the things that set his own thoughts in motion, and 
 with those thoughts, whether the books lie there or not, 
 lie is chiefly engaged. "What he reads is all along so 
 mingled with and modified by his own reflections, that 
 at the end of his labours he can scarcely tell what was 
 his own and what the author's. The written words on 
 the page have been like music to a thoughtful man, 
 which prompts and accompanies his long reverie, but 
 
MEMOIR. 95 
 
 ■itself is little heeded. Even when heeded most, and 
 carefuUy weighed and scrutinised, the words he reads 
 are still the mere utterance of a thought that has thus 
 been carried to him ; they are not the utterance of this 
 or that man, and bear on them nothing of motive or 
 character. Whilst the historian, in proportion as he 
 prosecutes his labours, recalls and reanimates some 
 scene of past existence, and adds detail to detail till it 
 almost appears to be again a portion' of the living world, 
 the philosophic or metaphysic labourer, who is in search 
 of first principles, and is exploring with this purpose 
 the furthest recesses of the human mind, departs at 
 every step more completely from all detail and every 
 familiar object, and gains as the resiilt of his toil some 
 abstract truth, if truth it be, which after all no man 
 seems to care for but himself. Like the celebrated 
 traveller whose ambition it was to detect the source of 
 the Nile, he leaves behind him the broad stream with 
 its fertile and populous banks, whereon city and temple 
 have been built — he bends his devoted course to where 
 the river of life grows more and more narrow, more and 
 more silent as he proceeds — and at length. stands alone, 
 in brief and troubled rapture over a discovery which 
 may still be dubious, and in which no one participates." 
 I think I may as well sum up our summer in an 
 extract from an irregularly - kept diary of mine: — 
 "July the 28iA, 1870. . . . Here we have been for 
 more than four months, for half our appointed time. 
 And hitherto it is passing sweetly, as former summers 
 have passed in this almost home. Visits from different 
 friends have been much enjoyed by me, because I have 
 had my conditions of e-njoyment : "William has been well, 
 
96 MEMOIE. 
 
 and occupied thoroughly and energetically. 
 The days are all too short. And as they fly by, they 
 bring an ever-deepening consciousness of the peerless 
 treasure of living with one so entirely beloved and 
 lovable, — with so large an intellect, so gracious a 
 nature ! ^ Never does word of detraction or spite cross 
 his dear lips ; never is he hasty, unjust, uncandid, un- 
 wise in thought or word. He ought to be an elevating 
 influence. I ought to be better. We have been all 
 surrounded by hay — the last fragrant cartful from the 
 meadows will now be soon carried off, and of late we 
 have had exquisite summer. The one apparent cloud 
 over our little lives is that which darkens millions — 
 this horrible, appalling war. Sometimes one feels it 
 almost wrong to be so happy." 
 
 This is the last of the happy entries in that book. 
 Certainly in the early autumn my husband was for a 
 while less uniformly well than usual — teased with 
 nettlerash, less up to long walks. Yet there seemed 
 nothing to alarm — though I remember his saying one 
 day when we were talking over our Swiss rambles of 
 five years before — '' I could not do those things now. 
 La Sant4 is going down." And then in his tender pity 
 he instantly added, " Let us hope only very gradually." 
 I cannot retrace the slow and stealthy course of his ill- 
 ness. / cannot — I did so more than a year ago, and 
 that account, with a few additions, shall be repeated 
 here : — 
 
 In the October of 1870 we were planning a week's 
 
 1 It may te asked,— " What were the faults, the drawhacks? I 
 answer now, as I should have done then, " / do not know them." 
 
MEMOIR. 97 
 
 visit to Coniston, not only to see the autumn beauty of 
 its woods — far richer than ours in Borrowdale — but to 
 renew pleasant walks and talks with our friends there. 
 Everything was arranged — our lodgings secured, our 
 packing done. In the night my husband had a shiver- 
 ing-fit. I foresaw a cold, feared the risk of a journey, 
 and begged that the visit might be given up. But, no 
 cold followed, no appearance of illness of any kind. 
 In November a similar shivering-fit recurred. I then 
 took alarm. It seemed to me that the flooded mea- 
 dows around us might have something to do with 
 these attacks, — that these new symptoms, feverishness 
 without a cold, were probably aguish. He consented, 
 at the expiration of the term of nine months, for which 
 he had taken Newton Place, to move to Aberdovey (a 
 sheltered seaside spot in North Wales), instead of 
 lingering on in our favourite quarters till early in 
 January, as he had purposed doing. After this second 
 shivering-fit on the 4th of November, William looked 
 ailing for two or three days, but then seemed quite to 
 recover his normal condition. The third shiver on the 
 1st of December was slighter, and the following day he 
 walked to Keswick and back, seven miles, without 
 fatigue; The fourth attack was at Aberdovey, in the 
 night .of the 18th of December. This was very disap- 
 pointing, and I began to fear place might not have had 
 to do with these shivering-fits, — that the flooded mea- 
 dows were not so much in fault as some obscure con- 
 stitutional cause. Yet his sweet cheerfulness, the ala- 
 crity of his every movement, his unimpaired appetite 
 and bright look, — all these seemed incompatible with 
 danger. From this time the records of disturbed nights 
 
 G 
 
98 MEMOIE. 
 
 become very frequent in my diaries. He was never a 
 very good sleeper, however. While at Aberdovey, he 
 took long walks on the fine sapds, encountered the 
 coldest east winds without the least reluctance or appa- 
 rent injury. I had indeed hours of anxiety, but then 
 from the time I gave him my heart and soul at Patter- 
 dale no transient ailment of his ever failed .to make me 
 anxious — to hint to me what anguish might be. While 
 we were at Aberdovey in February there came another 
 of those mysterious shivers; yet when we moved to 
 Brighton the end of that month, none of his friends 
 thought him looking ill. Thinner, slightly thinner, he 
 certainly was, and knew himself to be. Towards the 
 end of April, after an immunity of nearly ten weeks, a 
 very severe shivering-fit occurred in the night. Yet 
 though he looked yellow and ill the next day, I was 
 less rather than more uneasy; for I had now seen 
 several of these attacks pass over him without, as it 
 appeared, any material harm ensuing. I may mention 
 that the tenth anniversary of our marriage (the 5th of 
 March 1871) found us at Brighton. I had been spend- 
 ing three or four days with a dear friend in London, 
 but returned on the Saturday, in spite of a great pos- 
 sible treat on the Sunday (luncheon with Mr and Mrs 
 Lewes), because that Sunday was our dear anniversary, 
 and I could not have borne it to find us separated. 
 This time its return made us low. Ten years ! There 
 was something solemn about the closing of that term. 
 My own depression during several of those March 
 days was quite unusual, and I remember his saying to 
 me, " Ten years ! I used to think if I could have ten 
 happy years ! And I have had them." And in the 
 
MEMOIE. 99 
 
 January of 1871 he had put in my pocket-book, 
 where he always wrote my name, " One happy decade 
 over — ^will another, will half of another, be granted?" 
 TUl then these inscriptions had been so joyous. 
 
 We had agreed that it might be well to spend our 
 next summer in a bracing climate. We resolved upon 
 Ilkley in Yorkshire, and arrived there on the 11th of 
 May. The place did not attract us, but still we 
 thought of settling down there. Some delay in accept- 
 ing his offer on the part of our landlady gave us time 
 to revert in thought to our dear Borrowdale. The fact 
 of the shivering-fits having recurred thrice by the sea 
 had removed from our minds all suspicion of Lake- 
 country climate having to do with them. My husband 
 assured me he thought he should be quite as well there ; 
 that possibly Ilkley might prove too cold in autumn. 
 I do believe his kind wish that I should enjoy the 
 society of dear friends who were to spend their summer 
 in Borrowdale influenced him ; but oh, I am sure that 
 I had no preference that could even exist in presence of 
 my absorbing wish that he should be in the best place 
 for his own health and enjoyment ! But we neither of 
 us took to Ukley. He seemed well, but not -peculiarly 
 well there. Never shall I forget one misty grey even- 
 ing when we stood watching the sun set behind the 
 low hills, and he, his dear eyes fixed wistfully on the 
 west, said, as though thinking aloud, "The summers 
 will be few." I think, however, this was less the 
 language of definite apprehension than of that vague 
 yearning melancholy we all know.. When the die was 
 cast, the charm of the moors began a little to gain 
 upon us ; but we could not have secured a house to 
 
100 MEMOIR. 
 
 his taste, and he was even more pleased than I to find 
 himself again in the old home, the favourite study. 
 Eleven days of intense enjoyment succeeded. He at 
 once sat down to the little desk in the old corner, and 
 rapidly wrote the last article of his that ever appeared 
 in ' Blackwood's Magazine ' — one on the ' Coming Eace.' 
 I remember his saying one day as he laid down the 
 book, " I should not wonder if it was written by Bul- 
 wer." I occupied myself meanwhile with giving to the 
 little room where I sat during his busy morning hours, 
 more of a home look than heretofore (indeed, we planned 
 making Newton Place more of a permanent homo, and 
 collecting there all our small and scattered possessions), 
 and so I sent for books long left in Edinburgh, for 
 William's bust, etc. We had blissful walks to see all 
 his favourite haunts in their fresh beauty ; we were 
 never more gaily, light-heartedly happy. On the even- 
 ing of the 5th of June I walked into Keswick, and on 
 the way back I met him. He was coming along so very 
 quickly, looked so hoyish, I may say, in figure and tread, 
 I could hardly believe at a distance it was he ; but soon 
 I saw the white teeth shine out — saw the radiant smile 
 that always greeted me, and never more fuUy realised 
 the old ever-new joy of putting my arm through his, 
 and hearing and telling all that an interval of three 
 hours (a long interval to my consciousness) had brought 
 for each. He had had a visit from his friend Dr 
 Lietch. " Did Dr Lietch think him looking well ? " 
 " Yes ; he had noticed that he seemed in very good 
 health." That verdict was another delight. There 
 was nothing to disquiet me that summer evening ! In 
 the night a very protracted shivering-fit came on. The 
 
MEMOIE. 101 
 
 following day he was really ill. And now began a period 
 of restless wretchedness, upon which I hardly know how 
 to dwell — restless wretchedness of my own only ; for 
 whUe fever-fit followed fever-fit, and began visibly to 
 sap his strength, he never admitted that there was any 
 necessity for alarm, and strenuously resisted advice or 
 change of place. In a letter to a niece written at this 
 time, I mention that when most suffering he would only 
 stroke my face and say, " I am so sorry for yov,." But 
 a remarkable strength of will pitted itself against the 
 malady. He would not give in. After a sleepless 
 night (burning skin and flying pulse) he would still rise 
 early, still take his cold bath, still carry on all the habits 
 of health — even to the sitting at the desk and trying 
 hard to read and think as usual. I fear I wearied him 
 with supplications and prayers that he would go to 
 some milder climate, and above aU consult some first- 
 rate physician. Por my own fears were now fully 
 roused, and I thought this obscure disease might yet be 
 taken in time — if not, that the dear life would be thrown 
 away. During these miserable weeks we had flying 
 visits from four friends who loved and valued him so 
 truly they could not resist coming over from London, 
 Wales, etc., to form their own impressions of his case. 
 Of these friends two were gravely apprehensive, one was 
 sanguine of recovery, and 'the other, though anxious, 
 because of the obscurity of the case, could not trace any 
 signs of actual danger. There was no suffering at this 
 or any time, except, indeed, the malaise of fever, of which 
 he still made light. Daily he went out, often took the 
 drive to Keswick in a public car. In the open air he 
 always felt and looked comparatively well. From the 
 
102 MEMOIR. 
 
 24tli of July to the 26tli of September, although the 
 hands were often hot and dry, and the nights much dis- 
 turbed by the cough which attended lying on the right 
 side, there was no shivering-fit ; he improved in appear- 
 ance, and every one thought he was quite recovering. 
 Even I was hopeful ; even to me the old joy returned in 
 great measure. At the end of September came two 
 shivering-fits, but they were not succeeded by illness, 
 and October passed over us, bringing, as it seemed, still 
 further amendment. His mental energy was unimpaired, 
 his power of writing,^ his spirits, had entirely returned ; 
 
 ■■ It was during this happy respite that 'William wrote his last article 
 — on Mr Greg's Political Essays. Originally intended for the Maga- 
 zine, with the views of which, however, it was not found quite in 
 accord — It appeared in the ' Contemporary' of June 1872. I give its 
 closing paragraphs, — a fitting last utterance for one always so reverent 
 of labour, and so interested in the progress of the labouring classes : — 
 
 " No one doubts, we presume, that in spite of fluctuating or oscil- 
 lating movements, or long-stationary periods, there is observable 
 through the past ages a progress of humanity. And since this progress, 
 speaking broadlj', is one with the enlarged scope and increased activity 
 of the human mind, and especially with that activity which increases 
 actual knowledge of nature and ourselves, and since this mental activity 
 cannot be expected to come suddenly to an end, since the increase of 
 knowledge, especially of external nature, seems at this hour to be ad- 
 vancing with accelerated speed, we may surely predict that there is yet 
 a course of progressive development lying before us. Of what precise 
 nature, it would indeed be hazardous to predict. The knowledge yet 
 to be acquired, the additional inventions and expedients of a* future 
 age, its modified passions, its new sentiments; cannot be known to us 
 now. But we know that scientific knowledge, as a general rule, leads 
 to improvements in industrial art, and thus i multiplies those products 
 which render life agreeable and civilised. A larger number enjoying 
 all those advantages of temperate pleasure and healthful occupation, 
 of amenity of manners and culture of mind, which only a minority 
 enjoys at present — this alone would be an immense progress, and this 
 we may venture to prophesj'. 
 
 " It is as if the student of botany and vegetable physiology had the 
 
MEMOIR. 103 
 
 the most marked difference was that he did not run up- 
 stairs two steps at a time, as till this summer he had 
 invariahly done. A dear friend who had not seen him 
 for more than a year, and who now paid us a brief 
 visit, saw nothing in his ajppearance to alarm, was not 
 even struck with his increased thinness, and I believe 
 
 growth of a plant exhibited before him up to a certain point, and had 
 to predipt how ii would grow on. Something he has gathered of the 
 laws of vegetable growth, and he doubts not that it will grow higher 
 and put forth fresh leaves like those which it has already produced. 
 But let us say this plant has not j'et blossomed, how is he to fore- 
 tell what the blossom will be, or what the last fruit will be! The 
 student of humanity is in some such position. He has half the growth 
 befee him ; how is he to predict the other half ? Precisely he cannot. 
 But lie, too, knows something of the laws or method of human growth 
 Like the botanist, he can say of this plant that it will grow higher, 
 and expand its branches, and multiply its leaves. What if there is a 
 blossom and a fruitage yet to come ? Of that he can say nothing. An 
 evolution stUl in the future cannot enter into science, since it does not 
 enter into knowledge at all. 
 
 "Even this superficial and rapid survey of what may be acquired by 
 studying man in history, may indicate how such acquisitions may aid 
 or guide or console us, when we are involved in certain of oiir social 
 and political problems. We find the artisan and the labourer urging 
 their claim to be admitted \^•ithin the inner circle of civilised life. They 
 urge it rudely, perhaps prematurely; they occasion alarm and con- 
 Memation by their clamour and their threats. Nevertheless that they 
 do urge their claim is a good augury. It is tfie right desire, and indi- 
 cates that some step has been already made towards its fulfilment. 
 And that general progress of society in art and knowledge, on which 
 we can most securely calculate, is of such a nature as to guarantee its 
 future fulfilment. The movement is one not to be absolutely and 
 resolutely opposed, but the statesman's task is to moderate, guide, 
 and render it safe. Task hard enough, it must be admitted. Much 
 turmoil and many terrors will probably attend the movement. But 
 if ultimately what is most refined and enjoyable in human life should 
 be participated in by the hand-worker as well as the head- worker, this 
 ■would not only be the extension of culture and happiness, but it 
 would put our civilisation on a broader and safer basis." 
 
104 MEMOIK. 
 
 secretly thought my accounts of his illness had been 
 exaggerated by affection. But it is affection that is 
 clear-sighted. 
 
 Early in November William caught cold. It did not 
 threaten to be even a severe cold ; but just when I was 
 rejoicing over its passing away, on the night of the 9th 
 a terrible shivering-fit came on. From this time his 
 illness — I can now see— steadily advanced. But while 
 what is the irrevocable past was stiU the fluctuating 
 present, there were gleams of hope. O how many 
 hopes I was called upon to surrender ! He now began 
 to lay more stress upon this persistent fever than he 
 had ever before consented to do, and to notice the 
 decline of his strength. He consented to leave Borrow- 
 dale for Brighton on the 1st of December ; sea-air we 
 thought might be of use, and there further advice was 
 to be had. He bore the journey well, slept well 
 during our one night in London, and when we got to 
 Brighton about two the following day, went as usual 
 down to the shorCi just to have a peep at the sea before 
 our three-o'clock dinner, while I prepared his sister-in- 
 law and loving nieces for his look of extreme illness ; 
 for the repeated feverish attacks during November had 
 reduced him extremely, and the complexion wa'fe dark 
 and sallow. Still the bright, sweet smile, that only got 
 brighter and sweeter to the last, the animated manner, 
 and above all, the interest he took in everything and 
 everybody but his own self and his own state, prevented 
 his friends from realising that he was dangerously ill. 
 He was disappointed to find that instead of strengthen- 
 ing him, Brighton seemed rather to weaken, and some- 
 times he regretted that he had left the Lake-country 
 
MEMOIR. 105 
 
 home. But still, during December, he was able to walk 
 three miles and more. However, since change of place 
 did not work improvement, he did consent to see a 
 medical friend, — one who knew his constitution, and 
 took the kindliest interest in his case. Here was the 
 rising of another hope ! Tonics, opiates— these he had 
 made no trial of — ^perhaps the system would respond to 
 these ! The year ended with just a ray of light ; yet 
 it was some time about its close that he one day said 
 suddenly to me : " Oh, Lucy, we wiU go off together to 
 the country, have done with medicines and doctors, and 
 there we will calmly and quietly await the inevitable 
 end, and we will love each other to the last." (I won- 
 der now how I bore the agonising terror of those daySj 
 as I should have wondered then how days of solitude 
 and vain yearning such as these could be borne !) And 
 in my pocket-book for 1872, his last entry of my name 
 is accompanid by these ominous words : " The new 
 year has less of hope, but more of love and gratitude, 
 than any of its predecessors." Tonics and opiates we 
 soon found only destroyed his appetite, and did not 
 avert the dreaded shivering-fits. About the middle of 
 January fever began to come on every morning after 
 breakfast. The nights were invariably broken; lying 
 on the right side became more and more impossible 
 because of the cough induced ; but, strange to say, loss 
 of sleep did not seem to make him worse ; on the con- 
 trary, I often noticed that the better the night the more 
 languid the day. But those anxious nights were not 
 all unhappy ; he used to be not merely cheerful, but 
 playful, during those sleepless hours. Nothing pro- 
 voked a gesture or tone of impatience, stiU less a com- 
 
106 MBMOIE. 
 
 plaint; it was always the alleviations on whicli lie 
 dwelt:— how comfortable the bed, the room, the fire- 
 light! how delicious the beaten-up egg and sherry; 
 how pleasant to have the candle lit and placed beside 
 him ; how pleasant to be warmly wrapped up, and to 
 have book or newspaper given him to read for an hour 
 or so ! It was about the middle of January that he 
 began to find the walks he had persistently taken " do 
 him more harm than good," tire him overmuch, and he 
 now gladly consented to the drives his dear niece Clara 
 was only too happy to offer him. In the days of 
 health he preferred his own Hght, rapid walking to the 
 most luxurious of carriages ; now the daily drive with 
 the sweet, affectionate companion — ^tender to him as a 
 daughter, with whom he had aU the ease of a father, 
 could speak or be silent at wiU — this became the 
 greatest refreshment and pleasure. Oh, I thankfully 
 record everything that made this last illness easier to 
 him ! In our happy days we had all, and abounded ; 
 now, when we might for the first time have discovered 
 that we were poor, loving hearts made their wealth 
 minister to his comfort. How he used to watch for 
 " the dear grey horses " ! In this way he got the fresh 
 air, and saw the sea and the clouds. And when he 
 came in, and had taken his luncheon, there was always 
 an interval of comparative strength, and a short walk 
 could still be enjoyed. It was on the night of the 22d 
 of January that a shivering-fit of peculiar intensity re- 
 duced my husband to such a degree of weakness that 
 he, for the first time, allowed me to remain in the room 
 to help him while dressing. For the first time I be- 
 came /tf% aware of the extent of his emaciation, and in 
 
MEMOIR. 107 
 
 my misery I besought him to try at least what homoeo- 
 pathy might avail in a case evidently not calculated for 
 other treatment — Dr Allen, the kind friend who had 
 hitherto attended him, gladly consenting. He, it ap- 
 peared, had had no hope from the first. In his opinion 
 the lungs were obscurely affected. Dr Hilbers, the 
 homoeopathic physician, thought the defective action 
 of the heart was the chief danger. One thing was eer- 
 , tain — I see it now — daily he wasted. In the middle 
 ages it might have been supposed that his waxen effigy 
 was being slowly melted by some cruel witchcraft, so 
 singular and anomalous the case. If consumption of 
 the lungs, then many of its characteristic symptoms 
 were wanting : no expectoration, no night-perspirations, 
 no pain in the side, no physical disagreeables such as 
 would have distressed his exceeding fastidious refine- 
 ment. Only the fever in the morning, for the hour or 
 two after breakfast, when the book fell from the languid 
 hand, and he dozed, oppressed by an " unaccountable 
 weakness," yet always willing to rouse himself to take 
 his (fortunately) tasteless medicine, to give kind looks 
 and words in return, to get ready for his drive. The 
 afternoons were the best part of the day — the afternoons 
 and the evenings. And during these he had frequently 
 visits from congenial friends. One was a Mr Carpenter, 
 a remarkable man, philosopher and philanthropist, — a 
 man of most active benevolence and most fervent piety 
 (not of the dogmatic kind), who had valued my hus- 
 band's works before he came to know and still more 
 highly value him. Mr Carpenter's visits were always 
 a pleasure ; and the two would discuss politics and 
 general questions with quite eager earnest. One day 
 
108 MEMOIE. 
 
 in February, Professor Maurice, an early friend of Wil- 
 liam's, not met for many years, made him a long caU.^ 
 During these winter months my husband had not only 
 constant visits from two loved nieces, hut he saw some- 
 thing of three of his favourite nephews, and much en- 
 joyed getting them to talk of their own lives. Never 
 did he dwell upon himself— never in health, never in 
 illness ! He was self-forgetting to a degree I have not 
 seen nor shall see equalled. It was the childlike atti- . 
 tude of listener that bright intelligence usually chose 
 to occupy. Yet sometimes, through all the weakness, 
 there would be bursts of energj"^ on some general sub- 
 ject — a kindling of the old fervour against some social 
 wrong or political blunder. Oh, how hard it was to 
 realise that so much light was so soon to be quenched ! 
 
 1 My husband wrote the following account of this meeting to Miss 
 Eigbye on the 15th of February. The handwriting shows how weak 
 he already was : — 
 
 "... I had an interview the other day with a clergyman of a very 
 different stamp. I was honoured by a call from Professor Maurice, 
 who was here in Brighton for a few days. He was looking remarkably 
 well. Old age has only improved his ejcpression. His white hair and 
 the soft expression of his eyes made a charming picture. "Whether his 
 physical health responded to this appearance I cannot say. He has 
 the Professorship of Moral Philosophy at Cambridge, and also a living 
 at Cambridge. I congratulated him on a Professorship so suitable to 
 his tastes and acquirements. ' Yes, well,' he said, ' if any one would 
 come to hear.' It is only in some rare cases compulsory, and young 
 men at Cambridge pretty well limit themselves to what tells on their 
 examination. This he looks upon as a great evil, and I have myself 
 always humbly thought that the system of competitive examination 
 was carried to a baneful extent. He regretted that the colleges for 
 women would be regulated on the same falsetto system as that for 
 young men, and the ambition of standing first and in the first class 
 would take the place of a real love of study — of knowledge for its 
 sake. " 
 
MEMOIR. 109 
 
 And indeed there were some signs of improvement 
 during the month of February.i Appetite returned; 
 he enjoyed the food he took; there were many days 
 when recovery did not seem to be impossible. I had 
 seen my mother, when several years older than Wil- 
 liam, recover from greater prostration and apparently 
 an equal amount of anomalous illness. Neither did 
 Dr Hilbers (who was kinder than I can express) forbid 
 me all hope. He once spoke, in answer to a question 
 of mine as to months, of my " possibly having him for 
 years." Sometimes he would tell me, with a beaming 
 smile, that the pulse was better, that he was " satisfied." 
 I do not think, however, that I ever had any hope of 
 actual recovery. I think I knew " by the love that was 
 in my heart " what the end would be. But not how 
 near. We had many dreams of another summer — 
 talked of Ilfracombe, Aberystwith; once of Nairn; nay, 
 once of Mentone! I am glad he had those floating 
 thoughts, very thankful that the knowledge of how ill 
 
 ^ Those who have taken an interest in this aecount so far — an ac- 
 count only meant for friends — will best understand my husljand's state 
 from his own description of it in part of a letter to a beloved Edinburgh 
 friend, Mrs Stirling, written on the 16th of February : — 
 
 " If you or other friends were to call on me some afternoon, you 
 would find me cheerful, delighted to converse, looking fairly well. 
 The debility in my limbs would not betray itself, and I should give 
 the impression that I was a mere shain. You would report me very 
 well. Meanwhile, this distressing debility and this haunting fever 
 keep their ground, and the next day I perhaps sit like a stock or stone. 
 I mention this that you may know what value to put on the too fre- 
 quent accounts of my dear L . How kind, how anxious, how an- 
 gelic she is ! Patience, and a more genial air flowing over me, is my 
 hope. We have been stirred to think of Nairn, and I have received 
 such accounts that, were it not for the long journey, we should close at 
 once. — Yours very gratefully, W. S." 
 
110 MEMO IE. 
 
 he was was mercifully kept back, or at least was not 
 abidingly present to him. Certainly he grew more 
 rather than less hopeful. But then I cannot distin- 
 guish between what he spontaneously felt and what he 
 wished to feel out of his tender compassion for me. On 
 the 19th of February we went to London together; he 
 to receive his yearly dividends at the bank. The little 
 trip entailed no fatigue ; and though it often flashed 
 across me that it might be our last, I think we were 
 both rather cheered by it. That evening we counted 
 up our income for the year to come, and he said " that 
 everything was pleasant done together." I never knew 
 in any man quite so felicitous a blending of generosity 
 and prudence. " The only use of money is not to have 
 to think about it," was one of his axioms. Eminently 
 liberal in his repayment of all service rendered to him, 
 giving whenever he could give with a childlike pleasure 
 at the moment, and then an absolute forgetfulness, — 
 personal economy was, I believe, not distasteful to him. 
 " Plain living and high thinking " would have been his 
 choice, as it was his destiny. In his playfukiess he 
 would tell me that when we came into our fortune (an 
 imaginary £3000 a-year that we used to argue about 
 the disposal of), I should see how reformed a character 
 he would become in the matter of dress ; but I feel 
 sure the old coat, old hat, old slippers, would have been 
 equally clung to, and that our life could not have been 
 rendered more completely satisfying by any increase of 
 means. 
 
 On the fifth of March, the eleventh anniversary of 
 
 our marriage, we walked together on the "West Pier 
 
 walked briskly to and fro in the breeze and sunshine 
 
MEMOIE. Ill 
 
 and in sheltered corners stood to watch the waves. 
 That evening there came to Brighton General and Mrs 
 Cotton, two of the friends in whom he most thoroughly 
 delighted. General Cotton's conversation he always 
 spoke of as one of the gi-eatest enjoyments procurable, 
 and her brightness and charm now seemed peculiarly to 
 refresh him. They could not persuade themselves that 
 the case was hopeless, so animated was his greeting, 
 and by candle-light the sallow hue of his skin, and 
 even the emaciation, was not startling. But each day 
 now brought some slight diminution of bodily strength. 
 On the 13th, while preparing for his morning's drive, 
 he said : " I am weaker than ever. It is vain to kick 
 against the pricks." And then, with most pathetic 
 playfulness, and calling himself by one of the myriad 
 pet names I used in our happier days to invent for him, 
 he declared he could be quite sorry for himself, could 
 pity himself. I could not help saying, " And me ! " 
 And oh the unutterable compassion of his voice, the 
 deep tenderness that rung out in his reply, " Infinitely ! 
 infinitely ! " Then in a few moments he very solemnly 
 and earnestly went on, " There is a power stronger than 
 aU our wishes and regrets ; we must not let any angry 
 or impatient feelings creep into our hearts, we must 
 quietly and patiently yield." 
 
 On the same day we took our last walk ; sat out, and 
 looked together at sea and sky for the last time. On 
 Friday we moved to the house of his kind sister-in-law 
 on the other side of the square. Painting was going on 
 at the back of our comfortable lodgings, and Dr Hilbers 
 spoke of that aS quite sufficient, in his weak state, to 
 induce the symptom that now alarmed us, and reduced 
 
112 MEMOIR. 
 
 his strength still further. His sister-in-law was not at 
 home, but his niece Violetta had already most lovingly 
 implored him to be her guest, and now renewed her 
 entreaties. 
 
 When once the change was accomplished it was very 
 affecting to notice his enjoyment of it. Sometimes, dur- 
 ing the last few weeks, he had expressed his longing for 
 a home, and now, one familiar to him for twenty years, 
 and having only pleasant associations, was eagerly 
 thrown open to him. AU its comfortable arrangements 
 gave him pleasure. In the cheerful bedroom we oc- 
 cupied, pictures of his kindred hung upon the walls ; 
 and thinking of the peculiarly tender love between him 
 and his mother, one is glad that the last chair he ever 
 sat in should have been his mother's arm-chair. He 
 seemed better that first evening at No. 1, and when 
 General and Mrs Cotton came as usual to spend it with 
 him, told them he " felt himself in paradise since his 
 move." Yet in the night, while I lay silently there 
 hoping he was asleep, he suddenly said, " Your love 
 supports me," and something in the almost solemn tone 
 of the voice struck terror to my heart. The next day 
 he had his breakfast in bed for the first time. But he 
 enjoyed his drive, talked with animation to his com- 
 panion, and insisted upon walking down to the dining- 
 room for dinner. This too he did on the Sunday ; but 
 for the last time. For now the bodily strength ebbed 
 rapidly. The last drive was on Tuesday the 19th, 
 when he noticed with pleasure some beautiful streaks 
 of light in the afternoon sky. It was a cold day, and 
 spite of all precautions he returned cliilled, and that 
 evening he had a shivering-fit. Till now these attacks 
 
MEMOIE. 113 
 
 had invariably come on in the night, and no one but 
 myself had ever witnessed them. Oh what agony, for 
 months past, witnessing them ! for I knew the fever 
 and weakness that invariably succeeded them. Yet 
 they never seemed to depress him. He would be actu- 
 ally playful during their continuance — always solicit- 
 ous to soothe my alarm, to assure me the attack was 
 passing off, would soon pass off, was less severe than 
 the last. 
 
 I do not here enumerate the remedies tried. It is 
 enough to say that nothing had the least effect in check- 
 ing those paroxysms of trembling and breathlessness 
 with sense of internal chill. Pain there was none. He 
 would entreat me not to move, to fold him closely in 
 my arms ; and so, with perfect cheeriness and hopeful- 
 ness, thinking more of my alarm than any danger to 
 himself, he bore one fever-fit after another till they had 
 wasted him to a shadow. On Wednesday evening he 
 looked sad as the familiar shudder came on at a new 
 hour. " This dashes our hopes," he said. Yet he took 
 the greatest pleasure that very evening in Mrs Cotton's 
 music. Music had been one of the passions of his 
 earlier days. Of late he had got weaned from it, hav- 
 ing a wife who did not play ; and, indeed, even when 
 the opportunity arose of gratifying the dormant taste, 
 he had seemed almost reluctant to do so. But now 
 that he was getting too weak for much sustained con- 
 versation, the " refreshment " of the sweet, slow, flow- 
 ing music — the only kind he wished for — ^was keenly 
 felt; and this enjoyment he had for several evenings. 
 It now became my privilege to wait upon him daily 
 more and more. Little by little the singularly inde- 
 
 H 
 
114 MEMOIR. 
 
 pendent and self-helpful man came to permit his wife 
 to do everything for him. But so perfect the sweetness 
 of his nature, and so exquisite its courtesy, he never 
 showed the least annoyance at this necessity : he even 
 made it a pleasure. The washing and dressing — all 
 got over in bed now — were got over in the cheerfullest 
 way possible, with the gracefullest acknowledgment of 
 every attempt to serve. ^ It was still impossible not to 
 feel happy in his presence, and I knew I had the rest 
 of my life for sorrow. Yet when I look back to myself 
 at that time, I almost shudder to think that I could seem 
 cheerful I But he had more than once said to me that 
 my cheerfulness was his greatest boon and delight ; and 
 for weeks I had had one wish only — to smooth the 
 path for him. I never spoke to him but with smiles, 
 with almost gaiety, to which he invariably responded. 
 His sensitive nature was peculiarly susceptible to 
 gloomy looks, and besides, he had not given up all 
 hope of recovery. On this point he seemed to have, 
 so to speak, a double consciousness. His knowledge of 
 physiology must have told him of imminent danger; 
 and, indeed, many expressions of his showed that he 
 understood his own case perfectly. Yet at other times 
 there was the hopefulness 'that characterises consump- 
 tion. On the 20th he told me that he had a conviction 
 that " when we got to the country he should recover ; " 
 twice told me this during that last fortnight. I am 
 
 1 On one of these mornings some sudden impulse made me say : — 
 "William, suchi love as mine for you cannot be the result of mere 
 mechanical or vital forces, can it ! " And he replied, in a tone of con- 
 viction from which in my darkest hours I gain some support, " Ok no! 
 It has a far higher source." 
 
MEMOIR. 115 
 
 thankful for every word that he uttered in this strain, 
 for it seems to prove that he did not suffer. On Friday 
 our dear friends General and Mrs Cotton left, and he 
 missed and regretted them. But he continued to see 
 friends to the last. Indeed, his nature seemed to grow 
 more and more genial and gracious, more demonstrative 
 of affection. The smile of welcome was warmer and as 
 bright as ever. The dear nieces never had so many 
 sweet and loving words to garner up in their hearts as 
 during this last winter. For me he had a boundless 
 tenderness and pity. I have memories of love and 
 blessing too sacred to my sorrow to be recorded here. 
 I had thought I might give more of his gracious say- 
 ings. But I could not give the look, the tone ; it is 
 best, as he once wrote of words of mine, to let them 
 "just sink into the silence of one's heart." Yet those 
 who value him as he deserved will be glad to know 
 that even his exceeding humility did not prevent his 
 realising that he was, and had long been, the object of 
 an exceptional affection. On one of our last days he 
 said to me, " Yours is a great love. I do not believe 
 there ever was such another." And another saying of 
 his wUl prove that however inferior to him, his con- 
 stant companion was still sufficing. During one of the 
 last nights, fixing the large dark eyes — always beauti- 
 ful, but never so beautiful as now — very earnestly on 
 mine, he said, " I think you and I should make a happy 
 world if we were the only two in it." 
 
 On the morning of Tuesday the 26th Mr Carpenter 
 saw him. They talked politics, discussed the Budget, 
 and my husband's mind was clear and keen as ever. 
 Mr Carpenter did not think he was bidding him good- 
 
116 MEMOIR. 
 
 bye for the last time, though he blessed him, rejoicing, 
 as he said, to see " so bright a face." 
 
 Even on "Wednesday "William rose at the usual hour, 
 walked resolutely down-stairs, finished the third number 
 of ' Middlemarch,' which he had read during the last few 
 days with steady determination, listened to a " beauti- 
 fully written" and very kind note from the author, saw 
 his dear niece Clara and both doctors — for now Dr 
 Allen came as an invaluable friend, and for the last two 
 evenings helped to carry him up -stairs. Wednesday 
 night was one of very high fever and of some delirium. 
 I was alone with him {always alone at night), and 
 even though distressed by vague dream-like fancies that 
 we were in an enemy's country, and amenable to some 
 punishment there, the " sweet reasonableness " of his 
 nature prevailed even then, and he showed me how we 
 must make the best of oixr situation. And he was easily 
 recalled, and always knew me. But the high fever had 
 done its work. The following morning, Thursday the 
 28th, he told me he did not mean to attempt to rise. I 
 cannot retrace the hours of this last day. It seemed as 
 though he who hitherto had retained some enjoyment 
 and hope of life, now all at once knew that he was to 
 die, and equally acquiesced in it ! His perfect calm, his 
 habitual manner, were not for one moment disturbed. 
 It was of others he still thought throughout. He 
 alluded to the "melancholy of it" for "poor Eebecca" 
 (his sister-in-law) in the half-playful manner he might 
 have had on any other day. Throughout these hours 
 of the last weariness he used some of our words for 
 different things, — for we had a language of our own, as 
 I said before. But for me he had tones of tender pity. 
 
MEMOIR. 117 
 
 For me lie "grieved deeply, deeply. He could have 
 wished to live for my sake more than for his own" 
 And then in some connection that has escaped me, 
 though I strain my memory often to recall it, but I 
 think in answer to some cry of anguish, and with a wish 
 to give me still something to live for, with a thrilling 
 earnestness of voice and far-off gaze I shall surely 
 remember till I die: "And if there be a further sphere 
 for us, it must be our part to prepare ourselves for it." 
 For Violetta, his " sweetest of hostesses," as he called 
 her, he had the most gracious solicitude. "Was she 
 quite well ? were we eating enough ?" The mind was 
 unclouded throughout. He listened to letters, talked 
 of dictating a reply to one. The voice grew indistinct 
 and the sentences broken ; but I do not believe there 
 was the least confusion of mind. I add a few sentences 
 jotted down while the blow still stvmned, and the agony- 
 was less felt: — "Throughout the day he kept telling 
 me he ' was doing well,' ' was doing very well,' and once 
 I heard the words, ' Quite normal,' as though he were 
 watching himself die. Once I saw the hands clasped 
 as in a speechless communion with the Unseen, and 
 twice I caught the solemn word God, uttered not in a 
 tone of appeal or entreaty, buit as if the supreme con- 
 templation which had been bis very life meant more, 
 revealed more than ever. When I said to him,, ' Oh 
 what a grace of patience God has given you !' he shook 
 his head in gentle deprecation. . . . 
 
 " Dear Vi was of course necessarily called out of the 
 room to provide for his wants, and thus I had the 
 privilege of never leaving him. God bless her for it. 
 . . . When my angel hardly seemed conscious, when the 
 
118 MEMOIR. 
 
 eyes were half-closed and the open lips were parched 
 and pale (he was averse to having them moistened, and 
 had said ' Let me rest'), I dared to lay mine on them 
 and say, ' Your miserable wife ! ' I did not hope for 
 the response that came — three little kisses, and the 
 whispered word ' Blessing.' Some time in the day, when 
 I implored him to give me that blessing, he had said in 
 his sweet natural way, ' I only wish it was better worth.' 
 But he gave it then. It was not far from the end when 
 opening his eyes and seeing Vi and me beside him, he 
 had quite in a cheerful tone said, ' There they are, the 
 two dear creatures.' Later — as I bent over him — he 
 opened his eyes, and with ihe same smile as in health 
 and happiness, bright, inexpressibly tender, he took my 
 face into his hand — twice did so. This old familiar 
 caress was the farewell. 
 
 "After his last spoonful of turtle, which Vi gave 
 while I raised him, the peculiar sound in the throat 
 came on, but it had no horror, no intensity about it, 
 and did not to either of us convey the fact that he was 
 about to go. After that the laboured breathing changed 
 its character. Violetta 'was called away. I was quite 
 alone with my love. I got on the bed behind him, the 
 better to prop him in what seemed an easy sleep — the 
 hands and feet still warm. His head passed gradually 
 from the pillow to my breast, and there the cherished 
 head rested firmly ; the breathing grew gentler and 
 gentler. Never shall I forget the great awe, the brood- 
 ing presence with which the room was filled. My 
 heart leapt wildly with a new sensation, but it was not 
 fear. Only it would have seemed profane to utter even 
 my illimitable love, or to call upon his name. This 
 
MEMOIR. 119 
 
 must have lasted, Vi thinks, not more than ten minutes. 
 The head grew damp and very heavy ; my arms were 
 under him. Then the sleep grew quite quiet, and as 
 the church clock began to strike ten, I caught a little, 
 little sigh, such as a new-born infant might give in 
 waking — not a tremor, not a thrill of the frame ; and 
 then Vi came back with Clara's nurse (who having a 
 peculiar love and admiration for him I had said might 
 come up). I told them he was gone, and I thanked Ood 
 for the perfect peace in which he passed away. . . ." 
 
 He was buried in the Brighton Cemetery, in a spot at 
 present still secluded, and over which the larks sing 
 joyously. There a plain grey granite headstone rises 
 " to 'his pure and cherished memory," with just his 
 name and two dates, and this one line, long associated 
 with him in my mind, and which all who knew him 
 have felt to be appropriate — 
 
 " His soul was like a star, and dwelt apart!" 
 
 Only four went to his funeral — ^viz., Clara's husband. 
 General Cotton, and Mr Carpenter (whom he had taken 
 pleasure in introducing to each other as "two of the 
 noblest men he knew"), Dr Allen, his kind friend of 
 years. There were no mourning trappings — peculiarly 
 discordant with the idea of Mm — only the carriage with 
 " the dear grey horses " followed, and in it hearts that 
 valued him. A clergyman who had known him, not 
 long but well, in our Borrowdale home, asked whether 
 he might come and read the Service. This will show 
 the feelings my husband inspired in those whose thoughts 
 were not his. Indeed, I never knew a high moral nature 
 that did not at once recognise the purity, righteousness. 
 
120 MEMOIR 
 
 and holiness of his. In the case of all such the sense 
 of differing opinions melted away under the influence of 
 his character. To men of negative views, the possibility 
 of a future life seemed to acquire a deeper interest now 
 that he had passed away ; to those whose faith in im- 
 mortality was firmest, the conception of spiritual enjoy- 
 ment became aU the clearer for having known one so 
 spiritually-minded, so purely searching after the truth. 
 I might multiply testimonies to this effect, hut they are 
 not needed here. If, however, the appreciation of the 
 cultivated and thoughtful seem a mere matter of course, 
 it was yet not miore marked or more unfailing than the 
 love he, shy and silent towards them, won from all the 
 simple and uneducated who were brought into frequent 
 contact with him. Something in his courtesy elevated 
 them, something in his brightness cheered. I do not 
 think any person who ever spoke to hiiii half-a-dozen 
 times was quite indifferent to him. No man sought 
 love less, or was less careful about the impression he 
 made on others. But love unsought came largely to 
 him, and during his last iUness I think he discovered, 
 with something of sweet and tender surprise, how very 
 dear he was to many ! It was, I dare to believe, a 
 gentle, a cheerful last illness ! Of him every memory 
 is sweet and elevating; and I record here, that a life- 
 long anguish such as defies words, is yet not too high a 
 price to pay for the privilege of having loved him and 
 belonged to him. 
 
 These last pages were written, as I have said, more 
 than a year ago, and there is nothing to add. I might 
 indeed cite the testimony of relations and friends to 
 
MEMOIK. 121 
 
 some ineffable charm in his nature, ineffable tenderness 
 in their regret ; hut I prefer closing this brief memoir 
 with words of his — and the passage I am about to quote 
 contains, I believe, the very secret of his pure life and 
 the ground of his serenity in death : — 
 
 " There comes a time when neither Fear nor Hope are 
 necessary to the pious man ; but he loves righteousness 
 for righteousness' sake, and love is all in all. It is not 
 joy at escape from future perdition that he now feels ; 
 nor is it hope for some untold happiness in the future : 
 it is a present rapture of piety, and resignation, and 
 love — a present that fills eternity. It asks nothing, it 
 fears nothing ; it loves and it has no petition to make. 
 God takes back His little child unto Himself — a little 
 child that has no fear, and is all trust." 
 
 Octohef 1873. 
 
122 
 
 CONTEIBUTIONS 01" WILLIAM SMITH TO 
 'BLACKWOOD'S MAGAZINE.' 
 
 1839. August, . . 
 
 A Prosing upon Poetry. 
 
 October, . . 
 
 On the Feigned Madness of Hamlet. 
 
 1840. January, . . 
 
 Hints on History, Part 1. 
 
 February, . 
 
 Do. do. Part 2. 
 
 June, . . . 
 
 Wild Oats — ^A New Species. 
 
 September, . 
 
 The Boundary Question. 
 
 December, . 
 
 On Population (a Review of Alison). 
 
 1841. March, . . 
 
 Wordsworth. 
 
 1842. May, . . . 
 
 GabrieUe de Belle Isle. 
 
 June, . . . 
 
 Angelo. 
 
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GEAVENHURST 
 
 OR 
 
 THOUGHTS ON GOOD AND EVIL 
 
 BT 
 
 WILLIAM SMITH 
 
 AUTHOR OF * THORNDALE,' ETC. 
 
 " The Whole is One."— Meatic Philosophy. 
 " From harmony to harmony."— DRYDEl)'. 
 
 SECOND edition: mdocclxxv 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 INTEODnOTION, 
 
 PAG13 
 
 131 
 
 PART I.— EXPOSITION. 
 
 CHAP. 
 
 I. PAIN AND PAIHFUL EMOTION, 
 II. TOO MUCH EVIL, .... 
 ni. MOEAL EVIL, .... 
 
 IV. REMEDIABLE EVILS, OE MAN PEOGEESSIVE, 
 V. THE IRREMEDIABLE, 
 
 162 
 167 
 173 
 
 181 
 188 
 
 PART II.— CONVERSATIONS. 
 
 CONV. 
 
 I. INEQUALITY OF HAPPINESS, . ... 195 
 
 II. CRIME AND ITS PUNISHMENT— THE RATIONALE OF PUNISHMENT, 209 
 IIL THE EAINBOW ; OR, SUFFEEIHQ AN ELEMENT IN OUR HIGHEST 
 
 POEMS OF MENTAL LIFE, ..... 221 
 IV. THE DEVELOPMENT OP HUMAN SOCIETY INSEPARABLE FROM 
 
 CONTEST AND DIVISION, ..... 240 
 
 V. EXPLANATORY HINTS ON SEVERAL TOPICS, . . . 267 
 
 VI. THE WHOLE IS ONE, ...... 294 
 
GKAVENHUEST; 
 
 OK, 
 
 THOUGHTS ON GOOD AND EVIL, 
 
 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 I CALL this somewtat irregular essay on a very old subject 
 by tlie name of the place in which it was written, because 
 allusions to that place and its inhabitants, and some conver- 
 sations with neighbouring friends, have crept into it. 
 
 One evening, when returning from my walk through a 
 village which, at least in these pages, bears the name of 
 Gfravenhurst, I found myself meditating on the old problem 
 of good and evil, and that apparently disproportionate amount 
 of evil which has often perplexed profoundest thinkers, and 
 which has often startled into thought the most simple-hearted 
 of men, when suffering themselves under any sharp calamity. 
 A visit paid to a poor woman in distress, and a conversation 
 held with a dear old friend who keeps alive in me the habit 
 of philosophical discussion, had led my thoughts in this 
 direction. It was the hour of sunset. As I paused upon 
 the parapet of our little bridge, the distant Welsh hills were 
 glowing in their purple splendour ; the river ran gold at my 
 
132 GEAVENHURST. 
 
 feet ; every branch of every graceful tree that hung silently 
 in the air, received and reflected a new heauty from that 
 entire scene of enchantment, to which also it brought its own 
 contribution. Such harmony there is in nature. The whole, 
 which is formed itself of separate parts, gives to each part its 
 meaning and its charm. Yet even here, in this scene of en- 
 chantment, I was compelled to recall to my imagination that 
 poor woman whose desolate hearth I had lately visited, — I 
 was compelled to revive those discordant scenes of war, of 
 carnage, of treachery, oi famine, which my friend, an old 
 Indian General, had been dilating upon. No harmony then, 
 am} little peace, in this other world of Humanity. Is there 
 truly some .diabolic element amongst us? Does disorder 
 reign in the highest part of creation 1 Has the beneficent 
 harmony which human nature should disclose been invaded, 
 broken up, irrecoverably destroyed by some tyrannous spirit 
 of evU 1 It seems so. 
 
 And yet — I reflected within myself — since wherever 
 science has penetrated, disorder and confusion disappear, 
 and a harmonious whole is presented to us, it may happen 
 that this sense of diabolic confusion in the arena of human 
 life would vanish before the light of a wider and clearer 
 knowledge. "We suffer — ^there is no doubt of that — and we 
 naturally speak and think under the sharp pang of our 
 present agony ; but the ultimate and overruling judgment 
 which we form of human life should be taken from some 
 calm, impersonal point of view. We should command the 
 widest horizon possible. Of the great whole of humanity we 
 see but little at a time. We pause sometimes on tlie lights 
 only of the picture, sometimes only on the shadows. How 
 very dark those shadows seem ! Yet if we could embrace in 
 Our view the whole of the picture, perhaps the very darkest 
 shadows might be recognised as effective, or inevitable, por- 
 tions of a grand harmonious whole. " Could we obtain," I 
 
INTRODUCTION. 133 
 
 said to myself, " some vantage-ground from which to appre- 
 hend all the laws which govern this habitable globe — or 
 rather, the laws which both make it to be a habitable globe, 
 and also run through all the life that inhabits it — could we 
 perceive clearly all the relations which man bears to the 
 rest of nature, and which man bears to his fellow-man, 
 through which two classes of relations all his energies are 
 developed — could we also survey humanity as it unfolds in 
 the course of ages, and learn how the Past has begotten the 
 Present, how the Present is preparing for the Future — could 
 we, in short, from our vantage-ground, see the whole as it has 
 been, is, and will ie — that whole which discloses itself in 
 time as well as in space — I feel persuaded that we should find 
 ia human life the sarae complete harmony that science traces 
 in other parts of creation ; I feel persuaded that we should 
 have a spectacle before us whose tendency would be to, silence 
 complaint, and prompt and enlighten our efforts, individual 
 and social, after a more complete happiness." 
 
 I returned home, with thoughts like these coursing through 
 my mind, and for several* months the subject haunted me. 
 Now, when a great topic of this kind takes full possession of 
 you, every trivial event that occurs in your neighbourhood 
 seems to have a bearing on it, or to illustrate some aspect 
 of it ; every person seems to be talking of it, or referring to 
 it ; and you yourself are apt to lead the conversation of your 
 friends to subjects which have more or less connection with 
 the main theme that occupies your mind. During these 
 months all Gravehhurst seemed to be perplexing itself with 
 the problem of good and evil. Some of the conversations of 
 my friends I jotted down at the time, and mingled with my 
 own more didactic exposition. 
 
 When I came finally to revise my papers, I put these conver- 
 sations apart. It appeared the better plan to commence with 
 an uninterrupted Exposition of my own views, and then add 
 
134 GEAVENHUEST. 
 
 these Conversations by way of supplement, which, would con- 
 tain further illustration, fuller development or application of 
 some of the statements in the former part. 
 
 Thus much it was necessary to say in order to account for 
 the fonn which this little hook has ultimately taken. As 
 to the views which it puts forth, I need. hardly disclaim for 
 them any hoast of novelty or originality ; if I have succeeded 
 in giving a distinct statement to truths which are floating 
 indistinctly in many minds, I shall not have written in vain. 
 
 I have no paradox to startle or amuse the reader with. 
 My statements are simply those which must grow up in the 
 scientific age in which we live. The optimism that could 
 holdly declare that this was the best of all possible worlds, 
 does not belong to an age which recognises the limits of its 
 knowledge. He who talks of the best possible of worlds 
 should be able to compare many worlds together. "What we, 
 in these times, are saying to ourselves is, that this only world 
 we know anything about is essentially one — one great scheme, 
 in which the lower, or the simpler, is a necessary condition 
 of the higher or more complex ; and that it is idle to quarrel 
 with this or that part unless you can quarrel with the whole, 
 or unless you can separate that portion which is the object 
 of your criticism from the great laws or powers that consti- 
 tute the whole. You take up some one part of this great 
 scheme of nature and of man, and you, a sensitive human 
 being, exclaim against it as pain and suffering, and denounce 
 it as evil. AU this is quite inevitable ; but what you ex- 
 claim against as evil, is often the very excitement of your 
 highest energies, and is always found, on examination, to be 
 linked, either as cause or effect, with what you as loudly 
 proclaim to be good. You suffer and you resist, and strive 
 against your calamity, and perhaps this strife is the end for 
 which, you suffered ; but take away both the suffering and 
 the strife, and you simply destroy the whole web of human 
 
INTRODUCTION. 135 
 
 existence. Tear this web to pieces, and yon have behind 
 it-^— nothing ! — nothing for human knowledge. 
 
 How can I, or any one, venture to assert that this is the 
 best of all possible worlds? There may be innumerable 
 worlds, and innumerable modes of consciousness, of which 
 we can form no conception whatever. What we can safely 
 assert is this, that our world of nature and of man is one 
 great scheme, and that what we most lament in human life, 
 as weU. as what most ^tonishes us amongst physical pheno- 
 mena, is a consequence of some general law essential to the 
 whole. And, furthermore, we can assert that, if not the 
 happiest of all possible worlds, happiness, and not misery, is 
 the great end and result, the great outcome of this multifari- 
 ous scheme. This subordination of evil to good may be 
 proved, not only by enumerating the instances in which 
 good comes out of evil, and comparing them with the 
 instances in which evil comes out of good — a process which 
 I should despair of completing-^-but by seizing hold of cer- 
 tain great laws or facts of human life which show that pro- 
 vision is made for happiness of a quite different nature than 
 can be said to be made for misery. There is a susceptibility 
 to pleasure for pleasure's sake, whereas the susceptibility to 
 pain has always the character of means to end, or is the con- 
 sequence of some abnormal condition. There is a universal 
 delight in energy and activity of aU kinds, so that there is 
 joy blended with existence itself; for is not aU life activity 
 of some description ? Thus pain, when it acts as a stimulant 
 to activity, is lost in the pleasurable energy it excites. 
 Again, the sentiment of beauty which diffuses so much 
 subtle happiness over all parts of life, and which gives origin 
 to the fine arts, and makes the world we live in a constant 
 source of pleasure to the eye, cannot be said to be balanced 
 or neutralised by the opposite sentiment of ugliness. Hardly, 
 a plainer indication could be given that joy, and not grief, is 
 
136 GEAVENHUEST. 
 
 the purpose of our -world (I presume that we may speak of 
 the world having a purpose), than this wide diffusion of the 
 sentiment of beauty. General considerations of this kind are 
 sufficient to demonstrate — if this really needed demonstra- 
 tion — that happiness preponderates over misery. 
 
 I have no scales in which to weigh the pains against the 
 pleasures, the joys against the sorrows, of mankind. I cannot 
 even gather the individual suffrages of men. I know that 
 orators and poets, eloquent writers of, all ages, have delighted 
 to describe life in the saddest of colours ; and something I 
 may have hereafter to say of this eloquent and poetic melan- 
 choly. I must here appeal to the testimony of broad and 
 patent facts. Men evidently prefer life to death. Quite 
 independently of the mere instinctive preservation of life, 
 they prefer to live. This is demonstrated by the prospective 
 care they take of life, and the trouble they give themselves 
 to procure and preserve the several pleasures of existence. 
 The industry of the world, its laws, its morality — all prove 
 that life is dear to man. Why should we labour — why 
 should we make laws and institute governments — why keep 
 a constant watch, and exercise a stringent control over each 
 other's conduct — if human life, the object of all this care, 
 were worth nothing 1 
 
 The scheme is one ; we are parts of one great whole. "We 
 men are not creatures of some other planet brought to live in 
 this. Whatever may be that soul or mind which constitutes 
 us man, nothing can be more plain than that it develops its 
 marvellous consciousness in obedience to, and by the aid of 
 all those laws and forces which we call mechanical, chemical 
 and vital. We are born, we gi'ow, we live according to the 
 same laws that govern all the rest of the world. What is 
 peculiar to man is not separable, any more than the plant is 
 separable from earth, and air, and water. Nor ar« those laws 
 and forces on which our very existence depends interrupted 
 
INTRODUCTION. . 137 
 
 or suspended for our belioof. How could they be ? on their 
 permanence our very existence as breathing and thinking 
 men depends. "We live, and move, and have our being, 
 because these forces are in incessant activity. If their con- 
 stancy is our life, how ask of them to be suspended for any 
 of our life-purposes, or even for the preservation of life itself? 
 If the laws of chemistry afflict a man, he must reflect that 
 by the laws of chemistry he lives. If he thinks he should 
 have lived better according to some other laws of chemistry, 
 I must leave him to work out for himself the laws of this 
 new chemistry. 
 
 Do we ask why man is so liable to error and to passion — ■ 
 why his progress in knowledge or judgment is so slow t We 
 have our only answer in the very nature of human know- 
 ledge, or what we call the reason of man. The great inherent 
 faculty of man is the power he has of transmuting his frag- 
 mentary experiences into general truths, which serve for 
 guidance or for contemplation. But those fragmentary experi- 
 ences must come first. Our first knowledge comes from the 
 touch upon ■ us of external matter — touch upon the eye, as 
 well as upon the hand : such first knowledge must be very 
 imperfect or partial, though sufficient for the first purposes 
 of life. What the senses immediately disclose, are not those 
 fundamental relations between things or atoms, according to 
 which material forces are invariably developed. These have 
 to be learned by many processes of reasoning, through many 
 memories and comparisons. As to the knowledge which 
 men obtain of themselves, and that reflection which is to 
 control their own passions, it is evident that they must first 
 live in order to have this knowledge of life ; they must 
 first live' without the knowledge — live from spontaneous 
 passion and instantaneous judgments — before they can live 
 under the guidance of reflection, or of systematised knowledge 
 of what constitutes individual and social happiness. The 
 
138 GEAVENHUEST. 
 
 higher life must grow. Scientific knowledge, by its very 
 nature, must grow out of guesses and experiments. Eefined 
 sentiments, and passion under the control of reason — these 
 point at once to arts, inventions, mental discipline. 
 
 A speculative man who, because of the violent passions 
 and flagrant errors of mankind, pronounces that there is a 
 defect of harmony and benevolence in the great scheme of 
 humanity, stands convicted of this inconsistency. He allows 
 that the more cultivated life he admires could not have 
 arisen from the first relations man had with nature or his 
 fellow-man, and yet he quarrels with the savage, or the half- 
 civilised man, for not living this cultivated life, but for 
 living that life which was a necessary prelude to it. He 
 quarrels with those ungoverned passions and those fantastic 
 errors which are the result of these earliest relationships, and 
 which lay the foundation for governed passion, and the 
 search for truth. He allows at one moment that man, with 
 certain propensities, and inherent powers of mind and brain, 
 develops himself here on earth ; and the next moment he is, 
 in fact, angry because some creature already perfectly de- 
 veloped has not descended from the skies. Meanwhile 
 violent passions and imaginative errors, which are the in- 
 evitable antecedents to governed passions and scientific truth, 
 do not prevent a human life from being, upon the whole, 
 enjoyable. "We need not much compassionate the past, and 
 yet may congratulate the present, and hope still better for 
 the future. 
 
 The more we reflect on the great whole of nature and 
 humanity, the more we are reconciled — ^not to evil as a thing 
 to be patiently endured, wherever it can be remedied ; but 
 to a condition of things where there is the recognised evU, 
 and the vigour to combat with it. This contest with evil is 
 our very progress, is our very life — it is one with all our 
 effort and energy. 
 
INTRODUCTION. 139 
 
 This is no Mgh-flown optimism. There is no paradoxical 
 denial here of pain and suffering ; hut contemplations of this 
 kind gird us up to fortitude, and to renewed effoi;ts after hap- 
 piness. . f 
 
 It does not dismay, me to discover that our energies are 
 stimulated, our pursuits are in part initiated, our enthusiasms 
 are almost always sustained, by what, when we stand face to 
 face against it, we must call evU. EvU, to him who has to 
 resist or to endure, it undoubtedly is. In this form it in- 
 evitably presents itself. But who does not see that human 
 life, regarded as a whole, would be incalculably impoverished 
 if the energy, the emotions, the aims which originate in the 
 resistance to actual or probable evil were abstracted from it ? 
 Yes ; evU is with us, and in some form and degree must, I 
 suppose, be always with us. Even where it has been suc- 
 cessfully combated, the apprehension of its return may still 
 keep us on our guard ; but wherever there is intelligent 
 resistance or manful endurance, the evil becomes transmuted 
 into good. 
 
 Do not ask for a world without evil. Seek rather to know" 
 and rightly appreciate this our own dark-bright existence, 
 and enter, heart and soul, into the ,old warfare for the 
 Good ! It is a noble life in which this contest is bravely 
 and wisely sustained. Worlds there may be where there is 
 only pleasure, and only goodness, but we can form no con- 
 ception of such a state of things ; or so far as we can form 
 any conception, it is a languid pleasure and a torpid goodness 
 that rises to our imagination. It is not our supreme wisdom 
 to pass life dreaming of a world where there will be no evil; 
 it is highest wisdom, individually and socially, to do battle 
 for the good, so that this mingled existence which is alone 
 intelligible to us, may put on all the glory it is capable of. 
 From this contest we win our felicity and our progress, and 
 the contest itself is a great and enduring happiness, which 
 
140 GEAVENHDEST. 
 
 runs through all the ages of mankind. All that is energetic 
 and nohle savours of this contest. Ay, even what is tender- 
 est in human life comes out of some struggle het-ween good 
 and evil. Even our very piety springs from it. 
 
 Thus much for the general truth I wish to develop. It 
 will be seen that my sympathies have not been given to that 
 class of thinkers who can discourse with untiring eloquence 
 on every part and every aspect of nature, organic and inor- 
 ganic, and on the harmonious arrangement which the whole 
 displays, till they ascend to man, and there find ruin, and 
 confusion, and hopeless disorder. I rather agree with those 
 who see throughout one great harmonious and progressive 
 scheme ; who see how all in this world culminates in man, 
 and in the progressive intellect of man ; who note how pain 
 and suffering prompt his energies ; how, through error, he 
 ascends to truth, through passion to self - government. 
 • Strange, indeed, would it be, if all nature manifested an 
 admirable arrangement of parts, and an evident principle of 
 growth, till we arrived at the history of that conscious and 
 reasoning being whose presence alone gives meaning and 
 purpose to all the rest of nature. The unconscious world has 
 its end, or its complement, in that conscious being in whom 
 it excites pleasure, perception, beauty, truth. Starting from 
 his simplest appetites and passions, all of which have their 
 allotted and apparently indispensable office i*n his further de- 
 velopment, we see him rise into higher emotions, into higher 
 and higher truths. Perhaps from the elevated station he 
 finally reaches, he looks down, with some displeasure and 
 contempt, upon the lower elements of his own nature, — un- 
 wisely, if he does not recognise, at the same time, the enor- 
 mous debt he owes them — does not recognise in those lower 
 elements the very basis of that intellectual structure he has 
 reared. The higher may predominate over the lower — may 
 even, when once developed, obtain an independent footing ; 
 
INTilODUCTION. 141 
 
 and yet, as we shall often have occasion to show, it never 
 could have been, in the first place, developed without aid of 
 the lower. The whole is one. 
 
 Thus much, I repeat, for the general view which I have 
 to make clear and distinct. This will serve as key-note to 
 our philosophy. And now let me say a word or two of the 
 village of Gravenhurst, near to whiqli I sit and write, and of 
 the friends whose conversations I have here reported. 
 
 But, after all, I cannot describe this Gravenhurst except 
 by expressions which, would serve equally well for hundreds 
 of villages in England. It is a commonplace ordinary vil- 
 lage. So much the better, perhaps, for me who have to 
 treat of what is common and general amongst mankind. It 
 is well to have under my eye a specimen easily examined of 
 our ordinary pleasures, affections, miseries, errors, and truths ; 
 and I think that the more carefully such a specimen were 
 examined the more marvellous would human life appear. I 
 think, too, that such an examination would kindle in us a 
 rational love of this human life. With unthinking men an 
 enjoyment is less prized because it is widely diffused, — ^be- 
 cause, in fact, it has the very qualities which ought to exalt 
 it in our eyes, — that of being universal, and that of being 
 habitual. It is commonplace, we say. But one who would 
 form any fair estimate of the good and evil of existence must 
 look out with fresh vision upon this commonplace of human 
 life. Here is this village of Gravenhurst — now growing fast 
 into a town — with its long straggling street, its church, its 
 chapel, its bridge over the liver, its green fields through 
 which that river flows — what could be more commonplace 1 
 The country, we the inhabitants, think beautiful, but it 
 boasts of nothing to invite the stranger or the tourist, and 
 the villagers are certainly of a quite ordinary stamp. It has 
 its outlying gentry, its clergy, its doctor, and here and there 
 an exceptional character, — a curiosity, as we say. If it had 
 
142 GEAVENHUEST. 
 
 no curiosities of this kind it would not he an ordinary village, 
 but a most rare and unexampled one. But this village of 
 Gravenhurst, — seated amongst its fields and its pastures, with 
 its sky and the moving clouds above it, and its infinite hori- 
 zon, and its births, marriages, and deaths of most ordinary 
 people, — would be an endless theme for poet or philosopher. 
 To the man of genius this commonplace of nature and of 
 man is inexhaustible. The poet wants nothing else ; and to 
 the philosopher the frequency or generality of a fact, or a 
 passion, or a thought, augments its value incalculably. I 
 only wish I had the power given me to represent this com- 
 monplace in. the glory and the novelty it sometimes reveals 
 itself to me. I wish I had the power given me to teach 
 some men whom I could name — strong-headed men per- 
 chance, but prone to ponder on the mere dust and dross of 
 humanity — to look abroad with their hearts in their eyes, 
 and note the beauty and the wonder there is in the daily 
 spectacle, and the daily passion of our lives. 
 
 Commonplace! Look up ! What is that apparition of daz- 
 zling brightness rising softly upon the blue sky from behind 
 those taU and massive elms ? If you saw it for the first time 
 in your life you would say it must be some celestial visitant. 
 Is it light itself from heaven taking shape, and just softened 
 and subdued to the endurance of a mortal vision 1 It is noth- 
 ing but a cloud ! — mere vapour that the unseen wind moves 
 and moulds, and that the sun shines on for a little time. And 
 now it has risen above the massive and lofty tree, and throws 
 light upwards to the sky, and throws its pleasant shadow down 
 upon the earth — pleasant shadow that paces along the mea- 
 dows, leaving behind a greater brilliancy on tree, and grass, 
 and hedge, and flower, than what, for a moment, it had eclipsed. 
 It is all commonplace. Light, and shadow, and the river, the 
 meadow with its clover blossoms, and childish butter-cups. 
 Very childish all. Match it ! match them ! — match these 
 
INTfiODUCTION. 143 
 
 trees in their meadows, ye restless prophets with your palaces 
 of crystal, and walls of sapphire, and pavements of jasper ! 
 T think there is no better lesson to teach us the beauty of 
 the real and familiar than to read, let us say, some great 
 •epic poet, labouring to describe his imaginary bUss, or his cel- 
 estial city. He builds of jasper, and carbuncle, and emerald; 
 andjlo ! he can produce nothing comparable to that thatched 
 cottage standing in the corner of a field, with the elm tree at 
 its back. All the apocalyptic visions you have ever read can- 
 not rival a meadow in spring-time. That simple field, with 
 its buttercups and clover blossoms, outshines the imagination 
 of all the poet-prophets that have ever lived. Thank God, 
 all you who have a spark of rational piety in your hearts, for 
 the glorious commonplace of earth and sky, — for this cloud- 
 embosomed planet in which you pass your lives. 
 
 And the human commonplace of our Gravenhurst — the 
 mortal creatures who are born and grow up, and droop and 
 die beneath the shadow of these mighty elms, — do you know 
 of any race or description of beings more worthy of your ad- 
 miration ? I can well believe, as an abstract proposition, that 
 in remote regions of the universe there are intellectual na- 
 tures of a far higher order ; but do you know anything of 
 them? can you draw any intelligible picture of tb em? Until 
 you can, these men, women, and children must take the high- 
 est place of all things known to you. An interesting race, 
 these human beings. As I pass the meadow,*! lean upon the 
 gate that opens into it ; I see a little child, almost an infant, 
 toddling alone in the high grass. The tall buttercups have 
 outgrown the child ; they and the ox-eyed daisies shut out 
 from its view that neighbouring cottage which is its home ; 
 the child has lost its way amidst the flowers it had come to 
 gather, knows not where to turn in this jungle of soft grass. 
 I hear a plaintive cry of distress. Another child, some two 
 years older, as I guess, runs to its aid, caresses, calms it ; leads 
 
144 GRAVENHUEST. 
 
 it back to the cottage hoine of both. How prettily it protects ! 
 —how proudly ! — seeing that this older one can look above 
 the grass. You perceive that the little fond, and sympathe- 
 tic, and imitative creature has learnt that tender care from 
 their common mother ; you note with a smile the already 
 complex sentiment (sense of power mingled with love) re- 
 vealed in that protection ; you obs.erve how soon the thread 
 of life, and even where it is sUken-soft, is spun of pain and 
 pleasure; you know, moreover, that beneath the thatch of 
 that cottage, to which these children, hand-in-hand are walk- 
 ing, there beats some true and tender mother-heart, the source 
 of this love to one another — some "tender heart whose very 
 anxieties you would hardly dare to diminish. 
 
 Cottage or mansion, it is aU the same. These home rela- 
 tions exist everywhere, and everywhere are the source of un- 
 told happiness. It is pleasant to note that no distinction of 
 wealth or station interferes with the love and homage of the 
 child to the parent. The " father " is always the first of men. 
 I have seen a little girl carry his dinner to the labourer in the 
 field, who sat under the hedge to eat it ; no patriarch was ever 
 waited on with a sweeter reverence. True ! where poverty 
 degrades the man by rendering subsistence insecure, by com- 
 pelling him to dishonourable means for obtaining it, the rela- 
 tions of the family may turn to gaU and bitterness (which 
 should give additional motive to one and all for expeUing such 
 form of poverty from the world) ; but honest labour, and a 
 rude simple way of life, do not starve out the affections. I ob- 
 serve a pride in the port, a tenderness in the eye, of every 
 man who presses a child to his bosom. There is no garment 
 so thick or rude but a child's finger penetrates it. The poor- 
 est man is monarch, by divine right, over one little loving 
 subject. 
 
 I know well that it is not always amidst flowers that, child 
 or man, we lose our way in this world. Very thorny paths 
 
INTKODUCTION. 145 
 
 some of us tread. And nothing is more true than this, that 
 suffering of some kind runs through the life of all, simple or 
 sage ; it mingles with the pleasures of sense, it ascends with 
 us into the most lofty regions of thought. I need not say, 
 therefore, that our Gravenhurst has its share of miseries, — 
 has its wants, its sorrows, its crimes ; perhaps under some 
 roof unknown to any of us, a terrible guilt or anguish may 
 lie hid. But that which meets the eye everywhere, or most 
 conspicuously, is labour, work of some kind, performed cheer- 
 fully, socially, habitually. There is a stolid content in the 
 countenance of most men you meet ; a more talkative and 
 bustling activity distinguishes the women. "We, in common 
 with all England and the greater part of Europe, have reached 
 that stage of civilisation and of culture in which the necessary 
 labours of life are undertaken with cheerful foresight, and 
 where industry is a steadfast voluntary habit. There is no 
 savage impulse of sheer hunger, no savage sloth when the 
 hunger is satisfied ; and we have long passed that epoch when 
 industry was sustained by the goad of the slave-master. We 
 have learned that health and pleasure lie hid in labour. We 
 know that the toil which ministers to life is itself the best ■ 
 part of life. And we have a pleasant country to live and work 
 in. No scenery, as I have said, to invite strangers to come to 
 see it, but such beauty as, thank Heaven ! is bestowed lavishly 
 over the surface of the earth. "We have our river and undu- 
 lating land, arable and pasture, and on the horizon the distant 
 mountains of "Wales. These, and the clouds which we 
 share with all the world, catch for us the hues of sunrise and 
 sunset, and together create for us, pot one, but many lovely 
 landscapes. But a beautiful country is made first of aU to 
 live in, not to look at as a picture. More than half our day is 
 spent unconscious of its charms. This is as it should be. 
 Not to render idle was all this beauty of the earth given ; nor 
 do the idle enjoy it. To them it ceases to be lovely — ^grows 
 
 K 
 
146 GEAVENHUEST. 
 
 weary, flat, stale, and unprofitable. The peasant must fix his 
 eye on the furrow which his plough is making — the black- 
 smith looks -steadily at the red-hot iron he is hammering at 
 his forge — the scholar must pore upon his book ; but all from 
 time to time look up, and the landscape is there to greet them. 
 Our beautiful trees are there, and their tremulous leaves seem 
 to feel that we gaze upon them. Chiefly we pause at even- 
 ing when the day's work is over. Then the sun shines for a 
 season as if rather to give beauty than to give light. He 
 throws the hues of all the roses over us as he wishes us fare- 
 well. 
 
 Of course we make our outcries against the miseries of 
 life; and there is real evil and indisputable sorrow amongst us. 
 But we strike down the evil vrhere we can, and we soothe 
 the sorrow where we can. And then this energy with which 
 we strike, and this tenderness with which we soothe — I 
 think we should not, after due deliberation, forfeit these for 
 an immunity from pain and sorrow. Some evils, you will 
 say, do not prompt to action — rouse no energy — are simply 
 to be endured. Well, this endurance conquers them, wrings 
 a strength and pride out of them. They prompt this energy 
 of fortitude. I go back to the meadow where I saw the 
 children amongst the flowers. Childhood itself shall give 
 me my illustration. Some days afterwards I encountered the 
 eldest one alone ; she did not perceive me ; I could watch 
 her unobserved. There was a very luxuriant crop of nettles 
 growing beside the hedge. I saw her put her little tender 
 hand, slowly and deliberately, to the leaf of the stinging 
 nettle. She wanted to try if she could bear the pain. The 
 grave little Spartan ! I asked her if she knew that" the 
 nettle stung. " Oh, yes ! she knew it ;" but added, blush- 
 ing, partly with pain and partly at being observed, " Mother 
 says that unless we can bear pain we shall be cowards and 
 useless people. I wanted to try — it is^ not so very bad." 
 
INTRODUCTION. 147 
 
 All, little Annie Foster ! there was no need to go in search 
 for the nettle. But you bore the trial well, and greater 
 trials, I douht not, you will bravely bear. Again I draw 
 the inference that there was a brave as well as tender mother 
 bestirring herself under the thatch of that cottage. 
 
 If any one really asks the question, "Whether, in human 
 life, the amount of pleasure is greater than that of pain 1 
 I shall bid him look at his own Gravetihurst, wherever that 
 may be, and frame the answer for himself. But I do not 
 think that the question was ever seriously put, Why is man 
 more miserable than happy 1 The question has always run 
 thus, "Why so much misery in a being who might apparently 
 have been much happier ? 
 
 I turn from this glance at the village and its more homely 
 inhabitants to introduce my friend General Mansfield^ to 
 whom I have already made allusion, and whose authority I 
 shall often invoke. He is by far the most remarkable man 
 in our neighbourhood. I was going to say that he would 
 be a remarkable man anywhere ; but I am not sure that the 
 expression would be correct. What is peculiar in the General 
 is the completeness of his character, and of his intellectual 
 culture ; and remarkable men are, for the most part, those 
 who have done some one extraordinary act, or cultivated 
 some one faculty to an extraordinary degree. He served in 
 India, both in a military and civil capacity ; he has been a 
 student ; he has lived alone ; he has lived in the society of 
 the great ; his experience of life has been as varied as his 
 knowledge of books. His career in India took place before 
 the great Mutiny, and the events in which he was concerned 
 have therefore lost their importance, or at least their present 
 interest. But he distinguished himself in more than one 
 campaign; and, having acted for some years as militafy 
 secretary to the Goyernor-General, he has been also well 
 initiated into the affairs of civil government. But perhaps 
 
148 GKAVENHUEST. 
 
 that part of his career which left the deepest traces on his 
 mental culture were those early years in India in which his 
 professional duties gave him little employment, and confined 
 him to a very solitary mode of existence. Soon after his 
 arriyal from England, the young officer was sent up the 
 country to one of our outlying positions, where, in time of 
 peace,' there is little or nothing to do but to see after the 
 drill and equipment of a handful of soldiers. Here, with 
 no society and few hooks, he was driven much upon his 
 own reflections. A less active mind would have deteriorated 
 under such a discipline ; General, then Lieutenant, Mans- 
 field was only strengthened by it, and confirmed in his self- 
 reliant habits of thought. The few books he had were of 
 a grave and profound character. " I was obliged to think 
 over them a great deal," I have heard him say, "or they 
 woald not have lasted me long." Some of them were books 
 brought with him for the " study of the ancient language and 
 literature of India, and these involved him in the subtle and 
 metaphysical speculations which distinguish certain sects 
 of Brahminism and the great Brahminical reformation, if it 
 may be so considered, which bears the name of Buddhism. 
 The time spent in this species of retirement fostered habits 
 of reflection which the active services of subsequent years 
 never destroyed, but only fed by the experience they brought 
 of war and politics. 
 
 One sees, therefore, that General Mansfield has had great 
 advantage for a varied and complete culture. Nor have the 
 domestic aflPections been unknown to him. He lives now 
 amongst us, in his modest villa, the life of 'a bachelor. He 
 is, in fact, a widower; he is, however, childless. Of wife 
 and child he was early bereft. He. is of a gentle, generous, 
 and constant nature ; and his few happy years of married life 
 have left so indelible an impression on his mind, that I can- 
 not pass them over without some mention. 
 
INTEODUCTION, 149 
 
 When " young Mansfield " (as intimate friends then called 
 him whom now we speak of as the "old General") first 
 sailed from England, he carried with him a tender sentiment, 
 the formal expression of which he thought himself bound to 
 suppress ; and many a time when, in his solitary station, the 
 learned Sanscrit hook lay open before him, his thoughts had 
 wandered back into Somersetshire, and were with a certain 
 Emily Garden. He had no right to believe that the said 
 Emily Garden was still remembering him. But she also was 
 of a constant nature ; she had divined his love ; she had 
 more sanguine hopes of his future career than he himself 
 entertained ; she had quietly laid up her heart as a treasure 
 for him should he -ask it ; and till she knew that he never 
 would or could ask it, no other disposition of it should ever 
 be contemplated by her. When Mansfield paid his farewell 
 visit to Emily and her- parents, she took with him one sad 
 and silent walk round the garden, — almost silent, for ordinary 
 topics of conversation could not interest at that moment, and 
 their own deep personal feelings neither of them ventured to 
 express. On leaving the garden they shook hands together, 
 as simple friends shake hands ; and while Emily's hand was 
 in his, the young officer, hiding his emotion under the 
 affectation of an antique and chivalrous courtesy, bent one 
 knee on the plot of grass on which they were then standing, 
 and raised the hand, which he was to part with for ever, to 
 his lips. It was, in appearance, an act of playful homage ; 
 but for days afterwards Epiily would let no one touch that 
 hand — the hand which he had kissed. Ifay, for years she 
 felt his lip upon that spot, — often, I think, in secset kissed 
 that spot herself. But, at the time, no one knew why it was 
 that, when she sat musing alone with her elbow on the arm- 
 chair, it was so often the back of her curved hand that her 
 lip rested on; and no one guessed why it was — since the 
 attitude was not ungraceful, though a little singular — why it 
 
150 GRAVENHUKST. 
 
 was that she started with a fa,iiit blush when suddenly dis- 
 turbed in it. Her thoughts, I believ.e, were always in India 
 when she fell into that attitude. 
 
 The very turf on which they had stood together at that 
 leaye -taking was a sacred spot. How carefully it was 
 mown! Once it was in great danger of being destroyed. 
 The gardener and her father had both resolved upon its re- 
 moval to carry out some projected improvements, but Emily 
 had pleaded so energetically — no one could tell why — for its 
 preservation, that the little plot of grass was allowed to 
 remain. 
 
 "How cold is Emily Garden ! beautiful, but how cold !" 
 — so ran the general estimation of her amongst female friends. 
 " She repels all advances. Does she mean, then, to waste 
 the summer of her existence ? Is it pride ? Can no one be 
 found worthy to please? Or is it really coldness and a 
 loveless nature 1 " So we reason upon each other. Mans- 
 field, on his side of the great ocean that rolled between 
 them, found the thought of Emily Garden mingling itself 
 even with the abstractions of Hindoo philosophy, yet he 
 mentally resigned her to some happier mortal than him- 
 self. No correspondence was kept up between them. He 
 heard of her, however, from common friends in England, and 
 heard, to his surprise, that she was still Emily Garden ; to 
 his surprise, and yet with some other feeling to which he 
 gave no name, and which half contradicted the surprise. At 
 length the time came when he could claim leave of absence 
 and pay England a visit. The first interview decided all. 
 She was living in the same house in which he had seen her 
 last ; there was the same garden to walk in ; and there were 
 the same feelings in both, as if ten minutes, and not ten 
 years, had elapsed. Something of the same silence, too, re- 
 curred as they walked round the garden together, tiU Captain 
 Mansfield, as he was then styled, contrary to his usual habit, 
 
INTEODUCTION. 151 
 
 became singularly egotistical, talking much about life in 
 India, and about bis own prospects, bis own feelings and 
 opinions, and ending in some i proposition to wbicb Emily 
 at first gave no response. Sbe led bis steps to tbe small 
 piece of greenest lawn, on wbicb tbey bad botb stood to- 
 gether wben be last bade ber adieu. "Did be remember 
 it?" He remembered well. He seized tbe given band; — 
 this time with a solemn' homage — bis own henceforth for 
 ever ! She returned with him to India as bis wife. 
 
 A supreme happiness followed ; but, alas, how brief ! 
 Hardly three years had passed wben tbe wife, and tbe child 
 that had been born to him, were sleeping in the earth. It 
 was fortunate for the sufferer that, war having broken out, 
 he could not indulge in long and fruitless sorrow ; he bad to 
 dash away the tears that be might give the word of command, 
 and carry bis regiment into action. From that time bis 
 promotion was rapid, and his life full of stirring occupation. 
 He retired from the service wealthy and honoured. He has 
 now lived some years in this quiet place, somewhat shattered 
 in bodily health, but in tbe full maturity of bis intellect. 
 Am I not right in saying that such a man has lived a com- 
 plete human Ufe — ^sucb as was fitted to develop bis mind on 
 all sides ? I consider myself fortunate in being able to call 
 him my friend. 
 
 To me, who have passed my days almost exclusively 
 amongst books, the companionship of such a man is invalu- 
 able. He gives me his experience ; I see through his eyes 
 the very realities of life. Even in matters of pure specula- 
 tion, I find bis straightforward judgment of great assistance. 
 He has read fewer books than. I, and, partly for that very 
 reason,' judge^ with more clearness and decision. I prefer 
 often to quote his words, because he decides where I should 
 hesitate. But I beg to say that I never cite him on any 
 occasion where I positively differ, unless that difference also 
 
152 GEATENHUEST. 
 
 is positively expressed. It is no Conflict of Opinions that 
 I am writing here ; I call in his aid to complete or fortify 
 my own conclusions, or, at most, to express an opinion where 
 I should have none to offer. It is rather a Harmony than a 
 Covflict of opinions that these pages represent. 
 
 If the judgment of any one individual on so large a sub- 
 ject as the felicity of human life could avail anything, there 
 is no man's judgment I would quote with more alacrity than 
 that of General Mansiield, — he has seen so much and felt so 
 much, yet kept his head so clear. A man of his experience 
 is not likely to scatter golden opinions indiscriminately over 
 the wide arena of human existence. " He knows that there 
 is pain and sorrow to endure, and that there are tad men to 
 be resisted. He knows there is enough in the world to com- 
 miserate, enough to detest. But never from the General do 
 I hear a note of misanthropy. Humanity is, with him, God's 
 greatest work we know of. Nor will he listen patiently to 
 vague, general lamentations on the misery of mankind. He 
 has been so much impressed with the great and constant joy 
 that lies in activity of every description — a joy which, from 
 its constancy, is often overlooked — that he is slow to con- 
 sider anything as a misf(Jrtune which brings out the full 
 energies of the man. We make moan often about events 
 because tJiey looh terrible to the spectator ; the actors them- 
 selves are absorbed in their own passions and their own 
 efforts. We look at the man, not in. We look at the cir- 
 cumstances, not at the nature roused and moulded to meet 
 them. 
 
 " You are standing," he will say, " in your own pleasant 
 drawing-room, well defended from the weather, and you 
 listen to the storm raging without. The rain dashes vio- 
 lently against that film of glass which yet so securely pro- 
 tects you from its violence. Your thoughts fly to the sea, 
 and you picture to yourself the misery of some hapless 
 
INTEODUCTION. 1S3 
 
 voyager, who, drenclied to the akin, is holding on hy the 
 rigging to save hiinself from be,ing carried overboard by the 
 rage of the tempest. You, warm and indolent, project your- 
 self in imagination into such a scene. But the man who is 
 reaUy there, is no warm and indolent creature ; he has all 
 the energy the situation itself has called forth. You con- 
 gratulate yourself on your easy- chair, your dry and comfort- 
 able room : congratulate yourself by all means, and enjoy 
 what the quiet hour brings you. But probably you yourself, 
 at some other time, have been in the very position that seems • 
 so dreadful now. You have clung with all your might to 
 the shrouds while the waves washed over you, while the 
 winds seemed resolved, to tear you from your hold, and sweep 
 you away into the ocean. But you clung, you strove gal- 
 lantly, you drew breath when the wave had passed over you, 
 and prepared, with clenched hands, for the next encounter. 
 You were there at your post, you had no thought of svir- 
 render, you were all energy ; the danger was swallowed up 
 in the efforts you were making. Well, call up that hour 
 when, drenched and buffeted by water and by wind, you 
 offered stout resistance to the elements in every strong fibre 
 of your body^caU it up fairly, fully, and place it beside this 
 hour of fireside enjoyment and security, and tell me which 
 of the two was the higher life?' Which of the two are you 
 most proud to have experienced? If we wish to form a 
 correct estimate of human existence, we must not dwell upon 
 the loud bluster of the storm, and forget the thrill of power 
 that responds to it in the hidden noiseless nerve of the 
 living man. 
 
 " This marvellous energy," he continued, " seen in all 
 animal life, but most conspicuously in man, calls forth my 
 ceaseless admiration, and affords often a complete answer to 
 men wailing over the destiny of others. So long as I see 
 the man bear up and contend against the hostile circumstance. 
 
154 GEAVENHUKST. 
 
 SO long do I know tliat he is not forsaken by the genius of 
 happiness. I have -witnessed the horrors of war; I have 
 shared in the forced march; I have traversed the field of 
 battle the day after ; but still I do not scruple to say that, 
 merely weighing out its pleasures and its pains, the excite- 
 ments which attend, on war itself add far more to the sum of 
 humaa happiness than its worst calamities to the sum .of 
 human misery. My niece — who sits there in the corner so 
 critically attentive to me — looks dissent. But I do not 
 advocate war, my dear Ada, or desire its continuance. The 
 energies of man may find a better direfetion ; but it is stiU 
 well to see that, whatever direction they take, they can 
 scarcely fail to add to the sum of happiness. So much does 
 our happiness lie in this energy itself. 
 
 "Take, if you prefer it, an illustration from the arts of 
 peace. Follow the miner into the bowels of the earth — 
 watch the artisan at his loom, packed close in the dark 
 alleys of a town ; the circumstances are to us distressing 
 enough. But the man in whom those circumstances have 
 developed the fitting and appropriate activity is not an un- 
 happy creature. Before you pronounce a man miserable, be 
 sure you have the real being before you — be sure that you 
 are not pronouncing on some imaginary figure, made up half 
 of him and half of yourself — his circumstances and your 
 temper and habits." 
 
 I could not possibly complete my description of the 
 General unless I introduced into the picture that niece Ada, 
 who was listening to him on this occasion, and whom he 
 partly addressed. 
 
 The General was of that nature that cannot be satisfied 
 unless it has something to love and to cherish — some one to 
 pet and to admire. He found all this in Ada Newcome. 
 Her presence at Gravenhurst was the great inducement to 
 him to- settle down in this e[uiet neighbourhood. She is the 
 
INTEODUCTION. 155 
 
 daughter of a sister of the General's, who had married a Mr 
 Kewcome, a country gentleman possessing a small estate in 
 these parts. Mr Newcome had died before the General's 
 return from India. Ada was living with her mother. 
 
 I say the inducement was the society of his niece, be- 
 cause, although the brother and sister were on quite amicable 
 terms, Mrs !N"ewcome was one of those very useful, domestic, 
 and often estimable women who frankly and utterly renounce 
 all took culture. The daughter was of a totally different type, 
 and could readily follow her uncle on almost all subjects 
 that he could desire to converse upon. 
 
 Let me stop to observe that if there are moody reasoners 
 who think it fit to express nothing but commiseration for the 
 lives of men battered in the business and rascality of the 
 world, even these will confess that there is something to 
 admire, and a theme for gratulation, in some fair Euro- 
 pean girl or woman on whom has been showered wealth, 
 beauty, and intelligence. When I see, for instance, a young 
 English girl, full of grace and fuU of energy withal, dismount 
 from her favourite horse, which she does not quit without a 
 fond and grateful patting of the neck, and follow her in 
 imagination into her cheerful drawing-room, more or less 
 elegantly furnished, supplied with books of a thoughtful 
 character, which are really read, and perhaps with instru- 
 ments of music that are skilfully played upon, I think I have 
 before me one of the most highly-finished, certainly one of 
 the most significant, products of our civilisation. I suppose 
 that a learned jurist or a profound divine would cite them- 
 selves, or cite each other, as loftier examples of humanity — 
 as higher types of European culture. I must be permitted to 
 demur. I grant, indeed, that either of them may be a shade 
 wiser than the English damsel of nineteen, and many shades 
 more learned ; but it is a newer wonder in the world that 
 there should be many damsels of nineteen intelligent and 
 
156 GKAVENHUKST. 
 
 wise, than that there should be learned lawyers and deep 
 divines. And when I think that the mental cultivation has 
 not disturbed one natural grace or one maidenly virtue — when 
 I think of the blooming health and exquisite play of every 
 limb and feature — the vivid emotions, the keen perception of 
 the beautiful in nature, of the generous in character, that dis- 
 tinguish my English girl — I must pronounce her altogether 
 the far higher creation. Yes, a greater boast of the age than 
 all its chancellors, and even all its bishops ! 
 
 Such charming English girl, you would have said, was 
 Ada Newcome. There came, however, one bitterness into her 
 lot, which marred the picture I have to draw. 
 
 I call to mind the first time I saw Ada ISTewcome. It is 
 now some years ago, but I remember it as vividly as if it 
 were yesterday. She passed me (I was on the way to her 
 house), sitting upon her horse. A more light and graceful 
 figure, or a better rider, I thought I had never beheld. The 
 slight figure sat balanced so perfectly, and swayed so har- 
 moniously with every movement of the high-spirited yet 
 gentle-hearted animal, that you looked on with unalloyed' 
 pleasure, and without one moment's anxiety for her safety. 
 If her fleet Arabian should give himself to the winds, you 
 felt she would be as safe as if she were one of the winds her- 
 self. I see her rein up that proud Arabian ; I see her dis- 
 mount at her own door ; she caresses the beautiful creature, 
 who bends down his head to meet the caressing hand. I per- 
 ceive his eye brightens as he feels that the eye of his mistress 
 is on him. It rests on him with something of a tender 
 gratitude, and there is some unspoken sadness mingling with 
 her fond caress. She leaves the horse, and proceeds to walk 
 up the wide old-fashioned staircase of the ancient family 
 house she inhabits. But what is this ? What change has 
 come over my beautiful picture 1 Can it be the same figure 
 which I saw a moment ago, light and buoyant as the air, 
 
INTRODUCTION. _ 157 
 
 that I now see dragging itself slowly and painfully up those 
 stairs — one liand, sometimes both, clinging to the banisters 
 for aid? Ada is lame — the result, I believe, of some early 
 accident — hopelessly lame. Well might she love that horse ! 
 Seated on his back, she Hew — no bird of the air more grace- 
 ful ; descended to the earth, one limping and disabled limb 
 mars all. At each slow step the fair figure drops sideways — 
 is broken — sinks and rises, as if each step were a fall and a 
 recovery. The balance is recovered, to be directly lost again. 
 She advances up the stairs as children do, putting always the 
 same foot foremost, and bringing the other up to it. And 
 when the stairs are accomplished, the level surface that 
 remains to be traversed makes the plunging, broken gait still 
 more conspicuous ; our lily threatens to snap at every instant. 
 
 But when seated again in her chair, or standing quietly in 
 the room, nothing is seen, but a figure and attitude unim- 
 peachably graceful, and a face of singular beauty. A stranger 
 might even be in her presence some time without detecting 
 this sad defect in her gait ; for if only two or three steps were 
 to be taken, she would, by treading on a footstool, or by 
 some other expedient, contrive to disguise her lameness. 
 This she would do in no vain hope of concealment, but from 
 that love of the graceful which in her had been so cruelly 
 balked. I have seen her exercise these little stratagems 
 where none but relatives or old friends were present. I have 
 seen her make her way along the room, touching perhaps at 
 the sofa or the centre table in her passage, by a series of 
 movements which you might have thought capricious, but 
 which you never would have referred to an inequality in her 
 limbs. 
 
 Every other grace but that of one movement has been 
 reserved to her, and the beauty of her face has lost nothing 
 of its attraction. It presents a combination not frequently 
 seen — deep-blue eyes, a fair delicate complexion, and raven- 
 
158 ^ GKAVENHUKST. 
 
 Uack hair. In only one other person have I ever remarked 
 that combination. Some of our belles at Gravenhurst think 
 the complexion much too pale. The buxom Miss Eosemary 
 is always wishing that she could give a touch of red to dear 
 Ada's cheek. Keep your roses, dear Miss Eosemary, for 
 your own cheeks, where they are very becoming. Keep, or 
 give them to the sighing swain that is kneeling for them ; but 
 let not even their reflection fall too strongly upon our perfect 
 lily of Gravenhurst. 
 
 A lover of books she would in any case have been, but it 
 was the inevitable result of her lameness to make her attached 
 to them in a remarkable degree. There was also one other 
 result. She conceived the idea that it would condemn her 
 to single life. Many girls commence their womanhood by 
 ■saying, " I shall never ! " which may be only one sign that 
 thoughts of marriage are stirring in the mind. Ada New- 
 come said it in sad earnest, and with a proud resignation. 
 A little incident that occurred while she was yet in her 
 teens, aided her in forming this resolution. There was 
 a young gentleman who visited a great deal at her father's 
 house. I knew nothing of him, except that he was a 
 handsome fellow, and a general favourite with the ladies. 
 This young gentleman was talking to a friend of his own 
 ' age, and the friend was rallying him upon " being in love 
 with the pretty heiress.'' " What ! with the lame girl ! " 
 answered our youth, with a laugh. Ada was passing at the 
 time, and heard the speech, and heard the laugh that accom- 
 panied it. " What ! with the lame girl ! " rang in her ears. 
 She repeated it again and again to herself as she crept along 
 by the garden rails against which our youths had been lean- 
 ing, cigar in mouth, and mutually communicating their much 
 smoke and their few ideas. " What ! with the lame girl ! " 
 Yes, men might be very polite — the more polite for her very 
 lameness — and yet recoil from the idea of a lame wife. One 
 
INTEODUCTION. 159 
 
 of the .two evidently thought that the qiiality of heiress might 
 act as compensation. "Worse and worse ; it was altogether a 
 bitter lesson that had heen administered to her. She was 
 determined to keep her heart shut up, and, as it were, her- 
 metically sealed. 
 
 The delight which- the General experienced in meeting, on 
 his final return to England, this charming relative, and the 
 affection and devotion he felt towards her, I should find it 
 very difficult to express. Her deceased father could not have 
 loved her more intensely, and with this quite parental feeling 
 he mingled a tender homage to her beauty and misfortune. 
 It was the greatest delight to him to render her every service 
 in his power". Nor do I think it could have been possible in 
 all England to have found a companion so entirely suited to 
 the General as his own niece soon proved to be ; for her fresh, 
 inquiring, and susceptible mind rekindled his own. Though 
 piously disposed, the highest speculations of philosophy were 
 open to her. Her piety was not of that order that checks 
 the inquiry after truth, and forbids to the reason its fuU 
 and appropriate exercise. Nor, on the other hand, had the 
 uncertainties that attend upon philosophical speculations 
 chilled her piety, though they had saddened her soul. She 
 was prepared to listen or to discuss on almost every topic 
 that could interest a cultivated mind. 
 
 One of the amusements of the General is the building of 
 a vUla — ^he says, for his own residence ; but it requires very 
 little penetration to perceive that it is for his niece he is 
 planning and building. He consults her on every particulaur 
 A site has been chosen that commands an admirable view of 
 the Welsh hUls ; he pleases himself with the idea that his 
 niece shall have one of the most perfect villa-residences in 
 England. 
 
 They often sally forth together (and I have sometimes had 
 the good fortune to accompany them) to inspect the progress 
 
160 GEAVBNHUEST. 
 
 of the building, lie walking, and she riding by his side, now 
 upon a charming pony which he has persuaded, her to sub- 
 stitute for her high-spirited horse. This he has done both 
 because he can walk the better by her side, and because he 
 is a little apprehensive of danger from her want of mere 
 power to rein in the more spirited animal : her strength has 
 been declining of late. They proceed in this fashion to the 
 very beautiful spot where the walls of the villa are rising. 
 He lifts her down gently from the pony, deposits her on 
 what is to be the future lawn, draws forth his plans, his 
 drawings, and consults her taste on all the arrangements, 
 accessories, and ornaments that he proposes. Then there is 
 talk of the pictures and statues he means to introduce ; and 
 from the fine arts the conversation naturally wanders and 
 widens till there is no possible topic that might not be em- 
 braced in it. Our great topic of good and evil was not 
 likely to be omitted. 
 
 The group would not be faithfully described unless I made 
 specific mention of Ada's pony. She is as fond of it as she 
 was of the Arab, and he returns her affection. He is as 
 tractable and social as a dog. On dismounting, she has no 
 necessity to tie him up ; pony has no idea, however intent 
 upon his grazing, of losing sight of his mistress. He comes 
 to her as a dog would come when he is called. She has 
 used no art to obtain this docility. She is simply fond of 
 her dumb friend, and her dumb friend is fond of her, and 
 pleased to render a service which he seems to have detected 
 is more a service to her than it would be to another. 
 
 The presence of the pony has led us sometimes to discuss 
 the relationship between man and the lower animals. The 
 brute creation in general are very deeply interested in the 
 question of the progress of man. I do not think that their 
 condition has been at any time deteriorated, upon the whole, 
 by their subordination to one who may seem to them a 
 
INTEODUCTION. 161 
 
 strange mixture of cruel taskmaster, of beast of prey, and of 
 fatherly protector. If lie has, in one spot and for one pur- 
 pose, cruelly misused them, he has on other occasions, and 
 more generally, protected, sheltered, and even cultivated in 
 them a certain amenity of disposition. But there is still 
 much room for improvement, especially vi^hen vee keep them 
 for their labour. How much we owe them ! How much 
 did our ancestors owe to their ancestors ! Life itself, food, 
 and cultivated plains. I know not that even now, with aU 
 our command of the forces of physical nature, with all our 
 steam-engines and our chemistry, we could hold ourselves on 
 the face of the earth without them. I think the higher men 
 grow, the more tenderly they will feel towards these simpler 
 tenants of our common habitable globe. They have made it 
 habitable to us ; they are capable of affection ; they can give 
 us the greatest of all pleasure — that of giving pleasure to 
 other beings. These things we sometimes discussed. Ada, 
 resting on the authority of I forget what celebrated writer, 
 remarked, " that of all the arrangements of Providence, the 
 subjection of so many noble animals to the tyrannical power 
 of man was surely jihe most perplexing;" to which I, or 
 the General, would respond, that the power was not always 
 used tyrannically; that as man progressed in knowledge and 
 in character he used his power beneficently ; and that if 
 man was to be raised to this noble and beneficent position 
 towards the lower animals, he must necessarily have the 
 poioer given him, though under the certainty that in his own 
 ruder stage of culture he would often abuse it. The rela- 
 tionship between man and the lower animals, looked at along 
 the history of both, will not need any peculiar vindication of 
 the ways of Providence. 
 
 These and kindred subjects we discussed, but I have said 
 that my report of our conversations shall be postponed till I 
 have delivered myself of my own brief didactic exposition. 
 
 L 
 
PAET I.-EXPOSITION. 
 
 CHAPTEE I. 
 
 PAIN AND PAINFUL EMOTION. 
 
 I MUST unavoidably commence witli some trite and indisput- 
 able observations ; but I will be as brief as possible. Pain 
 and Pleasure are tbe stimulants to that activity which is the 
 source of aU our knowledge and all our arts, and which is 
 itself the most universal of pleasures. It is impossible for 
 us to conceive of life being developed without loth of these 
 stimulants. Hunger, thirst, bodily uneasiness, are con- 
 stantly giving movement to the whole animal creation. 
 
 Pain, that acts as a stimulant to action, blends with or is 
 lost in the sense of effort, or the vigorous muscular exertion 
 it calls forth. Very acute pain paralyses or subdues ; but 
 the prick and the sting that stimulate to energetic movement 
 are forgotten in the energy they produce. 
 
 In many of our motives it is difficult to say whether pain 
 or pleasure predominates. Hunger having been once grati- 
 fied, there is a prospect of pleasure, as well as a present pain, 
 in the desire for food. Generally there is in Desire the 
 anticipation of some pleasure, and also a direct pain from the 
 
 \ 
 
CHAP. I.] PAIN AND PAINFUL EMOTION. 163 
 
 absence of that pleasure. If now this important state of 
 mind, which we call Desire, be thus a blending of pain and 
 pleasure, we see at once how indispensable a part pain per- 
 forms in human existence. 
 
 Pain also is the great conserTator of life : it gives note of 
 danger. The memory of pain is our great safeguard and 
 protection. If the fire did not hurt the child, it would not 
 withdraw its finger ; if the hurt were not remembered, there 
 would be no salutary dread of the fire afterwards. So also 
 the pain that arises from any abnormal condition of our own 
 organism draws our attention to the ailment, imposes rest, 
 suggests remedial actions, and teaches caution for the future. 
 We should die very rapidly if it were not for the pain of 
 disease. 
 
 If a personal want initiates the activity of the individual, 
 it is sympathy with each other which lies at the basis of 
 human society ; and sympathy is, in the first instance, 
 chiefly called forth by pain, or dread of some affliction. 
 "We sympathise with each other's joys no less than with 
 each other's griefs. But even when we sympathise strongly 
 with each other's joys, it is where there is some sense of 
 escape from threatened or probable affliction ; and, generally 
 speaking, this form of the sentiment is of later culture or 
 development. Society, in its earlier stages, owes more to 
 the sympathy which is called forth by pain, by wounds, by 
 death. That sympathy which enlists the passions of twenty 
 men in the suffering and calamity of one, is the rude initiator 
 of criminal justice and moral reprobation. Could I point to 
 any great fact which shows more distinctly how pain and 
 pleasure lie together at the very roots of human existence % 
 They, indeed, are twisted together in every fibre, in every 
 leaf, in every blossom and fruit of the great tree of life. 
 
 It would be idle to pretend that disease is not an evil. 
 It is, if you reckon amongst diseases all the distressing bodily 
 
164 GRAVBNHURST. [part i. 
 
 results of age and poverty, the greatest and the most widely 
 spread of all the evils that affl ict society. But if you regard 
 society at large, you wiU. find that these hodUy distresses are 
 eventually leading to combined social action for their relief. 
 And if you regard the family group, you cannot fail to per- 
 ceive that where the sick, the aged, and infirm are cared for 
 and preserved alive, there is a development of compassion, 
 of tenderness, of fortitude, and of other states of mind which 
 greatly enrich our human lives. I do not say that the 
 presence of an invalid is always salutary to the temper of 
 the other inmates of the house ; we all know that it some- 
 times operates in a very undesirable manner ; but, speaking 
 generally of human life, it tends to soften, to elevate, to 
 teach self-denial. 
 
 I look through the village of Gravenhurst. I could point 
 to more than one household where the tone of thought and 
 feeling has been evidently raised by the presence of its 
 invalid. One I could nam© where the husband is naturally 
 rough and boisterous, and the wife somewhat sharp and 
 shrewish — given much, they say, to scandal. A favourite 
 daughter has been long confined to her room by illness. 
 There is at least one chamber in that house where the voice 
 of anger is never heard — where the thoughts take a gentle, 
 and sometimes a lofty tone. The- wife drops her acrid 
 criticism as she enters it, and spares even her next-door 
 neighbour ; and for the boisterous husband, 1 have known 
 him walk a mile out of his way in the keen March wind to 
 bring the first primrose, or the first violet, to the imprisoned 
 invalid. He knew where the earliest grew, and would have 
 been not a little vexed if any one had discovered his secret, 
 and anticipated him in his trivial gift. A man mostly ab- 
 sorbed in money-making, in his calculations of profit and 
 loss, lends himself wholly to this slight but disinterested 
 service. 
 
CHAP. I.] PAIN AND PAINFUL EMOTION. 165 
 
 Yet not altogether so slight. To her who could no longer 
 seek them herself where they grow on the green earth, and 
 in the fresh air, and beneath the rolling clouds, what an 
 intense, au exquisite pleasure this little gift would bring ! 
 He has told me himself that she wept with joy when she 
 saw them. The tears were very near his own eyes when 
 he told me this. And mark how contrast and limitation 
 heighten our pleasure : to the pale prisoner the scent and 
 beauty of a thousand flowers were concentrated in a solitary 
 primrose, pale almost as herself. To prisoners of a certain 
 stamp, a few simple joys, shut in with them in their cell, 
 shall expand till they fill the whole capacity for enjoyment. 
 
 From pain we are easily led to the dread of pain, to the 
 resentment that follows upon pain, to anger, hatred, fear, 
 and aU the list of depressing and inflammatory passions — 
 dire inmates to the human breast which admits them too 
 readily, or retains them too long. Yet what passion is there 
 which in its due degree and place is not serviceable to happi- 
 ness, or is not a happiness itself? What we call bad passions, 
 owe their badness to a defective state of the intelligence, as 
 when emulation becomes envy in narrow minds, or love 
 becomes jealousy. "What fundamental passion is there of 
 the human mind that you would eradicate? l^ot revenge. 
 You know that this is needful to self-preservation j you 
 know that when it is felt sympathetically, it becomes a 
 noble indignation, summoning defenders round the weak 
 against the strong. But the passion, you urge, that prompted 
 the injury which has to be revenged — this might be eradi- 
 cated, and then aU would be peace. What is that assailant ? 
 What the passion that commences the strife, and gives the 
 first blow ? It may be any passion that has not learned its 
 limits, and it has to learn its limits by this very retaliation 
 it provokes. It may be cupidity, and cupidity in itself is 
 but the desire for some good. Or it may be the love of 
 
166 GEAVENHUEST. [part i. 
 
 power, the desire of governing others, and making them suh- 
 ject to our will. And you will pause long before you eradi- 
 cate this love of power. Here also there is a passion which 
 has to learn its limits from the resistance it meets with. 
 Amongst the various tempers of men, some prompt to govern 
 and direct, and some to seek the guidance and the govern- 
 ment of others. The more you examine the constitution of 
 society, and the origin of its. government, the less disposed 
 will you be to interfere with this natural difference in the 
 temper and passions of men. 
 
 Then, again, consider how the rudest passions of our 
 nature .become, in the progressive development of man, 
 refined— how they enter into new combinations — and per- 
 haps what seemed base in itself becomes an essential element 
 of a noble sentiment. No passion, at first sight, appears 
 more degrading than fear ; yet fear, by some admixture of 
 thought, becomes reverence — becomes moral responsibility 
 — enters into the sentiment of duty. If the ill opinion of 
 others had excited no fear in us, the control which a society 
 exercises by turns over each of its members could have had 
 no existence; the nloral opinion or force of society could 
 have had no existence. So anger, which leads in the first 
 instance to wild injustice, gives to the advanced mind that 
 moral indignation without which there could be no strength 
 of character. 
 
 To these transmutations we may revert again, but neither 
 here nor elsewhere could I hope to exhaust the subject. Nor 
 is it needful! The reader will himself supply additional 
 illustrations. 
 
CHAP. II.] TOO MUCH EVIL. 167 
 
 CHAPTEE II. 
 
 TOO MUCH EVIL. 
 
 "What, then, we caU evil — pain of body and mind — is an 
 inseparable part of the great whole of human life. If this 
 solution is not altogether consolatory, one thing is clear, — 
 that it excludes certain other imaginary solutions. "We cannot 
 say, as the old Persian theology is reputed to have said, that 
 good and evil are the creation of two antagonistic spirits. 
 Being parts of one scheme, if we introduce two or more crea- 
 tive spirits, we must, at all events, presume that they acted 
 in harmony. A spirit or being, itself created by another, 
 cannot, of course, be the original author of evil. 
 
 There is no resistance to our will which may not, in some 
 sense, be pronounced to be an evil, and yet the very exer- 
 cise of power implies the idea of resistance. You could not 
 even wield the stick within your hand unless it presented a 
 resistance to your hand. All moral or mental power is 
 exhibited by conquering some resistance — some error, or 
 some misplaced passion. 
 
 Is this necessary presence of some element we call by the 
 name of evil, inconsistent with the idea of progress ? By no 
 means. We diminish the amount, and alter the nature of 
 our evils ; we exalt, we multiply what is good. Nor is there 
 any fear that by our progress we should deprive our energies 
 of their needful stimulant of dreaded evil. Por, say, some 
 inisery like that of poverty, or that form of disease which 
 originates in foul air and bad food, should by wise co-opera- 
 tion be kept at bay — the enemy is still at our gates, and will 
 return upon us if we remit our vigilance. "We may have 
 built our dykes, and won a smiling territory from the waste- 
 
168 GEAVENHURST. [paRT i- 
 
 ful sea ; tut unless we also keep our dykes in repair, the 
 ocean will be on us again, and inflict far more misery than it 
 could have done before we had made our conquest. It is 
 worth noticing that, as we advance in knowledge and in 
 arts, we act more and more on prospective or precautionary 
 grounds, and less from the immediate stimulant of pain or 
 want ; and our impulses partake more largely of hope than 
 ■of fear. 
 
 " Yes, yes ! " I think I hear my impatient reader exclaim, 
 "we admit all this. Pain, the conservator of life, the 
 stimulant to action, the exalter of pleasure by the contrast 
 it supplies, could not be dispensed with. We admit, too, 
 that every heroism in the world would fall flat unless sup- 
 ported by its antagonistic evil ; and we clearly perceive that 
 our highest thoughts and emotions are in part cmnposed of 
 grief and indignation, sorrow and disappointment. AU the 
 fine arts, as well as all the virtues — eloquence, poetry, and 
 music — claim kindred to sorrow as well as to joy. We admit 
 all this. But we say that there is too much of this element 
 of evil. It seems to us that there is much bodUy pain and 
 much torture of mind that might so easily be spared. If 
 there is no nerve, sometimes yielding pleasure and some- 
 times pain, which we should venture to eradicate from our 
 system, we cannot but think that the conditions of life 
 might be so modified as to call forth less frequently its 
 faculty of suffering. If there is no passion we could alto- 
 gether erase without degrading the entire man, there is 
 surely a disproportionate intensity of many of them, from 
 which we might be relieved. There is too much evil. 
 Passions are too violent, wants are too agonising, pains 
 and distresses are too numerous, too persistent, too intense." 
 
 The complaint is natural. Who of us has not made it 
 in the day of his sorrow or his indignation? But con- 
 sider this, that it lies in the very nature of pain and suffer- 
 
CHAP, nj TOO MUCH EVIL. 169 
 
 ing that we do, and must, complain of it. Whatever the 
 degree in which it presents itself, it must always seem too 
 much. It is always, from the nature of the case, the element 
 we wish away — that stands out against us as repugnant and 
 superfluous. 
 
 Ifo animal, and certainly not man himself, could he 
 trusted with the modification or reconstruction of his own 
 life. He would at once and for ever reject what is repugnant, 
 and in so doing unnerve his whole existence. Every animal 
 that has to seek its food would hargain for a regular supply, 
 and near at hand ; yet with those who have great powers of 
 locomotion the irregularity and uncertainty of supply is con- 
 nected with the exercise of their peculiar faculties. What 
 would hecome of all the hirds of the air — where the glory of 
 their outstretched and untiring pinions — if it were not for 
 that seeming precariousness of supply, which douhtless they 
 would themselves complain of, and which even benevolent 
 men have contemplated with some dismay and distress? 
 We men, for our own parts, are in the hahit of saying that 
 it is well for us that we cannot always predict the future — 
 that there should be abundant play for hope, and curiosity, and 
 surprise. Nevertheless this uncertainty is a state which each 
 one for himself would constantly remove if he could. He 
 must wish to read the future while he is stiU in the anxious 
 present. 
 
 That there is a general feeling of too much evil, is not, 
 therefore, a proof that this element is in excess, viewed as 
 part of the whole ; because, from its nature, it is always that 
 which is felt to be too much. 
 
 Nevertheless this question of degree is one which may 
 legitimately be raised, if only one could grapple with it. A 
 cabn and all-seeing spectator of human affairs might discuss 
 such a question. We stand ourselves in this predicament : 
 — If our knowledge is not su£S.cient to enable us to pro- 
 
170 GEAVENHUEST. [pakt i. 
 
 nounce that it is not in excess (an opinion to which, from 
 the general harmony of nature, one may be disposed to lean), 
 it is certainly not suflS.cient to entitle us to assert that it is 
 in excess. 
 
 How can man, the sufferer, trust himself to form any de- 
 cision upon the degree in which pain and pleasure should be 
 diffused over the whole world? How can he know that 
 passions less violent, wants less painful, distresses less ex- 
 tensive, would have answered the purposes for which pas- 
 sion, want, and distress have been called in ? He knows 
 this, that he should always give his judgment in favour of 
 the something less. 
 
 I ask of no man to be contented with the amount of evil 
 existing at any time, in any age or country. It is the nature 
 of evil to prompt opposition to it. The more intelligence 
 there is in man, the mpre vigorous and effectual the opposi- 
 tion it will prompt. The greatest of all calamities is the 
 contentment that sits down at peace with a remediable evil. 
 
 But how can I measure the degree of that stimulant neces- 
 sary to call forth those energies by which we progress % It 
 would be very hard to grapple with this question of degree. 
 Let me recall the effect produced by the political economists, 
 with Malthus at their head, demonstrating the tendency of 
 population to outstrip the means of subsistence. To keep 
 this tendency in check has appeared to some reasoners the 
 great problem, or the great despair of sociology. But all 
 ■men, and certainly aU political economists, must admit that 
 the tendency of population to press upon the means of sub- 
 sistence has been, and stUl is, a most essential stimulant to 
 the labqur and ingenuity of man. The tendency, you say, 
 is too strong. Who has proved that it is too strong ? It is 
 most desirable that a people who have come to the age of 
 reflection, and amongst whom industry no longer requires 
 the immediate spur of want, should be called upon to exer- 
 
CHAP, a.] TOO MUCH EVIL. 171 
 
 cise prudence in the matter of marriage. And we see that 
 its attention is called to this momentous subject, and a suit- 
 able modification of the moral opinion of society is taking 
 place. But who shall say that the tendency by which popula- 
 tion increases has been too strong for the purpose it has had 
 to accomplish 1 By it the earth has been peopled, has been 
 cultivated, and the colonisation of uninhabited regions still 
 depends on this pressure of population upon subsistence. 
 And we see that when men become calculating and prudent 
 in other matters, they become prudent in this matter also. 
 We know that the pressure of population upon food is far 
 less severe in thickly peopled and industrious countries than 
 amongst the scanty populations of semi-barbarous regions. 
 On the whole, we may safely assert that this pressure be- 
 comes less and less painful just as it becomes less and less 
 the imperative motive of human industry. The same in- 
 creasing intelligence which enriches and exalts human life, 
 will prevent its own work from being destroyed by a too 
 great flood of population. The alarm has been sounded — 
 not prematurely, because it must take many ages before all 
 ranks of society can be reached by it — but quite in time ; 
 for the civilised nations of Europe have still large territory 
 open to them — delicious climates and fruitful soils — both to 
 the east and to the west. Nor can it be known how far 
 their own soil admits of improved culture. A thinly in- 
 habited country may feel the pinch of hunger as severely as 
 a more populous country. Say that in this early stage it 
 had sought relief by limiting its population, it would for 
 ever have remained a thinly inhabited, poor, and uncivUised 
 country. 
 
 Passions, you say, are too violent. Certainly in this or 
 that man too violent; in that other, perhaps, too feeble. 
 No one is, in all respects, a perfect character. And here we 
 encounter another of Nature's great beneficent laws or ten- 
 
172 GEAVENHUEST. [part I. 
 
 dencies. Everywhere variety. Throughout all the animal 
 creation what endless variety ! One type is seen to be devel- 
 oping itself into every possible modification. And between 
 man and man, between mind and mind, the same inexhaust- 
 ible variety. Nothing is apt to strike us with more admira- 
 tion than this, diversity of human character, coupled as it is 
 with certain great similitudes. And if these great resem- 
 blances, between man and man are absolutely necessary for 
 the foundation of any human society, or any code of morals 
 (since if the same things did not generally give pleasure and 
 pain, there could be no general law for human conduct), it 
 is equally true that the differences between man and man 
 give to all human societies their vivacity, their movement, 
 and the mental activity that distinguishes them. I half, 
 suspect that, if a man were suddenly to be plunged into a 
 society w^here every one was exactly like himself, he would 
 go mad. The ennui would be intolerable. Losing all sense 
 of contrast, he would be in danger of losing his sense of 
 individuality; his very personality would grow dim to him. 
 Be that as it may, this variety of character — of powers, tem- 
 peraments, habits — is of infinite importance, and essential 
 to the progress of humanity. And how could this variety 
 exist, if in every individual the passions were mingled in 
 what we should pronounce perfect proportions ? The exist- 
 ence of this ■ diversity of human character is manifestly in- 
 compatible with the frequent attainment of an ideal standard 
 of perfection. One man is strict in calling others to account, 
 vindictive in his justice, earnest in punishing offenders. 
 Too earnest, you say — too vindictive. But his amiable 
 neighbour is too lenient, too compassionate, or else, out of 
 very indolencej far too ready to forgive offences by which he 
 does pot personally suffer. The viMictiveness of the one 
 is balanced by the amiability or indolence of the other. 
 Much better, you say, that all should have the same tern- 
 
CHAP, m.] MORAL EVIL. 173 
 
 perate and unyielding sentiment of public justice, by wbicb 
 laws for the public welfare are sustained ; but how expect 
 the same energetic yet equable sentiment in men of different 
 tempers, who have been, moreover, subjected to the also 
 beneficially varied circumstances of life? Sometimes the 
 one character is plainly the complement of the other,— as 
 where one man is submissive, and claims guidance and pro- 
 tection ; and another is of the dominating order, exercising 
 control, and skilful in organising. 
 
 Do considerations of this kind lead us to tolerate all char- 
 acter, alike good and bad, kind and cruel? Not at all. 
 There are certain great subjects, on which men think and 
 feel sufficiently alike to form a strong moral opinion, which 
 is constantly coercing individual peculiarities or eccentricities. 
 Coupled with this diversity of character is a general accept- 
 ance of certain great truths, and a general desire to force 
 these truths upon our neighbours. 
 
 "We conclude, therefore, that the too much of pain and 
 painful emotion can only be asserted by one who, after sur- 
 veying the whole of human life; could confidently pronounce 
 that a less degree of that which in any degree is odious, 
 would have been equally compatible with all the advantages 
 that are complicated with pain and painful emotions. 
 
 CHAPTEK III. 
 
 MOEAL EVIL. 
 
 Pbehaps the reader relinquishes this question of degree, and 
 limits his objection, or his perplexity, to one land of evil — 
 moral evil, crime, sin. Pain and painful emotions he can 
 
174 6EAVENHUEST. [part i. 
 
 understand as having a fit place in God's creation — do tliey 
 not practise us in fortitude and other virtues 1 But pain 
 given with vicious intention by one man to another — this 
 must surely be attributed to some diabolic agency. How 
 can the God who punishes sin have also ordained its exist- 
 ence ? How reconcile our notions of the justice of God with 
 the belief that man is in aU respects the creature of God ? 
 This, with many minds, is the great diificulty that besets 
 our subject. 
 
 That which, amongst animals or idiots, is mere hurt and 
 injury, becomes moral evil, becomes crime or sin, to intelli- 
 gent man occupied with the interests of society or the pre- 
 sumed judgments of God. EvU, therefore, becomes moral 
 evil — how ? by the development of human reason. And a 
 pleasure-giving act becomes moral goodness by the same devel- 
 opment of intelligence. We have not here to speak of any ab- 
 solutely new passion : what has converted evil into moral evil 
 is the elevation of other parts of our nature. The intentional 
 acts of men become moral evil because they are performed or 
 contemplated by beings capable of moral judgments. Whe- 
 ther you pronounce these judgments to be the result of a 
 special moral faculty, or describe them as the reason judging 
 for the welfare of the whole community, it is stiU sufficiently 
 plain that evil becomes moral evil by the addition of these 
 judgments. It is the result of this higher or peculiar devel- 
 opment of the human mind, that to injure another, under 
 certain circumstances, becomes moral evil. We see by this 
 simple statement the utter impossibility of ascribing simple 
 pain or evil to the Creator of the world, and moral evil 
 to some other and diabolic agent. The evil being there, 
 the conversion of it into moral evil marked our advance- 
 ment. 
 
 You say that the passions, motives, energies of man, ought 
 to be uniformly controlled by reason or conscience. Why, 
 
CHAP. III.] MOEAL EVIL. 175 
 
 then, has a world been formed in which they are not always 
 so controlled 1 
 
 But unless there had been passions needing control, cap- 
 able of leading to violent and mischievous actions, how could 
 this moral restraint have been brought into existence 1 It is 
 because we have to check and regulate both ourselves and 
 each other that there is such a thing as morality at all. No 
 theorem in Euclid is more clear than this, that moral good 
 and moral evil start into existence together. Eeason and 
 conscience are themselves developments from the experience 
 of the good and evil of life. The moment reason and con- 
 science are thus developed, good and evil have become moral 
 good and moral evil. The creation of man as a moral being 
 involves tlie necessity of moral evil. 
 
 Let us first suppose that all men acted spontaneously 
 (whether from instinct or perfectly balanced passions) in 
 that manner which was best for the whole. Here it is plain 
 there would be no room for the development of our moral 
 sentiments. A perfect code of morality might be acted, but 
 not from the 'sentiments of moral responsibility, duty, merit. 
 Eules of conduct would be as unnecessary to such a race as 
 to the ant or the bee : there would be no conflict between 
 the present passion, or immediate interest of the individual, 
 and the reason judging for the interest of the whole com- 
 munity. Conscience, describe it how you will, would be 
 latent, undeveloped. Let us next suppose that there was 
 such amount of irregularity and mischief in the spontaneous 
 actions of men as to develop the conscience, as to suggest the 
 making of laws or rules, and affixing a penalty of some kind 
 to their infraction ; and let us suppose that the moment such 
 rules were made — the moment that a conscience was devel- 
 oped, and good and bad conduct became, therefore, right and 
 wrong conduct — that all the bad conduct now stigmatised as 
 wrong, vicious^ immoral, immediately ceased. Here obedi- 
 
176 GRAVEN HUKST. [part. i. 
 
 ence to the rule is supposed at once to become universal — at 
 once to reach its maximum in every individual. But who 
 sees not that the supposition is utterly at variance vrith all 
 the great facts of human nature — with the force of hahit, 
 with the gradual formation of definite and universally received 
 laws 1 And if such a violent supposition could be gravely 
 discussed — if, the moment a moral judgment were formed, the 
 evil on which it pronounced altogether ceased — I am at a loss 
 ,to conceive how, in such a state of things, where all would be 
 equally obedient to the moral law, there could be any feeling 
 of merit, any glow of virtue, any praise given or received. 
 
 Granting that such a uniformity of moral conduct is de- 
 sirable, it is plainly impossible that it could be produced 
 suddenly. "What, in the nature of things, is founded on 
 experience, must be preceded by the requisite experience. 
 If a race of thinking beings is to act from a rule of reason 
 or intelligence — that is, from generalised experience — there 
 njust have been a process of thought or experiment carried 
 on, and carried on through several generations. Man in- 
 jures himself and his fellow-man by his ignorance and 
 passion. From many ill results of these he learns temper- 
 ance, he learns equity. These virtues are, from their very 
 nature, to be learnt from the experience of good and evil, 
 and will be learnt gradually. Turn the subject how you 
 will, moral good could not exist unless its connteipart of 
 moral evil also existed, or had existed. This truth is self- 
 evident, and yet it seems to be overlooked by those who 
 repeatedly perplex themselves by asking, How could God 
 be the author of moral evil 1 The great fact that ought to 
 arrest their attention is, that God has been the author of a 
 moral being. He has so arranged the circumstances of life, 
 and the powers and propensities of man, that the reason or 
 judgment cultivated in this scene of pain and pleasure pro- 
 duces for us the sentiments of merit and duty. 
 
CHAP. III.] MOEAL EVIL. 177 
 
 I repeat that no refuge can be taken in any peculiar 
 ethical theory. " Natural evil," says one reasoner, " be- 
 comes moral evil, because it is at once felt to be such. Man 
 has a moral perception, an original faculty of conscience, by 
 means of which he perceives certain conduct to be right and 
 wrong, just as by his ordinary organs of perception he per- 
 ceives things to be blue or red, round or square." In my 
 apprehension, what is here called an original faculty of con- 
 science is the judgment of our conduct according to rules 
 that have grown up as the reason and affections of man de- 
 veloped themselves. I have explained this elsewhere, and 
 may again find it necessary to go over this beaten yet in- 
 tricate ground of ethical discussion. But adopt, if you can 
 understand it, this theory of an innate moral perception, it 
 is still clear that this faculty could not have its proper exer- 
 cise, could not be developed, unless there were presented 
 before it both moral evil and moral good. 
 
 That natural evil has become moral evil, is the sign of 
 man's advancement, and immense superiority above all other 
 living creatures. Beasts injure and destroy each other, and 
 we call this a natural evil. It would be a like natural 
 evil in man, but that his higher reason condemns it. He 
 compares such injury and destruction with peaceful and 
 beneficent conduct : he approves the one, condemns the 
 other. 
 
 God, then, is the author of moral evil — in what way? 
 By a development of the reason of man He has enabled him 
 to compare conduct with conduct, result with result — en- 
 abled him to approve and condemn. 
 
 AH this is very clear. But why, then, it is asked, does 
 God PUNISH moral evil, if He created it ? 
 
 There are two theories abroad on the nature of divine 
 punishments. 
 
 If the divine punishments (whether judicial, or consist- 
 
 M 
 
178 GRAVENHUEST. [part. i. 
 
 ing of penalties brought out by tbe operation of the laws 
 already established) have for their end the guidance of men, 
 and of societies of men, here or hereafter, then these divine 
 punishments are but means to carry on the progressive de- 
 velopment of the human species. The -whole scheme is still 
 in harmony in all its parts. There is no difficulty in God's 
 both creating and punishing moral evil. He creates it by 
 the additional intelligence He gives to man : that is. He has 
 raised ia man a desire to combat evil. He fosters or en- 
 lightens that desire by affixing penalties -where man has de- 
 clined this combat. 
 
 If, according to another theory, God punishes sin simply 
 because it is sin — simply from a supposed repugnance or 
 hostility to moral e-vil, without any regard to the results of 
 punishment — then I admit that it is impossible to reconcile 
 such notions of God's justice with the fact that God is the 
 creator of the world. But this last theory of divine punish- 
 ments is not, I believe, the one generally received. 
 
 Perhaps in the general mind there is some confused notion 
 of retributive justice, which would be found difficult to re- 
 concile with the faith equally general, that God made all 
 mankind, and the whole of our humanity. But the theory 
 that God, from the necessity of His nature, must punish sin 
 as sin, without regard to the beneficent result of the punish- 
 ment itself, is one which would be only formally set forth by 
 a peculiar class of theologians. It matters not, however, 
 whether that class of theologians be large or small ; it is a 
 theory utterly irreconcilable with the belief in one supreme, 
 creative, and beneficent Intelligence. 
 
 In one sense of the word, God creates no evil. 
 
 I said that I had no paradox to put forth, yet the con- 
 clusion to which we are inevitably led can hardly be ex- 
 pressed in terms which do not sound paradoxical. 
 
 There is no evil in the sum of things — no evil in the re- 
 
I 
 CHAP. III.] ■ MORAL EVIL. 179 
 
 lation which any one thing hears to the great whole, as it 
 develops itself in space and time. The evil that man en- 
 dures is evil, at the time, to him ; he has to resist it, and 
 hy resistance to rise in the scale of virtue and intelligence. 
 And that which is evil in the individual man, and which 
 must everywhere be followed by its penal consequences, is 
 yet not evU to an eye that could embrace the whole develop- 
 ment of humanity. If pain and pleasure together make a 
 happier and far richer world than pleasure only — if pas- 
 sions regulated by individual reason, and by laws made by 
 reasonable communities for their common guidance, form 
 together a far higher world than would be produced by a set 
 of uniform, imperative intuitions, or by harmonious appetites 
 and passions that needed no control, — then, surely, we are 
 justified in asserting that the presence of what we inevitably 
 call evU, or moral evil, is not inconsistent with the proposi- 
 tion that the whole is good. God, the creator of the whole, 
 has created only for the good of the whole. 
 
 Universal laws and powers — the whole of nature — or that 
 Supreme Eeason by which alone we can represent to our- 
 selves the unity of nature — this declares itself on the side of 
 happiness, and on the side of goodness, as both the highest 
 happiness and the permanent guardian of happiness. Since 
 in the entire scheme of creation evil is subordinate to good, 
 and humanity is the greater, and rises to higher and higher 
 development owing to this admixture of good and evil, it 
 follows that we cannot say of the Author of the entire 
 scheme that He has created for any other purpose than good. 
 ■Nothing is evil in relation to the whole. And this becomes 
 more impressed upon us when we regard humanity in its 
 progressive character, and see how- one generation is de- 
 veloped from another — how inevitably necessary the ex- 
 perience of many ages is to the wisdom of mankind — how 
 the fierce pleasures and fantastic errors of one period are but 
 
180 GEAYENHUEST. [part. t. 
 
 the conditions of the calmer joys and more rational beliefs of 
 a suhsequent period. 
 
 We live under this Supreme Eeasnn, not under a Being 
 beneficent in the manner of a sympathetic man, who weeps 
 at every calamity, rushes ever to the rescue, and burns at 
 every injury. "We live under a Supreme Intelligence, who 
 has created in us, by the very spur of want, an intelligential 
 power that combats with want. The presence of both good 
 and evil is the condition of our intelligence ; and, again, this 
 aroused intelligence has for its office to multiply and exalt 
 the good, and as much as possible to subdue the evil. 
 
 All the several parts of our creation form one scheme, and 
 that scheme is beneficent. I am entitled to say this, al- 
 though I am not entitled to say that other schemes of which 
 I know nothing may not result in greater happiness and 
 higher intelligence. If I had seen but one animal, I should 
 be justified in admiring the harmony of its organisation, and 
 the vivacity and pleasure of its movements, although I cer- 
 tainly should not have been entitled to say that an animal 
 of still greater power, or beauty, or vivacity, could not have 
 been created. 
 
 AU who battle for the good are, in the language of a 
 natural piety, the children of Ood. They are ranged on the 
 side of goodness, or the production of happiness, and they 
 also receive into their hearts, as their indisputable reward, 
 the highest sentiments of happiness. 
 
 If evil in some form or degree is eternally with us, this or 
 that evil is not always necessary ; often it invites us to 
 remedy or remove it by individual or combined efforts. 
 Already some great evils that have afflicted society belong 
 with us, to the past ; others are prompting us forward by in- 
 timations that they also are vulnerable to attack. 
 
 Yes, and there are irremediable evils ! — death and doubt, 
 limitation to existence, limitation to knowledge. Such evils, 
 
CHAP. IV.] MAN PROGRESSIVE. 181 
 
 I think, as have this character of being irremediable stamped 
 upon them, are those also whose permanent place in human 
 life seems distinctly justified by the nature of the whole. 
 
 Something we must add on both classes, the remediable 
 and the irremediable — something we must also say of evil, 
 as it is modified in our view by a belief in progress, and 
 then we close this brief exposition. 
 
 CHAPTEE IV. 
 
 REMEDIABLE EVILS, OR MAN PROGRESSIVE. 
 
 ** Observe — it liad not much 
 Consoled the race of mastodons to know 
 Before they went to fossil, that anon 
 Their place would quicken with the elephant : 
 They were not elephants, hut mastodons. 
 And I — a man as men are now, and not 
 As men may be hereafter — feel with men 
 In the agonising present." 
 
 So sings, and wisely, the authoress of ' Aurora Leigh.' The 
 pleasures of the coming elephant could not reconcile the 
 mastodon to any trials he had to endure. I certainly could 
 not attempt to console the present generation — if it needed 
 to be consoled — by pointing to the superior happiness which 
 wiU probably be attained by some subsequent generation. 
 To bid one portion of the race to lie down patiently, as it 
 were, in the breach, that another' portion may pass over it 
 into the citadel, might not be thought very kindly or accept- 
 able advice. 
 
 The idea of progress is a vast addition to the present life 
 of all thinking men : to know that each age works not only 
 for itself, but for its successor, aggrandises our conception of 
 
182 GEAVENHUEST. [pakt i. 
 
 the whole of humanity; but each age has in itself its own'^ 
 completeness, its own harmonies, its own content. If it 
 were not so — if the nature of life were to be miserable 
 hitherto— I know not by what line of argument we should 
 have ever established our idea of progress. Progress is not 
 directly from bad to good, but from some good to a greater 
 — from knowledge to knowledge, from effort to effort. 
 
 Neither the idea of progress nor the doctrine of immor- 
 tality, however much they add to the grandeur of our present 
 lives by the emotions they occasion, or by the sublime views 
 of human nature they justify, can be legitimately introduced 
 as consolations for the miseries of the world at large. I 
 know it is common to offer as consolation for the sufferings 
 of this life the happiness of another. But the same religious 
 faith which offers this consolation, immediately afterwards 
 limits it to the sufferings of the virtuous and the pious, or even 
 to such of their sufferings as were due to their virtue or 
 piety. Need I say how inadequate a consolation this is to 
 the miseries of aU the various classes of mankind 1 Men, it 
 is true, may be contented with their lives upon the whole, 
 and yet like to receive consolation for some unhappy por- 
 tion of them ; and to pious men this doctrine of a future 
 life may offer the consolations they require. But, looking over 
 the world at large, it is manifest that the greatest amount of 
 misery is felt by those who, it is understood, are not entitled 
 to the compensation of a happy futurity. Their greatest 
 misery is, that neither virtue nor piety have been cultivated 
 within them. 
 
 But to return to the idea of terrestrial progress — men ex- 
 tended their interest over the future of a human society even 
 before our modern belief in progress had been developed. 
 A Eoman built for posterity, though he hoped for nothing 
 higher than the continuance and stability of the Eoman 
 commonwealth. 
 
CHAP. IV.] MAN PKOGEESSIVE. 183 
 
 Standing wlieie we now do in the annals of time, we look 
 back upon the past with a conviction that each age, while 
 labouring and enjoying for itself, has been laying the founda- 
 tion for higher labour and enjoyment in some future age. 
 At least this has been always true of some nation, and what 
 is done by one people is done for all the earth. 
 
 Now, if any one should here ask. Why could not the last 
 stage of human perfection have been at once attained ? the 
 answer is at hand. We have to repeat that human know- 
 ledge or wisdom is, from its very nature, built on that 
 human experience which intervenes between the first and 
 the last. You may perhaps conceive of some other kind of 
 excellence; but this human excellence is, from its nature, 
 the result of experience. How then could it be without that 
 experience ? 
 
 If our spontaneity had from the first left us nothing to ' 
 desire, we should never have been reflective beings at all. 
 We should never have reflected, I mean, upon our own 
 lives, whatever we might have done upon inanimate nature. 
 Eeflection comes in with comparison, with preference, with 
 approval, and disapproval. It is, in fact, another term for 
 comparison of a complex character. 
 
 It is also plain that the reflection which a society makes 
 upon its social or political organisation must need the vari- 
 ous experiences of several ages. I state this to show, that it 
 is a necessity of the case that one age should be subservient 
 to another ; it does not follow that either age is incomplete 
 in itself. The progress may be " from harmony to har- 
 mony,'' from one organisation to another organisation. 
 
 Our latest social and political institutions might have been 
 adopted at once, as the earliest may have been, by sponta- 
 neous impulses, with very little reflection ; but in that case 
 they could not have been what they now are, the products 
 of experience, and the constant subjects for the exercise of 
 
184 GKAVENHUEST. [paRt l 
 
 reason. Suppose we were all agreed that a representative 
 form of government was tlie very best for human societies ; 
 how could such form of government be adopted by us, as 
 reasonable creatures, aware of its advantages, if men had not 
 lived under other forms also, and if we were not capable of 
 drawing a comparison between those other forms and this 1 
 We might, you say, have at once instituted such a govern- 
 ment, guided by instinctive impulse ; and if so, we should 
 have lived under it as ants and bees under their form of 
 polity, whatever that may be. 
 
 Progress is brought about by the energy of man, which 
 energy is also his highest felicity. The age which, in any 
 way, has fought and conquered for its successor, would per- 
 haps be considered the more fortunate of the two if its suc- 
 cessor had not also its own strife — strife 'at least to retain 
 what had been thus acquired for it. The times of great 
 wars and religious persecutions are not pre-eminently un- 
 happy. In the first place, there were, thousands whom the 
 war or persecution never reached — who laboured, loved, and 
 married, and saw their children grow up in play about their 
 knees. And, in the next place, those who were engaged in 
 the war or persecution had their own fierce delights of doing, 
 and suffering, and defying the power that would crush them. 
 I pity no one whose spirit is stiU unsubdued, who stiU com- 
 bats, and resists, and strives. 
 
 I have said something elsewhere* of the evolution and 
 development of human society and of human knowledge ; I 
 have endeavbured to show how it is that we necessarily pro- 
 ceed, through the mere dictates of passion and force, to 
 forms of society that are based on reflection, and through 
 imaginative errors to truths that wear a scientific form. Slav- 
 ery, war, despotism, religious persecution, are evils which we 
 
 * In the latter part of ' Thorndale.' 
 
CHAP. IV.] , MAN PEOGEESSIVE. 185 
 
 have already partly outlived. Evils we from our position 
 rightly pronounce them to be, yet each of them had its 
 adaptation to the epoch in which it was found to exist, and 
 each had a function to perform preparatory to a subsequent 
 and happier era. Where they still exist, they still have the 
 like adaptation. 
 
 One illustration must here suffice. War is already, and 
 has long been, proclaimed to be an evil of the first magni- 
 tude, and forward-looking men anticipate a time when the 
 disputes of nations will be decided by a society of nations, 
 represented in some council or congress. Meanwhile we 
 • are, as a people, stiU in that condition when we enjoy the 
 fierce' delights of war. Nay, we read lectures to each other 
 on the moral benefits arising out of the bold profession of 
 arms. And, at all events, there is a general persuasion that 
 this great framer of states, this founder of nationalities, has 
 not yet done its work. Wars of conquest and of self-defence 
 have hitherto assisted at the formation of every well-knit 
 community. The opposition from without has made the 
 elements cohere within. 
 
 Or perhaps religious persecution may aiford us a better 
 and more instructive illustration. Here our condemnation is 
 still more decisive ; and the evil, in its virulence, is regarded 
 by us in England as belonging to the past. Yet the action 
 of the state, or the' civil power, in upholding, amongst in- 
 creasing multitudes, a faith generally beneficial to tl^ose 
 multitudes, is still recognised as a valuable element in our 
 European societies. That action has changed its character, 
 and become more humane, and takes as often the form of 
 bribery as of persecution. In a rude age, which at once, on 
 all subjects, appealed to force, it inevitably assumed a rude 
 and violent character. Men were put to death for not be- 
 lieving, or not professing, that national creed which had 
 been made the basis of national education. 
 
186 GEAVENHUEST. [paet i. 
 
 If such a national creed, not founded on scientific know- 
 ledge, not capable in itself of fixing the belief of multitudes, 
 has been upheld in this its useful, educational function by 
 the power of the state, we must not altogether quarrel with 
 religious persecution. At the same time, the more thinking 
 part of a nation wiU outgrow such creeds. The martyr and 
 the rebel inevitably appear upon the stage. Then new con- 
 ceptions are gradually formed of the part which the state 
 ought to take upon itself in this matter of religious belief. 
 Each epoch thus brings about the state-action thai; is fitted 
 for it. 
 
 Very terrible scenes may be, and have been, enacted in 
 the transiti&n. Men are divided by the direst animosities ; 
 each party appears to the other in the blackest of colours, 
 and yet each party is sustained by the very highest emotions 
 of conscience and religious faith. 
 
 There is a toleration for the persecutor we have yet to 
 learn. I was lately reading the History of Philip II. and 
 the grand revolt of the Netherlands. _What indignation I 
 felt against the Spanish tyrant ! And indeed we Protestants 
 must hate this despot. And yet, I asked myself, is it rea- 
 sonable to lay upon one man, as his crime, the fanaticism of 
 a whole people and the tradition of ages ? A great idea pre- 
 vailed, it predominated entirely in Spain, it had prevailed 
 generally over European society. It was the idea of a uni- 
 versal church, out of which salvation for the souls of men 
 was impossible. Kings as well as priests, and mobs as well as 
 kings, were possessed with this idea. Scholars, soldiers, mag- 
 istrates, all held themselves charged to maintain it, to 
 write, to fight, and adjudicate for its support. The error of aU 
 is the reproach of none. This Philip II. is pre-eminently 
 the great and pious king of pious Catholics. Possessed of 
 highest power, on him devolves the severest task. The 
 sword is in his hand, and he must strike. This morose and 
 
CHAP. IV.] MAN PEOGEESSIVE. 187 
 
 superstitious king is, 'before all others, tlie slave to our great 
 idea. 
 
 But in one part of his dominions this great idea is dis- 
 puted and dethroned. I see the enlightened and wealthy 
 cities of Holland suffering every calamity that war and fa- 
 mine can inflict, rather than deny the new truth that has 
 sprung up in them. They will not surrender their convic- 
 tions. Eather let the sea take back their land, rather let 
 the fires of martyrdom consume their bodies. Return stroke- 
 for stroke, you brave Dutchmen ! Bear all, inflict all, rather 
 than surrender ! Would that you could bind this monarch 
 and fling him over your dikes, and be free to worship how 
 you wiU ! 
 
 But now, when the fight is over and the combatants 
 numbered with the dead, on whom are we to pass judgment 1 
 Ifot on the zealot king, not on the zealot citizen. They are 
 gone from before our judgment-seat, with all their antagonis- 
 tic energies and repugnant duties. They have left only for 
 our contemplation a contest between two great ideas. 
 
 All that remains for us is to congratulate ourselves on the 
 new views that have become prevalent as to the duty of the 
 state in the matter of religion. But here we perceive our 
 age may justly congratulate itself, and yet not condemn or 
 affect to pity its predecessor. An enlightened people, a 
 people whose minds are generally active, toill put forth a 
 variety of beliefs ; and this very activity of mind becomes a 
 substitute for that state authority which it resists. Amongst 
 such a people the action of the state is necessarily and wisely 
 limited. Did such mental activity become still more gene- 
 ral, the action of- the state might be altogether withdrawn. 
 All this is subject for sincere congratulation. But if I am 
 to look back candidly into some past era, I must see there 
 also a certain harmony in the condition of things — a certain 
 social organisation which is not unworthy of admiration. 
 
188 GEAVENHURST. [part i. 
 
 An ignorant unreasoning people are bound together, and 
 have their minds guided and enriched hy some state-pro- 
 tected faith, which, he its composition what it may, has in 
 it the highest practical wisdom that the thinking few of 
 mankind have hitherto attained. This, also, is not unworthy 
 of an approving recognition. 
 
 CHAPTEE V. 
 
 THE IRREMEDIABLE. 
 
 It is spring-time with us here at Gravenhurst, and indeed 
 over all Europe ; trees are hudding, hirds are singing ; there 
 is the green and golden verdure on the woods, and over all 
 how soft a sky ! Before me are two lambs couching on the 
 grass, and two little children standing together looking at 
 them wonderingly, and thinking (I half suspect) that the 
 two lambs are far more wonderful creatures than them- 
 selves. 
 
 No, it is not always spring at Gravenhurst or elsewhere ; 
 it is not always youth with man or beast. We have our 
 winter, and old age, and death the inevitable. But therefore 
 it is that we can have spring and childhood, and the sweet 
 relation between the old inhabitants of the earth and the 
 new born ; the new-comer who is to be taught, protected, 
 cherished, loved. "Would you wish it otherwise ? No leaf 
 to wither and to fall, and no bud to come forth upon the 
 branches. And no human bud. The same dry tree for 
 ever ; the same eternal man, neither young nor old. No 
 glad anticipations, and no cherished memories ; both lost in 
 the actual and eternal repetition of a monotonous existence. 
 
CHAP, v.] THE IRREMEDIABLE. 189 
 
 I think, in our madness, we should wish the sun to fall out 
 of heaven. 
 
 A few months ago I watched the last sere leaves tremhling 
 on the boughs, or heard them fall one by one through the 
 bare branches. Now T see the same elms and oaks starring 
 the blue air with their golden buds. The willow throws out 
 a light chain of tender verdure — light chain of verdure that 
 cannot fetter the youngest wind that is revelling in this 
 bright May morning. But it fetters me. It arrests my 
 step, my gaze ; I should stay under it a willing captive, but 
 that my beautiful twin poplars must be visited. They are 
 awaking from their wintry dream, and I observe that they 
 begin the summer with the same bright, flame-like tint with 
 which they died down in autumn. Leaf by leaf they dropt 
 their glory, leaf by leaf they resume it. And with the leaf 
 comes the bird, hastening, with many a love-song, to build 
 his nest. At first I hear a few brief low notes that are flung 
 from bough to bough ; they remind me of children's kisses, 
 blown to each other through the air ; then comes the whole 
 tumult of melody and joy. Need I remind you that this 
 perpetual renewal of spring, of youth, of love, of child and 
 mother, has dark death for its necessary condition? The 
 inevitable is also the indispensable. 
 
 How much of life should we lose if we lived perpetually ! 
 How stagnant would have been the condition of man ! Sup- 
 posing that habit had the same power that it has now (and 
 without the power of habit we could not construct a human 
 life at aU), I cannot understand how a race of immortal men 
 could have made much progress in knowledge or in the arts. 
 A -tolerable existence once secured, habit, customs, rooted 
 beliefs, operating alike on all, would render change impos- 
 sible ; curiosity and the love of novelty would die out ; life 
 would become a fixed routine. I cannot conceive that this 
 middle-aged immortal would ever keenly anticipate the 
 
190 GRAVENHUEST. [i'akt i. 
 
 future. Perhaps wonder itself would fade away from the 
 face of things. And that eternity beyond life which death 
 for ever points to, though he points to it so silently, would, 
 of course, cease to be the great stimulant of man's sublimest 
 thoughts and emotions. N"othing could be so fatal to human 
 happiness as a terrestrial immortality. Indeed, it is hardly 
 possible to form a distinct conception of so unnatural a 
 condition. The family, with all its ties and interests and 
 affections, would of course be extinct. "What sentiments 
 man might still retain towards his fellow-man, or the great 
 external nature that surrounds him, would have lost their 
 strength, their tenderness, their mystery. 
 
 A touch upon that brain, and farewell king ! farewell poet ! 
 The greatest of human beings is at the inercy of the bhnd 
 unconscious forces of the world. Any atom kills a man. 
 But look again : turn from the west to the east, and the 
 same king, and yet another — the same poet, and yet another, 
 is treading the scene. Death was a mere mockery. Nothing 
 kiUs the man. The blind unconscious atoms have for their 
 mission his incessant reproduction. 
 
 Yet the fear of death lies on each individual creature, and 
 on man especially ; and ever as life increases in value must 
 death become more detestable. And ever as life increases 
 in value, as it becomes richer and richer in love and know- 
 ledge, does the thought of death play a greater and greater 
 part in all that is noble or heroic in speculation or in action. 
 
 There is a fear of death — the dark side of a theology zeal- 
 ous for the promotion of human goodness and piety — cruelly 
 zealous for the g0od — which I will not here touch upon. 
 No justice could be done to the subject, unless the whole 
 influence of that theology, viewed on its bright as weU as its 
 dark side, could be surveyed. But there is a natural fear of 
 death which attends upon the love of life itself, and which 
 must be considered as a permanent element of human exist- 
 
CHAP, v.] THE IRREMEDIABLE. 191 
 
 ence. There must come a time ■wheii we- shall cease to live, 
 and, what is a stUl more painful thought, our dearest friends 
 and those we love the most may depart before us. Natural 
 sentiments of this kind must remain for ever with us. 
 
 Of the two causes of distress, the loss of our friends or 
 relations gives far greater pain than the anticipation of our 
 own decease. This last is a mournful sentiment that occa- 
 sionally throws its shadow over the stream of life ; but the 
 unarrested stream ilows on, and the shadow comes and goes, 
 and seems to brighten the stream by the contrast that it 
 brings. In health and vigour we think only of our purposes, 
 and fill the future, as the present, with our pleasures and 
 affections ; and when, in the hours of our sadness, we dwell 
 on the parting that must one day take place, even then it is 
 the something prized and lovable that the mind is resting on, 
 and the sentiment of antedated regret is half a pleasure. 
 Poets in all ages have been accustomed to enhance the 
 charms of dear and familiar scenes, by the pensive sentiment 
 that we shall not always enjoy them ; that the tree and the 
 river wUl rustle and will flow for other ears and other eyes 
 than ours — ' 
 
 " No more by thee my steps shall he, 
 For ever and for ever." 
 
 Doubtless there are many evils besides death .that will 
 be reckoned amongst the irremediable, as some forms of 
 disease, accidents, and injuries received from the mistakes, 
 as well as passions, of other men. Such evils, it will be said, 
 may be diminished, not extirpated. Death is the wholly 
 irremediable, and I point to it to show that this wholly irre- 
 mediable is also the entirely indispensable. 
 
 There is one other evil which, even in this brief summary, 
 I cannot leave unnoticed. ISo complaint has been more 
 frequently reiterated than that against the ignorance of man. 
 
192 GRAVENHUEST. [part i. 
 
 or the limitation of his knowledge. As all our progress resolves 
 itself into some extension of knowledge, our ignorance should 
 obviously be placed in the category of remediable evils. But 
 then it happens that there is a certain kind of knowledge to 
 which we aspire more ardently than to any other, and it is 
 precisely in this department of knowledge that the limita- 
 tions have appeared to man to be fixed, impassable. Some 
 describe themselves as beating for ever against the bars of 
 their prison-house. . Here is another instance, it is said, of 
 the wholly irremediable. 
 
 It is no legitimate subject of complaint that every acces- 
 sion of scientific knowledge brings with it some new want 
 of knowledge — some new stimulant for further inquiry. It 
 would be a great misfortune if it did not. As the circle of 
 our knowledge extends, those whose eye is on the horizon 
 must see the dark line of our ignorance extend also. This 
 is not the complaint that you hear often from our philoso- 
 phers. The lament that has been made in every age, and in 
 no age more frequently than in our own, is, that there are 
 certain great truths after which we are impelled to seek, and 
 which yet for ever evade our grasp ; that on certain subjects, 
 where observation and experience cease to be our guides^as 
 the origin of the world, or the nature of God — the human 
 mind inevitably thinks, and as inevitably thinks to little 
 purpose. There is an. impassable barrier, which, neverthe- 
 less, we are constantly striving to pass. 
 
 Is there indeed an ignorance of this description ? Is there 
 any subject on which men are impelled to think, yet on 
 which we can pronounce that thought is, and always will 
 be, unavailing ? 
 
 Where one man is peering out into hopeless darkness, 
 another tells you that he sees a glorious truth. Is the first 
 obtuse, or is the second imaginative 1 The question is not 
 easy to decide. I myself, if interrogated on the nature of 
 
OHAP. v.] IGNORANCE. 193 
 
 God, should not say that all examination of this problem 
 was -hopeless. I should venture to reply, that as the world 
 shapes itself in the intelligence of man, that human intelli- 
 gence becomes a type, vague and imperfect, of one phase of 
 that supreme Eeason, which is conscious of the universe it 
 creates. Other men would be able, I doubt not, to give a 
 still more lucid answer. But let us suppose that no man 
 could give an answer that would satisfy many minds, or 
 satisfy his own for very long together ; let us suppose that 
 there is such an ignorance as we have been speaking of — an 
 ignorance that is always felt, and which never can be re- 
 moved — stiU I cannot consent to regard this ceaseless effort 
 to overpass the boundary as itself an evil. Better this than 
 an unconsciousness of our ignorance. 
 
 I am not bound to admit — I am not entitled to assert — 
 that what are sometimes called the higher problems of philo- 
 sophy — as questions of ontology or the absolute cause of all 
 — are and must for ever remain insolvable. But if this were 
 the case, our attempts to solve them cannot be regretted ; 
 they are connected with our highest intellectual energies and 
 intellectual emotions. The constant attempt we are said to 
 make to attain the unattainable, is a condition of things 
 which impUes that the mind as constantly imagines some 
 solution — that it has an alternation of faith and doubt. 
 
 The state of the case, as put by the most desponding 
 thinkers, is this : That while on these great subjects truth 
 is not to be discovered, some men, or perhaps most men, at 
 some period of their lives, believe they have discovered it. 
 It is necessary to assume this, because if aU men came to 
 the same conclusion that search was unavailing, then the 
 discrepancy between our wishes and our powers (which is 
 here made the subject of lamentation) would cease, and men 
 would live contented with their ignorance. 
 
 Attempts " to think the unthinkable " are not incessantly 
 N 
 
194 GEAVENHUEST. [part i. 
 
 made, but on the assumption that some men believe that 
 they succeed where others perceive failure to be inevitable. 
 A mixture of doubt and faith in the same society, is there- 
 fore the final condition of things in which we are landed by 
 those who take the most melancholy view of human tnow- 
 ledge. This mixture of doubt and faith is, at least, favourable 
 to intellectual energy and our highest life. 
 
 The man who stands before Nature, and earnestly inter- 
 rogates her and his own soul as to what they can report of 
 God, is in a most solemn attitude of mind, but not neces- 
 sarily a painful one. Let the response be uncertain, he stiU 
 would not relinquish that attitude of mind under any bribe 
 earth could offer ; he would not relinquish it unless he would 
 prefer to be a beast rather than a man. He is man pre- 
 eminently when he stands in that attitude. 
 
 But a theme of this kind would lead too far. I wiU here 
 bring to a close this didactic Exposition, and indulge myself 
 and my readers in repeating some Conversations of my friends, 
 which may less disagreeably tax their attention. 
 
PART II.-CONVERSATIONS. 
 
 CONYEESATION I. 
 
 INEQUALITY OP HAPPINESS. 
 
 General Mansfield — Ada — Sandfoed. 
 
 We three, General Mansfield, Ada, and myself (whom I 
 will here call by the name of Sandford), were at the new 
 villa which the General is building, and which, as the 
 walls are now completed, already takes its place very pie- 
 turesqiiely in the landscape. "We sat on stumps of trees or 
 blocks of timber that were stiU left upon what will be, 
 when all is finished, the smoothest of lawns, but which was 
 then long and rank grass. Workmen were busy around us ; 
 plans, folded and unfolded, lay upon the ground by our 
 side, but we had ended our consultation of them for the 
 day. 
 
 Ada had been fixing her eye upon a duU shambling boy 
 who was there to assisj; the workmen. The boy's great eyes 
 
196 GRAVEN HUEST. [part ii. 
 
 — let the light fall upon them from what object it might — 
 had always the same passive stare, expressed nothing — 
 seemed, for their part, to be always gazing, vacant into 
 vacancy. " How difficult it is," she said, suddenly breaking 
 our silence, " to enter into the minds of men and women 
 whose condition is very different from our own ! I feel a 
 certain amazement and awe when I think what strangers we 
 are to each other. I know next to nothing of yonder boy, 
 and he as little of me. I might as well be in the presence 
 of one of the dumb animals : I have, indeed, the same 
 puzzled, painful feeling as when I look into the face of my 
 dog, or my pony, trying to spell out their thoughts. Well, 
 I hope they are all happy according to their several capaci- 
 ties. And where the capacity for happiness is little, the 
 capacity for misery is equally limited. Yonder boy, I think, 
 will never know the heartache. What say you, uncle, to 
 the remark so often made, that, balancing both our pains and 
 pleasures, the lot of all men is nearly equal, — ^much joy, 
 much anguish — little pleasure, little pain 1 " 
 
 MANSFIELD. 
 
 I see a vague feeling of equity in this desire to find the 
 lots of all men equal. Nature has an equity of her own, 
 which does not seem to be precisely of this description. 
 She fits each creature for the part he has to play ; but I do 
 not see that she pledges herself, through all her living crea- 
 tures, to keep the same proportions of sweet and bitter, to 
 compensate always so much pain with so much pleasure, or 
 to weigh out so much pleasure against so much pain. 
 
 I will venture to make one observation. A keen suscep- 
 tibility, apart from other qualities, may expose a man to as 
 much misery as happiness. But if to keen susceptibility is 
 added an energetic active temper, such a man will, under all 
 ordtaary circumstances, enjoy far more than he suffers ; be- 
 
OONV. I.] EQUALITY OP LOTS. 197 
 
 cause an energetic temper seeks out for happiness, and throws 
 oif its disappointments and chagrins. Such a man enjoys 
 largely, while the sting of any calamity is soon lost in some 
 earnest fresh endeavour. A poor, thin, weak, passive nature 
 has no strength to conquer a new happiness, and sits down 
 in hopeless captivity to the present afliction. It is some 
 compliment to human life to say that the more complete a 
 man's character, — the fuller its development on all sides — 
 the will, the intellect, the affections, — the more certainly will 
 the proportion be in his favour of happiness over misery, 
 'lis Hfe— 
 
 "More life, and fuller, that we want." 
 
 SANDPORD. 
 
 "We know only one man's life very intimately — our own — 
 and we forget a great deal of that. It is difficult, therefore, 
 to compare the entire lives of two diiferent men, because we 
 can so rarely determine in what proportions the several ele- 
 ments of happiness have really mingled in them. But there 
 is no difficulty in estimating certain elements of human hap- 
 piness, and preferring them to others. Of two modes of 
 enjoyment I may confidently say that one transcends the 
 other immeasurably. I may assert this because my own ex- 
 perience is confirmed by the general testimony of mankind. 
 Thus I can say without •hesitation, that the happiness due to 
 our amiable affections is greater than the fierce pleasure of 
 hatred or revenge. Every one who has felt the two agrees 
 in this estimate. I can say that the satisfaction of acting ac- 
 cording to my own reason, and with the approbation of my 
 fellow-men, gives a higher and more permanent felicity than 
 the gratification of any one passion could do. I can say that 
 steady, habitual, persevering occupation is the source of more 
 pleasure than what we call amusements. Such estimates, 
 
198 GRAVENHUEST. [part ii. 
 
 being generally assented to, lie at the groundwork of our 
 moral opinion. 
 
 ADA. 
 
 And if we can do thus much, we can also say with con- 
 fidence of two men that one is happier than the other, since 
 in the one the higher elements are more developed than in 
 the other. 
 
 MANSFIELD. 
 
 Certainly in many cases — in cases quite numerous enough 
 to disprove this theory of an essential equality in human 
 lives. ^Nevertheless, as Sandford suggests, there would he a 
 difficulty in many other cases of comparing two lives, from 
 our ignorance of the proportion in which the higher and 
 lower elements were really developed in each. Besides, if 
 we are curious in this matter, we might he called upon to 
 compare one higher gratification with many of a lower de- 
 scription ; we should have sometimes to puzzle ourselves by 
 balancing quality against quantity. I have seen an Indian 
 prince in his palace, served by slaves and courtiers aU 
 anxious to procure him any new pleasure that he or they 
 could devise, and I have known him child enough to be 
 thoroughly amused with his pampered, ostentatious, and 
 quite sensuous mode of existence. I have left his palace, 
 and met the poor Brahmin, whose poverty was ennobled by 
 his voluntary acceptance of it. " To feed upon a little rice 
 — to drink only water — to have nothing but one's bent arm 
 to rest the head upon " — such, in hi^ own language, was his 
 choice. Can I measure the pride and tranquUlity of the 
 sacred and somewhat monotonous pauper with the other 
 kind of pride, and the numerous pleasures of the silly and 
 inflated prince ? 
 
OONV. I.] nature's equity. 199 
 
 ADA. 
 
 The Brahmin ! the Brahmin ! The sacred and mono- 
 tonous pauper for me ! 
 
 MANSFIELD. 
 
 Or, taking our present example, how could I compare the 
 stolidity of yonder lumbering hoy with the flippant pleasures 
 and absurd vexations of some fine lady who would look at 
 him with affected amazement through her eyeglass? One 
 thing I know, that that lumbering fellow has no more wish 
 to be the fine lady, than the fine lady to be transformed into 
 the sturdy, bepatched, bewildered lout. She is not aware 
 of it, but he grins at her in return for that fastidious glance 
 through the eyeglass ? The snail and the butterfly are both 
 content. They neither could nor would be anything else 
 than snail or butterfly. In a word, where variety is the 
 rule, if not the necessity, what more could any living crea- 
 ture claim than, this contentment with his own existence? 
 This is nature's equity, not any universally-sustained pro- 
 portion of the good and the 01. 
 
 Men are not always, nor often, contented with their lot ; 
 but I know what you mean — they are always contented with 
 themselves. They cannot wish to he another man ; they may 
 wish to add to their own possessions another's wealth or 
 another's knowledge ; they rest in their own individuality. 
 
 Yes ; and this individuality is, in the main, so connected 
 with the circumstance in which, and by which, it has grown 
 up, that it carries with it a general feeling of contentment 
 with the external lot also. It is a curious thing to reflect 
 upon, this individuality or personality. This / myself must, 
 of course, in the first place, consist of my own soul and body, 
 
200 GEAVENHUEST. [past n. 
 
 one or both of which have some distinctive power or tem- 
 perament. But still, this self of mine, as I Mow it, is the 
 result of these powers and temperaments acting and acted on 
 through a long train of circumstances. I am what my past 
 life has made me. I am the memories and the thoughts that 
 have grown up here in Gravenhurst, and which could have 
 grown up nowhere else. Being the product of my past life, 
 I am prepared to live the present. So that, if a man has not 
 heen wrenched suddenly from one station to another — if the 
 current of his life has not. been violently broken — the past 
 has always fitted him for the present. I find great comfort 
 in this wide generalisation. I am my past Hfe, and am 
 therefore fitted for what lies before me. "Thank God!" 
 says some good man to me, " that you were not bom a 
 savage. You might have been bom a Fiji, or Fijienne, and 
 been married to a man who, when he was tired of your 
 society, would have baked you and eaten you." I hope I 
 do thank God for my existence ; but / could not have been 
 a Fiji, or anything of the sort. There might have been one 
 savage the more, and one Englishwoman the less, but that 
 additional savage (I hope she would have been contented 
 with her lot) would not have been me. I and my own life 
 are inseparable. 
 
 SANDFORD. 
 
 I too find great comfort in your wide generalisation. 
 Every living thing is bom, and grows by the operation of 
 the same laws or forces amongst which it passes its exist- 
 ence : hence the general harmony j the consciousness of the 
 individual man is developed by the society in which the 
 man has to live. Some original tendency or power is from 
 the first secretly at work in each of us. It works, by mak- 
 ing us open to one class of impressions rather than to an- 
 other ; but, soldier or priest, or rudest workman, each one 
 
CONV. I.] nature's equity. 201 
 
 grows up in an external world which forms him to itself. 
 One is glad to think that even classes of men one cannot 
 much admire, enjoy the results of this harmony hetween 
 themselves and the atmosphere they have to breathe. That 
 tricky huckster whom I now catch a glimpse of, on the road 
 below us, driving his miserable beast, driving everywhere 
 his dirty bargains (as Gravenhurst knows to its cost), is not 
 an agreeable creature to contemplate. But . he has his own 
 triumphs, and rejoices in his own acquisitions. I cannot 
 grudge them to him, though they are not the triumphs or 
 acquisitions that the man of science, for instance, will sym- 
 pathise with. 
 
 But this moulding of the individual by the society is, 
 fortunately, not complete. After a time, this character, 
 which is so much the formation of circumstances, stands 
 firm, and we say the man overrules the circumstance. Be- 
 sides which, there are some few men whose inherent powers, 
 cultivated by the contemporaneous society, carry them, in 
 this or that direction, higher, farther than the contemporary 
 society that surrounds them. Their ebullient and creative 
 natures give us the great leader, the great reformer, the man 
 of genius. These natures return the debt they owe to 
 society, by helping in the further formation of society. 
 
 I know not how it is with other men, but the greater 
 number of truths I attempt to grasp that relate to human 
 nature, the more am I impressed with the harmony pervad- 
 ing this great arena of human life. One man finds that 
 character is too fluent, another that it is too rigid. Its lia- 
 bility to change, and its persistency in the form it has taken, 
 are both facts, and most" harmonious facts. One' man sees the 
 influence of society moulding always the individual, another 
 notices that it is the individual, in fact, that shapes the society. 
 Both are truths, and in most admirable harmony. The in- 
 fluence of the society on the individual is the great govern- 
 
202 GEAVENHUEST. [paet ii. 
 
 ing, educating, conservative element : the influence of th.e 
 still advancing individual upon society is the great progres- 
 sive element, raising the standard of knowledge, of virtue, 
 of piety. 
 
 ADA. 
 
 You are certainly a confirmed optimist, Mr Sandford, 
 though I know you repudiate that title. How is it that 
 society breeds so many characters that are prejudicial to it ? 
 No harmony there ! 
 
 SANDFORD. 
 
 You see I am not an optimist, for I at once acknowledge 
 that we have many bad men to combat. Eobbers and 
 thieves of all kinds must, at least, be kept under, if the 
 race cannot be exterminated — exterminated, I mean, by the 
 widening circle of prosperity and intelligence. But I have 
 no imaginary project by which I could have relieved society 
 from this duty. Property must have its temptations to the 
 poor and the ignorant, and these temptations the law must 
 neutralise by the penalties it imposes upon theft. 
 
 ADA. 
 
 When I have heard you dilate on the completeness of the 
 whole, and how each living thing takes some part in this 
 complete whole, I have asked myself whether a thief, or 
 even a greater criminal, might not justify himself as being 
 a part of a complete whole, which would not be complete 
 without him also. He might quote Pope's famous line, 
 
 " All partial evil universal good." 
 SANDFORD. 
 
 Whatever part he has to perform, there can be no doubt 
 
CONV. I.] BAD MEN. 203 
 
 of our part towards him. He may bring it to this pass, that 
 the use of his existence is just to be hanged for an example ! 
 
 MANSFIELD. 
 
 Pope's line, "Partial evil universal good," can be only 
 true in this sense, that the evil arises out of general laws, 
 themselves wise and beneficent. The evil, as it exists then 
 and there, is simply detestable, and to be destroyed. The 
 only good that can be said of it is, that it may call forth our 
 ingenuity and effort in its destruction. If there are wicked 
 men who wiU not let others live in peace and security, they 
 are manifestly the most virulent evils in the world ; and if 
 we cannot amend them — or tOl some happy process of amend- 
 ment is discovered — we must destroy them, or shut them up 
 like wild beasts. 
 
 ADA. 
 
 What a cold-blooded view of punishment it is that re- 
 gards it simply as an act of self-defence in society. It 
 seems to take no note of the feeling of justice, of desert. If 
 I were not animated by the feeling that he deserves his 
 punishment, I could never consent to take away the life of 
 a criminal. My heart would fail me. 
 
 SANDFOED. 
 
 And I am sure that if time were given you for reflection, 
 and you had to take life away simply on that feeling of 
 desert, your heart would fail you. Nothing would nerve 
 your hand — ^let us say, to sign the death-warrant — except 
 the recognition that such an act was necessary to the preser- 
 vation of society. 
 
 ADA. 
 
 In this consideration, great as it is, I do not find a basis 
 for my sense of justice. 
 
204 GEAVENHUEST. [pabt n. 
 
 MANSFIELD. 
 
 That sense of justice you desire to he animated by, is a 
 very complex sentiment. "We will not attempt its analysis 
 just no-w. You have sat long enough upon this rank grass. 
 We have been discussing, in our desultory manner, the sub- 
 ject of human happiness ; this of human crime and its pun- 
 ishment we must postpone to another sitting. 
 
 ADA. 
 
 "Willingly. It is a gloomy subject, that both attracts and 
 repels at the same moment. Much rather would I, in pre- 
 sence of this beautiful nature, think of the varieties there are 
 of human happiness — ay, and of human virtues. 
 
 After all, crime is but an exception. How few of us feel 
 the least temptation to commit a heinous crime ! We revolt 
 at the thought of it. Pry under the thatch of every cottage 
 in Gravenhurst : peaceful possession, secure lives, the punc- 
 tually rewarded industry — these are what every inhabitant 
 •prizes. Morality is, in the main, the chosen mode of life — 
 the chosen mode of reasonable men. Otherwise, I suppose, 
 it would not have been morality, nor would have been 
 hedged about by the penalties of law. 
 
 MANSFIELD. 
 
 Very good, Ada. I too, if I had any gift of eloquence — 
 if I could speak or write a word that would stir the heart, 
 or bring conviction to a dozen men in England — would take 
 for my theme this marvellous creation of human life; I 
 would speak my word to excite a love and admiration for 
 this great gift of life. I would show men what countless 
 treasures were included in this great gift — treasures, be it 
 understood, that are generally to be earned — earned by 
 energy, protected by fortitude. I have very little to offer to 
 sloth or pusillanimity. 
 
OONV. I.] GENERAL MORALITY. 205 
 
 Progress! and "a good day coming!" "Well, you shall be- 
 lieve devoutly in progress — it is a generous and noble faith, 
 but it means nothing except in the generous and the noble. 
 Progress ! — oh, by all means ! — but if you find nothing in 
 the -world as it is, worthy of your love and admiration, you 
 may live a thousand years, and gain no comfort out of " pro- 
 gress of the species." If this commonplace of life, with its 
 kindly affections and its stirring intellect, its gay surprises, 
 its tender sorrows, — if this has not won your reverence, I 
 know not what possible Utopia can be worth a straw. This 
 commonplace of life will lafet, I suspect, as long — as long as 
 these other commonplaces of earth, and sun, and stars. If, 
 I say, you find nothing divine in the love of woman and of 
 child, in friendship, in steadfast purposes tending to the 
 general good — out of what elements do you expect your 
 progress ? 
 
 Mark this pleasant contrast — old as civilisation itself — 
 between the city and the plain, between the town and the 
 country. Each is necessary to the other. The^ city that 
 feeds upon the plain diffuses over it the influence of arts, 
 science, mental culture. Note the harmonious varieties of 
 human character that spring up from variety of scene and 
 occupation. If you set about contriving an ideal state or a 
 perfect society, you must leave untouched this relation, this 
 contrast. You must have the city for arts and learning, the 
 seat of government and of universities ; and out beyond, the 
 cultivated fields, with farms and villages, and occasionally 
 the park and the palace. May the future Gravenhursts con- 
 tain many a trio as rationally happy as we three who are 
 sitting here ! 
 
 SANDFOKD. 
 
 No very bad wish ; though we will not make it known as 
 part of our programme for the future. 
 
206 GEAVENHUEST. [paet n. 
 
 ADA. 
 How great become the most trivial caree of existence — 
 sucli as food and clothing — when we think for all ! — when 
 some great principle of patriotism or duty shines over them. 
 The simplest pleasure — when I am concerned that another 
 shall enjoy it — how exalted it has become ! 
 
 " The small, familiar, transitory joy. 
 Seen in the light of an eternal truth — 
 The mote — the beam ! " 
 
 "What transmutations take place in this wondrous life of 
 ours! The inexorable need of the hunger-driven animal — 
 lo ! it is a component part of the sweetest of our Christian 
 charities. 
 
 Sometimes, when I look back on barbarian or savage ex- 
 istence, I shudder to think what life must have been h^ore 
 these transmutations or new combiuations arose — due, I pre- 
 sume, to the slow growth of knowledge, or the reason of 
 man. The savage is a very hideous spectacle. 
 
 MANSFIELD. 
 
 To you. But he — as complete in himself as you or I — 
 leads his own life contentedly. Nay, if contentment with 
 himself were the sole test of happiness — which it is not — 
 it is only one amongst many tests — we should hold the sav- 
 age happier than ourselves. He is the most conceited of his 
 species. It is, indeed, a universal kindness of Nature that 
 she compensates ignorance by a most triumphant conceit. 
 
 In the history of religion, which reveals so much to us of 
 the history of the whole human mind, it is curious to notice 
 that in those early times, and in those alone, when men had 
 least to boast of, the idea more than once appears that the 
 gods were jealous of mankind ! Prometheus steals fire from 
 heaven, and Jupiter is angry and envious, lest men should 
 too nearly resemble the gods ! 
 
CONV. I.] GENEEAL CONTENT. 207 
 
 SANDFORD. 
 
 A low conception of the gods, more than their own con- 
 ceit, must have occasioned such an idea. 
 
 I don't know whether we should rank our heathen ances- 
 tors — Scandinavians and others — amongst savages, but their 
 mode of life is one which our literary men have of late taken 
 under their especial patronage. Miserable tribes, that are 
 struggling with nature for subsistence on some inhospitable 
 soil, excite our compassion ; but tribes that have spirit and 
 energy enough for war, have escaped from our pity. 
 
 ADA. 
 
 Perhaps, if one thinks of it a second time, the terrible des- 
 potism, the wars of conquest, the dissensions and revolu- 
 tions of what we call civilised states, present a still more 
 frightful spectacle. My only consolation is to think that in 
 the worst of times there have been millions living in their 
 own homes, undisturbed by the political tempest raging 
 around them. 
 
 And so we shelter ourselves again in this sweet common- 
 place of life, which quietly gathers to itself many a new 
 grace and joy, even out of the very stir, and tumult, and 
 energy of mind which wars and revolutions have produced. 
 
 MANSFIELD. 
 
 The great barbaric empires of ancient days, Egyptian or 
 Babylonian — half- civilised nations, as we call them — seem 
 almost as foreign to us as the wild nomadic tribes they re- 
 duced to subjection. We sympathise as little with their 
 kings and priests, as with the great mass of the people whom 
 these together disciplined into manners and methodical in- 
 dustry. This mass of "people look like great children to us. 
 Well, they enjoy like children. The monarch who tyran- 
 
208 GRAVENHURST. [part n. 
 
 nises over them is also their greatest pride. They glory in 
 their prostration. Is he not their monarch ? A priesthood 
 entertains them with ceremonial, and brings into their 
 hearts the noble sentiment of -worship. Am I to distress 
 myself at superstitions which make these children obe- 
 dient and industrious? And when at length these super- 
 stitions break down, as they will, before some inquiring 
 mind, am I to alarm myself about the preservation of that 
 degree of virtue they secured? Other superstitions will 
 arise and perform their office. It is never vice that calls 
 forth the new and conquering faith. 
 
 But I did not intend to be carried into any review of the 
 past, when I started with the wish that I could help men to 
 form a full and rational, and therefore high, estimate of their 
 own lives. I was thinking what humanity is amongst our 
 advanced and cultivated nations ; what we ourselves feel it 
 to be, we living, here in this quiet nook, where, neverthe- 
 less, the highest thinking of every capital in Europe reaches 
 us. — But now we must homeward. My dear Ada, call your 
 pony. See that lumbering lad, whose aspect first prompted 
 this conversation, has taken mightily to your four-footed 
 friend. Speak to him ; bid him bring the pony. Notwith- 
 standing his loutish appearance, I feel- persuaded that a word 
 from you — a service kindly asked of him (one smile from the 
 lady) wiU. give him more pleasure by far than, for instance, 
 the coin I shall slip into his hand. 
 
CONV. II.] CRIME. 209 
 
 CONVEESATIOF II. 
 
 CRIME AND ITS PUNISHMENT THE RATIONALE 
 
 OP PUNISHMENT. 
 
 JIanseield — Ada — Sandfokd. 
 
 The evening of the same day on wHch the last conversation 
 was held, we were again deep in discussion. On returning 
 from our ride I had been pressed to dine with the General, 
 instead of proceeding to my own bachelor quarters. Ada 
 made tea for us. In the course of the evening she reverted 
 to that topic which in the morning she had willingly, she 
 said, relinquished, but which evidently exercised a strong 
 fascination over her. How reconcile with the belief in a 
 beneficent Creator the existence and the punishment of sin 1 
 This was her perplexity. I jot down our talk as faithfully 
 as I can ; but as it wandered through some subtle trains of 
 thought, I am compelled to condense and to abridge a little. 
 
 ADA. 
 
 I hope it is not from any obituseness of feeling that when 
 I hear or read of any great terrestrial calanjity, as earthquakes 
 or the plague, it is not then that I am peculiarly perplexed 
 to justify the ways of Providence to men. An earthquake 
 of Lisbon, or a plague of Florence, destroys thousands of 
 men; but, after aU, it is only another form of death, and 
 thousands of men are dying every day aU over the world. 
 
 
 
210 GEAVENHUEST. [part n. 
 
 SANDEOED. 
 
 It is the disorganisation of society that constitutes the 
 terrible evU on these occasions. Death, in its ordinary 
 operations, takes here and there — this old man, that young 
 man — ia such uncertain and slow manner, that throughout 
 no part of society is the confident expectation of living much 
 disturbed. There comes a plague or a famine, and no man 
 has a future for which to live. Society collapses. There is 
 nothing but terror, or apathy, or wildest levity. 
 
 Whatever the nature of such evils, I suppose they must 
 be finally traced to the operation of laws, chemical or phy- 
 siological, on which our whole mundane system depends. 
 Let us yield our lives to the plague or the inundation. It 
 comes but to this — a few years not enjoyed. Let us yield 
 our lives cheerfully, since they could not have been wisely 
 preserved to us. 
 
 But what if there be an evil which casts its shadow — a 
 blackness worse than death — through aU eternity ? 
 
 Men have weak and depraved wills — they commit crime, 
 they are justly punished — but the terrible perplexity occurs, 
 Why did the righteous Creator of mankind create beings 
 of weak and depraved wiUs 1 Or why, if He created them 
 perfect, and they degraded themselves (which is inconceiv- 
 able, if they were indeed perfect at the first) — why is 
 the depraved race allowed to perpetuate itself? How am I 
 to reconcile God the Judge with God the Creator ? I am 
 scared at my own voice when I ask the question. Perhaps 
 it ought to be repressed. Enough, that there is a wisdom 
 I cannot understand. And what is faith, if it be not reli- 
 ance upon a wisdom I cannot apprehend 1 
 
COST, n.] PUNISHMENT OF CKIME. 211 
 
 SANDPORD. 
 
 Sooner or later we must all end there — ^in faitt in a 
 Supreme Reason we can only partly apprehend; but that 
 faith is founded on such partial apprehension as we do attain. 
 
 If, therefore, we utterly disparage that partial apprehen- 
 sion, we destroy the foundations for that very faith which is 
 to support us where that apprehension fails. 
 
 It is not a wholesome piety — so it seems to me — which 
 teaches us, under the name of mystery, to force violently 
 together propositions that are flagrantly inconsistent. I 
 cannot see why your question should not be asked. 
 
 MANSFIELD. 
 
 You yourself, Ada, have a pet heresy of your own, that 
 the punishments of a future life are not eternal. If not 
 eternal, why should it be impossible to reconcile them with 
 some grand scheme for the final recovery, restoration, or per- 
 fection of all created beings ? 
 
 If I am called upon to believe that the wickedness of the 
 world terminates in the eternal misery of the wicked, and 
 that the goodness or piety of the world is to terminate in the 
 eternal felicity of the good ; and if, moreover, I am assured 
 that the number of the wicked fuUy equals the number of 
 the good, — ^then it irresistibly foUows that God has created 
 equally for misery and for happiness. I see no escape from 
 this conclusion, unless you have some other knowledge yet 
 to reveal to me. There is here no idtimate predominance of 
 good over evil ; there are, so to speak, two separate lines, — the 
 one of good, ending in eternal brightness ; the other of evil, 
 ending in eternal darkness : it is not a scheme of supreme 
 benevolence that the creation presents to me. Under these 
 circumstances you have no right to ask me to reconcile future 
 punishments with the belief in a benevolent Creator, because 
 
212 GEAVENHURST. [part n. 
 
 you have destroyed my belief in a benevolent Creator. I 
 can only retain tbis belief on the ground that future punish- 
 ments have some great beneficent purpose, some unknowil 
 ground of expediency. 
 
 It might be difiicult to find grounds of expediency for 
 punishments short of eternal. But my difficulty does not He 
 there. The divine punishments of another world aie not 
 motived, so to speak, by expediency, or by expediency alone. 
 Divine justice justifies itself. The just is as fundamental an 
 idea as the happy. God creates for both. Our sin is visited 
 because it is sin. Under this view of the divine character 
 it is difficult to conceive why sin was created or permitted. 
 
 SANDFORD. 
 
 Might not your difficulty be solved by a re-examination 
 of your theory of punishment, or of divine justice ? It is 
 connected, I know, with a theory of ethics which happens 
 to be in the ascendant at present. A mysterious right and 
 ivrong — something else than the dictate of human reason 
 judging of truth and happiness — is the favourite theory, I 
 believe, of our universities. ISTevertheless, think of it — a 
 wrong action (or a wrong purpose), which is wrong because 
 it is wrong, is visited with a punishment that is just because 
 it is just ! According to such a statement, neither the sin 
 nor the punishment admits of any explanation by its relation 
 to that whole of human existence, of which, nevertheless, it 
 forms a part. Such ideas appear to me to introduce hopeless 
 confusion : they are obscurities, occasioned by starting with 
 some complex notion which we refuse or neglect to analyse. 
 
 ADA. 
 
 I will listen to your analysis. But I have read some 
 
CONV. II.] SENSE OF JUSTICE. 213 
 
 analytic explanations of our sentiment of justice, and they 
 have not seemed to me satisfactory. 
 
 MANSFIELD. 
 
 My Ada, if we would speak inteUigihly of divine justice, 
 must we not first understand what we mean by human jus- 
 tice 1 Can we have two ideas of justice 1 or two theories of 
 punishment 1 
 
 ADA. 
 
 I suppose not. Human justice is some imperfect striving 
 after the divine justice. Or (if that is the more correct 
 statement), divine justice is the amplification and perfection 
 of the human. 
 
 When we punish a criminal here on earth, we do not 
 punish only from expediency. We say the man deserves his 
 punishment ; and without this sentiment of desert we should 
 not feel ourselves authorised to punish. 
 
 MANSFIELD. 
 
 True, we do not punish solely from expediency. We 
 punish, jn the first place, from our passion of anger, which 
 prompts Tis to return injury for injury ; and from our feel- 
 ing of sympathy, which prompts us to resent the injury done 
 to our friends and companions. We punish, in the second 
 place, from expediency ; that is, from a steadfast purpose to 
 prevent a certain class of injuries in future. But this is not 
 all. Laws being once made, we judge of a man's conduct by 
 its obedience and disobedience to those laws. A new ele- 
 ment is thus introduced, the result of the law itself. This 
 sentiment of deserving punishment as a breach of the laws, 
 is a consequence of laws themselves. Now, you would start 
 from the sentiment of desert, as if you found in it your 
 primary authority for the law itself. 
 
214' GKAVENHUEST. [pabt ii. 
 
 ADA. 
 If I set about making a new law, imposing a new penalty, 
 I am at least partly guided by this sentiment, that the man 
 deserves a certain amount of punishment. This sentiment of 
 desert, which you say is created by the law, is the sentiment 
 by which I legislate, or partly make the law. 
 
 MANSFIELD. 
 
 In making a new law, and devising a new penalty, you 
 would be partly led by analogy to the laws already made. 
 The nature of the penalty you would impose would be de- 
 cided by the current legislation of the period. In these 
 days you would probably say that any act that was tanta- 
 mount to murder deserved death. In a remote period, 
 murder itself was punished by a pecuniary fine, and the 
 sentiment of desert must have been somewhat different. 
 
 You say that the sentiment of desert partly frames the 
 law. No doubt of this. But it does not follow that it was 
 not, therefore, in the fijst instance, the product of a law. 
 
 When we make for ourselves a puzzle of this description, 
 there is always some step in the process of development we 
 have overlooked. There could be no flute-player, unless 
 there was already such a thing as a flute in existence. There 
 could be no flute made, unless there was already a flute- 
 player in existence. The puzzle seems hopeless. But, in 
 faet, nature threw the man a reed, and he became flute- 
 player, and afterwards flute-maker, and his flute-playing and 
 his flute-making advanced henceforth together. 'No penal 
 law is enacted without some sentiment of desert, and no 
 sentiment of desert could have existed without a penal law 
 of some kind, more or less distinctly enunciated. The 
 puzzle here also seems hopeless. But nature threw the man 
 his passions, sympathies, habits, customs ; and out of these. 
 
OONV. n.] MORAL OBLIGATION. 215 
 
 with, some rude reasonings on the good of the community, 
 he made laws. Henceforward he becomes a law-observer — 
 has sense of obligation to a rule or law — sense of deserving 
 punishment if he breaks the laws; and this sentiment of 
 obligation or desert afterwards sustains the laws, and enters 
 into the manufacture of other analogous laws. 
 
 ADA. 
 
 Your explanation, if I may pass a compliment upon it, is 
 very clear and distinct, and yet it is not satisfactory. I find 
 the same puzzle in the broad field of morality. It is said 
 that my sentiment of ohligaiion comes from the opinion of 
 society (or the opinion, in the first place, of controlling 
 parents). Well, but the opinion of society is the opinion of 
 a number of individuals ; if these individuals had not them- 
 selves the sentiment of moral obligation, how could they 
 import it into the general opinion'? Coleridge somewhere 
 states this argument for an intuitive or a. priori morality 
 very powerfully : I wish I had Ms words here to refer to. 
 
 MANSFIELD. 
 
 I am quite wiUing, Ada, that you should take our puzzle 
 into the broad field of ethics. 
 
 However intimately they are blended together, we are 
 capable of separating the judgment of what is wise in human 
 conduct, from a personal feeling or motive for acting accord- 
 ing to that judgment. The mere feeling of responsibility, 
 or obligation, is (as every one reflecting upon his own ex- 
 perience must recognise) the result of some command, some 
 threat. It is essentially a sentiment of fear. Mind, I do 
 not say that the complex sentiment we generally speak of as 
 moral obligation, is to be resolved entirely into fear, because 
 with this feeling we have combined our love of goodness. 
 
216 GEAVENHUEST. [part it. 
 
 and our detestation of what disturbs the peace and happiness 
 of mankind. It is a moral being of the very lowest order 
 who is influenced only by fear of punishment. But without 
 this fear of some kind of penalty, though a man might be 
 very wise, and act very wisely, he could not have the 
 special feeling of obligation. Such is the intricate harmony 
 that our human life displays ! The highest and the lowest 
 are seen blended together. JFear is that element by the 
 addition of which the last dictate of the reason becomes 
 conscience, as well as reason. , 
 
 Now you wUl have no difficulty in admitting that moral 
 obligation, so far as it is a sentiment of fear, proceeds from 
 the power of others over us. It is a sentiment which is 
 imposed upon us by society — by numbers — and which we, 
 in our turn, help to impose upon others. Tou are in a very 
 small minority when you want to break the rule — in a very 
 large majority when you insist upon the rule. 
 
 ADA. 
 
 It seems to me to degrade the sentiment of moral obliga- 
 tion (even regarding it only as the coercive element in a 
 moral judgment), to attribute it to fear of man, or to the 
 control of public opinion. 
 
 MANSFIELD. 
 
 There is nothing degrading in living under the control of 
 public opinion, so long as our reason approves of that public 
 opinion. 
 
 A cultivated man both lives under the influence of public 
 opinion, and also helps to shape and improve it by his own 
 individual judgment of what is wise or good for all. It is 
 this last judgment, and the habit of acting on it (till it grows 
 a necessity in the man that he acts his highest reason), which 
 form the loftiest moral character. 
 
CONV. n.] DIVINE JUSTICE. 217 
 
 But the most cultivated man is not above the aid and 
 support of public opinion, and the least cultivated man is 
 not without some feeling of independence accruing from the 
 exercise of his own judgment. 
 
 I am afraid I have interrupted Mr Sandford, who would 
 have, given you a more scholastic explanation than I have 
 done of these ethical perplexities. But I have said enough, 
 I think, to clear the way to an understanding of the nature 
 of our criminal justice. Our punishments can assume no 
 higher character than that of penalties designedly imposed 
 for the support of a rule of conduct . approved by the geni- 
 ality. Vindictive passions and sentiments which have grown 
 up under the existence of laws, mingle themselves with our 
 jurisprudence; but our punishments, I repeat, can assume 
 no higher character than that of means to procure obedience 
 to some desirable rule. 
 
 ADA. 
 
 Perhaps I should find no insuperable difficulty in accept- 
 ing your explanation, if I had nothing to consider but human 
 justice, or human punishments. I could understand how, 
 in the first instance, our vindictive and social passions, our 
 habits, customs, and need of mutual protection, might lead 
 to laws, and how under those laws a spirit of obedience, and 
 a sentiment of merit and demerit might be cultivated. 
 
 But how will all this apply to the divine punishments of 
 another world 1 We necessarily animate God with a senti- 
 ment of justice, yet our sentiment of justice is partly com- 
 posed of vindictive feeling, or sympathy with vindictive 
 feeHng ; and it is in part the creature of the law itseK — 
 which those vindictive feelings and perhaps a temporary 
 expediency, together dictated. This is not applicable to 
 theology. In theology we want a sentiment of justice at 
 once associating crime and punishment. 
 
218 GEAVENHUKST. [paet ii. 
 
 MANSFIELD. 
 
 I do not recognise such. want. God is, witli us, that 
 Supreme Eeason whicli creates or ordains the whole — creates 
 for the good of the whole ; or say, especially for the happiness, 
 for the intellectual, moral, and religious elevation of the human 
 being, the crown and climax of creation. His punishments, 
 whatever they may be, must have their place in the great 
 Scheme : they are means to an end ; they are not ends in 
 themselves. They are justified by their wisdom ; they ad- 
 vance, we may be sure, in some way, the culture, the good- 
 ness, the happiness of some great community of created 
 beings. 
 
 The wisdom or expediency of the divine punishments is 
 surely sufficient ground for them. Ifor is it possible to in- 
 vent, for the purposes of theology, a new and especial senti- 
 ment of justice. We have no sentiment which, apart from 
 consideration of expediency, demands with unalterable voice 
 the punishment of crime ; we know of no eternal fitness 
 which connects punishment and sin, overriding the motives 
 of expediency. 
 
 When the criminal stands before us convicted and repent- 
 ant, we as often have the desire to pardon as to punish. 
 Why is it that we do not allow our compassion to dictate to 
 us 1 Why do we stUl inflict the punishment that the law 
 had threatened ? Because we know that, if we spared the 
 criminal, this threat of punishment would lose its efficacy 
 for the future. It is not from the feeling of any eternal 
 fitness between punishment and crime. Society needs this 
 threat, and its efficacy must be preserved. 
 
 The divine punishments are motived by the divine wisdom 
 acting for the good of some great whole. Is not this enough 
 for us to say ; and all we can say % 
 
OONV. 11.] DIVINE JUSTICE. 219 
 
 ADA. 
 
 But if I am driven from tMs hold of aa eternal sentiment 
 of justice decreeing punishment — if I must have recourse to 
 expediency to explain all — shall I confess it ? — I am per- 
 plexed by the difficulty of discovering an intelligible ground 
 of expediency, I will not say for eternal punishments, but for 
 any intense prolonged inflictions imposed in another world. 
 Pain does not reform ; or, if it does, new hopes and wider 
 knowledge reform more effectually. No one believes that 
 such inflictions are threatened, and the threat carried into 
 execution, solely to assist our own imperfect tribunals of 
 justice — solely to assist the cultivation of our terrestrial 
 virtue. If such punishments are intense, they produce more 
 misery than they prevent : if their intensity is mitigated, 
 the threat of them, as they are remote and unseen, loses all 
 efficacy whatever. Those who have undertaken to ground 
 our future punishments upon expediency, boldly call in other 
 races of intellectual beings to profit by our terrible example. 
 " What the punishment," they have said, " of one individual 
 is to the community, such may be the punishment of one 
 sinful world to the whole universe of habitable globes." 
 This may be an adequate ground of expediency, but the 
 hypothesis proceeds on a very melancholy estimate of the 
 moral and intellectual culture of the whole universe : — every- 
 where intellectual beings held to their own best happiness 
 by the threat of an extraneous punishment. 
 
 MANSFIELD. 
 
 It is a mere imagination at the best. And these other 
 gloljes — they are peopled by beings who either resemble us 
 or not. If they do not resemble us, and have not the same 
 weaknesses and temptations, they cannot profit by the re- 
 port of our misdeeds and their punishment. If they do 
 
220 GKAVENHUKST. [pakt n. 
 
 resemble us, and have our weaknesses and temptations, — 
 why, the threat held out of remote and distant punishment 
 wUl be as ineffectual, or as partial, with them as it has 
 been with us. The condemned planets would become very 
 numerous. 
 
 But although we do not gain much by calling in the in- 
 habitants of other globes, yet it is quite open to any reasoner 
 to assert that there may be grounds of expediency unknown 
 to us. And if, my Ada, we must end at last in something 
 we do not comprehend, is it not better to rest these future 
 punishments on some grounds of expediency not yet revealed 
 to us, than to rest them on some sentiment of justice alto- 
 gether inexplicable? Punishment is a means to an end. 
 No other and no higher view can we take of it. But what 
 end it may answer may be altogether beyond our knowledge. 
 
 The only possible conception we can form of the morality 
 of God is, that He concerns HimseK for the good of the 
 whole, and the goodness of His creatures. Now, as the 
 whole universe, and all God's purposes, cannot be known to 
 me, I may readily confess myself incompetent to judge of 
 the expediency of what is to be transacted in another world. 
 But I must believe there is an expediency, and that God acts 
 throughout for some great beneficent purpose. 
 
 And this view solves the dijfficulty you started. If we 
 may consider the justice of God as still having for its end 
 the advancement of the creatures He has formed, there 
 is nothing irreconcilable between the character of God the 
 Judge and God the Creator. The punishments of God are, 
 here and hereafter, check, guidance, instruction.* 
 
 * Some of the ethical difSoulties that ohsoiire this important topic 
 are touched upon again in Conversation V. 
 
CONV. III.] THE EAINBOW. 221 
 
 CONVEESATION III. 
 
 THE RAINBOW; OR, SUFFERING AN ELEMENT IN OUR 
 HIGHEST FORMS OF MENTAL LIFE. 
 
 Ada— Sandfoed. 
 
 The rainbow — which the poets tell us is a product of smiles 
 and tears — certainly of sunshine and shower — may be taken 
 as a type for a large and beautiful range of human thought 
 and feeling, in the composition of which some form of evil, 
 sadness, or strife, has necessarily entered. What is most 
 tender, what is most heroic in life, is of this description. 
 The greater portion of those sentiments with which poetry 
 loves to deal is of this description. Music, the fine arts, and, 
 above all, religion, partake largely of this rainbow nature, are 
 products of that joy and grief which for ever intermingle in 
 " the atmosphere of human thought." 
 
 Ko pensive contemplation, no poetry, no philosophy, could 
 exist if sorrow and the shadow of death were not thrown 
 over the world. Everywhere joy and tears, the light and 
 the storm, make the rainbow of our thought-life. There is 
 often a subtle happiness where you would least expect to 
 find it ; some faint gleam of purest light steals, for instance, 
 amongst our regrets for a lost friend. The blending of 
 happy memories with our grief converts it, for a moment, 
 into something that almost looks like happiness. Our dead 
 joys are revived for us, even while we think of them as dead. 
 Nay, even great calamities bring with them often a sense of 
 novelty, and an intense expectation, which break the suffer- 
 ing and divide our attention. 
 
222 GEAVENHUKST. [past n. 
 
 Some of our most poetical, most cherished, and pensive 
 states of mind can only express themselves in the language 
 of sadness. We may judge from this whether the melan- 
 choly of the poet, or the eloquent writer, is any valid testi- 
 mony against the general felicity of mankind. 
 
 Even the sharp calamities of Hfe that at their actual first 
 endurance were an unmitigated wretchedness, become trans- 
 muted in the memory, or rather undergo fresh combinations, 
 and so change their character. The thoughts or reflections 
 of a man (remorse being excepted, and the agony of indeci- 
 sion) are never, I believe, wholly painful. 
 
 I was thus occupied with my rainbow when I encountered 
 Ada on our village bridge, a favourite spot of hers and of 
 mine. It is so near to her own house that she can manage 
 to walk to it ; and she can stand here without fatigue, for 
 there is a narrow ledge running along inside the stone para- 
 pet on which she can rest the weaker foot. She says, smil- 
 ing at her own infirmity, that she is like those birds who 
 cannot make much either of walking or flying, but who have 
 a marvellous faculty for standing on one leg. She will stand 
 thus, if there happens to be no one else loitering upon the 
 bridge, for haK an hour together, gazing on the stream that 
 flows beneath, or looking onward and upward into the 
 pleasant English sky, cloud-brightened as often as it is over- 
 clouded. 
 
 As I approached, she started from her reverie. I, who 
 am in both senses of the word an old friend, did not scruple 
 to ask what thought it was I had unintentionally disturbed. 
 
 ADA. 
 
 A very commonplace one. I was thinking how the life 
 of one's daily wants, labours, and habits, flows on steadily 
 enough — persistently as the stream running here beneath 
 us ; but how the higher thought-life is beautiful and change- 
 
coNV. m.] THOUGHT-LIFE. 223 
 
 M as the sky above, and the winds that traverse it. I was 
 trying, out of very idleness, to shape the thought into a verse. 
 
 SANDFOED. 
 
 And !• have disturbed the rhymes — scattered them also 
 to the mercy of the winds. 
 
 Not so : I had just got my rhymes complete. Let me say 
 them to you, that I may keep them safe in my memory : — 
 
 I stand upon the bridge of life, 
 
 The stream telow holds constant course ; 
 It Tarings, it takes, with equal force ; 
 
 It strives with an incessant strife. 
 
 But the other stream aiove — the air 
 That plays between the skies and me 
 To keep them bright — flows fitfuUy, — 
 
 "Will bring the cloud, and leave it there. 
 
 SANDFOED. 
 
 You think, then, that in our higher thought-life we find 
 greater change and uncertainty than in that which is repre- 
 sented by the current of events 1 
 
 So far as my own life is concerned, the train of events is 
 very constant : the traia of thoughts is not so. Sadness 
 and doubt steal over me, and truth, alas ! seems as often to 
 dwell where the shadow lies as where the light is falling. 
 " All wisdom is cheerful," is a note I often hear from our 
 contemporary poets and philosophers. "We may like to be- 
 lieve this. But the highest thinking is not always the 
 happiest — if I at least may pretend to know anything of the 
 highest. 
 
224 GEAVENHUEST. [part it. 
 
 SANDFOED. 
 
 Since the late reaction against a morbid Byionic mood (a 
 mood that had far too much in it of mere personal discon- 
 tent to represent the sorrow of high thoughts), it has heen 
 the fashion to describe all wise men as pre-eminently cheer- 
 ful. Even the author of ' Hamlet ' and ' King Lear ' is 
 reckoned amongst our smiling sages. The general testimony 
 of mankind, and of that literature which has stood the test 
 of time, is not in accordance with this pleasant verdict. 
 
 ADA. 
 
 How could it be? How could the merely pleasurable 
 awake us into intense thought 1 Or how could intense and 
 anxious thought rank amongst the merely pleasurable 1 As 
 well hope to drive the night out of the twenty-four hours, as 
 drive it out of the inmost recesses of our thought. 
 
 SANDFOBD. 
 
 One might say that it is this infinite night, which seems 
 to surround our little globe, that throws an undying interest 
 on its petty transactions and transitory passions. 
 
 Speaking of my own experience, thought has been less 
 happy as my horizon of thought has extended. I suffered 
 from many a nightmare when I was a child, but I have 
 suffered more in later times when the dream was fading 
 away — not always into the light of the morning. 
 
 SANDPOBD. 
 
 Yet I am sure you would not contract your horizon. We 
 want some word to express that happiness which is not 
 pleasure. < 
 
CONV. m.] GKIEF AN ELEMENT OF HAPPINESS. 225 
 
 ADA. 
 
 Music expresses it to me ; I know no other language that 
 does. Ho ! I would not relinquish, on any account what 
 little has been granted me of intellectual vision. Come 
 blindness of the eye rather ! I do not envy the placidity of 
 men and women of manifestly contracted understandings. 
 I might as weU envy (as I have heard some foolish people 
 say they did) the still more placid lives of our domestic 
 animals. I delight to contemplate — I have no wish to imi- 
 tate — the life of any sort of taiby. My cat enjoys her 
 existence in common with me up to a certain point. When 
 in the winter evening I draw the easy-chair towards the 
 fire, she couches before me on the rug. We both enjoy the 
 light, the warmth, the softness, the repose, and for a moment 
 I distinctly congratulate myself on this perfect cat-liie feli- 
 city. But this pleasant state of things must be, with me, 
 the condition only for some higher enjoyment. I must con- 
 verse with a friend, I must read books, I must think my 
 thoughts, I must lose myself in their labyrinth. Puss, on 
 the rug, stops where I begin — feels all the peace, the com- 
 fort, and the warmth, and stops there perfectly content. I 
 see her close her eyes and open them again, quite satisfied 
 that everything about her is as stationary as herself. Well, 
 I will not envy puss. I will take, by sympathy, her little 
 contented life into my own, and so enrich my being with 
 one more kindly sentiment. This is all that I will do, whe- 
 ther the puss lies at my feet, in her own fur, upon the rug, 
 or whether she sits, in mob-cap or pretty ringlets, upon the 
 chair before me, 
 
 SANDFOED. 
 
 The relations between you and the tabby could not be 
 better adjusted. . 
 
 P 
 
226 GEAVENHUKST. [part n. 
 
 People who constantly repeat tlie same things lose the 
 point and significance of even those few ideas which make 
 up their monotonous chant. Change and mutability are the 
 necessary accompaniments of intellectual action. And how 
 this changeful activity could have been accorded to us, and 
 we preserved from aU sadness and uncertainty, is past my 
 ingenuity to conceive. Again, we often regret, or needlessly 
 satirise in ourselves or others, a certain inconstancy in our 
 opinions. Without some measure of this inconstancy we 
 should have nO' opinions at all that were worthy of the 
 name. 
 
 ADA. 
 
 I suppose that all' activity, of mind as well as body, implies 
 change of some kind. Of a moon in a cloudless sky, beauti- 
 ful as she is, how soon one tires ! Let the winds blow the 
 great clouds about her, now blotting her from view, and now 
 surrounding her with those enormous masses brighter than 
 herself, and I can look for ever. 
 
 How much of motion and of turbulence — turbulence of 
 heart — enters into the composition of what we call the love 
 of nature ! When I stand spellbound by the sea-shore, and 
 thoughts are beating within me, ceaseless as the waves upon 
 the rocks — is it joy, or remembrance, or hope of joy, that 
 makes the charm that enthrals me ? Very little, it seems to 
 me, of joy. The grand untiring energy of nature, typified so 
 gloriously in the ocean, meets in me with a melancholy and 
 yet not inharmonious response. Whether the wind blows the 
 spray forward, like a wild horse's mane — or whether the long 
 low wave conies muffled to the shore in its own foam — I have 
 always a response for the ocean ; but how rarely is that re- 
 sponse a self-congratulation ! 
 
 And as the sea bounds, wave after wave, to the level shore, 
 the sea-bird, upward and downward, with most harmonious 
 
CONV. m.] UNREST. 227 
 
 contrast, describes its waving line above it in the air. Ah ! 
 that seabird flying there — half wing, half wind — (so are we 
 all, all that make any flight — we feel that our force is half Na- 
 ture's, half our own) — how often have I, poor creeping wan- 
 derer ! watclied its free, bold, and never-drooping wing ! — 
 and my heart has gone forth towards it for something in its 
 life that was not mine. 
 
 There is always some grief in our communion with nature. 
 I stand beneath the solemn yew-tree — tree devoted to death 
 and to the past ; I hang my own sorrow on its boughs, and 
 lose and receive it back in a thousand thrilling emotions due 
 to our common mortality. 
 
 SANDFORD. 
 
 You touch a train of thought which my own mind was 
 playing with when I met you : what is more, you give me in 
 yourself an example of that rainbow life which is born of joy 
 and of suffering. 
 
 ADA. 
 
 You and my uncle together have so indoctrinated me with 
 the idea that our life is a varied energy — of action or of 
 thought — that I find myselS looking with a singular tolera- 
 tion on those pains and vicissitudes which seem necessary to 
 ■ sustain this energy. From the movements of an insect to 
 the cogitations of a philosopher, one sees everywhere that some 
 form of fear and danger and distress is playing an essential 
 part. I can watch complacently yonder butterfly, that ought 
 — according to our ideal of a butterfly — ought to flutter un- 
 disturbed from flower to flower. It leads no such undisturbed 
 life; not flowers alone prompt and direct its flight. All man- 
 ner of dangers beset its pleasant and fragile existence : boys 
 throw their caps at it ; birds swoop upon the wing ; it flutters 
 dizzily on, saved again and again by the very waywardness of 
 
228 GEAVENHXJEST. [pabt n. 
 
 its flight. Our celestial Father has cared for this little crea- 
 ture also. It has endured through countless generations ; it 
 has fluttered down to us from Paradise ; for, I suppose, it 
 could hoast a pedigree as ancient as that child of Adam who 
 is now chasing it cap in hand. 
 
 The ideal that would unite peace and energy, or tmite them 
 for any length of time together, belongs to another world and 
 an altered being — not to terrestrial man. 
 
 SANDFOED. 
 
 He who is zealously engaged in the search for truth, whether 
 we call him philosopher or man of science, approaches nearest 
 to this ideal. 
 
 ADA. 
 
 I, not being a philosopher or man of science, have not found 
 the search for truth accompanied with much peace of mind. 
 My little share of such noble toil is still, however, that which 
 I prize highest in my existence. 
 
 I imagine that, in a future life, this present terrestrial being 
 will be looked upon as we look back upon a troubled dream 
 of which we remember little hut the trouble. Some recollec- 
 tion of it must, I suppose, remftin, otherwise how recognise 
 our personal identity, or the continuity of our existence ? But 
 I recoil from the idea that we shall be always turning over 
 the pages of our memory, and reading the frivolous, blunder- 
 ing, incoherent entries in it. Strange brain-book ! a blotted 
 register, whose leaves turn by some magic of their Own, and 
 open too often at the place of least pleasant reading. Most 
 mysterious brain-book ! And we see that here in this life it 
 becomes defaced, and torn, and stained, and scribbled over, tiU 
 nothing further can be registered, and the leaves turn slowly, 
 and open only at a few of the earliest pages. Well, would 
 you have this brain-book restored — as some expect and ask 
 
OONV. III.] DESPONDING THOUGHT. 229 
 
 for — every word of it made legible, every page of it opening, 
 in its turn, throughout -eternity ? Oh, better far some new 
 hrain-hook, to be filled with a nobler story ! Who would 
 wish to be reading eternally in this old one 1 
 
 SANDFOED. 
 
 Immortality is a great hope, but a dim conception. We 
 only risk our hope when we attempt to render its nature dis- 
 tinct. Our ideal acts beneficently upon the actual and pre- 
 sent existence, because it is not another complete life that we, 
 in fact, depict to ourselves, but only some isolated sentiment 
 of this life, that we glorify, and project, and follow, we know 
 not how, into eternity. 
 
 ADA. 
 
 We are but specks of light moving through infinite space ; 
 we move towards an impenetrable darkness, we leave behind 
 an impenetrable darkness. It is light but just where we are. 
 
 Is it not strange that I always imagine myself alune in 
 my heaven 1 Yet it would be a terrible fate to pass eternity 
 in solitude, or in the felt presence only of the Eternal. Is 
 this because, as you seem to suggest, we can do something 
 towards imagining an immortal soul, but very little in shap- 
 ing for ourselves the life and society of immortal creatures 1 
 
 Look at that beam of light which strikes suddenly down 
 from heaven to the earth ! How glorious it is ! A very 
 beam from heaven ! ITow it is gone. A little opening in the 
 cloud — a subtle mist in the air — that was our beam ! our own 
 mist made visible ; still, let us say, touched and irradiated 
 by light from heaven. 
 
 That beam suggests an Ulustration for what seems to me a 
 not quite unphUosophical statement, though, like the mist, it 
 is somewhat hazy. I will hazard it. You shall criticise and 
 
230 GEAVENHUEST. [paet ir. 
 
 contradict when we next meet. Eeligion is a truth which for 
 us reveals itself in some form of the imagination. Our reason 
 criticises the form, and helps to mould it to the changeful 
 requisitions of society and of science. But still to the end 
 of time we have only Heaven's light on some subtle mist of 
 the imagination. You shall show me where I am in error, 
 as I suspect I am, when we meet again. At present I see 
 that my good mother has sent a messenger for me ; I must 
 return. 
 
 SANDFOBD. 
 
 The messenger brings a camp-stool in his hand. It is rather 
 an invitation to stay out a little longer in this bright morning. 
 Let me place it for you by the side of the river. 
 
 Accordingly, we left our position on the bridge, and walked 
 down to the banks of the river, where we soon found a plea- 
 sant spot for the camp-stool. Being near the Welsh hills, 
 the steep banks of our little river have a good deal of the 
 vegetation that distinguishes a mountain stream, and especially 
 it is rich in ferns. A glorious specimen on which the sun 
 shone, as I arranged the seat, arrested our attention, and was 
 the means, I think, of breaking the course of our conversa- 
 tion, or rather of giving it a fresh starting-point. This fern, 
 with its magnificent fronds crowning the bank, reminded me 
 of a previous occasion on which I had surprised my contem- 
 plative friend in one of her reveries. I recalled the circum- 
 stance to her. I reminded her that this was not the first time 
 that I had interrupted the formation of one of her idle verses, 
 as she called them. 
 
 ADA. 
 
 Indeed ! What was the rhyme about ? I have entirely for- 
 gotten it. 
 
CONV. III.] BEAUTY OF NATUKE. 231 
 
 SANDFORD. 
 
 I have not. Shall I repeat the lines 1 
 
 ADA. 
 
 No ; I have always found that if any thought of mine had, 
 or seemed to have, the hue of poetry upon it, I worked it into 
 very palpahle prose by the attempt to put it into verse. 
 
 SANDFORD. 
 
 Let me repeat the verses, if only to prove the tenacity of 
 my memory. You called them, 
 
 BBNBATH THE TREES. 
 
 I hear no tender madrigal, 
 
 I muse no answer, gay or stem ; 
 I watch the sunlight slanting fall 
 
 Upon this coronal of fern. 
 
 Both it and I, by winds unshaken, 
 
 An hour of peace together spend ; 
 One silent, painless step is taken 
 
 Towards the inevitahle end. 
 
 I had forgotten how melancholy a tone they assume, or I 
 would not have repeated them. 
 
 ADA. 
 
 There is not much meaning in them of any kind, hut I find 
 nothing painful in the subject they obscurely allude to. This 
 lameness, and the increasing ill-health to which it indirectly 
 has led, have been perhaps compensated by a certain measure 
 of contemplative thought that would not have been mine under 
 other circumstances. My chief regret has been that they have 
 limited my intercourse with nature. Only once, and long 
 
232 GEAVENHUEST. [pabt ii. 
 
 ago, havel been amongst high mountains. Oh, to he alone again 
 once more up amongst the hills ! I climb — I see the silent 
 shadow walking, as spirits walk, along the side of the neigh- 
 bouring mountain. How still it all is ! youth, somewhere 
 solitary amongst the Alps, repine at nothing, least of all at 
 your own solitude or isolation ! What might, what freedom, 
 what seK-possession is yours ! 
 
 SANDFORD. 
 
 The beauty of inanimate nature is some reflection of human 
 love and human greatness ; yet how often we contrast nature 
 with man ! 
 
 ADA. 
 
 We give to nature all the peace we have, and all the peace 
 that we have not — so that she is at once our image and our 
 contrast. 
 
 But I was going to observe that regret alone is hardly mis- 
 ery. I think it is only where some feeling of terror mingles 
 with the gloom that our darker hours are really miserable. 
 
 SANDFORD. 
 
 That feeling ought not to have mingled much vrith your 
 existence. 
 
 ADA. 
 
 Life is sometimes very terrible. Perhaps I should say that 
 death, not life, has been made a terror to us. Over our hours 
 of solitary and speculative thought there broods a fear and 
 a sense of responsibility which were unknown to the freer 
 heathen : how much else was also unknown to him, it is 
 not requisite to add. 
 
 SANDFORD. 
 
 Whether an altogether calmer and less emotional faith might 
 not accord better with the cultivated mind, I wiU not under. 
 
CONV. m.] FEAR AND JOT. 233 
 
 take to say ; but this is plain, that the peculiar and intense 
 emotions of love and gratitude which distinguish our own 
 religion, could not exist without the opposite phase of an 
 unspeakable fear. 
 
 No better illustration could be given of the rairiboiv char- 
 acter of our mental joys than we should find in that halo of 
 glory which surrounds a Christian's brow. There is an agony 
 in our religion which I, for one, will not underrate ; but it is 
 an essential element in a faith that, I need not say, has fed 
 the world with loftier and more tender emotions, and led to 
 purer and more loving lives, than mankind had ever known 
 before. 
 
 ABA. 
 
 Strange subject, this of religion, where every error you 
 can mention has its beneficial result. Every superstition 
 has some beautiful offspring — ^holds up its smiling infant to 
 your face — and you cannot strike. 
 
 I cannot strike. What doubt I have but makes me more 
 complete a slave. 
 
 My late father was especially fond of religious books, and, 
 amongst religious books, of the biographies of pious men. 
 He delighted to read of their conversions and their deaths. 
 The house was abundantly supplied with works of this de- 
 scription, and when a girl I read many of them. I will 
 confess to you that the description of the mental agonies 
 attendant upon the conversion of some of these pious men, 
 left a stronger impression upon my mind than their subse- 
 quent joy and exultation. Their danger was mine; their 
 exultant rapture I did not reach. Not every one has the 
 temperament of hope, or the confidence that can appropriate 
 the promises of what Milton calls an " enormous bliss." 
 
 Men of blunt, untutored susceptibilities, who cannot, if 
 they would, fix their attention for any length of time on 
 
234 GEAVENHUEST. [part n. 
 
 .wliat is remote and unseen, may believe in any 'burning Tar- 
 tarus they please; they seem to derive from it nothing 
 worse than a passing and very tolerable excitement. Their 
 torpid faculties are warmed into action by this subterranean 
 heat. If they stand upon the brink, as they tell you, of an 
 awful precipice, they do not think that theirs will be the 
 foot to slip. I do not call upon you to waste compassion 
 on our loud-throated pietists, who moan very audibly over 
 agonies they fully expect to escape. There is also another 
 and very different class of men, who wiU not need our pity. 
 Polemic divines are too busy in shaping their orthodox sys- 
 tems to feel much of the terror of them. Their learning is 
 an armour of defence as well as a weapon of attack. Even 
 impassioned, eloquent men, if strenuously occupied with 
 their oratorical labours, throw off on others, in their very 
 eloquence, the fire that might have consumed themselves. 
 Chemists show us that in the very centre of a flame that 
 scorches everything about it there is a cool and tranquil 
 spot. The head of a college, zealous for the integrity of his 
 doctrinal scheme j the popular preacher, whose very occupa- 
 tion is to diffuse the terror he holds as salutary, are person- 
 ally safe. They, for the most part, will be very genuine, 
 very busy, very laborious, and very calm believers. 
 
 It is a different matter when a terrible belief falls upon 
 a sensitive self- scrutinising mind, whose energies are not 
 carried off in labours for the conversion, or the government, 
 of other men. Such a one puts before himself an ideal of 
 moral and religious perfection — unattainable, it is confessed, 
 by mere mortal man, yet obligatory on him. In vain he 
 makes some advance towards his ideal ; the susceptibility of 
 his pious conscience increases with his progress in piety. 
 At each hastened step his terror gains upon him — ^he sees 
 the impossibility of attaining his ideal even more clearly as 
 he makes efforts to approach it. That ideal rises as he rises ; 
 
CONV. ni.] FEAE AND HOPE. 235 
 
 the higher the ground he stands on, the more lofty and inac- 
 cessihle the mountain-top above him. 
 
 He does not venture to say to himself that a standard un- 
 attainable by man cannot be the standard by which man is 
 to be judged. God judges, be has been told, according to 
 His own perfect holiness. Infinite goodness can admit no 
 compromise with evil. Strange logic ! that measures the 
 guilt of the creature, not by the powers of the creature, but 
 by the perfection and purity of the Creator. 
 
 SANDFOED. 
 
 Buit do you not forget that the standard required is rather 
 one of faith than of holiness ? The self-condemned has but 
 to throw himself on the grace of God, and the perfection he 
 desires will be wrought within him by higher power than 
 his own. 
 
 ADA. 
 
 I know. But this very sentiment of faith is part of the 
 Christian's ideal, and not the part which all men find most 
 easy to attain. Eead the memoirs of the pious. Some, by 
 an act of faith of this description, fling themselves at once 
 from extreme despair to extreme exultation. Others tremble 
 and linger long, or sway to and fro with dreadful oscilla- 
 tions, bfefore such happy transition is effected. The history 
 of those who have utterly failed no one has recorded. "Only 
 leap with faith," says the bold explorer of these spiritual 
 heights to the more timid mountaineer ; " only believe that 
 an invisible hand will sustain you — only throw yourself 
 upon this invisible power, and, fearful as the chasm or the 
 gulf may be, you will find yourself landed on the other side 
 of it." Alas ! he stands on the edge of the chasm, and can- 
 not throw himself upon invisible hands ; he lacks the cour- 
 age of this faith. If, in addition to all this, he begins to 
 
236 GEA.VENH0EST. [rARt H- 
 
 doubt wliether Ms bold adviser has correctly interpreted tlie 
 sacred message he undertakes to deliver, his misery is com- 
 plete. — But why need we pursue this melancholy theme ? 
 
 SANDFOED. 
 
 I apprehend the numbers are few in whom our religious 
 teaching produces this painful result. 
 
 ADA. 
 
 No very intense affliction can last long, or last long with- 
 out many pauses and intervals of respite. But I believe 
 there are many whose early education has left a terror that, 
 to the end of their days, revisits them from time to time, and 
 which constantly throws over their best and highest specu- 
 lations a sense of danger and of guilt. 
 
 SANDFORD. 
 
 You touch there upon an evil which an intellectual age 
 has often lamented — namely, that disbelief, which is or may 
 be a pure act of the judgment, should be branded with the 
 character of guilt. I have been lately reflecting on this 
 subject. It is commonly said that the formula " Believe or 
 perish ! " represses inquiry. I think, on the contrary, that 
 modern Europe owes to this formula the amount of religious 
 inquiry we find in it. The old religions were rehgions of 
 rites and ceremonies, which had merely to be practised ; the 
 new was a religion of doctrines, which, in order to be be- 
 lieved, must first be defined, and, in some sense, understood. 
 What were these saving doctrines, became a momentous in- 
 quiry. There is no need to say that the inquiry was often 
 limited within a very narrow arena. This compression, how- 
 ever, made it the more intense in its character ; it confined 
 and animated the controversy. In heathen times only a few 
 
CONV. m.] CREEDS NOT EEPRESSIVE. 237 
 
 philosophers were interested in what we call religious truths 
 — that is, truths which can he supported by human reason- 
 ings. But wherever Christianity has continued to be a sys- 
 tem of doctrines, and has not sunk (as among some ignorant 
 populations it has done) into a mere mythology, there the 
 people at large have become interested in abstract religious 
 reasonings. And once interested in such reasonings, the 
 barriers of churches and sects will not always be found to be 
 impassable — will at least, here and there, be overleapt by 
 the boldest of the flock. A doctrinal religion, that rests 
 salvation on a creed, has been the main instrument of excit- 
 ing thought amongst the people. 
 
 It seems to me, Mr Sandford, that you are very busy of 
 late in finding " a spirit of good in things evil." I confess 
 to you that 1 feel this course of observation very embarras- 
 sing. If I saw so much utility in error as you do, I am 
 afraid I should be in danger of losing my love of truth. 
 
 SANDFOED. 
 
 Ifot so. There is no inconsistency between a genuine 
 love of truth and a readiness to acknowledge that any great 
 idea which has ruled the world under the title of truth, and 
 operated widely on human society, must have had an adap- 
 tation to the times in which it predominated. Remember 
 that no age chooses error in preference to truth ; it lives on 
 its error, taking it for knowledge; it lives with the senti- 
 ment of truth, and we ourselves can do no more. It must 
 always be an irresistible impulse, and the greatest of aU our 
 achievements, to discover and proclaim the truth. 
 
 Those who produced their well-adapted error, produced it 
 as an eternal truth ; else it would not have answered its pur- 
 pose. And we also think our eternal truths from a given 
 
238 GEAVENHUEST. [part ir. 
 
 position of human society, and may be producing new adap- 
 tations to new forms of that society. 
 
 ADA. 
 
 You even seemed disposed, on one occasion, to defend per- 
 secution. How you can applaud a " saving creed " as an in- 
 strument for exciting thought, and also approve of that perse- 
 cution which represses such thought as it excites, I cannot 
 comprehend. 
 
 SANDFOED. 
 
 Never, never did I approve of the persecution that repres- 
 ses thought. "What I said was this, — there is a period in the 
 life of a society when the action of the state is — ^not to re- 
 press thdught, for no thought has been developed — hut to im- 
 press on blank intelligence certain opinions or faiths. This 
 action of the state-power may be beneficial. The society ad- 
 vances — thought has been excited — and the state-power 
 becomes then repressive, and acts prejudicially. But no power 
 of this kind can be suddenly withdrawn, and to a certain 
 extent one may look upon a repressive persecution as the 
 inevitable overflow of a power once simply of- an institu- 
 tional character. 
 
 Indeed, there is nothing I value so highly as the liberty 
 that sets free the intellect. But toleration is, in a peculiar 
 manner, the result of a large culture of the human mind, and 
 cannot be expected in the earlier stages of society. Definite 
 ideas of the province of jurisprudence, and of the nature of 
 the act which ought to be the subject of a penal law ; a loy- 
 alty to Society which does not need the support nor require 
 the unanimity of religious creed ; respect to those intellectual 
 energies of thoughtful men by which they are led on from 
 truth to truth ; elevated notions on religion itself j — all these 
 
CONV. III.] A WOED ON PEESEOUTION. 239 
 
 are elements of that state of public opinion which would be 
 truly tolerant. 
 
 Happily the mere balance of religious parties has produced, 
 in this and other countries of Europe, an enforced toleration, 
 a compromise, a truce under which the public mind is advanc- 
 ing to the true attitude of voluntary forbearance and mutual 
 respect. 
 
 ADA. 
 
 I perceive that this progress of society sets you at ease on 
 many points. I must try what it wiU do for me. Perhaps 
 we hear the agitation only of what will by-and-by be an 
 equable truth — 
 
 The stream we hear amongst the rocks 
 "Will fertilise some other land. 
 
 Perhaps that simpler form of Christianity which my soul 
 is longing for, may be the " Church of the future " which 
 others will believe in quite peacefully and approvingly. I 
 may not be altogether wrong, socially, in giving way to my 
 own individual perception of the truth. 
 
 SANDFORD. 
 
 You cannot be. 
 
 ADA. 
 
 You shall explain this to me some other day. Now I must 
 be going. Will you give me your arm 1 You have assisted 
 my broken steps before this. 
 
240 GKAVENHUEST. [pabt n. 
 
 CONVEESATIOISr IV. 
 
 THE DEVELOPMENT OF HUMAN SOCIETY INSEPAEABLE FROM 
 CONTEST AND DIVISION. 
 
 Mansfield, Ada, Sandford. 
 
 We were again assembled in the General's library. One of 
 us was turning over the leaves of tbe folio edition of Captaia 
 Cook's Voyages. 
 
 MANSFIELD. 
 
 How that book haunted me when I was a boy ! What a 
 longing it inspired to travel in other climates and amongst 
 other races of men ! The canoe of the savage, the palm-trees 
 of Otaheite, and the graceful men and women dancing be- 
 neath them — ^these were the marvels of the world to me. I 
 did not suspect that an English home, a summer's day in this 
 northern island, with a few white friendly faces round me, 
 was the last and most marvellous product of our habitable 
 and our living world. Now, I would not barter one such day 
 for all that all the islands of the Pacific, or the whole conti- 
 nent of Asia, could bestow, 
 
 ADA. 
 
 But you are glad to have seen other climates and other 
 race's. I confess to a great curiosity to know what a savage 
 really is. 
 
CONV, IV.] TRIBES — CLASSES. 241 
 
 MANSFIELD. 
 
 My eye fell just now on a passage in that book you are 
 turning over, wliicli does not speak very Mglily in favour of 
 the savage. Captain Cook somewhere tells us that he might 
 have exterminated the .whole population of the island he was 
 visiting; for every tribe came in turn to ask his help to 
 destroy some neighbouring tribe. One sees a mere aggregate 
 of men, or families, getting their subsistence each in the same 
 way, and bound together for the sake of that strength of 
 attack or defence which union gives them. Our friend Sand- 
 ford here would tell us, with his usual philosophic imparti- 
 aKty, that union springs from hostility as weU as affection, 
 or rather that the unionwithin and the hoatHit J^Mthout spring 
 up together ; that the first friendly compact was also a hostile 
 one, and that society was inaugurated by hate as well as 
 love. 
 
 SANDFORD. 
 
 The tribe, as you remark, though a gathering together of 
 men by their social affections, is defined and cemented by 
 some common danger ; and if we trace the onward progress 
 or development of society, we shall find that the coherence of 
 any class or order of men has been preserved by its antagon- 
 ism to some other class. "When an aristocracy, for instance, 
 arises, the union that constitutes it a class is nianifestly due 
 to the common desire to domineer and rule over the rest of 
 society. 
 
 Society develops itself, through its earliest stages, by this 
 separation into classes which act and react upon each other. 
 First comes a ruling class of wealthy and strong-handed men 
 — no bad institution, though it has a look of harshness. Then 
 an intellectually ruling class — a class of thinkers (priests, 
 poets, and philosophers aU in. one) — makes its appearance. 
 
 Q 
 
242 6EAVENHUKST. [pabt ii. 
 
 A sheltered space is found in the expanding organisation of 
 society for mental industry : the grand task of man, the dis- 
 covery of truth, commences. By-and-by the intellectual class 
 further divides : the poet separates from the priest, and the 
 philosopher from both. 
 
 ■N'ow this process of development — this formation of new 
 classes and divisions of men — though in some cases the result 
 of the quite peaceful and gradual accession of knowledge or 
 of new ideas, is, in other cases, quite inseparable from con- 
 tests and animosities of some description or other. 
 
 Where we find a very strong spirit or principle of union in 
 any one body of men, we find also that that body stands op- 
 posed in some manner to other bodies of men. Thus the union 
 of man with man (a thing we especially admire and approve) 
 is intimately connected with opposition between man and man 
 — a thing we very naturally lament,and do all we can to appease. 
 
 MANSFIELD. 
 
 Your case is made out in the national union, which is a 
 compact for offence and defence. Small states or tribes, 
 amongst which none has obtained a great predominance, are 
 equally animated by the spirit of conquest and the spirit of 
 defence. When nations of unequal magnitude or power 
 have grown up in juxtaposition, we have the patriotism of 
 defence developed signally in the one, and the patriotism of 
 conquest in the other : they must always coexist. We sym- 
 pathise more cordially (as is quite fit) with the patriotism 
 that repels invasion; but this could not have been excited 
 without the patriotism of conquest. Without an Edward, 
 no Wallace ; without the Persian host, no Marathon. 
 
 SANDFOED. 
 
 Good ; and, looking within the society itself, we find that 
 the union of a class is accompanied by hostility to some 
 
CONV. IV.] UNION AND OPPOSITION. 243 
 
 other class. It is not the hostility of war, or it would he 
 incompatible with the national union; hut it has often 
 approached it, as when a privileged class of nobles sustain 
 themselves by domination over the common people. Such 
 a class has the virtues and the vices which power produces. 
 The more peaceful unions of men of trade and commerce — 
 the guilds and corporations of past tinies — were in part the 
 result of the licence of the noble or warlike class : they have 
 generally been organisations for self-defence. A priestly 
 class, though its function is of the highest order, has its 
 union cemented by the necessity to defend itself against 
 other classes, and by the desire to subjugate the people. It 
 is animated both by the spirit of conquest and the spirit of 
 defence. 
 
 As we ascend into still more subtle distinctions which 
 modern society displays, the nature of the opposition is stLU 
 more subtle and refined in its character. The manners of 
 the gentry are partly sustained by their contrast to those of 
 the common people ; the temper of the philosopher by the 
 headstrong faith of the multitude ■; the saint is partly up- 
 lifted by his antagonism to the world. Whether it is a 
 stoical philosophy, or an evangelical church, the high ex- 
 clusive standard of the little world wiihin is supported by its 
 opposition to the greater world loifhout. 
 
 ADA. 
 
 "What a spirit of war runs down through all society, from 
 the savage to ourselves, and ourselves in our best of moods ! 
 But the war tempers itself, and becomes only an opposition 
 of thought, opinion, manners. 
 
 MANSFIELD. 
 
 There is one instance belonging to our own times which 
 you might have added, Sandford : I mean the union of the 
 
244 GEAVENHURST. [part ii. 
 
 workmen to defend their interests, or their supposed inter- 
 ests, against the capitalists. These unions have been occa- 
 sionally productive of great mischief, hut through all their 
 mischief I descry, and must appreciate — the union itself. 
 Banded together against the capitalists, the workmen have 
 learned to unite for a common interest. I could wish them to 
 understand their own position better than they seem to do, 
 but I must admire that spirit of union which has enabled 
 men to endure much hardship in defence of what they be- 
 lieve their common interest. The efforts which the higher 
 classes have made to assist in the elevation of the workman 
 shall have no disparagement from me; but aU the bland 
 teaching imaginable of another class can do nothing for 
 them, compared to a spirit of union such as this — a deter- 
 mination to defend and to advance their own interests as a 
 body. 
 
 SANDPOED. 
 
 That is rather a bold assertion. It is well we do not live 
 in a manufacturing district. We should be set down for 
 democrats and agitators. 
 
 MANSFIELD. 
 
 We live here like the gods, Sandford, embracing in our 
 cahn survey the interests of all classes. From these con- 
 flicts wiU come forth purer equity and more stable peace. 
 Who knows but ultimately our class moralities, which have 
 raised each class in turn, may not submerge in one great 
 sentiment of concern for the interest of the whole ? But 
 meanwhile these class-moralities, if they are found' in one 
 section of society, should be found in others also. 
 
 SANDFORD. 
 
 ; Next let us mark this : In a rude or primitive- state of 
 
CONT. IV.] UNION AND OPPOSITION. 245 
 
 society, man is chiefly educated by his relationship with 
 nature. The soil, the climate, the wild heasts about him, 
 have more to do with his development than ideas gathered 
 from his fellow-men. "When knowledge of various kinds 
 has been attaiaed, and incorporated in arts and institutions, 
 the proportions are altered ; the man is educated more by 
 the society of fellow-men into which he is born, than by his 
 direct relationship with external nature. The very society 
 which is itself the production of human thought, becomes 
 the mould for the formation of succe.ssive generations of 
 men. 
 
 ADA. 
 
 There is a striking, analogy here between the growth of a 
 tree and the growth of a society. Each year the summer- 
 leaves add to the stem and the branches, and each successive 
 year the leaves are produced in greater numbers, and are 
 uplifted higher and higher into the blue air by the rising 
 stem and the expanding branches. 
 
 Only our society-tree does not grow, it seems, with the 
 same tranquillity as its prototype. From root to topmost 
 branch there is constant stir and controversy, and inter- 
 minglings of love and hate. 
 
 How plainly everything speaks of a progressive develop- 
 ment ! Here is Literature. What an instrument of culture 
 it is, indispensable as it seems to us ! yet it had to be written 
 by the race of men which was to profit by it. Suppose that 
 history had given us no account of a people without a litera- 
 ture, we must still have inferred that a time existed when 
 men had no books^when they had not even any oral litera- 
 ture. And the sacred books of a nation, which in one aspect 
 form but a branch of its literature — these, too, had to be 
 written— had to be thought out. 
 
 But I fear I interrupted you, Mr Sandford. 
 
246 GEAVENHUEST. [part n. 
 
 SANDFORD. 
 
 Not at all : your observation concurs with one I was 
 going to make. There is one class of ideas, the religious, 
 which more than any other moulds the character of men ; it 
 is a class of ideas also which, from its nature, excites the 
 strongest emotions. Add to aU this that it is a class of 
 ideas which lies open to much debate and opposition. ISTow, 
 by what conceivable contrivance could it have been brought 
 about that the necessary discussion of these ideas could have 
 taken place without leading to the most violent contest be- 
 tween the partisans of the old ideas and their assailahtsl 
 The virtues of the commonwealth have been long associated 
 with their teaching. How avoid a terrible collision ? 
 
 MANSFIELD. 
 
 Here, certainly, there can be no advance without conflict. 
 
 It is not only the gathered truth that the individual born 
 into a given society receives ; the traditional error is just as 
 zealously adopted. But a system of religious opinions that 
 has been made an instrument of education for the whole 
 community, is no longer a mere collection of truths or propo- 
 sitions addressed to an intellect which is free to choose or to 
 reject. The interests of society have gathered round such a 
 system. It is enforced by all on each, just as a rule of mor- 
 ality is enforced ; and individual men may for a long time 
 secretly canvass or dispute such a system before they will 
 venture openly to disavow it. Truth, to their minds, seems 
 at variance with expediency. 
 
 All this, as you say, appears inevitable. Neither need 
 we, on this great subject of religious development, turn over 
 the pages of history for an example. Over all Europe there 
 is going on, at this present moment, a contest between the 
 Old and the New. Amongst Catholic nations this conflict 
 
OONV. IV.] THE OLD AND NEW. 247 
 
 may again assume the form of a religious war. Let us hope 
 that in Protestant countries it will he limited to the bitter- 
 ness of controversy. In England we have happily the arena 
 of a free parliament in which our disputes may one day 
 he fought out. 
 
 ADA. 
 
 I wonder whether Posterity, writing the history of the 
 times we live in, will speak of them as remarkable for the 
 agitation of religious questions. 
 
 MANSFIELD. 
 
 There is evidently more commotion in this region of 
 thought than there was half a century ago. Whether it will 
 end in any results which history will have to record, who 
 can tell ? Perhaps it is a movement whose results will he 
 deferred for many centuries. Perhaps it is a movement 
 merely of oscillation. It is almost impossible to decide. 
 Each one of us is tempted to give his verdict according to the 
 bias of his own opinions. We are all agreed that truth must 
 ultimately prevail ; and each one believes, of course, that his 
 own religious convictions are the truth. Whether the old 
 or the new wUl triumph, will be very confidently and quite 
 oppositely predicted by the partisans of the old and the new. 
 Nay, the very accuracy of these titles, old and new, will be 
 often a subject of controversy ; and what one proclaims to 
 be the new theology, another wUl describe as an ancient 
 exploded error, or a miserably imperfect theology. 
 
 ADA. 
 
 What do you mean, uncle, by the new ? for there are so 
 many kinds of the new. There is the Neology of the Chris- 
 tian divine ; there is the Theism of the philosophical divine. 
 
248 GEAVENHUKST, [paet ii. 
 
 MANSFIELD. 
 
 Very true, Ada. The new takes various forms : in some 
 it means a new interpretation of revelation ; in others it is 
 the revived contest between reason and revelation. 
 
 I am not discussing the subject from my own personal 
 point of view — I am rather looking at English society ; and 
 I ask myself what it is that distinguishes our present state 
 of religious commotion from that of preceding centuries. 
 
 In the two great subjects of study — history and the phys- 
 ical sciences — considerable advances have been lately made. 
 These advances have told upon theology. 
 
 In some, the influence exhibits itself in a modification of 
 the generally received form of Protestant Christianity ; in 
 others it displays itself in a wish to place religious truth on 
 the sole basis of the human reason. Which of these parties 
 will prevail ? Or will either of them prevail ? He must be 
 something of a prophet who can determine. 
 
 I never yet attended a popular lecture on science where 
 the lecturer did not conclude with assuring his audience 
 that there was no discrepancy between the two great teachers. 
 Science and Eevelation, and the lecturer was always ap- 
 plauded for this comfortable assurance. What more certain 
 sign could I have that there exists an uneasy feeling as to 
 the perfect harmony between these two great teachers 1 
 
 But the applause which invariably greets the lecturer may 
 be also said to prove that such uneasy feeUng is kept in due 
 subjection — that it is a secret which his audience do not 
 even utter aloud to themselves. The mass of English society, 
 strong in numbers, appears to stand rooted in its ancient 
 faith. The impenetrable forest stands firm, each tree shel- 
 tered or sustained against the wind by that very forest which 
 it helps to make. 
 
CONV. IV.] THE OLD AND NEW. 249 
 
 SANDFORD. 
 
 Here and there our forest, whether for good or for ill, 
 seems to open to the wind. 
 
 MANSFIELD. 
 
 Yes; it is dangerous to talk in metaphor. There are 
 indications in our literature which show considerable move- 
 ment in that class — which perhaps does not generally attend 
 popular lectures upon science. 
 
 SANDFOED. 
 
 You must have noticed, on your return from India, that 
 the tone of our controversial literature had somewhat changed 
 during your absence. 
 
 MANSFIELD. 
 
 When I returned to England, nothing struck me more 
 than the increased zeal and earnestness in all parties through- 
 out the domain of religious inquiry. But that which seemed 
 to me most noteworthy was the approximation between a 
 philosophical and critical section of the Christian Church 
 and those who avowedly trust themselves to the specula- 
 tions of human reason. It seemed to me that there was a 
 small party almost prepared to yield the principle of Eevela- 
 tion, if they could be assured that certain great religious 
 truths would' be generally acknowledged as founded on 
 human reason. On the other hand, a grave and pious 
 scepticism had arisen amongst us, such as feels its responsi- 
 bility to God and man, and asks itself anxiously how it is to 
 take charge of society, if society should be thrown upon its 
 hands. I could not but observe how much there is of the 
 believer in our modern sceptic, how much of the sceptic in 
 some of our modern believers. 
 
250 GEATENHUEST. [part n. 
 
 ADA. 
 And how much also of new and ardent faith in some of 
 our modern Christians. 
 
 MANSFIELD. 
 
 It may be so. You have read more of this literature, Ada, 
 than I have done. What has made itself evident to me is 
 rather a new spirit of criticism than a new spirit of faith ; 
 and a spirit of criticism whose tendency is hostile to what, 
 for the sake of brevity, one may call the principle of Revela- 
 tion. If we were to limit our scrutiny to what is passing in 
 one portion only of the wide field of controversy, we should 
 say that it was this principle which was being put upon its 
 trial, 
 
 ADA. 
 
 You would not say that it was the intention of such critics 
 to throw their weight on the side of Eeason as opposed to 
 Eevelation ; they only wish, as it appears to me, to har- 
 monise the truths derived from both sources. 
 
 MANSFIELD. 
 
 I do not judge of their intention ; I speak only of a tend- 
 ency which they probably would dispute. Still less would 
 you hear from me any censorious judgment on the quite 
 indisputable discrepancy between some of their conclusions 
 and those Articles of their Church to which they have sub- 
 scribed. It is an immoral thing, formally, and on certain 
 public occasions, to assent to statements we do not really 
 believe. But subscription to an elaborate series of theolo- 
 gical propositions by a young man of two or three and 
 twenty (we can all remember what clever self-satisfied young 
 gentlemen we were at that age — how much we knew, how 
 little we had thought), cannot be supposed to bind a man 
 
OONV. IV.] THE OLD AND NEW. 251 
 
 either not to examine those propositions, or if he examines, 
 and dissents from some of them, not to express his convic- 
 tions, hut to play the part of a hypocrite during the rest of 
 his life. Our legislators should take the case into considera- 
 tion, and modify their Act of Uniformity. I am only con- 
 cerned with a tendency exhibited in our literature, whether 
 lay or clerical. 
 
 Por instance, some of our Biblical critics, discoursing on 
 the earlier revelation to the Hebrews, explain much of it as 
 " adaptation " to the ignorance of the age and the peculi- 
 Brities of the people. It is true, they observe, that we see 
 those same ideas, customs, and rites prevalent amongst the 
 Jews, which, when we meet with them amongst the pagans, 
 we unhesitatingly describe as errors and superstitions, the 
 result of fanciful analogies or of human imaginations. We 
 have a temple in which a national god is supposed to reside, 
 we have propitiation by sacrifice, we have the slaughtered 
 ox, the libation, the oracle, the belief in divine judgments 
 executed supernaturally in this world ; all these, they say, 
 were adaptations to the weakness or ignorance of man. If 
 so, we naturally ask why the Hebrew mind could not pro- 
 duce for itself these adaptations as well as the Greek or 
 Chaldean mind 1 It is not very logical to call them adap- 
 tations to the errors of a given epoch ; they are the errors 
 themselves-^the modes of religious thought that mark a 
 certain stage in human development. 
 
 But in the revelation to the Hebrews, these errors or mis- 
 taken rites were introduced to obtain readier admission for 
 certain truths which were exclusively revealed to them. 
 
 MANSFIELD. 
 
 I am not sure that the class of critics I am speaking of 
 
252 GEAVENHUEST. [part il 
 
 would agree with you that the Hebrews were at any time in 
 exclusive possession of the great truths you aUude to. They 
 stand pre-eminent amongst the nations of the earth for their 
 piety, for their sentiments of devotion. But such great 
 truths as monotheism and the immortality of the soul appa- 
 rently arise in the human mind (in their time and place) 
 quite as spontaneously as belief in oracles or the efficacy of 
 sacrifice. The Hebrews certainly did not teach aU other 
 nations the doctrine of the immortality of the souL 
 
 But I am not entering myself into these controversies. 
 What I wanted to observe with regard to this theory of 
 adaptation is, that the critic who adopts it must necessarily 
 sit in judgment upon the revelation itself, and decide, by 
 appeal to the reason of mankind — to the reason, in fact, of 
 his own cultivated contemporaries — what in that revelation 
 is true or false, — ^what portion was provisional and expedient 
 only, and what remains as eternally true. 
 
 ADA. 
 
 I have never felt distressed by difficulties met with in the 
 Old Testament. I am not both Jew and Christian ; my 
 religion comes in with Christ. 
 
 MANSFIELD. 
 
 But our critics extend the same mode of criticism from the 
 Old Testanient to the New. Here, too, we nieet with the 
 same adaptation. A people, for instance, who believe in 
 devils, have their belief in devils frankly sanctioned. Here, 
 too, an ignorant, imaginative, quite unscientific populace was 
 addressed, and the address adapted to its prepossessions. 
 Here, too, the critic tacitly places himself in the position of 
 judging what part of the revelation remains true for him. 
 I am far from accusing the neologist, as he is termed, of 
 intending to subvert the authority of revelation ; but I say 
 
CONV. IV.] THE OLD AND NEW, 253 
 
 that he assumes, tacitly or openly, that there are parts of it 
 ■which we outgrow. This once admitted, who is to say how 
 much we are to outgrow ? or when we ceased, or shall cease, 
 from growing ? No authority is really left but that of human 
 reason. 
 
 This very separation from the Old Testament which you, 
 with so many others, seem very willing to make, would be 
 itself a most astounding assertion of the supremacy of human 
 judgment. The whole doctrine of the Messiahship of Christ 
 would need some new interpretation. I know not what 
 licence it would not be necessary to take with the second 
 revelation, after having dismissed the first. One learned 
 man, and not a layman, who was, but is no longer, a con- 
 temporary, seemed disposed to cut the cable, and swing loose 
 from the Old Testament ; nay, to swing loose from all miracle, 
 as a conception belonging to the old and bygone world. The 
 same writer permitted, indeed, the faithful to believe in 
 miracles, but gave, at the same time, such a description of 
 the respective provinces of faith and reason as put the parti- 
 sans of the former entirely out of the pale of argument. 
 
 ADA. 
 
 Faith, or the truth derived from revelation, is surely the 
 complement of reason, or of the truth derived from the normal 
 exercise of our mind — not the antagonist. There must be a 
 harmony between the two classes of truth. "We must, at 
 least, believe that this harmony would be perceived, if the 
 knowledge derived from our own reason were more complete. 
 I apprehend the diiference lies here : If a man starts from 
 revelation, he charges the obscurity and conflict he meets 
 with to the defect of the knowledge obtained by his reason. 
 If he starts from reason, he charges the obscurity and con- 
 fusion he meets with upon revelation. 
 
254 GEAVENHUEST. [paet ii. 
 
 MANSFIELD. 
 
 Very true, very true. I am only criticising our modern 
 critics. Some take a mere fragment of the New Testament, 
 and erect a creed upon that. One picks me out this beautiful 
 text, " The kingdom of heaven is within you," and forthwith 
 runs up a system in accordance with our latest notions of 
 education and progress. Heaven is a state of mind, and not 
 a place, and a state of mind that is to grow more complete 
 and more general with the increasing intelligence of succes- 
 sive generations. Thus Christianity is the great instrument 
 of our progress, and itself refines with that progress it aids. 
 All this is in perfect unison with our present modes of think- 
 ing. Moreover, it expresses an actual fact, and a phase of 
 the subject that is most literally true. But how am I to take 
 this text, and ignore a hundred others which are conceived 
 in a quite different and antique mode of thought ? — which 
 are based on the conception of an early and abrupt termina- 
 tion of our terrestrial humanity, and a new order of things 
 attained, not by subsequent generations of living men, but 
 by the risen dead ? 
 
 I do not know to whom you allude in your last instance. 
 I have heard laymen content themselves for a moment with 
 such partial representations of Christianity, but no syste- 
 matic writer on theology. 
 
 MANSFIELD. 
 
 Such train of thought has come before me, I will not be 
 positive from what quarter — perhaps from some one more 
 poet than divine. The severest blow, however, that in my 
 time has been dealt against revelation, came from one who is 
 certainly no poet — came from a metaphysician — the Oxford 
 
CONV. IV.] THE OLD AND NEW. 255 
 
 champion of orthodoxy. The metaphysics of the Bampton 
 Lecturer who lately excited so much attention, may, for 
 aught I know, stand their ground with any other system, 
 whether of German or Scotch extraction. "With these I 
 enter into no controversy. Such limits as he describes Tnay 
 exist to the human intellect, though I should be sorry to 
 believe it. A true conception of God, or of the Absolute 
 (the title he prefers), may be simply impossible. But if so, 
 no language (whether spoken by a man working miracles 
 or not) can reveal Him. Eevelation of God is simply 
 impossible. 
 
 The great argument from design gives us the attributes of 
 intelligence and benevolence. We say we have before us an 
 intelligent and benevolent Being. Eesting in this argument, 
 we have a distinct, though partial, conception of God, and 
 one from which we can reason. Now it would be extreme 
 want of candour for any one accustomed to these discussions 
 to ignore the difficulties which many sincere and powerful 
 thinkers find in this argument from design, or in the concep- 
 tion of God to which it leads. Let us say that our meta- 
 physician has found these difficulties insuperable. We throw 
 not the least reproach upon him on this account. But the 
 flagrant and unpleasing contradiction lies here, — that it 
 should be such a man who stands forward to enforce upon 
 us the belief in the miracle ! 
 
 A miracle without a God is simply an unexplained fact — 
 an exceptional power which some one (who is or seems a 
 human being) possesses. On what ground am I to infer that 
 a human being who works a miracle therefore knows evenj- 
 thing, or knows God ? To one who already believes in a God, 
 the miracle itself immediately connects the man with God. 
 God works the miracle through him, and God speaks through 
 him. My faith is in God. But if I could place myself in 
 the position of a man who witnessed a miracle, and who did 
 
256 GEAVENHUEST. [paet n. 
 
 not already telieve in a Creator, my faith must entirely rest 
 on this wonderful man before me. Tlie ordinary process of 
 :(;easoning by whicli the miracle convinces is gone. This 
 wonderful man is, for the instant, the only god I kno-w. 
 My faith is in Mm. 
 
 ADA. 
 
 I thought it was admitted by all our logicians, that in 
 order to base other religious truths on the miracle, the belief 
 in God must first be recognised as an independent truth of 
 the human reason. I presume the Bampton Lecturer would 
 admit that nature gives us some simulacrum of God upon 
 which the worker of miracles proceeds to construct other 
 useful or " regulative truths " or adaptations. Reason and 
 revelation together give us a certain adapted representation 
 of the Deity on which human piety can be founded, but 
 which the advanced intellect of some amongst us detects to 
 he a mere adaptation to our infirmity. 
 
 I can understand some such reasoning in a sceptic. I 
 have had thoughts something like these myself, when I have 
 been in a desponding mood ; but then; in that mood, miracle 
 and inspiration were but other names for human imaginations. 
 
 I wUl not meddle with the Oxford metaphysician. If he 
 can reconcile his doctrine of the impotence of human reason 
 with belief in revelation, I, for one, feel no interest in such 
 an achievement. But I confess that I follow with my utmost 
 attention the labours of those who employ their philosophy 
 and learning in so modifying the teaching of the Church as 
 to bring it into accordance with the historical knowledge and 
 the advanced science of the age. The whole Thirty-nine ! 
 "What if only nine articles remained to us ? What if only 
 a few of the words of Christ could be blazoned for ever upon 
 our banner, and lead us on to conquest over evil ? A few 
 words from the eternal God might be hope and guidance to 
 
CONV. IV.] THE OLD AND NEW. 257 
 
 millions after millions, to countless generations of mankind. 
 You think that the elimination (from our sacred books) of 
 what is imperishable truth from what was transitory in its 
 nature, cannot be logically effected. It must be all or none. 
 When the first school of Protestantism arose, how many able 
 and acute Catholics predicted that it would be impossible for 
 those who relinquished so much, to retain anything at all ! 
 Protestantism was confidently proclaimed to be the prelude 
 to infidelity. The prelude has been playing these three 
 hundred years. 
 
 MANSFIELD. 
 
 And a good Catholic might perhaps say that, at last, the 
 prediction was about to be fulfilled. I do not say so. . An- 
 other three centuries wiU. probably be listening to the same 
 prelude. 
 
 The Lutheran Eeformation was built on faifh — on an 
 ardent and new faith in the supremacy of the Scriptures. 
 Our reformers are pre-eminently critics of these very Scrip- 
 tures, and their faith goes out towards those truths which 
 are supposed capable of standing without the authority of an 
 inspired writing. Their criticisms may be swept away, as 
 trivialities which do but impede and embarrass the public 
 faith ; or they may prepare the way for an era of philosophic 
 schemes of Deism. I do not see how they can play a part 
 analogous to that of the Lutheran Eeformation. The faith 
 of our reformers is substantially given to reason, and not to 
 revelation. 
 
 ADA. 
 
 But aU are not mere critics. Some are zealous in a new 
 faith, and a faith drawn directly, by a more inteUigent inter- 
 pretation, from the very same source as the most popular 
 form of Christianity is drawn. If I see pious churchmen 
 
 E 
 
258 GEAVENHUKST. [paet ii. 
 
 building confidently on St Paul himself for their modified 
 views of Christianity, does it not look like the springing up 
 of some reformed church amongst us ? 
 
 I grant you that many of these critics seem to me in the 
 position of one who stands upon a wall, and uses his pickaxe 
 to knock out the loose bricks under his feet. They cannot 
 resist the impulse to knock out the loose bricks, though they 
 are standing above them. But all are not of this kind. 
 
 MANSFIELD. 
 
 Where do you see a nucleus or raUying-point for any new 
 church or sect amongst our advanced Christians 1 Each 
 seems to pick his way separately. ' 
 
 ADA. 
 
 I think I see such raUying-point in the new interpretation 
 given to the metaphorical language (if such it be) of St Paul, 
 on the subject of the atonement. A doctrine of atonement 
 that denies a sacrifice in the old heathen meaning of the 
 term, and at the same time accepts the Mediator, the Eecon- 
 ciler, the Eestorer, gives a position within Christianity itself, 
 both uniting very many, and disuniting those from the pre- 
 vailing type of Christianity. Eeflect, too, how much follows 
 from this view of the atonement. 
 
 MANSFIELD. 
 
 Perhaps you are right. I venture on no prophecy. — Why 
 have not such men found what they wanted amongst the 
 Unitarians ? These make no way amongst us. 
 
 ADA. 
 
 I, for one, could not contemplate without dread the with- 
 drawal of a divine authority from the teaching of religion. 
 
OONV. IT.] CHEISTIAS LOVE. 259 
 
 Say that the doctrine of immortality were to rest entirely on 
 the reasonings which I, or another, could hring for its sup- 
 port, how woidd it fluctuate with our desires, our moods, our 
 theories of life, even the energy with which we live our 
 lives ! It is true that this doctrine arises in the natural 
 exercise of our reason or imagination : even the Hebrews 
 may not have been indebted for it, in the first instance, to a 
 distinct miraculously authorised proclamation of it by any of 
 their prophets. But Christ confirmed it, for all time, not by 
 His teaching only, but by the great f(xct of His resurrection. 
 This doctrine of immortality which the reason approves, 
 which it even originates, must still be taught as from above, 
 else it will have no steadfast objective reality to us — it will' 
 always seem like a creation of our own mind, which we can 
 deal with as we please. 
 
 There was a voice in the wilderness, and it cried, Eepent ! 
 And there followed another voice, still more divine, and it 
 said. Love ! And the tempest arose — the tempest of wars, 
 invasions, revolutions — and it carried these two voices round 
 the world, and to this moment these divine words are every- 
 where re-echoed — Eepent and Love. Eepent that you may 
 be pure, and capable of Loving. 
 
 To grieve for our failings, and to love each other, this is a 
 teaching worthy of being called divine. Heaven's authority 
 for the pre-eminence of the sentiment of Love — I think much 
 of this. Love is, indeed, the very passion of the reason ; for 
 reason, from its nature, can desire only good. StiU there are 
 daring moods, and there are daring reasoners, occasionally 
 exalting Hate and Eevenge to an almost equal eminence. 
 See how some sweet serviceable Christian soul takes upon 
 itself to love all the. afflicted — all, even the guilty. Wher- 
 ever there is sickness and distress, or crime, which is a sick- 
 ness of the' soul, the Christian comes — if possible to heal, 
 always to soothe and commiserate. You wUl say — no, not 
 
260 GEAVENHUEST. [part n. 
 
 either of you, but some stern jurisprudential moralist will 
 say — that this universal charity tends to obliterate the dis- 
 tinctions between virtue and vice — that it counteracts the 
 moral opinion of society, which demands that love and 
 kindly service be withdrawn from the criminal. But this 
 universal love, remember, is love with tears in its eyes — love 
 that will not cease to weep and protest till the guilty one has 
 turned from his guilt — tiU he too can repent, and can love. 
 Nay, the Christian is the true philosopher ; for shining 
 through all his inevitable censure of the criminal is his deep 
 compassion that the man should he a criminal — deep compas- 
 sion, which he recognises as a divine sentiment, — which he 
 hears in the last word God has uttered out of eternity to His 
 suffering and bewildered creatures. 
 
 To love is the great glory, the last culture, the highest 
 happiness; to he loved is little in comparison. Amongst 
 our strangely complicated relationships of life, it often seems 
 as if the loved one had all the advantage. To him the ser- 
 vice, for him the sacrifice ; from him, perhaps, no return. 
 You pity some deluded mother, impoverishing herself for a 
 reprobate son, who laughs as he spends her little hoard. Do 
 not pity — admire rather ; she is happier than a thousand re- 
 probates. She loves. Oh, if One really existed, as I and 
 ■ others believe, who loved all the world, and in some inexpli- 
 cable way suffered for its salvation, he was a God, at least, in 
 his sublime happiness. !Nor should I say that it was a " re- 
 ligion of sorrow " that such a love had inaugurated. 
 
 MANSFIELD. 
 
 Very good, my dear and eloquent Ada. And who shall 
 say through how many ages, and through what subtle 
 changes of form, a scheme -of theology may survive that has 
 such a heart in the centre of it 1 Why are you so silent, 
 
OONV. IV.] FAITH AND DOUBT. 261 
 
 Sandford ? Why do you let me and my niece have all the 
 conversation' to ourselves? 
 
 SANDPOED. 
 
 Because, as you know, I like hetter to listen than to talk; 
 and also because what you were saying awoke a train of 
 thought in my own mind. 
 
 MANSFIELD. 
 
 You were listening then, in fact, to yourself. Take back 
 your compliment — if for compliment you intend it — most 
 deceptive of listeners. But what was the train of thought ? 
 
 SANDFOED. 
 
 I was thinking of this antagonism between faith and doubt, 
 and how much of our intellectual life depends upon it. No 
 popular faith has ever existed that did not claim a super- 
 natural origin. The idea of revelation starts with religion 
 itself : it is the first form in which a belief of God appears ; 
 for in early times the god was supposed to haye revealed 
 himself personally — to have appeared at least in vision or in 
 dream, if not in visible form, to the open eye of man. And 
 no god was ever worshipped with the simplest rites, but 
 those rites and ceremonies were supposed to have been in 
 some way prescribed by the god himself. 'No ceremony ever 
 obtained the sanction of time and numbers yithout being 
 traced to the command of the god, or the god-instructed 
 priest ; in what other way was man supposed to learn what 
 would please the divinity? So, too, if religious precepts 
 and doctrines were written in a book, and the book came to 
 have authority, it would assuredly be referred to the inspira- 
 tion of some divinity, and this whether the writer of it had 
 claimed such inspiration or not. It is thus that some of the 
 
262 GEAVENHUEST. [pabt. n. 
 
 higliest products of human thought, and some of the best 
 precepts of morality, have assumed stability and predomi- 
 nance, and asserted a sway over the whole national mind. 
 What great instruments of culture such revealed or inspired 
 faiths have been there is no need to say. Nevertheless it 
 was also necessary, in order that they should fulfil their 
 oflfice well as teachers of mankiud, that an antagonistic spirit 
 of doubt and free inquiry should coexist with them; for 
 otherwise the teaching by authority would become station- 
 ary or retrograde. If free inquiry has been altogether 
 checked, the earlier period of a religion may be more pure 
 and intellectual than the later ; there may be an unchecked 
 growth of fable. The teaching by divine authority could 
 alone impress and imite the multitude ; but this requires to 
 be advanced, corrected, and improved by the criticism of 
 those who think untrammelled by authority. In Europe, 
 no faith founded on revelation has ever been of that implicit 
 and universal character as to reduce to utter inactivity the 
 inquiring reason of man. Such an ideal faith would have 
 been a great calamity, ifay, if nothing but truth were 
 embraced under the name of a revealed faith, a faith that 
 extinguished the highest energies of the human intellect, 
 reducing it to the office of a passive recipient, would have 
 been no boon, but a great disaster. In all progressive coun- 
 tries we see the new thoughts, which are generated both 
 within and without a priesthood, either introducing them- 
 selves graduBrlly (under the form, perhaps, of new interpre- 
 tations) into the authorised system ; or if greater change is 
 called for, we see what amounts to a new system growing 
 out of the old. 
 
 And aU this time philosophy itself gets its force, and 
 energy, and standing-room in the world by its very antag- 
 onism to some popular faith. Both parties thrive by their 
 partial hostility or repulsion. There is no power where 
 
CONV. IV.] FAITH AND DOUBT. 263 
 
 there is no resistance. This holds good elsewhere than in 
 mechanics. It holds good in the case of all our philoso- 
 phies. Those who speculate on the dying-out of a divinely 
 authorised teaching, must suhstitute for the old controversy 
 between Reason and Eevelation other controversies between 
 systems aU acknowledging themselves to be the products of 
 reason, or of the unassisted faculties of the human mind. 
 One is sometimes asked. Could philosophy give a faith to 
 society? — give it on her own simple authority? My 
 answer has been, I^ot one faith, perhaps, but many. Not, 
 perhaps, that one ideal faith which is to unite all the 
 nations of mankind (though I, too, must sometimes dream 
 of such a faith, because I, too, have my truth, which, 
 being truth, claims universality), but certainly those various 
 speculative creeds, whose antagonism keeps the mind strung 
 to its utmost tension. The doctrine of immortality would, 
 in such a state of things, be boldly canvassed and disputed, 
 but it might also have very many earnest believers. On 
 this great doctrine I wUl venture to make one practical 
 observation. It is not desirable that all men should believe 
 in it with that constant energetic faith with which it is very 
 desirable some men should believe in it. If aU men had the 
 faith which transports them in imagination into some future 
 life, the present world woiild lose its interest ; if no class of 
 men had such a faith, then the world at large would lose a 
 hope which refines and elevates the general tone of thought: 
 You blamed me. General, for silence ; you wiU now wish 
 to reduce me to silence again. I am ashamed of having de- 
 livered such a lecture. 
 
 MANSFIELD. 
 
 Lecture ! nonsense ! How can there be any talk if each 
 one has not in his turn some room to utter himself? The 
 worst thing between us is, that we agree too nearly for ani- 
 
264 GEATENHUKST. [part. n. 
 
 mated discussion. Yet on subjects of this nature a marked 
 difference of view prevents all conversation -whatever. How 
 little oral discussion there is amongst men who have once 
 taken up their different intellectual positions ! After the 
 age of thirty, I think two men of decidedly opposite views, 
 never enter into the clash of viva voce controversy. 
 
 Yet with our vicar, who is a stanch churchman, you some- 
 times talk energetically enough. Conversation, at least, 
 flows on without any apparent restraint. 
 
 MANSFIELD. 
 
 Our vicar is one of a thousand. His cheerful tempera- 
 ment, his hahit of society, his high-bred courtesy, the so- 
 briety of his views, his temperate zeal, make him as delight- 
 ful in private companionship, as he is excellent in the pulpit, 
 or beneficent in the parish. But there is no controversy 
 where he is present. There is, as you say, no feeling of re- 
 straint, because he is a cultivated man, who can talk upon a 
 thousand subjects. He belongs to a class of clergymen who, 
 I suspect, are becoming extinct ; they never were very 
 numerous, and they are now pressed upon by the two great 
 increasing parties, one on their right, the other on their left 
 — the High Church or Anglo-Catholic party, and the Evan- 
 gelical or Calvinistic party. These two sections of the 
 Church, active, enterprising, and full of doctrinal zeal, are 
 leaving no room for that quiet section who regarded the 
 Church, first of all, as the great instrument for promoting 
 the virtue and piety of mankind, and who rather reposed 
 upon their own learning, than were anxious to make use of 
 it for the purposes of controversy. They, in their quiet way. 
 
OOHV. IV.] THE VICAE. 265 
 
 reconciled St Paul, and St James, and occasionally taught 
 their congregations that revelation was in fact highest reason 
 — reason raised one step higher than she alone would have 
 ascended, hy aid of a hand stretched out from heaven. On 
 some topics they adopted a discreet silence. These men, 
 earnest, learned, tolerant, with nothing better than a general 
 zeal for virtue and piety, are looked upon with some con- 
 tempt hy the present generation of churchmen ; they neither 
 satisfy the enthusiastic and elated Calvinist, nor the devout 
 and prostrate Anglican. 
 
 SANDFORD. 
 
 Even their orthodoxy is not allowed to pass unquestioned. 
 Some of their hearers, frightened by most confused reports 
 of German Rationalism, find Neology in every learned criti- 
 cism, or in reflections which have been gathered from old 
 English divines. It is a proof how the air is charged with 
 this kind of theological disquietude, that even in this remote 
 village of Gravenhurst, our quiet vicar, who never quotes 
 any one later than Butler or Cudworth, Barrow or Balguy, 
 has been accused of newfangled doctrine, opposed to I know 
 not what articles of the Church of England. 
 
 MANSFIELD. 
 
 Indeed ! I never heard of thi^. What is it, Ada 1 
 
 ADA. 
 
 I have heard of nothing except that there is a gossiping 
 
 party in the village led on by Mr Greystock, who have made 
 
 the discovery that our vicar is " tainted with Eationalism " 
 
 • — so runs their phraseology. It is the mere gossip of a few 
 
 tea-tables, and yet I should not wonder if that Mr Greystock 
 
266 GEAVENHURST. [part n. 
 
 were found, writing some day to the liishop, claiming in- 
 quiry, &c. He would glory in such a deed. 
 
 MANSFIELD. 
 
 If he dares ! I will have him hooted at hy all the little 
 boys of the village. I will have him drummed out of the 
 parish. 
 
 SANDFORD. 
 
 Put in the stocks ! sent on parade ! or say, on sentinel 
 duty for six hours at a stretch ! Oh, my General ! the re- 
 tired ironmonger, let us hope, would cover himself with 
 ridicule hy any such application to the bishop ; but if not, 
 and if any party must take to flight, it is we who should 
 have to beat a retreat. 
 
 MANSFIELD. 
 
 I hear the wheels of your pony-carriage, Ada. You can 
 take a little circuit, and set down Mr Sandford. 
 
 SANDFORD. 
 
 Thank you ; I prefer to walk. After thinking of subjects 
 such as we have been discussing, I find nothing so compos- 
 ing or so grateful as to be alone under the stars of night. 
 
CONV. IV.] DEPEAVITY. 267 
 
 CONVERSATIOJS" V. 
 
 EXPLANATORY HINTS ON SEVERAL TOPICS. 
 
 Sandfobd — Ada— The Vioae. 
 
 Calling one morning on Miss !N'ewcome — better known to 
 my readers by the simple name of Ada — I found our learned 
 and agreeable Vicar engaged in deep conversation with her. 
 Nor did it at all surprise me to discover that he had been 
 explaining the grounds of that charge of heresy, or rational- 
 ism, which had been raised against him by some of his 
 parishioners. "With the exception of her uncle, there was 
 not another person in a district of ten miles round who 
 could so intelligently have listened to his statements as Ada 
 Ifewcome. The topic had been pretty well discussed before 
 I entered, and I mention it chiefly to account for the con- 
 versation which followed, and which touched on topics not 
 often canvassed during a morning call in a lady's drawing- 
 room. 
 
 Amongst his other ofiences, it seems that our Yicar had, 
 in one of his sermons, given a very unsatisfactory explana- 
 tion of that Article of our Church which treats of original 
 sin. According to some of his hearers, he had denied ori- 
 ginal sin altogether J according to others, he had found 
 nothing tut original sin to punish in mankind. Either way, 
 he was pronounced to be manifestly wrong. And as he had 
 incurred the anger of the more zealous part of his congrega- 
 tion, by setting his face against certain " revivals " which, 
 
268 GEAVENHURST. [part ii. 
 
 in imitation of their neighbours the "Welsh, they had sought 
 to introduce into Gravenhurst — this and other similar offences 
 (which might otherwise have passed unnoticed) were not to 
 be easily forgiven. The statement which the Vicar had 
 made on this knotty siibject, was something of this kind : 
 " Most certainly," he said, " no man can have sinned tiU he 
 has lived — till he has lived intelligentially so as to choose 
 between obedience and disobedience. Our Church, there- 
 fore, does not and cannot teach that God punishes the de- 
 praved nature of man before that depraved nature has mani- 
 fested itself in actual sin of deed or thought. Original sin 
 must first of all he sin. But in every actual sin of deed or 
 thought, God does punish our depraved nature, because it is 
 only a depraved nature that would choose disobedience rather 
 than obedience to the just laws of the Creator." Whether 
 any of his critics suggested a more intelligible statement, I 
 cannot tell, but they agreed in complaining that in this they 
 did not find tlieir original sin— whatever that might be — 
 and which (according to their reading of the Article) ought 
 to be discernible even in the new-born infant. 
 
 VICAR. 
 
 Tou, at least, Mr Sandford, will think this statement 
 sufficiently orthodox. But we shall get no help, I am afr3,id, 
 from you. Our first premiss — the depravity of man — is, I 
 know, the most distasteful of aU tenets to the pride of you 
 philosophers. 
 
 SANDPOED. 
 
 If the tendency to snatch at some pleasure, or yield to 
 some passion of our own, and that even in opposition to what 
 the reason has once recognised to be a good rule of conduct — 
 if this is a proof of a fallen, depraved, corrupt nature, all I can 
 say is, that the constitution of human nature is a hopeless 
 
CONV. v.] PUNISHMENT. 269 
 
 riddle, and involved in utter confusion. For nothing is 
 more plain, than that, without this conflict of motives, man 
 could not have been a moral being at all. 
 
 VIOAR. 
 
 If you think this liability to sin is the very condition of 
 a moral obedience, how do you account for God's punish- 
 ment of sin 1 — or even for man's punishment of sin, if there 
 is any justice in it ? 
 
 SANDFORD. 
 
 Let .us speak of human punishment first. If it springs 
 directly from the anger we bear to those who have inflicted 
 an injury on us or our friends, it requires and can receive 
 no more explanation than the original passion which led to 
 the injury. It is passion answering passion. If we speak 
 of it as a reflective or legislative act, it has its sole justifica- 
 tion in the good result it produces : it secures obedience to 
 a law necessary, or beneficial, to the whole community. I 
 presume it was a fuller and grander scheme of things that 
 the passions of men should be thus kept within bounds by 
 laws thought out by men (whether laws of the statute-book 
 or of public opinion), than that they should need no such 
 restraint at all, but operate from the first in perfect social 
 harmony. 
 
 What God's punishments are in a future world, I do not 
 decide ; nor whether they are of a judicial character, or the 
 consequences of already established laws (a point which is 
 needlessly debated) ; but this I wiU. very confidently say, 
 that, whatever they are, they will be justified by their bene- 
 ficent results. They wiU forward, in some way, the happi- 
 ness of created beings. 
 
270 GEAVENHURST. [part n. 
 
 VICAB. 
 But, Mr Sandford — and here I am on the Taroad and 
 common ground of philosopliy — your explanation touches 
 only one phase of this great matter. There is justice as 
 well as benevolence in the character of God. It is character 
 as -well as happiness for which God creates us. The con- 
 science of each man tells him that he lies open to deserved 
 punishment — to punishment which has not necessarily any 
 reference to his own happiness or the happiness of others. 
 No guilty man feels that he ought to be punished for the 
 benefit that wiU follow from his punishment ; enough, he 
 deserves it. 
 
 SANDFOBD. 
 
 Most certainly a criminal who has broken the laws of 
 God or man, and knows that a grave penalty hangs over 
 him, has quite enough to occupy his attention for the time ; 
 quite enough in this one association between his crime and 
 its punishment. That this one association should take 
 instant and full possession of his mind, requires no psycho- 
 logical explanation. 
 
 Let such a man, however, have leisure to grow calm, and 
 let him be told that his punishment can answer no good 
 purpose whatever, and he will be the first to exclaim that it 
 is a needless cruelty to punish him ; unless, indeed, he has 
 been brought up in abject submission to some despotic gov- 
 ernment, and has never ventured to look further than the 
 will of his sovereign for a reason for his punishment. He 
 would exclaim this very loudly in the case of a human pun- 
 ishment; perhaps in the case of a divine punishment his 
 tongue, and even his thoughts, might be overawed. 
 
 VICAB. 
 
 You keep your eye fixed on the motives that would in- 
 
CONT. v.] SELF-EEPEOACH. 271 
 
 fluence a jurist or a legislator ; I want you to dive into the 
 recesses of a man's conscience — to fasten upon his free-will, 
 and on the self-accusation that follows upon a voluntary 
 wrong. A man who has wilfully hroken the law feels that 
 he is a culprit, and if you pardon him, he still feels that he 
 is a culprit, and deserves the punishment of one. 
 
 SANDPOED. 
 
 I do dive — so far as I am able — into the recesses of the 
 conscience-stricken mind. I find there an emotion of terror 
 that I cannot possibly trace to anything but some threat 
 issued by man, or supposed to be issued fi?om God. This 
 cannot be a feeling springing up in the solitary mind ; the 
 individual mind does not produce the threat and the emo- 
 tion both. 
 
 Ifo man fears a punishment from God unless he has been 
 taught something about that punishment ; and his fear of 
 man depends on the nature of his relation to his fellow- 
 men. 
 
 This terror of the conscience, therefore, lies in the strong 
 association between certain acts and certain threatenings, 
 more or less precise. Nor can we be surprised at the ab- 
 sorbing character of the emotion, since a criminal has brought 
 down upon himself the penalties of the law, the hatred of 
 his neighbours, and the apprehension of the supernatural 
 punishment of God. 
 
 VICAR. 
 
 But there is also his own self-reproach. This pricking of 
 the conscience is always accompanied by the reflection that 
 we could and ought to have done otherwise. If it were a 
 mere association between an act and a punishmep^t, it would 
 occur where the act had been performed, but where no evil, 
 or no disobedience to the law, had been intended. 
 
272 GEAVENHUEST. [paet u. 
 
 SANDFOED. 
 
 There is nothing mysterious in the connection between 
 the idea of punishment and our free-wiU. From the nature 
 of the case, it is an intentional act that is amenable to pun- 
 ishment ; and this intention must he the subject of our 
 regret. This, I presume, is your self-reproach — that anger 
 with ourselves which we feel when we have done what 
 we now so earnestly wish had been left undone. The 
 law governs by means of the threat it puts forth. We 
 must have defied this threat — we must therefore have com- 
 mitted an act of intentional or vrilful disobedience — ^in order 
 to be the understood subject of a penal law. If we have 
 disobeyed the law, but not intentionally, we cannot feel that 
 our punishment is just, or what the law prescribed, because 
 the law was made to visit intentional disobedience only. 
 We have not been guilty of that disobedience which the 
 law was meant to punish; we are so far innocent. We 
 should, of course, feel the apprehension of punishment, but 
 no seK-reproach. 
 
 Why is an ex post facto law declared to be unjust? Be- 
 cause here the threat has been omitted. The punished man 
 has not been governed by the law, he has been merely hanged 
 by it. So far as he was concerned, the law was merely a 
 vindictive act. But again, this condemnation of an ea; post 
 
 facto law does not readily occur in a rude and barbarous age ; 
 which suggests to us (what must be borne ia mind), that the 
 
 ' sharp definitions we now make of justice are the results of 
 experience and thought. 
 
 When we promulgate a law to which we attach a penalty, 
 we create in this penalty a new motive of action ; we present 
 before all men terms for a new choice. If 'any one chooses 
 disobedience and the penalty, he can raise no objection to 
 
CONV. v.] FEEE-WILL. 273 
 
 his own punislmient, unless he objects to the law itself as 
 one not necessary to the welfare of society. 
 
 An injurious action wilfully performed is the legitimate 
 subject of punishment. But we should deceive ourselves if 
 we imagined that human law could always determine the 
 wilfulness ; it has to presume this from the nature of the 
 act. Moreover, there are some cases where it is thought so 
 necessary to enforce on all minds the terror of the penalty, 
 that the question of intentional or unintentional obedience 
 is not allowed to be raised. If a sentinel sleeps upon his 
 post in time of war, I believe a military authority would not 
 accept it as an excuse that the cold, rendering him torpid, 
 had quite disabled him from resisting sleep. So, too, in 
 times of religious change or disturbance, a priestly authority 
 wlU not accept it as an excuse for heresy, that the heretic 
 could not help thinking as he did. It is felt to be so neces- 
 sary to associate heresy with the fear of punishment, that 
 this question of intention is passed over. And, in fact, the 
 association between heresy and punishment does keep many 
 from thinking at all in the forbidden direction. The punish- 
 ment, under certain circumstances, answers its end, but the 
 heretic himself will always feel ■ it as an atrocious act of 
 oppression. All who are not heretics will associate a twofold 
 sentiment of guilt with heresy — will call it an offence against 
 God and against society. 
 
 VICAE. 
 
 I am glad to see that you do not dispute free-will. I 
 thought you were one of those modem philosophers who see 
 in human history a legitimate subject for science, — which it 
 cannot be to those who acknowledge the free-wiU of man. 
 
 SANDFOED. 
 
 I am not sure that the freedom which man possesses 
 s 
 
274 GEAVENHUEST. [part ii. 
 
 through his reasoa is not perfectly reconcilable with correct 
 views of science. I certainly do not dispute what is called 
 free-will ; I do not dispute — who could ? — that act of choice 
 which, united with our will, or capacity for action, makes it 
 free-will. 
 
 I imagiae we should neither of us care to go into meta- 
 physical subtleties about this mental act of choice. Passion, 
 habit, intellect, are all blended in. what we popularly call a 
 choice. , But it is really choice only so far as the intellect or 
 judgment is concerned. Choice in the most complex affairs 
 of life is stUl a development of that faculty of judgment or 
 comparison (perception of difference or agreement) which 
 philosophers of aU schools agree in placing amongst the 
 original powers of the human being. 
 
 Of two propositions we say, this or that may be true. 
 
 Of two proposed actions we say, this or that may be done. 
 
 The latter of these states of mind is as indisputable a fact 
 as the former. In both the intellectual act of judgment is 
 performed, though in the latter it is more complicated with 
 our individual susceptibilities and emotions. In the one we 
 have to select a truth, in the other to choose a conduct. We 
 choose. A judgment is finally pronounced. Other or higher 
 freedom than this, it is beyond the wit of man to conceive. 
 
 VICAR. 
 
 Let metaphysicians explain it how they will, or can 
 
 that we feel we may do a thing or leave it undone, is as 
 certain as any fact in our existence. And this fact seems 
 to lie at the foundation of our morality — of our praise and 
 blame — of the different sentiments we have towards a person 
 and a thing that has injured us. 
 
 SANDFORD. 
 
 In that last I think you are going a little too far. The 
 
OONV. v.] FKEE-WILL. 275 
 
 will alone — that is, the persistent power giving rise to re- 
 iterated attempts to injure us, and calling forth all the pas- 
 sions of a contest — is sufficient to account for a vast differ- 
 ence in our sentiment towards persons and things that injure 
 us. The philosopher who has been hitten by a ferocious 
 dog, and remembers the feeling of anger he had, and perhaps 
 still retains, towards the brute, wOl acknowledge that it is 
 not necessary to have recourse to the free-will of the moralist 
 to explain a very great difference in the feelings we have 
 towards a living creature that has attacked us, and a stone 
 that has fallen upon us. We do not feel towards the dog 
 as we feel towards a man, but neither do we feel towards the 
 dog as we feel towards a stone. "We love and hate, and 
 praise and blame, our own fellow-creatures in very many 
 cases where we distinctly refer to their natural tempers, or 
 their natural powers to please or to excel. When, however, 
 the whole man stands before us in his full character, our 
 praise and blame will bear an especial reference to what 
 have been his chosen motives of conduct — to habits in the 
 formation of which his reason has concurred — to the reason, 
 in short, of the man, as displayed in his affections and 
 conduct. 
 
 VICAE. 
 
 Eeverting to your rationale of divine punishment, one 
 thing is clear. There can be ultimately no ground for God's 
 punishment but God's disapproval of the kind of conduct 
 punished. Because, if we say that He punishes for the sake 
 of suppressing that species of conduct, stiU, when we ask 
 ourselves, Why is that species of conduct to be suppressed 1 
 we have no possible answer but God's disapproval of it. 
 
 SANDEOED. 
 
 God being one with supreme reason and power, I admit 
 at once the accuracy of your observation. But there is a 
 
276 GEAVENHUEST. [paet ii. 
 
 great difference 'betweeii saying simply, " I punish because 
 I disapprove," and "I punisli because I disapprove, and be- 
 cause my punishment wUl suppress such conduct in future. 
 The disapproval of man is the ultimate ground for the pun- 
 ishment lie inflicts, but he must clearly see that his punish- 
 ment tends to suppress the conduct which he disapprovesy 
 before he allows himself to act upon his disapproval. Disap- 
 proval alone is not a ground for punishment. 
 
 What we said of human punishments, we must say, I pre- 
 sume, of such punishments as may take place in a future 
 world ; that it was a grander, fuller, loftier scheme that man 
 should both sin and be punished, and rise through sin and 
 punishment into conscious rectitude, than that he should 
 have lived in that unconscious innocence — if innocence it 
 is to be called — ^which knows neither good nor evil, which 
 neither obeys nor disobeys. A perfectly harmonised spon- 
 taneity seems a poor type of existence compared to submis- 
 sion to a law which man has reasoned out and struggled to 
 obey and get obeyed. 
 
 You say weU that it is not Happiness alone, but Character, 
 that is the end of creation in man. But these are not in 
 themselves distinct and conflicting ends. It is in the crea- 
 tion of the good man that the highest climax of the happi- 
 ness-procuring principle is seen. The good character belongs 
 to him who consciously and designedly produces happiness — 
 who not only is raised to the highest kind of felicity himself, 
 but who is a source of felicity to others. Happiness is pro- 
 duced in many other ways, and by the creation of many 
 other beings ; but nothing we know of is comparable, in 
 this respect, to the high and noble character whose creation 
 or development, we must admit, is a costly proceeding. It 
 costs much and many kinds of misery. It overpays them 
 all. The noble character, you perhaps say, is not always 
 happy. He has not every species of happiness; he may 
 
CONV. v.] PUNISHMENTS OF A NATUEAL KIND. 277 
 
 have many kinds of suffering ; but his nobility of character 
 is always a happiness. And always is he the sustainer and 
 producer of happiness in others. 
 
 We place Go&dness before Happiness, because in the lat- 
 ter we may be speaking only of enjoyment, and that not of 
 the highest order ; while in Goodness we speak of man as 
 the source of happiness, as well as the subject of the higher 
 kind of felicity. Man radiates happiness on man. How is 
 it possible that he should fail to estimate his fellow-being 
 first and chiefly by the light and heat that he gives ? 
 
 VICAE. 
 
 I noticed that you said, in passing, that it was a distinc- 
 tion hardly worth canvassing, whether future punishments 
 were to be considered as Judicial or as natural — that is, as 
 consequences of our conduct according to laws already estab- 
 lished. 
 
 It seems to me to be merely a metaphorical use of the 
 term when we speak of the natural consequences of our 
 faults as punishments. Punishment means some penalty 
 imposed by God, or man, over and above these natural con- 
 sequences. When we say that the drunkard is punished 
 by the ill-health which his intemperance incurs, we borrow 
 a term from our judicial proceedings. The primary meaning 
 of punishment would be illustrated by the stocks in which 
 the drunkard was formerly placed by the hand of the 
 constable. 
 
 Then if we talk of carrying out these natural consequences 
 into another world, what terrible nonsense we fall into i 
 How does the intemperance of the drunkard punish him 
 there — by natural consequences? Is he to have delirium 
 tremens in that other state of existence also? And as to a 
 man's conscience, the more he has sinned, the more callous it 
 has become. . He who goes out of the world with one murder 
 
278 GEAVENHUEST. [vast n. 
 
 on his tead, carries a dire remorse with him : he who has 
 committed half-a-dozen murders walks forth stolid as a 
 block. 
 
 Besides, as we know nothing of the circumstances of the 
 future world, so as to foretell the new relations into which 
 we bring ourselves, we can gain nothing whatever by calling 
 our punishment the natural consequence of our conduct here. 
 That natural consequence must come upon us with just the 
 same surprise and suddenness as a judicial sentence. 
 
 SANDFOED. 
 
 Very true. For that and other reasons, it does not seem 
 to me a distinction of any importance. 
 
 Punishment is the repression of qrime, and I cannot easily 
 conceive of its existence where there is no crime to be re- 
 pressed. This judicial mode of repressing evil belongs to 
 human society, and springs from the nature of man. The 
 constitution of social man, by which he erects a judicial tri- 
 bunal, is as much a part of the great scheme of things as the 
 physical organisation according to which ill-health follows 
 upon intemperance. In a broad view of the subject, the 
 stocks- and the delirium tremens are both natural conse- 
 quences, but resulting from a different set of laws or powers. 
 
 ABA. 
 
 But if we cannot understand how the criminal is punished 
 in a future world through the natural consequences of his 
 criminality, we can understand how the cultivation of piety 
 — of love to God and man — will be there, as here, its own 
 exceeding great reward. This cultivates us for heaven — for 
 the abode of whatever spirits stand nearer than we do to the 
 throne of God, All the physical universe is brought together, 
 as some astronomer writes, " by the one common element of 
 light ;" and in like manner all the spiritual universe must be 
 
COKV. v.] CULTIVATION. 279 
 
 bound together by the one conunon element of love — that 
 lov« which is also reason. 
 
 SANDFOED. 
 
 Yes, yes ! "We have a safer basis there to proceed upon. 
 Something of the eternally good we know, and can therefore, 
 in some measure, cultivate ourselves for eternity. 
 
 VICAR. 
 
 I begin, I think, a little better to understand your point 
 of view, Mr Sandford. And it is well that those who reason 
 in part from different premisses should occasionally explain 
 themselves to each other. You consider the future life as 
 some complement or further development of the present, in 
 -vvhich, perhaps, all of us will, in some way, struggle forward. 
 This is not quite the heartless philosophy you are sometimes 
 credited with. 
 
 , People say of you, that while you would teach us admira- 
 tion of this progressive world, you would shut us up within 
 the limits of a mundane existence — would forbid us to aspire 
 beyond it. 
 
 SANDPOED. 
 
 I would teach that this life is worthy of our love and ad- 
 miration, and that God, through our own efforts — that is, of 
 course, through the efforts we are constituted to make — is 
 still rendering it more excellent and more happy. But I 
 have never said that the always imperfect knowledge and 
 happiness of man would confine his aspirations within the 
 circuit of our mortal existence. These aspirations, vague as 
 they may be, I take to be an inextinguishable portion of our 
 humanity. 
 
 Our earth bends down to itself our rounded sky — makes 
 an ethereal dome for itself out of the infinite space beyond. 
 
280 GKAVENHUKST. [fart u. 
 
 So it is with our humanity ; it rounds a heaven for itself out 
 of the infinite and the eternal. And just as we know that 
 the sky is, and yet know that the form it takes is due to our 
 earth ; in like manner we may know that the eternal life is, 
 and yet feel that the form it assumes to us, is necessarily 
 due to our present humanity. It is a complement to that 
 humanity — is conceived hy some relation to it. 
 
 Take away the earth, and there would he no rounded sky ; 
 take away the sky, and earth would he like an underground 
 clod which is inhahited by insects. 
 
 SANDFOED. 
 
 Very little — quite inappreciable— is the influence I can 
 possibly exert on my contemporaries, and therefore, whether 
 I am faithfully represented or not, is a matter of no moment : 
 even to myseK personally it ought to be a matter of no con- 
 cern, for I lead an obscure life, under an obscure name, and 
 have not a kindness to expect, or a favour to ask, of any but 
 the few friends who already know me. It might appear Uke 
 an affectation if I were very solicitous about being rightly 
 understood. Let each one trim his lamp the best he can, 
 and see that he has some truth, by the light of which he can 
 live and die. To me it seems not a truth that the moral 
 nature of man is some hideous confusion, to be accounted 
 for only by the combination of diabolic and divine agency. 
 To me it seems not a truth that the virtue or piety of some 
 amongst us is to be carried forward to higher and higher 
 stages of development, while the blurred and stunted piety 
 of others (for all have some piety ; all, at least have some 
 goodness in them) shall be extinguished for ever in I know 
 not what eternal horror. To me it seems a truth, that if 
 the present human life opens out into a wider and grander 
 
CONV. v.] OUR GREAT HOPE. 281 
 
 existence, the future and the present -will be found to form 
 one great whole, over every part of which the same supreme 
 "Wisdom will have presided. 
 
 ADA. 
 
 " Behold, we know not anything ; 
 
 I can but trust that good shall fall 
 At last — far off — at last, to all. 
 And every winter change to spring. 
 
 So runs my dream : hut what am 1 ? 
 
 An infant crying in the night, 
 
 An infant crying for the light. 
 And with no language but a cry ! " 
 
 You know these verses ? Of course you do. Already 
 these and others from the same poet have taken root in the 
 minds of all cultivated Englishmen.^ They express thoughts 
 that wiU. never die, and in language that will surely never 
 be surpassed. 
 
 SANDFOED. • 
 
 I know them well, and feel their truth and beauty. Let 
 the little children that are crying for the light throw their 
 arms around each other's neck, and nestle the closer for the 
 darkness that surrounds them : so will they best subdue the 
 terrors of the night. 
 
 VICAR. 
 
 If I were disposed, as Mr Greystock asserts of me, to adopt 
 any of the heresies of the day, I think it would be that which 
 foresees at the end of all, the consummation of the good of 
 aU. Such a hope is consistent with the spirit, if not with 
 the letter. I cannot read it in the written letter. What is 
 dark to me must remain dark ; what appears as sacred truth 
 
282 GEAVENHUEST. [pakt n. 
 
 I cling to with tenfold pertinacity. Some write that the 
 old roads are being broken up, and that men are seeking 
 new paths. I cannot offer myself as guide in the discovery 
 of new paths ; I stand, and can only stand, upon the old ones. 
 Another age may perhaps breed for itself teachers of another 
 stamp. 
 
 ADA. 
 
 Let me strike upon a note lower down in the scale. When 
 you and Mr Sandford were talking of Choice or Pree-wUl, it 
 occurred to me to ask whether either of you adopted that 
 theory which asserts the original equality of all men's minds, 
 and resolves all our differences into differences of education. 
 
 VIOAE. 
 
 If such a theory were ever seriously put forth, I think Mr 
 Sandford will agree with me that it wUl never be put forth 
 seriously again. For say the substance Mind were alike in 
 all, that other substance, the Body — on which, in this life, 
 the manifestations of its consciousness depends — is very dif- 
 ferent in different individuals ; has different temperaments, 
 and many differences of organisation. 
 
 ADA. 
 
 I was thinking, if that be the case, the act of comparison 
 or of choice, of which Mr Sandford was speaking, must be 
 performed under different conditions in different individuals. 
 
 VICAR. 
 
 No doubt of it. 
 
 ADA. 
 
 And that though the variety of character, to which this 
 variety of temperament gives origin, may add much to the 
 
OONV. v.] VARIETY OF CHAKACTEE. 283 
 
 charm of life and its multifarious activities, yet it must pre- 
 vent the attainment of a uniform standard of morality. 
 
 SANDPOED. 
 
 There are certairi abstinences from evil we do right in 
 claiming from all. We should vainly expect the same posi- 
 tive good, or the same kind of services from all. 
 
 VICAE. 
 
 That variety of character which may he traced to variety 
 of temperament has been a frequent subject of reflection with 
 me. My position of parish priest has brought it often before 
 my notice. I am often compelled to confess that the best 
 people are not the best in every relation of life, and the worst 
 are not bad in every relation of life. I find myself growing 
 lenient in my blame, and reticent in my praise. Again and 
 again I say to myself that only the Omniscient can be equi- 
 table judge of human beings — so complicated are our virtues 
 with our failings, and so many are the hidden virtues, as well 
 as hidden vices, of our fellow-men. 
 
 What would life be if we did not believe in that Invisible 
 Eye that sees aU — sees through the intricacies and recesses 
 of human thought ! This is something very different from 
 the eye of my neighbour, who sees very dimly, and who, 
 after all, is little better than myself. We aU know that there 
 is a perfect Being who hnows us all, otherwise I think we 
 should by tacit consent drop all efforts after any ideal 
 . standard of perfection. 
 
 SANDFOED. 
 
 The belief in an Omniscient seems to me to grow with our 
 science, and to be the last resting-place both of the intellect 
 and the heart. It results from the unity of this multifarious 
 
284 GEAVENHUEST. [paet. ii. 
 
 and progressive world, and it reflects back a unity of aim and 
 purpose into our varied humanity. Never did prophecy speak 
 more distinctly the aspirations of the human race than this, 
 that all nations shall he gathered together in worship of the 
 one present and ever-present God. 
 
 Something like the " division of labour " of our political 
 economists, appears to develop itself amongst our moralities. 
 The growing complexity of life demands and creates the 
 difierently virtuous. Men who are admirable in private life, 
 faU often in public ; and the reverse is as often true. 
 
 I have had occasion to make the same observation of your 
 own sex. Here, in Gravenhurst, our public characters are 
 the charitable ladies who visit the poor, who teach in our 
 schools, and sometimes nurse the sick. INow, these excellent 
 people, who gladden, I am sure, many a poor man's cottage, 
 do not always gladden their own homes. If you were an 
 ignorant lad, or had broken your leg, one of these energetic 
 ladies would be your good angel ; but if you do not happen 
 to want their commiseration — if you want nothing of them 
 but the amenities of cultivated life — you are to them the 
 most wearisome and insipid of mortals. 
 
 I say this, of course, in no carping spirit, but merely to 
 illustrate your observation, that if new duties are taken up 
 by the female sex, there will be new specialties of character 
 introduced. There is room for all. I grudge no honour paid 
 to the heroines of the school-room and the hospital ; there 
 was a duty left unperformed, and they stepped forward to 
 fulfil it ; but I will never consent for a moment to disparage 
 the old sweet feminine character which makes one home the 
 
CONV. v.] VAEIETY OF CHAEACTEE. 285 
 
 alDode of cheerfulness, refinement, and repose. A lamentable 
 thing would it be for England if every unmarried woman of 
 thirty betook herself to the poor for employment. "What the 
 poor would gain, in the long-run, is very doubtful ; or rather, 
 to my mind, is not doubtful at all. What our higher social 
 cultivation would lose, is very evident to me. 
 
 SANDFOED. 
 
 In that close intimacy with the minds of many of all 
 classes into which you are brought, you must have found 
 much to interest you, and that even in the most commonplace 
 people. 
 
 VICAE. 
 
 ITo man is commonplace when you know hiin intimately. 
 I should be perplexed to say who were commonplace people. 
 Choose your specimen ; look through the village of Graven- 
 hurst, and pick out your most decided specimen of the com- 
 monplace man. Now sit down before him, and study him. 
 In a very little time you wiU find something so noteworthy 
 in your specimen, that you will throw it away, and go in 
 search of another. Another and another shall be selected 
 and studied ; and so long as you have patience to look stead- 
 fastly at your man, so long wiU you be unsatisfied that you 
 have a genuine specimen of the commonplace before you. 
 
 SANDFORD. 
 
 I am prepared to believe it. I have felt something of the 
 same kiud in. my own limited observations. 
 
 VIOAE. 
 
 Heaven is very bountiful to us. How heavy seems the 
 burden on that man's shoulder ! What strength and patience 
 have grown up beneath the burden ! 
 
286 GKAVENHUEST. [paet n. 
 
 We owe ill to Heaven — even our virtues. I liave always 
 felt a certain timidity in dealing out the requisite censures 
 against men who have been led into error by hot impetuous 
 tempers, who probably thirsted after pleasures and excite- 
 ments which to me and others were no temptations at all. 
 If, when I was a young man at the university, I led a tran- 
 quU, temperate, and studious life, I feel that I should be 
 something of a hypocrite were I to claim any merit for this. 
 Such was the only life I cared to lead. I hated noise. I 
 preferred fresh air to breathing tobacco-smoke fresh from the 
 mouths of other men. This alone was enough to keep me 
 much in my own rooms. The wine-party was simply detest- 
 able. The morning headache had no charms for me. Bac- 
 chus amongst his grapes and his satyrs may be a classic 
 subject for art : out of the canvas he is very much of a 
 beast. I have found men wittier as well as wiser when they 
 were quite sober. 
 
 Happy those to whom temperate passions have been 
 given ! I have known young men absurdly and even 
 hypocritically boastful of their ungovernable feeHngs. They, 
 for their part, are all flame ! They are all fool ! What is a 
 man worth unless he is master of himself? — unless reason, 
 and not passion, is sitting at the helm ? And is not temper- 
 ance the very conservator of that youth they prize so much 
 — which perhaps, indeed, they have not yet learned to prize 
 half enough ? 
 
 SANDFOED. 
 
 Sometimes the genuine iire and turbulence of youth is but 
 a temporary excess of energy ; it will all be wanted before 
 the day is over. 
 
 Nations too, as well as individuals, have their tempera- 
 ments. Here we are generally charitable enough. We 
 condemn a hot-headed man ; a hot-headed people we merely 
 notice and describe. 
 
CONV. v.] VAEIETY OF CHAEACTEE. 287 
 
 VICAE. 
 
 National character is a great puzzle. We first attribute 
 tlie character of a people to its institutions, and then account 
 for its institutions by the character of the people. 
 
 SANDFORD. 
 
 When the institutions are not imposed upon them by 
 other nations, there must be something in the people them- 
 selves that led to their formation. For this " something in 
 themselves " we are referred to climate, soil, external nature, 
 and to race. 
 
 VICAE. 
 
 I, who do not believe in originally different races, can 
 only explain the character of a nation by the operation of 
 external nature and its own institutions. 
 
 SASTDFORD. 
 
 I suppose that a zoologist would ultimately resolve race 
 into climate or terrestrial position ; because, say there were 
 originally different stocks, what should make the difference 
 of these stocks, if not some difference, known or unknown 
 to us, in the external nature in which they first appeared ? 
 
 VICAE. 
 
 When I was at Naples, I began by accounting for every- 
 thing by the peculiarities of the Catholic religion ; afterwards 
 I began to suspect that this foim of Christianity was due to 
 southern skies, to some such southern populace as I had 
 before me. 
 
 SANDFORD. 
 
 There is always both action and reaction in these cases. 
 What did Christianity do for Constantinople 1 and what did 
 
288 GEAVENHUEST. [paet ii. 
 
 Constantinople do for Christianity 1 Eeligion generally exalts 
 some characteristic of a people — rarely alters it. Where it 
 seems to have altered it — as where it seems to have intro- 
 duced a pacific instead of a warlike character — there were, in 
 fact, other circumstances at work. What is Christianity not 
 doing for England at this moment ? It exalts and sustains 
 aU the philanthropic energies of the people. 
 
 VICAB. 
 
 But I am sure you will admit, Mr Sandford, that hesides 
 the sanction given to such virtues as society by its own 
 intelligence would produce, there is an especial Christian 
 type of character belonging to our religion, and which dates 
 from its great Founder. The ideal may be blurred by the 
 ignorance and passion of men, but it enters, in turn, every 
 nation in the world. 
 
 SANDFORD. 
 
 Most readily do I admit it. How often have I wished 
 that there was some way to utter all the truths at once that 
 ought to be taken into a complete survey of any of these 
 great topics ! Most readily do I admit the influence on 
 society, and through generation after generation, of the type 
 of character you mention, and of the many noble exemplars 
 it has had. But it is impossible not also to admit that this 
 very type of character becomes modified by the intelligence 
 of the age or people that receives it as divine. A light 
 travels to us from some distant point in the past centuries, 
 but always it is the atmosphere about us that colours it, 
 reveals or obscures it. The times have been when the 
 Christian character meant a separation from the world. 
 With the exception of alms-giving, the ideal Christian 
 might have passed through life wrapt in contemplation. 
 The ideal Christian of England, in the nineteenth century, 
 
CONV. v.] ENGLAND S CHRISTIANITY. 289 
 
 is very different. We expect to meet Mm on every path, of 
 philanthropic enterprise. Nay, we like him the better if, 
 in useful industry, he huUds up a princely fortune for him- 
 self. 
 
 If so various a country as England could put forward its 
 model, or "representative man," how would you describe 
 him 1 He would certainly be a Christian, but a Christian 
 who has a zeal for promoting all the temporal interests of 
 society — whether it is a system of drainage or a system of 
 education. And astonishing indeed it is to behold the num- 
 ber of charitable, municipal, national undertakings, in which 
 our representative Christian takes the lead. We do honour 
 to his piety, but we demand that it occupy itself with the 
 good, healthy, happy life of this terraqueous globe. We 
 have very little respect for the solitary raptures of saints, 
 looking upward into the skies, if nothing comes of it for this 
 lower world. Such solitary raptures we rather excuse than 
 admire. Vague exultations followed, by vague depressions 
 — we leave them undisturbed. But not to saintship of this 
 description does England look for its salvation. By all 
 means, let this or that gentle youth sit apart, with books of 
 devotion on his knees — sit there in ecstatic, hopeful, amazed 
 condition of mind — if such to him be the best and most 
 innocent mode of passing his existence. Innocent it is, and 
 therefore let it- be undisturbed. But England thinks it has 
 other employment for its youth, and looks for help to 
 a,nother species of piety. 
 
 VICAE. 
 
 Many a virtue is exclusively drawn from Christianity 
 which owes its existence to the normal exercise of an advanc- 
 ing intellect. That I can understand. On the other side, 
 do not let us make the mistake of attributing our virtues to 
 an intelligent public opinion, without taking into considera- 
 
 T 
 
290 GRAVENHUEST. [pa^t n. 
 
 tion the special operation of Cliristiaiiity upon that public 
 opinion. There is very much in our morality that has no 
 immediate connection with religion ; hut that moral opinion 
 of the world with which it is connected, has grown up under 
 the influence of religion. 
 
 A temperate man, who sets a right value on his health, 
 and who is ashamed of the disgrace of inebriety; a humane 
 man, who shrinks even from the spectacle of suffering ; an 
 honourable man, who would blush crimson-deep at the idea 
 of uttering a premeditated lie, — these seem to need no form 
 of religion to uphold their temperance, their humanity, their 
 veracity ; yet the public opinion in which these virtues grew 
 up, would not have been precisely what it is but for the 
 element of religion. 
 
 SANDFORD. 
 
 Granted. 
 
 VICAB. 
 
 I, for my part, would be the last to undervalue the union 
 of a general intelligence with a Christian piety ; nor has this 
 been the tendency of the Protestant Church of England — 
 not, at least, of the Church of England as 1 was taught to 
 know and revere it ; not of the Church which acknowledged 
 amongst its leading spirits such men as Locke and Paley and 
 Butler. Our Church has not hitherto been ungenerous to- 
 wards those of her own members whose learning may have 
 appeared to lead them somewhat astray. When, after some 
 time spent abroad, I returned to my own country, I congrat- 
 ulated it especially on the manner in which its ecclesiastical 
 affairs were settled. "We had a Church which did not affect 
 -to govern, but only to instruct the people ; and which taught 
 a piety that neither inflated with spiritual conceit, nor pro- 
 
CONV. v.] AN ANECDOTE. 201 
 
 strated before the altar with a humility painful to witness. 
 Is all this to change ? 
 
 ADA. 
 
 Tell Mr Sandford some of your experiences while you 
 were at Naples. 
 
 VICAR. 
 
 They illustrate nothing but what Mr Sandford, and, in- 
 deed, every intelligent person, knows very well ; how readily 
 an emotional piety may associate itseK^with other things 
 not quite so estimable. 
 
 I made a stay of some months in a small house in the 
 neighbourhood of Naples. My domestics consisted of a valet, 
 Lucchesi, and a cook, Teresa. Lucchesi I strongly suspected 
 to be a rogue. I knew nothing of Teresa except that she 
 was a bad cook, with a great reputation for sanctity. 
 
 I have a small silver crucifix which I value highly as a 
 work of art. Lucchesi, too, had formed a high appreciation, 
 probably of its mercantile value. I missed it ; he told me a 
 long story about thieves who were known to be prowling in 
 the neighbourhood. I had my suspicions as to the manner 
 in which it had disappeared. 
 
 I put no further questions to Lucchesi, but in the evening 
 walked quietly down-stairs, and looked in at the open door 
 of the kitchen. The rogue was showing his booty to the old 
 woman Teresa. The pious Teresa had fallen down upon her 
 knees, alternately kissing the crucifix and congratulating her 
 fellow-servant on his valuable prize. "All silver! — how 
 heavy ! " and then she again sobbed over the sacred image. 
 The moment I entered the kitchen she thrust the crucifix 
 into her bosom, and rose from her knees. I asked for my 
 crucifix. She swore by all the saints in heaven she had 
 never seen it ! 
 
292 GEAVENHTJKST. [pakt n. 
 
 SANDFOED. 
 
 How did it end 1 
 
 VICAR. 
 
 I told lier that I had seen it in her hand the instant he- 
 fore, and hinted that if she restored it to me, Lucchesi should 
 have no questions put to him, provided he would not bring 
 it down again to assist her devotions. Lucchesi took the 
 crucifix from the old woman, arid returned it to me, protest- 
 ing at the same time that I had very rightly interpreted his 
 motives, for he had only brought it down to Teresa that she 
 might for once say her prayers to it. 
 
 SANDFOED. 
 
 strange ! Yet perhaps in this more enlightened country 
 there is many a man who kisses the crucifix to as little pur- 
 pose as Teresa. 
 
 VICAR. 
 
 The same old woman gave me an opportunity of observing 
 how easily miracles are multiplied in a Catholic country — 
 in any country, in short, where a belief iu miracles already 
 prevails. 
 
 She kept a pig ; kept it in a sort of souUery which com- 
 municated with the kitchen. Of the existence of this in- 
 mate of our establishment I knew nothing till I heard that it 
 was lost. The pig had strayed. Then I heard of prayers 
 and wax-tapers offered to St Anthony for its restoration. 
 
 Late one evening, after Teresa had gone to bed, she heard 
 the handle of the scullery-door slowly turn. Starting from 
 her couch, she saw the door open of itself — saw the pig 
 enter — saw the door slowly close again. It was, of course, 
 St Anthony himself who had brought back the pig. 
 
 It so happened that, walking out that night, as I often 
 
CONT. v.] AN ANECDOTE. 293 
 
 did in the balmy nights of Italy, I observed a pig standing 
 at what I at once surmised to be its old familiar domicile. 
 I turned the handle of the door, and let the creature in. It 
 was in vain that I gave Teresa this explanation. Nothing 
 could shake her faith in the miracle. Her own account of 
 the matter was, that the Devil had put it into the heart of 
 her heretic master to give this wicked explanation, in order 
 that her faith in St Anthony might be tried. 
 
 Let me add, that I lived long enough in the south of Italy 
 to understand that, amidst all its superstition, and trickery, 
 and self-delusion, there steals in an influence from the imita- 
 tion of the Christian character — there steals in a ray of light 
 from that fixed luminary in the past ages — which is most 
 precious, and which introduces itself, I suppose, in the only 
 way in which (without altering the nature of humanity) it 
 could be introduced. At least, I felt that my more rational 
 Protestantism, with its doctrinal system, would not assimi- 
 late with this people as they now present themselves to our 
 contemplation. 
 
 SANDPOED. 
 
 The teaching that is to affect a people must in some 
 measure grow out of the people themselves — grow, of course, 
 out of the better and abler minds of that people. If a new 
 element is introduced from without, it must be such as at 
 once assimilates with the people, or the people must modify 
 it tin it does. There is no help for this. 
 
294 GEAVENHURST. [part li. 
 
 CONYEESATIOlSr VI. 
 
 THE WHOLE IS ONE. 
 
 Mansfield — Ada — Sandfobd. 
 
 I HAVE to report the last of our conversations that had a 
 distinct reference to this great theme of good and evil. In 
 this last we travelled over so wide a field — starting from our 
 primary conceptions of Substance, Power, and Relation, and 
 ending in some attempt to see the whole of this progressive 
 scheme of Nature and Humanity as the manifestation of the 
 Divine Idea — we travelled, I say, over so wide a circuit, 
 that if we did not exhaust our topic, we appeared, at least, 
 to have exhausted ourselves. After this " field-day " we did 
 not again for some weeks refer to these philosophical subjects. 
 About this time, too, the great political events which made 
 the talk of all Europe, — fir^, the partial liberation of Italy 
 by the arms of France, and next, the division (not to be 
 accomplished, it seems, without war) of the great federal 
 republic of America, became also the engrossing topics of our 
 little coterie at Gravenhurst. 
 
 I am aware that certain subjects of an abstract nature are 
 introduced here with a brevity which may render the dia- 
 logue, in some parts, rather obscure to those who are not 
 familiar with such subjects. I do not apologise for this 
 brevity, because it is the fault which of all others wiU be 
 most readily forgiven; but I crave some indulgence, and 
 that it be borne in mind that, even if I had reported this 
 
CONV. VI.] THE WHOLE IS ONE. 295 
 
 conversation at greater length, or had accompanied it by 
 explanatory notes, I must stiU have taxed the attention of 
 the reader. 
 
 We were assembled, as before, in the General's Library. 
 Ada, turning to me, said, " You have lately, more tban once, 
 tised tbe expression, ' the whole is one ! ' Will you explain 
 to me the precise sense in which you use it 1 Do you mean 
 that one Substance or Being underlies and causes the whole 
 phenomena of the universe ? Or do you simply mean that 
 the whole is one scheme or plan — the various substances and 
 their various properties being bound together by such rela- 
 tions as to form one great design — one great scheme, whose 
 purpose, let us say, is the development of man 1 " 
 
 SANDFOED. 
 
 The last is the only sense in which I have ventured to 
 use the expression. It was the only sense in which it was 
 necessary to use it. We have been often skirmishing round 
 the old problem of the origin, or the rationale, of evil, and 
 in connection with this subject I naturally referred to the 
 unity of our great mundane scheme. For the only answer I 
 can give to the old question. Why evil exists ? is, that good 
 and evil together form one entire scheme — that the whole is 
 one, and that the whole is good. It is an answer almost as 
 old, perhaps, as the question itself, but it is an answer which 
 becomes more clear and satisfactory as science enables us 
 to trace the connection between aU parts of this wondrous 
 whole. 
 
 Modern science, and our later place in history, have taught 
 us that this great scheme of nature and of man is progressive. 
 They have taught us, moreover, that there is the same inti- 
 mate or causal connection between events wh6n they are of 
 this progressive character as when they are periodical or 
 cyclical. They have, therefore, enlarged our conceptions of 
 
296 GEAVENHUEST. [pakt n. 
 
 that great -whole whicli (conceived as the -wisdom of God) is 
 the final resting-place of the human intellect. 
 
 I just no-w spoke of the purpose of our -world ; but I am 
 not sure how far -we can correctly speak of a purpose of the 
 -whole. 
 
 SANDFOBD. 
 
 We can, of course, mean only that one part is subordinate 
 to another. Inanimate nature, for instance, is subordinate 
 to the animated. "We could conceive of the solid earth roll- 
 ing in space without any four-footed creature walking upon 
 it ; but the four-footed creature would be sadly at a loss 
 without the solid earth. Iferve and artery can perform their 
 functions well enough without our philosophical speculEi- 
 tions ; but speculative philosophers require a nervous and 
 arterial system. The sun in heaven could do very well 
 -without us ; we could not dispense with the sun. The 
 highest thought of man cannot influence a single movement 
 that the astronomer has to deal with ; but the facts which 
 constitute the science of astronomy have had much to do 
 with the development of the human mind. As we rise, in 
 this manner, higher and higher, it is the last which throws 
 back new meaning upon the whole ; we naturally caU it the 
 purpose of the rest. 
 
 ADA. 
 
 That which is highest is most dependent. It is no great 
 boast that the sun makes, — that he can do without us ; we 
 not without him. 
 
 SANDFOED. 
 
 In this point of view we may correctly say that man, or 
 rather the fuH development of man, whatever that may ulti- 
 
CONV. vj.] ONE SUBSTANCE. 297 
 
 mately be, is the purpose of our great scheme. Some would 
 prefer to say that the happiness of all living creatures is that 
 purpose. It would be idle to seek in every part of nature, 
 animate as well as inanimate, a direct reference to the con- 
 venience of mankind; and the pleasure of the simplest 
 creature has in it the character of an ultimate end. But, if 
 it were only for the sake of brevity, I think we may be per- 
 mitted to say that this progressive and Heaven-directed man, 
 so immeasurably superior to aU. other terrestrial creatures, is 
 the world's great purpose — that which gives significance and 
 a reason to the whole. 
 
 ADA. 
 
 But if the unity of plan suffice for your argument, you 
 have come to some conclusion — you who occupy yourseK so 
 much with metaphysical inquiries — upon that other unity, 
 the unity of being. 
 
 SANDFORD. 
 
 I have always spoken of mind and matter as different 
 substances, distinguished by their different properties. But, 
 I suppose, you ask whether I should finally resolve both 
 substances into one — or into manifestations of the one 
 Absolute Being. 
 
 Like many others, I have felt the attraction of such sub- 
 jects ; I cannot say that I have ever rested in any quite 
 satisfactory conclusion. Still, I must suppose that both 
 mind and matter are, in some sense, the products of the one 
 Eternal Being. 
 
 ADA. 
 
 A power which posits in space some apparently inde- 
 pendent thing, and throws off what becomes an individual, 
 separate self 
 
298 GEAVENHUEST. [part. n. 
 
 SANDFOBD. 
 
 Is to US altogether ineomprehensible. But so is all power 
 incompiehensible : we have but to say that it is. The 
 power which one atom exercises over another, or seems to 
 exercise, is one of those primary facts of which nothing can 
 be said, than that it is. "We have the idea of power, as we 
 have the idea of substance, but all instances of it are alike 
 startling to the reflective mind. 
 
 ADA. 
 
 You hold, then, to the unity of being as well as to the 
 unity of plan. 
 
 SANBFOED. 
 
 One is oppressed by the magnitude and subtlety of these 
 ontologieal problems, as they are sometimes called — problems 
 which carry us out of the sphere of our sense-given world, 
 and belong as much to theology as to metaphysics. 
 
 I have rested in that view which seemed to me to com- 
 bine the greater number of generally admitted truths, and 
 which combined them in the most harmonious manner. I 
 have never felt that I had attained a position free from all 
 difficulty. A transcendent intellect, indeed, must that man 
 have — or a most confident temper — who,' after he has formed 
 his philosophical system, can look at it without one feeling 
 of distrust, without a secret suspicion that there may be 
 some vulnerable point, some " undipped heel," upon which 
 another hand, or his own hand at another time, may inflict 
 a fatal wound. 
 
 MANSFIELD. 
 
 Happily the confident temper is not very rare, whatever 
 may be said of the transcendent intellect. Thus some philo- 
 sophical faith is secured amongst us. Sometimes the two 
 
CONT. VI.] ONE BEING. 299 
 
 unite in one man, and then we have the master hy whom 
 thousands can swear. 
 
 ADA. 
 
 But what is that view in which you have rested? 
 
 SANDFOED. 
 
 It is the opinion of many profound thinkers, that there can 
 be but one real, self-existent Being in the universe. They 
 regard created or phenomenal substance as necessarily some 
 manifestation of the power of that Being. In this manner 
 they partly escape the perplexity that surrounds the creation 
 of matter. Nor have they found that this belief in the one 
 Being leads them to Pantheism, or such form of Pantheism 
 as hides the Creator in the creation itself.. Although aU our 
 creation is but the power or being of God, yet that power is 
 not absorbed in all that is created. Por not only all that now 
 exists is presumed to be some manifestation of the power of 
 God, but in Him, past, present, and future, must also be pre- 
 sumed to exist in what we can only describe as thought or 
 idea. In Him the wisdom as well as the power of the whole 
 resides ; His the reason and benevolence of the universe. 
 
 In some such view as this I, too, would rest. 
 
 But by what steps do you arrive at it ? I ask the rather 
 because I have observed — you will pardon me a criticism — 
 a certain inconsistency in the manner in which you speak of 
 material substance and material forces. Sometimes you 
 speak of this matter around us, and of which we ourselves 
 are half composed, as if it were a positive reahty ; you are 
 impatient with those who describe the real material substance, 
 as something standing under the extended thing; I have 
 heard you jestingly exclaim, " I stand up for the atom ! " 
 
300 GEAVBNHUBST. [pabt ii. 
 
 Yet, at other times, you speak of extended substance (you do 
 so at this present moment), as if it might he resolved itself 
 into a manifestation of power. 
 
 SANDFOED. 
 
 That apparent inconsistency admits of easy explanation. 
 
 If our senses give us any idea of substance at all (which it 
 is presumed they do), the extended thing itself, or the atom 
 of the scientific man, is that substance. If, therefore, I speak 
 of matter as substance, it is not an imaginary entity (neither 
 God nor the atom), underlying extension, that I mean, but 
 the extended thing itself, as given me by the senses. In this 
 point of view I have said, in not very philosophical style, 
 " I stand up for the atom ! " I say that, confining- ourselves 
 to this mundane system, it is our only conception of sub- 
 stance ; and that what the metaphysician attempts to insert 
 under extension, is either another extension, or resolves itself 
 into a power exerted hy nothing. 
 
 But I am ready to admit that the substance .given us by 
 the senses, affords no satisfactory resting-place to the specu- 
 lative mind. And when I find that both the powers and re- 
 lations, attributed, in the first place, to material substances, 
 point to a supernatural origin, and give to me a Being that 
 combines the attributes both of mind and matter — then I feel 
 myself at liberty to carry my analysis a step further, and to 
 resolve the atom also into some form of power of the one 
 self-existent. 
 
 ADA. 
 
 Your atoms, therefore, after having given us the ideas of 
 substance, and power, and of relation, transfer all three to the 
 supernatural being, God. 
 
OONV. VI.] A TRIAD. 301 
 
 SANDPORD. 
 
 Such is the course of thought which it seems to me the 
 mind takes, or may take. 
 
 Substance, power, and relation are given us at once by the 
 senses — that is, of course, by the judgment as called forth by 
 the senses. I cannot think of substance without power, nor 
 of power without those relations between substances on which 
 the exercise of all material power depends. Substance, 
 power, and relation form a triad which is present in every 
 single thing. For, take the single atom, and you £nd that 
 in your conception of it all three are combined. There is 
 power, for it resists ; there is relation, for what is resistance 
 but a relation ? there is substance, for in every relation there 
 must be something to be Mated, and in every power some- 
 thing that exerts it. Although I can speak separately of these 
 three great ideas or facts, and reason on them with some sort 
 of distinctness, yet in every conception given to me by the 
 senses they are indissolubly combined. My substance is 
 always power as weU as substance ; my individual thing is 
 always defined by its relations to other things. , 
 
 MANSFIELD. 
 
 You and Ada are breathing very thin air at present. I am 
 not active enough this evening to climb to your altitudes. 
 Excuse me if I drop the silk handkerchief over my eyes, and 
 doze before the firelight, tiH you descend to some lower level. 
 
 ADA. 
 
 The silk handkerchief, uncle, by all means. But I know 
 you will not sleep ; you will hear every word we say, and 
 perhaps break out upon us when we are most beset by difii- 
 culties. 
 
 Let me first ask of you, Mr Sandford — limiting yourself 
 
302 GEAVENHUKST. [part n. 
 
 for the moment to material nature — to explain to me this 
 triad of Substance, Power, and Eelation. 
 
 I have just come from the perusal of Dr Brown's ' Essay- 
 on Cause and Effect,' and from some stiU later authorities 
 on these subjects : I find that, according to them, the idea of 
 Power is not given us by material objects — that the idea, in 
 fact, is altogether resolvable into that of invariable succession. 
 
 Again, the same class of philosophers generally agree that 
 extension is a property — which means a power ; and that our 
 material substance is that entity which possesses the property, 
 or puts forth the power, of extension. 
 
 Thus the idea of power is denied to me, and yet the material 
 substance is explained as the power of extension or resistance 
 put forth by a concealed entity. I know not how to recon- 
 cile these statements, which, nevertheless, are sometimes found 
 within the covers of the same book. I sadly want enlighten- 
 ment on -these ideas of substance and power. 
 
 SASTDFOED. 
 
 And I too, I assure you. 
 
 But so far as I see my way, I certainly find that the ideas 
 both of substance and of power are revealed to us in the ex- 
 ternal world. I have abeady said that I do not think the 
 mind is satisfied with leaving them thiere. 
 
 Extension is, indeed, a property, inasmuch as it is one with 
 resistance. But how conceive of this relation of resistance 
 without the conception at the same instant of two resistants ? 
 
 All our knowledge, it is said, is relative ; but if so, the re- 
 lative implies the positive, or rather implies two positives, 
 which are related together. 
 
 The two positives that resist are represented to us inevit- 
 ably as two resisting things. To say that there is the relation 
 of resistance, and to say that there are two resistants, is to 
 express the same fact in different words. We call resistance 
 
CONV. VI.] SUBSTANCE. 303 
 
 by the name of extension, when we think separately of the 
 resistants ; we call extension by the name of resistance, when 
 we think of the relation between them. 
 
 The metaphysician finds that the positive substance thus 
 brought before him has been defined or revealed by its rela- 
 tion to some other substance. But he can define it in no other 
 ivay. The two extended things that have risen together into 
 his knowledge, by means of their relationship, are his sub- 
 stance. At this stage of his knowledge he can have no other. 
 If he calls extension a power or property only, to what sub- 
 stance is he to assign this property ? 
 
 I know that this state of things, however satisfactory to 
 ordinary men, is not so to the metaphysician ; he is discon- 
 tented with a conception which seems at once both power and 
 substance ; and we have seen that he attempts to rise above 
 it. I simply assert that, resting in our mundane system, the 
 extended atom is our material substance. 
 
 ADA. 
 
 Let us grant the atom for the present, and proceed to the 
 question of power. Perhaps, too, we can go back with 
 advantage to the discussion of substance, after having estab- 
 lished distinctly our idea of power. 
 
 SANDFORD. 
 
 Very true. And if any of these scholastic subtleties are 
 of much importance to the world at large, it is, above all, 
 necessary to vindicate our right to the idea of power. 
 
 ADA. 
 
 " Power," says Dr Brown, " is the uniform relation of 
 antecedence and sequence, and nothing more." Nor does 
 
304 GEATENHUEST. [part n. 
 
 lie allow that we gather any other idea of power from the 
 operations of our own mind. We have no other idea of 
 power to earry upwards with us into theology. 
 
 You ki^ow his line of argument, with which I find other 
 and later authorities of great repute amongst us substantially 
 agree : may I state it to you, for the sake of clearing my 
 own thoughts 1 
 
 If we see two events, one following the other, we remem- 
 ber them in that succession, or we associate them together 
 in that order. There is no necessity even to call in the aid 
 of long habit; one instance may be sufficient to establish 
 this link of association. It is simply an aifair of memory : 
 one of these events is seen, and the other is immediately 
 expected. 
 
 But events, so far as they strike our senses, do not aU 
 follow in a uniform succession. Some do, and some do not. 
 We contrast these two classes of events ; we call the last 
 accidental, we give the title of catise and effect to the former. 
 
 SANDFOED. 
 
 You are proceeding, I observe, very cautiously. 
 
 ADA. 
 
 It is common to say that the uniformity of succession 
 which distinguishes one of these classes depends on the 
 nature of the things — on certain powers, properties, poten- 
 tialities they possess. It is " the nature of the thing " to 
 act so and so — it hfis such a "potoer." Dr Brown contends 
 that all such phrases merely express the one fact that, our 
 antecedents being present, our observed consequents will 
 follow. They express nothing but this association we have 
 formed. Events and their order are all the knowledge we 
 have. We cannot explain that order by appealing to the 
 
coNV. VI.] POWER. 305 
 
 nature or power of the thing ; for the nature or power of the 
 thing, when analysed, is but a knowledge of this order. 
 
 I have, for instance, two balls before me ; an India-rubber 
 ball, and one of moist clay. My senses have already 
 made me awaie of certain diiferences between them. I 
 throw one of these balls down upon the floor, and it re- 
 bounds ; I throw the other on the same floor, and it adheres. 
 I associate these different results with the differences abeady 
 observed between the two balls. Whenever I see balls 
 again resembling these, I expect the same differences in their 
 behaviour. This is the whole amount of my knowledge. I 
 give the name elasticity to the property or power of rebound- 
 ing ; but what do I express by this property or power but 
 the simple fact that one baU rebounds, while another ball 
 does not ? If I attempt to explain the different results by 
 saying that it is the nature of one ball to act in one manner, 
 and the nature of the other baU to act in another manner, I 
 am only, under the disguise of different modes of expression, 
 giving my own experience as an explanation of that experi- 
 ence. If I should further say that elasticity is due to a 
 certain arrangement of the particles of which the rebound- 
 ing ball is composed, I should stiU have only to associate 
 the rebound with this arrangement of the particles — I am 
 still as far as ever from any other conception of power : 
 which is, indeed, but a convenient nume for that invariable 
 succession on which all our knowledge, practical as well as 
 scientific, depends. 
 
 The reasoning appears correct, and yet, to my mind, it 
 fails to carry conviction. Is there any covert sophistry in 
 it? or must I, admitting its accuracy, have recourse (in 
 order to retain my old original idea of power) to some 
 transcendental or a priori faith of the Reason — of a Reason 
 which is defiant of experience, or of the Understanding 
 judging according to sense? 
 
 U t 
 
306 GEAVBNHUEST. [pabt ii. 
 
 SANDFOED. 
 
 I hope not. Philosophers may be justified in introducing 
 higher or other sources of knowledge than experience, or the 
 judgments founded on experience ; but the first condition 
 they are bound to observe is, that they bring no conflict 
 between the facidties of the human mind, otherwise all test 
 of truth is gone, for the harmony of our ideas is the ultimate 
 test of truth. We should simply divide men into partisans 
 of the Eeason and partisans of the Understanding, and these 
 two sections would have no common ground of argument. 
 
 I prefer, in this case, to look steadily at the objective 
 realities about us, and the kind of judgments which aU. men 
 agree we inevitably form. 
 
 I find something more than the relation of succession.' 
 Take your illustration of two balls. If two balls, already 
 recognised as different, are brought alternately into relation- 
 ship with the same fioor, and behave differently, I must 
 associate this difference of behaviour with the differences 
 between the two balls; and although this association is 
 coupled with one of succession, or order in time, it is some- 
 thiag more — it is a direct association between the difference 
 in the two balls, and the difference of the event. 
 
 But it so happens that where modern science teaches us to 
 look for this exercise of power, there is no succession of 
 events, but two synchronous events. In the case of two 
 mutually attracting or mutually repelling particles, there is 
 nothing left for the mind to seize hold of hut some relation 
 between the particles themselves. Our idea of power, there- 
 fore, whatever else may become of it, cannot here be resolved 
 into the uniform relation of antecedence and sequence. 
 
 AU the phenomena of non-sensitive matter have been 
 resolved into various kinds of attraction, and repulsion 
 (and polarity, which is a form of attraction or repulsion). 
 
CONV. vi.] POWER. 307 
 
 Whether this great generalisation he correct or not, does 
 not concern us, if only it is admitted that mutual attraction 
 and repulsion are prevailing forms of the activity of matter. 
 Now, if two particles mutually attract each other, we have 
 two synchronous events — we have two particles starting at 
 once towards each other. What is it we have here, if not 
 some relation between the particles themselves t 
 
 ADA. 
 
 May it not he said that the only result of this introduc- 
 tion of the two synchronous events is somewhat to modify 
 the language of Dr Brown 1 We have but to say that two 
 particles of matter being placed in a given position, these 
 two events foUow. 
 
 SANDPOED. 
 
 That would give us a definite fixed position as the cause, 
 or invariable antecedent, of change of position — which would 
 hardly do ; and the chemist would exclaim, that the same 
 position in space is followed by very different results, ac- 
 cording to the difference of the particles. 
 
 Here is an elementary book of chemistry lying open 
 before us. Take the first experiment detailed in it. " Im- 
 merse," says the book, " a piece of iron in a solution of 
 copper, and a deposit of copper takes place on the iron. 
 For every particle of copper deposited on the iron, an equi-* 
 valent part of iron left its place." It seems, then, that 
 amongst the molecules of the metal and of the solution there 
 was set up this twofold action, or these two synchronous 
 movements. Neither movement can be said to be the cause 
 (or the antecedent) of the other. The only antecedent Dr 
 Brown could supply us with is that of position. But if the 
 vessel here were fiUed with another solution, there would be 
 the same position, yet not these movements, How avoid 
 
308 GKAVENHUEST. [pabt ir. 
 
 the inference that the difference of the result is due to the 
 difference of the particles themselves ? The power of the par- 
 ticles, their activity, and their action upon each other, may- 
 be very obscure ideas, but they obstinately resist all analysis. 
 
 ADA. 
 
 But stiU we can form no idea of the acting of one particle 
 on another — how it draws it to itself. Whatever chemical 
 elements are employed, we can only say those elements in 
 that position move together. How suppose one particle 
 acting on another through empty space? And then, both 
 particles must act before they move. They must have that 
 power which Aristotle, I am told, ascribed to God, of caus- 
 ing motion without Himself m.oving. I"or the movement of 
 each particle depends on the presence of the other, not on 
 the movement of the other. 
 
 SANDFOED. 
 
 Whether we are to conceive one particle acting upon 
 another (and so each particle inert so far as it is acted on, 
 and active so far as it acts on another), or whether we are to 
 drop the idea of inertness or passivity, and to conceive a 
 general activity of the particles of matter which " move' to- 
 gether, if they move at all," I leave to others to determine. 
 AU I am concerned to maintain is, that external nature 
 gives us this idea of power. What is this activity every- 
 where around us but power? What (as I read it) is the 
 influence which matter exerts on matter, in controlling or 
 initiating this activity, but power ? 
 
 It is quite a mistake to ask how matter attracts or repels, 
 if attraction and repulsion are the simplest forms of material 
 activity. Suppose we conjured up some ether between the 
 two particles, we should have the same perplexity transferred 
 to the particles of this ether. When we are compelled to 
 
CONV. VI.] POWER. 309 
 
 say there is a direct relation between particles themselves 
 determining their activity, we must describe this as a relation 
 of power. "Whether the power ultimately belongs to the 
 particles themselves, is another question. 
 
 ADA. 
 
 There is a point of view you have not discussed. Some 
 derive our idea of power from the consciousness of our own 
 activity, and assert that we do but transfer, in a metaphorical 
 manner, our own sense of power to inanimate things. 
 
 SANDFOED. 
 
 It is a common trick of the imagination to infuse our 
 human feelings into inanimate nature, and something of the 
 kind takes place here. But that which we call sense of effort, 
 or consciousness of power, is made up partly of certain mus- 
 cular sensations peculiar to the sentient being, and partly 
 of the very idea of power we are canvassing. The resistance 
 which another thing ojffers to me, and the knowledge that 
 the movement of my arm overcomes that resistance, give 
 together their meaning and significance to certain sensations 
 which accompany that movement. I press my hand upon 
 this flexible cane ; it bends, and it returns my pressure. I 
 recognise the antagonist force in the cane quite as distinctly 
 as I recognise my muscular force; and unless I choose to 
 play with my imagination, I do not infuse any degree of 
 consciousness into the cane. 
 
 ADA. 
 
 Scientific men write freely enough of force, which, I pre- 
 sume, differs only from the metaphysician's poiuer in this, 
 that it is limited to the power of material objects. 
 
310 GRAVENHUEST. [paet. n. 
 
 SANDPORD. 
 
 Some scientific men have a manner of speaking of force 
 as if they meant by it a separate entity, which moved an 
 inert matter. But the greater number, I believe, would 
 agree in defining it as the activity of matter itself, and the 
 influence of matter on matter (if these two are separable). 
 
 You said that we should obtain a clearer idea of the atom 
 when we had defined our notion of power or force. And it 
 is certain that the conceptions which science teaches us to 
 form, favour the reality of the atom. Attraction and repul- 
 sion necessarily suggest the idea that they are the proper- 
 ties of some unit. 
 
 The old puzzle of the infinite divisibility of matter threat- 
 ened to annihilate our atom (though the answer was always 
 open, that the ability to conceive division was not tanta- 
 mount to the actual possibility of division) ; but now it may 
 be argued that, if in practice we never reach to the ultimate 
 units, yet in every conception of a solid we imply their 
 existence. For every perceptible solid is formed by the 
 attraction of cohesion, and this attraction must be supposed 
 to be exerted by some unit.* 
 
 ADA. 
 
 I should have many more questions to ask both about 
 substance and power, but I wish you to complete the ac- 
 count of your Triad by saying something of Eelation. 
 
 SANDFORD. 
 
 The fundamental fact to be noticed here is, that we must 
 start with certain established relations or " coexistences," 
 
 * These subtleties about matter and force, and, indeed, many other 
 subtle questions, have been lately discussed in a veiy masterly manner 
 by Mr Herbert Spencer in his ' First Principles.' 
 
COHV. VI.] RELATION. 31 1 
 
 without wliicli our substances and powers avail nothing, or 
 form mere chaos, if chaos is an intelligible conception. 
 These primary relations, from which others are evolved, 
 cannot be due to the atoms themselves, nor to their forces, 
 because the forces we see exercised depend on them. Such 
 forces, in their exercise, may produce new relations ; but go 
 back as far as we will in imagination, we have established 
 relations or " coexistences " as a fundamental fact — as much 
 so as the existence of substances and their powers. 
 
 If ow, of these relations we might be content to say that 
 they are, just as we might be content to say of substance and 
 power, they are ; and we might accept our triad as our final 
 conception, dim and confused as it, in some respects, ap- 
 pears ; if it were not for the necessity we lie under of con- 
 necting the primary coexistences, whatever they may have 
 ■been, with aU the relations that have followed, or wUl follow. 
 This inclusion of a future in a present can be conceived by 
 us only as an idea or thought. 
 
 ADA. 
 
 Is not this substantially the argument from design 1 
 
 SANDFOED. 
 
 Yes. The argument from design may be stated in a 
 manner to render it distasteful to a philosophic mind. But 
 if we attempt to embrace the whole as it develops in time — 
 if we take notice that the earliest coexistences in which our 
 planetary system commenced, have a clear connection with 
 the latest developments of the human species — if we look at 
 past, present, and future as one, — I am unable to perceive 
 how we can represent this whole (inaugurated from the very 
 commencement) except as an idea or thought : — which 
 thought implies an answerable Being, 
 
312 GBAVENHLTEST. [paet n. 
 
 I perceive your drift. Having referred the primary Be- 
 lations, one member of your triad, to this Intellectual Being 
 -^those mysterious powers wliicli Tvere attributed to matter, 
 and whicli are inextricably complicated vrith relations, find 
 a Being to wbom tbey can be more fitly assigned ; and tbat 
 material suhstaiice, whicli always had an ambiguous air, can 
 now be permitted to surrender its assumed character of self- 
 existence. Our triad resolves itself into a realised idea : 
 into the power and wisdom of God. There is One Being, 
 whose power and wisdom manifest themselves in what we 
 call creation. 
 
 MANSFIELD {throwing off the silk handkerchief). 
 
 Oh, what avails aJl this subtlety ! Not one step nearer 
 does it carry us to the utterly inexplicable, which, at the 
 same time, is the altogether unquestionable. " Created 
 substance" is not a jot more perplexing than such "mani- 
 festation of power " as is tantamount to created substance. 
 
 On the one hand, we have our material world, inhabited 
 by living, thinking beings. 
 
 On the other hand, we are irresistibly led to the concep- 
 tion of an eternal Eeason, and absolute Power, as author of 
 aU. this world. 
 
 But no wit of man can think a passage back from one to 
 the other. We travel from the world to God ; we cannot re- 
 trace our steps, and travel back from God to the world. And 
 what wonder? It is not a man whom we have projected 
 into eternity. It is a Being framed, in our conception, by 
 contrast as well as similarity. The Fluctuating has sug- 
 gested the Permanent; the Eelative, the Absolute. We 
 accept these great ideas, but we can make no use of them 
 in the way of reasoning ; we can use them only for worship 
 
OONV. VI.] THE ABSOLUTE. 313 
 
 —■which is perhaps the greatest of all utilities. We cannot 
 trace our way hack from the Permanent to the Fluctuating, 
 from the Absolute to the Relative, from the One to the 
 Many. 
 
 Let us helieve frankly and entirely in our own world of 
 matter and spirit — perhaps of many kinds of matter and of 
 spirit. "What if there be fifty or five hundred substances ? 
 the great unity of design or plan is still the only unity that 
 concerns us. We are, and this world is, and there is a great 
 God above. I believe in nature, man, and God ; but the 
 highest of these alone knows the mysterious bond that 
 makes the three to be one. 
 
 Discourse to us, Sandford, of this unity of plan, so far at 
 least as humanity is concerned in it ; for no one disputes the 
 harmony of the inanimate creation. "There is no devil," 
 as I have heard you say, " in a Bridgewater Treatise." It 
 is only in ourselves, in our own antagonistic elements of 
 good and 6vU, that we find discord and confusion. Trace 
 for us how the passions of Love and Hate, of Hope and 
 Fear, bind men together, and stir them to. action, and lead 
 to laws and government, morality and religion. Show its 
 how knowledge grows by very means of error. Convince 
 us that there is a law of development in the human species 
 which we have only to comprehend in order to admire. 
 
 But before either of you launch upon this more open sea, 
 explain to me this : We talk of the immutability of the 
 laws of nature, and, in the same breath, we talk of progress 
 and development ; how are these to be reconciled ? 
 
 SANDFORD. 
 
 I should be very slow to use the expression "immu- 
 tability" of the laws of nature, recognising, as I do, an 
 
314 GEAVENHUEST. [part n. 
 
 Author of those laws. But there is no inconsistency be- 
 tween immutable or constant laws and progressive develop- 
 ment, if we understand hy laws the properties or powers 
 with which substances are endowed. New relations may be 
 brought about between those substances by the very opera- 
 tion of their powers, and those new relations may give new 
 scope to those powers, developing what had been hitherto, 
 to us, potentialities only. If, from the action of a volcano, 
 or even of a mountain-stream, some new material is spread 
 over the surface of the valley, new chemical combinations 
 will take place, and yet no one would say that a new 
 chemistry was created. At the bottom of the sea innumer- 
 able small shells are deposited, which, by some change in 
 the bed of the ocean, become afterwards a portion of the 
 dry land. Such events probably influence the growth of 
 plants ; yet we should not say that any new law of growth 
 had been introduced. We see by such instances, that science 
 does not enable us to predict progress ; but when any pro- 
 gress has been made, we can observe that it was in strict 
 accordance with established laws. And so it is with human 
 history : we cannot here predict the future, because man is 
 progressive, and some new exercise of his old powers is con- 
 stantly occurring ; but when the novelty has occurred, and 
 we look back upon the past, we trace, or attempt to trace, a 
 scientific connection between all the events ; we find that all 
 is due to the powers of man and nature, and the relations 
 originally established between them. 
 
 But I do not pretend to say that all progress in creation 
 follows this type. New properties themselves may be in- 
 troduced. The laws of human psychology must have come 
 in with man. 
 
 MANSFIELD. 
 
 Oui scientific people — forgive my presumption for saying 
 
CONV. VI.] THEORIES ABOUT FORCE. 315 
 
 SO — ^talk a great deal of nonsense on this same topic of 
 Force. A very able man writes a treatise on tlie ' Corre- 
 lation of Forces,' and forthwith there are I know not how 
 many parodies upon it. One writes that, if he waves his 
 hand in the air, he is author of a movement that gives rise 
 to another movement, and that to another in eternal suc- 
 cession. The vibrations in the air have become vibrations 
 of heat in the chairs and tables about him- — have become 
 electrical movements in the earth, in the clouds — and so on 
 eternally. I suppose he is not the only man who waves his 
 hand in the air, and the vibration he sets up may somewhere 
 encounter other vibrations, and become neutralised. If there 
 are incessant disturbances of equilibrium, there are also in- 
 cessant restorations of equilibrium. Another — altogether 
 adverse to this indefinite multiplication of movements — pro- 
 claims that there is always exactly the same amount of force 
 in the world. What can he mean t Every increase in the 
 population of England, every additional mUl built in Lan- 
 cashire, is a palpable contradiction to his theory. Whole 
 regions in America and Australia have been peopled, 
 stocked, planted, cidtivated : has all this added nothing 
 to the sum of existing forces? 
 
 SANDFOED. 
 
 The supposition is that every force is the equivalent of 
 some preceding force, and this suggests the idea of the same 
 amount of force being, as it were, in perpetual circulation. 
 But the doctrine (even if it were established) of equivalents 
 of force, does not lead to this conclusion ; because the opera- 
 tion of these forces may produce new arrangements of 
 matter, owing to which a greater number of these equivalents 
 may be introduced within the circle. Every relation of co- 
 existence is brought about by some preceding force, but the 
 next force to be displayed seems to depend upon this rela- 
 
316 GEAVENHUEST. [past n. 
 
 tion. Thus change and augmentation are consistent with 
 the idea of the fixed properties of matter ; or, in other 
 words, do not require us to conceive of any hreak in what 
 we call the chain of cause and effect. 
 
 MANSFIELD. 
 
 Then another in high fantastic strain teUs me that the 
 heat which burning coal generates is the conserved 'force of 
 the sun as he shone millions of ages ago ; and talks to me of 
 force as if it were something bottled up in a cellarage. The 
 vegetation of which the coal is composed grew, of course, 
 under the influence of the sun, but these present particles of 
 burning coal act as much hy their own inlierent properties as 
 the sun itself. Given the requisite relation, and surely the 
 force is always forthcoming. 
 
 It seems to be the tendency of modern speculation to 
 regard the world — or say our planetary system — as contain- 
 ing within itself, from the commencement, the requisite 
 powers for all the developments that have lensued. I find 
 more difficulty in seizing upon this idea than upon the older 
 conception of successive actions of creative power. 
 
 SANDPOED. 
 
 The last seems the more facile conception. The truth, 
 which to me appears as grand as it is simple and conspicuous, 
 is this, — that, look when and where we wiU, there is an 
 organised whole, and that the development which takes 
 place is such that the past prepares the present, and the 
 present the future. 
 
 Thus, whichever of these conceptions we adopt, the evolu- 
 tions in time can present themselves to us only as an Idea. 
 
 Let me add that we, in our brief historic period, ai'e 
 unable to point to any event which does not seem the result 
 
CONV. VI.] SCIENCE IN HISTOEY. 317 
 
 of the powers with which nature and man have been en- 
 dowed. 
 
 MANSFIELD. 
 
 ' In that I should agree with you. I cannot make man out 
 of the monkey, nor the monkey out of the monad. But one 
 generation of men grows out of another. And each genera- 
 tion, in some respect, improves upon, or changes frpm its pre- 
 decessor, even in the act of living ; for the miud of man is in 
 its nature inventive, and buUds thought on thought, and deed 
 on deed. 
 
 We cannot tell where or when one thought will lead to 
 another, or what the new thought will effect. But we know 
 that all our thinking is according to psychological laws, and 
 that the results of our thinking wiU agaia become conditions 
 of still further thought. 
 
 "When we speak of science in reference to human beings, 
 very many people imagine that we want to degrade human 
 beings into mere machines. The properties of a man and 
 the properties of a steam-engine are something very different. 
 There are other laws than the laws of inanimate things. 
 Our men and women are not like the figures of a Dutch 
 clock moved by the mechanism of the clock itself : they are 
 living creatures, having within themselves their own powers 
 of movement ; which, however, to carry out our metaphor, 
 are not without necessary relations to the mechanism below. 
 
 ADA. 
 
 Our progress in knowledge most men seem willing to look 
 upon as a proper subject for scientific investigation. An 
 Aristotle and a Newton think, as you say, according to the 
 same psychological laws as the simplest of those who benefit 
 by their teaching. All the knowledge of a Greek could not 
 have taught him to predict an Aristotle, but we who study 
 
318 GEAVENHUKST. [part U. 
 
 an Aristotle know that he could have appeared only in 
 in Greece, only when and where he did. What physical 
 science will do for us in the future no one can foretell ; hut 
 no one doubts that the passage from the known to the un- 
 known win be effected by the same intellectual action as 
 heretofore. 
 
 The intellect — if we have skill enough for the task — lies 
 open to scientific investigation ; but the will ? — is there not 
 something here which, from its very nature, refuses to enter 
 into our scientific survey, even when we are limiting our- 
 selves to the past? 
 
 SANDFORD. 
 
 Yet it is precisely an act of the intellect which constitutes 
 that free-will, or choice, about which so much difficulty is 
 raised. 
 
 I cannot tell how a man will act — I cannot tell how a man 
 will think ; but if I can say that the powers and previous 
 knowledge of the man determine his thought, I must say the 
 same of his actions, wherever they are the results of free- will 
 or deliberate choice. 
 
 MANSFIELD. 
 
 We cannot often predict what, under novel circumstances, 
 we ourselves will do. But the persuasion is universal, when 
 we look back upon our deeds, that if the same circumstances 
 could return to us, and find us exactly in the same mood, 
 with exactly the same knowledge, we should do the same 
 deed again. But, in general, when we look back, we mix 
 our present knowledge with our past, and think how we 
 should act if the same circumstances and our present know- 
 ledge could be brought together. 
 
 But analyse or describe the will how we please, nothing 
 
OONV. VI.] WHAT REASON IS. 319 
 
 is more plain than the grand harmony that exists between 
 the living creature and the inanimate world on which he 
 moves hither and thither, with sense of power and faculty of 
 choice. 
 
 Wo can contemplate the spectacle, free from all embarrass- 
 ment when we limit ourselves to the lower animals. What 
 a scene lies open before us 1 what multiplied individualities ! 
 and all finding scope for their impulses. 
 
 Here, too, we can look with philosophic tranquillity on 
 pain as well as pleasure, and on all kinds of passion. See 
 how the search for food — how the art or the strife to obtain 
 it — how the combat and the assassination — fill the whole 
 arena of animal existence with movement, and intensest 
 feeling, and pride, and energy. Eepose, too, is not wanting. 
 Whole herds graze peacefully — or not more startled by 
 apprehension of danger than is necessary to call forth the 
 quick eye, the quick ear, and to make them enjoy, by con- 
 trast, their peaceful feeding. 
 
 I like to bring before me the life, say of our crafty fox. 
 What conscious activity — what a compact individuality — 
 what persistence — what purpose ! For, indeed, our fox is 
 not without a purpose, and a certain judgment of means to 
 end. There is booty near at hand, but countrymen will tell 
 you that an old fox prefers to invade the more distant hen- 
 roost. Suspicion is less likely to fall upon him. In him, 
 not encumbered by moral considerations, you cannot but 
 admire the address and sagacity that he brings to bear upon 
 this grand question of supply of food, and generally upon his 
 own self-preservation. 
 
 I grant you that to some dainty hen, snatched from her 
 perch, and carried off to black night and Erebus, the conduct 
 of the fox must appear simply diabolic. We — unless, indeed, 
 the hen should be our own private property — willingly sacri- 
 fice her to the general energies of the animal kingdom. 
 
320 GRAVENHUEST. [pabt. n. 
 
 ADA. 
 
 But, as you say, the fox has no morality. It costs me an 
 effort — ^but I can make the effort — to look upon such acts 
 of assassination as parts of a beneficent scheme. But the 
 human assassination ! 
 
 MANSFIELD. 
 
 You see we have a horror of it. We make laws against it ; 
 we rise, banded together by our human sympathies, against 
 the assassin. 
 
 The combat, the violent death, and possessions snatched 
 from us by brute force — you see they have awakened in man 
 forethought, and laws, and polity, and moral obligations. 
 But man, you say, is endowed with reason. Why did not 
 his reason at once prevent the incursion into human hfe of 
 these brute actions? Look closer at what you mean by 
 reason. It is a faculty which must have its due objects on 
 which it is to be exercised, and by which it must be devel- 
 oped. The human reason we are conscious of, could not 
 have been developed without aid of those materials that our 
 life holds in common with the animal. We rise, we take 
 our first step upward, by putting our foot upon the brute 
 within us. 
 
 How like a dream reads the history of man ! Priests, 
 kings, conquests, factions — what an embroglio it all seems ! 
 Yet historians are, every year, with more and more distinct- 
 ness, showing that there was some method in aU this ap- 
 parent madness. 
 
 Society grows its heroes, and then worships them, and 
 strange are the heroes it sometimes has need of. The good 
 and the true that were in them, were mingled with wild 
 errors and fantastic sentiments. Such combinations were 
 precisely what the world, at that age, produced, and what 
 the world, at that age, wanted. 
 
CONV. vr.] PKOGEESSIVE MEN. 321 
 
 SANDFOHD. 
 
 A large portion of the history of mankind would be written 
 by one who should faithfully describe our various kinds of 
 heroes or progressive men. 
 
 Sometimes the political or religious hero of the day is 
 little more than the flag or standard which the crowd carry 
 before them. They need this symbol for their own organ- 
 isation. 
 
 He who perhaps originated the movement was a solitary 
 thinker who lived and died in oblivion. Perhaps many of 
 such thinkers Hved and wrought, knowing nothing of the 
 precise influence they would ultimately exercise. 
 
 A third class both rouse the strife and head the combatants. 
 
 The greatest of men seem to be matured in solitude. 
 There alone those thoughts could expand and freely shape 
 themselves, which they had, indeed, carried with them, into 
 the desert, out of some contemporary society. 
 
 SANDPORD. 
 
 The prophet is such solitary thinker, taken, him and his 
 dream together, out of his solitude, and placed at the head 
 of multitudes. He half dreams still. The wisest of mankind, 
 he is stiU. half blinded by the vision of his solitude. He is 
 a ruler one moment, perhaps a martyr the next. 
 
 Men have livfed whose voice has been heard from age to 
 age, and has spread from nation to nation. 
 
 MANSFIELD. 
 
 And your voice and mine will hardly extend to our next- 
 door neighbour, and will not influence him. No wonder 
 that some men are as gods to us. 
 
 X 
 
322 GEAVENHURST. [past n. 
 
 SANDFOED. 
 
 ^Not only have such men animated a whole people with 
 one spirit, but they have united nation to nation ia some 
 kind of brotherhood. Only through the Heaven-descended 
 does the morality of the wise rule over the less wise. And 
 no nation has ever received the higher morality of another 
 nation, except through one who became the prophet of both. 
 
 MANSFIELD. 
 
 Study history free from the spirit of the satirist and the 
 supernaturaJist, and how grand a subject it becomes ! The 
 history of all nations should, if possible, be read together ; 
 they throw light on each other, and on our common humanity. 
 Nor should a study of the individual consciousness, and the 
 laws of thought and passion, be neglected. For we must 
 recognise in ourselves some germ — some trace of all we read 
 of — or we shall not understand it. In the study of history, 
 our own little individuality spreads, divides, exalts itself, tiU 
 it fills the whole earth, sits on every throne, and kneels at 
 every shrine. 
 
 SANDFORD. 
 
 Tou said a moment ago — jestingly, of course — Discourse 
 to us of this, of that ; but what volumes must be fiUed by 
 one who should attempt to trace the development of humanity 
 — trace how truth through error, how virtue through crime, 
 have been struggling iato light ! One thing we may say, 
 that sufficient of the drama of life has been revealed, to 
 justify us in favourable predictions of the future of humanity. 
 Nor can we help lookiiig at the past — not only by the light 
 of the present, but by the light of these predictions. 
 
 Eor me, I feel that I have no standing-place unless I have a 
 right to assert that the purposes of God are benevolent for 
 
coNT. Ti.] FAITH m GOD. 323 
 
 man, and that these benevolent purposes have been unfolding 
 through the course of ages — that while no generation has 
 been forgotten or unoared for, yet that generations wiser and 
 happier are to follow. 
 
 I rest in this relation of Creature to a Benevolent Creator. 
 
 Humanity reveals enough of joy and of goodness to give me 
 faith in God ; and this faith in God reacts upon my hopes of 
 Humanity. 
 
 ADA. 
 
 Mr Sandford tells us that evil is necessary to good, but 
 he tells us that evU diminishes with our progress ; iu some 
 cases, I suppose, we learn to do without it — as, for instance, 
 jails may be dispensed with when men have learned, in part 
 by the instrumentality of jails, to respect each other's pro- 
 perty ] and in other cases the evil may modify its nature. 
 But evil of some kind there must always be. Is it to be 
 always diminishing? If so, we have something like the 
 problem of the infinite divisibility of matter before us — we 
 have an infinite divisibility of evil. Are we to arrive at 
 some stationary state? But we are often told that a con- 
 dition not progressive is sure to be retrograde. Must we go 
 back to the notion of the antique world and say, that when 
 the limit of possible perfection is attained, there comes an 
 and of some kind — and a new commencement ? 
 
 SANDFOBD. 
 
 Ends and commencements are not within the scope of 
 human science. We can never tell what was the lowest 
 stage in which man has existed, or whether aU the races of 
 men have started from the same point. Still less can we tell 
 what will be the last and complete development of man. 
 These are questions for which, certainly, I have no answer. 
 
 But I think it very important to get together what plain 
 truths we can on the subject of good and evil. If they do 
 
324 GEAVENHUEST. [paet jr. 
 
 not shed their light far down the vista of the past, or far 
 into the vista of the future, they -wiR at least shield us from 
 some hurtful errors, and perhaps from some unhappy super- 
 stitions. 
 
 I think it well to see that it is by overcoming evil, as 
 well moral evil as natural evU, that we rise in the scale of 
 creation. This very fact convinces us that evil was not 
 brought here otherwise than beneficently — is, in fact, part 
 of the scheme of a benevolent Creator. This may aid us, 
 too, in supporting manfully the unavoidable, and in combat- 
 ing manfuUy all remediable evUs. He who seeks truth and 
 loves goodness has God upon his side. 
 
 I think it well to see that the higher needed the lower, 
 that we may learn to respect the whole of our humanity. 
 Even that which we have learnt to dispense with may have 
 been a necessary help to our present elevation. I think it 
 well to see that Human Society becomes the mould for the 
 individual men born into it, and to see, also, how this mould 
 itself becomes improved by those stronger minds which can 
 advance upon the education they have received. Such truths 
 as these enlighten each man on the debt, and on the duty, 
 he owes to society. They also show Humanity, as a whole, 
 standing in the presence of a beneficent Creator. But one 
 whose love exacts our effort, our endurance, under whom 
 pain and terror ofttimes do the ofi&ces of love. 
 
 ADA. 
 
 How shall we reconcile a faith in this terrestrial advance- 
 ment — generation standing upon generation — with the doc- 
 trine of immortality, the advancement of each individual 
 soul in an eternal life 1 
 
 SANDFORD. 
 
 Presuming that other objections have not shaken our faith 
 
CONV. VI.] PROGRESS AND IMMORTALITY. 325 
 
 in immortality, I am confident it will not be lost to us by 
 our faith in progress, or by any actual progress attainable on 
 earth. 
 
 It is the very nature of our progress in one direction to 
 lead us to higher aspirations than earth can gratify. 
 
 MANSFIELD. 
 
 Death veill be always with us, and the loss of those we 
 loved. There will be spirits always to beckon us onwards 
 to another life. 
 
 God will be ever with us. And when man has ceased to 
 fear his fellow-man, he will dare to think nobly and rationally 
 of God. 
 
 Some of our religious conceptions will change. Ifor will 
 the change, perhaps, be all gain. Our age may be surpassed 
 in many respects by succeeding ages ; but, if so, it will be 
 also looked back upon with some tender regrets. Some, but 
 not the wisest of our posterity, will wish they had lived in these 
 times, which many of us misname as faithless and sordid. 
 
 It is my faith that God wUl raise all His intelligent crea- 
 tures finally to the knowledge and love of Himself. This, 
 and nothing less than this, can I accept as the end and pur- 
 pose of creation. 
 
 I must be permitted to think that the distresses of human 
 life have, in part at least, their explanation in this, that they 
 carry the mind onward to another world. 
 
 After all our generalisations, life is sad to many of us. 
 Glorious things there are in heaven and in earth, but what 
 says our poetess ? 
 
 " Two little tears suffice to hide them all ; " 
 and age after age men have consoled themselves and each 
 other by the hope of some compensating happiness hereafter. 
 
326 GEAVENHUEST. [part ii. 
 
 SANDFOED. 
 
 It is a natural sentiment, and I have no wish, to interfere 
 with it. I wotdd only remark that, sooner or later, we must 
 adopt the principle that good and evil form together a whole 
 that is good. For, say we were compensated in another 
 world for our miseries in this, we might stUl ask ourselves 
 why we were not happy in both worlds, and our only rational 
 answer must be that the misery of one world was in some 
 manner necessary to the happiness of the other — that the 
 two together made one heneficent whole. 
 
 MANSFIELD. 
 
 A world where happiness is meted out according to virtues 
 we have practised, according to trials we have sustained, 
 strikes me as a somewhat childish conception. A world 
 where it is meted out according to the active virtues we are 
 displaying, is a higher scheme. And such a world is also 
 our own, at this present moment. 
 
 Preparation for another life ! The idea is grand — none 
 grander — ^if you have a high and large meaning for this pre- 
 paration — if every heneficent activity, if every nohle joy, if 
 every exalted sentiment, is your preparation for eternity. 
 The end of a thousand lives is just this, to live, under God, 
 our highest life — to develop all our capacities for knowledge, 
 happiness, goodness. Preparation for another world, in this 
 sense, cannot he separated from progress or from happiness 
 in this. It is identical with our highest enjoyment of life, 
 with our noblest efforts to advance. 
 
 One word on a theme we have sometimes agitated — the 
 union of justice and benevolence. I cannot conceive them 
 separate in God or man. They are essentially one. 
 
 If human beings were a race to be made happy by simply 
 drinking at some stream flowing with miUc and honey, aU 
 
OONV. VI.] JUSTICE. 327 
 
 that would be wanted would be to make the stream broad 
 and deep enough, and see that there was standing-room for 
 each. But man's happiness depends, first of all, upon his 
 relations to his fellow-man. It is the good character which 
 stands out evidently as the great creation in humanity itself. 
 Cease to love the good man, cease to hate the bad man, and 
 everything on earth goes to wreck and ruin — and everything 
 in heaven too, so far as I dare think of heaven. 
 
 So long as the contrast between good and evil endures — 
 and without that contrast there is no moral goodness — so 
 long must the highest benevolence represent itself under the 
 form of justice. 
 
 There may be intellectual beings, angels or spirits, framed 
 on a quite different type from man. I can readily believe it, 
 though, of course, I can form no conception of such beings. 
 God may create beings, aU of whom are perfectly good — 
 beings who may have never heard or dreamt of evil — but 
 goodness with such a race must have a different meaning 
 than it has with us. ITor can such a race have our senti- 
 ment of justice. 
 
 Standing in my humanity, I see justice as the necessary 
 form of the highest benevolence. It is the necessary means 
 for the highest production, the good character. God on 
 earth educates His own creatures to exercise justice upon 
 each other, whether by formal tribunals, or the great tribunal 
 of public opinion. What the method of His justice may be 
 in other worlds I have no knowledge ; but it is clear as light 
 that I cannot carry up my conception of moral goodness, as 
 formed by the contrast between good and evil, into any 
 region of the universe, without finding there also, in some 
 shape or other, the justice of God. 
 
 SANDFORD. 
 
 Meanwhile, in our terrestrial humanity, we see a compli- 
 
328 GEAVENHUBST. [pakt it. 
 
 cated but harmonious scheme, where pain and pleasure, love 
 and hate, praise and blame, reward and punishment, play 
 their several parts in producing (so far as they are produced) 
 the happy life and the good character. Our sentiment of 
 justice is part of this great scheme which we attribute, as a 
 whole, to a benevolent Author. 
 
 How natural it was in the earlier stages of human specu- 
 lation, when the dark and the bright side, both of nature 
 and of human nature, stood out in apparent contradiction — 
 how natural it was to assign the darkness and the evil to one 
 power, the brightness and the goodness to another ! We, 
 who know that darkness and light together — make vision ! 
 that pain and pleasure together — make life ! — cannot so 
 break up the unity of our world. 
 
 In a system of polytheism, where the gods and goddesses 
 took their several shares of mingled good and evil, no neces- 
 sity was felt for the conception of a spirit purely malicious. 
 What men condemned, as well as what they admired, was 
 already distributed among such deities as a Venus or a Mais. 
 And in a rude monotheism, where there was no repugnance 
 to attribute to God the angry or terrible passions of men, the 
 want would not be felt of such a conception as that of an 
 evil spirit of a creative or governing order. It would not 
 jar with the reKgious sentiment to apprehend God as author 
 of both evil and good, even if evil were thought to originate 
 from some corresponding passion. But as monotheism re- 
 fined, and no such evil passion could be attributed to God, 
 what explanation offered itself, in an unscientific age, but to 
 imagine some other being to whom such evil purposes or 
 passions could be assigned ? A Manicheism of some form has 
 therefore very extensively prevailed. Amongst the ancient 
 Persians the one God seems to have retired from th§ scene 
 merely acting as ultimate umpire between Arimanes and Or- 
 muzd. Amongst the Jews (who, if they borrowed here from the 
 
OONV. VI.] ONE CKEATOE. 329 
 
 Persians, modifled the idea to their own intellectual wants), 
 the eternal God never thus retired behind creation ; He re- 
 tained all that was good and great in His own right hand ; 
 and the evil spirit acts with them but a poor, subordinate 
 part — being, in fact, hut a vague and temporary expedient 
 for explaining what seemed incongruous with their lofty and 
 advancing conceptions of God. 
 
 We, constrained by science, or a scientific method of 
 thought, to see the whole as one scheme, gather our idea of 
 the character of God from the whole — from the tendency or 
 manifest design of the whole. And if we say Benevolent 
 Power projected this entire scheme, we cannot go back to 
 find a separate cause for any part of it. We have but two 
 conceptions, the world as a whole,. and God as its author. 
 
KNOWING AND FEELING 
 
 A CONTEIBUTION TO PSYCHOLOGY 
 
 BY 
 
 WILLIAM SMITH 
 
 AUTHOR OF THOENDALE, ETC. 
 
P E E F A C E. 
 
 Of the following papers three have appeared in ' The 
 Contemporary Eeview ; ' the fourth was left in MS. I 
 am not sure that it had received the writer's final revi- 
 sion, or that I have throughout deciphered it correctly. 
 But I think that to those for whom this volume is 
 intended it will add to the interest of the unfinished 
 work. 
 
 L. C. S. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 PiBT I'A«E 
 
 L 335 
 
 II. SOME FUBTHBE DISCUSSION OP THE WILL, . . 366 
 
 III. SPECULATIVE THOUGHT, 389 
 
 IV. OUR PASSIONS, 416 
 
KNOWING AND FEELING: 
 
 A CONTRIBUTION TO PSYCHOLOGY. 
 
 PAET I. 
 
 To one fresh from physiological studies Psycliology is 
 seldom acceptable. Indeed, our mental philosophy is now 
 accustomed to the language of apology, and generally presents 
 herself with some preliminary word to justify her appearance 
 at all. 
 
 The physiologist is plainly in the ascendant. Let us do 
 honour to his discoveries ; let us confess that it is in his 
 department alone that we can look forward here to what can 
 properly he called discovery. I can understand and forgive 
 the somewhat petulant mood in which he occasionally speaks 
 of the psychologist, or metaphysician ; — ^for he is apt to con- 
 found them together, regarding them as the same creature 
 in different stages of development, in which, I think, he is 
 far from being wrong. He looks upon our self-examinant, 
 turning his mind in upon itself, as some pensive idler, sitting 
 apart with finger on his brow, revolving what has been a 
 thousand times revolved before, and to no earthly purpose. 
 Perhaps he pictures him as one who ducks his head beneath 
 the stream, and, in that position, looks upward to its source. 
 Whilst he, the man of science, and the free observer of the 
 
336 KNOWING AND FEELING : 
 
 whole course of things, is busy in the dissecting-room, tracing 
 the threads of that delicate machinery by means of which the 
 world of space, the world of form, and force, and motion, 
 transforms itself, through the sensibilities of a man, into a 
 world of thought, of beauty, of intelligence. By ingeniously- 
 devised experiments he is extorting an answer to his questions 
 from Nature herself. 
 
 I can excuse his impatience. I, for my part, have no vnsh 
 to plague him with my psychology. If he is a phrenologist, 
 or working in that direction, he will have to plague himself 
 with a somewhat elaborate system of psychology ; else how 
 name his organs, or even know what organ to seek ? If he 
 has arrived at the conclusion — the conclusion of some of the 
 most eminent anatomists — that the brain, as organ of con- 
 sciousness, complex though it be, may stUl be considered as 
 one organ — he will probably have wrought out for himself 
 some scheme not unlike that of which I am about to give the 
 outline. In any case, the intelligent physiologist has, doubt- 
 less, knowledge enough of this kind to guide him in his 
 experiments, and enable him to interpret their results. Per- 
 haps it is well that he should not be zealously devoted to 
 any one system of psychology, that he may remain unbiassed 
 in his observations, and both see and describe his facts in as 
 dry a light as possible. 
 
 It appears to me as certain as to him that we do, in fact, 
 step from organic life into consciousness. (I must leave 
 others to determine whether what are called purely vital 
 phenomena are not a higher order of physical phenomena, 
 resolvable into chemistry, electricity, and the like. I may 
 be permitted to speak of physical, vital, mental facts as three 
 distinct orders.) Some vital or organic function seems to 
 precede, and perhaps to follow, every manifestation of mind. 
 There can hardly, therefore, be a branch of study of greater 
 interest than that which traces the connection between phy- 
 
A CONTEIBUTION TO PSYCHOLOGY. 337 
 
 sical or purely vital properties and psycHcal properties. But 
 these last, ■which, in their nature are clearly distinct from the 
 physical or vital properties on which they are grafted, can 
 define themselves only to the man reflecting on them. This 
 reflection on ourselves is simply indispensable. We can 
 know ourselves as conscious beings in no other way. This 
 very self, this personality, this I that rings for ever through 
 human speech, belongs essentially to the consciousness. 
 What my consciousness rests on is a distinct and specific 
 inquiry. It may rest on the brain ; the brain destroyed, it 
 may cease ; but while it exists it carries within it its own 
 personality. The light of thought may go out when the 
 lamp is shattered ; but while it burns, tliat, and not the lamp, 
 is the self — the 1 of human speech. Whether thought and 
 feeling rest directly on the brain or on some intermediate 
 substance we call spirit, shall be an open question if you will ; 
 but the personality lies in thought itself. It lies, as I take 
 it, in the union of memory and anticipation. It is thought 
 embracing the present, the past, the future, travelling on for 
 ever — an ever-present thought, that embraces a future that 
 will be past, and a past which has been future. I have been, 
 I shall be, are but the past and future seen constantly in the 
 present. 
 
 Be that as it may, mind as it is in itself must be studied 
 in the mind. A curious sophistical objection has been lately 
 raised against the process of reflection, or self-examination, 
 which perhaps should be noticed, since it has been paraded 
 with an air of confidence by ardent supporters of the " phy- 
 siological method," and claims the authority of Auguste 
 Comte. "In order to observe," it is said, "youi intellect 
 must pause from activity ; yet it is the very activity you want 
 to observe. If you cannot effect the pause you cannot observe ; 
 if you do effect it there is nothing to observe." 
 
 Kow it is plain that we cannot think of any subject of 
 Y 
 
338 KNOWING AND FEELING : 
 
 personal or scientific interest, and be, at that same instant, 
 occupied in self-criticism or self-inspection. But the very- 
 next instant we may find ourselves reviving our past thoughts 
 and feelings, and noticing some peculiarity in them as thought 
 and feeling. A man accustomed to seK-observation finds 
 himself repeatedly summoning hack his experiences, his 
 emotions, or ideas, asking himself perhaps hy what process 
 they came into his mind. The moral man exercises this self- 
 inspection for a moral purpose, to detect the insidious ap- 
 proaches of some besetting passion ; the psychologist for his 
 psychological purpose, to compare and discriminate his feel- 
 ings, or detect his laws of association. There is no pause in 
 the activity of the mind, but this purpose gives it a new 
 direction. It is a method of inquiry perfectly valid. That 
 it needs to be supplemented by other methods will be readily 
 acknowledged, 
 
 I intimated that the distinction often drawn between the 
 psychologist and the metaphysician was one of a somewhat 
 fallacious description. It is quite true that a writer or lec- 
 turer may discourse instructively on memory or judgment, 
 imagination or reasoning, and not plunge himself into those 
 abstruse discussions about being, cause, or the absolute, which 
 are set apart by some as the especial domain of metaphysics 
 or ontology. He may choose his illustrations from, the 
 common affairs of life. But, on the other hand, there are 
 some topics which the psychologist cannot avoid, and which 
 carry him, whether he will or not, into the domain of the 
 metaphysician. One of his earliest subjects, our perception 
 of the external world, cannot be pursued without leading 
 into these very discussions of substance or being. How will 
 he define his matter? If he calls it phenomenal, the very 
 name suggests the dreaded noumenon. Will he give two 
 substances, matter and spirit, defined each by their properties ? 
 WUl he speak only of properties, and carry us down — or up 
 
A CONTRIBUTION TO PSYCHOLOGY. 339 
 
 — to the one alDsolute and self-existent from Tvhicli all evolves, 
 or hj wliom all is created? Some theory he seems compelled 
 to form. Psychology expands into a system of philosophy. 
 It is always the vestibule to any structure of this tiad we 
 may raise. 
 
 I. 
 
 I ask myself what it is to be conscious ? or, in other words, 
 what is the simplest form of mind ? 
 
 If an animal moved when touched — if the stimulant that 
 set the animal in motion was clearly a sensation, and if we 
 rested there — if the animal were merely sensitive, and a 
 series of movements were simply initiated by a sensation — if 
 it never rose to any knowledge of its own movements, of its 
 own body, of the relation of that body to other bodies — if, 
 in short, it were utterly destitute of cognition or knowledge 
 of any kind, should we say that it was conscious ? Assuredly 
 not. "We should have before us a kind of vital mechanism, 
 whose co-ordinated movements were stimulated by sensation, 
 but we should not have before us a voluntary agent or a con- 
 scious creature. Desire would be absent, for desire implies 
 certain elementary cognitions. It might move to this, or 
 from that, but there would be no consciousness of a to or 
 from, a tMs or tlvxt. 
 
 Evidently, therefore, in addition to vital movement and 
 sensibility, a creature must have knowledge before we pro- 
 nounce it to be conscious. It is not in pure and isolated 
 sensation that the psychologist can find his starting-point. 
 There is no such thing in the consciousness. He starts from 
 a perception or cognition of some kind — sensations held to- 
 gether by the relations of time or space. 
 
 I accept the current' definition of knowledge or cognition. 
 It is a perception of relation. And for this perception of 
 relation I can select no better word than that of judgment. 
 
340 KNOWING AND FEELING : 
 
 It has been already used in this wide and technical sense. 
 Sensibilities and judgments are the two elements that form 
 the simplest state of consciousness. Nor are there any others 
 in the most complex. The relations of time, space, and con- 
 trast between sensations themselves as pleasurable and pain- 
 ful, are the earliest that arise. The simplest state of con- 
 sciousness is both a knowing and a feeling ; a knowing so 
 far that there is some relation apprehended, and a feeling 
 so far that there is some sensation felt, pleasurable or pain- 
 ful : for I demur to the supposition that there can be sensa- 
 tions absolutely neutral. As sensibilities and judgments 
 form our perceptions, and as these enter into our relations 
 in thought, forming what we call new objects of thought ; 
 and as these new objects, or ideas, are themselves the source 
 of new or modified feelings and emotions (a higher order of 
 sensibility), — it is plain that our two great elements of judg- 
 ment and feeling can never be absent from our consciousness. 
 
 A sharp twinge of pain, I may be told, is assuredly a con- 
 sciousness. I am assuredly conscious of it. But alone it 
 would not form a state of consciousness ; it must be con- 
 nected, as it invariably is, with other sensations, forming 
 some perceptive state : it is felt here or there, has a before 
 and after. A twinge of pain, however sharp, quite isolated 
 in a vital frame, would not be an instance of consciousness. 
 
 I can think of an isolated sensation. But I do this by 
 contrasting it with sensations not isolated. I can imagine it. 
 But if I myself, so far as my mental attributes are concerned, 
 consisted of nothing but this isolated sensation, I should not 
 be a conscious creature. 
 
 The senses and the memory — which as a mere repetition 
 of sensations has justly been called an internal sense — these 
 give us consciousness by reason of some perceived relations 
 that hold them together. To hpld together what is different 
 — the several in the one consciousness — is of the essence of 
 
A CONTKIBUTIOK TO PSYCHOLOGY. 341 
 
 mind. The mental unit, if such an expression may be used, 
 always consists of terms and a relation. We cannot in our 
 earliest perceptions separate the two : we are compelled to 
 recognise them as both complex and indivisible. 
 
 Where, in fact, should we find such a thing as a solitary 
 or isolated sensation ? The structure of all the higher ani- 
 mals is such that if you awaken one sensibility you awaken 
 others also, and these sensibilities belong to some central 
 organ, in which they are not only felt, but felt together, and 
 felt as different. A smell seems as simple a sensation as we 
 can imagine, but a smell brings into play the muscles of the 
 nose, and prompts to some movement of the head. Most 
 sensations prompt to movement of some kind, and that 
 before we move for a purpose ; and there is that consensus or 
 co-ordination in our movements, that the sensations accom- 
 panying many muscular contractions may be introduced by 
 the slightest excitement. A pleasant taste, one of the earliest 
 pleasures of the infant, is inevitably connected with the 
 movement of the lips and the tongue. Sight, which is distri- 
 buted so largely through the animal creation, and is mani- 
 fested so early in most animals, is not only no solitary 
 sensation, but is not even a number of sensations of different 
 colours. Explain vision by what theory we wiU, it consists 
 of form traced in different lights outside the body of the 
 creature who sees ; and therefore the knowledge of the body, 
 as introduced by other senses, must coexist in the conscious- 
 ness, and form part of what we call vision. This is not a 
 case of association of ideas, or law of habit ; sight appears 
 in many animals too soon to admit of this explanation ; 
 we have simply a confluence of sensations and perceptions, 
 forming this new cognition or perception. Touch, again, as 
 mere sensation, may be a pleasure or a pain ; but as a per- 
 ception, as it actually enters into- our consciousness, it comes, 
 as is universally admitted, with other sensations traceable to 
 
342 KNOWING AND FEELING: 
 
 muscular contraction. What passes in that central organ 
 which converts these various sensations into perceptions, 
 into cognitions, into a consciousness? I know not. "We 
 ■ only know that the together of sensations and repetitions of 
 sense result in what we call a judgment, a perceived relation, 
 an object of cognition. 
 
 I do not care to perplex myself with the question whether 
 there are any animals so framed as to be sensitive only, and 
 not conscious, not cognitive. A low order of animalculse, 
 mere cells, borne hither and thither by the medium in which 
 they float ; or even larger creatures, like our jeUy-fish, may 
 be endowed with a certain dull sensibility as their only 
 psychical quality. But the animal which has any of our 
 special senses, and which has to seek its food, must have, 
 we should say, cognition as well as sensibility. 
 
 Sensations held together in the one consciousness — the 
 together of the different — ^implying a judgment, a relation 
 perceived, this is the most elementary form of mind. Not 
 the solitary nerve, but the ganglion, with its nerves stretch- 
 ing here and there, is the type of our simplest consciousness. 
 The relation perceived is a fundamental fact — fundamental 
 as sensation itself, with which it is connected, — and is the 
 foundation of all our knowledge. 
 
 II. 
 There are writers of great repute who, as the last result of 
 their analysis, find sensation to be the sole element of mind. 
 Sensations, the memory and anticipation of sensations, and 
 laws of association, forming new groups of such memories 
 — these suffice to build up the mind of man. The sense 
 of contrast, they consider as involved in sensibility itself. 
 "Without change sensibility cannot be prolonged. Pirst to 
 feel, and then remember the change, is all that is needed for 
 what I have called the perception of the relation of contrast. 
 
A CONTRIBUTION TO PSYCHOLOGY. 343 
 
 To 1611161111)61 chang6 is to r6member successions also — there 
 is the relation of time : judgment is reduced to memory. 
 At all events these two judgments, contrast and succession, 
 seem easily resolved into sensation and memory, and these 
 two, they think, wiU suffice, with the aid of certain subtle 
 laws of association, to construct the consciousness. 
 
 But in this account we have not, I apprehend, resolved 
 judgment -into memory, but have, in fact, introduced this 
 new element under the name, and as a part, of memory. 
 The hnowledge of a succession of sensations, it wUl- be ad- 
 mitted, is something very different from the succession itself 
 — ^the mere flux and change of sensibilities. Therefore the 
 memory is introduced to bring back into one consciousness a 
 portion of this flowing succession. Originally each sensi- 
 bility had vanished when its successor appeared, but in 
 memory the procession, or part of it, is brought back, and 
 antecedent and sequent perceived as such. But if this be so, 
 we have introduced into the memory a quite new element 
 which did not exist in sensation. If the memory were 
 a mere reproduction of the original flux of sensibilities, it, 
 too, would still be the same flowing succession, where each 
 ripple was gone when the next came. If we have assigned to 
 the memory this new power of holding together iu the one 
 consciousness what originally was a mere flux of sensibilities, 
 and so cognising the succession, we have simply introduced 
 the element of judgment, or the perception of relations as 
 part of memory. 
 
 Memory, when it is something more than a mere repro- 
 duction, when it implies a knowledge that such reproduction 
 belonged to the past, is itself based on a judgment. A 
 revived sensibility would in itself be only another kind of 
 sensibility. It is relegated to the past in a state of conscious- 
 ness which embraces a present also. Consciousness, there- 
 fore, so to speak, is wider than memory : memory exists in it. 
 
344 KNOWING AND FEELING : 
 
 The relation of contrast appears at first sight to he in- 
 volved in sensibility itself. A state of sensibility, speaking 
 physiologically, could not be sustained without change ; the 
 nerve requires rest, other nerves must be brought into action. 
 But here, too, I must repeat that the apprehension of the 
 change is something different from the actual change itself. 
 If you describe the transition as a feeling, and say there is a 
 feeling of change, that feeling would pass with others in the 
 same unapprehended series, were there nothing but the 
 series. Here also you must call in the aid of memory, and 
 give to the memory this power of grasping the several in one 
 act of consciousness ; which power we find necessary to all 
 consciousness, whether of the perception that manifestly 
 precedes memory, or of that thought which is so largely 
 made up of the revived past. 
 
 If even these judgments or perceived relations of time or 
 succession, and of contrast and similarity, could be resolved 
 into mere acts of memory, what are we to say to the relations 
 of space or position constituting form, or the external ap- 
 pearance ? It is true that the utmost subtlety of some of our 
 subtlest thinkers has been put in requisition to deduce our idea 
 or knowledge of extension from that of succession in time. 
 In England, I believe, Brown first ventured on this hypo- 
 thesis. Sir William Hamilton was thought to have demo- 
 lished it, but it has been revived by two, if not three, of our 
 most celebrated contemporaries. There were good reasons 
 why this effort should be made. In the first place, there is 
 a startling incongruity in the fact that sensations should be 
 to us the terms of this relation — that they should uphold 
 the relation of position even within our own body. What 
 have sensations to do with space, as themselves space-occu- 
 pants? There is a delusion here, and it seems more satis- 
 factory to unravel the delusion than to accept it as one 
 forced on us by nature. And, secondly, if the relation which 
 
A CONTEIBUTION TO PSYCHOLOGY. 345 
 
 constitutes form could be deduced from that of succession, 
 one great obstacle would be removed to the theory I have 
 already glanced at, that builds up the intellect out of sen- 
 sation, and memory, and habit. I admit that I ought here 
 to examine this hypothesis that deduces extension from 
 succession, as lately put forth by Professor Bain and Mr 
 J. 8. Mill, but I must defer such examination to another 
 opportunity. It would require more room than I could give 
 it ; it would require room for many quotations. I must beg 
 a verdict against them. I must content myself with the 
 counter-assertion (in which the great majority of psycholo- 
 gists agree) that the two relations of time and space are 
 fundamentally different, and that neither can be deduced 
 from the other. They blend and meet in the idea of motion ; 
 but they are always recognised as distinct, neither of them 
 admitting of analysis. 
 
 When Kant asserts of space that it is a mode of sen- 
 sibility, he expresses, I presume, the same truth that I en- 
 deavour to convey by saying that the relation of position, 
 or the knowledge of space, is introduced directly by our 
 sensations. And when the physiologist refers to his nerves 
 of touch and sight, and speaks of points of sensation felt, or 
 perceived, at the periphery, he does but express the same 
 truth. One sensation could not give position. Many do ; 
 but how ? It seems a very familiar fact that the sensation 
 should be felt there where the sensitive extremities are, and 
 that a number of these theres should constitute a form. But 
 it is one of those familiar facts which grow more marvellous 
 and perplexing as we reflect upon them. What are the 
 respective parts performed by the nerves and the ganglion ? 
 Plainly, we have left physical properties and are amongst 
 psychical properties, and of that character that we have only 
 to state them in the best language we can select. We find (1) 
 The sensibilities ; and (2) The relation of position perceived. 
 
346 KNOWING AND FEELING : 
 
 The perception of the relation is here inseparahle from the 
 concrete in which it appears. A form can only be dissected 
 into minuter forms, in each of which the same relations of 
 position, of sides and surfaces, reappear. When afterwards 
 we compare forms with each other and perceive the relation 
 of magnitude, the two terms of the relation can be separately- 
 cognised. And as this is the case wherever we are accus- 
 tomed to use the word judgment, it seems a strained ap- 
 plication of the word when we apply it to a case where the 
 terms and the relation are inseparable. But no other word 
 is more applicable. And it should be remembered that 
 where the terms are distinct, as where the two forms are 
 separate, between which we perceive the relation of magni- 
 tude, even here the terms and the relation form a new whole. 
 We cannot think of magnitude, which is a matter of com- 
 parison, without the forms that are compared. We make 
 the abstraction of a relation, of which we have had innumer- 
 able instances, and may speak, if we please, of the idea of 
 magnitude. But magnitude itseK can never be represented 
 in consciousness, but by the two forms and the relation. In 
 like manner we can speak of the relation of means and end 
 without having before us any specific instance of means and 
 an end. But this is an abstraction, framed mainly by the 
 aid of language, and for the communication of thought ; 
 the relation cannot really be brought home to the mind with- 
 out the terms we call means and end. 
 
 If I had been writing this psychological sketch some 
 thirty years ago, I might have said that the sensational 
 school was wellnigh extinct, and have spared myself the 
 labour of contending for a distinct intellectual element in 
 the consciousness on which knowledge depends. It was 
 the habit then to speak of that school as the philosophy of 
 the eighteenth century, as if it was already a matter of 
 history. We of the nineteenth century, if not satisfied with 
 
A CONTKIBUTION TO PSYCHOLOGY. 347 
 
 what the Scotch professors taught, had gone to Germany for 
 our metaphysics. Cousin, for the moment, was the represen- 
 tative of Prance. But the place physiology has lately taken 
 in our studies has revived the desire in many for the simplest 
 possible scheme of psychology. It seems easy to attribute 
 to the brain a variety of sensibilities, and if thought is 
 nothing but such sensibilities connected and revived in 
 memory, there appears no difficulty ill allying it altogether 
 with the brain ; the transition is rendered conceivable from 
 purely vital to mental phenomena. I do not say that all 
 who have sought a simple scheme of psychology have b.een 
 biassed by their physiology, or by what are called materi- 
 alistic views. SimpKcity is itself at all times a legitimate 
 aim of the theorist. And, on the other hand, there are many 
 wedded to their physiological method (the phrenologists, for 
 instance), who wield a very complex psychology. I merely 
 take notice of a tendency I have detected in my own mind. 
 The preconception that there is a transition from chemistry 
 to life, and from life to consciousness, leads us to favour 
 those theories which make such transitions representable to 
 the imagination. 
 
 To me the old objection rings in the ear. If knowledge 
 is finally reduced to sensation, this is tantamount to there 
 being no knowledge at all, or knowledge only of our own 
 sensations. Even the solid world of matter fades into a 
 dream. Groups of sensibilities that have somehow, in my 
 imagination, transferred themselves to space, that I remem- 
 ber and anticipate, that have an order in their coming and 
 going — ^these are my material world. I cannot accept of this 
 result, nor of the scheme that leads to it. To me it reads 
 like a description of mind with the chief element of mind 
 left out. We have no knowledge without sensations ; they 
 are the first terms to us of any relation ; but it is in the per- 
 ception of relations, of space, nf time, of form and force, that 
 
348 KNOWING AND FEELING : 
 
 knowledge directly rests ; and as knowledge evolves, we 
 come partly to understand how it was that we commenced 
 by what seems in itself a delusion. The animated creature 
 had but its own sensations to give it the first consciousness 
 of itself, or the external world. But the forms which sen- 
 sation takes, are immediately invested with other properties, 
 by relations perceived between them, which alter their char- 
 acter, and convert them into independent realities. 
 
 By insisting on the fundamental distinction between Sen- 
 sibility or Feeling, and Judgment, or the element of cogni- 
 tion, I separate myself from the sensationalists, who, with 
 Destutt de Tracy, arrive at the conclusion, " Penser c'est 
 sentir ; " how do I stand in reference to that opposite school 
 of metaphysicians who are designated as intuitionists ? 
 
 I cordially embrace the favourite doctrine of modern times, 
 that of evolution. I believe there is an order in the appear- 
 ing or becoming of all things, which order apparently enters 
 into the very nature of the things themselves. But every 
 new appearance, every new becoming, in this order is, in one 
 sense, equally original. It could not be what it is out of its 
 order, but its coming into that order is always a new fact. 
 Most of us rfefer the whole order to the one Being who is 
 alone self-existent. Some prefer to rest in the observed 
 order, not from a conviction that nothing else exists, but 
 that human knowledge cannot penetrate beyond. To us 
 evolution is but a name for the method of creation, and the 
 nature of the created. 
 
 Well, when we apply our doctrine of evolution to the 
 human consciousness, what is the meaning of such terms as 
 primary and fundamental, to which so much honour is by 
 some attached ? Are we to suppose that the first intellectual 
 forms or conceptions, such as issue in their order from vital 
 
A CONTRIBUTION TO PSYCHOLOGY. 349 
 
 or physical antecedents, are especially authoritative, or in any 
 way especially excellent 1 In other departments of nature we 
 are accustomed to say that the lower appears first as condition 
 of the higher, the simpler as the condition of the more com- 
 plex. It is the last development and not the first that should 
 receive the highest honour ; or rather it is that whole whose 
 harmonised development is carried furthest that should he 
 most honoured. It is that which will not combine with any 
 harmonised whole that we reject as error. This, if not an 
 infallible test of truth, will he found to be the actual test 
 which every man of necessity applies. 
 
 It is nothing to me to be told that certain savages or un- 
 cultured men have not this or that idea or intellectual per- 
 ception. "When it has come, how does it enrich, how does it 
 harmonise with the whole of the conscious life ? This is the 
 question to be asked. I am not concerned to build my faith 
 on some primary intuition or judgment. Truth is a harmony 
 of many judgments. 
 
 In this much-debated question of our knowledge of the 
 external world, in this objective independent existence of 
 matter, it is not to some primary instinct or intuition that I 
 should appeal-T-not to the first, but to the last development 
 of intelligence. It is possible that if you arrest us at a cer- 
 tain stage in the process a charge of delusion might he made 
 out against the senses — especially against the sense of sight ; 
 for we are here certainly presented with appearances which 
 claim to.be outward realities, and which it required the 
 science of optics so to connect with the veritable material 
 world, that we are able to pronounce them to be representa- 
 tives of real forms in space. 
 
 Let me be permitted briefly to indicate the steps by which 
 I imagine (for we can only here imagine a past by the help 
 of such laws of human development as we have been able to 
 learn from facts still open to the memory), by which I pre- 
 
350 KNOWING AND FEELING: 
 
 sume our belief in the external world was formed. If my 
 statement is correct it wUl, at the same time, relieve us from 
 the perplexities of the Idealists, or all those who challenge 
 us to prove that our knowledge of matter is essentially any- 
 thing else than a knowledge of our own sensations. 
 
 That our sensations do range themselves to our conscious- 
 ness in 'space — outside each other, as it has been expressed — 
 is a fact about which there can be no dispute, even if we 
 accept the subtle hypothesis that originally they were known 
 only as succeeding each other in time. But, indeed, I know 
 not how that hypothesis can apply to that first localisation of 
 sensations to which I have to allude, that feeling or perceiving 
 our sensations within the area of our own body ; there, as a 
 physiologist might suggest, where the nerves of sensation 
 really extend and ramify. Besides the sensations on the 
 surface, the body fills with sensations from muscular move- 
 ment, the flow of the blood, or other work of nutrition. I 
 can descend to nothing earlier than some knowledge of our 
 own body by sensations felt in different parts of the area of 
 that body, contrasting body and limbs, and limb with Hmb. 
 
 It may be well to observe that when I here speak of locali- 
 sation of sensations, I do not refer to that act of thought 
 which the mature man is so familiar with, who says of one 
 sensation it is in his arm, and of another it is in his foot. 
 He has already the image in his mind of arm and foot, and 
 refers the sensations to these weU-known limbs. Such local- 
 isation as this is plainly a subsequent process. I speak of 
 that localisation by which the knowledge of limbs is formed, 
 or rather initiated ; so much knowledge as to render possible 
 the conceptions of form and movement. I cannot but sup- 
 pose that every animal whose heart beats, and whose limbs 
 involuntarily stir, awakes to a consciousness of sensations felt 
 hare and tJiere. It does not from this primary localisation 
 of sensation obtain the full knowledge of its limbs. What 
 
A CONTRIBUTION TO PSYCHOLOGY. 351 
 
 further knowledge it obtains enters with the knowledge of 
 the external, or other body against which it presses. 
 
 The cognition of our limbs as sensitive and moving forms 
 is followed, or accompanied, by another most important cog- 
 nition — namely, that the motion of the body or limbs is im- 
 peded in certain directions, unimpeded in other directions. 
 The contrast stands out between a space that permits and a 
 space that does not permit motion. The outstretched arms, 
 the hand with its many fingers, these define the impediment 
 in space, shape it, shape it into that resisting form we hence- 
 forth know as matter. The same process gives solidity and 
 a more definite form to our own limbs. The little infant is 
 seen hammering his own hand into the perfect tool it is to 
 become, while he is making acquaintance with the objects on 
 which he strikes. 
 
 All these proceedings are attended with vivid sensations, 
 both in the muscles of the moving limbs and on their touched 
 surface. These sensations combine from first to last with 
 that cognition of the outer form in space we call material 
 object. But that form is fundamentally a thought, not a 
 sensation. Porm, movement, resistance to movement, these 
 are intellectual perceptions, what we have called Judgments. 
 Eesistance is a relation between a moving form and a portion 
 of space that resists movement. That resisting space is shaped 
 out to the consciousness by the continued movement round it 
 and about it of the sensitive hand. But though the sensitive 
 hand is necessary to the cognition, the cognition itself is not 
 a sensation, but a relation between the hand as a moving 
 object and the obstacle in space. 
 
 It is just here, I venture to say, that the analysis presented 
 to us (amongst others) by Professor Bain and Mr J. S. Mill is 
 at fault. These writers speak constantly of the sensation of 
 resistance, as if a muscular feeling, somehow or other asso- 
 ciated with a space beyond the body, constituted the whole 
 
352 KNOWING AND FEELING : 
 
 of what we call solidity.^ Ifow Eesistance, not only in popular 
 but in strictly scientific language, is a relation only to be got 
 at through the prior cognitions of form and motion. It 
 means resistance to motion. In itself it is a thought or 
 perceived relation. The muscular sensations which accom- 
 pany it, obtain from it the name of feeling of resistance. But 
 this feeling in itself would be merely a sensation felt under 
 the skin. 
 
 If an analyst persists in limiting our attention to sensations 
 alone, and ignores that perception of relation which constitutes 
 first form, then motion, then resistance to motion, he may 
 very easily represent our knowledge of matter as, in fact, 
 nothing but the memory or anticipation of sensations. But 
 his representation will always wear the air of a paradox. 
 Men will not recognise in it an accurate account of their own 
 cognitions. 
 
 But I must proceed another step or two. Not only does 
 my body move towards these forms that resist its motion — 
 that are known and defined by that resistance, as well as 
 clothed in some garment of my own sensations — but these 
 bodies so defined move towards my body, impinge on it, 
 pleasure it or hurt it. They have a motion of their own. 
 They have movement as well as resistance to movement, and 
 they too, so moving, move other bodies against which they 
 impinge. They have force. 
 
 Here, also, if I am arrested at a certain point, I might have 
 a great difficulty in eliminating the idea of force, from sensa- 
 tions and desires of the animated creature. For aught I know, 
 
 ^ ' ' That resistance is only another name for a sensation of our 
 muscular frame, combined with one of touch, has been pointed out by 
 many philosophers, and can scarcely any longer be questioned." — 
 Mr J. S. Mill. 
 
 ^" Of matter as independent of our feeling of resistance \ye can have 
 no conception." — 1'rofessok Bain. 
 
A CONTRIBUTION TO PSYCHOLOGY. 353 
 
 a child attributes to every moving body, especially if it strikes 
 him, the impulse of desire by which he himself moves. But 
 sooner or later a distinction is made between the animate and 
 the inanimate. And now when inanimate forms not only 
 strike on me, the sensitive, but strike on other inanimate 
 forms and the result is movement, is a resistance overcome — 
 the conception of force as extended through nature — force as 
 prior to, and independent of, sensation — is formed. Our con- 
 ception of matter may be said to be complete. Perhaps re- 
 sistance which wore the appearance of inertia becomes itself 
 considered as a force. Force and resistance are regarded as 
 two antagonist forces, revealing each other. 
 
 Amongst the steps of this process I have not introduced 
 the sense of vision, because blind people do obtain our notion 
 of the solid form in space without the aid of vision, and be- 
 cause I should have to discuss certain theories of vision. The 
 Berkeleian theory has been discredited of late. I am inclined 
 myself to believe that the sensations of light arrange them- 
 selves directly in space, in form — that the animal which has 
 vision has not to think out external form by the contrast 
 between this and that direction in space. The form is given 
 and the hand strikes it, and so demonstrates its resistance, its 
 substantiality. Some knowledge of its own body is necessary 
 to vision, otherwise no outer form ; but this vision in outer 
 space does not require that the animal should from other 
 organs have obtained the knowledge of solid form outside of 
 its body. The visionary form is probably in most animals 
 the first introduction to the solid form. 
 
 Do I represent our knowledge of the external world as 
 perfect ? Is any man of reflection satisfied with it 1 These 
 forms in space are defined by the forces they display. We 
 cannot think of the forms but by these forces, nor can 
 we think of the forces without aid of the forms. Yet the 
 form cannot be itself the space-occupant, that which really 
 
 Z 
 
354 KNOWING AND FEELING : 
 
 possesses or exerts tte force. Not satisfactory, you say. 
 But tlie cognition of these forces as manifested in space 
 remains to us, althougli this cognition of them may still 
 point to some being or existence that escapes in itself from 
 our apprehension. 
 
 When, therefore, the old perplexity is put before us, how 
 think of a -world independent of ourselves — that is, inde- 
 pendent of our own senses ? my answer is, that we can think 
 of no other ; that the material forms we ultimately cognise 
 are revealed to us by relations which our senses have enabled 
 us to perceive, but which are from their nature upheld, not 
 by sensations, but by space-occupants, whatever they may 
 be. If cognised at all, they must be cognised as independent 
 of our senses. Merely to say that with my intellectual 
 existence the world ceases to exist for me, would be a truism 
 which no one would care to dispute, and which no one 
 would care to utter. The philosophers I am alluding to say 
 that matter, as known to us, is so completely the creation 
 of our own senses, that it cannot be thought of except in 
 connection with them. They ceasing to exist, the material 
 world as known to us must cease to exist — must be thought 
 of as ceasing to exist. This they sometimes call the true 
 doctrine of the relativity of knowledge. Solidity is not a 
 property of the form in space, it is a muscular feeling of my 
 own. I entirely dissent from this interpretation of my con- 
 sciousness, from this description of our knowledge. Solidity 
 or resistance is a force, not a sensation. I think of it, in my 
 mature state of intelligence, as existing in space — as existing 
 before sensation — as a necessary condition of sensation, as 
 something that from its nature cannot depend on my con- 
 sciousness of it, but on which it is very possible my conscious- 
 ness may depend. 
 
 To return to the Intuitionists. I was about to say that I 
 should not follow the example of those who commence their 
 
A CONTRIBUTION TO PSYCHOLOGY. 355 
 
 treatises with an array of fundamental truths which they 
 appear to consider as inseparable from a human mind. Cer- 
 tainly not, if these truths are of a moral or religious charac- 
 ter. If our very definition of matter alters or clears itself as 
 knowledge advances, is it likely that moral and religious 
 truth should reveal itself with precision in the first stages of 
 intelligence 1 A truth is none the less a truth because for 
 many ages, and to many minds, it was utterly unknown, and 
 a sentiment is not to be described as less pertaining to 
 humanity, because it comes in as a sequence to some previ- 
 ous accretion of knowledge. 
 
 In our ethical controversies there exists and has long 
 existed a school of philosophers who insist upon describing 
 the conscience, such as they find it in themselves, as having 
 entered full grown into the world. God, and obligation to 
 obey Him by loving our fellow-creatures — ^they detect all 
 this in their own conscience, and forthwith they describe 
 this conscience as an original intuition. This may save the 
 trouble of argument or investigation, but it leads to a mis- 
 interpretation of the real nature of a state of mind which has 
 been gradually evolved. It is on such a subject as this that 
 we must look into the history of the human race to assist 
 and correct our psychology. 
 
 We must bear in mind that in no way does " the oak lie 
 in the acorn." The only oak is that which begins to exist 
 then and there as it appears above the surface of the earth, 
 and throws its leaves into the light of day. The seed was a 
 condition of the tree, so too was earth, and air, and water, 
 and the heat of the sun. Through many conditions, after 
 many antecedents, this grand novelty of the oak-tree made 
 its appearance. In like manner, the only mind we know is 
 just this consciousness that evolves in its order under many 
 conditions. The knowing and the feeling, the knowledge 
 and the sentiments of which this mind is composed, have 
 
356 KNOWING AND FEELING : 
 
 their order of development, order depending on the Eternal 
 Cause of all things, if we can speak of its depending on any- 
 thing whatever ; but there is no substance, mind, or brain, 
 no acorn which in any way held this wondrous oak-tree 
 within itself. New branches spread, new truths, new senti- 
 ments — they come ; and would you estimate their compara- 
 tive value and importance, you must do this by understand- 
 ing their place in the whole. 
 
 Amongst relations which start up as life progresses, is this 
 very one of the contrast between truth and error. At first 
 all cognitions are equally true ; but anticipations come that 
 are not realised, and memories that are not confirmed, and 
 imagination puts together, after some wild fashion of her 
 own, the materials of experience. So then there are false 
 cognitions, erroneous thoughts, as weU as true. And it 
 becomes one of the great interests of life to discriminate 
 between them. 
 
 IV. 
 
 All our passions are thoughts on one side. The simplest 
 desire enfolds some object of perception, or some anticipated 
 action. You would not qualify our passions as pure feeling 
 any more than you would describe them as piue thought. 
 Separate the elements, and the passion ceases to exist. 
 Fear is an anticipation of injury from some external object, 
 or some voluntary agent. It is true that the injury we fear 
 may be very vague, but these vague fears have entered 
 through others not so vague. We run over all the evils we 
 have known without resting definitely upon any one, or we 
 fear something worse than anything hitherto known. "When 
 darkness brings its imaginary terrors we have the horrible 
 suspicion that some creature or person is present, whom we 
 cannot see, and who may suddenly make his presence known 
 by seizing on us, perhaps to torture us. A quite strange 
 
A CONTRIBUTION TO PSYCHOLOGY. 357 
 
 object, seen for the first time, may excite fear, but this is 
 because experience has taught us that there are hostile as 
 well as friendly creatures, and we know not amongst which 
 to class this new-comer. Uncertauity must take the shape 
 either of a fear or a hope. 
 
 Merely to think of an object that has given us pleasure, is 
 the source of a new emotion. It may be a desire or a regret ; 
 merely to think of a man who has injured us may be the 
 source of a most vivid emotion of hatred or revenge. Merely 
 to think of one who has given us pleasure is to love him. 
 It is the first step into love, happily not the last. Then 
 comes the love oi premeditated kindness to another. 
 
 Pain and pleasure might exist without hatred and love. 
 Hatred and love could hardly exist without pain and pleasure. 
 Such is the order of their becoming. And by processes of 
 evolution we cannot stop to trace, wider and more complex 
 cognitions bring with them what we denominate more refined 
 and noble sentiments. Always the sentiment is thought on 
 one side, feeling on the other. 
 
 Is philanthropy — the question may perhaps have been 
 asked — a feeling or a thought ? It is plainly both. But 
 then the elements of thought and feeling may be very differ- 
 ently proportioned. A man may be intellectually occupied 
 with schemes for the amelioration of human society, yet not 
 have sufficient emotion to lead him into any practical mea- 
 sures for that amelioration. He will not be without some 
 emotioii however, for to think of the happiness of others as 
 a desirable object, is in some measure to desire it. Another 
 man may have reasoned upon his benevolent schemes hastily 
 or feebly, and yet be carried by his feelings into vigorous 
 and pertinacious action. 
 
 No subject appears to me more interesting than the evolu- 
 tion of thought and feeling displayed in what we generally 
 call sentiments, aesthetic or moral. But I must hasten to 
 
358 KNOWING AND FEELING: 
 
 the completion of my psychological sketch ; and two subjects 
 remain — not to he discussed, for that is impossihle, hut to 
 he defined and described — the will and the personality. 
 
 I have said that mind or consciousness is always a know- 
 ing and a feeling, always these in their infinite diversity, and 
 nothing else than these. "What account, then, do I give of 
 the will ? Is not the threefold division — knowing, feeling, 
 willing — that which is generally adopted hy psychologists ? 
 
 Let us limit ourselves at first to will as one with volun- 
 tary motion. As mere mental resolution, the questions that 
 occur are of a different kind. A mere mental resolve to per- 
 form a certain action at a future time can he nothing hut 
 thought and desire, some combination of our old familiar 
 elements of judgment and feeling. 
 
 That I have power to move I hold certain, but that power 
 or force does not belong to man simply as conscious man. 
 Sensation is not force, cognition is not force. There is some 
 space-occupant that moves in obedience to sensation, but the 
 force of movement must live in it. I learn that there is this 
 force in my vital frame ; I depend upon it, I trust it, I have 
 the utmost confidence that it will not desert me ; but in my 
 consciousness it is an object of knowledge. 
 
 That which belongs to the consciousness, which lives only 
 in it, is the sentiment of power — tM feeling of joy or triumph 
 which follows the knowledge of this force — the knowledge 
 that / can what I wish, that desire accomplishes itself. 
 
 There is nothing that I sooner know, nothing that is more 
 pertinaciously present to me throughout life, than this power 
 of motion. But what does the power mean ? It means that 
 if I wish to move I move. A veritable power ; an accom- 
 plishment of my wish. How that wish is accomplished I 
 never know — except that some force that runs through 
 nature is here linked to my desires. I know there is this 
 connection, and have the sentiment of power due to such 
 
A CONTRIBUTION TO PSYCHOLOGY. 359 
 
 knowledge. This is all I can detect. I notice that between 
 my desire and the movement intervene muscular sensations ; 
 these hecome to me the signs of movement and of force, 
 but they themselves are neither movement nor force. There 
 is no simple psychical element that in the case of voluntary 
 motion can be picked out and called will. 
 
 To act, to move, is surely something different from to know I 
 move. Certainly it is. The movement of any body is some- 
 ,thing different from my knowledge that it moves. But that 
 movement can enter into my consciousness only as knowledge. 
 I am not bound to explain voluntary motion on the theory 
 of those who give me no movement at all, no objective 
 reality in space — give me nothing but sensations or ideas. 
 I have the cognition of my own limbs, and I know that 
 they move in obedience to my desires. 
 
 Mr Bain, at the commencement of his treatise on the " In- 
 tellect," briefly mentions and dismisses the twofold division 
 here adopted ; ' and insists, somewhat energetically, on the 
 threefold division of knowing, feeling, and willing. But the 
 reader of Mr Bain's works soon becomes aware that in his 
 analysis the radical element, to be called will, is reduced to 
 a peculiar sensation which he somewhere suggests may be 
 due to the motor nerves, in a more direct manner than 
 physiologists generally teach. That there is this peculiar 
 sensation no one will think of disputing, and that it has 
 most important relations in this matter of willing ; but if this 
 peculiar sensation is the radical element left in the crucible, 
 what ground can there be for making of it a separate class 1 
 
 Many writers are accustomed to speak of a sense of effort, 
 as if there were some sensation which at once, and by itself, 
 gave us knowledge of force, and of what they would call the 
 mind's force. I must repeat here the same observations I 
 made on the sense of resistance, the same muscular sensation, 
 with a slightly different name. We call it seme of resist- 
 
360 KNOWING AND FEELING: 
 
 anee -when the obstacle is prominent in our mind ; sense of 
 effort, when the impelled or pressed limb is the prominent 
 perception. 
 
 The muscular sensation we call sense of effort, would 
 never have obtained this name, if certain cognitions had not 
 accompanied it — cognitions of our moving Umbs, of limbs 
 pressed against an obstacle, of the resistance overcome. We 
 must travel to this last. Mere pressure on an obstacle 
 would be an increased sensation of touch. The resistance 
 overcome reveals the force, and gives to pressure its true 
 character. Effort is a correlate of resistance. We have 
 cognitions of form, movement, resistance to movement, and 
 resistance overcome. By being accompanied with these cog- 
 nitions our muscular sensations obtain such names as sense 
 of resistance, sense of effort, or of force. A sensation in 
 itself cannot be the force we are seeking. 
 
 It being understood that our knowledge is of realities in 
 space, forms, movements, forces, bodies inanimate and ani- 
 mate, what is there in will (psychically considered) but a 
 knowledge of our bodies as moving under such and such 
 conditions, our confidence in such laws of movement, and 
 the sentiment of power that arises from desire accomplished? 
 
 And now a final word on the perplexing problem of 
 personality. 
 
 Amongst the theories propounded on the nature or origin 
 of the ego, the one most favoured, I believe, by metaphy- 
 sicians is that which represents the ego and non-ego as ris- 
 ing together in every cognition. There is no thought, say 
 some, without this olject and subject. I have been, at times, 
 disposed to adopt this theory, but further consideration has 
 compelled me to dissent from it. 
 
 Attending as closely as I can to what passes in a cogni- 
 tion of the external world, all that I find, in the immediate 
 act or state of knowledge, is a perception of those relations, 
 
A CONTRIBUTION TO PSYCHOLOGY. 361 
 
 as of time and space, wliich constitute it to be an object of 
 knowledge. This other relation between myself and the 
 object, between percipient and perceived, is, in fact, another 
 cognition, to which I may pass immediately afterwards, but 
 which was no essential part of the precedent cognition. It 
 is another knowledge, and has its own history, its own 
 course of evolution. Self, or the constant thinker, is there 
 in every thought : such is our conviction ; but I can only 
 recognise it when in its turn it becomes an object of 
 thought. What the metaphysicians caU. subject seems to me 
 only the rapid, habitual, irrepressible recurrence of this 
 object of thought. I do not think myself in every act of 
 thought, though the self may be ever there. 
 
 Many high authorities represent the perception of an 
 object in space as necessarily involving the ego and the non- 
 ego, as if such object must necessarily be outside the mind; 
 But surely ^he external object means external to my body. 
 It requires two bodies, two positions in space, to give exter- 
 nality, to give space itself to the consciousness. My body 
 and another body are here the terms of the relation. The 
 cognition of externality is the perception of the relation 
 between them. The cognition itself has no place. Con- 
 sciousness cannot be thought of in a place, except by being 
 connected with something that has been so cognised. The 
 external object is outside me, because I have located this me 
 in my body. 
 
 How grows up this self, this object of thought which I 
 learn to regard as the percipient, the thinker, the receiver of 
 all impressions, the agent in all acts? I am afraid that 
 my account will be only thought too commonplace, too 
 homely. 
 
 This body of mine not only fills its place, and stands 
 opposed in turns to a multitude of other bodies, but it is the 
 seat of marvellous organs of sensation, and of this marvellous 
 
362 KNOWING AND FEELING : 
 
 power to move in olDedienee to sensation. It is the eye that 
 sees, the ear that hears, the hand that touches, that moves 
 and moves other things. Innumerable are the forms seen, 
 the sounds heard, but the same eyes, the same ears, are ever 
 present ; the same hands touch everything ; the same vital, 
 mobile frame is ready at all times to respond to our desires. 
 This body, so endowed, I must need carry with me through 
 all my memories and all my anticipations : it is my earliest 
 ego, and the ground or condition for any more subtle ego 
 that is afterwards devised. 
 
 For although to our first apprehensions it is the eye that 
 sees and the ear that hears, and the hand that moves, we 
 come to recognise our consciousness, as embracing in its own 
 unity whatever the eye and the ear and the hand can con- 
 tribute. What is this which combines all that the senses 
 give, and contributes thoughts of its own 1 I see, and I re- 
 member while I see. "What is it that both thinks and feels? 
 Whatever it may be, I place it there amongst the senses. It 
 has no form or substance that I can seize upon ; but I can 
 give it a place ; I can lodge it in the body. Somewhere be- 
 hind the eye and the ear is that which remembers what was 
 seen and heard. Men soon become familiar with forms of 
 matter impalpable or invisible j they feel the wind they do 
 not see ; they see reflections in the water they do not touch. 
 Something both invisible and impalpable within the body — 
 this shall be that which thinks. 
 
 The more mature and cultivated man meditating on the 
 unity of consciousness (for the consciousness is always that 
 one which embraces the many) carries his speculations still 
 further. His thinking substance shall be one and indivisible. 
 Here perhaps he rests. It is no disparagement to his con- 
 ception of a soul or spirit within the body, that it could not 
 have been reached but through a previous knowledge of the 
 body itself. Have I not said that it is the last, and not the 
 
A OONTEIBUTION TO PSYCHOLOGY. 363 
 
 first, that is most honourable and of necessity the most 
 authoritative 1 
 
 Whatever is the final conception we attain (some mingled 
 conception to the last, I presume, of body and soul), what- 
 ever is the object of thought we call self, that object accom- 
 panies every memory and every anticipation. It is that 
 which has felt and acted, which wiU feel, enjoy, suffer, and 
 act in the future ; it is this we surround, as a nucleus, with 
 habits and acquirements, and ever recurring wants or pas- 
 sions. Nq reflection is without it. The thought just passed 
 is instantly recognised as having been the thought of this 
 self. But it is always as an object that it occurs ; the rela- 
 tion of object and subject is, in reality, the relation between 
 two objects of thought. 
 
 I do not say that thought exists without a thinker; I 
 merely say that the thinker does not think himseK in every 
 thought. Under very strong passion, or in earnest medi- 
 tation upon some impersonal topic, we are aware that there 
 has passed an interval without any reference to self. 
 
 But, in general, the present consciousness is made up of 
 memories and anticipations, and in all these self enters. To 
 remember a sensation as mine is to attribute it to this body 
 9f mine. It is because the present consciousness is almost 
 always some combination of our past or of our expected 
 future, that this self is so rarely absent from us. 
 
 For this reason I said in the commencement that person- 
 ality ultimately depends on the fact, that the present con- 
 sciousness embraces in itself the past, the future. The two 
 seJfs of past and future must need be identical, for our anti- 
 cipations are our memories thrown before us. 
 
 The actual present consciousness, if it could possibly be 
 limited to some one object, as the perception of relations in 
 space, would have no self in it. It would consist of just 
 that perception of relation. 
 
364 KNOWING AND FEELING: 
 
 To no such consciousness can we travel back. In the 
 first place, all sensations, actions, cognitions, have been asso- 
 ciated with this body, or this soul-in-body ; and, in the next 
 place, our present consciousness almost invariably consists of 
 the past and future of this self. And the very present will, 
 the instant it has passed, be known as having belonged to 
 the same self. 
 
 Consciousness travels on, one ever present, with its past 
 and future self. And as it travels on it moulds and mag- 
 nifies this self — whose real home is always in the past or 
 future. 
 
 Our poet Tennyson has not scrupled to represent the per- 
 sonality as a knowledge that has had its course of growth or 
 development ; and, to judge by the frequency with which 
 his lines have been quoted, they must have harmonised with 
 some general conviction — 
 
 " The baby new'to earth and sky. 
 
 What time his tender palm is prest 
 Against the circle of the breast, 
 Has never thought ' that this is I.' 
 
 But as he grows he gathers much, 
 And learns the use of ' I ' and ' me, ' 
 And finds I am not what I see, 
 
 And other than the things I touch : 
 
 So rounds he to a separate mind. " 
 
 The nature of our knowledge of the external world, the 
 will, and personality, are three topics intimately connected. 
 I regard our knowledge of the external world as based on 
 the perception of relations which from their nature can be 
 supported only by space-occupants. I believe in the ex- 
 ternal world; therefore I can believe that the actual relations 
 of this world become (I know not how) in the sensitive or- 
 ganism, perceptions of these relations. And if I believe that 
 
A CONTRIBUTION TO PSYCHOLOGY. 365 
 
 an animated body, hj such perceptions, has become cogni- 
 sant of itself and of its surroundings, must not I see here 
 the first personality ? This animated creature, standing out 
 in contrast to all the rest of the world, moving in obedience 
 to all desires, has will because there is this combination of 
 desires and movements; and has the sentiment of power 
 because it knows this connection of desire and movement. 
 
 Man is not simply a conscious being, he is a combination 
 of physical and psychical properties, or, as we familiarly say, he 
 is body and soul. To know is pre-eminently the psychical pro- 
 perty, and to know the body, its movements and laws of 
 movements, and how they are connected with feeling or de- 
 sires, becomes a consciousness of power. If we seek anywhere 
 for an individuality that can march forth alone in the uni- 
 verse, we shall seek in vain. We move, and live, and have 
 our conscious being as parts of some great whole — of Divine 
 authorship as we think. There are, so far as we can pene- 
 trate, innumerable space-occupants which define themselves 
 to us by their relation to each other ; they form bodies, vital 
 bodies, these last become conscious of themselves and their 
 surroundings. As psychologists, we must begin by shutting 
 ourselves up in our consciousness ; but having justified to 
 ourselves our knowledge of the world in space, we end by, 
 in part, explaining our consciousness by that world in space. 
 Mind is a creation upon a creation ; the mind of man, the 
 last creation, still travelling on, as we believe, to its com- 
 pleteness or to further development. 
 
366 KNOWING AND FEELING : 
 
 PAET II. 
 
 SOME FUETHER DISCUSSION OF THE WILL. 
 
 Consciousness, I endeavoured to show, is, from its first to 
 its last stage of development, a combination of knowing and 
 feeling. The two elements, sensation and judgment (appre- 
 hension of relations), are inextricably blended in our simplest 
 perceptions; sensations arising to us in the relations of space 
 and time. The unit of consciousness, if this expression is 
 permissible, is a combination of sensations and a judgment, 
 or apprehension of relations. I say if this expression is 
 permissible, because I have always felt the difficulty there is 
 in speaking of one definite state of consciousness, seeing that 
 the consciousness itseK is an arena of perpetual change and 
 flux, and that what we should call the movement of thought 
 appears necessary to thought itself. When, in the further 
 evolution of mind, cognition seems to separate itself most 
 distinctly from feeling, as in the labours of the mathematician 
 or man of science, the cognitions with which their thinking 
 is concerned were originally due in part to sensations ; and 
 a desire of some kind, curiosity if no other, presides over all 
 that movement of thought which we here call reasoning or 
 acquisition of knowledge. A perception, in becoming a 
 memory, if it is stripped of its sensational character, assumes 
 an emotional character. To think of a past pleasure or pain 
 becomes a present passion. In short, look into the conscious- 
 
A CONTRIBUTION TO PSYCHOLOGY. 367 
 
 ness at any moment you will, you find an inextricaWe com^ 
 plication of the intellectual and the emotional, of passions 
 that grow out of cognitions, of cognitions again that have 
 passions and other feelings for the objects of discrimination 
 and comparison. All our moral truths have pain and plea- 
 sure, love and hate, for the very terms of the cognitions they 
 deal with. 
 
 But consciousness is not the whole man. He consists of 
 body, as well as mind, or in a union of physical and psychical 
 properties. The connection between these properties, in one 
 remarkable instance, gives us voluntary motion, gives us will. 
 Will, as voluntary motion, is plainly neither exclusively a 
 physical nor psychical property, but a result of their com- 
 bination. Movement and the force by which one body moves 
 or breaks up another body, are physical properties, — thought 
 and feeling are psychical properties ; the connection between 
 the two constitutes the will, as matter of fact ; the knowledge 
 of such connection gives us our sentiment of power, our self- 
 confidence, our belief that to a certain extent we have a 
 command over the future. It converts thought into a pur- 
 pose, anticipation into a resolve. 
 
 Two great facts encounter us on the threshold of life, — 
 the action of the external world on our sensitive bodies, and 
 the reaction of those sensitive bodies on surrounding objects. 
 These two great facts, or speaking from a psychological point 
 of view, these two cognitions, enter together into the consci- 
 ousness. I know my own body and its movements, at the 
 same time that I know the external object and its movement, 
 or its resistance to movement. The two cognitions are need- 
 ful to each other. I know furthermore that the movements of 
 my limbs follow, to a certain extent, my desires. I know this 
 as a matter of experience^ and have learned to trust to it as 
 the invariable order. I know nothing more ; or if physiology 
 and metaphysical reasoning have given me any insight into 
 
368 KNOWING AND FEELING: 
 
 the nature of this connection between desire and movement, 
 it is plain that I am here dealing with some additional cog- 
 nitions. In psychology, the will is nothing else than a 
 special cognition accompanied hy its special class of sensa- 
 tions and emotions. 
 
 As to the theories we form of the nature of mind and 
 matter, or of the connection between them, I repeat that we 
 are plainly here on the high road of reasoning or conjecture. 
 To some, the transition from a state of consciousness to 
 hodily movement seems best represented by supposing that 
 the same substance puts forth in succession these two dif- 
 ferent modes of activity. Others prefer to assign these two 
 modes of activity to different substances, and they represent 
 the one of these substances stimulating and determining the 
 movements of the other. We hear some maintain that all 
 force is essentially will, that is, it emanates from mind, from 
 the mind of Deity, matter being only the passive recipient 
 of such forces. This last theory claims our respect ; all 
 these theories claim our examination ; but they are evidently 
 at present in the state of conjecture. What we really know, 
 what every man, woman, and child bom into the world really 
 knows, is that desire is followed by movement. 
 
 Here some reader may object — But we do not say my 
 desire moves my arm, or desire moves the arm ; we say I 
 desire, and I move. Does not the / move remit the power 
 at once to the ego, whatever the ego may be? To me it 
 seems that the / move is equivalent to this man m,oves ; and 
 this man is- just the union of the several properties, physical 
 and psychical, that go to the formation of this whole. Both 
 the desire and the movement belong to the man, but the 
 man is nothing but the combination of desire and move- 
 ment and other properties. His heart, his limbs, his lungs 
 belong to the man ; that is, they are parts of the whole we 
 call a man. In no other sense do they belong to him. This 
 
A CONTRIBUTION TO PSYCHOLOGY. 369 
 
 mode of speaking and thinking follows us everywhere, for 
 everywhere we encounter individualities which are but com- 
 binations of parts forming a new or specific whole. We say 
 of a dog that it has a head, has four legs. Abstract the 
 head, or the legs, where is the dog ? The dog is a certain 
 whole of many parts and properties, and each one is in its 
 turn referred to that whole. In the / think, I desire, I move 
 of human speech there is a reference of each of these proper- 
 ties to that whole which constitutes the conception of man, 
 or to so much of that whole as is necessary to give a mean- 
 ing to the expression /, or this man. And when we say / 
 will, this is a reference to the same whole of that connection 
 between the properties of desire or movement which enters so 
 conspicuously into the composition or individuality of man. 
 
 I observed in my last paper that the term Will was often 
 applied exclusively to the purpose itself, to the thought or 
 consciousness that precedes motion, and I added that this 
 application to the mental resolve had given rise to a class of 
 questions I could not then stay to examine. I alluded espe- 
 cially to the question we ask about the will, whether it is 
 free or not? If I may venture to trespass so far on the 
 patience of my readers, I would continue somewhat further 
 my discussion of the wUl, and carry the discussion into this 
 old debate. 
 
 It is not difficult of explanation how the term Will comes 
 to be used as synonymous with Purpose ; how it happens that 
 we speak indifferently of a man of indomitable resolve, or 
 indomitable will. The purpose of the man is the important 
 element in every human action. It is to this our blame or 
 praise attaches. The actual movement of body or limb that 
 follows the resolution may often be of the most trivial de- 
 scription, or, through the wonderful education which resides 
 
 2 A 
 
370 KNOWING AND FEELING : 
 
 in hatit, it may be performed, as we are accustomed to say, 
 almost automatically. If the child at first moves for the very 
 pleasure of movement, from the desire to reproduce the sen- 
 sations of touch and muscular contraction (the memory and 
 anticipation of such muscular sensations acting, it is supposed, 
 as a repetition of the original stimulus that passed from the 
 nerves of sense to the nerves of motion), it very soon has 
 ulterior objects for its variojis movements. It clutches at 
 some object of desire, and so well has habit done its office, 
 that the eye seems to direct the hand without a thought 
 being bestowed on the muscle, or on the individual move- 
 ments of the arm and the fingers. And again, the motives 
 that induce either the child or the man to clutch at an object 
 may be very different. The outward action may be the same 
 where the purposes are in flagrant contrast. A child grasps 
 the neck of the decanter to help itself to some tempting liquid, 
 the nurse grasps the same decanter to prevent the child from 
 drinking what would be deleterious to it. The meaning and 
 nature of the action comes to depend on the thought behind 
 it. A bridge has been carefully, laboriously, slowly built by 
 the subtle power of habit, between the consciousness of the 
 man and the physical world, and now what processions are 
 marshalled on the other side of the bridge ! The bridge 
 itself is scarcely considered. 
 
 A schoolboy moves a pen over a copy-book, and produces 
 his array of letters, good or bad. With very much the same 
 action of his hand, an emperor may abdicate his throne. 
 Vastly different actions, and the same trivial, customary 
 movement. Very often the movement that follows a long de- 
 liberation or important resolve, has no peculiar relation to the 
 thought or purpose. To a mere spectator, it would be quite 
 insignificant. To descend from our imperial altitude — and 
 to descend gently — let us suppose a member of Parliament 
 receiving an. offer to join the Ministry, to take office as we say, 
 
A CONTKIBUTION TO PSYCHOLOGY. 371 
 
 how gravely lie might deliberate, with what emotion he might 
 resolve ! Yet the resolution made, what does he do ? Per- 
 haps he rises gently from his seat, touches a bell, and de- 
 spatches a message, which has no apparent Connection with 
 the acceptance or refusal of ofl&ce. The resolution is all, the 
 ability to act on it is implied, and, therefore, it takes to itself 
 the name of will, which primarily embraced not only the 
 purpose but the external act itself. 
 
 More especially to him who has the purpose is the ability 
 to act in uniformity with it implied. Purpose includes some 
 anticipated action, it includes the confidence that this bridge 
 lies open between thought and movement. ISo wonder the 
 man says I will who as yet only anticipates action. 
 
 But there is another important fact to be taken notice of. 
 A purpose not only goes forth into action ; it influences our 
 trains of thought. We think under the influence of a purpose. 
 Purposes once formed, all our thinking, unless it be some 
 idle reverie, is controlled and prompted by them-. "We are 
 not able here to anticipate the very thought, as we can anti- 
 cipate the very movement which is next to he, but the pur- 
 pose rouses the mental activity, and keeps it circulating round 
 a given centre. The mechanical inventor, though he may be 
 walking abroad in the fields, where not a wheel or a cog can 
 anywhere be seen, is kept revolving in his mind aU manner 
 of combinations of wheelwork by his predominant purpose. 
 "Whatever may be our end in view, we are casting about for 
 means for its accomplishment. Por this reason it is said that 
 attention is voluntary. "We are looking or thinking energeti- 
 cally for some purpose, if it be only to know what manner of 
 thing lies before us, and in what respects it differs from other 
 things of similar kind. 
 
 Nor is this thinking for a purpose without its sentiment of 
 power, for although the thinker cannot anticipate the very 
 thought, as he can anticipate the very movement, that is next 
 
372 KNOWING AND FEELING : 
 
 to take its place in the series of events, he has learnt that 
 there is an influence of desire upon thought, he knows that 
 his wishing, here also, will be effective, and will, in some less 
 direct way, lead to the end he has in view. He tells you that 
 he has the power to concentrate his energies upon his subject, 
 and is not without some degree of confidence in the result. 
 The thinker has his sense of power as well as the acrobat, 
 though he cannot tell you so precisely what will be done. 
 
 Whether we give the name of will to this control which 
 desire or purpose has over the current of thought, or prefer 
 to describe this control as one amongst the laws of thought, 
 laws that regulate the sequence and permanence of our ideas, 
 — in either case the fact remains that we do marshal our 
 thoughts under the sway of any predomiuant purpose. This 
 is one sense of self-determination, as when we say that a man 
 has the power of determining his own character. 
 
 When science began to teach that all the forces or activities 
 that surround us in space are determined, as to their moment 
 of display, by relations to other forces or activities ; that no- 
 thing moves alone ; nothing originates its own movement or 
 arrests its own movement ; that everything acts in a pre-or- 
 dained order ; nay, that whatever we call thing or individual, 
 is some gathering together of pre-existent forms and activities, 
 and acts in its individuality only in ordered relation to other 
 individuals — men were prompted to ask, what then of human 
 thoughts and feelings which constitute the consciousness of 
 man? Does the same order prevail here? Do these also 
 come into existence, appear and disappear, according to some 
 established law ? And is this individuality which I call my- 
 self made up of divers elements, and does it act and live, as 
 such individuality, by strictly ordained relations with the 
 surrounding world of material forms and forces? Look 
 
A CONTRIBUTION TO PSTCHOLOGY. 373 
 
 atroad : the river, which lies and flows upon the earth, would 
 not he a river without its channel ; the earth is upheld by the 
 sun ; the smallest atom consists of parts and of divers forces, 
 and has its movements determined by other atoms. As for 
 living things, the plant is not only rooted in the soil, but 
 grows out of air, and water, and heat, and light, and depends 
 on a perpetual interchange of its very substance with the 
 surrounding world. For the animal, does it not feed upon 
 the vegetable, or on some other animal 1 How seK-contained 
 it seems as it darts hither and thither, runs or flies, seizing 
 upon its prey ! Yet the creature does not live an instant but 
 by the order or harmony of that greater whole of which it is 
 a part. Is man an individuality of this description ? Dis- 
 tinguished as he is from all other creatures, and the last 
 appearance in this region of space, is he not also a part of this 
 wondrous whole? And though we assign to him — to each 
 individual man — the indivisible soul we are all in imagination 
 so familiar with, is not this new entity itself reacted on by 
 the material instruments it is compelled to employ 1 These 
 nerves, this brain, are its slaves, and its tyrants also. They 
 receive impressions or modifications from the very work they 
 are engaged in, they grow this way or that by their very 
 activity (growth which we call habit), and will at length 
 perform work only of one kind. So the past comes to deter- 
 mine the present. In this, or some other way, man finds out 
 that there is within his own little kingdom of miud, or self, 
 an evolution, in which what has teen determines what will 
 be; determines it. to us, to our apprehension, who see only 
 the growth, and cannot dive down to the grower, whether of 
 the plant or the mind. 
 
 If this be so, the startling reflection occurs. What becomes 
 of our moral responsibility ? Do we not punish this or that 
 scoundrel in the firm faith that it depended on himself, at 
 every moment of his life, whether he would be a scoundrel or 
 
374 KNOWING AND FEELING : 
 
 not ? How can I continue to punish him, or to punisli him 
 ■with the same sense of justice, if I am to believe that he grew 
 into a scoundrel hy the laws of nature — laws somewhat more 
 complicate, but of the same kind that grow a tiger or a do- 
 mestic dog? And, moreover, if I myself am the person 
 punished, in what spirit am I to receive my punishment? 
 Good for the whole, you say. A necessity is imposed on 
 society to punish, and it is a necessity for me to submit. 
 Perhaps I may profit by it. But what of this sentiment of 
 remorse — of self- reproof? If crime was a misfortune or a 
 misery in some other man, it was but a misfortune and a 
 misery in me. 
 
 "What contribution have I to make towards a solution of 
 this old difficulty? 
 
 I would observe that this teaching of science, at some time 
 or other, came in as a new doctrine, that our passions and 
 sentiments had been adjusted without it, that it is not Ukely 
 that it should be received and not work some change in pre- 
 conceived ideas of justice or moral responsibility ; but that it 
 is very possible, when the whole truth stands out clear before 
 us, that the modifications made on our sense of justice may 
 be far from pernicious. 
 
 The universality of law appeared as a new doctrine. Those 
 who claimed for the human mind an exemption from the sway 
 of law, were also, to a certain extent, teaching a new doctrine. 
 It was not, therefore, on this position, "that man's mind or 
 man's will is free, while the rest of nature is under the bond- 
 age of law," that moral responsibility was founded. Such an 
 intellectual position could only be taken up after the teaching 
 of science. But what occurred was this : men looked at the 
 individual before them, saw him capable of self-movement, of 
 self-determination, and felt towards him as if he were the 
 veritable ultimate source of whatever injury or benefit came 
 from the man. They carried their thoughts no further. 
 
A CONTRIBUTION TO PSYCHOLOGY. 375 
 
 Eeign of law, or exemption from this reign, tad not been 
 heard of. Neither, when they contemplated themselves, did 
 they ask whence their desires or purposes ; but, conscious of 
 acting from these, rested in the thought that they were the 
 origin of their own deeds ; as in some sense they certainly 
 are. "With the teaching of science the individual, while re- 
 taining his individuality, is shown to be more and more 
 distinctly a part of a greater whole. The individual man is 
 not only part of that entirety we call the world j he is also 
 part of another we call society. The recognition of these 
 truths does and must modify the sentiment of justice that had 
 grown up before their advent ; and I add that such modifica- 
 tion, so far from being a cause of alarm or regret, is one that 
 takes its place in the order of human progress. 
 
 in. 
 
 The sentiment of moral responsibility is safe enough what- 
 ever betides. Let us look at the facts out of which it springs. 
 
 Man is, all his life, from infancy upwards, surrounded by 
 other human beings whose wants and desires conflict or har- 
 monise with his own. He is never free from this environ- 
 ment. He is prompted or controlled at every turn. Just as 
 we move, and attain our power of resistance from the pressure 
 and impact of foreign bodies, so do we love and hate and 
 attain our sense of freedom or self-assertion from the sym- 
 pathy, control, and resistance of other human beings. The 
 pressure and stimulant of this social medium is as necessary 
 to the growth of passion and intelligence as the pressure and 
 stimulant of the external world was to animal life itself. It 
 is no exaggeration to compare the two. 
 
 The child is, from the hour of its birth, under the control 
 and superintendence of others. Without such superintend- 
 ence it could not live. But it no sooner begins to move by 
 impulses and desires of its own than it manifests an opposi- 
 
376 KNOWING AND FEELING: 
 
 tion to the control. The little rebel, who has found that it 
 can move as it desires, refuses to move in any other way ; 
 and here, let me ohserve, is the very origin of our sentiment 
 of freedom. I move as I desire, is power ; T move as I desire 
 in opposition to the command or control of another, is free- 
 dom as well as power. That sentiment of freedom we have 
 to act upon in relation to our fellow- creatures has a social 
 origin. It did not spring from any theory ahout the freedom 
 of the will. It sprang from resistance to control. 
 
 Submission was good, but rebellion was better. The child 
 learnt self-assertion. Then afterwards, as iuteUigence and 
 affection are developed, it learns to forego its self-assertion. 
 A mere helpless submission becomes a voluntary obedience. 
 It chooses obedience. The moral sentiment is created. 
 
 Strange ! Even most intelligent men, like M. Joui&oy 
 and others, in arguing the question of the free wUl, plant 
 themselves on this fact of Choice, and hence contend for their 
 favourite doctrine. Indisputably we choose. But what is 
 choice 1 It is manifestly a very conspicuous instance of that 
 combination of passion and reason, of the intellectual and 
 emotional elements, which we say characterises the conscious- 
 ness throughout. In what the moralist calls choice the two 
 elements of judgment and passion are inseparably combined. 
 There is comparison, contrast, consequences inferred, and 
 there is that prevailing feeling, whatever it may be, which is 
 the essence of a preference. There is no idll to preside over 
 this choice, but this choice becomes itself will by its going 
 forth into action. It is the passion and judgment of the man 
 that together make his choice. His energy Ues in his passion. 
 
 My position as a psychologist is clear. If we are speaking 
 of action, wiU is the relation between thought and feeling 
 between a state of consciousness and some movement. To 
 describe this relation as being free is unintelligible language. 
 By a licence of speech we give the name will to the purpose 
 
A CONTEIBUTION TO PSYCHOLOGY. 377 
 
 alone. The purpose alone, tefore it is connected with action, 
 is a certain combtnation of thought and feeling. Then, to 
 say that such purpose is free, is simply to assert that thought 
 and feeliug, that the whole miad of man is free — that is, not 
 included in the general laws of the universe. Such assertion 
 may he made ; hut it is a far wider, and very different asser- 
 tion, than that which the advocate of free wUl is understood 
 to make. 
 
 I was ohserving that, whether we make such assertion or 
 not, moral responsibility must equally remain. Man is not 
 a solitary being ; he grows up, pressed on all sides by fellow- 
 creatures. He loves and hates, and has to rejoice or suffer 
 under the love and hatred of others. This coercion of -the 
 society on the individual is inevitable. It is exercised in 
 different manners at different times. The common purposes 
 of mankind vary. Many circumstances arise, modifying this 
 coercion of society ; as, for instance, the division of the com- 
 munity into several classes, whose interests, or common pur- 
 poses, are not identical. Nor are great philosophical truths 
 or doctrines without their influence. They may modify the 
 love or hate we entertain to each other. They may enlighten 
 us on what should be the common purposes of society. 
 "Where there is a common purpose, energetic and almost 
 unanimous, this coercion is at its height. But need I say 
 that no society could exist, not the poorest, scantiest hive of 
 human beings, without this control of all on each, and the 
 sentiment of moral responsibility which is the result of it? 
 
 Presuming we have arrived at the conclusion that mind and 
 matter, psychical as well as physical qualities, are all parts of 
 one stupendous scheme, parts of that harmonious whole we 
 ascribe to the Infinite Power, which again manifests itself to 
 us in that whole — ^presuming that some such philosophical 
 
378 KNOWING AND FEELING: 
 
 doctrine were generally accepted, what would be its influence 
 on our moral sentiments 1 
 
 I can well understand that a man with very vague notions 
 about desert and punishment might, on first becoming ac- 
 quainted with such a philosophy, be disposed to extract from 
 it an excuse for self-indulgence. He has offended some one, 
 who threatens punishment, and he pleads the necessity of 
 the case, that "he could not help it"— that, in short, his 
 passions were too strong to be controlled. Some such col- 
 loquy as the following might take place : — 
 
 " iut you could help it," the offended man might retort. 
 " You had the two courses of conduct placed before you, and 
 you chose this." 
 
 " Very true ; I chose. But then, as you know, I had cer- 
 tain habits and tastes, and but a certain amount of knowledge. 
 I could not choose otherwise." 
 
 " It was your duty not to let such habits and tastes, as 
 you call them, become predominant. It is the first purpose 
 of every intelligent man to form his own character ; you had 
 the power to watch over yourself, and to check your self- 
 indulgences." 
 
 " True again ; but you know as well as I do that I could 
 not exercise a supervision over my own habits and tastes, 
 with a view to the formation of my own character, unless I 
 had this very purpose of forming a character. My power 
 here is simply an acting or thinking under the influence of 
 such a purpose. Now no such purpose has ever grown up in. 
 me, or it has been a plant of an extremely feeble description. 
 I have been chiefly occupied with such chance pleasures — 
 they have been few enough — that came within -my reach. 
 You, I believe, have had this solemn purpose of forming a 
 character ; I congratulate you upon it ; in me it has not been 
 evolved." 
 
 Here the offended man will probably break off the col- 
 
A CONTRIBUTION TO PSYCHOLOGY. 379 
 
 loquy : — " All I can say is this," he will ultimately reply, 
 " that if you do it again I will so punish you that you will 
 choose hetter for the future." 
 
 And if this is an earnest threat it will very likely be effec- 
 tual, and lead to some better choice on the next occasion. It 
 may also lead our tyro in philosophy to some reflection on the 
 nature of punishment. Based on the past deed, its operation 
 is reaUy prospective. It stands between the past and the 
 future. It is, in short, an instrument of education ; a coarse 
 instrument, but indispensable. 
 
 Moreover, even the offended man, when his anger has 
 subsided, may gather something from such a colloquy. He, 
 too, will be led to reflect on the nature of vice and its punish- 
 ment. He knows that in some extreme cases society can 
 think only of self-defence. It either exterminates the criminal 
 or incarcerates him, just as we are compelled to shoot a tiger 
 or shut it in a cage. But these cases excepted, he too will 
 note that punishment is in its nature a mode of education, 
 and a mode not to be resorted to while there are other blander 
 or more effectual modes within reach. 
 
 "What gain could it be to any individual to relieve him 
 from punishment on the plea that passion and habit were too 
 strong for him, and that he "could not help it"? The more 
 need that society should come to his aid and help him " to 
 help it." What are any of us without the control of society 1 
 
 Look into the village school. Here is an idle boy who 
 lounges, and sulks, and slumbers over his book. In fact he 
 is fat, and lethargic in his temperament. A physiologist wiU 
 suggest good reasons for his indolence. He cannot help it. 
 Left to himself he cannot. But the schoolmaster comes to 
 his assistance, applies reproof, shames him in the eyes of 
 his fellow-pupils; if need be, appHes the cane. The boy 
 struggles through his task Thus stimulated, he becomes in- 
 telligent of something beyond marbles and peg-top. Would 
 
380 KNOWING AND FEELING: 
 
 it have been kindness, would it have 'been well, for him or 
 the community, if the plea " he could not help it " had been 
 listened to, and the lethargic temperament left in undisputed 
 Ijredominance 1 It was predominant, and for that reason, 
 doubtless much to his regret, the schoolmaster was compelled 
 to administer the sharp stimulant of the cane. 
 
 The notions afloat in the public mind about punishment 
 or criminal justice may receive some modification from our 
 philosophy, and with considerable advantage. As it is the 
 purpose or intention which is the great element in human 
 action, it is the purpose or intention we mainly look for 
 when we ask the question, whether a man deserves punish- 
 ment or not. And since we have not been accustomed to 
 proceed further in our inquiries, but have rested at this pur- 
 pose, we have naturally rested in th>^ idea of desert. "We 
 leave off with this feeling, that the man deserves the punish- 
 ment, as he really designed the act and the evil consequences 
 that followed from it. Apart from the consideration of the 
 deterring or educational effect of the punishment, the mind 
 receives a satisfaction from this feeling, that it was deserved. 
 It would not shock us to carry out the punishment irrespec- 
 tive of any good results to ensue from the punishment itself. 
 But if we push our inquiries into the origin of this purpose 
 that we punish, we may often find more room for compassion 
 than for anger. We find neglected education, unpropitious 
 circumstances, an inordinate appetite for pleasure, or a pitiful 
 instability, at the root of all. We become more and more 
 awake to the importance of early education, and speculate on 
 the kind of education that might compete with these dele- 
 terious influences. But on this account do we forego the 
 present punishment ? No ; but we administer it for such 
 good results as we hope may flow from it. We make the 
 discovery that a perfect punishment regards the past pur- 
 pose — punishes it — but punishes in order to aid the forma- 
 
A CONTEIBUTION TO PSYCHOLOGY. 381 
 
 tion of better purposes for the future. A merely retributive 
 punishment is discarded ; it must be also prospective in its 
 character. A perfect punishment, that which is really de- 
 sened, is that which is inflicted on what is tiaily a human 
 action, a purposed deed, and inflicted with the design of 
 preventing such purpose for the future. A just punishment 
 stands between the past and the future — the past is judged ; 
 the character of the act is discriminated, and it is further 
 punished for the improvement of the criminal himself, if 
 possible ; but, at all events, for the prevention of the recur- 
 rence of such acts. 
 
 Public punishments, such as are administered by the laws, 
 are administered by the whole society, by the whole com- 
 munity, for its own interest and self-preservation. I have 
 heard it asked. Why should a man be pujiished as an example 
 far others — why should he be sacrificed to the good of 
 society % Aud thereupon I have heard the querist endeavour 
 to satisfy himself by some eternal fitness between punish- 
 ment and crime. The culprit deserved, and therefore he was 
 punished. The culprit deserves no punishment at all, unless 
 you can prove, fiist, that he committed the crime ; and, in 
 the second place, that the punishment of it is for the good of 
 society. It is precisely this very element of the good of all 
 that makes the punishment a righteous punishment, that 
 makes it deserved, that makes it justice, and not mere re- 
 venge. The man punished is one of the all. Would he 
 renounce this solidarity ? 
 
 But under our philosophy it is said the criminal wDl not 
 judge himself so severely as he was wont to do. Men will be 
 apt to be self-indulgent. Eemorse will die out. Here, I 
 have to observe that the standard of moral perfection that 
 men propose to themselves must depend on the existing de- 
 velopment of intelligence and affection. It can depend on 
 nothing else. Philosophy or science does nothing to check 
 
382 KNOWING AND FEELING : 
 
 this development. As to this peculiar sentiment of remorse, 
 some modification here may weU be admitted. As in punish- 
 ing a criminal we put ourselves between the past and the 
 future, punish the deed done to secure a hatter doing for the 
 future, so we must desire the criminal also to put himself 
 between the past and the future, to reproach himseK for the 
 deed done, and at the same moment resolve on better life for 
 the future. "We have no desire that he should inflict misery 
 on himself j that leads to no good result. If it were possible 
 for him to rest wholly in his remorse for ' the past, the senti- 
 ment would be of no avail. Penitence that leads to better 
 life is the noblest of sentiments ; but it is noble in propor- 
 tion as the sad penitent directs his steps to wiser courses. 
 A remorse that shuts a man up. for self-torture does not com- 
 mend itself to us. " You have done wrong ; you know it 
 and you feel it ; go now and do right ; show your sorrow in 
 your better life." That is the language we expect to hear 
 from the lips of intelligent men. Eemorse that contemplates 
 any other expiation than the better life for the future leads 
 to superstitious practices. Again and again has society wit- 
 nessed this spectacle : men and women have had remorse, 
 have expiated their vices by some self-torture, some retribu- 
 tive punishment self-inflicted, and gone back into society 
 ready to reproduce the same vices. There is no expiation 
 for an old crime but a new virtue. 
 
 The sentiment of moral responsibility, or the moral senti- 
 ment, passes through many phases. At first it is plainly the 
 fear of punishment attached to some voluntary or purposed 
 action. Then the kind of punishment that is feared begins 
 to change ; we fear disgrace more than bodily pain. After- 
 wards the boy or youth undertakes to be himseK a judge of 
 others ; sees himself less frequently in the place of ciJprit ; 
 delights to put himself in the judgment-seat. He thinks 
 with the multitude, or with some class or body to which he 
 
A CONTRIBUTION TO PSYCHOLOGY. 383 
 
 belongs ; he pronounces judgment in their name. Of course 
 he has to commend the same chalice to his own lips that, in 
 the name of such society, he has offered to others. With 
 maturer iateUect he comes to understand how individuals 
 grow each in his own environment ; he becomes more toler- 
 ant of the criminal, less tolerant of the crime ; he wants to 
 attack this last in every way imaginable — stifle it, if possible, 
 in its birth. Morality takes the shape of a great desire — 
 desire of excellence in others and in himself — desire of a 
 completed society to be obtained only by the co-operation of 
 each member of- it. For such is the nature of the human 
 hive. It forms the individual, yet itself is only an assem- 
 blage of individuals, each leading his own intelligent and 
 passionate existence. Add, too, that such desire is sustained 
 by the knowledge that it is shared with other minds around 
 him, who will esteem and love him in proportion as he pos- 
 sesses and acts upon it ; sustained also by the knowledge 
 that it is one with the laws of God. 
 
 Surely to believe that God has created a world which 
 progresses in part through the progressive purposes of man, 
 wlU not check the growth of such purposes. 
 
 To resume. Will, in its primitive significance, is the 
 relation between the psychical and physical properties of 
 man. Movement and sensation are found blended together, 
 we presume even in the brain. But we enter into a know- 
 ledge of this union only through the movement of the 
 limbs ; nor can we proceed further back in our intro- 
 spection, than the consciousness of our limbs moving at 
 the call of sensation or desire. Endeavouring to trace 
 the earlier stages of the growth of a definite case of 
 wUl, we assume that at first the infant would move from 
 
384 KNOWING AND FEELING: 
 
 some sense of uneasiness, by a purely physiological connec- 
 tion between that sense of uneasiness and a given movement ; 
 or that there is a direct connection between our organs of 
 perception and specific movements. Some experiences, 
 founded on these physiological facts, must have preceded a 
 definite desire to move, because such a desire implies the 
 knowledge that movement follows our feelings and percep- 
 tions. It is an emotional anticipation of the movement that 
 directly leads to it. Such emotional anticipation is itself 
 only a combination of thought and feeling ; the movement 
 of the limb ensues ; the combination of these two is a case 
 of will. 
 
 If by any means a conviction is introduced into the mind 
 that you cannot move, you will be unable to move volun- 
 tarily ; because the anticipation of movement is an essential 
 part of the process, and you are prevented from forming the 
 anticipation. Thus a weak or idiotic person might be per- 
 suaded by another that he could not move his arm, and 
 while under that persuasion a voluntary movement of the 
 arm would be impossible. People under the mesmeric in- 
 fluence are said to be reduced to the requisite state of idiocy, 
 and to be capable of receiving such a conviction. I do not 
 speak to this fact myself ; I merely observe that, if it be a 
 fact, the explanation of it is at hand. In the mesmeric 
 exhibitions that I have witnessed, the lads who were told 
 that they could not rise from their seats, and were thereupon 
 seen to writhe with unavailing efibrt, seemed to me to play 
 their parts only too well. Mere immobility, which I pre- 
 sume would have been the effect of such genuine convictions, 
 would have told nothing to the spectators. So the lads 
 grimaced and writhed. But if so much of the old accustomed 
 conviction was left as to enable them to perform such con- 
 tortions, one suspects they might have carried their move- 
 ments a little further. 
 
A CONTEIBUTION TO PSYCHOLOGY. 385 
 
 Let us take some complete and finished instance of volun- 
 tary motion — say a trained youth in his athletic exercises. 
 He is putting the stone. He chooses his position, plants his 
 feet firm upon the earth, and at such distance from each 
 other as to give him the surest support ; his hack is arched, 
 his chest expanded to afford fullest play to the muscles ; he 
 raises the stone in hoth hands. All these preliminary move- 
 ments foUow each other, or group themselves together, with 
 scarce a thought hestowed upon them. There was a time 
 when they were separate acquisitions, practised with conscious 
 care, and with that degree oi pain which attends upon new 
 movements, and which enters largely into what is called 
 sense of effort when new movements are being learnt. Now 
 they fall as readily into their place as words in our ordinary 
 language. They are, indeed, a kind of expression of him- 
 self, of his thought or purpose. He next fixes his eye on 
 some imaginary spot to which he means to hurl his massive 
 stone, and with one last passionate resolve that contracts 
 every muscle in his frame, he dismisses it from his hands. 
 What next ensues ? He sees it flying through the air ; he 
 sees it half hury itself in the earth, or scatter the soil where 
 it falls. Such perception of form, and motion, and resistance 
 overcome, such knowledge of the force which it has dis- 
 played, enter rapidly into his mind. That force of the stone 
 is carried back to the arm that propelled it, to the passion 
 that nerved the arm ! 
 
 But manifestly the passion, and the arm so nerved or 
 stimulated, cannot be separated in the last conception he 
 forms of what moved the stone. If in popular 'language he 
 says it was his will that did it, he never, in the term will, 
 separates the psychical property, the purpose, the passion, 
 from the bodily force. He unites the two in this one con- 
 venient word, will. 
 
 "We fall into a mistake if (speaking of voluntary motion) 
 
 2 B 
 
386 KNOWING AND FEELING : 
 
 we take this convenient word will, and express by it some 
 simple and peculiar psychical quality. It was framed to ex- 
 press a union of soul and hody — the passion-contracted arm — 
 but the psychical part of the business usurps the name to itself. 
 
 This it does very conspicuously when the movement, or 
 series of movements that we perform, is not the main object 
 of our contemplation, or when the action, whatever it may 
 be, is still at a distance. Here popular language applies the 
 term will to the resolution itself And here it is evident 
 that we can have nothing before us but the elements of 
 thought and passion. Such terms as resolution and deter- 
 mination obtain a peculiar significance from the persistence 
 of the thought and passion, and also from a feeling of oppo- 
 sition to whatever would resist or change it. 
 
 A contemplated action can be nothing but a thought. 
 Often the action, so far as bodUy movement is concerned, is 
 of a very trivial character. It may be the utterance of a 
 few words, a yes or a no. The resolution of the Christian 
 martyr was to abstain from saying " I, recant," or from 
 throwing a few grains of incense before the statue of an 
 emperor. But such abstinence was followed by death. And 
 friends and enemies implored and threatened in order to 
 shake his resolution. But in vain. The martyr had one 
 persistent purpose — to be faithful to his God. In the alter- 
 native placed before him he chose death. 
 
 What grand things have been said by poets and orators of 
 this unshaken resolve ! The man you cannot terrify, or 
 flatter, or persuade, if he really have a great purpose, and 
 power to accomplish it, is indeed one of the sublimest objects 
 we can contemplate. The author of that noble poem, ' The 
 Spanish Gypsy,' makes one of her characters say — 
 
 "You may divide the universe with God, 
 Keeping your will intact, and hold a world 
 Where He is not supreme." 
 
A CONTRIBUTION TO PSYCHOLOGY. 387 
 
 The stoic bent on doing what is good and right in defiance 
 of the multitude, in defiance of his own seK-regarding 
 passions, attains, it is generally believed, the culminating 
 point of human greatness. The greatness lies plainly in the 
 purpose, the thought and passion of the man. 
 
 It is worth a remark that we sometimes expect that the 
 resolution or choice of a virtuous man should be sudden, 
 instantaneous, without a moment's hesitation. On other 
 occasions we demand deliberation, and only approve the 
 choice that follows on deliberation. If a man of honour is 
 asked to tell a falsehood, we should be disappointed if he 
 did not at once reject the proposal ; we expect that from the 
 settled habit of his mind he wiU dismiss it at once, not 
 without some feeling of scorn or anger that it should have 
 been made. But if some arduous and diflS.cult enterprise is 
 proposed to him, we expect that he should deliberate before 
 he returns an answer ; because a wise man would carefully 
 abstain from committing himseK to what might be beyond 
 his power to accomplish, because only light and feather- 
 brained men would rush heedlessly on a difficult enterprise, 
 because the resolution that is expected from him is one that 
 must embrace all the probable dangers ahead. Time for 
 reflection and deliberation there must be in such a case. No 
 fitting resolution could else be formed. 
 
 But the choice that follows deliberation, and the choice 
 that is sudden as lightning, are ultimately resolvable into 
 the same elements of judgment and feeling, or, as we popularly 
 express them, of reason and passion. 
 
 Do you wish to believe that this ever-varying and pro- 
 gressive movement of thought and feeling wells forth arbi- 
 trarily from your own mind ? Are you reluctant to be the 
 creature, ambitious to be creator? Do you wish to make 
 these fine lines just quoted — beautiful as poetry — literally 
 true, and have a universe of your own — 
 
388 IfNOWING AND FEELING: 
 
 "A world 
 Where He is not supreme " ? 
 
 It seems that all our lines of thought bring us from the 
 natural to the supernatural, bring us to that Absolute Being 
 and Power on which all nature rests. We move, and live, 
 and have our being in God. We exist as part' of His uni- 
 verse. This is what I presume is meant when we say that 
 " in Him we live, and move, and have our being.'' 
 
A CONTRIBUTION TO PSYCHOLOGY. 389 
 
 PAET III. 
 
 SPECULATIVE THOUGHT. 
 
 Philosophy is one of those words whicli have traversed 
 various epochs of mental development, and have come down, 
 to us with different significations not strictly compatible with 
 each other. Such words defy definition. In the general 
 use of them the old and the new significations are both pre- 
 served. For an old meaning does not instantly drop off 
 when a new meaning comes in ; both continue to live as 
 -long as possible together. In such cases there are, in fact, 
 two or more loords to the mind, while there is only one to 
 the ear or the eye, and it depends on the cohtext which 
 word the writer is using. Any wisdom or knowledge above 
 that of the multitude has passed by the name of Philosophy, 
 whether it was moral, or religious, or scientific in its character. 
 It was Philosophy that taught a man to rise above the tribu- 
 lations of life. It was Philosophy that taught him to rise 
 above life itself, above ordinary knowledge, into the fancied 
 empyrean of the pure intellect. It was Philosophy that 
 taught him to know the "causes of things;" meaning there- 
 by what we now call the " order of phenomena." Originally 
 it embraced science, and if we open a history of Philosophy, 
 we find ourselves conducted back to the hypothesis of Thales, 
 that water was the aU-forming, all-sustaining element. Even 
 in times close at hand, it was customary to speak of the 
 
390 KNOWING AND FEELING : 
 
 philosophy of Ifewton. At tlie present moment our most 
 careful writers define the word by its contrast with science. 
 The aims and the method of science being determined, a 
 kind of thinking that lies outside of these shall be de- 
 nominated Philosophy or Speculative Thought. Questions 
 which science cannot resolve, or which at present it makes 
 no attempt to resolve, are relegated to this category. Such 
 are the questions we ask about the Absolute, or Uncondi- 
 tioned Existence, or the Pirst Cause of aU things ; such are 
 the questions we ask about the nature of mind, regarded as 
 a substance, and the whence and whither of the human soul. 
 These questions lie at the basis of religion. And if the 
 future of the individual mind may be regarded as a fit sub- 
 ject of speculative thought, the future of this human terres- 
 trial society may be inserted in the same Hst. One can 
 hardly say that science has made herself complete mistress 
 of this territory. "We stiU debate what is the ideal of a 
 perfect human society — what is the ideal to which we are 
 tending, and the realisation of which should be the aim of 
 successive generations. While this debate lasts, our Sociology 
 cannot be altogether abstracted from the region of Speculative 
 Thought. 
 
 I use the term Philosophy in this modern and restricted, 
 but stiU somewhat vague, sense. Striking as the contrast is 
 between it and science on some subjects, there are others in 
 which this distinction grows fainter and fainter as we 
 examine it. Philosophy, in its best aspects, may be but 
 science in the making; — a very slow making, it will be 
 added. I include in it certain well-known theological and 
 social problems; some that concern the nature of the in- 
 dividual man, and some that concern that organised whole, 
 the human society, which has its own progressive move- 
 ment. 
 
A CONTEIBUTION TO PSYCHOLOGY. . 391 
 
 At all events, in this present era in 'which we live, there 
 is a field of inquiry called Philosophy, in which no man steps 
 forward to teach, as he would teach in any department of 
 science, as he would teach a system of astronomy or chem- 
 istry. No man can here present himself as the interpreter of 
 a system of truths and doctrines which, whether complete or 
 not, is the scientific creed of all his contemporaries who have 
 studied the subject, the scientific creed, let us say, with some 
 few diversities, of every university in the world. In this 
 region of inquiry professor is arrayed against professor, and 
 one eminent authority is neutralised by another authority 
 equally eminent. Every teacher is therefore compelled to 
 come before us with the results of his own personal inquisi- 
 tions, with convictions which he himself has wrought out 
 with infinite toil ; working his way, he also, from the very 
 beginning, both aided and embarrassed at every step by the 
 thoughtful utterances of his conflicting predecessors. It is 
 not necessary that he should claim to have a philosophy of 
 his own (in the sense of having an original system) ; but he, 
 and indeed all men who are concerned in the study, must 
 shape the scheme they finally adopt by their own labours. 
 They cannot learn it as they might their botany. They have 
 to choose their theory of the universe out of several thrown 
 before them. 
 
 Choose we must ; we can hold a scheme of doctrine on no 
 other conditions. The philosopher invites us to the discussion 
 of questions that are not decided, on which each thinker must 
 come to a decision for himself. Herein lies the troubled 
 charm, the deep delight, and the peculiar mental discipline 
 of philosophic studies. Science tasks the intellect of the 
 student, and tasks it severely ; but so far as he is a student 
 only, and not a discoverer, tasks it only in the apprehension 
 
392 KNOWING AND FEELING : 
 
 of what another teaches. But in Philosophy every student 
 is compelled, not indeed to he a discoverer, hut to be a judge, 
 and a judge in the last resort of whatever claims to be a dis- 
 covery or a truth. There is here no arrogance iu deciding against 
 the highest authority, for, choose which camp you will, you 
 are sure to find great champions arrayed against you, with 
 whom individually you would blush to compare yourself. 
 The most modest student finds himself in the place of a judge 
 before whom great advocates plead; he is bent on learning 
 from them all he can, but at last he has to " take the papers 
 home," and there decide the point. 
 
 It is a high, and solemn, and somewhat painful self-reli- 
 ance which Philosophy imposes. In other studies I am one 
 of the school ; I enter and take my place m some social group ; 
 I step with light-hearted alacrity into a heritage of truths 
 which have been gradually evolved by a succession of enter- 
 prising, laborious intellects. But here I am, against my will, 
 isolated, individualised, compelled to begin the work again 
 from the beginning, as if I were some solitary architect bridg- 
 ing chaos for the first time. Or let us say there are so many 
 bridges, all of dubious security, and some mere wrecks and 
 ruins, out of whose fragments you are invited to build afresh. 
 You have neither ambition nor power to originate a philo- 
 sophy — you would so willingly know the truth on much 
 easier terms ; but it cannot be ; you must at least choose your 
 teacher, choose your guide ; if you are capable of imphcit 
 faith, and desire only to submit to the Aristotle or the Plato 
 of the day, you must stiU choose one out of several candi- 
 dates for the spiritual supremacy ; you must, at last, be shut 
 up apart, like cardinals in their cells, to elect, from your soli- 
 tude, the one Infallible. 
 
 We hear Philosophy condemned because of its uncertainty. 
 How often lately have its three thousand years of obstinate 
 questionings been contrasted with the onward march of 
 
A CONTRIBUTION TO PSYCHOLOGY. 393 
 
 science ! But if Philosophy were certain it would heoome 
 science, and cease to be Philosophy. Philosophy lies on the 
 confines between night and morning ; it is a perpetual dawn ; 
 it cannot also be the light of day. Science advances her 
 boundary, extends her lines, her circumvallations, but where- 
 soever we overlook her ramparts there we encounter Philo- 
 sophy. Whether it is desirable that there should be an 
 arena where light and darkness contend together — an arena 
 •of thought where men of equal knowledge and equal power 
 of apprehension see so differently — I cannot venture to de- 
 termine. One would naturally say. Give us certainty, give 
 us truth, or at all events that universal conviction that passes 
 for truth ; give us universal science. Let it be all science ! 
 Away with this chaotic, cloud-encumbered region of specula- 
 tive thought, this alternation of doubt and faith ! Well, the 
 prayer may be wise or not — may be one day granted or not ; 
 but such is not at present the intellectual condition of man- 
 kind. There exists for us this field of inquiry in which the 
 reflective man of every generation is invited to exercise, in 
 solitary, self-reliant manner, the utmost power of thought 
 that is in him. And what seems strange, it is precisely in 
 this field of inquiry that he meets those problems which wear 
 the most momentous aspect to him — ^problems of God and 
 his own soul, and in later times, of the future of collective 
 humanity. Yes, and our speculative thoughts, though you 
 call them but the mists of the morning, are amongst the most 
 practical realities of life; for laws and governments, and the 
 moral tone of society, are affected by them in a surprising 
 manner. So that if the individual thinker were ready to 
 forego a fruitless search, ready to resign what he may have 
 brought himself to regard as a morbid curiosity, a mere tur- 
 bulent desire for knowledge where knowledge is not attain- 
 able, society would not willingly permit the resignation. 
 Such has been the craving for certaiuty, where certainty has 
 
394 KNOWING AND FEELING: 
 
 not been granted, that the philosopher has again and again 
 turned priest, and converted into a divine oracle the sugges- 
 tions of his troubled soul. Perhaps it seemed to him inspired 
 by Heaven. By this device has he not transformed the 
 morning mist, a changeful exhalation of the earth, into the 
 eternal rock t And the device has succeeded for a time. But 
 by-and-by the spirit of inquiry^ — rebelling against the mys- 
 terious authority that would repress it — was sure to revive. 
 Some rival philosopher, as ardent perhaps for intellectual 
 freedom, as his predecessor for intellectual and moral govern- 
 ment, breaks the charm. The rock becomes mist again. "We 
 must shape it into new forms ; perhaps — ^who knows ? — into 
 forms better suited to the coming time. 
 
 I remarked at the outset of these papers that one of the 
 earliest topics the psychologist has to encounter — perception, 
 or our knowledge of the external world — led him, whether he 
 desired it or not, into the speculative region assigned to 
 metaphysics. He is compelled to ask himself, what is the 
 nature of that matter we say we know ? what is the nature 
 of that mind which we say knows or perceives 1 And on the 
 answer he gives to these questions may depend the whole 
 character of his philosophy. He may take up his position, 
 so to speak, in the individual consciousness, regarding the 
 external world as, in fact, the phenomena of his own mind, 
 a production caused, in part, it may be, by something in 
 space, but stUl a production of his own, in which his know- 
 ledge begins and ends. Or, if he believes in the independent 
 existence of material forms, and their movements in space, 
 he may find his point of departure out of himself, he may 
 advance from these primary existences or facts, through the 
 successive stages of a world-development, up to the human 
 mind, or, more properly speaking, up to man, since the indi- 
 
A CONTRIBUTION TO PSYCHOLOGY. 395 
 
 vidua! will probably be to him a complex of physical, vital, 
 and psychical properties. 
 
 I venture to ask the reader to accompany me for a few 
 steps in. this region of speculative thought ; so far, at least, 
 as to determine which of these two methods, or points of 
 departure, we should adopt ; whether we should interpret aU 
 nature from the conscious man, or whether the man himself 
 is not the last and greatest individuality produced by the 
 gathered forces of nature — forces and their relations which 
 some of us make bold to describe as due to the power and 
 intelligence of God. 
 
 Although I have ateady touched upon the nature of our 
 knowledge of the material world, I must unavoidably resume 
 the topic. It is just this knowledge that extends and assumes 
 new phases, and becomes all our science and half our philo- 
 sophy. And the psychological perplexity in which it lies 
 involved is a hindrance to our path. Moreover, it so 
 happens that this psychological perplexity has been lately 
 revived amongst us by some of our most eminent thinkers. 
 Have we any knowledge of things in themselves, or of things 
 as they exist independently of the percipient? Or is what 
 we call our knowledge mere phenomena or appearances, bred 
 of sensation alone ? 
 
 To many the question itself will appear absurd, such con- 
 fident belief have they in the independent existence of mate- 
 rial forms and movements. " I can understand," they would 
 say, " or, at all events, I can aspire to understand this pro- 
 position — that the whole world is dependent on the power and 
 intelligence of God : that it is, in some way, inconceivable to 
 me, the manifestation in space of such power and iutelli- 
 gence ; that it exists, but is not seZ/-existent. The distinc- 
 tion is hard to seize, but I will do my best to apprehend it. 
 But if you tell me that what I seem to know as existing in 
 space is merely a manifestation of my own intelligence, or 
 
396 KNOWING AND FEELING: 
 
 some phantasmagoria of the senses, I revolt at the proposition. 
 Surely there was a world in space, sun and earth, and innu- 
 merable activities, harmonised and progressive, before man 
 came upon the scene. WiU you tell me, with the late Pro- 
 fessor of St Andrews, that the world cum me is the only 
 intelligihU world, the only world (I presume must be meant) 
 in which order reigns supreme 1 Or will you teU. me, with 
 the present Professor of Aberdeen, that all my knowledge is 
 but knowledge of my own sensations — the cause of such sen- 
 sations being utterly withdrawn from me — that I have, in 
 fact, no knowledge at all, only synchronous or successive 
 sensations, their memories and their anticipations? I wiU 
 try to conceive of the world — and will thank you if you 
 can here assist my conceptions — as the act, or innumerable 
 acts of one Being, whom I know as the source of aU. move- 
 ment, force, order, and harmony. But some of these activi- 
 ties were put forth before others. There is an order in their 
 appearance. I, as an individual, was a body before I was a 
 soul. The earth in its individuality underwent many changes 
 before it was the vegetable-bearing and animal-bearing earth, 
 which it is at present. What is to become of Astronomy 
 and Geology, or Physiology itself, if I know nothing of mate- 
 rial forms and movements, nothing of laws mechanical or 
 chemical — know nothing but my own sensations and their 
 laws of sequence and combination ? " 
 
 With some such indignant protest many will dismiss the 
 controversy at once. But however true it may be that science, 
 as well as common-sense, demands the conviction of a world 
 of matter and motion existing independently of us the per- 
 cipients of it, this conviction has been and is stUl disputed 
 by metaphysicians of more than one school of thought. This 
 fundamental faith, as some have termed it, has been disputed 
 in our own days, and by men of scientific culture. It must 
 be a perplexity worth our while to investigate ; which men of 
 
A CONTRIBUTION TO PSYCHOLOGY. 397 
 
 highly-trained intellects, our own contemporaries, throw in 
 our path. It is a perplexity, moreover, of old standing, and 
 lies across the threshold of philosophy. 
 
 The perplexity is this. On one hand stands the obstinate 
 invincible conviction that solid forms exist and move in 
 space. On the other hand, it is triumphantly asked, What 
 is your solid form 1 As the coloured form is acknowledged 
 to be only your sensation of light, taking this appearance in 
 space, so the solid form must be allowed to be only your 
 own sensation of touch assuming, directly or indirectly, 
 some localisation in space. If the form is resolvable into 
 touch or vision, the solidity is especially resolvable into 
 certain muscular sensations. You cannot begin with know- 
 ing that there is some body in outer space, and then attach 
 to that body your muscular feeling of resistance ; you must 
 start from this muscular feeling. The solid form is this com- 
 bination of tactual and muscular sensations. How it is that 
 many and various sensations come through some function of 
 the brain to assume the character of presentations or per- 
 ceptions,' may at present be but dimly understood. But it is 
 evident that your perceptions are, in their ultimate analysis, 
 your own sensations, and it is equally evident that your 
 knowledge of matter is reducible to these perceptions. How, 
 then, can you possibly claim a knowledge of matter, such as 
 it is, apart from you the percipient 1 
 
 If it is said that these perceptions represent realities, the 
 answer is ready. How can we know that they represent any- 
 thing ? A picture represents a thing because we know the 
 so-called thing, and see the imitation of it. But if the pre- 
 sentation is all that we have, if things and their imitations, 
 and aU the universe are but, in fact, these presentations — how 
 can we get behind or beyond them 1 We must rest in them. 
 
 The perplexity seems irremovable. And so it is while the 
 premisses here assumed are conceded. They cannot be con- 
 
398 KNOWING AND FEELING : 
 
 ceded. Sensation, 'wMch in itself is a pleasure or a pain, 
 cannot be all tiiere is in perception, in that presentation, or 
 ideation, wh-ich no mortal disputes. That spreading out of 
 our sensations in space, into forms, which, however brought 
 about, is an indisputable fact, is but another name for the 
 perception of the relation of position. Localisation is im- 
 possible with one position only, it is the relation perceived 
 or apprehended between two or more points in space. For 
 this reason I prefer to speak of it as a judgment rather than 
 an idea. The idea of space enters in a concrete of sensations 
 and judgment. The pure idea of space is a subsequent 
 abstraction. In the simplest perception there is the intel- 
 lectual element of judgment. 
 
 Again, this analysis of solidity is manifestly defective. In 
 addition to the muscular sensations here spoken of, there is 
 the relation perceived between these forms, their changes of 
 position, their movements, and mutual repulsions — perceived 
 relations which, in other words, are our ideas of force or 
 activity. In perception hy the hand, the moving hand is one 
 body, and the other body is brought to our knowledge partly 
 by the contrast apprehended between it and empty space ; it 
 is at first that part of space where the movement of the hand 
 is impeded, and where also those sensations arise which come 
 to be a measure of the resistance. In perception by the sight, 
 the body, or form, external to our own, is at once given to the 
 consciousness. Solidity is the resistance between form and 
 form, converting form into body. Or it may be described as 
 that space-occupancy which we infer to be permanent here 
 and there and everywhere around us, as a necessary condition 
 of such resistance. 
 
 I do not speak of these sense-forms as representing realities ; 
 I say that in the evolution of thought they become, or usher 
 in a knowledge of realities. The relations of position, of 
 movement, of resistance — these impose on them an objective 
 
A CONTKIBUTION TO PSYCHOLOGY. 399 
 
 character. Our own sensations, wliich ushered in all this 
 knowledge, we are afterwards able to separate from forms 
 which uphold themselves in our consciousness by virtue of 
 these relations. The forms belong to space, the movements 
 belong to the forms, which now define each other by their 
 reciprocal activities. 
 
 Some psychologists introduce at the earliest epochs of our 
 consciousness an intuitive idea of causation. Our sensations 
 have a cause from without, and this cause is our matter. It 
 is a violent supposition which I do not find it necessary to 
 make. Some image or presentation is first given by the 
 senses and the intellect, in the manner I have described, 
 and this is regarded as cause of our sensations. It is only 
 the scientific or reflective mind that makes a clear distinction 
 between matter as the cause of our sensations, and matter as 
 it comes to us clothed in these very sensations of which we 
 say it is the cause. The infant knows the external thing as 
 a hindrance to the movement of its limbs, as a support to its 
 own body, as something it strikes on with its Httle fist. 
 But the impediment to motion excites its muscular sensa- 
 tions, and the support, or the thing struck, may give pleasure 
 or pain, be soft or hard. What it would call the cause of 
 its sensations would be just the concrete perception made up 
 in part of those very sensations. 
 
 So far, then, from being unable to think a material world 
 independent of ourselves as percipients, this is the only 
 world we do think of. We make mistakes. The unreflec- 
 tive man thinks that colour belongs to the object in space. 
 He corrects his mistake, and thinks his objective world 
 without the colour. But to get a clear notion of this inde- 
 pendent world is the aim he constantly puts before himself. 
 
 Yet it is just this mode of thinking that some of our 
 subtlest contemporaries deny to be possible. Mr Bain 
 cautions us against any such attempt. In making it he 
 
400 KNOWING AND FEELING : 
 
 says, ""We are affirming that to have an existence out of the 
 mind which we cannot know hut as in our mind. In words 
 we assert independent existence, while in the very act of 
 doing so we contradict ourselves. Even a possible world 
 implies a possible mind to perceive it, just as much as an 
 actual world implies an actual mind to perceive it.'' It is 
 indisputably true that the conscious man must find every- 
 thing, so to speak, in his own consciousness. But he finds 
 space and time there-^that is, he thinks them ; and when he 
 thinks things as verily belonging to space, and thinks them 
 as acting upon each other, he must inevitably think them as 
 independent of himself His consciousness is just this 
 mode of thinking. If, indeed, the forms which he per- 
 ceives in space are proved to be only his own sensations, he 
 takes them back from outer space ; he has detected the 
 delusion ; his sensations cannot be the space-occupants he 
 thought he had perceived. But forms that support each 
 other in his consciousness by their reciprocal attractions, 
 movements, and repulsions, can be thought of only in one 
 way — namely, as belonging to space, and independent of the 
 percipient. 
 
 But all is delusion ! — thought as well as sense. So some 
 have exclaimed. Space itself is purely subjective. Intellect, 
 or judgment, or idea, as well as sensibility, is but some 
 activity of mind, whatever mind may be. 
 
 That, again, is very true. Knowledge is some activity 
 of mind, whatever mind may be. Knowledge of form and 
 motion is something totally different from form and motion 
 themselves. I cannot get further than my knowledge. 
 Neither can I escape from my knowledge. Universal 
 scepticism is impossible, because it is impossible for a 
 living conscious man not to think, and to think is to have 
 such and such truths or convictions before us. What is 
 meant by calling space subjective? It is, of course, my 
 
A CONTRIBUTION TO PSYCHOLOGY. 401 
 
 thought, but the nature of the thought cannot he altered by 
 this new name. There is but one possible mode of thinking 
 space and its contents. The relations apprehended between 
 space and the space-occupant, and between the space-occu- 
 pants themselves, these I cannot escape from, and these are 
 tantamount to a conviction of the reality of things. 
 
 Mr Bain would pronounce us very obtuse for not perceiv- 
 ing that solidity is nothing hut a muscular sensation ; I am 
 sure that the majority of his critics will pronounce that a 
 psychology which leads him to such a paradoxical result, 
 must somewhere be defective. In his theory, and in Mr 
 MUl's, there is no other known property of what we call 
 matter than the property of exciting sensations in us. There- 
 fore we cannot think a world but in relation to ourselves. 
 But if we can think this property, this relation (I am not 
 quite clear whether one of these philosophers would even 
 grant so much) — but if we can think this property we can 
 also think other properties, other relations, those between 
 matter and matter, and thinking these we think a world that 
 upholds itself independently of us. We believe that Cal- 
 cutta exists — so many houses, so many people, bodies ani- 
 mate and inanimate, a city we may go to see ; we do not 
 merely believe that if we cross the ocean we shall have a 
 certain series or collection of sensations to be called Calcutta. 
 And so of the ocean we cross, — its property of fluidity is not 
 merely some sensation of ours, it is essentially a relationship 
 between the solid and the fluent matter. And what of 
 motion? If we see a thing in motion, and then shut our 
 eyes, and afterwards open them again when the thing is in 
 another part of the earth or sky, do we not believe in the 
 absolute motion of the thing ? Do we merely believe this, 
 that if we had kept our eyes open we should have continued 
 to see it move ? 
 
 I beg to observe that it is not to any tribunal of instinct 
 2 C 
 
402 KNOWING AND FEELING : 
 
 or common-sense that I would carry this question. It is our 
 latest conceptions of matter, and not our earliest, to which. 
 I would appeal. It required some advance in the science of 
 optics, and some knowledge of the organ of sight, before it 
 could he clearly understood that colour had in fact no exist- 
 ence in the object — that so far as the object or the inorganic 
 world is concerned, it is a peculiar movement. And it seems 
 to have required some reflection before force or momentum, 
 as due simply to rapidity of movement, or the mass of the 
 moving body, was quite separate from that sensation of effort 
 which accompanies our muscular movements, and in which 
 the popular mind sees the force itself. Common-sense has 
 the trick of forgetting how slowly it learnt some of its most 
 confident and fundamental convictions. "What cannot be 
 possibly driven out of space, what may be shattered into 
 fragments or driven beyond our atmosphere, but cannot be 
 expelled from space — that shall be our matter. But this 
 favourite definition which common-sense utters as if it never 
 doubted it, we owe to the science of chemistry. It was the 
 chemist who first taught us that what is burnt is not de- 
 stroyed, has only changed its form ; taught us the marvellous 
 transformations from the solid to the fluid, from the fluid to 
 the vapour, from the vapour back to the solid ; taught us 
 that in each of these states the same matter has its peculiar 
 properties or relations to other matter. 
 
 We call upon the psychologist to explain the actual human 
 thought that is in us ; he must not substitute another for it 
 and then explain tliat. 
 
 III. 
 
 I ask myself what is the last conception we form of mat- 
 ter. For those who are agreed that they know it as an ob- 
 jective reality in space, differ in the description or definition 
 they would give of this reality. 
 
A CONTRIBUTION TO PSYCHOLOGY. 403 
 
 1 suppose we all have the same idea of motion, hut of mat- 
 ter and force thoughtful men give different accounts. Ac- 
 cording to one theory there is always the same amount of 
 motion in the universe, and force is only the transference of 
 motion from one body to another. Viewed in the light of 
 this theory, force is a sequel to motion, it is the effect of a 
 moving body on some other body. These theorists see, in 
 imagination, every molecule of matter in incessant motion, 
 vibratory or rotary, and explain all the phenomena of chem- 
 istry, as well as of heat and light, by changes of directioa 
 and velocity of movement. For motion itself no cause can 
 be assigned by the human mind. The more generally re- 
 ceived theory regards matter as capable of exerting force, that 
 is, of originating and directing motion ia other bodies, even 
 though itself stationary, or, at all events, independently of 
 its own motion, for absolutely stationary perhaps no matter 
 is. Attraction of gravity and chemical aflB.nity seem to them 
 to demand this concession. Here the term force attains an- 
 other meaning, diflOloult to apprehend, yet perhaps not more 
 so than that force of momentum and pressure which the most 
 ardent seeker of simplicity is compelled to admit. A third 
 class of theorists has converted the atom itself into a force. 
 These speak of space-occupancy as itself a force. Here we 
 lose sight of our old landmarks. Force was the action of 
 space-occupant on space-occupant. If our space-occupants 
 are themselves a force, force must be conceived as the entity 
 we contrast with the void of space, or as the acting of some 
 supernatural agent on or in space. 
 
 This last notion, which resolves both matter and force iato 
 the action, or innumerable actions, of one Being to which we 
 assign no place at all, either because it fills all space, or is 
 altogether unrelated to space, is a great favourite with specu- 
 lative thinkers, and has a fascination in it I readily admit. 
 We see the idea of Being which at first presented itself as 
 
404 KNOWING AND FEELING: 
 
 broken up, and limited to the moving and resisting thing in 
 space, develop itself till it attains the unity, and majesty, and 
 spirituality to which we give the sublimest of all names. 
 But I decline at present to ascend to these heights of specu- 
 lation. I take my stand on a lower level — one, however, from 
 which the ascent to such heights may be not impracticable. 
 
 The advance of science may possibly unite all men in one 
 definition of matter and force. In our present imperfect know- 
 ledge I can detect nothing more clear than this — that the space- 
 occupant is marked out and individualised to us by its capa- 
 bility of receiving impressions, as well as of communicating 
 them. The union of passivity and activity distinguishes the 
 atom. Its activity is the result of its passivity; its passivity is,, 
 in fact, but the expression of the activity of some other atom. 
 
 It is very easy to resolve passivity into a form of activity. 
 The capability of receiving impressions is shown only in 
 some action ; but then, when we turn to action in the ma- 
 terial world, we require the acted on. "We may either express 
 the relation by saying that force must be dual, or by the old 
 terms passivity and activity. In either case we have to con- 
 ceive the space-occupants as being there, else how conceive 
 of their relations to each other as active and passive, or as 
 acting together 1 
 
 But — and this is the point on which I desire to lay stress 
 — while the relative demands the positive, or the two posi- 
 tives, while every case of action requires as prior condition 
 the two space-occupants— our positives, our space-occupants, 
 reveal themselves only in their relations, only in this co- 
 agency. You can think of either apart, because every whole 
 has parts, and these may separately occupy the mind, but 
 the parts have gathered all by which you think them from 
 their relations to each other. Always it will be found that 
 some whole formed by the relation of parts presents itself to 
 us whenever we reflect upon our conception of matter. 
 
A CONTRIBUTION TO PSYCHOLOGY. 405 
 
 I confidently, therefore, conclude that, in addition to space- 
 occupancy, motion, and force, we must define matter as that 
 which organises itself, or is ahoays organised. The first or 
 simplest individuality we can descend to will be found to he 
 a whole and parts, a complexity, in relation with other com- 
 plexities. 
 
 And not only is matter never known to us except as 
 organised, it is apparently organising itself in new and, as we 
 think, in advanced modes. But in every stage what we call 
 new does not come in as a distinct and separate novelty, it is 
 a combination of old and new. Life is more than chemistry, 
 but it is chemistry also. Mind is more than life, but it is 
 life also. 
 
 Try to think of matter in its simplest conditions. We say 
 of water, for instance, that it is a fluid, that it has a peculiar 
 movement called flowing, which becomes possible by its re- 
 lation to a more solid surface. But if the water is stationary, 
 what then 1 Perhaps I answer it has a potential fluidity. 
 "What do I mean by this potentiality ? What mil he does 
 not now exist. What now exists is a stationary mass. 
 Science responds that a certain coherence of particles exists, 
 such that the flowing movement will occur if the solid surface 
 on which the water rests is altered, or its equilibrium is 
 otherwise disturbed. A potential existence means then the 
 existence of those main conditions on which some expected 
 future depends. This answers very well in the case of flu- 
 idity. ISTow I advance to the particle itself of matter. I 
 define it as simply as I can by its impenetrability. Here, 
 too, if I have a complex body approached by another body, 
 I can say that it has a potential impenetrability, even before 
 the collision takes place. It has that coherence of pa,rticles 
 which will enable it to resist dispersion or division. But I 
 am concerned with one single particle. How am I to repre- 
 sent its potentiality of resistance ? I cannot represent it at 
 
406 KNOWING AND FEELING : 
 
 all. My unit of existence is not one atom, but two or more 
 in their related activities. It is organised matter I alone 
 know. 
 
 Having justified, I trust, the ordinary conviction on which 
 science proceeds of a world in space prior to, or independent 
 of, human thought, I may contemplate mind as it is related 
 to this world, as it appears in its place in the series of de- 
 velopments. 
 
 Astronomy speculates on the genesis of a planetary system 
 from some revolving nebula in a surrounding ether. Geology, 
 with far more certainty, teaches the changes in the organi- 
 sation of our globe fitting it for life, or for new life. The 
 physiologist takes up the marvellous tale, showing the 
 development of life, of sensation, of thought. Even the 
 metaphysician, who bids us despair of forming the concep- 
 tion of a material world independent of the percipient, 
 commences his, in many respects, admirable treatise with 
 a careful description of the organs of sense and locomotion, 
 of the brain and the nerves. Apparently he acknowledges 
 that the psychical manifestations he intends to discourse upon 
 are postponed till certain organs are grown. I will not ask 
 for an explanation of this apparent discrepancy : this would 
 only take us back to the debate we have just left, and 
 which we must consider closed, or we shaU never be able 
 to advance at all. The physiologist shows us a heart beat- 
 ing in the embryo before a brain is formed. Life is there 
 — that new activity we call vital moveAent — but not sensa- 
 tion. He bids us wait the growth of nerves and a brain 
 before the psychical properties of feeling and knowing, be- 
 fore a consciousness can be developed. Such is the order 
 of evolution, or creation. 
 
 Eeflecting upon ourselves as conscious creatures, each 
 
A CONTRIBUTION TO PSYCHOLOGY. 407 
 
 individual seems shut up in his own consciousness. All 
 that is without, — the physical world, and even the society 
 that surrounds him, — are but his own thoughts. How often 
 is it said that each of us has a world of his own that nothing 
 can enter ! This is the individuality which the meta- 
 physician delights to contemplate. The Ego which he 
 generally descrihes is just the consciousness itself, viewed 
 as a permanent reality, or referred to some permanent reality 
 known only as that which is conscious. 
 
 Such attitude the reflective mind assumes. But, pursuing 
 our reflections, we detect thaty if there be a real knowledge, 
 and a thing known, then the mere faculty to know is incom- 
 plete, or nugatory, without the thing to be known. The 
 thing most intimately and constantly known is our own 
 body and its movements. If, therefore, the that which knows 
 is a distinct entity, it is as good as nothing till there is some- 
 thing to know. The faculty of knowledge is justly esteemed 
 as the greatest or most exalted' property that has come into 
 the world, but the world and the living body must have 
 been there before it.' A self was never attained without the 
 union of a knowing, and a thing known. 
 
 But we not only need this body of ours as a lodgment 
 for this new property, or entity, and as that which is first 
 of all and constantly to be known. It seems as if the new 
 entity could not act at all, except in a certain condition of 
 the vital organs, or some of them. We need the eye to 
 see with, the ear to hear with ; we need the brain, not only 
 to act with these organs, but to act as reviver of that know- 
 ledge obtained through them. The modern anatomist has 
 drawn from its hiding-place, behind the eye and the ear, 
 this strange organ — so shapeless to look at, so wondrous in 
 the new activities it develops, or in the part it plays in 
 their development. It is suspected that there occurs no 
 change in consciousness that is unaccompanied by some 
 
408 KNOWING AND FEELING: 
 
 action of this organ ; and it is moreover supposed that in 
 many cases such action leaves behind it some slight altera- 
 tion in the structure or composition of the brain itself, 
 whereby it is rendered more fit for that very action. I 
 know not whetlier it be so, but Habit, which lies at the 
 basis of aU individual progress, has been explained as a 
 growth of this description. 
 
 How simple a thing was nutrition to our forefathers ! We 
 fed this body, we stufied these pipes of ours, and there an 
 end. M"o doubt the body could not do its work without 
 food. "We were satisfied with understanding this truth, and 
 giving it the necessary supply. But modern science has 
 pushed its curiosity beyond this. It has watched the course 
 of this nutrition, taken note of the why it was wanted, seen 
 the tissue waste and disintegrate in its very functions, seen 
 it hold its permanence in a perpetual transmutation. I need 
 not enter into details ; how far the physiologist has been able 
 to trace a specific function to the several parts of the nervous 
 and cerebral system, — ^which are thus perpetually being 
 destroyed and restored, — is known to every reader of these 
 papers. 
 
 But observe the sort of revolution in our thinking that has 
 taken place. It was always recognised that we wanted the 
 material outside world as the common instructor of us aU, 
 the common object of our knowledge. When we speak of 
 true or false in the events of life, or the theories of science, 
 it is tacitly understood that, while there are millions of 
 minds, there is but one real world from which they aU draw 
 their knowledge. Two men differ in their measurement of 
 Chimborazo. Let them go and measure it again, and yet 
 again, tiU they both agree. Chimborazo stands there, impar- 
 tial umpire. General assent is perhaps your synonym for 
 truth, but how is general assent obtained or preserved, unless 
 by the teaching of one great instructor? 'Now, in these 
 
A CONTRIBUTION TO PSYCHOLOGY. 409 
 
 modem times, this outside world, this environment we live 
 in, is also recognised as taking its part — through this process 
 of nutrition — in building up the learner himself, buUding up 
 
 tissues that seem to feel ; seem 
 
 For here comes in the question, often so angrily discussed 
 amongst us, whether the psychical properties which con- 
 stitute consciousness are properties of the old substance we 
 called matter, or whether properties so novel do not imply an 
 altogether new substance or entity we call spirit ? A ques- 
 tion difiicult to decide. Indeed I am more impressed with 
 the difficulty than with the extreme importance of the ques- 
 tion, which does not appear to me to be quite of that momen- 
 tous nature which our controversies assume it to be. For 
 say there is this separate substance called spirit, what have 
 we before us in man ? A new organisation, a new whole, 
 composed of this spirit and the vital frame. And in this 
 new whole only is the spirit found, whose first office and 
 manifestation is the knowing this body and what imme- 
 diately surrounds it. This new individuality, Man, is like 
 every other individuality in nature — a complexity, a whole 
 composed of parts, whose unity consists in some harmony 
 of forces or properties. 
 
 Amongst the speculative thinkers of Greece and Eome, 
 and amongst the early fathers of the Church, it was the 
 prevailing opinion that the soul was a kind of ethereal matter. 
 With this species of dualism we need not now concern our- 
 selves. Matter has grown so ethereal under the investiga- 
 tions and theories of modern science, that the imagination 
 toils in vain to represent what are nevertheless described as 
 physical agents. That ether, whose pulsations are light 
 for us, presents a subtlety we cannot go beyond, for we 
 strive in vain to apprehend it. If mere tenuity and refine- 
 ment is what the imagination seeks, we find these suffi- 
 ciently amongst declared physical phenomena. 
 
41,0 KNOWING AND FEELING: 
 
 The speculative thinker, however, wanted more than refine- 
 ment, he wanted for his new suhstance permanence; he 
 wanted a one permanent substance which he could call him- 
 self, and which, existing through all surrounding changes, 
 might exist, itself unchanged, even in other worlds. He 
 seems slowly to have convinced himself that this something 
 permanent could not he any form of matter which is always 
 in movement, decomposing and recomposing, and he devised 
 the unextended substance ; spirit stood out in clear contrast 
 to matter. Who, indeed, first introduced this form of dualism, 
 what Eastern or "Western sage, I know not. It is, perhaps, 
 as old as philosophy itself. But it was not the popular 
 philosophy of Europe, so historians write, tiH the time of 
 Descartes, who had much to do in giving it shape and 
 currency. 
 
 This dualism has always held its ground in defiance of 
 notorious difficulties. I need hardly mention them. How 
 is motion, it is asked, of the extended suhstance to affect 
 the unextended 1 And that motion of a mechanical or mole- 
 cular kind is connected with feeling, and feeling again with 
 motion, is surely an indisputable fact. We aU know how 
 Leibnitz contrived his " pre-established harmony " to escape 
 from this difficulty, and we all know that the result of his 
 pre-established harmony was to make the difficulty more pro- 
 minent than ever. Men admired the ingenious contrivance, 
 but only thought the more of the perplexity from which it 
 was intended to relieve them. 
 
 But the difficulties are not all on one side. For instance, it 
 is the law of physics that contact of moving matter produces 
 motion. JS'ow in the brain there must be a point where 
 motion no longer produces motion, but feeling. How can 
 we reconcile this with our law of physics 1 The brain, as 
 material substance, is under the laws of motion, and must 
 respond to impulse — by motion and by all the motion due 
 
A CONTEIBUTION TO PSYCHOLOGY. 411. 
 
 to that impulse. There is ao room for any other effect. To 
 say that sensation is a transmuted force, is simply to say 
 that there comes in a new quality, which hears, or may hear, 
 in its degree, some correspondence with the mechanical force 
 of motion for which it is suhstituted. But the suhstitution 
 remains. At a certain moment matter no longer responds 
 to motion hy motion, hut hy feeling. "What has become 
 of our laws of motion ? It is true that in the phenomena 
 of vital movement we may be said to have already departed 
 from the laws of physics, for here a movement ensues which 
 appears to have little or no correspondence with the impulse 
 which prompts it. But here the physicist, with his stiU 
 half-understood laws of electricity and galvanism, may make 
 his protest — file a sort of ne exeat regno, tiU the case is 
 decided. 
 
 That there is this Neio Becoming is the great and indisput- 
 able fact ; marvellous, as indeed every Becoming has been and 
 is. A sharper distinction there is not in all nature than that 
 between motion and sensibility. There is no possibility of 
 confounding them, nor does one slide into the other. The 
 utmost rapidity of motion cannot he conceived as approxi- 
 mating to feeling by reason of its rapidity. Sensation is 
 as distinct from motion, as motion from rest. 
 
 But this ISTew Becoming makes its appearance in a vital 
 frame, full of its own peculiar movements. ISovr do you ask, 
 "What feels ? Not surely that vital frame minus its feeling. 
 As moving-thing, or as space-occupant, it does not feel. The 
 only answer open to us is that this concrete made up of mo- 
 tion and of feeling — feels. The answer looks at first like a 
 mere subterfuge, but it is the answer with which we are 
 obliged to content ourselves in all similar cases. "What 
 moves ? Not the space-occupant merely as such. You add 
 the very property of motion to the space-occupant, and then 
 say it moves. "What thinks? Not a moving or vitalised 
 
412 KNOWING AND FEELING : 
 
 body. You add the property of thought, and then say, The 
 man thinks. A new whole, a new individuality has entered 
 into the world. To ask for its origin is to approach the 
 prohlem of creation, or to view matter as organising itself, or 
 as developing stiU new properties. 
 
 Cause in Science is the series, is the order; Cause in 
 Metaphysics is the origin of the series or order. 
 
 Science is perfectly right in limiting itself to its own 
 Causation. But all that it teaches only stimulates us the 
 more to ask what it is that develops the series, the order, the 
 organisations ever advancing, as it seems, in their nature. 
 It may he deemed but a poor account to give of our indi- 
 viduality, or personal being, that it is just this new whole 
 that moves, and grows, and thinks. But if you would ex- 
 tend this account you must be prepared to answer the ques- 
 tion, What is the origin of the whole world as it develops 
 itself in space and in time, in physical and in psychical pro- 
 perties '? And accordingly there are not wanting those who 
 say that their Ego itself rests on the Omnipotent. 
 
 _ "What is it that resists us in the simplest stone, or merest 
 clod, we strike our foot against? It is some aggregate of 
 atoms held together by a force of coherence, and which we 
 further describe by this very resistance. In the clod of earth 
 stands and grows a living plant. Its very materials are 
 gathered from the soil and the air, by the aid of the incon- 
 ceivably rapid movements of heat and light. Do you ask, 
 "What grows and lives ? "We say it is the plant, and we de- 
 fine the plant by this very life and growth. To atoms and 
 their chemistry was added that by means of which a new 
 whole, the living plant, came into existence. Up to the 
 plant walks the animal, and grazes on it. This creature 
 grows, and feels, and moves spontaneously. What feels? 
 Just this animal which we describe by many properties, and 
 last and chiefly, by this very property of feeling. Such pro- 
 
A CONTRIBUTION TO PSYCHOLOGY. 413 
 
 perty had stolen into the world, and manifested itself there, 
 and formed that new concrete or whole which we call the 
 sensitive animal. There is no other answer. And if you 
 ask, "What thinks ? It is man, another organism into which 
 this property has entered, greatest of properties yet known, 
 and known as part of this new whole. At every stage we 
 have a new organisation, or individuality, composed of old 
 and new. Whence came the new 1 Whence came the old 1 
 This is the prohlem of creation. What moves t admits but 
 of one answer. It is this very compound of space-occupancy 
 and motion. What introduced motion into the universe is 
 another question. What thinks 1 It is this very creature 
 who Uves, and moves, and feels, and also thinks. What in- 
 troduced thought into the universe, and so constructed this 
 new individuality 1 That is another question. 
 
 This incessant becoming, how are we to deal with it ? Am 
 I to accept it as an ultimate fact, like being itself? for indeed 
 every being (in the form it wears to us) was also a becoming. 
 Am I to devise an " unknowable cause," and attribute to it 
 our evolving series ? Or may I not advance at once to the 
 supposition that this evolving whole we have before us ex- 
 isted as a thought before it existed in space, or as an actual- 
 ity t May I not leap at once to this supposition, and deduce 
 what I can from it? What has been determines what is, 
 and both together what will be. But if the past deter- 
 mines the future, does not that whole that is to be deter- 
 mine every part of the series ? And how can this be con- 
 ceived but on the supposition, that the whole pre-existed 
 in thought ? 
 
 On the great subject of the creation of the world, the 
 wisest, we are told, are the most reticent. One feels it al- 
 most a presumption to discuss it at aU. And what says 
 Matthew Arnold in one of his terse, melodious, and thought- 
 ful verses ? — 
 
414 KNOWING AND FEELING: 
 
 " AchiUes ponders in his tent, 
 
 The kings of modern thought are dumb, 
 Silent they are, though not content, 
 And wait to see the future come." 
 
 A mere soldier of the rank and file would venture to suggest 
 to those who have a certain repugnance to the term, or the 
 idea of creation, that an evolution that results in ever-new in- 
 dividualities would he no bad definition of creation. And 
 such an evolution makes itself known to us. 
 
 Ko justice could be done to the religious problem without 
 some preparatory study of man in his social and emotional 
 aspects. And our present concern was to determine what 
 philosophical writers 6ften call a stand-point. Ours cannot 
 be the individual man ; but the great cosmos in which he 
 appears — so much of it as we can embrace. We are accus- 
 tomed to say that we proceed from the simple to the complex, 
 and from the lower to the higher. But the simplest to which 
 we can descend is stiU a complexity, and in proceeding from 
 the lower to the higher we confessedly indicate an order only 
 of development, we do not say that the lower actually pro- 
 duces the higher. Either the whole development is to be 
 accepted as one absolute fact, or we make attempt to pass on 
 to the developing power and intelligence. But always it 
 must be our endeavour to study the individual as pait of the 
 whole cosmos, so far as that is revealed to us. 
 
 We are confessedly in the region of philosophy or specula- 
 tive thought, where it would be unbecoming to dogmatise. 
 For myself this obstinate conception occurs again and again, 
 that the whole, as it develops, and will be developed, in 
 space and time, determined all the parts of that whole — 
 which it could only do on the supposition that it pre-existed 
 in thought, the thought, therefore, of some Being capable of 
 6-0 thinking and so acting, — not thinking or acting as a 
 human being. I find this conviction even stronger in me 
 
A CONTRIBUTION TO PSYCHOLOGY. 415 
 
 than that which demands some one permanent being (con- 
 scious or unconscious) as mere cause of all this Becoming we 
 witness ; though the two lines of thought may easily be 
 harmonised. But whatever conception we strive to form of 
 this speculative nature, it is indisputable fact that matter ex- 
 ists nowhere for us but as organised ; it rises before us as 
 ordered — the expression of reason as we think. It is ever a 
 whole, and ever a becoming. Need I add that we know 
 only a small portion of that whole, even as hitherto de- 
 veloped, and must make up our cosmos of the very little 
 we do know? 
 
416 KNOWING AND FEELING : 
 
 PAET IV. 
 
 OUB PASSIONS. 
 
 Befoee we approach, the problems of Sociology, we should 
 frame for ourselves some distinct ideas of man as a social 
 being ; we should understand his passions, or what we should 
 call the emotional side of the human consciousness. 
 
 As I have endeavoured to show, in treating of the feelings 
 or passions, as in dealing with our cognitions, it is still the 
 same one consciousness we have before us — which is ever 
 composed of cognitions and feelings. Our Perceptions are 
 some union of sensations and judgments ; and in Thought 
 our perceptions have become memories, and our sensations 
 have become passions. To think of a pain and pleasure, as 
 Mr James Mill and other analytical writers have observed, is 
 itself a new pain or pleasure ; it is in fact a passion — is a 
 regret or a fear, an anger or a hope. 
 
 Every passion rests on some cognition. Love and Hate 
 are uniateHigible without an object of love or hate, and these 
 feelings are modified according to their objects, and the kind 
 of actions they lead to. "We have no way of defining our 
 passions but by describing the objects, the events, the various 
 cognitions inseparably combined with them. Beyond the 
 broad distinction that some are pleasurable and others pain- 
 ful, we should be utterly unable to describe our passions if 
 we attempted to separate them from the cognitions with 
 
A CONTRIBUTION TO PSYCHOLOGY. 417 
 
 whicli they are thus indissolubly connected — forming together 
 one moment or act of consciousness. How distinguish 
 Ambition from any other excitement, Envy from any other 
 vexation, unless by marking out the kind of objects, the kind 
 of acts, these feelings are combined with ? 
 
 Whether we think of the past or the future, whether idea- 
 tion shall take the shape of memory or anticipation, seems 
 to decide at once on the nature of the feeling. The past 
 pleasure becomes a regret, or it becomes a hope or a desire. 
 The past pain thought of only in the past is anger and un- 
 mitigated vexation ; mix with it thought of that action to 
 which it may prompt, and it becoiiies revenge. 
 
 Knowing and Peeling are the two psychical elements of 
 the human consciousness. Will; or bbdily action, is the 
 relation between this isonsciousness and thfe mliscles of the ' 
 human frame. 
 
 The intellectual and emotional elements can neither of 
 them be extolled at the expense of the other. To the reason 
 or intellect we may very justly asfcribe all that is progressive 
 in man, — his choice, his self-go'vernment, his knowledge, his 
 advancement eveh in this matter of passion. But in his 
 passions or emotions lies aU that we call his happiness or 
 misery. Take either element away and the mati is no longer 
 man ; a human consciousness is nb longer before us. 
 
 Our own passions, with all that results froro them, become 
 the objects of reflection. "We learn to prefer love to hate : 
 not by any means the first truth we learn ; in its fulness it is 
 rather the last and the most essential to human wellbeing. 
 All passions equally assert themselves while they rest in the 
 state of actual passion. But as intelligence advances, Hate 
 becomes subordinate to Love. Hate at last is compelled to 
 claim admittance on the plea of doing the offices of Love, 
 accomplishing the purposes of a world-embracing Benevolence. 
 Hate limited to anger against the wrong, the vile, the malici- 
 
 2D 
 
418 KNOWING AND FEELING : 
 
 ous, is admitted ; in its own first nature as the triumpliant 
 inflioter of pain it is reproved. Love, on the contrary, in its 
 proper character as the giver of pleasure, has been expanded 
 and approved, and becomes the divine in man. 
 
 Feeling is not only that which constitutes us happy or 
 miserable, and so gives its very value to our knowledge (for 
 even the mathematician amongst abstractions — that are to 
 remain abstractions — has a gratification in the solution of 
 his problems without which they never would have been 
 problems for him), but it is the element in our consciousness 
 which is more especially concerned in that onward movement 
 from thought to thought, and from thought to action, which 
 constitutes the very energy of Ufe. 
 
 All continuous thinking must be also varied thinking, that 
 , is, there must be some movement or change, in however 
 limited an arena, or the conscious life ceases, l^ow we are 
 not sufficiently acquainted with the nature of cerebral move- 
 ments to determine all their laws. There may be, and pro- 
 bably is, some cerebration not impelled by passion or feeling 
 of any kind. But what is very patent to us is this, that all 
 thinking other than a dream, or dream-like reverie, or such 
 as is manifestly dependent on the senses for the direction 
 that it takes, all that the adult mind cares to designate as its 
 thinking, is carried on by an energy in some way imparted 
 by desire, or an energy the presence of which becomes known 
 to us by this apparent relation between desire and the onward 
 progress of life. 
 
 There is no essential difference between thinking for a pur- 
 pose and acting for a purpose. Physiologically, we should 
 say that in the one case the movements were limited to the 
 brain, in the other case they had extended through the motor 
 nerves to the muscles. Psychologically, we can only take 
 notice of the fact that our passionate or emotional thought, 
 our purpose, has led to other thoughts, or led also to move- 
 
A CONTRIBUTION TO PSYCHOLOGY. 419 
 
 ments of the limbs. All energetic thinking might be called 
 a willing. This momentum from thought to thought we call 
 our activity. We say that man possesses this activity. A 
 solitary thought, if such can be imagined, gives no sentiment 
 of power, no idea of activity. 
 
 The great law of Habit, on which so much rests, let us 
 bear in mind, is to us one of nature's activities known. XDur 
 knowing it is all we have to do with as conscious beings. It 
 lies in our consciousness just as any other of the great laws 
 of nature ; it is there as a cognition. The knowledge of it 
 gives us power, but we can no more e:^plain it than we can 
 explain any other of the laws of nature. The human being, 
 because he knows what laws of habit are presiding over his 
 consciousness, can take adv£|,ntage of them — just as he can take 
 advantage of any law of hydrostatics ; here, as e|spwhere, know- 
 ledge is power. He practises his art — he persists in endeavour- 
 ing, in purposing ; he has no concepjiion how it is that practice 
 makes perfect — but he knows it wiU ; the schpplbpy repeats 
 his lesson, he knows that by the repetition he shall learn it, 
 but neither he nor perhaps any one elsp knows anything 
 more about this wondrous mechanism of mempry. The 
 moralist bids lis beware of the cup oi^ce taken, thp lie once 
 told — the only once may break a habit ; he bids us praptise a 
 virtue as we practise an art, if we would bp perfect. 
 
 I must again observe that whether we call our state of 
 mind a tljQught, qr q, passion, pr a wil), it is still the same 
 one consciousness we have described as made up of Know- 
 ing and Feeling. We call it a Cognition or a Thought when 
 the intellectual element which we have palled judgment is 
 prominent, we call it a sensation or a passion when the sensi- 
 tive or emotional element prevails. What distinguishes will 
 from other states of consciousness, is the special cognition 
 and passions or sentiments that are involved in it, — special 
 because they relate to the special organs of locomotion or 
 
420 KNOWING AND FEELING: 
 
 muscular activity. The limb moves — not assuredly in the 
 first instance by a distinct intention or purpose on our 
 part that it should move, but by the laws of vitality or 
 of animal life — the limb moves and meets resistance, •which 
 has the effect of stimulating or re-exciting the organs of loco- 
 motion — exciting the sensation that is appropriate to them. 
 These sensations in the next stage become desire, become a 
 passion — desire of movement, passion of thwarted desire ; 
 these, with the cognition of the resisting obstacle and the 
 sensation excited in the limb, constitute our sense of effort. 
 This sense of effort, so far from being a very simple matter, 
 has in it sensations, cognitions, passions. 
 
 So Personality is A special knowing. That the person is 
 itself an oliject of thought becomes evident as well when we 
 attempt to think ourselves as soul as when we attempt to 
 think ourselves as body. Thought itself, if we could imagine 
 it deprived of these objects, body, and soul in body (made 
 thinkable to us in some manner because localised in the 
 body). Would be impersonal. Such thought would be an 
 eternal Now : the past and future is the ever-present con- 
 sciousness.- 
 
 This last conjectiire may seem hypothetical, and I am quite 
 aware on what delicate and subtle ground I am treading in 
 this matter of personality. Our best authorities have held 
 that the consciousness at once reveals the it and the I — the 
 object and subject. TJiought is necessarily / think — such is 
 its formula. Well, let us adopt this view. Still the nature 
 of the /has to be revealed and apprehended. And if Thought 
 is always / thinli, still I think this / either as body or 
 soul, and it becomes the object carried by me into the past 
 and future. The subject must become an object when we 
 think of it as having been in the past, and as that which 
 will be in the future. What we c&Q. personal identity must 
 be some personal body or soul. Certain philosophers of the 
 
A. CONTRIBUTION TO PSYCHOLOGY. 421 
 
 associative school, who are assured of nothing but a train of 
 sensations and thoughts, must find this problem of personal 
 identity (as one of the most eminent of that school has con- 
 fessed) peculiarly difficult. 
 
 It is because amongst our memories and anticipations is 
 ever found the same one body alone ever present, that per- 
 sonal identity arises. I do not regard, I may say, memory 
 as any distinct faculty ; it is merely the development of the 
 consciousness. AH consciousness is founded on the relation 
 of time. Memory and anticipation are merely experience 
 of these relations. 
 
 But I must disentangle myself from these subtleties and 
 proceed to some general remarks on the passions, of a more 
 practical character. 
 
 We may notice how soon in. the history of mental develop- 
 ment sensation becomes passion. It does so the moment a 
 pain is attributed to the object or person before us ; it then 
 becomes anger. It does so the moment that it is remembered 
 or anticipated, the moment it is thought of. I presume our 
 passions require sensation as their condition. I presume 
 that a creature who had known no pain would hardly know 
 fear. But still the passion is a new development. And 
 we should look in vain if we expected to find every fear 
 precisely justified in its degree by any experienced pain. 
 Probably passionate men are for the most part sensitive 
 men, yet the anger any given man feels will not be 
 measured by the pain he has sufiered. Then we have the 
 startling fact that to think of another's pain becomes com- 
 passion. Here we have a new development affiliated to the 
 older fact of sensation, but not to be measured by it. We 
 could not speak of such a degree of sensation being trans- 
 formed into such a degree of compassion, as if we were deal- 
 ing with chemical agents. The conscious life has a certain 
 progressive, expansive development of its own. Then again 
 
422 KNOWING AND FEELING: 
 
 there is that otlier sympathy, wlien the passion, whatever it 
 may be, is communicated from one to the other by tone or 
 gesture— so that a number of people shall feel merely by 
 this communication a passion in a far greater degree than 
 each of them could do singly. How in aU, anger grows into 
 rage when a multitude comes under the same passion. 
 
 It is evident that any analogy drawn from chemistry or 
 chemical analysis soon breaks down. We are not in presence 
 of mechanical and chemical or even vital laws, but of the 
 laws of consciousness, which though based on these are 
 distinct from them. If we permit ourselves to say that 
 matter that is vitalised has new laws and properties, so we 
 may say that matter that is mentalised has still other laws. 
 
 But the fact which above all seems to me to demand 
 attention is the manner in. which passions grow and modify 
 with our thoughts. In other words, our twofold conscious- 
 ness presents ever its new phases of feeling with its new 
 mode or enlargement of cognition. How this is to be pre- 
 sented physiologically I pretend not to say. The notion 
 that feeling is in one portion of the braia and thought or 
 ideation in another, does not assist one in the least, — rather 
 adds to one's perplexity, for how conceive the co-operation 
 and respective influence of the organs ? Nor do I believe 
 that our most eminent anatomists or physiologists hold to 
 such division. I should find it easier to imagine that what 
 was action in thinking was also sensation. The fact, how- 
 ever, is indisputable, that while Thought or intelligence is 
 based in the first instance on sensation — the thought itself 
 becomes the parent of new emotions, which new emotions or 
 passions become in their turn the materials of Thought by 
 being remembered or anticipated in conjunction with the 
 objects with which they were first connected. 
 
 (AU along it is / see it, I think it, I excogitate it, as if 
 that vision, that thought, which really constitutes the /were 
 
A CONTRIBUTION TO PSYCHOLOGY. 423 
 
 sometliing diiferent from the I that saw it, thought it. As 
 many metaphysicians have pointed out, the / here and its, it 
 hoth include the whole consciousness. The I is the conscious- 
 ness spoken of as belonging to some being — which is the 
 specific thought plus this reference of it to some permanent 
 suhject. What we have to study is consciousness, and the 
 one Evolution of Thought and Feeling.) 
 
 This does not prevent me from saying and believing that 
 this activity of thought and feeling belongs to me as an in- 
 dividual, because such thought is also evolved in my con- 
 sciousness. 
 
 That such evolution has its law is not inconsistent with 
 the fact that it evolves in a certain individual, which indivi- 
 duality is composed of other and more peculiar elements. 
 When we are discussing the question of wiU or free - wiU, 
 we are instantly referred to a certain spontaneous activity. 
 Ifow, if I am to study human action, I find this highest 
 activity, that which is to govern all else, is the reason and 
 feeling of a man. .1 do not deny to the man this activity. 
 And it comes to him, as it were, direct from Heaven. Direct 
 from Heaven, and yet with a method, I find men impatient 
 if they are reminded that it is not possible for a man to leap 
 at once from the thoughts of a child to those of a man, or 
 from the thoughts of a clown to those of a Socrates. But 
 the man nevertheless energises — as conscious man in his 
 consciousness — he attributes this activity to a self made up 
 in part of this property, in part of other vital and mechanical 
 properties. 
 
 When we pass, as I have said, beyond the distinction 
 pleasurable or painful, or the distinction of degree, as gentle 
 or violent, we describe our passions by the objects that call 
 them forth, or the events they lead to. To think of the 
 
424 KNOWING AND FEELING : 
 
 object of our love or hate is the only way of recaUiag the 
 passion ; to think of some act of retaliation is the way to 
 keep alive our anger or revenge. If anger needs nothing but 
 the presence of the perceived object, revenge is essentially a 
 thought, or thought-supported, as it lives in and through 
 the contemplation of that blow anger would or should have 
 dealt, and still contemplates the dealing of. "With revenge 
 fear mingles very soon, and if we strike the first blow out of 
 sheer anger, we strike the second out of fear that the injury 
 should be repeated. We have not to wait for the calcula- 
 tions of expediency before we strike, wound, or destroy, to 
 prevent the repetition of our pain. Fear acts the expediency 
 at once, and the first task of reflection is to moderate her 
 energy. 
 
 To think of another as the source of pleasure is to love 
 him. It is the simplest phase of a feeling destined to many 
 modifications as knowledge and thought expand. Some 
 would hardly hqnour the feeling with the name of love till 
 it had advanced one stage further, to the contemplation and 
 desire of giving pleasure. A new desire, a tenderness and a 
 joy and a sense of power withal which we learn keenly to 
 appreciate in others and in ourselves. Next, there enters 
 the pleasure of being loved, of being the object of afiection, 
 and this without any necessary reference to positive benefits 
 which may flow from such affection. Men who love to be 
 loved are generally those least desirous to receive actual 
 benefits from those who love them. 
 
 (I would suggest in a parenthesis that the sentiment of 
 Beauty is a modification of that of Love. It has in it the 
 same tenderness, something of the same yearning to give 
 pleasure — yearning that has no way of manifesting itseK in 
 action. It has been often objected to the association-theory 
 that there is a radical difference between the pleasure of 
 sensation and the feeling of beauty. Fundamentally the 
 
A CONTEIBUTION TO PSYCHOLOGY. 425 
 
 theory may be correct, but it should be understood that the 
 sensations of pleasure have in their reproduction in memory 
 taken the form of passion. The sentiment of Beauty is more 
 akin to the passion of love than to the direct sensation of 
 pleasure.) 
 
 Approbation is love -with a reason given for it. There is 
 judgment of some kind in aU thinking, and therefore in all 
 loving, but in approbation the judgment stands out conspic- 
 uous, and challenges examination. 
 
 That we admire strength and despise feebleness is founded 
 on a very patent judgment of the excellent results of strength. 
 But here we may notice the effect of comparison or contrast 
 in heightening our admiration. I suppose if all had had the 
 same degree of strength or courage there would have been 
 no energetic admiration of these qualities : it would have 
 required a certain philosophic or reflective attitude of mind to 
 have appreciated them. It is the contrast of the brave man 
 with the coward that sets the former in such high relief. 
 
 In like manner if a man reflects upon himself, his self- 
 approbation begins at least by some comparison with others. 
 He contrasts himself favourably with others, and has a senti- 
 ment of elation or self-admiration. But our self-esteem finds 
 its great support and corroboration in the esteem of others. 
 
 The known affections of others towards ourselves affect us, 
 I presume, in the first instance, as leading us to anticipate 
 benefit or injury from those who entertain such affections for 
 us. But the knowledge that another loves or approves me 
 does not end with exciting agreeable feelings. It has the 
 other result of exalting my self-complacency, my vanity or 
 pride. My sense of merit would be very feeble if the com- 
 parison I make between myself and others I did not believe 
 to be also made by many of my fellow-men. 
 
 I must be permitted to repeat here the observation I have 
 already made. What we call secondary passions may be 
 
426 KNOWING AND FEELING: 
 
 secondary only in the order of time. I cannot test or pre- 
 dict the strength of any passion by measurLng the force of 
 antecedent feelings, which were the condition of its develop- 
 ment. I can only note and record subsequent developments 
 — their kind and degree. The knowledge that I am supe- 
 rior to another man, or am thought superior, breeds a well- 
 known sentiment, that bears (according to the sort of supe- 
 riority concerned) various names, as vanity and self-compla- 
 cency, pride or self-esteem. But the strength of my vanity 
 and self-esteem could not be measured by antecedent feelings, 
 which might nevertheless be a condition of them. What we 
 call the secondary passion grows, and develops, and modifies 
 with the advancing intellect : feeling and knowledge expand- 
 ing or varying together. This self-esteem becomes one of 
 the most effective passions of mankind. It enters into our 
 loftiest and meanest of moods ; modifies with our loftiest or 
 most petty purposes. The patriot feels it ; the man devoted 
 to his art or the discovery of truth feels it ; the vain man 
 displays it in its ridiculous aspect. Attached to our char- 
 acter, to such qualities which are or should be in some 
 degree common to all members of a human society, it is that 
 sentiment of self-approbation to which the moralist appeals, 
 and which he does all in his power to foster and educate. 
 
 The sentiment of Moral EesponsibUity, about which there 
 are so many debates, is a Thought and a Feeling. Try to 
 separate the feeling, and we should have (at least in its 
 simplest stage) some passion of fear, weak or strong as the 
 case might be, but not in itself distinguishable from other 
 fears. As reflection advances upon the relationship between 
 the individual and society, the state of mind designated as 
 that of Moral Eesponsibility advances or undergoes a change. 
 I would observe that in what we call the sentiment of Duty, 
 and honour so highly under that name, it is not the feeling 
 per SB that is so highly honourable to human nature : it is 
 
A CONTRIBUTION TO PSYCHOLOGY. 427 
 
 the intellectual development thiat elevates the feeling, and 
 renders the whole state of mind we describe as sentiment of 
 Duty so worthy of being extolled. Eespect for the senti- 
 ment and its union with theology have induced many writers 
 to invest it with peculiar mystery ; but in a psychological 
 point of view I see not why it should he more mysterious 
 than other sentiments — say than the sentiment of ambition. 
 In both cases we see certain recognised passions or desires 
 assuming an elevation by the importance to the whole society 
 of the thoughts and purposes of which they form a part. 
 Moral Responsibility in a child or savage is a very common- 
 place fear — fear of some chastisement, for breaking a law 
 trivial in itself, and trivially apprehended. Afterwards 
 , there is fear of another kind, fear to lose the esteem of others 
 or our own self-esteem, and a law of higher kind or more 
 nobly apprehended. 
 
 ^Nothing has created more confusion than the tendency 
 men have to take what is most exalted, or what is actually 
 most authoritative in the human mind, as first in order as 
 well as in importance ; beginning in their history of the con- 
 sciousness with the development which has latest risen to 
 the place of supremacy. Many of our ethical perplexities 
 are due to this inversion. What strange rhapsodies one 
 sometimes hears about the sentiment of Justice or the sense 
 of Desert! Some Minerva is born armed and in divine 
 panoply from the brain of each of us. To the passionate 
 man, the fellow-man who has injured him deserves — just aU. 
 the vengeance he can inflict. That is what he would call 
 the satisfaction of justice. It is the satisfaction of his re- 
 venge. Whether one man or twenty men give themselves 
 this satisfaction, it is simply revenge. But to bystanders 
 there are injuries of various degrees, and revenges of various 
 kinds, and some measure or proportion between the injury 
 and revenge grows up in the popular mind, and that shall 
 
428 KNOWING AND FEELING : 
 
 be what the wrong-doer deserves. In the mind of the cul- 
 tivated jurist the sentiment of Justice is stUl further modi- 
 fied. When the society deliberately makes laws for the 
 future conduct of its members, and fixes a penalty to the 
 violation of them, the expectation arises that men will be 
 governed by these laws, and that the threat of the penalty 
 will be sufficient. At all events the proclaimed laws and 
 the threat are in the first instance to be set before them. 
 The punishment must be inflicted when the law is broken, 
 else the threat would become a nullity. But the use of the 
 punishment is to preserve the efficacy of the threat. Hence 
 to the enlightened jurist an ea; post facto becomes unjust. 
 The proportion of the punishment to the crime ceases to 
 satisfy him. The law has become to him the great and im- 
 portant fact. Have you tried to govern the man by due 
 proclamation of the law with its penalty ? If not, you may 
 inflict revenge, you do not execute justice. 
 
 How manifest is it that the expansion of the intelligence 
 of man has given rise to a new sentiment of justice ! Instead 
 of seeing everywhere intuitive sentiments of morality, I find 
 my hope and encouragement, my good augury for society, in 
 this great fact, that with increasing knowledge and v?ider 
 thinking higher sentiments grow up. Thinking glows into 
 passion. Note, as the forms of government change with 
 the circumstances and intelligence of men, how the senti- 
 ments change also. The stanchest republican on earth 
 must be utterly destitute of the spirit of philosophy if he 
 has never noted with admiration how the sentiment of loy- 
 alty grows up in the monarchy — ennobling what to him 
 may have seemed a sad necessity. I do not venture to 
 prophesy the future of human society, but when some 
 scheme is proposed of organising industry more directly 
 for the benefit [of the working classes], and the objection is 
 made that this supposes a new and more persistent sentiment 
 
A CONTKIBUTION TO PSYCHOLOGY. 429 
 
 of patriotism tiian the world has yet seen — the objection 
 does not appear to me fatal. New social sentiments do arise 
 with new thinking on social matters. It is the new thinking 
 glowing into feelilig. Half hahit, half reflection, the new 
 sentiment takes its place and does its work. "What one 
 notes at present is, that the TliinMng is so desperately im- 
 perfect — so fatally one-sided. One hears men shouting for 
 their social and democratic government who have but one 
 idea — that they, the shouters, are somehow to share more 
 largely in the fruits of industry. "We find the most ignorant 
 and craving of mankind shouting for that which requires a 
 lofty intelligence to comprehend, and the corresponding ele- 
 vation of feeling to assist in bringing into practice. 
 
 lii. 
 
 The sentiment of Diity leads ns, we are accustomed to 
 say, to the virtuous action ; the sentiment of Merit is the 
 reward for having performed it. "What exactly are the 
 conditions of this sense of merit ? An old controversy, 
 which will return upon us again and aigain, here intrudes 
 itself. To feel that an action yitss, meritorious, is not one con- 
 dition this — that I recognise that I might or niight not have 
 performed it— that I performed it of my own free wiU? In 
 an analysis of this sentiment t must glance agsiin at this 
 formidable controversy. All is not repetition that at first 
 seems so. And there are subjects best treated by approaching 
 them at intei-vals from slightly different points of view. A 
 persistent exhaustive rfiethod might only weary the attention. 
 
 Merit of a moral kind attaches indisputably to the purpose, 
 the intention. Indeed, that can only be properly called a 
 human action which was purposed, which flowed from a 
 human consciousness. Any other' action would be merely 
 automatic. Perhaps a bygone purpose or purposes may have 
 induced habits of such strength that little more may be ob- 
 
430 KNOWING AND FEELING: 
 
 servaUe in a given present action than the force of habit. 
 But in such cases we tacitly refer the habit to such bygone 
 purposes, and so bring it within the circle of our praise and 
 blame. 
 
 Put the case that you have unintentionally been the in- 
 strument of procuring some benefit for another — you have no 
 sense of merit in such an act — you repel the praise or the 
 proffered gratitude. If you were weak enough to accept 
 them, you would feel that you were practising a deceit, or 
 tacitly confirming his deception. Or put the case, far more 
 likely to occur, that you have unintentionally injured your 
 neighbour, you acquit yourself of all blame — you have no 
 sense of demerit. The act was not yours — ^you did not 
 purpose it. 
 
 But certain moralists are not contented with this account 
 of the matter. The act must not only be yours, but you 
 must feel that you could have refrained from it if you 
 pleased — that it was your free act. They admit that all the 
 merit lies in the intention, but they see in the intention 
 itself what they call a freedom ; the essence of the wUl lies 
 in the intention, and in the intention there is this freedom ; 
 and this sense of freedom is a condition of your sense of 
 merit. 
 
 Now it is not a mere verbal dispute when I maintain that 
 this choice, this sense of freedom to do this or that, lies in 
 the very intellectual element of the consciousness. It is 
 judgment, it is comparison, seen in the selection of our pur- 
 pose. To give it this new name of will, is to give the name 
 of a whole to a part. Will is properly the purpose and the 
 action. As the purpose is so essential a part it draws the 
 name to itself But a purpose in itself is a combination of 
 thought and feeling, or if we deliberate what shall be our 
 purpose, this deliberation is itself a thought, or perhaps many 
 thoughts, a series of comparisons and judgments. 
 
A CONTEIBUTION TO PSYCHOLOGY. 431 
 
 I praise the act of an intelligent human being. If the act 
 had not its origin in intelligence of some kind and degree, it 
 is not a human act at all — I withdraw my praise. In this 
 intelligence lies the choice, the freedom of which you are 
 conscious. He does not will his intelligence — but his in- 
 telligence is that part of his will which constitutes it a human 
 will. So much of clear vision as you have on the right 
 hand and the left, so much of freedom have you. 
 
 "Very true," answers some controversialist j "it would 
 be only a change of terms if I spoke of the freedom of the 
 intelligence, instead of the freedom of the will — if it were 
 not that you, like other psychologists, trace a certain de- 
 velopment, according to law, of the human intelligence, 
 which you also combine with the element of feeling, and 
 that at aU. events makes its first appearance without any 
 choice of ours. I want in the freedom of wiU that which 
 carries a human soul out of and above the laws of nature. I 
 don't find this arbitrariness in the intellect." 
 
 And I reply, with utmost candour, that such arbitrariness 
 I cannot find in man, under any terms whatsoever. The 
 Choice that he has, which I say is his freedom and his in- 
 tellect also, is a Choice which represents the man's position at 
 the moment. But the nature, the terms of that choice, these 
 have come down to him from the past. Yes, I choose, I 
 intellectually energise thus. But there are many kinds of 
 choice. I may ask. What is wisest ? What is best for me 
 and for all f I may ask. What will yield me here and now 
 the greatest pleasure 1 I may ask how best to obey a law, 
 or merely how to escape from the penalty of its infraction ? 
 This must surely depend on the growth and cultivation of 
 my mind during the past. I cannot suddenly rise to the 
 elevation of the moralist, who desires so to live that in pro- 
 viding for his own happiness he promotes the happiness of 
 others, or at all events does nothing prejudicial to the well- 
 
432 KNOWING AND FEELING : 
 
 ■being of society. I know of no arbitrary power by which 
 a man can suddenly rise to this elevation. He rose to it 
 through much thinking, and thinking under many social 
 influences. 
 
 When I deliberate, I feel that I can choose this or that. 
 Such is the nature of deliberation. But the this or that i 
 I did not conjure them up before my intellectual vision for 
 the first time, and for or by this act of deliberation. 
 
 There is aU along this intellectual energy of choice. We 
 are conscious of it ourselves, and we do our utmost to keep 
 it aHve in others. On this efficacy of our praise and blame 
 rests the moral duty of a right distribution of praise and 
 blame. In this efficacy of our ptinishments rests the justi- 
 fication of punishment itself, whenever we want any other 
 justification than the passions of revenge and fear immedi- 
 ately supply. 
 
 But if this be so, the question recurs. How is it there is 
 such a reluctance to admit so plain a statement? There 
 must be something ufiexplained. Gravest authorities, and 
 those who pass for profoundest moralists, repeatedly demand 
 for man an arbitrariness that places him outside of the laws 
 of nature, will not admit that his Choice itseK is an intel- 
 lectual act quite in accordance With a development according 
 to law. It is not enough that he has this intellectual energy, 
 which grows under social promptings and social restraints. 
 It seems to me that I could not strike the man unless I 
 knew him as the author of his own intellect and affection. 
 
 I have two observations to make here : To the unreflec- 
 tive or unscientific mind there is a iiertain delusion about 
 this act of Choice. The judgment is abstracted from the 
 terms. That concatenation of events and of our own cogita- 
 tions and feelings, which has brought us to the present de- 
 liberation with such might and energy as we possess, is not 
 present to us. Nothing perhaps is present but the act of 
 
A CONTRIBUTION TO PSYCHOLOGY. 433 
 
 judgment we have to perform, and it takes upon itself this 
 arbitrary character. 
 
 But reflection exposes this delusion ; why is it that we 
 resist the correction 1 I apprehend that we should not be so 
 willing to do so, if this first impression had not been incor- 
 porated with Theology, and with the punishments which 
 Theology holds out. 
 
 We may be sure that no especial theory of punishment 
 was invented for Theology. But theology is remarkably con- 
 servative ; it changes, but it changes slowly ; it carries into 
 our age the teaching that originated probably in what was 
 peculiar to a previous age. 
 
 Justice as administered by human tribunals is even now 
 some mixture of vindictiveness and expediency. In ruder 
 times the vindictiveness, under the name of retribution, was 
 a very predominant element. And it became such in the 
 punishments dealt out by Zeus, or whatever was the presid- 
 ing deity. 
 
 When these punishments were transferred to another 
 world — where they are now continued beyond the existence 
 of human societies, and eternised there — it was too late to 
 represent them as expedients for the improvement and ad- 
 vance of human society, or df any societies known to us. 
 The punishment therefore stood forth in its retributive 
 character, could justify itself in no other way. 
 
 The theological thinker had no other . resource than to 
 exaggerate the guilt of the culprit, and -if possible to modify 
 the nature of that guilt to suit the new. expansion of crimi- 
 nal justice. 
 
 He fixed on this element of Choice. The man cJiose the 
 crime, and in choosing the crime chose the punishment — 
 dared or defied it. 
 
 The guilt itseK was converted into the violation of a law 
 — a God's law. And here again a certain natural tendency 
 
 2 E 
 
434 KNOWING AND FEELING : 
 
 of thought was taken advantage of without applying the 
 needful corrections. Ohedience to the rules of morality, 
 from its extreme importance, was and is very generally taken 
 for morality itself. The essence of morality lies in the 
 " Love thy neighhour." " Be a source of happiness to others 
 as well as to yourself." The rules of morality are the modes 
 in which this " Love thy neighbour " can best be carried 
 into effect. Such precepts, however, as, " Speak the truth," 
 "Do not steal," and the like, become taught (and not un- 
 wisely) as absolute first precepts, and virtue is defined as 
 acting in obedience to such precepts. 
 
 Matters stand thus : — There is a law. That law has been 
 infringed, and a punishment quite irrespective of the wants 
 or demands of the human society must follow. Pirst, Virtue 
 has become obedience to a law, then punishment foUows on 
 an infraction of the law. Abstractions are put in the place 
 of human beings. The Calvinist rides off on these two ab- 
 stractions ; they are enough for him. But most men, seeing 
 there is a punishment falls on the individual soul — as he 
 stands there face to face with God (not as he is one of a 
 social community with and for whom he must needs suffer 
 and enjoy) — find themselves obliged to aggravate the crimin- 
 ality of the human being's choice. They say, Here was a 
 free will — the man could have obeyed — did not obey — there- 
 fore whose fault but his own? And from this positive 
 ground they feel that they must not retreat. 
 
 In morality men have to judge each other. "What is 
 lovable and serviceable they praise, what is hateful and in- 
 jurious they condemn. That foUows inevitably from their 
 own nature. Moreover, they soon learn that their praise 
 and blame, their reward and punishment, ever fosters the 
 lovable and represses the hateful. We are all judges, and 
 all judged ; and under the influence of an opinion that 
 all contribute to, and that all are ruled by, the whole 
 
A CONTRIBUTION TO PSYCHOLOGY. 435 
 
 society grows; and if it does not advance, yet preserves 
 what degree of excellence has been reached. If the in- 
 dividual, brought to the bar of this public opinion, should 
 appeal against its judgment, on the ground that he — 
 the hapless individual developed according to law — that 
 he thought, judged, selected with such poor intelligence 
 as had been accorded to him — that he was weak in know- 
 ledge and judgment, strong in passion or desire — the answer 
 is at hand : he would be still weaker, and more incurable, if 
 his fellow-men, with praise where they could give it, with 
 blame where he went wrong, did not restrain and guide him. 
 The love and hate of others was his strength, gave him shame 
 and honour. Amongst the laws of his being to which he 
 appeals is this — that he is a social creature — can develop only 
 under the affections and judgments of his kind. He makes 
 his appeal to law, and from the law he is answered. Society 
 has just this solidarity. 
 
 In theology it is no longer society that judges, nor is the 
 social man condemned, that either he or society may be the 
 better for the judgment. It is an individual soul abstracted 
 from the society that is put before the tribunal of God, his 
 sin is to his Creator ; and now if he tenders the plea, " I was 
 made thus," what answer can be given to the plea? If 
 listened to, it would stop the judgment ; it cannot be listened 
 to. The individual must be decreed to have been at all times 
 able to act better than he did act, or the sentence is sup- 
 posed to fail in justification. 
 
 It is thus, I apprehend, that our doctrine of free-will, as 
 we meet with it constantly sustained, is made to hold its 
 ground. I am speaking, be it understood, of the doctrine of 
 divine punishment as geiieraUy taught. There are not want- 
 ing symptoms of some change — tardy and reluctant — in the- 
 ology. The jurist has long had one theory of punishment, 
 the theologian another. This divergence cannot last for ever. 
 
436 KNOWING AND FEELING : 
 
 Would it rot be wise to understand that the Creator 
 punishes man through man and for the good of man? I 
 think I see the curtain descending altogether on that terrible 
 vista of the future, lit up with what already seem unholy- 
 fires. If ot the torture of the individual soul — not vengeance 
 in any shape — but the onward progress of a whole spiritual 
 community; — this men begin to hold to be the divine purpose. 
 
 Choose well ! That is the act ever before us, the last re- 
 sult to which we are pressing. Ill choices have been made, 
 to the misery of the chooser and others. Press on, and 
 choose better, and ever better. 
 
 Nor can any doctrine of law or necessity, whether we call 
 it the nature of things or the ordinance of God, rationally 
 intervene to quell the efforts or extinguish the purposes of 
 man. He does think, purpose, choose, — this is his nature, 
 though he thinks, purposes, and chooses at each moment on 
 some condition of the past ; he does this by an energy no one 
 could positively predict, for the intellect of the man is the 
 last appearance in the world, a faculty that has come in — ^that 
 joins itself to the rest, is conditioned by the rest — but none 
 but God knows what possible strength it may manifest. 
 Fatalism, or a necessity known to us, there is not; there 
 is a faculty of intelligence acting on conditions, and as that 
 faculty acts or not, will be results. But no science has 
 limited the energy of this faculty. 
 
 Mr Palgrave, when on a voyage with Mahometans, writes 
 of them thus : " The Mahometans seemed thoroughly con- 
 vinced that they were in the hands of an Absolute and 
 Arbitrary Power, which might save them if it chose, or 
 drown them if it chose, but on which their prayers or 
 needs would have little or no effect." 
 
 Their prayers, probably not ; but what of their efforts to 
 save the ship 1 If the fatalism of the Mahometan went so 
 far as this, that the result would be the same whatever the 
 
A CONTEIBUTION TO PSYCHOLOGY. 437 
 
 skill and labour of navigation, we are justified in calling 
 such fatalism an absurdity. The efforts and activities of men 
 (when we are considering human nature) are precisely the 
 things determined by God. A creature stands before us who 
 works thus, energises thus ; works on with sense of his own 
 individuality; has this energy of intellect and choice, and 
 must manifest it as long as he has conscious life. 
 
 If the advocates of free-will only demand the acknowledg- 
 ment of an intellectual energy which none of us can sound or 
 fathom, and which is the last gift from the hands of God, I 
 for one have no controversy with them ; that such energy 
 must at each stage receive the conditions, the terms on which 
 it works, is also a truth which they perhaps, on their side, 
 would feel bound to acknowledge. 
 
 There is yet a topic which cannot be omitted, — the influ- 
 ence of passion on belief. It seems to me that a clear under- 
 standing of the great psychical qualities which constitute a 
 human consciousness enables us to thread our way through 
 those difficulties that surround the nature of BeHef. 
 
 "We cannot, as I often have to repeat, transcend our Intel- 
 ligence and our Eeelings. All thinking is originally belief ; 
 all object of thought is originally truth. There comes in a 
 distinction between these objects and these thoughts. Our 
 memory, even our senses, are found occasionally deceptive. 
 When we have to anticipate the future, we make many an 
 egregious mistake. The distinction between truth and false- 
 hood enters, and enters to grow more and more important. 
 
 That which is distinguished as false should be, as such, 
 banished from the mind ; its distinction as false should be a 
 pure exercise of judgment. But the judgment does not al- 
 ways give a clear decision, and meanwhile the passionate or 
 emotional nature of a thought gives it standing-place. By 
 
438 KNOWING AND TEELING : 
 
 reason of its emotion, it becomes the exciter of kindred or 
 sustaining thoughts. Thus belief— which must always be 
 the reception or no-reception of an idea according to this 
 distinction of true or false — ^is no longer governed by the 
 judgment only. The affections throw their weight into the 
 scale. 
 
 Hence there grows up a second distinction between Belief 
 and a conviction of the reason. Absolute truth knows of no 
 degrees. Even a probability, if it can be mathematically 
 calculated, takes the form of an absolute truth. But antici- 
 pations which are hopes and fears as well as judgments, are 
 strong or feeble, admit — and Belief here admits — of degree, 
 as strong or weak — because the passion that fastens them on 
 us, that will not let them be dismissed, may be strong or 
 weak. 
 
 BeHef, when it is distiuguished from pure intellectual 
 assent, as when we distinguish Faith from Eeason, marks a 
 predominant presence of feeling or desire. 
 
 I shall perhaps be reminded here that there is an assent 
 that comes from merely repeating what others have told us. 
 A habit of this kind is conspicuous enough. But the habit 
 acts so as to favour some judgment already made. Mere re- 
 petition of itself would not be a belief — it would not involve 
 that distinction between true and false, probable or impro- 
 bable, which lies at the basis of belief. If / believe, because 
 another has told me, it is because I have more confidence in 
 that person than in another person telling me the contrary, 
 and on a belief thus founded habit may operate, which indeed 
 operates on all things. 
 
 The influence of passion on belief is seen everywhere. It 
 makes one thought a greater favourite than another thought, 
 or fastens it there by the very emotion, though it may be 
 painful and fearful. Then, when the question is asked. Is 
 it true or not ? are there not certain known truths, truths 
 
A CONTEIBUTION TO PSYCHOLOGY. 439 
 
 perhaps of the senses which contradict this thought, and 
 forbid it to enter as a truth ? — this overpowering influence 
 of the emotion renders a calm judgment impossible. "We 
 say the voice of reason is stifled— is too weak to be heard. 
 
 If our estimate of another's character has gathered around 
 it our love or hate, how hard it is for us to revise our judg- 
 ment, and admit evidence that contradicts this estimate ! 
 If a future event, highly improbable, has, however, once 
 excited a keen hope within us, how reluctantly do we listen 
 to any exposition of that improbability ! We say the man 
 has a strong belief, and very weak judgment. 
 
 But it must not be foi'gotten that truth and probability 
 may also receive their support in our mind from the emotion 
 they carry with them. And a passionate belief may be a 
 true belief. In such cases a theologian would say — pre- 
 suming his doctrines were the subject of discussion — that 
 the man had both Eeason and Faith. 
 
 And nowhere are the feelings observed more conspicu- 
 ously than in our reUgious beliefs. It is Imagination that 
 first leads us out of the circle of terrestrial objects, and the 
 imagination would probably come and go, like a passing 
 dream, if it did not awake some feeling of love and hate, of 
 hope or fear. He who first whispered that there is a Father 
 in the skies (and philologists trace back the conception to a 
 very remote antiquity) was founding a new sentiment' and 
 new hope — a reverence due elsewhere, a protection to be 
 looked for elsewhere. The feelings of a child to a parent 
 found new scope : the adult was again a child, and had a 
 Celestial Protector. He who first suggested that there might 
 be in the skies, for the whole society, a Euler and Avenger 
 of crime, was founding a new Government for mankind. 
 Here was a Judge not to be deceived, perhaps a Leader in 
 battle not to be resisted. From time to time voices of dis- 
 sent will arise — sceptical questionings — but the main result 
 
440 KNOWING AND FEELING: 
 
 of these will be to give to such Imaginations the distinctive 
 character of Beliefs. We thought them — possibly with the 
 same spontaneity with which we saw this and that ; your 
 suggestion that they may be falsities only makes us think them 
 again, under the distinction of true and false, and declare 
 that they are not falsities. 
 
 If to imagination succeeds some idea of the reason, or if 
 the imagination itself is partly justified and partly modified 
 by subsequent knowledge and reflection — it is still some 
 passion or emotion which gives to assent that energy which 
 exalts it to a Faith. Why should a thought recur agaiu and 
 again, or how could it influence our lives, if it were not a 
 passion as well as a thought — if it had no bearing on human 
 felicity 1 A truth to which we are entirely indifferent falls 
 from us as an idle proposition. At least there is the passion 
 of discovery, and the passion of dispute, or intellectual 
 energy would flag. 
 
 Those who write the history of religion are constantly 
 portraying to us the result of emotion in the belief and 
 practices of the various nations of the earth, and they show 
 how emotion acts upon thought, and thought again upon 
 emotion. What was the first worship, when men went 
 shouting through the woods, or clanging their cymbals under- 
 neath the impassive sky, but some sentiment of wonder in 
 the presence of earth and heaven that they did not know 
 how better to express ? 
 
 But the vague sentiment of wonder, which probably came 
 first and certainly lasts the longest, must soon have been 
 followed by other sentiments. What a yearning we have to 
 know the future ! Was there nothing in heaven or earth 
 that could tell us? was there no way of extorting the 
 knowledge? So the oracle grew up, and the oracle was 
 believed in, not because men had really tested the veracity 
 of oracles, but because they evidently desired that there 
 
A CONTEIBUTION TO PSYCHOLOGY. 441 
 
 should be oracles. It would have heen a kind of profanity 
 to make a statistical list of predictions that were true and 
 predictions that were falsified, with a third column from 
 those uttered in such ambiguities of language, that whether 
 they were really verified or falsified it was impossible to say. 
 
 But the god can do more than reveal ; he can give the 
 victory. Or he can bring defeat and pestilence on the land. 
 Fear is even more potent than hope in this matter of belief. 
 To deny the god might anger him — supposing our denial a 
 mistake, and he reaUy existed aU the while. Supposing 
 there were nine hundred and ninety-nine chances in favour 
 of the non-existence, and one only in the thousand in favour 
 of the existence of some terrible demon — yet so long as there 
 is room for a mistake, my tongue is paralysed, I tremble and 
 believe. 
 
 "We have noticed how passion grows in strength when 
 shared by a crowd; and the passion-supported belief aug- 
 ments in the same proportion. "We need not transcend the 
 dusty arena of politics for an example of this. A national 
 hatred brings with it national beliefs that are perfectly 
 astounding to the cool-headed spectators. The violent 
 patriot cannot recognise any goodness in the adversary of 
 his country ; to do so Would be to cease to hate, or to cease 
 to hate with due patriotic virulence. Our neighbours the 
 Irish, or I should rather say one class of Irishmen, hate 
 England, hate the English rule, hate every statesman that 
 would uphold it. He may labour most strenuously for the 
 good of Ireland, strive in every way to be just and benefi- 
 cent — it avails nothing; he is hated, and therefore his 
 justice is a disguised fear, and his benevolence a mere 
 treachery. There is no help for it. 
 
 It is well known that on religious subjects a specific argu- 
 ment has been deduced for the truth of a proposition from 
 the excellent results of believing it true, or from the desir- 
 
442 KNOWING AND FEELING. 
 
 ableness that it should be true. It is so desirable to be 
 immortal, why not therefore? It is so desirable, so many 
 have thought, that there should be a Judge to mete out 
 rewards and punishments according to the merits and de- 
 merits of men — and what is seen to be so wise, must it not 
 be 1 This kind of argument may have its place. Having 
 established the existence of a benevolent and omnipotent 
 Creator, we may adopt, of two suppositions equally open to 
 us, that one which is in accordance with such established 
 belief. But in general we must remember that we come to 
 the universe to learn what is ; what we should thinlt wisest 
 is hardly a rule for the universe. 
 
 But whatever logicians may determine about the argument, 
 the desire for immortality is indisputably the great founda- 
 tion for a belief in it. Awake that desire and cultivate 
 yourself for a specific form of immortal happiness, and the 
 faith is secure. And men more especially distinguish this 
 as a faith. They do not say that it is against Eeason : far 
 from it ; but they are conscious that it is mainly upheld by 
 Peeling. 
 
 Having thus seen the elasticity and growth of human 
 passion — following, in short, human knowledge and change 
 of outward circumstances — we are somewhat better prepared 
 to enter on a survey of the past with some hope of dimly 
 foreseeing the future. 
 
 PBINTED BY WILUA5I BLACKWOOD AND SONS.