2 ^ ^ 5THEOLOGICAL SEMINARY, J Princeton, N; J. 1.V I --- J.->.. 0:3lCOfc i| ■043 . 1 184-7 I ^ ^ i ^ i.- if- \ .•'•SWA*; (■ ‘‘fi I ■’I " . i.r ( . » ' ' i SKETCHES OF MORAL AND MENTAL PHILOSOPHY: THEIR CONNECTION WITH EACH OTHER; AND THEIR BEARINGS ON DOCTRINAL AND PRACTICAL CHRISTIANITY. BF THOMAS CHALMERS, d.d.&ll.d. PROFESSOR OF THEOLOGY IN THE UNIVERSITY OF EDINBUROB, 4MOOJRRESPONDINO MEMBER OF THE ROYAL INSTITUTE OF FRAVO. NEW YORK: ROBERT CARTER, 58 CANAL STREET, AND PITTSBURG, 56 MARKET STREET. 1847 . I .T ' Digitized by the Internet Archive in 2018 with funding from Princeton Theological Seminary Library r, irtAii r ' V m f . M v, https://archive.org/details/sketchesofmoralm00chal_0 PREFACE. There seems a special necessity in the present times, for laying,open to the light of day every possible connexion, which might be fancied or alleged between Theology and the other Sciences. All must be aware of a certain rampant infidelity that is now abroad, which, if neither so cultured nor so profound as in the days of our forefathers, is still unquelled and resolute as ever; and is now making fearful havoc, both among the disciples of the other learned professions, and among the half educated classes of British society. The truth is, that infidelity, foiled in its repeated attacks on the main citadel of the Christian argument, now seeks for auxiliaries from every quarter however remote of human speculation. There is not perhaps one of the sciences which has not, at some time or other, been pressed into the service; and the mis¬ chief is, that, in very proportion to their ignorance of these sciences, might the faith of men be un¬ settled by the imagination of a certain wizard power, that each of them, on the authority of some great infidel name, has been said to possess—a power, not only to cast obscuration over the truth of Christianity, but bid the visionary fiction alto¬ gether away into the shades from which it had been conjured. And accordingly, at one time there arose Geology from the depths of the earth, and entered into combat with a revelation, which, pillared on the evidence of history, has withstood the onset. At another, from the altitudes of the VI PREFACE. upper firmament was Astronomy brought down, and placed in hostile array against the records of our faith; and this assault also has proved power¬ less as the former. Then, from the mysteries of the human spirit has it been attempted, to educe some discovery of wondrous spell by which to dis¬ enchant the world of its confidence in the gospel of Jesus Christ; and many an argument of meta- physic form has been taken from this department of philosophy, to discredit both the contents and the credentials of that wondrous manifestation; and these have been successively, though per¬ haps not yet fully or finally disposed of. Even, in quest of argument by which to prop the cause of infidelity or to find some new plausibility in its favour, the recesses of physiology have been explored; and from Lecture-rooms of Anatomy, both in London and elsewhere, have the lessons of materialism been given, and that to the conclusion of putting a mockery on all religion, and if possible expelling it from the face of the earth. But per¬ haps the most singular attempt to graft infidelity on any thing called a science, is by those who associate their denial of the Christian Revelation with the doctrines of Phrenology—as if there were any earthly connexion between the form of the human skull, or its effect upon the human character upon the one hand, and the truth or falsehood of our religion upon the other. For, granting them all their organs, it no more tells either to the confirmation or disparagement of our historical evidence for the visitation of this earth by a messenger from Heaven, than it tells on the historical evidence for the invasion of Britain bv ♦ PREFACE. VU Julius Caesar. And we venture to affirm of all the other sciences, that no discovery has been made in any of them, which is not in e\ery way as incon¬ sequential to the point at issue; and that the truths of all Philosophy put together as little inter¬ fere with the truths of the Gospel, as the discov¬ eries of the astronomer interfere with the discov¬ eries of the anatomist. But so it is. While each science rests on an evidence of its own, and, con¬ fining itself to its own legitimate province, leaves all the other sciences to their own proper credentials and their own claims—the science of Theology has been converted into a sort of play-ground for all sorts of inroads, and that from every quarter of human speculation. Nor are we aware of a single science in the vast encyclopedia of human know¬ ledge, which has not, in some shape or other, been tnrned, by one or more of its perverse disciples, into an instrument of hostility against the Gospel of Jesus Christ. Nevertheless it too has an evi¬ dence of its own, alike unassailable and beyond the reach of violence from without. It is not by the hammer of the mineralogist, that this evidence can be broken. It is not by the telescope of the astronomer, that we can be made to descry in it any character of falsehood. It is not by the knlie of the anatomist, that we can find our way to the alleged rottenness which lies at its core. Most ridiculous of all, it is not by his recently invented cranioscope, that the phrenologist can take the dimensions of it and find them to be utterly awaat- ing. And las.dy, may it be shown, that it is no’ by a dissecting metaphysics, that the philosopher of the human miud can probe his way to the VUl PREFACE. secret of its insufficiency; and make exposure to the world of the yet unknown flaw’, which incur¬ ably vitiates and so irreparably condemns either the proofs or the subject-matter of the Christian faicn. All these sciences have, at on<} time or other, cast their missiles at the stately fabric of our Christian philosophy and erudition; but they have fallen impotent at its base. They have offered insult but done no injury, siive to the defenceless youth whose principles liiey have subverted, or to those n*en of ambitious vanity yet imperfect education whose little learning is a dangerous thing. If pedantry be defined the untimely introduction of science, with its imposing nomenclature, either into companies that cannot understand it, or into subjects where it is wholly inapplicable, then is this the most mischievous and unfeeling of all pedantry. It were well to expose it and disarm it of its power over the imaginations of ignorance—to prove that Theology has an independent domain of her own, where, safe in her own inherent strength and in the munitions by which she is surrounded, she can afford to be at peace with her neighbours, and, free from all apprehension or envy, can rejoice in the prosperity of all the sciences. Analogous with these repeated attempts on the part of a vain philosophy to destroy the credentials of our faith, is the attempt, and under the guise of lofty science too, of that transcendental scripture criticism which flourishes in Germany, to vitiate and transform its subject-matter.* Now the way * We all tlie more ■vvillinglv advert to tliis topic, that it fur¬ nishes the opportunity of expressing our regret, in not having boen hitherto able from want of room, to fulfil our intention of I'HLIACE. IX to meet the ignorant pedantry of this attempt, is to make d'lstinction between such a scripture-criti¬ cism as that which accomplished the English trans¬ lation of our Bible, and that very best and highest scripture-criticism, which, if brought to bear on this our own popular version, might confer on it the utmost improvement or rectification of which it is susceptible. The one might be termed the ordi¬ nary scripture-criticism of which we enjoy the benefit in our own land, the other, the transcen¬ dental scripture-criticism, most cultivated in Ger¬ many while comparatively unknown among our¬ selves. Now what we affirm is that the ordinary scripture-criticism brings the whole substance of theology within our reach; and that in our autho¬ rized version, the product of that scripture criti¬ cism, not only are all the articles of theology accurately rendered; but that every article of the least importance, whether estimated practically or scientifically, is therein to be found. And it further admits, we think, of sound and impregnable demon¬ stration—that it lies not within the power of the transcendental scripture-criticism either to change or to undermine this theology. It might make certain infinitesimal additions to our former know¬ ledge, in things minute and circumstantial, and by all means let us have these; but we utterly mis¬ take and overrate its powers, when we think that, by its means we shall ever be able—either to make any material additions by which to enlarge, or any material alterations by which to transform discussing the subjects of Scripture Criticism and Systematic Theology—a discussion that we must now postpone to a future volume of the series. z PREFACE. the system of doctrine, that, with slight variations^ has been espoused by all the reformed churches of Christendom. It might defend the faith; but it will not enlarge the faith. As an instrument of defence it is most valuable; but as an instrument of discovery it is a microscope, and not a telescope —dealing in things that are minute, but not in things that are momentous. There are certain nuffcs difficiles which it can master, certain scriptural enigmas which it can resolve, certain eclaircissemens which we should like it to prose¬ cute to the uttermost. But as to the capita Jidei, as to all the moralities of the Christian practice, or all the beads and articles of the Chris¬ tian faith, it can make no additions to these, it can make no changes on these. It is powerful as a protector of the great truths we have; but not as a discoverer of more—as a shield to our existing orthodoxy, but not as an architect by which either to take it down, or to substitute another orthodoxy in its place. We are not refusing its pretensions to a very high place in our schemes of ecclesiasti¬ cal education j for by its means, we repel the in¬ roads of heresy, and raise a bulwark to the faith* But we utterly refuse the mischievous pretensions which have been made for it, to amend, or to alter, or even to subvert that faith. They who put forth such extravagant pretensions wholly misun¬ derstand the instrumentality and the functions, not of the ordinary, but of the superlative scripture criticism; and this attempt to injure and to un¬ settle, by means of the science of scripture-criti¬ cism, is of a piece with the attempts to turn to the same unhallowed purpose all the other sciences. CONTENTS. Chav. L On the Distinction between the Moral and Menial Philosophy,.13 11. On the peculiar Difficulty in the Study of Mind which attends not the Study of external Nature, 59 III. On the Emotions.85 IV. On the Command which the Will has over the Emotions, .. .....130 V. On the Morality of the Emotions,.162 VI. On the Undue Place which is often given to the Emotions, and the delusive Estimate of Human Virtue to which it leads,.216 VII. On the Final Causes of the Emotions, . . . 287 VHL On the Phenomena of Anger and Gratitude, and the Moral Theory which has been grounded npon them, ..328 IX. On the Duties of Perfect and Imperfect Obligation, 366 X. On Diversities of Statement, in regard to the General Questions of Moral Science, or Systems of Moral Philosophy.396 7f I I ^ w- r * ; i. • . a I IfrV - -' V;’ s ’W^ ' . *'■ H •• .-I-. > * • f : «u ■-« -BT. ■S ta-Ti H - '(^.'k-^~ V, ' 1'4 * » • > 'LAt ■'*?-' C;*T-' * »>**€ ., l^-" .> - 4 »' ' .^.Tw|;ti,, - , . -• ,,* -'’i^ ltC.Ty'7x^ 1o vfii;gj: lifir' if ■'' ^ III TV*- Jr’ ■'?■ V ' '• <(► ^ *. •• *'-•' ' ■. , '^ii> .v4^at-'h! K ^’fo ti ff jjji *» it 5H ,jr 4 i-^a'. iWt^ l»>. fl r tnti, \ K- -. . V ■“ ■ >>*^' It' • I ''• V fi ‘OiJfliljl' r_ ... -.7* • .;> .«<»«•• / 'all ♦<’? i »0 -JCf ' 1 •. -’i '’w ‘ < %, I ‘1 I —tirt itO -X H r ' /■ -• " * - ■ • * ■^y. ' i ^ * •v - ”«< 5 iK. ■j ■ ■ ’* 2 i’ ^ * -- 9JC ^ .A » r .j? CHAPTER I. On the Distinction between the Moral and Mental Philosophy. 1. The two terms Moral and Mental are often held as synonymous with each other. In its primi¬ tive and right meaning, Moral stands opposed to vicious or immoral, and so is tantamount to the virtuous or good in character. In its later mean¬ ing, it stands contrasted with Material; and thus by the moral world, we are made to understand the world of minds—and so Moral Science is equi¬ valent to Mental Science, or that Philosophy, the object of which is to assign the laws and properties of the substance Mind, in contradistinction to that other Philosophy, which, comprehensive of many sciences, assigns the laws and properties of the substance Matter. It is thus that Moral Philo¬ sophy has greatly widened, of late, the field of its topics and inquiries; and, instead of being what it wont, a manageable and well-defined science, has become a medley of incongruous subjects—charg¬ ing itself with a sort of mastery or control over all the sciences ; and, on the principle perhaps, that, in virtue of the cognizance which it takes of mind, 14 DISTINCTION BETWEEN THE it might extend this cognizance to all which the mind has to do with—making inroads on every territory of human speculation, and ranging ini¬ mitably or at pleasure over all the provinces of human thought. 2. It were well to reduce this strange concre¬ tion ; or to marshal aright into proper and distinct groups, the ill-sorted members of this vast and varied miscellany. And first, regarding the mind as the seat of certain affections and processes, we would assign to Mental Science as its legitimate and sole office, the investigation of these viewed simply as phenomena. The record of these would form the Natural History of the mind. The classification of these would form its Natural Philosophy. The Mental Science comprehensive of both; taking cognizance of aU the various states of mind, with the changes or sequences which take place on these in given circumstances, as so many facts which it must describe aright and register aright—it thus presents us with the Physics of the Mind, with the Physiology of Dr. Thomas Brown, with the Pneumatology of an older generation. It is thus that Mental Science lies as much within the domain of experimental or observational truth, as does the Science of the Material Universe. The one is as much the science of actual events or of existent objects, as the other. The quid est of Mind, whatever can be predicated thereof as de¬ scriptively or historically true, belongs to Mental Science—just as the quid e.st of Matter, whatever can be predicated thereof as descriptively or his¬ torically true, belongs to Material Science. Each MORAL AND MENTAL PHILOSOPHY. 15 is a science of pure observation ; and the Inductive Philosophy of Lord Bacon is alike applicable to both. 3. But the quid est is not to be confounded with the quid oportet; and Moral Truth is in every way as distinct from the facts or principles which make up the actual constitution of the human mind, as Mathematical Truth is distinct from the actual laws and properties of the material world. The question, What are the affections or purposes of the mind, is wholly distinct and dissimilar from the question which relates to the rightness and wrongness of these affections or purposes. My knowledge that such a purpose or passion exists, is one thing; my judgment of its character is another. In the one case, it is viewed historically as a fact; in the other it is viewed morally as a vice or a virtue. In the one aspect, it belongs to mental; in the other, to moral science—two sciences distinct from each other in nature, and which ought never to have been so blended, as to have been treated like one and the same science in our courses of philosophy. 4. It is true that every moral perception or moral feeling has its being or residence in the mind; but this forms no greater reason for Tiewing moral as identical with mental science, than for so viewing any physical or even mathe¬ matical science. Every perception of external nature, or even of the properties in geometry, has as much its residence in the mind, as have our perceptions of Ethical truth; and the thing per¬ ceived should no more be confounded with the 16 DISTINCTION BETWEEN THE perception, in the one department than in the other. The objective truth is alike distinct from the subjective sense or notion of it, in all the sciences. In looking to the rightness or wrong¬ ness of certain acts and certain dispositions, the mind is no more looking to itself—than when looking abroad on the fields, or taking an obser¬ vation in Astronomy. The judge on the bench needs no more have been looking inwardly during the currency of a protracted trial, than the mathe¬ matician during the whole process of a lengthened algebraical investigation. Mental Science is as distinct from all other sciences, including the ethical and the logical, as our notions of things are from the things themselves. In the act of estimating what is right in morals, or what is sound in reasoning, or what is correct in taste, we no more look to the mind—than we do in the act of estimating what is true in Geometry, or of estimating any of the properties of material sub¬ stances. If Mental Science, then, have absorbed the Moral and Intellectual Sciences, it might claim for itself the monopoly of all the sciences. Moral Philosophy is the Philosophy of Morals, not tlie Philosophy of Mind. 5. But, as we have already in part intimated. Mental Science has not only usurped the Science of Ethics, but also Logic and the Philosophy ot Taste. There is no sufficient reason for this. The mind is not thinking of itself at all, in the act either of constructing a syllogism, or of pro¬ nouncing on the legitimacy of its conclusion. And it is as little thinking of itself, when estimating MORAL AND MENTAL PHILOSOPHY. 17 the beauties of a landscape, as when forming an estimate of its magnitudes and distances. 6. In spite however of these considerations, there has been in these sciences a process, not of further subdivision, as in the Philosophy of Matter; but, marvellous to say, a process of annexation and • monopoly. Once that the Moral became ecfuivalent to the Mental Philosophy, then it broke forth, by an act of violent aggression, beyond the confines of its own legitimate territory, and usurped a right of cognizance and domination, not only over the whole sciences of our spiritual and intellectual nature, but over other sciences standing in the same relation to that of mind as itself does. As if the Ethical department did not afford a sufficient range. Moral Philosophy has gone forth, and made forcible seizure on the prin¬ ciples of Taste, on the Metaphysics of Grammar, on the w'hole physiology of the mind, with all its feelings and all its faculties, and lastly on the laws and methods of the human understanding. It is certainly strange that while all other Philosophy is more shared and subdivided than before, with the accumulation of its materials—all these subjects should thus have been heaped together into one aggregate under the title of Moral Philosophy, and the w hole burden of it laid upon one solitary Pro¬ fessorship. Even centuries ago, a separation was deemed necessary, as may be inferred from the very existence in our Universities of a Logic along with a Moral Philosophy class—and it does seem inexplicable, that, in proportion as truths otq multiplied, the smaller should be the number of 18 DISTINCTION BETWEEN THE repositories in which they are laid. It is thus that Moral Philosophy is now in a state of com¬ pression; and that its Lectureship has, in some degree, become a heterogeneous medley of topics which are but ill adjusted with each other. VVe have for years been in the habit of regarding this not merely as incommodious for the practical business of a University ; but in itself as unphilo- sophical. We hold the whole of this domain to be wide enough for being broken down into its sections and its provinces; and, both to reduce the plethoric magnitude of one subject as well as to save an invidious usurpation on the right and property of others, we do think it expedient, that when there is for the Philosophy of Taste a class of Rhetoric, and for the Philosophy of Knowledge a class of Logic, the distinct and appropriate business of this one class should be the Philosophy of Duty. 7. And we apprehend that down to the days of Hutcheson, and even of Dr. Adam Smith, Moral Philosophy was mainly and substantially the Philosophy of Morals. Both of these eminent writers were chiefly ethical; and did, we under¬ stand, in their University courses, very much confine themselves either to the principles of virtue, or to its motives and practical applications. It was, we imagine, in the days of Hume, that Moral Philosophy first broke over its original barriers, and made the widest diffusion of itself throughout the other departments in the science of human nature. Certain it is, that the infidelity of that distinguished philosopher bore a threatening aspect on the very foundations of morality; and called torlh, at his MORAL AN! MENTAL PHILOSOPHY. 19 first appearance, a noble reaction of vigilance and alarm, on the part of its defenders. Among these the professors of Moral Philosophy took, as became them, a conspicuous place; and seized on every outpost of advantage, friun which they might repel the inroads of this wasteful and withering scepticism. But it was mainly a warfare on the grounds of evidence or belief—and so, a careful review had to be taken of, the intellectual powers; and the champions of morality, directing their main force to the quarter of attack, felt themselves principally called upon at that period to guard and illustrate the whole philosophy of the understanding. It was thus that in the hands of Reid and Beattie, the moral and the me?taphysical came to be so intimately blended; and even after they had achieved the important service on wRich they went forth, did they still linger on the field of combat, and neither they nor yet their successors have retired within the limits of the original encamp¬ ment. In this way the proper and the primary topics of a Moral Philosophy class have been in a great measure overborne; nor do we see, in the writings either of Stewart or Brown, any tendency to restore these topics to the place and the pre¬ eminence which belong to them. 8. We are informed by one of Dr. Smith’s biographers, that, “ In the professorship of Logic, he soon saw the necessity of departing widely from the plan that had been followed by his predeceti- sors; and of directing the attention of his pupils to studies of a more useful and interesting nature, than the Logic and Metaphysics of the schools. 20 DISTINCTION BETWEEN THE Accordingly, after exhibiting a general view of the powers of the mind, and explaining so much of the ancient logic as was requisite to gratify curiosity, with respect to the artificial mode of reasoning which had once occupied the universal attention of the learned, he dedicated all the rest of his time to the delivery of a system of Rhetoric and Belles Lettres_He afterwards became Professor of Moral Philosophy in Glasgow, which he treated purely as the Science of Morals, and divided it thus into four parts. The first contained Natural Theology, in which he considered the proofs of the Being and Attributes of God, and those principles of the human mind upon which religion is founded. The second comprehended Ethics strictly so called. In the third he treated at more length of that branch of morality which relates to justice; and which, being susceptible of precise and accurate rules, is capable of a more systematic demonstra¬ tion. In the fourth he explained those political regulations which are founded upon expediency, and which are calculated to increase the riches, the power, and the prosperity of a state.” 9. Now this may serve as a specimen of what Moral Philosophy once was—standing in wide contrast to what it now is, since it suffered the transformation of which we have been speaking. When engaged in the duties of a Professor of Logic, Dr. Smith did feel himself called upon to exhibit a general view of the powers of the mind, and to explain the most useful parts of Metaphysics .—and, besides grafting the distinct subject of Rhetoric upon his course, to examine the several MORAL AND MENTAL PHILOSOPHY. 21 ways of communicating our thoughts by speech. And when from this professorship, he entered upon that of Moral Philosophy—instead of availing him¬ self, as he well might, of the preparations that he had already accumulated—if Moral Philosophy had then been what it has now become in our present day—he evidently sets himself to it as altogether a new subject, and feels as if he w as entering on a wholly distinct region of speculation. In the sketch now given of his labours in his second chair, we read of Natural Theology, and Ethics, and Jurisprudence, and Political Economy—but not one word of Metaphysics. And we venture to afifirm, that, without any aid from this last science, he both conceived and brought to maturity his most valuable speculations. iO. It is very true that, in virtue of his previous attentions to Logic, he might have been better qualified for the prosecution of his new labours in Moral Philosophy—just as a certain mathematical preparation is indispensable to the study of Natural Philosophy. But this does not affect our position of the subjects being distinct, and that they ought to be laid on distinct professorships. We should esteem it a most oppressive imposition on him, whose office it is to unfold the doctrines of Natural Philosophy—were he also required to teach all the Geometry and Algebra, that might be indispen¬ sable to the understanding of his demonstrations. And it were surely equally unreasonable, it were blending two professorships into one, it had to a certain extent been translating Dr. Smith to sub¬ stantially the same professorship under a different 22 DISTINCTION BETWEEN THE name, should it have been held incumbent on him, or on any of his successors in office, instead of laying an immediate seizure on the truth which directly belonged to their own appropriate science, to have entered on an analysis of the powers by which truth is investigated. This is the office of another labourer; and, if it must be fulfilled upon the student—ere he is a fit subject for the demon¬ strations of Ethical Science, this is only saying that Logic should precede the Moral, even as Mathematics precede the Natural Philosophy. 11. But in point of fact, the truths of Ethical Science may be apprehended without any antece¬ dent investigation on our part of the apprehending faculty. In like manner as the visible qualities of an object, may all be looked to and so ascertained without once thinking of the eye—so there are many thousands of objects in every department of Science, and Moral Science among the rest, which may all be regarded with most correct and intelli¬ gent observation, without the bestowing of so much as a thought on the observant mind. There is one philosopher who has outstripped all his pre¬ decessors in those high efforts of analysis, by which he has unravelled the operations and powers of our mental system. But admitting the soundness, as we do the talent and originality cf hL specula¬ tions, stiU we refuse to acknowledge them as fore¬ runners and scarcely even as auxiliaries to the study of Moral Philosophy. We question their subserviency to the demonstrations of Natural Theology, or Ethics, or Jurisprudence, or Poli¬ tical Economy. Admitting many of his positions MORAL AND MENTAL PHILOSOPHY. 23 regarding the Physiology of the mind to be truths, still they are truths irrelevant to the proper object of Ethical Science. And, however much it may startle the admirers of one who emitted so power¬ ful a light during his short but brilliant day, and who has left in posthumous authorship a monument of proud endurance behind him—^yet we shall esteem the conclusive separation of his Mental from the Moral Philosophy, to be as great a deliverance for the latter, as Dr. Smith seems to have felt, when, departing widely from the plan that had been followed by his predecessors, he cleared away from the business of his first pro¬ fessorship the Logic and Metaphysics of the schools. 12. But this great philosopher himself is thoroughly aware of the distinction; and, we think too, must have been aware of the independence in a great degree of the two subjects of the Intellectual and the Moral Philosophy. “ If, however, during the flourishing periods of Greek and Roman letters, this intellectual analysis was little cultivated, the department of the philosophy of the mind, which relates to practical Ethics, was enriched, as I have said, by moral speculations the most splendid and sublime. In those ages, indeed, and in countries in which no revealed will of Heaven had pointed out and sanctioned one unerring rule of right, it is not to be wondered at, that, to those who were occupied in endeavouring to trace and ascertain such a rule in the moral nature of man, all other mental inquiries should have seemed comparatively insignificant. It is even pleasing thus to find the 24 DISTINCTION BETWEEN THE most important of all inquiries regarded as truly the most important, and minds of the highest genius, in reflecting on their own constitution, so richly diversified and adorned with an almost infinite variety of forms of thought, discovering nothing, in all this splendid variety so worthy of investigation, as the conduct which it is fitting for man to pursue.” Brown—Lecture I. 13. At a time then when the intellectual analysis was little cultivated, the department of Ethics was enriched by splendid and sublime moral specula¬ tions. We are aware of a prejudice by which many are disposed to think that when there is much splendour, there is no solidity. But we affirm that there might be solid as well as subhme moral speculations, by those who cultivate the intellec¬ tual analysis as httle as the ancients did—just as a man can not only be dazzled by the glories of a landscape, without so much as the consciousness of that retina which hath taken in the impression of it; but can also take accurate cognizance of all the objects which are there placed before him. 14. We regard splendour as at best a very am¬ biguous compliment, when ascribed to any specu¬ lation. But what we contend for is, not that splendid, but that sound ethical speculation may be formed without the aid of the intellectual analysis. We are not at present inquiring into the justness of this analysis, and offer no reflection either on the truth or the importance of Dr. Brown’s speculations on the physiology of the mind. But every thing in its own place. And what we affirm is, that, to make the antecedent MORAL AND MENTAL PHILOSOPHY. 25 knowledge of our mental frame in all its parts a preliminary to the study of Ethics, is just laying as heavy and uncalled for a servitude upon this subject, as it would be to require a familiarity with all the methods of the fluxionary calculus, ere we admitted a scholar into the studies of Chemistry. It is as competent a thing to lay an immediate hand on Moral Philosophy, without any reflex view beforehand of the powers and principles of our mental constitution—as it is to lay an immediate hand on the diagrams of Geometry, without one thought of the constitution of that eye by which we are made to perceive them. 15. Dr. Thomas Brown, though in practice he followed the example of his predecessors—yet, aware of the distinction on which we now insist betw een Moral and Mental science, expresses him¬ self as follow's; “In one very important respect, how^ever, the inquiries, relating to the physiology of Mind, difier from those which relate to the physiology of our animal frame. If we could render ourselves acquainted w ith the intimate struc¬ ture of our bodily organs, and all the changes which take place, in the exercise of their various functions, our labour, with respect to them, might be said to terminate. But though our intellectual analysis were perfect, so that we could distinguish, in our most complex thought, or emotion, its constituent elements, and trace with exactness the series of simpler thoughts wdiich have progressively given rise to them, other inquiries, equally or still more important, would remain. We do not know ail which is to be known of the mind when we VOL, V. B 26 DISTINCTION BETWEEN THE know all its phenomena, as we know all which can be known of matter, when we know the appearances which it presents, in every situation in which it is possible to place it, and the manner in which it then acts or is acted upon by other bodies. When we know that man has certain affections and pas¬ sions, there still remains the great inquiry, as to the propriety or impropriety of those passions, and of the conduct to which they lead. We have to consider, not merely how he is capable of acting, but also, whether, acting in the manner supposed, he would be fulfilling a duty or perpetrating a crime. Every enjoyment which man can confer on man, and every evil, which he can reciprocally in-fiict or suffer, thus become objects of two sciences —first of that intellectual analysis which traces the happiness and misery, in their various forms and sequence, as mere phenomena or states of the substance mind;—and secondly, of that ethereal judgment, which measures our approbation and disapprobation, estimating, with more than judicial scrutiny, not merely what is done, but what is scarcely thought in secrecy and silence, and dis¬ criminating some element of moral good or evil, in all the physical good and evil, which it is in our feeble powder to execute, or in our still fi’ailer heart, to conceive and desire.” Brown—Lecture I. 16. This is not very distinctly expressed; ^ and yet we may gather from it, how it is that Moral Philosophy may yet be recalled from that wide and unUmited survey which it has lately taken of our nature. In the hands of some of our most cele¬ brated professors, it has been made to usurp the MORAL AND MENTAL PHILOSOPHY. 27 whole domain of humanity—insomuch that every emotion which the heart can feel, and every deed which the hand can perform, have in every one aspect, whether relating to moral character or not, come under the cognizance of Moral Philosophy. Now even though Moral Philosophy were to have some sort of reference to every exhibition that humanity gives forth, yet it does not follow that Moral Philosophy should comprehend all that might be affirmed, and affirmed truly, of every exhibition. Geography has a reference to every one spot on the surface of the globe; but there is only one particular thing relating to that spot of which it takes cognizance, and that is the local position of it. There are many other things which might be affirmed of the same spot, wherewith strictly and properly Geography has nothing to do. The flora, for example, of the district be¬ longs to Botany; its subterraneous productions to Mineralogy; its political revolutions to History— and, though in geographical grammars all these circumstances are adverted to, yet there is an overstepping on the part of Geography, when it extends its regards beyond the locality of the place in relation to other countries, or its locality in relation to the mundane system. We have here the example of several sciences—all bearing as it were on one spot of earth, and each claiming its own peculiar share of the truths or the informations which relate to it. And so of each action in the territory of human life—which may be regarded in various aspects, and to the production of v.hich there behoved to be the co-operation perhaps of 28 DISTINCTION BETWEEN THE many distinct feelings and faculties of our nature; and which therefore in all its circumstances it were wrong to refer to Moral Philosophy, although this science has lately monopolized them all. A man, for example, may eye with tasteful admiration a neighboui’’s estate; and he may calculate its value; and he may feel a covetous affection towards it; and he may enter on a series of artful and unjust proceedings, by which to involve the proprietor in difficulties, and compel a surrender, and possess himself of that domain by the beauties of w'hose landscape he w^as at first attracted, and by the calculation of whose worth he was determined, though at the expense of rectitude and honour, to seize upon it. Now here there are various prin¬ ciples blended together in one exhibition; and each coming forth into development and display within the limits of one passage in the history of an individual. Each, wn say, belongs to separate provinces in the philosophy of man; and Moral Philosophy ought not to have engrossed them all, as it has done. It belongs to the Philosophy of Taste, to take cognizance of that impression of loveliness which man takes in from external scenery. It belongs to the Philosophy of the Understanding, to take cognizance of his intellectual processes. And it is only with the rise of the covetous affec¬ tion, and the promptings of it to iniquitous conduct, that Moral Philosophy has properly to do. Each of the two first stands as nearly related to the human mind, as does the last of these sciences— the strict and special province of which, we again repeat, is the Philosophy of Duty. MORAL AND MENTAL PHILOSOPHY. 29 17. Before proceeding further, let us consider shortly, what the precise thing is which entitles this or indeed any other subject to the name of a Philosophy. 18. When one looks to a multitude of objects, and can see no circumstance of similarity between them, each individual may be the object of a dis¬ tinct perception—and each, perhaps, may have obtained a hold upon the memory of the observer —but in no way, can they be made the objects of a common philosophy. It is with resemblances, in fact, and with these alone, that Philosophy is conversant—and were each one thing or event in Nature unlike to every other, then there could be no Philosophy—and that purely from the want of materials. The office of Philosophy is to groupe objects or events together according to their resem¬ blances—to put them into classes—and it is some certain likeness between the individuals of a class, that constitutes what may be called the classifying circumstance. The discovery of the Law of Gravitation, was just the discovery of a likeness between the way in which a stone is drawn to the ground,—and the way in which the Moon is drawn to our Earth, or Planets to the Sun, or each one particle of matter to each other in the universe. And so, it will be found from every instance^ that Philosophy consists altogether in the classification of individual facts—and that every such classifica¬ tion is founded on some common resemblance among the individuals. 19. When the individuals are without any resemblance, or at least without any resemblance 30 DISTINCTION BETWEEN THE that is observed—the mind may still have a regard to them—but it cannot in any way regard them philosophically—and that, just because they cannot be associated together into one object of general contemplation. The state into which the mind is thrown when a medley of dissimilar objects is made to pass before it, may be imagined, in the case of an uninitiated spectator, who has been carried from one apartment to another of a very crowded museum. It may be true that a prin¬ ciple of classification reigns over all the varieties of this complex spectacle—but if not palpable to the eye of a visitor—he sees nothing in all that is before him, but a number of unlike and uncon¬ nected individuals. It must be admitted that even he, though he were wholly unpractised in science, and still more, though scarcely advanced beyond the limits of infancy—can seize upon the broad resemblances of things, and so, all uncon¬ scious to himself, has made some steps or advances in Philosophy. He can recognize the general similarity that runs through shells and plants and minerals and coins, and by which each is arranged into a generic class of its own. But there are certain recondite similarities which the eye of his observation has not yet reached—and in reference to these, each individual specimen of the same family stands isolated and detached from all the others. And so it is, that, while the man of science can subordinate into gradations and man¬ ageable parts, this whole contemplation, the man of mere spectacle is baffled and overwhelmed by it. He is lost among those endless diversities, between MORAL ANO MENTAL PHILOSOPHY. 31 which he can perceive no tie of resemblance or re¬ lationship—and retires from the dazzling confusion in as great perplexity, and with fully as little profit, as if he had given the perusal of many hours to the dates and the distances and the offices and all the /• other miscellanies that lie scattered over the pages of an almanac. Instead of the student having a master view of the subject—the subject would fairly master and overcome the student. It gives to one the same superiority over Nature, when, in virtue of certain discovered resemblances, he can arrange the various objects which compose it into their respective departments—that he has over the thousands of an else undisciplined mob, who, by the word of command, can marshal them into the regiments of a well ordered army. This forms a main distinction between the philo¬ sopher and the peasant. The one may be ;»aid to have an intellectual command over the pheno¬ mena of Nature, when he groupes and arranges these objects of his thought, according to their perceived resemblances ; while the other, looking upon Nature as a vast miscellany, and unaware of many at least of the resemblances, views each event in its own particularity, and can trace no relation of likeness among the facts and the pheno¬ mena by which he is surrounded. 20. One of our own poets has said, that “ the proper study of mankind is man”—and yet were we to enumerate all the distinct acts of his history, and all the distinct exhibitions of his character, and view them as so many separate and indepen dent facts, we should feel bewildered amid their 32 DISTINCTION BETWEEN THE vast and interminable variety. The creature appears to be susceptible of as many influences, as there are objects without him, that may be addrest to his notice, or brought to bear upon any of his senses—and, when under one or other of these influences, he is seen at one time to weep, at another to smile and look satisfied, at a third to be transported into anger, or love, or vehement ambition—when each of his multitudinous desires is seen to break forth into deeds or expressions that are alike multitudinous—we should feel it a relief from the fatigue of such a contemplation, could some common characteristics be seized upon, that might assemble so mighty a host of individuals into a few species or families. Now the leading topic of an ethical course supplies us at least with one such characteristic. There is an exceeding number both of the outward acts and the inward emotions of a human being—that may at once be recognized as being morally right or morally wrong. There is one common aspect under which they may all be regarded—and even those actions to which no moral character may be assigned, by being grouped together under the common title of actions of in differ ence, are capable of being described with a reference to the great subject of Moral Philosophy. It is thus that, in the treatment of this subject, we feel ourselves placed on a vantage-ground, whence w^e may survey the whole of human life, and take cogni¬ zance in all its phases and varieties of the human cnaracter—and from the individual actions in which there is found to be a moral rightness, we MORAL AND MENTAL PHILOSOPHY. 33 can, in the very way in which a Philosophy is formed out of the resembling facts in other depart¬ ments of human investigation, ascend from the separate moralities of human conduct to a Moral Philosophy. 21. All are aware how in the construction of a map, they can simplify and reduce to the mind’s eye the whole geography of a district, by one leading line of reference, from which all the posi¬ tions that lie scattered on the surface of the land, can be thrown off in their respective bearings and distances, from that line to which they have been subordinated. And it is thus that we may have the map of human life submitted to our observa¬ tion—by running as it were through the whole moral territory the line of unerring rectitude, or if more convenient the line of demarcation between right and wrong; and, from this, deriving an esti¬ mate of every individual action that is brought under our cognizance. It is true that we cannot, in this way, arrive at a thorough acquaintance with all which may be predicated of any given action—no more than from the chart of an empire, we can collect the population, or the climate, or the agriculture, or the mineral and vegetable productions of every given spot that is within its confines. But still we obtain a certain informa¬ tion of every spot, for we obtain its geographical position—and so, although it is not the part of Moral Philosophy to teach all that relates to the feel¬ ings and the actions of a human creature, although, we must consult the science of Pneumatology and the Philosophy of Taste and the Philosophy of 34 DISTINCTION BETWEEN THE Knowledge ere we can be said to complete what may be called tbe Philosophy of Man—yet it is well that by the means of the Philosophy of Duty, we can command at least one generalized view of human life; and bring within the sweep as it were of one comprehensive estimate, what might otherwise have lain as so many loose and scattered individualities along the track of a man’s history in the world. 22. The mind feels, nothing but defeat and difficulty among a multitude of individuals—but when it can seize upon some one quality that is com¬ mon to them all, then, by means of this as a family likeness, it is invested with a certain ascendancy over the subject, and can bring it within the limits of one general contemplation. That quality which it is the part of Moral Science to find in human actions, and by which it arranges them into classes of its own, is their moral rightness. This it finds to be attached to an exceeding diver¬ sity both of the doings of a man’s history, and the feelings of his heart—and, in the act of regarding these, it rises to a very extended review of our nature. But the mei'e magnitude of its survey is exceeded by the vast importance of it—an importance which is directly announced to us by the very name that is given to this Science—and by which we learn that the whole question of moral good and evil is submitted to its cognizance. There is an intrinsic greatness in the question itself, apart from its bearing upon every other interest—and this is enhanced to the uttermost, when we further think how momentous the interests MORAL AND MENTAL PHILOSOPHY. 35 be which are suspended on the resolution of it— when we reflect on the moral state of man, as it infers a certain connexion with the God who is above him, and a certain consequence in the Eternity that is before him,—and when in the things about which this science is conversant, we behold not merely the most urgent and affecting concerns of a present world, but that they form as it were an opening vista into the magnificence and glory of a world which lies beyond it. 23. It is the natural and we believe the almost constant practice of every instructor, to expatiate on the great worth if not the superiority of his own assigned portion in the encyclopedia of human knowledge. So, that at the opening of every academic course, the student in passing from one introductory lecture to another, may, amid the high-coloured eulogies which are pronounced upon all the sciences, be at a loss how to assign the rank and the precedency of each of them. It is the very perfection of the divine workmanship that leads every inquirer to imagine a surpassing grace and worth and dignity in his own special depart¬ ment of it. Yet surely it is not possible to be deluded by any over-weening estimate of a theme, which reaches upwards to the high authority of heaven, and forward to the destinies of our im¬ mortal nature. 24. And here it occurs to us to say, that it gives a unity and a simplicity to our contempla¬ tions of human life, somewhat akin to the effect that is produced by the generaliiations of philo¬ sophy, when we look to man in d ose greater 36 DISTINCTION BETWEEN THE elements of his being, and according to the high relationships in which he stands to the God who called him into existence, and to the coming futu¬ rities of an existence that is endless. When man lives at random, and under the ever-varying impulse of the objects which surround him, he is like a tra¬ veller entertained perhaps at every new turn and evolution of the scenery through which he passes j but who, all unconscious of the geography that is before him, is lost and bewildered among the mazes of an unknown land. But let him rise to the top of a commanding eminence, and the whole prospect is submitted to him—and descrying, as . he now may, both the near and distant objects of the landscape, he can both so take his aim, and guide his direction, as might give a design and a consistency to all his movements. And so of him, who rambles through life without one thought of the presiding authority that is above, or the great everlasting that is before him—and with whom each day has its own peculiar walk, but not one day all the while spent with any practical or decided reference to the coming immortality. He lives in a sort of hourly fluctuation among the currents that play and circulate within the limits of this world—^but he lives without any general drift that sets in his hopes or his pursuits or his wishes upon another world. It is the doctrine of a moral government that has omnipotence for its head, and for its issues a deathless futurity—it is this which places the traveller through life on the very emi¬ nence that gives him to see afar, and with a reach of anticipation that overpasses the intermediate MORAL AND MENTAL PHILOSOPHY. 37 distance between him and the grave—it is this which sublimes humanity, and carries it beyond the confines of earth on which humanity has but for a few little years to expatiate—it is this which reduces the perspective of existence to its greater lineaments; and, instead of a desultory creature, at the mercy of a thousand lesser and fortuitous influences, it is this which establishes the footsteps of man on a loftier path, and causes every aim and every movement to bear upon the mark of a high calling. 25. 'But it is worthy of remark—that, just as we sublime the prospects of humanity, we simplify them. We become conversant with greater ele¬ ments—but though great, they are few, as has been well observed of Astronomy the most magni¬ ficent of all the sciences, and yet in one respect the simplest of them all—because of the one or two forces that act on the great masses of the sys¬ tem,—and whereof the resulting phenomena can be far more easily traced, than those which pro¬ ceed from the more complex relations, whether of Chemistry or of the Animal and Vegetable Phy¬ siology. And so, of the celestial in Morality as well as in Physics. We are as it were raised by it above the intricacies of a terrestrial maze—and if, among the cloudless transparencies of the region to which we have been elevated, we are more familiar with greatness, w'e, while looking down on the earth that is beneath and onward to the radiant heaven after which we aspire, are less be¬ wildered by complexity than before. And here perhaps the difference between Knowledge and 38 DISTINCTION BETWEEN THE Wisdom may be made apparent. On the one hand it is possible to know much, and yet be des¬ titute of wisdom; and on the other hand to be wise, though in possession of very few materials of knowledge. This difference is well exemplified by a Christian peasant and a man of the world— the latter of whom knows life in its modes and phases and according to the varieties of a multi¬ plied experience—and the former of whom, ignor¬ ant of all these particulars, knows it in relationship to the eternal fountainhead whence it has issued, to the path of righteousness along which it must run, and the immeasurable ocean of bliss and glory into which it falls at the outlet of our earthly dissolu¬ tion. The few great simplicities of his state are the all with which he is conversant; and his wisdom lies in the recognition that he makes of their worth and their greatness—a recognition, not by the con¬ sent of the understanding only, but by the con¬ formity of his whole heart and habit to the import¬ ant realities wherewith he has to do. For wisdom includes in it something more than discernment— it is discernment followed up by the adoption of a right choice and a right conduct. It has in it more of a practical character than belongs to mere knowledge, or even to judgment—for it not only perceives such truths as are addrest to it, but it also proceeds upon them—and we repeat of many an unlettered sage, that, solely because he has seized on the few greater elements of Humanity, and admitted them to have the ascendancy over him—there is a reach and a dignity about the whole man which mere Philosophy cannot attain MORAL AND MENTAL PHILOSOPHY. 39 to—a pure and elevated serene, that is not to be disturbed by those earth-born anxieties which tyrannize over the hearts of ordinary men—even a grace and propriety in all his movements, because each is in keeping with one another, and with the grand purpose of existence—a march of consistency through the world, that gives somewhat the gait of nobility even to the humble occupier of a cottage, who, in walking with his God, feels a gathering radiance upon a path that is enlightened from above, and that bears him onward to the realms of immortality. 26. We may readily conceive the mastery, which it gives to an inquirer over all the phenomena, which are offered to his notice, on any given subject of contemplation—when he is put into the posses¬ sion of some leading principle, which is adapted to all, and gives a place and a subordination to all. It is thus with the law of gravitation, when, by the aid of mathematics, it is made to harmonize into one simple and beautiful principle all the intricacies of our planetary system. And it is thus too with certain laws in Political Economy, by which a determinate impulse is given to the mechanism of trade—and whole classes of phenomena are reducible to one compendious expression. And it is thus too that a habit of mind, like unto that which is acquired by him who is much exercised among the generalizations of Philosophy, is exem¬ plified by the Christian peasant—for he also is daily and familiarly conversant with the most sub¬ lime of all generalizations. There is with him, one great interest that absorbs all the lesser in- 40 DISTINCTION BETWEEN THE terests of his being—a high relationship with his Creator, to which the countless influences that play upon his moral system from all parts of the surrounding creation are made most thoroughly subordinate—one magnificent and engrossing aim, in the prosecution of which he becomes familiar with great conceptions, and rises to a sort of mental ascendancy over all the diversities of visible existence, as he thinks of the God who originated all, and of the eternity which is to absorb all— one complete and comprehensive rule of righteous¬ ness that is suited to all the varying circumstances of humanity; and in the ^application of which he can pervade the whole of life with one character, just as the philosopher can pervade all the pheno¬ mena that lie in the field of his contemplation with some one law or principle of nature. And so religion and morality do more than exalt the imagination of a peasant. They elevate the whole cast of his intellect. They familiarize him to abstractions which are altogether akin with the abstractions of Philosophy. The man who has become a Christian, can, on that very account, look with a more philosophic eye than before over the amplitudes of nature—and, accustomed as he now is to a generalized survey of human life and its various concerns, he can the more readily be made to apprehend the reigning principle which assimilates the facts and the phenomena in any one department of investigation that has been offered to him. Hence it is, that it has so often been distinctly observed—how the reformation which gives a new heart, also brings in its train a MORAL AND MENTAL PHILOSOPHY. 41 new and a more powerful understanding than before_how, at this transition, the whole man, not only softens into goodness, but brightens into a clearer and larger intelligence—how, more parti¬ cularly, instead of being lost as before among the endless specialities which lie in Nature or in the multitude of its individual objects, all untutored as he has been in the schools of Philosophy, he is now capable of lofty and general speculation; and, with the faith which has now entered into his bosom, he has received at the same time the very elements of a philosophical character. 27. It is this alliance between the understand¬ ing and the heart—it is the undoubted fact that he who has practically entered upon the general¬ izations of moral and religious principle, is all the more fitted thereby for entering upon the gene¬ ralizations of science—it is the way, in which however we may explain it, the purity of one’s character gives a power and a penetration to his intellect—it is the connexion between the single¬ ness of an eye that is set upon virtue, and such an openness to the truth which beams upon us from every quarter of contemplation as to make the whole man full of light—it is this which makes it pertinent, and before we have at all entered on the philosophy of Moral Science, to bid, as the best preparation for its lessons, a most devout and deferential regard to the lessons of conscience. There is nought of the science, and nought of the direct observations of Astronomy, in the simple notice to its pupils that they should frequently repair to the observatory, and avail themselves of 42 DISTINCTION BETWEEN THE the instruments which are provided there—yet, anterior to all demonstration, it is entirely in place to deliver such an intimation at the very outset of their study of the heavens. And when entering on the study of their moral nature, although no¬ thing may have yet been said that has in it much of the precision, or even much of the phraseology of science—yet that is said which is practically of importance to know, if we tell at wdiat post and in what attitude we are upon the best vantage-ground for the discernment of its truths—if we proclaim the affinity which obtains between a correct per¬ formance of the duties, and a clear perception of the doctrines of morality; and make it our initial utterance on the Mdiole matter, that, like as an unclouded atmosphere is the essential medium through \vhich to descry those ulterior objects that are placed on the field of contemplation—so it is the serene which gathers around a mind unclouded by remorse, and free from the uproar of guilty passions or guilty remembrances, that forms the medium through which the truths of moral science are seen in their brightest lustre, and so are most distinctly and vividly apprehended. 28. It forms part of the business of this science, to arrange according to the methods of philosophy, the feelings and the faculties of our moral nature. But it is w'ell in the meantime for its students, to cherish these feelings and put these faculties into busy exercise. It is thus that ere the speculation is formed, they become familiar as it were with its raw or primary materials—and wdll be in far better circumstances afterwards for understanding the MORAL AND MENTAL PHILOSOPHY. 43 place and the functions of that moral sense which is within them, if now they give most faithful attendance to all its intimations. There is not a day of their lives that does not supply a multitude of occasions, upon which this inward monitor may lift up his voice, and bring before the cognizance of their judgment the whole question of the distinc- tioir between right and wrong—and it must make all the difference imaginable, whether they be in the habit of hstening to the voice, or of turning a deaf ear and an unimpressed heart away from its suggestions. It is thus that as the will becomes more depraved, the understanding becomes darker, and the two act and leact with a fearful operation of mischief the one upon the other—insomuch that the sophistry from which we have most to appre¬ hend, in finding our way through the intricacies of the subject, is the sophistry of evil habits and of evil affections. 29. But however important Moral Philosophy, in its own separate and distinctive character, may be—we must not forget that sciences, though dis¬ tinct, may yet stand related to each other; and while we view the Mental as diverse from the Moral Philosophy, we must not overlook the con¬ nexion between them. There is one respect indeed in which the Mental stands related to all the Sciences—mind being the instrument for the acquisition of them all; and the whole of our know¬ ledge therefore, throughout its various branches, having the same sort of dependence on the nature of the mind, that perception has, not on the thing perceived, but on the nature of the percipient 44 DISTINCTION BETWEEN THE faculty. There are besides emergencies in the history of science, which might call for a recurrence to the laws and constitution of the human under¬ standing—questions of perplexity or doubt, which can only be decided by an appeal to the ultimate principles or tendencies of our intellectual nature. The scepticism of Berkeley and Hume, for ex¬ ample, when these philosophers denied the exist¬ ence of the material world, may be said to have struck at the whole Philosophy of External Nature. It had to be met by the assertion, of the deference that we owed, or rather of the deference that all men actually paid and were irresistibly constrained to render, to our instinctive principles of belief. In like manner, when men had forsaken the path of observation, and sought after truth by a creative process of their own—they were at length reclaimed from this great error of the middle ages, by an inductive philosophy which may be said to have made proclamation of the laws and limits of the human understanding. And so also the sureness and stability of all physical science depends on the constancy of nature ; and we can imagine that men will arise, to question the grounds of our belief in this constancy, so as to undermine our confidence in the doctrines or averments of our existing Philoso¬ phy. This also is met, and can be adequately met in no other way, than by a statement of our faith in the constancy of nature, as a mental law the autho¬ rity of which is recognized and obeyed by all men. It follows not, however, that, ere the properties or laws of matter can be ascertained, the laws of mind must have been previously investigated, or MORAL AND MENTAL PHILOSOPHY. 45 that the study of mind is anterior to all other study. Men go forth on the arena of all the sciences, without any preparation of this sort, in the vigorous and healthful exercise of such facul¬ ties as they find to be within them, and under the impulse of such tendencies as the strong hand of nature hath implanted—and might make sound progress in all, as unconscious of a Mental Phy¬ siology, as the thousands, who trust and trust aright in the informations of their eyesight, are uncon¬ scious of the retina that is within them. 30 . But Mental Science stands in a still more close and peculiar relation to the other Sciences, than to those which are usually deno¬ minated physical, and which belong to the Philo¬ sophy of Matter. It is true that in the study of Logic, the mind is not employed in the investiga¬ tion of its own phenomena, at the time when employed in investigating the differences between good and bad reasoning. But an extreme scep¬ ticism might throw us back on the Mental Philo¬ sophy, by forcing us to vindicate the procedures of Logic_which cannot always be done, without vindicating and so describing the procedures of the human understanding. When the results of ab¬ straction and comparison and inference come to be questioned, it might often be necessary to take cognizance of these respective faculties of the mind, and of the methods of their operation. Yet, in performing the direct business of Logic—in estimating, either the truth of the premises in the syllogism or the soundness of the deduction that is made from them—the mind, when so occupied, 4G DISTINCTION BETWEEN THE might be as far removed from the consideration of itself or its own properties, as when giving the full intensity of its regards to a diagram in Mathema¬ tics or to a specimen in Natural History. In the act of framing a system of Logic, the direction of the mind is altogether objective. But in defend¬ ing that system, the mind may have to look sub¬ jectively to its own powers and its own processes. 31. But there is more than this to be said for the part which Mental Science has in the Philo¬ sophy of Taste. It is not that the states of emo¬ tion, including the emotions of beauty, are so many mental phenomena—for they are not more so than the intellectual states are; and it is only in the act of holding converse with the objects of taste, that these emotions do arise—insomuch that we no more look to the mind in estimating the beauty of an object, than in estimating the truth of a pro¬ position in any of the physical sciences. So that in constructing a Philosophy of Taste, or in learn¬ ing that Philosophy if already constructed, we for far the greater part are employed objectively. And yet there are certain questions which properly belong to this Philosophy, but which cannot be resolved without a subjective consideration of the mind and of its processes. As an example of this, we might refer to the celebrated question of the effect of association in matters of taste; or whe¬ ther the grace and grandeur which we feel to be in material objects be owing to any inherent quality in themselves, or to the ideas which are suggested by them and which are not material—as ideas of power, or danger, or utility, or of certain of the 47 MORAL AND MENTAL PHILOSOPHY. graces and virtues of the human character. Now the fact of such association, if true, is a mental pnenomenon. The rapidity wherewkh it is per¬ formed is a mental process. And m the act of considering these, we are directly employed on the treatment of a question in Mental Science. In this instance. Mental Science lends a contribution from itself to the Philosophy of Taste—nor is that Philosophy completed, without laying hold of a doctrine or a phenomenon in Mental Science, and making it a component part of its own system. 32. But Mental Science makes still larger contributions to the Philosophy of Morals; and the latter is still more dependent on the former, for the solution of certain of its questions. It is true that the great bulk of ethical questions are prosecuted, altogether apart from the consideration of the mind or any of its phenomena, so as fully to warrant the treatment of the Ethical and Mental as two distinct sciences. Yet ethical science would not be completed, and certain of its most interest- ino- doctrines or difficulties would remain unsettled —If we did not call in the aid of the Mental Philo¬ sophy for the determination of them. Thus, after the establishment of the maxim that nothing is virtuous or vicious which is not voluntary, we must, before pronouncing upon the virtuousness of certain affections, make sure that the will has to do with them. It is thus that the virtuousness of a right belief and the virtuousness of certain of the enmtions, as of gratitude for example, require tor their demonstration that we should advert to the constitution of the mind, and evince therefrom 18 DISTINCTION BETWEEN THE the dependence of an intellectual state in the one case, and of a state of emotion in the other, on certain antecedent volitions which had given them birth. And there is one very celebrated question wherewith the science of morals is most intimately concerned—that which respects the freedom of human agency. Abstractly speaking, this ques¬ tion lies within the department of the Mental Philosophy; but as, in the estimation of many, the character, nay the very being of morality, depends on the decision of it—it is the part of all who are interested in Moral Science, to look after this decision ; and, more especially, is it incumbent on the expounders of this science, to watch over an inquiry the results of which are conceived to bear with an import so momentous, and even with an aspect so menacing on the whole of that subject matter which so peculiarly belongs to them. The professor of Moral Science ought not to shrink then, from taking a part in the much agitated controversy between the contingency and the necessity of human volitions; and, on whichever side the deter¬ mination is given, it is also his part to consider in what way the moral character of men’s acts or of men’s dispositions is affected by it—and, more espe¬ cially, whether either virtuousness or viciousness can be predicated of any performance that is done, or any purpose that is conceived by a voluntary agent, should the whole line of his history be as certainly determined, as is the path of a planet in the firmament. In deciding on this latter ques¬ tion, cognizance must be taken, not only of our moral judgments and feelings, viewed as pheno- MORAL AND MENTAL PIIILOSOPIIV. 49 mena; but of the precise circumstances in which they are called forth—and when thus engaged we are dealing with Mental Science—we are taking a direct vievv of the mind, in one of its most inter¬ esting evolutions. 33. But, beside the common relation in which these three sciences stand to the Mental Philoso¬ phy, they have also certain mutual affinities among themselves. For example, there is a margin or a debateable border-ground between the Philosophy of Knowledge and the Philosophy of Duty, of which each may claim a share; or, rather, of which both may be regarded as the joint proprie¬ tors of the whole. We have already intimated as a maxim, that whatever comes within the province of duty must be dependent on the human will; that no action can be designated as right or wrong, unless a previous volition have been of influence to call it into being; that, ere the character of virtue or vice can be assigned to any state of mind, and along with it all the responsibility which attaches to character, that state must be resolvable either into an act or a habit of choice on the part of its owner. Now such is the actual machinery of the human constitution, that the will and the understanding do have a reciprocal action the one upon the other—and, through the medium of atten¬ tion, a man can, at his own bidding, turn his intellectual faculties to some given quarter of con¬ templation ; and so become deeply censurable for his habitual negligence of questions, that rightfully challenged his utmost reverence and regard for tiiem. The relation that there is between the VOL. V, C bO DISTINCTION BETWEEN THE state of a man’s will and of his opinions, is a topic that has its occupancy on the margin to which we now referred—and by investigating which, light may be thrown upon the inquiry in how far man is accountable for his belief, and in how far his belief may operate either to the perversion or the establishment of his moral character. The way in which right volitions conduct one to right views, and the way in which right views serve to inspire and to sustain right volitions, we hold to be a most interesting portion of that middle ground which lies between the moral and the intellectual philosophy; Nor will it be found that the purely ethical doc¬ trine stands so disjoined in connexion or influence from the other sciences, if it be true as has been strenuously asserted by Dr. Campbell, that worth and simplicity of heart give a mighty aid even to the investigation of speculative truth—that they infuse, as it were, a clearer element into the region of our intellectual faculties—and that there is a power in moral candour which not only gives more of patience to our researches, but even more of penetration to our discernment. 34. And, in like manner, does the province of Moral Duty overlap to a certain extent the pro¬ vince of Taste—and, in so far as it does so, it offers to us so much space of a common or inter¬ mediate character. To philosophise the whole of the latter department is the proper business of another Science—but Moral Science does not overstep her own rightful or legitimate boundaries, when it offers to expatiate, not merely on the grounds, but also on the gracefulness of human MORAL AND MENTAL PHILOSOPHY. 51 Virtue_when it inquires in how far the loveliness that stands imprest on visible and inanimate things, might be resolved into the charm of a moral association—or, adverting to the way in which, through the medium of physiognomy, the worth and excellence of the unseen mind can be put forth in such form and colouring, as might picture to the eye its modesty, or its gentleness, or its kind affection, or its serene and manly determination,— when it suggests the probability, that, with so many alliances between the spiritual and corporeal parts of our nature, there might go forth the ex¬ pression of a character on the flowers, and on the landscape, and on the varying tints of 4he sky, and on all the materialism by which we are sur¬ rounded. One thing is certain that virtue is the object of a tasteful, as well as of a moral admira¬ tion ; that there is^in it what may be called a sort of transcendental beauty, to which an homage is yielded that is altogether akin to the delight we feel in music or in scenery; that this is an emotion in which even the worthless can sympathise—and be made to acknowledge that untainted delicacy and devoted patriotism, and unswerving truth, and honour fearless because unimpeachable, and everbreathing humanity, and saintly or angelic holiness—that, after all, these and such as these are the fairest blossoms in the garden of poetry. Thus far might Moral Science make incursion upon the region of Taste—and that, not to regale the imagination, or idly to deck its own lucubra¬ tions ; but to fetch even from this fairy border, some grave and important materials wherewith 52 DISTINCTION BETWEEN THE to inform the judgment, and to probe a most in¬ structive way among the arcana of our moral nature. 35. And there is one most important practical inference, to be drawn from this conjunction be¬ tween the moral and the tasteful in human nature. If virtue be an object of taste as well as a matter of obligation—then it is a conceivable thing, that it may continue to be felt as the one, after that as the other it has been utterly fallen from. Now should this conceivable thing turn out to be real— should it be found of one w^hose moral principles have been vitiated by self-indulgence, that still he can be regaled with the graces of a fine moral exhibition, just as he can enjoy the luxury of any pathetic or theatrical emotion—should it be found furthermore, that this is a sentimentalism not con¬ fined to those rarer instances of Depravity, when much of what may be called the poetry of a man’s character has survived the utter ruin of his prin¬ ciples ; but that, in fact, it overspreads the whole face of every-day life, so that it might nearly be said of all who still are abundantly capable of a passing tribute to the grace and the goodliness of virtue, that nevertheless they each make a divinity of his own will, and practically breathes in no other element than that of selfishness—then is there room for this weighty and warrantable infer¬ ence, that, with all the complacency of their exquisite feelings and their tender recognitions on the side of virtue, still their conscience and their life might be utterly at war with their imagination: Or, in other words, that whatever remainder of moral sensibility may still exist like the fragments MORAL AND MENTAL PHILOSOrHY. 53 of a lovely or a venerable wreck in their consti¬ tution, nevertheless this sore distemper is upon them, that the hourly and the perpetual habit is at variance with those lofty aspirations after excel¬ lence whereby they occasionally are visited, and they continually disown in practice what in descrip¬ tion and in theory they admire. 36. But with all these admitted relations among the sciences of which we now speak, it is philo¬ sophically of great and obvious importance that each science should be rightly distinguished from all the others ; and thus be made to stand in its own place, and to rest on its own proper and inde¬ pendent evidence. It would put out the light of many a false analogy; and strip of their dangerous authority, those, who, because eminent in one department, have made presumptuous inroad on another that perhaps was altogether foreign to it. Had each inquiry been confined within its own rightful limits, we should not have heard a crude geology from the lips of the mere theologian; nor would an infidel philosophy, as in the person of La Place, elated by the triumphs it had won on the field of astronomical science, rushed un¬ bidden and unwarranted on the Christian argu¬ ment. The violence that is thus often done to the strict philosophy of the subject, is not the only evil to he deprecated, from the confusion or the misplaced interference of one science with another. There is a greater evil to be apprehended of a moral or a practical kind—as giving to scepticism the semblance of a deep philosophy; and thus arming it with a sort of superstitious sway over 54 DISTINCTION BETWEEN THE the prostrate understandings of men, who, if unable to comprehend its demonstrations, are yet in danger of being bewildered and misled because alike unable to refute them. Let the imagination be once given way to, of some mysterious connex¬ ion between the mental and the moral sciences ; and then, as from the depths or the arcana of some hidden region, might the specious fallacy be con¬ jured up, by which to undermine the foundations of the Ethical Philosophy, and to cast an obscura¬ tion over its clearest principles. It is to save this mischief, that we labour to manifest the dis¬ tinction between these two sciences—insomuch that the first elements of the one are beyond the reach of an * possible discovery which can be made in the othei. Our knowledge of the morally right and wrong, does not hang on our knowledge of the mental physiology. The informations of these two different sciences ought no more to be confounded, than the informations that we obtain by the means of two different senses. Those realities of sight of which we know by one inle% can sustain no possible discredit, from those realities of sound of which we know by another inlet. And so it is of the Moral and the Mental Philosophy. Each has its own peculiar walk; and each lights us onward from doctrine to doc¬ trine, by a peculiar evidence of its own. 37 . And if Moral Science have suffered from its fancied dependence on another science; to whose tribunal it is liable to be brought, and by whose award some have conceived it must stand or fall—certain it is that Christianity has suffered moral and mental philosophy. 55 to a tenfold greater extent from the same cause. Infidelity may be said to have drawn its missiles of attack from all the sciences ; and Geology, and Astronomy, and Metaphysics, beside other sciences of lofty pretension and formidable name, have been set forth as containing within their hidden repositories, some truth of deadly import, that, in the hands of an able assailant, might be wielded to the subversion of the faith. And thus it is, that had the aim been as effective as it was meant, Christianity must, long ere now, have received its sentence and its death blow, at the hand of Philoso¬ phy, in some one or other of its branches. We have already said that the certainties of one science can have no effect in displacing the equal certainties of another science; but, strange to say, the uncer¬ tainties of almost all the sciences, have been held to be of sufficient authority, for displacing the certainties of the Christian Revelation—as, for example, the uncertainties, or as they have been termed the visions of Geology, to displace the informations of the best and surest of those histo¬ rical vouchers which have come down to us from ancient times. It seems to have been forgotten of our religion that it is based upon facts, sus¬ tained by that very evidence which has given to modern science all its solidity and all its elevation— the evidence of the senses with its first promulgators; and the evidence of their testimony, transmitted on a firm pathway to all future generations; and to which we add, the evidence of consciousness, that has well been termed the faculty of internal observation, and by which an unlearned man of 56 DISTINCTION BETWEEN THE piety and prayer obtains the same kind of demon¬ stration for the truth as it is in Jesus, that he has for the reality of his own thoughts. These are the evidences which uphold Christianity as a stable and independent system of truth, resting on a foundation of its own; and which can no more be shaken by the hostility of foreign sciences, than by any irrelevancies which are altogether foreign to the question. And yet what a dangerous fascina¬ tion has their eminence won on other fields, thrown around the names of our most distinguished scep¬ tics ; and with what a mighty yet sorely misplaced authority has their general reputation as philoso¬ phers or savans invested them—as Laplace, illus¬ trious in mathematical science; and Hume in metaphysical; and Voltaire in wit and poetry, and the playfulness of a pen that flew with every wind, and ever flung abroad from its prolific stores some new brilliancies to enrich and enliven the literature of his country; and lastly Rousseau with sentiment and eloquence of a profounder cast, and whose very misanthropy, issuing from the bower of his chosen retirement as from the bosom of some mysterious cavern and uttered in notes of deepest pathos, gave a sort of oracular power to the sentences of his dark and distempered infidelity. And yet they never fully grappled with the ques¬ tion as eruditionists, or held up to it in sober and sustained earnest, the lights of criticism and his¬ tory; and far less did they condescend to the subject matter of Christianity, or take account of its marvellous adaptations to the actual state and felt exigencies of human nature. Yet these are MORAL AND MENTAL PHILOSOPHY. 57 the only real and competent evidences on which to decide the question; and so Christianity hath stood its ground amid all the noise and splendour of its adversaries—for if these had forced a sur¬ render, it had been like a citadel of strength stormed by a display of fireworks. But though the enduring and indestructible church weathers all these assaults of infidelity, yet countless, not¬ withstanding, is the number of individual victims who are immolated at its shrine; and thousands, tens of thousands there are, who, simply because these men have written, have lived in guilt and died in thickest darkness. That ignorance is the mother of devotion is a maxim applicable, not to the votaries of drivelling superstition alone; but it has had full and fatal verification also among the worshippers of infidel genius. The neologists of Germany have caused too many to believe, that, from the profundities of German criticism, they have drawn up the secret which gives another meaning to the records of our faith, and so changes altogether the substance and character of Christi¬ anity ; and, in like sort, has infidelity deluded many into the imagination, that, from the hidden depths of that wisdom and philosophy which some of its own most accomplished disciples have explored, the secret has been drawn, by which, not only to change the character of Christianity, but to destroy its existence. In both the illusion 'is upheld through the same means—the illegiti¬ mate authority of great names over minds spell¬ bound and held in thraldom by their own ignorant admiration. And in both, the illusion is dissi- c 2 58 DISTINCTION BETWEEN THE pated in the same way—by exposing the imagi¬ nary connections which have been alleged, and often too for the purposes of infidehty, between one science and another, and keeping each science within its own proper sphere. Philosophy evinces her highest wisdom, when recognising and respect¬ ing the limits of the territory which belongs to her. When she oversteps these, it ceases to be wisdom, and degenerates into pedantry—which may be defined the unwarranted intrusion of learn¬ ing either into companies who do not understand it, or into subjects to which it is altogether in¬ applicable. It is thus that the sophistries of Hume in our own country have been pretty welt disposed of; and thus too, may it be shown, in the face both of French infidelity and of German freethinking, that Christianity is impregnable and that orthodoxy is safe. 38. We do not say that for the direct teaching or enforcement of Christianity, it is indispensable that one should be accomplished in all the sciences. But we say it is most desirable for Christianity, exposed to random assaults from every quarter of possible speculation, that it should rank some of every science among its defenders and its friends. And there is a higher wisdom than the doctrines and lessons of any science can communicate, which is of mighty avail for the defence of our faith against the unlicensed inroads of an ambitious and vain philosophy—a wisdom that arbitrates among all the sciences, saying to each of them “ Thus far and no further shalt thou go”—assigning to each respectively its own strict and legitimate province MORAL AND MENTAL PHILOSOPHY. 59 _drawing around each its proper limitations. It is such a wisdom as Bacon exemplified in Philoso¬ phy; and it is for a Bacon in Theology to demon¬ strate the repeated injuries which she has sustained from the unlawful trespasses, that in the name of Philosophy, have been committed on the domain which rightfully and exclusively is hers. CHAPTER II. On a peculiar Difficulty in the Study of Mind which attends not the Study of external Na¬ ture. 1. What we have already said will at once suggest a distinction in Moral Science, between the objec¬ tive and the subjective part of it. Virtue may be looked to abstractly and in itself; or it may be looked to as exemplified by a human being, when the topic of contemplation may be that whole pro¬ cess of thought, and sentiment, and purpose, and finally of deed or execution, that is undergone by him. It is obvious that we cannot rightly acquit ourselves of this latter, that is the subjective part of Moral Science, wdthout drawing upon Mental Science, without taking cognizance, not of the nature of virtue, but of the nature of man,—his moral nature, or the machinery of his moral judg¬ ments, and feelings, and efforts, and performances. Now in these we behold so many operations or phenomena of mind; and, in other words, there 60 A PECULIAR DIFFICULTY IN are certain questions in which the two philosophies, the Moral and the Mental, however distinct and distinguishable from each other, are intimately blended. • 2. There are two of the human faculties which stand alike distinct from each other; and it is remarkable, that the same confusion has taken place in our view of the faculties, that we have already complained of as having taken place in our view of the objects of them. These are Con¬ science and Consciousness—the one being the faculty that is cognizant of the morally good and the morally evil; the other the faculty that is cognizant of what passes in the breast, or rather that by which a man becomes privy to what has taken place in the history of his own life, as well as to the feel¬ ings and phenomena of his own mind. This latter faculty has been denominated the faculty of inter¬ nal observation. It is by this faculty that we are imagined to take an immediate view of the world that is within—even as by the senses, we take an immediate view of the world that is around us. 3. This has given rise to the conception of a certain peculiar difficulty in the study of Mind, to which we are not exposed in the study of external Nature. 4. But let it be remembered that all Philosophy consists in the classification of facts; and that therefore, when we study the Philosophy of Matter, we must look towards matter and take note of the facts and the phenomena which it exhibits with a view to their classification. And in like manner when we study the Philosophy of Mind, the mind THE STUDY OF MIND. 61 is regarded by us as the subject of certain facts and certain phenomena, which we arrange as we do those of matter according to the resemblances that are between them. A law of material nature is but the expression of a general fact—so that when we affirm the law of gravitation, we only affirm of every piece of matter subject to this law, that it moves towards other matter at a distance from itself. And, in like manner, a law of mental nature is also the expression of a general fact— such, for example, as that which has been termed the law of association, or that law by which when any two objects have in thought been present together to the mind, then the thought of the one object at any future time suggests the thought of the other also. It is thus that the mind is the subject of certain sequences, just as matter is. And the investigation of these laws or sequences is just the physical investigation of the mind, or of the mind considered as the subject of phenomena that follow each other in a certain order of succes¬ sion—even as we currently observe such an order in external nature around us. 5. Now in the prosecution of this study let me try, to use an illustration of David Hume’s, let me try to make myself acquainted with some one of the mental affections as anger; and, on the moment that I turn my eye inwardly for that pur¬ pose, the thing which I am in quest of takes flight and disappears. It is not so w'hen I examine the properties of any substance in Natural History. I can direct a steady gaze, for example, on the colours of any plant or plumage or beautiful insect 62 A TECULIAR DIFFICULTy IN that is submitted to me—and they remain steadily and unchangingly within the field of my vision. They stand my inspection—and I, looking again and again, can mark and register all the varieties of hue or of shading which occur in the various specimens that are before me. It is so with the matters of external, but not so with those of internal observation. To have full advantage for ascertaining the nature and varieties which there are in the feeling of resentment—one would like that he had its permanent characteristics inscribed, as it were, on the walls of the mental chamber, and that he might repeatedly, or any time when at leisure, give successive acts of attention to this inner tablet, just as he would do to a medal or a picture or a piece of mineralogy. But truly it is not in this way that the mind can be studied, or that the nature and law of any one of its affections can be ascertained. So soon as the eye of con¬ sciousness can be turned towards them, they are supposed to evanish before it. And the reason of this is, that, to uphold any particular affection, there must be present to the mind, either in re¬ membrance or in reality, the particular thing or object which excited it. One ceases to be angry, so soon as he ceases to think of the provocation. Let there be an attempt then, on the part of the mind, to study the phenomena of anger—and its attention is thereby transferred from the cause of the affection to the affection itself—and so soon as its thoughts are withdrawn from the cause, the affection, as if deprived of its needful aliment, dies away from the field of observation. There might THE STUDY OF MIND. 63 be heat and indignancy enough in the spirit, so long as it broods over the affront by which they have been originated. But whenever it proposes, instead of looking outwardly at the injustice, to look inwardly at the consequent irritation, it in¬ stantly becomes cool—and we are somewhat in the same circumstances of disadvantage, as if we wished to examine the flame of a candle of which we had but one look, but were not permitted to look on, till it were dipped in a vessel of mephitic air, by which it was extinguished. How can we find that which is dissipated by the very act of seeking after it ?_or which glides away like the spectre that is seen by flits and momentary glances, but recoils from the intense and steady observation of human eyes ? A thermometer could give no information to him, whose eye had the Medusa property of con¬ gealing all that it looked upon—insomuch that the mercury instantly and at all times fell to zero under his gaze. And it is somewhat so when we try to ascertain, what may be called the moral temperature of any feeling or emotion within us. The mind ceases to feel, when it ceases to think of that which caused or perpetuated the feeling. But it ceases so to think—when it looks inwardly upon itself, and begins to analyze its own pheno¬ mena or its own processes. When I am thinking of my anger, I am not thinking of the man who made me angry—and the more that I concentrate my thoughts upon the one, with the view perhaps of a thorough and close inspection of it—the more do I abstract my regards from the other. And thus, unlike to other subjects of examination, the 64 A PECULIAR DIFFICULTY IN more that I fix my attention upon its lineaments, the more do they fade away from my observation —and the darkness thickens, as it w'ere, with every effort that is made of intenser discernment. 6 . This holds true not merely of anger, but of all the other emotions whereof the mind is suscep¬ tible. To feel hatred, there must be something present to the mind’s eye that is hateful. To feel esteem, there must be something present to the mind’s eye that is estimable. To feel gratitude or pity or moral approbation something must be within notice, and be noticed:—a benefactor must be seen or thought of—a sentient creature in suffering must be adverted to—a virtuous person, or a virtuous deed must have the eye of contem¬ plation fastened upon it. These are the objects either of perception or of memory, at the time of the emotion in question; and the mind is the sub¬ ject of the emotion. Now it is in turning from the object to the subject, that the emotion vanishes. If it be true of the mind that it can only think of one thing at a time—then it cannot at the same instant look with intentness on that which is lovely, and reflect with intentness on the love that is felt for it. The love is felt when it is not reflected upon,—and why ? because the mind is otherwise employed—even in gazing on that which is lovely. And again when it is reflected upon it is not felt— and why? because the lovely object is then out of view—the mind having turned away from it, to look at the impression which it maketh upon itself But then the impression fades into evanescence, even by the momentary leave which tlie mind takes THE STUDY OF MIND. 65 of the object—and can only be renewed again by another visit as it were, by an act of recurrence that shall again bring the mind and the object into contact. It is when the eye looks openly and directly outward on external nature—it is only then that the whole scene of contemplation is pictured forth on the retina behind. But should the eye attempt to see this picture; and, in turn¬ ing round upon its socket, withdraw the pupil fiom its original exposure to the objects that weie be¬ fore it_the retina would instantly be darkened— and all that was looked for there would cease to be. And thus it is, with every attempt to explore the recesses of the mind. Ihe desire, and the aversion, and the kindness, and the blame, and the approval, and all the other feelings that spring up there, do so, as it were, at the touch of certain objects of which the mind is then taking cognizance _and, when passing from the objects, it proceeds to take cognizance of the feelings themselves, they go into dissipation, and leave a blank over which the eye of consciousness wanders and seeks in vain to be satisfied. 7. It is this fugitive character of the mental phenomena which attaches a difficulty to the study of them. Were the mind isolated from all con¬ verse with that which is without, there would be no phenomena—no principles to make up a Philo¬ sophy, because there would be no facts—and it would be utterly in vain to look to the mind for its elementary conceptions for example of grandeur or of beauty, when they had never been called forth by its communion with external Nature. It 66 A PECULIAR DIFFICULTY IN is when the eye rests on some scene of loveliness^ or when, by an act of memory, a secondary reflec¬ tion of it is held forth to the eye of the inner man— it is then that the mind gives to it the responding homage of its grateful and delighted admiration. It is the presence, either by vision or by remem¬ brance, of the objects of taste, which gives rise to the emotions of taste—and when the mind takes leave of the objects to look at the emotions, then as at the turning of a mirror—the whole reflection hath disappeared. So long as the mind’s gaze is outwardly from itself—all the internal principles of taste may be in vivid and busy operation—and the rapt enthusiast, while inhaling the utmost enjoyment from the scene that lies before him, may be not only in warmest but in most legitimate ecstacies—the inner tablet of his heart carrying upon it an accurate as well as a bright exempli¬ fication of the whole philosophy of the subject. But when he turns himself round to look at that philosophy and to expound it—he looks upon a tablet that is blinded and bereft of all its characters. The chamber which he now tries to explore has become a camera obscura, whose opening has just been averted from the light of day, and from the irradiations of that landscape with the reflection of whose graces and whose glories it had been so recently illuminated. 8 . But hitherto we have spoken in terms of the common opinion, as if the phenomena of mind were the objects of immediate perception to the faculty of consciousness. Now to us it seems quite clear that if so, the study of these pheno- THE STUDY 01* MIND. 67 mena would not be difficult merely but altogether impracticable. At least this were the untailing consequence, if it be indeed true, that the mind can only think of one thing at the same instant of time. If, on the one hand, anger must be felt and present to the mind, ere it can be thought of; and, on the other, it cannot be felt unless its provoca¬ tive or the object which awakens it be thought of —then either must the mind be able to think of two things at once, or it cannot possibly have the thought or the perception of anger at all. Now w'e get quit of this difficulty by adopting Dr. Thomas Brown’s view of consciousness. It is not that faculty by which we become sensible of the feelings that are present to the mind; but that by which w’e remember the feelings that have recently passed through it. The act of conscious¬ ness, to make use of his own expression, is a brief act of the memory. In the study of anger the mind is busied, not with its sensations of the present, but with its recollections of the past. It is true that these recollections may have faded and become indistinct: and that to repair this disadvantage, the mind must light up again its feelings of resentment by recalling some object of them; and thus may have the benefit of a more recent, and therefore, of a more vivid recollection to guide and to inform it—the recollection of a few moments back, instead of a few days or a few weeks in its past history. We can remember the sensation of hunger without feeling it; and, in like manner, might we not remember the emotion of anger without feeling it? Or, in other words, 68 A PECULIAR DIFFICULTY IN Uie various states and susceptibilities of the mind come within the range of the memory. To explore its secrets one does not need to look inwardly into himself, as into a kind of magical chest that is carried about at rustic fairs, and where through an aperture we are made to behold some microcosm of curious and varied imagery. It is not thus that we obtain our acquaintance with the feelings of the human mind, any more than by the micro¬ scopic examination of its texture, we obtain acquaintance with the various susceptibilities of the human skin. It is first through the medium of experience, and then through our recollections of that experience, that we come to know and learn to distinguish the varieties either of physical or of mental sensation. By memory alone, we can make distinction between the pain of a punc¬ ture, and of a lash, and of a bruise, and of a burn, and of a heavy and obtuse blow. And so by memory alone, we can make distinction between the emotions of the mind—its fear, and its com¬ passion, and its grief, and its anger, and all the other feelings of which it is susceptible. 9. The one view of consciousness however leads to the same practical conclusion with the other, as to the way in which our knowledge of the mind is to be acquired. It is not by looking to the mind, apart and in a state of disjunction from all that is without—but by looking first to those objects which are addressed to its various feelings and faculties, and by which they may be brought into living play; and it is thus that the mind will announce its own character and constitution to THE STUDY OF MIND. 69 the conscious owner of it. We must not think to master its philosophy, by so isolating the mind, as to put it into a state of inertness—for all the materials of this Philosophy are gathered from what we feel and from what we remember of mind, when put into a state of activity. It is doubtless true, that a certain freedom from the glare and the disturbance that is without, is essential to the business of the understanding. But that is no reason why we should try to read a difficult author in the dark—and as little why, for the sake of the silence and abstraction that might be thought in¬ dispensable to the study of mind, we should close all its loopholes of communication with external Nature—for this would in fact be to draw a screen over the characters of the internal tablet—this would be to make the mind itself invisible. 10. We are persuaded that the science of mind wears an air of far more hopeless and inaccessible mystery than rightfully belongs to it. All the primary phenomena of mind are of mind as oper¬ ated upon by objects which are separate from itself; and the direct method of placing these phenomena distinctly and legibly before us, is, in the first instance by close and busy converse with these objects. When we want, for example, to see the law and the nature of that mental sensi¬ bility which is denominated compassion, let us try the vivid conception of some unhappy sufferer, let us bethink ourselves of some malefactor under an agony of fearfulness, because of his approaching execution, or of a mother exercised by deaths when the trying hand of Providence is upon her 70 A PECULIAR DIPFlCULTif IN family—^let us remember how we felt when a scene of distress was actually before us; or, by a briefer act of the memory still, ascertain how we feel now, when we have set a picture of distress before the eye of our imagination. It is only by keeping up a busy interchange between the world of sense and the world of spirit that the mysteries of the latter will at length be unravelled—not by descend¬ ing empty handed to the cell that is within, but by first going forth on the peopled region of life and observation that is without—and, instead of form¬ ally sitting down to some fruitless and fatiguing work of abstraction with nought hut vacancy to gaze upon, we shall learn and almost without an effort what be the responses from the one to the representations which are offered from the other. It is thus, in fact, that some of the most delicate and important of our moral questions may be determined. We might dive among the recesses of the heart; and there rummage in vain for the principles that we are in quest of. But if, instead of this, we should fasten our eye on some moral exhibition that is without us; if we should look, for example, to the man who at the shrine of justice made some generous and high-minded sacrifice; who, though in the hands of a merciless creditor, could not stoop even to the easiest and most pardon¬ able disguise, though it were to save his children from famishing; hut, who spurning at the distinction between a venial and an atrocious lie, stood forth in the perfect simplicity of truth, resolved to give up all and to suffer all,—we do not need to turn from this spectacle, that we might read our own THE STUDY OF MIND. 71 hearts, as if we could gather from an inscription there—whether truth and justice be virtues of original and independent rank, or utility be the only substratum that they rest upon. The heart hath already issued forth its unbidden voice, and already hath announced the homage that is due to the virtues which we are contemplating—and it is thus that Moral Philosophy may be learned—it is by a direct survey of life and conduct in all their variety that its principles may be determined. 11. Let such be conceived to be the powers and the resources of our language, that a nomen¬ clature could be found for a hundred of those various sensations that are impressed by all differ¬ ent substances on the human palate. Then it is not by the anatomy of this organ, but by the application of it to each of these substances, and the classification of all the resulting tastes; many of which, instead of having to be nicely and labo¬ riously marked, will vividly and by their own force announce themselves to our feeling—it is thus that the philosophy, if it may be so called, of this subject will be completed. And, in like manner, it is not by an anatomy of the mind, treated apart, as it were, from the objects by which it is affected —it is not by the application of a dissecting meta¬ physics, wherewith one probes and penetrates his way among the vesicles or the arcana of an organ that would be else inscrutable, that the phenomena of our moral taste or moral judgment are to be verified and arranged, and reduced to the genera] expressions of philosophy. Bring the deed or the disposition, either by report or by actual ex- A PECULIAR DIFFICULTY IN V2 hibition, to the view of the observer; and, in most instances, the voice that is within will promptly and powerfully characterize it. The moral judgment will come unbidden; and, when thus brought forth of the hiding place in which it slumbered inert and motionless from the mere absence of that appropriate object to the presence of which it never fails to respond—then is the time at which it may be seized upon, and em¬ bodied in language, and have a name and a local habitation given to it among the truths of philo¬ sophy—not fetched up by the hand that groped for it through the latent depositoides of the mind— but, like the electric spark, announcing itself patently and in the face of day, because elicited by the affinity that there is between the action that is without and the sentiment that is within. It is thus that the region, not of the Moral, but even of the Mental Philosophy, is far from being that land of shadows or impracticable subtleties which many do imagine—that a clear experimental light is diffusible over it—and, instead of so many evanescent abstractions that have no tenacious hold upon the human understanding nor admit of being familiarly applied to the homes and the business of humanity, it deals in such feelings as are naturally called forth by such phenomena in the life and in the affairs of men as are actually exhibited. ^ 12. We are not sure that the term Physiology, recently applied to Mental Science, has not in¬ vested it with a more hopeless obscurity than in truth belonffs to it. It has led many to imagine THE STUDY OF MIND. 73 a work of dissection, of intense and internal scrutiny, to which they know not how they should address themselves, and to which therefore they feel that they are utterly incompetent. They conceive of the term as applied to a plant—where it is the office of physiology to explore all those mysteries of secretion, and assimilation, and growth, and other equally recondite processes, which go on within the recesses of its organic structure. And it is thus they apprehend that metaphysicians, those men of transcendental power, whom they despair to follow, can probe their way through the inner chambers and profun¬ dities of the mind, and evolve from thence the secrets of a hidden territory which is to them in¬ scrutable. In studying the physiology of a plant, we look to the plant itself; and to it we direct our eyes and our microscopes and all our instruments of observation. And it is indeed a most natural imagi¬ nation, that, as of one physiology, so of another. For the phenomena of mind, and the right classifica¬ tion of them, whither can we turn ourselves but to the place which is the seat of these phenomena ? What else can we do, but abstract ourselves from the things of sight and of sense, and look inwardly? It is with thoughts and feelings and fancies that we want to acquaint ourselves; and what other possible way is there, than just to pore over the characters of that mental tablet upon which all these are graven ?—looking to a plant, when we study the laws of vegetable nature; but also looking to a man, and to the inner man too, when we study the laws of Moral or Intellectual nature. VOL. V. x> 74 A PECULIAR DIFFICULTY IN 13. But this may be gone about in such a way as to darken the whole field of contemplation. The laws of vision can only be studied by the eye looking to visible objects—and not by the eye looking to itself. Even the physiology of a plant is learned, by our looking to the phenomena that have their residence in the plant itself, under all varieties of exposure. The same is true of the mind—^but what are the exposures necessary, for eliciting its phenomena and its laws ? That the mind become acquainted with itself, it must go forth, in busy and active exercise on objects which are separate from itself. To learn the phenomena of thought, it must be provided with something to think about. To learn the phenomena of taste, there must be offered to its notice that which it admires. To learn the phenomena of moral feel¬ ing, the varieties of human life and character must be submitted to its contemplation—and never can it know the philosophy of its own atfections, with- -out having had objects of desire, and hatred, and esteem, and fear, set before it. In a word it is the mind that is most practised among externals, which is most crowyded with materials for the philosophy of its internal processes—and we again repeat that the way to be guided through the arcana of our subject, is, not to descend into mind as into a subterranean vault and then shut the door after us—but to keep open communication with the light of day, w'hich can only be done by a perpetual interchange of notices betw een the w'orld of feelings that is within, and the world of facts and of illus¬ trations and of familiar experience that is around us. THE STUDY OF MIND. 75 14. It might lead us to a truer conception of the way in which the mind becomes acquainted with its own phenomena, if we reflected that the mental feelings are the objects of remembrance, just as our bodily feelings are. And if so, then, to recollect any of the mental emotions such as fear, we have as much or as little need of looking to the mind, as, to recollect the pain of a burn, we need look to the skin; or, to recollect the taste of an apple, we need look to the palate. To remem¬ ber the sensations aright, it is not necessary that we should think of the organs of sensation; or, far less, to take a microscopic survey of their anatomy and texture. And so, to remember the mental emotions aright, it is not necessary to think of the mind; and, far less, to deal with it as the subject either of a complex anatomy or of a deep and intricate physiology. All that is known, all that can be known of the mind, is the various states, whether of intellect or of emotion, into which it passes, and to which states it is primarily brought by converse, not with itself, but with objects apart from itself. Of these states we have a conscious¬ ness at the first, and a remembrance afterwards, or rather, a briefer or longer remembrance accord¬ ing to the time that has elapsed from the moment of our undergoing them. According to this view, it is memory which supplies us with all the mate¬ rials of the Mental Philosophy; and the sole office of this philosophy, is to classify the states which we thus remember agreeably to their resemblances, and to describe the circumstances in which they arise. 76 A PECULIAR DIFFICULTY IN 15. Whether we regard then the mental pneno- mena as objects of instant perception or of remem¬ brance, as it is mainly by converse with the external world that they come into being, so also, in the study of them, must we often recur to the objects of the external world, that they might start anew into existence, and be again presented before the eye of consciousness or of memory. There is a sense in which it may be said of every science, that all its principles are lodged within the mind; but, in studying the principles of Moral Science, instead of going in search of them within and leaving the world of life and of society behind us, we should rather call them out to view, by the pre¬ sentation of such plain historical cases, taken from the familiarity of human affairs, as are fitted to excite and develop them. And, besides, it is not true, that, from our own hearts alone, we gather all the lineaments and characters of our subject. We read them in the countenance of our fellow- men. We can see them in the crimson blush of detected and exposed villany. Through the medium, not of articulate language only, but also of the natural signs, we can hear what morality is, in the ready and indignant disavowals of him, who hath been injuriously charged with some deviation from its pure and rectilinear path—and on those dread occasions, when the energy of the public voice falls in thunder on the head of some unhappy delinquent, there is a lightning along with the thun¬ der, that often flashes a fearful manifestation on the innermost shrines and recesses of this philosophy. And should we be guided by an ascending path, THE STUDY OF MIND. 77 from the interests and the moralities of this earthly- scene, to view the righteousness of Him who sitteth on high—then, instead of having to probe a darkling way among the penetralia of our own bosom, the truth will emanate directly upon us from that gal¬ axy of moral splendour which encircles his throne. 16. This distinction between the objective and the subjective is of main use and application in Christianity. Here, if any where, it is to the objective that the subjective owes, if not its being, at least all its aliment. There must be a contem¬ plation of truths apart from the mind of the con- templator, ere the mind is put into a right state, not only of intellect, but of emotion. The objec¬ tive is the fountain-head of the subjective. It is by looking outwardly on the love of God to us, that we are made to feel inwardly a love to God back again. It is the view of His good will which awakens our gratitude; of His greatness which awes and solemnizes us into deepest reverence; of His moral perfections which calls forth our love of esteem and disinterested admiration. The felt affection in these and all other instances, as being subjective, is in the mind; but, with the single exception of self-love, its bearings are towards the objective, or to something that is out of the mind. In other words, the mind to obtain a right state, or to rectify itself, must go forth of itself. They are external things which meet the greater part of its internal desires, and yield to it the greater part of its internal satisfactions. When it is in a state of felt want, it is after the objective that it hungers and thirsts—when in a 78 A PECULIAR DIFFICULTY IN state of complacent fulness and gratification, it is by the objective that it is satisfied. When the soul of the Psalmist thirsted, and thirsted vehe¬ mently, it was after the living God; and it passed from the state of desire to the state of attainment, when made glad by the light of His countenance. We are sensible that to christianize the mind, something more than an objective presentation of the truths of Christianity is indispensable. There must be a subjective preparation in the mind itself. It must be put into a right state of correspondence or of recipiency. The objects without the counter¬ part susceptibilities are of no avail. It is not enough that the seed of the word of God be de¬ posited in the heart: The heart must be made a good and honest one, for the entertainment and development of its truths. It is not enough that living water be made to descend on us from the upper sanctuary : For the reception of this water, a well must be struck out in the heart of regene¬ rated man, springing up unto life everlasting. 17. Still with every admission of the previous need of a subjective operation upon the soul, that it may be put into a right state of susceptibility— changed, to use a scriptural image, from a heart of stone to a heart of flesh—with every admission of the necessity for such a renewal on the subjec¬ tive mind; still, it is with things objective, that, in all its moral and spiritual aspirations towards a better state, the mind has properly to do. To obtain a capacity for right emotions, all, it appears to us, which we can do is to pray for it. But fully to realize the right emotions themselves, we THE STUDY OF MIND. 7^ must go forth on their counterpart objects; for without the meeting of these, the mere susceptibility remains latent and unknown because unevolved. It is by the application of a kindling from without, that we test the ditference between the combus¬ tible and the incombustible; and it is by the like application of a truth or object from without, that we test the difference between a soul that is quickened and a soul that is dead in trespasses and sins. The teachers of Christianity should give themselves wholly to prayer, and to the ministry of the word. It is through prayer, that tlie people are made willing in the day of God’s power—and it is through the ministry of the word, that the now susceptible will is evoked into actual volition, and the new man is prpmpted to new obedience. It is by a subjective operation that the heart is made alive to every good impulse; It is by the objective that the impulse is g^/^e. It is by the subjective that the mind, bef're inert and immoveable, becomes capable of being moved; But the moving force comes from the objective; and the great office or design of preaching is to bring this force to bear upon the people. Doubt¬ less they must look to themselves, as well as to the law, that they may have the conviction of sin. But still it is the majesty of the law which solem¬ nizes them. It is the view of the Lawgiver seated on His august and inviolable throne which overawes them. They are the threatenings, the dread penalties of a fixed and uncompromising law, which fill them with the apprehension, that if they have only the law to deal with they are undone. 80 A PECULIAR DIFFICULTY IW Thus far it is with the objective mainly that we have to do; and it is with the objective altogethevy when we pass from the ministry of wrath to the ministry of reconciliation; when we bid the now agonized sinner look to the Saviour on the cross^ to the spectacle of God so loving the world as to> lay on His own Son the burden of the world’s pro¬ pitiation. It is then that the objective has all the achievement and all the triumph—it being the exhibition of right objects which gives rise to the excitement of right affections. The mind is plied with calls and overtures from without; and it is in the act of looking away from itself, not downwardly amongst the mysterious recesses of its own con¬ stitution, but upwardly to a beseeching God and an all-sufficient Saviour, that it passes from a state of turbulence and terror into the harmonies of its own new creation, into a state of peace, and love,, and joy. 18. It were well that we proceeded more on th^ power and precedency of the objective, in the work of Christianization—that, instead of the fatigue and the fruitlessness of those efforts, by which we vainly attempt to grope a way among the intricacies or the hiding-places of our own spirit, we opened this dreary prison-house to the light of day—the light of that outward manifesta¬ tion which beams upon us so gloriously from heaven. It is not by its own reflex view upon itself, that the radiations of beauty are made to descend upon the sovd; but by looking directly forth on the smiling landscape that is before it. And in like manner, it is not by a darkling plunge, as it THE STUDY OF MIND. 81 were, among the mysteries and the metaphysics of his own mental constitution, that man will awaken any good affection within its receptacles. It is by external converse with the objects that are fitted to awaken them. It is a wretched spiritual guid¬ ance for the perplexed and labouring inquirer, when sent to search and scrutinize among the secrecies of his own dark and distempered bosom. This is the worst initial direction that can possibly be given to him. Many are the times and seasons of his spiritual history, in which it may be said, that, when looking to himself, he is looking the wrong way. This, at least, is not the attitude, in which any affection for God or for goodness can ever be awakened. To stir up wdthin him the love of God, he must look without him to the manifested loveliness of the Godhead—the graces and glories of the divine character. To establish within him a right faith, he must look, not within him, to the act of faith; but openly and outwardly to Christ, the object of faith. The comfort and the confidence do not spring from beneath; but come down in floods of descending light from the upper sanctuary. It is by a radiance from with¬ out, that the distrust and darkness of Nature are dissipated; and when the spirit, finding no remedy within itself, would sink into despair, it is the voice from without which reassures it—of one who calls on the weary and the heavy laden to come unto Him that they may have rest. 19. And as it is by casting an objective regard on things which are without, that we call forth the emotions of the mind—so it is only thus, that we D 2 82 A PECULIAR DIFFICULTY IN can possibly ascertain them. Whatever the sus¬ ceptibilities of the inner man may be, it is only at the touch of that which.is external to him that they are fully awakened, or at least so awakened as that we can take sure and satisfactory account of them. When there are strong susceptibilities without any counterpart objects to meet them, we can imagine a state of embryo desire—of strange indefinable restlessness—of felt and tor¬ menting vacancy—the general unsated thirst of a spirit that is the prey of its own incessant longings, for which it finds not and knows not the means of gratification. We can imagine a hell in the heart —when fired with strong propensities, yet pent up within itself, and so dissevered from all the objects of them; or, if with the capacities of enjoyment, it were cast on open space, yet empty of all that was adapted to these capacities, or that could minister to their enjoyment. We know not what cognizance could be taken, or what analysis could be performed, on the affections of a mind in this strange condition of hopeless and insupporta¬ ble vacuity. But let these affections have objects to go forth upon—then, whether it is the desire which suggests the thought of them, or the view of them when present and the thought of them when absent which suggests the desire—it is at least a distinct and definite desire, leading to a dis¬ tinct and definite pursuit; and, if not disappointed, terminating in the full complacency of a distinct and definite gratification. They are these busy reciprocations of thought and feeling—these vivid interchanges between the objective and the ^ u THE STUDY OF MIND, jective which supply the best materials for the philosophy of human nature; and, above all, for the knowledge of ourselves. We hear frequent complaints of the difficulty of self-examination. We think there is an aggravated and mistaken sense of its difficulty, grounded on a fiequent misconception of the nature and objects of this exercise—as if it were to ascertain the present state of the mind by the eye of consciousness, Kow, instead of this, the practical and philosophi¬ cal object of self-examination is to ascertain the past states of the mind by the eye of memory. Still, even in this view, there might be an arduous difficulty in the way of self-examination—the diffi- cultv of remembering that which is dim or faint or indistinct; and, still more, the useless fatigue of trying to lay hold of things by the memory, when there is nothing to remember. The more deep and discernible those lineaments are, which are graven on the tablet of memory, the easier is the work of self-examination. The more strovgly felt at any time is our love of God, or our grati¬ tude to the Saviour, or our compassion to a suffer¬ er in distress, or our ardent desires after useful- ness 'then it is that these affections become all the more noticeable, because the more brightly they glow within us at the moment, the more brightly are they seen in the retrospect afterwards. And if the question be put, how is it, in order to facilitate the work of self-examination, how is it that we can make the affections we are in quest of to he more strongly felt and so more vividly remembered?—the answer seems obvious—^by 84 A PECULIAR DIFFICULTY IN repeating more frequently and entering mort? closely into converse with the objects which awaken them, just as the more intensely we gaze on s5me fascinating landscape, not only the deeper is our own felt ecstasy, but the more distinct as well as more enduring must be our recollection of it. In a word, if we would create the materials of self-examination, or facilitate its work by cast¬ ing a greater light over that mental tablet which we want to decipher—it is not by isolating the mind and putting it into a state of inertness, but by bringing it into contact with the objects of its various susceptibilities, for the development and discovery of the aifections which really belong to it. Or, to express it otherwise, the mind that is most busied among externals, presents us with the richest variety of internal feelings and inter¬ nal processes. We must not be misapprehended as if we meant only the externals of the material world, or even of the world of living society. The great objects of the Christian faith are all external to the mind that is exercised by them; and the man whose attention is most given to these through the day, who thinks most constantly of God, and sends up the most frequent aspira¬ tions to that Saviour who died for him—let us only suppose his views to be enlightened, and that he is engaged through the hours of his waking existence, not with the illusions of his own fancy, but with the realities of our actual revelation— then, precisely because most employed in objec¬ tive contemplation, will it be found of him, that his diurnal retrospect or subjective examination of THE STUDY OF MIND. 85 hiTflself is botli tliG richust of all and th© easiest ot all; and if it be the habit of his well ordered life, that, ere he sinks into his nightly repose, he looks back on the history of his own spirit—then, in very pro¬ portion to his past converse with the objects of sacredness, will be his present consciousness or present recollection of the feelings of sacredness. CHAPTER III. ’ On the Emotions. 1, There are many objects of human thought, of which w’e have a thorough apprehension on the moment of their being named—but which it is im¬ possible to express by any verbal definition. This eminently applies to a very great number of our feelings, which really cannot be defined; but which may be adequately enough described to the understanding of others, by a statement of the circumstances in which they arise. How for exam¬ ple, could we define a sensation familiar enough to all—that of thirst? Nor is it necessary; for we are already anticipated in our attempts by an under¬ standing of it on the part of all, far more perfect than any which mere words can convey. Nor could we, though we would, furnish any well con¬ structed definition of it—however practicable it may be to convey its full meaning to the mind of another, by simply stating what that is which brings on this peculiar and uneasy sensation, and 86 ON THE EMOTIONS. what that is which relieves it. It is thus, in fact, that we should proceed in our attempts to explain the term to a foreigner. We might point to its seat in our frame. We might make intelligible to him how it is that which is caused by the privation of water, and that which is allayed either by this or by some other bev¬ erage. He would very soon catch the mean¬ ing that we laboured to impress upon him— after which there would be a most entire com¬ munity of understanding between us, at least upon this subject. He would no more confound it with hunger or any other of our sensations, than he would confound a square with a circle— and the distinctive character of this one sensation would be as fully imprest upon him, as if it could have been enunciated in language as precise as that of geometry. 2. We cannot define what is meant by sound, but by the help of some other equivalent term as noise—nor could w^e define a noise, but by the help of the term sound. It is thus that when we arrive at the ne plus ultra of definitions, and still unwilling to quit the forms of science, we may think that we are making progress, when, in fact, we are only bandied from one place to another; and, after a thousand reciprocations of this sort, find that we are but playing upon a margin beyond which we can make no progress whatever. It is certainly possible to keep up a ridiculous gravity of explanation, long after it has ceased to be useful. We all know for example what is meant by, corporeally speaking, the sensation of taste— ON THE EMOTIONS. 87 yet that need not prevent us from telling in aca¬ demic phrase, that it is a peculiar sensation im¬ prest on the tongue and palate, on theii coming into contact with any material substance. This is not telling what the sensation is—it is only telling what we know already, that, in order to ascertain the taste of any given thing, the mouth is the place to which we must carry it. And after we have done this, how soon do the resources of language fail, even in attempting to name, and far more to define the innumerable varieties of sensation which are experienced there. Sweet¬ ness, bitterness, sourness, saltness, are but the genera of so many tastes, early comprehending a vast subordinate family; and altogether of as many individuals as there are distinct substances in nature. Now we cannot define sweetness, though we all understand it; and if we are to attempt a conveyance by language at all upon the subject, there is nothing more which we can do than simply state the circumstances in which this and other tastes do arise. We may point to the sugar which impresses the peculiar quality of sweetness upon the organ of taste, or to the vinegar which impresses sourness, or to the alkali which is bitter—and so trust, for a common under¬ standing, to an experience and recollection on the part of others, which we believe to have been similar to our own, because of the faith that we place in the identity of our common nature. 3. Now these remarks apply to other impressions, as well as to the impressions that are made upon the senses. We may describe them so as to make 88 ON THE EMOTIONS. others understand what they be which we mean; but we can give no definition of them to any pur¬ pose for which definition is at all useful. Our object, at present, is to set forth a few generalities of observation on a class of mental phenomena, which have been called emotions—and which occupy a kind of middle department in our nature, between the merely sensitive and the purely in¬ tellectual. They differ from each of these, and by certain characteristics which admit of being enumerated. They differ from thirst and hunger and corporeal pain, in that they do not take their rise from the body. They differ from the exter¬ nal affections too, in that they are not generally the immediate and direct consequence of the pre¬ sence of external objects—as the glare of light by which the eyes are affected in presence of a candle, or the noise wherewith the ears are astounded on the report of fire-arms. We should not apply the term emotion to any physical taste of the sweet or the bitter, or to any sense of fragrance however delicious, or to any perception of melody, unless in so far as it was the vehicle of some remembrance or sentiment that was fitted to call forth the emotions. And neither should we apply the term to any intellectual state of the mind. We are quite aware of the difference between the two states of mind, in one of which it is*that we re¬ member, and in another of which it is that we love—between the state in which we judge of truth, and the state in which we desire that which is agreeable, or hate and fear that which is revolt¬ ing—between that state of mind in wdiich we are ON THE EMOTIONS. 89 when we simply reject as untrue the proposition that we hold to be false, and the state of mind in which we are when we resent as culpable that which we hold to be injurious. There is no danger, we should imagine, of confounding our emotions with either our sensitive impressions or our intellectual states—even though, at the same instant, they often happen to be blended into one complex result, and to work a general and con¬ temporaneous effect on the individual who is the subject of them. For instance a fellow-man might make his appearance ; and, by addressing himself as a visible object to the eye, there is an impres¬ sion made upon the senses; and he may be re¬ membered in some by-gone passage of his history, and thus be the object of memory, one of the faculties of our intellectual nature—but, in the passage so remembered, he may have made dis¬ covery of himself as the deep and artful enemy who had plotted the overthrow of our fortunes; and thus the quickly felt emotion of hatred or indignancy may spring up within us, on the moment of his coming within the field of our vision. The emotion comes immediately from the presence of an external object, but not directly. It is not the object regarded simply as visible that has awakened the emotion, but the object as associated with the remembrance of some atrocious villany. Still however blended as all these things are together in this and many other instances besides, there is no danger of confounding those mental feelings of a peculiarly vivid character, which, as mental, are distinguished from the merely sensi- 90 ON THE EMOTIONS. tive affections; and as vivid, are distinguishable from the calm processes of judgment or memory - —there is no danger of confounding those which we call emotions, with either the one or the other of them ; insomuch that joy, and grief, and desire, and astonishment, and respect, and contempt and the moral sensibilities whether to right or to wrong, stand most noticeably out in a separate depart¬ ment of their own, and occupy a distinct place from the other departments of our nature. 4. Now, in like manner as in the impotency of mere definition, we must do the best we can to distinguish the emotions of the mind from the other classes of its phenomena—so we must just try in the same way to distinguish the emotions from each other, as fear from love, contempt from hatred, remorse from admiration. Either a com¬ mon understanding of each of these terms may be presumed and proceeded upon; or, failing this, we know of no other way by which the emotions are to be made intelligible to others, than by a statement of the circumstances under which they are felt. Were we to attempt a definition of fear, we might avail ourselves of the words terror and apprehension; or of grief, we might recur to sadness; or of anger, to resentment; or of com¬ passion, to pity. There in fact can no effective definition be given, because none that can more perspicuously express the matter to be explained, than the one simple term familiarly applied to it. 5. Emotion is blended, not merely with the perceptions of sense, but with the most abstract and lofty exercises of the understanding. There ON THE EMOTIONS. 91 is a delight in the mere gratifications of sense, which we share in common with the inferior ani¬ mals. But every delight that is separate from these, hangs altogether upon the emotions of the mind—and if we have ever been conscious of such delight, while prosecuting the calm investigation of truth, we shall the more readily believe that, even in the walk of purest and severest intellect, the mind does not make her escape from the sus¬ ceptibilities of emotion. When we look with de¬ light on the beauties of a landscape, the mind is under the infiuence of emotion—an emotion of taste. But there is such a thing as the beauty of a theorem, as well as the beauty of a landscape— a beauty that is felt in the mere doctrine, so soon as the perception of its evidence dawns upon the understanding. It is thus that emotion, and of the most truly delicious kind too, is the accom¬ paniment even of the severest and most abstract exercises of thought; and for this we have only to appeal to those who have felt the ravishment which there often is in the demonstrations of geometry— not the riotous turbulence of pleasure, but its serene and deep and ethereal ecstasy—that which sheds a glory over the student’s enraptured hour that is unknown to the world, and which almost consecrates the high though hidden walk of his solitary labours. We once heard Professor Robison of Edinburgh say that he saw Bernoulli, one of the greatest mathematicians of the continent upon his deathbed ; and that he told the Professor of his never having had a more perfect conception of the happiness of heaven, than when visited with 92 ON THE EMOTIONS. the rapture that came over his spirit, as he followed Sir Isaac Newton in some of his great steps. We fear that his conception of heaven was indeed very imperfect; and that he adverted not to the happi¬ ness which is current there, as mainly depending on another and far higher order of emotions, than even those of towering and successful intellect. Certain it is, however, that intellect hath its appen¬ dant and most exquisite gratifications—and that, because of the emotion whether of delight or of wonder which is felt when some fresh beauties of speculation are disclosed, or some new and noble discovery pours its flood of splendour into the understanding. 6. We have no doubt that the term emotion was originally applied to certain of the mental affections, just because of their tendency to move and to agitate our external frame-work—such as the emotion that comes from our sense of the ridi¬ culous, and which sets us a laughing; and the emotion of fear, which may set us a trembling; and the emotion of anger, which may set us through the medium of hands, and eyes, and coun¬ tenance, and the whole bodily attitude, on the fiercest demonstrations of menace. And even when there is not much of positive movement, still the term emotion is applicable—as in the case of the raptured enthusiast; when he looks abroad either on the glories of nature, or to some piece of ex¬ quisite workmanship in one of the repositories of art. The very force of the consequent emotion, might lay such an arrest, as it were, upon him, as in a manner to compel an immoveable stillness; ON THE EMOTIONS. • 93 aiid yet we should say that emotion was pictured forth, both in his attitude and in his countenance. Whatever in fact one can with propriety be said mentally to feel, is an emotion; and the accom¬ panying expression of it by a movement on the part of the body, though a very frequent, is not a constant or indispensable character of this class of phenomena. We may be said to feel pain, or to feel hunger; but neither of these is an emotion, because they take their rise from the body. It were an impropriety of language, on the other hand, to say that we feel a belief, that we feel a recollection, that we feel a judgment; for though these be not bodily but mental, yet in themselves they are so many dispassionate exercises that have nought of that peculiar force or vivacity in them, that would entitle them to the appellation of feel¬ ings. Still however, though a merelj^ intellectual state of the mind is not in itself a state of emotion, there are very vivid emotions associated even with the most abstract of our intellectual processes. We do not feel the belief of a truth; but we may feel the beauty of a truth; and this feeling is an emotion. Every species of mental delight, or of mental suffering, comes from emotion. We do not feel the conviction of any doctrine; but we may feel its importance. We may be thrown into a state of emotion by the contemplation of its usefulness, of the might and magnitude of its bearings, of the vast sub¬ ordinate family of other truths which cluster around it, or of its numerous applications to the good of I'uman society. The pleasure that we have in the very success of our exercised faculties, even though 94 - ON THE EMOTIONS. these faculties be purely of the understanding, this pleasure is both in itself a distinct thing, and is an emotion. In short, apart from the grosser de¬ lights of sense and appetite, there would be no such thing as enjoyment of any sort without emo¬ tion. 7. We cannot conceive of happiness apart from emotion. It may be calm yet intense. It may not effervesce into any outward or visible expres¬ sion at all, yet be deeply felt within the recesses of the mind. In this respect there seems a differ¬ ence between the emotions—some of them being confined to the inner chamber of the soul; yet ministering there a joy wherewith a stranger cannot intermeddle, or a bitterness that is unrevealed to others, and which only the unhappy possessor him¬ self knoweth to be his own. Others of them again break forth into open and outrageous ebullition, as in grief, an emotion that may either sink down upon the heart and there eat inwardly, or vent forth its sufferings in full and audible proclamation; and in resentment, which might either brood in silence over its dark and vindictive purposes, or wreak its fury by loud reproach and instant retalia¬ tion. We advert to this distinction, that we may not imagine an absence of emotion, w^hen there is apparent tranquillity; or think that the soul is unmoved, because it hath not communicated a sensible impulse to the frame-work by which it is surrounded. There are varieties in this respect —and it may he exemplified perhaps, tc a certain degree, in the difference which is felt between moral and mathematical truth. The latter, not- ON THE EMOTIONS. 95 withstanding of its abstract character, does not leave the mind wholly impassive; as we are sure that those who have walked with delighted foot¬ steps from one truth and demonstration to another, must often have experienced. The former again hath less of that emotion to reward its votaries which cometh of pure intellect alone; but this is more than compensated by emotions of a still higher order—even those that are associated with the charities of the heart, with the sensibilities of virtue both to the right and to the wrong, its ad¬ miration of lofty worth, its high-toned recoil from all that wears upon it the character of moral turpi¬ tude. The one is of pure science, and seated in some high empyreal region where all is calm and clear, and pleasure too is inhaled; but it is the pleasure of an ineffable quietism. The other is of sentiment as well as science; and its more charac¬ teristic abode were an Elysium of exprest sym¬ pathy, a place where, instead of each luxuriating apart in his own beatific contemplations, the delight is multiplied a thousand fold by its being made to pass and to reciprocate from one happy being to another—where, in the language of Milton, a voice is heard that is “ loud as from numbers with¬ out number, sweet as from blest spirits uttering joy, where Heaven rings jubilee, and loud Hos¬ annahs fill the eternal regions.” 8. Deep emotion is a distinct and a distinguish¬ able thing from violent agitation. Its name is originally derived, we have no doubt, from the connexion which subsists between the affections.of tDe mind and the visible movements of the body— 96 ON THE EMOTIONS. yet it is now extended to every mental feeling, and in many instances the more intense these feelings the more might they rivet the body into immove¬ able stillness. Did we behold two spectators, overlooking from an eminence some noble panorama of nature that was before them; and that the one exclaimed or gesticulated his raptures, while the other stood in fixed and silent admiration—we should certainly conceive that the emotions of the latter M ere the deeper and more powerful of the two, and surely by far the more dignified. This is an age, it may he remarked, in which the appetite for those more violent emotions that are caused by eloquence and sentiment, hath overborne the ap¬ petite for the tranquil emotions of intellect—and so it is, we believe, that the riot and the turbulence and the deafening plaudits of a theatre have been introduced of late into our universities, and with a vigour and vehemence enough to frighten the genius of philosophy av^ay from the retreats where it would fondly linger, and force her to resign as it M ere this her last asylum to the invasions of a rude and boisterous M'orld. While we advocate the cause of the emotions; and M ould class some of them with the very highest attributes of mind, and as in fact ministering to its best and purest enjoy¬ ments—yet Me cannot be blind to a distinction as wide between one set and another, as there is betM’een the deep though subdued feeling of a cultivated assembly, and the fierce ejaculations of an unbridled midtitude. 9. To judge, and to remember, and to reason —tliese all belong to the intellectual part of our ON THE EMOTIONS. 97 nature; and it is by this, that man is conceived to he most elevated above the inferior animals, and to be most assimilated to the higher orders of creation. Again, to delight himself with the satis¬ factions of sense, to luxuriate amid those sweets that minister to the enjoyment of the palate or to any of the bodily organs, to riot in any of those grosser indulgencies whereof the beasts of the field are as capable as himself; it is when thus occupied, that man is thought to sink into the animal, and to degrade himself into the most prostrate condi¬ tion of inferiority beneath those ethereal beings, who move in the splendour and mystery of the upper regions. Between the two parts of our nature—between the intellectual and the merely sensitive, lie the emotions; and they are accord- ingl}’’ conceived somewhat to partake in the gross¬ ness of the one, and somewhat to partake in the ethereal character of the other. It seems greatly to confirm this apprehension, that in fact the lower animals do share with us in certain of these emo¬ tions—in anger and fear most unequivocally; in the instinctive affection at least of one relationship, that of a mother to its offspring, with no less cer¬ tainty ; perhaps in gratitude, as exemplified by the devotedness of a dog to its master; perhaps even in friendship, as indicated by the attachment of the same animal to some one or other of the human species, even when no favours have been conferred upon it. And thus it is that emotions are very generally apprehended, as having something in them of a common quality with mere animal na¬ ture—as having in them, so to speak, a certain VOL. V. B 98 ON THE EMOTIONS. taint of materialism—insomuch that whenever feeling is blended with thought, the pure quality of intelligence is conceived to be somewhat debased, as if by the admixture of an earthly ingredient. It is felt as if the celestial light of the mind were to a certain degree sullied; when the agitations of sensibility are in any way superadded to the clear and the calm exercises of the understanding—as if a disturbance was thereby given to the intellectual element, which must be kept tranquil, it is thought, in order to be kept in the state of cloudless trans¬ parency, wherein its perfection and the perfection of every intellectual being is conceived to lie. If we have any doubt of this being a very general impression in regard to the emotions, we will, perhaps be at once convinced, when we reflect on the extreme jealousy entertained by almost all Theists and all Theologians, whether they be those of Natural Religion or Christianity, when any sensibilities whatever are ascribed to the God¬ head. They would divest Him in fact of all emotions; and conceive it indispensable to the perfection of His nature that He should be exhi¬ bited in their demonstrations, as a sort of abstract and impassive and serenely immoveable nature— to whose power and knowledge and wisdom we can assign no limitations; but in whom the very infinity of these attributes supersedes anger and grief and joy, and in short any of those internal workings which can be at all felt as our emotions are, or can at all agitate as our emotions do. Nay, the very love that the Deity has to moral excellence in his creatures, unlike to our reverence and ON THE EMOTIONS. 99 regard for the same which is deeply felt by us in the shape of a most intense emotion—this love is stript of all the characters of emotion, and reduced as it were to a kind of abstract and intellectual preference of that which He clearly discerns to be good to that which He clearly discerns to be evil. In this way the character of the Supreme is de¬ nuded of all its warmth, and all its tenderness; and elevated far above the range of our human sympathies, he is represented as sitting in cold and motionless abstraction; and as precluded by the very incapacity of emotion from all congenial fellowship with the creatures whom He has formed. 10. Now we hold it of very great importance to understand, that it is not with many of the mental emotions as it is with the sensitive atfections of our nature—that though we may be said to refine and to perfect the character of man in proportion as we weaken the influence of the latter; yet by stripping him of the former, by taking away from him emotions, and leaving him in possession of intellect alone, we should not refine the man, but we should mutilate him. There has been such a confounding of the two as leads very generally to the imagination, that man must be stript of both ere he can make full escape from the dross of an earthly nature ; and ere, freed from the impedi¬ ments that keep him down, he can attain to the state of the celestial beings. Now, instead of this, there are certain of his emotions as purely and more distinctively celestial than are any of the evo¬ lutions of his intellectual nature. There are a fire and a fervency more truly seraphic, than the loftiest 100 ON THE EMOTIONS. flight of which the understanding is capable. It is not needful for the perfection of his nature, that he be pruned of all his sensibilities—for some of these sensibilities are in fact among the most precious and indispensable elements of his perfection; for example those which devote all the longings and energies of his soul to the pursuit of moral excel¬ lence, and those in virtue of which he recoils with quick and sensitive alarm from even the minutest violations of it. We think that both our natural and our Christian theology have suffered from the very imagination, which we are now attempting to expose. The metaphysical divinity of our schools does not represent aright the character of Him who is our living sovereign ; who, all omniscient as He is, is not on that account devoid of most intense and energetic emotion; but to whom the distinc¬ tions of morality, are the objects of feeling as well as of clear and unerring discernment, in that He not only knoweth but loveth righteousness, in that He not only judgeth but hateth iniquity. 11. We would therefore keep by the scriptural, rather than the scholastic representation of the Deity. When told on the authority of revelation that God loves, that He resents, that He is jealous of His honour, that He is angry with the wicked every day, and longs for the repentance and the return of His strayed children—we would not, for a merely theoretic object, scrutinise into the mys¬ teries of the divine nature; but neither would we deafen the effect of expressions so distinct and literal as these, by a metaphysics that would strip them of all application and all significancy whatever. ON THE EMOTIONS. 101 We would not forego the influence of such obvious announcements regarding his Maker, on the unso¬ phisticated mind of a peasant; and we even believe that theologically he has a more correct view of the Father and Governor of men, than the mere pupil of academic demonstration. A God of naked intelligence and power is not the God of Christianity—that God manifest in the flesh, who is the brightness of His Father’s glory and the express image of His person. His life on earth was one of deepest sensibility as well as of deepest sacredness—one continued history of pathetic expostulation with the perversities of men whom He came to seek and to save ; and in its most inte¬ resting passages did He give forth most powerful and picturesque exhibition of a nature touched with the feelings of humanity, as when He wept at the tomb of Lazarus, and shed the tears of a profounder sorrow for the families of Jerusalem as He sat over the city and bethought Him of its approaching desolation. To settle our theism aright, this is the resemblance that we should carry upward to the throne of Heaven—where, instead of the frigid divinity of the schools, we might yield the warm responses of the heart to a gracious and a living Sovereign, unknown to that cold philosophy which would degrade the emotions, and banish them altogether from the upper spheres of the universe. For the great purposes of an effec¬ tive moral regimen in the world, we must uphold in all its entireness the character of the Deity, as set forth in the Bible; and neither strip it of that love by which He invites the confidence and love 102 ON THE EMOTIONS. of His creatures back again, nor of that hatred to sin by the demonstrations of which He would strike terror into the hearts of the rebellious and reclaim, if possible, from the habits of their stub¬ born nature, those stout-hearted offenders who spend the existence which He has given them in defiance to his authority and His law. 12. Christianity places us on the highest vantage ground, whence to vindicate and exalt the emotions, and to rescue this department of our nature from those who would degrade it to a sort of midway place between the animal and the rational. There is one of the emotions in the power and prevalence of which the whole moral law is summarily compre¬ hended—that of love—high therefore, as virtue; and in itself the very element of heaven, that eternal abode of seraphic love and seraphic ecstasy, where knowledge in its present forms will vanish away, but where there will reign triumphantly and for ever the charity that never faileth. 13. But to prosecute a little further this com¬ parison between the intellectual and the emotional departments of our nature—there is a pleasure in the mere exercise of the reasoning faculty, indepen¬ dently of that pleasure or advantage which there is in the result to which we are conducted by it. There is a pleasure in our progress towards truth, as well as in the full prospect and possession of the truth itself. The path of science is delightful, as well as its final landing-place. And we know not whether there is not sometimes as much of felt triumph and ecstasy, in the full march of a success- ON THE EMOTIONS. 103 ful argument, as in the magnificent conclusion to which it carries us. And yet who on that account would deny that the conclusion was the terminating object of the process ; and that to the argumenta¬ tive part belonged only the instrumental office of guiding us onw^ard to it ? There is an enjoyment in the process of eating; but, so far from this being a more valuable consideration than the health and preservation of the animal economy to which food is subservient—it was to secure this latter object, that an enjoyment was annexed to the use of food. And so of the enjoyment which there is in the pro¬ cess of reasoning, in the play and exercise of our intellectual faculties—annexed by the author of our mental economy, not because argumentation is an end of itself, but because of the surpassing worth and importance of another end that is quite ulterior to it. It is well that there is so much of attraction and delight even in the path of discovery; but, like every other path, it is not along the line of it, but at the consummation of it, where its chief usefulness lies. It were surely a most pre¬ posterous exaltation of the means above the end, if, amid all the mental happiness of that process by which truth is sought after, it were not a better and a nobler condition to which man is elevated, after that the truth is found and the truth is gazed upon. The geometry of Newton is but that series of steps which bears toward a vantage-ground, whence, with ravished eye, the inquirer can look c i the system of the heavens, dhe analytic process jS of chemistry are but the devices of human art, wherewith to lure from its hiding-place the minute 104 ON THE EMOTIONS. and interior economy of Nature; and, whatever the entertainment may be in the act of probing for the secret, its full revelation is surely that alone in which the mind rests, and by which it is rewarded. And so of the demonstrations of political science, by which the economy of social life is unfolded—there is a pleasure in the very movements of that gradual approximation by which we obtain a nearer and a distincter view of its mechanism; but, unless the pursuit of an object be a better thing than the possession of it, unless the act of learning be better than the acquirement of knowing, unless it is better to linger eternally in the path on which we tread, than ever to reach that place of arrival to which we are travelling— then better far than to grope after the truth which is yet undisclosed, is it to contemplate the full and finished manifestation of it. 14. This may lead us to at least one compara¬ tive view, between an intellectual state and a state of emotion. It is through a succession of the former states that we are conducted to the latter. It is by along and sustained march of reasonings that we at length arrive at a sight of the Planetary System ; and the delight which is felt in this mag¬ nificent survey, is at once the recompense and the consummation of our intellectual labours. To speak of the capacity of reasoning which leads to some noble contemplation, as being of a higher order than the capacity by which we feel its noble¬ ness, and gather from the scene of wonders that we look upon, gather from the very look a corre¬ sponding aggrandizement upon our own souls— ON THE EMOTIONS. 105 this appears to be as complete an^ inversion in our estimate of things, as to say that the faculty of locomotion by which we climb to the top of an eminence, is a sublimer faculty than that by which we inhale a glory to our own spirits, from the glories of the landscape that is now stretched out before us. The terminating object of delight and desire is surely of superior consideration, to either the intervening medium through which we per¬ ceive, or the intervening distance by which we arrive at it. The reasoning process is indispen¬ sable, just as means are to the attainment of an end ; but if an end be worthier than its means, then may the faculty of those emotions which truth awakens be of more exalted character than the faculty of those intellectual processes by which truth is investigated. The latter is but as a hand¬ maid to the former ; and, pure and exquisite as the gratifications that spring from the exercise of reason may be, they stand but in the relation of subser¬ viency to still higher and nobler gratifications. 15. This will stppear more obvious when we put the supposition, that, with a higher order of faculties than those Avhich we possess, all our existing knowledge might have been realized, without the aid or^ the intervention of any reason¬ ing process at all. It is quite conceivable, that, in virtue of a more gifted intellect, we could at once have descried both the mechanism and the magnitude of our planetary system, which we are now enabled to do by the disclosures of the tele¬ scope and the demonstrations of geometry. Whether would that knowledge have been the less valuable, B 2 106 ON THE EMOTIONS. because then more rapidly or rather immediately seized upon? Would it have been less subser¬ vient to any one purpose of guidance or of practi¬ cal utility, than it is at this moment ? Above all, would the great and the gorgeous spectacle have been the less impressive, whether viewed in its own magnificence, or in the testimony which it gave to the might and the magnificence of its great Architect? Will the emotions of a seraph have less in them of the transcendental and the great than those of a philosopher; because the former can at one comprehensive glance behold that system in all its intricacies and in all its vast¬ ness, to which the latter can only find his way by months and years of toilsome perseverance ? In other words, that reason which is thought to dig¬ nify man, only bears him up against the defect and the impotency of his other attributes. He were a nobler creature still, if reason were superseded by the clearness and the vigour of his immediate per¬ ceptions; and if those-truths which he now reaches by a process of tardy and laborious argumen¬ tation, were to fall with the light and the evidence of so many axioms upon his understanding. But that very elevation which superseded the reasoning faculty, would leave all the emotions as freshly and feelingly alive to all their corresponding objects as before. The accession to man’s power of science by which he could unravel, and with the rapidity of intuition, the mysteries of Nature, would not annihilate the power of Nature over the sensibilities of man; and still, with all its glories in full and finished revelation before him, would ON THE EMOTIONS. 107 he f^o all the homage that he wont to the richness of creation, and to the majesty and the goodness of its author. After that reason had been absorbed in the higher faculties of his now elevated nature, the heart would continue to glow with all its fer¬ vencies ; and whereas there be many who would exalt the understanding of man at the expense of his emotions—in this nobler condition of his properties and powers, should we behold, that while one of the proudest attributes of his understanding had vanished away, his emotions remained with him. 16. And the same of Chemistry. It is by analysis that the mysteries of that hidden world are evolved. But this analysis were uncalled for, had we only eyes of such powerful and piercing inspection, as that we could see every particle of matter and trace the corpuscular movements to which each and all of them are liable. The object of all the investigating processes in this science, is to repair the deficiency of our senses; and all experiment and all inference would be superseded, did we but see with more force and distinctness than we do at present. Superior beings will look on the way by which we overcome the impe¬ diments of our less gifted nature, just as we do on the dexterity or trick of some animal beneath us— “ will show a Newton as we show an ape. All our intellectual processes are but so many devices by which we may see at length, that which they see at once; and were we preferred to the rank which they occupy, they are processes that might one and all of them be dispensed with. But stid the emotions would retain their place and their 108 ON THE EMOTIONS. importance in the constitution of our nature; and admitted then to a quick and a clear insight among the arcana of the Divine workmanship, there would continue in us still, or rather, there would be enhanced to far greater sensibility than before, our admiration of Nature’s mechanism, and of the exquisite skilfulness of Him who framed it—“ It is the great office of the analytic art of chemistry to do for us only what the microscope does, that enables us to see the small objects, which are before us at all times, without our being able to distinguish them. When a chemist tells us, that glass, which appears to us one uniform substance, is composed of different substances, he tells us, what, with livelier perceptive organs, we might have known, without a single experiment; since the siliceous matter and the alkali were present to us in every piece of glass, as much before he told us of their presence, as after it. The art of analysis, therefore, has its origin in the mere im¬ perfection of our senses, and is truly the art of the hlincl, whose wants it is always striving to remedy, and always discovering sufficient proof of its ina¬ bility to remedy them. “ We boast, indeed, of the chemical discoveries which we have made of late, Avith a rapidity of progress as brilliant, as it is unexampled in the history of any other science; and we boast justly, because we have found, what the generations of inquirers that have preceded us on our globe, far from detecting, have not even ventured to guess. Without alluding to the agency of the galvanic power, by which all nature seems to be assuming ON THE EMOTIONS. 109 before us a different aspect, we have seen in the products of our common fires, and in the drossy rust of metals, the purest part of that ethereal fluid which we breathe, and the air itself, which was so long considered as simple, ceasing to be an element. Yet, whatever unsuspected similarities and diversities of composition we may have been able to trace in bodies, all our discoveries have not created a single new particle of matter. 1 hey have only shown those to exist, where they always existed, as much before our analysis as after it, unmarked indeed, but unmarked, only because our senses alone were not capable of making the nice discrimination. If man had been able to perceive, with his mere organ of sense, the differ¬ ent particles that form together the atmospheric air—if he had at all times seen the portion of these which unites with the fuel that warms him, enter into this union, as distinctly as he sees the mass of fuel itself, which he flings into his furnace, he could not have thought it a very great intellec¬ tual achievement, to state in words so common and familiar a fact, the ^ mere well known change of place of a few well known particles; and yet this is what, in the imperfect state of his percep¬ tive organs, he so proudly terms his Theory of Com¬ bustion, the development of which was hailed by a wondering world, and in these circumstances justly hailed by it as a scientific era. To beings, capable of perceiving and of distinguishing the different particles, that form, by their aggregation, those small masses, which, after the minutest mechanical division of which we are capable, ap- no ON THE EMOTIONS. pear atoms to us, the pride which we feel, in our chymical analysis, must seem as ludicrous, as to us would seem the pride of the blind, if one, who had never enjoyed the opportunity of beholding the sun, were to boast of having discovered, hy a nice comparison of the changing temperature of bodies, that during certain hours of the day, there passed over our earth some great source of heat. The addition of one new sense to us, Avho have already the inestimable advantages which vision affords, might probably, in a few hours, communicate more instruction, with respect to matter, than all which is ever to repay and consummate the physical labours of mankind, giving, perhaps, to a single glance, those slow revelations of Nature, which, one by one, at intervals of many centuries, are to immortalize the future sages of our race.” “ All Philosophy,” says an acute foreign writer, “ is founded on these two things—that we have a great deal of curiosity, and very bad eyes. In astronomy, for example, if our eyes were better, we should then see distinctly, whether the stars really are, or are not, so many suns, illuminating worlds of their own; and if, on the other hand, we had less curiosity, we should then care very little about this knowledge, which would come pretty nearly to the same thing. But we wish to know more than we see, and there lies the diffi¬ culty. Even if we saw well the little which we do see, this would at least be some small know¬ ledge gained. But we observe it different from what it is ; and thus it happens, that a true philo¬ sopher passes his life, in not believing what he ON THE EMOTIONS. Ill sees, and in labouring to guess what is altogether beyond his sight. I cannot help figuring to myself,” continues the same lively writer, “ that Nature is a great public spectacle, which resem¬ bles that of the opera. From the place at which we sit in the theatre, we do not see the stage quite as it is. The scenes and machinery are arranged so as to produce a pleasing effect at a distance; and the weights and pulleys, on which the different movements depend, are hid from us. We therefore do not trouble our heads with guess¬ ing, how this mechanical part of the performance is carried on. It is perhaps only some mechanist, concealed amid the crowd of the pit, who racks his brain about a flight through the air, which appears to him eKtraordinary, and who is seriously bent on discovering by what means it has been executed. This mechanist gazing, and wondering, and tor¬ menting himself, in the pit of the opera, is in a situation very like that of the philosopher, in the theatre of the world. But what augments the difliculty to the philosopher is, that, in the machi¬ nery which Nature presents, the cords are com¬ pletely concealed from him,—so completely indeed, that the constant puzzle has been to guess, what that secret contrivance is, which ^produces the visible motions in the frame of the universe. Let us imagine all the sages collected at an opera,— the Pythagorases, Platos, Aristotles, and all those great names, which now-a-days make so much noise in our ears. Let us suppose, that they see the flight of Phaeton, as he is represented carried off by the winds * that they cannot perceive the 112 ON THE EMOTIONS. cords to which he is attached; and that they £ire quite ignorant of every thing behind the scenes. It is a secret virtue, says one of them, that carries off Phaeton. Phaeton, says another, is composed of certain members, which cause him to ascend, A third says. Phaeton has a certain affection for the top of the stage. He does not feel at his ease when he is not there. Phaeton, says a fourth, is not formed to fly; but he likes better to fly, than to leave the top of the stage empty,—and a hun¬ dred other absurdities of the kind, that might have ruined the reputation of antiquity, if the reputation of antiquity for wisdom could have been ruined. At last, come Descartes, and some other moderns, who say. Phaeton ascends, because he is drawn by cords, and because a weight, more heavy than he, is descending as a counterpoise. Accordingly, we now no longer believe, that a body will stir, unless it be drawn or impelled by some other body, or that it will ascend, or descend, unless by the operation of some spring or counter¬ poise ; and thus to see Nature, such as it really is, is to see the back of the stage at the opera.”* “ In this exposition of the phenomena of the universe, and of those strange ‘ follies of the wise,’ which have been gravely propounded in the sys¬ tems of philosophers concerning them, there is much truth, as well as happy pleasantry. As far, at least, as relates to matter, considered merely as existing in space,—the first of the two lights in which it may be physically viewed,—there can be Fontenelle. ON THE EMOTIONS. 113 no question, that philosophy is nothing more than an endeavour to repair, by art, the badness of oui eyes, that we may be able to see what is actually before us at every moment.” Brown—Lecture \. 17. Kow it is not for the mere purpose of ad¬ justing, what may be called, a sort of speculate e precedency between the intellect and the emotions, that w'e now indulge in these remarks. Ihere are great and immediate uses to which this estimate is subservient—first of the science that conducts to the knowdedge of its objects, and secondly of the emotions which these objects are fitted to awaken. If indeed the first be to the second what a path is to its termination, what a scaffold is to the architecture, what a vista is to that ulterior opening where a wide expanse of loveliness and glory presents itself to the eye of the beholdei then, if there be any device by which the objects of science can be credibly exhibited to the appre¬ hension of those who have no leisure and perhaps no strength for the profound investigations of the science itself which leads to them,—still, although ^ we do not pass them through the intellectual states ' by which the attainments of philosophy have first been won, we at least provide them with all those lofty and large emotions, which give in fact their chief and their terminating importance to the truffis of philosophy. We cannot demonstrate to their un¬ derstanding the physical astronomy of the heavens ; but we can give them the understanding of its actual astronomy. We cannot expound, with the whole rigour and certainty of mathematics, the principles of the science; but we can, by description and by 114 ON THE EMOTIONS. palpable diagram, expound to them the facts of the science. It may not yet be possible so to school the artisan and the labourer in the doctrines of those great forces which operate in space, as that they might infer, and with all the precision of geometry, the figure and the aberrations of every orbit that is on high. But they may be made to comprehend as much of these forces, as generally and satisfactorily to perceive how it is that, by dint of their operation, the great system of the universe is upholden. The whole panorama of the heavens may be as vividly represented to their mental eye, as to that of the profoundest of our savans. They may have the same great views of nature’s immensity; and, though wholly incapa¬ ble of that severe analysis which conducts the philosopher to his results, they may have as lofty an imagination as he, of that mighty apparatus of suns and systems, which astronomy has unfolded, and of the strength of that Omnipotent arm on which this wondrous mechanism is suspended. In a word, although they should not be furnished with the science, they may be furnished with the whole moral and sentiment of Astronomy. Though un¬ able to trace the intricacy of its nicer movements, they may be made to breathe the full inspiration of its greatness; and, though there be no royal road to Geometry, there is a road by which our now unlettered peasantry may be led to view the best and noblest of those wonders which Geometry has unfolded. 18. It is this which so inclines us we confess to the multiplication of mechanics’ schools. It is ON THE EMOTIONS. 115 downright pedantry to despise them, because the views which are there given must be popular and so must be superficial. Let science be sustained in all her rigour and all her loftiness in our schools of philosophy; and let universities rise and recede to the uttermost, with every advance that is made upon them by the people of the land—so as to maintain, if possible, all the relative distance and superiority which they had, even in those days, when without their walls there was nought but degrading superstition, and within their walls but the elevation above it of degrading monkery. Let a strict and severe philosophy be the regime of our colleges; but we repeat that it is the disdain of a mind unenlightened as to the real merits of the question, when it looks with portly contempt on the laxer and larger style of that science which should have leave most liberally to effuse itself among our population. They are not led along the same path of science with ourselves, but they are conducted to a sight of the very same objects; and they are the emotions, we repeat, given forth by the objects, which are to do more for the popular mind, than the calculus of La Place, though mas¬ tered and studied by them all, could ever have infused into them. There is, and more especially in the mixed mathematics, the utmost difference betw’een the display of truth and the demonstration of it; and the people may be fit subjects for the one, w'hile not at all fit for the other. But it is in the display of truth, and not on the demonstra¬ tion of it, that the responding emotions are awak¬ ened in the soul. It is in the prospect of truth 116 ON THE EMOTIONS. set before us, and not in the pathway by which we are led to it, that we meet with the most pre¬ cious rewards and the best influences of Philosophy. It is then that the mind gives forth of its homage to the greatness and the importance of discoveries which it never could have made; and, when thus employed, gathers upon itself a certain kindred nobleness to the scene of its contemplations. It is thus that even though we should not make philosophers of the people, we may find a w^ay to their minds for the purest and the loftiest inspira¬ tions of Philosophy. There is a distinction to be made between the reasonings of Philosophy and its informations. If not fully trained to prosecute the one, they can at least be presented with the other; and they are mainly the informations of Philosophy, by which the popular mind is to be exalted. We would set no limit on its capabilities of improvement, nor grudge even now the Prin- cipia of Newdon to the people, if they had the time and the preparation for such an achievement. But, in defect of these, we should go forth imme¬ diately; and, if not the principles, at least lay before them the facts of the Newtonian system. They may not understand the science of Astro¬ nomy; but they can understand the statements of it. They can be made to know what sort of a universe they dwell in; and with what a God of might and of presiding majesty it is that they have to do. It is thus that lofty thoughts, and kindling imaginations, and all the elements of moral great¬ ness, may be thrown abroad over the face of our land. Our peasantry would thus be made to CN THE EMOTIONS. 1!7 ascend to a higher mental and intellectual status _when their views will at length have ascendency in those high places of patronage and power, where at one time it was so insolently scorned; and the majesty of the people will become the dread, instead of as then a derision, to those , heartless politicians who so long spurned the high and the holy demands of principle ; and forgat, in the lordliness of office, what be the firmest props of a nation’s welfare, and what the privileges of our common nature.—And on this subject, we would observe, that it is well, it gives one’s own mind the comfort and the decision of a firm and luminous consistency, when it keeps by great principles amid every fluctuation of politics. We know not a more cheering doctrine, and all the more so that we think it admits of an impregnable demonstra¬ tion, than the indefinite capacities of the common people, by dint of their own virtue and their own prudence, to elevate their own status in the com- monw ealth—and that, both as it respects a larger sufficiency of the comforts of life, and a far higher degree not of moral only but of intellectual culti¬ vation. We think that a great and a wholesale injustice w'as done to them by the rulers of the last generation, who, in their administration of the ecclesiastical patronage, bade defiance to the popu¬ lar voice, and resisted its most legitimate demand for a pure and scriptural Christianity in our pul¬ pits. This, among other causes, hastened on that fearful decline, wdiich latterly took place in the Christianity of the working classes; and, to maintain an even-handed impartiality between one 118 ON THE EMOTIONS. government and another,, we would say, that if possible for one set of rulers to speed onward the degeneracy of a population, it is equally possible for another, with hard and'heartless indifference, to resist every effort made to recal them from the abyss into which they have fallen. Neither policy can be regarded with any other feeling, than of the utmost moral discomfort—though, perhaps, the more hateful of the two is that, which, with the blazing characters pf patriotisimand liberty on its forehead, would still .withhold from the people the best and cheapest boon which c^in be^graiited to their families—holding, them in np other mine, than as the instruments of a mischievous fermen¬ tation, the brick-bat auxiliaries of a cause that only lives by delusion, and which will sink into its own place so soon as the eddying turbulence that keeps it afloat, shall have subsided into the calm¬ ness of better and wiser and more pacific times. 19. But this brings us direct to another appli¬ cation of our present argument. We have already said of science in general, that, unless in so far as the truths which it discovers are subservient to the practical guidance of man and the processes of art, its main importance lies in the emotions which these truths are fitted to awaken ; that, aside from its subserviency to art, this in fact, is the termi¬ nating object of all science; and that the reason¬ ings which led to the discovery are but the preparatory steps, by which the inquirer is con¬ ducted to a set of ultimate gratifications—of as much a higher order than the gratifications of ON THE EMOTIONS. 119 mere intellect as the end is more valuable than the means, or as the consummation of any process is than the process itself. Knowledge is not the inquirer’s ultimate landing-place; for there is something ulterior to knowledge, and that is senti¬ ment. Its office is altogether an instrumental one. Knowledge is the parent of sentiment; and it is not for its own sake, but for the sake of that which it gives birth to, that it deserves to be so intensely prosecuted by each, and so widely diffused among all. If by widening, for example, our prospect over the domain of Nature, we enhance the feeling that we before had of the dignity of its architect_ this is a more precious fruit of the acquirement, than the acquirement itself; and if by any way, even though by a less laborious and scientific pro¬ cess than philosophers do traverse, it can be made the acquirement of our general peasantry, we may not yet have trained them in that way of learning which is strictly academic ; but w^e may anticipate the toils of severe intellect, by a more immediate presentation of the objects of science to their mind, and so by an excitement of those sensibilities in the heart, to which even intellect herself is but an officiating minister. 20. Now what holds true of all science, holds most eminently true of the science of theology. Here, if at all, the mere doctrine is never the terminating object, but the practical lesson to which it points, or the emotion that arises upon the contemplation of it. Theology is a science which embraces the most stupendous interests— the highest interest of the world that is present. 120 ON THE EMOTIONS. and the whole interest of the world that is future and eternal. It is a science whose contemplations involve both the noblest and the most affecting sentiments—urging at one time, the most heroic, the most hardy sacrifices of principle—and at another, looking in gentleness on frail and suffering men, whether it speaks peace to the repentant, or stretches forth the balsam of its promises and its precious things for the comfort of w^eeping families. It is a science whose illustrations, even the most appropriate, admit of all that is beauteous in the imagery of Nature, and of all that can touch and interest the heart in the relations of human society —for what is beauty, but the impress of the Almighty’s artist hand on the face of His own workmanship, an efflorescence from that primeval Mind, where all the forms both of grace and of grandeur have had their everlasting residence— and whatsis society, with all the dear and delight¬ ful sympathies by which it is held together, but that moral mechanism wdiich Himself did devise, and Himself hath instituted ? It has been said of God, that He sits enthroned on the riches of the universe—and all these riches, then, may be regarded as legitimate spoils wherewith to magni¬ fy and adorn the representation of Him. Now, theology, if viewed only as a science of truths, might be addressed to tbe intellect alone—but being a science of such truths, of truths which cannot be looked to in their native character, cannot be looked to as they are, without awakening, if dwelt upon, the emotions of taste, or of earnest desire, or of moral sensibility, or of deepest reve- ON THE EMOTIONS. 121 rence—^the question is, whether in the act of expounding them, we, laying a resolute check on these various affections of Nature, are to keep all but the understanding in abeyance ? Are we to treat the propositions of theology, as we would the naked dogmata of an abstract science; and, as if we had nought to do but with their evidence alone, are we to withhold the homage which is due to their properties, by withholding the response of all those Avarm and holy feelings which they are fitted to awaken ? If there be a radiant bright¬ ness in any object how can it be appropriately or adequately described, even though with all the strict and imitative accuracy of the Flemish school, but in colours of tlie same kindred with those of a picture to its original?—and yet, when so de¬ scribed, and the ambiguous praise of splendour is awarded, it is almost never to characterize the inherent glory of the writer’s theme, but the tinsel of the Avriter’s imagination. Or, if it be a ques¬ tion of deepest moral importance, involving the character of heaven’s Lawgiver, or, the destiny of those guilty millions, Avho have become the outcasts (tf His righteous displeasure—how can, we do not say the eloquent, but hoAV can the just exposition be given of it, unless the emphasis of feeling be SLiperadded to the demonstrations of Heaven’s jurisprudence—yet should this be done but Avith half the vehemence, or half the tenderness of the saints and apostles in other days, how many now are the phlegmatic theologians who will complain of truth being lost and overborne in a whirlwind of the passions ? There are men Avho will think of VQL. V. F 122 ON THE EMOTIONS. every argument we employ, that it ceases to be a floCtrine and becomes a declamation, unless we sliall treat the formularies of a creed with the same unimpassioned frigidity, that we would the formularies of algebra—who conceiving it impos¬ sible that any object can at the same time be seen correctly and felt correctly, would have all sensibi¬ lities displaced to make room for their syllogisms whose prototype of an accomplished divine may be without a heart, if his head be but abundantly peopled with cold and naked categories—if neither alive to the charms of Nature, nor to the surpass¬ ing excellence of Nature’s God, he could lay a stern interdict on all the emotions, and sit un¬ moved amid the glories of a universe. 21. In all this, there is not merely an aggres¬ sion on the prerogatives of the heart; but, bringing the question under the standard of intellect alone, there is in it something unphilosophically erroneous. We so far concede a priority to the claims of intellect, that we allow, the first thing to be done^ with any object of human thought is to apprehend it correctly; and it is cither by a series ot reason¬ ings, or by an instant recognition of the judgment, that we come to apprehend any object aright, or simply and in other words, to see it as it is. But if it be an object fitted when thus seen, naturally and spontaneously fitted, to call forth certain emotions—then if these emotions have not been called forth, in the heart of any individual, he is either a mutilated and imperfect being, or he really does not see the object such as it is. His want of the feeling correspondent to the object is ON THE EMOTIONS. 123 a proof, that he judges of it wrong, that he appre¬ hends it wrong. If a man be as little moved by the perfections of the Godhead, as he is by the properties of a triangle, then we would say more than that he does not adequately feel these perfec¬ tions. We would say that he does not understand them. He may march triumphant over the whole of their theological demonstration; but then he is only playing at logic with words. He is merely dealing with a name, or a formula, or a verbal proposition; and his mind is not in converse, by means of its organ of discernment, with the object to be discerned—unless the emotions appropriate to that object are awakened in his soul. If the eye be in a sound state, the colour of red im¬ presses a different sensation upon it from the colour of green—and if the difference be not rightly felt, it is just because it is not rightly perceived. The want of the appropriate sensation evinces the want of the right and appropriate perception ; and this connection between the seeing accurately and the feeling accurately, applies to moral as well as material objects of contemplation. Our first care should be to discern them aright; but the test of our doing so is that we are affected by them aright. We do not see an object to be amiable, if the amiableness be unfelt by us. We see it not to be venerable, if we do not feel the veneration. We do not recognise it in Its character of solemnity and sacredness, unless we are solemnized. We are but holding converse with a name, and not with a thing, unless the properties of that thing call forth those proper sensibilities which, when 124 ON THE EMOTIONS. really seen, they are calculated to awaken. It is by a process of inference or ratiocination, that we are guided onward to that last act of the judgment, in virtue of which we see the genuine colours and characteristics of any objectof our thoughts—but the test, in every wholesome mental constitution, of see¬ ing correctly, is, that appropriate response, which the object, when thus apprehended, meets with from the feelings and the faculties of our whole nature. 22. This remark which extends to so many of the sciences holds superlatively true of theology. Here, if anywhere, truth of perception, if not identi¬ cal, stands most intimately associated with truth of feeling. We cannot proceed a little way in its demonstrations, without coming in sight of objects, which only need to be seen justly, in order to be felt sensibly and profoundly—and precisely accord¬ ing to the vividness of the perception will be the vivacity or depth of the emotion. In this science, there is not merely a yvcuatg, which, cold and spe¬ culative, may exist apart from the aya'Trri, as we are informed by Paul, when he says, that “ Know¬ ledge puffeth up, but charity edifieth.” But along with the yvcoGig, there is also an STriyvctXTtg, a more clear and thorough and intense knowledge, in proportion to which there will always be a more intense corresponding sensibility. We cannot, therefore, bring the whole man to the investiga¬ tions of theology, without doing violence to some part of him—if we lay a stern interdict on the emotions. Our anterior aim, we concede with as much promptitude as w^e should an axiom or a first principle, our anterior aim should be to have a ON THE EMOTIONS. 125 right view of the object. But we are not there¬ fore to repress or to stifle the ulterior effect of a right and respondent sensibility. What makes this the more imperative is, that, in theology, right emotions are in truth the terminating objects of the science. They form the landing-place, as it were, to which the intellectual process is but the line df conveyance, or the series of stepping- stones. The reasoning stands to the sentiment but in the relation of means to an end—essential, we must admit, but still only essential in the way of subserviency; and that to something as much higher and nobler than itself, as the final result of any process is a greater and more estimable thing, than all of a preparatory or merely instrumental character which went before it. It is just as if on the ulterior margin of a forest, a certain spot or eminence had to be gained, that we might deli¬ ciously regale ourselves in the view of some glori¬ ous panorama beyond it. In guiding our way through the intricacies of the approach, the reason¬ ing faculties of the mind are kept in continual exercise—a succession of intellectual states may have to be gone through—a busy observation must be had of directions and distances—an instrument of observation, the pocket compass, -may need perhaps to be ever and anon consulted—and many obstructions to be with much labour overcome ; and all for the final enjoyment, the luxury of a tasteful emotion. And it is just with a sight in the moral, as with a sight in the material landscape To obtain the sight, much labour may be requisite, and labour of the intellect too. The first call is 126 ON THE EMOTIONS. upon the understanding, that, under its direction, we may be conducted to the actual view of those objects which bring the appropriate emotions of, the heart into play. We must see aright, ere we can feel aright. If the object in question lie somewhere on the field of revelation, we may in all likelihood have to pioneer our way to it through a succession of scripture passages, the meaning of which we shall have to ascertain—we may have to take the lights of criticism for our guide, the lexicon let us say for our instrument of dis¬ covery—we may have to travel through the oppo¬ sition of many heresies—and, by dint of argument and comparison and trains of inference, which, after all, are but the expedients of a limited crea¬ ture for supplementing the defect of his faculties, we may come to see laboriously and at length, that which a seraph sees by immediate intuition. The object thus ascertained, and presented by doctrinal theology to our view, may be a radiance of the divine perfections. It may be the harmony of truth and justice with the freest exercise of mercy. It may be the face of God in Christ reconciling the world, on which there sitteth a halo of all the attributes—and, more especially, the blended love and holiness of the Godhead. It may be that very spectacle, which, when seen in celestial brightness by celestial eyes, causes the high arches of heaven to ring with unceasing jubilee. This sight is beheld on earth, through a duller medium and by duller optics—yet is only presented for the sake of that sensibility which it is fitted to awaken. The critical or intellectual ON THE EMOTIONS. 127 or judging process by which we have obtained it, stands related to the consequent emotion, just as a transition does to a landing-place, he emo¬ tion is the terminus ad quern —and when that system which has usurped the name of “ Rational Theology,” forbids emotion, it mocks and nullifies the meaning of all those prior mental exercises on which its claim to exclusive rationality is founded. If man have been enabled here, in his measure and according to his capacity, to see as a seraph— it is that, in the same measure and according to the same capacity, he may feel as a seraph—may feel seraphic love and have the foretaste of seraphic ecstasies. 23. I'heology is a science of which the know¬ ledge is indispensable ; but its own doctrine is, that charity or love is greater than knowledge— and therefore let us never forget the place and the pre-eminence which should be given to the emotions in theology. If knowledge have the priority in time, or in the order of acquisition, aflection has the priority in point of ultimate and enduring im¬ portance. All we demand of the rational theo¬ logian is, that when we see an object to be vener¬ able, we shall be permitted to feel and to express veneration—and, in general, that, whatever the property may be, whether of a moral or a tasteful or a pathetic description, that we shall be suitably aflected, and show ourselves to be suitably affected therewith. After all, they who would treat theo¬ logy as if it were made up of nothing else but jejune abstractions, are but dealing with the terms, with the mere nominalities of the science, and not 128 ON THE EMOTIONS. with the living truths of it. The thing which they profess to contemplate, is not seen by them in the fulness of its properties—and the whole fabric of their orthodoxy, as if made up of the dry bones in the vision of Ezekiel, wants the integuments of skin and muscle, and above all that vivifying spirit which gives lustre and animation to the whole. These are the men, whose whole demand is for the bare osteology of argument—and who complain that they are dazzled into blindness, when any brightness or beauty of colouring is superadded—although a colour not laid on by the pencil of the artist, but natively and originally in the subject matter that he is handling. Blind they undoubtedly are, for the most important, the most affecting characteristics in the object of their contemplation have escaped their notice—and that very technology of the science which they can use so dexterously, is with them but a pompous dis¬ guise to their own poverty of conception. They are conversant with names; but not, by direct vision, with the gracefulness or the glory of their archetypes—and we do shrewdly suspect, that, in this demand for what they call the didactic, and in this dread or distaste for what they call the de¬ clamatory, there is just an appetite for every thing being flattened to their own comfortable level, and for all men being as frigid and heavy as them¬ selves. 24. Theology, to be fully rendered, must be ardent and feeling as well as intellectual; and its students must bear to be told of the grandeur of the science, of all that is sublime or graceful or affect- ON THE EMOTIONS. . 129 ing in the objects which it reveals, of its stupen¬ dous interests, the magnificence of its reach from everlasting to everlasting, its paramount claims to the reverence and presiding place which it holds over the destinies of our species. It is the natural, and we believe the almost constant practice of every instructor, to expatiate on the great worth, if not the superiority of his own assigned portion in the encyclopedia of human knowledge—so that at the opening of every academic course, the student, in passing from one introductory lecture to another, may, amid the high-coloured eulogies which are pronounced upon all the sciences, be at a loss how to assign the rank and the precedency of each of them. But, in this conflict of pretensions, it can¬ not be that Theology shall suffer degradation—for whatever is said or imagined in behalf of any other of the sciences, but serves to uphold the more that pre-eminence which belongs to her. Theirs is derivative glory—while her high station is at that primeval fountain-head,whence have emanated all those wonders of truth and nature, which it is the proud office of philosophy to investigate. Each new discovery is but a new trophy to the great¬ ness of Him with whom we have to do—and when entering upon the study of theology, rich in the spoils of all the sciences, we should feel it impossible to have any overweening estimate of a theme, which reaches upward to the high autho¬ rity of Heaven, and forward to the destinies of our immortal nature. F 2 130 COMMAND WHICH THE WILL CHAPTER IV. On the Command which the Will has over the Emotions. 1. There are certain denominations which are very current in the writings of moralists—and which when explained, may convince us how wide a range the emotions have in the Philosophy of our nature. Correlated to the emotions are the “appetites”—that stand distinguished however from our other desires by the immediate origin which they have in the body. Hunger is'one example of an appetite—thirst is another—and it is evident that if this be admitted as the specifying charac¬ teristic of an appetite, there are many subordinate ones both natural and acquired which are chiefly connected however with the corporeal organ of taste—such as an appetite for sugar or tobacco or the intoxicating liquors.* 2. There is another term however which stands closely related to the emotions, and is expressive * “ Each tree. Laden with fairest fruit that hung to the eye. Tempting stirred in me sudden appetite, To pluck and e.at.”— Milton, X. But, as we shall afterwards more particularly remark, we can¬ not restrain language within tlie boundaries of definition. And as appetite is expressive of one species of inclination that is often very strong and urgent—so it has been extended from this prim¬ ary to other inclinations also strong and urgent, but not taking their rise in the body. One of the most correct and classi¬ cal of cur writers. Dean Swift, says of power—“ That being the natural appetite of princes, a limited monarch cannot gratify it.” HAS OVER THE EMOTIONS. 131 of that which occupies a very large department of our nature—“ aiFection.’' It will be observed that an emotion is just one phenomenon—as when because of his engaging manners, or something amiable in his countenance or his tones, I feel a movement of kindness towards a person who perhaps hath been introduced to my notice for the first time ; whom I might never again meet with ; and who even might not once more occur to my recollection. But if these emotions were to be oft repeated, either on his frequent reappearance in my society, or on his frequent recalment to my thoughts—then I should refer them to one prin¬ ciple, or reduce them all to one summary expres¬ sion, by simply stating that I had an affection for the individual in question. The term Emotion is applied to each of the distinct and repeated feelings of kindness towards him, wherewith I ever have been visited. The term Affection denotes the aptitude or tendency which there is in my mind ; and in virtue of which I have those emotions towards the object of them. The term affection then suggests no phenomena additional to those of the emotions—It only names one or more classes of them—and we think is most frequently applied in those cases, where the object is a sentient creature apart from ourselves—and so we may have an affection of regard for one acquaintance, and an opposite affection even that of dislike for another. Hence the benevolent and the malevo¬ lent affections—the objects of which are properly our fellow-beings; and we should feel as if it would have helped to distinguish more accurately things that 132 COMMAND WHICH THE WILL are distinct, had the term not been attached to any thing else—did we not say for example that we had an affection for some particular food, or that we had an affection for science, or an affection for scenery.* 3. But again neither would the term appetite assort very well with science or with scenery; and there is a class of emotions which have each of these for their object, and a peculiar susceptibility to which emotions has perhaps from the resources of our language, obtained some other denomina¬ tion ; and accordingly a very extensive use has been made of the word Taste—and we may say in lan- * Certain it is however that it is frequently so applied. The best English writers will speak, for example, of their affection to a cause. We have the example of its extended application in scripture, where we are called “ to set our affections on the things that are above,” and to set them not on the things that are beneath. The greatest of our dranvatic poets evidently applies the term to our desires of evil towards others in the following passage:— “ The man that hath no music in himself Nor is not moved with concord of sweet sounds, Is fit for treasons, stratagems, and spoils. The motions of his spirit are dull as night. And his affections dark as Erebus, Let no such man be trusted.” Affection is often used in a very general sense indeed, so as to denote quality or property—so that, instead of that warm and kindly thing to which it is commonly applied, it is made to ex¬ press as cold and abstract and metaphysical an idea as can well be imagined. It is even applied to mathematics. “ The cer¬ tainty and accurateness which is attributed to what mathema¬ ticians deliver, must be restrained to what they teach concerning those purely mathematical disciplines Algebra and Geometry, where the affections of quantity are abstractedly considered.”—. Boyle. Here it signifies the mere relations in which quantities stand to each other; and so it also signifies the relations, in re¬ gard to influence, which any one substance in nature has to another. Let it not be wondered at then that when expressing the influence which certain objects have upon the mind, it should bear a less vivid application and only represent the more mode¬ rate degrees of emotion. HAS OVER THE EMOTIONS. 133 guage which is recognised of one man that he has a great taste for landscape, and of another that he has a great taste for music, and of a third that he has a great taste for the mathematics. This term indeed has diffused itself over all definable boundaries—and there is nought more current in conversation than a taste for society, and a taste for retirement, and a taste for agriculture. It may be said in the general to be more commonly ap¬ plied to the pursuits of life, or to inanimate objects —whereas affection centres more upon those who have life and sensibility like ourselves. We are not to imagine, however, from all these explana¬ tions, that, when philosophy multiplies her terms, she is therefore multiplying her truths. We have not, saving in our observations upon appetite, gone a single footstep beyond the field of our emotions; and, without adding one other fact or phenomenon to their previous stock, we have simply told how it is that they are sometimes arranged into classes, and what the titles be which are sometimes be¬ stowed upon them. 4. There is one term which might be applied alike, to all the emotions — sensibility—and it simply marks the degree in which we are alive to them. He who has the most of gratitude, has the greatest sensibility to a favour; and the most of anger, the greatest sensibility to a provocation; and the most of pride, the greatest sensibility to an affront; and the most of rapture in the contem- nlation of beauty, the greatest sensibility to its charms. A sensible man is by common usage tantamount to an intelligent man—else it might 134 COMMAND WHICH THE WILL have very conveniently designed the man who was easily excited by the objects of emotion. This is not adequately expressed by sensitive, which rather is restricted to one that is keenly and sensitively awake to what is painful or disgusting—as to the man who is very sensitive about his importance, and very fearful of its being in any w'ay trenched upon. Even the man who is more alive to bodily pain is said to be more sensitive than another—■ and he who is most alive to bodily pleasures and indulges in them accordingly, as for example in the pleasures of the table, is said to be sensual. 5. But we must hasten on this work of verbal explanation, although it is of consequence too—. for, though it supplies us with no new facts or principles in the philosophy of mind, it may at least save us from the bewildering imagination, that we have to look for something new of which we are yet ignorant when we happen to hear of a new term. For instance, we may think that the passions of the mind must require a distinct and separate treatment; and that, when entering on the consideration of them, we enter on another department of our nature. But the truth is that a passion differs from an affection or a taste, only in the degree of its strength or its violence—and it no more than marks the greater intensity of those emotions which are comprehended under the general term. The affection of love may be heightened into a passion, and so may that of hatred. Anger that most stormy and blustering of ail tiie emotions, had at one time from that circum¬ stance an almost exclusive monopoly of the term HAS OVER THE EMOTIONS. 135 —so that to be in a passion is even still just equivalent to being angry—and he who is very susceptible of this feeling, is denominated a very passionate man. But now that there is a great deal more than their w'ont of latitude and adven¬ ture in language, the term is extended to all the emotions when carried to a certain degree of intensity or violence ; and it is held no impropriety now to speak of a passion for the arts, of a passion for the theatre, of a passion for scenery, of a passion for mathematics, of a passion in short for any thing to the pursuit of which we abandon ourselves in full delight and with the devotion of all our energies.* 6. And after having attempted these various eclaircissemens on the meaning of words, we may here assert that there is nothing which shifts, if we may be allowed the expression, nothing which shifts so waywardly and so uncontrollably as lan¬ guage. It takes its own wilful and determined course—and the edicts of a Professor’s chair are but feeble barriers against the tide and the omni¬ potence of custom. And now that literature hath descended and hath so widely diffused itself through¬ out the population—and now that, instead of • “ In loving thou doest wrell, in passion not, Wherein true love consists not. — Hilton, “ Passion’s too tierce to be in fetters bound And Nature flees him like enchanted ground.”— Dryden. “ All the arts of rhetoric, besides order and perspicuity, only move the passion and thereby mislead the judgment.’— Locke. “ Where statesmen are ruled by faction and interest, they can have no passion for the glory of their country, nor any concern for the figure it will make.”— Addison. “ Abate a little that violent passion for fine clothes so predominant in your sex. — Swift. 136 COMMAND WHICH THE WILL writing elaborately for fame in the retreats of 2 college, the monthly or even the daily press holds out its speedy remunerations and hath hired into its service more than half the literary talent and enterprise of the land, there is a sort of rampant energy abroad before which all the classical and established proprieties of academic definition are so many cobwebs. Though there ought to be a distinction observed between all the terms to which we have just adverted, yet there is such an affinity too as will and must confound the application of them. They are all expressive of an inclination towards certain objects—and this is enough to sanction the indiscriminate attachment of them to each and to every. So that we not only hear of a passion for antiquities, but of a taste for the rear¬ ing of cattle, of an appetite for rural scenes, and a vehement affection for some rare and delicious article of cookery. It is good however to advert, and perhaps minutely to explain, the differences which obtain between the popular and philosophic language. In discriminating words we are led to discriminate more closely between the things whereof they are expressive. We are admitted to a more just and intimate discernment of the interior of the subject, and saved from confounding what is really distinct by some general and what to a careless and superficial observer proves a deceiving similarity. 7. Having now dwelt so long on these verbal criticisms, we feel averse to any further explana¬ tions, and more especially, when it relates to a word that has been very recently introduced into HAS OVER THE EMOTIONS. 137 Mental Science, and which at present we do not recollect to have met with in the writings ot him whom we regard as far the most successful and eminent of its disciples—the late Dr. Brown of Edinburgh. Another ground of aversion which we have to the term is that it sounds scholastically; and might therefore have, at least the apparent effect, of involving in the hieroglyphical mysticism of a strange tongue, that which ought to be the object of most familiar and intelligent contempla¬ tion. The wretched substitution of a term for a truth is an artifice, by which the young student might most easily be imposed upon; and therefore as we have already said that we introduced no new phenomenon to notice by the words which we have just tried to illustrate, but merely classified or arranged them according to certain of their observed characteristics—so the additional term now to be adopted is not expressive of any one fact or phenomenon beyond the territory of our sensa¬ tions and emotions; but is simply expressive of an attribute that is common to them all. 8. It is Pathology—a term used in medicine, but only imported of late, and as yet very little used in mental science. Neither has it analogous meanings in these two applications; for, in medi¬ cine, it is defined to be that part of it which relates to the distempers with their differences causes and effects incident to the human body—whereas mental pathology has been called the study or the know¬ ledge of sensations, of affections, of passions, and of their effects upon happiness. 9. The intellectual states of the mind, and its 138 COMMAND WHICH THE WILL states of emotion, belong to distinct provinces of the mental constitution—the former to the perci¬ pient, and the latter to what Sir James Mackintosh would term the emotive or pathematic part of our nature. Bentham applies the term pathology to the mind in somewhat the same sense—not ex¬ pressive as in medical science, of states of dis¬ ease, under which the body suffers; but expres¬ sive in mental science, of states of susceptibility, under which the mind is in any way affected, whether painfully or pleasurably. Had it not been for the previous usurpation or engagement of this term by medical writers, who restrict the application of it to the distempers of our corporeal frame, it might have been conveniently extended to all the susceptibilities of the mental constitu¬ tion—even when that constitution is in its health¬ ful and natural state. According to the medical use of it the Greek ’Traffyji}, from which it is de¬ rived is understood in the sense of the Latin translation patior to suffer. According to the sense which we now propose for it, in treating of mental phenomena, the Greek would be understood in the sense of the Latin translation afficior, to be affected. When treating of the mental pathology wm treat, not of mental suffer¬ ings, but more generally of mental susceptibilities. The of the Greek, whence the lerm comes, is equivalent either to the ^’"patior” or the “ affici¬ or” of Latin,—the former signifying “ to suffer,” and the latter simply “ to be affected”—the former sense being the one that is retained in medical, and the latter in mental pathology. The two HAS OVER THE EMOTIONS. 139 differ as much the one from the other, as passion does from affection, or the violence of a distem¬ per does from the due and pacific effect of a natural influence. Even the Latin patior" might be translated, not merely into suffer, but into “ the being acted upon” or into “ the being passive.” Medical pathology is the study of those diseases under which the body suffers. Mental pathology is the study of all those pheno¬ mena that arise from influences acting upon the mind view'ed as passive, or as not putting forth any choice or activity at the time. Now, when thus defined, it will embrace all that we under¬ stand by sensations, and affections, and passions. It is not of my will that certain colours impress their appropriate sensations upon my eye, or that certain sounds impress their sensations upon my ear. It is not of my w^ill, but of an organization which I often cannot help, that I am so nervously irritable under certain disagreeable sights and dis¬ agreeable noises. It is not of my will, but of an aggressive influence which I cannot withstand, that, when placed on an airy summit, I forthwith swim in giddiness, and am seized with the imagination, that if I turn not my feet and my eyes from the frightful precipice’s margin, I shall topple to its base. Neither is it of my will that I am visited with such ineffable disgust at the sight of some loathsome animal. But these are strong instances, and perhaps evince a state bordering on disease. Yet we may gather from them some general con¬ ception of what is meant by mental pathology, whose design it is to set forth all those states of 140 COMMAND WHICH THE WILL feeling into which the mind is thrown, by the influence of those various objects that are fitted to excite either the emotions or the sensitive affec¬ tions of our nature. And, to keep the subject of mental pathology pure, we shall suppose these states of feeling to be altogether unmodified by the will, and to be the very states which result from the law of the external senses, or the laws of emotion, operating upon us at the time when the mind is either wholly powerless or wholly inactive. To be furnished with one comprehensive term by which to impress a mark on so large an order of phenomena must he found very commodious; and though we have adverted to the etymology of the term, yet, in truth, it is of no consequence whether the process of derivation be accurate or not—seeing that the most arbitrary definition, if it only be pre¬ cise in its objects, and have a precisely expressed sense affixed to it, can serve all the purposes for which a definition is desirable. 10. Grant that the eye is open, and that some visible object of given dimensions and a given hue is set before it; and the sensation impressed thereby is just as involuntary as the circulation of the blood. This is a case of pure pathology, and that just because it is involuntary—the will being either wholly inert or wholly unable. It either puts forth no choice in the matter, or if it do, it is of that impotency that it is and can be followed up by no act or no execution. It is true, that if he will he may shut his eye, and thus make his escape from the pathology. But so long as the eye is open, he cannot alter it however much he HAS OVER THE EMOTIONS. 141 would. And at his will too, he may interpose a coloured glass between him and the object—and dius blend his volitions with all the other influences that have had effect upon the resulting sensation in the retina of the eye. Yet there is no difficulty here in discriminating between the voluntary and the strictly pathological, between the share which the mind’s activity hath had in the ultimate effect, and the share that hath as it were been forced upon the mind by the laws of sensation, and under the operation of which laws the mind is passive or at least altogether powerless. Had it not been for the forth-putting of authority on the part of the mind, there would have been no use of the coloured glass; and so the impression upon the senses has been modified by an act of choice into a something different from what it would have been, had the eye simply looked out on the natural prospect before it. But after that the glass has been set up, and the eye of the observer looks through it on the ulterior field of contemplation, there may have been choice and activity in thus assembling together all the circumstances under which the observation is made; but, after having proceeded thus far, there is just as much of pure pathology in the resulting impression, as there was when the eye looked nakedly on the scene. The man can no more help or modify the resulting sensation in the new circumstances, than he could in the old. The now tinged and transformed colour of the landscape is just as necessarily the result of the artificial medium through which it is contemplated, as its natural colour is the result ot 142 COMMAND WHICH THE WILL the atmospherical medium; and we can be at no loss, w'e repeat it, to distinguish here the share which the active or voluntary hath had in the final effect, and the share which the passive or the pathological hath had in it. 11. Now though we cannot assign the limit in every other case, that is not to say but that in every case such a limit does exist. In the emotions of taste, for example, when the mind resigns itself to the impression of all those beauties which stand revealed to its gaze, there is a pure operation of pathology going on. We can imagine a traveller who has been enamoured with a scene, of whose history he at the time was ignorant; and in the process of being touched by the loveliness of its features, or of being arrested and solemnized by its grandeur, there might just take place the very same pathological operation that is exemplified in all similar and ordinary contemplations. But let him be told in the evening, that if he would take the trouble of consulting his guide, he should be informed of that which, did he again look to this very landscape on the morrow, would greatly enhance or modify all the emotions wherewith he had already regarded it. There are a will and an activity on his part concerned in the w^ork of consultation; and let the fruit of it be, that he now has learned of the scene that it is the plain of Marathon or the no less celebrated Thermopylae; and mark the new interest and glory which so noble an association would pour over it. With such a consciousness that he wanted yesterday, but which is now present, he looks on the pro- HAS OVER THE EMOTIONS, 143 spect before him through a medium that heightens every tint, and that gives a moral and a fiterary lustre even to its most ordinary details. It is true that it is in virtue of a something which he voluntarily did that he now looks upon the scene, not in its own naked characteristics, but through the exalting transparency of many classical and many patriotic recollections—but after that these recol¬ lections have been thus gotten up, all the active powers lie suspended amid the raptures of a vision that has thus been glorified—and every ecstasy that comes upon his soul, while he gazes upon that which is now transformed into a scene of enchantment, is the fruit of a process that is wholly pathological. 12. And we can further perceive, how in the course of this enjoyment, the voluntary and the pathological might be so intermixed as to alternate with each other. It is the pleasurable sensation that gives him the will to vary and to perpetuate it—and it is at the bidding of his will that he trans¬ ports himself from one point of view to another; and that, to prolong or to enhance or to diversify the sensation. We see from this how there is a dis¬ tinction between the two states of the mind—that m which it acts as a commander over the measures and the movements of him whom it animates, and that in which it is the passive recipient of the in¬ fluences by which it is surrounded. By these measures or movements, on the one hand, he may be translated into the right condition for being operated upon by certain influences; and in this condition, on the other, he may be the passive 144 COMMAND WHICH THE WILL subject of these influences. It may be in virtue of his will, and by the laborious execution of its dictates, that he first became acquainted with all the localities of Marathon; and then ascended the peak whence the eye could best expatiate over the field of a nation’s proudest achievement. But when there, the character of the scene that is before him, with all its awakened imagery of Greek and classic story, finds resistless way into his soul; his will lies prostrate under the visions and reveries that lord it over him, or rather he be¬ comes the willing, because the delighted subject of a most delightful fascination. 13. Now what we should especially remark is, that, though the voluntary and pathological parts of our constitution are wholly distinct the one from the other, when regarded as separate objects of contemplation ; yet, when viewed as the parts of a historical succession, they are very closely allied in the way of cause and of consequence. It is thus in fact that the emotions and the sensitive affections are the great principles of action. It is to attain the objects of them, that all the human activities are set agoing—and thus it is that, on a simple difference in the degrees and the kinds of that emotion or sensitive affection whereof men are susceptible, might we explain all those countless varieties of mental habit and complexion which obtain in our species. It is because of this, that one man more alive than his fellow to the pleasures of appetite, will not only give himself over to their indulgence, but will prosecute a busy train of devices and doings on purpose to obtain them—and another HAS OVER THE EMOTIONS. 145 more alive to sympathy, will, like Howard, make a labour and a profession of benevolence—and an¬ other to the desire of power, will embark all the longings and energies of his soul on the objects of a resistless ambition—and another to the desire of wealth, will compass sea and land in the schemes and speculations of merchandize—and another to the desire of evil to others, has been known to ply for years at the labour of his incessant and infernal politics for their overthrow —and another whose reigning passion is glory, will rush among scenes of hottest w'arfare or climb the arduous steeps of philosophy in order to realize it. In all these instances there has been a patho¬ logy at work, under w'hich the mind in one aspect may be regarded as altogether passive; but the result is a moving force that summons to their post all the activities of our nature, and sends them forth on those multifarious walks of labour and enterprise that diversify the interests, and give such a scattered direction to the pursuits of human beings, 14. The distinction between the pathological and the voluntary is tantamount to the distinction often made betw'een a mental susceptibility and a mental power. Should we attempt to define it, we might say of the power, that it implies a refer¬ ence to something consequent, and of the sus¬ ceptibility that it implies a reference to some¬ thing antecedent. It is thus that a volition is conceived to indicate the former, and an emotion to indicate the latter. Anger would be spoken of rather as a susceptibility of the mind than as VOL. V. a 146 COMMAND WHICH THE WILL a power; and will rather as a power than as a susceptibility. We view anger in connexion with the provocatives which went before it; and so, regarding it as an effect, we conceive of the mind in which this effect has been wrought, as being at the time in a state of subject passiveness. We view the will in connexion with the deeds which follow on its determination ; and so, regarding it as a cause, we conceive of the mind when it wills as being in a state of active efficiency. And yet a determination of the will may be viewed, not merely as the prior term to the act which flows from it, but also as the posterior term to the influence which gave it birth—or, in other words, either as the forthgoing of a power or as the result of a susceptibility. It is thus that desire, which, on ooking backward to the cause from whence it sprung, we should call a susceptibility—on looking forward to the effort which it prompts for the attainment of its object, we should call an impel¬ lent ; and thus depth of feeling is identical, or at least in immediate contact, with decision and in¬ tensity of purpose. 15. The will may be spoken of either as a faculty of the mind, or it may denote one separate and individual act of willing. He willed to take a walk with me. It was his will so to do. But there is another term which is more properly expressive of the act, and is not at all expres¬ sive of the faculty. Those terms which discrimi¬ nate, and which restrict language to a special meaning, are very convenient both in science and in common life. The will then may express both HAS OVER THE EMOTIONS. 147 the faculty and the act of willing. But the act of willing has been further expressed by a term appropriated wholly to itself—and that is, volition. Mr. Locke defines volition to be “an act of the mind, knowingly exerting that dominion it takes itself to have over any part of the man, by employ¬ ing it in or withholding it from any particular action.” And Dr. Reid more briefly, but to the same effect, says, that it is—“ the determination of the mind to do or not to do something which we conceive to be in our power.” He very properly remarks, however, that, after all, determination is only another word for volition; and he excuses himself, at the same time, from giving any other more logical definition—on the plea, that simple acts of the mind do not admit of one. 16. There is certainly a ground, in the nature and actual workings of the mental constitution, for the distinction, which has been questioned of late, between will and desire. Desire has thus been defined by Locke—“ It is the uneasiness man finds in himself, upon the absence of any thing whose present enjoyment carries the idea of delight with it”—an uneasiness which many may remember to have felt in their younger days, at the sight of an apple of tempting physiognomy, that they would fain have laid liold of, but were restrained from touching by other considerations. 1 he desire is just the liking that one has for the apple; and by its effectual solicitations it may gain over the will to its side—in which case, through the medium of a volition, the apple is laid hold of, and turned to its natural application. But t 148 COMMAND WHICH THE WILL the will may and often does refuse its consent; and we then both perceive the distinction between the desire and the will when we thus see them in a state of opposition—or when the urgency of the desire is met by other urgencies which restrain the indulgence of it. One might be conceived, as having the greatest appetency for the fruit, and yet knowing it to be injurious to his health—so that, however strong his desires, his will keeps its ground against their solicitations. Or he may wish to reserve it for one of his infant children; and so his will sides with the second desire against the first, and carries this latter one into execution. Or he may reflect after all, that the apple is not his own property, or that perhaps he could not pull it from among the golden clusters around it without injury to the tree upon which it is hanging; and so he is led by the sense of justice to keep both the one and the other desire at abeyance— and the object of temptation remains untouched, just because the will combats the desire instead of complying with it, and refuses to issue that man¬ date, or in other words to put forth that volition, which would instantly be followed up by an act and an accomplishment. And thus however good the tree is for food, and however pleasant to the eyes, and however much to be desired, so as to make one taste and be satisfied—yet, if strong enough in all these determinations of prudence or principle, he may look on the fruit thereof and not eat. 17. Dr. Brown and others would say, that there is nothing in this process, but the contest of oppo- HAS OVER THE EMOTIONS 149 site desires and the prevalence of the strongest one—and so identify will and desire with each other.* But though a volition should be the sure result of a desire, that is no more reason why they should be identified, than why the prior term of any series in nature should be identified or con¬ founded with any of its posterior terms, whether more or less remote. In the process that we have been describing, there were different desires in play, but there were not different volitions in play. There was one volition appended to the strongest desire: but the other desires though felt by the mind, and therefore in actual being, had no voli¬ tions appended to them—proving that a desire may exist separately from the volition that is • Edwards at the outset of his treatise on the will controverts Locke; but in such a way as reduces the difference between them very much to a question of nomenclature. On the one hand, the difference between a volition and a desire does not affect the main doctrine of Jonathan Edwards; for though volitions be distinct from desires, they may nevertheless be the strict and unvarying results of them. Even Edwards himself seems to admit that the mind has a different object in willing from what it has in desiring —an act of our own being the object of the one; the thing desired being the object of the other. It serves to mark more strikingly the distinction between willing and desiring, whenever an act of our own is the proper object of each of them. There may be a great desire to inflict a blow on an offender; but this desire restrained by considerations of prudence or principle, may not pass into a volition. Edwards would say that even here the volition does not run counter to the desire, but only marks the prevalence of the stronger desire over the weaker one. Now this is true, but without at all obliterating the distinction for which we contend. The volition does run counter to the weaker desire though under the impulse of the stronger, and there are three distinct mental phenomena in this instance, the stronger desire, the weaker desire, and the volition, which ought no more to be confounded, than any movement with the motive forces that gave rise to it, or than the posterior with the prior term of any sequence. 150 COMMAND WHICH THE WILL proper to it, and that therefore the two are sepa¬ rate and distinct from each other. The trutli is, using Dr. Brown’s own language, the mind is in a different state when framing a volition, from what it is when feeling a desire. When feeling a desire the mind has respect to the object desired —^which object, then in view of the mind, is acting with its own peculiar influence on a mental sus¬ ceptibility. When framing a volition the mind has respect, not properly to the object, but to the act by which it shall attain the object—and so is said to be putting forth a mental power.* But whether this distinction be accurately expressed or, not, certain it is, the mind is differently condition¬ ed when in but a state of simple desire—from what it is when in the act of conceiving a volition. It is engaged with different things, and looking different ways—in the one case to the antecedent object which has excited the desire, in the other case to the posterior act on which the will has determined for the attainment of the object. The palsied man, who cannot stretch forth his hand to the apple that is placed in the distance before him, may nevertheless long after it; and in him we perceive desire singly—for he is restrained by very helplessness from putting forth a volition, the proper object of which is some action of our own, and that we know to be in our own powder. We accept wdth great pleasure of that simplifica¬ tion by Dr. Brown, in virtue of which we regard the mind, not as a congeries of different faculties. * See Art, 14. of this Chapter. HAS OVER THE EMOTIONS. 151 but as itself one and indivisible, having the capa¬ city of passing into dilFerent states ; and, without conceiving any distinction of faculties, we only affirm that it is in a different state when it wills, from that in which it is when it simply desires. Notwithstanding the high authority both of Dr. Brown and Mr. Mill, we think that in confound¬ ing these two, they have fallen into an erroneous simplification; and we abide by the distinctions of Dugald Stewart and the older writers upon this subject.* * Ilunie says very well of desire that—“ it arises from good considered simply, and aversion from evil. The will again exerts itself, when either the presence of the good or absence of the evil may be attained by any action of the mind or body.” This is tlie definition of Ilume, and it is a very good one. And it tallies with the sensible remark of Dr. Reid, that the object of every volition is some action of our own. And upon this he founds some very clear illustrations of the difference that there is l>etween a desire and a volition. “ A man desires that his children may be happv, and that they -may behave well. Their being happy is no action at all ; and their behaving well is not his action but theirs.” “ A man athirst has a strong desire to drink; but for some particular reason he determines not to gratify his desire.’ Here the man has the desire but not the will. In other cases he may have the will but not the desire. “ A man for health mav take a nan.seous drug, for which he has no desire but a great aversion.” Desire, therefore,'* is not will; but only one of the incitements that often leads to it—though it may at all times be, and actuallv sometimes is withstood. It is however because desire is so often accompanied by will, that we are apt to over¬ look the distinction between them. I may here observe, that to frame a volition is sometimes expressed more shortlv by the phrase, to will. I will to put forth my hand, is different from, I desire to put it forth. There may be reasons why I should restrain the desire—so that though I desire it, I may not will it. For this application of the verb to will we have the authority of the best English writers. “ Who¬ ever,” savs Dr. South, “ wills the doing of a thing, if the doing of it be in his power, he will certainly do it ; and whoever does not do the thing which he has in his power to do, does not pr^ perly will it.” And Locke says, “ The man that sits still is said (o be at liberty, because he can walk if he wills it.” Dr. Soutd 152 COMMAND WHICH THE WILL 18. We may here observe, in reference to the two general views that may be taken of the mind,* that this last determination of the will, or the act in which it terminates, may be considered, either as the result of a very complex ulterior mechanism, or simply as the final step of a continuous process that has been described by the mind, as it passed from one state to another. The passions, and alfections, and desires, and will, and self-love as influenced by a calculation upon health, and instinct as prompting to the gratification of offspring, and the moral sense as recoiling from a deed of imposi¬ tion—all these may be put together by the imagi¬ nation as so many distinct faculties of mind, and having each a proper and separate function of its own that evolves itself at the right moment—and, in virtue of all whose respective parts or perfor¬ mances, the resulting act hath fallen out just as we observe it. Or, conformably to the latter mode of conception, the whole may be looked to merely in the light of a succession, that can be thrown into a narrative, whereof the one uncompounded mind all the while is the one or the principal sub¬ ject. On the moment that the apple was seen, the mind felt an appetency towards it, to which, makes a happy discrimination, which serves to throw light upon the precise nature of a volition as opposed to other things that may or may not lead to a volition—when he says, “ that there is as much difference between the approbation of the judgment and the actual volitions of the will, as between a man’s viewing a desirable thing, and reaching after it with his hand.” He further says of a wish, which is nought but a longing desire, that—“ a wish is properly the desire of a man who is sitting or lying still; but an act of the will is a man of business vigorously going about his work.” • See our Natural Theology, VoL I. Book III. chap. I. § 3. HAS OVER THE EMOTIONS. 153 had it yielded, it would have willed the eating of the apple and ate of it accordingly. But between the desiring and the willing, the mind reflected on the danger to which the bodily health was exposed by this indulgence; or it thought of the pleasure which an infant child might have in this apple; or it adverted to the circumstance of this apple being the property of another, and so to the wrongness of making free with it—in consequence of which the mind kept its first inclination in check, and resolved not to comply with it. It would not con¬ sent ; no volition was issued; and the apple was not eaten. 19. Now there is great difficulty in getting through the narrative that is grounded on the imagination, not of the mind as a complex machine, but of the mind as a simple substance and only passing onward along the gradations of a history— of getting through even this narration, without naming substantively the desire, and the will, and the conscience, and several more of the faculties of our nature. And one cannot name them substan¬ tively without also a strong tendency to conceive of them substantively; and so the desires are spoken of as so many inferior principles of our nature, that are ever plying and pursuing the will with their solicitations; and this will is viewed as that great master faculty, in whose hands the executive power hath been lodged, and without whose word of command issued in the shape of a volition not an appetite or desire can find its grati¬ fication ; and then, either an enlightened self-love is conceived to step forward and urge in the hear- a 2 154 COMMAND WHICH THE WILD ing of the will its prudential considerations, or conscience to lift up her pleading voice, and claim her rightful authority even over the will—which, though the great organ whereon all our instruments of activity must wait, and whereby as so many servants they are set agoing, yet is herself but an instrument for carrying into elfect the decisions of conscience that superior and legislative faculty of the mind. 20. Now is the time for adverting to a principle, which we have long regarded as a chief interme¬ diate link between the science of morals and the science of mind—we mean its faculty of attention. We are confident that we speak to the experience of all, when we say that attention is a voluntary act—that, if not so at all times, there are at least many times when the wall hath very great power over the direction of this faculty, and the degree of its exercise—that, at my pleasure in fact, I can withdraw and turn and transfer it from one object to another—and just in like manner as by a volition I can transport my person to a given scene, and thus bring things and circumstances under the eye of my senses which would not otherwise have fallen under my observation—so, by a volition also, I can ti'ansport my thinking principle to a given matter of contemplation, and thus bring under the eye of my mental observation things, which, but for this exercise of my will, would not have been present to it. We are quite familiar with the power of the human will over the human body; and how, in virtue of this, it may be explained why personally we are at one place rather than at HAS OVER THE EMOTIONS. 155 another. But in the faculty of attention, there is revealed to us another power, even that by which the will hath power over the mind; and in virtue of which it is now expatiating over one particular scene of thought, or engaged with one set of con¬ templations rather than with another. If, in the one case, it was by a voluntary act that we came to see certain objects; and so, if any emotions were awakened by them, to have willed them into being—so, in the other case, it is by a voluntary act that we come to think of certain objects; and so, in one most important sense may it be said, that we will all the emotions which follow in their train. By the power which the will has over 'the muscles of the human frame, we are enabled to proceed a certain way in demonstrating that man has a certain control over his emotions, even over those which are suggested by the objects which at his choice he may or may not be in the local con¬ dition of observing. But it will go far to expedite our way and to set us onward in this important explanation—when we come within sight of that other power which the will has over the processes of the human understanding, and by which the flitting operations of thought are brought in some measure under its ascendancy. We have already found how it is that a train of feelings may be set agoing, by a movement under the direction of will on the part of the outer man—and we may expect from the ceaseless activity of mind, and the place of central authority which it holds over the whole system of human conduct, that a wider scope must be given to the will and tx) its influence on the 156 COMMAND WHICH THE WILL pathology of the emotions, by the known efficacy wherewith it can touch the inner mechanism, and act as a regulator at the very place where the emotions do play. 21. If it be by a voluntary act that we come to see certain objects, then, whatever the emotions are which are awakened by these objects, in as far as they are so awakened, we may be said to have willed them into being_In like manner, if it be by a voluntary act that we come to think of cer¬ tain objects, then may it also be said, that we will all the emotions which follow in their train. It is admitted on all hands, that, by the power which the will has over the muscles of the human frame, it can either summon into presence or bid away certain objects of sight. And, notwithstanding the effect which the expositions of certain meta¬ physical reasoners have had in obscuring the pro¬ cess, it is also admitted, almost universally, that, by the power which the will has over the thinking processes, it can either summon into presence or bid away certain objects of thought. The faculty of attention we regard as the great instrument for the achievement of this—the ligament which binds the one department of our constitution to the other —the messenger, to whose wakefulness and activity we owe all those influences, which pass and repass in constant succession between our moral and in¬ tellectual nature. 22. Dr. Reid, in his book on the active powers, has a most important chapter on those operations of the mind that are called voluntary. Among these, he gives a foremost place to attention— HAS OVER THE EMOTIONS. 157 where, instead however of any profound or careful analysis, he presents us with a number of very sensible remarks; and from the undoubted part which the will has in the guidance and exercise of this faculty, he comes to the sound conclusion, that a great part of wisdom and virtue consists in giving the proper direction to it. 23. Dugald Stewart ranks attention among the intellectual faculties;—and seems to regard it as an original power, which had very much escaped the notice of former observers. But Dr. Brown we hold to have been far the most successful in his expositions of this faculty; and by which he makes it evident, that it is not more distinct from the mental perception of any object of thought, than the faculty of looking to any object of sight, is distinct from the faculty of seeing it. 24. In his chapter on the external affections combined with desire, he institutes a beautiful analysis; in the conduct of which, he has thrown the magic tints of poetry over a process of very abstract but conclusive reasoning. We fear, that, in this age of superficial readers, the public are far from being adequately aware of that wondrous combination of talent, which this singularly gifted individual realized in his own person; and with what facility, yet elegance, he could intersperse the graces of fancy, among the demonstrations of a most profound and original metaphysics. The passage to which we now refer, is perhaps the finest exemplification of this in all his volumes; and though we can hardly hope, that the majority, even of the well educated, will ever be tempted to 158 COMMAND WHICH THE WILL embark on bis adventurous speculations—yet many, we doubt not, have been ied by the fascination of his minor accomplishments, to brave the depths and the difficulties of that masterly course which he has given to the world. For, among the steeps and the arduous elevations of that high walk which he has taken, he kindly provides the reader with many a resting place—some enchanted spot over which the hand of taste hath thrown her choicest decorations; or where, after the fatigues and the triumphs of successful intellect, the traveller may from the eminence that he has won, look abroad on some sweet or noble perspective, which the great master whose footsteps he follows hath thrown open to his gaze. It is thus that there is a constant relief and refreshment afforded, along that ascending way, which, but for this, would be most severely intellectual; and if never was philo¬ sophy more abstruse, yet never was it seasoned so exquisitely, or spread over a page so rich in all those attic delicacies of the imagination and the style, which could make the study of it attractive. 25. There is a philosophy, not more solid or more sublime of achievement than his, but of sterner frame—that would spurn “ the fairy dreams of sacred fountains and Elysian groves and vales of bliss.” For these he ever had most benignant toleration, and himself sported among the crea¬ tions of poetic genius. We are aware of nought more fascinating, than the kindness and compla¬ cency wherewith philosophy, in some of the finer spirits of our race, can make her graceful descent into a humbler but lovelier region than r HAS OVER THE EMOTIONS, 159 her own—when “the intellectual power bends from his awful throne a willing ear and smiles.” 26. “if,” says Dr. Brown, “ Nature has given us the power of seeing many objects at once, she has given us also the faculty of looking but to one —that is to say of directing our eyes on one only of the multitude;” and again, “there are some objects which are more striking than others, and which of themselves almost call us to look at them. They are the predominant objects, around which others seem to arrange themselves.” 27. The difference between seeing a thing and looking at it, is tantamount to the difference which there is, between the mere presence of a thought in one’s mind and the mind’s attention to that which is the object of thought. Now the look, according to Dr. Brown’s analysis, is made up of the simple external affection of sight," and a desire to know more about some one of the things which we do see. We think it the natural consequence of the error into which he has fallen, of confound- inor the desire with the will, that he has failed in giving a complete or continuous enough descrip¬ tion of the process of attention—for, without any violence to the order of his own very peculiar contemplations, he might have gone on to say, as the effect of this mixed perception and desire on the part of the observer, that he willed to look to the object in question ; and he might have spoken of the volition which fastened his eye and his attention upon it. Both he and Mr. Mill seem averse to the intervention of the will in this exer- cise^ at all —the one finding room only for desire; 160 COMMAND WHICH THE WILL and the other for his processes of association, ascribing attention to the mere occurrence of in¬ teresting sensations or ideas in the train. Now if this question is to be decided by observation at all, or by consciousness which is the faculty of internal observation, the mental states of desiring and willing seem just as distinguishable as any other mental states whatever. At the time when the mind desires, it bears a respect towards the desirable object; at the time when it wills, it bears a respect towards something different from this, to that act of its own which is put forth for the purpose of attaining the object. The desire that is felt towards the object is specifically a dis¬ tinct thing, from the volition which prompts or precedes the action; and therefore it should not be confounded with the volition. And in like manner, a feeling of interest in an idea, or rather in the object of an idea is quite dis¬ tinguishable from that volition which respects a something different from this object—which re¬ spects an act or exercise of the mind, even the attention that we shall give to it. The interest that is felt in any object of thought, may have been the cause, and the sole cause, of the atten¬ tion which we give to it. But the necessary connexion which obtains between the parts of a process is no reason why we should overlook any part, or confound the different parts with each other. In this instance, Mr. Hume seems to have observed more accurately than either of the philosophers whom we have now named, when he discriminates between the will and the desire; HAS OVER THE E3IOTIONS. ' IGl and tells us of the former, that it exerts itself when the thing desired is to be attained by any action of the mind or body. A volition is as distinctly felt in the mental as in the bodily pro¬ cess—although it be in the latter only, that the will first acts on some one of the muscles as its instrument, and issues in a visible movement as its required service. The power of the will over an intellectual process is marked by the diflerence, the palpable difference which there is, between a regulated train of thought and a passive reverie. And there is nothing in the intervention of the will to contravene, or even to modify the general laws of association. Neither does the wish to recover a particular idea, involve in it the incon¬ gruity of that idea being both present with and absent from the mind at the same time. We may not have an idea that is absent, and yet have the knowledge of its being related to some other idea that is present; and we therefore attend to this latter idea and dwell upon it, for the purpose, as is well expressed by Mr. Mill, of “giving it the opportunity of exciting all the ideas with which it is associated; for by not attending to it, we de¬ prive it more or less of that opportunity.” It is therefore, as he elsewhere expresses it, that we detain certain ideas and suffer others to pass. But there is nothing inconsistent with the laws or phenomena of association, in our saying of this act of detention that it is a voluntary act—that we detain certain ideas because we will to detain them.* * See the chapter on the Will in Mill’s Analysis of the Human Mind. 162 MORALITY OF THE EMOTIONS. CHAPTER V. On the Morality of the ILmotions, 1. Having illustrated the distinction between the passive and the voluntary, in those processes the terminating result of which is some particular state of an emotion, and which emotion in that state often impels to a particular act or series of acts—we would now affirm the all-important prin¬ ciple, that nothing is moral or immoral which is not voluntary. We have often been struck with writers upon Moral Science, in that, even though professing a view or an argument altogether ele¬ mentary, they seldom come formally or ostensibly forth with this principle. They presume it, and they proceed upon it, often without having so much as ever announced it. They bestow upon it a treatment more axiomatic, if we may be allow¬ ed the expression, than Euclid hath bestowed upon his mathematical axioms, and of which many do think that he might have taken the immediate use, without the previous ceremony of such an introduction as he has given to them. All men, it has been thought, do so certainly know and so irresistibly believe a whole to be greater than any of its parts, that any step of a geometrical demon¬ stration which implied it would have been held to be as firm without any initial statement of it at all, and without the appeal of any marginal refer¬ ence to it in the subsequent trains of reasoning. Now it is thus that the principle which binds MORALITY OF THE EMOTIONS. 163 together, as it were, the moral and the voluntary has been very much proceeded upon in Ethics. It has been regarded so much in the light of a familiar acquaintance, as not to have required any formal introduction to the reader; and so it has passed without any respectful notice at the outset, however freely and frequently made use of in the subsequent demonstrations. We think it for the advantage of our subject, that it should receive a different treatment—that it should be announced, and with somewhat the pomp and circumstance too of a first principle—and have the distinction given to it, not of a tacit, but of a proclaimed axiom in Moral Science. 2. We must here except Dr. Reid from the charge of not having especially and prominently brought forth this principle to the notice of his readers. In his book on the Active Powers of the human mind, we meet, upon this subject, not with the acuteness of a very subtle, but with the sound judgment of a very wise and sensible observer. For the sake of his sound and whole¬ some understanding, on every subject where he does not go beyond his depths, the student of Moral Science would do well to give this book his attentive perusal. We think him wrong on the question which has arrayed one half of the mental philosophers of the world against the other —we mean the question of Liberty and Necessity. His speculative views upon this controversy do not affect, however, the value of what may be called his descriptive remarks on the powers .and operations of the human mind—which, though 164 MORALITY OF THE EMOTIONS. delivered more in the style of aphorisms than vdth any thing like a strain of philosophy, yet have most of them such a character of obvious and experimental truth, as to carry the perfect acqui¬ escence of the reader along with him. “ Nothing,” says he, “ in which the will is not concerned, can justly be accounted either virtuous or immoral.” And he adds, “ The practice of all criminal courts and all enlightened nations is founded upon it.” And, “ that if any judicature in any nation should find a man guilty and the object of punishment, for what they allow to be altogether involuntary, all the world would condemn them as men who knew nothing of the first and most fundamental rules of justice.” 3. It is of the greater importance for the student of moral science to be familiar with such plain writings as these of Dr. Reid—that, in his intent prosecution of a profounder analysis than this author has attempted; and in the use of those appropriate terms which are employed for express¬ ing the results of it, when w^e have often to desert the common language—we are apt to lose sight of certain great and palpable truths, of which that language is the ordinary vehicle. When tracing the intermediate steps, between the first exposure of the mind to a seducing influence, and the deed or perpetration of enormity into which it is hurried, we are engaged in what may properly be termed a physical inquiry—as much so, as when passing from cause to consequent, we are attending to any succession or train of phenomena in the material world. But it is when thus employed, that we MORALITY OF THE EMOTIONS. 165 are apt to lose sight of the moral character of that which we are contemplating; and to forget when or at what point of the series it is, that the designation whether of virtuous or vicious, the charge whether of merit or demerit, comes to be applicable. It is well that, amid all the diffi¬ culties attendant on the physiological inquiry, there should be such a degree of clearness and unifor¬ mity in the moral judgments of men—.insomuch that the peasant can with a just and prompt dis¬ cernment, equal to that of the philosopher, seize on the real moral characteristics of any action submitted to his notice, and pronounce on the merit or demerit of him who has performed it. It is in attending to these popular, or rather univer¬ sal decisions, that we learn the real principles of Moral Science. 4. And the first certainly of these popular, or rather universal decisions, is that nothing is moral or immoral that is not voluntary. A murderer may be conceived, instead of striking with the dagger in his own hand, to force it by an act of refined cruelty, into the hand of him, who is the dearest relative or friend of his devoted victim; and by his superior strength to compel the strug¬ gling and the reluctant instrument to its grasp. He may thus confine it to the hand, and give im¬ pulse to the arm of one, who recoils in utmost horror from that perpetration, of which he has been made as it were the material engine; and could matters be so contrived, as that the real murderer should be invisible, while the arm and the hand that enclosed the weapon and the movements of the 166 MORALITY OP THE EMOTIONS. ostensible one should alone be patent to the eve ot the senses—then he, and not the other, would be held by the bystander as chargeable with the guilt. But so soon as the real nature of the transaction came to be understood, this imputation would be wholly and instantly transferred. The distinction would at once be recognised between the willing agent in this deed of horror, and the unwilling instrument. There would no more of moral blame be attached to the latter than to the weapon which inflicted the mortal blow; and on the former ex¬ clusively, the whole burden of the crime and its condemnation would be laid. And the simple difference which gives rise to the whole of this moral distinction in the estimate between them is, that with the one the act was with the will; with the other it was against it. 5. This fixes a point of deepest interest, even that step in the process that leads to an emotion, at which the character of right or wrong comes to be applicable. It is not at that point, when the appetites or affections of our nature solicit from the will a particular movement; neither is it at that point when either a rational self-love or a sense of duty remonstrates against it. It is not at that point when the consent of the will is pleaded for, on the one side or other—but, all-important to bo borne in mind, it is at that point when the consent is given. When we characterize a court at law for some one of its deeds—it is not upon the urgency of the argument on one side of the ques¬ tion, or of the reply upon the other, that we found our estimate; but wholly upon the der iaicn of the MORALITY OF THE EMOTIONS. 167 bench, which decision is carried into effect by a certain order given out to the officers who execute it. And so, in characterizing an individual for some one of his doings, we found our estimate not upon the desires of appetite that may have insti¬ gated him on the one hand, or upon the dictates of conscience that may have withstood these upon the other—not upon the elements that conflicted in the struggle, but on the determination that put an end to it—even that determination of the will which is carried into effect by those volitions, on the issuing of which, the hands, and the feet, and the ether instruments of action are put into instant subserviency. 6. To prove how essentially linked together the morality of any act is with its wilful ness, it is of no consequence whether the volition that gave rise to the act, be the one which pi*eceded it immedi¬ ately as its proximate cause, or be a remote and anterior volition—in which latter case it is termed a purpose, conceived at some period which may have long gone by, but which was kept unalterable till the opportunity for its execution came round.* I'here may be an interval of time, between that resolution of the will which is effective, and that performance by which it is carried into effect. One may resolve to-day, with full consent and * It is true that if the desire were to cease for the object to be attained by the proposed act, the purpose would cease along with it, but it were confounding the things which in reality are distinct from eacli other, to represent on this account the desire and the purpose as synonymous. The one respects the object that is wished for; the other respects the action, by which tVia object is to bo attained. 168 MORALITY OF THE EMOTIONS. purpose of the will on some criminal enterprise for to-morrow. It is to-day that he has become the criminal, and has incurred a guilt to which even the performance of the morrow may bring no addition, and no enhancement. The performance of to-morrow does not constitute the guilt, but only indicates it. It may prove what before the execution of the will was still an uncertainty. It may prove the strength of that determination, which has been already taken—how it can stand its ground through all the hours which intervene between the desire and its fulfilment; how mean¬ while the visitations of reflection and remorse have been kept at a distance, or all been disregarded ; how, with relentless depravity, the purpose has been adhered to, and the remonstrances of con¬ science or perhaps the entreaties of virtuous friend¬ ship have all been set at nought; how with a hardi,- hood, that could brave alike the disgrace and the condemnation which attach to moral worthlessness, he could proceed with unfaltering step from the re¬ probate design to its full and final accomplishment— nor sufifer all the suggestions of his leisure and soli¬ tude, how^ever affecting the thought of that inno¬ cence which he is now on the eve of forfeiting, or a tenderness for those relatives who are to be deeply wounded by the tidings of his fall, or the authority of a father’s parting advice, or the remembrance of a mother’s prayers, to stay his hand. 7. That an action then be the rightful object either of moral censure or approval, it must have had the consent of the will to go along with it. It must be the fruit of a volition—else it is utterly MORALITY OF THE EMOTIONS. 1G3 beyond the scope, either of praise for its virtuous¬ ness or of blame for its criminality. If an action be involuntary, it is as unfit a subject for any moral reckoning as are the pulsations of the wrist. Something ludicrous might occur which all of a sudden sets one irresistibly on the action of laughing ; or a tale of distress might be told, which whether he wills or not, forces from him the tears of sympathy, and sets him as irresistibly on the ^ action of weeping; or, on the appearance of a ferocious animal he might struggle with all his power for a serene and manly firmness, yet struggle in vain against the action of trembling; or if, instead of a formidable, a loathsome animal was presented to his notice, he might no more help the action of a violent recoil perhaps antipathy against it, than he can help any of the organic necessities of that constitution which has been given to him; or even upon the observation of what is disgusting in the habit or countenance of a fellow-man, he may be overpowered into a sudden and sensitive aver¬ sion ; and lastly, should some gross and grievous transgression against the decencies of civilized life be practised before him, he might no more be able to stop that rush of blood to the complexion which marks the inward workings of an outraged and offended delicacy, than he is able to alter or suspend the law of its circulation. In each of these cases the action is involuntary ; and precisely because it is so, the epithet neither of morally good nor of morally evil can be applied to it. And so of every action that comes, thus to speak, of its own accord; and not at the will or bidding VOL. V, H 170 MORALITY OF THE EMOTIONS. of the agent. It may be painful to himself. It may also be painful to others. But if it have not had the consent of his will, even that consent without which no action that is done can be called voluntary, it is his misfortune and not his choice ; and though not indifferent in regard to its conse¬ quences on the happiness of man, yet, merely be¬ cause disjoined from the will, it in point of moral estimation is an act of the purest indifference. 8. We may now learn the importance of the distinction between the phenomena of mind in its state of passiveness, and of mind in its state of activity—between that which it undergoes in virtue of its pathological constitution, and that which it does in virtue of the power wherewith the will is invested over all those instruments of performance that have been so richly furnished to the mechanism both of the outer and the inner man. It is for the latter and the latter only—it is for those actions which he himself hath bidden into existence, because it was his will that they should be done—it is not because his desire did solicit, but because his desire did prevail—it is not be¬ cause his passions and his affections and his sensi¬ bilities urged him on to that which is evil, but because his will first fostered their incitements and then lent itself to their unworthy gratification—it is for this and for this alone that he is the subject of a moral reckoning—it is at the point when the will hath formed its purpose, or sent forth to the various dependents upon its authority its edicts for the execution of it—it is then that the praise of righteousness is earned, or tlien that the guilt of MORALITY OF THE EMOTIONS. I7l iniquity is contracted. Give me an action of which it can be said that it has been done because I chose the doing of it, or that it had not been done if I had chosen otherwise—and then I recognise it at once as an instance to which all the tests of morality are justly applicable. It may still be an indiflferent action as many of our voluntary actions are—and that because either of their innocence or their downright insignificancy—but if in the matter of them they involve the performance or transgres¬ sion of any rule of rectitude, then as when not wilful they attach no merit of any kind to the agent, so it is the circumstance of their being wilful that impregnates them either with all their moral worth or with all their moral delinquency. We read in political law of criminals being tried with¬ out benefit of clergy; and so all crimes that be wilful are tried without benefit of pathology. There are circumstances under which pathology might be pled in mitigation of damages; but even this implies that the essence of crime lies in its wilfulness—a principle of the first consequence in morals; and which, however obvious to common sense, teems with corollaries, not less important in themselves, than strangely overlooked both by ethical writers and by the private and practical disciples of morality. 9. We rniglit be charged perhaps with expatiat¬ ing too long upon a truism. For what can be more obvious, it may be thought, than that, apart from the will, there can be neither moral worth nor moral wortlilessness—^that the very notion of desert implies an action which has been voluntary 172 MORALITY OF THE EMOTIONS, —and that actions without volitions are no more susceptible of any moral reckoning, than is a river for its destroying floods, or the wind of heaven for its list of melancholy shipwrecks? But if such be the light and such the lustre of the principle that it has indeed the force and evidence of an axiom, this ought to stamp the greater evidence on all the corollaries that might be legitimately educed from it. 10. First then we may be helped by this prin¬ ciple to estimate the moral character of an emo¬ tion—or to determine in how far the element of moral worth is at all implicated therein. There is an arrangement by which Dr. Brown divides the emotions into those that do involve a moral feeling, and those that do not—and we should like if, for the vague impression that after all is left upon the mind by this distribution which he has made of them, there could be substituted a precise and clear understanding of the way, in which the moral char¬ acter of a man and the state of his emotions stand related the one to the other. The truth is that all the emotions might be conceived to involve a moral feeling, if not characteristically, at least historically. Take the emotion of taste for an example, for the indulgence of which I might linger whole hours on some scene of loveliness, and not tear myself away although there be the call of a positive engagement upon me, and I to prolong my gratification have incurred the guilt of a broken promise. Then it may be said that a moral feel¬ ing has been involved, historically at least as we have just said if not characteristically—and that MORALITY OF THE EMOTIONS. 173 DV an emotion which is said to involve in it no moral feeling. But it is better to take an exem¬ plification from some emotion, whereof it is said that it does involve a moral feeling, therefore character¬ istically we presume, and let that emotion be sym¬ pathy. It may just be as much the result of our organic framework as the emotion of taste—and what is more, like this too, it may lead us to coun¬ teract a moral obligation—to aid the escape of a criminal from the hands of justice, and even to overpower the conviction which we have that by so doing, we again let loose an incurable pest upon society. The truth is, that, by giving way to sympathy, we can conceive an occasion, in which a very solemn moral obligation might be thwarted and trampled upon. We cannot think of any responsibility more grave and urgent, than that which lies upon a judge who is the constituted guardian of the rights and interests of society ; and who often does a righteous thing, when, in despite of his sympathy, when in opposition to its move¬ ments, his will stands its ground against all the pleadings that reach his ear, from the afflicted father of some unhapj)}', delinquent, or from the members of his weeping and imploring family. And thus, by the indulgence of his taste, a man might do what is morally wrong; and, by the resistance he makes to his own inward sympathy, he might do what is morally right. 11. How it may be asked can any moral char¬ acter be affixed to an emotion, which seems to be an organic or pathological phenomenon, where¬ with the will may have little, perhaps nothing to 174 MORALITY OF THE EMOTIONS do? Nothing we have affirmed is either.virtuous or vicious, unless the voluntary in some way inter¬ mingles with it; and how then shall we vindicate the moral rank which is commonly assigned to the mere susceptibilities of our nature ? We regard compassion as a virtuous sensibility, and we regard malignity, or licentiousness, or envy as so many depraved affections ; and yet, on our principle, they are virtuous or vicious, only in so far as they are wilful. It is clearly at the bidding of his will, that a man acts with his hand, and therefore we are at no loss to hold him responsible for his doings ; but we must learn how it is at the bidding of his will that he feels with his heart, ere we can hold him responsible for his desires. If, apart from the will, there he neither moral worth nor moral worthlessness—if it be implied in the very notion of desert, that the will has had some con¬ cern in that which we thus characterise—if neither actions nor affections are, without volitions, suscep¬ tible of any moral reckoning—it may require some consideration to perceive, how far the element of moral worth is at all implicated in an emotion. If the emotions of sympathy be as much the result of an organic framework as the emotions of taste, and if this be true of all the emotions—it remains to be seen, why either praise or censure should be awarded to any of them. Whether an emotion of taste arises within me at the sight of beauty, or an emotion of pity at the sight of distress—the mind may have been as passive, or there may have been as much of the strictly pathological in the one emotion as in the other. MORALITY OF THE EMOTIONS. 175 12. Now it may be very true, that the will has as little to do with that pathological law, by which the sight of distress awakens in my bosom an emotion of pity, as with that other pathological law by which the sight of a red object impresses on my retina the sensation peculiar to that colour. Yet the will, though not the proximate, may have been the remote and so the real cause, both of the emotion and sensation notwithstanding. It may have been at the bidding of my will, that, instead of hiding myself, from my own flesh, I visited a scene of wretchedness, and entered within the confines as it were of that pathological influence, in virtue of which, after that the spectacle of suffering was seen, the compassion was unavoidable. And it is also at the bidding of my will, that I place myself within view of an object of sense; that I direct my eye toward it, and keep it open to that sensation, which, after the circumstances that I have volun¬ tarily realized, is equally unavoidable. I might have escaped from the full emotion, had I so willed, by keeping aloof from the spectacle which awaken¬ ed it, even as I might escape from the sensation, if I so will, by shutting my eyes, or turning them aw ay from the object which is its cause; or, in other words, by the command which I have over the looking faculty that belongs to me. And perliaps the mind has a looking faculty as well as the body, in virtue of which, as by the one, objects are either removed from or made present to the sight, so by the other objects may be either removed fiom or made present to the thoughts. Could we ascertain the existence and operations of such 176 MORALITY OF THE EMOTIOIfS a faculty this would explain how it is, that the emotions are subordinated not immediately but mediately to the will—that the mind, by the direc¬ tion of its looking faculty towards the counterpart objects, could, on the one hand, will these emotions into being; or, by the direction of it away from these objects, could, on the other hand, will them again into extinction. Such we hold to be the faculty of attention. It forms the great link be¬ tween the intellectual and moral departments of our nature, or between the percipient and what has already been named the pathemic departments. It is the control which the will has over this faculty that makes man responsible for the objects which he chooses to entertain, and so responsible for the emotions which pathologically result from them. 13. We think that Dr. Brown has made a wrong discrimination, when he speaks of certain of the emotions which involve in them a moral feeling, and certain others of them which do not. There is no moral designation applicable to any of the emo¬ tions, viewed nakedly and in themselves. They are our volitions, and our volitions only w hich admit of being thus characterized; and emotions are no further virtuous or vicious, than as volitions are blended with them, and blended with them so far as to have given them either their direction or their birth. We think his distinction on this subject, fitted most egregiously to mislead and bewilder our notions, regarding the real nature of virtue in man. According to him, the emotion of taste, which arises within me at the sight of beauty, involves in it no moral feeling—while the emotion MORALITY OF THE EMOTIONS. 177 of pity, at the sight of distress, does. Now, after the beauty or the distress has been set before us, each works its own appropriate influence upon our hearts; and we may be alike passive with the one as with the other of them. There is a process in both that is strictly pathological. But at the same time, the process might neither have begun nor gone forward, but by certain movements of my own which are strictly voluntary. I may have travelled to the scene that I now admire. Or 1 may have called the wretched supplicant into my presence, over whom I now melt in tenderest compassion. These two are acts of the will; but there is much in the subsequent processes which is not voluntary; and, in as far as this last quality is awanting, in so far is the ascription of any moral character equally unsuitable to both. It is this which gives rise to ambiguity. We do not hesitate to aflix the characters of vice or virtue, according as it may be, to such actions as to give an alms, or to strike, or to steal, or to murder, or to pay the debts of equity. But on what precise footing is it, that we give the very same characters to such alfections, as to compassionate, or to hate, or to be angry, or to experience any other of the sensibilities to which our pathology has made us liable? We attach a moral character to the acts —because we see how these hang upon the voli¬ tions which give them birth; but why attach a moral character to the affections, if, independent of will, they take their rise in the organic necessi¬ ties of our nature ? 14. So little in fact may there be of a moral H 2 178 MORALITY OF THE EMOTIONS. ingredient in the mere emotion, that from each of ,two emotions diametrically opposite in respect of character, there may come forth two acts on each of M'hich the same kind of moral delinquency may he charged. My eye catches the sight of a most loathsome insect upon the floor—when I with irritated disgust, and to get rid of a spectacle so nauseous, may put my foot upon it to destroy it— or a fellow man, under the sudden visitation of epilepsy may meet my view upon the wayside; and I look on with sympathy, but with sympathy so painful, that I make my escape from it, and shun the sufferer who stood urgently in need of my sustaining hand. The hatred and the sym¬ pathy contrasted as they are with each other are alike free of moral character in themselves; but they both led to acts that were reprehensible, and just because for the doing of these acts there behoved to be the consent of the will; and the will ought to have stood its ground in the one case against the unnecessary destruction of life, and in the other case against the unmanly desertion of agonized and forlorn helplessness. It would have been better, if the former had done with the object of his disgust, what uncle Toby did with that fly which was the object of his tenderness, Avho, after opening the window of his apartment, guided it onward to the outer air, and sent it forth with the benediction that there is room in the world for me and thee—and if the one had done against the drift and tendency of his emotion, what the other did because floated along in the currency of his, the more resolute must have been his will on the MORAT.ITY OF THE EMOTIONS. 179 side of benevolence, and so the greater his moral triumph. And it would have been greatly better, if he who acted the Levite and passed by on the other side, had acted the part of the good Samari¬ tan—and had he just been less violent with his sympathy, he might have been more ready with his services. The moral does not lie in the sym- ])athy; but it lies in the will prompting the services. In his case the sympathy prevented the will and so did mischief. 15. In affirming that there is nothing virtuous which is not voluntary, it is obvious, that we are only dealing with the subjective question in morals. We are considering, not what that is which con¬ stitutes the virtuousness of a deed—this may be regarded as the objective question. But we are considering what that is which is indispensable to the virtuousness of the doer. It is not with the act, but with the agent that we are at present concerned. And our first axiom respecting him is, that what he does cannot be characterized as having been done virtuously, unless it be done voluntarily. But there is a second axiom as indisputable as the first, and without the aid of hich we should not be able to complete our esti¬ mate on the morality of the emotions. For a thing to be done virtuously, it must be done volun¬ tarily ; but this is not enough, it is not all. It is an indispensable condition, but not the only con¬ dition. The other condition is, that, to be done virtuously, it must be done because of its virtuous¬ ness ; or its virtuousness must be the prompting consideration which led to the doing of it. It i? 180 MORALITY OF THE EMOTIONS. not volition alone which makes a thing virtuous, but volition under a sense of duty ; and that only is a moral performance to which a man is urged by the sense or feeling of a moral obligation. It may be done at the bidding of inclination; but, without this, it is not done at the bidding of prin¬ ciple. Without this, it is not virtuous. 16. They are the volitions, and the voluntary deeds which come out of them—they are these, and these alone, which form the proper objects of moral censure or moral approbation. But it is not every sort of volition that is moral. I will to visit Switzerland—and I may do it under the impulse of a love for its wild and Alpine solitudes. Such a volition indicates the man of taste. Or 1 may be so fascinated and detained by the luxury of such contemplations, that I resolve upon an additional month of residence in the midst of them. This too is a volition and still it is my taste for scenery that hath excited it. In the course of my rambles, I may enter one of its cottages, and there be arrested by some piteous spectacle of family distress—and when once seized upon by the emotion of compassion, I might both prove that I had an eye for pity and a hand open as day for melting charity. The part which the eye performs is not voluntary—nor would we therefore speak of it as serving at all to make up a moral exhibition. The part which the hand performs is voluntary—and yet, done as it might altogether be under the impulse of compassion and of that alone, there might even in this part of the exhibition be nought that is Strictly and properly of a moral character. It MORALITY OF THE EMOTIONS. 181 might be wholly a thing of emotion, and not at all a thing of moral principle. Those actions which flow from taste prove a man of taste—those which flow from sensibility mark the performer to be a man of sensibility—those to which he is driven under some headlong impulse of emotion show him to have been under the influence of a resistless pathology—and they are only those actions which he does under a sense of their moral obligation, and because he apprehends them to be moral, they are these and these alone which bespeak him to De a man of virtue. 17. Whatever cometh not of a sense of duty hath no moral character in itself, and no moral approbation due to it. The action we have already said must be voluntary—but it must be more, else there is no distinction in regard to character be¬ tween one voluntary performance and another. Now the specific distinction of all those voluntary actions which are virtuous is, that they are done because the performer knows them to be virtuous, and because he aims in the doing of them not to do what he inclines, but to do what he ought. It may so happen that the impulse of duty and the impulse of some constitutional inclination act to¬ gether like two conspiring forces—in which case the duty will be all the easier, and all the more delightful. But had it been otherwise, had the inclination and the principle acted adversely and as conflicting forces, the latter, if the result of the struggle is to be a virtuous action, behoves to prevail. Even the cottage scene which we have just now imagined, might, as it happens, give rise 182 MORALITY OF THE EMOTIONS. either to the one or the other exemplification. It is my duty to do all the good I can, when I can do it without hurt or hazard to preferable obliga¬ tions—and, consistently with this, I may be doing a most righteous thing when I lavish of my abun¬ dance on the widowed mother of a now helpless and desolated family. This I may do at the call of principle alone, and a call wdiich, owing perhaps to a most frigid and immoveable temperament, derived no aid whatever from the stirrings of any sensibility within me—and here the sheer rectitude of the doing, so to speak, is exhibited in its dis¬ tinct and specific nakedness. Or it may so happen that I do possess a soft and susceptible nature —in which case the rectitude abides as it was; but then to its authoritative call there is the re-echoing call of my own instinctive humanity, and hence a most delightful harmony between the feelings of my heart and the admonitions of my conscience. Or, instead of pity, avarice may be my constitu¬ tional propensity—and then, instead of virtue having the native or spontaneous tendencies of the bosom upon its side, it may have to urge its authority against them—and far greater than in the former case will be the triumph of principle, should the issue of the contest be that principle hath carried it. But lastly—and as a proof how all the emotions may come under the like treat¬ ment at the hands of moral rectitude, it is possible that, in compliance with its dictates, one may at times have to struggle against the tenderness of his nature, and not against its avarice. The money now about his person, and which he would MORALITY or THE EMOTIONS. 183 fain lavish, and for the purpose of appeasing his sensibilities on the wretchedness that is before him, may not be his own. He may be mortgaged to the whole extent of his property—and not one farthing might he be able to give, but at the expense of justice. Now it would be his duty to bid away the ardour of humanity, or at least to resist its promptings, when it urged on the will to the act of giving what did not belong to him—even as then it was his duty to bid away the chilling suggestions of avarice. Yet the one is called a vice_the other a virtue. And the question recurs, Why are they so estimated ? 18. First then, apart from the emotions alto¬ gether, there is a sense of duty, which a man of steady principle at all times carries about with him_and wherewith he is ever ready to meet the occasions of his life, not with the question of how do I at present feel—but with the different and the distinct question of what I at present ought to do. There is one very general maxim of moral right, and for which we have the acquiescence of every human being—that it is his duty to do good, to do good if it lay within his sphere even unto all men; but as the sphere of each individual is so limited, at least to do good unto all men as he has the opportunity. This is a maxim whose author¬ ity might be recognised by him, even in his moments of abstraction and composure—and when at the greatest possible distance from all the excitements to emotion. In order for him to compassionate, or to have a generous indignation against the yillany that has been practised on a fellow-creature, 184 MORALITY OF THE EMOTIONS. or to feel the awakenings of gratitude in the hosom, or in short to experience any one of those emotions which have been thought to involve a moral feeling in them, there must be some specific call for each of them in the circumstances by Mhich he is sur¬ rounded. But how many and how long often are the periods of his history, when no such specific call is upon him—yet we should not say on that account, that he may not be cherishing the very principles, and breathing in the very atmosphere of virtue. The principle of well-doing may be lying in reserve—nay may be gathering strength and ascendancy in his bosom, at the very time when there is nothing to be done—and so we have a calm and steady and general principle of rectitude not actually called, for the time being, to any service, but on the alert to be called for—and sure in that case by an instantaneous volition, to prove how much his will is at the bidding of his virtuous principles.* * We have already adverted to the distinction between the volition that has for its object some act to be done immedi¬ ately, and the volition which hath for its object either an act to be done at some futnre period, or a course and habit of acting. Such a volition is called by Dr. Reid, a fixed pur¬ pose or resolution with regard to our future conduct. They are such volitions as these, in fact, that have the greatest effect upon our character and moral conduct. “ Suppose a man to have exercised his intellectual and moral faculties, so far as to have distinct notions of justice and injustice, and of the conse¬ quences of both, and, after due deliberation, to have formed a fixed purpose to adhere inflexibly to justice, and never to handle the wages of iniquity. Is not this the man whom W'e should call a just man ? We consider the moral virtues as inherent in the mind of a good man, even when there is no opportunity of exer¬ cising them. And what is it in the mind which we can call the virtue of justice, when it is not exercised ? It can be nothing but a fixed purpose, or deteiiQiuafion, to Kct according to the rulce MORALITY OF THE EMOTIONS. 185 19. In this state we might conceive the intima¬ tion to come to him, and in a most general form, that, by visiting a certain house, he would find an occasion of doing good to one or more of his own species. Nothing can be imagined as yet more of justice, when there is opportunity. The Roman law defined justice, ‘ A steady and perpeUtal will to give to every man his due.’ ” —“ What has been said of justice, may be so easily applied to every other moral virtue, that it is unnecessary to give instances. They are all fixed purposes of acting according to a certain rule.” —“ The virtue of benevolence is a fixed purpose or resolution to do good when we have opportunity, from a conviction that it is right, and is our duty. The affection of benevolence is a pro¬ pensity to do good, from natural constitution or habit, without regard to rectitude or duty. There are good tempers and bad, which are a part of the constitution of the man, and are really involuntary, though they often lead to"" voluntary actions.”— “We may observe, that men who have exercised their rational powers, are generally governed in their opinions by fixed principles of belief; and men who have made the greatest advance in self- government, are governed in their practice by general fixed pur¬ poses. Without the former, there would be no steadiness and consistence in our belief; nor without the latter, in our conduct.” —“ A man of breeding may, in his natural temper be proud, passionate, revengeful, and in his morals a very bad man ; yet, in good company, he can stifle every passion that is inconsistent with good breeding, and be humane, modest, complaisant, even to those whom in his heart he despises or hates. Why is this man, who can command all his passions before company, a slave to them in private ? The reason is plain. He has a fixed resolu¬ tion to be a man of breeding, but hath no such resolution to be a man of virtue. He hath combated his most violent passions a thousand times before he became master of them in company. The same resolution and perseverance, would have given him the command of them when alone. A fixed resolution retains its influence upon the conduct, even when the motives to it are not in view, in the same manner as a fixed principle retains its influ¬ ence upon the belief, when the evidence of it is forgot. The former may be called a habit of the will, the latter a habit of the understandbig," — Reid. We see how the virtue of such a man is constituted ; and how it resides within him as it were, apart from the emotions. Under a fixed purpose, to the formation of which he has been led by a sense of duty, he might will to do all possible good on every proper occasion that comes before him for the exercise of this principle. 186 MORALITY OF THE EMOTIONS. unimpressive for the purpose of emotion than the nakedness of such an announcement—and there¬ fore nothing more favourable for the development of the moral principle, when, moving in its own strength alone and without the aid of any accom¬ paniments, it acts by a kind of imperative force on him who is under its influence. Separate from the abstract and general rightness of a compliance with the call, he as yet knows of nothing, that, through the medium of his emotions, might deter¬ mine him thereto. He knows not what the scene is on which he is going to enter—nor what the sym¬ pathies which it is fitted to awaken. The errand on which he proceeds is altogether one of general philanthropy; and he is as yet ignorant whether the business before him shall be to relieve distress, or to compose an unhappy difference, or to school a wayward child into a compliance with the will of its parents, or to protect some helpless victim of tyranny from the cruelties of an unnatural father or of a barbarous and domineering husband. 20. Still however he goes—not under the excite¬ ment of an emotion, but in compliance with a prin¬ ciple. He goes by the impulse of a volition, and of a moral one too—and it is conceivable, that the scene upon which he enters turns out to be alto¬ gether similar to that scene of cottage wretched¬ ness on which we supposed another to have stum¬ bled accidentally. Each of these visitors may have the same temperament. Each may be or¬ ganically alive to the same feelings on the sight of distress—and the terminating act of beneficence be the same with both ; yet the one be impregnated MORALITY OF THE EMOTIONS. 187 with a moral quality of which the other is entirely, destitute. The one has been surprised by his con¬ stitutional sympathies into a deed, for which the other was prepared by his moral principles. The one hath yielded to influences which perhaps he did not look for. The other hath yielded to the same influences; but he foresaw the probability of coming within their operation—and this, so far from repelling, gave new alacrity to his footsteps, and hastened him forward to the place where the work of benevolence was to be done. Each acted alike under the emotion of sympathy ; but they are the actings previous to the emotions which give rise to a wide moral distinction between the two exhi¬ bitions. We must look first to the initial movement in this case; and see how readily his first compliance was gained from the one, with a call which the other perhaps in the impetuous prosecution of his own objects would have utterly disregarded. 21. But more than this. There might not only have been a moral volition at the outset of this process, and by which a leading character is given to the whole of it—but, during its continu¬ ance, there might have been a constant blending of the principle with the sympathy; just as in cer¬ tain exemplifications that we have already given, there was a constant intermingling of the voluntary with the pathological. There are certain emo¬ tions, by the indulgence of which pain is inflicted upon others—and if beneficence be felt as a duty, then, under a sense of this duty, such emotions, if they admit of being effectually resisted, will be kept in check. But there are certain other emo- 188 MORALITY OF THE EMOTIONS. tions which give pleasure to those who are tne objects of them; and, on the very same principle, will these be permitted to have free course; and, if it lie within the power of the will to foster or to perpetuate them, it may become as much a moral obligation to let out our compassion at the sight of a fellow creature in suffering, as to stretch out our hand in the act of relieving him. Now it requires but a slight observation of our nature, to know that a tone of sympathy, coming forth in genuine expression from a human voice, often falls upon the heart of an afflicted man with a kindlier influence, than ever can be reached by all the liberalities of wealth. The compassion directly and of itself is an instrument of relief, apart alto¬ gether from the money or the service or the mate¬ rial gift of any sort to which we may be prompted by it. If then it lie in any way with the will to withhold this compassion, or to put it forth and keep it up in lively exercise—then, though there may be nothing virtuous in the emotion, still, consistently with our great principle, there runs a virtue through that whole series of volitions by which the emotion is upholden. We read of clean hands and of diligent hands. If diligence be a virtue, it is a virtue not properly ascribed to the hand, but to him who is the owner of it—and what is true of this member of the outer man, is no less true of all those passions and affections which might be denominated the members of the inner man. There is a pulsation going on in the hand to which we assign no moral characteristic, because pulsation is not voluntary. But there MORALITY OF THE EMOTIONS. 189 may be a muscular effort going on with the hand, under the guidance of the will, to which we might justly apply the characteristics either of moral good or moral evil. The man for example who, by the work of his own hands, ministers to his own neces¬ sities or to the service of his fellows, may have the virtue ascribed to him of an honest and upright independence. But it were no violation of our customary language, if, instead of saying that with his hands he had earned this proud and honour¬ able distinction, he should lift them up and say of the hands themselves, that they had achieved it for him; nor would it ail mislead us away from a correct understanding of the matter, if to them, though only the obedient members of a virtuous principle, the testimony of virtue w'as awarded. We are all aware that the proper and essential virtue resides in another part of the human economy altogether, than in the members of the body—and, in like manner, it will be found, that neither doth the virtue which compassion hath been thought to involve, lie in the emotion itself, but in that sense of duty which acting by the will either prompted the emotion or permitted the indulgence of it. _ 22. To sum up these observations. First, no action is virtuous which is not voluntary. To be designated as morally good or morally evil, it must have had such a consent of the will as through the medium of a volition led to the per¬ formance of it. But this circumstance of being voluntary, though indispensable, is not enough for the moral character of an action. Something 190 MORALITY OF THE EMOTIONS more must be made out than that the action is wilful, ere we can assign to it the character of virtue. We should never think of assigning this character to an action, however free and volun¬ tary, done for amusement, done for the gratifica¬ tion of taste, done under the impulse of any of the appetites of our nature. There are whole classes of actions, and all voluntary too, where the moral ingredient is utterly awanting—and the question is—what is the precise thing which must be added to the description of an action that is voluntary, in order to make it virtuous ? 23. That is a virtuous action which a man voluntarily does on the simple ground that he ought to do it. It is then said to be done on principle. If we were asked for the impelling cause within his heart which led to the perform¬ ance, we should say, that it was a sense of duty. It was this which charged it upon his will to give out the proper word of command, and it was this which led the will to yield its obedience and issue forth that word in the shape of a volition—it was this which propagated forth the line of action, from the mechanism of the inner man, to the in¬ struments of execution that are placed upon the outer man—and the thing that has been done of consequence we call virtuous, because willed on the consideration that it was virtuous, and carried into effect against all the difficulties or the hostile inclinations that might have stood in its way. 24. Now it is a very possible thing for a man to act under the impulse of an emotion that is said to involve a moral feeling in it, without this MORALITY OF THE EMOTIONS. 191 description of virtue being at all realized. Under the emotion of sympathy, he may stretch forth aid or alleviation to a case of wretchedness before him ; and without a sense of duty being any more concerned in the process, than when a mother of the inferior animals yields her nourishment at the imploring cry of her own young. He may have done it, not at all on the ground that he ought to do it—but because an unlooked for sentiment of compassion wherewith he has been overtaken urges him on to it. He may do it, and yet so far from the sense of what he ought to do being habitually present or of habitual prevalency—it may positively not enter as a practical element at all, into any either of his doings or of his delibera¬ tions. The man wholly adrift from the restraints of moral principle, and wholly exempted from its visitations, who perhaps never from one end of the year to the other of it seriously entertains the question, what is the right or the incumbent part in the matter which is before me?—whose life in fact is a continual ramble from one passing impulse to another—with whom conscience is wholly obli¬ terated—and whose only principles of action are the sensitive atfections and the emotions-^we mis¬ take it, if we think not that a sensibility for others even unto tears, and, what is more, even unto the generosities and the sacrifices of substantial kind¬ ness, have not its turn among the other feelings that sway and agitate his unregulated bosom. In regard to doing as he ought, this may never once enter as the consideration upon which any one purpose is either conceived or executed. He 192 MORALITY OF THE EMOTIONS. floats along the tide of circumstances ; and just as w hen some scene of loveliness passes before his eyes, the responding homage of admiration might spontaneously be rendered to it, and surely with¬ out an indication of virtue on his part—so, equally disjoined from virtue, equally apart from the in¬ stigations of duty, might the mere physical action of observed suffering upon his heart, call back from it a quick and powerful reaction of sympathy —and leading him perhaps along the very line of beneficence, which conscience had it been awake, would have pointed out to him—like a vessel without pilotage, which may take a direction from any accidental breeze and every current it meets with in its progress, and be occasionally wafted or driven along in the direction of its voyage. This coincidence, however, does not prove the guidance of thought and intelligence within—and neither does the coincidence, which may often occur, between that which principle would dictate and that which pity would incite, yet prove the man to be under the authority of a presiding rectitude. 25. The passions of men have been compared to the breezes by which the vessel is impelled— and the moral principle that regulated him, to its wise and effectual pilotage. On a voyage to the West Indies, the very first object of good seaman¬ ship is to make as speedily as possible for the region of the trade wands, after which it blow^s in a fair direction all the way. And one can con¬ ceive a management so slovenly, that this favour¬ able condition is never reached; or, even if it should, that neither sails are trimmed nor the MORALITY OF THE EMOTIONS. 193 helm so kepf, as to catch the best and steadiest impulse from the gale. We know that there is often a vagueness in analogies, which may mislead when they are designed to enlighten. Bur in this instance we hold the illustration to'be a pevfect one, and fitted to inform the undsiK^stAud^ as well as to regale the fancy. In the Tovage of benevolence, there may, at the outset, be nought but the guidance of cool though determined Drinciple. There may for a time be no call and no excitement to sympathy—and when the invita¬ tion at length comes to some deed of genencms service, it is not the emotion awakene«l cy any spectacle of distras^ not yet seen, but the sense of duty that actuates the will and impels the footsteps thitherward. Then it is that he comes within the operation of the breeze. It was duty which translated him into these circumstances ; after that feeling lends her aid, and gives more alacrity to all those dispositions and those doings which are on the side of humanity. But he does not aban¬ don himself to the random force of his emotions. He does not resign the management of the vessel, or let it drive even though in a fair direction at the caprice or mercy of the gale. He sits in judgment over the degree and the drift even of his own sympathies. If he think them below the urgencies of the occasion, he, as it were spreads out all his sails that he may feel their impulse the more. If he think that they might urge him too precipitately or waywardly along, then, with wary pilotage, he can furl the canvass into narrower dimensions, he can let forth less of his mind to th® VOL. V, I 194 MORALITV r)F THE EMOTION'S. emotions that might else hurry him forvvard into the transports of violence and excess—he ought not perhaps to make an entire escape from that region of pathology upon which he has entered; —but the same will which brought him there, can mix and effectually too its volitions with the influ¬ ences to which it nov\' stands exposed—and, if under the control of moral principle, it fosters the sensibilities of the heart when it ought and restrains them when it ought. 26. We already understand how the will can give such an impulse to the person, as to bring us within the sight and observation of distress—so that even though after this was brought about the will resigned its office, and the emotions took their own unregulated ascendancy over the spirit, yet ail the good which they prompt and lead to the performance of, though immediately reducible into feelings which have no virtue in themselves, may be traced remotely to an act of virtue. There is an exceeding good phrase in Scripture that is expressive of this first step in the process to which we refer—when we are told that a man should not hide himself from his own flesh. He who thus hides himself, let his temperament be as soft and susceptible as it may, keeps back from society all the benefit that else might flow upon it through the medium of his sympathies—^just liy keeping aloof from the objects that would awaken them. He does not get forward in the voyage of philan¬ thropy, because he will not enter into the region of the trade winds. He will not so manaire his vessel as to place himself in the way of a favour MORALITY OF THE EMOTIONS. 195 able breeze—or work it onward to that current, which, almost without another effort on his part, would bear him along to the very point of attain ment which is most desirable. 27. Hitherto the influence of the will upon the emotions, lies in that initial act, by which a man, knowingly and voluntarily, transports himself within the sphere of their operations; and for the very purpose too of yielding himself to every im¬ pulse that he approves of. The influence of the will is anterior to the emotions. But it has an influence also among the emotions, and after they have begun their play upon the heart. We find how it is that by a voluntary and a virtuous action, or even series of actions, the man may get the whole mechanism of his sentient and moral nature transported within the region of the trade winds— hut, beside this, there are virtuous and voluntary efforts by which he trims and accommodates his vessel, so as to turn their impulse upon it to the best advantage. So that not only may the volun¬ tary come before the pathological and even origi¬ nate it. But the voluntary may intermingle with the pathological, so as not merely to stamp a character of moral worth on the origin of the pro¬ cess, but so as to sustain this character through¬ out all the successive steps of it. 28. To understand how this might be, let it he observed, that the first effect of our attention is the brightening of that object to which it is direc¬ ted, or rather the clearer view which we ourselves acquire of it. There is not a greater quantity of light upon that which we are looking to; but the 196 MORALITY OF THE EMOTIONS. look itself makes the same quantity of light serve the purpose of a more distinct and luminous per¬ ception. The effect however is the same as if, actually, a greater lustre were diffused over the external thing, that we are employed in regarding; and it is worthy of remark, that, in this respect, there is a similarity, not merely with regard to the object upon which we gaze, but to all the other objects within the field of vision, and which are diffused around it. All are aware of the effect which the actual brightening of any visible thing has upon the other visible things, that are spread about on the field of contemplation. It makes them less visible. A full and unclouded moon throws into greater dimness all those lesser lights that spangle the canopy of heaven; and they fade away from observation altogether, under the over¬ powering splendour of a still more intense lumi¬ nary. Now attention has this very effect on the objects that are not attended to. It makes greatly more perceivable than before the one which it has selected and fastened upon; and all the others fade away into comparative dimness, and perhaps even though impressed on the retina as before, have ceased to be things of conscious observation. It is thus that when the mind is riveted on some one object of thought, its owner often becomes insensible to present things. They make as little impression upon him, as if they were absent; but, as absence cannot be charged upon them, our language hath taken the liberty of charging it upon himself—for it is to the state of his mind, that an effect similar to that of absence is owing. MORAI-ITY or THE EMOTIONS. 197 It is a very fair deviation, certainly, from the primary meaning of the word; and we may thus understand how it is that the disappearance of the stars on the approach of day, a disappearance as complete as if there had been an utter extinction, of them, might be employed to illustrate the fact, that other things are scarcely if at all seen or thought of when the mind fastens upon one object, and, without any shedding of luminous matter upon it, exerts all the power of illumina¬ tion by the steady and unfaltering gaze which is directed towards it. 29. It has been well remarked by Dr. Brown, that, if there be emotion of any sort associated with an object, that not merely is a call for our attending to it; but it has the effect of making our perception of it greatly more quick and vivid than it otherwise would be. The desire of doing our duty then will, not only direct our attention to the object which presents us with the opportunity of this high fulfilment; but it will make us more quicksighted, and give us a far more vivid dis¬ cernment of it than we otherwise should have had. Even the general report of a service that might be done to humanity, will, to a man who feels the obligation of it, be the signal for arresting as it were his notice; and, out of the multitude of objects which at all times float in a kind of shifting panorama over the eye of his mind, and all of which he may be said to see—this is the object of thought to which he will look, and that on the impulse of a volition to which he has been promp¬ ted just by his sense of duty—-just because there is 198 MORALITY OF THE EMOTIONS. in him that which enters into the definition of a virtu¬ ous man—just because there is what Dr. Reid would call a fixed resolution; and what, in the language of the Roman law is called a steady and perpetual will within him, on the side of beneficence. To talk as yet of his emotion of sympathy with dis¬ tress, is just as preposterous as to talk of the felt pathos of a musical air, ere we have come within reach of the hearing of it. As yet the man’s only emotion is that of a desire to' do his duty. Under the power of it other objects, that might else have been urging them with their solicitations, are more dimly perceived by him, and have a fainter influence on his feelings and purposes. The calls of amusement or of business that deafen this call of duty with other men, sink into impo- tency—and that because of the overbearing effi¬ cacy, wherewith it tells on the attention of him, who hath made the object of doing that which is right, an object which his ambition is constantly and supremely set upon. Under the operation ol this principle, he is guided onward, till he come within reach of that pathetic influence that had no operation whatever on the initial footsteps of the process—till he come within the hearing of that piteous cry, or the sight of that imploring countenance, that now bring his feelings into play. Then it is true that there is a pathology which mingles and combines with the principle—an augmented vivacity of emotion which concentrates the regards upon its objects still more Intensely than before—a more impressive exhibition of that object in consequence, and along with it a com- MORALITY OF THE EMOTIONS. 199 parative insensibility to all the accompaniments of this scene of wretcliedness or to ought in tact but the wretchedness itself. And here we may ob¬ serve what that is which constitutes the test and the triumph of principle; and how it stands, supe¬ rior and apart, from all the instinctive susceptibi¬ lities of our nature. In the midst of such a scene, let the mere man of emotion be exposed to all its influences; and, along with that which is fitted to draw forth his sympathy, it is a possible and a frequent thing that he should meet with that which draws forth his most sensitive aversion. There may be filth, and disorder, and all those nauseous and disgusting circumstances which so often meet too-ether in the hovel of a reckless and ill-condi¬ tioned family. There may be sights, and smells, and the stiflings of a heated and confined atmo¬ sphere before which there is many an elegant sentimentalist, who could weep wdth very tender¬ ness ov'er a scene of fictitious distress whei e all these revolting accompaniments are kept studiously away; but who, when called to brave the realities wherewith the hand of nature and experience hath mixed up an exhibition for the rough but whole¬ some discipline of human virtue, could not stand his ground. And in addition to all those offences wherewith the outer organs of the visitor are grated and agonized, there may be moral anti¬ pathies besides which are far more insupportable. There may be the hoarse murmurs of ingratitude. There may be the dark scowl of suspicion and discontent, d here may be the tone of inso.ent demand, instead of the loiid and w".r.niiig accents 200 MORALITY OF THE EMOTIONS. of supplication. There may be the hardihood of a cold and fierce and disdainful household; and, even when we turn to the bed of the dying man, there may be pictured forth in every look and every lineament, the depravity that he has nour¬ ished through life—and whose fixed and sullen aspect, though now on the brink of eternity, he cannot bid away. It is the art of the irovelist to divest the pathetic representation of all that can disturb the current of sensibility, and thus to over¬ power the reader into a flood of tenderness. But in the scenes of actual experience, things are differently ordered; and, mingled with the pro¬ vocatives to sympathy, are there provocatives to offend and to irritate and to annoy. And it is a matter of chance, how a man of mere emotion, and nothing else, will acquit himself among the warring elements. But the man of principle weathers every difficulty and every discourage¬ ment; and the same sense of duty which brought him there, bears him up under an exposure that would wither the frail and fluctuating sympathies of other men. 30. And the principle is that he shall do all the good he can. This associates a desire with the wretchedness that is before him. The desire fastens his attention on that one object—the misery which he hath come to visit, and to minis¬ ter unto. The attention gives him a more vivid discernment of its object; and in proportion as he gazes more intensely on the manifestations of a sentient creature in distress—in that proportion does he gather upon his heart the appropriat«' MORALITY OF THE EMOTIONS. 201 influence of such an exhibition on the sensibilities wherewith Nature hath endowed us. But more than this—in analogy with the laws and phenomena of attention—the more singly and exclusively that he looks on the wretchedness before him, the less is he alive to the impression of the other accom¬ paniments. T hey fade away, as it were, from his observation; and leave him to the entire power of that one emotion, which the one steadfast object of his regard is fittfed to awaken. His principle alone would have achieved for him the victory.^ But it is well that the very strength of his principle, by con¬ centrating his view on the moving object before him, secures a larger accession to that pity which aids him in the contest. This is altogether a beautiful provision. The attention of the man who is actuated by duty, is fastened on the wretch¬ edness that seeks to be relieved by him. He thus sees that object more impressively; and its appropriate emotion, which is a powerful auxiliary to the sense of duty, is made stronger than at the first. But in the very proportion that his attention is thus engaged, is it withdrawn fi om those other objects which go so much to stifle and to repel the sympathies of ordinary men. The emo¬ tions correspondent to these other objects are weakened; and so as principle perseveres, the sensibility which is upon its side gains new strength, and the sensibilities which are opposed to it offer a fainter and a feebler resistance. It is thus that as the final result of principle the pity survives every adverse influence that might have extinguished or put it to flight; and the virtue, I 2 202 MORALITY OF THE EMOTIONS. which should he ascribed to a sense of rectitude alone, is transferred to the sensibility that was nourished and upheld by it. 31. But more than this. The man who has long been practised to benevolent intercourse with his fellows, is well aware that the great charm of human kindness lies in the kindness itself, and not in any gift or service which has been prompted by it. So have we been constituted by our Maker, that, clearer far to the bosom of the afflicted than the money which is dropped by the hand of the benefactor, is the mercy that beams upon him from his countenance. There is the materiel of benevolence—made up of food to the hungry, and raiment to the naked and other tan¬ gible supplies suited to various physical necessi¬ ties of our species. But by far its most exqui¬ site, and we may add too its most substantial charm, lies in the morale of benevolence—in the balsam that flows direct from the pity of one heart to the anguish of anctiier—in that law of reciprocal affinity which obtains between soul and soul; and, in virtue of which, when the one is in distress, a manifested sympathy is far the most acceptable medicine which the other can pour into it. The effect of suffering to call forth sym¬ pathy, and the effect of sympathy back again to act as an emollient upon suffering, is one of those established processes in the economy of Nature, by which the ills of humanity are alleviated. Now there is a thorough consciousness of this with each of the parties ; and more particularly he, whose office it is to act the benefactor, aware MORALITY OF THE EMOTIONS. 203 mighty power to soothe and to gladden that lies in sympathy alone, knows that it is kindness to put it forth, and that it were cruelty to withhold it. Now what effect ought this to have on the man who, under a sense of duty, is actuated by the principle of doing the -uttermost good within his reach—^now when he sees that as much good is done by the manifested emotion itself, as by the deed of generosity to which the emotion urges him _that as great a blessing descends upon the sufferer, by the heart putting forth upon him its direct sympathy, as by the hand putting forth upon him its direct service—that, even without the vehicle of any material dispensation whatever,there is a felt graciousness on the part of an afflicted man, in the simple juxtaposition of one who is sitting at his side, and perhaps can do nothing but weep for him_insomuch that even in the visit of him who is hoth poor and feeble, who hath no strength to serve and no succour to bestow, there is, in the honest sympathy of his bosom, what a man acquainted with grief feels to be the best of palli¬ atives. It is with such views and convictions as these, that he who goeth forth on the errand of benevolence, knows that the mere sensibility is one of the most powerful of its instruments; and the heart which pours it forth in the looks and the language of tenderness, renders as substantial a service to the unhappy, as the hand that is stretched forth to relieve them. And so he is guided to the object of fostering this compassion, just as directly as he is guided to the object of doing all personal service. In the one performanc.e. 204 MORALITY OF THE EMOTIONS. the hand has to uphold its diligence ; and to bear itself up under the fatigues that, but for the stim¬ ulus of a great moral necessity, would have been apt to paralyze it. And in like manner the heart has to uphold its sympathy, and to bear itself up under the adverse emotions of disgust or dissatis¬ faction that, but for the stimulus of those sufferings which challenge all its tenderness, would have put the sympathy to flight. The one is just as much an instrument as the other. The heart and the hand are alike pressed into the service of benevo¬ lence, under the guidance and at the bidding of virtuous principle. We should not say of the virtue that it lay in the mechanism of the hand, but in that volition which impressed its movements. Neither should we say of the virtue that it lay in the organization of the heart, but in that series of volitions by which it was kept under the influence that first awoke and that now perpetuates its emotions. 32, And now we have only to attend to the important function which the attention has to per¬ form in this process ; and how, through the inter¬ vention of this faculty, though there be no virtue in the emotions themselves, there has a very high virtue been concerned in the work of upholding them. But for the steady attention directed to the one object of a creature in distress, the heart would have lain open to the counteraction of a thousand adverse influences. The whole man might have sunk under the weariness of those manifold assiduities wherewith many a sickbed hath to be plied constantly. Or, in the disgust MORALITY OF THE EMOTIONS. 205 and the discomfort of one’s offended sensations, the patience might have been utterly exhausted. Or, even in the peevishness and the unthankful¬ ness of him to whom we had purposed to devote the philanthropy of many weeks, we may at length have been disheartened out of all our perseverance. In a word, had nought but the emotions been concerned in this process, there would just have been the collision of one element against another, and there would have been a physical necessity for the prevalence of one of them. But, in addi¬ tion to these, there is a moral sense in our nature distinct from the emotions and which claims the ascendancy over them all—which stirs within us, not on the impulse of what we feel, but on the , principle of what we ought—to which the emotions, in fact, are only so many ministers—and which through the medium of the attention directed to such objects as it wills, can call forth one emotion into action and strike an impotency on all the rest. 33. It is this which imparts virtuousness to emotion, even though there be nothing virtuous vdiich is not voluntary. It is true that once the idea of an object is in the mind, its counterpart emotion may, by an organic or pathological law, have come unbidden into the heart. The emotion may have come unbidden ; but the idea may not have come unbidden. By an act of the will, it may, in the way now explained, have been sum¬ moned at the first into the mind’s presence; and at all events it is by a continuous act of the will that it is detained and dwelt upon. The will is 206 MORALITY OF THE EMOTIONS. not in contact with the emotion, but it is in con¬ tact with the idea of that object which awakens the emotion—and therefore, although not in contact with the emotion, it may be vested with an effectual control over it. It cannot bid com¬ passion into the bosom, apart from the object which awakens it; but it can bid a personal entry into the house of mourning, and then the com¬ passion will flow apace; or it can bid a mental conception of the bereaved and afflicted family there, and then the sensibility will equally arise, whether a suffering be seen or a suffering be thought of. In like manner, it cannot bid into the breast the naked and unaccompanied feeling of gratitude; but it can call to recollection, and keep in recollection, the kindness which prompts it—and the emotion follows in faithful attendance on its counterpart object. It is thus that w'e can will the right emotions into being, not immedi¬ ately but mediately—as the love of God, by think¬ ing on God—a sentiment of friendship by dwelling in contemplation on the congenial qualities of our friend—the admiration of moral excellence, by means of a serious and stedfast attention to it. It is thus too that we bid away the wrong emotions, not separately and in disjunction from their ob¬ jects, for the pathological law which unites objects with emotions we cannot break asunder; but we rid our heart of the emotions, by ridding our mind of their exciting and originating thoughts; of anger, for example, by forgetting the injury; or of a licentious instigation, by dismissing from our fancy the licentious image, or turning our sight MORALITY OF THE EMOTIONS. 207 and our eyes from viewing vanity. It is this command of the will over the attention, which, transmuting the intellectual into the moral, makes duties of heedfulness and consideration—and duties too of prime importance, because of the place which attention occupies in the mental system, as the great ligament between the perci¬ pient and the pathematic parts of our nature. It is by its means that the will is made to touch at least the springs of emotion—if it do not touch the emotions themselves. The will tells on the sensibilities, through an intermediate machinery which has been placed at its disposal; and thus it is, that the culture or regulation of the heart is mainly dependent on the regulation of the thoughts. 34. We may thus be enabled to explain the force and inveteracy of habit; and that not by the power of emotions to suggest emotions, but purely by the power of thoughts to suggest thoughts.* In this process, the emotions will of course intermingle with their own counterpart thoughts; and both ideas and feelings will succeed each other in their customary trains all the more surely, the oftener they have been suffered to pass unbroken by any inter¬ vention of the will, any remonstrance from the voice * While we would thus confine suggestion to the succession of our thoughts, and regard it as an improper extension of the term when applied to the succession of our feelings—we mean not to resolve the phenomena of habit wholly into suggestion, or to deny the effect of repeated indulgence on the subjective mind, both in adding to its susceptibilities and weakening its powers of resist¬ ance. It is thus that each vicious indulgence carries its own moral penalty along with it; and the soul because the victim of passions which it has fostered into tyrannic strength, is “ filled with the fruit of its own ways.” 208 MORALITY OF THE EMOTIONS. of conscience. It is in this way that the MTetched voluptuary, becomes every year the more helpless victim of his own depraved inclinations—because more and more lorded over by those foul imagina¬ tions, which are lighted up to him, from almost every object he sees or thinks of; and which now he scarcely has the power, because he never had the honest or sustained will to bid away. That may truly be called a moral chastisement under which he suffers. The more he has sinned, the more helpless is the necessity under which he lies of sinning—a bondage strengthened by every act of indulgence, till he may become the irrecover¬ able slave of those passions which war against the principles of a better and higher nature. And when he is domineered over by passions, he is domineered over by thoughts; and though there must be a subjective change for the renovation of the mind—this does not supersede the necessity of counteracting thoughts, by the force or mastery of which it is that the spell is broken, or of an intellec¬ tual medium by which the moral distemper might be cleared away. In other words if he be rescued from his delusions to sobriety and virtue, ideas will be the stepping stones of his returning path—the sirens that will recall him to himself, by chasing away the fascinations wherewith he is encompassed. The percipient part of his nature must be set right, ere the pathological part of it can become whole. To behave himself aright, he must bethink himself aright; and noble recoveries have been effected, even from most deep and hopeless infatuation, simply by the power of thoughts—when made to MORALITY OF THE EMOTIONS. 209 dwell on the distress of friends the poverty and distress of children, the ruin of health as well as fortune, the displeasure of an angry God, the horrors of an unprovided death-bed or an undone eternity.* 35. This connexion between the emotions anc. their objects is of first importance—because of the alliance which it establishes between the intellec¬ tual and the moral departments of our nature. We often speak of the pleasure that we receive from one class of the emotions, as those of taste— of the danger or disagreeableness of another, as anger, or fear, or envy—of the obligation that lies upon us to cherish and retain certain other emo¬ tions, insomuch that the designation of virtuous is generally given to them, as gratitude, and com¬ passion, and the special love of relatives or coun¬ try, and in one word, all the benevolent affections of our nature. Now however obvious when stated, it is not sufficiently adverted to, even when study¬ ing the philosophy of the subject, and still less in the practical government and regulation of the heart—that for the full presence and effect of each of these specific emotions in the heart, there must a certain appropriate and counterpart object, * We may here remark how strikingly accordant the philoso¬ phy of our nature is with the lessons of the Gospel, in regard to the reciprocal acting of its moral and intellectual parts on each other—-and that not merely in what Scripture enjoins on the management of temptations; but in its frequent affirmation, as a general and reigning principle, of the power which its objective doctrines have in transforming the subjective mind which receives them—exemplified in such phrases, as “ being sanctified by the truth” and “ keeping our hearts in the love of God, by building ourselves up in our most holy faith.” 210 MORALITY uF THE EMOTIONS. whether through the channel of sense or of the memory, be present to the thoughts. We feel the emotion of beauty, in the act of beholding or con¬ ceiving a beautiful object; an 'emotion of terror, in the view of some danger which menaces us; an emotion of gratitude, iivthe recollection of a past kindness, or of the benefactor who conferred it. Such then is the dependence between perception and feeling, that, without the one, the other is not fully awakened. Present an object to the view of the mind, and the emotion suited to that object, whether it be love or resentment or terror, or disgust, do consequently arise; just as, on pre¬ senting visible things of different colour to the eye, the green and red and yellow and blue im¬ press their different and peculiar sensations on the retina. It is very obvious that the sensations owe their being to the external objects, without the presence and the perception of which they could not possibly have arisen. x4nd it should by alike obvious, that the emotions owe their being to a mental perception, whetlier by sense or be memory, of the objects which are fitted to awaken them. Let an object be introduced to the notice of the mind, and its correlative emotion instantly arises in the heart; let the object be forgotten or disappear from the mental view, and the emotion disappears along witli it. 36. We deem it no exception to the invariable¬ ness of that relation which subsists between an object and its counterpart emotion, that, in many instances, a certain given object may be present and in full view of the observer, without awaken- MOIIALITY OT THE EMOTIONS, 211 ing that sensibility which is proper to it. A spectacle of pain does generally, but not always, awaken compassion. It would always, we think, if a creature in agony were the single object of the mind’s contemplation. But, the person, now in suffering, may be undergoing the chastisement of some grievous provocation; and the emotion is different, because the object is really different—an offender who has excited the anger of our bosom, and, in the view of whose inflicted sufferings, this indignant feeling receives its gratification. Or the pain may be inflicted by our own hand on an unoffending animal in the prosecution of some cruel experiment. If compassion be wholly unfelt, it is not because in this instance the law has been repealed which connects this emotion with the view of pain; but it is because the attention of the mind to this object is displaced by another object; even the discovery of truth—and so what but for this might have been an intense compassion, is overborne by an intenser curiosity. And so with all the other emotions. Were danger singly the object of the mind’s contemplation, fear, we think, would be the universal feeling; but it may be danger connected with the sight or the menaces of an insulting enemy who awakens burning resent¬ ment in the heart, and when anger arises fear is gone; or it may be danger shared with fellow- combatants, whose presence and observation kindle in the bosom the love of glory, and impel to deeds of heroism—not because any law which connects, and connects invariably, certain emotions with certain objects, is m any instance reversed or 212 MORALITY OP THE EMOTIONS. suspended; but because, in this conflict and com¬ position of moral forces, one emotion displaced another from the feelings, only, however because one object displaced another from the thoughts. Still, in every instance, the object is the stepping- stone to the emotion—insomuch, tliat if we want to recall a certain emotion, we recall to the mind that certain object which awakens it; if we want to cease from the emotion, we must cease from thinking of its object, we must transfer the mind to other objects, or occupy it with other thoughts. 37. It is this connexion between the percipient faculties of the mind and its feelings, which ex¬ plains the connexion between the intellectual and the moral departments of our nature. It is abun¬ dantly obvious, that the presence or the absence of certain feelings, stands connected with the pre¬ sence or the absence of certain thoughts. We can no more break up the connexion between the thought of any object that is viewed mentally, and the feeling which it impresses on the heart, than we can break up the connexion between the sight of any object that is viewed materially, and the sen¬ sation which it impresses upon the retina. If we look singly and stedfastly to an object of a parti¬ cular colour, as red, there is an organic necessity for the peculiar sensation of redness, from which we cannot escape, but by shutting our eyes, or turning them away to objects that are dift'erently coloured. If we think singly and stedfastly on an object of a particular character, as an injury, there seems an organic necessity also for the peculiar emotion of resentment, from which there appears MORALITY OF THE EMOTIONS. 2H to be no other way of escaping, than by stifling the thought, or turning the mind away to other objects of contemplation. Now we hear both of virtuous emotions and of vicious emotions; and it is of capital importance to know how to retain the one and to exclude the other—which is by dwell¬ ing in thought on the objects that awaken the former, and discharging from thought the objects that awaken the latter. And so it is by thinking in a certain way that wrong sensibilities are avoided, and right sensibilities are upholden. It is by keeping up a remembrance of the kindness, that w'e keep up the emotion of gratitude. It is by forgetting the provocation, that we cease from the emotion of anger. It is by reflecting on the misery of a fellow-creature in its vivid and affect¬ ing details, that pity is called forth. It is by meditating on the perfections of the Godhead that we cherish and keep alive our reverence for the highest virtue and our love for the highest good¬ ness. In one word, thought is at once the harbinger and the sustainer of feeling: and this, of itself, forms an important link of communication between the intellectual and the moral departments of our nature. 38. Actions ai*e voluntary in themselves, in that the mind can will them directly into being. Emo¬ tions though not voluntary in themselves, are so far voluntary in their proximate or immediate causes—in that the mind, to a certain extent, and by the control which it has over the faculty of attention, can will those ideas into its presence by which the emotions are av/akened. It is well 214 MORALITY or THE EMOTIONS. that man is thus vested, not only with a control over his actions; but also in a great degree with a control over his emotions, these powerful impel¬ lents to action—and it required an exquisite fitting of the intellectual to the moral in man’s system, ere such a mechanism could be framed. And we not only behold in the relation between the will and the emotions, a skilful adaptation in the parts of the human constitution to each other; we also behold a general and manifold adaptation to this peculiarity in the various objects of external nature. Man can, by means of these objects, either kindle the right emotions in his bosom, or make his escape from those emotions that trouble and annoy him. By an entry into an abode of destitution, he can effectually soften his heart; by an entry into an abode of still deeper suffering, where are to be found the dead or the dying, he can effec¬ tually solemnize it. But a still more palpable use of that indefinite number of objects wherewith the world is so filled and variegated, is, that, by creat¬ ing an incessant diversion of the thoughts from such objects as are of malignant influence, it may rid the inner man of the grief, or the anger, or the wayward licentiousness of feeling, which might otherwise have lorded over him; and to the urgent calls of business or duty or amusement, do we owe such lengthened periods of exemption both from the emotions that pain, and from the emotions that would vitiate and deprave us. 39. We dispute not the subjective difference between one mind and another; and that some¬ thing beside a more or less frequent presence of MORALITY OF THE EMOTIONS. 215 the objects is necessary, to account for the more or less powerful ascendency of the counterpart emotions over each of them respectively. No one can question the inherent distinction between a man of an irascible and a man of a pacific temper; and that this will evince itself, not only by the readier ignition of the former on the contact of real provocatives from without, but by the influ¬ ence of this his ruling passion upon his thoughts— leading him, in the absence of actual, to conceive imaginary wrongs which he might burn or brood over. Thus might a passion provide itself, as it were, with its own fuel; and we can even fancy that, apart from the fuel altogether, apart from objects whether real or only pictured by the mind, the very strength of its susceptibilities might expose it to the feeling of some strange unappeased want and wretchedness, in the absence of their counter¬ part objects—from which it can no more escape, than it can ward off* the gnawing agonies of hun¬ ger, by ceasing to think of bread. Such a state is often the elfect and the punishment of guilty indulgence; but this ought not to obscure the undoubted and palpable truth, that, ere this con¬ dition of irreversible helplessness has been realized, the mind can be weaned from the influence of evil affections, by the witlidrawment of its thoughts from those objects which both excite and supply the means of their gratification, and wooing the attention to other objects by which good emotions are awakened to occupy the whole man, and dis¬ place those hurtful sensibilities which “ war against the soul.” It is thus that attention becomes the 216 UNDUE PLACE GIVEN TO THE EMOTIONS# great instrument of moral discipline; and it is because of the command which the will possesses over this faculty, that man becomes responsible for the government and regulation of his thoughts. CHAPTER VI On the undue Place which is often given to the Pmotions^ and the delusive Estimate of Human Virtue to which it leads. 1. Man, amid the conflict and complexity of his manifold emotions, has also a sense of right and wrong, that is distinct from and has the rightful precedency over them all. This sense of right and wrong is often named conscience, and is so de¬ nominated, indeed, by Bishop Butler in his admir¬ able sermons upon human nature. They form the three first of his volume; and are worthy of perusal, not merely as a specimen of his most sagacious metaphysics, but for the great practical importance of the doctrine which they establish. The second and third of the series have for their common title ; Tiie Natural Supre¬ macy of Conscience ; and wherein he demonstrates what that is which peculiarizes this part of our moral economy from all the rest. He clearly evinces, that it does not rank among the other active principles of our nature merely as one of equal or greater or less force; but that it is essentially the prerogative and the demand of UNDUE PL.\CF. GIVEN TO T'lE EVIOTIONS. 217 conscience to have the mastery over all the passions and appetites and attections within us, and that a violence is done to nature by this mas¬ tery not being conceded to it. He makes it obvi¬ ous of this faculty, that its essential function is to be a regulator, even as its essential prerogative is that of dominion; and that in like manner as though the actual rate of going in a watch is the result of that balance which obtains between the various forces within that are at play, yet that if the regulator have lost its influence the watch may be pronounced to be in a state of anarchy and as having lost its natural and original design—so althouofh everv actual movement that men do make be the necessary result of the way in which the forces of his natural mechanism stand balanced the one with the other, yet if conscience have not been that prevalent force by which the balance has been adjusted, the man is in a state of moral anarchy, and he hath fallen from the design of his original workmanship. We wish that Dr. Brown, in particular, had adverted more to this precious composition of Butler. It is one of the most valu¬ able documents extant in the whole authorship of moral science, and is fitted to elevate conscience, according to the meaning that he fixes on this term, to elevate it to that very place which legitimately belongs to it—to take it away from the list of the emotions, where we rather think it stands in the arrangements of Dr. Brown—and to invest it with such a superiority over them all, as a master has over his servants. Most useful they are as ser¬ vants ; but in no one case does the master lose VOJy, V. K 218 UNDUE PLACE GIVEN TO THE EMOTIONS. sight of them, though, when he sees them rightly and well employed, he will in so far leave them to themselves as to let them work without any new order from him for hours together. And so it is, that the principles of the conscience never hand the matter altogether over to the feelings of the heart. Its office is to maintain within us a perpetual will to do good,—and to see that this is carried into execution. Often may it happen that the most effectual method of so doing, is to let the sensibi¬ lities have their course ; to weep with those who weep; and, during the whole currency of some visit of benevolence, to give the mind wholly over to the movements and the demonstrations of a constitutional tenderness. Still conscience hath the priority, and, to use a familiar but expressive phrase, hath, in every well-regulated spirit, all its eyes about it. And it can shorten its visit; or it can recall its sensibilities by a transference of the attention to other objects; or it can sit in judg¬ ment over the question, whether after all, this flow of sympathy might not in the circumstances aggra¬ vate, which it in some cases does, the pain of the unhappy sufferer—and, to hide the irrepressible sympathy, it can take its sudden leave—a flight of very opposite character from that of the feeling sentimentalist, who also flees from this scene of distress, because unable to support the pain of his too delicate sensibilities, or perhaps overcome by the disgust and the discomfort of other emotions. The following extracts are from one of Dr. Char¬ ters’ sermons upon this subject: “ Compassion improperly cultivated springs up into fruitless UNDUE PLACE GIVEN TO THE EMOTIONS. 219 sensibility. ‘ If a brother or sister be naked, and destitute of daily food; and one of you say unto them, Depart in peace, be you warmed and clothed, notwithstanding ye give them not those things which are needful for the body—what doth it profit?’ To enter the abodes of the wretched, to give them time and thought and hands and money, this is the substance not the shadow of virtue. The pleasure of sensibility may be less; but so is the danger of self-deceit that attends it. Deathbeds, in the page of an eloquent writer, delight the imagination; but they who are most delighted are not the first to visit a dying neigh¬ bour, and sit up all night, and wipe off the cold sweat, and moisten the parched lip, and give easy postures, and bear with peevishness, and suggest a pious thought, and console the parting spirit. They often encompass the altar of virtue but not to sacrifice.”—“ Extreme sensibility is a diseased state of the mind; it unfits us to relieve the miserable, and tempts us to turn away. The sight of pain is shunned; and the thought of it suppressed. The ear is stopped against the cry of indigence. The house of mourning is passed by. Even near friends are abandoned, when sick, to the nurse and physician; and, when dead, to those who mourn for hire—and all this, under pretence of fine feeling and sentimental delicacy. The apples of Sodom are mistaken for the fruit of paradise.” “ Compassion may fall on wrong objects, and yet be gratified and applauded. One living in borrowed affluence becomes bankrupt. His sud¬ den fall strikes the imagination—^pity is felt and 220 UNDUE PLACE GIVEN TO THE EMOTIONS. generous exertions are made in his behalf. There is indeed a call for pity but upon \\ horn ? Upon servants who have received no wages; upon traders and artificers whose economy he has de¬ ranged ; upon the widow whom he has caused to weep over destitute children. Alms given from the impulse of compassion are like seed sown on stony ground, which quickly springs up and as quickly withers. By repeated acts the force of passive habits is diminished. Imposture pro¬ vokes, ingratitude grieves, and time cools the heart.” 2. There is a delusion with which the literature of half a century back was greatly overrun, and a delusion that still obtains in private life though chiefly we believe among the upper classes of society—and by which the honours and the rewards of virtue have been transferred from him who is characterized by sturdy and enduring principle, to him who characterized only by his soft and de¬ licate pathology gives way on all occasions- to the tenderness of his emotions. The one s})ends his doings in the work and the labour of virtue. Tiie other in the pleasing indulgence of those sensibi¬ lities which have usurped the denomination of virtue, and so foster a most pernicious complacency within his bosom. If a man of constitutional tenderness, which without any conscience at ail he may very well be, he may at times taste the luxury of doing good; but never will he submit to the labour of it. With him it is all a matter of enjoy¬ ment, but never of self-denial; and the very same facility of temperament which lays him open to UNDUE PLACE GIVEN TO THE EMOTIONS. 22l tne visitations of sympathy, may also lay him open to the grosser affections of our nature. It is thus that, along with the delights of sentiment, there might mingle all the degradations of a most worth¬ less and polluting sensuality; and, amid many occasional gleams of humane and honourable feel¬ ing, might the whole moral system be a prostrate wreck under the sensibilities of all soits and de¬ scriptions which lord it over us. Some of these, though not virtues, are the ministers of virtue; and, wearing the livery of their master, they have arrogated, as the insolent menials of a lordly pro¬ prietor often do, the honour that belongs to it. It is thus that many, utterly adrift from the re- , straints of conscience, pass a life in the orld, that might be characterized as a compound of loathsome vices and amiable feelings ; and when these vices obtain the gentle epithet of foibles, and these feelings are signalized by the appellation of so many virtues—we may conceive the dreadful injury which the character, under this melancholy process of self-delusion, must sustain. Those susceptibilities of emotion, which after all have m themselves nought of a moral character, will be rated as so many moralities, and set over against those sensualities which are most undoubted vio¬ lations of morality. It is thus that vice has been exhibited in the world in most attractive colours, and just by the aid of those engaging and most useful sensibihties wherewith she often is associ¬ ated. And as in the same production of high but worthless genius, the licentiousness of one of its passages is often thought to be redeemed by the 222 UNDUE PLACE GIVEN TO THE EMOTIONS. powerful and pathetic eloquence of another—so in the life of the same individual, though not so high in talent yet alike worthless in principle, might there occur at one time passages marked by some effusion of tenderness, or even under the impulse of it by some deed of generosity, while these are constantly alternated by the abominations of licen¬ tiousness. 3. In this way the utmost mischief has been done by those, who idolize the sensibilities of the heart, as if they were the ultimate principles of virtue—who recognise not that presiding authority, wherewith conscience sits supreme among all the emotions to which our nature is liable—and who, in consequence, leave the inner man to the wild misrule of all such affections and feelings as might happen for the time to have the ascendancy. In this condition, the mind is like unto a vessel with¬ out pilotage, and at the mercy of all the fitful ele¬ ments to which it is exposed—moving at times no doubt towards that quarter which is most de¬ sirable, yet without the most distant chance, amongst such random influences as the gales of heaven, and the surges of a restless ocean, of ever reaching that haven for which it had been destined by its owners. And thus fares, it with man in reference to the great voyage of life, after that conscience hath quitted its mastery over him, and he now lies open to the thousand fortuitous im¬ pulses that play from without on the mechanism of his sentient and susceptible nature. There will, at times, be the very movement that duty would have prompted—and, even from his unregulated UNDUE PI,ACE GIVEN TO THE EMOTIONS. 223 spirit, there vvill be the occasional gleams both ot the humane and of the honourable. But wanting that still small voice, at whose utterance alone all the tumults of the soul are harmonized, there will be the shifts and the uncertainties of a perpe¬ tual waywardness. Adrift from all regulation, the man will be floated along on the tide of circum¬ stances ; and, subject to influences from the world around him, in as many directions as he has the capacities of emotion, his life, without one sure advancement in the path of moral rectitude, will be spent in a sort of indescribable medley from his infancy to his grave. 4. In these circumstances it is not to be told how pernicious that delusion is which has been so fed and fostered in our works of sentimentalism, and over which the most bewitching eloquence hath spread its fascinations. The two writers whom at present we have most in our eye, are Sterne and Rousseau—who though, of very different com¬ plexion, at least agreed in this, that they were the worshippers of nature in all her instinctive sensi¬ bilities ; who could both of them seize upon her in her loveliest attitudes, and hold her forth in most graceful exhibition to an admiring world. They are certainly far more formidable than any of those more shallow sentimentalists, who expatiate on virtue too not as a thing of principle but as a thing of prettiness; who tan give delight to readers in every way as slender as themselves by versifica¬ tions upon a tear; and who, out of such materials a» sighs and sympathies and the various suiter delicacies of the heart, can braid them all together 224 UNDUE PLACE GIVEN TO THE EMOTIONS. into garlands of sweetest poesy. To an unvitiated English taste all whose preferences are for the home-bred, there is something in this sentimental frippery that is wholly unsutFerable—and one just meets with the refreshment that he feels himself most in need of, when he turns him to the descrip¬ tion given by Cowper of one of wholesomer breed —strong built in the cardinal virtues, and whose very exterior like that of a Yorkshire grazier bespoke the haleness and honesty of his inner temperament. “ While you my friend whatever wind should blow. Might traverse England safely to and fro, An honest man close buttoned to the chin, Broad cloth without and a warm heart within,” 5. The effeminacies which we are now attempt¬ ing to expose are certainly getting out of credit— and, instead of languishing with the dilettanti of a former generation over the high-wrought and pathetic narratives of fiction, there is now a very general disposition to laugh at them. And even among our poets and novelists themselves, there is a firmer staple than there wont of the plainly and honestly experimental—and we can instance more particularly the compositions of Miss Edgeworth, as the native produce of a mind, that, with much sagacity and good sense, hath observantly looked on the features and more especially on the foibles of our living society. Still, however, there remains enough and more than enough in our most recent books of entertainment, to exemplify the wide dis¬ tinction which there is between the ideal represen¬ tations that bring the mind into a state of exquisite UNDUE PLACE GIVEN TO THE EMOTIONS. 225 emotion, and those earthly and actual scenes in which we daily move, and which are brought around us to discipline the mind into a state of exercised principle. In those touching sketches that we have byM‘Kenzie, the Man of Feeling—the princi¬ pal figure of the groupe, the sufferer in whom he labours to interest every affection of our hearts, becomes the intense and the absorbing object of contemplation, and every accompaniment that can distract our regards from him, or at least that can turn away our eyes in disgust from that scene by which he hopes to call forth the emotion of his readers, is most carefully suppressed; and by the help of honeysuckle at the cottage door, and a welcome of gratitude on the part of all its inmates, and a tasteful exhibition of that clean and orderly apartment where the venerable father of some poor and pious family is dying, there may be heightened to the uttermost those sensibilities which it is the proudest triumph of his art to awaken; and the flattering unction which comes upon the soul of a weeping sentimentalist, is, that with all the infirmi¬ ties of his erring nature, there is surely nought in a heart of so much tenderness that is radically wrong. But the susceptibility of an exquisite emotion is one thing—the sturdiness of an enduring principle is another. To estimate the w'orth of a heart, we should do it, not by the power of its feelings and constitutional instincts, but by the power of that conscience which hath right of ascen¬ dancy over them all. We should confront the owner of it with the realities and the repulsions, that try the strength of human virtue in our K 2 226 UNDUE PLACE GIVEN TO THE EMOTIONS. ordinary world. It h cr.fiy to be floated along on the current of our emotions; but, in the warfare of moral discipline, we are often called upon to struggle against the current, and the decisive touchstone of character is, whether we have the nerve and the hardihood of principle for doing so —not whether we can weep over those choice fancies, where the artist hath made all to harmonize with the emotions of benevolence; but whether, in weariness and in watchfulness and amongst the occupations of an actual and a living scene, whether when this one emotion is thwarted by the annoy¬ ance of many others, conscience can uphold its supremacy, and still charge it upon the will that it shall keep by its purposes of well-doing—whether when, after passing fi'om the tasteful representa¬ tion to the sober and perhaps ungainly realities of virtue, and so the scene for exhibition hath lost aU its beauty, we can nevertheless give our hand to its business; and, in the midst of much to nauseate and much to discourage us, it still abideth our ^ uppermost concern to do what we ought and to be what we ought. 6. And here we cannot fail to perceive that by the force of attention, a force imparted to it from the mere strength and urgency of principle, there is at length wrought out, and strenuously kept in operation over the mind, the very pathology, which the artist, anxious to awaken and perpetuate some certain emotions, brings to bear on the hearts of those to whom he arddresses himself. Let the painter, for example, attempt some pathetic repre¬ sentation ; and he will beware of introducing into UNDUE PLACE GIVEN TO THE EMOTIONS. 227 his performance aught that can at all disturb or diminish the sympathy of the observer. We are supposing that his object is not fidelity, but effect —the effect of as vivid and powerful a sympathy as he can possibly impress on the feelings of the spectator. He will suffer his pencil then to give forth all the indications of deepest poverty, but not the filth and nauseousness wherewith it is so often associated; and also to give forth the piteous and imploring aspect of distress in the sufferer* but not the expression of depravity and low dissi¬ pation wherewith it is so often mingled; and further to give forth the affection and the tender assiduity of his weeping relatives, but not the remorseless hardihood of soul that often in circum¬ stances even of extreme suffering has been known to sit on the countenance of an outlandish family; and furthermore to render with full efficacy that smile of mercy by which some affluent son or daughter of sensibility hath lighted up the scene, and that response of grateful emotion on the part of the household inmates, which gladdens and gleams upon them back again—but never would he once think of spoiling the whole representation, by depicting one feature or one token of that un¬ graciousness, wherewith the benevolence of actual life is so often exercised. And there is no doubt, that, by the help of all this singling out in the case of the provocatives to sympathy, and all this sinking and suppressing in the case of what might damp or extinguish it, he may succeed in offering such an exhibition, as could move to tragic sensi¬ bility the amateurs of emotion. ISow it is instruo 228 UNDUE PLACE GIVEN TO THE EMOTIONS, tive to observe, how it is that attention forces a way for us to the very same pathology—that it does, in the one case, what the skill of the artist hath accomplished in the other—that, fastening itself upon the one object of distress, it brings it out in more impressive colouring—that, in the intensity of its look towards this, it overlooks the very circumstances that are omitted hy the painter —and that thus, in virtue of principle, the man who goeth forth on the actual territory of human wretchedness, works and makes good his progress towards the very emotions, which, in virtue of a high effort of professional skill, has been brought to act on the passive and the indolent sentimentalist. We can be at no loss to decide, on which of the two the homage due to virtue should be awarded. The one has struggled his own way to that patho¬ logy which has been brought to the other’s door. The one had to fight against many adverse ele¬ ments ere he could realize it; while from the eye and the imagination of the other, these elements have been kept most carefully away. In virtue of attention doing in the one case, what the pencil had achieved in the other—each may have at length, but by very different processes, had their feelings engaged in substantially the same object; but while the one only wept over it in his easy chair— both the heart and the hand of the other were at the very spot, where the sacrifices of benevolence had to be made, where the services of benevolence had to be rendei*ed. 7. And we cannot leave the subject, without expressing it as our strong suspicion, whether UNDUE PLACE GIVEN TO THE EMOTIONS. 229 «ven our better works of fiction, while they have contributed so much to the delight, have contri¬ buted ought to the improvement of our species. The very best of them transport the imagination of their readers to some fairy land—a transcen¬ dental region that lies far aloft fiom the affaus and the doings of ordinary life ; and they who frequently indulge in the perusal of them, must be quite aware of the difference that there is between the sober hues of reality, and that preternatural colouring which tinges almost the whole romance and poetry of our modern literature. Our de¬ sire is for that which admits of familiar appli¬ cation to the houses and the bosoms and the business of men—and our dread of the works in question is, not only that in virtue of this remote¬ ness from the every-day concerns of humanity they are altogether useless—but, still more alarm¬ ing, that, in virtue of their chief appliance being to the pathology of our nature and not to its prin¬ ciples, the vigilance of the latter is lulled wholly asleep while the former is kept iu a state of indo¬ lent gratification. It is just because this pathology includes the emotions which are said to involve a moral feeling in them, that we hold every work addrest exclusively to this department of our nature to be so very dangerous—for, along with these emotions, it also includes all those baser propensities by the lawless indulgence of which a sore leprosy is inflicted on the whole moral temperament of man; and he who else might have stood proudly out among his fellow's, with all his pure and honourable delicacies untainted, becomes 230 UNDUE PLACE GIVEN TO THE EMOTIONS. the degraded bondsman of those vile and worthless affections which he has fostered by indulgence into a habit of domineering tyranny over him. It is be¬ cause pathology hath its elegancies, and its sympa¬ thies, and its powerful attractions for the imagina¬ tion and the heart, along w'ith its vicious excitements, that it is so insinuating—and, only conceive it to have full sway, which it is most likely to have over the disciples of that literature, where the supremacy of conscience is never once recognised and no place is given to her grave admonitions—and then, ac¬ complished in such schools as those of Sterne and Rousseau, we may have a whole generation of pretenders to virtue who to the pathos of most susceptible feelings add the pruriency of no less susceptible appetites; who can one hour weep in all the gracefulness of theatrical emotion, and at another wanton among the excesses of forbidden enjoyment; who can live in shameless defiance to the restraints of principle, and yet live in the deceitful complacency that they are w orshippers at her shrine. 8. So long as the slightest shade of uncertainty rests upon a question, w'e are not fond of dogma¬ tising ; but there is, at least, one deliverance upon works of fiction in the safety and the soundness of which we feel altogether confident. Did we hear of any one acquaintance who had now bidden his con¬ clusive adieu to them all, we would not have the slightest apprehension, lest either the moral or the intellectual of his natui*e should at all suffer by it. Did we hear of him on the other hand much and greedily addicted to the perusal of tl vm, we should tremble for the deterioration of both. UNDUE PLACE GIVEN TO THE EMOTIONS. 231 9. But there is another result still more im¬ portant. We are quite prepared to admit, that the affection of a mother for its young among the in¬ ferior animals, hath nought in it whatever of any moral characteristic; and may hence see how possible it is that the same thing may obtain of the similar affection in our own species. It is not conscience which prompts the attentions of a mother to her babe—and, apart from this faculty or its suggestions altogether, the affection that we now speak of may be felt in all its tenderness, and stand forth too in most graceful exhibition to the eye of him who is a tasteful admirer of human virtue. That instinct which leads to the forma¬ tion of a nest, or of a honey-comb, may indicate no sagacity whatever in the creature that possesses it_though the utmost sagacity in the Creator who implanted it—and, in like manner, the instinct which so links a mother to her offspring, whether among the inferior species or our own, may indi¬ cate no moral goodness on the part of her who is actuated thereby—though it most strikingly de¬ monstrate the care and goodness of Him, who hath established this most powerful affinity in a mother’s heart. Now the same holds true of other instinc¬ tive affinities of our nature. It holds true of com¬ passion. A sense of duty may guide us to the object by which this sensibility is awakened—and it may also fasten and perpetuate upon the object that attention by which the sensibility is upholden. But manifold are the occasions, on which, by the mere casualties of human intercourse, the excite¬ ments to this feeling come in our way; a fellow- 232 UNDUE PLACE GIVEN TO THE EMOTIONS. creature in distress, whether we will or not, is obtruded upon our notice; and the general sym¬ pathy that we have for those of our own kind, comes forth as urgently as irresistibly and as inde¬ pendently of all aid from principle, as doth the parental sympathy for those of our own family. The sight of a human being in the agonies of hunger, would draw it most powerfully out in any quarter of the world. It does so every day in the streets of London—and we have no doubt that it does so too in the lanes of Constantinople. It exists and hath constant operation, under all the diversities whether of national character or of religious faith— insomuch that pity for hunger in another, though not so strong, is nearly as universal as the appetite of hunger in oneself. Now, however startling the af¬ firmation should be, it is nevertheless most strictly and metaphysically true, that there may be just as little of virtue in the emotion as in the appetite. *Were it not for the perpetual recurrence of hunger, the human frame would speedily go into dissolution, even in the midst of the most abundant materials for upholding it—and, were it not for the action and reaction of sympathy, this abundance would not be enough diffused throughout the mass; and so a woeful havock be inflicted upon human society. And so instincts—most beneficial in¬ stincts are given—whose headlong urgency we obey, at the very time that conscience is fast asleep, and in a state of profoundest oblivion. And it is even so with many other of our emotions —with our sense of shame, that restrains us from the perpetration of many outrages—with our love UNDUE PLA.CE GUEN TO THE EMOTIONS. 233 Or glory, that leads to many a deed of patriotism —with our resentments, that act as a barrier of defence against the excesses of human violence— O with our fears, that make us shrink from the indig¬ nation of our fellow-men. It is by an adjustment and a balance among the various principles of their economy, that the other species of animals are upheld; and were any one of these principles struck out from among the laws of their constitu¬ tion, as the maternal sympathy for example, the species would rapidly disappear. And there is precisely a similar adjustment among ourselves— the play of many emotions whose complex result is the continued preservation of the human family; and which result might be arrived at, without one particle of virtue in the world. It is not that virtue does not scatter a thousand blessings in its train, and so as to form any society of men among whom it enters into a far more secure and happier commonwealth. But it is that the wisdom of God hath not left the^ existence of our species, essen¬ tially to depend on an element so frail and so fluctuating as their virtue—it is that, even in the utter absence of this ingredient from human affairs, the mechanism of society can be upheld and kept agoing, on the instincts which He hath Himself implanted in the human constitution. Hence it is that, in the very companionships of iniquity, natural affection and kindred sympathies and many of the virtues of trusty and sworn brotherhood are to be found; and so likewise, over the face of society at large, might there be witnessed the comely exhibition of many kind offices and manv 234 Ul 3UE PLACE GIVEN TO THE EMOTIONS, j respectable decencies, and all consisting with utter dormancy of what strictly and essentially la moral principle, 10. And ti)is, after all, might serve to convince us, how little it is that a sense of duty may enter as an element of influence or operation into the system of human life. There are shame, and pity, and anger, and other constitutional tendencies of our nature, that act as so many wholesome im¬ pulses ; and are of indispensable service to our species, without any care whatever on our part about doing as we ought or being as we ought. Each may walk in his own way just as he is driven—and, in tpe multiplicity of those influences 'svhich tell upon his heart and give movement to his history, it is altogether possible that the sense of right and of wrong may have no place. There is an instinctive delicacy, and an instinctive ten¬ derness, and an instinctive resentment which, by the force of a sympathy as constitutional as itself, might, without borrowing any aid from principle at all, rise even into the character of a generous or patriotic indignation; and thus show how, in per¬ fect agreement with the many noble or engaging attitudes which humanity can put on, in respect of that which is really or radically virtue, humanity may be altogether destitute. We know how taste and philosophy have been revolted by a doctrine that sounds so harshly in their ears, as that of man's deep and general depravity. It is a doc¬ trine, however, borne out by the phenomena of his moral nature; and the very same blow which strikes at the root of meagre sentimentalism, also UNDUE PLACE GIVEN TO THE EMOTIONS. 235 lays open the meagreness of an unsound or super¬ ficial theology. 11. The physiology of plants and of animals gives rise to many beauteous exhibitions—yet in neither should we ever look for that which is the constituting essence of virtue. Nevertheless in the absence of virtue, there may be the presence of a most engaging loveliness. And so the mere pathology of mind may give rise to many beau¬ teous exhibitions—yet unless when conscience intermeddles, there is not one particle of virtue in any of her emotions or her processes. Neverthe¬ less here also, in the absence of virtue, there may be the presence of that which poetry rejoices to seize upon. “Look thou abroad, says AkensidCj “ Look thou abroad through nature to the range Of planets, suns, and adamantine spheres, Wheeling unbroken through the void immense; And speak, O man, does this capacious scene. With half that kindling majesty dilate Xhy strong conception, as when Brutus rose Refulgent from the stroke of Csesar s fate, Amid the crowd of patriots; and his arm Aloft extending like eternal Jove When guilt brings down the thunder, called aloud On Tully’s name, and shook his crimson steel, And bade the father of his country hail 1 For lo the tyrant prostrate in the dust. And Rome again is free? Is aught so fair In all the dewy landscapes of the spring. In the bright eye of Hesper or the morn. In nature’s fairest form is aught so fair. As virtuous friendship ? As the candid blush Of him who strives with fortune to be just ? The graceful tear that streams for others’ woes! Or the mild majesty of private life, When peace with ever blooming olive crowns The gate ; when honour’s liberal hands effuse Unenvied treasures; and the snowy wings Of innocence and love protect the scene ?’ 336 UNDUE PLACE GIVEN TO THE EMOTIONS. 12. There can be no doubt, that, if conscience had at all times the place which Bishop Butler in his admirable disquisition hath assigned to it as its rightful station of ascendancy—that, if it acted as a regulator among the emotions, and so either fostered or repressed them according to the etfect of their indulgence upon the moral and physical good of the human family—these fascinating pic¬ tures would no longer float so exclusively as they have heretofore done in the dreams, in the phan¬ tasies, in the airy imaginations of poetry. They would come down from this mystic and ethereal region, and dwell imbodied upon Earth as so many substantial realities—and we despair not of those millennial days, .when the world shall be filled with them. This however will be the triumph, not of sensibility, but of virtue; and of a virtue, at the same time, which will not extinguish the sensibilities, but will guide them—in whose hand they will be the instruments of well-doing— and, under whose presiding authority, they will accomplish the purposes, for which they have been given. Then virtuous friendship will carry no delusion along with it—for now the emotions which enter into friendship, may centre upon a favourite and a selected object, and yet not be vir¬ tuous, any more in fact than the attachments w'hich obtain among inferior animals—yet these attachments may both be so beautifully pleasing in themselves, as to render them fair subjects for poetry, and at the same time so useful in the tqiecies where they are exemplified as to render them the fair subjects of benevolent gratulation UNDUE PLACE GIVEN TO THE EMOTIONS. 237 It is thus too that in our own species, there may be afforded many graceful exhibitions of conduct, to which we have been led, just as the lower animals are, by the spontaneous and wholly unregulated sympathies of our nature. There must be a misconception somewhere—there must be a carry¬ ing of the tastefulness over the truth—when the incense that should be offered to morality alone, is made to arise in poetic or sentimental homage to such exhibitions of our nature, as creatures incapable of morality are still as capable of as we. And it is thus that Dr, Brown, who stands unrivalled in the metaphysical department of his course, often fails in the ethical—which, with the ex¬ ception of some very admirable introductory chapters, is on the whole we think unsatisfactory and meagre. When he speaks of all the mothers who at this moment on the earth are exercised, and virtuously exercised, in maternal duties around the cradles of their infants—we are quite aware that these are duties wherewith principle has to do—for it were indeed a monstrous violation of principle to neglect them. But surely what of instinct there is in this process must be separable from what of principle there is in it—else there is not a mother that lives from the fiercest of those creatures which prey and prowl in the wil¬ derness, down to the loathsomest which breed in the midst of putrefaction, that does not admit of being morally eulogised—and that must unques¬ tionably be a delusion, which would so mix and so misnomer the^ things that be wholly distinct tne one from the other, as to affix the epithet of a 238 UNDUE PLACE GIVEN TO THE EMOTIONS. Virtue to a universal instinct of animated na¬ ture. 13. Even in the estimation of an earthly moralist, what is done under the impulse only of emotion is of a specifically distinct character from what is done at the bidding of principle. The two things are disparate; and he would hold it untrue, and unphilo- sophical to confound them. They have nought of a common quality between them ; or at least the former has nought whatever of that ethical quality which belongs to the latter, and which imparts to it its proper designation of virtuousness. The man who does a thing because pathologically inclined to do it, makes a different exhibition from the m^in who does the same thing because he has the sense or conviction that he ought. The second deed is that alone which should have desert awarded to it. The performer of the first deed secures no more by it in the way of desert, than by the beauty of his complexion—no more by the gracefulness of his instinctive and unregulated sensibilities than hy the gracefulness of his form. Doubtless he may be loved because of his fine and generous suscepti¬ bilities ; but so also may he he loved because of the attractions of his personal comeliness. And still it holds true, that no act should have the merit or the praise of righteousness awarded to it, unless done because of its righteousness. It may be done in the garb of virtue ; but to claim for it the rewards or the honours of virtue is altogether a delusion. 14. And the delusion will approve itself to be all the more aggravated, if we take into view the UNDUE PLACE GIVEN TO THE EMOTIONS. 239 actual state of humanity, and the constitution under which we are placed by the economy of the gospel. We are made welcome to all the privileges and the immunities of a perfect righteousness, achieved for us by another, and transferred to us, if we will submit to such an investiture. After this, Christianity refuses to entertain the claims of our own imperfect righteousness, even though done under a sense of duty, because done inadequately; or even though done to the full acquittal of what we owe to our fellow men, because short of a great and absolute principle, the only one which can be sustained under the high jurisprudence of heaven-^- that is because wanting in the spirit of a full alle¬ giance to our alone rightful lawgiver, it is not done unto God. If then the plea ot our own righteous¬ ness is disowned at the bar of the Eternal, because though the moral ingredient be there, it is there but partially and insufficiently, and the offering - altogether is tainted with other ingredients—what becomes of the plea, not of our virtues but of our sensibilities, where the moral ingredient is altogether wanting ? And yet the delusive imagination of a worth and a merit in these sensibilities, is very often to be met with in society; and in circum¬ stances too, where it is most painful to encounter it—as when the bereaved mother, after that her infant has been deposited in an early tomb, cherishes the treacherous complacency that her tenderness and tears will arise in acceptable me¬ morial before God; and so open a way for that heaven where, in blissful reunion with all that is dear to her, she wdll be compensated at the 240 UNDUE PLACE GIVEN TO THE EMOTIONS. last for the agony of her now wounded affections. To discourage an anticipation so fond and so beau¬ tiful as this, would seem to require a certain amount of hardihood, nay might provoke the anti¬ pathies of aggrieved nature, against that stern theology which knows not how to soften or relent even before the most gracefully touching of all spectacles. And hence the exceeding delicacy of that task, which often comes in the way of a con¬ scientious minister, whose duty it is to weep with them who weep; but who must not forget that Christianity is firm as well as merciful, and, while exuberant of comfort to all who comply with its overtures, it is not a comfort which as the ambas¬ sador of his Master in heaven he can dare to minister at the expense of principle and truth. 15. But not only does a right view of the emo¬ tions enable us to expose this great practical delu¬ sion. We have long thought that there is a view which might be taken of them, that would .ead to the establishment of a right philosophy regarding the varieties of character which obtain among men. Those laws, by which certain emo¬ tions stand related to certain counterpart objects, may be regarded as so many laws of human nature —as that by which the view of suffering, is follow^ed up by the sense of compassion; and that by which the view of incongruity, is followed up by a sense of ridicule; and that by wdiich the view of novelty, is followed up by a sense of wmnder ; and that by which the view of injustice, is followed up by a sense or feeling of resentment; and lastly that by UNDUE PLACE GIVEN TO THE EMOTIONS. 241 which the view of grandeur or beauty, is followed up by a sense of tasteful ana delighted admiration. Now while it is impossible not to admit a very wide variety both of taste and character among men, it does not follow that in any instance there has taken place the reversal of any such laws as we have just been announcing. That is, the view of another s pain, if the naked unaccompanied object of contemplation at the time, is never we apprehend followed up by any other emotion than that of compassion or sympathy; and generally each elementary object seen simply and by itself, divested of*all association with other objects, must awaken in every bosom its own appropriate and counterpart emotion—or, in other words, human nature is so constituted, and maintains such a degree of identity throughout all its specimens, as that all men must compassionate distress, must laugh at incongruity, must feel surprised at novelty, must resent injustice, must admire beauty_pro¬ vided that these objects be viewed by them singly, or that these and no others be present to the mind for the time beiiiff. O 16. But how then does it consist with such a representation, that men are so differently affect¬ ed by the same spectacle ? One man will laugh, while another sheds tears of pity at the same exhi¬ bition of distress. The very combat from which some wmuld recoil with horror, will draw around it an exulting and ferocious multitude, looking on with savage glee to the scene of violence, and find¬ ing an ultimate satisfaction in the death of one or other of their unhanpy victims. I'he cold-blooded VOL. V. r 242 UNDUE PLACE GIVEN TO THE EMOTIONS, physiologist, if necessary for the prosecution of his researches into the laws of vitality or sensation, will execute some process of lingering torture which himself hath devised—the very sight of which would agonize the feelings of other and ordinary men. And then, what can be more palpable than, not the reluctance, but the positive delight w'hich men experience, on the infliction of pain—when wreaking their ire on the delinquent who has trespassed upon their dignity or their rights? In these and manv other instances, do not differ- ent men exhibit what may be termed reverse phenomena; and so prove of different human minds that the same object will excite in them respectively, not the same, but very different emotions ? 17. But it is forgotten that, in one and the same spectacle, different objects may be presented to us ; and that thus one or other of the emotions may be awakened by that spectacle, according as one or other of the objects may be present to the mind. Take any one of the foregoin'g examples, as that of the experimentalist on the laws of animal physiology, who looks, and per¬ haps with delighted interest, to the evolution of those phenomena which are called forth b}' the quiverings of agonized nature. It follows not that his mind is so differently constituted from that of other men, as to experience any other emotion than that of compassion in the view of pain, if beheld simply and by itself; but, in this instance, another and distinct object offers itself to the mind, even that of discovery, and the corre- UNDUE PLACE GIVEN TO THE EMOTIONS. 243 sponding emotion is evoked by it—that either of an urgent or of a gratified curiosity; and so, without any reversal of the general law of all minds, even that by which the sight of pain and the feeling of sympathy stand related to each other, as the terms of a sequence, is the latter emotion only kept in check, or overborne by the superior force of another, and in this case, a more powerful emotion. Were suffering and nothing else present to his mind, sympathy and nothing else would be called forth by the spectacle before him. To this extent, we hold an identity among all men; and that the distinction of character between one man and another, lies, not in aught so anomalous as that each mind should vary from all the rest in having its own peculiar elementary laws of emo¬ tion, but that the diversity lies in the different relative strength of these emotions—so that when two or more come into play, on the presentation of one and the same spectacle, the result, proceed¬ ing in all instances from the victory of the stronger over the weaker, will depend on the superior promptitude or power of one emotion in one mind, of another emotion in another mind. 18. One emotion might counteract another and prevail over it. But it follows not that the weaker emotion is extinguished, and far less that it is re¬ versed. On the contrary, if we wanted the animal experimentalist to desist from his processes of cruelty, we should try to fix his attention on the agony of the poor sufferer—the last thing wm should do, if we thought, that, in opposition to the general law, there was a delight in the contem- 244 UNDUE PLACE GIVEN TO THE EMOTIONS. plation of the agony even viewed by itself instead of an aversion to it. If indeed there be a reversal of the law of compassion in his particular case— then to expatiate on the magnitude of the pain he was inflicting, were the way of luring him onward to the torture, instead of causing him to falter from it—whereas it is on this very sensibility that we calculate, and to which we make our appeal, when, in the name of humanity, we ofler our remon¬ strances against some dreadful perpetration. The workings of compassion, indeed, are quite obvious, even in the very descriptions of those who retail to us their proceedings in this horrid walk of dis- coveiy—as when they tie up particular nerves, and do their uttermost to lessen the pain of their ill-fated victims, save when necessary for the eluci¬ dation of the yet secret principle they are in quest of, and for which they are probing their way among the innermost recesses of vitality and feel¬ ing. The hardihood of these fell inquisitors does not arise from a mental constitution so difFering with that of other men, as that the law of com¬ passion is repealed; and an opposite law, the law of cruelty, is substituted in its place. It arises from a conflict between the law of compassion, still in undoubted operation within them, and a more powerful antagonist, which is the principle of curiosity, urging them onw'ard to a deed of inhumanity—not because of the sufferings which are thereby inflicted, but truly in spite of these sutrerings. The same holds true of reveno-e which willingly inflicts chastisement, up to a parti¬ cular measure or amount j but beyond that would UNDUE PLACE GIVEN TO THE EMOTIONS. 245 begin to relent, and could go no farther. It is not that the sympathy only begins at this point; but this is the point at which it becomes so power¬ ful as then to prevail over the resentment. Beneath this point it existed, though less powerfully—over¬ borne, but never obliterated. The differing results, in these cases of mental dynamics, do not arise from any difference in the kind, but only in the composition of the forces—even as in the material world, the results may be infinitely varied, only by the forces being variously compounded, while there obtain the same laws of impulse in all. 19. If there be truth in this speculation, then, moral deformity, even in its most frightful exhibi¬ tions, might arise, not from a reversal of any of the good or benevolent emotions, but only from their defect—from the want and weakness of certain of the emotions, and the prevalence of others over them. For a man to be a monster, he does not need to have an abstract love of cruelty—he does not need to be under the impulse of an emotion, the direct opposite of compassion—. it is enough that he be without compassion, or rather, that it should be so inert and inoperative, as to present a feeble barrier, when the tempta¬ tions of cupidity or revenge would hurry him onwards to the fulfilment of these other desires, though at the expense of blood and violence. To be an unnatural son, it is not necessary that the instinct of relationship should be converted into its opposite—it is enough that the instinct be wanting—that he te without natural aflectioii—so that if the accursed love of ^old shall have the 246 UNDUE PLACE GIVEN TO THE EMOTIONS. mastery over him, the affection shall not stand in the way, when he either leaves a father to starve, or even lifts the hand of a parricide to destroy him. There is not an atrocity of human wicked¬ ness, which might not be resolved this way, into mutilation or defect—and so as strikingly to confirm the views of the old schoolmen on the privative character of evil. They might, one and all of them, be characterised by negations, as unfeeling, inhuman, cold-blooded, heartless—all which terms bespeak not the reversal of any of the emotions, but the indefinite reduction of certain of them towards zero—so that the other emotions might hold unresisted sway over the man, whose mental constitution has lost the balance of the average or every-day character in society. 20. But this variety of character between one man and another does not proceed altogether from a difference in the pathological constitutions. The direction and habit of their attention towards one object rather than another, have an important share in the explanation. And we have already laboured to demonstrate the importance of atten¬ tion as a faculty, that, to a great extent, is under the control of the will—and therefore a faculty for the exercise of which we are morally responsible ; insomuch that through its means the mind may keep itself perpetually awake to one set of the emotions, and either shut out or bid away another set of them. It is thus that though one certain emotion were the rigid and necessary result of die mind being in contact, either by outward perception UNDUE PLACE GIVEN TO THE EMOTIONS. 247 or by thought, witli a given object—yet, never¬ theless, the state of our emotions is to a certain degree dependent upon the will; seeing that the will can make its escape from one object, and shift or transfer its regards to another—and thus, by the simple power of attention, become alive to those emotions which it chooses to uphold, and become dead to those which it chooses to extin¬ guish. We have already instanced, and with sufficient explicitness, how it is that a sense of the duty of beneficence gives such a direction to this faculty of attention, as both to stimulate and up¬ hold within us our emotions of sympathy with distress—and how, at the same time, it withdraws the mind from those objects that might else have lighted up the quick emotion of impatience and disgust, and so have driven us away from the services of charity. And this enabled us to pre¬ sent a comparative estimate as to character and worth, between the benevolence of a steady con¬ scientious hard-working principle, and the bene¬ volence of a soft and weeping sentimentalism. 21. In this case the attention in the act of fixing itself upon one object, is withdrawn from the objects that are placed perhaps at some little distance and separately around it—just as when on looking with intentness to the sickly and im¬ ploring visage of an agonized sufferer, we could not at the same time look to the sensitive and even to the moral abominations that oft are huddled together in the same apartment with that extreme wretchedness which is before us. This we have already adverted to, and to the important operation 248 UNDUK PLACE GIVEN TO THE EMOTIONS. of it in bearing onward the virtues of principle to their final accomplishment. But it has not yet Deen so distinctly insisted on, that in one and the same object there are blended together various characteristics, on any one of which the attention may singly be fastened; and if singly, then exclu¬ sively. Thus great distress and great depravity may meet together upon one object—and, such may our attention be to the former, that the sym¬ pathy awakened thereby is not at all deadened from our view of the latter; or, there may be great distress and most loathsome disgustfulness— yet, such may be the power of a stedfast and unfaltering regard upon the one, that the other cannot dispost compassion from its rightful pre- ponderancy—and so, though the will cannot abro¬ gate that pathological law of our nature by which a given object stands related with its corresponding emotion, yet the will can select an object or one feature of an object out of several more, and by bolding it before the eye of the mind can both bring the right emotion into the heart, and send forth the right impulse upon the history. 22. The most striking example of two emotions very unlike tlie one to the other, and yet capable of being excited, not merely by the same object but by the same event or circumstance that hath befallen it, is that of mirth when the object is viewed in one light, and of sympathy when it is viewed in another. A sense of the ludicrous arises from the sudden perception of some unlooked for incongruity in the objects that are placed before us—a theory wliich becomes still more compre- UNDUE PLACE GIVEN TO THE EMOTIONS. 249 hensive of the phenomena of laughter, when, in the language of Dr. Brown, the perception is farther extended from that of incongruity in images supposed to be congruous, to that of unexpected congruity developed in images that were before supposed to be opposite in kind. He adds, that, “ the sudden perception of these discrepancies and agreements may be said to be that which consti¬ tutes the ludicrous—the gay emotions being imme¬ diately subsequent: to, the mere perception of the unexpected relation.** 23. It is a most instructive thing on the subject of human character, to observe how differently the same exhibition tells upon two individuals. The fall of an acquaintance may either amuse or alarm us, according as we look to the awkwardness of the fall or to its severity. It is thus that two men looking to the same fall may be so differently affected by it—the one in the first way, the other in the second. We cannot fix with either of them on the very point, when the awkwardness and the severity are so compromised, as to bring the mind into a midway or debateable state between the gay and the serious emotion. But we can see very clearly, that, with various characters, the point is variously situated; that one will cease to laugh and begin to feel much sooner than another; that with some spectators it would require a much larger degree of suffering to stop their merriment —and so a gradation is observable, from those who by the slightest reflection on the pain that may have been incurred would instantly change the mood of their spirits, to those again who could 250 UNDL'P n.ACK GIVEN TO THE EMIITIONS. Still look spofliv-ely o.'-., atnl send forth an ecstasy of inhuinan delight in the ihce of agony the most palpable and excruciating. 24. It were well that we looked with observant eye even upon the most familiar exhibitions of our nature—and we therefore make no apology for fetching our illustrations, from the scenes and the recollections of our every-day experience. 25. We may have remembered witnessing the difference that we now speak of among children of the same family—a certain mischievous roguery practised by so many of them on the domestic animals, and that involved in it some degree at least of suffering—and the revolt of pained and offended sensibility that was felt in consequence by some others of them. W'e might particularly instance of the boys, how it was a sense of the ludicrous that chiefly predominated with them— while the girls, with the characteristic tenderness of their sex, are most alive to the sympathy—and accordingly upon these occasions, the former were generally brought in as the defaulters, and the latter appeared as the informers or the plaintiffs, moved alike with pity towards suffering, and with indignation against the wanton infliction of it. 26. Again, we may oft have witnessed how soon the ludicrous propensity that had been excited by a fall, was checked and superseded by the other emotion in one set of spectators, on discovery that some hurt had been sustained—yet not universally so, for the very limp or contortion or vociferous outcry that gave evidence to the pain, would just minister food to this propensity with another set of UNDUli PLACE GIVEN TO THE EMOTIONS. 251 spectators, and cause them break forth into a still louder ecstasy than before. 27. Nay it is even conceivable, and we do think fairly within the probabilities of a nature so varie¬ gated in its specimens as ours—that some very dreadful result may have come out of such an accident—and weeping relatives may have congre¬ gated around it—and altogether the character of the thing in itself, as well as its accompaniments, may be just tragical enough to have arrested into a grave and even afflictive sympathy the general multitude'who had flocked to witness it—yet not so tragical as to have carried a certain few of hardier temperament over the march of separation between a state of levity and a state of seriousness —insomuch that one can figure a few stout and confirmed associates in blackguardism, who might stand their ground against a representation that softened all but themselves, and even lift up the shout of a brutal exultation, though they had to make instantaneous escape from the indignancy of a crowd who thought more correctly and felt more tenderly than they. 28. It is painful to follow out these exhibitions of our species into the cases of a still more mon¬ strous and unequivocal atrocity—when a savage enjoyment seems to be felt in the very spectacle ' of human agony—when the writhings of a sentient creature in torment can be looked upon, not with coldness alone, but with positive complacency—as in the cruelties of an Indian torture, which are not only witnessed but inflic.ted with barbarian trans¬ port upon its unhafipy victim 5 or in those religioua 252 UNDUE PLACE GIVEN TO THE EMOTIONS. martyrdoms, when the tyrants of ancient or the inquisitors of modern Rome, could, from some proud and purple eminence, feast their eyes on the last quiverings of agonized nature. 29. Yet, in spite of all these authentic displays which have been given of the character of man, we are not able to say that the wretchedness of one man is the object of delight to another for its own sake—or that when viewed singly and apart from every accompaniment, there is any other emotion within the limits of our nature beside that of sym¬ pathy which will respond to it. The importance of this question must excuse our dwelling upon it —for we hold it to be both most interesting in it¬ self, and most pregnant with inference and useful application in the science of morals. The ques¬ tion is—whether, when any suffering is viewed by itself and as a separate object of contemplation, there be a proper and primitive tendency in any human mind whatever to any other emotion than that of sympathy—so as that ivhen one man looks on with pleasure and another with pain, it is be¬ cause of such a difference in their pathological con¬ stitutions, that even though the very same object should be regarded- singly by each, it is followed up in them by wholly opposite emotions: Or, whe¬ ther the difference is not rather owing to this, that, while the one may be looking singly to the object by which compassion is awakened and feels it accord¬ ingly, the other is looking to a distinct object and is therefore under the power of a distinct emotion. Both may be looking at the same time to a sen¬ tient creature in distiessi and were both looking UNDUE PLACE GIVEN TO THE EMOTIONS. 253 to the distress alone, the one with sympathy and the other with satisfaction, then we should under¬ stand that each was under a different law, in re¬ gard to the kind of emotion in the heart that fol¬ lowed up the view of one and the same object in the mind. And the question is, whether this be really so ; or whether it is not rather that, though each be looking to the same object in the gross, that is to a fellow-creature in agony—yet each is looking to a different thing, distinct the one from the other, though each suggested no doubt by the view of this fellow-creature—in which case the compassion of the first observer and the cruelty of the second would not arise from this, that the same simple object awakened two different emo¬ tions in two different breasts—but it would arise from this, that the same complex object suggested two simple objects that were distinct the one from the other; and that, solely on account of the dif¬ ference of these last suggested objects it was, that the emotions were different. 30. Should this really be the case, then there might be no such thing as abstract delight in another’s pain—and, strong as certain appearances may be to the contrary, we feel strongly inclined to this opinion. We have already seen that the two distinct objects of awkwardness and severity might be blended together into one exhibition. When we look to the former of them we laugh; but could we become altogether rid of that con¬ ception and transfer our mind wholly to the latter of them, we should sympathize. We may remem¬ ber the entervumnent wiierewith we have looked 254 UNDUE PLACE GIVEN TO '^HE EMOTIONS, to the juvenile eiToris ul' very young eliikireii, when they attempt to draw the human figure, and set before us some grotesque picture of dispropor¬ tion or deformity. This is purely ludicrous ; but it is a ludicrous thing that may be realized in the distortions of the countenance, or those writhings of the body, or even those mutilations, that are caused by the inflictions of violence upon the human frame—and monsters there are, who, over¬ looking the anguish, could make their barbarous frolic with the mere uncouthness of its visible in¬ dications. Still it is of importance to know, that a something else than the mere naked pain of the sufferer, hath occasioned this levity on the part of one of the spectators—that if his heart have been occupied with another emotion from that of the compassionate spectator, it is because his mind hath been occupied with another object—that if he feel in a wrong way it is because he looks in a wrong way—and what makes him the rightful subject of deepest moral indignation is not, that, with a ludicrous object once in possession of his mind, a sense of the ludicrous should lord it over him—but that in such circumstances he could attend to the ludicrous at all—that he had eyes for any thing else than the helpless and imploring agony which was depicted before him—that with such resistless claims as the pleading voice and the piteous look of a fellow-mortal in some dire extremity of wretchedness had upon his attention, he should gaze u])on any thing else, he should turn him to any other quarter of contemplation. 31. And here it should be remembered that we UNDUE PLACE GIVEN TO THE EMOTIONS. 255 do not look on the emotion of ridicule as the only one, by which the emotion of sympathy can be ovei'borne. This were far from an adequate explanation of cruelty, or of the apparent delight wherewith one man can regard the sufferings of another, or even lift his own arm for the purpose of inflicting them. There are many other emotions by which that of sympathy may be displaced—yet all of them serve to confirm our general theory— that there is nought in the one object of distress to awaken any thing else than compassion in any bosom—but that this object may be so complicated with others, as that it cannot be regarded without the suggestion of these others to the mind; and without making it possible for the will to pick and choose amongst them as it were, and to select that one object upon which the attention shall dwell— and it is by this volition, whether only conceived once and easily persevered in afterwards, or whether like to falter among the horrors of the scene it had to be upheld by many subsequent volitions or by a strenuous or sustained effort of resolution—it is by this volition we say that the whole atrocity and guilt of savage cruelty is in¬ curred. Now a ludicrous object is certainly one of those which may withdraw the mind from the proper object of sympathy—but it is far from being the only one. Tliere might be the animating plea¬ sure of the chase, as in hunting—there might be the general appetite for excitement, as at those execu¬ tions when multitudes assemble and many weep over the tragedy that is acted there—there might be an urgent lust after money, an in the robbers of the 256 UNDUE PLACE GIVEN TO THE EMOTIONS. highway—there might be a domineering ambition that must clear away every obstacle in its career, and ratber wade in blood than not reach the pin¬ nacle of splendour or of fame from which its eye never wavers—there might be the ardour of scien¬ tific discovery, or perhaps the vanity of displaying it, as in those shocking experiments that are made upon animal life and animal sensation—there might be a keen sense of injustice goading impetuously forward to revenge, as in war among the sons of boasted civilization, when the scaled and the stormed city is devoted to the massacre of its families; or in war among savages, when all the ingenuities of torture are heaped upon a single captive, and a whole tribe holds jubilee over the dreadful perpetration. Even in these most aggra¬ vated instances, we still hold that there is no such thing as cruelty in the abstract—that the law of our nature by which the sight of distress brings on the feeling of commiseration is not reversed even then, but only overpowei'ed by other and at the time stronger laws. It is of importance as a philosophical tenet—and we deem of still mightier importance in its practical applications, if it shall be found that even in the worst cases of cruelty, the emotion of sympathy at the sight of suffering hath not been changed into its opposite—but it hath only been supplanted by other and at the moment painfuller emotions. 32. The great law of our sentient nature differs not even among the agents of an Indian execution, from that which obtains auiong all the other mem¬ bers of the great human family. The appropriate UNDUE PLACE GIVEN TO THE EMOTIONS. 257 emotion to distress, nmong savages too, is one of tenderness—and it only appears otherwise because warped and complicated with other emotions. The cruelty is indicted, not because of the pleasure it affords to the perpetrators, but in spite of its painfulness—and they need the most powerful stimulants to urge them onward. In this scene of horrors there are many elements at work; and when one bethinks him of the fell revenge, and the glory that is there ascrilied to the suppression of all the womanish sensibilities, and the spiriting on of the young to acts of daring hardihood, and above all the superstitious imagination that by every pang which the captive is made to feel a fresh gleam of delight shoots into the souls of those relatives who have fallen—there might be enough to convince us even here, that the law by which distress and sympathy are linked together is still the unexcepted law of our nature—though its operation be suspended at the time when the mind, wholly occupied with other objects, resigns itself wholly to the play of other emotions. 33. It is a question of far greater practical im¬ portance than it may appear at first sight, whether the same simple object, Avhen viewed alone by any two individuals, is not always followed up by one and the same simple emotion, with greater or less degrees of sensibility no doubt according to the habit and temperament of each ; but still, with the very same emotion in kind, though greatly different it may be in intensity. For if it be really the same, then the obvious lesson is, that, to secure a right state of emotion iu the heart, we have nothing 258 undue place given to the emotions. to do but to look steadily at the appropriate object Avitli the eye of the mind—steadily resisting the intrusion of all other objects, that might draw us away from that one, which it is mainly and pro¬ perly our business to attend to. We may thus be made to see how great and powerful an instrument attention is, in the business of moral discipline— not that it can change the laws of pathology—^but that it can convey the mind, as it were, to the right place where that one law operates, by which there is awakened within us the right and the desirable emotion—not that it can reverse any one succession in the processes of pathology, causing the pain of another for example to produce com¬ passion if it before produced levity in our bosoms; but that it can recall us from the contemplation of that object which gave rise to the levity, to the contemplation of that other object which when viewed with stedfast and undistracted regard, al¬ ways will give rise to the compassion. It prevents a waste of exertion, w hen, in the business of moral culture, w'e distinguish aright what w'e can do from what we cannot do. We cannot so alter the economy of mind, as to dissolve the connexion that subsists betw'een the certain object and its certain emotion—any more than we can alter the laws of attraction or impulse in the material economy. But it is much if we can, by a faculty that is in any degree under the control of will, bring our mind into contact with one object and withdraw it from another. It is thus, in fact that we might escape from one emotion, and submit ourselves to the power of another. It is thus, and thus VNDUE PL.4CE fJJYliN TC TII.T EMOTIONS. 259 alone, we apprehend, that we are responsible for cur emotions. 34 . It must now be quite palpable, why it is that the object of a sentient and at the same time suffering creature, awakens such very different emotions in the bosoms of different individuals— the mental eye of each, though directed to the same object in the gross, in fact, resting upon separate parts of it distinct and diverse the one from the other—the first perhaps engaged with a view of the suffering alone, as in the case of the philanthropist—the second with some comic exhi¬ bition afforded by the cries or movements of the sufferer, as in the case of some reckless and unfeel¬ ing reprobate—the third with his guilt, as in the case of that man whom he may have deeply injured, and who now breathes vindictiveness against him —and, lastly, for we cannot count up all the varie¬ ties, the fourth with some striking or singular exhibition that he makes of himself in the moments of his anguish, as in the case of a spectator at a public execution, who eyes the wretched victim with intense curiosity, or as the philosopher does when he prosecutes his bloody experiments on the physiology of animals. It is thus that neither the man of compassion, nor the man of cruelty, may delight himself with pain when viewed in its state of abstract and unmingled separation—and that when the latter rejoices, either in the view or in the infliction of it, it is not that the law which connects suffering with sympathy differs in his mind from that of another—but it is that, looking to somewhat else than the mere suffering of the 2G0 UNDUr, I’l.ACE GIVEN' TO THE EMOTIONS. object, he liath resigned himself to some other emotion by which the emotion of sympathy is over¬ borne. 35. There is instruction to be gathered upon this topic, even from the dreadful mysteries of a slaughter-house. We may have heard of the lingering deaths that many an animal has to under¬ go, for the gratification of a refined epicurism. It were surely most desirable that the duties, if they may be so called, of a most revolting trade, were all of them got over with the least possible expense of suffering—nor do we ever feel so painfully the impression of a lurking cannibalism in our nature, as when we think of the intense study which has been given to the connexion, between the mode of killing and the flavour or delicacy of those viands that are served up, to the mild and pacific and gentle-looking creatures, who form the grace and ornament of our polished society. One is almost tempted, after all, to pronounce them so many savages in disguise—and upon this subject we are forcibly reminded of that scriptural image, “ the whole creation groaning and travailing together in pain” because of that arch devourer man, who stands pre-eminent over the fiercest children of the wilderness as an animal of prey. But we must readi¬ ly allow, that, on the part of the consumer in this process, the law which binds together a view of suffering with a feeling of sympathy is not reversed —for, in truth, the suffering is not in the view at all; it is scarcely, if ever, thought of. And as to those again whose bloody hands have perpetrated the deed of violence, we believe, that if one w«‘re UNDUE PLACE GIVEN TO THE EMOTIONS. 2o 1 to look, with an observant eye on the elements which be at work, or which have previously ( t-eu at work within them, it will be found, that, in k * one instance, is the alacrity wherewith they can plunge the knife into a warm and palpitating bosom, resolvible into a process, the opposite of that by which the simple view of pain, gives rise to the simple emotion of pity. It is not in consequence of any such opposite law, but in spite of the uni¬ versal law of humanity. Upon inquiry into the education of butchers, it will be found, that, instead of receiving aid from any original law of nature in their bosoms, by which the pain of another was followed up with pleasure in oneself— that, instead of this, all the relentings of nature had to be overcome—a struggle had to be made, and other emotions were pressed into the service, that the one troublesome emotion of sympathy, might be effectually overruled. We can be at no loss to understand what these other emotions or influences are—the absolute need of a livelihood— the love of gain—even the family affections coming into play, when the connexion was adverted to between the business of one’s profession and a pro¬ vision for his children—and then, there is the spirit¬ ing on of the uninitiated—the factitious conjuring up even of something like a sense of honour, in the manly acquittal of themselves, on their first or earli¬ est attempts at the trade of slaughter—the rivalsuip of young apprentices, with whom a resolute and unshrinking hardihood will confer the same proud distinction, that adventure does in the chase, or that prowess does in war—and, opposite to this, 262 UNDUE PLACE GIVEN TO THE EMOTIONS, the contempt of all his fellows, should any one falter or fall away at the moment of execution—a tenderness of spirit incurring the very same re¬ proach among the members of this profession, that a fearfulness of spirit or cowardice does among the members of another. These are the strong elements by which strong emotions are fetched up on the heart from other quarters, and all of which are often necessary to be put into operation, ere its native sympathies can be overpowered. After which, we admit, that a feebler principle than any of these may be able to carry it over the now tamed and subdued sensibilities, which at the outset were so difficultly brought under. Even a principle, so feeble as that of an idle or professional curiosity, might then lead these stout and hacknied practitioners, to deeds of atrocious wantonness. The most appalling confession that we ever heard upon this subject, was given by one of the brother¬ hood with whom upon this very topic, we deemed it of importance to hold a most minute and search¬ ing conversation; and who reported of one of his fellow-savages, that, instead of the one deep and deadly incision which he ought to have given, it was his habit at times to do the work by halves, and then suspend the wounded animal by the feet when it had to welter long in agony ere it expired. The recital is just distressing enough—but we resolved, if possible, to get at the motive which could prompt so horrid a barbarity—and the ipsissima verba of the explanation was “ that he just wanted to see how it w'ould carry on.” The truth is, that, at this stage of their education, the UNDUE PLACE CrIVEN TO TUE EMOTIONS. 263 suflerings which they infliet are about as much out of sight as they are out of sympathy. T.'hey posi¬ tively do not think of them. They are not present to the mind by reflection—and therefore it is that they are not present to the heart in the way of commiseration. The insensibility and the incon¬ sideration are strongly and intimately linked the one with the other. In the act of felling a sentient creature, and dividing it into fragments, he no more thinks of sensation than were he splitting down a block into pieces of firewood. With him it comes at length to be an act in every way as cold-blooded and mechanical, as that of the man who puts forth all his strength and skill upon inanimate substances. And so it is with the men of this, as it is with the men of every other calling. They take a very keen interest in any thing that relates to their trade. And when they meet .ogether, even though with their wives and families, heir whole talk is about their trade. And should any one of them be so far overtaken with the infir¬ mities of nature, as to be laid up from the business of his vocation, still will he keep alive in his heart a most affectionate remembrance of the trade. And this is the true rationale of a story, that we know to be authentic, but which is just a story of that kind that one knows not whether to laugh or to crv at the recital of it. A certain senior of this profession, after having realized a handsome com¬ petency, withdrew from the labours of it. He had by this time fully entered on Shakspeare’s sixth age in the drama of life, when man descends into the lean and slippered pantaloon—and thought 264 UNDUE PLACE GIVEN TO THE EAIOT himself now fuliv entitled to a perfect immunity from all sorts of anxiety and fatigue, during the remainder of his days. Even he however at length felt, as other men of business do, the irksomeness of total vacanc}''—and was accordingly visited with a strong hankering after his wonted occupation. A neighbour meeting liim one day remarked, that he understood him to have now retired from busi¬ ness—and as our pursuit is after the genuine exhibition of human nature—we must give his answer in all its native and characteristic freshness. He said—that he had retired, excepting that now and then “ he just sticket a lamb for his diver¬ sion.” 36. The amusement of such a story flows from a principle, by the help of which we shall now complete all the explanation which we have to offer upon this subject. We feel quite sure that the act now quoted would be no diversion to any of our readers; but that each and all of them would personally recoil from it with the utmost horror. What then is it that hath ministered to their diversion at the moment of perusal ? How comes the narrative of a thing to entertain—when the thing itself, and more especially M ere it pro¬ posed that M e should be the agents in this deed of violence, M ould be utter abomination to us. What incongruity is it that is in our mind’s eye, M’hen we thus come under the poM'er of the ludicrous emotion? The poor and innocent suflerer Me scarcely if at all so much as think of—and it is not in this quarter «’here the incongruity lies, it lies altogether in the very odd exhioition of fiuman UNDUE PLACE GIVEN TO THE EMOTIONS. 265 character, that is ffiven forth upon the occasion. Our attention does not rest upon the victim, but wholly upon the executioner—and as much of the ludicrous consists in the want of keeping between one object and another, or betw'een the several parts and features of the same object—it is really at present in the want of keeping, between the decent circumstances and hospitalities and neigh¬ bour-like manners of our aged acquaintance on the one hand, and the kind of savage evolution that he makes of himself in this instance upon the other—or rather perhaps between the horrid and revolting thing which he said, and the perfect unconsciousness of the man that there was any thing at all horrid or revolting about it—or, wliat might aggravate still more our sense of the ridi¬ culous, between the shudder of painful emotion that he inflicted upon his hearers, and his own thorough freedom from all emotion upon the sub¬ ject. Certain it is, at all events—that the zest of this story lies not in any savage satisfaction felt by the hearers, from their attention being directed to a spectacle of agony in one of another species_ but it lies in the light and ludicrous emotion wliich is awakened, from the attention being directed to a most incongruous exhibition of phases on the aspect and character of one of our own species. 37. And here it is, that we come in sight of what we have long regarded, as one of those most powerful and pernicious influences, that operate so mischievously in the education of a finished reprobate. The direct atrocity from w'hich he iumseif would shrink at the outset of his career, voi . V. M 266 UNDUE PLACE GIVEN TO THE EMOTIONS. is practised without a sigh by some hardier and more advanced disciple in the school of wickedness. It is from him in the first instance that the lesson is learned and practised. It is through a liking and an admiration of him that the yet trembling and unconfirmed noviciate is brought into contact with all the enormities of guilt. Did theft or impurity or murder glare upon him at once in all their direct horrors or deformity, they might have re¬ pelled his first approximation, and kept him at a still wider and more resolute distance from vice than before. But, instead of this, they are soften¬ ed as it were by reflection from the character of one who is fully initiated; and with the very excesses of whose depravity there are blended something to admire, and something even which ministers to the gratification of a ludicrous propen¬ sity. There can be no doubt that the kind of homage which is rendered to intrepidity in war, is also rendered among the outlaws and desperadoes of every community to audacity and crime—that he who hath cast farthest away from him the scruples of conscience, is signalized among his fellows in the very manner that he is who hath cast away from him the scruples of cowardice—• that he who hath got the better of his feelings, is regarded in somewhat a kindred light with him who hath got the better of his fears—that sensi¬ bility, whether to feeling or to principle, is put to scorn amongst them as a sort of unmanly squeam¬ ishness. There is, we have often thonght, a deal of instruction to be gathered, as to the marveis and the mysteries of our nature, evon from the UNDUE PLACE GIVEN TO THE EMOTIONS. 267 low slan£f of blackguardism—and we can there observe, that the very epithet of chicken-hearted, which is applied to tiiose who are subject to the tremors of cowardice, is also applied to those wko are subject to the relentings of humanity. To school these down then, is an achievement, if we may so term it, of moral strength, that gives a certain air of romance and even sublimity to those outcasts of the species—and hath most assuredly thrown over the choice spirits of the highway, a certain dash and character of heroism. This is seducing enough to a juvenile imagination. But the influence of which we at present speak, and which we think has not been much adverted to, is more particularly addrest to our taste for the ludicrous; and that, not as directly exhibited in the crime, but as reflected from the oddities and incongruities which shine forth in the aspect of the criminal. The lamb under process of slaugh¬ ter could give no entertainment to any. But the trait that we have just now recorded of its execu¬ tioner, and of his perfect sang froid in a matter that was so fitted to disturb and agitate ourselves, forces a smile into many a countenance. The truth is that to be suddenly presented wuth one state of feeling, in circurnsLances when we expected another—to see a man come forth with an emotion, that IS at utter antipodes to the object w'hich has excited it—to behold him, for example, in a condition of great fearfulness where there is nothing that ought to alarm ; and (»a the other hand to behold him in a condition oi: great recklessness, when there is something that ought to arrest or 268 UNDUE PLACE GIVEN TO THE EMOTIONS, solemnize—these are aii so many incongruities which come within the definition ot the ludicrous— and are fitted, in the absence or feebleness of every counteracting emotion, to awaken the mirth of the observer. We might give an illustration oi this from the narratives of pugilism. There are few who would not be shocked and sickened to the uttermost, by the spectacle of the combatants after the fight is ended. There is nought of the ludicrous in their state or appearance, that could at all overbear the unmixt horror, wherewith we should look at the blood, and the swoon, and the shivers, and the seeming lifelessness, and the ghastliness, and all the other vestiges of that recent butchery which had been practised upon two human faces. Of the two ingredients that we have spoken of, the awkwardness and the severity, it would be the latter that should give to our hearts their predominating emotion. But it is not so with the children of the fancy—who have raised pugilism into a science—and with whom it has become almost a sort 'of intellectual treat to be the eye-witnesses, if not the parties, in this scene of bai'barity. Now, in looking to them, our attention is turned diversely from that way by which we look to the battle itself, or to the champions who are engaged in it. There might be nought of that incongruity about the direct exhibition itself which could provoke us to laugh, in the face of so much to distress the tenderness of our nature—but there are many who cannot help smiling at the indirect exhibition made by the amateurs—at the perfect sang /raid or rather UNDUE PLACE GIVEN TO THE EMOTIONS;. 269 philosophy wherewith they eye the whole process, and positively hang upon it as we should do on the steps of a mathematical demonstration. Even in spite of all our recoil and moral antipathy, to the character that is thus given forth by those disciples, of what at best is but a tolerated and genteel species of blackguardism; but even in spite of this, one feels a very strong provocative to mirth when he looks to their misplaced gaiety, and reads their very odd nomenclature, and follows out the way in which they embellish and set forth their description of the contest—ransacking the whole of nature for imagery by which they might garnish as it were, and so overlay the native horrors of the spectacle. In reading a pugilistical narrative, when it is rendered in the terms or in the technology of amateurship—one feels a sort of ambiguous play within him, between his indig¬ nation at the cruelty, and his perpetual tendency to that sort of mirth which is excited by an amusing cross purpose—and we can easily under¬ stand how in the society of these joyous and festive and utterly regardless spirits, one may easily be brought forward from laughing at them, to laughing along tvith them —to being foremost in the ring, and the most delighted with those savage sports which now they utterly execrate. It is thus that we have ever regarded the ludicrous propensity, as a most formidable engine of corrup¬ tion. It operates most palpably in the instances that we have now specified—and we doubt not that it speeds tne career of many an unfortunate youth in a stiii biacker and more abandoned pro- 270 UNDUE PLACE GIVEN 'fO 'JHE EMOTIONS. fllgacy—that it mingles a sort of agreeable zest with schemes of depredation, and even with deeds of atrocious violence—that the loud laugh of his companionship, is readily awarded to the captain of many a murderous band, who outdares or out¬ does all his fellows in iniquity—and thus it is, that we regard this apparently innocent and un¬ designing emotion, when unchecked by moral principle, as one among others of mighty influence in hastening forward the character of man, to that state when the measure of its depravity is full. 38. The especial lessons that flow out of this subject, are, never to make sport of those incon¬ gruities which are associated with human suffering, and never to make sport of those incongruities which are associated with human worthlessness. A moral regard for the happiness of others, and a moral regard for virtue in general, should lay an instantaneous check on the rising levity of our spirits ; and never are we more led into gloomy and despairing thoughts of the species, than when bar¬ barity and gaiety are blended together into one most frightful combination. Among all the exhi¬ bitions that are given forth by our nature, there is nought so diabolical as this. The earth we occupy would become a Pandemonium, were it not for the counteraction of other influences ; or, what would be a sovereign remedy for this and all the other excesses to which humanity is liable, were it not for conscience assuming its own legitimate oflBce of a regulator, and maintaining the ascend¬ ancy which of right belongs to it over all the sensibilities of our nature. In the Maroon war, DNDUE PLACE GIVEN TO THE EMOTIONS. 271 when a Creole was decoyed from the wood by a man of straw, to whom he stepped forward with a view to take aim against him, and the real soldier from his ambush shot him dead upon the spot_ there is nought so revolting in the death, as in the laugh of triumph and delight that came from the party in the enjoyment of their own dexterity. Upon one occasion when the French, who had the most demoralised soldiery in Europe, filled an hospital with their wounded men—it was not half so horrifying to see one of them in his last agonies, as to see another looking on, amusing himself with the mimicry of grimace and of gesture, as he copied all the tremulous variations that played upon the countenance of the dying man. When some stu¬ dents of a distant university, dunned and pestered by the applications of a tailor to whom they were indebted, at length got rid of him by cutting off his ears—this trait of atrocious character, appalling as it is, is not nearly so appalling as was the glee of a polite and civilized company, when it was told as a merry adventure, and that the man never came back to claim his ears again. Such fell and fiendish exhibitions may well convince us, what would become of human society, if man had nought but emotions and impulses to urge his fluctuating path—or if he were left without a presiding helm in the midst of all this waywardness—if his only guide were a pathology that wielded its unresisted energies over him—or rather if, without guidance altogether, he resigned himself a prostrate and a willing subject to its power. Even still, might humanity and honour shoot forth an occasional 272 UNDUE PLACE GIVEN TO THE EMOTIONS. gleam in this wild medley of ,the emotions; but, without a superior power that might take a direct¬ ing charge over them all, never will man attain to true worth or endurance of character—and never will the earth that he treads upon cease to groan under the burden of its moral abominations. 39. This whole subject admits of many grave, and moral, and even theological applications. 40. We have already adverted to the difficulty which is attendant upon every effort to know our internal processes. It is most natural for the mind just to look after them in order that she may know them, or in other words to look with reflex eye towards herself, and so endeavour to observe wdiat is going on there. Now, in most cases, it is by the attention of the mind to an outward object, that the inward process is both set agoing and kept agoing; and when the mind ceases this at¬ tention, which it does at the moment of withdraw¬ ing itself from the object to the subject, the pro¬ cess which it hath turned about to examine at that moment terminates. It is so with every emotion that hath an external cause, as in the example of anger. When we cast the mental eye tow ards the anger, we withdraw it from that by which alone the anger is sustained; and this affection vanishes from the heart, on the instant that we propose to seize upon it. 41. And so, after all, it is by a busy interchange between the mind and the world which is without, that the world which is within is evolved into a state of manifestation. The impressions which UXIJUK PLACE GIVEN 'I'O THE EMOTIONS. 273 outward things make upon the mind through the avenue of the senses are cne hist or the raw mate¬ rials of all mental philosophy. Ere we can become acquainted then with that which passes inwardly, we must have looked outwardly; and, for man to know his own internal processes, there must have been a busy converse on his part with the objects that are placed around him. 42. Now what is true with regard to the method by which we become acquainted with our internal processes, is equally true in regard to the method by which we regulate these processes. If to know our own heart it be indispensable that we look outwardly, then to keep or to control our own heart it is alike indispensable that we look outwardly. There is an analogy between the observation that we have already made on the business of self-knowledge, and the observation that we now make on the business of self-govern¬ ment ; and whatever importance may belong to the one in the philosophy of mind, an equal im¬ portance belongs to the other in the philosophy and more especially the practice of morals. 43. When a man is bidden to know his own heart, it is most natural for him to turn about that he may gaze upon it. In so doing, he hath dark¬ ened the whole field of contemplation, just as if by the movement that he hath made, he had thrown his own shadow upon it, by intercepting all the light that else would have been poured from without on the penetralia of his bosom. And, in like manner, when he is told to keep or to cultivate his heart, it is most natural for him to 274 UNDUE PLACE GIVEN TO THE EMOTIONS. try an operation of some sort on the springs of his inner mechanism. There is perhaps a sort of undirected effort towards that which is within; but at every repetition he finds it to be fruitless and unavailing—a conatus that can find no distinct object to rest upon—a kind of aimless or general plunge into himself, that still leaves the citadel of the heart untouched and unentered upon. The truth is that most of the emotions of the heart, are the responses which it gives forth to objects that are at a distance and separate from itself— and the only way of calling out these responses, is by keeping an open avenue between the heart and these objects. This is done by the attention— and therefore it is that we should regard this faculty as a most important engine of moral dis¬ cipline. 44. For the purpose of accomplishing the pre¬ cept—“ Know thine own heart”—w^e recommend a busy observation of it at the moment of inter¬ course between it and the outer world; or, in other words, we should go forth on the objects around us, ere we can have materials for the study or the science of that nature which is within us. Now there is a direction the counterpart of this for the purpose of accomplishing the other precept —“ Keep thine own heart.” The faculty of atten¬ tion, when employed on external things, is just as mighty an instrument of moral discipline as it is of mental discovery. It fetches that influence from \\ithout, which bears with efficacy on the springs of feeling and of action; and as the one recommendation may have set us on the right UNDUC PLACE GIVEN TO THE EMOTIONS. 275 way of going about the study of our moral nature; so the other, of higher importance still, may set us on the right way by which to go about the cultivation of it. 45. 'Fhe most distinct of ail moral propositions is_“ that we should not wish for another, what we should not wish for ourselves were we in his circumstances.” It is a proposition which recom¬ mends itself, and hath an immediate hold upon the conscience at the moment of its being uttered. It finds a ready echo in every bosom; and, to demonstrate the universal consent wherewith it passes current in society, we may recollect the many familiar occasions, on M'hich unlettered peasants, or even children, have remonstrated with another who was doing a hard or injurious thing to one of his fellow-men—“ How would you like another to treat you in that manner ?” So that here is the example of at least one moral principle acknowledged by all, felt by ourselves, and which can be turned into serviceable application in every one act of human intercourse. Now with this in our mind, and there in such force too as to give direction to the will, it is quite palpable what the part is which our attention will select, out of all the other parts of any compound exhibition, as the object that it seizes upon and on which it shall dwell. In the case of that compound exhibition which is offered by a sentient creature in distress, we wdll send forth our thoughts upon that which we should most dislike ourselves in the situation that he occupies—or, in other words, we will be engrossed with the consideration of his pain—and, 276 UNDUE PLACE GIVEN TO THE EMOTIONS. e^ ell though blended as it sometimes is with th^ ridiculous, we will be otherwise employed than in looking towards that which might else have pro¬ voked our merriment. The very exercise, by which it is that we enter into the state and conse¬ quent feeling of the sufterer, will, of itself, suggest how much the unpleasantness of his sensations would be aggravated by a loud laugh from the spectators—and this, of itself, would operate as a check upon our levity. It is thus that what others looked upon with enjoyment, we should look upon with sympathy and with seriousness. Our heart would be wholly under a different affection from theirs. It would be in a better state; and, were the cause of this demanded, it might be said that it is because of the better keeping or the better cultivation of it. Still however we maintain, that a main implement in the work of this cultivation, is an outward object, which hath sent the right and appropriate emotion into that secret chamber, where the sensibilities of the inner man have their play. The mecliauisni there is operating rightly, but it is in virtue of a touch from without. It is by looking outwardly and not inwardly, in fact, that the mind hath been set as it were to the right object, whose moving influence it is that brings the mind into its right state of emotion ; and thus the cultivation of the dispositions is manifested to be a more simple and intelligible process, than many are in the habit of conceiving it. 46. In this business of cultivating the heart, it is often as much an object to expel from it a wrong affection as to bring it under the power UNDUE PLACE GIVEN TO THE EMOTIONS. 277 of a right one. Of what importance then is it that we should know the way of going about it—• that we should know, for example, how best to school and to keep in check the emotion of anger, which, if given way to, might terminate in some deed or expression of violence that may after¬ wards cause both uneasiness and remorse. The very prospect of this is a powerful restraint upon us—and we cannot fail to perceive that, when engaged with this prospect, the mind is for the time away from the provocation that might other¬ wise have hurried it into some act of lamentable temerity. But there are other and some of them more generous expedients—in all of which, how¬ ever the operation of that great principle may be detected, by which it is that an emotion dies away from the heart, the moment that the attention of the mind is withdrawn from the object which awakened it—and we thus see, how the very cause which, in some of its departments, is an impediment to our progress in the philosophy of morals, is an auxili¬ ary in the practice of morals. That which retards our proficiency in it when regarded as a science— is the very thing that aids our proficiency in it when regarded as an art. If we want to study anger, we lose sight of it in the act of turning our mental eye away from its object—and therefore it we want to shun anger, we have nothing else to do. but just to make our escape from it by pre¬ cisely the same expedient. It is in fact what the mind insensibly does, when anxious, under some sore injury, or under some vexatious or troublesome annoyance, to keep itself calm. It will not face 278 UNDUE PLACE GIVEN TO THE EMOTIONS. the provocation lest it give way; but tries in every possible manner to stifle the thought of it. It sometimes even has recourse to some formal and direct efforts for this purpose. We forget what man of celebrity it was, who, on the first visitation of anger, repeated the words of the Lord’s Prayer —or what eminent judge in our own land, that, on similar occasions, read a particular chapter in the New Testament. There is no doubt that the topics suggested by either of these exercises, might create an etfectual diversion of the mind from that which would have fed and fostered within it the rising emotion—but ^there is even a diversion created by the very exercise itself. Any thing that wall take away the mind from the object of its emotion, takes the emotion away from the mind—and when it ceases to brood on the provo¬ cation, the provocation ceases to be felt. And by far the greatest triumph which a man can achieve over his own spirit, when like to be hurried away into the transports of resentment—is, when, instead of shifting aw^ay his regards from him whose injustice is the object of it, he can fix on a something else in his condition or in his character that might mitigate and appease it—when he can call to mind, perhaps, the kindness that in other days he re¬ ceived from the hand of him that now hath unac¬ countably wronged him—when he can dwell on the benefits conferred at a season of former friend¬ ship on himself and on his family ; and, in the utter defect of all such palliatives, w hen he can w ithdraw his mind from that injustice which is the object of irritation, i-o that frailty of our mortal and erring UNDUE PLACE GIVEN TO THE EMOIIONS 279 nature which might be the object of deepest and tenderest sympathy. It is thus that with some men of a very lofty cast of reflection, the resent¬ ment they else would have against another, is drowned in their feelings of commiseration and seriousness. They can look beyond the injustice of the passing hour; and, instead of a burning indignation against him who now triumphs in the success of his unprincipled dexterity, they could even weep in tenderness over him, as they think of his coming death his coming judgment and his coming eternity. 47. In this instance of the cultivation of the heart, a good result Is arrived at, merely by the converse which the mind has with things out of itself and separate from itself. It is by the atten¬ tion shifting its objects, that the heart shifteth its emotions. It exchanges wrath for compassion, by withdrawing itself from that which excited the wrath to that which now excites the compassion. We very generally find among our practical writers, that, when reasons and motives and various considerations are urged against one particular aflection and in favour of another, they are such as supply the mind with an object different from that by which it has been seduced into a wrong feeling, and directly fitted to awaken a right one. They in fact recognise the doctrine that we have all along been insisting on. And as we have already explained how much it is that we must look outwardly, in order to study the heart—so it is of importance to understand, how much it is that we must look outwardly, ui order to cultivate it. i'80 UNDUK PLACE GIVEN TO THE EMOTIONS. 48. To keep alive the emotion of gratitude in the heart, we must keep the kindness of him who is the object of it in our frequent and habitual remembrance. This is another example of an emotion helped by an object—of an influence fetched from without, for the purpose of originat¬ ing and sustaining a right sensibility within—in other words, of the cultivation of the inner man lieing carried forward, by means of the attention going forth on certain objects, which have their standing place in the outer world. That this is not a vain and metaphysical speculation, is evident even from the talk and the conceptions of an un¬ lettered peasantry. They see, and very intelli¬ gently too, where it is that the criminality of ingra¬ titude lies ; and their very remonstrances on the subject prove also, that they know how this crime might have been prevented. They know that it is the attention which is in fault—a faculty for the exercise of which we are chargeable with fault, only because it is subject to the control of the will. The reproachful questions which are put upon these occasions, all testify the truth of our principle—“ Could not you have minded the great benefits that he at one time conferred upon you ?” “ How could you have forgotten them, as you must have done at the time when you conduct¬ ed yourself so ungenerously and so ungraciously towards him?” “Why did you not call to re¬ membrance, how much he at one time did both for yourself and your family ?”—all conspiring to the same result, that attention, wherewith memory is so closely allied, is indeed the grand instrument UNDUE PLACE GIVEN TO THE EMOTIONS. 281 for the cultivation of the heart, and that, to bring into the heart the right emotions, we must keep the mind in contact with the right objects. 49. We know not a more beautiful and im¬ portant application of the principle, than to the business of cultivating purity of heart—that noble characteristic, in virtue of which, it would shrink, even in unobserved solitude, from the intrusion of so much as one unhallowed thought; so that, should a wrong or worthless imagination ever present itself, one moment would not be suffered to inter¬ vene, ere the offensive visitant was bidden authori¬ tatively away from the recesses of that yet un¬ vitiated sacredness which it had offered to violate, ’^t is true that the ludicrous and the indelicate . have here entered into one most formidable asso¬ ciation ; and that, in no department of human morality, has the former otion more exemplified its power of mischief, upon the character and habits of the rising genei’ation. There are thou¬ sands, and tens of thousands, who can trace to this, the first beginnings of a corruption, which has lured them to the paths of the destroyer; and it is because of this, that, even apart from the mis¬ deeds and the outward profligacies of a ruinous dissipation, there has with thousands more, been an utter desecration of the inner man, because robbed of all the honourable and high-minded delicacies which adorned it. It is indeed the proudest of achievements, to be the instrument .of determining so much as one youthful bosom, in the vigorous defence of itself against this foulcontamina- tion; and that, not alone for the sake of adding one 282 UNDUK PLACE GIVEN I’O THE EAJOTIONS. to the list of other virtues, or of protecting from the inroads of one solitary vice—but for the sake of V shielding the whole moral temperament from the sore blight of one wasting and universal desola¬ tion. It is not true, that we can surrender one point or principle of moral character, and leave all its other virtues and accomplishments entire. This is one surrender, by which a shock is given to the whole strength and structure of the moral system; and, instead of fighting for the preserva¬ tion of an outpost, which, even though given up, leaves us in almost entire possession of the whole moral territory—this is a battle, on the issue of which there hang all the cherished decencies of social and domestic life in this world, and the success of all our preparations for the eternity that follows it. 50. Now there is not one branch of moral pro¬ priety, to which the maxim is more applicable— that he who rules his life well, is he who rules his spirit well. And, where within the whole compass of human affairs, is there exemplified a more inti¬ mate connexion between the heart and the history ? —so that if the one have suffered, the other will suffer ; and success, on the contrary, is certain, if that heart be kept with all diligence out of which are the issues of life. We can be at no loss, after what has been so repeatedly insisted on, for the best practical method of cultivation—to withdraw the thoughts from that object which kindles the wrong affection; and this is most readily done by the determined habit of transferring them to other objects. America, said Lord Chatham, must be UNDUE PLACE GIVEN TO THE EMOTIONS. 283 conquered in Germany. With far greater truth may it be said that the wayward tendencies of the heart are conquered, not so much by an operation at home as by an operation abroad—by all the forces of thought, and attention, and perseverance, being carried in an export direction, if we may be allowed the phrase, to some place in the external scene of contemplation—by the flight of the mind from that which hath disturbed the calm of its pure and unruffled tranquillity, and a flight not inwardly upon itself, but outwardly upon some other thing in the prospect which is around it than that which hath made a threatening inroad upon its principles. Of course, the jest and the levity of lawless companionship must be shunned and shrunk from like the malignity of a pestilence; and science, and business, and innocent amusement, and all other places of escape from a hurtful and most withering infection, are so many distinct re¬ sources in this business of moral cultivation. But far the most effectual refuge is, in the contempla¬ tion of that ethereal and unclouded purity, by which the throne of heaven is encircled—a lifting of the thoughts to the august and unpolluted sacredness which dwelleth there—the daily and diligent con¬ sideration of that awfui sanctuary which is above, where nought that is unholy can enter—and a solemn invocation to Him, before the rebuke of whose countenance, all the vanities of a distem¬ pered imagination will at once flee away. 51. Finally, we advert to the marvellous ac- cordancy that obtains, between the soundest views which philosophy has opened to us of the nature 284 UNDUE PLACE GIVEN TO THE EMOTIONS. of man, and the doctrine of that book which pro¬ fesses to have been dictated by Him who constructed that nature, and must therefore be acquainted with all its mysteries. There are two remarkable con- gruities of this kind, which we would shortly notice, as having met our observation in the prosecution of these remarks on the pathology of man. The first relates to the power which the object contem¬ plated has over the springs of human character and conduct—the alliance that obtains between that object which is in the eye of the nnderstanding, and that sensibility which is excited thereby within the recesses of the heart; or between the way in which man is looking with his mind, and the way in which he is affected to love or to piety or to moral righteousness. Now there is nought which is so fi-equently affirmed in scripture, as the power that lies in the mere revelation of the truth, pro¬ vided that the truth is believed and attended to— the power which lies in it to revolutionize the whole character, and to make a new creature of him who has received it. The phraseology of inspiration is distinct from that of the academy. Bnt if we consider, not the terms, but the substaiv tial truths in which it deals, we shall find, under the gnise of such expressions as “ being sanctified by faith,’’ as “ being born again through the word of truth,” as “ being renewed in knowledge after the likeness of him that created us,” as “beholding with open face” the glory of a bright excellence, and being transformed into that which we admire in the very act of our beholding it—we shall find in these and a variety of similar passages, a con- UNDUE PLACE GIVEN TO THE EMOTIONS. 285 stant recognition of that very dependence between the mind and the heart, to the view of which we are conducted by our own separate reasonings on the pathology of human nature. And we are further led to perceive that the faith, which so many have traduced as an inert and unproductive dogma, displacing virtue from the rank and pre-eminence which belong to it—that this faith is, in fact, the great instrument of such a moral renovation, as shall at length give another aspect to our world, and unite the people of every tongue and nation and kindred who live in it into one common brother¬ hood—one affectionate and rejoicing family. 52. But there is still another very striking accordancy, that, because of its great practical importance, we cannot forbear to notice. We allude to the whole of that morality, which relates to the management of those evil and seducing in¬ fluences, that pass under the name of temptations _such as the temptation of corrupt society—the temptation of all those objects that inflame the wrong propensities of our nature—the temptation of every thing which, whether present to the senses or to the thoughts, is followed up by an emotion that is any way adverse to the purity or recti¬ tude of the character of man. It may occasionally happen, in our passage through the world, that these temptations meet us on our way, and can only be overcome by dint of a vigorous and deter¬ mined resistance. But aware how much easier it is, when possible, to shun the encounter than to struggle against that pathological law, by which an object and an emotion stand so closely and causaliy 286 UNDUE PLACE GIVEN TO THE EMOTIONS. related, the one to the other—the uniform deliver¬ ance of this hook of wisdom is, that, when the alternative is within our reach whether we shall face the temptation or shall flee it—we should take to the latter term of the alternative, as that which is most suited to the real mediocrity of the human powers, and the actual laws of the human consti¬ tution. And accordingly in such clauses, as “ enter not into temptation,” and “ lead us not into tempta¬ tion,” and “ turn away my sight and mine eyes from viewing vanity,” and “flee those evil aftections which war against the soul”—in all these it be¬ speaks its own just and enlightened discernment of the mechanism of our nature. 53. We are the more explicit and the more earnest upon this subject, that to the heedlessness of its principles, we would ascribe many a most aflecting overthrow'. It is indeed, for the young and interesting hoy, of all transitions the most distressingly painful—when, in exchange for the delicacies w'hich at once adorned and guarded him, he gathers upon his aspect the hue and the knowing hardihood of vice—w hen the graces of his opening manhood are thus so unfeelingly and so cruelly scattered away—and the rising hope of his family, whose presence wont to gladden liis family circle, and the unsullied purity of whose habits fitted him for the mild and the innocent harmonies of such a companionship, when he becomes a hacknied prac¬ titioner in the arts of lowest and loathsomest dissi¬ pation. To arrest such a melancholy catastrophe as this, it is necessary to be strong in all the holv determinations of principle—to be resolute in the FINAL CAUSES OF THE EMOTIONS. 287 discipline of the heart and of the habits—^bidding away every unhallowed image from the chambers of thought, and spurning from the presence or from the perception every object that might form an incitement to wickedness. CHAPTER VII. On the Final Causes of the Emotions. 1. In our Natural Theology,* we have appealed, as evidence for a God, to the affections of our Nature. We now subjoin a few additional re¬ marks'on this subject, chiefly with the view of demonstrating, that, however little man is to be accredited for moral goodness, when, apart from the consideration of duty he simply obeys these affections—yet, beneficial as they are, nay indis¬ pensable to the maintenance of human life and human society, they form most palpable and con¬ vincing arguments for the goodness of the Being who implanted them. 2. The emotions, it must now be obvious, enter largely into the pathological department of our nature. They are distinguishable, as we have already intimated, both from the appetites and the external affections, in that they are mental and not bodily—though, in common with these, they are characterized by a peculiar vividness of feeang. • Book IV, Chaps, ii, iii, and t 288 FINAL CAUSES OF THE EMOTIONS. ■which distinguishes them from the intellectual states of the mind. It may not be easy to express the difference in language; but we never confound them in specific instances—being at no loss to which of the two classes w'e should refer the acts of memory and j udgment; and to which we should refer the sentiments of fear, or gratitude, or shame, or any of the numerous affections and desires of which the mind is susceptible. 3. The first belonging to this class that now remains to be noticed is the desire of knowledge, or the principle of curiosity—having all the appear¬ ance and character of a distinct and original ten¬ dency in the mind, implanted there for the purpose to which it is so obviously subservient. This principle evinces its reality and strength in very early childhood, even anterior to the faculty of speech—as might be observed in the busy mani¬ pulations and exploring looks of the little infant, on any new article that is placed within its reach; and afterwards, by its importunate and never- ending questions. It is this avidity of knowledge, which forms the great impellent to the acquisition of it—being in fact the hunger of the mind, and strikingly analogous to the corresponding bodily appetite, in those respects by which each is mani¬ fested to be the product of a higher wisdom than ours, the effect of a more providential care than man would have taken of himself. I'he corporeal appetency seeks for food as its terminating ob- lOCt, witiiout regard to its ulterior effect in the oustaining of life. The mental appetency seeks for knowledge, the food of the mind, as its termi- FINAL CAUSES OF THE EMOTIONS. 289 nating object, without regard to its ulterior benefits, both in the guidance of life, and the endless multi¬ plication of its enjoyments. The prospective wisdom of man could be trusted with neither of these great interests; and so the urgent appetite of hunger had to be provided for the one, and the like urgent principle of curiosity had to be pro¬ vided for the other. Each of them bears the same evidence of a special contrivance for a special object—and that by one who took a more compre¬ hensive view of our welfare, than we are capable of taking for ourselves; and made his own additions to the mechanism, for the express purpose of sup¬ plementing the deficiency of human foresight. The resemblance between the two cases goes strikingly to demonstrate, how a mental constitution might as effectually bespeak the hand of an intelligent IVIaker, as does a physical or material constitution. It is true, that, with the great majority of men, the intellectual is not so urgent or imperious as is the animal craving. But even for this difference, we can perceive a reason, which would not have been found under a random economy of things. Each man’s hunger would need to be alike strong, or at least strong enough to ensure the taking of food for himself—for to this effect, he will receive no benefit from another man’s hunger. But there is not the same reason why each man’s curiosity should be alike strong—for the curiosity of one man might subserve the supply of information and intellectual food to the rest of the species. To enlarge the knowledge of the world, it is not needed that all men should be endowed with such VOL. V. N 290 FINAL CAL'SKS OF THE EMOTIONS. a Strength of desire for it, as to bear them onward through the toils of original investigation. The dominant, the aspiring curiosity, which impels the adventurous traveller to untrodden regions, will earn discoveries, not for himself alone, but for all men—if their curiosity be but strong enough for the perusal of his agreeable record, under the shelter, and amid the comforts of their own home. And it is so in all the sciences. The unquench¬ able thirst of a few, is ever drawing supplies o-f new truth, which are shared in by thousands. There is an obvious meaning in this variety, between the stronger curiosity of the few who dis¬ cover truth, and the weaker curiosity of the many who acquire it. The food which hunger impels man to take is for his own aliment alone. The fruit of that study to which the strength of his own curiosity impels him, may become the property of all men. 4. But, apart from this singularity, we behold in curiosity, viewed as a general attribute, a mani¬ fest adaptation to the circumstances in which man is placed. If, on the one hand, we look to the rich and exhaustless variety of truth, in a universe fraught with the materials of a most stupendous and ever-growing philosophy, and each department of which is fitted to stimulate and regale the curiosity of the human mind—we should say of such an external nature as this, that, presenting a most appropriate field to the inquisitive spirit of our race, it was signally adapted to the intellectual constitution of man. Or if, on the other hand, besides looking to the world as a theatre for the FINAL CAUSES OF THE EMOTIONS. 2D1 delightful entertainment of our powers, we behold it, in the intricacy of its phenomena and laws, in its recondite mysteries, in its deep and difficult recesses, yet conquerable to an indefinite extent by the perseverance of man, and therefore as a befitting theatre for the busy and most laborious exercise of his powers—we should say of such an intellectual constitution as ours, that it was signally adapted to the system of external nature. It would require a curiosity as strong and stedfast as nature hath given us, to urge us onward, through the appalling difficulties of a search so laborious. Hunger is the great impellent to corporeal labour, and the gratification of this appetite is its reward. Curiosity is a great impellent to mental labour, and, whether we look to the delights or the diffi¬ culties of knowledge, we cannot fail to perceive, that this mental appetency in man, and its coun¬ terpart objects in nature, are suited with marvellous exactness to each other. 5. But the analogy between the mental^ and the corporeal affections does not stop here. The appetite of hunger would of itself impel to the use of food—although no additional pleasure had been annexed to the use of it, in the gratifications of the palate. The sense of taste, with its various pleasurable sensations, has ever been regarded as a distinct proof of the benevolence and care of God. And the same is true of the delights vliich are felt by the mind in the acquisition o: knowledge—as when truth discloses her high an I hidden beauties to the eye of the enrapture ! student; and he breathes an ethereal satisfaction. 292 FINAL CAUSES OF THE EMOTIONS. having in it the very substance of enjoyment, though the world at large cannot sympathize with it. The pleasures of the intellect, though calm, are intense; insomuch, that a life of deep philoso¬ phy were a life of deep emotion, when the under¬ standing receives of its own proper aliment— having found its way to those harmonies of prin¬ ciple, those goodly classifications of phenomena, which the disciples of science love to gaze upon. And the whole charm does not lie in the ultimate discovery. There is a felt triumph in the march, and along the footsteps of the demonstration which leads to it; in the successive evolutions of the reasoning, as well as its successful conclusion. Like every other enterprise of man, there is a happiness in the current and continuous pursuit, as well as in the final attainment—as every student in geometry can tell, who will remember not only the delight he felt on his arrival at the landing place, but the delight he felt when guided onward by the traces and concatenations of the pathway. Even in the remotest abstractions of contempla¬ tive truth, there is a glory and a transcendental pleasure, which the world knoweth not; but which becomes more intelligible, because more imbodied, where the attention of the inquirer is directed to the realities of substantive nature. And though there be few who comprehend or follow Newton in his gigantic walk, yet all may participate in his triumphant feeling, when he reached that lofty summit, where the whole mystery and magnificence of Nature stood submitted to his gaze—an emi¬ nence won by him through the power and the FINAL CAUSES OF THE EMO'J'IONS. 293 patience of intellect alone; but from which he descried a scene more glorious far than imagination could have formed, or than ever had been pictured and set forth in the sublimest visions of poetry. 6. It is thus that while the love of beautv, operating upon the susceptible imagination of the themist, is one of those seducing influences which lead men astray from the pursuit of experimental truth, he, in fact, who at the outset, resists her fascinations, because of his supreme respect for the lessons of observation, is at length repaid by the discoveries and sights ot a surpassing loveli¬ ness. 1 he inductive pliilosophy began its career by a renunciation, painful we have no doubt at first to many of its disciples, of all the systems and har¬ monies of the schoolmen. 13ut in the assiduous prosecution of its labours, it worked its way to a far nobler and more magnificent harmony at the last to the real system of the universe, more excellent than all the schemes of human con¬ ception—not in the solidity of its evidence alone, but as an object of tasteful contemplation. But the toils of investigation must be endured first, that the grace and the grandeur might be enjoyed afterwards. The same is true of science in all its departments, not of simple and sublime astronomy alone, but throughout of terrestrial physics; and most of all in chemistry, where the internal pro¬ cesses of actual and ascertained Nature are found to possess a beauty, which far surpasses the crude though specious plausibilities of other days. We perceive in this, too, a fine adaptation of the external world to the faculties of man; a happy 294 riNAi. ca'tisf.s of the f.motions ordination of Nature by which the labour of the spirit IS made to preceae the luxury of the spirit, or every disciple of science must strenuously labour in the investigation of its truth ere he can luxuriate in the contemplation of its beauties. It is by the patient seeking of truth first, that the pleasures of taste and imagination are superadded to him. 7. But, beside those rewards and excitements to science which lie in science itself, as the curiosity which impels to the prosecution of it, and the delights of prosperous study, and the pleasures that immediately spring from the contemplation of its objects—besides these, there is a remoter but not less powerful influence, and to which indeed w^e owe greatly more than half the jihilosophy of our world. We mean the respect in which high intellectual endowments are held by general society. We are not sure but that the love of fame has been of more powerful operation, in speeding onward the march of discovery, than the love of philosophy for the sake of its own inherent charms ; and there are thousands of our most distinguished intellectual labourers, who, but for an expected harvest of renown, would never have entered on the secret and solitary prosecution of their arduous walk. We are abundantly sensible, that this appetency for fame may have helped to vulgarize both the literature and science of the country ; that men, capable of the most Attic refinement in the one, may, for the sake of a wider popularity, have descended to verbiage and the false splendour of a meretricious eloq^ueoce; and that men, capable of FINAL CAUSES OF THE EMOTIONS. 295 the deepest research and purest demonstration in the other, may, by the same unworthy compliance \vitli the flippancy of the public taste, have ex¬ changed the profound argument for the super¬ ficial illustration—preferring to the homage of the exalted few, the attendance and plaudits of the multitude. It is thus, that, when access to the easier and lighter parts of knowledge has been suddenly enlarged, the heights of philosojihy may be abandoned for a season—the men who wont to occupy these, being tempted to come down from their elevation, and hold converse with that increas¬ ing host, who have entered within the precincts, and now throng the outer courts of the temple. It is thus, that at certain transition periods, in the intellectual history of the species, philosophy may sustain a temporary depression—from which when she recovers, we shall combine, with the inesti¬ mable benefit of a more enlightened commonalty, both the glory and the substantial benefit of as cultured a literature and as lofty and elaborate a philosophy as before. But we greatly mistake, if we think, that in these minds of nobler and purer ambition, the love of fame is extinguished, because they are willing to forego the bustling attendance and the clamorous applauses of a crowd. 8. The vast importance of the emotions to human happiness, is obvious from this—that a state of mental happiness cannot even so much as be imagined without a state of emotion. They are the emotions, in fact, and the external affec¬ tions together, which share between them the whole interest, whether pleasurable or painful, of 296 FINAL CAUSES OF THE EMOTIONS. human existence. And what a vivid and varied interest that is, may be rendered evident by a mere repetition of those words which compose the nomenclature of our feelings—as hope, and fear, and grief, and joy and love diversified into so many separate affections towards wealth, fame, power, knowledge, and all the other objects of human desire, besides the tasteful and benevolent emotions which altogether keep their unremitting play in the heart, and sustain or fill up the con¬ tinuity of our sensible being. It says enough for the adaptation of external nature to a mental constitution so complexly and variously endowed, that, numerous as these susceptibilities are, the world is crowded with objects that keep them in full and busy occupation. The details of this contemplation are inexhaustible; and we are not sure but that the general lesson of the Divine care or Divine benevolence, which may be founded upon these, could be more effectually learned by a close attention of the mind to one specific instance, than by a complete enumeration of all the instances, with at the same time only a briefer and slighter notice of each of them. 9. And it would m.ake the lesson all the more impressive, if, instead of selecting as our example an emotion of very exalted character, and of which the influence on human enjoyment stood forth in bright daylight to the observation of all, such as the sensibility of a heart that was feelingly alive to the calls of benevolence, or feelingly alive to the beauties of nature—we should take for our case gome other kmd of emotion, so common, perhaps. FINAL CAUSES OF THE EJIOTIONS. 297 % as to be ignobly familiar, and on which one would scarcely think of constructing aught so dignified as a theological argument. Yet we cannot help thinking, that it most emphatically tells us of the teeming, the profuse benevolence of the Deity— when we reflect on those homelier and those every¬ day resources, out of which the whole of human life, through the successive hours of it, is seasoned wdth enjoyment; and a most agreeable zest is imparted from them to the ordinary occasions of converse and companionship among men. When the love of novelty finds in the walks of science the gratification that is suited to it, we can reason gravely on the final cause of the emotion, and speak of the purpose of Nature, or rather of the Author of Nature, in having instituted such a reward for intellectual labour. But we lose siafht O of all the wisdom and all the goodness that are connected with this mental ordination—when the very same principle, which in the lofty and liberal savant, we call the love of novelty, becomes in the plain and ordinary citizen, the love of news. Yet in this humbler and commonplace form, it is need¬ less to say how prolific it is of enjoyment—giving an edge, as it were, to the whole of one’s conscious existence, and its principal charm to the innocent and enlivening gossip of every social party. Perhaps a still more effective exemplification may be had in another emotion of this class, that which arises from our sense of the ludicrous—which so often ministers to the gaiety of man’s heart even when alone; and which, when he congregates with his fellows, is ever and anon breaking forth into N 2 298 FINAL CAUSES OF THE EMOTIONS. some humorous conception, that infects alike the fancies of all, and finds vent in one common shout of ecstasy. Like every other emotion, it stands allied with a perception as its antecedent, the object of the perception in this instance being the conjunction of things that are incongruous with each other—on the first discovery or perception of which, the mirth begins to tumultuate in the heart of some one; and on the first utterance of which, it passes with irrepressible sympathy into the hearts of all who are around him—whence it obtains the same ready discharge as before, in a loud and general efifervescence. To perceive how inexhaustible the source of this enjoyment is, wo have only to think of it in connexion with its cause; and then try to compute, if we can, all the possibilities of wayward deviation, from the sober literalities of truth and nature, whether in the shape of new imaginations by the mind of man, or of new combinations and events in actual history. It is thus that the pleasure connected with our sense of the ludicrous, forms one of the most current gratifications of human life; nor is it essential that there should be any rare peculiarity if mental conformation, in order to realize it. We find it the perennial source of a sort of gentle and quiet delectation, even to men of the most sober tempei’ament, and whose habit is as remote as possible from that of fantastic levity, or wild and airy extravagance. When acquaintances meet together in the street, and hold colloquy for a few minutes, they may look grave enough, if business •jr politics or some matter of serious intelligence FINAL CAUSES OF THE EMOTIONS. 299 be the theme—yet how seldom do they part before some coruscation of playfulness has been struck out between them; and the interview, though begun perhaps in sober earnest, but seldom passes off with¬ out some pleasantry or other to enliven it. We should not dwell so long on this part of the human constitu¬ tion were there not so much of happiness and so much of benevolence allied with it—as is obvious, indeed from the very synonymes to which the lan¬ guage employed for the expression of its various phenomena and feelings has given rise. To what else but to the pleasure we have in the ludicrous is it owing, that a ludicrous observation has been termed a pleasantry; or how but to the affinity between happiness and mirth can we ascribe it, that the two terms are often employed as equiva¬ lent to each other; and whence but from the strong connexion which consists between benevo¬ lence and humour can it be explained, that a man is said to be in good humour when in a state of placidness and cordiality with all who are around him ? We are aware that there is not a single disposition whereAvith Nature hath endowed us, which may not bo perverted to evil; but when we see so much both of human kindness and of human enjoyment associated with that exhilaration of heart to which this emotion is so constantly giving rise—ministering with such copiousness, both to the smiles of the domestic hearth, and the gaieties of festive companionship—we cannot but regard it as the provision of an indulgent Father, who hath ordained it as a sweetener or an emollient amid the annoyances and ills v hich flesh is heir to 300 FINAL CAUSES OF THE EITOTIONS. 10. It were diflScult to compute the whole eacet of this ingredient, in alleviating the vexations of life; but certain it is, that the ludicrous is often blended with the annoyances which befall us ; and that its operation, in lightening the pressure of what might have otherwise been viewed as some¬ what in the light of a calamity, is far from incon¬ siderable. This balancing of opposite emotions, suggested by different parts of the same complex event or object, and the effect of the one if a plea¬ sant emotion, in assuaging the painfulness of the other, is not an uncommon phenomenon in the exhibitions of human feeling. A very obvious specimen of this is afforded by an acquaintance in the act of falling. There is no doubt an incongruity between the moment of his walking uprightly, and with the full anticipation of getting forward in that attitude to the object whither he is bending—and the next moment of his floundering in the mud, and hastening with all his might to gather himself up again. They who philosophize upon the laws of succession in the events of Nature, have a great demand for such successions as are immediate. They go busily in quest of the conti¬ guous links, and properly conceive that if any one hidden step be yet interposed, between the two which they regularly observe to follow each other, they have not completed the investigation till that step also have been ascertained. It is therefore, so far an advantage, in regard to the above pheno¬ menon, that there does not appear to be time even for the most rapid and fugitive intervention—for only let it occur in the presence of lookers on, and. FINAL CAUSES OF THE EMOTIONS. 301 With the speed of lightning, will it be followed up by the instant and obstreperous glee of a whole host of spectatorship. 11. But this very exhibition may give rise to a wholly different emotion. The provocative to laughter lies in the awkwardness of the fall. Let the awkwardness be conceived to abide as it was, and this other ingredient to be added, the severity of the fall—that a limb is fractured, or that a swoon, a convulsion, or a stream of blood is the immedi¬ ate consequence. In proportion to the hurt that was sustained, would be the sympathy of far the greater number of the bystanders ; and this might be so heightened by the palpable sufferings of him to whom the accident has befallen, that the sense of the ludicrous might be entirely overborne. 12. The two provocatives are the awkwardness of the fall and its severity. The two emotions are the mirth and the compassion. The one of these may so predominate over the other as to leave the mind under its entire and single ascendancy. A mathematician would require the point at which, by a gi’adual increase or diminution upon either of the two elements, they were mutually neutralised or the transition was made from the one to the other of them. In this we may not be able to satisfy him. But all may have been sensible of an oc¬ casion, when the two were so delicately poised, that the mind positively vibrated—so as to make a sort of b-emulous and intermediate play between these distinct and nearly opposite emotions. This is one of those nicer exhibitions of our nature that one feels an interest in remarking ; and many per- 302 FINAL CAUSES OF THE EMOTIONS. haps may recollect the instances, when even some valued friend hath smarted pretty seriously, under some odd or ludicrous misha}) in which he hath been involved, and when they have felt themselves in a state of most curious ambiguity, between the pity which they ought to feel, and the levity which they were not able to repress. The peculiarities of this midway condition are greatly aggravated, if there be so many acquaintances who share it among them, and more especially, if they meet together and talk over the subject of it—in which case, it will be no singular display of our mysteri¬ ous nature, although the visitations of a common sympathy should be found to alternate with the high-sounding peals of a most rapturous and un¬ controllable merriment. 13. We cannot fail to perceive, in this instance too, how inseparable the alliance is between per¬ ception and feeling. According as the mind looks, so is the heart affected. When we look to the awkwardness of the mischance, whatever it may be, we become gay. When we look to its severity, we become sad. It is instructive to observe with w'hat fidelity the heart follows the mind in this process, and how whichever the object is that for the time is regarded by the one, it is sure to be responded to by an appropriate emotion from the other. 14. We should not have ventured on these illus¬ trations but for the lesson which they serve to establish. They prove the extent to which a sense of the ludicrous might lighten and divert the painfulness of those serious feelings to which FINAL CAUSES OF THE EMOTIONS. 303 humanity is exposed. It is true that much evil may be done, when it puts to flight, as it often does, seriousness of principle; but, on the other hand, there is unquestionable good done by it, when it puts to flight, either the seriousness of resentment, or the seriousness of suffering. And when we think of its frequent and powerful effect, both in softening the malignant asperities of debate, and in reconciling us to those misadventures and pettier miseries of life, which, if not so alleviated, would keep us in a state of continual festerment— we cannot hut regard even this humbler part of the constitution of man as a palpable testimony both to the wisdom and goodness of Him who framed us.* • “ The advantages which we derive fi-om our susceptibility of this species of emotion, are in their immediate influence on the cheerfulness, and therefore on the general happiness of society, Bufiiciently obvious. How many hours would pass heavily along, but for those pleasantries of wit, or of easier and less pretending gaiety, which enliven what would have been dull, and throw many bright colours on what would have been gloomy ! We are not to estimate these accessions of pleasure lightly, Ijecause they relate to objects that may seem trifling, when considered together with those more serious concerns, by which our ambition is occu¬ pied, and in relation to which, in the success or failure of our various projects, we look back on the past months or years of our life as fortunate or unfortunate. If these serious concerns alone were to .be regarded, we might often have been very fortu¬ nate and very unhappy, as in other circumstances we might often have had much happiness in the hours and days of years, which terminated at last in the disappointment of some favourite scheme. It is good to travel with pure and balmy airs and cheerful sun¬ shine, though we should not find, at the end of our journey, the friend whom we wished to see ; and the gaieties of social converse, though they are not, in our journey of life, what we travel to ob¬ tain, are during the continuance of our journey at once a fresh¬ ness which we breathe, and a light that gives every object to sparkle to our eyes with a radiance that is not its own .”—Brown a Lectures-—Lecture 59. But this emotion is allied with benevo¬ lence as well as with tiijoj'ment. 'I'jkore is perhaps not a more 304 FINAL CAUSES OF THE EMOTIONS, 15. The usefulness of the emotions is no more owing to a moral principle in him who experiences their force, than the usefulness of the animal instincts is owing to a moral principle on the part of the inferior creatures. The usefulness of both ' is directly and solely referable to the benevolence of the Deity ; and even when we pass upward from emotions to virtues, we should recollect that the practice of these is, in the arrangements of an all- virtuous God, generally followed up by the happiest consequences, both to individuals and to society at large. Now, in as far as the virtues are practised by man because of their consequences, it is not virtue, but an enlightened and an enlarged selfish¬ ness which prompts him to the doing of them. And ere, therefore, we quit this part of our argu¬ ment, we shall consider a further deduction to be made from the essential morality of the human character, in the delusive estimates that we are apt to form of it. 16. This we more readily do, for though other emotions of our nature might be alleged as indica¬ tions of design, on these we forbear to expatiate, because however effective as proofs, they possess a character of such extreme obviousness, as to require no anxious or formal explanation; but, on the instant of being presented to their notice, are read and recognised by all men. One patent example of this in the constitution of man, is the welcome topic at the tables of the great, than the characteristic peculiarities or oddities of humble life—and we have no doubt that along with the amusement which is felt in the cottage anec¬ dotes of a domain, there is often awakened hy them, a benevo lent interest in the well-being of the occupiers. FINAL CAUSES OF THE EMOTIONS. 305 force and prevalence of compassion—an endowment which could not have proceeded from a malig¬ nant being; but which evinces the Author of our nature to be Himself compassionate and generous. But we now pass on to another thing alike patent and recognisable, we mean not of a virtuous prin¬ ciple in the human constitution, but of such an adaptation of the external world to that constitu tion—that, with the virtuous practice which that principle would both originate and sustain, the outward and general prosperity of man is indispen¬ sably connected. We mean the manifest and indispensable subserviency of a general truth in the world to the general well-being of society. It is difficult to imagine, that a God of infinite power and consummate skill of workmanship, but withal a lover of falsehood, would have devised such a world; or, rather that he would not, in patronage to those of his own likeness, have ordered the whole of its system differently—so reversing its present laws and sequences, as that, instead of honour and integrity, duplicity, disingenuousness, and fraud, should have been the usual stepping-stones to the possession both of this world’s esteem and of this world’s enjoyments. How palpably opposite this is to the actual economy of things, the whole ex¬ perience of life abundantly testifies—making it evident, of individual examples, that the connexion between honesty and success in the world is the rule ; the connexion between dishonesty and suc¬ cess is the exception. But perhaps, instead of attempting the induction of particular cases, we should observe a still more distinct avowal of the 30ti FINAL CAL'SKS UF THE EiMOTlONS. character of God, of His favour for truth, and of the discountenance which He has laid upon false- liood, by tracing, which could be easily done in imagination, the effect it would have in society, if, all things else remaining unaltered, there should this single difference be introduced, of a predomi¬ nant falsehood, instead of a predominant truth in the world. The consequences of a universal dis¬ trust, in the almost universal stoppage that would ensue of the useful interchanges of life, are too obvious to be enumerated. The world of trade would henceforth break up into a state of anarchy, or rather be paralyzed into a state of cessation and stillness. The mutual confidence between man and man, if not the mainspring of commerce, is at least the oil, without which its movements were impracticable. And were truth to disappear, and all dependence on human testimony to bo destroyed, this is not the only interest which w ould be ruined by it. It would vitiate, and that incur¬ ably, every social and every domestic i elationship; and all the charities as well as all the comforts of life wmuld take their departure from the world. 17. Seeing then that the observation of honesty and truth is of such vital importance to society, that without it society would cease to keep together —it might be well to ascertain, by what special provision it is in the constitution of man, that the practice of these virtues is upheld in the world. Did it proceed in every instance from the natural power and love of integrity in the heart—w'e should rejoice in contemplating this alliance between the worth of man’s character, on the one hand ; and the FINAL OAUSES OF THE EMOTIONS. 307 security, as well as the abundance of his outward comforts, upon the other. And such, in fact, is the habitual disposition to truth in the world— that, in spite of the great moral depravation into which our species has obviously fallen, we probably do not overrate the proportion, when we affirm, that at least a hundred truths are uttered among men for one falsehood. But then, in the vast majority of cases, there is no temptation to struggle with, nothing by which to try or to estimate the strength of the virtue—so that, without virtue being at all concerned in it, man’s words might spontaneously flow in the natural current of his ideas, of the knowledge or the convictions which belong to him. But more than this. Instead of selfishness seducing man, which it often does, from the observations of truth and honesty—it vastly oftener is on the side of these observations. Generally speaking, it is not more his interest that he should have men of integrity to deal with—than that he himself should in his own dealings, be strictly observant of this virtue. To be abandoned by the confidence of his fellows, he would find to be not more mortifying to his pride, than ruinous to his prosperity in the world. We are aware that many an occasional harvest is made from deceit and injustice; but, in the vast majority of cases, men would cease to thrive when they ceased to be trusted. A man’s actual truth is not more bene¬ ficial to others, than the reputation of it is gainful to himself. And therefore it is, that, throughout the mercantile world, men are as sensitive of an aspersion on their name, as they would be of an 308 FINAL CAUSES OF THE EMOTIONS. encroachment on their property. The one, in fact, is tantamount to the other. It is thus, that, under the constraints of selfishness alone, fidelity and justice may be in copious and current observation among men; and while, perhaps, the principle of these virtues is exceedingly frail and uncertain in all hearts—human society may still subsist by the literal and outward observation of them. 18. Here then is the example, not of a virtue in principle, but of a virtue in performance, with all the indispensable benefits of that performance, being sustained on the soil of selfishness. Were a pro¬ found observer of human life to take account of all the honesties of mercantile intercourse, he would find that, in the general amount of them, they were mainly due to the operation of this cause; or that they were so prevalent in society, because each man was bound to their observance, by the tie of his own personal interest—insomuch that, if this particular tie w'ere broken, it would as surely derange or break up the world of trade, as the world of matter would become an inert or turbid chaos, on the repeal or suspension of the law of gravitation. Confidence, the very soul of com¬ mercial enterprise, and without which the transac¬ tions of merchandise were impossible, is the goodly result, not of that native respect which each man has for another’s rights, but of that native regard which each man has for his own special advantage. 'I'his forms another example of a great and general good wrought out for society—while each compon¬ ent member is intently set only on a distinct and specific good for himself—a high interest, which FINAL CAUSES OF THE EMOTIONS. 309 could not have been confided to human virtue; but which has been skilfully extracted from the work¬ ings of human selfishness, lii as far as truth and justice prevail in the world, not by the operation of principle but of policy, in so far the goodness of man has no share in it: but so beneficent a result out of such unpromising materials, speaks all the more emphatically both for the wisdom and the goodness of God. 19. But in this there is no singularity. Other examples can be named of God placing us in such circumstances, as to enlist even our selfishness on the side of virtuous conduct, or implanting such special affections as do, by their own impulse, lead to that conduct, although virtuousness is not in all our thoughts. We are often so actuated, as to do what is best for society, at the very time that the good of society is forming no part of our concern; and our footsteps are often directed in that very path, which a moral regard to the greatest happi¬ ness of the species would dictate—without any moral purpose having been conceived, or any moral principle been in exercise within us. It is thus that our resentment operates as a check on the injuriousness of others, although our single aim be the protection of our own interests—not the diminution of violence or injustice in the world; and thus too our own dread of resentment from others, works the same outward effect, which honour or a respect for their rights would have had upon our transactions, which delicacy or a respect for their feelings would have had upon our converse with those around us. It is in this way 310 FINAL CAUSES OF THE EMOTIONS. that God makes the wrath of man to praise him, and the same is true of other affections of our nature, which have less the character of selfishness than either anger or fear. It is not because prompted by a sense of duty, but under the force of a mere natural proneness, that mothers watch so assiduously over the helplessness, and fathers toil so painfully for the subsistence of their children. Even compassion, with the speed and the discrimi¬ nation of its movements, does for human life more than man is capable of doing with his highest efforts of morality and reason—yet, not in the shape of a principle, but in the shape of a strong constitutional propensity. The good is rendered, not by man acting as he thinks that he ought, or under the force of a moral suggestion; but by man acting because he feels himself constrained, as if by the force of a physical necessity—not surely because, in the exercise of a sovereign liberty, he hath assumed a lordly ascendant over all the inferior passions of his nature; but because himself is lorded over by a law of his nature, having in it all the might and mastery of a passion. It is when, in the contemplation of phenomena like these, we are enabled to view man as an instrument, that we are also led more clearly to perceive who the agent is—not the being who is endowed, but the Being who has endowed him. The instinct of animals is a substitute for their wisdom; but, at the same time, a palpable demonstration of the wisdom of God. Man also has his instincts, which serve as the substitutes of moral goodness in him; but which therefore mark all the more strongly, by FINAL CAUSES OF THE EMOTIONS. 311 their beneficial operation, the goodness of his Maker.* 20. To see how widely these gifts or endow¬ ments of our nature by the hand of God, may stand apart from aught like proper goodness or virtue in the heart of man—we have only to witness the similar provision which has been made for the care and preservation of the inferior animals. The anger which arouses to defence against injury, and the fear which prompts to an escape from it, and the maternal affection which nourishes and rears forward the successive young into a condition of strength and independence for the protection of themselves—these all have their indispensable uses, for upholding and perpetuating the various tribes of living creatures, who at the same time are alike incapable of morality and reason. There is no moral purpose served by these implantations, so far at least as respects the creatures themselves, with whom virtue is a thing utterly incompetent and unattainable. In reference to them, they may be viewed simply as beneficent contrivances, and as bespeaking no other characteristic on the part of the Deity than that of pure kindness or ■ Dr. Smith in his Theory of Moral Sentiments has well remarked that—“though in accounting for the operations of liodies, we never fail to distinguish the efficient from the final cause—in accounting for those of the mind, we are very apt to confound these two different things with one another. When by natural principles we are led to advance those ends which a re- fined and enlightened reason would recommend to us, we are very apt to impute to that reason, as to their efficient cause, the senti¬ ments and actions by which we advance those ends, and to imagine that to be the wisdom of man, which in reality is the wisdom of God.” 312 FINAL CAUSES OF THE EMOTIONS. regard for the happiness and safety, throughout their respective generations, of the creatures whom He has made. This might help us to distinguish between those mental endowments of our own. species which have but for their object the com¬ fort and protection, and those which have for their object tbe character of man. The former we have in common with the inferior animals; and so far they only discover to us the kindness of the divine nature, or the parental and benevolent con¬ cern which God takes in us. The latter are peculiar to our race, and are indicated by certain phenomena of our mental nature, in which the beasts of the field and the fowls of the air have no shate with us—by the conscience within us, asserting its own rightful supremacy over all our affections and doings ; by our capacities for virtue and vice, along with the pleasures or the pains which are respectively blended with them; and finally by the operation of habit, whose office like that of a schoolmaster, is to perfect our education, and to fix, in one way or other, but at length immoveably, the character of its disciples. These present us with a distinct exhibition of the Deity, or a distinct and additional relation in which He stands to us—revealing to us, not Him only as the affectionate Father, and ourselves only as the fondlings of his regard ; but Him also as the great moral Teacher, the Lawgiver and moral Governor of man, and ourselves in a state of pupillage and probation, or as the subjects of a moral discipline. 21. And here it may be proper to remark, that we understand by the goodness of God, not His FINAL CAUSES OF THE EMOTIONS. 313 benevolence or His kindness alone. The term is comprehensive of all moral excellence. Truth and justice, and that strong repugnance to moral evil which has received the peculiar denomination of Holiness—these are all good moral properties, and so enter into the composition of perfect moral goodness. There are some who have analyzed, oi, in the mere force of their own wishfulness, would resolve the whole character of the Deity into but one attribute—that of a placid undis¬ tinguishing tenderness; and, in virtue of this tasteful or sentimental but withal meagre imagi¬ nation, Mould they despoil Him of all sovereignty and of all sacredness—holding Him forth as but the indulgent Father, and not also as the righteous Governor of men. But this analysis is as im¬ practicable in the character of God, as we have already found it to be in the character of man.* Unsophisticated conscience speaks differently. The forebodings of the human spirit in regard to futurity, as well as the present phenomena of human life, point to truth and righteousness, as distinct and stable and independent perfections of the divine nature—hoM^ever glossed or disguised they may have been, by the patrons of a mild and easy religion. In the various provisions of nature for the defence and security of the inferior animals, we may read but one lesson—the benevolence of its Author. In the like provisions, M'hether for the defence and prolongation of human life, or the maintenance of human society—we read that lesson See Natural Theology, Book iv. Chap. iv. § 7. VOL, V, " Q 314 FINAL CAUSES OF THE EMOTIONS. too, but other lessons in conjunction with it. For in the larger capacities of man, and more espe¬ cially in his possession of a moral nature, do we regard him as born for something ulterior and something higher than the passing enjoyments of a brief and ephemeral existence. And so when we witness in the provisions, whether of his ani¬ mal or mental economy, a subserviency to the protection, or even to the enjoyments of his transi¬ tion state—we cannot disconnect this with subser¬ viency to the remoter objects of that ultimate state whither he is going. In the instinctive fondness of parents, and the affinities of kindness from the fellows of our species, and even the private affec¬ tions of anger and fear,—we behold so many elements conjoined into what may be termed an ap¬ paratus of guardianship, and such an apparatus has been reared by Providence in behalf of every creature that breathes. But in the case of man, with his larger capacities and prospects, the termi¬ nating object, even of such an intermediate and temporary apparatus, is not to secure for him the safety or happiness of the present life. It is to fulfil the period and subserve the purposes of a moral discipline. For meanwhile character is ripening; and, whether good or bad, settling by the power and operation of habit into a state of inveteracy—and so as to fix and prepare the disciples of a probationary state for their final destinations. What to the inferior animals are the provisions of a life, are to man the accommoda¬ tions of a journey. In the one we singly behold the indications of a divine benevolence. With FINAL CAUSES OF THE EMOTIONS. 315 the other, vve connect the purposes of a divine administration; and, beside the love and liberality of a Parent, we recognise the designs of a Teacher, and Governor, and Judge. 22. And these special affections, though their present and more conspicuous use be to uphold the existing economy of life, are not without their influence and their uses in a system of moral dis¬ cipline. And it is quite obvious, that, ere we can pronounce on the strict and essential virtuousness of any human being, they must be admitted into the reckoning. In estimating the precise moral quality of any beneficence, which man may have executed, it is indispensable to know, in how far he was schooled into it at the bidding of principle, and in how far urged forward to it by the impulse of a special affection. To do good to another because he feels that he ought, is an essentially distinct exhibition from doing the same good by the force of parental love, or of an instinctive and spontaneous compassion—as distinct as the strength of a constitutionally implanted desire is from the sense of a morally incumbent obligation. In as far as I am prompted to the relief of distress by a movement of natural pity—in so far less is left for virtue to do. In as far as I am restrained from the outbreakings of an anger which tumultuates within, by the dread of a counter-resentment and retaliation from without—in so far virtue has less to resist. It is thus that the special affections may at once lighten the tasks and lessen the temptations of virtue; and, whether in the w'ay of help at one time or of defence at another, may 316 FINAL CAUSES OF THE EMOTIONS. save the very existence of a principle, which in its own unaided frailty, rftight, among the rude conflicts of life, have else been overborne. It is perhaps indis¬ pensable to the very being of virtue among men, that, by means of the special affections, a certain force of inclination has been superadded to the force of principle—we doubt not, in proportions of highest wisdom, of most exquisite skill and deli¬ cacy. But still the strength of the one must be deducted, in computing the real amount and strength of the other; and so the special affections of our nature not only subserve a purpose in time, but are of essential and intimate effect in the processes of our moral preparation, and will eventually tell on the high retributions and judg¬ ments ef eternity. 23. Man is not a utilitarian either in his pro¬ pensities or in his principles. When doing what he likes—it is not always, it is not generally, because of its perceived usefulness, that he so likes it. But his inclinations, these properties of his nature, have been so adapted both to the material world and to human society, that a great accompanying or great resulting usefulness, is the effect of that particular constitution which God hath given to him. And when doing what he feels that he ought, it is far from always because of its perceived usefulness, that he so feels. But God hath so formed our mental constitution, and hath so adapted the whole economy of external things to the stable and everlasting principles of virtue, that, in effect and historical fulfilment, the greatest virtue and the greatest happiness are at FINAL CAUSES OF THE EMOTIONS. 317 me. But the union of these two does not con¬ stitute their unity. Virtue is not right because it is useful; but God hath made it useful, because it is right. He both loves virtue, and wills the happiness of His creatures—this benevolence of will being itself, not the whole, but one of the brightest moralities in the* character of the God¬ head. He wills the happiness of man but wills his virtue more; and accordingly hath so con¬ structed both the system of humanity, and the system of external nature, that only through the medium of virtue can any substantial or lasting happiness be realized. The utilitarians have conlounded these two elements, because of the inseparable yet contingent alliance which a God of virtue hath established between them. The cosmopolites are for merging all the particular affections into one, and would substitute in their place a general desire for the greatest possible amount of good to others, as the alone guide and impellent of human conduct. And the utilitarians are for merging all the particular virtues into one; and would substitute in their place the greatest usefulness, as the alone principle to which every question respecting the morality of actions should be referred. The former would do away friend¬ ship, and patriotism, and all the partialities or even instincts of relationship, from the system of human nature. The latter would at least degrade, if not do away, with truth and justice from the place which they now hold in the system of Ethics. The desolating effect of such changes, on the happiness and security of social life, would exhibit 318 FINAL CAUSES OF THE EMOTIONS. the vast superiority of the existent economy of things, over that speculative economy into which these theories would transform it; or, in other words, would prove by how mighty an interval the goodness and the wisdom of God transcended both the goodness and the wisdom of man. 24. The whole of this speculation, if followed out into its just and legitimate consequences, would serve greatly to humble and reduce our estimate of human virtue. Nothing is virtuous but what is done under a sense of duty; or done, simply and solely because it ought. It is only in as far as this consideration is present to the mind, and is of practical and prevalent operation there—that man can be said to feel virtuously, or to act virtu¬ ously. We should not think of affixing this moral characteristic to any perfoi’mance, however bene¬ ficial, that is done under the mere impulse of a headlong sensibility, without any sense or any sentiment of a moral obligation. In every good action, that is named good because useful to society, we should subduct or separate all which is due to the force of a special affection, that we might precisely ascertain how much or how little remains, which may be due to the force of principle. T'he inferior animals, destitute though they be of a moral nature, and therefore incapable of virtue, share with us in some of the most useful and amiable instincts which belong to humanity; and when w'e stop to admire the workings of nature’s sensibility—whether in the tears that compassion sheds over the miseries of the unfortunate, or in the smiles and endearments lavished by a mother FINAL CAUSES OF THE EMOTIONS. 319 opon her infant family—we seldom reflect how little of the real and proper character of virtue is there* e accredit man as if they were his own principles, with those instincts which the Divinity hath implanted within him; and it aggravates the error, or rather the guilt of so perverse a reckon- while we offer this incense to humanity, we forget all the while the hand of Him by whom it is that humanity is so bountifully gifted and so beauteously adorned. 25. But after all, it is in the felt supremacy of conscience, more than either in the useful affec¬ tions of our nature or in the useful arrangements of the external world, that we read in most un¬ equivocal characters of the moral rectitude of Him who framed us. Each of the emotions whereof our nature is susceptible, is obviously subservient to some good purpose or other; but that the purpose may be fully gained, or gained without the alloy of any evil, the emotion should neither be in defect nor in excess -; or, in other words, it should, if in defect when left to its own spontane¬ ous workings, be urged forward to a certain point; or, if in excess, it should be restrained from pass- ing beyond it. Now, for performing the office of this regulation, conscience is the regulating faculty, which, by acting on the wull, and so issuing forth its commands on the attention, can so far bring the emotions under the authority of the mind’s own bidding, and thus retain and employ, as ministers for good, those affections which, if left to their own random and reckless operation, might have been ministers for evil. It is thus 320 FINAL CAUSES OF THE EMOTIONS. that anger, and fear, and grief, and compassion, and even ambition and avarice, might serve as auxiliaries to virtue or impellents for the more sure and vigorous execution of its dictates— because, through this intermediate machinery of the attention and the vrill, they might all be brought under the dominion of that faculty, which tells of righteousness and of its supreme obligation. It is the governance that has been assigned to this faculty, in the very make and structure of our minds, which, more than any thing else in the whole compass of nature, announces of the God who placed it there, that He is indeed a righte¬ ous governor. And the conclusion is greatly enhanced, when, on examining farther into the constitution of man, we find, that, not only are our states of emotion as the sensibilities of the heart subject by means of the attention and the will to the regulation of the conscience; but that, by the same stepping-stones, conscience has also a con¬ trol over our intellectual states, or is of powerful influence in determining the views and opinions of the understanding. 26. If certain parts in the machinery of a watch were so placed, and had withal such forces con¬ ferred on them, as to overbear the regulator—this would cast an obscuration over the design of the mechanism, and do away the conclusion that it was formed for the purpose of moving regularly. And the same is true of our own mental constitu¬ tion. If certain parts and faculties, from the very position or tendency which has been originally assigned to them, destroyed the control which FINAL CAUSES OF THE EMOTIONS. 321 conscience might otherwise have had as the over¬ ruling faculty of our nature, this might obscure or rather nullify the inference that man was made for the purpose of walking conscientiously; and so make him unfit for being appealed to as evidence for the moral character or designs of his Creator. We all know how much the conduct of man is influenced by the views of his understanding ; and with what power the emotions act as so many impefient forces, in giving both direction and celerity to his movements. If then opinion were so much the fruit of an organic necessity, that even the desire of truth formed no guarantee against perversity and error; or if the various affections of which man is susceptible, were so many headlong propensities, against the excess or deficiency of which no provision ever had been made in the framework of our moral nature, so as that the sense of duty might be brought efficiently to bear upon them—this might altogether frustrate the conclusion, that, from the relation of his various faculties and feelings, from the very way in which they have been put together, man at the first must have been framed by the fingers of a righteous God. This conclusion, on the other hand, will be saved, if it can be demonstrated that in the original structure of humanity there is no such maladjust¬ ment ; if, as the will is obviously at the bidding of the conscience, it can furthermore be shown in how far the emotions and the understanding are at the bidding of the will. On this question it will de¬ pend whether man, in the common meaning of the term, is necessarily bereft of all control over o 2 322 FINAL CAUSES OF THE EMO'! IONS. either his intellectual state, or states of emotion ; or whether rather, it be not his own fault that he is the victim either of perverse judgments or head¬ long propensities. 27. There is then another application of at least as high importance, to which this peculiaritv of our mental structure is subservient. By th.c command which the will has over the attention, we become responsible, not only for our states of emotion, but also in a great degree for our intel¬ lectual states. The imairination that there is neither moral worth nor moral delinquency in the state of a man’s belief, proceeds on the voluntary having had no share in the process which leads to it. Now, through the intermedium of the very same faculty, the faculty of attention, the will stands related to the ultimate convictions of the understanding, precisely as it stands related to the ultimate emotions of the heart. It is true that as the object in view of the mind is, so the emotion is. And it is as true that as the evidence in view of the mind is, so the belief is. In neither case has the will to do with the concluding sequence; but in both cases it has equally to do with the sequences that went before it. There may be a pathological necessity beyond our control, in that final step of the succession, which connects the object that is perceived with its counterpart emo¬ tion, or the evidence that is perceived with its counterpart belief. But in like manner as it is by the attention, which we might or might not have exercised, that the evidence is perceived by us, so is it by the attention, which we might or might FINAL CAUSES OF THE EMOTIONS. 323 not have exercised, that the evidence is perceived by us. It is thus that on innumerable questions, and these of vital importance, both to the present well-being and the future prospects of humanity, the moral may have had causal antecedency over the intellectual; and the state of a man’s creed may depend on the prior state of his character. We have already seen how a present compassion may have been the result of a previous choice; and so may a present conviction be the result of a previous choice—being in proportion, not to the evidence possessed by the subject, but to the evidence attended to, and perceived in consequence of that attention. The designations of virtuous and vicious are only applicable to that which is voluntary; and it is precisely because, through the faculty of attention, the voluntary has had so much to do, if not immediately with the belief, at least with the investigations which lead to it—that man may be reckoned with for the judgments of his understanding, as well as for the emotions of his heart or the actions of his history. 28. That man is not rightfully the subject of any moral reckoning for his belief, would appear, then, to be as monstrous a heresy in science as it is in theology, as philosophically unsound as it is religiously unsound; and deriving all its plausibility from the imagination, that the belief is in no way dependent upon the will. It is not morally incum¬ bent upon man to see an object which is placed beyond the sphere of his vision—nor can either a rightful condemnation or a rightful vengeance be .aid upon him, because he has not perceived it. 324 flNAL CAUSES OF THE EMOTIONS, It must He within that sphere, else he is no more responsible for not having reached it with his eye, than for not having stretched forth his hand to any of the distant bodies of the firmament. It must be within range of his seeing; and then the only question which needs to be resolved is, what the will has to do with the seeing of it. Now to see is not properly an act of the will, but to look is altogether so ; and it is the dependence of his looking faculty on the will, which makes man responsible for what he sees or what he does not see, in reference to all those objects of sight, that are placed Avithin the territory of sensible vision. And if there be but a looking faculty in the mind, man may be alike responsible for w^hat he believes or what he does not believe, in reference, not to sensible objects alone, but to those truths which are placed within the territory of his intellectual or mental vision. Now attention is even such a faculty. Man can turn and transfer it at pleasure from one to another topic of contemplation. He can take cognizance of any visible thing, in virtue of the power which he has over the eye of his body —a power, not to alter the laws of vision, but to bring the organ of vision within the operation of these laws. And he can take cognizance of any announced truth, in virtue of the power he has over the attention, which is his mental eye—a power, not to alter the laws of evidence, but to bring the organ of the intellect within their opera¬ tion. Attention is the locking organ of the mind —the link of communication between man’s moral and man’s intellectual nature—the messenger, as FINAL CAUSES OF THE EMOTIONS. 325 it were, by which the interchange between these two departments is carried on—a messenger too at the bidding of the will, who saith to it at one time go and it goeth, at another come and it cometh, and at a third do this and it doeth it. It is thus that man becomes directly responsible for the con¬ clusions of his understanding—for these conclusions depend altogether, not on the evidence which exists, but on that portion of the evidence which is attended to. He is not to be reckoned with, either for the lack or the sufficiency, of the existent evidence; but he might most justly be reckoned with, for the lack or the sufficiency of his attention. It is not for him to create the light of day; but it is for him both to open and to present his eye to all its mani¬ festations. Neither is it for him to fetch down to earth the light of the upper sanctuary. But if it be indeed true that that light hath come into the world; then it is for him to guide the eye of his understanding towards it. There is a voluntary part for him to perform, and thenceforward the question is involved with most obvious moralities. The thing is now submitted to his choice. He may have the light, if he only love the light; and if he do not, then are his love of darkness and the evil of his doings, the unquestionable grounds of his most clear and emphatic condemnation. 29. And this principle is of force, throughout all the stages in the process of the inquiry—from the very first glance of that which is the subject of it, to the full and finished conviction in which the inquiry terminates. At the commencement of the process, we may see nothing but the likeli- 326 FINAL CAUSES OF THE EMOTIONS. hoods of a subject—not the conclusive proofs, but only as yet the dim and dawning probabilities of the question—nothing which is imperative on our belief, and yet every thing which is imperative upon our attention. There may be as great a moral perversity in resisting that call, v/hich the mere semblance of truth makes upon our further atten¬ tion—as in resisting that call, which the broad and perfect manifestation of it makes upon our conviction. In the practice of Scottish law, there is a distinction made between the precogni¬ tion and the proof—carried into effect in England by the respective functions of the grand and petty jury; it being the office of the former to find a true bill, or to decide whether the matter in question should be brought to a further trial; and it being the office of the latter to make that trial, and to pronounce the final verdict there¬ upon. Now what we affirm is, that there might be to the full as grievous a delinquency in the former act of judgment as in the latter; in the denial of a further hearing to the cause after the strong probabilities which have transpired at the one stage, as in the denial of a fair verdict after the strong and satisfactory proofs which have transpired at the other. All the equities of recti¬ tude may be as much traversed or violated, at the initial or progressive steps of such an inquiry, as by the ultimate judgment vffiich forms the termi¬ nation of it. To resist a good and valid precogni¬ tion, and so to refuse the trial, is a moral unfair¬ ness of the very same kind, with that resistance of a good and valid proof which leads to the utter- FINAL CAUSES OF THE EMOTIONS. 327 ance of a false verdict. He were an iniquitous judge who should internally stifle the impression of those verities, which now brightened forth upon him at the close of his investigation. But he also were an iniquitous judge, who should stifle the impression of those verisimilitudes, that even but obscurely and languidly beamed upon him at the outset. 31. Now, in all the processes of the human intellect, there is a similar gradation silently yet substantially carried forward. There is first an aspect of probability, which constitutes no claim upon our immediate belief, but which at least constitutes a most rightful claim upon our atten¬ tion, a faculty, as we before said, at the bidding of our will, and for the exercise of which we are therefore responsible—seeing that whenever there is a rightful claim upon our attention, and the attention is not given, it is wrongously withheld. But we know that the effect of this faculty, is to brighten every object of contemplation to which it is directed, gradually to evolve into greater clear¬ ness all its lineaments, and lastly to impress the right conviction upon the understanding. In other words, the man, on such an occasion as this, is intellectually right, but just because he is morally right. He becomes sound in faith ; but only in virtue of having become sound in princi¬ ple. The true belief in which he ultimately lands, is not all at once forced upon him, by the creden¬ tials wherewith it was associated; but he had the patience and the candour to wait the unrolling of these credentials; or rather he helped to unrol _ 328 PHENOMENA OF ANGER AND GRATITUDE. them with his own hand. He fastened his regards upon some proposition which involved in it the interests or the obligations of humanity; because there sat upon it even at the first, a certain credi¬ table aspect, which had he had the hardihood to withstand or to turn from, it would have made him chargeable, not with a mental alone, but with a moral perversity—not with the error that springs from a mistaken judgment, but with the guilt that springs from the violation of an incumbent duty. Many are the truths which do not carry an instant and overpowering evidence along with them; and which therefore, at their first announcement, are not entitled to demand admittance for themselves as the articles of a creed. Nevertheless they may be entitled to a hearing; and, by the refusal of that hearing, man incurs, not the misfortune of an involuntary blunder, but the turpitude of a volun¬ tary crime. CHAPTER VIII. On the Phenomena of Anger and Gratitude, and the Moral Theory ivhich has been grounded upon them. 1. The emotion of anger is doubtless one of very frequent experience, and is at times felt so intensely, as to engrave itself deeply on the consciousness—■ So that the faithful picture which is given of it by one man, may very easily be recognised by another PHENOMENA OF ANGER AND GRATITUDE. 329 and it is not the less favourable for our purpose, that it so distinctly announces to us its leading char¬ acteristics, by the tone and the countenance and the gesticulations of others beside ourselves. Nay, it seems to widen the field of observation, and perhaps to suggest some important distinction, that it is an emotion shared with us by the inte¬ rior animals. There is often much of a moral feeling blended with this emotion in man; and it is interesting to perceive it, in its merely animal displays among the inferior tribes of living crea¬ tures—leading many to apprehend that, as there may often be detected in beasts the rudiments of an understanding, so there may also be detected something like the embryo of a moral nature—the rude elements of justice at play in the very growl and ferociousness of a wolf or of a tiger, that, when cheated of its desires and expectations, seems to feel as if bereft of its rights; and, in the outcries of its disappointment, to vent forth somewhat like a proclamation of its wrongs. 2. A lioness robbed of her whelps causeth the desert to ring with an appeal, that hath in it, one might imagine, the tone of a demand for justice; and is as emphatically felt to be such by him who hears it, as if it came to him in the vehicle of arti¬ culate language. The noble creature seems to feel and to understand morality. Ihere is an eloquence in the complaint of an outraged animal, that, at least, stirs up the elements of moral feel¬ ing in man, and inclines him to the redress of its Injuries—and the animal itself seems as if really actuated by a sense oi these injuries, and as if 330 phenomena of anger and gratitude. really pleading for redress. This might have led some to apprehend a strong alliance, at least, between the emotion of anger and a sense of injury; and so as to imagine, that, if they cleaidy deline¬ ated the phenomena of anger, this might serve as a stepping-stone, by which to come at a right understanding of the nature of justice. And, as a proof that anger has more to do with justice than the other emotions have—had the lioness been bereft of her young by the falling in of the roof of her cave, that overwhelmed her whole family in destruction while she herself had escaped from it, there "would have been the agony of grief. Had she been bereft of them by a tiger that stole them away, by its own secret and unknown path, to the top of an else inaccessible precipice; and there visibly devoured them before her eyes, there would have been the fire and fury of resentment. No one of course has witnessed either of these exhibitions; yet we are persuaded, that, to this difference of the two events, there would be a cor¬ respondent difference of tone and expression, on the part of the savage untamed creature, who had been subjected to them—that, on the former event, its cry would have in it more of a soft and pathetic tenderness; and that, on the latter event, there would be a fell and a fierce vindictiveness in its cry. Here there are two emotions that might be looked to apart from each other, as having dis¬ tinct characters; and that might also be referred to their distinct causes. More especially might we feel ourselves authorized to say, that, in the above instance, the anger is felt, because there is PHENOMENA OF ANGER AND GRATITUDE. 331 the belief that the harm had been inflicted by means of some living creature ; that the proper object of this emotion is a creature which has life; that when the same material hurt is sustained by an external cause, in which nothing with life had any concern, there is still an emotion, but an emotion altogether distinct from anger; and thus, though there may both be a regret and a resentment felt under one and the same visitation, yet we both in the nature and the exercise of these two feelings, have room for that very discrimination by which emotion is performed. 3. This belief that the harm was inflicted by a living creature, might be a mere delusive imagina- - tion—and it is just an exhibition of the same phe¬ nomena, though the anger should be felt and should operate as before. The dog which barks at the man of straw, whose garments fluctuate in the wind, and afterwards ceases from the habit alto¬ gether, still proves that his irritation was excited by the thought of a living creature ; and with whom perhaps he associated, if not the actual infliction, at least the probability of future harm. His attack upon a hedgehog exemplifies the law of this emo¬ tion. At his first onset there is the imagination of a living creature—and the wrath by which he was then actuated is heightened in a moment to exasperation, when he is made to suffer the pains of a collision with it—till by its remaining long immoveable, the belief seems to die away of its being really animated. But if after the contest has been suspended, it should at length move and announce to its observant enemy that life and sensi- 332 phenomena of anger and gratitude. bility are within, then, as if presented anew with the appropriate object for the excitement of an^er, is this feeling again excited as at the first, and discharges itself as before on the unhappy object of it. And there is often an efficacy in extreme passion, so to heat and to hurry the imagination, as actually to transport the mind into the momen¬ tary belief of a living principle, when in truth there is none, and thus to uphold and divert anger .for a time towards an object that is not properly or ori¬ ginally suited to it—as when a man turns round to curse the stone against which his foot hath struck itself painfully—or as when he tears the letter into fragments, by which its w riter hath ago¬ nized or insulted him; or, to descend, again for instances among the lower animals, as when the infuriated bull hath missed the object of his pursuit, and gores and treads upon the mantle that was dropt in the flight. Such is the blindness of rage, that whatever it meets with seems to be personi¬ fied. But these are the devious phenomena of the emotion; and are capable of being so explained, as to leave the general proposition unaffected—that from life it is, that the provocative strictly comes, and on life it is that the provocation is wreaked back again.* * It is of importance in this matter to discriminate between the object of the emotion in its proper state, and the object of it in its strange and capricious deviations. It is exceedingly difficult to account fully for these deviations. We do not think it suffi¬ ciently accounted for by the mere personihcation of the inanimate object, when we turn round and wreak our imprecations upon it. "We may give a child some credit for this—when it feels itself soothed and gratified, by the blows which are inflicted on the floor, or any article of furniture against which it hath fallen. PHENOMENA OF ANGER AND GRATITUDE. 333 4. But from other instances it will appear, that the provocation to anger may come from one quarter; and the provocation that is of consequence felt, instead of returning back in the same direc¬ tion, may be discharged in another quarter. We are not speaking of the justice or the injustice of this. We are speaking of the fact; and we might allege a thousand exemplifications of it. The lioness that had just witnessed the spectacle of her slaughtered and devoured young, would be thereby thrown into a wild general and undirected frenzy, that would make her far more formidable to any passenger that she should meet upon her way; and, to satiate her vengeance, might she strew her reckless and infuriated progress with many inno¬ cent victims. The ox that has been driven to madness by his persecutors, if he had not the op¬ portunity of turning upon them, might pour out of his now accumulated wrath on the indiscriminate But we cannot imagine that man, even for tlie twinkling of one moment, ascribes life or sensibility to the stone, against which he hath struck his foot —when he wreaks upon it the energy of his in* dignation. The only account which we can give of the pheno¬ mena is this—that there is a harmony between our physical con¬ stitution and the laws of emotion ; that the one, in fact, is adapt¬ ed to subserve the other; and the mechanism of our sentient nature is so framed, as to tally with those processes of emotion which for wise purposes our Creator hath established. Thus it is that there is a promptitude to anger which often outstrips even the rapidity of thought, on the reception of a sudden pain; and tlum there is a relief felt, by the very same sort of discharge which even legitimate anger would prompt, and on which it too would feel itself appeased. It is this solace which is felt upon the discharge, that will account for other anomalies of conduct under this emotion. The activity which it prompts serves to relievo from a general state of excitement -just as a man can by giving himself something to do, throw off the bashfulness which op¬ presses him. 334 PHENOMENA OF ANGER AND GRATITUDE. multitude, that were flying in every direction before him. It is not even necessary that the excitement should have been produced by human tormentors. The flies of a summer day could raise the animal into a dangerous state of irritability, or rather of irritation that would not be safe for any to encoun¬ ter. And even man, with all his boasted preten¬ sions to reason and to equity, may be convicted of the very same exhibition. How often does the injustice of a”few, sour him into a misanthropy against all ? How often may he be seen to retaliate on the members of his family at home, the wrongs and the vexations that he may have met with abroad? How often, even with annovances that no living creature around him has inflicted—the untoward accidents of weather, or even his own blunders and mismanagements—how often do these teaze and transport him so, that he becomes for the day a terror to his household, who eye the storm upon his brow, and each trembles apart lest it be discharged upon himself? We have met with many of whom it has been said, that he is not in tune or in temper just now ; that this is not the right season for approaching him; and with whom it is just as necessary, that the innocent, who have given him no offence, should make this calculation, as they who have directly injured or affronted him. The direct relief which anger seeks, is by retalia¬ tion on the offending party ; but, failing in this, it finds a vent in other directions—and so is often known to deliver itself of the labouring violence within, by the deeds or the speeches of violence to the utterly undeserving of it; nay, by the frantic PHENOMENA OF ANGER AND GRATITUDE. 335 destruction of all that it can reach, wreaking itself upon inanimate objects, and ejecting of its insen¬ sate fury on the books and the windows and the furniture that cometh in its way. 5. We have already had occasion to discrimi¬ nate between the two emotions of anger and grief. There is another emotion wherewith anger has a cer¬ tain relationship ; even that of fear. Grief is felt because of an evil that has been inflicted already. Fear is felt because of an evil that is apprehended in future. Even anger may be felt on either of these grounds. We may be angry at another, because of a mischief he has actually done. Or we may be angry, because of a mischief that is threatened or intended by him. In the former case, the grief and the anger may rapidly alternate, the one with the other, as in the instance of a widowed mother, whose husband has fallen by the hand of a malignant assassin. But, in the latter case, the fear and the anger do not alternate so readily. They do not seem to have the property of chang¬ ing places with the same degree of facility.* We should say of anger, that its most legitimate cause was the purpose of evil against us in another’s breast. But were that a very tremendous evil, • We can think of no other reason for this, than that generally speaking, fear, particularly when excessive, is a more engrossing emotion than grief. When grief is very excessive too, it will keep its ground in the heart to the exclusion even of anger against him who hath inflicted the calamity, under which we mourn. It does -not arise therefore from any peculiar property in either of the emotions, that the one more generally excludes ans;er from the bosom than the other. It arises merely from this, that fear is generally a more, engrossing emotion, and hence keeps more exclusive possession of the mind—to the shutting out even of that anger, which else would fiercely burn against him. 336 PHENOMENA OF ANGER AND GRATITUDE and were he who designed it hopelessly beyond our power of resistance—then, the engrossing terror would displace the wrath. He would be the object of our dread ; and, so long as he was so, he would not be the object of our resentment. While we trembled before him under the one emotion, there would be no kindling of our heart against him under the influence of the other emotion. The tyrant who can instantly bid away towards whose hostility it was that we felt a sentiment of terror. There is a very fine example given by Sir Walter Scott of the alternations between anger and grief, that took place in the same bosom ; and we think that there is a dramatic truth in his repre- •entaiion. “Can piety the discord heal, Or staunch the death-feud’s enmity. Can Christian love, can patriot zeal. Can love of blessed charity ? No ! vainly to each holy shrine, In mutual pilgrimage they drew. Implored in vain the grace divine. For chiefs their own red falchions slew. While Cessford owns the rule of Car, While Ettrick boasts the line of Scott, The slaughtered chiefs, the mortal jar. The havoc of the feudal war. Shall never never be forgot. “ In sorrow o’er Lord Walter’s bier The vvai'like foresters had bent; And many a flower, and many a tear. Old Teviot’s maids and matrons lent. But o’er her warrior’s bloody bier The lady dropped nor flower nor tear. Vengeance deep-brooding o’er the slain, Had lock’d the source of softer woe ; And burning pride and high disdain, /- Forbade the rising tear to flow ; Until, amid his sorrowing clan, Her son lisp’d from the niu’se’s knee, ‘ And if I live to be a man. My father’s death revenged shall be ;’ Then fast the mother’s tears did seek. To dew the infant's kindling cheek. PHENOMENA OF ANGER AND GRATITUDE. 337 to execution, any attendant whom his displeasure may light upon, has a countenance that is looked to by all with most watchful anxiety; and the first symptoms of a gathering storm may terrify, but they do not irritate. Were the identical scowl to appear against us on the face of an equal, or still more on the face of an inferior, there might in that case be no fear; and, as a proof of the repulsion that there is between the two emotions, there would now be space for anger in the heart, and anger would in all probability take the occupation there. This might help to explain a number of phenomena, for which we never thought of assigning any principle or cause. The hare, or the mouse, or any of those feebler animals that come under the description of the smaller or inferior kind of game, do not exhibit anger against their pursuei's, but fear only—though they have the full conviction of that being in the mind of their enemy, which is the most appropriate cause of anger—even a wilful purpose against them of deadliest mischief. It is not always so, when there is something like a sense of equality, and the hope of a successful resistance ; and so, in certain kinds of game, as when the elephant or the tiger or the bear which infests a neighbourhood, becomes the object of some general attack—-there is often a furious con¬ test as well as a chase, and that because the terror is not so overwhelming as wholly to have dispos¬ sessed the anger. And neither even is it so, when the fear hath at length given place to despair. For in like manner as anger, because of a threat¬ ened or impending evil, presupposes the chance of VOE. V, P 338 PHENOMENA OF ANGER AND GRATITUDE. warding it off by resistance—so fear often, though not always, presupposes the chance of evading it by submission or by flight. But let the imagina¬ tion of this latter chance he wholly don? away— let there now be in the mind a certainty of the dread infliction, as a thing that is wholly inevitable —let the mind become, as it were, reconciled to this certainty; and then shall we frequently see, that, so soon as terror hath fled away from the bosom, there is an instantaneous reaction and re¬ appearance of anger. The two, it would appear, can have no fellowship; and, though the same cause be competent to the production of each, it cannot produce them together. So soon, how¬ ever, as the one effect vanishes, the other takes its place; and thus it is, that, when fear leaves the heart, fury enters upon the possession of it; and creatures of the gentlest and most timid nature will turn in fierceness to make their last stand against their pursuers, and have been seen in stoutest heroism to expire. It has even been known, that, after the sentence was passed, and before the reprieve was denied to the malefactor in his cell, there were nought but the agitations of terror in his guilty bosom—but that when he at length saw his fate to be inevitable, he muttered the curses of vindictiveness and spite against the judges and the accusers and the laws. And thus it is that we often hear, of what a man is capable of doing, after that he is desperate. He who hath had experience in battles, may oft have witnessed how the two emotions of fear and anger alternate, the one with the other. It is exemplified, not by PHENOMENA OF ANGER AND GRATITUDE. 339 individuals alone, but by a whole nation, when the terrors of a coming armada have reduced to tho most humbling expedients and offers of submission. The fear, in that stage of the proceedings, hath left no room for the anger; but should all their attempts at negotiation be spurned away by the proud invader; and the returning embassy have banished their last hopes of peace and safety from the land; and they should circulate withal the story of all that honour due to venerable sages and the representatives of noble ancestry, having been trampled by the tyrant’s insolence into dust—then might it be seen, how the whole nation, shall by one consent, lift itself up from the crouching atti¬ tude into which it had fallen; and, gathering fresh energy from despair, will the war-cry of a stern and resolved patriotism be heard to resoun-d from one end to the other of it. It is often so, in the history of this world’s oppressors. It is not when firmly seated on their bai’baric throne, that they are the objects of anger—for by the power of terror, that other emotion wherewith it hath no affinity, is this emotion overborne. But when all despair of improvement or redress hath at length banished the pusillanimous inmate from the bosom of his dependents, then doth the more noble and generous inmate succeed in its room; and the cruelties of a despot’s reign often come to be expiated by the tremendous reaction of a nation’s vengeance—who, in very proportion to their former dread, now wreak upon his guilty head the keenest execrations of their long smothered resentment, the now eman¬ cipated sense of their accumulated wrongs. 340 PHENOMENA OF ANGER AND GRATITUDE, 6. The relationship wherein anger and fear stand to each other, may explain the reason why anger is so promptly and powerfully felt, on the first sight of one whom we purpose to attack—but from whom we have some difficulty or resistance to apprehend. There is a secret sense within, that this nascent fear must not be given way to, or the object is lost; and thus a painful struggle ensues between two opposite feelings, the desire of gaining this object and the dread of losing it; and a pain that has been created by the presence of a living creature, can easily be referred to him as the cause of it; and so anger rushes into JuU possession of the breast, and expels "that incipient terror which would else have paralyzed its occupier. And thus we should expect from a beast of prey, a fiercer and more hideous growl, at its first onset with a formidable than with a feeble antagonist. It is thought of man, that the fear of him and the dread of him, are still upon every creature under heaven; and this may explain the grim resentful¬ ness of aspect wherewith he is peculiarly regarded, when the savage animal hath marked him for its victim. Had not the power of anger come to its aid, its courage might have failed; and, to bear it up as it were, may we presume that the tiger braces his spirit for the assault, by the angry roar that he emits, ere he maketh the spring by which he seizes on so noble a prize—just as the school-boy whistles loudest in the dark, when likest to be scared by his imagination. 7. There is no doubt that the natural and uni¬ versal tendency of a sense of injustice, is to excite PlfBNOMENA OF ANGER AND GRATITUDE. 341 in the bosom of him who has sustained it, that quick and instant displeasure, which is neither more nor less than the emotion of anger. But though the sense of having been injured, should in all cases be followed up by the feeling of anger—must it therefore be that the existence of this feeling in any heart, implies that it is smarting under the sense of a recent or a past injustice ? There is a felt provocation; and the question is, what has been the provocative ? Must it at all times be a felt or a fancied injustice ? Anger is like the natural expression or utterance of one who imagines that he has been wrongously used; and if a likeness to the truth never in any instance varied from the truth itself—then from the phenomena of anger, we could at once gather the characters of justice. But some of the instances already quoted make it certain, that anger cannot at all times be referred to a sense of injustice as its cause. It certainly may in many instances; and even with the semblance at least of probability can be often so accounted for in the case of the inferior animals—as in the lioness de¬ prived of her whelps, or the dog of its bone after it might be imagined that the possession and the partial use of it had given him somewhat the feel¬ ing of a property therein. We could even almost without any stretch of violence, imagine, that the fierce and vindictive glare which is instantly lighted up in the eye of the bull, on the appearance of a person in the field where he is grazing, might be due to the feeling of an injurious encroachment on that domain which he considers as his own. His desire, at all events, is to range at pleasure and 342 PHENOMENA OF ANGER AND GRATITUDr without disturbauce over the whole extent of if,, and he is irritated because thwarted in this desire; and thwarted all the more painfully in proportion to the strength or the formidableness of his imagined adversary. It is thus that there might be no sen¬ sible irritation on the appearance of a lamb or of a fowl; but a manifest and declared exhibition of it. on the appearance of a man—while, on the appear¬ ance of a lion or an elephant, the anger might be overborne by fear, and the resolute fury of the else indignant brute melt away into the imbecility of a coward. But it is to the case of vivid and un¬ mixed anger that we now look; and then it is evident that an annoyance is felt, and that a living creature seen and known to be the cause of it is scowled at as an enemy, and as an enemy pursued as the object of a distinct and personal retaliation. 8. Nay there is something analogous to this, in the case of that anger wherewith a beast of prey is impelled to spring forward upon its victim. It would not so spring forward upon a dead animal; more especially, if it lay in fragments without the semblance of its original form. However ravenous its appetite may be, we apprehend that in this case there would be no anger to wing the celerity of its movement; but simply the eagerness of hunger to be satiated. Neither do we imagine that there could be much of anger, when a timid unresisting victim gives itself up an easy prey to the fangs of its devourer. It is when resistance, or rapid flight is expected; it is when the appearance of one creature having life, hath kindled both an a})petite and an apprehension in the breast of another, and PHENOMENA OK ANGER AND GRATITUDE. 343 BO a painful conflict hath been raised which it might refer to an enemy as its cause—it is this, we con¬ ceive, that will explain the phenomena of this emotion in the wilderness—those outcries of rage and resentment, which resound throughout the amplitudes of savage and solitary Nature. Let there simply be a desire felt, and an obstacle arise in the way of its fulfllment—if this obstacle be a living creature, a feeling of resentment is felt in consequence; and the natural outgoing of this resentment is revenge. 9. Such is the general description of anger, both in its object and its cause—from which how¬ ever there are two anomalies, that, at the same time, are not altogether inexplicable. First, the cause of our irritation might in no shape be a thing that lives or feels—as the unlucky mal-adjustment of objects that are wholly mute and inanimate. Could we trace this in any way to another’s care¬ lessness, then the anomaly would be at an end; and the mind would feel itself in a state more attuned to the annoyances by which it had been plied, could it only find out a living or intelligent author of them. In defect of this, however, there is often still a sort of general undirected wrath infused into the moral system, by a mere series of mishaps and perversities that are altogether unin¬ tentional—due, we imagine, to the way in which that system is constituted; and by which its very promptitude to refer its daily and hourly crosses, as so many provocations to a designing cause, will, even in the absence of such a cause, lead it to imagine one, rather than have a feeling within that 344 PHENOMENA OF ANGER AND GRATITUDE. has no counterpart without—rather than be In a passion, without an object on which that passion can discharge itself. And then when brought to this state, it is not difficult to explain the second anomaly, or why one should wreak his resentful feelings on a MTong object—for after the violence hath been fermented and wrought up within, it would not have answered the purposes of nature in our constitution that it should be pent up there j nor could it have been at all a check on any offered injustice, unless there had been a relief and a plea¬ sure felt in the dissipation of it without. And so it is, that, when anger cannot find the right object on which it may discharge itself, it will often pour its effervescence on the wrong one; and children or servants may suffer, even perhaps because I myself have spilt or torn or broke what is valuable by my own mismanagement; and the offence which has been done to me by even the uncon¬ scious elements of Nature, may have to be ex¬ piated by friends or visitors as totally unconscious of it as they; and, to complete the history of this strange and fitful waywardness, the turbulence in the heart, rather than corrode and fester there, will go forth upon the inanimates around it, will up to its power do the work of the tempest on the field through which it passes—so as that shrubs and branches and thistle-tops shall all bear testimony to the violence of the moral storm that has just blown over it. 10. It is because of the blinding and bewilder¬ ing effect of anger, that an expedient has been devised, by which to transmute this emotion into PHENOMENA OF ANGER AND GRATITUDE. 345 a calm moral judgment on the character of the offence that has awakened it. We do not happen to think, that our sense of right and wrong origi¬ nates in this department of our nature at all; but they who do thiuk so, as if compelled by the ano¬ malous deviations from truth and reason into which men are often precipitated by this wayward affec¬ tion, have resorted to the imagination of a third person, looking on at the altercation of two parties —the one having given the provocation, and the other feeling a resentment in consequence. It is thus that Dr. Adam Smith manages his argument, in the celebrated Theory of Moral Sentiments. He supposes anger to be felt by one person, on some provocation that has been rendered to him by another. But he is too well aware of the magnifying and distorting power of this emotion, to measure the injustice of the aggression by the aggrieved and outraged sensibilities of the sufferer. And so a third individual is called in, whom he conceives to place himself in the situation of him who is angry; and if, when he thus enters into his situation, he finds that he also enters into his feel¬ ings, or goes along with him—then it is, that he concludes the anger to be right, and that which hath provoked the anger of course to be wrong. It is thus that he accounts for the way, in which the sense of another’s demerit or of another’s injus¬ tice arises in the heart. The correspondency of feeling that there is, between him who occupies the situation of an injured person, and him who by a mere effort of mental substitution conceives himself in that situation—he denominates sympathy. V 2 346 PHENOMENA OF ANGER AND GRATITUDE. When there is a want of sympathy with the anger that is felt or manifested by him who figures him¬ self to have been wronged—then there is no impu¬ tation of demerit against the aggressor. But when there is this sympathy and fellow-feeling, then the anger is approven of, the object it is turned against is disapproven of; the thing that gives rise to the provocation is not only felt to be unjust by the sufferer ; but it is judged to be so by the specta¬ tor. The sympathy hath stamped, as it were, and authenticated the moral character of the deed in question ; and what in the breast of the sufferer was merely a sensation, is advanced in the heart of the spectator to the rank of a sentence or of a judgment. 11. The controversy upon this subject is—whether it is the sympathy which originates our moral judgment, or our moral judgment which regulates and determines the sympathy. Dr. Smith con¬ ceived that the sympathy took the antecedency of our moral judgments; and this principle has been conceived by the great majority of our writers on morals, and we think justly conceived, to be erroneous. It is a theory exceedingly well illus¬ trated by himself, and exceedingly well appreciated by Dr. Thomas Brown. In spite of its funda¬ mental error, the book is worthy of most attentive perusal—abounding, as it does, in the most felici¬ tous illustrations of human life, and in shrewd and successful fetches among the mysteries of the human character. 12. It is not because we sympathize with the resentment that we hold the action in question to PHENOMENA OF ANGER AND GRATITUDE. 347 be the proper and approved object of this feeling; but because we hold it to be the proper and ap¬ proved object of resentment, that we sympathize. And we do so, not on the impulse of principles that are originated by sympathy ; but on the impulse of principles which, original in themselves, originate the sympathy that we feel. When we see an un¬ offending individual subjected in his person to the wanton insult of a blow’, or in his property to the in¬ road of some ruthless depredation—we do not need to wdtness the resentment of his bosom, ere a like or a kindred feeling shall arise as by infection in our own ; nor mentally to place ourselves in his situation, and thus to ascertain how we should feel aggrieved or affronted by the treatment that we see him to experience. The circumstance of not being the sufferer myself may give a greater authority to my judgment—because a judgment unwarped by the passions or the partialities of selfishness ; but still it is a judgment that comes forth without that process of internal manufacture, of which Dr. Smith conceives it to be the resulting commodity. We judge as immediately and direct¬ ly on a question of equity betw^een one man and another, as we can on a question of equality be¬ tween one line and another : And when that equity is violated, there is as instantaneous an emotion awakened in the heart of me the spectator, as there is in the heart of him the sufferer. With him it is an<^er. With me it is denominated indignation— the one being the resentment of him who simply feels, that he has been disturbed or encroached upon in the enjoyment of that which he hath habv- 348 PHENOMENA OF ANGER AND GRATITUDE, tually regarded to be his own ; the other a resent¬ ment felt on perceiving a like encroachment on that whicli might equitably or rightfully be regard¬ ed as his own. 13. And thus may we perceive of injustice, that, after all, anger is the emotion which is suited to it —an emotion which may be wrongfully excited, when there is no injustice ; but which is the right¬ ful and the respondent feeling, when there is. In like manner as we should say of sound, that it is neither seen nor felt nor tasted but that it is heard —so should we say of injustice, that, purely and apart from all its accompaniments, it is neither rejoiced in nor grieved for nor esteemed but that it is resented. Other exhibitions of character and conduct are met by other emotions; but anger is the appropriate emotion wherewith the view of injustice is met, and by which the aggrieved person feels himself urged to pay it back again by an act of retaliation. It is that of which the sufferer, in his anger, feels it desirable that it should be chas¬ tised ; and it is that of which the spectator in his indignation, that is but a secondary or reflected anger, judges that it deserves to be punished. 14. The emotion of Gratitude is altogether a counterpart to that of anger. The one is the dis¬ pleasure felt, when a hurt or an annoyance is sustained. The other is the pleasure that is felt when a benefit is conferred. In the one, there is the desire of avenging the hurt by an act of retali¬ ation. In the other there is the desire of retuim- ing the kindness that has been shown, by an act ^PHENOMENA OF ANGER AND GRATITUDE. 349 or a manifestation of kindness bank again. And there are certain phenomena of gratitude, which correspond to the phenomena that have already been quotnd regarding anger, and which admit of being similarly explained. The proper object of both these emotions is a living and a willing agent, who, in the one case, hath manifested to us a pur¬ pose of kindness; and, in the other, a purpose of mischief. Now we have already seen that anger might be excited by a cross or adverse circum¬ stance, when there could be no purpose; and might furthermore be wreaked on such objects, as are incapable of feeling the retaliation that is put forth against them. It is the same of gratitude an emotion felt by the aged general, towards that trusty blade which has availed him in many an hour of danger; and which has been preferred to some conspicuous place in one of the lordliest of his halls, as the memorial of past services—felt even by the citizen to that staff, which hath been the support and the companion of many a walk that is gladdened by the bright association of other days most of all, felt by the mariner for that plank which bore him in safety to the land, through these loud and angry surges that overwhelmed so many of his shipmates in a watery grave. lie might make a table or a chair of so precious a material; but he would recoil from hewing it into firewood, as from an act of sacrilege. It comes nearer to the primary emotion of gratitude, when the object of it is one of the inferior animals, though, even then, the good which we have derived from them might not be referred to any distinct 350 PIIF.NO.MKN A OF AN(;E!1 AND GRATITUDE. purpose of kindness or good will upon their part. Yet still it is an occasional, and certainly a very amiable indulgence of the feeling, when the worn out hunter is permitted to graze, and be still the favourite of all the domestics through the remain¬ der of his life—or when the old and shaggy house dog, that has now ceased to be serviceable, is nevertheless sure of its regular meals and a decent funeral—and, to quote the case given by Dr. Smith, we know not well how a more painful revolt could be inflicted upon the feelings by any historical instance of depravity, than was done by him who stabbed the horse that had carried him across an arm of the sea, lest that animal should afterwards distinguish some other person by a similar adventure. And as the gratitude might be excited by a cause distinct from the proper or the primary cause of this emotion—so, like anger, might it be discharged on an object dis¬ tinct from the proper one. Just as a day of perverse and provoking misadventures might render a man a terror, for the time, to his innocent family —so a day of luck, or of unexpected benefits from one friend, might give him an aspect of placid benignity towards other friends or other familiars who had no hand in them—so as to constitute it a happy season, even for strangers or those who are altogether neutral, to accost him with their solici¬ tations. These however, are all devious or de¬ rivative phenomena, that might be traced to asso¬ ciation, or the power of fancy, or even to certain physical peculiarities in the human constitution— arvd so as to leave unaffected the substance of the PHENOMENA OF ANGER AND GRATITUDE. 351 two definitions, which have been given of anger and of gratitude—viz., that the one is an emotion of displeasure awakened by the view of a wilful mischief, and urging him who is under its power to return evil for the evil that has been inflicted j and that the other is an emotion of complacency, awakened by a benefit originating in the kindness or goodwill of another, and disposing him who feels it to return good for the good that has been be¬ stowed. 15. The rightful object for my emotion of gratitude is another’s goodwill to me; and in like manner as the grief for any hurt or harm that I have sustained, is a thing distinct and distinguish¬ able from the anger that I feel towards the inju¬ rious disposition of him who hath inflicted it—so is the gladness that I have because of a benefit alto¬ gether distinct from the gratitude that I feel toward the benefactor. It is not the gift, but the goodwill that prompted the gift which properly causes my gratitude. The gift might be conceived as coming to my door on a thousand other impulses, than that of kind regard towards myself. It might have been dictated by a spirit of ostentation ; or extorted by the voice of the neighbourhood, that called for some decent and neighbour-like contri¬ bution to my case of distress. Now were any of these seen to be the actuating principles of the donation, I might be glad of the gift, but not grateful to the giver. Gratitude, in fact, is, strictly and properly, the response of one mental affection to another. It is the return of goodwill for good¬ will. It is the moral echo of kindness to kindness 352 PHENOMENA OF ANGER AND GRATITUDE. back again—reflected from one bosom to another; and the only function of gifts or of services, in this reciprocal interchange of feelings, is, that they are merely the exponents of these feelings—or the vehicle by which they are uttered and made known. It is true that, generally speaking, the larger the gift the w'armer is the gratitude, but this is only because it indicates a greater force of kindness or goodwill towards us. It is a palpable measui’e, by which we might estimate the dimensions of that regard in anotlier’s bosom, which calls forth a pro¬ portionate regard in ours. But could the strength of the affection be as unequivocally indicated in another way than by the magnitude of the visible offering—we should come to ascertain that it really is not the thing given by the hand, but the thing that prompts the giver’s heart, to which gratitude attaches itself, and upon which it complacently rests and terminates. It is thus that the humble service of a poor man who has nothing to give; or the tried fidelity of a menial, who can only mani¬ fest the concern that he takes in the interest of his employer, by the discreetness of those little bargains or savings that he makes in his behalf; or even the tear and the fallen countenance of a domestic, when some disaster hath visited the family—it is thus that these exhibitions of the outer man, if they only authenticate the kindness of principle that' operates among the feelings and throughout the mental economy of the inner man, have in them all the charm of that kindness which is regarded as more substantial, only because more perceptible to the man of grosser observation. PHENOMENA OF ANGER AND GRATITUDE. 353 Thei-e are some who have not the soul of gratitude in them ; and to whom the gratuity of a most deli¬ cate and disinterested friendship would minister no other and no higher delight, than would a sum of money found upon the road. This will suggest a very obvious analysis; and we can be at no loss to separate the sordid gratification that is felt in the gift, from that higher gratifi¬ cation of sentiment which is felt in the goodwill that prompted it. ^ 16. And here it may occur to us, how cheap and accessible are the best enjoyments of humanity. If in that compound emotion of pleasure, which is felt on the receiving of a gift, it be indeed true, that the sensation of the giver’s kindness far out¬ weighs the sensation of the giver’s present—then with how lavish a hand, might he who could dis¬ pense the elements of moral worth and goodness among his fellows, scatter blessings innumerable over the face of society. There is a gladness in the conscious possession of another’s love, that is altogether separate from any gladness or gratifica¬ tion that might be ministered by the fruit of another’s liberality. It is thus that every possess¬ or of a heart hath a treasury within himself, out of which he might strew the path of his journey in the world, with beatitudes of the first and the highest order. With an eye that beams in gracious¬ ness upon all his fellows, and a countenance lighted up by the smiles of an honest cordiality on every creature he meets with—he might, without the means or the faculties of any material donation whatever, contribute the richest supplies to the 354 PHENOMENA OF ANGER AND GRATITUDE. mass of human enjoyment. And so are we war¬ ranted to infer, the vast inherent capacities of happiness, which reside in every aggregate of sentient and moral and intelligent creatures. Even in the most abject habitations of poverty, let but the reciprocal play of kind affections be made to operate throughout; and there would instantly arise a moral sunshine, wherein all the families might rejoice. We know not what in heaven will be the sensible exchanges, by gift or by service, of love and goodwill, among the inmates of that place of ecstasy. But, apart from all gifts and from all that ministers in this world to the desires of selfishness, we can see, how out of a moral economy alone, by mind acting upon mind and one benevolent emotion re-echoing to another, there are materials enough out of which an Elysi¬ um might be formed. And in proportion as this goodwill on the one hand, and its responding gratitude on the other, are multiplied upon earth —in that proportion, shall it be assimilated, in its joys as well as in its virtues to the paradise that is above. It is not by turning every thing into gold, that the delights of the golden age are at length to be realized. It is by a higher and a nobler alchemy—the alchemy of the heart, which can transmute every condition of human life into one of purest blessedness; which, even without the gifts, can pour a lustre on all around it by the manifestations of kindness; which, by the ethereal play of the affections alone, can give a transport and a tranquillity that wealth cannot buy; and, singly by the mechanism of human feehngs, can PHENOMENA OF ANGER AND GRATITUDE. 355 work off the best and most precious ingredients that enter into the comfort of human families. 17. We have the very counterpart of this in the wrong affections of our nature. As there is an essential delight in the interchange of good feel¬ ings, so there is an essential dissatisfaction and misery in the interchange of bad ones; and that apart altogether from the material harm that has been suffered under the operation of them. Just as in the reciprocal workings of kindness and gra¬ titude, there is a joy independent of the gift or the service that may have passed between them—so in the reciprocal workings of injustice and anger, there is a wretchedness distinct from any loss that has been sustained in property, or from any physical pain that has been inflicted upon the person. When we lose one sum by accident, and an equal sum by dishonesty, there is a felt uneasiness in both cases; but we must be conscious that the two kinds of mental uneasiness are totally diverse, the one from the other; and that to the best minds, the moral smart is far the more pungent and intolerable. It is that an injury, which, in respect of its material dimensions, is the veriest bagatelle, may transport a man out of all comfort and patience for hours together. He could have borne without a pang a far heavier deprivation from the hand of misfor¬ tune. But when laid upon him by the hand of malice or of fraudulency, this he cannot bear. It is thus that human beings, in the partnerships of trade, or even in the little pilferments that go on under the domestic roof and in the bosom of families, may, by a series of delinquencies pecuniarily so 356 PHENOMENA OF ANGER AND GRATITUDE, small, that the whole yearly expense of them could be covered for a trifle, so hurt and harass the spirits of each other, that all the year round may be spent in a continual fester of vexations and disquietudes and most painfully distressing emotions. There are many who would rejoice to purchase an im¬ munity from these, by a gratuity of ten-fold greater amount than all that they shall ever lose by them; and that, for the single purpose of being suffered to breathe in a moral atmosphere of fidelity and friendship—of being delivered, not from the expen¬ siveness of treachery, but from the hateful aspect and presence of treachery itself. In a wmrd, there are moral elements, that, purely by their own operation of acting and reacting, can either minister the utmost complacency to the heart, or can cor¬ rode and agonize it to the uttermost. There are virtues, which, of themselves and separate from all consequences, are sweet unto the taste of the inner man—and there are vices, which, of themselves and separate alike from all consequences, have in them the bitterness of gall and wormwood. A Heaven without the help of sensible delights can be formed of the one. A Hell without the help of sensible torments could be formed of the other; and the very aspect of cruelty, without its inflic¬ tions—the very glare of hatred, without its efforts of mischievous activity—the very presence of treachery, without the actual plying of its artifices •—the very juxtaposition of other beings, in whose bosoms w'e know that there dwell all that is base and all that is unkindly—in these, and in these alone, there are materials enough to constitute a PHENOMENA OF ANGER AND GRATITUDE. 357 dire and a dreadful Pandemonium; and to be shut up with these through Eternity, though not one violence should ever be attempted on our physical sensations, were ’enough of itself to give all its anguish to the worm that dieth not, to sustain in all its fierceness the fire that is not quenched. 18. And this may lead us to appreciate that principle which has been advanced by certain writers upon morals, that Truth, and Justice, and Benevolence, and all the other moralities derive their virtue from their subservience to utdity. 'Pbey make the usefulness of them to be that which constitutes the morality of them; or, which is the same thing, that all their worth as moial viitues lies in their being useful. Xow^ it cannot be ques¬ tioned, that, in the existing economy of things, all of them are indispensably useful—that, tor example, without such a general truth in the world as would greatly preponderate over its occasional deceit and falsehood, there could be no Society, no commerce, none of the beneficial combinations of human fel¬ lowship, and none of that mutual dependence which hath so perfected the arts and the arrangements of human industry. It is well that the gieat Architect of our present established oidei, hath so devised its laws and its processes, as that virtue should bring many blessings and felicities in its train. But this is a concurrence which He hath instituted, and may certainly be regarded as His testimony ou the side of moral excellence, ^sever- theless, anterior to the present order, these virtues liaci au inherent and an abiding character of theii own. It so is, that God hath superadded to the 358 PHENOMENA OF ANGER AND GRATITUDE. observation of truth in this world, many resulting benefits, which would he altogether done away by the habitual violation of it. But from the illus¬ trations already given, it may be seen, that the pleasure we have in the benefits is altogether dis¬ tinct from the pleasure that we primarily and essentially have in the Virtue—and that our feeling of the loss incurred by its violation, is altogether dis¬ tinct from our feeling of moral recoil and repug¬ nance at the violation itself. Before this world was evolved into being. Truth formed one of the residing virtues in the character of the Godhead— whence had there been creatures to gaze and to admire, it would have beamed in unborrowed love¬ liness upon them. After this world hath become a wreck, we know not what the new ordinations will be of the System that arises therefrom—or what the law of dependence then, between the moralities of our inward character and the felicities of our outward condition. We know that here there is a close and a manifold dependence; tiiat from the honesties of human virtue, there is security given to the Labour and the Enterprise which create all the sufficiencies of life; and that from its humanities, there is a constant discharse of relief upon all its sufferings. It is well that the world is so constituted. But we are not, in the beneficial effect of these moralities, to overlook the essential charm and character that lie in the moralities themselves—to forget that, in barely being associated and having to do with deceit, there is a misery which surpasses that of all the losses which arc endured by it—and that, in the PHENOMENA OF ANGER AND GRATITUDE. 359 very sense and contact of human sympathy, there is a softening balm upon the heart of the afflicted, distinct altogether from the gratifications of ap¬ peased Hunger or of alleviated disease—that these virtues are now maturing for a state where both Disease and Hunger are unknown ; and that, there¬ fore, there are a worth and a stableness about them, fitted to survive all the utilities to which now they are subservient, that, if simply borne upward with these moralities to Heaven, we carry the best elements of felicity along with us—and that, directly and without the intervention of con¬ sequences at all, there is a charm in the felt love that is met with there, and in the felt sincerity that is tasted there, which constitutes by far the most precious of Heaven’s enjoyments. 19. There are innumerable examples, in fami¬ liar and evei*y-day life, where the love is valued more than the liberality that flows from it. Why is it that an apple, given in the spirit of self- denial and of kind affection to a parent by his infant child, is a hundred fold sweeter than an apple found by him upon the wayside ? It is because of the charm wherewith the offering is impregnated. The illustration is a homily, but it is an effective one, and may lead us to infer that, separate from all the good which results from virtue, there is also a good which resides in virtue—that there is a some¬ thing in its original character, that fastens one’s regard upon it, independently of all its ultimate consequences, however beneficial or important they might turn out to be—that it has a worth in itself, which is distinct altogether from the utility of its 360 PHENOMENA OF ANGER AND GRATITUDE, offices—and that it were utterly vulgarizing this noble commodity to value it by the same criterion that we should do a tree or an animal or an article ol household furniture. We grant that truth and piety and benevolence are all most highly useful in the present state of our existence;—and, in all the relationship of life and business, there are manifold advantages which might be demonstrated to flow from them. Still it is not as gross utili¬ tarianism would represent it—it is not the profit of virtue whicli constitutes the principle of virtue. It has a direct, and we may add, an enduring worth in itself, that will survive all the existing ari'ange- ments of society—and, when one sees so palp¬ ably of kindness for example, that, whenever a pure gratitude is awakened, it is more valued for its own good than for all the good that it does, one must look to more than its utility ere they have beheld all the excellence that belongs to it. 20. The leading principle of this disquisition is very well expressed, by that distinction which the ancients made between the utile and the dulce of virtue. The use to us of another’s kindness is one thing—its agreeableness is another. It is natural to love it for the sake of that which it renders— but it is a far higher and nobler affection, to love it for its own sake. In the spirit of a mere sordid appetency, might any one have a relish for the gifts—but it argues a more ethereal temperament of the soul, when the main relish of the heart is for the goodness which prompted them. lu prizing virtue because of its uLile^ there may be nought but selfishness and the grossness of material- PHENOMENA OF ANGER AND GRATITUDE. 361 ism. In prizing it because of the didce^ there is a pure moral taste undebased by the feculence of earthly desires or earthly enjoyments. The most degraded ot the species will join me in the legard that I have for the substantial present, for the meat or the money that has been awarded by the liberality of a friend. But it is a still higher satisfaction to be the object of friendship, though there should be no lorthcomiug of liberality out of it—simply to have another’s love, though we never once should partake ol his largesses—to know that his every thought of us was a thought of kindness, although, in the circumstances of our intercourse, the deeds or the observations of kindness were un¬ called for—just to be assiu'ed that there was au affinity of tendeimess in the heart towards ns, although his hand should never have occasion to be opened for our relief or to be lifted up in our service. It is this pure action and reaction of soul wdth soul—it is this law of moral reciprocity which obtains between one human bosom and another—it is the radiance of good will from the first, calling back the reflection of gratitude from the second—and all this, it may be, without an act of common bounty to vulgarize it, or to cast a shade of doubtfulness on the glorious truth, that there may be enjoyment, even unto ecstasy, in the pure play of the spirit and nothing else—these are the views which exalt virtue above all economic and all political computation, and which demon¬ strate, that, apart from the good of its consequences altogether, there is a good in itselt that weie enough to sustain the beatitude of iramortal spirits^ vov. V, Q 362 PHENOMENA OF ANGER AND GRATITUDE. aud to cause that the joys of heaven should be full. 21. Dr. Smith’s theory applies alike to the emotions of gratitude and anger—though it is not» as he would have it, the sympathy of the third or disinterested party—it is not this which originates the moral approbation ; but the moral approbation which originates the sympathy. It is not the sympathy which causes our judgment, but the judgment on prior and independent principles which causes our sympathy. Still it may be true, that, if an impartial spectator sympathize with the anger of one of the parties, that is the party who is in the right—not right, however, because sym¬ pathized with; but right antecedently, and therefore sympathized with. It is well, however, that Di’. Smith hath brought out this sympathy to such prominent notice, for it is the effect, and so the indication, of our moral approval, though not the cause of it. And the situation which he assigns to him, whose sympathy he regards as the cause of our moral judgments, is in the highest degree favourable to the rightness of the mora). judgment itself. It is a situation of complete im¬ partiality. It is that, neither of the one nor other of the parties between whom it is so apt to become a contest of selfishness, but that of a spectator looking calmly on and submitting himself unwarped and unaffected to the impression of the scene that is acting: before his eves. His is a far likelier condition for a fair judgment of the case, than that cf either the aggressor, whose attention is centreu on the desirableness of that which hath moved nim. PHENOMENA OF ANGEIl AND GRATITUDE. 363 to hls aggression; or that of the offended party, who sensitive and all aliv^e to his own interest, hath his attention far more tenaciously fixed on the out¬ rage viewed in relation to his own suffering, than viewed in relation to the precise amount of its delin- quency. The one under-rates j the othei over-iates the wrong. Whereas an impartial spectator, sub¬ ject as he is neither to the one bias nor to the other, forms a correct estimate of the real merits of the case. It is thus that his sympathy is correct; but just because his judgment is correct. The sympathy is not anterior to the moral judgment— the moral judgment is anterior to the sympathy. 22. We are conscious how opposite the two emotions of anger and gratitude are to each other _and there is just as widely contrasted an opposi¬ tion, between the causes of this emotion. He who seizes upon that which belongs to me rouses me to anger. Irle who freely bestows upon me that which belongs to himself wins me to gratitude. The impar¬ tial spectator w ho sympathizes with my resentment, charges injustice upon him who is the object of it, and condemns him accordingly. The impartial spectator who sympathizes with my gratitude, renders the credit of beneficence to him who is the object of it, and applauds him accordingly. But neither here is it the sympathy which hath caused the moral judgment; but the moral judgment w'hicn hath caused the sympathy. The man is recognised anteriorly and directly, as one who desel^es the praise of beneficence—and so the gratitude of him who is the object of it, is at one with the compla¬ cency of him who is the approving w itness. 364 PHENOMENA OF ANGER AND GRATITUDE. 23. As an impai’tial spectator often refuses hia sympathy to the anger of another—so may he also refuse his sympathy to the gratitude. It is true that we are more liable to err in the excess of the first emotion—while our error, in regard to the second, is more generally one of short-coming or deficiency. We may lie open to reproval both because of our extreme sensibility to injustice, and our extreme insensibility to favour. In both cases a fair looker on will refuse to us his sympathy. He can neither enter into the violence of our resentment, nor into the languor of our gratitude. It is when our feelings and his judgments keep equal pace, the one with the other, that the mau who is the object of my anger is the object of his moral blame, because of the injustice that he hath com¬ mitted—and that the man who is the object of my gratitude, is also the object of his moral esteem, for the beneficence that he hath rendered. 24. It may sometimes happen, how^ever, that my gratitude may outrun his sympathy by its ex¬ cess—so that he cannot follow it up by any thing like a commensurate approbation. The man who hath capriciously, and without any ground for such a preference, singled me out as the object of some whimsical and extravagant liberality, might cause the grateful respondency of my feelings, while he rather provokes the derision and perhaps the cen¬ sure of impartial spectators. It may be felt as an exhibition of disgusting favouritism. And certain it is that the man who is so far blinded by personal obligations as to vindicate an otherwise worthless benefactor, whp will plead his cause against the PERFECT AND IMPERFECT OBLIGATION. 365 world, and say of him that whatever the public may allege, he has always stood my friend, and been the consistent and unwearied benefactor of my family—his gratitude will not be sustained as authority for the moral estimate of others. And this proves that their principles of judgment have an authority of their own, apart from the emotions of either gratitude on the one hand, or of anger upon the other—but which, when coincident with these, gives the sanction of a high and righteous approval unto both_On the whole Dr. Smith has not succeeded as the founder of a philosophical theory in morals. The sympathy that he would represent as the cause of our moral judgments, is in truth the effect of them. It may be regarded as a test of the morality of actions, but not as its principle; and that sense of right and wrong, which he would educe by a process of manufacture from certain anterior feelings, has itself the rank of a primary in the human constitution—having an in¬ dependent place of its own, in the original and un- ierived part of our nature. CHAPTER IX. On the Duties of Perfect and Imperfect Obligation. 1. Justice and beneficence are two virtues as dis¬ tinct from each other, as are the emotions of anger and gratitude, wherewkh they are related. Only, to make this clearly out, it should be remembered 366 PERFECT AND IMPERFECT OBLIGATION. that each emotion stands related to its counterpart virtue in a different, or rather an opposite way, the one from the other. In the case of beneficence, it is the virtue itself which awakens the gratitude. In the case of justice, it is, not the virtue, but the violation of it which awakens anger—so that to learn of the distinction between these two virtues, from the distinction between the two emotions, the proper test, is, not to compare the emotions awaken¬ ed first by the fulfilment of the former and secondly by the infraction of the latter—but to compare the way in which we are affected, whether by the two fulfilments only, or by the two infractions only. The fulfilment of beneficence towards us calls forth gratitude; but not so the fulfilment of justice. We do not thank a man for paying what he owes to us, as we should for a donation given of his own generous free will, and to which w e had no title ; and neither are we angry at a man, because he has not made us a present, or invited us to an entertainment, as we should be angry at him for an act of fraud, or an act of violence—for an undue freedom either with our person, or with our pro¬ perty. These are the phenomena of our nature which, do not constitute, but which mark, a real distinction between the virtue of humanity or beneficence on the one hand, and the virtue of justice on the other. 2. And yet, there are apparent anomalies, w hich serve to obscure this distinction, and which, if not explained, might dispose the student of moral science to confound these two virtues, or at least to graduate the one into the other. Anger, we PERFECT AND IMPERFECT OBLIGATION. 367 have already said, when rightly felt, is that emo¬ tion, which follows the infringement of one virtue, even justice ; and gratitude is that emotion w'hich follows, not the infringement of another viitue, but the virtue itself, even beneficence. It is thus that nature furnishes landmarks, in the instinctive principles of our own constitution, by which to distinguish one morality from another; and the guidance thus afforded would have been a clear and unerring guidance, had it not been for those anomalies in the emotion of anger to which w^e have now adverted. 1 he truth is, that no further explanation would have been necessary, if they were only the violations of justice which had been at all times the objects of an approved anger—and if this emotion had not been both suddenly excited, and even soberly and deliberately sympathized w'ith, on certain violations of beneficence also. This has gone far to obscure the line of demarca¬ tion between these two moralities, and so given rise to very hurtful errors in the practice of legis¬ lation. 3. Let us suppose one to meet with some acci¬ dent by the wayside, such as a tall from his horse, that laid him helpless and bleeding upon the ground; and that a passenger approached, who, both saw his distress and heard his piteous and imploring cry. We might farther imagine of this person, that he was one whom the sufferer had formerly distinguished by some very important act of friendship and liberality. This would be a case cf anger excited by the violation of giatitude, wiiicir we shall afterwards explain. But even 368 PERFECT AND IMFERFECl' OBLIGATION. though there never had any favour been bestowed upon him, though he were an utter stranger and only related to the other by the common tie of a fellow of the species—still the cold-blooded indif¬ ference wherewith he moved along without an effort or an expression of sympathy on his part, this barbarous neglect were enough to irritate the unhappy object of it, and to call forth the silent execration of an indignant heart—a feeling this, which would be fully sympathized with by others, and so the public resentment would be quite at one with personal resentment, and that against a viola¬ tion of beneficence. 4. To account for this it might be enough to remark that, whatever of attention or indulgence or aid is common in society from one man to another, is the object of general expectation among all—and every man feels that to be part of his property, which he regularly counts upon. A very familiar instance of this might be quoted in the relation between a master and his servant—where we might suppose all the duties on the one side, and all the allowances on the other, to be provided for by express stipulation. Should the master, in pure kindness for his domestic, dispense for a few days with one of the specified hours of work, and at length, though without any rescinding of the old terms of the bargain, slip into the habit of doing so for a month together—or should he, on the same feeling, make, upon a few occasions, the allowance of some additional luxury to one of the meals, and insensibly fall into a regular practice of it for the same period—it will be perceived that PERFECT AND IMPERFEC1' OCLIGATION. 3C0 Beneficence originated both the one and the other of these liberalities; and we have no doubt that gratitude would, in the first instance, be awakened by each of them. And further, had they not been so long persisted in, had they been speedily re¬ sumed and again come forth in the same random and unexpected style afterwards, they still would have been felt as expressions of kindness and, been received with thankfulness accordingly. But when, instead of this, they are established into a uniform and customary practice—that very circumstance transforms what was originally a favour, into a matter of rightful expectation. The constant re¬ petition of it has had somewhat the effect of a promise on the mind of the servant, in leading him to look forward to that of which his experience Inis taught him how surely and regularly it casts u]), on the coming round of the proper occasion for it —and it is at length felt by him, as laying some¬ thing like the obligation of a promise upon tlie master. It is thus, that, what had purely the character of a thing of beneficence at tlie outset, might terminate in a thing of justice, 'llie rig'nt of what in Scotch law is termed “ use and wont,” comes in time to be attached to it. So that should it be discontinued, though it never was a maitcr of bargain, and only came into a habit from a b ee impulse of benevolence—there is anger excited in the bosom of the deprived party, as if a positive outrage had been rendered to him. He by this time has acquired the feeling of a possessory right—and thus might we explain how an emotion, that seems proper only to an injury that has been inflicted, Q 2 370 PERFECT AND IMPERFECT OBLIGATION. might be powerfully and instantly awakened in the heart, even upon a mere kindness being withheld. 5. This is the reason why we often find liberal and indulgent people, explaining most anxiously to their dependents, the difterence between a matter of kindness and a matter of claim—and forewarn¬ ing them, upon the granting of every spontaneous allowance, that it may at any time be recalled. It is not that they mean to recall it. It is not even that they might set forth ostentatiously their own bene¬ volence. But it is for the positive comfort of having gratitude on all those occasions where grati¬ tude is due—and more especially that they might not, as a return for their own aifectionate good¬ will, be exposed to the mortifying sensation, in a matter of pure generosity, of those jealous and angry feelings that get round a matter of justice, for the purpose either of assisting or guarding it. It is very hard, if, by a kindness which ought to cement and conciliate human hearts, we should multiply the topics of future animosity ; and there¬ fore it is most natural and right, to prevent this by a clear understanding between ourselves and the objects of our beneficence—and one of the most powerful ingredients of popularity,^ either with a master among the domestics of his own household or with a master among the workmen of a great trading establishment, is that wise and judicious tact, which might enable him to manage aright the delicacies of that ambiguous ground, which lies between justice on the one side and liberality on the other. 6. But what we at present wish to ascertaiu is, PEKFECT AND IMPEllFECT OBLIGATION. 371 why a gross violation of beneficence on the part even of a mere stranger, should provoke wrath— wlien, in fact, the proper object of wrath is a vio¬ lation of justice. When he has merely neglected me, w'hy do I feel towards him as if he had injuied me. If he had merely inflicted a blow, I can understand the consequent anger that would be felt upon the occurrence. But why should I be angry against him, for refusing when he saw me Iving bruised and languid at his feet, to bind up the wounds that had been inflicted by the blows of others. Is not this to be angry at an offence, not against justice but for a failure from mere benefi¬ cence ? and is not this a testimony by the voice of nature, to the similitude of those two virtues, which we are wont to characterize as altogether distinct the one from the other ? 7. And we do think them nearly as distinct, as the two emotions of auger and gratitude are—though the one be excited by the violation of the first of these moralities, and the other by the exercise of the second. And as to those cases when the vio¬ lation of beneliceuce moves to anger, it admits, we apprehend, of the very explanation that vve gave of a servant’s anger—when his master either suspended or withdrew some wonted indulgence, which he had long been in the habit of making, though never legally under the obligation of doing so. The servant, at length, acquires the feeling of a possessory right to it—and lie is angry when it is withheld, just because he feels that he has been injured. lie could not plead the matter at law, because it formed none of the articles ci* sti- 372 PERFECT AND IMPERFECT OBLIGATION, pulations of his bond—yet this does not prevent the impression in his own mind, of an arbitrary violation on the part of his superior, of a sort of tacit engagement ratified by long usage, if not an express engagement ratified by the forms of a regu¬ lar covenant. He had been led to expect the indulgence in question, just because he had long been accustomed to it—and so too there is a certain average beneficence, which experience teaches us to expect of every body. There is a kind of current and every-day humanity, that all, with very few exceptions, render to all—such as returning the salutations of civility ; or satisfying any discreet and pertinent inquiry made by the wayfarer; or, more especially, and above all, lending ready succour to some prostrate sufferer who hath been overtaken by sickness or accident. This is commonly given—and therefore as com¬ monly counted upon. Each holds it as a kind of possessory right upon all his fellows—not a right that can be litigated certainly, but a right that Nature challenges, and which Nature also resents when the challenge is not yielded to. And so it is, that, when one meets with more than the ave¬ rage attentions which circulate through society from one human being to another, he feels a dis¬ tinct gratitude—when he receives just the average attentions, his gratitude does not rise higher than to the tone of an ordinary companionable feeling— but when his treatment is below par, when in circumstances of great distress he has been barba¬ rously neglected and turned away from, he feels as keen a resentmev.t at the thought of it, as he PEnFECT AND IMPERFECT OBLIGATION. 373 would at some outrage of barbarity which had been actually and positively inflicted upon him. In this anger, he is backed by the indignation of all his acquaintances—and, what with the irrita¬ tion that the man hath brought upon himself who has egregiously failed in one of the common offices of humanity, and what with the moral antipathy that is always felt against such a character—there is such a reaction of odium and of popular disdain called forth by any such rare or monstrous barba¬ rity, as constitutes its best punishment, and forms our best security against the frequent occurrence of it in society. 8. So much are we persuaded of the truth of this explanation, that we have no doubt it might be verified by the comparison of one country with another. We know that the standard of humanity varies in different countries—that the kindnesses that are currently practised in one place, are never done in another, and therefore never counted upon ; and, accordingly, we venture to assert, that, in the former place, the refusal of these kindnesses would excite a lively indignation, which, in the latter place, would not be felt. We have often heard of the hospitality that obtains in the Highlands of Scotland; and that in Switzerland this generous habit is comparatively unknown—and we have therefore no doubt, that, the same refusal which would constitute a provocation in the first, would scarcely be felt as one in the second; and certainly, if felt, would not be sympathized with. Wherever the general expectation of hospitality hath gen¬ dered the feeling as of a possessory right to it. 374 PERFECT AND IMPERFECT OBLIGATION. then, on annoyance being rendered to this feeling, resentment is awakened. But should one be over¬ taken with a midnight storm, in a country where this virtue is wholly unknown, and where perhaps the suspicion of treachery or the fears of violence have steeled the hearts of men against each other —the refusal of admittance wmuld simply be felt as an aggravation of our lot; and might excite almost as little of indignancy in our bosom, as would any of the physical aggravations of our con¬ dition, such as the inclemency of the weather, or the hazardous and impracticable state of the roads for travelling. We have heard that in Italy, more especially in its Southern provinces, the most piteous spectacles on the w'ay-side are habitually disregarded—that a man, for example, might be lying in the agonies of hunger, when, without an effort or an inclination to relieve him, he is suffered to perish. We think that anger would not so pre¬ dominate among his other emotions of painfulness, as it wmuld in the heart of him who, in similar cir¬ cumstances, w'as neglected in like manner in one of our Scottish parishes. We trust that these illustrations will suffice, for clearing away that obscurity wffiich might otherwise have rested on the margin that lies between the tw'o virtues of Beneficence and Justice—to show that there really is a point at which gratitude ends, and anger begins —and that this point marks as it were whereabout lies the commencement, not of the right which can be litigated, but of the right which every one feels himself as a man in possession of to the common if humanity. PERFECT AND IMPERFECT OBLIGATION. 375 9. The difference between one country and another, suggests to us the effect that ensues on the humanizing of a population. By raising their average character, we elevate the point to which the common beneficence is carried; and, in th.iit proportion, do we raise the expectations that men in general will have of aid or kindness or civility from others, in any given circumstances of neces¬ sity or suffering. The every-day rate of courtesy between man and man becomes higher than before _and he who acts up to this rate sustains a pas¬ sable character among his fellows; while he who falls beneath it, not only incurs the resentment of those with whom he immediately deals, but brings down upon himself the odium of Society. It is the office of Law to guard the property of each individual from all encroachments on it by others —and so it stands accurately at the margin be¬ tween beneficence and justice. But, superadded to this, there is a sort of virtual Law, that hath the Sanctions, not of political authority, but of public opinion to uphold it, and which operates on the fear of disgrace or the fear of indignation—and so visits with very effective penalties, those who fall short of that ordinary beneficence which obtains in Society, and which, because generally practised, is also generally looked for. It is evident that in this way, there is a powerful operation of Nature, by which something more than rigid justice is gained to Society—an operation which extends beyond that precise and definable limit, where Law lets down the exercise of its functions, and which will extend further in proportion to the degree 37G PERFECT AND IMPERFECT OBLIGATION. whereunto the general humanity of a nation has been exalted. It is thus that from the region of Beneficence, there has been reclaimed a border, which commences at the line of demarcation be¬ tween itself and strict Justice; and which varies in its breadth in various countries, according to the virtue or goodness of the people. On this space lie all the common courtesies and humanities of life, which Law either does not or ought not to compel; and against the violation of which, the salutary, and in general the sufficient checks, are the personal hostility and the public hatred that w’ould be incurred by it. It is thus that the map, as it were, of human conduct, may be regarded as consisting of three distinct parts. There is first the region of injustice—on which if a man is found. Law apprehends him, and visits wdth her penalties. There is secondly the region of common-place beneficence—which if a man fully occupies, he is tolerated and received in Society; but which if he do not, even though never caught on the side of injustice, though never overtaken by the condem¬ nation of Law', because he always keeps his rigid and unviolable place in the margin that has been defined by her, yet will he be surely overtaken by the loud censures of an indignant public. And - lastly, there is the higher region of Beneficence— on which whensoever he enters, he meets with grateful welcome, with testimonies of public esteem, and the plaudits of his approving neighbourhood. 10. We may now piiluips understand more clearly the place that gratitude ought to have among the moralities (jf h.mrum virtiu'. It ought PERFECT AND IMPERFECT OBEKiAMON. 7 , not to be so ranked with justice, as that its vio¬ lation shall be made a prosecutable offence; or that the observance of it shall be guarded and guaranteed by legal penalties. Neither ought it to have a place in that higher region of Bene¬ ficence, where it might be hailed by the acknow¬ ledgments that are only due to those who do more than is expected or claimed; or Avho signalize themselves by that spontaneous well-doing, which is of a higher character than the average humanity of our world. Gratitude is a thing expected by a benefactor; and is of such regular expectation that, when withheld from any one, he feels as if defrauded, not of a legal, but a possessory right. He is made to suffer under the infliction of a pain which he did not lay his account with. It is thus that resentment comes on the back of ingratitude; and the emotion is re-echoed by tbe indignation of all the impartial by-standers. Those are the na¬ tural penalties of ingratitude ; and no others should be devised against it. To enact, we shall not say, the feelings, for this were a vain enterprise; but to enact the deeds or the offerings of gratitude by Law, would be, not to enforce the claims of Bene¬ ficence, but positively to cancel them. There is no gratitude due, when a man’s beneficence is prompted by the expectation of a retuim, for which lie can plea and prosecute before a tribunal of justice. So that if we wish to keep up in Society the play of a beneficence on the one side and gra¬ titude on the other—this gratitude must also be left free. The application of a legal force to it would mar the generosity of the giver—who could 378 PERFECT AND IMPERFECT OBLIGATION. not but feel that while awarding relief to another, he was building up a right for himself; and, in that very proportion, would it chill and wither the Gratitude which it vainly meant to uphold in the warmth of its sensibilities and in the activity of its services. This, if any thing, proves the necessity of an intermediate ground, upon which law must not enter to force the proprieties of human conduct —even though they be such proprieties as, if violated or disregarded, would call forth the keen¬ est and most piercing execrations of human Society. To these execrations all the offences in question ought to be left—and we from this perceive, how that which is called jurisprudence might be carried to a most imprudent length, and how, by the excess of its officious and ill-timed regulations, it might thwart the most wholesome provisions of Nature both for the worth and well-being of our species. 11. Dr. Adam Smith, in his Theory of Moral Sentiments, adverts in the following passages, both to the existence of those moralities which occupiy this intermediate ground between justice and beneficence, and thereby partake of the charac¬ ter of both; and also to the hurtful effects that might arise from the attempt to enforce their ob¬ servation by law—“ We must always however carefully distinguish what is only blameable or the proper object of disapprobation, from what force may be employed either to punish or to prevent. That seems blameable, which falls short of that ordinary degree of proper beneficence, which ex¬ perience teaches us to expect of any body; and, on the contrar}", that seems praiseworthy which PERFECT AND IMPERFECT OBLIGATION. 379 goes beyond it. The ordinary degree itself seems neither blameable nor praiseworthy. A father, a son, a brother, who behaves to the correspondent relation neither better nor worse than the greater part of men commonly do, seems properly to deserve neither praise nor blame. He who surprises us by extraordinary and unexpected, though still pro¬ per and suitable kindness, or, on the contrary, by extraordinary and unexpected as well as unsuitable unkindness, seems praiseworthy in the one case and blameable in the other.”—“ Even tlie most ordinary degree of kindness or beneficence, however, cannot among equals be extorted by fine. Among equals each individual is, naturally and antecedent to the constitution of civil government, regarded as having a right both to defend himself from injuries, and to exact a certain degree of punishment for those which have been done to him. Every generous spectator not only approves ol his conduct when he does this ; but enters so fully into his sentiments as often to be willing to assist him. When one man attacks or robs or attempts to murder another, all the neighbours take the alarm; and think that they do right wlien they run, either to revenge the person who has been injured, or to defend him who is in danger of being so. But when a father fails in the ordinary degree of parental affection towards a son; when a son seems to want that filial reverence which might be expected to his father; when brothers are without the usual de¬ gree of brotherly affection; when a man shuts his heart against compassion, and refuses to relieve the misery of his fellow-creatures when he caa 380 PERFECT AND IMPERFECT OBLIGATION. with the greatest ease—in all these cases, though every body blames the conduct, nobody imagines that those who might have reason perhaps to ex¬ pect more kindness, have any right to extort it by force. The sufferer can only complain, and the spectator can intermeddle in no other way than by advice and persuasion. Upon all such occasions, for equals to use force against one another, would be thought the highest degree of insolence and presumption.”—He then proceeds to observe on the propriety of a government interfering by law to enforce the charities of kindness and gratitude —and though he concedes more than we should feel disposed to do on this subject; still he admits, that, to prescribe rules which not only prohibit mutual injuries among fellow-citizens, but com¬ mand mutual good offices to a certain degree, is, of all the duties of a lawgiver, that which requires the greatest delicacy and reserve to execute with propriety and judgment—and to push it too far is destructive of all liberty security and justice. 12. But there are certain peculiarities connect¬ ed with the virtue of gratitude, which have escaped the observation of our most distinguished moralists. If when law enacts a premium to humanity, and tries in this way to stimulate the benefactor to his appropriate virtue, the virtue loses its character, because it then loses the nature of a free and dis¬ interested exercise—does it not also lose its char¬ acter, if the benefactor, instead of looking for a return from the state, looks for his return from the individual on whom he lavishes his goodness ? It makeih no difference, one should think, from what PEUFECT AND IMPERFECT OBLIGATION. 381 quarter he counteth upon his reward. If he count on a reward at all, does not this taint and transform the beneficence, from an office of pure generosity, to one of ignoble selfishness. And if this be perceived by him who is the object of his seeming kindness, will it not chill the very gratitude that was meant to be, and that otherwise might have been awakened by it ? Let a man but work for thanks; and the discovery of this being his object, is just the most effectual way to disappoint him of its attainment. It is disinterested good¬ will which is the proper object of gratitude—and in the moment that the former changes its wonted aspect, the latter ceases from its wonted reflection. The one is the voice, the other is the echo of the voice. If the note of emission pass from one of pure kindness, to one of calculating policy—the note of respondency will pass from one of pure gratitude, to that of a counteractive and perhaps overmatching policy back again. It is quite in¬ dispensable, then, that the beneficence should be originated, not by the hope of return, but by a proper impulse of its own—by a genuine principle of well-doing—by an honest desire for the good of its object—such a desire as finds its rest and its complacent gratification, in the happiness that has been rendered to him. It is only then that the love of the benefactor stands unequivocally out to the eye of the recipient; and ’tis only then that the love of a thankful heart, can go fully and will¬ ingly back to the source from whence its emotion has been derived. If, instead of this, beneficence should go forth in the expectation of a recompense. 382 PERFECT AND IMPERFECT OBLIGATION. and in readiness perhaps to enforce the expecta¬ tion hy a claim—then, besides inflicting suicide upon itself, does it extinguish from the heart of him who is the object of it, the very principle that would dictate such a recompense. The gratitude that would have sprung forth to meet the sensibili¬ ties of a generous benefactor, becomes cold and motionless, so soon as it descries in his enterprise the character of a sordid speculation. And there¬ fore do we repeat it to be quite indispensable to this process, that what has been called the debt of gratitude shall not be in the contemplation of him who is on the point of earning it. Unlike to other debts, it is cancelled on the instant that he enters it into his ledger. It will not be compelled, nor permit any seizure to be made,upon it—and, though it may delight of its own proper movement to send back the tide of a most plenteous return into his bosom, yet will it vanish before his gras]). 13. But to pursue this emotion still further through its various delicacies. Though the del>t of gratitude should on no account be entered into the ledger of the benefactor—it should be felt in the full weight of its obligation, and entered against himself into the ledger of the other {)arty. Though the one party ought not to claim it—the other party ought freely to own and fully to discharge it. There is a very observable peculiarity in this debt of gratitude. It should not be exacted by him who is the creditor—and yet by him who is the debtor it should be as promptly yielded to, as would the most imperious demand of justice, d'he benefactor who Jays his account with it, degraucs PERFECT AND IMPERFECT OBLIGATION. 383 his kindness, and disqualifies himself from the re¬ ward of kindness back again. It were therefore wrong for him to do in the garb of liberality, what he does in the anticipation of a return. It is a very peculiar sort of obligation which the one party ought not to count upon, and yet which the other party ought not to withhold—a debt that is made utterly void, if it can be proved, that, at the time of its being contracted, the creditor looked forward to the payment of it—and a debt that is valid and binding, in proportion to the intensity of that love, which, forgetting itself in its object, would prefer against him no claim and oppress him with no obligation. 14. Yet mark what might appear to be an anomaly in this affection. He who never once thought of gratitude at the time of his liberality, is agonized to the very quick, when he finds after it, that no gratitude is coming. The man whom without anticipation, and from the current impulse of the kind and generous affection that was upon him, he cherished and relieved and comforted to the uttermost—that man may inflict upon him the most painful of all moral sensations and that simply by his want of gratitude. It is altogether worthy of remark, that, though while lavishing his profus- est bounty on the man whom he pitied and befriend¬ ed ke never once thought of a return, and so at the time was neither courting nor caring for it— yet, let there be no returning demonstration of kindness back again, and his whole sentient frame may quiver with indignation at the very thought of it. He will recoil from the object of his mis- 384 PERFECT AND IMPERFECT OBLIGATION. placed and sorely misused generosity, as he would from a viper—and it is indeed a wondrous evolu¬ tion of our nature; that while to have looked forward to the repayment of gratitude would have marred his beneficence, nay, falsified* all its titles and its claims—yet, afterwards, let this offering of the heart be withheld, and with all the vehe¬ mence of a man who has been outraged of his dues, he will protest and storm and give vent to the bitterest execrations. 15. And in this very exhibition of feeling, he will be seconded and sympathized with by impar¬ tial spectators—so that if sympathy be the test of right feeling he feels rightly in this anger at ingra¬ titude. The object of his anger, in fact, will be the object of their indignation; and we know not a single vice, against which all the asperities of language have been more freely or forcibly dis¬ charged, or against which eloquent men have poured forth more dire and emphatic denunciations. We recollect not a more frequent theme of declam¬ atory invective than black ingratitude, or one that has had, more readily and by general consent, a place assigned to it among the foulest atrocities of human guilt—against which there is conceived, not only the hatred of a keen sentient emotion, but also the most violent perhaps of all our moral antipathies—it being both that whereby the indi¬ vidual who suffers it is most apt to be personally stung, and also that wherein he is most sure to be publicly sympathized with. 16. Now the anger of him who suffers ingrati¬ tude, approven as it is by eye-witnesses and KFECT AND IMPERFECT OBLIGATION. 385 seconded by their indignation, is very nearly akin to the anger of him who suffers injustice—jimt whose anger is alike approven of, and alike second¬ ed. Did I give a sum of money to another under promise of repayment, I would resent liis broken faith, and I could excite the sympathy of all my fellows by proclamation of the wrong. But had the money, instead of being given upon his pro¬ mise, been given at the instigation of my own pity and because of the tenderness I bore him—if, in¬ stead of loan, it had been rendered without condi¬ tion and without constraint—a pure unfettered gratuity, to ward off a menaced prosecution, or to uphold the sinking fortunes of his family—then if, in the course of years, the revolving wheel which brought round my time of misfortune, and elevated him to the heights of aiiluence and prosperity, should afford an opportunity from which he sneak¬ ed aloof, or of which he had the hardihood to spurn it away from him—should he, all unmindful not of his old engagement for this w^e do not sup¬ pose him to have contracted, but of my old friend¬ ship, look unmoved on the arrest, and the seques¬ tration, and the imprisonment, and the domestic agony of gloom and hopelessness from w hich at a period still fresh in the remembrance of us both I had hastened w ith generous and w^ell-timed alacrity to rescue himself—we sav that the debt of arati- tude, thus dishonoured and disowuied, will kindle a hotter flame of indignancy in the heart, than either infringed truth or violated justice, 'i’lie injury thus laid upon the spirit, will be felt as tiie ceepest and tlie deadliest of all iujui'ies. It will VOL. V. B 386 PERFECT AND IMPERFECT OBLIGATION. lie as much sorer to the outraged sensibilities of him who suffers by it, as a wound inflicted by the hand of a friend, is sorer than would be the same wmund inflicted by the hand of an enemy ; and therefore it were interesting to know' what are the similarities and what are the distinctions between these two obligations—between the debt incurred by the stipulations of a bargain, and the debt in¬ curred by the kind and generous but withal uncon¬ ditional offerings of that beneficence which has been rendered to me. 17. There is an ambiguity in the term “ right,” the explanation of which serves well to mark the distinction between the virtues of justice and humanity, or, as they have been denominated, the virtues of perfect and imperfect obligation. This term right admits at least of two significations, which differ, the one from the other. In the first of them it is used substantively ; and may be exem¬ plified by such affirmations as that I have a right to my own, and I have a right to the payment of such a debt that is owing to me, and I have a right to a certain inheritance that has been be¬ queathed. In the second it is used adjectively; and may be exemplified by such affirmations as that it is right to yield a grateful return for the kindness which has been shown to me—or it is right to compassionate and relieve distress—or even it is right to forgive and to pass by trans¬ mission. It is the more necessary to mark the O v distinction between these two senses, for it may occasionally happen, that, in one sense it may be PERFECT AND IMPERFECT OBLIGAIION. 387 asserted and in another it may he denied of the very same thing. I may have a right to a given property; and yet, now in the use and possession of a poor relative who would suffer by the depri¬ vation, it may not be right in me to insist on it. - I may have a right to the instant payment of what I granted in loan; and yet it may not be right for me to exact it from the industrious father of a sinking and a struggling family. 1 may have a right to the tenement of which the now deceased owner had made me the heir; and yet it may not be right to dispossess its straitened and humble occupier, who perhaps thought that there he would have spent in peace the evening of his days. We can from these instances perceive the dilference between a legal right and a moral rectitude; and how a claim may rightfully belong to me, and which I can therefore prosecute at law, and yet it might be extremely right in me to postpone if not altogether to relinquish it. I may have a right to prosecute, and yet it not be right in me to enter on a prosecution. That right might be altogether good in the eye of the law, which, in the eye of sound morality, it might be altogether wrong in me to insist on. 18. Nor do we say that this is due to any fault or blemish in the constitution of human law. There can many an occasion be conceived, when it would be wrong for me rigorously to enforce a right which I have upon my neighbour; and yet it follows not on that account, that law should interpose to cancel the riglit, or to release the other party from his correspondent obligation. 88 PKTIFECT AND IMPERFECT OBLIGATION. Did it thus undertake for every case of hardship, and fall from its demands in every one instance when it would be right for me the vested and authorized holder to forbear the prosecution of them—this would bring a fearful insecurity on property; and, if not utterly efface, at least obscure that line of demarcation by which it is at once defined and guarded. And besides, it would leave no scope for the generosities of our nature, if man were not left at liberty, either to insist upon his claims or to forbear them at his pleasure. It would supersede the need of compassion, if, upon every occasion when it were right for it to come forth with its willing dispensations, law also came forth with the authoritative declaration that they were altogether due—thereby wresting from bene¬ ficence its own proper exercises, and turning that which ought to be a matter of free indul¬ gence, into a matter of strict and legal necessity. And, more injurious still to the welfare of our species, this constant interference by law on the side of the distressed and unfortunate—this per¬ petual rescinding of the obligations under which they lay, at the moment when it was right for the other party in point of humanity to relax them— would not only absolve him who might else have been gently or generously dealt with from all gra¬ titude ; but it might practically absolve him, and many others in his circumstances, from that stre¬ nuous industry, that sober and regulated expendi¬ ture, that high and honourable sense of truth, under which, had it not been for the vacillations cf an unsteady and compromising law, they cou.d PERFECT AND IMPERFECT OBLIGATION. 389 have met all these obligations, and most faithfully have discharged them. So that it is altogether for the healthful state of the community, that the law of right and property should be inflexible— though the men, whom it thus guards and thus guarantees, should, bearing their privileges meekly, be kind and humane and tender hearted in the prosecution of them. This it is morally right for them to be, though, legally, they have a firm and infrangible right to be otherwise—and, though the legal right is often made to carry it over the moral rectitude—though the one is at times prosecuted in a stern and selfish and vindictive spirit, while the mild and moderate suggestions of the other are wholly disregarded—though an unrelenting creditor has been seen to lift on high the bond, and to spread out the claims and contents of the bond over the last wrecks of a ruined though deserving family—still it is greatly better that, while human , earts should feel, human law should be unfalter¬ ing ; that the fence of property should be stable, and declared, and ought on no account to be tam¬ pered with; that it should mark off and apart from each other, the region of humanity and the region of justice; and while the justice is at all times open to the merciful visitations of humanity, hu¬ manity, free of all jurisprudence, and kept aloof from the dictations of authority, ought, if we want to uphold her energies or to sustain her proper chai*acter inviolate, never to be legalized. 19. It is therefore no reflection, but the opposite, on the existing jurisprudence of society—that there are many things morally right, which it hath not 390 PERFECT AND IMPERFECT OBLIGATION. made to be legally binding; and many things most offensively and execrably wrong, which it visits with no chastisement whatever. It hath left bene¬ ficence free, and it ought to do so—yet we can imagine such derelictions from this virtue, as would make a man to be a monster in the eye of all his fellows. He might pass the waylaid and wounded traveller, as priest and Levite did of old, and leave him to die—he might look unfeelingly, nay exult- ingly, on while another is drowning with the stream without an effort to extricate him from his perils— he may be the only householder of his vicinity, who, while, the wealthiest of them all, has shut his impregnable heart, and refused to share in that joint benevolence wherewith his poorer neighbours have raised succour and supply for a starving family. We are not aware that, by one or other of these offences, he has trespassed on any legal right, or can be proceeded against before any legal tribunal. Or, in other words, he is not legally he is only morally wrong—and better far, we re¬ peat, than that free humanity should be spoiled of her native graces, or that the sympathies of the heart should be moulded or meddled with by the cold hand of public and political regulation— better, that such rare and unnatural hardihood should be left to its own punishment, in the revolt of all the sensibilities that are around it, in the scorn and execration of society. / 20. And it will perhaps impress the distinction which we try to illustrate still more forcibly, to pass on from a case of refused or neglected bene¬ ficence, to a case of abandoned friendship or PEHFECT AND IMPERFECT OBLIGATION 3^1 violated gratitude. Neither here does law inter¬ pose with its restraints and obligations; nor ought it to do so. The debt of gratitude is no more pleadable before it, than the debt of honour. It taketh no cognizance of any other, than the debt of justice. This it will strictly award to the strict and stern prosecutor thereof; and nothing but the hand of benevolence can stay its execution. And often the hand of benevolence does interpose, to save a father from imprisonment—to save a weep¬ ing family from the agonies of a sore disgrace. A friend steps forward who cannot sufrer it; and he makes the generous sacrifice; and he restores to independence and the free use of his industry, the man who but for him might have sunk into a poverty that was abject and irrecoverable, but who now might regain a prouder height of prosperity than that from which he had fallen. And such are this world’s fluctuations, that, in a few years or months, the benefactor might become the bankrupt, and the former bankrupt be now looked for as the alert and willing benefactor. It might well be expected, that he who discharged for him the debt of justice, should now be owned by him in the debt of grati¬ tude—but still the law that enforced the one, utterly declines to enforce the other, or to superadd its own obligations to those of Nature and con¬ science. That which to the highest degree is morally wrong, it refuses to deal with as legally wrong. And so, if, from the summit of his present affluence, he should look down with neglectful scorn on the benefactor who was now sinking into tne abyss below—if, all regardless of the days 392 PERFECT AND IMPERFECT OBLIGATION, when from that very abyss he was removed him¬ self by the heart that now is failing under the view of its terrors, and the hand that now hangs in hopeless despondency; if, wrapt in hateful selfish¬ ness, he can look unmoved on the gloomy fears and sufferings of a family, whose father’s eye melted in pity over the approaching beggary of his own children; if, amid the song and the dance and the sumptuous festivity of his splendid apart¬ ments, there is not room for one moment of tender¬ ness, in behalf of the friend who pitied and who served him—there is no enactment of human law that can recall the turpitude of such an exhibition —no other principles of this world to constrain his gratitude, but the shame of his own worthlessness, the abomination of his fellow-men. 21. We hold that the chief diversity of senti¬ ment, or at least of statement, among the expounders of moral science, has proceeded from that amb* guity of meaning, to which we have just adverteo, in regard to the term right. When taken substan¬ tively it signifies that which might be the subject of a claim upon the one side and of an obligation upon the other—as my right to the fulfilment of a promise that has been made to me, or the right of a creditor to payment, or the right of a master to obedience. The same term, when taken adjectively, signifies the moral worth of that to which it is ap¬ plied. It is then tantamount to rectitude or to rightness, and is not only distinct from the former sense but may even come into opposition with it. Cases might occur, when, though i have a right to the fulfilment of a certain promise, yei‘ it may not PERFECT AND IMPERFECT OBLIGATION. 393 be right for me to insist upon it—and when, though I have also a right to the payment of a debt, yet it may not be right for me to exact the payment— and when, though I have a right to the obedience of my servant, yet when afflicted by the tidings of some family death, it would not be right, it were barbarous and therefore utterly wrong, to require it. These are enough to demonstrate that the right and the rightness, that which constitutes the claim and that which constitutes the moral quality, are separable both in idea and in fact from each other. 22. But though the right and the rightness are thus separable in regard to the holder of the right, they are not so in regard to the other party. 1 hough it be sometimes right for me the creditor to for¬ bear the prosecution of a debt—yet it is at all times right for him the debtor, to strain his labour and his frugality to the uttermost, in order to make out the payment. Though it be sometimes right for me the master, to dispense with the due obedience _yet it is at all times right for him the servant, to struggle against any adverse influence that might prevent the tull and the faithful execution of his task. I may have a right over another man, which it might be very wrong for me to act upon. But if another man have a right over me, it is never wrong, it is at all times right, for me to act upon it. The proprietor of a legal claim, may incur a most grievous moral turpitude, by proceeding theieupon. But with the subject of such a claim, what is legally is also morally incumbent. 1 he right and the rightness are inseparably blended—nor are w® E 9 394 PERFECT AND IMPERFECT OBLIGATION. to marvel if an association so close, so constant, j:nd recurring so frequently in the negotiations of human intercourse, should have wrought very deep and discernible traces of itself, both in the specu¬ lations of philosophy, and in the language of our general population. 23. The very application of the term in ques¬ tion is a fruit of this association. It is not at all times right in a man, to proceed to the very utter¬ most of law upon his own right; but at all times right in him to defer the very uttermost to the rights of others. And even as to him who is the holder, the very possession of a right gives in most instances a rightness to that, which, apart from this possession, would be altogether wrong. In virtue of this right, it may be right for him to lay an ai’rest upon the rents of some extravagant debtor who hath no feeling for his difficulties; or right to compel the services of some lazy domestic; or right to exact from some faithless or forgetful neighbour, the last tittle of some engagement on which we had been counting—all which things, apart from our proprietory right to them, would have been just as wrong as spoliation or tyranny. The legal right and the moral rightness are of un¬ excepted conjunction in regard to one of the parties, even him who is the subject of the obligation ; and, in regard to the holder of it, they are, in far the greater number of instances, consistent the one with the other; and it is his right, in all these instances, that gives a rightness to what would otherwise have been wrong. No wonder then, since the right and the rightness are so generally PERFFXT AND IMPERFECT OBLIGATION. 395 blenched in fact, that many have lost sight of the real distinction wliich there is between them. The veiy application of the same term to each, must help still more to assimilate, or rather to identify, the one with the other, in the imagination of men. And we doubt not, that, as on the one hand it was the close alliance between these two distinct things which suggested atthefirst a common appellative for both—so the continued use of this appellative must serve to confound them still more, however separ¬ able they are in conception, and however separate they are in substance from each other. 24. We feel strongly persuaded, that, if the right and the rightness had been kept as distinct in the view of the inquirer as they might and they should have been, it would have cleared away a shade at least of that obscurity, which hangs over certain of these questions, that are generally regarded as fundamental questions in Moral Science. Now the same indiscriminateness that obtains in the use of these two terms, has been extended to two other terms which mark the proper counterparts of a right and a rightness. The counterpart of a right upon one side, is an obligation upon the other. If anv man have a right to my services, I am under an obligation to render them.* The counterpart * We may here repeat that “ without contending for the Ian- gunge of our older moralists, the distinction which they mean to express by virtues of perfect and imperfect obligation, has a foundation in reality and in the nature of things—as between justice wliere the obligation on one side implies a counterpart right upon the other, and benevolence to which, whatever the obliitatiou may be on the part of the dispenser, there is no corre- fponding right on the part of the recipient. The proper office of 396 GENKKAl* QUESTIONS OF MORAL SCIENCE. again of a rightness is not, obligation, but appro¬ bation. If any man show a right over me, it is my obligation and my part to submit thereunto. If any man show a rightness before me, it is my part to approve of it. These counterpart terms have been as much confounded, in fact, as the right and the rightness have been. One of them is made use of in the question, “ What is the object of moral approbation ?”—and another in the question, “ What is the source or origin or some¬ times the principle of moral obligation ?” We believe that by aid of the distinction to which we have just adverted, a more precise deliverance could be made upon each of these questions. CHAPTER X. On Diversities of Statement, in regard to the General Questions of Moral Science, or Sgstems of Moral Philosophy. 1. We do not regard Etymology as a good arbi¬ trator upon Moral questions. But we hold it to be a good witness or informer, as to the views that men are apt to take upon these questions. It does not represent the truth of the science; but it represents the testimonies of popular sentiment in regard to it. The most laborious analysis of law is to enforce the former virtues. When it attempts to en¬ force the latter, it makes a mischievous extension of itself beyond its own legitimate boundaries.” OEJfEllAL QUESTIONS OF MORAL SCIENCE. 39/ words, will not guide us backward to the real prin¬ ciples or elements of ethical doctrines ; and, for this purpose, the doctrine must be assailed as it were by a direct analysis of its own. Still the analysis of words will throw light on the prevalent impres¬ sions that men have had of ethical doctrine ; and under which impressions they actually bodied forth, if not the sound philosophy of the subject, at least their own feelings and their own conceptions in regard to it. This does not supersede the appli¬ cation of the only legitimate test taken from the inherent principles of the subject itself; and by which alone, every position in moral science ought to be estimated. But yet it is interesting to know what have been the actual thoughts, and what are the actual delusions of men in any given matter of human speculation ; and, as being a record of these, we deem that there is something more than enter¬ tainment or a charm—that there is, in truth, a sub¬ stantial instruction to be gathered in the pursuits of etymology. 2. The word Duty, 'then, supplies another example of the right and the rightness being blended together in popular imagination. In its extended sense it embraces all rectitude ; and all rectitude it is our duty to observe, though there existed no Being in the universe who had a right to enjoin the observation of it from our hands. It is equivalent to moral pro])riety, right at all times and in all circumstances for us to maintain, even though none should have a right to exact it from us. And yet the term Duty hath emanated from the term due which is tantamount to a right, that can be 398 GENERAL QUESTIONS OF MORAL SCIENCE claiiRed by one party, and which another party is under the obligation of rendering. This proves the extent to which the right and the rightness are conjoined in fact; and yet they are at all times separable in idea, and in fact are often separate. It may be our duty to give to a needy person, though the thing given is in no way his due. It may be my duty to forgive a guilty person, though to say that forgiveness was his due were a contra¬ diction in terms. The Latin Debitum, a debt clearly involves a legal right upon the one side, and a legal obligation upon the other. Yet the “ deheo” and the “ debet,'’ include all rightness, all that a man ought to do. And indeed, the very term “ ought,” clearly belongs to the same family with the term “ owe,” and further too wdth the term “own”—all that being my own which I can claim as mine, and which, though now in the hand of another still is owed or owen to me. This all goes to prove, how closely associated in the minds of men the right and the rightness are with each other; and yet the real distinction between them might be evinced, in the using of these very terms. It may be that I ought to give to another a sum of money, which I do not owe him. We do not owe a man forgiveness, when at the same time w'e ought to forgive him. I ought or I aught what¬ ever is my own—and yet it may be that part of what I thus ought as now belonging to myself, ought at this time, by an act of benevolence on my part, to have been the property of another. These remarks point to a distinction between duty re¬ garded in the light of moral propriety or moi’ul GENERAL (QUESTIONS OF MORAL SCIENCE. 399 rectitude, and duty regarded in the light of moral obligation.* * Horne Tooke hath distinguished himself most, in this work of blending moral principle and speculation with etymology. In his chapter on the Rights of Man, he derives right from “ rectum," the past participle of rego ; and just from “justum” the past participle of juheo. And so much is etymology his idol that he iiolds this sufficient authority for making right in all cases tanta¬ mount to “ ordered.” And so from a quarter, whence of all others perhaps we should have least expected it, are we presented with an argument in behalf of that ultra orthodoxy, which would derive the virtuousness of all that is morally right, solely and exclusively from the consideration, that it is enjoined by the will of God. The following extract is a specimen of his ingenuity. “ The right hand is that which custom, and those who have brought us up, have ordered or directed us to use in preference, when one hand only is employed ; and the left hand is that which is leaved, leav’d, left—or which we are taught to leave out on such an occasion. So that ‘ left,’ you see, is also a past participle. But if the laws, or education, or custom of any country (it may be objected) should order or direct its inhabitants to use the left hand in preference, how would your explanation of right hand apply to them ? And I remember (says the objector), 1 remem¬ ber to have read in the Voyage of De Gama to Kalekut (the first made bv the Portuguese round Africa), that the people of Melinda, a polished and flourishing people, were all left-handed.” To this objection the author replies, that “ with reference to the European custom, it is described truly. But the people of Me¬ linda are as right-handed as the Portuguese—for they use that hand in preference which is ordered by their custom, and leave out of employ their other, which is therefore their left hand.” At this rate it will be observed, that, had the Supreme Being chosen to lay two different countries of the world under regimens that were wholly opposite—instituting, we shall say, our present decalogue as a code of law for the one; and another decalogue, reversed in all its articles, as a code of law for the other—it would be right in the first, to observe religion, and filial piety, and abstinence from all personal wrong, and purity, and truth. But in the second, it would have been equally right to vilify one’s God, and to abandon one’s parents, and to murder one’s acquaintances, and to have entered on a course of theft and falsehood and licentiousness. Nevertheless, God’s right to com¬ mand, and tlie rightness of His commandments are distinct from each other—though, from a contingency dependent on the char¬ acter of God, they do in feet at all times harmonize. 400 GENERAL QUESTIONS OF MORAL SCIENCK 3. We are fully aware that, in these observa¬ tions, we dissent from the high authority of Dr. Thomas Brown, who is peculiarly lax and errone¬ ous, in his views upon the subject of duties and rights, as being accurately and at all points the counterparts to each other. It may be my duty to forgive a debt, but it surely does not follow from this that my debtor hath a right to this for¬ giveness; and, as to the distinction between a legal and a moral right, the truth is, that it might both be morally right in me to relinquish my claim, and far more morally right in him to decline than it would be for him to accept of my indulgence— far more right to struggle with his difficulties and at length work out the payment, than it would be to grasp at my offered indemnity, and rejoice in tlie deliverance that I had awarded to him. The distinction between a legal right and a moral riglit- ness, is not one that hath been wrought out arti¬ ficially and arbitrarily from the practice of Law; but it is one founded on the natural and original principles of Law—not the resulting manufacture of such codes as happen to have been established in various countries; but preceding the formation of any special code, and resulting as immediately from the moral constitution of man as any of his private or personal duties do. There is a right and rational jurisprudence for society that as much precedes any legal institution—as doth a right and rational system of morality for individuals ; and when we affirm first that it may be right for the one party to forgive a debt or an injury, and again that the other party may still have no right GENERAI OUESTIONS OF MORAL SCIENCE. 401 to such a forgiveness, instead of the affirmation being a mere jingle upon the technicalities of law, w(! iiokl it to be a substantial and important prin- cijtle, recommending itself at once to our sense of rig!it and wrong, and approven of as immediately by our natural feelings of justice, as any of the plain and indisputable aphorisms in morals that are recognised by all men. 4. If we go not beyond the confines of human society—if we look to morality, only in as far as it reciprocates and has its interchange among the individuals of our species—if we restrict the con¬ templation to earth, and to those vyho live upon it and have a moral nature, keeping out of view their relationship with other or with higher orders of existence—then we have many a rightness without a corresponding right—many duties which on my part should be performed, but not one of which is due to any living creature—many things which I ought to do and yet which I owe to no man— many actions that be the objects of praise, and yet are not at all the matters of obligation. They are virtuous, and yet I am not bound to do them. Every man will comm^d them, yet no man may claim them at my hand—and thus it is, that, apart from all relationship with that whicli is foreign to our world, there are a thousand proprieties that have no other sanctions than the approving testi¬ mony of my own heart, and the approving voice of my fellows. 5. In this state of things something is wanted, that might superinduce obligation upon approba¬ tion; that, wherever there is a rightness, there should 402 GENERAL QUESTIONS OF MORAL SCIFNCF. somehow or other he the right of enforcing it— that proprieties should be turned into precepts, and that what before Avas but simply approA-en of as morally good, should become strictly and judi¬ cially incumbent. Only imagine a God of absolute property in us, and absolute power over us—and thus might we obtain the whole of that adjustment which we are in quest of. Let such be his charac¬ ter, that his will is on the side of virtue in all the extent of it—let him but assume the various mora¬ lities of life as the matters of his commandment— let every one rightness of which man is capable be translated, in the shape of a distinct requisition, into his law; and then, but in no other way that we can think of, will all that is the object of moral approbation become in the proper and precise sense of the term a thing of moral obligation also. One can conceive it otherwise. The Supreme Power of the universe might, for aught we know, have been the enemy of moral goodness; and instituted another regimen than that of virtue. He might have promulgated rewards for cruelty, and deceit, and violence; and denounced penalties on temperance, and humanity, and justice. He might have given us the very nature that we now possess; and painfully thwarted all our estimations of the hatefulness of vice and the excellence and w^orth of virtue, by the issuing of enactments in favour of the one, and imposing prohibitions and threats upon the other. He might have emitted a law of revelation, that was in painful and puzzling discordancy with the law of the heart; and so broken up the alliance that now is, between the GENERAL QUESTIONS OF MORAL SCIENCE. 403 moral rightness of actions, and the legal obligation there is upon us to perform them. All this may be imagined; and it is useful often to figure what is opposite to truth, that we might better under¬ stand both the import and the effect of the truth itself. There is then an actual harmony between the law of God from above, and the law within our hearts below. What the one recommends as so many proprieties, the other enjoins as so many precepts. That, generally speaking, in which we by our faculty of moral perception, discern a moral rightness. He, in the exercise of his right of sove¬ reignty, hath converted into a positive obligation. In virtue of our particular relationship to God, all whose commandments happen to be right, there is nought in the shape of duty, which is not also due to the Being who made us—there is nothing that we ought to do, which we do not also owe to the Master who claims it in the shape of obedience to Himself—there is nought which is simply becom¬ ing because of its moral goodness, which is not also legally binding because of a law from heaven that authoritatively requires it. It is thus and thus-alone, as far as w^e perceive, that moral appro¬ bation and moral obligation have come to be coex¬ tensive, the one w ith the other; and that each is aiike applicable to virtue throughout the whole length and breadth of its territory. 6. It is because of God interposing this autho¬ rity in behalf of what is right, that, though before a mere ]iropriety and therefore simply the obiect of approbation, it now' becomes a precept, and is therefore matter of actual obligation. Yet, apart 104 GENERAL QUESTIONS OF MORAL SCIENCE. fi OTR Ibo authority of Go(i, and, without any refer¬ ence at the time of our thoughts to him at all, we can talk not merely of the rectitude of morality but we can talk also of the obligations of morality. We in current language extend the term to the v hole of virtue and are quite intelligible, when we say of a man—that, though not obliged in law to some certain performance, he is obliged to it in honour, or in conscience, or in common decency. But on attentive reflection it will be found, that wherever this term is employed, there is a responsibility always conceived upon the one side to some party that hath a right of cognizance and of judgment upon the other. For example, the obligations of conscience suppose a judge within our heart who takes account of our doings; and, according to the character of these, dispenses eitlier rewards or penalties—ministering, in the one case, a honied dr.'uight of complacency that is most sweet and satisfying to the soul; or, in the other, by the inflictions of remorse, exercising it as if with the whip of a secret tormentor. And, in like manner, in the obligations of honour or conscience or de¬ cency, there is the tribunal of public opinion j and the collective voice of society is the organ, either of a reward the most pleasing, or of a penalty the most dreadful. To both the one and the other obligation, there is in fact a correspondent right. Vested in that party to which the obligation is owing. When an obligation of justice to another man is violated, he hath a right to lay a compul sory hand upon the person of the transgressor When by some secret and sohtary crime an obli- GENERAL QUESTIONS OF MORAL SCIENCE. 405 gation of conscience is violated, this man within ta« heai’t, as he is termed by Dr. Smith, hath the right to distil agony upon the bosom by the whispers of his condemnatory voice. When the obligations of Honour or Decency are violated. Society hath a right to cast its contemptuous looks upon the offender, or lift against him the outcry of its appalling execrations. An obligation implies sanction—a penalty upon the event of failure—a reward upon the event of fulfilment—and the reason why approval and obligation run so readily the one into the other is, that the approval, either of a man’s own heart, or of his fellows in society, may in truth be to him the most precious of all gratifications; and the contrary disapproval be the most afflictive of all calamities. 7. It is thus that, apart from all jurisdiction— apart from the observation of society—and apart even from any sense of God in the heart—it might be quite pertinent to say, that I am under the moral obligation of acting-in some given way— because there is in the heart a court of conscience —and there would a voice of rebuke be lifted there, that might be dreaded and recoiled from, as the most formidable of all penalties. This is an obli¬ gation which exists in greatest strength in the bosom of the Divinity—in virtue of which it may be said, even of Omnipotence, that there are cer¬ tain things *wdiich it cannot do—and so fully warrants the language of inspiration that God cannot lie. There is such a necessary revolt of His w'hole nature from moral evil—there would be such a violence inflicted by it on the constitu- 406 GENERAL QUESTIONS OF MORAL SCIENCE. tion of the Godhead, which is at once perfect and unchangeable—could we dare to conceive it, there would be so deep an agony felt, in the slight¬ est deviation on his part from the rectitude which eternally and essentially belongs to Him—that the very strength of His approbation for that which is good, and the very strength of His consequent recoil from that which is wrong, are elements enough to compose what may be called an obliga¬ tion upon the Divinity to be virtuous. It is not however, as with us, an obligation that bears upon Him from wdthout. There is no jurisdiction foreign to Himself, which can take cognizance of Him, He is not responsible at the bar of a higher than Himself, even as we are at the bar of Him who is the supreme governor of the universe. Obligation as acting upon Him is approbation, of a strength and power that carry it up to the de¬ gree of a moral necessity. But obligation acting upon us, while the term may be applied and often is to the force of those sanctions which virtue has even in the workings of our own conscience, has more strictly a reference to the sanctions of that divine government, which is set up in authority over us—and, though it may be said of us that we are obliged to act virtuously, else w'e should incur the agor%s of remorse, or the horrors of public obloquy, or even the penalties of human law—yet far more emphatically may it be said^ that we are obliged to act virtuously, else we should incur tlie frown of a Lawgiver who is on high—the adverse judgments of Him, from the rebuke of whose coun¬ tenance, this earth and these heavens shall flee away. GENERAL QUESTIONS OF MORAL SCIENCE. 407 8. Did we only give a distinct place in our un derstanding, to each of two things which are dis tinct and distinguishable the one from the other, it might help to unravel some of the perplexities, that attend certain of the abstract and general questions in moral science. We again advert to moral approbation and moral obligation. By the one moral rectitude is a thing esteemed, by the other it is a thing enforced. In virtue of the one, it is followed up by esteem when it is observed, and by disgrace when it is violated. In virtue of the other it is followed up by reward when observed, and by penalties when violated. There are two aspects in which virtue may be regarded, either as a matter of approval or as a matter of authority—and it is from the blending or mingling together of these two aspects, that a certain cloudi¬ ness has arisen, by which the metaphysique of the more elementary investigations in Ethics has been greatly overshaded. 9. The distinctness of these two things is very well kept up, in the judgment and the jurispru¬ dence ot society. There is a clear line of separa¬ tion between the moralities which are within, and those which are without the proper boundaries of juridical cognizance and control. One needs only advert for an exemplification, to the debt of justice, and the debt of gratitude. The payment of the one is a morality which at the bar of politi¬ cal law, is also a matter of obligation. The pay¬ ment of the other is no less a morality, but, not being the subject of a legal enforcement, it is simply a matter of approval. So far the obliga- 408 GENERAL QUESTIONS OF MORAL SCIENCE. tion and the approbation are not confounded—and equally distinct from eacn other with these, are the right that is correspondent to the former, and the rightness that is correspondent to the latter of them. 10. But there is a reason that we have already glanced at, which hath carried the forensic term obligation beyond the limits of the forum; and it is here that the ambiguity begins. There are certain analogies between that legal judicatory where the question of right is pronounced upon, and those other judicatories where the question of rightness is pronounced upon. We often hear of the man whom law cannot reach, having still a trial to undergo, at the bar of his own conscience, or at the bar of public opinion—and it is not to be wondered at, that the terms or the technicalities primarily applied to the former, should all have been extended to the latter—more especially that, both in the court of conscience and the court of p iblic opinion, there are rewards and penalties wherewith the decision in each of them is followed up. Were we so constituted that the judgments ourselves form of our own conduct, affected us no more than the judgment we have of our own sta¬ ture, or of our own complexion, the analogy would have failed—and we should no longer have fancied a tribunal within the heart, whose awards had the sanctions of a similar force to those of law by which they are upholden. But we are not so constituted—and the state of the matter is, that the approving testimony of our own hearts is the most pleasing of all gratifications, and its reproof the most pungent and intolerable of all agonies. GENERAL QUESTIONS OF MORAL SCIENCE. 409 Neither are we so constituted, as to be alike indif¬ ferent to the general voice in regard to the recti¬ tude of our own character, and to the same gene¬ ral voice in regard to any other matter of specu¬ lation—to the figure of the earth for example, or the truth of the Copernican system. There is not a more delicious recompense than that of public esteem, or a more dreadful chastisement than that of disgrace in the eyes of our fellows in society, feo that here too, we have the appendages of a court, a judgment, and a sentence ; and, should it be an adverse sentence, a most tremendous weight of damages—so that it is no longer marvellous, how the approbation either by ourselves or others of the moralities of life, and the obligation to per¬ form them have come to be implicated together_ why that which strictly and properly is the coun¬ terpart of a legal right, should further have been extended into a counterpart of all rightness_so that Ave not merely speak of being under a legal obligation or an obligation at law to pay our debts of justice—but that, in reference to our duties of gratitude and kindness and self-command, we are under either the obligations of conscience or the obligations of honour and decency. 11. There is therefore ground for the distinc¬ tion between the rightness of a given performance and the obligation of it. It is said to be right because of its moral propriety. It is said to be obligatory because of the sanctions whether of reward or penalty that bind to the doing of it. The distinction is clearly and literally exemplified ip civil law, under which there are many actions VQI,. ,. s 410 general questions of moral science. that are obligatory in the strictest sense of the term, but many more which morally are right, but legally are not at all binding. The distinction is observed again in passing from a court of law to the court of conscience or the court of public opinion—for there the obligation is far more widely extended over the moral territory—and not only so, but the term itself is of a more loose and figurative application than it bears in jurisprudence. Passing from these again to the court of the Divine government, the term obligation is restored to that precisely forensic or juridical import which it has under the economy of human law—and with this difference that it is not restricted like the others to the enforcement of justice alone. God hath assumed the lawgiver over his creatures—and He has framed a code, not of equity alone, but of universal morality ; and He hath extended this heavenly jurisprudence over the whole length and breadth of human virtue; and under Him those moralities v/hich are left free and ought to be so in the administrations of an earthly jurisprudence, have become so many imperative enactments which at our peril we disobey—in so much that charity, forgiveness, nay even the habitual sympathies of a good and benevolent heart—the affections as well as the acts of humanity, are one and all of them legalized. 12. We cannot but perceive, that, under such an economy, there is not one of the moralities of human character, that is not alike the object of an approbation and the subject of an obligation. It IS not so under a human government; for /low GENERAL QUESTIONS OF MORAL SCIENCE. 411 many are the virtues which we may highly approve but to the observation of which we are not at all bound by the law of the state ? In the govern¬ ment of natural conscience again, as in the govern¬ ment of public opinion, the approbation and the obligation are in a manner so implicated together —that the distinctness of the two is not readily apprehended. In the approbation, in fact, lie the only sanctions that constitute the obligation of morality, under either the one or other of these governments. It is the delight of self-compla¬ cency when the approbation is given—it is the dreadfulness of remorse when the approbation is reversed—these are what often give an authority to the court of conscience equal to that of a court of law : And again it is the charm of an applauding testimony from our fellows that constitutes a reward, and the horror of their condemnatory voice that constitutes a penalty; and which, both together, give such effective authority to a court of public opinion. The obligation lies enveloped in the approbation—but the two separate and spread out into greater distinctness, under the Divine government. It is true that the simple ap¬ probation of God may carry in itself the most precious and, exhilarating of all rewards ; and that the rebuke of His adverse judgment may, separately and alone, be so manifested as to become the most intolerable of all penalties—still the universal per¬ suasion is that under the administration of the supreme Lawgiver, his judgment will be followed up by other sanctions—that crowns of glory and rivers of purest gladness, and all the bliss and 412 GENERAL QUESTIONS OF MORAL SCIENCE. beauty of an immortal Elysium, will come in the train of righteousness—and that, in the train of moral evil, there will not only be a condemnation but a vengeance; and that, in counterpart to the high and joyful preferments of eternity, there will be its dreary prison-house, its lake of living agony, its woe and its wretchedness irremediable. 13. The question “What is the object of moral approbation?” has originated many theories. It might be translated into the question—“ Wherein doth virtue consist?”—nor is it practically different from the question—“ What is it that constitutes virtue ?^’ Should one aver that the virtue of an action consists in its usefulness—and another that it is the will of God which constitutes the virtue of usefulness—the latter makes the virtue of an action consist in its conformity to this will. 14. Did the whole of virtue lie in a conformity to the Divine will, then nothing would be felt or apprehended as virtuous, but in as far as the will of God appeared in it. In order to have a sense of its virtuousness, there behoved to be a sight of this its essential and constituting quality. Ere I could give the homage of my moral approbation to a deed of justice, I must first see that God had willed or that God had ordained it. Now, with every allowance for the rapidity which is ascribed to the habitual processes of the mind, it does ap¬ pear very obvious, that justice directly and instantly announces its own moral rightness to the eye of an observer—that it is felt to be virtuous without any reference of the mind to God at all—and was so felt, at the first, without any prior education in the GFNFRAL QUESTIONS OF MORAL SCIENCE. 413 ]urisprudence of Heaven, or any thought of a mandate from heaven’s sovereign. Though earth had, with all its present accommodations and with the actual constitution which man now has, been placed beyond the limits of this sovereignty, still he wmuld have carried a sense of moral distinctions along with him, and met with objects of moral approbation—even with a mind desolated of all its conceptions of a God. Though astronomy were obliterated from the human mind, still might it retain its mathematics; and, though now de¬ barred from the sublime application of its princi¬ ples to those upper regions, there remain objects upon earth whereof the equalities or the propor¬ tions of this science might be clearly demonstrated. And though all Theology were in like manner expunged from the world, and those moralities were no longer felt that spring from the grand relation between the human family and their God —still would there subsist the moral equities and proprieties of all the mutual relations, that obtain among the members of this family. Justice and humanity and truth, even in this economy of atheism, would be recognised. They would come forth in occasional exhibition by actors upon the scene ; and when they did so, they would be re¬ sponded to by the approval of spectators. The very admiration of integrity—the very indignancy at deceit, which now actuate the hearts of men, and come forth in a voice of moral judgment upon their fellow's, w'ould still have busy circulation in society; and men would not only love and resent and be grateful, but they would applaud and con- 414 GENERAL {QUESTIONS OF MORAL SCIENCE. demn and have the same speech and the same sentiment both of deeds and characters as before, 15. It is thus that we dispose of the system of Dr. Paley, by which he would resolve virtue, not into any native or independent rightness of its own, but into the will of Him who has this right to all our services. Without disparagement to the Su¬ preme Being, we have affirmed, that it is not His law which constitutes virtue ;* but, far higher homage both to Him and to His law, that it is the law which derives all its authority and its being from a virtue of anterior residence in the charac¬ ter of the Divinity. It may have served to com¬ plicate our notions upon this subject, that there is a real independent rightness in our obedience to God. We believe it to have been the urgent feeling of this, which led to what has been called the tenet of the theological moralists; and which still in some instances animates their vindication of it. What more obviously incumbent, it is said, thaii for the creature to give himself up in absolute and entire dedication to the will of the Creator—than for him who receives every breath and every faculty and every enjoyment, to consecrate them all to the service of their owner—than for the thing that is made to be the servant of Him who made it, and to devote all the hours of a grateful existence to Him by whose sustaining energy it is, that we have a part and a continuance in the land of living men? There is no plea of justice or of grati¬ tude that can be urged against us by our fellows Natural Theology, Book iv. chap. vi. § 24. GENERAL QUESTIONS OF MORAL SCIENCE. 415 in society, to which any moral sense that is in us will more vividly respond, than to this plea for our subjection and our loyalty on the part of God. But our very recognition of this presupposes in it an independent sense of virtue in man. It is not the commandment which puts this sense into us; but it is this sense which gives us to feel the rightness of doing the commandment. Or, in other words, there is a morality not constituted by the authority of law, however much it may pre¬ scribe our obedience to law—not the creation of God’s arbitrary will, however much it may pre¬ scribe our conformity to that will—a morality that, without the aid of any jurisprudence, will pro¬ nounce upon the rightness of all our justice and gratitude, and humanity to all our brethren of the species; and that, when a jurisprudence from heaven is made known to us, will also pronounce on the rightness of our submission thereunto. T!«e eter¬ nal God was not the subject of any jurisdiction; but took of himself independent cognizance of the morally right and the morally wrong. We in virtue of our relation to Him as creatures are the sub¬ jects of a jurisdiction; but, in virtue of being formed after his likeness, we can take the same independent cognizance also. 16. When God bids us do what before was a matter of indifference, it thence becomes a matter of obligation; and that, not more from his right of command, than from the rightness of our obedience. When he bids us do what before was felt on our part to be an act of virtue, he only attaches one obligation more to the performance of, it. It did 4i6 GENERAL QUESTIONS OF MORAL SCIENCIE. not for the first time become virtuous, at the moment He embarked his authority in its favour. But He may be said to have rendered it more an act of virtue than before. He superadded upon it one rightness to another, which is by no means a singularity in the affairs of human conduct. When God interposes with the expression of His will on the side of a morality, there is then added to the call of morality the call of godliness. It is just the same when a benefactor tells us of the WTetchedness into which he has fallen, and im¬ plores our sympathy. There is then added to the call of humanity the call of gratitude. 17. The distinction which we now labour to im¬ press is of more than speculative importance When He who has the right of command lays upon us a commandment, there is a rightness in our obedience; and when prompted by a sense of this rightness to obey, there may be as much in of pure virtue, as when spontaneously prompted to any deed of beneficence or honour. Bu? when with Him who has the right, there is also lodged the power of enforcement—when, in addi¬ tion to the moral truth of His law, there is the tremendousness of those sanctions which a God of holiness hath ordained and which it lies with the hand of his omnipotence to execute—when anger and punishment and thcj threats of destruction or of eterna’. wretchedness, when these are brought in a-s auxiliaries to the course of obedience—then obe¬ dience, when thus forced and driven on, may change its character altogether. There may be a bidden conformity with the hand from which the heart GENERAL QUESTIONS OF MORAL SCIENCE. 417 utterly revolts, and revolts the more, because of the hard and the hateful necessity which constrains it. It is thus that the history of the outer man, may exhibit the semblance and the skeleton of virtue, while the spirit of it has fled. Terror is an animal and not a moral influence; and, under its gloomy reign, there may be a thousand vexa¬ tious drudgeries having the body without the breath, the letter without the living worth or principle of righteousness. 18. When one is virtuous from a spontaneous principle of his own, he may be of a character altogether unlike to one who is virtuous in con¬ duct, after that a Lawgiver, armed with the irre¬ sistible power to punish and to destroy, hath appeared on the side of virtue. When these two elements are complicated together, as they appear to be, under the economy of our existing moral government, it may be extremely difficult to assign the precise kind or character of our obedience. It may even very naturally be thought, that the now superadded terror will overbear the better and the more generous principle altogether; and reduce what might Luve been the willing services of love and liberty, to the crouching servilities of bondsmen. At all events, it is evident, that it is only when rendered in the spirit of a free and a heaven-born sacredness, that they can at all be recognised as the genuine emanations of a right principle within; and they instantly degenerate into the selfish and the sordid, when they are but extorted offerings, under the law and the lash of authority. Till these two elements then be dis- 418 GENERAL QUESTIONS OF MORAL SCIENCE. entangled, it is truly difficult to appreciate the quality of any performance, which, in the matter of it may be right, but which in the motive of it may differ as widely, as the ecstatic delight of a seraph does from the ignoble drudgery of a slave. It is indispensable to virtue, that it be done con amove ; and any thing else that wears its resem¬ blance, or passes under its name, is but low and wretched drivelling. We have ever held it to be one chief recommendation of the evangelical sys¬ tem, that, by it alone, the disentanglement in question has been effected; that, by means of its leading principle, it, at one and the same time, releases us from the terrors of the law and inspires us with a taste for its services; that what before we toiled and drivelled at in the spirit of bondage, becomes, under its influence a service of gratitude and good-will; that it removes from our view those menaces and penalties, the terror of which overhung and polluted all our attempts after recti¬ tude ; and so gives space and emancipation to its disciples, for breaking forth with alacrity upon a way—which, whether it respects the vigour and variety of the performances or the principle by which they are animated, may well be termed a way of new obedience. 19. We have heard the epithet of god-like annexed even to human virtue, in its best and loftiest exhibitions; and it must be confessed, that this is the highest of all possible designations. But God is not under the force or authority of any law, that is exoteric to Himself. He stands at no bai of jurisprudence; and, save from the ultro- GENERAL QUESTIONS OF MORAL SCIENCE. 419 neous repugnance to evil of His own native sanctity, there is no obligation upon Him for the moralities of that supreme righteousness which marks all the doings and all the dispensations of heaven’s Sovereign. Every act of the Deity, instead of coming forth of an impulse from with¬ out, is an emanation from the fountain-head of his own character. And unless there be a well similar to this, struck out in the bosom of regenerated man, and whence there may proceed the willing performances of him who deals in virtue because he delights in it—there is nought of the divinity in his character; and, let the offerings be what they may which fear or force has extorted, he is but an earth-born slave. It is the high achievement of Christianity, to infuse a taste for the services of the law, while it utterly does away the terror of its penalties; and the disciple who best under¬ stands and hath most fully imbibed its spirit, now under the operation of a principle more generous than fear, abounds in all the deeds and the desires of virtue, not because virtue is his task, but because it is that pure and healthful element in which he most loves to expatiate. 20. This should suffice for the question, wnether virtue have a rightness in itself or if all its right¬ ness be only derived from the will of God. It will be perceived that virtue hath a higher original than the will of God, even the character of God—. or those principles in the constitution of the Deity, which give direction to his will. Long ere virtue passed into a law for the government of those who are creatad, had it a residence and a being in ttie 420 GENERAL QUESTIONS OF MORAL SCIENCEo mind of the Creator ; and the tablet of His juris¬ prudence is but a transcript from the tablet of His own independent nature. To have a nature like unto his, we must love virtue for itself; and do it because it is right—not because it is the requisi¬ tion of authority. If it be the fear of theological moralists, lest this principle should cast us loose from the authority of God, we hold a deference to this authority to be the highest of all rightness. We affirm that whenever virtue, though in its own original and independent character, hath taken possession of the heart—its first and largest offer¬ ings will be to the Divinity who inspired it; or rather, that, in the unfailing gratitude due to that supreme benefactor who upholds us continually, and in the constant moral esteem of those virtues by which His person and His throne are irradiated, there will be the incense of a perpetual offering. VALUABLE WOEES PUBLISHED BT ROBERT CARTER, 68 CANAL-STREET, NEW-YORK, AND 56 MARKET-ST., PITTSBURG, Pa. Cheap Editions. ° ®° ° ' O N . New edition, cot reeled and enlarged. Illustrated with numerous maps and fao- eimiles of Biblical Manuscripts. 2 vols. imperial 8vo. $3 50. ^•^ALIVIERS’ romans. $1 50. ^•^ALMERS’ sermons. 2 vols. 8vo. $2 50 Uniform with his “ Lectures on Homans.” Nearly one half of this work has never before been re-published in this country. natural TH EOLOQY. 2 vols. 12mo. $1 00. CHALMERS’ EVIDENCES. 2 vols. $100. •-CTHER’S commentary on qala- riANS. New edition, printed on fine white paper, and larse type. 1 vol. 8vo. $1 50. i i > 6 "^NE BRITISH PULPIT. Consisting of Discourses by the most eminent living Divines in England, Scotland, and Ireland, accompanied with Pulpit Sketches. By the Rev W Suddards. Sixth edition. 2 vols. 8vo. $2 50. CONNEXION OF SACRED AND PROFANE HISTORY. Being a Review of the principal Events in the r bear upon the state of Religion, from the close of the Old Testament History, till the establishment of Christianitv By D. Davidson. 3 vols. 12mo. $1 50. ancient history. Containinff the History of the Egyptians, Assyrians, Clialdeans, Modes, Lydians, Carthagenians Persians, Macedonians, the Selucida; in Syria, and Parthians. from Rollin and other authentic sources, both Ancient and Mod¬ em. 4 vols. 12mo. $2 00. SCRIPTURE NARRATIVES. 12mo 33 cu R. carter’s publications. WORKS OF REV. JOHN NEWTON. Con taining an Authentic Narrative, &c., Letters on Religions Subject* Canlephonia, Discourses intended for the Pul[)it, Sermons ])reach ed in the Parish of Olney, a Review of Ecclesiastical History Olney Hymns, Poems, Messiah, Occasional Sermons, and Tracts To which is prefixed Memoirs of his Life, by the Rev. Richard Cecil, A. M. 2 vols. Svo. $2 50. ORIGIN AND H ISTORY OF MISSIONS. A Record of the Voyages, Travels, Labours, and Successes of the various Missionaries who have been sent forth by Protestant So¬ cieties to Evangelize the HeatVien. Compiled from authentic Documents, by the Rev. J. O. Choules and the Rev. Thomas Smith. Seventh edition. 2 vols. 4to., beautifully bound in full cloth. Illustrated with tioejUy-Jive Engravings on steel. $4 50. HORNE’S COMMENTARY ON THF PSALMS. To which is prefixed an Introductory Essay by the Rev. Edward Irving, of London. 1 vol. Svo. $1 50. SERMONS ON IMPORTANT SU BJ ECTS. By the Rev. Samuel Davies, A. jM., President of the College of New-Jersey. With an Essay on the Life and Times of the Au¬ thor, by Albert Barnes. Stereotype edition, containing all the author’s Sermons ever published. 3 vols. 12mo. $1 50. ASSEMBLY’S SHORTER CATECHISM An Easy, I’lain, Practical and Extensive Explication of the A sembly’s Shorter Catechism. By John Brown, late Minister the Gospel at Haddington. 12mo. 63 cts. MEMOIR OF THE REV. HENRY MARTYP Complete edition. 12nio. 50 cts. D’AUBIGNE’S REFORMATION. 3 vol*. 12mo. $1 00. MOFFAT’S SOUTHERN AFRICA. 50 cts. MASON’S ESSAY ON THE OH U RCH. 50 cu. MASON’S ESSAY ON EPISCOPACY. 50cta. THE CHRISTIAN YOUTH’S BOOK. By \V. C. Brownlee, D. D. 5C cts. HISTORY OF THE CHURCH OF SCOT¬ LAND, from the Introduction of Christiai}ity to the period of the Disruption in 1843 By the Rev. ^V. M. Hethenngton, A. M. 1 vol. Svo. $l 50 OWEN ON SPIRITUAL MINDEDNESS. l2mo. 33 cts ( 2 ) R. carter’s publications. THE CmSHSMiiH MIBlSAmT. This Series of Books is printed on fine white paper, with clear type. Neatly bound in English cloth. Gilt backs. 18mo. To Sabbath Schools and Congregational Libraries, and to those purchasing in quantities, a .iberal dis¬ count is allowed. MEMOIR OF MRS. MARY LUNDIE L'UNCAN. Being Recollections of a Daughter by her Mother, New ed. 63 cts. CHRISTIAN EXPERIENCE. By the author of “ Christian Reiiremeiit.” 63 cts. LIGHTS AND SHADOWS OF SCOTTISH LIFE. By Professor Wilson, of Edinburgh. New edition. 63 cent*. S A S B AT H M U S I N G S . By Caroline Fry, author of “ Christ our Law,” “ Christ our Example,” &c. &c. 50 cenU. MEDITATIONS 86 CO N TE M PLATIO N S. By the Rev. James Hervey, A. M. 50 cents. REFORMATION IN EUROPE. The History of the Reformation in Europe. With a Chronology, By the ao- thor of “The Council of Trent.” 50 cents. OLD HUMPHREY’S ADDRSSES. 50 cts. Do. OBSERVATIONS, 50 cents. Do. WALKS IN LONDON. 50 cents. Do. THOUGHTS. 50 cents. Do. HOMELY HINTS. 50 cents. Do. COUNTRY STROLLS. 50 cent*. Do OLD SEA OAPTAIN. 50 cents. LUC ILL A ; or, THE READING OF THE BIBLE. By Adolphe Monod, D. D. Translated from the French. 50 cents. l_ECTURES ON THE BOCK OF ESTHER. By tho iate Thomas McCne, D.D., author of “The Life of Johu Knox,” &c. 50 cents. ( 3 ) R carter’s publications. MEDITATIONS AND ADDRESSES ON THE SUBJECT OF PRAYER. By the Rev. Hngh White, A. M., of St. Mail’s Parish, Dublin. 50 cents. THE BELIEVER: a Series of Discourses. By the same author. 50 cents. PRACTICAL REFLECTIONS ON THE SEC¬ OND ADVPINT. By the same author. 50 cents. FAMILY OF BETHANY ; or, Meditations on the Eleventh Chapter of the Gospel according to St. John. By L. Bonnet. Translated from the French. With an Introductory Essay, by Rev. Hugh White. 50 cents. THE RETROSPECT : or. Review of Providential Mercies; with Anecdotes of vaiious Characters. By Aliquis, formerly a Lieutenant in the Royal Navy, and now a Minister in the Established Church. From the 17th London edition. 50 cts. THE MARTYR LAMB: or, Christ the Representa¬ tive of his People in all Ages. By F. W. Krummacher, D.D. 50c. THE CHRISTIAN CONTEMPLATED, in a Course of Lectures, delivered in Argyle Chapel, Bath. By the Rev. William Jay. THE CHRISTIAN FATHER AT HOME; or, A Manual of Parental Instruction. By W. C. Brownlee, D.D. 50 cents. CHRISTIAN FRA.GMENTS : or. Remarks on the Nature, Precej)ts, and Comforts of Religion. By John Burns, M.D.jF.R.S., Professor of Surgery in the University of Glas¬ gow, &c. 50 cents. BICKERSTETH’S TREATISE ON PRAYER. 50c. MICHAEL KEMP, THE HAPPY FARMER’S LAD. A Tale of Rustic Life, illustrative of the Spiritual Blessings and Temporal Advantage of Early Piety. By Anne Woodroofle. 50 c. CCMMUNICANT’S CCMPANICN. By the Rev. Matthew Henry. With an Introductory Essay, by the Rev. John Brown, Edinburgh. 50 cents. ELIJAH THE TISHBITE. By F. W. Kromma- cher, D.D., author of “ The Martyr Lamb.” 50 cents. PIKE'S PERSUASIVES TO EARLY PIETY. 50c. DC DDR I DOE’S RISE AND PROGRESS OF BELl. GION IN THE SOUL. 50 cents R. carter’s publications. COTTAGE FIRESIDE ; or, the Parish Schoolmasti*' By the Rev. Henry Duncan, D.D., Ruthwell. 50 cents. COMFORT IN AFFLICTION ; a series of MeiN tations. By James Buchanan, D.D., Free Church, Edinb. 50 c. HARP ON THE WILLOWS, Remembering Zion, Farewell to Egypt, The Church in the House, The Dew of Her mon, and the Destination of the Jews. By the Rev. James Ham¬ ilton of London. From the forty-fifth London edition. 33 cts. MY SCHOOL-BOY DAYS. A very interesting ju¬ venile book. 38 cents. SORROWING YET R EJ O I CI N G ; or. Narra¬ tive of Successive Bereavements in a Minister’s Family. Sixth edition. 38 cents. ANECDOTES ON THE SHORTER CATECHISM. By John Whitecross, Teacher, Edinburgh. 38 cents. CHARLIE SEYMOUR ; or the Good Aunt and the Bad Aunt. By Miss Catherine Sinclair. 33 cents. XRUE HAPPINESS : or, the Excellence and Power of Early Religion. By J. G. Pike, author of “ Persuasives to Early Piety,” “ Divine Origin of Christianity,” &c. 38 cents. religion and eternal life ; or Irreligion and Per¬ petual Ruin, the only alternative for Mankind. By the same au- tlior. 38 cents. DIVINE ORIGIN OF CHRISTIANITY. By the same author. 38 cents. CROOK IN THE LOT; By Thomas Boston. 38 c. A TRIBUTE OF PARENTAL AFFECTION, to the Me¬ mory of my beloved and only Daughter, Hannah Jerram, with a short account of the last illness and death of her elder brother. Charles Stranger Jerram. By Charles Jerram, A. M. 38 cenu. LIVE WHILE YOU LIVE. By the Rev. Thomas Griffiths, A. M., Homerton. 38 cents. A CALL TO THE UNCONVERTED, Now or Never, and F'ifty Reasons. By Richard Baxter. With an introduction by Dr, Chalmers 38 cents. JUBILEE MEMORIAL: being the Sermons, Meet- ings. Presentations, and full account of the Jubilee commemora¬ ting the Rev. Wm. Jay’s fifty years’ ministry at Argyle Chape* Bath. 33 cents. R. CARTER S RUBMCATTOXS. BICKERSTETH’S TREATISE ON THE LORD’S SUPPER. With an Ii)tro(liK-tii)i), Notes, and an Essay, by G. T. Bedell, D. D., late rector of St. Andrew’s Church, Phila. 38 cts. FARMER’S DAUGHTER; a Tale. By Mrs. Ca merson. 38 cents. “THE WORLD’S RELIGION, as contrasted with genuine Christianity. By Lady Colquhoun. 38 cents. A WORLD WITHOUT SOULS. By J. W C’unningh.un, Vicar of Harrow. 33 cents. ADVICE TO A YOUNG CHRISTIAN. 38 cents. LIFE OF REV. JOHN NEWTON. 38 cents. WORKSOFREV. HENRY SCOUGAL ; con sisting of the life of God in the Soul, Scrmoss, &c. 38 cents. JESSY A LLA N , The Lame Girl. 31 cents. HELEN OF THE GLEN; a Tale of the Scotch Cove nanters. By Robert I’ollok, author of the “ Course of Time,’* &c. 31 cents. PERSECUTED FAMILY; a Narrative of the Suf¬ ferings of the Covenanters in the reign of Charles II. By Robert Pollok, author of the “ Course of Time,” &c. 31 cents. RALPH GEMMELL; or, the Banks of the Irvine, a Tale of the Scottish Covenanters. By Robert Pollok. 31 cents. DECAPOLIS; or, the individual obligation of Christians to save souls from death. By David E. Ford. Fifth Edition. 31 c. THE SINNER’S FRIEND. From the 87 th London Edition, com])leting upwards of half a million. The Sinner’s Friend is printed in Si-XTEKN’ different languages. 31 cents. MEMOIR OF HANNAH SINCLAIR. By the Rev. Legh Richmond. 31 cents. A GLIMPSE INTO THE WORLD TO COME, In a IVaking Dream. By the late Geo. B. Phillips. 31 cents. I N FA NT PI ETY ; a Book for Little Children. Bjr the Rev. Baptist IV. Noel, M. A. 31 cents. A MEMOIR OF JOHN HUSS. Translated from the German. 31 cents. LUTHER AND C A LV I N ; or, the True Spirit of tbo Reforju •(! Church. By J. H. Merle D’Aubigne, author of the “ History rif the Reformation,” &c. 31 cents. (6) R. carter’s publications. MEMOIR OF GEORGE ARCHIBALD LUNDIE. xM issionai-)' Life in Samoa, as exhibited in the Journals and Letters of the late George Archibald Lundie, during the Revival in Tutuila, in 1840-41. By his Mother, Author of the “ Memoir of Mary Lundie Duncan.” TALES OF THE SCOTTISH COVENAN¬ TERS; containing “ Helen of the Glen,” “ The Persecuted Family,” and Ralph Gemmell.” By Robert Pollok, author of the ‘‘ Course of Time.” JACOB'S WELL. By Rev. George Albert Rogers. “The Well is Deep.” Johniv. 11. 50 cents. A BOOK FOR THE SABBATH. In Three Parts. 1. Origin, Design, and Obligation of the Sabbath. II. Practical Improvement of the Sabbath. III. Devotional Exercises for the Sabbath. By J. B. Waterbury: author of “Advice to a “ Young Christian,” &c. 50 cents. MEMOIR OF JOHN D. LOCKWOOD. Re- mini.scences of a Son; by his Father. With a fine steel Por¬ trait. 50 cents. “ A gifted mind and cultivated powers, hallowed and controlled by a sweet and trustful piety.” . . . “ We have read it with unmingled jiieasure and profit.”— Evangelist. MY GRAND-PARENTS. By Old Humphrey. 50 c. THE OLD WHITE MEETING HOUSE. or, Reminiscences of a Country Congregation. 50 cents. Con- tents : The Old White Meeting House—The Old Grave-Yard— “Our Minister”—The People, Scenes in the Church, Elder Butler, &c.—Our Singing Schools—Old Fashioned Revivals, the Ball, the Horse Race—Spinning Bees, Apple Parings, Weddings —The Secret Disciple—The Forger—The first grief—Richard Rogers’ First Sermon—Dismissal of “ Our Minister,” &c. &c. LIFE IN EARNEST. Six Lectures, on Christian activ¬ ity and ardour, by the Rev. James Hamilton. “ Not slothful in business; fervent in spirit; serving the Lord.” Romans xii. 11. 38 cents. THE MOUNT OF OLIVES, and other Lectures on Praver, by the Rev. James Hamilton. 38 cents. ( 7 ) ■ a < R. CARTER S PUBLICATIONS. PERFECT” PEACE; Letters Metnrrial of the l.ite John Warren Howell, Es.j.. ot Datii, j\I. H. C. S. By the Hev. John I’itcnirn, Minister of Lvil uiid Hemlnll. With an introduttlion, hy the Ivev. John iSievenson, author of “ Christ on the Cn>ss.” From the ninth London Kdition. 33 cents. PROFESSION IS NOT PRINCIPLE; or the name ol’Chii>liaii is not Chii.-^lianily. By Grace Kennedy, autlior of “ Aima Ross”—“ The Decision”—“ Jessy Allen”—'• Fiither Clement” &e. 38 cents. “If a inaii be in Cbri.st, he is a new creature; old things are passed away ; lichold all things are become new.” Si Corinth. V. 17. GOSPEL PROMISES; being a sliort view of the great and itrecious jinmiises of the Gospil. By the Rev. Joseph Al- leine, author of “ .\n alarm to the Unconverted,” &.c. 38 cents. SARAH MARTIN —A brief sketch of the life of the late Miss ISarah Marlin, of Great Yarmouth ; with extracts from the Parliamentary repetrts on prisons, her own prison journals, &c. 38 cents. MY GRANDFATHER GREGORY, by Old Humphrey. 31 cents. OLD HUMPHREY’S P'THY PAPERS. M Y GRAN DM AMMA Gl LBERT, by Old Hum¬ phrey. 31 cents. ZION’S PILGRIM, or the way to the Heavenly Canaan familiarlv pointed out. By Rev. Robert Hawker, author of the “ Poor Man’s Morning Portion,” &:c., new edition. Improvement of Affliction; a Practical Sequel to “ Comfort in AtHiction. By Ilev. James Buchanan. Tile Offlee and Woi’k of tiic Holy Spirit. By Rev. Jam’s Buchanan. Life of Colonel Gardiner. Henry on Prayer. - Pleasantness of a Heligioiis Life. Scries’ Cliristian RememTji-ancer. liogatzliy’s Golilen Treasury, amilton’s Life of Bisitop Hall, Concise Syst cm of Tlieologfy : Being the Shorter Catechism of the Westmiii.ster Assembly of Djviue.=, Analyzed and Explained. By Alexander S. Paterson, A. M. (S) R. carter’s publications. BRIDGES; THE CHRISTIAN MINISTRY; with an In¬ quiry into tlio Causes of its Iiiefficioiicy. By the Rev. Charles Bridges, A. ]\I., author of “ An Exposition of Psalm CXIX.” From the sixth London Edition. CoNTKNTS — Part I.—General view of the Chiistian Ministry. Part 11.—General causes of the want of success in the Christian Ministry. Part HI.—Causes of Ministerial inefficiency connect¬ ed with our personal character. Part IV.—The Public Work of the Christian Ministry. Part V.—The Pastoral Work of the Christian Ministry. Part VI.—Recollections of the Christian Ministry. With a full index to the various subjects. 1 vol. 8vo. “ This work is already known to many of us as the best book on the sub¬ ject of which it treats. ‘ The religious community and especially the Episcopal portion of it, will rejoice in the appearance of any thing from this beloved author, who is almost beyond comparison, with any writer of the age, the “ Apollos” of the Church, " mighty in the Scriptures.”— Episcopal Re¬ corder. DUNCAN; THE SACRED PHILOSOPHY OF THE SEASONS; Illustrating the Perfections of God in the Pheno¬ mena of the Year. By the Rev. Henry Duncan, D. D., Ruth- well. Volume I, Spring.—Volume II, Summer.—Volume III. Autumn.—Volume IV, Winter. 12mo. “ The Duncan family have highly distinguished themselves for their ge¬ nius and piety. Who has not heard of Mary Lundie Duncan, with her accomplished and pious mother, her devoted and gentle-hearted broth¬ er, her noble and learned father} The Sacred Philosophy of the Sea¬ sons by the latter, has been much admirerl both in Europe and in this country. It has almost assumed the character of a sacred classic. Its philosophy and piety, its learning and eloquence are equally distin¬ guished. To those, then, who love nature,—who delight to wander forth amid the green fields at early morn or eventide, and gather in¬ struction from the opening flowers ; to those especially who are wont to" ri.se from nature up to nature’s God,” would we commend these elegant and admirable volumes.”— Christian Secretary. SMYTH; SOLACE FOR BEREAVED PARENTS; or, INFANTS DIE TO LIVE. With an Historical Account of the Doctrine of Infant Salvation. Also very full selections from various authors, in Prose and Poetry. By the Rev. Thomas Smyth, D. D. BAGSTER; THE AUTHENTICITY, INSPIRATION, AND GENUINENESS OF THE WORD OF GOD; By the Editor of Bagster’s Comprehensive Bible. 12mo. ROMAINE’S LETTERS. 12mo. ( 9 ) R. carter’s publications. HOUSMAN ; - MEMO[R AND REMAINS OF REV. ROBER T IIOUSMAN, A. B.. the fouiifl'-'r, and lor aluivc tony years the incumbent Mirdster of St. Anne’.s, Lancaster: and hir- morly curate of Rev. T. Robinson, M. A., of Leicester. By Rob¬ ert Fietclier Flousman, Esq. With a fine steel portrait. 12nio. CECIL; THE WORKS OF REV. RICHARD CECIL, A. M. 3 Volumes, 12mo. ; containing his Setmons, Miscella¬ nies and Remains. STEVENSON; THE LORD OUR SHEPHERD; or, an Exposition of the Twmnty-third Psalm. By the Rev. John Stevenson, Author of “ Christ on the Cross,” &c. 12mo. SYMINGTON : THE ATONEMENT AND INTER¬ CESSION OF JESUS CHRIST. By the Rev. William Sy¬ mington, D. D. New Edition. D'AUBIGNE’S REFORMATION: 4 vols. 12mo. half cloth, $1.25 ; full cloth, 1.75; fine ed. 2.50 all in one 8vo volume, 860 pp. full cloth . . $1.00 4th volume, separate, 12mo. half cloth, 33-cents ; full cloth, 50 cents ; fine edition, 75 cents ; paper cov. 25 These editions contain two fine steel portraits, one of the Author, and the other of Luther as he appeared before the Diet of Worms. Those who have purchased the former volumes, can now have them uniform in paper, type and binding. TYNG : THE ISRAEL OF GOD; a Series of Discourses. By the Rev. S. H. Tyng, D.D., Rector of St. George’s Church, New-York. 1 vol. 8vo. $1. - LECTURES ON THE LAW AND THE GOSPEL; By Rev. S. H. Tyng, D. D. Third edition, revised and enlargi d. 12mo. SPIRITUAL RETIREMENT; or the Spiritual Exercises of the Heart. By the author of “ Christian Experi¬ ence.” 12mo. FOSTER ; ESSAYS ON DECISION OF CHARACTER. On a Man writing the Memoirs of himself—On the aj)f>lication of the epithet Romantic—and on some of the Causes by which Evangelical Religion has been rendered unacceptable to j)erson3 of cultivated taste. By John Foster. New edition, revised and improved, on large type, fine paper. 12mo. R. carter’s publications, COMPLETE WORKS OF BISHOP BUT¬ LER ; containing Analogy of Natural and Revealed Religion, Dis¬ sertations, Sermons, Correspondence with Dr. Clarke, &c. &c. To which is prefixed an Account of the Character and Writings of the Author. By Dr. Halifax, Bishop of Gloucester. 1 vol. 8vo. Splendid edition, on pica type and fine paper. BISHOP BUTLR’S SERMONS. 1 vol. 8vo. “ “ ANALOGY. 1 vol. 8vo. JAY’S MORNING EXERCISES FOR THE CLOSET, for Every Day in the Year. New edition, 2 vols. in one, 12mo. JAY’S EVENING EXERCISES FOR THE CLOSET, for Every Day in the Year. New edition, 2 vols. in one, 12mo., bound uniform with the Morning Exercises. LIFE, WALK AND TRIUMPH OF FAITH. By the Rev. W. Romaine, A. M. 12mo. New edition, muslin. BAXTER’S SAINT’S REST. Large type, 12mo. LECTURES ON THE ACTS OF THE APOSTLES. By the Rev. .John Dick, D. D., author of “ Lectures on Theolo¬ gy,” &c. 1 vol. 8vo. MEMOIR OF DR. NISBET. By Dr. Miller, of Princeton. MEMOIR OF MRS. ISABELLA GRAHAM. New edition. POOR MAN’S MORNING PORTION; being a selection of a verse from Scripture, with short observations, for eveiy day in the year. By Robert Hawkes, D. D. 1 vol. l«mo. HILL AND VALLEY ; oi. Hours in England and Wales. By Miss Catherine Sinclair. CHRIST OUR LAW. By Caroline Fry. 12mo. CHRIST ON THE CROSS. By Stevenson. BISHOP PORTE US ON MATTHEW. 12mo. THE INQUIRER DIRECTED to an Experimen¬ tal and Practical View of the Work of the Holy Spirit. By Rev. Octavius Winslow. 1 vol. 12mo. REMAINS OF THE REV. RICHARD CECIL, A. M, Minister of St. John’s Chapel, Bedford Row, London. To whicli is prefixed a View of his Character. By Josiah Pratt. 12mo. ( 11 ) R. carter’s publications. MCLEOD ON TRUE GODLINESS. 1 vol. 12mo. SIR ROLAND ASHTON j a Tale of the Times. B 5 Lady Catherine Long. 2 vols. 12mo. LJFE AND LETTERS OF THE REV. JOSEPH ALLEINE, author of “ An Alarm to the Unconverted,” &c. WORKS BY THE LATE REV. JOHN A. CLARK, D.D. Uniformly bound in neat cloth. 12mo. I. A WALK ABOUT ZION. Revised and Ea larged. With two steel Plates. II. THE PASTOR’S TESTIMONY. With two steel Plates. III. THE YOUNG DISCIPLE; or, A memoir of Anzonetla R. Peters. IV. GATHERED FRAGMENTS. Two steej Plates. V. GLEANINGS BY THE WAY, or Trave in the Western Country. VI. AWAKE, THOU SLEEPER I a Series o Awakening Discourses. ASSEMBLY’S SHORTER CATECHISM, BROWN’S CATECHISM. MANUAL OF BIBLICAL INTERPRETATION. By Dr McClelland. 13mo. QEOLOG ICAL COSMOGONY : or, an Examine tion of the Geological Theory of the Origin and Antiquity of th« Earth. By a Layman. 18mo. CALVIN ON SECRET PROVIDENCE. MALCOLM ON THE ATONEMENT. GIFT FOR MOURNERS: containing Cecil’s Vish to the House of Mourning, and Flavel’s Token for Mourners. SORROWING YET REJOICING. 32mo CONTEST AND THE ARMOUR, by Dr. Abet- crombie, author of the “Intellectual Powers,” muslin, extrm gilt edge. 32mo. 31 cents. KEY TO THE SHORTER CATECHISM. New ed- 25 • ( 12 ) ' . r' • ‘ menta/