YALE UNIVERSITY
LIBRARY

TWELVE LECTURES

NATURAL HISTORY OF MAN,

RISE AND PROGRESS OF PHILOSOPHY.

ALEXANDER KINMONT, A. M.

WITH A BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH OF THE AUTHOR.

Philosophic autem objeclum triplex, Deus, natura, homo. — Bacon.
Homo eeset, per quern Deus transeat in naturam, seu per quern natura possit ascendere ad Deum.
Perfectio naturae dependet a perfectione hominis; Deus enim naturae stator non aliter mundum disponit,
quam quale est medium seu homo, per quern cum mundo communicat. — Swedenborg.

CINCINNATI:
PUBLISHED BY U. P. JAMES, 26 PEARL STREET.
1839.

Entered according to act of Congress, in the year 1839,
BY W. HOOPER,
In the Clerk's Office for the District Court of Ohio.

R. P. BROOKS, PRINTER,
No. 1 Baker-street.

ADVERTISEMENT.

The late Mr. Kinmont, during the winter of 1837-8,
delivered, in public, the lectures which comprise this
volume. At the close ofthe course, his audience, desirous
that the result of so much labor, experience, and patient
research, should not perish with its utterance, or be limited
to the impressions upon a few minds, presented, with their
acknowledgments of high gratification, a request that he
would favor them with a copy for publication. To this
he reluctantly yielded, and applied the leisure which his
daily avocations permitted to transcribing them ; a task
which he had scarcely completed, when he was summoned,
we doubt not, to higher and more exalted appointments.
Under these circumstances, it may be doubted whether
they would have been given to the world, had not the
public, or at least that portion of them who best knew his
worth, appreciated his talents, and most acutely felt his
loss, demanded some mirror of his mind, some transcript
of his natural graces and attainments. To them, then, the
work is dedicated, and appears under their auspices; but
not without a deep sense, on the part of those to whom
was committed its supervision through the press, that

IV ADVERTISEMENT.
there are many imperfections which would not have exist
ed, had it received the last touch and finish of the artist.
The lectures, in their present form, are little more than
outlines of the subjects discussed on the occasion of their
delivery — each having been introduced by an extempo
raneous exordium of fervid and impassioned eloquence,
which few who heard will ever cease to remember. It is
known to have been the author's intention, had he lived,
to have appended copious notes, a deficiency which it is
now impossible to supply.
The style is natural to Mr. Kinmont, the peculiar dress
of his mind, and may not be in correspondence with the
fashion which prevails ; with this it has not been deemed
prudent in any manner to interfere, the desire being to
present a just copy of the original. His mind, from his
intimate acquaintance with, and passionate fondness for,
the writings of antiquity, became moulded and fashioned
by them ; and the same reasons which led him to those
fountains (natural ones at least) of thought and feeling,
for ideas and sentiments which you seek almost in vain in
the extended commentaries of the day, inclined him to
disregard and dislike the affectation and formality of
modern compositions.
If the reader should not discover, on the perusal of these
lectures, any truth or fact with which he was not before
acquainted, it is believed he will meet many in a new
guise, exhibited under different phases and aspects  he
will find original views of truth, which are in fact new
truths, in the same sense as every plant that is produced,
or child that is born, is a new idea — a fresh expression of
the wisdom and goodness of the Creator. The captious

ADVERTISEMENT. V
critic may perhaps find much to condemn, a wide occa
sion for the display of his book-learning, vanity, and
opinionative conceit ; yet it is hoped the sincere searcher
after truth will not " be sent empty away."
But as it is not our purpose to present a review, or
anticipate the judgment of others by expressing our own
of the merits of the work, we close by the adoption in all
sincerity of the maxim of the author — the same which
influenced his higher pursuits and encouraged his hum
bler duties: —
Sit glorias Dei, et utilitati hominum.

CONTENTS.

Biographical Sketch of the Author,  1
LECTURE I.
On Max considered as a Unit  17
LECTURE II.
On the Limits and Orders of Nature,  29
LECTURE III.
On Language — Its Origin and Use,  65
LECTURE IV.
St. Augustine and Baron Cuvier, or the meeting of the Fifth
and Nineteenth Centuries,   91
LECTURE V.
On the predominant; of the Religious Sentiment in the Early
Ages  .... 117
LECTURE VI.
On Ancient Religion and Modern Science, . . ... I II
LEf II RE VII.
On the Origin and Perpetuation of .Natural Races m Mankind, 167

V1H CONTENTS.
LECTURE VIII.
On the Unity in Variety of the Human Race,  201
LECTURE IX.
On the Character of the Ancient Germans,  235
LECTURE X.
On the Man of America — Spanish and English,  265
LECTURE XI.
On the Arts and Commerce of the Phoenicians,  293
LECTURE XII.
On the Elements of American Civilization,  323

SKETCH OF THE AUTHOR'S LIFE.

Alexander Kinmont was born January 5th, 1799, in the parish of
Marytown, three miles west from Montrose, in Angusshire, Scot
land. His parents were members of the Presbyterian church; —
placed in very humble circumstances, they were extremely frugal
and industrious, and remarkable for their exemplary piety and inde
pendence of character. His father, who is represented as having
been of a kind and gentle disposition, and a truly devout man, early
impressed upon his son the same reverence for the Sacred Scriptures
which he himself felt and acknowledged. He inculcated especially
upon him, at a very tender age, implicit obedience to the Ten Com
mandments, urging it by the consideration, that they had been writ
ten by the finger of God himself. The impression thus stamped
upon the forming mind of his child, was never forgotten or effaced.
Inheriting from his parents the most inflexible honesty and indepen
dence of spirit, he was remarkable in infancy, for his courage, — ex
hibiting no signs of fear, in common with other children. Nor was
he less marked for his quick observation, ready memory, and faculty
of imitation. When about four years of age, he visited the parish
school with his brother, and on his return in the evening, surprised
the whole family, by repeating, word for word, the long prayer of
the Domine, with exact imitation of look and gesture. He learned
to read with the greatest facility; but soon falling into idle habits at
school, received from the master very severe chastisements, which,
on no occasion, however, drew from him a single tear or complaint.
At this time, the reduced circumstances of his parents obliged
them to hire him out to a neighboring farmer, by whom he was em
ployed to guard his cattle and horses from trespassing upon the
adjoining crops, — the fields there being all unenclosed. This em
ployment, though somewhat uncongenial with his active and thought
ful disposition, nevertheless brought him into circumstances, which
were calculated to foster and develope an ardent love of nature,
and a devoted attachment to rural life, which never forsook him in
after years. He was thus occupied until about eight years of age,
when his father died of a brain fever, during the paroxysms of which,
he alone succeeded in soothing the violence of the sufferer, when
even the stoutest men fled in terror.

2 , BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH
He was thus early left to the control and guidance of his mother,
an excellent woman, of fine sensibilities, and a most affectionate
heart. Never after the decease of her husband, was the poignancy
of the loss absent from her mind. She became in consequence ex
tremely pensive, and her whole character was tinged with melan
choly, the influence of which was not entirely lost upon her son,
although naturally of a most buoyant, spirited, and cheerful disposi
tion. He was now sent to the parish school, where he soon became
quite as remarkable for his ingenuous disposition and reckless and
independent character, as for his scholastic proficiency.
Shortly after this period, an event took place which changed the
entire current of his life, and placed him in the way of developing
those varied and useful talents, for which he has since been distin
guished. While assisting at a threshing-mill in the neighborhood
of Montrose, one of the wheels caught the tattered sleeve of his coat,
and drew in the right arm, mangling it in the most shocking manner,
until, with great presence of mind, he braced himself firmly, while
it was torn from his body near the shoulder. To his brother, who
came to him shortly after the accident, he said, with the most perfect
composure: — " Never mind, Willie, you see I can do very well with
one arm. The men all ran away and left me standing; but I grasped
the stump to keep in my blood, and called for help." He was taken
to the Infirmary, and bore the necessary amputation without utter
ing the least complaint. Under the kind and careful treatment of
the Surgeon and Intendant, he speedily recovered, and was urgently
advised by them to devote himself to literary pursuits, as affording
the most eligible field for the developement and proper exercise of
his talents. He returned to the parish school; but soon mastered the
learning of his teacher. On one occasion, meeting with a difficulty
in arithmetic, which he could not solve, he applied for assistance to
the Domine, who, being unable to give it, put him off with some ex
cuse until the next day. During the evening, with his characteristic
reliance upon himself in every emergency, he succeeded, after re
peated trials, in the solution of the question; but having reason to
doubt the skill of the master, renewed his claim for an explanation on
the morrow. The Domine, fairly puzzled, was forced to acknow
ledge his ignorance, when Kinmont, turning round the back of his
slate, and showing him the solution of the difficulty, dryly said,
^'Here, sir, it is." The reward for this triumph over his master's
ignorance was a blow, which nearly levelled him to the ground.
He was now about twelve years of age, when he left the parish
school, and returned to his mother's cottage. He did not however
abandon his studies, but walked daily five miles to attend 'the school
of a Mr. Huddleston, a teacher of very respectable acquirements,
and author of a History of the Celts. Here he made considerable
proficiency in the Latin language, and also in navigation, surveying,
and the common branches of an English education. The opinions
expressed of him, at this time, by his instructor, excited the interest

OF THE AUTHOR. 3
of the parish ministers in his behalf, who frequently invited him to
their houses/ and advised him in his course of study, and in the
choice of books. These gentlemen, who were possessed of superior
talents and fine religious sentiments, exercised a very beneficial influ
ence over him, and he always spoke of them in terms of high respect
and gratitude.
At thirteen years of age, he attended the Grammar School of
Montrose, under the superintendence of Mr. Calvert, an English
man, and an excellent classical scholar. With him he studied the
Latin, Greek, and French languages, and Mathematics. His appli
cation was incessant — his studying-hours being regularly prolonged
till near midnight, while he allowed himself no farther recreation
than a walk of an hour in the evening. During this period he made
rapid advances in Latin, in which he was greatly assisted by con
stant exercises in composition in that language. He remained here
two years, at tlie charge of his mother; but brought up in frugality,
his wants were easily supplied, and books and tuition-bills were the
heaviest items of expense. He was now, however, enabled to sup
port himself by compensations for assisting the Principal of the
Academy, and for instruction in private families, in which employ
ments he continued until he had attained his nineteenth year, when
he resolved to enter the University of Aberdeen.
In most of the Universities and Seminaries of learning in Scot
land, there are funds appropriated for the encouragement and support
of scholars of acknowledged merit. Kinmont, accordingly, with a
view of presenting himself as a candidate for admission at Aberdeen,
prepared a Latin poem, and a treatise on the particle re, which, he
doubted not, would secure him the object of his wishes. On his ar
rival at the University, with his friend, Mr. Huddleston, he pre
sented his theme to the Master of the High School, one of the
Judges of such productions. The conversation was conducted in
Latin, and the Master, delighted with his new acquaintance, unhesi
tatingly assured him that it was quite certain that he would take the
prize over all his competitors. The result, however, proved differ
ent, in despite of the remonstrances of the Master. His theme was
highly praised by the Professors for its purity of style, but rejected
on account of two grammatical errors. He received it back from
them, and replied to their delicate praises by an open expression of
his sense of the injustice with which he had been treated. The
mail-stage was about starting for the south; he instantly mounted on
top, and travelling all night, arrived early in the morning, at St. An
drews, and entered the Hall of the University in time to hear the
subjects of the themes proposed to the candidates for admission.
Making his selection from among them, he completed the task before
he slept, and had the satisfaction of carrying off' the first prizes in
Latin, Greek, and Geometry, over about thirty competitors. These
secured to him board and lodging in the University for four years
from the fall of 1817. He did not, however, avail himself of the

4 biographical sketch
privilege for more than three years, during which time he supplied
his other wants by private teaching. In this interval he ranked the
first in ever}' class he entered. Bearing into his college life the
most ardent attachment for rural scenes, and all the varied aspects
of the picturesque and romantic, which Nature presents in those north
ern climes, he was extremely fond of roaming amid the stern and
wild scenery of his native land; often, too, in company with a friend,
he would waste whole nights in rambles by moon-light over the
Scottish hills. Thus was his imagination and heart alike enlivened
and invigorated. Borne onward upon a full tide of enthusiastic
feelings, all his movements, both mental and physical, were marked
by rapidity, energy, and decision. On whatever study he under
took, he brought the entire powers of his mind to bear with an un
wavering singleness of purpose, and hence he never failed of success.
In debate, he is said to have carried every thing before him by the
impetuous and resistless torrent of his eloquence. Always cheerful,
devoted to his studies, and ardent in the pursuit of knowledge, he
early secured the friendship and esteem of his Instructors; but no
present advantages he enjoyed could bind him longer to St. An
drews, so soon as he had caught a glimpse of a more extended pros
pect of improvement and success in another quarter.
Fired by the fame of Edinburgh and her celebrated University,
he hastened to that Metropolis, where he taught in some of the first
families of the place, and attended the various classes in the Univer
sity. While here, he wrote a Latin poem, which was considered as
possessing considerable merit, and also a Tragedy, part of which was
sent to Mr. Elliston, then Manager of Covent Garden Theatre, who
expressed himself in the highest terms of commendation of its me
rit, and sought especially, an acquaintance with its author. Elliston
dying very shortly after, this effort of the Tragic Muse was "con
signed to the tomb of the Capulets."
At this time our Author attended the Philosophical and Theologi
cal classes of the University, but he soon became disgusted with the
irrational, as well as unscriptural systems of Theology inculcated
in the latter. The atheistical soi-disant Philosophy of Revolution
ary France was at this period in full vogue over the greater part of
Europe, nor did the Scottish University escape the blighting influ
ence of this demon of scepticism. Though not perhaps avowedly
yet at least practically, the precepts of Christianity were generally
denied. It was impossible for Kinmont to avoid beino- affected by
the moral miasmata of the times, and an incident which occurred in
his presence tended in no slight degree to confirm his increasing
doubts as to the truths of revelation. One of the preceptors on a
certain occasion, in praying had assumed a very irreverent nosture
and with his eyes half open, in a careless tone, vvas going over a mum
mery of devotion. At this instant, one of the dignitaries of the
College happening to enter, the preceptor instantly raised his hands
to heaven, and changing entirely his position and tone of voice per

OF THE AUTHOR.

formed the remainder of the service with the solemnity of a saint.
Kinmont was so disgusted by this conduct, that he was led to think
Religion a mockery, and its professors cither hypocrites or fools. Nor
was this opinion weakened, but rather confirmed, by his observation
of the licentious conduct of most of the candidates for holy orders.
He therefore soon abandoned his theological studies, and devoted
himself with redoubled zeal to the Greek and Latin classics, of which
he had ever been a most enthusiastic admirer.
An ardent friend of free institutions, and a decided enemy of aris
tocracy and of all privileged orders, he had ever felt the deepest
attachment for the Lnited States of America, and eagerly desired to
satisfy himself, by personal observation, as to the true extent of free
dom and independence enjoyed under its government. Dreading
above all things the servility usually' demanded by the patronizing
spirit of the great and wealthy, although his services at this time
were much desired by several distinguished individuals in London,
(to whom he was known through some pamphlets he had published,
and from his private letters,) he was unwilling to owe his advance
ment to aught save his own unassisted exertions. With these feel
ings, meeting one day a friend in all the hurry of preparation for a
journey, he enquired his destination. "America," replied he, urging
him, at the same time, by various arguments, to accompany him.
" Give me half an hour to reflect upon it," said Kinmont, "and I
will tell you my decision." By the expiration of that time, he de
clared his determination to accompany him, and made immediate pre
paration for his departure. One of the most powerful motives which
urged him to leave Scotland, was, as he afterwards asserted, to secure
for his mother and sister, a more comfortable home in the new land of
his adoption. For his mother he always entertained a most affec
tionate regard and filial reverence; and previous to his leaving Scot
land, gave directions that what property he had collected, should be
sold, and the proceeds remitted to her, together with a small amount.
of money he had invested in the funds; reserving for himself a sum
only sufficient to defray his expenses to America. His wish was
complied with, but too late for her to be sensible of this proof of his
affection ; a delirium seized her on the perusal of his last letter, com
municating his determination to visit America, which soon termina
ted her mortal existence.
He set sail immediately, and arrived in New York about the end
of May, 1823. Finding himself without money, but at the same
time free from all fear of want, and full of his native independence,
he sold his watch, and sought forthwith an opportunity of rendering
himself useful as a classical teacher. With his characteristic readi
ness, and restless anxiety to be at work, he accordingly employed
the very next day after his arrival, in assisting at an examination of
the school of Nelson, the celebrated blind teacher. Finding, how
ever, that his services were not required in New York, he remained
there but a few days, and started on foot for Baltimore. On approach-

6 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH
ing within sight of the Monumental City, he had but a single dollar
remaining, and his compassion was so moved by the distress of a
traveller whom he chanced to meet, that he gave him even the half
of that. Thus, destitute, alone, and unfriended, did he enter Balti
more, but his energy and sterling abilities soon procured him employ
ment ; and he remained in this city until he had obtained means suf
ficient to bear him still further into the interior of the country.
Learning that a classical teacher was wanted at Bedford, Pa., he de
termined to visit that place, and apply for the situation. He went
there on foot, choosing this mode of travelling, not only from habit,
but as being most economical, and especially as affording him the best
opportunities of studying the character, and learning the condition of
the people, among whom he was seeking a home. In this manner he
rendered his journey both delightful and instructive. Carrying with
him a copy of one of the Greek tragic poets, he would often stop in
some sequestered spot, and amuse himself by reciting aloud passages
from a favorite play, fancying he could breathe in more freely, as it
were, the warm inspiration of the Grecian Muse, from the very air
of this western world, where the ancient spirit of republican freedom
was again revived. On one of these occasions, while reading aloud
with all the unrestrained enthusiasm of his nature under the excitement
of the poetry and the story, the clergyman of a neighboring village
chanced to pass by on his way to church ; being a good classical
scholar, he listened to the sounds with amazement, and watching un-
perceived, Kinmont's gesticulations, for some time, took such a par
tiality to the man, that he accosted him with a polite request to ac
company him to the church, which was readily complied with. At
the conclusion of the service, the parson followed up his first invita
tion by conducting his new acquaintance to his house, and entertain
ing him for several days, before he would suffer him to proceed on
his journey.
Arriving at Bedford, he was immediately appointed Principal of
the Classical Academy in that village, and by his unremitted applica
tion to the discharge of his duties, andithe rapid progress of his pupils,
soon convinced the citizens that in him they had secured an instruc
tor of superior abilities, and one highly qualified to succeed in the
education of youth. His character, at this period, though marked by
simplicity, candor, and extreme rapidity of thought and execution
was deeply tinged with melancholy, verging often even on misan
thropy. His social intercourse was confined to a few select friends and
he was observed to be particularly fond of solitary walks, and appa
rently always absorbed in meditation. He seemed to have no fixed and
definite end in view; and harassed by the most gloomy doubts on the
subject of religion, he was at last reduced to such a state of despair as
to avow that he could see no farther use of life. A friend, with whom
he was residing, perceiving the sceptical tendencies of his mind and
the despondency under which he was suffering, suggested to him the
propriety of examining the doctrines of the New Jerusalem Church

OF THE AUTHOR. 7
as most likely to solve all his difficulties, by imparting to him a
rational and philosophical view of the nature of Divine Revelation,
and leading him at once to the vital truths of Christianity. It was
not, however, until after repeated recommendations, that he finally
commenced reading the Arcana Cgjlestia. As he progressed with
the first volume, his interest in it gradually increased, and from regard
ing it at first as a most extraordinary production, before he had fin
ished that volume, he acknowledged his entire conviction of the
Divine Inspiration of the Sacred Scriptures, and soon became a wil
ling and zealous receiver of the doctrines of the New Church — ever
after declaring this removal of his former scepticism, the most
important and happiest event of his life.
His character seemed now to undergo a complete change. The
grim and dismal forms of infidelity instantly disappeared, and a
new and clear light from the Sacred Word beamed upon his
mind, and illumined his whole pathway through life. He was no
longer without an end to live for, but devoted himself with fresh
alacrity to the performance of all his duties. Desirous of removing
every memento of his former self, he burnt up at this period, all his
previous writings, and determined to start afresh, as it were, on a
new career of existence. His walks were no longer solitary, but
enlivened by the presence of some friend; and Nature, instead of
offering gratifications merely to his senses or imagination, was teem
ing with fresh beauties never perceived before, and calling into just
exercise the awakened powers of his new rational being. His leisure
hours were occasionally employed in the composition of ballads and
little poems, for his own gratification and the amusement of his
friends. On several occasions, he prepared dramatic pieces as exer
cises for his scholars; but he was never a very zealous aspirant for
poetical honors.
The following extract from a Drama ofthe "Silver Age," written
by him, and performed by his pupils, at one of their regular examina
tions, may serve to exhibit his style in this species of composi
tion, as well as the peculiar bent of his mind, and the principles of
action he henceforth adopted through life. The dramatis personal
are two brothers: 1st Bro. — Seek only good. '
2d B. — And where shall good be found 1
1st B. — There, only there,
Where those that ask can never fail to find.
2d B. — All good descends from Heaven :
1st B. — Thou say'st most true :
Seek onxt good, thus pleasure comes uhbooght.
2d B. — Is pleasure then in good 1
1st B. — There, surely found,
And only there, pure and endurable.
2d B. — I do believe 'tis so, yet wonder still
That happiness should come of toil ;
For what but toil can gain that eminence
Where fairest Wisdom, as thou say'st, resides; —

BIOGRAPHICAL sketch
Canst thou explain me this 1
1st B. — Perhaps I may,
If thou attend.
2d B.  I will with patient ear.
1st B.— There is Oxr. only God, the Lord Supeeme, by whom
All things subsist; Eternal, Infinite;
And Wise as Infinite, and Good as Wise :
Goodness and Wisdom dwell alone in him ;
Nor uncommunicated dwell, but are
That living fountain, whence the Wise and Good,
So named of men, derive intelligence, —
Intelligence which ever flows from Heaven.
But those alone are good, alone are wise,
Who act with cheerfulness the part assign'd
Their duty here ; which part who shuns to act,
Or acts with backward or unwilling mind,
Is neither wise nor good, nor can be such: —
For not to act — mark this — is to refuse
The gift of Heaven, that ll'isdom which thou seek'st.
This wisdom, he who acts, and humbly still,
Shall constantly receive, and shall be bless'd,
Triumphant o'er the toils of mortal life,
And fed with good from Hraven ; — and such alone,
My Brother, count thou happy.
2d B. — 0 heavenly words
Though rudely spun, flow more divinely sweet
Than songs of softest music on the ear,
And raise far nobler thoughts : Wherefore, my brother,
I thank thee much thy words of sound instruction :
And now I learn from thee true Wisdom's road —
That road I will ascend, however steep.
1st B. — Bless'd be thy choice : one moment intermit not,
For in that moment thou may'st be undone.
But listen farther, I had more to tell.
2d B. — I listen eagerly.
1st B. — To cheer thy toil,
And aid thy footsteps to ascend the hill,
Some handmaids Heaven will send thee, if thou ask.
2d B. — iSay what their names, that I may ask aright.
1st B. — Some I shall tell, the rest thou soon wilt learn.
The first is Charity, a heaven-born maid,
Whose eye so beameth with another's good,
And mildness such a sweet'ning influence sheds,
That though Jbou thought'st it hard at first to toil
All for thyself alone, — taught by her voice
Thou now wilt gladly do for her dear sake,
And for the general good, what seem'd before
The hardest, heaviest task. Next will appear,
If thou wilt ask of Heaven, fair Temperance,
Healthful of hue and aspect, up by dawn,
And always pleased the most with simplest things:
None better skilled than she to brave the steeps,
And clear the ascent of Virtue's rugged way.
Or would'st thou see Contentment, sweetest nymph,
And Resignation, with her eye in Heaven :
Or Cheerfulness and Labor, hand in hand,
March on before thee, — undivided twain ?
0 may these heavenly guides attend thee, Brother,
And all the virtues, smiling in their train,
Which ask thou still of Heaven, and they will come,

OP THE AUTHOR. 9
Will trooping como, and lead thco by the hand
Up Wisdom's eminence, where thou at last
Shalt safe arrive, and dwell in peace scenic.
2d B. — Thanks to thee, Brother : no longer steep shall seem
To mo sweet Virtue's path ; — most gladly I
Will tread that path — that path which winds on high.
But see, the sun now pours his rays
From yonder Eastern hill ;
The woods seem kindled in his blaze,
Wide glances vale and rill ;
The lambkins all now skip and play
Beneath his lively beam ;
1st B. — Hail, glorious Monarch of tho Day !
Hail, thou all-cheering gleam !
2d B. — So Wisdom fair, with cheerful light,
Breaks on the clouded mind,
Fast fly the shadows of the night,
And leave all bright behind :
1st B. — Hail, image fair of Truth Divine !
'Tis Truth itself that bids thee shine. Etc.
Henceforward, he devoted all the energies and resources of his
mind to science, literature, and the education of youth; for he felt
that there especially lay the field of his duties. During one of the
vacations of his Academy, he visited Cincinnati, travelling, as was
his custom, the greater part ofthe way, if not the entire distance, on
foot. He remained in this place but a short time, however, and re
turned to Bedford, taking his course, as a pedestrian, through the
interior of Ohio.
After remaining at Bedford about three years, with a view to ex
tend his usefulness, he removed, during the summer of 1827, to Cin
cinnati, where he immediately obtained the full number of scholars he
felt himself competent to instruct in the various branches of a Clas
sical, Mathematical, and English education. What were the main
springs and ends of his exertions, may be readily inferred from the
motto, which he inscribed at this time upon the first page of his ac
count-book: — Sit glorias Dei, et utilituti hominum. With such
pure and philanthropic motives of action, and possessed of no ordi
nary share of intellectual vigor and manly independence of charac
ter, he could not but succeed in every thing that he undertook.
Having at length, therefore, firmly established his merit as a success
ful Teacher, and perfectly secure from all anxiety of a pecuniary
nature, he was married, January 15th, 1829.
His usefulness was not, however, confined exclusively to his
school, even anterior to this time. From the fall of 1828, he cheer
fully officiated as a teacher of the doctrines of the New Church, as
often as his services were required by the Society to which he was
attached. In the summer following, being appointed a licentiate of
the church, at the request of the same Society, he continued at inter
vals in the performance ofthe duties appertaining to that office until
the spring of 1833, when he was invited to take charge of the First
New Jerusalem Society, as its regular minister, and that he might

JO BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH
devote himself exclusively to the various duties of that functio^o
abandon his school. In his reply declining this offer, he »y8' ,
have never felt it a burthensome, but, on the contrary, a delighttal
duty, to explain to my brethren, as myself one of the ™?Z<-™?™:
trines of the New Church. While, therefore, a regularly-orda.ned
minister would be able to attend to the ordinances of the church , 1
also am willing to explain the doctrines as a teacher, ^fj™™
reward, as I consider myself called upon to do, since the Lord gra
ciously enables me to supply my temporal wants by temporal labors
during the six days of the week." Convinced that there was a more
extenfive field of usefulness presented before him in the imparting
of scientific instruction to youth, and in aiding to call forth those
faculties, which would enable them in after life, rationally to per
ceive the truths of Christianity, and to confirm and illustrate them
by the facts and deductions of science, he could not brook the idea
of surrendering his school, and hence he boldly replied to the remon
strances of his friends on the subject: " Gentlemen, the New Church
with me, is in my school in the first instance, in preachings in the
second. "
His mode of teaching was not modelled after any particular or
uniform system, but adapted, as far as possible, to the individual wants
and capacities of his pupils, for he early perceived that there were
constitutional differences of mind, and that each member of a society
or of the community at large, was best qualified for the performance of
a specific duty. Hence, he often complained bitterly of the extrava
gant notions of many parents in endeavoring to make scholars and
great men of their children, when they were qualified by nature to
become altogether more useful and happy in the workshop, or the
field. "Each of those lads," said he, sweeping his hand over his
school, " if he be not of solid mahogany, must needs be, at least,
veneered." Possessing the nicest discrimination in the various shades
of character presented to his view, he readily classified all his pupils
under the several natural genera of minds, which he had observed
to maintain from the earliest ages down to the present times ; and he
endeavored, accordingly, to bring out, to the best of his ability, the
striking qualities of each. In other words, he intended by his course
of instruction, that each one should be actually educated — should
display all the various useful tendencies and resources that lay hid
within him. Whenever he received a new pupil, if he were unable
at once to assign him his proper place, or wished to ascertain the
extent of his acquirements, he would engage his attention, and
addressing him on some subject connected with history or natural
science, would say to him, in conclusion, " Now, sir, write down all
you remember of what I have been telling you. " And upon the
scholar's complying, he would invariably be able to decide accurately
upon his character, and the studies most appropriate for him to pur
sue. The great aim of his instructions, both as a Teacher of Science
and Theology, seems to have been, not merely to impart the know-

OF THE AUTHOR. 1 \
ledge of truth, but to urge, by every possible motive, the doing of it.
This practical tendency of his mind was not only stamped upon his
philosophy, but present and perceptible in every thing he said ; so
that it has been observed of him, and by men, too, disagreeing with him
ia many of his opinions, that even his ordinary conversations were
worthy of being made public.
His integrity and purity of heart, and the vital importance he
attached to the moral education of the youth entrusted to his charge,
may be judged of by tlie motto which he affixed over the door of his
school-house : —
" Nil dictu feodum visuque haec limina tangat,
Intra quas puer est." — " Procul, O ! procul este profani : '
'• Maxima debetur puero reverentia. "
Always ready and instant in the performance of duties himself, he
endeavored to impress a like character upon his pupils. A young
man having called upon him on a Friday, and expressed a wish to
enter his school on the coming Monday, Kinmont instantly replied,
"By no means, sir; commence this very afternoon ; get yourself
used to the tools you are to work with now, that you may begin the
coming week with good omens, and a well-grounded hope of suc
cess." His rule of action was to perform faithfully, and without
solicitude, the duty of the present hour, and to let the future take care
of itself. So implicit was his trust that Divine Providence would
dispose all things for the best, when man had done the part as
signed to him, that his only care was how he himself might perform
the greatest amount of good of which his being was capable. To a
friend, conversing with him on this subject, who jocosely asked,
" Will you not lay by a penny for a rainy day? " he answered, with a
smile, " When I am in want of a dollar, I will draw upon Heaven."
It is not to be inferred from this, that he was at all improvident, for
such was never the case; but he considered a reliance upon worldly
prudence, without a confidence and hope of a far higher order, as
mere " vanity and vexation of spirit. " He was a devoted and
incessant student throughout the whole of his life, and never suffered
his mind to be crushed or subdued by any subject of his study. If
the information he acquired, therefore, served to increase the mental
resources of his genius, it was no less useful in calling forth new and
original views, by exciting the activity of his own independent
thoughts. His favorite authors were Plato, Homer, and the Greek
Tragedians, Tacitus, Cicero, Bacon, St. Augustine, Swedenborg, and
Milton. The "Paradise Lost," (apart from its theological dogmas,) he
esteemed as the greatest effort of human genius, in any age either
ancient or modern. On first reading it, when a youth, he could not
sit still, but would start up in the highest excitement, and pace the
room for some time before he could regain complete possession of
himself. In after life, it was often the pocket companion of his rural
walks. His reading was not, however, confined to the writers just

12 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH
enumerated ; but he constantly endeavored, by taking in the widest
possible range of authors of all ages, to create within himseit a sym
pathy for the whole wide brotherhood of Man, both past and present
—to approximate continually to a view and appreciation ot irulft
Universal. He was consequently a strenuous advocate of lrequent
exercises in translation from the classic writers of antiquity ;_ urging
these, as among the most efficient means of humanizing ihe individ
ual who would undertake them. But his views on this subject, embrace
so much of the character of the man, that they cannot be better pre
sented than in his own language ; they are herewith subjoined :— _
« There prevails an opinion, that our times are remarkably origi
nal ; and to this I ascribe, in a great measure, that disesteem in which
classical literature, whether Greek, Latin or English, is at present
held. To write and speak like no other person, seems now to be
considered a merit. It were wrong to discourage an implicit and
unreserved confidence in Truth and Nature ; but that profusion of
language and poverty of thought, which is now called being sponta
neous and original, is any thing rather than a proof of simplicity of
heart or freedom of understanding. In such careless toealth, there
is generally more of adulterate than sterling coin — more paper than
GOLD. " This mania of originality is especially inimical to the labors of the
schoolmaster. You can hardly now persuade a youth to take the
necessary pains to elaborate a just and expressive translation of an
elegant passage of a classical author: — he is afraid that he may lose
that free and unembarrassed air of originality which nature herself
so lavishly bestows, but this imitation might impede or destroy.
"And yet there are few exercises more beneficial, regarded as a part
of mental discipline, than Translation. A man might pursue such
exercises with benefit to his own mind through his whole course of
life ; it is the most profitable way of keeping company with minds
of a lofty stamp. It is then you come into the closest intimacy with
genius and taste, and feel the entire divinity of their manner. It
serves to correct that vicious idiosyncracy which belongs more or less
to all who write or speak much, and which is sometimes not disa
greeable from calling up associations of noble thoughts, with which
it is wont sometimes to be associated ; but notwithstanding this acci
dental advantage, it is nevertheless a positive defect; and of all kinds
of imitation, that unconscious following of one's self is the most
unfortunate. Translation, by compelling the mind to run in an unfa
miliar channel, is the best corrective of this, and may be safely
applied at any period of life : so far from deadening the powers of
original thinking, it will quicken them, by bringing foreio-n and
unusual trains of thought before the mind. If a man has really the
latent sources of new and original ideas within him, nothing can
repress them. Could the mind of Shakspeare have been buried
beneath the rubbish of Greece or Rome,— such their learning has
been deemed of late— and be it such,— he would have risen tri-

OF THE AUTHOR. 13
umphant and adorned with their spoils, and not one of all his natu
ral glories tarnished. By imitation and translation, one will always
gain something, and can lose nothing, unless a vicious mannerism,
which the sooner he loses the better. It is a characteristic of all
good writers that they are addicted to imitation, for no one can write
well (I speak not of words and periods) who has not a strong sym
pathy for and admiration of all that is beautiful ; and the more imi
tative he is in this sense, the more original and pleasing will he be ;
for he will not be the segment of a man, but the whole. It is a
greater exploit to imitate successfully, than to be original, and lo
invent. Bulwer is a mere original, and hence an inferior genius,
harsh and unnatural, (any man could write as well as he does, who
had impudence enough,) but Walter Scott was an imitator, and hence
the charm and naturalness of his works. We recognise in him a
family likeness with the whole writing race. Demosthenes copied
Thucydides, — a devoted copier, but remarkably successful, although
he wanted range, from not having copied more extensively. Cicero
copied and imitated every body, — the very mocking-bird of elo
quence ; but that is not his disparagement, but his greatest distinction
and glory : who so various as Cicero, who so sweet, so powerful, so
simply eloquent, or again so magnificently flowing, and each and all
in turns ? The man's mind was a perfect panharmonicon ; it was
because he despised this paltry modern affectation of originality, and
reverenced the gods and loved his fellow-creatures, and therefore his
mind was open to all kinds of good influences, and received the natu
ral impression of every grand and lovely object. Your original cha
racter, your original writer, has no sympathies ; he is heart-bound,
brain-bound, and lip-bound; he is truly an oddity; he is like nobody,
and nobody like him ; he feeds on self-adoration, or the adulation of
fools, who mistake the oracles of pride and vanity for the inspirations
of Heaven. The most perfect imitator that ever wrote, perhaps, was
Burns, the Poet of Scotland, — 'Scotia Rediviva would be the right
motto of his works. The resurrection-bodies ofthe just Will not be
more their own identical bodies (for this I believe, maugre the
author of " Natural Enthusiasm,") than were the songs and glorious
inspired strains of Burns, the bodies of the old Prophets, the Vates
Caledoniae, risen again. And what nonsense they talk of Homer, as
if he, forsooth, were original, and the father of all those epithets and
metaphors ! No, the greatest imitator, I make no doubt, that ever
lived ; he could not have sung so rapturously otherwise, and of all
the elder bards too. He must have been a greater imitator than Vir
gil, for Virgil is an inferior poet. What poet was ever so original as
the author of the Columbiad? — Fuit. Wordsworth, I understand, is
a very original poet; — Does any body read Wordsworth ? None but
his imitators — and his imitators are read.
"I have always regarded it as a bad symptom in a boy, if he had no
powers of imitation ; he is destined to remain all his life a one-6ided
character. He has no range of sympathies; he has been fused only

14 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH
once in his life, and been poured into a mould, and there he cools,
and he will never be other than you see him ; his creed on all mat
ters is already formed; and you no more need hope to see mm
changed, beneath the ordinary genial sympathies oi opinion or ol
truth, than to find platina melt before an ordinary parlor lire. ine
most promising boys are the most imitative ; in this lies their capa
city for education. You can make Ciceros of them, Demostheneses of
them, admirers ofthe ancients, admirers of the moderns, admirers of
all men and of all things, that are deserving of admiration. Ihey
are many-sided minds ; that is, you can impress many sides upon
their minds ; they can admire the vigorous didactic of the philoso
pher, pithy, unadorned,— sense and reason,— and they can be enrap
tured by the sweet mellifluous strains— "the linked sweetness long
drawn out " — of the most popular flowing authors. Unreflecting
minds that observe these vertumni are apprehensive they may lose
their identity, and end in their having no character at all ; but it is
the very contrary of this, for it is just such youths at last that do
have a character, a human, firm character; not that character Pope
speaks of — "virtue fixed, but fixed as in a frost ; " — for, the basis on
which their moral firmness at last reposes, is just as extensive as the
points of sympathy and harmony in their minds were before numer
ous. They are rational religious men, for their heads and hearts have
both been actuated, but never sectarian ; they are mistrustful of their
own views for they know that truth is a polygon, but the rapidity
and justness of their survey soon brings them back to confidence ;
they are sure that truth has a subsistence as well as an existence,
for in endless variety they have constantly found that unity, which
is the symbol of her Being, the Angel of her presence. "
Having frequently appeared as a public speaker with distinguished
success, he was requested by some of his friends to deliver a course
of lectures during the winter of 1833-4, on such subjects as might
best suit his own taste and inclination. He accordingly prepared a
series of twelve lectures, embracing chiefly a view of the "Moral and
Intellectual Constitution of Man;" but finding himself in the pre
sence of a different and more promiscuous audience than he had anti
cipated, he changed his original design, and delivered an entirely
new course on the "Physical and Intellectual History of Man."
Having devoted several of the preceding winters to the study of
Anatomy, he was enabled to treat the first division of his subject,—
the Physical History of Man, — with extraordinary success ; and he
displayed a degree of anatomical knowledge, minuteness of observa
tion, and philosophical induction, altogether surprising to most of
his audience. But in the fall of the year following, he was brought
still more prominently and favorably before the public by his elo
quent and successful defence of the Ancient Classics, against the
assaults of the distinguished Mr. Grimke, of South Carolina. This
gentleman had commenced a war of extermination against the wri
tings of antiquity, and with no inconsiderable success, was urging

OF THE AUTHOR. 15
upon the public their rejection from a course of liberal education.
The College of Teachers of the Mississippi Valley — an association
which Kinmont had been highly instrumental in establishing — was
at this time holding its annual session at Cincinnati; and here it was
that this champion of an exclusively Jimcrican education encoun
tered Kinmont in debate on the very subject nearest to his heart.
None who were present at this conflict, (and it is estimated that there
were near two thousand,) will ever forget the perfect tempest of elo
quence which Kinmont poured forth on the head of his antagonist;
it was in vain to resist so Demosthenean a charge; his forces were
completely dissipated, and have never since been rallied.
About this period, Kinmont resumed (after having laid aside for
nearly two years) the office of expounding the Sacred Scriptures,
and directing the services of religious worship', in behalf of a con
siderable number of individuals, who formed a second Society of the
New Church in Cincinnati. He continued in the regular perform
ance of the duties of this office from that time onward to the close
of his life.
During the winter of 1S37-8, he delivered his last course of lec
tures on the "Natural History of Man," which gave such universal
gratification to his audience, that he was immediately requested to
prepare a copy for publication; but this he could not find leisure to
do before the subsequent summer. Retiring to the country during
the annual vacation of his school in August, he employed himself in
revising and correcting these lectures for the press, and had scarcely
completed the task, when he was called to resume the duties of his
profession. He entered upon them with alacrity, but scarcely a
week had elapsed, when he was attacked by a fever, which, after an
illness of about three weeks, terminated his mortal career, September
16th, 1838.
Thus, in the full prime and vigor of manhood, was Kinmont re
moved from the scene of his earthly labors; but the usefulness he
nurtured by the cheerful performance of his duties while here, has
now bloomed, we trust, and borne a rich and golden fruitage under
far brighter and more congenial skies. In him were combined the
scholar, the philosopher, the orator, the honest man, and devout
christian. He was warmly attached to science and philosophy, be
cause thereby he secured the means of his usefulness. He was
always earnest and eloquent, for his language flowed from his heart,
and he never meant other than he said. His duties as a christian
and a teacher of religious truth were performed with the greatest
humility, devotion, and zeal, for he felt that all the truths he pos
sessed, and the ability to make them known to others, were alike
gifts, which the obligations of duty urged him to present upon the
altar of the common good.
But no encomium or commendation is needed to ensure his remem
brance ; for if the ideas of virtue and excellence are fashioned in the
human mind by observation and reflection upon their personified

1 6 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH OF THE AUTHOR.
forms in the acts and conduct of individuals; if, when we think of
integrity, purity of heart, devoutness, independence of character,
frankness, disinterestedness, and zeal for the public good, we picture
to ourselves some person, in whom these virtues have been embodi
ed, then will Kinmont recur, as often as they are presented to the
minds of those who enjoyed his acquaintance, and experienced the
benefit of his labors. They surely will feel with what justness it
may be said of him : —

 cui Pudor, et Justitife soror
Incorrupta Fides, nudaque Veritas
Quando ullum inveniet pareml

LECTURE THE FIRST;

MAN CONSIDERED AS A UNIT.

Design of these Lectures. — Uses and objects of Anthropology. — Just ideas im
peded by partial and disconnected views, and discussions of the notional
man of Philosophy and not the Idea of the Divine Mind. — Man to be
studied in his Mind, his Body, and his Actions, the Human Trinity. — Gene
ral view of him in the person of his History or Forthgoing — His Body, and
thence his Mind. — Traces of the character of the Inward Man, upon its
type, the body, not to he disregarded  Natural impression of oneness, as to
the organization of the Body. — Reasoning unaided by experience, utterly
incapable of ascertaining its complex organization. — Bacon's first aphorism,
illustrated. — Whence does that method of observation and induction become
necessary to as? — Propriety of conjecture here with certain restrictions. —
Passage from the Scientific to the Mystical — Application. — Probable adapta
tion of the Nature within and without us — Hence, Nature is primarily epito
mized on the Soul of Man : and the laws impressed upon it a priori, are,
subsequent to birth, inculcated in a Teverse method, a poslerioribus adpriora.
— Use of Theory. — Presentation of a theory, on this subject, from a Latin
work of the last century. — Ancient mythus. — Reflections suggested thereby.
— Formation of rational Ideas. — Conclusion.
The science of human nature, which, to designate
by a learned name, we might call Anthropology, is
chiefly valuable as an introduction to the science of
Deity, or divine nature, now familiarly known by the
received term Theology. Man, we are informed, is
made in " the image and likeness of God," (in which
3

18 LECTURE THE FIRST.
words are contained more things than volumes could
express), but if this be so, (and it is,) it would seem
the part of wisdom, as well as of modesty, nrst dili
gently to make ourselves acquainted with human na
ture, before we begin to discourse, at least, on divine
nature, for to know it, and revere it, and humbly to
adore it, is not only the duty, but the very first duty
of Man.
A fonte principium;— from this fountain, and liv
ing source of all right thoughts and pure desires,
may every sentiment and idea of our lectures proceed.
But with this acknowledgment and ascription of Good
to its only origin, let us forthwith descend to a lower
theme, and try whether we cannot in " the image and
likeness," trace some of the more majestic lineaments of
the original. For I do not intend in these lectures to
deliver any formal science of human nature, far less
any theory, which might indeed deserve the learned
name of Anthropology; for such theory or perfect sci
ence, I imagine, would be premature still, by many
hundreds of centuries ; for after the lapse of the entire
historical period of three thousand years, human nature,
it seems to me, has not yet revealed the millionth part
of its secrets or latent energies ; — all I intend, then, is
but sketches, chiefly historical ones, of human nature,
and these too not more in the character of a teacher,
than as myself a learner ; — for in bringing together, in
the form of lectures, as time and circumstances will
permit, such notices of Man's natural history, as I can
collect, or have noted, placing, as it were, the different
parts of the subject in juxta-position, however remote
in time or place, we may be able to make certain use
ful inferences, or see, at least, the dawnings, of certain
grand conclusions, which will conduct to the Christian

NATURAL HISTORY OF MAN. 19
Religion, not through tradition or pre-judgment, but
through fact, experience, and rational demonstration.
Just and adequate conceptions of Human Nature, it
seems to me, have been very much hindered by the
partial and disconnected modes in which it has been
handled. One writer undertakes to explain the philo
sophy of the body, another that of the mind ; — on the
last division, one perhaps chooses for his theme the
intellectual, another the moral powers; — the physical
history, in like manner, is separated from the civil his
tory; and thus, although much has been well written
on all these various subjects, yet no general or con
nected view is presented of the Whole Man. To
attempt such a view indeed, would be a gigantic en
terprise, and such perhaps as we may despair to see
accomplished by any one person ; — but still those, who
would entertain just, if not very systematic ideas re
specting man, should, at least, combine all the various
subjects together in their thoughts, if not in their
modes of treating them, and that whole, which will at
last arise before their minds, will doubtless be more
true to nature, if not to system, than the views which
a more regular discussion, or artificial contemplation of
the subject might ever suggest to them. For, as Bacon
has pithily observed, non leve quiddam interest, inter
humanae mentis idola et divints mentis ideas, — the dif
ference is not small, between the idols of the human
mind and the ideas of the divine mind, that is,
between the notions and arbitrary landmarks of Men,
instituted on nature, and those veritable distinctions
and signatures which are originally impressed upon her.
And these arbitrary and notional distinctions have
not only infested physical science, to which Bacon al
ludes, but still more, the science of human nature,

20 LECTURE THE FIRST.
and also theology. For instance, that universal distinc
tion of Man into soul and body, is undoubtedly recog
nizable in nature, whatever objection may be brought
against either of the terms used to designate it : ot the
distinction itself, all savage and civilized language bears
ample evidence ; it is a distinction, which we feel, and
of which no mode of reasoning can deprive us; but
when on the gound of this distinction, we introduce
others, and speak of "the immortality of the soul, as
distinct and separate from every idea of a body, we
are, unconsciously to ourselves, discussing a notion or
idol of abstract philosophy, transmitted to us from the
Greek schools,— and not an "idea of the Divine Mind,"
or a truth, which has its signature and stamp on the
nature of Man ; for the "idea of the Divine Mind," here,
as appears from revelation, is the resurrection of Man
from the dead, — Man, I say, as known to us,— embo
died, yet spiritually ;— this is the " idea of God,"— and
the signature of the same idea, as revealed on Nature,
is to be seen on the mind of the savage, and the un-
philosophical civilized man, who each in the simplicity
of their hearts, (and there is truth in that simplicity,)
still cling even to the very forms and persons of the
dear departed good and kind, whose very bodies, but
O how changed, seem to them more beautiful and
bright than ever. — "We shall not all sleep, but we shall
all be changed."
I beg leave then to say, that in the course of these
lectures, I shall as far as possible, keep this idea or
impression of Man before me, that is, of a being, to be
contemplated under two natural hemispheres of dis
tinction, Mind and Body, on the latter of which shines
the Sun of nature, on the other that better Light,
which is " the True," — but what God has joined in-

NATURAL HISTORY OF MAN. 21
dissolubly together, I shall not, in philosophical notion-
ality, put asunder; — for although the terrestrial portion
of the body resign its vitality, I must still, as a matter
of faith, believe that the spiritual or essential body is
not so extinct, but wears the image of that " heavenly"
which arose. This simple and natural view of the
subject will save us a world of trouble ; — we shall be
rid, at once, of all those absurd and vague definitions
about the mind and soul, which are purely abstract and
notional, and shall see constantly before us, a real Man,
at each turn of our discourse, clad in the sensible hab
iliments of beauty and majesty, which meet us now,
and which, I believe, will always meet us in every
possible stage of his future existence. Si in hoc erro,
libenter erro, nee mihi hunc errorem, dum vivo, ex-
torqueri volo.
Man, however, as he stands unveiled before us in
that Divine Form, in which we know him, (for we
need not scruple to call it divine, in the sense in which
it is the image of Him, who was the image of the
Invisible,) in this form alone, we could not have under
stood him, or seen a legible portraiture of his faculties.
The mind and body are two, an indissoluble two;
but the actions are the third, and the commentary,
which explain the other, and render their relations and
energies, their faculties, visible and invisible — lucid,
distinct, and although not completely comprehensible,
yet measurably apprehensible. It is the kinds of
actions which man performs, or which he aspires to
perform, or which he has the conscious ability to per
form, which explain the reasons of his peculiar bodily
structure, or the characters and singularities of his men
tal endowments. What folly it is to attempt to unfold
the reason of these, but from his actions; — it is the

22 LECTURE THE FIRST.
energy of Man, his action on objects beyond him, which
interprets to us the unseen mind, and makes known
the life and efficiency of the body. It is this trinity
of Man, (for Man is the image of his God, in whom is
the essential Trinity,) under which his whole character
must be studied ;— if you take either person or aspect
of his character separately, that of his mind, or his
body, or his history, (his forth-going,) you have but
a third of your subject before you. If viewed under
the person of his mind alone, he is absolutely inscruta
ble, and hence the barrenness of mere mental philoso
phy, a farrago of notions, a tissue of terms ; — if contem
plated under the person of the body, you have a steady
view, but when in his history also, a complete one.
Look then at his history broadly, — (in detail, I shall
present parts of it hereafter,) — you are astonished at
the number of his arts, the complication of his actions,
the millions of designs, that have been struck out by
him, the millions of contrivances, which have been
adopted to accomplish them, — and all that too, within
the compass of one age, within the limits of one nation:
— unroll that chart of human history until a second age
appear, — a third, — a fourth; — the same complication
of arts, designs, successful or abortive efforts, still ; but
each successive age marked with new features, peculiar,
its own ; — what immensity of ideas, what mutability
also ! — and all this, perhaps, in one nation, in one little
spot of earth: — take another nation, — a third, — a
fourth, the same endless complications and variety
still discovered ! Now, this is an aspect of Man in the
person of his history, his efficiency, his forth-going ; —
forthwith revert to the second person of Man, the
body ;— bid the Anatomist and the Physiologist unfold
to you this, and he will show you here combination

NATLRAL HISTORY OF MAN. 23
and number, and designs and arts and functions, of
which the analogies of human history are but shadows.
How many designs or separate scopes or ideas of art,
think you, could be counted in the human arm alone,
which has achieved the deeds of history. The splendor
and number of all the artificial achievements sink into
insignificance, before that constellation of glorious
divine arts, which have been lavished on the human
hand alone, not to speak of the other parts of the body.
But yet these shadows of Man's power first lead us to
the bright exemplars of essential art; we are led to ad
mire the model from the success of the imitation. And
in the actions of Man, the powers of the body are un
derstood, and in both combined, the mind or soul is at
last, justly manifested. And herein, indeed, is the very
citadel of Humanity : — it is a " consuming fire," when
viewed in itself abstractedly, scorching and dissipating
all the vain speculations, which from age to age have
been clustering around it alone, to invade its secrecy,
or to pollute its vestals ; but still in a salutary manner
making itself known in the body, through its functions
and actions.
On this type of the soul, I mean the body, and its
actions, let us steadily fix our attention in the prose
cution of our inquiries, and if we can catch thence any
oracular response respecting the real character of the
inward Man, or that assemblage of his spiritual facul
ties, called the mind, let us not be heedless of such in
formation, but endeavor, to the best of our abilities, to
interpret them aright. The path of inquiry is distinct;
let us mark a few of its bearings.
When we consult our own consciousness only, in re
gard to the organization of the body, we receive hardly
any other impression from this source, but that of unity

24 LECTURE THE FIRST.
or oneness, and when the mind is sound and the
health good, this impression is only the more entire and
unblemished. The pervading sentiment of the unso
phisticated mind, the natural language of our feelings,
(philosophy and observation apart,) is, that the being,
which we designate I, — is one and indivisible. This
is the silent and unequivocal testimony of nature, mani
fested to our own unreflecting consciousness, — of the
unity of Man, — an echo, as it were, of the voice of
God himself, proclaiming his own unity in us. Inde
pendently of experience and observation, that is, from
mute consciousness alone, we should have no knowl
edge of that wonderful complication of organs, and
their functions, which lie concealed within the interior
of the frame. With respect to that vital blood itself,
which circulates in every part of our body, we should
have no knowledge of its existence, far less of its color,
its aliment, or its uses, but from experience. It is true,
we might feel that we were strengthened by food or
enfeebled by long fasting, and hence we could cer
tainly infer, that food was necessary to our existence,
while we were also sensible of an appetite for it im
planted by nature, but in what manner it strengthened
our bodies, by what means it was made to contribute
to that end, our own unassisted consciousness could
never have informed us.
Let us suppose, then, a person of mature mind, well
informed in all other respects, but who, from some
cause or other, had never been led to think on the or
ganization of his own body,— let us suppose also, that
he has been of such perfect health, as never to have ex
perienced any of those morbid sensations, which first
convey to us the idea, that our body is composed of
many parts, liable to peculiar affections, (for it is dis-

NATURAL HISTORY OF MAN. 25
ease, which first obscures the delightful impression of
the unity of our system, and introduces the sense of
multitude,) but, for once, let us suppose a person of
sound health, and good understanding, totally unin
formed on the subject, to have sat down to reflect on
the hidden organs within his own body, their forms
and uses, in regard to food and drink, how these con
tributed to strength or refreshment ; or the air, which
he inspired, how it affected his system, or by what
organs it was received, and what their complexion and
relations; what definite information on all these points
could his unaided reflections afford him ? — Among the
thousand theories and conjectures, which he might form,
would one of them be true to the facts? — could his rea
son alone, (without other aids,) inform him, that there
was even such a thing as blood in his body, much less
that it is circulated in every part of it, in tubes con
structed expressly for the purpose, and with that vital
art, so truly admirable? Could his most ingenious
reasoning, or most lively fancy have presented him
with a true picture of the lungs, or of the nervous sys
tem; — could he have seen the liver, the spleen, the
heart, and all their connections, and relations and ad
justments? When you reflect, how impossible it
would be for him, by reasoning alone, to have discov
ered all these wonders, or to construct other than the
most foolish hypotheses in regard to them, theories the
most wide of the truth, you will feel the value and
justness of Bacon's first aphorism in the Novum Orga-
num, wilich is to this amount that Man, the minister
and interpreter of nature, can advance no farther in
knowledge or in action, than as he has observed the
order of Nature, exhibited in sensible fact, or declared
by legitimate induction ; or, in other words, we might
4

J;

LECTURE THE FIRST.
y, that the true doctrine of nature, is to be derived
om the letter itself of nature, and established thereon,
and, that all reasonings, and opinions, independent of
this source, and sole criterion of their truth, founded on
speculation alone, without previous observation, are as
worthless in natural science, as those theories in theol
ogy, built upon fancies not facts, on the suggestions
of the human mind, not on the solid texts of literal
Scripture. But Bacon's expression is: quantum de
naturae ordine, re vel mente observaverit, etc. ; the order
of nature, observed as sensible fact, or deduced as un
doubted inference from fact before known. This is
easily comprehended by a familiar illustration. — A
navigator arrives at an unknown country, and sails up
a channel, which he finds to be a river, an immense
body of fresh water, rolling onwards to the ocean ; he
sees at once in his mind's eye, a great expanse of coun
try, from which it is supplied ; and his inference here is
as certain in regard to the extent, as if he had already
traversed it, and seen it with his bodily eyes : — it is a
deduction from a previous order of nature, already
known. But in the case of the philosophical adult, I have
supposed, he is ignorant as yet altogether of a certain
peculiar order of nature, I mean, that order of nature,
established by the Deity in the animal frame, that
system and arrangement of organs and their functions,
according to which an animal body is maintained in
its being and use. Here, having no previous knowl
edge or experience to guide him, what is he to do? To
ask of his reason to inform him a priori, how God
has constructed a living body?— his reason could not
give the most distant knowledge, apart from experience
and observation ; the best office of his reason in such a

NATURAL HISTORY OF MAN. 27
case, is to say to him, "go and see." And we shall
suppose then, that he follows that bidding, that he
inquires, that he traces the facts, that he reads the
letters of this sacred Scripture of nature, and being but
an inexpert scholar, he takes perhaps a Harvey to guide
him, the Apostle of the circulation of the blood, — and
other teachers also he calls to his aid, and then it is, at
last, that the true system of nature begins to be revealed
to him, — facts, new and unexpected, divine and pecu
liar, appear one after another, and awaken admiration
and astonishment. These are no longer idols of his
own mind, but ideas of the Divine Mind. What was
his first obscure consciousness respecting his own body?
That it was simply a unit, that it was an organ of
uses, and that the organ was one, — and this impression
science does not destroy, but rather confirms ; but by
experience, and observation, and analysis, she now
shows, that this unit consists of many parts, or rather,
to speak of hidden function, of many distinct systems
of parts, which act in concert, producing that general
unity, manifested to the consciousness, of which the
material type is the body, and the mental expression,
that person, whom we denominate, 1, — Thou, — or by
other similar epithet. Among the many systems,
which constitute this unit, he discovers to his joy
several, already clearly defined and exhibited, through
the industry and eagle-eyed sagacity of science, — the
system of digestion, embracing several minor systems,
the dual system of the greater and lesser circulations,
a provision for the distribution of the blood, and the
depuration of the blood ; the system of respiration, con
nected with the renovation of the blood, as a partial
end, and with other, perhaps, still higher ends, as yet
little understood, — lastly, the system of nerves, whose

28 LECTURE THE FIRST.
function is of the greatest dignity, although the mode
of operation is not yet connected with any known prin
ciple of science. All these, (farther enumeration is
unnecessary,) observation brings to light, reasoning
without it, never could. But, what is most wonderful,
each of these systems has its own peculiar organ, which
corresponds with the function, and its own appropriate
centre, in which its unity is enthroned, as it were, and
rendered visible. Thus, the centre of respiration is the
lungs, but the action touches and verges on every other
function of the body, — the centre of circulation, the
heart, — the centre of digestion, the stomach, — the centre
of nervous animation, the head ; all these also science
and observation point out ; all these great doctrines of
uature are drawn from the literal reading of nature's
manuscript, and established on this basis of experience.
For, as an illustration, after we had known even some
thing of the use and function of respiration, could we
still have known from reasoning, that such an organ as
the lungs, was the necessary and proper one to dis
charge it ? After we have seen it, and have known that
it performs this function, we say that it is the right one,
and we feel, as if it would be impossible, that it could
be other than it is, but still we can give no other
reason, but this very abstract one, that the Deity must
have selected what is fittest, and we say therefore, and
here we rest, that the organ corresponds exactly with
the use, and the use with the organ. But still antecer
dently to all experience, we could not from the sight
of the organ, have inferred, what was its use, nor yet
from the use being given, have determined a priori,
what kind of organ the Deity would have selected to
perform it ; we only could have said, that we did not
doubt, that he would select the best, and here we would

NATURAL HISTORY OF MAN. 29
have been right ; but even this is an inference, which
has grown with our growth, and strengthened with
our strength, from the fact, that we innately perceive,
that the acts of the Deity are all perfectly wise and
good ; so that even this anticipation is the result of ex
perience, although grounded on nature itself. Similar
observations to tliese will apply to all the organs of
the body, as, for example, to the eye. What more
does the uninstructed rustic know of it, but just this
one thing, that he sees with it, or perhaps this addi
tional piece of science to grace his knowledge, namely,
that if he shut his eyelids, he does not see ; of any intri
cacy of structure in the eye, or even of any necessity of
such intricacy, he has no conception. Science reveals
the first, that is, the intricacy of the structure, but with
respect to the latter, the necessity of it, even she is
blind, unless so far as she sees, that it has relation to.
certain laws of light which have been discovered. But
in regard to the ear, an organ equally intricate, she may
be said to be altogether nonplused, for the laws of
sound being less known than the laws of light, the
relations between the mechanism of the ear, and the
vibrations of sound, are hardly in the least degree un
derstood. — But we pursue not these hints farther now.
Mark then the result. We supposed a person of
mature understanding, well acquainted with the order
of nature in other particulars, but totally ignorant of
the order of nature, as respected the formation and
working of the animal body ; and we have shown, that
antecedently to even a shadow of experience, all his
conjectures would have been worthless; and indeed,
we might have proved this, from the actual fact of the
groundless and insane theories, that have been from
time to time broached, even by philosophers, on this

30 LECTURE THE FIRST.
very subject, — attempting to be wise above what is
done, or rather, without what is done ; — but we suffer
all that to pass, for we hasten to the second grand
feature of this subject.
Observe, the expression of Bacon is, that man knows
only so much of the order of nature, quantum re vel
mente observaverit, so much as he has noticed in fact
and in reason, that is, by rational and certain deduc
tion from fact. The first we have already explain
ed ; — we have supposed, that our grown-up philosopher
has made himself acquainted in fact, with a peculiar
order of nature, of which he was before ignorant,
namely, that order constituted in an animal body; —
this then is a fact, and a fact of a new kind come to
his knowledge ; — is it a barren one, or is it produc
tive? — I say, it is productive, and of immense and
endless inferences, which can now be rationally de
duced from it ; — now comes the second part of Bacon's
aphorism ; he has observed in fact, he can now observe
with his reason. He has looked into an animal body,
and understood much of the great laws of its func
tions;— the animal he has inspected, is one of a certain
class, species, or genus; but now from the laws of
order of animal life, in one instance, he can infer what
they will be, as to their general bearings in any other :
if a new quadruped is presented to him, after a glance
at its form, he can tell that he will find therein a
heart, a circulation of the blood, lungs for respiration,
a nervous system, a vertebrated column, that arched
mechanism of the spine, namely,— and in all these, it
is impossible he shall be disappointed; the inferance
here, is just as certain, as the sensible fact was before ;
if he theorises about the specific peculiarites of the
lungs or heart in this unknown case, he may be mis-

NATURAL HISTORY OF MAN. 31
taken, but as respects the grand laws of order of animal
life, he cannot. Why ? — Because the doctrines of that
order are written in palpable characters on every ani
mal, and he has read these letters and has grounded his
faith thereon : his faith is founded on a rock, — on the
stability of nature, and cannot be overthrown.
It might be easy to extend the illustrations of this
great principle to much length, but I forbear; each
one's own mind will suggest numerous applications.
For instance, the inferences drawn from astronomy
are perfectly certain, if the facts are surely established.
Provided it be established, that the planets are earths
like our own, — of such magnitude, — and revolving
around the sun as ours; that the order of planetary
existence, as to its grand laws, should also be similar in
other respects to that which prevails here, seems a
matter of unavoidable inference; the three depart
ments of nature, the vegetable, the animal, the mineral,
are there already either in fact, or in embryo, in
potency: a darkness may brood over the face of the
deep on one or more of those rolling worlds still, but
the Seven Days of symmetrical and finished creation
will yet cover their bosoms with all the luxuriancy
and beauty of animated nature ; their Time will come,
if it has not already ; such laws of creation the
science of geology makes known to us.
We seem then, to have arrived at the following
conclusions :
1 . That the plan or order adopted by nature, in the
prosecution of her designs, commonly called laws of
nature, can never be ascertained in the first instance,
unless by observation and experiment, with more or less
of the exercise of the reasoning faculty.
2. That when such plan or order or general law

32 LECTURE THE FIRST.
has been once ascertained, we have an innate conviction
respecting it, that nature will not capriciously abandon
it, whatever modifications, for the sake of use and
variety, she may introduce, so as occasionally to veil,
but never to extinguish the principle.
This last conclusion is extremely valuable, and is
the Peter or Rock, on which the Temple of Science is
built, the emblem of its immutability, and eternal
duration. We shall see farther illustrations of it in
succeeding lectures.
Could we understand the constitution of our be
ing, — our elementary Nature, — how it has been made
up, and what impressions withal are fixed upon it in
its first formation, we should then, perhaps, understand
also, how this method of observation and induction
becomes necessary to us. But there is here a wide
field of discovery yet unexplored ; — all we can do here
is to collect certain probabilities, and form conjectures,
which have a semblance of reason; — and this is not
forbidden, provided we do not magnify our guesses
into the importance of absolute truth. When we are
sure, that certain grand laws of nature are at work in
the production of beautiful results, it serves at least
to keep the magnificence of her plans steadily before
our eyes, to form some idea or conjecture concerning
them, for in this manner the spirit of nature, as it
were, is brought into contact with our spirit, and we
are improved by the intercourse. For, it seems to
me, if I were certain that I were in the presence of
some eminent personage, distinguished for his wisdom
and goodness, for example, a Plato, an Archimedes,
or a Fenelon, merely to hear him speak, and to catch
the tones of his voice, although his words were
unintelligible, would inspire me with a certain sense

NATURAL HISTORY OF MAN. 33
of grandeur, an inexplicable feeling of delight. And
indeed, there must always be certain signs of great
ness, which in such a case, strike every mind. And so
it is, in the contemplation of many of the grand acts of
nature ; we often cannot interpret them, or rather we
never fully understand them, but still the idea that it
is nature we contemplate, encompassed as she ever is,
with the many sweet tokens of greatness and benevo
lence, makes a good, a just and rational impression
always, upon our hearts and understandings. And the
more profound and inscrutable the subject is, the more
readily and sweetly does the scientific melt into the
mystical ; and God, if not the method of his work,
stands awfully and impressively revealed before us.
And such, in a pre-eminent degree, must always be the
tenor of our feelings, when we reflect upon the origin
of our being, and the laws which are impressed upon
our souls, at the first formation. Say, then, how is
it here? — is it actually true, that certain faculties of
reading God's laws at an advanced period of our life,
are impressed upon our forms, while still in embryo, as
our eyes and ears are moulded and cast in the womb,
with reference to that light and those vibrations of the
atmosphere, which have not yet reached that region of
our mysterious creation? How remarkable,how won
derful this provision ; it is a physical one ; — the doors,
the portals are formed, and nicely proportioned for
those guests, that are to enter, — the sound and the
light; and is it then safe, on this analogy, to declare,
that the architect of nature, — " The former of Man in
the womb," — has also constituted in our being, when
first struck, the faculties and organs, for the reception
of all those truths and mystic laws, which the soul is
designed to read, when in the world of external nature,
5

34 LECTURE THE FIRST.
it becomes adolescent ?— And is it a fact, that the pat
terns of things without exactly tally with the counter
parts within, which have been there,--moulded on
our being from the first? And what is this knowledge,
this science of things, which we afterwards receive
with such delight ; is it but a result of the meeting and
congratulation of natures so congenial, and true,— the
nature within, and the nature without us, fitted and
adapted to each other by the will of the same benefi
cent Creator? Should this be so, or aught similar
thereto, then the ascertaining of the facts and laws of
creation, were but the renovation of the impressions
originally made on the soul by God,— the mutual in-
aptation of congenial natures,— but that of Man active,
this of external creation passive. And so all nature
had been originally inscribed, as in epitome, on the
soul of Man, and hence on the brain, — on its start on
the career of existence. And these truths or laws
were impressed upon it (ere he was yet intelligently
conscious of them) a priori; and this the golden age
of heavenly thought, of which now the bare dream is
left him ; — for ever after, that is, subsequent to birth,
the inculcation of truth, and laws, and knowledge, is in
the reverse method, or by induction, namely, a posteri-
oribus ad priora, from effects to their causes.
You will perceive, that in all this, I am but present
ing a theory, or rather but an assemblage of images,
and that 1 fail in giving any true account of the forma
tion of the human soul, or the reasons, whereon are
grounded the natural and established method of its at
taining knowledge ; — nevertheless, every theory or form
of words or speculations, which can bring the stu
pendous facts of nature more before us, the curious
tissue of Man's original creation, and the progressive

NATURAL HISTORY OF MAN. 35
development of his soul, is useful and to be encou
raged, as you may peep over the shoulders of these
theories or speculations themselves constantly, at the
mystical array of sublime and holy truths, which thus
cast their majestic shadows before them, — on the ves
tibules of our souls, as we would in vain essay to enter
the temple.
It may not be uninteresting to you, therefore, merely
for the sake of keeping the facts a little longer before
you, in a few words to state a theory on this subject,
which I find in a Latin work, published in Germany,
in the middle of the last century, I believe, little
known, and never translated ; and so to leave the mat
ter to your own reflections, for our minds seem to
know more here, than our philosophy can express ; for
it is a question which belongs to both worlds, — and half
of it in darkness, and half of it in light.
The author I speak of, distinguishes the two states
of human life, that which is antecedent to birth, and
that which is consequent. In the former, the lungs
enjoy a certain sweet and tranquil slumber, and the
brain is the chief or only source of bodily animation ;
but this condition of existence, which seems to us so
imperfect, is yet nearer to a Divine Perfection than
the other, because it is the essential type of creation,
which is effected a priori ad posterius, the external
parts being moulded from an internal and vital energy.
And during this state, foreign or outward causes are
allowed to exercise no disturbing influences, and hence
the symbols of the divine ideas on the divine work itself
are here impressed in their natural and proper order
and arrangement. The oracles of nature are written
on our being, as it was anciently reported, that the
responses of the Sibyl were marked or dotted on the

36 LECTURE THE FIRST.
leaves of trees, carefully arranged within her grotto,
but no sooner was the least blast of air admitted on the
intrusion of the curious, than the whole was dispersed
and thrown into confusion:
" Inconsulti abeunt, sedemque odere Sibylla? : —
Very similar is it on the birth of man ;— the perfect
and unsullied order of God, is now to suffer discom
posure ;— the lungs and their organs of expression now
become the external tablets of the soul, for impressions
are now received from without, and the original copy
of our ideas on the soul itself is no longer such as to
be legible; but still it is preserved, although all the
characters are confused. Hence, the dark state of man
on his first entrance into the world ; — all is now to
be done by himself in a reverse order, that is, a pos
terior ad prius, which was before so much more
brightly and graphically executed on his first creation.
The lungs, which before were passive, now become
signally active, and speech, and tones, and looks, — their
peculiar work, now appear the substitutes of the brain
and its actions, which held before the most conspicuous
place in the system, and exercised undivided sway.
But still the lungs at last are found to be but the
external agents or ministers of the brain itself; — and
they hold, as it were, a mediatorial office between the
inward world of Man, and the outward world of
nature. The atmosphere, on the one hand, seems to
excite and impel them, as if nature were here gaining
the supremacy ; but the brain, on the other, or rather,
the soul through the brain, vindicates its title to origi
nal dominion, and by re-action on the mechanism of
breathing, expels all foreign and adventitious influen
ces, and shows demonstrably, that the lungs, with all
their appurtenances, are but its instruments. And

NATURAL HISTORY OF MAN. 37
here is an image, as in a mirror, of the inductive phi
losophy and analytical reasoning. The soul after
birth, seems necessitated to derive all its ideas from
without, and to be no longer capable of moulding them
according to the forms of its own original creation;
but the appearance is fallacious, for it is indeed certain,
that external nature seems to impress itself on the soul,
and to leave thereon prints of itself, as the atmosphere
rushes on the lungs, and seems to be the cause of their
action ; but in either case, there is a power above and
superior to outward nature, and it is the true and
original power; and, rightly to speak, the outward
world is not constituted the cause, but only the occa
sion of those ideas, whose materials make up the whole
fabric of our knowledge, and wisdom, and power, and
that too, a knowledge, a wisdom, and power, which is
cemented and held vitally together, by that same
mysterious Power, which even without any act of
ours at all, originally formed our bodies so perfectly
and so beautifully. The induction then of knowledge,
aposteriore ad prius, is an indispensable work of Man,
according to the present constitution of his being; but
it supposes also, in every instance of its exercise, the
simultaneous exertion of a higher Power, whose mode
of action has been from the first, and ever will be,
a priori ad posterius, and this power is Divine and
creative, and indeed alone is, — the other only seems
to be, or exists from its action. In this manner are
reconciled the jarring contentions of the schools, and
the apparent discord of nature itself, in the beautiful
harmony of the human system, the illustrious triumph
of divine art. — His mediis ad mentem nostram supe-
riorem seu ad animam enitimur, quae tunc obvia fit,
et infundit potentiam: quantum enim his instructi

38 LECTURE THE FIRST.
alis ascendimus, tantum Mens ista ad nos descendit,
et suis talaribus nostras alas implicat, et amplectitur,
ac docet ideas nostras in rationes, et rationes in
analyses convertere: id etenim, non corporeum est,
quare nee id a sensibus trahimus sed a potentia, quae
a sphaera supra nostram, in nostram influit. From
this admirable constitution of our nature it has arisen,
namely, from the endowment of a superior and inferior
mind, acting in concert, that we are enabled, through
experiments and the sciences, our auxiliaries, to ele
vate our souls, as it were, on the wings of nature,
while to meet us in our flight, a higher mind descends
equipped as Mercury with golden sandals and winged
feet, which forthwith embraces us, and infolding its
pinions in ours, raises us, at length, into an atmos
phere of serene intelligence, where our sensual ideas
become rational, and yield the pure truths of analysis,
— the product not of the body or the senses, but of
that Power, which is above them, and influences all
our thoughts, without ever being confounded with
them. But let us here leave the subject; — enough is said to
excite reflection. Where facts are clear and certain,
let us tread with firm foot ; where the process is less
known, let us endeavor, at least, to obtain glimpses of
the wonders which are presented to our contempla
tion. Let us entertain implicit faith in nature, and the
Divine Author; with regard to the suggestions of our
own minds, let us admit them with caution, but not
altogether reject them; they are, at least, prognostica
tions of truth, and may sometimes lead to its discovery.

LECTURE THE SECOND ;

ON THE

LIMITS AND ORDERS OF NATURE.

The operations of the Deity, in nature, are graduated and progressive ; hence
our ability to apprehend them. — Gradation observed in the progress of the
human mind : sense, fancy, imagination, reason. — Summary of preceding
lecture  Ideas suggested to the ancients by the observation of the visible
universe. — Some philosophers, from a general resemblance, have classed
Man with animals ; others have considered animals machines  Scientific
analyses are but indications of things, not the things. — Limits sacred in
nature  Xo combination of mechanical or chemical agencies constitute ani
mal action. — Supremacy of the animal over these. — Review. — That as animals,
by virtue of the laws of animal life, are distinguished from the lower depart
ments of nature, so Man, by reason of human laws, should constitute a
separate order. — Enumeration of the progressive orders in nature. — That when
any of the lower orders are assumed by a higher, they become identified
with it ; thus, whatever of the animal or organical there is in Man, is emi
nently human : all is Man. — Further illustration. — Supremacy of the human
obviously marked in the body, especially the hand, the lungs, and the
mouth . — C onclusion.
There is the twilight or dawn, the deep light, the
sunrise, and the blaze of day. Such is the series of
preparatory events, through which nature, in one
department of her works, moves forwards to the
accomplishment of her purposes. And here what
softness and gentleness, and yet resolution, so to speak,

40 LECTURE THE SECOND.
do we see in this natural procedure ; — all is graduated,
yet all is decisive. There is nothing hurried, yet no
end is defeated. Again, observe how the winter passes
into spring, with what contention between heat and
cold, each meekened in the struggle; — how imper
ceptibly then steals on the summer, and next, the
maturity of autumn. The law is fulfilled, the end of
the production of fruit and vegetation, and the joy of
animated nature is secured, but it is through a succes
sion of regulated movements.
I choose these illustrations, such as are familiar to
every one, and on a magnificent scale, that it may
be distinctly recognised that Deity (for there are
surely instances of its wisdom and works,) pursues
even its ends, according to certain established laws;
and although invested with omnipotence, dispenses not
with the progress of means, so that, step by step, as if
it could not otherwise be accomplished, the purposed
end is at last effected. It is by this visible use of
means, and the employment, as it were, of tools in
the accomplishment of its ends, that the existence of
Deity is brought at length within the scope of our
apprehensions, and rendered an intimate conviction
of our reason. It is in this manner that even in
nature, after a certain sense, and in an obscure degree,
Deity seems to be invested with attributes of hu
manity ; condescends to effect its objects, through arts
and instruments, and in definite periods of time,
clothing itself in weakness, so as to meet human
apprehension, and thereby elevate human nature;—
for surely, it is not an impossible supposition, that
omnipotence might accomplish ends, without such
profusion of means, or such delay and tedium in
the consummation. We can conceive, at least, that

NATURAL HISTORY OF MAN. 41
food might have been otherwise created, and that it
might have been perfected in an instant, without this
vegetative elaboration of many months. Such a sup
position, or conception, is sometimes necessary to be
made, in order to fix our attention more vividly on the
actual law of nature, and particularly on this character
of gradation, or established series, which is perfectly
distinct in the physical world, but not so much so, be
cause not so well noticed, in the intellectual and moral
world. But yet it may be seen also in the human
miud, although the terms to designate it, are not so
easily found, nor so happy and expressive. Neverthe
less, the terms sense, fancy, imagination, reason, might
serve vaguely to describe the progress also of the
human mind towards its first, or natural maturity.
And each of these also, in their order, is the ground,
or continent, of all that succeed. Thus sense is the
first rude germ or crust of the fancy, for fancy is,
as it were, the full-fledged bird, excluded from the
confinements of nature, and the limited notices of the
senses, and soaring aloft, unrestrained in the luxuries
of its new being ; then succeeds imagination, a more
regulated fancy, that emulates the work of reason,
while it borrows also the hues of its immediate
parent; — and reason, what is that, but the full and
perfect development at last, of all that sense ori
ginally contained, fancy decorated, and imagination
designed into a thousand forms. But reason com
bines the whole, and from the whole, through the
light of the supreme Mind, at length deduces and
establishes her conclusions. Can we say, that the
progression here ends, or that there begins anew the
monotonous round? There are auguries of quite
the contrary, — there is the vital spark, the punctum
6

42 LECTURE THE SECOND.

saliens of a new Being, of which each true Man is
conscious, which forbids the harboring of such un
worthy surmises. But not yet is it the proper point
in our course to refer to, or unfold these evidences.
We must proceed according to a more regulated plan.
But still certain anticipations are necessary, and as
nature shows certain indications of her mature ends,
even in the earliest spring, in plants, whose buds
and germs unfold themselves, ere yet the snows have
fled ; so it were right also, to take occasional and
premature glances of certain advanced parts of a sub
ject, in order that our progress towards the end may
be the more cheerful and unerring.
On this account, I opened many topics in the last
lecture, rather discursively, choosing thus to take a
view, wide at least, although a dim one, of the many
bearings of our subject.
And to recapitulate some of these may not be
amiss; — a fresh view may discover new features, or
make a more natural and genuine impression of the
whole. The extent and vastness of the subject was shown.
That man in the popular sense was the theme, not
the rational man of philosophy, but the natural man
of all ages and nations,— man, an undivided being, but
naturally composed of body and soul,— seen in mate
rial grandeur embodied to the eye of sense, in spiri
tual grandeur to the eye of Faith, but a man in either
case, not a mental phantom, which philosophy would
make of him,— the Greek, Roman, or Scotch, whose
abstractions are not worth any attention. That of
this man, so beheld, that is, incorporated, and sur
rounded with the trophies of his actions, the living
and visible memorials of his power, the contemplation

NATURAL HISTORY OF MAN. 43
was sublime ; — for it is a true image of Deity, which
we behold. That the number and extent of his arts,
the tokens of his skill, the vestiges or wrecks of his
plans, and the scope of his intelligence, as reviewed
on the page of history, seem utterly amazing and
beyond all computation, but yet as nothing in con
trast with that creative Wisdom, and the signs of it,
and their number, which are lavished so gloriously
and so strikingly on the constitution of his frame.
That therefore the skill of Man has not yet trans
posed into his history, the millionth part of that
art, and that intelligence alone, of which his own
body is the transcript ; and that he, for whose material
form merely, so much has been done, and who has him
self done so little in comparison, may still be looked
upon as not having exhausted even the infinitesimal
part of all his resources. That therefore although
there is much behind, there is still more before; the
variety and intricacy of the arts of design, expressed
in the body, is a prophecy and pledge of this. That
still this variety is one and felt as such by our con
sciousness, — and so entire is this sense of oneness or
unity, that we have no natural or instinctive impres
sion whatever of the number of organs and functions
in the interior of our frame. That we become ac
quainted with these by experience, and through sci
ence, and that science even yet has made but little
progress in revealing or expounding them ; — but there
are the summa fastigia rerum, — some of the most
striking features, or even the general systems of the
animal economy revealed; — that these, constitute to
those who read them, the literal texts of this part
of the sacred Scripture of Nature, — the gospel of God
according to the animal kingdom, — which we could

44 LECTURE THE SECOND.
never have known, but by actual inspection : — that it
has its own peculiar laws or order impressed upon it
which are certain to be found wherever the animal
kingdom extends, and having discovered the general
type of these laws in one or two instances, we can pre
dict with certainty in regard to others. That therefore
the inductive philosophy of Bacon reigns supreme here,
as in every other department of nature, — re vel mente
observamus, — our observation extends to the facts or
the laws of the facts logically inferred. But that the
system of laws cannot be transferred from their place
in one department of nature, to explain or declare
what must be those which prevail in another, that
wherever the animal kingdom extends, the type of its
known laws may ahvays be expected to be found ; but
to look for them also in the mineral kingdom, or other
province of nature toto ccelo distinct, is preposterous
and contrary to the spirit of rational inquiry; each
division of nature has its own laws, as each animal has
its own form ; — this vaulting philosophy is therefore to
be avoided, nor must we seek analogies, unless where
nature has clearly established them. The absurdity
of it may be seen in the ideas of some of the Greek
philsophers, that the earth is an animal, and the stars
intelligent : — all this is preposterous.
I next adverted to the creation of the human being,
as a kind of type or natural illustration of the true
method of philosophizing, or the necessity of it; for
although during the formation of the body, while it is
entirely under the divine Hands, and not yet delivered
over to the possessor by the First Artist, the progress
of mystic and ineffable creation be from what is prior
to what is posterior, a priore ad posterius, the brain
being the former, the lungs the latter, yet after birth,

NATURAL HISTORY OF MAN. 45
when the golden age has ceased and the iron age
commences, the order is reversed, at least apparently,
so. that the brain seems now to depend on the lungs
for vital action, although at first, it was evidently other
wise. The same reversed order is now also established
in the senses ; — the material contacts of objects, are
made the first occasions, through which the latent
powers of reason, and understanding are excited, and
he who attempts to act independent of matter or natu
ral experience, by a mere spiritual intuition, is running
counter to the stern laws which the Deity has appointed
for the government of the world, at least in this terres
trial sphere. That, therefore, the first obscure rudi
ments of thinking and feeling must be laid in every one
within the domains of external nature, that the eye has
to be moulded to perfect vision, and the ear conformed
to distinct sound, and the touch and all the other senses
to be brought into harmony and just correspondence
with their appropriate objects, ere reason can obtain a
place, on which even her foot may rest, in the external
constitution of Man; — but that after this preparation
of the way, the greater and nobler powers of his mind
are unfolded, those spiritual energies, namely, which
were constituted in the very dawn of his being, in the
golden age of his existence. Thus reasoning then is
still to all appearance in every man a posteriore ad
prius, from an effect to its cause, from sensible objects
to ideas, but yet in reality, and in just language, all
reasoning essentially such, is a priore ad posterius, from
within to without, from ideas to objects. This will be
obscure to some, but farther explanation would be
tedious. And perhaps it will clear up the whole mat
ter, simply to remark, that the appearance that respira
tion, the external action of the lungs, controls the

46 LECTURE THE SECOND.
whole body even to the heart and brain, which would
be an instance of a vital action proceeding a posteriore
ad prius, is in fact fallacious, and that the truth is just
the reverse, namely, that it is the brain itself, which
through nerves of respiration controls every act of
breathing, and that too, whether we be asleep or
awake. Awake, we can retain our breathing ad libi
tum, or direct it to the various acts of speech; in sleep
appropriate nerves discharge a similar function. In
fact then, pulmonic life, even although it appears not
so at first, is still under the government of cerebral life,
and hence results that concordia discors, that recon
ciliation of apparent contradictions which not only in
this department of nature, but in many others besides,
shines forth so conspicuously.
Such is a brief summary of the main ideas of our
first lecture. I now proceed to another topic, — some
of the more general points of obvious distinction be
tween man and the animal creation, and also the out
ward tokens, by which this last stands marked off, from
the mere mechanical or inert parts of nature. And
here I must premise, that the subject may seem
dry ; — but yet it cannot be such to those, who will fix
their attention on the things themselves ; for the great
limits and outlines of external creation are replete with
interest, and none of them disconnected with the
natural history of Man, the general design of these
lectures. For according to the most obvious import of
the sacred Scriptures, the earth itself was created and
reduced into order and form, for the sake of its last and
noblest inhabitant, man ; and it is therefore reasonable
to expect that every thing on its surface bears some
reference to him, to his use or his convenience, to the
perfection of his body or the still nobler end of exalt-

NATURAL HISTORY OF MAN. 47
ing and perfecting his mind. A mere superficial
glance, therefore, of nature is hardly worthy of us, but
we should read it, as we read our Bibles, over and
over again; and even when unsuccessful, still return
with fresh hope to the perusal.
It is said to have been Pythagoras, about five hun
dred years before the Christian era, who first bestowed
upon the visible universe, that expressive name, in the
Greek language « »w, that is, order, — emphatically
the order, and the fine genius of his countrymen, and
their almost instinctive perceptions of propriety led
them ever afterwards to retain this appellation, • ««7«>s,
the order ; as we commonly translate the world. The
Romans called the same mundus, which in their lan
guage originally signified ornament or dress; in allu
sion probably to the profusion and variety of natural
objects of beauty, — hence the French have le monde.
But the Greeks originated the true name — the order,
and the Platonic school afterwards, withdrawing their
attention from general nature, and fixing it on the
epitome, Man, began to call him, •• f-f »»vs, the minia
ture world, or order in miniature. There is much
useful and instructive history in the origin of words,
for before a general name can be given to any class of
ideas, they must have been often and much before the
mind. It is some encouragement for us therefore to
think, that these same subjects, which we are now
investigating, however meagre may be our success, are
such as employed two thousand two hundred years
ago, such minds as those of Pythagoras or of Plato.
They did not disdain, although the subject might be
repulsive to their cotemporaries, to inquire into the
great limits and classes of nature, and what were their
specific distinctions, and what the everlasting and solid

48 lecture the second.
criteria by which they were recognizable ; and what
the subordinations and concords of things that reigned
in the universe; — and what analogies there are in
mechanical, in animal, and in human operations, and
in what respect these differ, and from what cause these
analogies are not identities. Let us humbly pursue
the same track, nor think it dry.
There is a general resemblance between the human
body, and the body of the brutal animals. This gene
ral resemblance constitutes what is called the type, or
standard, according to which they are each formed.
But the resemblance is quite general, and of the body;
and we shall suffer ourselves to be perplexed need
lessly, if we fall in with many vague speculations on
this subject; — among which is this one, — a favorite
theory of those who would degrade Man from his
established supremacy over nature, — that man is but a
superior animal at the head of the scale, and not toto
ccelo distinct from the other animal creation.
By such foolish theories has the whole face of nature
been darkened, speculations not deduced from the cor
rect reading of the book of nature, (the second Word,
the second in point of value, but the first in point of
time) — not deduced, I say, from the correct reading
of the letter of nature, or in other words, not founded
on induction and observation, but in imagined analo
gies drawn from the fancies of the system-makers.
And thus, as there have been philosophers, who have
regarded Man, as but one of the nobler animals, so
there have also been philosophers, who have consi
dered animals themselves, as a species of animated
machines, — Descartes, it is said, entertained something
of this notion, — not conceiving that animals were
endowed with true sensibility, but that those appear-

NATURAL HISTORY OF MAN. 49
ances of sensation, which we recognize in them are
the mere exhibitions of certain mechanical principles
under new circumstances. Again, the different organs
of the animal body, such as the liver, the spleen, the
glands of different kinds, salivary, lacrymal, and so-
forth, are nothing more than natural chemical labo
ratories, in the view of their science and philosophy,
and the heart, according to the same theory, is a natural
forcing-pump, a kind of steam-engine or water-works,
to supply this human city withal, with the necessary
quantum of blood or fluid ; and the arteries and veins
are the conduit-pipes, a part of this hydraulic appara
tus, for accomplishing the grand circulation: — and
again, the lungs are a sort of natural bellows, born, not
made, (let us do them justice,) the heaving of the ribs
a part of their play, so that a due quantity of air may al
ways be supplied to the various parts of the machinery,
especially as among its other uses, it seems also to dis
charge the functions of a grand furnace, in keeping up
a proper degree of warmth in the vital blood. And
they proceed next to the external of the body, and show
you an evident series of mechanical contrivances in the
movements of the various joints and limbs, the mus
cles — the pullies, and the bones — the levers, — and pro
ceed forthwith to calculate with great mathematical
precision, the amount of force exerted on each muscle,
and to demonstrate to you the relation between the
size of the muscle in every instance, and the office to
be performed by it. Now what does all this demon
stration mean ? — does it go to prove that an animal is a
machine ? No sound thinker views it in that light ; but
perhaps the very illustrations employed obscure our
true idea of an animal, and divert the mind from the
thing itself to the circumstances that characterize it.
7

50 LECTURE THE SECOND.
After all this investigation of the animal frame, and
exhibition of its several parts, and indication of their
uses, and description of their organs, — designating some
as mechanical and some as chemical in their character,
and all as acting according to certain known laws, with
which some of our own works also agree, — we have
still to come to our original impression, to our first idea,
and to say, this is an animal, a living creature ; — and
such and such, on examination, are found to be the
scientific indications of its existence and character
among created things. These serve to describe it and
to identify it to those, who have previously known it,
or would wish to see it ; but all these chemical and
mechanical insignia are not the animal, any more than
the letters which compose the name George Wash
ington are the man, although they may serve to call
up the idea of him to those who have known or heard
of him, — to point him out among the living or the
illustrious dead. Accordingly then as we may say,
that an individual might still have a distinct and true
idea of George Washington, although he could not
spell his name, so the peasant, although he has never
analysed an animal or taken the bones of its skeleton
in pieces or traced the internal organs, still knows just
as well what an animal is, as the most profound philo
sopher; — and that philosopher never could convince
him, that an animal was a machine, or a mere com
plication of machineries, endowed with spontaneous
voluntary motion;— he would tell him, if he could
find words to express his natural and unsophisticated
perception, that these were indeed the products of the
scientific analysis of that object, called an animal, but
that the animal itself, in its divine unity or idea, was a
very different thing from those mere characteristics,

NATURAL HISTORY OF MAN. 51
which science would read on it, and note down in her
book. An unlettered rustic would be better pleased
with some of the philosophy of Plato on this subject,
his doctrine namely of ideas, that the living things of
nature are the original types of thoughts of the Deity,
and therefore undefinable, than to be told, that they
are merely those things, wrhich modern science is dis
posed to consider them, — an assemblage of certain
material, mechanical, chemical or otherwise sensible,
actings, — these are the signa of the things, but not the
things. What then is the proper manner of viewing this
whole subject ? — for let us not be misled either by the
fanciful philosophy of Plato or the sensual speculations
of modern times ; but let us endeavor to embrace both
the wisdom of the ancients and the science of our own
days. Under what light then shall we consider the
subject of animal life, or of animals generally? — evi
dently this, they present a series of laws of order,
which are entirely peculiar to themselves, and to this
department of nature, and which never could have
been conjectured by any philosopher, and to be under
stood and known must be seen, and when seen consti
tute a fresh fount of living knowledge, as pure and
unsullied and perfect in the mind of the peasant, as in
the mind of the philosopher ; — the essential facts or
native truths themselves are but the derivations and
expansions of them; in a word, the science differs
widely in either case. The peasant stops short for the
most part at the first idea, he never stirs or but rarely
from the primal truth, — the fount ; — he is satisfied to
know that "an animal is an animal," — he says "it is
an animal" — without farther comment, and this is
saying a great deal, and indeed every thing, for the

52 LECTURE THE SECOND.
whole is contained in that one idea, in that divine
name. This is truth, the rest is science, — which the
philosopher disengages, unravels, and brings to view;
and what does he do which the other does not ?— he
shows that this new and original order of nature,
which is called animal life, is separated indeed from
that below it by a discrete interval, so that neither
mechanism nor chemistry can by any possibility ever
become animal, — by any combination or subtilty; —
it were easier for a camel to pass through the eye
of a needle than such a thing to take place. Nature
has not so negligently guarded her frontiers, as that
one department of her dominions shall encroach upon
another. Among the ancients Terminus was a god,
and they knew what they meant when they attributed
deity to Terminus; — limits are so sacred a thing in
nature that nothing can be more so ; they are almost—
they are altogether divine ; — and curse and execration
and sterility and disgrace will await even that mixture
of races in the human kingdom, the sacred limits of
which ought never to have been violated. I say then,
that the sound philosopher will perceive at a glance
that no combination whatever of mechanical or chemi
cal agencies will ever deserve the name of animal
action; — what then, would we infer that there is
nothing either chemical or mechanical in the actions
of the animal body?— no, but that no single action
therein ought to be styled either mechanical or che
mical,— unless in a subordinate sense, but animal,
according to that maxim in which wisdom is wrapped
up in a proverb, qui facit per alteram facit ipse, he
who does it through another does it himself ;— every
thing that is done in the animal body is done through
the animal, through the voluntary animal or the in-

NATURAL HISTORY OF MAN. 53
voluntary animal; all therefore is animal: this is the
supreme, this is the controlling idea, — the animal alone
is through all its actions; the laws of chemistry, the
laws of mechanism are held in perfect and absolute
subserviency, they are the servants of the animal, they
are put under its feet, — they hold no supremacy over
the animal, but the animal holds supremacy over
them. It is a law of mechanical nature, that a body
at rest remains at rest, until acted upon by a force
directed upon it : — the body of an animal is at rest, —
the ox, suppose, (the body of the ox) reposes in the
meadow; — according to the laws of mechanics, he
would retain that position, continue to repose, — but the
animal disdains the law, controls or renders it obse
quious, — he rises up, he moves, — what a mystery seems
that self-motion ! Philosophers inquire into the laws
of the motion of the planets, — can they tell the laws
according to which that mass of organized matter
moves along that meadow ? — the peasant can give the
same answer as the philosopher, and the philosopher
can give no better than this, the animal moves,
because he is an animal: — is the motion mechani
cal ? — no, it is animal ; — is it in violation of mechanical
laws ? — no, for the higher departments of nature never
break down the lower departments thereof; it is not
in violation of mechanical laws, therefore, but according
to them, but the motion is animal nevertheless, for it is
the animal that walks.
At this point, let us review and sum up; — the
amount then is this, that there are certain chemical
and mechanical laws in nature, or in other words,
there are laws of order impressed by the fiat of omni
potence, on those lowest departments of nature, which
we call the mineral, or organized, and vegetable; —

54 LECTURE THE SECOND.
these laws are supreme, as respects their own subjects,
but they are circumscribed by very unequivocal and
palpable boundaries. " Hitherto shalt thou go and no
farther," is the precept enjoined on each of them : —
what then ? superinduced upon these is another order
of laws, and a distinct department of nature, called
the animal kingdom: — we talk of links of a grand
chain, but there are no links, (be it remembered,)
drawn so close, or so cemented together, that these
three things, a mineral, a vegetable, an animal, are ever
confounded together; — it is true, certain objects may
be of such characters, that our science, and skill, and
judgment, may be nonplused, and we may not be able
to say, whether this object be a mineral or a vegetable,
or that other a vegetable or an animal ; but all this is
the dulness and obtuseness of our senses or perceptions,
not the confusion of nature: — although we cannot see
between the links, are we to conclude that they are
cemented, or even if cemented, may they not be two
distinct links still, seeming to touch and yet not touch
ing ? In a word, there are laws of dead nature and
of living nature, of organized nature and of animal
nature ; — and here then is the grand principle, fact, or
law, wrhich I beg of this audience especially to remark,
that when inert organized matter, whether animal or
vegetable, exists alone or by itself, its own laws are
supreme over itself, and uncontrolled ; but when the
animal kingdom is built on the vegetable and mineral
kingdom, or built from it, that the laws of the animal
kingdom, which are sui generis, are supreme and
uncontrolled, but such however, as do not destroy the
other, the chemical or mechanical laws, but so use
them at all times and in all parts, as to render them
entirely subservient, (without at all violating them,) to

NATURAL HISTORY OF MAN. 55
the great ends, and objects, and uses, of this nobler
order of things, this animal nature, or animal king
dom. This is a beautiful instance of nature's subordi
nation being maintained, without the infringement of
nature's peace : — the animal laws are supreme, and yet
the chemical or mechanical laws are not violated, nay,
through the influence of animal domination, they are
made to execute some of their nicest and most suc
cessful evolutions, so that no where are mechanical
characteristics more interesting and grand, than in this
department of nature ; and a geometry and a species of
dynamics are exhibited in the actions of the muscles,
which the more they are examined, the more astonish
ing they appear ; and it is probable that chemistry
never acts so illustrious a part or so signalizes her
powers, as when she acts under the dominion and con
trolling influence of animal life. Thus nature is ever
most beautiful in her acts of subserviency and obe
dience. The chemistry of the inert portions of the
globe are inconspicuous and vile in comparison with
that which is done at the bidding of nature in the
animal frame ; and even those mechanical laws which
are read in the movements of the heavenly bodies,
although sublimely simple, and on that account only
the more admirable, yet in intricacy and number
of adjustments, all bearing successfully on one point,
fall much short of those displayed in the disposition
and movements of the muscles of the human hand
alone, to say nothing of other parts of the body.
The subject has excited the attention and admiration
of all, from the most rude to the most scientific under
standing. For although the anatomist can best unfold
these wonders of natural art, yet they are not altoge
ther hidden even from the most superficial observer.

56 LECTURE THE SECOND.
Nay, even the infant, in the very dawn of its intellect
and delighted wonder, is observed to be especially
attracted by the tender and delicate movements of its
own tiny hands and fingers. And Cicero cannot
restrain the expression of his admiration: quam vero
aptas, quamque multarum artium ministras manus
natura homini dedit. Digitorum enim contractio faci-
lis, facilisque porrectio propter molles commissuras et
artus, nullo in motu laborat. Itaque ad pingendum,
ad fingendum, ad scalpendum, ad nervorum eliciendos
sonos ac tibiarum, apta manus est, admotione digito
rum. How perfect must that mechanism be, which
even in the gracefulness of its outward exhibitions,
without a profound knowledge of its principles, allures
the gaze of the infant, and fixes the astonishment of
the most eloquent of men. But in truth, it is not the
mechanism, but the vitality which is rendered conspi
cuous therein, which thus enchants, and delights, and
detains the mind in the contemplation of it.
I have shown then a subordination of the laws of
inert matter to the laws of animal life : — you will now
be prepared to see the grand fallacy that is palmed
off upon superficial thinkers, by a certain class of
philosophers. I mentioned, when I began my lecture,
that some philosophers delight in placing Man at the
head of the animal kingdom, assigning him an honor
able niche, apparently, but at the same time, actually
degrading him, by obscuring through this classification,
the true idea of his dignity, and of his unapproached
and unapproachable unity. Man has no more busi
ness essentially, to be classed with animals, than ani
mals have to be classed with machines or vegetables.
It is true, man exhibits in his bodily motions, and the
analogies of his structure, all the semblances and even

NATURAL HISTORY OF MAN. 57
most of the realities of animal life ; but so do animals
themselves show on their muscles and all their joints,
the mechanical traits, nay, in outward name, the very
mechanical powers, while the products of other organs
are of chemical phenomena ; — but what then ? do you
divest the animal of its animal dignity, and relative
grandeur on these accounts? — nay, rather the true
nobleness of animal life, above other organized matter,
seems to be enhanced the more, for that it can call
such powerful ministers as chemistry and mechanism
to its service, and yet still preserve itself, still be itself,
nobly and distinctively animal. And in parity of rea
soning, if that order of nature next to God and his
image, which we call Human Nature, in virtue of its
own laivs, which take the name of moral truths, — if
Man, I say, in conscious virtue and freedom, bold and
earnest, and faithful, through and in consequence of
those laws, which are peculiar to him alone, of all
creation besides, can not only subdue, and govern the
chemical and mechanical laws in his own body, but
even the higher laws of animal life itself, so as to ren
der them obedient to moral and human laws, obedient
but yet not extinguished, is he on that account to be
reckoned no better of, than as the supreme animal ; —
when yet it is not animal laws in him which render
him supreme, but human laws, which are denominated
moral truths, or with more propriety, revealed truths,
for such indeed they are, and from the Deity himself.
Wherefore I note the following orders in nature,
all unequivocal, all connected, but not blended, — if
a chain, the links at least free, and each of its own
cast and substance. First, the Mineral ; second, the
Vegetable ; third, the Animal ; fourth, the Human.
You may object to the terms, and indeed they are
8

58 LECTURE THE SECOND.
not such as I desiderate, but our language offers no
popular terms more explicit ; and they will be suffi
cient, if they lead the mind to discover, and to see
distinctly the broad and deep lines, which the hand of
the Creator has here drawn, ineffaceable, and clear,
unless when a mist of words and abstract speculations
obscure the sacred boundaries. But while there is
here the most perfect distinction, there is, on the part
of each higher order, also, an obvious assumption of the
apparent attributes of the lower ; and it takes place in
a very remarkable manner.
Thus, if the Vegetable assume or take on the
Mineral, in any semblance of structure, it is only
that it may distinguish itself, as it were, the more in
rendering that which is seemingly foreign to itself,
entirely its own.
And so in respect to the Animal, in its relations to
the two lower orders ; if ever invested with the attri
butes or accidents of these, it is only that the Animal
may be the more conspicuous, in having made these,
which are chemical, mechanical, or merely organical,
also Animal.
And, lastly, when the Human assumes to itself the
Animal, and in that the two inferior orders, and so
bears and represents in itself the three kingdoms of
nature, it is only the more to signalize its own
supremacy in rendering the Animal human, with all
its circumstances and accidents, so that, at last, in
Man — the image at once of earth and heaven, of
God and nature — there is not a single thing, which is
not altogether and unequivocally human: man, man,
man is written on the whole and every part, soul,
mind, and body ; — and yet the external lettering is of
animal configuration, — but that too is human.

NATURAL HISTORY OF MAN. 59
What a field of beauty and magnificence this consi
deration opens to our view — almost untrodden ; but I
dare not enter it with sandalled feet, it is "holy
ground." But in these facts, and types of creation, an
elevated mind will see an image of the cardinal mys
tery of the Christian religion, " God manifested in the
flesh," — a truth above the sphere of the senses, within
the region of faith : but why it should be considered
irrational or inapprehensible, I cannot perceive, when
the very shadow of it. is visible on the constitution of
nature itself.
I have now then, definitely brought out the rational
and sound view of this whole matter, touching the re
lation of man to the animal creation, and shall not
pursue the subject farther in this direction, as it would
bear me remote from the design of these lectures, on
grounds purely theological.
Observe then, we do not deny that animals exhibit
in their structures, mechanical and chemical applian
ces; nay. you may say that all that meets the eye is of
that aspect: and neither do we deny, that man also ex
hibits the animal in his body; but as chemistry and
mechanics are but the ministers of the animal, so the
animal itself in man is but the minister of man ; — and
in the case of animals, to speak truly, notwithstanding
chemistry and mechanics, all is really animal ; and in
the case of man, notwithstanding the animal, all is
really human.
But let us advert to a few particulars ; and in the
body of man we have sufficiently marked the suprema
cy of the human over the animal. And these indica
tions are on every part of the body : — the head and its
elevation, the erect posture, that majesty of counte
nance, those eyes that disdain the ground, and in the

60 LECTURE the second.
natural plane of vision, cut midway between earth and
heaven, as if in his natural unbiased freedom, he stood
between passion and reason, as moral choice impelled
to raise his head erect to heaven, or incline it down
wards to the earth. But I omit all these characteris
tics, as perfectly obvious, and fix your attention on
three points, the hand, the powers of the lungs, and
the position of the mouth. Mark first, the position of
the mouth: it is retracted as much as possible from ani
mal purposes ; it is drawn inwards almost underneath
the beetling brows, on which brows and forehead are
indented the majesty of thought, or the serenity of
goodness; beneath sweetly cowers the mouth, with
drawn almost from animal purposes — or it should be,
— and dedicated to expression, — of love, and tender
ness, and wisdom. Observe in the animals, the mouth
travels away from under the protection and shield of
the forehead — and most immodestly and greedily — to
seek for food ; — it is not in them the organ of expres
sion, — it is not dedicated to the lungs especially, as in
man, and that musical instrument the larynx, but it
seems to be devoted almost exclusively to the stomach,
and to the esophagus or gullet; — the mouth in animals
and even the tongue are the slaves of their animalism;
that is the supreme and reigning intention seen in
their prominences and formation. On the contrary, in
man the mouth and tongue are noble subjects of the
lungs, and these of the brain, on which sits the mind
invested with a garment of light : the tongue and the
mouth consequently are appropriated to expression,—
to minister food to reason and the affections, in song
and sweet discourse, —
" For eloquence the soul, song charms the sense,"
and this not for herself, but for others; here is the

natural history of man. 61
attribute of benevolence enthroned on the mouth and
tongue, as the instruments of speech and mutual
intercourse; — no wonder the Scotch bard should cel
ebrate in his mistress
" Her wee bit mou' sae sweet and bonnie."
Such is the human dignity of the mouth, the lips, and
tongue; you see it is a mere lateral and subordinate
intention of these organs in man, and not the principal,
that they are also used as in animals, for the purposes
of mastication, deglutition, and the conveyance of
nourishment ; — and our reason tells us that these acts,
although necessary, are only not forbidden; but that
the passage that leads to the lungs, the larynx, and
trachea, is the glorious highway in man of speech and
reason — whose tremulous chords vibrate music; — in
short the lungs with all their channels of varied utte
rance, their wind and stringed instruments — for
the larynx and trachea are both — that sounding-
board, the cranium — that articulating hammer, the
tongue, and all that complicated play and accordance
of the mouth and lips, conspire to render that outward
tablet, on which his life is impressed, and made vocal
and distinct, not unworthy to be the substitute of that
perfect brain, on which it was all first inscribed on the
golden morn of his earlier creation, ere yet the atmos
phere had greeted those lungs with its first rude
welcome. With the lungs and their varied movements, is con
nected the subject of language or expression, which in
its varied forms and essays in different nations, and
through a series of ages, will form no uninteresting
subject, I hope, of some future lecture. It is by his
voice and his hand, that man stands pre-eminently

62 lecture the second.
distinguished, and in both you see the types of his
reason, his proper humanity.
Man has a hand — animals but anterior extremeties,
which, however, correspond with the hand, and much
more than perhaps most persons are aware of.
I show you here the foreleg and foot of the horse ; —
you can apply the observations to the analogous parts
of other animals. As I count the parts and compare
them with those of the human arm and hand, you will
remark the striking correspondence.
You see herein an impressive illustration of the posi
tion in our last lecture : that the essential type of order
is never abandoned, under analogous conditions of
existence, but only as the ends require, variously mod
ified. Assume in this instance (the assumption is
warrantable,) the human hand to be the essential type,
the absolute and perfect model — towards which all
the other designs have tended as to the consummation
of the grand wish of nature, and you will see a series
of modifications of the most beautiful and interesting
description. And the following points I think will be
conspicuous :
1. That the parts correspondent with the human
hand in each creature are defined by, and reflective of,
its instincts ; and as these imply a certain fixed determi
nation of the life of the animal towards certain ends or
objects, so those instruments are exclusively adapted to
the accomplishment of those ends and objects, and
none other.
2. That the human hand — also reflective of the
human soul, and as it were, the material attribute of
the reason— is wholly unconfined, free and undeter
mined in its aptitudes and functions, unless it be to
follow and obey the constantly new and original sug-

NATURAL HISTORY OF MAN. 63
gestions of an enlightened and progressive mind. If
we adopt the comparison of a tool, it is the universal
tool, or tool of tools, while the analogous parts of ani
mals are fitted for the achievement of but one or two
uses only.
3. Each is equally perfect in its kind, but the perfec
tion of the one is universal and catholic, that of the
other exclusive and specific.
I refer you to nature for facts in illustration, which
are abundant and at hand. What need to specify them.
In these three, then, the lungs, the mouth, and the
hands, you see striking parts of Man's natural history;
you see the light of his inward being, as it were,
illuminating his outward form, and pointing out his
members, both vocal and formative, as intended to
embody those uses, which administer to the strength
of his reason, and the diffusion of benevolence, rather
than such as are gross, tending to the senses only. Let
the noble works performed by his hand, and the
beautiful languages, once moulded by his tongue, and
cast in enduring record — all of which are intended
to be subjects of our historical sketches hereafter —
testify to the divine perfection of those physical instru
ments in his body, which the Hand of infinite Wisdom
and Benevolence has so gloriously fashioned and
adorned.

LECTURE THE THIRD;

LANGUAGE,— ITS ORIGIN AND USE.

The material universe is to us the fountain of all knowledge of the physical
reasons of the laws employed in its economy. — That of these as yet, but lit
tle is known. — Illustrated in the intricacy of the structure of the human body,
which before it can be understood, a totally new and original science must be
extricated from nature  The same is true of the divine moral system. — The
disclosure of physical and moral truth proportioned to the practice of our pre
sent knowledge  Individual effort never lost ; — language, the chief medium
of its perpetuation. — The physical instruments of language — the lungs, — their
uses, — the primary end of nature in their construction, — traced from their ru-
dimental form in fishes. — The question, is speech natural or acquired ? consid
ered. — God is the author of human speech. — There is but one language, but
a diversity of dialects  Illustration. — Speculations concerning an original
language entirely vain. — The unity of language is from the fraternity of the
human race, — its variety the consequence and symbol of human freedom, — the
tendency to variety checked by the faculty of imitation. — True value of the
scriptural idea of the unity of speech. — Modifications, how produced. — Ar
ticulation an intellectual process  The perfection of antediluvian speech
was in the unanimity of the moral feelings, — the discordance of modern lan
guages arises from the obscuration of the moral sense. — Mysterious connection
of language and thought  Language the chief instrument in the formation of
the moral and intellectual sense  Its dignity and uses.
Geometry and arithmetic are attributes of nature,
revealed in every part of the material universe, in
mechanical or chemical phenomena; and are to us
the signs or indications of the grand natural laws or
principles according to which the whole has been con
structed. But the sciences of these are only the
9

66 LECTURE THE THIRD.
shadows of those divine exemplars, which the order of
nature exhibits. Our science is indeed but a certain
small territory, taken in, and fenced off from a vast
and unlimited region reserved for future discovery.
But just so far only as we have cultivated science, are
we capable of pointing out in nature, the physical
reason of the arrangement and adaptation of organs, or
instruments, for the accomplishment of natural ends.
Our knowledge of the mechanical powers, for instance,
of the composition and resolution of forces, and their
results, — renders us capable of seeing the reason of the
origin and insertion, the contour and arrangement, of
many of the muscles of the human body, and of the
more general proportions observed in the magnitude,
strength, and forms of the bones. Popular books are
full of these instances of design, as they are correctly
termed; — but it is not so often noticed, that there must
be an infinite number of mechanical adjustments, of
which our acquired science, the shadow of the divine
or archetypal science, does not suggest to us even the
most distant hint. Nay, it is probable that there are
even certain kinds of science, as distinct from any we
yet know, (as for example, geometry is from chem
istry,) — of which, of course, we cannot speak, because
we cannot even form an idea ; although we may recog
nize the possibility at least, of the existence of such-
recondite, and latent, and visible as yet only to the
divine eye. Such sciences, as respects mankind, have
yet to be. But of those which exist, the sciences of
number and measurement, the cultivation is still ex
tremely limited, and therefore much more of the divine
arithmetic, and divine geometry may be yet expected
to fall within the apprehension of the human mind;
and then no doubt, the natural reason of many more of

NATURAL HISTORY OF MAN. 67
those adjustments in the animal body will be brought
to light, as well as of many facts, still obscure, in other
departments of nature. For example, who can doubt
that there is a natural reason, (I mean a geometrical
and arithmetical one,) for the number as well as the
established proportions of the fingers of the human
hand: there is a recondite calculus here, which will
require the ingenuity and powers of some future
Leibnitz or Newton to unfold; and when it is un
folded, will not the science of the Divine Mind as it
were, become more conspicuous, and fresh grounds be
adduced for our confidence in the wisdom as well as
goodness of the Creator? And what discoveries yet to
be made in astronomy! — is there not also an arith
metical reason (resulting, of course, from a creative
provision) for that precise number of revolutions on its
axis, which the earth makes in its annual path? But it
seems to me that there is some science totally new
and purely original to be extricated from nature, that
labyrinth of infinite art, ere we can obtain a glimpse of
the natural reason for the structure and arrangement
of the parts of the brain and the entire nervous system.
On this field as yet total darkness rests; and here,
although we may adore a wisdom, it is a wisdom
which is unknown, in its natural laws, in this instance.
But gleams of light will yet be cast upon it; the
humble and assiduous inquirer will discover some
relation between this unknown and the known. The
Divine Providence suffered not the Athenians to wor
ship always, at the altar of "an unknown god." When
there is a right desire, and untiring industry, there will
at length be the reward of light.
But I have alluded as yet only to the physical or
scientific system of the universe, and hinted how im-

68 LECTURE THE THIRD.
mense the field of discovery, how few the points yet
ascertained, and how scattered the cheerful rays which
exhibit to us the general outlines of its magnificence.
But there is another system of which the physical
or scientific is but the basis, I mean the divine moral
system. And here also we have attained as yet but to a few
hints, but these indeed of the most valuable and cheer
ing kind. Our ideas and modes, or rules of justice, are
also but the faint images or impressions of that which
is revealed to us in the book of God's providence :—
but his justice infinitely exceeds ours, and hence there
are many of its steps and proceedings, much of its
order and arrangement, which entirely frustrates our
utmost stretch of moral science, to unravel or satisfacto
rily to explain. There are here moral enigmata, just
as difficult to solve, to our limited moral science, as the
mechanical or scientific problems in the structure of
the living frame, are hard or even impossible to account
for with our present scientific attainments. From
what recondite principles of essential and absolute
justice it results, that so many animals should live on
the destruction of others, is just as hard to explain, as it
would be to calculate and determine, why all the
muscles that act on the five fingers, should have those
precise relations and adjustments, which they do have,
and no other. It is indeed easy to discover in this in
stance a few principles, whose tendencies are under
stood, but so numerous, and varied, are the data
which enter into the solution of the problem, that
while we feel and acknowledge the perfection of the
grand result, we are totally unable to trace the natural
steps by which it has been accomplished. We can
only discover that the work, even perfect as it is, (and

NATURAL HISTORY OF MAN. 69
its perfection is rather enhanced than obscured by this
consideration,) is effected on essential principles of
science, although as yet very imperfectly known to us.
And it is certainly a most interesting consideration,
that the principles of moral justice, and of physical
science, should in this respect, agree ; that while both
are alike fixed, and indispensable, the one in the moral,
the other in the physical wTorld, yet at the same time
the operations and results of each in the grand theatre
of the universe, should be equally difficult of explana
tion, involved in similar obscurity and perplexity.
But in the scrutiny of the moral department of the
universe are we condemned for ever to be at fault, al
ways to fall short of that truth, which we so ardently
desire ; is progress here impossible, or have wre already
reached the goal of discovery ? No more, 1 apprehend,
than we can be supposed to have reached the limit of
natural or physical discovery. The mines of nature
have not been exhausted, whether of natural or moral
knowledge, nor have the human faculties become en
feebled, unless by a voluntary despair. Only moral
knowledge has to be sought from the word of God,
scientific knowledge from the works of God.
But as natural knowledge of the works of God seem
to be extended and strengthened, mainly by the ap
plication of such knowledge to the arts and inventions
of life, — what Bacon calls " fruits," and true theory is
seen to advance, just in proportion that previous dis
coveries have been usefully applied, — as our knowledge
of the natural structure of the eye is enlivened and
enlarged by the application of its principles to the con
struction of telescopes, so just in the degree in which
we reduce the known principles of justice, and virtue,
and honor, to practice, in the perfection of social and

70 LECTURE THE THIRD.
civil institutions, in that same degree, will new and
original views, and as just and satisfactory as they are
original, be disclosed to us, of the principles of the
moral government of the universe, and its magnificent
and sublime details, from that written Word, in which
they lie treasured up, for the admiration, and delight,
and use, of future generations of mankind, far better
and wiser, we can readily suppose, than any that have
yet appeared.
Seeing then so wide a field spread out before us,
spiritual, (so to speak,) as well as natural, let us be en
couraged to proceed. Only let us recollect that we
must look in each field, but for those products which
it is designed to afford. Let us not seek science or
natural history in the book of spiritual and moral reve
lation, or vainly expect to find in nature a light which
is not originally in her, but derived and reflected. Na
ture reflects the light of revelation, but only as the moon
that of the sun. But in her the mild light of science
inheres and is grateful to our natural sight. Let us
then advance with this distinction clearly in our view.
The human race is so connected into one, that the
effort of each individual, however weak, provided it
be well intentioned, is never lost, but propagated
to the mass, so that what one may merely ardently
wish, another may resolutely endeavor, and a third, or
a fourth, or a twentieth, may at length accomplish.
The undulations of mind and feeling throughout the
entire globe and sphere of humanity, visible and invisi
ble, past, present, and to come, are truly marvellous ; —
the propagations of light and sound, wonderful as they
are, fall much short of these.
But language is the chief medium of this communi
cation, at least the most palpable to us, — perhaps but

NATURAL HISTORY OF MAN. 71
the symbol of an invisible intercourse ; — at all events,
a most interesting subject, and I therefore devote this
lecture mainly to its consideration, as it may be a con
venient bridge, along which to pass to other perhaps
still more alluring aspects of our general theme. But
how shall we treat the subject? I know no better
method, than that which we have hitherto proposed to
ourselves, to proceed, namely, from body to mind, from
matter to spirit ; it is an unambitious path ; but let us
creep, before we walk, — and walk, before we fly.
The organs of the animal body are so formed, as to
discharge each, several uses; and it is sometimes diffi
cult to say, which is the principal. I instanced in my
last lecture the mouth, and showed that it was subser
vient to two obvious purposes, — the one, for the admis
sion of nourishment to the animal, — the other, as the
organ of the lungs. The lungs themselves subserve
two grand uses in the animal economy, — one as a
general rendezvous of the whole blood of the body, in
successive tides, to meet the external atmosphere, and
therefrom to take whatever is congenial with itself,
and at the same time, to part with what is unpropi-
tious ; another use is, that they may be an instrument,
under the control of the will of the animal, to serve to
designate its desires. Looking at the lungs in this
light, we might say, that it was the main design of
them to enable the animal to emit sound; for although
the purification of the blood in the lungs is an indis
pensable use, yet it is more animal than the other, and
belongs rather to the organical, than to the expressive
or mental life. That the lungs are not absolutely
necessary to the life of an animal, is clear from the
case of those living creatures, which are not endowed
with the organ, as the annelides, and indeed all of the

72 LECTURE THE THIRD.
insect tribe; it is true, that one of the functions,
which the lungs discharge in the higher order of ani
mals, — the aeration ofthe blood — is indispensable; but
this we find to be carried on very perfectly, for the life
of those creatures, by means of the stigmata or air tubes,
with which their bodies are covered, and in which the
blood or circulated fluid meets the atmosphere, and re
ceives the necessary purification or restoration. And
that even the blood of the higher animals, and of Man,
undergoes a certain restoration in the external contact
of the atmosphere through the pores of the skin, which
thus co-operate with one of the functions of the
lungs, seems extremely probable, and is advocated at
least by one individual of no mean reputation; — and
we find ourselves, from daily experience, that when the
cutaneous excretions are interrupted by temporary ob
structions of the pores of the skin, through cold or
otherwise, that a more than double duty is devolved
upon the lungs, which labor under the task imposed
upon them, and find it hard to throw off the recremen-
titious matters of the blood, which have been accumu
lated; and hence the violent effort of the lungs by
coughing and other means to disburden themselves of
those impurities, which it belonged to the pores of the
skin in their regular action to have eliminated. It
may then be taken for granted that the purification of
fhe blood in the lungs, although no doubt eminently
performed there, is not the most signal use of that
organ, or one which cannot be performed at all by
any other; for the stigmata of insects effect the same
use in their diminutive bodies; and even in the human
body the same use is at least partially accomplished
through the pores of the skin. Accordingly, we may
perceive that nature in constructing this additional

NATURAL HISTORY OF MAN. 73
organ — laying the rudiments of it at first, in fishes, —
in their gills or bronchia, — had another grand design
in view besides the aeration of the blood; — she de
signed to provide and attach thereto an apparatus of
sound, and ultimately to secure the grand end of lan
guage or speech in the human kingdom. For, although
those animals in which the lungs are fully developed,
and the two circulations entirely accomplished, enjoy
much greater activity of life, and wear the marks or
symbols of a more perfect intelligence, and constitute
what are called the warm blooded animals, at the same
time however the peculiar construction of that tube
which connects the bronchia or air cells of the lungs
with the external atmosphere, indicates very clearly
that a secondary design is attached to their formation,
which in man at last, appears the primary end, the true
intention, — to provide the means of vocal utterance.
This is seen most remarkably in that part of the tube
called the larynx, next the tongue, and which is very
artificially formed, and clearly for the purpose of the
conformations of sound. It is here then that the foun
dation is laid by the hand of nature itself, for the
construction of the cries of animals and the speech of
man. What a dreary solitude would nature be, but
for those enlivening sounds ; and what clear proofs of
benevolence we see even in these physical and me
chanical provisions for the accomplishment of such an
object. It is not enough for the gratification of a
philosophical mind, simply to hear, and listen, to the
sweet songs of birds and their varied notes, from the
monotonous chirp, to the full and flowing soul of har
mony poured from their little throats. It is not
enough for the philosopher merely to enjoy the sensual
gratification of this cheerful and simple scene. It is
10

74 LECTURE THE THIRD.
not sufficient for him, that his ear be merely excited
by their notes, and the pleasanter associations of his in
fancy called up by the sounds; but his mind travels far
ther than this, and he does not merely surrender him
self to the reverie of pleasant sensations, nor yet with
a blind religious awe, is he contented merely to say that
God has provided all this fund of innocent recreation,
and enjoyment, in the simple scenes of nature; he
carries his investigations and inquiries still farther than
this; and he endeavors to establish the truth in his
mind, and in his reason, by some substantial and pal
pable proof, that it is actually a designing intelligence,
through which all these effects are produced ; — and he
traces in this very mechanical and artificial apparatus
of vocal expression, not the vague belief, but the actual
fact, that the Author of nature has conferred not only
on man, the gift of proper speech, but also bestowed on
the higher animals, and particularly on the winged
tribes, a power and faculty of analogous expression,
which although not speech, is the type of speech, as
animal is the type of human ; — a rude sketch in a
lower order, of a finished work in a higher.
We have here some clue to the understanding of
the common belief, that speech is the gift of God:
certainly, in this sense, at least, that man did not
construct, by any effort or art of his own, that com
plicated and wonderfully adjusted apparatus of vocal
expression, which is constituted in the anterior and
superior portion of the body;— for in truth, the whole
thorax and the mechanism of the ribs, as well as the
cellular tissue of the bronchia, and the ringed tube of
the trachea, and the whole system of the oral appara
tus, are parts auxiliary, or principal, to the act of
speaking; and we need not to be informed, that we did
not construct any of these, or after they were con-

NATURAL HISTORY OF MAN. 75
structed, put them up in that order, and nice adapta
tion to the end, which we discover in them.
Is speech, then, natural to man, or is it acquired ?
Let us proceed to examine the evidence before us : —
let us advance to the analysis of those portions of nature,
which are submitted to our view, and perhaps we shall
acquire a satisfactory answer. If by speech be meant
the mere act of emitting sounds, we may not yet be
prepared to say, whether it be natural or acquired ; —
or we may not have a very distinct idea of what we
mean by the terms ; but this much we are now sure of
at least, that the physical instrument or instruments,
by which we speak, have been provided for us by
nature ; — and we can trace the first dawning of her
design, from a long distance, even among the more
imperfect animals, when she first began to form the
rudiments of lungs, — in the very gills of fishes, and
the bronchia of the tadpole. Although these are mute,
we can yet see her first essays towards the consum
mation of this all perfect instrument of the human
voice. Now an act which nature has traveled so far,
and so long thus to accomplish, up through the
imperfect animals, to at last the mammalia and the
birds, — in them conspicuous, — we cannot view as a
trifling act, or one of slight import : an instrument of
sound, perfect as his mind, and obedient thereto, has
been put in the power of man ; he is made the
owner ; it constitutes a part of his body ; when he tries
it, it sounds but rudely, but the imperfection is evi
dently not in the instrument, but in the vocalist him
self, who has not learned as yet to use it rightly.
But have we yet answered the question, is God the
author of human speech ?
We are now prepared to see how far we are ready
for the solution of it. Suppose, then, a father to have

76 LECTURE THE THIRD.
put into the hands of his twelve sons, musical instru
ments of precisely similar make, and that they had
also inherited from him, all of them, musical propensi
ties and dispositions, so as to catch, and to imitate each
sweet cadence of melody that fell upon their ears,
from the groves and woods, the musical academies of
the singing birds, — which thronged these wild do
mains, their paternal inheritances; — if these twelve
sons were musicians, and played on these instruments
skilfully, would you say it was the act of their father
or their own? or, can you say, how at last it was
accomplished ? But perhaps they all played different
tunes, and not one, and that — original, and the arche
type of the others; — such most likely would be the
result; but yet music, in all its variety, is essentially
one, and human speech, although infinitely diversified,
flows from one — not one system of sounds, so much as
one system of articulated thought.
We seem, then, now to be approaching the solution
of the question, and the answer would appear to be
this, that God is really the author of human speech : —
First, because he has, with an infinity of mechanical
skill, constructed the physical instrument ; secondly,
because he has implanted in the human soul, a disposi
tion to speech, and the faculty of imitating articulated
sound. And again, human speech is one, because men
are brethren, — in their mental conceptions, and their
bodily faculties alike, and therefore their ideas are
moulded similarly. Men have but one language, but
a diversity of dialects ; — the diversity of dialects comes
from local circumstances, but the oneness of language
comes from the divine brotherhood of the human
race, or the identity of the human kingdom, notwith
standing all its families and different homesteads.
" The father loves his son," — " the son reverences his

NATURAL HISTORY OF MAN. 77
father," — these ideas may be articulated in many
thousand different impulses of the organs of speech, on
the atmosphere of a thousand countries, and provinces ;
but the essential speech is the same in all.
" The father loves his son ;" when that moral fact is
articulated in speech, it is articulated in three joints,
and the mind of every human being, with whatever
modifications of breath he presses it on the atmosphere,
feels, and views it still substantially in one way ; — the
father is one, the son another, and the relation expressed
between them a third ; it is this similarity of mental
conception, this identity of nature, this fraternity of
man, that lays the divine foundations of language, and
renders the intercourse of mind with mind possible.
You call that form of language Greek, and this other
English; but in what does that Greek differ from
this English? It is merely the color or texture of a
veil, — you draw aside the English or the Greek, — and
you see the same divine human countenance, sweetly
arrayed in the smiles of love, or clothed with the
majesty of reason and philosophy.
Why is it then that we say that the language of
Homer is so much superior to that of our day ? It is
just because it is a veil so perfect, and so gracefully
worn withal, that you see the transparent symmetry
of the noble Grecian mind, displayed without an
effort; as if the very dress had been put on by the
same Hand which originally clothed the human soul
itself, with its own appropriate form, — that body, those
limbs, and lineaments, and features.
Under this view of the subject, then, it is easy to see
what we are to understand by the proposition, that
language is the gift of God, and that there was origin
ally but one language; and how ridiculous, and almost
childish, are those speculations and inquiries as to that

78 LECTURE THE THIRD.
original language, whether Hebrew, or what ! As far
back as history carries us, men have been speaking a
variety of languages, in the common acceptation of the
word; — and what may have been the state of the
human race, at a period anterior to history, no one who
understands the limits of rational investigation will
consider himself competent to decide, although he may
allow7 himself the freedom of conjecture.
This much we know, that mankind are found in
almost every imaginable stage of progress, from the
most savage to the most civilized condition, and in no
case do we find them destitute of language ; — wherever
there is human respiration there is human speech ; that
ebb and flow of the atmosphere, as it alternates in the
thorax of the human body, is impelled by the organs of
the human voice a thousand various ways, to us mysteri
ous and inscrutable, so as to convey to the ears of others
the impressions of those thoughts and sentiments which
agitate or interest the mind of him who utters them.
These atmospheric impressions may often resemble,
from the. fact, that all men naturally attempt to imitate
by their breathing, the natural sounds which occur
every where, and are similar ; of these there are many
instances in all languages, particularly of rude tribes.
But to suppose these, in all cases, to have been imitated
and copied from those who had first adopted and used
them, seems by no means tenable ground. And I
imagine that it arises from narrow views of the charac
ter and nature of man, as well as of the operations
of Divine Providence. Cannot the origin of human
speech be considered due to the Creator, unless we can
think of it as having begun from that Source, in some
one country exclusively, at first, and in some very
remote epoch of time, and thence to have spread to
other countries and other times, by successive and per-

NATURAL HISTORY OF MAN. 79
petual imitation ? I must frankly own, that the idea of
the divine origin of language seems to me much more
striking and real, when I think of it as proceeding from
the very constitution of human nature itself, and con
sequently from the will and act of Him, every single
instant, "in whom we live, and move, and have our
being ;" and that language is truly one, however vari
ous, in virtue of this its constant and present origin.
What analogies, and similarities, in the stems and
leaves of all the various tribes of the vegetable king
dom ! Whence are these ? Have they been all copied,
so to speak, from the first budding and efflorescence of
some central group, in one favored spot ? Not so ; but
they spring from a more present cause, a more real
origin, — the very order inscribed on the vegetable crea
tion, and its fixed relations with other departments of
nature. Are the analogies of human languages to be
differently accounted for?
The smiles and frowns of the human countenance,
and the natural cries, indicative of joy or distress, are
the same, wherever the family of man is found. Do
we suppose these to have been copied by one genera
tion from another, downward from the first man, or to
occur spontaneously, — divinely, to be the result of our
formation, — nature itself willing and acting in us ?
On such foundations speech is built, and hence
springs its original unity. But its variety, at the same
time, is the clearest indication, that the mind of man
is not chained down to any invincible law of necessity,
but left free to mould the original and spontaneous
impressions of nature, into a thousand various systems
of ideas, and as a proof of this, to express them vocally
and sonorously, in as many various forms of speech.
But in all these there is still the analogy of man, and
hence, amid infinite variety, the still visible form of

80 LECTURE THE THIRD.
unity, here more, there less conspicuous, according as
the different groups of the human family approximate
or recede, in the incidents of their natural or civilized
condition. That unity, — those links of brotherhood
which connect them together, — and which is not only
seen in their features and gestures, but also heard in
their language — that chain, I say, which binds them, is
upholden by the hand of the Creator himself, and is,
in one sense, a chain of necessity ! — a good necessity —
which renders man still true to man ; but the various-
ness interwoven with it, is at once the consequence,
and the symbol of human freedom, and in no instance
so remarkable as in this very copiousness, and diversity
of sounds and articulations, in which thought is
embodied. This tendency to indefinite variety in human lan
guage, is at the same time restrained, and in some
measure limited, by the faculty of imitation- implanted
in man. From this it has arisen that the audible
sounds of nature, which are nearly every where the
same, have been moulded and incorporated in some
degree into all languages; but imbued, as it were,
with the peculiar life of each. At the same time,
neighboring nations, from mutual intercourse, and
this proneness to imitation, have largely borrowed of
each other words and sounds, each however still
preserving its own idiom : as the bodies of plants and
animals, are built up of the materials which have
entered into the composition of others, while each
constantly retains its own peculiar life, and form,
and genus. For often, while the sound and form
of words, of neighboring languages bear a resem
blance, the force and value of their elements vary
exceedingly in the different systems. On their adop
tion into other languages, they actually receive a new

NATURAL HISTORY OF MAN. 81
nature ; and these additions resemble rather the nutri
tive sap that is taken in by the roots of the tree, than
the grafts which are inserted in its trunk and branches ;
they assume the character of the tree and lose their
own specific distinctions.
Such, then, are the two main sources from which
language receives the constant accessions, as it were, of
raw material, to be appropriated as the wants of the
community require. I mean, first, the radical sounds
and voices of external nature, and, secondly, those
already appropriated and humanized by other nations.
But, independently of these sources of analogy and
resemblance, there seems no reason why a similarity of
vocal sounds should exist among mankind.
The arguments drawn from the sacred Scriptures, to
establish a system of uniform sounds, and modifications
of voice to designate ideas, are of akin with the sys
tems of astronomy and geology drawn from the same
book; — all which, after being fanatically maintained
for a time, by arguments suggested by passion, rather
than philosophy, are compelled by degrees to give place
to the solid truths of observation and experience. Not
that I believe that a single truth of science militates in
the least against the authority of the sacred Scriptures ;
but these books do not purport to deliver to us a sys
tem of science, but only to reveal the author of Crea
tion and the established series of its epochs. We are
instructed from this source, that speech is the native
and original endowment of humanity, and that it was
one, until abused. Man abused his powers, whence
has sprung confusion in his ideas; and even that
fraternity of the human race has been in a certain
degree impaired in consequence. Hence that disso
nance in the moral sentiments of mankind, which is the
true Babel, or actual derangement of mental speech.
11

82 LECTURE THE THIRD.
The unity of speech, then, which existed in the
earlier ages of the world, was the unity of thought,
and of design, and endeavor, which characterized a
race of men, who had not yet fallen from that state
of integrity in which they were at first placed. They
viewed every object of creation in its natural light;
they knew its name, the name which the Creator him
self had stamped on every work of his hands, — and
their science was intuition. But as we may easily
suppose that even their faculties were more or less
improved by exercise, and that hence variety existed
among them, so it is not irrational to conceive, that the
tones and articulations of their voice, in which they
expressed the thought, and feeling of their minds, were
equally diversified. That, for example, that peculiar
breathing of the mouth, and modification of it by the
lips, in which they expressed their idea of the sun or
stars, may have been remarkably adapted to convey a
correspondent impression to the mind of another;—
and that thus, speech among them, was more diverse
fied than it is now, as their minds were more free and
open to the real impressions of things. Their one
language then, would combine within it a greater
variety of sound and articulation than might be found
at present in all the languages of the globe; — but
that, nevertheless, in consequence of the harmony of
their minds, it was not unintelligible to any part
of the human family; — each instinctively felt the
full force, and impression of the thoughts of another,
although uttered in sounds before unheard, and novel,
it might be, even to the speaker himself; for vocal
utterance would be spontaneous, and new with each
new conception ; — but it resembled withal those sweet
tones, and murmurs, with which a mother expresses
her affections to her infant, and to which it also replies,

NATURAL HISTORY OF MAN. 83
in gentle cooings of infantile delight, and budding
intelligence, — vocal expressions of a species of thought,
to utter which our mechanical and artificial languages,
now-a-days, could furnish no facilities of either words
or tones.
But it is vain to travel over a field of such wide
conjecture; — let it be sufficient for us to know, that
speech is natural to man, and that very probable argu
ments could be advanced, that if man now lived in
that primeval simplicity which the sacred Scriptures
inform us once belonged to him, however multiplied
and diversified might be those murmurs of voice, and
spontaneous expression, in which he made known his
wishes or his ideas, they could not be unintelligible to
others, who lived in similar innocence, but the inter
course would be perfect between mind and mind, and
endeared as that which now exists between a mother
and her infant, in the dawn of its intellect, before it
has yet learned to express its wishes, in the conven
tional and artificial language of modern society.
We know, at all events, (and this is not a matter of
fancy,) that there are certain inarticulate cries which
are natural to man, and express the various emotions
of his mind. These are not dignified with the name
of speech, because they are common to him with the
animals. On the calm or troubled stream of these
emotions, which are tones, are impressed the modifica
tions which are called speech or language, and which
are the shadows of ideas. In this manner, it may be
perceived, that tones are the ground-work, or the sur
face on which language is indented by that process
which is called articulation, and which is purely intel
lectual, and belongs not to the animals. They have
all however their peculiar and instinctive cries, and
the birds their instinctive notes, which are not learned

84 LECTURE THE THIRD.
from the parent birds, but are natural to them.
The domestic hen has great variety in its notes;
and its call of invitation, in particular, to its brood,
to partake of the food which it discovers for them, is
quite peculiar, as every body knows ; — it has also a
particular note to express surprise and give alarm,
which cannot be mistaken; and the cluck! cluck! with
which she oversees her brood, and which seems to be
very expressive of consequence and authority, is for
midable even to dogs, and other enemies which would
encroach upon her domains on those occasions. These
are instances of a kind of natural language in animals,
which we presume to retain their proper place in crea
tion, and not to have deviated from it ; — and from the
observation of such facts, we might very easily imagine
at least the possibility of a general language in the
human family, flowing from reason and uncorrupted
instinct, and the consequently pure and natural percep
tions of the true relations of objects external to the
mind. The contemplation of these might be supposed
in such a state to have affected all men nearly similarly;
they derived from them ideas which were always true
to nature, and therefore harmonizing, although various;
the similar affections of their minds gave birth to tones
which were just and expressive of the things which
produced them, and on these tones were impressed
various modifications through the lips, and tongue, and
palate, which were the language of the peculiar ideas
of the understanding, which were originated at the
same time in the individual. But as we imagine that
these affections, as well as ideas, spring directly from
the observation and view of the prototypes of nature
herself, and not from acquired knowledge, we are con
sequently led to the conclusion, that the tones and
articulated sounds of the earliest language must have

NATURAL HI9T0RY OF MAN. 85
exceeded, in variety and extent, the whole united com
pass of expression at present to be found in all the
languages of the earth. In that golden age, therefore,
or antediluvian world, which we are taught to consider
as being more innocent than this, which has succeeded,
and in which consequently there existed but one
speech, there must have been in that one speech lan
guages so numerous, that the speech of every indivi
dual was itself a language ; — nay, also, the language of
the individual himself must change every month or
year, as his affections were enlarged or his ideas
extended. And thus, the word father, for example,
would not only be expressed with an additional tone of
tenderness, as he became more sensible of the extent
of his obligations to that relation, but with such a new
accent or indentation of the word, as would give
another arrangement to its vowels and consonants, and
in fact render it almost a new word, exactly expressive
of all the new ideas which had been gathering around
the object itself, which it was intended to describe. So
that the various transformations which are effected on
this word father, by our children, in their first efforts
to pronounce the name, are in some sort a representa
tion of those changes which we may suppose to have
been constantly produced on all the words of that one
perfect and correspondent language which we fancy to
have existed before the flood ; but the beauty and per
fection of it may be supposed to have been this, that
in consequence of its expressing precisely, and accord
ing to the order of nature, the very feelings of the
minds, and the modifications of intelligence, which
were yet uncorrupt, and in unison with the whole of
humanity, these constantly new tones and distinctions
of sound, fell upon their ears like familiar and well
known voices, finding an easy admission to every heart,

86 LECTURE THE THIRD.
and naturally intelligible to every understanding. It
was the spoken music of nature, and needed no other
interpreter but that "voice of God" within, which,
being universally felt and acknowledged, banished all
estrangement and discord from the earth, whether in
mind, in voice, or in action. And yet there was no
monotony there ; for —
..  — Neither various style,
Nor holy rapture wanted they to pTaise
Their Maker ; in fit strains pronounced or sung
Unmeditated ; such prompt eloquence
Flowed from their lips, in prose or numerous verse
More tunable than needed lute or harp
To add more sweetness— 
From these conjectures, it can be seen at least how
vague and inadequate the common idea is, of an orig
inal language, and how foolish it would be to think
that it could resemble either in its structure or its
harmony, any of those wretched and meagre dialects
which we write and speak.
These to be sure, in their poverty and indistinctness,
and remarkably artificial character, are a very just
representation of the habits of our minds, shut out
from the natural perception of objects, especially such
as are of a moral and religious kind, for on these a
dense cloud now rests, the same which also obscures
our moral sense, or has nearly obliterated it. Still,
however, our languages are an exact image of ourselves,
but for that very reason unintelligible, unless from
labor and study, to other nations; the features of a
real fraternity have been expunged in a great measure
from their words and syntax, and they exhibit a pic
ture it must be confessed, but too faithfully just, of the
present discordant condition of the moral sentiments of
mankind. They are the languages of opinion, rather
than of truth. Hence it has arisen, that morality and

NATURAL HISTORY OF MAN. 87
religion being acquired, not innate, although their
foundations are not the less firm on that account, the
nations of the present races of mankind are trained
and disciplined in youth, each through their mother
tongues, into certain confined views and sentiments;
and it is not until the age of mature reason, that we
are able to obtain even a glimpse of that once perfect
light, which was wont to be as common as this of the
sun, and as universally diffused. But there is a pro
vision for the recovery of this pristine condition of
the human race ; and the indications are to be found in
that expansive and germinant power, conspicuous in
modern languages ; — the English language especially is
yet in its infancy, as is certainly the English mind.
Our language will widen as our views expand, and
although rough at first, and rude, must be all innova
tions, as original views also are abrupt and indistinct,
yet custom will mellow the one, and ripen the other.
The connection between language and thought is as
difficult to understand, as the intercourse between
body and soul : and perhaps the analogy also holds in
other respects; — that it is just as impossible to think
efficiently without language, — some system of natural
or conventional symbols, as it is for the soul to act with
out the body; and as the senses are the first occasions,
although not the causes of ideas, so it would appear
that language, although not the material of thought or
ratiocination, is yet the natural instrument without
which it cannot be carried on, or tangibly represented
even to the mind itself.
Language in its proper sense, being denied to brutes
and granted only to man, signifies a peculiarity in his
nature, of a very remarkable kind, which will be far
ther illustrated hereafter. It is the instrument pro
vided by nature for stamping on his being after birth,

88 LECTURE THE THIRD.
through the means of society, the moral sense, in other
words, religion, with which the instincts of animals,
(the laws of their life,) bear an analogy; but in them
these are fixed at birth. In man it is otherwise,— the
moral sense is unsettled then, in order that it may be
established afterwards in freedom and rationality ; and
through the action of the moral affections of society,
(communicated chiefly through language,) become at
last fixed, — a certain and unerring law of life, — if not
inborn, inbred, and the last perfection of human char
acter. Such is the dignity and worth of language, and so
high is the office it is designed to discharge in the com
pletion of the moral creation of man; — for in the
womb the laws of physical life alone are impressed
immutably on his being, and rendered unerring, but in
the bosom of society his moral life begins to be formed,
and although we are witnesses to some of [the means
and instruments (of which language is one) the act is
not the less wonderful or divine on that account. It is
true the moral sense, although so much higher a fac
ulty than that of instinct, is apparently more imperfect
in its operations, but the reason of that is plain, from
the lessons of revelation; ultima dies expectanda est;
the work is yet unfinished. The moral sense will
show all the perfections of instinct on the second birth
into " everlasting life."
But besides the moral sense in man, imperfect at
birth, or its foundation merely provided, there is also
the intellectual sense, similarly produced. The instinct
of animals comprehends both; they are not only perfect
ly sensible of the ends of their life, but also of the means
of attaining them. In both instances their nature,
such as it is, is wholly made up, finished at birth, and
in both also the human being is but "half made up,"

NATURAL HISTORY OF MAN. 89
and not even that, for the moral and intellectual crea
tion (such properly it is) is then only begun. But the
work is going on; and language is here no less evi
dently the appointed instrument of building up the
intellectual, than in forming the moral man. And in
either case his mother tongue is that especial and nat
ural means, whereby his mind and affections are
moulded into the image and likeness of his family and
country, just as certainly as his body and form are de
termined by the physical contour and disposition of his
progenitors. But neither is there here any law of
cruel necessity, for although his native tongue modifies,
while it gives occasion to, his first moral and intellec
tual sentiments, yet the very modifications which that
native tongue itself constantly undergoes from each
new generation of human beings, are a positive demon
stration, that the intellectual and moral sentiments of
mankind, although originally derived from education,
are not controlled by it, but capable of receiving con
tinual additions, improvements, and renovations. They
may also degenerate, be lost, or obscured. In either case,
and under every view of the subject, language is a true
index of the moral and intellectual, the free and expan
sive nature of man. It wanes or brightens, as morals and
intelligence degenerate or improve. The intellectual
sense will receive its perfection at the second birth of
the human being, not less than the moral. This is a
truth of revelation, but susceptible of demonstration also
from the light of nature.
The manner in which language is acquired in child
hood, and its contents opened to the understanding, if
attentively observed, would throw much light on the
formation of our sentiments and opinions. Languages
appear at first to be learned by imitation, and the sen
tences and words, which children first use, they seldom
12

90 LECTURE THE THIRD.

distinctly understand. The recognition of this fact has
led some to depreciate the value of language as an in
strument to develope, in education, and they have re
commended in place of it "the study of things." And
this surely ought not to be neglected, and it is indispen
sable to render the other effectual. But yet the acquisi
tion of words and phrases is a much more important part
of education than is generally supposed. They are the
deposits in the smallest compass of the results of much
observation and reasoning of our predecessors. When
we open them in mature life, what a legacy of truth
do we sometimes find to have been committed to us.
Most persons, however, seldom open these deposits of
ideas, or seek to know what they contain. — The depos
its of theological language are the least explored.
Language then, may be considered as the treasury
of the experience and common observation of man
kind ; and although very unlike its most ancient per
fection, it is still the best vehicle of the ideas of those
who have preceded us;— it is a chain that draws to
gether all those minds that have passed from the terres
trial sphere, and those who in their turn occupy it; and
the feeling that once quickened the bosom of Homer,
or glowed in the mind of Plato, can be rekindled
afresh in the souls of the latest posterity. "The fare
well address" of Washington will make the most illus
trious deeds of the latter half of the eighteenth century
be transacted over and over again in grateful memory,
while a sense of genuine freedom, still more exalted
virtue, disinterestedness and devotion to country, re
tains its power over the human mind. To speak, to
read, is the provision of nature and nature's God,
through which we are cemented in virtue, in energy,
and faithful purpose, with all that has ever been noble
and good, with all that ever will be.

LECTURE THE FOURTH;

ST. AUGUSTINE AND BARON CUVIER,

OR THE MEETING

OF THE FIFTH AND NINETEENTH CENTURIES.

Summary of preceding lecture. — Necessity of viewing man from different epochs
of history ; his language and actions the only true criteria in the determination
of his character  The fifth and nineteenth centuries contrasted, in the persons
of St. Augustine and Baron Cuvier; their characters and labors  Value of
the study of the writings of the fifth century  Translation from the " City of
God." — Picture of St. Augustine. — The reflection interesting, that each age
contributes its peculiar mental commodity to the meeting of ages in the spi
ritual world, where it is not unphilosophical to suppose that Augustine and
Cuvier may have held converse  Their imagined meeting and dialogue, exhi
biting the exclusiveness which marked the pursuits of their respective epochs.
— The theology ofthe fifth should combine with the science ofthe nineteenth
century ; thus the Word of God would be illustrated by his works.
In our last lecture, we traced the physical provision
for human language, and showed its foundation in
nature, its essential oneness, its formal diversity. Its
natural foundation was discovered in the instrument
itself of vocal expression, so artificially and studiously
elaborated; — that it was connected with respiration
and the organ — the lungs ; and that this organ seemed
to be mainly designed by nature for this great end,
since the aeration of the blood could be effected
through other means than this singular apparatus.
That in the insects, the aeration of the blood is in
fact otherwise accomplished, and that in the Crustacea

92 LECTURE THE FOURTH.
and fishes there is the rude form of the lungs, but
not the organ itself; that at last in the birds and
mammalia it is perfectly brought forth, and in man
its remote and final purpose fully disclosed, — the pro
duction of voice and the modifications of speech, the
symbol of reason, and the very means of its perfection,
uniting men in society, exciting the social affections,
strengthening, expressing, and maturing them, and
with them the moral sense, and the intellectual powers,
the whole of which are combined into one delightful
whole, and exhibited and embodied in this astonishing
and divine edifice of language, no less complicated in
its parts than harmonious in its results. That speech is
therefore a part of humanity, as much as the existence of
the social affections, without which, indeed, they could
not well be manifested. That, accordingly, the origin
of speech is not other than the origin of man himself;
it is coeval with his being, and has its origin in God.
That speech therefore existed in primeval society ; and
that the Garden of Eden was vocal with other sounds
than those of the happy irrational creation ; — that there
wanted not then a speech as diversified, and as musical,
and every day as new and original, as were the thoughts
and joyous feelings of the men of that golden period.
That this language could not be artificial, as ours, on
reasons of analogy, but has its type in the slender voca
bulary but expressive tones of that intellectual progeny,
the singing birds of our forests; that then language
must have been the entire, exact, and full expression of
the whole soul, leaving no painful consciousness in the
mind of the utterer, that the sounds did not altogether
yield his sense ; and that, consequently, there could be
no fixed forms of words, no stereotypes of thought
descending from age to age, but the language of men
must have been as the generations of the leaves of the

NATURAL HISTORY OF MAN. 93
trees, new every season, but each word still exactly
expressive, as each tree has also its form of leaf, which
God has given it. to tell its characters, its species, and
its use; and that therefore each man instinctively
understood each other man, as Adam, or the " Man of
that Age," is said, in sacred Writ, to have known the
name of every living thing, that is, the indications of
its true nature, marked on it by the hand of God, —
and if then, of every living thing, why not also those
articulated sounds and tones, which flowed from the
lips of his brother man, which albeit the spontaneous
product of his thought, and born but that hour, and
original and new, yet must have fallen with all mean
ing and expressiveness on the mind of one who wor
shipped God similarly, and viewed all nature with a
consenting mind, and genius, and affection. But in
these latter ages the whole nature of the thing is
changed. We understand not one another's speech,
because our thoughts are now altogether our own, and
no longer fraternal; we are estranged in mind, and
hence in language, mind's representative ; but the gol
den age seemed to revive, as with a brief gleam, in the
days of the first apostles of Christianity ; they had the
gift of understanding all tongues, because they had the
endowment of universal philanthropy; this has been
considered a pure miracle, and it was ; but miracles are
the expression of laws to us unknown, and did not men
entertain foolish ideas about the first language, they
would understand better what was signified by "the
gift of tongues." But that age of christian innocence
quickly passed away; — whether it will be again re
stored, it is not for me to speculate; — nor yet what
must be the ultimate tendency of the present multi
tude of artificial languages, or how they may again be
melted down into a general, and spontaneous, and un-

94 LECTURE THE FOURTH.
artificial language, — from which point they are at pre
sent very remote, and the English most of all : — that,
and many other inquiries on this subject, I shall not
now pursue, for I am anxious to gather up into one
view many of the sentiments of former lectures, and
to survey them, if possible, from two widely differ
ent epochs of history. By that means, we may be
enabled to take some lateral views of our subject, — not
regarding it in front merely, but under various other
aspects, — of ages, of countries, of religions, of systems,
and opinions, flourishing still, or long since extinct.
But, in order to do this rightly and with effect, we
must invest our minds, as it were, with the ideas and
sentiments of past ages ; we must leave our own times,
and our own language, — for I call our own language
that which is at present spoken, whether English, Ger
man, Italian, or French, — for in that is variously stereo
typed the spirit of the age, the intellectual domination,
which subdues us ; — we must divest ourselves of it,
and seeking another language and an ancient epoch,
thence, as from a watch-tower, mark the signs of our
times, and with the view of ascertaining the essential
and immutable principles of man, note the ever-shift
ing features of opinion, sentiment, and engrossing pur
suit, which, various and distracting as they may seem,
are nevertheless the only positive phenomena from
which the true theory of man can ever be determined.
We may consider it now as settled, that |when the
language of a people, the type of its peculiarities, has
ceased to be spoken, and another has arisen in its place,
sprung from the people themselves, as from the native
earth, and at last adopted and polished by the learned,
and made the instrument of their communications, —
the spirit of the age is radically changed, a new dynasty
of thinking has commenced, and it is expressed in this

NATURAL HISTORY OF MAN. 95
new speech. The Latin language, for many ages, was
the sole medium of intercourse between the learned of
Europe, and while this was the case, preserved many
valuable truths under the guise of ancient peculiarities ;
but it reflected few or none of the popular or native
tastes of the country or period. Since its disuse, the
human mind, within the last two hundred years, stands
entirely emancipated from the peculiarities of former
ages, and is left free to invest itself with its own
opinions, and to wear the livery at least of its own
thoughts. How far it is more truly emancipated, it is
not for me to determine ; I am concerned chiefly to
exhibit the natural phases of its history and philosophy,
and that too in such order as they may be most easily
apprehended, whether that of strict method or of ram
bling inquiry. It matters little in what order we
approach the subject, provided we can impress upon
our minds at last the chief and most conspicuous points
of its truth and grandeur. With this view, and to have
the full benefit of contrast, I shall bring before you this
evening St. Augustine and Baron Cuvier, as specimens
of men, and the one of the fifth, and the other of the
nineteenth century.
With the life and character of Cuvier you are already
sufficiently acquainted to understand what he has to
say ; with the life and character of St. Augustine you
are, perhaps, not so familiar. St. Augustine lived in
the close of the fourth, and the beginning of the fifth
century, occupying about the same portion of each,
that Cuvier did of the eighteenth and nineteenth. But
how unlike the times in which they lived ! You are
surrounded with the atmosphere of the nineteenth cen
tury, — it is unnecessary to say any thing of it; but of
the fifth, you are informed through history. It was, in
many respects, a remarkable period; it saw the last

96 LECTURE THE FOURTH.
receding shadows of paganism, or the old Gentile
religion, vanish forever from its long-occupied and
favorite seats, the south and east of Europe. There is
something melancholy, even in the decline of an au
gust form of superstition ; those who understand human
nature can readily imagine with what tenacity the
ancient inhabitants of Italy and Greece clung to those
forms of worship and fascinating rites of polytheism,
which, absurd as they may seem to us, were neverthe
less at one time the sacred and revered expression of
the religious feelings and imaginings of a noble portion
of the human family. A sound philosophy would lead
us to think that many of these forms of superstition
had originated anciently in a just and pure conception
of one God, and his revealed attributes; and in that
primeval era, probably, they established their dominion
over the minds of men, and thence became sanctioned
by the usages of antiquity, and the veneration that is
paid to the opinions and sentiments of earlier ages ; but
succeeding times, in the age of St. Augustine, had long
since ceased to recognize any thing either pure or
rational in the rites of paganism ; if they once embo
died the sentiments of a pure religion, it was no longer
to be found in them, but nevertheless the people still
clung to them with ardent devotion in many parts of
the empire; — and Christianity, in those times, had to
engage in a contest with these antiquated errors, and to
prove their absurdity. This was a contest on which
St. Augustine entered with great zeal, and he has
devoted a large part of the first division of his grand
work, the " City of God," to exposing the absurdities of
the ancient superstition. This exposition is not with
out its interests, on many accounts, and chiefly as an
exhibition of the temper and character of the times ;
you are, while reading it, in the midst of those great

NATURAL HISTORY OF MAN. 97
questions which at the time perplexed and embarrassed
the human understanding, and if you cannot help
smiling occasionally at the extravagance of some, the
thought will also cross your mind, that many of those
inquiries, in which we are now engaged, are not in
their own nature a whit more important, nay, per
haps, a coming age may think them even less so, and
the labors of St. Augustine, which have fallen into
neglect, in these philosophical times, may yet once
more engage the admiration of mankind. And so
much the more may this be the case, as the decay of
religions and their rise, and particularly their periods
of transition, are no less replete with interest, than the
physical revolutions of the globe, the grandeur and
wonderfulness of which are likely to attract the great
est minds of the age, and to the investigation of which,
Cuvier has led the way. Probably, St. Augustine, in
his time, would have regarded such researches as friv
olous or impious, certainly no way to be compared
with his own labors, when for so many years he inves
tigated from the lights of sacred Scripture, what, and
how various might be the forms and essences of truth,
what sentences of condemnation would be passed on
those polluted pagans, who still continued to worship,
under the names of Juno, Jupiter, or Minerva, mali
cious demons, the enemies of the human race, — what
might be their fate, or what their excuse ; and what, on
the contrary, the rewards of those suffering martyrs,
who declared their faith in the face of persecution,
and stood true to their vows, amid the most adverse
and discouraging fortune. As St. Augustine cast his
eyes backwards on the enchaining and beguiling forms
of a lofty and magnificent paganism, — now sinking be
neath the meekness and unpretending simplicity of
Christianity, and saw the old retire, and the new com-
13

9S LECTURE THE FOURTH.
ing to take its place, and rejoiced in the fond antici
pations of an approaching milenium, — a dream which
the earliest fathers habitually indulged, and which the
most recent times have not yet abandoned, — how in
significant to him would have seemed the most indus
trious labors of Cuvier, — those energetic descriptions of
animal life, — those nice and just discriminations, — and
the astonishing instances of successful induction, with
which his works abound. Sixteen centuries after his
time, when every trace of that hostile paganism against
which he warred was obliterated, and Christianity, in
name at least, every where triumphant in the Euro
pean world, could St. Augustine have fancied, that a
philosopher would find no better or worthier employ
ment, than to arrange and classify animals, or to inquire
into the antiquity of the earth, or those physical revolu
tions, which have, at different periods, affected its sur
face ? Could he have thought, that a learned christian,
for such subjects as these, would have abandoned his
own lofty themes, respecting the free-will of man,
original sin, the last conflagration, and the beatifications
of the faithful, and the crowning splendors of "the city
of God." All these were the engrossing topics, the
favorite studies of the fifth century, and their impor
tance seemed to cast all minor subjects in the shade; the
spirit of inquiry was entirely theological, and hardly
could a subject of different character have engaged
serious notice. It is to be regretted, that we are so en
tirely wedded to the prejudices of our own age, and so
much imbued with the contempt of those ages of theo
logical erudition, that we hardly even consider their
ponderous folios worthy of our inspection. But he,
who would comprehend, as far as possible, the true
history of man, will read with care, such works as
these, and imbibe for a time, even their prejudices, (if

NATURAL HISTORY OF MAN. 99
they, were such,) in order to have a better insight into
the real character of the human mind. Nor will his
labors be lost, even in a practical view ; he will find
many of his own prejudices dissipated, he will receive
a more exalted idea of the Christian religion, when he
peruses such works as those of St. Augustine, who de
voted his whole soul to the subject, and endeavored so
earnestly to portray its just features. For my own
part, I have passed some of the most pleasant hours of
my life, in perusing the Latin pages of St. Augustine,
for although the style is far from classical, it has the
charm of perfect originality, and gives utterance often,
to the most sublime and touching sentiment.
As a specimen of his style and manner, I shall trans
late one short paragraph, which never before, I believe,
flowed in English, and I do so the more willingly, as
the ideas are intimately related with the subject of our
lectures :
"ON THE UNIVERSAL PROVIDENCE OF GOD."
"God, the highest and the true, with his word and
his holy spirit, for the three are one, — God, the One,
the almighty, the creator, the maker of all soul and
all body, — in communication with whom all are happy,
who are truly such, who made man a being rational, of
soul and body composed, — who has neither permitted
him sinning to be unpunished, nor yet abandoned him
without compassion, — who to the good and the evil
has given essence in common with the minerals, a
seminal existence in common with vegetables, a sen
sual life in common with animals, and an intelligent
soul in common with angels, — from whom is all
mode, and all species, and all order, from whom is
measure, and number, and weight, from whom every
thing is, that naturally is, of whatever kind or estima-

100 LECTURE THE FOURTH.
tion it be, from whom are seeds of forms, and the
forms of seeds, the motions of seeds and of forms,—
who to flesh has given origin, and beauty, and health,
and fecundity, the disposition of limbs, and vigor, and
harmony, — who in the irrational soul has implanted
memory, and sense, and appetite, but to the rational
soul has superadded thought and intelligence, and will,
— who not only has fashioned the heaven and earth,
not only angel and man, but even on the coating of the
most insignificant insect, on the tiny feather of the
smallest bird, on the most minute flower of the grass,
on the leaflet of the shrub, has bestowed a finish and
absolute fitness of parts ; — He cannot, on any ground
whatever, be supposed to have abandoned the society
of human kind, or to have left them at large, beyond
the contact and government of his providence and
laws  "
With this author then, being not a little conversant,
and also having derived from him a vivid impression of
the character of the age in which he lived, I long
much to be able to convey to you some of those ideas
and views of his mind and sentiments, which I have
received. I seem to myself even now to behold him,
as he was in the prime of life, after the renunciation of
his youthful errors, and when the serene spirit of Chris
tianity had softened and tamed the natural harshness of
his character. I see his rugged countenance soften
into benignity and energetic thought, as I gaze on it,
and what at first seemed a frown on his lofty and
manly forehead, is but the inviting aspect of a daring
and sublime intelligence. There are calmness and
mildness, and severity, at once combined in his looks;
but his severity is not that of an angry temper, but of
a resolute seeking for truth, and indignation of wrong;

NATURAL HISTORY OF MAN. 101
but the elevation of his whole aspect, naturally directed
upwards, shows one, who, even in his search for truth,
was ambitious to meet with her only in her loftier
forms, in her heavenly rather than in her earthly attire.
The youthful Augustine wras one, in whose presence
few would dare to be gay, but none was ever knowrn to
be sad; mirth was sobered, and reason cheered in dis
course with him.
This age of ours is naturally infidel, but sometimes
shows itself not incapable of believing; it has been
listening some time to certain very marvellous tales,
and whether true or false, I take it not upon me here
to say. But you know, that not a few individuals, and
those far from credulous or unphilosophical in other
respects, have been able to credit lately — how a
maiden, without ever moving from her couch, in
Providence, in Rhode Island, could travel in mental
vision, to a distant city, in company with a waking
guide, he himself also standing still, and survey
not a few objects of interest in this renowned city,
and take a faithful inventory of doings and trans
actions, and describe withal most graphically, im
plements and pictures, which none before had ever
seen, except herself and her companion there, — all
this has been credited, and I do not say that I disbe
lieve it; — I only wish, that as ready belief could be
awarded to the fact, (if such could be supposed,) of a
meeting between this St. Augustine, of whose writings
and character, I have been giving some account, and
the late Baron Cuvier, whose noble scientific character
not less significantly marks the spirit of our era, than
did that theological bent of Augustine display the pre
vailing disposition of the fifth century. And it is a
matter of interest to reflect — to those, who have not
Teasoned themselves out of their Christianity, and that

102 LECTURE THE FOURTH.
firm and innate belief, we have of another world — to
reflect, I say, how each age and epoch bring into that
world, their own distinctive contribution of intelli
gence, and thought, and enlarged benevolence. Surely
there, the philosophy of Plato is not divorced, as here,
from the philosophy of Bacon, nor the philosophy of
Bacon from the philosophy of Plato, but men are able
to reason a priori and a posteriori too, — nor is there,
theology in one corner, and science in another, but all
receive the good of all. In short, each age, as it were,
manufactures its own special mental commodity ; but
in the meeting of the ages, in that universal Forum,
while all communicate with all, and without losing
their individual characters, they may be supposed to
come by intuition, into full possession of the ideas of
each other, and to have all their prejudices removed,
and their narrowness extended. The fifth century
might there meet the nineteenth, and in the persons
of Augustine and Cuvier, hold no silly or unphiloso-
phical colloquy, but one mutually instructive, rational^
and sublime, if there be indeed sublimity in truth, as
assuredly there would be, if we could see all its parts
on any one subject, brought into juxta-position, to form
a perfect whole, and not separated, as is generally the
case, by intervals of many centuries.
But, for once, let the interval be supposed to be re
moved, and let two sensible men, for good sense
characterized them both, be believed to have met.
Simplicity, and candor, and truth, must be enduring
traits in the minds of Augustine and Cuvier ; although
born in distant ages, they were not essentially unlike.
St. Augustine. — Yes, Cuvier, your industry was un
doubtedly laudable, and it has extended the domains of
natural knowledge. Newton and yourself have each
in your own peculiar provinces, enlarged the views of

NATURAL HISTORY OF MAN. 103
mankind, and prepared a wider field for the glory of
God, to be signalized, and be made to affect the human
soul to its advantage.
Cuvier. — But, St. Augustine, it has often been
matter of astonishment to me, that you should have
consumed so large a portion of your time, in writing
that work you call "the City of God," the deep myste
ries of which, I must confess, I never could unravel ;
and I have lamented, that talents, so powerful as yours,
should have been employed on a subject, so barren of
useful truth, as that appears to have been.
St. Augustine. — Cuvier, you must not underrate the
importance of that work ; the spirit of the age called
for it, for mine was the age of speculative theology,
yours is devoted to physical research. You delved into
the hidden depths and recesses of nature; I, on the
contrary, attempted to explore those riches unsearch
able, of moral and spiritual value, which are contained
in the sacred Scriptures, and when I wrote my great
work, on the city of God, it was with the design to
show, that the laws which regulate the spiritual com
monwealth, are as fixed and immutable in their char
acter, as those which compel nature herself to be
submissive to the will of the Creator, — which deter
mine the revolution of the seasons, or the succession
of day and night.
Cuvier. — But you forget, Augustine, how your spec
ulations at last terminated. You bound the human
will in shackles of fate, you are the great lord of pre
destination, and your work even now bolsters up that
tottering fabric of mischievous opinions, which have so
long darkened and bewildered the faith of mankind.
St. Augustine. — And it were but another proof,
Cuvier, of the natural servility of the human mind.
But the doctrine in question was in my case unavoid-

104 LECTURE THE FOURTH.
able ; I was driven to it, to raise a rampart against the
Manicheans, whose system of opinions had much in
fested my mind, in my youth. You know their belief
in two principles, which contend for the government of
the world, the one benign, the other malevolent, and
that a perpetual and doubtful war is waged between
them, while mankind are alike exposed to either influ
ence, inclined sometimes to the one, sometimes to the
other. Cuvier. — I have merely learned, Augustine, that
such opinions existed, and that your youth was capti
vated by them.
St. Augustine. — And such, indeed, was the fact; but
when that benignant Religion, whose smiles irradiate
the whole creation, first dawned on my intellect, I
quickly abandoned all these follies.
Cuvier. — So history has informed us ; — and then, by
a rapid transition, you passed from one absurdity to a
worse, you became a fatalist in your creed, and you
made your God the author of evil, in virtue of an irre
vocable decree, and thus fixed on the minds of your
followers, a more dangerous error, than that, from
which you wished to deliver your Manichean associ
ates. St. Augustine. — Cuvier, I cannot acknowledge these
modern errors to be the legitimate offspring of the
theology of the fifth century. I wished to delineate
the form of a spiritual commonwealth, whose laws
are not arbitrary but fixed and capable of being appre
hended by the human mind. Such it appeared to me;
but you know the imperfection of human language,
and how incapable it is, to embody those gleams of
truth, which strike the mind, in its contemplation of
the works of God. And did those who succeed us,
look to the same quarter for evidence, whence we our-

NATURAL HISTORY OF MAN. 105
selves have derived it, instead of studying only that
imperfect language, in which we have delivered it,
fewer errors would descend to posterity, or rather
fewer truths would be transmuted into errors, in the
progress of transmission.
Cuvier. — That is very certain ; but how came man
kind to fall into such error in this case?
St. Augustine. — I was myself partly in fault, Cuvier,
— my language was not sufficiently guarded ; but it was
my solicitude to conquer the Manicheans, which mis
led me, for I designed to establish it, in opposition to
their dogmas, that evil as well as good is under the dis
position of one supreme God, and that nothing either
good or evil can possibly happen, without his permis
sion and knowledge; such is the tenor of those un
changeable laws, which regulate the occurrence and
order of all moral, as well as physical events.
Cuvier. — I am happy to find, Augustine, that your
theology on this point is not so irrational as 1 had been
led to suppose : — but I cannot help thinking, that your
age was too exclusively theological.
St. Augustine. — The nineteenth century is making
amends for that error, Cuvier; in the pursuit of science,
theology is now in danger of being forgotten; nature
has engrossed your whole attention; the ministers of
religion are no longer the best intellects of the age ; the
services of the sanctuary are abandoned altogether to
the hearts of men; their understandings appear to have
found other employments.
Cuvier. — Every period has its own predominant
character, Augustine; mankind, like the individuals
who compose it, are great only by fits and starts, and
in single things; one engrossing pursuit is enough for an
age, and it is then the season for minds of a peculiar
stamp, to show their native superiorities. Had you
14

106 LECTURE THE FOURTH.
been born in the nineteenth century, Augustine, you
would have made but a sorry figure ; your pious medi
tations and profound speculations in theology would
have found but little favor from learned bodies, our
royal societies, and national institutions.
St. Augustine. — Quite as much, I should suppose,
Cuvier, as your own speculations about the antiquity
of the earth, would have been likely to meet with from
a synod of bishops in the fifth century, and indeed, you
say truly, that each age has its own predominant fea
tures, tastes, and propensities, and rightly too, that
each may be fitted and inclined to discharge the
offices which are allotted it, and to make its own dis
tinctive contributions to the general stock of human
knowledge; and it was not therefore without reason,
that you were engaged in an exposition of the or
der and laws of the animal kingdom, and I was sum
moned to a different task, to unfold the economy of
"the city of God."
Cuvier. — I am willing to believe, that the task as
signed to each, by the requisitions of the age was most
propitious and happy, and such as no chance could
have directed.
St. Augustine. — But theology came first, science has
succeeded. Cuvier. — And perhaps from the succession, the hap
piest results may yet follow.
St. Augustine. — There is reason to presume so
much, — but your conjecture?
Cuvier. — I see but this, Augustine, that your "city
of God" is far too resplendent an object for the weak
and feeble sight of mortals to contemplate, and that
there is needed a mirror, if I may say so, to reflect its
splendors, with so mild and natural a light, that its
form may be seen, without its overpowering brightness;

NATURAL HISTORY OF MAN. 107
and if the sciences of modern ages can supply this de
sideratum, (as I have a presentiment they may,) suc
ceeding times will have cause to congratulate them
selves on the possession of double advantages, — they
will have the light of your period with the demonstra
tions of ours. — in practical union.
St. Augustine. — Your anticipations coincide with
my own hopes, and 1 see in the order of nature, and
especially in the arrangements of the animal kingdom,
the very mirror you speak of.
Cuvier. — And a very perfect mirror, indeed, it seems
to me.
St. Augustine. — And so much the more glorious,
when men shall make the right use of it.
Cuvier. — But do you see any reason to apprehend,
that this may be reluctantly done, — or what signs of
our times do you observe from a favorable position?
St. Augustine. — I entertain good hopes, Cuvier, but
as you have just now said, that you considered our age
to have been too exclusively theological, too much
addicted, 1 presume you mean, to the abstractions of
religion, or too easily misled by the delusive lights of
opinion, so I see your times ready to incur a danger of
a similar kind, or rather indeed already in the midst
of it.
Cuvier. — I am not sure that I understand what dan
ger in particular you allude to.
St. Augustine. — The danger of being too much
enamored with their own discoveries, Cuvier, — no
slight one, you will allow, or one which a wise man
would not most ardently wish to be delivered from.
Cuvier. — I must confess it is so, Augustine, the
most fascinating species of danger; but yet it does not
strike me, that our age is so much exposed on this
score, as some others; we have discarded the fallacies

108 LECTURE THE FOURTH.
of absurd opinion, and fixed our scrutiny on the laws
of nature; not systems, but facts, now challenge the
admiration of mankind. Surely our own speculations
no longer mislead us.
St. Augustine.— And so it always is, Cuvier; each
age believes that to be firm ground, where it is itself
treading. For, do you suppose, that the fifth century
believed, that they were contending only for their own
opinions, when they were vindicating the true texts
and doctrines of the sacred Scriptures. But we are
short-sighted, Cuvier, remarkably short-sighted ;— and
your century and the last having entered on a fresh
field of investigation, have become blind to the value of
that better truth, which was at least, earnestly sought,
if not actually attained in former ages. And because
physical truth is now the main object of your affection
and search, you have nearly forgotten, that there is any
other in existence.
Cuvier. — But at least you will acknowledge that we
have succeeded in the attainment of our object?
St. Augustine. — With due allowance, Cuvier ; — and
some of you have attained it, and are modest enough to
appreciate its quality and degree : but not such I think,
is the general spirit of the age, and of this I speak.
Cuvier. — What is, Augustine, pray declare ; let the
unprejudiced light of the fifth century fall upon the
nineteenth, that we may see ourselves, and also you.
St. Augustine. — I will only indicate what I feel and
think, most noble Cuvier, and your candor will excuse.
But it seems to me an error of your period, that it is
too much disposed to consider what it has discovered
of truth, in any case, as the whole that belongs to it,
and from the admiration of a few circumstances de
tected by experiments and instruments, is prone to
fancy that it has led the truth captive, and that the

NATURAL HISTORY OF MAN. 109
very work indeed of Omnipotence is subjected to its
gaze; — and in short, Cuvier, you appear to me, (I
speak of the multitude of philosophers,) to be falling
into the same error, in regard to physical science,
which was so fatal to us in the fifth century, in regard
to Divine knowledge. The real Word of God was
lost sight of, in fastening our attention exclusively on
those points of its doctrines which we endeavored to
bring within the compass of our definitions and cate
gories. And many of the simple, at last, had a juster
impression of the whole than the learned, who, in the
examination of minute parts, lost sight of the general
bearing, and the divine inspiration. Your errors, I say,
in your own province, are not very unlike to those ;
you are constantly mistaking the circumstances of
natural operations for the things themselves, and the
grandeur of nature is felt the less for it, and your own
importance the more. So that, let me tell you, the arro
gance of the age is become excessive, (1 hope many are
exempt,) and you have not only lost sight of the living
cause of physical phenomena, but do not even see the
more natural and obvious grandeur of the effects, while
from a species of self-admiration you laud your own
times, and depreciate ours, that one might be inclined
to believe, that wisdom was not born until the eighteenth
century at least, and did not learn to speak until the
nineteenth, — when you have invented for her a new
language of chemical and other learned terms, which,
at the same time serve very well to emblazon your
own discoveries, — to rivet your attention on these and
on yourselves.
Cuvier. — But you must allow that this language has
become necessary?
St. Augustine. — I am very far from being disposed to

110 LECTURE THE FOURTH.
undervalue the language or the facts, which it serves
to express; but you know what an influence words
exercise on the minds of the multitude ; and while the
new vocabulary of science recalls those parts of physi
cal actions which are explained, it leaves the others,
much the most numerous and generally the most admi
rable, altogether out of sight, so that a more broken and
imperfect view of the beauty and greatness of those
natural occurrences is, at last, often taken, than if the
mind were left to its own general and unbiassed im
pressions of them.
Cuvier. — I must confess there is reason in what you
say, and I acknowledge that this evil is incident to the
popular views of modern discoveries.
St. Augustine. — And it will receive the best illus
tration from your own science of anatomy and physio
logy. We preachers of the fifth century, whose fund
of natural knowledge was exceedingly scanty, indulged
at least a feeling of reverence and awe, when we con
templated the works of nature, and we called them the
works of God. And when we spoke of man, it was as
the image of God, for we had not yet learned from
anatomy this material science, to think of man as an
image of the animals.
Cuvier. — Then you viewed him generally, not par
ticularly ?
<S'/. Augustine. — True, we did so.
Cuvier. — But what think you then of the compari
son now more common, I mean that to which you
refer, that man wears the image of animated nature,
and is at the head of the scale, the supreme animal,
who, " with front serene, governs the rest ?"
St. Augustine. — It introduces naturalism into the
ideas of the crowd, the unintelligent crowd of servile

NATURAL HISTORY OF MAN. Ill
philosophers, wiio have never seen what you see,
Cuvier, and never will, until they acknowledge the
same supernal light.
Cuvier. — I am loth to believe it.
St. Augustine. — But it is true, — take notice only
in what manner they view the most exalted acts of
life, — they really see nothing in them but the modern
discoveries of their analysis. What a mystery to us
was breathing, — the constant remembrancer of that
day of Creation, when " God formed man of the dust
of the ground, and breathed into his nostrils the breath
of life," and when we reflected on the respiration of a
human being we saw, as it were, that divine transaction
before us : it was a standing memorial to us of the most
conspicuous work of creation, and a seal of its truth,
and we therefore regarded it with an almost trembling
reverence. But now your modern philosophy has dis
covered  what? that when we breathe we appro
priate oxygen, and that caloric and carbon are disen
gaged; and descanting on these wonders of her own
finding, has nearly extinguished that natural sentiment
of religion, with which these, the most sacred of the
works of nature are accustomed to be regarded by all,
who look at them rather in their own native unble
mished beauty, than as expounded in the terms of
science. Cuvier. — But you do not consider it forbidden to
explore into the mysteries of nature, and to detect the
laws of physical action ?
St. Augustine. — No, Cuvier, no; and it is possible it
may be done modestly, and by those who do not see
nature the less vividly and naturally as a whole, on
account of the few notices they have taken of the fixed
order of events. These are performing a service, the
importance of which has yet to be appreciated. That

112 LECTURE THE FOURTH.
it may be so, the spirit of the past must re-descend on
the spirit of the present, and the infant must mix with
man. Cuvier. — I understand you to say, that the infantile
simplicity of primitive times must be combined with
the stern philosophy of the present age.
St. Augustine. — Even so.
Cuvier. — But what points of probable harmony do
you perceive?
St. Augustine. — I perceive many. And neither do I
despair that an amicable intercourse may be established
between them, since what should hinder that ages as
well as countries should engage in an exchange of their
advantages, that the superfluities of the one may supply
the deficiencies of the other. I will not be so wedded
to prejudice as to say that the fifth has no need of the
nineteenth century ; I do not claim for my age a supe
riority of knowledge, but a greater elevation of mind, —
no, not that, but I should say a more rational end, for
it was to find God in every thing, and to delineate his
attributes ; and this, I am sure, is a worthier pursuit,
than to court nature ambitiously, and to settle her
laws ; — but at the same time I must confess that our
ignorance of nature often beguiled us into superstition,
and our partial acquaintance with her laws limited our
resources of illustration.
Cuvier. — I am rejoiced to hear, St. Augustine, that
you are ready then to concede to us this merit, that we
have at least checked the progress of superstition, and
provided a fund of agreeable information.
St. Augustine. — And it is here indeed where you
reap a just distinction ; — and it will be no mean praise,
I think, that you have opened these rich sources of
discovery. You have furnished theology with a new
language, and that the most expressive kind, because

NATURAL HISTORY OF MAN. 113
congenial : for the expression of natural facts and their
laws affords the most appropriate symbols, and, if I
may so say, connate, — for the exposition of theological
truth. And this truly is a most valuable acquisition,
especially now, that the language of theology has be
come technical and obsolete, and lost its power over
the human understanding.
Cuvier. — Then we philosophers of modern times,
according to this account, have been employing our
selves, all this while, in constructing a new language
for the use of you, the theologians, and of settling its
grammar and syntax ?
St. Augustine. — Assuredly, Cuvier, for in this light
precisely do I now view your valuable labors; and
surely you cannot consider the services which you have
been thus rendering to the best interests of mankind,
as insignificant or deserving of regret ?
Cuvier. — By no means, — and I can only express my
sense of gratification, in having at last drawn from you
a confession, that neither has the nineteenth century
been wanting in useful contributions to the general
benefit of the human race.
St- Augustine. — No, Cuvier, I never could hold from
your times that honor ; — I would only gladly lessen or
curb that over-weening conceit which seems to have
seized the men of your generation, that no real wisdom
was ever sought after, far less obtained, until the dawn
of your modern epoch : here lies your error, here your
danger ; for the objects we had in view, and especially
the Christians, who lived in the centuries before us, —
however imperfectly reached, — were still of the noblest
and best kind, — no other than to obtain a direct and
certain knowledge of that Being, whose spirit directs
nature, and has impressed upon her the most benevo
lent and unerring laws. 15

114 LECTURE THE FOURTH.
Cuvier. — But you failed in the attempt.
St. Augustine.— We did often, but mostly in the
expression of our views, for our sentiments were more
just than our language.
Cuvier. — And you expect now to be more success
ful—with the benefit of this new language?
St. Augustine.— Yes, for the works of God being
connate with his Word, when the laws of the former
are perfectly ascertained, they will be a just expression
of the truths of the latter.
Cuvier. — Then, 0 glorious philosophy of the nine
teenth century, if such indeed, are the distinctions
which await it !
St. Augustine. — It will be invested with a light not
its own, the purpureum lumen Juventce.
Cuvier. — It will be beautiful as the earth itself,
under the first beams of the morning.
St. Augustine. — And the sight you must allow, is a
glorious one, when mountains, lawns, and streams first
burst upon the view, under the light of the rising sun.
Cuvier. — And such, you conceive, will be the result,
when the light of the theology of the earlier ages is
poured upon the varied and extended science of mod
ern times?
St. Augustine. — Such are my anticipations.
Cuvier. — May they be fulfilled, but the signs of the
times 
St. Augustine. — On the whole, I consider them aus
picious, — a gentle spirit of peace, — an unwearying
appliance of investigation, — the wars of theology sink
ing fast into oblivion and contempt, unless among the
silliest of mankind, who are fain still to fight their bat
tles over again ; — but the wisest and the true-hearted
have engaged in a better contest, — to subdue the
frowardness of their own spirits, — to find the pledge

NATURAL HISTORY OF MAN. 115
and earnest of truth, intertwined with the olive of
peace, rather than the laurels of victory.
Cuvier. — I accept the omen, — but what of philoso
phy? St. Augustine. — Philosophy will advance.
Cuvier. — I am to understand then, that you are of
those, who look for progress, and expect not the human
race to be stationary ?
St. Augustine. — No more than the individual. The
earlier ages of Christianity were the infancy of the
modern races ; and the best and most natural impres
sions were then made, — to be deepened by philosophy
and reason. But theology takes precedence of philoso
phy, and but corroborates her truths, as age but ex
plains the impressions of childhood.
Cuvier. — I most cheerfully concede this point now,
my most youthful Augustine, and the more so, for that
my best hopes are excited by our interview. And
surely this intercourse of distant ages has shed a new
halo of light and glory around the history of man, —
since such are the renovations, wilich probably await
all the sciences, and pursuits, and aspirations, of hu
manity. St. Augustine. — And indeed, my beloved Cuvier,
such may most certainly be expected.
Cuvier. — I hail their rise.

LECTURE THE FIFTH;

PREDOMINANCE OF THE RELIGIOUS SENTIMENT,
IN THE EARLY AGES.

The failure of all attempts by philosophers to define precisely the Christian
religion, a proof of its divine origin. — In the progress of nations, the religious
faculties are first developed  In this state of the human mind only, could a
revelation of the Deity have been made. — Hence in the writings and monu
ments of early ages, the religious idea predominates over the scientific  It
is an error of modern times, that they seek science even in the sacred Scrip
tures. — A fabled representation of a tablet, with concentric zones, within
which the animal kingdom is classified, — the human form embossing the
whole ; — designed to show that the animal creation reflects and typifies the
attributes and affections of man, — a fact distinctly felt by the earlier ages. —
These, through their arts oi emblematizing their ideas of God, fell into idola
try ; — so modern times through scientific definitions, are in danger of ob
scuring the true import of divine revelation.
The age of St. Augustine was rife of theological
questions. I spoke of it in my last lecture as char
acterized by Christian simplicity ; I find it necessary to
retract part of that eulogium, for although this existed
still in a great degree, among the great body of Chris
tians, yet the tone of abstruse speculation rose too high
to allow the gentler and milder graces of the Christian
religion to display themselves. The Greek philosophy
corrupted the simplicity of the Christian religion, and
by much analysis and definition of its tenets, confused
and degraded the undescribable beauty and grandeur of
our sacred faith. There is nothing which more clearly

118 LECTURE THE FIFTH.
establishes the divine original and constitution of the
Christian religion, than the failure of all attempts by
its philosophers to tell what it is, and after what man
ner precisely, and for what reasons it produces those
salutary effects on the human mind, which we all can
witness, but none of us can fully comprehend. The
whole subject is characterized by the same mystery,
which we find to veil all those operations of nature,
which fall under our inspection ; we see certain phe
nomena and established relations, but when we ques
tion ourselves in regard to their essential connections
and necessary laws, we are lost in useless and painful
conjecture. Do we know any thing perfectly in re
gard to the animal actions of our bodies; do we know
how the food we receive into the stomach is assimilated
to our system ? — we know it is subjected to the action
of a menstruum, which we name the gastric juice, but
alas, how little knowledge of the actual process does
this discovery or this term convey to us; — it is the
name of one of the means of an action which we do
not understand, and which we may safely predict we
never can fully comprehend, although it is quite pos
sible, that other relations and facts and phenomena in
regard to it may be discovered. But every act that is
purely natural, and not artificial, every act that has the
seal of Divinity upon it, and not the impression merely
of art, is in virtue of its origin incomprehensible, that is,
incapable of being defined or conceived exactly as it
really is. It has certain obvious marks, which serve to
make it known, to describe it, so that it can be identi
fied, but the entire assemblage of its qualities, and their
mutual adaptations and actions are beyond the reach of
human intelligence. Who can understand, that such
an organ as an eye, and none other, is adequate to the
production of vision; who could imagine that special

NATURAL HISTORY Or MAN. 119
nerves were necessary to receive distinctive impressions,
now of taste, now of sound, now of smell, now of vis
ion; or who could have understood without antecedent
experience, that even nerves were at all necessary for
the exhibition of such actions; or who knows what
these nerves are, unless as to their general uses ; — do
we know their composition or the kind of action which
they sustain ? — we are entirely in the dark, in regard
to these divine contrivances, or the methods which be
long to them ; — and we even reckon it no small acqui
sition, to have attained to this much, namely, to under
stand, that we know nothing at all justly, and verily,
about any of these things. And the reason is, that
there is interwoven with the texture of every divine
work, the symbol of infinity, and yet each work or act
of nature has that upon it which invites our examina
tion, — seems to promise an entire explanation of itself.
This is, among infinite other proofs, one also of the
goodness and wisdom of the Deity, namely, that al
though he has constructed and planned each work, so
as to be incomprehensible, as to its essential nature, yet
there is always a sufficient number of its relations ex
posed to our understanding, that we may perceive
them, and obtain a glimpse of that wisdom, that skill
ineffable with which every part is devised. This is the
highest reward of our reason, on the field of natural in
vestigation. To see but in part, to know but in part,
is the condition, on which we at present enjoy our in
tellectual being. But the Christian religion, I have
said, bears in this also, the stamp of its divine original,
that all attempts of mortal men fully to describe it, and
to exhibit it in their books and their discourses with
those very true and living features, which it shows as
it looks from heaven, have proved hitherto vain, and
not seldom pernicious. Every description of the

120 LECTURE THE FIFTH.
human body which rivets our attention more steadily
on its wonderful phenomena, and renders new to us,
what was before familiar, is beneficial, as unveiling the
workmanship of God, and usefully affecting the mind;
but farther than this, those mechanical explanations of
living actions which every one can feel, do not describe
the millionth part of the mechanism and truth which
they would unfold, are prejudicial and injurious to the
mind rather than otherwise, and obscure the natural
dignity of the subject which they were designed to
explain. The same remark will apply to the Christian
religion ; the grace, dignity, and sweetness of the living
body of truth, is beyond all our powers of description,
and although indeed, there must be a divine reason for
every item of its arrangement, and the fashion of every
part be divine, yet often must our attempts to exhibit
these minutiae of perfection, and to describe their uses,
be miserably inadequate, sometimes perhaps even per
nicious; for men not being able to see the thing in our
definitions of it, mistake the distorted, imperfect, soiled
image, for the object, and hence despise that which
they have never either seen or known.
These observations are necessary to be made, in order
to understand some very wonderful phenomena in regard
to the natural history of man, which I may have occa
sion to refer to, and which 1 wish now briefly to state;
and they are phenomena, which are intimately blended
with the history of religion, and have been but slightly
noticed by philosophers. And they refer to the intellec
tual characters of nations and the prevailing bent of their
investigations, and that too, in the different periods of
their career. And lest there should appear to be no rea
son in what I am to advance, or no analogy, — I wish to
recall to your minds the facts, to which I adverted in a
former lecture, of a temporary provision or mechanism,

NATURAL HISTORY OF MAN. 121
sometimes set up by nature, and afterwards dispensed
with ; and I gave as an instance the temporary appara
tus of the bronchia or gills in the tadpole, which are
afterwards laid aside, as the animal advances to a more
perfect state, and enjoys an atmospheric respiration.
These to be sure are instances of physical adaptations
to circumstances; but at all events they show that
nature is not bound to one order of action in bringing
even the same creature through all its stages of devel
opment. While the preservation of the individual is
the end throughout, the means adapted to secure that
end are shifted, remodeled, obliterated, entirely changed.
1 do not wish you to deduce from this instance of tem
porary adjustments any more than it will actually
sanction, but at all events it is ascertained, that in the
same creature, nature has provided two distinct sets of
organs of breathing or respiratory machines, one em
ployed in the earlier stage of development, the other
in the latter or more perfect. There is something
analogous to this in the case of the human race ; there
are two orders of faculties in the human mind, the
religious and the scientific, and the first respect the
Deity, and the other nature, or the person of the work
man and his works. Now it is a remarkable fact in the
natural history of man, that the first order of faculties,
namely the religious, should be the first evolved, in the
advancement of nations, and the scientific the last.
There is a grand temporary adjustment here, in regard
to a future end, as remarkable quite, as the temporary
apparatus of respiration just alluded to.
In the ruder and earlier ages of the world, man
kind respire the atmosphere of religion rather than
science ; they see more of Deity and less of nature than
in later times. I do not say they are better men, but
they are more religious men; their minds are more
16

122 LECTURE THE FIFTH.
deeply imbued with the spirit of heaven, or tainted
with the breath of hell than ours. It is from overlook
ing this great fact in the natural history of man, that
numerous misconceptions are entertained. We smile
at their interpretations of natural phenomena,— Vulcan
fabricating Jupiter's thunderbolts,— Ceres, the goddess
of corn, first teaching men to plough the ground,— the
gods of the rivers pouring out the fertilizing floods from
the urns they hold in their hands. In all these expla
nations they sought not natural or scientific reasons,
and held them in no estimation ; they merely sought
the indulgence of their religious tastes and propensities,
the gratification of that temporary instinct, with which
all rude nations are endowed, and for the wisest purpo
ses, that a foundation may be laid in religion, and in
impressions of the Deity, for the future and perfect
superstructure of human society. And shall we say
that these impressions are all false and absurd? — The
images, in which they are represented may be so, the
type may be badly or unfaithfully struck, but still the
design and end of the impression is just; much more
so, than when science mingles itself with theology, and
breaks the integrity of the impression in the attempt to
copy it ; in the first instance, the impression may be
imperfect from the defect of the material on which it
is made, but yet may still be in a certain sense, divine
and original; but the copy taken of it by science is
clearly artificial, and therefore a counterfeit. So far
therefore, from its being made a reproach against reli
gion, that its forms spring up among a rude and illite
rate people, it is perhaps the best guaranty of its truth
and reality, that it has originated among such a people;
the impressible and infantile faculties only were then
developed; and the elementary characters of nature,
in which is written the will of the Deity, were then

NATURAL HISTORY OF MAN. 123
read in their natural, pure, and unsophisticated light,
and when afterwards reduced to artificial writing,
it was not as matter of philosophy or abstract rea
soning, for that springs from science, but as matter
of fact still, — matter of fact revealing theological
truth. Thus, when they looked at the heaven and
the earth, not with the eyes of science, but with
the eyes of religion, they recognized that the gods
had formed these. When the human mind was in
this stage of its development in Asia, through that
benignant Providence, which has produced all this
beneficent order which we behold, a revelation was
made to man of the one true and living God : — if it be
asked why the same distinct and vivid and impressive
revelation is not made now in the same way in ordi
nary men — I ask in return why the circulation of the
blood, for instance, should be different in the adult
from what it is in the fetus ? " The physical circum
stances have altogether changed," you say; — and in
the other, the spiritual circumstances have altogether
changed. And if there is no violation of the order of
nature, as we choose to call it, merely in consequence
of a new direction given to the current of the vital
fluid, why should we deem it any infringement of the
established laws of spiritual order, that the flow of the
divine truth through the human soul should take place
differently now, and in the infantile states of human
society. And are there not temporary divine provisions
to be expected in the one case as well as in the other,
— in the moral development of the species, just as
naturally and rightly, as in the physical development
of the individual? And judging from the aspect of one
stage of the development, what good reason have we
to establish, from that partial view, the necessary and
indispensable order of the whole? The laws of crea-

124 LECTURE THE FIFTH.
tion no doubt, are unchangeable, but we must be sure
that we take in the whole, from the first to the last, in
pronouncing upon them, especially where there is a
visible progression, as in the case of the human species.
— And what shall we say to another view of the sub
ject; — if there did exist, as we firmly believe there did,
antecedently to the art of writing, and our present
modes of reasoning, a people, who derived from the
simple instincts of their being (the sweet, and clear, and
unequivocal impressions of their Maker's Hand and
Mind on their minds,) the perfect and distinct con
sciousness that He is One, and the Author of all which
they beheld good and beautiful, — I say, if it could have
been made known to this people through the anticipa
tions of prophecy, that there would arise after them a
race of men, who would gather all these impressions
and thoughts, and this knowledge, not from their own
minds, and the direct communications of God, but
from books, — from without, and certain artificial marks
called writing, and sounds still more artificial, and cer
tain heaps and combinations of these called reasoning,
but so confused and indistinct withal that angry con
flicts and much uncertainty would prevail, respecting
even the most elementary and vital truths, to them
selves so clear, and indisputable, as for example, re
specting the being of God, and the kind of worship
most acceptable to Him, — could such simple people
have readily conceived all this, or seen how it could
possibly occur, unless as something miraculous ? That
they would not readily have believed it, we are not at
liberty to think, since even the shadow of infidelity
was to them unknown, and we suppose the intimations
of the prophecy to have been divine. In fact it is
most unphilosophical to suppose that the same mode of
becoming intelligent existed in all ages as now ; espe-

NATURAL HISTORY OF MAN. 125
cially since we see in the eastern nations, even now, as
well as among barbarians, that those faculties by which
men apprehend a Deity of some sort or other, are more
developed among them than among others. And there
are therefore the strongest grounds for the presump
tion, (even if we were not otherwise informed of it)
that at a period much anterior to our modern civiliza
tion a revelation of the one God was made to mankind,
when the simple fact could be admitted with reve
rence and undoubting belief, and the integrity and
justness of those sublime impressions be left pure and
uncontaminated by the touch of an earth-born philoso
phy. If this be so, then we have arrived at an impor
tant fact in the natural history of man, a fact greatly
more valuable than any we have yet hit upon ; for if
this be actually so, namely, that the religious impres
sions of the universe, the divine characters written on
it, be the first that are stamped upon the human mind,
and this, too, through a marked law and ordination
of the 'Deity for the sake of the future well-being
of all succeeding generations, — that as the heart and
brain are the organs first developed in the new-formed
man, being those most essential to physical life, so the
religious mind is the first unfolded in the progress of
nations, and the religious impressions are the first
made, being the most essential to the social state, — it
will follow that in all the early writings and monu
ments of the first ages, religion must predominate over
science, God over nature, and nature over art. Now
you will recollect, that we showed, in a former lecture,
that it was possible so to regard an animal as to see
nothing more in it but what is merely mechanical,
and that some have so considered animals, — "living
machines;" but this is to invert the order of view;
and certainly the natural as well as right perception, is

126 LECTURE THE FIFTH.
to regard first the animal, and to consider the mechani
cal aspect as but the basis or subservient ground on
which the idea of the animal is rendered only more
conspicuous and illustrious. And thus it is that the
reigning idea, as it were, bends and turns every thing
into itself. If the mechanical be first regarded, con
trary to the natural, however, as well as right percep
tion, even the animal itself may at last be affirmed to
be a machine ; but, contrariwise, if the animal be first
regarded, then even the very mechanism of the parts
itself will come correctly to be considered as animal.
And in this we can see an emblem and illustration of
the religion of the first ages : as respects the mechanical
or physical laws of nature, they neither affirmed nor
denied them ; their minds were altogether intent on a
different idea, — and that was God ; and every thing
was seen under the light of that perception, until even
time and space themselves vanished like shadows
beneath its brilliancy : organization, mechanism, natu
ral occurrences, were all things, but merely subser
vient things; this was the note first struck, and it
vibrated afterwards through the entire frame-work of
nature — in the beginning god created the
heaven and the earth. Read and remark how
this predominant idea recurs in every succeeding verse
of that glorious chapter of creation : read and you will
perceive how our modern science dwindles into insig
nificance beneath the majesty of a pure and ancient
religion ; how even time and space themselves, on
which all our science is built, sink into obscurity and
littleness before the face of Him who created them,
and to whom a thousand years are but as one day.
God said let the dry land appear, and it was so, —
here, an entire series of physical revolutions of im
mense extent are contracted into an instant, in order

NATURAL HISTORY OF MAN. 127
that the mind may see that the emergence of the new
continents from the sea is the act of Divine omnipo
tence and providence ; and it is not the less so, although
geology and the scrutiny of science should now indi
cate that it may have occupied many millions of years
in its accomplishment. God said let the dry land ap
pear, and it was so, — here the theological truth predo
minates over the scientific truth, and affects us accord
ingly with its natural and true sublimity. But on
these subjects a hint is enough ; it is my business, in
these lectures, not to expound theology, but to exhibit
the natural history of man, and the rise of philosophy.
I would merely sum up all I have to say on this subject
with this affirmation and comparison, that as in the
body of man there is nothing which is not human,
while at the same time the animal and mechanical are
therein in subserviency to this, and humanized, so in
that body of revealed truth, there exists nothing at all
which is not divine and religious, and that all that is
geological and historical is but subserviently so, and
exists not by any means for itself alone, but as a body
of matter to support, to exhibit, and to convey the
other. But, as I have said, the order of mental facul
ties pre-eminently developed in modern ages is scien
tific, and hence it is, that, in our constant hankering
after science, we seek it even in the divine Scriptures,
forgetting that it is there merely subservient, not prin
cipal, imbued with a light not its own, as the matter
which becomes part of a living body is endowed with
its vitality. In the natural history of man, I have had
already occasion to show the error of those, who do not
see in the animal body the animal so blended with the
mechanical and the chemical, that these merely seem
to be, the other really is, all, — and again, in the human
body, the human so intimately blended with the

128 LECTURE THE FIFTH.
animal, that the former is every thing, the latter only
appears to be : — I am now called upon to note a more
dangerous error, that of those who, in the interpretation
of a Book compiled in the earlier ages, under the espe
cial providence of God, when theology was principally
regarded, do not see that the divine is there so blended
with the human and the natural, that the human and
the natural have become themselves divine, —
"Fountain of light, thyself invisible
Amidst the glorious brightness where thou sit'st
Throned inaccessible, but when thou shad'st
The full blaze of thy beams, and through a cloud
Drawn round about thee, like a radiant shrine, —
Dark with excessive bright thy skirts appear!"
But I am glad to be able to illustrate this subject in
a different manner, and from a source which will not
be considered undeserving of attention, although deli
cacy forbids me more particularly to disclose it.
" The engraving was a very remarkable one," said
the stranger, " and such that I had never before seen
any thing resembling it." What engraving do you
mean ? said I. " That tablet of stone which I before
spoke of to you, but to which you did not seem to pay
much attention." Pray describe it more minutely,
said I ; it may perhaps be interesting to those who are
present to hear your own account of it.
" It was shown to me, said he, by the philosopher,
who also gave me a very particular account of the
signification of each hieroglyphic object which was
impressed upon the tablet, and which greatly interested
me. He said that such representations were common
in the eastern country, and that I would see them, par
ticularly in the interior of the Chinese empire. This
tablet of which I speak belonged to the Temple of the
Sun, a ruined edifice, for the Persians are no longer

NATURAL HISTORY OF MAN. 129
permitted to indulge their favorite worship of this
beneficent luminary; but, said the philosopher, many
monuments still remain throughout the whole country
of this fascinating species of ancient idolatry. But it
was a pernicious species of idolatry, observed I. Not
so, anciently, answered the philosopher, for the idolatry
was attempered and elevated by a rational conception
of tlie meaning of the emblems employed in the wor
ship and the unity of God, and his beneficence and
wisdom, were imaged in the rites which were an
ciently observed ; but 1 know not how it is, he farther
remarked, there is an extreme proneness in all the
oriental nations to forget the object in the representa
tion, — to lose sight of the idea, and to reverence only
the type. We have had most perfect and expres
sive rites in which to symbolize the Godhead, and to
exhibit the relations of men to the source of intelli
gence and life, but they soon became to us dead and
inert forms of objects, — books which none can read
and understand, but which all are willing blindly and
stupidly to reverence. But that could hardly happen
in regard to this engraving on this tablet, said I, for
although 1 do not understand it, yet it seems to me so
divine and expressive of glorious truths of some order
or other, that I cannot help admiring it, and feeling
that there is somewhat lofty and intelligent even in
those mute figures which are impressed upon it.
The philosopher then exposed it more fully to view,
so that I might see every part of it. It was a large cir
cular stone, which you would have supposed, from the
appearance, although the circle seemed perfect and of
great extent, had not been hewn out into that form
artificially, but had always existed so naturally. It
was marked with innumerable zones, formed by con
centric circles, — from the centre towards the circum-
17

130 LECTURE THE FIFTH.
ference. I tried to count them, but I found I could
not, for although they seemed at first very distinct, and
well defined, yet when I attempted to distinguish them
closely, they ran into one another in so intricate a
manner that I soon abandoned the attempt as hopeless.
This is very remarkable, said I to the philosopher; I
thought these concentric spaces or zones on this tablet
were very exactly defined, but the moment I attempt
to ascertain and to number them, all instantly appears
confusion, and I lose my distinct impressions of the
tablet. That, said he, is what almost all strangers
complain of, those especially who are more curious
than ordinary ; — for the greater part are satisfied with
this superficial or general glance of it, and never lose
the vividness of their first impression, but leave it with
an admiration perfect and entire. This, I suppose,
said I, is a part of the wonder or mystery of this
tablet. Certainly, said he, it is full of significancy.
But look, said he, more attentively on the zones; —
what do you see? I have noticed, said I, from the
first that each of them is stocked with animals or living
creatures, which are peculiar to each zone, and not
found in any of the others ; here, said I, at this part
seem to me to be zebras, — filling this entire space ; —
it is very wonderful! — I thought the limits within
which they are confined remarkably distinct . and
clear ; but now, — as I stoop more closely to examine
the lines, — I am again confused; — but there, I am
sure that orbit is stocked with elephants, — how
well stamped are these figures, with what a skilful
chisel has all this been executed; — and this zone I
recognize as assigned to, — horses, I believe, — and here,
I am certain, are the sheep, — and here again are
oxen, — this is wonderfully done; — but these birds in
alto relievo, how dexterously are they placed there ;—

NATURAL HISTORY OF MAN. 131
but that farthest extremity, said I, what does it repre
sent? The ocean, said he, which you read of in
iEschylus, the Greek tragedian, as surrounding the
world, for so their imaginations conceived of it, not as
a fact, but from such tablet as this, whereon the
nature of things was represented to them. This then,
said I, is a picture or representation of the earth, or of
universal nature, which I behold ? No, said he, it is
not an ordinary picture, or engraving, or map of nature,
which you are now looking on, but something of a
more sacred and higher character. But you shall
see. Then withdrawing from the tablet to some dis
tance, and taking his position there, he desired me to
approach him. This consecrated tablet, said he, be
longed, as I have informed you, to the Temple of the
Sun ; — what artist engraved it, or designed it, is not
known ; it is of very high antiquity, and many of the
figures are now nearly obliterated by age, although so
great is the number indented upon it, and so curiously
are these zones you have attempted to trace arranged,
that none have yet been able to tell either the num
ber of them, or their exact limits, or to enumerate the
species of animals, whether quadrupeds, birds, fishes, or
insects, which seem to crowd every part of it, and yet
on farther examination are found to be confined each
to its own appropriate zone : — and you see what num
bers of fishes, said he, on the farther circumference. I
again took a cursory view of the tablet, from the new
position I now occupied, and afterwards a more minute
one, and I was astonished to find that it seemed again
in many respects new to me, and I could discover a
greater variety of all sorts of living creatures on its
surface than I had been able to detect before in the
first position from which I viewed it. But I still
noticed the same distinct appearance of the concentric

132 LECTURE THE FIFTH.
circles and interposed zones, each teeming with its
own inhabitants. Here, said 1, is order indeed, but
yet what a labyrinth ! it is an order that bids defiance
to all my faculties of discrimination to mark it. Be
contented, said he, you will discover the order more
perfectly when you do not endeavor to grasp it with
too close an inspection : it is number without number,
and limit without limit ; it is finiteness to the careless
glance, but infiniteness when more attentively re
garded. I observe it to be so, said I, for again endea
voring to trace these apparently very symmetrical
lines I find : myself again lost in confusion. Do not
again, said he, make the attempt, you will learn more
by a cursory observation ; — but follow me hither, and
receive the impression of this tablet, from a still nearer
position ; — remember, I told you the engraving was
consecrated to the Temple of the Sun ; — let us watch
then the successive gleams of the sun's light that falls
upon it, as we look through this thick foliage which
now intercepts it from our view, — watch, — you will
see reason to admire still more the skill and ingenuity
of the sacred artist who designed this work, for I can
assure you he was no ordinary person, but not less
remarkable for his philosophy than for his art. But
do not look too partially, but as it were negligently,
and on the whole design at once, — and through the
shade of these green boughs. What do you see ? said
he. This is very wonderful, indeed ! and the perfec
tion and triumph of art, said I ; I see nothing now on
that tablet but a most graceful and perfect human
figure, the most beautiful and animated I have ever
before seen engraven on stone or impressed on canvass.
These, then, said I, are your arts in the East; they
indeed surpass all that 1 have ever beheld ; and no
paintings or sculptures which I have ever seen are to be

NATURAL HISTORY OF MAN. 133
compared with this mystic representation. It is in
deed, said the philosopher, very wonderful, and deserv
ing of all the praise you can bestow upon it; — but
such works are not the product of modern ingenuity ;
genius and the sight of true beauty are now extinct
among men ; but for these the Magi among the Per
sians were formerly celebrated ; and their arts of design
and expression were such visible representations of
their philosophical discoveries or opinions. For I sup
pose you are now aware what was designed to be
represented by this engraving ? I see indistinctly, said
I, and I beg you will more fully explain some of these
particulars, and especially this last phenomenon of the
engraving, which crowns the interest of the whole.
You discern more clearly now, said he, than you did
before, that the tablet was not designed to be a repre
sentation merely of nature, but visibly to show an
opinion entertained by the artist respecting man, and
the specific and general order of nature. That there
is an order, a plan, and an arrangement, in nature, ob
served by the Deity in the construction of the universe,
he indicated by these lines so distinctly drawn, and
which you saw so clearly at a first glance ; but that at
the same time this order is such that it cannot be exact
ly discovered or described by science, and the unlimited
and infinite be drawn within the boundaries and limits
of the finite, is shown to the life and graphically, by
that confusion which you complained of, as springing
up in your mind when you would attempt studiously
to trace out the marks of these zones and boun
daries. Nature has indeed her boundaries and land
marks of sacred observation, but they are always most
obvious to the most unpretending observers ; to these
they are deeply and distinctly visible on the broad and
unartificial tablet of nature's engraving. But that you

134 LECTURE THE FIFTH.
find distinct spaces filled with specific classes of ani
mals, the sacred artist (for he must have been at once a
priest and a philosopher, the two were united in the
ancient Magi) meant thereby to designate that the
brute irrational animals are confined in their range of
existence, not only as respects their localities, but also
those instincts with which they are endowed, and
those uses for which they are adapted. For this is a
remark of antiquity, and particularly noted in the
writings and in the wisdom of the ancients, that each
species of animals is circumscribed within a nar
row zone of existence, the boundaries of which are
very exactly established ; all the uses of the horse, for
instance, could soon be catalogued, and these are at the
same time inscribed on his form, which bears the natu
ral brands and marks of his distinctive nature, — his
hoof indicating his mode of travelling, — the form of
his back adapted to the rider, — the instinctive love of
approbation attaching him to his master, — the natural
spring of all his limbs, forming a living vehicle : — take
the ox, — take the sheep, — their certain, their unvary
ing instincts, and the form and shape of their bodies,
and their social predisposition, show how specific their
use is, and also how confined ; — and note also all the
classes of the feathered tribes, — and you will find on
all of them impressed the natural words denoted by
these terms in artificial, local, partial, exclusive, instru
mental, subordinate. This the artist, the designer of
this tablet had noted in long observation, and impressed
upon his mind ; he had seen in this manner the grand
idea of the universe parcelled out by the divine and
original Artist himself into many characters which thus
became imitable ; for had not the Deity condescended
thus to reveal the glory of his unity, in a marked
variety of harmonizing parts, the conception of the

NATURAL HISTORY OF MAN. 135
work of God, as the work of God, would have been
beyond the grasp of finite intelligence; but it is a
beautiful condescension of the Creator, that He has
thus exhibited his whole work in parts limited and
bounded, so that we might recognize it, and perceive it,
and in some measure describe it and faintly imitate it,
which we never could have done in the least, if it had
not been put up in parts, and so rendered subject to
analysis, and accessible to intelligent admiration. This
the Persian artist understood ; — he saw from the ar
rangement, or plan, or order of nature actually adopted,
that it was perceptible and yet not comprehensible, that
we can apprehend but not comprehend the works of
God ; — for this reason were those spaces so marked off
on this mystic tablet of art, that they are limited and
defined, to the first glance and the popular apprehen
sion, — they are apprehended readily, but if you will try
yet a third time to follow these boundaries to their be
ginnings or their endings, you will again find yourself
lost in inextricable confusion, and instead of seeing
your way better, you will find it more entangled. But
yet is it not clear as day, that all these parts exist, and
that the animal kingdom is a whole, and unit, com
posed of many parts?
Here the stranger informed us that he again inter
posed, and observed to the philosopher that he could
now discover a glimpse of the grand design of the
artist ; — but tell me, said he to the philosopher, — there
is yet one thing I do not understand, and that is to
myself the most marvellous of all; — at this third sta
tion, and through this intervening bough of green
leaves, as the light of the sun fell upon the sculptured
figures, — in that mellowed and attempered light, we
discovered, as you showed me, no longer the figures in
dividually, but the whole together, as a man ! This

136 lecture the fifth.
appears to me a most exquisite effect of art, and I ap
prehend the philosophical emblem intended by it must
be no less astonishing and grand, although I confess I do
not well understand it. You perceive, said the philoso
pher, when you inspected the whole of these grouped
figures, in all their copartments, after having looked
attentively, as well as cursorily at all of them, you did
not find the human figure. I did not, said he, and I
was rather surprised at that, although I did not express
my surprise.
But, said the philosopher, you shall now understand
it: for you perceive that each one of these animals is a
specific or partial thing ; — these bounded spaces within
which they range, each race apart, show that distinctly;
none of these then is lord, there is none so powerful or
prevailing, as that his zone extends over the whole.
None said the stranger.
Then, said the philosopher, here is the mastery of
the artist, and here too, the superiority of his philoso
phy; if man had occupied a zone there in alto or basso
relievo, although covered with the hues of golden light,
and resplendent with the beams of heaven, he still
would have ranked among the animals, of which yet
he is the lord, and he would have taken on a local
character, when nevertheless no localities can bound
his dominions or his superiority. The artist, through
this signal device, by which you were enabled to see
only the human figure gloriously displayed, here now
from this third position, amid this intervening foliage,
and in that softened light, — has told more by his chisel,
and this entrancing view of its effects, than all the
words of the Persian language ever could have made
known of the relations of man to the rest of the animal
creation, — far more, I am afraid, than I could now
explain to you, but yet I will attempt it.

NATURAL HISTORY OF MAN. 137
Do so, I beseech you, said the stranger.
It seems to me, said the philosopher, he probably
meant — for such in some degree was the philosophy of
the ancient Magi, — he probably meant to shew that
man holds under him, as parts of himself, the specific
appetites and dispositions of the whole animal creation,
and that these, in their individual genera, typify as ani
mals, parts of their sovereign and lord, each reflecting,
so to speak, some attribute or affection of the rational
human being, which emblem is the livery which they
wear, and by which they stand acknowledged his
servants, and obedient and submissive to his sway.
Thus they are altogether rudimental, animal outlines
of his form, and emulating his perfection, — rude sculp
tured figures in stone, — fragments of a great design,
but which is not understood, until the man is seen
which gives relief to the whole ; — but neither is man
discovered, but in that light of the sun which is shed
on creation, when forthwith nature becomes the mirror
of God, and his image alone is revealed amid the pro
fusion of created objects; — and philosophy beholds it
from the secluded retreats of nature, through the soft
and attempered light of science and of wisdom.
You consider then, said the stranger, that man is the
image of God reflected on the mirror of nature, and
that philosophy from her third and favorite position, in
the light of heaven, its glare softened, through science,
this bough of tender leaves, is enabled to discover this.
My friend, said the philosopher, I am not very sure
that I explain this design to you successfully, 1 propose
to you only hints; — 1 have been myself often and
again here to survey this mystic tablet, and I am
never able altogether to satisfy myself as to its entire
import; and it seemed to me just now, that I could put
18

138 LECTURE THE FIFTH.
you in perfect possession of the intentions of the artist;
I seemed to have grasped the bold outlines of the enig
matical representation, but when I have tried to make
them known to you, like that tracery of divine order on
the stone itself which you sought to follow up, it seems
in a great measure to have escaped me. But I beseech
you look again on that tablet itself, as the gleams of sun
shine fall upon it and between these soft green leaves,
and mark once more the entire sculptured hieroglyph
ics of animated nature, — how beautifully, how perfectly
they pourtray to our view, the human form divine, in
glorious lineaments. I cannot but admire, said the
stranger, an art so perfect as this ; but surely art is
never so beautiful as when it reflects the philosophy
of religion and of man. The art, said the philosopher,
is almost too beautiful; I could almost wish it had
been less so ; it was through art that the Persians at
last, and all the east fell into idolatry; they emblema
tized so perfectly their ideas of God, that the ignorant
multitude instead of having their minds raised to God
by the arts which spoke of his goodness and wisdom,
had on the contrary their minds drawn down from
their Maker, and fixed on the art, which thus became
the object of their idolatry. And so were the gifts of
God, which are these powers of embodying just con
ceptions, at last converted into the means of dishonoring
or forgetting Him.
Your Magi then, said the stranger, were at one time
wise and intelligent. Yes, truly; replied the philoso
pher, but their wisdom has been eclipsed by some sad
clouds of error and ignorance; and even in Christendom
I perceive that these clouds have also come over your
bright sun of revelation.
You are not ignorant then of what has befallen us in

NATURAL HISTORY OF MAN. 139
Christendom ? Why should I ? I am myself a devotee
of the Christian religion ; the apostle Thomas traveled
in the east ; the good seed has not all been choked.
But you admire these relics of heathen temples?
I do, for they are fragments, obscured and shattered,
of a noble revelation once akin to Christianity.
I should like to see that, said the stranger.
And you may see it, said the philosopher, — but on
another occasion.
None so suitable as the present, said the stranger ; —
for the sun has still to run, ere he dip his evening disk
in the red sea.
But the philosopher could not be prevailed upon
more fully to explain his sentiments on the subject so
as to be intelligible ; but he made some additional re
marks of a profound nature, which, said the stranger, 1
cannot now recall, and did not at the time fully com
prehend. But he spoke much of our sacred books,
and of the low estimation in which we held them
from ignorance of their real value, or a distaste of the
wisdom contained in them : but, said he, even St. Au
gustine might have taught you better, for he was not
insensible to their true worth. Time, said St. Augus
tine, began with creation, and its periods are distin
guished by evening and morning; but whence proceeded
those distinctions, for as yet during three days, no sun
had gleamed from the firmament, he could only con
jecture, but his conjecture was sublime, and showed a
mind allied with the greatness of the subject, — that
this light was derived from the City of God, the super
nal abodes of the blessed, and that the evening and the
morning were the shade and dawning of intelligence
in human souls, through the Creator's word.
But was he right?

140 LECTURE THE FIFTH.
The subject, said he, is too profound, — and other
duties require my attention. But you will think on
the tablet of mystery, and the image of creation im
pressed upon it: your own sacred books will teach you
the rest, — read them, — and be wise.

LECTURE THE SIXTH;

ON

ANCIENT RELIGION AND MODERN SCIENCE.

Further illustration ofthe subject of the last lecture  The development of the
religious feelings necessary to unite mankind, before science could benefit
them. — That man might know that creation was a divine act, the synopsis
only of the event was declared. — To the earliest ages the theology of crea
tion, to modern times the science, is revealed. — Distinction of religion and
science. — The evil of their admixture  The twelve apostles of Christianity
an instance of theology unmixed with science. — St. Peter. — In the mind of
St. Paul philosophy and religion were united. — General conclusions attain
ed. — Facts in illustration. — The Iliad and Odyssey of Homer illustrative
of the predominance of theology in early ages. — The Persians, as described
by Herodotus. — Nations who have received a scientific bent despise the reli
gious simplicity of early ages. — The contempt of the Jews by the Romans
an instance. — 111 consequences of reasoning from theology to science seen in
the case of Galileo, and in the common belief of a universal deluge  Worse
effects result from reasoning from science to theology. — Prospect of their
limits being ascertained.
I will read a passage from St. Augustine, connected
with the subject of the last lecture, and which will
serve to elucidate certain texts of sacred Scripture
which I shall have occasion to produce at our present
meeting; for as my theme is distinct from theology,
and yet it is important that its sacred light should be
shed upon the subject, as it were, to illuminate the
canvas of history, and enhance its interest, I gladly
avail myself of a passage which contains the explana
tion which I wanted, — and which you can bear in
mind, and apply when necessary, without farther refer
ence to it on my part. Non sic loquitur angelis Deus,

142 LECTURE THE SIXTH.

quomodo nos invicem loquimur vel ipsi angeli nobis.
Dei quippe sublimior ante suum factum locutio ipsius
sui facti est immutabilis ratio, quae non habet sonum
strepentem atque transeuntem, sed vim sempiterne
manentem et temporaliter operantem. Hac loquitur
Deus angelis Sanctis, nobis autem aliter longe positis.
Quando autem etiam nos aliquid tale locutionis inte-
rioribus auribus capimus, angelis propinquamus : aut
enim Veritas incommutabilis per seipsam ineffabiliter
loquitur, rationalis creaturae mentibus, aut per mutabi-
lem creaturam loquitur, sive spiritalibus imaginibus
nostro spiritui, sive corporalibus vocibus corporis sen-
sui. (De Civ. Dei, 1. 1 6. c. 6.) God speaks not so to
the angels, as we speak to each other, or angels to us.
For the speech of God, which produces the works of
creation, is that immutable reason from which they
flow and by which they are perfected, — not an eva
nescent voice merely, but a living energy, reaching
to the farthest extremities of nature, and the most
distant ages. In this manner God speaks to his holy
angels, but to them audibly, to us otherwise, on ac
count of our grosser apprehension. But when we per
ceive through our internal ears some faint notices of
this divine speech, we approach the angels in our
privileges: for it is indeed the unchangeable truth
which speaks to the minds of the rational creation, to
the faculties of the soul through images addressed to it,
or to the body in whose organs of sense the soul
watches and inclines to hear.
I spoke in my last lecture of the spirit of the early
ages, as pre-eminently religious, particularly in Asia;
and this character still distinguishes the nations of that
quarter of the globe. They have not passed yet far
beyond the first stage of advancement ; they are over
whelmed and almost oppressed by the idea of God ;

NATURAL HISTORY OF MAN. 143
among them God is every thing, man nothing; and
this spirit is carried into all the studios of the intellect ;
among them natural history is lost in the splendor of
the Deity; so deep and intense is the glory of the
Creator shed upon his works, as to darken them even
with an excess of effulgence ; they have no inclination
to investigate what is called the natural process or
natural law of the work, surrounded as it is with the
mysterious halo of the glory of the Workman. This
is a highly useful class of feelings, and — no doubt for
great ends — were the earliest feelings developed in the
human family ; they softened the heart, and made it a
fit tablet to receive the just impressions of the laws of
God, that character might be stamped on the earlier
stage of human society never afterwards to be obli
terated, and to which the intelligence of after ages
might gladly recur, to renew their fading impressions
of divine power and goodness, as in the maturity of life
we have recourse to the early impressions of our child
hood for the natural ideas of objects. But this is a
stage in the history of nations which must necessarily
be a temporary one ; for although it be a momentous
truth, necessary to be often recalled, that we live in the
presence of an omnipotent and all-seeing Creator, yet
this consideration was not intended habitually to sub
due our faculties, and, as it were, to crush our natural
energies ; but on the contrary, we know it to be a part
of the beneficence of the Divine Being, to appear to
withdraw himself occasionally, like a kind and indul
gent father, from the view of his children, in order
that this overwhelming awe may be taken off our
spirits, and we be left, as it were, to the playfulness
of our own joyous and active minds. It certainly is
not the intention of the Parent of the universe that
those natural faculties which He has given us should

144 LECTURE THE SIXTH.
be crushed under the sense of his presence, but rather
that they should be directed to find their appropriate
recreation and means of expansion in that profusion of
material objects which are scattered around us. But
it is not these natural and scientific faculties which are
most energetically developed in the earlier stages of
society, but, on the contrary, the religious affections of
mankind,— so that the sense of the Creator is much
more vivid and distinct than the knowledge of his
works, — and from obvious reason, since religion must
first bind mankind together in society before science
can be expected to benefit them ; it is more important
to acknowledge God than to understand nature, and
faith is superior to philosophy.
God said, let the dry land appear, — and it was so :
inasmuch as it was indispensable that we should know
that these blooming continents which adorn our globe
rose at the will and bidding of an intelligent and bene
ficent Creator, therefore this communication is first
made to mankind, and the synopsis of the event, with
out any respect to the time which it occupied in the
accomplishment, is presented to the view, as a conve
nient tablet on which the important truth is inscribed,
— that the continents of the inhabited earth have
emerged from the ocean, not by any dark law of fate,
not by any nature independent of God, but, really and
truly, by the order and will of God, God said, — let
the dry land appear, — and it was so. And it is this
idea afterwards which sheds light and glory on the
whole of creation, — we do not always think of it, we
do not often interpret our own feelings on such occa
sions, or express our thoughts even to ourselves ; but it
is this first truth which we received from revelation,—
that, "in the beginning God created the heaven and
the earth," — which clothes the mountains with that

NATURAL HISTORY OF MAN. 145
sublimity which we discover in them as they raise
their heads to heaven, which invests the smiling land
scapes of our wide and far-spreading continent with
the teints of loveliness and beauty; — what would all
be, — the most perfect exhibition of nature, — unless
recommended to our love and admiration by those
ideas of God, — enlivened by that spirit which emanates
from early revelation, when God said, let the earth
bring forth grass, the herb yielding seed, and the fruit
tree yielding fruit after its kind, whose seed is in itself,
upon the earth, and it was so : — it comes over us like the
recollections of infancy, as reviving and as true : and
these impressions were far more to them than physical
truth is to us ; and indeed it is to these first impres
sions that physical truth now is indebted for the greater
part of its attractions. And this observation brings at
once the spirit of our own times before us. The
theology of creation was revealed to the earliest ages,
the science of creation is now beginning to be revealed
to us ; and these two points of time afford favorable
positions from which to consider the natural history of
man, and the rise and progress of his philosophy. It
seems very improbable that the early nations reflected
at all on the science of creation; it was not the geology,
but the theology of the subject, which interested them ;
it was enough for them to know that the dry land ap
peared, stocked with innumerable tribes of living crea
tures, and covered with a superabundance of varied
vegetation for their use and enjoyment, and to be
informed that all this distinction and variety and har
mony of objects was the result of successive acts of
creative Intelligence ; and they cared not what length
of time each act may have required for its perfect
manifestation ; it was sufficient for them to see that
there was an order, and that God was the author of
19

146 LECTURE THE SIXTH.
this, as well as the creation itself. Hence they knew
from that divine inspiration which pervaded their
minds, that the world was created by God, and in six
days, for so they expressed these distinct and succes
sive periods, and they inquired no farther into the sub
ject ; but they felt and perceived that there rested on
the bosom of nature a calm and serene repose, — which
forbade them to harbor the idea of haste or precipita
tion, confusion or disorder, in the different steps of the
proceeding, — in the production of that magnificent
whole, whose perfection they contemplated. But it
was the mental and the religious and the divine, and
not the temporal or the material or the geological,
which appeared to their minds, and interested their
affections ; hence there was produced in that stage of
human society an order of pure and exalted truths
which science never can improve, as she never could
have discovered them ; — all she can do is to prepare
the way for their reception. Science can discover no
new truth in regard to the personal existence of God,
or his unity, or his spiritual attributes; but she is
limited to the investigation of his works. Science
never could have found out the beautiful truth an
nounced to us in these simple words, " God said let the
dry land appear, and it was so ;" — but science can now
explore the work thus created, and whatever ideas
space and time can unfold to her on this mighty
theme, she can faithfully record, and very distinctly
demonstrate ; but in vain might she attempt to impugn
or protect a truth which transcends at once her means
and her efforts. But yet it is to be confessed that it is
this truth, made known through religion to the earliest
ages, which confers the most delightful interest on
modern science, particularly on that of geology. After
having been informed that " God said, let the dry

NATURAL HISTORY OF MAN. 147
land appear, and it was so, we proceed with the most
lively and cheerful anticipations to examine the physi
cal aspects of that magnificent work, thus announced
to have been accomplished by Omnipotence.
When we behold a full grown man in the perfection
of vigor and health, — the splendor of reason and intel
ligence — and are informed, that " God created man in
his own image, after his likeness," we are attracted
with tenfold interest to the examination of the object
which is placed before us, and the structure of his
mind and body, and the successive developments of the
parts and proportions of each. And with what delight
do we then learn the particulars of his history, — that
he existed at one time, in a condition very different
from the present, until his formation, namely, was
complete; when he was ushered into the world, with
his organs and senses already adapted for a residence
here; but that his limbs were still frail, until devel
oped and strengthened through their infantile play;
and that then at last he rose on his feet and essayed
to walk, which he accomplished at first with difficulty,
and at length with ease ; and that in the mean time,
his soul expanded as his body grew; and that his
intellectual and moral faculties, corresponding with his
outward form, spread forth gradually and ripened into
perfection, until at last he became both mentally and
corporeally that noble being, which we first beheld,
worthy to be considered the chef d' oeuvre of creation ;
— but when science has explored the entire physical
process of the work or its mental contours, and dis
covered what she terms the laivs of growth and devel
opment in body and in mind, has she disconcerted in
the least, or at all interfered with, or contravened in
any degree, that other truth before announced through
revelation, namely, that God formed man of the dust

]48 LECTURE THE SIXTH.
of the ground, and breathed into his nostrils the breath
of life? — it remains firm and unshaken as on an immo
vable rock. The same observations apply, and with
equal force, to the labors of modern geologists; they do
not in the least affect those truths before announced in
regard to the creation of the world, and for this simple
reason, that they refer not to the workman, but to the
physical characters of the work. This distinction now
begins to be understood, and will be so more and more,
as the truths of religion and the truths of science are
seen to be of different orders, sometimes apparently
blended, but never actually confounded. But religion
is the elder-born, and takes precedence of science, and
sheds her own warm light upon her, which science is
sometimes fain to claim as her own ; herein she errs,
for she has no inherent light but what is natural : — hut
I see them rise, and each in its own epoch, and its na
tive majesty ! Religion as the sun, — but risen indeed
many ages ago — even at the birth of creation, and now,
after having impressed its beams on every object, and
hallowed each, inclined as it were, to sink in the west,
— to leave the world for a space, — to be remembered
rather than seen, for such is the estimation in which
religion is now held; — but lo! there rises eastward
another orb, reflecting a sober and borrowed light; —
science has her just emblem in the moon, — and our
modern ages, — so tender is our intellectual sight, —
seem disposed to prefer this feebler radiance; and it
may be well, or it may be necessary for a time ; but,
at all events the two are now distinctly recognized, the
one — as the sun setting in the west, with calm and un
troubled disk, after having run its course — primeval
theology ; the other, just rising in the east, the moon of
science, reflecting theology, and shedding a useful and
grateful light on these benighted times. But such

NATURAL HISTORY OF MAN. 149
comparisons perhaps may perplex the subject; be it
then simply told, that three thousand years ago or
upwards, theology in the eastern world stood uncon
founded with science, and men heard from her, and
were satisfied with the response ; that " in the begin
ning God created the heaven and the earth," — that
" God said let there be light, and there was light," and
they heard the number of the days of creation also, and
were satisfied: — and similarly, in our times, it may he
affirmed, that science stands on her own ground, unoc
cupied by theology, and expounds facts, and establishes
conclusions no longer fearing nor being feared; and
men are now in regard to science what they wont to
be in regard to religion, free and unembarrassed, —
serving but one master. And this is the more worthy
of observation, when we recollect the history of the
intervening period, how science has been confounded
with religion and religion with science, to the detri
ment and dishonor of both. "Tantoque magis haec
vanitas inhibenda venit, et coercenda, quia ex divino-
rum et humanorum malesana admistione, non solum
educitur philosophia phantastica sed etiam religio
haeretica. And the more necessary is it to restrain
and repress this evil, as from the absurd mixture of
human and divine things, there is engendered not on
ly a fanciful philosophy, but also an heretical religion."
It is only when each pursues that order and series of
truths, which are peculiar to each, that any mutual ben
efit can arise ; but when they encroach on each other's
provinces, the most baleful effects ensue. I must remind
you of an observation in a former lecture, that bounda
ries are sacred, and that Terminus was a God; to
devolve on science the duties of religion, or on religion
the duties of science, is to bind together the living and
the dead; — the consequence would be deplorable.

150 LECTURE THE SIXTH.
The province of each is extremely well marked, and
cannot any longer be easily mistaken. Science takes
a true and just copy of nature according to the rela
tions and order of the facts and phenomena, as they
really exist; theology reads this copy with a view to
illustrate and enforce the truths drawn from herself;
science considers her task executed, when she has
made a true record of all the appearances, and ascer
tained their laws and connections, undisturbed in her
proceedings by any imagined ill results that might flow
from the truth she brings to view, for she knows that
"the whole of truth can never be injurious to the
whole of virtue ;" theology on the other hand feels that
her task begins where that of science ends; science
reflects the true image of nature, but since that might
lead the mind to idolatry, theology brings back upon
that image the reflection of Deity ; or, in other words,
science is the scribe, but theology the interpreter ; the
one speaks to the understanding through the senses,
the other to the mind through the reason; both are
ministers of good, but each of its own ; they are not
unfriendly to each other's interests, and pernicious only
when confounded ; the first is the offspring of simpli
city, and innocence and rational intuition, subdued
and meek and childlike, and wearing a garland of
flowers plucked from the bowers of Paradise; the
other is harsh-featured, yet cheerful and undisturbed,
young in years, but of an invigorated form, and claim
ing to be the parent of the useful arts, and to derive
her chief glory and distinction from the improvements
of modern society. In the history and the progress of
each, you can learn much of the natural history of
man ; when you view both together, you see at once
the infancy and the matured manhood of the human
race.

NATURAL HISTORY OF MAN. 151
But let me deal no longer in general observations,
but refer you to cases of illustration. As an instance
of theology unmixed with science I refer you to the
primitive apostles of Christianity, — the twelve; — it is
unnecessary to say, that in this instance, religion stands
unblemished by science : " the earth and the works that
are therein" says St. Peter "shall be burned up" —
"nevertheless we look for a new heaven and a new
earth, wherein dwelleth righteousness," — this is an
interesting theological truth, announced under the
form of prophecy, but with what simplicity, what
divine grandeur; — what then? did St. Peter know any
thing, or care any thing about the scientific aspects of
the subject ? he neither knew nor cared, we may well
suppose, what series of physical events would mark
and embody the same truth to after-ages ; he did not
descend to these inquiries, his mind dwelt in a superior
region, and uttered the truths which were native to it,
although expressed in the language of space and time.
But it will belong to modern geology to show what
provision is made in the laws of nature for the degrada
tion of the present continents and for the rise of newer
ones from the bed of the ocean ; and also to inquire
whether there be not certain laws of nature, established
by divine Providence I mean, according to which vitia
ted and debauched races of the human family become
extinct, while newer and more vigorous races, disci
plined in the pure and renovating precepts of the
Christian faith, take their place, and so it come to pass
naturally, that the meek inherit the earth: — pure
science, unmixed with theology and undeceived by
any former speculations, will yet have to cast her safe
light over all these particular questions; — and no
doubt, judging from analogy, the degradation and
obliteration of our modern continents will be as slow

152 LECTURE THE SIXTH.
and imperceptible as their rise has been. But theology
cannot explain this, far less any mixture of theology
and science ; for the theology of the subject is already
declared perfectly by Peter; the science is yet to come,
but it must be unmixed and uncontaminated by theol
ogy. To know the absurdities, that have arisen and
daily spring from the mixture of science and theology,
you have merely to read some of the speculations of
the Fathers in the third and fourth centuries, or to recall
to mind the discourses which you have heard, when
the creation of the world, the deluge, or the last confla
gration has been the theme !
That there should be antipodes, says St. Augustine,
whose feet are opposed to ours, is altogether too absurd
to be believed; and he proceeds to show how it
could not be, and among other reasons this is a prin
cipal one, that it were impossible they could be
descended from Adam and Eve, for how could they
have contrived to cross that mighty sea, — but if not
the descendants of Adam and Eve they could not be
men, since this was the sole original family. This is a
fair specimen of the absurdity and false prejudice
which result from the mixture of religion and science,
and from not having it firmly fixed in the mind from
the first that the truths of theology belong to one order
of ideas, the truths of science to another, and that the
latter is beneath, the former from above ; for although
angels have appeared in the form of men, it is not to
be supposed that their bodies are material.
Another specimen of the evil resulting from mixing
science with religion, to the injury of both, may be
seen in the argument for the amalgamation of the
African and European races, on the ground of their
being one family, both descended from Adam and
Eve. Sobria mente quae fidei sunt dentur fidei. It

NATURAL HISTORY OF MAN. 153
belongs to science, and to the common instincts and
feelings of mankind to say, whether there are not races
of men so unlike in their temperaments as to prohibit,
as nefarious and contrary to nature, the amalgamation
of them. The identity and unity of the human family,
imaged in Adam and Eve, is a religious, not a scientific
truth, and any deductions made from it, to have any
presumption of fairness, must be religious, not scienti
fic : thus, if from the unity of the human family, so
acknowledged, it be argued that we owe to every race
of mankind on the globe, the same obligations of justice
and mercy which we owe to each other, the argument
would be a good one, and no violation of right reason
ing, and would brand those horrid acts of injustice of
which the white race have been guilty, both to the
black and to the red ; but it may be safely affirmed,
that had it not been for the debasement of the moral
sense, the result of such injustice, the natural repug
nance to amalgamation among these races, particularly
between the black and white, would have been such
that it never could have taken place under any circum
stances. Pure religion would have disclaimed it;
nature would have abhorred it. But men having first
lost all sense of shame, in destroying the natural birth
right of freedom in a distinct branch of the human
family, no wonder this second curse, — an unnatural
confusion of races, — has followed on the back of the
other, and that we should now be about to incur this
sad penalty of the transgression of the natural laws of
justice and humanity. The Copts, or modern Egyp
tians, are a race of Negroes and Caucassians, and hence
their degradation. I note it as a remarkable fact in
the history of man.
The unity of the human family, then, is a religious
rather than a physical truth, that is to say, we owe jus-
20

154 LECTURE THE SIXTH.
tice and mercy to all men, — all are our brethren ; but
between certain races of mankind, nature has esta
blished limits which are not to be broken down but
with the injury and destruction of both, and this not
only science and experience, but even the inborn
instincts of men themselves, sufficiently and loudly
declare. A very useful book might be written on limits or
natural landmarks ; but I must confine myself in this
lecture to the limits of science and theology — to show
how they are distinct, and what evils in practice and
absurdities in theory, the natural history of man points
out as having arisen from the confusion of them.
How entirely theology was separate from science, in
the minds of the first apostles of Christianity, is plain
to be seen : had they been philosophers, had they been
habituated to scientific investigations, although other
wise good men, they would not have been adequate for
the mission on which they were employed. The
Christian religion was not articulated into doctrines,
but only spread on facts, until it had passed into
Greece. The mind of Paul was the bridge along
which the Christian religion passed from Asia into
Europe, from a condition of facts into a condition of
theories; the span of his gigantic mind took in both
Asia and Europe, one pier of his mind sunk and
rested in Asia, the other in Europe. The philoso
phy and science of Greece in him met with the
religion and impressiveness of Asia ; since Christianity
itself is the most important fact in the history of man,
this peculiarity in the mind of the apostle of the Gen
tiles, is also deserving of attention. I have said that in
the history of nations the religious faculties are first
disclosed, and next the philosophical propensities begin
to show themselves ; but there is a point of junction,

NATURAL HISTORY OF MAN. 155
an intervening position, an isthmus where both eras
meet, that of philosophy and that of religion; this
grand junction was in the mind of Paul ; philosophy
and religion in him stood balanced, but flowed une
qually thence to all succeeding times, down to our
own, during which religion has been sometimes in
juring science, and science sometimes corrupting reli
gion, until but very recently, when there are tokens
that the provinces of each will be more distinctly
marked off, and their respective boundaries more care
fully observed. Geology will contribute largely toward
this restoration of ancient landmarks, for her facts are
so stubborn that religion will be compelled at last to
resign an office so foreign to her nature, and derogatory
to her dignity, as that of a calculator of dates, and his
toriographer of physical events, and to resume those
employments so much more congenial with her spirit,
and becoming her pure character, and indeed of infi
nitely more worth to mankind, I mean the imparting
of spiritual instruction and consolation to the human
mind. But the general views and reasonings advanced in this
and the preceding lecture, I find it neeessary to support
on a more firm basis of facts than I have yet adduced.
You will remark, then, the general propositions : they are
these, — first, that the mind of primeval nations is opened
chiefly, or nearly altogether, to theological or religious
impressions ; secondly, that the mind of nations more
advanced in civilization is chiefly alive to the scien
tific or physical aspects of nature ; thirdly, that there
is also a period in society, when philosophy and reli
gion attempt to cement an alliance, and that epoch is
for the most part distinguished both by an imperfect
and ill-concocted science, and at the same time by a
false and heretical theology ; fourthly, I do not hesi-

156 LECTURE THE SIXTH.
tate to declare it as my own faith on this subject, (of
course you are at liberty to impugn and sift it to the
bottom,) that the provinces of religion and science are
separate and distinct, and therefore I adopt it as the
watchword of my philosophy and theology, "render
unto Caesar the things which are Caesar's, and unto
God the things which are God's." Theology and
science seem to me like two currents in the atmos
phere, an upper and a lower, the one moving east-
wardly, the other westwardly; — and although they
seem sometimes as if they would cross each other's
path and occasion a tremendous commotion, yet for the
most part it is found that they do not interfere ; or if
they ever do, it is only when the one descends too low,
or the other mounts too high, when theology becomes
scientific, or science, which is not seldom, aspires to be
theological. They are two distinct orders of truth,
no otherwise connected than that the facts of the one
can be made to represent the ideas of the other, accord
ing to certain fixed laws of analogy, and that they are
designed, each through the same beneficent Provi
dence, to benefit and improve the human race ; the one
by administering to the soul and its heavenly faculties,
and the other to the mind and to the body, in their
combined energies. It is true that religion, in touch
ing the soul, affects the whole man, mind and body; —
language and definition are always inadequate to
express fully these beautiful and divine arrangements ;
but you see sufficiently well, I hope, the general dis
tinction : but now for the facts to establish these pro
positions. For the first, then, namely, that theology is
the predominant and all-pervading influence in rude
ages, I refer you to the whole Iliad and the whole
Odyssey of Homer. Every idea, and tone, and impres
sion, in these noble works, is theological. Nothing is

NATURAL HISTORY OF MAN. 157
there allowed to happen according to any natural law,
(as we term it,) all is the doing or the suggestion of
some divinity, in heaven, earth, or sea, in the battle and
in the camp, in the solitary musings of Ulysses, with
Minerva at his side, or in his resolute deeds of revenge
against his enemies, and his conflicts with adverse for
tune in every form. It is unnecessary to quote a single
line in proof, when the whole poem breathes nothing
else. But in perusing this noble poem, the most
delightful reflection, after all, is this, that the whole is
true, (a reflection, perhaps, that seldom occurs to most
readers,) the whole of the Odyssey is true, but only
theologically so, and in a peculiar sense ; and although
all the occurrences there related might be shown, in
this prosing age, to have taken place according to
what are called natural laws, that would not contra
dict or annul the impressions of Homer ; — his lofty
and daring mind soared triumphantly in that upper
current of the atmosphere, and might see the clouds
and mists of natural causes rolling in a contrary direc
tion beneath his feet, — he might see them, but he did
not regard them ; for neither his age, nor his mind,
nor his lively and inspired countrymen, had yet any
appreciation of the hues of light and beauty that
beam on us from these floating mists of natural
sciences and natural reasons, which to them passed
unregarded as things much too puerile and earth-born
to attract a moment's attention. Neptune, the god of
the sea, shook the earth with his trident, and terror and
alarm seized the souls of mortal men when they felt
the presence of divine power ; and the description of
the effects filled their imaginations with the most
sublime sentiments ; — in such a state of mind, how
could they value our inquiries into the causes of sub
terranean heat, — the laws of the expansion of fluids

158 LECTURE THE SIXTH.
and gases, — and the whole series of physical results
ascertained or conjectured, — in the production of such
phenomena? But when they felt that these effects
took place from the exertions of divine power, and
seemed almost to see the God amid these awful con
vulsions of nature, they had an appreciation of a cer
tain order of truth at all events ; and on the whole we
may say this of it, that their theology in regard to the
subject was not more imperfect than our science now
is ; — we know as little about the physical antecedents
of earthquakes, as they did in regard to their efficient
spiritual causes. They clearly saw that these origina
ted, in some sense, from the will and permission and
providence of divine power ; and we are no less cer
tain that the generation of gases is at least among the
phenomena which precede or accompany these appal
ling occurrences ; — our current of physical truth is
about as well defined as was the tenor of their theolo
gical speculations ; — and there is indeed no conflict
between them, nor mutual interference, the aim of
each being different, that of the one to find- the divine
agent, that of the other to ascertain and describe the
physical mode of operation. And science certainly is
more accessible to the senses and the natural under
standing, but theology not less so to the soul and its
rational faculties.
The manners which Homer describes are those of
a very remote age. Take the example of a people
nearer to modern times, the Persians, when visited by
Herodotus, about four hundred years before the Chris
tian era. The passage which I translate will corrobo
rate all I have said in regard to the religious impres
sions received from the universe in the ruder ages of
society, impressions which include truths of a much
higher order than any which science unaided can un-

NATURAL HISTORY OF MAN. 159
fold to her admirers in the more advanced periods of
civilization. " I have known the Persians to observe
these customs: they are not permitted by their laws
to have erected among them either statues or temples
or altars, and they brand with folly the people which
do 'such things, and it seems to me the reason is, that
they do not, like the Greeks, imagine the gods to be
possessed of human passions and affections ; no, but on
the contrary, the laws enjoin it upon them to ascend on
their loftiest mountains, and there to offer sacrifices to
Jupiter, and that expanse of the naked heaven which
they behold they call by the name of Jupiter; but
other acts of worship also they perform to the sun, and
the moon, and the earth, and the water, and to such
only, in their original ritual ; but other observances
also they have recently introduced from the surround
ing nations." (Lib. 1. c. 131.) He then describes, as
an eye-witness, their mode of sacrifice ; it was ex
tremely simple, performed on " a pure spot of ground,"
without fire, libations, cakes, garlands or music, and he
who offered it wore on his head simply a crown of
myrtle, and, observes the father of history, when he
utters a prayer on the occasion he is not allowed to
supplicate good for himself in particular, but for all the
Persians, and the king, he himself being included
among his countrymen. Persia was on the confines of
the ancient land of Judea, or that territory of the globe
whence has emanated the light of an infallible revela
tion ; — and it is interesting to find in the scattered and
brief notices of earlier religion, which you meet with
in ancient authors, the ideas become more sublime
and pure and elevated above the region of science and
art, as they originate from the countries bordering on or
near to, that felicitous and consecrated spot of earth, — or
approximating that era, when divine revelations were

160 LECTURE THE SIXTH.
rife, and true as rife. It is certainly a remarkable fact,
that religion is always the loftier and purer in the
proportion that it is not commingled with art, but is
read as it is written, fresh, on those natural emblems
which seem its only just and appropriate expres
sions; — and also this farther suggestion arises in bur
minds, when we read such passages as this one from
Herodotus, that when natural objects begin to be con
templated under the speculative and useful light of
science they cease to represent to the mind, so readily
as they did before, that pure and original theosophy of
which they are the divine and instituted types, — that
resplendent and glorious undecaying page of nature,
on which the eyes of ten thousand thousand genera
tions have been successively fixed in the respective
periods of their earthly sojourn to receive wisdom ;
and yet the book is still as fresh and new as when it
was first unfolded to the view of mankind. But when
scientific inquiries reach to every object within the
domain of the senses, and beyond it, a less enchant
ing, but perhaps a more useful, view begins to take
the place of the earlier impressions and sentiments of
the first inhabitants of the globe. Nations which have
made but little proficiency in science and the arts of
civilization, but enough to make them vain, entertain
great contempt for the rudeness of primitive nations,
and their absurd interpretations of natural occurren
ces; and certainly they were absurd, if viewed in the
light of physical explanations, but not such when con
sidered as the rude expressions of religion, — on the
contrary, oftentimes replete with the most beautiful
and impressive truth. The Romans, in the age of
Tacitus (A. D. 100.) had dipped into the penumbra of
science ; and you can readily account for the contempt
in which he held the Jews, and which appears in his

NATURAL HISTORY OF MAN. 161
account of them : and they were certainly contempti
ble, as regarded all that was estimable in the eyes of
the Romans; — and neither nation was at this time
capable of estimating those divine and immaculate
truths which had poured like a stream in earlier ages
over the minds of their shepherd kings, and their
humble and enraptured prophets. The sealed vision
of science was unable to discover the smallest twink
lings of that supernal light which begins at last to be
recognized, — and a better age is on its way. But hear
what Tacitus says of the Jews, more than seventeen
centuries ago : " The Egyptians venerate the images of
animals. The Jews worship one Deity only, and that
too with a veneration purely mental; and they hold
those to be profane, who, out of the materials of human
workmanship, construct images of gods, in the likeness
of men; believing the Supreme Intelligence to be
eternal, subject neither to mutation nor decay, on
which account they will not suffer statues to be
erected even in their cities, much less in their tem
ples." In this manner Tacitus correctly speaks of
their worship, while at the same time he represents the
nation itself as exceedingly depraved, and addicted to
the most degrading vices : he appears also to have been
very incorrectly informed in regard to the origin of the
people, or their customs. It is perhaps little to be
wondered at, considering how low the character of the
Jews at this time was, that their manners and rites
should have appeared disgusting to a mind of that stern
and philosophical cast which belonged to Tacitus ;— -
but yet it is questionable if, even under the best aspects
of the national character, he would have found much to
admire or to attract his attention : and here it is, that
we have to remark a singular fact in the history of the
human mind, that not unfrequently the most wonder-
21

162 LECTURE THE SIXTH.
ful developments of religion, in one age or nation,
bearing the clear impress of revelation, find hardly any
favor or regard from another age or nation which hap
pens to have received a different bent, — to be attracted
by science rather than religion. It has been said that
ghosts and beings of flesh and blood do not recognize
each other, even when in actual contact, and that they
may cross each other's path unobserved and unobser-
ving ; — it is even so in regard to science and theo
logy : — they are totally unknown to each other, and
therefore mutually despised, often when in the closest
neighborhood. The Greeks and Romans knew not
the Jews, nor the Jews them ; they heartily despised
each other, — at least within the period of ascertained
history, after the Greeks and Romans had become im
bued with philosophy. The mystical displays of the
attributes of the infinite revealed One, which had been
sources of unalloyed delight to the earlier inhabitants
of the mountainous regions of Palestine, were unmean
ing fooleries, or incomprehensible jargon to the excited,
strong, imperial mind of Rome, or the subtle, ingeni
ous, hair-splitting philosophy of Greece ; on the con
trary the Asiatics could see nothing either attractive or
rational in the genius or institutions of either of those
people. But why need we seek at such a distance
instances of this antipathy or insensibility of mutual
merits in theosophy and science ? In modern days, we
often find the religionist boasting of his ignorance of
all scientific acquisitions, and on the other hand your
philosopher treating with utter contempt all kinds of
truth which is not either mathematical or derived from
natural facts ; and it is difficult to say which in such
cases shows the greatest degree of folly, the exclusive
religionist, or the exclusive sciolist; it is certain that
both dishonor and disparage sadly that beneficial

NATURAL HISTORY OF MAN. 163
arrangement, and order of ends, which has been pro
vided by the Creator for the well-being of the human
race, through which we are endowed at once with a
mortal and immortal life ; and although the last be the
more excellent, yet even the first is indispensable to the
last : science, or the knowledge of nature belongs to
the first, theosophy, or the knowledge of God, belongs
to the last.
I have now shown from the example of the earliest
Greeks in Homer, of the ancient Persians in Herodotus,
of the ancient inhabitants of Palestine in the instance
of our pure and sacred Scriptures, that theosophy is the
predominant habit of the mind in the first ages, and
among the ruder nations. I could gather illustrations
from numerous other quarters, as the ancient Germans,
the aboriginal Britons, and the children of nature of
this continent; but this would be tedious.
In support of the position, that in these times in which
we live, science is in the ascendant, it is unnecessary
to bring evidence. It is universally acknowledged.
Of the ill consequences both to science and theology,
which have resulted from the attempt to reason from
the one to the other, we have seen numerous instances
since the reformation. The mischief of reasoning
from theology to science, is seen in the attempt that
was made in the time of Galileo to make the earth
stand still, and the sun to move round it, because the
ology said that it was agreeable to the wording of her
creed that it should be so ; forgetting at the same time
that it was not a creed of science that had been written
for theology, but a creed of a different character; — and
in her creed, touching such matters, theology can aver
but this, that all those appearances which are beneficial
to human kind, are according to the ordination of God ;
and although science may afterwards discover that such

164 LECTURE THE SIXTH.
appearances are the natural results of other series of
facts, than were at first apprehended, they are not
surely the less in accordance with the divine intelli
gence on that account, or the less worthy of our admi
ration. The theological truth is the same still,
however the scientific adjustments of the fact may
be shifted and re-shifted. In whatever direction a
gift of kindness and solid good may have come to me
from my best friend, provided it has reached me at
last, and I am sure it is from him, it will signify
nothing, in regard to the tenor of my affection for him,
in how many different ways it may have traveled ; and
even if his voice may have reached me through an
echo, it is still his voice. It belongs to science to trace
out curiously all these winding natural channels, and
when it has ascertained them, to call them laws; but
it belongs to theology, and that alone, to make known
the will and attributes of that hidden personal intelli
gence, which employs these communications. And
science indeed, may clear a wider space over which
the light may be diffused, but can neither point to its
source, nor add to its brilliancy. The sun shone as
brightly over this western world before the white man
had cleared a single spot for his dwelling or his suste
nance, as it has ever since done. — Another instance,
where theology has reasoned into science, to the im
pediment of science, and the obscuration of herself, is
in reference to the action of a universal deluge on our
globe. The flood of Noah is to be regarded as a theo
logical, rather than a physical fact, and under this view,
as the most absolute and essential truth, but what
then ? the theologian has no more business to dictate to
the geologist, what he must believe in regard to the
action of water on the globe, or how he shall square his
speculations on that subject, than the geologist himself

NATURAL HISTORY OF MAN. 165
would be entitled from his science, to tell the theolo
gian what divine and moral truths, addressed to the
consciences of mankind, he ought to discover in the
bible ; and that if he have promulgated any which
ought not to be there, being contrary to certain theo
logical principles deduced from geology, he must recall
them, on pain of being accounted a heretic, and branded
as such by all genuine admirers of geology.
These are instances of reasoning, or leaping from
theology to science, as if they were one, — on the same
champaign of philosophy : — still worse is it, when the
action is reversed, and you reason from science to the
ology. The shipwrecks of faith and reason, sustained
in this unnatural retrograde movement of the human
mind, are lamentable even to think on, and more rife
since the reformation than ever before ; — it is a painful
chapter of the history of man, and I would fain omit it,
but nevertheless you cannot but see, how men — carry
ing the facts they have discovered in natural history to
the interpretation of the sacred Scriptures, and not
finding the facts there (as they view them,) to quad
rate with those they bring — forthwith dismiss as
fabulous, what they conceive inconsistent, not know
ing or understanding, that natural facts are not there
the things specially revealed, but are merely taken as
they seemed to be, but that the divine impressions
thereon left, and legible to every careful mind, are the
things that are truly and essentially revealed. But this
is a subject 1 dare not enter on, lest it should lead
me astray, for I am not a theologian here, but an his
torian, remarking the different phases of the human
mind, in ages far remote and dissimilar.
If then, you would see two opposite epochs, and men
the most unlike, bring twelve, from the centre of Asia,
from the sea of Galilee — unlettered fishermen — there

166 LECTURE THE SIXTH.
found eighteen hundred years ago, and twelve from
the centre of Massachusetts, — now, — and these the
most bookish, of a people the most devoted to books ; —
and let the twelve meet the twelve ; — would they un
derstand each other's speech ? I wot not ; — but there
you listen to the simple, the primitive, the good, the
divine theology of Asia, uttered from the lips of fisher
men, — infants almost, — telling so sinlessly all they had
heard and seen, — the natural impressions which had
been made on their confiding, yielding minds, — it was
the hand of God upon their soul, and the form was still
there fresh and entire ; they loved it too much to dis
turb or interfere with it ; — you heard, you saw, just as
they had heard and seen, — it was not obliterated, it
was not shifted in the least : — but how is it met here in
the twelve I have supposed ? They too hear and see, but
it is no longer what the first twelve either heard or
saw, — the whole truth, and nothing but truth ; but it
is now broken into fragments, and reason usurps the
place of sacred faith, and science is at her back, and
questions and doubts, and doubts and questions suc
ceed, — quick and pert and strong, — until at last the
twelve apostles are ready to abandon the land of the
pilgrim, bewailing that books and science, once useful,
but now abused, are usurping or have usurped, the
room of the discreet and modest affections, — simple and
unblemished belief, — about to consign the human soul
(if Providence prevent not) to all the wretchedness of its
own wisdom, — the poverty of its own imagined wealth.
But there are manifest tokens of the approach of a
better age, an age which will unite the perfections of
both religion and science, ascertain their spheres of
action, and know their periods of vicissitude; for God
made these two great lights, and that greater light to
Tule the day, this lesser light to rule the night.

LECTURE THE SEVENTH;

ON THE

ORIGIN AND PERPETUATION OF NATURAL RACES
OF MANKIND.

That as the present aspect of external nature has been produced by infinitely
slow progressions, so it may be inferred that the advancement of the human
race will be similarly effected  Difficulties in tracing the limits of natural
races. — The supposition that they have arisen out of local circumstances, or
sprung from distinct progenitors, absurd. — Presentation of a theory that the
human family were originally derived from a single pair, possessing an
innate tendency to give rise to several distinct origins of races  Illustra
tions. — Concerning the origin of man, science or experience can afford no
information. — Theology only teaches the fact of his creation. — Distinction of
the orders of creation into primitive and subordinate; or the origination of
species, and the generation of individuals from these, each distinguished by
laws and phenomena peculiar to itself. — Of the primeval moral condition of
the race we are informed through revelation. — Comparatively recent origin
of the present race ; of its different families, the Caucassian only has exhi
bited its proper development  The existence of distinct natural families
undeniable ; but the influences which produced them science cannot deter
mine. — Probable features of the African civilization. — Character not formed
by climate or local circumstances. — Positions assigned to the different fami
lies of mankind best adapted for their peculiar developments, and this of
divine providence. — Traits of the Caucassian and African. — Summary aud
re view. — Con elusion.
The physical revolutions of the globe are not more
remarkable and varied than the moral have been ; but
it is but a speck of either we behold. We make our
selves the measure of the universe; and within the
contracted span of our own life, or our own written
history, we endeavor to crowd the images of the magni-

168 LECTURE THE SEVENTH.
tude and extent of the works of God, — truly a narrow
and confined mirror in which to behold the just rela
tions of things. But as miniature paintings of a vast
natural landscape may be exhibited in reflection from a
very small compass of glass or other polished substance,
so in the actions of human life, or the wider extent of
national history, we may behold represented to us
some obscure and well-proportioned ideas of the gran
der operations of Providence ; — we may discover
something of the plan and other characters which
belong to it; but still when we make that part the
whole, or the visible proportions, the actual spaces of
time and place, we must be involved in grievous and
melancholy error. We speak of the order by which
the ways of Providence are characterized, and justly;
but yet what a mass of apparently disjointed events
and materials do we behold, in which we can trace no
symptom of order ; — what heaps of the ruins of a for
mer world are piled up to form the substratum and
surface of these continents we inhabit ; how our imagi
nations toil to trace the infinitely slow progress of all
that chain of occurrences and physical events which at
last have terminated in these appearances so familiar to
our eyes, and which our fancies, taking human history
as the guage of time, might conceive to have been of
rapid formation what yet must have been the work
of a series of ages, which our imaginations refuse to
count. A thousand years are as one day, and one day
as a thousand years, in the masonry and stupendous
building of illustrious nature ; — no wonder a confusion
meets us in appearance, when the work is so much
beyond the grasp of our ordinary conceptions ; — and
yet perhaps — no doubt, rather we may say, every storm
that devastates a country, every flood or swelling of
waters that sweeps our frail works, and the ruins of

NATURAL HISTORY OF MAN. 169
embanked rivers with all their load of vegetation and
fruitful soil to the ocean — is but some slight vestige of
that great design prosecuted perhaps for millions of
years, by which it is intended that a new earth shall
arise out of the wrecks and spoils of this fair continent
which we now inhabit. But with a new earth must
arise a new heaven ; and it would be easy to demon
strate, or rather you can see it at a glance, that with the
change of the present position or surface of the land on
the globe, the entire climate or atmospherical condition
of the whole earth would be remodified and changed.
And in fact we live every instant, if we knew it, in the
midst of awful revolutions, and every act of apparent
destruction or disorder in our view is, on a more exten
ded range of contemplation, taking in an immeasurable
lapse of ages, the most perfect order, and wisdom, and
perfection. In like manner, every symptom of appa
rent disorder in the animated kingdom also, not less
than on the physical surface of the globe, would vanish,
could we but take in a wider space of time into our
calculation : but in regard even to the probable desti
nies of nations and tribes of men, we are in like man
ner thrown into doubt or sad anticipation, from not
reflecting that, as respects the history of our race,
hardly even the first hour of morn has yet passed over
our heads ; and yet we quarrel with the disposition of
human destinies, because we still see numerous nations
or even whole races of mankind sunk in what we
esteem hopeless ignorance and barbarity, and but one
race alone, the white race, apparently advanced on the
career of early civilization. We forthwith dream of
partiality, and, judging of the future by the past, we
lament that law of stern necessity which in our imagi
nations chains several races in the constant and unva
rying monotony of ignorance and savage simplicity.
22

170 LECTURE THE SEVENTH.
But did we only cast our eye over the globe, mark
how different and distinct is the genius that distin
guishes each settled people, and read the differing hues
of all their countenances, and the peculiar casts of all
their features, the unequivocal declarations of distinct
mental, and intellectual, and affectuous temperaments,
we would see reason to hesitate as to the admission of
favoritism or partiality, because all were not advancing
abreast in their career of moral or intellectual progress.
There is undoubtedly a time and a period of succes
sion marked out for each natural race of men on the
globe ; — the torch of improvement and advancing illu
mination is unquestionably destined to pass from hand
to hand ; but we see not yet the order ; — and conjecture
alone and probability can take the auspices in such
enterprises and expeditions of inquiry as these. But
neither are those investigations alone useful, wherein
absolute certainty may be attained; but in pursuing
the natural history of man I have thought it might be
sometimes instructive to turn our steps on the regions
of darkness, as well as on the borders of light, since it is
no less profitable to understand of how many things, —
and those most wonderful too, — we are ignorant, than
it is to ascertain how much we know. For wisdom
does not lie so much in knowledge as in a sense of our
deficiency ; and he who has never raised his eyes over
the extent of an interminable ocean, bounded only by
an unlimited sky, might imagine the pool or artificial
pond at his door the biggest extent of water on the
globe. And I open an interminable subject when I
bring under your view the various natural races or
families of men, — a subject on which I must confess I
am myself lost ; for notwithstanding all I have read, or
heard, or seen, in regard to it, I can hardly determine
for myself, far less make it clear to you, where this

NATURAL HISTORY OF MAN. 171
begins or that other ends. It seems however a fact
that cannot be denied, that there are original races of
men, the lines between which are distinctly drawn by
nature herself ; and I have only to mention to you the
Indian, the African, the European, to call up the indel-
lible impressions of distinct natural forms which are
engraved on your own memories. Were I to attempt
distinctly to delineate these in words I should but con
fuse the picture in your minds, and the images in my
own : it is perhaps the best natural proof that can be
given, that there are originally distinct races, that we
cannot artificially or to our own satisfaction precisely
trace out the lines that separate them. Nature's works
are too fine and delicately touched to be correctly
given by art ; all that we can do is to note a few par
ticulars ; but where distinctions are accidental, or have
arisen in art, or social institutions, such definitions or
descriptions can more readily be made. But the most
wonderful circumstance that here attracts our atten
tion is the different and distinct portions of the globe
which have been assigned to these natural races ; we
can only point to the fact, we cannot explain it; to
say that all mankind originally perfectly resembled
each other, and that the several natural varieties which
now exist have arisen out of local circumstances, — the
action of "external causes, — is to adopt a gratuitous
explanation which cannot be shown to have any foun
dation in fact : on the other hand, to say that the dif
ferent races have sprung out of separate original pairs
of human beings, that were created purposely to be
the distinct progenitors of these several races, is equally
absurd and unsupported : for in the first place, although
we see it to be a law that children take on a general
likeness of their parents, yet at the same time that
likeness is never so perfect as not to admit of consider-

172 LECTURE THE SEVENTH.
able deviation from the parental model ; and we are
totally unable to determine how far that deviation may
extend, or what incongruities may in the progress of
generations spring up, and under what kind of influ
ences. It would be endless to recount the numerous
theories which have been broached upon this subject,
and since one theory is about as good as another, where
none is founded on firm facts, a new theory might also
be propounded here, or rather a new view of the facts.
And it might be easy then to imagine, (which we also
believe to be the fact,) that the whole human family is
actually sprung from a single pair, but that this single
pair possessed within them the innate tendency to give
rise, in the progress of generations, to several distinct
origins of races, in the children which were born of
them, which afterwards separating, not under the
auspices of chance, but the better influences of that
benign power under whose sway chance has no allot
ment, were led, each to distinct quarters of the earth,
there to lay the foundations of nations, which, at first
apparently unequal in their fortunes, are yet designed
to discover equally grand, although different energies
of good, reflected on them from the attributes of the
Creator. How unlike, often, are the children of one
pair ; and slumbering faculties that once were awake
in early progenitors will be latent in several genera
tions, and again, as it were, suddenly and unexpectedly
burst forth in some remote descendant ; and the very
mind and form perhaps will re-appear in the family
after five or six generations : — this fact is ascertained
where portraits of families have been preserved : —
where in the mean time were the latent genius, the
latent form ; — do we know any thing of the laws ac
cording to which all this takes place ; — and whence,
then, the unreserved, the bold assertion of Voltaire and

NATURAL HISTORY OF MAN. 173
others, that the different races of mankind could not
have sprung from a single pair ; — what do we know,
what could he know, of that single pair; — what was
that single pair? Has science told us, can it tell us? We
know nothing of it but from theology, and the truths of
theology are not to be degraded to the level of science.
The Adam and Eve of our sacred Scriptures are charac
ters too sacred, representing truths too momentous to
be made the play -things of a philosophical discussion ;
they were not intended evidently, as there spoken of,
to be regarded merely as personages of history ; — when
I speak therefore of a first pair, I shall imagine a first
pair ; and what, I would ask, can we know of those
endowments, physical and mental, with which they
were invested ? Is it to be held an impossible supposi
tion, that the Creator may have so moulded them as to
have contained within them the types of all the fami
lies of the earth ? If the type of the form and genius of
a distinguished individual of a family can be latent in
several generations and again re-appear with its original
brilliancy, as it did in the first that wore it, could we
wonder that the Creator may have conferred upon the
mind and form of the first pair, the singular endow
ment of being able to be the cause and the natural
stock, whence should spring several distinct and ever
afterwards separated races, which were to take their
several stations on this beauteous globe, their adorned
dwelling-place, — which through a long series of pro
tracted epochs had been preparing and was at length
prepared to be for them an appropriate habitation.
But the places assigned them, under the unseen gui
dance of this divine voice and hand, were exactly such
as were most suitable to that peculiar genius and tem
perament which was infixed in their forms. But man,
of all living beings, is the most versatile and the least

174 LECTURE THE SEVENTH.
fixed in his ways and his genius ; he is not made per
fect, but intended to be perfected by the influence of
the arts and education, which he is himself to evolve.
And hence, in part also, may arise the versatility even
of his outward form, the natural image of his disposi
tion. Man is not perfect, but is to be made such ; the
animals are perfect, their forms are more fixed ; man's
form varies and may continue to vary, it is more soft
and malleable ; as the mind and soul receive new im
pressions of religion, of liberty and real improvement,
may not the body also assume and transmit to posterity
greater beauty and perfection of form ! This may
account, although not for those grand and graphic
distinctions of races, as between the Africans and
Europeans, yet for those minor differences which
appear among Europeans and Africans themselves.
Do we not perceive before our eyes the confined and
as it were crushed forms of the lower Germans, as
compared with the native Americans, not in adults
only, but even in children ; whence is this ? is there
not something in the native air of true freedom to alter
and expand even the form ? Whence is it then that the
American child, after two or three generations from
Germany, raises his head higher on his shoulders, and
that the nose, lips, eyes, ears, in short, all the features
appear more distinctly to take their places, and keep
more out of each other's way than they do in the Ger
man physiognomy, where all seem huddled together in
confusion and indistinctness, — correctly representing
that very mist and disorder which still broods over
his faculties, ere the genius of American liberty has
said to his benighted soul, " let there be light." That
this is not all fancy, I am certain ; I do not ascribe,
however, these transformations to climate or circum
stance, but to that spirit of mental light and intelli-

NATURAL HISTORY OF MAN. 175
gence which now meets him, — in short, to the politi
cal and moral atmosphere, rather than the physical,
although no doubt there is a certain harmony between
the two ; for we cannot believe it to have been a mat
ter of pure accident, that this land in particular in
which we live has been set apart and devoted to free
dom ; it was not the pilotage, it was not the loadstar
of chance, but the attraction of a far different and
more benign power that directed Columbus and the
Spanish mariners to the south, and Sebastian Cabot
with the English and other nations to the north of this
new continent. In the conformation and establish
ment of nations of peculiar genius in this hemisphere,
we see beautiful and interesting examples of those
natural and providential processes, according to which
consociations of mankind take place, to which instance
I shall have occasion often to refer. Instead, therefore,
of considering the physical condition of a country, as
determining its moral, it is perhaps better to regard
the moral, to a certain extent, as moulding and modi
fying the physical state of man, that is to say, to
regard that peculiar American type of body, towards
which we can perceive all foreigners in the lapse of
generations tending, as growing more from the political
and moral and free state of the nation, than its climate
or other outward circumstances, or (and this view
may be considered preferable) to regard it as provi
dential and the appointment of nature, that the physi
cal should correspond with the moral, and the moral
with the physical; and that those habits, formed in
freedom and fixed in the happy choice of the indivi
dual, should be transmitted to the offspring, and form
for themselves therein a more beautiful and graceful
corporeal residence. Or, since the whole is conjecture,
although the facts are indisputable, let us even take

176 LECTURE THE SEVENTH.
this additional view of the subject : as it is a known fact
that the mind and shape of ancestors constantly re-ap
pear at intervals in the line of their descendants, being
that inalienable stamp of nature which never can be
abolished ; so, that genius and form which promises to
be the mental and corporeal type of the American, for a
series of ages, may have been slumbering, latent in the
progenitors of those who have crossed the waters, and
been the genuine cause which led them hither, and
the reason why at last this noble countenance and free
bearing mark them all, — or would mark them all,
did not avarice and other selfish passions sometimes
defeat the ends of nature, and of those social institu
tions which imitate her example and second her bene
volence. But we need not stop here, for having now
happily struck on a right vein of reasoning and analo
gies, we may even imagine that a still nobler form and
genius is latent in the best and noblest that has ever
yet appeared ; and that it is among the possibilities of
human improvement, that touched by a vital ray from
heaven, — even the warm contact of true and heaven-
born freedom, which is still better than the Ameri
can, — the human mind and body may yet expand into
a fulness of beauty and perfection such as none since
the state of Eden has beheld, although in virtue of that
image and likeness originally imprinted, the possibility,
I may say the capacity, of reaching this perfection has
never been lost, but retained from Adam downwards.
Still those changes and transformations of soul and
body cannot justly be regarded as calculated to break
down those great and original barriers which separate
the natural races of mankind, and which become only
the more visible and distinct in the progress of im
provement. The transformations, moral and physical,
of which I speak, are such as may be expected to arise

NATURAL HISTORY OF MAN. 177
in the same race according to their genius and tempera
ment, and as indications of advancement or retrogres
sion in respect to the general ends of their creation.
But a difficulty will occur here in regard to these
changes ; they may be supposed to affect merely the
individual himself, but to be incapable of being trans
mitted to his posterity. It might be perhaps sufficient
to meet that objection merely to state the well-known
fact, that dispositions and propensities, and conse
quently all habits that have acquired the force of these,
are actually transmitted to descendants. But in con
firmation of this I shall refer to facts perhaps less
known, namely, that even in the case of dogs, habits
that have been once engrained in their instincts be
come parts of their nature and go to their offspring, of
course not habits artificial merely, put on by trick
and education, but such, I mean, as fall in with their
instincts, and are embraced and held firmly by these
instincts.*
* A race of dogs employed for hunting deer in the platform of Santa Fe, in
Mexico, affords a beautiful illustration of a new hereditary instinct. The mode
of attack, observes M. Raulin, which they employ, consists in seizing the ani
mal by the belly and overturning it hy a sudden effort, taking advantage of the
moment when the body of the deer rests only upon the fore-legs. The weight
of the animal thus thrown over is six times that of its antagonist. The dog of
pure breed inherits a disposition to this kind of chase, and never attacks a deer
before, while running. Even should the deer, not perceiving him, come directly
upon him, the dog steps aside and makes his assault upon the flank ; whereas
other hunting dogs, though of superior strength and sagacity, which are brought
from Europe, are destitute of this instinct. For want of similar precautions,
they are often killed by the deer on the spot, the vertebrae of their neck being
dislocated by the violence of the shock.
A new instinct has also become hereditary in a mongrel race of dogs employed
by the inhabitants of the banks of Magdalena, almost exclusively in hunting
the white-lipped pecari. The address of these dogs consists in restraining their
ardor, and attaching themselves to no animal in particular, but keeping the
whole herd in check. Now, among these dogs some are found, which, the
very first time they are taken to the woods, are acquainted with this mode of
attack ; whereas a dog of another breed starts forward at once, is surrounded by
23

178 LECTURE THE SEVENTH.
Such is the evidence of the laws of nature with re
gard to the transmission of habits, grounded on or
interwoven with the instincts of the. creature ;— such
habits in animals bear some faint analogy with the in
sertion of grafts in trees ; you are aware, that not every
tree can support a graft of every other, but to ensure
the success of the experiment, it is necessary that the
trees belong to what is called the same natural family;
— it is so, in this case; you could not engraft upon the
dog a habit which should be hereditary, which was not
naturally allied with his instinct : it must be implanted
in a ground of nature or it does not become vital. But
is there in man that which has or may have the force
of instinct ? — every thing might have, that would tend
to raise and exalt his being, his human soul, — the love
of truth for example, the sense of justice, the purity of
the nobler passions ; — when such sentiments as these
are engrafted in the religion of the individual, and
acquire a divine character and vigor, they may be
transmitted to his posterity, and would tend not only
to improve the forms of the soul, but after several
generations, to add to the natural dignity and graceful
ness of the body. To such conclusions, so consonant
the pecari, and, whatever may be his strength, is destroyed in a moment. The
fixed and deliberate stand of the pointer has with propriety been regarded as a
mere modification of a habit which may have been useful to a wild race accus
tomed to wind game, and steal upon it by surprise, first pausing for an instant,
in order to spring with unerring aim. The faculty of the retriever, however,
may justly be regarded as more inexplicable and less easily referable to the
instinctive passions of the species. M. Majendie, says a French writer in a
recently published memoir, having learnt that there was a race of dogs in
England which stopped and brought back game of their own accord, procured
a pair, and, having obtained a whelp from them, kept it constantly under his
eyes, until he had an opportunity of assuring himself that, without having
received any instruction, and on the very first day that it was carried to the
chase, it brought back game with as much steadiness as dogs which had been
schooled into the same manoeuvre by means of the whip and collar. — Lyell, vol.
i. p. 5Q9. Am. Ed.

NATURAL HISTORY OF MAN. 179
with Christianity and so encouraging to virtue, do our
researches into the natural history of man and the laws
of his being certainly conduct our reason.
Let the occurrence of these green and lively spots,
which meet us providentially, encourage us to proceed;
part of the way may be a desert or beaten track, but
new and beautiful prospects will sometimes open unex
pectedly before us.
But waving all further inquiry, in the meantime,
into the effects of civilization and the arts on the condi
tion of man, a subject which will again come up in
some subsequent lecture, let us first dispose of those
other questions, which refer to the origin of the human
race itself, and also of those natural subordinate races
of which it is composed.
In regard to the origin of the human race itself, it
seems hardly necessary to say, that we derive no infor
mation from either science or experience. We are
indebted to theology altogether, for any knowledge we
possess on the subject; but this being of a spiritual,
rather than physical import, admits not of any scientific
exposition. In regard to the physical circumstances,
which distinguished the formation or origin of the first
man or first pair, we are consequently left altogether in
the dark. And so entirely destitute are we of any
facts, which could lead us to a knowledge of such cir
cumstances, and so remote, probably, was the nature of
that event, from all others which have since happened,
or of which we have any knowledge, that had even a
faithful description of it been transmitted to us, we
should most likely have been utterly unable to com
prehend it. For our understanding of a subject
depends on certain other familiar and analogous facts,
with which we were before acquainted ; but the crea
tion of the first man, as a natural event, we are com-

180 LECTURE THE SEVENTH.
pelled to think, was one of its own kind, to which
nothing has since happened, either similar or analogous,
— so entirely beyond the reach of our ordinary expe
rience, that even imagination itself cannot grapple with
it. To see this more clearly let us suppose, — the thing
indeed is impossible, — but let us suppose certain per
sons to have been shut out from all knowledge of the
manner in wilich human beings are brought into ex
istence, — and of the several stages of infancy, — child
hood, and adolescence, winch precede maturity, — and
let them be told then, for the first time, that there was
a period when they began to exist, — when God intro
duced them into life, conferring upon them those
powers and functions of body and mind, which they
at present exercise, — what ideas would they be able to
form of all this? — without a knowledge of the facts,
would they be able to arrive at a single just conclusion
in regard to any one particular of the whole transaction?
— would not the whole appear to them an enigma, an
inexplicable mystery ? — or would they be able to rep
resent truly to their imaginations, the laws of that
divine economy, according to which the human being
is at first carried in the womb, — afterwards born, —
suckled by the mother for a season, — and at length, by
slow degrees, and after a period of years, arrives at
maturity? — We perceive at once, that neither reason
nor imagination could here avail them any thing ; so
little can any one tell beforehand, antecedent to experi
ence, of the works of the Creator, or that order which
may distinguish them. Nay, so profoundly ignorant
are we, especially on this subject of our own origin, that
it would be impossible for us to know, without having
been informed by others, and seen the same kind of
facts constantly occurring, that we had ever begun to
exist at all ; — we might have supposed, that we had so

NATURAL HISTORY OF MAN. 181
lived on from eternity; — true, our memories extend
back but a short space, but we forget many things, and
we might also have forgotten all but the last thirty or
forty years of our existence. I know that I am
making a supposition, which it is difficult to lay hold
of, for we have from our earliest recollection been so
familiar with the sight of human beings, like ourselves,
first in the state of helpless infancy, next in a more ad
vanced childhood, and at last in the maturity of life,
that we seem to ourselves to have an innate perception
of the facts in relation to man's birth, and gradual
advance to manhood, which yet are known to us only
from observation and experience, and would otherwise
have lain entirely beyond the scope of our reason and
intelligence. And the facts, whatever they were, of the
origin and formation of the first man or first pair, stand
to us precisely in this relation, — they are, as respects
any knowledge we have of them, as if they had never
been ; indeed we have no natural surmise or apprehen
sion even in regard to them ; — it is here no longer a
supposition but a fact, that we are shut out from all the
means of knowledge; — many nations, particularly the
Greeks and Romans, seem to have lived under an ob
scure belief, that men had always existed, that there
was no time when they began to be. We however are
fortunately delivered from that illusion, and we are
taught, but not by the wisdom of science, that there
was a time when God first made man upon the earth.
But here our information ends, unless it may be con
sidered as a certain negative confirmation of this truth,
that geology has hitherto discovered no bones of man in
the primitive strata of the globe. What grounds of
reliance are to be sought for in this much vaunted fact,
I know not; it seems to be advanced often as a kind of
triumphant demonstration of the truth of the first

182 LECTURE THE SEVENTH.
chapter of Genesis, from which it would appear that
man was the last created. I must say, that my own
faith in the divine record requires no such aids, and if
it should therefore happen that human bones are dis
covered in the primitive strata, I shall be in no degree
alarmed, for I do not think that theology is to be per
manently affected one way or other, by any such
discoveries. The great point to be firmly fixed in
the mind is, that man not less than the other living
or organic substances of creation has had a beginning,
and that this beginning is from God, — who has also, at
the same time, conferred upon them all, the powers of
indefinite multiplication, according to their kinds.
And it is this second department of subordinate
creation, so to speak, which now falls under our ob
servation and experience. The continual recapitula
tion of the acts of creation, so to name it, in the gene
ration and production of constantly new beings, similar
to, or the same as those which were originally produced,
although now a familiar aspect to us, is when duly
considered, not less wonderful in itself, nor less demon
strative of the presence and power of the Creator, than
the first origination of the entire creation itself was.
It is not less worthy of admiration, it is not less an
evidence of God, than the other, but still in itself it
may be very different: the character and style of
creation, so to speak, may be entirely distinct, when
God first creates or originates species, and when he only
deduces individuals from these, by the present estab
lished modes of generation and production. I wish
that this distinction may be clearly and duly appre
hended, for I think I have perceived some confusion
of ideas in the minds of most persons on the subject.
Let us then distinctly understand and reflect upon it,
under what kind of order of nature or order of creation

NATURAL HISTORY OF MAN. 183
we live, — what is the epoch : there is then, an order
of creation, which may be termed primitive, and is
that of species; and also an order of creation or an
order of nature, which is secondary and consequential
on the other, and which is the creation, generation or
production of individuals. And it is under the reign
of this last, or secondary creation, that we live, and
during which even philosophy itself has been born,
and in which, and from which, we derive all our
ideas of nature ; the materials out of which our senti
ments and opinions, our theories, nay even our very
imaginations are constructed. Respecting the primi
tive creation, when species, not merely individuals
from them, but individuals ab origine rose, we can
consequently form no natural, therefore no just con
ceptions. For this very epithet natural itself is taken,
not from that nature which then sprung up, and was
original, but from this nature which has sprung out of
that, and which is indeed its copy as to features, but
not as to the mode of production. In one word, there
are now established laws or rules of nature, (so we
name those immutable characters whereby God is
known,) in agreement with which, the individuals of
each species of animals spring from the parent stock,
in consequence of which the species is immortal ; — and
the like is true of plants ; — it is thus, — and thus, — in
that order of nature, which now reigns, this quiet, un
obtrusive secondary creation, as we prefer to call it : —
but in the primitive creation, — that first epoch, when
the individuals, the solitary representatives of species
first appeared, are we to imagine that those very same
laws or rules of production or generation also governed
and characterized that nobler, because more universal
creation; is it not on the contrary, more reasonable to
suppose, that such a character of creation was distin-

184 LECTURE THE SEVENTH.
guished and adorned by an order and laws altogether
original and peculiar, of which we have at present
no natural ideas whatever, but only those spiritual
impressions conveyed by revelation, — "that six days'
work, — a world." According to this view of the sub
ject, provided I have made it sufficiently intelligible, it
is not only absurd in itself, but also at variance with all
rules of legitimate philosophy, to suppose as some have
done, that one species of animals have sprung from
another, the more perfect from the less perfect, — and
so on continually, much in the same way as individuals
are now engendered; for this entire fancy is drawn
altogether from the analogy of the rules of creation
which now prevail, and cannot therefore be justly ap
plied to explain the circumstances of a creation, which
from its very nature was distinct and original. This is
very much such a fancy as might be conceived to arise
in the minds of those persons, whom I supposed to have
been excluded from all knowledge of their own origin,
as individuals, and that of others ; among other specula
tions on the subject, might it not very naturally occur
to them, — on finding themselves refreshed and invigo
rated by eating and drinking, — to suppose that their
bodies were formed in this way originally, through the
act of the Deity ; and that eating and drinking, in some
extraordinary manner, were the main features which
characterized their entrance on existence?
But surely it is not necessary to multiply words or
comparisons further, to convince us of this truth, that
respecting the origin of plants, and animals, and men,
we can know no more than has been revealed to us ;
and that the researches of science reach only to that
order of nature, or that system of creation, which has
existed since the appearance of man on the globe.
That the primitive system was essentially distinct in

NATURAL HISTORY OF MAN. 185
its laws and phenomena, we are led to conceive, not
only from the express tenor of the sacred language, but
also from the manifest analogies of God's works. The
laws of the generation and production of individuals
according to species are now unerring; and it is con
trary to the analogies of nature to suppose that they
were ever different: in no one instance has it been
found that a ncio species of animals had arisen from
one that has before existed; — and distinct species do
not mix, so as to produce an offspring that is itself pro
ductive to the third or fourth generation; — ordinary
generation and production, is the constant reproduction
and perpetuation of the individual of the race; it is, so
to speak, but the multiplication of the copy, — that one
plant or animal, which existed originally, and the same,
— the present system of nature being the means pro
vided by which as many countries as possible, and the
successive generations of the inhabitants, might have
an opportunity of seeing it, — and to say " this is indeed
that very same plant or animal which God made, — and
now we have seen it ourselves and believe!"
Indeed, if we regard it properly, it seems like a con
tradiction to the most profound sentiment of reason,
that a new and distinct natural species should arise out
of another, as individuals are now procreated ; it would
be rendering nature itself creative, which is a delegated
instrument merely, to multiply and exhibit that which
is originally created.
Let it then be impressed on the mind, that original
and primitive creation is distinct from the secondary
and subordinate. It is true, as has been said, "that
preservation is perpetual creation," but it is carried on
through distinct laws and phenomena of its own. And
it is a reflection not unpleasing to the imagination, thus
distinctly to see it to be true, not only on the informa-
24

186 LECTURE THE SEVENTH.
tion of theology, but also on the inferences of reason
and the laws of philosophy, that there has existed on
our planet, — when, or for how long a period we know
not, — but that there has existed an order of events, en
tirely different from the present, when the genera and
species of nature, in their first types and representa
tives, rose to adorn, and beautify, and animate the
globe. It was a spectacle exhibited once, and then,
and had we been there to take memoranda of the oc
currences, and to register their order, the antecedents,
and the consequents, the periods and the seasons, we
should have understood something of the physical style
of original creation ; and as there is reason to believe,
that new earths are constantly coming into existence,
in which similar exhibitions of creative power are re
peated and renewed, we could then be able to tell, on
the ground of our natural faith in the immutability of
the divine councils and operations, the general order
and manner, according to which all such replenishing,
enlivening and adorning of rudimental planets, — the
destined dwelling places of men, the future theatres of
their transactions, — are, or have been accomplished.
Meanwhile we must be contented to remain ignorant
of this field of the divine labors, satisfied that for good
and wise reasons, this kind of knowledge is now with
held from us. But is the field of view thereby con
tracted, so as to be too narrow for our minds ? Is there
not ample scope afforded for the most delightful re
search into all those laws of order, whereby provision
is made for the security and perpetuation of the original
creation ? — if not admitted, as it were, to an audience
on the first enunciation of the divine ideas embodied
in the universe, we are yet fortunate enough to attend
to the constant recapitulation of them, and if we have
not heard the divine voice itself, we hear at least that

NATURAL HISTORY OF MAN. 187
echo of it returned by nature, which obeys the call and
is perpetually renewed.
So much in regard to the physical origin of the
human race, and that magnificent " terra incognita" to
which it belongs, and on which only sufficient light is
shed to indicate its existence, and to preclude all hopes
of ever approaching it. In regard to the moral and
spiritual condition of mankind, in their primeval state,
a more distinct picture is furnished through the means
of revelation. A single family of the group, under the
names Adam and Eve — man and woman, is presented
to us, — their residence a garden, and a synopsis of their
mental condition is exhibited to us in other expressive
characters, as in a certain mystic tree, named " the tree
of life," — another called " the tree of the knowledge of
good and evil," by the eating of which seems to have
been indicated the fall of the human race, from the
lively and clear views of primeval theology, into the
dim twilight of modern science, in which through evil
wre learn good. But respecting all these events, what
ever may have been their natural bearings and rela
tions, we have received no sure scientific informa
tion ; — of the duration, or the country — the theatre of
this golden age of the human family, — we have gain
ed no intelligence ; whether it were a country over
which now roll the waves of the broad Atlantic, or,
what is more generally believed, the vast champaign
of the inland regions of temperate Asia, is a problem
still to be solved. But in whatever light we may
view such subjects, one thing is manifest, that the pre
sent, or, what some would call, the post-diluvian race
of mankind is comparatively of very recent origin, and
that it has hardly put forth the first tender leaves of its
terrestrial insemination. But, as it now exists, it is
evidently marked off into certain distinct natural

188 LECTURE THE SEVENTH.
families, only one of which, within the last few thou
sand years of its existence, has begun to develop what
may be conceived to be the proper germ of humanity :
I allude here, you will perceive, to the Caucasian
branch of the human family, which, whatever may be
its comparative distinction hereafter, when the other
races shall have advanced on the career of a just civili
zation, is at present, as respects intellectual expansion —
this unfolding of leaves — evidently in advance of all
the others. But it is the prerogative of intellect to
be precocious ; the other races after a few thousand
years may far excel them in moral development, in
that nobler civilization which arises from the cultiva
tion of innocence, simplicity and virtue, — a civilization
the most enduring, because the only right kind, but the
latest in arriving at perfection, — " their leaf also shall
not wither, and whatsoever they do shall prosper."
Of the existence of these distinct natural families
of the human species, no one, who is capable of the
least reflection, can for a moment doubt. The origin
of these is another question : from what causes they
have existed, or why they come to inhabit those sepa
rate regions of the globe, which have been assigned to
them, is among those numerous problems which sci
ence cannot solve ; but is compelled to indicate the
fact, without presuming to ascertain the reason. For
as we are ignorant of the nature of those agencies or
influences which build up the human body, allotting to
each organ its proper place, and form, and function ;
here marking out a region for the heart, and forthwith
designing and establishing one, — and there a separate
department for the brain, and constructing that also,
and in like manner so disposing and perfecting all other
parts, and functions, and members, according to their
use, design, and tendency, binding the whole into

NATURAL HISTORY OF MAN. 189
a unity, the most perfect and admirable, the body of
man, — as we are profoundly ignorant how all this is
effected, and yet the fact is undeniable, so are we also
in the dark in respect to those causes and influences
which have produced different and distinct families of
the human race, and have brought each within its
allotted climate and place on the globe. That it has
been all an affair of accident, we are not at liberty to
suppose, for this would be to contradict at once both
common sense and philosophy ; and neither is it more
rational to suppose that the different members of the
human family, having been separated at an early
period, the present discriminations which exist among
them have arisen from climate or other local causes.
This is not one whit more philosophical than it would
be to sav, that because the arms and hands have occu-
v -
pied the upper extremities of the body, therefore they
are arms and hands, and not legs or feet, and that it is
the mere fact of their collocation which renders the
feet, feet, and the hands, hands. No doubt the feet are
best adapted to that position in the body which they
occupy, and so the hands to theirs, and in like manner
every member and organ in the body is best fitted to
its own place ; but still it is contrary to reason to say
that it is the place or collocation that has determined
either the form or use of the part ; there is the evi
dence of wise design in all such relations of the whole
to the parts and the parts to the whole, of the organ to
the place and the place to the organ, and it becomes a
theme of just admiration, that such perfect harmony
should every where prevail ; but when we proceed
farther, and would specify that such and such relations
having been once established, such and such others
followed of necessity, and were added, we are wading

190 LECTURE THE SEVENTH.
beyond our depth, and into a sea of interminable and
audacious speculation.
The same observations will bear to be applied to the
position and distribution of the different families of
mankind. It is certainly a remarkable fact, that the
Negro family of the human species should have been
naturally confined to the peninsula of Africa, and
should never have traveled beyond it from voluntary
choice. Philosophers have found a constitutional adap
tation in this case to the climate and local circumstan
ces of this their native and allotted home, and there
can be no question that there is, and that when the
epoch of their civilization arrives, in the lapse of ages,
they will display in their native land some very peculiar
and interesting traits of character, of which we, a dis
tinct branch of the human family, can at present form
no conception. It will be — indeed it must, be — a civil
ization of a peculiar stamp ; perhaps we might venture
to conjecture, not so much distinguished by art as a
certain beautiful nature, not so marked or adorned by
science as exalted and refined by a certain new and
lovely theology ; — a reflection of the light of heaven
more perfect and endearing than that which the intel
lects of the Caucasian race have ever yet exhibited.
There is more of the child, of unsophisticated nature, in
the Negro race than in the European, a circumstance
however which must always lower them in the estima
tion of a people whose natural distinction is a manly and
proud bearing, and an extreme proneness to artificial
society, and social institutions : the peculiar civilization
which nature designs for each is obviously different, and
they may impede, but never can promote the improve
ment of each other. It was a sad error of the white
race, besides the moral guilt which was contracted,

NATURAL HISTORY OF MAN. 191
when they first dragged the African, contrary to his
genius and inclination, from his native regions : a vol
untary choice would never have led the Negro into
exile ; the peninsula of Africa is his home, and the
appropriate and destined seat of his future glory and
civilization, — a civilization which, we need not fear to
predict, will be as distinct in all its features from that
of all other races, as his complexion and natural tem
perament and genius are different. But who can doubt
that here also humanity, in its more advanced and
millenial stage, will reflect, under a sweet and mellow
light, the softer attributes of the divine beneficence.
If the Caucassian race is destined, as would appear from
the precocity of their genius and their natural quick
ness, and extreme aptitude to the arts, to reflect the
lustre of the divine wisdom, or, to speak more properly,
the divine science, shall we envy the Negro, if a later
but far nobler civilization await him, — to return the
splendor of the divine attributes of mercy and bene
volence in the practice and exhibition of all the milder
and gentler virtues ? It is true, the present rude linea
ments of the race might seem to give little warrant for
the indulgence of hopes so romantic ; but yet those
who will reflect upon the natural constitution of the
African may see some ground even for such anticipa
tions ; — can we not read an aptitude for this species of
civilization I refer to, in that singular light-heartedness
which distinguishes the whole race, — in their natural
want of solicitude about the future, in them a vice at
present, but yet the natural basis of a virtue, — and
especially in that natural talent for music with which
they are pre-eminently endowed, to say nothing of
their willingness to serve, the most beautiful trait of
humanity, which we, from our own innate love of do
minion, and in defiance of the Christian religion, brand

192 LECTURE THE SEVENTH.
with the name of servility, and abuse not less to our
own dishonor than their injury. But even amid these
untoward circumstances there burst forth occasionally
the indications of that better destiny, to which nature
herself will at last conduct them, and from which they
are at present withheld, not less by the mistaken kind
ness of their friends, than the injustice of their op
pressors : for so jealous is nature of her freedom, that
she repels all interference, even of the most be
nevolent kind, and will suffer only that peculiar good
or intelligence to be elicited, of which she has her
self deposited the seeds or rudiments in the human
bosom. Perhaps, however, such expectations may seem chi
merical, and it may rather be thought, that there exist
no such elements of native character in that race, as to
justify the hope of such a peculiar development of
mind, as would constitute a happier species of civiliza
tion ; — and such undoubtedly will be the opinion of
those, who consider the European civilization the stan
dard, and whatever may deviate from that, a blemish.
But let it only be considered, how much our sentiments
are warped, or indeed fixed, by our natural bent of
mind ; and then, perhaps, we shall have less difficulty
in conceiving, how a certain species of the most beauti
ful and yet real refinement might exist, with far less of
intellectual display, and science, and art, than at pre
sent characterize the civilization of the white races. If
there are fewer vivid manifestations of intellect in the
Negro family, than in the Caucasian, as I am disposed
to believe, does that forbid the hope of the return of
that pure and gentle state of society among them,
which attracts the peculiar regard of Heaven, and to
which Homer seems to allude as having existed among
them — •

NATURAL HISTORY OF MAN. 193
The sire of Gods, and all th' etherial train,
On the warm limits of the farthest main
Now mix with mortals, nor disdain to grace
The feasts of ./Ethiopia's blameless race;
Twelve days the powers indulge the genial rite
Returning with the twelfth revolving light. — Iliad, Book I.
But under whatever light we may view the moral
disposition and genius and capacity of this race of men,
one thing is certain, that as respects both their physical
and mental condition, they are naturally and originally
distinct. How this has happened, it is impossible to
tell ; at all events, we never can concur with the opin
ions of Buffon and others, who ascribe all their pecu
liar characteristics to the mere operation of climate and
local circumstances ; intimating by these opinions, that
had the same chance, which they suppose to have in
troduced them into Africa, and shut them up there,
brought them into Europe, — to the southern countries
of Greece or Italy, or to the northern parts of Gaul and
Germany, they would have all the characteristics, or
similar ones, of those races which in ancient or modern
times have inhabited there. This seems to me very
much such an assertion as it would be to say, that were
our legs and arms to change places, our legs would be
arms and our arms legs, which at all events, is an ab
surdity in language, if nothing else. We regard it as
the effect of a particular Providence, or, to speak in the
dialect of science, an express law of nature, that each
peculiar race of men should occupy those limits, which
have been assigned them, and none other : and we may
consider it as a part of this same natural arrangement,
that a race of people of that distinctive genius, which
belongs to the Caucasian variety, and occupying that
portion of the globe, which has become their native
residence, should for the first ages at least, take the lead
in civilization, and bear the torch of science and moral
25

194 LECTURE THE SEVENTH.
improvement in advance of the other races, — to shed
light on the resources of human nature, and be, as it
were, the pioneers of humanity, fitted in a wonder
ful degree, for the accomplishment of bold and ori
ginal undertakings. But in succeeding ages, gentler
duties may be needed, and a race of milder tempera
ment may best accomplish them.
But our sentiments on this subject are at. present ex
ceedingly contracted, and destitute of that expansion of
views, which is required by philosophy. For as it has
been observed, that the true science of geology has
been retarded, through the influence of popular appre
hensions in regard to the age of the earth, and also from
theories deduced from mere local phenomena, so are
we prevented from taking enlarged views of the varied
relations of the different natural races of mankind,
from considering the past, as the criterion of the future,
and the historical relations, as the natural relations, and
consequently fixed and immutable, which may be very
much the contrary, — also from imagining, that the
world, which is now only beginning, is fast hastening
to its termination, while so many nations are still
plunged in barbarism, and have never been able to ap
proach that perfect civilization, which has prevailed
among us, and which of course we are willing to con
sider as the model, which the human race are bound to
imitate. In consequence of these lurking prejudices,
in regard both to the duration of time itself, and also
the right elements of civilization, we are unable to
bring ourselves unto a position, from which fairly to
estimate the relations of our civilization to that which
may hereafter arise, among tribes now exceedingly ob
scure and barbarous, but which coming late, and having
none of that precocious refinement which distinguishes
ours, and veils an excessive ambition and selfishness,

NATURAL HISTORY OF MAN. 195
may, as respects an innate love of goodness, and the
majesty and strength of the moral discriminations, as
far surpass our present civilization, as we now excel
them, in all the distinctions of a daring and successful
intellect. That we even now excel them in every spe
cies of moral worth, is at least problematical.
But here, be it observed, 1 ad\rance no theory, but
only make these suggestions, to awaken reflection on
the subject, and to rivet attention on certain most inter
esting facts, which form part of the natural history of
man. For what can be more interesting to a reflecting
mind, than this grand natural classification of mankind,
— the varied groups, which occupy the different regions
of the globe, differing not less in their moral and intel
lectual progress, than in their physical constitution, —
truly a vast and most magnificent school, in which how
ever, the most forward are not always the soundest
intellects, nor the most ambitious at last the truest men ;
one eye alone surveys the whole, and marks already the
distinct colors of their destiny, and all the possible re
lations which can arise among them. We see but very
partially indeed, and yet two races stand forth in pro
minent relief among the rest, whose mental and physi
cal characters seem already well defined, and no longer
to be mistaken ; I mean the African and European, or
more properly, the Negro and Caucasian; the one
extremely provincial, and confined from natural inclina
tion to one quarter of the globe, the peninsula of Africa ;
the other more migratory in its habits, — having roamed
westward from the centre of Asia, and explored and set
tled the most inhospitable, as well as the most inviting
countries of Europe ; — the former hitherto almost sta
tionary, as respects progress in the arts, and apparently
as fixed in mental compass, as in local residence ; the
latter not less remarkable for freedom of intellectual

196 LECTURE THE SEVENTH.
research, than the extent of their wanderings, — always
inquiring after something new, — in their western voy
ages and emigrations, having reached the farthest extre
mities of Europe at an early period, and then wait
ing with seeming impatience until Providence had
opened to them this new and almost boundless conti
nent, which still seems not large enough to satisfy their
ambition, or gratify their curiosity. Such are the well-
known traits of this race of mankind, among whom
we rank; how much contrasted with the genius of that
iEthiopean family, who have been also not seldom the
victims of their tyranny, or else of their ill-timed com
passion. Not one African ever crossed the wide waters
with his own consent ; and with unalloyed satisfaction
and delight, would he have been contented to have
basked, unmolested and undisturbed, on his own sunny
plains, until the genius of native civilization, appear
ing on the banks of the Niger or the Congo, had
roused him from his stupor, and infusing new senti
ments and ideas into his mind, opened to him a career
of improvement congenial with his nature, and adapted
to his character. But the seasons, and occasions of na
tional developments, and much more, those magnifi
cent expansions of the mental energies of races, are
things as yet very imperfectly understood ; the world
is yet too young ; some ten thousand years of additional
progress may shed light upon the subject. Only this
much we may venture to affirm, that, in agreement
with the laws of universal nature, nothing is or can be,
absolutely stationary, the human race least of all so, —
tending constantly to an elevated moral condition, or to
actual extinction.
But we behold as yet only the introduction to the
drama, and our own race being itself a part of the pa
geant, we are not by any means certain, that those

NATURAL HISTORY OF MAN. 197
relations, under which we view the various movements,
are such as would appear to an eye that took in the
whole : and we shall consider that we have secured a
point, if we have only properly impressed this much,
through this desultory lecture, namely, that there is
much likelihood, that we may be mistaken in the
moral estimate which we form, in regard to the grand
divisions of the human family, in consequence of not
duly appreciating the native bent of each, and in
reckoning the precocity of intellect, and that species
of civilization which is attached to it, as the summum
bonum of the social human condition.
But in our future lectures we shall have an opportu
nity of referring to such points more fully and dis
tinctly. In the meantime, let us recapitulate, and
under one view, the various points of the present
lecture, in order that we may see them under their
natural light or natural obscurity, and no longer con
found together the known and the unknown.
The points then, both known and unknown, are
these: In the first place, that the human race is one, and
that this oneness is recognized as a truth of religion, —
and becomes morally and civilly recognizable also in
those universal principles of the moral law, which all
men more or less discover written in their hearts, or
described in their social usages, to which the implanted
moral sense responds. All human beings understand
the moral obligations, and yield them homage: this is
the veriest sign of natural unity, the most catholic and
the most intelligible. The other sign, which is a
physical one, is inscribed on the human form; — the
human form is one, — the same bones, teeth, obvious
relations and proportions, attitudes, movements, physi
cal gesture and behavior, so that all who see the

198 LECTURE THE SEVENTH.
creature say, "it is a man," and there is not even room
for equivocation, so palpable is the fact. — This then,
is the first known and clear point. Religion sheds
one light on it, and science another, and we read it
both in sun light, and in moon light, that man is one,
essentially so, the image of his maker on the one hand,
the epitome of nature on the other.
The second point is this, that this one family, man, is
composed ab origine of several very distinct and diffe
rent members, some of which are very well defined
and obviously separated from each other, as for ex
ample, the Caucasian and Negro, and others not less
distinct, although not so easily shown; — this I say is
the second point of our lecture, and it is maintained,
that these distinctions originate in that terra incognita
of natural facts, which looms behind in the far distance,
— within that dark and shadowy epoch, beneath whose
dynasty also the natural species and genera first came
into being on our globe, — and among the rest, man
himself: — this second point then you will observe,
belongs partly to the obscure, and partly to the bright
portions of our knowledge. It is a bright fact, and
there is no denying of it, for instance, that the Negro
and European, belong to distinct races of men, I mean
such as cannot be shown to be bred out of any combi
nation of causes natural or artificial, with which we are
acquainted : and the causes then, or the things which
produced those original distinctions, I aver that I know
nothing of, — they are obscure.
The third point is this, — and which is partly obscure,
but I believe, will not always remain so, — that there
should exist such disparity of civilization in these dif
ferent races. I have said something on this subject,
and will say more in the next lecture : but time itself
will be the fullest elucidator, — when also the just, and

NATURAL HISTORY OF MAN. 199
the true, and the good, under the beneficent influence
of the Christian religion, and the cultivation of the
virtues, shall be more thoroughly appreciated, and more
dearly loved.
A fourth point is not obscure, but notwithstanding
very wonderful, to wit, that men are so moulded by
education and religion, as to produce those latent forms
of beauty and gracefulness, which were unknown to
themselves and their progenitors, but which, through
loved and cherished habits of virtue, in themselves,
afterwards become conspicuous in their offspring. In
this fact is laid the possibility of indefinite human
improvement, according to the natural genus, and
character or race, but not to the obliteration of either :
— the Caucasian becomes a noble Caucasian, the Negro
a noble Negro, the one the brilliant form of versatile
genius, the other the very type itself of affection and of
gentleness. This is not only a clear point but also a
very interesting one.
A fifth point, — which is very obscure, and so obscure
that I shall say nothing on it, and hardly drag it into
day, — is this, — but those that choose can think upon
it, — that as it is proven, that certain races of animals
have become extinct, — forty-five species of Pachyder-
mata, says Cuvier, many approaching the elephant in
size, — in like manner, may it not be, — but none can
tell, — that not a few members also of the universal
human race have been actually and physically "blotted
out of the book of life?" — if so, through their own
fault, we may be well assured ; and the warning is a
tremendous one, — without any literal conflagration,
not only nations but even whole natural races, branch
and root, may cease to be, — and the earth and heaven,
as respects them, "perish," although to "endure for
ever," to other new and regenerate races; — let not

200 LECTURE THE SEVENTH.
then, the Caucasian boast, nor the Ethiopian either ; —
they hold their physical and generic existence on the
tenor solely of this law, "whatsoever ye would that
men should do to you, do ye even so to them."
• But this fifth point is an extremely obscure one, —
and 1 shall even leave it so ; — although who can think
on the pyramids of Teotehuacan and Cholula, and the
human figures, so peculiar and distinct from any
physiognomy now existing, there discovered on their
broken and shattered monuments, — or those numerous
mounds, which dot this continent, — assuredly it had
not been always a wilderness, — wiio can think on these
things, and not have his misgivings?  But with
better omens would we close this lecture, — to hail
once more new races of men just starting on the career
of civilization: our own intellectual light may be
eclipsed or obscured, under a milder and softer radi
ance, yet to be shed over the wilds of Africa, the
plains of Hindostan, or the far spreading regions of
China and of Tartary ; but who shall regret it, if the
reign of goodness shall at last supersede the supremacy
of truth, and feminine prevail over masculine virtue? —
it may be but a delusion of our Caucasian imagination,
that the latter is possessed of more vigor, and majesty
than the former : the Minerva of antiquity, although a
female, was the goddess of war, — and Homer surely
was not ignorant of the natural emblem of strength.

LECTURE THE EIGHTH;

ON THE

UNITY IN VARIETY OF THE HUMAN RACE.

That there are local centres whence have proceeded all living forms ; founded in
reason to us inscrutable, but the perfection of intelligence. — Under similar
influences these forms are found to be the same in their general aspect, but
specifically different, which accords with our instinctive impressions. — On the
variety of nature a unity is every where impressed. — Its contemplation bene
ficial  Evidences of variety in unity in the kingdoms of nature, especially
in the human kingdom  Variety of races as well as their unity original. —
The unity of the human race cannot be traced to any particular family, but
may be supposed originally to have combined in itself every variety that now
exists. — Folly of conjecture as to the destiny of different races from their
present disproportionate advancement. — Natural characteristics of the Afri
can and Caucasian  Evil of their admixture. — The Caucasian essentially
one race, but comprising several varieties. — The Germans, Gauls, and
Britons; characterized by an inquiring, restless spirit. — The Jews, Persians,
and Egyptians; the mystics of the race, aud the subjects of ritual revela
tions. — The Asiatic and Greek mind contrasted. Utilitarian bent of the
European branch. — Conclusion.
In Australasia there is an order of quadrupeds,
which are called the marsupial or pouched, and are
prevalent there, particularly in New Holland, but have
not their congeners in any other quarter of the globe,
except it be one solitary species, the opossom of North
America. Can any one perceive the reason why this
peculiar order of animated beings should have such a
locality assigned to them, and that one straggling
26

202 LECTURE THE EIGHTH.
species of the natural family should be found in this
New World? There is an arrangement of animals
on the globe, and of all living forms, which is founded
on some reason, — to us inscrutable and hidden among
the mysteries of nature ; but I know not how, it seems
to be a feature of sublimity in this subject which ele
vates the mind even more than certain knowledge
could have done, to find that there is an arrangement
of living creatures, and that the boundaries of their
habitations have- been fixed, but that we are unable to
discover the law of the arrangement, or the reason
on which it is founded, while at the same time we
have an intimate conviction that that law exists, and
that that reason whence it proceeds is the perfection
of intelligence. The very knowledge of our ignorance
on such important points which touch on the divine
government of the world, is no slight acquisition of
true philosophy, and is the best preparation for the
attainment of a pure and elevated mind, — the end of
all knowledge. Although therefore I conveyed to you
little positive information in my last lecture, on the sub
ject which engaged our attention, I am convinced it was
the most profitable one, in many respects, which I have
delivered, because the subject itself opens to us the
widest view of a vast and unknown territory of future
discovery, a new continent of philosophy, of which
nearly all that we distinctly know is, that it positively
exists, and that it is a region strewed with the wonders
of creation. I allude, you perceive, to the origin and
collocation of species, which is a field invested with a
pleasing mystery; certain skeptics in theology have
affected surprise, that the universal Christian religion
should have had but one local origin ; what, if it shall
be found, (and it seems likely to be established,) that all
generic and specific creations whatever, which in their

NATURAL HISTORY OF MAN. 203
origins could not help but be as purely miraculous as
the Christian religion itself, — interruptions of the
established order of nature, as we view it, — have also
had each but one local centre from which they have
been diffused, and those too selected on reasons as
arbitrary apparently to us, as the fact of the designa
tion of one separate nation to be the depository of the
first seed, or germ, of the Christian faith. Equally
arbitrary does it seem that races of men of distinct
genius and character should have been assigned to
certain determinate quarters of the globe : but the
fact is nevertheless incontestible. You can perceive
even from the commentaries of Caesar, who wrote
before the Christian era, the radical elements of the
present French character in the barbarous tribes which
inhabited the Gallic country. And the same observa
tion may be made on Britain, Germany, and other
countries. Asia and Africa have a character marked
on the human population as little to be mistaken, and
on the whole and within certain limits as permanent,
as that which is visible in the natural races of the ani
mals of each, and of the plants which are found there.
Is it the physical atmosphere which determines the
character, or is it the peculiar institution of their
religions and arts? But what, again, rendered that
very institution peculiar ? — the physical atmosphere of
the country ? Here we shall find ourselves perpetually
treading in an unintelligible circle of causes and
effects, in regard to which we can determine neither
the sequence nor the precedence. How much nobler
is it at once to make confession of our ignorance, and
henceforth proceed to record the facts and occurren
ces, — and to recognize the disposition of a Supreme
Intelligence, whose reasons are beyond the ken of our
most acute philosophy, and probably never can, —

204 LECTURE THE EIGHTH.
unless very faintly and like shadows flitting on the
surface of nature, — be understood by us. Let us then,
with feelings of a different order, and more akin to
simplicity, be willing to regard this globe of which we
are the inhabitants, — and which is under the entire
disposal of an omnipotent Intelligence, — here parcel
ling out its different regions for different uses, and
various productions, whose ends and intentions (as well
as the design of the whole arrangement) are perfectly
known to the presiding Mind ; — but we, — like chil
dren looking on, and full of wonder and astonishment
at all we behold, and very agreeably excited by the
stir, and labor, and movement, which we discern, and
the occasional and partial glimpses of the plan which
we sometimes catch, — are contented still to seek an
innocent amusement and gratification in conjecturing
what may come next, — or what may be the design
and purpose of this and the other arrangement, — and
what, after a time, when the whole is completed,
and the summer and the harvest have arrived, — what
then will be the aspect of all this fair and goodly show
of created objects, which in the spring of their exis
tence interest us so much, and puzzle our understand
ings so thoroughly to comprehend what may be the
general design, scope, and tendency of it all ? But as
children are benefited by their own conjectures and
reasonings even about works which they cannot yet
comprehend, and such amusement constitutes a salu
tary exercise of mind, so may we also derive benefit
from those inquiries in which we are now engaged,
difficult as they may seem ; and we shall not therefore
scruple to pursue them : — but our proposed course in
this lecture we trust may be more satisfactory than
our last.
Were we to ascend the peak of Teneriffe, we should

NATURAL HISTORY OF MAN. 205
find (so botanists have informed us) its surface to be
distinguished by certain natural zones of vegetation, in
marked and regular succession ; the first, the region of
vines, the temperature best adapted to them ; the se
cond that of laurels, chestnuts and oaks ; the third of
pines ; and then would succeed in order mountain broom,
stunted grass and the like, until the last vestige of vege
tation disappeared. Very similar would he the arrange
ment of zones or botanical regions, from the equator
towards either pole, if no irregularities of elevation, or
other causes deranging the laws of the distribution of
heat, according to latitude, were interposed. In that
case, we should see either hemisphere of the globe
marked off from the equator on either side, with each
pole the central point, invested with regular zones of
analogous vegetation, blooming round the earth, —
stripes and patches laid off, with all the exactness of an
artificial garden. There would still be, (supposing the
present laws of nature in other respects to prevail,) the
same variety of species that now exist, but their locali
ties would be regularly determined, and readily identi
fied ; still according to that plan of nature which we
have known to obtain, it would not follow, that at cor
responding points of latitude and consequently climate,
and location, an absolute identity of species would be
found ; only the general aspect of vegetation would be
similar ; the cursory view of the landscape might cre
ate the impression that plants were the same, and it
would not happen, until we had examined them with
some attention, that we could discover them to be spe
cifically different. Identity of climate and location,
therefore, do not secure identity of specific character,
but what we may call identity of analogy only. There
is just that sameness, which may inform us, that we
are still under the dominion, or within the premises of

206 LECTURE THE EIGHTH.
the same prevailing nature, but that this nature is inex
haustible in her resources ; that she can diversify her
plans with endless profusion of forms and types of
beauty, but never lose sight of that sacred principle of
unity, which is the main charm of her works, and the
symbol of His presence, who has crowned her with all
this loveliness and perfection. It is indeed most won
derful to observe, (and the notoriety of the fact ought
not to be permitted to divest it of its interest,) how the
same unity of design and plan of action, so to speak, is
pursued undeviatingly from region to region, from con
tinent to continent, — how mountains, how oceans even,
interposed, are not allowed to interrupt or to confound
this oneness of intention, this harmony and continuity
of parts. It seems almost incredible to us, that nations
of men could ever have admitted into their creed, the
idea of a plurality of gods, when the whole of nature
bears on it so distinctly the impress of one mind, nay,
the more strikingly, for that it is so exceedingly diver
sified, than if there prevailed an absolute sameness, a
perfect monotony over the whole surface of the globe ;
and under all similar circumstances of climate and lo
cation, plants and animals were not only analogous, but
also specifically and individually alike. For amid such
a multiplicity of apparently contradictory and opposing
objects, still to superinduce a unity, and to fix it so gra
phically on all of them, as to be the most conspicuous
point every where, seems to me the clearest indication
not only of One, but an Almighty Intelligence. So
remarkable is this fact in nature, and constantly present
to our observation, that it seems indelibly to have im
pressed itself upon our minds, so that we instinctively
expect to find nature every where the same, and on the
strength of this expectation, sometimes err, in supposing
an identity, where analogy only is to be discovered. For

NATURAL HISTORY OF MAN. 207
this natural unity, in distant parts of the globe, be
comes visible under generic rather than specific charac
ters. We find for example, on this continent, growing
wild and spontaneous, the same natural classes of trees,
shrubs, and other plants, which are to be met with in
Europe : the genera are the same, but the species for
the most part different, almost entirely so, at those
points of either continent, where they are most widely
separated. Thus we find here, as on the continent of
Europe, the pine, the beech, the elm, the alder, the
walnut, the oak, the thorn, but the species are very
rarely the same : the genera hold, the species vary.
And the European traveler, at certain points of his
journey across this continent, might stop to indulge for
a moment the pleasing illusion, that he was in the midst
of some wild scene of his own country; he finds him
self surrounded with aspects, and brief glimpses of
nature, so perfectly similar: but a little farther conside
ration dispels the illusion ; he discovers the plants at his
feet to be not precisely identical ; he may recognize
some old acquaintances, the dandelion, or the wild tre
foil, but these he soon finds to have been exotics like
himself; the great majority of the species are foreign
to him in their individual bearing, in their general as
pect, somewhat familiar; they have enough to identify
them as the property of the same nature, which has im
pressed her own seal upon them, but they have distinct
peculiarities of their own, which constitute, as it were,
their individual name and rank in the families of Flora.
The same remarks will apply to the animal tribes, whe
ther quadruped or winged. The earlier settlers of this
country gave to the new birds which they met with,
the names of such as were before familiar to them, from
some general resemblance which they discovered, and
indeed the general resemblance is visible, but the spe-

208 LECTURE THE EIGHTH.
cific identity is no longer to be found ; — and that word
home, which the first emigrants labored so earnestly to
fix on every object around them, refused to remain
legible on the tablets of nature ; — it was indeed their
home, inasmuch as it was a grand division of that mag
nificent dwelling-place, which the author of nature has
prepared for all his children ; it was home in this sense,
and they could recognize all the analogous vestiges of
his care, and of his providence, as in their own first,
and domestic, and familiar home ; but still inasmuch as
the species of objects were changed before their eyes,
they were obliged at last to consider it a new home, a
foreign home. The associations of childhood were
gradually dropped, the recollections of the old world
melted away, and as a new offspring of human beings
sprung up, new attachments and new sympathies grew
and extended ; and fresh, and before unexplored aspects
of nature became familiar ; until at length those char
acteristics of natural scenery and of living beings which
are here unfolded, have become the standard of nature
to the inhabitants, which they would instinctively expect
to meet with, even in those countries whence their
forefathers came, and might feel a certain disappoint
ment in not discovering them there : they would look
round them to find their own mocking-birds, — the ma
jestic maize, — the peculiar shrubbery of their own
native forests, — and might perhaps try to soothe their
disappointment, by affixing familiar " household words"
to strange objects, on such fancied analogies, as might
at first strike them.
I mention these facts, as showing, that we have a
certain and instinctive expectation of finding nature
every where the same, — always consistent with, and
true to herself ; and whence arises this expectation, but
from those impressions which from the first dawn of

NATURAL HISTORY OF MAN. 209
existence have been made upon us; for our minds are,
as it were, an invisible mirror, which receive and con
stantly retain a general, and on the whole a true image
of nature, which requires indeed certain re-adjustments
from our reason on some points, but in others is more
vivid and just than philosophy herself, with all her
study, could ever render it. And this is exhibited prin
cipally, in those natural sentiments, which are found to
be universal among mankind : they are, for the most
part, nay, we may say always, in some modified sense,
the spontaneous expression of some universal law, the
reflected image of nature's voice caught from the hu
man soul, and on that account entitled to our most
careful consideration. For surely the unbiassed evi
dence of the human mind itself, in regard to certain
kinds of truth, is not less deserving of attention, than
are those chemical, or otherwise physical tests, for the
most part preferred by the inductive philosophy. And
this copy, taken, as it were, unconsciously to our minds,
of the true laws of nature, is oftentimes more legible,
as a transcript, than the bright original, which is some
times too bright for our intellectual reading. The sen
timental knowledge is not only the best, but sometimes
the only knowledge which can be had. In regard how
ever, to this natural expectation which we entertain in
respect to the consistency and unity of nature, it is con
firmed at all points, and readily verified by the widest
intellectual scrutiny. And the instinctive sentiment
receives constant accessions of strength and vividness,
from those numerous and striking analogies which are
found to prevail throughout the animal, vegetable and
mineral kingdoms, those emulations, as it were, of na
ture to approach as nearly as possible to some certain
one invisible standard, unknown to us, but known to
her; — as if this very nature herself, and her whole
27

210 LECTURE THE EIGHTH.
delegated ministry, had received some such commis
sion, as that which Moses, the sacred and moral archi
tect received, — see that you build, see that you con
struct, see that you make everything, "after the pattern
which I have shown you on the mount." And it
would even seem, that we also unwittingly, had recei
ved some intimation in our inner mind, of some such
order having been enjoined, whence are bred those
instinctive and irrepressible expectations, of finding
externally and naturally, every where, this most sweet
and grateful image of unity. But neither is this expec
tation disappointed, nor the truth of the sentiment
impaired, for that we discover this unity set, as it were,
on endless variety ; rather is our delight thereby enhan
ced, and the sentiment itself extended and enlarged. It
is now unity embosomed in infinity, it is the One and
the Infinite, and it is the symbol in nature of that car
dinal truth of our most holy religion, which I dare only
to express here in its own native phraseology, lest other
wise 1 should, profane it,— - s ^o»oyivi,t moo- s «v ¦•( ™ xom-ov T» ^«Tfe(
(John, c. 1, v. 18.) And it is through this unity so
grounded on variety, that our natural sentiment is gra
tified, and at the same time our curiosity awakened;
we are introduced to familiar ideas, under new forms,
to fixed laws, written in a foreign language. Our
industry is excited, and attracted by that novelty,
which strikes us at first in the forms of nature; we
are induced to examine again and again, and by
such repeated perusals come to understand more per
fectly, the spirit of those laws, which are inscribed on
creation, — the expressions of the Divine wisdom and
goodness. It is on this account, that the visiting of
foreign countries is so beneficial to one, who has first
received the benefits of a wise and liberal education,
for nature now appearing to the mature and reflecting

NATURAL HISTORY OF MAN. 211
mind, in a dress altogether new, is questioned in the
spirit of an enlightened philosophy, — if she be indeed
the same or different ; and what — and whence — and
how related ? We might even dare to think that the
education of man, the regeneration of the human mind,
was one main end proposed in the curious structure of
the universe, — this "opus varium, et natura daedala
rerum ;" and certainly, in nothing could the end be so
well provided for, as by this institution of new species
and varieties, so remarkable in visiting different pro
vinces, by which the mind is constantly incited to
inquiry ; while at the same time these species are never
so capricious in their deviations, so remote from the
generic standards, as to defeat all our endeavors to
ascertain their analogies, and identify that unity, which
we expect every where to find ; there is even in their
most devious wanderings, as it were, a tendency to
return to some ideal or rather natural model, which
seems to exert an influence over them all, and to hold
them in unison. It is still the same sweet melody
which is poured forth from the harp of nature, but the
local variations are innumerable, and the harmony and
compass, as it were, without bounds. It is certainly a
remarkable circumstance, in such instances, that unity
so far from being effaced or obliterated, by the intro
duction of such natural and permanent varieties, is
only rendered thereby more conspicuous, and becomes
a fixed object to the understanding.
But of this unity, set on variety, which is that char
acter of it, which nature herself employs, the instances
are every where, and around. Take that which em
braces all others, — the earth itself. How finely do all
its parts consent into one, while the law of gravitation
which binds them, is itself that universal note of har
mony, while the form of the whole, and the even

212 LECTURE THE EIGHTH.
motion on its axis, speak a similar language, — that
immense variety, and that sometimes apparent strife,
which prevails on its bosom, and seems to disturb the
tranquillity of nature in its form and its motion, vanish
and disappear to enhance our conception of its gran
deur. But to turn our eye from the whole on the
parts, or rather the departments of nature, we here
again meet with the same interesting characteristics.
What is the mineral kingdom?— its unity is not merely
an abstraction of philosophy, adopted for the conveni
ence of classification, but an actual truth and distinc
tion ; — but it is variety that forms this body and sub
stance of unity. The like remark is readily applied to
the vegetation of nature, — and all its classifications, and
orders, for these are fixed in creation, and although
sometimes mimicked and obscured by artificial arrange
ments, nevertheless the variousness of nature has its
own landmarks here, in which, and by which, and
from which, this sacred and mystic unity, stands out
justly and beautifully "defined. And why after this
need I mention the animal kingdom? — I pass it, to fix
your attention on another, the human kingdom, — on
man. And here at last as the unity is the most perfect,
(for it is the image of the essential unity,) so is the
variousness the most perfect also. And as the unity is
natural, 1 mean a part of the original constitution of
nature, and not the product of successive circumstances,
so must also the typical variousness be so considered; it
also has arisen with nature and is cotemporaneous with
her, being, as it were, the ground and constituent of
the former, the first in fact, although not the first in
end. Without a natural variety of men, I mean dis
tinct races, the natural unity could receive no illustra
tion or distinction. But as the unity itself is not
considered sporadic, or the product of physical circum-

NATURAL HISTORY OF MAN. 213
stances, so neither ought the variety to be so considered ;
and to maintain therefore that these distinctions of
natural and stable races, are to be accounted for on cer
tain supposed inferences of climate, and other external
contingencies, is a species of reasoning that would
quickly land us in absurdity ; for if some certain per
manent distinctions are to be ascribed to such influen
ces, wThy not all ? If the climate or some other extra
neous causes, have made the Negroes black, given them
thick lips, and woolly hair, then some such causes of a
contrary action, but of the same external features, must
have made the Europeans white, given them thin lips,
and adorned their heads with flowing locks of graceful
hair. And neither is the action of such causes to be
supposed to stop here ; for if climate can thus modify
lips, and blanch, and blacken skins, it might also have
made them originally, and so at last not only the modi
fications of man, but the entire man might be declared
the pure creature of circumstances, endowed with the
prerogatives of creation. Such is the absurdity of this
mode of reasoning. And we can only escape from it,
by deciding at once, that the variety of races as well as
their unity, being both ingenerate and fixed, are also
both original.
The reasonings of mankind upon this subject, are
indeed exceedingly vague. The human race, say they,
is one, and here they are right; but instead of looking
for that one in the whole, — a real unity, such as
nature has made, and not man fancied, — they seek for
it in some one certain type which they consider pre
eminent. The consequence of this has been an amu
sing display of vanity, for the philosophers, being for
the most part of the white race, have never hesitated to
select this as their type, the pattern card, as it were,
after which all others were to be formed; — but some,

214 LECTURE THE EIGHTH.
— no doubt from their own fault, — have been hit off
less perfectly; — and one family, in particular, the
Negro, having straggled off from the rest, within the
peninsula of Africa, has incurred the penalty of an
error, and been branded with thick lips and black skin,
whereas "the first man," who was no doubt a Cauca
sian, was white, and had lips and hair, very much
resembling our own, only more graceful and beautiful.
You will observe, that philosophers here labor under
the same sort of delusion in regard to the fact of the
real unity of the human family, to which I had occa
sion to refer when speaking on the unity of human
language ; that unity is enthroned in the Hebrew lan
guage, according to the popular apprehension, or in
some other oriental dialect, now extinct, which is
believed to have been universal, before the tower of
Babel was attempted to be built; so much do men
degrade by their absurd speculations the most sacred
and beautiful truths. But as it has been shown, that
the unity of human speech, did not depend on the use
of any one dialect, but on that consent of minds, which
is the result of the submission of the understanding to
the Creator of the universe, when all are impelled for
wards to one gaol ; so now the true unity of the human
race itself, is not to be sought for, or to be supposed to
be represented, in any one extinct or living variety, but
rather in that harmony of all the parts, which we may
believe once to have existed, and still to be possible. If
then we would see a true representation of that unity,
so delightful to the imagination, we must think of all
the various tribes of men, and divesting them of all
those deformities and ugly features, which foul and
beastly passions have left imprinted upon them, imagine
all their latent capabilities of lovely and manly expres
sion developed to the utmost degree, and combined in

NATURAL HISTORY OF MAN. 215
a single pair, fresh from the Creator's hands, and his
pure stamp upon their souls : — in such personages of
the imagination, we might see depicted some faint idea
of the unity of the human family; — but would the
dark ground, would the olive, would the red, would
white be wanting? What a combination of perfections
must be imagined in the synopsis of this wide spread
family of mankind. Perhaps, if wre could regard the
whole human family now, as with the eye of a superior
intelligence, we should see them as one man, although
deformed, shorn of their loveliness, and of their once
sinless majesty ; and no longer such as they were once
beheld in that happy mystic pair, which the vision of
Moses saw as he looked backward on the birth of time,
and the origin of mankind, under the illumination of
heavenly light. It was then he spoke of the first pair,
and of the first language ; but how incapable are we to
conceive what he beheld, confined to the narrow views
of science, who cannot even think of a language, unless
it resemble our own conventional dialects, nor of a first
pair, until we have ascertained the longitude and lati
tude of their early residence, and discovered the type,
or native race, of which they wore the resemblance.
But let us bear more closely on our subject ; it will
be seen then, from our observations in the last lecture,
as well as the tenor of our present remarks, that we
recognize a unity in the human race, but at the same
time a unity constituted on varieties, and recognizable
in them, — in them altogether, and not in any single
family merely, or natural race of men. For so far
from considering any one race as the beau ideal of
nature, and all the rest as deviations from it, I judge it
more safe, as well as more rational, to consider the
beau ideal as entirely eclipsed, by sin and evil, or like
the prophet Elisha carried up into heaven, and all the

216 LECTURE THE EIGHTH.
present existing races of men deviations, — disjointed
and separated materials of one immense edifice of hu
manity, which, when compacted and put together
justly, was indeed a fair and beautiful sight to look
upon, a more glorious temple than sun has ever since
shone on, but now a heap of ruins, on which hoAvever
scattered and confused, we may still trace the emblems
of a great design, and cheered by the promises of reve
lation, we can still hope for an entire restoration of the
original. We mentioned in our lecture, on the evi
dence of geology, that our modern continents are con
structed out of the ruins of those which have before
existed, and that their origin is but recent, compared
with the age of the earth; we might make a similar
observation in regard to the human race itself; the
present families of mankind are but the wrecks and
ruins of men, and the period of their partial recovery
exceedingly recent : they have but just entered, so to
speak, on their new career, and having collected a few
wrecks of their former fortune, the remnants of original
truths, are attempting to recover their former state.
It is from not sufficiently attending to these facts, I
mean the comparatively recent origin of our present
civilization, and the actually incipient stage of the
modern human race, that we are sometimes led to
indulge in the most gloomy forebodings respecting the
ultimate fate of very large portions of mankind. So far
back as our own history goes, we find an evident pro
gress in the Caucasian race, while on the contrary the
Negro appears to us to have been stationary ; but we
ought to reflect, that there may be a progress, although
we cannot trace it, — that the moral distance between
the two races may be so great that their proper move
ments are insensible to each other, — as certain motions
among the fixed stars are said to be such as to become

NATURAL HISTORY OF MAN. 217
hardly appreciable after thousands of years, on account
of the vastness of that interval which separates them
from us, while even millions may be necessary at
last to ascertain the actual periods of their revolution.
At all events, the world is evidently yet too young,
from those appearances of progress which at present
strike us, to undertake to determine before hand the
relative destiny of the respective races of mankind.
And it may also be part of the design of nature, for
aught we can tell to the contrary, (as I intimated in
my last lecture,) that one race in particular, the Cau
casian or European, should act as the pioneers of the
others, and should be endowed accordingly with that
precocity of understanding and intrepidity of mind,
necessary to carry such design into effect.
I alluded in my last lecture to the remarkable fact,
that the African, or more properly the Negro, should
have little or no disposition to wander from his native
seats, — in this respect strongly contrasted with the
European, even in the most barbarous condition of the
latter, who always has been, not less than present,
extremely migratory, and unsettled in his habits and
propensities. The African stays at home, is contented
and satisfied, — a feature of natural character, which,
while associated in our imagination with his present
degradation, may appear even a part of that very de
gradation ; nevertheless, on a more philosophical view,
and when taken in connection with other native traits
of mind, would seem to augur a peculiarly gentle and
beautiful species of civilization, when he shall have
once taken his rank in the society of perfect men, and
ennobled races. There is undoubtedly here an appa
rently vacant space for him to occupy, and which
seems by no means adapted to the genius of the Cau
casian tribe. These have no real heartfelt admira-
28

218 LECTURE THE EIGHTH.
tion of the milder and gentler aspects of a pure and
dignified civilization ; they have, on the contrary, a
natural proneness to admire the bolder features of an
intellectual refinement, to be acute, precipitate, head
strong, resistless in their course, while a high honor,
an extreme daring, a dauntless spirit of freedom, and a
love of independence, are among the most specious idola
vribus which all hearts are disposed to worship; and
certainly these are some of the grander characteristics
of human nature, but by no means the chief, or even
the most endearing ornaments of humanity. All the
sweeter graces of the Christian religion appear almost
too tropical, and tender plants, to grow in the soil
of the Caucasian mind ; they require a character of
human nature, of which you can see the rude linea
ments in the Ethiopian, to be implanted in, and grow
naturally and beautifully withal. When I read the
New Testament, and note the sweet and lovely charac
ter of the virtues recommended, — that almost female
tenderness of mind which both the flourishing of them
and the perfecting of them pre-suppose, — I am im
pressed with the conviction that other than the Euro
pean race must become the field of their insemination
ere we can see them in their natural perfection. I am
far from saying that this race is not naturally capable
of exhibiting a certain order of the virtues of the
Christian religion, such namely as tally with their
character, — a vigor and freedom of soul, a manly sense
of justice, a rational love of truth, an enlightened faith,
and a rough, active charity : but all these are but the
first tier of Christian virtues, and our surly rapid intel
lects are hardly susceptible of others : and this there
fore leads me to augur, and I think on grounds which
are good, that a race more feminine and tender-minded
than the Caucasian is needed to reflect the sweetness

NATURAL HISTORY OF MAN. 219
and gentle beauty of the Christian religion, — its mys
tic, quiet, humble spirit; for its sterner features, its
doctrinal majesty, is already represented perfectly in
the Catholic, and especially the Protestant, Cauca
sian ; — but the Catholic representing these more
gently, and with some mixture of humbler mysticism.
Believing as we all do, and indeed are sure, that the
Christian religion is a divine wardrobe of sacred inves-
ture, containing garments for all kinds and orders of
wearers, and finding that the rougher and plainer robes
only, so to speak, have been yet appropriated, and that
there are others there of much finer texture, and adap
ted to sunnier skies, still unusual but graceful, flowing
and beautiful withal, we cannot escape from the con
viction, that there are nations of a different natural
stamp to come within the pale of sacred civilization,
and it is not hard to believe that the Ethiopian tribes
are these. It has been beautifully observed by Dr.
Wiseman, a learned and excellent Catholic writer, that
the morality of the Christian religion is not national,
but universal, that is to say, that it contains within its
own natural sheath or trunk the living germs of all
national and sectional morality, the varied types of all
spiritual and moral perfections, — but is not itself any
one of these, nor at all local, but divine, and above
them all.
It may seem to you strange, that I should seek for
elucidations of the natural history of man from the cha
racteristics of the Christian religion : but yet it is per
mitted, it is legitimate illustration. It is as if you were
to learn that a box of curious tools, of all characters
and sizes, of every degree of lightness and strength, had
been sent by a distant and unseen person, but known to
be wise and benevolent, to a family of many members,
none of which tools were intended to be useless or

220 LECTURE THE EIGHTH.
unemployed; — and after the third hour of the day
you should find that a great many of these were still
unused and unappropriated, — you must conclude that
many members of the family had not yet arrived
to select those which were especially designed for
them, adapted to their peculiar genius and native
dexterity, — for the execution of new and beauteous
arts: either this is so, or the other members of the
family have mistaken their genius and native bent, and
taken a wrong direction ; — but yet how can this be ?
Have the Caucasians mistaken their genius ? — no one
will say so who reflects on their actions, or those arts,
emulous of the perfection of nature, which have been
designed by them. The arts and the sciences of the
Caucasians are matters of high avail, of inestimable
price, of indispensable utility, not to the necessities of
animal life merely, but to the intellectual dignity of
the soul. No, the Caucasian race have not been ill-
employed, nor have those tools which they have se
lected not been such as were designed and made for
them by the author of their nature ; the Caucasian race
have not been ill-employed, although they have not
exhausted — very far from it — that chest of divine in
struments sent down from heaven for the benefit of all
mankind, of whatever genius or temperament: — no,
they have not been ill-employed, they who have been
the inventors of arts, the legislators and benefactors of
mankind. I call to witness, first, the indefatigable, the
wonderful Archimedes, whose genius may be said to
have been the parent of the mechanical arts, and the
source of those useful inventions, of which a profusion
has enriched our times : could the Ethiopian have ac
complished any thing like this? What mechanical
inventions ever sprung from his mind ? What dis
covery in the mathematics or in the arts was ever made

NATURAL HISTORY OF MAN. 221
south of Mount Atlas ? Archimedes, let him appear —
of the Caucasian race — as the representative of sci
ence: — Plato next, — in analytic philosophy; — could
an Ethiopian, with that facility, take human thought in
pieces, reconstruct it. and show its laws and aptitudes
as did Plato ? As a founder of the social state, I next
call Arthur up, the English king, and with him his
modern compeer, the American Washington, — these
are specimens of Caucasians, great in building up the
social state. In science, in analytical philosophy, in
political abilities, I merely remind you there have been
such men in the Caucasian tribe ; these are suns ; but
there are hundreds of others ; the constellation of their
brilliancies eclipses, throws the poor Ethiopian sadly
in the shade ; for what can he match with these ? —
nothing, — of like kind. The Ethiopian soil of men
yields plants of no such stem or hue as these : and it is
in vain for us to dissemble, we are justly proud of such
specimens of men, and we strive and rightly too, to
imitate some of their great qualities; their character
and style of virtue best suits our taste ; we cannot be
untrue, and we ought not, to that province of dignity
and trust which has been allotted us by nature. But
still as men, and to pay a debt of justice to other races,
we ought so far to withdraw ourselves from our own
standards, as to be able to see other tribes of men, not
in the light of our standards, which are partial, but in
the light of the Christian religion, which is oecumenical.
And this light will indeed equally condemn the vices
of savages and of civilized men ; but it will at the same
time show the just proportions and analogies of all
species of intellectual and moral greatness : and it will
show the natural ground of a sweetness and serenity of
moral perception to be more valuable than a vigorous
capacity for scientific research or political legislation.

222 LECTURE THE EIGHTH.
But of the Ethiopians and Caucasians, as contrasted,
let what has been already said suffice ; of the unnatural
mixture or amalgamation of the two races 1 shun to
speak; to the evil effects of it the Copts bear testi
mony — " Veneris monumenta nefandae." But on that
topic also, enough.
Of the Caucasians themselves, as compared with
each other, let me next speak. They are essentially
one race, but exhibit several distinct and permanent
varieties, which however may so mix, as rather to
improve, than to deteriorate the general race.
But of the Caucasians, there are some who show
more strikingly the peculiar features of the race than
others, — more of that enterprising spirit, that roving
disposition, that inquisitiveness of mind, that haughty,
proud, overbearing character, which in general mark
the whole. Others again, are more pacific, dreamful
and mystical, — on whose minds fall the shadows of
great thoughts, but they are little disposed to analyze
or examine them, being contented rather to narrate,
than to investigate, — made rather to reflect, than to
demonstrate truth. Of the former description are
those who have pushed farthest westward on the Euro
pean continent, — the Britons and those tribes from
which they have sprung, whether of Germany or Gaul;
all these are pre-eminently distinguished by a restless,
inquisitive spirit, spurning fancies and mysticism, and
believing only in their eyes and ears, protestants by
nature, and atheists in vice ; such has been their cha
racter from the earliest times, and it is durable as their
hills, and rough as their climate. "The Germans,"
says Caesar, — this is that red-haired, blue-eyed, gigantic
wild race which afterwards overran the Roman empire,
— " the Germans," (and this shows their protestant pro
pensities even before the Christian era,) " have no regu-

NATURAL HISTORY OF MAN. 223
lar priests to preside over religion, or to perform sacri
fices, esteeming as gods those only which they see, and
by whose powers they are actually benefited, as for
instance, the sun, the moon, and Vulcan ; other gods
they have not even heard of." The account of Tacitus
is essentially the same, that " they do not confine their
gods within the walls of temples, or liken them to the
human form, but hold certain groves sacred, and wor
ship that unseen Intelligence which they behold with
the mind." Such are the mental characteristics of this
branch of the Caucasian race ; those who stand con
trasted with them, and reach the other extreme, are
the Asiatic part of the family, I mean as respects local
habitation. These are the mystics of the race, suscep
tible to impulses, and apt to retain them ; addicted to
sense rather than intellectual vision ; preserving entire
the impressions which have been made upon them, just
because they have no disposition to analyze them, or to
resolve them into their original elements. The most
remarkable tribe of this grand branch of the Caucasian
race, St. Paul has described graphically in a single
clause, and contradistinguished them from the Greeks,
who belonged to an entirely different branch. " The
Jews," says he, " ask signs, the Greeks seek wisdom."
Uvtttit. o-wiiia'giTiri, xai XXM»« rt?i<M {inni (1 \jOV . 1. 22.)
This demand for miracles, or the wish to behold sen
sible representations of abstract principles, rather than
to see them mentally, fixes at once the natural character,
as well as that branch generally of the Caucasian race
to which he was attached. The Greeks had little or
none of this character, except what they derived from
their intercourse with Asia ; they had an innate fond
ness for abstract speculation, and hence the character of
their language, adapted most admirably to the expres
sion of purely mental relations, and in this respect

224 LECTURE THE EIGHTH.
contrasted strikingly with the Hebrew and other ori
ental tongues, which exhibit only the outlines of natu
ral objects, — the rude sketches of divine ideas, — rather
than the finite relations of human thought. This whole
Caucasian race then, while it possesses a unity of cha
racter, as contrasted with other races of men, presents
at the same time several remarkable and fixed varieties,
which give body and harmony to the whole.
Let us advert to the most remarkable of these.
Beginning at the most easterly point, and proceeding
westward, we have first the cradle of the race, for from
this locality it seems originally to have sprung, — the
Jews, Persians, and most ancient Egyptians ; these are
the mystics of the family, your genuine lovers of the
marvellous, and the most ready always to believe it ; in
its original, unblemished integrity, a most interesting-
and important part of human character, — bearing the
same analogy and relation to the other races or varieties
of men, that childhood does to manhood, that percep
tion does to reasoning, that matter of fact bears to mat
ter of inference or deduction. This character of people
receive the most correct impressions of Deity, and of
those sensible facts and experiences on which all
rational and spiritual religion must be built, and without
which as its support, it would be indeed altogether but
the baseless fabric of a vision. Hence it comes, that the
notices and reminiscences, and earlier records of all
these nations, serve the same purposes of indispensable
reference to other nations more intellectual and philo
sophical, which his stock of facts and observations, col
lected in infancy, does to the individual, when he has
arrived at maturity, and devotes himself to the analysis
of those sentiments and opinions which he has early
imbibed. Hence also it is, that the foundations of all
our systems of religion have been laid among that peo-

NATURAL HISTORY OF MAN. 225
pie or their descendants ; among the Arabs, which also
belong to this class of the Caucasians, sprung up the
Mahometan faith ; it is only among such people, suffi
ciently infantile to be capable of wonder, that such a
system could have taken root. There is no necessity
for supposing Mahomet to have been a bad man, or even
a designing man ; there is no necessity even for sup
posing that certain extraordinary and even miraculous
impressions were not made upon his mind, sufficient, at
least, to make himself the first convert to his own opin
ions ; if we are led to suppose, (and we cannot but do
so,) that there must be some extraordinary process at
work in the organization of new species of plants,
whose types have never before appeared, much more
may we not rationally conclude, that certain very
uncommon and mysterious influences must be exerted
on those singular minds, which, at different periods of
the world's history, have originated new systems of
religion and new modes of worship ? Surely these are
much more momentous every way, and efficacious of
good or evil, bringing with them " airs from heaven or
blasts from hell," than any new and original produc
tions whatever, whether of plants or animals. New
religions do not merely affect the surface of nature, add
to or diminish the number of natural resources, but
they plough up the very depths of human society,
change the face of the moral world, alter and remodify
the soul of man, and proceed so far, as only not to abol
ish those original distinctions of genius and race, which
are alone capable of resisting their power. It is absurd
then, while we believe that not a new species of an
insignificant plant or animal can arise without a special
interposition of creative power, to think that new reli
gions are allowed to be engendered, and to be spread
among mankind, without a certain special exercise of
29

226 LECTURE THE EIGHTH.
the Providence of God. It may perhaps be said of all
religions, that in their original infantile state, they con
tain more truth than error, more good than evil, more
beauty than deformity; and that the truth, and the
good, and the beauty are from God, and the error, evil
and deformity from men, but permitted for the sake of
human freedom, and on account of the existing state of
mankind. What then ? is it absurd to suppose that the
Mahometan religion, which embodies the cardinal truth
of the unity of God, and inculcates the laws of moral
charity, may have been in a certain sense permitted by
God ; and that certain extraordinary impressions may
have been made on the mind of Mahomet, sufficient to
give a vivid coloring and natural reality to that system
of superstition of which he was the author, just as
some mystic power was exerted, whensoever a new spe
cies of animals first sprung up, and not less, although
for different ends, in the production of the ferocious
and cruel, than of the mild and peaceful tribes. But
whether or not you will admit the reasonableness of
this supposition, or whether you will choose rather to
suppose that all such concoctions of new species of
superstition are matters of sheer accident or political
contrivance, I shall not stop to argue the question, — it
may again come up in some future lecture ; 1 introduce
it now merely to show that Asia is the land, and this
portion of the Caucasian race, the people where, and
among whom such forms of delusion or of religion,
(call them which you will,) have always most readily
sprung up, and taken deep root. 1 speak not now of
different systems of the same essential faith : the mould
ing of these, the Greeks, the Italians, the Germans, the
English, are fully adequate to ; but I speak of the actual
birth of entirely new religions, — the original insemina
tion of the plant, not the germinations merely, or the

NATURAL HISTORY OF MAN. 227
expansions of its leaves and buds. It appears that this
great law of nature holds here also, as in all other infe
rior natural productions, that there is a natural centre
whence religions originate, as well as appointed locali
ties, from which the original races of animals appear
to have taken their rise. And there is an appropriate
soil of the human mind, as well as an appropriate age,
in which religions first appear, under the eye and sove
reign permission of Him, who turns them all to good.
In Arabia accordingly, we find (A. D. 622,) a religion
spring up, which has well nigh covered the east, and
even at one time made fearful inroads on Europe ; it
was the religion of war and polygamy, while the
Christian religion on the other hand, was designed to
be the religion of peace and monogamy, or true mar
riage. The latter expressed, and does express, the full
mind of God, and no part of it is of permission, merely,
but the whole of Divine intention and design ; and no
human misdeeds are allowed to modify or tarnish its
beauty ; like the rays of the sun, it can receive contam
ination from nothing, but withdraws itself from mortal
contact, within the sheath of its own native purity.
But with respect to the former, while it had borrowed
features stamped upon it, (I believe from Divine inten
tion, in order that in its devastating career, it might
still effect good,) yet at the same time, its body and its
coloring were exclusively of Asia, not of heaven or
angelic ; and by its sensual allurements it was permit
ted to bind human minds, — already degraded, — to its
sway; and this binding may have raised them, — it cer
tainly has in some degree at least, — in the scale of
humanity. Arabia, Persia, then, are native homes of
religion, superstition, delusion, — call it what you will.
What shall we say of Egypt, also the ancient abode of
the mystic Caucasian? — here too, there prevailed an

228 LECTURE THE EIGHTH.
original form of superstition ; and Herodotus has
clearly shown us, that from this quarter the Greeks
derived their most numerous deities, and modes of wor
ship. Egypt originated, but Greece improved, for the
Greeks were not of the class of natural mystics ; — we
recur to the brief but graphic delineation of Paul,—
" the Jews," — and he might have added the Egyptians,
— " ask signs, the Greeks seek wisdom." Accordingly
we find the Greeks improve every form of superstition
imported among them from the east, or from Egypt,
but they do not originate, — they beautify, they adorn,
but they do not cast their gods. Superstition was
imported into Greece, in the state of blooms or pigs,
but they soon shaped and hammered it into varied
forms of beauty and elegance. The Greeks were
characterized by a pure fancy, a just delicacy of feel
ing, as well as great acuteness and subtilty of under
standing; hence the superstitions of the nations, when
retouched by their poets, or modeled by their painters
and sculptors, became a new thing, not indeed radically,
but from those moral and lovely features of true and
elegant proportions, which were now impressed upon
them. How strikingly contrasted are the rude and
grotesque images of Egyptian sculpture, of which you
have seen the representations, with the elegant de
signs of Grecian art and invention. The wildest super
stition in their hands became beauty and instruction ;
and Minerva indeed was no longer an idol, an Egyptian
phantasy, but the very emblem of divine intelligence.
The contrast between these two nations in their modes
of conception, shows two distinct natural varieties of
men in the Caucasian race, the one mystical, or rather
superstitious, the other elegantly ingenious, and beauti
fully fanciful.
Of that other portion of mystics, the Jews, I shall

NATURAL HISTORY OF MAN. 229
say but little, as I have before spoken of them in a
former lecture: — only you are aware how difficult it
was to preserve among them the pure original forms of
the revealed truth. Although our religion in its early
origin among them, was altogether included in ritual
forms, and thus was adapted to win their veneration,
and they perhaps, from their love of the visible and
sensible in all things, from their innate hankering after
"signs," were of all people best fitted to guard and
preserve this divine germ of heaven in its infantile and
undeveloped state, while wrapped in an investment of
rites and facts ; yet it seems with great difficulty that
they could be preserved from paying it an idolatrous
veneration. Not only the soul, but the body of our
religion is divine; there is no 'part of it artificial in its
original institution; and the same providential care,
which has adorned the human body even with external
beauty, produced that fine contour of the limbs, those
noble lineaments of countenance, and this majestic
head, decorated with comely locks, has also furnished
in its earliest origin, that embryo faith with the most
perfect envelope of appropriate and expressive rites.
To retain these in their perfection and integrity, was
the task assigned to the Jew, which although peculiarly
adapted to his genius, he did not always execute with
fidelity, and the rites were sometimes in danger of
being corrupted, but still miraculously saved. When
our religion passed from the custody of the Jew to the
keeping of the Greek and the southern nations of
Europe, it is instructive to mark the new dangers to
which it was exposed, and this chiefly because the facts
illustrate the distinctive characters of these people from
those of the oriental Caucasians. The pure religion of
heaven, unlike the superstitions of Egypt, when it
passed into Greece, required no aid from the polish and

230 lecture the eighth.
refinement of that nation; — the touch even of their
perfect fancy could add nothing to its eternal beauty,
as the subtilty of their understanding could in no way
enhance the value or usefulness of its truths. The
divine injunction in regard to it, was as imperative on
their elegant artists, as on the less gifted Hebrews, —
" lift not a tool upon it." Art could no more add per
fection to the Christian religion, than it could improve
the model of the human body, or of a single natural
form, by substituting new parts or introducing new
proportions : inasmuch as the proper task of art in such
cases is faithfully to imitate, not to alter the divine
type. But nevertheless the Grecian genius was not
satisfied with this; when the Christian religion was first
introduced to their attention, they fixed upon it with
the whole force of their natural subtilty ; the arts had
already declined, so that Christianity sustained little
injury from their emulation; but the philosophical,
analytical acumen of the Greeks, retained all its natural
vigor, or seemed even unnaturally increased by the loss
of their liberties, and the want of external excitement;
hence arose that morbid philosophy, that excessive
desire to define and expound the most mysterious
points of the Christian faith, which characterizes the
fourth, fifth, and sixth centuries of our era. Here the
strength and the weakness of the Grecian intellect
were at once signally displayed; but it was in vain, that
with all their powers of expression, and the nice dis
tinctions of their inimitable language, they endeavored
to confine within any other forms than its own, that
original and pure revelation, whose truths never have
been, and never can be taken by the assault of the
human intellect alone. They are revealed unto "babes,"
and philosophy cannot compass them ; they are impres
sions rather than reasonings, and are reflected better on

NATURAL HISTORY OF MAN. 231
the tranquil mind, than on the excited understanding.
They are the elements, rather than the results of rea
soning, but the Greeks did not so consider them, and
they were disposed to receive them, rather as the
deductions of philosophy than the terms of a revelation.
It shows the character of the Greek mind very remark
ably, and a superiority in the province of analytical
investigation, that most of the terms of theological
science, and the greater number of its technical dis
tinctions, have been borrowed from the Greeks, and
retained even in modern times. I say nothing of
the intrinsic value of most of these distinctions; at
present, fortunately for the quiet of mankind, they do
not rate very high; — I speak only of that peculiar
genius and character of mind, in which they originate,
— it is Greek. What Englishman or American would
ever have adopted any such verbal distinctions as the
following, unless on the suggestion and authority of
some mind very different from his own ? — " there are
three persons in the Godhead, the same in substance,
equal in power and glory," — this is pure Greek.
Nothing can be a clearer proof of the real divinity of
the Christian religion, than that it should have risen
triumphant over all these strenuous, but vain attempts,
of philosophy to fasten it down to words and forms and
definitions, that it should still retain its own inherent
beauty, notwithstanding all the contaminating influ
ences, with which it has come in contact; that it should
survive uninjured and unsoiled, at first the sensual
superstitions of Asia, and at last the insinuating philo
sophy of the Greeks, and their admirers in modern
times, and still exert a fresh and renovating influence
over all who choose to submit themselves to its sway.
As you might read the history of the mind of nations,
and see their character reflected from those improve-

232 lecture the eighth.
ments and works of art, with which they have variously
marked the surface of the earth, and distinguished the
vast landscapes of nature, so in that divine religion
which exhibits similar features of immutability, analo
gous scenes of wide-spreading beauty, — in that religion,
I say, as artificially decked with the motley garb, here
of Greek and Roman philosophy, and there of Catholic
superstition, or Protestant presumption, — you might read
the natural characters of the different ages and races of
men, and see no inaccurate picture of the true history
of our species, and the varied freaks of the human un
derstanding. But have all these labors been useless?
have they been wrong? — very far from it; it is not for
bidden to cultivate the study of the Christian religion,
and by these attempts to catch its expressions and to
represent them, the understandings of men are im
proved; for it is impossible to contemplate much, a
divine work, without imbibing somewhat of its spirit,
and being elevated thereby.
But let me pass westwardly and finish. I have
shown you successively the Ethiopian and the Cauca
sian races: and as belonging to the last the Arab, and
Persian, the Egyptian and the Jew, — all these in a
certain sense mystical and infantile, — the proper sub
jects of ritual revelations, devoted to fact and sensible
signs: they "ask signs, the Greeks seek wisdom." I
have next shown you the Greeks, and "the wisdom"
of their philosophy, often travesting, sometimes tarnish
ing the Christian religion : the Germans, the Gauls, the
Britons 1 have also referred to ; — to all these nations
there belongs a more practical and utilitarian under
standing, than did distinguish either the Greek or the
Oriental ; — they are intellectual almost to a fault, but
their intelligence falls not so much into subtilty, as
what they themselves call very significantly common

NATURAL HISTORY OF MAN. 233
sense. They are an exceedingly imperfect race, but
that love of domination, which distinguishes them so
remarkably as individuals, and chiefly the Britons and
their descendants, has at last engendered its own cure,
in the production and institution of popular govern
ment, by which beautiful artifice the innate vanity of
each individual, — the desire of personal consequence
can be gratified by the reflection, that he is himself "a
pillar of state," — a unit of the sovereign people. That
this system of equal rights and noble liberty has not
arisen from a true grandeur of soul, or the heaven-born
principle of pure philanthropy, is visible from the fact,
that that portion of the race, which have pushed far
thest west, seemed sufficiently disposed, at least the
majority, to rivet for ever the chains of servitude (if
God interpose not,) on an innocent and ill-treated por
tion of the Ethiopian family, whose long and faithful
services to their masters ought surely now to begin to
gain for them a milder and a better fate. But this
Western race of Caucasians are entitled to a separate
lecture, which, " Deo favente," shall be our next.

30

LECTURE THE NINTH;

ON THE

CHARACTER OF THE ANCIENT GERMANS.

Difficulty of delineating the natural history of man from the progression and
mutability of his character. — What is his natural state, and the final cause of
his progression ? — The change produced since the Christian era; the effect of
the Christian religion. — The Caucasian race migratory ; composed of many
different nations, and these again of distinct tribes  The Britons and ancient
Germans as described by Tacitus and Ctesar; respect of the latter for their
women ; powers of divination ascribed to them ; their share in public affairs.
— The mutual concern of both sexes for the welfare of the nation a token of
their natural soundness of mind. — Heroism of the German women; their
regard for the institution of marriage. — Chivalry, considered as an affecta
tion in after times, of what was formerly a just and natural sentiment. —
Their respect for women among the Western tribes supposed to be the chief
cause of their ready admission of the Christian religion. — Remarkable fact,
that this religion should have arisen in one quarter of the globe, and its
most willing adherents be found in another. — Obscurity of its origin ; extent
of its influence. — Peculiar adaptation of the Western nations for its recep
tion. — Elements of the British race. — Conclusion.
There are numerous problems which the natural
history of man proposes for solution, and if I should
do nothing more than bring several of these before
you for individual reflection, I shall not have exerted
myself in vain in the composition of these lectures. It
is the love and investigation of truth, even more per
haps than its attainment, which improves and refines
the human soul. None but the Infinite himself is in
possession of absolute truth, for He is " the Truth," —

236 LECTURE THE NINTH.
but he permits his creatures at this point and the other,
of their terrestrial existence, to obtain glimpses of that
ineffable light which is the delight of all creation, I
mean the essential truth. More is not necessary for
us, or more wrould be granted.
But the great difficulty, and still not an unpleasant
one, which presents itself to us in delineating the natu
ral history of man is this, that we never can be said to
have, or to be capable of having, the whole of that
natural history before us. And herein lies a most
striking peculiarity of the subject itself, which is
this, — and it is also an important item of this very
history, — that while any one tribe, or class, or species
of animals have certain permanent and abiding in
stincts which are the laws of their being, and deter
mine with certainty all their modes of action, their
mimic arts, and, so to call it, their domestic economy,
— their modes of rearing their young, constructing
their habitation, securing their food, or providing for
their defence, and so consequently render the accom
plishment of their natural history a matter of great
facility, as well as possible accuracy, — and the historian
or naturalist who recounts it is in little danger of hav
ing his delineations or descriptions falsified by new
freaks of nature among the class or tribe, — or anti
quated by fresh and additional improvements on the
modes of these instincts; — it is all the contrary in
writing the natural history of man ; — the phases even
of his corporeal and physical being are so varied and
multiplied, while each has an equal claim to " natu
ral," that is, to a fixed and designed consistency with
his nature, that it is impossible to catch all which
have been exhibited, — and who, after all is done, can
be sure that there are not still certain undeveloped
powers and faculties in the human being which may

NATURAL HISTORY OF MAN. 237
give altogether a new face to his history, and render
the most graphic and just, descriptions hitherto utterly
inadequate and at fault, — antiquated histories which
are no longer true to the more recent exhibitions
of his nature. It is true, some might be disposed
to call those new phenomena of human nature which
every now and then confound or disturb the theories
and speculations of the philosopher, artificial or un
natural displays of character arising out of conven
tional institutions; but this again is absurd, for what
is the properly natural state of man, that is to say,
that state which is as perfectly consistent and in har
mony with the design and end of his creation as we
suppose the fixed instincts and unlearned arts of the
animals to be with theirs? Shall we say that it is
that wherein man roves a savage in the woods, igno
rant of the arts and refinements of civilization ? If
this is to be called the natural state of man, with the
same propriety of language, that such is called the
natural state of the lion, the tiger, or the buffalo, that
is. because it seems indisputable that all the laws of
their natures are here most perfectly developed and
conspicuous, it will remain with us to prove that the
arts of civilization do not perfect man, and are rather
in contradiction to his nature than in favor of it. But
this is evidently ridiculous, and so consequently we are
obliged to think according to all reason and analogy that
it is just as natural in man, that he should invent and
exercise the art of spinning and weaving, or even the
art of writing or of printing, — or other arts yet undis
covered, and of which we have at present no idea, — as
that any one tribe of animals should exercise from age
to age the unvarying functions of their instincts, — that
the birds should never improve upon their arts of nest-
building, nor the bees upon the architecture and ma-

238 LECTURE THE NINTH.
sonry of their hives. But all these instinctive natural
arts are easily described, and when once described re
main for ever a true copy of nature ; but those other
arts of man, although no less natural for man to disco
ver or to practise, — who can recount these ? or when
will such history of his inventions or the inventor be
such as to be considered perfect ?
But I will here start a question, and leave it for you
to solve, — you may take a week or two, — what is the
final cause of this progression in the human species ? —
what is the reason that all the terrestrial animals are so
perfected in their instincts, that the laws of their being
are so deeply written upon their nature, so certain and
infallible, as not to disappoint them, or lead them
wrong ; and that the laws designed for man, evidently
of a higher order, seem notwithstanding less perfectly
stamped on his soul, so that although his ends are so
much nobler than theirs, he yet does less successfully
reach them, and is continually committing blunders, in
the ardor of his pursuit, either from defect of light
poured upon his mind from those laws, or defect of
inclination, willingly and steadily to follow them. It
would appear consequently, that while man on the
whole bears upon his mind the traces and vestiges of
the most sublime and elevated destiny, he was yet the
most unfinished work of creation. And when you
view him in the midst of creation, surrounded by all
the other works of the Creator, he seems to command
the loftiest position, and to be the very central point
of the whole design, for toward him all other objects
and orders of creation seem to tend, as with lines
directed to a centre ; but yet this main building, this
temple of nature, on whose account all the other
outworks have been constructed and designed, is still
the most unfinished, although the noblest of them all.

NATURAL HISTORY OF MAN. 239
What is ihe cause of this ? how is it to be explained ?
is it indeed a fact that nature has here left her chef
d'ceuvre imperfect, or is it a work only now in progress
— a newer, and again a newer design, and closing per
fection and beauty being still added, as age succeeds
age, as epoch rises out of epoch ? and may this be the
reason we find it so hard to present a true picture of
the natural history of man, that to this august and ven
erable temple, newer wings and ornaments are con
stantly being added in the lapse of generations? Should
this be so. and whether it be or not, I leave to your
judgment ; then we have taken a noble subject in hand,
when we have undertaken to write the natural history
of man; for no doubt ere twenty years more have
elapsed, that natural history will be emblazoned with
some new and original ideas and designs of nature, some
interesting tracery of her chisel, or some additional
architrave, to crown and illustrate this work, this tem
ple of the universe.
And indeed, without attempting to solve this enigma,
— the greatness of the design, and the unfinished state
of the structure of this work, which we name man, —
we may be permitted to point constantly to the fact.
And to see this fact the more strikingly, and that cha
racter of progress and change, which peculiarly belongs
to, and distinguishes man, it is only necessary to con
trast his state, as it has existed before, and since the
Christian era. It is impossible to tell precisely in what
the change has consisted, but any one who Mill read
together, and compare the productions of the human
mind, before and since that period, will find that there
has been a change, not only on the surface, but in the
vital constitution of society; it has affected, it has
altered nature itself in man ; to resume our first simile,

240 LECTURE THE NINTH.
this central temple of creation has received a new story
on the old foundation, — or rather, like enchantment,
the whole seems new. The Christian religion is not a
social, artificial system of mere opinions or principles,
but wears upon it all the marks and insignia of a true
creation ; it was a spiritual and moral genesis : " in the
beginning was the word, and the word was God." The
tenor of this lecture does not permit me to dwell on
this suggestion, but I note it only in passing, that the
event of the Christian religion is the most remarkable
fact in the natural history of man, and is a part of it,
for it had a tendency essentially to change that nature,
so that it became something new.
But what was the condition of the present civilized
nations of Europe one thousand eight hundred and
forty years ago ? I know not how better to character
ize them, than to say that they were backwoods ; only
the Indians who lived there were not savages, but such
as are called barbarians, — advanced to the state of pas
turage, and the first stages of husbandry, and the culti
vation of some of the ruder arts, — acquainted with the
use of the metals, and holding in subjection to their
service and use the more common domestic animals:
but war was their employment, and the exploits of phy
sical strength and dexterity their chief distinction. I
speak more particularly of Gaul, Germany and Britain.
The Romans owned a peculiar civilization, the civili
zation of taste, and genius, and honor, not the civiliza
tion of moral principle or of pure religion. The wor
ship of the gods was separated from morality ; and
intellect, in general, sought not for new motives to vir
tue, but new sources of elegant gratification. The
principle which characterized all the nations which
existed at this time, Romans as well as others, was the

NATURAL HISTORY OF MAN. 241
amor patrise, or the attachment to the tribe or nation.
This circumstance has not been sufficiently adverted to
by modern writers, although when properly considered,
it may serve to soften and alleviate that picture of war
and violence, which is presented to us in the reading of
ancient history. The motives which impelled them to
the performance of such acts, partook of the social
character, and had on that account a slight admixture
of virtuous feeling, sufficient to irradiate although not
to beautify the dark features of their history. They
killed and plundered, not for themselves, but their tribe.
And here is the only redeeming trait of their charac
ter; in this manner provision was made for keeping
alive in their minds that seminal principle of all the
virtues, a regard for the public good, which when
enlightened by true knowledge, leads at last to the
most beautiful results of social virtue and refinement.
In the best times of the Roman commonwealth, it was
seen in its greatest vigor, and often led to acts of true
magnanimity ; but at the period of the introduction of
the Christian religion, it had waned in the hearts of
the nation, although still the theme of poetical exulta
tion : dulce et decorum est pro patria mori. But in
the western nations of Europe, it still preserved its
original purity and strength, particularly among the
ancient Germans, where it was nourished by a series of
bold achievements, of which indeed the historical
details have perished, but the noblest monuments
endure in those social institutions, which have sprung
up in Europe and America, and whose professed object
is to secure " the greatest good of the greatest number."
It is to these, mainly, we are indebted for that heredi
tary love of freedom and independence, which has dis
tinguished the Anglo-Saxon race, — that natural stock
of just and manly sentiment, on which the Christian
31

242 LECTURE THE NINTH.
religion has been engrafted, and expanded into a truly
rational and moral civilization, to open here its

 " choicest bosomed sweets
Reserved from night, and kept for thee in store."
With these views I intend in the present lecture to
show some of the more striking natural features of this
race, and the relations in which they have stood both
to the Christian religion itself, and the institutions of
modern times. By this means, we may be able to see
more clearly those elements of progress and develop
ment, which enter into the composition of human
nature, and the adaptation of the Christian religion, to
cherish, and at last to disclose these latent germs of
humanity. In the last lecture we took a rapid view of the diffe
rent races of men, more particularly the Caucasian and
Ethiopian, and of the several classes of the former.
We noticed a remarkable feature in the Ethiopian race,
that, for the most part, they should be confined to the
African peninsula, and should seldom or never have
shown any desire to wander from that quarter of the
globe ; — that they have never abandoned this their natu
ral home from inclination. Very different is it with
the Caucasian race ; their propensity to wander, their
love of emigration, might be remarked as one of the
peculiar features of their natural character ; they seem
accordingly to be designed by nature to become ulti
mately the universal race, — such is the instinct of emi
gration, — the natural love of new location implanted in
them. We may trace their progress from the central
regions of Asia, eastward towards China, there to dis
turb or to displace the more settled tribes of the great
Mongolian family, a distinct native race of men, — and
again northward, covering the barren and inhospitable

NATURAL HISTORY OF MAN. 243
regions now occupied by the Russian empire, — south
ward and westward, there to possess themselves of Ara
bia, and here of the most western portion of the ancient
continent called Europe, — an artificial division of the
globe, since there is no natural fixed limit to mark it as
distinct from Asia. This race I showed to be composed
of nations of different genius, — as the orientals, made
up of Jews, Egyptians and Arabians, — the Greeks,
with whom might be ranked the Romans, — and again
the Germans, with whom also might be classed the
Gauls and Britons. These classes again differ among
themselves ; the Greeks and Romans, although nearly
related, were still very distinct people, as much so, (and
lines of discrimination were very similar) as are the
French and British in modern times. Again, the
ancient Germans and Gauls were distinct from each
other, as well as from the Britons ; and this, not only
in their manners and civil institutions, but also in their
physical form and aspect. The Britons then as now,
(I mean as found by the Romans,) were composed of
several distinct races, and presented accordingly a mot
ley character, not only in their civil usages, but in their
physical features and personal appearances. The testi
mony of Tacitus on this point is express : "Who first
inhabited Britain," says he, " whether strangers or those
sprung from the country, is a matter of great uncer
tainty. Their form and aspect are various, and hence
arises the presumption of the great diversity of their
origin. Those who inhabit the northern part of the
island, called Caledonia, have red hair and large limbs,
and show evident indications of a German origin. The
Silures, the inhabitants of South Wales, have dark com
plexions, and for the most part curled locks, and these
characteristics, united with the circumstance of their
having occupied the shores opposite to Spain, would

244 LECTURE THE NINTH.
indicate that the Iberians had anciently crossed over,
and possessed themselves of the country. Those on
the other hand, who are opposite to Gaul, resemble the
natives of that country, and speak the same language :
you detect also the same sacred rites, the same forms of
superstition : they discover moreover the same rash and
impetuous valor in attacking their enemies, and the
same want of resolution in maintaining their ground ;
but however the Britons display much more ferocity in
their wars, probably because they have not been sub
dued or softened as yet, by the arts of Roman civiliza
tion. For at one time also the Gauls were a much
more valiant people than they are at present; they lost
their valor at the same time with their freedom, — a fate
which has also lately befallen a part of the Britons, but
the rest still retain their ancient ferocity." Such is the
picture furnished by Tacitus, who wrote about A. D.
90. And the hints gathered from his writings, together
with notices which are found interspersed in the Com
mentaries of Caesar, are nearly all the authentic history
we have of these nations up to this period. From these
accounts, however, we are enabled to form£a very good
idea of their character, and can see the rude formations
of those distinct and peculiar nations, which have
arisen from them.
But of all these tribes, the most peculiar, and in all
respects the most like itself, was that of the ancient
Germans : these are not to be considered as the original
stock of the modern races of men, who at present
occupy Germany, — and probably came from regions
more northern, and settled the lands which the ancient
Germans from time to time abandoned, in their capri
cious and hasty emigrations. For they appear to have
possessed hardly any local attachment to the soil, but
were always ready on a moment's warning, at the

NATURAL HISTORY OF MAN. 245
instance of the slightest caprice, or the least prospect of
advantage, to change their settlements, and occupy new
countries, — which they were again prepared, and for
no better reasons as speedily to abandon. Indeed it
appears to have been a part of their national policy,
entirely to detach the affections of their tribe from all
local or sectional partialities. Caesar tells us of the
Suevi, that they possessed a hundred cantons, from
each of which they drew yearly a thousand warriors,
and that an equal number remained at home to culti
vate the land, who next year took their turn in the
war ; that no one among them possessed any property
of his own in the land, and that they never remained
longer than a year in one place ; that they lived in a
great measure on the produce of their flocks and herds,
and when not engaged in war, were employed in hunt
ing, — which kind of life rendered them exceedingly
robust and vigorous ; and that the children being accus
tomed to no restraints of education, and no opposition
to their inclinations, wrere allowed to acquire, in the ac
tive exercise of the chase, or the frequent emigrations
of the nation, that natural hardihood of body, and fero
city of mind, which was not less visible in the gigantic
stature, than in the savage aspect, which characterized
the entire nation, — contemplated in this point of view
merely, we might be very apt to regard them in the
light of simple irreclaimable barbarians.
But there are other aspects of the character presented
to us by Caesar, which enable us to see, that even these
savage forms must have contained the germs of several
noble virtues. At first we might judge them to be but
little in advance of our Indian, but farther attention
shows them to have been a very superior order of men.
As contrasted with the aborigines of this country, they
showed uncommon powers of self-denial, on those

246 LECTURE THE NINTH.
points, where the virtues of barbarians seem always
most liable to temptation, and most easily discredited.
Caesar declares that they permitted traffickers to come
among them, not to purchase their wares, but to sell
them the booty they had taken in war ; and that they
prohibited by the severest ordinances, wine from being
brought into their country, because they considered
that their valor would be diminished by the use of this
luxury, and the nation rendered effeminate. Here was
an exercise of self-denial, undoubtedly, which cannot
fail to raise them in our estimation, when we know
how easy the virtue of the noblest barbarian is to be
sapped, and finally overthrown by the appetite for this
species of indulgence.
In another respect also their natural character stands
forth, in a most conspicuous and advantageous light, as
contrasted with that of most barbarians. Not only
Tacitus, but even Caesar has testified to the respect and
veneration in which they held their women, and to the
noble virtues of continence by which their youth were
distinguished. The testimony of Tacitus on this sub
ject, although remarkably explicit, I have been some
times disposed to discredit, suspecting that he might be
inclined to exaggerate the virtues of barbarians on this
point, — to rebuke by the striking contrast the abomi
nable and shocking licentiousness, which in his time
began to prevail at Rome, and to corrupt and destroy
the very vitals of the empire. For when the natural
purity of these principles of our nature begins to be
corrupted, and when the corruption is even made a
subject of jest, and a topic of light allusion, not only is
all security for the manly character of the individual
lost, but the way is prepared for the ultimate degrada
tion of the entire nation. Aware therefore of the stern
philosophy of Tacitus, and the natural disgust which

NATURAL HISTORY OF MAN. 247
his great mind must have felt for those scenes of domes
tic infidelity, which he daily witnessed at Rome, at the
very time perhaps, when he was writing his treatise on
the manners of the Germans, I had thought that he
might unconsciously to himself have heightened the
coloring of that affecting picture of barbarian virtue,
and manly sentiment, which he shows to have existed
among these ancient German tribes. But on compar
ing the testimony of Caesar on the same subject, who
wrote his Commentaries about forty-five years before
the Christian era, and finding it to be substantially to
the same effect, I am disposed to place the firmest reli
ance on the statement of Tacitus. For Caesar was one
of those cool, clear-headed men, so thoroughly devoted
to politics, war and ambition, that the delicacy of
moral sentiment can never affect them; so far from
writing a satire on vice, or recommending the pure and
exalted virtues, they are intent only how to turn both
the virtues and vices of men, the weaknesses of the hu
man heart, or the excesses of the passions, to the account
of their own aggrandizement, — and make them the
stepping stones to their own advancement in power or
affluence. Caesar was one of this stamp, precisely, a
polished, elegant writer, of captivating manners, it is
said, brave on all proper occasions, and the last person
in the world to be imposed upon by romantic accounts
of the virtue and honor of barbarians. And yet Caesar
has given substantially the same account of the Ger
mans which Tacitus has done. He had also the oppor
tunity of observing their manners, and of becoming
intimately acquainted with their character, having
himself been the first Roman general who crossed the
Rhine and displayed the eagles of Rome in the wild
forests of Germany. Caesar was a soldier, and could
not but admire those robust and noble forms and pro-

248 LECTURE THE NINTH.
portions which distinguished that nation, their youth
especially, and he does not fail to ascribe their superi
ority in this respect, to its true cause, — those virtues of
chastity, temperance, and unbounded freedom, com
bined with athletic exercises, for which the whole race
were pre-eminent.*
I have taken the more pains to set this matter in a
clear light, and establish it on solid proof, not only be
cause it is an important fact in itself, but because from
the too prevalent practice of exaggerating the virtues
of barbarians, even those unquestionably great qualities,
with which they are endowed, are sometimes liable to
be discredited. I am not myself, in general, disposed
to believe in the boasted virtues of barbarians; I am
even doubtful, if we should apply the name of virtue to
those natural qualities for which they are most celebra
ted, — which are but the signs and prognostications of
virtue: the virtues are the proper fruits of a sacred
regard to the grand principles of human and divine
law, as revealed from heaven, and rationally under
stood, and morally loved. Virtue — I mean this natural
semblance, is not virtue, — really and genuinely such,
until it is sanctioned by religion, beautified by philoso
phy, and recommended and adorned by a warm and
universal benevolence. This is virtue properly so
called, but nevertheless, there are certain wild and
spontaneous, and vigorous shoots of a healthy mind, in
a rude state of the individual or the nation, which indi
cate a congenial and kindred stock, — on which all those
* " Vita omnis in venationibus, atque in studiis Tei militaris consistit : ab parvu-
lis labori ac duritiae student. Qui diutissime impuberes permanserunt, maximam
inter suos ferunt laudem : hoc ali staturam, ali vires nervosque confirmari pu-
tant. Intra annum vero XX feminae notitiam habuisse, in turpissimis habent
rebus : cujus rei nulla est occultatio, quod et promiscue in fluminibus perluuntur,
et pellibus aut parvis rhenonum tegumentis utuntur, magna corporis parte
nuda."— Bel. Gal. lib. vi. 21.

NATURAL HISTORY OF MAN. 249
virtues, . which are the proper fruits of religion and
civilization can be most advantageously and successfully
engrafted. And the natural history of man, as a study
is useful chiefly for this purpose, that we may be able
to discover the true criteria of the natural capabilities
of great virtues: — an intimate acquaintance with ge
ology and mineralogy, it is said, can enable the adepts
in those sciences, readily to determine from certain
indications, altogether superficial, whether or not valu
able treasures of coal or other useful products are to be
found beneath the surface in any given spot; in like
manner, were we thoroughly skilled in this science
of human nature, which we are now prosecuting, we
should be able to declare, even from the external
tokens of savage or barbarian simplicity, whether or
not there were the latent powers of great virtues con
tained within the race, and what they were.
The honor and estimation in which their women
were held by the ancient Germans, — and deservedly
too, on the score of their own intrinsic virtues, for
they were noble women, — would be the clearest indi
cation to a philosopher skilled in this science, that the
nation was sound at the core, and however barbarous
in the popular sense of the term, required but the aid
of favorable circumstances, to exhibit the most pleas
ing specimens of every true and manly virtue. But
let me not be misunderstood ; that regard and venera
tion which the ancient Germans entertained for their
women, was altogether distinct from this sentiment, —
silly or romantic as you may choose to consider it,
either really felt, or affected in modern times, — which
has assumed the name of gallantry, and manifests
itself in an especial deference for ladies. This is for
the most part a compound of mere foppery and child-
32

250 LECTURE THE NINTH.
ishness, as unmeaning as it is effeminate, and a proof
of any thing rather than sincere esteem or affection;
— it would appear to have arisen from the affectations
and absurdities of chivalry, and hence to have become
a fashion in modern times, but a matter in which the
heart has very little concern. The feelings of the
Germans were of a very different kind ; their manly
gallantry (if we must use the term) actually flowed
from the heart, and was the natural expression of sin
cere respect. They appear to have felt a veneration of
their women as of superior beings, and indeed, imagined
them to be endowed with a certain sacred character ;
and several are mentioned as having exercised an extra
ordinary influence over the nation.
I know not how to account for this, otherwise than
from the fact that their women, taking a public part
in the transactions of the tribes, and more openly
manifesting their feelings than is customary with men,
came on that account to attract the more attention, or
to be considered as supernaturally inspired, — a belief
which would be readily countenanced by the supersti
tion of the age, and the blending together of various
feelings and emotions ; hence their opinions were in
quired on all important occasions, and received with
great deference and respect. On one occasion, we are
informed by Caesar, Ariovistus declined a combat, when
the advantages seemed to be very much on his side.
The matter attracted the attention of Caesar, and exci
ted his curiosity, and on inquiry afterwards, he disco
vered that the German matrons had been the cause
of it, who from their skill in divination, it appears,
had predicted that the fight would be unfortunate, if
engaged in before the new moon. Such respect did
this renowned general pay to the supposed prudence

NATURAL HISTORY OF MAN. 251
or supernatural powers of his countrywomen, that
he sacrificed his own judgment in military affairs to
what he believed to be their superior skill and
penetration. Tacitus' account agrees with this ; — he declares that
they believed their women to be endowed with certain
extraordinary gifts of divination, and asked their opi
nion on public affairs with the most respectful defer
ence. Nor do they appear to have been unworthy of
these marks of honor and distinction, for they bore
their full share in all public dangers and difficulties;
and often, in the heat of fight, when victory seemed
doubtful, they have turned the fortune of the day, by
their heroic interposition, appearing suddenly in the
midst of the affray, and by their cries and entreaties
encouraging or compelling their countrymen to redou
ble their efforts, — to rescue their country from dis
grace, and themselves, their children and wives from
the horrors of captivity. Under such powerful suppli
cations the timid have been rendered brave, and the
sight and example of such earnest advisers restored the
hopes and courage even of the most desponding hearts.
Accordingly, it was the custom of the men to exhibit
first their trophies of victory to their mothers, their sis
ters, or their wives ; nor were these too faint-hearted to
ask to see their honorable wounds, to count the number
of them, and to extol their valor, according to their
measure of daring or exposure in the fight. And these
were the dispensers of renown, at the same time also
that they were looked upon as the guardians of the
public weal, — appointed by the gods to watch over the
sanctity of the household, and to consult for the honor,
safety, and independence of their tribe.
You ask me if I consider all this right, and deserving
of approbation, or that women were here engaged in

252 LECTURE THE NINTH.
their appropriate tasks? I answer yes; it is just as
right that they should take this interest in the honor of
their country as the other sex. Of course I do not
think that women were made for war and battle, and
neither do I believe that men were ; but since the
fashion of the times had made it so, and settled it, that
war was a necessary element of greatness, and that no
safety was to be procured without it, I argue that it
shows a healthful state of feeling in other respects, that
the affections of both sexes were equally enlisted in the
cause, that there was no division in the house or in the
state, and that the serious pursuits and objects of the
one were also the serious pursuits and objects of the
other — a far better token at least of a natural sound
ness of mind, — I say nothing of the moral condition,
which was not yet developed in the nation, — than the
mean and detestable habits of the Asiatics, who, having
reduced their women to slavery, have incurred the
penalty which they deserved, in being themselves dis
mantled of their courage and manhood, — removed
from all natural incentives and motives to noble or
generous actions.
Dux faemina facti, — and perhaps there never was
any great and illustrious enterprise begun and carried
through, when this was not actually, although it might
not be visibly, the case. But what was here done
openly and without reserve, in an unsophisticated state
of nature, among the ancient Germans, — that they
held it no discredit to be impelled forward on danger
or daring action at the urgency of the more powerful
although gentler sex, — is still done, although less obvi
ously and visibly, in every sound and healthful condi
tion of society; in which it will be found that it is
from this source that the affections of men are puri
fied and so strengthened, — and enabled to endure all

NATURAL HISTORY OF MAN. 253
those fatigues and exertions which are necessary in
the accomplishment of any great and useful under
taking. You will observe that when I speak in commenda
tion of the social state of the ancient Germans, I refer
not to the character of their occupation, but that equal
and just share which each sex took in it, — which is a
fair token, I say, if not of a moral yet of a natural
soundness of mind and disposition, and natural pre
cedes moral, as moral precedes spiritual ; and where
the natural is radically unsound, or not justly balanced,
there is but little hope for the strength and brilliancy
afterwards of the other two. But when in this state
of comparative barbarity, we find that either sex take
an equal and [serious interest in those pursuits, what
ever they may be, which engage the tribe, it is a
cheering and certain augury that when the period of a
true civilization arrives, "the pair" will exist, yet in
still greater loveliness and perfection, — and at all
events "the house divided against itself," — the one
attracted by the frivolous and gay, the other inclined
towards the serious and important, — will be as rare an
occurrence in the civilized as it has been in the barba
rous state ; and that mutual affection, founded on mu
tual respect, will be the distinguishing trait which
marks the union and felicity of the sexes, — the badge
of the integrity of the tribe, and the integrity of the
family. And such signs of true greatness do we find
in the barbarian Germans, who have been described to
us by Tacitus and Caesar, and to whose notices of their
character I here refer you. And if no such signs or
omens are to be found in any barbarous nation at pre
sent, it would show that its future civilization is very
distant indeed, or even very problematical. Those
barbarian women were respected and beloved, and

254 LECTURE THE NINTH.
showed themselves to be susceptible of the feelings of
patriotism and magnanimity, not less than the private
and domestic affections. What a spectacle of beautiful
sublimity, for the phrase in this instance is not contra
dictory, to find the tenderness of womankind thus
armed with all the courage and intrepidity of hero
ism ; — they hesitated not to rush into the midst of the
fight, and to encourage their countrymen to renew or
persist in the struggle, and afterwards to count their
wounds, and to glory in their valor while they
mourned over their sufferings. Need wre be surprised,
that this nation of men afterwards grew to be the con
querors of the world, when their infancy was nursed
by women of such dignity and grandeur of mind as
these were, — women whose patriotism and serious
bent of understanding were fitted to inspire the noblest
ardor into the bosoms of their children. But so much
are we accustomed to claim for modern times exclusive
merit on this point that I may be accused of exaggera
tion ; — yet the testimony of history is explicit on the
subject : and to such a point of romance or of truth
did they carry the sentiment that, Tacitus informs us,
among several nations it was reckoned improper to
contract a second engagement : " one life, one body,
one husband," was a maxim among them : and as there
is but one spring-time in the year, so ought there to be
but one marriage in the life of the individual.
This may be the extravagance of sentiment, or it
may have a foundation in nature ; — I believe it has, —
but at all events this picture of ancient manners has
always seemed to me the most alluring and beautiful
of any, except that which Homer has painted in his
Odyssey: and in many respects there were striking
resemblances between the ancient Greeks, in the heroic
ages, and the ancient Germans, as described by Taci-

NATURAL HISTORY OF MAN. 255
tus : — among both you find the same natural and unex-
aggerated respect and veneration for the female virtues :
the description of Nausicad and Arete, in the sixth and
seventh books of the Odyssey, is unparalleled, as a
painting of female character and manners of the very
highest kind, and stands finely contrasted with the dis
gusting features of Asiatic manners on the one hand,
and the affectations of chivalry on the other. The
Greeks, in the earlier ages, knew perfectly where the
point of natural propriety here lay, and they observed
it to admiration ; — their respect and esteem was seri
ous, rational and dignified, elevating at once themselves
and their sisters and wives. But a sad reverse of this
picture is very visible in the Greeks of succeeding ages ;
they were too vain a people at last to know how to
appreciate and call forth female worth ; — the men had
too high a veneration for the acuteness of their own
understandings to hold in proper respect the practical
good sense and rapid intuitions of the other sex, —
which are their natural characteristics, where they
have been accustomed to be treated with a serious and
equal regard.
Among the western tribes, however, when they
advanced on the south of Europe, in their hostile
excursions, and at last effected settlements in Gaul and
Italy, and took the place of the old inhabitants, this
original sentiment, which I have traced in the nation,
was not obliterated ; the women continued still to pre
vail in the council and in war, and to sway the minds
of their countrymen to newer views and enterprises.
And it was this same deep-laid sentiment, which in
after ages, — a thousand years from the period I have
been particularly describing, — which gave birth to
knight-errantry, and all those extravagances of roman
tic exploit, which have taken the name of chivalry.

256 LECTURE THE NINTH.
This is regarded as a very curious exhibition of man
ners, and the true source of that high estimation of the
female sex, which is claimed for modern times ; but I
believe this to be a mistake, — and that these were but
the extravagances, or rather the affectations and absur
dities which sprung out of a just and natural senti
ment, which had prevailed for ages among this race of
men, and had exhibited some of its most beautiful and
interesting features, before either knights or trouba
dours were heard of: — the tribes, (these were chiefly
German,) which in the fifth century of the Christian
era, overran Gaul and Italy, and at last sacked Rome
itself, were distinguished by this noble characteristic.
And it has justly been regarded as the main cause,
which led them to embrace so readily, as they are
known to have done, the Christian religion. We know
not exactly how far women here led the way ; but cer
tainly it could be considered no way discreditable,
either to the faith or the understandings of those rude
converts from the wilds of Germany, if those same
women, whom they so highly venerated, and to whose
admonitions they often lent a willing ear in the affair
of battles and sieges, were now also the first often to
incline them to embrace that mode of faith and wor
ship, — that divine revelation of pure and invigorating
truth, which might seem especially designed for a race
of people, which for a length of ages, had firmly held
the balances of nature, in rendering equal honor and
serious deference to both the male and the female of
the human family.
So remarkable seems the coincidence of the genius
of this race of people, and the essential character of
the Christian religion, that it might not be extravagant
to say, that they were expressly made for each other.
A noble, a vigorous race of men had been reared by

NATURAL HISTORY OF MAN. 257
the equal regard and contribution of both parents in
those secluded retreats of nature, to be that " wild olive
tree" of the Gentiles, (to which an inspired writer
alludes,) on which might be engrafted this true bud
and germ of heaven, — in consequence of which all its
wild and spontaneous offspring was to be rendered at
once fair and beautiful, and replete Avith a genuine per
fection. And although a close examination into the
history of those times might no doubt discover many
traits of barbarism, and deeds very remote from the
true spirit of the Christian religion, — for the moral
revolution which it occasions in the tone of national
manners is for the most part slow and imperceptible,
like those changes so often alluded to which geology
discloses to us : — still there can be no doubt there was
a certain natural congeniality between the temper of
those barbarians, and the genius of the Christian reli
gion, — at least much greater than had been manifested
hitherto, either in that country, in which it had origi
nated, or those other more western regions, into which
it had already spread. And although we cannot posi
tively tell to what extent the female sex here led the
way, — the female sex, whose understandings are as
vigorous as those of the other, and on topics of religion
more discriminating, quick and susceptive of evidence,
— we are certain that in one conspicuous instance, at
all events, a female convert, Clotilda, wife of Clovis,
king of the Visigoths, was the instrument through
whom her husband was induced to turn his attention
to the Christian religion, — to embrace the faith ; — who
afterwards led his nation to adopt the same creed.
Such conversions, sudden and by the wholesale,
are not to be accounted, perhaps, the golden fruits
of the Christian religion : but they show at least this
much, that the native soil of the minds of this people
33

258 LECTURE THE NINTH.
was not unapt or unpropitious, but that there was a
natural congeniality, — an inclination towards this reli
gion. The captious Greek did not so receive it ; the
polygamous Asiatic turned instinctively away from it ;
the haughty Roman looked too high to see it ; but that
simple progeny of the north, albeit rude and uncouth
in their manners, and but little schooled in letters or
philosophy, had yet that aptitude in them, or happy
disposition of mind, or unsophisticated nature, that
either Christianity welcomed them, or they welcomed
Christianity with the greatest affection and cordiality.
But to what precise combination of causes this may be
ascribed, I know not : I note it as a remarkable fact in
the history of man, and consider it as deserving much
greater attention than it has hitherto received. And
indeed, that a religion should have been originated in
one quarter of the globe, and that its most willing
adherents should have sprung up in another, very
remote from it, — that among an obscure nation in
Palestine, inveterately wedded to polygamy, and the
most addicted to low vices of all people on the earth,
as appears from their history, (and particularly from
the example of Solomon, their wisest king,) — that
among such a people, I say, a religion should have
begun, and been nursed, through a series of ages, under
the protection and covering of ceremonies and rites;
a religion too of all others the most adverse in its spirit
to that polygamy which the nation hugged, and to that
narrow and sectarian feeling for which they were
remarkable, — that such a religion should have arisen
there, and taken no permanent root, nor could, on ac
count of the adverse moral climate ; and yet that a
nation so remote as this German race which we have
been describing, should, — unconnected with it appa
rently so long, — be yet found in temper, and genius,

NATURAL HISTORY OF MAN. 259
and native vigor of soul, and pureness of mind, the
most apt to receive this religion, transplanted among
them, — and that it should have taken root in them, and
so deeply too, that they have carried it with them whi
thersoever they have wandered or settled, in the old
world, or in the new, — seems to me the most astonish
ing fact in the natural history of man, and fills me with
admiration, not less at the extent and magnificence of
the divine plans, than the slowness, and yet certainty
with which they are accomplished.
It would appear then, that religion is a plant, which
does not always thrive best in that country where it
has originated, and that it is intended for emigration
and transplanting, even from its origin ; — and moreover
that its origin may be involved in great obscurity, and
yet its results may afterwards be exceedingly illustrious.
And we remark here, — we have before adverted to it,
that the origins of all works truly divine, are for the
most part hidden in darkness, there is a deep mystery
which envelopes all such beginnings, and the first ori
gins of religions, as well as the species and genera of
animals and plants are concealed in the mists of anti
quity. This has been made an objection to them by
skeptics, those unhappy men to whom doubting is nat
ural, — probably from the want of an extended and far-
seeing philosophy ; — for would they only consider the
origins of all divine creations, they would find in like
manner a thick and impenetrable mist to rest upon
them ; — there seems no time when they have not been :
and so it is in respect to the only truly divine religion
which exists, — its origin, — where was it? in what
epoch of time did it first appear ? — where, when ? — are
the constant interrogations. It was in the elements of
creation it originated; its rites were local; its consum
mation is the Christian religion : but its developments

260 LECTURE THE NINTH.
have been so slow, as to be invisible, even sometimes to
entire nations. Amid the secluded , hill-country of
Palestine, had the Roman or Greek the most distant
idea, the faintest surmise, that a system of divine truth
was conceived, and waiting for the fulness of time to
be discovered and made universally known, which
should break down all their institutions, scatter all the
chaff, and yet save all the grain of their philosophy,
make all their virtues more estimable and glorious, and
unveil, — to render more dismal and hideous, — all their
vices ? How little heeded the Greek and Roman, — or
knew they in fact, — what was in the womb of time !
What ignorance, what ominous unconsciousness, in
Rome even at the time, in regard to that divine event,
which was to be called " the second birth of heaven and
earth !" — there is no sign, no intimation, even in their
wisest philosopher, in their most gifted poet, of any
such occurrence, — and yet this event was to revolution
ize the earth ; the system of divine ideas was to effect
it ; and those tribes, and their descendants, were to be
the instruments, — they were already marked for that
destiny, — who now inhabited the banks of the Rhine,
the Danube or the Wolga ; — they were rude and un
promising, — yes, but the seeds of virtue were actually
sown; and the even and well-balanced dignity of
human nature was secured and provided, in the mutual
and serious respect and deference of the sexes for each
other. The German matron, even in her rude and tempora
ry hut, exposed to cold and famine, and a numerous
train of physical hardships, but never to insult, or the
mockeries of artificial gallantry, felt herself a queen;
and with the sober air of feminine magnanimity, and
the tempered, yet unremitting ardor of a domestic
patriot and citizen, impressed upon the minds of her

NATURAL HISTORY OF MAN. 261
children, her healthful boys and girls, those lessons of
hardihood and natural self-denial and patience, which
of all things resembled most, — although wild and un-
grafted fruits, — so as to be the types of them, the
genuine and solid virtues of the Christian religion,
which at this time was preparing, and being promulga
ted, in a quite distinct quarter of the globe. And truly
this rude matron, and her no less rude husband, —
scantily arrayed with the habiliments of art in body or
mind, yet exhibiting at least the sound natural form of
a perfect household, were far more fitted to welcome
the news, which that religion brought, than some pol
ished pair of modern daj-s, living in mutual servility,
pampering or being pampered, neither touched nor
elevated by noble cares, but seeking ever an inglorious
ease for themselves and for their offspring. But not so
that noble pair I see in the mirror of .Tacitus' narrative
of that sterling race; — they respected themselves as
born and devoted to advance the prosperity and honor
of their tribe ; they had no paltry insignificant interests
of their own separate from those of their nation. And
what although their chief pursuit was war ! it was not
for themselves they fought, but for their nation. The
social, the patriotic intention, although it could not ex
cuse, yet mitigated the wrong, — and made such mode
of life the means of strengthening and binding more
firmly, the soeial sympathies, the barbarian good will,
which reigned in their bosoms. The virtues of civi
lized men look too generally to themselves and their
own private interests; but not the virtues only, — even
the vices of barbarians, have a more generous and libe
ral bearing, and regard principally the interest and
glory of their tribe ; and individual or domestic selfish
ness, the most polished, but certainly not the least dan
gerous evil of modern society, is in a great measure

262 LECTURE THE NTNTH.
checked or discouraged; — and so, when we take this
extended view of the relations of their condition, we
may see reason to think, that it is after all not so unfa
vorable to the proper virtues of humanity, as we might
at first suppose.
When we properly appreciate all these advantages
which belong to a simple state of society, — what has
been called the natural state, we shall be the less sur
prised that a divine religion was spurned by the corrupt
and refined nations of Asia, — where women were
slaves, and men tyrants, and the even balance of nature
overthrown ; — and on the contrary accepted by those
who^were called northern barbarians. But in the
explanation of the phenomenon, we must also in the
case of the Gauls (who were distinct from the Ger
mans,) take into account the fact mentioned by Caesar,
— that the Gauls were exceedingly addicted to super
stition or religion. This propensity was cherished by
the institution of Druids, a regular established body of
priests, which the Germans had not. The instinct of
religion, — which when unenlightened is called super
stition, — is a trait characteristic of the man-animal, as
distinguished from the brute ; and the more vivid and
lively it is in a nation, otherwise enterprising, the
higher is their rank in the scale; the fine and lucid
fancies of the Irish, and highland Scotch, as contrasted
with the dull superstitions of the modern Germans
mark them a superior people. A nation that in their
rude state, have neither ghosts nor fairies among them,
are not to be trusted ; — they are at best but a few
removes from the brute beasts; they are incapable
either of arts or religion : neither poetry, nor music, nor
useful inventions, will ever adorn the brows of such a
nation, with the chaplets and wreaths of honor and
renown ; the utmost they are capable of is metaphysics

NATURAL HISTORY OF MAN. 263
and infidelity. But we have the distinct testimony of
Caesar respecting the Gauls, — tota gens est admodum
dedita religionibus : wherever the wild, native vine
grows abundantly in a country, we are sure the foreign
will thrive ;— and the true vine of Judea flourished
nobly when transplanted in the minds of the Gauls.
We have the testimony of St. Augustine ; when Alaric
took Rome by storm (A. D. 410,) the Romans, the
adherents of the old religion, sought refuge in the
Christian churches, together with the women; and
these sanctuaries, says St. Augustine, the barbarians
respected; and the very sight of the churches and the
symbols of the Christian religion affected them so
deeply, that even in the rage and pride of victory,
their hearts were melted, — their minds touched with
heavenly grace ; and they who had come as the destroy
ers of Rome, acknowledged themselves, ere long, the
obedient children of the cross.
It were easy to collect instances, at great length, to
illustrate the distinct characters of those remarkable
races of men, which have repeopled the south of
Europe, and which with various blendings, mixed
together in that island of the brave and free, the land
of our forefathers, ancient Britain. Here the German
race proper, the Gauls, the Iberians were severally
combined; and out of the mixture arose a peculiar
distinct civilization, which required ages to be devel
oped, and which is yet very far from its perfection ; —
for civilization is not put on, but arises out of a people,
and from those seeds implanted by religion, which are
covered deep. A factitious civilization was attempted
to be put on the ancient Britons by the Romans, and
superficially it appeared a civilization; but in subse
quent ages so entirely did it sink and disappear, that
although the Romans kept possession of the island for

264 LECTURE THE NINTH.
nearly 400 years, not a trace of their early influence
has been left, either on the language or institutions of
the country ; for the Latin words adopted and natural
ized in the language, have been through a different
channel and influence, namely, the church, the courts
of law, and latterly, the study and admiration of
classical literature. All improvements in nations, as
well as individuals, must spring up naturally, and as it
were imperceptibly, from their own peculiar genius
and temperament: the seeds are sown deep, and lie
long invisible; — and shoots at last bear the evidences
of the moral soil and climate in which they appear.
But the distinctive character of the British nation, —
and the rise of American institutions in the mother
land, — and all the curious and useful lights which the
investigation may throw on the natural history of man,
— will better appear, as a separate subject of discussion
and illustration in our next lecture.

LECTURE THE TENTH;

ON THE

MAN OF AMERICA— SPANISH AND ENGLISH.

Reflection that the universal lesson of nature, which has been parcelled out
among the various nations of the earth, each having perfected its part, may
be reproduced in the Phoenician and Scandinavian races on the American
continent. — Of the former are the English, of the latter the Spaniard  The
native Polynesians and Australasians may be regarded as extremes of these.
— Grecian traditions of the golden age, and the extreme barbarism of man
kind, beiDg mixed with mythology, uncertain. — Translation from jEschylus.
Advantages for the study of man's history afforded by the meeting in the new
world of the most barbarous and most civilized condition. — The American
continent designed for the development of principles long latent in the minds
of emigrants from the old world, and which were the cause of their emigra
tion. Simplicity of the social state in this hemisphere indicated by the
community of language. — Two languages will probably predominate, the
Spanish and English  Diversity of dialects, in the past condition of the
human mind, a blessing. — Through these, each nation of the old world has
been enabled to mature some particular good, but, as every good is to be
combined here, occasion for such diversity no longer exists. — Dreadful con
sequences of identity of language, should a despotism arise. — Summary. —
Sketch of the progress and character of the Scandinavian and Phoenician
races.
I have somewhere either read or heard of a tribe
of rude and unlettered barbarians among whom it is
a custom, when the king or chief makes a speech to
his nation, that each individual is required to remem
ber some sentence of it, — and thus, although no one
individual could repeat the whole, yet the whole is
34

266 LECTURE THE TENTH.
among them, in unconnected, disjointed parts, which
the skill of a superior mind might again put together,
and thus reproduce a perfect copy of the original.
The case is very similar, in respect to all nations and
tribes of men, when viewed in relation to that uni
versal voice of nature, which, as with the tones of
superior authority, has addressed itself to all of them,
while all have been listeners, and retained each at least
some one portion or sentence of that grand and con
stantly repeated lesson which is impressed upon them,
— fragments of the copy of the entire philosophy of
nature, — the reflection of a still better and holier light,
of which nature is but the delegated effulgence. But
in that speech of nature, which is also divine, there is
this property besides, that each single sentence of it,
while itself a fragment, contains also a bud or germ of
the whole, as every twig, nay every leaf, of a living
plant, every speck, even the smallest, contains germs or
buds, by which the whole likeness of the perfect plant
could be reproduced in the genial soil of nature.
This reflection and similitude will at once instruct
and console us in regard to the true condition of our
species. What nation of men, what individual, how
ever wise, can be said to possess the whole truth on
any department of philosophy, of government, of mo
rals, or religion. On this last sacred subject, how
many sects, and how limited and few the ideas of each
and all of them ; what fragments are they all of the
round and perfect edifice of Christianity ; what twigs,
or leaves merely, of that wonderful tree whose foliage,
after a length of generations, must overspread all man
kind. But still, although each may be partial, the
whole maybe near being complete; and each little part
may also have within it that vital although undeveloped
germ, from which, after a while, a true likeness of the

NATURAL HISTORY OF MAN. 267
whole might be reproduced. Or it may be the design
of nature that certain nations or sections of men shall
give birth to, and rear to some maturity, certain valua
ble sentiments, truths, or practical institutions, and
afterwards render them, at the appointed time, as a
contribution of their experience to the general stock
of human wisdom, when a more enlarged and wider
society of human beings shall be capable of being
formed out of those smaller ones which shall have
hitherto existed. So far as likelihoods would seem to
indicate, such might be expected to be the destined
relation of the new continent to the old : wider govern
ments seem here intended to be formed, and to have
transplanted within them the moral plants of valuable
institutions and experiences, which have been for ages
maturing themselves in the minds, at least, of the wise
and good beyond the waters. There are here also the
two grand races, and nearly similarly related, the Scan
dinavian and Phoenician, — of which I shall say more
presently, — and the English chiefly of the first, the
Spaniard more of the other : and these seem destined
to share the whole continent between them.
It is on account of this peculiarity of the new world,
namely, that the tribes which are to govern it have
sprung from the old, that the history of it is to be
sought in the old. It is among these where we are
to look for those fragments I have referred to, of a
perfect philosophy, — those sentences of the universal
speech which now we might be permitted to hope are
designed to be gathered into one, — or at least a great
many of them brought into intelligible and harmonious
juxtaposition, so that the sphere of the human mind
may become more enlarged, and the bounds of a just
philanthropy be extended.
It is by considering those two races, especially the

268 LECTURE THE TENTH.
Phoenician and Scandinavian, as seen under the new
circumstances of this continent, and as history or tra
dition has represented them in the old, whether in
their rude or civilized condition ; — it is by such con
trasts and comparisons only that we can arrive at any
correct conclusion in regard to their natural character,
which is the subject of inquiry, and also its relation
with that of other races. For you will observe that,
although politics, religion, morals, literature, fall under
our notice at every turn, we consider them only so far
as they throw light on the true character of the human
species, and serve as helps to solve the great problem
of its destiny. For this reason, I showed in my last
lecture the character and genius of the ancient Ger
mans, a branch of the Scandinavian race, and shall still
prosecute the subject in this, but under other connec
tions, bringing into view, namely, this continent, and
that other great race, the Phoenician, with which in
Europe their destinies have been mingled, and with
whom also in this country they are likely to become
still more intimately blended and identified.
As for other scattered or insulated races of men,
whether the aborigines of this country, or those others
still more barbarous, to be found in the isles of the
Pacific or Southern Ocean, I can only cast a glance at
them. I here show you specimens of two races, one a
New Zealander, the other of the Sandwich Islands.*
The New Zealanders are savages, the inhabitants of
the Sandwich Islands, of milder dispositions. You
may regard them, if you choose, as defining to our
imagination that extreme point of absolute barbarism
from which the Phoenician and Scandinavian races
may have originally started, although history carries us
* Paintings of these were exhibited to the audience.

NATURAL HISTORY OF MAN. 269
not so far back. There is abundance of mythology,
but no positive history, on the subject.
What degree of credit we are to give to those vague
traditions which we find in the earlier poems of
Greece on this subject, it is difficult to determine ;
but certain it is that they point backward to a time
and a state of society nearly as rude and savage as that
in which the Australasians and Polynesians have been
found by modern navigators; — and there is a slight
degree of inconsistency and confusion in their descrip
tions on this topic : at one time you find their beauti
ful and almost inspired poets or vates, «••?.., pointing
you to a golden age. long antecedent to our present era,
when mankind lived in happy abundance, when the
earth poured forth from her bosom spontaneous fertili
ty, and the human soul, that better soil, devoted to a
nobler order of productions, was no less spontaneously
or instinctively prolific of all the gentler and kindlier
virtues. — when no law was needed to regulate, or to
awaken the sense of justice, and no didactic theology
was yet taught to enkindle the flame of a lively devo
tion, for it arose unbidden, or prompted by a native
voice and instinct, at the contemplation of the fair and
beautiful in nature, and the useful and the grand com
mingling themselves therewith, and decorating, as with
a rich profusion of varied ideas, the face of creation,
and the order of the world. Such is one side of the
picture which the fancies or the inspired minds of the
Greek poets present you with, and sufficiently delight
ful and attractive it is, all must allow : and they trace
downward from this period a successive series of degen
erations through the ages of silver, brass, and iron, as
they termed them. But in all this there is nothing
from which you can infer positively what was their
ordinary opinion or belief on these matters. They are

270 LECTURE THE TENTH.
evidently disjointed fragments of some grand system of
theology or philosophy ; — and I agree with those who
think that such materials and broken devices have
been brought from the East, where the great temple
or edifice, and the magnificent design was at one time
no doubt perfect, and reflected from its lofty and
august columns the light and beauty of heaven, — a
temple more magnificent than that of Solomon, al
though that also was built according to a model seen in
heaven : but, in a milder age, in a more beneficent era,
the light under which the division of the parts was
rendered distinct, was softer, and clearer, and mellower,
and even, methinks, of a golden hue, — rendering all
more attractive and divine. Such was the exemplar of
that better temple, and under a light so advantageous
was it seen, — the model or plan according to which
nature itself wras built, — so perfect and so fair. But,
as I think, it is justly surmised that it was but the
fragments of this temple, parts and individual devices,
that were afterwards transported into Greece by the
industry of her poets and philosophers, and hence it is
that although the glimpses of a great design which we
can occasionally catch, are striking and full of interest,
awakening the most lively curiosity, yet it is in vain
that we seek a consistent whole. Like the "Elgin
marbles," wiiich have been rifted by the English from
the sacred remains of ancient sculpture in Greece, and
exhibited in the museums of London, they awaken
glorious ideas of ancient art and designs, but do not
satisfy or complete them. And it is in consequence
also of this borrowed character of the materials of
ancient song and philosophy, in Greece and Rome, that
we find so much inconsistency and confusion in their
pictures of ancient times ; for among these same poets,
in whom you meet with those glowing descriptions of

NATURAL HISTORY OF MAN. 271
the perfection of the first ages of human kind, you find
again the whole scene of enchantment vanish, and
man, instead of being the companion and friend of
the gods, as the golden visions represented him, herd
ing with the beasts, his mates and fellows in the wil
derness, destitute of the arts, addicted to the most
savage cruelty, insensible to all moral distinctions,
gratifying his passions and instincts without regard to
the inclinations of others, or any obligations of duty, —
perhaps a cannibal, — and in some instances ignorant of
the use of fire. But whether this condition in which
you now find him cast existed before or after the gol
den age, and when mankind had fallen as low as it was
possible for them, it will be in vain that you attempt
to discover. There is here a chasm in their mytho
logy, and the ingenuity of their philosophers has never
attempted to remove or to conceal it, — a glaring proof
of their borrowed and imperfect wisdom. But, how
ever, the arts of life which afterwards sprung up
among them, and which served to dispel the gloom
and despondency of their forlorn condition, they very
readily ascribed to the gods, and chiefly to the interpo
sition of Prometheus, whom they fabled to have made
a man of clay, and to have stolen fire from heaven
wherewith to animate him. From that epoch have
sprung up and flourished all the arts of artificial so
ciety, from which even the iron age itself has re
ceived a polish, and been made to reflect the splendor
of a brighter era, the light but not the heat of the
golden age.
The two oldest poets of Greece, from whom we have
derived the ideas of the more ancient ages, are Homer
and Hesiod, who were cotemporary, and lived probably
about nine centuries before the christian era ; at least
if they were not absolutely cotemporary, they inhaled

272 LECTURE THE TENTH.
the same influences, they breathed the same atmos
phere of sweet and vigorous thoughts, — such as I know
not for what reason, awaken feelings in the soul, which
seem to be asleep at all other times, and look like the
slumbers of infancy. There is something in the human
soul which is capable of sympathising with every con
dition of human life, from the most simple to the most
refined; but that part of us which is allied to the genius
of the early ages is more infantile, and on that account
always the most agreeably stirred by the songs of those
rude times. It is from Hesiod we receive the account
of the several ages of gold, silver, brass, and iron, and
I would read and translate it, if it were at all possible
for modern language to preserve at once the simplicity
and dignity of the subject. But I shall translate a sen
tence or two from a different source,* the soldier-poet
of Greece, iEschylus I mean, who fought at Marathon
490, A. C. It is to him we are indebted mainly for
the story of Prometheus, a mystical representation of
the origin of the arts ; the features of the whole story
are religious, and on that account perhaps have been
the more faithfully preserved and transmitted to pos
terity. Prometheus thus speaks of himself:
But listen in what wretched plight were men,
And how I made them, babes in mind before,
Intelligent, with capabilities
Of knowledge : 
Eyes, ears had they, but to no purpose saw,
Or heard : but like the misty shapes of dreams,
All things through all their life disjointedly
Confounded : nor they knew to make of brick
Houses to front the sun, nor works of wood :
Like tiny ants, in underground abodes

* In the MS. a blank was left for the Author's own translation. The defi
ciency has been supplied from an excellent translation of " Prometheus Bound,"
in a late number of Blackwood's Magazine.

NATURAL HISTORY OF MAN. 273
They dwelt, chill in the sunless depths of caves ;
Of fruitful summer, winter, flowery spring,
They had no certain sign ; but they pursued
Without discernment whatsoe'er they did
Till I explained the risings of the stars,
And their mysterious settings. I for them
Invented numbers, highest science this ;
And also the synthetical array
Of letters, signs of thought ; and memory,
The mother of the muse, of every art,
Artificer. I was the first to tame
And yoke their beasts of burden, by their strength
To be men's substitutes in greatest toils ;
I made the steed obedient to the reins
In chariots, which are luxury's ornament,
None but myself invented the swift bark,
The sail-winged chariot ofthe mariner,
That lightly skims the ocean 

-such were my gifts,

And who cau say that he revealed to men,
Before I did, earth's hidden benefits,
Brass, iron, silver, gold ? None, I am sure,
That would not make a false and idle vaunt ;
In one word, learn the whole : whatever arts
Mankind doth know, Prometheus taught them all.
Such were the traditions which had reached the age
of iEsehylus, of the primeval rudeness of human socie
ty ; but neither his own observations nor the narratives
of travelers, (so far as we know,) could have made
him acquainted with any such state of savage life then
existing: even at that early period the pure state of
nature, as it has been called, was but a dream or a far-
traveled tradition. But it is one of those wonders
which the discovery of the new world has brought to
light — and the subsequent peopling of it from the old,
— that we have been brought nearer, as it were, at
once to the most rude, as well as the most perfect state
of human society. Among the aborigines of this conti
nent, and especially in Polynesia and Australasia, since
discovered, has been found that very condition of savage
35

274 LECTURE THE TENTH.
life, which the fancies or traditions of the Greeks made
them acquainted with, — a people, whom the arts and
inventions of Prometheus have never reached, — plunged
in the most absolute barbarism, — "ancient fables true:"
and at the same time we may hope, if too much self-
congratulation do not blind our eyes, or relax our exer
tions, that this new system of confederated republics may
realize the visions of Plato, and represent all the better
features of that commonwealth, which he supposed to
exist only in heaven. We are consequently placed in
the best possible circumstances to study the history of
man, for we have here the first and the last pages of
that history before us, impressed as it were with those
natural figures and symbols from which the truth has
to be disengaged. It is in vain that we talk of man in
the abstract, or that we would discover his character
and dispositions in the contour or form of his body, the
lineaments of his countenance, or the prominences of
his skull ; equally inadequate also are those metaphysi
cal speculations which make the mind alone, as it is
called, the indication of the man ; — all these afford in
deed partial views, — glimpses, which are themselves
explicable, when the true philosophy is known ; but it
is from his works chiefly, from what he has done, from
what he does, that man is most truly discovered and
explained. Other methods of study lead at best to
plausible conjecture, to problematical truth ; but when
you have followed on the track of his actual history,
when you have pursued him through all his wanderings,
from the first rude stages of society to the most civi
lized; — traced the first naked impressions of his foot
steps on the wilderness, until at last you have arrived
at those innumerable traces of art and skill which he
has imprinted on so many countries, — you have certain
criteria before you ; you are decyphering the true char-

NATURAL HISTORY OF MAN. 275
acters of his philosophy, as well as his history, — and
you may be assured, that every new discovery and in
vention, will afford only fresh indications of his genius
and character, his instincts, his reason and propensities.
It is on this account, that the new world has proved
so great an acquisition to philosophy, for by placing
man under new circumstances, it has brought to light
new views of his nature, disproved old theories, or con
firmed immovably such as had before a foundation in
truth. When we consider the subject under this light,
it will appear very wonderful, and a thing of divine
appointment, that this new continent was hidden from
the knowledge of the old so long, or but dimly guessed,
for in the meantime, those ideas or germs of systems
were allowed to be matured and perfected where they
originated, until they were fit for transplanting, — at
which time this new world was discovered, and afforded
that very soil, which was most congenial and propitious
to their second development, — and where they are
destined to reach the most glorious and useful maturity
- of this their new and more perfect being. I speak not
at random. We have been instructed by the voice of
experience that this continent has been designed by
Providence, to be a theatre for the trial and exhibition
of those theories of government and society, which
have long existed in the mind as speculations, but had
never until now an opportunity of fair and impartial
probation. It is true there are many of these schemes
and embryo views, on which we cannot yet pronounce
decisively, because the trial has not yet been fairly
made, or is yet in progress, or only begun ; but at all
events, we have already seen enough to convince us
that religion and natural knowledge, will here find
their most convenient and agreeable residence. This

276 LECTURE THE TENTH.
is the Delos, this is the land which has arisen above the
waves, to receive the twin offspring, — religion and phi
losophy, — the true Apollo, and Diana, — the sun, — the
moon of the moral world. Only now at last do we
begin ta see the true bearings of the events of the year
1492. The voyage of Columbus excited at the time but
a childish astonishment, or it awakened only dreams of
boundless wealth, external splendor, or physical enter
prise ; but very different are the feelings, with which
we now regard it, and the real magnitude of the event
begins at last to be disclosed to us, — for the physical
discovery was but the prophetic emblem of the moral
revelation, which was to be made, — the moral system
which was to be established here. And the same fact
is discernible in the character of those who have emi
grated, and made this continent their residence. For
is it necessary to prove, that those who first came here,
brought in their minds the germs of those social insti
tutions, which have since sprung up and flourished so
wonderfully? I maintain that it was the existence of
these germs in their minds, which constituted that in
stinct of emigration, which brought them here. They
did not know why they came ; some supposed that
they had come to improve their fortunes, others be
cause they were tired of home, and wished to see nature
in a newr guise, — like the fabled goddess of love, born
of the foam of the ocean. The attractions and the
motives were various, but there was but one reason
after all, which impelled them to come, — the seeds of
those moral institutions lodged in their bosoms, which
rendered them restless and uneasy, and made some
think that they wanted more money, and others that
they wanted more fame, and all that they wanted
something, — and so they came. There is a gulf

NATURAL HISTORY OF MAN. 277
stream, which often carries us remote from the point
to which we are steering, but not to a less secure or
safe anchorage ;
" There's a Divinity that shapes our ends,
Rough hew them as we will." —
This is acknowledged to be true in the cases of indi
viduals : is it less so in that of nations ? — it is here even
still more striking. Consider only of what a multitude
of apparently heterogeneous elements the social system
is here composed, I mean in America, and yet what
unity and simplicity begins at last to be visible, and will
be constantly becoming more so ; and you will discover
that although the selfish ends have been innumerable,
and the prejudices exceedingly contradictory, yet the
general direction that has been impressed, is of the most
felicitous character, and reflects, so to speak, in beauti
ful hues, the love and the wisdom of one God.
I might illustrate this point, namely, the tendency to
a'greater simplicity and unity in the social details, by a
variety of facts, and the contrasts which would be pre
sented between the old world and the new ; but avoid
ing a wide survey, let us fix on some convenient indi
cations of the general proposition, and I believe such
can be found in the fact of the greater similarity of lan
guage which is observed on this continent ; I refer not
now particularly to that very uniform style of accent
and pronunciation which prevails throughout the Uni
ted States of North America, which is, nevertheless,
remarkable, when compared with the motley dialects
to be found in the different shires of England, and cer
tainly is an indication of a greater concentration of the
social system here, notwithstanding the far larger extent
of territory, but 1 omit to say more on this point, and
leave it to your own reflections : — 1 request your atten-

278 LECTURE THE TENTH.
tion to a more general fact, and which will illustrate
that simplicity of the social and national arrangements,
which is obviously designed to characterize this hemi
sphere, and that portion of human history to be here
enacted. Only two languages will be dominant
throughout the entire continent, — the Spanish and
English, and most probably will at last supplant all
others. This will appear a very important circum
stance, when we consider that a national language is,
as it were, the mould in which the mind of a nation is
cast ; — those who speak the same language must always
have the same mental identity ; — it is unavoidable ;
it is true the language itself may expand with the
new minds of which it becomes at once the encase
ment and the instrument ; but still every language has
a certain idiom or genius, originally instamped upon it,
from which it never can essentially depart ; and there
fore those wrho speak the same language are thus held
together as by a common vinculum.
Since it is probable then, that with the present facili
ties of intercourse, these two languages will ultimately
divide the entire continent between them, they natu
rally attract attention on themselves, first in respect to
the vast extent of territory, over winch each must at
last prevail, and secondly, to their European origin —
those fountains of thought and feeling, out of which
they have welled ; for thought and feeling are the plas
tic powers of language, as they are also the natural
indications of races.
But I observe first, the great extent of territory, over
which either language must prevail, as a characteristic
of that new civilization, and to present a new aspect of
the natural history of man. The number of languages
spoken on the continent of Europe, as every one knows,
is very great. In Great Britain and Ireland alone there

NATURAL HISTORY OF MAN. 279
are not fewer than four distinct languages spoken,
besides a variety of provincial dialects, although the
English language is now the only one generally writ
ten. These distinct languages are the remaining badges
of the ancient distinct kingdoms of England, Wales,
Scotland and Ireland. I give this as a specimen of
variety on a small and connected empire; — you will
look over Europe and make your own estimate. I has
ten to other considerations.
This multiplicity and diversity of tongues has com
monly been considered as an evil, — is it so ? — it would
be so here ; — has it been so in Europe ? 1 think not ;
it has not been so hitherto ; for although " the confu
sion of languages" may be traced to evil originally,
such as hatred and the predominance of the selfish pas
sions, by which nations have become estranged, and no
longer understand each other; yet when we look at
mankind as they have existed for many ages in Europe,
we shall find that this diversity of tongues has proved
as great a protection to them against the ambition and
tyranny of each other, as the seas and mountains which
separate their territories. For as these natural barriers
check and limit the progress of foreign conquest, they
allow those national dialects to be formed, which after
wards, serving as convenient passwords to those of the
same community, distinguish their friends from their
foes, and shield them in other respects. For if an in
vader could not only bring a superior force against a
country, but had also ready access to the minds of a
people, through the use of a common language, how
could either the souls or bodies of men be longer safe,
against the employment of force on the one hand,
and the influence of persuasion on the other ? What
sad and monotonous slavery would have prevailed every
where on the continent of Europe ! How every beauti-

280 LECTURE THE TENTH.
ful and interesting feature of nationality and sectional
ism would have been defaced or obliterated ! Where
would have been then that sweet gentleness and beauty
of Italian language and Italian mind, as distinguished
so finely from this vigor and vivacity of the French ?
— and where on the other hand had been the mascu
line power of the English, or the majestic and solemn
grandeur of the German; — or thou, sweet Burns, thou,
my countryman ! how different had been thy strains —
 " simple bard, rough at the rustic plough,

Learning thy tuneful trade from every bough."
Had not Scotland, by dint of her native language, as
well as her Highland mettle, so long held her own
against such tremendous odds of southern foes, — until
at last she gave her owTn king to England ; — where had
been the inimitable simplicity of the Doric speech of
Scotland, and the peculiar armor of the Scottish mind,
which sits so gracefully upon it, to say nothing of other
dialects, had not this distinction of languages been al
lowed to prevail, — here at least productive of so many
advantages. But I need hardly dwell on the demonstration of a
fact so obvious as this, that a national language affords
a natural protection to the mental and moral liberty of
a people; — beneath the green foliage of their own
living thoughts, they can repose securely, and bid defi
ance to the inroads of false sentiment on the one hand,
and false philosophy on the other. Some specious false
hood, some fine-spun system of opinions, which has a
show of truth, or at least a natural attraction in the
language in which it is first conceived, when translated
into another, and stripped of its lettering and gilding,
falls quite harmlessly on the eyes and minds of those
who may read or hear it. The sentiment and philoso-

NATURAL HISTORY OF MAN. 281
phy of the French revolution, would have occasioned
much wider mischief, had it not been necessary for it
to undergo the ordeal of translation : if the original
words of the Marseilles hymn could have been as per
fectly translated into the languages, as the music could
be transfused into the minds of other nations, the
demon of revolution might have roamed unchecked
over Europe, and a military despotism been established,
more extensive than that of ancient Rome. Where
mankind are not prepared to think rightly, it is at
least a mitigation of their misfortune that they are
allowed to think differently. The variety of languages
is a provision of this kind ; for by this means there
are permitted to exist several independent centres of
thought, and the chances for discovering truth are mul
tiplied ; for fewer conflicting lights enter laterally, —
they are prevented by putting down the shutters of the
native language; and thus, if, by good providence, a
few scattered rays should come from above, whence
alone truth cometh, they are allowed to converge, as it
were, to the focus of the native mind undisturbed, and
the individual or nation can more quietly and certainly
read the discovery. It is also permitted, before being
divulged, to acquire greater force and distinctness ; and
if it be indeed genuine truth, it can then bear transla
tion into every language, and become intelligible to all
minds. This is more especially necessary in regard to moral
and religious truth, particularly the latter, for this
being so much oftener adopted on authority, than ad
mitted on conviction or actual intuition, it seems essen
tial to allow any breadth at all to such sentiments and
opinions, to increase as much as possible the natural
means of independent thinking. Unity here, to be
worth any thing, must be based on variety : different
36

282 LECTURE THE TENTH.
languages are also favorable to this, not only as regards
the formation of opinions on religion, which are not in
themselves of so much consequence as that building-up
of distinct habits and practical forms of goodness and
piety, which in those sequestered and separate com
munities, dependant on heaven rather than each other,
present undoubtedly the most beautiful and interesting
forms of human life, — the very types of felicitous free
dom. The prevalence of one language would seem to
break down and monotonise these happy scenes of
various good. It is by means of a distinct language
that the idea, as it has been called, of the nation or the
individual is preserved ; the language is, as it were, the
mould in which this idea is cast ; and when you break
the mould the idea is broken at the same time.
Such at least would seem to be the natural conclu
sion, when we look at Europe, and the past there.
And the cause of this peculiarity in regard to them
may be, that they have not as yet even any enlightened
theory in regard to the public good, — the public good
of Europe, I mean ; their systems are professedly self
ish and anti-social, national — not continental ; hence
these nations have been delivered over, each to its own
theory of good, its own ideas, its own language. And
what has been the consequence, — to the New World
especially I mean? The consequence has been, that
they have each matured, and hence now also represent,
certain essential traits of good, which, when combined
in the new order of society here, may at last furnish
out a very complete and entire whole ; which will re
quire of course a more enlarged expression, and find it
too, literally even, in the more general and extended
use of one and the same language.
Such is the theory I would deduce, but, of course,
to be received with allowance, from the fact of the

NATURAL HISTORY OF MAN. 283
variety of languages in the old continent, and their
reduction here to but a few, probably, at least, to but
two, — English and Spanish. We cannot predict the
future ; but I direct your attention to this phenomenon
as one, the study of which, in connection with other
" signs of the times," may lead you to anticipate the
character of the new era. — the third act of the grand
drama of human history; — for two acts are already
past, that which has preceded and that which has fol
lowed the Christian era, — and now begins a third.
Every one of the great nations of the old world has
perfected and matured some truth, or showed the con
sequences of some general fallacy, — some idol of the
tribe which had received too ready worship ; all have
done something, and cast their offerings into the gene
ral treasury. It will now be for the new world to
open that treasury, — to take account of stock, and hav
ing done so, to throw nothing good away, but to be
thankful to the old world for the fruits of their experi
ence and labor. Such seems to be the great task and
duty which now devolves especially on the new world.
She is called upon in particular to separate the chaff
from the grain, for now has come the crisis — I use the
term in its original sense — the judgment, — the occa
sion, the season of separation. She is not called upon
to adopt the prejudices or opinions of any one country
or age, but whatever may be valuable, and useful, and
tried, she is bound to receive, and as far as possible to
naturalize. For according to the views which have
presented themselves, and of which two dominant lan
guages form as it were the prediction and augury, a
very broad and extended basis of a new social system is
here being laid, which is to include within it every
thing that is good and true, and especially to guard and
protect individual liberty, — the right of every man to

284 LECTURE THE TENTH.
the free and untrammeled exercise of his own thoughts,
and, what is only a part of the same thing, the free ex
pression of them. When this theory, — for such actually
is the American theory of the social system, — has also
become the practice, all those natural devices of differ
ent languages for securing the sovereignty and mental
independence of states and individuals will have ac
complished their end ; and, being no longer useful, will
disappear, and leave one language and one universal
spirit of social and continental benevolence to take
tlieir room ; what need of such screens longer when
none are disposed to fix tyrannously their minds and
opinions upon others ?
You perceive we are prophets of good ; — it is because
we say what we wish. But there is another side to
the picture; for should ever a political or spiritual
tyranny be fastened on these states and this people, it
would, in consequence of the identity of language, be
the most galling and oppressive that ever was esta
blished. The uninterrupted flow of one language
would bear the mighty swell of the tide, — of uniform
opinion, for that is slavery, truth is freedom, — into
every crevice and nook of the land, with an impetu
ous and overwhelming force, beating down before it
every barrier of thought, every trace and vestige of in
dependent feeling. It would be one vast and monoto
nous expanse of Chinese despotism, from which not
even the privacy of our own minds could protect
us, the very night would shine as the day, — without
consolation or refuge of any kind, not even the shield
or covert of some sweet local and provincial language,
in which to utter the bitterness of our complaints, in
sounds heard but not understood, by the ears of our
courtly masters. The Scotch Highlander, when he
can sing his Gallic songs in praise of valiant dukes dead

NATURAL HISTORY OF MAN. 285
and gone, or the Welsh mountaineer, as he chants the
deeds of the patriot David or the brave Llewellyn, can
each, within his own Language, enjoy a world of his
own, and forget for a time queen Victoria or her taxes ;
hut it is evident no such refuge would be left to the
citizens of these states. There would be no oasis, no
lively spot of green, in that Sahara of moral desolation
which would be occasioned by the loss of mental and
spiritual freedom in this continent — more especially as
such loss could be incurred here only from the tyranny
of the many, not as heretofore from the tyranny of one
or the tyranny of the few.
But it is necessary that we bring now the several
points which have been referred to under one view,
in order that we may perceive their relation to the
subject. They are these :
I. That the old nations of Europe, made up of the
Scandinavian and Phoenician branches of the Caucasian
race, unlike their representatives on this continent, are
characterized by divisions and jealousies of old stand
ing, which have resulted in distinct governments, often
arrayed in hostile opposition to each other, distinct
usages also, and for the most part, distinct languages.
II. That the effect of this has been indeed to perpe
tuate disunion, but that at the same time this distinct
ness, and especially that of language, has been so far
fortunate, as it has proved an impediment to conquest,
and prevented the establishment of a general despot
ism, — which has enabled each nation to cultivate and
improve its own native genius and talent, and to contri
bute its proper share to the common good of the species.
III. That a system has arisen here in many respects
the reverse of that which has prevailed, — distinguished
by a certain beautiful simplicity, a natural tendency

286 LECTURE THE TENTH.
towards combination and union, which, while it secures
to each individual and community all the advantages
before attainable by absolutely distinct governments,
binds the whole in one, not by destroying their indivi
duality, but by inscribing on each the features of the
whole, —
 Facies non omnibus una
Nee diversa tamen, qualis decet esse sororum.
IV. That the result of this has been a greater en
largement and comprehensiveness of mind, as respects
the individual, while the affections of each cling to a
greater variety of objects, and the ideas are expanded
by the community of language, while at the same time
the practical inculcation of freedom on all hands, and
the confliction of views conciliate or compel mutual
respect, and secure to each man the exercise of private
judgment, and all the rights of conscience, on condition
that he allow the same to others.
In all these points we perceive a manifest progress,
and although the advancement is not such — and can it
ever be such ? — as to secure us against all danger of
sliding back even into a worse condition, yet it is to be
considered a positive good, and the more so, for that
character of simplicity which belongs to the system,
and which is an augury of yet greater good.
This portion of the Caucasian race marked by these
new features of civilization, I have designated by the
names Scandinavian and Phoenician; and the brief
notice of their history should be the more interesting
to us, now that we have seen them in their most advan
ced stage of progress. They appear originally also to
have had a common residence, somewhere in the cen
tral regions of Asia, and to have separated at an early
period. The Scandinavian branch took a more northern
route in their progress westward, following a pastoral

NATURAL HISTORY OF MAN. 287
life, fond of war, and successful. The pure stock
were the ancient Germans whose manners I have de
scribed. The other, or the Phoenician branch, took
early to a sea-faring life, settled on the eastern shores
of .the Mediterranean, — by naval skill and commer
cial enterprise extended their dominions to the south
and west, settled colonies on the African coast, in Spain,
most probably also in Gaul and Britain, in which last
countries they also encountered, — and after a separa
tion of many eventful centuries, — their Scandinavian
brethren. But how different at last the manners, the
institutions, the religion of each. It is to the Phoeni
cian tribe, I think, that we ought to ascribe that degra
dation of the female sex, which Caesar speaks of as
existing among the Gauls. And to the same source
also is to be referred, 1 imagine, the still more licen
tious manners of the Britons, mentioned by the same
author. Neither of these accounts is consistent with
that style of manners which prevailed among the Ger
mans, at least that portraiture of them executed by
Tacitus. The practice of human sacrifices, also so dis
tinctly referred to and described by Caesar, as found
among the Britons, proclaims itself of Phoenician
extraction; — not to mention druidism, which is alto
gether foreign from the genius of northern barbarians,
but partakes much of the character of the Asiatic
castes, from which it seems to me very obviously to
have been derived.
In the earliest notices of ancient authors, we find
these originally fraternal races jostling with each other
in the western countries of Europe, and in most instan
ces, blending in one. But the Scandinavian race, ac
cording to our standard of estimation, is the much
superior of the two, of a more intrepid character,
encountering at first a rough, and apparently a more

288 LECTURE THE TENTH.
congenial clime, — making a bend toward the north, —
described by Herodotus under the name of Boudini, by
Aristotle under the name of Scythians, and at last by
Tacitus under the name of Germans — or war-men, —
but in all cases exhibiting the same strong characteris
tic features. Let us hope that the American colonists
are descended principally from these. For this race
seems to me to have been always, in the most ancient
as well as the most recent times, in the first buoyancy,
and spring, and gay festive purity of ardent juvenes-
cence ; nothing of the senility of superstition has ever
yet ploughed a furrow on its brow, or damped for an
hour the youthful freedom of its thoughts ; it is frank
and democratic, resistless, and full of the most glowing
and sanguine expectations; — it is protestant, and sees
its gods by the vigor of its own imagination, and needs
neither pictures nor emblems to awaken its discreet
and generous devotion ; but it is elevated by its religion
and never depressed; and needs neither saints nor
demi-gods, much less expensive or magnificent temples
to introduce its naturally pure and elastic thought into
the interior sanctuaries of nature, — the dwelling of
Divinity; but the open field or the wild forest are
places sufficiently sacred for them, and hymns of reli
gion and liberty have arisen from thence, poured from
their souls and lips, — conceptions of their own native
bards — more noble by far than were ever imagined or
sung in the softer climates of Italy or Spain, beneath
the canopy of the most superb and illustrious architec
ture: "lucos ac nemora consecrant," says Tacitus,
" deorumque nominibus appellant secretum illud, quod
sola reverentia vident:" the woods and the groves, their
fancies and their rites have consecrated, and with the
names of gods do they dignify those objects only, or
unseen existences, which they contemplate solely with

NATURAL HISTORY OF MAN. 289
the deep reverence of the soul, for no images of the
gods are presented to their bodily eyes. These are
the Scandinavian race, — such tlie features of character
which the God of nature has endowed them with ; —
having advanced westward, as 1 have said, with a sweep
towards the north, and pouring a new and healthful
tide of brave and pure blood throughout the veins of
the whole population of Europe; in after times, —
crossing the Alps, — crossing the Pyranese, — settling
also in Britain.
But I must be true to history ; besides the Scandina
vian race, there is the other, the Phoenician, — bending
round and embracing Europe, as with a corresponding
sweep towards the south, and penetrating first into
Spain, thence into Britain, and lastly into Gaul. But
that even this race wras once vigorous, full of youth,
enterprising and bold, there cannot be a doubt ; their
navigation and their commerce are sufficient witnesses ;
but the worst and worn out remnants of them seem at
last to have settled in Gaul and Britain, and also in
Spain ; they brought with them from the neighborhood
of Egypt and Palestine, that system of priestcraft, —
one of those accretions which attach themselves to
tribes and countries of men, which are the native lands
of religion, the homes of mysticism, — a disease arising
out of that peculiarity of organization. And it is also
a curious fact in man's history, that superstition and
gross licentiousness are naturally combined; they both
arise equally from the same cause, — from the vicious
inability of elevating the mind into the region of pure
spiritualism, that subtile and abstract religion, which,
while it bears all the aspect of coldness and want of
vitality, is nevertheless the true and real vestal virgin
of the mind. Those melting airs, that southern soft
ness, — what is it, after all, with all its powers of sooth-
37

290 LECTURE THE TENTH.
ing, compared with that intrepid and dauntless religion,
which is nursed amid the cold and rugged mountains
of Scotland, or of Sweden ; among the. pure breed of
Scandinavian men ? But yet I have said that the Phoe
nician race, with which to some extent I class the
modern Spaniard, was at one time not destitute of
vigor. Herodotus informs us that at an early period
they circumnavigated Africa ; and there are traditions
of their having visited the Madeira Islands, perhaps the
Azores : conjecture only can affirm that they touched,
in their navigations, this continent. They had the
instinct of trading deeply laid in them, a fine propen
sity, when regulated by moral principle, but infinitely
more degrading than the military genius, when it is
not. It has been observed that wherever a people has
been corrupted by sheer traffic, when they fall, they
fall forever ; they are incapable of redemption : fraud
is a cancer which is incurable in individuals or nations.
The Phoenician race became proverbial for this trait,
as every one knows, among their neighbors : punica
fides meant the absence of good faith ; downright trea
chery. I am sorry to be obliged to trace a considerable
portion of the American lineage to this stock, — but the
fact cannot be concealed.
That the Spaniards in particular are much blended
with this race, is very certain. The Phoenicians had
formed extensive settlements in the country before the
Christian era, — and the Moors were also of the same
breed. But there is, besides this, the pure Castilian
blood, derived from the Goths, a powerful and heroic
tribe of the Scandinavians. Thus the Spaniards are a
mixed race, but their excessive devotion to an emble
matical religion, and their opposition to protestantism,
in the philosophical sense, shows that the original vigor
of the tribe has been dashed with a sprinkling of orien-

NATURAL HISTORY OF MAN. 291
talism. Not that we would brand such a disposition
as a mark of absolute inferiority, but when a race is
generally corrupt, (and the whole human species itself
is believed to be in this condition,) it will happen, as a
matter of course, that the portion of it which is most
inclined to the gentler virtues, and disposed to mysti
cism, will show the blight the soonest and the most
glaringly, as during the prevalence of the winter's cold,
those plants which are most tender and delicate, and
tropical and beautiful, are the first to droop or to be
injured, while the more hardy and less attractive, often
look more vigorous from the encounter, and show their
stern evergreen more lively than before. The Scandi
navian are the evergreen of the human tribes, the Phoe
nician and the oriental are the summer plant ; and that
blight, which from a period too remote to be histori
cally traced, has come upon mankind, has made those
appear worst who might otherwise have stood highest
in our estimation. But the vernal equinox of the grand
moral year, — the mirabilis annus of the ancients — may
not be very distant, when degraded races may hope to
recover their lost honor and distinction, and those who
are now pre-eminent only for the softness of a sensual
effeminacy, may become remarkable for the loveliness
and delicacy of their native and appropriate virtues.
It is at all events a delightful anticipation, and 1 should
be reluctant to abandon it — bona spe prselucet in pos-
terum.

LECTURE THE ELEVENTH;

ARTS AND COMMERCE OF THE PHOENICIANS.

Obscure tradition in Plato of the existence of this continent. — Progress of the
science of government evinced by a comparison of American institutions,
with the theory of Plato's republic. — The poetry and romance of the ancient
condition of society, is here superseded by the rational and practical. — Their
religion was local and national, being reflected from their original history ;
— the religion of the moderns is spiritual and catholic. — Modern civilization
distinguished by the cultivation of the useful arts, by which personal free
dom is secured to a large portion ofthe human family, and the spirit of peace
fostered  The arts proper to man. — The Phoenicians the inventors of the
economical arts. — Their circumnavigation of Africa. — The invention of alpha
betic writing ascribed to them. — The genius and occupations of the Egyptians
would not have suggested this art. — The relations of these nations to each
other, seen in that which now exists between the English and their continen
tal neighbors. — Phoenicia an old country in the time of Herodotus. — Its
decline — The Greeks probably of Phoenician descent. — Their genius and
character original.
" O Solon, Solon," said the Egyptian priest, (I am
now translating from the Timaeus of Plato,) "you
Greeks are only children ; there is not an old man to
be found in Greece." — Solon was surprised to hear the
priest say so, but as he had traveled thither to acquire
knowledge, — for at that period Egypt was a classical
land, and Solon then, and Plato himself afterwards,
visited the country to gain new light and information
on the subject of society and philosophy, — Solon then

294 LECTURE THE ELEVENTH.
pressed the priest farther to explain his meaning, for he
considered the remark as almost derogatory to the
honor of his native country. — " I intend to make no
injurious reflections on the Greeks," said the priest,
"but it is a misfortune, which it was not in your power
to have hindered, that you should have no ancient
records among you, but that your history should be
only of more recent events, so that the Greeks may
be truly considered children and not men, in respect to
the knowledge of antiquity." — How is that? said
Solon. You are not aware then, said the priest, what
catastrophies both of fire and flood have at different
times and at remote periods extinguished entire nations,
nay, races of mankind. But from a certain peculiar
felicity of climate and location, we Egyptians have
always escaped, and have hence, retained among us not
only the earlier records of our own country, but also
the authentic traditions of the former distinction and
fortune of other nations.
The curiosity of Solon, says Plato, was roused by the
information, and he requested the priest to tell him all
he knew respecting the ancient condition of his coun
try, and her renown in arts, in philosophy, or in war.
The priest then proceeded to give an account of the
ancient fame of Athens, and the extent of her power
both by land and sea; — but that this was before the
prevalence of a great flood, and other catastrophies
which had since that period desolated the country,
and defaced every vestige of her former glory; — a
few only had escaped the overwhelming calamity,
and found a refuge on the highest mountains, whence,
on the subsidence of the waters and the return of
the tranquillity of nature, the low land had been re
peopled. This tradition gives Plato a very fortunate and

NATURAL HISTORY OF MAN. 295
agreeable location for that imagined republic, the form
of which he has drawn in such fascinating colors,
with all the elegance and sweetness of his inimitable
language. But in his introduction to the subject, he
makes the Egyptian priest inform Solon, — and no
doubt a tradition of this sort had reached Plato's
times, — that there was at the period, when this ante
diluvian Athens was in the height of her glory, a
power of vast extent and domination, the seat of which
was fixed in certain islands in the Atlantic ocean,
skirted by an immense continent which lay far beyond
these. This powerful military state, said the priest,
the writings of the ancients inform us, extended its
conquests over most of Europe, and was making en
croachments on Asia; — and its principal residence was
in an island situated in a mighty ocean beyond the
pillars of Hercules, which island was of greater extent
than Europe and Africa together, — and from that
island there was a passage to other islands and thence
to a continent opposite to them. For that ocean, said
he, is of such immense extent that this sea included
within the pillars of Hercules, is but in comparison
of it a pool. But so formidable had become the inva
sions of this powerful Atlantic people, that they threat
ened the subjugation of the whole of Asia as well as of
Europe. But at this very crisis, O Solon, continued
the priest, your city was renowned above all others for
its valor and military arts. And therefore while all
other states were sinking under the dominion of this
advancing tyranny, they alone single-handed opposed
the enemy, checked the progress of their arms, and
rescued the surrounding country from the grasp of
their ambition. And not contented with this, they
afterwards led the flower of the republic against their
insular dominions, — for at that time the Atlantic was

296 LECTURE THE ELEVENTH.
navigable; — but then it was those awful catastrophies
occurred, of which tradition has informed us, earth
quakes and inundations succeeded each other, for a
whole day and night, without intermission, during
which the Athenian army was engulfed in the ocean,
and the vast island of Atlantis sunk, and never after
wards re-appeared; — and such, added the priest, has
ever since been the condition of navigation in that ocean,
from the shoals and dangers of submerged islands, that
sailors no longer venture to cross it, but have abandoned
it to the solitary dominion of nature.
Such is a faithful account of that very interesting,
but obscure tradition which we find in Plato, respect
ing the existence of this continent where we now
study his philosophy, and read his works, and descry
that dim twilight of Egyptian science, faintly shadow
ing out many things, but distinctly revealing nothing.
But Plato, as I have said, more anxious to find "a
local habitation" for his ideal philosophy, than to relate
true history, discovers in this fabled region of the ante
diluvian Athens, a most convenient site of his perfect
republic. I wish I could give you a sketch of this
fancied commonwealth, but it would occupy too much
of our time. I may mention, however, that it differs
in many most essential points from the constitution of
this commonwealth, although in others it approximates
wonderfully. A certain utilitarianism mixes itself
with all the visions of Plato, and although it was
impossible for a Grecian to be otherwise than fanciful
and poetical, yet Plato seems to have been so thor
oughly aware of the evils that resulted to his country
men from the perversions of mythology, that he was
for excluding from his commonwealth the writings of
most of the poets, nor would allow any other ideas of
the gods to be inculcated, but such as should represent

NATURAL HISTORY OF MAN. 297
them, as the authors and upholders of the pure moral
code, and the sterner and more useful virtues of war
as well as the quiet and unpretending graces of a
peaceful civil life.
Plato's republic is however a heterogeneous mixture
of those elements which he found existing in Greece,
and the philosophical abstractions or eastern mytholo
gies which he had combined with them. It is impos
ing, and alluring, and often sublime ; — a beautiful and
grand theory, not less agreeable to the imagination,
than the actual view of this government is to the
reason. On the whole, when you view the republic
in Plato's mind, and then turn to this which really and
truly exists, you are forcibly struck that there has been
a progress within the last three thousand years in the
science of government, and in the more practical and
useful developments of human nature. In what espe
cially does this progress consist? whence its origin?
and what may be its tendency ? — these are interesting
questions, to which I shall attempt no formal or specific
reply, but to aid the solution of them, I shall make
some desultory remarks, and present in this, and the
succeeding lecture, such views as have occurred to me.
But first I would observe, that the present situation
of mankind in respect to government and the general
complexion of their social condition is infinitely less
romantic and alluring, than it wont to be, some twenty
or thirty centuries ago. No doubt there may be some
considerable illusion in our estimate of the ancient con
dition of society on this point, and it may be in a great
measure true, that here especially, " 'tis distance lends
enchantment to the view;" but after all due allowance
of this kind, it will still be found, I think, that the "
progress of society latterly has been affected by the
sacrifice of not a few of the more agreeable illusions of
38

298 LECTURE THE ELEVENTH.
the imagination, along with the adoption of the more
solid and practical truths of reason and experience.
It is indeed this "sober certainty of waking bliss,"
which makes up the entire charm of modern civiliza
tion. In regard to this continent, this is strikingly
seen in the fact, that it has hitherto been found impos
sible, and I suspect always will be, to get up any thing
in the shape of good or inspiring poetry, on the subject
of its early history and first settlement; — the whole
back-ground of events is so closed up with stubborn
unyielding fact, — glaring in the daylight of ordinary
and. secular experience, that imagination finds it impos
sible to invest the subject in any degree with the color
ing of romance : — every body knows so well how the
whole came to pass, — and how each incident took its
place and went to compose the actual whole, that it
cannot be made to appear anything else but what it is;
the pilgrims landed on such a spot, — on such a year, —
on such a month, — on such a day of the month, — so
many hours and so many minutes before sun-set ; and
then we know precisely what kind of people they
were : we have their books and their letters and their
speeches, — all very good, very excellent sense; they
were a positive, determined sort of people, — quite
headstrong, no doubt conscientious, perhaps much
better people than the early settlers of Greece, that
land of philosophy and song: but you cannot make
poetry out of the Puritans, as you could out of the
Greeks ; there is too much day light and reality about
them; — they refuse to be represented in the hues of
romance, and their memories now seem as little tolerant
of ornament, as their persons formerly were.
Why need I dwell on this topic ? — it is quite evident
to all ; — look round on every period of the early settle
ment of this country, you find the whole hung with

NATURAL HISTORY OF MAN. 299
the sober drapery of reason, common sense, practical
religion, commercial or agricultural enterprise, but in
vain do you look for the gay hues and fascinating deco
rations of poetry and romance.
Now this very remarkable distinction has had, and
will continue to have, a singular influence on the
whole character and destiny of this nation : its origin
has no mystery in it, no obscurity, no twilight, — no
shadows on which the spirits of the morn are reflected to
the eye of enthusiasm, and enchant and elevate the mind.
And we will here venture the assertion, that had such
been the original situation of the Greeks and earlier
nations, they never would have reached that peculiar
state of beautiful and interesting civilization which dis
tinguished them, and, were it not for one grand fact
and consideration presently to be mentioned, I would
also say, that this absolutely prosaic and philosophical
origin were a misfortune also to this nation, just as it
might be regarded as a defect in the education of a
youth, that no part of his childhood had been passed in
the innocency and sweetness of rural life. The effects
of such softening influences, even if illusive, are bene
ficial to the individual in the maturity of life ; — but the
application of the comparison I recall as respects this
nation, and from the one consideration I am now to
mention, which is this : — In the Greek and ancient
nations their entire religion was reflected to them from
the back ground of their original history, and therefore
it behoved that all the events of it be enwrapped in a
sweet and solemn mystery, in order that their enlarge
ment and extension and mystification might afford
materials ample and glorious enough, on which such
divine ideas as all religions implicate might be seen
and exhibited, and vividly impressed. With them,
therefore, their heaven and earth were woven into one

300' LECTURE THE ELEVENTH.
continuous tissue, — you travel backward on their his
tory, and before you are aware of any line of transition
you find yourself in a land of enchantment, a region
of dreams, wherein Saturn and Jupiter and Mars and
Neptune and Venus and Apollo were born, the patri
archs of the nation itself, — the fathers of their fathers.
But it is evident that if the events of their early settle
ment had been as well defined to them as the history
of the Puritans is to us, they never could have moulded
them into that form of religion which was in many
respects so pleasing, while it retained its simplicity, and
in some perhaps not without use. For a religion such
as this, and made up of such materials as these, had
nevertheless, we may presume, from the insemination
of true seeds into it from the just God, a meaning and
a power, and a beneficent sway over the future civili
zation of the people, which resulted in all those beauti
ful forms of just and native art, still regarded with
admiration. But a peculiarity in this respect marks the fate of
this nation ; for those feelings of mystery and devotion
which are the best elements of human nature, its con
servative elements, and in which is to be enthroned the
admiration of all that is good and true, are designed
here to be detached from place and history, in order to
be turned and devoted to Christianity, a religion purely
divine and spiritual, no longer local, but catholic and
elevated, — a religion, the true source of all that is ven
erable and dear to the rational minds of a thinking
people: for here it is not the soil, or the air, or the
rivers, or the seas, that draw the love and the admira
tion and the regards of the citizens so much as those
benevolent and equal laws, those republican and well-
balanced constitutions which from this religion alone
have derived their entire character — their consistency

NATURAL HISTORY OF MAN. 301
and power: and it is this consideration alone which
can exalt the feelings and purify the passions of this
people, and produce that new civilization here which
will be moral, benevolent and useful, and hence beauti
ful : and here is the native fountain of it ; — I can see
no other. I have had occasion to show that the " amor
patriae" among the Romans was a decidedly local attach
ment : the local attachment in the American nation is
slight ; it is a moral and political attachment chiefly
which binds them to their country and to each other ;
this is a remarkable feature of the civilization which is
designed to prevail here.
I note then the following points as worthy of consi
deration, and as exhibiting an interesting contrast :
I. The religion of the ancients was local and na
tional ; it affected the fancy and imagination primarily,
and in the greatest degree, — the reason more remotely,
and if it touched the heart, it may be doubted whether
it affected it most to good or evil, — although most deci
dedly for good in the ages of the greatest simplicity.
But it was from this source chiefly their civilization
flowed, and it was marked by all these peculiarities, —
it was romantic and delusive, fleeting and unsteady,
the parent of poetry and the fine arts, and the foster-
mother of genius and taste.
II. The religion of the moderns is spiritual and
catholic, not founded or dependent on local and histo
rical associations. Their histories are of matters of
fact, and place is to them invested only with that natu
ral beauty and grandeur felt equally by all hearts alive
to the perceptions of wisdom and benevolence — that
Divine Presence which fills the universe. From this
source our civilization flows, and is rational and moral,
and, if true to itself, will be permanent, and in its
last perfection will be productive of poetry and music

302 LECTURE THE ELEVENTH.
and other beautiful arts, but of a totally distinct kind
from those which at present exist.
The second grand feature, next to that of religion,
which pre-eminently distinguishes modern from an
cient civilization, is the assiduous and serious cultiva
tion of the useful arts, and the honor which awaits
them. By the useful arts, I mean such as are popu
larly so considered, not merely such as are necessary
and indispensable, but such also as add to physical com
fort, convenience and enjoyment : but in popular esti
mation under the class of useful arts are not included
of course those which are accounted liberal, and which
administer delight chiefly to the mind through the in
fluence of taste and the moral sensibilities. These last
appear to have existed in greater vigor in earlier times
than at present, at least as to their essential ingredients,
the beauty and sublimity of the conception: perhaps
the mechanical execution may be superior now. But
what music must that have been, of which even the
bare mention by Homer and other earlier poets is so
rapturous and sweet as to delight us more than even
the finest strains of modern times ; and what must
have been the felicity of design displayed in sculp
ture, — those figures embossed on brass or marble,
when none can read even now a description of them,
as that of the shield of Achilles, without feelings of
the warmest enthusiasm. There is not a page of
Homer or Virgil that does not supply subjects for the
most exquisite paintings, and the descriptions particu
larly of the latter seem to me to have been borrowed
in many instances from actual works of art ; his poetry
wears upon it the impress of sculpture.
And yet among these people, the Greeks especially,
the convenient and economical arts seem to have been
but little appreciated. The palace of Ulysses presents

NATURAL HISTORY OF MAN. 303
to the imagination about as much domestic comfort or
convenience as a modern barn might supply; the
queen, his wife, spun or wove above stairs in a kind of
garret room with her servants or maids, — and below,
Ulysses caroused with his companions in a large hall,
or rather lumber-room. But here, amid this rude
ness or destitution of domestic convenience and ele
gance, there was nevertheless a certain display of mag
nificence. The arts of design were not unknown, to
enliven the imagination, — to impress the images of
religion, — to touch the heart with true feeling : all the
tender, all the delicate sentiments of nature had food
administered to them ; the divine art of song, and the
art of language mingled with music, which took the
soul captive and lapped it in Elysium. 0 where,
when, is there now such absolute forgetfulness of all
care, by the interposition of the song or the romantic
tale? How dull and prosaic are all our entertain
ments ; and even if a work of true genius, whether of
the hand or voice, be executed, you can easily see that
it is the mechanism that is admired by the dull spirit
of modern amateurs, rather than the soul or the feeling
therein. There is less rapture in the mental enjoy
ments of modern society, but perhaps there may be
more benevolence ; undoubtedly there is a milder and
apparently a more rational spirit and regard for utility :
and one large class — all but the majority — have ob
tained much more dignity and independnce, — 1 mean
that class engaged in the useful or economical arts.
If any one will take an estimate of how many pro
ducts of mechanical art and ingenuity he is possessed
of, in his house or about his person, which are not
necessary to his health, although they may be to his
comfort or sense of elegance, his artificial or acquired
tastes, he will be able to form some idea of the extent of

304 LECTURE THE ELEVENTH.
this department of modern civilization and refinement.
Perhaps nearly five sixths of all a man considers neces
sary to him, but which is not so, is of this description.
If therefore the whole number of industrious manual-
ists in a community were to be reckoned six thousand,
five thousand of these would be found to be engaged in
the practice of the arts which are dignified by the name
of useful, but which are not such in any other sense
than that mankind have agreed to use them ; and that
those who are employed in the execution of them are
precluded by this requisition on their labor from en
gaging in acts of mischief, and enabled to procure by
the use of their hands a comfortable subsistence for
which they might otherwise have had to depend in the
character of vassals or body servants or military free
booters, on the generous bounty of a patron, or a
master, or a leader.
It is the extensive introduction of the mechanical and
economical arts, and the demand for tlieir products,
under the idea of imaginary necessaries of life, that has
laid the foundation of the respectability, and elevated
to such a pitch of true nobleness, the character of this
very large class of mankind, who could indeed have
been otherwise supported, and even in idleness, but
only by the sacrifice of their honor and freedom to
the owners of the soil, or the possessors of political or
other authority and influence. Thus also have been
developed the arts and love of peace, by which alone
such ingenuity and industry can be fostered ; and the
disposition to war has been checked and in a great
measure restrained. Nevertheless these useful and
economical arts wear an exceedingly sober, and as it
were, anti-sentimental aspect. The Greeks not unfre-
quently express their disapprobation and abhorrence of
them. All the necessary and liberal arts they abun-

NATURAL HISTORY OF MAN. 305
dantly praised and admired, such as those of agriculture
on the one hand, or sculpture and painting on the
other: and modern times still retain something of this
species of repugnance ; and it is in fact the assiduous
cultivation of these arts in America, that renders the
tone of society often unpleasant to aristocratical tourists
from the old world : but philosophy cannot condescend
to enlist itself on the side of national prejudices either
for or against such pursuits.
It is certainly absurd to hear the epithet useful ap
plied exclusively to those mechanical arts, four fifths of
which at least are not even necessary, while entire na
tions have succeeded in living very virtuously and use
fully without even a knowledge of their existence. I
say it is ridiculous to apply the term useful exclusively
to such occupations, and consider such pursuits as those
of literature, science or theology, as something different,
not useful, but merely elegant or ornamental, indeed,
and neither the students nor the teachers of them to be
as well deserving of reward as other men. — I say philo
sophy must condemn this as irrational, but at the same
time she must be allowed to rejoice in the astonishing
expansion of the mechanical and economical arts of the
present era, as at once the best securities, and the surest
tokens of the freedom and dignity designed for so large
a portion of the human race. And although it must be
allowed, that an exclusive devotion to these as well as
to any other object of pursuit must contract the mind,
yet who cannot see here again in the rational and pure
indulgence of the generous glow of elevated sentiment,
inspired by the Christian religion, the proper counter
action to all that narrowness of spirit, which the Greek
and Roman dreaded so much, and for which their reli
gions afforded but little remedy.
I note then as the second grand characteristic of the
39

306 LECTURE THE ELEVENTH.
modern or new civilization, the extended and active
cultivation of those arts, which are strictly mechanical
and economical, useful but not absolutely necessary,
and I deduce the following advantages from them :
First, that they secure the individual and personal
independence of the workmen, and teach them to
look to their own hands, and minds, and God, for
their freedom, and distinction, and support. Secondly,
that they diminish the natural disposition to war, and
foster the spirit of peace. Thirdly, that by the implan
tation of the seeds of Christianity in such firm ground,
and well improved, the human character is exalted;
and he who would otherwise be, and indeed was in
Greece and Rome a drudge or dependent, becomes or
can become a philosopher and a sage. Fourthly, I see
in this the best security, as I have also seen the rise, of
a true republican character, and re^ ublican country.
For the present, I shall take no more particular
notice of these distinctive features of the natural state
of man, as it exists at present, and as it existed twenty
centuries ago. For I am now desirous in the remain
der of this lecture, since such is the importance of the
arts, and such the illustration they cast upon our sub
ject, to attend further to their origin, and enquire
among what people they have arisen, to view especially
their rise among the Phoenicians ; — the natural history
of which race I am extremely anxious to bring to its
close, with a glance at that of the Greek and Roman in
this lecture.
But first I would note, and here I believe I but recal
an observation I before made in a previous lecture, that
all the arts are just as much a part of man, and belong
ing also to his natural history, as the instincts of ani
mals to theirs. But a remarkable distinction of man
lies in this, that while in the animals their arts are

NATURAL HISTORY OF MAN. 307
born with them, in the full gloss of perfection, inscribed
very perfectly and graphically on the animal soul, there
being no new editions or improvements ever to be
made, in man on the contrary, only the aptitude and
predisposition to the arts is innate; he has learned
nothing at the time of his birth, but is to learn seem
ingly every thing ; he is hence capable of consciously
understanding all he does ; and there is a progress in
him from darkness to light; and in the species too, not
less than in the individual. And this wonderful char
acter is visible also in his body: there is in it, particular
ly in his hands, an aptitude for all arts, but an exclusive
confinement to no one in particular ; his hands are not
tools, but instruments to make tools. In the animals
you observe it is different ; the anterior extremities of
the mole for instance, are used as a pick-axe and shovel,
while the hinder serve to remove the accumulated dirt;
but then these extremities or hands are fitted only for
this office, not for others ; it makes but a poor figure
above ground. Again, the arched neck and the webbed
feet of the swan or the duck, excellently adapted for
swimming, are rather an impediment than otherwise
to progression on land. In short the bodies of animals
have natural machinery, or tools attached to them, and
these the very images and signs of their full fledged
instincts, giving an exclusive and confined character to
each species. Man with his reason and hand stands
disengaged from all this exclusiveness and speciality;
and none can tell those natural arts, which he is to put
forth, until he has made an essay of his powers ; and
opportunity or necessity either invites or urges him, to
call into being those devices and inventions of which
the germs and aptitudes have lain treasured up within
him. Who could think that in that naked biped, wan
dering melancholy and forlorn amid the woods, appa-

30S LECTURE THE ELEVENTH.
rently the neglected outcast of nature, there were yet
concealed such capabilities of divine excellence. From
such a being as that, was to spring up that family of
enterprising navigators, the Phoenician race, — or the
other family of sculptors and poets, the Greek race.
But let me first take up this Phoenician, and see
what singular arts and improvements sprung from him.
To him, I need not tell you, the perfection of the
economical art of dyeing is due : the Tyrian purple is
proverbial; and that is said to have been such, that
even modern art cannot now reach it. This is a tri
fling instance, but it shows an origin among this people
of that species of the economical arts, whose profusion
we consider the glory of the present times; and the
established means, on which account the philosopher
will consider them principally useful, whereby the
independence, and freedom, and enlightenment of so
large a class of people is secured.
Of what real value is it, you say, to mankind, whether
their garments have a bright, or yellow, or a dun tint,
or whether that be fading or permanent, so long as the
fabric holds together. I say it is of no indispensable
value or use at all under this light; and if art had no
other use than this, I would disdain to trace it to its
source; philosophy spurns the mere trappings of vanity
and ostentation. But we discover in it something; bet-
ter than this; we see in that natural passion of the
human soul, for splendid or elegant dress, an excite
ment which rouses from their slumbers the faculties of
human invention, and in the institution of mechanical
arts, secures the personal and individual dependence of
men on one another; for true and rational freedom
consists in this, that my skill is necessary to your
gratification; and thus the natural love of ostentation in
A, becomes the very ground of his respect and defe-

NATURAL HISTORY OF MAN. 309
rence to the superior manual dexterity of B. The rise
of the economical arts in Tyre, was the rise of those
useful arts, or beautiful mechanical works, on which
repose at least one of the pillars which support the
dome of American freedom. As the foundations of a
continent are laid deep, and are early begun, and long
in building, — so we see the very means of a nation's
distinction and happiness long in preparing, before
even its very existence is in the slightest degree fore
seen. We are not far from home then, when in Phoe
nicia: for her turn of mind, and bent of character in
her better days was not very different from our own.
The Phoenicians circumnavigated Africa in the
reign of Necho, king of Egypt. This fact Herodotus
learned from the priests of Egypt when he visited that
country 480 years before Christ. You will find this
event generally treated as a fable by historians, and
Irving, who has collected a great many other traditions
respecting the voyages of the ancients, does not even
mention it. But Herodotus is good authority, and by
no means disposed to fabricate materials for his history;
he may always be relied upon, when he states what he
saw or heard. There is no doubt, therefore, that he
received from the priests of Egypt the account he has
transmitted to us of the circumnavigation of Africa ; it
is indeed possible they may have deceived him, but one
circumstance which he relates in the narrative of the
priests, as of doubtful credit, proves to us the veracity
of the narrators. He mentions that the expedition
took up two years, and in the autumn, when they had
advanced far to the south, they landed on the coast,
tilled a portion of the land, and waited for the return
of the crop ; and that afterwards, in pursuing the voy
age homewards, the sun appeared northward of them
on the right hand, and that they returned hy the strait*

310 LECTURE THE ELEVENTH.
of Gibraltar, — the pillars of Hercules. This circum
stance of the sun being seen on their right, must have
occurred by their being beyond the southern tropic.
Herodotus, however, did not discredit the account he
received of the expedition, but only this particular cir
cumstance in it; which proves to be the very incident
in the narrative which should establish the truth of it
in modern times.
This one authenticated fact, then, speaks more than
volumes could have done of the daring and enterprise
of the Phoenicians. And from that period, down to
the year 1497, such navigation was not successfully
attempted ; nay, even doubt and suspicion were thrown
over the whole transaction ; still, however, a certain
faint hope and probability of the circumnavigation of
Africa seems to have been entertained. And it was
probably this, which at last led to the accomplishment
or renewal of the enterprise by the Portuguese in 1496
— a very considerable interval of time; but so long,
perhaps, was it necessary to prepare mankind for that
new era of improvement which was then ushered in.
As some philosophers have supposed that the bent of
each man's mind is determined by certain events of his
infancy, the faint recollections of which affect his future
career ; so it may be in the history of mankind, cer
tain occurrences in ages too remote for authentic his
tory, may be the causes afterwards which impel men
to the greatest enterprises of similar character.
The possibility of circumnavigating Africa, after it
was once effected, although previously in a great mea
sure disbelieved, was never positively denied. Very
similar was it in regard to America ; there is no histor
ical document to show that such continent had ever
been before visited; yet faint and obscure surmises
were long afloat in the minds of men on that subject

NATURAL HISTORY OF MAN. 311
But it is very much in regard to such things, as it is in
respect to a point of still greater interest to the human
family; the fact of the Christian revelation rests on
the possibility of an intercourse of human minds with
unseen intelligences; and yet this possibility, never
doubted at one period of the world, but taken as a
familiar and indisputable truth, is now neither believed
nor disbelieved; — it is an obscure tradition in the
minds of most persons, but no longer a practical and
lucid conviction.
But the circumnavigation of Africa is not the only
benefit for which we are indebted to the Phoenicians,
for, inasmuch as it gave the first early impulse to dis
covery, we maintain that this new world is very consi
derably beholden to them even in this respect. But
this is not the whole extent of our obligations to them ;
they are also justly considered to have been the inven
tors of alphabetic writing ; Lucan has so represented it.
If this be so, the benefit of commerce to the world
is now signalized by this, more than by any other dis
covery or invention. And if you will reflect upon it,
you may see reason to conclude that this invention
should have sprung up among a commercial people,
rather than any other. It is true the natural desire of
being known to posterity, and of having their great or
good acts emblazoned in the memories of after ages,
might incite mankind to the invention of various con
trivances, by which that might be effected; such as
monuments of brick, or stone, or earth ; paintings, or
sculptures representing the particulars of events desired
to be remembered ; but yet all this is not a matter of
prime necessity, and there is no strong present motive,
urging to the accomplishment of it: and even this pro
vision for the remembrance of themselves by posterity,
has a feeling of benevolence in it, which is not likely

312 LECTURE THE ELEVENTH.
to have much influence on the selfishness of mankind,
amid other matters of pressing necessity. We would
conclude then, that the art of writing was not very
likely to spring from such a feeble origin ; it had some
stronger reason, some more present motive for its inven
tion ; and that we can readily see in commerce.
The distant voyages of the Phoenicians, the compli
cations of their traffic with foreign countries and among
themselves, would soon call for a more expeditious, cer
tain, and practical method of recording their transac
tions, and transmitting them, than hieroglyphics af
forded. These answered admirably well for theology,
where the imagination, or heart, was designed to be
moved or enlightened ; but the business of merchants
has very little to do with these, and requires chiefly
accuracy, distinctness, and absolute security against
error, in its ordinary and recorded details. Here then,
as in all other cases, "necessity was the mother of
invention." It was this which sharpened the genius of
the Phoenician, and produced for himself an immediate
instrument of communication with others, in the adop
tion of alphabetic writing, and for after ages, the
imperishable medium of transmitting to posterity the
most positive and just information regarding the actions
and thoughts of men.
Mankind, for the most part, we may say always, look
at that which is immediate, and the source of instant
and palpable gratification ; but at the same time there
is another power employed in rendering all such mea
sures subservient to its own eternal designs. The
Divine Providence always respects that which is eter
nal; and here in the ordinary and quiet pursuits of
commerce, among this plodding, but at the same time
great minded people, you see an invention spring up, its
extensive uses unknown to them, and intended only for

NATURAL HISTORY OF MAN. 313
commercial convenience; which was nevertheless de
signed to be the medium of conveying to the most dis
tant ages, and to a continent perhaps, not yet visited by
men, not only the results of human experience in arts,
in government and morals, but even the revealed docu
ments themselves of that divine religion, whose value
is not yet even the millionth part known, or apprecia
ted by man ; and yet what a change has it already pro
duced on the face of the world !
This is one of those curious and interesting relations
of events, which discover themselves to us at every
turn, in studying carefully the natural history of our
species; the corresponding or correlative parts of a
magnificent design, showing themselves at intervals,
often many thousand years apart, or with half the globe
intervening. And indeed, who can doubt that reflects
upon it, that the globe itself is rendered productive of
various fruits and treasures, at distant localities, that so
the human mind might be excited to action and friendly
intercourse, that the chain which binds the nations into
one, in the bands of friendship and mutual respect,
should be composed and woven out of those various
materials of use, of which the globe is prolific. See
the Tyrian, three thousand years ago, unfurling his
sails and plying his oars, and visiting every harbor of
the Mediterranean, and venturing even beyond the
straits, on unknown and unploughed seas, and bringing
home from all those parts, the novelties and rarities of
their climates and soil ; and not only this, but what is
of infinitely more worth, as regards the progress and
expansion of the minds of the species, his soul fraught
with new impressions, replete with thoughts of fresh
enterprise, or connected in bands of firmer sympathy
with the wider brotherhood of his race ; — reflect on
these remote, these almost unknown or forgotten trans-
40

314 LECTURE THE ELEVENTH.
actions, and you will see how the formation of a far
wider republic of mankind than we have yet seen,
approached, indeed, in some degree in our own, has
been in the view of nature from the earliest ages.
There is a plan as certainly laid here for the ultimate
perfection of mankind, and their full moral growth,
although of infinite extent ; as that miniature design
we see pursued for the physical and moral expansion of
the individual, according to which, those brawny arms
and stalwart limbs, that distinguish the full-grown
man, are first moulded in tiny forms in his mother's
womb; and that mind at last illuminated by the rays
of science, and hallowed by the light of religion, has at
first much to do to discern day from night, or to mark
the grossest distinctions of objects.
" The noble art from Cadmus took its rise," — the art
of writing. It was justly, that men in ancient times
ascribed all their inventions to divine power, for the end
of these is actually so designed; but nevertheless, we
cannot err much in ascribing the immediate sensible
invention of them by men, to that form of necessity of
which I have spoken ; not a gentle or slight necessity,
but a very urgent one, such as that I have shown the
complications of commerce to be in this instance.
The Egyptians were devoted entirely to agriculture;
and the priests were an established caste ; they rather
shunned the contact of strangers, than sought it ; hence
the repose of all their institutions. A dull, heavy fog
seems to hang over the valley of the Nile, even from
the earliest ages, to shroud their mysteries, — to shut
them out from the vision of the world ; here therefore,
is the indistinct hieroglyphic, the heavy architecture ;
magnificence without taste, expense without elegance,
power without activity. In such an atmosphere, the
origins of arts, in their most rude and chaotic elements,

NATURAL HISTORY OF MAN. 315
may be supposed to have existed ; and indeed, Herodo
tus says, that geometry sprung up in this country, from
the necessity of restoring the old land-marks, which
the annual overflowing of the Nile constantly oblitera
ted, But neither geometry, nor hieroglyphics, — the
first rude attempt at writing, — could receive the neces
sary modification or real perfection among such a peo
ple. They were too much shut, out from intercourse
with the rest of mankind; they were too much addicted
to a national vanity and conceit ; it needed a people of
nimbler hands, and clearer heads, and readier move
ments ; a people whose wits were sharpened by com
merce, and their prejudices dispelled by frequent con
tact and collisions with their neighbors, to devise
improvements, to shake off that overweening reverence
for antiquity, which is the great bar to discovery, and
to inspire that becoming self-confidence, which is per
haps necessary to prompt to useful inventions and salu
tary improvements.
There is perhaps, therefore, as little reason to wonder
that the Phoenicians, (when such was their character,)
should have made the great transition from hierogly
phic to alphabetic writing, — the idea of writing itself
having been already suggested, — as that the present
commercial people of New England, also devoted to a
sea-life, and visiting all parts of the world, should have
such a turn, if not for inventing, at least for improving.
They and the English occupy nearly the same relation
to certain other parts of the world at present, which
the Phoenicians did to certain of their neighbors in
ancient times. And it will, on impartial examination,
Jje found, that this entire race in modern times have
been by no means so remarkable for invention and ori
ginal discovery, as for the suggestion and adoption of
improvements. They have what are called practical

316 LECTURE THE ELEVENTH.
understandings ; a happy knack of turning every thing
to their own advantage, whether in the way of reputa
tion, or the acquisition of wealth ; and this arises from
their ready wit, sharpened by their extensive com
merce ; they are what Napoleon correctly, although
invidiously, designated a nation of shop-keepers. But
these popular slurs are not the language which philoso
phy would adopt ; she, on the contrary, regards the
genius and pursuit of every people with the same bene
ficent and friendly concern, and she sees in the situa
tion of that intrepid and enterprising people, as well as
of their brethren on this side of the Atlantic — the pop
ulation of New England — those circumstances and
pursuits which are favorable to clear-sightedness and
the dispersion of prejudices ; and which, conducting
therefore to that species of merit which is second only
to that which is noblest and most divine, leads them
directly to improve and apply discoveries, to devise the
methods of applications, which to the general eye is
itself more than the discovery. But in the continental
mind of Europe, especially in Germany, there is more
of that quiet, serene reflection, which always first
receives the truth from heaven, but frequently in such
a shape and form, that it cannot be used.
You have a good instance of this relation of the
English mind, to those of other nations, in the case of
Newton in respect to Kepler and Galileo. Kepler and
Galileo, were the real discoverers; rather Kepler,
dreaming about the mystery of numbers, until he
actually discovered that law, the square of the periodic
times as the cubes of the distances of the planets
from the sun, which was the real key, whereby New
ton afterwards unlocked the palace of nature. Such
were his powers of combination, his vigorous clear
headedness ; but yet there is a coldness about his char-

NATURAL HISTORY OF MAN. 317
acter, (notwithstanding he was a good man,) which
you do not find either in Galileo or Kepler.
But in following out these illustrations, have I forgot
the commerce of the Phoenicians? I have not; but
rather the fact, that the natural productions of diffe
rent regions are various, (which is the true basis of
commerce, the civilizer and enlightener of men,) re
minds me of this other analogous truth, that genius
also, and the mental products of nations are different ;
and that while to one people it is given to originate,
to another is assigned the task of improvement and
application, which indeed is also invention, although
not so properly discovery. And the art of alphabetic
writing, which arose naturally, perhaps necessarily, out
of the situation, and circumstances of the Phoenicians,
was indeed a wonderful invention, but flowed in a
certain measure from the hieroglyphics before used;
but yet the step was an immense one, for it gave
decision and accuracy, where obscurity and indistinct
ness before reigned. And it was not till at least three
thousand years after that period, that the art of printing
began in Germany ; — a comparatively modern step of
this grand art of embodying and transferring thought,
by which means chiefly it is that ancient history has
been secured to us ; and that we are now enabled from
relics of former generations to collect these items and
notices of the natural progress of our species, to have a
part, a little part, of that immense design, by which
the whole family of mankind, is being carried forward
to an unknown point of glorious and beneficent per
fection. It is a sad thing to trace the degeneracy of this great
Phoenician race ; and as I adverted to it enough in a
former lecture, I may be allowed now to pursue the
pleasanter task of recording the fresh and blooming

318 LECTURE THE ELEVENTH.
glories of its youth. The circumnavigation of Africa,
I place first as a matter of absolute certainty; the
invention of alphabetic writing next, as of great tradi
tional probability, and the natural offspring of their
genius so employed.
But those arts of peace, which they seem to have
cultivated from the earliest times, and the example
they set to the nations of a useful, and yet inoffensive
activity, were not the least of the benefits which they
conferred on mankind. Homer frequently speaks of
them, as distinguished by their wealth, and their
arts, in his time; and when Herodotus visited their
city in the year 400 B. C. to enquire concerning the
worship of Hercules, he found a temple had been
erected in honor of that hero, which had stood, accor
ding to the information he received, 2300 years.
It is interesting to follow him in his tour through
that country; himself a Grecian, from a country which
was then in her prime of youth, elastic, joyous; with a
language more beautiful than it ever afterwards ap
peared; for although it became more mature, and
vigorous, in the hands of Plato and Demosthenes; —
yet it was never again so youthfully graceful, as exhib
ited in Herodotus, — the perfect and enchanting body
of the Grecian mind, comely, athletic, unaffectedly
natural. And such also was then the nation of
Greece, when Herodotus visited Phoenicia and Egypt.
They were then to Herodotus, the old country; and
indeed all the particulars he relates regarding their
existing state, impress you with a feeling of decay;
their people, their constitutions were worn out; and
youthful Greece had just entered on her grand career ;
the battle of Marathon had made her power to be felt
and dreaded to the very centre of Asia; and it was
about ten or twenty years after that battle that Hero-

NATURAL HISTORY OF MAN. 319
dotus begun his travels. Yet more than one hundred
years after this, we find Xenophon, the disciple of
Socrates, expressing his admiration of the Phoenicians ;
but chiefly for their admirable prudence and skill in
navigation. Xenophon was a great lover of method
and order in his affairs, and in recommending the
observation of this virtue to others, he gives as an ex
ample of the most perfect order and arrangement, — a
Phoenician galley; where there was a place for every
thing, and every thing in its place, and no place which
was not filled. Nautical order and neatness were con
spicuous every where. But, alas! these virtues of
economy, and prudence, and skill, could not save them,
could not preserve them from that fate that was mark
ed out for them, surrounded as they were by states
and nations, inspired by military enthusiasm, and
whose code of honor taught them that it was more
becoming their natural station, to despoil their neigh
bors of their wealth and treasure, than to acquire it for
themselves by the slow and steady arts of peace.
The commercial spirit was thirty centuries too early
to be exclusively cultivated; the ancient nations had
few lights of experience to guide them right. The
fate of Tyre, the fate of Carthage are well knowm, the
one fell under the hands of Alexander, the other was
levelled to the ground, through the triumphant and
atrocious ambition of the Romans ; yet who were these
Greeks, who were these Romans? There is every
reason to believe that the Greeks at least, were a scion
mainly of the Phoenician stock itself, separated from it
while it was still fresh and vigorous, — and in this
respect better fortuned than either the Spaniards or
Britons, whom I showed in my last lecture, had re
tained some of the worst features of the old age and
decrepitude of the Phoenician race. The Greeks them-

320

LECTURE THE ELEVENTH.

selves looked back upon Phoenicia, as in some respect a
mother-land. The Cadmus who invented letters, set
tled afterwards Thebes in the centre of Greece, and
introduced the arts of industry and refinement, and his
name and the settlement were afterwards the theme of
the fondest poetry and the most lovely and luxuriant
mythologies, clustering like tendrils around his name,
in the fairest and most perfect emblems, emblazon
ing at once his own signal merit, and the warm grati
tude of his descendants. I judge from the Phoenissae
of Euripides, that the entire religion of Bceotia was
transplanted from Tyre; but before it had assumed that
dark and lived hue, which it afterwards put on, proba
bly in the decline of commerce; — when the very
heavens of their imaginations were shaded by the
misfortunes and dishonor of their country, and took
the cast of their own dismal minds.
Herodotus expressly mentions, that the Pelasgi, the
old and original inhabitants of Greece, worshipped
the gods, but without a name; and that their names
were derived from the Egyptians and Phoenicians; and
that the very name »•'» was derived from ®«> to arrange,
because they noted that remarkable arrangement or
order of the world, to be the peculiar feature of the
works of divine power.
But whatever local origin we may attribute to the
Greeks, whether Phoenician or other, certain it is that
their mental origin, their intellectual genius cannot be
mistaken ; it was no borrowed ray from other lands ; it
was freely shed upon them, that heaven as it were,
might exhibit to the admiration of mankind, the most
perfect examples of minds perfected by the harmonious
combination of equal endowments of genius and of
taste, and both in the highest degree. We have enough
of the extravagant, and exorbitant, in the writers of

NATURAL HISTORY OF MAN. 321
modern times, and among the orientals; but where but
in Greece, do you find the ardency of irresistible
genius, so tempered and beautified by the most perfect
taste, as to be gracefulness itself! Their governments
for the most part were democracies ; and it was here
popular freedom first endured her apprenticeship, it
was here that were spread out and embodied those
experiences, whose lights served afterwards to conduct
to safe and well balanced constitutions, first in the
English, and lastly in the American nation, — when it
first entered on its career of independent nationality.
What a fund of valuable reflections Grecian history
afforded to those excellent and enlightened men, who
were chiefly instrumental by their voice and pen, in
laying the foundations of the American constitution, is
evident not only from the speeches which remain, but
from those papers of the " Federalist," where the ele
mentary principles of good government are elucidated
and enforced, with such admirable and profound good
sense. Jefferson, although a man very imperfect in ma
ny respects, had those true stamina of character and of
philosophy, which led him to seek, and to find, the just
principles of a sound government, amid those fragments
of republics and monarchies, with which the ground of
ancient history is strewn, — particularly Grecian; —
there was something genuine and sterling, in that sys
tem of government, which encouraged such minds as
theirs; and there was something unsated, too, since that
greatness had so brief a date, and so passed away like a
morning vision ; never since restored in those climes, so
favored by nature, with all the advantages, which the
most genial soil and atmosphere can give.
This branch of the Phoenician race, if they were
Phoenicians, quickly grew, quickly withered. The
Roman lasted longer ; — but its mental contours are far
41

322 LECTURE THE ELEVENTH.
less interesting. I need not trouble you with sketches
of the history of either race. With respect to the
Greeks and Romans, they have bequeathed to us their
languages, those still vital forms of their immortal
minds, if we will but avail ourselves of the legacy ;
but with respect to the other races, British, Spanish,
and others, their bodies are stocks, whence no inconsi
derable part of the population of the New World
seems destined to arise. May they equal the glory of
their sires, may they rise superior to it ; may all the
virtues here, at last, find their home ; and may a just,
wise, constitutional, firm and beneficent freedom pre
serve mankind at once from the tyranny of their own
passions, and the oppression of each other.
The Phoenicians themselves were the peaceful cul
tivators of those mechanical and economical arts, and
the type of the industrious races of this western conti
nent ; but they arose in an unpropitious era, and fell ;
for they had no religion, analogous to Christianity,
whose precepts might have added dignity and gran
deur to the simple and laborious arts of peace. The
second Phoenicia now rises under the auspices of the
Christian religion, and will be sheltered beneath its
shade. Such is the omen we draw from the indications
of the times.

LECTURE THE TWELFTH;

ON THE

ELEMENTS OF AMERICAN CIVILIZATION.

Elements of the civilization of ancient times local and national; in the New
World they are of an abstract character. — The condition of a nation at any
period of its history, the result of all influences which have previously
acted upon it. — Argument, that the American will be a diffused and popular
civilization, from the structure of the English language. — Summary of pre
ceding lecture. — The character and destiny of a people determined by their
religion. — Illustrated in the Greeks. — Preservation of the poems of early
ages, providential. — Necessity of a new species of poetry and art to corres
pond with the new civilization, which is compounded of many elements,
from distinct local centres. — The cultivation of the mechanical and economi
cal arts a marked element ; its mother-land Phoenicia. — Injurious tendencies
of these counteracted by Christianity ; its local centre Judea. — The elements
of empire and union contributed by Rome. — The elements of state sove
reignty, poetry, art, and philosophy, the legacy of Greece. — Purifying and
elevating influences of Christianity. — The poetry and art of the new civili
zation to be thence derived ; of which truth and certitude will be the distin
guishing characteristics. — Concluding reflections.
There is nothing which imprints the truth of an
observation so well upon the mind as an instance or
fact in illustration. I had occasion in the last lecture
to say, that there was less of locality, (or sacredness
combined with it,) in the religion, in the philosophy,
or even in the political sentiments of the American
states, than in those of the Old World. They are re
moved by their position on the globe from the natal

324 LECTURE THE TWELFTH.
spots, from the original localities of the primitive ele
ments of the civilization which belongs to them.
Hence it becomes a very remarkable character of the
nation, that it views all these principles of action more
abstractly, and far less locally, than is common in older
communities: the principles themselves are sacred to
them, rather than their original residences. This I
showed to be favorable to soberness and practical
rationality, but not to excitement of fancy or enthusi
asm. All the elements of civilization, here floating in
the vast abyss, have been long since detached from
tlieir native rocks, and are valued only for their
intrinsic use. All the elements are purely exotic ; and
originality and perfection are only to be expected from
the number and curious composition of them. I no
ticed also what a peculiarity it conferred upon the
civilization of ancient states, that their origin lay
amidst such obscurity ; so that their divinities became
the very founders, and local patrons of their nation.
How wonderfully is this circumstance or feature of
civilization changed in this country ! Here there have
been no local divinities, and there is no period of his
torical uncertainty amidst which they could abide.
But an instance will show my meaning here more
distinctly. I will translate to you a part of a choral
song from a Greek play, acted before the people of
Athens three hundred and sixty years before the
Christian era. And you will take notice how all the
religion and poetical fancies in it are at once localized
and nationalized ; — and you will see, from your know
ledge of the origin of these states, that such naturali
zations here are impossible. Religion is compelled
here to remain abstract and spiritual, — philosophy, and
even poetry, also, in a great degree. The chorus sings
the praises of the Athenians, and their country :

NATURAL HISTORY OF MAN. 325
O ye sons of Erectheus !
Whose renown is famed of old ;
Ye offspring of the happy gods,
Who tread the soil of Attica,
The sacred, the invincible land,
And breathe the wisdom, bright and clear,
Diffused through all her soft, her fragrant air :
0 here it was, for so our fathers teH,
Whence sprung the chaste, the sacred Nine,
The virgin Muses, thy daughters,
O beauteous and glowing Harmony !
And here, too, Venus, the goddess of smiles, they say,
When she has sipped of the waters of Cephysus, —
Our pure, our native stream, —
Breathes dews and refreshing breezes over all the region;
And crowning the Loves with garlands of roses, —
The Loves, — by Wisdom's side, —
Hence has sent throughout the land,
Of every virtue, and each fair deed,
The sweet, the winning monitors. — {Medea v. 820.)
Such are the ideas, in a nearly literal translation,
exhibited in this portion of a choral song, which was
chanted before a promiscuous audience of Athenians,
in their crowded theatres. You perceive at once, from
this single specimen, that their entire religion was local,
and that the very gods were natives of Attica. And
this was not altogether a poetical sentiment either, but
a part of the national superstition. And I need not re
mind you that the character of the true religion was at
first similar, — having a locality, and even nationality,
in Judea. It was the God of Abraham, of Isaac, and
of Jacob : — that phraseology was originally taken in its
most literal acceptation. And it derogates nothing from
the dignity of our religion that it was so, since all this
narrowness of a local or national complexion has long
ago been laid aside, or dropped off itself, when its
universal and abstract truths were proclaimed at the
Christian era : — and in the new world there seems a
probability that whatever speck of localism or material-

326 LECTURE THE TWELFTH.
ism may have since dimmed its proper beauty, shall
here, sooner than in other countries, fall off. But I
have by this quotation from Euripides, 1 hope, now
rendered more intelligible what I referred to in my
last lecture. I shall have to recur to the subject in the
course of this lecture, and shall take occasion to show
that even the amor patriae here does not refer to any
particular spot, but is entirely of an abstract nature.
I make then in the outset this general remark, that
the elements of civilization are here more detached
from local circumstances, and assume a more loose and
abstract character than they have ever any where
before done. They are also in greater number and
quantity, as is reasonable to suppose, after so long a
lapse of ages, and in a government too, which is free,
and consequently rejects no element of nature which
has been before tested or ascertained. These are all
gathered here, or are gathering. This may appear
more clearly, after some previous remarks which are
necessary to be made, in order to see in what manner
nations as well as individuals stand affected by the
antecedents of the events of their history, — or those
powers of self-government with which they are en
trusted. The physical and mental condition of the individual,
at any one point of his history, may be considered as
the result of all those influences which have acted upon
him up to that period. Of course, the controlling
power of his will and understanding is always the
most important of these influences, and this accord
ingly modifies and so affects the whole as to give a
unity and individuality, certain and indestructible, to
that being which he calls himself.
Analogous with the case of an individual is that of a
nation, or epoch. The state of a nation, at any one

NATURAL HISTORY OF MAN. 327
stage of its progress, is the result of that aggregate of
causes which have at any time affected it, in connection
still with its own fixed and determinate national cha
racter. All that has been done, or undertaken by the
nation, in any age, however remote, from that in which
it is viewed, has in some degree influenced its present
condition. It is this great feature of humanity which
gives such remarkable and striking contrast to the life
of the human being, whether considered individually
or socially, as compared with that of the inferior ani
mals. The whole collected good or evil, wisdom or
folly of the preceding generations light upon that
which is for the time upon the stage of existence;
yet not by an uncontrolled law of necessity, but
from that system of education in which the individual
or nation is first placed, — in its most impressible state ;
and from which its whole character, intellectual and
moral, is ever afterwards tinctured and imbued; but
still, even over these circumstances, the innate strength
of the original mind, under the light of heaven, is
enabled to exert a resistance and control, so as not to
he subdued, but merely modified or affected by them.
Consequently, the individual, at his introduction into
life, is placed under the action of two controlling influ
ences, — depressing or elevating ; — these are the tradi
tions of his nation, the artificial systems of prescriptive
action and opinion on the one hand, — and the immuta
ble truths of divine relation on the other, whether they
be inscribed for him on the religion of his country, or
on the face of nature itself. The individual, and hence
also the nation, — the aggregate of individuals, — holds
between these an even balance of freedom, not such
indeed, that neither shall affect him, but only that
neither shall affect him by an absolute and blind neces
sity; for according to his natural and voluntary dis-

328 LECTURE THE TWELFTH.
position, he may either suffer himself to be pinioned
down by the maxims and usages of the times, or he
may ascend, in free choice, to the more perfect stan
dards which religion and nature reveal to his reason
and understanding.
It is in consequence of this peculiarity of human
freedom, that after the most exact analysis of the in
gredients or materials of the civilization of any period,
we cannot still predict with certainty what may be the
future condition of that nation or people. At most,
we can only take omens, — entertain well-grounded
hopes, or indulge in apprehensions ; such, we say, has
been its infancy, such the discipline of its earlier youth,
and such the signs or tokens of its adolescence; and
we therefore fear, or therefore hope, that such or such
will be the future complexion of its history. For we
cannot shut our eyes to the fact, that nations which
have promised themselves immortality, have neverthe
less sunk into decay, and at last into dissolution ; — the
dreams and visions of their perpetual duration have
proved fallacious and groundless. The immortality of
virtue, of justice, of honor, of pure religion, we have
every reason to believe, is secured ; but those who seem
at first marked out their early guardians are often cut
off as a nation, and disappear from the earth. The seed
of Abraham endures, and will endure for ever, — but
only that seed of undecaying truth which was deposited
in his bosom, — of the unity of God, and the moral and
pure worship alone acceptable to him. It is this part
in Abraham only which endures, but transferred now
to other nations and other climes, — having germina
ted long since into a pure and spiritual religion, which
is intended, no doubt, ultimately to embrace all man
kind. And in like manner, the principles of political
and civil liberty are still youthful and flourishing,

NATURAL HISTORY OF MAN. 329
although Greece is no longer the soil in which they
grow; and although the Hollander has ceased to be
animated now with any other than a most sordid love
of gain. And even now, should this fair vision of free
dom and of a rational and just commonwealth, which
opens upon the view of mankind, in this land, be over
cast, should even the awful fate of ultimate extinction
await it among our descendants here, — freedom still,
the sister of justice, and the supporter at once and
dependent of law, will not herself have perished, — it
cannot be ; and even if she leave the earth for a time, —
the soul and body too, — it will be like the prophet Eli
jah, — to return again, at an era however distant, and
more propitious for the virtues.
It is not, therefore, for the purposes of national
eulogy, or to gratify any less worthy feeling, that we
have taken some pains to trace in several preceding lec
tures, the progress and successions of the grander events
which have prepared the way for modern civilization,
especially in this continent ; but it is because we con
ceive that civilization to be a positive good in itself, and
designed by a benevolent Creator, for the benefit of the
whole human family ; and if it should still prove to be
a blessing and a gift, of which this nation and others
are unworthy, and therefore only to be shown to the
world for a day, and afterwards to be withdrawn, but
still kept in memory and in reserve, for the use and
exaltation of far distant ages and nations, yet unborn ;
however this may he, for we know not the future, still
it will be delightful, meanwhile, to analyse that civili
zation, and to inquire whence it has arisen, whereof it
is composed, and to what it tends. That it is brightly
revealed now is no certain pledge of its stay ; how beau
tifully, how perfectly dawned the light of a sure and
just taste in letters at Rome, in the minds and in the
42

330 LECTURE THE TWELFTH.
age of Cicero and of Virgil, yet what barbarism suc
ceeded. But we will indulge indeed no such ill fears
respecting this civilization now at the outset, but speak
and think of it, at least through this lecture, as if it
were to endure.
We might, in tracing out the natural history of man,
have begun even here at once, with a review and an
analysis of the elements which enter into the composi
tion of the civilization of the nineteenth century, or
the American civilization, as we may call it, because
here at least, less impeded, — but such direct analysis
would not then have been so clearly understood. But
now, after the survey we have made of the different
races, and the specifications of the mental characters of
different ages, it is not difficult to comprehend, that
certain ingredients from all these have entered into the
present compound of laws, government, philosophy,
religion, tones of feeling and habits of thinking, which
are to a great degree commingled here. And even from
our dissertation on language and speech, it can be seen
from the peculiar composition of the Anglican dialect,
or English language, so compounded as it is, and made
up of the tributes of so many tongues, and capable,
from the very looseness of its structure, of such ampli
fications hereafter; in this fact alone you can see a
partial return, a slight flexure towards that more per
fect state of mankind, anciently so mystically, but yet
sublimely imaged in the theological language of
sacred Scripture : — the whole earth was of one language
and of one speech ; — this indeed is not an historical, but
a sacred event, and which we do not therefore histori
cally apply ; but surely, if the unanimity and the sacred
friendship established among all the fraternal tribes of
mankind, in consequence of the pure worship of the
one revealed God, could be signified and told by the

NATURAL HISTORY OF MAN. 331
natural symbol, — one language, — one lip, — we do not
reason far from the purpose, when we are inclined to
regard the wide extent, historically, of our national lan
guage now, if not an indication, at least something of a
prediction or sign of a similar happy state of nations
hereafter. And thus our lecture on language may be
considered as shedding some light on one of the ele
ments of modern civilization, — the tendency to a more
extended intercourse, through one spoken living lan
guage. The Latin and Greek languages have been
universal, as to the learned ; they have been the bonds
of the republic of letters and of the church, an exten
ded and select civilization; but here is a living lan
guage, the language of the people, and therefore of a
diffused and popular civilization. The English lan
guage is a mixed current of the forms of thought of
the German, French, Italian, Roman, Grecian, Scotch,
English and Irish nations. It is unnecessary to say
more ; you see the origin and tendency of this element.
The Greek language was indiginous, and the civiliza
tion which rose with it was tinctured with all the hues
of native beauty. But it was not gathered widely, nor
from afar; and the period of pure originality among
them was brief; in this view —
Their pleasures were like poppies spread,
You seize the flower, its bloom is shed ; \
Or like the snow-fall in the river,
A moment white — then melts forever ;
Or like the borealis race,
That flit ere you can point their place ;
Or like the rainbow's lovely form
Evanishing amid the storm.
As the English literature has more combination, it
may be expected to have greater permanence, — more
stability, if less beauty, — more phases of originality, if

332 LECTURE THE TWELFTH.
not one of such absolute perfection. The lecture on
races, and their different mental and moral peculiari
ties, will also suggest to you, that by the importation of
the literature of Asia, or the oriental mental complexion,
the mind of the modern period has also a supply of
freshness from this quarter, which the Greek and
Roman either did not have, or despised ; for in conse
quence of contemning all nations but themselves, (in
their more perfectly civilized state, at least,) they dis
dained to borrow from any. As their minds therefore
bred in and in, according to a well-known law, they
could not but degenerate in this particular, — especially
the Romans, — for the Greeks latterly were more
obliged to extend and vary their language,
From Asia then, and the feeling and warm fancies
of that distant quarter of the globe ; from the Ger
man, and their solemn philosophy ; from the French,
and their quickness and vivacity ; from the Italian,
and their melody of sound ; from the rustic Scotch
dialect even, — the English language, and those who
speak it, consequently, derive compass and breadth
of expression, and a less inclination than there has ever
been, of dwindling into local and insignificant thoughts
and idioms. These are elements of the civilization, in
the midst of which we live, and which require but to
be wrought by the hand of industry, by diligent and
assiduous study, to produce a novel aspect in literature
and philosophy, in thought and its expression. And
surely, if the tastes, and perhaps even in some degree,
the moral feelings of a people, may depend upon the
style and fashion of dress common in a community, the
minds of a nation must be in no slight measure modi
fied or affected by the perfection or imperfection, the
polish or the rudeness of that language, — the dress of
thought, — which they habitually employ. Why should

NATURAL HISTORY OF MAN. 333
fathers and mothers be so solicitous to have their sons
and daughters neatly and tastefully arrayed, as to their
bodies, and yet neglect that appropriate dress of the
mind, — pure and grammatical expression. Rely upon
it, that in the judgment of those whose sentiments we
should most respect, an ill-selected or vulgar phraseol
ogy is a much greater offence against elegance and
refinement, than tattered and thread-worn clothes. An
American who loves his country, will take care to pre
serve even the purity and integrity of her language ;
and although these be minor elements of civilization,
still they are not undeserving of notice.
But why do I not proceed here at once to that, which
is the greatest of all, and is the animating principle of
the whole ? You perceive I mean the Christian reli
gion, since that fills all the others, and is their soul in
deed. I proceed then at once, to pursue all the parts of
the last evening's lecture to their full expansion in the
present, for I intended it as well as that which imme
diately preceded, but as the vestibule or introduction,
to the object of this. Suffer me then to recapitulate
briefly, and to apply as the recapitulation may suggest.
The several points discussed or brought under con
sideration were these:
First. — The obscure knowledge or vague impres
sions, which existed among the ancient nations, in
regard to this hemisphere of the earth ; among the most
remarkable of which, I showed you to be those ac
counts which Solon the lawgiver of Athens, had
received from an Egyptian priest on the subject, at
the time of his visit to that country, to obtain informa
tion in regard to its laws and civil usages. It was
then, that the priest incidentally mentioned the tradi
tion that prevailed among them, in regard to the exist
ence of a large island in the Atlantic, which had

334 LECTURE THE TWELFTH.
since disappeared, and an extensive continent beyond
that, which was known to exist, but had not been vis
ited. Secondly. — I showed that Plato, on the foundation
of the traditions regarding this subject, (for at the
time of the imaginary existence of this island, the
priest also informed Solon, that an ancient city had
flourished where Athens then stood,) on these com
bined traditions, as a basis, Plato had built up his fanci
ful republic, that is, a system of government having all
that perfection and beauty which he supposed a state
ought to have, in order to be a likeness and just repre
sentation of that commonwealth, which he says, exists
in heaven, but has yet been no where seen on earth;
all existing governments being but the accidental
combination of heterogenous elements, which possess
neither stability "nor justness of proportion.
Thirdly. — I showed, that from the character of his
imagined commonwealth, combining of course all those
principles of perfection, which either his experience, or
his ideas of right could suggest, — when even this model
of ideal perfection was compared with the actual theo
ry of the government of this country, it could be seen,
that the science itself of government was much more
advanced now, than it was then ; and that society had
made a real progress towards perfection.
Fourthly. — I proceeded to state, wherein the partic
ulars of this improvement and advancement lie ; and in
what points principally the tone and character of mod
ern society differed from that which anciently existed.
That it did not consist in an actual pre-eminence in all
respects, but on the whole in a more peaceful and ra
tional constitution of affairs. I showed in particular how
much the very origin of this nation differed from those
beginnings of old nations, which were involved in mys-

NATURAL HISTORY OF MAN. 335
tery and uncertainty, whereas this has been begun and
settled under the clear and positive light of history,
and ordinary experience. I then called your attention
to that kind of influence which this peculiarity of its
early condition was calculated to exert upon the mind
of the nation, in present and future times ; that it could
not look back on a period of romantic adventure and
enterprise, as most of other nations, — that the tenor of
its path from the first has been one of ordinary motive,
and every day experience, on which it was impossible
to build either poetry or romance. That consequently
a different kind of influence was shed even on the
cradle of this nation, from what had ever been before
usual. That reason, common sense, commerce, agri
culture, were the deities, whose stern smiles and care
worn countenances seemed to welcome in the birth of
this new nation, and to preside over its destiny. Fancy
was not there, with poetry by her side, and the sister
.arts; and hardly even religion, in her milder, and
sweeter, and serener forms, — but she too wore a certain
grim, and terrible, and severe, although just countenance
and look, at the time this young nation was ushered into
being. Such then was the aspect of the constellations
which presided over the natal hours of this transatlan
tic republic. And although we may accord no credit
certainly to the judicial astrology of the olden time, yet
this idea, which it involved, was no doubt correct, that
such peculiar influences, as are exerted on the birth
and origin of things, have ever afterwards an especial
control over every future period of their history and
development. The individual or the nation can easily
shake off and rid itself of those foreign or external
shocks or disturbances, which it sustains after it has
attained some strength or maturity ; but those influ
ences or circumstances, which have affected it in the

336 LECTURE THE TWELFTH.
first tenderness and imbecility of its original formation,
leave permanent and ineffaceable characters behind
them. And of such we may say, with absolute cer
tainty, that they will only grow with their growth and
strengthen with their strength. Those influences,
therefore, which were exerted at the very settlement
of this nation, must still continue to operate, as they
have hitherto operated, and exclude all those dark and
yet sometimes not unpleasing delusions, which have
exercised such a powerful sway over the minds and
manners of other nations. It is plain from the omens
of its childhood, that this nation and this hemisphere is
destined to gain all that distinction, which it may ever
acquire, not from the indulgence of pleasing dreams of
superstition or delusion, but from the sober, clear, and
rational voice, and day- visions of truth. This conclu
sion I deduced, from the circumstances of the early
origin of the American states, — as also I showed the
peculiar features of the national character of the
Greeks to have resulted from an aboriginal history
of an entirely different complexion, — a long period
namely, of national existence on which the lights of
positive records are not shed, but yet the whole ground
consecrated and hallowed by the gleams of a pure at
first, although afterwards, corrupt religion. From
which it arose, that the nation could trace its descent
from the gods in the mystic annals of its religion. —
None can tell, unless those who are deeply read in the
writings of those times, what vast and peculiar effects
this popular belief exercises upon the minds of those
people. Their whole mental life was a dream, — a
dream of beautiful superstition. Heaven and earth, to
their imaginations formed one continuous and connec
ted whole ; the hierarchy of heaven had its seat on the
top of Olympus ; and the different divinities had con-

NATURAL HISTORY OF MAN. 337
versed familiarly with their forefathers during the first
career of these nations, and become the most closely
and dearly allied with them. Men of dull minds may
ridicule the fact as they choose; it will always be found,
(and philosophy should be the first to acknowledge it,)
that it is the religion of a people, be that what it may,
which always the most influences their national char
acter, and impresses upon it its peculiar bias.
However this enigma of human nature may be
hereafter explained, whatever illustration the light of
future generations may throw upon it, this much at
least is certain, that that part of the constitution of
man, through which he has the sense of religion, is
that which is the main-spring of the entire character,
and accordingly as it is touched, or affected, regulates
and determines all the other movements of his mind
and history. Change the religion of a nation and you
change the nation itself; you impress a new modifica
tion upon it; and it receives a corresponding form.
Let a religion,, as among the Greeks, spring up from
the very territory itself, or at least if it be not ab
solutely indigenous, suppose it to have run under
ground, as it were, from so remote an age or coun
try, that no one can believe otherwise, than that it
has originated in the very spot where it is first ob
served, and welled out of the earth, perfectly pure
and uncontaminated, or mixed only with the native
ingredients of the soil, which render it but the more
palatable to the national taste ; suppose, 1 say, the reli
gion to be thus local and original, and you are certain
to find a people, most deeply and thoroughly imbued
with its spirit, and distinguished pre-eminently for all
that sweet and agreeable fancy, and fine flow of mysti
cal thoughts and feelings, which qualify men in a re
markable degree, for poetry and the liberal arts, and the
43

338 LECTURE THE TWELFTH.
pure and innocent enjoyment of life; but are rather
adverse than otherwise to the invention or improve
ment of the mechanical arts, or the deliberate and
successful cultivation of science. The gods are so near
to such a people, and so local too, and consequently the
ideas of them so much associated with all their ordi
nary experience and modes of thinking and conversing,
that they deem it next to foolishness, to seek for truth
in any other manner, than through a direct intercourse
with their divinities, and the impressions of their
thoughts and intelligence, on the minds and souls of
the nation. Inductive philosophy, the investigation of
truth, in the way of trial and experiment, and the slow
accumulation of facts and evidences, seems all too dull
and prosaic, to their quick and lively apprehensions,
rendered doubly quick and susceptible by their con
tinual and daily converse with these unseen beings,
peopling every grove, and every fountain and stream
of their native land. But you perceive that this dispo
sition is fostered and encouraged by that very obscurity
of their early annals, which I have noted as a peculi
arity in the nations of the old world, compared with
those of the new : for by this it came to pass, that they
could be moulded into any and every form, and the
first part of their career could be made the foil of the
mirror, which was to reflect the rising greatness of the
nations, or the new creeds of religion, which from
time to time sprung up among them.
But in all these respects, the new world is circum
stanced quite differently: their religion is detached
from their history ; their history, indeed, from the first
was, and still continues to be, affected and moulded by
their religion ; but the converse is not absolutely true,
namely, that their religion was and is also moulded and
shaped by their history. The local origin of their reli-

, NATURAL HISTORY OF MAN. 339
gion is not in the new world at all; here is neither
Olympus nor Mount Sion; the ground is no longer reli
gious, as it wont to be in the ancient world ; but this
very peculiarity, combined with the want of the ob
scure and mysterious in their origin, has, at once, as I
have already said, fixed the seal on their national cha
racter, and declared the auspices of their whole future
career. And when I look forwards upon that future
career, and backwards, on that course which the old
world has already run ; when as a philosopher, but still
as a man, I reflect on what Judea, and Greece, and
early Rome, and the original Gothic nations once have
been ; when I call to mind their dear, their almost con
secrated illusions, their temple songs, their touching
arts, breathing all of infancy and delight; when I
reflect on all that past, so grateful to the imagination
and memory, and- then look forward to this future,
opening in the new continent, although I must confess
that the prospect is, upon the whole, certainly much
more agreeable and consistent with reason, than the
retrospect has been, showing a vista of advancing cen
turies, in which truth, and certitude, and philosophy,
are more likely to prevail than they have hitherto done ;
yet nevertheless, the heart clings with a certain fond
ness even to those by-gone delusions, if they were indeed
delusions, and almost dreads those realities, which open
on the path before us. It is with something of the
same feeling we see the years of childhood disappear,
and the approach of manhood visible in the distance.
And indeed, as it is not possible ever again to have the
same feelings which we enjoyed in childhood, even in
the most serene stage of advanced life, so it appears to
me that there is a certain development in the mind of
early nations, which can never afterwards be called out,
even by the most perfect civilization ; a certain play of

340 LECTURE THE TWELFTH.
fancy, a kind of truth, which is only to be known from
the perusal afterwards of their first rude and infantile,
but yet most impressive literature. A scholar loves the
poems of Homer with an attachment somewhat analo
gous to that which a grown-up person entertains for a
child : it is an attachment altogether different from that
which he feels for one of his own age, but none will
say that it is less useful to himself, or of less advantage
to society, than the other.
And if we might be permitted to express an opinion
on a subject which lies so far remote from our recogni
tion as the divine reasons for the arrangements of the
mora] world, we might say that it could not have hap
pened without the exercise of a special Providence,
that so many of the early poems of the first ages have
been preserved ; that thus we might have the opportu
nity of seeing those grateful blossoms of the simple
mind, which are so much unlike, in many respects,
their future expansions into truth, philosophy, and prac
tical reason. I never could trust that man nor woman
either, and never will, that can be insensible to the sim
ple ballads and songs of rude times ; there is always
something wrong in them at the core. For what was
the art of writing, and latterly, that of printing de
signed, but that we might see the beautiful impress of
the Divine hand on the minds of original society, as
well as the more regular and distinct characters of the
moral law, on the codes and constitutions of modern
nations. It is certain, on calm reflection, that the new order
of society which is now springing up, is preferable to
that which has in a great measure passed away ; but
still it would be but a poor symptom of it, if we were
incapable of doing justice to the past, or if we were
inclined to think that this new state of society, which

NATURAL HISTORY OF MAN. 341
is dawning, will be such as to oblige us to reject any
thing at all which has formerly existed, interesting or
beautiful, as inconsistent with the genius of the ap
proaching epoch. I hope this is not to be gathered or
inferred from any thing I have said in this, or in the
preceding lecture. It is true, I speak of the new state
of society, to which we are tending, as characterized
and to be marked more with the features of stern and
uncompromising truth, light, and positive assurance,
than any that have preceded it ; but although I believe
and see that such a condition of things will not admit
of those peculiar kinds of romantic pleasures, derived
from poetry and the fine arts, which have before existed,
yet I by no means think that there are not other sour
ces of rational and pure delight, of an analogous kind,
still in reserve for mankind. Mankind cannot exist,
the sweet charities of society cannot be hiaintained,
without some such enjoyments ; but what I maintain
is, that new fountains of poetry and art must be unsealed,
which are to correspond with this new state of our
social condition : I say they must be unsealed, for that
they have not been opened yet in this nation, is certain.
There is yet no national poetry here, no liberal art :
there is poetry indeed, and art, but it is exotic; it
belongs to the old society which is passing away ; there
is no poetry, no art, which as yet has sprung from and
properly belongs to the new world ; there is no poetry,
no art, differing from all other poetry and art, and as
much distinguished by the brand of novelty, as, for
example, are the Declaration of Independence and the
Constitution of these States, which stand off, as some
thing distinct and new, from all other political writings
or instruments which have before existed. There is
not a single national song that has taken hold of the
mind of the people, with the exception of " Yankee

342 LECTURE THE TWELFTH.
Doodle." There are songs, but they are not echoed
from heart to heart, like the native reverberations of
mountains, declaring, by that very fact, that they are
nation-born, — that they are America-born, — that they
belong to the new society.
But I doubt not, these fountains of feeling are to be
found ; I only believe they are not yet unsealed, but
still to be unsealed. O! when will the magician go
out, with his divining rod, and find them, that they
may gush forth, and refresh the parched land ; for I
believe that the souls of the people want song and
poetry, or what is analogous thereto, they need a healthy
excitement, — a nation cannot live without excitement.
Good music, good songs, good paintings, which were
all new, and truly native, would do more to cure the
fanaticism and intemperance of the land, than all these
artificial societies instituted for such purposes. There
is a blank in the public mind, which requires to be
filled up. Would society burst forth so frequently into
those superstitious ebullitions called revivals, if the
chords of genuine feeling were struck in the human
heart, — if the pure tones of devotion were regularly,
and calmly, and sweetly elicited by the divine touch of
art, whether the poetical, the musical, or the graphi
cal. They should be as original and native, and as
coincident with the genius of the new era, as were the
political acts, in every sense, of the worthies of the
revolution, — the ends, the thoughts and expressions of
a Hamilton, a Jefferson, or a Madison.
Let it be Observed, then, that when I speak of the
neW state of society which is springing up, as exclud
ing certain peculiarities or features of civilization, I
mean only those features and peculiarities which arose
naturally, or of necessity, from the circumstances of
each ancient nation. Those nations were planted and

NATURAL HISTORY OF MAN. 343
seeded in an obscure era; a mystical uncertainty
shrouded their beginnings, and thence there hung a
kind of mist or haze over the whole succeeding period
of their history; on which, however, (as the sun of
their national splendor was reflected from it,) there
were seen all the rainbow hues of poetry and ro
mance ; — nay, even the lovely form of their religion
was reflected to them from the same sources ; for, to
adopt the language of Cicero, there is no nation so
rude and barbarous in whose minds there exist not the
ideas of Divine Power; and surely, if the philosophy of
Cicero was adequate to the discernment of this fact,
we, who are instructed by the oracles of an infallible
religion, ought not to be so blind and infatuated as not
to know that God has no where left himself without
a witness, but that there is a certain portion of divine
light in the religion of every country.
But such then was their religion ; — always local, —
always Greece-born, or Rome-born, or Judea-born, but
ours is none of these, but God-born, — and its language
is, — neither in this mountain, nor in Jerusalem alone
shall men worship, but. they shall worship — what? —
how? — Him, in spirit, and in truth. And it is this
very circumstance that has conferred, and must con
fer a new and entirely distinct character on the civili
zation of this country. I repeat what I stated in my
last lecture, and I do so because it was complained,
and no doubt justly, that my observations then were
not understood, nor their bearing on the natural his
tory of man perceived, nor yet on the progress of
nations. What then? — is this new state of society
which is now beginning, and whose original source
was local and national, — namely, that fountain opened
in the House of David, the founder of the Jewish
monarchy, — a less natural state of man, less in har-

344 LECTURE THE TWELFTH.
mony and consistency with his nature and instinct
than that other condition of mankind which existed in
Judea, in Greece, in Phoenicia, in Rome. I say we
can know nothing as to what is the natural state of
man but through those documents of his history fur
nished to us: and when I look first at Greece and
Phoenicia, and the ancient state of society, and thence
at the modern condition of mankind in the new
world, and when I ask you to look at them together,
on this side and on that of the picture, from one
point of view, and then from another, am I not adhe
ring to my subject, and bringing those phenomena
before the mind, from which the actual character of
human nature can be deciphered, and the vestiges of
a wonderful plan discovered ? To find human nature,
am I to go to the woods rather than to cities, or to deal
out abstractions rather than to expose facts? To give
the natural history of the bee, you must explain the
entire structure of the hive. But what if the entire
hive of the human race is not yet constructed, — then
I must describe, and can describe only such parts as
appear already perfected.
But you ask me, what the commerce and arts of
Phoenicia, on which I descanted, had to do with the
subject? I can now show, what I did then imper
fectly. The new civilization which is beginning on
this continent, and also simultaneously in Europe,
(here perhaps more conspicuously, from having less
of the old to contend with,) is a compound of many
elements, which have been before separately prepared
in different local centres ; — but now that the whole are
about being cemented into one, and amalgamated, they
are disengaged from their various localities ; — and even
locality itself, as respects the new civilization, is evi
dently designed to have a less influence over the des-

NATURAL HISTORY OF MAN. 345
tinies of mankind, than it has heretofore exercised.
This I indicated in my tenth lecture, in the melting
down of so many languages into two on this continent.
But now as to the different elements of the new
civilization, and their ancient and primitive centres : —
let me now indicate them, so that the bearing and rela
tions of all the parts be distinctly visible. Recollect
then that I showed, (in my last lecture,) that a very
remarkable feature in the face of this civilization which
is now coming forward here, is the assiduous and ear
nest cultivation of the mechanical and economical arts,
which gives a kind of sober and anti-sentimental aspect
to our society, but which is nevertheless the very stay
of our freedom, and the means of the elevation and
independence of the great body of the people. I noted
this element of the American civilization as the natu
ral, and proper, and true ground or soil in the human
mind, when cultivated and improved, in which that
genius of peace, which is the sacred emblem of Chris
tianity, and her distinction, could find the best security,
lodgment, and repose.
But where was this element of modern civilization,
the cultivation of the mechanical and economical arts,
originally evolved ; — which is its mother-land, its local
centre, for every element that enters into the new civil
ization has had a centre, — a first local habitation and
a name. I carried you forthwith to Phoenicia, three,
almost four thousand years up the stream of time, —
and I showed you there, — in Tyre, in her ships and
in her harbors, and in the workshops of her mechanics
and manufacturers and dyers, an epitome of Old Eng
land and of New, — the genius of commerce, of indus
try, of invention, and of improvement in her infancy,
or rather in the bloom of her prime ; — and I showed
you a vigorous old man — Herodotus, come westward
44

346 LECTURE THE TWELFTH.
from Greece, then a new country, to see this nation of
shop-keepers, — this old Old England, and he finds there
a temple of Hercules, which had stood two thousand
three hundred years, and he is surprised to hear it, and
he puts many inquiries to the priests and merchants he
meets with, but he finds the origin and first periods of
their nation, even to themselves, unknown, — an old
country even 480 years before the Christian era, but
to what invention had it given birth, — the art of writ
ing, the art which connects the whole history of man
together, as with a magic spell, and therein you saw,
and in that wonderful invention, the type of that spirit
of improvement and love of useful innovation which
characterized Phoenicia, — which characterizes Old Eng
land and New England, — which distinguishes and al
ways has distinguished with peculiar emphasis, — that
marked element of the new civilization, I mean the
devotion to and cultivation of the useful, mechanical,
and economical arts.
Such then was ancient Phoenicia, — such was the seed
of mechanical usefulness and artizanship, which, as far
as we know, was originally deposited there by the hand
of God himself; and has been thence transplanted into
this country, here to germinate, we hope, under far
better influences, and to expand, and blossom, and bear
fruits, to the good of mankind. There is, however, in
these arts, that which, while they improve the head
and sharpen the ingenuity and sober the man, may
also, unless there are shed good influences, contract the
heart, deaden the affections, and freeze the genial cur
rent of the soul.
But hard-by Tyre, — the mother-land of these, the
economical arts, — it might be fifty or an hundred miles
east and south, there stood a city, famed of old, and its
name has been known and heard afar; — it was the city

NATURAL HISTORY OF MAN. 347
of Jerusalem, the metropolis of Palestine. In this
ground was deposited, and in this land, also by the
hand of God, a plant of fair renown, and of far diviner
virtues, than this of commerce or of art, whether that
were the mechanical or the liberal ; — and as thus the
bane and antidote then grew so near together that it
might almost seem as of Divine intention, (and a Di
vine lesson,) — that art, when it became evil, might
thus receive its correction from religious good, so also
I should imagine, now that both have been transferred
into this country, — transplanted in this soil, — the
seeds of arts renowned, and of a religion sublime as
heaven, and pure as its Author, they should ever be
encouraged and made to grow side by side, or not far
apart, that the evil of the one may ever be cured by
the good of the other : — that when commerce, and art,
and mechanism would begin to blunt, or deaden the
fine feelings of the mind, — to engender either fraud, or
to contract the soul, then Christianity, with her ten
commandments, not fifty miles east, but even nearer, —
may come in to correct, and with her songs and her
music to soften the heart.
You see now then a connection between Judea and
Phoenicia, and Old England and New England, and all
this continent and hemisphere, — and between era 490
B. C. and era 1837 after it. And lest you should
imagine that the connection is accidental and fanciful,
and not real, you can actually now see and hear, that
the mind and invention of Cadmus, in the art of wri
ting, has a close and unbroken connection with what I
am now doing; for I could not now be gathering up
the ideas marked on the paper before me, had not that
illustrious art been invented.
But how is this? since the generations of men are
constantly being swept from the earth, and even

348 LECTURE THE TWELFTH.
nations themselves are mortal, (for the Phoenician is
now no more,) — who or what perpetuates the grand
design, who or what presides over each adjustment,
and connects even the overthrow and destruction of
men and their works, with the perpetuation, with the
integrity, of the same plan, with the same unblemished
unity of purpose, from epoch to epoch ? Who, — what
does this ? Can you tell me ? This is the enigma to
be solved by the study of the history of man ; and it
can be solved when a light is shed on it from above, —
but not otherwise, for the solution belongs to theology,
and not to science, and therefore falls not within the
scope of these lectures. But I spoke of Greece and
Rome also, in my last lecture, and what connection
had they with the subject ; — had they any ? They had
some, you may see, if you will fix your eyes again on
the new civilization, rising like a mighty river, amid
the mists of the morning, as you have approached it
from the mountain-tops, and that river, too, fed from
the sources of a thousand rills, and rolling onwards to
mingle its tribute also with a stream still more majes
tic than itself. I have shown you then two sources
already from which this new civilization has been
derived — Judea and Phoenicia ; — the one the fountain
of pure Christianity, the other a stream of more dubious
hue, but still capable of purification — the arts, — the
commerce, — the soberness, — the business-spirit of Phoe
nicia. And what did Greece and Rome for us ? 1 am to
tell, but first let me say, that the commercial spirit, the
spirit of trading, was mastered by the spirit of war in
the ancient world. Rome destroyed Carthage — Phoe
nicia revived ; and the interpretation of that historical
event into the language of philosophy is this, — that in
ancient times the military spirit triumphed over the

NATURAL HISTORY OF MAN. 349
commercial spirit, and extinguished it. Rome con
quered Carthage, and blotted her out from the map of
cities and metropolises. How is it in the new hemi
sphere in the nineteenth century? The reverse has
happened, at least for a time ; Carthage has destroyed
Rome. The commercial spirit already has here levelled
the military spirit, and it will do the same in England
also before long ; this fact, however, is no part of the
good and new civilization, but rather of the old, for
the new civilization, as it advances, will save both the
military and commercial spirit ; and Rome as well as
Carthage will be rebuilt, and a new lord appointed over
both, — I mean the genius of peaceful yet energetic
Christianity ; and war is energy. I have not time to
explain my ideas more fully on this subject ; you can
take the hint, and reason it out. But you see already
what element in the modern civilization I consider due
to Rome; it is the element of empire, of union, of
strength ; the stupendous fact, which the whole history
of Rome presents from her beginning to her end, that
it is practicable that many nations be cemented under
one government, — and that when there is such a unity,
the force, the power, is sublime apd tremendous, con
ferring upon every individual of such an empire, as it
were, the grandeur and energy of millions. Every
Roman citizen, in consequence of this prevailing idea
of the mighty empire, was himself a host, — Romanus
civis sum, — but that union was local, selfish, and at
last infernal, and therefore it was dissolved. But
this practical exhibition of the possibility of such a
union, and the power that resulted from it, is be
queathed as a legacy of useful reflections to posterity,
and will not be lost, in the ulterior developments of
the new civilization here. Union is here the word :

350 LECTURE THE TWELFTH.
let them study how Rome became one, and whence at
last many, — and was numbered and finished.
Then as to Greece; — I also spoke of Greece in my
last lecture, and perhaps did not distinctly signify
her relation to the subject of it. It can now rea
dily be done. The contributions of Greece to the
modern elements of society, are perhaps greater and of
more value, than those of any other nation. True
indeed, she does not contribute of her own native blood
to the stream which now circulates through the veins
and arteries of the population of this country, or of
England, Germany, France or Spain. The Greeks
have not emigrated, but what has been of vastly more
consequence, their own beautiful language and high-
thoughted philosophy has emigrated, and repeopled
with the ideas and the impressions of beauty and of
nature, the entire mind of the civilized world. If she
has herself constituted no part of the flood or the tide
of population, that has been pouring itself all over this
hemisphere, yet the genius of her literature and philo
sophy, so to speak, has proved that sweet and purifying
breeze, which has fanned the waters, and made them
glitter playfully and smilingly in the light of day.
There is something naturally dull and phlegmatic,
although ponderous and strong, in the Anglo-Saxon
mind ; but the scholars of the race have derived light
ness and spirit from the genius of Greece. But why
need I dwell upon this topic, since it is well known
that it is her language also which is the divine vehicle
of the truths of the New Testament ; and her repub
lics again, so numerous, and each a little centre of civi
lization and originality within itself, contribute also an
almost inexhaustible store of valuable illustrations and
arguments, for those who will advocate in this land,

NATURAL HISTORY OF MAN. 351
(and I hope none such will ever be wanting,) the para
mount importance of state sovereignties, in order to
the full expansion of the varied mind of the nation, —
this confederated empire, — that it may be what its
motto expresses, not a mere unum, but e pluribus
unum.
But if there was any poetry, any art in Greece, any
philosophy, she contributes also that. What then, for
servile imitation? I have shown, in my last lecture,
and I show now, it cannot, it must not be. Especially
as to poetry, — as to the sources whence fancy was fed,
the religious instinct was refreshed and invigorated in
Rome and in Greece. Now the whole circumstances
are entirely changed, — the horizon of the national mind
is altogether different. I need not recur to that topic
again; I would but weary you. But this much you
may clearly see, that the sources from which the whole
of humanity is now to be nourished all over the civili
zed world, — emphatically Christendom, — are far more
numerous, and brightly and purely flowing, — and espe
cially on this account, that an angel has descended and
healed the waters. O ! need I tell you what angel !
The whole bright and augmenting river, which erst
began to flow from the foot of Zion hill, and for nearly
three hundred years flowed on so quietly and almost
obscurely through the valleys and recesses of the Roman
world, — that stream, I say, which has been running
onwards, and spreading widely withal, and calling up
verdure and beauty on all its banks, for these now
eighteen hundred and thirty-seven years, — 0! that
stream best can tell what angel that was, whose power
divine first unsealed its fountain, and has ever since fed
it so copiously; I will not tell, lest my account of it
should obscure its glory. I would only show and revert
to what 1 have before spoken of; that it is on the banks

352 LECTURE THE TWELFTH.
of this stream, beneath the umbrage of this river, and
not on any merely local or historical rills of fabled or
prosaic deeds of the nation, achieved long since, or in
'76, that must start into existence the spirit of Ameri
can poetry and American eloquence, or American libe
ral art; for that poetry, that eloquence, that art, in
order to be any thing, to be new, to be original, to be
long to the continental and good civilization, must have
issued, and issue still from the same sources, whence
have come the laws, the constitutions, the freedom of
the country. And I should be merely telling you a
thousand-times repeated truth, to say that all these have
come from the influence, and genius, and energy of the
Christian faith.
But poetry, to [be poetry suited to the new civiliza
tion, must lay aside her cow-bells, her jingling rhymes,
and talk no more about chivalry and kings, or sing of
battles and butcheries, and animal things, but she must
appeal to higher standards, and try whether or not she
might not catch inspiration, — even the inspiration of a
truer melody, from truth herself, surely not unfit to
take the place, and fill it well, even of all the nine
muses ; and so I think must it be also in regard to all
the other liberal arts. They must cease, all of them,
to embody delusions ; they also must catch the inspira
tion of the new epoch, and seek for truth and certi
tude. If these both are not to be found in nature and
Christianity, and enrobed in vestments of beauty too, fit
to strike and captivate the heart, it is because mankind
have not yet discovered the art of finding them. And
here now, therefore, I will retract some regret 1 expres
sed in the first part of this lecture. I said, as 1 looked
back upon the past ages, and that infantile and tender
species of civilization, which the rude history of most
European nations show, and called up to memory the

NATURAL HISTORY OF MAN. 353
more pleasing illusions connected with it, that I felt
some regret and sorrow to abandon them, — these idols,
about which the affections have clung, — and to enter
oh that new career of truth and certain revelation,
which is now opening on the world.
But I now fling all such regrets aside ; for the voice
of truth and nature, if we once could hear it, must
surely be more pleasing than all other sounds, and no
music can equal her's, and no art surpass the art of
justly expressing her ;— and if at first we should not
think so, but still the strains of delusion should fall
more seraphic on the ear, and the idols of the fancy be
more bewitching to the eye, it can only be, because
our eye and ear are both misled, have both been cor
rupted, by what is false and hollow and deceptive. In
fact, we may regard this period in which we live, as
both peculiarly fortunate, and unfortunate. — It is for
tunate for mankind and succeeding generations, as they
will enter on a career less impeded and embarrassed by
former errors, — less disposed to look at religion through
its sects, at government through factions, at nature
through theories, and at thoughts through words ; but
will have entered into closer communion with God,
and their country, and nature, and mind ; it will be
therefore so far more fortunate for them. — But for us it
is less so, for we have been educated in a great measure
under a burden of prejudices, which our affections
cling to, even after our reason has rejected them, so
that what we would, we do not, and that which we
would not, that we do.
But we shall soon leave the stage; we shall soon
have eaten, and drunk, and lived our full ; — and with
cheerfulness and contentment will leave that legacy to
our posterity, which we ourselves have inherited, for
thus it is designed to pass from hand to hand, and
45

354 LECTURE THE TWELFTH.
happy is that nation, happy that people, who have
transmitted it unimpaired to those who succeed, —
happier still, when adorned and improved by new
lights, derived from the God of nature, and the Lord
of the Christian religion. It is a fixed law of the life
of man, that he is born into this world, to be educated
himself, and it seems also to be a design of nature,
(although sometimes thwarted for wise ends,) that he
should also live, till his youngest child shall come of
age. This is that fixed bourne for all that live, — the
three-score, or the three-score and ten. He that has
reached it, may resign his life with cheerfulness into
the hands of his Creator; he has fulfilled his natural
destiny, for thus "closes very beautifully and naturally
the last chapter of the physical history of man, as an
individual ; — the progress of the race is not retarded.
Whether this also, physically speaking, has a certain
period of ultimate perfection, beyond which physically,
it may not proceed, and whether or not it may be de
signed to remain there in a certain youthful maturity,
neither receding nor advancing, on this side of the goal
of nature ; — whether this may be so, or whether even
races and nations of mankind have a certain limited
career to run, when failure, and fading, and even ulti
mate evanishment may await them, to give place to
other races and nations, to instate original and new
truths, the vicegerents of Deity in the world of nature,
— to glorify his name forever, through endless succes
sions of generations and races of men, each adding new
illustrations to the train of his visible acts of goodness
and of wisdom, — these I say, and a thousand other
questions are problems, which we have not a glimmer
ing of light to solve, and it were even impious to try at
the solution of them. Enough for us to know, that
when the last chapter of the natural history of man is

NATURAL HISTORY OF MAN. 355
closed, — a new chapter of a spiritual is discovered, —
the book is opened, — even the book of life, — the second
birth of heaven and earth : —
Awakening nature hears
The new creating word, — and starts to life
In every heightened form, from pain and death
Forever free.
I return my thanks to those who have honored these
lectures by their attendance ; — I regret they have been
so little worthy of such attention. Whatever light or
truth has been visible in any of them, I ascribe to the
fountain itself of truth, and illumination, — the Chris
tian religion, and Him, who is its Author.

THE END.