Common Sense Applied to Religion; Or, The Bible and the People

by Catharine Esther Beecher

OBJECTS, MOTIONS, AND SOUNDS THAT CAUSE EMOTIONS OF TASTE.

The causes which produce emotions of taste have now been pointed out. An inquiry as to which are the objects, motions, and sounds, and their various combinations, that, in our experience, have awakened such emotions, may lead to facts that will establish the position assumed.

Emotions of taste generally are divided into two classes, called emotions of sublimity and emotions of beauty. Emotions of sublimity resemble those which exist in the mind at the display of great intellectual power, and at exhibitions of strong passion and emotions in another mind. Emotions of beauty resemble those which are experienced at the exhibition of the more gentle emotions of mind, such as pity, humility, meekness, and affection.

Of Sounds.

All sounds are sublime which in past experience have been associated with the strong emotions of fear and terror. Such sounds are heard in the roar of artillery, the howling of a storm, the roll of thunder, and the rumbling of an earthquake. Sounds are sublime, also, which convey an idea of great power and might. This is illustrated in the emotions felt at the uprooting of trees and the prostration of nature before a whirlwind; in the force of the rolling waves, as they dash against the cliffs; and in art, by the working of some ponderous and mighty engine, that astonishes with the immense resistance it can overcome.

Other sounds, also, are sublime which have often been associated with emotions of awe, solemnity, or deep melancholy. Such are the tolling of a heavy bell and the solemn notes of the organ.

There may be certain circumstances that render a sound, that otherwise would be very gentle and beautiful, more strongly sublime than even those sounds that are generally most terrific. Gray describes such a combination of circumstances in a letter to a friend. "Did you never observe," said he, "while rocking winds are piping loud, that pause, as the gust is recollecting itself, and rising upon the ear in a shrill and plaintive note, like the swell of the Æolian harp? I do assure you there is nothing in the world so like the voice of a spirit."

We have another example in Scripture: "And behold, the Lord passed by, and a great and strong wind rent the mountains, and brake in pieces the rocks before the Lord; but the Lord was not in the wind; and after the wind an earthquake; but the Lord was not in the earthquake; and after the earthquake a fire; but the Lord was not in the fire; and after the fire a still small voice. And it was so, when Elijah heard it, he wrapped his face in a mantle." In both these cases, the sudden silence and the still small voice, so contrasted with the tumult around, would awaken the most thrilling emotions of the sublime. In some cases it is the sense which these sounds awaken of the presence of some awful and powerful Being that causes such emotions.

There are a great variety of sounds that are called beautiful. Such are the sound of a distant waterfall, the murmur of a rivulet, the sighing of the wind, the tinkling of the sheepfold, the lowing of distant kine, and the note of the shepherd's pipe. But it must be remarked that it is always a combination of circumstances that make sounds either sublime or beautiful. If we know, by the source from which they originate, that they are caused by no display of power or danger, or if necessarily they have low and mean associations connected with them, the emotions of the sublime or beautiful, which would otherwise recur, are prevented. Thus the rumbling of a cart is sublime when it is believed to be thunder, and loses this character when its true cause is discovered. The sound of the lowing of kine in certain circumstances is very beautiful, and in others very vulgar and displeasing.

Music seems to owe its chief power over the mind to the fact that it can combine all kinds of sounds that have ever been associated with any emotions, either of dignity, awe, and terror; or of joy, sprightliness, and mirth; or of tenderness, melancholy, and grief. Its power depends on the nature of the particular sounds, and also on the nature of their combination and succession in relation to time, and in relation to a certain sound which is called the fundamental or key note.

The art of a musical composer consists in the ability with which he succeeds in producing a certain class of emotions which he aims to awaken. The more finished productions of this art are never relished till long observation and experience enable the listener to judge of the nature of the design, and with how much success the composer has succeeded in effecting it. Music, when adapted to certain words, has its nature and design more clearly portrayed, and in such productions it is easier to judge of the success of the composer.

Of Color.

There are no colors which ordinarily excite so strong an emotion as to be called sublime. The deep black of mourning and the rich purple of royalty approach the nearest to this character. That colors acquire their power in awakening agreeable or disagreeable emotions simply from the emotions which have ordinarily existed in connection with them, appears from the fact that the associations of mankind are so exceedingly diverse on this subject. What is considered a dignified and solemn color in one nation is tawdry and vulgar in another. Thus, with us, yellow is common and tawdry, but among the Chinese it is a favorite color. Black, with us, has solemn and mournful associations, but in Spain and Venice it is an agreeable color. White, in this country, is beautiful, as the emblem of purity and innocence, but in China it is the sorrowful garb of mourning.

Of Forms.

Forms that awaken emotions of sublimity are such as have been associated with emotions of danger, terror, awe, or solemnity. Such are military ensigns, cannon, the hearse, the monument of death, and various objects of this kind. Those forms which distinguish bodies that have great strength, or which are enduring in their nature, awaken the same class of emotions. Thus the Gothic castle, the outline of rocks and mountains, and the form of the oak, are examples. Bodies often appear sublime from the mere circumstance of size, when compared with objects of the same kind. Thus the pyramids of Egypt are an example where relative size, together with their imperishable materials, awakens emotions of sublimity. The ideas of beauty of form depend almost entirely on their fitness to the object for which they are designed, and on many casual associations with which they are connected.

Of Motion.

All motion that awakens sublime ideas is such as conveys the notion of great force and power. Motions of this kind are generally in straight or angular lines. Such motions are seen in the working of machinery, and in the efforts of animal nature. Quick motion is more sublime than slow. Motions that awaken ideas of beauty are generally slow and curving. Such are the windings of the quiet rivulet, the gliding motion of birds through the air, the waving of trees, and the curling of vapor.

In regard to the beauty and sublimity of forms and color, it is equally true, as in reference to sound, that the alteration of circumstances will very materially alter the nature of the emotions connected with them. If they are so combined as to cause incongruous emotions, or if they do not harmonize with the general design of any composition, emotions of the sublime or beautiful are not awakened. For example, if the vivid green, which is agreeable in itself from the pleasing emotions which have been connected with it, is combined with a scene of melancholy and desolation, where the design of the artist is to awaken other than lively emotions, it appears incongruous and displeasing.

The art of the poet consists in the use of such language as awakens emotions of beauty and sublimity, either by recalling conceptions of various forms, colors, and motions in nature, which are beautiful and sublime, or the strong and powerful, or the soft and gentle emotions of mind.

Emotions of moral sublimity are such as are felt in witnessing exhibitions of the force of intellect or of strong feelings.

Emotions of moral beauty are those that are felt in witnessing the exhibition of the gentler and tender emotions of mind. These emotions are much more powerful and delightful than when they are more faintly recalled by those objects of perception which are called sublime and beautiful.

The taste is improved by cultivating a love for intellectual endowments and moral qualities. It is also cultivated by gaining an extensive knowledge of objects and scenes which, either in history, or in poetry, or in any compositions of the fine arts, have been associated with emotions. It is also cultivated by learning the rules of fitness and propriety, by studying works of taste, by general reading, by intercourse with persons of refinement and taste, and by a nice observation of the adaptation and fitness of things in the daily intercourse and pursuits of life.

The highest efforts of taste are exhibited in the works of artists who make such pursuits the express object of their profession.

But in ordinary life the cultivation of taste is chiefly exhibited in the style, furniture, and decoration of private dwellings, and in the dress and ornaments of the person. In reference to these, there is the same opportunity for gratifying the eye as there is in the compositions of the fine arts. On these subjects there are rules in regard to color, outline, and combination, and also rules of fitness and propriety, of which every person of taste sensibly feels the violation. In the construction of dwelling-houses, in the proportion of rooms, in the suitableness of colors, in the fitness of all circumstances to the spot of location, to the habits and circumstances of the proprietor, to ideas of convenience, and to various particulars which may be objects of regard, in all these respects the eye of taste ever is prepared to distinguish beauties or defects.

As it regards dress, every individual will necessarily exhibit, to a greater or less extent, the degree in which taste has been cultivated. A person of real refinement of taste will always have the dress consistent with the circumstances of fortune, the relative rank in life, the station and character, the hour of the day, the particular pursuit or profession, and the period of life.

If a person is dressed with a richness and elegance which fortune does not warrant, if the dress is either inferior or superior to that of others of the same rank and station, if it is unfitted to the hour or the pursuit, if youth puts on the grave dress of age, or age assumes the bright colors and ornaments of youth, in all these cases the eye of taste is offended.

In the adaptation of colors to complexions, and the style of dress to the particular form of the person; in avoiding the extremes of fashion, the excesses of ornament, and all approaches to immodesty—in all these respects a good taste can be displayed in dress, and thus charm us in every-day life. A person of cultivated taste, in all that relates to the little arrangements of domestic life, the ornaments of the exterior and interior of a dwelling, the pursuits of hours of relaxation and amusement, the modes of social intercourse, the nice perception of proprieties in habits, manners, modes of address, and the thousand little every-day incidents of life, will throw an undefined and nameless charm around, like the soft light of heaven, that, without dazzling, perpetually cheers.

Emotions of the Ludicrous.

There is a certain class of feelings called emotions of the ludicrous, which are the causes of laughter. These are generally pleasurable in their nature, though there are times when the emotions which produce laughter are painful. Emotions of this kind are usually caused by the sudden union of certain ideas in our conceptions when the laws of association appear to be violated. Such ideas are called incongruous, because, according to the ordinary experience of our minds, they would not naturally have appeared together.

In order to awaken this emotion, it is not only necessary that the mind should discover ideas united which have not ordinarily been so in past experience, but those which are united in direct opposition to the laws of association. Thus, if there has been a union of certain qualities in an object which have uniformly tended to produce emotions of a dignified and solemn kind, and some particular is pointed out which is mean, little, or low, the unexpected incongruity occasions mirth.

In like manner, when an object in past experience has uniformly united ideas which awakened emotions of contempt, if some particular is pointed out in association with these which is grand or sublime, this incongruity occasions an emotion of the ludicrous. This is the foundation of the amusement produced by bombastic writings, where objects that are grand and sublime have low and mean conceptions connected with them, or where qualities that are insignificant or mean are connected with those which are grand and sublime.

The following example of the union of such incongruous ideas will illustrate:

"And now had Phœbus in the lap

Of Thetis taken out his nap,

And, like a lobster boiled, the morn

From black to red began to turn."

The sublime ideas connected with the sun, and the classical associations united with the name of Thetis, would not naturally have recalled the idea of so insignificant an animal, nor the changes produced in cooking it, and these connections violate the ordinary laws of association.

Emotions of the ludicrous are also produced by the sudden conception of some association in ideas which has never before been discovered. Thus, if ideas have been united in the mind on some other principle of association than that of resemblance, the sudden discovery of some unexpected resemblance will produce mirth. This is the foundation of the merriment produced by puns, where the ideas which the words represent would never have been united by the principles of association, but the union of these ideas is effected on the principle of resemblance between the sounds of the words which recall these ideas. When the mind suddenly perceives this unexpected foundation for the union of ideas that in all other respects are incongruous, an emotion of the ludicrous is produced. This is also the foundation of the pleasure which is felt in the use of alliteration in poetry, where a resemblance is discovered in the initial sound of words that recall ideas which in all other respects are incongruous.

All minds enjoy the excitement of this class of emotions, but some much more than others. Laughter, which is the effect of this class of emotions, is enjoyed more or less by all mankind, and is regarded as not only an agreeable, but as a healthful exercise.

CHAPTER XVII.
THE MORAL SUSCEPTIBILITIES.

A brief reference has been made to those susceptibilities which are the subject of this chapter. These, from their importance, are entitled to a more enlarged consideration.

Before proceeding, however, it is desirable to refer to the uses of the term moral, inasmuch as it often is employed with a vague comprehension of its signification. In its widest sense it signifies whatever relates to the regulation of mind by motives in distinction from those influences that produce involuntary results.

In a more limited sense, it signifies whatever relates to the regulation of mind in reference to the rules of right and wrong.

In the preceding pages it has been assumed that the grand object for which the Creator formed mind and all things is to produce the greatest possible happiness with the least possible evil, and that this design is so impressed on the human mind that the needless destruction of happiness is felt to be wrong—that is, contrary or unfitted to the design of all things; while all that tends to promote happiness is felt to be right, or consistent with this plan.

In order to a more clear view of this part of the subject, it is important to inquire as to the manner in which the ideas of right and wrong seem to originate.

The young child first notices that certain actions of its own are regarded with smiles and tones of love and approval, while other acts occasion frowns and tones of displeasure.

Next, it perceives that whatever gives pleasure to itself and to others is called good and right, while whatever causes unpleasant feelings is called bad and wrong. Moreover, it notices that there is a right and wrong way to hold its spoon, to use its playthings, to put on its clothes, and to do multitudes of other things. It thus perceives, more and more, that there is some rule to regulate the use and action of all things, both animate and inanimate, and that such rules always have reference to some plan or design.

As its faculties develop and its observation enlarges, the general impression is secured that all plans and contrivances of men are designed to promote enjoyment or to prevent discomfort, and are called good and right just so far as this is done. At the same time, all that tend to discomfort or pain are called bad and wrong.

In all the works of nature around, too, every thing that promotes enjoyment is called good and right, and the opposite is called evil and wrong.

At last there is a resulting feeling that the great design of all things is to secure good and prevent evil, and that whatever is opposed to this is wrong, and unfitted to the object for which all things exist. The question whether this impression is owing solely to observation or partly to mental constitution is waived as of little practical consequence.

But, in the experience of infancy and childhood, the law of sacrifice is speedily developed. It is perceived that much of the good to be gained, if sought to excess, occasions pain, so that there must be a certain amount of self-denial practiced, which, to the young novice, sometimes involves disappointment and discomfort. It is also seen that frequently two or more enjoyments are offered which are incompatible, so that one must be relinquished to gain the other. It is perceived, also, that there is a constant calculation going on as to which will be the best—that is, which will secure the most good with the least evil. And the child is constantly instructed that it must avoid excess, and must give up what is of less value to secure the greater good. All this training involves sacrifices which are more or less painful, so that a young child will sometimes cry as it voluntarily gives up one kind of pleasure as the only mode of securing what is preferred.

It is perceived, also, that there is a constant balancing of good and evil, so that a given amount of enjoyment cancels or repays for a certain amount of evil. When a great amount of enjoyment is purchased by a small degree of labor or trouble, the compound result is deemed a good, and called right; on the contrary, when the evil involved exceeds a given amount in comparison to the good, the compound result is called evil and wrong.

Thus is generated the impression that there is a law of sacrifice instituted requiring the greatest possible good with the least possible evil, and that this is the great design of all things.

The impression is, not merely that we are to seek enjoyment and avoid pain, but that we are to seek the greatest possible good with the least possible evil, and that in doing this we are to obey the law of sacrifice and suffering, by which the greatest possible good is to be bought by a certain amount of evil voluntarily assumed.

In regard to this great law of sacrifice, the highest part of it is discerned in the earliest experiences of life. The young child very soon perceives that its mother and its other friends are constantly making sacrifices for its own good, and bearing inconveniences and trouble for the good of those around. And those who perform such acts of benevolent self-sacrifice are praised, and their conduct is called good and right. Voluntary suffering to promote the welfare of others is discerned to be the highest kind of good and right conduct in the estimation of all.

The first feature, then, in our moral nature is that impression of the great design of our Creator which furnishes us the means of deciding on the rectitude of all voluntary action.

The second feature of our moral constitution is what is ordinarily called the sense of justice. It is that susceptibility which is excited at the view of the conduct of others as voluntary causes of good or evil.

In all cases where free agents act to promote happiness, an emotion of approval arises, together with a desire of reward to the author of the good. On the contrary, when there is a voluntary destruction of happiness, there is an emotion of disapproval and a desire for retributive pain on the author of the wrong.

These emotions are instinctive, and not at all regulated by reason in their inception. When an evil is done, an instant desire is felt to discover the cause; and when it is found, an instant desire is felt to inflict some penalty. So irrational is this impulse, that children will exhibit anger and deal blows on inanimate objects that cause pain. Even mature minds are sometimes conscious of this impulse.

It is the office of the intellect to judge whether the deed was a voluntary one, whether the agent intended the mischief, and whether a penalty will be of any use. The impulse to punish is never preceded by any such calculations.

That this impulse is an implanted part of our constitution, and not the result of reason and experience, is seen in the delight manifested by young children in the narration of the nursery tale where the cruel uncle who murdered the Babes in the Wood receives the retributions of Heaven.

Another feature in this sense of justice is the proportion demanded between the evil done and the penalty inflicted. That this also is instinctive, and not the result of reason, is seen in the nursery, where children will approve of slight penalties for slight offenses, and severe ones for great ones, but will revolt from any very great disproportion between the wrong act and its penalty. As a general rule, both in the nursery and in the great family of mature minds, the greater the wrong done, the stronger the desire for a penalty, and the more severe the punishment demanded.

Another very important point of consideration is the universal feeling of mankind that the natural penalties for wrong-doing are not sufficient, and that it is an act of love as well as of justice to add to these penalties. Thus the parent who forbids his child to eat green fruit will not trust to the results of the natural penalty, but restrain by the fear of the immediate and more easily conceived penalty of chastisement.

So, in the great family of man, the natural penalties for theft are not deemed sufficient, but severe penalties for the protection of property are added.

This particular is the foundation of certain distinctions that are of great importance, which will now be pointed out.

We find the terms "reward and punishment" used in two different relations. In the first and widest sense they signify not only the penalties of human law, but those natural consequences which, by the constitution of nature, inevitably follow certain courses of conduct.

Thus an indolent man is said to receive poverty as a punishment, and it is in this sense that his children are said to be punished for the faults of their father.

The violations of natural law are punished without any reference to the question whether the evil-doer intended the wrong, or whether he sinned in ignorance, or whether this ignorance was involuntary and unavoidable. The question of the justice or injustice of such natural penalties involves the great question of the right and wrong of the system of the universe. Is it just and right for the Creator to make a system in which all free agents shall be thus led to obedience to its laws by penalties as well as rewards, by fear as well as by hope? This question will not be discussed here.

Most discussions as to just rewards and penalties ordinarily relate to the added penalties by which parents, teachers, and magistrates enforce obedience to natural or to statute law.

In these questions reference is always had to the probable results of such rewards and penalties in securing obedience. If experience has shown that certain penalties do secure obedience to wise and good laws, either of nature or of human enactment, then they are considered just. If they do not, they are counted unwise and unjust.

So, if certain penalties are needlessly severe—that is to say, if a less penalty will secure equal obedience, then this also decides so severe a penalty to be unjust.

In deciding on the rectitude of the penalties of human enactments, it is always assumed to be unjust to punish for any lack of knowledge and obedience when the subject had no power to know and to obey. If a choice to obey will not secure the act required of a free agent, then a penalty inflicted for disobedience is always regarded as unjust. The only seeming exception to this is the case where a person, by voluntary means, has deprived himself of ability to obey. But in such cases the punishment is felt to be right, not because he does not obey when he has no power, but because he has voluntarily deprived himself of this power. And he is punished for destroying his ability to obey, and not for violating the law.

These things in human laws, then, are always demanded to make a penalty appear just to the moral sense of mankind, namely, that the subject have power to obey, and that he has opportunity to know the law, and is not ignorant by any voluntary and improper neglect.

In all questions of justice, therefore, it is important to discriminate between those penalties that are inherent as a part of the great system of the universe, and for which the Creator alone is the responsible cause, and those which result from voluntary institutions of which men are the authors.

In connection with this subject, it is important to recognize the distinction that exists in regard to two classes of right and wrong actions. The first class includes those which are wrong in their nature and in all supposable cases, such, for example, as the wanton infliction of needless pain, or the breach of plighted faith, or the returning of love and kindness with ungrateful treatment. In all possible suppositions, the mind revolts from such actions as wrong and deserving of penalties. It is this class of actions which, without any reasoning, the mind never fails to disapprove, and to desire should be visited with retributive penalties.

The other class of right and wrong acts derive their estimate solely from the circumstances in which they occur. For example, a man is angry and beats a little child. Now the question whether his feelings and action are right or wrong depends entirely on circumstances. If the child has done no evil and the person knew it, his feelings and actions are wrong. But if the person is a father correcting his child for some heinous fault and with only a suitable degree of anger, then the feeling and action are right.

There is another mode of estimating conduct by which the same act may have two opposite characters, according to the relation in which it is regarded. For example, a good parent may give wrong medicine to his child, or punish an innocent one, believing him to be guilty.

In such cases the act is right as it respects the motive or intention, and wrong as it respects the nature of the action. It is sometimes the case that a man may do a right action with a bad motive, and a wrong action with a good motive.

Thus the same act is right in one relation, and wrong in another. It is important that this distinction should be borne in mind.

The next feature in our moral constitution is the susceptibility which is excited by the intellectual judgment of our own feelings and conduct as either right or wrong.

In case we decide them to be right, we experience an emotion of self-approval which is very delightful; but if we decide that they are wrong, we experience an immediate penalty in a painful emotion called remorse. This emotion is always proportioned to the amount of evil done, and the consciousness that it was done knowingly and intentionally. No suffering is more keen than the highest emotions of this kind, while their pangs are often enduring and unappeasable. Sometimes there is an attending desire to inflict retribution on one's self as a mode of alleviating this distress.

This susceptibility is usually denominated conscience. Sometimes this word is used to include both the intellectual judgment of our conduct as right or wrong, and the consequent emotions of approval or remorse; sometimes it refers to the susceptibility alone. Either use is correct, as in the connection in which it is employed the distinction can ordinarily be easily made.

This analysis of our moral constitution furnishes means for a clear definition of such terms as obligated, ought, ought not, and the like.

A person is obligated or ought to do a thing when he has the intellect to perceive that it is right, and the moral susceptibilities just described. When he is destitute either of the intellect or of these susceptibilities, he ceases to be a moral and accountable being. He can no longer be made to feel any moral obligations.

CHAPTER XVIII.
THE WILL.

It is the power of choice which raises man to the dignity of an intellectual and moral being. Without this principle, he would be a creature of mere impulses and instincts. He would possess susceptibilities of happiness to be excited, and intellect to devise and discover the modes of securing enjoyment; but without governing principle, the soul would be led captive with each successive desire, or be the sport of chances whenever conflicting desires were awakened.

He who formed man in his own perfect image left not his work without this balance-power to regulate the complicated springs of so wonderful an existence. Man is now not only the image of his Creator as lord of this lower world, but is, like him, the lord and master of his own powers.

It has been shown that the constitution, both of mind and of the world, is such that it is impossible in the nature of things to gain every object which is the cause of enjoyment. There is a constant succession of selections to be made between different modes of securing happiness. A lesser good is given up for a greater, or some good relinquished altogether to avoid some consequent pain. Often, also, some painful state of mind is sought as the means of securing some future good, or of avoiding some greater evil. Thus men endure want, fatigue, and famine to purchase wealth. Thus the nauseous draught will be swallowed to avoid the pains of sickness; and thus the pleasures of domestic affection will be sacrificed to obtain honor and fame. The whole course of life is a constant succession of such decisions between different modes of securing happiness and of avoiding pain.

Specific and Generic Volitions.

In noticing the operation of mind, it will be seen that there is a foundation for two classes of volitions or acts of choice, which may be denominated specific and generic.

A specific volition is one that secures some particular act, such as the moving of the arm or turning of the head. Such volitions are ordinarily consequent on some more general purpose of the mind, which they aid in accomplishing, and which is, therefore, denominated a generic volition. For example, a man chooses to make a certain journey: this is the generic volition, and, in order to carry it out, he performs a great variety of acts, each one of which aids in carrying out the generic decision. These specific acts of will, which tend to accomplish a more general purpose, may also be called subordinate, because they are controlled by a generic volition.

It can be seen that the generic volitions may themselves become subordinate to a still more comprehensive purpose. Thus the man may decide to make a journey, which is a generic volition in reference to all acts subordinate to this end. But this journey may be a subordinate part of a more general purpose to make a fortune or to secure some other important end.

It is frequently the case that a generic purpose, which relates to objects that require a long time and many complicated operations, exists when the mind seems almost unconscious of its power. For example, a man may form a generic purpose to enter a profession for which years will be required to prepare. And while his whole course of action is regulated by this decision, he engages in pursuits entirely foreign to it and which seem to engross his whole attention. These pursuits may sometimes be such as are antagonistic to his grand purpose, so as at least to imperil or retard its accomplishment. And yet this strong and quiet purpose remains, and is eventually carried out.

It is the case, also, that a generic volition may be formed to be performed at some particular time and place, and then the mind becomes entirely unconscious of it till the appointed period and circumstances occur. Then the decision becomes dominant, and controls all other purposes.

Thus a man may decide that, at a specified hour, he will stop his studies and perform certain gymnastic exercises. This volition is forgotten until the hour arrives, and then it recurs and is carried out.

This phenomenon sometimes occurs in sleep. Some persons, in watching with the sick, will determine to wake at given hours to administer medicines; then they will sleep soundly till the appointed time comes, when they will waken and perform the predetermined actions.

In regard to the commencement of a generic purpose, we find that sometimes it is so distinct and definite as to be the subject of consciousness and memory. For example, a spendthrift, in some moment of suffering and despondency, may form a determination to commence a systematic course of thrift and economy, and may actually carry it out through all his future life. Such cases are often to be found on record or in everyday life.

In other cases, this quiet, hidden, but controlling purpose seems to be formed by unconscious and imperceptible influences, so that the mind can not revert to the specific time or manner when it originated. For example, a child who is trained from early life to speak the truth, can never revert to any particular moment when this generic purpose originated.

It is sometimes the case, also, that a person will contemplate some generic volition before it occurs, while the process of its final formation seems almost beyond the power of scrutiny. For example, a man may be urged to relinquish one employment and engage in another. He reflects, consults, and is entirely uncertain how he shall decide. As time passes, he gradually inclines toward the proposed change, until, finally, he finds his determination fixed, he scarcely knows when or how.

Thus it appears that generic volitions commence sometimes so instantaneously and obviously that the time and influences connected with them can be recognized. In other cases, the decision seems to be a gradual one, while in some instances the process can be traced, and in others it is entirely unnoticed or forgotten.

It is in reference to such generic purposes that the moral character of men is estimated. An honest man is one who has a fixed purpose to act honestly in all circumstances. A truthful man is one who has such a purpose to speak the truth at all times.

In such cases, the degree in which such a purpose controls all others is the measure of a man's moral character in the estimate of society.

The history of mankind shows a great diversity of moral character dependent on such generic volitions. Some men possess firm and reliable moral principles in certain directions, while they are very destitute of them in others.

Thus it will be seen that some have formed a very decided purpose in regard to honesty in business affairs, who yet are miserable victims to intemperance. Others have cultivated a principle called honor, that restrains them from certain actions regarded as mean, and yet they may be frequenters of gambling saloons and other haunts of vice.

In the religious world, too, it is the case that some who are very firm and decided on all points of religious observances and in the cultivation of devotional emotions, are guilty of very mean actions, such as some worldly men of honor would not practice at the sacrifice of a right hand.

On Causes of Volition.

It becomes, then, a most interesting subject of inquiry as to the causes which decide these diversities of moral purposes, and also the causes which operate to give them more or less control over other principles.

But, preliminary to this, it is necessary to secure some discriminating accuracy in regard to the signification of the word cause in its various uses.

This term, in its widest sense, signifies "that without which a change will not take place, and with which it will take place." This is the leading idea which is included in every use of the word.

But there is a foundation for three classes of causes which may be denominated producing causes, occasional causes, and deciding causes.

A producing cause is that which produces a change by the constitution of nature, so that in the given circumstances there is no power to do otherwise.

Occasional causes are those circumstances which are indispensable to the action of producing causes.

Thus, when fire is applied to your powder, the fire is the producing cause of the explosion, while the act of contact between the fire and powder is the occasional cause.

In regard to the action of mind in volition, the mind itself is the producing cause, while excited desires and objects to excite those desires are the occasional causes. Or, in other words, mind is the producing cause of its own volitions, and motives are the occasional causes.

On Deciding Causes of Volition.

But inasmuch as mind always has the power to choose in either of two or more directions, the question arises as to the causes which decide the direction of volitions, and which may be called deciding causes. Whenever it is asked, "Why did a person choose to do thus?" the meaning is, What were the causes that influenced him to decide thus?

Now these causes are ascertained, as all others are, by experience. Men are always stating to each other, as well as noticing in their own experience, the causes which decide their determinations.

First, in certain cases, where two or more objects are presented, of which only one can be taken, the cause assigned for the direction of the choice may be that one excited a stronger desire than the other. A vast proportion of human volitions are decided simply by the fact that one object seems a greater good or excites a stronger desire than any other, and is thus the strongest motive.

But there are other cases where, of the objects presented, one excites the strongest desire, while the judgment perceives that another will secure a greater good on the whole. For example, in case of a sick person, there may be placed a favorite drink that excites a very strong desire, and beside it may stand a nauseous medicine. In this case, the invalid may feel the strongest desire for the drink, and yet choose the medicine as the greater good in its final results.

In such cases, what decides the direction of a volition is the judgment of the mind, that the object chosen, though it does not excite the strongest desire, is still the greater good.

Another deciding cause of volition is the nature of the constitutional susceptibilities. For example, when it is asked why did a man forsake domestic life and become a soldier, the deciding cause may be that he had a strong constitutional love of the excitement and glory connected with that profession, and but little susceptibility for the quiet enjoyments of domestic life.

It is sometimes the case that a child, from its birth, seems to possess a natural love for truth, so that instructions on that point are scarcely needed. In another case, in the same family, and under exactly the same training, will be found a child who has the contrary propensity, so that it costs years of careful training to form a principle of veracity. The same constitutional variety will be found in reference to other virtues.

Another deciding cause of volition are the habits. The existence of a habit of obedience, for example, will induce the formation of virtuous purposes that would never have existed but for this. A child who began life with strong propensities to certain faults, by a wise and careful training may secure habits that are fully equal in power to the same constitutional traits in another child. Often, in the result, it can not be seen whether the generic purpose to be truthful, for example, resulted mainly from natural constitution or from the formation of habits.

The will itself also is more or less regulated by this principle. When a child is trained constantly to submit to fixed rules, the will acquires increased ease and facility in doing it. On the contrary, a mind that is never controlled grows more and more averse to yielding to any regulating principle.

Another deciding cause of volition is such a combination of circumstances as excites one class of desires, while other sensibilities have no appropriate objects to stimulate them.

For example, it may be asked, Why did a man choose to drink and gamble? The cause assigned may be the presence of liquor and of tempting companions, and the want of objects to excite higher susceptibilities. He had no wise friends, no business, and no higher sources of enjoyment immediately around him.

Another deciding cause of volition is the existence of principle or generic purpose. For example, it may be asked, Why did a man choose to give up his liberty and property when he could have secured them by false testimony? The answer may be that he was a truthful man or a virtuous man—that is, he had formed a strong generic purpose to speak the truth or to act right on all occasions.

Another deciding cause of volition is the existence of love and gratitude toward other minds, and the reflex influence of such minds in the bestowal of their love, sympathy, teachings, and example.

This is the most powerful of all the influences which secure and sustain generic volitions, as will be illustrated more at large in future pages.

Causes that regulate the Power of Generic Volitions.

The next inquiry relates to the causes which regulate the power of generic volition.

Among those causes, the most prominent is that natural force of will which is strictly constitutional. Some minds are formed by the Creator with great energy and great pertinacity of will, so that when a purpose is formed, all subordinate volitions needful to carry out this purpose seem easily controlled. Other minds, on the contrary, possess a naturally feeble will, so that no generic volition has a strong and steady control, but is constantly interrupted in its power over subordinate volitions, or is easily changed by conflicting desires.

In one case the person is denominated a man of firm purpose or a man of a strong will. In the other case he is called a man of yielding temperament or a weak character.

The remaining causes that give strength to a generic purpose are most of those that have been enumerated as causes of the direction of volition, or deciding causes. These are the constitutional susceptibilities—the habits—the surrounding circumstances—the existence of love and gratitude toward other minds, and the reflex influence of such minds in the bestowal of their love, sympathy, teachings, and example.

In all this variety of influences that decide those generic volitions which are the foundation of moral character, it must be remembered that in every case the mind has the power to choose that which the judgment decides to be the greatest good on the whole for itself and for the commonwealth.

How one Mind causes Volitions in another Mind.

In this connection, it is important to secure exact ideas of what is meant when one mind is spoken of as the cause of the volitions of another mind.

Of course, in this relation, no mind can be the producing cause of volition in any mind but itself. It must be, then, either as occasional or as deciding causes that we can influence other minds.

The only mode by which we can regulate the volitions of other minds is by the employment of motives to stimulate desire, or by changing the constitutional susceptibilities.

In the first case, men have power to so combine circumstances of temptation as to affect the most excitable and powerful sensibilities, or they can remove those objects and influences that sustain moral principle, or by a long course of training they can form habits and induce principles. The combinations of motive influences that one mind can bring to bear on another, as temptations to right or wrong action, are almost infinite.

The other mode is by changing the constitutional susceptibilities. This can sometimes be effected to a certain degree by education and the formation of habits. It can be still more directly effected through the physical organization. For example, a child may be trained to use coffee, tea, alcohol, or tobacco, till the nervous system is shattered, and then a placid temper becomes excitable, a generous nature grows sour and selfish, an active nature becomes indolent, and multitudes of other disastrous changes are the result.

These are the only two modes in which one mind is ever regarded as the cause of right or wrong volition in other minds.

On a Ruling Purpose.

The most important of all the voluntary phenomena is the fact that, while there can be a multitude of these quiet and hidden generic purposes in the mind, it is also possible to form one which shall be the dominant or controlling one, to which all the other volitions, both generic and specific, shall become subordinate. In common parlance, this would be called the ruling passion. It may also be called the ruling purpose or controlling principle. This consists in the permanent choice of some one mode of securing happiness as the chief end or grand object of life.

We have set forth on preceding pages the chief sources of happiness and of suffering to the human mind. Now in the history of our race we find that each one of these modes of enjoyment have been selected by different individuals as the chief end of their existence—as the mode of seeking enjoyment, to which they sacrifice every other. Some persons have chosen the pleasures of eating, drinking, and the other grosser enjoyments of sense. Others have chosen those more elevated and refined pleasures that come indirectly from the senses in the emotions of taste.

Others have devoted themselves to intellectual enjoyments as their chief resource for happiness. Others have selected the exercise of physical and moral power, as in the case of conquerors and physical heroes, or of those who have sought to control by moral power, as rulers and statesmen.

Others have made the attainment of the esteem, admiration, and love of their fellow-creatures their chief end. Others, still, have devoted themselves to the promotion of happiness around them as their chief interest. Others have devoted themselves to the service of God, or what they conceived to be such, and sometimes by the most miserable life of asceticism and self-torture.

Others have made it their main object in life to obey the laws of rectitude and virtue.

In all these cases, the moral character of the person, in the view of all observers, has been decided by this dominant volition, and exactly in proportion to the supremacy with which it has actually controlled all other purposes.

Some minds seem to have no chief end of life. Their existence is a succession of small purposes, each of which has its turn in controlling the life. Others have a strong, defined, and all-controlling principle.

Now experience shows that both of these classes are capable, the one of forming and the other of changing such a purpose. For example, in a time of peace and ease there is little to excite the mind strongly; but let a crisis come where fortune, reputation, and life are at stake, and men and women are obliged to form generic decisions involving all they hold dear, and many minds that have no controlling purpose immediately originate one, while those whose former ruling aims were in one direction change them entirely to another.

This shows how it is that days of peril create heroes, statesmen, and strong men and women. The hour of danger calls all the energies of the soul into action. Great purposes are formed with the strongest desire and emotion. Instantly the whole current of thought, and all the co-existing desires and emotions, are conformed to these purposes.

The experience of mankind proves that a dominant generic purpose may extend to a whole life, and actually control all other generic and specific volitions.

Mode of Controlling the Intellect, Desires, and Emotions.

We will now consider some of the modes by which the will controls the intellect, desires, and emotions.

We have seen, in previous pages, the influence which desire and emotion exert in making both our perceptions and conceptions more vivid. Whatever purpose or aim in life becomes an object of strong desire, is always distinctly and vividly conceived, while all less interesting objects are more faint and indistinct.

We have also seen that whenever any conception arises it always brings connected objects, according to certain laws of association, forming a new and complex picture.

Whenever the mind is under the influence of a controlling purpose, the object of pursuit is always more interesting than any other. This interest always fastens on those particulars in any mental combination that are connected with the ruling purpose and seem fitted to promote it, making them more vivid. Around these selected objects their past associated ideas begin to cluster, forming other complex pictures. In all these combinations, those ideas most consonant with the leading interest of the mind become most vivid, and the others fade away.

The grand method, then, for regulating the thoughts is by the generic decisions of the mind as to the modes of seeking enjoyment.

In regard to the power of the mind over its own desires and emotions, it is very clear that these sensibilities can not be regulated by direct specific volitions. Let any person try to produce love, fear, joy, hope, or gratitude by simply choosing to have them arise, and it is soon perceived that no such power exists.

But there are indirect modes by which the mind can control its susceptibilities. The first method is by directing attention to those objects of thought which are fitted to call forth such emotions. For example, if we wish to awaken the emotion of fear, we can place ourselves in circumstances of danger, or call up ideas of horror and distress. If we wish to call forth emotions of gratitude, we can direct attention to acts of kindness to ourselves calculated to awaken such feelings. If we wish to excite desire for any object, we can direct attention to those qualities in that object that are calculated to excite desire. In all these cases the mind can, by an act of will, direct its attention to subjects calculated to excite emotion and desire.

The other mode of regulating the desires and emotions is by the direction of our generic volitions. For example, let a man of business, who has never had any interest in commerce, decide to invest all his property in foreign trade. As soon as this is done, the name of the ship that bears his all can never be heard or seen but it excites some emotion. A storm, that before would go unnoticed, awakens fear; the prices in the commercial markets, before unheeded, now awaken fear or afford pleasure. And thus multitudes of varied desires and emotions are called into existence by this one generic volition.

One result of a purpose to deny an importunate propensity is frequently seen in the immediate or gradual diminution of that desire. For example, if a person is satisfied that a certain article of food is injurious, and resolves on total abstinence, it will be found that the desire for it is very much reduced, far more so than when the effort is to diminish the indulgence.

When a generic purpose is formed that involves great interests, it is impossible to prevent the desires and emotions from running consonant with this purpose. The only mode of changing this current is to give up this generic purpose and form another. Thus, if a man has devoted his whole time and energies to money-making, it is impossible for him to prevent his thoughts and feelings from running in that direction. He must give up this as his chief end, and take a nobler object, if he would elevate the whole course of his mental action.

These are the principal phenomena of the grand mental faculty which is the controlling power of the mind, and on the regulation of which all its other powers are dependent.

CHAPTER XIX.
FAITH OR BELIEF.

We have shown that a belief in the reality of the existence, both of mind and of matter, as causes, is one of the implanted principles of mind. Some philosophers have claimed that there is nothing in existence but mind, and that all that is called matter is simply ideas of things in the mind itself, for which there is no corresponding reality. Others have claimed just the opposite: that there is no such existence as an immaterial spirit, but that soul is the brain, or some other very fine organization of matter.

In both cases, the assumptions not only have no evidence to sustain them, but are contrary to the common sense or reason of all mankind, and never can be really believed.

When perceptions are called into existence by the agency of the senses, we can not help believing that things are as they appear to us, unless we have some evidence of deception either from disordered sensation or some other cause.

But in regard to our conceptions we have two classes. One class is attended with the belief that they correspond with realities, or the things they represent. The other class is not attended with this belief. For example, we can conceive of a house of a color, form, and details such as we never saw, and this conception is not attended with any belief of the reality of such an existence; but when we conceive of the home of our childhood, this conception is attended with a belief of the reality of the thing conceived.

This illustration furnishes the means of defining "truth" as "the reality of things." We conceive the truth when our conceptions represent correctly the reality of things, and we believe the truth when we feel this correspondence to exist. We believe falsehood when we have a conception attended by a feeling that it represents the reality of things when it does not.

All our comfort, success, and happiness depend upon believing the truth; for just so far as our belief or faith varies from the reality of things, we shall meet with mistakes, disappointment, and sorrow.

Our beneficent Creator has so formed our minds and our bodies that, in their natural, healthy state, our perceptions correspond with the reality of things uniformly, while, as before stated, our belief or faith also thus corresponds.

It is very rarely the case that disease or other causes prevent this uniform correct perception and belief in regard to all things that come within the reach of our own senses.

It is only in regard to that knowledge that we gain from the experience and testimony of others, or from the process of reasoning, that we become liable to a false belief.

Men often impart their conceptions of things to us, and we find that they do not correspond with realities.

We also, by a process of reasoning, often come to conceptions of things, and a belief in them, which we find to be false.

Evidence may be defined as all those causes which tend to produce correct ideas of truth or the reality of things.

Inasmuch as we find by experience that human testimony and the process of reasoning do not uniformly conduct us to right conceptions of realities, we find that there are different degrees of belief according to the nature of the evidence presented.

The highest kind of evidence is intuitive knowledge, which is a uniform result of the constitution of mind and its inevitable circumstances. This is called intuitive knowledge or intuitive belief.

All other evidence is gained by experience or by reasoning. The experience of other minds we gain by testimony. This is called the evidence of testimony.

Belief differs in degrees according to the nature and amount of evidence perceived. The highest kind of evidence produces what is called certainty. It is the kind which is felt in reference to the intuitive truths. There are all degrees of faith, from the highest certainty to entire incredulity or unbelief.

This fact lays the foundation for a distinction in practical matters which it is very important to recognize. It is often the case that there is an amount of evidence that produces a conviction which rests in the mind, but does not produce its appropriate practical result. For example, a man in feeble health has read enough on the subject to be convinced that a daily bath in cool water would tend to restore strength, and yet the belief does not secure the practice. But on a review of the books which produced the conviction, or on hearing some lecturer on health, the conviction becomes more powerful, and leads to a corresponding practice.

Now, in reference to the fact that there are multitudes of convictions which are inoperative, which, if vividly realized, would become principles of action, there is a distinction made, in common parlance, between a dead or ideal faith, and a living or practical faith. Still more is this distinction recognized in matters of religion, as will be hereafter shown.

The question whether faith or belief is under the control of the will, or whether it is necessary and inevitable, is one of very great importance both in regard to our happiness and our obligations.

If belief is not under the control of the will, it must be because either the mind has not the power of directing its attention to evidence, or because it is so made that, when it perceives the truth, it can not distinguish it from falsehood.

In regard to the first alternative, the control which the mind has over its own train of thought has been definitely pointed out and described in the articles on attention and on the will. It appears that the will is the regulating principle, which governs all mental operations by selecting the modes of happiness which the intellect shall be employed in securing. Whatever mode of present or of general happiness is selected, immediately all conceptions which the judgment discerns as having a fitness for accomplishing this object become vivid and distinct, and recall their associate conceptions. Thus it is the choice of any mode of enjoyment by the will which determines the train of thought.

When, therefore, any question is brought up which demands attention to evidence, if the mind has some desire to gratify, and the intellect discerns that the conviction of this truth will interfere with this chosen plan of happiness, the will refuses attention to what is not in consonance with the leading desire of the mind. Where conviction of any truth is foreseen to interfere with some plan of enjoyment already chosen, the only way by which attention can be secured is by exhibiting some evil that will follow inattention which will more than counterbalance the good to be gained. In this case, the mind may choose to attend, and run the hazard of losing the particular mode of enjoyment sought in order to avoid the threatened evil from inattention to evidence.

This is the method men pursue in all their intercourse with each other. They find that their fellow-men are unwilling to believe what is contrary to their own wishes and plans. But when they determine that belief shall be secured, they contrive various modes to make it appear either for their pleasure or their interest to attend to evidence, or else they exhibit some evil as the consequence of neglecting attention.

The only mode by which mankind are induced to give their thoughts to the concerns of an invisible world is by awakening their hopes of future good to be secured, or by stimulating their fears of future evils. It thus appears, from the laws and operations of the mind of which every person is conscious, and also from the conduct and recorded experience of mankind, that the mind has the power of directing its attention to evidence.

The other alternative which would establish the principle that belief is not under the control of the will is, that truth, when seen by the mind, can not be distinguished from falsehood. But this, it can be seen, involves a denial of the principles of reason and common sense. It is saying that the mind may have the evidence of the senses, memory, and all the other principles included in the laws of reason, and yet not believe it; for every process of reasoning is, in fact, exhibiting evidence either of the senses, memory, or experience, that a certain truth is included under a primary truth.

The only position which can be assumed without denying the principles of reason and common sense is, that belief, according to the laws of mind, is exactly according to the amount of evidence to which the mind gives its attention.

In order to belief, then, two things are necessary, viz., evidence, and the choice of the mind to attend to this evidence. When both of these are attained, the belief of truth and the rejection of falsehood are inevitable.

The influence which the will and desires have upon our belief accounts for the great variety of opinions among mankind on almost every subject of duty and of happiness.

There are two ways in which the desires and wishes regulate belief. In the first place, by preventing attention to the subject which would lead to the belief of truths that are inconsistent with the leading desires of the mind. This, in a great measure, will account for the great variety of religious belief. Religion is a subject which is felt to be inconsistent with the leading desires of most persons who are interested in the pursuit of other enjoyments than those resulting from obedience to God in the discharge of the duties of benevolence and piety. It is a subject, therefore, which receives so little examination that opinions in regard to it are adopted with trifling attention.

The second cause of variety of belief is the effect which desire has in making vivid those conceptions which most agree with the leading purpose of the mind. When the mind decides to examine the evidence on any subject, if the decision involves questions which have a bearing on some favorite purpose, all those arguments which are most consonant with the desires appear vivid and clear, and those which are contrary to the wishes are fainter and less regarded. This is a fact which universal experience demonstrates. Men always fasten on evidence which favors their own wishes, and but faintly conceive the evidence which is opposed. This is a cause which operates most powerfully in regard to religious truths whenever they interfere with the leading desires.

This view of the subject exhibits the importance of having the mind directed to proper objects; for if the mind is earnestly engaged in the pursuit of duty, it will be pleased with every development of truth, for truth and duty are never found to interfere. Truth is another name for "things as they are," and it is always the duty and happiness of man to regulate his conduct by seeing things as they are, rather than by seeing them in false relations. That man is best prepared to discover truth who is most sincerely desirous to obtain it, and to regulate his feelings, words, and conduct by its dictates.

There is nothing more obvious, from experience and observation, than that men feel their ability to control their belief, and realize both their own obligations and those of their fellow-men on this subject. They know that every man must act according to his belief of right and wrong, and thus that the fulfillment of every duty depends upon the nature of our belief. And the more important are the interests involved in any question, the more men perceive their obligations to seek for evidence, and obtain the knowledge necessary to enable them to judge correctly.

The estimation of guilt among mankind, in reference to wrong belief, is always proportioned to the interests involved and the opportunities for obtaining knowledge. In the minute affairs of life, where but little evil is done from false judgments, but little blame is attached to a man for believing wrong. Neither is a man severely judged if the necessary knowledge was inaccessible or very difficult to be obtained.

But where a man has great interests committed to his keeping, and has sufficient opportunity for obtaining evidence of truth, the severest condemnation awaits him who, through inattention or prejudice, hazards vast interests by an incorrect belief. If an agent has the charge of great investments, and through negligence, or indolence, or prejudice ruins his employer, his sincere belief is no protection from severe condemnation. If the physician has the health and life of a valued member of the community and the object of many affections intrusted to his skill, and from negligence and inattention destroys the life he was appointed to save, his sincere belief is but a small palliation of his guilt. If a judge has the fortune and life of his fellow-citizens intrusted to his judicial knowledge and integrity, and, through want of care and attention, is guilty of flagrant injustice and evil, the plea of wrong belief will not protect him from the impeachment and just indignation which await such delinquencies.

There is no point where men are more tenacious of the obligations of their fellow-creatures than on the subject of belief. If they find themselves calumniated, unjustly dealt with, and treated with contempt and scorn from prejudice or want of attention, the reality of belief is little palliation of the guilt of those who thus render them injustice. They feel the obligations of their fellow-men to know the truth in all that relates to their interests, honor, and good name; and often there is scarcely any thing which it is so difficult to forgive as the simple crime of wrong belief.

The only modes by which men attempt to justify themselves for guilt of this nature are to show either that the matter was of small consequence, or that the means of learning its importance and of obtaining the other necessary information was not within reach.

It may be laid down, then, as a long-established axiom in regard to this subject, that men estimate the guilt of wrong belief in all matters relating to the welfare of mankind in exact proportion to the value of the interests involved, and to the opportunities enjoyed for obtaining information.

Inasmuch as all our success and happiness depends upon our belief of the truth, we have two of the principles of reason and common sense to guide us. The first is, that we are to consider that to be right which has the balance of evidence in its favor; and the second is, that nothing is to be assumed as true unless there is some evidence that it is so.

CHAPTER XX.
CONSTITUTIONAL VARIETIES OF THE HUMAN MIND.

In the preceding chapters have been presented the most important mental faculties which are common to the race. There are none of the powers and attributes of the mind as yet set forth which do not belong to every mind which is regarded as rational and complete.

But, though all the race have these in common, yet we can not but observe an almost endless variety of human character, resulting from the diverse proportions and combinations of these several faculties.

These constitutional differences may be noticed, first, in regard to the intellectual powers. Some minds are naturally predisposed to exercise the reasoning powers. Others, with precisely the same kind of culture, have little relish for this, and little power of appreciating an argument.

In other cases, the imagination seems to be the predominating faculty. In other minds there seems to be an equal balance of faculties, so that no particular power predominates.

Next we see the same variety in reference to the susceptibilities. In some minds, the desire for love and admiration is the predominating principle. In others, the love of power takes the lead. Some are eminently sympathizing. Others have a strong love of rectitude, or natural conscience. In some, the principle of justice predominates. In others, benevolence is the leading impulse.

Finally, in regard to the power of volition, as has been before indicated, there are some that possess a strong will that is decisive and effective in regulating all specific volitions, while others possess various and humbler measures of this power.

According to the science of Phrenology, some of these peculiarities of mind are indicated by the size and shape of different portions of the brain, and externally indicated on the skull.

That these differences are constitutional, and not the result of education, is clear from the many facts showing that no degree of care or training will serve to efface these distinctive traits of the mind. To a certain degree they may be modified by education, and the equal balance of the faculties be promoted, but never to such a degree as to efface very marked peculiarities.

In addition to the endless diversities that result from these varied proportions and combinations, there is a manifest variety in the grades of mind. Some races are much lower in the scale of being every way than others, while the same disparity exists in individuals of the same race.

The wisdom and benevolence of this arrangement is very manifest when viewed in reference to the interests of a commonwealth. Where some must lead and others follow, it is well that some have the love of power strong, and others have it less. Where some must be rulers, to inflict penalties as well as to apportion rewards, it is well that there be some who have the sense of justice a leading principle. And so in the developments of intellect. Some men are to follow callings where the reasoning powers are most needed. Others are to adopt pursuits in which taste and imagination are chiefly required; and thus the varied proportions of these faculties become serviceable.

And if it be true that the exercise of the social and moral faculties secures the highest degrees of enjoyment, those disparities in mental powers which give exercise to the virtues of compassion, self-denial, fortitude, and benevolence in serving the weak, and the corresponding exercises of gratitude, reverence, humility, and devotion in those who are thus benefited, then we can see the wisdom and benevolence of this gradation of mental capacity.

Moreover, in a commonwealth perfectly organized, where the happiness of the whole becomes that of each part, whatever tends to the highest general good tends to the best interest of each individual member. This being so, the lowest and humblest in the scale of being, in his appropriate place, is happier than he could be by any other arrangement, and happier than he could be if all were equally endowed.

CHAPTER XXI.
HABIT.

Habit is a facility in performing physical or mental operations, gained by the repetition of such acts. As examples of this in physical operations may be mentioned the power of walking, which is acquired only by a multitude of experiments; the power of speech, secured by a slow process of repeated acts of imitation; and the power of writing, gained in the same way. Success in every pursuit of life is attained by oft-repeated attempts, which finally induce a habit.

As examples of the formation of intellectual habits may be mentioned the facility gained in acquiring knowledge by means of repeated efforts, and the accuracy and speed with which the process of reasoning is performed after long practice in this art.

As examples of moral habits may be mentioned those which are formed by the oft-repeated exercise of self-government, justice, veracity, obedience, and industry. The will, as has been shown, gains a facility in controlling specific volitions and in yielding obedience to the laws of right action by constant use, as much as all the other mental powers.

The happiness of man in the present state of existence depends not so much upon the circumstances in which he is placed, or the capacities with which he is endowed, as upon the formation of his habits. A man might have the organ of sight, and be surrounded with all the beauties of nature, and yet, if he did not form the habit of judging of the form, distance, and size of bodies, most of the pleasure and use from this sense would be wanting. The world and all its beauties would be a mere confused mass of colors.

If the habits of walking and of speech were not acquired, these faculties and the circumstances for employing them would not furnish the enjoyment they were designed to secure.

It is the formation of intellectual habits by mental discipline and study, also, which opens vast resources for enjoyment that otherwise would be forever closed. And it is by practicing obedience to parents that moral habits of subordination are formed, which are indispensable to our happiness as citizens, and as subjects of the divine government. There is no enjoyment which can be pointed out which is not, to a greater or less extent, dependent upon this principle.

The influence of habit in regard to the law of sacrifice is especially interesting. The experience of multitudes of our race shows that such tastes and habits may be formed in obeying this law, that what was once difficult and painful becomes easy and pleasant.

But this ability to secure enjoyment through habits of self-control and self-denial, induced by long practice, so far as experience shows, could never be secured by any other method.

That the highest kinds of happiness are to be purchased by more or less voluntary sacrifice and suffering to procure good for others seems to be a part of that nature of things which we at least may suppose has existed from eternity. We can conceive of the eternal First Cause only as we imagine a mind on the same pattern as our own in constitutional capacities, but indefinitely enlarged in extent and action. Knowledge, wisdom, power, justice, benevolence, and rectitude must be the same in the Creator as in ourselves, at least so far as we can conceive; and, as the practice of self-sacrifice and suffering for the good of others is our highest conception of virtue, it is impossible to regard the Eternal Mind as all-perfect without involving this idea.

The formation of the habits depends chiefly upon the leading desire or governing purpose, because whatever the mind desires the most it will act the most to secure, and thus by repeated acts will form its habits. The character of every individual, therefore, as before indicated, depends upon the mode of seeking happiness selected by the will. Thus the ambitious man has selected the attainment of power and admiration as his leading purpose, and whatever modes of enjoyment interfere with this are sacrificed. The sensual man seeks his happiness from the various gratifications of sense, and sacrifices other modes of enjoyment that interfere with this. The man devoted to intellectual pursuits, and to seeking reputation and influence through this medium, sacrifices other modes of enjoyment to secure this gratification. The man who has devoted his affections and the service of his life to God and the good of his fellow-men sacrifices all other enjoyments to secure that which results from the fulfillment of such obligations. Thus a person is an ambitious man, a sensual man, a man of literary ambition, or a man of piety and benevolence, according to the governing purpose or leading desire of the mind.

There is one fact in regard to the choice of the leading object of desire, or the governing purpose of life, which is very important. Certain modes of enjoyment, in consequence of repetition, increase the desire, but lessen the capacity of happiness from this source; while, in regard to others, gratification increases the desire, and at the same time increases the capacity for enjoyment.

The enjoyments through the senses are of the first kind. It will be found, as a matter of universal experience, that where this has been chosen as the main purpose of life, though the desire for such pleasures is continually increased, yet, owing to the physical effects of excessive indulgence, the capacity for enjoyment is decreased. Thus the man who so degrades his nature as to make the pleasures of eating and drinking the great pursuit of life, while his desires never abate, finds his zest for such enjoyments continually decreasing, and a perpetual need for new devices to stimulate appetite and awaken the dormant capacities. The pleasures of sense always pall from repetition—grow "stale, flat, and unprofitable," though the deluded being who has slavishly yielded to such appetites feels himself bound by chains of habit, which, even when enjoyment ceases, seldom are broken.

The pleasures derived from the exercise of power, when its attainment becomes the master passion, are also of this description. The statesman, the politician, the conqueror, are all seeking for this, and desire never abates while any thing of the kind remains to be attained. We do not find that enjoyment increases in proportion as power is secured. On the contrary, it seems to cloy in possession. Alexander, the conqueror of the world, when he had gained all, wept that objects of desire were extinct, and that possession could not satisfy.

But there are other sources of happiness, which, while sought, the desire ever continues, and possession only increases the capacity for enjoyment. Of this class is the susceptibility of happiness from giving and receiving affection. Here, the more is given and received, the more is the power of giving and receiving increased. We find that this principle outlives every other, and even the decays of nature itself. When tottering age on the borders of the grave is just ready to resign its wasted tenement, often from its dissolving ashes the never-dying spark of affection has burst forth with new and undiminished lustre. This is that immortal fountain of happiness always increased by imparting, never surcharged by receiving.

Another principle which increases both desire and capacity by exercise is the power of enjoyment from being the cause of happiness to others. Never was an instance known of regret for devotion to the happiness of others. On the contrary, the more this holy and delightful principle is in exercise, the more the desires are increased, and the more are the susceptibilities for enjoyment from this source enlarged. While the votaries of pleasure are wearing down with the exhaustion of abused nature, and the votaries of ambition are sighing over its thorny wreath, the benevolent spirit is exulting in the success of its plans of good, and reaching forth to still purer and more accomplished bliss.

This principle is especially true in regard to the practice of rectitude. The more the leading aim of the mind is devoted to right feeling and action, or to obedience to all the laws of God, the more both the desire and the capacity of enjoyment from this source are increased.

But there is another fact in regard to habit which has an immense bearing on the well-being of our race. When a habit of seeking happiness in some one particular mode is once formed, the change of this habit becomes difficult just in proportion to the degree of repetition which has been practiced. A habit once formed, it is no longer an easy matter to choose between the mode of securing happiness chosen and another which the mind may be led to regard as much superior. Thus, in gratifying the appetite, a man may feel that his happiness is continually diminishing, and that, by sacrificing this passion, he may secure much greater enjoyment from another source; yet the force of habit is such that decisions of the will perpetually yield to its power.

Thus, also, if a man has found his chief enjoyment in that admiration and applause of men so ardently desired, even after it has ceased to charm, and seems like emptiness and vanity, still, when nobler objects of pursuit are offered, the chains of habit bind him to his wonted path. Though he looks and longs for the one that his conscience and his intellect assure him is brightest and best, the conflict with bad habit ends in fatal defeat and ruin. It is true that every habit can be corrected and changed, but nothing requires greater firmness of purpose and energy of will; for it is not one resolution of mind that can conquer habit: it must be a constant series of long-continued efforts.

The influence of habit in reference to emotions deserves special attention as having a direct influence upon character and happiness. All pleasurable emotions of mind, being grateful, are indulged and cherished, and are not weakened by repetition unless they become excessive. If the pleasures of sense are indulged beyond a certain extent, the bodily system is exhausted, and satiety is the consequence. If the love of power and admiration is indulged to excess, so as to become the leading purpose of life, they are found to be cloying. But within certain limits all pleasurable emotions do not seem to lessen in power by repetition.

But in regard to painful emotions the reverse is true. The mind instinctively resists or flies from them, so that after a habit of suppressing such emotions is formed, until the susceptibility diminishes, and sometimes appears almost entirely destroyed. Thus a person often exposed to danger ceases to be troubled by fear, because he forms a habit of suppressing it. A person frequently in scenes of distress and suffering learns to suppress the emotions of painful sympathy. The surgeon is an example of the last case, where, by repeated operations, he has learned to suppress emotions until they seldom recur. A person inured to guilt gradually deadens the pangs of remorse, until the conscience becomes "seared as with a hot iron." Thus, also, with the emotion of shame. After a person has been repeatedly exposed to contempt, and feels that he is universally despised, he grows callous to any such emotions.

The mode by which the mind succeeds in forming such a habit seems to be by that implanted principle which makes ideas that are most in consonance with the leading desire of the mind become vivid and distinct, while those that are less interesting fade away. Now no person desires to witness pain except from the hope of relieving it, unless it be that, in anger, the mind is sometimes gratified with the infliction of suffering. But, in ordinary cases, the sight of suffering is avoided except where relief can be administered. In such cases, the desire of administering relief becomes the leading one, so that the mind is turned off from the view of the suffering to dwell on conceptions of modes of relief. Thus the surgeon and physician gradually form such habits that the sight of pain and suffering lead the mind to conception of modes of relief, whereas a mind not thus interested dwells on the more painful ideas.

The mind, also, can form a habit of inattention to our own bodily sufferings by becoming interested in other things, and thus painful sensations go unnoticed. Some persons will go for years with a chronic headache, and yet appear to enjoy nearly as much as those who never suffer from such a cause. Again: those who violate conscience seem to relieve themselves from suffering by forming a habit of dwelling on other themes, and of turning the mind entirely from those obligations which, when contemplated, would upbraid and pain them. Thus, too, the sense of shame is lost. A habit is formed of leading the mind from whatever pains it to dwell on more pleasurable contemplations.

The habits of life are all formed either from the desire to secure happiness or to avoid pain, and the fear of suffering is found to be a much more powerful principle than the desire of happiness. The soul flies from pain with all its energies, even when it will be inert at the sight of promised joy. As an illustration of this, let a person be fully convinced that the gift of two new senses would confer as great an additional amount of enjoyment as is now secured by the eye and ear, and the promise of this future good would not stimulate with half the energy that would be caused by the threat of instant and entire blindness and deafness.

If, then, the mind is stimulated to form good habits and to avoid the formation of evil ones most powerfully by painful emotions, when their legitimate object is not effected they continually decrease in vividness, and the designed benefit is lost. If a man is placed in circumstances of danger, and fear leads to habits of caution and carefulness, the object of exciting this emotion is accomplished, and the diminution of it is attended with no evil. But if fear is continually excited, and no such habits are formed, then the susceptibility is lessened, while the good to be secured by it is lost. So, also, with emotions of sympathy. If we witness pain and suffering, and it induces habits of active devotion to the good of those who suffer, the diminution of the susceptibility is a blessing and no evil. But if we simply indulge emotions, and do not form the habits they were intended to secure, the power of sympathy is weakened, and the designed benefit is lost. Thus, again, with shame: if this painful emotion does not lead us to form habits of honor and rectitude, it is continually weakened by repetition, and the object for which it was bestowed is not secured. And so with remorse: if this emotion is awakened without leading to habits of benevolence and virtue, it constantly decays in power, and the good it would have secured is forever lost.

It does not appear, however, that the power of emotion in the soul is thus destroyed. Nothing is done but to form habits of inattention to painful emotions by allowing the mind to be engrossed in other and more pleasurable subjects. This appears from the fact that the most hardened culprits, when brought to the hour of death, where all plans of future good cease to charm the mental eye, are often overwhelmed with the most vivid emotions of sorrow, shame, remorse, and fear. And often, in the course of life, there are seasons when the soul returns from its pursuit of deluding visions to commune with itself in its own secret chambers. At such seasons, shame, remorse, and fear take up their abode in their long-deserted dwelling, and ply their scorpion whips till they are obeyed, and the course of honor and virtue is resumed, or till the distracted spirit again flies abroad for comfort and relief.

There is a great diversity in human character, resulting from the diverse proportions and combinations of those powers of mind which the race have in common. At the same time, there is a variety in the scale of being, or relative grade of each mind. While all are alike in the common faculties of the human mind, some have every faculty on a much larger scale than others, while some are of a very humble grade.

The principle of habit has very great influence in modifying and changing these varieties. Thus, by forming habits of intellectual exercise, a mind of naturally humble proportions can be elevated considerably above one more highly endowed by natural constitution. So the training of some particular intellectual faculty, which by nature is deficient, can bring it up nearer to the level of other powers less disciplined by exercise.

In like manner, the natural susceptibilities can be increased, diminished, or modified by habit. Certain tastes, that had little power, can be so cultivated as to overtop all others.

So of the moral nature: it can be so exercised that a habit will be formed which will generate a strength and prominency that nature did not impart.

The will itself is also subject to this same principle. A strong will, that is trained to yield obedience to law in early life, acquires an ease and facility in doing it which belongs ordinarily to weak minds, and yet can retain all its vigor. And a mind that is trained to bring subordinate volitions into strict and ready obedience to a generic purpose, acquires an ease and facility in doing this which was not a natural endowment.

Thus it appears that by the principle of habit every mind is furnished with the power of elevating itself in the scale of being, and of modifying and perfecting the proportions and combinations of its constitutional powers.

And sometimes the result is that there is no mode of distinguishing between the effects of habit and the natural organization.

One of the most important results of habit is its influence on faith or belief. Those persons who practice methods of false reasoning, who turn away from evidence and follow their feelings in forming opinions, eventually lose the power of sure, confiding belief.

On the contrary, an honest, conscientious steadiness in seeking the truth and in yielding to evidence secures the firmest and most reliable convictions, and that peace of mind which alone results from believing the truth.

CHAPTER XXII.
MIND AS PROOF OF ITS CREATOR'S DESIGNS.

We have seen that the mind of man, by its very constitution, has certain implanted truths which it believes from the necessity of its nature, and that these are the foundation of all acquired knowledge, and the guide to all truth.

We have seen that, independently of a revelation, we have no other sources of knowledge except these intuitions, the experience of ourselves and others, and the deductions of reasoning.

We have examined as to the amount of knowledge to be gained from these sources in regard to the nature of mind, the laws of the system of which it is the essential part, the immortality of the soul, our prospects after death, and the character and designs of our Creator.

In discussing the last topic, it has been assumed that the grand and ultimate design of the Creator is "to produce the greatest possible happiness with the least possible evil."

We have examined, at some length, the chief faculties and laws of the human mind, for the purpose of exhibiting their adaptation to this design.

We now proceed to a brief review of this portion as a summing up of the evidence sustaining the proposition that the grand end of the Creator, in forming mind, is to produce the greatest possible happiness with the least possible evil.

As preliminary, however, we need to refer to one principle.

Whenever we find any contrivances all combining to secure a certain good result, which, at the same time, involves some degree of inevitable evil, and then discover that there are contrivances to diminish and avoid this evil, we properly infer that the author intended to secure as much of the good with as little of the evil as possible. For example, a traveler finds a deserted mine, and all around he discovers contrivances for obtaining gold, and, at the same time, other contrivances for getting rid of the earth mixed with it. The inevitable inference would be that the author of these contrivances designed to secure as much gold with as little earth as possible; and should any one say that he could have had more gold and less earth if he wished it, the answer would be that there is no evidence of this assertion, but direct evidence against it.

Again: should we discover a piece of machinery in which every contrivance tended to secure speed in movement, produced by the friction of wheels against a rough surface, and at the same time other contrivances were found for diminishing all friction that was useless, we should infer that the author designed to secure the greatest possible speed with the least possible friction.

In like manner, if we can show that mind is a contrivance that acts by the influence of fear of evil, and that pain seems as indispensable to the action of a free agent as friction is to motion; if we can show that there is no contrivance in mind or matter which is designed to secure suffering as its primary end; if we can, on the contrary, show that the direct end of all the organizations of mind and matter is to produce happiness; if we can show that it is only the wrong action of mind that involves most of the pain yet known, so that right action, in its place, would secure only happiness; if we can show contrivances for diminishing pain, and also contrivances for increasing happiness by means of the inevitable pain involved in the system of things, then the just conclusion will be gained that the Author of the system of mind and matter designed "to produce the greatest possible happiness with the least possible evil."[3]

In the review which follows, we shall present evidence exhibiting all these particulars.

The only way in which we learn the nature of a thing is to observe its qualities and actions. This is true of mind as much as it is of matter. Experience and observation teach that the nature of mind is such that the fear of suffering is indispensable to secure a large portion of the enjoyment within reach of its faculties, and that the highest modes of enjoyment can not be secured except by sacrifice, and thus by more or less suffering.

This appears to be an inevitable combination, as much so as friction is inevitable in machinery.

We have the evidence of our own consciousness that it is fear of evil to ourselves or to others that is the strongest motive power to the mind. If we should find that no pain resulted from burning up our own bodies, or from drowning, or from any other cause; if every one perceived that no care, trouble, or pain resulted from losing all kinds of enjoyment, the effort to seek it would be greatly diminished.

If we could desire good enough to exert ourselves to seek it, and yet should feel no discomfort in failing; if we could lose every thing, and feel no sense of pain or care, the stimulus to action which experience has shown to be most powerful and beneficent would be lost.

We find that abundance of ease and prosperity enervates mental power, and that mind increases in all that is grand and noble, and also in the most elevating happiness, by means of danger, care, and pain. We may properly infer, then, that evil is a necessary part of the experience of a perfectly-acting mind.

So strong is the conviction that painful penalties are indispensable, that the kindest parents and the most benevolent rulers are the most sure to increase rather than diminish those that are already involved in the existing nature of things.

Again: without a revelation we have no knowledge of any kind of mind but by inference from our experience in this state of being. All we know of the Eternal First Cause is by a process of reasoning, inferring that his nature must be like the only minds of which we have any knowledge. We assume, then, that he is a free agent, regulated by desire for happiness and fear of evil.

We thus come to the conclusion that this organization of mind is a part of the fixed and eternal nature of things, and does not result from the will of the Creator. His own is the eternal pattern of an all-perfect mind, and our own are formed on this perfect model, with susceptibilities to pain as an indispensable motive power in gaining happiness.

We will now recapitulate some of the particulars in the laws and constitution of mind which tend to establish the position that its Creator's grand design is "to produce the greatest possible happiness with the least possible evil."

Intellectual Powers.

First, then, in reference to the earliest exercise of mind in sensation. The eye might have been so made that light would inflict pain, and the ear so that sound would cause only discomfort. And so of all the other senses.

But the condition of a well-formed, healthy infant is a most striking illustration of the adaptation of the senses to receive enjoyment. Who could gaze on the countenance of such a little one, as its various senses are called into exercise, without such a conviction? The delight manifested as the light attracts the eye, or as pleasant sounds charm the ear, or as the limpid nourishment gratifies its taste, or as gentle motion and soft fondlings soothe the nerves of touch, all testify to the benevolent design of its Maker.

Next come the pleasures of perception as the infant gradually observes the qualities of the various objects around, and slowly learns to distinguish its mother and its playthings from the confused mass of forms and colors. Then comes the gentle curiosity as it watches the movement of its own limbs, and finally discovers that its own volitions move its tiny fingers, while the grand idea that it is itself a cause is gradually introduced.

Next come the varied intellectual pleasures as the several powers are exercised in connection with the animate and material world around, in acquiring the meaning of words, and in imitating the sounds and use of language. The adult, in toiling over the dry lexicon, little realizes the pleasure with which the little one is daily acquiring the philosophy, grammar, and vocabulary of its mother tongue.

A child who can not understand a single complete sentence, or speak an intelligible phrase, will sit and listen with long-continued delight to the simple enunciation of words, each one of which presents a picture to his mind of a dog, a cat, a cow, a horse, a whip, a ride, and many other objects and scenes that have given pleasure in the past; while the single words, without any sentences, bring back, not only vivid conceptions of these objects, but a part of the enjoyment with which they have been connected.

Then, as years pass by, the intellect more and more administers pleasure, while the reasoning powers are developed, the taste cultivated, the imagination exercised, the judgment employed, and the memory stored with treasures for future enjoyment.

In the proper and temperate use of the intellectual powers, there is a constant succession of placid satisfaction, or of agreeable and often of delightful emotions, while no one of these faculties is productive of pain except in violating the laws of the mental constitution.

The Susceptibilities.

In regard to the second general class of mental powers—the susceptibilities—the first particular to be noticed is the ceaseless and all-pervading desire to gain happiness and escape pain. This is the mainspring of all voluntary activity; for no act of volition will take place till some good is presented to gain, or some evil to shun. At the same time, as has been shown, the desire to escape evil is more potent and effective than the desire for good. Thousands of minds that rest in passive listlessness, when there is nothing to stimulate but hope of enjoyment, will exert every physical and mental power to escape impending evil. The seasons of long-continued prosperity in nations always tend to a deterioration of intellect and manhood. It is in seasons of danger alone that fear wakes up the highest energies, and draws forth the heroes of the race.

Mind, then, is an existence having the power of that self-originating action of choice which constitutes free agency, while this power can only be exercised when desires are excited to gain happiness or to escape pain. This surely is the highest possible evidence that its Author intended mind should thus act.

But a mind may act to secure happiness and avoid pain to itself, and yet may gain only very low grades of enjoyment, while much higher are within reach of its faculties. So, also, it may act to gain happiness for itself as the chief end in such ways as to prevent or destroy the happiness of others around.

In reference to this, we find those susceptibilities which raise man to the dignity of a moral being.

In the first place, there is that impression of the great design of the Creator existing in every mind, either as a result of constitution or of training, or of both united, which results in a feeling that whatever lessens or destroys happiness is unfit and contrary to the system of things.

Next there is the power to balance pleasure and pain, and estimate the compound result, both in reference to self and to the commonwealth. With this is combined the feeling that whatever secures the most good with the least evil is right and fit, and that the opposite is wrong and unfitted to the nature of things.

Next comes the sense of justice, which results in an impulse to discover the cause of good and evil, and when this cause is found to be a voluntary agent, a consequent impulse to make returns of good for good, and of evil for evil, and also to proportion retributive rewards or penalties to the amount of good or evil done.

With this, also, is combined the feeling that those retributions should be applied only where there was voluntary power to have done otherwise. When it is seen that there was no such power, the impulse to reward or punish is repressed.

Such is the deep conviction that such retributions are indispensable, that where natural pains and penalties do not avail, others are demanded, both in the family and in the commonwealth.

Lastly, we find the susceptibility of conscience, which, by the very framework of the mind itself, apportions the retributive pangs of remorse for wrong doing, and the pleasure of self-approval for well doing. These, too, are retributions never to be escaped, and the most exquisite, both in elevated happiness and exquisite pain. The mind carries about in itself its own certain and gracious remunerator—its own inexorable prosecutor, judge, and executioner.

This same design of the Creator may be most delightfully traced in what may be called the economy of happiness and pain.

One particular of this is set forth at large in the chapter on the emotions of taste. Here we find the mind formed not only to secure multitudinous enjoyments through the nerves of sensation, but that, by the principle of association, there is a perpetual reproduction of these emotions in connection with the colors, forms, sounds, and motions with which they were originally associated. Thus there are perpetually returning emotions of pleasure so recondite, so refined, so almost infinite in variety and extent, and yet how little noticed or understood!

Another indication of the same kind is the peculiarity pointed out on former pages, where it is shown that securing certain enjoyments which tend to promote the general happiness increases both desire and capacity for enjoyment, while those that terminate in the individual diminish by possession. Thus the enjoyment of power, which must, from its nature, be confined to a few, diminishes by possession. Thus, too, the pleasures of sense pall by indulgence. But the enjoyment resulting from the exercise and reciprocation of love, and that resulting from benevolent actions, and that which is included in a course of perfect obedience to all the rules of rectitude, increases the capacity for enjoyment.

Another illustration of the same principle is exhibited in the chapter on Habit, where it is seen that the power of pleasurable emotions increases by repetition, while painful emotions decrease when the good to be secured by their agency is attained. Thus fear seems to protect from danger till caution and habit render it needless, and then it decreases. And so of other painful emotions.

It is interesting to trace the same design in the constitution of minds in regard to each other. We find that the purest and highest kind of happiness is dependent on the mutual relations of minds. Thus the enjoyment resulting from the discovery of intellectual and moral traits in other minds—that resulting from giving and receiving affection—that gained by sympathy, and by being the cause of happiness to others, and that resulting from conscious rectitude, all are dependent on the existence of other beings.

Now we find that minds are relatively so constituted that what one desires, it is a source of happiness in another to bestow. Thus one can be pleased by the discovery of certain traits in other minds, while, in return, the exhibition of these traits, and the consciousness that they are appreciated, is an equal source of enjoyment. One mind seeks the love of others, while these, in return, are desiring objects of affection, and rejoice to confer the gift that is sought. The desire of knowledge or the gratification of curiosity is another source of pleasure, while satisfying this desire is a cause of enjoyment to those around. How readily do mankind seize upon every opportunity to convey interesting news to other minds!

Again: we find that, both in sorrow and in joy, the mind seeks for the sympathy of others, while this grateful and soothing boon it is delightful to bestow. So, also, the consciousness of being the cause of good to another sends joy to the heart, while the recipient is filled with the pleasing glow of gratitude in receiving the benefit. The consciousness of virtue in acting for the general good, instead of for contracted, selfish purposes, is another source of happiness, while those who witness its delightful results rejoice to behold and acknowledge it. What bursts of rapturous applause have followed the exhibition of virtuous self-sacrifice for the good of others from bosoms who rejoiced in this display, and who could owe this pleasure to no other cause than the natural constitution of mind, which is formed to be made happy both in beholding and in exercising virtue.

This same beneficial economy is manifested in a close analysis of all that is included in the affections of love and gratitude.

It has been shown that, in the commencement of existence, the young mind first learns the sources of good and evil to self, and its sole motives are desire for its own enjoyment.

Soon, however, it begins to experience the happiness resulting from the relations of minds to each other, and then is developed the superior power of love, and its importance as a regulating principle.

In the analysis of this affection, it is seen to consist, first, in the pleasurable emotions which arise in view of those traits of character in another mind pointed out on previous pages. When these qualities are discovered, the first result is emotions of pleasure in the contemplation. Immediately there follows a desire of good to the cause of this pleasure. Next follows the desire of reciprocated affection—that is, a desire is awakened to become the cause of the same pleasure to another; for the desire of being loved is the desire to be the cause of pleasurable emotions in another mind, in view of our own good qualities. When we secure this desired appreciation, then follows an increased desire of good to the one who bestows it.

Thus the affection of love is a combination of the action and reaction of pleasurable emotions, all tending to awaken the desire of good to another. This passion may become so intensified that it will become more delightful to secure enjoyments to another than to procure them for self.

Gratitude is the emotion of pleasure toward the author of voluntary good to self, attended by a desire of good to the benefactor. This principle can be added to augment the power of love.

There is a foundation for a very important distinction in the analysis of the principle of love. In what is thus far presented, we find that the desire of good to another results solely from the fact that certain mental qualities are causes of pleasure to self. Of course, this desire ceases when those qualities cease to exist or cease to be appreciated. This kind of love is the natural result of the constitution of minds in their relations to each other, making it easy and pleasant to live for the good of another in return for the pleasure received from their agreeable qualities and manifestations.

But the highest kind of love consists in the desire of good to another without reference to any good received in return. It is good willing. It consists in an abiding feeling of desire for the happiness of another mind.

This principle exists as a natural impulse more or less powerful in differently constituted minds. It is the cause of that pleasure which is felt in the consciousness of being the cause of good to another. But this natural impulse can be so developed and increased by voluntary culture as to become the strongest impulse of the mind, and thus the source of the highest and most satisfying enjoyments. In many minds this becomes so strongly developed that securing happiness to others is sought with far more earnestness and pleasure than any modes of enjoyment that terminate solely in self. This analysis lays the foundation for the distinction expressed by the terms the love of complacency and the love of benevolence. The first is the involuntary result of good conferred on self; the last is a voluntary act. It is good willing toward others without reference to self.

The first can only exist where certain qualities are preserved and appreciated in another mind. The second can result from voluntary effort, and become the subject of law and penalties.

We can never be justly required to love another mind with the love of complacency except when qualities are perceived that, by the constitution of mind, necessarily call forth such regard. But the love of benevolence can be justly demanded from every mind toward every being capable of happiness.

Here it is important to discriminate more exactly in regard to the principle of benevolence and the principle of rectitude.

It is seen that the benevolence which is the subject of rewards and penalties as a voluntary act consists in good willing—that is, in choosing the happiness of other minds as the object of interest and pursuit.

But the principle of rectitude is more comprehensive in its nature. It relates to obedience to all the laws of the system of the universe—those relating to ourselves as much as those relating to others. It is true that, as obedience to these laws includes the greatest possible amount of good with the least possible evil, both to the individual and the commonwealth, the tendency of the two principles is to the same result. But it may be the case that benevolence acts contrary to the true rules of rectitude, and thus may mar rather than promote happiness. A mind must not only choose to promote the greatest possible happiness, but must choose the right way of doing it.

A very important particular to be considered is, that, while in the physical and mental constitution there is not a single arrangement the direct object of which is to produce suffering, the susceptibilities to pain seem designed to protect and preserve, while the greater the need the more strong is this protection. For example, in regard to physical organization, fire is an element that is indispensable to the life, comfort, and activity of man, and it must be accessible at all times and places. But all its service arises from its power to dissolve and destroy the body itself, as well as all things around it. Therefore the pain connected with contact with fire is more acute than almost any other. Thus even the youngest child is taught that care and caution needful to protect its body from injury or destruction.

Another fact in regard to the susceptibilities of pain is their frequent co-existence with the highest degrees of enjoyment. The experiences of this life often present cases where the most elevated and ecstatic happiness is combined with the keenest suffering, while such is the nature of the case that the suffering is the chief cause of the happiness thus secured. The highest illustration of this is in the suffering of saints and martyrs, when they "rejoice to be counted worthy to suffer shame," or when, amid torturing flames, they sing songs of transport and praise.

Even in common life it is constantly found that a certain relative amount of happiness is felt to be more than a recompense for a given amount of pain. This relative amount may be such that the evil involved, though great, may count as nothing. Where there is a passionate attachment, for example, the lover exults in the labor and suffering that will joyfully be received as a proof of affection and secure the compensating return.

It is a very common fact that the existence of painful emotions is sought, not for themselves, but as ministers to a kind of mental excitement which is desired. This is the foundation of the pleasure which is felt in tragic representations, and in poetry and novels that present scenes of distress. The little child will again and again ask for the tale of the Babes in the Wood, though each rehearsal brings forth tears; and the mature matron or sage will spend hours over tales that harrow the feelings or call forth sighs. This also is the foundation of that kind of music called the minor key, in which certain sounds bring emotions of sadness or sorrow.

Another striking fact in regard to the desire for pain is the emotions that are felt by the most noble and benevolent minds at the sight of cruelty and injustice. At such scenes, the desire for inflicting pain on the guilty offender amounts to a passion which nothing can allay but retributive justice. And the more benevolent the mind, the stronger this desire for retributive evil to another.

Thus it appears that the mind is so made as to desire pain both for itself and for others; not in itself considered, but as the indispensable means to gain some consequent enjoyment.

The highest kinds of happiness result from painful emergencies. The transports of love, gratitude, and delight, when some benefactor rescues suffering thousands from danger and evil, could exist in no other way. All the long train of virtues included in patient toil for the good of others, in heroic daring, in brave adventure, in fortitude, in patience, in resignation, in heavenly meekness, in noble magnanimity, in sublime self-sacrifice, all involve the idea of trial, danger, and suffering. It is only the highest and noblest class of minds that can fully understand that the most blissful of all enjoyments are those which are bought with pain.

But the most cheering feature in the constitution of mind is all that is included in the principle of habit. We see in the commencement of existence that every action of mind and body is imperfect, and more or less difficult, while each effort to secure right action increases the facility of so doing. We see that, owing to this principle, every act of obedience to law makes such a course easier. The intellect, the susceptibilities, the will, all come under this benign influence. Habit may so diminish the difficulty of self-denial for our own good that the pain entirely ceases; and self-sacrifice for the good of others may so develop benevolence and generate a habit that it will become pleasure without pain. There are those, even in this world, who have so attained this capacity of living in the life of those around them that the happiness of others becomes their own, and then there is even less pain in self-denial for the good of others than for that of self. When this habit of mind is attained, the happiness of the commonwealth becomes the portion of the individual.

[3] Note B.

CHAPTER XXIII.
SOCIAL AND MATERIAL PROOFS OF THE CREATOR'S DESIGNS.

We have now presented the organization of mind as the chief evidence of the grand design of its Creator in forming all things. We now will trace the evidences of the same beneficent object in the social and material organizations.

First, then, in regard to the domestic relations. We have seen that while all happiness depends on obedience to laws, every mind comes into existence in perfect ignorance of them, and without any power to learn what is good or evil but by experience and instruction. The intention of the Creator that each new-born being should be taught these laws and trained to obey them, is clearly seen in the first and highest domestic relation. In this we see two mature minds, who have themselves been trained to understand these laws, drawn by sweet and gentle influences to each other. They go apart from all past ties of kindred; they have one home, one name, one common interest in every thing. The one who has most physical strength goes forth to provide supplies; the delicate one remains behind, by domestic ministries to render home the centre of all attractions.

Then comes the beautiful, helpless infant, of no use to any one, and demanding constant care, labor, and attention. And yet, with its profound ignorance, its tender weakness, its delicate beauty, its utter helplessness, its entire dependence, how does it draw forth the strongest feelings of love and tenderness, making every toil and care a delight! And thus, month after month, both parents unite to cherish and support, while, with unceasing vigilance, they train the new-born mind to understand and obey the laws of the system into which it is thus ushered. Its first lessons are to learn to take care of its own body. And when the far-off penalty of pain can not be comprehended by the novice, the parent invents new penalties to secure habits of care and obedience. During all this period the great lesson of sacrifice constantly occurs. The child must eat what is best, not what it desires. It must go to bed when it wants to sit up. It must stay in the house when it wants to go out. It must not touch multitudes of things which it wishes thus to investigate. And so the habits of self-denial, obedience, and faith in the parents are gradually secured, while the knowledge of the laws of the system around are slowly learned.

But the higher part of the law of sacrifice soon begins to make its demands. The child first learns of this law by example, in that of the mother, that most perfect illustration of self-sacrificing love. Then comes a second child, when the first-born must practice on this example. It must give up its place in the mother's bosom to another; it must share its sweets and toys with the new-comer; it must join in efforts to protect, amuse, and instruct the helpless one. And thus the family is the constant school for training ignorant, inexperienced mind in the laws of the system of which it is a part, especially in the great law of self-control and of self-sacrifice for the good of others.

Next comes the discipline of the school and the neighborhood, when the child is placed among his peers to be taught new rules of justice, benevolence, and self-sacrifice for the general good.

Next come the relations of the body politic, for which labors are demanded and pain is to be endured under the grand law of sacrifice, that the individual is to subordinate his own interests and wishes to the greater general good, and that the interests of the majority are to control those of the minority.

Lastly, the whole world is to be taken into the estimate, and the nations are to be counted as members of one great family of man, for which every portion is to make sacrifices. Thus, as age, and experience, and habits of obedience to the laws of rectitude increase, the duties and obligations grow more numerous and complicated. But the same grand principle is more and more developed, that each individual is to seek the greatest possible happiness with the least possible evil, for the vast whole as well as each subordinate part, while self is to receive only its just and proper share.

The same great design of the Creator can be detected also in specific organizations, by which minds so differ from each other as to fit them for the diverse positions and relations that the common good demands. If all were exactly alike in the amount of constitutional powers and in the proportionate combinations, it can easily be seen that the general result would be far less favorable to the happiness of the whole. But as it is, some have the love of power very large, and love to lead and control; others have it small, and love to follow. Some have elevated intellect, and love to teach; others have humbler capacities, and better love humbler pursuits.

These varied combinations also give scope to the virtues of pity, tenderness, patience, mercy, justice, self-denial, and many other graces that could not be called into being without all the disparities, social, domestic, intellectual, and moral, that we find existing. Meantime, the principle of habit and the power of the will give abundant opportunities for modifying these natural peculiarities to accommodate to varying circumstances.

To these indications of benevolent design may be added the organization of the bodily system, and the constitution of the material world without. In examining the body we inhabit, so nicely adjusted, so perfectly adapted to our necessities, so beautifully and harmoniously arranged, so "fearfully and wonderfully made," it is almost beyond the power of numbers to express the multiplied contrivances for ease, comfort, and delight.

We daily pursue our business and our pleasure, thoughtless of the thousand operations which are going on, and the busy mechanism employed in securing the objects we desire. The warm current that is flowing from the centre to the extremities, with its life-giving energies, and then returning to be purified and again sent forth; the myriads of branching nerves that are the sensitive discerners of good or ill; the unnumbered muscles and tendons that are contracting and expanding in all parts of our frame; the nicely-adjusted joints, and bands, and ligaments, that sustain, and direct, and support; the perpetual expansion and contraction of the vital organ; the thousand hidden contrivances and operations of the animal frame, all are quietly and constantly performing their generous functions, and administering comfort and enjoyment to the conscious spirit that dwells within.

Nor is the outer world less busy in performing its part in promoting the great design of the Creator. The light of suns and stars is traversing the ethereal expanse in search of those for whom it was created; for them it gilds the scenes of earth, and is reflected in ten thousand forms of beauty and of skill. The trembling air is waiting to minister its aid, fanning with cool breezes, or yielding the warmth of spring, sustaining the functions of life, and bearing on its light wing the thoughts that go forth from mind to mind, and the breathings of affection that are given and returned. For this design earth is sending forth her exuberance, the waters are emptying their stores, and the clouds pouring forth their treasures. All nature is busy with its offerings of fruits and flowers, its wandering incense, its garnished beauty, and its varied songs. Within and without, above, beneath, and around, the same Almighty Beneficence is found still ministering to the wants and promoting the happiness of the minds He has formed forever to desire and pursue this boon.

CHAPTER XXIV.
RIGHT MODE OF SECURING THE OBJECT FOR WHICH MIND WAS CREATED.

Having set forth the object for which the Creator formed mind, we are thus furnished with the means for deciding as to the right mode of its action in obtaining this object. We may discover the design of a most curious machine, and perceive that, if it is rightly regulated, it will secure that end; while, if it is worked wrong, it will break itself to pieces, and destroy the very object which it was formed to secure.

The same may be seen to be as true of mind as it is of material organization, and the question then is most pertinent, What is that mode of mental action which will most perfectly secure the end for which mind is made?

We have seen that the self-determining power of choice is the distinctive attribute of mind, and that all the other powers are dependent on this, and regulated by it. We have seen that the current of the thoughts, and the nature and power of the desires and emotions, are also controlled by the generic ruling purpose, or chief interest of the mind.

This being so, then the only way in which mind can act to secure the object for which it is made is to choose that object for chief end or ruling purpose, and actually carry out this choice in all subordinate volitions.

We will now present the evidence gained from experience, as well as what we should infer from the known laws of mind, to show what the result would be in a system of minds where each mind should thus act.

Let us suppose, then, a commonwealth in which every mind is regulated by a ruling purpose to act right, which actually controls every specific volition. Each mind then would obey all those laws which will secure to the whole community and to each individual the greatest possible amount of happiness with the least possible evil.

To do this of necessity involves the idea that each mind must know what are all the laws of the system; for no one can choose to obey laws until laws are known.

Let the result on a single mind be first contemplated. In the first place, all the trains of thought would be regulated by the chief desire, which would be to make the most possible happiness with the least possible evil. Of course, all those ideas that were most consonant with this ruling passion would become vivid and distinct; and as these ideas also would be connected with the strongest emotions, the two chief causes that regulate association would combine to secure constant thought and intellectual activity to promote the common welfare as the chief object, while self would have only its true and proper estimation and attention. There would be no need of effort to regulate thought and emotion, for they would all flow naturally to the grand and right object.

Next suppose a commonwealth in which every mind had its intellect, desires, and emotions, and all its specific volitions thus regulated by the grand aim of making the most possible happiness, guarded, too, by unerring judgment, so as to make no miscalculation; what would be the state of things, so far as we can ascertain by past experience and by reasoning from the known nature of things?

First, then, in reference to the susceptibilities of sensation. If all should never touch any food but that which would expose to no danger or excess; if they never encountered any needless hazard; if they exactly balanced all the probabilities of good and evil, in every matter relating to the pleasures of sense, and invariably chose that which exposed to the least danger; if every being around was anxiously watchful in affording the results of observation, and in protecting others from risk and exposure, it is probable that the amount of sensitive enjoyment would be a thousand fold increased, while most of the evils caused by improper food and drink, by needless exposure, by negligence of danger, and by many other causes which now operate, would cease. With the present constitution of body, which tends to decay, we could not positively maintain that no suffering would be experienced, but it is probable that the amount would be as a drop to the ocean compared with what is now experienced.

Under such a constitution of things, we can perceive, also, that there would be no suffering from the painful emotions; for where each was striving to attain the greatest amount of good to all, there could be no competition, no jealousy, no envy, no pride, no ambition, no anger, no hatred; for there would be no occasion for any of these discordant emotions. Nor could remorse harass, or shame overwhelm; for no wickedness would be perpetrated, and no occasion of reproach occur. Nor could fear intrude, where every mind was conscious that its own happiness was the constant care of every one around. Nor could painful sympathy exist, where so little pain was known. Nor could the weariness of inactivity be felt, where all were engaged in acting for one noble and common object, in which every faculty could be employed. Nor could the mind suffer the pangs of ungratified desire, while the gratification of its chief desire was the aim and object of all. So that, if all minds should act unitedly and habitually on this principle, there would be no exposure, except to sensitive pain, and this danger would be exceedingly trifling.

In the mean time, every source of happiness would be full and overflowing. All sensitive enjoyments that would not cause suffering, nor interfere with the happiness of others, would be gained; admiration and affection would be given and reciprocated; the powers of body and mind would be actively employed in giving and acquiring happiness; the pleasure resulting from the exercise of physical and moral power would be enjoyed, and employed to promote the enjoyment of others; the peace of conscious rectitude would dwell in every bosom; the consciousness of being the cause of happiness to others would send joy to the heart, while sympathy in the general happiness would pour in its unmeasured tide. But this happiness could not be perfect except in a commonwealth where every individual was perfectly conformed to the laws of rectitude. A single mind that violated a single law would send a jar through the whole sphere of benevolent and sympathizing beings.

The next question is, How can mind be most successfully influenced to right action? To answer this we must refer again to experience, and inquire as to the methods which have been found most successful in influencing the mind to right action.

The first thing which experience teaches is, that it is indispensable to right mental action that there should be a knowledge and belief of the truth. We must have true conceptions of reality of things, and of the right mode of promoting the greatest possible happiness, before we have power to pursue this course.

But each mind, as it comes into existence, is a perfect blank in regard to knowledge or experience of any kind. The only way to gain knowledge is by experience and instruction. The knowledge secured by experience as to the laws of a system so vast and complicated comes very slowly and imperfectly. The chief reliance in the beginning of existence is on the instructions of other minds. Infallible teachers, and perfect faith or belief in such teachers, then, is the grand necessity of mind as it begins existence.

The next thing which experience shows to be effective in securing the right action of mind is the formation of right habits. For this, also, the new-made being is entirely dependent on those to whom is given its early training. It comes into life without any knowledge and without any habits, a creature of mere impulses and instincts. Its very first want is not only infallible teachers, but patient educators, who shall, by constant care and effort, form its physical, intellectual, social, and moral habits.

The next indispensable requisite to the right action of mind is the existence of a ruling generic purpose to obey all the laws of rectitude.

It has already been shown how all the powers of the mind are regulated and controlled by the leading purpose, and that it is impossible to bring all the desires, emotions, and subordinate volitions into right action except by the power of such a principle.

But experience has proved that such a generic purpose will not either be originated or sustained except by the social influences of surrounding minds through the principles of love, gratitude, sympathy, and example.

The power of these principles may be illustrated by supposing the case of a mature mind already embarrassed with habits of self-indulgence and selfishness. Let such a person be placed in the most endeared and intimate communion with a being possessed of every possible attraction which is delightful to the human mind. Let him feel that he is the object of the most tender and devoted affection to such an exalted friend, and, spite of his own faults and deficiencies, realize that his own affection is desired and his communion sought. Let him, in all his daily pursuits, be attended by the desired presence of the one in whom his hopes centre and his affections repose; one in whom he sees every possible exhibition of disinterestedness, tenderness, and love, not only toward himself, but all other beings who come within the circle of such benevolence. Let him discover that the practice of all that is excellent and benevolent by himself is the object of unceasing desire to this devoted friend. Let him discover that, to save him from the consequences of some guilty act of selfishness, this friend had submitted to the most painful sacrifices, and only asked as a return those efforts which were necessary to overcome such pernicious habits. Let him feel that this friend, though pained by his deficiencies, could forbear and forgive, and continue his love in spite of them all. Let him know that his attainment of perfect virtue was the object of intense desire, and was watched with the most exulting joy by so good and so perfect a being, and is it possible to conceive a stronger pressure of motive which could be brought to act on a selfish mind? Would not every human being exclaim, "Give me such a friend, and I should be selfish no more. His presence and his love would be my strength in foiling every wrong desire and in conquering every baneful habit."

This illustration enables us to realize more clearly the power of love and gratitude toward another mind, and the reflex influence of love of sympathy and of example. Could the young mind be placed under the training of such minds, and in circumstances where all the rules of right and wrong were perfectly understood, it can be seen that the habits would early be formed aright, and that the difficulties against which the mature mind has to struggle would be escaped.

Could we suppose a community of such elevated mature educators, with young minds of various degrees of advancement under their training, it can be seen that the social influences of all would produce a moral atmosphere that would add great power to the individual influences. What every body loves, honors, and admires, secures a moral force over young minds almost invincible, even when it sustains false and wicked customs. How much greater this power when it co-operates with the intellect, the moral sense, and the will in leading to right action!

The result of all this is to show, as the result of reason and experience, that it is indispensable to the perfectly right action of mind to secure infallible and perfect educators.

Meantime, the degree in which any individual mind, or any community, has or will approach to such perfection, depends entirely on the extent to which such a character can be secured in those who are to train young minds. The history of individual families and of large communities shows that their advance, both in intellectual and moral development, has exactly corresponded with the character of those who educated the young.

CHAPTER XXV.
WRONG ACTION OF MIND AND ITS CAUSES.

We have exhibited the object for which mind was created, and the mode of action by which alone this object can be secured.

We next inquire in regard to the wrong action of mind; its causes and its results as learned by reason and experience.

According to the principles set forth, a mind acts wrong whenever it transgresses any law. The grand law is that of sacrifice, by which every mode of enjoyment is to be relinquished which does not tend to the greatest possible happiness with the least possible evil.

Having set forth those influences or causes which tend to secure the right action of mind, we are enabled thus to indicate what are the causes of its wrong action.

The first and leading cause is a want of knowledge of the truth and a belief of error. We begin existence without knowledge of any kind, and without any power to receive instruction from others. The newborn mind is a mere unit of impulses and instincts, with an intellect entirely undeveloped, and a will which never can act intelligently. It is entirely dependent for its experience, safety, enjoyment, and knowledge of all kinds on those around. As it gains by experience and training, much of its knowledge and belief is correct, and many of its mental acts are right; but a large portion of its actions are wrong, and many of them inevitably so.

And here we must recognize again the distinction which our moral nature demands between wrong actions that result from unavoidable ignorance, and those which are committed intelligently and which violate conscience. In regard to the first class, the natural penalties are inevitable, and the justice of them involves the great question of the Creator's character and designs. In regard to those that violate conscience, our moral nature, as has been shown, leads us not only to approve additional penalties, but to demand them.

The violations of law which are sins of ignorance commence with the earliest period of existence. Owing to its helpless ignorance, often the little child can no more help acting wrong than it can help thinking and feeling.

A second cause of wrong action is false teachings. Although a large portion of the instruction given to the young, especially in regard to physical laws, are true, yet the infant commences life among imperfectly instructed beings, who often communicate error believing it to be truth. Meantime the little one has no power of correcting these errors, and thus again is inevitably led to wrong action.

A third cause of wrong action is the want of good habits and the early formation of bad ones. As a habit is a facility of action gained by repetition, of course, at first, there can be no habits. And then what the habits shall be is entirely decided by the opinions and conduct of its educators. While some habits are formed aright, others are formed wrong, and thus the disability of nature is increased instead of diminished.

The next cause of wrong action is those social influences of other minds that have most power both in securing and sustaining right action. In the previous chapter we have illustrated the power of the principles of love, gratitude, sympathy, and example in securing right action.

The same powerful influences exist in reference to wrong action. The child who loves its parents and playmates is not only taught to believe wrong action to be right, but has all the powerful influences which example, sympathy, love, and gratitude can combine to lead to the same wrong courses. Thus, to the natural ignorance of inexperienced mind, to false instructions, and to bad habits, are often added these most powerful of all influences.

The next cause of wrong action is the want of a ruling purpose to do right. It has been shown that all the powers of the intellect and all the susceptibilities can be regulated by a generic ruling purpose, and that it is impossible, according to the nature of mind, to regulate it any other way.

When such a purpose exists, and its object is any other except the right and true one, it is as impossible for a mind to act right as it is for a machine to fulfill its design when the main wheel is turned the wrong way.

That such a purpose does not exist in the new-born mind, and that it must be a considerable time before it is possible, in the nature of things, to be originated, needs no attempt to illustrate. Such a purpose is dependent on knowledge of truth, on habits, and these on the character of the educators of mind, and on other surrounding social influences.

These are the chief causes of the wrong action of mind as they have been developed by experience.

In the next chapters we shall consider the results of the wrong action of mind as they have been exhibited in the experience of mankind, and as they are to be anticipated in a future world.

CHAPTER XXVI.
WRONG ACTION OF MIND, AND ITS RESULTS IN THIS LIFE.

We have examined into the causes of the wrong action of mind, and have found them to consist in the want of knowledge, want of habits, want of social influences from other minds, and want of a right governing purpose, all of which, so far as reason and experience teach, alone could be secured by perfect and infallible teachers and educators in a perfect commonwealth.

We are now to inquire in regard to the wrong action of mind and its results in this life.

The first point to be noticed is the fact that from the first there is in every intelligent mind a sense of entire inability to obey the laws of the system in which it is placed.

This is true not merely in reference to that breach of law which is the inevitable result of ignorance, but of that also which involves a violation of conscience. Where is the mother who has not heard the distressed confession, even from the weeping infant, that he was happier in doing right than in doing wrong, that he wished to do well, and yet that he was constantly doing evil? Where is the parent that has not witnessed, as one little being after another passed on from infancy to youth, and from youth to manhood, the perpetual warfare to sustain good purposes and oft-broken resolutions? And where is the conscious spirit that can not look back on its whole course of existence as one continued exhibition of a conflict that gives unvarying evidence of this truth? Men feel that it is as impossible for them to be invariably perfect in thought, word, and deed, as it is to rule the winds and waves.

The testimony of mankind through every period of the world, in regard to their own individual consciousness, attests a sense of the same fatal inability. If we go back even as far as to the heathen sages of antiquity, we gain the same acknowledgment. Thus we find Pythagoras calls it "the fatal companion, the noxious strife that lurks within us, and which was born along with us." Sopator terms it "the sin that is born with mankind." Plato denominates it "natural wickedness," and Aristotle "the natural repugnance of man's temper to reason." Cicero declares that "men are brought into life by Nature as a step-mother, with a naked, frail, and infirm body, and with a soul prone to divers lusts." Seneca observes, "We are born in such a condition that we are not subject to fewer disorders of the mind than of the body; all vices are in men, though they do not break out in every one." Propertius says that "every body has a vice to which he is inclined by nature." Juvenal asserts that "nature, unchangeably fixed, runs back to wickedness." Horace declares that "no man is free from vices, and he is the best man who is oppressed with the least." He adds that "mankind rush into wickedness, and always desire what is forbidden;" that "youth has the softness of wax to receive vicious impressions, and the hardness of rock to resist virtuous admonitions;" that "we are mad enough to attack Heaven itself, and our repeated crimes do not suffer the God of Heaven to lay aside his wrathful thunderbolts."

This testimony of individual experience is verified by the general history of mankind. All the laws and institutions of society are founded on the principle that mankind are prone to wrong, infirm of purpose in all that is good, and that every possible restraint is needed to prevent the overbreaking tide of evil and crime. When we read the history of communities and of nations, it is one continued record of selfishness, avarice, injustice, revenge, and cruelty. Individuals seem equally plotting against the happiness of individuals, and rejoicing to work evils on society. Communities rise against communities, and nations dash against nations. Tyrants fill their dominions with sorrow, misery, and death; bloody heroes, followed by infuriate bands, spread havoc, ruin, and dismay through all their course, while superstition binds in chains, racks with tortures, and sacrifices its millions of victims.

In tracing along the history of mankind, there is no period which we can select when mankind have not seemed as busy in destroying their own, and the happiness of others, as the lower animals are in seeking their appropriate enjoyments. At one time we behold Xerxes pouring forth all Asia upon Europe, where three million beings were brought to be slaughtered by the Greeks. At another time the Greeks, headed by Alexander, return upon Asia, and spread over most of the known world, pillaging, burning, and slaughtering. Then we behold Alaric, at the head of barbarous hordes, desolating all the Roman empire, and destroying the monuments of taste, science, and the arts. Then we see Tamerlane rushing forth, overrunning Persia, India, and other parts of Asia, carrying carnage and the most desolating cruelty in his course, so that it is recorded that he would cause thousands of his prisoners to be pounded in mortars with bricks to form into walls.

From Europe we behold six millions of Crusaders rush forth upon the plains of Asia, with rapine, and famine, and outrage attending their course. Then come forth from Eastern Asia the myrmidons of Genghis Khan, ravaging fifteen millions of square miles, beheading 100,000 prisoners at one time, shaking the whole earth with terror, and exterminating fourteen millions of their fellow-men. Then from the northern forests are seen swarming forth the Goths and Vandals, sweeping over Europe and Asia, and bearing away every vestige of arts, civilization, comfort, and peace. At another time we see the professed head of the Christian Church slaughtering the pious and inoffensive Albigenses, sending horror into their peaceful villages, and torturing thousands of inoffensive victims.

At one period of history the whole known world seemed to be one vast field of carnage and commotion. The Huns, Vandals, and other Northern barbarians were ravaging France, Germany, and Spain; the Goths were plundering and murdering in Italy, and the Saxons and Angles were overrunning Great Britain. The Roman armies under Justinian, together with the Vandals and Huns, were desolating Africa; the barbarians of Scythia were pouring down upon the Roman empire; the Persian armies were pillaging and laying waste the countries of Asia; the Arabians, under Mohammed, were beginning to extend their conquests over Syria, Palestine, Egypt, Barbary, and Spain. Every nation and kingdom on earth was shaking to its centre. The smoke and the spirits of the bottomless pit seemed coming up to darken, and torment, and affright mankind. The most fertile countries were converted to deserts, and covered with ruins of once flourishing cities and villages; the most fiendish cruelty was practiced; famine raged to such a degree that the living fed upon the dead; prisoners were tortured by the most refined systems of cruelty; public edifices were destroyed; the monuments of science and the arts perished; cruelty, fraud, avarice, murder, and every crime that disgraces humanity, were let loose upon a wretched world. Historians seem to shudder in attempting to picture these horrid scenes, and would draw a veil over transactions that disgrace mankind.

If from ancient times we look at the present state of the world, at its present most refined and enlightened period, the same mournful evidence is discovered. Cruelty and tyranny have changed some of the fairest provinces of Persia to deserts. The Turk long ago turned the land of the patriarchs and prophets to a wilderness, and drenched the shores of Greece with the blood of slaughtered victims, while Syria, Kurdistan, and Armenia for ages have been ravaged with injustice and rapine. China and Japan have been shut out from the world by a cold and jealous selfishness. In Tartary, Arabia, and Siberia, the barbarous tribes are prowling about for plunder, or engaged in murderous conflicts. In Africa, the Barbary States are in perpetual commotion; the petty tyrants of Benin, Ashantee, and other interior states are waging ceaseless wars, murdering their prisoners, and adorning their houses with their skulls; and on its ravaged coast the white man-stealer, for hundreds of years, has been prowling, and bearing off thousands of wretches as a yearly offering to the avarice of the most refined and Christian nations on earth. In North America, we have seen the native tribes employed in war, and practicing the most fiendish barbarities, while in South America, its more civilized inhabitants are engaged in constant political and bloody commotions. In the islands of the ocean thousands of human beings have been fighting each other, throwing darts and stones at strangers, offering human sacrifices, and feasting on the flesh of their enemies.

If we select Europe for the exhibition of human nature as seen under the restraints of civilization, laws, refinement, and religion, the same evils burst forth from bonds and restraints. In Europe, for ages, the common people, in slavery and ignorance, have been bowing down to a grinding priesthood, or an oppressive nobility or monarchical tyranny. Incessant heaving of the troubled nations portends desolation and dismay, as man seems waking from the slavery of ages to shake off his fetters and call himself free.

If we look to our own boasted land of liberty and religion, what toiling of selfish and discordant interests—what mean and low-lived arts to gain honor and power—what shameful attacks on fair reputation and unblemished honor—what collisions of party-strifes and local interests! Here also the curse of slavery brings the blush of shame to every honest man that, from year to year, on the anniversary of the national liberty, hears the declarations of rights this very nation is trampling under foot. Millions of slaves, deprived of the best blessing and the dearest rights of humanity, are held in the most degrading bondage by a nation who yearly and publicly acknowledge their perfect and unalienable rights.

The same melancholy view is no less clearly witnessed in the opinions and moral sentiments of mankind. The mind of man is formed to love happiness, to be pleased with what promotes it, and to detest that which tends to destroy it, yet the long reign of selfishness has seemed to pervert and poison even the taste and moral sentiments of men. Who is the hero sung by the poet, eulogized by the statesman, and flattered by the orator? Who is it presented in classic language to the gaze of enthusiastic childhood, and pictured forth in tales of romance to kindling youth?

It is the man who has given up his life to the gratification of pride, and the love of honor and fame; the man who, to gain this selfish good, can plunge the sword into the bosom of thousands, and stand the unpitying spectator of burning cities, widowed mothers, orphan children, desolated fields, and the long train of ills that he wantonly pours on mankind, that he may gain the miserable pittance of gaping admiration and dreadful renown which rises amid the tears and cries of mankind. It is the man who, when injured, knows not how to forgive—whose stinted soul never knew the dignity and pleasure of giving blessing for ill—who deems it the mark of honor and manhood to follow the example of the whining infant, that, when he is struck, with the same noble spirit will strike back again.

Meantime, the calm forbearance and true dignity of virtue, that would be humbled at recrimination and can not condescend to retaliate, is put in the background as unworthy such honors and eulogy. Thus, also, we find intellect, which the Creator designed only as the instrument of securing happiness, though perverted to vice and folly, applauded and admired; and even some of those admired as among the wisest of mankind have often placed true virtue and goodness below the fancied splendors of genius and learning. All the maxims, and honors, and employments of mankind develop the perverted action of the noblest part of the creation of God in all its relations and in all its principles and pursuits.

It is into such a world as this that every new-born mind is ushered without knowledge to guide, without habits to strengthen, without the power of forming a ruling purpose to do right which shall control all subordinate volitions.

Instead of meeting perfect educators to instruct in the laws of the system, to form good habits, and to exert all the powerful social, domestic, and civil influences aright, every one of these powerful principles are fatally wrong. Parents, teachers, companions, and rulers, to a greater or less extent, teach wrong, train wrong, and set wrong examples, while the whole moral atmosphere is contaminated and paralyzing.

In these circumstances, it is as impossible for a young mind to commence existence here with perfect obedience to law, and to continue through life in a course of perfect rectitude, as it is for it, by its feeble will, to regulate the winds of heaven, or turn back the tides of the ocean.

CHAPTER XXVII.
WRONG ACTION OF MIND, AND ITS RESULTS IN A FUTURE STATE.

We are now to inquire as to the results of the wrong action of mind in a future state, so far as reason and experience can furnish data for any anticipations.

The following are the principles of mind from which we reason on this subject. It appears that its constitution is such that the repetition of one particular mode of securing happiness induces a habit; and that the longer a habit continues, the more powerful is its force. An early habit of selfishness is always formed in the human mind, and the penalties following from self-indulgence and selfishness are not sufficient to prevent the continued increase of this habit. Though men, from the very beginning of existence, feel that they are happier in obeying the dictates of conscience, and that increase of guilt is increase of sorrow, yet this does not save them, in numberless cases, from increasing evil habits.

It is also established by experience that, when a strong habit is formed, the mere decisions of the will are not sufficient for an immediate remedy. In this life, it requires a period of long and painful efforts of the will to rectify an established habit. Every human being is conscious how difficult it is to force the mental and bodily faculties to obey its decisions when contrary to the stream of a long-indulged habit. There are few who have not either experienced or witnessed the anguish of spirit that has followed the violations of solemn resolutions, those firmest decisions of the will, in the contest between habit and conscience.

Another principle of mind is this, that when selfishness and crime have been long indulged, the natural constitution of mind seems changed, so that inflicting evil on others is sought as an enjoyment. In illustration of this, it is related of Antiochus Epiphanes that, in his wars with the Jews, after all opposition had ceased, and all danger and cause of fear was removed, he destroyed thousands for the mere pleasure of seeing them butchered. An anecdote is related of him, too horrible to record in all its particulars, where he sat and feasted his eyes on the sufferings of a mother and her seven sons, when the parent was doomed to witness the infliction of the most excruciating and protracted tortures on each of her seven children, and then was tortured to death herself.

It is recorded of Mustapha, one of the Turkish sultans, that by honorable capitulations he gained the person of a brave Venetian commander called Bragadino, who was defending his country from the cruelty of invaders. After having promised him honorable protection, he ordered him, bound hand and foot, to behold the massacre of his soldiers, then caused his person to be cut and mutilated in the most horrible manner, and then taunted him as a worshiper of Christ, who could not save his servants. When recovered of his wounds, he obliged him to carry loaded buckets of earth before the army, and kiss the ground whenever he passed his barbarous tormentor. He then had him hung in a cage, to be tormented by his own soldiers, who were chained as galley-slaves, that they might be agonized by the indignities and sufferings of their venerated commander. After the most protracted sufferings and indignities in the public place, at the sound of music he was flayed alive.

The history of some of the Roman emperors, even of some who, in early childhood and youth, were gentle, amiable, and kind, presents the same horrible picture. Nero set fire to Rome, and dressed the Christians in garments of flaming pitch, to run about his garden for his amusement. Tiberius tormented his subjects, and murdered them in cruel pangs, to gratify his love of suffering, while Caligula butchered his people for amusement with his own hand.

The mind turns with horror from such revolting scenes, and asks if it is possible human nature now can be so perverted and debased. But this is the humiliating record of some of the amusements, even of our own countrymen, that have occurred in some parts of this refined and Christian nation. "Many of the interludes are filled up with a boxing match, which becomes memorable by feats of gouging. When two boxers are wearied with fighting and bruising each other, they come to close quarters, each endeavoring to twist his forefinger into the earlocks of his antagonist. When they are thus fast clenched, the thumbs are extended, and both the eyes are turned out of their sockets. The victor is hailed with shouts of applause from the sporting throng, while his poor antagonist, thus blinded for life, is laughed at for his misfortune."

One very striking fact bearing on this subject has been established by experience, and that is, that extreme suffering, either mental or bodily, tends to awaken the desire to inflict evil upon other minds. This is probably one mode of accounting for the increased cruelty of the Roman emperors. As the powers of enjoyment diminished by abuse, and the horrors of guilt harassed their spirits, this dreadful desire to torment others was awakened.

There are many undisputed facts to establish the principle that extreme suffering is the cause of terrible malignity. The following is from a statement of Mr. Byron, who was shipwrecked on the coast of South America: "So terrible was the scene of foaming breakers, that one of the bravest men could not help expressing his dismay, saying it was too shocking to bear. In this dreadful situation malignant passions began to appear. The crew grew extremely riotous, and fell to beating every thing in their way, and broke open chests and cabins for plunder that could be of no use. So earnest were they in this wantonness of theft, that in the morning a strangled corpse was found of one who had contested the spoil."

A still more terrible picture is given in an account of the loss of the Medusa frigate on the coast of Africa. In the midst of dreadful suffering from cold, danger, and famine, it is recorded that "a spirit of sedition arose and manifested itself by furious shouts. The soldiers and sailors began to cut the ropes, and declared their intention of murdering the officers. About midnight, they rushed on the officers like desperate men, each having a knife or sabre, and such was their fury that they tore their clothes and their flesh with their teeth. The next morning the raft was strewed with dead bodies. The succeeding night was passed in similar horrors, and the morning sun saw twelve more lifeless bodies. The next night of suffering was attended with a horrid massacre, and thus it continued till only fifteen remained of the whole one hundred and fifty!"

Another principle of mind having a bearing on this subject is the fact that those qualities of mind which are the causes of enjoyment in others around may be viewed with only pain and dislike by a selfish person. Thus intellectual superiority, in itself considered, is a delightful object of contemplation; but if it becomes the means of degradation or of contemptuous comparison to a selfish mind, it is viewed with unmingled pain. Benevolence and truth are objects of delightful contemplation to all minds when disconnected with obligations or painful comparisons, but if they are viewed as causes of evil to a selfish mind, it will view them with unmingled dislike and hatred.

Now we find that there are two classes of minds in this world: those who are more or less benevolent, and find their happiness in living to promote the general interests of their fellow-beings, and those who are selfish, and are living to promote their own enjoyment irrespective of the general happiness.

If, then, we reason from the known laws of mind and from past experience, we must suppose that the habits of mind which are existing in this life will continue to increase, and if the mind is immortal, a time must come when one class will become perfectly benevolent and the other perfectly selfish. A community of perfectly benevolent beings, it has been shown, would, from the very nature and constitution of mind, be a perfectly happy community. Every source of enjoyment of which mind is capable would be secured by every individual.

It can be seen, also, that there must, in the nature of the case, be an entire separation between two such opposite classes; for it is as painful for minds suffering from conscious guilt, shame, and malignity, to look upon purity, benevolence, and happiness, as it is for the virtuous to associate with the selfish, the debased, and the abandoned. This separation, therefore, would be a voluntary one on both sides, even did we suppose no interference of Deity. But if the Creator continues his present constitution of things, we may infer that his power would be exerted to prevent the intrusion of malignity into a perfect and well-ordered community; for he has so constituted things here, that those who are incorrigible pests to society are confined from interfering with its interests.

From the laws of mind, then, and from past experience as to the tendencies of things, we can establish the position that, at some future period, if the mind of man is immortal, the human race will be permanently divided into two classes, the perfectly selfish and the perfectly benevolent.

Should it be objected to this conclusion that when the mind passes into another world more effectual motives may be brought to operate, it may be replied that it is not the office of reason to meet suppositions of possibilities, but to show what the probabilities are by deductions from principles already known. A thousand possibilities may be asserted, such as the annihilation of mind or the alteration of its powers, but these are mere suppositions, and have nothing to do with the conclusions of reason.

If mind is immortal and continues its present nature, habits will continue to strengthen; and in regard to motives, we know already that the fear of evil consequences will not save from continuance in crime. How often has a man who has yielded to habits of guilt been seen writhing in the agonies of remorse, longing to free himself from the terrible evils he has drawn around him, acknowledging the misery of his course and his ability to return to virtue, and yet, with bitter anguish, yielding to the force of inveterate habits and despairing of any remedy.

We know, also, that it is a principle established by long experience, that punishment does not tend to soften and reform. Where is the hardened culprit that was ever brought to repentance and reformation by lashes or the infliction of degradation? Such means serve only to harden and brutify. Experience forbids the hope that punishment will ever restore a selfish and guilty mind to virtue and peace.

Reason and experience, then, both lead to the conclusion that the two classes of minds into which mankind are here divided will, on leaving this world, eventually become two permanently distinct communities—one perfectly selfish, and the other perfectly benevolent.

What, then, would reason and experience teach us as to the probable situation of a community of minds constituted like those of the human race, who, in the progress of future ages, shall establish habits of perfect selfishness and crime?

In regard to the Creator, what may we suppose will be the feelings of such minds? If he is a benevolent, pure, and perfectly happy being, and his power is exerted to confine them from inflicting evil on the good, he will be the object of unmingled and tormenting envy, hatred, and spite; for when a selfish mind beholds a being with characteristics which exhibit its own vileness in painful contrast, and using his power to oppose its desires, what might in other circumstances give pleasure will only be cause of pain. If they behold, also, the purity and happiness of that community of benevolent beings from which they will be withdrawn, the same baleful passions will be awakened in view of their excellence and enjoyment.

There is no suffering of the mind more dreaded and avoided than that of shame. It is probable a guilty creature never writhes under keener burnings of spirit than when all his course of meanness, baseness, ingratitude, and guilt is unveiled in the presence of dignified virtue, honor, and purity, and the withering glance of pity, contempt, and abhorrence is encountered. This feeling must be experienced, to its full extent, by every member of such a wretched community. Each must feel himself an object of loathing and contempt to every pure and benevolent mind, as well as to all those who are equally debased.

Another cause of suffering is ungratified desire. In this world, perfect misery and full happiness is seldom contrasted. But in such circumstances, if we suppose that the happiness of blessed minds will be known, the keenest pangs of ungratified desire must torment. Every mind will know what is the pure delight of yielded and reciprocated affection, of sympathy in the happiness of others, of the sweet peace of conscious rectitude, and of the delightful consciousness of conferring bliss on others, while the ceaseless cravings of hopeless desire will agonize the spirit.

Another cause of suffering is found in the loss of enjoyment. In such a degraded and selfish community, all ties of country, kindred, friendship, and love must cease. Yet all will know what were the endearments of home, the mild soothings of maternal love, the ties of fraternal sympathy, and all the trust and tenderness of friendship and love. What vanished blessing of earth would not rise up, with all the sweetness and freshness that agonizing memory can bring, to aggravate the loss of all!

But the mind is so made that, however wicked itself, guilt and selfishness in others is hated and despised. Such a company, then, might be described as those who were "hateful and hating one another." It has been shown that both suffering and selfishness awaken the desire to torment others. This, then, will be the detested purpose of every malignant mind. Every action that could irritate, mortify, and enrage, would be deliberately practiced, while disappointed hopes, and blasted desires, and agonizing misery would alone awaken the smile of horrible delight. And if we suppose such minds in a future state reclothed in a body, with all the present susceptibilities of suffering, and surrounded by material elements that may be ministers of hate, what mind can conceive the terror and chaos of a world where every one is actuated by a desire to torment?

Suppose these beings had arrived at only such a degree of selfishness as has been witnessed in this world; such, for example, as Genghis Khan, who caused unoffending prisoners to be pounded to death with bricks in a mortar; or Nero, who dressed the harmless Christians in flaming pitch for his amusement; or Antiochus Epiphanes and Mustapha, who spent their time in devising and executing the most excruciating tortures on those who could do them no injury. What malignity and baleful passions would actuate such minds, when themselves tormented by others around, bereft of all hope, and with nothing to interest them but plans of torment and revenge! What refined systems of cruelty would be devised in such a world! what terrific combinations of the elements to terrify and distress! If such objects as "the lake which burneth with fire and brimstone, and the worm that never dies," could be found, no Almighty hand would need to interfere, while the "smoke of their torment" would arise from flames of their own kindling.

To fearful sufferings thus inflicted would be added the pangs of agitating fear; for where all around were plotting misery, what relief, by day or by night, from its withering terrors? Then surely "fear would come upon them like desolation, and destruction as a whirlwind."

Another cause of suffering is inactivity of body and mind. It has been seen that the desire of good is what gives activity to the intellectual and moral powers. In such a world, no good could be hoped or sought, but the gratification of inflicting ill. And even a malignant mind must often weary in this pursuit, and sink under all the weight and misery of that awful death of the soul, when, in torpid inactivity, it has nothing to love, nothing to hope, nothing to desire!

Another cause of misery is the consciousness of guilt; and such, even in this life, have been the agonies of remorse, that tearing the hair, bruising the body, and even gnawing the flesh have been resorted to as a temporary relief from its pangs. What, then, would be its agonizing throes in bosoms that live but to torment and to destroy all good to themselves and to other minds?

In this life, where we can allow the mind to be engrossed by other pursuits, and where we can thus form a habit of suppressing and avoiding emotions of guilt, the conscience may be seared. But it could not be thus when all engaging and cheerful pursuits were ended forever. Then the mind would view its folly, and shame, and guilt in all their length and breadth, and find no escape from the soul-harrowing gaze.

To these miseries must be added despair—the loss of all hope. Here hope comes to all; but, in such a community, that fearful susceptibility of the soul—that terrific power of habit—would bind in chains which would be felt to be stronger than brass and heavier than iron. If the spirit is conscious that its powers are immortal, with this consciousness would come the despairing certainty of increasing and never-ending woe!

This terrifying and heart-rending picture, it must be remembered, is the deduction of reason, and who can point out its fallacy? Is not habit appalling in its power, and ofttimes, even in this life, inveterate in its hold? Are not habits increased by perpetual repetition? Is not the mind of man immortal? Do not the tendencies of this life indicate a period when a total separation of selfish and benevolent minds will be their own voluntary choice? If all the comforts, gentle endearments, and the enlivening hopes of this life; if all the restraints of self-interest, family, country, and laws; if in Christian lands the offers of heaven, and the fearful predictions of eternal woe; if the mercy and pardon, and all the love and pity of our Creator and Redeemer, neither by fear, nor by gratitude, nor by love, can turn a selfish mind, what hope of its recovery when it goes a stranger into a world of spirits, to sojourn in that society which, according to its moral habits, it must voluntarily seek? And if there exists a community of such selfish beings, can language portray, with any adequacy, the appalling results that must necessarily ensue?

CHAPTER XXVIII.
CHARACTER OF THE CREATOR.

The preceding pages have exhibited the nature of mind, the object of its formation, the right mode of action to secure this object, and the causes and results of its right and wrong action, as indicated by reason and experience.

We are now furnished with farther data to guide us in regard to the character of our Creator, as we seek it by the light of reason alone.

We have seen, in the chapter on intuitive truths, that by the first of these principles we arrive at the knowledge of some eternal First Cause of all finite things.

By another of these principles we deduce certain particulars in regard to his character as exhibited through his works. This principle is thus expressed: "Design is evidence of an intelligent cause, and the nature of a design proves the character and intention of the author." We are now prepared to show how much must be included in this truth.

Our only idea of "an intelligent cause" is that of a mind like our own. This being so, we assume that we are instructed, by the very constitution of our own minds, that our Creator is a being endowed with intellect, susceptibilities, and will, and a part of these susceptibilities are those included in our moral constitution.

This moral nature, which we are thus led to ascribe to our Creator, includes, in the first place, the existence of a feeling that whatever lessens or destroys happiness is unfitted to the system of the universe, and that voluntary sacrifice and suffering to purchase the highest possible happiness is fitted to or in accordance with the eternal nature of things.

Next, we are thus taught that in the Eternal Mind is existing that sense of justice which involves the desire of good to the author of good, and of evil to the author of evil, which requires that such retributions be proportioned to the good and evil done, and to the voluntary power of the agent.

Lastly, we are thus instructed that the Author of all created things possesses that susceptibility called conscience, which includes, in the very constitution of mind itself, retributions for right and wrong actions.

But while we thus assume that the mind of the Creator is, so far as we can conceive, precisely like our own in constitutional organization, we are as necessarily led to perceive that the extent of these powers is far beyond our own. A mind with the power, wisdom, and goodness exhibited in the very small portion of his works submitted to our inspection, who has inhabited eternity, and developed and matured through everlasting ages—our minds are lost in attempting any conception of the extent of such infinite faculties!

But we have another intuitive truth to aid in our deductions. It is that by which we infer the continuance of a uniformity in our experience; that is, we necessarily believe that "things will continue as they are and have been, unless there is evidence to the contrary." Now all past experience as to the nature of mind has been uniform. Every mind known to us is endowed with intellect, susceptibility, and will, like our own. So much is this the case, that when any of these are wanting in a human being, we say he has "lost his mind."

Again: all our experience of mind involves the idea of the mutual relation of minds. We perceive that minds are made to match to other minds, so that there can be no complete action of mind, according to its manifest design, except in relation to other beings. A mind can not love till there is another mind to call forth such emotion. A mind can not bring a tithe of its power into appropriate action except in a community of minds. The conception of a solitary being, with all the social powers and sympathies of the human mind infinitely enlarged, and yet without any sympathizing mind to match and meet them, involves the highest idea of unfitness and imperfection conceivable.

Thus it is that past experience of the nature of mind leads to the inference that no mind has existed from all eternity in solitude, but that there is more than one eternal, uncreated mind, and that all their powers of enjoyment from giving and receiving happiness in social relations have been in exercise from eternal ages. This is the just and natural deduction of reason and experience, as truly as the deduction that there is at least one eternal First Cause.

It has been argued that the unity of design in the works of nature proves that there is but one creating mind. This is not so, for in all our experience of the creations of finite beings no great design was ever formed without a combination of minds, both to plan and to execute. The majority of minds in all ages, both heathen and Christian, have always conceived of the Creator as in some way existing so as to involve the ideas of plurality and of the love and communion of one mind with another.

Without a revelation, also, we have the means of arriving at the conclusion that the Creator of all things is not only a mind organized just like our own, but that he always has and always will feel and act right. We infer this from both his social and his moral constitution; for he must, as our own minds do, desire the love, reverence, and confidence of his creatures. The fact that he has made them to love truth, justice, benevolence, and self-sacrificing virtue is evidence that he has and will exhibit these and all other excellences that call forth affection.

But we have still stronger evidence. We have seen all the causes that experience has taught as the leading to the wrong action of mind. These are necessarily excluded from our conceptions of the Creator. The Eternal Mind can not err for want of knowledge, nor for want of habits of right action, nor for want of teachers and educators, nor for want of those social influences which generate and sustain a right governing purpose; for an infinite mind, that never had a beginning, can not have these modes of experience which appertain to new-born and finite creatures.

Again: we have seen that it is one of the implanted principles of reason that "no rational mind will choose evil without hope of compensating good." Such is the eternal system of the universe, as we learn it by the light of reason, that the highest possible happiness to each individual mind and to the whole commonwealth is promoted by the right action of every mind in that system. This, of necessity, is seen and felt by the All-creating and Eternal Mind, and to suppose that, with this knowledge, he would ever choose wrong is to suppose that he would choose pure evil, and this is contrary to an intuitive truth. It is to suppose the Creator would do what he has formed our minds to believe to be impossible in any rational mind. It is to suppose that the Creator would do that which, if done by human beings, marks them as insane.

CHAPTER XXIX.
ON PERFECT AND IMPERFECT MINDS.

We are now prepared to inquire in regard to what constitutes a perfect mind. This question relates, in the first place, to the perfect constitutional organization of mind, and, in the next place, to the perfect action of mind.

In regard to a finite mind, when we inquire as to its perfection in organization, we are necessarily restricted to the question of the object or end for which it is made. Any contrivance in mind or matter is perfect when it is so formed that, if worked according to its design, it completely fulfills the end for which it is made, so that there is no way in which it could be improved.

It is here claimed, then, that by the light of reason alone we first gain the object for which mind is made, and then arrive at the conclusion that the mind of man is perfect in construction, because, if worked according to its design, it would completely fulfill the end for which it is made, so that there is no conceivable way in which it could be improved. This position can not be controverted except by presenting evidence that some other organization of the mind would produce, in an eternal and infinite system, more good with less evil than the present one.

In regard to the Eternal Mind, the only standard of perfection in organization that we can conceive of is revealed in our own mind. Every thing in our own minds—every thing around us—every thing we have known in past experience, is designed to produce the most possible happiness with the least possible evil. We can not conceive of any being as wise, or just, or good, but as he acts to promote that end.

A mind organized like our own, with faculties infinitely enlarged, who always has and always will sustain a controlling purpose to act right, is the only idea we can have of an all-perfect Creator.

But on the subject of the perfect action of finite minds it is perceived that reference must always be had to voluntary power and its limitations. We have shown that the implanted susceptibility, called the sense of justice, demands that the rewards and penalties for good and evil have reference to the knowledge and power of a voluntary agent; that is to say, it is contrary to our moral nature voluntarily to inflict penalties for wrong action on a being who either has no power to know what right is, or no power to do it. We revolt from such inflictions with instinctive abhorrence, as unfit and contrary to the design of all things.

So, in forming our judgment of the Creator, when we regard him as perfectly just, the idea implies that he will never voluntarily inflict evil for wrong action on beings who have not the knowledge or power to act right.

Here we are again forced to the assumption of some eternal nature of things independent of the Creator's will, by which ignorant and helpless creatures are exposed to suffering from wrong action when they have no power of any kind to act right.

For we see such suffering actually does exist, and there are but two suppositions possible. The one is, that it results from the Creator's voluntary acts, and the other, that it is inherent in that eternal nature of things which the Creator can no more alter than he can destroy his own necessary and eternal existence.

In judging of the perfect action of finite minds, we are obliged to regard the question in two relations. In the primary relation we have reference to actions which, in all the infinite relations of a vast and eternal system of free agents, are fitted to secure the most possible good with the least possible evil. In this relation, so far as we can judge by experience and reason, no finite being ever did or ever can act perfectly from the first to the last of its volitions. In this relation, every human being is certainly, necessarily, and inevitably imperfect in action.

But when the question of perfection in action simply has reference to the knowledge and power of the voluntary agent, we come to another result. In this relation, any mind acts perfectly when it forms a ruling purpose to feel and act right in all things, when it takes all possible means of learning what is right, and when it actually carries out this purpose, so far as it has knowledge and power.

If a human mind is, as has been shown, perfect in that organization of its powers for which the Creator is responsible, and then forms and carries out such a ruling purpose, it is, so far as we can learn without revelation, as perfect in action as is possible in the nature of things; that is to say, it voluntarily acts to promote the greatest possible good with the least possible evil as entirely as is possible, and as really as does the Creator, who himself is limited by the nature of things.

It is as impossible for a finite mind to act right, when it does not know what right is, as it is for the Eternal Mind to make and sustain a system in which there has been and never will be any wrong action to cause pain to himself and to other minds.

What, then, so far as we can learn without a revelation, is a perfect mind in such a system of things as we find in this world? It is a mind constituted like our own, which has formed a ruling purpose to feel and act right in all things, which takes all possible means in its reach to learn what is right, and which actually carries out this purpose to the extent of its power.

In shorter terms, in this relation every human mind is perfect, both in constitution and in action, so long as it acts as near right as is in its present power. At the same time, in relation to the infinite and eternal standard of rectitude, its action may be very imperfect.

We next inquire as to the evidence of a perfect mind in this secondary relation; that is to say, how can we know when a mind does reach the full measure of its power in voluntary right action?

In regard to this we have two sources of evidence: first, the mental consciousness of the acting mind itself, and, next, the results of its action. In regard to the first, every mind, in reference either to its mental states or external deeds, can have as much certainty as to the extent of its power as it can of any thing. If we choose to feel in a given way, or to perform a given act, and what we choose does not follow, we are certain we have no power to do the thing. All the idea of power we have is that volition is followed by the result chosen. All the idea we have of want of power is that the result chosen does not follow the volition.

Every mind, then, in regard to every specific volition, has the most perfect of all evidence as to the extent of its powers in its own experience.

But the question is a more difficult one in reference to a generic governing volition. A perfectly acting mind, according to our definition, is one that has formed a generic governing volition to feel and act right in all respects; that is, it decides that the chief end of existence shall be to promote the greatest possible happiness with the least possible evil, in obedience to all, physical, social, and moral laws of the Creator, so far as it is within the reach of its powers.

Now, as to this simple act of choice, a mind can have the highest possible evidence in its own consciousness. The only question of difficulty would be as to the extent of its powers to carry out this decision, and the correspondence of all its subordinate volitions with this generic purpose.

To ascertain the truth on this point, let us suppose a mind that has the highest evidence (that of internal consciousness) that it has formed such a purpose. Then comes a case where a subordinate decision is to be made—say it relates to the existence of a certain feeling or emotion, such as love, fear, gratitude, or sorrow. It has been shown that these emotions are not to be evoked into existence by a simple act of will. The mode by which the mind controls its own desires and emotions is set forth on page 162. If, then, the person chooses to do all that is in its power at the given time to awaken these emotions, its action is perfect in this respect: it has fulfilled the measure of its power. It reaches the limit of its power when it can find nothing more that an act of choice will secure that it perceives will tend to accomplish the end chosen. That is to say, at each given moment, when a mind is aiming to know what is right, and to do it, if it has done all it perceives can be done by any act of will toward this end, then its decision or mental action is perfect; it is as good as is possible in the nature of things.

We have the same method of testing our power in regard to the prevention of desires and emotions. No matter how painful or inappropriate may be the desires and emotions of any mind, it is acting perfectly when it goes to the full extent of its power to extinguish or to control them according to the rules of rectitude. If it wills to have them otherwise, and uses the appropriate modes to have them so, this is all it has power to do.

In reference to external actions, there are an infinite variety of circumstances that must decide the character of actions as right or wrong. An action which is wise and benevolent in one set of circumstances becomes foolish and selfish in another combination. More than half the questions of right and wrong action are to be decided as to their character by the surrounding circumstances, while no mind but the one that is infinite and omniscient can pronounce with certainty on actions whose character is dependent on circumstances and probable future results.

What, then, is the limitation of power in these cases? How can we know when we act as nearly right as it is in our power?

In the first place, we can have the high evidence of consciousness that our chief end in life is to act right in all things. In the next place, we can know certainly whether there is any thing more that we can do to find out what the right course is. When we have decided that we have done all we can in the given circumstances, and then are conscious that we choose what we believe to be right, or that which has to our mind the balance of evidence in its favor as right, we act perfectly; that is to say, we have reached the full measure of our power in voluntarily acting right.

But, besides this evidence, that rests mainly on internal consciousness of the nature of our volitions, we have other evidence to guide us. It has been shown in the previous pages how our thoughts, and desires, and emotions are all dependent on the generic purposes of the mind. Whatever is the chief end of life is the object which excites the strongest interest and calls forth the deepest emotions. Therefore, when a mind has chosen to act right as the chief end, all its tastes, desires, and emotions become conformed to this purpose. Whatever is seen as tending to promote this end is more desired and valued than any thing else. Whatever is seen to interfere with this is regarded with dissatisfaction.

This being so, a mind that is controlled by a ruling purpose to act right finds those persons and places the most congenial and agreeable who can lend the most aid in pointing out all that is wrong in thought, word, or deed, and in helping, by instruction, sympathy, and example, to do right. One great test, then, of the existence and strength of such a ruling purpose is the manner in which those are regarded who are most interested in finding out and doing what is right themselves, and in aiding others to do so.

To be "meek and lowly in heart," so as to seek help in learning what is right from every source, however humble or however imperfectly offered, is the surest indication that a mind is under the entire control of a ruling purpose to do right, and is thus a perfect mind.

Such a mind, it must be seen, has tendencies that fit it to that great system of things in which we find ourselves. Such a mind can not trace out these tendencies by the light of reason alone without a conviction that somewhere in the progress of ages it will attain to a perfect commonwealth, where the great end and object of the Creator in forming mind will be carried to entire perfection in each individual mind and in the all-perfect whole!

CHAPTER XXX.
ON THE PROBABLE EXISTENCE AND CHARACTER OF DISEMBODIED SPIRITS.

We have considered the mode by which, without revelation, we arrive at a knowledge of the existence and character of one eternal, self-existent Creator, and of other eternal beings endowed with all the attributes of the human mind.

We will next inquire as to the existence of other created minds in addition to those whose existence is manifested by a material body. There are several principles of reason to aid us in this inquiry. The first is that which establishes the existence of mind and matter as two distinct and diverse causes or existences. By this we decide that every human being has a body and a soul.

The second principle of reason to guide us is that which teaches us to believe that things continue to exist as they are and have been, unless there is some known cause to destroy or change them.

The other principles to guide us are, that nothing is to be assumed to be true unless there is some evidence that it is so, and, in case of conflicting evidence, the balance of evidence is to decide what is right and true.

These principles being assumed, we find that at the death of every human being we have evidence, first, that the body ceases to be connected with the spirit, and is dissolved.

Next, we have evidence at the period of this dissolving of soul and body that the soul exists without a body, and no evidence that it is changed in any of its powers, or habits, or character.

Thus we arrive at the conclusion that the spirits that have existed in this life connected with bodies are still existing with all the powers, habits, and character which they possessed in this life, except as they are modified by causes and tendencies that experience in this life has disclosed. We thus infer that all minds who have left this world have continued in the upward or downward tendencies of character which existed when they were disconnected with the body.

This is all the knowledge we can gain by reason and experience alone in reference to other created beings, and their character and mode of existence.

As to the time when the soul commences existence, we have no evidence of such existence except what is manifested in the body. We can only infer, then, that the soul begins to exist when the evidence of its existence commences in the body. To assert that it begins before that time is to violate the principle of reason which forbids us to assume any thing to be true unless there is evidence of it.

Thus, without a revelation, we are led to a belief in the existence of two classes of disembodied spirits, the good and the bad. But we have no evidence of the existence of any other created minds except those that have formerly been connected with bodies in this world.

So far as animals give evidence of possessing an independent spiritual existence, the same argument that proves the continued existence of the human mind after death, proves that the animal spirit, if there be one, continues after the dissolution of the body.

But we can not reason in regard to animals as we can in regard to human minds, for we never had the experience of animal existence to commence with, as we have our own experience in reasoning as to the nature and experience of mind in reference to other beings of the same race.

CHAPTER XXXI.
PROBABILITIES IN REGARD TO A REVELATION FROM THE CREATOR.

We have now completed our investigations as to the nature and amount of knowledge to be gained on the great questions of life by reason and experience independently of a revelation.

We have assumed that the great cause of the disordered action of mind is that it commences action in perfect ignorance, while all those causes which experience shows to be indispensable to its right action, to a greater or less degree, are wanting.

The great want of our race is perfect educators to train new-born minds, who are infallible teachers of what is right and true.

We have presented the evidence gained by reason and experience that the Creator is perfect in mental constitution, and that he always has acted right, and always will thus act. This being granted, we infer that he always has done the best that is possible for the highest good of his creatures in this world, and that he always will continue to do so.

We proceed to inquire in regard to what would be the best that it is possible to do for us in this state of being, so far as we can conceive.

Inasmuch as the great cause of the wrong action of mind is the ignorance and imperfection of those who are its educators in the beginning of its existence, we should infer that the best possible thing to be done for our race would be to provide some perfect and infallible teacher to instruct those who are to educate mind. This being granted, then all would concede that the Creator himself would be our best teacher, and that, if he would come to us himself in a visible form to instruct the educators of mind in all they need to know for themselves and for the new-born minds committed to their care, it would be the best thing we can conceive of for the highest good of our race.

We next inquire as to the best conceivable mode by which the Creator can manifest himself so as to secure credence.

To decide this, let each one suppose the case his own. Let a man make his appearance claiming to be the Creator. We can perceive that his mere word would never command the confidence of intelligent practical men. Thousands of impostors have appeared and made such claims, deceiving the weak and ignorant and disgusting the wise.

In case the person with such claims proved to be ever so benevolent and intelligent, if we had no other evidence than his word, it would, by sensible persons, be regarded as the result of some mental hallucination.

But suppose that a person making claims to be the Creator of all things, or to be a messenger from him, should attest his claim by shaking the earth, or tearing up a mountain, or turning back the floods of the ocean, it would be impossible for any man to witness these miracles without believing that the Author of all things thus attested his own presence or the authority of his messenger. We have shown that, in the very organization of mind, one of the intuitive truths would necessarily force such a belief on all sane minds.

One other method would be as effective. Should this person predict events so improbable and so beyond all human intelligence as to be equivalent to an equal interruption of experience as to the laws of mind, as time developed the fulfillment of these predictions, the same belief would be induced in the authority of the person thus supernaturally endowed.

In the first case, the evidence would be immediate and most powerful in its inception. In the latter case, the power of the evidence would increase with time.

Miracles and prophecy, then, are the only methods that we can conceive of that would, as our minds are now constituted, insure belief in revelations from the Creator.

But if every human being, in order to believe, must have miracles, there would result such an incessant violation of the laws of nature as to destroy them, and thus to destroy all possibility of miracles.

The only possible way, then, is to have miracles occur at certain periods of time, and then have them adequately recorded and preserved.

This method involves the necessity of interpreting written documents. If, then, the Creator has provided such revelations, the question occurs as to how far they may be accessible to all men. Are there revelations from the Creator in such a form that all men can gain access to them and interpret them for themselves, or are they so recorded that only a few can gain the knowledge they impart, while the many are helplessly dependent on the few?

It is with reference to this question that the interpretation of language becomes a subject of vital and infinite interest to every human being. This subject will therefore occupy the remaining portion of this volume.

CHAPTER XXXII.
INTERPRETATION OF LANGUAGE.

The mind of man is confined in its operations by the material system it inhabits, and has no modes of communicating with other minds except through the medium of the eye and ear. It is by signs addressed to the eye and by sounds affecting the ear that ideas are communicated and received.

It is by the power of association, which enables us to recall certain ideas together which have been frequently united, that the use of language is gained. The infant finds certain states of mind produced by material objects invariably connected with certain sounds. This is done so often that whenever a certain perception occurs, the sound recurs which has been so often united with it.

If language is correctly defined as "any sound or sign which conveys the ideas of one mind to another," it is probable that children learn language at a much earlier period than is generally imagined. It is impossible to know how soon the infant notices the soft tones of its own voice when happy, or the moaning or shrill sound that expresses its own pain, and by comparing them with those of its mother, learns, through its little process of reasoning, that another spirit has emotions of pleasure and pain corresponding with its own. Nor can we determine how soon these pleasant sounds of the mother's voice begin to be associated with the benignant smile, or the tones of grief with the sorrowful expression, or the tones of anger with the frowning brow.

It seems very rational to suppose that sound, to the infant mind, is what first leads to the belief of the emotions of another mind, by means of a comparison of its own sounds with those originating from another. After this is done, the eye comes in for a share in these offices. The little reasoner, after thousands of experiments, finds the pleasant sound always united with the smiling face, until the object of vision becomes the sign for recalling the idea at first obtained by sound. In gaining the common use of language, we know this is the order of succession. We first learn the sounds that recall ideas, and then, by means of a frequent union of these sounds with some visible sign, the power once possessed simply by the sound is conveyed to the sign. Thus we have words that are sounds and words that are visible signs.

The communion of one spirit with that of others in every-day life is maintained ordinarily through the medium of sounds; but when distance intervenes, or when some record is to be preserved of the thoughts and feelings of other beings, then signs addressed to the eye are employed. In civilized nations, the signs used are a certain number of arbitrary marks, which are arranged in a great variety of combinations, and each combination is employed to recall some particular idea or combination of ideas. These arbitrary signs are called letters, and in the English language there are only twenty-six; yet, by the almost infinite variety of combination of which these are capable, every idea which one mind wishes to communicate to another can be expressed.

A written word is a single letter or a combination of letters used as a sign to recall one or more ideas. It is considered by the mind as a unit or whole thing, of which the letters are considered as parts, and is shown to be a unit by intervals or blank spaces that separate it from the other words of a sentence. The fact that it is considered by the mind as a unit, or a sign separate from all other combinations of letters, is the peculiarity which constitutes it a word. A syllable is a combination of letters which is not considered as a unit, but is considered as a part of a word.

Words are used to recall the ideas of things, qualities, changes, and circumstances. Some words recall the idea of a thing without any other idea connected with it; such are the words mind, ivory. Some words recall the idea of quality simply, such as red, hard, sweet. Some words recall the ideas of change merely, such as motion, action. Some words recall simply the idea of relation or circumstance, such as on, under, about. Sometimes ideas of things, and their actions and relations, are recalled by the same sign; thus wrestler recalls the idea of a thing and its action, and giant of a thing and its relation. Some words recall a variety of ideas; thus the term begone recalls the idea of two things, of the desire of a mind and of its mode of expression.

In the process of learning language, mankind first acquire names for the several things, qualities, changes, and circumstances that they notice, and afterward learn the process of combining these names, so as to convey the mental combination of one mind to another. A person might have names for all his ideas, and yet, if he had never learned the art of properly combining these signs, he never could communicate the varied conceptions of his own mind to another person. Suppose, for illustration, that a child had learned the meaning of the terms cup, spoon, the, put, into, little, my; it would be impossible for him to express his wish till he had learned the proper arrangement of each term, and then he could convey the conception and wishes of his own mind, viz., "Put the spoon into my little cup."

We see, then, how the new combinations of ideas in one mind can be conveyed to another. The two persons must both have the same ideas attached to the same sign of language, and must each understand the mode of combination to be employed. When this is done, if one person sees a new object, he can send to his friend the signs which represent all its qualities, circumstances, and changes arranged in a proper manner. The absent person will then arrange the conceptions recalled by these words, so as to correspond with those of his correspondent.

In all languages, the same word often is used to recall different ideas, and the meaning of words depends often on their mode of combination.

The art of interpreting consists in ascertaining the particular ideas conveyed by words in a given combination.

There are two modes of using language which need to be distinctly pointed out, viz., literal and figurative.

In order to understand these modes, it is necessary to refer to the principles of association. Neither our perceptions or conceptions are ever single, disconnected objects except when the power of abstraction is employed. Ordinarily, various objects are united together in the mind, and those objects which are most frequently united in our perceptions, as a matter of course, are those which are most frequently united in our conceptions.

Now, by the power of abstraction, the mind can regard the same object sometimes as a unit or whole, and sometimes can disconnect it, and consider it as several distinct things. Thus it happens that ideas which are connected by the principles of association are sometimes regarded as a whole, and sometimes are disconnected, and considered as separate existences.

Language will be found to be constructed in exact conformity to this phenomenon of mind. We shall find that objects ordinarily united together, as cause and effect, have the same name given, sometimes to the cause, sometimes to the effects, and sometimes it embraces the whole; or the thing, its causes and its effects. As an example of this use of language may be mentioned the term pride. We sometimes hear those objects which are the cause of pride receiving that name. Thus a child is called the pride of its parents. The same name is applied simply to the state of mind, as when a man is said to be under the influence of pride, while the effects of pride receive the same appellation when we hear a haughty demeanor and consequential deportment called pride. The term is used in its most extended signification as including the thing, its causes, and its effects, when we hear of the "pride of this world," which is soon to pass away, signifying equally the causes of this feeling, the feeling itself, and the effects of it.

Literal language is that in which all words have the ordinary meaning as commonly used.

Figurative language is that in which the ordinary names, qualities, and actions of things are ascribed to other things with which they have been associated.

As an example of the use of language which is figurative, we find tears, that are the effects of grief, called by the name of the cause; thus:

"Streaming grief his faded cheek bedewed."

On the contrary, we find the cause called by the name of the effects in this sentence:

"And hoary hairs received the reverence due."

Here age is called by the name of one of its effects.

The indiscriminate application of names to things which have been connected by time, place, or resemblance, abounds in figurative language. The following is an example where one object is called by the name of another with which it has been connected by place:

"The groves give forth their songs."

Here birds are called by the name of the groves with which they have been so often united as it respects place. The following is an example where an object is called by the name of another with which it is connected by time:

"And night weighed down his heavy eyes."

Here sleep is called by the name of night, with which it has been so often united. The following is an example where one object is called by the name of another with which it has been connected by the principle of resemblance:

"You took her up, a little, tender bud,

Just sprouted on a bank."

Here a young female is called by the name of an object with which she is connected by the association of resemblance. When one object is thus called by the name of another which it resembles, the figure of speech is called a metaphor.

When dominion is called a sceptre; the office of a bishop, the lawn; the profession of Christianity, the cross; a dwelling is called a roof; and various expressions of this kind, one thing is called by the name of another of which it is a part, or with which it has been connected as a circumstance, cause, or effect.

Not only do objects which have been united in our perceptions receive each other's names, but the qualities of one are often ascribed to the other. The following are examples in which the qualities of the cause are ascribed to the effect, and the qualities of the effect are ascribed to the cause:

"An impious mortal gave a daring wound."

Here the quality of the cause is ascribed to the effect.

"The merry pipe is heard."

Here the quality of the effect is ascribed to the cause. The following is an example where the quality of one thing is ascribed to another connected with it by time:

"Now musing midnight hallows all the scene."

The following is an example of the quality of one thing ascribed to another, connected with it by place:

"when sapless age

Shall bring thy father to his drooping chair."

We have examples of the qualities of one thing ascribed to another which it resembles in such expressions as these—"imperious ocean," "tottering state," "raging tempest." The following is an example of a thing called by the name of one of its qualities or attending circumstances:

"What art thou, that usurpest this time of night,

Together with the fair and warlike form

In which the majesty of buried Denmark

Did sometimes walk?"

Here a king is called by the name of a quality and by the name of his kingdom.

It is owing to the principle of association that another mode of figurative language is employed called personification. This consists in speaking of a quality which belongs to living beings as if it were the being in which such a quality was found. This is owing to the fact that the conceptions of qualities of mind are always united with some being, and therefore such ideas are connected ones. Thus it is said in the sacred writings,

"Mercy and truth are met together."

"Righteousness and peace have embraced each other."

"Wisdom crieth aloud, she uttereth her voice."

Another mode of personification is owing to the fact that the actions and relations of inanimate existences very often resemble those of living beings, so that such ideas are associated by the principle of resemblance. In such cases, the actions, properties, and relations of living beings are ascribed to inanimate objects. Thus, when the sea roars and lifts its waves toward the skies, the actions are similar to those of a man when he raises his arm in supplication. An example of this kind of figurative language is found in this sublime personification of Scripture: "The mountains saw thee, and trembled; the overflowing of the waters passed by; the deep uttereth his voice, and lifted up his hands on high; the sun and moon stood still in their habitations." Other examples of this kind are found when we hear it said that "the fields smile," "the woods clap their hands," "the skies frown," and the like.

One cause of figurative language is found in the similarity of effects produced on the body by operations of mind and operations of matter. Whatever causes affect the mind in a similar manner are called by the same name. Thus, when a man endeavors to penetrate a hard substance, the muscles of his head and neck are affected in a particular manner. The same muscles are affected in a similar way when a person makes powerful and reiterated efforts to comprehend a difficult subject. Both these actions, therefore, are called by the same name, and a man is said to penetrate the wood with an instrument, or to penetrate into the subject of his investigations. Thus joy is said to expand the breast, because it does, in fact, produce a sensation which resembles this action. There is a great variety of figurative language founded on this principle. Indeed, there is little said respecting the mind, and its qualities and operations, where we do not apply terms that describe the qualities, actions, and relations of matter.

It is also the case that actions and relations that resemble each other are called by the same name, without regard to the objects in which they exist. Thus the skies are said to weep. Here there is, in fact, the same action as is weeping in mankind, and it receives the same name, though it is connected with a different subject. Thus, also, the sword is said to be "drunk with the blood of the slain." Here the same relation exists between the blood and the sword as between a man and an immoderate quantity of liquor, and the relation receives the same name in each case.

An allegory is a succession of incidents and circumstances told of one thing which continually recall another thing, which it resembles in the particulars mentioned. Thus the aged Indian chief describes himself by an allegory: "I am an aged hemlock. The winds of a hundred years have swept over its branches; it is dead at the top; those that grew around have all mouldered away."

A parable is of the same character as an allegory.

A type is an object of conception in which many of its qualities and relations resemble another object that succeeds it in regard to time.

Hyperbole is a collection of actions, qualities, or circumstances ascribed to an object which are contrary to the laws of experience, and this language is employed to express excited feeling. Thus, by hyperbole, a person is said to be "drowned in tears."

Irony is language used in such a manner as to contradict the known opinions of the speaker, and is intended to represent the absurdity or irrationality of some thing conceived by him.

Symbols are material things employed to convey the ideas of one mind to another. Thus, as the cultivation of the olive is connected with seasons of peace, an olive branch is used to express the idea of peace.

Symbolic language is the use of words that are names of symbols in place of the names of things represented by symbols. Thus the word olive might be used instead of the word peace.

Figurative language, especially metaphors and symbolic words, abound in the writings of the earliest nations; and as what are claimed to be the earliest revelations of the Creator are recorded in these languages, the rules for interpreting figurative language are of the highest importance.

The preceding illustrates the principles upon which both literal and figurative language are constructed. The question now arises, How are we to determine when expressions are to be interpreted literally and when they are figurative? One single rule will be found sufficient in all cases, viz.:

All language is literal when the common meaning of each word is consistent with our experience as to the nature of things, and consistent with the other sentiments of the writer.

All language is figurative when the names, qualities, and actions ascribed to things are inconsistent with our experience of the nature of things, or contradict the known opinions of the writer.

In the preceding examples of figurative language, it can readily be seen that a literal interpretation would in all cases form combinations of ideas which are opposed to experience as to the nature of things. For example, "grief" can not be conceived of as "bedewing a face," because it is an emotion of mind; nor do "hoary hairs" literally ever receive honor; nor do "groves sing," nor "night weigh down the eyes."

In like manner, where the qualities of one thing are ascribed to another with which it has been connected, there is no difficulty in determining that the language is figurative; for a "wound" can not have the quality of "daring," which belongs only to mind, nor can a "pipe" be literally considered as "merry," or "midnight" as "musing;" nor would it be consistent with experience to think of a "chair" as "drooping." Nor in the case of personification is there any more cause of difficulty. Mercy and truth, righteousness, peace, and wisdom, are qualities of mind, and can not be conceived of as "meeting," "embracing," and "crying aloud" in any other than a figurative sense. And when the ocean is said to "lift up his hands," and the sun and moon to "stand still in their habitations," the laws of experience forbid any but a figurative interpretation.

In the case of an allegory and all symbolic language, the same rule applies with equal clearness and certainty. In the example given, it would be a violation of the laws of experience to conceive of a man as a tree with branches and a withered top.

Hyperbole is readily distinguished by the same rule. Irony is known by its being contradictory to the known opinions of the writer. Thus there is never any difficulty in deciding when language is literal and when it is figurative in cases where men have the laws of experience by which to determine.

On the supposition of a revelation from the Creator, there must be subjects upon which mankind have had no experience, such as the nature of the Deity, the character and circumstances of the invisible world and of its inhabitants. On these subjects all language must be literal when the literal construction is not in contradiction to the known or implied opinion of the other declarations; for on these subjects, as the laws of experience can not regulate in deciding between figurative and literal language, it is impossible to show any reason why words should not be literal except by comparison with the other statements of the same author. If these show no reasons for supposing it figurative, it must of necessity be considered as literal; for if neither experience nor the writer's opinions oppose a literal meaning, there is no cause why the ordinary and common signification of words should not be retained.

The next inquiry is, How are we to ascertain the ideas which are to be attached to words that are used figuratively? If the common ideas which are recalled by words are not the proper ones, what are the data for knowing which are the ideas to be recalled? The laws of association, upon which language is founded, furnish an adequate foundation for determining this question. If language is such that a literal construction is contrary to the nature of things, the words used figuratively must express something which has been connected with the object recalled by the literal signification, either as cause or effect, or as something which it resembles, or as something it has been connected with as a part, or by circumstances of time or place. Of course, a process of reasoning will soon decide which of these must be selected. Take, for example, the expression,

"Streaming grief his faded cheek bedewed."

Here, as "grief" can not bedew the cheek, it must be the name of something which has been connected with grief, either by the principle of resemblance, contiguity in time or place, or by the relation of cause and effect. It is easy to determine that it can not be either of these except the last. Tears are the effect of sorrow, and are therefore called by this name. The nature of the idea conveyed by the figurative term will show whether the cause or effect, or some object related to it as it respects time, place, or resemblance, is intended, and no difficulty can ever occur in deciding. In all cases this general rule avails: when words are used figuratively, such ideas as have been in any way connected with them are to be retained as will be consistent with the known nature of things, and consistent with other assertions of the writer.

In regard to the literal use of language, it has been shown that the same term is sometimes used for the name of the thing ordinarily expressed by it, sometimes for its cause, sometimes for its effect, and sometimes as including all these ideas. The rule for determining in which of these senses the term is used is the same as in regard to figurative language, viz., that signification must be attached to the term which is in agreement with experience as to the nature of things, and with the other sentiments of the writer. Thus, in relation to the example given of the term pride, suppose a child is called the "pride of its parents." We know it can not mean the emotion of mind; that it can not mean the effects of this state of mind; and its only other meaning is found consistent with experience, viz., it is the cause or occasion of pride to its parents. The same mode of reasoning can be applied to the other uses of the term. If a man is said to feel pride, there is but one meaning which can be attached to the term. If it is said that "the pride of the world passeth away," it includes the whole, and signifies that the causes of pride pass away, and with them the emotions and the effects.

The following, then, are the clear and simple rules to employ in interpreting all language: