Mental Philosophy: Including the Intellect, Sensibilities, and Will

by Joseph Haven

CHAPTER II.

TRUTHS AND CONCEPTIONS FURNISHED BY THIS FACULTY

§ I.—Primary Truths.

Primary Truths and Primary Ideas as distinguished.—The faculty in question may be regarded as the source of primary beliefs, truths, cognitions, intuitively perceived, and also of primary and original conceptions, notions, ideas, also intuitively conceived.

The difference between a conception or idea, and a belief or truth, is obvious. The notion of existence, and the knowledge or belief that I, myself, exist, are clearly distinguishable. The idea of cause, and the conviction that every event has a cause, are distinct mental states. The one is a primitive and intuitive conception, the other a primitive and intuitive truth. Every primary truth involves a primitive and original conception.

Existence of first Truths.—All science and all reasoning depend ultimately on certain first truths or principles, not learned by experience, but prior to it, the evidence and certainty of which lie back of all reasoning and all experience. Take away these elementary truths, and neither science nor reasoning are longer possible, for want of a beginning and foundation. Every proposition which carries evidence with it, either contains that evidence in itself, or derives it from some other proposition on which it depends. And the same is true of this other proposition, and so on forever, until we come, at last, to some proposition which depends on no other, but is self-evident, a first truth or principle. Whence come these first principles? Not of course from experience, for they are involved in and essential to all experience. They are native or à priori convictions of the mind, instinctive and intuitive judgments.

Existence of first Truths admitted.—The existence of first truths or principles, as the basis of all acquired knowledge, has been very generally admitted by philosophers. They have designated these elementary principles, however, by widely different appellations. By some, they have been termed instinctive beliefs, cognitions, judgments, etc., an appellation mentioned by Hamilton as employed by a very great number of writers from Cicero downward, including, among the rest, Scaliger, Bacon, Descartes, Pascal, Leibnitz, Hume, Reid, Stewart, Jacobi. Others, again, have termed them à priori or transcendental principles, cognitions, judgments, etc., as being prior to experience, and transcending the knowledge derived from sense. So Kant and his school termed them. By the Scotch writers they have been termed, also, principles of common sense, in place of which expression Stewart prefers the title, fundamental laws of human belief.

Criteria of primary Truths.—It becomes an important inquiry, in what manner we may recognize and distinguish first truths from all others. Besides common consent, or universality of belief on the part of those who have arrived at years of discretion, Buffier relies, also, upon the following, as criteria of first principles; that they are such truths as can neither be defended nor attacked by any propositions, either more manifest or more certain than themselves; and that their practical influence extends even to those who would deny them. Reid gives, among other criteria, the following: consent of ages and nations; the absurdity of the opposite; early appearance in the mind, prior to education and reasoning; practical necessity to the conduct and concerns of life. Hamilton gives the following as tests or criteria of first truths: 1. Incomprehensibilty.—We comprehend that the thing is, but not how or why it is. 2. Simplicity.—If the cognition or belief can be resolved into several cognitions or beliefs, it is complex, and so, no longer original. 3. Necessity, and consequent universality.—If necessary, it is universal, and if absolutely universal, then it must be necessary. 4. Comparative evidence and certainty.

Summary of Criteria.—The following may be regarded as a summary of the more important criteria by which to distinguish primary truths from all others.

a. As first truths, or primary data of intelligence, they are, of course, not derived from observation or experience, but are prior and necessary to such experience.

b. They are simple truths, not resolvable into some prior and comprehending truth from which they may be deduced.

c. As simple truths, they do not admit of proof, there being nothing more certain which can be brought in evidence of them.

d. While they do not admit of proof, the denial of them involves us in absurdity.

e. Accordingly, as simple, and as self-evident, they are universally admitted.

Enumeration of some of the Truths usually regarded as primary.—Different writers have included some more, some fewer, of these first principles in their list; while no one has professed, so far as I am aware, to give a complete enumeration of them. Such an enumeration, if it were possible, would be of great service in philosophy. The following have been generally included among primary truths by those who have attempted any specification, viz.; our personal existence, our personal identity, the existence of efficient causes, the existence of the material world, the uniformity of nature; to which would be added, by others, the reliability of memory, and of our natural faculties generally, and personal freedom or power over our own actions and volitions.

Correctness of this Enumeration.—That the truths now specified are in some sense primary, that they are generally admitted and acted upon, among men, without process of reasoning, and that, when stated, they command the universal and instant assent of even the untaught and unreflecting mind, there can be little doubt. Whether, in all cases, however, they come strictly under the rules and criteria now given; whether, for example, our own existence and identity are primary data of consciousness; or whether, on the contrary, they are not inferred from the existence of those thoughts and feelings of which we are directly conscious, as, for example, in the famous argument of Descartes, Cogito, ergo sum, may admit of question.

§ II.—Intuitive Conceptions.

Of the results or operations of the faculty under consideration, we have considered, as yet, only that class which may be designated as primary truths, in distinction from primitive or intuitive conceptions. To this latter class let us now direct our attention.

Proposed consideration of some of the more important.—Without undertaking to give a complete list of our original or intuitive conceptions, there are certain of the more important, which seem to require specific consideration. Such are the ideas of space, time, identity, cause, the beautiful, the right—ideas difficult to define and explain, but, on that account, requiring the more careful investigation. Let us, then, take up these conceptions one by one, and inquire more particularly into their nature.

I. Space.

Subjective View.—What is space? Is it a mere idea, a mere conception of the mind, or has it reality? This is a question which has much perplexed philosophers. Kant and his school regard both time and space as merely subjective, mere conceptions or forms which the mind imposes upon outward things, having no reality, save as conceptions, or laws of thought.

Opposite View.—On the other hand, if we make space a reality, and not a mere conception, what is it, and where is it? Not matter, and yet real, a something which exists, distinct from matter, and yet not mind. Pressed with these difficulties, some distinguished and acute writers have resolved time and space into qualities of the one infinite and absolute Being, the divine mind. Such was the view of Clarke and Newton, a view favored also by a recent French writer of some note—C. H. Bernard, Professor of Philosophy in the Lycée Bonaparte.

A middle Ground.—These must be regarded as, on either hand, extreme views. But is there a middle ground possible or conceivable? Let us see. What, then, is the simple idea of space? What mean we by that word?

Idea of Space.—When we contemplate any material object, any existence of which the senses can take cognizance, we are cognizant of it as extended, i. e., occupying space, nor can we possibly conceive of it as otherwise. The idea of space, then, is involved in the very idea of extended substance, or material existence, given along with it, impossible to be separated from it. We may regard it, therefore, as the condition or postulate of being, considered as material existence, possessing extension, etc. The idea of it is essential to the idea of matter, the reality of it to the reality of matter; for if there were no space, there could be no extension in space, and, without extension, no matter.

Not a mere Conception.—Is space, then, a mere conception of the mind, merely subjective? Unquestionably not. It is not, indeed, a substance or entity, it has no being. It is not matter, for it is, itself, the condition of matter; it is not spirit, for then it were intelligent. It is not an existence, then, strictly speaking, not a thing created, nor is it in the power of deity either to create or to annihilate it, for creation and annihilation relate only to existence. And yet space is a reality, and not a mere conception of the mind. For, if so, then were there no longer any mind to conceive it, there would be no longer any space; if no mind to think, then no thought. Were the whole race of intelligent beings, then, to be blotted out of existence, and all things else to remain as now, space would be gone, while, yet, matter would exist, extension—worlds moving on as before. Extension in what, motion in what? Not in space, for that is no longer extant; defunct, rather, with the last mind whose expiring torch went out in the gloom of night. Unless we make matter, then, to be also a mere conception of the mind, space is not so. If the one is real, the other is. If one is a mere conception, so is the other; and to this result the school of Kant actually come. Matter, itself, is a subjective phenomenon, a mode of mind, or, rather, if it be any thing more, we have no means of knowing it to be so.

If, on the contrary, as we hold, matter exists, and is an object of immediate perception by the senses, then there is such a thing as space also, the condition of its existence, a reality, though not an entity, the idea of it given along with that of matter, the reality of it implied in the reality of matter. Matter presupposes it, depends on it as its sine quâ non. It depends on nothing. Were there no matter, there would be none the less space, but only space unoccupied. In that case, the idea of space might never occur to any mind, but the reality would exist just as now. Were all matter and all mind to be blotted out of being, space would still be what it is now.

The Idea, how awakened—How come we by our Idea of Space?—Sense gives us our first knowledge of matter, as extended, etc., and so furnishes the occasion on which the idea of space is first awakened in the mind. In this sense, and no other, does it originate in sensation or experience. It is a simple idea, logically prior to experience, because the very notion of matter presupposes space; yet, chronologically, as regards the matter of development in the mind, subsequent to experience and cognizance of matter.

II. Time.

Idea and Definition.—What we have said of space will enable us better to understand what is the nature of that analogous and kindred conception of the mind, in itself so simple, yet so difficult of definition and explanation—Time. The remarks already made, respecting space, will almost equally apply to this subject also.

Space, we defined as the condition of being, regarded as extended, material. Time is the condition of being, regarded as in action, movement, change.

Sense informs us not only of magnitudes, extensions, material objects, and existences, as around us in nature, but of movements and changes continually taking place among these various existences; as extension is essential to those material forms, so succession is essential to these movements and changes; they cannot take place, nor be conceived to take place, without it; and as space is involved in, and given along with, the very idea of extension, so time is involved in, and given along with, the very idea of succession. Time, then, is the condition of action, movement, change, event, as space is of extended and material existence. It is that which is required in order that something should take place or occur, just as space is that which is required in order that something should exist as material and having form. As space gives us the question where, time gives us the question when. It is the place of events, as space is of forms.

Brown's View.—Dr. Brown defines time to be the mere relation of one event to another, as prior and subsequent. It follows, from this view, that if there were no events, then no time, since the latter is a mere relation subsisting among the former. Is this so? No doubt we derive our idea of time from the succession of events; but is time merely an idea, merely a conception, merely a relation, or has it reality out of and aside from our mind's conceiving it, and independent of the series of events that take place in it?

Not a mere Conception.—Like space, it is a law of thought, a conception, and like space it is not a mere law of thought, not a mere conception of the mind, not altogether subjective. Nor is it a mere relation of one event to another in succession. It is, on the contrary, necessary to, and prior to, all succession and all events. It does not depend on the occurrence of events, but the occurrence of events depends on it. As space would still exist were matter annihilated, so time would continue were events to cease. But were time blotted out there could be no succession, no occurrence or event. Time is essential, not to the mere thought or conception of events, but to the possibility of the thing itself. It is not, then, a mere idea, or conception of the mind, nor a mere relation. It has, in a sense, objectivity and reality, since it is the ground and condition of all continuous active existence, as space is of all extended formal existence, the sine quâ non, without which not merely our idea and conception of such existence would vanish, but the thing itself. There could be no such thing as active continuous existence, either of mind or matter, since mind and spirit, as continuous and persistent in any of its moods and phases, much more as passing from one to another of those moods, implies succession. Time is to mind what space is to matter. Matter protends in space, mind in time. Time is even less purely subjective than space, for should we say that both matter and space are mere subjective phenomena, mere conceptions, yet even to those very conceptions, to those subjective phenomena, as states of mind, time is essential.

Whence our Idea of Time.—It is with the idea of time as with that of space. Logically, time is the condition, à priori, of all experience, because of all continuous existence and all consciousness; but chronologically it is à posteriori, i. e., it is, to us, a matter of sensible experience. Sense is the occasion on which the idea of time is first awakened in our minds. We first exist, continue to exist, are conscious of that existence, conscious of succession, thoughts, feelings, sensations, and so we get the idea of time.

Time is necessary to succession; yet had there been no succession known to us, we should have had no idea of time. We are to distinguish, of course, between our idea of time and the thing itself. Locke is incorrect in making the idea of succession prior to that of duration, in itself considered, and not merely as regards our knowledge. In this respect, Cousin has ably and justly criticised the philosophy of Locke.

Time a relative Idea.—Looking at time merely as an idea or conception of our own minds, it is simply the perception of relation; the relation of passing events to each other, the relation of our various modes and states of being, our thoughts, feelings, etc., to each other, as successive, or to external objects and events, as also successive; the whereabouts, in a word, of one's self, one's present consciousness, in relation to what passes, or has passed, within or without, the relation of the present me to the former me, as regards both the succession of internal or external events. Hence the mind has only to withdraw itself completely from the consciousness of its former states and of events passing without, and it loses altogether its idea of time.

Thus in Sleep.—This we find to be the case in sleep. The thinking goes on; the idea of present self is kept up, but not of self in relation to the objects that are really about us, or to the actual part of its own existence. Whatever relation seems to exist, is imaginary and untrue. We no longer know where we are, nor exactly who we are. The avenues of communication with the external world are shut up, the eye, the ear, etc., are inactive, the spirit withdraws from the outward into itself, as far as this is possible, while the connection of body and mind still continues; its relations to former things and to present things are forgotten and unknown. What is the consequence? We lose all idea of time; the moment of falling asleep and of our beginning to awake, if the sleep have been sound, is apparently one and the same moment. The first effect of returning consciousness is to resume the broken thread of time, to find your place again in the series of things, whether it is morning or night, what morning or what night it is; to find yourself, in fact. You had forgotten yourself, to use a familiar phrase exactly descriptive of the present case. What of yourself had you forgotten? Simply your relation to the order and succession of things without, and of thoughts and feelings within—your place in the series. In sleep, your existence, so far as it is an object of consciousness at all, is simply that of each passing moment by itself.

Thus in absorbing Pursuits.—You have only, in your waking moments, to lose sight as completely of that relation and succession of the present self to the past self, of the me to the not me, and you lose as completely all idea of time. Does this ever occur? Partially, whenever the attention is absorbed in any intensely interesting pursuit or study. Time passes insensibly then. We are abstracted from the series, our attention is withdrawn from surrounding objects and events, and even from our own thoughts, as such. We lose sight of the me, and, of course, of the relation of the me, to passing events, and therefore lose the sense of time. When the spell is at last broken we must go to seek ourselves again, as we would seek a child, that, in its play, had wandered from our side.

Also in Disease.—Something of the same sort occurs in severe and protracted sickness. The mind loses its reckoning, so to speak, as a ship in a storm loses latitude and longitude, and wanders from its course, unable longer to take its daily observations.

Idea of Time in Children.—You have doubtless noticed that children have little idea of time. It is much the same to them, one day with another, one week with another; it is morning, or afternoon, or night indifferently. The distinction and recognition of time, and of one time as different from another, is slowly acquired, and with difficulty. They have not that self-consciousness, that apprehension of the present and of the past, as related to each other in the series of events, which is involved in the idea of time. They are more like one in sleep, like one dreaming, like one in reverie, wholly absorbed with the present moment, the present consciousness.

Time longer to a Child than an Adult.—What has been said explains, also, the well-known fact, that time seems longer to a child than to an adult person. It is, as we have seen, the relation of the present self, as affected by changes internal and external, to the past self as thus affected, that gives us the idea and the standard of time. Of course, the shorter the line that represents the past, the longer, in comparison, that present duration which is measured by it. Now the child has fewer past thoughts and events with which to compare the present ones; hence, they hold a greater comparative magnitude to him than to us, who have a greater range of past existence and past consciousness with which to connect the passing moments. Hence, the longer we live, the more quickly pass our years, the shorter appears any given period of duration.

Applied to eternal Duration.—You have but to apply this thought to Him whose going forth is from of old, who inhabiteth eternity, and you have a new meaning in the beautiful thought of the Hebrew poet, that with Him a thousand years are but as a day. To that eternal mind, the remoteness of the period when the first star lighted up the vault of night at his bidding, may be recent as an event of yesterday.

III. Identity.

Difficult of Explanation.—Perhaps no subject, in the whole range of intellectual philosophy, has been the occasion of more perplexity and embarrassment than this. It is, in itself, a difficult subject to comprehend and explain. We know what we mean by identity, but to tell what that meaning is, to state the thing lucidly, and explain it philosophically, is another matter. It becomes necessary to examine the subject, therefore, with some care, in order to avoid confusion of ideas, and positively erroneous opinions. The subject is one of some importance in its theological, as well as its strictly philosophical bearings.

Not Similarity.—Identity is not similarity, not mere resemblance—similar things are not the same thing. We may suppose two globes or spheres precisely alike in every respect—of the same size, color, form, of the same material, of the same chemical composition and substance, presenting to the eye and the touch, and every other sense, the very same appearance and qualities, so that, if viewed successively, we should not recognize the difference; yet they are not identical; they are, by the very supposition, two distinct globes, two entities, two substances, and to say that they are identical, is to say that two things are only one. Similarity is not identity, so far from it, as Archbishop Whately has well remarked, it is not even implied of necessity in identity. A person may so far change as to be quite unlike his former self in appearance, size, etc., and yet be the same person. Not only are the two ideas quite distinct, but the one may be, and in fact is, in most cases, the virtual negation of the other. Resemblance, in most cases, implies difference of objects, the opposite of identity. To say that A and B resemble each other, is to say that, as known to us, they are not one and the same, not identical. It is only when one and the same object falls under cognizance at diverse times, so that we compare the object, as now known, with the same object as previously known, that resemblance and identity can possibly be predicated of the same thing.

Identity is only another term for sameness (idem); any one who knows what that means, knows what identity means, and that it does not mean mere similarity or resemblance.

Not sameness of chemical Composition.—Nor does sameness of chemical composition constitute identity. This is merely similarity. Two bodies may be composed of the same chemical elements, in the same proportion, and possessing the same general form and structure, yet they are not the same body. A given piece of wood or iron may be divided into a number of parts, each closely resembling the others, of the same appearance, size, figure, color, weight, and of the same chemical components; yet no one of these is identical with any other. When we say, in such a case, that the different pieces are of the same material, we use the word same with some latitude, to denote, not that they are composed of strictly the same particles, that the substance of the one is the very identical substance of the other, but only that they consist of the same sort or kind of substance, that they are, e. g., both wood, or both iron. But this does not constitute identity.

There is no limit to the number of identical bodies which it is possible to conceive on this theory of identity. The same power that constructs one body of given chemical elements, and of given form and structure, may make two such, or ten, and if the first two are identical, the ten are, and they may exist at one and the same time, beside each other, identical with each other, yet ten, every one of which is itself, and yet every one is each of the others!

A relative Term.—Identity is a relative term, like most others that are expressive of quality. The term straight implies the idea of that which is not straight; beauty, the idea of deformity; greatness, its opposite; and so of others. Identity stands related to diversity as its opposite. To have the idea of identity, is to have that of diversity also. To affirm the former, is to deny the latter, and to deny is to have the idea of that which is denied. I do not say there can be no identity without diversity, but only that there can be no idea of the one without the idea, also, of the other, any more than there can be the idea of a tall man without the idea of short men.

Opposite of Diversity.—To affirm identity, then, is simply to deny diversity, to predicate unity, sameness, oneness. Other objects there are, like this, it may be, similar in every respect, capable of being confounded with it, and mistaken for it, but they are other and not it. This we affirm when we affirm identity, non-diversity, non-otherness. Whatever it be that marks off and distinguishes a thing from all other like or unlike objects—whatever constitutes its individuality, its essence—in that consists its identity.

Different applications of the Term.—Evidently, then, the word has somewhat different senses as applied to different classes of objects, whose individuality or essence varies. There are three distinct classes of objects to which the term is applicable. 1. Spiritual existence. 2. Organic and animate material existence. 3. Inorganic matter.

As applied to the first Class.—As regards the first class, spiritual existences, their identity consists in simple oneness and continuity of existence. It is enough that the soul or spirit exist, and continue to exist. So long as this is the case, identity is predicable of it. Should that existence cease, the identity ceases, since the object no longer exists of which identity can be affirmed. Should another spirit be created in its place, and even, if the thing be supposable, should it be endowed, not only with the same qualities, but the same consciousness, so as to be conscious of all that of which the former was conscious, still it would not be identical with the former. It is, by the very supposition, another spirit, and not the same. To be identical with it, it must be the very same essence, being, or existence, and not some other in its place.

It is only of spiritual immaterial existence that identity, in its strict and complete sense, is properly predicable, since it is only this class of existences that retains, unimpaired, its simple oneness, sameness, continuity of essence.

Personal Identity.—When we speak of personal identity, we mean that of the spirit, the soul, the ego, in distinction from the corporeal material part. The evidence of personal identity is consciousness. We know that the thinking conscious existence of to-day, which we call self, me, is one and the same with the thinking conscious self or me of yesterday, and not some other personal existence of like attributes and condition.

Locke's Idea.—Mr. Locke strangely mistook the evidence of personal identity for identity itself, and affirmed that our identity consists in our consciousness. If this were so, then, whenever our consciousness were interrupted, as in sound sleep, or in fainting, or delirium, our identity would be gone. This error has been pointed out, and fully explained, by Dr. Reid, and Bishop Butler, the former of whom makes this supposition: that the same individual is, at different periods of life, a boy at school, a private in the army, and a military commander; while a boy, he is whipped for robbing an orchard; when a soldier, he takes a standard from the enemy, and at that time recollects, perfectly, the whipping when a boy; when commander, he remembers taking the standard but not the whipping. It follows, according to Mr. Locke, that the soldier is identical with the boy, and the general with the soldier, because conscious of the same things, but the general is not identical with the boy, because not conscious of the same things, that is, a is b, and b is c, yet a is not c. The truth is, identity, and the evidence of it, are two things. Were there no consciousness of any thing past, there would still be identity so long as unity and continuity of existence remained.

2. Identity as applied to the second Class.—As regards organic material existence, whether animal or vegetable, the identity consists in that which constitutes the essence or being of the thing, which constitutes it an animal or vegetable existence. It is not mere body, not mere particles of matter, of such number and nature, or even of such arrangement and structure, but along with this, there is a higher principle involved—that of life. The continuity of this mysterious principle of life, under the same general structure and organization of material parts, making throughout one complex unity, one entity, one being, though with many changes, it may be, of separate parts and particles composing the organization; this constitutes the identity of the object.

The identity is no longer complete, no longer absolute, because there is no longer, as in the case of spiritual existence, absolute sameness of essence. Of the complex being under consideration, animal or vegetable, the life-principle is, indeed, one and the same throughout all periods of its existence, but the material organization retains not the same absolute essence, only the same general structure, and form, and adaptation of parts, while the parts and particles themselves are continually changing. It is only in a modified and partial sense, then, not in strict philosophical use of language, that we can predicate identity of any material organic existence. We mean by it, simply, continuity of life under the same general structure and organization; for so far as it has unity at all, this is it. This enables us to distinguish such an object from any and all other like objects of the same kind or sort.

3. Identity as applied to the third Class.—As regards mere inorganic matter, its identity consists, again, in its absolute oneness and sameness. There must be no change of particles, for the essence of the thing now considered lies not in any peculiarity of form, or structure, or life-principle, all which are wanting, but simply in the number and nature of the particles that make up the mass or substance of the thing, and if these change in the least, it is no longer the same essence. There is, properly, then, no such thing as identity in the cases now under consideration, since the particles of any material substance are liable to constant changes. It is only in a secondary and popular sense that we speak of the identity of merely inorganic material substance; strictly speaking, it has no identity, and continues not the same for any two moments.

We say, however, of two pieces of paper, that they are of the same color, meaning that they are both white or both red; of two coins, that they are of the same fineness, the same size, and weight, etc., meaning, thereby, only that the two things are of the same sort of color, the same degree of fineness, etc., and not that the color of the one or the fineness and size of the one is absolutely the essential and identical color, size, fineness of the other. It is by a similar use of terms, not in their strict and proper, but in a loose and secondary sense, that we speak of the identity or sameness of any material substance in itself considered. Strictly, it has no identity unless its substance is absolutely unchanged, which is not true of most, if, indeed, of any material existence, for any successive periods of time.

Popular Use.—There is a popular use of this term which requires further notice. We speak of the identity of a mountain, a river, a tree, or any like object in nature. It is the same mountain, we say, that we looked upon in childhood, the same tree under which we sat when a boy, the same river in which we bathed or fished in youth. Now there is a sense in which this is true and correct. There has been change of substance unquestionably, and therefore there is not absolute identity; but there is, after all, numerical sameness, and this is what we mean when we speak of the sameness or identity of the object. It constitutes a sufficient ground for such use of terms. You recognize the book, the mountain, the river, as one you have seen before. The tree that you pass in your morning walk you recognize as the very tree under which you sat ten years ago. Leaves have changed, bark and fibres have changed; branches are larger and more numerous; boughs, perhaps, have fallen by time and by tempest; it has changed as you have changed, it has grown old like yourself, with changing seasons; its verdure and foliage, like your hopes and plans, lie scattered around it, and yet it is to you the same tree. How so? It is the same numerical unity. Of a thousand or ten thousand similar trees, similar in species, in growth, and form, and adaptation of parts, in size, color, general appearance, etc., it is this individual one, and not some other of the same sort or species growing elsewhere, that you refer to. It is the same numerical unity and not some other one of the series. Still there must be continuity of existence in order to identity even in this popular sense of the term. Were the parts entirely changed and new ones substituted, as in the puzzle of the knife with several successive handles and blades, or the ship whose original timbers, planks, cordage, and entire substance, had, in course of time, by continued repairs, been removed and replaced by new; in such a case, we do not ordinarily speak or think of the object as being any longer the same.

This not absolute Identity.—In the cases now under consideration, in which, in popular language, objects are termed "same" and "identical," which are not strictly so, there is comparative rather than absolute unity and identity. There is reference always in such cases to other objects of the same kind, sort, and description, a series of which the object of present cognition is one, and to which series it holds the same relation now that it held formerly. As when, of several books on a table, you touch one, and after the interval of some moments or hours touch the same again; you say, The book I last touched is the same I touched before, the identical one; you do not mean that its substance is absolutely unchanged, that it has the same precise number of particles in its composition as before—this is not in your mind at all—but only that the unity thus designated is the same unity previously designated, that, and not some other one of the series of similar objects. It is a comparative idea, a comparative identity, in which numerical unity is the element chiefly regarded.

Possible Plurality implied.—In all cases where the idea of identity arises in the mind, there is implied a possible plurality of objects of the same general character; the idea of such diversity or plurality is before the mind, and the foundation of that idea is the difference of cognition. The same object is viewed by the same person at different times or by different persons at the same time, and in that case, though the object itself should be absolutely one and the same, yet there have been distinct, separate cognitions of it, and this plurality or difference of cognition is a sufficient foundation for the idea of a possible diversity of object. The book as known to-day and the book as known yesterday, are two distinct objects of thought. The cognition now, and the cognition then, are two separate acts of the mind; and the question arises, Are the objects distinct, as well as the cognitions? This is the question of identity. You have an immediate, irresistible conviction that the object of these several cognitions is one and the same. You affirm its identity, absolute or comparative, as the case may be.

The Conception of Identity amounts to what.—In every case of affirmed identity, then, there is implied a possible plurality of objects; a difference of cognition of a given object, whether one person cognizant at different times, or different persons at the same time; a question whether the possible plurality, as regards the object of these different cognitions, is an actual plurality; a conviction and decision that it is not, that the object is one and the same; and this sameness and unity are absolute or comparative, according as we use the language in its strict, primitive, philosophical meaning, or in its loose and popular sense. In the one case, it is sameness of absolute essence, in the other, sameness of nominal relation to others of a series or class.

IV. Cause.

Meaning of the Term.—The idea of cause is one with which every mind is familiar. It is not easy, however, to explain precisely what we mean by it, nor to fix its limits, nor to unfold its origin.

We mean by this term, I think, as ordinarily employed, that on which some consequence depends, that but for which some event or phenomenon would not occur. In order to affirm that one thing is the cause of another, I must know, not merely that they are connected, but that the existence of the one depends on that of the other. This is more than mere antecedence, however invariable. The approach of a storm may be invariably indicated by the changes of the barometer. These changes precede the storm, but are not the cause of it.

Origin of the Idea.—Whence do we derive the idea of cause?—a question of some importance, and much discussed.

Evidently not from sense. I observe, for example, the melting of snow before the fire, or wax before the flame of a taper. What is it that I see in this case? Merely the phenomenon, nothing more. All that sense conveys, all that the eye reports, is simply the melting of the one substance in the presence and vicinity of the other. I see no cause, no form transmitted from the one to the other, no action of the one on the other, but simply the vicinity of the two, and the change taking place in one. I infer that the change takes place in consequence of the vicinity. I believe it; and if the experiment is often repeated with the same results, I cannot doubt that it is so. The idea of causality is, indeed, suggested by what I have seen, but is not given by sense. I have not seen the cause; that lies hidden, occult, its nature wholly unknown, and its very existence known, not by what I have actually seen, but by that law of the mind which leads me to believe that every event must have a cause, and to look for that cause in whatever circumstance is known to be invariably connected with the given change or event.

Constitution of the Mind.—That such is the constitution of the mind, such the law of its action, admits of no reasonable doubt. No sooner is an event or phenomenon observed, than we conclude, at once, that it is an effect, and begin to inquire the cause. We cannot, by any effort of conception, persuade ourselves that there is absolutely no cause.

Not derived from Sense.—But is not this principle of causality derived from experience? We have already said that sense does not give it. I do not see with the eye the cause of the melting of the wax, much less does what I see contain the general principle, that every event must have a cause. Sense does not give me this.

Whether from Consciousness.—Still, may it not be a matter of experience in another way, given by consciousness, though not by sense. For example, I am conscious of certain volitions. These volitions are accompanied with certain muscular movements, and these, again, are followed by certain sensible effects upon surrounding objects. These changes produced on objects without are directly connected thus with my own mental states and changes, with the volitions of which I am directly conscious. Given, the volition on my part, with the corresponding muscular effort, and the external change is produced. I never observe it taking place without such preceding volition. I learn to regard my will as the cause, and the external change as the effect. I observe that it is in the power of others to produce changes in like manner. Thus I obtain the general idea of cause. It is given by consciousness and experience.

Notion of Causality not thus derived.—It is to this source that a very able and ingenious French philosopher would attribute our first idea of cause. I refer to Maine de Biran. I should agree with M. de Biran, that consciousness of our own voluntary efforts, and of the effects thus produced, may give us our first notion of cause. But it does not give us the law of causality. It extends to a given instance only, explains that, explains nothing further than that, cannot go beyond. I am conscious that in this given instance I have set in operation a train of antecedents and sequences which results in the given effect. I am not conscious that every event has, in like manner, a cause. My experience warrants no such assumption. No induction of facts and cases can possibly amount to this. Induction can multiply and generalize, but cannot stamp on that which is merely empirical and contingent, the character of universality and necessity. The law of causality, in a word, is to be distinguished from any given instance, or number of instances, of actually observed causation. The latter fall within the range of consciousness and experience, the former is given, if at all, as a law of the mind, a primary truth, an idea of reason.

Remarks of Professor Bowen.—As Professor Bowen has well observed, "The maxim, 'Every event must have a cause,' is not, like the so-called laws of nature, a mere induction founded on experience, and holding good only until an instance is discovered to the contrary; it is a necessary and immutable truth. It is not derived from observation of natural phenomena, but is super-imposed upon such observation by a necessity of the human intellect. It is not made known through the senses; and its falsity, under any circumstances, is not possible, is not even conceivable. The cause to which it points us, is not to be found in nature. The mere physicist, after vainly searching, ever since the world began, for a single instance of it, has, at length, abandoned the attempt as hopeless, and now confines himself to the mere description of natural phenomena. The true cause of these phenomena must be sought for in the realm, not of matter, but of mind."

What constitutes Cause.—In this last remark, the author quoted touches upon a question of no little moment. What constitutes a cause? We cannot here enter into the discussion of this question. It is sufficient to remark, that in the ordinary use of the word, as denoting that, but for which a given result will not be, many things beside mind are included as causes. A hammer, or some like instrument, is essential to the driving of a nail. The hammer may be called the cause of the nail being driven; the blow struck by means of the hammer may also be so designated. More properly, the arm which gave the blow, and, more correctly still, the mind which willed the movement of the arm, and not the consequent blow of the hammer, may be said to be the cause. If we seek for ultimate and efficient causes, we must, doubtless, come back to the realm of mind. It is mind that is, in every case, the first mover, the originator of any effect, and it may, therefore, be called the true and prime cause, the cause of causes.

History of the Doctrine.—Aristotle's View.—The history of the doctrine of causality presents a number of widely different theories, a brief outline of which is all that we can here give. The most ancient division and classification of causes is that of Aristotle, which is based on the following analysis: Every work brought to completion implies four things: an agent by whom it is done, an element or material of which it is wrought, a plan or idea according to which it is fashioned, and an end for which it is produced. Thus, to the production of a statue there must be a statuary, a block of marble, a plan in the mind of the artist, and a motive for the execution of the work. The first of these is termed the efficient cause, the second the material cause, the third the formal, and the fourth the final cause. This classification was universally adopted by the scholastic philosophers, and, to some extent, is still prevalent. We still speak of efficient and of final causes.

Locke's Derivation of Cause.—With regard to the origin of the idea of cause, there has been the greatest diversity of opinion. Locke derives it from sense; so do the philosophers of the sensationalist school. We perceive bodies modifying each other, and hence the notion of causality.

Theory of Hume and of Brown.—Hume denies the existence of what we call cause, or power of one object over another. He resolves it into succession or sequence of objects in regular order, and consequent association of them in our thoughts. Essentially the same is the theory of Brown, who resolves cause and effect into simple antecedence and sequence, beyond which we know nothing, and can affirm nothing.

Theory of Leibnitz.—The theory of Leibnitz verges upon the opposite extreme, and assigns the element of power or causal efficiency to every form of existence; every substance is a force, a cause, in itself.

Of Kant.—Kant and his school make cause a merely subjective notion, a law of the understanding, which it impresses upon outward things, a condition of our thought. We observe external phenomena, and, according to this law of our intelligence, are under the necessity of arranging them as cause and effect; but we do not know that, independent of our conception, there exists in reality any thing corresponding to this idea. The tendency of this theory, as well as that of Hume and Brown, to a thorough-going skepticism, is obvious at a glance. The theory of Maine de Biran has been already noticed.

V. The Idea of the Beautiful, and of Right.

These Ideas Intuitive.—- Among the primary ideas awakened in the mind by the faculty of original or intuitive conception, ideas of reason, as some writers would prefer to call them, must be included the notion of the beautiful, and also that of right—ideas more important in themselves, and in their bearing on human happiness, than almost any others which the mind entertains. That these ideas are to be traced, ultimately, to the originative or intuitive faculty, there can be little doubt. They are simple and primary ideas. They have the characteristics of universality and necessity. They are awakened intuitively and instantaneously in the mind, when the appropriate occasion is presented by sense. There are certain objects in nature and art, which, so soon as perceived, strike us as beautiful. There are certain traits of character and courses of conduct, which, so soon as observed, strike us as morally right and wrong. The ideas of the beautiful and the right are thus awakened in the mind on the perception of the corresponding objects.

Things to be considered respecting them.—Viewed as notions of the intuitive faculty, or original conceptions, it would be in place to consider more particularly the circumstances under which each of these ideas originates, and the characteristics of each; also what constitutes, in either case, the object, what constitutes the beautiful and the right.

These Topics reserved for separate Discussion.—These matters deserve a wider and fuller discussion, however, than would here be in place. The ideas under consideration are to be viewed, not merely as conceptions of the reason or intuition, but as constituting the material of two distinct and important departments of mental activity, two distinct classes of judgments, viz., the æsthetic and the moral. The conceptions of the beautiful and the right, furnished by the originative or intuitive power of the mind, constitute the material and basis on which the reflective power works, and as thus employed, the mental activity assumes the form, and is known under the familiar names of taste and conscience, or, as we may term them, the æsthetic and moral faculties. As such, we reserve them for distinct consideration in the following pages, bearing in mind, as we proceed, that these faculties, so called, are not properly new powers of the mind, but merely forms of the reflective faculty, as exercised upon this particular class of ideas.

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CHAPTER III.

THE CONCEPTION AND COGNIZANCE OF THE BEAUTIFUL

§ I.—Conception of the Beautiful.

The Science which treats of this.—The investigation of this topic brings us upon the domain of a science as yet comparatively new, and which, in fact, has scarcely yet assumed its place among the philosophic sciences—Æsthetics, the science of the beautiful.

Difficulty of defining.—What, then, is the beautiful?—A question that meets us at the threshold, and that has received, from different sources, answers almost as many and diverse as the writers that have undertaken its discussion. It is easy to specify instances of the beautiful without number, and of endless variety; but that is not defining it. On the contrary, it is only increasing the difficulty; for, where so many things are beautiful, and so diverse from each other, how are we to decide what is that one property which they all have in common, viz., beauty? The difficulty is to fix upon any one quality or attribute that shall pertain alike to all the objects that seem to us beautiful. A figure of speech, a statue, a star, an air from an opera, all strike us as beautiful, all awaken in us the emotion which beauty alone can excite. But what have they in common? It were easy to fix upon something in the case of the statue, or of the star, which should account, perhaps, for the pleasure those objects afford us; but the same thing might not apply to the figure of speech, or to the musical air. It would seem almost hopeless to attempt the solution of the problem in this method. And yet there must be, it would seem, some principle or attribute in which these various objects that we call beautiful agree, which is the secret and substance of their beauty, and the cause of that uniform effect which they all produce upon us. Philosophers have accordingly proposed various solutions of the problem, some fixing upon one thing, some upon another; and it may be instructive to glance at some of these definitions.

Some make it a Sensation.—Of those who have undertaken to define what beauty is, there are some who make it a mere feeling or sensation of the mind, and not an objective reality of any sort. It is not this, that, or the other quality of the external object, but simply a subjective emotion. It lies within us, and not without. Thus, Sir George Mackenzie describes it as "a certain degree of a certain species of pleasurable effect impressed on the mind." So also Grohman, Professor of Philosophy at Hamburg, in his treatise on æsthetic as science, defines the beautiful to be "the infinite consciousness of the reason as feeling." As the true is the activity of reason at work as intellect or knowledge, and as the good is its province when it appears as will, so the beautiful is its activity in the domain of sensibility. Brown, Upham, and others, among English and American writers, frequently speak of the emotion of beauty, as if beauty itself were an emotion.

Others an Association.—Closely agreeing with this class of writers, and hardly to be distinguished from it, is that which makes beauty consist in certain associations of idea and feeling with the object contemplated. This is the favorite doctrine with the Scotch metaphysicians. Thus Lord Jeffrey, who has written with great clearness and force on this subject, regards beauty as dependent entirely on association, "the reflection of our own inward sensations." It is not, according to this view, a quality of the object external, but only a feeling in our own minds. Its seat is within and not without.

Theory that Beauty consists in Expression.—Of the same general class, also, are those who, with Alison, Reid, and Cousin, regard beauty as the sign or expression of some quality fitted to awaken pleasing emotions in us. Nothing is beautiful, say these writers, which is not thus expressive of some mental or moral quality or attribute. It is not an original and independent quality of any peculiar forms or colors, says Alison, for then we should have a definite rule for the creation of beauty. It lies ultimately in the mind, not in matter, and matter becomes beautiful only as it becomes, by analogy or association, suggestive of mental qualities. The same is substantially the ancient Platonic view. Kant, also, followed in the main by Schiller and Fichte, takes the subjective view, and makes beauty a mere play of the imagination.

All these Theories make it subjective.—Whether we regard beauty, then, as a mere emotion, or as an association of thought and feeling with the external object, or as the sign and expression of mental qualities, in either case we make it ultimately subjective, and deny its external objective reality.

Different Forms of the objective Theory.—Of those who take the opposite view, some seek for the hidden principle of beauty in novelty; others, as Galen and Marmontel, in utility; others, as Shaftesbury, Hutcheson, Hogarth, in the principle of unity in variety; others, in that of order and proportion, as Aristotle, Augustine, Crousez.

All these writers, while they admit the existence of beauty in the external object, make it to consist in some quality or conformation of matter, as such.

The spiritual Theory.—There is still another theory of the beautiful, which, while admitting its external objective reality, seeks to divest it of that material nature in which the writers last named present it, and searches for its essence among principles ethereal and spiritual. According to this view beauty is the spiritual life in its immediate sensible manifestation; the hidden, invisible principle—spirit in distinction from matter, animating, manifesting itself in, looking out through, the material form. It is not matter as such, it is not spirit as such, much less a mere mental quality or mental feeling; it is the expression of the invisible and spiritual under sensible material forms. This view was first fully developed by Schelling and Hegel, and is adopted, in the main, by Jouffroy in his Cours d'Esthetique, by Dr. August Ruhlert, of the university of Breslau, in his able system of æsthetics, and by many other philosophical writers of distinction in Europe.

Questions for Consideration.—The following questions grow out of these various and conflicting definitions, as presenting the real points at issue, and, as such, requiring investigation.

I. Is beauty something objective, or merely subjective and emotional?

II. If the former, then what is it in the object that constitutes its beauty?

I. Question stated.—Is beauty merely subjective, an emotion of our own minds, or is it a quality of objects? When we speak, e. g., of the beauty of a landscape, or of a painting, do we mean merely a certain excitement of our sensitive nature, a certain feeling awakened by the object, or do we mean some quality or property belonging to that object? If the latter, then are we correct in attributing any such quality to the object?

Emotion admitted.—Unquestionably, certain pleasing emotions are awakened in the mind in view of certain objects which we term beautiful; unquestionably those objects are the cause or occasion of such emotions; they have, under favorable circumstances, the power of producing them; unquestionably they have this power by virtue, moreover, of some quality or property pertaining to them. All this will be admitted by those who deny the objective reality of beauty. The question is not, whether there is in the object any quality which is the occasion or cause of our emotion, but whether the term beauty is properly the name of that cause, or of the emotion it produces.

Beauty not an Emotion.—The question would seem a very plain one if submitted to common sense. It would seem strange that any one should deliberately and intelligently take the position that beauty and sublimity are merely emotions of our minds, and not qualities of objects: when we hear men speaking in this way, we are half inclined to suspect that we misunderstand them, or that they misunderstand themselves. I look upon a gorgeous sunset, and call it beautiful. What is it that is beautiful? That sky, that cloud, that coloring, those tints that fade into each other and change even as I behold them, those lines of fire that lie in brilliant relief upon the darker background, as if some radiant angel had thrown aside his robe of light as he flew, or had left his smile upon the cloud as he passed through the golden gates of Hesperus, these, these, are beautiful; there lies the beauty, and surely not in me, the beholder. An emotion is in my mind, but that emotion is not beauty; it is simple admiration, i. e., wonder and delight. There is no such emotion as beauty, common as is the ambiguous expression "emotion of beauty." There are emotions of fear, hope, joy, sorrow, and the like, and these emotions I experience; I know what they mean; but I am not conscious of having ever experienced an emotion of beauty, though I have often been filled with wonder and delight at the sight of the beautiful in nature or art. When I experience an emotion of fear, of hope, of joy, or of sorrow, what is it that is joyful or sorrowful, hopeful or fearful? My mind, of course, that is, I, myself. The object that occasions the emotion on my part, is in no other sense fearful or joyful than as it is the occasion of my being so. If, in like manner, beauty is an emotion, and I experience that emotion, it is, of course, my mind that is beautiful, and not the object contemplated. It is I, myself, that am beautiful, not the sunset, the painting, the landscape, or any thing of that sort, whatever. These things are merely the occasion of my being beautiful. Could any doctrine be more consoling to those who are conscious of any serious deficiency on the score of personal attractions! Can any thing be more absurd?

The common View correct.—I beg leave to take the common sense view of this question, which I cannot but think is, in the present instance, the most correct, and still to think and speak of the beauty of objects, and not of our own minds. Such is certainly the ordinary acceptation and use of the term, nor can any reason be shown why, in strictest philosophy, we should depart from it. There is no need of applying the term to denote the emotion awakened in the mind, for that emotion is not, in itself, either a new or a nameless one, but simply that mingled feeling of wonder and delight which we call admiration, and which passes, it may be, into love. To make beauty itself an emotion, is to be guilty of a double absurdity. It is to leave the quality of the object which gives rise to the emotion altogether without a name, and bestow that name where it is not needed, on that which has already a name of its own.

Beauty still objective, though reflected from the Mind.—If to this it be replied, that the beauty which we admire and which seems to be a property of the external object, is, nevertheless, of internal origin, being merely a transfer to the object, and association with it, of certain thoughts and feelings of our own minds, a reflection of our own consciousness gilding and lighting up the objects around us, which objects are then viewed by us as having a light and beauty of their own, I answer, that even on this supposition, the external object, as thus illumined, has the power of awakening the pleasing emotion within us, and that power is its beauty, a property or quality of the object still, although borrowed originally from the mind; just as the moon, though it give but a reflected light, still shines, and with a beauty of its own. So long as those thoughts and feelings lay hidden in the mind, untransferred, unassociated with the external object, they were not beauty. Not until the object is invested with them, and they have become a property of that object, do they assume, to the mental eye, the quality of beauty. So, then, beauty is even still an objective reality, something that lies without us, and not within us.

The Power of expressing an objective Quality, likewise.—In like manner, if it be contended that beauty is only the sign and expression of mental qualities, I reply, that power of signifying or expressing is certainly a property of the object, and that property is its beauty, and is certainly a thing objective, and not a mere emotion.

All Beauty not Reflection, nor Expression.—I am far from conceding, however, that all beauty is either the reflection or expression of what passes within the mind. There are objects which no play of the fancy, no transfer or association of the mental states, can ever render beautiful; while, on the other hand, there are others which require no such association, but of themselves shine forth upon us with their own clear and lustrous beauty. Suppose a child of lively sensibility, and with that true love of the beautiful, wherever discerned, which is one of the finest traits of the child's nature, to look for the first time upon the broad expanse of the ocean; it lies spread out before him a new and sudden revelation of beauty; its extent of surface, unbroken by the petty lines and boundaries that divide and mark off the lands upon the shore; its wonderful deep blue, a color he has seen hitherto only in the firmament above him, and not there as here—that deep blue relieved by the white sails, that, like birds of snowy wing, flit across its peaceful bosom, or lie motionless in the morning light on its calm expanse; its peculiar convexity of surface, as it stretches far out to the horizon, and lifts up its broad shoulders against the sky;—these things he beholds for the first time, they are associated with nothing in his past experience; he has never seen, never dreamed of such a vision; it is not the reflection of his own thoughts or fancies; but it is, nevertheless, to him a scene of rare and wondrous beauty, the recollection and first impression of which shall haunt him while he lives. If, in after life, he came to philosophize upon the matter, it would be difficult to convince him that what he thus admired was but the play of his own imagination, the transfer of his own mental state, the association of his own thought and feeling with the object before him; in a word, that the beauty which so charmed him lay not at all in the object contemplated, but only in his own mind.

A further Question.—That the beauty which we perceive is a quality of objects, and not merely a subjective emotion, that there is in the object something which, call it what we will, is the producing cause of the emotion in us, and that this objective cause, whatever it be, is, in the proper use of terms, to be recognized as beauty, this we have now sufficiently discussed. Admitting, however, these positions, the question may still arise, whether that which we call beauty in objects has, after all, an absolute existence, independent of the mind that is impressed by it? The beauty that I admire in yonder landscape, or in the wild flower that blooms at my feet, is, indeed, the beauty of the landscape or the flower, and not of my mind; it pertains to, and dwells in, the object, and not in me; but dwells it there independently of me, the observer, and when I do not behold it? If there were no intelligent, observing mind, to behold and feel that beauty, would the object still be beautiful, even as now? This admits of question. Is the beauty a fixed, absolute quality, inherent in the object as such, and per se, or is it something springing out of the relation between the mind of the observer and the object observed.

No Evidence of its Existence except its Effect.—That it is relative, and not absolute, may be argued from the fact that we have no evidence of any such quality or cause, save as in operation, save as producing effects in us; and as we could never have inferred the existence of the cause, had it not been for the effect produced, so we have no reason to suppose its existence when and where it does not manifest itself in operation, that is to say, when and where it is not observed. As the spark from the smitten steel is not strictly to be regarded as itself a property of the steel, nor yet of the flint, but as a relative phenomenon arising from the collision of the two, so beauty, it may be said, dwells not absolutely in the object per se, nor yet in the intelligent subject, but is a phenomenon resulting from the relation of the two.

Further Argument from diversity of Effects.—The same may be argued from the diversity of the effects produced. If beauty is a fixed, absolute quality of objects, it may be said, then the effects ought to be uniformly the same; whereas there is, in fact, no such uniformity, no standard of beauty, none of taste, but what seems to one man exceedingly fine, excites only the aversion and disgust of another, and even the same person is at different times differently affected by the same object. Hence it may be inferred that the beauty is merely a relation between the mind and the object contemplated, varying as the mind varies.

Reply to the first Argument.—To these arguments I reply, in the first place, that it is not necessary that a cause should be in actual operation, under our immediate eye, in order that we should conclude its independent and constant existence. If, whenever the occasion returns, the effects are observed, we conclude that the cause exists per se, and not merely in relation to us. Otherwise we could never believe the absolute existence of any thing, but should, with Berkley and Hume, call in question the existence of matter itself, save as phenomenal and relative to our senses. The same argument that makes the beauty of a rose relative merely to the observer, makes the rose itself merely a relative existence. How do I know that it exists? I see it, feel it, smell it; it lies upon my table; it affects my senses. I turn away now. I leave the room. How do I know now that the rose exists? It no longer affects my senses; the cause no longer operates; the effect is no longer produced. I have just as much reason to say it no longer exists, as to say it is no longer beautiful.

Reply to the second Argument.—To the argument from the diversity of effect, I reply, that admitting the fact to be as stated, viz., that the same object is differently regarded by different minds, the diversity may arise from either of two sources. The want of uniformity may lie in the cause, or it may lie in the minds affected by it. The exciting cause may vary, and the effects produced by it will then be diverse; or the minds on which it operates may differ, and in that case, also, the effects will be diverse. We are not to conclude, then, from diversity of effect that the cause is not uniform. A beautiful object, it is true, affects different observers differently, but the reason of the diversity may be in them and not in the object.

What then is the fact? Are the minds of all observers equally susceptible of impression from the beautiful? By no means. They differ in education, habit of thought, culture, taste, native sensibility, and many other things. Hardly two minds can be found that are not diverse in these respects. Ought we then to expect absolute uniformity of effect?

Not to be conceded that there is no Agreement.—It is by no means to be conceded, however, that there is no such thing as a standard of beauty or of taste, no general agreement among men as to what is or is not beautiful, no general agreement as to the emotions produced. There is such agreement in both respects. Within certain limits it is uniform and complete. Certain aspects of nature, and certain works of art, are, in all ages, and by all men, regarded as beautiful. The Apollo Belvidere, and the Venus of the Capitol, are to us what they were to the ancients; the perfection of the beautiful. The great work of Raphael, scarcely finished at his death, the last touches still fresh from his hand—that work which, as it hung above his bier, drew tears from all eyes, and filled with admiration all hearts—is still the wonder and admiration of men. And so it will be in centuries to come. And so of the emotions produced by the contemplation of the beautiful. Making due allowance for habits of association, mental culture, and differences of native sensibility, we shall find men affected much in the same way by the beautiful in nature or art. The men of the same class and condition as to these matters—the peasant of one age or country, and the peasant of another, the philosopher of one time, and of another, the wealthy, uneducated citizen, and the fashionable fool, of one period and nation, and of another—experience much the same effects in view of one and the same object. The same general laws, too, preside over and regulate the different arts which have relation to the beautiful, in all ages of the world.

Consequences of the Theory that Beauty is merely relative.—If beauty be not absolute but relative only, it follows, 1. That, if there were no observers of nature or art, neither would be longer beautiful. 2. If, for any reason any thing is for the time unseen, as, e. g., a pearl in the sea, a precious stone in the mine, or a rich jewel in the casket, it has no beauty so long as it is there and thus. 3. As minds vary in susceptibility of impression, the same thing is beautiful to one person and not to another; at one time and not at another; nay, at one and the same moment it is both beautiful and not beautiful, according as the minds of the observers vary. I cannot say with truth, that the Mosaics of St. Peter's, or the great diamond of the East, are, at this moment, really beautiful, because I do not know who, or whether any one, may, at this moment, be looking at them.

Intimate Relation between the Mind and the Object.—While I maintain, however, the existence of beauty as an absolute and independent quality of objects, and not merely as relative to the mind that perceives and enjoys it, I would, by no means, overlook the very intimate relation which subsists, in the present case, between the perceiving mind and the object perceived. Beauty makes its appeal primarily to the senses. It pleases and charms us, because we are endowed with senses and a nature fitted to receive pleasure from such objects. In the adaptation of our physical and mental constitution to the order and constitution of material things as they exist without, lies the secret of that power which the beautiful exerts over us.

Might have been otherwise constituted.—We might have been so constituted, doubtless, that the most beautiful objects should have been disgusting, rather than pleasing: the violet should have seemed an ugly thing, and the sweetest strains of music harsh and discordant. There are disordered senses, and disordered minds, to which, even now, those things, which we call beautiful, may so appear. For that adaptation of our sensitive nature to external objects, and of these objects to our sensitive nature, by virtue of which, the percipient mind recognizes and feels the beauty of the object perceived, and takes delight in it, we are indebted wholly to the wisdom and benevolence of the great Creator.

The Doctrine maintained.—Still, given, the present constitution and mutual adaptation of mind and matter, and we affirm the independent existence of the beautiful as an object per se, and not merely as an affection of the percipient mind. The perception and enjoyment of the beauty are subjective, relative, dependent; the beauty itself not so.

The second Question.—If beauty be, then, as we find reason to believe, not wholly a subjective affair, but a quality or property of external objects, the question now arises,

II. What is it in the object, that constitutes its beauty?

Theory of Novelty.—And first, is it the novelty of the thing? Is the novel the beautiful? Doubtless, novelty pleases us. It has this in common with the beautiful. Yet some things that are novel, are by no means beautiful. A mill for grinding corn is a great curiosity to one who has never seen such a machine before, but it might not strike him as particularly beautiful.

Every thing, when first beheld, is novel; but every thing is not beautiful. Let us look more closely at the element of novelty. That is novel which is new to us merely, which appears to us for the first time. It may be new to the intellect, a new idea, or to the sensibility, a new feeling, or to the will, a new act. As a new idea it satisfies our curiosity, as a new feeling it developes our nature, as a new volition it enlarges the sphere of our activity. In these respects, and for these reasons, novelty pleases, but in all this we discover no resemblance to the beautiful.

Novelty heightens Beauty.—It is not to be denied that novelty, in many cases, heightens the beauty of an object. By familiarity, we become, in a measure, insensible to the charms of that which, as first beheld, filled us with delight. The sensibility receives no further excitement from that to which it has become accustomed. To enjoy mountain scenery most highly, one must not always dwell among the mountains. To enjoy Niagara most highly, one must not live in the sight of it all his days. But beauty, and the enjoyment of the beautiful, are surely different things, and while novelty is accessory to the full effect of the beautiful on our minds, and even indispensable to it, it is not, itself, the element of beauty, not the ground and substance of it.

Not always pleasing.—Jouffroy even denies that novelty is always pleasing. Some things, he contends, displease us, simply because they are new. We become accustomed to them, and our dislike ceases. Thus it is, to some extent, with difference of color in the races.

Theory of the Useful.—Is, then, the useful the beautiful? This theory next claims our attention. The foundation of the emotions awakened in us by the beautiful in nature or art, is the perception of utility. We perceive in the object a fitness to conduce, in some way, to our welfare, to serve, in some way, our purposes, and for this reason, we are pleased. The utility is the beauty.

The most useful not the most beautiful.—That the beauty of an object may, in our perception, be heightened by the discovery of its fitness to produce some desirable end, or rather, that this may add somewhat to the pleasure we feel in view of the object, is quite possible; that this is the main element and grand secret, either of that emotion on our part, or of the beauty which gives rise to it, is not possible. It is sufficient to say, that, if this were so, the most useful things ought, of course, to be the most beautiful. Is this the case? A stream of water conducted along a ship canal is more useful than the same stream tumbling over the rapids, or plunging over a perpendicular precipice. Is it also more beautiful? A swine's snout, to use a homely but forcible illustration of Burke, is admirably fitted to serve the purpose for which it was intended; useful exceedingly for rooting and grubbing, but not, on the whole, very beautiful.

Dissimilarity of the two.—Indeed, few things can be more unlike, in their effect upon the mind, in the nature of the emotions they excite, than the useful and the beautiful. This has been well shown by Jouffroy in his analysis of the beautiful. Kant has also clearly pointed out the same thing. Both please us, but not in the same way, not for the same reason. We love the one for its advantage to us, the other for its own sake. The one is a purely selfish, the other a purely disinterested love, a noble, elevated emotion. The two are heaven-wide asunder. The glorious sunset is of no earthly use to us, otherwise than mere beauty and pleasure are in themselves of use. The gorgeous spectacle becomes at once degraded in our own estimation by the very question of its possible utility. We love it not for the benefit it confers, the use we can make of it, but for its own sake, its own sweet beauty, because it is what it is. There it lies, pencilled on the clouds, evanescent, momentarily changing. There it is, afar off. You cannot reach it, cannot command its stay, have no wish to appropriate it to yourself, no desire to turn it to your own account, or reap any benefit from it, other than the mere enjoyment; still you admire it, still it is beautiful to you. Of what use to the beholder is the ruddy glow and flash of sunrise on the Alpine summits as seen from the Rhigi or Mount Blanc? Of what use, in fact, is beauty in any case, other than as it may be the means of refining the taste, and elevating the mind? That it has this advantage we are free to admit; and it is certainly one of the noblest uses to which any thing can be made subservient; but surely this cannot be what is meant when we are told that beauty consists in utility, for this would be simply affirming that the cause consists in the effect produced. Beauty refines and elevates the mind, is a means of æsthetic and moral culture; as such it is of use, and in that use lies the secret and the subtle essence of beauty itself. In other words, a given cause produces a given effect, and that effect constitutes the cause!

The utility of Beauty an incidental Circumstance.—The truth is, that while the beautiful does elevate and ennoble the mind, and thus furnish the means of the highest æsthetic and moral culture, this advantage is wholly incidental to the existence of beauty, not even a necessary or invariable effect, much less the constituting element. This is not the reason why we admire the beautiful. It does not enter into our thoughts at the moment. As on the summit of Rhigi, I watch the play of the first rosy light on the snowy peaks that lift themselves in stately grandeur along the opposite horizon, I am not thinking, at that moment, of the effect produced on my own mind, by the spectacle before me; I am wholly absorbed in the magnificence of the scene itself. It is beautiful, not because it is useful, not because it elevates my mind, and cultivates my taste, and contributes, in various ways, to my development, but it produces these effects because it is beautiful. The very thought of the useful is almost enough, in such cases, to extinguish the sentiment of the beautiful.

Beauty cannot be appropriated.—That only is useful which can be appropriated, and turned to account. But the beautiful, in its very nature, cannot be appropriated or possessed. You may appropriate the picture, the statue, the mountain, the waterfall, but not their beauty. These do not belong to you, and never can. They are the property of every beholder. Hence, as Jouffroy has well observed, the possession of a beautiful object never fully satisfies. The beauty is ideal, and cannot be possessed. It is an ethereal spirit that floats away as a silver cloud, ever near, yet ever beyond your grasp. It is a bow, spanning the blue arch, many-colored, wonderful; yonder, just yonder, is its base, where the rosy light seems to hover over the wood, and touch gently the earth; but you cannot, by any flight or speed of travel, come up with it. It is here, there, everywhere, except where you are. It is given you to behold, not to possess it.

Theory of Unity in Variety.—Evidently we must seek elsewhere than in utility the dwelling-place of beauty. The secret of her tabernacle is not there. Let us see, then, if unity in variety may not be, as some affirm, the principle of the beautiful. The intellect demands a general unity, as, e. g., in a piece of music, a painting, or a play, and is not satisfied unless it can perceive such unity. The parts must be not only connected but related, and that relation must be obvious. At the same time the sensibility demands variety, as e. g., of tone and time in the music, of color and shade in the painting, of expression in both. The same note of a musical instrument continuously produced, or the same color unvaried in the painting, would be intolerable. The due combination of these two principles, unity and variety, say these writers, constitutes what we call beauty in an object. The waving line of Hogarth may be taken as an illustration of this principle.

Objection to this View.—Without entering fully into the discussion of this theory, it may be sufficient to say, that while the principle now named does enter, in some degree into our conception of the beautiful, it can hardly be admitted as the ground and cause, or even as the chief element of beauty. Not every thing is beautiful which presents both unity and variety. Some things, on the other hand, are beautiful which lack this combination. Some colors are beautiful, taken by themselves, and the same is true of certain forms, which, nevertheless, lack the element of variety. In the construction of certain mathematical figures, which please the eye by their symmetry and exactness, we may detect, perhaps, the operation of this principle. On the other hand, it will not account for the pleasure we feel when the eye rests upon a particular color that is agreeable. A bright red pebble, or a bit of stained glass, appears to a child very beautiful. It is the color that is the object of his admiration. We have simple unity but no variety there. On the other hand, in a beautiful sunset we have the greatest variety, but not unity, other than simply a numerical unity.

We cannot, on the whole, accept this theory as a complete and satisfactory resolution of the problem of the beautiful, although it is supported by the eminent authority of Cousin, who, while he regards all beauty as ultimately pertaining to the spiritual nature, still finds in the principle, now under consideration, its chief characteristic so far as it assumes external form.

Order and Proportion.—Shall we then, with Aristotle. Augustine, Andrè, and others, ancient and modern, seek the hidden principle of beauty in the elements of order and proportion? What are order and proportion? Order is the arrangement of the several parts of a composite body. Proportion is the relation of the several parts to each other in space and time. Not every possible arrangement is order, but only that which appears conducive to the end designed, and not every possible arrangement of parts is proportion, but only that which furthers the end to be accomplished. To place the human eye in the back part of the head, the limbs remaining as they now are, would be disorder, for motion must in that case, as now, be forward, while the eye, looking backward, could no longer survey the path we tread. The limbs of the Arabian steed, designed for swiftness of locomotion, bear a proportion to the other parts of the body, somewhat different from that which the limbs of the swine, designed chiefly for support, and for movements slower, and over shorter distances, bear to his general frame. The proportion of each, however, is perfect as it is. Exchange each for each, and they are quite out of proportion.

Only another Form of the Useful.—Since order and proportion, then, have always reference to the end proposed to be accomplished, we have, in fact, in these elements, only another form of the useful, which, as we have already seen, is not the principle of beauty.

Not always Beautiful.—Accordingly, we find that order and proportion do not, in themselves, and when unassociated with other elements, invariably strike us as beautiful. The leg of the swine is as fine a specimen of order and proportion as that of the Arab courser, but is not so much admired for its beauty. It must be admitted, however, that these elements in combination, do with others, enter more or less fully into the formation of the beautiful, are intimately associated with its external forms. The absence or violation of these principles would mar the beauty of the object.

The spiritual Theory.—The only theory of beauty remaining to be noticed is the spiritual theory, which makes beauty consist, not in matter as such, nor in any mere arrangement of matter in itself considered, but in the manifestation or expression, under these sensible material forms, of the higher, the hidden spiritual nature, or element, appealing thus to our own spiritual nature, which is thereby awakened to sympathy. In the sensible world about us we find two elements diverse and distinct each from the other, the idea and the form, spirit and matter, the invisible and the visible. In objects that are beautiful we find these two elements united in such a way, that the one expresses or manifests the other, the form expresses the idea, the body expresses the spirit, the visible manifests the invisible, and our own spiritual nature recognizing its like, holds communion and sympathy with it as thus expressed. That which constitutes the beautiful, then, is this manifestation, under sensible forms, and so to our senses, of the higher and spiritual principle which is the life and soul of things.

Relation of the Beautiful to the True and the Good.—It differs from the true in that the true is not, like the beautiful, expressed under sensible forms, but is isolated, pure, abstract, not addressed to the senses, but to reason. It differs from the good, in that the good always proposes an end to be accomplished, and involves the idea of obligation, while the beautiful, on the contrary, proposes no end to be accomplished, acknowledges no obligation or necessity, but is purely free and spontaneous. Yet, though differing in these aspects, the good, the true, and the beautiful, are at basis essentially the same, even as old Plato taught, differing rather in their mode of expression, and the relations which they sustain to us, than in essence.

Relation of the Beautiful to the Sublime.—The relation of the beautiful to the sublime, according to this theory, is simply this: In the beautiful, the invisible and the visible, the finite and the infinite, are harmoniously blended. In the sublime, the spiritual element predominates, the harmony is disturbed, the sensible is overborne by the infinite, and our spirits are agitated by the presence, in an unwonted degree, of the higher element of our own being. Hence, while the one pleases, the other awes and subdues us.

Application of this Theory.—Such, in brief outline, is the theory. Let us see now whether it is applicable to the different forms of beauty, and whether it furnishes a satisfactory explanation and account of them.

Surveying the different forms of being, we find among them different degrees of beauty. Does, then, every thing which is beautiful express or manifest, through the medium, and, as it were, under the veil, of the material form, the presence of the invisible spiritual element? and the more beautiful it is, does it so much the more plainly and directly manifest this element?

The Theory applied to inorganic Forms.—And first, to begin with the lowest, how is it with the inanimate, inorganic, merely chemical forms of matter? Here we have certain lines, certain figures, certain colors, that we call beautiful. What do they express of the higher or spiritual element of being? In themselves, and directly, they express nothing, perhaps. Yet are they not, after all, suggestive, symbolical of an idea and spirit dwelling, not in them, but in him who made them, of the Creator's idea and spirit, inarticulate expressions, mere natural signs, of a higher principle than dwells in these poor forms? Do they not suggest and express to us ideas of grace, elegance, delicacy, and the like? Do we not find ourselves attracted by, and, in a sort, in sympathy with these forms, as thus significant and expressive? Is it not thus that lines, and figures, and mathematical forms, the regular and sharply cut angles of the crystal, the light that flashes on its polished surface, or lies hid in beautiful color within it, the order, proportion, and movement, by fixed laws, of the various forms of matter, appear beautiful to us? For what are order, proportion, regularity, harmony, and movement, by fixed laws, and what are elegance, and grace of outline and figure, but so many signs and expressions of a higher intelligence?

Theory applied to vegetable Forms.—Passing onward and upward in the scale of being, taking into view, now, the organic forms of vegetable life, do we not find a more definite articulate expression of the spiritual and invisible under the material form? The flower that blooms in our path, the sturdy tree that throws out its branches against the sky, or droops pensively, as if weighed down by some hidden sorrow, address us more directly, speak more intimately to our spirits, than the mere crystal can do, however elegant its form, or definite its outline. They express sentiments, not ideas merely. They respond to the sensibilities, they appeal to the inner life of the soul. They are strong or weak, timid or bold, joyous or melancholy. It requires no vigorous exercise of fancy to attribute to them the sensibilities which they awaken in us. When in lively communion and sympathy with nature, we can hardly resist the conviction that the emotions which she calls into play in our own bosoms are, somehow, her own emotions also; that under these forms so expressive, so full of meaning to us, there lurks an intelligence, a soul.

To the animal Kingdom.—In the animal kingdom, this invisible spiritual principle, the energy that lies hidden under all forms of animate and organized substance, becomes yet more strongly and obviously developed. The approach is nearer, and the appeal is more direct, to our own spiritual nature. We perceive signs, not to be mistaken, of intelligence and of feeling; passion betrays itself, love, hate, fear, the very principles of our own spiritual being, the very image of our own higher nature. Beauty and deformity are now more strongly marked than in the lower degrees of the scale of being.

To Man.—In man we reach the highest stage of animal existence with which we are conversant, the highest degree of life, intelligence, soul—the being in whom the spiritual shines forth most clearly through the material veil—and, shall we not say also, the being most beautiful of all? The highest style of beauty to be found in nature pertains to the human form, as animated and lighted up by the intelligence within. It is the expression of the soul that constitutes this superior beauty. It is that which looks out at the eye which sits in calm majesty on the brow, lurks in the lip, smiles on the cheek, is set forth in the chiselled lines and features of the countenance, in the general contour of figure and form, and the particular shading and expression of the several parts, in the movement, and gesture, and tone; it is this looking out of the invisible spirit that dwells within, through the portals of the visible, this manifestation of the higher nature, that we admire and love; this constitutes to us the beauty of our species. Hence it is that certain features, not in themselves, perhaps, particularly attractive, wanting, it may be, in certain regularity of outline, or in certain delicacy and softness, are still invested with a peculiar charm and radiance of beauty from their peculiar expressiveness and animation. The light of genius, or the superior glow of sympathy, and a noble heart, play upon those plain, and, it may be, homely features, and light them up with a brilliant and regal beauty. Those, as every artist knows, are precisely the features most difficult to portray. The expression changes with the instant. The beauty flashes, and is gone, or gives place to a still higher beauty, as the light that plays in fitful corruscations along the northern sky, coming and going, but never still.

Man not the highest Type of Beauty.—Is then the human form the highest expression of the principle of beauty? It can hardly be; for in man, as in all things on the earth, is mingled along with the beauty much that is deformed, with the excellence much imperfection. We can conceive forms superior to his, faces radiant with a beauty that sin has never darkened, nor passion nor sorrow dimmed. We can conceive forms of beauty more perfect, purer, brighter, loftier than any thing that human eye hath seen or human ear heard. We conceive them, however, as existing only under some sensible form, as manifest in some way to sense, and the beauty with which we invest them is the beauty of the spiritual expressing itself in the outward and visible. It is the province of imagination to fashion these conceptions, and of art to attempt their realization. This, the poet, the painter, the sculptor, the architect, the orator, each in his way, is ever striving to do, to present under sensible forms, the ideal of a more perfect loveliness and excellence than the actual world affords.

This ideal can never be adequately and fully represented. The perfection of beauty dwells alone with God.

Consideration in favor of the Theory now explained.—It is in favor of the theory now under consideration, that it seems thus more nearly to meet and account for the various phenomena of beauty, than any other of those which have passed under our review, and that it accounts for them, withal, on a principle so simple and obvious. The crystal, the violet, the graceful spreading elm, the drooping willow, the statue, the painting, the musical composition, the grand cathedral, whatever in nature, whatever in art is beautiful, all mean something, all express something, and in this lies their beauty; and we are moved by them, because we, who have a soul, and in whom the spiritual nature predominates, can understand and sympathize with that which these forms of nature and art, in their semi-articulate way, seem all striving to express.

The Ideas thus expressed pertain not to Nature but to the divine Mind.—It is not necessary that, with the ancient Greeks, we should conceive of nature, as having herself an intelligent soul of these forms as themselves conscious of their own meaning and beauty. It is enough that we recognize them as conveying a sentiment and meaning not their own, but his who made them, and made them representative and expressive of his own beautiful thought. Words are not the only modes of expression. The soul speaks more earnestly and eloquently often in signs than in words. And when God speaks to men, he does it not always in the barren forms of human speech, but in the flower that he places by my path, in the tree, the mountain, the rolling ocean, the azure firmament. These are his words, and they are beautiful, and, when he will, they are terrible. Happy he who, in all these manifestations, recognizes the voice of God.

§ II.—Cognizance of the Beautiful.

Beauty an Object of Cognition.—We have treated, in the preceding section, of the idea of the beautiful, in itself considered. We proceed to investigate the action of the mind as cognizant of the beautiful in its actual manifestations, whether in nature or art. Beauty, as we have found reason to believe, is not a conception merely, existing only in the mind, but a quality of certain objects. As such it has objective value and existence, and the mind is cognizant of it as such, perceives it, observes it, compares it and the object to which it pertains with other like and unlike objects, judges and decides respecting it. This quality of objects makes its appeal, as do all objects of perception, first to the senses, and through them to the mind. There is thus awakened in the mind, or suggested to it, the original and intuitive conception of the beautiful; there is also, and beside this, the cognizance by the mind of the beautiful as an actual and present reality manifest in the object before it. As it perceives other objects of a like nature, it classes them with the preceding, compares them severally, judges of their respective merits, their respective degrees and kinds of beauty. This discriminating power of the mind, as exercised upon the various objects of beauty and sublimity, whether in nature or art, we may designate by the general name of taste.

Nature of this Power.—There has been much difference of opinion as to the precise nature of this power, whether it is a distinct faculty of the mind, or the simple exercise of some faculty already known and described, whether it is of the nature of intellect, or of emotion, or the combination of both. Hence the various definitions of taste which have been given by different writers, some regarding it as strictly an intellectual faculty, others as an emotion, while the greater number regard it as including the action both of the intellect in perceiving, and of the sensibility in feeling, whatever is beautiful and sublime.

What has been already said, sufficiently indicates with which of these general views our own most nearly accords. We use the term taste to denote the mind's power of cognizing the beautiful, a power of knowing, of discriminating, rather than of feeling, an exercise of judgment and the reflective power, directed to one particular class of objects, rather than any distinct faculty of the mind. Feeling is doubtless awakened on the perception of the beautiful; it may even precede the judgment by which we decide that the object before us is truly beautiful; but the feeling is not itself the perception, or the judgment; is not itself taste, whatever may be its relation to taste.

Proposed Investigation.—As this is a matter of some importance to a correct psychology, and also of much difference of opinion, it seems necessary, for purposes of science, to investigate somewhat carefully the nature of this form of mental activity. It is not a matter to be settled by authority, by arbitrary definition, or dogmatic assertion. We must look at the views and opinions of others, and at the reasons for those opinions.

Definitions.—As preliminary to such investigation, I shall present some of the definitions of taste, given by the more prominent writers, representing each of the leading views already indicated.

Blair defines it "a power of receiving pleasure from the beauties of nature and art." Montesquieu, a French author of distinction, defines it "something which attaches us to certain objects by the power of an internal sense or feeling." Gerard, author of an Essay on Taste, makes it consist in the improvement of the internal senses, viz., sense of novelty, sublimity, beauty, imitation, harmony, etc. Accordant with this are the lines of Akenside:

"What, then, is taste but those internal powers,
Active and strong, and feelingly alive
To each fine impulse?"

Nature of these Definitions.—The definitions now given, it will be perceived, make taste a matter of sensibility, of mere feeling, a sensation or sense, a passive faculty of being pleased with the beauties of nature and art.

Another Class of Definitions.—Differing from this, others have carefully distinguished between the rational and emotional elements, the power of discriminating and the power of feeling, and have made taste to consist properly in the former. Of this class is Brown. McDermot also takes the same view. This author, in his critical dissertation on the nature and principles of taste, defines it as the power of discriminating those qualities of sensible and intellectual being, which, from the invisible harmony that exists between them and our nature, excite in us pleasant emotions. The emotion, however, though it may be the parent of taste, he would not regard as a constituent element of it.

Definitions combining both Elements.—The greater number, however, of those who have written on this subject, have combined in their definitions of taste both these elements, the power of perceiving and the power of feeling. So Burke: "That faculty, or those faculties of the mind which are affected with, or which form a judgment of, the works of imagination and the elegant arts." Alison: "That faculty of the mind by which we perceive and enjoy whatever is beautiful or sublime in the works of nature and art." Reid also makes it consist in "the power of discerning and relishing" these objects. Voltaire makes the feeling quite as essential as the perception. Benard, Professor of Philosophy in the College Royal at Rouen, in the excellent article on taste, in the Dictionnaire des Sciences Philosophiques, defines taste as "that faculty of the mind which makes us to discern and feel the beauties of nature, and whatever is excellent in works of art." It is a compound faculty, according to this author, inhabiting at once both worlds, that of sense and that of reason. Beauty reveals itself to us only under sensible forms, the faculty which contemplates the beautiful, therefore, seizes it only in its sensible manifestation. The pure idea, on the other hand, in its abstract nature, addresses not the taste but the understanding; it appears to us, not as the beautiful, but as the true. Taste, then, has to do with sense. Still, says Benard, "the essential element which constitutes it, pertains to the reason; it is, in truth, only one of the forms of this sovereign power, which takes different names according to the objects which it deals with; reason, properly speaking, when it employs itself in the sphere of speculative truth; conscience, when it reveals to us truths moral or practical; taste, when it appreciates the beauty and suitableness of objects in the real world, or of works of art."

These three Classes comprehensive.—Other authorities and definitions, almost without number, might be added, but they fall essentially under the three classes now specified. Which of these views, then, is the correct and true one? is the question now before us. Is taste a matter of feeling, or is it an intellectual discernment, or is it both? Evidently we cannot depend on authority for the decision of this question, since authorities differ. We must examine for ourselves.

Etymology of the Term.—To some extent the word itself may guide us. Borrowed, as are most if not all words expressing mental states and acts, from the sphere of sense, there was doubtless some reason why this word in particular was selected to denote the power of the mind now under consideration. Some close analogy, doubtless, was supposed to exist between the physical state denoted by this word in its primary sense, and the mental faculty to which we refer, so that, in seeking for a term by which to designate that intellectual faculty, none would more readily present itself, as appropriate and suggestive of the mental state intended, than the one in question. This analogy, whatever it be, while it cannot be taken as decisive of the question before us, is still an element not to be overlooked by the psychologist. What, then, is the analogy? How comes this word—taste—to be used, rather than any other, to denote the idea and power now under consideration?

Taste as a Sense.—In the domain of sense, certain objects brought in contact with the appropriate physical organ, affect us as sweet, sour, bitter, etc. This is purely an affection of the sensibility, mere feeling. We say the thing tastes so and so. The power of distinguishing such qualities we call the power or sense of taste. Primarily mere sensation, mere feeling, we transfer the word to denote the power of judging by means of that sensation. There is, in the first instance, an affection of the organ by the object brought in contact with it, of which affection we are cognizant; then follows an intellectual perception or judgment that the object thus affecting us, possesses such and such qualities, is sweet, sour, bitter, salt, etc.. The sensation affords the ground of the judgment. The latter is based upon the former. The sensation, the simple feeling, affords the means of discriminating, judging, distinguishing, and to this latter power or process the word taste, in the physical sense, is more frequently appropriated. We say of such or such a man, his taste is acute, or his taste is impaired, or dull, etc., meaning his power of perceiving and distinguishing the various properties of objects which affect his sense of taste.

Analogy of this to the mental Process called Taste.—It is easy to perceive, now, the analogy between the physical power and process thus described, and the psychological faculty under consideration, to which the name primarily denoting the former has been transferred. Objects in nature and art present themselves to the observation, and awaken pleasure as beautiful, or excite disgust as the opposite. A mere matter of sensibility, of feeling, this. Presently, however, we begin to notice, not the mere feeling of pleasure or aversion, but the character of the object that awakens it, we discriminate, we attribute to the object such and such qualities, take cognizance of it as possessing those qualities. This discriminating power, this judgment of the mind that the object possesses such properties, we call taste. As, in the sphere of sense, the feeling awakened affords the means of judging and distinguishing, as to the qualities of the object, so here. The beautiful awakens sensation—a vivid feeling of pleasure, delight, admiration; deformity awakens the reverse; and this feeling enables us to judge of the object, as regards the property in question, viz., beauty or deformity, whether, and how far, as compared with other objects of the mind, it possesses this quality. In either case—the physical and the psychological—the process begins with sensation or feeling, but passes on at once into the domain of intellect, the sphere of understanding or judgment; and while, in either case, the word taste may, without impropriety, be used to denote the feeling or susceptibility of impression which lies at the foundation of the intellectual process, it is more strictly appropriate to the faculty of discriminating the objects, and the qualities of objects, which awaken in us the given emotions.

So far as the word itself can guide us, then, it would seem to be in the direction now indicated.

Appeal to Consciousness.—Analogy, however, may mislead us. We must not base a doctrine or decide a question in psychology upon the meaning of a single term. Upon observation and consciousness of what actually passes in our own minds, in view of the beautiful, we must, after all, rely. Let us place ourselves, then, in the presence of the beautiful in nature or art, and observe the various mental phenomena that present themselves to our consciousness.

I stand before a statue of Thorwalsden or Canova. The spell and inspiration of high art are upon me. What passes now in my mind?

The first Element.—First of all, I am conscious of almost instant emotion in view of the object, an emotion of pleasure and delight. No sooner do my eyes rest upon the chiselled form that stands in faultless and wondrous beauty before me, than this emotion awakens. It springs into play, as a fountain springs out of the earth by its own spontaneous energy, or, as the light plays on the mountain tops, and flushes their snowy summits, when the sun rises on the Alps. It is by no volition of mine that this takes place.

A second Element.—Along with the emotion, there is another thing of which, also, I am conscious. Scarcely have my eyes taken in the form and proportions on which they rest with delight, scarcely has the first thrill of emotion, thus awakened, made itself known to the consciousness, when I find myself exclaiming, "How beautiful!" The soul says it; perhaps the lips utter it. If not an oral, it is, at least, a mental affirmation. The mind perceives, at a glance, the presence of beauty, recognizes its divinity, and pays homage at its shrine; not now the blind homage of feeling, merely, but the clear-sighted perception of the intellect, the sure decision of the understanding affirming, with authority 'That which thou perceivest and admirest is beautiful.' This is an act of judgment, based, however, on the previous awakening of the sensibility. I know, because I feel.

A third Element.—In addition to these, there may, or may not be, another phase of mental action. I may begin, presently, to observe, with a more careful eye, the work before me, and form a critical estimate of it, scan its outline, its several parts, its effect as a whole, ascertain its merits, and its defects as a work of art, study its design, its idea, and how well it expresses that idea, and fulfills that design. I seek to know what it is in the piece that pleases me, and why it pleases me. This may, or may not, take place. Whether it shall occur, or not, will depend on the state of the mind at the moment, the circumstances in which it is placed, its previous training and culture, its habits of thought. This, too, is an exercise of judgment, comparing, distinguishing, deciding; a purely intellectual process. It is not so much a new element, as a distinct phase of that last named. It is the mind deciding and affirming now, not merely that the object is beautiful, but in what and why it is so.

Uniformity of Results.—I change now the experiment. I repeat it. I place myself before other works, before works of other artists—works of the painter, the architect, the musician, the poet, the orator. Whatever is beautiful, in art or nature, I observe. I perceive, in all cases, the same results, the occurrence of essentially the same mental phenomena. I conclude that these effects are produced, not fortuitously, but according to the constitution of my nature; that they are not specific instances, but general laws of mental action; in other words, that the mind possesses a susceptibility of being impressed in this manner by such objects, and also a faculty of judging and discriminating as above described. To these two elements, essentially, then, do the mental phenomena occasioned by the presence of the beautiful, reduce themselves.

The Question.—Which, then, of these elements is it that answers to the idea of taste, as used to denote a power of the mind? Is it the susceptibility of emotion in view of the beautiful, the power of feeling; or is it the faculty of judging and discriminating; or is it both combined? Our definitions, as we have seen, include both; the word, itself, may denote either; both are comprised in our analysis of the mental phenomena in view of the beautiful.

Not the first.—Is it the first? I think not. Taste is not mere emotion, nor mere susceptibility of emotion. A child or a savage may be deficient in taste, yet they may be as deeply moved in view of the beautiful, in nature or art, as the man of cultivated mind; nay, their emotion may exceed his. They may regard, with great delight and admiration, what he will view with entire indifference. So far from indicating a high degree of taste, the very susceptibility of emotion, in such cases, may be the sure indication of a want of taste. They are pleased with that which a cultivated and correct taste would condemn. The power of being moved is simply sensibility, and sensibility is not taste, however closely they may be related.

Taste the intellectual Element.—Is taste, then, the power of mental discrimination which enables me to say that such and such things are, or are not, beautiful, and which, in some cases, perhaps, enables me to decide why, or wherein they are so? Does it, in a word, denote the intellectual rather than the emotional element of the process? I am inclined to think this the more correct view. Susceptibility of emotion is, doubtless, concerned in the matter. It has to do with taste. It may be even the ground and foundation of its exercise, nay, of its existence. But it is not, itself, taste, and should not be included, therefore, in the definition.

Reason for distinguishing the two.—As we distinguish, in philosophical investigation, between an emotion and the intellectual perception that precedes and gives rise to it, or between the perception and the sensation on which it is founded, so I would distinguish taste, or the intellectual perception of the beautiful, from the sensation or feeling awakened in view of the object. The fact that both elements exist, and enter into the series of mental phenomena in view of the beautiful, is no reason why they should both be designated by the same term, or included in the same definition, but, rather, it is a reason why they should be carefully distinguished.

The precise nature of this faculty may be more distinctly perceived, if we consider, more particularly, its relation to the judgment, and also to the sensibility.

Taste, as related to Judgment.—According to the view now taken, taste is only a modification, or rather a particular direction of that general power of the mind which we call judgment; it is judgment exercised about the beautiful. It is the office of the judgment to form opinions and beliefs, to inform us of relations, to decide that things are thus and thus, that this is this, and that is that. As employed in different departments of thought, it appears under different forms, and is known under diverse names. As employed about the actual and sensible, we call it understanding; in the sphere of abstract truth it works under the cognomen of reason; in the sphere of practical truth, the thing that is good and right to be done by me, it is known as conscience; in the sphere of the ideal and the beautiful it is taste. In all these departments of mental activity it is exercised, employs itself upon all these subjects, giving us opinion, belief, knowledge, as to them all. The judgment as thus exercised in relation to the beautiful, that is to say, the mind observing, comparing, discriminating, deciding, forming the opinion, or reaching it may be the positive knowledge that this thing is, or is not, beautiful—for this is simply what we mean by judgment in any particular instance—judgment, as thus exercised, is known by the name of taste. More strictly speaking, it is not so much the exercise of the judgment in this particular way in given instances, as the foundation or ground of that exercise, the discriminating faculty or power of the mind by virtue of which it thus operates.

Judgment does not furnish the Ideas.—Does, then, the judgment, it may be asked, give us originally the ideas of the true, the beautiful, and the good? This we do not affirm. Judgment is not the source of ideas, certainly not of those now mentioned. It does not originate them. Their origin and awakening in the human mind is we should say, on this wise. The beautiful, the true, the good, exist as simple, absolute, eternal principles. They are in the divine mind. They are in the divine works. In a sense they are independent of Deity. He does not create them. He cannot reverse them or change their nature. He works according to them. They are not created by, but only manifested in, what God does. We are created with a nature so formed and endowed as to be capable of recognizing these principles and being impressed by them. The consequence is, that no sooner do we open the eye of reason and intelligence upon that which lies around and passes before us, in the world, than the idea of the true, the beautiful, the morally good, is awakened in the mind. We instinctively perceive and feel their presence in the objects presented to our notice. They are the product of our rational intelligence, brought into contact, through sense, with the world in which we dwell. The idea of beauty or of the right, thus once awakened in the mind, when afterward examples, or, it may be, violations, of these principles occur, the judgment is exercised in deciding that the cases presented do or do not properly fall under the class thus designated; and the judgment thus exercised in respect to the beautiful, we call taste, in respect to the right, conscience.

Taste as now defined.—As now defined, taste is, as to its principle, the discriminating power of the mind with respect to the beautiful or sublime in nature or art; that certain state, quality, or condition of the mental powers and the mental culture, the result partly of native difference and endowment, partly of education and habit, by virtue of which we are able to judge more or less correctly as to the beauty or deformity, the merit or demerit of whatever presents itself in nature or art as an object of admiration, whether and how far it is in reality beautiful, and of its fitness to awaken in us the emotions that we experience in view thereof. If we are able to observe, compare, discriminate, form opinions and conclusions well and correctly, on these matters, our taste is good; otherwise bad. Whether it be the one or the other, will depend not entirely on native endowment, not altogether on the degree to which the judgment is cultivated and developed in respect to other matters, but quite as much on the culture and training of the mind with respect to the specific objects of taste, viz., the beauties of nature and art. Men of strong minds, good understanding, and sound judgment in other matters, are not necessarily men of good taste. Like every other faculty of the mind, taste requires cultivation.

Taste and good Taste.—It is necessary to distinguish between taste, and good taste. Many writers use the terms indifferently, as when we say such a one is a man of taste, meaning of good taste, or such a one has no taste whatever, meaning that he is a man of bad taste. Strictly speaking, the savage who rejoices in the disfigurement of his person by tattooing, paint, and feathers, is a man of taste, as really as the Broadway dandy, or the Parisian exquisite. He has his faculty of judging in such matters, and exercises it—his standard of judging, and comes up to it. He is a man of taste, but not of correct taste. He has his own notions, but they do not agree with ours. He violates all the rules and principles by which well-informed minds are guided in such matters. He shocks our notions of fitness and propriety, excites in us emotions of disgust, or of the ludicrous, and, on the whole, we vote him down as a man of no authority in such matters.

As related to Sensibility.—Thus far we have spoken of taste only as related to the judgment. It is necessary to consider also its relation to the sensibility. Taste and sensibility are very often confounded. They are, in reality, quite distinct. Sensibility, so far as we are at present concerned with it, is the mind's capability of emotion in view of the beautiful or sublime. Taste is its capability of judging, in view of the same. Viewed as acts, rather than as states or powers of the mind, sensibility is the feeling awakened in view of a beautiful object; taste is the judgment or opinion formed respecting it. In the case already supposed, I stand before a fine statue or painting. It moves me, attracts me, fills me with delight and admiration. In this, it is not directly and immediately my taste, but my sensibility, that is affected and brought into play. I begin to judge of the object before me as a work of art, to form an opinion respecting its merits and demerits; and, in so doing, my taste is exercised.

The two not always proportional.—Not only are the two principles distinct, but not always do they exist in equal proportion and development in the same mind. Persons of the liveliest sensibility are not always, perhaps not generally, persons of the nicest taste. The child, the uneducated peasant, the negro, are as highly delighted with beautiful forms and beautiful colors as the philosopher, but could not tell you so well why they were moved, or what it was, in the object, that pleased them; neither would they discriminate so well the truly beautiful from that which is not worthy of admiration. If there may be sensibility without taste, so, on the other hand, a high degree of taste is not always accompanied with a corresponding degree of sensibility. The practised connoisseur is not always the man who enjoys the most at sight of a fine picture. The skillful musician has much better taste in music than the child that listens, with mingled wonder and delight, to his playing; but we have only to glance at the countenance of each, to see at once which feels the most.

Sensibility not inconsistent with Taste.—I should not, however, infer from this, that a high degree of sensibility is inconsistent with a high degree of taste. This was Mr. Stewart's opinion. The feeling, he would say, will be likely to interfere with the judgment, in such a case. Doubtless; where the feeling is highly wrought upon and excited, it may, for the time, interfere with the cool and deliberate exercise of the judgment. Yet, nevertheless, if sensibility be wanting, there will not be likely to be much taste. If I feel no pleasure at sight of a beautiful landscape or painting, I shall not be likely to trouble myself much about its comparative merits or defects. It is useless, in such a case, to inquire what pleases me, or why I am pleased, when, in truth, nothing pleases me. There is no motive for the exercise of judgment in such a case, neither is there an opportunity for its action. The very foundation for such an exercise is wanting. A lively sensibility is the basis of a correct taste, the ground on which it must rest, the spring and life of its action. The two are related somewhat as genius and learning which are not always found in equal degree, yet are by no means inconsistent with each other. There may be a high degree of mental strength and activity, without corresponding acquisitions; yet there can hardly be learning without some degree of mental power and activity. There may be sensibility without much taste, but hardly much taste without sensibility. Taste is, in a great measure, acquired, cultivated, an art; sensibility, a native endowment. It may be developed, strengthened, educated, but not acquired. Genius produces, sensibility admires, taste judges or decides. Their action is reciprocal. If taste corrects and restrains the too ready or too extravagant sensibility, the latter, on the other hand, furnishes the ground and data upon which, after all, taste must rely in its decisions.

Cultivation of Taste.—We have investigated, with some care, as was proposed, the nature of that power of the mind which takes cognizance of the beautiful. On the cultivation of this power, a few words must be said in this connection. Taste is an intellectual faculty, a perceptive power, a matter of judgment, and, as such, both admits and requires cultivation. No forms of mental activity depend more on education and exercise, for their full development, than that class to which we give the general name of judgment, and no form of judgment more than that which we call taste. The mind uncultivated, untrained, unused to the nice perception of the beautiful, can no more judge correctly, in matters of taste, than the mind unaccustomed to judge of the distance, magnitude, or chemical properties of bodies, can form correct decisions upon these subjects. It must be trained by art, and strengthened by exercise. It must be made familiar with the laws, and conversant with the forms of beauty. It must be taught to observe and study the beautiful, in nature and in art, to discriminate, to compare, to judge. The works in literature and in art which have received the approbation of time, and the honorable verdict of mankind, as well as the objects in nature which have commanded the admiration of the race, must become familiar, not by observation only, but by careful study. Thus may taste be cultivated.

Historical Sketch.

View of Plato.—Among the ancients, Plato was, perhaps, the first to distinguish the idea of the beautiful from other kindred ideas, and to point out its affinity with the true and the good, thus recognizing in it something immutable and eternal. In making the good and the beautiful identical, however, he mistakes the true character and end of art, Previously to Plato, and even by him, art and the beautiful were treated only in connection with ethics and politics' æsthetics, as a distinct department of science, was not known to the ancients.

Of Aristotle.—Aristotle has not treated of the beautiful but only of dramatic art. Poetry, he thinks, originates in the tendency to imitate, and the desire to know. Tragedy is the imitation of the better. Painting should represent, in like manner, not what is, but what ought to be. In this sense, may be understood his profound remark, that poetry is more true than history.

Plotinus and Augustine.—After Aristotle, Plotinus and Augustine alone, among the ancients, have treated of the beautiful. The work of Augustine is not extant. It is known that he made beauty consist in unity and fitness of parts, as in music. The treatise of Plotinus is regarded as at once beautiful and profound. Material beauty is, with him, only the expression or reflection of spiritual beauty. The soul alone, the mind, is beautiful, and in loving the beautiful, the soul loves its own image as there expressed. Hence, the soul must, itself, be beautiful, in order to comprehend and feel beauty. The tendency of this theory is to mysticism.

Longinus and Quintilian.—Longinus, and Quintilian, treat of the sublime, only with reference to eloquence and oratory; so, also, Horace, of art, as having to do with poetry.

Bacon.—Among the moderns, Bacon recognizes the fine arts as among the sciences, and poetry as one of the three chief branches of human knowledge, but nowhere, that I am aware, treats of the beautiful, distinctly, as such.

School of Leibnitz.—It was the school of Leibnitz and Wolf in Germany that first made the beautiful a distinct science. Baumgarten, disciple of Wolf, first conceived this idea. Like Plato, however, he makes the beautiful too nearly identical with the good and with morals.

School of Locke.—In England, the school of Locke have much to say of beauty. Shaftesbury and Hutcheson, while they do not clearly distinguish between the beautiful and the good, adopt the theory of unity in variety, as already explained. Hogarth falls into the same class, his idea of beauty being represented by the waving line. Burke does not distinguish sufficiently between the sublime and the terrible.

French Encyclopedists.—In France, the Encyclopedists coincide, essentially, with the school of Locke, and treat of the beautiful, chiefly in its moral aspect.

The later Germans.—In Germany, again, Winckelman, an artist, and not a philosopher, seizing the spirit of the Greek art, ascribes, as Plato had done, the idea of beauty to God, from whom it passes into sensible things, as his manifestations.

In opposition to this ideal and divine aspect, Lessing takes a more practical view, regarding the beautiful from the stand-point of the real. Herder and Goethe contribute, also, much to the science of æsthetics. All these do little more than prepare the way for Kant, who goes more profoundly into the philosophy of the matter. He makes beauty a subjective affair, a play of the imagination.

Schiller makes it the joint product of the reason and the sensibility, but still a subjective matter, as Kant.

Schelling and Hegel.—Schelling develops the spiritual or ideal theory of beauty. Hegel carries out this theory and makes a complete science of it, classifies and analyzes the arts. His work is regarded as the first complete discussion of the philosophy of the fine arts. It is characterized by strength, clearness, depth, power of analysis, richness of imagination.

Theory of Jouffroy.—Jouffroy, in France, among the later writers, has treated fully, and in an admirable manner, of the philosophy of the beautiful. His theory is derived from that of Hegel, with some modifications. It is essentially the theory last presented in the discussion of the subject in the preceding section, viz., the expression of the spiritual or invisible element under sensible forms. No writer is more worthy of study than Jouffroy. His work is clear, strong, and of admirable power of analysis.

Cousin.—Among the eclectics, Cousin, in his treatise on the true, the beautiful, and the good, has many just observations, with much beauty and philosophic clearness of expression.

McDermot.—In English, beside the works already referred to, must be noticed the treatise of McDermot on Taste, in which the nature and objects of taste are fully and well discussed.

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CHAPTER IV.

IDEA AND COGNIZANCE OF THE RIGHT.

§ I.—Idea of Right.

The Idea of Right a Conception of the Mind.—Among the conceptions which constitute the furniture of the mind, there is one, which, in many respects, is unlike all others, while, at the same time, it is more important than all others; that is, the notion or idea of right.

Universally prevalent.—When we direct our attention to any given instance of the voluntary action of any intelligent rational being, we find ourselves not unfrequently pronouncing upon its character as a right or wrong act. Especially is this the case when the act contemplated is of a marked and unusual character. The question at once arises, is it right? Or, it may be, without the consciousness of even a question respecting it, our decision follows instantly upon the mental apprehension of the act itself—this thing is right, that thing is wrong. Our decision may be correct or incorrect; our perception of the real nature of the act may be clear or obscure; it may make a stronger or weaker impression on the mind, according to our mental habits, the tone of our mental nature, and the degree to which we have cultivated the moral faculty. There may be minds so degraded, and natures so perverted, that the moral character of an act shall be quite mistaken, or quite overlooked in many cases; or, when perceived, it shall make little impression on them. Even in such minds, however, the idea of right and wrong still finds a place, and the understanding applies it, though not perhaps always correctly, to particular instances of human conduct. There is no reason to believe that any mind possessing ordinary endowments, that degree of reason and intelligence which nature usually bestows, is destitute of this idea, or fails altogether to apply it to its own acts, and those of others.

The Question and its different Answers.—But here an important question presents itself: Whence come these ideas and perceptions; their origin? How is it, why is it, that we pronounce an act right or wrong, when once fairly apprehended? How come we by these notions? The fact is admitted; the explanations vary. By one class of writers our ideas of this nature have been ascribed to education and fashion; by another, to legal restriction, human or divine. Others, again, viewing these ideas as the offspring of nature, have assigned them either to the operation of a special sense, given for this specific purpose, as the eye for vision; or to the joint action of certain associated emotions; while others regard them as originating in an exercise of judgment, and others still, as natural intuitions of the mind, or reason exercised on subjects of a moral nature.

Main Question.—The main question is, are these ideas natural, or artificial and acquired? If the latter, are they the result of education, or of legal restraint? If the former, are they to be referred to the sensibilities, as the result of a special sense or of association, or to the intellect, as the result of the faculty of judgment or as intuitions of reason?

1. Education.—Come they from Education and Imitation?—So Locke, Paley, and others, have supposed. Locke was led to take this view, by tracing, as he did, all simple ideas, except those of our own mental operations, to sensation, as their source. This allows, of course, no place for the ideas of right and wrong, which, accordingly, he concluded, cannot be natural ideas, but must be the result of education.

Objection to this View.—Now it is to be conceded that education and fashion are powerful instruments in the culture of the mind. Their influence is not to be overlooked in estimating the causes that shape and direct the opinions of men, and the tendencies of an age. But they do not account for the origin of any thing. This has been ably and clearly shown by Dugald Stewart, in answer to Locke; and it is a sufficient answer. Education and imitation both presuppose the existence of moral ideas and distinctions; the very things to be accounted for. How came they who first taught these distinctions, and they who first set the example of making such distinctions, to be themselves in possession of these ideas? Whence did they derive them? Who taught them, and set them the example? This is a question not answered by the theory now under consideration. It gives us, therefore, and can give us, no account of the origin of the ideas in question.

2. Legal Enactment.—Do we then derive these ideas from legal restriction and enactment? So teach some able writers. Laws are made, human and divine, requiring us to do thus and thus, and forbidding such and such things, and hence we get our ideas originally of right and wrong.

Presupposes Right.—If this be so, then, previous to all law, there could have been no such ideas, of course. But does not law presuppose the idea of right and wrong? Is it not built on that idea as its basis? How, then, can it originate that on which itself depends, and which it presupposes? The first law ever promulgated must have been either a just or an unjust law, or else of no moral character. If the latter, how could a law which was neither just nor unjust, have suggested to the subjects of it any such ideas? If the former, then these qualities, and the ideas of them, must have existed prior to the law itself; and whoever made the law and conferred on it its character, must have had already, in his own mind, the idea of the right and its opposite. It is evident that we cannot, in this way, account for the origin of the ideas in question. We are no nearer the solution of the problem than before.

In opposition to the views now considered, we must regard the ideas in question, as, directly or indirectly, the work of nature, and the result of our constitution. The question still remains, however, in which of the several ways indicated, does this result take place?

3. Special Sense.—Shall we attribute these ideas to a special sense? This is the view taken by Hutcheson and his followers. Ascribing, with Locke, all our simple ideas to sensation, but not content with Locke's theory of moral distinctions as the result of education, he sought to account for them by enlarging the sphere of sensation, and introducing a new sense, whose specific office is to take cognizance of such distinctions. The tendency of this theory is evident. While it derives the idea of right and its opposite from our natural constitution, and is, so far, preferable to either of the preceding theories, still, in assigning them a place among the sensibilities, it seems to make morality a mere sentiment, a matter of feeling merely, an impression made on our sentient nature—a mere subjective affair—as color and taste are impressions made on our organs of sense, and not properly qualities of bodies. As these affections of the sense do not exist independently, but only relatively to us, so moral distinctions, according to this view, are merely subjective affections of our minds, and not independent realities.

Hume and the Sophists.—Hume accedes to this general view, and carries it out to its legitimate results, making morality a mere relation between our nature and certain objects, and not an independent quality of actions. Virtue and vice, like color and taste, the bright and the dull, the sweet and the bitter, lie merely in our sensations.

These skeptical views had been advanced long previously by the Sophists, who taught that man is the measure of all things, that things are only what they seem to us.

Ambiguity of the term Sense.—It is true, as Stewart has observed, that these views do not necessarily result from Hutcheson's theory, nor were they, probably, held by him; but such is the natural tendency of his doctrine. The term sense, as employed by him, is, in itself, ambiguous, and may be used to denote a mental perception; but when we speak of a sense, we are understood to refer to that part of our constitution which, when affected from without, gives us certain sensations. Thus the sense of hearing, the sense of vision, the sense of taste, of smell, etc. It is in this way that Hutcheson seems to have employed the term, and his illustrations all point in this direction. He was unfortunate, to say the least, in his use of terms, and in his illustrations; unfortunate, also, in having such a disciple as Hume, to push his theory to its legitimate results.

If, by a special sense, he meant only a direct perceptive power of the mind, then, doubtless, Hutcheson is right in recognizing such a faculty, and attributing to it the ideas under consideration. But that is not the proper meaning of the word sense, nor is that the signification attached to it by his followers.

No Evidence of such a Faculty.—But if he means, by sense, what the word itself would indicate, some adaptation of the sensibilities to receive impressions from things without, analogous to that by which we are affected through the organs of sense, then, in the first place, it is not true that we have any such special faculty. There is no evidence of it; nay, facts contradict it. There is no such uniformity of moral impression or sensation as ought to manifest itself on this supposition. Men's eyes and ears are much alike, in their activity, the world over. That which is white, or red, to one, is not black to another, or green to a third; that which is sweet to one, is not sour, or bitter, to another. At least, if such variations occur, they are the result only of some unnatural and unusual condition of the organs. But it is otherwise with the operation of the so-called special sense. While all men have probably, some idea of right and wrong, there is the greatest possible variety in its application to particular instances of conduct. What one approves as a virtue, another condemns as a crime.

No Need of it.—Nor, secondly, have we any need to call in the aid of a special sense to give us ideas of this kind. It is not true, as Locke and Hutcheson believed, that all our ideas, except those of our own mental operations, or consciousness, are derived ultimately from sensation. We have ideas of the true and the beautiful, ideas of cause and effect, of geometrical and arithmetical relations, and various other ideas, which it would be difficult to trace to the senses as their source; and which, equally with the ideas of right and wrong, would require, in that case, a special sense for their production.

4. Association.—Shall we, then, adopt the view of that class of ethical writers who account for the origin of these ideas by the principle of association? Such men as Hartley, Mill, Mackintosh, and others of that stamp, are not lightly to be set aside in the discussion of such a question. Their view is, that the moral perceptions are the result of certain combined antecedent emotions, such as gratitude, pity, resentment, etc., which relate to the dispositions and actions of voluntary agents, and which very easily and naturally come to be transferred, from the agent himself, to the action in itself considered, or to the disposition which prompted it; forming, when thus transferred and associated, what we call the moral feelings and perceptions. Just as avarice arises from the original desire, not of money, but of the things which money can procure—which desire comes, eventually, to be transferred, from the objects themselves, to the means and instrument of procuring them—and, as sympathy arises from the transfer to others of the feelings which, in like circumstances, agitate our own bosoms, so, in like manner, by the principle of association, the feelings which naturally arise in view of the conduct of others, are transferred from the agent to the act, from the enemy or the benefactor, to the injury or the benefaction, which acts stand afterward, by themselves, as objects of approval or condemnation. Hence the disposition to approve all benevolent acts, and to condemn the opposite; which disposition, thus formed and transferred, is a part of conscience. So of other elementary emotions.

Makes Conscience a mere Sentiment.—It will be perceived that this theory, which is indebted chiefly to Mackintosh for its completeness, and scientific form, makes conscience wholly a matter of sentiment and feeling; standing in this respect, on the same ground with the theory of a special sense, and liable, in part, to the same objections. Hence the name sentimental school, often employed to designate, collectively, the adherents of each of these views. While the theory, now proposed, might seem then to offer a plausible account of the manner in which our moral sentiments arise, it does not account for the origin of our ideas and perceptions of moral rectitude. Now the moral faculty is not a mere sentiment. There is an intellectual perception of one thing as right, and another as wrong; and the question now before us is, Whence comes that perception, and the idea on which it is based? To resolve the whole matter into certain transferred and associated emotions, is to give up the inherent distinction of right and wrong as qualities of actions, and make virtue and vice creations of the sensibility, the play and product of the excited feelings. To admit the perception and idea of the right, and ascribe their origin to antecedent emotion, is, moreover, to reverse the natural order and law of psychological operation, which bases emotion on perception, and not perception on emotion. We do not first admire, love, hate, and then perceive, but the reverse.

Further Objections.—The view now under consideration, while it seems to resolve the moral faculty into mere feeling, thus making morality wholly a relative affair, makes conscience, itself, an acquired, rather than a natural faculty, a secondary process, a transformation of emotions, rather than itself an original principle. It does it, moreover, the further injustice of deriving its origin from the purely selfish principles of our nature. I receive a favor, or an injury; hence I regard, with certain feelings of complacency, or the opposite, the man who has thus treated me. These feelings I come gradually to transfer to, and associate with, the act in itself considered, and this with other acts of the same nature; and so, at last, I come to have a moral faculty, and pronounce one thing right, and another wrong.

At Variance with Facts.—This view is quite inadmissible; at variance with facts, and the well-known laws of the human mind. The moral faculty is one of the earliest to develop itself. It appears in childhood, manifesting itself, not as an acquired and secondary principle, the result of a complicated process of associated and transferred emotion, requiring time for its gradual formation and growth, but rather as an original instinctive principle of nature.

Sympathy.—Adam Smith, in his "Theory of Moral Sentiments," has proposed a view which falls properly under the general theory of association, and may be regarded as a modification of it. He attributes our moral perceptions to the feeling of sympathy. To adopt the feelings of another is to approve them. If those feelings are such as would naturally be awakened in us by the same objects, we approve them as morally proper. Sympathy with the gratitude of one who has received a favor, leads us to regard the benefaction as meritorious. Sympathy with the resentment of an injured man, leads us to regard the injurer as worthy of punishment, and so the sense of demerit originates; sympathy with the feelings of others respecting our own conduct gives rise to self-approval and sense of duty. Rules of morality are merely a summary of these sentiments.

This View not sustained by Consciousness.—Whatever credit may be due to this ingenious writer, for calling attention to a principle which had not been sufficiently taken into account by preceding philosophers, we cannot but regard it as an insufficient explanation of the present case. In the first place, we are not conscious of the element of sympathy in the decisions and perceptions of the moral faculty. We look at a given action of right or wrong, and approve of it, or condemn it on that ground, because it is right or wrong, not because we sympathize with the feelings awakened by the act in the minds of others. If the process now supposed intervened between our knowledge of the act, and our judgment of its morality, we should know it and recognize it as a distinct element.

No imperative Character.—Furthermore, sympathy, like other emotions, has no imperative character, and, even if it might be supposed to suggest to the mind some idea of moral distinctions, cannot of itself furnish a foundation for those feelings of obligation which accompany and characterize the decisions of the moral faculty.

The Standard of Right.—But more than this, the view now taken makes the standard of right and wrong variable, and dependent on the feelings of men. We must know how others think and feel, how the thing affects them, before we can know whether a given act is right or wrong, to be performed or avoided. And then, furthermore, our feelings must agree with theirs; there must be sympathy and harmony of views and feelings, else the result will not follow. If any thing prevents us from knowing what are the feelings of others with respect to a given course of conduct, or if for any reason we fail to sympathize with those feelings, we can have no conscience in the matter. As those feelings vary, so will our moral perceptions vary. We have no fixed standard. There is no place left for right, as such, and absolutely. If no sympathy, then no duty, no right, no morality.

Result of the preceding Inquiries.—We have, as yet, found no satisfactory explanation of the origin of our moral ideas and perceptions. They seem not to be the result of education and imitation, nor yet of legal enactment. They seem to be natural, rather than artificial and acquired. Yet we cannot trace them to the action of the sensitive part of our nature. They are not the product of a special sense, nor yet of the combined and associated action of certain natural emotions, much less of any one emotion, as sympathy. And yet they are a part of our nature. Place man where you will, surround him with what influences you will, you still find in him, to some extent at least, indications of a moral nature; a nature modified, indeed, by circumstances, but never wholly obliterated. Evidently we must refer the ideas in question, then, to the intellectual, since they do not belong to the sensitive part of our nature.

5. Judgment.—Are they then the product and operation of the faculty of judgment? But the judgment does not originate ideas. It compares, distributes, estimates, decides to what class and category a thing belongs, but creates nothing. I have in mind the idea of a triangle, a circle, etc. So soon as certain figures are presented to the eye, I refer them at once, by an act of judgment, to the class to which they belong. I affirm that to be a triangle, this, a circle, etc.; the judgment does this. But judgment does not furnish my mind with the primary idea of a circle, etc. It deals with this idea already in the mind. So in our judgment of the beauty and deformity of objects. The perception that a landscape or painting is beautiful, is, in one sense, an act of judgment; but it is an act which presupposes the idea of the beautiful already in the mind that so judges. So also of moral distinctions. Whence comes the idea of right and wrong which lies at the foundation of every particular judgment as to the moral character of actions? This is the question before us, still unanswered; and to this there remains but one reply.

6. These Ideas intuitive.—The ideas in question are intuitive; suggestions or perceptions of reason. The view now proposed may be thus stated: It is the office of reason to discern the right and the wrong, as well as the true and the false, the beautiful and the reverse. Regarded subjectively, as conceptions of the human mind, right and wrong, as well as beauty and its opposite, truth and its opposite, are simple ideas, incapable of analysis or definition; intuitions of reason. Regarded as objective, right and wrong are realities, qualities absolute, and inherent in the nature of things, not fictitious, not the play of human fancy or human feeling, not relative merely to the human mind, but independent, essential, universal, absolute. As such, reason recognizes their existence. Judgment decides that such and such actions do possess the one or the other of these qualities; are right or wrong actions. There follows the sense of obligation to do or not to do, and the consciousness of merit or demerit as we comply, or fail to comply, with the same. In view of these perceptions emotions arise, but only as based upon them. The emotions do not, as the sentimental school affirm, originate the idea, the perception; but the idea, the perception, gives rise to the emotion. We are so constituted as to feel certain emotions in view of the moral quality of actions, but the idea and perception of that moral quality must precede, and it is the office of reason to produce this.

First Truths.—There are certain simple ideas which must be regarded as first truths, or first principles, of the human understanding, essential to its operations, ideas universal, absolute, necessary. Such are the ideas of personal existence, and identity, of time and space, as conditions of material existence; of number, cause, and mathematical relation. Into this class fall the ideas of the true, the beautiful, the right, and their opposites. The fundamental maxims of reasoning and morals find here their place.

How awakened.—These are, in a sense, intuitive perceptions; not strictly innate, yet connate; the foundation for them being laid in our nature and constitution. So soon as the mind reaches a certain stage of development they present themselves. Circumstances may promote or retard their appearance. They depend on opportunity to furnish the occasion of their springing up, yet they are, nevertheless, the natural, spontaneous development of the human soul, as really a part of our nature as are any of our instinctive impulses, or our mental attributes. They are a part of that native intelligence with which we are endowed by the author of our being. These intuitions of ours, are not themselves the foundation of right and wrong; they do not make one thing right and another wrong; but they are simply the reason why we so regard them. Such we believe to be the true account of the origin of our moral perceptions.

§ II.—Cognizance of the Right.

The Cognition distinguished from the Idea of Right.—Having, in the preceding section, discussed the idea of the right, in itself considered, as a conception of the mind, we proceed now to consider the action of the mind as cognizant of right. The theme is one of no little difficulty, but, at the same time, of highest importance.

Existence of this Power.—After what has been already said, it is hardly necessary to raise the preliminary inquiry, as to the existence of a moral faculty in man. That we do possess the power of making moral distinctions, that we do discriminate between the right and the wrong in human conduct, is an obvious fact in the history and psychology of the race. Consciousness, observation, the form of language, the literature of the world, the usages of society, all attest and confirm this truth. We are conscious of the operation of this principle in ourselves, whenever we contemplate our own conduct, or that of others. We find ourselves, involuntarily, and as by instinct, pronouncing this act to be right, that, wrong. We recognize the obligation to do, or to have done, otherwise. We approve, or condemn. We are sustained by the calm sense of that self-approval, or cast down by the fearful strength and bitterness of that remorse. And what we find in ourselves, we observe, also, in others. In like circumstances, they recognize the same distinctions, and exhibit the same emotions. At the story or the sight of some flagrant injustice and wrong, the child and the savage are not less indignant than the philosopher. Nor is this a matter peculiar to one age or people. The languages and the literature of the world indicate, that, at all times, and among all nations, the distinction between right and wrong has been recognized and felt. The το δικαον and το καλον of the Greeks, the honestum and the pulchrum of the Latins, are specimens of a class of words, to be found in all languages, the proper use and significance of which is to express the distinctions in question.

Since, then, we do unquestionably recognize moral distinctions, it is clear that we have a moral faculty.

Questions which present themselves.—Without further consideration of this point, we pass at once to the investigation of the subject itself. Our inquiries relate principally to the nature and authority of this faculty. On these points, it is hardly necessary to say, great difference of opinion has existed among philosophers and theologians, and grave questions have arisen. What is this faculty as exercised; a judgment, a process of reasoning, or an emotion? Does it belong to the rational or sensitive part of our nature: to the domain of intellect, or of feeling, or both? What is the value and correctness of our moral perceptions, and especially of that verdict of approbation or censure, which we pass upon ourselves and others, according as the conduct conforms to, or violates, recognized obligation? Such are some of the questions which have arisen respecting the nature and authority of conscience.

I. The Nature of Conscience.—What is it? A matter of intellect, or of feeling; a judgment, or an emotion?

A careful analysis of the phenomena of conscience, with a view to determine the several elements, or mental processes, that constitute its operation, may aid us in the solution of this question.

Analysis of an Act of Conscience.

Cognition of Right.—Whenever the conduct of intelligent and rational beings is made the subject of contemplation, whether the act thus contemplated be our own or another's, and whether it be an act already performed, or only proposed, we are cognizant of certain ideas awakened in the mind, and of certain impressions made upon it. First of all, the act contemplated strikes us as right or wrong. This involves a double element, an idea, and a perception or judgment. The idea of right and its opposite are, in the mind, simple ideas, and, therefore, indefinable. In the act contemplated, we recognize the one or the other of these simple elements, and pronounce it, accordingly, a right or wrong act. This is simply a judgment, a perception, an exercise of the understanding.

Of Obligation.—No sooner is this idea, this cognition, of the rightness or wrongness of the given act, fairly entertained by the mind, than another idea, another cognition, presents itself, given along with the former, and inseparable from it, viz., that of obligation to do, or not to do, the given act: the ought, and the ought not—also simple ideas, and indefinable. This applies equally to the future and to the past, to ourselves and to others: I ought to do this thing. I ought to have done it yesterday. He ought, or ought not to do, or to have done it. This, like the former, is an intellectual act, a perception or cognition of a truth, of a reality for which we have the same voucher as for any other reality or apprehended fact, viz., the reliability of our mental faculties in general, and the correctness of their operation in the specific instance. It is a conviction of the mind inseparable from the perception of right. Given, a clear perception of the one, and we cannot escape the other.

Of Merit and Demerit.—There follows a third element, logically distinct, but chronologically inseparable, from the preceding: the cognition of merit or demerit in connection with the deed, of good or ill desert, and the consequent approval or disapproval of the deed and the doer. No sooner do we perceive an action to be right or wrong, and to involve, therefore, an obligation on the part of the doer, than, there arises, also, in the mind, the idea of merit or demerit, in connection with the doing; we regard the agent as deserving of praise or blame, and in our own minds do approve or condemn him and his course, accordingly. This approval of ourselves and others, according to the apprehended desert of the act and the actor, constitutes a process of trial, an inner tribunal, at whose bar are constantly arraigned the deeds of men, and whose verdict it is no easy matter to set aside. This mental approval may be regarded by some as a matter of feeling, rather than an intellectual act. We speak of feelings of approval and of condemnation. To approve and condemn, however, are, properly, acts of the judgment. The feelings consequent upon such approval or disapproval are usually of such a nature, and of such strength, as to attract the principal attention of the mind to themselves, and, hence, we naturally come to think and speak of the whole process as a matter of feeling. Strictly viewed, it is an intellectual perception, an exercise of judgment, giving sentence that the contemplated act is, or is not, meritorious, and awarding praise or blame accordingly.

This completes the process. I can discover nothing in the operation of my mind, in view of moral action, which does not resolve itself into some one of these elements.

These Elements intellectual.—Viewed in themselves, these are, strictly, intellectual operations; the recognition of the right, the recognition of obligation, the perception of good or ill desert, are all, properly, acts of the intellect. Each of these cognitive acts, however, involves a corresponding action of the sensibilities. The perception of the right awakens, in the pure and virtuous mind, feelings of pleasure, admiration, love. The idea of obligation becomes, in its turn, through the awakened sensibilities, an impulse and motive to action. The recognition of good or ill desert awakens feelings of esteem and complacency, or the reverse; fills the soul with sweet peace, or stings it with sharp remorse. All these things must be recognized and included by the psychologist among the phenomena of conscience. These emotions, however, are based on, and grow out of, the intellectual acts already named, and are to be viewed as an incidental and subordinate, though by no means unimportant, part of the whole process. When we speak of conscience, or the moral faculty, we speak of a power, a faculty and not merely a feeling or susceptibility of being affected. It is a cognitive power, having to do with realities, recognizing real distinctions, and not merely a passive play of the sensibilities. It is simply the mind's power of recognizing a certain class of truths and relations. As such, we claim for it a place among the strictly cognitive powers of the mind, among the faculties that have to do with the perception of truth and reality.

Importance of this Position.—This is a point of some importance. If, with certain writers, we make the moral faculty a matter of mere feeling, overlooking the intellectual perceptions on which this feeling is based, we overlook and leave out of the account, the chief elements of the process. The moral faculty is no longer a cognitive power, no longer, in truth, a faculty. The distinctions which it seems to recognize are merely subjective; impressions, feelings, to which there may, or may not, be a corresponding reality. We have at least no evidence of any such reality. Such a view subtracts the very foundation of morals. Our feelings vary; but right and wrong do not vary with our feelings. They are objective realities, and not subjective phenomena. As such, the mind, by virtue of the natural powers with which it is endowed by the Creator, recognizes them. The power by which it gives this, we call the moral faculty; just as we call its power to take cognizance of another class of truths and relations, viz., the beautiful, its æsthetic faculty. In view of these truths and relations, as thus perceived, certain feelings are, in either case, awakened, and these emotions may, with propriety, be regarded as pertaining to, and a part of, the phenomena of conscience, and of taste; the full discussion of either of these faculties will include the action of the sensibilities; but in neither case will a true psychology resolve the faculty into the feeling. The mathematician experiences a certain feeling of delight in perceiving the relation of lines and angles, but the power of perceiving that relation, the faculty by which the mind takes cognizance of such truth, is not to be resolved into the feeling that results from it.

Result of Analysis.—As the result of our analysis, we obtain the following elements as involved in, and constituting, an operation of the moral faculty:

(1.) The mental perception that a given act is right or wrong.

(2.) The perception of obligation with respect to the same, as right or wrong.

(3.) The perception of merit or demerit, and the consequent approbation or censure of the agent, as doing the right or the wrong thus perceived.

(4.) Accompanying these intellectual perceptions, and based upon them, certain corresponding emotions, varying in intensity according to the clearness of the mental perceptions, and the purity of the moral nature.

II. Authority of Conscience.—Thus far we have considered the nature of conscience. The question arises now as to its authority—the reliableness of its decisions.

If conscience correctly discerns the right and the wrong and the consequent obligation, it will be likely to judge correctly as to the deserts of the doer. If it mistake these points, it may approve what is not worthy of approval, and condemn what is good.

What Evidence of Correctness.—How are we to know, then, whether conscience judges right? What voucher have we for its correctness? How far is it to be trusted in its perceptions and decisions? Perhaps we are so constituted, it may be said, as invariably to judge that to be right which is wrong, and the reverse, and so to approve where we should condemn. True, we reply, this may be so. It may be that I am so constituted, that two and two shall seem to be four, when in reality they are five; and that the three angles of a triangle shall seem to be equal to two right angles, when in reality they are equal to three. This may be so. Still it is a presumption in favor of the correctness of all our natural perceptions, that they are the operation of original principles of our constitution. It is not probable, to say the least, that we are so constituted by the great Author of our being, as to be habitually deceived. It may be that the organs of vision and hearing are absolutely false; that the things which we see, and hear, and feel, through the medium of the senses, have no correspondence to our supposed perceptions. But this is not a probable supposition. He who denies the validity of the natural faculties, has the burden of proof; and proof is of course impossible; for the simple reason, that, in order to prove them false, you must make use of these very faculties; and if their testimony is not reliable in the one case, certainly it is not in the other. We must then take their veracity for granted; and we have the right to do so. And so of our moral nature. It comes from the Author of our being, and if it is uniformly and originally wrong, then he is wrong. It is an error, which, in the nature of the case, can never be detected or corrected. We cannot get beyond our constitution, back of our natural endowments, to judge, à priori, and from an external position, whether they are correct or not. Right and wrong are not, indeed, the creations of the divine will; but the faculties by which we perceive and approve the right, and condemn the wrong, are from him; and we must presume upon their general correctness.

Not infallible.—It does not follow from this, however, nor do we affirm, that conscience is infallible, that she never errs. It does not follow that our moral perceptions and judgments are invariably correct, because they spring from our native constitution. This is not so. There is not one of the faculties of the human mind that is not liable to err. Not one of its activities is infallible. The reasoning power sometimes errs; the judgment errs; the memory errs. The moral faculty is on the same footing, in this respect, with any and all other faculties.

Its Value not thus destroyed.—But of what use, it will be said, is a moral faculty, on which, after all, we cannot rely? Of what use, we reply, is any mental faculty, that is not absolutely and universally correct? Of what use is a memory or a judgment, that sometimes errs? We do not wholly distrust these faculties, or cast them aside as worthless. A time-keeper may be of great value, though not absolutely perfect. Its authorship and original construction may be a strong presumption in favor of its general correctness; nevertheless its hands may have been accidentally set to the wrong hour of the day.

Actual Occurrence of such Cases.—This is a spectacle that not unfrequently presents itself in the moral world—a man with his conscience pointing to the wrong hour; a strictly conscientious man, fully and firmly persuaded that he is right, yet by no means agreeing with the general convictions of mankind; an hour or two before, or, it may be, as much behind the age. Such men are the hardest of all mortals to be set right, for the simple reason, that they are conscientious. "Here is my watch; it points to such an hour; and my watch is from the very best maker. I cannot be mistaken." And yet he is mistaken, and egregiously so. The truth is, conscience is no more infallible than any other mental faculty. It is simply, as we have seen, a power of perceiving and judging, and its operations, like all other perceptions and judgments, are liable to error.

Diversity of Moral Judgment.—And this which we have just said, goes far to account for the great diversity that has long been known to exist in the moral judgments and opinions of men. It has often been urged, and with great force, against the supposed existence of a moral faculty in man, as a part of his original nature, that men think and act so differently with respect to these matters. Nature, it is said, ought to act uniformly; thus eyes and ears do not give essentially conflicting testimony, at different times, and in different countries, with respect to the same objects. Certain colors are universally pleasing, and certain sounds disagreeable. But not so, it is said, with respect to the moral judgments of men. What one approves, another condemns. If these distinctions are universal, absolute, essential; and if the power of perceiving them is inherent in our nature, men ought to agree in their perception of them. Yet you will find nothing approved by one age and people, which is not condemned by some other; nay, the very crimes of one age and nation, are the religious acts of another. If the perception of right and wrong is intuitive, how happens this diversity?

This Diversity accounted for.—To which I reply, the thing has been already accounted for. Our ideas of right and wrong, it was stated, in discussing their origin, depend on circumstances for their time and degree of development. They are not irrespective of opportunity. Education, habits, laws, customs, while they do not originate, still have much to do with the development and modification of these ideas. They may be by these influences aided or retarded in their growth, or even quite misdirected, just as a tree may, by unfavorable influences, be hindered and thwarted in its growth, be made to turn and twist, and put forth abnormal and monstrous developments. Yet nature works there, nevertheless, and in spite of all such obstacles, and unfavorable circumstances, seeks to put forth, according to her laws, her perfect and finished work. All that we contend is, that nature, under favorable circumstances, develops in the human mind, the idea of moral distinctions, while, at the same time, men may differ much in their estimate of what is right, and what is wrong, according to the circumstances and influences right and wrong to particular cases, and decide as to the morality of given actions, is an office of judgment, and the judgment may err in this, as in any other of its operations. It may be biassed by unfavorable influences, by wrong education, wrong habits, and the like.

Analogy of other Faculties.—The same is true, substantially, of all other natural faculties and their operations. They depend on circumstances for the degree of their development, and the mode of their action. Hence they are liable to great diversity and frequent error. Perception misleads us as to sensible objects, not seldom; even in their mathematical reasonings, men do not always agree. There is the greatest possible diversity among men, as to the retentiveness of the memory, and as to the extent and power of the reasoning faculties. The savage that thinks it no wrong to scalp his enemy, or even to roast and eat him, is utterly unable to count twenty upon his fingers; while the philosopher, who recognizes the duty of loving his neighbor as himself, calculates, with precision, the motions of the heavenly bodies, and predicts their place in the heaven, for ages to come. Shall we conclude, because of this diversity, that these several faculties are not parts of our nature?

General Uniformity.—We are by no means disposed to admit, however, that the diversity in men's moral judgments is so great, as might, at first, appear. There is, on the contrary, a general uniformity. As to the great essential principles of morals, men, after all, do judge much alike, in different ages and different countries. In details, they differ, in general principles, they agree. In the application of the rules of morality to particular actions, they differ widely, according to circumstances; in the recognition of the right and the wrong, as distinctive principles, and of obligation to do the right as known, and avoid the wrong as known, in this they agree. It must be remembered, moreover, that men do not always act according to their own ideas of right. From the general neglect of virtue, in any age or community, and the prevalence of great and revolting crimes, we cannot safely infer the absence, or even the perversion, of the moral faculty.

Precisely in what the Diversity consists.—It is important to bear in mind, throughout this discussion, the distinction between the idea of right, in itself considered, and the perception of a given act as right; the one a simple conception, the other an act of judgment; the one an idea derived from the very constitution of the mind, connate, if not innate, the other an application of that idea, by the understanding, to particular instances of conduct. The former, the idea of moral distinctions, may be universal, necessary, absolute, unerring; the latter, the application of the idea to particular instances, and the decision that such and such acts are, or are not, right, may be altogether an incorrect and mistaken judgment. Now it is precisely at this point that the diversity in the moral judgments of mankind makes its appearance. In recognizing the distinction of right and wrong, they agree; in the application of the same to particular instances in deciding what is right and what is wrong—a simple act of the judgment, an exercise of the understanding, as we have seen—in this it is that they differ. And the difference is no greater, and no more inexplicable, with respect to this, than in any other class of judgments.

Conscience not always a safe Guide.—I have admitted that conscience is not infallible. Is it, then, a safe guide? Are we, in all cases to follow its decisions? Since liable to err, it cannot be, in itself, I reply, in all cases, a safe guide. We cannot conclude, with certainty, that a given course is right, simply because conscience approves it. This does not, of necessity, follow. The decision that a given act is right, or not, is simply a matter of judgment; and the judgment may, or may not, be correct. That depends on circumstances, on education partly, on the light we have, be it more or less. Conscientious men are not always in the right. We may do wrong conscientiously. Saul of Tarsus was a conscientious persecutor, and verily thought he was doing God service. No doubt, many of the most intolerant and relentless bigots have been equally conscientious, and equally mistaken. Such men are all the more dangerous, because doing what they believe to be right.

It is, nevertheless, to be followed.—What, then, are we to do? Shall we follow a guide thus liable to err? Yes, I reply, follow conscience; but see that it be a right and well-informed conscience, forming its judgments, not from impulse, passion, prejudice, the bias of habit, or of unreflecting custom, but from the clearest light of reason, and especially of the divine word. We are responsible for the judgments we form in morals, as much as for any class of our judgments; responsible, in other words, for the sort of conscience we have. Saul's mistake lay, not in acting according to his conscientious convictions of duty, but in not having a more enlightened conscience. He should have formed a more careful judgment; have inquired more diligently after the right way. To say, however, that a man ought not to do what conscience approves, is to say that he ought not to do what he sincerely believes to be right. This would be a very strange rule in morals.

Conscience not exclusively intellectual.—I have discussed, as I proposed, the nature and authority of conscience. In this discussion I have treated of the moral faculty as an intellectual, rather than an emotional power I would not be understood, however, as implying that conscience has not also an emotional character. Every intellectual act, and faculty of action, partakes more or less of this character, is accompanied by feeling, and these feelings are in some degree peculiar, it may be, to the particular faculty or act of mind to which they relate. The exercise of imagination involves some degree of feeling, either pleasurable or painful, and that often in a high degree; so also the æsthetic faculty. It is peculiarly so with the exercise of the moral faculty. As already stated, in our analysis of an act of conscience, it is impossible to view our past conduct as right or wrong, and to approve or condemn ourselves accordingly, without emotion; and these emotions will vary in intensity, according to the clearness and force of our intellectual conception of the merit or demerit of our conduct.

These feelings constitute an important part of the phenomena of moral action, and consequently of psychology; as they belong, however, to the department of sensibility, rather than of intellect, their further discussion is not here in place. They will be considered in connection with other emotions in the subsequent division of the work.

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