Lectures on the Philosophy of the Human Mind (Vol. 1 of 3)

by Thomas Brown

Footnotes

[126] Cowper's Task, Book V. v. 810–814.

[127] Cowpers Task, Book V. v. 686–7.

[128] Recherche de la Verité, Liv. III. c. vi.

[129] Recherche de la Verité, Liv. III. c. vi.

[130] Pleasures of Imagination, Book I. v. 59–78.

[LECTURE XXXI.]

HISTORY OF OPINIONS REGARDING PERCEPTION, CONCLUDED—ON THE EXTERNAL AFFECTIONS COMBINED WITH DESIRE, OR ON ATTENTION.

In my last Lecture, Gentlemen, I gave you a slight sketch of some theories,—or, to speak more accurately, of some hypothetical conjectures, which have been formed with respect to perception,—pointing out to you, at the same time, the two supposed difficulties which appear to me to have led to them, in false views of the real objects of perception, and of the nature of causation; the difficulty of accounting, with these false views, for the supposed perception of objects at a distance, and for the agency of matter on a substance, so little capable as mind, of being linked with it, by any common bond of connexion.

Of such hypotheses, we considered three,—the doctrine of the Peripatetics as to perception by species, or shadowy films, that flow from the object to the organ,—the Cartesian doctrine of the indirect subserviency of external objects, as the mere occasions on which the Deity himself, in every instance, produces in the mind the state which is termed perception,—and the particular doctrine of Malebranche, himself a zealous defender of that general doctrine of occasional causes, as to the perception of objects, or rather of the ideas of objects in the divine mind.

The only remaining hypothesis, which deserves to be noticed, is a very celebrated one, of Leibnitz, the doctrine of the pre-established harmony, which, I have no doubt, originated in the same false view of the necessity of some connecting link in causation; and was intended, therefore, like the others, to obviate the supposed difficulty of the action of matter on mind, and of mind on matter.

According to this doctrine, the body never acts on the mind, nor the mind on the body, but the motions of the one, and the feelings of the other, are absolutely independent, having as little influence on each other, as they have on any other mind and body. The mind feels pain, when the body is bruised, but, from the pre-established order of its own affections, it would have felt exactly the same pain, though the body, at that moment, had been resting upon roses. The arm, indeed, moves at the very moment, when the mind has willed its motion; but, it moves of itself, in consequence of its own pre-established order of movement, and would move, therefore, equally, at that very moment, though the mind had wished it to remain at rest. The exact correspondence of the motions and feelings, which we observe, arises merely from the exactness of the choice of the Deity, in uniting with a body, that was formed by Him, to have of itself, a certain order of independent motions, a mind, that was formed of itself to have a certain order of independent but corresponding feelings. In the unerring exactness of this choice, and mutual adaptation, consists the exquisiteness of the harmony. But, however exquisite, it is still a harmony only, without the slightest reciprocal action.

The mind, and its organic frame, are, in this system,—to borrow the illustration of it which is commonly used,—like two time-pieces, which have no connexion with each other, however accurately they may agree,—and each of which would indicate the hour, in the very same manner, though the other had been destroyed. In like manner, the soul of Leibnitz,—for the great theorist himself may surely be used to illustrate his own hypothesis,—would, though his body had been annihilated at birth, have felt and acted, as if with its bodily appendage,—studying the same works, inventing the same systems, and carrying on, with the same warfare of books and epistles, the same long course of indefatigable controversy;—and the body of this great philosopher, though his soul had been annihilated at birth, would not merely have gone through the same process of growth, eating, and digesting, and performing all its other ordinary animal functions,—but would have achieved for itself the same intellectual glory, without any consciousness of the works which it was writing and correcting,—would have argued, with equal strenuousness, for the principle of the sufficient reason,—claimed the honours of the differential calculus,—and laboured to prove this very system of the pre-established harmony, of which it would, certainly, in that case, have been one of the most illustrious examples.

To say of this hypothesis, which was the dream of a great mind,—but of a mind, I must confess, which was very fond of dreaming, and very apt to dream,—that it is a mere hypothesis, is to speak of it too favourably. Like the doctrine of occasional causes, it supposes a system of external things, of which, by the very principle of the hypothesis, there can be no evidence, and which is absolutely of no utility whatever, but as it enables a philosopher to talk, more justly, of pre-established harmonies, without the possibility, however, of knowing that he is talking more justly. If the mind would have exactly the same feelings as now,—the same pleasures, and pains, and perceptions of men and houses, and every thing external, though every thing external, comprehending of course the very organs of sense, had been annihilated ages of ages before itself existed, what reason can there be to suppose, that this useless system of bodily organs, and other external things, exist at present? The universal irresistible belief of mankind, to which philosophers of a different school might appeal, cannot be urged in this case, since the admission of it, as legitimate evidence, would at once, disprove the hypothesis. We do not more truly believe, that light exists, than we believe, that it affects us with vision, and that, if there had been no light, there would have been no sensation of colour. To assert the pre-established harmony, is, indeed, almost the same thing, as to affirm and deny the same proposition. It is to affirm, in the first place, positively, that matter exists, since the harmony, which it asserts, is of matter and mind; and then to affirm, as positively, that its existence is useless, that it cannot be perceived by us, and that we are, therefore, absolutely incapable of knowing whether it exists or not.

After stating to you so many hypotheses, which have been formed on this subject, I need scarcely remark, what a fund of perpetual conjecture, and, therefore, of perpetual controversy, there is in the varied wonders of the external and internal universe, when it is so very difficult for a few philosophers to agree, as to what it is which gives rise to the simplest sensation of warmth, or fragrance, or colour. It might be thought, that, in the intellectual opera, if I may revert to that ingenious and lively allegory, of which I availed myself in one of my early Lectures, in treating of general physical inquiry,—as the whole spectacle which we behold, is passing within our minds, we are, in this instance at least, fairly behind the scenes, and see the mechanism of Nature truly as it is. But though we are really behind the scenes, and even, in one sense of the word, may be said to be ourselves the movers of the machinery, by which the whole representation is carried on, still the minute parts and arrangements of the complicated mechanism are concealed from our view, almost as completely as from the observation of the distant spectators. The primary springs and weights, indeed, by the agency of which Phaeton seemed to be carried off by the winds, are left visible to us; and we know, that when we touch a certain spring, it will put in motion a concealed set of wheels, or that when we pull a cord, it will act upon a system of pullies, which will ultimately produce a particular effect desired by us; but what is the number of wheels or pullies, and how they are arranged and adapted to each other so as to produce the effect,—are left to our penetration to divine. On this subject we have seen, that as many grave absurdities have been formed into systems, and honoured with commentaries and confutations, as in the opera of external nature, at which, in the quotation formerly made to you, the Pythagorases and Platos were supposed to be present. “It is not a system of cords and pullies which we put in motion,” says Aristotle, “—for to move such a heavy and distant mass would be beyond our power,—but only a number of little phantasms connected with them, which have the form, indeed, of cords and pullies, but not the substance, and which are light enough, therefore, to fly at our very touch.”—“We do not truly move any wheels,” says the great inventor of the System of Occasional Causes; “for, as we did not make the wheels, how can we know the principle on which their motion is to depend, or have such a command over them as to be capable of moving them? But when we touch a spring, it is the occasion on which the Mechanist himself, who is always present, though invisible, and who must know well how to move them, sets them instantly in motion.”—“We see the motion,” says Malebranche, “not by looking at the wheels or pullies,—for there is an impenetrable veil which hides them from us, but by looking at the Mechanist himself, who must see them, because He is the mover of them: and whose eye, in which they are imaged as he gazes on them, must be a living mirror of all which he moves.”—“It is not a spring that acts upon the wheels,” says Leibnitz; “though, when the spring is touched, the wheels begin to move immediately, and never begin to move at any other time. This coincidence, however, is not owing to any connexion of one with the other; for, though the spring were destroyed, the wheels would move exactly as at present, beginning and ceasing at the same precise moments. It is owing to a preestablished harmony of motion in the wheels and spring; by which arrangement the motion of the wheels, though completely independent of the other, always begins at the very moment when the spring is touched.”—“No,” exclaims Berkeley, “it is all illusion. The wheels, and cords, and weights, are not seen because they exist, but exist because they are seen; and, if the whole machinery is not absolutely annihilated when we shut our eyes, it is only because it finds shelter in the mind of some other Being whose eyes are never shut,—and are always open, therefore, at the time when ours are closing.”

From all this variety of conjectural speculations, the conclusion which you will perhaps have drawn most readily, is that which is too often the result of our researches in the History of Science,—that there may, as D'Alembert truly says, be a great deal of philosophizing, in which there is very little of philosophy.

I have now finished the remarks which I had to make on the very important class of our external affections of mind, as they may be considered simply; but it is not always simply that they exist; and, when they occur in combination with other feelings, the appearance which they assume is sometimes so different, as to lead to the erroneous belief, that the complex feeling is the result of a distinct power of the mind.

When, in my attempt to arrange the various feelings of which the mind is susceptible, I divided these into our external and internal affections, according as their causes are, in the one case, objects without the mind, and, in the other case, previous feelings, or affections of the mind itself: and subdivided this latter class of internal affections into the two orders of our intellectual states of mind, and our emotions; I warned you, that you were not to consider these as always arising separately, and as merely successive to each other;—that, in the same manner, as we may both see and smell a rose, so may we see, or compare, or remember, while under the influence of some or other of our emotions; though, at the same time, by analysis, or at least by a reflective process that is similar to analysis, we may be able to distinguish the emotion from the coexisting perception, or remembrance, or comparison,—as we are able, by a very easy analysis, in like manner, when we both see and smell a rose, to distinguish in our complex perception, the fragrance from the colour and form.

There is one emotion, in particular, that is capable of so many modifications, and has so extensive a sway over human life, which it may be said almost to occupy from the first wishes of our infancy to the last of our old age, that it cannot fail to be combined with many of our other feelings, both sensitive and intellectual. The emotion to which I allude is desire; a feeling which may exist of various species and degrees, from the strongest passion of which the mind is susceptible, to the slightest wish of knowing a little more accurately the most trifling object before us;—and though, in speaking of it at present, I am anticipating what, according to the strict division which we have made, should not be brought forward till we consider the emotions in general, this anticipation is absolutely unavoidable for understanding some of the most important phenomena, both of perception, which we have been considering, and of those intellectual faculties which we are soon to consider. I need not repeat to you, that Nature is not to be governed by the systems which we form; that though our systematic arrangements ought not to be complicated, her phenomena are almost always so; and that, while every thing is thus intermixed and connected with every thing in the actual phenomena of mind as well as of matter, it would be vain for us to think of accommodating our physical discussions with absolute exactness, even to the most perfect divisions and subdivisions which we may be capable of forming. All that is necessary is, that we should not depart from our order of arrangement without some advantage in view, and an advantage greater than the slight evil which may arise from the appearance of temporary confusion.

The reason of my anticipation, in the present instance, is to explain to you what I conceive to constitute the phenomena of attention,—a state of mind which has been understood to imply the exercise of a peculiar intellectual power, but which, in the case of attention to objects of sense, appears to be nothing more than the coexistence of desire, with the perception of the object to which we are said to attend; as, in attention to other phenomena of the mind, it is, in like manner, the coexistence of a particular desire with these particular phenomena. The desire, indeed, modifies the perception, rendering our feeling more intense, as any other emotion would do, that has equal relation to the object. But there is no operation of any power distinct from the desire and perception themselves.

To understand this fully, however, it may be necessary to make some previous remarks on the coexistence of sensations.

In the circumstances in which we are placed by our beneficent Creator, in a world of objects capable of exciting in us various feelings, and with senses awake to the profusion of delight,—breathing and moving in the midst of odours, and colours, and sounds, and pressed alike in gentle reaction, whether our limbs be in exercise or repose, by that firm soil which supports us, or the softness on which we rest,—in all this mingling action of external things, there is scarcely a moment in which any one of our feelings can be said to be truly simple.

Even when we consider but one of our organs, to the exclusion of all the others, how innumerable are the objects that concur in producing the complex affections of a single sense? In the eye, for example, how wide a scene is open to us, wherever our glance maybe turned?—woods, fields, mountains, rivers, the whole atmosphere of light, and that magnificent luminary, which converts into light the whole space through which it moves, as if incapable of existing but in splendour. The mere opening of our eyelid is like the withdrawing of a veil, which before covered the universe:—It is more; it is almost like saying to the universe, which had perished, Exist again!

Innumerable objects, then, are constantly acting together on our organs of sense; and it is evident, that many of these can, at once, produce an effect of some sort in the mind, because we truly perceive them as a coexisting whole. It is not a single point of light only which we see, but a wide landscape; and we are capable of comparing various parts of the landscape with each other,—of distinguishing various odours in the compound fragrance of the meadow or the garden,—of feeling the harmony of various coexisting melodies.

The various sensations, then, may coexist, so as to produce one complex affection. When they do coexist, it must be remarked, that they are individually less intense. The same sound, for example, which is scarcely heard in the tumult of the day, is capable of affecting us powerfully if it recur in the calm of the night; not that it is then absolutely louder, but because it is no longer mingled with other sounds, and other sensations of various kinds, which rendered it weaker, by coexisting with it. It may be regarded, then, as a general law of our perceptions, that when many sensations coexist, each individually is less vivid than if it existed alone.

It may be considered almost as another form of the same proposition to say, that when many sensations coexist, each is not merely weaker, but less distinct from the others with which it is combined. When a few voices sing together, we easily recognize each separate voice. In a very full chorus, we distinguish each with more difficulty; and, if a great multitude were singing together, we should scarcely be able to distinguish any one voice from the rest, more than to distinguish the noise of a single billow, or a single dashing of a few particles of agitated air, in the whole thunders of the ocean and the storm.

When many sensations coexist, and are, therefore, of course weaker and less distinct, if any one were suddenly to become much more intense, the rest would fade in proportion, so as scarcely to be felt. A thousand faint sounds murmur around us, which are instantly hushed by any loud noise. If, when we are looking at the glittering firmament of suns in a winter night, any one of those distant orbs were to become as radiant as our own sun, which is itself but the star of our planetary system, there can be no question, that, like our sun on its rising, it would quench with its brilliancy, all those little glimmering lights, which would still shine on us, indeed, as before, but would shine on us without being perceived. It may be regarded, then, as another general law of the mind, that when many sensations coexist of equal intensity, the effect of the increased intensity of one is a diminished intensity of those which coexist with it.

Let us now, for the application of these remarks, consider, what it is which takes place in attention, when many objects are together acting on our senses, and we attend, perhaps, only to a single sensation. As a mere description of the process, I cannot use a happier exemplification, than that which Condillac has given us in his Logique.

Let us imagine a castle, which commands, from its elevation, an extensive view of a domain, rich with all the beauties of nature and art. It is night when we arrive at it. The next morning our window-shutters open at the moment when the sun has just risen above the horizon,—and close again the very moment after.

Though the whole sweep of country was shewn to us but for an instant, we must have seen every object which it comprehends within the sphere of our vision. In a second or a third instant we could have received only the same impressions which we received at first; consequently, though the window had not been closed again, we should have continued to see but what we saw before.

This first instant, however, though it unquestionably shewed us all the scene, gave us no real knowledge of it; and, when the windows were closed again, there is not one of us who could have ventured to give even the slightest description of it,—a sufficient proof, that we may have seen many objects, and yet have learned nothing.

At length the shutters are opened again, to remain open while the sun is above the horizon; and we see once more what we saw at first. Even now, however, if, in a sort of ecstacy, we were to continue to see at once, as in the first instant, all this multitude of different objects, we should know as little of them when the night arrived, as we knew when the window shutters were closed again after the very moment of their opening.

To have a knowledge of the scene, then, it is not sufficient to behold it all at once, so as to comprehend it in a single gaze; we must consider it in detail, and pass successively from object to object. This is what Nature has taught us all. If she has given us the power of seeing many objects at once, she has given us also the faculty of looking but at one,—that is to say, of directing our eyes on one only of the multitude; and it is to this faculty,—which is a result of our organization, says Condillac,—that we owe all the knowledge which we acquire from sight.

The faculty is common to us all: and yet, if afterwards we were to talk of the landscape which we had all seen, it would be very evident, that our knowledge of it would not be exactly the same. By some of us, a picture might be given of it with tolerable exactness, in which there would be many objects such as they were, and many, certainly, which had very little resemblance to the parts of the landscape which we wished to describe. The picture which others might give, would probably be so confused, that it would be quite impossible to recognize the scene in the description, and yet all had seen the same objects, and nothing but the same objects. The only difference is, that some of us had wandered from object to object irregularly, and that others had looked at them in a certain order.

Now, what is this order? Nature points it out to us herself. It is the very order in which she presents to us objects. There are some which are more striking than others, and which, of themselves, almost call to us to look at them; they are the predominant objects, around which the others seem to arrange themselves. It is to them, accordingly, that we give our first attention; and when we have remarked their relative situations, the others gradually fill up the intervals.

We begin, then, with the principal objects; we observe them in succession; we compare them, to judge of their relative positions. When these are ascertained, we observe the objects that fill up the intervals, comparing each with the principal object, till we have fixed the positions of all.

When this process of successive, but regular observation, is accomplished, we know all the objects and their situations, and can embrace them with a single glance. Their order, in our mind, is no longer an order of mere succession; it is simultaneous. It is that in which they exist, and we see it at once distinctly.

The comprehensive knowledge thus acquired, we owe to the mere skill with which we have directed our eyes from object to object. The knowledge has been acquired in parts successively; but, when acquired, it is present at once to our mind, in the same manner, as the objects which it retraces to us, are all present to the single glance of the eye that beholds them.

The description which I have now given you, very nearly after the words of Condillac, is, I think, a very faithful representation of a process of which we must all repeatedly have been conscious. It seems to me however, faithful as it is, as a mere description, to leave the great difficulty unexplained, and even unremarked. We see a multitude of objects, and we have one complex indistinct feeling. We wish to know the scene more accurately, and in consequence of this wish, though the objects themselves continue as before, we no longer seem to view them all, but only one, or a few; and the few, which we now see, we see more distinctly. Such I conceive to be the process; but the difference is, that though we seem to view only a few objects, and these much more distinctly, the field of the eye still comprehends a wide expanse, the light from which scarcely affects us, while the light from other parts of it, though not more brilliant, produces in us distinct perception. It is vain for Condillac to say, that it is in consequence of a faculty which we have of directing our eyes on one subject, a faculty which is the result of our organization, and which is common to all mankind; for, in the first place, if this direction of our eyes, of which he speaks, on a single object, be meant, in its strict sense, of the eye itself, which we direct, it is not true that we have any such faculty. We cannot direct our eyes so as not to comprehend equally in our field of vision, many objects beside that single object which is supposed to have fixed our attention; and if, by the direction of our eyes, be meant the exclusive or limited perception by our mind itself, there remains the difficulty,—how it happens, that while light from innumerable objects falls on our retina as before, it no longer produces any distinct vision relatively to the objects from which it comes,—while light certainly not more brilliant, from other objects, produces vision much more distinct than before. Let us consider this difficulty which, in truth, constitutes the principal phenomenon of attention, a little more fully.

When Condillac speaks of the faculty of the mind, by which he supposes it capable of directing the eye, exclusively, on certain objects, he must speak of that only, of which we are conscious, previously to the more distinct perception of those objects, as certain parts of the scene.

What is it, then, of which we are conscious, between the indistinct perception of the wide scene, and the distinct perception of parts of the scene?

In the first place, there is a general desire of knowing the scene more accurately. This is the primary feeling of the process of attention. But this primary feeling is soon succeeded by others. Indistinct as the whole complex scene may be, some parts of it more brilliant, or more striking in general character, are less indistinct than others. There are a few more prominent parts, as Condillac says, around which the rest are indistinctly arranged.

With some one of these, then, as in itself more impressive and attractive, we begin; our general desire of knowing the whole scene having been followed by a wish to know this principal part more accurately.

The next step is to prevent the eye itself from wandering, that no new objects may distract it, and that there may be as little confusion as possible of the rays from different objects, on that part of the retina, on which the rays fell from the particular object which we wish to consider. We fix our eyes, therefore, and our whole body, as steadily as we can, by the muscles subservient to these purposes.

So far, unquestionably, no new faculty is exercised. We have merely the desire of knowing the scene before us,—the selection of some prominent object, or rather the mere perception of it, as peculiarly prominent,—the desire of knowing it particularly,—and the contraction of a few muscles, in obedience to our volition.

No sooner, however, has all this taken place, than instantly, or almost instantly, and without our consciousness of any new and peculiar state of mind intervening in the process, the landscape becomes to our vision altogether different. Certain parts only, those parts which we wished to know particularly, are seen by us; the remaining parts seem almost to have vanished. It is as if every thing before had been but the doubtful colouring of enchantment, which had disappeared, and left to us the few prominent realities on which we gaze; or rather, it is as if some instant enchantment, obedient to our wishes, had dissolved every reality besides, and brought closer to our sight the few objects which we desired to see.

Still, however, all of which we are truly conscious, as preceding immediately the change of appearance in the scene, is the mere desire, of which I have spoken, combined certainly with expectation of that more distinct vision which follows. There may be a combination of feelings, but no new and peculiar feeling, either as simple, or coexisting with other feelings,—no indication, in short, of the exercise of new power.

Even though we should be incapable, therefore, of understanding how the desire should have this effect, it would not be the less true, that the desire of knowing accurately a particular object in a group, is instantly,—or, at least, instantly after some organic change which may probably be necessary,—followed by a more vivid and distinct perception of the particular object, and a comparative faintness and indistinctness of the other objects that coexist with it; and that what we call attention is nothing more.

Are the comparative distinctness and indistinctness, however, a result which we had no reason to expect? or are they not rather what might, in some degree at least, have been expected, from our knowledge of the few physical facts with respect to our co-existing sensations, which I have already pointed out to you, and from the circumstance which we are next to consider? We have seen, in the observations already made by us, that many co-existing perceptions are indistinct, and that when one becomes more vivid, the others become still fainter. All that is necessary, therefore, is to discover some cause of increased vividness of that one to which we are said to attend.

If we can discover any reason why this should become more vivid, the comparative indistinctness of the other parts of the scene may be considered as following of course.

Such a cause exists, unquestionably, in that feeling of desire, without which there can be no attention. To attend, is to have a desire of knowing that to which we attend, and attention without desire is a verbal contradiction,—an inconsistency, at least, as great as if we were said to desire to know without any desire of knowing, or to be attentive without attention.

When we attend, then, to any part of a complex group of sensations, there is always an emotion of desire, however slight the emotion may be, connected exclusively with that particular part of the group to which we attend; and whatever effect our emotions produce on the complex feelings that accompany them, we may expect to be produced, in some greater or less degree, by the desire in the complex process which we term attention.

The effect which our expectation might anticipate, is the very effect that is truly found to take place,—an increased liveliness of that part of the complex group, to which alone the desire relates.

That it is the nature of our emotions of every sort, to render more vivid all the mental affections with which they are peculiarly combined, as if their own vivacity were in some measure divided with these, every one who has felt any strong emotion, must have experienced. The eye has, as it were, a double quickness, to perceive what we love or hate, what we hope or fear. Other objects may be seen slightly; but these, if seen at all, become instantly permanent, and cannot appear to us without impressing their presence, as it were, in stronger feeling on our senses and our soul.

Such is the effect of emotion, when combined even with sensations that are of themselves, by their own nature, vivid; and mark, therefore, less strikingly, the increase of vividness received. The vivifying effect, however, is still more remarkable, by its relative proportion, when the feelings with which the emotion is combined, are in themselves peculiarly faint, as in the case of mere memory or imagination. The object of any of our emotions, thus merely conceived by us, becomes, in many cases, so vivid, as to render even our accompanying perceptions comparatively faint. The mental absence of lovers, for example, is proverbial; and what is thus termed in popular language absence, is nothing more than the greater vividness of some mere conception, or other internal feeling, than of any, or all of the external objects present at the time, which have no peculiar relation to the prevailing emotion.

“The darkened sun

Loses his light; The rosy-bosom'd Spring

To weeping Fancy pines; and yon bright arch

Contracted, bends into a dusky vault.

All nature fades, extinct; and she alone,

Heard, felt, and seen, possesses every thought,

Fills every sense, and pants in every vein.

Books are but formal dulness,—tedious friends,

And sad amid the social band he sits

Lonely and unattentive. From his tongue

The unfinished period falls; while, borne away

On swelling thought, his wafted spirit flies

To the vain bosom of his distant Fair;

And leaves the semblance of a lover, fix'd

In melancholy site, with head declined

And love-dejected eyes.”[131]

What brighter colours the fears of superstition give to the dim objects perceived in twilight, the inhabitants of the village who have to pass the churchyard at any late hour, and the little students of ballad lore, who have carried with them, from the nursery, many tales which they almost tremble to remember, know well. And in the second sight of this northern part of the island, there can be no doubt, that the objects which the seers conceive themselves to behold, truly are more vivid, as conceptions, than, but for the superstition and the melancholy character of the natives, which harmonize with the objects of this gloomy foresight, they would have been; and that it is in consequence of this brightening effect of the emotion, as concurring with the dim and shadowy objects which the vapoury atmosphere of our lakes and vallies presents, that fancy, relatively to the individual, becomes a temporary reality. The gifted eye, which has once believed itself favoured with such a view of the future, will, of course, ever after have a quicker foresight, and more frequent revelations; its own wilder emotion communicating still more vivid forms and colours to the objects which it dimly perceives.

On this subject, however, I need not seek any additional illustration. I may fairly suppose you to admit, as a general physical law of the Phenomena of Mind, that the influence of every emotion is to render more vivid the perception or conception of its object.

I must remark, however, that when the emotion is very violent, as in the violence of any of our fiercer passions, though it still renders every object, with which it harmonizes, more vivid and prominent, it mingles with them some degree of its own confusion of feeling. It magnifies and distorts; and what it renders brighter, it does not therefore render more distinct.

“The flame of passion, through the straggling soul

Deep-kindled, shews across that sudden blaze

The object of his rapture, vast of size,

With fiercer colours and a night of shade.”[132]

The species of desire which we are considering, however, is not of this fierce and tempestuous kind.

Emotions of a calmer species have the vivifying effect, without the indistinctness; and precisely of this degree is that desire which constitutes attention as coexisting with the sensations, or other feelings to which we are said to attend.

We have found, then, in the desire which accompanies attention, or rather which chiefly constitutes it, the cause of that increased intensity which we sought.

When all the various objects of a scene are of themselves equally, or nearly equally, interesting or indifferent to us, the union of desire, with any particular perception of the group, might be supposed, a priori, to render this perception in some degree more vivid than it was before. It is not necessary that this difference of vividness should take place wholly, or even be very striking, in the first instant; for, by becoming in the first instant even slightly more vivid, it acquires additional colouring and prominence, so as to increase that interest, which led us originally to select it for our first minute observation, and thus to brighten it more and more progressively. Indeed, when we reflect on our consciousness during what is called an effort of attention, we feel that some such progress as this really takes place, the object becoming gradually more distinct while we gaze, till at length it requires a sort of effort to turn away to the other coexisting objects, and to renew with them the same process.

Attention, then, is not a simple mental state, but a process, or a combination of feelings. It is not the result of any peculiar power of the mind, but of those mere laws of perception, by which the increased vividness of one sensation produces a corresponding faintness of others coexisting with it, and of that law of our emotions, by which they communicate greater intensity to every perception, or other feeling, with which they coexist and harmonize.