[75]. It is a gross mistake to consider all habit as necessarily depending on association of ideas. We might as well consider the strength which is given to a muscle by habitual exertion as a case of the association of ideas. The strength, delicacy, &c. given to any feeling by frequent exercise is owing to habit. When any two feelings, or ideas are often repeated in connection, and the properties belonging to the one are by this means habitually transferred to the other, this is association.
[76]. ‘Ainsi se forment les premiers liens qui l’unissent’ [le jeune homme] ‘à son espèce. En dirigeant sur elle sa sensibilité naissante ne craignez pas qu’elle embrassera d’abord tous les hommes, & que ce mot de genre-humain signifiera pour lui quelque chose. Non, cette sensibilité se bornera premièrement à ses semblables, & ses semblables ne seront point pour lui des inconnus, mais ceux avec lesquels il a des liaisons, ceux que l’habitude lui a rendus chers, ou nécessaires, ceux qu’il voit évidemment avoir avec lui des manières de penser & de sentir communes, ceux qu’il voit exposés aux peines qu’il a souffertes, & sensibles aux plaisirs qu’il a goutés; ceux, en un mot, en qui l’identité de nature plus manifestée lui donne une plus grande disposition à aimer. Ce ne sera qu’après avoir cultivé son naturel en milles maniéres, après bien des réflections sur ses propres sentimens, & sur ceux qu’il observera dans les autres, qu’il pourra parvenir à généraliser ses notions individuelles sous l’idée abstraite d’humanité & joindre à ses affections particulières celles qui peuvent l’identifier avec son espèce.’ Emile, t. 2, p. 192.—It is needless to add any thing on this passage. It speaks for itself.
‘L’amour du genre-humain n’est autre chose en nous que l’amour de la justice.’ Ibid. p. 248.
[77]. This account is loose enough. I shall endeavour to give a better, as to the manner in which ideas may be supposed to be connected with volition, at the end of this essay. In the mean time I wish the reader to be apprized, that I do not use the word imagination as contradistinguished from or opposed to reason, or the faculty by which we reflect upon and compare our ideas, but as opposed to sensation, or memory. It has been shewn above that by the word idea is not meant a merely abstract idea.
[78]. I take it for granted that the only way to establish the selfish hypothesis is by shewing that our own interest is in reality brought home to the mind as a motive to action by some means or other by which that of others cannot possibly affect it. This is unavoidable, unless we ascribe a particular genius of selfishness to each individual which never suffers his affections to wander from himself for a moment; or shall we suppose that a man’s attachment to himself is because he has a long nose or a short one, because his hair is black or red, or from an unaccountable fancy for his own name, for all these make a part of the individual, and must be deemed very weighty reasons by those who think it self-evident that a man must love himself because he is himself?
[79]. See the last note but one.
[80]. The general clue to that ænigma, the character of the French, seems to be that their feelings are very imperfectly modified by the objects exciting them. That is, the difference between the several degrees and kinds of feeling in them does not correspond as much as it does in most other people with the different degrees and kinds of power in the external objects. They want neither feeling nor ideas in the abstract; but there seems to be no connection in their minds between the one and the other. Consequently their feelings want compass and variety, and whatever else must depend on the ‘building up of our feelings through the imagination.’ The feelings of a Frenchman seem to be all one feeling. The moment any thing produces a change in him, he is thrown completely out of his character, he is quite beside himself. This is perhaps in a great measure owing to their quickness of perception. They do not give the object time to be thoroughly impressed on their minds, their feelings are roused at the first notice of its approach, and if I may so express myself, fairly run away from the object. Their feelings do not grapple with the object. The least stimulus is sufficient to excite them and more is superfluous, for they do not wait for the impression, or stop to inquire what degree or kind it is of. There is not resistance sufficient in the matter to receive those sharp incisions, those deep, marked, and strongly rooted impressions, the traces of which remain for ever. From whatever cause it proceeds, the sensitive principle in them does not seem to be susceptible of the same modification and variety of action as it does in others; and certainly the outward forms of things do not adhere to, do not wind themselves round their feelings in the same manner. For any thing that appears to the contrary, objects might be supposed to have no direct communication with the internal sense of pleasure or pain, but to act upon it through some intermediate, very confined organ, capable of transmitting little more than the simple impulse. But the same thing will follow, if we suppose the principle itself to be this very organ, that is, to want comprehensiveness, elasticity, and plastic force. (It is difficult to express this in English: but there is a French word, ressort, which expresses it exactly. This is possibly owing to their feeling the want of it; as there is no word in any other language to answer to the English word, comfort, I suppose, because the English are the most uncomfortable of all people). It will rather follow from what has been here said than be inconsistent with it that the French must be more sensible of minute impressions and slight shades of difference in their feelings than others, because having, as is here supposed, less real variety, a narrower range of feeling, they will attend more to the differences contained within that narrow circle, and so produce an artificial variety. In short their feelings are very easily set in motion and by slight causes, but they do not go the whole length of the impression, nor are they capable of combining a great variety of complicated actions to correspond with the distinct characters and complex forms of things. Hence they have no such thing as poetry. This however must not be misunderstood. I mean then that I never met with any thing in French that produces the same kind of feeling in the mind as the following passage. If there is any thing that belongs even to the same class with it, I am ready to give the point up.
Antony. Eros, thou yet behold’st me.
Eros. Ay, noble Lord.
Ant. Sometimes we see a cloud that’s Dragonish,