indeed, sometimes been misrepresented, as favouring a tendency to vague
and unlimited doubt on all subjects, even on those most important to
individual and social happiness; as if the great names, to which we
have long given our admiration, for the light which they have thrown
on the powers and weaknesses of the human understanding, were not also
the very names which we have been accustomed, not to admire merely, but
to venerate, for excellence of a still nobler kind. Far from leading
to general scepticism, it is, on the contrary, a sound study of the
principles of our intellectual and moral nature, which alone can free
from the danger of it. If the sceptical philosophy be false, as the
assertors of this objection will allow that it most assuredly is, it
can be overcome and destroyed only by a philosophy that is true;
and the more deeply, and the more early, the mind is embued with the
principles of truth, the more confidently may we rely on its rejection
of the errors that are opposed to them. It is impossible for one,
who is not absolutely born to labour, to pass through life without
forming, in his own mind, occasionally, some imperfect reflections on
the faculties by which he perceives and reasons; or without catching,
from those with whom he may associate, some of those vague notions, of
a vague philosophy, which pass unexamined from mind to mind, and become
current in the very colloquial language of the day. The alternatives,
therefore, (if we can, indeed, think of any other alternative when
truth is one,) are not those of knowledge and absolute ignorance of
the mental phenomena, but of knowledge more or less accurate; because
absolute ignorance, even though it were a state to be wished, is
beyond our power to preserve, in one who enjoys, in any respects, the
benefit of education and liberal society. We might, with much greater
prospect of success, attempt, by merely keeping from his view all
professed treatises on Astronomy, to prevent him from acquiring that
slight and common acquaintance with the system of the heavenly bodies,
which is necessary for knowing that the sun does not go round the
earth, than we could hope to prevent him from forming, or receiving,
some notions, accurate or inaccurate, as to the nature of mind; and
we surely cannot suppose, that the juster those opinions are, as to
the nature and force of the principles of belief, the feebler must the
principles of belief appear. It is not so, that nature has abandoned
us, with principles which we must fear to examine, and with truths and
illusions which we must never dare to separate. In teaching us what our
powers are incapable of attaining, she has at the same time, taught
us what truths they may attain; and within this boundary, we have the
satisfaction of knowing, that she has placed all the truths that are
important for our virtue and happiness. He, whose eyes are the clearest
to distinguish the bounding circle, cannot surely, be the dullest to
perceive the truths that are within. To know only to doubt, is but the
first step in philosophy; and to rest at this first step, is either
imbecility or idleness. It is not there that Wisdom sees, and compares,
and pronounces; it is Ignorance, that, with dazzled eyes, just opening
from the darkness of the night, perceives that she has been dreaming,
without being able to distinguish, in the sunshine, what objects
really existing are around. He alone is the philosopher truly awake,
who knows both how to doubt, and how to believe; believing what is
evident on the very same principles, which lead him to doubt, with
various degrees of uncertainty, where the evidence is less sure. To
conceive, that inquiry must lead to scepticism, is itself a species of
scepticism, as to the power and evidence of the principles to which we
have given our assent, more degrading, because still more irrational,
than that open and consistent scepticism which it dreads. It would,
indeed, be an unworthy homage to truths, which we profess to venerate,
to suppose, that adoration can be paid to them only while we are
ignorant of their nature; and that to approach their altars would be to
discover, that the majestic forms, which seem animated at a distance,
are only lifeless idols, as insensible as the incense which we have
offered to them.
The study of the powers and limits of the understanding, and of the
sources of evidence in external nature and ourselves, instead of either
forming or favouring a tendency to scepticism, is then, it appears,
the surest, or rather the only mode, of removing the danger of such a
tendency. That mind may soon doubt even of the most important truths,
which has never learned to distinguish the doubtful from the true. But
to know well the irresistible evidence on which truth is founded, is to
believe in it, and to believe in it forever.
Nor is it from the danger of scepticism only, that a just view of the
principles of his intellectual constitution tends to preserve the
philosophic inquirer. It saves him, also, from that presumptuous and
haughty dogmatism, which, though free from doubt, is not, therefore,
necessarily free from error; and which is, indeed, much more likely
to be fixed in error than in truth, where the inquiry, that precedes
conviction, has been casual and incomplete. A just view of our nature
as intelligent beings, at the same time that it teaches us enough
of our strength to allow us to rest with confidence on the great
principles, physical, moral, and religious, in which alone it is of
importance for us to confide, teaches us also enough of our weakness,
to render us indulgent to the weakness of others. We cease to be
astonished that multitudes should differ from us; because we know well,
that while nature has made a provision for the universal assent of
mankind to those fundamental physical truths, which are essential to
their very existence, and those _fundamental truths_ of another kind,
which are equally essential to their existence as subjects of moral
government, she has left them, together with principles of improvement
that ensure their intellectual progress, a susceptibility of error,
without which there could be no progression; and while we almost
trace back the circumstances which have modified our own individual
belief, we cannot but be aware, at the same time, how many sources
there are of prejudice, and, consequently, of difference of opinion,
in the various situations in which the multitudes, that differ from
us, have been placed. To feel anger at human error, says an ancient
philosopher, is the same thing as if we were to be angry with those who
stumble in the dark,--with the deaf for not obeying our command,--with
the sick,--with the aged,--with the weary. That very dulness of
discernment, which excites at once our wonder and our wrath, is but a
part of the general frailty of mortality; and the love of our errors
is not less inherent in our constitution than error itself. It is this
general constitution which is to be studied by us, that we may know
with what mistakes and weaknesses we must have to deal, when we have to
deal with our fellow-men; and the true art, therefore, of learning to
forgive _individuals_, is to learn first how much we have to forgive
_to the whole human race_. “Illud potius cogitabis, non esse irascendum
erroribus. Quid enim, si quis irascatur in tenebris parum vestigia
certa ponentibus? Quid si quis surdis, imperia non exaudientibus? Quid
si pueris, quod neglecto dispectu officiorum, ad lusus et ineptos
æqualium jocos spectent? Quid si illis irasci velis, qui ægrotant,
senescunt, fatigantur? Inter cætera mortalitatis incommoda, et hæc
est, caligo mentium: nec tantum necessitas errandi, sed errorum amor.
Ne singulis irascaris, universis ignoscendum: generi humano venia
tribuenda est.”[9]
How much of the fury of the persecuting spirit of darker ages would
have been softened and turned into moderation, by juster views of the
nature of man, and of all the circumstances on which belief depends! It
appears to us so very easy to believe what we consider as true,--or,
rather, it appears to us so impossible to disbelieve it,--that, if we
judge from our own momentary feelings only, without any knowledge of
the general nature of belief, and of all the principles in our mental
constitution by which it is diversified, we very naturally look on
the dissent of others as a sort of wilful and obstinate contrariety,
and almost as an insulting denial of a right of approbation, which we
consider ourselves, in these circumstances, as very justly entitled to
claim. The transition from this supposed culpability to the associated
ideas of pains and penalties, is a very natural one; and there is,
therefore a sufficient fund of persecution in mere ignorance, though
the spirit of it were not, as it usually is, aggravated by degrading
notions of the divine Being, and false impressions of religious duty.
Very different are the sentiments which the science of mind produces
and cherishes. It makes us tolerant, not merely by showing the
absurdity of endeavouring to overcome, by punishment, a belief which
does not depend on suffering; but which may remain, and even gather
additional strength, in imprisonment, in exile, under the axe, and
at the stake. The absurdity of every attempt of this kind it shews
indeed; but it makes us feel, still more intimately, that injustice
of it, which is worse than absurdity,--by shewing our common nature,
in all the principles of truth and error, with those whom we would
oppress; all having faculties that may lead to truth, and tendencies of
various kinds which may mislead to error, and the mere accidental and
temporary difference of power being, if not the greatest, at least the
most obvious circumstance, which, in all ages, has distinguished the
_persecutor_ from the _persecuted_.
Let not this weak, unknowing hand,
Presume thy bolts to throw;
Or deal damnation round the land,
On all I judge thy foe!
If I am right,--thy grace impart,
Still in the right to stay;
If I am wrong,--O, teach my heart,
To find the better way.[10]
Such is the language of devout philosophy. No proud assertion of
individual infallibility,--no triumph over the consequences in others,
of a fallible nature, which ourselves partake in common,--but the
expression of feelings more suited to earthly weakness,--of a modest
joy of belief, which is not less delightful for the humility that
tempers it; and of a modest sorrow for the seeming errors of others, to
which the consciousness of our own nature gives a sympathy of warmer
interest. The more important the subject of difference, the _greater_,
not the _less_, will be the indulgence of him who has learned to trace
the sources of human error,--of error, that has its origin not in
our weakness and imperfection merely, but often in the most virtuous
affections of the heart,--in that respect for age, and admiration of
virtue, and gratitude for kindness received, which make the opinions
of those whom we love and honour seem to us, in our early years, as
little questionable, as the virtues which we love to contemplate, or
the very kindness which we feel at every moment beaming on our heart,
in the tender protection that surrounds us. That the subjects on which
we may differ from others, are _important to happiness_, of course
implies, that it is no slight misfortune _to have erred_; and that the
mere error, therefore, must be already too great an evil to require any
addition from our individual contempt or indignation, far less from the
vengeance of public authority,--that _may_ be right, in the opinions
which it conceives to be insulted by partial dissent; but which _must_
be wrong, in the means which it takes to avenge them. To be sincerely
thankful for truths received, is, by the very nature of the feeling, to
be sensible how great a blessing those have lost who are deprived of
the same enjoyment; and to look down, then, with insolent disdain, on
the unfortunate victim of error, is, indeed to render contemptible, (as
far as it is in our feeble power to render it contemptible,) not the
error which we despise, but the truth which allows us to despise it.
The remarks which I have as yet made, on the effects of acquaintance
with the Philosophy of Mind, relate to its influence on the general
spirit of philosophical inquiry; the advantages which must be derived,
in every science, from a knowledge of the extent of the power of the
intellectual instruments which we use for the discovery of truth; the
skill which we thence acquire in distinguishing the questions in which
we may justly hope to discover truth, from those questions of idle and
endless controversy, the decision of which is altogether beyond the
reach of our faculties; and the consequent moderation in the temper,
with which we look both to our own possible attainments, and to the
errors of others.
But beside these general advantages, which the Philosophy of Mind
extends to all the inquiries of which human genius is capable, there
are some advantages more peculiarly felt in certain departments of
science or art. It is not merely _with_ the mind that we operate;
the subject of our operations is also often the _mind itself_. In
education, in criticism, in poetry, in eloquence, the mind has to act
upon mind, to produce in it either emotions that are _temporary_, or
affections and opinions that are _permanent_. We have to instruct
it,--to convince it,--to persuade it,--to delight it,--to soften it
with pity,--to agitate it with terror or indignation;--and all these
effects, when other circumstances of genius are the same, we shall
surely be able to produce more readily, if we know the natural laws of
thought and emotion; the feelings which are followed by other feelings;
and the thoughts, which, expanding into other thoughts, almost of
themselves produce the very passion, or conviction, which we wish to
excite.
“One considerable advantage,” says Mr Hume, “which results from the
accurate and abstract philosophy, is its subserviency to the easy and
humane; which, without the former, can never attain a sufficient degree
of exactness in its sentiments, precepts, or reasonings. All polite
letters are nothing but pictures of human life in various attitudes
and situations; and inspire us with different sentiments of praise
or blame, admiration or ridicule, according to the qualities of the
object which they set before us. An artist must be better qualified to
succeed in this undertaking; who, besides a delicate taste and quick
apprehension, possesses an accurate knowledge of the internal fabric,
the operations of the understanding, the workings of the passions, and
the various species of sentiment which discriminate vice and virtue.
However painful this inward search or inquiry may appear, it becomes,
in some measure, requisite to those who would describe with success
the obvious and outward appearances of life and manners. The anatomist
presents to the eye the most hideous and disagreeable objects; but his
science is highly useful to the painter in delineating even a Venus
or an Helen. While the latter employs all the richest colours of his
art, and gives his figures the most graceful and engaging airs, he must
still carry his attention to the inward structure of the human body,
the position of the muscles, the fabric of the bones, and the use and
figure of every part or organ. Accuracy is, in every case, advantageous
to beauty, and just reasoning to delicacy of sentiment;--in vain would
we exalt the one by depreciating the other.”[11]
There is a most striking passage to the same purport, in that beautiful
dialogue on ancient oratory, which has been ascribed, without any
very satisfactory evidence, to various authors, particularly to
Quinctilian, the younger Pliny, and Tacitus, and which is not unworthy
of the most eminent of the names to which it has been ascribed. After
dwelling on the universal science and erudition of the great master
of Roman eloquence, the chief speaker in the dialogue proceeds to
show the peculiar advantage which oratory must derive from _moral and
intellectual science_, to the neglect of which fundamental study, as
superseded by the frivolous disputations of the rhetorical schools, he
ascribes the decay of eloquence in the age of which he speaks.
“Ita enim est, optimi viri, ita, ex multa eruditione, ex pluribus
artibus, et omnium rerum scientia, exundat et exuberat illa admirabilis
eloquentia. Neque oratoris vis et facultas, sicut ceterarum rerum,
angustis et brevibus terminis eluditur; sed is est orator, qui de
omni quæstione pulchre, et ornate, et ad persuadendum apte dicere,
pro dignitate rerum ad utilitatem temporum, cum voluptate audientium,
possit. Hæc sibi illi veteres persuadebant. Ad hæc efficienda
intelligebant opus esse, non ut Rhetorum scholis declamarent,--sed
ut his artibus pectus implerent, in quibus de bonis ac malis, de
honesto ac turpi, de justo et injusto disputatur;--de quibus copiose,
et varie, et ornate, nemo dicere potest, nisi qui cognovit naturam
humanam.--Ex his fontibus etiam illa profluunt, ut facilius iram
judicis vel instiget, vel leniat, qui scit quid ira, promptius ad
miserationem impellat qui scit quid sit misericordia, et quibus animi
motibus concitetur. In his artibus exercitationibusque versatus orator,
sive apud infestos, sive apud cupidos, sive apud invidentes, sive
apud tristes, sive apud timentes dicendum habuerit, tenebit habenas
animorum, et prout cujusque natura postulabit, adhibebit manum et
temperabit orationem, parato omni instrumento, et ad usum reposito.”[12]
What is the whole art of criticism, in its most important
applications, but the knowledge of the most natural successions of
thought and feeling in the mind? We judge of the perspicuity and order
of a discourse, by knowing the progress in which the mind, by the
developement of truth after truth, may be made at last to see the full
meaning of the most complex proposition. We judge of the beauty of
impassioned poetry or eloquence, by knowing whether the figures, the
images, the very feelings described, be such as, from our observation
of the laws that regulate the internal series of changes in the mind,
we know to be consistent with that state of emotion, in which a mind
must exist that has been placed in the situation supposed. If all other
circumstances be equal, he will undoubtedly be the best critic, who
knows best the phenomena of human thought and feeling; and, without
this knowledge, criticism can be nothing but a measurement of words,
or a repetition of the ever repeated and endless common places of
rhetoric. The knowledge of _nature_,--of the necessity of which critics
speak so much, and so justly, and which is as essential to the critic
himself, as to the writer on whom he sits in judgment,--is only another
name for the knowledge of the successive transitions of feeling of
the mind, in all the innumerable diversities in which it is capable
of being modified, by the variety of circumstances in which it maybe
placed. It is for this reason, that, with so great an abundance of
the mere art, or rather of the mere technical phrases of criticism,
we have so very little of the _science_ of it; because the science
of criticism implies an acquaintance with the philosophy of thought
and passion, which few can be expected to possess; and though nothing
can be easier than to deliver opinions, such as pass current in the
drawing-room, and even in the literary circle, which the frivolous may
admire as profound, and the ignorant as erudite, and which many voices
may be proud to repeat; though even the dull and pedantic are as able
as the wise to say, in fluent language, that one passage of a work of
genius is beautiful, and another the reverse,--because one of them is
in accordance with some technical rules, or because Homer and Milton
have passages similar to the one, and not to the other: it is far from
being equally easy to show, how the one passage is beautiful, from its
truth of character, and the other, though perhaps rich in harmony of
rhythm and rhetorical ornament, is yet faulty, by its violation of the
more important harmony of thought and emotion,--a harmony which nature
observes as faithfully, in the progress of those vehement passions
that appear most wild and irregular, as in the calmest successions of
feeling of the most tranquil hours. It would indeed, be too much to
say, as in the well known couplet of Pope,
“Let such teach others who themselves excel,
And censure freely, who have written well;”[13]
for the critic requires only _one_ of the two great talents, which in
the poet, ought to exist together, but which may yet exist separately.
In the poet, there must be, in the first place, an inventive fancy
to bring together thoughts and images which have never been combined
before; and with this inventive fancy, a discriminating judgment, which
is to measure, by the standard of nature, the products of invention;
and to retain them, only if they appear such, as though perhaps never
before combined, might yet, in conformity with the natural laws of
thought, have occurred to a mind, in the circumstances represented, as
truly, as the other thoughts or images, which the works of other poets
have rendered more familiar. This latter talent,--the judgment which
determines the intrinsic beauty and fidelity to general nature,--is all
which is absolutely requisite to the _critic_, who is not, therefore,
under the necessity of being himself “the great sublime” which he
draws. Yet, though all the elements of excellence in the artist are not
absolutely requisite for the judgment of the sage and discriminating
admirer of the noble works which that excellence may have produced,
some of these elements unquestionably are requisite,--elements, for
which the critic may search in vain in all the rules of rhetoricians,
and even in the perusal of all the masterpieces of ancient and modern
times, unless, to an acquaintance with these, he add an accurate
acquaintance with that _intellectual and moral nature of man_, the
beautiful conformity to which was the essential charm of all the
pathos, and all the eloquence, which he has admired.