when our external senses are still open, and quick to feel, are, as
mere conceptions, far less vivid than the primary perceptions, from
which they originally flowed; and yet, under the influence of any
strong emotion, they become so much more bright and prominent than
external things, that, to the impassioned muser, on distant scenes
and persons, the scenes and persons truly around him, are almost, as
if they were not in existence. If a mere conception, then, faint as
it must always be by its own nature, can thus be rendered more vivid
than reality, by the union of any strong _desire_, it is surely less
wonderful, that the same cause should communicate the same superior
vividness to the brighter realities of perception. If what we remember
with interest, and wish to see again, become so much more vivid in our
fancy, merely by this very wish, that we scarcely perceive any one of
the innumerable objects before our eyes, what we truly see, in its own
lively colouring, and feel a strong desire of knowing more intimately,
may well be supposed to render us less sensible to the other coexisting
objects, which the very shadows of our imagination, when brightened by
a similar desire, were able mutually to annihilate or eclipse.
In addition to this direct vivifying influence of the desire itself,
some part,--and, perhaps a very considerable part--of the brightening
of the object, during attention, may arise indirectly from the mere
muscular adaptation of the organ. I do not speak merely of that
_internal_ adaptation, whatever it may be, which accommodates the
organ to the object, and, therefore, varies with the distance of the
object, but of that simpler contraction, which keeps the organ, as
a whole, steadily fixed. It is proved by many facts, that a certain
time is necessary, for vision, and, probably, in like manner, for
all our perceptions. A cannon ball, for example, though it must have
reflected light to us, during its passage, may yet pass before our
eyes, so rapidly, as not to be perceived; and, if a part of the eye be
affected, in a certain manner, by one colour, and a different colour
fall upon it so rapidly after the first, that the former affection has
not previously ceased, the result is not the visual affection, which
the second colour alone would have produced, but that which would have
arisen at once from a mixture of the two colours. In this way, in
an experiment which has been often performed, for the demonstration
of this simple and beautiful fact; if a cylinder be painted in
longitudinal bars, with the prismatic colours, in certain proportions,
and be revolved rapidly on its axis, its surface to the eye will not
seem to present any one of the colours, which are really painted on it,
but an uniform _whiteness_, which it has not, on a single point of its
whole surface.
If rays of different colours, falling in rapid succession, on the same
points of the retina, thus seem to mingle with each other, and produce
one confused effect, it must evidently be of great importance, for
distinct vision, that the eyes should be so fixed, that the rays from
the objects which we wish to observe, may not fall, on some parts of
the retina, previously affected by the light of other objects, but,
as much as possible, on the same parts, during the whole time of our
observation. This can be done, as I have said, only by the continued
agency of certain muscles; and hence arises that feeling of _muscular
effort_, of which we are conscious in the process. How difficult is it
for us, to keep a muscle, for any length of time, in the same exact
point of contraction, without the slightest deviation from this point,
is well known to physiologists; and, it is not wonderful, therefore,
that in attention, we should be conscious of a considerable effort,
in endeavouring to fix steadily any of our organs. The power of thus
fixing our muscles, is a power which improves by habitual exercise; and
it is probably very much in this way, that the _practised_ eye is able
so rapidly to distinguish the minute parts of objects, which require
from others a much longer effort of attention.
But, whatever the effect of the _muscular adaptation_ may be, it is
not the less certain, if we reflect on our feelings, that the mental
part of the process of attention involves nothing more, in addition
to the primary perception, which is its object, than _desire with
expectation_. This is all of which we are truly conscious, previously
to the brightening of the perception itself, to which we are said
to attend;--a brightening, which, from the general laws of emotion,
might very naturally be expected as the result of the union of desire,
with any of our sensations. In such circumstances, then, it is not
wonderful, that we should remember best the objects to which we pay
most attention, since this is only to say, that we remember best the
objects on which we have dwelt longest, and with greatest interest, and
which we have, therefore, known most accurately.
Such are our sensations or perceptions, when united with desire,
exhibiting appearances, which seem, at first, to indicate, though they
do not truly indicate, a peculiar power or susceptibility of the mind.
We shall find, in considering our intellectual states of mind, the
order of mental phenomena, to which we next proceed, that the union of
_desire_ with these, has led, in like manner, to the belief of many
distinct intellectual powers, which yet, like _attention_, admit of
being analyzed into simpler elements. These intellectual phenomena
themselves, in their simple state, must, however, be first examined by
us.
Having now, then, offered all the observations for which our limited
course allows me room, on the very important _primary_ class of
external affections of the mind, I proceed according to our general
division, to consider the _secondary_ class of its internal affections;
those states of it, which are not the result of causes foreign to the
mind itself, but immediate consequents of its own preceding feelings.
The Divine Contriver of our mental frame, who formed the soul to
exist in certain states, on the presence of external things, formed
it also to exist, in certain successive states, without the presence
or direct influence of any thing external; the one state of the mind,
being, as immediately the cause of the state of mind which follows it,
as, in our external feelings, the change produced, in our corporeal
organ of sense, is the cause of any one of the particular affections
of that class. In the one class, that of our internal affections, the
phenomena depend on the laws which regulate the successive changes of
state of the mind itself. In the other class, that of our external
affections, they depend on the laws of the _mind_, indeed, which is
susceptible of these peculiar changes of state; but they depend, in
an equal degree, on the laws which give to _matter_ its peculiar
qualities, and, consequently, its peculiar influence on this mental
susceptibility. If light were to be annihilated, it is very evident,
that, though our mind itself were to continue endowed with all its
present susceptibilities, it never again could behold the sun, around
whose cold and gloomy mass our earth might still revolve as now;
nor, in such circumstances, is there any reason to suppose that it
would exist in any one of those various states, which constitute the
delightful sensations of vision. These sensations, then, depend on
_external_ things, as much as on the _mind_ itself. But, though after
we have once been enriched with the splendid acquisitions, which our
perceptive organs afford us, every thing external were to vanish, not
from our sight merely, but from all our senses, and our mind alone were
to exist in the infinity of space, together with that Eternal Majesty
which formed it,--still thought after thought, and feeling after
feeling, would arise, as it were, spontaneously, in the disembodied
spirit,--if no change in its nature were to take place; and the whole
world of light, and fragrance, and harmony, would, in its remembrance,
almost rise again, as if outliving annihilation itself. It is by this
capacity of internal change of state, indeed, that the soul is truly
immortal, which, if it were capable of no affections, but those which
I have termed external, would itself be virtually as mortal as all
the mortal things that are around it; since, but for them, as causes
of its feelings, it could not, in these circumstances, of complete
dependence, have any feelings whatever, and could, therefore, exist
only in that state of original insensibility, which preceded the first
sensation that gave it consciousness of existence. It is, in the true
sense of immortality of life, immortal, only because it depends for
its feelings, as well as for its mere existence, not on the state of
perishable things, which are but the atmosphere that floats around it,
but on its own independent laws; or, at least,--for the laws of mind,
as well as the laws of matter, can mean nothing more,--depends, for
the successions of its feelings, only on the provident arrangements,
of that _All-foreseeing Power_ whose will, as it existed at the very
moment at which it called every thing from nothing, and gave to mind
and matter their powers and susceptibilities, is thus, consequently, in
the whole series of effects, from age to age, the eternal legislation
of the universe.
Even while our soul is united to this bodily frame, and continually
capable of being affected by the objects that are continually present
with it, by far the greater number of our feelings are those which
arise from our _internal_ successions of thought. Innumerable as our
perceptions are, they are but a small part of the varied consciousness
of a day. We do not see, or feel, objects merely, for this alone would
be of little value,--but we compare them with each other,--we form
plans of action, and prosecute them with assiduous attention,--or we
meditate on the means by which they may most effectually be prosecuted;
and with all our perceptions of external things, and plans of serious
thought, a continued fairy work of involuntary fancy, is incessantly
mingling, in consequence of the laws of suggestion in the mind itself,
like the transient shadows, on a stream, of the clouds that fled over
it, which picture on it their momentary forms, as they pass in rapid
variety, without affecting the course of the busy current, which glides
along in its majestic track, as if they had never been. If we had the
power of _external_ sense only, life would be as passive as the most
unconnected dream, or rather far more passive and irregular than the
wildest of our dreams. Our remembrances, comparisons, our hopes, our
fears, and all the variety of our thoughts and emotions, give a harmony
and unity to our general consciousness, which make the consciousness
of each day a little drama, or a connected part of that still greater
drama, which is to end only with the death of its hero, or rather with
the commencement of his glorious apotheosis.
How wide a field the internal affections of the mind present, without
dependence on the system of material things,--with which we are
connected, indeed, by many delightful ties, but by ties that have
relation only to this mortal scene,--is proved in a very striking
manner, by the increased energy of thought which we often seem to
acquire in those hours of the quiet of the night, when every _external_
influence is nearly _excluded_,--the hours of inward meditation, in
which the mind has been poetically said, to retire into the sanctuary
of its own immense abode, and to feel there and enjoy its spiritual
infinity, as if admitted to the etherial dwellings and the feasts of
the Gods.
“Nonne vides, quoties nox circumfunditur atra
Immensi terga Oceani terramque polumque,
Cum rerum obduxit species obnubilus Aer
Nec fragor impulsas aut vox allabitur aures,
Ut nullo intuitu mens jam defixa, recedit
In sese, et vires intra se colligit omnes?
Ut magno hospitio potitur, seque excipit ipsa
Totam intus; seu jussa Deum discumbere mensis.
Nam neque sic illam solido de marmore tecta
Nec cum porticibus capiunt laquiaria centum
Aurea, tot distincta locis, tot regibus apta,
Quæsitæque epulæ, Tyrioque instructus ab ostro;
Ut gaudet sibi juncta, sibique intenditur ipsa,
Ipsa sibi tota incumbens, totamque pererrans
Immensa immensam spatio longeque patentem.
Seu dulces inter latebras Heliconis amæni,
Et sacram Phœbi nemorum divertitur umbram,
Fœcundum pleno exercens sub pectore numen;
Seu causas rerum occultas, et semina volvit,
Et queis fœderibus conspirent maximus Æther
Neptunusque Pater, Tellusque, atque omnia gignant;
Sive altum virtutis iter subducit, et almus
Molitur leges, queis fortunata juventus
Pareat, ac pace imperium tutetur et armis.”[133]
The _internal_ states of mind, then, which form the class next to be
considered by us, present to our inquiry no narrow or uninteresting
field. We are to find in these again every thing, though in fainter
colours, which delighted and interested us in the former class; while
we are, at the same time, to discover, an abundant source of feelings
still more delightful and sublime in themselves, and still more
interesting to our analysis. We are no longer mere _sensitive_ beings,
that _gaze_ upon the universe, and feel pain or pleasure as a few of
its elementary particles touch our nerves. We are the discoverers of
laws, which every element of the universe obeys,--the tracers of events
of ages that are past,--the calculators and prophets of events, that
are not to occur till generation after generation of the prophetic
calculators that succeed us shall themselves have passed away;--and,
while we are thus able to discover the innumerable relations of created
things, we are, at the same time, by the medium of these internal
states of our own mind, the _discoverers_ also of that _Infinite
Being_, who framed every thing which it is our glory to be capable
merely of observing, and who, without acting directly on any of our
organs of sense, is yet present to our intellect with as bright a
reality of perception, as the suns and planets which he has formed are
present to our corporeal vision.
The species of philosophical inquiry, which our _internal_ affections
of mind admit, is exactly the same as that which our _external_
affections admit; that is to say, we are in our inquiry, to consider
the circumstances in which they arise, and the circumstances which
follow them, with the relations which they appear to us mutually
to bear to our _external_ feelings, and to each other, and nothing
more. It is as little possible for us, independently of experience,
to discover _a priori_, any reason that one state of mind should be
followed directly by another state of mind, as, in the case of our
external feelings, to discover any reason, that the presence of light
should be followed by that particular mental state which constitutes
the sensation of colour, not by that which constitutes the perception
of the song of a nightingale, or the fragrance of a violet,--or that
those external causes should be followed by their peculiar sensations,
rather than by the perception of colour. It is equally vain for us to
think of discovering any reason, in the nature of the mind itself,
which could have enabled us to _predict_, without actual experience,
or, at least, without analogy of other similar instances, any of the
mere intellectual changes of state,--that the sight of an object,
which we have seen before in other circumstances, should recal, by
instant spontaneous suggestion, those other circumstances which
exist no longer;--that in meeting, in the most distant country, a
native of our own land, it should be in our own power, by _a single
word_ to _annihilate_, as it were, for the moment, all the seas and
mountains between him and his home;--or, in the depth of the most
gloomy dungeon, where its wretched tenant, who has been its tenant for
half a life, sees, and scarcely sees, the few faint rays that serve
but to speak of a sunshine, which he is not to enjoy, and which they
deprive him of the comfort of forgetting, and to render visible to his
very eyes that wretchedness which he feels at his heart,--that even
this creature of misery,--whom no one in the world perhaps remembers
but the single being, whose regular presence, at the hour at which
he gives him, day by day, the means of adding to his life another
year of wretchedness like the past, is scarcely felt as the presence
of another living thing,--should yet, by the influence of a single
thought, enter into the instant possession of a freedom beyond that
which the mere destruction of his dungeon could give,--a freedom which
restores him not merely to the _liberty_, but to the very _years_
which he had lost,--to the woods, and the brook, and the fields of his
boyish frolics, and to all the happy faces which were only as happy as
his own. The innumerable examples of such successions of thought we
know from experience, but from experience only. It is enough for us,
however, to ascertain the simple fact, that the internal suggestions
of thought after thought, without the recurrence of any external
object _does_ take place, as truly as sensation itself, when external
objects recur,--to observe the general circumstances relating to the
suggestion,--and to arrange the principle on which it seems to depend,
as a principle of our intellectual constitution. While we attempt no
more than this, we are certain at least that we are not attempting any
thing which is beyond the sphere of human exertion. To attempt _more_,
and to strive to discover, in any one of the series of our internal
feelings, some reason which might have led us originally to _predict_
its existence, or the existence of the other mental affections which
succeed it, would be to hope to discover, what is not merely beyond our
power even to divine, but what we should be incapable of knowing that
we _had_ divined, even though we should _casually_ have succeeded in
making the discovery.
In the classification of our internal feelings, as in every
classification, and, indeed, in every thing, intellectual or moral,
which can exercise us, it is evident, that we may err in _two_ ways,
by excess or deficiency. We may multiply divisions without necessity,
or we may labour in vain to force into one division individual
diversities, which cannot, by any labour, be made to correspond. The
_golden mean_, of which moralists speak, is as important in _science_,
as in our practical views of happiness; and the habit of this cautious
speculative moderation, is, probably, of as difficult attainment in the
one, as the habitual contentment which is necessary to the enjoyment of
the other.
When we think of the infinite variety of the physical objects around
us, and of the small number of classes in which they are at present
arranged, it would seem to us, if we were ignorant of the history of
philosophy, that the regular progress of classification must have been
to simplify, more and more, the general circumstances of agreement, on
which arrangement depends; that, in this progressive simplification,
millions of diversities must have been originally reduced to
thousands,--these, afterwards, to hundreds,--and these again,
successively, to divisions still more minute. But, the truth is, that
this simplicity of division is far from being so progressive in the
arrangement even of external things. The first steps of classification
must, indeed, uniformly be, to reduce the great multitude of obvious
diversities to some less extensive tribes. But the mere guess-work of
hypothesis soon comes in to supply the place of laborious observation
or experiment, and of that slow and accurate reasoning on observations
and experiments, which, to minds of very rapid imagination, is perhaps,
a labour as wearisome, as, in the long observation itself, to watch for
hours, with an eye fixed like the telescope through which it gazes,
one constant point of the heavens, or to minister to the furnace, and
hang over it in painful expectance of the transmutations which it
tardily presents. By the unlimited power of an hypothesis, we in a
moment range together, under one general name, myriads of diversities
the most obstinately discordant; as if the mere giving of a name could
of itself alter the qualities of things, making similar what was
dissimilar before, like words of magic, that convert any thing into any
thing. When the hypothesis is proved to be false, the temporary magic
of the spell is of course dissolved; and all the original diversities
appear again, to be ranged once more in a wider variety of classes.
Even where, without any such guess-work of hypothetical resemblance,
divisions and arrangements have been formed on the justest principles,
according to the qualities of objects known at the time, some new
observation, or new experiment, is continually shewing differences
of composition or of general qualities, where none were conceived
before; and the same philosophy is thus, at the same moment, employed
in uniting and disuniting,--in reducing many objects to a few, and
separating a few into many,--as the same electric power, at the moment
in which it is _attracting_ objects nearer to it, _repels_ others which
were almost in contiguity, and often brings the same object close to
it, only to throw it off the next moment to a greater distance. While a
nicer artificial analysis, or more accurate observation, is detecting
unsuspected resemblances, and, still more frequently, unsuspected
diversities, there is hence no fixed point nor regular advance, but a
sort of ebb and flow of wider and narrower divisions and subdivisions;
and the classes of an intervening age maybe fewer than the classes both
of the age which preceded it, and of that which comes after it. For a
very striking example of this alternation, I may refer to the history
of that science, which is to matter what our intellectual analysis is
to mind. The elements of bodies have been more and fewer successively,
varying with the analyses of almost every distinguished chemist; far
from having fewer principles of bodies, as chemistry advances, how many
more _elements_ have we now than in the days of Aristotle! There can be
no question, that when man first looked around him with a philosophic
eye, and saw, in the sublime rudeness of nature, something more than
objects of savage rapacity, or still more savage indifference, he
must have conceived the varieties of bodies to be innumerable; and
could as little have thought of comprehending them all under a few
simple names, as of comprehending the whole earth itself within his
narrow grasp. In a short time, however, this narrow grasp, if I may
venture so to express myself, did strive to comprehend the whole
earth; and soon after man had made the first great advance in science,
of wondering at the infinity of things in which he was lost, we had
sages, such as Thales, Anaximenes, and Heraclitus, who were forming
every thing of a _single principle_,--water, or air, or fire. The four
elements, which afterwards reigned so long in the schools of physics,
gave place to a _single principle_ with the alchemists; or to three
principles,--_salt_, _sulphur_, and _mercury_,--with chemists less
bold in conjecture. These, again, were soon multiplied by observers of
still nicer discrimination; and modern chemistry, while it has shewn
some bodies, which we regarded as different, to be composed of the
same elements, has, at the same time, shewn, that what we regarded as
_elements_, are themselves compounds of elements which we knew not
before.