the apparent fitness or otherwise, of these bodies, so far as we are
acquainted with them, for the dwelling-place of rational creatures. Not
to mention the probable extreme coldness of Jupiter and Saturn, the heat
of the sunbeams in the planet Mercury is understood to be such as
that water would unavoidably boil and be carried away(71), and we can
scarcely imagine any living substance that would not be dissolved and
dispersed in such an atmosphere. The moon, of which, as being so much
nearer to us, we may naturally be supposed to know most, we are told
by the astronomers has no water and no atmosphere, or, if any, such an
atmosphere as would not sustain clouds and ascending vapour. To our eye,
as seen through the telescope, it appears like a metallic substance,
which has been burned by fire, and so reduced into the ruined and ragged
condition in which we seem to behold it. The sun appears to be still
less an appropriate habitation for rational, or for living creatures,
than any of the planets. The comets, which describe an orbit so
exceedingly eccentric, and are subject to all the excessive vicissitudes
of heat and cold, are, we are told, admirably adapted for a scene
of eternal, or of lengthened punishment for those who have acquitted
themselves ill in a previous state of probation. Buffon is of opinion,
that all the planets in the solar system were once so many portions of
our great luminary, struck off from the sun by the blow of a comet, and
so having received a projectile impulse calculated to carry them
forward in a right line, at the same time that the power of attraction
counteracts this impulse, and gives them that compound principle of
motion which retains them in an orbicular course. In this sense it may
be said that all the planets were suns; while on the contrary Herschel
pronounces, that the sun itself is a planet, an opake body, richly
stored with inhabitants(72).
(71) Encyclopaedia Londinensis, Vol. II, p. 355.
(72) Philosophical Transactions for 1795, p. 68.
The modern astronomers go on to account to us for the total
disappearance of a star in certain cases, which, they say, may be in
reality the destruction of a system, such as that of our sun and its
attendant planets, while the appearance of a new star may, in like
manner, be the occasional creation of a new system of planets. "We ought
perhaps," says Herschel, "to look upon certain clusters of stars, and
the destruction of a star now and then in some thousands of ages, as the
very means by which the whole is preserved and renewed. These clusters
may be the laboratories of the universe, wherein the most salutary
remedies for the decay of the whole are prepared(73)."
(73) Philosophical Transactions for 1785, p. 217.
All this must appear to a sober mind, unbitten by the rage which grows
out of the heat of these new discoverers, to be nothing less than
astronomy run mad. This occasional creation of new systems and worlds,
is in little accordance with the Christian scriptures, or, I believe,
with any sober speculation upon the attributes of the creator. The
astronomer seizes upon some hint so fine as scarcely by any ingenuity to
be arrested, immediately launches forth into infinite space, and in an
instant returns, and presents us with millions of worlds, each of them
peopled with ten thousand times ten thousand inhabitants.
We spoke a while since of the apparent unfitness of many of the heavenly
bodies for the reception of living inhabitants. But for all this these
discoverers have a remedy. They remind us how unlike these inhabitants
may be to ourselves, having other organs than ours, and being able to
live in a very different temperature. "The great heat in the planet
Mercury is no argument against its being inhabited; since the Almighty
could as easily suit the bodies and constitutions of its inhabitants to
the heat of their dwelling, as he has done ours to the temperature of
our earth. And it is very probable that the people there have such an
opinion of us, as we have of the inhabitants of Jupiter and Saturn;
namely, that we must be intolerably cold, and have very little light at
so great a distance from the sun."
These are the remarks of Ferguson(74). One of our latest astronomers
expresses himself to the same purpose.
(74) Astronomy, Section 22.
"We have no argument against the planets being inhabited by rational
beings, and consequently by witnesses of the creator's power,
magnificence and benevolence, unless it be said that some are much
nearer the sun than the earth is, and therefore must be uninhabitable
from heat, and those more distant from cold. Whatever objection this may
be against their being inhabited by rational beings, of an organisation
similar to those on the earth, it can have little force, when urged with
respect to rational beings in general.
"But we may examine without indulging too much in conjecture, whether
it be not possible that the planets may be possessed by rational beings,
and contain animals and vegetables, even little different from those
with which we are familiar.
"Is the sun the principal cause of the temperature of the earth? We have
reason to suppose that it is not. The mean temperature of the earth, at
a small depth from the surface, seems constant in summer and in winter,
and is probably coeval with its first formation.
"At the planet Mercury, the direct heat of the sun, or its power of
causing heat, is six times greater than with us. If we suppose the mean
temperature of Mercury to be the same as of the earth, and the planet
to be surrounded with an atmosphere, denser than that of the earth,
less capable of transmitting heat, or rather the influence of the sun to
extricate heat, and at the same time more readily conducting it to keep
up an evenness of temperature, may we not suppose the planet Mercury fit
for the habitation of men, and the production of vegetables similar to
our own?
"At the Georgium Sidus, the direct influence of the sun is 360 times
less than at the earth, and the sun is there seen at an angle not much
greater than that under which we behold Venus, when nearest. Yet may not
the mean temperature of the Georgium Sidus be nearly the same as that of
the earth? May not its atmosphere more easily transmit the influence of
the sun, and may not the matter of heat be more copiously combined, and
more readily extricated, than with us? Whence changes of season similar
to our own may take place. Even in the comets we may suppose no great
change of temperature takes place, as we know of no cause which will
deprive them of their mean temperature, and particularly if we suppose,
that on their approach towards the sun, there is a provision for
their atmosphere becoming denser. The tails they exhibit, when in the
neighbourhood of the sun, seem in some measure to countenance this idea.
"We can hardly suppose the sun, a body three hundred times larger than
all the planets together, was created only to preserve the periodic
motions, and give light and heat to the planets. Many astronomers have
thought that its atmosphere only is luminous, and its body opake, and
probably of the same constitution as the planets. Allowing therefore
that its luminous atmosphere only extricates heat, we see no reason why
the sun itself should not be inhabited(75)."
(75) Brinkley, Elements of Astronomy, Chap. IX.
There is certainly no end to the suppositions that may be made by an
ingenious astronomer. May we not suppose that we might do nearly as well
altogether without the sun, which it appears is at present of little use
to us as to warmth and heat? As to light, the great creator might, for
aught we know, find a substitute; feelers, for example, endued with
a certain acuteness of sense: or, at all events, the least imaginable
degree of light might answer every purpose to organs adapted to this
kind of twilight. In that way the inhabitants of the Georgium Sidus are
already sufficiently provided for; they appear to have as little benefit
of the light as of the heat of the sun. How the satellites of the
distant planets are supplied with light is a mystery, since their
principals have scarcely any. Unless indeed, like the sun, they have a
luminous atmosphere, competent to enlighten a whole system, themselves
being opake. But in truth light in a greater or less degree seems
scarcely worthy of a thought, since the inhabitants of the planet
Mercury have not their eyes put out by a light, scarcely inferior in
radiance to that which is reflected by those plates of burning brass,
with which tyrants in some ages were accustomed to extinguish the
sense of vision in their unfortunate victims. The comets also must be
a delectable residence; that of 1680 completing its orbit in 576 years,
and being at its greatest distance about eleven thousand two hundred
millions of miles from the sun, and at its least within less than a
third part of the sun's semi-diameter from its surface(76). They must
therefore have delightful vicissitudes of light and the contrary;
for, as to heat, that is already provided for. Archdeacon Brinkley's
postulate is, that these bodies are "possessed by rational beings, and
contain animals and vegetables, little different from those with which
we are familiar."
(76) Ferguson, Section 93.
Now the only reason we have to believe in these extraordinary
propositions, is the knowledge we possess of the divine attributes. From
the force of this consideration it is argued that God will not leave any
sensible area of matter unoccupied, and therefore that it is impossible
that such vast orbs as we believe surround us even to the extent of
infinite space, should not be "richly stored with rational beings,
the capable witnesses of his power, magnificence and benevolence." All
difficulties arising from the considerations of light, and heat, and a
thousand other obstacles, are to give way to the perfect insight we
have as to how the deity will conduct himself in every case that can be
proposed. I am not persuaded that this is agreeable to religion; and
I am still less convinced that it is compatible with the sobriety and
sedateness of common sense.
It is with some degree of satisfaction that I perceive lord Brougham,
the reputed author of the Preliminary Discourse to the Library of Useful
Knowledge, at the same time that he states the dimensions and distances
of the heavenly bodies in the usual way, says not a word of their
inhabitants.
It is somewhat remarkable that, since the commencement of the present
century, four new planets have been added to those formerly contained in
the enumeration of the solar system. They lie between the planets Mars
and Jupiter, and have been named Vesta, Juno, Ceres and Pallas. Brinkley
speaks of them in this manner. "The very small magnitudes of the new
planets Ceres and Pallas, and their nearly equal distances from the sun,
induced Dr. Olbers, who discovered Pallas in 1802, nearly in the same
place where he had observed Ceres a few months before, to conjecture
that they were fragments of a larger planet, which had by some unknown
cause been broken to pieces. It follows from the law of gravity, by
which the planets are retained in their orbits, that each fragment would
again, after every revolution about the sun, pass nearly through the
place in which the planet was when the catastrophe happened, and besides
the orbit of each fragment would intersect the continuation of the line
joining this place and the sun. Thence it was easy to ascertain the
two particular regions of the heavens through which all these fragments
would pass. Also, by carefully noting the small stars thereabout, and
examining them from time to time, it might be expected that more of the
fragments would be discovered.--M. Harding discovered the planet Juno
in one of these regions; and Dr. Olbers himself also, by carefully
examining them (the small stars) from time to time, discovered Vesta."
These additions certainly afford us a new epoch in the annals of the
solar system, and of astronomy itself. It is somewhat remarkable, that
Herschel, who in the course of his observations traced certain nebulae,
the light from which must have been two millions of years in reaching
the earth, should never have remarked these planets, which, so to
speak, lay at his feet. It reminds one of Esop's astrologer, who, to the
amusement of his ignorant countrymen, while he was wholly occupied in
surveying the heavens, suddenly found himself plunged in a pit. These
new planets also we are told are fragments of a larger planet: how came
this larger planet never to have been discovered?
Till Herschel's time we were content with six planets and the sun,
making up the cabalistical number seven. He added another. But these
four new ones entirely derange the scheme. The astronomers have not yet
had opportunity to digest them into their places, and form new worlds of
them. This is all unpleasant. They are, it seems, "fragments of a larger
planet, which had by some unknown cause been broken to pieces." They
therefore are probably not inhabited. How does this correspond with the
goodness of God, which will suffer no mass of matter in his creation
to remain unoccupied? Herschel talks at his ease of whole systems, suns
with all their attendant planets, being consigned to destruction. But
here we have a catastrophe happening before our eyes, and cannot avoid
being shocked by it. "God does nothing in vain." For which of his lofty
purposes has this planet been broken to pieces, and its fragments left
to deform the system of which we are inhabitants; at least to humble
the pride of man, and laugh to scorn his presumption? Still they perform
their revolutions, and obey the projectile and gravitating forces, which
have induced us to people ten thousand times ten thousand worlds. It is
time, that we should learn modesty, to revere in silence the great cause
to which the universe is indebted for its magnificence, its beauty and
harmony, and to acknowledge that we do not possess the key that should
unlock the mysteries of creation.
One of the most important lessons that can be impressed on the human
mind, is that of self-knowledge and a just apprehension of what it is
that we are competent to achieve. We can do much. We are capable of much
knowledge and much virtue. We have patience, perseverance and subtlety.
We can put forth considerable energies, and nerve ourselves to resist
great obstacles and much suffering. Our ingenuity is various and
considerable. We can form machines, and erect mighty structures. The
invention of man for the ease of human life, and for procuring it a
multitude of pleasures and accommodations, is truly astonishing. We can
dissect the human frame, and anatomise the mind. We can study the scene
of our social existence, and make extraordinary improvements in the
administration of justice, and in securing to ourselves that germ of
all our noblest virtues, civil and political liberty. We can study the
earth, its strata, its soil, its animals, and its productions, "from the
cedar that is in Lebanon, to the hyssop that springeth out of the wall."
But man is not omnipotent. If he aspires to be worthy of honour, it is
necessary that he should compute his powers, and what it is they are
competent to achieve. The globe of earth, with "all that is therein," is
our estate and our empire. Let us be content with that which we have. It
were a pitiful thing to see so noble a creature struggling in a field,
where it is impossible for him to distinguish himself, or to effect
any thing real. There is no situation in which any one can appear more
little and ludicrous, than when he engages in vain essays, and seeks
to accomplish that, which a moment's sober thought would teach him was
utterly hopeless.
Even astronomy is to a certain degree our own. We can measure the course
of the sun, and the orbits of the planets. We can calculate eclipses.
We can number the stars, assign to them their places, and form them into
what we call constellations. But, when we pretend to measure millions
of miles in the heavens, and to make ourselves acquainted with
the inhabitants of ten thousand times ten thousand worlds and the
accommodations which the creator has provided for their comfort and
felicity, we probably engage in something more fruitless and idle, than
the pigmy who should undertake to bend the bow of Ulysses, or strut and
perform the office of a warrior clad in the armour of Achilles.
How beautiful is the "firmament; this majestical roof fretted with
golden fire!" Let us beware how we mar the magnificent scene with our
interpolations and commentaries! Simplicity is of the essence of the
truly great. Let us look at the operations of that mighty power from
which we ourselves derive our existence, with humility and reverential
awe! It may well become us. Let us not "presume into the heaven of
heavens," unbidden, unauthorised guests! Let us adopt the counsel of
the apostle, and allow no man to "spoil us through vain philosophy." The
business of human life is serious; the useful investigations in which
we may engage are multiplied. It is excellent to see a rational being
conscious of his genuine province, and not idly wasting powers adapted
for the noblest uses in unmeasured essays and ill-concocted attempts.
ESSAY XXII. OF THE MATERIAL UNIVERSE.
In the preceding Essay I have referred to the theory of Berkeley, whose
opinion is that there is no such thing as matter in the sense in which
it is understood by the writers on natural philosophy, and that the
whole of our experience in that respect is the result of a system of
accidents without an intelligible subject, by means of which antecedents
and consequents flow on for ever in a train, the past succession
of which man is able to record, and the future in many cases he is
qualified to predict and to act upon.
An argument more palpable and popular than that of Berkeley in favour of
the same hypothesis, might be deduced from the points recapitulated
in that Essay as delivered by Locke and Newton. If what are vulgarly
denominated the secondary qualities of matter are in reality nothing but
sensations existing in the human mind, then at any rate matter is a very
different thing from what it is ordinarily apprehended to be. To which
I add, in the second place, that, if matter, as is stated by Newton,
consists in so much greater a degree of pores than solid parts, that
the absolute particles contained in the solar system might, for aught we
know, he contained in a nutshell(77), and that no two ever touched each
other, or approached so near that they might not be brought nearer,
provided a sufficient force could be applied for that purpose,--and if,
as Priestley teaches, all that we observe is the result of successive
spheres of attraction and repulsion, the centre of which is a
mathematical point only, we then certainly come very near to a
conclusion, which should banish matter out of the theatre of real
existences(78).
(77) See above, Essay XXI.
(78) See above, Essay XXI.
But the extreme subtleties of human intellect are perhaps of little
further use, than to afford an amusement to persons of curious
speculation, and whose condition in human society procures them leisure
for such enquiries. The same thing happens here, as in the subject of
my Twelfth Essay, on the Liberty of Human Actions. The speculator in his
closet is one man: the same person, when he comes out of his retirement,
and mixes in intercourse with his fellow-creatures, is another man.
The necessarian, when he reasons on the everlasting concatenation
of antecedents and consequents, proves to his own apprehension
irrefragably, that he is a passive instrument, acted upon, and acting
upon other things, in turn, and that he can never disengage himself
from the operation of the omnipotent laws of physical nature, and the
impulses of other men with whom he is united in the ties of society. But
no sooner does this acute and ingenious reasoner come into active
life and the intercourse of his fellowmen, than all these fine-drawn
speculations vanish from his recollection. He regards himself and other
men as beings endowed with a liberty of action, as possessed of a proper
initiative power, and free to do a thing or not to do it, without being
subject to the absolute and irresistible constraint of motives. It is
from this internal and indefeasible sense of liberty, that we draw
all our moral energies and enthusiasm, that we persevere heroically in
defiance of obstacles and discouragements, that we praise or blame the
actions of others, and admire the elevated virtues of the best of
our contemporaries, and of those whose achievements adorn the page of
history.
It is in a manner of precisely the same sort as that which prevails
in the philosophical doctrines of liberty and necessity, that we find
ourselves impelled to feel on the question of the existence of the
material universe. Berkeley, and as many persons as are persuaded by his
or similar reasonings, feel satisfied in speculation that there is
no such thing as matter in the sense in which it is understood by the
writers on natural philosophy, and that all our notions of the external
and actual existence of the table, the chair, and the other material
substances with which we conceive ourselves to be surrounded, of
woods, and mountains, and rivers, and seas, are mere prejudice and
misconception. All this is very well in the closet, and as long as we
are involved in meditation, and remain abstracted from action, business,
and the exertion of our limbs and corporal faculties. But it is too
fine for the realities of life. Berkeley, and the most strenuous and
spiritualised of his followers, no sooner descend from the high tower of
their speculations, submit to the necessities of their nature, and mix
in the business of the world, than they become impelled, as strongly
as the necessarian in the question of the liberty of human actions, not
only to act like other men, but even to feel just in the same manner as
if they had never been acquainted with these abstractions. A table then
becomes absolutely a table, and a chair a chair: they are "fed with the
same food, hurt by the same weapons, and warmed and cooled by the same
summer and winter," as other men: and they make use of the refreshments
which nature requires, with as true an orthodoxy, and as credulous a
temper, as he who was never assailed with such refinements. Nature is
too strong, to be prevailed on to retire, and give way to the authority
of definitions and syllogistical deduction.
But, when we have granted all this, it is however a mistake to say, that
these "subtleties of human intellect are of little further use, than
to afford an amusement to persons of curious speculation(79)." We have
seen, in the case of the doctrine of philosophical necessity(80), that,
though it can never form a rule for the intercourse between man and man,
it may nevertheless be turned to no mean advantage. It is calculated
to inspire us with temperance and toleration. It tends impressively to
evince to us, that this scene of things is but like the shadows which
pass before us in a magic lanthorn, and that, after all, men are but
the tools, not the masters, of their fate. It corrects the illusions of
life, much after the same manner as the spectator of a puppet-shew is
enlightened, who should be taken within the curtain, and shewn how the
wires are pulled by the master, which produce all the turmoil and strife
that before riveted our attention. It is good for him who would arrive
at all the improvement of which our nature is capable, at one time to
take his place among the literal beholders of the drama, and at another
to go behind the scenes, and remark the deceptions in their original
elements, and the actors in their proper and natural costume.
(79) See above, Essay XXII.
(80) See above, Essay XII.
And, as in the question of the liberty of human actions, so in that
of the reality of the material universe, it is a privilege not to be
despised, that we are so formed as to be able to dissect the subject
that is submitted to our examination, and to strip the elements of which
this sublunary scene is composed, of the disguise in which they present
themselves to the vulgar spectator. It is little, after all, that we
are capable to know; and the man of heroic mind and generous enterprise,
will not refuse the discoveries that are placed within his reach. The
subtleties of grammar are as the porch, which leads from the knowledge
of words to the knowledge of things. The subtleties of mathematics
defecate the grossness of our apprehension, and supply the elements of
a sounder and severer logic. And in the same manner the faculty which
removes the illusions of external appearance, and enables us to "look
into the seeds of time," is one which we are bound to estimate at its
genuine value. The more we refine our faculties, other things equal,
the wiser we grow: we are the more raised above the thickness of the
atmosphere that envelops our fellow-mortals, and are made partakers of a
nature superhuman and divine.
There is a curious question that has risen out of this proposition of
Berkeley, of the supposed illusion we suffer in our conceptions of the
material universe. It has been said, "Well then, I am satisfied that
the chairs, the tables, and the other material substances with which I
conceive myself to be surrounded, are not what they appear to be, but
are merely an eternal chain of antecedents and consequents, going on
according to what Leibnitz calls a 'preestablished harmony,' and thus
furnishing the ground of the speculations which mortals cherish, and the
motives of their proceeding. But, if thus, in the ordinary process of
human affairs, we believe in matter, when in reality there is no such
thing as matter, how shall we pronounce of mind, and the things which
happen to us in our seeming intercourse with our fellow-men, and in
the complexities of love and hatred, of kindred and friendship, of
benevolence and misanthropy, of robbery and murder, and of the wholesale
massacre of thousands of human beings which are recorded in the page of
history? We absolutely know nothing of the lives and actions of others
but through the medium of material impulse. And, if you take away
matter, the bodies of our fellow-men, does it not follow by irresistible
consequence that all knowledge of their minds is taken away also? Am not
I therefore (the person engaged in reading the present Essay) the only
being in existence, an entire universe to myself?"
Certainly this is a very different conclusion from any that Berkeley
ever contemplated. In the very title of the Treatise in which his
notions on this subject are unfolded, he professes his purpose to be to
remove "the grounds of scepticism, atheism and irreligion." Berkeley was
a sincere Christian, and a man of the most ingenuous dispositions. Pope,
in the Epilogue to his Satires, does not hesitate to ascribe to him
"every virtue under heaven." He was for twenty years a prelate of the
Protestant church. And, though his personal sentiments were in the
highest degree philanthropical and amiable, yet, in his most diffusive
production, entitled The Minute Philosopher, he treats "those who
are called Free Thinkers" with a scorn and disdain, scarcely to be
reconciled with the spirit of Christian meekness.
There are examples however, especially in the fields of controversy,
where an adventurous speculatist has been known to lay down premises and
principles, from which inferences might be fairly deduced, incompatible
with the opinions entertained by him who delivered them. It may
therefore be no unprofitable research to enquire how far the creed of
the non-existence of matter is to be regarded as in truth and reality
countenancing the inference which has just been recited.
The persons then, who refine with Berkeley upon the system of things so
far, as to deny that there is any such thing as matter in the sense in
which it is understood by the writers on natural philosophy, proceed
on the ground of affirming that we have no reason to believe that the
causes of our sensations have an express resemblance to the sensations
themselves(81). That which gives us a sensation of colour is not itself
coloured: and the same may be affirmed of the sensations of hot and
cold, of sweet and bitter, and of odours offensive or otherwise. The
immaterialist proceeds to say, that what we call matter has been strewn
to be so exceedingly porous, that, for any thing we know, all the solid
particles in the universe might be contained in a nutshell, that there
is no such thing in the external world as actual contact, and that no
two particles of matter were ever so near to each other, but that they
might be brought nearer, if a sufficient force could be applied for
that purpose. From these premises it seems to follow with sufficient
evidence, that the causes of our sensations, so far as the material
universe is concerned, bear no express resemblance to the sensations
themselves.
(81) See above, Essay XXI.
How then does the question stand with relation to mind? Are those
persons who deny the existence of matter, reduced, if they would be
consistent in their reasonings, to deny, each man for himself, that he
has any proper evidence of the existence of other minds than his own?
He denies, while he has the sensation of colour, that there exists
colour out of himself, unless in thinking and percipient beings
constituted in a manner similar to that in which he is constituted. And
the same of the sensations of hot and cold, sweet and bitter, and
odours offensive or otherwise. He affirms, while he has the sensation of
length, breadth and thickness, that there is no continuous substance out
of himself, possessing the attributes of length, breadth and thickness
in any way similar to the sensation of which he is conscious.
He professes therefore that he has no evidence, arising from his
observation of what we call matter, of the actual existence of a
material world. He looks into himself, and all he finds is sensation;
but sensation cannot be a property of inert matter. There is therefore
no assignable analogy between the causes of his sensations, whatever
they may be, and the sensations themselves; and the material world, such
as we apprehend it, is the mere creature of his own mind.
Let us next consider how this question stands as to the conceptions he
entertains respecting the minds of other men. That which gives him the
sensation of colour, is not any thing coloured out of himself; and that
which gives him the sensation of length, breadth and thickness, is
not any thing long, broad and thick in a manner corresponding with the
impression he receives. There is nothing in the nature of a parallel, a
type and its archetype, between that which is without him and that which
is within, the impresser and the impression. This is the point supposed
to be established by Locke and Newton, and by those who have followed
the reasonings of these philosophers into their remotest consequences.
But the case is far otherwise in the impressions we receive respecting
the minds of other men. In colour it has been proved by these authors
that there is no express correspondence and analogy between the cause of
the sensation and the sensation. They are not part and counterpart.
But in mind there is a precise resemblance and analogy between the
conceptions we are led to entertain respecting other men, and what
we know of ourselves. I and my associate, or fellow-man, are like two
instruments of music constructed upon the same model. We have each of
us, so to speak, the three great divisions of sound, base, tenor and
treble. We have each the same number of keys, capable of being struck,
consecutively or with alternations, at the will of the master. We can
utter the same sound or series of sounds, or sounds of a different
character, but which respond to each other. My neighbour therefore being
of the same nature as myself, what passes within me may be regarded as
amounting to a commanding evidence that he is a real being, having a
proper and independent existence.
There is further something still more impressive and irresistible in the
notices I receive respecting the minds of other men. The sceptics whose
reasonings I am here taking into consideration, admit, each man for
himself, the reality of his own existence. There is such a thing
therefore as human nature; for he is a specimen of it. Now the idea of
human nature, or of man, is a very complex thing. He is in the first
place the subject of sensible impressions, however these impressions are
communicated to him. He has the faculties of thinking and feeling. He is
subject to the law of the association of ideas, or, in other words, any
one idea existing in his mind has a tendency to call up the ideas of
other things which have been connected with it in his first experience.
He has, be it delusive or otherwise, the sense of liberty of action.
But we will go still further into detail as to the nature of man.
Our lives are carried forward by the intervention of what we call meat,
drink and sleep. We are liable to the accidents of health and sickness.
We are alternately the recipients of joy and sorrow, of cheerfulness and
melancholy. Our passions are excited by similar means, whether of love
or hatred, complacency or indignation, sympathy or resentment. I could
fill many pages with a description of the properties or accidents, which
belong to man as such, or to which he is liable.
Now with all these each man is acquainted in the sphere of his inward
experience, whether he is a single being standing by himself, or is an
individual belonging to a numerous species.
Observe then the difference between my acquaintance with the phenomena
of the material universe, and with the individuals of my own species.
The former say nothing to me; they are a series of events and no more;
I cannot penetrate into their causes; that which gives rise to my
sensations, may or may not be similar to the sensations themselves. The
follower of Berkeley or Newton has satisfied himself in the negative.
But the case is very different in my intercourse with my fellow-men.
Agreeably to the statement already made I know the reality of human
nature; for I feel the particulars that constitute it within myself.
The impressions I receive from that intercourse say something to me;
for they talk to me of beings like myself. My own existence becomes
multiplied in infinitum. Of the possibility of matter I know nothing;
but with the possibility of mind I am acquainted; for I am myself an
example. I am amazed at the consistency and systematic succession of the
phenomena of the material universe; though I cannot penetrate the veil
which presents itself to my grosser sense, nor see effects in their
causes. But I can see, in other words, I have the most cogent reasons
to believe in, the causes of the phenomena that occur in my apparent
intercourse with my fellow-men. What solution so natural, as that
they are produced by beings like myself, the duplicates, with certain
variations, of what I feel within me?
The belief in the reality of matter explains nothing. Supposing it to
exist, if Newton is right, no particle of extraneous matter ever touched
the matter of my body; and therefore it is not just to regard it as
the cause of my sensations. It would amount to no more than two systems
going on at the same time by a preestablished harmony, but totally
independent of and disjointed from each other.
But the belief in the existence of our fellow-men explains much. It
makes level before us the wonder of the method of their proceedings, and
affords an obvious reason why they should be in so many respects like
our own. If I dismiss from my creed the existence of inert matter, I
lose nothing. The phenomena, the train of antecedents and consequents,
remain as before; and this is all that I am truly concerned with. But
take away the existence of my fellow-men; and you reduce all that is,
and all that I experience, to a senseless mummery. "You take my life,
taking the thing whereon I live."
Human nature, and the nature of mind, are to us a theme of endless
investigation. "The proper study of mankind is man." All the subtlety
of metaphysics, or (if there be men captious and prejudiced enough
to dislike that term) the science of ourselves, depends upon it. The
science of morals hangs upon the actions of men, and the effects they
produce upon our brother-men, in a narrower or a wider circle. The
endless, and inexpressibly interesting, roll of history relies for its
meaning and its spirit upon the reality and substance of the subjects of
which it treats. Poetry, and all the wonders and endless varieties that
imagination creates, have this for their solution and their soul.
Sympathy is the only reality of which we are susceptible; it is our
heart of hearts: and, if the world had been "one entire and perfect
chrysolite," without this it would have been no more than one heap of
rubbish.
Observe the difference between what we know of the material world, and
what of the intellectual. The material goes on for ever according to
certain laws that admit of no discrimination. They proceed upon a first
principle, an impulse given them from the beginning of things. Their
effects are regulated by something that we call their nature: fire
burns; water suffocates; the substances around us that we call solid,
depend for their effects, when put in motion, upon momentum and gravity.
The principle that regulates the dead universe, "acts by general, not by
partial laws."
When the loose mountain trembles from on high,
Shall gravitation cease, if you go by?
No: the chain of antecedents and consequents proceeds in this respect
for ever the same. The laws of what we call the material world continue
unvaried. And, when the vast system of things was first set in motion,
every thing, so far as depends on inert matter, was determined to the
minutest particle, even to the end of time.
The material world, or that train of antecedents and consequents which
we understand by that term, goes on for ever in a train agreeably to the
impulse previously given. It is deaf and inexorable. It is unmoved by
the consideration of any accidents and miseries that may result, and
unalterable. But man is a source of events of a very different nature.
He looks to results, and is governed by views growing out of the
contemplation of them. He acts in a way diametrically opposite to the
action of inert matter, and "turns, and turns, and turns again," at the
impulse of the thought that strikes him, the appetite that prompts, the
passions that move, and the effects that he anticipates. It is therefore
in a high degree unreasonable, to make that train of inferences which
may satisfy us on the subject of material phenomena, a standard of what
we ought to think respecting the phenomena of mind.
It is further worthy of our notice to recollect, that the same
reasonings which apply to our brethren of mankind, apply also to the
brute creation. They, like ourselves, act from motives; that is,
the elections they form are adopted by them for the sake of certain
consequences they expect to see result from them. Whatever becomes
therefore of the phenomena of what we call dead matter, we are here
presented with tribes of being, susceptible of pleasure and pain, of
hope and fear, of regard and resentment.
How beautifully does this conviction vary the scene of things! What
a source to us is the animal creation, of amusement, of curious
observations upon the impulses of inferior intellect, of the exhaustless
varieties of what we call instinct, of the care we can exercise for
their accommodation and welfare, and of the attachment and affection we
win from them in return! If I travel alone through pathless deserts, if
I journey from the rising to the setting sun, with no object around
me but nature's desolation, or the sublime, the magnificent and the
exuberant scenery she occasionally presents, still I have that noble
animal, the horse, and my faithful dog, the companions of my toil, and
with whom, when my solitude would otherwise become insufferable, I can
hold communion, and engage in dumb dialogues of sentiment and affection.
I have heard of a man, who, talking to his friend on the subject of
these speculations, said, "What then, are you so poor and pusillanimous
a creature, that you could not preserve your serenity, be perfectly
composed and content, and hold on your way unvaried, though you were
convinced that you were the only real being in existence, and all the
rest were mere phantasies and shadows?"
If I had been the person to whom this speech was addressed, I should
have frankly acknowledged, "I am the poor and pusillanimous creature you
are disposed to regard with so much scorn."
To adopt the sententious language of the Bible, "It is not good for man
to be alone." All our faculties and attributes bear relation to, and
talk to us of, other beings like ourselves. We might indeed eat, drink
and sleep, that is, submit to those necessities which we so denominate,
without thinking of any thing beyond ourselves; for these are the
demands of our nature, and we know that we cannot subsist without them.
We might make use of the alternate conditions of exercise and repose.
But the life of our lives would be gone. As far as we bore in mind the
creed we had adopted, of our single existence, we could neither love nor
hate. Sympathy would be a solemn mockery. We could not communicate; for
the being to whom our communication was addressed we were satisfied was
a non-entity. We could not anticipate the pleasure or pain, the joy or
sorrow, of another; for that other had no existence. We should be in
a worse condition than Robinson Crusoe in the desolate island; for he
believed in the existence of other men, and hoped and trusted that he
should one day again enter into human society. We should be in a worse
condition than Robinson Crusoe; for he at least was unannoyed in his
solitude; while we are perpetually and per force intruded on, like a
delirious man, by visions which we know to be unreal, but which we are
denied the power to deliver ourselves from. We have no motive to any of
the great and cardinal functions of human life; for there is no one in
being, that we can benefit, or that we can affect. Study is nothing to
us; for we have no use for it. Even science is unsatisfactory; unless we
can communicate it by word or writing, can converse upon it, and compare
notes with our neighbour. History is nothing; for there were no Greeks
and no Romans; no freemen and no slaves; no kings and no subjects; no
despots, nor victims of their tyranny; no republics, nor states immerged
in brutal and ignominious servitude. Life must be inevitably a burthen
to us, a dreary, unvaried, motiveless existence; and death must be
welcomed, as the most desirable blessing that can visit us. It
is impossible indeed that we should always recollect this our, by
supposition, real situation; but, as often as we did, it would come over
us like a blight, withering all the prospects of our industry, or like
a scirocco, unbracing the nerves of our frame, and consigning us to the
most pitiable depression.
Thus far I have allowed myself to follow the refinements of those
who profess to deny the existence of the material universe. But it is
satisfactory to come back to that persuasion, which, from whatever cause
it is derived, is incorporated with our very existence, and can never be
shaken off by us. Our senses are too powerful in their operation, for it
to be possible for us to discard them, and to take as their substitute,
in active life, and in the earnestness of pursuit, the deductions of
our logical faculty, however well knit and irresistible we may apprehend
them to be. Speculation and common sense are at war on this point; and
however we may "think with the learned," and follow the abstrusenesses
of the philosopher, in the sequestered hour of our meditation, we must
always act, and even feel, "with the vulgar," when we come abroad into
the world.
It is however no small gratification to the man of sober mind, that,
from what has here been alleged, it seems to follow, that untutored
mind, and the severest deductions of philosophy, agree in that most
interesting of our concerns, our intercourse with our fellow-creatures.
The inexorable reasoner, refining on the reports of sense, may dispose,
as he pleases, of the chair, the table, and the so called material
substances around him. He may include the whole solid matter of the
universe in a nutshell, or less than a nutshell. But he cannot deprive
me of that greatest of all consolations, the sustaining pillar of
my existence, "the cordial drop Heaven in our cup has thrown,"--the
intercourse of my fellow-creatures. When we read history, the subjects
of which we read are realities; they do not "come like shadows,
so depart;" they loved and acted in sober earnest; they sometimes
perpetrated crimes; but they sometimes also achieved illustrious deeds,
which angels might look down from their exalted abodes and admire. We
are not deluded with mockeries. The woman I love, and the man to whom I
swear eternal friendship, are as much realities as myself. If I relieve
the poor, and assist the progress of genius and virtuous designs
struggling with fearful discouragements, I do something upon the success
of which I may safely congratulate myself. If I devote my energies to
enlighten my fellow-creatures, to detect the weak places in our social
institutions, to plead the cause of liberty, and to invite others
to engage in noble actions and unite in effecting the most solid and
unquestionable improvements, I erect to my name an eternal monument; or
I do something better than this,--secure inestimable advantage to the
latest posterity, the benefit of which they shall enjoy, long after the
very name of the author shall, with a thousand other things great and
small, have been swallowed up in the gulph of insatiable oblivion.
ESSAY XXIII. OF HUMAN VIRTUE. THE EPILOGUE.
The life of man is divided into many stages; and we shall not form a
just estimate of our common nature, if we do not to a certain
degree pass its successive periods in review, and observe it in its
commencement, its progress, and its maturity.
It has been attempted to be established in an early part of the present
volume(82), that all men, idiots and extraordinary cases being put out
of the question, are endowed with talents, which, if rightly directed,
would shew them to be apt, adroit, intelligent and acute, in the walk
for which their organisation especially fitted them. We are bound
therefore, particularly in the morning of life, to consider every
thing that presents itself to us in the human form, with deference and
attention.
(82) See above, Essay III.
"God," saith the Preacher, "made man upright; but he hath sought out
many inventions." There is something loose and difficult of exposition
in this statement; but we shall find an important truth hid beneath its
obscurity.
Junius Brutus, in the play, says to his son,
I like thy frame: the fingers of the Gods
I see have left their mastery upon thee;
And the majestic prints distinct appear.
Such is the true description of every well-formed and healthful infant
that is born into the world.
He is placed on the threshold of existence; and an eventful journey is
open before him. For the first four or five years of life indeed he has
little apprehension of the scenes that await him. But a child of quick
apprehension early begins to have day-dreams, and to form imaginations
of the various chances that may occur to him, and the things he shall
have to do, when, according to the language of the story-books, he "goes
out to seek his fortune."
"God made man upright." Every child that is born, has within him a
concealed magazine of excellence. His heart beats for every thing that
is lovely and good; and whatever is set before him of that sort in
honest colours, rouses his emulation. By how many tokens does he prove
himself worthy of our approbation and love--the unaffected and
ingenuous sobriety with which he listens to what addresses itself to his
attention, the sweetness of his smile, his hearty laugh, the clear, bell
tones of his voice, his sudden and assured impulses, and his bounding
step!
To his own heart he promises well of himself. Like Lear in the play, he
says, "I will do such things!--What they are, yet I know not." But he is
assured, frank and light-spirited. He thinks of no disguise. He "wears
his heart upon his sleeve." He looks in the face of his seniors with
the glistening eye of confidence, and expects to encounter sympathy and
encouragement in return. Such is man, as he comes from the hands of his
maker.
Thus prepared, he is turned into the great field of society. Here he
meets with much that he had not anticipated, and with many rebuffs. He
is taught that he must accommodate his temper and proceedings to the
expectations and prejudices of those around him. He must be careful to
give no offence. With how many lessons, not always the most salutary and
ingenuous, is this maxim pregnant! It calls on the neophyte to bear
a wary eye, and to watch the first indications of disapprobation and
displeasure in those among whom his lot is cast. It teaches him to
suppress the genuine emotions of his soul. It informs him that he is not
always to yield to his own impulses, but that he must "stretch forth his
hands to another, and be carried whither he would not."
It recommends to him falseness, and to be the thing in outward
appearance that he is not in his heart.
Still however he goes on. He shuts up his thoughts in his bosom; but
they are not exterminated. On the contrary he broods over them with
genial warmth; and the less they are exposed to the eye of day, the
more perseveringly are they cherished. Perhaps he chooses some youthful
confident of his imaginings: and the effect of this is, that he pours
out his soul with uncontrolable copiousness, and with the fervour of a
new and unchecked conceiving. It is received with answering warmth; or,
if there is any deficiency in the sympathy of his companion, his mind is
so earnest and full, that he does not perceive it. By and by, it may be,
he finds that the discovery he had made of a friend, a brother of
his soul, is, like so many of the visions of this world, hollow and
fallacious. He grasped, as he thought, a jewel of the first water; and
it turns out to be a vulgar pebble. No matter: he has gained something
by the communication. He has heard from his own lips the imaginings
of his mind shaped into articulate air; they grew more definite and
distinct as he uttered them; they came by the very act to have more of
reality, to be more tangible. He shakes off the ill-assorted companion
that only encumbered him, and springs away in his race, more light of
heart, and with a step more assured, than ever.
By and by he becomes a young man. And, whatever checks he may have
received before, it usually happens that all his hopes and projects
return to him now with recruited strength. He has no longer a master. He
no longer crouches to the yoke of subjection, and is directed this way
and that at the judgment of another. Liberty is at all times dear to the
free-soured and ingenuous; but never so much so, as when we wear it in
its full gloss and newness. He never felt before, that he was sui juris,
that he might go whithersoever he would, without asking leave, without
consulting any other director than the law of his own mind. It is nearly
at the same season that he arrives at the period of puberty, at the
stature, and in a certain degree at the strength, which he is destined
to attain. He is by general consent admitted to be at years of
discretion.
Though I have put all these things together, they do not, in the course
of nature, all come at the same time. It is a memorable period, when the
ingenuous youth is transferred from the trammels of the schoolmaster
to the residence of a college. It was at the age of seventeen that,
according to the custom of Rome, the youthful citizen put on the manly
gown, and was introduced into the forum. Even in college-life, there is
a difference in the privileges of the mere freshman, and of the
youth who has already completed the first half of his period in the
university.
The season of what may be denominated the independence of the
individual, is certainly in no small degree critical. A human being,
suddenly emancipated from a state of subjection, if we may not call it
slavery, and transported into a state of freedom, must be expected to be
guilty of some extravagancies and follies.
But upon the whole, with a small number of exceptions, it is creditable
to human nature, that we take this period of our new powers and
immunities with so much sobriety as we do.
The young man then, calls to mind all that he imagined at an earlier
season, and that he promised himself. He adds to this the new lights
that he has since obtained, and the nearer and more distinct view that
he has reached, of the realities of life.
He recollects the long noviciate that he served to reach this period,
the twenty years that he passed in ardent and palpitating expectation;
and he resolves to do something worthy of all he had vowed and had
imagined. He takes a full survey of his stores and endowments; and to
the latter, from his enthusiasm and his self-love, he is morally sure
to do justice. He says to himself, "What I purpose to do will not be
achieved to-day. No; it shall be copious, and worthy of men's suffrage
and approbation. But I will meditate it; I will sketch a grand outline;
I will essay my powers in secret, and ascertain what I may be able
to effect." The youth, whose morning of life is not utterly abortive,
palpitates with the desire to promote the happiness of others, and with
the desire of glory.
We have an apt specimen of this in the first period of the reign of
Nero. The historians, Tacitus in particular, have treated this with too
much incredulity. It was the passion of that eminent man to indulge in
subtleties, and to find hidden meanings in cases where in reality every
thing is plain. We must not regard the panegyric of Seneca, and
the devotion of Lucan to the imperial stripling, as unworthy of
our attention. He was declared emperor before he had completed
the eighteenth year of his age. No occasion for the exhibition of
liberality, clemency, courtesy or kindness escaped him. He called every
one by his name, and saluted all orders of men. When the senate shewed
a disposition to confer on him peculiar honours, he interposed, he said,
"Let them be bestowed when I have deserved them(83)." Seneca affirms,
that in the first part of his reign, and to the time in which the
philosopher dedicated to him his treatise of Clemency, he had "shed no
drop of blood(84)." He adds, "If the Gods were this day to call thee
to a hearing, thou couldst account to them for every man that had been
intrusted to thy rule. Not an individual has been lost from the number,
either by secret practices, or by open violence. This could scarcely
have been, if thy good dispositions had not been natural, but assumed.
No one can long personate a character. A pretended goodness will
speedily give place to the real temper; while a sincere mind, and
acts prompted by the heart, will not fail to go on from one stage of
excellence to another(85)."
(83) Suetonius, Nero, cap. 10.
(84) De Clementia, Lib. I, cap. II.
(85) De Clementia, cap. I.
The philosopher expresses himself in raptures on that celebrated phrase
of Nero, WOULD I HAD NEVER LEARNED TO WRITE! "An exclamation," he says,
"not studied, not uttered for the purpose of courting popularity, but
bursting insuppressibly from thy lips, and indicating the vehemence of
the struggle between the kindness of thy disposition and the duties of
thy office(86)."
(86) Ibid., Lib. II, cap. I.
How many generous purposes, what bright and heart-thrilling visions of
beneficence and honour, does the young man, just starting in the race
of life, conceive! There is no one in that period of existence, who has
received a reasonable education, and has not in his very nonage been
trod down in the mire of poverty and oppression, that does not say
to himself, "Now is the time; and I will do something worthy to be
remembered by myself and by others." Youth is the season of generosity.
He calls over the catalogue of his endowments, his attainments, and
his powers, and exclaims, "To that which I am, my contemporaries are
welcome; it shall all be expended for their service and advantage."
With what disdain he looks at the temptations of selfishness, effeminate
indulgence, and sordid gain! He feels within himself that he was born
for better things. His elders, and those who have already been tamed
down and emasculated by the corrupt commerce of the world, tell him,
"All this is the rhapsody of youth, fostered by inexperience; you will
soon learn to know better; in no long time you will see these things
in the same light in which we see them." But he despises the sinister
prognostic that is held out to him, and feels proudly conscious that the
sentiments that now live in his bosom, will continue to animate him to
his latest breath.
Youth is necessarily ingenuous in its thoughts, and sanguine in its
anticipations of the future. But the predictions of the seniors I have
quoted, are unfortunately in too many cases fulfilled. The outline of
the scheme of civil society is in a high degree hostile to the growth
and maturity of human virtue. Its unavoidable operation, except in those
rare cases where positive institutions have arrested its tendency, has
been to divide a great portion of its members, especially in large and
powerful states, into those who are plentifully supplied with the means
of luxury and indulgence, and those who are condemned to suffer the
rigours of indigence.
The young man who is born to the prospect of hereditary wealth, will
not unfrequently feel as generous emotions, and as much of the spirit of
self-denial, as the bosom of man is capable of conceiving. He will say,
What am I, that I should have a monopoly of those things, which, if
"well dispensed, in unsuperfluous, even proportion," would supply the
wants of all? He is ready, agreeably to the advice of Christ to the
young man in the Gospel, to "sell all that he has, and give to the
poor," if he could be shewn how so generous a resolution on his part
could be encountered with an extensive conspiracy of the well-disposed,
and rendered available to the real melioration of the state of man in
society. Who is there so ignorant, or that has lived in so barren and
unconceiving a tract of the soil of earth, that has not his tale to
tell of the sublime emotions and the generous purposes he has witnessed,
which so often mark this beautiful era of our sublunary existence?
But this is in the dawn of life, and the first innocence of the human
heart. When once the young man of "great possessions" has entered the
gardens of Alcina, when he has drunk of the cup of her enchantments, and
seen all the delusive honour and consideration that, in the corruptness
of modern times, are the lot of him who is the owner of considerable
wealth, the dreams of sublime virtue are too apt to fade away. He was
willing before, to be nourished with the simplest diet, and clad with
the plainest attire. He knew that he was but a man like the rest of
his species, and was in equity entitled to no more than they. But he
presently learns a very different lesson. He believes that he cannot
live without splendour and luxury; he regards a noble mansion, elegant
vesture, horses, equipage, and an ample establishment, as things without
which he must be hopelessly miserable. That income, which he once
thought, if divided, would have secured the happiness and independence
of many, he now finds scarcely sufficient to supply his increased and
artificial cravings.
But, if the rich are seduced and led away from the inspirations of
virtue, it may easily be conceived how much more injurious, and beyond
the power of control, are the effects on the poor. The mysterious source
from which the talents of men are derived, cannot be supposed in their
distribution to be regulated by the artificial laws of society, and
to have one measure for those which are bestowed upon the opulent, and
another for the destitute. It will therefore not seldom happen that
powers susceptible of the noblest uses may be cast, like "seed sown upon
stony places," where they have scarcely any chance to be unfolded and
matured. In a few instances they may attract the attention of
persons both able and willing to contribute to their being brought to
perfection. In a few instances the principle may be so vigorous, and
the tendency to excel so decisive, as to bid defiance to and to conquer
every obstacle. But in a vast majority the promise will be made vain,
and the hopes that might have been entertained will prove frustrate.
What can be expected from the buds of the most auspicious infancy, if
encountered in their earliest stage with the rigorous blasts of a polar
climate?
And not only will the germs of excellence be likely to be extinguished
in the members of the lower class of the community, but the temptations
to irregular acts and incroachments upon the laws for the security of
property will often be so great, as to be in a manner irresistible. The
man who perceives that, with all his industry, he cannot provide for
the bare subsistence of himself and those dependent upon him, while
his neighbour revels in boundless profusion, cannot but sometimes feel
himself goaded to an attempt to correct this crying evil. What must
be expected to become of that general good-will which is the natural
inheritance of a well-constituted mind, when urged by so bitter
oppression and such unendurable sufferings? The whole temper of the
human heart must be spoiled, and the wine of life acquire a quality
acrimonious and malignant.
But it is not only in the extreme classes of society that the glaring
inequality with which property is shared produces its injurious effects.
All those who are born in the intermediate ranks are urged with a
distempered ambition, unfavourable to independence of temper, and
to true philanthropy. Each man aspires to the improvement of his
circumstances, and the mounting, by one step and another, higher in
the scale of the community. The contemplations of the mind are turned
towards selfishness. In opulent communities we are presented with the
genuine theatre for courts and kings. And, wherever there are courts,
duplicity, lying, hypocrisy and cringing dwell as in their proper field.
Next come trades and professions, with all the ignoble contemplations,
the resolved smoothness, servility and falshood, by which they are
enabled to gain a prosperous and triumphant career.
It is by such means, that man, whom "God made upright," is led away
into a thousand devious paths, and, long before the closing scene of his
life, is rendered something the very reverse of what in the dawning of
existence he promised to be. He is like Hazael in the Jewish history,
who, when the prophet set before him the crying enormities he should
hereafter perpetrate, exclaimed, "Is thy servant a dog," that he should
degrade himself so vilely? He feels the purity of his purposes; but is
goaded by one excitement and exasperation after another, till he becomes
debased, worthless and criminal. This is strikingly illustrated in
the story of Dr. Johnson and the celebrated Windham, who, when he was
setting out as secretary to the lord lieutenant of Ireland, expressed to
his aged monitor, some doubts whether he could ever reconcile himself
to certain indirect proceedings which he was afraid would be expected
of him: to which the veteran replied, "Oh, sir, be under no alarm; in a
short time, depend upon it, you will make a very pretty rascal(87)."
(87) The phrase here used by Johnson is marked with the licentiousness
we sometimes indulge in familiar conversation. Translate it into a
general maxim; and it contains much melancholy truth. It is true also,
that there are few individuals, who, in the urgent realities of
life, have not occasionally descended from the heights of theoretical
excellence. It is but just however to observe in the case of Windham,
that, though he was a man of many errors, he was not the less
characterised by high honour and eminent virtue.
Such are the "inventions of man," or rather such is the operation of
those institutions which ordinarily prevail in society. Still, however,
much honour ought to be rendered to our common nature, since all of us
are not led away by the potent spells of the enchantress. If the vulgar
crew of the vessel of Ulysses were by Circe changed into brutes, so was
not their commander. The human species is divided into two classes, the
successfully tempted, and the tempted in vain. And, though the latter
must be admitted to be a small minority, yet they ought to be regarded
as the "salt of the earth," which preserves the entire mass from
putridity and dishonour. They are like the remnant, which, if they had
been to be found in the cities of the Asphaltic lake, the God of Abraham
pronounced as worthy to redeem the whole community. They are like the
two witnesses amidst the general apostasy, spoken of in the book of
Revelations, who were the harbingers and forerunners of the millenium,
the reign of universal virtue and peace. Their excellence only appears
with the greater lustre amidst the general defection.
Nothing can be more unjust than the spirit of general levelling and
satire, which so customarily prevails. History records, if you will, the
vices and follies of mankind. But does it record nothing else? Are
the virtues of the best men, the noblest philosophers, and the most
disinterested patriots of antiquity, nothing? It is impossible for two
things to be more unlike than the general profligacy of the reigns of
Charles the Second and Louis the Fifteenth on the one hand, and the
austere virtues and the extinction of all private considerations in the
general happiness and honour, which constitute the spirit of the best
pages of ancient history, and which exalt and transfix the spirit of
every ingenuous and high-souled reader, on the other.
Let us then pay to human virtue the honour that is so justly its due!
Imagination is indeed a marvellous power; but imagination never equalled
history, the achievements which man has actually performed. It is in
vain that the man of contemplation sits down in his closet; it is in
vain that the poet yields the reins to enthusiasm and fancy: there is
something in the realities of life, that excites the mind infinitely
more, than is in the power of the most exalted reverie. The true hero
cannot, like the poet, or the delineator of fictitious adventures, put
off what he has to do till to-morrow. The occasion calls, and he must
obey. He sees the obstacles, and the adversary he has to encounter,
before him. He sees the individuals, for whose dear sake he resolves to
expose himself to every hazard and every evil. The very circumstance,
that he is called on to act in the face of the public, animates him.
It is thus that resolution is produced, that martyrdom is voluntarily
encountered, and that the deeds of genuine, pure and undeniable heroism
are performed.
Let then no man, in the supercilious spirit of a fancied disdain, allow
himself to detract from our common nature. We are ourselves the models
of all the excellence that the human mind can conceive. There have been
men, whose virtues may well redeem all the contempt with which satire
and detraction have sought to overwhelm our species. There have been
memorable periods in the history of man, when the best, the most
generous and exalted sentiments have swallowed up and obliterated all
that was of an opposite character. And it is but just, that those by
whom these things are fairly considered, should anticipate the progress
of our nature, and believe that human understanding and human virtue
will hereafter accomplish such things as the heart of man has never yet
been daring enough to conceive.