Section II.
Mental Constitution of Man.

Chapter I.
Animal Faculties and Desires.

Difficulty of the Subject. Having directed, for a little, our attention to the nature and characteristics of organization, we now come to inquire into the various peculiarities that distinguish animated beings. We find in the plant and in the animal alike, the assimilating power, by which nutriment is converted into the different members or organs necessary for the functions that nature requires; we find in both of them the reproductive power, by which the parent gives birth to its young; and we find, moreover, this reproductive power so regulated that every creature produces "seed after his kind," and the distinction of species is preserved. In addition to these properties, which are the characteristics of organization, we discover in animals a new power, an agent of a more subtile kind, to which there is nothing corresponding in the vegetable world. On the assimilating and reproductive powers which distinguish plants and animals from the mineral substances around them, there are superinduced the faculties, appetites, and desires which characterize the living and sentient creature.

When we inquire into this part of our constitution, manifold difficulties beset our path. It is comparatively easy to point out the different mechanical and chemical properties which we find in the material frame of man, and to draw the line of distinction between them and the characteristics of organization; but to give an accurate description of the peculiarities by which the animal faculties and feelings are to be distinguished from the effects of organization on the one hand, and from the powers and emotions of the rational soul on the other, is one of the most arduous tasks that can be attempted.

This statement may, perhaps, excite the surprise of the superficial observer, who will point to the power of voluntary motion and sensation, as the simple and obvious characteristics of animal life. We find, however, some animals rooted, like plants, to the spot where their vitality first began to manifest its powers, while, on the other hand, we know, at least of one plant, the hedyasirum gyrans, that is kept in continual motion by some internal cause. If, again, we assume sensation to be the distinguishing mark of animal life, it may be asked, Where is the difference between the unknown cause, that makes the leaves of the sensi­tive plant shrink when they are touched, and the feeling which makes the arms of the polypus contract when they are handled?

The first difficulty that lies in the way of our inquiry arises from the circumstance of the animal faculties and desires being always found in combination with the properties of organization. If we could separate them, and put first the one and then the other to the question, our task would be much lighter. This however, we cannot do. There are, therefore, many phenomena in regard to which we cannot confidently decide whether they should be referred to the one source or to the other, and many anomalies are met with which perplex the most skilful observer.

The chief obstacle, however, to the successful prosecution of our inquiry into the phenomena of thought and feeling, is the want of any proper means by which we may put our hypotheses and conjectures to the test of experiment. In former times mechanical philosophy was disfigured by a multiplicity of conflicting theories, precisely similar to that which still prevails in regard to the constitution of the mind; but, since the time of Bacon, any theory suggested in regard to the properties of matter, whether mechanical or chemical, has been put to the proof, and adopted or rejected according to its agreement or disagreement with observation and experiment. Men have thus been taught to substitute patient research and investigation for imaginative speculations, and narrowly to scan their premises before venturing to draw their conclusions. To this inductive method of prosecuting our inquiries, physical science owes its present pre-eminence, and to the neglect of it, in some cases, and to the exceeding difficulty of applying it, in others, we are to attribute the unsatisfactory position of those branches of philosophy that refer to the faculties and desires of man and the other animals.

As might naturally be expected, the higher we ascend in the scale of being, and the farther the subject of inquiry is removed from the application of a material test, the greater is the difficulty we have to encounter, and the more unsatisfactory is the state of our knowledge. The mental faculties connected with the outward senses have been investigated with some measure of success; the same thing may be said in regard to the appetites and desires that have for their object the supply of our bodily wants; but when we come to treat of the higher facul­ties and affections, and, more especially, when we inquire into the powers and aspirations of the rational and immortal soul,—when we seek to know the characteristic that more especially distinguishes man from the creatures around him, we find ourselves involved in a maze of perplexities. Mysteries that we cannot solve are continually occurring, when we attempt to investigate for ourselves; and conflicting theories confuse us, when we refer to the speculations of others.

"The philosophy of external nature is the first field on which have been successfully practised the experimental lessons of Bacon, and they who are conversant with these matters know how great and how general a uniformity of doctrine now prevails in the sciences of astronomy, and mechanics, and chemistry, and almost all the other departments in the history and philosophy of matter. But this uniformity stands strikingly contrasted with the diversity of our moral systems, with the restless fluctuations both of language and of sentiment which are taking place in the philosophy of mind, with the palpable fact that every new course of instruction upon the subject has some new articles, or some new explanations, to peculiarize it, And all this is to be attributed, not to the progress of science, not to a growing, but to an alternating movement; not to its perpetual additions, but to its perpetual vibrations."*

While this interesting and most important branch of science remains in such a perplexing and unsatisfactory condition, it were presumptuous to speak of any system as correct or unexceptionable, and that which is adopted in the following pages has been selected rather for its simplicity than for any other merit which it can claim.

Division of the Subject.—All writers on mental phenomena, and, we may add, all men who have ever thought on the subject at all, agree in dividing the properties of the mind into two classes,—the Faculties and the Desires; the first including the various powers by which we are enabled to perceive, remember, and determine; the second including the different appetites and emotions that excite us to activity, in order to procure enjoyment or to avoid pain.

These faculties and desires may be farther divided into two classes:—the Primary Faculties, which take direct cognizance of the information conveyed to us by the senses; and which have associated with them the Primary Desires, or appetites more immediately connected with bodily sensations; and the Higher Faculties, which compare, arrange, and reason upon the information received by the other powers, and have allied to them the Higher Desires, or, as they are usually denominated, the Sentiments and Emotions.

 

Primary, or Lower Faculties in Man and Other Animals.

Enumeration of Primary Faculties.—The primary faculties, which take cognizance of the information conveyed to the mind by the organs of sense, are sight, hearing, taste, smell, and touch; to which recent investigation leads us to add the faculty that enables us to judge of motion and resistance. To facilitate our subsequent inquiry we annex a table, which exhibits the different faculties, and the sensations with which they are severally connected.

Sight.—Perception of light and shade.

Perception of various colours.

Hearing.—Perception of loudness and variety of sound.

Perception of musical tone.

Taste.—Perception of flavour by tongue and palate.

Smell.—Perception of odours diffused through the air.

Touch.—Perception of Heat and Pain, and other external bodily sensations.

Perception of Hunger, and other internal sensations.

Motion.—Perception of resistance to muscular effort.

Perception of extent to which muscular effort is carried.

Perception of change in the direction of motion.

 

Sight.—Perception of Light and Shade.—If one whose attention had not been previously turned to the subject, were called upon to describe the functions of the eye, or to detail the information it communicates, he would probably speak of it as the organ by which we acquire by far the greater part of our knowledge of external nature, and ascribe to it the acquaintance we have with the form, and size, and relative position of the objects around us, as well as the perception of their shade and colour. An accurate investigation of mental phenomena, however, makes it evident that the primary properties of which the sense of sight takes cognizance, are Light and Shade, that is, the quantity or intensity of light that falls on the eye; and Colour, that is, the kind or nature of light that it receives. This is more especially exhibited in the case of those persons who have been born blind, and have had the blessing of sight bestowed upon them by means of a surgical operation on the eye. These properties are altogether distinct. With regard to the first-mentioned of them, we shall only observe, that those parts of the visual organ which act as the lenses of a telescope, produce on the network of nerve that lines the back part of the eye, a minute but very perfect representation of the objects before them; and the mind, acting through the optic nerve, is capable of ascertaining the precise quantity of light that is thrown on every part of the picture, as well as of determining the general intensity, or average brightness of the scene. It perceives and judges of the lights and shadows that are scattered through the picture, as well as of the comparative brightness or gloom, of the whole; and though familiarity with these operations may lead us at first to think lightly of the power which this requires, a very little reflection will suffice to fill the mind with wonder at the rapidity and accuracy with which the observation is made, and the consequent decision is formed.

Colour.—The power by which we are enabled to determine the various colours presented to the eye, is altogether distinct from that by which shade is ascertained. This is made manifest by the fact, that there are people whose sight is otherwise good, who cannot distinguish between two colours which to other eyes are altogether dissimilar; while instances from time to time occur of persons who have no idea of colour at all, and to whom red, and blue, and yellow are all alike. Whether this deficiency arises from some malformation of the outward eye, from some peculiarity in the constitution of the nerve, or from some defect in the mind itself, we cannot tell. It is not at all improbable that there are separate nerves for determining shade and determining colour, lying together in the same sheath, like those of touch and motion, to which we shall afterwards refer; but such difficulties lie in the way of ascertaining whether this be the fact or not, that it is not likely we shall soon come to a knowledge of the truth.

Hearing.—Perception of Loudness and variety of Sound.—The sense of hearing is generally placed after that of sight. Of this the ear is the external organ, and in its various arrangements, more especially when compared with some of those devices which man has contrived for collecting and conveying sound, it exhibits abundant evidence of creating skill. Comparatively little is known of the nature of those pulsations of the air of which it is the province of the ear to take cognizance. We must therefore content ourselves with enumerating a few of the principal facts in regard to loudness and variety of sound that observation has as yet determined.

The intensity of sound depends principally on the force or violence with which the sounding body is made to vibrate. We do not require any other teacher than our own experience to make us aware that there must have been a wide difference between the sound produced,

"When Fear his hand, his skill to try,
Among the chords bewildered laid,
And back recoiled, he knew not why,
E'en at the sound himself had made;"

and that which rang forth when

. . . "Revenge impatient rose,
 And, with a withering look,
The war-denouncing trumpet took,
And blew a blast so loud and dread,
Were ne'er prophetic sounds so full of woe."

The intensity of sound depends also on the distance between the hearer and the body from which the vibrations proceed. A whisper at our ear, as all are aware, is louder than the report of the distant thunder. It depends, too, in some degree, on the density of the air, or conducting medium. If the air be very rare, sound becomes weak, so that, at the top of high mountains the report of a pistol is scarcely louder than the clapping of the hands together in the valley below. It is also affected by the state of the air; when the atmosphere is of uniform temperature, and undisturbed by local and opposing currents, sound is more distinct, and penetrates farther. These, and some other general facts, have been ascertained in regard to the intensity of sound; but in reference to the causes which produce those varieties in the vibrations of the air, which enable the ear to distinguish one voice from another, our knowledge is exceedingly limited. These diversities, so manifold in their number, and so subtile in their nature, that we are altogether unable to describe the circumstances to which they owe their origin, the ear perceives with amazing readiness and precision. If we direct our attention to the enunciation of a single syllable of our ordinary discourse, in the first place, we find the vocal or vowel sound on which the audibility of the whole depends; then we have the modifications which the sound undergoes in the mouth, when the consonants are superadded and united to it. We have, besides, those more minute distinctions which form the peculiarities of different dialects, and those which characterize the voices of individuals; and besides all these, the peculiarities of utterance by which the various mental emotions are expressed; and all this in addition to the loudness and the musical tone with which the sound is uttered. How wonderful, then, is that power by which we are able to follow a lengthened discourse, to attend to all the varieties of sound that we hear, while at the same time we translate, if we may so express it, the meaning conventionally given them, and follow the thoughts and mark the feelings that they embody!

Perception of Musical Tone.—Besides the properties of sound already referred to there is another of an altogether different kind, to which we give the name of musical note, or tone, and there is a distinct power in the human constitution by which it is recognised. This power, familiarly known as an "ear for music," is remarkably great in some men, deficient in others, and apparently altogether wanting in a few. Musical tone bears nearly the same relation to the other properties of sound, that colour does to those of light, and we might perhaps be justified in calling the power by which it is appreciated another sense, and in supposing that it has appropriate nerves devoted to its observation. There is here a wide field for inquiry, a large extent of terra incognita, inviting the research of the philosopher; and we have every reason to conclude, that the farther the inquiry is carried on, the greater reason will we have for magnifying the work of the Great God, who has formed the ear of man, and bestowed upon it all its diversified powers.

The Sense of Taste.—Perception of Flavour by the Tongue and Palate.—This sense, as is familiarly known, takes cognizance of certain peculiarities in the substances put into our mouths. Generally speaking, the qualities discernible by this sense may be termed chemical. We find, however, that many most important chemical properties are not perceived by the palate, while it readily discovers other properties which are so subtile that no chemical analysis has as yet been able to detect them.

In the lower animals, this sense bears marks of perfection, which it does not exhibit in man;—in them it seems intuitively to point out what is wholesome and what is injurious, while it excites an appetite for the one and a distaste for the other. We turn out our cattle, for instance, to graze in the field, though the hemlock grows rank in the furrow, and the nightshade entwines through the hedge, fully assured that the senses of taste and smell will preserve them from the poison, and direct them to the appropriate food. In man the case is different,—to him the taste of some poisons is pleasant, and their odour alluring. He has been left to learn, by a slow process of reasoning and observation, what instinct communicates at once to the inferior creation. Even as regards the human race, however, the uses of taste are many, and it is highly conducive both to their health and to their enjoyment.

Smell.—Perception of Odour. This sense is nearly allied to the one last mentioned. It distinguishes the various scents that are exhaled by odoriferous bodies, and marks the peculiarities of those exceedingly minute particles which float otherwise undistinguishable in the air. A portion of matter so small that the eye cannot see it, nor any test of human invention detect it, produces an instantaneous effect upon the nostril, and communicates pleasure or disgust. In man, this sense is evidently intended to deter him from those localities which are pervaded by pestilence and disease, and to lure him forth to the open field, where he may inhale health and vigour in the pure untainted air. In many of the lower animals, it has much greater power, and serves more varied ends than it does in man. In animals that hunt by the scent, such as the dog, its powers are peculiarly worthy of remark. A bloodhound, set on the track of any individual, can trace him unerringly even over the trodden pathway, and through the market crowd, where multitudes have been crossing and recrossing in all directions. The portion of perspiration that can pass through the shoe, and be left on the ground at each succeeding footstep, must be inconceivably small; yet so delicate is the animal's sense of smell, that the odour emitted by that infinitesimal portion of matter not only serves to inform him where a man has trodden, but enables him to distinguish the track of the man of whom he is in pursuit from that of every other. If the fact had not been familiar and well accredited, it is one which we would have at once rejected as utterly beyond belief.

Touch.—Perception of Heat, Pain, and other External Sen­sations.—This sense has, in comparatively recent times, been found to be distinct from that which judges of motion, and the nerves through which it acts are also found to be different from those of motion, though they proceed together from the brain and spinal marrow, and lie contiguous throughout their whole course. Sometimes the nerves of motion are diseased or injured, while those of sensation are unimpaired; in this case paralysis ensues, so that the limb is powerless and incapable of action, but retains its susceptibility of the impressions of ease and pain. Sometimes the reverse takes place, and the nerves of sensation are injured, while those of motion remain unimpaired; an instance has been mentioned in which the patient retained the use of his legs, so as to be able to walk, while the power of sensation was so completely destroyed, that an accident with boiling water, which took off the greater part of the skin below the knee, never caused him the slightest pain. The sense of touch, in this more limited acceptation of the term, communicates to us a knowledge of those feelings which we class under the general terms of pain and pleasure, uneasiness and ease. They also communicate the sensations of warmth and cold.

It may not be unsuitable here to remark, that, while the rays of heat come from the sun and other luminous bodies, in the same manner as the rays of light, and, like them, are reflected by a mirror, refracted by a prism, and concentrated by a lens, and, while we therefore conclude that, like them, they are transmitted through the eye and thrown on the retina, the optic nerve takes no cognizance of them. On the other hand, the nerves of sensation, which seem to be of a far less delicate texture than those of sight, and which are not at all affected by the presence or absence of light, convey to us, with the utmost readiness, every variety of information regarding the presence or absence, the receiving or emitting of heat. A little reflection suffices to shew the beneficent design of this arrangement. The rays of light possess a greater penetrating power than those of heat; a plate of glass, for instance, held before a fire, freely transmits the light, while it absorbs by far the larger portion of the radiated heat;—they are also more freely reflected than those of heat; the heat emitted by the sun falls on the moon as fully as the light, but it is only the rays of light that are reflected;—they possess a greater variety in their nature, as is manifested by the diversified colours they exhibit. For these reasons, they are better fitted than those of heat to bringing intelligence from afar, and therefore are subject to the scrutiny of the eye, the organ which is designed to communicate a knowledge of distant objects. The properties of heat, on the other hand, are indicated by another sense, which is limited in its perceptions to the effects produced on the body; because it is of little importance for us to be informed in regard to the temperature that may prevail in different parts of the world around us, while it is absolutely necessary for the preservation of life and health, that we should receive immediate information of any excess or deficiency that may be found in the warmth of our own frame. We observe farther, that the nerves of sensation, which perceive the feeling of warmth and cold, are not confined to any one part of the body, but are distributed over every limb, that we may be enabled to preserve every member in that appropriate degree of temperature which the due performance of its functions demands. Such a diffusion of the sense of sight is not required, and would have tended only to confuse us. These remarks supply an answer to the mournful inquiry of the poet.

"Oh. why was sight
To such a tender ball as the eye confined,
So obvious and so easy to be quenched,
And not as feeling through all parts diffused,
That it might look at will through every pore?"

Perception of Hunger and other internal Sensations.—These feelings bear a very close resemblance to those which are communicated to us by the nerves of touch or external sensation. They are, no doubt, conveyed to the mind by a different set of nerves, and are designed to awaken attention to a different class of objects; but the present seems to be the most appropriate place for making mention of them. The appetites or emotions with which they are connected will be afterwards examined.

Sense and Nerves of Motion.—The nerves by which the mind receives information regarding heat and cold, ease and pain, to which we have just referred, are so closely connected with those which excite motion in the various limbs, that, till a comparatively recent period, as was before observed, they were looked upon as constituting a single series, and some confusion of idea still continues respecting them. Some of the principal facts by which they are shewn to be distinct have already been stated, and the functions of those that may with special propriety be called the nerves of touch, or sensation, have been pointed out. The nature and office of the nerves of motion will require a somewhat more careful examination.

Perception of Resistance to Muscular Effort.—If we desire to move any body, and for this purpose apply our hand to it, we are, in the first place, conscious of the effort which we make, and of the resistance that is offered to it. We can tell at once whether the substance we press against seems to be fixed or moveable, and, if moveable, whether the exertion required to produce motion be great or small. This resistance we instinctively attribute to a property residing in the body, which we call its weight, and which is generally considered as indicating the mass or quantity of matter which it contains. This, however, is not all; we are, in the second place, enabled to judge of the nature of the resistance that is offered. A uniform unbending resistance produces its appropriate sensation, and we naturally, and without any appreciable process of reasoning, ascribe this sensation to that property which we call hardness or solidity. When the substance pressed against yields somewhat to the first impulse, but presents a growing repulsion the more the pressure is increased, the nervous sensation is modified, and this modification of the feeling we attribute to that property to which we give the name of elasticity. When the resistance that is offered is slight, corresponding sensations are produced on the nerve, and the body is known to be soft, or liquid, as the case may be. Any one who has paid even the slightest attention to the sensations he experiences, when the hand is pressed against any object that may be before it, will readily assent to the accuracy of the statements here made.

It is not thought necessary to advert to the arguments by which we illustrate the nature of the connexion which subsists between the property residing in the body, and the sensation produced on the nerve. This has been done so ably by Dr. Reid, and the metaphysicians that have followed him, that we need only allude to their writings, and assume it as an unquestionable truth, that there are in material bodies certain properties which produce corresponding and appropriate effects on our nerves, and that from these effects, or sensations, we are led, by the very constitution of our minds, to infer the existence of these bodies, and of the properties which they possess.

Perception of Extent to which Muscular Effort is carried.—When we move any of the muscles that are under the control of the will, whether external resistance be opposed to them or not, we are conscious of that motion, and a peculiar sensation is produced, by which we judge of the extent to which this motion is carried. We can tell at once, without the testimony of any other of our senses, whether we merely move the arm a little way from our side, or raise it up over our head; and the same thing may be said of every other muscle and limb. Judging thus of the extent of motion communicated to any part of our frame, we are supplied with the means of determining the extent or size, of those bodies with which we may come into contact. When, for example, we wish to find a particular book in the dark, and a number of volumes are lying beside it, if we know its size as compared to theirs, we draw the hand first over one, and then over another, and judging of their size by the extent of motion given to our fingers, are enabled to select the object of our search.

The sensation by which we judge of the extent of motion given to any muscle, and consequently of the size of the object examined, is so very nearly allied to that which is produced by continuous exertion, that extent and continuance of motion are apt to be confounded. We have a proof of this fact when, with our eyes shut, we first draw our hand rapidly along the edge of a book, and afterwards do the same thing slowly. In this experiment we find that the slow motion so naturally suggests the idea of greater size, that we can with difficulty persuade ourselves that the object we touch is in both cases the same.

This sensation, in ordinary circumstances, awakens no attention to itself, leaving the mind to direct its observation entirely to the properties in the surrounding bodies by which it is produced; but when strongly excited it becomes painful, and compels our notice. We then term it fatigue, and, as all are aware, it is produced alike by severe exertion continued for a limited time, and by moderate effort too long continued.

It must also be remarked, that, when employed in determining extension, the nerves of motion are evidently associated with others. In drawing the hand along the edge of a book or table, there is a peculiar sensation produced in the nerves of touch, and the continuance of this feeling lets us know how long the contact continues; while the sensations of the motive nerve enable us to determine the extent to which the motion is carried. The nerves of motion connected with the eye are, in like manner, associated with those of sight in determining the size and distance of objects by the eye. If we stand before a rock, or building, and wish to form an idea of its apparent height, we "run our eye over it,"—we look first at the bottom and then carry the eye to the top, repeating the process more than once, if we wish to be accurate in our conclusions, and from the motion given to the eye, we calculate its extent. Any one will readily allow this to be the case who attentively observes the process unconsciously gone through in making such measurements. An exactly similar method is pursued when we judge of distances, we look along the ground from the place where we stand to the object we contemplate, and deduce its distance from the motion given to the eye. It is no doubt true, that in judging of size and distance by the eye, we do not trust entirely to the information conveyed by the nerves of motion, we compare objects of which the size is unknown with those with which we are familiar, in the same way that the painter, when he wishes to convey an accurate idea of some huge cliff or lofty building, which he has portrayed on his canvas, sketches the figure of a man or some well-known animal at its foot; but the original idea of extension seems to be in all cases deduced from the sensations conveyed to the mind by the nerves of which we are now treating.

The nerves of motion, thus taking cognizance both of resistance and extent of motion, communicate to us our first information in regard to roughness, and smoothness, adhesiveness, unctuousness, &c., which are merely terms indicating the nature of the resistance that is offered to continuous and extended motion.

Perception of Change in the direction of Motion.—Besides the knowledge of size and distance which seems to be originally conveyed to us by the nerves of motion, the idea of form may, with great probability, be traced to a similar source.

We are conscious not only of the force requisite to produce motion, which suggests the original idea of resistance, weight, or solidity in the bodies which we move, and of the extent to which that motion is carried, by which we judge of their size, but we are also aware of any change in the direction of the motion. Such a change implies the relaxation of the muscles that were formerly in exercise, and the exertion of others that were formerly at rest. These muscles being all voluntary, or under the control of the will, we are immediately conscious of any alteration that is made on their condition. This consciousness of change we are inclined to regard as the source to which we must refer our original idea of figure or form. It seems to be by it that we judge of the shape of the things over which we pass our hand, or around which we carry our fingers.

It is not easy, however, to adduce such evidences of the truth of this supposition as are sufficient to place it beyond dispute.

The views above stated, in regard to the sensations of the perceptive nerves, will be found to correspond very closely with those expressed by Dr. Brown, in his Lectures on the Philosophy of the Human Mind; to which work the writer of the present pages desires to acknowledge his obligations. The Doctor's work is so well known that a reference to it supersedes the necessity of enlarging on the arguments by which his conclusions are supported. His name, however, cannot be mentioned in connexion with this subject, without paying a tribute to the sagacity which enabled him to distinguish between the sensation produced on what we have termed the nerves of touch, and the information communicated by those of motion, or "the muscular feeling," as he calls it, even before anatomists had been able to discover any distinction between them.

There are only two points in which the preceding observa­tions differ from the Doctor's conclusions. In the first place, the idea of shape or form is considered by him as included in that of extension; but as it seems to be altogether and originally distinct, depending on a knowledge of angles and relative position, and not on any perception of extension or of time, we have attributed it to an instinctive consciousness of that change in the sensations of the nerves of motion, which is produced when the muscles formerly exerted are relaxed, and a different set are called into action.

The other point in which the statements we have given differ from those in the Doctor's Lectures, is that in which we refer our idea of extension to a simple sensation in the nerves of motion, while he states it as his opinion, that "the element which seems to form the most important constituent of our notion of e tension, is our feeling of succession, or time,—a feeling which necessarily involves the notion of divisibility or series of parts, that is so essential a constituent of our more complex notion of matter, and to which notion of continuous divisibility, if the notion of resistance be added, it is scarcely possible for us to imagine that we should not have acquired, by this means, the very notion of physical extension, that which has parts, and that which resists our attempts to grasp it. It may be thought, that the notion of time, or succession, is, in this instance, a superfluous encumbrance of the theory, and that the same advantage might be obtained, by supposing the muscular feelings themselves in­dependently of the notion of this succession, to be connected with the notion of particular lengths. But this opinion, it must be remarked, would leave the difficulty precisely as before, and sufficient evidence in confutation of it may be found in a very simple experiment which it is in the power of any one to make. The experiment, I cannot but consider, as of the more value, since it seems to me, I will not say decisive, for that is too presumptuous a word, but strongly corroborative of the theory which I have ventured to propose, for it shows that, even after all the acquisitions which our sense of touch has made, the notion of extension is still modified in a manner the most striking and irresistible, by the mere change of accustomed time. Let any one, with his eyes shut, move his hand, with moderate velocity, along a part of a table, or any other hard smooth surface, the portion over which he passes will appear of a certain length; let him move his hand more rapidly, the portion of the surface pressed will appear less; let him move his hand very slowly, and the length, according to the degree of slowness, will appear increased to a most wonderful proportion. In this case, there is precisely the same quantity of muscular contraction, and the same quantity of the organ of touch compressed, whether the motion be rapid, moderate, or slow. The only circumstance of difference is the time occupied in the succession of the feelings, and this difference is sufficient to give ample diversity to the notion of length. If any one, with his eyes shut, suffer his hand to be guided by another very slowly along any surface unknown to him, he will find it impossible for him to form any accurate guess as to its length. But it is not necessary that we should be previously unacquainted with the extent of surface along which the motion is performed, for the illusion will be nearly the same, and the experiment, of course, be still more striking, when the motion is along a surface with which we are perfectly familiar, as a book which we hold in our hand, or a desk at which we are accustomed to sit."

The conclusions legitimately following from this experiment, or rather, we should say, from these three experiments, for we have here three distinct and separate facts, do not seem to corroborate the idea of time being connected with our original idea of extension. The facts are these:—1. A peculiar sensation, which communicates to us our first and simplest notion of extension, is produced, when, by our own voluntary effort, we move the hand with a moderate velocity over a large space. 2. A sensation so exactly similar to the former, that we cannot dis­tinguish between them, is produced when we move in like manner our hand very slowly over a smaller space. While, 3, This sensation is not awakened at all when the hand is moved by another person. If this sensation were necessarily connected with any idea of succession or time, it would be the same whether the hand were moved by ourselves or by another person. It seems, therefore, very evidently, to be the simple consciousness of exertion, or feeling of fatigue, which, it is well known, is equally excited by laborious effort during a brief space of time, and by moderate exercise unduly prolonged. If we take up a single pound weight, and hold it out at arm's length for twenty minutes, we will feel as much fatigue as if we held a weight of twenty pounds for one minute only. We may, with some measure of confidence, therefore, refer our original idea of extension to the simple consciousness of exertion; though, unquestionably, the subject continues to be surrounded with difficulties.

The nerves of motion, or sense of motion, as they might be termed, in conjunction with those of touch, and in some instances in connexion with those of sight, seem thus to be the original means of communicating the idea of the primary or mechanical properties of matter. Resistance to motion suggests the idea of mobility, weight, hardness, softness, elasticity, roughness, and smoothness. Extent of motion suggests the idea of size and distance; and change of motion indicates form, and perhaps position.

 

Appetites, Or Primary Desires

The Creator has not only bestowed on His creatures the different senses, which we have just described, to serve as instruments by which they may be enabled to hold intercourse with the external world, but He has associated with them a series of affections and desires, by which we are led to take pleasure in the exercise of these primary powers. To these desires, or appetites, as some of them are termed, we now turn our attention; and though there be no room for lengthened remark, the subject is highly important, in consequence of the manifest proofs it affords of the benevolent purposes of the Great Creator.

Sight.—The importance of sight, as a means of directing our movements and our labours, and the wisdom of God, as exhibited in the employment of light as a means of conveying to us intelligence with respect to distant objects, have often been referred to; but it is also necessary that we should advert to the circumstance of a corresponding affection having been implanted within us, which seeks its gratification in the exercise of sight, and makes us feel that light and vision are not only advantageous, but that "truly the light is sweet, and a pleasant thing it is for the eyes to behold the sun." The eye might have been perfect as an instrument of observation, though no pleasurable emotion had been awakened by its receiving the light of day; nay, in that respect, it might have served its purpose, though it had never been opened without causing pain; this, however, would not have been in accordance with the beneficent plan of a gracious God, and we accordingly find that there is not only a pleasurable emotion connected with the exercise of the sense of sight, but that the scenes with which we are surrounded are peculiarly fitted for exciting this emotion. A slight increase in the intensity of the solar ray, beyond that which is now diffused over our globe, would have made the exercise of vision a source of suffering. This is made evident if we attend to the blinding effects of an equatorial noon, reflected from burning sand, or to the dazzling glare of a winter scene, when an unclouded sun shines on a field of new fallen snow. On the other hand, a diminution of the sun's enlightening power would have compelled the eye to strain its efforts in order to direct our labours aright, and would thus have produced the painful consequences of over-fatigue; for though a brief and gentle twilight may give pleasure when our daily task is done, a daytime of gloom would produce very different emotions. Even the shades of colour with which the landscape is arrayed, we find in harmony with the visual appetite, if we may so designate it, of the eye that beholds them. The occasional intermixture of brilliant hues, such as we see in the flowers that deck our summer fields, affords us pleasure, but if such hues had preponderated, if, for example, the pervading colour of the landscape had been scarlet or crimson, instead of green, the view would have produced dissatisfaction and pain.

Hearing.—Similar remarks may be made in regard to the sense of hearing. Sound might have served its purpose as a means of conveying our thoughts to each other, though every note had been harsh as the sharpening of a saw; but so fitted to each other are the nerves of the ear, and the notes that usually reach them, that sources of enjoyment surround us on every side. The voice of our fellow-men, the warbling of the birds, the resounding surge of the ocean, and the murmur of the streams, are all suited, in their turn, to afford us pleasure; while the higher charms which music affords, in its harmonious sequence of sounds, will be readily confessed by all.

Taste and Touch.—Even the lower, or, as some describe it, the grovelling appetite that seeks the gratification of the palate, has been wisely and graciously implanted within us. We must distinguish between it and the sensation of hunger. Though closely connected, they are distinct, and have their separate functions and designs. The power by which we discern the flavour of the different substances that are put into our mouths, is accompanied by an affection which leads us to take pleasure in some things, and to entertain a dislike to others. In the lower animals, as formerly remarked, this feeling leads them at once to select the substances best suited for their nourishment, but it serves a totally different purpose in man. The substances most agreeable to the human palate are not peculiarly those that are best fitted for his food; but, generally speaking, they are articles which can only be procured at the expense of ingenuity and exertion, and the relish for them forms one of the principal motives that stimulate industry and arouse energetic endeavour. The desire to partake of savoury food, and thereby gratify the sense of taste, and the desire to put on pleasant attire, and to dwell in well-furnished habitations, and thereby gratify our sense of feeling or touch, are the principal ingredients in that love of comfort for which the natives of Britain are distinguished; and though these desires, when carried to excess, may justly be considered contemptible and ridiculous, under due regulation they are eminently useful, and become the fruitful parents of active industry and ingenious invention.

Hunger and Thirst.—The natural cravings of the stomach, and other digestive organs, when the nourishment necessary for supporting the bodily frame is wanting, produce the appetites familiarly known by the names of hunger and thirst. These appetites are found in all animals, and their adaptation to the wants and circumstances of living creatures is too evident to require remark. We are not left to eat from a sense of duty, or from a simple desire to preserve our strength; hunger reminds us of our wants, speaking to us pleasantly at the first, but assuming a louder and sterner tone if its intimations be long neglected. And, on the other hand, when the stomach is satisfied, and further supplies of food would be injurious, or when the system labours under disease, and food would only increase the evil, then appetite gives place to satiety and nausea. It is thus wisely and graciously ordered that the regulation of our food is not left to the whim or caprice of the individual, but is directed by the instinct which the Creator has placed within him.

Desire for Motion and for Repose.—The sense of motion is accompanied by a love of exercise, followed, when exertion is unduly prolonged, by a desire for repose. These two affections or appetites, like the antagonist muscles that move backward and forwards our limbs, are manifestly intended to preserve the frame in that condition which is best fitted for the enjoyment of health, and for the performance of those functions on which the preservation of life depends. If the love of active motion be deficient, the limbs are enfeebled, the body becomes gross and heavy, and even the mind is unfitted for exertion;—if the contrary takes place, as happens in some nervous disorders that produce restlessness and sleeplessness, the frame becomes emaciated, the strength departs, and the mind becomes unable for any great or continuous effort. In the due apportioning to each other of the affection which leads us to delight in active exertion, and the antagonist desire that induces us to seek repose, we see the wisdom and goodness of the Great Author of our being. These perfections are yet more obviously manifested, when we remark how the comparative strength of these two feelings varies with our age. In childhood and youth, when the growth of the body requires a larger supply of food, and a more vigorous digestion—when the circulation of the blood is more rapid, and requires more frequent respiration—when the bones and muscles require to be brought into frequent and varied action, to promote their growth and confirm their substance—the desire for exercise is strong. Hence proceed the characteristic restlessness of children, the playfulness of the kitten and the lamb, and the delight taken by our young men in field sports and gymnastic amusements. On the other hand, in old age, when digestion is feeble, and the pulse beats slow, and violent exertion might prove injurious to the hardened and brittle bones, Nature prefers repose. The daring hunter, when his head is silvered with years, no longer urges his fiery steed over mountain and moor, but rides his pony along the beaten path; and the champion of the cricket field is, at last, contented with a forenoon's walk.

Sexual love must also be reckoned among the bodily appetites; although feelings and emotions of a higher kind are so closely connected with it that it is sometimes difficult to determine how much of the passion that is excited is to be attributed to the bodily appetite, and how much to a nobler source. The gracious intention of the Great Creator in implanting this desire, in order to preserve the various races of animated beings from becoming extinct, needs no remark; we may, however, observe, as in the case of the appetites before alluded to, that the strength of desire is proportioned to the vigour possessed by the frame in the different periods of life. In infancy it is unknown, and in old age it lives but in the memory of the past; its ardour only burns when the vigour of the frame is at its prime, and the strength is capable of sustaining the exhaustion and fatigue that are incident to the production and support of young.

Love of Life.—This appetite, though we have placed it last in our list, is certainly not the least powerful in its effects, nor the least important in its design. In all living creatures we see a strong instinctive desire to prolong their present existence, even when pains and troubles make that existence a burden. In man, the feeling may be increased by a consciousness of sin, a fear of meeting an offended God, and a dread of a world to come; but we find it even more uniformly and evidently manifested in the lower animals, where no such feelings can have a place. It is, moreover, not only an original natural appetite, but it is the strongest and most continuous of all that actuate animated creatures, and the father of lies spoke truth for once when he said, "Skin for skin, yea, all that a man hath will he give for his life." In implanting this strong instinctive feeling, in giving to it such pre-eminent influence, we see the counsel of Him whose great design requires the preservation of the beings that He has made.

Instinctive operations.—Besides the actions that result from the exercise of the faculties and emotions we have described, there are some which may be termed instinctive operations. They appear to hold a middle place between the voluntary effects produced by the exercise of the animal faculties, and the results that flow from simple organization. Sucking, swallowing, breathing, sleeping, the movement of the different limbs and muscles, the utterance of cries expressive of pain or surprise, and some other actions of a similar kind, may be referred to, as the most important of this class of animal function. They are carried on in every species of living creature, and have a much more important office assigned them in the lower types of existence than they have in man.

 

Higher Faculties in Man and in Other Animals.

Besides those primary faculties which take direct cognizance of the information conveyed to us by the external senses, there are others which compare, arrange, and reason upon the information thus received. These higher faculties are usually distinguished by the name of Intellectual Powers, and have been the subject of many a learned argument and subtle disquisition. Our knowledge, however, in regard to them, is as yet vague and unsatisfactory, and we shall not attempt to determine whether the powers we now enumerate should be regarded as the simple and original faculties of the mind, whether they should be considered the result produced by the combined operations of others yet more simple, or whether they merely indicate certain states and conditions into which the mind is brought. As the simplest idea we can form of their nature, we shall consider them as so many internal senses, each one having assigned to it a particular object which it perceives, and in regard to which it forms its determinations, in the same manner as the eye perceives the rays of light, and determines in regard to their intensity and hue.

 

Enumeration of Higher Faculties.

All our intellectual perceptions and conclusions may, with considerable probability, be referred to one or other of the following faculties, which may be divided into two groups, the Perceptive and the Reflective.

Perceptive Faculties.

Memory, or perception of the past.

Perception of position.

Perception of duration.

Perception of succession.

Perception of number and quantity.

 

Reflective Faculties.

Perception of relation between cause and effect.

Perception of resemblance.

Perception of distinction and contrast.

Perception of contrivance, or adaptation of means to an end.

 

Perceptive Faculties.—Memory, or Perception of the Past.—This is one of the most important of all the faculties with which the mind has been endowed. The information formerly received through the external senses, the conclusions deduced by the higher faculties, as well as the sensations and emotions that have been experienced by the appetites and affections, are all preserved in the mental treasury, and kept in readiness for future use.

The memory has thus a double office to perform. In the first place, it receives and stores up the intelligence brought to it by the other faculties; and, in the next place, it brings forward that intelligence when called on by circumstances at an after time. Appropriate powers have been bestowed for the performance of these different functions, and the advantages which we derive from memory depend on their harmony and co-operation.

Retentiveness of memory, or the power by which we receive and treasure up information, depends, in the first place, on the strength and vigour of the faculty originally implanted with us; some minds shewing even in infancy a manifest superiority in this respect over those around them. It depends, also, on the vigour and activity of the observant faculties, and the extent of feeling or emotion that is awakened. The more clearly we perceive, and the more thoroughly we understand any subject brought under our notice, and the more deeply we are interested in it, the more durable will be the impression that is made on the memory. There are also diversities of memory manifested in the ease with which one person can keep in mind facts or arguments of some one particular kind, which another, in other respects equally gifted, has the greatest difficulty in remembering.

Precisely similar remarks may be made in regard to readiness of recollection, the other power to which we referred, some men being naturally distinguished for the quickness with which they recall information formerly acquired, while, in every case, the more deeply any circumstance is impressed on the mind, the more readily does the thought of it return. This faculty, by which we bring back former ideas and feelings, is in its exercise principally dependent on what has been termed the association of ideas. The thoughts or ideas stored up in the memory are connected together by various links or bonds, so that when one of them is brought out from its concealment, its companions naturally follow it. Contiguity of occurrence is one of those circumstances that unite ideas together and enable us to recall there. When the thoughts are turned to some past event, the incidents that preceded it, and those that succeeded, naturally come into view. Identity of time and place form similar ties. If two things have happened at the same time, or in the same place, the one of them being referred to leads us to think of the other. In like manner, the events and circumstances connected with any particular person are mutually suggestive. This class of associating circumstances consists of what may be termed accidental contingencies. Another class consists of relations inherent in the nature of the events and ideas committed to memory's care. Occurrences resulting from the same cause, or elucidating the same principle, or in essential particulars re­sembling each other, naturally come together to the mind. Contrariety of character, or contrast, on the other hand, is sometimes the means of suggestion.

The relative strength of these associating ties varies in different individuals. Some excel in the recollection of dates and accidental particulars, while others more easily recall arguments and demonstrations. In listening, for example, to a debate, we find a speaker who recalls facts with facility, overwhelming his hearers with a superabundance of particulars in order to establish his statements; another who has resemblances readily suggested to him garnishes his argument with similes and metaphors; while a third, more readily recollecting causes and general principles, erects, as it were, a fortress of argument strengthened by buttresses of massive analogy.

Memory, in regard both to the power by which it retains the treasures committed to its charge, and to that by which it brings them forward when need requires, is in a very great measure dependent on the exercise and training it receives. The more we employ it, the greater does its strength become. On this peculiar power or property of the memory, the benefits of early education in a great measure depend, and it has been observed and acted on from the earliest times.

Memory, in its mode of acting, in many respects resembles the external senses. As the whole landscape, for example, is open to the eye, so the wide extent of our past experience is open to the memory; but as it is only to some one part of the scene that we turn our eye, and by scrutinizing gaze seek to discover the object of our search, so we turn the inward eye to some one point or particular of the past, till by careful recollection, or examination of associating circumstances, we discover the fact or idea we wished to recall. At the same time as visible appearances, if peculiarly bright, or otherwise remarkable, compel our attention, so occurrences of more than ordinary interest will intrude themselves on the memory even when we would willingly banish them from our remembrance. A further resemblance between the power by which we recall the impressions of the past, and the external sense by which we perceive the features of the scene before us, is found in the fact that distance of time produces on the one faculty an effect closely resembling that which is produced on the other by distance in regard to space. The impressions made on the mind by the events of former times wax faint and dim, in the same manner that the images made on the eye become small and indistinct, when the objects which they represent are removed to a distance.

Another particular in regard to memory which deserves notice, is the close connexion that subsists between it and the state of the brain. In fever and similar complaints, like all the other powers of the mind, memory often becomes confused; but when fever has passed away, and the other faculties have resumed their vigour, memory is not unfrequently found to be permanently impaired, and in some cases of severe illness, all recollection of events that had occurred previous to the attack of disease, is found to have passed away.

The advantages derived from this faculty are too numerous and too evident to require illustration. Without memory we would idly gaze on passing events as on a vain show. The scenes of creation and the events of Providence would form a vast chaotic mass without interest and without meaning. No pleasure could be derived from the recollection of the past, and no lesson could be learned from the results of experience. There would not only be an end put to all improvement, but the mind would be reduced to a state of extreme and absolute ignorance; the mental eye would be shrouded in darkness, we would blindly rush on unnumbered dangers, and life itself would speedily be extinguished.

Various particulars connected with this faculty might be referred to which not only stew the advantages it confers, but the wise and beneficent adaptation of its powers to the varying circumstances and necessities of man. As was before observed, its strength in a very great degree depends on the exercise and training it receives. We can assign no abstract or necessary reason why this should be the case, but we know the fact, and we see in it the beneficent appointment of the gracious Preserver of men, who thereby makes its strength proportioned to the burden which it has to bear. We find again that occurrences of importance which arrest our attention, are far more deeply impressed on the memory than those that are of but little moment, by which happy arrangement the breath of time, like the winnowing machine that separates the chaff from the grain, sweeps away before it those trifles that are unworthy of remembrance, while weightier matters retain their place. We may further remark, that in childhood and youth memory is strong, but in old age its powers, at least in regard to passing events, become enfeebled. And why is it so? Because in our early years we have all things to learn, and in the decline of life it is the design of the Creator that we should lay aside caring for time, and devote ourselves to our preparation for eternity.

Perception of Position.—That the relative position in which objects stand to each other is one of the circumstances of which the mind is capable of judging, and to which the attention is very generally turned, will be readily allowed. Whether the idea of place be inherent and original in the mind, or in some way suggested by that of form, it would be of little use to inquire; the faculty by which we judge of relative position must be acknowledged. Like all the other faculties, its power differs in different individuals, being much stronger in some persons than it is in others. It is also capable of improvement by exercise and careful cultivation.

The uses of this faculty are manifold and evident. It communicates to us by its direct operation a knowledge of the place or scene that is before us; and, through the influence of its impressions on the memory, it enables us to recognise localities that have formerly been visited. By this means we can pursue our journeys in security, and carry on, with confidence of success, an almost innumerable variety of operations that would otherwise be attempted in vain.

Perception of Duration.—The mind possesses a power by which it judges of time or duration, which appears to be they effect of a distinct and original faculty. Some have supposed that our idea of time arises from our observing the order or succession in which events follow each other. A very brief reflection, however, will suffice to shew, that this is not the case. We are, in the first place, intuitively conscious, that the idea of duration, and that of succession or order, are essentially distinct. We know, moreover, that so far from a variety and rapid succession of events suggesting the idea of duration or length of time, the contrary is very generally the case. When the attention is closely occupied in watching the order in which events take place, we do not take notice of their duration, and this is the reason why time seems to fly so quickly when we are actively engaged. On the other hand, when incidents are few, and the mind, instead of being called on to mark their number and variety, is left at leisure to direct its attention to their duration, this latter quality assumes undue preponderance, an time seems to move along on leaden wing.

The remarkable accuracy with which the faculty we now speak of forms its conclusions, may be judged of by the fact, that, with a little practice, a person can "beat time" with his finger on the table, marking the intervals between the seconds, with a regularity almost equal to that of the pendulum of a clock. In this case, it is evident that the mind shews itself not only capable of observing periods of duration so small as the sixtieth part of a minute, but is able to compare and proportion them to each other.

Perception of Succession and Arrangement.—All will allow that we have the power of observing, and consequently of remembering, the order in which events succeed each other in point of time, or the order in which fixed and permanent objects are successively brought under our notice. This power, as before observed, seems to be perfectly distinct from that by which we judge of duration. The question, "When?" receives its answer from a faculty altogether different from that which responds to the inquiry, "How long?" And those who are most distinguished for the accuracy with which they can judge of intervals of time, as, for example, those occurring between the notes of music, are by no means remarkable for their readiness in observing the dates or succession of events.

This faculty, in combination with that which takes cognizance of position, seems to communicate a facility in making orderly arrangements, and to induce a taste for method and neatness.

Perception of Number and Quantity.—Whether number and quantity be referable to the same original faculty may admit of a doubt; but it is unquestionable that there is within the mind a power by which we can judge of them, and distinguish between many and few, much and little.

In some individuals, and, indeed, in some whole tribes of uncivilized men, this faculty is very deficient; but in none is it altogether wanting. Its uses are apparent in all the relations and transactions of civilized society.

 

The faculties we have just enumerated might, with some propriety, be called the internal senses. They hold a kind of middle place between those which take cognizance of the sensations produced on the external senses, and the reflective powers which yet remain to be mentioned. When they predominate in any person over the reflective faculties, they communicate to him the character of shrewdness and observation; when deficient, they produce that simplicity, and absence of mind, as it is called, which are sometimes found in persons in other respects distinguished for talent. The benefit we derive from them needs no description; and it is an humbling reflection that, important as their operations are, our knowledge of their nature is exceedingly limited. Many lectures, no doubt, have been delivered on the philosophy of the human mind, and many treatises published, but little real progress has been made in ascertaining either their original functions or their mode of operation. Little, in short, of any real value has been brought forward in regard to them, that has not been included in the brief sketch that has now been given.

 

Reflective Faculties. Perception of Relation between Cause and Effect.—The nature of the connexion by which a cause is joined to the effects that it produces, has been the subject of a great deal of lengthened and unprofitable discussion. Some seem to think that the idea of causation implies nothing more than usual and ordinary succession; but a very slight reflection will suffice to convince us that something more is included. By a cause, we understand such a concurrence of circumstances as must, from the very constitution of things, necessarily produce the results which we term its effects. The occurrence of ordinary sequence leads us to infer, that some necessary connexion exists; but this sequence is merely the evidence from which we draw the conclusion, that an event or circumstance, which we find to be usually followed by another, is the cause of that which succeeds it. The faculty to which we now refer may therefore be described as that which enables us to judge of the relationship that subsists between circumstances and their results. It observes those peculiar properties, relations, and adaptations, from which we infer necessary sequence, or the connexion between cause and effect.

When this faculty predominates in the mind, and there is not a just proportion of the observing powers, there is usually manifested a tendency to indulge in speculation and abstract reasoning, without a due regard to the observation and comparison of facts. When it is deficient, an extensive induction of particulars tends only to confuse, and the most abundant information leads to no accurate or satisfactory conclusion. When combined with a due development of the perceptive faculties, it is the principal foundation of that discernment on which all science as well as all practical sagacity depends.

Perception of Resemblance.—This is the faculty which enables us to compare together sensations and perceptions, and consequently, the objects by which they are produced. By means of it we judge of analogies and general resemblance. Combined with memory it enables us to classify those objects that have some characteristic, or property, in common. In communicating our ideas to each other, it enables the speaker on the one hand to employ, and the hearer, on the other hand, to understand, those similitudes, metaphors, and illustrative comparisons, with which all language abounds; and of which, when we reduce it to its ultimate elements, we find that human speech, in a great measure, consists.

Perception of Distinction and Contrast.—This faculty enables us to observe and estimate those peculiarities by which one ob­ject is distinguished from another; to appreciate, for instance, the characteristic distinctions by means of which we can arrange individuals belonging to the same general class into genera and species. This faculty is closely allied to the one which we have just mentioned; yet it is evidently different from it. Many are quick in noticing points of resemblance, and can readily associate together in their minds those objects that are possessed of similar properties or appearance, who, at the same time, find great difficulty in observing those particulars by which objects are distinguished from each other.

Perception of Contrivance, or Adaptation of means to an end.—This faculty is altogether distinct from any we have men­tioned. The power by which we judge of the relation between cause and effect, bears the closest resemblance to it; yet the two have different objects, and are cognizant of different relations. The one we now speak of does not merely trace the connexion between cause and effect, but decides in regard to the harmony and propriety of those combinations in which causes are so arranged as to produce a given result. The operation of one faculty may be compared to the demonstration of a mathematical proposition, that of the other to the solution of a problem.

The right exercise of this faculty requires the previous employment of all the others. The perceptive powers must, in the first place, ascertain the properties of the objects contemplated; the reflective faculties must, in the next place, determine their causes and effects, their resemblances and differences; and it is only when the materials on which it works have been thus collected, that contrivance is able to determine which of all the means and appliances that have been brought under review, is the best calculated to effect the end desired. It implies, in the first place, extensive and accurate information, and, in the next place, the power of employing that information, so as to accomplish the object we may have in view.

 

The reflective faculties evidently belong to a higher order than the perceptive. They take cognizance of subjects of a more abstruse and recondite kind. At the same time, they have so much in common with the others, that it is very difficult to draw a clear and accurate line of distinction between them.

The advantages resulting from their exercise require no illustration. It is by their means that we are enabled to classify and arrange the information we have received, and to apply this knowledge to practical ends. If unable to do so, all out observation would be of no avail. Knowledge, however extensive, without arrangement, is only a mass of lumber, and without practical application it is no better than a heap of worthless dross.

 

Higher Desires in Man and in Other Animals.

Classification of Higher Desires.—Besides the appetites and desires immediately connected with bodily sensations, we have a variety of feelings to which we usually give the names of senti­ments and affections. Those who have devoted themselves, with the greatest assiduity, to the study of the Human Mind, and whose works are looked up to as containing the clearest and most satisfactory account of our various faculties and feelings, differ so widely in their opinions, and have in fact made so little progress in elucidating the nature of our internal constitution, that any enumeration, or description, must be regarded as only an approximation to the truth. The following list, therefore, is to be looked on as in a great degree hypothetical. In making it, reference has been had to the difference of character observable in the conduct of different individuals, rather than to any abstract metaphysical argument. The higher desires may be arranged into three classes; The Intellectual Emotions, The Sentiments, and The Affections. These, however, pass so gradually into each other, that no very precise boundary can be pointed out between them.

Intellectual Emotions.—This class of affections may be considered as forming a connecting link between the Faculties and Sentiments. They not only excite the desire of engaging in peculiar intellectual pursuits, but, in some measure, communicate the power of doing so. The Love of Intellectual Exercise, the Love of Imitation, the Love of the New and Marvellous, the Love of the Sublime and Beautiful, and the Love of the Ludicrous, are the most important of the desires which we include in this division.

Love of Intellectual Exercise.—Instead of being spoken of as a single emotion, this should rather be termed a class or order of desires. Each faculty, whether perceptive or reflective, has associated with it a feeling which leads the mind to take pleasure in its active exercise. A man possessed of a powerful memory, for instance, takes delight in storing his mind with facts and observations, and in detailing at an after time the knowledge he has acquired; while another, in whom the faculty by which we perceive resemblances is the predominating one, finds his greatest pleasure in allegories, comparisons, and metaphorical allusions. As was remarked with regard to the powers of the body, so it may be observed in reference to the faculties of the mind, there is not only a capacity of exertion, but a love of exercise, which leads us to take pleasure in that active employment of our powers on which our health and our existence depend.

Love of Imitation.—There is within us a desire to do as others do, and to be "like our neighbours," which seems to originate in a simple and peculiar emotion, though no doubt strengthened by a natural anxiety to secure the favour, and merit the approbation of those with whom we associate. This feeling is much more evident in some persons than in others. In every case, its peculiar manifestation depends on the nature of the predominating faculties with which it is associated. A man who possesses the power of accurately observing the outward form of the objects before him, will probably be led, by his love of imitation, to draw a pictorial representation of the scenes that meet his eye. Another, whose attention is more readily turned to peculiarities of gesture and speech, will insensibly adopt the style and manner of his associates; while a third, who is incited by a love of the ludicrous, will mimic their peculiarities, and caricature their features.

The propensity to imitate the actions and manners of others is peculiarly strong in infancy and childhood; and it becomes us in this to mark the wise arrangements of a gracious Providence, by which the young, blindly following the example of their seniors, are led to pursue the plans which experience has shewn to be best, while their tender minds are incapable of either understanding the reasons, or appreciating the motives, which have led to their adoption by those whom they imitate.

Love of the New and Marvellous.—The inborn appetite which leads us to seek for continual additions to our stores of know­ledge, and which more especially excites to pursue the new and the marvellous, must apparently be referred to a distinct and original desire. This emotion is exhibited in the curiosity which stirs up people of little mind to pry into the secrets of their neighbours; in that love of "news," which induces many, like the Athenians of old, to "spend their time in nothing else but either to tell or to hear some new thing;" and in that thirst for information, which makes the student employ his midnight hour in poring over the tomes of antiquity, and the scientific inquirer occupy his time in exploring the wonders of nature. When combined with an imaginative temperament, it produces, in persons of a bold and active spirit, a love of romantic adventure; and in those of a less daring disposition, it excites a relish for marvellous tales and romantic narratives.

Love of the Sublime and Beautiful.—What is beauty? The painter draws his "line of beauty," and points to the graceful attitude of the Grecian statue,—the politician speaks of utility and pleasing associations. We shall allow metaphysicians to settle the dispute as best they may. All allow that there is such a thing as beauty, and that closely allied to it, though in some respects differing from it, there is also something else, to which we give the name of grandeur or sublimity. There is, moreover, a corresponding emotion in the mind, which finds its appropriate gratification in contemplating those objects in which these qualities are exhibited. A very large portion of our mental enjoyment arises from the pleasurable feelings that are in this manner produced. And our great and gracious Father, in storing the universe around us with such a rich and varied supply of the objects to which we have referred, and in bestowing on us emotions by which we are led to take pleasure in their contemplation, has clearly manifested the benevolence of His designs, and calls on us to rise with adoring delight from Nature up to Nature's God.

Love of the Ludicrous.—Why that strange admixture of congruity and incongruity, which excites the idea of the ludicrous, should communicate pleasure, we cannot tell; but so it is. While harmony of proportion, and propriety of arrangement, and all those manifold requisites of excellence which are required to constitute the beautiful, afford us a source of calm and tranquil enjoyment; glaring inconsistency, utter absurdity, and all that mass of incongruity that constitute the ludicrous, supply us with pleasure of a different kind; and if the satisfaction we derive from the one class of objects be evidenced by the enraptured gaze; with which we regard them, the gratification derived from the other is as clearly shewn by the smile and the laugh with which they are welcomed.

Sentiments.—Sympathy.—This is the sentiment that leads us to entertain a fellow-feeling with those around us, to "rejoice with them that do rejoice, and to weep with them that weep." Human hearts, like musical strings, have a natural tendency to vibrate in unison. When we hear a tale of oppression, the tone of indignation excites a corresponding feeling in our bosom, and arouses displeasure; the company of the cheerful dissipates our cares, and induces us to join in their mirth; the sight of sorrow awakens sorrow, and inspires us with a desire of relieving it. As we are led, by our love of imitation, to act as others act, so we are induced by our sympathy to feel as others feel.

Some persons are remarkably susceptible of this emotion, and are consequently distinguished for their natural benevolence of character and readiness to oblige. Others are but little liable to its influence, and are noted for their indifference of manner, and, if the higher motives be wanting, for their selfishness and coldness of heart. It requires no lengthened argument to show us the beneficial influence of this sentiment, as a means of fitting men for living in a social state. A sense of mutual interest, the exercise of the higher faculties and of the nobler feelings, might have led them to acquiesce in the propriety of harmony and cooperation; but without some sympathetic emotion, instantly and instinctively, as it were, to soften down their various points of peculiarity, their everyday intercourse would have been disturbed by continual jarrings. Sympathy is the lubricating oil that secures the smooth and uniform working of the various wheels and pinions of ordinary intercourse.

Reverence is the sentiment by which we are induced to shew respect to our superiors in power, in talent, or in rank. This is a feeling of a totally different nature from fear or love of safety. It leads us, without reference to our own prospects or apprehensions, to pay respect to those in whom superior excellence is found. When in excess, it degenerates into servility and superstition; but in due development, it is of evident advan­tage to society, in leading men of weaker minds to yield a ready acquiescence in the views of those who are possessed of talent and of power. Its operation is more especially beneficial, when it awakens that instinctive feeling of awe, in regard to the Creator, which prepares the mind for giving due attention to the manifestations which He makes of His character and will.

Sympathy with the injured and oppressed.—Besides the sentiment formerly referred to, under the name of sympathy, there is also a peculiar emotion, which leads us not only to pity the injured, but to resent their wrong. It induces that love of "fair play," which makes the bold and daring volunteer their assistance to the weaker party, and arouses in every feeling mind that sense of indignation which is felt when any flagrant wrong has been committed. It is sometimes very strikingly exhibited among those classes of irrational animals that are formed for living in society. Phrenologists have dignified this emotion with the name of conscientiousness; but, while we readily confess the advantages that result to society from the implanting of this feeling in the human bosom, we must distinguish between it and that higher power which is more appropriately termed conscience, or the moral sense. The one is a mere animal feeling, ranking only as one of many emotions; the other claims to be the ruling power, to which every other sentiment and affection must be constrained to bow.

Firmness, or the love of purpose, is another native propensity in the mind. If we have formed a design, more especially if we have begun to carry it into execution, we feel a reluctance to change. Even when in the wrong, we are hard to be persuaded that we have erred; and, when convinced of our mistake, we relinquish our former opinion with regret, as if we were parting with a friend. Unduly stimulated firmness becomes obstinacy, and is justly condemned; but in proper regulation, no emotion is more necessary for exciting us to strenuous and persevering exertion.

Self-Esteem, which in undue development we term pride, is a natural feeling implanted in us, like every other, for a wise and gracious end. It is not love of ourselves, as some seem to imagine; it is love of that which is our own; an inclination to think highly of whatever we call ours. When it is without proper regulation, nothing can be more offensive, and nothing more injurious to the comfort of society—for it leads to every species of tyranny and oppression; but when it is rightly controlled, its effects have a totally different tendency. It make us satisfied with that which we have; it represses envy, and. checks the desire of coveting that which is another's. It produces self-respect, and has a powerful influence in preventing us from committing mean or dishonourable actions.

Love of Approbation.—This sentiment is nearly allied to self-esteem, and, at the same time, in many respects it may be considered as its contrast. Unduly excited, it becomes contemptible and offensive. But though vanity, as we usually term it, when it is in excess, meets with no favour, yet the sentiment from which it springs, when duly directed, serves many important and beneficial purposes. It excites us to seek the good-will of our fellow-men, by performing actions that are pleasing to them, and induces us to abstain from such conduct as might hurt their feelings and incur their displeasure.

Cautiousness, or love of safety, is a propensity that may be regarded as essentially necessary for the preservation of our existence. It checks the impetuosity of desire, induces watchfulness, and, like a sentinel on guard, gives notice of approaching danger. It is found more or less in all men. In excess it renders us cowardly and timid; when it is deficient, we become foolhardy and rash.

Love of Concealment.—This sentiment seems to be closely connected with the preceding. At the same time, we find some individuals who are bold to excess, combining with their boldness a remarkable amount of secrecy and deceit. The North American savage, for instance, evinces a contempt of danger and death, almost beyond the credence of civilized man; at the same time he exhibits a reliance on stratagem and concealment, which we usually associate with the idea of a timid and cowardly spirit. We are not, however, to look on this feeling as necessarily leading to deceit and fraud. It may be associated with the most amiable and honourable sentiments; modesty, like the violet which hides its beauty and sweetness under the spreading leaf; courts concealment; and true benevolence lets not " the right hand know what the left hand doeth," and delights in doing good unseen.

Hope.—To the sentiments now enumerated, we may, perhaps, add Hope; which is the happy propensity that bids us look to the future as coming loaded to us with joys. When this emotion is in excess, it leads to rashness and imprudence; when it is deficient, it leaves us to apathy and despair.

This sentiment, though apparently allied to that longing after immortality, which is one of the most evident marks of man's high destiny, is altogether distinct from it; and may be found powerful and active even in those who have no faith in a future state of existence, and who regard death as an eternal sleep.

Whether we consider it as a simple emotion, or regard it as a modification and combination of others, the advantages it confers on us are innumerable and self-evident.

"Auspicious Hope! in thy sweet garden grow
Wreaths for each toil, a charm for every wo:
Won by their sweets, in Nature's languid hour,
The way-worn pilgrim seeks thy summer bower;
There, as the wild bee murmurs on the wing,
What peaceful dreams thy handmaid spirits bring!
What viewless forms the Æolian organ play,
And sweep the furrowed lines of anxious thought away!"

Affections and Propensities.—Conjugal Affection.—Besides the bodily appetite to which we have given the name of sexual love, there seems to be a higher and a nobler feeling by which the male part of mankind are led to entertain a tender deference towards the female, and by which the female portion of our race are led to trust to the guidance and protection of the male. This affection requires for its perfect manifestation to be confined to a single object. The ardent devotedness of the lover, and the tender affection of the husband or wife, are alike repugnant to the idea of a rival. The hallowed love which leads a man to seek in woman a helpmate meet for him, is a totally different feeling from the lust that fills the harem with its servile beauties. The one was designed to perfect the bliss of the primeval para­dise, the other is only suited for the leader of the brutal herd; the one supplies the purest source of earthly enjoyment, and forms the best foundation for the happiness and wellbeing of society, the other transforms man into a tyrant, and woman into a slave.

Love of Offspring.—By this affection we are led to take pleasure, not only in the society of our children, but in the very labour and care that are necessary for their protection and support. It is so universally acknowledged to be one of the feelings that are implanted in the human breast, that we speak of the man as unnatural who is deaf to its call. At the same time, we find it manifested in very different degrees, in different individuals, and, generally speaking, it is much stronger in the female than in the male. It is strikingly exhibited in some of the lower animals, which appear entirely to change their nature at the period when its energies are excited. In the domestic fowl facing danger in defence of her brood, we see the timid becoming bold; in the fond caresses lavished by the tigress on her cubs, we see the ferocious turning gentle.

The implanting of an affection in the parental heart, which transforms into a pleasure what would otherwise have been a burdensome task; and the bestowing of it in the highest degree on the female, to whose care more especially the young are consigned; may with propriety be referred to, as one of the most striking evidences we possess, that it is the Creator's desire, not only to preserve the life, but to promote the happiness of His creatures.

Love of Companions.—Closely allied to the affection which the parent feels for his offspring, yet evidently distinct from it, is the feeling which leads us to regard, with interest and favour, the individuals with whom we usually associate. Without respect to their character, to the favours they may have shewn us, or the claims they may have upon us, we are naturally led to entertain a certain measure of regard for our usual companions. The same feeling is extended, though in a smaller degree, to animals, and places, and inanimate things.

Love of Occupation.—Whether this affection be distinct from the one we have just referred to, or merely a modification of it, all must have remarked that we have a natural inclination to continue at those occupations which custom has made familiar, and that this inclination is altogether independent of the ease and expertness of execution which practice confers. This feeling is the principal source of that attachment to accustomed pursuit, to which we give the name of habit; and which communicates that intensity to our application, which is necessary for insuring success. If this affection were removed, and we were urged to our various labours, some of them abundantly tedious and irksome, by no other motive than stern necessity or imperious sense of duty, our toil would be a galling yoke, which human endurance could scarcely bear. But through the gracious arrangement of our Maker, "habit becomes a second nature," we come to take pleasure in our task, and the labour which was originally appointed to man as a curse, is changed into a blessing.

Love of Wealth.—This is another natural and instinctive desire. We see it more conspicuously shewn in some men than in others; but there is every reason to regard man, in all his varieties and conditions, as a hoarding animal, that takes pleasure in the acquisition of property, altogether irrespective of the comfort or influence he may expect to derive from its possession. When this propensity is properly directed, it assumes the form of frugality, and is in the highest degree conducive to the prosperity both of individuals and of communities. When allowed to go to excess, it becomes parsimony and avarice, and is universally and justly condemned.

Combativeness and Destructiveness.—We are indebted to the Phrenologists for the descriptive names of these affections, and to them also belongs the credit of pointing out their distinctive features.

Combativeness, in well-regulated minds, assumes the form of emulation, or love of competition, and gives a zest to our endeavours when a prize is to be won. In others, it manifests itself in a love of strife and angry contention, and produces an aptitude to take offence, a quarrelsome and disputatious temper. It constitutes one of the principal ingredients, if we may so express ourselves, of the curiously compounded feeling that leads the man of daring spirit to engage in arduous enterprise and romantic adventure, that makes him defy opposition, and seem as if "danger for itself he loved." It is also exhibited in the instinctive tendency, of which we are all conscious, which prompts us to defend ourselves from injury by opposing force to force.

The other affection, which we have classed along with combativeness, leads us to take pleasure in pulling down and destroying. When allowed to go to excess it forms that love of mischief for which ill-trained boys are so notorious; and that cynical humour which induces their seniors to take pleasure in satire and scandal. In its worst manifestations, it makes the tyrant and savage delight in cruelty and blood. It gives that appetite for hunting, of which Lord Kaimes speaks as a natural propensity of the human race in all its conditions. When possessed of this affection, in a moderate degree, the mind acquires the character of decision and energy; and though, at first sight, the implanting of such a feeling may seem inconsistent with the idea we are accustomed to form of an all-beneficent Deity; yet it can easily be proved to have been bestowed on us for wise and gracious, ends. The following extract from Dr. Brown's Lectures on the Philosophy of the Human Mind, will shew some of the advantages we derive from the affection we are now considering.

"Anger is that emotion of instant displeasure which arises from the feeling of injury done, or the discovery of injury intended. It is usually, I may say almost universally, followed by another emotion, which constitutes the desire of inflicting evil of some sort in return; but this, though resulting from the feeling of instant displeasure, is not to be confounded with it, as the same in any analysis, at least in any minute analysis, which we may make of our emotion. The evil felt,—the dislike,—the desire of retaliation, however rapidly they may succeed, and however closely and permanently they may continue afterwards to co-exist in one complex state of mind, are still originally distinct. The primary emotion of anger, involves the instant dis­pleasure merely with the notion of evil done, or intended, and is strictly retrospective; the resentment, or revenge, which is only a longer continued resentment, if we were to consider it without any regard to this primary displeasure which gives birth to it, would be referred by us to that other set of our emotions which I have termed prospective. . . . To estimate fully the importance of this principle of our constitution, we must consider man not merely as he exists in the midst of all the securities of artificial police, but as he has existed in the various stages which have marked his progress in civilisation. Nature has not formed man for one stage of society only, she has formed him for all its stages, from the rude and gloomy fellowships of the cave and the forest, to all the tranquility and refinement of the most splendid city. It was necessary, therefore, that he should be provided with faculties and passions suitable to the necessities of every stage; that in periods when there was no protection from without that could save him from aggressions, there might be at least some protection from within, some principle which might give him additional vigour when assailed, and which, from the certainty of this additional vigour of resistance, might render attach formidable to the assailant, and thus save at once from guilt and from the consequences of guilt, the individual who might otherwise have dared to be unjust, and the individual who would have suffered from the unjust invasion.

"What human wants required, that all-foreseeing Power, who is the Guardian of our infirmities, has supplied to human weakness. There is a principle in our mind, which is to us like a constant protector, which may slumber indeed, but which slumbers only at seasons when its vigilance would be useless, Which awakes, therefore, at the first appearance of unjust intention, and which becomes more watchful and more vigorous in proportion to the violence of the attack which it has to dread. What should we think of the providence of nature, if, when aggression was threatened against the weak and unarmed, at a distance from the aid of others, there were, instantly and uniformly, by the intervention of some wonder-working power, to rush into the hand of the defenceless a sword or other weapon of defence? And yet this would be but a feeble assistance if compared to that which we receive from those simple emotions which Heaven has caused to rush as it were into our mind for repelling every attack. What would a sword be in the trembling hand of him whose pusillanimous spirit shrinks at the very appearance, not of danger merely, but even of the arms by the use of which danger might be averted, and to whom, consequently, the very sword which he scarcely knew how to grasp, would be an additional cause of terror, not an instrument of defence and safety? The instant anger which arises does more than many such weapons. It gives the spirit which knows how to make a weapon of everything, or which of itself does, without a weapon, what even a thunderbolt would be powerless to do in the shuddering grasp of a coward. When anger arises, fear is gone; there is no coward, for all are brave. Even bodily infirmity seems to yield to it, like the very infirmities of the mind. The old are for the moment young again, the weakest vigorous." . . .

Faculties and Desires as variously manifested in Man and in the Lower Animals.—The list which we have given of the animal faculties and desires includes some which are commonly regarded as peculiar to man, and which have even been spoken of as if the possession of them constituted the chief distinction between the mind of man and the spirit of the beast. It is readily allowed, that it was not without hesitation they had assigned to them the place which they here hold; and while we regard all the faculties we have enumerated as belonging, in a greater or less degree, to various classes of irrational creatures, we are far from affirming that they attain in them the same perfections which they reach in man. To some of the more remarkable distinctions between the faculties found in man, and the corresponding power exhibited in the lower creation, we shall now briefly advert.

Instinctive Operations.—The action of the various glands that secrete the juices necessary for the sustenance of the frame, the functions of the stomach and intestines in digesting the food and elaborating the nourishment it contains, and the motion of the involuntary muscles that produces the action of the heart and the circulation of the blood, are rather to be considered the result of animal organization than ascribed to any higher power. But the instinctive operations, that are in some measure dependent on the will, seem to be entitled to a place among the faculties and desires.

"Instinct has been described as that power, or property, in an animal, which acts without instruction from others, or experience by the animal itself, and which, without any intelligent regard to consequences, accomplishes a purpose of which the animal is ignorant." *

In man the manifestations of instinct are comparatively few. The infant breathes and sleeps, sucks and swallows, smiles and cries, without being taught either by experience or by any other instructor; but he has everything else to learn.

In the lower animals the instinctive operations are far more numerous, and more important. In many of the insect tribes, for instance, the larva newly hatched is taught intuitively how to supply its wants and provide for its safety,—it selects the food suitable for its nourishment, and rejects every other; when its period of change approaches, it seeks without instructor the requisite shelter, and constructs for itself a winter home; and in its perfect state the insect provides for the progeny which, generally speaking, it is destined never to see, by lodging its eggs in appropriate localities, and sometimes by laying up for there a store of food. The various species of the bee deposit, in the cell in which their egg is laid, the saccharine fluid on which their embryo young are sustained. The burying beetle digs a hole in the earth to receive the carcass of the mouse or bird on which she designs her young to feed, without being subjected to the competing claims of the more voracious maggot of the blue­bottle fly. Another species of beetle buries along with its egg a pellet of dung. The solitary wasp digs a hole in a soft or sandy bank, deposits at the bottom an egg, and then places above it a number of small grubs to serve as food for the worm that the egg will produce. She is found uniformly to collect just such a number of caterpillars as will suffice for her purpose, and she buries them alive, because her young cannot thrive unless the provision be fresh.

In the diversity that we find between the instinctive operations in man, and their corresponding manifestation in the lower orders of creation, we see an evident proof of the wisdom of the Great Creator. Had a superior measure of instinct not been given as a guide to the insect tribes, their intelligence is so limited, that the race must speedily have perished. Had instinct been largely bestowed upon man, his intellectual powers would have languished for want of motive to call them forth, his innate faculties would have been buried beneath the weight of animal instinct, and would have either remained completely dormant and dead, or manifested only an embryotic activity like that of the cretin and idiot.

Lower Faculties and Appetites.—When the lower faculties and appetites, as exhibited in man, are compared with the corresponding powers and feelings in the other creatures, we find, as was formerly remarked, the senses of taste and smell much more acute, and serving a more important end in the beast and bird than they do in the human race; but with regard to the other senses the case is different. Every individual belonging to the lower orders of creation has some one or other of the senses on the exercise of which its sustenance and safety chiefly depend. The faculty which is thus essential to the animal's existence has bestowed on it a delicacy of perception, and an extent of range, to which we find nothing comparable in the children of men. The sense of smelling which enables the dog to trace his prey, and the penetrating sight of "the vulture's eye," may be referred to as examples. But in what we may call the general excellence of the senses, man stands forth unquestionably the most highly endowed of all creatures here below.

Higher Faculties and Desires.—Of the powers which have included in this division, the perceptive faculties seem to be more fully developed in many of the irrational animals than they are in man. The horse very frequently exhibits greater power of observing and remembering the relative position of the objects around him than his rider possesses, and is able to pursue the path he has trodden before when his owner is completely bewildered. The carrier-pigeon can retrace its homeward course with a skill that man is unable to imitate, or even to comprehend. "Serjeant Wilde took pigeons of the rock kind to Hounslow, and they flew back to Guildford Street in an hour. They were taken in a bag, and could see or smell nothing by the way. On being let loose, they made two or three wide circles, and then flew straight to their dovecot. The bird begins his flight by making circles, which increase more and more in diameter as he rises, and he then pilots himself towards his ground; but this indicates an extraordinary power of observation, for they come from Brussels to London, and have been known to fly from the Rhine to Paris."* In those countries where the time of sunrising and sunsetting is more uniform than it is with us, the crowing of the cock is said to indicate the watches of the night with a precision only surpassed by that of the timepiece, thus proving that these creatures have a power of estimating duration much more accurately than we can do. Birds of passage, too, shew a knowledge of times and seasons that has been the subject of observation from the earliest ages. "The stork in the heaven knoweth her appointed times; and the turtle, and the crane, and the swallow, observe the time of their coming." (Jer. viii. 7.) It is stated, as a known fact, that cranes go and return at the same date, without the least regard to the state of the weather. A similar remark might be made in reference to the time when the rooks begin to build. The dog can detect a former enemy, or recognise a former friend, though covered with a disguise which his human associates are unable to penetrate. Homer's description of Ulysses' dog recognising his Master under the garb of a mendicant, may be referred to as an example, and many similar instances of intelligence might be gathered from the anecdotes that have been collected for the purpose of illustrating the subject of animal sagacity.

The same remark, however, may be made, in respect of the powers to which we now refer, that was made in regard to the senses. In some one particular, various individuals and species of the lower creation may excel man, but in the acuteness and power of the perceptive faculties as a whole, man is greatly their superior.

The reflective faculties are very generally regarded as peculiar to man, but the manifold instances of contrivance and design which are continually exhibited, both by birds and beasts, clearly prove that they are also found, though in a more limited degree, in other creatures. Passing by the almost innumerable examples we have of remarkable sagacity in the elephant and dog, we shall mention some instances of intelligence that have been exhibited by species which are usually regarded as pos­sessed of inferior powers.

Animals that in their wild state go together in flocks or herds afford perhaps the most pleasing instances of contrivance and sagacity. When exposed to the attack of enemies, both birds and beasts are frequently known to place a sentinel to watch, while the rest are feeding. When danger threatens, a signal is made, and the whole company are on the alert; when it becomes imminent, a second signal is given, and all betake themselves to flight. Sometimes animals in a state of domestication retain a portion of their natural contrivance, if we may so express it. A shepherd boy who had under his charge a flock of sheep, among which were a good many lambs of tender age, was one day surprised to see his fleecy charge arrange themselves in a kind of circle, the lambs in the centre, and the ewes and wethers standing with their heads to the exterior or circumference. Going up to see the cause of this strange arrangement, he saw a fox peeping out from a coppice that bordered the pasture, and then understood that the ewes had thus banded together in defence of their young. The beavers in North America are described by Hearne as selecting, either in small lakes or in rivers, spots where the water is of such depth as not to freeze to the bottom, preferring, however, running water, because this helps them to convey the timber they require. They begin by forming a dyke across with fascines, stones, and mud. This dyke, whose only use is to give them a convenient level of water, is convex on the upper side, fronting the stream; this gives it the strength of the arch, and it becomes strong and solid by repeated repairs, so that the branches sprout, and birds build in the hedge which it forms. They work in concert in the wood, gnawing the trees and branches to suit their opera­tions. A tree the thickness of a man's body they will soon bring down by gnawing round its base; and they know so exactly the operation of gravity on it, that they make it always fall across the stream, so as to require no land carriage. The cabins are built so as to be out of the water, and they are neatly plastered with cement; the animal's flat and scaly tail being used as a trowel in this operation. Each hut contains commonly one or two, but sometimes four families, and sometimes each family is separated from the others by a partition. They have also subterraneous retreats along the banks of the river or lake, to serve as a place of refuge when they may be attacked by their enemies.

Anecdotes of a somewhat similar kind might be given of other quadrupeds, and also of birds; these, however, we shall not at present advert to and proceed to give some instances of sagacity afforded by animals of a still lower type. One writer, at least, affirms that intelligence is connected with a cerebral development, such as is found in the mammals and birds, while instinct is connected with the ganglionic system; and consequently, while intelligence is found in the vertebrated animals, instinct alone guides the insect and the worm. We shall now give some illustrations of insect sagacity, and leave it to those who may hold this author's opinion to determine wherein it differs from the intelligence of the higher orders.

The skill manifested by some predatory insects may, in the first place, call for our attention. If we look to the spider's web, all will allow that we see a piece of delicate manufacture: but if we watch the little workman as he fixes the threads, weaves the fabric, and strengthens the ties, in all cases suiting his operations to the nature of the locality, we see a measure of ingenuity and contrivance that may well fill the observer with astonishment. The ant-lion prepares a snare of a different kind; near the path along which flies and ants are accustomed to travel, it digs a conical pit among the loose sand, that covers a large portion of the ground in those countries where this creature is found. It then hides itself at the bottom, and when an unwary wanderer comes to the brink, and falls down the treacherous slope, the ant-lion comes out from its concealment, and seizes the victim. Many other instances of similar contrivance might be added.

Insects that live in communities, and construct their dwellings in common, afford still more remarkable instances of intelligence. The wasp forms the paper of which the cells and outer walls of her habitation are constructed with a skill that man, until a comparatively recent period, was unable to equal. The ants, in the erection of their hill, and in the management of their domestic concerns, shew a combination of effort, and a harmony of contrivance, that prove them to have been practically acquainted with the benefits of a division of labour long before that subject came to be discussed by human politicians. Among bees, according to Huber, who has given us the most accurate account of the wonderful labours of these industrious insects, the workers are divided into several divisions. The wax-making bees bring a small mass of this material, and place it vertically to the plane from which the comb is to hang down. Then other bees begin to excavate, one on the one side, another on the other, and they work with such perfect nicety as never to penetrate through the thin layer of wax, and also so equally, that the plate is of equal thickness all throughout. These plates they afterwards enlarge, and form into the well-known and beautiful hexagonal cells that constitute the honey-comb. The angles both at the top and sides of the cells are in every instance, the same, and geometricians have demonstrated, that the figure adopted by the bee is precisely that which gives the greatest strength of structure, and the greatest amount of accommodation, at the least expense of space and material. When unforeseen and accidental obstacles come in their way, they shew admirable skill in overcoming them, and in adapting their buildings to the form of the hive, and to other circumstances. When plunderers attack their store, Huber informs us, that they build up the greater part of the door-way, leaving only a very narrow entrance, which can easily be defended, and appoint sentinels to guard it. Could Britain do more when threatened with invasion? When a snail crept in through an entrance that had been left unnecessarily wide, they stung the intruder to death, and being unable to remove the carcase, they covered it over with a tomb of wax, and thus prevented the noxious effects that would otherwise have arisen from its putrefaction within the hive. When our sanitary commissioners require the bodies of those who are buried in vaults within the precincts of our large cities, to be enclosed in leaden coffins, they act on a principle precisely similar to that which was adopted by Huber's bees. It has been stated, as a well-known fact, that bees, when taken to the West Indies, lay up honey during the first summer after their arrival, but when they find that the winter, or rainy season, supplies them with flowers, as well as the warmer portion of the year, they lay up stores no more. The writer of these remarks happened, one day, to find a wild-bee's nest, the entrance to which some school-boys had covered over with stones. He removed the rubbish that obstructed the path, and sat down at a little distance to watch the movements of the insects. Whenever a bee came out of the nest, it stood still for a moment, as if looking round astonished at the change that had taken place. It then surveyed the en­trance, (some of them walked round it,) and when it took wing, it flew round and round the hole, gradually enlarging the circle, of its flight, as it rose higher into the air, and then darted off in quest of its store. The bees that had been absent in the field, when the stones were removed, had the utmost difficulty in finding the entrance, in fact, many of them did not seem able to find it at all; but those that had been in the nest when the change was made, and who had made themselves acquainted with the appearance of the entrance before their departure, flew directly to the hole when they returned with their burdens. On leaving it a second time, there was no such scrutiny exercised as that which had been formerly manifested. In the conduct of these little creatures, in this instance, we find the exercise of more than one of the higher faculties. In observing so quickly the change that had taken place, they shewed perception of figure and position, memory, and comparison; and in the plan they took to make themselves thoroughly acquainted with the change, that, they might be able to find their way back again, they manifested an adaptation of means to an end, which man, with all his powers, could not have excelled.

We may remark, in passing, that the circumstances here narrated, lead us to suspect the accuracy of the opinion usually entertained, in regard to the power of vision which this insect possesses. It is generally supposed, that from the extremely convex form of its eye, it cannot see more than a yard before it; but if the flight of the carrier-pigeon shews that its power of vision is great, we must, on similar grounds, conclude that the bee is not the short-sighted creature which it has hitherto been considered.

"Without arguing the identity of reason and instinct, it will be admitted that the lower animals frequently perform actions which imply a reasoning process. Reverting to our insect illustrations, Huber and others have mentioned cases which make it hard to deny judgment and reflection to the wasp; and the reader who is himself 'judicious,' will not refuse a tiny measure of his own endowments to the bee. On a bright day, four or five summers since, we were gazing at a clump of fuchsias, planted out on a lawn not far from London. As every one knows, the flower of the fuchsia is a graceful pendant, something like a funnel of red coral, suspended with the opening downwards; and in the varieties planted on this lawn, the tube of the funnel was long and slender. In the case of every expanded flower we noticed that there was a small hole near the apex, just as if some one had pierced it with a pin. It was not long till we detected the authors of these perforations. The border was all alive with bees, and we soon noticed, that in dealing with the fuchsias they extracted the honey through these artificial apertures. They had found the tube of the blossom so long, that their haustella could not reach the honey at its farther end, and so by this engineering stratagem, they got at it sideways. Surely this was sensible. When a mason releases a sweep stuck fast in a chimney, by digging a hole in the gable, or when a chancellor of the exchequer gains a revenue, by indirect taxation, he merely carries out the principle. And what makes the manoeuvre more striking, is the fact, that the problem was new. The fuchsias had come from Mexico and Chili, not many years ago; whereas the bees were derived from a long line of English ancestors, and could not have learned the art of tapping from their American congeners."*

The examples of animal sagacity which we have adduced, shew, with sufficient clearness, that the lower orders of creation do certainly possess, though in a comparatively limited degree, those mental qualifications which we usually denominate the intellectual faculties. It is a much more difficult task to determine in how far they are possessed of the intellectual emotions and higher sentiments. The ape and monkey afford abundant evidence of their being susceptible of the emotion of imitation; the spaniel crouching at the foot of his master, and licking his hand, and the untamed tiger in the forest quailing, as has not unfrequently been the case, before the fixed stare of the human eye, shew that they are susceptible of reverence for superior power; the determination with which almost every animal defends its own habitation from the intrusion of a stranger, the punishment inflicted by the citizens of the rookery, on those offenders that have been detected in the act of plundering, and other facts of a similar kind, shew that they have some idea of property and sense of justice; but the subject is too difficult, and the observations as yet made are too limited, to allow us to prosecute the inquiry with anything like confidence.

An endeavour will afterwards be made to point out the distinctions that subsist between the animal faculties and desires which we have enumerated, and the rational faculties and emotions peculiar to man.

 

The Connexion that subsists between the Organization of the Material Frame, and the Animal Faculties and Desires.

In regard to the particular doctrine of the phrenologists, who maintain that there is a correspondence between the powers and feelings of the mind and particular portions of the brain, all that can as yet be asserted with confidence is, that the brain seems to be that part of the human frame on which the mind primarily exerts its influence. All the nerves, by means of which we gather in our information with respect to the external world, terminate there. Any disease or injury of the brain affects the mind more immediately than a similar disease or injury in any other part, while a deficiency in the general size of the brain indicates corresponding imbecility of mind.

While, however, we are not prepared to admit the doctrines of the phrenologists as established truths, we are ready to acknowledge that the extended observation of human character, and attention to mental phenomena, for which many of them have been distinguished, have done much to elucidate the nature of the constitution of the human mind, and there is nothing in the facts which they allege they have discovered that is contrary either to reason or revelation. The whole of their science, in as far as it can in any sense be regarded as established, amounts only to this, that particular portions of the brain are the organs of particular faculties and emotions, and that the comparative size of these organs may be regarded as an index pointing out the predominating powers and feelings; and there is nothing in such a hypothesis to which either the philosopher or the Christian is called on to object.

But while we thus speak of the labours of some of the supporters of the system, as having rendered good service to the cause of mental science, and while we regard their fundamental proposition as containing nothing contrary to reason, we cannot so speak of all who have adopted the views of Gall and Spurzheim, nor allow the materialism that has been engrafted on them to pass without condemnation.

Even allowing that there is a constant correspondence between the strength of particular faculties and emotions and the corresponding portions of the brain, it does not follow that the feelings and faculties are dependent on the organs. On the contrary, analogy leads us to conclude, that, as the mind is the more important part of the man, the material instrument is made to correspond to the faculty that acts upon it; that the workman is not made for the sake of the instrument, but the instrument for the use of the workman. It is also possible that, as constant exercise enlarges and strengthens the limbs, so constant exercise of the appropriate portion of the brain, by the predominant faculty or feeling, may have a tendency to enlarge the organ, and thus produce that superior size to which the phrenologist looks for his guidance. These subjects are as yet very imperfectly understood. There is a wide field for observation, and an urgent demand for a calm and unprejudiced investigation. From such an inquiry the cause of truth and true religion has much to hope and nothing to fear, and it has only to be carried out to its legitimate conclusion to prove the hypothesis of the materialists to be a delusion and a dream.

In regard to the manner in which the mind operates on the brain—whether it does so directly or indirectly, we cannot tell. It may be that some one of the imponderable agents, such as electricity or magnetism, is the medium through which the mind excites the brain to activity, and by which it becomes acquainted with the intelligence that the senses bring home. Even if this conjecture, however, could be substantiated, and at present there is not the slightest evidence to show its probability, except some very questionable statements of the mesmerists, we must carefully distinguish between the subtile fluid through which the vital energy acts, and the higher and far more mysterious principle in which the faculties and feelings ultimately reside.