of its laborious erudition, it must be allowed to surpass all other countries in the passionate enthusiasm of its philosophy, which, particularly in metaphysics, from the reign of Leibnitz to the more recent worship paid to the transcendentalism of Kant, seems scarcely to have admitted of any calm approbation, or to have known any other inquirers than violent partisans and violent foes. After my remarks on this hypothesis, which closed my view of our external affections of mind, as they exist simply, I next proceeded to consider them, as they exist, combined with desire, in that state of the mind, which is termed attention, a state which has been supposed to indicate a peculiar intellectual power, but which, I endeavoured to show you, admits of being analyzed into other more general principles. It is to our consciousness, of course, that we must refer for the truth of any such analysis; and the process which it reveals to us, in attention, seems, I think, to justify the analysis which I made, indicating a combination of simpler feelings, but not any new and distinct species of feeling, to be referred to a peculiar faculty. We see many objects together, and we see them indistinctly. We wish to know them more accurately, and we are aware, that this knowledge can be acquired only in detail. We select some one more prominent object, from the rest, or rather, without any selection on our part, this object excites, in a higher degree, our desire of observing it particularly, merely by being more prominent, or, in some other respect, more interesting than the To observe it particularly, we fix our body, and our eyes,-for it is a case of vision which I have taken for an example,-as steadily as possible, that the light from the same points of the object may continue to fall on the same points of the retina. Together with our wish, we have an expectation, the natural effect of uniform past experience, that the object will now be more distinctly perceived by us; and, in accordance with this expectation, when the process, which I have described, is completed, the object, as if it knew our very wish, and hastened to gratify it, does become more distinct; and, in proportion as it becomes thus more vivid, the other objects of the group become gradually fainter, till at length they are scarcely felt to be present. Such, without the intervention of any new and peculiar state of mind, is the mental process, as far as we are conscious of it; and, if this be the process, there is no reason to infer in it the operation of any power of the mind different from those which, are exercised in other cases. The general capacities of perception, and desire, and expectation, and voluntary command of certain muscles, which on every view of the phenomena of attention, we must allow the mind to possess, are, of themselves, sufficient to explain the phenomena, and preclude, therefore, any further reference. The brightening of the objects to which we attend, that is to say, of the objects which have interested us, and which we feel a desire of knowing, and the consequent fading of the other co-existing objects, I explained, by the well known influence, not of desire merely, but of all our emotions, in rendering more vivid those objects of perception or fancy, with which they harmonize; and I illustrated this influence by various examples. The phantasms of imagination, in the reveries of our waking hours, when our external senses are still open, and quick to feel, are, as mere conceptions, far less vivid than the primary perceptions, from which they originally flowed; and yet, under the influence of any strong emotion, they become so much more bright and prominent than external things, that, to the impassioned muser on distant scenes and persons, the scenes and persons truly around him are almost as if they were not in existence. If a mere conception, then, faint as it must always be by its own nature, can thus be rendered more vivid than reality, by the union of any strong desire, it is surely less wonderful, that the same cause should communicate the same superior vividness to the brighter realities of perception. If what we remember with interest, and wish to see again, become so much more vivid in our fancy, merely by this very wish, that we scarcely perceive any one of the innumerable objects before our eyes, what we truly see, in its own lively colouring, and feel a strong desire of knowing more intimately, may well be supposed to render us less sensible to the other co-existing objects, which the very shadows of our imagination, when brightened by a similar desire, were able mentally to annihilate or eclipse. In addition to this direct vivifying influence of the desire itself, some part, --and, perhaps a very considerable part-of the brightening of the object, during attention, may arise indirectly from the mere muscular adaptation of the organ. I do not speak merely of that internal adaptation, whatever it may be, which accommodates the organ to the object, and therefore, varies with the distance of the object, but of that simpler contraction, which keeps the organ, as a whole, steadily fixed. It is proved by many facts, that a certain time is necessary, for vision, and, probably, in like manner, for all our perceptions. A cannon ball, for example, though it must have reflected light to us, during its passage, may yet pass before our eyes so rapidly, as not to be perceived; and, if a part of the eye be affected, in a certain manner, by one colour, and a different colour fall upon it so rapidly after the first, that the former affection has not previously ceased, the result is not the visual affection, which the second colour alone would have produced, but that which would have arisen at once from a mixture of the two colours. In this way, in an experiment which has been often performed, for the demonstration of this simple and beautiful fact; if a cylinder be painted in longitudinal bars, with the prismatic colours, in certain proportions, and be revolved rapidly on its axis, its surface to the eye will not seem to present any one of the colours, which are really painted on it, but an uniform whiteness, which it has not on a single point of its whole surface. If rays of different colours, falling in rapid succession, on the same points of the retina, thus seem to mingle with each other, and produce one confused effect, it must evidently be of great importance, for distinct vision, that the eyes should be so fixed, that the rays from the objects which we wish to observe, may not fall on parts of the retina, previously affected by the light of other objects, but, as much as possible, on the same parts, during the whole time of our observation. This can be done, as I have said, only by the continued agency of certain muscles; and hence arises that feeling of muscular effort, of which we are conscious in the process. How difficult it is for us to keep a muscle, for any length of time, in the same exact point of contraction, without the slightest deviation from this point, is well known to physiologists; and, it is not wonderful, therefore, that in attention, we should be conscious of a considerable effort, in endeavouring to fix steadily any of our organs. The power of thus fixing our muscles, is a power which improves by habitual exercise; and it is probably very much in this way, that the practised eye is able so rapidly to distinguish the minute parts of objects, which require from others a much longer effort of attention. But, whatever the effect of the muscular adaptation may be, it is not the less certain, if we reflect on our feelings, that the mental part of the process of attention involves nothing more, in addition to the primary perception, which is its object, than desire with expectation. This is all of which we are truly conscious, previously to the brightening of the perception itself, to which we are said to attend ;-a brightening which, from the general laws of emotion, might very naturally be expected as the result of the union of desire, with any of our sensations. In such circumstances, then, it is not wonderful, that we should remember best the objects to which we pay most attention, since this is only to say, that we remember best the objects on which we have dwelt longest, and with greatest interest, and which we have, therefore, known most accurately. Such are our sensations or perceptions, when united with desire, exhibiting appearances, which seem, at first, to indicate, though they do not truly indicate, a peculiar power or susceptibility of the mind. We shall find, in considering our intellectual states of mind, the order of mental phenomena, to which we next proceed, that the union of desire with these, has led, in like manner, to the belief of many distinct intellectual powers, which yet, like attention, admit of being analyzed into simpler elements. These intellectual phenomena themselves, in their simple state, must, however, be first examined by us. Having now, then, offered all the observations for which our limited course allows me room, on the very important primary class of external affections of the mind, I proceed according to our general division, to consider the secondary class of its internal affections; those states of it which are not the result of causes foreign to the mind itself, but immediate consequents of its own preceding feelings. The Divine Contriver of our mental frame, who formed the soul to exist in certain states, on the presence of external things, formed it also to exist, in certain successive states, without the presence or direct influence of any thing external; the one state of the mind, being, as immediately the cause of the state of mind which follows it, as, in our external feelings, the change produced, in our corporeal organ of sense, is the cause of any one of the particular affections of that class. In the one class, that of our internal affections, the phenomena depend on the laws which regulate the successive changes of state of the mind itself. In the other class, that of our external affections, they depend on the laws of the mind, indeed, which is susceptible of these peculiar changes of state; but they depend, in an equal degree, on the laws which give to matter its peculiar qualities, and consequently, its peculiar influence on this mental susceptibility. If light were to be annihilated, it is very evident, that, though our mind itself were to continue endowed with all its present susceptibilities, it never again could behold the sun, around whose cold and gloomy mass our earth might still revolve as now; nor, in such circumstances, is there any reason to suppose that it would exist in any one of those various states, which constitute the delightful sensations of vision. These sensations, then, depend on external things, as much as on the mind itself. But, though after we have once been enriched with the splendid acquisitions, which our perceptive organs afford us, every thing external were to vanish, not from our sight merely, but from all our VOL. I. 41 senses, and our mind alone were to exist in the infinity of space, together with that Eternal Majesty which formed it,—still thought after thought, and feeling after feeling, would arise, as it were, spontaneously, in the disembodied spirit,-if no change in its nature were to take place; and the whole world of light, and fragrance, and harmony, would, in its remembrance, almost rise again, as if outliving annihilation itself. It is by this capacity of internal change of state, indeed, that the soul is truly immortal, which, if it were capable of no affections, but those which I have termed external, would itself be virtually as mortal as all the mortal things that are around it; since, but for them, as causes of its feelings, it could not, in these circumstances, of complete dependence, have any feelings whatever, and could, therefore, exist only in that state of original insensibility, which preceded the first sensation that gave it consciousness of existence. It is, in the true sense of immortality of life, immortal, only because it depends for its feelings, as well as for its mere existence, not on the state of perishable things, which are but the atmosphere that floats around it, but on its own independent laws; or, at least, for the laws of mind, as well as the laws of matter, can mean nothing more, depends, for the successions of its feelings, only on the provident arrangements, of that all-foreseeing Power whose will, as it existed at the very moment at which it called every thing from nothing, and gave to mind and matter their powers and susceptibilities, is thus, consequently, in the whole series of effects, from age to age, the eternal legislation of the universe. Even while our soul is united to this bodily frame, and continually capable of being affected by the objects that are continually present with it, by far the greater number of our feelings are those which arise from our internal successions of thought. Innumerable as our perceptions are, they are but a small part of the varied consciousness of a day. We do not see, or feel objects merely, for this alone would be of little value, but we compare them with each other, we form plans of action, and prosecute them with assiduous attention, or we meditate on the means by which they may most effectually be prosecuted; and with all our perceptions of external things, and plans of serious thought, a continued fairy work of involuntary fancy, is incessantly mingling, in consequence of the laws of suggestion in the mind itself, like the transient shadows, on a stream, of the clouds that fled over it, which picture on it their momentary forms, as they pass in rapid variety, without affecting the course of the busy current, which glides along in its majestic track, as if they had never been. If we had the power of external sense only, life would be as passive as the most unconnected dream, or rather far more passive and irregular than the wildest of our dreams. Our remembrances, comparisons, our hopes, our fears, and all the variety of our thoughts and emotions, give a harmony and unity to our general consciousness, which make the consciousness of each day a little drama, or a connected part of that still greater drama, which is to end only with the death of its hero, or rather with the commencement of his glorious apotheosis. How wide a field the internal affections of the mind present, without dependence on the system of material things,-with which we are connected, indeed, by many delightful ties, but by ties that have relation only to this mortal scene, is proved in a very striking manner, by the increased energy of thought, which we often seem to acquire in those hours of the quiet of the night, when every external influence is nearly excluded,-the hours of inward meditation, in which the mind has been poetically said to retire into the sanctuary of its own immense abode, and to feel there and enjoy its spiritual infinity, as if admitted to the ethereal dwellings and the feasts of the Gods. "Nonne vides, quoties nox circumfunditur atra Molitur leges, queis fortunata juventus Pareat, ac pace imperium tutetur et armis." The internal states of mind, then, which form the class next to be considered by us, present to our inquiry no narrow or uninteresting field. We are to find in these again every thing, though in fainter colours, which delighted and interested us in the former class; while we are, at the same time, to discover an abundant source of feelings still more delightful and sublime in themselves, and still more interesting to our analysis. We are no longer mere sensitive beings, that gaze upon the universe, and feel pain or pleasure as a few of its elementary particles touch our nerves. We are the discoverers of laws, which every element of the universe obeys,-the tracers of events of ages that are past, the calculators and prophets of events, that are not to occur till generation after generation of the prophetic calculators that succeed us shall themselves have passed away;-and, while we are thus able to discover the innumerable relations of created things, we are, at the same time, by the medium of these internal states of our own mind, the discoverers also of that Infinite Being, who framed every thing which it is our glory to be capable merely of observing, and who, without acting directly on any of our organs of sense, is yet present to our intellect with as bright a reality of perception, as the suns and planets which he has formed are present to our corporeal vision. The species of philosophical inquiry, which our internal affections of mind admit, is exactly the same as that which our external affections admit; that is to say, we are in our inquiry, to consider the circumstances in which they arise, and the circumstances which follow them, with the relations which they appear to us mutually to bear to our external feelings, and to each other, and nothing more. It is as little possible for us, independently of experience, to discover, a priori, any reason that one state of mind should be * D. Heinsius. De Contemptu Mortis, Lib. i. |