LECTURE XXXIX.

THE DEGREE OF LIVELINESS OF THE SUGGESTING FEELINGS AFFECTS THAT OF THE FEELINGS SUGGESTED.-ON THE VIRTUAL CO-EXISTENCE OF FEELINGS.

GENTLEMEN, my last Lecture was occupied with the consideration of a very important difference in our suggestions, according as they arise from the perception of objects really existing without, or from those mere conceptions of objects, which form a part of our trains of fancy. I quoted to you some ingenious remarks of Mr. Stewart on this subject, in which he endeavours to account for the difference, by the longer duration of the perception, which allows more thoughts and feelings, in unison with it, to mingle together, and thus to heighten, by combination, the emotion, which each, separately, would have produced.

Of the very powerful influence which the greater permanency of our perceptions, than of our mere conceptions, must have,-by giving room for the co-existence of various relative feelings, there can be no doubt. But, as the emotion is, in many cases, almost instantaneous, so rapid at least, that, if the difference of time were all, which in ordinary circumstances, distinguished the effect of the perception from that of the conception, the mere remembrance of the object which affects us, (being, though fugitive, at least as lasting, as the momentary interval, between the primary perception and the burst of feeling,) might equally have produced the overwhelming tenderness of sorrow ;-it seemed to me necessary to have recourse to some other circumstance, in addition to that supposed by Mr. Stewart.

This circumstance, which I conceived to be necessary for explaining fully the phenomenon, I represented to you to be the felt reality of the object perceived, as co-existing and blending with the conception that harmonizes with it, and thus giving to the whole complex group the temporary illusion of reality. That this is only one of many analogous phenomena, and, indeed, that nothing more is assumed, in the explanation, than must be allowed truly to take place, at almost every moment of our waking hours, I proved to you by various examples;-particularly by the example of vision,-in which there is a constant extension to our mere conceptions of that external reality, which exists only in a part of the complex whole which we seem to perceive; -the form which we give to the bodies seen by us, and which we believe to be as much an object of our sight, as their colour, being the suggestion of our memory only, and as imaginary, in relation to our percipient mind, as any other conceptions, which any other perceptions excite. If, indeed, we admit, as we cannot but admit, that we do not see, visually, any space, larger than the mere plane of the nervous expansion in the eye or rather, as I endeavoured to show you in a former Lecture, that we do not see directly and originally any space whatever-and that, on either of these suppositions, the forms and distances, which we perceive, derive all their felt present reality, from the reality of the existing sensation of colour which blends with them, it cannot surely seem a very bold assumption to suppose, that what is thus indisputably true, of one set of sensations, when co-existing with one

set of conceptions, may be true, of the same set of sensations, when co-existing with another set of conceptions, at least as vivid as the former.

I may remark, as an analogous illustration of this tendency of the mind to combine the reality of perception with the harmonizing conceptions which it suggests, and with which it continues to blend, that an effect in some degree similar, different, indeed, as might be supposed, in force, but analogous in kind, seems to take place, in the combination of any very vivid conception with other mere conceptions,-when these two harmonize and unite readily as a complex whole. There is, as it were, a diffusion of the vividness of the one, over the faintness of the other. The more vivid,—that is to say, the more nearly approaching to the strength of reality, the one conception may be, the more fully is it diffused in union with the other, and the more difficult, consequently, does it become, to regard this other as separate from it,— so difficult, indeed, in many cases, as almost to resist the influence of the most undoubting speculative belief. In the case of our emotions, the very nature of which is to throw a peculiar vividness on the conceptions that harmonize with them, there can be no doubt as to this diffusion of lively feeling, ---by the influence of which, in impassioned reverie, our conceptions, that would otherwise be comparatively faint, sometimes appear to us more truly real, than the objects really existing without. It is not wonderful, therefore, that the effect which our emotions, as mere lively feelings harmonizing with certain conceptions, produce in vivifying those conceptions with which they harmonize, should be produced, in some degree by our conceptions, when these, too, as feelings, are comparatively lively, in diffusing their own liveliness over the fainter conceptions that may harmoniously mingle with them. When, for example, by the classical studies of our early years, our minds have become almost as well acquainted with the warriors of Greece and Troy, as with the warriors of our own time, and the gates and towers of Ilium seem, as it were, to be present to our very eyes,-if we strive to think of the Troad, in its present state of desolation, it is scarcely possible for us to conceive it as it is. Our livelier conception of the past diffuses itself in some measure over our conception of the present scene; and, notwithstanding all the information which we have received, and the full credit which we give to the veracity of the travellers from whose report we receive it, we still, when we think of the scene, imagine on it at least some vestiges of past grandeur existing, with a sort of shadowy reality. If we were on the very spot, our eye would still look in vain for these, as if the monuments that are present to our thought, were necessarily to be as lasting as that remembrance of them, which is never to fade; and there can be no question that, even now, when so many ages have intervened, and when our knowledge of the state of the country admits not of the slightest doubt, we should feel, from moment to moment, some portion of the expectation, and, in no slight degree, the disappointment also, which Cæsar must have felt, in that visit to the ancient seat of his fabled ancestors, of which the Poet of Pharsalia has given so picturesque a narrative :

"Circuit exustæ nomen memorabile Troja,
Magnaque Phœbei quærit vestigia muri.
Jam sylve steriles et putres robore trunci
Assaraci pressere domos, et templa Deorum
Jam lassa radice tenent ;-ac tota teguntur
Pergama dumetis etiam periere ruinæ.

Aspicit Hesiones scopulos, silvasque latentis
Anchise thalamos ; quo judex sederet antro;
Unde puer raptus cœlo ;-quo vertice Nais
Luserit Enone;-nullum est sine nomine saxum.
Inscius in sicco serpentem pulvere rivum
Transierat, qui Xanthus erat ;-securus in alto
Gramine ponebat gressus ;-Phryx incola manes
Hectoreos calcare vetat. Discussa jacebant
Saxa, nec ullius faciem servantia sacri ;—
Herceas, monstratur ait, non respicis aras?"*

The difficulty which we feel in this case, in imagining the absolute desolation of the Troad, arises from the greater vividness of our conception of ancient Troy, than of our conception of the scene which the same spot now presents, a vividness which almost incessantly mingles the more lively with the fainter conception, in spite of our effort to separate them. Our calm belief attends the latter of these conceptions; but there is an illusion of reality attached to the greater vividness of the former, which is almost every moment mingling with the other; though it is, every other moment, overcome by the opposite belief, which is too strong to be wholly subdued. This constant mingling and separation of the two, forms that feeling of perplexity and effort of which we are conscious, in attempting to consider, for any length of time, the scene as it truly is, and as we truly believe it to be.

To lessen this feeling of effort, as if by a more ready transition, nothing is so effectual as the conception of that state of decay which is intermediate between grandeur and absolute desolation.

"Aspice murorum moles, præruptaque saxa,
Obrutaque horrenti vasta theatra situ!

Hæc sunt Roma. Viden, velut ipsa cadavera tantæ
Nobis adhuc spirent imperiosa minas."

"See the wide waste of all-devouring years!
How Rome her own sad sepulchre appears!
With nodding arches, broken temples spread!
The very tombs now vanish like their dead.
Perhaps, by its own ruins saved from flame,

Some buried marble half-preserves a name."t

Rome, thus in ruins, is easily conceived by us; for the ruins, in their magnificent decay, are themselves a vivid picture of that grandeur of which we have been accustomed to think. But Rome, if it had no monument of art remaining, and had only its seven naked hills to mark its ancient site, scarcely could be conceived by us, for a few moments in succession; its former grandeur, rising on our remembrance, without any intermediate conception into which it might softly fade; and mingling, therefore, its own entire reality, as vividly conceived by us, with the fainter conceptions of that bare soil on which all its miracles of splendour arose.

This influence of our mere conceptions, however, even when comparatively vivid, though illustrating by analogy the influence of perception, is still, as might be supposed, far inferior to the influence of that of actual perception, which I consider as diffusing its felt reality over the associate conceptions that blend and harmonize with it.

With respect to the more important theory of this influence, I may remark,

that even though the perception of the kindred harmonizing object were not to operate positively, by blending the feelings of its own reality with the conceptions that mingle with it, its negative influence would still be very powerful. It would at least tend, by occupying our perception with a harmonizing object, to diminish the impressions produced by other objects,-impressions which, not harmonizing with the particular associate ideas, would at once break the illusion which gives substance and colouring to their shadowy forms. It is, indeed, this inconsistency of our perceptions with our ideas of suggestion, which, in our waking hours, in almost every instance, prevents that belief of the reality of the objects of our imagination, which otherwise we should be disposed to entertain. Though no other effect, therefore, were allowed to be produced by a perception which interests us, and which itself harmonizes with the trains of thought suggested by it, its negative influence would still be very powerful. It would be, in a slight degree, like that of sleep, which excludes, or nearly excludes, all sensation, and allows the trains of ideas which pass through the mind, the hills and lakes, perhaps, and pastimes and friends of our youth,-to assume, for the time, an impression of actual reality, as if present with us once more.

In many of these cases, in which the perception of new, or long-lost objects, gives warmth and animation to our trains of thought, there is another circumstance which must have considerable influence. An object, that is daily before our eyes, becomes associated with innumerable ideas, which have no peculiar harmony or agreement with each other; and though it may suggest these variously, at different times, it is still apt to mingle some of them together, especially if it occupy the attention for any length of time. A memorial which we have received from a friend, for example, must, in a very short time, if it remain in our possession, be associated with many events and feelings that have no relation to our friend. These, as more recent, may become of readier suggestion, in conformity with that secondary law which I stated to you; and, at least, by mingling in the suggestion many irrelative remembrances, cannot fail to weaken more and more the interest which the primary, and more tender image, would otherwise afford. But an object newly discovered, such as any unexpected relic of a long-lost friend, presents the instant image of him to our mind, and presents it unmixed with other conceptions, that could not have co-existed with it, without weakening its particular impression.

There is yet another circumstance which I conceive must be taken into account, in every such case of unexpected discovery ;-This is the influence of the feeling of astonishment itself. In common circumstances, for which we are prepared, we readily, and almost unconsciously, exercise a selfcommand, which keeps down any violent emotion. But, when we are struck with new and unexpected circumstances, this self-command is often completely suspended; and we yield to the first emotion that arises, however inconsistent it may be with the general character of our mind. The sudden appearance of a foe in ambush, spreads terror to the breasts of those who would have marched undaunted in the open field, in the face of any danger that could have been opposed to them. It is probable, therefore, that when, in the instance quoted to you yesterday, the crew of Captain King's ship melted into tears on discovering, in a remote and barbarous country, a pewter spoon stamped with the word "London," it was partly under the influence of the sudden astonishment which they must have felt,-an astonishment

which, if it had arisen from circumstances of a different kind, might perhaps have excited a panic of terror, as it then excited, what, in relation to the rugged sternness of a ship's company; might almost be considered as a sort of panic of tender emotion.

I have already instanced, as illustrative of the diffusion of the felt reality of a perception over the co-existing imagery of our internal thought, the terrors of the superstitious, to whom the wild moanings of the wind, and the shadowy forms seen in the obscurity of twilight, realize, for the moment, the voices and the spectral shapes which their fancy has readily mingled with them. I might show in like manner, various other instances, since the whole field of mind seems to me to present examples of this species of illusive combination supposed by me, in which the felt reality of something truly existing, is diffused over images of unexisting things. There is scarcely one of our moral affections which it may not, as I conceive, augment or variously modify, as in an after-part of the course, I shall have frequent opportunities of pointing out to you. In the case of jealousy, for example,-to hint merely at present what is afterwards to be more fully developed,-what undue importance does the slightest fact, that harmonizes with the suspicions previously entertained, give to those very suspicions in the minds of persons, whose better judgment, if free from the influence of that gloomy passion, could not have failed to discover the futility of the very circumstances to which they attach so much importance;-the felt truth of the single fact observed communicating, as I conceive, for the time, to the whole co-existing and blending and harmonizing images of suspicion, that reality which it alone possessed. Who is there, in like manner, who must not frequently have observed the influence of a single slight success, in vivifying to the sanguine their most extravagant hopes? the reality of this one happy fact giving instantly a sort of obscure reality even to those extravagant conceptions which are all considered together with the realized wish, as parts of one great whole. Slight as these hints are, they may serve at least for the present, to give you some notion of the extensive applicability of a principle, which is, in truth, as wide as the wide variety of feelings that may relate to an imaginary object.

These observations on the influence which objects of perception have, by their permanence, as well as by their reality, in giving additional liveliness to our associate feelings, lead me to remark a property of the suggesting principle, which, however much neglected, seems to me, in the various applications that may be made of it, of the greatest importance, since, without it, it is impossible to explain many of the most striking phenomena of thought. We are so much accustomed to talk of the successions of our ideas, of the trains of our ideas, of the current of our thought; and to use so many other phrases of mere succession, to the exclusion of all notions of co-existence, in speaking of the modifications of the principle of suggestion, that, by the habitual use of these terms, we are led to think of our ideas as consecutive only, and to suppose that because there is truly a certain series of states of the mind in regular progression, the state of mind at one moment must be so different from the state of mind of the moment preceding, that one idea must always fade as a new one arises. That the sequence may sometimes be thus exclusive in the very moment, of all that preceded the particular suggestion, I do not deny, though there are many circumstances which lead me to believe, that, if this ever occur, it is at least far from being the general case. Thus, to take an instance in some degree similar to those which we have VOL. I.

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