ness is the postulate and starting-point of this philosophy. It reposes upon the faith, that our consciousness of the existence of physical things does not deceive us. Else were the root of our being a lie."

In this starting-point it does not pretend to be demonstrative; but it gives a reason why we should forego demonstration. And this reason is, that otherwise we cannot have a philosophy. But, not to refer to the fact that some men prefer to be without a philosophy to accepting it on these terms, let us consider whether the dilemma itself be a fact. Is it true there can be no philosophy unless the deliverances of the sensational consciousness be true, or be held as true? Is there not a perfect basis for philosophy if these deliverances be false, provided it be known in what respects they are false? Might we not have philosophical certainty if we had to correct our consciousness? Falsity or error in our consciousness interposes no obstacle whatever to philosophy, if such error have its laws so that it can be allowed for. It is clear that a philosophy, founded on the basis of a definite and known falsity of consciousness, would stand on a foundation at least as broad and firm as on that of its authority and truth.

men.

It would have a foundation, indeed, broader and firmer. It would make less demand on faith; it would be more consistent with itself; it would be safer against objections. Nay, it might even be such as to compel assent from all If the error in our consciousness could be demonstrated as necessary; if the correction of it reconciled contradictions, and proved itself conformable to facts; if the theory stood the test of experiment; must it not command the assent of all? For what is science, in which all agree, but a great scheme for the correction of consciousness? The assertion of the authority of conscious

ness leads to contradictions when we think, necessitates our fixing a limit to the capacity of man in all future time, makes philosophy contemptible in many eyes. Are not these sufficient reasons for calling it in question?

If consciousness, then, should be corrected, by what means is this to be done? Sir W. Hamilton has himself furnished the answer to this question by pointing out that all the mental operations are forms of consciousness. One form of consciousness is to be corrected by another. The sensational consciousness is to be corrected by the rational. Sense is to be subordinated to reason. The sensational consciousness authoritatively testifies to what we feel; the rational consciousness should authoritatively determine what we think. Suppose I feel a table to exist, and think it does not exist, is there any harm done, any violence to reason, any shock to faith? Do I not feel things to exist in dreams; and when I wake do I not think that they did not exist? Do I not use the rational consciousness to correct the sensational? Is not this the rule on which I always act in every affair of life? And when I find that the sensational consciousness has deceived me, do I sit down and complain of illusion, or give up hope of knowing? So far from it, I find nothing more natural. Only by such correction can there be harmony between sense and reason. It is the nature of the sensational consciousness to deceive and to demand correction. For if the sensational consciousness have not authority, still it has some cause; and this cause it is the part of the rational consciousness to discover. The problem of philosophy is but this by the exercise of the rational consciousness to discover the cause of the sensational consciousness; and its means is, not to assume an authority anywhere, but to investigate. To my thought, there must be something which

causes my consciousness: how ought I to think of it, and how can its operation to produce my consciousness be traced and understood? If, in this investigation, we may at last come to a limit of our powers, may we not feel well assured we have not reached it yet? What a scope expands around us; what a vista opens before us! How should we know beforehand by what means God has thought fit to cause our consciousness? How should we learn, except by diligent thought and examination directed to this special question? Have we not a well-nigh boundless field to explore before we can say we have earned a right to answer it? For this we must examine well ourselves that we may learn how our own conditions affect our feelings; we must diligently examine the whole phenomena, leaving no part of them unexplored; we must exert our reasoning faculties to the utmost, that we may not suffer contradictions or inconsistencies to pass; we must control our natural impatience, and suspend our judgment resolutely to the last, that we may not assert the dictates of our own ignorance, and dignify with the name of faith what is rather a faithless shrinking from the duty of doubt.

For is it not a marvel that a philosophical theology which seeks to establish as its grand result that man must not suppose he can know what God is, or judge what He may do, has for its foundation this principle:That God must not suffer our consciousness to be erroneous; that He cannot have done so! Is it possible such a superstructure can have been raised on such a basis?

Gratifying as the occupation is, we must forego for the present the satisfaction of assigning limits to the powers of man. This lofty function is not yet ours; it must be the reward of longer labour, of more rational and persevering toil. Our part is humbler.

Our work is, not

to crown the edifice, but to toil in hope and patience at the foundation. Nor need we be discontented with our lot. That longing for a finished work, a result that shall prove to be an end, is an illusion of the mind. Nature knows no such ends: all her ends are means. Let us be content that ours should be so too. That is the truly permanent and complete which is subservient to a larger scheme, and dies into a higher life. The victory which philosophers may win is not that of rounding human thought into a perfect and increscent whole; the crown which they may wear is not a garland for their individual brow. Their task is nobler, their reward more blest. To them it is given to be nothing in themselves; to struggle amid darkness and error towards a light, firmly believed in, though but dimly seen; to gather up the growing elements of thought at each epoch of man's life, and mould them into forms which shall enable their successors to be wiser than themselves. This is their labour, their reward.

failure their success.

Toil unrequited is their glory;

VIII.

THE IDEA OF CREATION.

(May 1860.)

It is time that we should see what God reveals to us in Science, and that is the law to which He submits Himself. Apart from Science, indeed, Nature reveals God. The heavens declare His glory. That which may be known of Him is clearly seen by the things which are made. Under both dispensations, inspiration has invoked Nature's testimony to her Maker. The simple shepherd on the hills of Palestine, and the cultivated Greek, responded to the appeal. Since then, in every age, the same argument has been repeated, and has elicited the same response. We cannot stand awe-stricken in presence of Nature's majesty, we cannot melt before her beauty, and bar our thought, or restrain our homage from the Deity she speaks. He who would say "No God," first turns away from hill and vale, verdant with waving woods or bright with yellow corn; shuts out the sun, the moon, the stars, from converse with his soul; buries himself in closets, where the wooing face of Nature is unseen, her beating heart unheard. There he weaves his chain of argument, constructs his family without a father, his universe that no purpose animates, no will controls; traces laws that reveal no holiness, and bends