mind, and make them add to the objects, or even create the objects. Now, they are no doubt in the mind, but they are there as powers to enable us to apprehend objects. They are in our very constitution as laws, but they are laws in relation to things. They exist as tendencies prior to operation, but when they come into action it is as cognitions, beliefs, and judgments in regard to objects.

But what can metaphysical science do in the way of establishing the reality of objects? Truly it can do very little; and by going beyond its own narrow territory, by trying, for instance, to prove first truths, or get a ground for original principles, it has often exposed itself to most damaging assaults. Still it can do something if it keep within its own impregnable fortress. It can show what our original principles are, how they work, and what they say; and all this surely is matter of great speculative importance, independent of the question as to whether we can confide in their depositions. In particular, it can unfold the process by which the mind attains its convictions, and show how they stand related to things. Thus in consciousness we have the object — that is, self immediately under inspection, so that we might as well deny the existence of the cognitive conviction as of the thing apprehended. Again, in senseperception we have an immediate knowledge of an extended object, and this ever coexisting with the immediate knowledge of self, so that we may as well deny self as the external object perceived by the conscious self. Then our intuitive beliefs are not independent of our knowledge of objects; they all proceed on a cognition, or, as derived from it, an apprehension of objects. It is in contemplating the objects known or conceived that we believe them to have qualities which do not fall

under our immediate inspection; and, if we deny our intuitive beliefs, it must be on principles which would undermine our intuitive knowledge. Again: our intuitive judgments all proceed on our cognitions and beliefs; on comparing objects known or believed in, we perceive them to have certain necessary relations involved in their very nature. Our original convictions thus constitute an organic whole, springing from immediate knowledge as the root, and rising into comparisons and faiths, as the branches and leaves.

As we thus go round about the tower of human knowledge, we find it a compact structure, consolidated from base to summit. He who would attack any part must attack the whole, and he who would attack the whole will find every part strengthening it. The foundation is sure, being well laid; the building is also sure, as being firmly built upon it; and he who would assail the superstructure will find the basis bearing it up throughout.

The objections which may be advanced against the reality of things will be answered in the chapters which follow.

CHAPTER II.

IDEALISM.

I.

THERE are associations in the mind joined with our primitive intellectual and moral exercises. The mirth is not in the merry peal, nor the melancholy in the funereal toll of the bell; nor is the music in the flute or organ, but in the soul which breathes and beats and rings in harmony with the external movements. The view differs according to the point from which men take it, according to men's natural or acquired temperaments, tastes, and characters, and according to the circumstances in which they are placed. How different the estimate which is formed of a neighbor's character, according as he who judges is swayed by kindness or malignity, by charity or suspicion! The scene varies according to the humor in which we happen to be, quite as much as it changes according to the light or atmosphere in which we survey it. Hope gladdens everything as if it were seen under an Italian sky, whereas disappointment wraps it in mist and cloud. Joy steeps the whole landscape in its own gay colors, whereas sorrow wraps it as in the sable dress of mourning. Do not such facts, known to all observers of human nature, and dwelt on by poets as being largely their stock-in-trade, prove that in all our ideas, views, notions, opinions, there is a subjective element no less prominent and potent than the objective? And if there be, what limits are we to set to it? Is our metaphysical philosophy agreed with itself on this subject?

Or, with all its refinements, can it draw a decided line which will forever separate the one from the other?

1. All knowledge through the senses is accompanied with an organic feeling, that is, a sensation. Our immediate acquaintance with the external world is always through the organism, and is therefore associated and combined with organic affections pleasing or displeasing. Certain sounds are felt to be harsh or grating; others are relished as being sweet or melodious or harmonious. Some colors, in themselves or in their associations, are felt to be glaring or discordant, while others are enjoyed as being agreeable or exciting. In short, every senseperception is accompanied with a sensation, the perception being the knowledge, and the sensation the bodily affection felt by the conscious mind as present in the organism. He who is no philosopher finds little difficulty in distinguishing the two in practice; and it ought not to be difficult for the man who is a philosopher to distinguish the two in theory. Every man can distinguish the sugar in itself from the sweet flavor which we have in our mouth when we taste it, or the tooth and gum from the toothache which is wrenching them; and the metaphysician is only giving a philosophic expression to a natural difference when he distinguishes between sensation and perception.

2. Certain mental representations are accompanied with emotion. Thus the apprehension of evil as about to come on us, or those whom we love, raises up fear; the contemplation of good, on the other hand, as likely to accrue to us, or those in whom we feel an interest, excites hope. This is only one example of the kind of emotions which attach themselves to all mental pictures of objects, as having brought, or as now bringing, or as likely to bring, pleasure or pain, or any other sort of good or evil,

and which steep the objects in their own fluid, and impart to them their peculiar hue. Hence the gloom cast over scenes fair enough in themselves, as by a dark shadow the effect of the interposition of a gloomy self obstructing the light; hence the splendor poured over perhaps the very same scenes at other times, as by light streaming through our feelings, as through stained glass or irradiated clouds. Hence the pleasure we feel in certain contemplations, and the pain called forth by others. Hence the fear that depresses, that arrests all energy, and at last sinks its victim; hence the hope which buoys up, which cheers and leads to deeds of daring and of heroism. But while the two are blended in one mental affection in the mind, it is not difficult, after all, to distinguish between the object known and the accompanying emotion; between the trumpet sounding and the martial spirit excited by it; between the canvas and oil of Titian and the feeling which his ascending Mary raises within us, glowing and attractive as the splendors of the dying day; between our friend as he is in himself and the deep and tender regard which we must entertain towards him.

3. Certain ideas are associated with other ideas which raise emotions. It does not concern us at present to explain the nature of the laws which govern the succession of our ideas. It is certain that ideas which have at any time been together in our mind, either simultaneously or successively, in a concrete or complex state, will tend to call forth each other; and an idea which has no emotion attached may come notwithstanding to raise up feeling through the idea with which it is associated, and which never can come without sentiment. Thermopylæ, Bannockburn, and Waterloo look uninteresting enough places to the eye, and to those who may be ignorant of