by
SAMPSON REED
boston and new york houghton, mifflin and company
The Riverside Press, Cambridge
1886
Copyright, 1885, by james reed
All rights reserved.
— So build we up the Being that we are; Thus deeply drinking-in the Soul of Things We shall be wise perforce; and while inspired By choice, and conscious that the will is free, Unswerving shall we move, as if impelled By strict necessity, along the path Of order and of good. Whaler we see, Whate'er we feel, by agency direct Or indirect shall tend to feed and nurse Our faculties, shall fix in calmer seats Of moral strength, and raise to loftier heights Of love divine, our intellectual soul."
Wordsworth.
Sampson Reed, the author of this essay, was born in West Bridgewater, Mass., June 10, 1800, and died in Boston, July 8, 1880. He was the youngest son of the Rev. John Reed, D. D., who served as pastor of the First Church in West Bridge-water for more than fifty years. Fitted for college by his father, he entered the Freshman class at Harvard in 1814, and graduated with high honors four years later. The next three years were spent in the Divinity School at Cambridge; but during this time his religious opinions underwent a complete change, unless, indeed, it would more properly be said that they were then first definitely formed. He became a thorough believer in the doctrinal system propounded by Emanuel Swedenborg. Consequently, when his course of theological study was completed, he found himself debarred from all opportunities for preaching; and, being under the necessity of earning his own livelihood, he turned his attention (doubtless with great reluctance) to secular business.
His mercantile career began in the apothecary store of William B. White, Washington near Franklin Street, Boston. There he acquired his first knowledge of an occupation in which he remained during the greater part of his active life, though the retail business with which he commenced was gradually converted into a wholesale one. As a merchant he met with a good degree of success. The house which he was instrumental in founding became one of the leading establishments in the trade, and under the names of different partners has had a continuous existence to the present time.
Mr. Reed was interested in public affairs, and was called upon to fill several state and municipal offices. But his attention, outside of his business, was chiefly given to the church of which he was a member. His early interest in Swedenborg's writings never flagged, and his zeal on their behalf was manifested throughout his lifetime by an untiring devotion to the Boston society of the New Church, whose pastor, for nearly half a century, was his college classmate and chum, the Rev. Thomas Worcester.
With his life thus busily occupied in so many ways, it was not strange that he found but little leisure for literary pursuits. He was a frequent contributor to a monthly periodical, — the "New Jerusalem Magazine," — and for a considerable time its editor. He also edited the "New Church Magazine for Children," during a long series of years. Shortly before his death he published a biography of his old friend and pastor, Dr. Worcester. But with this and one other slight exception the "Growth of the Mind" was the only complete book which he gave to the public. His magazine articles, however, were prepared with much thought and care, and many of them are regarded by his friends as of great value.
The "Growth of the Mind" was first published in 1826, when its author was but twenty-six years of age. It was written at odd moments during the intervals of business as an apothecary. He first offered it to the "North American Review"; but the editor, Jared Sparks, declined it on the ground of its not being in any sense a book notice, and advised its publication as a separate volume. From the first it attracted attention from thoughtful people, and has already passed through seven editions in this country, and at least two in England,
Not to speak of the testimonials from private sources, — which would be almost too numerous to mention, — as to the impression made by this little book, it may not seem amiss to refer to the high estimation in which it was held by Ralph Waldo Emerson. Although there was a wide and acknowledged divergence in the theological opinions respectively held by Mr. Emerson and Mr. Reed, the former omitted no occasion for bringing the " Growth of the Mind" to the notice of his friends. In the year 1834 we find him writing to Rev. James Freeman Clarke: "Have you read Sampson Reed's 'Growth of the Mind'? I rejoice to be contemporary with that man, and cannot wholly despair of the society in which he lives." 1 He lost no time in sending the book to Carlyle as soon as practicable after visiting him and making his acquaintance in the summer of 1833. The very first letters in the published correspondence between the two mention this gift. Emerson describes it as "the little book of my Swedenborgian druggist, of whom I told you;" and Carlyle replies, "He is a faithful thinker, that Swedenborgian druggist of yours, with really deep ideas, who makes me, too, pause and think, were it only to consider what manner of man he must be, and what manner of thing, after all, Swedenborgianism must be." 3 In his answer Emerson writes,
"As you like Sampson Reed, here are one or two more of his papers. Do read them."
No further allusion to the matter seems to be made in this correspondence; but not long afterwards, in a letter presumably written to Dr. J. J. G. Wilkinson, of London, Carlyle expresses himself as follows: —
"Hitherto I have known nearly nothing of Swedenborg; or indeed, I might say less than nothing, having been wont to picture him as an amiable but inane visionary, with affections quite out of proportion to his insight; from whom nothing at all was to be learned. It is so we judge of extraordinary men. But I have been rebuked already. A little book, by one Sampson Reed, of Boston, in New England, which some friend sent hither, taught me that a Swedenborgian might have thoughts of the calmest kind on the deepest things; that, in short, I did not know Swedenborg, and ought to be ready to know him."3
Perhaps the most interesting evidence of the place accorded by Emerson to this little book has been recently afforded by an article in the "Gentleman's Magazine," 4 written shortly after his death. The occasion for the article — which is from the pen of Alexander H. Japp—was the discovery of an old copy of the "Growth of the Mind," which years ago was presented by Emerson to his friend, Dr. Samuel Brown, of Edinburgh. Underneath the title, in Dr. Brown's handwriting, are these words: "The pencil marks of admirable passages are Emerson's, not mine. S. B." From this starting point the writer proceeds to a somewhat lengthy comparison between the thoughts expressed in the treatise under consideration and those to be found in Emerson's own subsequently published works, prefacing his remarks by the observation, "We are fain to think that this little unambitious book, by one whose name is now hardly remembered, had some share in the building up of the genius of Emerson," and concluding as follows: —
" In bringing forward as we have done the name of Sampson Reed in connection with that of Emerson, it will be seen that our only purpose has been to illustrate how in some specific lines his way was prepared for him. We can see where at certain points the two minds met. Emerson efficiently developed and applied what Reed had only suggested; but Emerson would have been the last man to deny that Reed was one of those who sowed seeds, some of which rose to stately flowers in his own garden, and thus attested their inherent value and vitality."
Mr. Reed was not insensible to the interest excited by his modest volume, but instinctively and characteristically shrank from every expression of satisfaction respecting it which might be deemed laudatory of himself. Feeling that the principal value of the thoughts contained in it was derived from the writings of Swedenborg, which were to him the definite and authoritative statement of a complete system of spiritual truth, — the sufficient foundation of a new and higher Christianity, descending, as the new Jerusalem, from God out of heaven, — he could conscientiously do no otherwise than disclaim whatever personal credit might be accorded to him. Hence we find him writing in the preface (herewith published) to the third edition of the work, —
"So far as an author duly feels in whose presence he stands, it can be no source of gratification to him to attract personal admiration or praise. He must regard himself as only a medium of truth from the one only Source of truth, and the forms in which he has been permitted to present it as useful only so far as they are suitable vessels to contain and to communicate it. Truth itself — simple — unadorned — divine— is at the present day revealed, yet noticed and loved by few."
In the spirit of this wise counsel the present writer desires to send forth the little book afresh, trusting that its mission is not yet ended, but that it may long continue to give help to those who love truth for its own sake, and seek to be led by it to the Divine Fountain of light and life.
Boston, September, 1885.
Nothing is a more common subject of remark than the changed condition of the world. There is a more extensive intercourse of thought, and a more powerful action of mind upon mind, than formerly. The good and the wise of all nations are brought nearer together, and begin to exert a power, which, though yet feeble as infancy, is felt throughout the globe. Public opinion, that helm which directs the progress of events by which the world is guided to its ultimate destination, has received a new direction. The mind has attained an upward and onward look, and is shaking off the errors and prejudices of the past. The structure of the feudal ages, the ornament of the desert, has been exposed to the light of heaven; and continues to be gazed at for its ugliness, as it ceases to be admired for its antiquity. The world is deriving vigor, not from that which has gone by, but from that which is coming; not from the unhealthy moisture of the evening, but from the nameless influences of the morning. The loud call on the past to instruct us, as it falls on the Rock of Ages, comes back in echo from the future. Both mankind, and the laws and principles by which they are governed, seem about to be redeemed from slavery. The moral and intellectual character of man has undergone, and is undergoing, a change; and as this is effected, it must change the aspect of all things, as when the position-point is altered from which a landscape is viewed. We appear to be approaching an age which will be the silent pause of merely physical force before the powers of the mind; the timid, subdued, awed condition of the brute, gazing on the erect and godlike form of man.
These remarks with respect to the present era are believed to be just, when it is viewed on the bright side. They are not made by one who is insensible to its evils. Least of all, are they intended to countenance that feeling of self-admiration, which carries with it the seeds of premature disease and deformity; for to be proud of the truth is to cease to possess it. Since the fall of man, nothing has been more difficult for him than to know his real condition, since every departure from divine order is attended with a loss of the knowledge of what it is. When our first parents left the garden of Eden, they took with them no means by which they might measure the depths of degradation to which they fell; no chart by which they might determine their moral longitude.
Most of our knowledge implies relation and comparison. It is not difficult for one age, or one individual, to be compared with another; but this determines only their relative condition. The actual condition of man can be seen only from the relation in which he stands to his immutable Creator; and this relation is discovered from the light of revelation, so far as, by conforming to the precepts of revelation, it is permitted to exist according to the laws of divine order. It is not sufficient that the letter of the Bible is in the world. This may be, and still mankind continue in ignorance of themselves. It must be obeyed from the heart to the hand. The book must be eaten, and constitute the living flesh. When only the relative condition of the world is regarded, we are apt to exult over other ages and other men, as if we ourselves were a different order of beings, till at length we are enveloped in the very mists from which we are proud of being cleared. But when the relative state of the world is justly viewed from the real state of the individual, the scene is lighted from the point of the beholder with the chaste light of humility which never deceives; it is not forgotten that the way lies forward; the cries of exultation cease to be heard in the march of progression, and the mind, in whatever it learns of the past and the present, finds food for improvement, and not for vainglory.
As all the changes which are taking place in the world originate in the mind, it might be naturally expected that nothing would change more than the mind itself, and whatever is connected with a description of it. While men have been speculating concerning their own powers, the sure but secret influence, of revelation has been gradually changing the moral and intellectual character of the world, and the ground on which they were standing has passed from under them, almost while their words were in their mouths. The powers of the mind are most intimately connected with the subjects by which they are occupied. We cannot think of the will without feeling, of the understanding without thought, or of the imagination without something like poetry. The mind is visible when it is active; and as the subjects on which it is engaged are changed, the powers themselves present a different aspect. New classifications arise, and new names are given. What was considered simple is thought to consist of distinct parts, till at length the philosopher hardly knows whether the African be of the same or a different species; and though the soul is thought to continue after death, angels are universally considered a distinct class of intellectual beings. Thus it is that there is nothing fixed in the philosophy of the mind. It is said to be a science which is not demonstrative; and though now thought to be brought to a state of great perfection, another century, under the providence of God, and nothing will be found in the structure which has cost so much labor, but the voice, " He is not here, but is risen."
Is, then, everything that relates to the immortal part of man fleeting and evanescent, while the laws of physical nature remain unaltered? Do things become changeable as we approach the immutable and the eternal? Far otherwise. The laws of the mind are in themselves as fixed and perfect as the laws of matter; but they are laws from which we have wandered. There is a philosophy of the mind, founded not on the aspect it presents in any part or in any period of the world, but on its immutable relations to its first cause; a philosophy equally applicable to man, before or after he has passed the valley of the shadow of death; not dependent on time or place, but immortal as its subject. The light of this philosophy has begun to beam faintly on the world, and mankind will yet see their own moral and intellectual nature by the light of revelation, as it shines through the moral and intellectual character it shall have itself created. It may be remarked, also, that the changes in the sciences and the arts are entirely the effect of revelation. To revelation it is to be ascribed, that the genius which has taught the laws of the heavenly bodies, and analyzed the material world, did not spend itself in drawing the bow or in throwing the lance, in the chase or in war; and that the vast powers of Handel did not burst forth in the wild notes of the war-song. His the tendency of revelation to give a right direction to every power of every mind; and when this is effected, inventions and discoveries will follow of course, all things assume a different aspect, and the world itself again becomes a paradise.
It is the object of the following pages not to be influenced by views of a temporal or local nature, but to look at the mind as far as possible in its essential revealed character, and beginning with its powers of acquiring and retaining truth, to trace summarily that development which is required, in order to render it truly useful and happy.
It is said, the powers of acquiring and retaining truth, because truth is not retained without some continued exertion of the same powers by which it is acquired. There is the most intimate connection of the memory with the affections. This connection is obvious from many familiar expressions; such as remember me to any one, by which is signified a desire to be borne in his or her affections—do not forget me, by which is meant do not cease to love me —get by heart, which means to commit to memory. It is also obvious from observation of our own minds; from the constant recurrence of those subjects which we most love, and the extreme difficulty of detaching our own minds or the minds of others from a favorite pursuit. It is obvious from the power of attention on which the memory principally depends, which, if the subject have a place in our affections, requires no effort; if it have not, the effort consists principally in giving it a real or an artificial hold of our feelings; as it is possible, if we do not love a subject, to attend to it, because it may add to our fame or our wealth. It is obvious from the never-fading freshness retained by the scenes of childhood, when the feelings are strong and vivid, through the later periods of life. As the old man looks back on the road of his pilgrimage, many years of active life lie unseen in the valley, as his eye rests on the rising ground of his younger days; presenting a beautiful illustration of the manner in which the human mind, when revelation shall have accomplished its work, shall no longer regard the scene of sin and misery behind, but having completed the circle, shall rest, as next to the present moment, on the golden age, the infancy of the world.
The connection of the memory with the affections is also obvious from the association of ideas; since the train of thoughts suggested by any scene or event in any individual, depends on his own peculiar and prevailing feelings; as whatever enters into the animal system, wherever it may arise, seems first to be recognized as a part of the man, when it has found its way to the heart, and received from that its impulse. It is but a few years, (how strange to tell!) since man discovered that the blood circulated through the human body. We have, perhaps, hardly learned the true nature ot that intellectual circulation, which gives life and health to the human mind. The affections are to the soul, what the heart is to the body. They send forth their treasures with a vigor not less powerful, though not material, throughout the intellectual man, strengthening and nourishing; and again receive those treasures to themselves, enlarged by the effect of their own operation.
Memory is the effect of learning, through whatever avenue it may have entered the mind. It is said, the effect, because the man who has read a volume, and can perhaps tell you nothing of its contents, but simply express his own views on the same subject with more clearness and precision, may as truly be said to have remembered, as he that can repeat the very words. In the one case, the powers of the mind have received a new tone; in the other, they are encumbered with a useless burden-in the one, they are made stronger; in the other, they are more oppressed with weight— in the one, the food is absorbed and becomes a part of the man; in the other, it lies on the stomach in a state of crude indigestion.
There is no power more various in different individuals, than the memory. This may be ascribed to two reasons. First, this partakes of every power of the mind, since every mental exertion is a subject of memory, and may therefore be said to indicate all the difference that actually exists. Secondly, this power varies in its character as it has more or less to do with time. Simple divine truth has nothing to do with time. It is the same yesterday, to-day, and forever. The memory of this is simply the development of the mind. But we are so surrounded by facts of a local and temporal nature; the place where, and the time when, make so great a part of what is presented to our consideration, that the attribute is mistaken for the subject; and this power sometimes appears to have exclusive reference to time, though, strictly speaking, it has no relation to it. There is a power of growth in the spiritual man, and if in his progress we be able to mark, as in the grain of the oak, the number of the years, this is only a circumstance, and all that is gained would be as real if no such lines existed. The mind ought not to be limited by the short period of its own duration in the body, with a beginning and end comprising a few years; it should be poised on its own immortality, and what is learned, should be learned with a view to that real adaptation of knowledge to the mind which results from the harmony of creation; and whenever or whereever we exist, it will be useful to us.
The memory has, in reality, nothing to do with time, any more than the eye has with space. As the latter learns by experience to measure the distance of objects, so the consciousness of the present existence of states of mind, is referred to particular periods of the past. But when the soul has entered on its eternal state, there is reason to believe that the past and the future will be swallowed up in the present; that memory and anticipation will be lost in consciousness; that everything of the past will be comprehended in the present, without any reference to time, and everything of the future will exist in the divine effort of progression.
What is time? There is perhaps no question that would suggest such a variety of answers. It is represented to us from our infancy as producing such important changes, both in destroying some, and in healing the wounds it has inflicted on others, that people generally imagine, if not an actual person, it is at least a real existence. We begin with time in the Primer, and end with reasoning about the foreknowledge of God. What is time? The difficulty of answering the question, (and there are few questions more difficult,) arises principally from our having ascribed so many important effects to that which has no real existence. It is true that all things in the natural world are subject to change. But however these changes may be connected in our minds with time, it requires but a moment's reflection to see that time has no agency in them. They are the effects of chemical, or more properly, perhaps, of natural decompositions and reorganizations. Time, or rather our idea of it, so far from having produced anything, is itself the effect of changes. There are certain operations in nature, which, depending on fixed laws, are in themselves perfectly regular; if all things were equally so, the question how long? might never be asked. We should never speak of a late season, or of premature old age; but everything passing on in an invariable order, all the idea of time that would remain with respect to any object, would be a sort of instinctive sense of its condition, its progress or decay. But most of the phenomena in the natural world are exceedingly irregular; for though the same combination of causes would invariably produce the same effect, the same combination very rarely occurs. Hence, in almost every change, and we are conversant with nothing but changes, we are assisted in ascertaining its nature and extent, by referring it to something in itself perfectly regular. We find this regularity in the apparent motions of the sun and moon. It is difficult to tell how much our idea of time is the effect of artificial means of keeping it, and what would be our feelings on the subject, if left to the simple operations of nature—but they would probably be little else than a reference of all natural phenomena to that on which they principally depend, the relative situation of the sun and earth; and the idea of an actual succession of moments would be, in a measure, resolved into that of cause and effect.
Eternity is to the mind what time is to nature. We attain a perception of it, by regarding all the operations in the world within us, as they exist in relation to their first cause; for in doing this, they are seen to partake somewhat of the nature of that Being on whom they depend. We make no approaches to a conception of it, by heaping day upon day or year upon year. This is merely an accumulation of time; and we might as well attempt to convey an idea of mental greatness by that of actual space, as to communicate a conception of eternity by years or thousands of years. Mind and matter are not more distinct from each other than their properties; and by an attempt to embrace all time, we are actually farther from an approach to eternity than when we confine ourselves to a single instant; because we merely collect the largest possible amount of natural changes, whereas that which is eternal approaches that which is immutable. This resembles the attempt to ascend to heaven by means of the tower of Babel, in which they were removed by their pride from that which they would have approached, precisely in proportion to their apparent progress. It is impossible to conceive of either time or space without matter. The reason is, they are the effect of matter; and as it is by creating matter that they are produced, so it is by thinking of it that they are conceived of. It need not be said how exceedingly improper it is to apply the usual ideas of time and space to the Divine Being; making him subject to that which he creates.
Still our conceptions of time, of hours, days, or years, are among the most vivid we possess, and we neither wish nor find it easy to call them in question. We are satisfied with the fact, that time is indicated on the face of the watch, without seeking for it among the wheels and machinery. But what is the idea of a year? Every natural change that comes under our observation leaves a corresponding impression on the mind; and the sum of the changes which come under a single revolution of the earth round the sun, conveys the impression of a year. Accordingly, we find that our idea of a year is continually changing, as the mind becomes conversant with different objects, and is susceptible of different impressions; and the days of the old man, as they draw near their close, seem to gather rapidity from their approach to the other world. We have all experienced the effect of pleasure and pain in accelerating and retarding the passing moments; and since our feelings are constantly changing, we have no reason to doubt that they constantly produce a similar effect, though it may not be often noticed. The divisions of time, then, however real they may seem to be, and however well they may serve the common purposes of conversation, cannot be supposed to convey the same impression to any two minds, nor to any one mind in different periods of its existence. Indeed, unless this were the fact, all artificial modes of keeping it, would be unnecessary. Time, then, is nothing real so far as it exists in our own minds.
Nor do we find a nearer approach to reality by any analysis of nature. Everything, as was said, is subject to change, and one change prepares the way for another; by which there is growth and decay. There are also motions of the bodies, both in nature and art, which in their operation observe fixed laws; and here we end. The more we enter into an analysis of things, the farther are we from finding anything that answers to the distinctness and reality which are usually attached to a conception of time, and there is reason to believe that when this distinctness and reality are most deeply rooted, (whatever may be the theory,) they are uniformly attended with a practical belief of the actual motion of the sun, and are indeed the effect of it. Let us then continue to talk of time, as we talk of the rising and setting of the sun; but let us think rather of those changes in their origin and effect, from which a sense of time is produced. This will carry us one degree nearer the actual condition of things; it will admit us one step further into the temple of creation—no longer a temple created six thousand years ago, and deserted by him who formed it; but a temple with the hand of the builder resting upon it, perpetually renewing, perpetually creating—and as we bow ourselves to worship the "I AM," "Him who liveth forever and ever, who created heaven and the things that are therein, and the earth and the things that are therein, and the sea and the things that are therein," we may hear in accents of divine love the voice that proclaims " that there shall be time no longer."
It is not the living productions of nature, by which the strongest impression of time is produced. The oak, over which may have passed a hundred years, seems to drive from our minds the impression of time, by the same power by which it supports its own life, and resists every tendency to decay It is that which is decayed, though it may have been the offspring of an hour; it is the rained castle mouldering into dust; still more, if the contrast be strengthened by its being covered with the living productions of nature; it is the half consumed remains of some animal once strong and vigorous, the discoveries of the undertaker, or the filthy relics of the catacomb, by which the strongest impression of time is conveyed. So it is with the possessions of the mind. It is that which is not used, which seems farthest in the memory, and which is held by the most doubtful tenure; that which is suffered to waste and decay because it wants the life of our own affections; that which we are about to lose, because it does not properly belong to us : whereas that truth, which is applied to the use and service of mankind, acquires a higher polish the more it is thus employed, like the angels of heaven, who forever approximate to a state of perfect youth, beauty, and innocence. It is not a useless task, then, to remove from our minds the usual ideas of time, and cultivate a memory of things. It is to leave the mind in the healthy, vigorous, and active possession of all its attainments, and exercise of all its powers; it is to remove from it, that only which contains the seeds of decay and putrefaction; to separate the living from the dead; to take from it the veil by which it would avoid the direct presence of Jehovah, and preserve its own possessions without using them.
Truth, all truth is practical. It is impossible, from its nature and origin, that it should be otherwise. Whether its effect be directly to change the conduct, or it simply leave an impression on the heart, it is in the strictest sense practical. It should rather be our desire to use what we learn, than to remember it. If we desire to use it, we shall remember it of course; if we wish merely to remember, it is possible we may never use it. It is the tendency of all truth to effect some object. If we look at this object, it will form a distinct and permanent image on the mind; if we look merely at the truth, it will vanish away, like rays of light falling into vacancy.
Keeping in view what has been said on the subject of time, then, the mind is presented to us, as not merely active in the acquirement of truth, but active in its possession. The memory is the fire of the vestal virgins, sending forth perpetual light; not the grave which preserves simply because annihilation is impossible. The reservoir of knowledge should be seated in the affections, sending forth its influence throughout the mind, and terminating in word and deed, if I may be allowed the expression, merely because its channels and outlets are situated below the watermark.
There prevails a most erroneous sentiment, that the mind is originally vacant, and requires only to be filled up; and there is reason to believe, that this opinion is most intimately connected with false conceptions of time. The mind is originally a most delicate germ, whose husk is the body; planted in this world, that the light and heat of heaven may fall upon it with a gentle radiance, and call forth its energies. The process of learning is not by synthesis or analysis. It is the most perfect illustration of both. As subjects are presented to the operation of the mind, they are decomposed and reorganized in a manner peculiar to itself, and not easily explained.
Another object of the preceding remarks upon time is, that we may be impressed with the immediate presence and agency of God, without which a correct understanding of mind or matter can never be attained; that we may be able to read on every power of the mind, and on every particle of matter, the language of our Lord, "My Father worketh hitherto, and I work." We usually put the Divine Being to an immense distance, by supposing that the world was created many years ago, and subject to certain laws, by which it has since been governed. We find ourselves capable of constructing machines, which move on without our assistance, and imagine that the world was constructed in the same way. We forget that the motions of our machines depend on the uniform operation of what we call the laws of nature; and that there can be nothing beyond, on which these depend, unless it be the agency of that Being from whom they exist. The pendulum of the clock continues to move from the uniform operation of gravitation. It is no explanation, to say that it is a law of our machinery that the pendulum should move. We simply place things in a situation to be acted upon by an all-pervading power; but what all-pervading power is there by which gravitation is itself produced, unless it be the power of God?
The tendency of bodies to the earth, is something with which from our childhood we have been so familiar; something which we have regarded so much as a cause, since, in a certain sense, it is the cause of all the motions with which we are acquainted; that it is not agreeable to our habits of thinking, to look at it as an effect. Even the motions of the heavenly bodies seem completely accounted for, by simply extending to these phenomena, the feelings with which we have been accustomed to regard the tendency of bodies to the earth; whereas, if the two things were communicated at the same period of life, they would appear equally wonderful. An event appears to be explained, when it is brought within the pale of those youthful feelings and associations, which in their simplicity do not ask the reason of things. There is formed in the mind of the child, from his most familiar observations, however imperfect they may be, as it were a little nucleus, which serves as the basis of his future progress. This usually comprises a large proportion of those natural appearances, which the philosopher in later periods of life finds it most difficult to explain. The child grows up in his father's house and collects and arranges the most familiar operations and events. Into this collection he afterwards receives whatever history or science may communicate, and still feels at home; a feeling with which wonder is never associated.
This is not altogether as it should be. It is natural for the mature mind to ask the cause of things. It is unsatisfied when it does not find one, and can hardly exclude the thought of that Being, from whom all things exist. When therefore we have gone beyond the circle of youthful knowledge, and found a phenomenon in nature, which in its insulated state fills us with the admiration of God; let us beware how we quench this feeling. Let us rather transfer something of this admiration to those phenomena of the same class, which have not hitherto directed our minds beyond the fact of their actual existence. As the mind extends the boundaries of its knowledge, let a holy reference to God descend into its youthful treasures. That light which in the distance seemed to be a miraculous blaze, as it falls on our own native hills may still seem divine, but will not surprise us; and a sense of the constant presence of God will be happily blended with the most perfect freedom.
Till the time of Newton, the motion of the heavenly bodies was indeed a miracle. It was an event which stood alone, and was probably regarded with peculiar reference to the Divine Being. The feeling of worship with which they had previously been regarded, had subsided into a feeling of wonder; till at length they were received into the family of our most familiar associations. There is one step further. It is to regard gravitation, wherever it may be found, as an effect of the constant agency of the Divine Being, and from a consciousness of his presence and cooperation in every step we take, literally "to walk humbly with our God." It is agreeable to the laws of moral and intellectual progression, that all phenomena, whether of matter or mind, should become gradually classified; till at length all things, wherever they are found; all events, whether of history or experience, of mind or matter; shall at once conspire to form one stupendous miracle, and cease to be such. They will form a miracle in that they are seen to depend constantly and equally on the power of the Lord; and they will cease to be a miracle in that the power which pervades them, is so constant, so uniform, and so mild in its operation, that it produces nothing of fear, nothing of surprise. From whatever point we contemplate the scene, we feel that we are still in our Father's house; go where we will, the paternal roof, the broad canopy of heaven, is extended over us.
It is agreeable to our nature, that the mind should be particularly determined to one object. The eye appears to be the point at which the united rays of the sun within and the sun without, converge to an expression of unity; and accordingly the understanding can be conscious of but one idea or image at a time. Still there is another and a different kind of consciousness which pervades the mind, which is coextensive with everything it actually possesses. There is but one object in nature on which the eye looks directly, but the whole body is pervaded with nerves which convey perpetual information of the existence and condition of every part. So it is with the possessions of the mind; and when an object ceases to be the subject of this kind of consciousness, it ceases to be remembered. The memory, therefore, as was said, is not a dormant, but an active power. It is rather the possession than the retention of truth. It is a consciousness of the will; a consciousness of character; a consciousness which is produced by the mind's preserving in effort, whatever it actually possesses. It is the power which the mind has of preserving truth, without actually making it the subject of thought; bearing a relation to thought, analogous to what this bears to the actual perception of the senses, or to language. Thus we remember a distant object without actually thinking of it, in the same way that we think of it, without actually seeing it.
The memory is not limited, because to the affections, viewed simply as such, number is not applicable. They become distinct and are classified, when connected with truths, or, from being developed, are applied to their proper objects. Love may be increased, but not multiplied. A man may feel intensely, and the quantity and quality of his feeling may affect the character of his thought, but still it preserves its unity. The most ardent love is not attended with more than one idea, but on the contrary has a tendency to confine the mind to a single object. Every one must have remarked, that a peculiar state of feeling belongs to every exercise of the understanding; unless somewhat of this feeling remained after the thought had passed away, there would be nothing whereby the latter could be recalled. The impression thus left, exists continually in the mind; though, as different objects engage the attention, it may become less vivid. These impressions go to comprise the character of an individual; especially when they have acquired a reality and fixedness, in consequence of the feelings in which they originated, having resulted in the actions to which they tend. They enter into every subject about which we are thinking, and the particular modification they receive from that subject gives them the appearance of individuality; while they leave on the subject itself, the image of that character which they constitute.
When a man has become acquainted with any science, that state of the affections which properly belongs to this science, (whatever direction his mind may take afterwards,) still maintains a certain influence; and this influence is the creative power by which his knowledge on the subject is reproduced. Such impressions are to the mind, what logarithms are in numbers; preserving our knowledge in its fulness indeed, but before it has expanded into an infinite variety of thoughts. Brown remarks, "We will the existence of certain ideas, it is said, and they arise in consequence of our volition; though assuredly to will any idea is to know that we will, and therefore to be conscious of that very idea, which we surely need not desire to know, when we already know it so well as to will its actual existence." The author does not discriminate between looking at an object and thence desiring it, and simply that condition of feeling between which and certain thoughts there is an established relation, so that the former cannot exist to any considerable degree without producing the latter. Of this exertion of the will, every one must have been conscious in his efforts of recollection. Of this exertion of the will, the priest must be conscious, when, (if he be sincere,) by the simple prostration of his heart before his Maker, his mind is crowded with the thoughts and language of prayer. Of this exertion of the will, the poet must be conscious, when he makes bare his bosom for the reception of nature, and presents her breathing with his own life and soul. But it is needless to illustrate that of which every one must be sensible.
It follows from these views of the subject, that the true way to store the memory is to develop the affections. The mind must grow, not from external accretion, but from an internal principle. Much may be done by others in aid of its development; but in all that is done it should not be forgotten that, even from its earliest infancy, it possesses a character and a principle of freedom, which should be respected, and cannot be destroyed. Its peculiar propensities may be discerned, and proper nutriment and culture supplied; but the infant plant, not less than the aged tree, must be permitted, with its own organs of absorption, to separate that which is peculiarly adapted to itself; otherwise it will be cast off as a foreign substance, or produce nothing but rottenness and deformity.
The science of the mind itself will be the effect of its own development. This is merely an attendant consciousness, which the mind possesses, of the growth of its own powers; and therefore, it would seem, need not be made a distinct object of study. Thus the power of reason may be imperceptibly developed by the study of the demonstrative sciences. As it is developed, the pupil becomes conscious of its existence and its use. This is enough. He can in fact learn nothing more on the subject. If he learns to use his reason, what more is desired? Surely it were useless, and worse than useless, to shut up the door of the senses, and live in indolent and laborious contemplation of one's own powers; when, if anything is learned truly, it must be what these powers are, and therefore that they ought not to be thus employed. The best affections we possess will find their home in the objects around us, and, as it were, enter into and animate the whole rational, animal, and vegetable world. If the eye were turned inward to a direct contemplation of these affections, it would find them bereft of all their loveliness; for when they are active, it is not of them we are thinking, but of the objects on which they rest. The science of the mind, then, will be the effect of all the other sciences. Can the child grow up in active usefulness, and not be conscious of the possession and use of his own limbs? The body and the mind should grow together, and form the sound and perfect man, whose understanding may be almost measured by his stature. The mind will see itself in what it loves and is able to accomplish. Its own works will be its mirror; and when it is present in the natural world, feeling the same spirit which gives life to every object by which it is surrounded, in its very union with nature it will catch a glimpse of itself, like that of pristine beauty united with innocence, at her own native fountain.
What then is that development which the nature of the human mind requires? What is that education which has heaven for its object, and such a heaven as will be the effect of the orderly growth of the spiritual man? As all minds possess that in common which makes them human, they require to a certain extent the same general development, by which will be brought to view the same powers, however distinct and varied they may be found in different individuals; and as every mind possesses something peculiar, to which it owes its character and its effect, it requires a particular development by which may be produced a full, sincere, and humble expression of its natural features, and the most vigorous and efficient exertion of its natural powers. These make one, so far as regards the individual.
Those sciences which exist embodied in the natural world, appear to have been designed to occupy the first place in the development of all minds, or in that which might be called the general development of the mind. These comprise the laws of the animal, vegetable, and mineral kingdoms. The human mind, being as it were planted in nature by its heavenly Father, was designed to enter into matter, and detect knowledge, for its own purposes of growth and nutrition. This gives us a true idea of memory, or rather of what memory should be. We no longer think of a truth as being laid up in a mind for which it has no affinity, and by which it is perhaps never to be used; but the latent affections, as they expand under proper culture, absolutely require the truth to receive them, and its first use is the very nutriment it affords. It is not more difficult for the tree to return to the seed from which it sprung, than for the man who has learned thus, to cease to remember. The natural sciences are the basis of all useful knowledge, alike important to man in whatever time, place, or condition he is found. They are coeval with our race, and must continue so long as the sun, moon, and stars endure. Before there were facts for the pen of history to record, or vices for the arm of law to restrain, or nations for the exhibition of institutions for the government of themselves and intercourse with each other, at the very creation, these were pronounced good in the general benediction; and when history shall have finished her tale of sin and woe, and law shall have punished her millions of offenders, and civil society shall have assumed every possible form, they will remain the same as when presented in living characters to the first parents of the human race.
Natural philosophy seems almost essential to an enlightened independence of thought and action. A man may lean upon others, and be so well supported by an equal pressure in all directions, as to be apparently dependent on no one; but his independence is apt to degenerate into obstinacy, or betray itself in weakness, unless his mind is fixed on this unchanging basis. A knowledge of the world may give currency to his sentiments, and plausibility to his manners; but it is more frequently a knowledge of the world that gives light to the path, and stability to the purposes. By the one he may learn what coin is current, by the other what possesses intrinsic value. The natural world was precisely and perfectly adapted to invigorate and strengthen the intellectual and moral man. Its first and highest use was not to support the vegetables which adorn, or the animals which cover, its surface; nor yet to give sustenance to the human body;—it has a, higher and holier object, in the attainment of which these are only means. It was intended to draw forth and mature the latent energies of the soul; to impart to them its own verdure and freshness; to initiate them into its own mysteries; and by its silent and humble 'dependence on its Creator, to leave on them, when it is withdrawn by death, the full impression of his likeness.
It was the design of Providence, that the infant mind should possess the germ of every science. If it were not so, they could hardly be learned. The care of God provides for the flower of the field a place wherein it may grow, regale with its fragrance, and delight with its beauty. Is his providence less active over those to whom this flower offers its incense? No. The soil which produces the vine in its most healthy luxuriance is not better adapted to the end, than the world we inhabit to draw forth the latent energies of the soul, and fill them with life and vigor. As well might the eye see without light, or the ear hear without sound, as the human mind be healthy and athletic without descending into the natural world and breathing the mountain air. Is there aught in eloquence, which warms the heart? She draws her fire from natural imagery. Is there aught in poetry, to enliven the imagination? There is the secret of all her power. Is there aught in science to add strength and dignity to the human mind? The natural world is only the body, of which she is the soul. In books, science is presented to the eye of the pupil, as it were in a dried and preserved state; the time may come when the instructor will take him by the hand, and lead him by the running streams, and teach him all the principles of science as she comes from her Maker, as he would smell the fragrance of the rose without gathering it.
This love of nature, this adaptation of man to the place assigned him by his heavenly Father, this fulness of the mind as it descends into the works of God, is something which has been felt by every one, though to an imperfect degree; and therefore needs no explanation. It is the part of science, that this be no longer a blind affection; but that the mind be opened to a just perception of what it is which it loves. The affection which the lover first feels for his future wife, may be attended only by a general sense of her external beauty; but his mind gradually opens to a perception of the peculiar features of the soul, of which the external appearance is only an image. So it is with nature. Do we love to gaze on the sun, the moon, the stars, and the planets? This affection contains in its bosom the whole science of astronomy, as the seed contains the future tree. It is the office of the instructor to give it an existence and a name, by making known the laws which govern the motions of the heavenly bodies, the relation of these bodies to each other, and their uses. Have we felt delight in beholding the animal creation, in watching their pastimes and their labors? It is the office of the instructor to give birth to this affection, by teaching the different classes of animals, with their peculiar characteristics, which inhabit the earth, air, and sea. Have we known the inexpressible pleasure of beholding the beauties of the vegetable world? This affection can only expand in the science of botany. Thus it is that the love of nature in the mass, may become the love of all the sciences, and the mind will grow and bring forth fruit from its own inherent power of development. Thus it is that memory refers to the growth and expansion of the mind; and what is thus, as it were, incorporated into its substance, can be forgotten only by a change in the direction of the affections, or the course of conduct of the individual analogous to that in his physical man, by which his very flesh and bones are exchanged for those of a different texture; nor does he then entirely cease to remember, in as much as he preserves a sense of his own identity.
It is in this way the continual endeavor of Providence, that the natural sciences should be the spontaneous production of the human mind. To these should certainly be added, poetry and music; for when we study the works of God as we should, we cannot disregard that inherent beauty and harmony in which these arts originate. These occasion in the mind its first glow of delight, like the taste of food, as it is offered to the mouth; and the pleasure they afford, is a pledge of the strength and manhood afterwards imparted by the sciences.
By poetry is meant all those illustrations of truth by natural imagery, which spring from the fact, that this world is the mirror of Him who made it. Strictly speaking, nothing has less to do with fiction than poetry. The day will come, and it may not be far distant, when this art will have another test of merit than mere versification, or the invention of strange stories; when the laws by which poetry is tested will be as fixed and immutable as the laws of science; when a change will be introduced into taste corresponding to that which Bacon introduced into philosophy, by which both will be confined within the limits of things as they actually exist. It would seem that genius would be cramped; that the powers of invention would be destroyed; by confining the human mind, as it were, at home, within the bounds which nature has assigned. But what wider scope need it have? It reaches the throne of God; it rests on his footstool. All things spiritual and natural are before it. There is as much that is true as false; and truth presented in natural imagery, is only dressed in the garments which God has given it.
The imagination was permitted for ages to involve the world in darkness, by putting theory in the place of fact; till at length the greatest man revealed the simplest truth, that our researches must be governed by actual observation. God is the source of all truth. Creation (and what truth does not result from creation?) is the effect of the Divine Love and Wisdom. Simply to will and to think, with the Divine Being, result in creating; in actually producing those realities, which form the groundwork of the thoughts and affections of man. But for the philosopher to desire a thing, and to think that it existed, produced nothing but his own theory. Hence it was necessary that he should bring his mind into coincidence with things as they exist, or, in other words, with the truth.
Fiction in poetry must fall with theory in science, for they depend equally on the works of creation. The word fiction, however, is not intended to be used in its most literal sense; but to embrace whatever is not in exact agreement with the creative spirit of God. It belongs to the true poet to feel this spirit, and to be governed by it; to be raised above the senses; to live and breathe in the inward efforts of things; to feel the power of creation, even before he sees the effect; to witness the innocence and smiles of nature's infancy, not by extending the imagination back to chaos, but by raising the soul to nature's origin. The true poetic spirit, so far from misleading any, is the strongest bulwark against deception. It is the soul of science. Without it, the latter is a cheerless, heartless study, distrusting even the presence and power of Him to whom it owes its existence. Of all the poetry which exists, that only possesses the seal of immortality, which presents the image of God which is stamped on nature. Could the poetry which now prevails be viewed from the future, when all partialities and antipathies shall have passed away, and things are left to rest on their own foundations; when good works shall have dwindled into insignificance, from the mass of useless matter that may have fallen from them, and bad ones shall have ceased to allure with false beauty; we might catch a glimpse of the rudiments of this divine art, amid the weight of extraneous matter by which it is now protected, and which it is destined to throw off. The imagination will be refined into a chaste and sober view of unveiled nature. It will be confined within the bounds of reality. It will no longer lead the way to insanity and madness, by transcending the works of creation, and, as it were, wandering where God has no power to protect it; but finding a resting-place in every created object, it will enter into it and explore its hidden treasures, the relation in which it stands to mind, and reveal the love it bears to its Creator.
The state of poetry has always indicated the state of science and religion. The gods are hardly missed more, when removed from the temples of the ancients, than they are when taken from their poetry; or than theory is, when taken from their philosophy. Fiction ceases to be pleasing when it ceases to gain credence; and what they admired in itself, commands much of its admiration now, as a relic of antiquity. The painting which in a darkened room only impressed us with the reality, as the sun rises upon it discovers the marks of the pencil; and that shade of the mind can never again return, which gave to ancient poetry its .vividness and its power. Of this we may be sensible, by only considering how entirely powerless it would be, if poetry in all respects similar, were produced at the present day. A man's religious sentiments, and his knowledge of the sciences, are so entirely interwoven with all his associations; they shed such light throughout every region of the mind, that nothing can please which is directly opposed to them;—and though the forms which poetry may offer may sometimes be presented where this light begins to sink into obscurity, they should serve, like the sky and the clouds, as a relief to the eye, and not, like some unnatural body protruding on the horizon, disturb the quiet they are intended to produce. When there shall be a religion which shall see God in everything, and at all times; and the natural sciences, not less than nature itself, shall be regarded in connection with Him; the fire of poetry will begin to be kindled in its immortal part, and will burn without consuming. The inspiration so often feigned, will become real, and the mind of the poet will feel the spark which passes from God to nature. The veil will be withdrawn, and beauty and innocence displayed to the eye; for which the lasciviousness of the imagination and the wantonness of desire may seek in vain.
There is a language not of words, but of things. When this language shall have been made apparent, that which is human will have answered its end; and being as it were resolved into its original elements, will lose itself in nature. The use of language is the expression of our feelings and desires— the manifestation of the mind. But everything which is, whether animal or vegetable, is full of the expression of that use for which it is designed, as of its own existence. If we did but understand its language, what could our words add to its meaning? It is because we are unwilling to hear, that we find it necessary to say so much; and we drown the voice of nature with the discordant jargon of ten thousand dialects. Let a man's language be confined to the expression of that which actually belongs to his own mind; and let him respect the smallest blade which grows, and permit it to speak for itself. Then may there be poetry, which may not be written perhaps, but which may be felt as a part of our being.
Everything which surrounds us is full of the utterance of one word, completely expressive of its nature. This word is its name; for God, even now, could we but see it, is creating all things, and giving a name to every work of his love, in its perfect adaptation to that for which it is designed. But man has abused his power, and has become insensible to the real character of the brute creation; still more so to that of inanimate nature, because, in his selfishness, he is disposed to reduce them to slavery. Therefore he is deaf. We find the animal world either in a state of savage wildness, or enslaved submission. It is possible, that, as the character of man is changed, they may attain a midway condition equally removed from both. As the mind of man acknowledges its dependence on the Divine Mind, brutes may add to their instinct submission to human reason; preserving an unbroken chain from our Father in heaven, to the most inanimate parts of creation. Such may be supposed to have been the condition of the animal on which the King of Zion rode into Jerusalem; at once free and subject to the will of the rider. Everything will seem to be conscious of its use; and man will become conscious of the use of everything.
By music is meant not merely that which exists in the rational world, whether in the song of angels or men; not merely the singing of birds and the lowing of cattle, by which the animal world express their affections and their wants—but that harmony which pervades also all orders of creation; the music of the harp of universal nature, which is touched by the rays of the sun, and whose song is the morning, the evening and the seasons. Music is the voice of God, and poetry his language, both in his Word and works. The one is to the ear, what the other is to the eye. Every child of nature must feel their influence. There was a time, when the human mind was in more perfect harmony with the Divine Mind, than the lower orders of creation; and the tale of the harp of Orpheus, to which the brutes, the vegetables, and the rocks listened, is not altogether unfounded in reality; but when the selfish and worldly passions usurped the place of love.
There is a most intimate and almost inseparable connection between poetry and music. This is indicated by the fact that they are always united. Nothing is sung which has not some pretensions to poetry; and nothing has any pretensions to poetry in which there is not something of music. A good ear is essential to rhythm; and rhythm is essential to verse. It is the perfection of poetry, that it addresses two senses at once, the ear and the eye; that it prepares the affections for the object before it is presented; that it sends light through the understanding, by forming a communication between the heart of man and the works of God.
The character of music must have always harmonized with that of poetry. It is essential to the former that it should be in agreement with our feelings; for it is from this circumstance that it derives its power. That music which is in unison with the Divine Mind, alone deserves the name. So various is it found in the different conditions of man, that it is hardly recognized as the same thing. There is music in the war-song of the savage, and in the sound for battle. Alas! how unlike that music, which proclaimed peace on earth and good will towards men. Poetry and music, like virtuous females in disguise, have followed our race into the darkest scenes to which the fall has brought them. We find them in the haunts of dissipation and vice; in the song of revelry and lewdness. We meet them again, kindling the fire of devotion at the altar of God; and find them more and more perfect as we approach their divine origin.
There prevail, at present, two kinds of music, as diverse as their origins—profane and religious. The one is the result of the free, unrestrained expression of natural feelings; the other, of a kind which indicates that these feelings are placed under restraint. In the one, there is often something of sensuality; in the other, of sadness. There is a point in moral and religious improvement, in which the sensual will be subdued, and the sorrowful disappear; which will combine the pleasure of the one with the sanctity of the other. When a sense of the presence of God shall be coextensive with the thoughts of the mind, and religion shall consecrate every word and action of our lives, the song of Zion will be no longer sung in a strange land. The Divine Love, the soul and essence of music, will descend, not in the thunders of Sinai, but will seem to acquire volume, as it tunes the heart in unison with itself, and the tongue in unison with the heart. The changes in the character of our music, which may be the effect of the gradual regeneration of the world, are hardly within the reach of conjecture.
Enough has been said to illustrate generally the influence of the natural world in the development of the mind. The actual condition of society operates to produce the same effect, with hardly less power. In this are comprised the religious and civil institutions of one's own country; that peculiar character in which they originate; and a knowledge of the past, as, by disclosing the origin and progress of things, it throws light on the prospect actually before us. As the philosophy connected with the natural world is that in which the mind may take root, by which it may possess an independence worthy a being whose eternal destiny is in his own hands—so the moral and civil institutions, the actual condition of society, is the atmosphere which surrounds and protects it; in which it sends forth its branches and bears fruit.
The spiritual part of man is as really a substance as the material; and is as capable of acting upon spirit, as matter is upon matter. It is not from words of instruction and advice, that the mind of the infant derives its first impetus; . it gathers strength from the warmth of those affections which overshadow it, and is nourished by a mother's love, even before it has attained the power of thought. It is the natural tendency of things, that an individual should be brought into a situation, in which the external condition of the place, and the circle of society in which he is, are particularly adapted to bring forth to view his hereditary character. The actual condition of the human mind is, as it were, the solid substance, in which the laws of moral and intellectual philosophy and political economy (whatever may be their quality) exist embodied, as the natural sciences do in the material world. A knowledge of those laws, such as they exist, is the natural consequence of the development of the affections by which a child is connected with those that surround him.
The connection of mind is not less powerful or universal than that of matter. All minds, whatever may be their condition, are not unconnected with God; and, consequently, not unconnected with each other. All nations, under whatever system of government, and in whatever state of civilization, are under the Divine Providence surely, but almost imperceptibly, advancing to a moral and political order, such as the world has not yet seen. They are guided by the same hand, and with a view to the same destiny. Much remains to be done, and more to be suffered; but the end is certain. The humblest individual may, nay, must aid in the accomplishment of this consummation. It is not for time or space to set limits to the effects of the life of a single man. Let then the child be so initiated into a knowledge of the condition of mankind, that the love at first indulged in the circle of his father's family shall gradually subside into a chaste and sober love of his country; and of his country, not as opposed to other countries, but as aiding them in the Same great object. Let the young mind be warmed and cherished by whatever is chaste and generous in the mind of the public; and be borne on to a knowledge of our institutions, by the rich current of the disposition to preserve them.
Thus it is, that the child is no sooner brought into this world, than the actual condition, both of the world itself and of society , acts powerfully to draw forth the energies of his mind. If mankind had retained that order in which they were created, this influence, in cooperation with the Divine, would have been sufficient, as it was designed to have been, for all the purposes of God. Nature, the very image of divine loveliness and the purest affections of the heart, which approach still nearer the same origin, acting together on the infant mind; it would seem as if the effect would be almost as certain as any process of growth which is witnessed among the productions of the natural world. But man is fallen; and the operation of this influence, in different conditions of society, may produce different results, but in none is sufficient to capacitate him for that life of usefulness and happiness for which he was designed. The influence of society cannot be sufficient, since this cannot raise a man above its own level; and the society of earth is no longer the society of heaven. This influence may bring for ward all the warlike energies of the young savage, and direct them in their utmost vigor to the destruction of his enemies, and of the beasts of the forest; and he may look onward with rapture to the happy hunting-grounds beyond the grave. What disappointment awaits him in the other world, all of us may easily imagine. This influence may bring forth and gratify the unchaste and beastly passions of the Turk; and he may look forward, with his Koran in his hand, to a heaven of sensuality and crime. It need not be said how widely different will be found the reality. Christians generally are standing in expectation of a happiness as boundless in extent, as it is undefined in its nature; and with an infinite variety of passions, in whose gratification alone they have experienced delight, are expecting a heaven in which simple useless enjoyment will rise like a flood and immerse the mind. The result must of necessity, be as various as the condition of the individuals by whom it is anticipated. Still there is a church yet in its coming, unseen, though not unseeing, shrouded from the rest of the world by the very brilliancy of its own light, which would resist the impulse of every evil affection, and look for heaven simply in the delight of that which is chaste, pure, and holy; which, by removing that which renders duty undelightful, would draw nigh to the only Source of real enjoyment; which would find its happiness and its God in the very commandments which have been the terror of the world; to which the effect is no longer doubtful, since it is made acquainted with the cause, and which, as it anticipates no reward, will meet with no disappointment. When this church shall be fully established on the earth, the voice of the Lord will be no longer obstructed as it descends from above the heavens :—"Suffer little children to come unto me, and forbid them not, for of such is the kingdom of God."
The influence of the natural world, however beneficial it may prove, is not such as it was designed to have been. Man has ever sought a condition in nature, which should correspond with the state of his own mind. The savage would pine and droop, if too suddenly removed to scenes of civilization, like grass which had grown in rank luxuriance under the shade of the oak, if the branches were cleft, and it was at once exposed to the power of the sun. The character of all the lower orders of creation has suffered a change in consequence of that in the condition of man, the extent of which cannot be measured. That the sun was darkened at the crucifixion of our Lord was no miracle. It was as much the necessary consequence of that event, as its present lustre is of His glory. It is not then for these, the objects of nature, to restore to us that moral order, the want of which has wrought such changes on themselves.
There is then another power which is necessary to the orderly development of the mind —the power of the Word of God. This indeed has been implied in all the preceding remarks. No possessions and no efforts of the mind are unconnected with it, whatever may be the appearance. Revelation so mingles with everything which meets us, that it is not easy for us to measure the degree to which our condition is affected by it Its effects appear miraculous at first, but after they have become established, the mind, as in the ordinary operations of nature, is apt to become unconscious of the power by which they are produced
All growth or development is effected from within, outward. It is so with animals; it is so with vegetables; it is so with the body; it is so with the mind. Were it not for a power within the soul, as the soul is within the body it could have no possibility of subsistence. That the growth of the material part depends on the presence of that which is spiritual, is obvious from the fact, that at death the former falls to decay. If it were possible for God to be detached from our spiritual part, this would decay likewise. The doctrine, then, of the immortality of the soul is, simply, " I in my Father, and ye in me, and I in you." It is the union of the Divine with the human—of that from which all things are, and on which they depend, the Divine Will, with man through the connecting medium of Divine Truth. It is the tendency of the Bible to effect this union, and of course to restore a consciousness of it It is a union which God desires with all, therefore even the wicked who reject it partake of his immortality, though not of his happiness. When, in the process of regeneration, this union is accomplished, the fear of dissolution will be as impossible in this world as in the other; and before this is effected, the fear of dissolution may exist there as well as here. It is not the place where a person is, but the condition of mind which is to be regarded; and there is no antidote against the fear of death, but the consciousness of being united with the Fountain of life. But it is asked, how can the fear of death exist after it has actually taken place? The separation of the spiritual and material part, so far as the nature of their connection is understood, can produce no fear. Were it not for evil in ourselves, it would rather wear the appearance of a state of uncommon quiet. There is upon no subject a more powerful tendency to instinctive knowledge, than upon that of death. The darkness with which it is veiled, presents but a lamentable picture of our present condition. It is its own dissolution of which the mind is afraid; and that want of conjunction with God which renders this fear possible here, may render it possible anywhere.
It is the sole object of the Bible to conjoin the soul with God; and, as this is effected, it may be understood in what way the Holy Spirit operates interiorly to produce its development. It is not a mere metaphor, it is a plain and simple fact, that the Spirit of God, is as necessary to the development of the mind, as the power of the natural sun to the growth of vegetables, and in the same way. But let us remember, that, as in nature the heat and light may be converted into the most noxious poison; so the Spirit of God, in itself perfectly pure and holy, may be converted into passions the most opposite to its nature. It is left to us to open our hearts to its influence, by obeying the commandments. " If ye love me, keep my commandments; and I will pray the Father, and he shall give you another Comforter that he may abide with you forever." "He that believeth on the Son hath everlasting life; " and he will become conscious of living and growing from God.
It is not consistent with the nature of things that the full practical effect of a subject should be at once revealed to the mind. The child is led on to a knowledge of his letters by a thousand little enticements, and by the tender coercion of parental authority, while he is yet ignorant of the treasures mysteriously concealed in their combinations. The arts have been courted merely for the transient gratification they afford. Their connection with religion and with the sciences is beginning to be discovered; and they are yet to yield a powerful influence in imparting to the mind its moral harmony and proportions. The sciences themselves have been studied principally as subjects of speculation and amusement. They have been sought for the gratification they afford, and for the artificial standing they give in society, by the line of distinction which is drawn between the learned and the vulgar. The discovery of their connection with the actual condition of man, is of later origin; and though their application to use is yet in its infancy, they are beginning to throw a light on almost every department of labor, hitherto unexampled in the annals of the world. Religion, too, has been a subject of speculation, something evanescent, a theory, a prayer, a hope. It remains for this also to become practical, by the actual accomplishment of that which it promises. It remains for the promise of reward to be swallowed up in the work of salvation. It remains for the soul to be restored to its union with God—to heaven. Christianity is the tree of life again planted in the world; and, by its own vital power, it has been, year after year, casting off the opinions of men, like the external bark which partakes not of its life. It remains for the human mind to become conformed to its spirit, that its principles may possess the durability of their origin.
Such are the effects to be anticipated from the Bible in the development of the mind. It has begun the work, and will perfect it in each individual, so far as, by a life according to the commandments, he becomes willing that it should. There is within it a secret power, which exerts an influence on the moral and intellectual world like that of the sun on the physical; and, however long and successfully it may be resisted by some, not the less certain in its effect on the ultimate condition of society. I am aware that, in these remarks, I am ascribing to the spirit of God, to the spirit of the Word, a power which some may be unwilling to allow to it. The Bible is thought to resemble other books, and to be subject to the same laws of criticism; and we may be sometimes in danger of becoming insensible to its internal power, from the very mass of human learning with which it is encumbered. " Is not this the carpenter's son? "
There is one law of criticism, the most important to the thorough understanding of any work, which seems not to have been brought sufficiently into view in the study of the Bible. It is that by which we should be led by a continued exercise of those powers which are most clearly demonstrated in an author; by continued habits of mind and action; to approximate to that intellectual and moral condition, in which the work originated. If it were desired to make a child thoroughly acquainted with the work of a genuine poet, I would not put the poem and lexicon in his hand, and bid him study and learn—I would rather make him familiar with whatever was calculated to call forth the power of poetry in himself; since it requires the exercise of the same powers to understand, that it does to produce. I would point him to that source from which the author himself had caught his inspiration, and, as I led him to the baptismal fount of nature, I would consecrate his powers to that Being from whom nature exists. I would cultivate a sense of the constant presence and agency of God, and direct him inward to the presence-chamber of the Most High, that his mind might become imbued with His spirit. I would endeavor, by the whole course of his education, to make him a living poem, that, when he read the poetry of others, it might be effulgent with the light of his own mind.
The poet stands on the mountain, with the face of nature before him, calm and placid. If we would enter into his views, we must go where he is. We must catch the direction of his eye, and yield ourselves up to the instinctive guidance of his will, that we may have a secret foretaste of his meaning—that we may be conscious of the image in its first conception—that we may perceive its beginnings and gradual growth, till at length it becomes distinctly depicted on the retina of the mind. Without this, we may take the dictionary in our hands, and settle the definition of every word, and still know as little of the lofty conceptions of the author, as the weary traveller, who passes round in the farthest verge which is visible from the mountain, knows of the scenery which is seen from its summit. It has been truly said, that Johnson was incapable of conceiving the beauties of Milton. Yet Johnson was himself a living dictionary of Milton's language. The true poet, when his mind is full, fills his language to overflowing; and it is left to the reader to preserve what the words cannot contain. It is that part which cannot be defined; that which is too delicate to endure the unrestrained gaze; that which shrinks instinctively from the approach of anything less chaste than itself, and though present, like the inhabitants of the other world, is unperceived by flesh and blood, which is worth all the rest. This acknowledges no dwelling-place but the mind. Stamp the living light on the extended face of nature, beyond the power of darkness at the setting of the sun, and you may preserve such light as this, when the mind rises not to meet it in its coming.
If it were desired to make an individual acquainted with a work in one of the abstract sciences, this might be best effected by leading him gradually to whatever conduced to the growth of those powers, on which a knowledge of these sciences depends; by cultivating a principle of dependence on the Divine Being, a purity and chastity of the affections, which will produce a tranquil condition, of all things the most favorable to clear perceptions; by leading him to an habitual observation of the relations of things, and to such continued exertion of the understanding, as, calling into use its full powers without inducing fatigue, may impart the strength of the laborer, without the degradation of the slave; in a word, by forming a penetrating, mathematical mind, rather than by communicating mathematical information. The whole character and complexion of the mind will be gradually changed; till at length it will become (chemically speaking) in its very nature an active solvent of these subjects. They fall to pieces as soon as they come in contact with it, and assume an arrangement agreeable to that of the mind itself, with all the precision of crystallization. They are then understood; for the most perfect understanding of a subject is simply a perception of harmony existing between the subject and the mind itself. Indeed, the understanding which any individual possesses of a subject might be mathematically defined (the subject proposed)/(the actual character of his mind); and there is a constant struggle for the divisor and dividend to become the same by a change in the one or the other, that the result may be unity, and the understanding perfect.
There is an analogy (such as may exist between things human and things divine) between that discipline which is required in order to understand a production of taste or science, and that which is necessary to a clear perception of the truths of the Bible. As it is requisite to a full sense of the beauties of poetry, that the individual should be himself a poet, and to a thorough knowledge of a work of science, that he should not merely have scientific information, but a scientific mind; so it is necessary to a knowledge of the Bible, that the mind should be formed in the image and likeness of God. An understanding of the Word is the effect of a life according to its precepts. It requires, not the obedience of the rich man who went away sorrowful, but the obedience of him who holds every other possession, whether it consist in the acquirements of the mind or in earthly property, in subjection to the Holy Spirit within him. " If ye will do the will of God, ye shall know of the doctrine," is a law of exegesis, before which false sentiments will melt away, like frost before the rising sun. There is within the mind the golden vein of duty, which, if followed aright, will lead to an increasing brightness, before which the proudest monuments of human criticism will present an appearance like that of the dark disk of this world, as the eye of the dying man opens on the scenes of the other The world is beginning to be changed from what it was. Physical power, instead of boasting of its deeds of prowess, and pointing with the tomahawk or the lance to the bloody testimonies of its strength, is beginning to leave its image on the rugged face of nature, and to feel the living evidence of its achievements, in the happy circle of domestic life. It remains for intellectual strength to lose the consciousness of its existence in the passions subdued, and to reap the reward of its labors, not in the spoils of an enemy, but in the fruits of honest industry. It remains for us to become more thoroughly acquainted with the laws of moral mechanism. Instead of making unnecessary and ineffectual exertions in the direct attainment of truth, it remains for us to make equal efforts to cleanse our own minds and to do good to others; and what was before unattainable will become easy, as the rock which untutored strength cannot move, may be raised by a touch of the finger.
The Bible differs from other books, as our Lord differed from men. He was born of a woman, but his spirit was the everlasting Father. It is humble in its appearance, as nature is when compared to art; and some parts which Providence has permitted to remain within the same cover have often attracted more attention than that which is really divine. From the very nature of perfect innocence its presence is unnoticed, save by him by whom it is loved. Divine Love, in its perfect thoughtlessness of itself, enters the atheistical heart, unperceived. Such an one thinks meanly of those who think humbly of themselves, and with perfect humility the last vestige of reality disappears. To him, both nature and the Word are like a deserted building, through which, as he passes, he is conscious of nothing but the sound of his own footsteps; but to him whose heart opens to the Divine Influence, this building appears to assume, from the internal cause of its creation, the symmetry of perfect proportions, till at length, as he becomes more and more conscious of the presence with which it is filled, he sees no temple, " for the Lord God Almighty and the Lamb are the temple." The Word resembles the Hebrew language, in which much of it is written. To him who knows not its spirit, it is an empty form without sound or vowel; but to him who is alive to the Divine Influence, it is filled with the living voice of God.
The Bible can never be fully understood, either by making it subservient to natural reason, or by blindly adopting what reason would reject; but by that illumination of the understanding and enlargement of the reason which will result from a gradual conformity to its precepts. Reason now is something very different from what it was a few centuries past. We are in the habit of thinking that the mode of reasoning has changed; but this appears to be merely an indication of a change which has taken place in the character of the mind itself. Syllogistic reasoning will be superseded by something higher and better. It amounts to nothing but the discernment and expression of the particulars which go to comprise something more general; and, as the human mind permits things to assume a proper arrangement from their own inherent power of attraction, it is no longer necessary to bind them together with syllogisms. Few minds can now endure the tediousness of being led blindfold to a conclusion, and of being satisfied with the result merely from the recollection of having been satisfied on the way to it. The mind requires to view the parts of a subject, not only separately, but together; and the understanding, in the exercise of those powers of arrangement, by which a subject is presented in its just relations to other things, takes the name of reason. We appear to be approaching that condition which requires the union of reason and eloquence, and will be satisfied with neither without the other. We neither wish to see an anatomical plate of bare muscles, nor the gaudy daubings of finery; but a happy mixture of strength and beauty. We desire language neither extravagant nor cold, but blood warm. Reason is beginning to learn the necessity of simply tracing the relations which exist between created things, and of not even touching what it examines, lest it disturb the arrangement in the cabinet of creation—and as, in the progress of moral improvement, the imagination (which is called the creative power of man) shall coincide with the actively creative will of God, reason will be clothed with eloquence, as nature is with verdure.
Reason is said to be a power given to man for his protection and safety. Let us not be deceived by words. If this were the particular design, it should be found in equal perfection in every condition of the mind; for all are in equal need of such a power. It is the office of the eye to discern the objects of nature, and it may protect the body from any impending injury; and the understanding may be useful in a similar way to the spiritual man. Reason is partly a natural and partly an acquired power. The understanding is the eye, with simply the power of discerning the light; but reason is the eye, whose powers have been enlarged by exercise and experience, which measures the distance of objects, compares their magnitudes, discerns their colors, and selects and arranges them according to the relation they bear to each other. In the progress of moral improvement no power of the mind, or rather no mode of exercising the understanding, undergoes a more thorough and decisive change than this. It is like the change from chaos to creation; since it requires a similar exercise of the understanding in man to comprehend creation, to what it does in God to produce it; and every approach to him, by bringing us nearer the origin of things, enables us to discover analogies in what was before chaotic. This is a change which it is the grand design of revelation to accomplish; reason should therefore come to revelation in the spirit of prayer, and not in that of judgment. Nothing can be more intimately and necessarily connected with the moral character of an individual than his rational powers, since it is his moral character which is the grand cause of that peculiar classification and arrangement which characterizes his mind; hence revelation, in changing the former, must change the latter also.
The insufficiency of reason to judge of the Bible, is obvious on the very face of revelation from its miracles. The laws of Divine Operation are perfectly uniform and harmonious; and a miracle is a particular instance of Divine Power, which, for want of a more interior and extended knowledge of the ways of God, appearing to stand alone, and to have been the result of an unusual exertion of the Divine Will, creates in the minds of men, what its name implies, a sensation of wonder. That there are miracles in the Bible, proves that there are laws of the Divine Operation and of the Divine Government, which are not embraced within the utmost limits of that classification and arrangement, which is the result of natural reason. While, therefore, human reason professes to be convinced of the reality of revelation from its miracles, let it humble itself before them. Let it bow itself to the earth, that it may be exalted to a more intimate acquaintance with these heavenly strangers. Let it follow the Lord in the regeneration, till the wonderful disappear in the paternal.
Miracles are like angels who have sometimes been visible to men, who would much more willingly have introduced them to an acquaintance with the laws and society of heaven, than have filled them with fear and consternation. They are insulated examples of laws as boundless as the universe, and by the manner in which we are affected by them, prove how much we have to learn, and how utterly incompetent we are to judge of the ways of God, from that reason which is founded on our own limited and fallacious observation. The resurrection of our Lord must have been a very different miracle to the angels at the sepulchre, from what it was to Mary. They saw it from the other side of the grave, with a knowledge of the nature of that death which they had themselves experienced; she saw an insulated fact, not at all coincident with her views on the subject of which it was an illustration. They saw the use and design of that which had been accomplished; she saw the sepulchre and the linen clothes lying. As they gazed intensely at the same subject, the veil of heaven was withdrawn, and they beheld each other, face to face. She was filled with fear; they with love and compassion. If Mary were to persist in judging of this subject from her own reason; from a knowledge of those laws with which she was previously acquainted; how could her views ever become angelic? How could the dark cloud of admiration be ever filled with the rich light of the rising sun?
Man alone, of all created things, appears on his own account to want the full measure of his happiness; because he alone has left the order of his creation. He stands, even at the present period, half convinced of the reality of the future state. It is the design of revelation to restore to him that moral condition in which he will possess as necessarily the consciousness of immortality, as the brute does that of existence; for a consciousness of existence, together with that of union with God, is a consciousness of eternal life. Let us come to the Bible, then, with no hopes of arbitrary reward, and no fears of arbitrary punishment; but let us come to it, as to that, which, if followed aright, will produce a condition of mind of which happiness will be the natural and necessary consequence.
It is often said that the Bible has nothing to do with metaphysics or the sciences. An individual, whatever be his condition, always retains, to a certain extent, a consciousness of his moral and intellectual character; and the more this character is exalted, the more minute and discriminating will be this consciousness. Who is it that formed the human mind, and who is here endeavoring to restore it to its true order? The Bible has the mind for its subject, that condition of mind which has heaven for its object, and the Father of mind for its author. Has it nothing to do with metaphysics? It has indeed nothing to do with that metaphysics which we shall leave with our bodies in the graves; but of that which will shine with more and more brilliancy, as the passage is opened, not through distant regions of space, but through the secret part of our own souls to the presence of God, it is the very life and being. Can omniscience contemplate the happiness of the mind, without regard to its nature? Were we disposed to improve the condition of the savage, what course should we pursue? Should we not endeavor to change his habits of mind and body, by teaching him the arts of civilization, instructing him in the sciences, and gradually introducing him to that portion of social order which is here attained? And are not all these most intimately connected with our own condition of mind? Are they not merely the expression of its countenance? In the same way is it the endeavor of the Divine Mind in the Bible to restore all to his own image and likeness; and to say that the Bible has nothing to do with metaphysics, is to say that the present condition of the mind has nothing to do with what it should be, and that present metaphysics have nothing to do with religion.
It is said that the Bible has nothing to do with the sciences. It is true that it does not teach them directly; but it is gradually unfolding a condition of mind, out of which the sciences will spring as naturally, as the leaves and blossoms from the tree that bears them. It is the same power which acts simultaneously to develop the soul itself, and to develop nature—to form the mind and the mould which is destined to receive it. As we behold the external face of the world, our souls will hold communion with its spirit; and we shall seem to extend our consciousness beyond the narrow limits of our own bodies, to the living objects that surround us. The mind will enter into nature by the secret path of him who forms her; and can be no longer ignorant of her laws, when it is a witness of her creation.
I have endeavored to illustrate, generally, in what way the natural sciences, the actual condition of society, and the Word of God, are necessary to the development of all minds, in a manner analogous to that in which the earth, the atmosphere and the sun combine to bring forth the productions of nature. I shall say but a few words with respect to that particular development which is requisite to the full manifestation of the peculiar powers possessed by any individual.
It is well known that at a certain period of life the character of a man begins to be more distinctly marked. He appears to become separated from that which surrounds him—to stand in a measure aloof from his associates—to raise his head above the shadow of any earthly object into the light of heaven, and to walk with a more determined step on the earth beneath. This is the manifestation of a character which has always existed, and which has, as it were, been accumulating by little and little, till at length it has attained its full stature.
When a man has become his own master, it is left to himself to complete his own education. "He has one Father, God." For the formation of his character, thus far, he is not in the strictest sense accountable; that is, his character is not as yet so fixed, but that it is yielding and pliable. It is left to himself to decide, how far it shall remain in its present form. This is indeed a period of deep responsibility. He has taken the guidance of a human being, and is not the less accountable, that this being is himself. The ligament is now cut asunder by which his mind was bound to its earthly guardian, and he is placed on his own feet, exposed to the bleak winds and refreshing breezes, the clouds and the sunshine of this world, fully accountable to God and man for his conduct. Let him not be made dizzy from a sense of his own liberty, nor faint under his own weight; but let him remember that the eye of God is now fixed full, it might almost be said anxiously, upon him.
It is with the human mind, as with the human body. All our race have those limbs and features, and that general aspect, from which they are denominated men. But, on a nearer view, we find them divided into nations possessed of peculiar appearance and habits, and these subdivided into families and individuals, in all of which there is something peculiarly their own. The human mind (speaking in the most general sense) requires to be instructed in the same sciences, and needs the same general development, and is destined to make one common and universal effort for its own emancipation. But the several nations of the earth also will, at a future period, stand forth with a distinctness of character which cannot now be conceived of. The part which each is to perform in the regeneration of the world, will become more and more distinctly marked and universally acknowledged; and every nation will be found to possess resources in its own moral and intellectual character, and its own natural productions, which will render it essential to the well-being and happiness of the whole. Every government must find that the real good of its own people precisely harmonizes with that of others; and standing armies must be converted into willing laborers for the promotion of the same object Then will the nations of the earth resemble the well-organized parts of the same body, and no longer convert that light which is given them for the benefit of their brethren, into an instrument by which they are degraded and enslaved.
But we stop not here. Every individual also possesses peculiar powers, which should be brought to bear on society in the duties best fitted to receive them. The highest degree of cultivation of which the mind of any one is capable, consists in the most perfect development of that peculiar organization, which as really exists in infancy as in maturer years. The seed which is planted is said to possess in miniature, the trunk, branches, leaves and fruit of the future tree. So it is with the mind; and the most that can possibly be done, is to afford facilities by which its development may be effected with the same order. In the process of the formation of our minds there exists the spirit of prophecy; and no advancement can create surprise, because we have always been conscious of that from which it is produced. We must not seek to make one hair white or black. It is in vain for us to attempt to add one cubit to our stature. All adventitious or assumed importance should be cast off, as a filthy garment We should seek an employment for the mind, in which ail its energies may be warmed into existence; which (if I may be allowed the expression) may bring every muscle into action. There is something which every one can do better than any one else; and it is the tendency, and must be the end, of human events, to assign to each his true calling. Kings will be hurled from their thrones, and peasants exalted to the highest stations, by this irresistible tendency of mind to its true level. These effects may not be fully disclosed in the short period of this life; but even the most incredulous must be ultimately convinced that the truth is no respecter of persons, by learning the simple fact, that a man cannot be other than what he is. Not that endless progression in moral goodness and in wisdom are not within the reach of any one; but that the state will never arrive, when he may not look back to the first rudiments, the original stamina of his own mind, and be almost able to say, I possessed all at the time of my birth. The more a person lives in singleness of heart, in simplicity, and sincerity, the more will this be apparent.
It becomes us, then, to seek and to cherish this peculium of our own minds, as the patrimony which is left us by our Father in heaven — as that by which the branch is united to the vine—as the forming power within us, which gives to our persons that of which they are distinguished from others; and, by a life entirely governed by the commandments of God, to leave on the duties we are called to perform the full impress of our real characters. Let a man's ambition to be great disappear in a willingness to be what be is; then may he fill a high place without pride, or a low one without dejection. As our desires become more and more concentrated to those objects which correspond to the peculiar organization of our minds, we shall have a foretaste of that which is coming, in those internal tendencies of which we are conscious. As we perform with alacrity whatever duty presents itself before us, we shall perceive in our own hearts a kind of preparation for every external event or occurrence of our lives, even the most trivial, springing from the all-pervading tendency of the Providence of God, to present the opportunity of being useful wherever there is the disposition.
Living in a country whose peculiar characteristic is said to be a love of equal liberty, let it be written on our hearts, that the end of all education is a life of active usefulness. We want no education which shall raise a man out of the reach of the understanding, or the sympathies of any of his species. We are disgusted with that kind of dignity which the possessor is himself obliged to guard; but venerate that, which, having its origin in the actual character of the man, can receive no increase from the countenance of power, and suffer no diminution from the approach of weakness—that dignity in which the individual appears to live rather in the consciousness of the light which shines from above, than in that of his own shadow beneath. There is a spiritual atmosphere about such an one, which is at once its own protection and the protection of him with whom it is connected—which, while it is free as air alike to the most powerful and the most humble, conveys a tacit warning that too near an approach is not permitted. We acknowledge the invisible chain which binds together all classes of society, and would apply to it the electric spark of knowledge with the hand of tenderness and caution. We acknowledge the healthy union of mental and bodily exercise, and would rather see all men industrious and enlightened, than to see one half of mankind slaves to the other, and these slaves to their passions. We acknowledge that the natural world is one vast mine of wisdom, and for this reason it is the scene of the labors of man; and that in seeing this wisdom, there is philosophy, and in loving it, there is religion. Most sensibly do we feel, that as the true end of instruction is to prepare a man for some particular sphere of usefulness; when he has found this sphere, his education has then truly commenced, and the finger of God is pointing to the very page of the book of his oracles, from which he may draw the profoundest wisdom. It was the design of Providence that there should be enough of science connected with the calling of each for the highest and holiest purposes of heaven. It is the natural world from which the philosopher draws his knowledge; it is the natural world in which the slave toils for his bread. Alas! when will they be one? When we are willing to practise what we learn, and religion makes our duty our delight.
The mass of mankind must always labor; hence it is supposed that they must be always ignorant Thus has the pride of man converted that discipline into an occasion of darkness and misery, which was intended only to give reality to knowledge, and to make happiness eternal. Truth is the way in which we should act; and then only is a man truly wise when the body performs what the mind perceives. In this way, flesh and blood are made to partake of the wisdom of the spiritual man; and the palms of our hands will become the book of our life, on which is inscribed all the love and all the wisdom we possess. It is the light which directs a man to his duty; it is by doing his duty that he is enlightened—thus does he become identified with his own kind of usefulness, and his own vocation is the silken cord which directs to his heart the knowledge and the blessings of all mankind.
the end.