No More Learning

I cannot afford it. But so far from condemning those who can, I deem
it a writer's duty, and think it creditable to his heart, to feel and
express a resentment proportioned to the grossness of the provocation,
and the importance of the object. There is no profession on earth, which
requires an attention so early, so long, or so unintermitting as that of
poetry; and indeed as that of literary composition in general, if it be
such as at all satisfies the demands both of taste and of sound logic.
How difficult and delicate a task even the mere mechanism of verse is,
may be conjectured from the failure of those, who have attempted poetry
late in life. Where then a man has, from his earliest youth, devoted
his whole being to an object, which by the admission of all civilized
nations in all ages is honourable as a pursuit, and glorious as an
attainment; what of all that relates to himself and his family, if only
we except his moral character, can have fairer claims to his protection,
or more authorize acts of self-defence, than the elaborate products of
his intellect and intellectual industry? Prudence itself would command
us to show, even if defect or diversion of natural sensibility had
prevented us from feeling, a due interest and qualified anxiety for the
offspring and representatives of our nobler being. I know it, alas! by
woful experience. I have laid too many eggs in the hot sands of this
wilderness, the world, with ostrich carelessness and ostrich oblivion.
The greater part indeed have been trod under foot, and are forgotten;
but yet no small number have crept forth into life, some to furnish
feathers for the caps of others, and still more to plume the shafts in
the quivers of my enemies, of them that unprovoked have lain in wait
against my soul.

Sic vos, non vobis, mellificatis, apes!




CHAPTER III

The Author's obligations to critics, and the probable
occasion--Principles of modern criticism--Mr. Southey's works and
character.


To anonymous critics in reviews, magazines, and news-journals of various
name and rank, and to satirists with or without a name in verse or
prose, or in verse-text aided by prose-comment, I do seriously believe
and profess, that I owe full two-thirds of whatever reputation and
publicity I happen to possess. For when the name of an individual has
occurred so frequently, in so many works, for so great a length of time,
the readers of these works--(which with a shelf or two of beauties,
elegant Extracts and Anas, form nine-tenths of the reading of the
reading Public [14])--cannot but be familiar with the name, without
distinctly remembering whether it was introduced for eulogy or for
censure. And this becomes the more likely, if (as I believe) the
habit of perusing periodical works may be properly added to Averroes'
catalogue of Anti-Mnemonics, or weakeners of the memory [15]. But where
this has not been the case, yet the reader will be apt to suspect that
there must be something more than usually strong and extensive in
a reputation, that could either require or stand so merciless
and long-continued a cannonading. Without any feeling of anger
therefore--(for which indeed, on my own account, I have no pretext)--I
may yet be allowed to express some degree of surprise, that, after
having run the critical gauntlet for a certain class of faults which
I had, nothing having come before the judgment-seat in the interim, I
should, year after year, quarter after quarter, month after month--(not
to mention sundry petty periodicals of still quicker revolution,
"or weekly or diurnal")--have been, for at least seventeen years
consecutively, dragged forth by them into the foremost ranks of the
proscribed, and forced to abide the brunt of abuse, for faults directly
opposite, and which I certainly had not. How shall I explain this?

Whatever may have been the case with others, I certainly cannot
attribute this persecution to personal dislike, or to envy, or to
feelings of vindictive animosity. Not to the former, for with the
exception of a very few who are my intimate friends, and were so before
they were known as authors, I have had little other acquaintance
with literary characters, than what may be implied in an accidental
introduction, or casual meeting in a mixed company. And as far as words
and looks can be trusted, I must believe that, even in these instances,
I had excited no unfriendly disposition. Neither by letter, nor in
conversation, have I ever had dispute or controversy beyond the common
social interchange of opinions. Nay, where I had reason to suppose my
convictions fundamentally different, it has been my habit, and I may
add, the impulse of my nature, to assign the grounds of my belief,
rather than the belief itself; and not to express dissent, till I could
establish some points of complete sympathy, some grounds common to both
sides, from which to commence its explanation.

Still less can I place these attacks to the charge of envy. The few
pages which I have published, are of too distant a date, and the extent
of their sale a proof too conclusive against their having been popular
at any time, to render probable, I had almost said possible, the
excitement of envy on their account; and the man who should envy me on
any other, verily he must be envy-mad!

Lastly, with as little semblance of reason, could I suspect any
animosity towards me from vindictive feelings as the cause. I have
before said, that my acquaintance with literary men has been limited and
distant; and that I have had neither dispute nor controversy. From my
first entrance into life, I have, with few and short intervals, lived
either abroad or in retirement. My different essays on subjects of
national interest, published at different times, first in the Morning
Post and then in the Courier, with my courses of Lectures on the
principles of criticism as applied to Shakespeare and Milton, constitute
my whole publicity; the only occasions on which I could offend any
member of the republic of letters. With one solitary exception in
which my words were first misstated and then wantonly applied to an
individual, I could never learn that I had excited the displeasure of
any among my literary contemporaries. Having announced my intention to
give a course of Lectures on the characteristic merits and defects of
English poetry in its different aeras; first, from Chaucer to Milton;
second, from Dryden inclusively to Thomson; and third, from Cowper to
the present day; I changed my plan, and confined my disquisition to the
former two periods, that I might furnish no possible pretext for the
unthinking to misconstrue, or the malignant to misapply my words, and
having stamped their own meaning on them, to pass them as current coin
in the marts of garrulity or detraction.

Praises of the unworthy are felt by ardent minds as robberies of the
deserving; and it is too true, and too frequent, that Bacon, Harrington,
Machiavel, and Spinoza, are not read, because Hume, Condillac, and
Voltaire are. But in promiscuous company no prudent man will oppugn
the merits of a contemporary in his own supposed department; contenting
himself with praising in his turn those whom he deems excellent. If
I should ever deem it my duty at all to oppose the pretensions of
individuals, I would oppose them in books which could be weighed and
answered, in which I could evolve the whole of my reasons and feelings,
with their requisite limits and modifications; not in irrecoverable
conversation, where however strong the reasons might be, the feelings
that prompted them would assuredly be attributed by some one or other
to envy and discontent. Besides I well know, and, I trust, have acted on
that knowledge, that it must be the ignorant and injudicious who extol
the unworthy; and the eulogies of critics without taste or judgment are
the natural reward of authors without feeling or genius. Sint unicuique
sua praemia.

How then, dismissing, as I do, these three causes, am I to account for
attacks, the long continuance and inveteracy of which it would require
all three to explain? The solution seems to be this,--I was in habits of
intimacy with Mr. Wordsworth and Mr. Southey! This, however, transfers,
rather than removes the difficulty. Be it, that, by an unconscionable
extension of the old adage, noscitur a socio, my literary friends are
never under the water-fall of criticism, but I must be wet through with
the spray; yet how came the torrent to descend upon them?

First then, with regard to Mr. Southey. I well remember the general
reception of his earlier publications; namely, the poems published with
Mr. Lovell under the names of Moschus and Bion; the two volumes of poems
under his own name, and the Joan of Arc. The censures of the critics by
profession are extant, and may be easily referred to:--careless lines,
inequality in the merit of the different poems, and (in the lighter
works) a predilection for the strange and whimsical; in short, such
faults as might have been anticipated in a young and rapid writer, were
indeed sufficiently enforced. Nor was there at that time wanting a party
spirit to aggravate the defects of a poet, who with all the courage of
uncorrupted youth had avowed his zeal for a cause, which he deemed
that of liberty, and his abhorrence of oppression by whatever name
consecrated. But it was as little objected by others, as dreamed of by
the poet himself, that he preferred careless and prosaic lines on rule
and of forethought, or indeed that he pretended to any other art or
theory of poetic diction, except that which we may all learn from
Horace, Quinctilian, the admirable dialogue, De Oratoribus, generally
attributed to Tacitus, or Strada's Prolusions; if indeed natural good
sense and the early study of the best models in his own language had
not infused the same maxims more securely, and, if I may venture the
expression, more vitally. All that could have been fairly deduced was,
that in his taste and estimation of writers Mr. Southey agreed far more
with Thomas Warton, than with Dr. Johnson. Nor do I mean to deny, that
at all times Mr. Southey was of the same mind with Sir Philip Sidney in
preferring an excellent ballad in the humblest style of poetry to twenty
indifferent poems that strutted in the highest. And by what have his
works, published since then, been characterized, each more strikingly
than the preceding, but by greater splendour, a deeper pathos,
profounder reflections, and a more sustained dignity of language and of
metre? Distant may the period be, but whenever the time shall come,
when all his works shall be collected by some editor worthy to be his
biographer, I trust that an appendix of excerpta of all the passages,
in which his writings, name, and character have been attacked, from
the pamphlets and periodical works of the last twenty years, may be an
accompaniment. Yet that it would prove medicinal in after times I dare
not hope; for as long as there are readers to be delighted with calumny,
there will be found reviewers to calumniate. And such readers will
become in all probability more numerous, in proportion as a still
greater diffusion of literature shall produce an increase of sciolists,
and sciolism bring with it petulance and presumption. In times of old,
books were as religious oracles; as literature advanced, they next
became venerable preceptors; they then descended to the rank of
instructive friends; and, as their numbers increased, they sank still
lower to that of entertaining companions; and at present they seem
degraded into culprits to hold up their hands at the bar of every
self-elected, yet not the less peremptory, judge, who chooses to write
from humour or interest, from enmity or arrogance, and to abide the
decision "of him that reads in malice, or him that reads after dinner. "

The same retrograde movement may be traced, in the relation which the
authors themselves have assumed towards their readers. From the lofty
address of Bacon: "these are the meditations of Francis of Verulam,
which that posterity should be possessed of, he deemed their interest:"
or from dedication to Monarch or Pontiff, in which the honour given was
asserted in equipoise to the patronage acknowledged: from Pindar's

------'ep' alloi--
si d'alloi megaloi: to d'eschaton kory-
phoutai basilensi. Maeketi
paptaine porsion.
Eiae se te touton
upsou chronon patein, eme
te tossade nikaphorois
omilein, prophanton sophian kath' El-
lanas eonta panta. --OLYMP. OD. I.

there was a gradual sinking in the etiquette or allowed style of
pretension.

Poets and Philosophers, rendered diffident by their very number,
addressed themselves to "learned readers;" then aimed to conciliate
the graces of "the candid reader;" till, the critic still rising as the
author sank, the amateurs of literature collectively were erected into a
municipality of judges, and addressed as the Town! And now, finally,
all men being supposed able to read, and all readers able to judge,
the multitudinous Public, shaped into personal unity by the magic of
abstraction, sits nominal despot on the throne of criticism. But, alas!
as in other despotisms, it but echoes the decisions of its invisible
ministers, whose intellectual claims to the guardianship of the Muses
seem, for the greater part, analogous to the physical qualifications
which adapt their oriental brethren for the superintendence of the
Harem. Thus it is said, that St. Nepomuc was installed the guardian of
bridges, because he had fallen over one, and sunk out of sight; thus
too St. Cecilia is said to have been first propitiated by musicians,
because, having failed in her own attempts, she had taken a dislike to
the art and all its successful professors. But I shall probably have
occasion hereafter to deliver my convictions more at large concerning
this state of things, and its influences on taste, genius and morality.

In the Thalaba, the Madoc, and still more evidently in the unique [16]
Cid, in the Kehama, and, as last, so best, the Roderick; Southey has
given abundant proof, se cogitare quam sit magnum dare aliquid in manus
hominum: nec persuadere sibi posse, non saepe tractandum quod placere
et semper et omnibus cupiat. But on the other hand, I conceive, that Mr.
Southey was quite unable to comprehend, wherein could consist the crime
or mischief of printing half a dozen or more playful poems; or to speak
more generally, compositions which would be enjoyed or passed over,
according as the taste and humour of the reader might chance to be;
provided they contained nothing immoral. In the present age periturae
parcere chartae is emphatically an unreasonable demand. The merest
trifle he ever sent abroad had tenfold better claims to its ink and
paper than all the silly criticisms on it, which proved no more than
that the critic was not one of those, for whom the trifle was written;
and than all the grave exhortations to a greater reverence for the
public--as if the passive page of a book, by having an epigram or
doggerel tale impressed on it, instantly assumed at once loco-motive
power and a sort of ubiquity, so as to flutter and buz in the ear of the
public to the sore annoyance of the said mysterious personage. But what
gives an additional and more ludicrous absurdity to these lamentations
is the curious fact, that if in a volume of poetry the critic should
find poem or passage which he deems more especially worthless, he
is sure to select and reprint it in the review; by which, on his own
grounds, he wastes as much more paper than the author, as the copies of
a fashionable review are more numerous than those of the original book;
in some, and those the most prominent instances, as ten thousand to five
hundred. I know nothing that surpasses the vileness of deciding on the
merits of a poet or painter,--(not by characteristic defects; for where
there is genius, these always point to his characteristic beauties;
but)--by accidental failures or faulty passages; except the impudence
of defending it, as the proper duty, and most instructive part, of
criticism. Omit or pass slightly over the expression, grace,
and grouping of Raffael's figures; but ridicule in detail the
knitting-needles and broom-twigs, that are to represent trees in his
back grounds; and never let him hear the last of his galli-pots! Admit
that the Allegro and Penseroso of Milton are not without merit; but
repay yourself for this concession, by reprinting at length the two
poems on the University Carrier! As a fair specimen of his Sonnets,
quote

"A Book was writ of late called Tetrachordon;"

and, as characteristic of his rhythm and metre, cite his literal
translation of the first and second Psalm! In order to justify yourself,
you need only assert, that had you dwelt chiefly on the beauties and
excellencies of the poet, the admiration of these might seduce the
attention of future writers from the objects of their love and wonder,
to an imitation of the few poems and passages in which the poet was most
unlike himself.

But till reviews are conducted on far other principles, and with far
other motives; till in the place of arbitrary dictation and petulant
sneers, the reviewers support their decisions by reference to fixed
canons of criticism, previously established and deduced from the nature
of man; reflecting minds will pronounce it arrogance in them thus to
announce themselves to men of letters, as the guides of their taste
and judgment. To the purchaser and mere reader it is, at all events, an
injustice. He who tells me that there are defects in a new work,
tells me nothing which I should not have taken for granted without his
information. But he, who points out and elucidates the beauties of
an original work does indeed give me interesting information, such
as experience would not have authorized me in anticipating. And as to
compositions which the authors themselves announce with

Haec ipsi novimus esse nihil,

why should we judge by a different rule two printed works, only because
the one author is alive, and the other in his grave? What literary man
has not regretted the prudery of Spratt in refusing to let his friend
Cowley appear in his slippers and dressing gown? I am not perhaps
the only one who has derived an innocent amusement from the riddles,
conundrums, tri-syllable lines, and the like, of Swift and his
correspondents, in hours of languor, when to have read his more finished
works would have been useless to myself, and, in some sort, an act
of injustice to the author. But I am at a loss to conceive by what
perversity of judgment, these relaxations of his genius could be
employed to diminish his fame as the writer of Gulliver, or the Tale of
a Tub. Had Mr. Southey written twice as many poems of inferior merit, or
partial interest, as have enlivened the journals of the day, they
would have added to his honour with good and wise men, not merely or
principally as proving the versatility of his talents, but as evidences
of the purity of that mind, which even in its levities never dictated a
line which it need regret on any moral account.

I have in imagination transferred to the future biographer the duty of
contrasting Southey's fixed and well-earned fame, with the abuse and
indefatigable hostility of his anonymous critics from his early youth to
his ripest manhood. But I cannot think so ill of human nature as not
to believe, that these critics have already taken shame to themselves,
whether they consider the object of their abuse in his moral or his
literary character. For reflect but on the variety and extent of his
acquirements! He stands second to no man, either as an historian or as
a bibliographer; and when I regard him as a popular essayist,--(for the
articles of his compositions in the reviews are, for the greater part,
essays on subjects of deep or curious interest rather than criticisms
on particular works)--I look in vain for any writer, who has conveyed so
much information, from so many and such recondite sources, with so many
just and original reflections, in a style so lively and poignant, yet so
uniformly classical and perspicuous; no one, in short, who has combined
so much wisdom with so much wit; so much truth and knowledge with
so much life and fancy. His prose is always intelligible and always
entertaining. In poetry he has attempted almost every species of
composition known before, and he has added new ones; and if we except
the highest lyric,--(in which how few, how very few even of the greatest
minds have been fortunate)--he has attempted every species successfully;
from the political song of the day, thrown off in the playful overflow
of honest joy and patriotic exultation, to the wild ballad; from
epistolary ease and graceful narrative, to austere and impetuous moral
declamation; from the pastoral charms and wild streaming lights of the
Thalaba, in which sentiment and imagery have given permanence even to
the excitement of curiosity; and from the full blaze of the Kehama,--(a
gallery of finished pictures in one splendid fancy piece, in which,
notwithstanding, the moral grandeur rises gradually above the brilliance
of the colouring and the boldness and novelty of the machinery)--to
the more sober beauties of the Madoc; and lastly, from the Madoc to
his Roderick, in which, retaining all his former excellencies of a
poet eminently inventive and picturesque, he has surpassed himself
in language and metre, in the construction of the whole, and in the
splendour of particular passages.

Here then shall I conclude? No! The characters of the deceased, like the
encomia on tombstones, as they are described with religious tenderness,
so are they read, with allowing sympathy indeed, but yet with rational
deduction. There are men, who deserve a higher record; men with whose
characters it is the interest of their contemporaries, no less than
that of posterity, to be made acquainted; while it is yet possible for
impartial censure, and even for quick-sighted envy, to cross-examine
the tale without offence to the courtesies of humanity; and while the
eulogist, detected in exaggeration or falsehood, must pay the full
penalty of his baseness in the contempt which brands the convicted
flatterer. Publicly has Mr. Southey been reviled by men, who, as I would
fain hope for the honour of human nature, hurled fire-brands against
a figure of their own imagination; publicly have his talents been
depreciated, his principles denounced; as publicly do I therefore, who
have known him intimately, deem it my duty to leave recorded, that it
is Southey's almost unexampled felicity, to possess the best gifts of
talent and genius free from all their characteristic defects. To those
who remember the state of our public schools and universities some
twenty years past, it will appear no ordinary praise in any man to have
passed from innocence into virtue, not only free from all vicious habit,
but unstained by one act of intemperance, or the degradations akin to
intemperance. That scheme of head, heart, and habitual demeanour, which
in his early manhood, and first controversial writings, Milton, claiming
the privilege of self-defence, asserts of himself, and challenges
his calumniators to disprove; this will his school-mates, his
fellow-collegians, and his maturer friends, with a confidence
proportioned to the intimacy of their knowledge, bear witness to, as
again realized in the life of Robert Southey. But still more striking to
those, who by biography or by their own experience are familiar with the
general habits of genius, will appear the poet's matchless industry
and perseverance in his pursuits; the worthiness and dignity of those
pursuits; his generous submission to tasks of transitory interest, or
such as his genius alone could make otherwise; and that having thus more
than satisfied the claims of affection or prudence, he should yet have
made for himself time and power, to achieve more, and in more various
departments, than almost any other writer has done, though employed
wholly on subjects of his own choice and ambition. But as Southey
possesses, and is not possessed by, his genius, even so is he master
even of his virtues. The regular and methodical tenor of his daily
labours, which would be deemed rare in the most mechanical pursuits,
and might be envied by the mere man of business, loses all semblance of
formality in the dignified simplicity of his manners, in the spring and
healthful cheerfulness of his spirits. Always employed, his friends find
him always at leisure. No less punctual in trifles, than steadfast in
the performance of highest duties, he inflicts none of those small pains
and discomforts which irregular men scatter about them, and which in
the aggregate so often become formidable obstacles both to happiness
and utility; while on the contrary he bestows all the pleasures, and
inspires all that ease of mind on those around him or connected with
him, which perfect consistency, and (if such a word might be framed)
absolute reliability, equally in small as in great concerns, cannot but
inspire and bestow; when this too is softened without being weakened
by kindness and gentleness. I know few men who so well deserve the
character which an antient attributes to Marcus Cato, namely, that
he was likest virtue, in as much as he seemed to act aright, not in
obedience to any law or outward motive, but by the necessity of a happy
nature, which could not act otherwise. As son, brother, husband,
father, master, friend, he moves with firm yet light steps, alike
unostentatious, and alike exemplary. As a writer, he has uniformly made
his talents subservient to the best interests of humanity, of public
virtue, and domestic piety; his cause has ever been the cause of pure
religion and of liberty, of national independence and of national
illumination. When future critics shall weigh out his guerdon of praise
and censure, it will be Southey the poet only, that will supply them
with the scanty materials for the latter. They will likewise not fail to
record, that as no man was ever a more constant friend, never had poet
more friends and honourers among the good of all parties; and that
quacks in education, quacks in politics, and quacks in criticism were
his only enemies. [17]




CHAPTER IV

The Lyrical Ballads with the Preface--Mr. Wordsworth's earlier poems--On
fancy and imagination--The investigation of the distinction important to
the Fine Arts.


I have wandered far from the object in view, but as I fancied to myself
readers who would respect the feelings that had tempted me from the main
road; so I dare calculate on not a few, who will warmly sympathize with
them. At present it will be sufficient for my purpose, if I have proved,
that Mr. Southey's writings no more than my own furnished the original
occasion to this fiction of a new school of poetry, and to the clamours
against its supposed founders and proselytes.

As little do I believe that Mr. Wordsworth's Lyrical Ballads were
in themselves the cause. I speak exclusively of the two volumes so
entitled. A careful and repeated examination of these confirms me in
the belief, that the omission of less than a hundred lines would have
precluded nine-tenths of the criticism on this work. I hazard this
declaration, however, on the supposition, that the reader has taken it
up, as he would have done any other collection of poems purporting to
derive their subjects or interests from the incidents of domestic or
ordinary life, intermingled with higher strains of meditation which
the poet utters in his own person and character; with the proviso, that
these poems were perused without knowledge of, or reference to,
the author's peculiar opinions, and that the reader had not had his
attention previously directed to those peculiarities. In that case,
as actually happened with Mr. Southey's earlier works, the lines and
passages which might have offended the general taste, would have been
considered as mere inequalities, and attributed to inattention, not to
perversity of judgment. The men of business who had passed their lives
chiefly in cities, and who might therefore be expected to derive the
highest pleasure from acute notices of men and manners conveyed in easy,
yet correct and pointed language; and all those who, reading but little
poetry, are most stimulated with that species of it, which seems
most distant from prose, would probably have passed by the volumes
altogether. Others more catholic in their taste, and yet habituated to
be most pleased when most excited, would have contented themselves
with deciding, that the author had been successful in proportion to the
elevation of his style and subject. Not a few, perhaps, might, by their
admiration of the Lines written near Tintern Abbey, on revisiting the
Wye, those Left upon a Yew Tree Seat, The Old Cumberland Beggar,
and Ruth, have been gradually led to peruse with kindred feeling
The Brothers, the Hart-leap Well, and whatever other poems in that
collection may be described as holding a middle place between those
written in the highest and those in the humblest style; as for instance
between the Tintern Abbey, and The Thorn, or Simon Lee. Should their
taste submit to no further change, and still remain unreconciled to the
colloquial phrases, or the imitations of them, that are, more or less,
scattered through the class last mentioned; yet even from the small
number of the latter, they would have deemed them but an inconsiderable
subtraction from the merit of the whole work; or, what is sometimes not
unpleasing in the publication of a new writer, as serving to ascertain
the natural tendency, and consequently the proper direction of the
author's genius.

In the critical remarks, therefore, prefixed and annexed to the Lyrical
Ballads, I believe, we may safely rest, as the true origin of the
unexampled opposition which Mr. Wordsworth's writings have been since
doomed to encounter. The humbler passages in the poems themselves were
dwelt on and cited to justify the rejection of the theory. What in
and for themselves would have been either forgotten or forgiven as
imperfections, or at least comparative failures, provoked direct
hostility when announced as intentional, as the result of choice after
full deliberation. Thus the poems, admitted by all as excellent, joined
with those which had pleased the far greater number, though they formed
two-thirds of the whole work, instead of being deemed (as in all right
they should have been, even if we take for granted that the reader
judged aright) an atonement for the few exceptions, gave wind and fuel
to the animosity against both the poems and the poet. In all perplexity
there is a portion of fear, which predisposes the mind to anger. Not
able to deny that the author possessed both genius and a powerful
intellect, they felt very positive,--but yet were not quite certain
that he might not be in the right, and they themselves in the wrong; an
unquiet state of mind, which seeks alleviation by quarrelling with the
occasion of it, and by wondering at the perverseness of the man, who had
written a long and argumentative essay to persuade them, that

Fair is foul, and foul is fair;

in other words, that they had been all their lives admiring without
judgment, and were now about to censure without reason. [18]

That this conjecture is not wide from the mark, I am induced to believe
from the noticeable fact, which I can state on my own knowledge, that
the same general censure has been grounded by almost every different
person on some different poem. Among those, whose candour and judgment
I estimate highly, I distinctly remember six who expressed their
objections to the Lyrical Ballads almost in the same words, and
altogether to the same purport, at the same time admitting, that several
of the poems had given them great pleasure; and, strange as it might
seem, the composition which one cited as execrable, another quoted as
his favourite. I am indeed convinced in my own mind, that could the same
experiment have been tried with these volumes, as was made in the well
known story of the picture, the result would have been the same; the
parts which had been covered by black spots on the one day, would be
found equally albo lapide notatae on the succeeding.

However this may be, it was assuredly hard and unjust to fix the
attention on a few separate and insulated poems with as much aversion,
as if they had been so many plague-spots on the whole work, instead of
passing them over in silence, as so much blank paper, or leaves of a
bookseller's catalogue; especially, as no one pretended to have found
in them any immorality or indelicacy; and the poems, therefore, at the
worst, could only be regarded as so many light or inferior coins in a
rouleau of gold, not as so much alloy in a weight of bullion. A friend
whose talents I hold in the highest respect, but whose judgment and
strong sound sense I have had almost continued occasion to revere,
making the usual complaints to me concerning both the style and subjects
of Mr. Wordsworth's minor poems; I admitted that there were some few of
the tales and incidents, in which I could not myself find a sufficient
cause for their having been recorded in metre. I mentioned Alice Fell as
an instance; "Nay," replied my friend with more than usual quickness of
manner, "I cannot agree with you there! --that, I own, does seem to me
a remarkably pleasing poem. " In the Lyrical Ballads, (for my experience
does not enable me to extend the remark equally unqualified to the two
subsequent volumes,) I have heard at different times, and from different
individuals, every single poem extolled and reprobated, with the
exception of those of loftier kind, which as was before observed, seem
to have won universal praise. This fact of itself would have made me
diffident in my censures, had not a still stronger ground been furnished
by the strange contrast of the heat and long continuance of the
opposition, with the nature of the faults stated as justifying it. The
seductive faults, the dulcia vitia of Cowley, Marine, or Darwin might
reasonably be thought capable of corrupting the public judgment for half
a century, and require a twenty years war, campaign after campaign, in
order to dethrone the usurper and re-establish the legitimate taste.
But that a downright simpleness, under the affectation of simplicity,
prosaic words in feeble metre, silly thoughts in childish phrases, and
a preference of mean, degrading, or at best trivial associations and
characters, should succeed in forming a school of imitators, a company
of almost religious admirers, and this too among young men of ardent
minds, liberal education, and not

------with academic laurels unbestowed;

and that this bare and bald counterfeit of poetry, which is
characterized as below criticism, should for nearly twenty years have
well-nigh engrossed criticism, as the main, if not the only, butt of
review, magazine, pamphlet, poem, and paragraph; this is indeed matter
of wonder. Of yet greater is it, that the contest should still continue
as undecided as [19] that between Bacchus and the frogs in Aristophanes;
when the former descended to the realms of the departed to bring back
the spirit of old and genuine poesy;--

CH. Brekekekex, koax, koax.
D. All' exoloisth' auto koax.
Ouden gar est' all', hae koax.
Oimozet' ou gar moi melei.
CH. Alla maen kekraxomestha
g', oposon hae pharynx an haemon
chandanae di' haemeras,
brekekekex, koax, koax!
D. Touto gar ou nikaesete.
CH. Oude men haemas su pantos.
D. Oude maen humeis ge dae m'
oudepote. Kekraxomai gar,
kan me deae, di' haemeras,
eos an humon epikrataeso tou koax!
CH. Brekekekex, KO'AX, KOAX!

During the last year of my residence at Cambridge, 1794, I became
acquainted with Mr. Wordsworth's first publication entitled Descriptive
Sketches; and seldom, if ever, was the emergence of an original poetic
genius above the literary horizon more evidently announced. In the
form, style, and manner of the whole poem, and in the structure of
the particular lines and periods, there is a harshness and acerbity
connected and combined with words and images all a-glow, which might
recall those products of the vegetable world, where gorgeous blossoms
rise out of a hard and thorny rind and shell, within which the rich
fruit is elaborating. The language is not only peculiar and strong, but
at times knotty and contorted, as by its own impatient strength; while
the novelty and struggling crowd of images, acting in conjunction with
the difficulties of the style, demands always a greater closeness of
attention, than poetry,--at all events, than descriptive poetry--has
a right to claim. It not seldom therefore justified the complaint of
obscurity. In the following extract I have sometimes fancied, that I saw
an emblem of the poem itself, and of the author's genius as it was then
displayed. --

'Tis storm; and hid in mist from hour to hour,
All day the floods a deepening murmur pour;
The sky is veiled, and every cheerful sight
Dark is the region as with coming night;
Yet what a sudden burst of overpowering light!
Triumphant on the bosom of the storm,
Glances the fire-clad eagle's wheeling form;
Eastward, in long perspective glittering, shine
The wood-crowned cliffs that o'er the lake recline;
Those Eastern cliffs a hundred streams unfold,
At once to pillars turned that flame with gold;
Behind his sail the peasant strives to shun
The west, that burns like one dilated sun,
Where in a mighty crucible expire
The mountains, glowing hot, like coals of fire.

The poetic Psyche, in its process to full development, undergoes as many
changes as its Greek namesake, the butterfly [20]. And it is remarkable
how soon genius clears and purifies itself from the faults and errors of
its earliest products; faults which, in its earliest compositions, are
the more obtrusive and confluent, because as heterogeneous elements,
which had only a temporary use, they constitute the very ferment,
by which themselves are carried off. Or we may compare them to some
diseases, which must work on the humours, and be thrown out on the
surface, in order to secure the patient from their future recurrence.
I was in my twenty-fourth year, when I had the happiness of knowing Mr.
Wordsworth personally, and while memory lasts, I shall hardly forget
the sudden effect produced on my mind, by his recitation of a manuscript
poem, which still remains unpublished, but of which the stanza and tone
of style were the same as those of The Female Vagrant, as originally
printed in the first volume of the Lyrical Ballads. There was here no
mark of strained thought, or forced diction, no crowd or turbulence of
imagery; and, as the poet hath himself well described in his Lines on
revisiting the Wye, manly reflection and human associations had given
both variety, and an additional interest to natural objects, which,
in the passion and appetite of the first love, they had seemed to him
neither to need nor permit. The occasional obscurities, which had risen
from an imperfect control over the resources of his native language, had
almost wholly disappeared, together with that worse defect of arbitrary
and illogical phrases, at once hackneyed and fantastic, which hold so
distinguished a place in the technique of ordinary poetry, and will,
more or less, alloy the earlier poems of the truest genius, unless
the attention has been specially directed to their worthlessness and
incongruity [21]. I did not perceive anything particular in the mere
style of the poem alluded to during its recitation, except indeed such
difference as was not separable from the thought and manner; and the
Spenserian stanza, which always, more or less, recalls to the reader's
mind Spenser's own style, would doubtless have authorized, in my then
opinion, a more frequent descent to the phrases of ordinary life, than
could without an ill effect have been hazarded in the heroic couplet.
It was not however the freedom from false taste, whether as to common
defects, or to those more properly his own, which made so unusual an
impression on my feelings immediately, and subsequently on my judgment.
It was the union of deep feeling with profound thought; the fine balance
of truth in observing, with the imaginative faculty in modifying, the
objects observed; and above all the original gift of spreading the tone,
the atmosphere, and with it the depth and height of the ideal world
around forms, incidents, and situations, of which, for the common view,
custom had bedimmed all the lustre, had dried up the sparkle and the dew
drops.

This excellence, which in all Mr. Wordsworth's writings is more or
less predominant, and which constitutes the character of his mind, I no
sooner felt, than I sought to understand. Repeated meditations led me
first to suspect,--(and a more intimate analysis of the human faculties,
their appropriate marks, functions, and effects matured my conjecture
into full conviction,)--that Fancy and Imagination were two distinct and
widely different faculties, instead of being, according to the general
belief, either two names with one meaning, or, at furthest, the lower
and higher degree of one and the same power. It is not, I own, easy to
conceive a more apposite translation of the Greek phantasia than the
Latin imaginatio; but it is equally true that in all societies there
exists an instinct of growth, a certain collective, unconscious good
sense working progressively to desynonymize [22] those words originally
of the same meaning, which the conflux of dialects supplied to the
more homogeneous languages, as the Greek and German: and which the
same cause, joined with accidents of translation from original works of
different countries, occasion in mixed languages like our own. The first
and most important point to be proved is, that two conceptions perfectly
distinct are confused under one and the same word, and--this done--to
appropriate that word exclusively to the one meaning, and the synonyme,
should there be one, to the other. But if,--(as will be often the case
in the arts and sciences,)--no synonyme exists, we must either invent
or borrow a word. In the present instance the appropriation has already
begun, and been legitimated in the derivative adjective: Milton had a
highly imaginative, Cowley a very fanciful mind. If therefore I should
succeed in establishing the actual existence of two faculties generally
different, the nomenclature would be at once determined. To the
faculty by which I had characterized Milton, we should confine the term
'imagination;' while the other would be contra-distinguished as 'fancy.
'
Now were it once fully ascertained, that this division is no less
grounded in nature than that of delirium from mania, or Otway's

Lutes, laurels, seas of milk, and ships of amber,

from Shakespeare's

What! have his daughters brought him to this pass?

or from the preceding apostrophe to the elements; the theory of the fine
arts, and of poetry in particular, could not but derive some additional
and important light. It would in its immediate effects furnish a torch
of guidance to the philosophical critic; and ultimately to the poet
himself. In energetic minds, truth soon changes by domestication into
power; and from directing in the discrimination and appraisal of the
product, becomes influencive in the production. To admire on principle,
is the only way to imitate without loss of originality.

It has been already hinted, that metaphysics and psychology have long
been my hobby-horse. But to have a hobby-horse, and to be vain of it,
are so commonly found together, that they pass almost for the same. I
trust therefore, that there will be more good humour than contempt,
in the smile with which the reader chastises my self-complacency, if I
confess myself uncertain, whether the satisfaction from the perception
of a truth new to myself may not have been rendered more poignant by the
conceit, that it would be equally so to the public. There was a time,
certainly, in which I took some little credit to myself, in the belief
that I had been the first of my countrymen, who had pointed out the
diverse meaning of which the two terms were capable, and analyzed the
faculties to which they should be appropriated. Mr. W. Taylor's recent
volume of synonymes I have not yet seen [23]; but his specification of
the terms in question has been clearly shown to be both insufficient and
erroneous by Mr. Wordsworth in the Preface added to the late collection
of his Poems. The explanation which Mr. Wordsworth has himself given,
will be found to differ from mine, chiefly, perhaps as our objects are
different. It could scarcely indeed happen otherwise, from the advantage
I have enjoyed of frequent conversation with him on a subject to which
a poem of his own first directed my attention, and my conclusions
concerning which he had made more lucid to myself by many happy
instances drawn from the operation of natural objects on the mind. But
it was Mr. Wordsworth's purpose to consider the influences of fancy and
imagination as they are manifested in poetry, and from the different
effects to conclude their diversity in kind; while it is my object to
investigate the seminal principle, and then from the kind to deduce the
degree. My friend has drawn a masterly sketch of the branches with their
poetic fruitage. I wish to add the trunk, and even the roots as far as
they lift themselves above ground, and are visible to the naked eye of
our common consciousness.

Yet even in this attempt I am aware that I shall be obliged to draw more
largely on the reader's attention, than so immethodical a miscellany as
this can authorize; when in such a work (the Ecclesiasical Polity) of
such a mind as Hooker's, the judicious author, though no less admirable
for the perspicuity than for the port and dignity of his language,--and
though he wrote for men of learning in a learned age,--saw nevertheless
occasion to anticipate and guard against "complaints of obscurity," as
often as he was to trace his subject "to the highest well-spring and
fountain. " Which, (continues he) "because men are not accustomed to, the
pains we take are more needful a great deal, than acceptable; and the
matters we handle, seem by reason of newness (till the mind grow better
acquainted with them) dark and intricate. " I would gladly therefore
spare both myself and others this labour, if I knew how without it
to present an intelligible statement of my poetic creed,--not as my
opinions, which weigh for nothing, but as deductions from established
premises conveyed in such a form, as is calculated either to effect a
fundamental conviction, or to receive a fundamental confutation. If I
may dare once more adopt the words of Hooker, "they, unto whom we shall
seem tedious, are in no wise injured by us, because it is in their own
hands to spare that labour, which they are not willing to endure. " Those
at least, let me be permitted to add, who have taken so much pains to
render me ridiculous for a perversion of taste, and have supported the
charge by attributing strange notions to me on no other authority than
their own conjectures, owe it to themselves as well as to me not to
refuse their attention to my own statement of the theory which I do
acknowledge; or shrink from the trouble of examining the grounds on
which I rest it, or the arguments which I offer in its justification.




CHAPTER V

On the law of Association--Its history traced from Aristotle to Hartley.


There have been men in all ages, who have been impelled as by an
instinct to propose their own nature as a problem, and who devote their
attempts to its solution. The first step was to construct a table of
distinctions, which they seem to have formed on the principle of the
absence or presence of the Will. Our various sensations, perceptions,
and movements were classed as active or passive, or as media partaking
of both. A still finer distinction was soon established between the
voluntary and the spontaneous. In our perceptions we seem to ourselves
merely passive to an external power, whether as a mirror reflecting the
landscape, or as a blank canvass on which some unknown hand paints it.
For it is worthy of notice, that the latter, or the system of Idealism
may be traced to sources equally remote with the former, or Materialism;
and Berkeley can boast an ancestry at least as venerable as Gassendi
or Hobbes. These conjectures, however, concerning the mode in which our
perceptions originated, could not alter the natural difference of Things
and Thoughts. In the former, the cause appeared wholly external,
while in the latter, sometimes our will interfered as the producing or
determining cause, and sometimes our nature seemed to act by a mechanism
of its own, without any conscious effort of the will, or even against
it. Our inward experiences were thus arranged in three separate classes,
the passive sense, or what the School-men call the merely receptive
quality of the mind; the voluntary; and the spontaneous, which holds the
middle place between both. But it is not in human nature to meditate on
any mode of action, without inquiring after the law that governs it;
and in the explanation of the spontaneous movements of our being, the
metaphysician took the lead of the anatomist and natural philosopher. In
Egypt, Palestine, Greece, and India the analysis of the mind had reached
its noon and manhood, while experimental research was still in its dawn
and infancy. For many, very many centuries, it has been difficult to
advance a new truth, or even a new error, in the philosophy of the
intellect or morals. With regard, however, to the laws that direct the
spontaneous movements of thought and the principle of their intellectual
mechanism there exists, it has been asserted, an important exception
most honourable to the moderns, and in the merit of which our own
country claims the largest share. Sir James Mackintosh,--(who, amid the
variety of his talents and attainments, is not of less repute for the
depth and accuracy of his philosophical inquiries than for the
eloquence with which he is said to render their most difficult results
perspicuous, and the driest attractive,)--affirmed in the Lectures,
delivered by him in Lincoln's Inn Hall, that the law of association as
established in the contemporaneity of the original impressions,
formed the basis of all true psychology; and that any ontological or
metaphysical science, not contained in such (that is, an empirical)
psychology, was but a web of abstractions and generalizations. Of this
prolific truth, of this great fundamental law, he declared Hobbes to
have been the original discoverer, while its full application to the
whole intellectual system we owed to Hartley; who stood in the same
relation to Hobbes as Newton to Kepler; the law of association being
that to the mind, which gravitation is to matter.

Of the former clause in this assertion, as it respects the comparative
merits of the ancient metaphysicians, including their commentators, the
School-men, and of the modern and British and French philosophers from
Hobbes to Hume, Hartley, and Condillac, this is not the place to speak.
So wide indeed is the chasm between Sir James Mackintosh's philosophical
creed and mine, that so far from being able to join hands, we could
scarcely make our voices intelligible to each other: and to bridge it
over would require more time, skill, and power than I believe myself
to possess. But the latter clause involves for the greater part a mere
question of fact and history, and the accuracy of the statement is to be
tried by documents rather than reasoning.

First, then, I deny Hobbes's claim in toto: for he had been anticipated
by Des Cartes, whose work De Methodo, preceded Hobbes's De Natura
Humana, by more than a year. But what is of much more importance, Hobbes
builds nothing on the principle which he had announced. He does not
even announce it, as differing in any respect from the general laws of
material motion and impact: nor was it, indeed, possible for him so
to do, compatibly with his system, which was exclusively material and
mechanical. Far otherwise is it with Des Cartes; greatly as he too
in his after writings (and still more egregiously his followers De la
Forge, and others) obscured the truth by their attempts to explain it on
the theory of nervous fluids, and material configurations. But, in his
interesting work, De Methodo, Des Cartes relates the circumstance which
first led him to meditate on this subject, and which since then has been
often noticed and employed as an instance and illustration of the law.
A child who with its eyes bandaged had lost several of his fingers by
amputation, continued to complain for many days successively of pains,
now in this joint and now in that, of the very fingers which had
been cut off. Des Cartes was led by this incident to reflect on the
uncertainty with which we attribute any particular place to any inward
pain or uneasiness, and proceeded after long consideration to establish
it as a general law: that contemporaneous impressions, whether images
or sensations, recall each other mechanically. On this principle, as
a ground work, he built up the whole system of human language, as one
continued process of association. He showed in what sense not only
general terms, but generic images,--under the name of abstract
ideas,--actually existed, and in what consist their nature and power.
As one word may become the general exponent of many, so by association
a simple image may represent a whole class. But in truth Hobbes
himself makes no claims to any discovery, and introduces this law of
association, or (in his own language) discursion of mind, as an
admitted fact, in the solution alone of which, and this by causes purely
physiological, he arrogates any originality. His system is briefly this;
whenever the senses are impinged on by external objects, whether by
the rays of light reflected from them, or by effluxes of their finer
particles, there results a correspondent motion of the innermost and
subtlest organs. This motion constitutes a representation, and there
remains an impression of the same, or a certain disposition to repeat
the same motion. Whenever we feel several objects at the same time, the
impressions that are left, (or in the language of Mr. Hume, the ideas,)
are linked together. Whenever therefore any one of the movements, which
constitute a complex impression, is renewed through the senses, the
others succeed mechanically. It follows of necessity, therefore, that
Hobbes, as well as Hartley and all others who derive association from
the connection and interdependence of the supposed matter, the movements
of which constitute our thoughts, must have reduced all its forms to
the one law of Time. But even the merit of announcing this law with
philosophic precision cannot be fairly conceded to him. For the objects
of any two ideas need not have co-existed in the same sensation in
order to become mutually associable. The same result will follow when
one only of the two ideas has been represented by the senses, and the
other by the memory.

Long however before either Hobbes or Des Cartes the law of association
had been defined, and its important functions set forth by Ludovicus
Vives. Phantasia, it is to be noticed, is employed by Vives to express
the mental power of comprehension, or the active function of the mind;
and imaginatio for the receptivity (via receptiva) of impressions, or
for the passive perception. The power of combination he appropriates
to the former: "quae singula et simpliciter acceperat imaginatio, ea
conjungit et disjungait phantasia. " And the law by which the thoughts
are spontaneously presented follows thus: "quae simul sunt a phantasia
comprehensa, si alterutrum occurrat, solet secum alterum representare. "
To time therefore he subordinates all the other exciting causes
of association. The soul proceeds "a causa ad effectum, ab hoc ad
instrumentum, a parte ad totum;" thence to the place, from place to
person, and from this to whatever preceded or followed, all as being
parts of a total impression, each of which may recall the other. The
apparent springs "saltus vel transitus etiam longissimos," he explains
by the same thought having been a component part of two or more total
impressions. Thus "ex Scipione venio in cogitationem potentiae Turcicae,
propter victorias ejus de Asia, in qua regnabat Antiochus. "

But from Vives I pass at once to the source of his doctrines, and (as
far as we can judge from the remains yet extant of Greek philosophy)
as to the first, so to the fullest and most perfect enunciation of the
associative principle, namely, to the writings of Aristotle; and of
these in particular to the treatises De Anima, and "De Memoria," which
last belongs to the series of essays entitled in the old translations
Parva Naturalia. In as much as later writers have either deviated from,
or added to his doctrines, they appear to me to have introduced either
error or groundless supposition.

In the first place it is to be observed, that Aristotle's positions on
this subject are unmixed with fiction. The wise Stagyrite speaks of no
successive particles propagating motion like billiard balls, as Hobbes;
nor of nervous or animal spirits, where inanimate and irrational solids
are thawed down, and distilled, or filtrated by ascension, into living
and intelligent fluids, that etch and re-etch engravings on the brain,
as the followers of Des Cartes, and the humoral pathologists in general;
nor of an oscillating ether which was to effect the same service for the
nerves of the brain considered as solid fibres, as the animal
spirits perform for them under the notion of hollow tubes, as Hartley
teaches--nor finally, (with yet more recent dreamers) of chemical
compositions by elective affinity, or of an electric light at once the
immediate object and the ultimate organ of inward vision, which rises
to the brain like an Aurora Borealis, and there, disporting in various
shapes,--as the balance of plus and minus, or negative and positive,
is destroyed or re-established,--images out both past and present.
Aristotle delivers a just theory without pretending to an hypothesis;
or in other words a comprehensive survey of the different facts, and
of their relations to each other without supposition, that is, a fact
placed under a number of facts, as their common support and explanation;
though in the majority of instances these hypotheses or suppositions
better deserve the name of upopoiaeseis, or suffictions. He uses indeed
the word kinaeseis, to express what we call representations or ideas,
but he carefully distinguishes them from material motion, designating
the latter always by annexing the words en topo, or kata topon. On the
contrary, in his treatise De Anima, he excludes place and motion from
all the operations of thought, whether representations or volitions, as
attributes utterly and absurdly heterogeneous.

The general law of association, or, more accurately, the common
condition under which all exciting causes act, and in which they may
be generalized, according to Aristotle is this. Ideas by having been
together acquire a power of recalling each other; or every partial
representation awakes the total representation of which it had been
a part. In the practical determination of this common principle to
particular recollections, he admits five agents or occasioning
causes: first, connection in time, whether simultaneous, preceding,
or successive; second, vicinity or connection in space; third,
interdependence or necessary connection, as cause and effect; fourth,
likeness; and fifth, contrast. As an additional solution of the
occasional seeming chasms in the continuity of reproduction he proves,
that movements or ideas possessing one or the other of these five
characters had passed through the mind as intermediate links,
sufficiently clear to recall other parts of the same total impressions
with which they had co-existed, though not vivid enough to excite that
degree of attention which is requisite for distinct recollection, or
as we may aptly express it, after consciousness. In association then
consists the whole mechanism of the reproduction of impressions, in the
Aristotelian Psychology. It is the universal law of the passive fancy
and mechanical memory; that which supplies to all other faculties their
objects, to all thought the elements of its materials.

In consulting the excellent commentary of St. Thomas Aquinas on the
Parva Naturalia of Aristotle, I was struck at once with its close
resemblance to Hume's Essay on Association. The main thoughts were
the same in both, the order of the thoughts was the same, and even the
illustrations differed only by Hume's occasional substitution of more
modern examples. I mentioned the circumstance to several of my literary
acquaintances, who admitted the closeness of the resemblance, and
that it seemed too great to be explained by mere coincidence; but
they thought it improbable that Hume should have held the pages of the
Angelic Doctor worth turning over. But some time after Mr. Payne showed
Sir James Mackintosh some odd volumes of St. Thomas Aquinas, partly
perhaps from having heard that he had in his Lectures passed a high
encomium on this canonized philosopher; but chiefly from the fact, that
the volumes had belonged to Mr. Hume, and had here and there marginal
marks and notes of reference in his own hand writing. Among these
volumes was that which contains the Parva Naturalia, in the old Latin
version, swathed and swaddled in the commentary afore mentioned

It remains then for me, first to state wherein Hartley differs from
Aristotle; then, to exhibit the grounds of my conviction, that
he differed only to err: and next as the result, to show, by what
influences of the choice and judgment the associative power becomes
either memory or fancy; and, in conclusion, to appropriate the remaining
offices of the mind to the reason, and the imagination. With my best
efforts to be as perspicuous as the nature of language will permit
on such a subject, I earnestly solicit the good wishes and friendly
patience of my readers, while I thus go "sounding on my dim and perilous
way. "




CHAPTER VI

That Hartley's system, as far as it differs from that of Aristotle, is
neither tenable in theory, nor founded in facts.


Of Hartley's hypothetical vibrations in his hypothetical oscillating
ether of the nerves, which is the first and most obvious distinction
between his system and that of Aristotle, I shall say little. This, with
all other similar attempts to render that an object of the sight which
has no relation to sight, has been already sufficiently exposed by the
younger Reimarus, Maasz, and others, as outraging the very axioms
of mechanics in a scheme, the merit of which consists in its being
mechanical. Whether any other philosophy be possible, but the
mechanical; and again, whether the mechanical system can have any
claim to be called philosophy; are questions for another place. It is,
however, certain, that as long as we deny the former, and affirm the
latter, we must bewilder ourselves, whenever we would pierce into the
adyta of causation; and all that laborious conjecture can do, is to fill
up the gaps of fancy. Under that despotism of the eye (the emancipation
from which Pythagoras by his numeral, and Plato by his musical, symbols,
and both by geometric discipline, aimed at, as the first propaideuma of
the mind)--under this strong sensuous influence, we are restless
because invisible things are not the objects of vision; and metaphysical
systems, for the most part, become popular, not for their truth, but in
proportion as they attribute to causes a susceptibility of being seen,
if only our visual organs were sufficiently powerful.

From a hundred possible confutations let one suffice. According to
this system the idea or vibration a from the external object A becomes
associable with the idea or vibration m from the external object M,
because the oscillation a propagated itself so as to re-produce the
oscillation m. But the original impression from M was essentially
different from the impression A: unless therefore different causes
may produce the same effect, the vibration a could never produce the
vibration m: and this therefore could never be the means, by which a and
m are associated. To understand this, the attentive reader need only be
reminded, that the ideas are themselves, in Hartley's system, nothing
more than their appropriate configurative vibrations. It is a mere
delusion of the fancy to conceive the pre-existence of the ideas, in any
chain of association, as so many differently coloured billiard-balls in
contact, so that when an object, the billiard-stick, strikes the first
or white ball, the same motion propagates itself through the red, green,
blue and black, and sets the whole in motion. No! we must suppose the
very same force, which constitutes the white ball, to constitute the red
or black; or the idea of a circle to constitute the idea of a triangle;
which is impossible.

But it may be said, that by the sensations from the objects A and M,
the nerves have acquired a disposition to the vibrations a and m, and
therefore a need only be repeated in order to re-produce m. Now we will
grant, for a moment, the possibility of such a disposition in a
material nerve, which yet seems scarcely less absurd than to say, that a
weather-cock had acquired a habit of turning to the east, from the wind
having been so long in that quarter: for if it be replied, that we must
take in the circumstance of life, what then becomes of the mechanical
philosophy? And what is the nerve, but the flint which the wag placed in
the pot as the first ingredient of his stone broth, requiring only
salt, turnips, and mutton, for the remainder! But if we waive this, and
pre-suppose the actual existence of such a disposition; two cases
are possible. Either, every idea has its own nerve and correspondent
oscillation, or this is not the case. If the latter be the truth, we
should gain nothing by these dispositions; for then, every nerve having
several dispositions, when the motion of any other nerve is propagated
into it, there will be no ground or cause present, why exactly the
oscillation m should arise, rather than any other to which it was
equally pre-disposed. But if we take the former, and let every idea have
a nerve of its own, then every nerve must be capable of propagating its
motion into many other nerves; and again, there is no reason assignable,
why the vibration m should arise, rather than any other ad libitum.

It is fashionable to smile at Hartley's vibrations and vibratiuncles;
and his work has been re-edited by Priestley, with the omission of the
material hypothesis. But Hartley was too great a man, too coherent a
thinker, for this to have been done, either consistently or to any wise
purpose. For all other parts of his system, as far as they are peculiar
to that system, once removed from their mechanical basis, not only lose
their main support, but the very motive which led to their adoption.
Thus the principle of contemporaneity, which Aristotle had made the
common condition of all the laws of association, Hartley was constrained
to represent as being itself the sole law. For to what law can the
action of material atoms be subject, but that of proximity in place? And
to what law can their motions be subjected but that of time? Again, from
this results inevitably, that the will, the reason, the judgment,
and the understanding, instead of being the determining causes of
association, must needs be represented as its creatures, and among its
mechanical effects. Conceive, for instance, a broad stream, winding
through a mountainous country with an indefinite number of currents,
varying and running into each other according as the gusts chance to
blow from the opening of the mountains. The temporary union of several
currents in one, so as to form the main current of the moment, would
present an accurate image of Hartley's theory of the will.

Had this been really the case, the consequence would have been, that
our whole life would be divided between the despotism of outward
impressions, and that of senseless and passive memory. Take his law in
its highest abstraction and most philosophical form, namely, that every
partial representation recalls the total representation of which it was
a part; and the law becomes nugatory, were it only for its universality.
In practice it would indeed be mere lawlessness. Consider, how immense
must be the sphere of a total impression from the top of St. Paul's
church; and how rapid and continuous the series of such total
impressions. If, therefore, we suppose the absence of all interference
of the will, reason, and judgment, one or other of two consequences must
result. Either the ideas, or reliques of such impression, will exactly
imitate the order of the impression itself, which would be absolute
delirium: or any one part of that impression might recall any other
part, and--(as from the law of continuity, there must exist in every
total impression, some one or more parts, which are components of some
other following total impression, and so on ad infinitum)--any part
of any impression might recall any part of any other, without a cause
present to determine what it should be. For to bring in the will, or
reason, as causes of their own cause, that is, as at once causes and
effects, can satisfy those only who, in their pretended evidences of a
God, having first demanded organization, as the sole cause and ground
of intellect, will then coolly demand the pre-existence of intellect,
as the cause and ground-work of organization. There is in truth but
one state to which this theory applies at all, namely, that of complete
light-headedness; and even to this it applies but partially, because the
will and reason are perhaps never wholly suspended.

A case of this kind occurred in a Roman Catholic town in Germany a year
or two before my arrival at Goettingen, and had not then ceased to be
a frequent subject of conversation. A young woman of four or five and
twenty, who could neither read, nor write, was seized with a nervous
fever; during which, according to the asseverations of all the priests
and monks of the neighbourhood, she became possessed, and, as it
appeared, by a very learned devil. She continued incessantly talking
Latin, Greek, and Hebrew, in very pompous tones and with most distinct
enunciation. This possession was rendered more probable by the known
fact that she was or had been a heretic. Voltaire humorously advises the
devil to decline all acquaintance with medical men; and it would have
been more to his reputation, if he had taken this advice in the present
instance. The case had attracted the particular attention of a
young physician, and by his statement many eminent physiologists and
psychologists visited the town, and cross-examined the case on the spot.
Sheets full of her ravings were taken down from her own mouth, and
were found to consist of sentences, coherent and intelligible each for
itself, but with little or no connection with each other. Of the Hebrew,
a small portion only could be traced to the Bible; the remainder seemed
to be in the Rabbinical dialect. All trick or conspiracy was out of
the question. Not only had the young woman ever been a harmless, simple
creature; but she was evidently labouring under a nervous fever. In
the town, in which she had been resident for many years as a servant in
different families, no solution presented itself. The young physician,
however, determined to trace her past life step by step; for the patient
herself was incapable of returning a rational answer. He at length
succeeded in discovering the place, where her parents had lived:
travelled thither, found them dead, but an uncle surviving; and from him
learned, that the patient had been charitably taken by an old Protestant
pastor at nine years old, and had remained with him some years, even
till the old man's death. Of this pastor the uncle knew nothing, but
that he was a very good man. With great difficulty, and after much
search, our young medical philosopher discovered a niece of the
pastor's, who had lived with him as his house-keeper, and had inherited
his effects. She remembered the girl; related, that her venerable uncle
had been too indulgent, and could not bear to hear the girl scolded;
that she was willing to have kept her, but that, after her patron's
death, the girl herself refused to stay. Anxious inquiries were then,
of course, made concerning the pastor's habits; and the solution of the
phenomenon was soon obtained. For it appeared, that it had been the old
man's custom, for years, to walk up and down a passage of his house into
which the kitchen door opened, and to read to himself with a loud voice,
out of his favourite books. A considerable number of these were still in
the niece's possession. She added, that he was a very learned man and
a great Hebraist. Among the books were found a collection of Rabbinical
writings, together with several of the Greek and Latin Fathers; and the
physician succeeded in identifying so many passages with those taken
down at the young woman's bedside, that no doubt could remain in any
rational mind concerning the true origin of the impressions made on her
nervous system.

This authenticated case furnishes both proof and instance, that reliques
of sensation may exist for an indefinite time in a latent state, in
the very same order in which they were originally impressed; and as we
cannot rationally suppose the feverish state of the brain to act in any
other way than as a stimulus, this fact (and it would not be difficult
to adduce several of the same kind) contributes to make it even
probable, that all thoughts are in themselves imperishable; and, that if
the intelligent faculty should be rendered more comprehensive, it
would require only a different and apportioned organization,--the body
celestial instead of the body terrestrial,--to bring before every human
soul the collective experience of its whole past existence. And this,
this, perchance, is the dread book of judgment, in the mysterious
hieroglyphics of which every idle word is recorded! Yea, in the very
nature of a living spirit, it may be more possible that heaven and earth
should pass away, than that a single act, a single thought, should be
loosened or lost from that living chain of causes, with all the links of
which, conscious or unconscious, the free-will, our only absolute Self,
is coextensive and co-present. But not now dare I longer discourse of
this, waiting for a loftier mood, and a nobler subject, warned from
within and from without, that it is profanation to speak of these
"mysteries tois maede phantasteisin, os kalon to taes dikaiosynaes kai
sophrosynaes prosopon, kai oute hesperos oute eoos outo kala. To gar
horon pros to horomenon syngenes kai homoion poiaesamenon dei epiballein
tae thea, ou gar an popote eiden ophthalmos haelion, haelioeidaes mae
gegenaemenos oude to kalon an idae psychae, mae kagae genomenae--to
those to whose imagination it has never been presented, how beautiful is
the countenance of justice and wisdom; and that neither the morning nor
the evening star are so fair. For in order to direct the view aright,
it behoves that the beholder should have made himself congenerous and
similar to the object beheld. Never could the eye have beheld the sun,
had not its own essence been soliform," (i. e. pre-configured to light
by a similarity of essence with that of light) "neither can a soul not
beautiful attain to an intuition of beauty. "




CHAPTER VII

Of the necessary consequences of the Hartleian Theory--Of the original
mistake or equivocation which procured its admission--Memoria technica.


We will pass by the utter incompatibility of such a law--if law it may
be called, which would itself be a slave of chances--with even that
appearance of rationality forced upon us by the outward phaenomena of
human conduct, abstracted from our own consciousness. We will agree
to forget this for the moment, in order to fix our attention on that
subordination of final to efficient causes in the human being, which
flows of necessity from the assumption, that the will and, with the
will, all acts of thought and attention are parts and products of this
blind mechanism, instead of being distinct powers, the function of
which it is to control, determine, and modify the phantasmal chaos
of association. The soul becomes a mere ens logicum; for, as a real
separable being, it would be more worthless and ludicrous than the
Grimalkins in the cat-harpsichord, described in the Spectator. For these
did form a part of the process; but, to Hartley's scheme, the soul is
present only to be pinched or stroked, while the very squeals or purring
are produced by an agency wholly independent and alien. It involves all
the difficulties, all the incomprehensibility (if it be not indeed, os
emoige dokei, the absurdity), of intercommunion between substances
that have no one property in common, without any of the convenient
consequences that bribed the judgment to the admission of the Dualistic
hypothesis. Accordingly, this caput mortuum of the Hartleian process has
been rejected by his followers, and the consciousness considered as a
result, as a tune, the common product of the breeze and the harp
though this again is the mere remotion of one absurdity to make way
for another, equally preposterous. For what is harmony but a mode of
relation, the very esse of which is percipi? --an ens rationale, which
pre-supposes the power, that by perceiving creates it? The razor's edge
becomes a saw to the armed vision; and the delicious melodies of Purcell
or Cimarosa might be disjointed stammerings to a hearer, whose partition
of time should be a thousand times subtler than ours. But this obstacle
too let us imagine ourselves to have surmounted, and "at one bound high
overleap all bound. " Yet according to this hypothesis the disquisition,
to which I am at present soliciting the reader's attention, may be as
truly said to be written by Saint Paul's church, as by me: for it is the
mere motion of my muscles and nerves; and these again are set in motion
from external causes equally passive, which external causes stand
themselves in interdependent connection with every thing that exists or
has existed. Thus the whole universe co-operates to produce the minutest
stroke of every letter, save only that I myself, and I alone, have
nothing to do with it, but merely the causeless and effectless beholding
of it when it is done. Yet scarcely can it be called a beholding; for
it is neither an act nor an effect; but an impossible creation of a
something nothing out of its very contrary! It is the mere quick-silver
plating behind a looking-glass; and in this alone consists the poor
worthless I! The sum total of my moral and intellectual intercourse,
dissolved into its elements, is reduced to extension, motion, degrees
of velocity, and those diminished copies of configurative motion, which
form what we call notions, and notions of notions. Of such philosophy
well might Butler say--

The metaphysic's but a puppet motion
That goes with screws, the notion of a notion;
The copy of a copy and lame draught
Unnaturally taken from a thought
That counterfeits all pantomimic tricks,
And turns the eyes, like an old crucifix;
That counterchanges whatsoe'er it calls
By another name, and makes it true or false;
Turns truth to falsehood, falsehood into truth,
By virtue of the Babylonian's tooth.

The inventor of the watch, if this doctrine be true, did not in reality
invent it; he only looked on, while the blind causes, the only true
artists, were unfolding themselves. So must it have been too with my
friend Allston, when he sketched his picture of the dead man revived by
the bones of the prophet Elijah. So must it have been with Mr. Southey
and Lord Byron, when the one fancied himself composing his Roderick, and
the other his Childe Harold. The same must hold good of all systems of
philosophy; of all arts, governments, wars by sea and by land; in short,
of all things that ever have been or that ever will be produced. For,
according to this system, it is not the affections and passions that are
at work, in as far as they are sensations or thoughts. We only fancy,
that we act from rational resolves, or prudent motives, or from impulses
of anger, love, or generosity. In all these cases the real agent is a
something-nothing-everything, which does all of which we know, and knows
nothing of all that itself does.

The existence of an infinite spirit, of an intelligent and holy will,
must, on this system, be mere articulated motions of the air. For as the
function of the human understanding is no other than merely to appear to
itself to combine and to apply the phaenomena of the association; and
as these derive all their reality from the primary sensations; and the
sensations again all their reality from the impressions ab extra; a
God not visible, audible, or tangible, can exist only in the sounds and
letters that form his name and attributes. If in ourselves there be no
such faculties as those of the will, and the scientific reason, we must
either have an innate idea of them, which would overthrow the whole
system; or we can have no idea at all. The process, by which Hume
degraded the notion of cause and effect into a blind product of delusion
and habit, into the mere sensation of proceeding life (nisus vitalis)
associated with the images of the memory; this same process must be
repeated to the equal degradation of every fundamental idea in ethics or
theology.

Far, very far am I from burthening with the odium of these consequences
the moral characters of those who first formed, or have since adopted
the system! It is most noticeable of the excellent and pious Hartley,
that, in the proofs of the existence and attributes of God, with which
his second volume commences, he makes no reference to the principle or
results of the first. Nay, he assumes, as his foundations, ideas which,
if we embrace the doctrines of his first volume, can exist no where but
in the vibrations of the ethereal medium common to the nerves and to the
atmosphere. Indeed the whole of the second volume is, with the fewest
possible exceptions, independent of his peculiar system. So true is it,
that the faith, which saves and sanctifies, is a collective energy, a
total act of the whole moral being; that its living sensorium is in the
heart; and that no errors of the understanding can be morally arraigned
unless they have proceeded from the heart. But whether they be such, no
man can be certain in the case of another, scarcely perhaps even in his
own. Hence it follows by inevitable consequence, that man may perchance
determine what is a heresy; but God only can know who is a heretic. It
does not, however, by any means follow that opinions fundamentally
false are harmless.