SECTION I.. Names of Names.

NAMES OF NAMES.

It is of great importance to distinguish this class of terms; to understand well the function which they perform, and to mark the subdivisions into which they are formed. There is not, however, such difficulty in the subject as to require great minuteness in the exposition.

As we have occasion to speak of things; animals, vegetables, minerals; so we have occasion to speak of the marks, which we are under the necessity of using, in order to record or to communicate our thoughts respecting them. We cannot record or communicate our thoughts respecting names, as man, tree, horse, to walk, to fly, to eat, to converse, without marks for them. We proceed in the case of names, as we do in other cases. We form them into classes, some more, some less, comprehensive, and give a name to each.

We have one name, so general as to include them all; Word. That is not a name of any thing. It is a name of the marks which we employ for discourse; and a name of them all. John is a word, mountain is a word, to run is a word, above is a word, and so on.

They are divided into classes, differently for different purposes. The grammarian, who regards chiefly the concatenation of words in sentences, divides them into noun, adjective, pronoun, verb, adverb, preposition, {4} conjunction; these words are none of them names of things. Noun is not a name of a "thing;" it is a name of a "class of words," as John, James, man, ox, tree, water, love, hatred; the same is the case with adjective, verb, and so of the rest.

The philosopher makes another division of them, adapted to his purposes, which has a more particular reference to their mode of signification. Thus, he divides them into universal, and particular; concrete, and abstract; positive, and negative; equivocal, and univocal; relative, and absolute; and so on.

It is very easy to see that the word "universal," for example, is not a name of a thing. Things are all individual, not general. The name, "man," is a "universal," because it applies to every individual of a class; for the same reason the name "ox," the name "horse," the name "dog," and so on, are universals. The words, "genus" and "species" are synonymous with "universal;" of course they also are names of names. Such is the word "number." "One," "two," "one hundred," "one thousand," are "numbers;" in other words, "number" is a general name for each and all of those other names.

Beside our names for names singly, we have occasion to name combinations of names. Thus we have the name "predication." This is a name for the combination of three words, "subject," "predicate," and "copula." We have the name "sentence," which never can be less, implicitly or explicitly, than a predication, but is often more. The same is the account of the word "definition." We have the names "speech," "oration," "sermon," "conversation," all of them names for a series of sentences. We have {5} also names of written discourse, such as a "volume," a "book," a "chapter," a "section," a "paragraph."

This class of names was well understood and correctly characterized by Hobbes, of whose philosophy the distinction between names of names and of things was a cardinal point.--Ed.]

{6} SECTION II.

RELATIVE TERMS.

The explanation of Relative Terms will run to a considerable length. The mode in which they are employed as marks is peculiar; and has suggested the belief of something very mysterious in that which is marked by them. It is therefore necessary to be minute in exhibiting the combinations of ideas of which they are the names.

One peculiarity of Relative Terms, which it is necessary for us to begin with noticing, is, that they always exist in pairs. There is no relative without its correlate, either actual or implied. Thus, we have Father and Son; Husband and Wife; Master and Servant; Subject and King; also High and Low; Right and Left; Antecedent and Consequent.

In these cases of relative pairs, the two names are two different words; in other cases, one word serves for both names. Of this sort are the words Brother, Sister, Cousin, Friend, Like, Equal, and so on. When we say that John is brother, we always mean of some one else, as James, whom we also call brother. We call Jane the sister of Ann, as we call Ann the sister of Jane. When we say that A is equal to B, we signify, by the same expression, that B is equal to A; and so on.

It is always to be remembered, that, in speaking, we are only indicating our own trains; and that of {7} course every word in a mark of some part of a train. The parts of our trains to which we give relative names, are either simple, or complex. The simple, are either the simple sensations, or the ideas of those sensations. The complex, are either those clusters of simple ideas which we call the ideas of objects, because they correspond with clustered sensations; or they are the clusters which the mind puts together arbitrarily for its own purposes.

If it is asked, why we give names in pairs? The general answer immediately suggests itself; it is because the things named present themselves in pairs; that is, are joined by association. But as many things are joined in pairs by association, which do not receive relative names, the cause may still be inquired of the classification. What is the reason that some pairs do, while many more do not, receive relative names? The cause is the same by which we are guided in imposing other names. As the various combinations of ideas are far too numerous for naming, and we are obliged to make a selection, we name those which we find it of most importance to have named, omitting the rest. It is a question of convenience, solved by experience. It will be seen more distinctly hereafter that relative names are one of the contrivances for epitomising; and that they enable us to express ourselves with fewer words than we should be able to do without them.

In order to make quite clear the nature of this peculiarity, it will be desirable to advert once more to the double mode of signification of concrete general names, viz. that while they denote (or are names of) objects, they connote some fact relating to those objects. The fact connoted by any name, relative or not, is always of the same nature; it is some bodily or mental feeling, or some set of bodily or mental feelings, accompanying or produced by the object. But in the case of the ordinary names of objects, this fact concerns one object only, or rather only that one object and the sentient mind. The peculiarity in the case of relative names is, that the fact connoted concerns two objects, and cannot be understood without thinking of them both. It is a phenomenon in which two objects play a part. There is no greater mystery in a phenomenon which concerns two objects, than in a phenomenon which concerns only one. For example; the fact connoted by the word cause, is a fact in which the thing which is the cause, is implicated along with another thing which is the effect. The facts connoted by the word parent, and also by the word son or daughter, are a long series of phenomena of which both the parent and the child are parts; and the series of phenomena would not be that which the name parent expresses, unless the child formed a part of it, nor would it be that which the name son or daughter expresses, unless the parent formed a part of it. Now, when in a series of phenomena of any interest to us two objects are implicated, we naturally give names expressive of it to both the objects, and these are relative names. The two correlative names denote two different objects, the cause and the effect, or the parent and son; but though what they denote is different, what they connote is in a certain sense the same: both names connote the same set of facts, considered as giving one name to the one object, another name to the other. This set of facts, which is connoted by both the correlative names, was called by the old logicians the ground of the relation, fundamentum relationis. The fundamentum of any relation is the facts, fully set out, which are the reason of giving to two objects two correlative names. In some cases both objects seem to receive the same name; in the relation of likeness, both objects are said to be like; in the relation of equality, both are said to be equal. But even here the duality holds, on a stricter examination: for the first object (A) is not said to be like, absolutely, but to be like the second object (B); the second is not said to be like absolutely, but to be like the first. Now though "like" is only one name, "like A" is not the same name as "like B," so that there is really, in this case also, a pair of names.

From these considerations we see that objects are said to be related, when there is any fact, simple or complex, either apprehended by the senses or otherwise, in which they both figure. Any objects, whether physical or mental, are related, or are in a relation, to one another, in virtue of any complex state of consciousness into which they both enter; even if it be a no more complex state of consciousness than that of merely thinking of them together. And they are related to each other in as many different ways, or in other words, they stand in as many distinct relations to one another, as there are specifically distinct states of consciousness of which they both form parts. As these may be innumerable, the possible relations not only of any one thing with others, but of any one thing with the same other, are infinitely numerous and various. But they may all be reduced to a certain number of general heads of classification, constituting the different kinds of Relation: each of which requires examination apart, to ascertain what, in each case, the state of consciousness, the cluster or train of sensations or thoughts, really is, in which the two objects figure, and which is connoted by the correlative names. This examination the author accordingly undertakes: and thus, under the guise of explaining names, he analyses all the principal cases which the world and the human mind present, of what are called Relations between things.--Ed.]

{8} I. The only, or at least the principal, occasions, for naming simple sensations, or simple ideas, in pairs, seem to be these:

1 When we take them into simultaneous view, as such and such;

2. When we take them into simultaneous view, as antecedent and consequent.

II. The principal occasions on which we name the complex ideas, called objects, in pairs, are these four:

{9} 1. When we speak of them as having an order in space;

2. When we speak of them as having an order in time;

3. When we speak of them as agreeing or disagreeing in quantity;

4. As agreeing or disagreeing in quality.

III. The occasions on which we name the complex ideas of our own formation in pairs, are,

{10} 1. When we speak of them as composed of the same or different simple ideas;

2. When we speak of them as antecedent and consequent.

Whatever it may be necessary to remark, respecting relative terms, will occur in the consideration of these several cases.

I. 1. We speak of two sensations, as Same or Different, Like or Unlike.

These words are Relatives of the double signification; each individual of the pair has the same name. When we say that sensation A is the "same" with {11} sensation B, we mean that B also is the "same" with A; "different," "like," and "unlike," have the same double application.

Another ambiguity needs to be noted in the word "same." When there are two things, they are not the same thing; for "same," in the strict sense of the word, means one thing, and that only. Here it means a great degree of likeness, a sense in which, with respect to sensations and ideas, it is very frequently used.

Of two sensations, or two ideas, we, in truth, can only say, that they are like or unlike; or, that the one comes first, the other after it.

It is now necessary to attend very carefully to what happens, when we say that two sensations are like, or that they are unlike.

First of all, we have the two sensations. But what is it to have two sensations? It is merely to be conscious of a change. But to be conscious of a change in sensation, is sensation. It is an essential part of the process. Without it we should not be sentient beings. To have sensation, and not to be conscious of any change, is to have but one sensation continued. We have already seen that this is a state which seems incapable of being distinguished from that of having no sensation. At any rate, what we mean by a sentient being, is not a being with one unvaried sensation, but a being with sensations continually varied; the varying being a necessary part of the having more sensations than one; and the varying, and the being conscious of the variation, being not two things, but one and the same thing. Having two sensations, therefore, is not only having sensation, but the only {12} thing which can, in strictness, be called having sensation; and the having two, and knowing they are two, which are not two things, but one and the same thing, is not only sensation, and nothing else than sensation, but the only thing which can, in strictness, be called sensation. The having a new sensation, and knowing that it is new, are not two things, but one and the same thing.

In a former page it is stated that relative names are one of the conveniences of epitomising. This is a narrow view to take of them. They are an essential part of language; they are demanded by the intrinsic relativity of all nameable things. If we have a thing called "light," we have also another thing but for which light could not be known by us, "dark." It is expedient to have names for both elements of the mutually dependent couple. And so everywhere. Language would be insufficient for its purposes if it did not provide the means of expressing the correlative (called also the negative) of every thing named.--B.]

The case between sensation and sensation, resembles that between sensation and idea. How do I know that an idea is not a sensation? Who ever thought of asking the question? Is not the having an idea, {13} and the knowing it as an idea, the same thing? The having without the knowing is repugnant. The misfortune is, that the word, know, has associations linked with it, which have nothing to do with this case, but which intrude themselves along with the word, and make a complexity, where otherwise there would be none.

This is a matter which deserves the greatest attention. One of the most unfortunate cases of the illusions, which the close association of ideas with words has produced, is created by ideas clinging to words when they ought to be disjoined from them, and mixing themselves by that means with the ideas under consideration, when they ought to be considered wholly distinct from them. Nothing was of more importance, than that the phenomenon, to which we are just now directing our attention, the very first ingredient in the great mental composition, should be accurately understood, and nothing mixed up with it which did not truly belong to it.

There is no doubt that in one of its senses, knowledge is synonymous with sensation. If I am asked what is my knowledge of pain? I answer, the feeling of it, the having it. The blind man has not the knowledge of colours; the meaning is, he has not the sensations: if deaf also, he is without the knowledge, that is, the sensations, of sounds: suppose him void of all other sensations, you suppose him void of knowledge. In many cases, however, we arrive at knowledge, by certain steps; by something of a process. The word, know, is most frequently applied to those cases. When we know, by mere sensation, we say we see, we hear, and so on; when we know by mere ideas, {14} or rather ideation, if we could use such a word, we say we conceive, we think. The word know, therefore, being almost constantly joined with the idea of a process, it is exceedingly difficult, when we apply it to sensation, not to have the idea of a process at the same time; and thus exceedingly difficult to conceive that sensation, and knowing, in this case, are purely synonymous.

As the knowing I have an idea, is merely having the idea; as the having a sensation, and knowing I have a sensation; the knowing, for example, that I have the pain of the toothache, and the having that pain; are not two things, but one and the same thing; so the having a change of sensation, and knowing I have it, are not two things but one and the same thing.

Having a change, I have occasion to mark that change. The change has taken place in a train of feelings. I call the first part by one name, the last by another, and the marking of the change is effected. Suppose that, without any organ of sense but the eye, my first sensation is red, my next green. The whole process is sensation. Yet the green is not the red. What we call making the distinction, therefore, has taken place, and it is involved in the sensation.

My names, green, and red, thus applied, are absolute names. The one has no reference to the other. Suppose that after green, I have the sensations, blue, yellow, violet, white, black; and that I mark them respectively by these names. These are still absolute names. Each marks a particular sensation, and does nothing more. But, now, suppose that, after my sensations red, green, blue, &c., I have the sensation {15} red again; that I recognise it as like the sensation I had first, and that I have a desire to mark that recognition; it remains to explain what are the steps of this process.

Having the sensation a second time needs no explanation; it is the same thing as having it the first. But what happens in recognising that it is similar to a former sensation?

Beside the Sensation, in this case, there is an Idea. The idea of the former sensation is called up by, that is, associated with, the new sensation. As having a sensation, and a sensation, and knowing them, that is, distinguishing them, are the same thing; and having an idea, and an idea, is knowing them; so, having an idea and a sensation, and distinguishing the one from the other, are the same thing. But, to know that I have the idea and the sensation, in this case, is not all; I observe, that the sensation is like the idea. What is this observation of likeness? Is it any thing but that distinguishing of one feeling from another, which we have recognised to be the same thing as having two feelings? As change of sensation is sensation; as change, from a sensation to an idea, differs from change to a sensation, in nothing but this, that the second feeling in the latter change is an idea, not a sensation; and as the passing from one feeling to another is distinguishing; the whole difficulty seems to be resolved; for undoubtedly the distinguishing differences and similarities, is the same thing; a similarity being nothing but a slight difference. As {16} change from red to green, and knowing the change, or from a sensation of sight, to one of any other of the senses, the most different, is all sensation; so change from one shade of red to another, is assuredly sensation. Its being a different shade consists in my feeling of it, that is, in my sensation.

Passing from red to red, red, red, through a succession of distinguishable shades, is one train of pure sensation: passing from red to green, blue, tasting, smelling, hearing, touching, is another train of pure sensation; that these are not the same trains, but different trains, consists in their being felt to be so; they would not be different, but for the feeling: and that a feeling is different, and known to be so, are not two things, but one and the same thing. Having two such trains, I want marks to distinguish them. For this purpose, I invent the words "same," "similar," and their contraries; by means of which, my object is attained. I call the parts of a train, such as the first, "same," or "similar;" those of a train like the last, "different," "dissimilar."

By these relative terms, we name the sensations in pairs. When we say, same, we mean that sensations {17} A, and B, are the same; different, that A, and B, are different; like and unlike, the same. By these words we have four pairs of relative terms.

A. B. same same different different like like unlike unlike.

The feeling is perfectly analogous in the case of the ideas of those sensations; and the naming is the same. Thus the idea of red, green, and so on, and the ideas of the different shades of red are distinguished from one another by the ideas themselves. To have ideas different and ideas distinguished, are synonymous expressions; different and distinguished, meaning exactly the same thing.

The sensations above mentioned, and their ideas, have the same absolute names: thus, red is at once the name of the sensation, and the name of the idea; green, at once the name of the sensation and the idea; sweet, at once the name of the sensation and the idea. The relative terms, it is obvious, have the same extent of application. Same, different, like, and unlike, are names of pairs of ideas, as well as pairs of sensations.

It seems, therefore, to be made clear, that, in applying to the simple sensations and ideas their absolute names, which are names of classes, as red, green, sweet, bitter; and also applying to them names which denote them in pairs, as such and such; there is nothing whatsoever but having the sensations, having the ideas, and making marks for them.

Examining, then, what constitutes likeness between two sensations (meaning two exactly similar sensations experienced at different times); he says, that to feel the two sensations to be alike, is one and the same thing with having the two sensations. Their being alike is nothing but their being felt to be alike; their being unlike is nothing but their being felt to be unlike. The feeling of unlikeness is merely that feeling of change, in passing from the one to the other, which makes them two, and without which we should not be conscious of them at all. The feeling of likeness, is the being reminded of the former sensation by the present, that is, having the idea of the former sensation called up by the present, and distinguishing them as sensation and idea.

It does not seem to me that this mode of describing the matter explains anything, or leaves the likenesses and unlikenesses of our simple feelings less an ultimate fact than they were before. All it amounts to is, that likeness and unlikeness are themselves only a matter of feeling: and that when we have two feelings, the feeling of their likeness or unlikeness is inextricably interwoven with the fact of having the feelings. One of the conditions, under which we have feelings, is that they are like and unlike: and in the case of simple feelings, we cannot separate the likeness or unlikeness from the feelings themselves. It is by no means certain, however, that when we have two feelings in immediate succession, the feeling of their likeness is not a third feeling which follows instead of being involved in the two. This question is expressly left open by Mr. Herbert Spencer, in his "Principles of Psychology;" and I am not aware that any philosopher has conclusively resolved it. We do not get rid of any difficulty by calling the feeling of likeness the same thing with the two feelings that are alike: we have equally to postulate likeness and unlikeness as primitive facts--as an inherent distinction among our sensations; and whichever form of phraseology we employ makes no difference in the ulterior developments of psychology. It is of no practical consequence whether we say that a phenomenon is resolved into sensations and ideas, or into sensations, ideas, and their resemblances, since under the one expression as under the other the resemblance must be recognised as an indispensable element in the compound.

When we pass from resemblance between simple sensations and ideas, to resemblance between complex wholes, the process, though not essentially different, is more complicated, for it involves a comparison of part with part, element with element, and therefore a previous discrimination of the elements. When we judge that an external object, compounded of a number of attributes, is like another external object; since they are not, usually, alike in all their attributes, we have to take the two objects into simultaneous consideration in respect to each of their various attributes one after another: their colour, to observe whether that is similar; their size, whether that is similar; their figure, their weight, and so on. It comes at last to a perception of likeness or unlikeness between simple sensations: but we reduce it to this by attending separately to one of the simple sensations forming the one cluster, and to one of those forming the other cluster, and if possible adjusting our organs of sense so as to have these two sensations in immediate juxtaposition: as when we put two objects, of which we wish to compare the colour, side by side, so that our sense of sight may pass directly from one of the two sensations of colour to the other. This act of attention directed successively to single attributes, blunts our feeling of the other attributes of the objects, and enables us to feel the likeness of the single sensations almost as vividly as if we had nothing but these in our mind. Having felt this likeness, we say that the sensations are like, and that the two objects are like in respect of those sensations: and continuing the process we pronounce them to be either like or unlike in each of the other sensations which we receive from them.--Ed.]

{18} 2. The only other relative terms applicable to simple sensations and ideas, are those which denote them as Antecedent and Consequent.

{19} I have sensation red, sensation green. Why I mark them red, and green, or as "different," has already been seen. What happens in marking them {20} as "antecedent" and "consequent" comes next to be considered.

A sensation, the moment it ceases, is gone for ever. When I have two sensations, therefore, A, and B, one first, the other following, sensation A is gone, before sensation B exists. But though sensation A is gone, its idea is not gone. Its idea, called up by association, exists along with sensation B, or the idea of sensation B. My knowing that the idea of sensation A is the idea of sensation A, is my having the idea. Having it, and knowing it, are not two things, but one and the same thing. Having the idea of sensation A, that is, having the idea of the immediate antecedent of sensation B, seems, also, to be the same thing with knowing it as the idea of that antecedent. Having sensation A, and after it sensation B, is mere sensation; and having the idea of sensation A, the immediate antecedent, called up by sensation B, the immediate consequent, is knowing it for that antecedent. The links of the train are three; 1, sensation A; 2, sensation B; 3, the idea of sensation A, in a certain order with B, called up by sensation B; and after this, NAMING.

The case appears mysterious, solely, from the want of words to express it clearly; and our confirmed habit of inattention to the process. Suppose, that {21} instead of two sensations, A and B, we have three, A, B, and C, in immediate succession. I recognise A, as the antecedent of B; B, as the antecedent of C. What is the process? The idea of sensation A, is associated with sensation B; and the idea of sensation B, is associated with sensation C. But sensation C, is not associated with the idea of sensation B solely, it is associated also with the idea of sensation A. It is associated, however, differently with the one and the other. It is associated with B immediately; it is associated with A, only through the medium of B; it calls up the idea of B, by its own associating power, and the idea of B, calls up the idea of A. This second state of consciousness is different from the first. The first is that in consequence of which B receives the name "Antecedent," and C the name "Consequent." When two sensations in a train are such, that, if one exists, it has the idea of the other along with it, by its immediate exciting power, and not through any intermediate idea; the sensation, the idea of which is thus excited, is called the antecedent, the sensation which thus excites that idea, is called the consequent.

It is evident that the terms, "antecedent," and "consequent," are not applied in consequence of sensation merely, but in consequence of sensation joined with ideas. The antecedent sensation, which is past, must be revived by the consequent sensation, which is present. It is the peculiarity of this revival which procures it the name. If revived by any other sensation, it would not have that name.

The Clock strikes three. My feelings are, three sensations of hearing, in succession. How do I know {22} them to be three successive sensations? The process in this instance does not seem to be very difficult to trace. The clock strikes one; this is pure sensation. It strikes two; this is a sensation, joined with the idea of the preceding sensation, and the idea of the feeling (also sensation), called change of sensation, or passage from one sensation to another. After two, the clock strikes three; there is, here, sensation, and a double association; the third stroke is sensation; that is associated immediately with the idea of the second, and through the idea of the second, with the idea of the first. It is observable, that these successive associations soon cease to afford distinct ideas; they hardly do so beyond the second stage. When the clock strikes, we may have distinct ideas of the strokes, as far as three, hardly farther; we must then have recourse to NAMING, and call the strokes, four, five, six, and so on: otherwise we should be wholly unable to tell how often the clock had struck.

In the preceding pairs of relative terms, we have found only one name for each pair. Thus, when we say of A and B, that A is similar to B, we say also, that B is similar to A. We have now an instance of a pair of relative terms, consisting not of the same, but of different names. If we call A antecedent, we call B consequent. The first class were called by the ancient logicians, synonymous, the second heteronymous; we may call them more intelligibly, single-worded, and double-worded, relatives.

The next difficulty is, that although the direct recalling of the idea of a past sensation by a present, without any intermediate link, does not take place from consequent to antecedent, it does take place from like to like: a sensation recalls the idea of a past sensation resembling itself, without the intervention of any other idea. The author, however, says, that "when two sensations in a train are such that if one exists, it has the idea of the other along with it by its immediate exciting power, and not through any intermediate idea; the sensation, the idea of which is thus excited, is called the antecedent, the sensation which thus excites that idea is called the consequent." If this therefore were correct, we should give the names of antecedent and consequent not to the sensations which really are so, but to those which recall one another by resemblance.

Thirdly and lastly, to explain antecedence, i.e. the succession between two feelings, by saying that one of the two calls up the idea of the other, that is to say, is followed by it, is to explain succession by succession, and antecedence by antecedence. Every explanation of anything by states of our consciousness, includes as part of the explanation a succession between those states; and it is useless attempting to analyse that which comes out as an element in every analysis we are able to make. Antecedence and consequence, as well as likeness and unlikeness, must be postulated as universal conditions of Nature, inherent in all our feelings whether of external or of internal consciousness.--Ed.]

{23} II. Having shewn what takes place in naming simple SENSATIONS, and simple IDEAS, in pairs, both as {24} such and such, and as antecedent and consequent, we come to the second case of relative terms, that of naming the clusters, called EXTERNAL OBJECTS, in pairs. The principal occasions of doing so we have said are four.

1. When we speak of them, as they exist in the synchronous order, that is, the order in space, we use such relative terms as the following: high, low; east, west; right, left; hind, fore; and so on.

It is necessary to carry along with us a correct idea of what is meant by synchronous order, that is, the order of simultaneous, in contradistinction to that of successive, existence. The synchronous order is much more complex than the successive. The successive {25} order is all, as it were, in one direction. The synchronous is in every possible direction. The following seems to be the best mode of conceiving it.

Take a single particle of matter as a centre. Other particles may be aggregated to it, in the line of every possible radius; and as the radii diverge, and other lines, tending to the centre, may be continually interposed, to any number, particles may be aggregated in those numberless directions. They may also be aggregated in those directions to a less or a greater extent. And they may be aggregated to an equal extent in every direction; or to a greater extent in some of the directions, a less extent in others. In the first case of aggregation they compose a globe; in the last, any other shape.

Every one of the particles in this aggregate, has a certain order; first with respect to the centre particle; next with respect to every other particle. This order is also called, the Position of the particle. In such an aggregate, therefore, the positions are innumerable. It is thence observable, that position is an exceedingly complex idea; for the position of each of those particles is its order with respect to every one of the other innumerable particles; it includes, therefore, innumerable ingredients. Hence it is not wonderful that, while viewed in the lump, it should seem obscure and mysterious.

Of positions, thus numberless, it is a small portion, only that have names. Bulk is a name for an aggregate of particles, greater, or less. Figure is only a modification, or case, of bulk; it is more or fewer particles in such and such directions.

These things being explained, it now remains to {26} shew, of what copies of sensations, peculiarly combined, the complex ideas in question are composed.

The simplest case of position, or synchronous order, is that of two or more particles in one direction. Let us take the particle, conceived as the centre particle, in a preceding supposition, and let us aggregate to it a number of particles, all in the direction of a single radius, one by one. We have first the centre particle, and one other, in juxta-position. This is the simplest case of synchronous order, and this is the simplest of all positions. Let us next aggregate a second particle; we have now the centre particle, and two more. The position of the first of the aggregated particles with respect to the centre particle is contact, or juxta-position; that of the second is not juxta-position, but position at the distance of a particle; the next which is aggregated, is at the distance of two; the next of three particles, and so on, to any extent.

Particles thus aggregated, all in the direction of a single radius from the first, constitute a line of less or greater length, according to the number of aggregated particles.

Line is a word of great importance; because it is by that, chiefly, we express ourselves concerning synchronous order; or frame names for positions. Now it happens, that Line has a duplicity of meaning, most unfortunate, because it has confounded two meanings, which it is of the highest importance to preserve distinct.

We have already remarked the distinction between concrete, and abstract, terms; and explained wherein the difference of their signification consists. We have {27} also observed, that though in very many cases, the concrete term, and the abstract term, are different words, as good and goodness, true and truth, there are many others in which the concrete and abstract terms are the same; and this is the case, unhappily, with the word Truth itself, which is used in the concrete sense, as well as the abstract. Thus we call a proposition, a Truth; in which phrase, the word Truth, means "True Proposition;" and in this sense we talk of eternal truths, meaning, Propositions, always true. "Property," is another word, which is sometimes concrete, sometimes abstract. Thus, a man calls his horse, his field, his house, his property. In such phrases the word is concrete. He also says, he has a property in such and such things. In these phrases, it is abstract.

Of this ambiguity, the word Line is an instance. It is applied as well to what we call a physical line, as to what we call a mathematical line. In the first case, it is a concrete, or connotative term; in the second case, it is an abstract or non-connotative term. Let us then conceive clearly the two meanings. The purest idea of a physical line, is that which we have already formed; the aggregate of particle after particle, in the direction of a radius. When this aggregate of particles in this order is called a line, the word, line, is connotative; it marks or notes the direction, but it also marks or connotes the particles; it means the particles and the direction both; it is, in short, the concrete term. When it is used as the abstract term, the connotation is left out. It marks the direction without marking the particles.

It is here necessary to call to mind, that abstract {28} terms derive their meaning wholly from their concretes; and that by themselves they have absolutely no meaning at all. I know a green tree, a sweet apple, a hard stone, but greenness without something green, hardness without something hard, are just nothing at all.

The same, in its abstract sense, is the case with line, though we have not words by which we can convey the conception with equal clearness. If we had an abstract term, separate from the concrete, the troublesome association in question would have been less indissoluble, and less deceptive. If we had such a word as Lineness, or Linth, for example, we should have much more easily seen, that our idea is the idea of the physical line; and that linth without a line, as breadth without something broad, length without something long, are just nothing at all.

{29} What are, then, the sensations, the ideas of which, in close association, we mark by the word line?

Though it appears to all men that they see position, length, breadth, distance, figure; it is nevertheless true, that what appear, in this manner, to be sensations of the eye, are Ideas, called up by association. This is an important phenomenon, which throws much light upon the darker involutions of human thought.

The sensations, whence are generated our ideas of synchronous order, are from two sources; they are partly the sensations of touch, and partly those of which we have spoken under the name of muscular sensations, the feelings involved in muscular action.

{30} A line, we have said, is an order of particles, contiguous one to another, in the direction of a radius from one particle. Let us begin from this one particle, and trace our sensations. One particle may be an object of touch; it may be felt, as we call it, and nothing more; it may, at the same time, give the sensation of resistance, which we have already described as a feeling seated in the muscles, just as sound is a feeling in the ear. Resistance, is force applied to force. What we feel, is the act of the muscle. Without that, no resistance. This state of consciousness is, in reality, what we mark by the name. It is, at the same time, a state of consciousness not a little obscure; because we habitually overlook many of the sensations of which it is composed; because it is, in itself, very complex; and because it is entangled with a number of extraneous associations.

We have already remarked the habit we acquire of not attending to the sensations which are seated in the muscles, of attending only to the occasions of them, and the effects of them; that is, their antecedents, and consequents; overlooking the intermediate sensations. In marking, therefore, or assigning our names, it seems to be rather the occasions and effects, the antecedents and consequents, than the sensations themselves, which are named. The word resistance is thus the name of a very complex {31} idea. It is the name; first, of the feelings which we have when we say we feel resistance; secondly, of the occasions, or antecedents, of those feelings; and, thirdly, of their consequents. The feelings intermediate between the antecedents and consequents, are themselves complex. There are two kinds of sensations included in them; the sensation of touch, and the muscular sensations; and there is something more. When we move a muscle, we Will to move it. This state of consciousness, the Will to move it, is part of the feeling of the motion. What that state of consciousness, called the Will, is, we have not yet explained. At present we speak of it merely as an element in the compound. Of what elements it is itself compounded we shall see hereafter. In the idea of resistance, then, there is the will to move the muscles, the sensations in the muscles, the occasion or antecedent of those feelings, and the effects or consequents of them. And there is the common complexity attending all generical terms, that of their including all possible varieties.

These things being explained, the learner will now be able to trace, without error, the formation of one of the most important of all our ideas, that of {32} resistance, or pressure. We touch one thing, butter, for instance; it yields to the finger, after a slight pressure; that is, a certain feeling of ours. The will to move the muscles, and the sensations in the muscles, are both included in that feeling; but, for shortness, we shall speak of them, through the present exposition, under one name, as the feelings or sensations in the muscles. As we call the butter yellow, on account of a feeling of sight; odorous, on account of a feeling of smell; sapid, on account of a feeling of taste; so we call it soft, on account of a feeling in our muscles. We touch a stone, as we touched the butter, and it yields not, after the strongest pressure we can apply. As we called the butter soft, on account of one muscular feeling, we call the stone hard, on account of another. The varieties of these feelings are innumerable. Only a small portion of them have received names. The feeling upon pressure of butter, is one thing; of honey, another; of water, another; of air, another; of flesh, one thing; of bone, another. We mark them as we can, by the terms soft, more soft, less soft; hard, more hard, less hard, and so on. We have great occasion, however, for a word which shall include all these different words. As we have "coloured" to include all the names of sensations of sight; "touch" all the names of sensations of touch, and so on; we invent the word "resisting," which includes all the words, soft, hard, and so on, by which any of the sensations of pressure are denoted.

Such, then, are the feelings which we are capable of receiving from the particle with which we may suppose a line of particles to commence. These feelings, in passing along the line, we should receive in {33} succession from each, if the tactual sense were sufficiently fine to distinguish particles in contact from one another. It has not, however, this perfection. Even sight cannot distinguish minute intervals. If a red-hot coal is whirled rapidly round, though the coal is present at only one part of the circle at each instant, the whole is one continuous red. If the seven prismatic colours are made to pass rapidly in order before the eye, they appear not distinct colours, but one uniform white. In like manner, in passing from one to another, in a line of particles, there is no feeling of interval; there is the feeling we call continuity; that is, absence of interval.

The sensations, then, the ideas of which combined compose the idea which we mark by the word line, may thus be traced. The tactual feeling, and the feeling of resistance, derivable from every particle, attend the finger in every part of its progress along the line. What is there besides? To produce the progress of the finger, there is muscular action; that is to say, there are the feelings combined in muscular action. That we may exclude extraneous ideas as much as possible, let us suppose, that, when a person first makes himself acquainted with a line, he has the sense of touch, and the muscular sensations, without any other sense. He has one state of feeling, when the finger, which touches the line, is still; another, when it moves. He has also one state of feeling from one degree of motion, another from another. If he has one state of feeling from the finger carried along, as far as it can extend, he has another feeling when it is only carried half as far, and so on.

It is extremely difficult to speak of these feelings {34} precisely, or to draw by language those who are not accustomed to the minute analysis of their thoughts, to conceive them distinctly; because they are among the feelings, as we have before remarked, which we have acquired the habit of not attending to, or rather, have lost the power of attending to.

It is certain, however, that by sensation alone we become acquainted with lines; that in every different contraction of the muscles there is a difference of sensation; and that of the tactual feeling, and the feelings of the contracted muscles, all the feelings which constitute our knowledge of a line are composed.

As, after certain repetitions of a particular sensation of sight, a particular sensation of smell, a particular sensation of sight, and so on, received in a certain order, I give to the combined ideas of them, the name rose, the name apple, the name fire, and the like; in the same manner, after certain repetitions of particular tactual sensations, and particular muscular sensations, received in a certain order, I give to the combined ideas of them, the name Line. But when I have got my idea of a line, I have also got my idea of extension. For what is extension, but lines in every direction? physical lines, if real, tactual extension; mathematical lines, if mathematical, that is, abstract, extension.

It would be tedious to pursue the analysis of extension farther. And I trust it is not necessary; because the application of the same method to the remaining cases, appears completely obvious. Take plane surface for example. It is composed of all the lines which can be drawn in a particular plane; the idea of it, therefore, is derived from the tactual feeling, and the feeling of resistance, combined with the {35} muscular feelings involved in the motion of the finger in every direction which it can receive on a plane.

Let us now take some of the words which, along with the synchronous order, connote objects in pairs. The names of this sort are not very numerous. High, and low, right, and left, hind, and fore, are examples. These, it is obvious, are names of the principal directions from the human body as a centre. The order of objects, the most frequently interesting to human beings, is, of course, their order with respect to their own bodies. What is over the head, gets the name of high; what is below the feet, gets the name of low; and so on. Of the pairs which are connoted by those words, the human body is always one. The words, right, left, hind, fore, when they denote the object so called, always connote the body in respect to which they are right, left, hind, fore. We have already noticed the cases in which the objects, thus named in pairs, have each a separate name, as father, son; also those in which both have the same name, as sister, brother. We have here another case, which deserves also to be particularly marked, that in which only one of them has a name. The human body, which is always one of the objects named, when we call things right, left, hind, fore, and so on, has no corresponding relative name. The reason is sufficiently obvious; this, being always one of the pair, cannot, the other being named, be misunderstood.

For the complete understanding of these words, it does not appear that any thing remains to be explained. If one line, proceeding from a central particle, be understood, every line, which can proceed from it, is also understood. If that central point be a part {36} of the human body, it is plain that as the hand, passing along a line in a certain direction from that centre, has certain muscular actions, passing along in another direction, it has muscular actions somewhat different. When we say muscular actions somewhat different, we say muscular feelings somewhat different. Difference of feeling, when important, needs difference of naming.

A particular case of association is here to be remarked; and it is one which it is important for the learner to fix steadfastly in his memory.

We never perceive, what we call an object, except in the synchronous order. Whatever other sensations we receive, the sensations of the synchronous order, are always received along with them. When we perceive a chair, a tree, a man, a house, they are always situated so and so, with respect to other objects. As the sensations of positions are thus always received with the other sensations of an object, the idea of Position is so closely associated with the idea of the object, that it is wholly impossible for us to have the one idea without the other. It is one of the most remarkable cases of indissoluble association; and is that feeling which men describe, when they say that the idea of space forces itself upon their understandings, and is necessary.

{37} 2. We come now to the case of naming OBJECTS in pairs, on account of the Successive Order.

We have had occasion to observe that there is nothing in which human beings are so deeply interested, as the Successive Order of objects. It is the successive order upon which all their happiness and misery depends; and the synchronous order is interesting to them, chiefly on account of its connection with the successive.

When we speak of objects, it is necessary to remember, that it is sensations, not ideas, to which we are then directing our attention. All our sensations, we say, are derived from objects; in other words, object is the name we give to the antecedents of our sensations. And, reciprocally, all our knowledge of objects is the sensations themselves. We have the sensations, and that is all. A knowledge, therefore, of the successive order of objects, is a knowledge of the successive order of our sensations; of all the pleasures, and all the pains, and all the feelings intermediate between pleasure and pain, of which the body is susceptible.

Of successions, that is, the order of objects as antecedent and consequent, some are constant, some not constant. Thus, a stone dropped in the air always falls to the ground. This is a case of constancy of sequence. Heavy clouds drop rain, but not always. This is a case of casual sequence. Human life is {38} deeply interested in ascertaining the constant sequences of all the objects from which human sensations are derived. The great business of philosophy is to find them out; and to record them, in the form most convenient for acquiring the knowledge of them, and for applying it.

In the successions of objects, it very often happens, that what appear to us to be the immediate antecedent and consequent, are not immediately successive, but are separated by several intermediate successions. Thus, the falling of a spark on gunpowder, and the explosion of the gunpowder, appear antecedent and consequent; but several successions in reality intervene; various decompositions, and compositions, in which, indeed, all the sequences cannot as yet be traced. Most of the successions, which we are called upon to notice and to name, are in the same situation. We fix upon two conspicuous points in a chain of successions, and the intermediate ones are either overlooked, or unknown.

Thus, we name Doctor and Patient, the two extremities of a pretty long succession of objects. The Doctor is not the immediate antecedent of any change in the patient. He is the immediate antecedent of a certain conception, of which the consequent is, writing a prescription; the consequent of this, is the sending {39} it to the apothecary; the consequent of that, is the apothecary's reading it, and so on; the whole composing a multitudinous train. Doctor and Patient, therefore, are not only two paired names of two paired objects, but names of all the successions between the one and the other. Doctor and Patient, therefore, properly speaking, are to be considered one name, though made up of two parts. Taken together, they are the name of the complex idea of a considerable train of sequences, of which a particular man is one extremity, a particular man another; just as navigation is the single-worded name of the complex idea of a very long train, of which the extremities are not particularly marked. If you say, navigation from the Thames to the Ganges, you have a many-worded name, by which the extremities of this long train are particularly marked.

The relative terms, Father and Son, are obviously included in this explanation. They are the two extremities of a train of great length and intricacy, very imperfectly understood. They also, both together, compose, as may easily be seen, but one name. Father is a word which connotes Son, and whether Son is expressed or not, the meaning of it is implied. In like manner Son connotes Father; and, stripped of that connotation, is without a meaning. Taken together, therefore, they are one name, the name of the complex idea of that train of which father is the one extremity, son the other.

With the exception of this questionable use of language, which the author had recourse to because he had not left himself the precise word Connote, to express what there is of real identity in the signification of the two names; the analysis which follows of the various complicated cases of relation seems philosophically unexceptionable. The complexity of a relation consists in the complex composition of the series of facts or phenomena which the names connote, and which is the fundamentum relationis. The names signify that the person or thing, of which they are predicated, forms part of a group or succession of phenomena along with the other person or thing which is its correlate: and the special nature of that group or series, which may be of extreme complexity, constitutes the speciality of the relation predicated.--Ed.]

{40} Brother and Brother are a pair of relative terms marking a still more complex idea. Two brothers are two sons of the same Father; taken together, they are, therefore, marks of all that Son, taken twice, is capable of marking. Son, as we have just seen, always implies Father; and, taken together, they are the name of a train. The relatives, therefore, brother and brother, are the compound name; two brothers, are the name of the train marked by the term, Father and Son, taken twice, the prior extremity of the train being the same in both cases, the latter different.

The above terms. Father and Son, Brother and {41} Brother, are imposed on account of sequences which are passed. I do not at this moment recollect any relative terms imposed on account of sequences purely future. The terms, Buyer and Seller, are sometimes, indeed, used in a sense wholly future; when they mean persons having something to buy and something to sell: but they are also used in a sense wholly passed, when they signify persons who have effected purchase and sale. We have, however, many relative terms on account of trains which are partly passed and partly future. Thus, Lender and Borrower, are imposed partly on account of the passed train included in the contract of lending and borrowing; partly on account of the future train implied in the repayment of the money. The words Debtor and Creditor are names of the same train, partly passed and partly future.

The relative terms, Husband and Wife, are of the same class; the name of a train partly passed, to wit, that implied in entering into the nuptial contract; and partly future, to wit, all the events expected to flow out of that contract. Master and Servant are imposed, on account of a train partly passed and partly future; the train of entering into the compact of master and servant, and the train of acts which flow out of it. King and Subject are the name of a train similarly divided; first, the train which led to the will of obeying on the part of the people, the will of commanding on the part of the king; secondly, the trains which grow out of these wills.

Owner and Property are relative terms, or terms which connote one another. They also are imposed on account of a train partly passed and partly future. The part which is passed is the train implied in the {42} circumstances of the acquisition, whether inheritance, gift, labour, or purchase. The part which is future is the train implied in the use which the owner may make of the property.

Of the terms which denote objects in successive pairs, several are very general. Thus we have antecedent and consequent, which are applicable to any parts of any train. Prior and Posterior, are nearly of the same import. First and Last, are applicable to the two extremities of any train. Second, third, fourth, and so on, are applicable to the contiguous parts of any train.

We have remarked, above, that successions of objects are to be distinguished into two remarkable kinds; that of the successions which are fortuitous, and that of the successions which are constant. Names to mark the antecedent and consequent in all constant successions, which are things of such importance to us, were found of course indispensable. Cause and Effect, are the names we employ. In all constant successions. Cause is the name of the antecedent. Effect the name of the consequent. And, beside this, it has been proved by philosophers,[1*] that these names denote absolutely nothing.

It is highly necessary to be apprized, that each of the two names. Cause and Effect, has a double meaning. They are used, sometimes in the concrete sense, sometimes in the abstract. By this ambiguity, {43} ideas are confounded, which it is of the greatest importance to preserve distinct. When we say, the sun is the Cause of light, cause is concrete; the meaning is, that the sun always causes light. When we say that ice is the Effect of cold air, effect is concrete; the meaning is, that ice is effected by cold air. "Cause," in these cases, is merely a short name for "causing object," "Effect," a short name for "caused object." In abstract discourse, on the other hand, Cause and Effect are often used in the abstract sense, in which cases Cause means the same thing as would be meant by causingness; Effect, the same as would be meant by causedness. They are merely the connotative or concrete terms, with the connotation dropped.

As the abstract terms have no meaning, except as they refer to the concrete, it is in the concrete sense I shall always use the words Cause and Effect, unless when I give notice to the contrary.

Other terms, pairing the parts of a train, take parts more or less distant; first and last, take the most distant; father and son, take parts at a considerable distance; cause and effect, on the other hand, mean always the proximate parts. It does not, indeed, happen, that we always apply them to the proximate parts; because the intermediate sequences are often unknown, at other times overlooked. They are always, however, applied to the parts regarded as proximate. For we do not, strictly speaking, say, that any thing is the cause of a thing, when it is only the cause of another thing, which is the cause of that thing; still less, when there is a series of causes and effects, before you arrive at that which you have marked as the effect, because the ultimate one. In {44} all the inquiries of philosophers into causes, it is the antecedent and consequent, really proximate, which is the object of their pursuit.

We have observed, in the case of the relative terms, applied to objects as successive, that the words, properly speaking, form but one name,--that of the complex idea of a train of less or greater length: thus, Doctor and Patient is a name; Father and Son is a name; each denoting a train of which two individuals are the principal parts. In like manner, the relative terms Cause and Effect, taken together, are but one name, the name of a short train, that of one antecedent and one consequent, regarded as proximate, and constant.

3. We have now shewn, in what manner the principal Relative Terms are applied, when we have to speak of objects as having order in Space, and when we have to speak of them as having order in Time. We proceed to shew in what manner they are applied, when we have to speak of objects as differing in Quantity, or differing in Quality; and first, as differing in Quantity.

We apply the word Quantity, in a very general manner; to things, which have the greatest diversity. Thus, we use the word quantity, when we speak of extension; we use the word quantity, when we speak of weight; we use it, when we speak of motion; we use it, when we speak of heat; we use it, in short, on almost every occasion, on which we can use the word degree. Of course, it represents not one idea, but many ideas, some of which have the greatest diversity.

The relative terms, which we co-apply with {45} quantity, are equal, unequal, or some particular case included under these more general terms; as, more heavy, less heavy*; more strong, less strong; whole, part; and so on.

When quantity is applied to extent, it may be extent either in one, or more, or every direction; it may mean either quantity in line, quantity in surface, or quantity in bulk. Accordingly, we can say, equal, or unequal, lines; equal, or unequal, surfaces; equal, or unequal, bulks.

Line is the simplest case; the explanation of it will, therefore, facilitate the rest. We have already traced the sensations, which constitute our knowledge of a line. We have seen that they are certain sensations of touch, combined with the muscular sensations involved in extending the arm.

As the sensations, involved in extending the arm so far, are not the same with those which are involved in extending it farther; and as the having different sensations, and distinguishing them, are not two things, but one and the same thing;--as often as I have those two cases of sensation, I distinguish them from one another; and, distinguishing them from one another, I require names to mark them. The first I mark, by the word, short; the other, by the word, long. As I call a line long, from extending my arm so far; that is, from the sensations involved in extending it; I call it longer from extending it farther. After experience of a number of lines, there are some which I call long, long, long, one after another, to any amount; others which I call longer, longer, longer; others which I call short, short, short; and so on.

When we have perceived the sensations, on account {46} of which we call lines long, longer, short, shorter, we can be at no loss for the knowledge of those, on account of which we call them equal, and unequal. It is to be observed, that in applying the words long, longer, short, shorter, minute differences are not named. They cannot be named. The names would be too numerous. A general mark, however, may be invented, to shew when there is even a minute difference, and when there is not. When there is not, we call the two lines equal; when there is, we call them unequal.

We shall presently see, when we come to trace the ideas, which the class of words, called numbers, are employed to mark, what distinction of sensation it is which is marked by the words, one, and two. In the mean time, it is easy to see, that the case of sensation, when we trace one line, with the hand, and then another, is different from the case of sensation when we trace one line only, or even the same line twice; and this diversity needs marks to distinguish it. It is true, that in tracing one line, and then another, and marking the distinction, there is something more than sensation, there is also memory. But to this ingredient in the compound, after the explanation which has already been given of memory, it is not, at present, necessary particularly to advert.

When it is seen, what are the sensations which are marked by the terms longer and shorter, applied to a line, it will not be difficult to see what are the sensations, which are marked by the terms, part, and whole.

The terms, a part, and whole, imply division. Of course, the thing precedes the name. Men divided, before they named the act, or the consequences of the {47} act. In the act of division, or in the results of it, no mystery has ever been understood to reside. It is of importance to remark, that the word division, in its ordinary acceptation, includes, and thence confounds, things which very much need to be distinguished. It includes the will, which is the antecedent of the act; the act itself; and the results of the act. At present we may leave the will aside; it will be explained hereafter; and, as it is not the act, but the antecedent of the act, the consideration of it is not required, for the present purpose.

The act of dividing, like all the other acts of our body, consists in the contraction and relaxation of certain muscles. These are known to us, like every thing else, by the feelings. The act, as act, is the feelings; and only when confounded with its results, is it conceived to be any thing else. If it be said, that the contraction of the muscles of my arm, is something more in me than feelings, because I see the motion of my arm; it is to be observed, that this seeing, this sensation of sight, is not the act, but one of its results; the feelings of the act are the antecedent; this sensation of sight one of the consequents.

In the act of dividing a line, as in the act, already analysed, of tracing a line, there is a feeling of touch, and there is also a muscular feeling. There may be more or less of cohesion in the parts of the line; and thence, more or less of what we call muscular force, required to disunite them. Of course, what we call more or less of force, are only names for different states of feeling. The states of feeling which we mark by the term, force, being antecedent, all the rest {48} are consequents of this antecedent. The disunion of the parts of one line is attended with a certain muscular feeling; I call the feeling a small force. That of another line is attended with a muscular feeling somewhat different; I call it a greater force; and so on. This muscular feeling, however, has various accompaniments; which are closely associated with the idea of the act, and with its name. Thus there is the sight of the line, there is the sight of the hands in the act of disruption, and there is the sight of the line after it is divided. The term division, as we have mentioned before, includes all; the muscular feeling, the sight of the line before division, and the sight of it after. I need a pair of names for the line before division, and the line after. I call the one whole, the other parts. Like other relative terms, the one of these connotes the other; whole has no meaning, but when associated with parts; parts have no meaning, but when associated with whole. Taken together; that is, whole and parts, used as one name; they mark a complex idea, consisting of three principal parts; an undivided line, the act of division, and the consequent of that antecedent, the line after division.

In the preceding exposition, it is actual division, the actual making of parts, which has been spoken of. It is observable, however, that the same language, by which we name actual division, and actual parts, is applied to conceived division, and conceived parts. Thus we talk of the parts of a line, when it is not divided, nor meant to be divided. The exposition of this, however, is easy; and there is obscurity only when the double use of the terms confounds the two {49} cases, the division which is actual, with that which is conceived.

The division of the line may consist of one act, or of more acts than one. By the first act, it is divided into two parts; by the second into three; by the third into four, and so on. The parts of a line are so many lines. These may be equal, or unequal. But the sensations, on account of which we denominate lines equal, or unequal, have been already shewn; the equality, and inequality, therefore, of the parts of a line, need no further explanation.

When the learner conceives distinctly the sensations on account of which we apply the terms whole and parts to a line, he will not find it difficult to understand, on what account we apply them to all the modifications of extension; seeing that all these modifications are lines combined.

Thus, a plane surface is a number of straight lines, in contact, in the direction called a plane. It is of greater or less extent, according as these lines are longer or shorter from a central point; it is of one shape or another shape, according as the lines are of the same length, or of different lengths. When they are all of one length, the surface is called a circle. As they may be of different lengths in endless variety, the surface may have an endless variety of shapes, of which only a few have received names. The square is one of these names, the triangle another, the parallelogram another, and so on.

Bulk, which is the other great modification of extension, is lines from a central point in every direction. This bulk is greater or less, according as these lines are longer or shorter. The figure or shape of this {50} bulk is different, according as the lines are of the same or different lengths. If they are of the same length, the bulk is called round, or, in one word, a sphere; sphere meaning exactly round bulk. As the lines, when they differ in length, may differ in endless ways; figures, or the shapes of bulk, are also endless, as our senses abundantly testify. Of these but a small number have received names. In this number are the cube, the cylinder, the cone. We name some shapes by referring to known objects; thus we speak of the shape of an egg, the shape of a pear, and so on.

It seems that nothing, therefore, is now wanting, to shew in what manner the relative terms, expressive of Quantity, are applied to all the modifications of extension.

After what has been said, it will not be difficult to ascertain the sensations on account of which we apply the same relative terms to cases of Weight.

Weight is the name of a particular species of pressure; pressure towards the centre of the earth. Pressure, as we have already fully seen, is the name we apply, when we have certain sensations in the muscles, just as green is the name we apply when we have a certain sensation in the eye. As green is the name of the sensation in the eye, pressure is the name of the sensation in the muscles. Pressure upwards, is one thing; pressure downwards, is another; pressure of a body, when that body is urged by another body, is one thing; pressure of a body, when it is not urged by another body, is a different thing: pressure of a body in altering the position of its parts is one thing; pressure, when there is no alteration of the position of its parts, is another thing. Of this last sort is weight, {51} the pressure downwards, or towards the centre of the earth, of a body not urged by another body, and not altering the position of its parts.

In supporting in my hand a stone, I resist a certain pressure; in other words, have certain muscular feelings, on account of which I call the stone heavy. I support other stones, and in doing so have muscular feelings, in one case similar, in another dissimilar. In the case of similarity, I call two stones equal, meaning in weight; in the case of dissimilarity, unequal; and so I apply all the other relative terms by which quantity is expressed.

It seems unnecessary to carry this analysis into further detail. The words equal, unequal: greater, less; applied to Motion, to Heat, and other modifications of sensation, have a meaning, which in following the course so fully exemplified it cannot be difficult to ascertain.

It seems still necessary that I should say something of the word Quantus, from which the word Quantity is derived. Quantus is the correlate of Tantus. Tantus, Quantus, are relative terms, applicable to all the objects to which we apply the terms, Great, or Little; they are applicable, therefore, to all the modifications of extension, of weight, of heat; in short, to all modifications which we can mark as degrees.

Of two lines, we call the one tantus, the other quantus. The occasions on which we do so are, when the one is as long as the other. Tantus, and Quantus, then, in this case, mean the same thing as equal, equal. They will be found to have the same import as equal, equal, when applied also to surface, and bulk; and so in all other compatible cases.

{52} What then, it may be asked, is the use of them? If it should appear that they were of no use, it would not be very surprising; considering by whom languages have been made; and that redundancy is frequent in them as well as defect. In the present case, however, a use is not wanting.

It is necessary to observe the artifice, to which we are obliged to have recourse, to name, and even to distinguish, the different modifications, not of kind but of degree, included under the word quantity. We are obliged to take some one object, with which we are familiar, and to distinguish other objects, as differing or agreeing with that object. Thus, we take some well-known line, the length of the foot, or the length of the arm, and distinguish and name all other lengths by that length; which can be divided or multiplied so as to correspond with them. In like manner, we take some well-known object as a standard weight, which we call, for example, a pound, and distinguish and name all other weights, as parts or multiples of that known weight.

Now it will be recognised, that, in applying the relative terms equal, equal, or in calling two objects equal, no one of them is marked as the standard. Both are taken on the same footing. The one is equal to the other; and the other is equal to that. But when we say that one thing is tantus, quantus another; or one so great, as the other is great; the first is referred to the last, the tantus to the quantus; the first is distinguished and named by the last. The quantus is the standard.

It is this which gives its peculiar meaning to the word Quantity, and has recommended it for that very {53} comprehensive and generical acceptation, in which it is now received.

Our word Quantity, is the Latin word Quantitas; and Quantitas is the abstract of the concrete Quantus. We have no English words, corresponding to Tantus, Quantus. We form an equivalent, by aid of the relative conjunctions; we say, So Great, As Great. But these concrete terms do not furnish abstracts; we do not say, As-greatness; in the first place, because it is an awkward expression; and in the next place, because the relative, "as," is not steady in its application, since we use "as great" not for quantus only, but frequently also for tantus. As greatness, therefore, does not readily suggest the idea of the abstract of Quantus.

On what account, then, is it we give to any thing the name Quantus? As a standard by which to name another thing Tantus. The thing called Quantus, is the previously known thing, the ascertained amount, by which we can mark and define the other amount. Leaving out the connotation of Quantus, which is some one individual body, Quantitas merely denotes such and such an amount of body. Quantitas, if it was kept to its original meaning, would still connote Tantitas; just as paternity connotes filiality. But in the case of Quantity, even this connotation is dropped; it is used not as a relative abstract term, but an absolute abstract term; and is employed as a generical name for any portion of extension, any portion of weight, of heat, or any thing else, which can be measured by a part of itself.

{54} 4. After tracing the sensations and ideas, which are marked when we apply relative terms to objects, as agreeing or disagreeing in quantity; we have now to trace the sensations and ideas, which are marked, when we apply relative terms to objects, on account of their agreeing or disagreeing in quality.

First of all, the learner must take note of what he {55} means by Quality. We ascribe qualities to an object on account of our sensations. We call an object green, on account of the sensation green; hard, on account of the sensation hard; sounding, on account of the sensation sounding. The names of all qualities of objects, then, are names of sensations. Are they any thing else? Yes; they are the names of our sensations, with connotation of a supposed unknown cause of those sensations. As far, however, as our knowledge goes, they are names of sensations, and nothing else. The supposed cause is never known; the effects alone are known to us.

We ascribe qualities to objects, in two cases, which require to be distinguished: on account of the sensations which we have from them primarily; on account of those which we have from them secondarily. The first we call their sensible qualities; as green, hot, hard, sweet, scented, and so on: the second we more frequently call their powers; as the power of the loadstone to draw iron, the power of water to melt sugar. In this latter case, the sensations marked are not those which are derived from the loadstone, or from water; but those which are derived from the changes in the iron, and the sugar; of which changes, we call the loadstone, and the water, the cause. In the latter case, the train of antecedents and consequents is longer than it is in the former. When I see an object green; there is the object, the antecedent; and myself sentient of green, the consequent. When I see a loadstone draw iron, there is the following train; the loadstone, antecedent; iron drawn, first consequent; myself seeing it drawn, second consequent. When I see water melt sugar, there is the {56} antecedent water; sugar melting, first consequent; myself seeing it, second consequent. What I call the powers of an object, then, are its order in respect to certain of my sensations, the order of antecedence, not proximate, but more or less remote.

When I say that grass is green, I trace my sensation green, no farther than to the grass. When I say, the sugar is melting, I trace my sensations (for they are several) called sugar melting, first to the sugar, and then to the water. My word green, therefore, is the notation of a sensation, and connotation of an unknown cause; my name melting, is the notation of a compound of sensations, and connotation of two causes, an antecedent and a consequent: the first, an unknown cause in the sugar; the second, the cause of that unknown cause, namely, the water.

In speaking of the qualities of an object, it is necessary to take notice of an inaccuracy of language; which, not only, as Dr. Brown has well observed, lies at the bottom of many philosophical errors, but induces men to mistake the very business of the philosopher.

The term, "quality" or "qualities of an object," seems to imply, that the qualities are one thing, the object another. And this, in some indistinct way, is, no doubt, the opinion of the great majority of mankind. Yet, the absurdity of it strikes the understanding, the moment it is mentioned. The qualities of an object are the whole of the object. What is there beside the qualities? In fact, they are convertible terms: the qualities are the object; and the object is the qualities. But, then, what are the qualities? Why, sensations, with the association of {57} the object as the cause. And what is the association of the object as the cause? Why, the association of other sensations as antecedent. What, for example, are the smell, and colour, and other qualities of the rose? Is not each of the names of these qualities, that of the smell, for example, a connotative name, not only noting the sensation, of which it is properly the name, but connoting all the sensations of colour, of consistence, of figure, of position; to which, all combined by association, so as to form one complex idea, we give the specific name, rose, the more general name, vegetable, and the still more general name, object? When the smell of a rose is perceived by me, or the idea suggested to me, immediately all the other ideas included under the term rose, are suggested along with it, and their indissoluble union presupposed. But this belief of the previous indissoluble union of each of those sensations with all the other sensations, is all which I really mean when I refer each sensation to the rose as its cause.

If the learner has fully apprehended the ideas here premised, it will be easy for him to trace to the bottom the relative terms, which we apply to objects on account of their agreeing or disagreeing in Quality.

We say, that objects agree or disagree, on account of one quality, or more than one quality, that is, on account of single sensations, or combined sensations.

Let us first observe the case of one quality. We say, that a blade of grass is like the leaf of an oak, meaning, that in the quality of colour both are green; we say that the leaf of the rose tree, is unlike the petal of the flower, meaning in colour. By these {58} words, we name the objects in pairs; first, the pair of leaves, to each of which, we give the name, like; secondly, the leaf and the petal, to each of which, we give the name, unlike. We name the first two objects, "like," on account of the two sensations, green, and green, one of each object; we name the next two objects unlike, on account of the two sensations, green of the one, red of the other. What is done, or rather what is felt, when we give the same, or a different name, to each of two sensations, has been already so fully explained, that a bare suggestion of what has been premised, is here all that will be required.

We have two sensations. A, B. Having two sensations, and knowing them to be two sensations, that is, not one sensation, is having the sensations, and nothing more.

Why do I call one sequence of sensations, green, green; another sequence, green, red? Clearly on account of the sensations. No other explanation can be given of it, nor can be required. For the same reason for which I called the sensations of the first sequence individually, green, green, I call them both, like; and for the same reason for which I called those of the second sequence, not green, green, but green, red, I call them, unlike.

Let us next put the case of several sensations. We say, that one rose is like another. We have only to take the sensations combined under the name rose, one by one, to see that this, and the former, case, are in reality the same. The two roses are like in colour, like in smell, like in consistence, like in form, like in position. The likeness of the two roses, is a likeness {59} not in one sensation, but in several. But the likeness of two sensations of smell, is of the same nature as the likeness of the two sensations of sight. When I call the smell, therefore, of the two roses like, it is for the same reason as I call the colour of them like, that is, the sensations. When I call the shape and consistence, and position, like, it is for the same reason still; the tactual and muscular sensations, whence the ideas are derived to which these names are annexed. In this case, however, the reason is by no means so clearly seen, first, because the sensations are complex, and secondly, because they are of that class of sensations which we habitually overlook.

The Latin words, Talis, Qualis, are applied to objects in the same way, on one account, as Tantus, Quantus, on another; and the explanation we gave of Tantus, Quantus, may be applied mutatis mutandis, to the pair of relatives we have now named. Tantus, Quantus, are names applied to objects on account of dimension. Talis, Qualis, are names applied to objects on account of all other sensations. We apply Tantus, Quantus, to a pair of objects when they are equal; we apply Talis, Qualis, to a pair of objects, when they are like.

Talis, Qualis, however, express the likeness of two objects in a manner somewhat different from the other pair of nearly equivalent relatives, "Like," and "Like." When we call two objects Like, the one is placed on the same footing as the other. No one of them is taken as the standard. When we apply, Talis, Qualis, the case is different. One of the objects is then the standard. The object Qualis, is that to which the reference is made.

{60} This being understood, the extensive meaning which came to be given to the word Quality, may be easily explained. Quality is the Latin Qualitas, and Qualitas is the abstract of Qualis. The meaning of the abstract is the same with that of the concrete, the connotation being dropped. When the word Qualis, is applied to an object, it notes something about it in particular, but connotes the whole object. The Qualitas of that object, is the something noted in particular, the connotation being dropped. As Qualis is applied to objects, sometimes on account of one thing belonging to them, sometimes on account of another, Qualitas comes in turn to be applied to every thing in them, requiring at any time a separate notation. Qualitas, when first formed from Qualis, has the force of a relative, and connotes the abstract of Talis; but in its frequent use, in marking every thing in objects, which requires separate notation, this connotation, also, comes to be dropped; and Quality is finally used as an absolute term, the generical name of every thing in objects, for which a separate notation is required.

{61} III. It was remarked at the beginning of this investigation of relative terms or names applied in pairs, that we name in pairs-- 1, single sensations or ideas; 2, the clusters we call objects; 3, the complex ideas we form arbitrarily for our own purposes. Having finished the consideration of the two former cases, we shall not find occasion to speak much at length upon the last.

The clusters, formed by arbitrary association, receive names in pairs, on two occasions; either,

1. When they consist of the same or different simple ideas; or,

2. When they succeed one another in a train.

1. The ideas which we put together arbitrarily are sometimes less, sometimes more, complex, for the most part, they are exceedingly complex.

Of the less complicated kinds, are such ideas as that of the unicorn, which is a horse with one straight horn growing from the middle of its forehead; the Cyclops, a gigantic man, with a single eye in the middle of his forehead; a mermaid, of which the upper part is a woman, the lower a fish; the Brobdignagian {62} and Lilliputian of Swift, which are men of greatly reduced, or greatly enlarged dimensions.

Of the more complicated kinds, are such ideas as those which are marked by the word Science, by the word Trade, by the word Law, by the word Religion, by the word Faith, by the words God and Devil, by the word Value, by the words Virtue, Honour, Vice, Beauty, Deformity, Space, Time, and so on.

Language has not many relative terms, applicable to ideas of this class. We speak of pairs of them as like or unlike, same or different, greater or less; and except when their order in time is to be noted, we hardly apply to them any other marks in pairs.

We say the Cyclops in Homer, and the Brobdignagian of Swift, are unlike. We do so precisely in the same way, as we say, the rose and the lily are unlike; and the explanation which we have given of that which is distinctively marked by those terms, when applied to objects, is precisely applicable here. In the case of objects, that which is named, is, clusters of ideas; in the present case, that which is named, is clusters of ideas. That one cluster has been formed in one way, another in another, makes no difference in annexing marks to the clusters when they are formed.

There is as little difficulty in tracing what is marked by the relatives, different, and same, when applied to ideas of this class. We say, the unicorn is different {63} from the horse; because, to the idea of the horse it adds that of a horn growing in the middle of the forehead. In the case of very complex ideas, it is much more difficult to say, with precision, what are the added and subtracted ideas, on account of which, we apply the term, different; as when we say, the courage of Ajax was different from that of Achilles; but it is not the less certain, that it is wholly on account of ideas added and subtracted, that we so denominate the courage of the two men.

Rather more explanation is needed, to shew what is peculiarly marked by the relatives equal, unequal, greater, less, when applied to the class of arbitrarily formed complex ideas.

We have already seen, that those terms are primarily applied to what we call objects, on account of their extension; objects are equal or unequal, greater or less, in extension.

We have also seen, that in marking the extension of different objects, we are under the necessity of taking some known object as a standard, and by that object naming others. Thus, we take the foot, and say that other objects are two feet, three feet, or the half or quarter of a foot, and so on.

Having become familiar with what we call degrees of extension, we are led to employ the same mode of notation, when we come to mark analogous differences in other cases of sensation. Thus, when we perceive the weight of different heavy bodies; as the terms equal, unequal, greater, less, are applied with convenience to certain cases of extension, it appears they may be applied with equal convenience, and even precision, to cases of weight. All other sensations, {64} having distinguishable differences, may be marked in the same way: thus sounds are more or less loud, and we speak of equal, or unequal, less or greater loudness of sound; less or greater sweetness in objects of the palate; less or greater resistance; less or greater pain; less or greater pleasure.

When the terms equal, unequal, less, greater, had been applied to simple sensations of the pleasurable kind, and their ideas; the transference of them to complex ideas, of the pleasurable or painful kind, was easy. If the less or greater sweetness of the rose and the woodbine, was a convenient notation, so was the less or greater beauty of those two flowers, the less or greater beauty of two women, the less or greater wisdom or folly, vice or virtue, of two men.

It thus appears, that, as we apply the term unlike to our complex ideas, on account of the addition and subtraction of ideas of different kinds, so we apply to them the term unequal, on account of the addition and subtraction of ideas of the same kind. Like and equal we apply, when we neither add, nor subtract.

{65} 2. We apply the same relative terms to successive ideas of this class, which we apply to simple ideas, or the clusters called objects, when successive. We call them antecedent and consequent, or names equivalent; as prior, posterior; first, second; or even successive, which is a name including both antecedent and consequent.

In speaking of the relative terms applied to objects as successive, we had occasion to explain the two important terms, Cause and Effect. We found that Cause and Effect, were only other names for antecedent and consequent, in a certain set of cases. We do not use the terms, Cause and Effect, as synonymous with antecedent and consequent, in those cases in which, though the objects may be antecedent and consequent to our perception, we know not whether they are parts of the same series, or parts of two different series. Within the sphere of our observation, innumerable series of events are going on; and we are observing, first a part of one series, and then a part of another, continually. It is thus constantly happening, that those things, which are immediately antecedent and consequent to our observation, are not parts of the same series, but parts of different series; and, of course, in those antecedents and consequents, there is no constancy; they are accidental, as the course of each man's attention. This may be illustrated by many familiar instances. There may be {66} immediately before me, a man playing on the violin, one series; another man filing a saw, a second series. My attention may pass immediately from the sight of the man playing on the violin, to the sound produced by the filing of the saw. Playing on the violin, and the disagreeable sound of the file on the saw, are thus antecedent and consequent to my attention. But, as we recognise such antecedents and consequents, as parts of different series of events, we do not call them cause and effect.

There are two cases of antecedents and consequents, even when they are parts of the same series. They may be proximate; or they may be remote; that is, parts of the series, more or fewer, may come between them. It is only to the case of the proximate parts of the same series, that the relatives, cause and effect, are properly and strictly applied. When the series, however, is the same, the intermediate links between any two remote parts are constant. Suppose a series, A, B, C, D; as B is the immediate consequent of A, C the immediate consequent of B, and D the immediate consequent of C; when I know A and D as antecedent and consequent, without knowing the intermediate parts B, and C, there is little inaccuracy in naming A and D cause and effect; because B and C are surely intermediate, and the succession of A and D, though not immediate, is constant. We accordingly do name cause and effect parts of a series thus removed from one another, in all those cases in which the intermediate parts are either unknown to us, or habitually overlooked.

The terms Cause and Effect, thus applied to Objects as antecedent and consequent, are applied also to {67} Thoughts as antecedent and consequent. Thus we say, that Evidence is the cause of Belief; Villany is the cause of Indignation, and so on.

Of objects, antecedent and consequent, we have observed, that innumerable series are existing at the same time; a separate series, of vegetation, for example, in every plant, of animalization in every animal, of composition and decomposition in objects without number. In the mind, however, there is but one train, not various trains at the same time; and therefore, according to the sense above applied to the terms Cause and Effect, each thought in a train is the cause of that which follows it, and each succeeding thought is the effect of that which precedes it.

But if thoughts are reciprocally Cause and Effect; that is to say, if, in trains of thought, the same antecedent is regularly followed by the same consequent, how happens it that all trains of thought are not the same? For if the ideas A, B, C, D, &c., constantly follow one another, every mind into which A may enter, goes on with B, C, D, &c., and hence all such minds should consist of the same trains, that is, should be the same.

Supposing the succession of two thoughts to have that constancy to which we apply the terms cause and effect, trains would still have that variety which we experience. Our trains consist of two distinguishable ingredients; sensations and ideas. Sensations depend upon the innumerable series of objects. They are, therefore, liable to all that variety which attends the perception of those objects. A perpetual variety in sensations produces a perpetual variety in the thoughts which are consequent upon them. The {68} variety of sensation, is even much greater than is commonly supposed. The most active of all our sensations is the sight. But in most objects of sight there are numerous parts. Some of these are more seen, some are less seen; some not seen at all. Of these, the parts that are more seen by one man, are less seen by another; whence it is probable, that from an object of any complexity no two men ever receive precisely the same sensations. There is a striking exemplification of this, in the fact, so constantly observed, of the different manner in which different men are affected by the comparison of two countenances. To one man there appears a strong likeness, where another man cannot discover any. Of the minute particulars, on which the likeness depends, none, or an insufficient number, is embraced by the vision of the one, while the contrary is the case with that of the other.

The variety in the sensations, which mix in the trains of men, is one grand cause of the variety in the ideas, which make up or complete those trains. The variety in the order of those sensations is another cause. We have seen that ideas follow one another, in the order in which the sensations have followed. Thus, a man may be a kind father to his child. The sight of him to the child is habitually accompanied with agreeable sensations. The same man may be a severe master to his slaves. The sight of him to the slaves is habitually accompanied with painful sensations. A corresponding difference exists in the case of the ideas. When his image presents itself to the mind of the child, it is followed by a train of pleasurable ideas, corresponding to the {69} pleasurable sensations which the child has habitually enjoyed in his presence. When his image rises to the mind of the slave, it is followed, from the contrary cause, by ideas of the contrary description.

Of this difficulty he gives a solution, good as far as it goes--that it is because the train of ideas is interrupted by sensations, which are not the same in different minds, nor in the same mind at every repetition, and which even when they are the same, are connected in different minds with different associations. This is true, but is not the whole truth, and a still more complete explanation of the difficulty might have been given. The author has overlooked a part of the laws of association, of which he was perfectly aware, but to which he does not seem to have been always sufficiently alive. The first point overlooked is, that one idea seldom, perhaps never, entirely fills and engrosses the mind. We have almost always a considerable number of ideas in the mind at once; and it must be a very rare occurrence for any two persons, or for the same person twice over, to have exactly the same collection of ideas present, each in the same relative intensity. For this reason, were there no other, the ideas which the mental state excites by association are almost always more or less different.

A second point overlooked is, that every sensation or idea is far from recalling, whenever it occurs, all the ideas with which it is associated. It never recalls more than a portion of them, and a portion different at different times. The author has not, in any part of the Analysis, laid down any law that determines which among the many ideas associated with an idea or sensation, shall be actually called up by it in a given case. The selection which it makes among them depends on the truth already stated, that we seldom or never have only one idea at a time. When we have several together, they all exercise their suggesting power, and each of them aids, impedes, or modifies the suggesting power of the others. This important case of Association has been treated in a masterly manner by Mr. Bain, both in his larger treatise and in his Compendium, under the name of Compound Association, and he lays down the following as its most general law. "Past actions, sensations, thoughts, or emotions, are recalled more easily when associated either through contiguity or similarity, with more than one present object or impression." (Compendium of Psychology and Ethics, p. 151.) It follows that when we have several ideas in our mind, none of which is able to call up all the ideas associated with it, those ideas will usually have the preference which are associated with more than one of the ideas already present. An idea A, coexisting in the mind with an idea B, will not select the same idea from among those associated with it, that it would it it occurred alone or with a different accompaniment. If there be any one of the ideas associated with A which is also associated with B, this will probably be one of those called up by their joint action. If there be any idea associated with A which not only is not associated with B, but whose negation is associated with B, this idea will probably be prevented from arising. If there are any sensations which have usually been presented in conjunction, not with A alone or with B alone, but with the combination A B, still more likely is it that the ideas of these will be recalled when A and B are thought of together, even though A or B by themselves might in preference have recalled some other.

These considerations will be found of primary importance in explaining and accounting for the course of human thought. They enable us, for example, to understand what it is that keeps a train of thought coherent, i.e. that maintains it of a given quality, or directs it to a given purpose. The ideas which succeed one another in the mind of a person who is writing a treatise on some subject, or striving to persuade or conciliate a tribunal or a deliberative assembly, are suggested one by another according to the general laws of association. Yet the ideas recalled are not those which would be called up on any common occasion by the same antecedents, but are those only which connect themselves in the writer's or speaker's mind with the end which he is aiming at. The reason is, that the various ideas of the train are not solitary in his mind, but there coexists with all of them (in a greater or less degree of constancy according to the quality of the mind) the highly interesting idea of the end in view: and the presence of this idea causes each of the ideas which pass through his mind while so engaged, to suggest such of the ideas associated with them as are also associated with the idea of the end, and not to suggest those which have no association with it. The ideas all follow one another in an associated train, each calling up by association the one which immediately follows it; but the perpetual presence or continual recurrence of the idea of the end, determines, within certain limits, which of the ideas associated with each link of the chain shall be aroused and form the next link. When we come to the author's analysis of the power of the Will over our ideas, we shall find him taking exactly this view of it.

Concerning the simultaneous existence of many ideas in the mind, and the manner in which they modify each other's exercise of the suggesting power, there is an able and instructive passage in Cardaillac's Etudes Elémentaires de Philosophie, which has been translated and quoted by Sir William Hamilton in his Lectures, and which, being highly illustrative of the preceding remarks, I think it useful to subjoin.

"Among psychologists, those who have written on Memory and Reproduction with the greatest detail and precision, have still failed in giving more than a meagre outline of these operations. They have taken account only of the notions which suggest each other with a distinct and palpable notoriety. They have viewed the associations only in the order in which language is competent to express them; and as language, which renders them still more palpable and distinct, can only express them in a consecutive order, can only express them one after another, they have been led to suppose that thoughts only awaken in succession. Thus, a series of ideas mutually associated, resembles, on the doctrine of philosophers, a chain in which every link draws up that which follows; and it is by means of these links that intelligence labours through, in the act of reminiscence, to the end which it proposes to attain.

"There are some, indeed, among them, who are ready to acknowledge, that every actual circumstance is associated to several fundamental notions, and consequently to several chains, between which the mind may choose; they admit even that every link is attached to several others, so that the whole forms a kind of trellis,--a kind of network, which the mind may traverse in every direction, but still always in a single direction at once,--always in a succession similar to that of speech. This manner of explaining reminiscence is founded solely on this,--that, content to have observed all that is distinctly manifest in the phenomenon, they have paid no attention to the under-play of the latescent activities,--paid no attention to all that custom conceals, and conceals the more effectually in proportion as it is more completely blended with the natural agencies of mind.

"Thus their theory, true in itself, and setting out from a well-established principle, the Association of Ideas, explains in a satisfactory manner a portion of the phenomena of Reminiscence; but it is incomplete, for it is unable to account for the prompt, easy, and varied operations of this faculty, or for all the marvels it performs. On the doctrine of the philosophers, we can explain how a scholar repeats, without hesitation, a lesson he has learned, for all the words are associated in his mind according to the order in which he has studied them; how he demonstrates a geometrical theorem, the parts of which are connected together in the same manner: these and similar reminiscences of simple successions present no difficulties which the common doctrine cannot resolve. But it is impossible, on this doctrine, to explain the rapid and certain movement of thought, which, with a marvellous facility, passes from one order of subjects to another, only to return again to the first; which advances, retrogrades, deviates, and reverts, sometimes marking all the points on its route, again clearing, as if in play, immense intervals; which runs over, now in a manifest order, now in a seeming irregularity, all the notions relative to an object, often relative to several, between which no connection could be suspected; and this without hesitation, without uncertainty, without error, as the hand of a skilful musician expatiates over the keys of the most complex organ. All this is inexplicable on the meagre and contracted theory on which the phenomena of reproduction have been thought explained. . . . . . .

"To form a correct notion of the phenomena of Reminiscence, it is requisite that we consider under what conditions it is determined to exertion. In the first place it is to be noted that, at every crisis of our existence, momentary circumstances are the causes which awaken our activity, and set our recollection at work to supply the necessaries of thought. In the second place, it is as constituting a want, (and by want I mean the result either of an act of desire or of volition) that the determining circumstance tends principally to awaken the thoughts with which it is associated. This being the case, we should expect, that each circumstance which constitutes a want, should suggest, likewise, the notion of the object, or objects, proper to satisfy it; and this is what actually happens. It is, however, further to be observed, that it is not enough that the want suggests the idea of the object; for if that idea were alone, it would remain without effect, since it could not guide me in the procedure I should follow. It is necessary, at the same time, that to the idea of this object there should be associated the notion of the relation of this object to the want, of the place where I may find it, of the means by which I may procure it, and turn it to account, &c. For instance, I wish to make a quotation:--This want awakens in me the idea of the author in whom the passage is to be found which I am desirous of citing; but this idea would be fruitless, unless there were conjoined, at the same time, the representation of the volume, of the place where I may obtain it, of the means I must employ, &c.

"Hence I infer, in the first place, that a want does not awaken an idea of its object alone, but that it awakens it accompanied with a number, more or less considerable, of accessory notions, which form, as it were, its train or attendance. This train may vary according to the nature of the want which suggests the notion of an object; but the train can never fall wholly off, and it becomes more indissolubly attached to the object, in proportion as it has been more frequently called up in attendance.

"I infer, in the second place, that this accompaniment of accessory notions, simultaneously suggested with the principal idea, is far from being as vividly and distinctly represented in consciousness as that idea itself; and when these accessories have once been completely blended with the habits of the mind, and its reproductive agency, they at length finally disappear, becoming fused, as it were, in the consciousness of the idea to which they are attached. Experience proves this double effect of the habits of reminiscence. If we observe our operations relative to the gratification of a want, we shall perceive that we are far from having a clear consciousness of the accessory notions; the consciousness of them is, as it were, obscured, and yet we cannot doubt that they are present to the mind, for it is they that direct our procedure in all its details.

"We must, therefore, I think, admit that the thought of an object immediately suggested by a desire, is always accompanied by an escort more or less numerous of accessory thoughts, equally present to the mind, though, in general, unknown in themselves to consciousness; that these accessories are not without their influence in guiding the operations elicited by the principal notion; and it may even be added that they are so much the more calculated to exert an effect in the conduct of our procedure, in proportion as, having become more part and parcel of our habits of reproduction, the influences they exert are further withdrawn, in ordinary, from the ken of consciousness. . . . The same thing may be illustrated by what happens to us in the case of reading. Originally each word, each letter, was a separate object of consciousness. At length, the knowledge of letters and words and lines being, as it were, fused into our habits, we no longer have any distinct consciousness of them, as severally concurring to the result, of which alone we are conscious. But that each word and letter has its effect,--an effect which can at any moment become an object of consciousness,--is shewn by the following experiment. If we look over a book for the occurrence of a particular name or word, we glance our eye over a page from top to bottom, and ascertain, almost in a moment, that it is or is not to be found therein. Here the mind is hardly conscious of a single word, but that of which it is in quest; but yet it is evident, that each other word and letter must have produced an obscure effect, which effect the mind was ready to discriminate and strengthen, so as to call it into clear consciousness, whenever the effect was found to be that which the letters of the word sought for could determine. But if the mind be not unaffected by the multitude of letters and words which it surveys, if it be able to ascertain whether the combination of letters constituting the word it seeks, be or be not actually among them, and all this without any distinct consciousness of all it tries and finds defective; why may we not suppose,--why are we not bound to suppose, that the mind may, in like manner, overlook its book of memory, and search among its magazines of latescent cognitions for the notions of which it is in want, awakening these into consciousness, and allowing the others to remain in their obscurity?

"A more attentive consideration of the subject will show, that we have not yet divined the faculty of Reminiscence in its whole extent. Let us make a single reflection. Continually struck by relations of every kind, continually assailed by a crowd of perceptions and sensations of every variety, and, at the same time, occupied by a complement of thoughts; we experience at once, and we are more or less distinctly conscious of, a considerable number of wants,--wants, sometimes real, sometimes factitious or imaginary,--phenomena, however, all stamped with the same characters, and all stimulating us to act with more or less energy. And as we choose among the different wants which we would satisfy, as well as among the different means of satisfying that want which we determine to prefer; and as the motives of this preference are taken either from among the principal ideas relative to each of these several wants, or from among the accessory ideas which habit has established into their necessary escorts;--in all these cases it is requisite, that all the circumstances should at once, and from the moment they have taken the character of wants, produce an effect, correspondent to that which, we have seen, is caused by each in particular. Hence we are compelled to conclude, that the complement of the circumstances by which we are thus affected, has the effect of rendering always present to us, and consequently of placing at our disposal, an immense number of thoughts; some of which certainly are distinctly recognised, being accompanied by a vivid consciousness, but the greater number of which, although remaining latent, are not the less effective in continually exercising their peculiar influence on our modes of judging and acting.

"We might say, that each of these momentary circumstances is a kind of electric shock which is communicated to a certain portion, to a certain limited sphere, of intelligence; and the sum of all these circumstances is equal to so many shocks which, given at once at so many different points, produce a general agitation. We may form some rude conception of this phenomenon by an analogy. We may compare it, in the former case, to those concentric circles which are presented to our observation on a smooth sheet of water, when its surface is agitated by throwing in a pebble; and, in the latter case, to the same surface when agitated by a number of pebbles thrown simultaneously at different points.

"To obtain a clearer notion of this phenomenon, I may add some observations on the relation of our thoughts among themselves, and with the determining circumstances of the moment.

"1°. Among the thoughts, notions, or ideas which belong to the different groups attached to the principal representations simultaneously awakened, there are some reciprocally connected by relations proper to themselves; so that, in this whole complement of coexistent activities, these tend to excite each other to higher vigour, and consequently to obtain for themselves a kind of pre-eminence in the group or particular circle of activity to which they belong.

"2°. There are thoughts associated, whether as principals or accessories, to a greater number of determining circumstances, or to circumstances which recur more frequently. Hence they present themselves oftener than the others, they enter more completely into our habits, and take, in a more absolute manner, the character of customary or habitual notions. It hence results, that they are less obtrusive, though more energetic, in their influence, enacting, as they do, a principal part in almost all our deliberations; and exercising a stronger influence on our determinations.

"3°. Among this great crowd of thoughts, simultaneously excited, those which are connected with circumstances which more vividly affect us, assume not only the ascendant over others of the same description with themselves, but likewise predominate over all those which are dependent on circumstances of a feebler determining influence.

"From these three considerations we ought, therefore, to infer, that the thoughts connected with circumstances on which our attention is more specially concentrated, are those which prevail over the others; for the effect of attention is to render dominant and exclusive the object on which it is directed, and during the moment of attention it is the circumstance to which we attend that necessarily obtains the ascendant.

"Thus, if we appreciate correctly the phenomena of Reproduction or Reminiscence, we shall recognise, as an incontestable fact, that our thoughts suggest each other not one by one successively, as the order to which language is astricted might lead us to infer; but that the complement of circumstances under which we at every moment exist, awakens simultaneously a great number of thoughts; these it calls into the presence of the mind, either to place them at our disposal, if we find it requisite to employ them, or to make them co-operate in our deliberations by giving them, according to their nature and our habits, an influence, more or less active, on our judgments and consequent acts.

"It is also to be observed, that in this great crowd of thoughts always present to the mind, there is only a small number of which we are distinctly conscious: and that in this small number we ought to distinguish those which, being clothed in language, oral or mental, become the objects of a more fixed attention; those which hold a closer relation to circumstances more impressive than others; or which receive a predominant character by the more vigorous attention we bestow on them. As to the others, although not the objects of clear consciousness, they are nevertheless present to the mind, there to perform a very important part as motive principles of determination; and the influence which they exert in this capacity is even the more powerful in proportion as it is less apparent, being more disguised by habit." (Sir William Hamilton's Lectures on Metaphysics, vol. ii. Lecture xxxii.)--Ed.]

{70} This, then, is all which seems necessary to be said respecting the occasions on which we apply Relative {71} Terms, and to show what it is which they distinctively mark, in the trains of our sensations and ideas.

{72} ABSTRACT RELATIVE TERMS.

From the Concrete relative terms, Abstract terms are formed, in the same manner as Abstract terms are {73} *formed from other Concrete terms. Thus from equal, we have equally; from unequal, unequally; from {74} like, likeness; from unlike, unlikeness; from friend, friendship; and so on.

{75} After what has been said about abstract terms in general, it will not be very difficult to mark what is {76} peculiar in the nature of this species of them. We have seen that concrete, are connotative, terms; and {77} that their corresponding abstracts have the same meaning with the concretes, that which is connoted {78} being left out. White, for example, has a notation, and a connotation. It notes a quality, and it connotes {79} something else, that which is white. The abstract whiteness marks what is noted by the concrete, but not what is connoted.

We are now to see, in what manner this applies to relative terms. I call two things like: two sensations, for example; let us say, sensations of red. I call sensation A, like sensation B; and, of course, sensation B, like sensation A. It is here more easy to observe distinctly what is connoted, than what is noted. What is connoted are the two sensations. They are clear and simple. What is noted is what we call their likeness. What is that? We have remarked, that, in having two sensations, the distinguishing them one {80} from another is included; it is part of the compound process: And that in having two sensations--red, red, and two sensations red, green, the distinguishing the succession red, red, from the succession red, green, is included; it being part of the process, which, though in this case compound, and on that account obscure, is not the less wholly sensation. In the process of sensation, then, that part which consists in distinguishing one as one, another as another, and in distinguishing one succession from another; red, red, for example, from red, green,--is the part which is noted by the words like and unlike. The thing noted is not a distinct sensation, it is part of a process of sensation, and a part which, being never experienced separate by itself, it is very difficult to make a distinct subject of attention. Even that part of the process which consists in distinguishing, is to be distinguished into two parts. There is that part which consists in distinguishing the sensations from one another, as one, and one; and there is that part which consists in distinguishing the two, red, and red, from the two, red, and green. It is this latter part which is noted by the terms like and unlike. What is connoted is all the rest of the process. When, therefore, we make abstracts, from the terms like and unlike; that is, cut off the connotative part of their meaning, retaining the notative only; it is the part of the process which consists in distinguishing, not one and one, but two and two, which the terms distinctively mark.

We have also seen, and remarked, that having two sensations, one after another, and knowing them to be first one and then another, is a process of sensation and association. The pair of relatives, prior and {81} posterior, or antecedent and consequent, taken together, names the whole of the process; each pair is in reality a compound name of a complex idea, that of a certain process, the process of having two ideas in succession, in which process the being sensible of the successiveness is part. By all concrete relatives, something is noted, something connoted. In the process which is marked by the relatives prior and posterior, part is noted, part connoted; and the part which is noted, is the part which it is difficult to make a separate object of attention,--the part which consists in being sensible of the successiveness, for which we have not a name. By its notation and connotation, taken together, each of the terms, prior, and posterior, is a name of something, and that something is very distinct; prior is a name of the first sensation and something else; posterior is a name of the second sensation, and something else. It is by connotation, however, that each is the name of its respective sensation. Their notative power relates to the something else, and not to the whole of that; because prior and posterior, beside connoting, each its own sensation, connote one another. The notation and connotation, therefore, are divided between them, in a manner which renders it difficult to shew what belongs to each. We have not names adapted to the purpose.

The word prior notes something, and connotes something. When we make from it the abstract term priority; what was connoted by the concrete, prior, is dropped; what was noted by it is retained. In the succession of ideas A, and B, priority is not the name of A, it is the name of that part of the compound process, which consists in knowing A, as the {82} first of the two; posteriority is not the name of B, but of that part of the compound process, which consists in knowing B, as the last of the two.

There is a peculiarity, however, in the abstract terms formed from the relative concrete terms. These abstract terms are not, as whiteness, hardness, wholly void of connotation. They have a connotation of their own. The abstract of one relative of a pair, always connotes the abstract of the other; thus, priority always connotes posteriority, and posteriority priority.

This constitutes a distinction, worth observing, between the force of the abstracts formed from the pairs of relatives which consist of different names, as prior, posterior; cause, effect; father, son; husband, wife;--and those which consist of the same name, as equal, equal; like, like; brother, brother; friend, friend; and so on. Priority and Posteriority make together a compound name of something, of which, taken separately, each is not a name; Causingness and Causedness, the abstracts of cause and effect, make up between them the name of something, of which each by itself is not a name, and so of the rest. The case is different with such abstracts as likeness, equality, friendship, formed from pairs which consist of the same name. When we call A like, and B like; the abstract, likeness, formed from the one, connotes merely the abstract, likeness, formed from the other. Thus, as priority and posteriority make a compound name, so, likeness and likeness, make a compound name. But as likeness and likeness are merely a reduplication of the same word, likeness taken once very often signifies the same as likeness taken twice. Priority never signifies as much as priority and {83} posteriority taken together; but likeness taken alone very often signifies as much as likeness, likeness, taken both together. Likeness has thus a sort of a double meaning. Sometimes it signifies only what is marked by the abstract of one of the pair, "like, like;" sometimes it signifies what is marked by the abstracts of both taken together. The same observation applies to the abstracts equality, inequality; sameness, difference; brotherhood, sisterhood; friendship, hostility; and so on.

When the author says that abstract relative names differ from other abstract names in not being wholly void of connotation, inasmuch as they connote their correlatives, priority connoting posteriority, and posteriority priority, he deserts the specific meaning which he has sought to attach to the word connote, and falls back upon the loose and general sense in which everything implied by a term is said to be connoted by it. But in this large sense of the word (as I have more than once remarked) it is not true that non-relative abstract names have no connotation. Every abstract name--every name of the character which is given by the terminations ness, tion, and the like--carries with it a uniform implication that what it is predicated of is an attribute of something else; not a sensation or a thought in and by itself, but a sensation or thought regarded as one of, or as accompanying or following, some permanent cluster of sensations or thoughts.--Ed.]

{84} Among the abstract terms corresponding to relative concretes, those corresponding to cause and effect, are the only ones which, on account of their importance, require to be somewhat more particularly expounded.

Cause and Effect have not abstract terms formed immediately from themselves. One of the grand causes of their obscurity is, that they are not constant in their meaning, but are sometimes used as concretes, sometimes as their own abstracts.

Cause means "something causing;" effect, "something caused." Causingness, therefore, is the proper abstract of cause; and causedness, the proper abstract of effect. Of two objects, A, and B, we call the one causing, the other caused, when they are not only prior and posterior, but parts of the same series; and, if we speak strictly, proximate parts. Of proximate parts of the same series, we call the antecedent, causing; the consequent, caused. Causingness, and causedness, therefore, mean antecedence and consequence, and something more. The ideas are more complex. Causingness and causedness, mean, not only antecedence and consequence, but also sameness of series, and proximity of parts.

As we have seen, that priority and posteriority, taken together, form a compound name of a certain complex idea, so causingness and causedness, taken together, form the compound name of a still more complex idea. Having frequent occasion to express that idea, a separate name for it was found necessary. Accordingly, we have the term Power, which means precisely what is meant by causingness and causedness taken together. Causation has the same {85} meaning with Power, except that it connotes present time; Power connotes indefinite time.

The connotation of Time, by abstract terms, is a circumstance almost always overlooked, but of which the observation is of the utmost importance to accuracy of thought.

When we have invented a number of marks to be taken in pairs, as like, like; equal, equal; antecedent, consequent; master, servant; husband, wife; father, son; owner, property; author, book; cause, effect; and so on; we have occasion for a name by which to speak of that class of names. We have invented such a name. We call those terms "Relative Terms."

The word "Relative," thus belongs to that class of names, which have been called "Names of Names." As man, tree, stone, are names of things, of those clusters which we call objects; as red, green, hard, soft, are names of sensations; as courage, wisdom, {86} anger, love, are names of complex ideas arbitrarily composed; so adjective is the name of one class of names, verb the name of another class of names; syllable, is the name of one part of a word, letter of another; and so, also, relative is the name of the class of words which have this peculiarity, that they are taken in pairs. Thus, father and son, are relative terms; prior and posterior, are relative terms; like and like, are relative terms; so equal, equal; unequal, unequal; brother, brother; friend, friend; and so on.

Relative itself corresponds with the names which it marks, in its being one of a pair; of that species of pairs, which are formed by a double use of the same word, as like, like. When we say of father and son, that they are relative terms, we mean that father is relative to son, and son relative to father.

As relative is the name of all concrete names, taken in pairs, such as like, like; friend, friend; causing, caused; so the abstract relation, formed from relative, is the name given to all the abstract terms formed from the concrete relatives: thus, equality, inequality, friendship, power, are abstract terms, which we call by a general name, relation. As Noun is the name of a certain class of words, so "Relation," is the name of a certain class of words.

It is not, however, meant to be affirmed, that relative and relation, are not names which are also applied to things. In a certain vague, and indistinct way, they are very frequently so applied. This, however, is strictly speaking, an abuse of the terms, and an abuse which has been a great cause of confusion of ideas. In this way, it is said, of two brothers, that {87} they are relative; of father and son, that they are relative; of two objects, that they are relative in position, relative in time; we speak of the relation between two men, when they are father and son, master and servant; between two objects, when they are greater, less, like, unlike, near, distant, and so on.

What, however, we really mean, when we call two objects relative (and that is a thing which it is of great importance to mark) is, that these objects have, or may have, relative names. On what accounts we give them relative names, has just been explained, and the explanation need not be repeated. When we say that Socrates and the Emperor Napoleon are unlike, the men are, each, a man, distinct, separate, absolute. We only give them a pair of related names, for the convenience of discourse. In like manner, Charles I. and George IV. are separate, distinct, absolute individuals. We only give them the relative names Predecessor, Successor, for the convenience of discourse, to mark the place which they occupied in a certain series of events. From this appears also what is meant, when we say of two objects, that they have a relation to one another. The meaning is, that the objects may have relative names, and that these names may have abstracts which we call relation. Thus we say that two brothers have a relation to one another. That relation is brotherhood. But brotherhood is merely the abstract of the relative names. We say that father and son have a relation. That relation is fathership and sonship. These are merely the abstracts of the two relative names. We say of two events, a stab with a sword, and death of the person stabbed, that they have a relation to one another. That relation is {88} causingness and causedness, the abstract of cause and effect, or, in one word, power.

{89} SECTION III.

NUMBERS.

We have already observed, that objects exist, with respect to us, in two orders; in the synchronous order, and the successive order; and that we have great occasion for marks to represent them to us as they exist in both orders. We have also to observe, that the synchronous order, the order in which things exist together; that is, as we otherwise name it, the order of position, or the order in place; is interesting to us chiefly on account of the successive order. The order in which objects *succeed one another, that is, the order of the changes which take place, the order of events, depends almost entirely upon the synchronous order. In other words, the synchronous order is part of every successive order; it is the antecedent of every consequent; or as we otherwise express it, the cause of every effect. Thus the synchronous order, or the order in place, of the spark and the gunpowder, is the antecedent of the explosion; the synchronous order of my finger and the candle, is the antecedent or the cause of the pain which I feel.

In regard to the explosion, also, it is less or greater, according as the quantity of the gunpowder is less or greater. Of the synchronous order, therefore, one part which I am particularly interested in knowing correctly is, the amount of the things. A certain amount of gunpowder produces one set of effects, another {90} another: a certain amount of men produce one set of effects, another another; and so of all other things.

It is of the last importance to me not only to be able to ascertain, and know, these amounts, with accuracy, but to be able to mark them.

For ascertaining and knowing amounts, some contrivance is requisite. It is necessary to conceive some small amount, by the addition or subtraction of which, another becomes larger or smaller. This forms the instrument of ascertainment. Where one thing, taken separately, is of sufficient importance to form this instrument, it is taken. Thus, for ascertaining and knowing different amounts of men, one individual is of sufficient importance. Amounts of men are considered as increased or diminished by the addition or subtraction of individuals. A grain of gunpowder might also be taken; but it is not of sufficient importance; the quantity, taken as the instrument of measurement, must have an ascertainable influence upon the effect, for the sake of which, the ascertaining of the amount is of importance. In their simple state, men use principally the hand for their elementary ascertainments. A pinch, or as much as could be held between the finger and the thumb, was a small amount distinctly conceived, and formed the principle of measurement where small additions were important; a handful was not less distinctively conceived, and was the instrument, where only larger additions were of importance.

When one addition was made, or needed to be made, after another, and another after that, and so on, the next point of importance was to conceive exactly how often the addition was made. A few {91} additions are distinct to sense. Place one billiard-ball by another, the sight of the two is distinct. Place three or four, it is still distinct. Soon, however, it ceases to be so. Place a dozen, and you will not probably be able to distinguish them from eleven. You must count them, or divide them. If you divide them by the eye, into two parcels, you may see that one is six and another six; but to benefit by this, you must know the art of putting six and six together.

The next step, therefore, necessary in the process of ascertaining amounts, was, to mark these additions, one after another, in such a manner, as to make known to what extent they had gone. When men were familiar with the operation of assigning names as marks of their ideas, the course which would suggest itself to them is obvious; they would employ a name as the mark of each addition. They would say, one, for the first, two, for the second, three, for the third, and so on. These marks it was very useful to make connotative, that the other important ingredient of the process, the thing added, might be made known at the same time. Thus we say, one man, two men; one horse, two horses; and so of all other things, the enumeration of which we are performing.

Numbers, therefore, are not names of objects. They are names of a certain process; the process of addition; of putting one billiard-ball to another; not more mysterious than any other process, as walking, writing, reading, to which names are assigned. One, is the name of this once performed, or of the aggregation begun; two, the name of it once more performed; three, of it once more performed; and so on. The words, however, in these concrete forms, beside {92} their power in noting this process, connote something else, namely, the things, whatever they are, the enumeration of which is required.

In the case of these connotative, as of other connotative marks, it was of great use to have the means of dropping the connotation; and in this case, it would have been conducive to clearness of ideas, if the non-connotative terms had received a mark to distinguish them from the connotative. This advantage, however, the framers of numbers were not sufficiently philosophical to provide. The same names are used both as connotative, and non-connotative; that is, both as abstract, and concrete; and it is far from being obvious, on all occasions, in which of the two senses they are used. They are used in the connotative sense, when joined as adjectives with a substantive; as when we say two men, three women; but it is not so obvious that they are used in the abstract sense, when we say three and two make five; or when we say fifty is a great number, five is a small number. Yet it must, upon consideration, appear, that in these cases they are abstract terms merely; in place of which, the words oneness, twoness, threeness, might be substituted. Thus we might say, twoness and threeness are fiveness.

The last part of what is here affirmed cannot, in my judgment, be sustained. Connecting itself with one among the many arguments between Aristotle and Plato, it lays down a position from which both of them would have dissented. In the last book but one (Book M) of Aristotle's "Metaphysica," this argument will be found set forth at length; though with much obscurity, which is cleared up by the lucid commentary of Bonitz. Plato distinguished two classes of numbers--the mathematical, and the ideal. The first class were the Quanta of equal and homogeneous units (One, Two, Three, &c.), any or all of which might be added so as to coalesce into one total sum. The second class were, the ideal or abstract numbers, Two quatenus Two, &c., represented by Dyad, Triad, Tetrad, Pentad, Dekad, &c., the characteristic property of which was, that they could not be added together nor coalesce into one sum. These were uncombinable numbers, "[Greek a)rithmoi\ a)su/mblêtoi]--numeri inconsociabiles."-- See Aristot. Metaph. M. 6. 1080. b. 12. Bonitz Comment. p. 540, 541, seq.

Plato regarded these uncombinable numbers as the highest representative specimens or coryphæi of the Platonic Ideas. In this character Aristotle reasoned against them, contending that they did nothing to remove the many objections against Plato's ideal theory. With the question thus opened, I have no present concern: all that I wish to point out is the view which Plato originated and upon which Aristotle reasoned, viz.: That these ideal or abstract numbers could not be added together, or fused into one sum total. The abstract term Twoness means Two so far forth as two: so also Threeness and Fiveness. You cannot truly predicate anything of Twoness which would be inconsistent with this fundamental characteristic: you cannot add it to Threeness so as to make Fiveness, nor can you subdivide Fiveness into Twoness and Threeness, without suppressing the fundamental characteristic of each. Neither of them admit of increase or diminution. In like manner, a Triangle, or every particular Triangle, may have one of its sides taken away, or two more sides added to it: on each of which suppositions it ceases to be a triangle. But if we speak of a Triangle so far forth as Triangle, neither of these suppositions is admissible. We may say that its three angles are equal to two right angles, but we cannot subtract from it one of its sides, nor add to it one or two other sides. The subject of predication is so limited and specialised, that no predicate can be allowed which would efface its characteristic feature--Triangularity.

Bonitz remarks truly that the class of numbers set forth by Plato--the ideal or uncombinable numbers which could not be either added or subtracted--were divested of all the useful aptitudes and functions of numbers, and passed out of the category of Quantity into that of Quality. The Triad was one quality; the Pentad was another: there was no common measure into which both could be resolved (Bonitz, Comment. p. 540--553). Two, three, five, are quantifying names, designating each so many numerable units: and the units counted in each list may be added to, or subtracted from, the units counted in the others. But when we say, Twoness or the Dyad--Threeness or the Triad--Fiveness or the Pentad--we then recognise a peculiar quality, founded upon each separate variety of aggregation or quantification: so that these separate varieties are no longer resolvable into any common measure of constituent units. Each quality stands apart from the others, and has its own predicates. In the view of Plato and the Pythagoreans, the Dekad especially was invested with magnificent predicates.

I cannot therefore agree with Mr. James Mill in his opinion that, "when we say three and two make five, we use these numbers in the abstract sense." We clearly do not mean that three, so far forth as three, and two, so far forth as two, make five. But this would be what we should mean, if we used these names of numbers in the abstract sense. What we do mean is, that the units constituting three may be added to those constituting two, so as to make five: and that this is equally true, whether the units are men, horses, stones, or any other objects. Two, three, five, &c., are general or universal terms, capable of being joined with units of indefinite variety: but they do not become abstract terms, until we limit them by quâtenus, [Greek: katho/son, ê(=|], so far forth as, &c., or by a suffix such as ness. Such abstracts would have been of little use as to the ordinary functions of numbers; and accordingly they have never got footing in familiar speech, though they are occasionally employed in metaphysical discussions.--G.]

{93} It is necessary to observe, that the process, marked by the names called numbers, though used for the {94} purpose of ascertaining synchronous order, is in the mind successive; one addition follows another. {95} Numbers, therefore, in reality, name successions; and are easily applied to mark certain particulars of the {96} successive order, when the marking of those particulars is of importance.

It is of importance, when successions take place all of one kind; and when consequences of importance depend upon the less or greater length of the train. It is then of importance, to mark the degrees of that length, which is correctly done by the enumeration of the links.

To take a simple and familiar instance, that of the human steps. They are successions all of one kind. Consequences of importance may, and often do result from a knowledge of the length of any particular series of steps. The ascertainment of an aggregate, in this order, is made in the same way, as that which we have traced in the synchronous order. An element of aggregation is taken; by its successive aggregations, the amount of the aggregate is correctly conceived; and, by a proper mark for each successive aggregation, it is also correctly denoted. The continued successions of day and night are all of one kind; and it is of the greatest importance for us to know accurately the length of a series of those successions; of the series between such and such events; between the sowing of the seed in the ground, for example, and the maturity of the crop. This is done, accurately, by putting a several mark upon each {97} several succession, one for the first, two for the one after that, three for the one after that, and so on.

If there be no mystery in one sensation after another, or one idea after another; and, if having them in that order and associating the idea of the antecedent with the sensation of the consequent be to know that they are in that order; then there is no mystery in Numbers, for they are only marks to shew that one is after another.

That there is no mystery in the ideas of priority and posteriority, which are relative terms, has been shewn under the preceding head of discourse.

The word Number itself, which is only a name of the names, one, two, &c., nothing being a number but some one of those names, has also been explained, when the class of words which are distinguished as Names of Names was under consideration.

In using the terms, one, two, three, four, and so on, the object is to ascertain with precision, the amount of the aggregate in question. In some cases, however, it is of importance to ascertain the order of aggregation, as well as the amount; and that, whether a synchronous, or a successive, aggregate be the object in view. This purpose is answered by a set of names, called the ordinal numbers, which, applied to the units of aggregation in the order in which they are taken, mark precisely the order of each. Thus, when we say, first, second, third, fourth, and so on; each of these concrete, or connotative names, notes a certain position, if in the synchronous order; a certain link, if {98} in the successive; and connotes the precise object which holds that position, or forms that link.

As there is no difficulty whatsoever in tracing the ideas, which, on each occasion, receive those marks, there is no need of multiplying words in their illustration.

{99} SECTION IV.

PRIVATIVE TERMS.

Privative terms are distinguished from other terms, by this; that other terms are marks for objects, as present or existent; privative terms are marks for objects, as not present or not existent.

This, however, being understood, there is no difficulty in following the author's exposition by means of his own language.--Ed.]

Thus the word Light, is the mark of a certain well-known object, as existent or present.

The word Darkness, on the contrary, is the mark of the same object, as not existent or not present. Ask any man, what he means by darkness; he says the absence of light. But the absence of light, is only another name for light absent; and light absent, is only another name for light not present. Darkness, therefore, is another name for light not present.

It thus appears, that the idea called up by the {100} word light, is that of a certain object associated with its presence; the idea called up by the word darkness, is that of the same object associated with its absence.

After the explanations which have been so often given, what I mean, when I speak of the idea of an object, as one thing; the idea of its presence, as another thing; ought not to be obscure. Its presence, is its existence; its absence, is its non-existence; at least, at a particular time and place. What ideas and sensations I mark by the word existent, has already been explained. The word non-existent is the mere negation of the same sensations and ideas.

We have repeatedly seen, that what we call existence, is an inference from our sensations. We have clusters of sensations; these call up the ideas of antecedents, which we call qualities; these the idea of an antecedent common to all the qualities, which we call Substratum; and the Substratum, with its qualities, we call the Object.

When we speak, then, of this Substratum and its qualities, as present, at a particular time and place: which is what we mean by its existence; what we affirm is this; that if there be sentient organs at such a time and place, there will be such and such sensations. When we speak of it as absent, we affirm, that though there be sentient organs at such a time and place, there will not be those sensations. These ideas, then, forming in combination a very complex idea, are what, in the respective cases, we call the presence, and the absence of an object. Any further analysis would be superfluous in this place.

{101} A law of some importance, which has been already explained, is, that in complex ideas there is very often some one part, so prominent, as to throw the rest into the shade, and confine the attention almost wholly to itself. There is a curious exemplification of this law, in the pair of cases before us. Thus, in the complex idea of "the object and its presence," marked by the word Light, the object is the prominent part, and the presence is so habitually neglected, that it is with some trouble it is recognised. The case is reversed in the complex idea of "the object and its absence," marked by the word Darkness. In this, the absence is the prominent part, and it so completely engrosses the attention, that it requires reflection, to discover, that the idea of the object is necessarily combined.

There is something more in these two cases, which it is of great importance to remember. We have two sets of indissoluble associations, both exceedingly numerous, the one with the idea of the object as present, the other with the idea of it as absent; that is, the one set with light, the other set with darkness. Whenever we have the perception of light, we habitually have, along with it, the perception of objects; that is, of all sorts of colours, all sorts of shapes, all sorts of magnitudes, all sorts of distances, and so on. With the idea of light, then, are indissolubly associated the ideas of all sorts of objects; of extension in all its modifications, colour in all its modifications, motion in all its modifications; the word light, therefore, serves as a name, not merely of the fluid which acts upon the eye, but of that along with its innumerable associations. Such are the perceptions and {102} ideas, which, when we have the perception of light, we have along with it. What are the perceptions and ideas, which, when we have not the perception of light, we have along with that state of privation? There is, first, the want of all the perceptions, which we have along with that of light. There is, next, the disagreeable sensations we experience from not knowing what objects are approaching us, either by our motions, or by theirs; hence the idea of dangerous objects approaching; hence, also, the inability to perform many of the acts which are conducive either to our being, or well-being. With the idea of darkness, then, are indissolubly associated a multitude of ideas, of pain, of privation, of weakness; all disagreeable; with little or no mixture of any of an opposite kind. And the word darkness, therefore, stands as a name not merely of light absent, but of that along with all the accompanying sensations and ideas.

The reader will observe, and it is necessary he should well observe, that all terms might have corresponding privative terms. We have already stated, that the ordinary names of objects are names both of the object, and of its presence or existence, combined in one complex idea. Thus, rose, horse, are names of the objects as present or existent. We might have had names of them as absent or not existent. It is only, however, in a few cases, that the absence of an object is a matter of first-rate importance. It is only in those cases that it has been found requisite to have for it a particular name. The absence of light is obviously a case of the greatest importance. Consequences of the very first order, and infinite in number, {103} depend upon it. An appropriate name, therefore, was of the highest utility.

This explanation will enable us to see, without a minute analysis, the composition of the clusters marked by other Privative Terms.

Let us take Silence, as the next example. Silence is the absence of sound, either all sound, which is sometimes its meaning; or of some particular sound, which at other times is its meaning. Sound is the name of a well-known something, as present. Silence is the name of the same well-known something, as absent. The first word, is the name of the thing, and its presence. The second, is the name of the thing, and its absence. In the case of the combination marked by the first, namely, the thing and its presence, the thing is the prominent part, and the presence generally escapes attention. In the case of the second, the thing and its absence, the absence is the important part, and the thing is feebly, if at all, attended to.

Ignorance is easily explained, in the same manner. Knowledge is the name of a certain well-known something, as present or existent. Ignorance is the name of the same well-known something, as absent or nonexistent.

Having a sensation, or an idea, is one state of consciousness; not having it is another state of consciousness.[2*] The state of consciousness called "not having" {104} it is no doubt very various; for it is any sensation or idea different from the one in question. The "Having" one sensation and another sensation, or one idea and another idea; and the "Knowing" that the one is not the other; we have often observed to be the same thing. The great majority of names are invented, to mark sensations and ideas as "had;" there are, however, cases, in which it is necessary to mark them as "not had." In what manner, in the more remarkable cases, this marking is performed by privative names, has now been shewn. But, beside the marks for particular cases, it was necessary to have a comprehensive or general mark; which should include all cases, as well those provided with particular names, as those not so provided. "Absent" was such a word. "Absent," standing by itself, and unrestricted by connection with any other word, is a name of any thing, joined with the idea of its not being then and there. What is included in that Idea has already been shewn in explaining Belief in Existence. The mark "Absent," joined with any particular name, becomes a particular Privative Term. We have observed, that the word rose, is a mark not merely of the thing, but the thing with the idea of its presence; we have also observed, that such Presence-affirming Terms, except {105} in remarkable cases, have not corresponding Privative, or Absence-affirming Terms. But if we say "absent" rose, we have a Privative Term, double worded, indeed, instead of single worded, exactly corresponding to the Presence-affirming Term, rose. And, by the use of the same word, we can form Privative Terms of this description, in all cases in which they can be wanted; thus we can say, absent man, absent horse, absence of food, &c.

The word Nothing, Nihil, is another generical Privative Term. That this word has a very important marking power, every man is sensible in the use which he makes of it. But if it marks, it names; that is, names something. Yet it seems to remove every thing; that is, not to leave anything to be named.

The preceding explanations, however, have already cleared up this mystery. The word Nothing is the Privative Term which corresponds to Every Thing. Every Thing is a name of all possible objects, including their existence. Nothing is a name of all possible objects, including their non-existence.

{106} "Absent," in its unrestricted sense, above explained, comes near to this marking power of the word Nothing, but differs from it in one respect. Absent is the Privative name of all possible objects, taken one by one. Nothing is the privative name of them, taken altogether. This distinction, I presume, is sufficiently obvious, and intelligible, thus expressed; and stands in no need of a more wordy explanation.[3*]

We shall now take notice of the Privative Term EMPTY, which is a word of great importance.

Empty is a name applicable to all the things to which the name, full, is applicable; in other words, to all the things which are calculated to contain other things in position, or in the synchronous order, that is, in the order of particle adjoining particle. It is necessary to mark this limitation of the word contain; because, in another sense, a complex idea is said to contain the simple ideas of which it consists; and a chemical compound is said to contain the simple {107} substances into which it can be decomposed. Empty, and Full, are names of those things only which contain, or are adapted to contain, things in position, or in the order of particle adjoining particle.

Things adapted to contain other things in position, are, themselves, a peculiar combination of positions, to which we must very attentively advert. To understand this combination, it will be necessary to remember exactly the analysis of position; of lines, surfaces, and bulks; as it has been already given in our explanation of Relative Terms.

The word "containing," applied to anything, as when we speak of a box containing books, a cask containing liquor, a room containing furniture, generally includes the idea of limitation. That which contains, has certain boundaries within which the things contained are placed, or have their position. This idea of things having their position within another thing, is a very complex idea, the composition of which we must be at some pains to understand.

It consists, first, of the thing containing; secondly, of the things contained.

The thing containing, again, consists of two parts; first, its boundaries; and, secondly, its containing capacity within its boundaries.

Its boundaries are surfaces. How we become acquainted with surfaces; in other words, what are the sensations, the copies of which form our complex idea of surface, has been already explained. They are certain sensations of touch, and certain sensations of muscular action. This complex idea is easily distinguished into two parts; first, a certain idea of resistance; secondly, the idea of extension. The sides {108} of a box I call resisting, and I call them extended; and I call them by both names on account of certain sensations. Let us conceive the box without a lid; each of the sides is extended and resisting. What is the top without a lid? Extended, and non-resisting. The idea of the top is that of extension without resistance; extension, in a particular direction, that of a plane surface. What is the idea of the inside of the box without its contents? That of extension in all directions without resistance. This is emptiness.

So far is plain, and not doubtful. There are still, however, some things which require explanation. What are we distinctly to understand by extension without resistance? Whenever we use the concrete extended, we mean something extended; and by that something we always mean something that resists. What do we mean when we use the abstract extension? It will be easily recollected that all this is a case of association, which has been already fully explained.

Concrete Terms are Connotative Terms; Abstract Terms are Non-connotative Terms. Concrete terms, along with a certain quality or qualities, which is their principal meaning, or notation, connote the object to which the quality belongs. Thus the concrete red, always means, that is, connotes, something red, as a rose. We have already, by sufficient examples, seen, that the Abstract, formed from the Concrete, notes precisely that which is noted by the Concrete, leaving out the connotation. Thus, take away the connotation from red, and you have redness; from hot, take away the connotation, and you have heat.

{109} The very same is the distinction between the concrete extended, and the abstract extension. What extended is with its connotation, extension is without that connotation. We have then to explain, wherein the connotation consists.

When we say extended, meaning something extended, we mean one or other of three things, a line, a surface, or bulk. We have already explained sufficiently in what manner we come by the ideas of line, surface, and bulk. We have certain sensations of touch, and of muscular action, conjoined, and the ideas of those sensations, in conjunction, form our ideas of line, surface, and bulk. The sensation, or sensations, which we mark by the word resisting, seem to be those alone which are connoted by the word extending; for it is most important to observe, that what we call extending in the parts of our own body, by the operation of its own muscles, is that which we call extended in all other things; and thus the essential connotation of the concrete, extended, is, resisting, and nothing else. In other concrete terms the connotation is greater. Thus red, connotes a surface, that is, something extended; and extended connotes resisting. And thus red connotes both extended and resisting, while extended connotes resisting alone. It is true, that persons enjoying the faculty of seeing cannot conceive any thing extended, without conceiving it coloured; because in them the idea of something extended includes, by association, the visual, as well as the tactual, and muscular, ideas; and the visual being accustomed to predominate, the tactual, and muscular, are faintly observed. This, however, cannot be the case in persons born blind, {110} who have the tactual, and muscular, feelings, and not the visual at all.

Now, then, we can easily understand what extension is in all its cases. Linear extension is the idea of a line, the connotation dropped, that is, the idea of resisting, dropped; superficial extension is the idea of a surface, the same connotation dropped; and solid extension, or bulk, is merely the idea of bulk, the connotation, or resisting, dropped. But bulk, the connotation (i.e. resistance) dropped, is what? The place for bulk: Position. But place is, what? A portion of SPACE; or, more correctly speaking. SPACE itself, with limitation.

We thus seem to have arrived, without any difficulty, at an exact knowledge of what is noted or marked by the word SPACE; a phenomenon of the human mind hitherto regarded as singularly mysterious. The difficulty which has been found in explaining the term, even, by those philosophers who have approached the nearest to its meaning, seems to have arisen, from their not perceiving the mode of signification of Abstract Terms; and from the obscurity of that class of sensations, a portion of which we employ the word "extended" to mark. The word "space" is an abstract, differing from its concrete, like other abstracts, by dropping the connotation. Much of the mystery, in which the idea has seemed to be involved, is owing to this single circumstance, that the abstract term, space, has not had an appropriate concrete. We have observed, that, in all cases, abstract terms can be explained only through their concretes; because they note or name a part of what the concrete names, leaving out the rest. If we were {111} to make a concrete term, corresponding to the abstract term space, it must be a word equivalent to the terms "infinitely extended." From the ideas included under the name "infinitely extended," leave out resisting, and you have all that is marked by the abstract Space.

In the idea of SPACE, the idea of Infinity is included. What the idea of Infinity is, needs therefore to be explained. When the word Infinite is not used metaphorically, as it is when we speak of the infinite perfections of God, in which case it is not a name for ideas, but for the want of them, it is applied only to Number, Extension, and Duration.

We increase numbers by adding one to one, one to two, and so on, without limit, giving a name to {112} each aggregate. The association of ideas which constitutes the process has been already explained. With each number, one, two, three, four, as we go on, the idea of one more is so strongly associated, that we cannot help its existing in immediate conjunction. However high, therefore, we go in numbering, the idea of one more always forces itself upon us; and hence we say that number is infinite. That this, literally, is not true; that, indeed, it is a verbal contradiction, is obvious. Number, is something numbered; but if numbered, limited; that is, not infinite. Number is the negation of infinite; as black is the negation of white. The name infinite, in this case, is, in reality, nothing but a mark for that state of consciousness, in which the idea of one more is closely associated with every succeeding number. And Infinity, the abstract term, is the peculiar idea, without the connotation.

When we apply "infinite" to extension, we do so equally to all its three modifications, to lines, surfaces, and bulk. How we do so is obvious. We know no infinite line, but we know a longer, and a longer. A line is lengthened, as number is increased, by continual additions; a line of any length, say of an inch, is increased by the continual addition of other lengths, say of an inch. In the process, then, by which we conceive the increase of a line, the idea of one portion more, is continually associated with the preceding length; and to what extent soever it is carried, the association of one portion more, is equally close and irresistible. This is what we call the idea of infinite extension; and what some people call the necessary idea; which only means, that the idea of a {113} portion more, rises necessarily, that is, by indissoluble association, so that we cannot help its rising. Infinite is the concrete term, here connoting Line; drop the connotation, you have Infinity, the abstract.

If such be the whole of what is involved in the idea of Infinity, in the case of a line; call it necessary idea, if you will; the idea of it, in the case of surface, and of bulk, is also explained; for surface, and bulk, are only lines, in such and such, or in all directions. The idea of a portion more, adhering, by indissoluble association, to the idea of every increase, in any or in all directions, is the idea of "infinitely extended," and the idea of "infinitely extended," the connotation dropped, is the idea of Infinite Space. It has been called a simple idea (so little has the real nature of it been understood); while it is thus distinctly seen, to be one of the most complex ideas, which the whole train of our conscious being presents. Extreme complexity, with great closeness of association, has this effect--that every particular part in the composition is overpowered by the multitude of all the other parts, and no one in particular stands marked from the rest; but all, together, assume the appearance of ONE. Something perfectly analogous occurs, even in sensation. If two or three ingredients are mixed, as wine and honey, we can distinguish the taste of each, and say it is compound. But if a great many are mixed, we can distinguish no one in particular, and the taste of the whole appears a simple peculiar taste.

Every object is associated with some position: not always with the same position, but we have never perceived any object, and therefore never think of one, but in some position or other, relative to some other objects. As, from every position. Space extends in every direction (i.e. the unimpeded arm or body can move in any direction), and since we never were in any place which did not admit of motion in every direction from it, when such motion was not arrested by a resistance; every idea of position is irresistibly associated with extension, beyond the position: and we can conceive no end to extension, because the place which we try to conceive as its end, raises irresistibly the idea of other places beyond it. This is one of the many so-called Necessities of Thought which are necessities only in consequence of the inseparableness of an association: but which, from unwillingness to admit this explanation, men mistake for original laws of the human mind, and even regard them as the effect and proof of a corresponding necessary connexion between facts existing in Nature.--Ed.]

{114} This, indeed, is one great cause of the mistakes, which have been committed, in the examination of abstract ideas. We have shewn that they are all complex, and in the highest degree. Yet the greater number of them have always been treated as simple. Mr. Locke shewed that some of them, which he calls mixed modes, were undoubtedly compounded, as obligation, crime, &c. But they are no otherwise complex, than as power, quality, chance, fate, position, and space, are complex.

It is truly remarkable, how many of the cases of indissoluble association are all united in the idea of SPACE. First of all, with the idea of every object, the idea of position or place, is indissolubly united. {115} Secondly, with the idea of position or place, the idea of extension is indissolubly united. Thirdly, with the idea of extension the idea of infinity is indissolubly united. Fourthly, by the unfortunate ambiguity of the Copula, the idea of existence is indissolubly united with SPACE, as with other abstract terms. What these several ingredients, the ideas of Position, Extension, Infinity, Existence, are composed of, we have already seen. All these, forced into combination, by irresistible association, constitute the idea of SPACE.

{116} SECTION V.

TIME.

As SPACE is a comprehensive word, including all Positions, or the whole of synchronous order; so TIME is a comprehensive word, including all Successions, or the whole of successive order.

The difficulty of the exposition, in this case, consists not in the ideas; for they are clear and certain enough; but in finding expressions which will have even a chance of conveying to readers, who are not familiar with the analysis of mental phenomena, the ideas which it is my object to impart.

As all objects, considered as existing together, are said to exist in SPACE, so all objects considered as existing one after another, are said to exist in TIME.

Objects, however, are said to exist in Time, in two distinguishable cases; either when they are in constant flow; or, when they have, what we call, stability or duration. The constant passage of men, horses, vehicles, &c., in a busy and crowded street, is in Time; the permanence of St. Paul's, in its well-known position, is also in Time. If Time mean the succession of the objects in the one case, it must mean something else in the other. It cannot mean the succession of St. Paul's. But it may mean the idea of St. Paul's, associated with the idea of other successions.

Of TIME itself we conceive, that it is never still. It is a perpetual flow of instants, of which only one can ever be present. The very idea of Time, therefore, is {117} an idea of successions. It consists of this, and of nothing else.

But there are no real successions, save successions of objects, that is of feelings in our minds. What, then, are the successions of TIME, which are the successions of nothing? To those who have thoroughly familiarized themselves with the account which we have given of abstract terms, and who can promptly and steadily conceive the mode of their signification, we can render an answer, which will be understood at once, and will be felt to be complete and satisfactory.

We have shewn, how we form the abstracts, redness, from red; sweetness, from sweet; hardness, from hard; by simply dropping the connotation of the concrete term. Thus red, always means something red; redness, is the red without the something; so of sweetness, hardness, and so forth. When the ideas are more {118} complicated, the case is still the same. When we use the concrete, living, it always connotes something living; a living man, a living quadruped, a living bird, fish, insect, and so forth. When we use the abstract, life, we convey all that we convey by the term living, except the connotation. We say that John is healthy, James is healthy, on account of circumstances the idea of which forms a very complex idea. The concrete healthy always connotes an individual. Use the abstract, health, you have the idea without the connotation.

In applying this doctrine to the case of successions, we are ill supplied with appropriate names; and hence the difficulty of the case, both to the teacher, and the learner.

We have said that there are no real successions, but successions of objects. The tickings of my watch are successive sounds, that is, sensations. The beatings which are felt by the physician, in the artery of his patient, are successive feelings or sensations of touch.

When the different particulars of a scene in which a man has been engaged, of a battle, for example, in which he has commanded, pass through his mind, there is a succession of ideas. In all these cases of the successions of sensations, or ideas, there is always one present, others past, and others to come, that is, future. Drop the connotation of "something past," "something present," "something future." You have pastness, presentness, and futureness. But pastness, presentness, and futureness, are TIME. TIME can neither be shewn, nor conceived, to be any thing else. It is a single-worded abstract, involving the meaning {119} of these three several abstracts. The true meaning of these abstracts is clearly made out from their concretes. The precise idea, therefore, marked by the word TIME; if the meaning of these abstracts is sufficiently apprehended; is at last apparent. Nor is there any mysteriousness in it whatsoever, but that which has arisen from misapprehension of that grand department of Naming, which belongs to abstract terms; and from inattention to that class of words, which are invented to supply the place, each of them singly, of several other words.

To our conclusion, that TIME is the equivalent of Pastness, Presentness, and Futureness, combined, it may be objected, that the word Time is applicable to all the three cases; as we can say, past time, present time, and future time, all with equal propriety. This, however, is so far from being any presumption against the conclusion, that it is a clear confirmation of it; since Time, standing by itself, marks no particular case, and, in order to do so, must have another mark applied to it to limit its signification. It is only because Time marks all the cases of pastness, presentness, and futureness, that it needs the marks past, present, or future, to confine its meaning; present time being merely another name for presentness, future time, for futureness, and past time, for pastness. The same thing is seen in the case of all other abstracts. Redness is the name of a certain colour, in all its modifications, and to whatever object belonging. But by the addition of an appropriate mark, we confine its meaning to any particular case; as when we say, the redness of a rose, the redness of scarlet, and so on.

{120} The accounts, which have been rendered of Time by different philosophers, so far as they have in them any acknowledged accuracy, are, all of them, parts, and but parts, of the analysis which we have thus been presenting. Dr. Reid says, Memory gives us the conception and belief of finite intervals of duration; and these we enlarge by our mental processes to infinity.[4*] We have already seen what Memory is. It is not a faculty, as Dr. Reid supposes, which "gives" any thing; it is an idea, formed by association of the particulars of a certain train; a train of antecedents and consequents, of which the present feeling is one extremity. Pastness is included under the term Memory. Memory is the name of a certain whole, and Pastness is the name of a part of that whole. Memory is a connotative term; what it notes, is the antecedence and consequence of the several parts of that which forms the chain of the remembrance; what it connotes, are the feelings themselves, the objects remembered. When what it connotes is left out, and what it notes is retained, we have the idea which is expressed by pastness.

In the chain of memory, consisting of antecedent, antecedent, antecedent, traced back to any length from the present feeling, we call that which immediately precedes the present, the nearest; the next, we call more distant; the next, more distant still; and that, between which and the present feeling the greatest number of successions intervenes, we call the most distant, also the farthest back; but the farthest back of a series of successions, is the oldest, that between {121} which and the present time the greatest length of time has intervened. Greatest length of time, therefore, in this case, is only another name for greatest number of successions.

It has been already seen, that there is nothing in which we are so deeply interested, as an accurate knowledge of the antecedents and consequents, in the midst of which we exist. Of the different innumerable trains of antecedents and consequents which it is important for us carefully to mark, it is observed, that some succeed more quickly, some less. While the long pendulum of an eight-day clock is performing one oscillation, the short pendulum of a table-clock performs two or three.

What that is, to which we give the name of quickness, or slowness, in those successions; in other words, what is the state of consciousness which we have thus occasion to mark; has already been seen. Every succession, observed by us, is a case of sensation and memory; sensation of the consequent, memory of the antecedent. If we have observed simultaneously the oscillations of the two pendulums, mentioned above, we remember two or three antecedent oscillations of the short pendulum, before we get back to one of the long. It is a mere case, therefore, of the greater or less number of antecedents in a chain of memory, expounded in a preceding chapter.

In the knowledge, so important to us, of antecedents and consequents, it is not enough that we know what antecedents are followed by what consequents; much depends upon the quickness or slowness of the successions. It is, therefore, of the highest importance that we should have the means of marking them.

{122} What we do is, to take some well-known case of successions, and to make that a standard, by which to ascertain the rest. We take, for example, the oscillations of a pendulum. So many of these we call a minute. So many minutes we call an hour. These minutes and hours, then, are so many oscillations, that is successions. We call them measures of time. But things are measurable only by parts of themselves; extension by extension, weight by weight, and so on. What is *measured by succession, therefore, is itself nothing but succession.

Having assumed a certain case of successions as a standard, and marked it into quantities, by distinctive names, we mark or name all other successions, by the names applied to the standard case. Thus, that grand succession, on which so much of what we are interested in depends, a revolution of the earth upon its own axis, we distinguish, by the term, twenty-four hours; which we also call by the name, day; and afterwards make use of, as a standard, to mark still slower successions, such as a revolution of the moon about the earth, a revolution of the earth about the sun. In all these measurements, and expressions, of time, it is still seen, that there is nothing in reality conceived but successions.

Beside the standards, more distinctly conceived and expressed, there is always, in these estimates of time, a tacit reference to another standard, which is regarded as the unit, or minimum of time. The case here is precisely analogous to that of the unit, or minimum, of extension, which we have already observed. Our tactual, and muscular, senses are not sufficiently fine to discern objects of less than a certain magnitude. {123} The least which they can discern is tacitly assumed as the unit of extension. Nor are any of our senses fine enough to discern successions which have more than a certain degree of rapidity. Thus, if the seven primitive colours are made to pass with a certain velocity before the eye, they do not appear separate, but blended into one continuous white. In like manner, if sounds are made to succeed one another, at first, slowly, afterwards, with greater and greater rapidity, they cannot, at last, be distinguished as different sounds, but appear as one continuous sound. In fact, this is probably the account of all sounds, which are merely effects of the vibrations in the air, and therefore pulses; but often so quick, in succession, that no interval is distinguishable, and the perception is that of a continuous sound.

The close resemblance, in this respect, between sensations and ideas, is remarkable. When sensations are brought into close conjunction they become blended, and appear, not several, but one. We have seen, in a most important case of association, that when ideas are called up together in close conjunction, they, too, cease to be distinguishable, and, being blended together, assume, even where there is the greatest complexity, the appearance, not of many ideas, but of one. Of this we have very remarkable examples, in the two cases of SPACE, and TIME.

There is a certain succession, then, of sensations and ideas, in which the antecedent and consequent can be distinguished: another, in which the antecedent and consequent, on account of quickness, cannot be distinguished. The quickest that can be distinguished, is that to which, as the unit or minimum, a tacit {124} reference is made, in our several estimates of time.

Having thus shewn how far the account of TIME, presented by one of the most recent Philosophers of high name, goes in expounding the phenomenon, and how far it leaves it unexpounded; it will be instructive next to observe, how far the genius of the ancient Greek Philosophers carried them, in this important inquiry. It is satisfactory, that we can refer the unlearned reader to a very clear and accurate exposition of their doctrines, in a well known work in our own language, the "Hermes" of Mr. Harris; from which, for the sake of this convenience, the present account of those ancient doctrines shall be drawn.

"Time and Space," says that author,[5*] "have this in common, that they are both of them by nature continuous. But in this they differ, that all the parts of Space exist at once and together, while those of Time only exist in Transition or Succession." This is only transcribing the common language. What remained was, to shew what are the real facts couched under this language.[6*]

"In every given time we may assume anywhere a Now or Instant, and therefore, in every given Time, there may be assumed infinite Nows or Instants.

{125} "A NOW or INSTANT is the Bound of every finite Time. But although a Bound, it is not a Part of Time. If this appear strange, we may remember, that if a Now or Instant were a Part of Time it being essential to the character of Parts, that they should measure the Whole, it would contain within itself infinite other nows; and this, it is evident, would be absurd and impossible."

"The same Now or Instant, may be the end of one Time, and the Beginning of another; the first, necessarily Past Time, as being previous to the Now or Instant, which both Times include; the other necessarily FUTURE, as being subsequent. As, therefore, every NOW or INSTANT always exists in Time, and without being Time, is Time's Bound; the Bound of Completion to the Past, and the Bound of Commencement to the Future: from hence we may conceive its nature or end, which is to be the Medium of Continuity between the Past and the Future, so as to render Time, through all its parts, one Intire and Perfect Whole."

It must be obvious to every one, who has correctly followed me through the preceding deductions, that this mysterious language, if applied to actual successions, has a distinct meaning; if not so applied, it is jargon merely, without one idea annexed. This NOW, which is not Time, and, not being Time, is of course nothing else; this NOTHING, then, which, though nothing is the medium of continuity between Somethings, namely, time past, and time future, seems to be only a mysterious name for that link which is supposed to be between every antecedent and its consequent; which supposition of a link, or medium of continuity, we have already shewn to be a mere case {126} of association, involving a prejudice; the antecedent and consequent, and nothing else, being really included in a case of succession. Thus understood, however, it is a medium of continuity, forming the "Bound of Completion" to the previous train of successions, the "Bound of Commencement" to the following.

Mr. Harris proceeds to shew some of the conclusions, resulting from the account which he had thus rendered of Time. "In the first place," he says, "there cannot (strictly speaking) be any such thing as time present." We will draw from this a conclusion, which Mr. Harris appears not to have seen, or does not choose to acknowledge; That, if there be no such thing as Time present, neither can there be any such thing as Time past. For what is the past, but that which has been present? But if there be no such thing as time present, or time past, there can be no such thing as time future. Time, therefore, is an impossibility.

Mr. Harris himself, indeed, goes a certain way toward this conclusion. "If no Portion of time," he says, "be the object of any Sensation; further, if the Present never exist; if the past be no more; if the Future be not as yet; and if these are all the parts, out of which Time is compounded: how strange and shadowy a Being do we find it? How nearly approaching to a perfect non-entity?"[7*]

{127} Mr. Harris then says, "Let us try, however, since the senses fail us, if we have not faculties of higher power, to seize this fleeting Being." What then is it he does in the search of those "faculties of higher power?" It will be seen, from the following quotation, that he merely describes a few cases of actual succession; and says, that from them, by the help of memory, and imagination, we come by the idea of Time. But the Memory and Imagination of successions present to us nothing but the successions themselves. If then the Memory and Imagination of successions, give us the idea of Time, the idea of Time can only be some part or the whole of the idea of the successions.

"The World has been likened to a variety of Things, but it appears to resemble no one more than some moving spectacle (such as a procession or a triumph) that abounds in every part with splendid objects, some of which are still departing, as fast as others make their appearance. The Senses look on, while the sight passes, perceiving as much as is immediately present, which they report with tolerable accuracy to the Soul's superior powers. Having done this, they have done their duty, being concerned with nothing, save what is present and instantaneous. But to the Memory, to the Imagination, and above all, to {128} the Intellect, the several Nows or Instants, are not lost, as to the Senses, but are presented and made objects of steady comprehension, however, in their own nature, they may be transitory and passing.

"Now it is from contemplating two or more of these Instants under one view, together with that Interval of Continuity, which subsists between them, that we acquire insensibly the Idea of TIME. For example: The Sun rises: this I remember: it rises again: this too, I remember. These Events are not together; there is an Extension between them--not however of Space, for we may suppose the place of rising the same, or at least, to exhibit no sensible difference. Yet still we recognise some Extension between them. Now what is this Extension, but a natural day? And what is that, but pure Time? It is after the same manner, by recognising two new Moons, and the Extension between these; two several Equinoxes, and the extension between these; that we gain Ideas of other Times, such as Months and Years, which are all so many Intervals, described as above; that is to say, passing Intervals of Continuity between two Instants viewed together.

"And thus it is THE MIND acquires the Idea of TIME. But this Time it must be remembered is PAST TIME ONLY, which is always the first Species, that occurs to the human Intellect. How then do we acquire the Idea of TIME FUTURE? The answer is, we acquire it by Anticipation. Should it be demanded still further, And what is Anticipation? We answer, that, in this case, it is a kind of reasoning by analogy from similar to similar; from successions of events, that are past already, to similar successions, {129} that are presumed hereafter. For example: I observe, as far back as my memory can carry me, how every day has been succeeded by a night; that night, by another day; that day, by another night; and so downwards in order to the Day that is now. Hence, then, I anticipate a similar succession from the present Day, and thus gain the Idea of days and nights in futurity. After the same manner, by attending to the periodical returns of New and Full Moons; of Springs, Summers, Autumns, and Winters, all of which, in Time past, I find never to have failed, I anticipate a like orderly and diversified succession, which makes Months, and Seasons, and Years, in Time future."

It is to be observed, that, in the above passage, Harris, beside Memory and Imagination, introduces the name of Intellect, as concerned in generating the idea of Time. But it will be seen that he makes no use of it, whatsoever, in giving his explanation, nor mentions any other operations than those of, memory for the past, and anticipation for the future. Indeed, it appears from a passage of his work, immediately following, that when Mr. Harris, in this inquiry, uses the word Intellect, he means nothing but Anticipation and Memory. "There is nothing," he says, "appears so clearly an object of the MIND or INTELLECT only, as the Future does, since we can find no place for its existence any where else. Not but the same, if we consider, is equally true of the Past.*"[8*] Here we see, that {130} both the Future, and the Past, are said to be objects of the INTELLECT only. But the future is the object of anticipation, the past of memory; and both memory, and anticipation, as we have seen, are cases of association.

In the cases of succession which he adduces, as examples, to shew, in what manner we acquire, he says, "insensibly," the idea of time, he tells us, there is sensation of the consequent, memory of the antecedent, and beside these, "contemplation of two or more instants under one view, together with that Interval of continuity, which subsists between them." But the contemplation of two instants, one prior, another posterior, in one view, with the interval between them, is a circumlocution for memory. It denotes obscurely, and imperfectly, that union, in one idea, of all the parts of a train, to which the name memory is affixed. From this contemplation, he says it is, "that we acquire the idea of Time." The real meaning is thus shewn to be, that we acquire it from memory. Mr. Harris, therefore, at the bottom, agrees with Dr. Reid; and the same observations by which we shewed {131} the imperfection of Dr. Reid's account, are equally applicable to that, of Mr. Harris. The case, in truth, is, that neither of them does any thing more than merely state the fact, without an attempt to explain it. That we cannot have the idea of time, without the observation of successions; and that memory is joined with sense in the observation of successions,--is the matter of fact. What TIME is, distinct from the memory and the sensations, they ought to have told us, but have not. They would not have found it difficult, had they been familiar with the distinction (of such infinite importance, in all accurate inquiries into the human mind) between the mode of signification of concrete words, and the mode of signification of abstract ones; the latter, in its more complicated cases, of not very easy comprehension. Unfortunately, we have no concrete term, corresponding with Time. Hence a great part of the difficulty of conceiving distinctly the meaning of the abstract. Time, also, is not the abstract name of any one train, but of all trains; as redness is not the name of one red, but of all reds. And there is this further complication, that the word "time" is never applied to any train, in particular; as time of a race, time of a battle, and so on; without the predominating association of that particular train, whatever it be, minutes, hours, or days, which we are accustomed to employ, as the measure of other successions. Without much and accurate practice, therefore, in conceiving the meaning of abstract terms, especially in the more complex and intricate cases; it is extremely difficult steadily to contemplate either TIME, as the {132} abstract name of all successive, or SPACE, as the abstract name of all simultaneous order.[9*]

It will be instructive, to recapitulate the indissoluble associations which are contained in the idea of Time. With every present event, is indissolubly associated the idea of an antecedent; with that antecedent, the idea of another antecedent; and so on without end. These are the ideas of Succession, and of Infinity; forced upon us by indissoluble association. The events of the present moment, are innumerable. With every one of these we associate the ideas of antecedents without end. This is the Past; an Infinity of simultaneous successions, each having antecedents, running back without end. These are successions in the concrete; successions of objects. Drop the connotation, to form the abstract, as is done in other cases; you have then successions without the objects; which is precisely the meaning of the word TIME.

As with every present event, and those infinite in number, is indissolubly associated the idea of a series of antecedents, without end, which, in the abstract, is {133} TIME PAST, so with every such event, is indissolubly associated the idea of a consequent, with that the idea of another consequent, and so on, without end; which, in the abstract, is TIME FUTURE.

The synchronous Line, or Line of Extension, and the successive Line, or Line of Time, bear a pretty close analogy. As, in the Line of Extension, we have the concrete line, and the abstract line; the concrete line being the positions with the objects; the abstract or mathematical line, the positions without the objects; so, in the line of Time, we have the concrete line, and the abstract line; the concrete line being the successions with the objects; the abstract line, the successions without the objects; to which abstract line, we give the name TIME.

We have before remarked, as an important case of indissoluble association, that the idea of Position, that is, of a modification of Space, is indissolubly associated with the idea of every sensible object. It is now to be remarked, as a not less important case, that the idea of succession or of antecedent and consequent, that is, a modification of Time, is indissolubly associated with the idea of every object. The idea of a modification of Space, and the idea of a modification of Time, form parts of our complex idea of every object. It is no wonder that they appear to be necessary, seeing that they force themselves upon us, by irresistible association, with the idea of every object.

However inextricably these feelings of succession are mixed up with the feelings perceived as successive, we are so perfectly able to attend to them, and make them a distinct object of thought, that we can compare them with one another, without comparing the successive feelings in any other respect. We can judge two or more successions to be of equal, or of unequal, rapidity. And if we find any series of feelings of which the successive links follow each other with uniform rapidity, such as the tickings of a clock, we can make this a standard of comparison for all other successions, and measure them as equal to one, two, three, or some other number of links of this series: whereby the aggregate Time is said to be divided into equal portions, and every event is located in some one of those portions. The succession of our sensations, therefore, however closely implicated with the sensations themselves, may be abstracted from them in thought, as completely {135} as any quality of a thing can be abstracted from the thing.

The apparent infinity of Time the author, very rightly, explains in the same manner as that of Space.--Ed.]

In p. 120 he gives us in a few words Dr. Reid's explanation of Time:--and in pp. 124--130 he cites at greater length Aristotle's explanation, as reproduced by Harris in the Hermes.

Both Aristotle and Reid include in their meaning of Time, not merely succession, but duration or continuity. Mr. James Mill includes only succession--antecedents and consequents. He thinks that continuity is nothing else than an illusion or prejudice, arising from extreme rapidity of succession (pp. 123--125).

"Time and Space (says Harris, cited p. 124) have this in common, that they are both of them by nature continuous. But in this they differ--that all the parts of space exist at once and together; while those of Time only exist in Transition or Succession." Mr. James Mill proceeds to say--"This is only transcribing the common language. What remained was, to show what are the real facts couched under this language."

Undoubtedly these facts ought to be shewn, and shewn fully. But I cannot think that they are shewn fully in the {136} present Chapter of the Analysis. On the contrary, a most important part of the case is omitted--Duration or Continuity--which Aristotle has put in the front of his exposition, and after him *Reid as well as Harris.

If it were true that the word Time is the abstract, having for its concrete succeeding objects and nothing more, we should not need the term at all. The abstract term "Succession" already answers this purpose, much more perspicuously and obviously. But Time includes something more than succession. It comprehends not merely potentiality for succeeding objects or events, but also potentiality for continuous motions or sensations: it embraces duration as well as succession.

The exposition of Aristotle is adapted to readers and debates so different from those of the present day, that it often appears strange, and even mystical, when ever so well translated. In the present case, however, we derive satisfaction from knowing, that his doctrine is, with a very small reserve, adopted by Hobbes, the most anti-mystical of all philosophers. (Hobbes' First Grounds of Philosophy--Part II., Sect. 7. 3). Aristotle has given a theory of Time at great length, perfectly clear as to its main features, though in several of its details, obscure and difficult to follow. I will add that throughout nearly the whole exposition, he keeps the abstract in close implication with the concrete: the neglect of which precaution, by many philosophers, is so justly censured by the Author of the Analysis.

Aristotle, according to a practice frequent with him, begins by enumerating various puzzles and difficulties which stand in the way of any theory ([Greek: diaporê=sai] Physic. IV. 10. p. 217. 6. 30). In doing this, here as elsewhere, he states the difficulties in a manner somewhat paradoxical. The citation of page 126, (together with note, page 127,) are all taken from this preliminary excursion, the beginning and end of which Aristotle distinctly marks (Physica IV. c. 10. p. 217 b. 30. p. 218 a. 30). He then proceeds to exposition; and after remarking that Time is one and alike every where, amidst the greatest {137} diversity of events succeeding each other--he says that it is not indeed identical with Motion, (as some theorists considered it), but that it is nevertheless inseparable from Motion being one of the aspects or appurtenances of Motion. Magnitude or Body moved--Motion--Time--all go together in Aristotle's conception. Magnitude is continuous: Motion is continuous: Time is continuous (Physica IV. 11. p. 219. a. 12. 223. a. 10): Line is continuous. On the other hand, the Point is separate and indivisible; no two Points have any common term: a Line is not made up of Points, but of smaller Lines; and every Line has Points for its bounds or limits. What the Point is to a Line, the Now or Instant is to Time: the Instant is not a portion of Time, but the boundary of each portion, and the conjoining boundary between Time past and Time future. (Physica IV. 11. p. 220. a. 5-25--VI. 3. 234. a. 1-24).

Aristotle defines Time as the Number of Motion according to Former and Later: i.e., Continuous Motion, considered as numerable and successive. To take the words of Harris, from Aristotle (cited p. 128 of the Analysis)--"It is from contemplating two or more Instants under one view, together with that Interval of Continuity which subsists between them, that we acquire insensibly the Idea of Time."--"Months and Years are all so many Intervals described as above; that is to say, passing Intervals of Continuity between two Instants viewed together."

Mr. James Mill hardly does justice to this exposition, when he observes (p. 131)--"Neither Harris *nor Reid does anything more than merely state the fact, without an attempt to explain it. That we cannot have the idea of time, without the observation of succession; and that memory is joined with sense in the observation of successions,--is the matter of fact. What Time is, distinct from the memory and the sensations, they ought to have told us, but have not."--In this passage, the word "sensations" is evidently used by Mr. James Mill as equivalent to "successions" or successive {138} sensations: and the observation appears to me not well founded. I think that Aristotle has told us, and Harris after him, what Time is, distinct from the successive sensations. It includes Motion and the Continuity of Motion. These are elements of which Mr. James Mill takes no notice: and they supply the deficiency of which he complains.

It is one of the many merits of Mr. James Mill's Analysis that he has paid more attention to movements and muscular sensibility, as elements of our consciousness, than philosophers had done before him. But in this chapter unfortunately, he has left them out, and has confined himself to successions. The explanation of Time, given in the main by Aristotle, is completed and elucidated by Professor Bain in his work on the Senses and the Intellect (chapter on the Muscular Feelings, sect. 20--23, pp. 95, 96; compare also p. 183, in ed. 3rd). The feeling of continuance in our muscular exertions, of longer or shorter duration in the sweep of our limbs, is one of the primordial varieties of sensibility. A longer expenditure of our energy affects the consciousness differently from a shorter. In a full sweep of the arm, we are conscious of the instant of commencement as antecedent,--the interval of continued effort,--and the instant of termination as following. This is the clearest illustration of that which Aristotle and Harris describe as Time: two instants former and later, with continuous interval between them. Motion is the most striking and obvious example of Continuity, and is therefore employed by Aristotle as the basis for his exposition of Time. The eternal and uniform motions of the celestial bodies were to him the most impressive of all phenomena; the great standard by which all other motions were to be measured. Hobbes also takes the Line as the proper exponent of time. But though motion affords the best and amplest illustrations of Continuity, it is not motion only that is felt as continuous. The sense of continuance is felt in regard to other impressions also. Professor Bain observes--"All impressions made on the mind, whether those of muscular energy, or those of the ordinary senses, are felt differently according as they endure {139} for a longer or a shorter time. This is true of the higher emotions also. The continuance of a mental state must be discriminated by us from the very dawn of consciousness; and hence our estimate of time is one of our earliest mental aptitudes. It attaches to every feeling that we possess"--(p. 93).

We thus perceive that the sense of continuance is just as much an original presentation to our consciousness, as the sense of succession. This is an important fact, which has not been sufficiently adverted to in the exposition of complex ideas such as Time and Space. The fundamentum of Continual Quantity is an immediate manifestation of our sensitive discriminations not less than that of Discrete Quantity. The complex Idea of Time embodies both. Mr. James Mill insists everywhere, with laudable emphasis, upon the necessity of seeking the meaning of every abstract term in the concrete particulars out of which it grows. But in explaining Time, he has not set before himself all the concrete particulars in their full variety and amplitude. Confining himself to Succession, and scarcely touching Continuance, he has not been led to follow out the facts of motion in all their diversified aspects, nor the many abstractions and generalisations which {140} spring from comparison of motions with each other, under some one of these aspects.

See Simplikius ad Aristot. Physic. IV. Scholia, p. 394, b. 27--47. Brandis.]

In a note to this chapter of the Analysis (p. 129) attention is called by Mr. James Mill to another important doctrine cited by Harris out of Aristotle--to the relative nature of Time. Can there be any time, apart from the percipient mind? asks Aristotle--since time is the numerable element in motion, and there can be no numeration without a rational mind to number. He does not affirm positively, but he speaks as conceiving number and the numbering mind to be Relatum and Correlatum, so that the former cannot exist without the latter. Both Alexander of Aphrodisias and Themistius thought so likewise after him: though Boëthius and other commentators dissented from the opinion. Upon this general question of relativity, Aristotle is not always consistent with himself. Though he declares explicitly, that Relata reciprocate in predication, and are implicated each with the other--and though he says that "the Soul is in a certain sense all things" (i.e. is the implied correlate of all our beliefs and disbeliefs, affirmations and negations)--yet in other places, he limits this {141} universal principal by exceptions, which some of his commentators deprecate as inadmissible.--G.

Aristot. de Animâ, III., 8, 431, b. 21, [Greek: ê( psuchê\ ta\ o)/nta pô/s e)sti pa/nta; ê)\ ga\r ai)sthêta\ ta\ o)/nta ê)\ noêta\, e)/sti d' ê( e)pistê/mê me\n ta\ e)pistêta/ pôs, ê( d' ai)/sthêsis ta\ ai)sthêta/].]]

{142} SECTION VI.

MOTION.

It is necessary to take notice of this term, because the idea which is named by it is apt to present the appearance of something mysterious, though, after the expositions with which we are now familiar, the materials of which it is compounded, will not be difficult to find.

The word Motion, is the abstract of Moving. What we have to investigate, therefore, are the sensations, on account of which, we call a body "moving;" motion being merely moving, the connotation dropped.

All motion is in a Line, either a straight line, or some other line. The idea of "moving," therefore, contains, for one ingredient, the idea of a line.

A body "moving," is a body which is successively at every point of a line. Every point of a line, as we have seen, is a particular position. A body "moving," therefore, is a body first in one position, then in another, then in another, through a certain series.

In the idea of a Body moving, then, we can enumerate the following particulars: the idea of a body, the idea of a position, the idea of a line, the idea of succession. These are all complex ideas; some of them highly complex; united into one idea, motion, they compose one of the most complex of all our {143} ideas. The ingredients, however, being already explained, there can be no great difficulty in understanding the compound.

It is commonly said, that motion includes the idea both of Space, and of Time. As it includes the idea of Succession, it includes the idea of Time, successions in the abstract (otherwise called instants), without end, receiving the name of Time. As it includes the idea of a Line, it includes the idea of extension in one direction. As it includes the idea of Position, which is that of lines, in every direction, it includes the idea of extension in every direction; but extension in every direction, taken abstractly, is Space.

It is important to observe, that, though we receive, and that the most frequently, information of motions by the eye, it is not from the sensations of sight, that the idea of motion is derived. It is by association of ideas alone, that we fancy we see motion, as it is thence we fancy that we see figure, and distance. The classes of sensations, from which we derive the idea of motion, and the idea of extension, are the same; they are the muscular and tactual sensations. The man born blind, is not without the idea of motion, as he is without that of colour; on the contrary, he has the idea probably much more precise, than we who have entangled it inextricably with the perceptions of sight.

To recur to the exposition which we have already given; we may remember, that the sensations (taking the simplest case), on account of which we apply the name Line, are partly sensations of Touch, partly sensations of Muscular Action. If we touch a line at one point with any part of our bodies, say the finger; so long as the finger is still, we have merely the {144} sensations, on account of which we call the line tangible. As soon as we move the finger along the line, we have the sensations and ideas, on account of which we call it extended. But these new feelings, on account of which we call the line extended, are also the feelings, on account of which we call the finger moved. The sensations, therefore, whence we derive our ideas of extension, and of motion, exist simultaneously. We have a certain compound of feelings, partly sensations, and partly ideas; for we have already seen, that the perception of succession consists in a present sensation, associated with the idea of a past one; and we assign to this compound, not one name, as on other occasions, but two names, after a very peculiar and remarkable manner. These two names are, Line Extended, Finger Moved. The complication of the feelings here, and of course the obscurity of them, is very remarkable; though the naming, as in certain other cases of obscure ideas, is very distinct. We are never misled in the application of the terms, Line Extended, Finger moved; though we may be very much puzzled to shew, of the compound of feelings which are thus named, and which, in the compound, are easily, and infallibly traced, how much is included under the one term, and how much under the other. A certain portion of the sensations in the compound is peculiar to what is called the Line, another portion is peculiar to what is called the Finger. The rest is common to both. The common part, united to what is peculiar to line, is called line extended; the same common part, united with what is peculiar to finger, is called Finger moved.

Our ideas of extension and motion, are, no doubt, {145} originally derived from the action of our own bodies. I touch something, and have the sensation of resistance. The idea of resistance is the fundamental part in every combination to which I give the name of object. In this case, there is the object touched, and there is the finger touching. A certain action is given to my finger, still touching the object. That action involves certain feelings; these I combine both with the object, and with the finger, and to these two combinations I give the two names, Object Extended, Finger Moved.

If any one shut his eyes, excluding as much as possible, the ideas of sight, and conceiving, without admixture, the feelings in the finger and the arm, while the finger passes along a line, he will get some notion of the series of antecedents and consequents, whence the idea of Motion is derived. They are feelings, which language does not enable us to communicate by words; but it does not seem very difficult for any man to raise the ideas of them in himself.

Let any one suppose, that the line commences opposite to the centre of his body. He begins by touching it at that point with the finger of his right hand; and in this there is one state of feeling. He gives the finger the smallest perceptible motion towards the right: this is another state of feeling. He gives it a further motion, the smallest perceptible, in the same direction: this is another state of feeling; and so on, as far as the arm can reach. The antecedent states are in each instance united with the present by memory, and by the amount of the states, thus united, the amount of the motion is computed.

Conceiving the case of a man born blind, the more {146} easily to exclude the illusions of association; it is obvious, that such a man can obtain the idea of another body in motion, only by accompanying it with his hand; or by associating the ideas, on account of which he calls the hand, moved, with the body in question. By frequent operations of the hand, such as that described above, he becomes familiar with the idea of the hand moved. The ideas of the sensations, on account of which, he calls it moved, are easily raised, easily form themselves into combination, and easily associate themselves with the object, Hand. The idea of Hand, and the idea of Hand moved, having become very familiar, it is an easy case of association to transfer the term moved to other things, as the foot moved, the body moved, the stone moved. When he has become familiar with the application of Moved, as a connotative term, to various objects, it is easy, in this, as in other cases, to drop the connotation; and then he has the abstract, MOTION.

The feeling of Resistance expresses what is probably the most fundamental state of all, the consciousness of muscular energy or expended force. Taking the case of a dead strain, or a pressure without movement, we have mere muscular energy and nothing else. We have an indivisible, unanalysable, mode {147} of consciousness, distinct from all modes of passive sensation, and from all forms of emotion. It is a kind of consciousness remarkably constant in its character; it varies in degree, but with this peculiarity that because a man is physically weaker than usual, he does not on that account exaggerate or misrepresent the degree of his muscular expenditure; the feeling of lifting two pounds is not made the same as the feeling of lifting four pounds, although in some of the incidents of exertion, as in the organic state of exhaustion, the smaller expenditure in one state is held to be equal to the greater expenditure in another state. The consciousness of putting forth power is the most uniform, the least variable, of all our sensibilities; the same amount of actual force expended is estimated as nearly the same under all circumstances.

In being conscious of expended energy, we discriminate its degrees, within certain limits; we know when we increase or diminish the amount; and our sensibility is measured by the smallness of the difference that makes a change in our consciousness. This discrimination is the basis of our estimate of the property termed Force, Resistance, Momentum, in moving bodies. Our idea of force is a muscular idea, an idea of muscular force of a certain amount. Force may be viewed in other ways, or from other aspects, but its direct and simple estimate is muscular energy in the dead strain.

2. We are farther conscious of muscular energy as more or less enduring or continuing. Our consciousness varies according as a strain is protracted; a weight supported half a minute gives a feeling different from a weight supported a quarter of a minute.

Farther, it is important to remark that increase of continuance is not confounded with increase of force in the same time. Mechanically speaking, it is the same to us, whether we support two pounds one minute, or one pound two minutes; the energy gone out of us, the oxidation, or consumption of material, must be the same for both. But the consciousness is not the same for both; each has a character of its own, and we recognise the distinction in clear consciousness. If we {148} confounded all modes of expended energy that are dynamically equal, we should be disqualified from attaining the ideas of motion and extension.

When energy is accompanied by movement, there is a new and characteristic mode of consciousness, of vital importance. Energy in the dead strain and energy with motion may be equal as regard expended force, but they are not the same to our feelings. Continuance in the one is a different fact from continuance in the other. The feeling of continuance in moving energy is the fact that we call motion; and also the fundamental property, the starting point, with reference to Extension; although much more is wanted to complete that cognition. Mere dead strain would not amount to extension; and the discriminating of dead strain from moving strain is thus of essential moment. From the sense of this distinction, and the estimate of degree of continuance in movement, we begin at once the experience of motion and the ground-work of extension.

The consciousness of continuance whether of dead strain or of movement is also a consciousness of duration, but not the only mode of becoming versed in this property. All our mental states,--whether muscular feelings, sensations, emotions, thoughts, volitions,--are different as they are more or less continued, and this consciousness of difference is a consciousness of Duration or Time. Hence the usual saying that Time is a property common to the Object and to the subject. The object experiences of motion and extension are the most convenient modes of measuring time, they are the most accurate and discriminative, but they are not the only nor the chief concrete embodiments of it. We often measure time by the duration and succession of our feelings and thoughts.

3. Another mode of discrimination inhering in our muscular consciousness is the degree of movement, as slow or quick. We are differently affected according to the rapidity of our movements; an accelerated pace in the arm, or in the whole body, sensibly alters our feelings. Farther, we do not compound this alteration with its dynamical equivalents in the {149} other modes--with increase in the amount of the dead strain, in the continuance of the dead strain, or in the continuance of movement. A characteristic mode of feeling attends this special form of augmenting or reducing our expenditure of force. The consequence is, a feeling of velocity or speed of movement. But this feeling of speed is not all. We gain another equivalent of degrees of extension; more speed in the same time being equal to more time with the same speed. It is proper to remark, however, that we are premature in speaking of extension, or in regarding it as arrived at, at once by our primary experiences of movement; much has to be gone through before this is fully formed or developed. Motion is the fundamental fact, but motion is a fact of succession, and can do nothing to suggest a group of contemporaneous phenomena, an outspread universe of the co-existing in time. Our primary sensibility is a mere thread of succession, duration, or continuance; we have to acquire by a process of aggregation and association, the highly artificial experience of things permanently situated in a relationship of co-existence in space or extension.

It is at this point that Sensation comes to our aid. Passive sensation by itself is incompetent to give us the foundations of extension; through it, we have neither resistance nor movement, nor any fact partaking in what is essential to the extended or object universe. Mere warmth, odour, relish, touch, sound, colour, contain no elements of extension. The co-operation with moving energy is what introduces us to the object world.

How then does Sensation aid muscularity in evolving Extension? In various ways, but chiefly thus. Our movements are not performed in vacuo, but in conjunction with sensation. The movements of the hand and arm, are usually conjoined with sensations of touch. We draw the hand across a table; there is an arm sensibility, purely motor or energetic, which is distinct from every mode of passive sensation. There accompanies it, however, a series of tactile sensations, making a united experience, active and passive. If this conjunction {150} were to happen but once, nothing would be thought of it farther than as a mere experience of succession. Again, in another situation the sweep of the movement ends in a contact or sensation of touch, or begins in the loss of such a contact. So far, these are mere casual conjunctions, unions of moving energy and passive sensibility. But in the course of many trials, there arise uniform conjunctions of movement with passive sensibility: the same movement being associated with the same tactile series, or with the same beginning or ending of tactile sensation. Take the case of the movement of the hand over the surface of our own body. A certain definite start, and definite amount of exertion brings with it a uniform tactile sensation, as in drawing the hand over the face. This uniformity generates an expectation that the same sensation will follow on the same definite energy. Many such conjunctions are formed in this manner. There is an interesting variety of the experience of such concurrences; namely, when we reverse a movement, and find a series of sensations identified as the same in an inverted order. The hand passed along the side of a knife, experiences movement coupled with sensations, as often as the movement is made; the inverted movement inverts the sensations.

The supposition, hitherto, has been confined to Touch. When we take in sight, the scope for the operation is greatly enlarged. Almost all our movements are conjoined with optical changes--sensations of colour and of visible form in a certain sequence. We speedily detect a number of uniform occurrences of movement and visible sensation. The same movement gives the same series of appearances at all times; and an inverted movement corresponds with an inverted order. Here too we attain to a number of uniformities of coincidence, with the expectation of future occurrence. A certain movement of the eyes is accompanied with an optical series, as scanning the starry heavens; as often as the movement is repeated from the same stand-point, the optical series is repeated; the inverted movement gives the inverted series. We {151} contract an expectation, that such a coincidence will occur in the future, and this expectation is our idea of the starry space.

Our idea of extended things is thus completed by sensation. It is a series of conjunctions, or associations, of movements and sensations, in a fixed order. We do not in our idea of space, command an entire view at one glance; the successive perception of points or limited portions is what we begin with, and is the character of the mind's working even after we are educated to the utmost. The co-existing in space, is the mind's potentiality of finding definite sensations by means of definite movements; and it seems impossible to assign any other meaning or import to the phenomena. The genesis of the idea of space determines our mode of settling the great question of the Perception of a material world.--B.]

"On raising the arm to a horizontal position and keeping it so, and still more on dealing similarly with the leg, a sensation is felt, which, tolerably strong as it is at the outset, presently becomes unbearable. If the limb be uncovered, and be not brought against anything, this sensation is associated with no other, either of touch or pressure." This is the sensation of Muscular Tension.

"Allied to the sensation accompanying tension of the muscles, is that accompanying the act of contracting them--the sensation of muscular motion. . . . While, from the muscles of a limb at rest, no sensation rises; while, from the muscles of a limb in a state of continuous strain, there arises a continuous sensation which remains uniform for a considerable time; from the muscle of a limb in motion, there arises a sensation which is {152} ever undergoing increase or decrease, or change of composition.

"When we express our immediate experiences of a body by saying that it is hard, what are the experiences implied? First, a sensation of pressure, of considerable intensity, is implied; and if, as in most cases, this sensation of pressure is given to a finger voluntarily thrust against the object, then there is simultaneously felt a correspondingly strong sensation of muscular tension. But this is not all: for feelings of pressure and muscular tension may be given by bodies which we call soft, provided the compressing finger follows the surface as fast as it gives way. In what then consists the difference between the perceptions? In this; that whereas when a soft body is pressed with increasing force, the synchronous sensations of increasing pressure and increasing muscular tension are accompanied by sensations of muscular movement; when a hard body is pressed with increasing force these sensations of increasing pressure and tension are not accompanied by sensations of muscular movement. Considered by itself, then, the perception of softness may be defined as the establishment in consciousness of a relation of simultaneity between three series of sensations--a series of increasing sensations of pressure; a series of increasing sensations of tension; and a series of sensations of motion. And the perception of hardness is the same, with omission of the last series." (pp. 212, 218.)

Of Extension; and first, of Form or Figure:

"It is an anciently established doctrine that Form or Figure, which we may call the most complex mode of extension, is resolvable into relative magnitude of parts. An equilateral triangle is one of which the three sides are alike in magnitude. An ellipse is a symmetrical closed curve, of which the transverse and conjugate diameters are one greater than the other. A cube is a solid, having all its surfaces of the same magnitude, and all its angles of the same magnitude. A cone is a solid, successive sections of which, made at right angles to the axis, are circles regularly decreasing in {153} magnitude as we progress from base to apex. Any object described as narrow is one whoso breadth is of small magnitude when compared with its length. A symmetrical figure is a figure in which the homologous parts on opposite sides are equal in magnitude. Figures which we class as similar to each other, are such that the relation of magnitude between any two parts of the one, is equal to the relation of magnitude between the corresponding parts of the other. Add to which, that an alteration in the form of anything, is an alteration in the comparative sizes of some of its parts--a change in the relations of magnitude subsisting between them and the other parts, and that by continuously altering the relative magnitudes of its parts, any figure may be changed indefinitely. Hence, figure being wholly resolvable into relations of magnitude we may go on to analyze that out of which these relations are formed--magnitude itself." (pp. 224, 225.)

Next therefore, of Magnitude:

"What is a magnitude, considered analytically? The reply is, It consists of one or more relations of position. When we conceive anything as having a certain bulk, we conceive its opposite limiting surfaces as more or less removed from each other; that is, as related in position. When we imagine a line of definite length, we imagine its termini as occupying points in space having some positive distance from each other; that is, as related in position. As a solid is decomposable into planes; a plane into lines; lines into points; and as adjacent points can neither be known nor conceived as distinct from each other, except as occupying different places in space--that is, as occupying not the same position, but relative positions--it follows that every cognition of magnitude, is a cognition of one or more relations of position, which are presented to consciousness as like or unlike one or more other relations of position." (p. 226.)

And finally, of Position:

"This analysis of itself brings us to the remaining space-attribute of body--Position. Like magnitude, Position cannot be known absolutely; but can be known only relatively. {154} The notion of position is, in itself, the notion of relative position. The position of a thing is inconceivable, save by thinking of that thing as at some distance from one or more other things. The essential element of the idea will be best seen, on observing under what conditions only, it can come into existence. Imagine a solitary point A, in infinite space; and suppose it possible for that point to be known by a being having no locality, what now can be predicated respecting its place? Absolutely nothing. Imagine another point B to be added. What can now be predicated respecting the two? Still nothing. The points having no attributes save position, are not comparable in themselves; and nothing can be said of their relative position, from lack of anything with which to compare it. The distance between them may be either infinite or infinitesimal, according to the measure used; and as, by the hypothesis, there exists no measure--as space contains nothing save these two points; the distance between them is unthinkable. But now imagine that a third point C is added. Immediately it becomes possible to frame a proposition respecting their positions. The two distances, A to B, and A to C, serve as measures to each other. The space between A and B may be compared with the space between A and C; and the relation of position in which A stands to B becomes thinkable, as like or unlike the relation in which A stands to C. Thus, then, it is manifest that position is not an attribute of body in itself, but only in its connection with the other contents of the universe.

"It remains to add, that relations of position are of two kinds: those which subsist between subject and object; and those which subsist between either different objects, or different parts of the same object. Of these the last are resolvable into the first. It needs but to remember, on the one hand, that in the dark a man can discover the relative positions of two objects only by touching first one and then the other, and so inferring their relative positions from his own position towards each; and on the other hand, that by vision no knowledge of their relative positions can be {155} reached save through a perception of the distance of each from the eye; to see that ultimately all relative positions may be decomposed into relative positions of subject and object.

"These conclusions--that Figure is resolvable into relative magnitudes; that magnitude is resolvable into relative positions; and that all relative positions may finally be reduced to positions of subject and object--will be fully confirmed on considering the process by which the space-attributes of body become known to a blind man. He puts out his hand and touching something, thereby becomes cognizant of its position with respect to himself. He puts out his other hand, and meeting no resistance above or on one side of the position already found, gains some negative knowledge of the thing's magnitude--a knowledge which three or four touches on different sides of it serve to render positive. And then, by continuing to move his hands over its surface, he acquires a notion of its figure. What, then, are the elements out of which, by synthesis, his perceptions of magnitude and figure are framed? He has received nothing but simultaneous and successive touches. Each touch established a relation of position between his centre of consciousness and the point touched. And all he can know respecting magnitude and figure--that is, respecting the relative position of these points to each other--is necessarily known through the relative positions in which they severally stand to himself.

"Our perceptions of all the space-attributes of body being thus decomposable into perceptions of position like that gained by a single act of touch; we have next to inquire what is contained in a perception of this kind. A little thought will make it clear that to perceive the position of anything touched, is really to perceive the position of that part of the body in which the sensation of touch is located. Whence it follows that our knowledge of the positions of objects, is built upon our knowledge of the positions of our members towards each other--knowledge both of their fixed relations, and of those temporary relations they are placed in by every change of muscular adjustment. That {156} this knowledge is gained by a mutual exploration of the parts--by a bringing of each in contact with the others--by a moving over each other in all possible ways; and that the motions involved in these explorations, are known by their reactions upon consciousness; are propositions that scarcely need stating. But it is manifestly impossible to carry the analysis further without analysing our perception of motion. Relative position and motion are two ideas of the same experience. We can neither conceive motion without conceiving relative position, nor discover relative position without motion. In the present, therefore, we must be content with the conclusion that, whether visual or tactual, the perception of every statical attribute of body is resolvable into perceptions of relative position which are gained through motion." (pp. 226--229.)

In further prosecution of the analysis:

"How do we become cognizant of the relative positions of two points on the surface of the body? Such two points, considered as coexistent, involve the germinal idea of Space. Such two points disclosed to consciousness by two successive tactual sensations proceeding from them, involve the germinal idea of Time. And the series of muscular sensations by which, when self-produced, these two tactual sensations are separated, involve the germinal idea of Motion. The questions to be considered then are--In what order do these germinal ideas arise? and--How are they developed?

"... Taking for our subject a newly-born infant, let us call the two points on its body between which a relation is to be established, A and Z. Let us assume these points to be anywhere within reach of the hands--say upon the cheek. By the hypothesis, nothing is at present known of these points; either as coexisting in Space, as giving successive sensations in Time, or as being brought into relation by Motion. If, now, the infant moves its arm in such a way as to touch nothing, there is a certain vague reaction upon its consciousness--a sensation of muscular tension. This {157} sensation has the peculiarity of being indefinite in all its commencement; indefinite in its termination; and indefinite in all its intermediate changes. Its strength is proportionate to the degree of muscular contraction. Whence it follows that as the limb starts from a state of rest, in which there is no contraction; and as it can reach a position requiring extreme contraction only by passing through positions requiring intermediate degrees of contraction; and as the degrees of contraction must therefore form a series ascending by infinitesimal increments from zero; the sensations of tension must also form such a series. And the like must be the case with all subsequent movements and their accompanying sensations; seeing that, be it at rest or in action, a muscle cannot pass from any one state to any other without going through all the intermediate states. Thus, then, the infant, on moving its arm backwards and forwards without touching anything, is brought to what we may distinguish as a nascent consciousness--a consciousness not definitely divisible into states; but a consciousness the variations of which pass insensibly into each other, like undulations of greater or less magnitude. And while the states of consciousness are thus incipient--thus indistinctly separated, there can be no clear comparison of them; no thought, properly so called; and consequently no ideas of Motion, Time, or Space, as we understand them. Suppose, now, that the hand touches something. A sudden change in consciousness is produced--a change that is incisive in its commencement, and, when the hand is removed, equally incisive in its termination. In the midst of the continuous feeling of muscular tension, vaguely rising and falling in intensity, there all at once occurs a distinct feeling of another kind. This feeling, beginning and ending abruptly, constitutes a definite state of consciousness; becomes, as it were, a mark in consciousness. By similar experiences other such marks are produced; and in proportion as they are multiplied, there arises a possibility of comparing them, both in respect to their degrees and their relative positions; while at the same {158} time, the feelings of muscular tension being, as it were, divided out into lengths by these superposed marks, become similarly comparable; and so there are acquired materials for a simple order of thought. Observe, also, that while these tactual sensations may, when several things are touched in succession, produce successive marks in consciousness, separated by intervening muscular sensations, they may also become continually coexistent with these muscular sensations; as when the finger is drawn along a surface. And observe further, that when the surface over which the finger is drawn is not a foreign body, but some part of the subject's body, these muscular sensations, and the continuous tactual sensation joined with them, are accompanied by a series of tactual sensations proceeding from that part of the skin over which the finger is drawn. Thus, then, when the infant moves its finger along the surface of its body from A to Z, there are simultaneously impressed upon consciousness three sets of sensations--the varying series of sensations proceeding from the muscles in action; the series of tactual sensations proceeding from the points of the skin successively touched between A and Z; and the continuous sensation of touch from the finger-end.... As subsequent motions of the finger over the surface from A to Z always result in the like simultaneous sets of sensations, these, in course of time, become indissolubly associated. Though the series of tactual sensations, A to Z, being producible by a foreign body moving over the same surface, can be dissociated from the others; and though, if the cheek be withdrawn by a movement of the head, the same motion of the hand, with its accompanying muscular sensations, may occur without any sensation of touch; yet, when these two series are linked by the tactual sensation proceeding from the finger-end, they necessarily proceed together; and become inseparably connected in thought. Whence it obviously results that the series of tactual sensations A to Z, and the series of muscular sensations which invariably accompanies it when self-produced, serve as mutual equivalents; and being {159} two sides of the same experience, suggest each other in consciousness.

"Due attention having been paid to this fact, let us go on to consider what must happen when something touches, at the same moment, the entire surface between A and Z. This surface is supplied by a series of independent nerve-fibres, each of which at its peripheral termination becomes fused into, or continuous with, the surrounding tissue; each of which is affected by impressions falling within a specific area of the skin; and each of which produces a separate state of consciousness. When the finger is drawn along this surface these nerve-fibres A, B, C, D . . . Z, are excited in succession; that is--produce successive states of consciousness. And when something covers, at the same moment, the whole surface between A and Z, they are excited simultaneously; and produce what tends to become a single state of consciousness. Already I have endeavoured to shew in a parallel case, how, when impressions first known as having sequent positions in consciousness are afterwards simultaneously presented to consciousness, the sequent positions are transformed into coexistent positions, which, when consolidated by frequent presentations, are used in thought as equivalent to the sequent positions. ... As the series of tactual {160} impressions A to Z, known as having sequent positions in consciousness, are, on the one hand, found to be equivalent to the accompanying series of muscular impressions; and on the other hand, to the simultaneous tactual impressions A to Z, which, as presented together, are necessarily presented in coexistent positions; it follows that these two last are found to be the equivalents of each other. A series of muscular sensations becomes known as equivalent to a series of coexistent positions; and being habitually joined with it, becomes at last unthinkable without it. Thus, the relation of coexistent positions between the points A and Z (and by implication all intermediate points) is necessarily disclosed by a comparison of experiences: the ideas of Space, Time, and Motion, are evolved together. When the successive states of consciousness A to Z, are thought of as having relative positions, the notion of Time becomes nascent. When these states of consciousness, instead of occurring serially, occur simultaneously, their relative positions, which were before sequent, necessarily become coexistent; and there arises a nascent consciousness of space. And when these two relations of coexistent and sequent positions are both presented to consciousness along with a series of sensations of muscular tension, a nascent idea of Motion results.

"The development of these nascent ideas, arising as it does from a still further accumulation and comparison of experiences, will be readily understood. What has been above described as taking place with respect to one relation of coexistent positions upon the surface of the skin--or rather, one {161} linear series of such coexisting positions, is, during the same period, taking place, with respect to endless other such linear series, in all directions over the body. The like equivalence between a series of coexistent impressions of touch, a series of successive impressions of touch, and series of successive muscular impressions, is being established between every pair of points that can readily be brought into relation by movement of the hands. Let us glance at the chief consequences that must ultimately arise from this organization of experiences.

"Not only must there gradually be established a connection in thought between each particular muscular series, and the particular tactual series, both successive and simultaneous, with which it is associated; and not only must there, by implication, arise a knowledge of the special muscular adjustments required to touch each special part, but, by the same experiences, there must be established an indissoluble connection between muscular series in general and series of sequent and coexistent positions in general, seeing that this connection is repeated in every one of the particular experiences. And when we consider the infinite repetition of these experiences, we shall have no difficulty in understanding how their components become so consolidated, that even when the hand is moved through empty space, it is impossible to become conscious of the muscular sensations, without becoming conscious of the sequent and coexistent positions--the Time and Space, in which it has moved.

"Observe again, that as, by this continuous exploration of the surface of the body, each point is put in relation not only with points in some directions around it, but with points in all directions--becomes, as it were, a centre from which radiate lines of points known first in their serial positions before consciousness, and afterwards in their coexistent positions--it follows, that when an object of some size, as the hand, is placed upon the skin, the impressions from all parts of the area covered being simultaneously presented to consciousness, are placed in coexistent positions before {162} consciousness: whence results an idea of the superficial extension of that part of the body. The idea of this extension is really nothing more than a simultaneous presentation of all the impressions proceeding from the various points it includes, which have previously had their several relative positions measured by means of the series of impressions separating them. Any one who hesitates respecting this conclusion, will, I think, adopt it, on critically considering the perception he has when placing his open hand against his cheek--on observing that the perception is by no means single, but is made up of many elements which he cannot think of altogether--on observing that there is always one particular part of the whole surface touched, of which he is more distinctly conscious than of any other--and on observing that to become distinctly conscious of any other part, he has to traverse in thought the intervening parts; that is, he has to think of the relative positions of these parts by vaguely recalling the series of states of consciousness which a motion over the skin from one to the other would involve." (pp. 257--263).

These three different expositions of the origin of our ideas of Motion and Extension, by three eminent thinkers, agreeing in essentials, and differing chiefly in the comparative degrees of development which they give to different portions of the detail, will enable any competent reader of such a work as the present to fill up any gaps by his own thoughts. Many pages of additional commentary might easily be written; but they would not add any important thought to those of which the reader is now in possession; and belonging rather to the polemics of the subject than to its strictly scientific exposition, they would jar somewhat with the purely expository character of the present treatise.

I will only further recommend to particular attention, the opinion of Mr. Spencer, also adopted by Mr. Bain, that our ascribing simultaneous existence to things which excite successive sensations, is greatly owing to our being able to vary or reverse the order of the succession. When we pass our hands {163} over an object, we can have the tactual and muscular sensations in many different orders, and after having them in one order, can have them in another exactly the reverse. They do not, therefore, become associated with each other in a fixed order of succession, but are called up in any order with such extreme rapidity, that the impression they leave is that of simultaneousness, and we therefore hold the parts of tangible objects to be simultaneous.--Ed.]

{164} SECTION VII.

IDENTITY.

There is one other term, which still requires explanation; and that is, IDENTITY, about which there would not have appeared any difficulty, had it not been for Personal Identity; which is, indeed, a complicated case, and, of course, involves the obscurity which great complexity implies.

We have already seen, on what account we use the marks, same, and different, when we apply them to two simple sensations, or when we apply them to two ideas, simple, or complex. In these cases, the terms are relative terms, and name the objects in pairs.

There is another case, that which now it is our business to explain, in which the name is not applied to two objects, but to the same object, at two different times. Thus it is, that I say, The bridge at Westminster, by which I crossed the Thames thirty years ago, is the same by which I crossed it yesterday. The crown which was placed on the head of George IV. at his coronation, is the same by which the kings of England have been crowned for many centuries. The words which we read in the Gospel of Matthew, are the same which were written by that evangelist. The words which we read in the poem called the Æneid are the same which were written by the poet Virgil. The church which is now at Loretto, is the same with that which belonged to the Virgin Mary at Nazareth, which in the month of May, in the year 1291, was {165} carried through the air by Angels, from Galilee to Tersato, in Dalmatia; and again on the 10th of December, 1294, about midnight, by what conveyance is not known, was set down in a wood in Italy, in the district of Ricanati, about a thousand paces from the sea.

It is evident, from the contemplation of these instances, which might be multiplied to any extent, that the word SAME, in this mode of applying it, is merely the name of a certain case of Belief: a belief which, in some of the instances, is, memory; in some, is grounded upon testimony; in some, upon circumstantial evidence; and, in some, upon both testimony and circumstances. Thus, the case of belief respecting Westminster-bridge, which I mark by the word, same, is Memory. The cases of belief respecting the crown of England, respecting the words of the gospel, respecting the church of Loretto, marked respectively by the word same, are founded on testimony, joined with circumstances.

As we have already shewn wherein Belief, in all its cases, consists, we have implicitly afforded the exposition of Identity. From same, the concrete, comes, in the usual way, sameness, the abstract, dropping only the connotation of the concrete. And Identity and Sameness are equivalent terms.

From the importance, however, which has been attached to these words, it seems necessary to shew to the learner, somewhat more particularly, the mode of tracing the simple ideas composing the clusters which they are employed to mark.

The Lily, when it produces its brilliant flower in summer, I call the same, with the plant which began {166} to shew itself above the surface of the ground, in spring, from a bulb, which I had planted in a particular spot of my garden. I also called it the same, from one day to another, though changing every day in its size, and other appearances, from its germination to the present time. For what reason have I done so? On account of certain circumstances, which every body can enumerate; its rising from a certain root; the uninterrupted continuity, by means of the stalk, between the root and the other parts of the plant; its being always found in the same place, that is, in the same synchronous order with certain other things; its corresponding with other plants, the growth of which I have observed, and so on. If it had grown in a flower pot, and been transferred from one to another, the enumeration of the circumstances would have been different; the evidence of its having grown from the same root would have been drawn from other circumstances. When I say, then, that the Lily I see, with its flowers in July, is the same with the Lily just emerging from the ground in April, I only express my belief of its having sprung from a certain root, and of its having vegetated, in connexion with that root, in the way of the plants grouped in the class called Lily.

I have a male Calf, of singular beauty, produced from my cow. I observe him from day to day. From day to day I call him the Same; and I do so when he has grown a bull of the greatest size. When I do so, I merely express my belief in a certain train of antecedents and consequents, with which experience has rendered me familiar. There is a certain train of antecedents and consequents, known to me by {167} observation, which I call the birth, growth, maturity; and, in one word, the Life, of the animal. The birth, growth, and maturity of one animal, is one series of successions; the birth, growth, and maturity of another animal, is another series of successions. When I apply the name Same, then, to any animal, I merely express my belief, that my present sight of the animal is part of a particular series, of which that perception is the last link.

The case, it will not be doubted, is perfectly analogous, when I transfer the term from one of the lower animals to one of my fellow men. The birth, infancy, childhood, youth, manhood, of a human being, are names for different parts of a certain series of antecedents and consequents. This series is known to me by experience; that is, by sensation, by memory, and other cases of association. The life of one man is one series. The life of another man is another series. When I say, then, that a man is the same, I merely express my belief in one of those series; belief that the particular man, of the present instant, is the last link of such and such a chain, and not of any other.

It is, however, to be observed, that the chain, thus believed, and the evidence upon which it is believed, are different things; and that this evidence is different in different cases. In the case of a person whom I have lived with from his birth, and seen every day, the evidence, to a great degree, is sense and memory. Sometimes the sameness of an individual is proved in a court of justice, by evidence, such as is applicable to any other matters of fact; by written documents, marks on the body, articles of property found {168} with the child, and the testimony of those whose knowledge has been uninterrupted from one time to another.

It is not to be doubted, that when I transfer the word Same, from another man to myself, all that I do is to express my belief in one of those series; and the only difference in the case is, that it is a series of which I have evidence of a very particular kind, and of which many parts are known to me, which can be known to nobody else.

As far as memory reaches, the evidence, in regard to myself, is memory and sensation. In the case of Evidence by memory and sensation, we have observed a peculiarity, necessary to be remembered, that the Evidence, and the Belief, are not different things, but the same thing. The memory which I have of my own existence, that is, the memory of a certain train of antecedents and consequents, is the Belief of them; on account of which belief, I apply to myself the term same, in the same way as I apply it to any other of my fellow men.

But I apply the term same to myself beyond the point to which memory reaches; as far back, in short, as to other men. This is true: I believe, that a train of antecedents and consequents, corresponding to that which forms the existence of other men, has also formed my existence. Part of this train I believe, by consciousness, memory. Part, namely, that which precedes memory, I believe on other evidence. What that evidence is, it is not difficult to see. We have, in the first place, the evidence of testimony; namely, that of all the persons who knew us from our birth, to the time to which memory extends. We have next {169} the evidence of what happens in the existence of all other men; or that case of association which unites inseparably the idea of like antecedents with like consequents.

It may be said, however, that my belief in the Identity of other men, is a very different thing from belief in my own Identity; and that the foregoing exposition does not sufficiently account for the difference which every one remarks between them.

The foregoing exposition, when duly attended to, will be found to account completely for the difference. We have remarked, that the evidence which I have for a great part of the series, in the case of other men, and of myself, is remarkably different. In the case of other men, it consists of observation and memory; in the case of myself, it consists of consciousness and memory. In these several and respective circumstances, Observation, and Consciousness, the distinction wholly consists. The memory of a chain of facts observed, is the evidence in the one case. The memory of a chain of states of Consciousness, is the evidence in the other.

I doubt not that this, without further analysis, will be seen by many of my readers to be a complete solution of the question. It may, however, be still objected, that we resolve observation itself into states of consciousness; and, if so, that the memory of a chain of states of Consciousness, is the evidence in both cases.

This brings us to the very bottom of the matter. Every body recognises, at once, that the memory of a state of consciousness, and the memory of something {170} observed, are two distinct things; that the memory, for example, of one of my own sensations, and the memory of an outward fact, as of the death of my father, are specifically different: or, to take two cases still easier perhaps to distinguish; no one will say, that the memory of one's own pain is any thing like the same state of consciousness with the memory of seeing another man in pain. In the one case, the state of consciousness remembered is the pain itself; in the other it is the sensations of sight or hearing, which indicated to me the pain of the other man, or called up the idea of his pain by association. In the one case, the memory is memory of my own sensations purely; in the other case, it is the memory of my sensations, as the evidence only of outward things.

Each of the terms, therefore, I, Thou, He, marks a particular chain of antecedents and consequents, terminating with the I, the Thou, the He, of the present moment. The I, the Thou, the He, of the present moment, is marked, by these terms, primarily; the preceding links are marked, secondarily, that is, connoted. When I say, "I, Thou, or He, did any thing," it is the I, the Thou, the He, of the moment spoken of, that is specially noted. The rest of the chain is not particularly adverted to, except when there is particular occasion for it.

Since the I, the Thou, the He, stand for the names of three men, and equally denote the antecedents and consequents, forming what is familiarly called the thread of life, of each of those individuals; how does it happen, that the idea, which is called up by the term I, appears to be so different, from that which is {171} called up by the term Thou, or any term denoting the vital chain of any other man?

In what has been already stated, is found the answer. In that chain of antecedents and consequents which I mark by the term "same man," two species of things are included; 1. The antecedents and consequents which form the successive states of his body; 2. The successive states of his consciousness.

In knowing the antecedents and consequents, which form the successive states of my own body and of that of another man, the mode, though in some respects different, is, in so many respects, the same, that it does not here require explanation. But the mode of knowing the successive states of my own consciousness, and of those of other men, is totally different; and in this consists the peculiarity which appears to belong to the idea which I annex to the term I, or myself. The knowledge of my own states of consciousness is consciousness itself, for the present moment, and memory of that consciousness for all the past. Of the states of consciousness of other men, I have no direct knowledge. I draw my belief of them only from signs. These signs, too, are significant only by reference to my own states of consciousness. Certain things cognizable by my senses, are accompanied in myself by certain states of consciousness, single, or in trains. These objects of sense (sights, sounds, &c.) are closely associated with the ideas of those states of consciousness. When presented to me, therefore, as objects of sense to other men, they excite the ideas of those states of consciousness; and hence what I call my knowledge and belief of the mental trains of other men. It is not necessary to go further in the {172} analysis. It is very obvious, that two complex ideas must be different, which are formed in these different ways; nor is any thing more necessary to account for the difference between the idea annexed to the pronoun I, and that annexed to the pronoun Thou.

If we now change the point of view, and ask, what makes me always the same person to myself, we introduce, in addition to what there was in the other case, the entire series of my own past states of consciousness. As the author truly says, the evidence on which I accept my own identity is that of memory. But memory reaches only a certain way back, and for all before that period, as well as for all subsequent to it of which I have lost the remembrance, the belief rests on other evidence. As an example of the errors and difficulties in which psychologists have involved themselves by beginning with the more complex question without having considered the simpler one, it is worth remembering that Locke makes personal identity consist in Consciousness, which in this case means Memory; and has been justly criticised by later thinkers for this doctrine, as leading to the corollary, that whatever of my past actions I have forgotten, I never performed--that my forgotten feelings were not my feelings, but were (it must therefore be supposed) the feelings of somebody else. Locke, however, had seen one part of the true state of the case; which is, that to myself I am only, properly speaking, the same person, in respect of those facts of my past life which I remember; but that I nevertheless consider myself as having been, at the times of which I retain no remembrance, the same person I now am, because I have satisfactory evidence that I was the same to other people; that an uninterrupted continuity in the sensations of sight and touch caused or which could have been caused to other people, existed between my present self and the infant who I am told I was, and between my present self and the person who is proved to me to have done the acts I have myself forgotten.

These considerations remove the outer veil, or husk, as it were, which wraps up the idea of the Ego. But after this is removed, there remains an inner covering, which, as far as I can perceive, is impenetrable. My personal identity consists {174} in my being the same Ego who did, or who felt, some specific fact recalled to me by memory. So be it: but what is Memory? It is not merely having the idea of that fact recalled: that is but thought, or conception, or imagination. It is, having the idea recalled along with the Belief that the fact which it is the idea of, really happened, and moreover happened to myself. Memory, therefore, by the very fact of its being different from Imagination, implies an Ego who formerly experienced the facts remembered, and who was the same Ego then as now. The phenomenon of Self and that of Memory are merely two sides of the same fact, or two different modes of viewing the same fact We may, as psychologists, set out from either of them, and refer the other to it. We may, in treating of Memory, say (as the author says) that it is the idea of a past sensation associated with the idea of myself as having it. Or we may say, in treating of Identity, (as the author also says), that the meaning of Self is the memory of certain past sensations. But it is hardly allowable to do both. At least it must be said, that by doing so we explain neither. We only show that the two things are essentially the same; that my memory of having ascended Skiddaw on a given day, and my consciousness of being the same person who ascended Skiddaw on that day, are two modes of stating the same fact: a fact which psychology has as yet failed to resolve into anything more elementary.

In analysing the complex phenomena of consciousness, we must come to something ultimate; and we seem to have reached two elements which have a good prima facie claim to that title. There is, first, the common element in all cases of Belief, namely, the difference between a fact, and the thought of that fact: a distinction which we are able to cognize in the past, and which then constitutes Memory, and in the future, when it constitutes Expectation; but in neither case can we give any account of it except that it exists; an inability which is admitted in the most elementary case of the distinction, viz. the difference between a present sensation and an idea. Secondly, in addition to this, and setting out from the belief {175} in the reality of a past event, or in other words, the belief that the idea I now have was derived from a previous sensation, or combination of sensations, corresponding to it, there is the further conviction that this sensation or combination of sensations was my own; that it happened to myself. In other words, I am aware of a long and uninterrupted succession of past feelings going as far back as memory reaches, and terminating with the sensations I have at the present moment, all of which are connected by an inexplicable tie, that distinguishes them not only from any succession or combination in mere thought, but also from the parallel successions of feelings which I believe, on satisfactory evidence, to have happened to each of the other beings, shaped like myself, whom I perceive around me. This succession of feelings, which I call my memory of the past, is that by which I distinguish my Self. Myself is the person who had that series of feelings, and I know nothing of myself, by direct knowledge, except that I had them. But there is a bond of some sort among all the parts of the series, which makes me say that they were feelings of a person who was the same person throughout, and a different person from those who had any of the parallel successions of feelings; and this bond, to me, constitutes my Ego. Here, I think, the question must rest, until some psychologist succeeds better than any one has yet done in shewing a mode in which the analysis can be carried further.--Ed.]

{176} CHAPTER XV.

REFLECTION.

SO much use has been made of the word REFLECTION, and results of so much importance have been referred to it, that it is necessary to shew what state of Consciousness it denotes, in all the possible acceptations of it.

Mr. Locke defines it, "That notice which the mind takes of its own operations."

When we have a sensation, we have already seen, on various occasions, that the having the state of consciousness, and taking notice of it, are not two things, but one and the same thing. When we say that one sensation is more attended to than another, this, as we shall see hereafter, is really tantamount to saying, that the one is more a sensation than the other.

In like manner, when we have an idea; the having the idea, the being conscious of the idea, knowing the idea, observing the idea, are only different names for the same thing. They mean the being conscious in a particular way. But the being conscious is to take notice of the consciousness. To be conscious, and not to take notice, is the same thing as to be {177} conscious, and not conscious. The notice is the consciousness, and the consciousness is the notice.

Thus far, therefore, it appears, with abundant evidence that Reflection is nothing but Consciousness; and Consciousness is the having the sensations and ideas. But what will be objected is, that we not only have Ideas; but we are capable of forming the idea of that particular state of mind which exists when we have an idea. It requires a close examination, to discover what is really meant by the language in which this objection is conveyed. The thing, however, to which it imperfectly points, can be made out; though, from the imperfection of the language which we must employ, it is not easy to explain it, with a certainty of being understood.

When it is said, that we can not only have a particular idea, but can form an idea of that state of mind, generally, which is called having an idea; this can mean nothing but the distinction between the particular and the general idea. It is affirmed, that we can not only have this idea, and that idea, but we can have the general idea of all ideas. This is true. But we know, by previous elucidations, what all this means. We can have the idea not only of this man, or that man, but we can have the idea of men in general. That is to say, we can group all individuals of a certain description into one class, to which class we give a name, equally applicable to every individual; which name, accordingly, being associated equally with individuals indefinite in number, calls up the ideas of individuals, indefinite in number, on every application of it.

This points out a double meaning of the word Idea; from which all the confusion of the language {178} about REFLECTION seems to have been derived. The same word, Idea, is both the particular, and the general name. It cannot be disputed, that so far as regards individual Ideas, the having an idea, and knowing it, the being in the state of consciousness, and knowing the state of consciousness, are one and the same thing. And, if the being in a state of consciousness, and knowing it, does not express all that is meant by reflecting upon it (where reflecting is not used in another sense, as equivalent with remembering), it will remain for those who believe there is anything more, to shew what it is.

That the general is derived from the particular, there will be no hesitation in allowing. The fact, therefore, so imperfectly stated, is, that, from individual states of consciousness, we rise, by generalization, as in other cases, to the general idea which embraces a class. General Ideas, on account of their complexity, are all apt to appear, to persons little accustomed to examine them closely, more or less mysterious. But general ideas, not of the steady objects of sense, but the fleeting states of consciousness, which we have so little under command, and for the naming of which we are so ill provided with terms, cannot fail to appear mysterious in a much greater degree. What we are now, therefore, contemplating is a case of generalization, which, how certainly soever, from the common laws of the human mind, we know that it is made, it is far from easy distinctly to conceive. And those of my readers, who have followed me easily in this deduction, may be satisfied they have made no slight progress in metaphysical science.

{179} It is evident, when all this is clearly understood, that what has been mysteriously set forth, under the name of an Idea of REFLECTION, is simply the generalization of particular states of consciousness; which particular states of consciousness are our sensations and ideas.

There are various cases of this generalization, some more, some less, extensive.

In the same manner as we generalize the having of a single idea; and conceive, not the having of this idea, or that idea, but the having of any idea, and all ideas; we also generalize the having two associated ideas, and, from particulars, mount up to the general idea of the association, or train, of ideas.

It is needless to be particular in referring to the specific cases. We have seen what combination of ideas constitutes the case of memory. Individual instances of memory are generalized; these peculiar combinations are viewed as a class; hence the general idea, and general name of the class.

The explanation is obviously the same, in other cases, as Judgment, Reasoning, Belief, Willing. We know what is the particular case of association on which each of these names is bestowed. We know what is the state of consciousness, on each individual occasion of Judging, Reasoning, and so forth. Generalization is performed. The particular instances are viewed as composing a class. The Idea of the class is the Idea of Reflection.

{181} CHAPTER XVI.

THE DISTINCTION BETWEEN THE INTELLECTUAL AND ACTIVE POWERS OF THE HUMAN MIND.

"It is the greatest triumph of philosophy to refer many, and seemingly very various, phenomena, to one, or a very few, simple principles: and the more simple and evident such a principle is, provided it be truly applicable to all the cases in question, the greater is its value and scientific beauty."--Elements of Logic, by Dr. Whately, p. 32.

THE Phenomena of Thought have long appeared to be divisible into two great classes; which were distinguished by the names, the one of the Intellectual, the other of the Active, Powers of the Human Mind. In the phenomena which compose the first of those classes, and which we have now pretty completely surveyed, the sensations and ideas are considered merely as existing. In the phenomena which compose the second of the two classes, the sensations and ideas are to be considered as not merely existing, but also as exciting to action.

The defectiveness of the two-fold classification of the mind, which seems to have descended from Aristotle, and is only in the present generation supplanted by an explicitly worked-out triple division, is especially apparent in the handling of all the succeeding chapters of the present work. The Will, or the activity of the system, is spoken of as set on indiscriminately by "sensations and ideas;" which, as will be seen, is to mix together a number of entirely distinct processes.

There is no adequate separation of the emotional part of a Sensation, from its intellectual or knowledge-giving part. The same confusion extends to the word "idea," which, without premonition, is employed for the memory of pleasures and pains, and for the memory of sensations of the intellectual or knowledge-giving kind. There is, as might be expected, an insufficient treatment of the special forms of Emotion; there being no basis laid for their exhaustive or natural classification.--B.]

{182} With respect to the sensations and ideas which compose the phenomena of the first class, we have observed, that they are apt to be formed into clusters of more or less complexity; and that they follow one another, in trains, according to certain laws.

The sensations and ideas, which compose the phenomena of the second class, are equally formed into clusters, with those composing the phenomena of the former class; and follow one another, in trains, according to the same laws.

So far, the two classes of phenomena agree; and so far, the analysis, which we have endeavoured to effect of the former class, is to be taken as the analysis also of the latter. Our object, now, is, to trace to their {183} source the differences which constitute this a separate class; to mark the subdivisions into which it can be most conveniently distributed; and to demonstrate the simple laws, into which the whole phenomena of human life, so numerous, and apparently so diversified, may all be easily resolved.

{184} CHAPTER XVII.

PLEASURABLE AND PAINFUL SENSATIONS.

THERE is a remarkable difference of sensations, which has been mentioned before, but which must now be more particularly attended to.

Some sensations, probably the greater number, are what we call indifferent. They are not considered as either painful, or pleasurable. There are sensations, however, and of frequent recurrence, some of which are painful, some pleasurable. The difference is, that which is felt. A man knows it, by feeling it; and this is the whole account of the phenomenon. I have one sensation, and then another, and then another. The first is of such a kind, that I care not whether it is long or short; the second is of such a kind that I would put an end to it instantly if I could; the third is of such a kind, that I like it prolonged. To distinguish those feelings, I give them names. I call the first Indifferent; the second, Painful; the third. Pleasurable; very often, for shortness, I call the second, Pain, the third, Pleasure.

We formerly shewed, that having a sensation and {185} knowing it, are not two things, but one and the same thing; that having two sensations and knowing them, are not two things, but one and the same thing. It is obvious, therefore, that having three sensations, an Indifferent, a Pleasurable, and a Painful, and knowing them for what they are, are not different things, but one and the same thing.

The pleasurable and painful sensations are common to all the senses. We have pleasures and pains of the eye, of the ear, of the touch, the taste, the smell, and also of many internal parts of the body, for which, though, as we shall presently see, they hold a great share in composing the springs of human action, we have not names, nor any means of accurate estimation.

{187} CHAPTER XVIII.

CAUSES OF THE PLEASURABLE AND PAINFUL SENSATIONS.

NEXT in order to the Pleasurable and Painful Sensations, it is necessary to take notice of the causes of them. We can generally trace them to certain constant antecedents; and it is evidently of the greatest importance to us to be able to do so; as it is by those means only, we can lessen the number of the painful sensations, increase the number of the pleasurable.

Of the causes of our Pleasurable and Painful Sensations, it is necessary to distinguish two classes; first, the immediate causes; secondly, the remote causes; a remote, being not, strictly speaking, the cause of the sensation, but the cause of that cause. Thus, the lash of the executioner is the immediate cause of the pain of the criminal. The sentence of the Judge, is the cause of that cause. The sound of the violin is the immediate cause of the pleasure of my ear; the performance of the musician, the cause of that sound; the money with which I have hired the musician, the cause of that performance. The money is, in this case, the cause of the cause of the cause of the sensation; or the cause, at two removes.

{188} It is necessary to be remarked, respecting the causes of our pleasurable and painful sensations, that, they are apt to become greater objects of concern to us, to rank higher in importance, than the sensations themselves. It is a vulgar observation, with respect to money, for example, that, though useful only for obtaining pleasure, or saving from pain, it is often employed for neither purpose, but hugged as a good in itself.

The importance attached to the cause of the sensation, is a case of association easy to be traced. The pleasurable and painful sensations themselves are, specifically, not numerous. The causes of them, on the other hand, are exceedingly numerous, and diversified. Again; the mind is not much interested in attending to the sensation. The sensation provides for itself. The mind, however, is deeply interested in attending to the cause; that we may prevent, or remove it, if the sensation is painful; provide, or detain it, if the sensation is pleasurable. This creates a habit of passing rapidly from the sensation, to fix our attention upon its cause.

{189} CHAPTER XIX.

IDEAS OF THE PLEASURABLE AND PAINFUL SENSATIONS, AND OF THE CAUSES OF THEM.

WE have already seen, that all sensations are capable of being revived, without that action on the organs of sense which originally produced them; and that, when so revived, we call them ideas or copies of the sensations.

The sensations which are pleasurable and painful, are revived in the same manner as those which are indifferent; but, as the sensations which are pleasurable and painful form a class of sensations remarkably distinguished from sensations of the indifferent class, the ideas of the pleasurable and painful sensations form a class of ideas, no less remarkably distinguished from the ideas of the indifferent sensations.

It is necessary to endeavour by a particular effort to distinguish accurately from all other feelings that peculiar state of consciousness, which we call the idea of a pleasurable or painful sensation; in other words, that sensation revived, after the operation upon the senses has ceased.

This state of consciousness, like other states, is known only by having it. What it is felt to be, it is. {190} We can afford, therefore, no aid to the reader in distinguishing it, otherwise than by using such expressions as seem calculated to fix his attention upon it. It is his own inward, invisible state, which only he can mark for himself.

The idea of a pain or pleasure, is not a pain or pleasure. We do not say that the idea of the hand scalded is a pain, or the idea of a sweet smell is a pleasure. But this is not very satisfactory language; for it, in reality, means little more, than that the idea of a pleasurable or painful sensation, is not a sensation. That there are some trains of ideas, however, which it is agreeable to have, others which it is disagreeable, is one among the most familiar facts of our nature. There is, therefore, a distinction among ideas, analogous to that of pleasurable and painful among sensations.

It is difficult to think of any one sensation by itself; because each is so combined with others, that the idea of one can never present itself, but in company with more. This is peculiarly the case with sensations of the pleasurable and painful kinds: and hence the cause of the indistinctness, which seems to accompany the idea of any of those sensations, when we endeavour to take it apart, and consider what it is in itself.

An idea is the revival of a former state of feeling. The first thing which I have to consider is, what is my precise state of consciousness, when I receive a pleasurable or painful sensation.

When the sensation was present, suppose a painful one, it was a state of consciousness, so interesting to me, that it was important to find a mark for it. I {191} called it Pain. It is a state of consciousness known to every man by his having had it, and it can be known by no other means. We call it by various names; an odious state, a disagreeable state, and so on; but these are only several modes of marking what is felt, and tell to no man anything more than his feeling has told. Except for his own knowledge of his own feeling, the words would be utterly without a meaning.

Such is the state of consciousness under the sensation. I revive the sensation.

My state of consciousness under the sensation I called a pain. My state of consciousness under the idea of the pain, I call, not a pain, but an aversion. An aversion is the idea of a pain. Whatever is included under the term idea of pain, is included precisely under the term aversion. They are not two things, but two names for the same thing.

The same explanation applies to the case of a pleasurable sensation. The state of consciousness under the sensation, that is, the sensation itself, differed from other sensations, in that it was agreeable. A name was wanted to denote this peculiarity; to mark, as a class, the sensations which possess it. The term, Pleasure, was adopted. I revive the sensation; in other words, have the idea; and as I had occasion for a name to class the sensations, I have occasion for a name to class the ideas. My state of consciousness under the sensation, I call a Pleasure: my state of consciousness under the idea, that is, the idea itself, I call a Desire. The term "Idea of a pleasure," expresses precisely the same thing as the term, Desire. It does so by the very import of the words. The {192} idea of a pleasure, is the idea of something as good to have. But what is a desire, other than the idea of something as good to have; good to have, being really nothing but desirable to have? The terms, therefore, "idea of pleasure," and "desire," are but two names; the thing named, the state of consciousness, is one and the same.

There is an ambiguity, however, in the terms Aversion, and Desire, which contributes not a little to cast darkness upon this part of our inquiry.

They are applied to the ideas of the Causes of our Pleasurable and Painful Sensations, as well as to the ideas of those Sensations; and, of course, in a different sense. We say we have an aversion to certain kinds of food, or certain drugs; we have a desire for water to drink, for fire to warm us, and so on.

When we examine these phrases narrowly, we find that it is not literally, but by a sort of figure of speech, that the terms "Aversion," and "Desire," are applied to the Causes of Pains and Pleasures. Properly speaking, it is not to the food, or the drug, that we have the aversion, but to the disagreeable taste. The food is a substance of a certain colour, and consistence; so is the drug. There is nothing in these qualities which is offensive to us; only the taste. In like manner, it is not the water we desire, but the pleasure of drinking; not the fire we desire, but the pleasure of warmth.

The illusion is merely that of a very close association. There is no case, indeed, of association, in which the union is more intimate, than that between the idea of a pungent sensation, and its customary cause; and hence, there is no wonder that the name {193} which properly belongs to the one, should be bestowed upon the other, or rather, that the name which belongs properly to one, should be given to the two, formed into a complex idea, in conjunction.

There is another source of perplexity, which arises from the connotative power of the terms Desire, and Aversion. They are Nouns, in the future tense; that is, they connote futurity; just as Verbs, in the future tense, connote futurity. Though the feeling, called the idea of a pleasurable sensation, is precisely the feeling called desirableness; desirableness, and the idea of something pleasurable, being convertible terms, the word Desire, whenever it is applied to a particular case, carries with it a tacit reference to future time. When the idea of a sensation is present, the sensation itself is not present. The sensation has been, or is to be. It is difficult, therefore, to have the idea of a pleasurable sensation, without the association of the past, or the future. The idea of a pleasurable sensation with the association of the Past, is never called Desire. The word Desire, is commonly used to mark the idea of a pleasurable sensation, when the Future is associated with it. The idea of a pleasurable sensation, to come, is what is commonly meant by Desire. We have, however, no other name to mark the idea, when it is considered by itself, and without reference to the past, or the future. In these cases, Desire, and the idea of a pleasurable sensation; Aversion, and the idea of a painful sensation, are convertible terms.

From this exposition, it follows, that the number of our desires is the same with that of our pleasurable sensations; the number of our aversions, the same {194} with that of our painful sensations; just as the number of our simple ideas of sight, is the same with that of our sensations of sight; the number of our simple ideas of sound, taste, or smell, the same with that of our sensations of sound, taste, or smell.

But according to the whole spirit of the author's speculations, and to his express affirmation in the beginning of the next chapter, the idea of any sensation associated with the future, constitutes the Expectation of it: and if so, it rested with him to prove that the expectation of a pleasure, or of a pain, is the same thing with the desire, or aversion. This is certainly not conformable to common observation. For, on the one hand, it is commonly understood that there may be desire or aversion without expectation; and on the other, expectation of a pleasure without any actual feeling of desire: one may expect, and even look forward with satisfaction to, the pleasure of a meal, although one is not, but only expects to be, hungry. So perfectly is it assumed that expectation, and desire or aversion, are not necessarily combined, that the case in which they are combined is signified by a special pair of names. Desire combined with expectation, is called by the name of Hope; Aversion combined with expectation, is known by the name of Fear.

I believe the fact to be that desire is not Expectation, but is more than the idea of the pleasure desired, being, in truth, the initiatory stage of Will. In what we call Desire there is, I think, always included a positive stimulation to action; either to the definite course of action which would lead to our {195} obtaining the pleasure, or to a general restlessness and vague seeking after it. The stimulation may fall short of actually producing action: even when it prompts to a definite act, it may be repressed by a stronger motive, or by knowledge that the pleasure is not within present reach, nor can be brought nearer to us by any present action of our own. Still, there is, I think, always, the sense of a tendency to action, in the direction of pursuit of the pleasure, though the tendency may be overpowered by an external or an internal restraint. So also, in aversion, there is always a tendency to action of the kind which repels or avoids the painful sensation. But of these things more fully under the head of Will.--Ed.]

{196} CHAPTER XX.

THE PLEASURABLE AND PAINFUL SENSATIONS, CONTEMPLATED AS PASSED OR AS FUTURE.

WE have considered, what the pleasurable and painful sensations are when present; what the ideas of them, considered as present, are; and what the ideas of their causes.

Those sensations, however, together with their causes, we may contemplate, either as passed, or as future: and so contemplated, they give rise to some of the most interesting states of the human mind.

To contemplate any feeling as Passed, is to remember it; and the explanation of Memory we need not repeat. To contemplate any feeling as Future, is merely a case of that Anticipation of the future from the passed, of which, also, we have already given the explanation.

When my finger was in the flame of the candle and burned, the painful sensation was present. The state of consciousness, however, was complex, and consisted of several ingredients; the sight of the burning candle, the sight of my finger, the sense of a certain position or locality, namely, that of my {197} finger and the candle, the painful sensation, and the belief that it was my sensation; in other words, the association of that thread of consciousness in which, to me, my being consists, with the present sensation. The painful feeling was thus a feeling deeply imbedded among others.

When I remember this state of consciousness, the idea of it, which makes part of the memory, is by no means a simple idea. It is composed of the ideas of all the above-mentioned sensations, together with that of the train of consciousness, which I call myself. This last is necessary to constitute it my idea. This idea, thus existing as my idea, and my present idea, is associated with that part of my train or thread of consciousness which has intervened, between the present state and the remembered state; and by this last association the idea becomes memory.

The anticipation of the Future is the same series of association; with this difference, that, in memory, the association of the train of consciousness, which converts the idea into memory, is from consequent to antecedent, that is, backwards; the association in the case of anticipation is from antecedent to consequent, forwards.

In anticipation, as in memory, there is, first, the complex idea, as above; next, the passage of the mind forwards from the present state of consciousness, the antecedent, to one consequent after another, till it comes to the anticipated sensation. Suppose, that, as a punishment, a man is condemned to put his finger after two days in the flame of a candle; wherein consists his anticipation? The complex idea, as described above, of the painful sensation, with all its {198} concomitant sensations and ideas, is the first part of the process. The remainder is the association with this idea of the events, one after another, which are to fill up the intermediate time, and terminate with his finger placed in the flame of the candle. The whole of this association, taken together, comprises the idea of the pain as his pain, after a train of antecedents.

The process of anticipation is so precisely the same, when the sensation is of the pleasurable kind, that I deem it unnecessary to repeat it.

The difference between Expectation and mere Imagination, as well as between Memory and Imagination, consists in the presence or absence of Belief; and though this is no explanation of either phenomenon, it brings us back to one and the same real problem, which I have so often referred to, and which neither the author nor any other thinker has yet solved--the difference between knowing something as a Reality, and as a mere Thought; a distinction similar and parallel to that between a Sensation and an Idea.--Ed.]

{199} In contemplating a painful or pleasurable sensation as past, that is, remembering it, the mind is in general tranquil. The state is not, perhaps, a state of indifference; but it is not so far removed from it, as to call attention to itself, or require a name to mark it.

The case is different, when the sensation is contemplated as future, or anticipated. The state of consciousness is then far removed from a state of indifference. It admits of two cases. One is, when the sensation is contemplated as certainly future; the other is, when it is contemplated as not certainly future.

When a pleasurable sensation is contemplated as future, but not certainly, the state of consciousness is called Hope. When a painful sensation is contemplated as future, but not certainly, the state of consciousness is called Fear.

A still more restricted application of the word Fear, also justified by usage, is to the case in which the feeling amounts to a disturbing passion; and to this meaning Mr Bain, as will be seen in a future note, thinks it desirable to confine it.--Ed.]

{200} Again: When a pleasurable sensation is anticipated with certainty, we call the state of consciousness Joy. When a painful sensation is thus anticipated, we call it Sorrow. Neither of the two terms is good; because not confined to this signification. Both are applied to name other things, also, which we shall presently have occasion to notice. They are, therefore, a source of confusion.

{201} CHAPTER XXI.

THE CAUSES OF PLEASURABLE AND PAINFUL SENSATIONS, CONTEMPLATED AS PASSED, OR AS FUTURE.