ESSAY ON THE DIVISIONS OF
PHILOSOPHY.
The first which I shall
give, is the essay read at the commencement of the class, and which has
been repeatedly referred to already. At this time it must be remembered
the writer had not enjoyed the benefit of Dr. Chalmers’s course. It had
only then begun. The subject is difficult, the paper is short; but the
statement is most luminous, and the illustration uncommonly beautiful and
felicitous.
In considering this
subject, the question has very forcibly presented itself to us, "Why, in
the physical department of philosophy, have the divisions and
sub-divisions been carried to such a degree of minuteness, while in the
moral department, they are comparatively few?" Not, we conceive, because
in the latter the field of observation is more limited, or the materials
more scanty than in the former; (for quite the reverse of this we believe
to be true,) but chiefly because the latter is involved in the darkness of
mystery, which entirely obscures many of those lines of demarcation, which
even in the former, are not very strongly delineated.
Let us suppose, in
illustration of this, that a man wholly unacquainted with the
classifications of philosophy, looked around on an ordinary landscape.
There are traces of such marked distinction between some of the objects,
and such strong points of resemblance between others, that he could not
fail to make some general arrangement and classification of the whole. He
would at once distinguish the land from the water, and the green herbage
from the naked rock, and the houses from the trees, and the animate from
the inanimate objects that surrounded him. If we further suppose that
while he was thus gazing on the scene, the shades of night began to gather
around him, it is easy to conceive how many of the nicer lines of
distinction which were before so apparent, would now become dim and
undiscernible; how the sky would seem to mingle with the ocean; and how
the herbage, and the trees, and the houses, and the animals, would be
involved in one dark shade of unvaried sameness; and how, where he could
before point out many a division, and many a sub-division, two or three
grand lineaments, and these but faintly perceptible, would be all he could
discern within the whole range of his survey.
And thus it is with the two
grand divisions of philosophy; the philosophy of matter, and the
philosophy of mind. In the one we have to do with an external world, where
all is luminous and distinct; in the other we have to do with the busy
world within, where all is seen as through a glass, darkly. Need we
wonder, then, that the one has been far more minutely divided and
sub-divided than the other?
Accordingly we find that
while mental science has been divided into three parts, viz., Logic,
Rhetoric, and Moral Philosophy, the divisions of physical science amount
to at least ten times that number.
But not only are the
divisions of mental science few, but few as they are, they have been
confounded together. And this we think has arisen, not so much from that
obscurity which envelopes the whole subject, as from the intimate
connection with each other of its different departments.
There is here a
distinction, which we would notice, between the physical and mental
sciences, that while the materials of the former are widely scattered over
the whole face of nature, and seem not to be connected by any common tie,
those of the latter have all a reference to a single object—the human
mind. It is thus, that, as among the members of the human body, there
exists among all the departments of this latter science, a common
sympathy, if we may so speak; so that if one suffer, all suffer with it;
if one is injured, all are injured. And it is this very close connection
which has been the cause of their being confounded together.
To illustrate this, let us
suppose that war has been declared against one of two confederate states,
and that the inhabitants of the other come promptly forward, to defend the
territories of their ally, and that after they have succeeded in beating
off the enemy, they still linger in the country, and become gradually so
amalgamated with the original inhabitants, that in process of time the two
peoples are confounded in one.
Now this, we think, is just
what has happened with regard to the moral and intellectual philosophies.
Distinctly separate, yet nearly allied; the attack which Mr. Hume made
upon the one, struck, though indirectly, at the very vitals of the other,
and the champions of moral science wisely took the alarm. It was then
first, that with a laudable zeal, they overstepped the limits of their own
domain; and had they returned when tranquillity was restored, they had
done well. It is not for going forth to meet a common enemy that we
censure them, but because when that enemy was defeated, they still
lingered in a foreign land, and forgot to retire within their own peculiar
territories.
ESSAY ON THE ANALOGY WHICH
SUBSISTS BETWEEN THE OPERATIONS OF NATURE AND THE OPERATIONS OF POLITICAL
ECONOMY.
On the 31st of the same
month he read another essay in the class, on one of the topics of
Political Economy, around which the fertile genius of Dr. Chalmers has
thrown a fascination and a splendour, of which the subject was not
previously supposed to be susceptible. How thoroughly his pupil was imbued
with the ardent spirit of his professor, this essay most powerfully
illustrates. Every reader will form his own judgment of the argument. Of
the composition of the paper, and the beauty of the illustration, there
can be but one opinion.
It has been said by some
writers of natural history, that an antidote to the venom of the serpent
is to be found within the body of the animal itself. We know not whether
there be any truth in this assertion; but if there he, that must surely be
a very beautiful mechanism by which those very organs which produce a
deadly poison, produce also a remedy for its fatal effects; and surely
that arrangement is a display of the most consummate wisdom by which the
efficient cause of an evil is also the efficient cause of its cure.
Now there is a principle
very much akin to this, which exists in almost all the operations of
nature, a principle to which nature in a great measure owes that constancy
for which she has been so greatly admired. The principle we refer to is
this, —That an operation of nature whenever it arrives at that stage in
its progress, where its effects would begin to be detrimental, by a very
beautiful constitution of things, gives rise to an operation of an
opposite tendency, and thus works out a cure for those very evils which
itself seemed to threaten. Thus, were we unacquainted with the workings of
nature, and did we behold the sun, day after day, shining on the earth
with unclouded splendour; and did we perceive that, day after day, in
consequence of this the soil was becoming more parched; and did we further
know that, without moisture, vegetation would cease, and the fruits of the
earth could not come to perfection, — we might well look forward with the
most dismal foreboding to what would seem the inevitable consequence. But
how would our fears give place to our admiration of the Creator’s wisdom
and goodness, when we were told that that sun which we were thus
contemplating as the cause of so much misery, was at that very moment
gathering by the influence of his rays, the waters of the ocean, and
suspending them in mighty reservoirs above us, which would again gently
descend over the whole surface of our earth, and thus refresh the drooping
plants, and give a new impulse to the economy of vegetation. There is
another very beautiful instance of the operation of this principle. When
any particular region of the earth begins to be overheated, the air is
rarefied, -- it consequently ascends; the cool air which is around, rushes
in to supply its place, and thus does a refreshing breeze blow over that
land, which had else been in a short time rendered uninhabitable.
And now to apply this to
the subject before us. In the operations of political economy, as well as
in the operations of nature, there is a beautiful constancy; and it is
truly wonderful to think what a rough handling a nation will come through,
and with what hardihood she will endure it; to think how famine and
pestilence, and foreign war, and internal commotion, will successively lay
hold of her; and how she will escape from their grasp, and in a few short
years will be nearly what she was before she was subjected to it. And as
the operations of political economy resemble the operations of nature in
their constancy, we think they also resemble them in the cause of this
constancy; and we shall try to illustrate this by an example or two.
Thus, in every country
there should be a certain relation between the produce and the population;
and it is interesting to observe how the constancy of this relation is
maintained, through all the changes to which a nation is exposed.
Let us suppose, for
example, that by improvements in tilling the ground, in the rotations of
the crops, &c., the agricultural produce is increased, and thus the
constancy of the relation between the produce and the population is for a
time destroyed. There is in this instance a superabundance of produce, or
what is the same thing, there is a deficiency of population. Now let us
see how the original relation between them is again restored. The
agricultural produce being increased, more corn is brought to market, and
the demand, in the first instance at least, remains the same: the
consequence is, corn is cheapened. The cheapening of corn again puts more
of the inhabitants in a condition to support a family; marriages take
place earlier, and the population is increased; and thus is the deficiency
made up, and the proper relation between the produce and the population
again restored.
But it must be evident to
every one, that were the population thus to go on increasing indefinitely,
the proper relation would soon be more than restored, the ratio would
become reversed, and instead of a superabundance of produce, there would
soon be a redundancy of population. But here, too, may we behold the
beautiful effect of that arrangement, by which the remedy for the evil is
involved in the evil itself. As the population has now increased, the
demand has also increased: but in this latter instance the supply has
remained the same; the natural consequence of which is, that the price of
corn rises. It is now of course more difficult to support a family;
marriages are discouraged, and thus does the very increase of population,
as soon as it comes to that point where its further increase would be
detrimental, actually bring a check upon itself.
Again, from various causes
we sometimes see an old manufacture abolished. And here there would seem
to be a great and immediate evil; a vast number of operatives are thrown
out of employment. And yet, if we consider the subject attentively, we
shall find that here, too, as well as in the example already adduced, if
let alone, will remedy itself. And wherever we thus see an old manufacture
abolished, may we with confidence predict that the wealth which supported
that manufacture, will either give rise to a new one, or will so divide
itself among those that yet remain, as to give a new impulse to
each. And thus will the evil be remedied, and that class of the community
which have been thrust from their old occupation, will either find
employment in a new manufacture, or will be parceled out among the
manufactures that yet remain. There is still as much food for them in the
country as before, and all that they will suffer will merely be the
temporary inconvenience attending a change of employment.
Were one of the mouths of
the Nile to be stopped up, that river would not discharge less water into
the ocean than it did before. The water which used to flow through that
channel, would at first, it is true, flow backwards; but it would not
continue to do so, nor would it even remain stationary; it would seek
another direction, and it would either overflow the banks, and hollow out
a new channel for itself, or it would divide itself and flow to the sea,
through the channels that yet remained. And here, by the way, would we
advert to that political delusion which would magnify the importance of
any one branch of manufacture or commerce. The waters of the ocean would
not be diminished by one drop, because they had ceased to receive the
tribute of that stream. So long as the same body of water continued to
flow on from the fountain head, so long would the monarch of waters know
no diminution in his resources. And it were well if our statesmen, as well
as our operatives, could perceive that the manufacture does not produce
either the taxes in the one case, or the wages in the other; that it
is merely the channel through which they flow; and that so long as the
national ability remains the same, neither the revenues of the state, nor
the wages of the operatives will suffer one iota of diminution by the
decay of any one branch of commerce or manufacture We do not say that in
such an event there would be no loss at all; but we do affirm that
ultimately the loss would not be sustained by the government, nor by those
employed in the manufacture, but by the public at large.
To return to our
illustration. That particular branch of the Nile might have added much to
the beauty of the scenery on its banks, and might have ministered in a
high degree to the enjoyment, and even to the comfort of those who dwelt
among them; and the stopping up of its channel would be felt by them to be
a very serious inconvenience. And thus, too, the particular branch of
manufacture might have furnished an article which contributed very much to
the enjoyment or the comfort of the public; and in so far its decay might
be felt as a very calamitous event. But still our remark holds true, that
ultimately the operatives will not suffer; that ultimately the state will
not suffer; that in this respect the evil will remedy itself; that if the
stream of public wealth flow not through that channel, it will seek out
another, and that if there be a temporary stagnation till the new outlet
be formed, it will be compensated by the more than usual rapidity of the
current, when it has cleared away the obstructions.
We hope the two examples we
have adduced may have been sufficient to illustrate that constitution of
things, by which an evil is made to remedy itself, and to show how the
operation of this principle serves to regulate the vast machinery of a
nation, and to give a constancy and a steadiness to all its movements. And
we would now ask to what should the discovery of this lead us?
We might have concluded a
priori that that God whose goodness is over all his works, while he
regulated all the changes of nature, and maintained an unvarying constancy
in all her operations, would not leave to chance, or to the guidance of
mere human wisdom, the regulation of those principles on which depends the
temporal happiness of his rational creatures. And when in the workings of
these principles we discover that same constancy which distinguishes the
operations of nature, and the same means employed to preserve that
constancy; and when we perceive, further, that all this may go on
independent of our knowledge, and most certainly does go on independent of
our direction; should it not go very much to strengthen the conclusion?
Let us acknowledge then, that there is here the working of a mightier
agency than man; and let us ascribe that constant hardihood with which a
nation survives all the changes that pass over her, to the care and the
wisdom of that same Mighty Being, "who causeth the vapours to ascend from
the ends of the earth who maketh lightnings for the rain; and who bringeth
the wind out of his treasuries."
The concluding paragraph is
a beautiful instance of the prevailing disposition of the writer’s mind,
and of the happy ease with which he could connect every speculation and
exercise with his leading and darling subject. His mind traced the hand of
the benevolent Creator in all his operations, whether of nature or of
providence. He beheld and adored his wisdom, both in the uncontrolable and
efficient laws of the universe, and in the frame and constitution of
society. What affected his own mind, he was desirous should affect the
minds of others; and "out of the fulness of his heart, his mouth
spake." Yet there is no thrusting of the subject forward. It is not only
presented in all its importance, but with the grace and modesty which
could not fail to command respect and attention.
Not satisfied with his
labours in the several classes which he attended, he took an active part
in a Literary Society, consisting of the young men attending the
University; and at one of its meetings, held on the 11th of December, he
read an essay, or delivered a speech, on the following subject:—
THAT KNOWLEDGE GIVES ITS POSSESSOR
MORE POWER
THAN WEALTH DOES.
It has been said by Lord
Bacon, that "knowledge is power," and the same thing has been asserted of
wealth by Mr. Hobbes. And with both these statements we perfectly agree.
The very nature of our present debate presupposes the truth of both. The
question this evening is, "Whether does wealth or knowledge give its
possessor more power ?" Now we do think that there is a great deal of
vagueness in the terms of the question; and we do anticipate, from this, a
good deal of misapprehension, and a good deal of wrangling about words and
definitions, when, after all, the disputants may be one in sentiment.
There are various views that may be taken of the question; and we shall
first consider it in its strict and literal interpretation; and in this
view, we think, there can be little or no debate at all. The very fiercest
of our opponents, we should think, will allow, that wealth, altogether
apart from knowledge, can accomplish nothing at all; for a certain degree
of knowledge is necessary to the right application of wealth. An idiot
might lavish the most boundless fortune, and after all be further from his
point than he was before. On the other hand, we frankly confess, that
knowledge, altogether apart from wealth, can accomplish but little, since
a certain portion of wealth is necessary to carry our plans into
execution. The fact is, that, to accomplish anything of importance, they
must go hand in hand, knowledge must devise the plan, and wealth, in
general, must furnish the means to carry that plan into execution. To
knowledge and wealth may we justly apply the language of Sallust, when
speaking of the mind and the body; "Utrumque per se indigens, alterum
alterius auxilio eget."
But even in this view of
the subject there are some things which knowledge can do altogether
independent of wealth, though we know of none that wealth can do
altogether independent of knowledge. Thus, with a mere knowledge of the
power of the lever, (a machine so simple that it may be had for nothing,)
I can raise a very great weight; a thing to accomplish which, wealth might
have been lavished in vain.
But there is another view
of the subject, and we think the most correct of all, in which wealth
itself may be said to be the result of knowledge, and, consequently, all
the power which is attributed to wealth may be referred to knowledge as
its ultimate cause. And, that this a correct view, a very slight attention
to the subject will convince us. Let us look to that country which is sunk
lowest in the depths of ignorance, and we shall invariably find that that
country too is sunk lowest in the depths of poverty and wretchedness; and
that, on the other hand, that country which stands highest in the scale of
knowledge, stands highest also in the scale of wealth. And if we just
consider how much commerce is indebted to the invention of the compass,
and the discoveries of astronomy, and how much manufactures owe to the
invention of machinery, and how much their productive powers are thus
increased, we shall come to the conclusion, that almost, if not
altogether, all our wealth is the result of our knowledge. Most justly
then, viewing the subject in this light, might we turn the weapons of our
opponents against themselves, and make their every argument, for their
side of the question, to tell most powerfully against them on our own.
But this, though the most
just and philosophical view of the question, is evidently not the view
that was intended to be taken of it; for it is a view that resolves the
question itself into an absurdity--a view, which, if the framers of the
question had taken, they would never have framed it at all. And though we
could thus take the advantage of our adversaries by disarming them, and
then by those very arms, compelling them to surrender, we are not reduced
to such a shift; we can meet them upon more honourable terms.
We shall therefore attempt to show,
that, even in the more loose and ordinary interpretation of the question,
knowledge gives its possessor more power than wealth does. And, as the
word power is very general and undefined, we shall take two
modifications of it; viz., mechanical power, and political power. By the
mechanical power of knowledge, we mean that power which it give us over
our fellow-men; and from both
these acceptations of the term, we shall try to show, that knowledge gives
us more power than wealth. First, with regard to its mechanical power. We
would remark here, that two agents may both be capable of performing the
same thing, and yet the power of the one may very much exceed that of the
other; and in such a case we must estimate their relative power by the
effort which it costs each to perform the thing in view, and we shall find
that the power is inversely as the effort. Thus I may be able to lift a
weight with my little finger, which a child can do only by exerting his
whole strength, and in this case I am said to have more power than the
child, because the effort it costs me to do the same thing is not so
great. Now, we shall take a case analogous to this where something is to
be done, and where knowledge and wealth may be said to be the agents,
where we have a distinct view of the way in which each performs it. [The
problem is to carry water across a valley.] Wealth performs the task, but
it is with such an effort as almost drained the coffers of even Roman
resources. She builds a gigantic bridge across the valley, while knowledge
accomplishes the same object by simply laying a pipe along the ground.
When we compare the vast and imposing fabric of an ancient aqueduct with
the simple, and withal, undignified apparatus of a modern water-pipe, we
cannot fail to be struck with the ease and simplicity with which knowledge
can perform that which it costs wealth such an effort to accomplish. And
one would think, that in viewing these proud remains of Roman wealth and
Roman ignorance, a feeling of the painfully ludicrous would stifle our
rising admiration of their sublimity, and that the very grandeur of their
structure, when compared with their design, would remind us of
-------"an ocean into tempest wrought
To waft a feather, or to drown a fly."
But though, in the present
instance, wealth, by the mightiness of the effort, may seem to rival
knowledge in solving the problem, there are many instances were she is
left far behind, and cannot by the very mightiest efforts, come up with
knowledge.
By the assistance of
knowledge, we are enabled almost by a touch of our finger, to raise the
most immense weights, and may almost be said to weigh the mountains in
scales, and the hills in a balance. By her assistance can we scour the
unknown regions of ether, and penetrate the still more secret caverns of
the deep. By her assistance too, can we guide a floating city over the
main, and turn it at our will by a little helm. By her assistance, too,
can we impress the very elements into our service, and make the winds our
messengers, and the water and the fire our slaves. And by her assistance,
too, can we give to inanimate objects all the vigour of animal life; thus
creating for ourselves a Behemoth, whose bones are brass, and sinews bars
of iron; thus making him our slave, and forcing him to prepare for us
those necessaries and conveniences which formerly we obtained by the sweat
of our brow. Such is the power of knowledge; and, till our adversaries can
give us instances of the power of wealth, which can be compared with them,
we think that we have gained the question.
We intended next to have
treated of political power; but we shall first hear refuted the arguments
we have already adduced.
None of my young friend’s Essays
have please me more than the one, which is now to follow. It was read to
the moral class on the 10th of January, 1825. The subject afforded a
favourable opportunity of introducing the evangelical system, and that
opportunity was not neglected. But there is more than the introduction of
the system—there is a beautiful exposition of it,
in which the writer steers clear of the
selfish system of Sandeman on the one hand, and the ultra-spirituality of
some of the American divines on the other. The one does not sufficiently
distinguish between self-love and selfishness; the other
treats man as if he were a being capable of merging all his personal
feelings and interests, in a vague and undefined idea of God, and of
holiness. The Scriptures never require us to lose sight of our personal
interest in the divine favour; but they never urge it as the principal or
the only plea, that we should do the will of God. They bring us, as is
here well stated, under the influence of the great principles which govern
Deity himself; and thus combine the perfect enjoyment of blessedness, with
the perfect exercise of benevolence.
AN ESSAY ON THE SELFISH SYSTEM.
We are told of the Emperor
Nero, among his other unnatural actions, that no sooner was his appetite
so satiated with one course of gluttony, as to refuse more food, than he
again fitted himself in a most revolting manner, for renewing the round of
sensual gratification. Of another individual we are told that such was his
dred of future disease and death, that he sat continually in one scale of
a balance, with a counterpoise in the other, and that it was his constant
employment to watch the deflections of the beam, and most studiously to
preserve the equality of the balance, so that he never took food till his
own scale ascended, and stopped eating as soon as the equilibrium was
restored. As the motives which induced each of these individuals to take
food are evidently very different from each other, so are the motives of
both strikingly different from those which in this matter actuate the
great mass of mankind. Of the first individual we would say, that pleasure
was his object, and that he took food merely as a means of obtaining this
pleasure. With regard to the second, again, we would say that it was
self-love that dictated his extraordinary conduct; that he took food, not
like the other, for the sake of gratifying his palate, but purely from a
consideration of the posterior advantages which would thence accrue to
him. With the great mass of mankind, again we would say, that hunger is
the primary and ruling incitement; that they eat not in general to gratify
their palate, and far less from a consideration of any posterior
advantage; but chiefly for the purpose of satisfying their appetite. Food
is not used by them as the mere means of obtaining something else, it is
itself the primary and terminating object of their desire.
From these familiar
illustrations, we think we may discover the difference between self-love,
and the more special affections of our nature. The chief distinction seems
to be, that the latter terminate in some external object, while the former
uses that object as a means of promoting some plan of future interest. Of
all the characters we have mentioned, only one seems to have been actuated
by self-love, he who took food from a sense of the beneficial effects
which would follow. It may be thought, that Nero, too, was actuated by
selfishness, inasmuch as he used the food as a means of obtaining
something else; but on a close examination, we shall find that it was not
the love of self, but the love of pleasure, which was his actuating
motive; that if he had any regard to self-interest, his conduct would have
been altogether different: that he was in fact pursuing a line of conduct
in direct opposition to all that self-love would dictate. We may here just
remark by the way, the wisdom displayed in this constitution of our animal
frame. Our Creator has not left us to discover that without being
invigorated by food, and refreshed by sleep, our bodies could not long
subsist; and thus, from a principle of self-love to attend to the taking
of food and repose, as duties which it was necessary to perform, in order
to self-preservation: but He has endowed us with special affections; with
a desire for food and sleep when the body requires them: just as he has
given us a sense of injury, and a feeling of resentment, to preserve us
from the injustice of our fellow men.
Now in morals there are
facts analogous to those which we have just mentioned, with regard to our
animal frame. As there is a desire for food altogether apart from any
future consequences; and as there is a more immediate pleasure, and a more
remote advantage which attend the satisfying of this desire, -- so is
there a motive to the performance of a virtuous action, altogether for its
own sake, and apart from all its consequences; and there is also a more
immediate pleasure, and a more remote happiness attending the performance
of such an action. As it has appeared that there are different motives
which may induce us to take food, so are there different motives which may
urge us to the performance of a virtuous deed. The abettors of the selfish
system seem to have erred in confounding these together, or rather in
making the one motive of selfishness swallow up the rest.
It may be true that much of
the seeming virtue of our world must be put to the account of selfishness;
and much of it, too, to the account of sentimentalism; and yet, is it
true, that virtue may be followed for her own sake; that she has a native
grace and attraction of her own, altogether independent of the pleasure
and the happiness which follow in her train.
In the illustration which
we took from our animal nature, we felt it difficult to adduce a solitary
instance where selfishness was the actuating motive; and there one would
think it impossible to confound, unless designedly, self-love, with the
more special affections; but in the moral world, alas, the case is
different. Here are thousands who perform virtuous actions, altogether
from selfish motives, for one that follows virtue for her own sake. And
when we find that many seem virtuous in their outward conduct, who care
not to swerve from the path of rectitude, if they can but do it
unobserved; that the merchant who would shudder at the thought of forgery,
or any such gross and palpable crime, can yet in his every day
transactions, impose on those he deals with, and indulge in a thousand
little and unperceived deceits; and when we find that this is a true
delineation of the moral character, not of one in a city, or even one in a
family, but of the great bulk of our species, — need we wonder that, from
such a view of human nature, some should have come to the conclusion that
all virtue is the result of selfishness, or rather that there is no true
virtue at all?
But all this is easily
accounted for by the fact, that a blight hath corrupted the moral scenery
of our world; and it just tallies with what we are told in the book of
revelation, of the total depravity of our whole race.
If, then, there were a system which
professed to be able to renew our nature, and to restore us to our
original purity, we should most confidently expect that the disciples of
such a system should follow virtue, not from any selfish principle, but
simply and solely for her own sake. There is such a system, by which these
expectations have been fully realized, — even the system of evangelical
Christianity. We know that it has been asserted, that here, too, self-love
is the actuating motive; that the disciples of this system are influenced
in their conduct by the hope of
reward, and the fear of punishment; but if we rightly understand this
system, the assertion is most false. It is true that the evangelical
system makes its first appeal to our self-love, or otherwise it could not
have been adapted to depraved and selfish creatures; but it is equally
true that the virtue to which it leads, is of the most pure and
disinterested nature. The way in which this is accomplished, is, we think,
well illustrated, in the case of that young man who was couched for a
cataract in the beginning of the last century, and whose case so much
interested the philosophers of Europe. To induce him to submit to the
operation, his friends told him of the loveliness of scenery, and of the
pleasure to be derived from gazing on beautiful objects. — Such reasoning
had no effect, — he could form no conception of beauty; they were
in fact addressing a special affection which did not exist. An appeal was
made to his self-love, he was told of the advantages to be derived from
reading, and this we are told, proved effectual. And thus it is that the
gospel addresses itself to man. It might tell him of the loveliness of
virtue, and the deformity of vice; and well do we know that such reasoning
would prove utterly powerless. True, he has a faculty for perceiving moral
beauty, just as the blind man has an eye; but as in his case, too, there
is a thick film spread over it. True, the most depraved of our race can
distinguish virtue from vice, and perceive a rightness in the one, and a
wrongness in the other, just as many blind people can tell the light from
the darkness; but just as they cannot perceive that harmonious variety of
colour and shade which constitutes the loveliness of natural scenery, so
cannot the unrenewed mind perceive that which is so emphatically termed
the "beauty of holiness." The same appeal which proved effectual in the
case of him who was blind, is also effectual in the case of fallen man, —
an appeal to self-love. The Bible can tell him of the future punishment of
sin, and to the whispers of his own conscience it can add the voice of its
authority, in telling him that he is a sinner: it can constrain him to cry
out, "What shall I do to be saved?" and to such a question it can give a
most satisfactory answer. If he is thus led to accept of its terms, he not
sooner does so, than the film which obscured his moral vision is removed.
He is now in some degree restored to the lost image of the Godhead, and
can therefore perceive an independent beauty in virtue, and an independent
deformity in vice. It is not now, we conceive, from the hope of heaven, or
the fear of hell, that he is virtuous; it is because he loves holiness
that he follows after it; — it is because he hates sin that he flees from
it; his attachment to the one, and his recoil from the other, will still
continue to strengthen: and even now, all weak and imperfect as they are,
do they proceed from a principle similar to that which determines the
choice of Diety himself.
Little do they understand
the evangelical system, who urge against it the plea that the virtue of
its disciples is a virtue of selfishness. So far is this from being the
case, that let but self-love be the principle that regulates our conduct,
— let but the hope of reward, and the fear of punishment be all that
prompts us to virtue, and the reward itself will never follow. Some there
have been, who from this principle have refrained from many of the vices,
and even from many of the innocent enjoyments of life, — who have been
ingenious in inventing self-torments here, that they might escape eternal
punishment hereafter; but yet, is the character of such virtue, and the
final judgment which shall be passed upon it, most truly described by the
poet, when he exclaims,
"What is all righteousness
that men devise?
What, — but a sordid bargain for the skies?
But Christ as soon would abdicate his own,
As stoop from heaven to sell the proud a throne." |