not boast of any familiarity, to defame her own character, in order to enable you, with a double falsehood, to make your mistress jealous? And did you do this affecting sentimentality, for the indulgence of which you had insulted, and ruined the peace and welfare of your "amiable" wife and family? In England, if it were possible that such a letter as M. Gisquet's to Mad. Focaud could be written, the writer would be in a lunatic asylum. But in France-France, once the polite, now under the new regime of "Young France "-persons in their sober senses enact monstrosities against morals and manners; and, what is worse, their sanity is not doubted. Brutality, that in the first French Revolution sent out boat-loads of accomplished and beautiful women, guilty only of aristocratic manners, to be sunk, has grown to a very refined monster; and has learnt to cover with a gauzy sentimentality the innate depravities of a base and cowardly heart. Happy is the nation that cherishes female influence! Chivalric, heroic, romantic, are epithets of one great virtue arising from devotion to woman, and faith in her purity and exceeding loveliness. The possessor of this virtue will be happy in the thoughts it engenders-he will deeply love one woman, and will deem all, as partaking of her nature, to be endowed with a portion of her goodness; and for her sake will think himself bound to protect all. It pains, it angers me, to hear people speak as they do contemptuously of old maids and old women. It surely ought to be enough that men virtually reject all, to whom they might make offers of themselves, and do not, need not add unnecessary insult. For my own part, I see in every elderly maiden an object of admiration or of sympathy-one who has been bereaved by death or evil circumstances of all she loved; or one who in saintly blessedness has devoted her life to a gentle and extensive be. nevolence. If there were not some few such, richly endowed, to perform this assigned task, how cheerless would be many a secluded and miserable home and corner of human life, where man will not, perhapscannot enter; and the married could only do so ineffectually. As to an aged, or, as she is in mockery called, "an old woman," I would view her with the eye of an antiquary, who pays the more devoted attention to the ruin, and loves it a it is, while he feels within him the charm of imagining its former perfection. Oh, if women were but more scarce, we should fight for them as the greatest, the best riches-but we are thankless, and abuse the prodigality of nature. There are in England, Wales, and Scotland, four hundred and ninety thousand two hundred and seventy more women than men! So that because every man may have at least one, many will perversely have none and how many ill-use those they have! We shall never, as I before said, go on well till feminine dominion be restored. There is love and gentleness even in its most severe enactments. The submission it exacts ennobles. I will venture to offer two examples, the one from high, the other from low life. They will show the tenderness and reasonableness of the sex, how fit they are to direct, and how much the happiness of mankind is maintained by concessions to them. That of low life will be given in a dialogue which actually took place, and, that it may not lose an iota of truth, it shall be given in the proper dialect, and verbatim. The scene is in that part of Devonshire which borders on the county of Somerset. A gentleman who had not seen his nurse for some years, happening to be in the village where she lived, called on her, when this conversation ensued: Nurse." Lor a massy, sir! is it you? Well, sure, I be cruel glad to zee ye! How is mistres-and the young ladies-and maister?" Master. "All well, nurse, and desire to be kindly remembered to you. You are quite stout, I am glad to see and how is your husband?" Nurse. "My husband! Ou, mayhap, sir, you ha'nt a heared the news?" Master. "The news! No. I hope he is not dead?" Nurse. "Oh no, sir, but he's dark." Master. "Dark? what, blind!— How did that happen?" Nurse. "Why, there now, sir, I'll tell ye all about it. One morning'tis so long ago as last apple-picking I was a gitting up, and I waked Jahn, and told un 'twas time vor he to be upping too. But he was always lazy of a morning: zo a muttered some'at and snoozed round agin. Zo, arter a bit, I spoked to un agin. Jahn,' says I, what be snoozing there vor?-git up.' Zo,' says he, what's the use of gitting up bevore 'tis light?'Oh, zays I, tisn't light, is it? Thee'st know what's behind the door. I'll zoon tell thee whether 'tis light or no, you lazy veller.' " Then,' zays he, turning his head, why, 'tis zo dark as pitch.' Now that did pervoke me—I'll tell your honour the truth—and I beginned to wallop un a bit. But-Lor a massy-God forgive me! in a minute the blid gushed to my heart-and gi'd me zitch a turn, that I was vit to drap! Vor, instead of putting up his arms to keep off the stick, as a used to do, there was he, drowing 'em all all abrodd!-and a said Don't yedon't ye-I can't zee! If 'tis light I be dark!' Oh,' zays I, my dear, you ben't, to be zure.' Ees,' says he, I be, zure enough.' Well, I was a-gushed-zo I put down the stick, and looked to his eyes, but I couldn't zee nort in 'em. Zo,' zays I,why, there's nort in your eyes, Jahn, you'll be better by'm bye.' Zo I got un up, and dressed un, and tookt un to the winder. There,' zaid I, Jahn, can't ye zee now?' But no, a zaid, a couldn't. Then,' zays I, I know what 'tis. 'Tis your zight's a-turned inward.' Zo I took't a pair of zizzers, not sharp-tapped ones, your honour, and poked to his eyes to turn the zight outward agin—but I couldn't. Well, then I brought un down-stairs into this here room, your honour. Zo,' zays I, Jahn, 'can't ye zee in this room, neither?' and a' zaid no, a couldn't. Well, then I thought of the picturs-he was always cruel vond of picturs-thinks a, pr'aps a may zee they; zo I tookt 'um up to thin. There,' zays I, Jahn, don't ye zee the pictur?-'tis Taffy riding upon his goat. But a zaid no, a couldn't. Zo then a' tookt un up to t'other pictur. There'-sir, he was always very vond of thin-and I pushed his nose close to un; there,' says I, 'to be sure you zee this pictur, can't ye?' But a zaid no. Why,' zaid I, 'tis Joseph and his brethren; there they be there be twelve of 'em-can't ye zee ne'er a one of 'em?' But a zaid no, a couldn't zee none of 'em. " Then,' says I, 'tis a bad job-your zight's a turned inward.' Zo we pomsterred with un a bit, and then tried some doctor's trade, but it didn't do un no good; and, at last, we was told there was a vine man at Exeter vor zitch things-zo we zent un up to he. Well-there-the Exeter doctor zeed un, and tookt his box of tools, and zarched about his eyes a bit; and then a zent un home with this word, that he couldn't do un no good, and nobody else couldn't do un no good, vor a'd got a gustavus.* Zo he's dark ever since, your honour, but he's very well to health." I take the next example from the, Bibliotheca Topographica Britannica, and by it will be seen how sadly the power of women has been reduced. Sir John Spencer was Lord Mayor of London in 1594, commonly called, from his great wealth, rich Spencer. He had by his lady (Alice Bromfield) one sole daughter and heiress, Elizabeth, of whom there is a tradition, that she was carried off from Canonbury house in a baker's basket, by the contrivance of William, the second Lord Compton, Lord President of Wales, to whom, in the year 1594, she was married. The following let. ter from her to her lord, without date, but written probably in or about the year 1617, shows the extravagant expectations of women of the seventeenth century: "MY SWEET LIFE,-Now I have declared to you my mind for the settling of your state, I supposed that it were best for me to bethink or consider with myself what allowance were meetest for me. In considering what care I have had of your estate, and how respectfully I dealt with those, which, both by the laws of God, of nature, and of civil polity, wit, religion, government, and honesty, you, my dear, are bound to, I pray and beseech you to grant me L.1600 per annum, quarterly to be paid. Also I would (besides that allowance for my apparel) have L.600 added yearly (quarterly to be paid), for the performance of charitable works; and those things I would not, neither will be accountable for. "Also I will have three horses, for my own saddle, that none shall dare to lend or borrow; none lend but I, none borrow but you. "Also I would have two gentlewomen, lest one should be sick, or Gutta Serena. have some other lett; also believe that it is an undecent thing for a gentlewoman to stand mumping alone, when God hath blessed this lord and lady with a good estate. "Also, when I ride a-hunting or hawking, or travel from one house to another, I will have them attending; so, for either of these said women, I must and will have a horse for either of them. "Also I will have six or eight gentlemen; and I will have my two coaches-one lined with velvet for myself, with four very fair horses, and a coach for ny women, lined with sheet cloth-one laced with gold, the other with scarlet, and laced with watered lace and silver, with four good horses. "Also I will have two coachmenone for my own coach, the other for my women. "Also, at any time when I travel, I will be allowed not only carroches and spare horses for me and my women, but I will have such carriages as shall be fitting for all, orderly; not pestering my things with my women's nor theirs with chambermaids' nor theirs with washerwomen's. "Also for laundresses, when I travel, I will have them sent away before with the carriages, to see all safe; and the chamber-maids, I will have go before with the greens, that the chambers may be ready, sweet and clean. Also, for that it is indecent to crowd up myself with my gentleman-usher in my coach, I will have him to have a convenient horse, to attend me either in city or in country. And I must have two footmen, and my desire is, that you defray all the charges for me. And for myself, besides my yearly allowance, I would have twenty gowns of apparel; six of them excellent good ones, eight of them for the country, and six other of them very excellent good ones. Also, I would have to put in my purse L.2000 and L.200, and so for you to pay my debts. Also, I would have L.6000 to buy me jewels, and L.4000 to buy me a pearl chain. Now, seeing I am so reasonable unto you, I pray you to find my children apparel and their schooling; and also my servants (men and women) their wages. Also, I will have my houses furnished, and all my lodging chambers to be suited with all such furniture as is fit, as beds, stools, chairs, suitable cushions, carpets, silver warming-pans, cupboards of plate, fair hangings, and such like; so for my drawing-chambers in all houses, I will have them delicately furnished, both with hangings, couch canopy, glass, carpet, chair cushions, and all things thereunto belonging. Also, my desire is, that you would pay all my debts, build Ashby house, and purchase lands, and lend no money (as you love God) to the Lord Chamberlain, (Thomas Earl of Suffolk) who would have all, perhaps your life from you. Remember his son, my Lord Walden, what entertainment he gave me when you was at Tilt Yard-if you were dead, he said, he would be a husband, a father, a brother, and he said he would marry me. I protest I grieve to see the poor man have so little wit and honesty, to use his friend so vilely. Also, he fed me with untruths concerning the Charter-house, but that is the least; he wished me much harm; you know him. God keep you and me from such as he is! So now that I have declared to you what I would have, and what that is I would not have, I pray that, when you be an earl, to allow me L.1000 more than I now desire, and double attendance. "Your loving wife, ELIZA COMPTON." I will not add more than to remark with what tender delicacy she would provoke her husband to just so much jealousy as should make him proud and happy in her virtues ; and that she shows the virtue of a prudent woman, in requiring quarterly payments, well aware that "short accounts make long friendships." This circumstance, too, reminds me of the strict prudence of an elderly maiden lady, who, with a pride above being dependent upon wealthier relatives, retired daily to her chamber to pray for a "comfortable competency," which she always explained in these words, and with a more elevated voice. "And lest, O Lord, thou shouldst not understand what I mean, I mean Four Hundred a-year paid quarterly." AN INTRODUCTION TO THE PHILOSOPHY OF CONSCIOUSNESS. PHILOSOPHY has long ceased to be con- But is there no method by which vigour may yet be propelled into the moribund limbs of philosophy: and by which, from being a dead system of theory, she may be renovated into a living discipline of practice? There is, if we will but reflect and understand that the course of procedure proper to the physical sciences, namely, the assumption that their objects and the facts appertaining to these objects, lie before them ready-made-is utterly inadmissible in true Philosophy is totally at variance with the scope and spirit of a science which professes to deal fairly with the phenomena of Man. Let us endeavour to point out and illustrate the deep-seated contra-distinction between philosophi cal and physical science; for the purpose, more particularly, of getting light thrown upon the moral character of our species. When an enquirer is engaged in the scientific study of any natural object, let us say, for instance, of water and its phenomena, his contemplation of this object does not add any new phenomenon to the facts and qualities already belonging to it. These phenomena remain the same, without addition or diminution, whether he studies them or not. Water flows downwards, rushes into a vacuum under the atmospheric pressure, and evolves all its other phenomena, whe ther man be attending to them or not. His looking on makes no difference as far as the nature of the water is concerned. In short, the number and character of its facts continue altogether uninfluenced by his study of them. His science merely enables him to classify them, and to bring them more clearly and steadily before him. But when man is occupied in the study of the phenomena of his own natural being, or, in other words, is philosophising, the case is very materially altered. Here his contemplation of these phenomena does add a new phenomenon to the list already under his inspection: it adds, namely, the new and anomalous phenomenon that he is contemplating these phenomena. To the old phenomena presented to him in his given or ready-made being-for instance, his sensations, passions, rational and other states-which he is regarding, there is added the supervision of these states; and this is itself a new phenomenon belonging to him. The very fact that man contemplates or makes a study of the facts of his being, is itself a fact which must be taken into account; for it is one of his phenomena just as much as any other fact connected with him is. In carrying forth the physical sciences, man very properly takes no note of his contemplation of their objects; because this contemplation does not add, as we have said, any new fact to the complement of phenomena connected with these objects. Therefore, in sinking this fact, he does not suppress any fact to which they can lay claim. But in philosophising, that is, in constructing a science of himself, man cannot suppress this fact without obliterating one of his own phenomena; because man's contemplation of his own phenomena is itself a new and separate phenomenon added to the given phenomena which he is contemplating. Here, then, we have a most radical distinction laid down between physics and philosophy. In ourselves, as well as in nature, a certain given series of phenomena is presented to our obser vation, but in studying the objects of nature, we add no new phenomenon to the phenomena already there; whereas, on the contrary, in studying ourselves we do add a new phenomenon to the other phenomena of our being, we add, to wit, the fact that we are thus studying ourselves. Be this new phenomenon important or unimportant, it is, at any rate, evident that in it is violated the analogy between physics and philosophy-be. tween the study of man and the study of nature. For what can be a greater or more vital distinction between two sciences or disciplines than this; that while the one contributes nothing to the making of its own facts, but finds them all (to use a very familar colloquism) cut and dried beneath its hand-the other creates, in part at least, its own facts-supplies to a certain extent, and by its own free efforts, as we shall see, the very materials out of which it is constructed. man; but the representation of an automaton, that is what it cannot help being,-a phantom dreaming what it cannot but dream-an engine performing what it must perform—an incarnate reverie-a weathercock, shifting helplessly in the winds of sensibility -a wretched association - machine, through which ideas pass linked together by laws over which the machine itself has no control-any thing, in short, except that free and self-sustained centre of underived, and therefore responsible activity, which we call Man. If such, therefore, be the false representation of man which philosophy invariably and inevitably pictures forth, whenever she makes common cause with the natural sciences, we have plainly no other course left than to turn philosophy aside from following their analogy, and to guide her footsteps upon a new line and different method of enquiry. Let us then, turn away the attention of philosophy from the facts which she does not contribute to her object (viz. the ready-made phenomena of man); and let us direct it upon the new fact which she does contribute thereto-and let us see whether greater truth and a more practical satisfaction will not now attend her investigations. But the parallel between physics and philosophy, although radically violated by this new fact, is not totally subverted; and our popular philosophy has preferred to follow out the track where the parallel partially holds good. It is obvious that two courses of procedure are open to her choice. Either following the analogy of the natural sciences, which of themselves add no new fact to their objects, she may attend exclusively to the phenomena which she finds in man, but which she has no hand in contributing or else, breaking loose from that analogy, she may direct her attention to the novel and unparalleled phenomenon which she, of herself, has added to her object, and which we have already described. Of these two courses philosophy has chosen to adopt the former: and what has been the result? Surely all the ready-made phenomena of man have been, by this time, sufficiently explored. Philosophers, undisturbed, have pondered over his passions, - unmoved they have watched and weighed his emotions. His affections, his rational states, his sensations, and all the other ingredients and modifications of his natural frame-work have been rigidly scrutinised and classified by them; and, after all, what have they Inade of it-what sort of a picture The act of philosophising is the act have their researches presented to our of systematically contemplating our observation? Not the picture of a own natural or given phenomena. The great and only fact which philosophy, of herself, adds to the other phenomena of man, and which nothing but philosophy can add, is, as we have said, the fact that man does philosophize. The fact that man philosophizes, is (so often as it takes place) as much a human phenomenon as the phenomenon, for instance, of passion is, and therefore cannot legitimately be overlooked by an impartial and true philosophy. At the same time, it is plain that philosophy creates and brings along with her this this fact of man; in other words, does not find it in him ready-made to her hand:-because, if man did not philosophize, the fact that he philosophizes would, it is evident, have no manner of existence whatsoever. What, then, does this fact which philosophy herself contributes to philosophy and to man, contain, embody, and set forth, and what are the consequences resulting from it? |