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But the act of contemplating our own phenomena unsystematically, is no other than our old friend, the act of consciousness: therefore the only distinction between philosophy and consciousness is, that the former is with system, and the latter without it. Thus, in attending to the fact which philosophy brings along with her, we find that consciousness and philosophy become identified, that philosophy is a systematic or studied consciousness, and that consciousness is an unsystematic or unstudied philosophy. But what do we here mean by the words systematic and unsystematic? These words signify only a greater and a less degree of clearness, expansion, strength, and exaltation. Philosophy possesses these in the higher degree, our ordinary consciousness in the lower degree. Thus phi losophy is but a clear, an expanded, a strong, and an exalted consciousness; while, on the other hand, consciousness is an obscurer, a narrower, a weaker, and a less exalted philosophy. Consciousness is philosophy nascent; philosophy is consciousness in full bloom and blow. The difference between them is only one of degree, and not one of kind; and thus all conscious men are to a certain extent philosophers, although they may not know it. But what comes of this? Whither do these observations tend? With what purport do we point out, thus particularly, the identity in kind `between philosophy and the act of consciousness? Reader! if thou hast eyes to see, thou canst not fail to perceive (and we pray thee mark it well) that it is precisely in this identity of philosophy and consciousness that the merely theoretical character of philosophy disappears, while, at this very point, her ever-living character, as a practical disciplinarian of life, bursts forth into the strongest light. For consciousness is no dream-no theory; it is no lesson taught in the schools, and confined within their walls; it is not a system remote from the practical pursuits and interests of humanity; but it has its proper place of abode upon the working theatre of living men. It is a real, and often a bitter struggle on the part of each of us against the fatalistic forces of our na

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ture, which are at all times seeking to enslave us. The causality of nature, both without us, and especially within us, strikes deep roots, and works with a deep intent. The whole scheme and intention of nature, as evolved in the causal nexus of creation, tend to prevent one and all of us from becoming conscious, or, in other words, from realising our own personality. First come our sensations, and these monopolise the infant man; that is to say, they so fill him that there is no room left for his personality to stand beside them; and if it does attempt to rise, they tend to overbear it, and certainly for a time they succeed. Next come the passions, a train of even more overwhelming sway, and of still more flattering aspect; and now there is even less chance than before of our ever becoming personal beings. The causal, or enslaving powers of nature, are multiplying upon us. These passions, like our sensations, monopolise the man, and cannot endure that any thing should infringe their dominion. So far from helping to realise our personality, they do every thing in their power to keep it aloof or in abeyance, and to lull man into oblivion-of himself. So far from coming into life, our personality tends to disappear, and, like water torn and beaten into invisible mist by the force of a whirlwind, it often entirely vanishes beneath the tread of the passions. Then comes reason; and perhaps you imagine that reason elevates us to the rank of personal beings. But looking at reason in itself, that is, considering it as a straight, and not as a reflex act,* what has reason done, or what can reason do for man (we speak of kind, and not of degree, for man may have a higher degree of it than animals), which she has not also done for beavers and for bees, creatures which, though rational, are yet not personal beings? Without some other power to act as supervisor of reason, this faculty would have worked in man just as it works in animals,--that is to say, it would have operated within him merely as a power of adapting means to ends, without lending him any assistance towards the realisation of his own personality. Indeed, being, like our other natural modifications, a state of mo

* Vol. xliii., p. 791.

nopoly of the man, it would, like them, have tended to keep down the establishment of his personal being.

Such are the chief powers that enter into league to enslave us, and to bind us down under the causal nexus, the moment we are born. By imposing their agency upon us, they prevent us from exercising our own. By filling us with them, they prevent us from becoming ourselves. They do all they can to withhold each of us from becoming "I." They throw every obstacle they can in the way of our becoming conscious beings; they strive, by every possible contrivance, to keep down our personality. They would fain have each of us to take all our activity from them, instead of be. coming, each man for himself, a new centre of free and independent action.

But, strong as these powers are, and actively as they exert themselves to fulfil their tendencies with respect to man, they do not succeed for ever in rendering human personality a nonexistent thing. After a time man proves too strong for them; he rises up against them, and shakes their shackles from his hands and feet. He puts forth (obscurely and unsytematically, no doubt), but still he puts forth a particular kind of act, which thwarts and sets at nought the whole causal domination of nature. Out of the working of this act is evolved man in his character of a free, personal, and moral being. This act is itself man ; it is man acting, and man in act precedes, as we have seen, man in being, that is, in true and proper being. Nature and her powers have now no constraining hold over him; he stands out of her jurisdiction. In this act he has taken himself out of her hands into his own; he has made himself his own master. In this act he has displaced his sensations, and his sensations no longer monopolise him; they have no longer the complete mastery over him. In this act he has thrust his passions from their place, and his passions have lost their supreme ascendency. And now what is this particular kind of act? What is it but the act of consciousness-the act of becoming "I"-the act of placing ourselves in the room which sensation and passion have been made to vacate? This act may be obscure in the extreme, but still it is an act of the most practical kind, both in itself

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and in its results; and this is what we are here particularly desirous of having noted. For what act can be more vitally practical than the act by which we realise our existence as free personal beings? and what act can be attended by a more practical result than the act by which we look our passions in the face, and, in the very act of looking at them, look them down?

Now, if consciousness be an act of such mighty and practical efficiency in real life, what must not the practical might and authority of philosophy be? Philosophy is consciousness sublimed. If, therefore, the lower and obscurer form of this act can work such real wonders and such great results, what may we not expect from it in its highest and clearest potence? If our unsystematic and undisciplined con. sciousness be thus practical in its results (and practical to a most momen. tous extent it is), how much more vitally and effectively practical must not our systematic and tutored consciouness, namely philosophy, be?— Consciousness when enlightened and expanded is identical with philosophy. And what is consciousness enlightened and expanded? It is, as we have already seen, an act of practical antagonism put forth against the modifications of the whole natural man: and what then is philosophy but an act of practical antagonism put forth against the modifications of the whole natural man? But further, what is this act of antagonism, when it, too, is enlightened and explained? What is it but an act of freedom-an act of resistance, by which we free ouselves from the causal bondage of nature-from all the natural laws and conditions under which we were born: and what then is philosophy but an act of the highest, the most essential, and the most practical freedom? But further, what is this act of freedom when it also is cleared up and explained? It turns out to be Human Will-for the refusal to submit to the modifications of the whole natural man must be grounded on a law opposed to the law under which these modifications develope themselves-namely, the causal lawand this opposing law is the law called human will: and what then is philosophy but pure and indomitable will? or, in other words, the most practical of all conceivable acts, inasmuch as

will is the absolute source and fountainhead of all real activity. And, finally, let us ask again—what is this act of antagonism against the natural states of humanity,-what is this act in which we sacrifice our sensations, passions, and desires, that is our false selves, upon the shrine of our true selves -what is this act in which Freedom and Will are embodied to defeat all the enslaving powers of darkness that are incessantly beleaguering us-what is it but morality of the highest, noblest, and most active kind? and, therefore, what is human philosophy, ultimately, but another name for human virtue of the most practical and exalted character?

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Such are the steps by which we vindicate the title of philosophy to the rank of a real and practical discipline of humanity. To sum up :-we commenced by noticing, what cannot fail to present itself to the observation of every one, the inert and unreal character of our modern philosophymetaphysical philosophy as it is called -and we suspected, indeed we felt assured, that this character arose from our adopting, in philosophy, the method of the physical sciences. We, therefore, tore philosophy away from the analogy of physics, and in direct violation of their procedure we made her contemplate à fact which she herself created, and contributed to her object, a fact which she did not find there the fact namely, that an act of philosophising was taking place. But the consideration of this fact or act brought us to perceive the identity between consciousness and philosophy, and then the perception of this identity led us at once to note the truly practical character of philosophy. For consciousness is an act of the most vitally real and practical character (we have yet to see more fully how it makes us moral beings). It is xar x the great practical act of humanity-the act by which man becomes man in the first instance, and by the incessant performance of which he preserves his moral status, and prevents himself from falling back into the causal bondage of nature, which is at all times too

ready to reclaim him; and, therefore, philosophy, which is but a higher phase of consciousness, is seen to be an act of a still higher practical character. Now, the whole of this vindication of the practical character of philosophy is evidently based upon her abandonment of the physical method, upon her turning away from the given facts of man to the contemplation of a fact which is not given in his natural being, but which philosophy herself contributes to her own construction and to man, namely, the act itself of philosophising, or, in simple language, the act of consciousness. This fact cannot possibly be given: for we have seen that all the given facts of man's being necessarily tend to suppress it ; and therefore (as we have also seen) it is, and must be a free and underived, and not in any conceivable sense, a ready-made fact of humanity.

Thus, then, we see that philosophy, when she gets her due-when she deals fairly by man, and when man deals fairly by her-in short, when she is rightly represented and understood, loses her merely theoretical complexion and becomes identified with all the best practical interests of our living selves. She no longer stands aloof from humanity, but, descending into this world's arena, she takes an active part in the ongoings of busy life. Her dead symbols burst forth into living realities

the dry rustling twigs of science become clothed with all the verdure of

Her

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the spring. Her inert tutorage is transformed into an actual life. dead lessons grow into man's active wisdom and practical virtue. sleeping waters become the bursting fountain-head from whence flows all the activity which sets in motion the currents of human practice and of human progression. Truly, y

AUTOY was the sublimest, the most comprehensive, and the most practical oracle of ancient wisdom. Know thyself, and, in knowing thyself, thou shalt see that this self is not thy true self; but, in the very act of knowing this, thou shalt at once displace this false self, and establish thy true self in its room.

CHAPTER II.

Philosophy, then, has a practical as well as a theoretical side; besides being a system of speculative truth, it is a

real and effective discipline of huma nity. It is the point of conciliation in which life, knowledge, and virtue meet,

In it, fact and duty, or, that which is, and that which ought to be, are blended into one identity. But the practical character of philosophy,the active part which it plays throughout human concerns has yet to be more fully and distinctly elucidated.

The great principle which we have all along been labouring to bring out -namely, that human consciousness is, in every instance, an act of antagonism against some one or other of the given modifications of our natural existence-finds its strongest confirmation when we turn to the contemplation of the moral character of man. We have hitherto been considering consciousness chiefly in its relation to those modifications of our nature which are impressed upon us from without. We here found, that consciousness, when deeply scrutinised, is an act of opposition put forth against our sensations; that our sensations are invaded and impaired by an act of resistance which breaks up their monopolising domin. ion, and in the room of the sensation thus partially displaced, realises man's personality a new centre of activity known to each individual by the name "I," a word which, when rightly construed, stands as the exponent of our violation of the causal nexus of nature, and of our consequent emancipation therefrom. The complex antithetical phenomenon in which this opposition manifests itself, we found to be the fact of perception. We have now to consider consciousness in its relation to those modifications of our nature

which assail us from within; and here it will be found, that just as all perception originates in the antagonism between consciousness and our sensations, so all morality originates in the antagonism between consciousness, and the passions, desires, or inclinations of the natural man.

We shall see that, precisely as we become percipient beings, in consequence of the strife between consciousness and sensation, so do we become moral beings in consequence of the same act of consciousness exercised against our passions, and the other imperious wishes or tendencies of our nature. There is no difference in the mode of antagonism, as it operates in these two cases; only, in the one case, it is directed against what we may call our external, and, in the other, against what we may call our internal, modifications. In virtue of the displacement or sacrifice of our sensations by consciousness, each of us becomes "I"-the ego is to a certain extent evolved-and even here, something of a nascent morality is displayed-for every counteraction of the causality of nature is more or less the developement of a free and moral force. In virtue of the sacrifice of our passions by the same act, morality is more fully unfolded-this" I," that is, our personality, is more clearly and powerfully realised, is advanced to a higher potence,-is exhibited in a brighter phase and more expanded condition.

Thus we shall follow out a clue` which has been too often, if not

Sir James Mackintosh, and others, have attempted to establish a distinction between "mental" and "moral science, founded on an alleged difference between fact and duty. They state, that it is the office of the former science to teach us what is (quid est), and that it is the office of the latter to teach us what ought to be (quid oportet). But this discrimination vanishes into nought upon the slightest reflection; it either incessantly confounds and obliterates itself, or else it renders moral science an unreal and nugatory pursuit. For, let us ask, does the quid oportet ever become the quid est? does what ought to be ever pass into what is-or, in other words, is duty ever realised as fact? If it is, then the distinction is at an end. The oportet has taken upon itself the character of the est. Duty, in becoming practical, has become a fact. It no longer merely points out something which ought to be, it also embodies something which is. And thus it is transformed into the very other member of the discrimination from which it was originally contradistinguished; and thus the distinction is rendered utterly void; while "mental and "moral" science-if we must affix these epithets to philosophy-lapse into one. On the other hand, does the quid oportet never, in any degree, become the quid est-does duty never pass into fact? Then is the science of morals a visionary, a baseless, and an aimless science-a mere querulous hankering after what can never be. In this case, there is plainly no real or substantial science, except the science of facts-the science which teaches us the quid est. To talk now of a science of the quid oportet, would be to make use of unmeaning words.

always, lost hold of in the labyrinths of philosophy-a clue, the loss of which has made enquirers represent man as if he lived in distinct sections, and were an inorganic agglutination of several natures, the percipient, the intellectual, and the moral with separate principles regulating each. This clue consists in our tra cing the principle of our moral agency back into the very principle in virtue of which we become percipient beings -and in showing that in both cases it is the same act which is exertedan act, namely, of freedom or antagonism against the caused or derivative modifications of our nature. Thus, to use the language of a foreign writer, we shall at least make the attempt to cut our scientific system out of one piece, and to marshal the frittered divisions of philosophy into that organic wholeness which belongs to the great original of which they profess, and of which they ought to be the faithful copy-we mean man himself. In particular, we trust that the discovery (if such it may be called) of the principle we have just mentioned, may lead the reflective reader to perceive the inseparable connexion between psychology and moral philosophy (we should rather say their essential sameness), together with the futility of all those mistaken attempts which have have been often made to break down their organic unity into the two distinct departments of "intellectual" and "moral" science.

Another consideration connected with this principle is, that, instead of being led by it to do what many philosophers, in order to preserve their consistency, have done-instead of being led by it to observe in morality nothing but the features of a higher self-love, and a more refined sensuality, together with the absence of freewill: we are, on the contrary, led by it to note, even in the simplest act of perception, an incipient self-sacrifice, the presence of a dawning will struggling to break forth, and the aspect of an infant morality beginning to develope itself. This consideration we can only indicate thus briefly; for we must now hurry on to our point.

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We are aware of the attempts which have been made to invest our emotions with the stamp and attribute of morality but, in addition to the testimony of our own experience, we have the highest authority for holding that none of the natural feelings or modifications of the human heart partake in any degree of a moral character. We are told by revelation, and the eye of reason recognises the truth of the averment, that love itself, that is, natural love-a feeling which certainly must bear the impress of morality if any of our emotions do so;— we are told by revelation, in emphatic terms, that such love has no moral value or significance whatsoever. "If ye love them," says our Saviour, "which love you, what reward have ye? do not even the publicans the same?" To love those who love us, is natural love: and can any words quash and confound the claim of such love to rank as a moral excellence or as a moral developement more effectually than these?

"But," continues the same Divine Teacher, "I say unto you, Love your enemies;" obviously meaning, that in this kind of love, as contradistinguished from the other, a new and higher element is to be found-the element of morality-and that this kind of love is a state worthy of approbation and reward: which the other is not. Here then we find a discrimination laid down between two kinds of love:love of friends, and love of enemies: and the hinge upon which this discrimination turns is, that the character of morality is denied to the former of these, while it is acceded to the latter. But now comes the question: why is the one of these kinds of love said to be a moral state or act, and why is the other not admitted to be so? To answer this question we must look into the respective characters and ingredients of these two kinds of love.

Natural love, that is, our love of our friends, is a mere affair of temperament, and in entertaining it, we are just as passive as our bodies are when exposed to the warmth of a cheerful fire. It lies completely under the causal law; and precisely as any other

"You may understand," says S. T. Coleridge, "by insect, life in sections." By this he means that each insect has several centres of vitality, and not merely one; or that it has no organic unity, or at least no such decided organic unity as that which man possesses.

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