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you gaze, or in the chiselled marble that with serene, calm feature stands and looks upon you, all motionless, all passionless, yet as if cognizant of your inmost being, -an ideal presence drawing you to itself as by a species of enchantment, till a mysterious sympathy springs up between you and it,—this too is wonderful,—this, and the art that can do this. And yet one thing is more so,—the mind that can contrive and execute this work of art. So is it also, with human language. Take that grandest and most

. majestic of them all, the Hebrew; take that richest and most finished of them all, the Greek. You have that which may well receive, as it well deserves your closest study, and your warmest admiration. But after all, is it not chiefly interesting as one of the productions of the human mind, illustrating the laws, and developing the hidden structure of that mind? The richness, the affluence, the elegance, the exactness, the beauty, of what are these the qualities? Where did they dwell ? In the Greek language, or in the Greek mind ? Which is, of the two, the more wonderful and worthy of study, the statue, obelisk, cathedral, with its solemn aisle, and overhanging dome, or the mind that devised and wronght out these things, that saw them when as yet they were not, saw them in all their perfectness as they were to be ?—which of the two, the instrument, or the instrument-maker ? — which of the two, the Greek language, or the Greek mind, that called into being and use such an instrument of speech? And of which is the science most noble and most worthy of regard ?

I admire the genius of a Kepler, a Copernicus, a Newton. I sympathize with their enthusiasm as they develop the laws, and study the movements of the heavenly bodies. I look through the telescope, not without a feeling of awe, as it seems to lift me up, and bear me away into the infinite, and bring me near those stately orbs that beyond the ken of human vision dwell in the silence and unbroken stillness of their own eternity. But there is one thing which fills my whole being with yet a deeper awe and reverence than even those majestic orbs ;that is, the mind that from this, its lowly dwelling on the earth, in all the weakness and the ignorance of its earthly condition, looking out afar into those clear deep spaces, can by patient observation, discover the hidden laws, and spell out the complicated movements of that vast and busy orrery of worlds.

An importance attaches to the science of mind, if we consider, in the second place, its connection with the past, its historic associations. Many of the sciences justly regarded as important, are of comparatively recent date. This is true indeed of most of the natural sciences. Geology, Physical Geography, Zoology, Botany, Physiology, Chemistry, are of no remote origin. It is scarcely half a century since some of them began to assume a strictly scientific form. Go back a few hundred years, and you find the stateliest and most assuming of them either wholly lost in uncertainty of origin, or running out into fanciful and absurd speculations. Astronomy, a mathematical and not a physical science, may be regarded as an exception to this rule. Yet what was even Astronomy, before Copernicus, and the telescope, and the sixteenth, or even the seventeeth century ? Many important facts bad indeed been observed and registered before, but the science in anything like its present exactness, and completeness, can scarcely go back to the middle ages. The science of number, and quantity, being, as I have already said, more purely a creation of the mind, was of much earlier origin, and was already fixed in its general principles, and settled on a firm basis, almost at the outset of ancient civilization. But no inquiries were of earlier origin among men, than those pertaining to subjects purely metaphysical. Go back as far as you will toward the Orient, toward the first dawn of a rude and imperfect civilization, you still find men busying themselves with the great problems that to this day remain unsettled. The earliest speculations of the human mind, its first attempts to get beyond the little sphere of activity that immediately surrounded it, and the narrow domain, of sense, seem to have assumed this direction Chaldean and Egyptian shepherds, watching their flocks by night, observed the starry heavens, and recorded the movements of the changing constellations. But long ere that, bad the question arisen, and been intently pondered by many a reflecting and observing mind, whence came those nightly luminaries, and whence this fair earth, and what its origin, and what the soul of it, and whence and what am I, and my race. These questions, and such as these, what are they, but the very rudiments and ground work of philosophy.

It has been said by an ingenious writer, that the man who first discovered that dry wood could be set on fire, deserves to be regarded as the first philosopher. We would by no means detract from the merits of that truly brilliant discovery. The man who made it, certainly deserves a medal, and a monument. And yet we are by no means sure that the palm of original discovery does not rather belong to that other man, who first discovered that there is such a thing as wood, and that it is distinct and different from himself—in other words, that there is matter, and also mind; each subject to its own proper laws, and manner of being. And this I presume must have been ? somewhat early discovery in the history of the race.

Indeed, we can hardly imagine a state of human society and civilization so primitive and rude, as to lie back of all inquiry and thought as to the causes and philosophy of things. Far enough from the truth may have been those primitive hypotheses and speculations, wide of the mark, not unlikely, those primitive inquiries, and laborious patient investigations; but they were the foundations and first beginnings of a science that probably goes further back into antiquity, and has engaged the attention of a greater number of thoughtful, earnest minds since the creation of the world, than any other that can be named. And from the day when such inquiries first presented themselves to the first reflecting and inquiring mind, from that age to this, what earnest reaching forth and striving to grasp the true, the unknown, the infinite, to learn a little of the hidden causes of things, to lift up a little in some way the impenetrable veil that shuts down about us here, and obtain a glimpse of the fair realms that lie beyond.

The student of astronomy, as he watches the heavenly bodies, is carried back to the past, and filled with peculiar emotion, as he remembers that on these same constellations which he now beholds, other eyes fixed their earnest gaze, in those years when the earth was young; beheld them then, as he beholds them now,—Orion, there, and Pleiades, and Taurus, and the varied host; and so in like manner is the student of philosophy linked with remotest ages, and associated with the greatest and richest historic names and periods, when he meditates upon

those themes which have tasked the human mind from the beginning, on which the mighty Stagy rite discoursed, walking to and fro, with his disciples, and the noble-souled Plato, and Plato's great master, and the still earlier Groeks of the Asiatic colonies, whose works are mostly lost in the confusion of the ages, and the wreck of time, but who meditated, and doubted, and believed, and taught, upon the very same problems which engage the attention of the student at the present day. He that would hold converse with the noblest spirits of the past, must frequent the paths and explore the fields which were their favorite resort.

The importance of mental science is evident further, from its intimate connection with our own interests, and personal destinies—some sciences interest us as abstractions, merely speculative systems of truth; some as realities, and facts, but of such a nature, so remote from humanity, and the coñmon wants of the race, as to make little appeal to the heart and soul of a man. We are interested in mathematical truth, as in a finely cut and beautiful crystal, every part finished and perfect, just as it existed from of old, before man was upon the earth, or there was any intelligence save that of the Creator to contemplate its beauty. What connection have those eternal and unchangable truths with man and his affairs. They would have been equally true had he never existed. We observe the movements of the heavenly bodies, but feel as we so do that those orbs are far beyond us, having no relation to us, ignorant of us, keeping their stately progress even as they moved ages ago, and as they will


hence. What have we to do with them, or they with us? We watch them as they hold their course through the deep firmament, as children standing on the shore watch the distant moving sail that glides silently along the horizon—so far, so beautiful, so still. Even thus sail those swift ships of the firmament on the wide sea above us, and only He who built them, and who guides their course, knows their history.

But when we come to the study of ourselves, the laws of our own intelligence and consciousness, the problems of our own being and destiny, our investigations assume a practical importance and interest which pertain to no other departments of truth. It is no longer the distant star in the heavens, shining where God placed it ages ago, no longer the sail dimly visible on the far horizon, but our own conscious being, that is the object of our thought. The question is no longer, whence comes that swift ship, whither goes it, what · bears it; but what am I, and whither going, and what freight bear I, myself a swift sailing ship on this ever flowing sea of time,—what is my destination, and what my history ? This mysterious soul which animates me, and is the presiding divinity over all my actions, what is it, with all its faculties-reason, imagination, memory, sense—these varied powers and laws of my being? What is that wonderful change that passes over me, when, no longer in communion with the external world, I am still conscious of existence, and the busy thoughts are active still—that state which men call sleep? And what is that still more dread and mysterious change that must soon pass upon methat which men call death ?. How is it that objects, and events, remote in time and space, come back to the mind with all the freshness and reality of the passing moment? What is that principle of my nature that presumes to place itself in opposition to all my inclinations and passions, and lifting its reproving finger, say to me thou shalt, and thou shalt not; and which, when I disobey this command, pursues my steps like a vindictive angel, tracks me over the wide world, fills my whole soul with misery, my whole future being with

What mean I by that little word,--duty,--what by that little word,-ought,--that connects itself so often, and so closely with my pursuits, and my happiness ? Ought what, and why ought, and to whom ought? Am I free, or am I under the chain of stern inevitable fate? Are all my actions predetermined, and by whom; if not, then where is Diety, and that superintending Providence that


men say governs all things; if they are, then what can I do other than what is already determined, and so being no longer free, how is it that I am responsible? What power and control have I, in a word, over these restless powers and passions of my own moral being ?

These are grave questions. Who shall solve me these problems? Who shall tell me what I am, and what I am to be? Who sball read me this strange inexplicable riddle of human life? Whether it can solve them, or not, these are the questions and the problems, that mental philosophy discusses, and we perceive at a glance their direct and practical bearing on the great interests and personal wants of man as an individual.

The importance of a thorough acquaintance with mental science appears furthermore from its intimate connection with many of the practical pursuits and sciences. It may be said to underlie many of the most important of these pursuits and professions. Even theology, the noblest and highest of all sciences, because conversant with the noblest and highest themes, while at the same time most practical, is itself in a peculiar sense based upon the science of mind. Our philosophy always and of necessity underlies our theology, and shapes in some measure its character, as the solid strata that lie unseen beneath the surface give direction, and figure, and altitude to the mountain range. The facts, the individual truths, the general data, are indeed given, revealed in nature, and in the divine word ;—but not the system, not the science; these are to be constructed out of the materials given, by the thinking, reflecting mind, for itself. The stars are in the heavens, and the flowers are in the fields, but, it is for man to arrange and classify them, and not till he has done this for himself, has he a science of astronomy, and of botany. It is precisely so with the science of divine truth. Now it is in part, at least, the office of philosophy to gather, arrange and classify the great truths which God has scattered abroad in nature and in revelation. It falls properly within her sphere. She has, to say the least, a voice in the arrangement, and is entitled to be heard. Not to speak of the very idea which we form of the divine being, borrowed as it is, and must necessarily be, from our previous idea of the human mind, and of our own spiritual existence,—not to speak of the several modes of argument by which we seek to establish, in natural theology, the primary doctrine of the existence of God,—what questions I may ask go deeper into the groundwork of any and every theological system, than those pertaining to the freedom of the will, -the government of the affections, inclinations, and passions of the human soul,-man's power over himself, to make himself other and better than he is, to do what he has no dis

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