a special organ of which the plant (i.e. the soul) must make use if it is to flourish.' 'When organs of understanding or of reason, instruments of thinking and judging, are spoken of, we confess that we have no idea either what end such theories can serve, or what advantage there could be for the higher intellectual life in all this apparatus of instruments.' 'If every several1 atom of the central mass is capable of retaining without confusion numberless impressions, why should the soul alone, like the atom of a simple being, be incapable of doing so? Why should it alone not possess the faculty of memory and recollection in itself without the aid of a corporeal organ, when we have to concede this faculty directly and without the mediation of a new instrument to every part of the assumed organ? Nay, we must in fact make the contrary assertion that the retention and reproduction of impressions is possible, not to a number of co-operant cerebral particles, but exclusively to the soul's undivided unity.'

Thus this noted upholder of the mechanical view of nature proves by his latest work that he is none the less fundamentally a supporter of all that to which mechanism is generally regarded as being the most opposed. We will conclude with one more citation, which we think forcibly points out the essential irrationality of Hume's modern followers' first article of faith. That article of faith affirms that we have not and cannot have supreme certainty of our own continued personal existence. As to this Lotze remarks: 'Among all the errors of the human mind it has always seemed to me the strangest that it could come to doubt its own existence, of which alone it has direct experience, or to take it at second hand as the product of an external nature which we know only indirectly, only by means of the knowledge of the very mind to which we would fain deny existence." 1 Vol. i. p. 327.

A LIMIT TO EVOLUTION.

HE limit to Evolution here referred to, is the limit which

THE

some persons assert and some deny to exist between man and the lower animals. Granting, if only for argument's sake, the truth of Evolution, can man have been evolved from the lower animals, or must his origin have been due to some different action from that by which animals arose? The great difference between man and the lower animals consists not in his body, but in his mind. In order, therefore, to examine this question, we must begin by looking a little carefully into our own minds, and by examining our own acts and mental nature.

Now we all know that we perceive ourselves, other people, and a variety of objects about us. Also that we can recollect them and reason about them and express our opinions by words or signs. This is what every sane man can do in every country in the world. But besides these intellectual endowments, we have certain other powers and capacities which we ought very carefully to note.

In the first place, we have all a power of feeling (we possess sensitivity), and we have many different kinds of feelings, apart from our intellect. Thus we all have appetites and desires, which, however they may be controlled by reason, are in no way due to reason any more than are feelings of pleasure and pain, with which new-born babes and even idiots are endowed. We do not need intellect in

VOL. II.

T

order to feel hungry, or that we may make a hearty meal. We all of us have also the power of feeling special sensations, as of some colour or musical tone, or of bitterness or warinth; and feelings which have been experienced may again be reproduced in the imagination, wherein images arise which are faint reproductions of before-felt sensations.

We may next note our wonderful power of memory, not that intellectual faculty which we exercise in seeking to recall the past to mind, or by which the past flashes forth uncalled into consciousness, but that lower kind of memory, which we may distinguish as sensuous memory. This it is which enables us to perform a multitude of actions not only without the very intervention of our conscious intelligence, but so that the intervention of that intelligence may actually impair its action. We have familiar examples of this kind of memory in such acts as walking, running upstairs, playing the piano, etc. Almost every one who plays by heart knows that, if he happens to stumble in playing a familiar melody, his best plan is to turn away his mind from what he is doing and try to play it automatically. In other words, the melody is recalled by trusting entirely to that retentive sensuous memory which has become, as it were, imbedded in the nerves and muscles-the memory of the imagination.

We have, again (and this it is very important to note), a power of associating together sensations and imaginations in groups, and in groups of groups so that when one or more of the thus associated feelings is freshly experienced, all the other feelings which have become associated therewith tend to be aroused also. Examples of this habit abound. The sound of a dinner-bell, the sight of an expanded umbrella, may instantly arouse in our minds images of food or of rain. It is not only that we intellectually know that the dinner-bell calls us to dinner, and that the umbrella is probably ex

panded on account of rain; but these associated images may arise before such thoughts, and images of the kind will often persist in spite of our efforts to expel them. In hearing, after

an interval of many years, some melody of early days, very vivid images may be aroused. The old man may become in imagination a youth once more, and seem to feel his feeble limbs again treading the rhythmical measures of the waltz and his arm sustaining the pressure of a form dear to his memory. Thus we come to have those complex associations of pleasurable or painful feelings which we call senuous emotions, some of which may be occasionally aroused in us apart from the exercise of our reason.

We have, moreover, not only these pleasurable and painful feelings. We also possess an innate spontaneous tendency to rest in, or to pursue and plunge deeper into, whatever we find to be pleasurable, and also to avoid whatever is painful.

Again, when we act, we have a certain vague feeling of our self-activity. Our intellectual consciousness of what we may be doing is not here referred to, but that feeling which accompanies our actions when our attention is quite turned away from them-as when we walk unconsciously along, immersed in thought. It is plain that we do have this feeling, for if our progress is accelerated by something external-as a gust of wind-we immediately have a different and contrasted feeling. We have, indeed, a feeling of our passivity as well as of our activity; a power of feeling (apart from the intellect), the violent action upon us of anything external, and therefore a power of feeling (as well as of intellectual perceiving) a difference between our activity and our passivity-i.e. a feeling resulting from that difference.

If we draw a chain across our hand, we have feelings which correspond with the succession of its parts as they pass, and a feeling corresponding with the termination of

that succession when the motion has come to an end. It is the same in hearing a series of sounds and seeing a series of objects in a line. In each case we have feelings corresponding with the succession of the things felt, and in each case the feelings are themselves successive. In so far, then, as there is a physical resemblance between series of things felt, there is a resemblance between the feelings they induce. There is, indeed, no feeling of succession itself. 'Succession is only apprehended by our intellect. But, nevertheless, there is a distinct set of feelings which are severally connected with different orders of succeeding things. Just in the same way, in exploring any solid object with our eyes and hands, we have the intellectual perception of its three dimensions of length, breadth, and thickness; but we also have a number of feelings of touch, of pressure, of movements of arms and fingers, etc., and thus we come to have a group or plexus of feelings corresponding with the extension. of the object felt, together with feelings corresponding with its limits—that is, with the felt terminations of its extension. Thus, also, we come to have certain plexuses or groups of feelings corresponding with the shapes of bodies; and we also get feelings corresponding with the sizes of bodies, according as they force us to extend our arms or fingers more or less widely to embrace them, or to move our head and eyes more or less extensively to survey them. Similarly, by the singleness of impressions, or by their multitude (as in a sharp hailstorm), we come to have feelings related to the unity or multiplicity, and others corresponding with the motion and cessation of motion (or rest) of the bodies which affect our senses.

Again, we experience a certain feeling of shock when, upon the occurrence of some sensations, other sensations different from those which association has connected with the former come unexpectedly upon us. Let us suppose