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cannot be wholly indifferent to those by whom that common nature is shared.

What is every language but a proof of the agency of that feeling which makes it delightful to us to speak and to listen, because it is delightful to us to make our thoughts pass into other hearts, or to share the thoughts of those other hearts? We use speech, indeed, in its vulgar offices, to express to each other the want of bodily accommodations, which can be mutually supplied by those who know each other's necessities; and, as a medium by which these wants can instantly be made known, it is, in these vulgar offices, unquestionably, an instrument of the highest convenience, even though it were incapable of being adapted to any other purpose. But how small a part of that language, which is so eloquent an interpreter of every thought and feeling, is employed for this humble end! If we were to reflect on all those gracious communications, and questions, and answers, and replies, that, in a little society of friends, form, for a whole day, a happiness which nothing else could give, the few words significant of mere bodily wants would, perhaps, scarcely be remembered, in our retrospect of an eloquence that was expressive of wants of a very different kind, of that social impulse, which, when there are others around who can partake its feelings, makes it almost impossible for the heart, whether sad or sprightly, to be sad or sprightly alone, and to which no event is little, the communication of which can be the expression of regard. In that infinite variety of languages which are spoken by the nations dispersed on the surface of the earth, there is one voice which animates the whole, a voice which, in every country and every time, and in all the changes of barbarism and civilization, still utters a truth, the first to which the heart has assented, and the last which it can ever lose,-the voice of our social nature bringing its irresistible testimony to the force of that universal sympathy, which has found man every where, and preserves him every where, in the community of mankind.

I have said, that the mere presence of a human being is sufficient to give him a sort of interest in our wishes, except in cases where there is some fear to counteract the affection that is thus formed; and I have made this exception, to guard you against the fallacy of the theory, which by dwelling on the cases that form the exceptions only, and omitting all notice of the happier feelings that are universal and original, would represent the natural state of man, of him who exists only as he has been an object of affection,—as a state of mutual hostility, in which every individual is at war with every other individual. Of this theory, which, if not first stated, was at least first developed fully, by Hobbes,-I cannot but think, that it would be idle to offer any elaborate confutation, and that the attention which has been paid to it by philosophers, is far greater than it deserves. We need but think of the state in which man is born,-of the fondness of the parent for the child,—of the child for the parent,-of that affection which binds a whole family together, -to perceive, that all individuals, who are only those very members of the families which we have been considering, cannot, in any state of society, be the foes of all, or even indifferent to their mutual interests; since in that case, the whole race of mankind must have ceased to exist before the period at which they could be capable of existing, even in a state of war. Every one, it is said, is born to war with every one! But where are these natural combatants to be found? The army which Cadmus raised from the earth, arose indeed only to combat and to perish in mutual destruction ;-but they

rose vigorous and ready armed. Man is not, in the circumstance of his birth, like those fabulous monsters that sprung, in his mere outward semblance, from the serpent's teeth ;-he is the offspring of love, and his mind is as different as his origin. If he be born to war with man, he must be preserved for years, when his warfare may be effectual :-and where is he to be found in those years of weakness that intervene ?-In looking for the natural combatants who are to be brought upon the stage of blood, where can the sophist hope to find them,-unless he look for them among those whom peace and affection have previously been nurturing? Wherever he finds hate he must find a love that has preceded it. The state of nature, if it have reference to the infancy of each individual, has reference, therefore, to a period, which, instead of enmity, exhibits, perhaps, the strongest and purest example which could be imagined of disinterested love; and, if it have any other meaning than as significant of those original feelings, amid which every individual of all the tribes of mankind has been bred and sustained, it must relate as much to one state of society as to another. All states in which man can exist, must be alike states that are natural to him; and if man was always what he is now, he was, surely, even in the most savage state, not a foe merely, for that is only one of his relations, and an accidental one,-but a child, a brother, a father, a member of a tribe, a pitier of the sorrows of others, even though he might occasionally, under the influence of some passing resentment, inflict sufferings, which, if he had seen them inflicted by another, he would probably have hastened to relieve.

What, then, is the state of nature,-the state of nature of parents, sons, brothers, and tribesmen,-in which this enmity of all against all is supposed? It is very evident, that to make it such a state as may be consistent with the false theory of society which we are considering, we must not think of man as he is, or as he has ever been known to be. We must take away all the feelings of domestic regard, which are visible wherever he is to be found. Fathers, mothers, children, must be as indifferent to each other, as if no common relation had united them; nay, they must be willing to sacrifice, without compunction, the existence of any one of these, for the most trifling personal advantage ;-the pity which we now feel so readily for the distress. even of our very enemies, must, in that case, be absolutely unknown to us, even when the sufferer is she who gave us birth. Is this a state of the na

ture of man? or have we not rather, as has been truly said, in making this very conception, supposed the nature of man to be destroyed? and, while we have preserved the same external form, substituted, for the mild nature of that which animates this form, the ferocious nature of some untameable beast, which makes no distinction of the hand that caresses, and the hand that strikes, which breathes only carnage, and feels a sort of irritation, and almost anger, at the sight of every thing which lives? Of such a being so animated, this may be the natural state, but it is not the state of nature of man. The feelings which Nature most powerfully impresses on him,-the first impressions which she makes on his heart,-are sentiments of love; and if those first and most powerful feelings, which are as universal as the race of man, the original feelings of every individual that lives, or has lived, can be truly said to be natural feelings, to continue to exist as in this first state of nature, would be to exist with only affection in the heart, and with expressions of this affection in every look and word.

But we put bars and locks upon our gates,—we carry arms,—we make

laws to direct the power of the state against injustice, we have prisons and executioners. Is this formidable apparatus, it will be said, a part of a system of love? or, does it not rather prove, that man trembles at the thought of the power of man,—as he trembles at the thought of some pestilence, and takes measures of precaution for guarding against infection, and for curing it, or preventing the farther spreading of it, if infection has taken place?

It will be admitted, that these contrivances of offence and defence are not a part of the 'system of contrivances of universal and never-failing love; but, on the contrary, are indicative of a fear which implies the possibility of enmity in others, or at least of injustice, which, though it may imply no personal hatred, is, in its effects on us, the same as enmity. But while these instruments of preservation from possible aggression are admitted to be proofs of one set of feelings in man, of feelings which no defender of the general social nature of man has ever attempted to deny, as a part of that mixed constitution of good and bad for which alone he contends,-it may be asked, in like manner, whether the domestic affections, and the general sympathies of our nature, which exist as widely as laws, and have in every case preceded them-whether all the institutions for the relief of the ignorant, and the poor, and the diseased, are proofs of any natural enmity of man to man? Injustice may, indeed, be prevalent, but compassion is surely not less so; and are we to find proofs of universal enmity in a love that is as universal as human sorrow?

"That Virtue known

By the relenting look, whose equal heart
For others feels, as for another self;

Of various name, as various objects wake,
Warm into action, the kind sense within:

Whether the blameless poor, the nobly maim'd,

The lost to reason, the declin'd in life';

The helpless young, that kiss no mother's hand,
And the grey second infancy of age,

She gives in public families to live,-
A sight to gladden Heaven."

We are surely not to think of man as only a prisoner or a jailer; we must think of him too as one, who, if he suffers, receives relief from those who have no interest in relieving him, except that of their compassion itself; or who himself, with as little expectation of personal advantage, relieves whatever sufferings may come beneath his view. The truth is, that man has desires of various kinds, malevolent as well as benevolent; that, on whatever period of society we may choose to fix, we shall always find many who are disposed to invade the rights of others, and who, in consequence of this mere possibility of aggression, render necessary all those general precautions, and the occasional punishments of which Hobbes speaks ;-while at the same time, we shall be equally certain of finding many, who not merely are without the inclination of invading the rights of others, but who gladly make sacrifices of their own personal comfort for their relief. That the state of society, therefore, when there are multitudes comprehended in it, is not a state of unmixed friendship or enmity, unmixed virtue or vice, but a state that is mixed of both ;-that the first affections, however, the affections which, if there be any that peculiarly deserve the name of natural, have surely the highest claim to that distinction,-are uniformly those of

love;-and that while all must, in infancy, have felt this tie, which bound them to some other breast, it is only a part of mankind over whom those malignant passions, which can be said to be indicative of enmity, or even that injustice, which is indicative of indifference to others, rather than malignity, can be said to have any sway. We have all loved, and continued to love; we have not all hated, and continued to hate;-certainly, at least, we have not given way to our hatred, as we have yielded our whole soul to the delightful emotions of benevolence.

Even the most unjust and malignant of mankind, it must be remembered, do not lose their love of society. They have their friends, or at least those to whom they give that name, without any suspicion that they are using an inappropriate expression. They would hate to be alone, as much as other people, even though they had no guilty remembrances, which made it doubly necessary for them to be amused. They must still flatter themselves, that they enjoy what they are not capable of enjoying,-the delights of that cordial intercourse, which is sacred to the good. These delights, indeed-the remembrance of consolations received, and of virtues strengthened, the mutual esteem, the mutual trust, the mutual veneration,-they as little can possess, as they can enjoy the pleasures of conscience, with no remembrances but those of guilt. Yet, though the reality of the social regard of others is denied to them, and though even if, in some singular instance, it were truly to be given to them, it would be impossible for them to put confidence in a friendship which they would know that they had not merited, and, therefore, could not fail to distrust,-they can still at least have the riot and the laughter, and as much of the appearance of social affection, as is consistent with perfect indifference, or perfect hatred at heart; and the riot and the laughter they must have, or be still more miserable than they are. The love of that society, which they have so deeply injured, is thus fixed in their heart, as it is fixed in every heart;--and what proof could be stronger of its irresistible power? In the very prison, to which the indignation of mankind has driven them, as to the only place which their presence could not pollute,--amid wretches, as little worthy as themselves, of a single thought of momentary affection,—they still feel the influence of that principle which makes the presence of man necessary to the comfort of man, as, in better circumstances, it is necessary to his happiness. They must mingle with each other, though they have no plans of guilty co-operation to concert. It is still something in their dismal loneliness to have one, who may laugh at their blasphemies, and at whose blasphemies they may smile in return; and to him, who has never known what friendship is, who has only crimes of which to speak, or crimes of which to hear, it is not a relief, but a heavy additional punishment, to be separated from wretches as guilty and miserable as himself, from wretches who would as gladly, or more gladly, assist in putting his shackles on, as they would assist in releasing him; and who, he knows well, will not laugh less loudly on that day when he is to be led forth to terminate, amid public execrations, his dreadful existence.

Such is the desire of social communion in man;-a desire, which no habitual penance of solitude, no perfection of virtue, no perfection of vice, if I may use that phrase, can efface from the heart; a desire, the existence of which is not more forcibly demonstrated by all that leads man to mingle with man in happy society, than by the most miserable intercourse, which the wretched can form-by the feelings which continue to operate, VOL. II.

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when only guilt is congregated with guilt; and which make of that very prison, to which Hobbes would lead us for a demonstration that man is born only to be regardless of man, or hostile to him, the most irresistible demonstration of that great truth of social connexion, which he would vainly adduce it to disprove.

The next of our desires which we have to consider, is our desire of knowledge.

When we think of what man is, not in his faculties only, but in his intellectual acquisitions, and of what he must have been, on his entrance into the world, as much in the state of society which is most civilized, as in the rudest state of savage life, it is difficult for us to regard this knowledge and absolute ignorance as states of the same mind. It seems to us almost as if we had to consider a spiritual creation or transformation, as wondrous as if, in contemplating the material universe, we were to strive to think of the whole system of suns and planets, as evolved from a mere particle of matter, or rising from nothing, as when originally created. We believe that they were so created, and we know that man, comprehensive as his acquirements are, must have set out in his intellectual career from absolute ignorance; but how difficult is it for us to form any accurate conception of what we thus undoubtingly believe! The mind, which is enriched with as many sciences as there are classes of existing things in the universe, which our organs are able to discern, and which, not content with the immensity of existence, forms to itself sciences even of abstractions, that do not exist as objects in nature, and that cannot exist in nature,--the mind, which is skilled in all the languages of all the civilized nations of the globe, and which has fixed and treasured in its own remembrance, the beauties of every work of transcendent genius, which age after age has added to the stores of antiquity-this mind, we know well, was once as ignorant as the dullest and feeblest of those minds, which scarcely know enough, even to wonder at its superiority.

But without taking into our consideration the rich endowments of a mind like this, let us think only of one of those humble minds to which I have alluded. How vast are the acquirements even of a mind of this humble rank,—and acquirements, too, which a few years, that may be said almost to be years of infancy and apparent imbecility, have formed! Indeed, if all human science were to be divided, as Rousseau says, into two portions, the one comprehending what is common to all mankind, and the other only that stock of truths, which is peculiar to the wise and learned, he can scarcely be regarded as delivering a very extravagant paradox, in asserting, that this latter portion, which is the subject of so much pride, would seem very trifling in comparison of the other. But of this greater portion, we do not think, as he truly says, partly because the knowledge which it comprehends is acquired so very early, that we scarcely remember the acquisition of it, and still more, perhaps, because since knowledge becomes remarkable only by its differences, the elements that are common in all, like the common quantities in algebraic equations, are counted as nothing.

When we think, however, of the elements that are truly contained in this portion of knowledge, which the humblest of mankind partakes,-how much is involved in the possession and mastering even of one language, in the accurate adaptation of each arbitrary sign to the thing signified, and the adaptation, not merely of the signs of things to the things themselves, but of the nicer inflections of the signs to the faint and abstract relations of objects!

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