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long, I would here have said something of the singing of birds in the night. I shall only remark briefly, that a great er number of species sing in the night than is commonly imagined. The nightingale has usually engrossed all the praise; but besides it, the reedsparrow, the wood-lark, the sky-lark, the white-throat, and the waterousel, sing all night in England. The mock-birds, also, both of our own country, and the celebrated American mimic of the grove, may be added to the number. A species of finch,

rious observers of nature Britain ever produced. (See his Nat. Hist. of Selborne, I. 74.) Quere, Does the sedgebird like pelting, as Russian females are said to like the discipline of the knout?

If you think this New-Year's-Day epistle readable, you may perhaps hear from me soon again. I am, &c. Pag

Selborne, Jan. 1st, 1819.

(Loxia enucleator, LINN.) common in A WORD IN FAVOUR OF OUR FUTURE

the pine forests of Hudson's Bay, and sometimes seen in the North of Seotland, enlivens the summer nights with its song. We may likewise subjoin to the catalogue the land-rail, or corncraik, the partridge, grouse, and Guinea fowl, which utter their peculiar cries in the night, as well as in the day. Perhaps many more species than I have enumerated sing in the night. Captain Cook, when off the coast of New Zealand, says, "We were charmed the whole night with the songs of innumerable species of birds from the woods which beautify the shores of this unfrequented island." (Voyages, Vol. I.) A very anomalous instance of a bird singing in the night fell under my own observation. On the night of the 6th April 1811, about ten o'clock, I heard a hedge-sparrow in a garden go through its usual more than a dozen of times, faintly, indeed, but very distinct. The night was cold and frosty, but might not the little musician be dreaming of summer and sunshine? We have Dryden's authority for making the conjecture, as he says,

song

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If any account can be given of the reason why birds sing, it may, perhaps, be said to be an expression of joy, or of agreeable feelings. This is countenanced by the analogous instance of cats purring when they are pleased, and the house cricket chirruping while it basks on the warm hearth. But neither this explanation, nor the poetical hypothesis, will account for the sedge-bird being roused to sing by throwing a stone into the bush where it is, as was remarked by our countryman, Mr White, one of the most cu

PROSPECTS; OR, AN ANSWER TO
THE QUESTION, WHAT ARE THE
PROBABLE EFFECTS OF INCREAS
ING KNOWLEDGE ON THE CONDI→
TION OF SOCIETY?

WHILE divines are continually la-
menting the influence of sense, and
the grosser interests of the lower
world, over the actions of men; and
while moralists are perpetually depre
cating those aberrations of conduct
which arise from the predominance of
passion over reason; there is a set of
refined philosophiste who strive to
alarm us, on the ground, that passion
and sentiment are about to forsake us;
and who ascribe the present dearth of
sublime conceptions, and all that is
little in human conduct, to the en-
grossing and abstracting influence of
the Christian religion. The formern
complain bitterly of the obstinacy of
our low earthly affections and attach-
ments; the latter of the extinction of
enthusiasm; and, from the channel
which human aspirations have long
taken, they express their fear that
the soul of man may become dwarfish,
that men may remain without great
hopes or aims of any kind, and that
they may content themselves with
heartlessly sneering at all that is
noble or worthy in action or preten
sion. Now, although we do not mean
to take the same easy and vulgar me-
thod of getting at truth, which mer-
cantile arbitrators resort to for getting
at right, which, in most cases, is to
divide the difference, we must say,
that the truth here must lie some-
where between the two extremes. 237
We do not agree, exactly, either with 1/
the divines or the philosophers. But
we concede to the one, that much evil
has arisen from ungoverned passion,
and ill-regulated enthusiasm, and to

the other, that there are, and have been, men deficient in warmth, earnestness, sincerity; and that persons with cold hearts, and peevish tempers, have occasioned no little mischief. Yet we see no reason for apprehending an exhaustion of sympathy, or an extinction of that curiosity which is commonly designated a thirst for knowledge. Were men immortal, there might be room for listening to such fears; but as the generations of men are renewed once, at least, in 30 years, and as each individual has to commence life, and acquire knowledge for himself, there is little risk, we think, that, during the small span of human existence, any one shall exhaust all that may be known of himself, and of the natural and moral phenomena with which he is encompassed. Innumerable events are constantly springing up, of which the causes are not at once discernible. The causes of many other events are altogether inscrutable. The progress of science is unbounded; and, to improvement in the arts, no limits can ever be assigned. Ample and unbounded fields are thus laid open for the exercise of intellect; but, although all that is in the external world, and beyond man himself, were exhausted, the moralist, or the Christian, has a never-failing subject of care and study in his own heart. His aspirations after what is pure and good; with the self-abasement which arises from a conscious ness of daily short-comings and errors, without saying any thing of guilt, are sufficient, not only to keep him alive, but on the alert; to compel him to mix humility with his pride; to induce him to be tolerant and kind to others, from the conviction that he, himself, stands in need of forbearance and forgiveness. Man, we conceive, can never cease to meet with, or to feel, what is novel; the principle of curiosity which is excited at the very threshhold of life, can never be extinguished. But, supposing for a moment that it could; there would still remain in the human constitution so many sources of pleasures and pains, that no one could feel a want of interest or zest in his individual existence. Man is a corporeal as well as an intellectual being; from his cradle to his grave he is susceptible of animal wants, and capable of animal enjoyments. The pains and pleasures which he

feels in consequence of the gratification or non-gratification of his various senses, can be extinguished only with life itself; nor do they cease to be of importance at any age of the individual, or in any stage of society. To these, too, must be added, the still more numerous pains and pleasures of sympathy, morals, and religion. Savages, even, are not placed entirely beyond the reach of sympathy. The social or sympathetic principle is operative, less or more, in all the stages of civilization; while in refined society it exerts a mighty influence over the conduct and habits of men. In civilized life the moral desires become a complete match for the animal appetites; for although the latter are never altogether eradicated, they are subdued, regulated, and often suppressed by the former. We are as naturally desirous of a good name,of the regard, approbation, and esteem of others, as of food and clothing; and we will deny ourselves as much, place ourselves under as many restraints, and make as many sacrifices and exertions for the one as for the other. We cannot help giving to others a portion of our good-will, nor can we avoid desiring a share in the friendship and of the good-services of others. Every one is anxious to secure what has been called the popular sanction. From being interpreters, men become regulators of the conduct of each other. The expressed and recorded opinions of the best and wisest of men, as to what line of conduct is most worthy and honourable, have an incredible influence over the conduct of contemporary men, and succeeding generations; and although the actions of individuals may differ in some degree according to temper, habits, and means of knowledge, yet the opinions of all have a mighty power in regulating the conduct of all.

These remarks appear to us to contain a key to the whole argument. The questions at issue are only two. The first is, Whether an increase of knowledge has a tendency to increase the influence of prospective considerations over conduct? The second is, Whether this influence can be much extended without extinguishing curiosity, repressing enthusiasm too far, and depriving life of its requisite interest? To the first we answer unhesitatingly, that knowledge

has the desirable effect pointed at in the question and to the second, we answer, that, generally speaking, and on the whole, the influence of knowledge will be salutary, and that so far from extinguishing the principles and feelings alluded to, it will always have too much to do, to restrain them within due bounds. There is in the nature and constitution of man a most ample provision for the support of sympathy, passion, enthusiasm, and moral and religious feeling, from the earliest to the latest stage of his existence; and although the proportions and quantities may vary in different individuals, and although in certain states and stages of society, some of these may be more encouraged or discouraged than at other periods, it is yet impossible that any one of them can be extinguished, but with the extinction of the human race. Society may at one time exhibit too much of what is selfish, in the worst sense of the word, and may in some respects encourage, in expression at least, an indirence to all that is liberal and generous; but the universal complaints against such a condition of things, prove to us that it cannot be lasting, and that there is a principle in our nature sufficient to generate the requisite correcting power. The advocates of universal selfishness and degradation push their argument so far, that it destroys itself. For supposing them right in reducing all human motives to a constant desire to avoid pain and secure pleasure; and that this motive, into which all the rest are resolvable, is a selfish one, what is gained by them? They must and do allow, that this motive has reference to one set of pleasures and pains that are sensual and self-regarding; and to another set that are moral, and that arise out of our regard for others. The latter class lead us to be kind and affectionate to our relatives, attached and useful to our friends; patriotic in reference to our country; philanthropic towards mankind at large; and pious to our God. Whatever quarrelling or quibbling there may be about words, therefore, it is quite clear, that there are motives which, when transformed into actions, appear in the garb, and with the accompaniments of generosity, benevolence, and goodness. And as selfishness is the name commonly

given to that quality, which is opposed to the qualities now mentioned, it is quite absurd to say that selfishness can, at the same time, be itself and its opposite. It is thus obviously owing to the imperfections of language that reasoners perplex and entangle themselves, and arrive so frequently at contradictory conclusions. But when we attend to objects and consequences, we have no difficulty in perceiving that there is a class of pleasures and pains that may be justly termed animal and selfish; and another that may, with equal justice, be termed social, moral, and generous. Nor is it less true, as every one may have experienced, that it is possible to repress the former, and to cultivate and strengthen the latter. There is still another class of pleasures and pains, we mean, the intellectual, which may be termed neutral, arising from the successful or unsuccessful exercise of the mental faculties. These, it is true, may be exercised either selfishly or benevolently; but the term neutral is probably more appropriate, since there are few who have not felt pleasure in employing their intellectual powers, without reference either to their own interest or the interest of others. Here, then, is another provision for maintaining an interest in existence, abstractedly almost from all the external circumstances of fortune. There is a consciousness of dignity and of power in our intellectual exercises that yields to the thinking few a compensation for the want of more vulgar enjoyments; and it is fortunately ordered, that while all may partake more or less of these intellectual pleasures, the habit of attending to these makes individuals more and more susceptible of prospective considerations. But there is no room for apprehending, that by this means men will be too much abstracted from the ordinary business of life, or emancipated altogether from the influence of passion.

It is impossible that the mass of society can long remain indifferent concerning its best interests, or be long without manifesting some symptoms of strong passion and feeling. In the moral, as in the natural, world, we may have a calm after a storm; but the elements that warred in the tempest remain unbroken. These elements may occasionally pass from a

dangerous agitation to a no less dangerous stagnation; but they may be combined so as to produce nothing but a healthy activity. Individuals, among men, have, indeed, a precarious existence, but their reason and principle may be perpetuated for ever. Each must acquire knowledge for himself; but the labours and discoveries of one may increase the facilities of acquisition in another. The knowledge of one generation is recorded and transmitted to that which succeeds it; and thus it is possible at least, for each succeeding generation to be wiser than its precursor. In the arts and sciences, we have no hesitation, from what we have seen of the steam-engine, cotton-machinery, gas-light, and other modern inventions, in asserting that knowledge is power. In morals, though not equally obvious, the proposition is no less true. If, by cultivation, the natural soil is brought to support plants and mature fruit that would not otherwise have taken root in it, so, in the moral soil, virtues are generated, nourished, and brought to maturity by cultivation, which otherwise would never have appeared in the human constitution. To be satisfied of this, we have only to compare the society of England with that of the Indians of North America, or of any other semi-barbarous people. The elements of the soil are, no doubt, every where the same; but the products differ immensely both in value and variety. Differences of the same nature are sufficiently observable as they are exhibited in different individuals among ourselves; and although some of these varieties may be explained, by adverting to radical distinctions, enough of them for our purpose may be account ed for by the differences in their moral education and discipline. The tone of feeling and temper of mind are greatly modified and affected, if not altogether moulded, by early education and society. We do not say that early associations are every thing; but we contend that the power of moral restraint, the degree of moral responsibility, the good faith, probity, and principle in the character, depend greatly upon them. Knowledge of men and things increases the relations of the sentient being; and, as his relations are increased, so generally are his moral perceptions, feelings, ties,

YOL IV.

and obligations. The moral influence, the sense of duty, may thus be rendered so strong as habitually to subdue and regulate the passions and appetites. This is seldom admitted in its full extent by divines, while it seems to be carried too far, on the other hand, by certain ingenious speculators in philosophy. To our minds, the principles we have endeavoured to illustrate, which are the principles of human nature, present a rather flattering prospect respecting the future fortunes of the human race. We are not advocates for the infinite perfectibility of man, in the sense in which it has been explained by Condorcet, Godwin, and some others. But, while we feel that man, when brought to the touchstone of perfection, is, and always will be, both weak and wicked, we yet hold that no limit can be assigned to the extent of his discoveries in science or invention in the arts; nor, in consequence, to his power of adding to the comforts and conveniences of his own life. Even in morals we are inclined to assume a paradox, like that which is so well known in mathematics, that man may be for ever approaching nearer and nearer to the straight line of rectitude, and yet never reach it. Between what man is, and what he ought to be, there is still an infinite space for progressive improvement; and we see every reason to think that society is to improve morally, rather than to retrograde. By studying poetry, we become more attached to it, and, if not defective in organization, acquire more or less of the poetical talent and temperament. It is an art which may be cultivated. But so also is morality. When we have once tasted the pleasure of possessing a good name, and felt the pains which arise from a threatened loss of it; when we have once experienced the power, and solace, and joy, which arise from a consciousness of doing good, the cause of morality becomes our own, and we are happy or miserable exactly in proportion as we have been able to discharge what our mind or conscience tells us was our duty. But, as knowledge accumulates,-as our relations to others are more easily and better understood,-the moral pleasures, as well as the disciples of morality, will be increased. Men are immoral chiefly from a misconception

D

of their interests. If these were well understood,—if it were once known universally, and universally believed, that the pleasures of a just and moral life were infinitely greater, and its pains fewer, than those of a vicious one, we should have no criminals. It is ignorance of what secures pleasure, and protects from pain, that leads to all crimes and immoralities. And, as you impart knowledge of the civil interests of man, you lessen the inducements and temptations to commit crime. Every thing that operates in the nature of a motive does so by promising either pleasure of some sort or other, or a security from some sort of pain; and a perfect knowledge of all consequences would be a perfect preservative of right conduct. This knowledge, however, will never be attained; but an approximation may be made to it; and the nearer we approach to perfection, the more intellectual, the more moral and spiritual, the more elevated and noble, shall we become; the more complete and satisfying will be our sense of existence. Knowledge, therefore, when it does not fall among thorns, or on a cold barren soil, becomes the seed of wisdom. It discloses the relations of men to all that surrounds them, and, to those of sound heads, and commonly and ordinarily honest hearts, this is equivalent to a disclosure of rights and duties. It is as if our moral obligations were all previously formed, and merely uncovered by the aid of knowledge. To all those whose blood circulates freely, or maintains the ordinary quantity of passion and feeling, the presence of knowledge is requisite as a sedative and controlling power. In such cases, it moderates, but docs not destroy; and, although on some cold, weak, and vain natures, knowledge may only generate a desire to shine and dazzle, it is of substantial benefit to the great body of mankind. In the great majority of our specics, knowledge increases, in the clearest and most decisive manner, the influence of prospective considerations. Its tendency is manifestly to give a surer hold of, and a greater command over, the future.

Our hopes of melioration are the stronger, that they are not founded on any thing that is truly disinterested in conduct. There is an interest in yielding to sympathetic and moral af

fections as real as any pecuniary or other strictly selfish interest known in society. Self-love, therefore, which is generally supposed to be the bane of morals, may be enlisted on their side. By cultivating the interests of the heart, we eulogize ourselves, and are eulogized of others; we flatter principles, and gratify desires which have a strong hold in our constitution; and when good to ourselves, and society, is to be the result, it is surely more creditable, honourable, and beneficial, to cultivate the social and benevolent feelings,-to pursue the pleasures of morality and intellect; than those of the coarser appetites or senses, which lead in the end to disease, suffering, and death. It is our interest, as well as our duty, to follow that which is good. And, so far is religion from throwing an obstacle in the way, that it calls upon us imperiously to think of and perform whatsoever is true, honest, just, pure, lovely, and of good report. If there, be any virtue, if there be any praise, it calls on us to think of these things. Religion does not supersede morality. It presupposes the existence of moral feeling, and addresses us, as if the moral duties were all perceived and understood. In the ordinary affairs of life, it superadds its own sanction to that of morality. Let every man, it says, be persuaded in his own mind, and when so persuaded, let him feel, that, in doing justice, and loving mercy, he is obeying God, as well as serving man. It is of the very essence of religion, to place us beyond the touch of ridicule in the discharge of duty. The aims of the moderns, therefore, may be as great, and their hopes must obviously be higher, and more definite, than those of the ancients. There was no true virtue among the nations of antiquity that is not enforced upon the moderns under the Christian dispensation; and, as these virtues must, in consequence of the progress of knowledge, be more readily perceived, and the interests of men in acting upon them more strongly felt, we must, upon the soundest principles, anticipate an amelioration in the condition of the human race. It may be true, that, on some particular occasions, the leaders, or wouldbe-leaders, of the public, are cold, fastidious, sneering, and cynical; considering all merit which is ascribed to

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