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all disposed to engage in its defence. Your former scepticism on the subject of religion I could endure: there was modesty and hesitation in it, but the abominable self-sufficiency with which these people vent abroad their coldblooded systems of atheism is so hateful to any man who ever heard any thing better, that I always looked upon it with the most perfect antipathy, and I shall be very happy to see you tear up materialism by the roots.

I believe (said Philo) every system of materialism is founded on a mistaken application to matter, of ideas which belong to mind only, and on supposing qualities in matter which it does not possess. They all rise from want of attention to that early and constant impression of the exist ence of order and design in nature which the mind of man receives in its first opening, and from applying to matter itself those conceptions which it is merely the means of conveying to the mind. Every thing in nature proceeds on a plan, and there is not a human being in existence to whom the great outlines of the plan are not apparent; but if we forget that the idea of a plan necessarily implies mind or intelligence, we must look in the plan itself for some unintelligent principle by which it is carried on. It is then we begin to talk of the powers of nature, and the necessary concatenation of causes and effects, and similar expressions of that kind, which, when applied to the material system, are in reality words without meaning.

This whole subject (said Cleanthes) lies under a very considerable degree of embarrassment, and it would be of much consequence for the elucidation of our present inquiry, if the relation of Cause and Effect were placed upon a right footing.

I will let you know (said Philo) what are my views on the subject, but I must first premise, that the proofs for the existence of God, which I have already stated, are independent of all speculations on the nature of that relation. We read design upon the face of the universe, previously to all contemplation of design as a cause, and the universe as an effect. The universe is rather as it were a mirror which reflects the face of Divine Intelligence, and our belief that it is caused or produced by the Divine Mind seems to be an after consideration.

The plan of things exhibits the existence of mind before we reflect that mind was the principle which gave a real being to the things planned. Suppose, then, the relation of cause and effect were found to be imaginary, or to be no tie among events themselves, but merely a feeling produced by custom in the mind in consequence of its constantly perceiving the same events in the same succession : Suppose, I say, the notion of causation in the Deity were removed by such a speculation, still the universe would prove his existence, in like manner as a mirror proves the existence of the object which it reflects.

The kind of sceptical attempt, therefore, which was made in this country to throw doubts upon the existence of God, by showing that it is merely custom or experience which establishes the relation of cause and effect, and nothing in the reason of things, must fall to the ground; because, whether God is the cause of the universe or not, or whether or no the universe has a cause, we still read his existence from the universe, in the same way as a book proves the existence of the mind of the author, even although you could possibly separate the notion of his being the author from that of the intelligence which the book exhibits.

The error prevalent in systems of materialism, again, is the reverse of this sceptical notion. The materialist proceeds on the maxim, that every effect must have a cause; he thinks he finds the cause of every effect in nature, and having found the cause, he finds all that is necessary, all that must be had, and, accordingly, he is satisfied, without having recourse to the existence of mind as the supreme cause of all. I might in like manner say to the materialist, prove as you will that mind need not be resorted to as the cause of natural appearances, still these appearances prove to me the existence of mind as infallibly as your words and actions prove you to be an intelligent being. When I believe you to be an intelligent being, I do not speculate upon the principle of intelligence being the cause of your actions, but I read in them, as in a book, the fact, that there is intelligence involved in them, it may be, more properly than causing them. Make what you please of the uni

verse then, make its cause what you
will, still I read intelligence in it, and
this is sufficient to prove the exist-
ence of Deity.

The system of materialism, however,
it is evident, is a very low and earth-
ly system, and argues a great want of
philosophical penetration. The slight-
est attention to natural successions of
events must convince us, that although
they are regular and constant, they
are still quite arbitrary, and might be
conceived to be in every respect the
reverse of what they are. We can
discover no necessity whatever, that
heat should be the consequence of
fire, or cold of ice. Why should a
round body in the Heavens called the
Sun necessarily emit light and heat?
No investigation of philosophy, how
ever profound, can possibly discover
any necessary connection between any
two events in nature. Philosophy in
the investigation of causes does no-
thing more than trace out those cir-
cumstances in nature which invaria-
bly precede others, and exhibits them
divested of accidental circumstances
which may occur in particular in-
stances. When it has found out a
leading general fact, it then farther
examines whether this fact, if sup-
posed to precede other facts, will ac-
count for them, by which is meant,
will be the rule or measure of their
appearances. Thus, it is discovered,
that a body falling to the ground in-
creases its velocity according to a de-
terminate proportion as it approaches
the ground. This is a fact, but we
can discover no sort of necessary con-
nection between the body called a
stone, and this principle of gravity
which regulates its descent. For any
thing we know to the contrary, the
stone might exist without the gravity.
If thrown into the air it might pro-
ceed for ever upwards, or it might va-
nish into smoke, or any thing might
happen to it as well as what does hap-
pen. There may be some more gene-
ral fact which may account for this
principle, something, the previous
supposition of which will explain all
the operation of gravity; but in the
meantime, the discovery of this prin-
ciple is a very important one, since
the motions of the heavenly bodies
agree exactly with the supposition of
this being the law which regulates
them. But is it not clear that this
discovery is the discovery of nothing

else but a manner of operation in nature? of an order of things which seems quite arbitrary, and might be absurdity in the supposition? In inthe reverse of what it is without any quiries into natural phenomena, therefore, we never discover why they must exhibit such or such appearances; at least we never make an ultimate discovery of that kind. We may discover, that admitting such and such previous appearances, others will follow of course, but the first admisno necessity in the nature of things. sions are entirely gratuitous, and have Philosophy is nothing more than the the methods observed in its operascience of the order of nature, and of tions. There is no more necessity in any thing which it discovers, than there is that the sentence which I am now speaking should have followed that which went before it.

agree with the sceptical opinion about So far, then, (said Cleanthes,) you cessary connection between them. cause and effect, that there is no ne

things which are called causes and
None (replied Philo) between those
effects in the system of nature.

tion? (said Cleanthes.)
Where, then, do you find this rela-

where I find necessary connection, but
I cannot well tell you (said he)
I think I can easily point out to you
a connection sufficiently strong to
build this relation upon. What say
you to the connection between voli-
tion and its consequences? I know
trary as well as any thing else. 1
the effects of will are said to be arbi-
may not take place, although, perhaps,
may will a thing this moment which
it would have taken place the moment
before. My hand may be suddenly
palsied, and may not follow my voli-
tion when I determine to move it;
consequence of volition, I am con-
yet, whenever I do move my hand, in
scious that the motion proceeded from
the will, and would not have been
without the will. The volition here
was more than a precedent event,-
would not have been, and out of
was an event, without which, the other
which, if I may so speak, it was; and
this is all that is meant by the word
cause.

I cannot think, (said Cleanthes,)

in our Number for last December.
• See a short essay on Cause and Effect,

that, by this explanation, you account sufficiently for the impression on our minds, that every event must have a cause: You leave the connection too loose.

:

You will observe, (said Philo,) that you cannot show me any event which does not occur in nature; but there is a constant impression on the mind of man that nature is a scheme; therefore, every event is part of the scheme: a scheme or plan supposes a mind: we cannot conceive a mind devoid of volition every event, then, in nature, is an effect of the volition of mind. If you could imagine a chaos, which I believe to be an impossible supposition, then you might also imagine events, changes to take place without causes. It is the circumstance of design in nature which proves that there is a real bond of connection between cause and effect, that every change must have a cause, that is, must proceed from the volition of mind. Materialism, then, is altogether built on a wrong application of words. Power means nothing else but will accomplishing its end, and we cannot conceive causation independently of volition. The powers of nature, and the necessary concatenation of natural causes and effects, are mere words without meaning.

I hope, Philo, (said Cleanthes) that you have now done with your metaphysical niceties, as you call them; for, to tell you the truth, I am getting a little wearied of them.

Nay, Cleanthes, (said Philo,) this is scarcely fair,-you led me into the last speculation on cause and effect yourself, and, in pity to my audience, I have been rather more hasty upon it, and have left more to be supplied by their own reflections than was quite doing justice to my cause, and yet you are the first to complain of the effect. I will, however, put an end to these discussions, if you will permit me to say a few words on another point which seemed to confuse our ideas a little on the outset of our inquiry-I mean on the grounds of all argument from Experience and Analogy.

I repeat, then, that the foundation of this argument can never be custom or a mere association of ideas: indeed, I believe, every thing which bears the character of reason, has its foundation in some original percep tion of the understanding, and it is

never a satisfactory account of any natural process, used in the discovery of truth, to say we are carried to it by a mere arbitrary association,-by the relations of resemblance or contiguity in place or time, or by the force of custom in rivetting any particular chain of ideas upon the mind. Imagination is the field in which associations prevail,-not reason; and although habit may make imaginations appear reasonable, yet, I believe, every thing which nature gives that character to, must rest upon a firmer basis. Let us then examine facts. What we have commonly experienced to take place, we expect will take place again; and those events which are similar to others formerly experienced, or bearing upon other appearances in nature, we think much more probable than those which are entirely insulated and unlike any thing else. We constantly expect that fire will burn, and that the sun will rise every morning; and we think it more probable that the planets, like this earth, have inhabitants, than that they are vast bodies totally useless in creation. To resolve these views of the mind into the mechanical influence of custom, seems, as I say, very unsatisfactory. I do not see how custom should be the ground of any opinion. From the custom of seeing fire at all times burn, and the sun rising every day, I can conceive that the idea of fre should never occur to me without the idea of burning, or of the sun without the idea of its rising. But I do not see how the opinion should hence be generated that, as a fact, fire will always burn, and that the sun will continue daily to rise.

If such an account of this process of mind be unsatisfactory, it seems to me an unphilosophical one to ascribe all these convictions of the understanding to particular instincts. There seems a kind of reasoning in the opinions that the sun will rise to-morrow, and that the planets are inhabited,a sort of reasoning which is stronger in the one case than in the other; and if any principle can be found which will form a basis for all these reasonings from experience and analogy, it seems much more philosophical to rest them upon it, than to suppose different shades of instinct answering to every variety of opinion and belief. Now, to me it appears that the early

impression of order and design in nature which the mind, I believe, is originally prepared to receive, and which it cannot continue long in existence without receiving, is that very principle of which we are in search, and from which all the different reasonings of experience and analogy flow with the most natural precision. How soon do we perceive that the regular rising of the sun is a part of the plan of nature! and with what firm dependance and assurance do we look for the daily appearance of that glorious luminary! In like manner, whatever we see constantly happen, and of which, too, we see the uses, the purposes, the intention, that we expect will happen again. It is like looking at a clock. As it has shown the hours to-day, we reason that the artist intended it should show the hours to-morrow. When we have not an opportunity of knowing facts, we then form probable conjectures. In different parts of the same plan, probably the designer carries through something of the same mind. This is reasoning from Analogy, which may be more or less strong, according to circumstances. Reasoning from known facts, again, we call reasoning from Experience.

But as I have tired you, Cleanthes, with these speculations, I will only remark farther, that the proof of the existence of God must rest on a much firmer basis, than on any analogical argument from a similarity in the works of nature to the works of man, if all arguments from analogy rest on the previous supposition of a plan or design in nature, which is, in fact, presupposing the existence of God. It would be more philosophical to suppose, that our belief of the existence of reason and intelligence in other men is derived from an analogical argument; because ourselves and others are parts, and similar parts, of one plan of nature, and, therefore, there, in fact, does lie an analogy here, although, I doubt not, our perception or knowledge of the existence of intelligence in each other is an original perception of the human understanding.

I am much gratified, Philo, (said I,) with the lights which you have thrown upon this argument; yet I think there is some degree of certainty still wanting, and your manner of reading

design, as you call it, does not seem quite infallible. I wish there were some force in the argument a priori, or that it were more level to my understanding.

There is, in fact, no great need for it, (replied Philo.) Slight indications of design may not produce perfect assurance; but where they are accumulated without all bounds or measure, I see not that there can be room for a doubt. I have said, that even the atoms of Epicurus would suggest to the mind some notion of intention; how then can we hesitate in the conclusion, where the object of our contemplation is a world?

The fact is, Pamphilus, that the immensity of the object somewhat embarrasses us. I cannot hesitate a moment in the belief that you are possessed of intelligence, because there is here a rapid sympathy between us, and I form a quick conception of the similarity between your mind and my own. But the Mind which I read in nature surpasses all my thoughts and apprehensions, and while I can have no doubt of its existence, I am lost in admiration and astonishment when I contemplate it. This kind of feeling, perhaps, sometimes re-acts upon our perception of the evidence, and produces a species of confusion and uncertainty. Let us then, Pamphi lus, contract the dimensions of this prodigious object. Let us suppose the World to be a magnificent house, and that we have, from the first mo ments of our recollection, been the inmates of a splendid palace. Let us suppose that we have found the rooms sumptuously adorned, clothes provided for us, beds in our apartments, and every useful or elegant article of furniture. At a certain hour of the day a table is introduced by invisible hands, supplied with every costly kind of food. Lamps, suspended from the ceilings, burn with perpetual fire. Every thing is conducted with the same order, as if the master of the house were to appear, and the servants were visibly employed. Is it possible, on this supposition, that we should doubt there was a master of the house, some one who had prepared it for us, and who, unknown to us, superintended it? O Pamphilus, is not the World such a house, and can it be without a Master?

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(To be continued.)

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LAMIA is the poem in which, in Mr Keats's second volume, the greatest fancy is displayed. It is more in the style of the Endymion, and we shall therefore forbear quoting from it, excepting only three lines, which, for the imagination contained in them, and the beauty with which they are executed, have seldom been equalled: the poet is speaking of a palace built by the magic power of Lamia.

A haunting music, sole perhaps and lone
Supportress of the faery-roof, made moan
Throughout, as fearful the whole charm
might fade. p. 34.

"Isabella, or the Pot of Basil," is a story from Boccaccio, and is the same as was given to the public sometime ago by Mr Barry Cornwall, under the title of "A Sicilian Story." We can safely recommend " Isabella" as eminently beautiful. What can be sweeter than this? The days pass sadly,

Until sweet Isabella's untouched cheek
Fell sick within the rose's just domain,
Fell thin as a young mother's,
who doth
seek

By every lull to cool her infant's pain.

p. 51. The progress of the love of Lorenzo and Isabella is told in this delightful manner.

With every morn their love grew tenderer,
With every eve deeper and tenderer still;
He might not in house, field, or garden
stir,

But her full shape would all his seeing
fill;

And his continual voice was pleasanter

To her, than noise of trees or hidden

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A whole long month of May in this sad
plight

Made their cheeks paler by the break of
June:

The brothers of Isabella discover
that their sister loves Lorenzo: they
entice him to a forest, and murder
and bury him: his ghost appears to
Isabella, who seeks the body, and
cutting off the head, buries it beneath
a pot of Basil, which she waters with
her tears. There are some terms in
this poem which Mr Keats inflicts
upon the brothers of Isabella, which
we think in bad taste. He calls them
money-bags," ledger-men," &c.
which injures, in some respect, this
delightful story. Mr K. indeed, him-
self seems to have some doubts of this,
and in the following beautiful stanzas
intreats the forgiveness of his master.
They are enough, to say the least, to
wipe away the sin committed.
O eloquent and fam'd Boccaccio!

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Of thee we now should ask forgiving boon,

And of thy spicy myrtles as they blow,

And of thy roses amorous of the moon, And of thy lilies, that do paler grow

Now they can no more hear thy ghit-
tern's tune,

For venturing syllables that ill beseem
The quiet glooms of such a piteous theme.
Grant thou a pardon here, and then the

tale

Shall move on soberly, as it is meet;
There is no other crime, no mad assail
To make old prose in modern rhyme

more sweet:

But it is done-succeed the verse or fail

To honour thee, and thy gone spirit greet; To stead thee as a verse in English tongue, An echo of thee in the north-wind sung. pp. 58, 59.

What a beautiful picture might not Stothard make from the following exquisite stanza ?

And as he to the court-yard pass'd along,
Each third step did he pause, and lis-
ten'd oft
If he could hear his lady's matin-song,

Or the light whisper of her footstep soft;
And as he thus over his passion hung,

He heard a laugh full musical aloft ; When, looking up, he saw her features bright

Smile through an in-door lattice, all delight. p. 61.

Isabella, as we have said, buries the head of the lover in the pot of Basil, and weeps over it continually.

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