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LETTER CVIII.

To his Nephew TG, Student in the University of

My dear Tom,

Edinburgh.

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1851.

The "Prima Philosophia, the Philosophy of First Principles !" well, it all sounds very grand, and I have no doubt it will be well for you to study it, as you propose, provided it be but in the right spirit and to the right end; that is, just to show you what are the limitations of the human faculties, and then the necessity of acquiescing in the fundamental beliefs which those faculties impose on us, without further querulous complaints that you cannot get the impossible demonstrations or chimerical certitude of some so-called transcendental "science." But if you expect, what so many philosophers who revolve these problems perpetually demand, and fancy, in spite of so many failures of the wise, that they will at last attain, a scientific rationale of truths which constitute reason, but cannot be proved by it; or again, which are taught us by quite another faculty than reason, and are as incommensurable with it as a triangle with a sound or an odour, you will be disappointed. When you have got to any such ultimate facts, whether communicated by some different principle of our nature from reason, as for instance, sense or emotion, or cognate with reason, as being the fundamental condition of its exercise, though anterior to reasoning, you must rest contented with them, and not go on, still bemoaning your benighted condition, because you cannot demonstrate the absolute identity of "Knowing " and " Being " or bridge over the chasm between the me and the not me, to use the affected language of a most pedantic philosophy — or understand the essence of either matter or mind, or the mode of their union or are compelled to accept, without at all logically unravelling the relations of our consciousness to an external world; in short, because you cannot

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see further into a milestone than other people. If you will thus accept the ultimate facts of our nature, whether taught you by sense or reason, or any other ultimate constituent thereof, the study of the "Prima Philosophia" will do you good by letting you see what are the limits of your possible knowledge, and inducing an unquestioning repose in them. You will learn, as Locke says, "the length of your line," though there are many "depths of the ocean you cannot fathom by it. If you pursue this science further, if you will try to give the rationale of principles which transcend reason, or are incommensurable with it, as being of a totally different nature from it, or are the very foundation of reason itself; - if you will insist on reason being its own foundation, — constructing the point d'appui on which itself rests, or by an infinite regression demonstrating, instead of accepting, the principles from which it starts, the "Prima Philosophia" will but leave you in darkness, as it has done so many thousands more; mystify, not enlighten you, and completely muddle you at last as a just punishment for seeking to be wise above the possibilities of your nature. To attempt to reason out principles, which are either transcendental to reason or incommensurable with it, is as vain as the attempt to weigh the imponderable to see the invisible - to square the circle - to make the eye judge of music or the ear discriminate colours. "Ne sutor" may be justly addressed by the senses and the passions and the emotions to the reason, when it attempts, as it so often does, tyrannously to bring them under its own jurisdiction in points where Nature has left them free. The only question with a wise man will be, "Are such and such the ultimate principles of my nature, and of human nature in general? if so, I will accept them and trust them; for whether they be trustworthy or not, I cannot help it; I cannot go further; they constitute the laws of my being, and I must philosophise on them, if I philosophise at all, for I have nothing else whereon to found a philosophy."

There are two golden maxims of the old Stagyrite, which he is fond of repeating in more or less distinct forms, and which comprise, in brief, all that can be said on the subject. One is, that the

Reason must ultimately repose on principles which cannot be demonstrated; the other is more general, and includes it; namely, that the intuitions and faculties of our nature, whether they tell us right or wrong, are all we have to trust to, and therefore must be accepted as the groundwork of all possible philosophy. If wrong, they cannot possibly be set right, and must go for what they are worth; since to found a philosophy on faculties we have not, or on other than we have, is plainly impossible. The main difficulties in this matter originate in the tyranny of Reason, which would fain, because it is the regent faculty of our nature, make itself despotic over all; pry into things as completely out of its own sphere, as logic is beyond that of the senses; pronounce on the validity of evidence other than its own, and judge of facts which in the nature of things cannot be referred to its tribunal.

I have often thought that if Reason had not accustomed itself to talk just as it pleased, and monopolised the tongue as its peculiar organ; if the other constituents of our nature could have their unrestricted use of it, we should often hear a loud outcry against the usurping faculty. Sense and passion, emotion and appetite, would exclaim against the tendency of Reason to obtrude unlawfully into their domain, under pretence of seeking superior evidence of any facts to which they deposed. No doubt these worthy folks - the mob of the body corporate would often use the tongue unwisely, as Reason itself often does

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and sometimes

speak just as if they had no connection with Reason in the world. Like frank, blundering Irishmen, they would, I conceive, utter a good deal of crude sense, mixed with much nonsense, and with the most sovereign contempt, doubtless, for those logical forms, for the want of which it is evident my lord Reason chiefly contemns them.

"What is it?" says Reason, earnestly gazing at a piece of chalk. "Is it anything out of me, or is it in me? Is it part of the me, or the not me? Objective or merely subjective?" Now methinks Sense would say, if it had the command of the tongue, “What a puzzle friend Reason seems to be in! Halloo! there; hav'n't I told you a thousand times that it is out of you

that it is part of your not me, as you call it in your incomprehensible jargon; it's chalk, man, chalk, and nothing else."

"Sense," Reason would reply, "how often have I told you that you are not competent to decide."

"And how often am I to tell you that I alone am competent to decide this matter, and that it is because you will thrust your reverend head into what does not concern it, instead of receiving my testimony, that all your perplexity arises?"

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Sense may speak too absolutely, but in what he says I think there is a good deal of" sense " and " reason too. But Reason would eye him with an "austere smile of regard." "How shall

I believe you," he would say, "when you have so often deceived me? How can I trust you? No-none of you shall deceive me.” Perhaps Passion would reply, in a passion, "Why, what a wrongheaded, suspicious, unreasonable, pragmatical old fool you are! Why should you think we deceive you, at least in a matter wherein we have no interest to do so? You deceive us at least as often as we do you, and get us into no end of awkward scrapes by your false logic. Faith! it were well for you if you were equally cautious when we can and do deceive you. Not deceive you, quotha! We find it easy enough, I reckon, when you want to be deceived; aye-we have deceived you a thousand times, in spite of all your fine philosophy and love of the pure truth. I know nobody more easily deceived than you." And then, perhaps, impudently winking at Appetite, he might ask, where Reason was at twelve o'clock last night? Whether he was not completely extinguished, and under the table, babbling no end of incoherent

nonsense.

Reason, so scrupulous about the "pure truth" when he has got his speculative cap on, would hardly think it worth while to pursue this practical topic further, or vaunt his determination never to be deceived with the remembrance of such an ignominious escapade before his eyes. But he assumes a lofty air, and says

"Peace, neighbour Passion. You are too loud and boisterous; you disturb my meditations. This question of a 'phenomenal' or 'real' world is entirely an affair of mine."

"There," Sense cries, "there you are again. It is nothing of the kind, it is an affair of mine; but you will have every thing brought to your standard and measured by your bushel. If not, you are cheated, forsooth, and we are a set of knaves. It is impossible to live in peace and quietness with you!"

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'Aye, aye," Appetite chimes in, "you are continually spoiling all wholesome digestion with your fantastical fidgets and sleepless speculation. It is impossible to hiccup without your asking whether it is a 'real' or an 'ideal' hiccup; I can't eat a mince-pie or swallow an oyster without your asking whether it is the 'me' or the 'not me' that is going down my own throat."

But it is all in vain-for, spite of all, Reason will again fall into his brown study over his lump of chalk. "I can't bridge

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I can't grasp it," he mutters; "is it the "me' or

In vain Sense expostulates with him; tells him that it is not his province. In vain Sense says, "I don't meddle with your 'syllogisms' and 'intuitions'; don't you meddle with the intuitions of sense." But ten to one Sense and Appetite, and Passion, join in a malicious conspiracy to revenge themselves on the overcautious governor. Only wait till supper-time, and they will probably enlighten his High Mightiness as to which is the "me" and the "not me," and as to whether or not he is so very anxious never to be deceived! Nay, it may even happen that, in an hour so, friend Reason, after trolling out a song to the confusion of all philosophy, and washing with a bumper his metaphysical cobwebs out of his brains, will be found fairly on his back, wondering for his life whether it is the "he" or the "not he" that lies sprawling there—or whether it is not a " philosopher beside himself!"

Not a soul in all "Mansoul" would be more respected than Reason, if he would but confine himself to his proper province; if he would not resolve to pry into everything; if he would but content himself with regulating his servants instead of attempting to do their work; to see that they do not riot or waste his substance, or idle away their time; if he would not pretend to be able to

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