As every proposition consists of two names, and as every proposition affirms or denies one of these names of the other, the value of definition, which fixes the import of names, is apparent.

'A name is a word taken at pleasure to serve for a mark, which may raise in our mind a thought like to some thought we had before, and which being pronounced to others, may be to them a sign of what thought the speaker had before in his mind [Hobbes]. This simple definition of a name, as a word (or set of words) serving the double purpose of a mark to recall to ourselves the likeness of a former thought, and a sign to make it known to others, appears unexceptionable.'*

Definition originates in accurate and comprehensive observation. 'There cannot be,' says Mill, 'agreement about the definition of a thing, until there is agreement about the thing itself. To define a thing is to select from among the whole of its properties those which shall be understood to be designated and declared by its name; and the properties must be very well known to us before we can be competent to determine which of them are fittest to be chosen for this purpose.'**

'The simplest and most correct notion of a definition is, a proposition declaratory of the meaning of a word; namely, either the meaning which it bears in common acceptation, or that which the speaker or writer, for the particular purposes of his discourse, intends to annex to it.'***

But with most persons the object of a definition is merely to guide them to the correct use of a term as a protection against applying it in a manner inconsistent with custom and convention. Anything, therefore, is to them a sufficient definition of a term which will serve as a correct index to what the term denotes; although not embracing the whole, and sometimes perhaps not even any part of what it connotes.

Definitions are sometimes explained as being of two kinds—of things and words.

The definition of words is the explanation of the sense in which they are used.

The definition of things is an explanation of the specific properties by which they differ from all other things.

To define a thing, says Dr. Watts, we must ascertain with what it agrees, then note the most remarkable attribute of difference, and join the two together.

Probity—the disposition to acknowledge the rights of mankind.

Justice—the disposition to maintain the rights of mankind.

Benevolence—the disposition to improve the rights of mankind.

Deceit—the concealed violation of the rights of mankind.

Injustice—the open violation of the rights of mankind.

Malevolence—hatred of the rights of mankind.

In defining a word we seek some class to which to refer it, that we may identify it, and fix attention upon that peculiarity by which we can distinguish it from all other things. 'Probity and 'justice' are referred to 'disposition,' with reference to the 'rights of mankind' as their sphere of existence: and acknowledgment, and maintenance, are mentioned as the distinguishing features.

Distinctions must not be made without differences. The definition should be plainer than the thing defined. Aristotle's definition of motion is considered defective in this respect:—'Motion—an act of a being in power, so far forth as it is in power.' Tautological definitions cause more to be supposed than is true—the too terse explanation leaves some necessary thing unmentioned. A perfect definition requires the union of the concise, the clear, and the adequate. Some persons are so unskilful in the analysis of terms as to occasion the advice Nil explicare—never explain yourself if you wish to be understood.

Double meanings should be avoided. The writer may himself alternate in their use, and the reader may take the word in the unintended meaning. All men have not the strong sense of Johnson. When Caleb Whiteford inquired seriously of the Doctor, whether he really considered that a man ought to be transported, like Barrington, the pickpocket, for being guilty of a double meaning. 'Sir,' said Johnson, 'if a man means well, the more he means the better'—which, whether real or fictitious, is one of the happiest answers that ever crushed a quibble.*

I have frequently put the question—What is consciousness? to persons who have been conscious for twenty or thirty years, but who were yet unable to reply. Had any one deprived these persons of consciousness, a judge would have hanged him for the offence; yet, could they themselves have been interrogated as to what harm they had suffered, they could not have told what they had lost. And upon the principle, that he not knowing what he has lost, is no loser, these persons, though murdered, had suffered no harm.

The various definitions of the same subject which prevail, originate in the caprice, or partial, or profound knowledge the definer may have of his subject. It seems to be admitted by logicians, that an author has a right to give whatever provisional definition he pleases of his terms. But having once given them, perspicuity requires that he should adhere to them. Any new sense in which a term is employed should be specially defined. In discoursing on an ordinary subject, as the right of public assembly,—such words as perception, conception, apprehension, might be used reciprocally, but in a dissertation on metaphysics each requires restriction in use and precision in purport.

Often genius strikes out new relations of words. In recent political debates, Mr. Cobden resorted with new force and point to a charge of rashness against ministers: he showed that rashness consisted more frequently in inaction than action. He is rash who stands surrounded by the elements of danger without taking; any precaution against the contingencies of peril; he is rash who does not take advantage of the calm, to repair his shattered rigging; he is rash who looks not out for a proper supply of water until the conflagration is raging around him; and more rash than all is he who exercises no provident care for supplying a nation with food, but waits for the pressure of famine and the perils of starvation.

At the last soiree of the Leeds Mechanics' Institution, Mr. Dickens referred to ignorance, commonly considered as a passive negation, and placed it in the light of a power. 'Look where we will, do we not find ignorance powerful for every kind of wrong and evil? Powerful to take its enemies to its heart and strike its best friends down—powerful to fill the prisons, the hospitals, and the graves—powerful for blind violence, prejudice, and error in all their destructive shapes.'

The variations which not only common but technical terms undergo, is a considerable source of perplexity in reasoning. Mr. Mill cites the instance of the term felony. No lawyer will undertake to tell what a felony is otherwise than by enumerating the various kinds of offences which are so called. Originally, felony denoted all offences, the penalty of which included forfeiture of goods; but, subsequent Acts of Parliament have declared various offences to be felonies without enjoining that penalty, and have taken away the penalty from others which continue still to be called felonies, insomuch that the acts so called have now no property whatever in common, save that of being unlawful and punishable. This inattention to precision in terms has arisen not among the vulgar, but among educated English lawyers.

'Language,' says Mr. Mill, borrowing a political simile from Sir James Mackintosh, '"is not made, but grows." A name not unfrequently passes by successive links of resemblance from one object to another, until it becomes applied to things having nothing in common with the first things to which the name was given; which, however, do not, for that reason, drop the name; so that it at last denotes a confused huddle of objects, having nothing whatever in common; and connotes nothing, not even a vague and general resemblance. When a name has fallen into this state, in which by predicating it of any object we assert literally nothing about the object, it has become unfit for the purposes either of thought or of the communication of thought; and can only be made serviceable by stripping it of some part of its multifarious denotation, and confining it to objects possessed of some attributes in common, which it may be made to connote. Such are the inconveniences of a language which "is not made, but grows." like a road which is not made, but has made itself, it requires continual mending in order to be passable.'*

It is well observed, that the spontaneous growth of language is of the utmost importance to the thinker. There seems to be so palpable a substratum of right sense, in the rude classifications of the multitude, that the logician has little else to do, in many cases, than to retouch them and give them precision. Guizot observes, there is frequently more truth in common acceptations of general terms than in the more precise definitions of science. Common sense gives to words their ordinary signification. The leading terms of philosophy are clothed in innumerable shades of meaning acquired in their transitional use, and immense is the knowledge of thing: requisite to enable a man to affirm that any given argument turns wholly on words. The study of terms, for which logicians have provided multiplied means, is one of the most interesting and profitable upon which men can enter. If it be worth while to speak at all, it is worth while to know certainly what we speak about.

Philanthropic genius has pointed out a perversion of power, arising through definitional incapacity, which makes it a moral duty to study analysis of terms, and exactitude of expression.

'All battle,' says Carlyle, 'is misunderstanding—did the parties know one another, the battle would cease. No man at bottom means injustice; he contends for some distorted image of right. Clear, undeniable right—clear, undeniable might—either of these, once ascertained, puts an end to battle. Battle is a confused experiment to ascertain these.'

Of the power of names to impose on the multitude, history furnishes too many examples. Strength to forefend us against they delusion ability to see that the meaning governs the term, and not the term the meaning—are species of intellectual self-defence.

'Augustus,' says Gibbon, 'was sensible that mankind is governed by names; nor was he deceived in his expectation that the senate and people would submit to slavery provided that they were respectably assured that they still enjoyed their ancient freedom.'

'Never,' adjures W. J. Fox, 'be deceived by words. Always try to penetrate to realities. Have your wits sharpened, your senses exercised to discern good and evil. Be not imposed upon by pompous manners. Many a solemnly-uttered sentence is often a sheer inanity, which will not bear the scrutiny of an observant intellect. Be not frightened by denunciations; by being told that you are not a good subject or a good Christian, if you do not believe, or say that you believe this or that. Be not led astray by iteration—mistake not the familiar for the intelligible. Ascertain what words are meant to convey, and what they actually do convey. Go to the substance and soul of whatever is propounded. Be on your guard against bold assumptions, nor let them bear you away against the dictates of your own understanding.

Look at phrases as counters, or paper money, that may pass for much or little according to circumstances. Endeavour to arrive at truth, and make that your treasure. Be ever wide awake to see through any veil of sophistry and cant; nor by the agency of words be made the dupe of critic or lawyer, of priest of politician.'*