1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, the second, &c. ribs with the corresponding dorsal (sentient) nerves, a, b, c, d, e, f, g, h, going out to supply their respective organs with sensation.

C D E, a portion of the main trunk of the organic (non-sentient) nerve, commonly called the Great Sympathetic.

F G H, the membrane of the spinal cord cut open and exposing I K, the spinal cord itself, L, the anterior branch of one of the dorsal nerves, arising from the anterior surface of the spinal cord by several bundles of fibres.

M, the posterior branch of the same nerve, arising in like manner from the posterior surface of the spinal cord by several branches of fibres.

The anterior and posterior branches uniting to form one trunk N.

Two branches, P Q, sent off from the spinal (sentient) trunk to unite with the organic (non-sentient) trunk.

R S T U V W, other branches of the sentient, connected with the branches of the non-sentient nervous trunks in the same mode.

X Y, the main trunk of the sympathetic (non-sentient) nerve cut across and turned aside, in order that the parts beneath it (P N) may be more distinctly seen.

From this description, it is apparent that each sentient nerve, before it goes out to the animal organs, to which it is destined to communicate sensation, sends off two branches to the organic or the non-sentient. These sentient nerves mix and mingle with the insensible nerves; accompany them in their course to the organic organs, and ramify with them throughout their substance. It is manifest, then, that sentient nerves, that nerves not necessary to the organic processes, having, as far as is known, nothing whatever to do with those processes, enter as constituent parts into the composition of the organic organs. What is the result? That organic organs are rendered sentient; that organic processes, in their own nature insensible, become capable of affecting consciousness. What follows? What is the consciousness excited? Not a consciousness of the organic process. Of that we still remain wholly insensible. Not simple sensation. The result uniformly produced, as long as the state of the system is that of health, is pleasurable consciousness. The heart sends out to the organs its vital current. Each organ, abstracting from the stream the particles it needs, converts them into the peculiar fluid or solid it is its office to form. The stomach, from the arterial streamlets circulating through it, secretes gastric juice; the liver, from the venous streamlets circulating through it, secretes bile. When these digestive organs have duly prepared their respective fluids, they employ them in the elaboration of the aliment. We are not conscious of this elaboration, though it go on within us every moment; but is consciousness not affected by the process? Most materially. Why? Because sentient mingle with organic nerves; because the sentient nerves are impressed by the actions of the organic organs. And how impressed? As long as the actions of the organic organs are sound, that is, as long as their processes are duly performed, the impression communicated to the sentient nerves is in its nature agreeable; is, in fact, THE PLEASURABLE CONSCIOUSNESS WHICH CONSTITUTES THE FEELING OF HEALTH. The state of health is nothing but the result of the due performance of the organic organs: it follows that the feeling of health, the feeling which is ranked by every one among the most pleasurable of existence, is the result of the action of organs of whose direct operations we are unconscious. But the pleasurable consciousness thus indirectly excited is really the consequence of a special provision, established for the express purpose of producing pleasure. Processes, in their own nature insensible, are rendered sentient expressly for this purpose, that, over and above the special object they serve, they may afford enjoyment. In this case, the production of pleasure is not only altogether gratuitous, not only communicated for its own sake, not only rested in as an ultimate object, but it is made to commence at the very confines of life; it is interwoven with the thread of existence: it is secured in and by the actions that build up and that support the very framework, the material instrument of our being.

But if the communication of sensibility to processes in their own nature incapable of exciting feeling, for the purpose of converting them into sources of pleasurable consciousness, indicate an express provision for the production of enjoyment, that provision is no less exemplified in the point at which this superadded sensibility is made to cease.

Some of the consequences of a direct communication of consciousness to an organic process have been already adverted to. Had the eye, besides transmitting rays of light to the optic nerve, been rendered sensible of the successive passage of each ray through its substance, the impression excited by luminous bodies, which is indispensable to vision, the ultimate object of the instrument, if not wholly lost, must necessarily have become obscure, in direct proportion to the acuteness of this sensibility. The hand of the musician could scarcely have executed its varied and rapid movements upon his instrument, had his mind been occupied at one and the same instant with the process of muscular contraction in the finger, and the idea of music in the brain. Had the communication of such a twofold consciousness been possible, in no respect would it have been beneficial, in many it would have been highly pernicious; and the least of the evils resulting from it would have been, that the inferior would have interrupted the superior faculty, and the means deteriorated the end. But in some cases the evil would have been of a much more serious nature. Had we been rendered sensible of the flow of the vital current through the engine that propels it; were the distension of the delicate valves that direct the current ever present to our view; by some inward feeling were we reminded, minute by minute, of the progress of the aliment through the digestive apparatus, and were the mysterious operations of the organic nerves palpable to sight, the terror of the maniac, who conceived that his body was composed of unannealed glass, would be the ordinary feeling of life. Every movement would be a matter of anxious deliberation; and the approach of every body to our own would fill us with dismay. But adjusted as our consciousness actually is, invariably the point at which the organic process begins is that at which sensation ends. Had sensation been extended beyond this point, it would have been productive of pain: at this point it uniformly stops. Nevertheless, by the indirect connexion of sensation with the organic processes, a vast amount of pleasure might be created: a special apparatus is constructed for the express purpose of establishing the communication. There is thus the twofold proof, the positive and the negative, the evidence arising as well from what they do, as from what they abstain from doing, that the organic processes are, and are intended to be, sources of enjoyment.

But the production of pleasure, commencing at this the lowest point of conscious existence, increases with the progressive advancement of organization and function.

The appetite for food, and the voluntary actions dependent upon it, may be considered as the first advancement beyond a process purely organic. The function by which new matter is introduced into the system and converted into nutriment, is partly an animal and partly an organic operation. The animal part of it consists of the sensations of hunger and thirst, by which we are taught when the wants of the system require a fresh supply of aliment, together with the voluntary actions by which the aliment is introduced into the system. The organic part of the function consists of the changes which the aliment undergoes after its introduction into the system, by which it is converted into nutriment. Sensations always of a pleasurable nature arise indirectly in the manner already explained, from the due performance of the organic part of the function; but pleasure is also directly produced by the performance of the animal part of it. Wholesome food is grateful; the satisfaction of the appetite for food is pleasurable. Food is necessary to the support of life; but it is not indispensable to the maintenance of life that food should be agreeable. Appetite there must be, that food may be eaten; but the act of eating might have been secured without connecting it with pleasure. Pleasure, however, is connected with it, first directly, by the gratefulness of food, and secondly indirectly, by the due digestion of the food. And the annexation of pleasure in this twofold mode to the performance of the function of nutrition is another case of the gratuitous bestowment of pleasure; another instance in which pleasure is communicated for its own sake, and rested in as an ultimate object. Pleasures of this class are sometimes called low; they are comparatively low; but they are not the less pleasures, because they are exceeded in value by pleasures of a nobler nature. Man may regard them with comparative indifference, because he is endowed with faculties which afford him gratifications superior in kind and larger in amount; but it is no mark of wisdom to despise and neglect even these: for they are annexed to the exercise of a function which is the first to exalt us above a merely organic existence; they are the first pleasures of which, considered merely as sentient creatures, we are susceptible; they amount in the aggregate to an immense sum; and they mark the depth in our nature in which are laid the fountains of enjoyment.

Organs of sense, intellectual faculties, social affections, moral powers, are superadded endowments of a successively higher order: at the same time, they are the instruments of enjoyment of a nature progressively more and more exquisite.

An organ of sense is an instrument composed of a peculiar arrangement of organized matter, by which it is adapted to receive from specific agents definite impressions. Between the agent that produces and the organ that receives the impression, the adaptation is such, that the result of their mutual action is, in the first place, the production of sensation, and, in the second place, the production of pleasure. The pleasure is as much the result as the sensation. This is true of the eye in seeing, the ear in hearing, the hand in touching, the organ of smell in smelling, and the tongue in tasting. Pleasure is linked with the sense; but there might have been the sense without the pleasure. A slight difference in the construction of the organ, or in the intensity of the agent, would not merely have changed, it would even have reversed the result; would have rendered the habitual condition of the eye, the ear, the skin, not such as it now is in health, but such as it is in the state of inflammation. But the adjustment is such as habitually to secure that condition of the system in which every action that excites sensation produces pleasure as its ordinary concomitant; and the amount of enjoyment which is thus secured to every man, and which every man without exception actually experiences in the ordinary course of an ordinary life, it would be beyond his power to estimate were he always sensible of the boon; but the calculation is altogether impossible, when, as is generally the case, he merely enjoys without ever thinking of the provisions which enable him to do so.

But if the pleasures that arise from the ordinary operations of sense form, in the aggregate, an incalculable sum, how great is the accession brought to this stock by the endowments next in order in the ascending scale, namely, the intellectual faculties!

There is one effect resulting from the operation of the intellectual faculties on the senses that deserves particular attention. The higher faculties elevate the subordinate in such a manner as to make them altogether new endowments. In illustration of this, it will suffice to notice the change wrought, as if in the very nature of sensation, the moment it becomes combined with an intellectual operation, as exemplified in the difference between the intellectual conception of beauty, and the mere perception of sense. The grouping of the hills that bound that magnificent valley which I behold at this moment spread out before my view; the shadow of the trees at the base of some of them, stretching its deep and varied outline up the sides of others; the glancing light now brightening a hundred different hues of green on the broad meadows, and now dancing on the upland fallows; the ever-moving, ever-changing clouds; the scented air; the song of birds; the still more touching music which the breeze awakens in the scarcely trembling branches of those pine trees,—the elements of which this scene is composed, the mere objects of sense, the sun, the sky, the air, the hills, the woods, and the sounds poured out from them, impress the senses of the animals that graze in the midst of them; but on their senses they fall dull and without effect, exciting no perception of their loveliness, and giving no taste of the pleasures they are capable of affording. Nor even in the human being, whose intellectual faculties have been uncultivated, do they awaken either emotions or ideas; the clown sees them, hears them, feels them no more than the herds he tends: yet in him whose mind has been cultivated and unfolded, how numerous and varied the impressions, how manifold the combinations, how exquisite the pleasures produced by objects such as these!

And from the more purely intellectual operations, from memory, comparison, analysis, combination, classification, induction, how still nobler the pleasure! Not to speak of the happiness of him who, by his study of natural phenomena, at length arrived at the stupendous discovery that the earth and all the stars of the firmament move, and that the feather falls to the ground, by the operation of one and the same physical law; nor of the happiness of him who sent his kite into the cloud, and brought down from its quiet bed the lightning which he suspected was slumbering there; nor of the happiness of him who concentrated, directed, and controlled that mighty power which has enabled the feeble hand of man to accomplish works greater than have been feigned of fabled giant; which has annihilated distance; created, by economizing time; changed in the short space in which it has been in operation the surface of the habitable globe; and is destined to work upon it more and greater changes than have been effected by all other causes combined; nor of the happiness of him who devoted a longer life with equal success to a nobler labour, that of REARING THE FABRIC OF FELICITY BY THE HAND OF REASON AND OF LAW. The intellectual pleasures of such men as Newton, Franklin, Watt, and Bentham, can be equalled only by those who possess equal intellectual power, and who put forth equal intellectual energy: to be greatly happy as they were, it were necessary to be as highly endowed; but to be happy, it is not necessary to be so endowed. In the ordinary intellectual operations of ordinary men, in their ordinary occupations, there is happiness. Every human being whose moments have passed with winged speed, whose day has been short, whose year is gone almost as soon as it seemed commenced, has derived from the exercise of his intellectual faculties pleasures countless in number and inestimable in value.

But the sympathetic pleasures, out of which grow the social, are of a still higher order even than the intellectual. The pleasures that result from the action of the organic organs, from the exercise of the several senses, and from the operation of the intellectual faculties, like the sensations in which they arise, belong exclusively to the individual being that experiences them, and cannot be communicated to another. Similar sensations and pleasures may be felt by beings similarly constituted; but the actual sensations and pleasures afforded by the exercise of a person's own organs and faculties are no more capable of becoming another's than his existence. These, then, are strictly the selfish pleasures; and the provision that has been made for securing them has been shown.

But there are pleasures of another class, pleasures having no relation whatever to a person's own sensation or happiness; pleasures springing from the perception of the enjoyment of others. The sight of pleasure not its own affects the human heart, provided its state of feeling be natural and sound, just as it would be affected were it its own. Not more real is the pleasure arising from the gratification of appetite, the exercise of sense, and the operation of intellect, than that arising from the consciousness that another sentient being is happy. Pleasures of this class are called sympathetic, in contradistinction to those of the former class, which are termed selfish.

There are then two principles in continual operation in the human being, the selfish and the sympathetic. The selfish is productive of pleasure of a certain kind; the sympathetic is productive of pleasure of another kind. The selfish is primary and essential; the sympathetic, arising out of the selfish, is superadded to it. And so precisely what the animal life is to the organic, the sympathetic principle is to the selfish; and just what the organic life gains by its union with the animal, the mental constitution gains by the addition of the sympathetic to the selfish affection. The analogy between the combination in both cases is in every respect complete. As the organic life produces and sustains the animal, so the sympathetic principle is produced and sustained by the selfish. As the organic life is conservative of the entire organization of the body, so the selfish principle is conservative of the entire being. As the animal life is superadded to the organic, extending, exalting, and perfecting it, so the sympathetic principle is superadded to the selfish, equally extending, exalting, and perfecting it. The animal life is nobler than the organic, whence the organic is subservient to the animal; but there is not only no opposition, hostility, or antagonism between them, but the strictest possible connexion, dependence, and subservience. The sympathetic principle is nobler than the selfish, whence the selfish is subservient to the sympathetic; but there is not only no opposition, hostility, or antagonism between them, but the strictest possible connexion, dependence, and subservience. Whatever is conducive to the perfection of the organic, is equally conducive to the perfection of the animal life; and whatever is conducive to the attainment of the true end of the selfish is equally conducive to the attainment of the true end of the sympathetic principle. The perfection of the animal life cannot be promoted at the expense of the organic, nor that of the organic at the expense of the animal; neither can the ultimate end of the selfish principle be secured by the sacrifice of the sympathetic, nor that of the sympathetic by the sacrifice of the selfish. Any attempt to exalt the animal life beyond what is compatible with the healthy state of the organic, instead of accomplishing that end, only produces bodily disease. Any attempt to extend the selfish principle beyond what is compatible with the perfection of the sympathetic, or the sympathetic beyond what is compatible with the perfection of the selfish, instead of accomplishing the end in view, only produces mental disease. Opposing and jarring actions, antagonizing and mutually destructive powers, are combined in no other work of nature; and it would be wonderful indeed were the only instance of it found in man, the noblest of her works, and in the mind of man, the noblest part of her noblest work.

No one supposes that there is any such inharmonious combination in the organization of his physical frame, and the notion that it exists in his mental constitution, as it is founded in the grossest ignorance, so it is productive of incalculable mischief. In both, indeed, are manifest two great powers, each distinct; each having its own peculiar operation; and the one being subservient to the other, but both conducing alike to one common end. By the addition of the apparatus of the animal to that of the organic life, a nobler structure is built up than could have been framed by the organic alone: by the addition of the sympathetic to the selfish part of the mental constitution, a happier being is formed than could have been produced by the selfish alone. And as the organic might have existed without the animal life, but by the addition of the animal a new and superior being is formed, so might the selfish part of the mental constitution, and the pleasures that flow from it, have existed alone; but by the addition of the sympathetic, a sum is added to enjoyment, of the amount of which some conception may be formed by considering what human life would be, with every selfish appetite and faculty gratified in the fullest conceivable degree, but without any admixture whatever of sympathetic or social pleasure. Selfish enjoyment is not common. If any one set himself to examine what at first view might seem a purely selfish pleasure, he will soon be sensible that, of the elements composing any given state of mind to which he would be willing to affix the term pleasurable, a vast preponderance consists of sympathetic associations. The more accurately he examine, and the farther he carry his analysis, the stronger will become his conviction, that a purely selfish enjoyment, that is, a truly pleasurable state of mind, in no degree, mediately or immediately, connected with the pleasurable state of another mind, is exceedingly rare.

But if the constitution of human nature and the structure of human society alike render it difficult for the human heart to be affected with a pleasure in no degree derived from—absolutely and totally unconnected with sympathetic association, of that complex pleasure which arises out of social intercourse, partly selfish and partly sympathetic, how far sweeter the sympathetic than the selfish part; and as the sympathetic preponderates over the selfish, how vast the increase of the pleasure! And when matured, exalted into affection—affection, that holy emotion which exerts a transforming influence over the selfish part of human nature, turning it into the sympathetic; affection, which renders the happiness of the beloved object inexpressibly dearer to the heart than its own; affection, among the benignant feelings of which as there is none sweeter so there is none stronger than that of self-devotion, nay, sometimes even of self-sacrifice; affection, which is sympathy pure, concentrated, intense—Oh how beautiful is the constitution of this part of our nature, by which the most transporting pleasures the heart receives are the direct reflection of those it gives!

Nor ought it to be overlooked, that, while nearly all the selfish, like all the sensual pleasures, cannot be increased beyond a fixed limit, cannot be protracted beyond a given time, are short-lived in proportion as they are intense, and satiate the appetite they gratify, the sympathetic pleasures are capable of indefinite augmentation; are absolutely inexhaustible; no limit can be set to their number, and no bound to their growth; they excite the appetite they gratify; they multiply with and by participation, and the more is taken from the fountain from which they flow, the deeper, the broader, and the fuller the fountain itself becomes.

But not only is the mental state of affection in all its forms and degrees highly pleasurable, but the very consciousness of being the object of affection is another pleasure perfectly distinct from that arising immediately from the affection itself. It has been said of charity, that it is twice blessed, that it blesses alike him that gives and him that receives; but love has in it a threefold blessing: first, in the mental state itself; secondly, in the like mental state which the manifestation of it produces in another; and thirdly, in the mental state inseparable from the consciousness of being the object of affection. And this reflex happiness, this happiness arising from the consciousness of being the object, is even sweeter than any connected with being the subject of affection.

In like manner there is pleasure in the performance of beneficent actions; in energetic, constant, and therefore ultimately successful exertions to advance the great interests of human kind, in art, in science, in philosophy, in education, in morals, in legislation, in government; whether those exertions are put forth in the study, the school, the senate, or any less observed though perhaps not less arduous nor less important field of labour. Exertions of this kind beget in those for whom, towards those by whom, they are made, benignant feelings—respect, veneration, gratitude, love. With such feelings the philosopher, the instructor, the legislator, the statesman, the philanthropist, knows that he is, or that, sooner or later, he will be regarded by his fellow men; and in this consciousness there is happiness: but this is another source of happiness perfectly distinct from that arising from the performance of beneficent actions; it is a new happiness superadded to the former, and, if possible, still more exquisite. Thus manifold is the beneficent operation of the sympathetic affection: thus admirable is the provision made in the constitution of our nature for the excitement and extension of this affection, and, through its instrumentality, for the multiplication and exaltation of enjoyment!

In affections and actions of the class just referred to, and in the pleasures that result from them, there is much of the nature which is commonly termed moral. And the power to which the moral affections and actions are referred is usually and justly considered as the supreme faculty of the mind; for it is the regulator and guide of all the others; it is that by which they attain their proper and ultimate object. Of whatever pleasure human nature is capable in sensation, in idea, in appetite, in passion, in emotion, in affection, in action; whatever is productive of real pleasure, in contradistinction to what only cheats with the false hope of pleasure; whatever is productive of pure pleasure, in contradistinction to what is productive partly of pleasure and partly of pain, and consequently productive not of pure, but of mixed pleasure; whatever is productive of a great degree of pleasure in contradistinction to what is productive of a small degree of pleasure; whatever is productive of lasting pleasure, in contradistinction to what is productive of temporary pleasure; whatever is productive of ultimate pleasure, in contradistinction to what is productive of immediate pleasure, but ultimate pain; this greatest and most perfect pleasure it is the part of the moral faculty to discover. In the degree in which the operation of this faculty is correct and complete, it enables the human being to derive from every faculty of his nature the greatest, the purest, the most enduring pleasure; that is, the maximum of felicity. This is the proper scope and aim of the moral faculty; to this its right exercise is uniformly conducive; and this, as it is better cultivated and directed, it will accomplish in a higher degree, in a continual progression, to which no limit can be assigned. But if the operation of this faculty be to render every other in the highest degree conducive to happiness, conformity to the course of conduct required by it, must of course be that highest happiness. Conformity to the course of conduct pointed out by the moral faculty as conducive in the highest degree to happiness is moral excellence, or, in the definite and exact sense of the word, virtue. And in this sense it is that virtue is happiness. It is because it discriminates the true sources of happiness, that is, directs every other faculty into its proper course, and guides it in that course to the attainment of its ultimate object, that the moral faculty is ranked as the highest faculty of the mind. Supposing the operation of this faculty to be perfect, it is but an identical expression to say, that to follow its guidance implicitly is to follow the road that leads to the most perfect happiness. But, over and above the happiness thus directly and necessarily resulting from yielding uniform and implicit obedience to the moral faculty, there is, in the very consciousness of such conformity, a new happiness, as pure as it is exalted. Thus, in a twofold manner, is the moral the highest faculty of the mind, the source of its highest happiness; and thus manifest it is, from every view that can be taken of the constitution of human nature, that every faculty with which it is endowed, from the highest to the lowest, not only affords its own proper and peculiar pleasure, but that each, as it successively rises in the scale, is proportionately the source of a nobler kind, and a larger amount of enjoyment.

And the pleasure afforded by the various faculties with which the human being is endowed is the immediate and direct result of their exercise. With the exception of the organic organs, and the reason for the exception in regard to them has been assigned, the action of the organs is directly pleasurable. From the exercise of the organs of sense, from the operation of the intellectual faculties, from appetite, passion, and affection, pleasure flows as directly as the object for which the instrument is expressly framed.

And pleasure is the ordinary result of the action of the organs; pain is sometimes the result, but it is the extraordinary not the ordinary result. Whatever may be the degree of pain occasionally produced, or however protracted its duration, yet it is never the natural, that is, the usual or permanent state, either of a single organ, or of an apparatus, or of the system. The usual, the permanent, the natural condition of each organ, and of the entire system, is pleasurable. Abstracting, therefore, from the aggregate amount of pleasure, the aggregate amount of pain, the balance in favour of pleasure is immense. This is true of the ordinary experience of ordinary men, even taking their physical and mental states such as they are at present; but the ordinary physical and mental states, considered as sources of pleasure of every human being, might be prodigiously improved; and some attempt will be made, in a subsequent part of this work, to show in what manner and to what extent.

It has been already stated that there are cases in which pleasure is manifestly given for its own sake; in which it is rested in as an ultimate object: but the converse is never found: in no case is the excitement of pain gratuitous. Among all the examples of secretion, there is no instance of a fluid, the object of which is to irritate and inflame: among all the actions of the economy, there is none, the object of which is the production of pain.

Moreover, all such action of the organs, as is productive of pleasure, is conducive to their complete development, and consequently to the increase of their capacity for producing pleasure; while all such action of the organs as is productive of pain is preventive of their complete development, and consequently diminishes their capacity for producing pain. The natural tendency of pleasure is to its own augmentation and perpetuity. Pain, on the contrary, is self-destructive.

Special provision is made in the economy, for preventing pain from passing beyond a certain limit, and from enduring beyond a certain time. Pain, when it reaches a certain intensity, deadens the sensibility of the sentient nerve; and when it lasts beyond a certain time, it excites new actions in the organ affected, by which the organ is either restored to a sound state, or so changed in structure that its function is wholly abolished. But change of structure and abolition of function, if extensive and permanent, are incompatible with the continuance of life. If, then, the actions of the economy, excited by pain, fail to put an end to suffering by restoring the diseased organ to a healthy state, they succeed in putting an end to it by terminating life. Pain, therefore, cannot be so severe and lasting as materially to preponderate over pleasure, without soon proving destructive to life.

But the very reverse is the case with pleasure. All such action of the organs as is productive of pleasure is conducive to the perpetuation of life. There is a close connexion between happiness and longevity. Enjoyment is not only the end of life, but it is the only condition of life which is compatible with a protracted term of existence. The happier a human being is, the longer he lives; the more he suffers, the sooner he dies; to add to enjoyment, is to lengthen life; to inflict pain, is to shorten the duration of existence. As there is a point of wretchedness beyond which life is not desirable, so there is a point beyond which it is not maintainable. The man who has reached an advanced age cannot have been, upon the whole, an unhappy being; for the infirmity and suffering which embitter life cut it short. Every document by which the rate of mortality among large numbers of human beings can be correctly ascertained contains in it irresistible evidence of this truth. In every country, the average duration of life, whether for the whole people or for particular classes, is invariably in the direct ratio of their means of felicity; while, on the other hand, the number of years which large portions of the population survive beyond the adult age may be taken as a certain test of the happiness of the community. How clear must have been the perception of this in the mind of the Jewish legislator when he made the promise, that thy days may be long in the land which the Lord thy God hath given thee—the sanction of every religious observance, and the motive to every moral duty!

Deeply then are laid the fountains of happiness in the constitution of human nature. They spring from the depths of man's physical organization; and from the wider range of his mental constitution they flow in streams magnificent and glorious. It is conceivable that from the first to the last moment of his existence, every human being might drink of them to the full extent of his capacity. Why does he not? The answer will be found in that to the following question. What must happen before this be possible? The attainment of clear and just conceptions on subjects, in relation to which the knowledge hitherto acquired by the most enlightened men is imperfect. Physical nature, every department of it, at least, which is capable of influencing human existence and human sensation; human nature, both the physical and the mental part of it; institutions so adapted to that nature as to be capable of securing to every individual, and to the whole community, the maximum of happiness with the minimum of suffering—this must be known. But knowledge of this kind is of slow growth. To expect the possession of it on the part of any man in such a stage of civilization as the present, is to suppose a phenomenon to which there is nothing analogous in the history of the human mind. The human mind is equally incapable of making a violent discovery in any department of knowledge, and of taking a violent bound in any path of improvement. What we call discoveries and improvements are clear, decided, but for the most part gentle, steps in advancement of the actual and immediately-preceding state of knowledge. The human mind unravels the great chain of knowledge, link by link; when it is no longer able to trace the connecting link, it is at a stand; the discoverer, in common with his contemporaries, seeing the last ascertained link, and from that led on by analogies which are not perceived by, or which do not impress, others, at length descries the next in succession; this brings into view new analogies, and so prepares the way for the discernment of another link; this again elicits other analogies which lead to the detection of other links, and so the chain is lengthened. And no link, once made out, is lost.

Chemists tell us that the adjustment of the component elements of water is such, that although they readily admit of separation and are subservient to their most important uses in the economy of nature by this very facility of decomposition, yet that their tendency to recombination is equal, so that the quantity of water actually existing at this present moment in the globe is just the same as on the first day of the creation, neither the operations of nature, nor the purposes to which it has been applied by man, having used up, in the sense of destroying, a single particle of it. Alike indestructible are the separate truths that make up the great mass of human knowledge. In their ready divisibility and their manifold applications, some of them may sometimes seem to be lost; but if they disappear, it is only to enter into new combinations, many of which themselves become new truths, and so ultimately extend the boundaries of knowledge. Whatever may have been the case in time past, when the loss of an important truth, satisfactorily and practically established, may be supposed possible, such an event is inconceivable now when the art of printing at once multiplies a thousand records of it, and, with astonishing rapidity, makes it part and parcel of hundreds of thousands of minds. A thought more full of encouragement to those who labour for the improvement of their fellow beings there cannot be. No onward step is lost; no onward step is final; every such step facilitates and secures another. The savage state, that state in which gross selfishness seeks its object simply and directly by violence, is past. The semi-savage or barbarous state, in which the grossness of the selfishness is somewhat abated, and the violence by which it seeks its object in some degree mitigated, by the higher faculties and the gentler affections of our nature, but in which war still predominates, is also past. To this has succeeded the state in which we are at present, the so-called civilized state—a state in which the selfish principle still predominates, in which the justifiableness of seeking the accomplishment of selfish purposes by means of violence, that of war among the rest, is still recognized, but in which violence is not the ordinary instrument employed by selfishness, its ends being commonly accomplished by the more silent, steady, and permanent operation of institutions. This state, like the preceding, will pass away. How soon, in what precise mode, by what immediate agency, none can tell. But we are already in possession of the principle which will destroy the present and introduce a better social condition, namely, the principle at the basis of the social union, THE MAXIMUM OF THE AGGREGATE OF HAPPINESS; THE MAXIMUM OF THE AGGREGATE OF HAPPINESS SOUGHT BY THE PROMOTION OF THE MAXIMUM OF INDIVIDUAL HAPPINESS!