of the first section of our science. Why, then, can we not make it the immediate object of our inquiry? The reader may suppose that although it might be more convenient to begin with a simpler question, if one could be obtained, still, in the absence of this, it might answer well enough to take in hand the question we have got. But if that could be done, philosophy would be a mere arbitrary science,—a system contingent for its commencement not on the necessity of the case, but on the choice or convenience of the philosopher. And this circumstance would be altogether destructive of the truth and excellence of philosophy. It would vitiate the character,—it would take away the value,—it would let out the soul of her instructions. It is not, therefore, mainly on account of the complication of this question that it has to be set aside,—nor is it mainly on account of any expected simplicity in the new question, that we are anxious to search it out, and bring it forward. No doubt the one question is the more complex, and the other will be found the more simple; but that is a secondary consideration, and one which does not necessarily compel us to put aside the original question, and go in search of a new one. But unless we are compelled to this by necessity, and not by choice or convenience, our course would be optional and arbitrary; and this it must not be, if our philosophy is to be given out, or is to be accepted, as true. No man is entitled, in
