than in him we once heard irreverently styled, in the Glasgow Baillie's lingo, "that Dougal creatur." Other cultivators of note and ability, and of more or less enthusiasm in their vocation, might be named—some of them at no immeasurable distance from the royal Stewart dynasty—in the persons of Professors Ferrier and De Morgan, John Stuart Mill and Thomas de Quincey, Samuel Bailey and J. D. Morell, Macdougal and Whewell. In fact, a final dying out of the Philosophy of Mind, even in this nation of shopkeepers, seems possible or probable, only in connexion with the dying out of minds to philosophise. As the sparks fly upwards, so does the spirit of man—meditative, speculative, imaginative—on philosophic thoughts intent. "Qui," asks Madame de Staël, "peut avoir la faculté de penser, et ne pas essayer à connaître l'origine et le but des choses de ce monde?" We are told, indeed, that the gros bon sens—the plain practical reasoning of the English public pronounces philosophy unworthy of study, and neglects it:—"Let steady progress in positive science be our glory; metaphysical speculation we can leave to others." We are told that the annals of philosophy teach but the vanity of ontological speculation—that scepticism is the terminus ad quem, scepticism the gulf which yawns at the end of all consistent metaphysics. We are summoned to thank and admire David Hume for having brought philosophy to this pass—for destroying the "feeble pretension that metaphysics can be a science." And we are referred to the oracular utterance of Goethe: "Man is not bom to solve the mystery of existence." Yes: but the oracle does not end there. Goethe continues: "But he must, nevertheless, attempt it, that he may learn to know how to keep within the limits of the Knowable." In this way, necessity is laid upon him: an irresistible attraction draws him. The centre of truth is far above, out of his reach: the assurance that he is not born to penetrate it, is a centrifugal force tending to alienate him from its neighbourhood; but the inevitable longing to penetrate it, in its light to see light, is a centrepetal force urging him to pierce into the heart of its mystery; and between these antagonist forces, he is whirled round amid the music of the spheres, ever journeying, even though doomed to make no advance towards the centre—ever hoping, even though destined to an eternally baffled hope—ever learning, even though never able to come to the knowledge of the truth. "Sans cesse attiré vers le secret de son être, il lui est également impossible, et de le découvrir, et de n'y pas songer toujours." And supposing one mind to be eventually disgusted by a recurring series of disappointments, and consequently to renounce the study as futile and worse; still, there is generation after generation to follow, whose thinkers repudiate thought by proxy, and must vex for their own relief the old vexed questions, and come by a road of their own cutting to the goal Vanitas vanitatum. The wisdom of their forefathers will not satisfy a new generation which knows not Locke and grins at Berkeley. Absolute truth may be absolute moonshine; and to extract the essence of the one may be classed with extracting the other from cucumbers: yet is the metaphysician absolutely resolved on casting in his lot with the "foolish people and unwise" who pursue this art de s'égarer avec méthode. If there be such absolute truth, he contends[1] it must be elicited by philosophical thinking; if there be not,
- ↑ See Morell's Introduction to his "Speculative Philosophy of Europe."
