tainty. The mind has a tendency to exagge rate everything; and the slightest impulse carries it along.'

A well-known case, related by Dr. Abercrombie, of an officer, who served in the Expedition to Louisburgh, in 1758, presents a curious parallel to the experience of electro-biology in a somnambulism of a peculiar kind. The ordinary somnambulist is generally possessed by one dominant idea, to which all his actions conform. But the individual in question, when asleep, could be completely directed by whispering in his ear, especially if this was done by one with whose voice he was familiar. This peculiarity rendered him the subject of many practical jokes for the amusement of his brother officers. They found him one day asleep on a locker in the cabin, and made him believe that he had fallen overboard, exhorting him to swim for his life. He immediately imitated the movements of a swimmer. Then they told him that a shark was upon him, and that he must dive for his life. This he at once did, with such force as to throw himself on to the cabin floor, which of course, awakened him. After all the experiments, he had no recollection of his dreams, but a confused feeling of oppression and fatigue; and he used to tell his friends that he was sure they had been playing some tricks with him.

The difference between these abnormal states and that of a man of whom the 'mens sana in corpore sano' may be predicated, is plainly due to the self-determining power possessed by the latter, -the Will,-that which qualifies Man as an ens agens,' no less than his consciousness as the identical subject of diverse impressions constitutes him an 'ens sciens; the two phases of personality exhibiting themselves, as we have hinted above, united in the most elementary state of human existence. To know and to act comprises the sum total of Human Capabilities. What are commonly called the Laws of Nature and the Laws of Thought are, in fact, the limiting conditions of knowledge and action, only discoverable by beings endued with the powers of knowing and acting, and-it should be kept in mind-discoverable by them only through the process of exercising those very powers.

It is now through the Cerebrum, the portion which, in Man, bears so large a proportion to the rest of the brain, that Dr. Carpenter supposes the Will to act upon the nervous organisation. The evidence for this is, so far as we are able to judge, at present scarcely strong enough to justify more than the pronouncing it a plausible conjecture, supported by few facts, though, it must be confessed, contradicted, so far as appears, by none. Psychologically, the self-determining power shows itself by selecting from the sequence of ideas which pass through the mind those which appear to it likely, through the process of association, to lead to the one which it seeks; as when, having forgotten the name of some person which we desire to recollect, we recall the place where we last saw him, or the persons in whose company we met him. In thinking out the solution of a problem, it is by an effort of Will that we concentrate the attention on some consideration upon which it seems probable on à priori grounds that the solution depends. The mechanism of the mind trained by habit does the rest, sometimes after many fruitless trials, just as the angler casts his fly first under one bank, and then another, of the pool which he is satisfied conceals a trout. The stream of association, always active, suggests an infinite multitude of ideas, of which those that are incongruous are dismissed at once, by the practised thinker often unconsciously, until at last the one appropriate idea rises to the consciousness, and is at once recognised. That this train of thought is accompanied by some modification or other of some portions of the nervous system there seems no more reason to question than that a parallel modification takes place when we speak or walk. Dr. Carpenter, looking at the matter from its physiological side, conceives that the self-determining act which originates it is coincident with some increased supply of blood to a portion of the blood-vessels which surround the cerebrum. A materialist would say, if he adopted the modus operandi, that the sense of self-determination is the reflex action of the Cerebrum in response to the increased supply of blood. But, as we have pointed out, the existence of a force from within, acting in correlation with a force from with

out, the Ego with the external world,— is implied in every definite human consciousness.

Dr. Carpenter has very fully and clearly described the mode in which the self-determining power operates, in conjunction with the automatism of thought, in the work of the artist and the poet, as well as of the philosopher. He has also shown its operation in the decision of practical questions and the formation of moral judgments. We will not attempt to follow him in these descriptions.

They are, for the most part, in our opinion, perfectly justified by facts: but the great merit of his book is the elucidation of the enormous part which a species of mental mechanism, mainly constructed by each of us from our own experiences, plays in every department of human life; while, at the same time, it becomes clearer, in proportion as this fact is more completely brought out, that Man, while using a wonderful machinery, is not himself a portion of it.—Quarterly Review.

"THERE are," says Macaulay, in that fine Essay which laid the foundation of his fame, a few characters which have stood the closest scrutiny and the severest tests, which have been tried in the furnace and have proved pure, which have been weighed in the balance and have not been found wanting, which have been declared sterling by the gen eral consent of mankind, and which are visibly stamped with the image and superscription of the Most High." Of these the great historian considered Miiton to be one, and we should most of us like to agree with him. Yet there are some curious stories about Milton, who was perhaps not the pleasantest of men in private life. Thus he is said to have taught his daughters the Greek alphabet, without attempting to instruct them in the language, in order that they might the sooner be qualified for the irksome task of reading to him authors of whose works they could not understand a syllable. To the common mind this seems a piece of gross selfishness, though it is quite possible that Milton, whose conception of woman's mission was not the highest, may never have imagined he was guilty of an act of injustice in turning intelligent beings into machines. His ideal of female perfection seems to have been the Eve of his own 'Paradise Lost," before the fall. Adam lived "for God only-she for God in him"-a view of the marriage tie for which there is assuredly no warrant in the New Testament. And many will consider Dinah, in "Adam Bede," preaching herself to

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the simple village folk, as a nobler picture of womanly goodness. In Milton's system there would hardly have been room for St. Teresa, or Mrs. Fry, much less for Queen Elizabeth, of glorious memory.

Another story of Milton is only ludicrous, but one hopes it is not true, for one would like only the loftiest associations to centre round his name. A friend once condoled with him on the loss of his sight, from the point of view. that he could never have the pleasure of seeing his wife. "Ah," replied Milton with a sigh, "would that I were deaf as well!" In truth Milton seems to have looked upon his Bessy (No. 3) as a necessary evil, necessary for purposes of housekeeping and cookery. Some of his biographers have represented him as a man of austere life, who made himself miserable by supping on olives and cold water, but it seems more probable that he was something of an epicure in a quiet way, and that a savory stew was very much indeed to his taste. His wife once set before him a dish of which he was exceedingly fond, dressed with nicest culinary art, and as the poet ate, he observed, with his mouth full, by way of expressing his thanks, "Thou knowest that I have left thee all I have." History is silent as to the precise nature of this memorable refection, whether "grisamber steamed," or game "built up in pastry," but those who think Milton had no idea of a good dinner, have only to turn to the description of the banquet with which the Devil tempts our Saviour

in "Paradise Regained;" how unlike, he exclaims, "to that crude apple which diverted Eve!"

Yet it seems almost sacrilege to repeat gossip concerning the inspired martyr of English liberty. One is tempted to use the formula employed by Herodotus, when that charming story-teller had given some particularly naughty story relating to a venerated personage, "May I not incur the anger of any God or Hero!" The truth is that half of what constitutes the amusing in the annals of our curious race is composed of facts more or less to the discredit of those who have made a stir in the world. Who, for instance, that has read Fitztraver's song has not learnt to connect the name of Henry Howard, Earl of Surrey, with all that is brightest in chivalry, in poesy, and in love? Yet his passion for Geraldine is well-nigh an exploded myth, and all its romantic incidents have long since receded into the domain of fable. The facts about him are more prosaic, and he seems to have spent his youth much as other "swells" of the sixteenth century-partly, one grieves to find, in the medieval substitute for wrenching off knockers. Thus we find him summoned before the Privy Council for eating flesh in Lent, and for walking about the streets at night in a "lewd and unseemly manner," and breaking windows with a cross-bow. On the first charge he excused himself; the second he confessed, and on it was committed to prison. It would be interesting to know whether his lordship paid for the windows he broke, as glass must have been dear in the reign of Henry VIII. Poor Surrey! He lived in a barbarous and unnatural age, when too often a man's foes were they of his own household; and he was ultimately convicted of high treason on the joint testimony of his sister, the Duchess of Richmond, and of his father's mistress. It was a judicial murder of the foulest kind

Another Howard, John, dubbed "the philanthropist," may seem, to a sceptical generation, a far less amiable person than the thoughtless and unfortunate Surrey. No doubt he did excellent work in reforming prison discipline; but charity, says a shrewd proverb, should begin at home, and there is too much reason to believe that Howard was a severe, not to say a harsh, parent. He managed to

make his son afraid of him, and the result was dismal enough. The young man fell into dissolute habits, which were carefully concealed from the father, and consequently unchecked, till they had brought on a disease which terminated in incurable madness. It is fair to add that Mr. Hepworth Dixon considers the charge of harshness brought against Howard as unfair, but some painful facts are not easily explained away. The best story ever told of Howard is, perhaps, the answer he made to Joseph II. when the latter observed that the law in his own dominions was more clement than in England. There, said the Emperor, men were hanged for many offences for which they would only be imprisoned in Austria. "That is true," rejoined Howard," but give me leave to tell your Majesty that I had much rather be hanged than stay in one of your prisons." It should be added that some of Howard's prison reforms were of more than questionable utility; and he has the bad reputation of having introduced the system of solitary confinement, the application of which he recommended to refractory boys-" for which," said the mild and generous Charles Lamb, "I could spit on his statue." Had Howard lived in another age and clime, he might have developed into a Torquemada or St. Dominic, and have been distinguished as the founder of an Inquisition. He led a strict life himself, had the highest zeal for the public good, and was probably destitute of natural affections.

It is to the credit of human nature that when a man has rendered great services to his country or to his kind, we resolutely refuse to look at the dark side of his character, and form a glorified picture of him for the mind's eye to rest upon. The portrait of Nelson is not blurred for Englishmen. We are jealous of Byron's reputation, and will scarcely suffer it to be justly or unjustly assailed. With what pleasure should we not hail the fact that a painstaking writer had effectually cleared the character of Marlborough from the stains of avarice and corruption! And yet it is always well to look facts resolutely in the face, for they often explain, and enable us to condone. To know all would be to forgive all. Take the case of Nelson. The murder of Prince Caracciolo and all the

other bad doings at Naples may be traced directly to his infatuation for Lady Hamilton. And whence did that infatuation arise? It has been asserted that Nelson gradually became estranged from his wife because she did not take enough interest in his career and seemed hardly to know that her husband was the idolised hero of the nation. If so it was a grievous fault, and the result, with a man of Nelson's temperament, might have been easily foreseen. "My dear, great, glorious Nelson," if we remember aright, was the style in which the wife of a Cabinet Minister, who can scarcely have been personally acquainted with the Admiral, wrote to congratulate him on the victory of the Nile. Lady Hamilton was even more demonstrative, and Nelson took a naïve, almost child-like pleasure in being made much of, and called "great" and "glorious" to his face. He had done great things, and was not ashamed to own that he felt proud of his achievements. Indeed self-assertion on his part occasionally took an unpleasant form. Towards the close of the war with the First Republic, when the general distress was sharp, and bread frightfully dearin 1800 the price of the quartern loaf rose to one shilling and tenpence half-penny -a curious fashion arose of giving dinners in which the guests were asked to bring their own bread. Nelson was invited to such a dinner, but through some oversight he had apparently not been informed of the conditions of the feast. At all events, when he found there was no bread, he made quite a little scene, called his servant, and, before the whole company, gave him a shilling, and ordered him to go and buy a roll, saying aloud: "It is hard that after fighting my country's battles, I should be grudged her bread." One would not like to have been present at that dinner party, still less to have been the host; and, in truth, either Nelson should not have been invited, or an exception should have been made in his favor.

It is also part of the ill-natured gossip of history that Nelson's last signal was not "England" but "Nelson expects every man to do his duty," and that the officer to whom the order was given affected to have misunderstood his directions, and substituted the sentence which was actually telegraphed. Southey says

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it was received by the fleet with enthusi asm, but an eye-witness of the battle has recorded the equally probable fact, that some unideal Britons could not well make out what it meant. Do our duty?" quoth one of them, "why, of course we shall." In truth, the English dislike of rhetoric (strange enough in a country which has given Parliamentary institutions to the world) amounts to a fault; it makes us think that heroic words are never found in company with heroic acts. This is far from being the case, as a notable incident in the life of General Wolfe will show. After his appointment to the command of the expedition against Canada, and on the day preceding his embarkation, Pitt invited him to dinner. The only other guest was Lord Temple, Pitt's brother-in-law, who afterwards told the story to Thomas Grenville. As the evening advanced, Wolfe, ever so slightly warmed with wine, or, it may be, merely fired by his own thoughts, broke forth into a strain of gasconade. He drew his sword-he rapped the table with it-he flourished it round the room-he talked of the mighty things that sword was to achieve. The two Ministers sat aghast, at an exhibition so unusual from any man of real sense and spirit, and when at last Wolfe had taken his leave, and his carriage was heard to roll from the door, Pitt seemed for the moment shaken in the high opinion which he had formed of Wolfe: he lifted up his eyes and arms, and exclaimed to Lord Temple, "Good God! that I should have entrusted the fate of the country and of the administration to such hands!" Few anecdotes rest on better authority, yet it may be hoped that Lord Temple or Mr. Grenvilie was guilty of a slight inaccuracy in putting into the mouth of Pitt the words, "and of the administration," which sound like bathos, whereas Pitt always spoke and thought in the loftiest strain. Indeed, in judging Wolfe, the great statesman might have known, from the best of evidence, that "tall talk" is occasionally the herald of great actions. "My Lord," he had said in 1757 to the Duke of Devonshire, “I am sure that I can save this country, and that nobody else can"-which proved to be the true state of the case.

In spite of "goody" books, which profess that genius is invariably accompa

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nied by modesty, at least half the famous men of history have been intensely egotistical, and strenuous asserters of their "After all, what have I done?" exclaimed Napoleon one day, as if to silence a flatterer. "Is it anything compared with what Christ has done?" Indeed, one of Napoleon's arguments for the truth of Christianity seemed to be that Christ, having founded a mightier empire than his own, must necessarily have been more than mortal. Heroes are apt to reason curiously. Neison told Lord Holland that he often felt pain in the arm he had lost," which," added the gallant warrior, "is a clear proof of the immortality of the soul-and sets the question completely at rest." This remark would have been hailed with delight by that ingenious theorist who held that puzzle-headedness conduced to conduced to celebrity, and who, by the way, defended his opinions with singular skill. He had once maintained at a dinner party that most men who have attained suddenly and rapidly to fame have been puzzleheaded. "What do you say," objected one of the company, to Mr. Pitt? He was an admired statesman at the age of twenty-three; and was he a puzzleheaded man?" "Why, not generally such," was the answer, "but he was such in reference to the particular point which mainly contributed to obtain him that early and speedy popularity. Look at the portraits of him at that time, and you will see a paper in his hand, or on his table, inscribed 'Sinking Fund.' It was his eloquent advocacy of that delusion (as all, now, admit it to have been) which brought him such sudden renown. And he could not have so ably recommended -nor indeed would he probably have adopted that juggle of Dr. Price's if he had not been himself the dupe of his fallacy; as Lord Grenville also was; who afterwards published a pamphlet in which he frankly exposed the delusion." As a rule, to be puzzle-headed is not so great a hindrance to success in life as want of fixed opinions and principles. A strange story is told of Berryer which illustrates both the utility and the possibility of early making up one's mind, on some of the great questions of religion and politics. When a very young man, with fame and fortune yet to win, Berryer is said to have considered the arguNEW SERIES.-VOL. XXV., No. 5

ments for Atheism and Republicanism (too often mixed up together in France) as being on the whole quite as good as those for Religion and Legitimism. He felt, moreover, that for worldly success it was requisite that he should not continue all his life a doubter, but have some sort of creed. Should he range himself on the side of Church and King, or for " the immortal principles of 1789?" After trying in vain to balance the considerations for and against either belief, he gave up the task in disgust, and decided the course of his life in a singular, one is tempted to say impious, fashion. He took a louis-d'or from his pocket, tossed it up, and said, " Heads, King; tail, Republic." Heads it was, and from that moment Berryer became the sworn champion of Legitimism, and ultimately, no doubt, grew to believe himself the advocate of a true cause. But what if, to use Plato's expression, he did, on that memorable day, take a lie into his soul? There are better rewards than those of worldly success, "the inquiry of truth," as Lord Bacon finely observes, "which is the love-making, or wooing of it-and the belief of truth, which is the enjoying of it-being the sovereign good of human nature." Those words have the ring of a morality at once healthy, honest, and sublime. They are separated toto cælo from the strange advice given by Keble to Arnold, when the latter was troubled with doubts as to the doctrine of the Trinity. Keble counselled his friend to take a living and preach incessantly to his parishioners the doctrine in which he only half believed, by way of strengthening his own faith. The advice would seem positively immoral did one not remember that Keble scarcely conceived that doubt could ever be honest, much less well founded. He was once urged by an admirer to write on the subject of the Inspiration of the Scriptures, the limits of inspiration being a subject that was causing difficulties to many thoughtful persons. Keble replied that he feared those who found any difficulties were too wicked to be open to conviction. So unamiable and unjust could be the thoughts of the man who was considered by many of his friends as a saint, and who really was a conspicuous example of human virtue and goodness. The fact is that the character which has,

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