science to do it; we shall be unworthy if we omit it; we shall merit condemnation if we omit it; we shall despise ourselves, and deserve to be despised by others, if we omit it. All these are equivalent expressions, different modes of stating the primary fundamental idea of rectitude. It will be seen, then, that in the very idea of an action's being right is involved that of obligation to perform it. This, in fact, is the essential element of the idea itself. Do you ask, then, why you are obliged to perform an action, which you admit to be right; your question is a mere tautology; as much so, as if if you asked, why you were obliged to believe a proposition which you admitted to be true, or why, if the whole be greater than a part, you must believe that a part is less than the whole. If, then, the idea of obligation is involved in the idea of right, when we ask, respecting the action, which we have found to be right, why we should perform it, we do not mean, if we know what we are about, what is our obligation to perform it, but what personal consideration, acting on our wills, can urge us to perform it, what shall we gain by its performance; what interest will it promote; what feeling or sentiment will it gratify; in short, what motive have we for its performance. We come then to the distinction, which has been so generally forgotten, between motive and obligation. This may be expressed, in a brief manner, thus: When I ask, why I should perform an action, the word why is used in two different senses. First, when the answer involves any of the ideas, enumerated before as belonging to right, and stops at some self-evident element, in which I find duty. This is obligation. Second, when the answer involves any of the personal considerations enumerated before, and stops at some self-evident element in which I find interest. This is motive. The confounding of the two different senses of the same word why, has led to the common confusion between obligation and motive, duty and in terest. If we ask, in the former sense of the term, why we should do such or such an action, we analyze the action, till it can be referred to some general principle of which the obligation is intuitively perceived; if in the latter sense we seek for some motive which may induce us to fulfill our obligations. Thus, if we ask, why we should relieve the distress of a friend, we perceive at once, that it is a duty growing out of the relation of friendship. This is the obligation. If we still ask, why we should perform the duty, we come to the consideration of motives; and to this question, a variety of answers may be given. It may be said, we should do it, because it is right, and this answer is legitimate, because the perception of right is followed by a sense of duty, and this is an active principle of our nature. Again, it may be said that we should do it, because it is demanded by gratitude, and here a motive is addressed to an active principle. Again, it may be said that we should do it, because our friend will do as much for us in return, and here a motive is addressed to self-love, another active principle. Or it may be said, that we should do it because it is agreeable to the will of God, and we shall be rewarded for it in a future state; here the motive is addressed to our religious sentiment, certainly one of the most active principles of human nature. But in all these cases, the ground of obligation, and that of motive, are palpably distinct, and the statement which may explain the one, will be far from explaining the others. The application of these views to the relation between utility and virtue is obvious, and we shall not dwell upon it. It is plain, that if we are right in the principles which we have advanced, the utility of an action to others or to ourselves may be a strong motive for its performance, while it does not constitute its primary obligation. We mus leave it with our readers to follow out the conclusions to which this distinction leads. We ought, perhaps, to offer an apology for occupying so many of our pages with a subject relating to the abstract philosophy of ethics, which cannot be supposed to possess the same interest for others, which we take in it ourselves. We may be permitted, however, to say, that there is a far more intimate connexion between sound theoretical principles, and the advancement and prosperity of society, than is generally imagined. It has been abundantly verified by experience, that when the primitive and sublime sentiment of Duty, engraved by the finger of God on the heart of man, has been lost sight of, or merged in an inferior order of principles, a slow but fatal poison has preyed upon the vital interests of the community. We cannot but regret, that there is so strong a tendency at the present day, among a great number of benevolent and philanthropic men, who, we are sure, have deeply at heart the welfare of their race, to forget the eternal distinctions of right and wrong, and to substitute in their place, as the criterion of actions, and the motives of conduct, merely empirical considerations, derived from an exaggerated sense of public utility, and connected, as they generally are, with exclusive appeals to private interest. We yield to none, in our earnest desire to see the measures of governments, and the institutions of public policy, brought to the test of utility, so far as that is conformable to the dictates of unchangeable justice; we cherish the deepest conviction, that the performance of duty is the best security for private happiness; but we can never believe, that the interests of states or of individuals are best provided for, when the primitive nature of man is obscured, and the immutable perceptions of his reason, and the noble sentiments of his heart, are commuted for uncertain and selfish calculations, which exercise only a small portion of his faculties, and those of the least exalted and venerable character. ART. V. - Hymns, Songs, and Fables, for Children. By the Author of "The Well-Spent Hour." Boston. Carter, Hendee, & Babcock. 1831. 18mo. pp. 50. THERE was a time when poetry was created every day, and that was a time when the grown-up were children. Then there were ballads and songs that told stories, and painted pictures, and almost sung of themselves. But we have no ballads now. The youthful energy of English poetry seems to have died out. At least it has not emigrated with the language, and associated itself with those general habits and customs, those interesting objects of every-day life, which formerly it loved to consecrate, and which, in their turn, perpetuated its strains. Whence is this? We do not intend to enter into any profound discussion of this question, but simply to give our own opinion in reply. It is not that the souls of poets are not amongst us, with power to concentrate heart, imagination, and melody, into "thoughts that breathe, and words that burn"; but that no auditors present themselves who concentrate their souls to listen. It is because poets now sing to critics, instead of the earnest and believing. But the divinely gifted should not despair. Into the bosom of the most artificial society there is constantly pouring a fresh supply of soul. New, unsophisticated beings, are rising into existence constantly; as yet not distracted from nature and its primary instincts, by the many objects which society presents, to dissipate their minds. And what audience can a poet want to sing to, better than this? an audience reverential and enthusiastic as those of David and Homer, loving, wondering, and trusting, without a question, or doubt, or criticism. Let the grown-up go and learn of logicians and politicians, the dissectors of material nature, and the inventors of machinery. The poet, who is wise to know his friends and lovers, will be content with the children, who will learn by heart the music-linked wisdom, which he has taken whole from nature's undivided self. We hardly know whether it is more for the sake of the children or the poets that we would introduce them to each other. We would do it for the sake of the poets, because children are pure specimens of humanity, and not yet adulterated by the arbitrary customs of society; and can understand the pictured language and no other; and be interested in that which addresses itself to the first principles of their own nature, and nothing else. And we would do it for the sake of the children, because we would cherish their love, and wonder, and faith, by sympathy, until it is recognised by their own reason as that which is to keep them ever above those same arbitrary customs, at least so far as to regulate and govern them. We have long looked forward for some one to arise, pure enough from worldly ambition, and sufficiently well taught in heavenly lore, to usher in this happy era of the history of education and of poetry. Mrs. Hemans has tried and failed. We will not even speak of the crowds of well disposed persons who have laboriously put prose into rhyme. When we saw Mr. Willis's "Tired of Play," we had good hope of him. But he wandered away, and we fear has provoked Custom to lie upon him "heavy as frost." Our hopes are kindled again, with the appearance of this little book. It is by the author of a story, which we have already noticed, and which is, though in prose, replete with the spirit of poetry. And now, in bonâ fide verse, she has done delightfully, and indicates ability to do yet more and better things. With a quick ear for melody, and for great varieties of time, she unites a sensibility perfectly alive to all the lovely aspects of nature, and a sympathy with children, from the welling-up of their innocent joyousness at the very sight of beauty, to the highest heaven of their moral and religious feeling; taking their hearts captive and bearing them along the stream of her verse, which reflects the hills, woods, and flowery banks, the stars and sunset clouds, and all sweet and glorious things of heaven and earth, in its bosom. But we will let her speak for herself, in the "Little Boy's May-day Song," p. 2; in the "Dear Mother, guess what I have heard," p. 13; in "Hark! the little birds are singing," p. 16; in "How beautiful the setting sun," p. 17; and in "What was it in the viewless wind," p. 25. As to the hymns, we know nothing better than "It was my heavenly Father's love." And there is hardly less merit in many others, though no others are quite so childlike. "It was my heavenly Father's love The bright green fields, the clear blue sky - "He gave me all my friends, and taught "My father and my mother dear, - He bids me all their precepts hear, |