The ancient philosophers lacked the findings of modern clinical medical research which establishes that we are clearly bicameral in mind. Assuming there was just one mind it is easy for us to see how they concluded that Reason, among all our potentialities, must rule. Of course it is precisely because of our bicameral mind’s composition that they had such difficulty in discussing our emotions, even though they never hesitated to acknowledge our emotions power over us. The strongest testimonial to this difficulty are the repeated warnings, apparently unheeded generation after generation, that Reason must rule.
Heeded or not, centuries of philosophical writing, strongly seconded by the new Christian Church, could not be answered in kind by the right hemisphere of our brain because it is mute. As a consequence, today society has endless difficulties in dealing with emotions. The most frequent choice, and the worst, is to try and deal with them in the terms of the left hemisphere of the brain, the rational and intellectual side of us. A case in point is contemporary music education in America, where the professors have attempted to recast the nature of music into something conversant with the world of reason and intelligence. But this does not work now, just as it never worked in the ancient world. The sad fact is that the medical profession gave to music education professors the greatest possible gift in the clinical proof of the bicameral mind and the professors have failed to take advantage of this gift. But the truth is there and so now, in view of the lack of interest by music educators, the ball has returned to the field of medicine. It will be they who will make the case for music education in society and indeed one of their universities already has a science degree program in bio-musicology.
In general those ancient philosophers who had such difficulty in dealing with the emotions left descriptions of the emotional side of us which are, for the modern reader, often quite extraordinarily negative. Cicero (106–43 BC), as a case in point, could accept the idea that our senses were a natural part of nature, but he found the emotions were something quite different and clearly something to be avoided!
The emotions of the mind, which harass and embitter the life of the foolish (the Greek term for these is “pathos,” and I might have rendered this literally and styled them diseases, but the word disease would not suit all instances; for example, no one speaks of pity, nor yet anger, as a disease though the Greeks term these pathos. Let us then accept the term emotion, the very sound of which seems to denote something vicious, and these emotions are not excited by any natural influence. The list of the emotions is divided into four classes, with numerous subdivisions, namely sorrow, fear, lust, and that mental emotion which the Stoics call by a name that also denotes a bodily feeling, “hedone,” (pleasure), but which I prefer to style delight, meaning the sensuous elation of the mind when in a state of exultation), these emotions, I say, are not excited by any influence of nature; they are all of them mere fancies and frivolous opinions. Therefore the Wise Man will always be free from them.1
And again, in his treatise On Duties, sounding like an early Church father or later Puritan, he emphasizes that any display of emotions suggests that we are not in control of ourselves. The more highly developed person, he with a “greater soul,” must especially observe this warning. In spite of the strong warning he intends to give here, we cannot help noticing the indication that he had some awareness, no doubt through simple observation, that there are two sides of our being, those which here he calls thought and passion.
We must be careful that the movements of our soul do not diverge from nature, and the care must be all the greater as the soul is greater. We shall achieve this if we are careful not to reach states of extreme excitement or alarm and if we keep our minds intent on the preservation of decorum. The movements of our souls are of two kinds: some involve thought, others involve passion. Thought is mostly expended in seeking out the truth, passion urges men to action. Therefore we must take care to expend thought on the best objects and to make clear that our passions are obedient to our intellect…. Throughout a man’s life the most correct advice is to avoid agitations, by which I mean excessive commotions in the soul that do not obey intelligence…. Whenever passionate feelings disturb our activities, we are, of course, not acting with self-control and those around us cannot approve what we do.2
And since Cicero probably anticipated that his warning, that “passions must be obedient to our intellect,” would fall on deaf ears, as a last desperate effort he now paints for us contrasting pictures of the man under the influence of emotion and the man who has succeeded in subjecting his emotions to Reason.
The man whom we see on fire and raging with lusts frantically pursuing everything with insatiable desire, and the more lavishly he swallows down pleasure from all quarters, the worse and more burning his thirst — would you not be entitled to call him most unhappy? The man who is carried away with frivolity and empty euphoria and uncontrolled desires, is he not the more wretched the happier he thinks he is? So just as these people are wretched, so are those happy whom no fears alarm, no distresses gnaw, no lusts arouse, no pointless euphoria dissolves in languorous pleasure. Just as the sea is recognized as calm when not even the slightest breeze ruffles the waves, so a state of mind can be accounted calm and peaceful, when there is no disturbance by which it can be agitated.3
Aristides Quintilianus, who lived between the 1st and 4th centuries AD and was one of the last of the ancient Greek philosophers, looked back and confessed that Reason was incapable of controlling the emotions.
No cure could be found in Reason alone for those who were burdened by these emotions; for pleasure is a very powerful temptation, captivating even the animals that lack reason, and grief which remains unsolaced casts many people into incurable illnesses.4
He is one of many witnesses who speak of the ancient Greeks’ using music to mold character and he also points out that it was their belief that music could do what Reason could not, with respect to the control of the emotions. He tells us that the ancients made everyone cultivate music from childhood throughout their lives in order that the proper kind of music would have a positive impact on the soul. The effectiveness of music in doing this he compares to the “diverting of a stream, which was rushing through impassable crags or dispersing itself in marshy places, into an easily trodden and fertile plain.” One of the chief concerns of the ancients, he tells us, was with regard to the misuse of music.
Those who neglected music, melody and unaccompanied poetry alike, were utterly crude and foolish; those who had involved themselves in it in the wrong way fell into serious errors, and through their passion for worthless melodies and poetry stamped upon themselves ugly idiosyncrasies of character.
It was this concern, he recalls, which caused the authorities to assign “educational music to as many as a 100 days, and the relaxing kind [of music] to no more than 30.” He does not entirely condemn entertainment music, but in granting its place he still does not waver from the principal value of music, to form character.
We should not avoid song altogether just because it gives pleasure. Not all delight is to be condemned, but neither is delight itself the objective of music. Amusement may come as it will, but the aim set for music is to help us toward virtue.
He points to the success of the Greeks in doing just that and concludes,
Beginning with the Renaissance we start to find some writers and philosophers willing to defend the emotional side of man against two millennia of attacks against it. An often quoted example, the French Romance, The Romance of the Rose, is found during the “Pre-Renaissance,” the time when the oppressive clouds of the “dark ages” begin to fall away during the 13th century. Here Reason gives a typically medieval negative assessment of Love.
Love is a troubled peace, an amorous war —
A treasonous loyalty, disloyal faith —
A fear that’s full of hope, a desperate trust —
A madman’s logic, reasoned foolishness —
A healthy sickness and most languorous health —
A sadness gay, a frolicsomeness sad —
A bitter sweetness, a sweet-tasting gall.5
All of which warnings, the reader is delighted to find, had no effect. In this case, emotion conquered Reason.
Thus Reason preached, but Love set all at naught;
For though I heard the sermon word for word
I took no stock in it, so drawn was I
To Love, who still my every thought pursued.6
During the Renaissance there are a number of fictional works which focus on this same theme, the struggle between Reason and the emotions. In 15th century England we actually find a work by John Lydgate called, Reson and Sensuallyte. A similar contemporary work, one of our favorites, is by Henry Medwall (b. 1461). It is entitled Nature, but has the same theme. Here we find Nature warning man once again to “Let Reason govern you in every situation.”
But now Sensuality enters and protests to Nature that she should have equal status with Reason. She contends, “I am the chief perfection of his nature!” Without me, man would have no feeling, he might as well be made of wood or stone.”
You made him lord of all beasts living,
And nothing worthy, as far as I can see;
For if there be in him no manner of feeling
No lively quickness, what kind of lord is he?
A lord made of rags! or carved from a tree!
And fares as an image carved from stone
That can do nothing but stand alone!
“Allow me to have influence with him,” Sensuality pleas with Nature, “and I will make him governor of the world …”
“No,” says Nature, “Reason must be preferred,” reminding Sensuality, “You have brought many men to a wretched end.” “You should obey me,” Reason says to Sensuality, “wherever I go.” Sensuality answers, “No, that I shall never do!”
At length Man decides to subjugate his Sensuality to Reason.
Reason, Sir, my chief counselor.
And this, Innocence, my previous nurse,
And Sensuality, that other, by whom I have power
To do as all sensuous beasts do.
But Reason and Innocence, chiefly these two,
Have the whole rule and governance of me,
To whom is subdued my Sensuality.
Later another character, Pride, suggests that a “wild worm” has come into man’s head if he thinks he will always be led only be Reason. He doubts that Reason will always endure with man, pointing out that, “Sensuality … is chief ruler, when Reason is away.”
In Sir Philip Sidney’s The Countesse of Pembrokes Arcadia, there is an internal masque (an internal play within a play with music and dialog) performed by a group of shepherds under the title, “The Battle between Reason and Passion.” Here we find such dialog as,
Reason. Who Passion doth ensue, lives in annoy.
Passion. Who Passion doth forsake, lives void of joy…
Reason. Yet Passion, yield at length to Reason’s stroke.
Passion. What shall we win by taking Reason’s yoke?
It is also true that in the field of music a “battle between Reason and Passion” continued throughout much of the Renaissance. In commentary on music this battle usually went under arguments over “ancient” and “modern” music. And there were still important philosophers who continued to argue that Reason must rule. The great Dante (1265–1321), for example, made the rather extraordinary statement that the senses “exist for reason’s sake alone.”7
In one of his poems he even suggests that a sensation such as pain cannot be understood by mere experience, but must be understood by reason as well.8 His strongest statement supporting the supremacy of Reason comes in another place in his Banquet.
Things are properly designated by the highest nobility possessed by their form, as man, for instance, is designated by reason and not by the senses or by anything less noble. So when it is said that man lives, this must be understood to mean that he uses his reason, which is the life specific to him and the activity of his most noble part. So anyone who sets reason aside and uses only his sensitive part lives not as a man but as a beast, a point made by the most excellent Boethius when he says: “He lives as an ass.” I quite agree, for thought is the act proper to reason; animals do not think, because they lack that faculty — a description that fits not only the lower animals but those who have a human appearance but the spirit of a sheep or of some other vile beast.9
Dante uses this expression again in his Divine Comedy.
You were not made to live like beasts, but for
The pursuit of virtue and of knowledge.10
His only reservations are regarding love,
Therefore, if my verses are not adequate
that undertake the praise of her,
let the infirm intellect be blamed,
and our speech, which does not have the power
to recount all that Love speaks forth.11
And regarding music,
Voices sang Beat pauperes spiritu,
In such a way that words could not convey it.12
The great Francesco Petrarch (1304–1374), in spite of being a musician as well as a poet of much love poetry, in the Preface to his Remedies for Fortune Fair and Foul, gives us this colorful description of Reason defending us against emotions,
You should read the book as if those four most famous, twin-born passions of the mind, HOPE or DESIRE and JOY, FEAR and SORROW, brought forth at the same time by the two sisters Prosperity and Adversity, fiercely assaulted from all sides the mind of man, and REASON, who governs this citadel, took on all of them at once. In her buckler and helmet, by stratagem and proper force, and, more so, with God’s help, she fends off the weapons of the roaring enemies around her.13
And in the text which follows, Petrarch, speaking as Reason, points to the location of Reason and the emotions,
Sorrow: My mind is rent into conflicting parts.
Reason: The philosophers divide the mind into three parts, the first of which they place at the very top, as if in a citadel, that is, in the head. This is the ruler of human life, heavenly, serene, and always close to God, where tranquil, decent intentions dwell. The second part is located in the chest, where anger and malice boil; the third, in the lower parts which house lust and desire.14
In one place Petrarch calls love a “poison to sound judgment”15 and he gives many examples of love interfering with Reason.
Love, I transgress and I see my transgression, but I act like a man
who burns with a fire in his breast; for the pain still grows, and
my reason fails and is almost overcome by my sufferings.16
If to love another more than oneself — if to be always sighing and
weeping, feeding on sorrow and anger and trouble —
If to burn from afar and freeze close by — if these are the causes
that I untune [distempre] myself with love, yours will be the blame, Lady,
mine the loss.17
If my little intellect had been with me at need, and another
hunger had not driven it elsewhere and made it stray.18
We find a similar stance in his great contemporary, Guillaume de Machaut (1300–1377). While he offers token tribute to the idea that Reason must rule, his more personal illustrations point to the contrary. After a debate over love and its consequences, the character, Loyalty, stipulates, “A lover would be a fool to listen to you, Reason.”19 Similarly, in complimenting good speech, Machaut describes it as “moderate, well-chosen, and appropriate, based wholly on Reason.”20 But, what happens to Reason-dominated speech when Love is present? It can, Machaut observes, force one,
to cut short his words and interrupt them with sighs, drawn from the depths of his being, that render him mute and silent, and he has no choice but to remain speechless.
Even the lover’s song is interrupted in the same way.
But some strange heat that turned to cold surprised me and gripped my heart so suddenly that there’s no way I could relate how I feel or how it stings me, for I’m hot and cold together and am sweating and shaking at the same time, and I’ve lost all strength, and was struck speechless in the middle of my song like a dumb beast; wherefore my laughter, my joy, and my song are ended and I must remain silent.21
Juan Vives (1492–1540), in his famous book on education also addresses the topic of the importance of the rule of Reason. Everyone, he says, would surely agree that the body should obey the mind. Thus it follows that the “unreasoning impulses” [emotions] must be subjected to Reason as mistress and empress. For Vives it was because of ancient sin that,
all things were inverted so that man’s lower nature desires the higher position for itself; the passions contend for attention in place of Reason; Reason, conquered and overwhelmed is put to silence, and is made the slave to the temerity of the passions.22
But for these Renaissance souls, what were they to do, wanting Reason to rule but confronted by emotions like love? The 14th century English theologian and poet, Richard Rolle, recommends that if we concentrate on spiritual things, meditations, sermons and reading holy books, then we experience a form of delight which has none of the “inordinate stirrings.”23 For the Spaniard, St John of the Cross (1542–1591), the solution was simply to erase from the mind all memory of pleasure deriving from appetites, for “when all things are forgotten, nothing disturbs the peace or stirs the appetites.”24 Needless to say, he does not recommend any expression of the emotions.
Never allow yourself to pour out your heart, even though it be but for the space of a creed.25
Desiderius Erasmus (1469–1536), in his advice to a young prince, recommended he follow God’s example and ignore the emotions. This same passage also reveals Erasmus’ level of respect for the common man.
Although God is swayed by no emotions, he nevertheless orders the world with the greatest good judgment. Following his example in all his actions, the prince must disregard emotional reactions and use only reason and judgment. Nothing is higher than God, and similarly the prince should be removed as far as possible from the low concerns and sordid emotions of the common people.26
For Vives, the answer is in using “practical wisdom,” gained by reading, dialectic, rhetoric and experience, to control the emotions.
Practical wisdom is the skill of accommodating all things of which we make use in life, to their proper places, times, persons, and functions. It is the moderator and rudder in the tempest of the feelings.27
Except for the Puritans, during the Baroque one finds some philosophers more willing to accommodate Reason and the emotions. Saint-Evremond (1610–1703), as a case in point, in a letter to the Mareschal de Crequi, seemed no longer burdened with the idea of making a choice.
I can say one thing of myself, as extraordinary as true, that I never felt in myself any conflict between Passion and Reason. My Passion never opposed what I resolved out of duty; and my Reason readily complied with what a sense of pleasure inclined me to. I don’t aim at praise on account of this easy agreement; on the contrary, I confess I have often been the more vicious for it. Not out of any perverse disposition to evil, but because the vice was entertained as a pleasure, instead of appearing as a crime.28
Eventually this accommodation was a matter of age, as he writes another correspondent,
How unhappy is my condition! I have lost everything on the side of Reason, and I see nothing for me to pretend to on the side of Passion.29
From the same perspective of accepting both sides of our nature, it is interesting that he found, and accepted, in the two famous playwrights of his time, Corneille as a representative of emotion and Racine a representative of Reason.
Corneille is admired for the expression of an heroic grandeur of soul, for the force of the passions, and sublimity of discourse. Racine’s merit consists in sentiments which are more natural, in thoughts that are more clear, and in a diction that is more pure, and more easy. The former ravishes the soul, the latter makes a conquest of the mind. The latter gives no room for the reader to censure, the former does not leave the spectator in a condition to examine.30
The great Francis Bacon (1561–1626), accepts emotions and even admits they, like Reason, are capable of good. He finds, however, a third faculty, Imagination, independent of either, but through which both Reason and the emotions operate. Bacon finds Reason consisting of four separate faculties, those to invent, to seek, to judge and to communicate. He also writes of the danger which the affections represent to Reason and in fact suggests that man is only able to function rationally because imagination forms a “confederacy” with Reason against the affections.31
Another great philosopher of this period, David Hume (1711–1776), found the principal role of Reason to be one primarily of identification. No doubt set in motion by Bacon, he now finds seven forms of its activity: resemblance, identity, relations of time and place, proportion in quantity or number, degrees in any quality, contrariety and causation.32
Hume raises the entire subject of the emotions to a higher level than any former philosopher, even going so far as to make feeling dominant over ideas. No one had ever before written anything so extraordinary as the following.
All probable reasoning is nothing but a species of sensation. It is not solely in poetry and music, we must follow our taste and sentiment, but likewise in philosophy. When I am convinced of any principle, it is only an idea, which strikes more strongly upon me. When I give the preference to one set of arguments above another, I do nothing but decide from my feeling concerning the superiority of their influence.33
He was also one of the earliest philosophers to point to the universality of the basic emotions.
The minds of all men are similar in their feelings and operations; nor can any one be actuated by an affection, of which all others are not, in some degree, susceptible.34
Another who was inclined to raise the emotions to a level above Reason was Voltaire (1694–1778). First, he looked at the long history during which all philosophers, not to mention the Church, insisted that Reason must rule man and he found little to recommend this principle.
When one considers that Newton, Locke, Clarke, and Leibniz would have been persecuted in France, imprisoned at Rome, and burned at Lisbon, what are we to think of human reason?35
Further, under “Abuse of Words,” in his Philosophical Dictionary, Voltaire goes to some lengths to demonstrate that language, and books, the traditional centers of Reason, “rarely give us any precise ideas” and are often taken by the listener in an incorrect sense. As an example he finds it curious that “the same word (Adoration) that is used both in addressing the Supreme Being and in addressing a mistress.”
Voltaire was also keenly aware that there is more to man than Reason, that there is a feeling side which, in the course of daily actions, may be even more important.
What will I gain from knowing the path of light and the gravitation of Saturn? These are sterile truths. One feeling is a thousand times more important.36
There were some in the Baroque Period who saw an inherent co-ordination between Reason and the emotions. One was Alexander Pope (1688–1744), who in his Essay on Man, could pen this nice thought,
On life’s vast ocean diversely we sail,
Reason is the [compass], but passion is the gale.
The great fascination with the emotions found during the Baroque Period one finds some rather unusual discussion. Robert Burton, in his classic The Anatomy of Melancholy (1621), offers little beyond “weird science” relative to our topic Being limited to the observation of brains in cadavers, he curiously sees a “fore and hinder” division of the brain, instead of a right and left hemisphere and like Descartes, he makes the incorrect deduction that the significant action occurs in the spaces between the folds of the brain, rather than in the brain itself. It is into these spaces that “animal spirits” travel from the heart.
The famous preacher, John Bunyan (1628–1688), was not interested in such speculation in traditional anatomy. It is to the soul that he attributes understanding, judgment, the emotions and the senses.37
Regarding the latter, (in an experience I have often had) he categorically states that it is not the body which hears, but the soul — a conclusion he somehow based on Job 4:12, 13:
Now a word was brought to me stealthily,
my ear received the whisper of it.
Amid thoughts from visions of the night.
For most Puritan philosophers it was still a battle between Reason and the emotions. Joseph Hall (1574–1656), like nearly all clerics before him, warns that the emotions can overwhelm Reason. The emotions he calls the “secret factors of sin and Satan,” which must be controlled by Reason and religion.
If there be any exercise of Christian wisdom, it is in the managing of these unruly affections…. Christianity gives not rules, but power, to avoid this short madness.38
Robert Burton (1577–1640), also acknowledges the great power, and danger, of the emotions in their capability to overwhelm Reason.
Good discipline, education, philosophy, divinity, may mitigate and restrain these passions in some few men at some times, but for the most part they domineer, and are so violent, that as a torrent, bears down all before, and overflows his banks, lays bare the fields, lays waste the crops, they overwhelm reason, judgment & pervert the temperature of the body. The charioteer is run away with, nor does the chariot obey the reins.39
John Milton (1608–1674), in his famous Paradise Lost warns, “Take heed least Passion sway thy Judgment,” and,
Sensual Appetite, who from beneath
Usurping over sovereign Reason claimed
In spite of the warnings of these Puritans of the 17th century, not to mention the centuries of similar warnings before, The Enlightenment made possible a new, less Church dominated perspective. Gradually more trust is found in the emotions, making possible such comments as the one by written by George Washington to Lafayette, “Democratic States must always ‘feel’ before they can ‘see'”41 and the one by Robert Schumann, “The understanding may err, but not feelings.”42
Franz Liszt offered the contention that it is one of the distinctions of music that it bridges this long observed, and feared, gap between Reason and emotion.
Music is the intermediary which places sentiment in harmony with intelligence; enabling us to enjoy and love that which intelligence enables us to become acquainted. The Greeks, who were naturally gifted with an incomparable appreciation of the Beautiful, well understood the subtle connecting link provided by music between the perceptible and the impalpable – between that which is understood and that which is felt.43
Finally we must mention Herbert Spencer (b. 1820 in England), who was the first important philosopher to discern what modern clinical research has now established, that in fact it is our emotions which determine all our major decisions, not Reason after all. He begins by making an observation which, if one considers the development of the earliest man, must be true, that intelligence and Reason could only have been built upon the earlier foundation stones of feelings and the senses.44 In modern man, Spencer makes a finding that would have shocked, even offended 3,000 years of earlier philosophers, that “The chief component of mind is feeling.”45
For Spencer, the proof of the dominance of the emotions was found in something which earlier philosophers had observed, the ability of emotions to shut down Reason entirely.
If altercation rouses extreme anger, the emotion may become so great as even to exclude the power of speech: the thought-element is overwhelmed. Intense alarm may so throw the intellect out of gear as to produce temporary inability to act.46
Thus, he concludes,
The emotions are the masters, the intellect is the servant. The guidance of our acts through perception and reason has for its end the satisfaction of feelings, which at once prompt the acts and yield the energy for performance of the acts.47
- De Finibus, III, x, 35 ↩︎
- De Officiis, 131ff ↩︎
- Tusculum Disputations, V, 15ff ↩︎
- Barker, Greek Musical Writings (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1989), II, 457ff ↩︎
- The Romance of the Rose, trans., Harry Robbins (New York: Dutton, 1962), XXI, 50ff ↩︎
- Ibid., XXIII ↩︎
- The Banquet, trans., Christopher Ryan, III, xv, 4 ↩︎
- Donne ch’avete intelletto d’armore ↩︎
- The Banquet, II, vii, 3 ↩︎
- Inferno, XXVI ↩︎
- Goldin, German and Italian Lyrics of the Middle Ages, (Garden City: Anchor Books, 1973), 373 ↩︎
- Purgatory, XII ↩︎
- Remedies for Fortune Fair and Foul, trans., Conrad Rawski , I, Preface, 10 ↩︎
- Ibid., II, lxxv, 171 ↩︎
- Letters from Petrarch, trans., Bishop, 18 ↩︎
- Petrarch’s Lyric Poems, 394 ↩︎
- Ibid., 380 ↩︎
- Ibid., 522 ↩︎
- Le Jugement du roy de Behaigne, trans., Wimsatt and Kibler, 154 ↩︎
- Remede de Fortune, Op. cit., 180 ↩︎
- Ibid., 340ff ↩︎
- On Education, trans., Watson, V, iii ↩︎
- English Prose Treatises of Richard Rolle, 14, 16 ↩︎
- The Collected Works of St. John of the Cross, trans., Kavanaugh and Rodriguez, 222 ↩︎
- Ibid., 679 ↩︎
- The Education of a Christian Prince, (1516) in The Collected Works of Erasmus (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1992), XXVII, 221 ↩︎
- On Education, Op. cit., V, i ↩︎
- Hayward, ed., The Letters of Saint-Evremond, 114 ↩︎
- Ibid., 168 ↩︎
- Ibid., 298 ↩︎
- The Works of Francis Bacon (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1869), VI, 258ff. 299 ↩︎
- A Treatise of Human Nature, I, iii, section 1 ↩︎
- Ibid., I, iii, section 8 ↩︎
- Ibid., III, iii, section 1 ↩︎
- The Works of Voltaire, (New York: St. Hubert Guild, 1901), XXXVII, 174 ↩︎
- The Selected Letters of Voltaire, trans., Richard Brooks, 63 ↩︎
- “The Greatness of the Soul,” in The Works of John Bunyan, ed., George Offor (London: Blackie and Son, 1853), I, 110ff ↩︎
- The Works of Joseph Hall, D. D., ed., Philip Wynter, VII, 14ff ↩︎
- Burton, Op. cit., 218 ↩︎
- Paradise Lost, IX, 1129ff ↩︎
- Letter of July 5, 1785 ↩︎
- Schumann’s Diary, c. 1833 ↩︎
- The Gypsy in Music (1859) ↩︎
- Macpherson, Spencer and Spencerism (New York: Doubley, Page, & Co., 1900), 110ff ↩︎
- Facts and Comments (New York: Appleton & Co., 1902), 36 ↩︎
- Ibid., 38 ↩︎
- Ibid. ↩︎