uly estimated, are few and simple, have rather
been increased than diminished by the civilized man. But this is not
true; for, if a wider duty is imposed on the senses, it is only to
minister to the increased demands of the imagination, which is now so
mingled with our every-day concerns, even with our dress, houses, and
furniture, that, except with the brutalized, the purely sensuous wants
might almost be said to have become extinct: with the cultivated and
refined, they are at least so modified as to be no longer prominent.

But this refilling on the physical, like every thing else, has had its
opponents: it is declaimed against as artificial. If by artificial is
meant unnatural, we cannot so consider it; but hold, on the contrary,
that the whole multiform scheme of the civilized state is not only in
accordance with our nature, but an essential condition to the proper
developement of the human being. It is presupposed by the very wants
of his mind; nor could it otherwise have been, any more than could
have been the cabin of the beaver, or the curious hive of the bee,
without their preexisting instincts; it is therefore in the highest
sense natural, as growing out of the inherent desires of the mind.

But we would not be misunderstood. When we speak of the refined
state as not out of nature, we mean such results as proceed from the
legitimate growth of our mental constitution, which we suppose to
be grounded in permanent, universal principles; and, whatever
modifications, however subtile, and apparently visionary, may follow
their operation in the world of sense, so long as that operation
diverge not from its original ground, its effect must be, in the
strictest sense, natural. Thus the wildest visions of poetry, the
unsubstantial forms of painting, and the mysterious harmonies of
music, that seem to disembody the spirit, and make us creatures of the
air,--even these, unreal as they are, may all have their foundation
in immutable truth; and we may moreover know of this truth by its own
evidence. Of this species of evidence we shall have occasion to speak
hereafter. But there is another kind of growth, which may well be
called unnatural; we mean, of those diseased appetites, whose effects
are seen in the distorted forms of the _conventional_, having no
ground but in weariness of the true; and it cannot be denied that this
morbid growth has its full share, inwardly and outwardly, both of
space and importance. These, how