tation. We must not think that
this imitation is voluntary, or even conscious. On the contrary, it has
its seat mainly in very obscure parts of the mind, whose notions, so
far from having been consciously produced, are hardly felt to exist; so
far from being conceived beforehand, are not even felt at the time. The
main seat of the imitative part of our nature is our belief, and the
causes predisposing us to believe this, or disinclining us to believe
that, are among the obscurest parts of our nature. But as to the
imitative nature of credulity there can be no doubt. In 'Eothen' there
is a capital description of how every sort of European resident in the
East, even the shrewd merchant and 'the post-captain,' with his bright,
wakeful eyes of commerce, comes soon to believe in witchcraft, and to
assure you, in confidence, that there 'really is something in it.' He
has never seen anything convincing himself, but he has seen those who
have seen those who have seen those who have seen. In fact, he has
lived in an atmosphere of infectious belief, and he has inhaled it.
Scarcely any one can help yielding to the current infatuations of his
sect or party. For a short time--say some fortnight--he is resolute; he
argues and objects; but, day by day, the poison thrives, and reason
wanes. What he hears from his friends, what he reads in the party
organ, produces its effect. The plain, palpable conclusion which every
one around him believes, has an influence yet greater and more subtle;
that conclusion seems so solid and unmistakable; his own good arguments
get daily more and more like a dream. Soon the gravest sage shares the
folly of the party with which he acts, and the sect with which he
worships.

In true metaphysics I believe that, contrary to common opinion,
unbelief far oftener needs a reason and requires an effort than belief.
Naturally, and if man were made according to the pattern of the
logicians, he would say, 'When I see a valid argument I will believe,
and till I see such argument I will not believe.' But, in fact, every
idea vividly before us soon appears to us to be true, unless we keep up
our perceptions of the arguments which prove it untrue, and voluntarily
coerce our minds to remember its falsehood. 'All clear ideas are true,'
was for ages a philosophical maxim, and though no maxim can be more
unsound, none can be more exactly conformable to ordinary human nature.
The child resolutely accepts every idea which pass